“I don’t… I don’t need to be here. Really. I don’t.”
I have said this at least a hundred times, and I will say it a hundred more. I will say it however many times it takes to convince Mom to stop unpacking my clothes into the dresser and Dad to stop setting up my computer on one of the ancient mahogany desks. Clearly, they are both unimpressed.
“I think your credibility is somewhat ruined by the fact that you were nearly arrested on Friday. Again,” Mom says.
“I was not nearly arrested. I just… okay, you know that whole thing was Kyle’s idea, right? We don’t even own any fireworks,” I say, which is at least enough to get Dad to untangle himself from the computer wires to squint at me in disbelief.
“We don’t own any fireworks because you almost blew up the pool house with them in May,” he says. I pause, trying to come up with something to say that does not involve pointing out that the colors had actually been pretty cool before the fire department came to put everything out.
“This is a valid point,” I say carefully, “but putting that particular issue aside, it still wasn’t my fault. I mean, it’s not like we were going to hurt anyone, anyway. And it’s not like we actually did get arrested-”
“Because you ran away from the police!” Dad bursts out. Mom shoots him a warning look, and he rolls his eyes and disappears back under the desk. Mom reaches out to smooth my hair, and I flinch away. She should know by now that I can’t stand that. God, it’s her fault I’m one step away from a Jewfro, anyway. She sighs.
“Listen to me, honey. It’s no longer negotiable. Your behavior has been getting worse and worse each year, and it has gotten to the point where you are actually breaking laws now. Between the incident last week, the fire in May, and the… well, whatever it was that you were trying to accomplish by breaking into your school and filling the auditorium with live ducks in April, I still haven’t figured that one out yet. But given all of those things, we cannot change our minds now. We can’t keep you in public school if that means you’ll continue to be friends with the same people and do the same things. I don’t want my only son to end up as a criminal,” she says.
“So go have a second one so you guys can leave me alone,” I suggest. “And actually, the thing with the ducks was definitely not me, but if it had been, it would have been meant as a like, a ‘Happy Spring, you guys!’ type of present to the school.” She silences me with A Look. Mom is the master of Looks. Dad finally finishes with the computer and stands up, brushing dust off his sleeves and glancing around the room. My half is done being set up, so the only part missing now is the tearful goodbye scene. Yeah. Any minute now.
“Well, say hi to Ohio for me,” I say flatly. Mom smoothes my hair down before I can stop her and kisses the top of my head.
“Good luck, honey. Make lots of friends. Do your homework. Call at least once a week. Behave yourself.”
We all pointedly ignore the emphasis on the last stipulation. She and Dad both hug me, and I let my arms dangle limply at my sides, trying not to let either of them notice the way my spine goes rigid when they touch me. After a few more half-hearted goodbyes, they finally trudge out of the room and down the hall towards the stairs. I stomp the moving boxes flat and jam them in the one closet, clear everything off my desk and start rearranging it in a way I actually like. I am in the middle of dumping the mug of pens into one of the drawers when the door bangs open. I jump, then freeze. The hottest guy ever in the history of the world is hauling a huge suitcase over the threshold and heaving it up onto the other bed. He has soft brown hair that is elegantly rumpled in a way that hints at expensive haircuts, and his skin is tanned to almost the same shade as his gorgeous honey-colored eyes. He must be at least six feet tall, maybe six two, and his entire body seems to be made of nothing but long, smooth muscle, clearly visible under a snug white polo shirt and dark blue jeans. No way can this be my roommate. No way can this be a freshman.
“Hello there, pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m James Goldwyn, and I assume you’re Garen?” he says. He has a honey-sweet Southern drawl and a dazzling white toothpaste-commercial sort of smile. God. I can’t speak. At all. Probably ever again. I nod. “Well, Garen, in honor of our first day as roommates, we’re going to play a little game called ‘find a place to hide Jamie’s contraband before his momma makes it to the room.’”
He unzips the giant suitcase and digs out another suitcase of approximately half the size. He moves it to the floor, and there’s a soft tinkle of what is unmistakably bottles clinking together. He glances at me, clearly trying to gauge my reaction. This is better than I could’ve hoped for. A drop-dead gorgeous roommate who introduces himself by basically showing me that he’s as much of a screw-up as I am.
“James, honey, is this your room?” calls a voice from outside the door, and James jumps. I grab the handle of the suitcase and thrust it under my bed, kicking it back so it thumps against the wall. I hope he packed it well enough to stop the bottles from breaking. A dark-haired woman with lily-white skin enters the room, twisting to crook a finger at someone behind her. A moment later, two men in movers’ uniforms enter with two boxes each. Who the fuck hires movers for four boxes?
“Oh, I see you’ve met your new roommate. How lovely!” Mrs. Goldwyn announces as her eyes light on me. I step forward with my hand outstretched.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Goldwyn. My name’s Garen Anderson,” I say. James’ eyes snap to my face, which isn’t altogether surprising. I’ve heard enough recordings of myself and seen enough girls practically swoon to know that in the past two years, my speaking voice has become not that different from my singing voice; smooth, warm, and ridiculously, inappropriately sexual. Usually, however, guys my age are not the ones looking at me with that intrigued, heavy-lidded stare. Usually, guys my age do not let their tongues dart out to wet their lips before catching their lower lip between their teeth for the briefest second. Fuck.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Garen. I’m sure you and my son will be fast friends. James here is just the nicest boy you’ll ever meet,” Mrs. Goldwyn continues.
“Yeah, I’m a real Georgia peach,” James murmurs. I wonder if his mom notices the half-octave drop in his voice. Oh my god. Is it even legal to put me in a bedroom with this guy for a year? How is it possible that the only two fags at Patton ended up being roommates? This is not good, this is very not good.
“Well, honey, I’ve got to get going. The plane back to Savannah leaves at four, and I’d hate to miss it,” Mrs. Goldwyn says. She pecks James on the cheek and gives him a very light hug before whisking out of the room with the movers trailing after her. An even colder goodbye than the one from my parents.
“Thank you for hiding my bag,” James says, heading across the room to shut the door. Shit, shit, shit. “I wasn’t sure if she’d leave like she did, or stay and make me unpack in front of her. Can’t be too careful, now, can we?”
If we were really being careful, that door would be open right now. Just in case.
“No problem,” I say softly, tugging the suitcase out from under my bed and handing it back to him. He places it very gingerly on the floor near the closet and begins to set up the rest of his belongings. I try to act like I’m more interested in my student handbook than in staring at him, but I still somehow end up watching him over the top of the book as he unloads his clothes into his dresser. Now that everything he brought is spread out across the room, it feels a lot less like just my dorm. This is due, in large part, to the fact that the whole room smells like him now. Summer and fresh-cut grass and soap and something just warm and heady enough to make my eyes drift halfway shut, just like his were before.
“So, Garen,” he says, adding the tiniest bit of inflection to my name, “are you from New York?”
“No. Cleveland, Ohio. And y-your mom said Savannah, right? That’s where you’re from?” I say. He nods and begins tossing the rest of his clothes into the dresser at random.
“Yep. My family owns what used to be one of the biggest plantations in all of Georgia. It’s still big, of course, just not really much of a plantation anymore. We don’t grow anything, and we don’t have any servants except for the stable hands.” He pauses, then adds, “Well, we don’t have many servants except for the stable hands.”
“You have servants?” I say, staring at him in disbelief. He must understand my tone more than I mean him to, because his eyes narrow just the slightest bit.
“We have three housekeepers, four cooks, two gardeners, and about seven stable hands. All of them are paid very well, and in case you’re concerned that the slave trade is still alive and well in the deep South, all of them are white, too, except for two of the stable hands, who are Cuban,” he says. I shake my head quickly.
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupts. “Contrary to popular belief, a Southern accent doesn’t make a person stupid.”
I sink back onto my bed, trying to find some method of melting into the mattress. I cannot believe how fast everything is happening. I can’t believe I went from feeling alone and pathetic, to having the hottest, and probably gayest roommate ever, to making said roommate think I think he’s a dumb-as-a-post racist hick from East Bumfuck, Alabama. I haven’t even been at this fucking school for an hour yet.
James, however, seems incapable of holding a grudge. By the time he has finished unpacking his clothes, his blinding smile is back in place and he is crossing over onto my side of the room to pick his way through my possessions.
“Quite the music collection,” he says as he flips open the second of my four CD carriers. I nod. “Do you play anything?”
“Guitar,” I say. He glances at me, as though waiting for proof, so I open the door of our shared closet and pull out my guitar case. I unlatch it and very carefully remove the guitar. James whistles softly, but one glance at his face tells me he has no idea what he’s whistling at. I bite back a smile.
“It’s a Vintage Hot Rod ‘57 Fender Stratocaster,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice neutral, as though I assume he knew this. His hand twitches towards it.
“May I?” he asks. I nod, and he takes the guitar from me very gingerly. His eyes dart up and down the body, appraising it, but his hands… god. His right hand is flat under the body, supporting most of it, but his left hand is touching the neck - caressing the neck - like he wants to make my guitar come. Oh my god. A beautiful boy is practically giving my guitar a hand job. I am about five seconds away from getting wood right now.
“Looks pretty pricy. How expensive was it?” he asks. His fist curls loosely around the neck and he lines his fingers up on the frets like he’s about to play, even though his other hand is nowhere near the strings. His thumb shifts to the back of the neck, rubbing small circles onto it. Holy shit.
“How expensive was it?” he repeats, a bit more loudly. I snap my eyes back to his, away from those hands.
“About twenty-seven hundred,” I say hoarsely. I can’t decide which is more humiliating; the fact that I can feel my face getting redder by the second, or the fact that this conversation has actually made me hard. I take the guitar from him and return it to the case, latching and locking it before I duck down to store it under my bed. Because my options are pretty much limited to staying down here or standing up and running the risk of him seeing the bulge at the front of my jeans, I stay on the floor, trying to look casual.
“You know, the floor can’t be too comfortable. You’re allowed to sit on your bed,” James says, and then after a beat, “or mine, if you prefer.”
Holy fucking fuck. No, no, no, I cannot hook up with my roommate on my first day here. God, that would just be begging for a year of awkwardness. I am misreading the signals. Yes, that’s it exactly. He’s just a strange, overly affectionate, mind-bogglingly hot person, and there’s no shame in that. Like I’d even know what to do if he did want to hook up, anyway. Like I’d be able to come up with anything better than “Hurr I’ve never kissed anyone before and am pretty much only hypothetically gay at this point, we sex please, hurr.”
“I’m um… I’m good down here, actually,” I say. James inhales deeply and lets it out slowly.
“Ten minutes and you’re already killing me, Mr. Anderson,” he says. I frown.
“What?” I say, but he shakes his head and backs towards the door.
“I think I’m going to go explore the school. I’ve never even visited, you know. Pain in the ass to fly up just for a tour, so coming here was just a shot in the dark. Hopefully not a disappointing one,” he says. “I’ll be back sometime later. Before dinner, though. Probably. If not, I’ll save you a seat in the dining hall?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, desperate not to fuck everything up any more than I already have, “that would be great.”
“It was a pleasure,” he says, ducking out of the room and letting the door shut with a click. Yes, it was a pleasure. Far too much of one, actually.
Once I’ve managed to calm myself down, I sit down at my desk and boot up my computer. The internet here is way slower than it was back home, but I’m pretty sure that’s due to the hundreds of other guys all trying to sign on at once. It takes ten minutes just to bring up the internet, and once I do, I’m prompted by the school homepage. All first-year and transfer students must log in using their name and student ID number (located on their student ID cards) to set up personalized email account and access internet.
That’d be useful, if I had an ID card.
I sigh and shut down the computer again. The hallway is as crowded as a city sidewalk, and I only make it about five steps towards the stairs before someone places a hand against the small of my back and gives me a deliberate shove. I twist to glare at the person behind me, who is a few inches taller than me and possibly a few years older. It’s hard to tell in the crush, but it looks like he has some of his equally large friends with him.
“Hurry up, freshman, some of us have places to go,” he orders. I roll my eyes and turn back around. I make it another three steps before he shoves me again. “Come on! I know it’s hard to haul ass on those skinny little legs of yours, but you’re in our way.”
Shove me again, asshole. Please shove me again. I may be new to military school, I may be new to high school in general, but I know that this kind of incident is what will define my freshman year. The second I feel his fingers brush my shirt again, I spin around and grab him by the collar of his shirt, yanking his face down so it’s an inch away from mine.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl. Perplexed, he reaches for my hands, but I take advantage of his surprise to shove him up against the wall, pinning my forearm to his throat. “What’s your name?”
“Gerard,” he chokes out. I may not be as tall or built as he is – or, for that matter, as big as half the guys here seem to be – but I have a lot going for me right now; the element of surprise, the intimidation of violence, and a very impressive pair of dark green eyes that are set in a hard glare.
“Hi, Gerard. I’m Garen. It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I grab one of his hands with my free one and give it a hard shake. “Now, I want you to listen to me really closely. Are you listening, Gerard?”
“Yeah,” Gerard hisses. I can tell he’s getting angry now, preparing for his comeback. Time to make a real impression. I lean a little closer to him.
“There are three kinds of guys who get sent to military school. The first kind is the legacy kid, who’s from a whole family of ex-military people. He’s the kind of guy who talks a lot of shit because his daddy never loved him and he knows he’s destined for a life of getting fucked in the ass by Marines, so he tries to prove he’s a real man by beating up freshmen. I’m guessing this is you.”
Gerard grits his teeth and shifts again under my arm, but I jerk it forward sharply, choking him again.
“I’m not finished, so you might want to stay still. The second kind is the complete loser who goes to military school because he’s hoping the people there will be even lamer than he is. That’s the kind of guy who actually listens when the Dorm Advisor says it’s lights out, who tattles to the librarian when people are talking during study hall, and who pisses himself just a little bit the first day of marksmanship classes.”
I pause, suddenly hearing my dad’s voice in my head. Garen, from now on, I want you to stop before you do anything. I want you to ask yourself, ‘Is this the kind of image I want to make for myself?’ Think seriously about that, Son. It’s his favorite lecture, one I get at least once a week. The problem, though, is that he never took the time to point out that usually the image I want to make for myself isn’t the one I should be making. Like now, for example, as I cock my head to the side, smile just slightly, and present myself with the image of the psychotic badass of the freshman class.
“The third kind is the guy who was court-ordered here after a month-long arson investigation, has a police record as long as his arm, and is wholly unafraid of beating the shit out of you if you ever push him again. I’m pretty sure you can figure out which of these three kinds I am.”
I don’t need to give him a chance to respond. I step back, brush off my hands, and flash him my brightest smile. He just stares at me, clearly trying to figure out if he should hit me or save his neck. I lace my fingers together behind my head and head for the stairs, doing my best to appear nonchalant, as though I don’t notice that the crowd in the hall parts like the Red Sea to let me through.
The line in the dorm lobby for student ID cards is long enough that I have to head right back to my room after I get my card to change for dinner. The laminated, phonebook-sized student handbook that was sitting on my bed when I arrived dictates that I wear “School Dress” clothes; dress pants and either a polo shirt, or a button-down shirt and tie. What is this, a motherfucking tea party? I get dressed anyway, in khakis, a long-sleeved blue Oxford, and a dark blue tie. My shoe choices are pretty much limited to decrepit black Converse or the standard-issue black combat boots I was instructed to buy from the uniform store before coming to school. I lace up the boots, which are uncomfortable and heavy as fuck, tuck my ID and room keys into my pocket, and follow the surge of people headed for the dining hall. Tables are assigned at meals, which means that I, Garen Anderson of three fifteen, am seated between James Goldwyn, also of three fifteen, and Andrew Donahue, of three thirteen.
“Hey, Roomie,” James asks once everyone has been seated and the Headmaster has finished welcoming us all to Patton. “Someone in the Student Center told me that a freshman named Gavin Andrews beat the ass of some junior for looking at him wrong. That wouldn’t happen to have been you, would it?”
I laugh. “Whoever told you that got the story about as wrong as they got my name. I didn’t beat anybody’s ass, and it wasn’t for looking at me wrong. Some guy was shoving me in the hall, and I got annoyed.”
“So you beat his ass,” James finishes.
“I told you, I didn’t beat his ass. I just shoved him against a wall and told him not to fuck with me,” I say. I glance up just in time to see James quirk an eyebrow in such a way that makes my cheeks flush.
“Sounds hot,” he murmurs so the other people at our table can’t hear. No, no, no. He’s my roommate. I twist to address Andrew Donahue of three thirteen, but he is facing his roommate, Colin Kovac.
“I think I’m going to try to test out of that class,” Andrew says. “I took it in middle school, and I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy Personal Finance more.”
“Why, who teaches that?” Colin asks.
“Some guy named Mendelssohn,” Andrew says, shrugging and spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. Colin snorts.
“Not surprising that the guy teaching the class all about money would be a total Jew,” he says. He just had to say that, didn’t he?
“Hey, asshole,” I say sharply, leaning around Andrew to address Colin, who jumps. “I’m Jewish.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything by it. You know I was just joking,” he says quickly.
“I hope so. Maybe you should take Personal Finance with the ‘total Jew’ so you can learn how to save enough money to buy yourself a fucking brain,”
“Oh, that’s not fair, Garen,” James says, brushing his fingers across the back of my hand. “It’s pretty obvious that his parents spent all their money on the lobotomy. He can’t be expected to afford both.”
A few guys at the table laugh, just a little awkwardly, and the tension I didn’t intend to create is lifted. I scoop a lump of potatoes onto my plate when Andrew hands me the spoon, but I try not to move or talk too much for the rest of the meal.
It’s not even that my family is Orthodox. My dad and all of his relatives are Catholic. While my mother demanded a bris when I was an infant, helped me study Hebrew for my bar mitzvah last year, and was amusingly outraged every December when my elementary school filled the choir’s Holiday Concert with dozens of songs about Christmas and none about Hanukkah, she is still what she calls a “social Jew.” She lets me eat bacon. She only really drags me to synagogue on the holy days. She watches “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” every time it’s on television.
Every time I ask why she bothers to say she’s Jewish if it’s not all about the religion, she takes my hand and brings me upstairs to her and Dad’s room. She has me sit cross-legged on the floor while she unlocks the tiny mahogany jewelry box she keeps on her bureau, and then she very carefully hands me a long gold chain with a Star of David hanging from it.
“This was your grandfather’s, Garen,” she says. “His entire family was imprisoned in a concentration camp when he was seventeen years old, and only he survived. His mother and father both worked until they died. His sisters, who were twins, were used for medical experiments. When Dachau was liberated in 1945, your grandfather moved to America, where he bought this. He gave it to me, and one day, I will give it to you. This is why we cannot forget that we are Jewish, Garen. Because your grandfather was imprisoned and forced into slavery and nearly murdered for what he was, and we will not ever be ashamed of what we are.”
I slip a finger beneath my shirt collar and hook it around the chain, which hangs heavy and unfamiliar around my neck. One day of finally owning the necklace that has been promised to me since I was born is not long enough to make the way it bumps against my chest when I move feel natural.
“Do you want these?” Andrew asks, gesturing with the bowl of green beans. I shake my head.
“No, thanks. I’m not really hungry,” I say. James reaches across me to take the bowl, and shovels a heaping scoop on my plate.
“Don’t be an idiot. We have training first thing in the morning, and if you don’t keep a healthy diet up, you’ll fall behind. And I don’t want to have the worst cadet in school as my roommate,” he says. I roll my eyes, but start eating anyway.
After dinner, we are all herded into our dorm lobbies to receive our schedules and textbooks. James was right about having training first thing in the morning. From five to seven thirty, I’m to report to the quad for training and drills. Seven thirty to eight is down time, presumably to shower, get dressed for classes, and collect my books and homework. Breakfast is served in the dining hall from eight until nine, and from then on, it’s all classes. I have Algebra I until ten o’clock, World History until eleven, and Biology until noon. Lunch is from noon to one, followed by an hour of Freshman English, and an hour of French II. From three o’clock until five o’clock, I am to report for my Leadership Education Program, or L.E.P. According to the blurb underneath the course title, this is where I’m supposed to learn map-reading, first aid, weapons safety, instruction methods, military history, and marksmanship. After L.E.P, I return to my dorm or the library for two mandatory study hours, and then attend dinner from seven o’clock to eight. Lights out by ten thirty on weekdays, one o’clock on weekends.
Holy shit. This isn’t Patton Military Academy; this is Hell. This is a very methodical, very structured Hell, with dress codes, over-scheduling, and basic training every morning.
I head back to the room, but James disappears again, presumably to do more exploring. I use my student ID number to set up my user account, and check my email. There’s only one message in my inbox, which is from Kyle.
Hit me up when you get a chance. I’m bored as shit, and I want to know how your first day at PMS goes. Did you manage to smuggle your cell phone into the school, or did they confiscate it? Let me know. Ky.
I click ‘reply’ and pause with my fingers just above the keys, trying to figure out the best way to explain everything that has and has not changed today.
Hey, Ky. PMA (not PMS, you jackass) is pretty lame. I’m already fucking up, I guess. Some upperclassman was trying to mess with me in the hall, so I told him off. It went well. My neighbor was a douche at dinner, made a Jew joke. Told him off, too. My roommate is this Southern guy named James. Hot as fuck, and he might be into me, too. Not sure what I should do about it, considering he’s my roommate. He brought a lot of booze with him, which should be fun. The school doesn’t allow cell phones for students, but they didn’t search any bags. My mom did, though. She took the phone and charger, and anything even remotely explosive or flammable. Sorry I didn’t write earlier; they spent forever going over our schedule tomorrow. I’ve got to get up early, so I’m going to bed now. Peace, man. Garen. P.S. In case you didn’t catch that part in the middle, I’m gay. I think you knew this already, but if not… surprise!
I try not to think too much as I click ‘send.’ After all, if he reacts badly, I can recover. He may be my best friend since fifth grade, but I’m at a new school now. If his response is anything involving the word “faggot,” I can adjust. I can find a new best friend.
By the time James returns to the room, the lights are off and I am curled up under my blankets in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. James clicks on a desk lamp and collapses into his chair. He sits there for a moment, completely still, then strips off his necktie and undoes the top button of his shirt, exposing a few inches of smooth, tanned skin. I swallow, even though my mouth is suddenly dry. James tugs open one of the drawers of his desk and takes out a pen and a few sheets of blank paper. He arches his back until it cracks, then bows his head over the paper and begins to write.
It’s like watching an old black and white film from the thirties. The glow of the lamp illuminates his face just enough for me to make out his expression of concentration, and he leans his chair back onto the hind legs more than once, balancing precariously and looking like the complete picture of schoolboy elegance. After almost half an hour, his hand returns to the drawer and withdraws an envelope. He folds the letter into it, seals it, and stands. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to be the type of creepy son of a bitch who’d watch while he undresses. I don’t relax until I hear the click of the lamp and the rustle of bed sheets. He exhales slowly, and within ten minutes, his breathing has evened with deep sleep.
I don’t even know I’m asleep until suddenly I am awake again and there are hands on me, pinning me down. I act instinctively, kicking out before my legs are pinned down, too.
“James!” I yell. “James, wake up! What the fuck is—”
My blanket is yanked up over my head, and the beating starts. I have no idea what I am being hit with, but sharp, painful blows are landing all over my body, from what feels like every side. I struggle to free myself from the blanket, but it is pinned at the corners.
“Garen?” James says loudly, sounding slightly panicked, and I see light bloom in the room through the blanket.
“Shut the fuck up and get back in bed, or you’ll get the same thing!” someone snarls. The blows seem to be coming less frequently now, so I take advantage of the lull to hull myself off the bed. I am expecting to become tangled in the blanket and hit the floor, but there are so many people surrounding me that I crash right into a warm, solid body. I manage to claw my way out of the blanket, and blink around. My room is full of guys, at least ten, maybe more. The body I have crashed into belongs to – of course – Gerard. He grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me to my feet.
“See what happens when you shoot your mouth off? Welcome to Patton, faggot,” he says, and he shoves me back until my head hits the wall with a loud crack. I stumble and have to grab the edge of my nightstand to steady myself, but once the world stops spinning, I step forward once more, right up in Gerard’s face.
“So that’s how it is? You need to get a dozen guys to help you beat me up while I’m asleep. How fucking pathetic is that?” I demand. He reaches for my hair once more, but I place both hands squarely on his chest and shove him backwards.
I do not immediately register that he’s swinging something at my head. I only really see it right before it connects with my face, and in that second, I am too preoccupied with trying to figure out why the hell this sock looks so heavy to worry about ducking or shielding myself. The sock, and whatever rock solid object is buried in the toe of it, slams against my temple, and I finally buckle to my knees. I don’t bother getting up. In fact, I actually just drop sideways, sprawling out across the floor; even I know when I’ve lost a fight. I hear the guys bolting from the room, and then James is on his knees next to me.
“Garen? Garen, can you hear me?” he whispers. I nod, rolling onto my back and reaching up to touch my head. My skin is swollen and painful, and my hand comes away wet. I close my eyes.
“Dude, I’m kind of bleeding, aren’t I?” I say.
“Fuck yeah, you are. Do you want me to take you to the infirmary? I haven’t the faintest idea where it is, but I’m sure I could find it,” he says. I shake my head – bad idea – and grab his arm.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t have a concussion or anything. I can tell, because the pain’s not inside my head. It’s just, you know, all over it. Fuck, man. Do you have any bandages or something?” I ask. He jumps to his feet.
“No, but I saw a first aid kit down in the front lobby. I can sneak down and get it. I’ll be back in a minute. Two minutes, tops. Do you want me to get you into bed first?” he asks.
Even with incoming bruises all over my body and blood all over my face, I still manage to flush. Yes, please.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. He slips an arm around my waist and helps me clamber to my feet. I pause to steady myself before flopping back on the bed. James lifts my dangling feet off the floor and tucks them back under my blankets.
“I’ll be right back. I swear. Don’t you move,” he says, and he darts from the room. True to his word, he’s back within two minutes, a large white case tucked under his arm. He shuts and locks the door behind himself. “From now on, I’m thinking we should bolt that before bed.”
“No shit,” I say, laughing softly. “Thought you had.”
“Forgot,” he says simply. He dumps the first aid kit out onto his bed and sifts through the contents, finally selecting a gauze pad and a tube of antibacterial ointment. “Now, I’m not exactly used to playing Florence Nightingale. So, if you end up with gangrene or something, you’re not allowed to get mad at me.
“Just be a good roommate and dress my wounds,” I say. He uncaps the ointment, but instead of applying it to my skin or the gauze, he ducks into my personal space, his lips mere inches away from mine.
“I saw how much of a beating you just got. If you want me to dress all your wounds, maybe you should start by undressing,” he murmurs. I’m too dazed to be embarrassed, but not too dazed to note that I’m getting increasingly turned on the longer he stays this close to me.
“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable when you say shit like that?” I ask. He grins, nearly blinding me with his teeth in the dim room.
“Maybe. Does it work?” he asks. I shrug.
“To a degree. But if you want maximum effect, maybe you should put in a room change request so you can try hitting on someone who doesn’t like guys,” I say. I let my eyelids drop shut once more, just in case he decides to hit me. I have no idea why he’s doing this. I have no idea what’s coming. When nothing painful happens, I open my eyes again. If anything, he is closer; when he speaks next, I can feel his lips just barely brushing mine.
“Maybe I should. But what’s the fun in flirting with you if there’s not a chance that something’s gonna come of it?” he whispers. I don’t have a chance to respond before he leans away, dabs some ointment on my cheek, and wipes the streaks of blood away with the gauze. I can only watch in mild confusion as he packs up the first aid kit, kicks it under his desk, and climbs back into his bed, flicking the light off on his way. “Night, Garen. See you in the morning.”
I roll to face the wall, restless and unsatisfied.
Next Chapter
I have said this at least a hundred times, and I will say it a hundred more. I will say it however many times it takes to convince Mom to stop unpacking my clothes into the dresser and Dad to stop setting up my computer on one of the ancient mahogany desks. Clearly, they are both unimpressed.
“I think your credibility is somewhat ruined by the fact that you were nearly arrested on Friday. Again,” Mom says.
“I was not nearly arrested. I just… okay, you know that whole thing was Kyle’s idea, right? We don’t even own any fireworks,” I say, which is at least enough to get Dad to untangle himself from the computer wires to squint at me in disbelief.
“We don’t own any fireworks because you almost blew up the pool house with them in May,” he says. I pause, trying to come up with something to say that does not involve pointing out that the colors had actually been pretty cool before the fire department came to put everything out.
“This is a valid point,” I say carefully, “but putting that particular issue aside, it still wasn’t my fault. I mean, it’s not like we were going to hurt anyone, anyway. And it’s not like we actually did get arrested-”
“Because you ran away from the police!” Dad bursts out. Mom shoots him a warning look, and he rolls his eyes and disappears back under the desk. Mom reaches out to smooth my hair, and I flinch away. She should know by now that I can’t stand that. God, it’s her fault I’m one step away from a Jewfro, anyway. She sighs.
“Listen to me, honey. It’s no longer negotiable. Your behavior has been getting worse and worse each year, and it has gotten to the point where you are actually breaking laws now. Between the incident last week, the fire in May, and the… well, whatever it was that you were trying to accomplish by breaking into your school and filling the auditorium with live ducks in April, I still haven’t figured that one out yet. But given all of those things, we cannot change our minds now. We can’t keep you in public school if that means you’ll continue to be friends with the same people and do the same things. I don’t want my only son to end up as a criminal,” she says.
“So go have a second one so you guys can leave me alone,” I suggest. “And actually, the thing with the ducks was definitely not me, but if it had been, it would have been meant as a like, a ‘Happy Spring, you guys!’ type of present to the school.” She silences me with A Look. Mom is the master of Looks. Dad finally finishes with the computer and stands up, brushing dust off his sleeves and glancing around the room. My half is done being set up, so the only part missing now is the tearful goodbye scene. Yeah. Any minute now.
“Well, say hi to Ohio for me,” I say flatly. Mom smoothes my hair down before I can stop her and kisses the top of my head.
“Good luck, honey. Make lots of friends. Do your homework. Call at least once a week. Behave yourself.”
We all pointedly ignore the emphasis on the last stipulation. She and Dad both hug me, and I let my arms dangle limply at my sides, trying not to let either of them notice the way my spine goes rigid when they touch me. After a few more half-hearted goodbyes, they finally trudge out of the room and down the hall towards the stairs. I stomp the moving boxes flat and jam them in the one closet, clear everything off my desk and start rearranging it in a way I actually like. I am in the middle of dumping the mug of pens into one of the drawers when the door bangs open. I jump, then freeze. The hottest guy ever in the history of the world is hauling a huge suitcase over the threshold and heaving it up onto the other bed. He has soft brown hair that is elegantly rumpled in a way that hints at expensive haircuts, and his skin is tanned to almost the same shade as his gorgeous honey-colored eyes. He must be at least six feet tall, maybe six two, and his entire body seems to be made of nothing but long, smooth muscle, clearly visible under a snug white polo shirt and dark blue jeans. No way can this be my roommate. No way can this be a freshman.
“Hello there, pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m James Goldwyn, and I assume you’re Garen?” he says. He has a honey-sweet Southern drawl and a dazzling white toothpaste-commercial sort of smile. God. I can’t speak. At all. Probably ever again. I nod. “Well, Garen, in honor of our first day as roommates, we’re going to play a little game called ‘find a place to hide Jamie’s contraband before his momma makes it to the room.’”
He unzips the giant suitcase and digs out another suitcase of approximately half the size. He moves it to the floor, and there’s a soft tinkle of what is unmistakably bottles clinking together. He glances at me, clearly trying to gauge my reaction. This is better than I could’ve hoped for. A drop-dead gorgeous roommate who introduces himself by basically showing me that he’s as much of a screw-up as I am.
“James, honey, is this your room?” calls a voice from outside the door, and James jumps. I grab the handle of the suitcase and thrust it under my bed, kicking it back so it thumps against the wall. I hope he packed it well enough to stop the bottles from breaking. A dark-haired woman with lily-white skin enters the room, twisting to crook a finger at someone behind her. A moment later, two men in movers’ uniforms enter with two boxes each. Who the fuck hires movers for four boxes?
“Oh, I see you’ve met your new roommate. How lovely!” Mrs. Goldwyn announces as her eyes light on me. I step forward with my hand outstretched.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Goldwyn. My name’s Garen Anderson,” I say. James’ eyes snap to my face, which isn’t altogether surprising. I’ve heard enough recordings of myself and seen enough girls practically swoon to know that in the past two years, my speaking voice has become not that different from my singing voice; smooth, warm, and ridiculously, inappropriately sexual. Usually, however, guys my age are not the ones looking at me with that intrigued, heavy-lidded stare. Usually, guys my age do not let their tongues dart out to wet their lips before catching their lower lip between their teeth for the briefest second. Fuck.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Garen. I’m sure you and my son will be fast friends. James here is just the nicest boy you’ll ever meet,” Mrs. Goldwyn continues.
“Yeah, I’m a real Georgia peach,” James murmurs. I wonder if his mom notices the half-octave drop in his voice. Oh my god. Is it even legal to put me in a bedroom with this guy for a year? How is it possible that the only two fags at Patton ended up being roommates? This is not good, this is very not good.
“Well, honey, I’ve got to get going. The plane back to Savannah leaves at four, and I’d hate to miss it,” Mrs. Goldwyn says. She pecks James on the cheek and gives him a very light hug before whisking out of the room with the movers trailing after her. An even colder goodbye than the one from my parents.
“Thank you for hiding my bag,” James says, heading across the room to shut the door. Shit, shit, shit. “I wasn’t sure if she’d leave like she did, or stay and make me unpack in front of her. Can’t be too careful, now, can we?”
If we were really being careful, that door would be open right now. Just in case.
“No problem,” I say softly, tugging the suitcase out from under my bed and handing it back to him. He places it very gingerly on the floor near the closet and begins to set up the rest of his belongings. I try to act like I’m more interested in my student handbook than in staring at him, but I still somehow end up watching him over the top of the book as he unloads his clothes into his dresser. Now that everything he brought is spread out across the room, it feels a lot less like just my dorm. This is due, in large part, to the fact that the whole room smells like him now. Summer and fresh-cut grass and soap and something just warm and heady enough to make my eyes drift halfway shut, just like his were before.
“So, Garen,” he says, adding the tiniest bit of inflection to my name, “are you from New York?”
“No. Cleveland, Ohio. And y-your mom said Savannah, right? That’s where you’re from?” I say. He nods and begins tossing the rest of his clothes into the dresser at random.
“Yep. My family owns what used to be one of the biggest plantations in all of Georgia. It’s still big, of course, just not really much of a plantation anymore. We don’t grow anything, and we don’t have any servants except for the stable hands.” He pauses, then adds, “Well, we don’t have many servants except for the stable hands.”
“You have servants?” I say, staring at him in disbelief. He must understand my tone more than I mean him to, because his eyes narrow just the slightest bit.
“We have three housekeepers, four cooks, two gardeners, and about seven stable hands. All of them are paid very well, and in case you’re concerned that the slave trade is still alive and well in the deep South, all of them are white, too, except for two of the stable hands, who are Cuban,” he says. I shake my head quickly.
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupts. “Contrary to popular belief, a Southern accent doesn’t make a person stupid.”
I sink back onto my bed, trying to find some method of melting into the mattress. I cannot believe how fast everything is happening. I can’t believe I went from feeling alone and pathetic, to having the hottest, and probably gayest roommate ever, to making said roommate think I think he’s a dumb-as-a-post racist hick from East Bumfuck, Alabama. I haven’t even been at this fucking school for an hour yet.
James, however, seems incapable of holding a grudge. By the time he has finished unpacking his clothes, his blinding smile is back in place and he is crossing over onto my side of the room to pick his way through my possessions.
“Quite the music collection,” he says as he flips open the second of my four CD carriers. I nod. “Do you play anything?”
“Guitar,” I say. He glances at me, as though waiting for proof, so I open the door of our shared closet and pull out my guitar case. I unlatch it and very carefully remove the guitar. James whistles softly, but one glance at his face tells me he has no idea what he’s whistling at. I bite back a smile.
“It’s a Vintage Hot Rod ‘57 Fender Stratocaster,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice neutral, as though I assume he knew this. His hand twitches towards it.
“May I?” he asks. I nod, and he takes the guitar from me very gingerly. His eyes dart up and down the body, appraising it, but his hands… god. His right hand is flat under the body, supporting most of it, but his left hand is touching the neck - caressing the neck - like he wants to make my guitar come. Oh my god. A beautiful boy is practically giving my guitar a hand job. I am about five seconds away from getting wood right now.
“Looks pretty pricy. How expensive was it?” he asks. His fist curls loosely around the neck and he lines his fingers up on the frets like he’s about to play, even though his other hand is nowhere near the strings. His thumb shifts to the back of the neck, rubbing small circles onto it. Holy shit.
“How expensive was it?” he repeats, a bit more loudly. I snap my eyes back to his, away from those hands.
“About twenty-seven hundred,” I say hoarsely. I can’t decide which is more humiliating; the fact that I can feel my face getting redder by the second, or the fact that this conversation has actually made me hard. I take the guitar from him and return it to the case, latching and locking it before I duck down to store it under my bed. Because my options are pretty much limited to staying down here or standing up and running the risk of him seeing the bulge at the front of my jeans, I stay on the floor, trying to look casual.
“You know, the floor can’t be too comfortable. You’re allowed to sit on your bed,” James says, and then after a beat, “or mine, if you prefer.”
Holy fucking fuck. No, no, no, I cannot hook up with my roommate on my first day here. God, that would just be begging for a year of awkwardness. I am misreading the signals. Yes, that’s it exactly. He’s just a strange, overly affectionate, mind-bogglingly hot person, and there’s no shame in that. Like I’d even know what to do if he did want to hook up, anyway. Like I’d be able to come up with anything better than “Hurr I’ve never kissed anyone before and am pretty much only hypothetically gay at this point, we sex please, hurr.”
“I’m um… I’m good down here, actually,” I say. James inhales deeply and lets it out slowly.
“Ten minutes and you’re already killing me, Mr. Anderson,” he says. I frown.
“What?” I say, but he shakes his head and backs towards the door.
“I think I’m going to go explore the school. I’ve never even visited, you know. Pain in the ass to fly up just for a tour, so coming here was just a shot in the dark. Hopefully not a disappointing one,” he says. “I’ll be back sometime later. Before dinner, though. Probably. If not, I’ll save you a seat in the dining hall?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, desperate not to fuck everything up any more than I already have, “that would be great.”
“It was a pleasure,” he says, ducking out of the room and letting the door shut with a click. Yes, it was a pleasure. Far too much of one, actually.
Once I’ve managed to calm myself down, I sit down at my desk and boot up my computer. The internet here is way slower than it was back home, but I’m pretty sure that’s due to the hundreds of other guys all trying to sign on at once. It takes ten minutes just to bring up the internet, and once I do, I’m prompted by the school homepage. All first-year and transfer students must log in using their name and student ID number (located on their student ID cards) to set up personalized email account and access internet.
That’d be useful, if I had an ID card.
I sigh and shut down the computer again. The hallway is as crowded as a city sidewalk, and I only make it about five steps towards the stairs before someone places a hand against the small of my back and gives me a deliberate shove. I twist to glare at the person behind me, who is a few inches taller than me and possibly a few years older. It’s hard to tell in the crush, but it looks like he has some of his equally large friends with him.
“Hurry up, freshman, some of us have places to go,” he orders. I roll my eyes and turn back around. I make it another three steps before he shoves me again. “Come on! I know it’s hard to haul ass on those skinny little legs of yours, but you’re in our way.”
Shove me again, asshole. Please shove me again. I may be new to military school, I may be new to high school in general, but I know that this kind of incident is what will define my freshman year. The second I feel his fingers brush my shirt again, I spin around and grab him by the collar of his shirt, yanking his face down so it’s an inch away from mine.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl. Perplexed, he reaches for my hands, but I take advantage of his surprise to shove him up against the wall, pinning my forearm to his throat. “What’s your name?”
“Gerard,” he chokes out. I may not be as tall or built as he is – or, for that matter, as big as half the guys here seem to be – but I have a lot going for me right now; the element of surprise, the intimidation of violence, and a very impressive pair of dark green eyes that are set in a hard glare.
“Hi, Gerard. I’m Garen. It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I grab one of his hands with my free one and give it a hard shake. “Now, I want you to listen to me really closely. Are you listening, Gerard?”
“Yeah,” Gerard hisses. I can tell he’s getting angry now, preparing for his comeback. Time to make a real impression. I lean a little closer to him.
“There are three kinds of guys who get sent to military school. The first kind is the legacy kid, who’s from a whole family of ex-military people. He’s the kind of guy who talks a lot of shit because his daddy never loved him and he knows he’s destined for a life of getting fucked in the ass by Marines, so he tries to prove he’s a real man by beating up freshmen. I’m guessing this is you.”
Gerard grits his teeth and shifts again under my arm, but I jerk it forward sharply, choking him again.
“I’m not finished, so you might want to stay still. The second kind is the complete loser who goes to military school because he’s hoping the people there will be even lamer than he is. That’s the kind of guy who actually listens when the Dorm Advisor says it’s lights out, who tattles to the librarian when people are talking during study hall, and who pisses himself just a little bit the first day of marksmanship classes.”
I pause, suddenly hearing my dad’s voice in my head. Garen, from now on, I want you to stop before you do anything. I want you to ask yourself, ‘Is this the kind of image I want to make for myself?’ Think seriously about that, Son. It’s his favorite lecture, one I get at least once a week. The problem, though, is that he never took the time to point out that usually the image I want to make for myself isn’t the one I should be making. Like now, for example, as I cock my head to the side, smile just slightly, and present myself with the image of the psychotic badass of the freshman class.
“The third kind is the guy who was court-ordered here after a month-long arson investigation, has a police record as long as his arm, and is wholly unafraid of beating the shit out of you if you ever push him again. I’m pretty sure you can figure out which of these three kinds I am.”
I don’t need to give him a chance to respond. I step back, brush off my hands, and flash him my brightest smile. He just stares at me, clearly trying to figure out if he should hit me or save his neck. I lace my fingers together behind my head and head for the stairs, doing my best to appear nonchalant, as though I don’t notice that the crowd in the hall parts like the Red Sea to let me through.
The line in the dorm lobby for student ID cards is long enough that I have to head right back to my room after I get my card to change for dinner. The laminated, phonebook-sized student handbook that was sitting on my bed when I arrived dictates that I wear “School Dress” clothes; dress pants and either a polo shirt, or a button-down shirt and tie. What is this, a motherfucking tea party? I get dressed anyway, in khakis, a long-sleeved blue Oxford, and a dark blue tie. My shoe choices are pretty much limited to decrepit black Converse or the standard-issue black combat boots I was instructed to buy from the uniform store before coming to school. I lace up the boots, which are uncomfortable and heavy as fuck, tuck my ID and room keys into my pocket, and follow the surge of people headed for the dining hall. Tables are assigned at meals, which means that I, Garen Anderson of three fifteen, am seated between James Goldwyn, also of three fifteen, and Andrew Donahue, of three thirteen.
“Hey, Roomie,” James asks once everyone has been seated and the Headmaster has finished welcoming us all to Patton. “Someone in the Student Center told me that a freshman named Gavin Andrews beat the ass of some junior for looking at him wrong. That wouldn’t happen to have been you, would it?”
I laugh. “Whoever told you that got the story about as wrong as they got my name. I didn’t beat anybody’s ass, and it wasn’t for looking at me wrong. Some guy was shoving me in the hall, and I got annoyed.”
“So you beat his ass,” James finishes.
“I told you, I didn’t beat his ass. I just shoved him against a wall and told him not to fuck with me,” I say. I glance up just in time to see James quirk an eyebrow in such a way that makes my cheeks flush.
“Sounds hot,” he murmurs so the other people at our table can’t hear. No, no, no. He’s my roommate. I twist to address Andrew Donahue of three thirteen, but he is facing his roommate, Colin Kovac.
“I think I’m going to try to test out of that class,” Andrew says. “I took it in middle school, and I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy Personal Finance more.”
“Why, who teaches that?” Colin asks.
“Some guy named Mendelssohn,” Andrew says, shrugging and spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. Colin snorts.
“Not surprising that the guy teaching the class all about money would be a total Jew,” he says. He just had to say that, didn’t he?
“Hey, asshole,” I say sharply, leaning around Andrew to address Colin, who jumps. “I’m Jewish.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything by it. You know I was just joking,” he says quickly.
“I hope so. Maybe you should take Personal Finance with the ‘total Jew’ so you can learn how to save enough money to buy yourself a fucking brain,”
“Oh, that’s not fair, Garen,” James says, brushing his fingers across the back of my hand. “It’s pretty obvious that his parents spent all their money on the lobotomy. He can’t be expected to afford both.”
A few guys at the table laugh, just a little awkwardly, and the tension I didn’t intend to create is lifted. I scoop a lump of potatoes onto my plate when Andrew hands me the spoon, but I try not to move or talk too much for the rest of the meal.
It’s not even that my family is Orthodox. My dad and all of his relatives are Catholic. While my mother demanded a bris when I was an infant, helped me study Hebrew for my bar mitzvah last year, and was amusingly outraged every December when my elementary school filled the choir’s Holiday Concert with dozens of songs about Christmas and none about Hanukkah, she is still what she calls a “social Jew.” She lets me eat bacon. She only really drags me to synagogue on the holy days. She watches “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” every time it’s on television.
Every time I ask why she bothers to say she’s Jewish if it’s not all about the religion, she takes my hand and brings me upstairs to her and Dad’s room. She has me sit cross-legged on the floor while she unlocks the tiny mahogany jewelry box she keeps on her bureau, and then she very carefully hands me a long gold chain with a Star of David hanging from it.
“This was your grandfather’s, Garen,” she says. “His entire family was imprisoned in a concentration camp when he was seventeen years old, and only he survived. His mother and father both worked until they died. His sisters, who were twins, were used for medical experiments. When Dachau was liberated in 1945, your grandfather moved to America, where he bought this. He gave it to me, and one day, I will give it to you. This is why we cannot forget that we are Jewish, Garen. Because your grandfather was imprisoned and forced into slavery and nearly murdered for what he was, and we will not ever be ashamed of what we are.”
I slip a finger beneath my shirt collar and hook it around the chain, which hangs heavy and unfamiliar around my neck. One day of finally owning the necklace that has been promised to me since I was born is not long enough to make the way it bumps against my chest when I move feel natural.
“Do you want these?” Andrew asks, gesturing with the bowl of green beans. I shake my head.
“No, thanks. I’m not really hungry,” I say. James reaches across me to take the bowl, and shovels a heaping scoop on my plate.
“Don’t be an idiot. We have training first thing in the morning, and if you don’t keep a healthy diet up, you’ll fall behind. And I don’t want to have the worst cadet in school as my roommate,” he says. I roll my eyes, but start eating anyway.
After dinner, we are all herded into our dorm lobbies to receive our schedules and textbooks. James was right about having training first thing in the morning. From five to seven thirty, I’m to report to the quad for training and drills. Seven thirty to eight is down time, presumably to shower, get dressed for classes, and collect my books and homework. Breakfast is served in the dining hall from eight until nine, and from then on, it’s all classes. I have Algebra I until ten o’clock, World History until eleven, and Biology until noon. Lunch is from noon to one, followed by an hour of Freshman English, and an hour of French II. From three o’clock until five o’clock, I am to report for my Leadership Education Program, or L.E.P. According to the blurb underneath the course title, this is where I’m supposed to learn map-reading, first aid, weapons safety, instruction methods, military history, and marksmanship. After L.E.P, I return to my dorm or the library for two mandatory study hours, and then attend dinner from seven o’clock to eight. Lights out by ten thirty on weekdays, one o’clock on weekends.
Holy shit. This isn’t Patton Military Academy; this is Hell. This is a very methodical, very structured Hell, with dress codes, over-scheduling, and basic training every morning.
I head back to the room, but James disappears again, presumably to do more exploring. I use my student ID number to set up my user account, and check my email. There’s only one message in my inbox, which is from Kyle.
Hit me up when you get a chance. I’m bored as shit, and I want to know how your first day at PMS goes. Did you manage to smuggle your cell phone into the school, or did they confiscate it? Let me know. Ky.
I click ‘reply’ and pause with my fingers just above the keys, trying to figure out the best way to explain everything that has and has not changed today.
Hey, Ky. PMA (not PMS, you jackass) is pretty lame. I’m already fucking up, I guess. Some upperclassman was trying to mess with me in the hall, so I told him off. It went well. My neighbor was a douche at dinner, made a Jew joke. Told him off, too. My roommate is this Southern guy named James. Hot as fuck, and he might be into me, too. Not sure what I should do about it, considering he’s my roommate. He brought a lot of booze with him, which should be fun. The school doesn’t allow cell phones for students, but they didn’t search any bags. My mom did, though. She took the phone and charger, and anything even remotely explosive or flammable. Sorry I didn’t write earlier; they spent forever going over our schedule tomorrow. I’ve got to get up early, so I’m going to bed now. Peace, man. Garen. P.S. In case you didn’t catch that part in the middle, I’m gay. I think you knew this already, but if not… surprise!
I try not to think too much as I click ‘send.’ After all, if he reacts badly, I can recover. He may be my best friend since fifth grade, but I’m at a new school now. If his response is anything involving the word “faggot,” I can adjust. I can find a new best friend.
By the time James returns to the room, the lights are off and I am curled up under my blankets in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. James clicks on a desk lamp and collapses into his chair. He sits there for a moment, completely still, then strips off his necktie and undoes the top button of his shirt, exposing a few inches of smooth, tanned skin. I swallow, even though my mouth is suddenly dry. James tugs open one of the drawers of his desk and takes out a pen and a few sheets of blank paper. He arches his back until it cracks, then bows his head over the paper and begins to write.
It’s like watching an old black and white film from the thirties. The glow of the lamp illuminates his face just enough for me to make out his expression of concentration, and he leans his chair back onto the hind legs more than once, balancing precariously and looking like the complete picture of schoolboy elegance. After almost half an hour, his hand returns to the drawer and withdraws an envelope. He folds the letter into it, seals it, and stands. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to be the type of creepy son of a bitch who’d watch while he undresses. I don’t relax until I hear the click of the lamp and the rustle of bed sheets. He exhales slowly, and within ten minutes, his breathing has evened with deep sleep.
I don’t even know I’m asleep until suddenly I am awake again and there are hands on me, pinning me down. I act instinctively, kicking out before my legs are pinned down, too.
“James!” I yell. “James, wake up! What the fuck is—”
My blanket is yanked up over my head, and the beating starts. I have no idea what I am being hit with, but sharp, painful blows are landing all over my body, from what feels like every side. I struggle to free myself from the blanket, but it is pinned at the corners.
“Garen?” James says loudly, sounding slightly panicked, and I see light bloom in the room through the blanket.
“Shut the fuck up and get back in bed, or you’ll get the same thing!” someone snarls. The blows seem to be coming less frequently now, so I take advantage of the lull to hull myself off the bed. I am expecting to become tangled in the blanket and hit the floor, but there are so many people surrounding me that I crash right into a warm, solid body. I manage to claw my way out of the blanket, and blink around. My room is full of guys, at least ten, maybe more. The body I have crashed into belongs to – of course – Gerard. He grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me to my feet.
“See what happens when you shoot your mouth off? Welcome to Patton, faggot,” he says, and he shoves me back until my head hits the wall with a loud crack. I stumble and have to grab the edge of my nightstand to steady myself, but once the world stops spinning, I step forward once more, right up in Gerard’s face.
“So that’s how it is? You need to get a dozen guys to help you beat me up while I’m asleep. How fucking pathetic is that?” I demand. He reaches for my hair once more, but I place both hands squarely on his chest and shove him backwards.
I do not immediately register that he’s swinging something at my head. I only really see it right before it connects with my face, and in that second, I am too preoccupied with trying to figure out why the hell this sock looks so heavy to worry about ducking or shielding myself. The sock, and whatever rock solid object is buried in the toe of it, slams against my temple, and I finally buckle to my knees. I don’t bother getting up. In fact, I actually just drop sideways, sprawling out across the floor; even I know when I’ve lost a fight. I hear the guys bolting from the room, and then James is on his knees next to me.
“Garen? Garen, can you hear me?” he whispers. I nod, rolling onto my back and reaching up to touch my head. My skin is swollen and painful, and my hand comes away wet. I close my eyes.
“Dude, I’m kind of bleeding, aren’t I?” I say.
“Fuck yeah, you are. Do you want me to take you to the infirmary? I haven’t the faintest idea where it is, but I’m sure I could find it,” he says. I shake my head – bad idea – and grab his arm.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t have a concussion or anything. I can tell, because the pain’s not inside my head. It’s just, you know, all over it. Fuck, man. Do you have any bandages or something?” I ask. He jumps to his feet.
“No, but I saw a first aid kit down in the front lobby. I can sneak down and get it. I’ll be back in a minute. Two minutes, tops. Do you want me to get you into bed first?” he asks.
Even with incoming bruises all over my body and blood all over my face, I still manage to flush. Yes, please.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. He slips an arm around my waist and helps me clamber to my feet. I pause to steady myself before flopping back on the bed. James lifts my dangling feet off the floor and tucks them back under my blankets.
“I’ll be right back. I swear. Don’t you move,” he says, and he darts from the room. True to his word, he’s back within two minutes, a large white case tucked under his arm. He shuts and locks the door behind himself. “From now on, I’m thinking we should bolt that before bed.”
“No shit,” I say, laughing softly. “Thought you had.”
“Forgot,” he says simply. He dumps the first aid kit out onto his bed and sifts through the contents, finally selecting a gauze pad and a tube of antibacterial ointment. “Now, I’m not exactly used to playing Florence Nightingale. So, if you end up with gangrene or something, you’re not allowed to get mad at me.
“Just be a good roommate and dress my wounds,” I say. He uncaps the ointment, but instead of applying it to my skin or the gauze, he ducks into my personal space, his lips mere inches away from mine.
“I saw how much of a beating you just got. If you want me to dress all your wounds, maybe you should start by undressing,” he murmurs. I’m too dazed to be embarrassed, but not too dazed to note that I’m getting increasingly turned on the longer he stays this close to me.
“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable when you say shit like that?” I ask. He grins, nearly blinding me with his teeth in the dim room.
“Maybe. Does it work?” he asks. I shrug.
“To a degree. But if you want maximum effect, maybe you should put in a room change request so you can try hitting on someone who doesn’t like guys,” I say. I let my eyelids drop shut once more, just in case he decides to hit me. I have no idea why he’s doing this. I have no idea what’s coming. When nothing painful happens, I open my eyes again. If anything, he is closer; when he speaks next, I can feel his lips just barely brushing mine.
“Maybe I should. But what’s the fun in flirting with you if there’s not a chance that something’s gonna come of it?” he whispers. I don’t have a chance to respond before he leans away, dabs some ointment on my cheek, and wipes the streaks of blood away with the gauze. I can only watch in mild confusion as he packs up the first aid kit, kicks it under his desk, and climbs back into his bed, flicking the light off on his way. “Night, Garen. See you in the morning.”
I roll to face the wall, restless and unsatisfied.
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