Training the next morning is probably one of the top five worst experiences of my life so far. Squads are assigned by grade and dormitory, so I follow James to a corner of the quad designated for all the freshmen of Whitman Hall. A few people do a double-take when they see the dark purple bruise that engulfs half my face, but a lot don’t really seem surprised, which surprises me. Everyone else looks as tired as I feel, save a few people who started slamming energy drinks or coffee as soon as they woke up.
“They’ll be regretting that later,” James says, grimacing as Glen Mason, one of our neighbors from across the hall, takes a giant swig of Red Bull. “It’s just going to make them all sick.”
“Yeah?” I say. He doesn’t seem to be fazed by the fact that five hours ago, he was almost kissing me in my beg.
“Yeah. Here, want one?” he asks, stooping to his knees to dig through the small gym bag he brought down with him. He eventually extracts two bottles of water, one of which he hands to me.
“Thanks,” I say, unscrewing the top and taking a sip. He nods his acknowledgement. A whistle is blown from a few feet away, and I jump.
“Alright, Cadets! I want two lines in front of me. Stand next to your roommate, in order of your room numbers. I want you alphabetical, too. Whoever’s name comes first should be standing on the left!” bellows a man with the whistle and a slightly splotchy face. I step to James’ other side, and fall into place behind Glen.
“I’m Sergeant Smitth, and I’m going to be leading you in your morning training for your entire first year here at Patton. You are to address me only as ‘sir,’ and when I give an order, I want it followed! Are we clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” we all chorus back, like every lame Army movie I’ve seen in the past fourteen years.
Sergeant Smitth leads us in twenty minutes of stretching, ten minutes of push-ups – which I’ve always been world-shakingly suckish at – twenty minutes of crunches, and another ten minutes of stretching. Then, to my utter horror, he makes us run. For the next hour and a half, we run. When we can’t run anymore, we jog. When we can’t jog anymore, we walk. When we can’t walk anymore, we try to sit, and he screams in our faces until we start running again. By the time we finally return to the quad, I am dizzy and nauseated and slightly suicidal.
At least ten other guys collapse onto the grass at the same time I do, but Sergeant Smitth doesn’t seem to see any of them. He storms over to me and crouches down to yell, blanketing me with droplets of spit.
“Cadet, what are you doing on the ground?” he hollers. “Get on your feet! Get up!”
“Sir, I just need a minute to catch my breath, sir,” I gasp out. He grabs the front of my sweat-soaked t-shirt and hoists me a few inches off the ground.
“When I say on your feet, I want you on your feet!” he yells, and he drops me back down. I cover my face with my hands, trying to wipe off the mixture of sweat and spittle.
“Sir, suck my dick, sir!” I say. There’s a very brief, very stunned silence, and for a moment, I think Sergeant Smitth’s head is going to actually explode.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to be in the headmaster’s office, boy,” he says finally, taking a small radio from his pocket and flicking it on. “I’m going to count to that number, and then I’m going to call into the office. If you’re not there, not only will I have the headmaster call your parents and have you put on probation, I will make sure you’re doing community service every day for the rest of the semester. And trust me, if that happens, this will be your last semester here. You’ve got half a minute. I suggest you run.”
The headmaster’s office is in the main administrative building, which is halfway across campus. It’s about five minutes away, if you walk. I scramble to my feet and head for the building at a dead sprint, cursing under my breath. I try to keep track of the seconds, but my head is spinning, and it’s making everything a lot harder to focus on. How long has it been? Fifteen seconds? Twenty? A hundred and twelve? I can’t tell. I have to skirt around a group of sophomores, and shove my way through a group of other freshman on their way back to their dorms from training.
“Watch it!” one says angrily. I’m too winded to speak, so I just bow my head and run even faster, run until my muscles burn and my legs feel like they’re going to bleed. I burst into the administrative building, and the secretary at the desk glares at me.
“Do you have an appointment, young man?” she asks.
“Did Sergeant Smitth just call in here?” I demand. She frowns and shakes her head no. I collapse onto the tile, gasping for air. I did it. I made it. No community service for me, not today. Before I can really start to celebrate in my head, a radio on the secretary’s desk crackles to life.
“Lisa, this is George. Did a freshman student by the name of Anderson just arrive at the building?”
The secretary – Lisa, I guess – peers down at me, and I nod, waving my shaking hand at her.
“Uh, yes, George, he did. Would you like me to send him in to the headmaster?” she asks. I can head the sadism in Smitth’s voice when he replies.
“No, thank you. But I’d like you to tell him that he has thirty seconds to get back here, or he’ll be acting as a waiter during every meal for the rest of the semester, regardless of whether or not it’s his squad’s turn.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I moan, clawing my way up the side of the front desk and stumbling back out the door. The good thing about this trip is that by now, my legs are already numb. I move a bit more awkwardly, but I can run faster because it doesn’t hurt as much. I’m starting to see splotches of darkness in front of my eyes by the time I make it back to the section of the quad where Smitth is waiting with my squad. I skid to a stop in front of him, but I don’t fall down this time. I straighten up and clamp my mouth shut, praying I’m not about to vomit on his shoes. Sergeant Smitth is grinning at me, but not in a pleasant way.
“Congratulations, Cadet. You just made it all the way across the campus and back in one minute. Obviously, you are capable of running. In the future, I expect you to refrain from being a whiny little bitch. Are we clear?” he demands. I swallow until my mouth is dry, and focus all of my energy on not throwing up.
“Sir, yes, sir,” I say finally.
“Good. Dismissed!” he bellows, and he stalks off across the quad.
I black out.
I must only be out of it for a second, because when I come to, half the people in my squad still haven’t noticed. I’m not on the ground, though, which is surprising. I blink back the splotches of darkness still swimming around me and realize that someone is behind me, supporting my weight. He has his arms hooked under mine and his hands splayed across my chest to steady me.
“I think I’d like to die now, please,” I say, reaching for the ground.
“Not gonna happen, sorry,” says the person behind me. James. Of course. “We need to get you back up to the dorm. And you need to shower and get ready for classes.”
“No,” I say emphatically. “I do not believe that is happening today, not even one little bit.”
He laughs and tugs me back towards Whitman Hall. “Come on.”
I let him guide-slash-carry me back to our room, and once there, I collapse on my bed.
“Come on,” James repeats. “Get up, go take a shower. You smell worse than the stables back home on a hundred degree day.”
“I really think you should just let me kill myself. It would feel a lot better,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to be budging. I sigh and get up to gather my clothes and shower supplies. The school handbook once more forces me to wear School Dress clothes when I am going to meals or class, so I dig out another pair of khakis and a dark blue polo shirt. I shove them in my duffel bag to bring down to the communal bathroom. The shower area of the bathroom is a long row of stalls on one wall, and a long row of hooks on the other. These hooks, it turns out, are assigned. I sling my bag across the one labeled “G. Anderson, freshman, 315,” stuff my dirty clothes into the bad, and disappear into one of the stalls. The water is boiling hot, which feels amazing. I lean against the wall for a moment, letting the water run down my aching muscles, and try to stay very still. If I don’t move, I don’t feel that much pain. I scrub down and wash my hair, trying to prolong the process so I don’t have to leave the comfort of the warm spray. Eventually, James grabs the curtain of my stall and gives it a sharp rustle.
“Hurry up! We’re going to miss breakfast!” he says. I sigh and turn off the faucet. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I throw back the curtain, and James inhales sharply.
“What?” I demand, but he just stares at my chest. I look down and freeze. My whole body, already red from the heat of the water, is covered in bruises from my beating last night. Disturbed, I dry off and dress quickly. We’re halfway to the dining hall before James speaks again.
“I asked Kevin if he heard what happened last night. You know, Kevin Newark? He’s uh, our neighbor, in three seventeen. He heard it through the wall, so I explained everything,” he says.
“Oh?” is all I can really think to say. I’m not really sure what else he expects from me.
“He said it’s called a blanket party. It’s, you know, a thing. It happens a lot, in private schools, especially military ones. A bunch of people put bars of soap in socks, cover you with a blanket, and beat you with the socks—”
“I was there, James, I get it,” I interrupt. He shrugs.
“Kevin said it’s a hazing thing. Probably because of all that shit you were talking to that junior, Gerard,” he says. I snort.
“This year’s probably going to suck for you, you know. Classes haven’t even started yet and I’ve already been beaten with soap and threatened with community service by the drill sergeant. You’ll probably get shit by association,” I say. “Sorry.”
James knocks his hip into mine, right over a bruise he probably didn’t realize existed. I bite back a grimace.
“Lucky me. I like bad boys,” he says, grinning, and he jogs ahead of me – how can he still be alive enough to move any faster than a crawl? – to the dining hall.
Everyone at breakfast wants to talk about my confrontation with the sergeant. A few people even come over from other tables to ask questions; word must travel fast around here. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who admits it sucked and confesses that I deserved to be punished for mouthing off – which is kind of true – but I don’t want to be the kind of asshole who complains about how unfair it was, either. I settle for a happy medium; I smile and laugh when people bring it up, and say I’m surprised I got let off so easily. What a great story, maybe I should up my game. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Word seems to spread just as fast among the instructors as it does among the students. By the time seats have been assigned in math class, my teacher, Mr. Ryan, has already given me half a dozen apprehensive looks. In World History, Mrs. Wilcox gives me a pointed look when she tells us that she “just doesn’t hold for such nonsense” when it comes to acting out in class. When I walk into Biology, Mr. Steinangle points in my face and hisses, “I’ve heard about you, Anderson. And believe me, if you put one toe out of line, I’ll send you right to the headmaster. This is a place for learning. Not tomfoolery.”
“Tomfoolery?” I echo, blinking. His eyes narrow, and I take my seat quickly.
I skip lunch. Andrew tries to convince me not to, saying that if any of the administrators notice, I’ll get in even more trouble, maybe even have to actually do all the things Sergeant Smitth threatened me with. I shrug off his warnings.
“Want some company back in the room?” James asks casually. I try to ignore the suggestive undertone to his offer. I must be imagining it. He’s just fucking with me. He’s just joking with me.
“No, thanks. You go eat,” I tell him. He shrugs, and I return to the room.
Once I’m there, I can’t really figure out what to do with myself. I only have one homework assignment so far; a sheet of math problems for Algebra I. I do the problems on my bed, using my book as a desk, and then move to my actual desk to turn on my computer and check my email. I log on, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There’s a reply from Kyle.
G. How the hell could you not tell me something like that until you move away? That’s fuck up, man, that’s really fucked up. That’s a big deal, and you kept it from me, which makes you a complete asshole. We’ve been best friends for years, and it really sucks that you email me from your new school and you’re like, “Oh, I’m gay now and never bothered to tell you, my roommate’s so hot, I want him so bad.” You promised you wouldn’t become a completely different person just because you were going to some fancy-ass boarding school, but you lied. You should’ve told me this shit when you first figured it out, because friends aren’t supposed to keep stuff from each other. It pisses me off that you apparently think this is something you had to hide from me, like I’m some homophobic bigot who’d hate you or something. I cannot stress this enough: I DON’T CARE THAT YOU LIKE GUYS. I CARE THAT YOU’VE BEEN LYING TO ME. It’s not like this was even a lie of omission. You have outright told me before that you’re into chicks and stuff. That’s a dick move, and I can’t lie, that really bothers me. Any other big secrets you’ve been keeping? Because now’s the time to say them. Kyle.
I shift back in my seat, staring at the computer screen. This is ridiculous. This is so not about him, and he’s doing everything in his power to make it so. Still, I don’t want to fuck things up with him even more than they already are, so I simply reply, I’m sorry I lied to you. It was stupid, and I wish I could take it back. I understand if you’re mad. Please write back to me when you’re ready. I don’t want to lose my best friend over this. G.
I stand and retrieve my guitar from the closet. It feels familiar and solid in my hand, like it’s the only thing in the world that can ground me right now. I only have time to play a few chords before I have to join the crowd I can hear out in the hall, but it’s enough.
When I make it to my last regular class of the day, I’m fully expecting my teacher to make a snide comment to me. After all, my English teacher didn’t hesitate to tell me she’d already heard I was a disrespectful troublemaker. Why should this class be any different?
My French teacher, however, doesn’t even blink as she calls my name – first, of course – and directs me to a seat in the front corner of the room. Once the entire class is seated, she tosses her seating chart onto her desk and sits down in her black leather desk chair.
“Bonjour, gentlemen of French Level Two. My name is Madame Delonpre, but you may all feel free to call me simply Madame. This is my fourth year teaching at Patton, and I’m thrilled to be back once more. I have been teaching French for twelve years now, and am also fluent in Spanish and German, with a basic understanding of Mandarin Chinese. Please accept now that this is a difficult course. I assign homework every night, I expect you all to do the reading that I require, and I do not give out easy A’s. I also will not tolerate any of the typical posturing that seems so prevalent at military boarding schools. If I’m not mistaken, there is already some degree of hazing among the freshmen. Is this true?”
Finally, she looks directly at me. Everyone does. The bruise on the side of my face feels warm. I remain silent and still. When no one answers her, Madame continues.
“I find this type of behavior completely unnecessary. That being said, I will also not tolerate anyone acting out in my class. If you’re here only to fulfill a language requirement, I’d suggest you transfer to Senor Rivera’s Introductory Spanish class. Quite the fiesta, I’m told, with little focus on complete comprehension of the language.” The distaste in her voice is almost tangible. “Now, because you have all tested out of Introductory French, I’d like each of you to stand up in turn and introduce yourself to the class. Tell us your name, where you’re from, what you like to do. That kind of thing. Let’s start alphabetically.”
Of course.
I stand and, staring at the floor, say, “Je m’appelle Garen Anderson. Je suis originaire de l'Ohio. J'aime jouer de la guitare. Je suis un pyromane, mais mon thérapeute dit que je fais des progress.”
Madame laughs, but no one else does. “Bonne, Garen. Your accent is very good, and it’s clear you have a grasp of the language. However, I think your classmates may have lost you at the end. Care to translate?”
“My name is Garen Anderson. I’m from Ohio. I like to play the guitar. I’m a pyromaniac, but my therapist says I’m making progress,” I say. I’ve never actually seen a therapist in my life, but several people chuckle, which makes it worth the additional blow to my reputation. Furthermore, Madame nods approvingly at me as I sit back down, which makes her just about the only person here – other than James, and sometimes Andrew – who doesn’t seem to think I should be on the next bus back to Ohio.
L.E.P. is painfully dull. The instructor happens to be my best friend in the world, Sergeant Smitth, who, upon seeing me, barks, “If you have any more smart remarks to make, Anderson, feel free to say them. I’d be happy to make you run more laps around campus.”
His threat is, quite literally, the only thing remotely interesting about the entire class. He spends two hours telling us about everything we’re going to be studying, and for the first time in the history of the world, shooting a gun sounds boring. Actually, I might appreciate it right now, if the muzzle of the gun was in my mouth.
When five o’clock finally comes, James and I both bolt for the door. We race back to Whitman and into our room, where James flops down on his bed, and I return to the closet for my guitar. I glance at James, somewhat hoping he’s going to clear out and head to the library or something, but he simply sits up in bed and props himself up against the pillows.
“Play something for me,” he says. I can’t bring myself to actually look him in the eyes anymore.
“Alright. What do you want to hear?” I ask. I can just barely see him shrug through my peripheral vision.
“Anything. Whatever you want to play,” he says. I strum out half of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but he whips a pillow at my face. “I meant something serious.”
“Row, Row, Row Your Boat” turns into a funeral march. This time, James himself comes at me. He grabs the front of my shirt and drags me to his bed, pushing me flat on my back and climbing into my lap, knees anchored on either side of my hips.
“Come on,” he says, his voice a little huskier than before. “Play something for me, my little minstrel.”
“If this is you trying to seduce me, you’re doing it completely wrong,” I say. Lie. Lie, lie, lie. Biggest lie ever. Luckily, the guitar I’m still clutching is enough to shield the quickly hardening lie in my pants.
“Who said I was trying to seduce you?” James says, doing his best to appear shocked and outraged.
“Actions speak louder than words,” is all I can think to say.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. I’m not doing anything, I’m just sitting here. You know, tackling you, having a big outpouring of masculinity,” he says.
“Well, could you try to refrain from pouring out your masculinity on me? This is a new shirt,” I say. He leans closer, curving over my guitar in a way that would look incredibly awkward on me. For him, it’s probably one of the sexiest, most graceful moves I’ve ever seen.
“You know, it only counts as a seductive action if it’s working,” he says.
Here’s the thing: if I kiss him right now, like he’s practically begging for, I am officially fucking up my entire freshman year at Patton. There will always be an awkward understand between us, a horrible, unspoken “Hey, remember that first day of school when we made out on your bed?” It will ruin any friendship we might otherwise have, and it will cement the fact that I am a Big Ridiculous Faggot. All capitalized, written in big, sparkly, rainbow letters. I can’t do this. Not now. Not yet.
“Can you get off me?” I ask hoarsely. “Please?”
James doesn’t move at first, as though he’s trying to assess how serious I am. When I don’t say anything, he rocks back onto his heels.
“Sure, Roomie,” he says, and he hops off. I sit up and clear my throat. He flops down at his desk, and I retreat to my bed. Neither of us speaks much for the rest of Study Hour, but James doesn’t seem terribly upset with me when we make our way down to dinner. I still try to avoid his eyes as we sit down. By ten after seven, the squad serving today’s meals is still lingering by the kitchen. I nudge Andrew’s elbow with mine.
“Is there a particular reason we’re here if we’re not allowed to actually eat?” I ask. He shrugs.
“Maybe this is their version of more training. Starve us until we crack,” he says. However, just as he finishes speaking, Headmaster Samuels stands at the staff table and raises his hands for silence.
“Before we begin tonight’s dinner, there is something I wish to discuss with all of the students here,” he says. “Every year, the end of the first week at school leads to a lot of parties in the dorms. Now, I do not mind if students socialize. It’s a reasonable, encouraged part of life here at Patton. If you wish to play music, purchase snacks from the Student Market for you and your friends, or play games, you may. I believe today was a very successful first day—”
“For some of us,” I mutter, and James snorts.
“—and I think that some celebration is called for. However, I must remind you all of a few key rules. Tomorrow night is Friday, which means weekend curfew is in effect. All students must be in their dorm rooms – rooms, not just dorm buildings – with the lights turned out by one in the morning. No girls from any of the coed or all-female schools in the area are permitted to attend any of the parties. With the exception of faculty, administration, and emergency crews, no females are allowed into the dormitories under any circumstances. I should also remind you all that this school has a zero-tolerance policy for any alcohol, tobacco, or drug use. If you are found with any of these substances you will be expelled. If you have any further questions about what is or is not allowed, please see me after the meal.” He beckons to the squad at the kitchen doors, and they hurry to serve.
“In conclusion, there’s no point to having a party at all,” James announces. There’s a murmur of agreement through most of our table, but directly across from me, Glen Mason, from room three fourteen, shakes his head.
“I think it’s a fair policy. If I wanted to go to a bunch of drunken parties, I’d be in some lame public school with the poor kids and the whores,” he says. His roommate, Steve Woods, frowns.
“Uh, I’ve gone to public school my whole life. This is my first year out of it,” he says. Glen shrugs, looking unapologetic.
“Still. I’d rather be in here and sober, than at a public school and wasted,” he says.
“That makes one of us,” James announces, “because if I got my way – and I usually do – I’d be in here, wasted, and ideally, getting some ass.”
There’s another rumble of agreement, except for Andrew, who is suddenly looking wary.
“Can’t get any of that, though. Not here,” he says.
“Any of what?”
“Ass.”
James shrugs and leans back in his chair, locking his fingers together behind his head. “Sure you can.”
“What, you know some secret passageway to sneak girls in that the rest of us don’t? You seem like a total legacy kid. Your dad tell you something?” Mike Hamilton, three sixteen, asks. James laughs. Oh, no. Oh, no, he is not about to tell them all what he really means
“My dad’s never been to New York in his life. Took him a year to warm up to the idea of me going to a school full of Yankees. And anyway, I wasn’t talking about sneaking girls in. We’d get caught, and there’s no point. Not when there are hundreds of hot guys here already. Just as good. Actually, if I’m completely honest about personal experience, guys are kind of better.”
He just came out to a table full of military school students, and I could barely make that confession to my best friend for years. I am simultaneously stunned and envious.
“That’s disgusting,” Glen says after a pause that stretches on for hours. James shrugs.
“I don’t happen to think so, obviously. But it’s your loss, considering you get to spend the next four years with the company of your right hand, and I get to spend them actually getting some,” he says.
“Wait, you’re not joking? You’re actually a—” Thankfully, Mike stops short of actually letting the word ‘faggot’ out, but he doesn’t seem capable of just saying ‘gay.’ After a moment, he struggles to clear his throat, and finishes, “ho-mo-sex-u-al?” Just like that, each syllable its own awkward sentence.
“No, not completely,” James says. “I’ve been known to partake in some relations with the opposite sex. I just happen to prefer gentlemen.”
Please don’t let them look at me, I pray. Please, let them just drop it, so I can finish my dinner and go bury myself under my blankets and pretend not to exist.
“But doesn’t this bother you?” Mike says, gesturing to me with his butter knife.
Fuck.
“No,” I say with a shrug. Yes, but only because it’s like bringing a six-pack to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It’s not fair to tease.
“Seriously?” Glen says, frowning. “If it were me—”
“Luckily, there’s only one of you. And Garen really doesn’t mind,” James says. If his tone left any doubt in their minds as to what he’s implying, that doubt is erased when he reaches up and cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck.
I shiver.
Smirking slightly, James lets his hand fall, and everyone except for me finishes their dinner.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
“They’ll be regretting that later,” James says, grimacing as Glen Mason, one of our neighbors from across the hall, takes a giant swig of Red Bull. “It’s just going to make them all sick.”
“Yeah?” I say. He doesn’t seem to be fazed by the fact that five hours ago, he was almost kissing me in my beg.
“Yeah. Here, want one?” he asks, stooping to his knees to dig through the small gym bag he brought down with him. He eventually extracts two bottles of water, one of which he hands to me.
“Thanks,” I say, unscrewing the top and taking a sip. He nods his acknowledgement. A whistle is blown from a few feet away, and I jump.
“Alright, Cadets! I want two lines in front of me. Stand next to your roommate, in order of your room numbers. I want you alphabetical, too. Whoever’s name comes first should be standing on the left!” bellows a man with the whistle and a slightly splotchy face. I step to James’ other side, and fall into place behind Glen.
“I’m Sergeant Smitth, and I’m going to be leading you in your morning training for your entire first year here at Patton. You are to address me only as ‘sir,’ and when I give an order, I want it followed! Are we clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” we all chorus back, like every lame Army movie I’ve seen in the past fourteen years.
Sergeant Smitth leads us in twenty minutes of stretching, ten minutes of push-ups – which I’ve always been world-shakingly suckish at – twenty minutes of crunches, and another ten minutes of stretching. Then, to my utter horror, he makes us run. For the next hour and a half, we run. When we can’t run anymore, we jog. When we can’t jog anymore, we walk. When we can’t walk anymore, we try to sit, and he screams in our faces until we start running again. By the time we finally return to the quad, I am dizzy and nauseated and slightly suicidal.
At least ten other guys collapse onto the grass at the same time I do, but Sergeant Smitth doesn’t seem to see any of them. He storms over to me and crouches down to yell, blanketing me with droplets of spit.
“Cadet, what are you doing on the ground?” he hollers. “Get on your feet! Get up!”
“Sir, I just need a minute to catch my breath, sir,” I gasp out. He grabs the front of my sweat-soaked t-shirt and hoists me a few inches off the ground.
“When I say on your feet, I want you on your feet!” he yells, and he drops me back down. I cover my face with my hands, trying to wipe off the mixture of sweat and spittle.
“Sir, suck my dick, sir!” I say. There’s a very brief, very stunned silence, and for a moment, I think Sergeant Smitth’s head is going to actually explode.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to be in the headmaster’s office, boy,” he says finally, taking a small radio from his pocket and flicking it on. “I’m going to count to that number, and then I’m going to call into the office. If you’re not there, not only will I have the headmaster call your parents and have you put on probation, I will make sure you’re doing community service every day for the rest of the semester. And trust me, if that happens, this will be your last semester here. You’ve got half a minute. I suggest you run.”
The headmaster’s office is in the main administrative building, which is halfway across campus. It’s about five minutes away, if you walk. I scramble to my feet and head for the building at a dead sprint, cursing under my breath. I try to keep track of the seconds, but my head is spinning, and it’s making everything a lot harder to focus on. How long has it been? Fifteen seconds? Twenty? A hundred and twelve? I can’t tell. I have to skirt around a group of sophomores, and shove my way through a group of other freshman on their way back to their dorms from training.
“Watch it!” one says angrily. I’m too winded to speak, so I just bow my head and run even faster, run until my muscles burn and my legs feel like they’re going to bleed. I burst into the administrative building, and the secretary at the desk glares at me.
“Do you have an appointment, young man?” she asks.
“Did Sergeant Smitth just call in here?” I demand. She frowns and shakes her head no. I collapse onto the tile, gasping for air. I did it. I made it. No community service for me, not today. Before I can really start to celebrate in my head, a radio on the secretary’s desk crackles to life.
“Lisa, this is George. Did a freshman student by the name of Anderson just arrive at the building?”
The secretary – Lisa, I guess – peers down at me, and I nod, waving my shaking hand at her.
“Uh, yes, George, he did. Would you like me to send him in to the headmaster?” she asks. I can head the sadism in Smitth’s voice when he replies.
“No, thank you. But I’d like you to tell him that he has thirty seconds to get back here, or he’ll be acting as a waiter during every meal for the rest of the semester, regardless of whether or not it’s his squad’s turn.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I moan, clawing my way up the side of the front desk and stumbling back out the door. The good thing about this trip is that by now, my legs are already numb. I move a bit more awkwardly, but I can run faster because it doesn’t hurt as much. I’m starting to see splotches of darkness in front of my eyes by the time I make it back to the section of the quad where Smitth is waiting with my squad. I skid to a stop in front of him, but I don’t fall down this time. I straighten up and clamp my mouth shut, praying I’m not about to vomit on his shoes. Sergeant Smitth is grinning at me, but not in a pleasant way.
“Congratulations, Cadet. You just made it all the way across the campus and back in one minute. Obviously, you are capable of running. In the future, I expect you to refrain from being a whiny little bitch. Are we clear?” he demands. I swallow until my mouth is dry, and focus all of my energy on not throwing up.
“Sir, yes, sir,” I say finally.
“Good. Dismissed!” he bellows, and he stalks off across the quad.
I black out.
I must only be out of it for a second, because when I come to, half the people in my squad still haven’t noticed. I’m not on the ground, though, which is surprising. I blink back the splotches of darkness still swimming around me and realize that someone is behind me, supporting my weight. He has his arms hooked under mine and his hands splayed across my chest to steady me.
“I think I’d like to die now, please,” I say, reaching for the ground.
“Not gonna happen, sorry,” says the person behind me. James. Of course. “We need to get you back up to the dorm. And you need to shower and get ready for classes.”
“No,” I say emphatically. “I do not believe that is happening today, not even one little bit.”
He laughs and tugs me back towards Whitman Hall. “Come on.”
I let him guide-slash-carry me back to our room, and once there, I collapse on my bed.
“Come on,” James repeats. “Get up, go take a shower. You smell worse than the stables back home on a hundred degree day.”
“I really think you should just let me kill myself. It would feel a lot better,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to be budging. I sigh and get up to gather my clothes and shower supplies. The school handbook once more forces me to wear School Dress clothes when I am going to meals or class, so I dig out another pair of khakis and a dark blue polo shirt. I shove them in my duffel bag to bring down to the communal bathroom. The shower area of the bathroom is a long row of stalls on one wall, and a long row of hooks on the other. These hooks, it turns out, are assigned. I sling my bag across the one labeled “G. Anderson, freshman, 315,” stuff my dirty clothes into the bad, and disappear into one of the stalls. The water is boiling hot, which feels amazing. I lean against the wall for a moment, letting the water run down my aching muscles, and try to stay very still. If I don’t move, I don’t feel that much pain. I scrub down and wash my hair, trying to prolong the process so I don’t have to leave the comfort of the warm spray. Eventually, James grabs the curtain of my stall and gives it a sharp rustle.
“Hurry up! We’re going to miss breakfast!” he says. I sigh and turn off the faucet. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I throw back the curtain, and James inhales sharply.
“What?” I demand, but he just stares at my chest. I look down and freeze. My whole body, already red from the heat of the water, is covered in bruises from my beating last night. Disturbed, I dry off and dress quickly. We’re halfway to the dining hall before James speaks again.
“I asked Kevin if he heard what happened last night. You know, Kevin Newark? He’s uh, our neighbor, in three seventeen. He heard it through the wall, so I explained everything,” he says.
“Oh?” is all I can really think to say. I’m not really sure what else he expects from me.
“He said it’s called a blanket party. It’s, you know, a thing. It happens a lot, in private schools, especially military ones. A bunch of people put bars of soap in socks, cover you with a blanket, and beat you with the socks—”
“I was there, James, I get it,” I interrupt. He shrugs.
“Kevin said it’s a hazing thing. Probably because of all that shit you were talking to that junior, Gerard,” he says. I snort.
“This year’s probably going to suck for you, you know. Classes haven’t even started yet and I’ve already been beaten with soap and threatened with community service by the drill sergeant. You’ll probably get shit by association,” I say. “Sorry.”
James knocks his hip into mine, right over a bruise he probably didn’t realize existed. I bite back a grimace.
“Lucky me. I like bad boys,” he says, grinning, and he jogs ahead of me – how can he still be alive enough to move any faster than a crawl? – to the dining hall.
Everyone at breakfast wants to talk about my confrontation with the sergeant. A few people even come over from other tables to ask questions; word must travel fast around here. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who admits it sucked and confesses that I deserved to be punished for mouthing off – which is kind of true – but I don’t want to be the kind of asshole who complains about how unfair it was, either. I settle for a happy medium; I smile and laugh when people bring it up, and say I’m surprised I got let off so easily. What a great story, maybe I should up my game. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Word seems to spread just as fast among the instructors as it does among the students. By the time seats have been assigned in math class, my teacher, Mr. Ryan, has already given me half a dozen apprehensive looks. In World History, Mrs. Wilcox gives me a pointed look when she tells us that she “just doesn’t hold for such nonsense” when it comes to acting out in class. When I walk into Biology, Mr. Steinangle points in my face and hisses, “I’ve heard about you, Anderson. And believe me, if you put one toe out of line, I’ll send you right to the headmaster. This is a place for learning. Not tomfoolery.”
“Tomfoolery?” I echo, blinking. His eyes narrow, and I take my seat quickly.
I skip lunch. Andrew tries to convince me not to, saying that if any of the administrators notice, I’ll get in even more trouble, maybe even have to actually do all the things Sergeant Smitth threatened me with. I shrug off his warnings.
“Want some company back in the room?” James asks casually. I try to ignore the suggestive undertone to his offer. I must be imagining it. He’s just fucking with me. He’s just joking with me.
“No, thanks. You go eat,” I tell him. He shrugs, and I return to the room.
Once I’m there, I can’t really figure out what to do with myself. I only have one homework assignment so far; a sheet of math problems for Algebra I. I do the problems on my bed, using my book as a desk, and then move to my actual desk to turn on my computer and check my email. I log on, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There’s a reply from Kyle.
G. How the hell could you not tell me something like that until you move away? That’s fuck up, man, that’s really fucked up. That’s a big deal, and you kept it from me, which makes you a complete asshole. We’ve been best friends for years, and it really sucks that you email me from your new school and you’re like, “Oh, I’m gay now and never bothered to tell you, my roommate’s so hot, I want him so bad.” You promised you wouldn’t become a completely different person just because you were going to some fancy-ass boarding school, but you lied. You should’ve told me this shit when you first figured it out, because friends aren’t supposed to keep stuff from each other. It pisses me off that you apparently think this is something you had to hide from me, like I’m some homophobic bigot who’d hate you or something. I cannot stress this enough: I DON’T CARE THAT YOU LIKE GUYS. I CARE THAT YOU’VE BEEN LYING TO ME. It’s not like this was even a lie of omission. You have outright told me before that you’re into chicks and stuff. That’s a dick move, and I can’t lie, that really bothers me. Any other big secrets you’ve been keeping? Because now’s the time to say them. Kyle.
I shift back in my seat, staring at the computer screen. This is ridiculous. This is so not about him, and he’s doing everything in his power to make it so. Still, I don’t want to fuck things up with him even more than they already are, so I simply reply, I’m sorry I lied to you. It was stupid, and I wish I could take it back. I understand if you’re mad. Please write back to me when you’re ready. I don’t want to lose my best friend over this. G.
I stand and retrieve my guitar from the closet. It feels familiar and solid in my hand, like it’s the only thing in the world that can ground me right now. I only have time to play a few chords before I have to join the crowd I can hear out in the hall, but it’s enough.
When I make it to my last regular class of the day, I’m fully expecting my teacher to make a snide comment to me. After all, my English teacher didn’t hesitate to tell me she’d already heard I was a disrespectful troublemaker. Why should this class be any different?
My French teacher, however, doesn’t even blink as she calls my name – first, of course – and directs me to a seat in the front corner of the room. Once the entire class is seated, she tosses her seating chart onto her desk and sits down in her black leather desk chair.
“Bonjour, gentlemen of French Level Two. My name is Madame Delonpre, but you may all feel free to call me simply Madame. This is my fourth year teaching at Patton, and I’m thrilled to be back once more. I have been teaching French for twelve years now, and am also fluent in Spanish and German, with a basic understanding of Mandarin Chinese. Please accept now that this is a difficult course. I assign homework every night, I expect you all to do the reading that I require, and I do not give out easy A’s. I also will not tolerate any of the typical posturing that seems so prevalent at military boarding schools. If I’m not mistaken, there is already some degree of hazing among the freshmen. Is this true?”
Finally, she looks directly at me. Everyone does. The bruise on the side of my face feels warm. I remain silent and still. When no one answers her, Madame continues.
“I find this type of behavior completely unnecessary. That being said, I will also not tolerate anyone acting out in my class. If you’re here only to fulfill a language requirement, I’d suggest you transfer to Senor Rivera’s Introductory Spanish class. Quite the fiesta, I’m told, with little focus on complete comprehension of the language.” The distaste in her voice is almost tangible. “Now, because you have all tested out of Introductory French, I’d like each of you to stand up in turn and introduce yourself to the class. Tell us your name, where you’re from, what you like to do. That kind of thing. Let’s start alphabetically.”
Of course.
I stand and, staring at the floor, say, “Je m’appelle Garen Anderson. Je suis originaire de l'Ohio. J'aime jouer de la guitare. Je suis un pyromane, mais mon thérapeute dit que je fais des progress.”
Madame laughs, but no one else does. “Bonne, Garen. Your accent is very good, and it’s clear you have a grasp of the language. However, I think your classmates may have lost you at the end. Care to translate?”
“My name is Garen Anderson. I’m from Ohio. I like to play the guitar. I’m a pyromaniac, but my therapist says I’m making progress,” I say. I’ve never actually seen a therapist in my life, but several people chuckle, which makes it worth the additional blow to my reputation. Furthermore, Madame nods approvingly at me as I sit back down, which makes her just about the only person here – other than James, and sometimes Andrew – who doesn’t seem to think I should be on the next bus back to Ohio.
L.E.P. is painfully dull. The instructor happens to be my best friend in the world, Sergeant Smitth, who, upon seeing me, barks, “If you have any more smart remarks to make, Anderson, feel free to say them. I’d be happy to make you run more laps around campus.”
His threat is, quite literally, the only thing remotely interesting about the entire class. He spends two hours telling us about everything we’re going to be studying, and for the first time in the history of the world, shooting a gun sounds boring. Actually, I might appreciate it right now, if the muzzle of the gun was in my mouth.
When five o’clock finally comes, James and I both bolt for the door. We race back to Whitman and into our room, where James flops down on his bed, and I return to the closet for my guitar. I glance at James, somewhat hoping he’s going to clear out and head to the library or something, but he simply sits up in bed and props himself up against the pillows.
“Play something for me,” he says. I can’t bring myself to actually look him in the eyes anymore.
“Alright. What do you want to hear?” I ask. I can just barely see him shrug through my peripheral vision.
“Anything. Whatever you want to play,” he says. I strum out half of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but he whips a pillow at my face. “I meant something serious.”
“Row, Row, Row Your Boat” turns into a funeral march. This time, James himself comes at me. He grabs the front of my shirt and drags me to his bed, pushing me flat on my back and climbing into my lap, knees anchored on either side of my hips.
“Come on,” he says, his voice a little huskier than before. “Play something for me, my little minstrel.”
“If this is you trying to seduce me, you’re doing it completely wrong,” I say. Lie. Lie, lie, lie. Biggest lie ever. Luckily, the guitar I’m still clutching is enough to shield the quickly hardening lie in my pants.
“Who said I was trying to seduce you?” James says, doing his best to appear shocked and outraged.
“Actions speak louder than words,” is all I can think to say.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. I’m not doing anything, I’m just sitting here. You know, tackling you, having a big outpouring of masculinity,” he says.
“Well, could you try to refrain from pouring out your masculinity on me? This is a new shirt,” I say. He leans closer, curving over my guitar in a way that would look incredibly awkward on me. For him, it’s probably one of the sexiest, most graceful moves I’ve ever seen.
“You know, it only counts as a seductive action if it’s working,” he says.
Here’s the thing: if I kiss him right now, like he’s practically begging for, I am officially fucking up my entire freshman year at Patton. There will always be an awkward understand between us, a horrible, unspoken “Hey, remember that first day of school when we made out on your bed?” It will ruin any friendship we might otherwise have, and it will cement the fact that I am a Big Ridiculous Faggot. All capitalized, written in big, sparkly, rainbow letters. I can’t do this. Not now. Not yet.
“Can you get off me?” I ask hoarsely. “Please?”
James doesn’t move at first, as though he’s trying to assess how serious I am. When I don’t say anything, he rocks back onto his heels.
“Sure, Roomie,” he says, and he hops off. I sit up and clear my throat. He flops down at his desk, and I retreat to my bed. Neither of us speaks much for the rest of Study Hour, but James doesn’t seem terribly upset with me when we make our way down to dinner. I still try to avoid his eyes as we sit down. By ten after seven, the squad serving today’s meals is still lingering by the kitchen. I nudge Andrew’s elbow with mine.
“Is there a particular reason we’re here if we’re not allowed to actually eat?” I ask. He shrugs.
“Maybe this is their version of more training. Starve us until we crack,” he says. However, just as he finishes speaking, Headmaster Samuels stands at the staff table and raises his hands for silence.
“Before we begin tonight’s dinner, there is something I wish to discuss with all of the students here,” he says. “Every year, the end of the first week at school leads to a lot of parties in the dorms. Now, I do not mind if students socialize. It’s a reasonable, encouraged part of life here at Patton. If you wish to play music, purchase snacks from the Student Market for you and your friends, or play games, you may. I believe today was a very successful first day—”
“For some of us,” I mutter, and James snorts.
“—and I think that some celebration is called for. However, I must remind you all of a few key rules. Tomorrow night is Friday, which means weekend curfew is in effect. All students must be in their dorm rooms – rooms, not just dorm buildings – with the lights turned out by one in the morning. No girls from any of the coed or all-female schools in the area are permitted to attend any of the parties. With the exception of faculty, administration, and emergency crews, no females are allowed into the dormitories under any circumstances. I should also remind you all that this school has a zero-tolerance policy for any alcohol, tobacco, or drug use. If you are found with any of these substances you will be expelled. If you have any further questions about what is or is not allowed, please see me after the meal.” He beckons to the squad at the kitchen doors, and they hurry to serve.
“In conclusion, there’s no point to having a party at all,” James announces. There’s a murmur of agreement through most of our table, but directly across from me, Glen Mason, from room three fourteen, shakes his head.
“I think it’s a fair policy. If I wanted to go to a bunch of drunken parties, I’d be in some lame public school with the poor kids and the whores,” he says. His roommate, Steve Woods, frowns.
“Uh, I’ve gone to public school my whole life. This is my first year out of it,” he says. Glen shrugs, looking unapologetic.
“Still. I’d rather be in here and sober, than at a public school and wasted,” he says.
“That makes one of us,” James announces, “because if I got my way – and I usually do – I’d be in here, wasted, and ideally, getting some ass.”
There’s another rumble of agreement, except for Andrew, who is suddenly looking wary.
“Can’t get any of that, though. Not here,” he says.
“Any of what?”
“Ass.”
James shrugs and leans back in his chair, locking his fingers together behind his head. “Sure you can.”
“What, you know some secret passageway to sneak girls in that the rest of us don’t? You seem like a total legacy kid. Your dad tell you something?” Mike Hamilton, three sixteen, asks. James laughs. Oh, no. Oh, no, he is not about to tell them all what he really means
“My dad’s never been to New York in his life. Took him a year to warm up to the idea of me going to a school full of Yankees. And anyway, I wasn’t talking about sneaking girls in. We’d get caught, and there’s no point. Not when there are hundreds of hot guys here already. Just as good. Actually, if I’m completely honest about personal experience, guys are kind of better.”
He just came out to a table full of military school students, and I could barely make that confession to my best friend for years. I am simultaneously stunned and envious.
“That’s disgusting,” Glen says after a pause that stretches on for hours. James shrugs.
“I don’t happen to think so, obviously. But it’s your loss, considering you get to spend the next four years with the company of your right hand, and I get to spend them actually getting some,” he says.
“Wait, you’re not joking? You’re actually a—” Thankfully, Mike stops short of actually letting the word ‘faggot’ out, but he doesn’t seem capable of just saying ‘gay.’ After a moment, he struggles to clear his throat, and finishes, “ho-mo-sex-u-al?” Just like that, each syllable its own awkward sentence.
“No, not completely,” James says. “I’ve been known to partake in some relations with the opposite sex. I just happen to prefer gentlemen.”
Please don’t let them look at me, I pray. Please, let them just drop it, so I can finish my dinner and go bury myself under my blankets and pretend not to exist.
“But doesn’t this bother you?” Mike says, gesturing to me with his butter knife.
Fuck.
“No,” I say with a shrug. Yes, but only because it’s like bringing a six-pack to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It’s not fair to tease.
“Seriously?” Glen says, frowning. “If it were me—”
“Luckily, there’s only one of you. And Garen really doesn’t mind,” James says. If his tone left any doubt in their minds as to what he’s implying, that doubt is erased when he reaches up and cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck.
I shiver.
Smirking slightly, James lets his hand fall, and everyone except for me finishes their dinner.
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