“This isn’t an after-school special, G.”
“I know. If it was, I’d be six-feet-tall and cut.”
“Eh,” Blake shrugged. “The best friend is usually a little chubby.”
Greg laughed. “Fuck you. The hero is usually charming.”
“I’m charming as fuck.”
“I’m not charmed by you right now,” Greg stated. “You called me chubby.” The fake pout on his friend’s face had Blake chuckling again.
“I said, ‘a little chubby,’” Blake clarified. “Pleasantly plump.”
“Tool,” Greg tsked. He shook his head and sighed. “Seriously though, you have to stick with it, man. They’ll get over it eventually and if they don’t, fuck them.”
“I don’t want to fuck them,” Blake reminded, with a yawn. “Whatever. I don’t want to think about it right now. I want to get blazed and then get wasted enough that I won’t know what day it is.”
“But it will still be Monday. Remember we’re off the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday thing.”
“Remember what I told you went down an hour ago?” Blake challenged. The last thing he needed was for Greg to pull some saint shit when he wanted to get obliterated.
“I do. You should go workout or something. Get out some of your aggression and get better than the rest of them,” Greg suggested.
“I’m already better than them.”
“Well, get better than better.”
“That doesn’t exist,” Blake chided. “Are we going out or what?”
Greg shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll kickback with you here but I don’t want to get sloppy on a school night. I learned my lesson a few months ago. I thought you did, too.”
Blake rolled his eyes. “When shitty things happen, you’re allowed to go out and get shitty and not feel shitty about it.”
“I think that’s shitty reasoning.”
“Whatever,” Blake grumbled, taking another hit. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he shot off a text to Nick.
Blake (5:17pm): Do you wanna get fucked up tonight?
Nick (5:18pm): When have I ever said no to
that question?
Nick (5:18pm): What are you thinking?
Blake (5:19pm): Do you think one of your boys in Lexington would know of something going on up there?
Nick (5:22pm): Doing it big on a Monday. I love it.
Blake (5:22pm): Knew you would. I’m at Greg’s. Tell me what’s up and I’ll meet you at the bus stop when you wanna roll.
Nick (5:24pm): I’m on it.
While Blake was well aware that heading up to Lexington with Nick wasn’t the best idea, he was also damn positive that he didn’t give a shit. He needed to blow-off steam and couldn’t think of a better way to do it. Maybe he’d feel different about things the next day, or maybe he wouldn’t feel anything. He liked that option better.
8
Even though Blake had been hungover as hell, he’d dragged himself to the second wrestling practice, and when the same bullshit ensued, he decided that he wasn’t going to go back for the third. A person could only cope with so much ostracization and Blake had reached his capacity. If the team’s rejection hadn’t made him feel bad enough, his own shame over quitting had been the icing on the disgrace cake. So, he spent the next several weeks drowning his pain in copious amounts of alcohol and sobering up just enough to get high and go to school. The constant state of inebriation made it tolerable to pass the assholes on the team in the hallways, but it did nothing to help Blake survive Steve at the table they shared every morning. Luckily, the king of being socially inappropriate and daft seemed to recognize that things were awkward as fuck between them and didn’t attempt to engage Blake in a lot of conversation.
The more time he devoted to getting fucked up, the less he was with Greg, who definitely wasn’t a fan of his reckless behavior. Blake knew his friend was looking out for him, but it got old to hear Greg make the same points ad nauseam when all Blake wanted to do was think of nothing but where the party was that night.
“It’s hard to watch you practically pass out on the table, man,” Greg sighed, nudging Blake’s bicep as he buried his face in his forearms. The cafeteria was so damn bright, and his head was throbbing too intensely to hold it up and deal with the fluorescent lighting.
“I’m not passing out, dick. It’s Day-Glo in here. It’s bothering my eyes.”
“That’s because you’re hungover. You look rough, Blake.”
Blake could hear the tenderness in Greg’s tone. He kept his head down, not only because of his migraine, but because he didn’t want to see the worry that had become a permanent fixture on his friend’s face.
“Don’t look at me then,” Blake grumbled, knowing it was a fucked-up thing to say as soon as the words came out of his mouth. He should have attempted to reel them back in, but he was tired, and he wouldn’t have minded some quiet, even if it meant he was sitting alone. There were worse things to be than by yourself anyway.
“I’m going to ignore that one,” Greg said. He’d been turning a deaf ear to a lot of shit Blake had been saying, not budging regardless of how hard Blake pushed him away. Blake wondered what it would be like to be a sturdy rock like Greg, rather than a rushing river like himself. Greg was solid and steadfast, while Blake was impacted by the elements, weak while he waited for rain and dangerous when he couldn’t manage it. He wished he was less erratic, or that Greg was more so. Maybe then they wouldn’t have felt so far apart.
“You shouldn’t,” Blake murmured. “One of these days you won’t.”
“Is that your plan? To push me away? Be so insufferable that I fuck off?”
Blake didn’t reply, instead he listened to Greg’s wry laugh.
“Have you met my parents?”
The question was rhetorical. Of course he had.
“If I can put up with those lunatics on the daily, I can surely deal with your bitch ass,” Greg stated.
Blake wanted to hug him. He wanted to tell him that he was glad to have a friend like him in his corner. He wanted to thank him, but instead he kicked Greg’s foot with the toe of his sneaker, it was all the affection he could muster.
“You know what we should do over winter break?” Greg began, a clear attempt to lighten the mood.
“Bong hits?” Blake proposed, lifting his head enough to give Greg a small grin.
“Other than that. We should workout. Go to the gym or throw bags of rice and tires around. Whatever the fuck you like to do.”
The suggestion was enough to have Blake sitting up fully. “You want to work out with me?”
“Sure. Doesn’t every fatty make a New Year’s resolution to get in shape? I’m just a lucky chunk with a best friend who looks like you,” Greg replied easily. “It makes sense that I’d exploit your talents for my own gain, doesn’t it?”
“I get what you’re trying to do.”
“And...?” Greg shrugged.
“And it’s a valiant effort.”
“One that will work?”
“That’s up in the air,” Blake replied, “but fuck if I’m not impressed that you’re willing to risk life and limb to try.”
“Life and limb,” Greg chuckled. “Do you really think I’m that out of shape that I’d keel over if I worked out with you?”
“Maybe,” Blake grinned, resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. “I like you even if you annoy me. I don’t want to kill you.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me in a long time, Mitchell,” Greg said, ruffling Blake’s hair. “I’m suddenly feeling soft toward you.”
“You’re always feeling soft toward me.”
“Is that a fat kid joke?”
Blake clicked his tongue and took off his glasses, so he could rub his eyes. “Not at all.”
“You two are goals,” Ian remarked from across the table, barely glancing up from his phone.
“I don’t know about that,” Greg remarked. “I gotta put in a lot
of work for this cuddly outcome.”
“But it’s worth it,” Blake teased.
“Definitely worth it,” Greg confirmed, petting Blake’s head again.
“Faggots,” Jeremiah Burbar scoffed as he walked past the table.
“Really?” Blake growled, as a sudden charge of energy woke up his tired body.
“Not worth it,” Greg said quickly, resting his hand on Blake’s shoulder.
“Definitely not worth it,” Ian confirmed. “That piece of trash is going to live a miserable life with a wife who hates him and two ugly kids who cry all the time.”
“You’ve put a strange amount of thought into this, haven’t you?” Greg asked, pursing his lips as he regarded Ian skeptically.
Ian shrugged.
“Like what, do you see in my future? Are you a psychic now?” Greg continued. “Should I ask you the lottery numbers?”
“You’re not eighteen yet,” Blake said.
“And you’re not twenty-one but that doesn’t stop you from drinking on the regular,” Greg chided. “Let me win the lottery in peace.”
“Fuck, he’s such a douchebag,” Blake sighed unable to move beyond Jeremiah’s bullshit. It was crazy to think that there were more Jeremiahs around than Gregs. If the world were full of Gregs, there wouldn’t be any homophobia, biphobia, racism, or sexism. All Blake wanted was a land of Gregs, but it seemed he was stuck in a school full of Jeremiahs.
“Don’t let him bother you,” Greg tsked. “I know it’s easier said than done.”
“Much,” Blake agreed, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
The blaring bell made Blake cringe as he slowly climbed to his feet, throwing his backpack over his shoulders. Four more classes; he only had to make it through four more classes before winter break would officially commence. Though he’d been treating the last couple of months like a party, Blake was glad to not have to wake up early.
Ambling through the hallway, Blake kept his head down, feeling as though it was too heavy to lift.
“Hi,” Claire said, her sweet southern drawl easy on Blake’s irritated ears. She was walking beside him, progress he would have been happy about a few weeks prior.
“Hey,” he muttered, barely looking at her.
She smelled like vanilla and clove, a scent that instantly reminded Blake of how sweet she tasted, how much he loved kissing her, and how the simple act of placing his lips on her earlobes drove her absolutely crazy.
“Are you ready for break?” she asked, an attempt at small talk. He didn’t want small talk. He didn’t want any talking. He wanted kissing, her hands on his body, and for her to break up with her boyfriend.
“Yeah,” he answered coolly. He didn’t have the energy to fight for her, to compete with some dude who was probably as big an asshole as Jeremiah, Steve and the rest of the fools on the wrestling team. If she wanted to be with a guy like that, she could have him.
They walked wordlessly, a wall of awkwardness erected between them.
“Are you alright?” Claire inquired, clearly uncomfortable with the silence. “You don’t look so good.”
Blake huffed out a sardonic laugh.
“You know what I mean,” she admonished with a sigh. “It seems like you have something on your mind.”
“I do,” Blake stated matter-of-factly. “Is this your way of asking if it’s you?”
Her cheeks tinted pink, and for a split-second Blake considered kissing them.
“I guess I’m worried about you,” she admitted. “Every week you’ve just seemed, I don’t know, sadder.”
“You’ve been watching me.”
“You’re hard to ignore.”
“You’ve done a pretty good job for the last year,” Blake reminded, drawing a tsk from Claire.
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re right, it isn’t,” Blake agreed, positive they were each referencing different infractions.
“Have a Merry Christmas, Blake,” Claire said, appearing to be exasperated by the conversation.
He watched as she walked away, muttering under his breath, “You, too.”
Blake imagined how quaint Christmas was in the Kenwood house. They probably wore matching pajamas and woke up at the crack of dawn. They would gather around a huge, shimmering tree to open their loads of presents. Claire’s Mom would make banana pancakes and hot chocolate and they would enjoy the meal while snuggling up under flannel blankets and watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” It would snow outside their house, but only a light dusting, which ensured perfect photo opportunities for the family in their Fair Isle sweaters. Claire didn’t have a Dominic or a Mom who had to bust her ass to put food on the table. She didn’t have to shovel the three feet of snow that would likely fall on Blake, or fight with her siblings over dumb shit.
Claire’s life was perfect, and Blake wasn’t. It was easy to understand why he was no longer a part of it, even if it sucked.
9
The Woodland County Invitational was a big deal. The annual wrestling tournament took place a few days before Christmas and people all over the county showed up to cheer the competitors on. Wrestlers from neighboring high schools trained just as hard as the WCHS boys did, because the overall winner typically had a great chance at repeating the achievement at State. Blake had thought he would be participating, that he would win, that he would then be headed to State to do the same. Instead, he was sitting in his bedroom, getting high with Nick, wondering why the weed wasn’t settling his mind like it usually did.
The sound of the garage door opening had Blake cracking the window and frantically waving as much of the smoke out of the room as he could.
“Shit,” he grunted, grabbing the bowl from Nick in order to pour a few drops of water on the embers.
“Are you serious right now?” Nick exclaimed, wide eyes vacillating from the now soggy contents of the pipe to Blake. “You just fucked up perfectly good weed.”
“Yeah, well, my mom’s home and she’ll have my ass if she catches me smoking,” Blake said lighting the cranberry and fern candle he’d lifted from the living room.
“She’s not gonna think it’s shady as shit that we’re sitting up here in the middle of the afternoon channeling some romance?” Nick laughed.
“I mean, think about it,” Blake smirked. “She would be less fazed by the chance that we were banging than she would be over me getting high.”
“Hmm,” Nick hummed, nodding his head. “Wanna fuck?”
“Right now, or in general?”
“In general,” Nick said, as if he’d come to the conclusion that it should happen seconds before.
“No,” Blake chuckled. “I don’t want to fuck.”
“I’ve never gotten down with a dude. I should probably see if I like it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to find another guy. You’re not my type.”
“You’re not mine either,” Nick shrugged. “Hey, what’s wrong with me?”
“Specifically, or like, on a grand scale?”
“Why am I not your type?”
“You’re just not,” Blake replied, rolling his eyes at Nick’s grimace. “Don’t get butt-hurt about it. You said I wasn’t yours either.”
“That’s because you’re not a chick. I can appreciate what you have going on though,” Nick stated, waving his hand in Blake’s general direction. “I don’t even know if I’d really be into it, but I’m pressed that you don’t want to fuck me.”
“I’m sure you’ll get over it,” Blake said easily. “Come in,” he called when he heard his mother’s gentle rap on the door. “You’re home early,” he noted as Grace entered the room.
“Why’s the window open?” she asked skeptically. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Nick gets anxiety and sometimes he needs some fresh air,” Blake explained, watching as his mother narrowed her blue eyes at him.
“I’m really weird,” Nick nodded. “That’s one of my many quirks.”
“Okay,�
� Grace said slowly, still eyeing Blake down. “I picked up your prescriptions this morning,” she continued, putting them on top of his dresser.
“Thanks.”
“I want you to stick around for dinner, Blake. I have a surprise for you,” his mom stated. “You’re more than welcome to stay, Nick. We’re having meatloaf. Nothing fancy.”
“I’m the opposite of fancy,” Nick assured. “If fancy is over here,” he held up a hand, “I’m way over here,” and with that, he practically threw himself across the bed.
“So dramatic,” Blake giggled, clearing his throat when he realized he had, in fact, giggled. Maybe he was higher than he thought.
“I don’t know what kind of funny business you two are up to, but I know you’re up to something,” Grace asserted. “You better not be doing drugs.” She scanned the room with work-tired eyes.
“The only drugs in here are the ones you just brought in,” Blake lied, pointing to the prescription bags.
“Alright,” Grace uttered, giving Blake one last suspicious glance before closing the door behind her.
“Smooth,” Nick remarked, pulling the pipe out from under Blake’s pillow.
“Put it in your backpack, alright,” Blake directed. “We’ll finish off my bag when we get out of here.” He scoffed at Nick’s unimpressed expression as he crossed the room to stow away his bowl. “You’re getting dinner out of the deal. Don’t complain.”
“Is your mom a good cook?” Nick asked, walking over to Blake’s dresser.
“She’s decent,” Blake replied, watching as his friend picked up his prescriptions and looked over the label. “Don’t touch my shit, Holgate.”
“Vin and Adderall,” Nick read, pursing his lips. “Nice. Do you have ADD?”
“ADHD.”
“Did you know Adderall can give you an awesome high?”
Blake crinkled his nose. “I take it every day and it’s never gotten me high.”
His Own Way Out Page 5