by T. J. Klune
Otter snorts from behind his paper but doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t changed the page in a few minutes, and I know it’s because he’s listening to what we’re saying. But I also know he understands that this needs to be between me and the Kid, at least for now. He’s said what he’s needed to say to me about the matter, knowing that the final decision needs to be mine.
And yeah, I’ve already made up my mind, but I wouldn’t be Bear if I didn’t second-guess every little thing I did.
One day you’ll grow up, my conscience whispers sweetly. Won’t that just be a fun day?
I sigh. “I know you can,” I tell the Kid truthfully. And I do, really. But hell, I’ll be the first to admit that this whole thing scares the crap out of me.
I remember how little I was when I got to the fifth grade, how hulking all the other kids seemed to be. Granted, I never had the support Ty does, or the brains, but I’m still worried that this is too much, too fast. With all that’s happened in the past four months, I wonder if the Kid needs another change this quickly. This could all very easily just blow up right in our faces, and what then? Send him to the fourth grade and pray a therapist can fix all the damage?
Oh God, speaking of therapy, I haven’t yet told the Kid that our attorney told me and Otter that we’d most likely have to visit a therapist for the whole custody thing. To make sure that I was a fit guardian and the Kid was not in danger. Or insane. The last time I’d broached the subject of a therapist a couple of years ago, the Kid had told me that the only people who go to therapy are the ones that have no friends to cry to. I hadn’t bothered to tell him at the time that he didn’t have any friends besides me. Back then, that just made me sad. Now, I would be totally fine if I was his only friend in the world. And not because I don’t want him to go out and make friends (which he seems to be doing, at an alarming rate). No, I’m just worried about that poor therapist being exposed to the brain in the Kid’s body. Ty’s not exactly… subtle.
I’ll save therapy for another day. Procrastination is fundamental when raising a child. Consider that another one of Bear’s Life Lessons (trademark pending approval).
“Well, good,” he says, getting up to put his bowl in the sink. “God knows you’ve probably already thought this through to death. Honestly, Bear, it’s one of your more endearing traits, but don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself think?”
Otter coughs. Ass.
“Fine,” I say as I throw my hands up into the air. “But I swear to God, Tyson, you’d better tell me the minute—no, the second—something happens. No excuses, no hesitation. That’s the only way I’m going to agree to this.”
He stares at me wisely. “It’s like you’re expecting something to go wrong, Bear. Have a little faith, huh?”
I grumble.
He grabs his backpack off the counter and brings it to the table, pulling out what he refers to as his “Genius” folder. In it are test scores, report cards, extra reports he’s written even though he didn’t have to. There are letters of recommendation from previous teachers and other school staff, a carefully thought out six-page letter he’d composed explaining in detailed bullet points exactly why he felt he should be moved forward (second revision, of course; the first one had included such gems as “Point One: I won’t have to cause a nuisance and interrupt the teacher to correct one of his or her egregious mistakes,” and “Point Six: It’ll look way better for the school district if they decided to take pity on an almost-orphaned underprivileged boy who one day hopes to make a difference in the world. If you don’t, you will all look like monsters. And also, I have a lawyer,” and finally, “Point Eighty-nine: I’m a vegetarian. Studies have shown a vegetarian’s brain works at a higher capacity than those that eat the flesh and drink the blood of our animal companions. If you don’t believe me, look it up on Wikipedia.” Like I said, subtle).
“You sure this is all we’re going to need?” he asks me, poring through the papers for at least the ninth time in two days. “It would suck to get there and have them tell us no because you forgot to include something.”
“I asked Erica,” I remind him for the hundredth time. In two days. “She went over your… proposal and said everything looked fine. You know this.
Now you’re worried? Why?”
He looks up from his bullet points and watches me plainly. “Because you’re worried, Bear. And it makes me nervous. You know when you worry, I worry. It’s just something we do.”
I almost grin at this, but I’m able to squash it before he can see the mirth crawling behind my lips. He’s right, obviously. We’re practically the same, he and I. Not that that’s a bad thing, at all. We’re just… slightly neurotic.
Slightly.
He sees it anyways and scowls at me.
“We’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Just remember, if you just so happen to think something that probably sounds like it shouldn’t be said out loud, chances are you probably shouldn’t say it.”
“You should probably do the same,” the Kid says. “I don’t want to have to explain to the principal, my future teacher, and the superintendent why my older brother who’s petitioning to become my guardian is attempting to form words but instead looks like he’s a gorilla that’s struggling to learn sign language.”
“I don’t do that!” I snap.
Otter chuckles and farts to cover it up. God, he’s so gross.
This, of course, sets the Kid off, and Otter follows suit, and in turn it sets me off, and even though I can’t really explain why it’s so funny, there’s just something about the three of us, in this kitchen, in this house, able to laugh like nothing had ever gone wrong, like things weren’t still so uncertain, that we still didn’t have the fucking fight of our lives ahead of us, something that just rights itself and locks into place.
So we laugh.
UNTIL we meet Tyson’s new teacher, who seems to know Otter a whole hell of a lot better than I would have thought. Or hoped. Or cared to know. I’m not laughing anymore.
We’re sitting in the principal Judd Franklin’s office, a short squat man with tiny eyes that are spaced too far apart and remind me of a goldfish, along with the superintendent, a woman by the name of Leslie Parker, whose gigantic boobs look like they are about to burst out of her tight suit coat and send the buttons flying at us like pornographic shrapnel. Every time she takes a deep breath, I think about ducking, but somehow, I’m able to restrain myself. It’s probably not helping that I’m staring at her chest (not in a sexual way at all, just amazed) so when I hear a polite knock on the door, I’m thankful for the distraction.
“That’ll be Mr. Trent,” Principal Franklin says, rising from his desk and walking over to the door. He smiles slightly at Tyson, but it comes out more as a grimace, and I wonder at it for a moment, until the door opens and in walks the Kid’s new teacher.
I am startled, if only for a moment, to see a handsome man walk in, his stride confident, his smile wide and flashing white, even teeth. His short brown hair is perfect on the top of his head, nary a hair out of place. The stubble on his face is on its way to a full-blown beard, and it adds to the masculinity that seems to ooze from this self-assured man. He’s big (almost as big as Otter), the muscles of his thighs tight against his dress pants, his shirtsleeves catching on the rises and ridges of his biceps, straining and pulling. I sit up straighter and puff out my chest a little bit, unsure why I’m doing so even as I do it. I know when I speak I’ll have dropped my voice an octave to make myself seem more manly, and when I shake his hand, my grip will be tight and strong. Stupid, I know, but I’m a guy. It’s what we do.
But what strikes me the most about Mr. Trent is how young he looks. I doubt he’s older than Otter is, maybe just a few years older than I am. That would mean he’s just graduated from college and must have only been into the job a year or two. I don’t know why I expected Ty’s new teacher to be some old guy. It bugs me, for some reason.
But then it’s made worse when the teacher smil
es over at us, first to the Kid, then myself, and then it hits Otter and the grin gets wider and becomes knowing, almost intimate. I wonder at this for a moment until I look back at Otter and find him staring back, his eyes wide, that crooked grin in full display. Oh man, does it hit then. Shit.
It starts in my toes with a little buzz. My feet tingle as it moves onto my ankles and calves. My knees feel itchy and then my thighs. My groin hurts, and then it hits my stomach and ignites like fire to gasoline. It roars up through me, encapsulating my lungs and heart, my esophagus. It burns past my eyes, which harden, and then it starts to scald my brain, and only then do I know what it is, only then can I give it a name. This whole process has only taken mere seconds, but when it hits me, I can do little about it.
Jealousy. Good Christ, I’m feeling jealous of some guy I’ve never met, but who my stupid fucking boyfriend can’t stop smiling at and why has no one said anything yet and why is everyone just fucking staring at each other!
I clear my throat, but Mr. Trent beats me to it. “Oliver?” he says, pleasantly surprised. “Wow, what are you doing here?” His voice is exactly as I’d thought it would be, deep and whiskey rough, as if he’d smoked two packs a day for thirty years. It’s kind of hot. If you like that sort of thing. I don’t.
“David?” Otter says, the smile still on his face.
Neat. David. His name is David. How wonderful for him. How absolutely biblical. Apparently the heavens have opened up and choirs of angels are falling from the sky in a big fat ray of sunlight, all singing,
“Daaaa-viiiiid, ” and all I want for him is to be smote (smited? Smoted? One of those things that means fiery death pain) for staring at my boyfriend.
Oh come on, Bear, it laughs. Did you really think that there was only you and Jonah for Otter? That Otter hadn’t been with anyone else? Of course he was with other people. You weren’t his first anything.
The fight for you is all I’ve ever known, he whispers from somewhere in my head.
It sighs. Well, whatever. So Otter loves you and blah, blah, blah. But isn’t that look on his face right now just a hoot? Jesus Christ, this David guy must walk on water or something.
Or something, I agree darkly.
David Trent ignores the Kid and me completely as he walks over to Otter, his hand outstretched. Otter stands, and their hands and fingers touch and grip, and that knowing look is still in David’s eyes, and before I can stop myself, I picture David’s hand wrapped around Otter’s cock, and the blood rushes to my dick, making me feel like a pervert. An angry, jealous, stupid pervert who is wondering why his boyfriend and his little brother’s future teacher won’t stop shaking hands, and it’s like they’re holding hands, and how sweet for them. How awesome for those two. I’m pissed off now, even though it’s literally only been twenty seconds since the guy walked into the room, this guy who looks perfect, has the perfect body, the perfect smile, the perfect ass that I seem to be staring at. Why the hell am I checking out this guy’s ass? I don’t check out other guys asses, that’s not who I am.
Maybe I just need to see if it’s better than mine.
It is. Of course it is. It looks like you could bounce a quarter off it. A whole roll of quarters, if you were into monetary kink. I bet Mr. David Trent, fifth grade teacher at Seafare Elementary, knows it too. The slut. He’s not going to be Ty’s teacher. Ever. I’ll fucking home school the Kid if I need to. I’ll quit my job and stay home all day with Ty and teach him stuff about… well, whatever it is that fifth graders are supposed to learn. I don’t care. He’s not coming here. Maybe we should move too. Like, to the other side of the country. And stay in our house. Forever.
Finally (after what feels like days) Otter and Captain Ass Muscles stop shaking hands and drop their arms back down to their sides. Otter seems to realize that he’s gazing lovingly into another man’s eyes, and he darts a look over at me. I attempt to school my face from the scowl I’m sure is there, but he catches it before I can make it disappear and has the decency to look at least moderately guilty. I squint at him and tilt my head slightly to the left, sending him the message, Um, what the fuck? without actually saying the words. We’ve perfected this form of silent communication to the point it’s almost scary.
He shrugs subtly. Later.
I cough. Oh, you better fucking believe there’s going to be a later.
He smirks. Knock it off, Bear. It’s not like that. I can hear you thinking from here.
I scratch my cheek. Oh you can, can you? Then you should know I’m thinking about punching you in the balls.
His smirk becomes evil. You being jealous is so fucking hot. I want to bend you over the principal’s desk and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before—
“Why is everyone being all quiet?” the Kid asks. “Are we having a staring contest? If so, you should have told me because I wasn’t quite ready yet. Otter?” I can almost taste the sarcasm in his voice. I glance over at him and see him glaring mutinously at Otter, like he’d done the worst thing in the world and had betrayed everyone he holds dear. I should have known the Kid would have been smart enough to pick up on the same things I had. It’s scary, really, how perceptive he is. I look back to Otter, and Otter has seen the same thing in the Kid that I have and takes a step back from Mr. David Trent.
David, of course, takes notice. “What are you doing here?” he asks again. “Last I heard you were down in California.”
Otter reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, came back a few months ago.”
“Really? What for?”
“Yes, Otter, why did you come back?” the Kid asks him pleasantly.
Well, pleasantly enough.
Otter grins down at the Kid. “Down, boy,” he tells him. “I hear you loud and clear.”
“Do you?” the Kid asks. “I should hope so.”
The principal, the superintendent, and the guy I wish would fall into a deep crevice in the earth filled with molten lava have no idea what’s going on, but their eyes are going back and forth between my guys like they’re watching a really quick game of chess. It would be funny if I didn’t find the situation so unfunny. But, hey, see how I’m not overreacting? Yet? The Bear of a few weeks ago would have probably stood up and run out of the room and gone to the beach and ignored phone calls from his friends and family while he collapsed in on the weight of his own angst, imagining the ocean was swallowing him whole as the entire world began to shift and crack under the biggest earthquake ever known. The New and Improved Bear just internalizes everything until he can get the object of his consternation alone to ask some very pointed questions as to why said object was making goo-goo eyes at a man who must only work out his ass when he goes to the gym because, good Christ, does it look like it would be hard to the touch and why the fuck am I now thinking about touching another guy’s ass?
Well, at least we can cross the whole “gay for Otter” thing off the list, it says. Now it appears you’re just gay. Open your mouth. See if a purse falls out.
I don’t know which is better. Or worse. Crap.
Otter turns back to David. “I’m here with these two. Bear’s my boyfriend.”
“Partner,” the Kid says. “We’ve been over this, Otter. What grade are you in?”
Otter barely restrains his eye roll. “How could I forget? But you’re right.
Bear’s my partner.”
David turns to me with sudden interest, and I stand up from my chair and reach over to him. I don’t think it’s lost on anyone in the room when I try to make myself as big as possible, which I’m sure looks hilarious given that David is at least four inches taller than I am and outweighs me by a good fifty pounds. “Nice to meet you,” I say, my voice deep as I can make it, ignoring the way Otter and the Kid snort. “I’m Bear, Otter’s… partner.” I grip his hand and do my best to crush his bones into dust.
David just looks amused. “I remember hearing about you years ago. I don’t think we ever met, though.”
Say what?
“Heard about me?” I ask, my voice going deeper, almost to the point where it sounds like I’m grunting.
David lets go of my hand before I can break his fingers. I’m sure he’s in copious amounts of pain and just wants to crawl into a corner and hold his injured hand and cry. But somehow, he’s still able to smile at me. He’s good. “Oliver and I used to be… friends.” It’s not lost on me how that last word comes out, low and breathy, like he’s fucking the air around him with his mouth. He’s really good. “I didn’t know you were… you know.”
I stare at him, daring him to keep on talking, but he’s obviously waiting for me to respond to his question that’s not really a question. “I don’t remember you,” I tell him. “Must not have been very good friends if I never met you.” These words are out before I can stop them, and even I can hear how much of a jackass I am.
Jesus Christ, it laughs. Why don’t you just whip out your dick and piss on Otter? I’m sure that would get your point across.
Otter sighs and shakes his head, but that small smile never leaves his face, and I know he’s enjoying the hell out of this, and I think maybe I should piss on him, but I don’t think we’re the water-sports type. I’m fucked up as it is; I don’t need to find out I’m into kinky shit on top of everything else. I don’t think my heart could take it. (And, knowing the way my luck goes, I’d find out I was into the really kinky shit, and would be the type that needs to wear a black leather hood over my head with a zipper across my mouth and have jumper cables attached to my nipples with the other ends to a car battery, just to get my rocks off. That’s a real thing, by the way. People do that. Look it up online. I can wait. See? I told you. People are so weird.) David’s not fooled by my words, and his grin grows wider, and it’s like he’s a shark, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many teeth before in a person. I’m about to open my mouth to say something (what, I don’t know) when the Kid speaks up for me.
“We all live together now,” he tells David, his little voice flat. “It’s kind of a big deal.”
David turns from me and looks down at the Kid. “It sounds like it,” he says cheerfully. “And you must be Tyson. It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you!” He reaches out to shake the Kid’s hand, and I see the veins on the back of the Kid’s hand rise as he attempts to give his own version of a death grip. Jesus God, he’s not just like me, he is me. “That’s quite a handshake you’ve got there!” David exclaims, pretending to fall to his knees and grimacing.