“Whoa,” he breathes. “What happened to your face?”
“Why don’t you ask your new bestie?” I scoff.
“Huh?”
“We need to talk,” I say, grabbing him by the arm. He struggles against me, but I drag him into the nearest men’s room.
“What are you doing?” he asks, looking nervous, the door shutting behind us.
“Do you care to explain yourself?” I demand from him.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Tell me why you’ve poisoned Jackie against me.”
“Poisoned?” Chris chuckles. “Aren’t we being a bit dramatic?”
“Well she punched me in the fucking face yesterday, so you tell me.”
“Oh, God. Jackie did that?”
“Don’t sound so impressed!” I wince as pain radiates from my nose. “Now start talking.”
“Honestly, Mike. I have no idea. I haven’t said a single thing about you to her.”
“Yeah right.” I sneer. “Then it’s just a coincidence my best friend of ten years suddenly hates my guts and calls me a ‘homophobic little shit’ before socking me in the face. Sounds to me like you told her about what happened between you and me.”
“Why would I do that?” Chris rebuts, throwing his hands in the air. “What would I possibly have to gain doing that?”
“I-I don’t know!” I shout, forgetting where we are. “All I know is my life was just fine before you decided to fuck it all up!”
“And how exactly did I fuck up your life, Mike?” He steps closer to me. “Did I make you gay? No. That was all Him.” He points a finger skyward. “All I did was hold onto your sketchbook and say I had a crush on you. You’re the one who filled in the blanks. And, say what you want, but maybe Jackie responded the way she did because of your behavior, not mine.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ha!” Chris laughs. “Very mature, Mike. Once again, refuse to face the truth. Look, if you want to blame me, fine. I get it. But don’t for a second think throwing your little tantrum is going to change anything.”
“I am not throwing a tantrum.”
“Well, whatever this is, are you about done?”
I don’t answer, just cross my arms.
“Good. Now, then, if you’d be so kind as let me out. I just might make it to New Testament before the door is locked.”
Deflated, I step to the side, allowing him to pass.
He places a hand on my shoulder. “And, just for the record, I wasn’t trying to guilt you into doing anything yesterday. I was simply saying the truth is a heavy burden to carry alone.” He rolls his shoulders. “It’s so much easier if you share.”
Chris pulls the door open, and I’m left alone looking like an asshole.
Or so I think.
Before I can move, the sound of feet hitting the floor echoes against the aged tile. Hushed voices follow.
“I knew that Myers kid was a queer!” a female voice whispers. “And sounds like Hernandez is his little boy toy.”
You got to be shitting me. Ice fills my veins, holding me frozen.
“Yeah, whatever,” a male voice says. “Are you going to finish me off, or do I have to do it myself?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the girl says a little louder. “Keep your pants off.”
Holy shit, that’s Tabby.
No. Nope. This isn’t happening.
I pull open the door as quietly as I can. My body locks up, panic seeping into bones and joints until I look like the tinman limping down the hall. I keep going, instinctively trying to put distance between myself and the impending doom. A hand catches me at the elbow before I can run into a locker door.
“I hope you’re happy,” Chris’s voice hisses in my ear. “You got me locked out.”
I blink. There’s a disconnect between my brain and my body. I can’t process who’s talking to me.
“Jesus, Mike. You’re white as a sheet.”
“We’re fucked,” I whisper, my knees suddenly giving way. I sink to the floor before Chris can catch me.
“Dude!” He kneels to help me up, but I can’t seem to get my legs to cooperate, so he sits next to me, backs pressed against the lockers. “What’s going on?”
“Tabby Freeman.”
“Who?”
“Tabby Freeman,” I repeat. “She was just in the bathroom. She heard the whole thing.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t seem surprised. He doesn’t seem to realize this is the worst thing that’s ever happened in the history of things happening. That our lives are about to shatter into a million pieces, never to be put together—
Chris’s hand wraps around mine, a steady vibration causing my arm to jostle. I look over to see the color draining from his face, the other hand shaking violently and his lips forming soundless words as he stares straight ahead.
Maybe he does see the gravity of our situation. I give his hand a squeeze to try to calm the shaking.
“What was she even doing in there?” he whispers.
“From the sounds of it, giving some guy a blow job.”
“Ugh.” Chris clutches his stomach. “That poor bastard. Doesn’t he know where that mouth has been?”
On a normal day, that would have been hilarious.
“What are we going to do?”
“Well, there’s not much we can do about it.” He sighs. “If she says something, then the worst case is we get reported. That involves a meeting with the counselor, and the school calling our parents.”
“Oh, God. We’re fucking toast.”
“Tell me about it.” Chris takes a deep breath. “This is not how I saw my Monday going.”
A noise escapes my chest, halfway between laughter and a sob.
This kind of stuff isn’t supposed to be happening. Not to a sixteen-year-old. My biggest issue should be deciding what to do on the weekend, not being outed by the school slut with an oral hygiene problem. It’s not fair.
“This could change everything,” Chris says, his voice small.
That’s putting it lightly.
“I-I’m sorry.” I manage to coax out. “This is all my fault.”
“Yeah, it kinda is.”
God, I’m such a piece of shit.
“Well,” Chris says as he heaves himself off the ground, still latched onto my hand. “Since we’re already fucked, I say we play hooky for the day.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”
“What?” Chris actually manages a smirk. “We’re about to be kicked out anyway.”
And he’s right. There’s nothing left for me to lose here. I nod, and he hoists me to my feet.
“What did you have in mind?”
Despite the somber moment, a twinkle of mischief sparks in his eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
He hands me the bottle of whiskey, climbing into the driver’s seat. I eye it suspiciously. “You keep this stuff on hand?”
“Not usually,” he says, pulling out of the school parking lot. “But after my last little bender, I had to pick up a refill bottle, and it’s been rolling around my trunk ever since.”
“That explains why it’s so hot.”
“Just set it in front of the air vents. It’ll cool in no time.” He plugs his phone into the auxiliary cord, selecting a song.
“Would you laugh at me if I said I’ve never been drunk before?” I ask over the synth-pop beat.
“Seriously?” Chris raises a brow. “Here I was thinking I was sheltered….”
“My parents don’t drink.” I swirl the brown liquid around the bottle, watching the bubbles spin. “I did get to steal a swig of my Abuela’s sangria last Christmas, but it was disgusting.”
“All of it is,” he says. “But thankfully you don’t have to like the taste to get the benefits.”
A flash of lightning streaks through the sky to our left, and the resounding thunderclap shakes the car. Rain hits the windshield, as if on cue, quickly distorting the outside
world.
You know what they say about Georgia. If you don’t like the weather, stick around. It’ll change.
“Where are we going?” I ask, no longer able to make out the road signs.
“You’ll see.”
That’s not a creepy answer at all.
Big Guy, we both know I’ve watched way too many seasons of Criminal Minds. Sometimes on repeat. Please don’t let this turn out like Season three, episode seventeen. I really don’t want to end up strangled in public.
I pull out my phone, ignoring the thirty-seven emails begging to be deleted. Maybe I should text Jackie, to let her know I won’t be at lunch. That way someone can account for my last known location before I end up murdered. Then again, I don’t think she’s speaking to me right now. And that’s mostly Chris’s fault.
“Why did you do it?” I can’t stop the question.
“Once again,” he replies, turning off the main road, “your vagueness doesn’t help anyone.”
Anger flickers in my gut. “Did you have to come out to her?”
His grip tightens on the wheel. “Seriously? You’re asking me that?”
“Whatever.” I scoff, turning from him. “I don’t care anymore.”
“Why does this upset you?” The rain intensifies, so he raises his voice. “I mean, I know she’s your friend.”
“Best friend,” I correct him.
“Okay, best friend. Now, tell me why it matters?”
Actually…I’m not quite sure why it does. I haven’t really been able to pinpoint a specific reason.
“It just does.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods, unconvinced. We turn into a driveway and I glance out the window to see a front yard with a ‘For Sale’ sign sticking up.
The car shudders as he kills the engine, rain keeping a steady pace on the roof.
“Want to know what I think?”
His eyes are on me, and a shiver spreads up my spine.
It’s just the rain, Mike.
“I think you’re upset because it you didn’t tell Jackie that night.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Because I could see it written all over your face.” He lets out a sigh, leaning back against the door. “And I get it. Look, I didn’t think about how it would affect your relationship. All I know is Jackie is the first person in my life I’ve encountered who wasn’t afraid to talk about what I’m feeling right now. She’s helped me more than you know over the last few weeks, and I felt like I could trust her with that part of myself.”
Chris breaks away, his eyes drifting to watch the rain stream down the windshield. Another flash of lightning transfigures them to honey for a fraction of a second. The image is burned in my mind.
A boom of thunder covers my second shiver.
“I’m sorry,” he says, still gazing through the glass. “I didn’t intend for you to get hurt.”
“No, you’re right,” I whisper, the realization galvanizing inside me. “About me,” I say louder. “I guess I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”
“How bad is it?” Chris asks. “You and Jackie, I mean.”
“The last time she spoke to me, this happened.” I motion to my face.
“Yikes,” he says, and his voice is saturated with a satisfying amount of guilt. “I’ll can try to talk to her about it, if it helps.”
“No.” I run fingers through my hair. “I’m going to have to sort this one out on my own. I said some pretty messed up things.”
“That mouth gets you in trouble a lot, doesn’t it?” Chris grins at me.
“Shut up,” I retort, but can’t help the smile tugging at the ends of my lips.
“Okay, okay.” He reaches his arm out in front of me and I stiffen. He grabs the bottle of whiskey and unlocks his door. “We’re going to have to make a run for it.”
“Run to where?”
“Just follow me.” He smiles again. He opens the door, causing a spray of precipitation to spatter his clothes as he climbs out.
Once I unfasten my belt, I join him in the downpour. He dashes behind the vacant house, splashing through the soggy yard. I pursue him, nearly slipping in the mud. It’s raining too hard for me to see where we’re going, so I focus on keeping up.
Chris makes it to the line of trees along the back of the yard, but only pauses for a moment to make sure I’m still there. He continues through the cluster of pines and maples, the branches offering a slight reprieve from the incessant rain.
Before long, I’m able to make out our destination—a rope ladder hanging down from a treehouse.
He grabs the ladder, hauling himself up into the opening. I hesitate, wiping the stream of water from my face.
“Come on!” Chris calls from above me.
And I figure if he does intend to murder me, then at least they won’t be able to kick me out of school. Silver lining, right?
I climb the unstable ladder, only making a fool of myself once as my foot slips off a rung and I end up straddling it. Once I recover, it’s smooth sailing.
“Well, I’m soaked.” Chris laughs, pulling the bottle of whiskey from his blazer. He sheds the jacket, throwing it onto a wooden bench that rests along the far wall.
“We’re not going to get arrested, are we?” I ask, still catching my breath. The treehouse is impressive. Definitely not something built by father and son in an afternoon. A small table and two chairs rest on one side of the room, and another bench on the opposite with an old school desk/chair combo overlooking a cutout window. The storm continues outside.
“Not likely,” he replies, twisting the cap off the plastic bottle. He takes a swig, making a face as he swallows. “This was my friend Russell’s treehouse,” he explains. “I’ve been sneaking up here for the past year, since his parents moved.” He traces his hand along the portion of wooden planks covered in doodles.
Russell. That was his best friend when he was younger. That much I remember.
“It’s nice to remember him.”
His voice is quiet, so I move closer.
“To know there was time we both were happy.”
That doesn’t sound good.
Chris takes another drink from the bottle, then he hands it over.
I take it, raising the rim to my lips. The whiskey burns its way down to my chest. Jesus, that’s gross. But I like the warmth spreading across my torso.
“Where did they move to?”
“His folks move across town,” he replies, still facing the wall of memories.
“He didn’t go with them?”
“No.” Chris shakes his head. “He died last summer.”
“Oh.” Last summer?
I take another drink. It’s better than shoving a foot in my mouth.
“I didn’t even know about his funeral,” Chris continues his path along the wall. “His parents asked my dad to perform the service, and he never even told me about it. How fucked up is that? I found out a month later Russell had died. I didn’t speak to my father for months.”
“Why didn’t he tell you?”
“Because of the way Russell died.” He reaches the window, propping an elbow on it. “Guess he didn’t want me to freak out. Remember how I told you we were close as kids?”
I nod.
“Well, apparently there was a reason for that.”
The rain drowns out his words, so I have to move closer.
“Russell came out to his parents when he was thirteen. Didn’t go too well. His parents flipped out, mostly his dad. You know all those nightmares you hear about these nut jobs putting kids through? Well, Russell went through the list. I had no idea it was even happening.”
His eyes are hazy, like he’s lost in time. “We hadn’t seen or heard from each other in years. I only found out because his boyfriend sent me a link to a Tumblr page Russell used as a journal. It almost killed me, reading through it all.
“After they’d exhausted all legal options, his parents sent him to a conversion camp the summer he died.
They called it a last-ditch effort to save him. Joke’s on them, I guess, seeing as he hung himself a week after he got home.”
Christ on a cracker. What do I say to that?
A rumble of thunder shakes the treehouse, and Chris dabs his face. “Can you imagine what that must have been like?”
His words twist my stomach into knots. I mean, Jesus Christ, that could have been me! Would my family have reacted the same way?
“Even though he was gone,” Chris continues, “Russell gave me a gift the day I found out. His death pushed me to finally accept the fact I couldn’t keep believing in a god that would let that happen.”
What is he saying?
“Anyway.” He shoves off the window, grabbing the bottle from my hand and taking a long draw. He coughs. “His parents finally put the house up for sale. So, I’ve only got a little while longer to enjoy this place.”
“Chris,” I say, but no other words form on my tongue. I can’t think of anything that can make him feel better.
Big Guy…how could You let that happen?
“Sorry,” he apologizes, handing over the bottle. “I don’t know why I brought you here. I guess…it’s comforting. Knowing, no matter what happens, you can remember the happy times too.”
“It’s okay.” I want to comfort him, but I don’t know how.
“I guess we should talk about this Tabby thing.”
Shit. I’d almost forgotten about that. Russell and I may be sharing a few more things in common shortly.
“Do you think we should go talk to her?” I ask.
“It’s worth a shot,” he answers, pulling off his soggy tie. “The worst she could do is say no.”
“Or breathe on you.”
That makes him crack a smile.
“That’s just a risk I’m going to have to take.”
He laughs, and I join in.
I take another sip of whiskey. My head feels light and my neck loose. My nose hurts less too.
Oh, shit. Am I getting drunk?
I offer the bottle back to Chris.
“You did eat breakfast this morning, right?” he asks.
Uh oh. I shake my head.
“Oh boy.” He pulls the bottle away from me. “Oops. I probably should have asked that first.”
“What’s tha have to do wif anything?” My words slur together. I blink, pressing fingers against my lips. Why aren’t they working right?
There Goes Sunday School Page 20