Best Friends Forever

I go to school the next day, anticipating the exact same scholastic and social torture. All of my classes are identical to the ones yesterday, but at 4th period Spanish, an interesting development occurs.
Yesterday, the seat in front of me had been empty. This tidbit remained true today, until the bell rings and in walks a boy.
I’ve never seen him before. He rushes into the classroom as if a tardy is the equivalent to an eternity in Hell. He’s sloppily dressed; he wears a black sweatshirt over wrinkled camouflage cargo shorts. He runs a hand through his jaw bone length, greasy black hair, and his pullover rides up enough so that a strip of his blue boxer briefs can be seen.
“Mr. Way. Absent on the first day of school, tardy the second,” the teacher, Mr. Ross, chides. He smirks at the boy. “You are certainly starting out freshman year with a bang.”
The boy blushes, and he does look truly sorry as he apologizes, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ross.”
“That’s what they all say. Your excuses fail to impress me,” Mr. Ross replies. “Why don’t you stop wasting our time and take a seat.”
“Where?” he asks.
Mr. Ross lets out a dramatic sigh. “The only vacant seat in the room, next to Mr. Iero.”
The boy blushes again, and shuffles over next to me, dropping himself in the seat next to me with force. He takes out his notebook and a pencil, and starts to draw a figure. I watch him as I half-heartedly listen to today’s lesson.
Mr. Ross stops in the middle of a sentence, scolding,
“Mr. Way! I’m sure you’re aware that this is not art class.”
The boy scowls and puts his notebook away, looking as though he might cry. Now, I hardly ever cry, and even I can’t blame the kid. If I was emotionally battered in front of a room of my peers for forty minutes, I’d want to cry, too.
“Mr. Way,” Mr. Ross begins.
The boy looks up expectantly.
“Care to see me after class?”
The boy sulks, but still nods regardless.
After class, I decide to talk to the kid. I hang out by the doorway, pretending to read a copy of the announcements posted outside. When he steps out, I walk next to him and grab his arm asking, “Hey, are you okay? Mr. Ross can be sort of a dick sometimes.”
“More like a giant dick,” the boy mumbles. He adds, “But I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
I don’t know what to say next, so I force a smile. The boy struggles to return one, but can’t, and turns as if he’s going to go away. Flustered, I offer,
“You know, I don’t really have anything to do after school. We could hang out.”
The boy stops, and grins. “Sounds fun. Find me after school? My locker’s 355.”
“Sure,” I agree.
“By the way, I’m Gerard,” he greets.
“Frank,” I reply. I give him one last smile before heading down the hall, and that time, it wasn’t forced.
I spend most of my day thinking about Gerard, about how this will work out. I find myself in a stripe of luck at lunch, to see Gerard sitting by himself. I strut over, tossing my bag onto the table.
“Hey,” Gerard greets, nose buried in a book. He bookmarks the page then closes it, tucking it away into his bag.
“Hi,” I reply.
“Do you want to hear some bullshit?” Gerard asks.
“Oh, I’m always up for bullshit,” I reply.
“Mr. Ross says that if he catches me with a pencil in my hand with the exception of tests, quizzes, and worksheets, I have an hour detention,” Gerard answers.
My mouth drops open. “What? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“He hates me,” Gerard scowls.
“I wish I could say he didn’t,” I murmur.
Gerard nudges me, mentioning, “Hey, my house after school?”
“Why your house?” I retort.
Gerard shrugs. “My home is ran by irresponsible parents. Not only do they leave my sibling and I alone at all times of the day, but my house is a haven for booze and weed, and I have a little brother who’d never tell.” Gerard confidently puts his feet up on the table and leans back in his chair. “It’s kind of the shit.”
My heart skips a couple of beats at the mentioning of drugs, but I decide to let it slide. “You’ve only been in town for how long and you’ve already found a dealer?”
Gerard shakes his head. “No, I’m terrible at finding them. All of the stuff I have now is from my old dealer, who I happened to be friends with.”
“I can introduce you to one, if you want,” I suggest.
I’ve met this dealer from the one time he offered to sell me a dildo. I had politely declined. Not only does he sell drugs, but also vibrators, lubricant, dental dams, and all sorts of sex toys. Basically, he sells anything that’s hard to access at our age.
“What’s his name, and how old is he?” Gerard asks.
“He’s in the grade above me, and his name’s Patrick,” I reply.
Gerard smirks.
“What?”
Gerard answers, “A drug dealer named Patrick? What does he sell, Ibuprofen?”
“He sells cough syrup, heroin, cocaine, anything basically,” I reply. “Oh, and pocket pussies.”
Gerard snorts before he laughs, and I giggle at how dorky and cute he is.
Whoa, cute? No, absolutely not. Well…. Maybe in like a little kid sort of a way. Would I want to see him playing with a puppy? Of course. But would I want to see him straddling a bed naked? Probably not.
So, Gerard is cute like a baby’s cute. He’s not a sexual being, period. I bet if I’d pulled down his pants on the spot, he’d be flat in the front like a Ken doll.
Gerard snaps his fingers, snapping me out of my thoughts so hard I’m surprised I’m not inflicted with whip lash. “Hey? So you’re coming to my house?”
I nod.
Gerard grins. “Awesome.”

Notes