Your Heart on the Line

I ended up in detention on my first day at a new school. Don’t ask me how I managed to do such a thing; trouble has always had a way of finding me. I wasn’t even a bad kid; in fact, I was an academic decathlon competing, advanced math course attending, grade A geek that didn’t blend in as well as I’d like to. If I had it my way, I would be totally anonymous; just another faded brick in the cohesive wall for someone to tear down someday. We’re all set up to be destroyed, but the difference is what we do with our lives before that happens.

The funny thing was, I knew I could never be just like everybody else. Yes, everyone is the same to an extent and no one is as unique as their parents or any cheesy after-school special tells them, but as much as I hated it, I knew I could never be just a normal student. I couldn’t throw a football and make subpar grades and still get a full ride. I wasn’t able to sit quietly in the back of the classroom and say three words all year, and I certainly couldn’t keep my head down and my nose clean for four years and walk away with a piece of paper reminding me that I did that. I’ve never been good at sports; sometimes I’m a loudmouth, and honestly, life has a way of throwing shit at you no matter what your mantra is, and it’s so hard not to throw that garbage around.

So I was sitting there, transferring body heat into the hard plastic chair of the school library. I was early to detention, figures. I kept to myself, absently sketching in my notebook as I saw the other students slowly filter in. I didn’t know any of those kids so well; I went to a huge school, so it seemed that whenever I learned someone’s name, they moved or dropped out or turned into a total dick. All the kids I ever liked can be tied to all sorts of things, none of them good. With my peripheral vision, I saw the final person in my detention crew walk in, a short, dark haired boy wearing all black. Kind of chubby, he had a little bit of a tummy on him and some baby cheeks as well. This kid, when he could have sat just about anywhere, made a point by sitting directly beside me. I slowly glanced over towards him, trying to make sure he didn’t catch me, but I found that he was staring right at me. His eyes were a kind of soft amber, and they gazed into my own hazels as he said one word and one word only, “Shit.”

I frowned, took a second to peek and see if our teacher was monitoring us as well as he should have been (he wasn’t), and leaned in, whispering, “What?”

He looked at me, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. His copper eyes went from me, to the open page in my notebook, to me, to the notebook, to me. “You’re gonna take your time to draw some grade B gay porn but you won’t sketch something important, like me?”

I hastily closed the cover to my notebook. Nudity was a recurrent theme in my work, and I wish I could say it was derived from artistry. In all reality, I thought being naked was cool, and I didn’t see it as a sexual thing in the slightest. To be honest, I often forgot how many others saw it that way.

I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his eyes fixed on me still. Hearing the chair creak and groan underneath him as he shifted his weight, I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else. At this point in the detention, other kids had begun to talk casually. The teacher, unconcerned, merely kept flipping through her magazine. So, I had no excuse to ignore this kid. I turned, met his eyes, and asked, “And why would I draw you?”

“You know what, you’re right,” he agreed. “You haven’t seen me naked; you have no reason to.”
I rolled my eyes, and he told, “You know, for a theater geek, you have a lot of fucking attitude.”

Looking at him incredulously, I responded, “You don’t know me.”

“And you don’t know me, but I’m not the one who’s wearing Star Wars boxers and drawing pictures of naked dudes,” he retorted.

I couldn’t help but blush, subtly trying to adjust the tail of my shirt. He rambled on, “Oh, but what do I know, right? I’m just some random kid in detention. I’m sure those boxers have met many bedroom floors in their time.”

Only getting redder, I turn away, but he proceeds, “What, you’re all embarrassed now? What’s the deal? You’re not a virgin, are you?”

My cheeks crimson, I only opened my notebook to a fresh page, drawing some random shapes. I heard him say with mock surprise, “No.”

Pencil dragging across each form to shade them, I snapped, “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but will you just-”

“Leave me alone?” he interrupted, my words coming out of his mouth. Shaking his head, he asked, “It’s never that easy, is it?”

“It’s none of your business,” I growled, burying my head further into my drawing.

“Look kid, I’m not going to judge you because you’re a virgin, it’s whatever,” he assured. “I’m just looking to kill some time while I’m in this goddamn hellhole, and since there’s no booze, no reefer, and no babes, I have to settle for exchanges like this.”

“You’re an ass.”

He grinned. “A handsome one, too.”

“Who do you think you are?” I demanded. “You’re such a fucking pest.”

Hands against his chest in mock hurt, he shared, “My name is Frank, actually, but I’ll also respond to the former.”

As annoying as he was, he was funny, and cute, and it was giving me something to do other than doodle and wait for the clock to read four p.m. I wanted to know more about him, but he cut in, “That was rude. I tell you my name and I don’t even get to learn yours?”

“You want to know my name?” I wasn’t used to anyone knowing, let alone asking.

“Yeah, I do,” Frank replied.

“You sure?” I checked.

“Yes, I’m sure, goddamn it!”

Stifling another roll of the eyes, I answered, “Gerard.”

“Gerard? What kind of a fucking name is that?” Frank challenged.

Taken aback, I said, “You’re a piece of work, Frank.”

“Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you. You’re a virgin, right?”

I nodded, and he smiled, telling, “Then I will allow you to personally go fuck yourself.”

Once detention is over, Frank tagged along my side. “Is it just me, or did we get off on the wrong foot?”

“More like the wrong fucking leg,” I retorted.

Grabbing my arm, he stopped me, telling, “Dude. Don’t let your voice get all squeaky when you’re mad; it makes you sound like a girl.”

“I’m not a girl!” I snapped. “Fuck you.”

His eyes widened, but he continued to tag along my side. “Sore subject, sorry.” For a while, he was quiet, merely trying to match my stride as I descended down the few flights of stairs. He even tailed me outside, where I finally turned, demanding, “Why are you still here? Leave me alone, alright?”

He gave me a look, one that was calm and cool before he turned, moving back towards the doors. He turned a corner, and I rushed to catch him, feeling bad for how poorly I’d handled that. Taking the same corner he had, I found myself running into a small pack of boys, mostly sophomore boys. I tried to move through them, but I was grabbed by the arm by one who greeted mockingly, “Hi there, hymen.”

“Shut up,” I growled, trying to pull my arm back. His grip only tightened, and I suppressed a whine as his fingers curled more and more harshly around my arm.

“What’s our little girl up to today?” he asked.

“Fuck off!” I snapped. He glared at me, and as I bowed my head, I still managed to voice, “You guys are all a bunch of assholes.”

“Okay, Gerard Gay,” he responded. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that; maybe your fucking chest wrap is a little too tight.” He let me go, and I stood there, eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly, I was struck across the face, and as I held one shaking hand to where I was hit, I locked eyes with him. He warned, “You better watch your mouth, you freak.”

They took off, and I never felt such a relief as I did when I saw them head out those doors. Slowly, I slumped to the ground, still holding the spot where I was hit. Biting back tears, I sat there for a moment before forcing myself to stand. I turned, to see Frank standing there. Only, he wasn’t smiling like he usually was; his express was solemn and gentle. He spoke, “I can walk you home if you want, Gerard.”

Biting my lip, I nodded. I wrung my hands, murmuring, “That’d be nice, thank you.”

For the first block or so, we were quiet. It wasn’t until we were passing the library that Frank asked the question I was expecting to hear, “So, all the rumors are true then, huh?”

I shrugged, replying, “I’m a boy, I just don’t have a penis.” More quietly, I added, “I don’t get why everyone here has to be such a douche about it.”

“I won’t ever,” Frank promised. “I’ve gone through too much in my life to judge anyone else.”

Still on edge from the incident with those boys, I demanded, “What, does your Playstation drop connection?” As soon as I said it, I knew it was mean. He stopped in his tracks, immediately beginning to roll up his sleeve.

“Look… Frank, I’m… I’m sorry man, don’t-” Before I could fully apologize, I was face to face with the back of Frank’s forearm, where he displayed a small, circular burn, still healing. I gazed at the burn, at him, and then back to the burn. “What is that?”

He stood there, rolled down his sleeve. “How else are you supposed to put out a cigar; that’s what your son is for.” He turned, and I burst out, “Frank, please walk me home. Please, I know I’m being a dick but I’m scared on my own.”

Peering back at me over his shoulder, he assured, “I wasn’t going to leave you.” With that, he moved back to my direction, pushing forward down the road.

Walking with him, I mentioned, “You act out a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” he rolled his shoulders, replying, “You talk a lot.”

“Frank, I want you to know that…” I stopped; he had looked at me with those eyes of his. “I want you to know that I’ll be here for you, no matter what, alright?”

Again, his pace halted. He tapped me along the elbow, countering, “Same goes for you, Way.” He pivoted, and I called, “Wait, don’t leave me here!”

“You’re home,” he answered calmly. I broke my gaze with him, seeing that he had walked me up to the opening of my driveway. Grinning slightly, I turned to tell him goodbye, only to see him already too far away.

Notes

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