Chapter Text
When Michael was a sophomore, he thought he was in love with Barbara. He’d never been in love before, but he thought that maybe he knew what it was supposed to feel like. An uncontrollable smile every time she enters the room. A lightness in his chest, a good feeling about the day, an empty feeling when he didn’t get to see her, and a constant stream of her face her eyes her voice her everything stuck in his head when she wasn’t right next to him.
She never noticed, or maybe she just didn’t care.
He’d never liked a girl before in his life, and he hadn’t really felt much of anything for anyone since Austin had left town. He supposed it was like a song, one that had been playing on repeat for ages without him noticing.
It was something familiar and yet, at the same time it was something brand new and infuriatingly different that derailed his entire being. He felt as if he’d defined himself wrong, like his labels didn’t fit quite right anymore and like he didn’t actually know himself as well as he thought he did. However, it wasn’t something that brought his whole world crashing down. It was a reform of sorts. He had to find himself.
So he spent that year with his mouth shut. He didn’t tell a soul about it, just in case it wasn’t right. Maybe this was a phase. Straight people had “gay phases,” right? Maybe Michael was having a straight phase.
None of it made sense until he talked to Tora about it. All of his secrets were safe with her as long as there were fifteen hours and thousands of miles between them. At that point, they’d been messaging each other on ClashJournal for eight months and she knew a thing or two about him. His thing with Austin, the razor blade at the back of his dresser drawer, and all the thoughts in his head. The message she’d sent read a little like this:
I don’t think you should overthink this thing. Love is a big word, dear. And it sounds like you could just be fiercely protective of her. You’re sixteen. Take a step back and and a deep breath. Leave it alone for a little while. If you still feel the same way a year from now, I’ll admit I was wrong.
And suddenly, it wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t love or happiness or a lightness in his chest so powerful that he floated up to greet the ceiling fan. Tora didn’t have to admit anything because she was right.
It wasn’t love at all. It was relief. Seeing her take a breath, smile, laugh, live a little more. Barbara wasn’t stuck in a room with no door, or wearing shoes with no laces, writing in her journal with pencils so dull nobody could read the words on the page. She wasn’t in a hospital because they were existing in the same place, breathing the same air. It was a dangerous connection, but the two things were mutually exclusive. Tora had to talk him out of it. Stop searching for yourself, she’d said. You’re right here. He wanted Barb where he could see her so she wouldn’t try to leave him again. She was alive when she was next to him, and maybe he wanted to keep her around so he could keep her alive.
Tuesday October 4th, 2011
In the short amount of time it takes for the next theater meeting to happen, Michael has managed to write fifteen pages in a Word document. It’s just something that had been in his head for ages. Sometimes his words just build up and up and up until he can’t stop them from coming out. This particular story isn’t anything special. There’s a boy and a boy, because straight couples in stories are so common. He just wants to even it out a little. They fall in love, obviously, but he’s not there yet. FIfteen pages isn’t enough room for a good story, if you ask Michael. They probably won’t even kiss until page forty. Or maybe they won’t get that far. Maybe Michael will tear them apart before things can even really begin. He hasn’t decided yet.
He keeps coming home from school in a rush, because if he’s honest, this is his favorite part of the day. He’ll open his laptop and start writing again. Sometimes, he’ll already have a paragraph or two in his pocket that he’d written during school. Sometimes, he won’t be able to get more than ten words out in an hour, so he’ll spend hours staring up at his ceiling, searching for the right scenarios, the right names, piecing lives together like puzzles until he gets it right, or until he’s interrupted by a phone call or his mother calling him to dinner.
During his creative blocks, he might write an entry on ClashJournal about his day. Tora hasn’t been online in a week, which isn’t unusual. She’s busy with university.
He’s content with this, whatever this is. There’s never been anything wrong with it before, so why now? This was his everyday after-school life, and the more he thinks about it, the angrier it makes him. There really wasn’t anything to worry about as long as he was constantly writing, whether it was a journal entry or an actual story. No reason to worry.
Time seems to just move at hyper speed, despite wanting it to slow the fuck down. It’s gone by way too fast for Michael’s liking. There isn’t a bone in his body that wanted to go back to the theater, but there’s also a little voice in his head that sounds a lot like Barbara that keeps saying, “Distract yourself.”
So he piles into Lindsay’s truck with Ray and they drive to the high school at six o’clock on a Tuesday night. They sit in a cluster on the floor just outside of the stage doors.
“We’ve decided that we’d like to perform a modern take on Rapunzel for our play,” Ryan reveals. It takes every ounce of self control Michael has not to roll his eyes. It was all so stupid to Michael. Extracurricular things are for people with more energy than they know what to do with. Michael isn’t one of those people. Michael has to drag his limbs and force his breath. He doesn’t have spare energy.
“Set should be simple this year. We’re thinking wooden boxes and a scaffolding with long, flowing fabrics. A lot of pastel colors. Those of you on crew should get together and discuss. As for cast…”
Ray stands up along with every other crew member. Discussion. Now. Right. Michael sighs as he stands as well. “Tired?” Ray asks as Michael yawns a little.
Always. “Nah, just bored already.”
“We’ve been here for maybe five minutes.”
“Five minutes too long,” Michael rolls his eyes.
Discussion seems to translate to, "Let the Large and In Charge upperclassmen tell everyone what to do," which Michael has no issue with. Without the control freaks, he would be completely lost.
"First thing's first, there are plenty of wooden crates and boxes downstairs that we can paint over,” one of the girls tells everyone. " We should go check those out, and if we find any fabrics from last year’s plays, gather them up and we’ll see what we can salvage."
He follows the group to a set of stairs under the stage. He didn’t even know a “downstairs” existed. It was narrow, dark, echo-y, cold and clammy. The person at the front of the group finds the lightswitch and reveals a world of color and concrete to Michael. There are stacks of plywood in one corner, signs hanging from the walls that are covered in signatures and graffiti. There are paint cans, costumes, and boxes full of crap scattered about. A strange Shakespearean playground. The crowd disperses and leaves MIchael behind as he traces the ghosts of one act’s past with the tips of his fingers and he admires the shitty penmanship on their graves. The wall itself is rough, losing its one coat of paint in large chunks. That’s where the names reside; beneath the paint. Cassie. Chad. Sydney. Adam. Cassie again. Four different Michaels. Summer. Frankie. Lex. Maggie. Kevin. Jay. Nicole. Dalton. Gene. Paul. Jonathon. There were little smiley faces and hearts and tiny drawings everywhere. Jenny hearts Trip. Somebody tried to scribble out the word "faggot." A butterfly on a flower. A cat face. A crappy little house. All of them look as if children had drawn them, except they were all at Michael’s eye level, meaning someone his age did them. He wonders how many of them are in their thirties, forties, fifties, which ones are lawyers and doctors, which ones are deadbeats, if any of them got married, how many of them are six feet under or on their way out as he’s reading their names.
“Hey, Michael?”
He whips around faster than he means to and nearly trips on his own two feet. Luckily his back makes contact with all of the names and doodles and cold concrete. He could embarrass himself some other time. Right now, he’s got his eyes locked with Gavin’s and he’s trying not to look as startled as he feels. “Yeah?” is all he can get out.
He’s expecting something harsh from Gavin. A “Don’t be such a freak,” or maybe a “What the fuck is your problem?” But it never comes. Instead, Gavin’s face remains quizzical, brows drawn together the slightest bit, and he asks his question casually, as if they know each other’s blood types and what the insides of their heads look like.“Can you help me carry this upstairs?” He points to a yellow box that’s sitting against the wall behind him. It’s not particularly large. Mostly awkward, he guesses.
Michael nods his head and pushes himself away from the wall. He glances around for a moment, looking for Ray, who is already carrying a cardboard box full of fabrics up the stairs. He tries not to feel abandoned. “Are we actually going to use all these boxes?”
“Not sure yet. They want all of the things we find lined up in the hallway so we can talk about, like, placement and necessity, I guess.”
Sounds pointless. “Awesome.”
The box itself isn't actually heavy, but it's large and awkward with splinters lining every edge. Gavin would have destroyed his hands if he hadn't asked Michael for assistance. They don't talk, because they're concentrating on getting up the stairs without dying, or at least seriously injuring themselves.
They place it next to a few other boxes that have already been lined up along the wall. When Michael turns around, Ryan gives him a nod and a thumbs up, which is oddly reassuring. Good job, you did something right. He wipes his hands on the front of his jacket and sighs.
"Thanks, Michael," Gavin says.
"No problem."
The strange part about following Gavin back down the stairs is that it's wordless. He could've done something else, went off on his own, back to his wall of memorials, or even back home like he'd wanted to do the second he walked through the doors. Following him to a new box is also wordless, but in a different way. He's got words in his head, an inner monologue telling him that it's safe to stick around. It also tells him that leaving would prove a point. Don't fucking fuck with Michael goddamn Jones because he's serious about never leaving his room. It's a strange tangent.
"I think we can each carry one of these," Gavin states.
Michael looks at the crate in his hands. "Hand it over," Michael responds. And they go back up the stairs, to the line of boxes by the wall, and down again.
The front room is cleared out fast and a massive group of people are clogging the entry way to the second room. Gavin makes his way through the door, leaving Michael behind most likely without even realizing it. Paint cans and boxes of nails and screws and several hammers and drills are brought out. Gavin seems to have found plastic bags filled with paint brushes. He makes his way towards the stairs without even glancing in Michael’s direction.
Through this door, there are shelves lining the walls and they’re all filled with books. Upon closer inspection, he finds that there are several copies of each book. Assigned reading. He looks at the spine and finds nothing of interest, which he supposes is hardly a surprise. There are racks of dresses and hats and suits, and when Michael turns to leave, he sees masks lining the walls. They send chills and shivers running up and down his spine. He cringes and (though he’ll deny it if it ever comes up) lets out a startled squeak. He’s spooked enough to leave the room in a rush, which is what causes him to run straight into Jon Risinger.
“Whoa, excuse me,” is all Jon says. Not even a glance in Michael’s direction.
An overwhelming sense of I’m-not-sure-what-I’m-doing washes over him. He lets his eyes dart from corner to corner, scanning the floor for anything to bring up the stairs, but without Gavin to tell him what to do, he’s frozen. Brain overloading. On reflex, his fingers land on his chest where Michael and Babs Forever used to reside. Where’s Ray? Did he leave without me? How do all these people know what to take upstairs?
“Wait, is your name Michael Jones?” Jon asks.
He tries not to look completely startled when he replies, but he probably does anyway. “Yeah?”
“Ryan is looking for you. He’s upstairs somewhere.”
“Uh, alright.” And before Jon can disappear on him like Ray and Gavin did, he speaks out. “What’s he want?”
“Not a clue. Good luck, kid.”
The thing about Ryan Haywood is that he’s crazy. Not clinically insane, as far as he knows. It’s just rumors and whatnot. The man wears a kilt at least twice a year, and supposedly he’ll give extra credit to kids who are failing his classes, but only if they do unusual things for him. If the man wants you to wear a shirt that reads “I heart my mother” in big pink letters, it is law and it must be done.
He’s sitting in the center of the front row listening to auditions with Mr. Heyman. Michael is about to take a seat next to him when Ryan glances up at him and gives him the “wait a second” finger. He whispers something to Mr. Heyman before standing, gesturing for them to move away. He leads Michael to the back of the theater. They don’t sit down. Ryan smiles at him and it looks a little strange in the dim lighting.
“Your friend tells me you’re a good artist,” Ryan states.
And he refrains from rolling his eyes at that, because of course they told Ryan to make him feel useful, just like he suspected. “I mean, I guess,” is all Michael says.
“Well, I have a project for you. If you’re feeling up to it, of course. You definitely don’t have to take it on,”
“Right,” Michael smiles a little, but it’s forced. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m sticking around, so maybe it’d be better off in someone else’s hands.”
“That’s too bad, Michael. Your friend thinks you’re the man for the job.”
“Did Lindsey put you up to this?” It falls out of his mouth without his consent. Rude and sudden. Ryan doesn’t even flinch. “Or was it Ray?”
“Neither, actually. It was Mr. Gavin Free who recommended you.”
That startles him into silence. There’s a sea of angry words that want to overflow and flood the theater, but Gavin’s name acts as a wall of sandbags, a dam, or maybe he’s the sun and it all just evaporated into nothing.
“We need someone to design a crest of sorts. A massive ‘R’ for Rapunzel. Not too complicated, but not too simple. And then we’d need it painted onto several pieces of the set.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, yes, but if you’re planning on leaving--”
“I’ll think about it.”
Ryan smiles. “Good to hear, Michael.”