Chapter Text
I sit down on the cold cafeteria tile floor and lean my back against the brick wall. The rocks dig into my spine. I'd close my eyes, but the last time I did that someone "accidentally" spilled milk on me and my favorite flannel shirt, so I'll be avoiding the tentative joy of relaxation from now on. I unzip my lunch box and dig into the peanut butter and wasabi sandwich. The people of Regina F. Harlow Senior High School (The Regina, if we're taking advantage of local slang) swirl around me and the one other person who doesn't think I'm the strangest human alive (Sharon, who's arguing again with her boyfriend Johnny). They ignore both of us for the most part. Passing us by. A girl trots up to Sharon, but turns her heel and runs when she seems my best friend shouting at Johnny. I watch them, all of them, as I chew. I see people I know, a few I don't. I've met most of them through one way or another. Not because I'm popular. The Regina has exactly 964 students attending this year. When I heard that number, I thought it was a lot. More than last year, yeah. But if you attend all your classes, like I do, and go to some of the dances, ask a girl or two out around her clump of friends, you meet them all pretty fast. Especially easy for me since I've already met most of them. Most of us have known each other at least since middle school. A girl, I think her name is Francesca, passes by. She dyed her hair pink over the summer, and the three months we've been at school this year have taken their toll on it. You can see her blonde roots. I catch the eyes of the Regina's token nonbinary kid, Nevada. They don't wave, and neither do I. Nevada's interesting, though. Sometimes I get the urge to ask them over to my house, or to the Taco Bell a block away to have lunch, but I never go through with it. If I'm being honest, all of them are pretty interesting. Most people seem to think that highschoolers are either all copies of each other or they're weird and contrary, but as soon as I realized in 9th grade that no one was going to morph into some kind of monster once we got to high school, it seemed obvious that we're all as interesting as every adult on Earth. I hold this theory strongly enough that I applied to the journalism squad, but they told me my writing wasn't good enough.
The football team streams by, and I try not to look like I'm as fascinated by them all as I am. Their lead quarterback, the golden boy, the star, or, if you're one of his friends, Pete, glances at me. I look away. My face burns. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look away again. Was he smiling at me? He looked like he was. Peripheral vision is fishy, though.
I tune into Sharon and Johnny's conversation in an attempt to get my mind off him. Not like I'm having trouble with that. Nope. I could stop thinking about him, his maybe-smile. I just...
"Why?" Johnny whines, pouting.
Sharon huffs at him. "Because, all you wanna do is have sex, and I'm not up for that today!"
"What if I told you that tank top you're wearing... the blue really brings out your smile."
"Fuck off," she says, her eyes glinting with the knife's edge. "If you can't respect my boundaries, you can get out of my life."
Johnny straightens his shoulders, glares at her, stands up, and then walks away.
This happens every Tuesday.
I scoot over. "You good, Shar? Want me to go tp his house again?"
She laughs a little. "I'm fine." And she sounds like it -- she sounds clear and good, actually. "You know, Berg," she says, lowering her voice slightly like we're sharing a conspiracy. "I think this is the last time."
"The last time for what?"
"Being with Johnny. Nothing ever changes. I'm not getting back together with him again."
I smile. "That sounds good. More time to watch movies with you." I take another bite of my sandwich. She's nodding. "Hey, wanna come over after school? You can beat me at MarioKart."
"Abso-fucking-loutely, Bergen." The bell rings, and we stand up together. "See you in forever," she shouts before being swept away by the cafeteria crowd.
I trudge through the halls in a weak attempt to get to my next class, forensic biology. I've taken all the science courses except for this one. I was avoiding it because of the blood study in the curriculum, but in order to become the polymath I'm dead set on becoming, and get into a Harvard science program, I have to swallow my vomit and get over it. I slip in right before the bell rings and try not to catch the teacher's eye. He strides up to the front of the classroom and whips out a piece of orange chalk, writing the words "taphonomy" before turning to gaze across us. His eyes land on me and I stare hard at him, trying not to flinch. He eventually lets me out of his sight to wander across the other students. I release the tension in my body and class melts into the background.
I look out the window. It's a clear, cold December day, and the weather lady said it's going to snow by tomorrow morning. I can't wait. Dr. Fallow is droning on about something; his voice is truly, amazingly, monotone. The trees outside blow in a wind I can't feel, and I see grey clouds gathering in the distance. There's definitely some exciting weather brewing. I sense the anticipation in my stomach.
A sharp tap sounds beside me, and I jump and almost fall out of my chair.
Dr. Fallow is standing there, a ruler in his hand, glaring at me like I'm Satan Incarnate. Here it comes.
"Mr. Michael Bergen, were you having thoughts related to this class? Will you please share your insights? Someone of your intellect always has something worthy to add, I'm sure."
I open my mouth to say no, but he narrows his eyes at me. I switch gears. "Well, honestly, I was bored with your lecture. I think we could spice it up. Maybe I could stay after class and give you some pointers. I think pyrotechnics could be a solid addition." The class titters, and I hear him huff.
"Really?" He looks around at the other students. "Can anyone back Mr. Bergen's claims up? You know we don't accept any findings unless they've been peer-reviewed in our classroom."
The kids around me fall silent, and I try to make my eyes as puppy-ish as possible, making eye contact with people sitting around me. Most of them just look at the ground. My eyes lock with Pete's, and he holds my gaze for a moment before giving me a sympathetic smile.
I feel my insides swoon, and silently chide my heart.
"I don't blame anyone for not wanting to subject themselves to your punishments, Doc," I say, and he spins back around to glare at me.
"I will not stand for this kind of disrespect," he announces. "But to send you out seems too kind. I do, however, recall from the get to know you sheet you filled in at the beginning of the year, that you have a fear of blood." Speaking of blood, I can feel all of it drain from my face. "Let's jump start your recovery, shall we? Why don't you design and conduct an experiment on blood for me, due Friday. A week from today." He taps his chin. "I'll have to assign someone to keep you on track, though. Is there anyone you'd like?" He smiles, close-lipped.
I glance around the room. "Anyone but Pete, Doc," I say. "Me and him don't get along." Pete frowns.
Dr. Fallow huffs. "Mr. Dunville, will you supervise Mr. Bergen?"
Pete reorganizes his face into a smile and nods. I wish he'd speak. I want to hear his voice.
The rest of the class passes without incident. Dr. Fallow keeps watching me, and I make sure to look busy taking notes (I never take notes). After approximately five thousand hours, the bell rings and I start to shove my shit back into my backpack. I hear footfalls on the tile next to me, and look up, right into Pete's narrowed brown eyes.
"Hey," he says. "I've never talked to you before."
"Yeah." I agree. "But you seem standable. Better than half these jokers." A kid walking past us glares at me.
He almost smiles. "Only half?"
"Fine." I fake roll my eyes. "You're better than 87.5% of them, if you're forcing my hand. I've never liked manipulating data, anyways."
"When do you want to do this?"
I hum. "How about tonight? If you'll meet me by the south exit, I can get you a ride to my house. I already have a friend coming over, so we can party a little bit before working. If you actually intend to supervise me."
He shakes his head. "I've heard about you. How do you supervise Michael B?"
"Call me Berg. Most people do."
"I've talked to most people."
"Okay, well, my close friend...s call me Berg. You've been upgraded to close friend at no extra cost, so I recommend you take full advantage of the perks."
He laughs, and it's music. Rock and roll, that kind of cure for the soul. "Alright, Berg."
I'm trying not to think about how I'm certain my name sounds better when he says it for the rest of the day.
My school day is terribly unexciting. Particularly when compared to the movie in my mind playing about how me and Pete will be the best of friends by the end of tonight, and when I go to school on Monday my life will turn into something I can be proud of, where I don't feel how I feel right now. I've been doing everything I can lately not to feel this way anymore.
I can deal with anything but what is happening right now.
When the last bell rings, drowning out Ms. Brooks' voice for a single split second, I'm already out of the room. Half-running down the halls. I'm fast enough to be in track, but exercise was never my jam. I'd rather wander through a forest. Somehow, Pete is at the south exit before me, standing against the lockers with a few of his squad. Two football team boys and a girl I had my biology class with freshman year. He waves me over when we make eye contact.
"Hey," I say, grinning at him.
"Hey. These are some of my friends, Ricky, Iggy, and Minh. Berg, friends, friends, Berg."
I give a half-hearted wave, and they all smile at me, blinding me with their white teeth. I've never been able to get my teeth white. They stay the same off-white color no matter how many teeth whitening stripes I put on, or how hard I brush.
"You ready?" I ask, trying to sound like I'm not currently on the brink of a panic attack. My pulse just keeps pounding.
He smiles at his friends, and then at me, easy. Everything about him is so easy. Natural and flawless. Even his flaws are perfect. "Yeah, let's get outta here," he says. "See ya," he hails each one of his groupies in turn, then kisses Minh quickly on the cheek. He murmurs something sweet to her. I can tell by the way her eyes shine as he leaves. Her hands shake. My hands shake, too. I follow him out the door like a golden retriever. My stomach sinks as we make our way to Sharon's car. She's not there yet, so we wander in circles around the field, the dead grass perfectly brown under our sneakers. His are beat-up. Black and orange, and you can tell he really uses the Hell out of them.
"So," Pete says, and I startle. "Sorry," he smiles. "I don't know anything about you."
"Yeah, you don't. And I don't know anything about you. Do you think we'll have anything in common?"
He laughs. "I mean, we're both human, aren't we? That's good enough for me."
"So that's how you have so many friends."
He raises an eyebrow. "How?"
"You just..." I wave my hand vaguely, and he stops walking to stare at me. "You know!"
"I actually don't."
"You treat everyone so well, I guess? You operate on the assumption that everyone deserves respect and compassion. And that we're all human, and that's the most important thing. I guess, or something."
He blinks. "I do that because everyone does deserve respect and compassion. What do you think?"
"I think that I don't enjoy talking to people much."
"Do you want me to be quiet?"
"No."
Pete gives me a weird look, half smile, half something incomprehensible, and I carefully smile back at him.
"What's your favorite song?"
I bite my lip. "That's a good question... I guess it depends on my mood." I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans and start walking again. Pete follows suit, his strides long. What's something manly I can say? I obviously can't tell the captain of the football team that I've been playing Olivia Rodrigo's sour on repeat for the past two days. "I like the Beach Boys," I say. "Kokomo is a favorite."
He somehow grins wider. "Yes! It makes me want to go to Aruba! I don't even know where that is. I failed world history last year. But I know if someone ever tells me they have tickets to Aruba, I'm going."
I hold down a smile. "What about you? Go-to song?"
"Hmm..." He narrows his eyes at me, then sighs. "Got to be Jessie's Girl." He laughs slightly. "I know, it's old school."
"No more old school than Kokomo," I say.
He makes a small sound, then points over at the car. "Looks like your friend's here." We trot over, the cold wind snapping at our cheeks.
Sharon puts her hands on her hips. "Hey Berg. Who's this?"
I roll my eyes. "Everyone knows who he is, Shar."
"That's not what I meant. Why is he here?"
"It's a long story," Pete interjects. At the same time I say: "Dr. Fallow keeps being an asshole."
Sharon looks from one of us to the other, then shakes her head and laughs. "Alright, boys. Pete, as long as you don't hit on me I think we'll be cool."
"I can do that," he says, and I think of Minh. I push it out of my mind quickly, though. There's no reason thinking of that stolen moment should make my stomach hurt.
The drive home is suitably awkward. Pete is stuffed in the miniature backseat of Sharon's Fiesta, and I'm convinced there has never been a quieter silence. I watch the gray clouds roll over our small town as she drives. People walking, other students going home. I recognize most of them.
"So..." Pete starts, and I jerk myself out of daydreaming. "What do you guys usually do?"
"Well, Sharon beats the Hell out of me in MarioKart, and then in does it again in real life because she realizes I've been talking shit while she was concentrating, then we settle down with some popcorn and do a movie marathon. Then we play truth or dare in an attempt to find things out about each other that we don't already know. Then we rinse and repeat."
"Ah. Sounds... lively."
Sharon snorts. "What do you do, Mr. Fancy Pants?"
"Monopoly."
"No way," Sharon says. She shakes her head. "The football team does not play Monopoly when they hang out with each other. I don't believe it."
"Shar..." I start, but Pete cuts me off.
"It's not just Monopoly. It's..." He looks out the window for a second, then shakes his head, like he's just decided something. "We get pissed, then we play. Usually it turns into strip Monopoly."
"Ew!" Sharon shrieks.
"How do you play that?" I ask, and he laughs.
"Well, instead of giving someone money when you land on their property, you have to take off different amounts of clothes depending on how valuable the space is. Stuff like Boardwalk and Park Place is five pieces of clothing and they have to be substantial. Not just a sock or whatever."
I snort. "Sounds exciting."
"It is," Pete agrees, and twiddling his fingers. He glances out the window, and I have the sudden urge to catch his eye and smile. I want to smile at him.
I don't, though. "Is it just... all men?" I ask, and he swallows.
"Yep!"
Somehow the pursuing silence is even more awkward than before.
Sharon pulls into my driveway right as I'm about to explode. We all shuffle out of the car and into my kitchen, where my father is sitting on one of the bar stools, sipping a bloody mary. What a man.
"Dad," I say, half-waving to him. He turns around. His hair is messy and his eyes are bloodshot.
"Hey son and company. How was the school day?"
"Fucking bad," I say. In my peripheral vision, Pete winces. Sharon lets out a tiny laugh.
"That's nice," he murmurs. "Why's a Dunville standing next to you?"
Pete almost curls into a ball. I take his elbow in my hand and pull him a little closer. "He's a friend, dad."
My dad snorts. "I guess that's our proof."
I glare at him. "Don't be rude."
"I'm not, I'm just saying we finally can settle that debate."
"It takes more than one piece of evidence to prove something."
"So you admit that it's evidence?"
I sigh. "Let's go downstairs," I say, to Sharon and Pete.
Pete shrugs out of my grip once we're out of my dad's line of sight. "What just happened?" He asks, frowning.
Sharon lets out a louder laugh. We sit on the overstuffed couch and I recline back, staring at the ceiling.
"You have to explain it to him, Berg."
I wave at Sharon. "I know, I know. I'm just tired."
"Explain what?"
"How my family has a unreasonable hatred of yours because you're rich, I guess? Even though we are too, now. My dad has decided me taking you home is proof that my parents have failed as parents."
"Why?"
"Why do they do anything? Why are they still here? I don't know. They disappeared on me a few years ago completely, and when they came back we were loaded. When I was six, they forgot me for two days at a gas station on a road trip. They've already failed as parents. I wouldn't take their opinions for shit."
Pete almost laughs. "Wow, that sucks."
"Yeah."
There's another moment of awkward silence, the specifically painful kind that comes after telling someone about your wounds and them not really knowing what to say next, then Sharon claps. "Alright boys, who's up for some MarioKart?"
We huddle around the flat screen as Sharon hooks the controller up, and soon all nerves and stuttering have evaporated under the haze of intense MarioKart-ing. It takes a surprising amount of time for Pete to lose to Sharon, and after we're finished she raises an eyebrow and smirks at him. "Pretty good for a boy with better things to do."
He laughs lightly. "I'm not sure I'd call any of the things I do better. Different, sure."
"How'd you get so nice?" I ask before I can stop myself. Sharon glances at me.
He shrugs. "Habit, I guess? I dunno. My parents?"
I hum, and Pete gives me another odd look. His eyes are softened at the edges, and I feel like someone has emptied out my chest and put my heart and ribs and other organs and bones on the ground for everyone in the room to see.
"And Audre Lorde," he whispers, and I blink, jerked out of my strange train of thought.
"Who?"
"Uh." He swallows. His neck is thin, and I can see his Adam's Apple move. "Audre Lorde. She was a... poet. She wrote a lot about social justice, things like that. I read her when I was in... oh, maybe 7th grade? And I was just... something clicked. Sorry." His voice is quieter than normal, and he's gazing at the floor.
"Don't apologize," I say, automatically. "That's cool."
He looks up at me and almost smiles, his lips trembling at the edges. "You think?"
"I know."
Sharon coughs. "Loving this love fest, but can we get on with our night? I'm starving."
I blink, and regard Pete carefully for one more moment. "Yeah," I say, turning towards the stairs. "I'll get the food. You guys pick a movie. Sharon, don't punch him when he tells you Casa Blanca is boring!"
"No promises!"