Chapter Text
“I fucking hate nature,” Ed growls, flinging a rock at the tree line. “I can’t believe they make us do this. We can’t skate on school grounds because of ‘liability,’ but then they make us survive in the fucking wilderness?”
Izzy looks up from the ground, where he’s busy doing all the work of pitching their tent. “Yea, it’s bullshit,” he says automatically, staring down at the instruction manual. “Do you know how we’re supposed to pound in the stakes?”
The Junior Camping Trip is mandatory, and the school loans out gear so no one has an excuse to bow out. Izzy’s actually been looking forward to it, not that he’d tell Ed. He likes the forest, the quiet, the stars at night. The late September weather is still hot enough to perfume everything with the smell of fir and incense cedar. Even the school’s tent seems ok— except Izzy’s gone through the bag three times, and there’s definitely no hammer or anything for the stakes. He’s already tried twisting one into the ground like a screwdriver. All he’s got to show for it is a neat little groove in the dust.
“Why don’t you just—”
Izzy looks up just in time to see Ed raising his boot with a determined frown. “Don’t!” he yelps—but Ed’s already stomping down hard.
“Ugh!” Ed crouches to examine the stake, now bent neatly in half. “Why’d you move your hand?”
“Because you were gonna fucking stomp on it!” Izzy half-yells.
“I was gonna stomp on the stake. It would’ve worked if you hadn’t dropped it. Here, let me—"
“Gentlemen, how are we coming along?”
Izzy and Ed both swivel. Their biology teacher is striding over purposefully, holding what looks like a cartoon anvil.
“Are we ready for the mallet?” he asks.
Ed is suddenly all smiles. “Born ready,” he says, and gets to his feet with more butt movement than strictly necessary.
Mr. Bonnet is new in town, with a face and muscles that have inspired a lot of graffiti back in the girls’ bathroom. Izzy’s not a fan. Doesn’t trust how smiley he is, or the way he always calls Ed and Izzy things like “gentlemen.” No one in their shit little town actually believes they’re boys. The teachers only play along to avoid a reluctant talking-to from the principal, a reminder of the state-level anti-discrimination laws that none of them voted for. Izzy doesn’t get why this guy has to be so fucking extra about it. Can’t tell if it’s a mistaken bid for the principal's approval, or just another, sneakier brand of mockery.
Even more annoying, the whole schtick works on Ed. He’s always coming up with excuses to stay after class, leaning waaay over Bonnet’s desk and asking for help with homework he can zip through in 5 minutes. Palling around about New Zealand, where Ed was born and Bonnet just inexplicably moved from. Which… it’s fine. It’s whatever. But Ed’s from here like Izzy way more than he’s from New Zealand like Bonnet. He was like, five years old when his dad moved them here.
Now Ed makes Bambi eyes as he points to the mallet. “You gonna show us how to work that thing?”
“Oh, it’s not hard,” Bonnet chirps, oblivious as usual. “You just—” he drops into a crouch, and Ed’s eyes magnetize to his ass.
Izzy kicks Ed in the ankle, mouthing, “Gross.”
If Ed wants an ass to look at, he could pick one that’s not twice his age. It’s not like there are none. Izzy could name multiple asses that don’t belong to middle-aged teachers. Izzy has one himself, even. But Ed just rolls his eyes and goes right back to staring.
Bonnet manages to wrench the mangled stake back into usable form. A few mallet-bonks later, the tent’s first loop is staked down.
“There!” he announces. “See? Even I can do it.”
Ed scoffs through his smirk. “Don’t pretend all you do is read about moths. We can all see your biceps.”
Bonnet glances warily from his own arms to Ed. It seems like some rusty wheels are finally turning in this man’s social awareness center.
“O-ohh,” he stammers, “yes, well. Exercise does wonders for one’s mental health, or so they say.” He gets to his feet and puts on a “back to work” face, handing the mallet to Ed. “Your turn. I saw Israel doing an awful lot of the work earlier.”
Izzy acknowledges with a raise of his eyebrows and a tight turtle-grimace of a smile. This man is literally the only person who ever calls him Israel. There’s no fucking need. He chose it mostly so he could go by Izzy like he always has. Can’t get deadnamed if your name never died.
“Thanks Izzy!” Ed chirps, barely glancing over.
“Excellent.” Bonnet raises a hand as if to pat Ed on the shoulder. Halfway there, he eyes Ed’s over-eager expression, and steers the hand into his pocket instead.
“Well. More tents to check!” he says, and practically runs away.
Ed attacks the rest of the stakes with enthusiasm. Soon their tent is move-in ready, and they can pile in and sort out their stuff.
The tent “sleeps two.” Once they’re inside, Izzy sees why the manual made no claims about two people who are awake and moving. When he tries to unroll his sleep bag, his elbow catches Ed in the jaw. Then Ed jerks his foam pad out from under Izzy, and they both go down like dominoes, sprawling and swearing and bulging out the wall of the tent.
It’s always like this—the two of them sniping at each other, jostling for room in whatever weird corner they’ve found themselves. Izzy’s gotten used to it. Couldn’t find himself in space, without Ed to bump up against.
Once the sleeping bags are set up, Ed flops down on top of them while Izzy arranges the smaller things.
“You’re always moving,” Ed complains, “Take a break.”
“I’m just putting the flashlights where we can find them,” says Izzy, reaching up to clip one through the loop at the top of the tent.
“I’ll find them.”
“It’ll be dark.”
Hands sneak up from behind and hover over Izzy’s ribcage. His ribs are horribly ticklish for some reason.
“Noo!” he yelps, “Wait! I’m almost done!”
Ed’s fingers start to wriggle.
“Don’t!” Izzy shrieks, laughing even though Ed hasn’t touched him. “I’m done, I’m done, I’m stopping!”
Ed lays backs and grins. He’s lounging like the tent is his natural habitat, all earlier grumpiness forgotten. His shirt’s ridden up with the stretch of his arms. The tent walls tint everything blue, so that his strip of exposed belly looks mermaid-green instead of warm brown.
“Look.” Ed roots around overhead, fishing a paper bag out of his duffle. When he upends it, packs of candy shower down onto his belly.
“Nice,” Izzy grins.
There’s Skittles, peach rings, strawberry laces, a huge Twix bar. Ed’s smiling like they’re getting away with something, and it feels like they are— carving out this little moment together, when they’d usually be stuck in a fluorescent-lit classroom full of people they hate. This is what Izzy’s looked forward to most: having new space to share with Ed. Watching him be himself in a new setting.
There’s always been something about Ed. It’s not just that he’s good-looking, or daring, or scary smart, though he’s all those things. It’s this feeling like Ed’s the main character in life, and Izzy has the massive honor of being first to know. Sometimes Ed’ll say something, or do something, or look especially good-something, and Izzy’ll get a shiver of premonition, like this all part of an origin story. Like he’ll be telling all it on camera, one day.
Also, he sometimes gets these weird heart-skippy feelings when he looks at Ed. Also-also, sometimes he’s so eager to see Ed that he can’t fall asleep, even though they’ve got nothing special planned. It’s all possibly related. Izzy’s not sure. But it’s completely different from how he feels about anyone else.
They break up and eat the Twix bar first, because it’s a melt risk. Then it’s on to the strawberry laces.
“How d’you think they make these,” Ed asks as he coils one into a spiral.
“Mmm….” Izzy squints at the ingredients, leaving most of a lace dangling from his mouth.
Ed swoops in like a hawk and bites it off just under Izzy’s chin. For a split second, Izzy can feel Ed’s warm breath, the faint brush of his lips—and then Ed's pulling back, smiling around his prize as he slurps it up like spaghetti.
Izzy heart is doing that skippy thing again.
--
By the time they emerge, it’s getting on into evening. Golden hour is giving way to cooler blues and purples, the stark shadows starting to fade. Mr. Bonnet’s voice sing-songs through the trees, calling for dinner crew.
“That’s us,” Izzy says.
He signed them up early, took the first shift to get it out of the way. This is why he’s the signer-upper. Ed would forget until the last possible second, and they’d be stuck cleaning up all the old garbage at the end of the trip.
Ed groans, but follows Izzy to the little cook shelter, where someone’s set up awnings over a few plastic folding tables.
Jack Rackam’s there. He’s not one to show up on time for a work shift, so that must mean he’s in trouble already. He’s busy trying to turn the handle on a gas canister, wrapping his hand in his T-shirt to get a better grip. The t-shirt says “Bahama Mama.”
At the sound of hissing gas, Mr. Bonnet pops up from rooting through a cooler. “What are you—no! Give me that.”
Jack reluctantly surrenders the can, and Bonnet steers him away from the camp stoves. “Over here,” he says, “I want you on salad.”
The menu is Sloppy Joes, meat, and Sloppy Joes, vegetarian. Bonnet flutters around between table and bags and coolers, setting Ed and Izzy up with some vegetables to mince.
“We’re expecting two more,” he says, “so we’ll get them mixing the sauce. Then it’s just meat and veg on one stove, non-meat and veg on the other, sauce it, and we’re done. I think we can handle that, don’t you?”
That probably depends who else is coming. Before Izzy can ask, twigs crunch behind them. A pinched mockery of a baby voice shrills out, “Oh, goody! It’s Ed and Izzy!”
The fucking Badminton twins.
Of course they’d sign up for the same fucking shift. Chauncey and Nigel have never missed a chance to torment Ed and Izzy, preferably right in front of a teacher. Their favorite part is proving they can get away with it—which they always, always do, because their slimy father owns most of the town. At this point, just the sight of them makes Izzy feel like he’s buried to the neck in cold sand.
He and Ed stiffen, glaring across the bell peppers. The twins’ smiles are shark-like under their designer sunglasses.
Bonnet sets them up with a recipe and a pile of spices and condiments. He’s put them at the next table over, but the Badmintons have no issue raising their voices.
“How’s the school’s tent?” Nigel calls, dripping fake innocence as he measures garlic powder. He and Chauncey have brought their own tent from home, a three-room glamping monstrosity that could fit half the class.
“It’s fine,” Ed says shortly. Shoulder-to-shoulder like they are, Izzy can feel all of Ed’s muscles winding tight.
“I heard you can tell how old they are just by counting the cum stains,” Nigel says, making Chauncey bark with laughter. “They say it’s like rings on a tree.”
“The tent is fine,” Izzy repeats, poker faced. He holds up a mixing bowl, and Ed bangs in the chopped peppers with a rough scrape of the knife.
Deep breath. It’s fine. On to the onions.
“C’mon Nigel, cultural differences,” Chauncey croons. “Some people are used to living like that. It’s all part of our rich diversity, isn’t it?”
Ed surges forward, and Izzy angles in to block him, shooting a pleading look. It wouldn’t be the first time Ed’s gotten suspended for “starting” a fight with the Badmintons. It’s bad enough to be sleeping within walking distance of them. Izzy’s not doing it alone. The twins have already proven how easily they can hold him down when Ed’s not there to protect him. He had to scrub his skin raw to get off the words they wrote in Sharpie, the “makeup” they drew on.
For once, Ed listens. Just grits his teeth and starts ripping into onion skins like they’re Nigel and Chauncey’s faces.
The twins must’ve finished measuring the spices. Izzy’s steadily looking down, but he can tell from the spluuut of the squeeze bottle that they’re onto the ketchup now.
He and Ed slice into their onions. You’d think being outside would help, but the first cut has Izzy’s eyes stinging and watering. Ed sighs through his teeth, scrubbing at his face with the cuff of his sweatshirt.
Splllttt.
Izzy can feel the twin’s gaze on him like a chemical burn. He keeps his streaming eyes on his work. He just wants to get this over with, but nothing is cooperating. The half-chopped slices keep falling apart under his hands, needing to be reassembled for efficient dicing. It would be a whole lot easier if he could fucking see.
Ed’s not doing any better. He bangs his knife on the board in frustration, making the onion bits jump.
SPLUuuRrt.
Okay. Clearly Nigel’s playing this up on purpose. As Izzy wipes his eyes with his sleeve, he peeks through the crook of his elbow to investigate.
Nigel stares back steadily. He’s holding the bottle tip-forward in front of his crotch, pumping the ketchup in long, loud spurts.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Someday you’ll look back on all this and laugh, Izzy’s mom once told him. Now he tries to picture it: him and Ed in twenty, thirty, fifty years, bearded and leaning back on a porch somewhere. Looking out at green space that's not interrupted by junk cars and neighbors' trailers. Ed’s voice would be fully-dropped by then, probably deep like his dad’s was.
Remember how they pretended a ketchup bottle was a dick farting out cum… and like, that was supposed to be bullying?
The corner of Izzy’s mouth quirks up. For a moment, he can almost taste how hilariously stupid this would all seem, once you knew you’d made it out.
“Hmm?” Ed grunts. He must’ve caught Izzy’s smirk.
“Tell you later,” says Izzy, but he darts his eyes towards the Badmintons and back. Both twins are leering as Nigel drags out the ketchup routine, still waiting on the reaction he’s fishing for.
As soon as Ed’s eyes follow Izzy’s, he’s choking back a snort. They wind up hunching into each other, staring determinedly down at their cutting boards as they bite their lips to keep from laughing.
The ketchup splurting cuts off sharply.
“Now what’s wrong with you?” Nigel demands.
Izzy glances up. Nigels’ sensed he’s being laughed at. He can’t stand being laughed at. His blue eyes have gone steely, his face red and pinched.
“Nothin’,” Ed says innocently, “Just chopping.”
Chauncey pushes in front of his brother like he’s avenging a fallen comrade. “Really?” he sneers, “Because it looks like you’re both crying.” His face twists in an aw-so-sad pout.
“We’re chopping onions,” Izzy says, like Chauncey’s very stupid.
“Oh, yea? Weird. I would’ve thought you’d seen the movie.”
Izzy or Ed don’t take the bait— just make “whatever” faces and work on the final slivers—but Chauncey doesn’t need an invitation.
“You know…” he sneers, stalking towards them, “…Boys Don’t Cry?”
It’s like a bomb’s gone off.
Ed shouts. Izzy shouts. Jack, who Izzy’d completely forgotten about, shouts. All the onions they’ve chopped go flying as Ed and Izzy lunge at Chauncey, who yells something indiscernible and throws his arms out to protect himself.
They’ve barely got their hands on him when something tall and bulky flies in and inserts itself between them, pushing them apart.
Ugh. Bonnet.
“EdandIzzy!” he barks. It’s never good when their two names become one. Izzy gets it together to fling his arms around Ed’s middle, holding him back.
“Thank you, sir,” Chauncey pipes up in his smarmiest voice, “We were just talking and they attacked, you know sometimes those hormones can—”
Bonnet throws up a hand. “Enough. Edward and Israel—”
Izzy braces. This is when Ed’s illusions get shattered. Izzy’s both dreaded this moment, and guiltily hoped for it.
“—you’ve done plenty, thank you. You’re dismissed.”
Wait. What?
The twins start to splutter, but Bonnet waves his hand at them in a circling gesture, like he’s rolling their protests into a ball of dough.
“You two will be cooking with me. Jack, you’re done too, goodbye. Wait!”
Jack freezes mid-stride.
“Take those… orange things off there, and then you’re done, goodbye.”
Izzy glances over at Jack’s work station. On top of the salad, two orange halves lay peel-side-up, their little stems carved out and replaced with pimiento-stuffed olives. Orange tits.
Jack grabs one in each hand, throws a quick, wide-eyed look at Ed and Izzy, and jogs off.
Ed and Izzy are still frozen.
“Thank you, gentlemen, you can go,” Bonnet repeats.
They look at each other, and hurry away.
----
Ed leads them to a little circle of trees at the edge of the forest, where they drop down to sit on a raised tree root.
Ed used to rant and rave when this shit happened. He’d pace like a caged panther, raging about how disgusting their tormentors were, how unfair it all was. Which tools he’d use to skin the bullies, and which he’d use on the teachers who ignored them. The revenge talk would inevitably slide into dreams of the future, how he'd be leaving the first chance he got.
People who grow up here never leave. One thing or another always sticks them in place like sucking mud: the church or the poverty or the teen pregnancy, or something in the air that erodes hope. Righteous-fury-Ed always swore he'd be the exception, always reeled off all the ways he'd make it just to spite these sick fucks. All the ways they’d make it, he and Izzy, together. Izzy still shivers to his toe when he remembers the time they sat knee-to-knee in the shed where they’d hidden, and Ed grabbed Izzy’s cold hands in his hot ones and said, Promise we’re getting out. Promise.
Izzy promised. The bullying felt almost worth it when Ed looked at him like that. Like he needed him.
Recently, though… it’s like Ed has nothing left to say. Like he can’t see the point anymore. There’s no fire in his eyes now, as he picks up a rock and starts idly smacking it into his palm. More like piles of ash.
Helplessly, Izzy thinks, I have to get him out of here.
Seconds tick by. The stone thwacks into Ed’s hand. Izzy scratches at the bark on the tree root, trying to think.
“Didn’t even make fuckin’ sense,” Ed mutters. “It’s not like ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ is the moral of the movie. It’s just a fucking title.”
“Have you seen it?”
Ed’s lip curls. He shakes his head.
The stone is wearing the palm of his hand redder and redder.
Izzy rifles through in his mind, looking for anything that’ll get Ed talking. He’s desperate enough that he sinks to a new low: complimenting Bonnet.
“It seemed like Bonnet might actually do something,” he offers.
Ed nods down at his hands, finally dropping that rock. “Yea. Told you he’s cool,” he says.
Cool is a stretch for a man who’s currently wearing all khaki like a little explorer. But Izzy’s really trying, so he shrugs his shoulders and says, “Yea, maybe.”
Part of him is starting to wonder if Bonnet really does care about them. Then again…. the suspicious part wonders if he’s just territorial about Ed, his little New Zealand souvenir.
Izzy would ask if Ed thinks the twins will get punished, but they both know the answer. It’s nice, probably, that Bonnet’s giving the twins a talking-to. He still can’t deal out real consequences. The principal wouldn’t let him.
The twins’ father isn’t just a tycoon: he’s head pastor at the megachurch that’s taken over the fucking town. He’s filled local government with his followers. Ed and Izzy’s moms technically both work for him— most people here do, since he owns nearly all the business around.
The town used to have a historic theater, a beautiful, 1920’s building where artists and queer people would gather. A few years back, it showed a series of gay films for Pride Month. Mr. Badminton had his followers boycott and picket. He pulled strings with the cops, had them fine the theater for breaking some century-old laws that no one knows about or enforces. The theater closed within months. Badminton declared the building too demon-tainted to salvage, tore it down, and replaced it with a Christian bookstore.
No one risks pissing off Mr. Badminton. Not the mayor, not their moms, and definitely not the principal.
At least they’re not stuck back at home. It’s a lot more aesthetic meeting despair out in the woods.
They sit in silence as they watch dusk fall. Izzy’s getting woozy despite all that candy earlier. Maybe because of all the candy. High glycemic index, or whatever.
Finally, a bell rings, and a teacher’s voice calls dinner.
Ed and Izzy edge towards the food line, scanning it for signs of the Badmintons. They’re already sitting down, right next to Bonnet, which must mean Bonnet’s required it. They’re biting into their food with the restrained fury of two Karens who’ve just been kicked out of business-class.
Dinner goes… fine. The Sloppy Joes are fine. Their seats near the campfire are fine. Jack keeps asking if anyone wants “sloppy seconds.” Standard stuff. But Izzy can feel Ed getting restless next to him, starting to jiggle his legs and roll his shoulders like his skin’s on too tight.
This is how he gets before he does something crazy. Sometimes it’s brilliant. Sometimes it’s dangerous. Sometimes it’s both, like the time they were both grounded but still made it to the Fourth of July fireworks, sneaking a ride under some star-spangled beach towels in the back of a random pickup. When Izzy pointed out that their neighbors would all be there, Ed led them around the back of the closed fairgrounds. Had them climb the Ferris wheel, where they watched unnoticed from high above the crowd. It felt like dissolving into the sky.
That was brilliant. This mood tonight could swing either way. There’s no way of knowing, except to wait.
Dinner is followed by a quick review of the itinerary for tomorrow, and then they’re dismissed for bed. Ed paces as he brushes his teeth, bounces on his heels as they wait for the outhouses. By the time they climb back into the tent, it’s like sharing space with a hive of bees.
“What’re you gonna wear to swim tomorrow?” Ed asks as they turn back-to-back to change.
Izzy’s concentrating hard, trying to keep his body curved away from Ed’s. “Uhh… I thought a… swim shorts and a t-shirt and a compression thing. You?”
“I’m sick of wearing twelve fucking layers all the time.” Ed yanks his binder over his head with a lot less care than Izzy, so that their bare backs bump together. Ed’s feels feverishly warm.
“I can’t fucking breathe in this shit,” he growls, “Can’t it pop your lungs or something? Swimming in a binder?”
Izzy’s sick of it too, but he’s not about to go binderless in front of these assholes. Especially not when the Badmintons are recently offended and out for blood.
“Maybe,” he says, “but what else can we do?”
It’s silent, but Izzy can feel Ed answering with his face. He turns to look, holding his sleep shirt over his chest.
Ed’s smiling like he’s found a motorcycle with the keys left in.
There's a flip-flop in Izzy’s stomach: flip: flip of nerves, flop of thrill. “What?” he asks.
Ed lowers his voice to an undertone. “Well, what if we went on our own?”
“Swimming? When? They wouldn’t let us, plus we’re gonna be doing stuff, like, all day.”
Ed gestures around the dark, cramped tent like it’s a trove of riches.
“We’re not doing anything now,” he says.
“What? No!” Izzy turns away just long enough to jerk the shirt over his head. “What if one of the teachers comes and checks that we’re here?”
“What’re they gonna do? Unzip all our tents and watch us sleep, like pervs? Yea, that’s definitely legal.”
“Ed…”
Ed grabs Izzy’s knee and sort of rattles it. “C’mon, dude! If you don’t, you’ll regret it when you’re forty. You’ll be like, ‘Fuuuck, life’s slipping through my fingers and all I do is work, why didn’t I rebel when I had the chance?’ And then you’ll have a midlife crisis and try to be a DJ or some shit, and it’ll be super fucking cringe. We owe this to our future selves. We have to act stupid while we can.”
Izzy can’t picture Ed ever aging out of acting stupid. But Ed's leaning close, eyes glinting like flint rock, and it’s so hard to refuse when he’s all lit up like this.
“Alright,” Izzy concedes in a whisper. “Fine. But we have to wait till everyone’s asleep.”
“Yess!!” Ed raises his hands for a double high-five. When Izzy reluctantly meets it, Ed grabs his hands and shakes them. “Hot Boy Summer!!!”
“It’s fall,” Izzy reminds him, trying not to smile and failing. “It’s just hot because of climate change.”
“New-Normal Hot Boy Fall! Hot Boy Fall is the New! Normal!” Ed chants. He lands a rain of little punches on Izzy’s upper chest, just below the collarbones.
“Ok! Ok,” Izzy gasps. His heart is leaping towards Ed’s hands. “We should pretend to go to sleep.”
“I’m asleep. Turn off the lights,” Ed says, flopping down on his back. “Goodnight, you stupid fucks,” he adds at a half-yell.
Jack’s voice calls back melodically: “Night-night, dipshit.”
“Edward and Israel?” It’s Mr. Bonnet’s voice, alarmingly close.
Izzy and Ed jump like spooked housecats.
“Ye—yes?” Ed squeaks.
“I take it you’re all set for the night?”
“Yea…. yea, we’re about to turn off the light.”
Ed and Izzy’s eyes do a lot of frantic communicating. Do you think he heard? Do you think he heard?
“Okay. Listen…” Bonnet takes a few steps closer, throwing his shadow onto the tent. Dirt crunches underfoot as the shadow drops to kneeling.
Fuck-fuck-fuckety-fuck—
“I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk about what happened earlier,” Bonnet says in an undertone. “I had my hands full with… there just wasn’t time. But I want you to know I heard what Chauncey said and I take hate speech very seriously. I won’t let that behavior slide.”
“Th-aaank… you?” Ed ventures, caught off-guard.
At the same moment, Izzy blurts out, “You know who they are, right? You know their dad is the Bethel head pastor and he owns, like, everything?”
Bonnet’s voice suddenly takes on an unexpected, firm confidence. “Yes, I know,” he says. “I’m prepared to handle him, if it comes to that.”
Handle him. Ed and Izzy scrunch up their faces, both mystified. Izzy mouths, what the fuck?
Seems like neither of them have a ready response to that, so Izzy offers another, “Uhh… thanks.”
“Of course. You know my tent?”
They do know his tent. It’s small, a one-person, but just like his school clothes, it looks brand-new and almost suspiciously nice.
“Yea,” Ed volunteers. “The turquoise one.”
“Right. I’m a light sleeper, so just shout if you need anything.”
Ed really must be thrown off-balance, because he doesn’t have anything flirtatious to say to that. Just, “Uh—okay! Goodnight.”
“Night-night,” says Bonnet, and crunches away.
Izzy clicks off the flashlight and flops down onto his back. The dark rings with stunned silence.
“He couldn’t’ve heard,” Ed murmurs after a minute. “He would’ve said something.”
“Yea, probably,” Izzy whispers back. And then: “What is he, in the fucking mob?”
“No idea. It would kind of explain why he left New Zealand to come here.”
“Well so did you guys,” Izzy blurts out, suddenly defensive.
He has no right to be. Their town is objectively a shithole. He doesn’t get why Bonnet moved here. It’s just… it feels like Ed wishes he’d never left New Zealand? That he’d never come and met Izzy. That he’d stayed put with Mr. Bonnet, and frolicked in the ocean and ate amazing fruits that don’t exist here, and had Bonnet handle all of his enemies, because Ed is Bonnet’s little favorite, and because New Zealand is a fucking fairyland that apparently works like that, and—these are crazy thoughts. Izzy knows. He’s being crazy.
“We moved because of my fucking Dad,” Ed snaps, “Because he was a selfish asshole who sucked, and he wanted to come back here to fucking drink Bud Lite with his douchebag high school friends. Mr. Bonnet’s not that stupid.”
“Maybe,” Izzy mutters.
Ed sits up, rustling the sleeping bag sharply. “What is your deal with him? Do you have fucking Stockhold Syndrome or something? Why do you act like you’d rather be treated like shit??”
“You know it won’t work,” Izzy says, ducking the question. “He’s new here. He doesn’t fucking get it.”
He’s being difficult, he’s digging himself deeper… but. But, there is no way it will work. Bonnet doesn’t fucking get it. He’s a public school teacher, threatening to face off with a multi-millionaire cult leader. And all on behalf of two “demon-possessed girls” who everyone would gladly see run out of town.
“Okay, and trying counts for nothing?” Ed argues. His voice is rising to a higher, more desperate pitch. “Do you see anyone else trying to do anything for us? Besides, like, kind of our moms?”
Izzy forces a deep breath, burying his face in his hands. He can feel Ed’s wild energy fermenting, turning bitter and destructive. He can’t let that happen. Also… Ed might be a teeny, tiny bit right. The only ally Izzy could add to Ed’s list is the Planned Parenthood four towns over. Occasionally, slightly, Jack Rackham.
Deep breath. “Fine. Sorry. I’m sorry. It does count. It’s cool that he’s being like this,” Izzy reels off. “Really. Sorry. I’m just, like… I don’t know. Stressed.”
“Okay?” says Ed, still pissed.
“I just… he startled us, and then, that stuff he said kind of came out of nowhere, and… and I’m just, really, really fucking sick of it. Like…. everything.” His voice unexpectedly breaks on that last part.
“Okay,” Ed says again. He’s softening now.
Izzy rolls to face him. “I’m sorry. We can still do New Boy September, or whatever.”
Ed laughs, flopping to face him, and the tension in Izzy’s shoulders immediately melts. “You’re such an old man,” Ed says, “It’s Hot Boy Fall.”
“Yea, that,” says Izzy. He messed it up on purpose, and it worked just like he hoped. “We can still swim.”
“Really? You sure?” The fire in Ed’s eyes is warming up again.
Izzy nods.
“Okay,” Ed murmurs, “Okay. Once everyone’s asleep, we’re doing it.”
They settle back into their sleeping bags, and wait.