Kyle From High School Page 4

  “Leaving. What did you expect?” I spat.

  “You don’t have to leave.”

  “I do,” I said. “I have to leave to give you space.” Then I thought better of that statement; it felt off; it felt inaccurate. I needed to sharpen it, like sticking the end of a pencil in one of those wall sharpeners and twisting, twisting, twisting… “I have to give both of us space.”

  I poked my foot through one of the pant legs, then tugged it on.

  Kyle swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there, his deflated dick looking just as disappointed as I felt. He fixed his gaze on my foot and told it, “Monday at school—”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll pretend nothing happened. It’s no one’s business but ours,” I said, brushing him off. As the words tumbled out of my mouth though, I couldn’t help but feel like they were chipped; they came out off-color.

  It wasn’t what I wanted.

  Not at all.

  But Kyle looked up at me and nodded.

  Relief washed over his face.

  So, here we go, I thought to myself as I pulled my shirt over my head. For the second my face was hidden under the fabric, I opened my mouth and felt the cotton slide over my lips in a silent scream. But when I squeezed my head through the hole, I made sure my expression was calm, cool, controlled.

  “See you Monday, then,” I said.

  I didn’t let my gaze linger on his face—I couldn’t bear to see it. I knew it would be seared in my memory, and my mind would constantly shift things around like a Rubick’s cube, trying to figure out a way to ‘get him back.’

  I didn’t want to get him back.

  I wanted…

  Well, I didn’t know what I wanted, exactly. But it was different than any form of ‘winning’ or whatever I'd pursued in the past.

  I closed his door with a smuck and the scent of Kyle vanished; sealed in that room.

  Then I walked past the pots with Jackals on them, staring at me with their knowing gazes.

  Trickster, they seemed to whisper.

  I paused by the biggest one, started at it for a moment, and then said, “No. Not tonight.”

  Because that moment when I was on top of Kyle; that perfect, vulnerable gaze we shared… it was like we were strangers. There was nothing to gain and nothing to lose.

  Perfect equilibrium.

  And that scared me to death.

  4

  Kyle

  That Monday progressed like any regular Monday: I walked through the doors of Shady Grove High, and was immediately accosted by my ‘fan club,’ as Jon called it. The same six girls who lingered near the front steps, waiting for me. All of them had long, sleek, ironed hair. All six looked like clones of one another; twins and twins and twins. They all seemed to have the same personality, too, and that personality revolved around getting me, Jon, Phil, and Terry to notice them.

  Notice me, Senpai! Echoed in my head from the anime shit the guys and I watched that one time. Originally, we watched it to make fun of it over a few beers, but I secretly kind of liked it. Maybe when I was alone, I watched a few more episodes of High School DxD…

  “Kyle! How was your weekend?” One of the Bratz Dolls asked.

  “Fine,” I said with the most aloof expression I could muster. It was the best I could do to conceal the fact that every time I closed my eyes, I thought of Phil’s silvery body on top of mine.

  How right it felt to be with a guy.

  I glanced at the girl next to me—Tina, I think her name was. My eyes dropped to her tits, poking her loose shirt in small, gentle humps like two apples.

  She must have sensed my gaze, because she not-so-subtly pressed her arms a little tighter to her torso, making her tits bulge.

  I looked up at the engraved letters arching over the mouth of the school: Shady Grove High School, and my mind drifted to other things.

  She prattled on about her weekend, but all I could think of was how much I loved this school. I loved being one of the kings of the school, along with Jon, Terry, and Phil. I loved the worship we got from the other students and some of the staff alike—we were the good guys. Sometimes we were the bullies—but we always got away with everything. Sure, sometimes we acted like shitheads, but all of us had hearts of gold.

  Even…

  Phil was leaning against a locker painted a bright robin’s egg blue. Today, he was wearing a black button-down that hugged his slim body and blood-red pants. Some fancy Calvin Klein boots—the ones with the silver buckles across the top—poked out from the bottoms of his pants.

  My mouth went dry as his eyes went to me—a predator seeking its prey. I’d…

  My mind flashed images from that Taking Back Sunday music video. The one that goes with Make Damn Sure, where the lyrics scream, “I just wanna break you down so badly!” And on the screen, there’s a lion taking down an antelope in slow-motion. The antelope flings itself across the grass, and the lion just reaches up and—

  “Hey Kyle,” Phil said.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary about the way he greeted me, but I couldn’t help but feel like he’d thrown a sharp, curved circus knife at me.

  “Hey dude,” I said, trying my best to let my expression hang there.

  Nothing happened.

  It was all a dream.

  Regret pulsed through me, but it wasn’t for… for the act.

  I couldn’t place why I was feeling that way, but I didn’t have much time to mull it over anyway.

  “Yo!” Jon clapped me on the back. “You disappeared Saturday! What the hell happened, bro? Did you get your dick wet?”

  I felt Phil’s dark brown eyes bore into the side of my face.

  I couldn’t tell the truth, obviously. But I couldn’t lie, either. Luckily, Jon was just the right amount of dim that he wouldn’t notice a weak lie.

  I glanced at Terry.

  He was sharp enough to pick up on it, but currently, his eyes were glued to his phone.

  I shifted my gaze back to Jon. “Nah. No pussy for me Saturday.”

  “Then where did you go?”

  “Drank too much. Fell asleep,” I explained.

  Jon clapped me on the back. “Dude, you can’t just leave your own party like that! You left me and Terry to host—”

  “Leave me out of this,” Terry said, still staring at his phone.

  “Well, you left me to host, because this dickhead’s been glued to his phone for the past few days—”

  “Again. Leave me out of this,” Terry said, not looking up.

  “Whatever,” Jon relented. “I’m just saying, it’s not cool to leave your own party. Especially so early! Like, when did you disappear? Around eight or so?”

  I could see Phil cross his arms from the corner of my eye.

  “I dunno, around the time you started playing foosball with Julie. What does it matter? I was tired as shit—”

  “What are you, like, fifty? Doesn’t mean you can give us all an Irish goodbye and disappear—”

  I was about to tell Jon to fuck off and quit being so needy, but Phil lifted his chin and said, “Well well well, if it isn’t your favorite weirdo.”

  I snapped my gaze in the direction Phil nodded and saw that weird kid, Victor Petoskey, fumble with his locker lock. He was dressed in all black as usual, and held a sizable instrument case in one hand. Even from here, I could see that his fingernails had been painted black.

  An evil smirk slid across Jon’s face. “I’m gonna go say hello.”

  Relief flooded through me.

  Jon left our group to go torture Victor—or educate him, as he proclaimed—and I shot a grateful glance at Phil.

  If last weekend hadn’t happened, Phil would have winked at me, or the corner of his mouth would have lifted, or something.

  Something to say ‘you’re welcome.’

  But now, because Saturday night did happen, he gave me nothing.

  I didn’t realize how much I’d been craving it until it wasn’t there.

  I grim
aced. Did this mean our friendship was… was over? I mean, he was still standing here, hanging out with me and the guys before homeroom. That meant things were normal, weren’t they? That meant that we could pretend Saturday never happened.

  But it had happened. And I couldn’t erase it.

  I couldn’t erase the way he looked at me when he was on top of me like that. All the defenses were down, and I felt that earth-shattering connection with him. For once, Phil wasn’t trying to manipulate. I could see through his eyes that he wasn’t trying to get to the next step. He wasn’t living on the thinnest branches of the decision tree, trying to calculate what would happen next with absolute precision.

  No; in that moment, Phil was just a boy.

  A boy who was afraid. A boy who was vulnerable. A boy who needed…

  Who needed me.

  Was that why I was making such a big deal out of this? Because of my stupid hero complex?

  Thud.

  Me, Terry, and Phil whipped our heads around and saw Jon leaning over Victor, his fist on the locker above him. He looked like he was whispering some kind of hissing threat to the kid.

  Victor gave him that same blank stare he always did; acting unaffected. Only this time, there was something different in that look:

  Amusement.

  I glanced at Phil with a smile, hoping to feel that telepathic connection with my best friend. Or, former best friend? I didn’t even know anymore. The lines had all been blurred with my effort to erase, and the paper between us had rubbed away to reveal a wound.

  He gave me a hurt look.

  I’d hurt him. I’d hurt him when I told him I didn’t trust him on Saturday.

  …but it was the truth, wasn’t it? I didn’t trust the guy.

  And what he said when he left my bedroom—that he didn’t trust himself, either.

  Where did that leave us?

  The bell rang; a long, dull, beeeeep.

  Phil looked at me lazily. “Well. See you after school.”

  A fight? My competitive instinct whirled to life. “What do you mean?” I asked with bated breath, hoping he’d come back with something like, meet me in the parking lot at three. Then we could settle this like men. We could have our fight, punch it out, and then everything would go back to normal.

  But he ran his fingers through his feathery black hair, peered at me with his dark eyes, and said, “Julie asked me to pick her up from practice. Give her a ride.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  Phil gave me a blank look, lingering on that last word. He knew it would get in my head; he’d probably been carefully manufacturing that sentence all morning, just to mess with me in the perfect way.

  But his face was blank, which made me question if I’d heard him at all. Maybe I was making a big deal out of things that weren’t there…

  I couldn’t come up with a retort fast enough. All I could do was say, “Yeah, guess I’ll see you after practice then.”

  Lame. Oh God, I was so lame. I could sense that Phil was trying to one-up me or something, to push my buttons, draw a dotted outline around me in order to set me up for failure, but I couldn’t figure out what shape he was trying to make.

  He turned and left to go to class—whatever his first period was.

  Even though he walked away casually, I could sense he was flipping me the bird.

  Somehow.

  The school day dragged on, and the entire time, I thought of Phil.

  As the thoughts gained steam in my head, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to what happened on Saturday.

  How… how good that felt. How alive I felt when he was on top of me like that…

  Why did he kiss me in the first place?

  I remembered how his face looked under the yellow hallway light. Cold and calculating, as always.

  Then, the simmering coil of rage grew hot in my stomach.

  Why did he always look so aloof, anyway? Like he didn’t care about anything?

  He sure seemed like he cared about Julie when I saw him talking to her under the staircase like that…

  I remembered meeting up with Jon and Terry in my kitchen, refilling my solo cup, then returning to the den. But I stopped in my tracks when I saw the way Phil leaned over my sister. The stairs went up and to the right over them, and Phil had his hand out, leaning against it.

  My sister giggled at something he said, and he donned that crooked half-smile.

  That panty-melting smile.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  It was all good and fine for Phil to give that look to any of the thirsty floozies at Shady Grove, but my sister? No.

  I would not have him treating her like one of his toys.

  I would not stand by and watch him run that game on her, and then have to watch her heart break in front of my eyes.

  I was going to protect my baby sister.

  And Phil had broken one of the unspoken rules among us:

  No family.

  He needed to understand that this was serious; that my baby sister wasn’t just another thing he could play with and then discard like used gum.

  So I tapped him on the shoulder, and beckoned for him to follow me.

  To my surprise, he did without complaint.

  Phil followed me out around the stairs.

  I remembered how the red solo cup crinkled in my hands as I flexed my fingers around its base. I remembered hearing Phil’s footsteps behind me, following obediently.

  And I remembered how much relief I felt as I led the guy away from my sister.

  Then, as soon as we went into that long hallway which led to my room—the tall beige one with all the Egyptian shit my parents like to collect—how the air changed.

  He knew I had something for him.

  I leaned back in my chair, trying to remember the look on his face. Had he known the whole time? Had he manipulated me? I mean, he was the one that leaned in and kissed me first, after all. Had that been his goal the whole time?

  I frowned and stuck the end of my mechanical pencil in my mouth.

  Mr. Vale droned on about Dante’s Inferno and the metaphorical meaning, but my mind was still on Saturday. The way Phil looked when he was on top of me…

  Was that the first time I really saw him?

  A flicker of red caught my eye near the window.

  The Betta fish swam about, flaring its fins. The stark contrast against the green plant behind him was stunning. Not for the first time, I wondered if Betta fish ever got bored in those tiny containers, swimming around roots endlessly. They were just these tiny little guys looking for a fight, and finding nothing…

  My eye went to the other vase on the edge of Mr. Vale’s desk. I knew the blue Betta lurked in there, but I couldn’t see him.

  Then, slowly, his warped reflection appeared on the sides of the vase, then all converged into the small, harmless fish.

  I chewed on my eraser faster—

  “Mr. Feywood, what did you think of the parallels of the city Dis and the economic depression of Florence at the time?”

  “Huh?”

  Mr. Vale’s glasses flashed and he crossed his arms. “I see we have a very engaged student here.”

  A ripple of chuckles sounded through the room.

  “Sorry, mind is wandering a little today,” I said.

  “Let your mind wander outside the classroom, not in,” Mr. Vale said. “Now tell me what you think of Dis. You did your reading, right?”

  “‘Course,” I said. “Dis? It’s on the… what circle was it, again?” I asked, rubbing my temples.

  “Sixth,” Mr. Vale said. “Continue your thought, please.”

  “Well,” I said, scrambling for something to grab onto. I kept swimming around and around the idea in my head, unable to close my fingers around it all the way. “I think Dante didn’t know anything about economics.”

  Mr. Vale tilted his head and his glasses flashed again. “Explain.”

  I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a challenge or if he was genuin
ely curious. All I could feel was that I was being grilled. “Well, nothing happens in Dis. No shopping or making money or anything. Just all these people burning up in fiery tombs. Maybe that’s what Florence was like.”

  “That’s what life is like,” said a voice at the back of the classroom.

  I turned around to see that weird kid, Victor Petoskey, crossing his arms and looking like he didn’t care about anything. He swung his hair out of his eyes, but it didn’t quite do the trick, so he pawed the rest of it away with his polished black fingertips.

  “So profound,” I said with an eye roll.

  Mr. Vale chuckled, then said, “Well, he has a point. Economic depressions often trigger a high artistic output. Would you say that to make good art—or writing, or any of the other artistic pursuits—requires great suffering? Discuss.”

  The class chattered around me, volleying ideas back and forth and occasionally bouncing off Mr. Vale. I took the opportunity to tune out again and thought of Phil.

  He was an artist. Did that mean he was always suffering?

  I rolled my eyes at that. Of course he wanted everyone to think he was constantly suffering. Poor little Phil. No one understands him. That was the vibe he continually went for, anyway—misunderstood genius or whatever.

  Still, though… I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing in the studio. I knew at the end of every day, he had a whole bunch of art classes lined up. Painting, sculpting, printmaking or whatever. I’d never been curious about it before, but I began to wonder about his life… what he did when he was away from me…

  “Mr. Feywood?”

  “Yes?” I answered.

  Mr. Vale swept his hand over his face. “You’re really out of it today, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah. So why do you keep putting me on the spot?”

  “To try and engage you in the material,” Mr. Vale said with a weak smile. “Now tell me what you thought about the ice lake.”

  “Ice lake?”

  Mr. Vale sighed. “Yes. At the bottom of hell, according to Dante, there is a great lake of ice. Kinda gives credence to the expression, ‘When hell freezes over,’ doesn’t it? So next time someone says that to you, you can point out that yes, according to Dante, hell is frozen over.”