Warning: This chapter contains graphic scenes of violence, underage drinking, sexual content, and a truly ungodly amount of profanity.
Prom, it turns out, is the Friday following the one when Ben asks me. Ben only admits this after I point out the ticket sale table in the cafeteria on Thursday. I glare at him. “So, were you planning to ever let me know, or were you hoping I might just happen to be wearing a tux when you show up at my house tomorrow night?”
Ben ruffles my hair affectionately and pecks a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t whine. You can just wear the tux you bought for the wedding. It’s really not a big deal, I don’t expect you to wear a new one.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you have to worry about it matching a dress. Amy’s all over my ass, telling me I need to make sure my vest is ‘chartreuse.’ What the fuck is ‘chartreuse’? Is that like, blue?” Mason asks. I notice he’s directing his question mostly to Ben and I, as though liking dick means we have to like interior design and color swatches, too.
Alex shrugs. “I think it’s green. A kinda yellow-green, though. Like pus.”
“That sounds fucking hideous. Why would she get a pus-colored dress?” Jeremy laughs. “I mean, I’m taking Sarah Abrams, and she said ‘red.’ That’s it. Not ‘scarlet’ or ‘mauve,’ just red. So I’m gonna get a red vest for me, and a red corsage for her, and that’ll be it.”
“Dude, I think ‘mauve’ is purple,” Mason says.
“So? I said it’s not mauve, it’s red. So I’m good.”
“Are we even supposed to match?” I ask Ben. “I mean, I guess it makes sense when it’s a guy matching a girl’s dress, but we’ll probably just look creepy and clone-ish if we’re wearing the same thing.”
“I don’t know, I’ve never taken a guy to prom before. Should we like, Google gay prom etiquette or something?” Ben suggests. We grin at each other, but Jeremy is already sliding his phone out of his pocket to use the internet on it. He and Alex bow their heads together over the phone, conversing in low tones, and Mason turns to Ben, smiling a sleepy stoner smile.
“I’m surprised you two were allowed to go, after the thing over the loudspeaker,” he says.
Ben shrugs. “I’m pretty sure Principal Hammond was afraid that we’d try to sue the school for descrimination if he stopped me from going to prom. Which I, you know, obviously wouldn’t have done. Prom’s one of those lame high school traditions that’s supposed to be exciting, but is actually just a waste of time and money. Like getting a yearbook. Or, now that I think about it, going to the graduation ceremony at all.”
“If it’s so lame, why’d you want to go with me?” I ask, frowning. Sometimes, I wonder if Ben forgets that I’m not as anti-everything as he is. Yeah, dances are lame, but part of me enjoys the awkward pseudo-companionship I feel when all the classmates I hate want to sign my yearbook. Part of me is kind of excited that I might be the one making the cliché “the end of high school is the beginning of the rest of your life, but you’ll never forget where you come from, woo hoo Lakewood!” speech at next year’s graduation.
“Because I don’t like stuff like prom, but I do like you,” Ben says simply. “And also, you looked really fucking sexy when you’re all suited up.”
He leans over to kiss my smiling mouth, and after a few lingering seconds, something connects sharply with the back of my head. “Ow! What the fuck?”
“You two faggots might want to rethink your plans for this weekend,” says Logan, the asshole track team captain, circling around me to glare into my face. “Do you really think the rest of us want to spend our prom watching you guys give each other handjobs under the table?”
“How would you see us giving each other handjobs if it was happening under the table?” Ben asks, sounding genuinely confused. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter, I was planning to just give him head in the bathroom anyway.”
Lo flings out an arm and wraps it too-tightly around Ben’s shoulders. “Don’t get smart with me, you little cocksucker, or I’ll—”
I am off the bench in a second, wrenching Logan’s arm away and dragging him back from the table. “Look, Lo, I’m really flattered that you’re so intent on proving to me how big you think your dick is, but knock it off. There’s a line, and putting your hands on my boyfriend pretty much crosses it completely. If you do it again, I will fuck you up.”
Logan snorts and brushes me off him, the way you brush a fly off your arm. “Do you think I’m seriously afraid of you, McCall? The idea of you trying to fight me is ridiculous. Who would you call for back-up? Your midget sex slave? Not so much. Maybe I’d be worried if you were still fucking your soldier-boy brother, ‘cause I’ve heard him talking about shooting practice and combat training and tons of other shit like that. But you guys are just pathetic.”
I’m so taken aback by the mention of Garen that I actually let go, giving Logan the chance to throw one last smirk at me and swagger off. He’s actually out of the cafeteria before I sit back down, glaring at the table. It’s sort of easy to picture Garen at Patton; lining up for drills, loading his practice rifle, getting into fights with his friends, being a general pain in the ass. The problem is, it’s even easier to picture the dried blood on his lips and the sickly yellow bruises over his eye.
“You alright there, Trav?” Ben asks, glancing over at me. He’s always telling me that he doesn’t care if people treat him like shit for being gay, and apparently he’s being honest; the idea of getting his ass kicked by Logan doesn’t seem to faze him.
“Not really,” I say slowly. “But it’s not, you know… my place to say what I’m thinking about.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mason says around a mouthful of bread. “Just spit it out.”
Truth be told, my real concern is that Ben will break up with me for talking about this. But he was Garen’s friend before he was my boyfriend, so maybe, even after the stunts Garen has pulled, it’s fine? I sigh. “Did Garen ever tell you guys about his first boyfriend?”
There’s a general murmur of dissent, and Jeremy adds, “Not really. Like, he mentioned he had one, but he didn’t really go into details about it.”
“I think it’s like, three years too late to be getting jealous about that,” Ben says coolly, and I slip an arm around his waist to give him a reassuring squeeze.
“No, no. That’s not what I mean at all. I’m bringing it up because they got back together around a week or two ago.”
“Yeah?” says Alex, raising his eyebrows. “Weird that he hasn’t mentioned it. We went out for coffee the other day, actually. Didn’t say a word about it.”
I’m momentarily stunned by the idea of them having coffee together, especially after what Garen did at the party during spring break. No one else seems to think it’s weird, though, so I opt to drop it. “Well, long story short, the guys a piece of shit. He’s dangerous, and I would prefer it if Garen never spoke to him again. But I don’t know how to tell Garen that.”
“Jeaaaalous,” Ben sings under his breath.
“So are youuuuu,” Mason sings back, and Ben kicks him under the table.
“There’s nothing to be jealous of!” I snap. “I’m serious, this isn’t about me being some kind of possessive ex-boyfriend. This is about the fact that… look, this guy, Dave? He used to beat Garen up when they were together. And I don’t mean he slapped him a couple times. He hospitalized him. Broke his nose and his ribs, gave him a concussion, kept beating him up for months even after that. Garen was fifteen when they started going out.”
“Fuck,” Ben exhales, and I nod.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Jeremy leans forward. “So, do you think he’s going to start again?”
“He already has. It only took two days for Garen to come home with a split lip. Last week, it was a black eye. There hasn’t been anything since then, but it’s creepy. I’ve seen Dave, okay? He’s a big guy, but he’s closer to my height than Garen’s, and he’s not as, you know, muscular. Maybe it wasn’t like that when Garen was a sophomore, but now, he could easily beat Dave in a fight. But he isn’t. It’s… it’s like he wants Dave to kick his ass.”
“Sounds like Ben and Ethan,” Jeremy mutters, and Alex cuffs him around the back of the head.
“Dude. Don’t,” he says, then adds to me, “Jer’s an idiot. Ignore him.”
“What, that hasn’t come up yet?” Mason says.
“No, it hasn’t come up yet, you jackasses. Stop talking about it,” Alex orders.
Ben, however, glances at me and says blandly, “The first guy I slept with, Ethan, and I used to have semi-violent sex. These morons saw a few bite marks and scratches, and blew the whole thing totally out of proportion.”
Heat creeps up my neck, igniting my freckles in flames. “O-Okay. Yeah. I uh… Garen mentioned that you were kind of into that.”
“What, you didn’t know?” Jeremy says. This conversation needs to be over immediately.
“Jeremy, we’ve only slept together twice,” Ben groans.
Mason leans forward and helpfully informs me, “Ben likes it rough.”
“Shut up,” Alex demands, with a little more vehemence than necessary.
I shake my head, trying to rid my mind of the image of Ben having perverted, kinky, dangerous sex with tons of different people. “Look, can we just go back to talking about Garen and his psychotic boyfriend?”
Mason shrugs. “I don’t know that there’s much you can do, man. He’s going to do whatever he wants to do, regardless of what you tell him. Maybe it’s best to just wait it out and see what happens. If things get really bad, I’m sure Garen knows how to take care of himself. Like Douchebag Logan said, G’s a badass Army-man. He’ll be fine.”
His assurances do nothing to quell the nervousness that twists my stomach into knots, but I drop it. I come home that night to find Garen in great condition. His black eye has faded to a very pale purple, and there aren’t any cuts on his face. He’s wearing a t-shirt, so I can see that there aren’t handprints on his arms, or scrapes on his knuckles from trying to defend himself. Not like he would try to defend himself.
The thing that gets to me the most is that Bill and Mom are stupid enough to swallow his bullshit excuses. Who is actually enough of a moron to believe that he could just happen to get jumped in a parking lot, only a few days after he happens to get a busted lip in a completely improbable almost-accident? How can they not see the connection between sudden injuries and a new, evil-looking boyfriend? Despite my growing frustration, I can’t seem to bring myself to tell them. Garen would deny it and accuse me of just being jealous. And the marks are all fading, so everything must be improving.
Right?
When school gets out on the day of prom, I text my sister, asking her to pick me up and bring me to a florist to get a boutonniere for Ben. She arrives ten minutes later, frantically rolling down her car window with a wild look in her eyes. “Holy shit, Travis. You’re going to prom?”
I am far too used to this exclamation by now to really react. I climb into the passenger seat and shrug, saying, “Yeah. Ben asked me, and, you know… he shouldn’t have to miss out on prom just because he has a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend. Can we go to the flower place now?”
“No, Travis,” she says in a tone of forced calm. “First, we need to see if we can go get you a haircut. You look horrible.”
“Aww, thanks,” I say flatly. “I don’t need a haircut. Ben saw me two minutes ago, he knows what my hair looks like.”
“Yeah, he knows you look like a Shih Tzu. I’m serious, I’m only going to take you to get his boutonniere if you get a haircut first. It might not matter to you, but it’ll matter to him,” Bree declares.
I sink down in my seat and grumble, “He cares about this stupid stuff even less than I do.”
Bree ignores me and guns it for the highway. Rather than take me to the barber shop that’s ten minutes from our house, she drives two towns over to the nearest mall. As we pass through the automatic doors, a sudden sence of forboding passes over me; this whole excursion is starting to feel way too much like a girls’ night at the salon.
“Bridget,” I say slowly, “I probably won’t even be able to get an appointment on no notice like this. Besides, I may be gay, but no guy is gay enough to want to get some spa treatment bullshit like—”
“Travis, you are such an absolute troll sometimes,” she growls. “Ever since you came out, you have been such a little brat. Stop acting so put-upon. If you didn’t want to go to prom, you didn’t have to accept the invitation. But no, of course you had to. Because ‘Ben shouldn’t miss out just because he’s gay.’ And I completely agree with you, alright? But if you don’t want to go, you shouldn’t feel like you have to just to make a statement.”
“I’m not trying to making a statement!” I snap.
“That’s all you’ve been doing since Garen left! You didn’t speak to me for weeks because you thought I broke up your relationship. You don’t even talk to most of your old friends anymore. The only people you hang out with are Ben and Alex, who are gay, too. I just… I think you came out too fast, is all,” she finishes somewhat lamely, dropping onto one of the benches near the door.
My mouth drops open a little, in an almost cartoonish way. “Th-That is really rich coming from you, Bree. Whose fault is it? Whose fucking fault is it that everyone found out? ‘Cause last I checked, nobody knew about me and Garen before you went and shot your mouth off, and he got kicked—”
“I’m sorry!” Bree yells, and when a few people look over in surprise, she clamps her mouth shut until they pass. Then, more quietly, in a voice of forced calm, she repeats, “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t reacted so badly, and I wish that Mom and Bill hadn’t found out because of me. But you can’t keep blaming me and acting like I was trying to attack you for being gay. You can’t act like everyone hates you for being gay. It’s not fair to us. Stop trying to use your sexuality to distance yourself from everyone.”
“But that’s just it. It does distance me. And no, I don’t really want to go to prom that much, but if twenty years from now, Ben tells somebody he didn’t go to his high school prom, it’s not going to be the same as a straight kid who doesn’t go to prom. People will think that he didn’t go to prom because he couldn’t, that he blew it off because his school wouldn’t let him or because he couldn’t find a guy who had the balls to go with him. And since the school doesn’t give a fuck, well, I’m not going to be the nut-less douchebag who stopped him from going.”
“I just think you should maybe be careful. Going to prom with another guy is going to make a big scene, and you know it. What are you going to do when Ben goes away to college in the fall?”
I have no idea.
“Deal with it, I guess,” I say instead, looking away and sinking onto the bench next to her. “New York isn’t that far away. We’ll figure something out.”
“I meant, what are you going to do at school? You have a safety net now, Travis. Your track teammates don’t give you that much shit, nobody really tries to start fights with you, because you have this support system of other gay people and friends who don’t care who you like. And once your friends graduate and you lose them, I’m afraid something is going to happen to you.”
“I’m going to be fine,” I say, but suddenly, it seems a lot harder to believe it. At any rate, it’s a lot harder to believe I’ll be okay than it is to believe that someone is going to eventually kick my ass, tag my locker, even just say something worse than what’s already been said. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
Bree exhales harshly, glaring at the floor. “Fine. I mean, look, Travie. We fight a lot, and we don’t agree on stuff always. Or, actually, ever. But you’re my little brother, and I love you. I’m just trying to look out for you. So, please just think about what I’ve said.”
I sigh and drag my fingers through my hair. “Yeah, sure. Not about getting my hair done, though.”
“You’re not getting it done, you’re getting it cut. There’s a difference. Now shut the hell up and just come with me?”
This is the moment where I discover that my sister is a lying bitch. After several minutes spent cooing over the “lovely natural wave” and “gorgeous honey blonde color,” the hairstylist – as Bree emphatically refers to her – chops off several inches, leaving me with closely cropped hair that she then attacks with a hairdryer, flat-iron, and half a dozen bottles of crap. When the stylist finally spins me chair so that I can see my reflection in the mirror, I can only blink at myself for several moments.
I look like a complete douchebag. My hair isn’t just styled; it’s coiffed. It looks just like James’ haircut, but it isn’t effortless, it isn’t tousled, and it isn’t sexy. It just looks weird. Regardless, I thank the stylist and tip her, privately grateful for the fact that my haircut only cost a tenth of what James’ probably cost. The first thing I need to do when I get home is wash this shit off my head.
The rest of the trip doesn’t go as badly. Bree brings me to a decently priced department store and helps me pick out a dark cobalt shirt and black silk tie that she insists will make me look like a badass. At the flower shop, she helps me dig through dozens of plastic boxes to find a carnation that isn’t half-dead. We return to the house with one hour left before Ben is supposed to be picking me up, and I make a beeline for the shower. Once all the mousse and gel and pomade, or whatever it is, is rinsed out, the haircut is actually decent. I call my thanks down the hall to Bree, who shouts back that she’s leaving for her boyfriend’s house and that I should put the flower in the fridge so it doesn’t wilt.
I peer into the box on the desk. It seems to be just fine, considering it’s only been out of a cooler for an hour or so. It’s not like me finishing getting dressed is going to make it die right then and there. I put on my pants, shirt, tie, and shoes, but leave the jacket where it is for now as I head back downstairs to the kitchen. The refrigerator door is already open, and Garen is standing in front of it, staring blankly into its depths. For reasons I choose not to inquire about, he is wearing nothing but a pair of flannel sweatpants.
“Hey,” he says, not looking at me, “do you know how to make guacamole? I want to make a huge pan of nachos and eat it all in like, five seconds. Seriously.”
I can’t help but snort. “Are you stoned?”
“No, I’m not,” he replies, managing to look convincingly indignant. After a few seconds, however, he shrugs. “Well, okay, yeah, I was earlier. I used to wake-and-bake a lot during my sophomore year, and I forgot how horrible it is to have the munchies when you actually have an empty stomach and no food in the house. But I’m not high anymore.”
“Sorry, I don’t know how to make anything. Can’t help you,” I say.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m starving.”
And he really might be. I’m unable to stop myself from looking him over, and I feel nausea bubbling in my stomach as I do it. God, he’s so thin these days. I can practically see his ribs. “Yeah. You should um… you should definitely eat something, though.”
He turns towards me finally, probably to make some biting comment, but he freezes when his eyes actually land on me.
I suddenly feel as if I’m not wearing a suit. As if I’m not wearing anything. His eyes move slowly down to the floor, then back up my body, hesitating briefly on my ties, then eventually settling on my hair. I reach up self-consciously to run a hand over it. “They cut it shorter than I was expecting. I look like an idiot, I know.”
Garen shuts the fridge door and takes a small step towards me. “You look gorgeous, actually,” he says. “You uh… you look really, really great.”
“Thanks,” I say. We stare at each other, wide-eyed, for nearly a full minute before he turns to dig a bag of cookies out of the cupboard.
“So, you and Ben are going to prom, huh?” he says. “Alex told me about it when we went for coffee.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and mutter, “I can’t believe Alex is even still speaking to you at this point.”
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Garen says with a shrug that makes me want to rip his arms off. “ It’s not like he can hate me for telling the truth. And it’s not like he was doing that good of a job of hiding it, anyway.”
“It still wasn’t your place to out him like that,” I argue. “Especially in front of his friends. Especially in front of the boyfriend of the guy he likes.”
“I guess I’m just easily forgiven like that,” Garen murmurs.
Not by me. Never by me. I don’t actually have to say the words, because they are already hanging heavily in the air between us. He even looks like he’s preparing to flinch. Instead of giving him that much, though, I shake my head. “So, what are you up to tonight?”
He takes a step back at that, almost as if he’s trying to back away from my question. “Just hanging out, I guess.”
His reaction is so strange, so evasive, that I know immediately what that means. “With Dave?”
He shrugs again. “Yeah. He’s upstairs.”
Just like that, I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick again. “He’s here? You brought him into this house?”
“Yeah, dude,” Garen says, in a slightly feeble attempt at indignance. “He’s my boyfriend. He can come over anytime he wants to.”
“No, he can’t. He isn’t allowed to be here, if he’s just going to…”
“Going to what?” Garen demands. I say nothing, and he is instantly in my face, close enough for me to feel his breath on my lips. “If he’s just going to fuck me?”
Honestly, the idea hadn’t even occurred to me. His near-nakedness is so far from the point right now that I actually need to look down to remind myself that he’s clearly in his post-coital uniform. I clear my throat. “That’s not what I was talking about.”
“Then what? He can’t be here if he’s just going to beat me?” It’s the first time he’s actually confirmed it, and I wish to God he had said anything else. But I can’t make myself un-hear the question, and he doesn’t seem to want to take it back. For several long, horrible moments, we stand there and just stare. Finally, he holds out his arms, turning them over so I can see them from every angle. “Look, Trav. No marks. I’m fine.”
He twists awkwardly to show me one side, then the other, but keeps his back pointedly turned towards the counter. When I reach for his hips, he moves towards me instantly, almost as a reflex. He regrets the move when I release him and duck around behind him. I inhale sharply.
“Fuck, Garen,” I say quietly. His back is home to a gigantic, purple-black bruise. “What the fuck did he do to you this time?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Garen drones, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I got into a fight in—”
“Yeah? A fight, a fucking fight? Where was it this time? The grocery store, Target, Walmart, Home fucking Depot?” I snarl.
“Starbucks, actually,” he sneers back. “Somebody took the last piece of Very Berry Coffee Cake.”
“I’m so sure,” I say. He rolls his eyes once more and turns back to the fridge. Shaking with rage, I storm back upstairs, fully intending to barricade myself in my bedroom. I end up standing frozen on the threshold, however, because when I glance around, I realize that Garen’s door is slightly ajar. I bang it the rest of the way open.
Dave is sprawled across the bed, naked except for a sheet draped across his hips, and holding a thick book in his hand. He scowls at me and says, “Knocking would’ve been appreciated, you know. Especially since I don’t know who the hell you are.”
I shut the door behind myself and lock it with a click, then stride across the room to lean right in his face. “Does it matter? You’re in my house right now, so I’d really recommend that you shut up. Now, listen to me, because I’m going to say this once; if you hurt Garen again, I will kill you. I don’t mean in a vague, trying-to-scare-you way, either. This isn’t a threat, this is a promise. If I see another bruise, another scrape, another black eye, another anything, I will actually murder you. You will fucking disappear. Do you understand me?”
Dave’s face turns purple. “What the hell has he been telling you?”
“He lies for you, of course. He says he gets into fights or car accidents or whatever, but I’m not an idiot. You used to beat him up when he was a kid, and you’re beating him up now. And I am telling you right now, it’s going to end immediately,” I say.
He stumbles off the bed, wrapping the sheet more securely around his hips. “So, that’s how you think it is. You think that what, we just sit there, watching TV, and all of a sudden, I reach over and punch him out?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop myself from hitting him right then and there. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Bullshit,” he says with a harsh laugh.
“I don’t know what you said to get him to come back to you, but you need to—”
“I didn’t say anything. He called me up. He called me a few weeks ago, said he had just gotten out of a relationship with some asshole and wanted to see me again. Said he was sorry he was such a brat when we were together and that he shouldn’t have ended things with me, and if I was willing to try again, so was he. So, I said alright, and we went out to dinner. He kept telling me he couldn’t believe our relationship had gone so wrong in the start, that it was all because he was immature and couldn’t handle a real relationship yet.”
“Or it was because you beat him,” I say, but Dave talks over me as though I haven’t even opened my mouth.
“So things were going great for the first couple of days. And then we’re in my car, I’m driving, and he starts being a brat again, telling me how I suck at driving, how I don’t know what I’m doing at all, I’m gonna get us lost, whatever. And I tell him, I say to him, ‘man, if you don’t shut up, you’re gonna really piss me off,’ and he keeps going, just shooting his mouth off. And he keeps touching everything, fucking with the radio and the air and just being a little asshole, you know? So I reach out and I push his shoulder to just get him to, you know, knock it off. Only…” Dave sighs and rakes his fingers through his dark, curly hair. “Look, he’s not built like he used to be, okay? He says he lost a lot of weight after that guy broke up with him, and now he’s just… he’s weak. So I pushed him, just a little shove, and he goes flying across the car, smacks his face into the passenger window and splits his lip right down the middle. And I pulled over, I got him some tissues and stuff, kept apologizing, but he said it was fine, it was no big deal.”
“It was a big deal to me when he came home with his mouth fucked up,” I growl, but Dave waves me off.
“Yeah, but he just… he keeps doing shit like that. Nobody knows my triggers like Garen does, alright? He pushes my buttons more than anyone I’ve ever met, so he knows when he’s saying something that’s going to piss me off. And ever since we got back together, it’s like all he does is try to get me mad at him. He’ll flirt with other guys in front of me, or he’ll talk shit, telling me I’m weak, telling me I’m not as much of a man as his last boyfriend. Fuck, he talks about that kid all the time, never shuts up about him. It’s always ‘Travis was so smart’ and ‘Travis was so hot’ and ‘Travis was so athletic’ and what-the-fuck-ever. And I tell him, ‘Garen, you gotta stop talking about your ex, you’re supposed to talk about me like that, it sounds like you’re still in love with him.’ And he just goes ‘yeah, so what if I am?’ I mean, how the fuck would you react to somebody saying that to you?”
“So basically what you’re saying to me,” I say slowly, clenching my fists, “is that he’s asking for it?”
Dave laughs hollowly. “He’s doing a lot more than asking for it, man. He gets in my face. Not just verbally, I’m talking physically. He’ll get in my face, my space, and he’ll start giving me little pushes, saying shit like ‘what are you going to do’ and ‘hit me’ and shit like that. And I’m only human, okay? I can only take so much of that shit before yeah, you know what, I’m gonna push him back. And then he starts swinging, and I swear, most of the time, it’s just self-defence. Whoever this Travis kid is, he fucked Garen up good.”
“No, I didn’t,” I say flatly.
The silence drags out between us as Dave’s body goes through a series of terrifying, strange changes. He begins to shake, his face more purple than ever, and he clenches his fists around the sheet at his hips. “You’re Travis?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So you’re telling me that this whole time, the guy who he won’t shut up about, the guy who he’s saying he might still be into, is living in his house? Is this some kind of joke?” he demands.
“No, it’s not. I’m his stepbrother now, but I used to be his boyfriend,” I say. Downstairs, the doorbell rings. Fuck, of course Ben would show up now. I round on Dave once more. “Look, if he’s being that shitty to you, break up with him. Don’t hit him. Don’t fucking touch him again, or I’m serious, I’m going to kill you. Now, I think you should put your clothes on and get the fuck out of my house.”
I stomp back to my bedroom to get my jacket, and can still hear Dave muttering curses even once I’m halfway down the stairs.
“Don’t forget your flower,” Garen says from the kitchen, and I veer off to grab it from the fridge.
“Thanks,” I say grudgingly, not bothering to wait for a reply before I jog back to the front door and swing it open. “Ben. Wow.”
“Good wow, right?” Ben says, grinning at me. I can only get so impressed by his suit – after all, I’m wearing one just like it – but he has paired his black jacket and trousers with an ice-blue vest and tie that are the exact same color as his eyes, which bear only the faintest traces of his usual eyeliner.
I lean down to kiss him once and confirm, “Good wow.”
Neither of us is very skilled at pinning on our corsages, and I’m deeply grateful for the fact that there are no cameras here to capture the ineptitude. Eventually, though, we get into the SUV and head for the Waterfront Luxury Hotel in the next town over, where the prom is being held. It takes us almost half an hour to get into the parking lot because of the huge line of limousines, but the parking spaces are almost all free.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m too cheap to spring for a limo,” Ben says, sticking his tongue out at me.
I snort. “Oh, yeah, you can tell I’m a big stickler for rules about luxury vehicles. I demand that you take me home right now.”
“Aww,” he says softly, “I thought I had to wait until after the prom to take you home.”
A little shiver passes over me, and I try to hide my smile as we get out and head towards the glass front doors. There’s a long line of people waiting to get in, and only one man checking off names at the door; score one for LHS prom-planning.
“Hey, Ben! Travis!” calls a voice from the middle of the line. We follow the yells and eventually find Jeremy and Mason standing with two pretty girls, one of whom is definitely wearing a pus-colored dress. We wedge ourselves into line with them.
Behind us, a few people groan. Someone yells, “Back of the line, queers!”
“Bite me, Neanderthal!” Ben snarls, and the guy – a football player, by the looks of him – blinks in surprise.
“Where’s Alex?” I ask, placing my hand in the small of Ben’s back to calm him. Mason shrugs.
“Haven’t seen him yet,” he says. “I’m not even entirely sure he’s coming.”
“No, he is,” Jeremy corrects. “He said he’d be here after most of the people got in so he wouldn’t have to wait in line. He’s coming stag anyway.”
For all its length, the line moves pretty quickly. It only takes ten minutes for our group to make it to the door.
“Last name?” drawls the man at the door, flipping through the pages on his clipboard.
“McCutcheon,” Ben says.
More shuffling of papers. “Benjamin?” Ben nods. “And you signed up a guest named McCall. Which one is that?” He jabs his pen at the two girls, Amy-in-chartreuse and Sarah-in-red.
“Neither. That’s me,” I say, giving a small wave. The man blinks at the clipboard, then at me.
“No, I can sign you in next, young man. Right now, I need to see the person who ‘McCutcheon-comma-Benjamin’ signed up as his date. ‘McCall-comma-T. D.’ Where—”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say irritably. “Travis Daniel McCall.”
The man narrows his eyes. “I’m going to need to see your driver’s license.”
“Are you shitting me?” Ben demands.
“No, I’m completely serious, sir. Usually when a student shows up at one of these dates with someone of the same gender, it’s because they’re trying to sneak in someone who shouldn’t be there. I’m going to see this man’s driver’s license so that I can be certain he’s allowed to be here.”
“He doesn’t have a driver’s license, because he doesn’t drive,” Ben snaps.
I brush my hand against his elbow. “It’s fine, Ben. I’ve got my school ID.” I fish the card out of my wallet and thrust it at the man with the clipboard. “See? Travis D. McCall. Grade eleven. Identification number eight, one, five, three, two, one, two, seven. Can we go inside now?”
“Not so fast. How can I tell that you’re actually a student here?” the man asks, completely ignoring the card in my hand.
“Because you’re looking at my student ID! It says it right on the top, ‘Lakewood High School.’ Why are you—”
“If you could just step off to the side for a minute, we’ll settle this matter in a few minutes, once I’ve finished checking off the rest of the students. Now, may I have your name, please?” the man asks, turning to Jeremy.
“Jeremy Suffolk, and my date’s Sarah Abrams. But I’m not going in without my friends.”
The man heaves a sigh and turns to Mason. “Name?”
“Mason Kowalski,” he replies, then hitches his chin at his date. “Amy Tremont. And I’m not going in, either.”
“What seems to be the hold-up here, gentlemen?” says a pleasant voice from just inside the doors. I step forward to see Vice-Principal Jacobs looking back at us, her head cocked to the side.
“These young men and their dates are refusing to enter the building without their friends, who are being detained for security reasons. There may be a problem with the guest list,” the door-man sniffs.
“There isn’t a problem, though!” Ben bursts out. “He thinks that I’m trying to sneak someone in, even though my date’s on the list. This guy checked ID and everything.”
“Ben, we’ll sort this out, please don’t get angry,” Jacobs says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Now, who’s your date?”
“I am,” I say. She blinks at me, and I shift uncomfortably. The last time I spoke to this woman was the day I came back after my suicide attempt. Eventually, she cracks a smile.
“Oh, hello, Travis. I didn’t realize you were coming to the prom tonight,” she says pleasantly.
“Yeah, well, that remains to be seen,” I say, nodding towards the checklist. “He doesn’t believe I’m a student.”
“Oh, no, no,” she says quickly, slipping an arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “Andrew, these are all Lakewood students. Ben, Jeremy, Mason, Amy, and Sarah are all seniors, and Travis is a junior. They can all be checked off.” She gives us one last encouraging smile and whisks back inside. We file in after her, but I pause to glance at the doorman, only to find him glaring at me. Fucking asshole.
Things only get worse as the night goes on. I get shoved into a wall on my way back from the bathroom at one point during dinner, and take my seat again just in time to discover that someone came up to Ben in my absence and asked if he was running for prom queen. The jokes like that continue all through dinner. A guy from the next table over leans towards us and asks why neither of us is wearing a gown. Someone crosses the entire room just to ask Ben if he’s “the girl” when we “do it.” A girl I’ve never seen before in my life comes up to me and informs me that she’ll probably throw up if she has to watch “two gay dudes grind up on each other on the dance floor.”
“We shouldn’t have come,” Ben says, slouching down in his seat as yet another of his classmates returns to his table after criticizing us.
“I’m glad we did,” I say, even though it’s clearly bullshit. He just shrugs in reply.
Jeremy nudges Mason and points across the room. “Hey, at least Alex is finally here. Look.”
I glance over and see Alex weaving his way through the maze of tables towards us. He looks good, like he might have even shaved with a fresh razor, for once. His suit, however, is a little disheveled; his jacket is unbuttoned to show that his shirt is untucked, and his tie is loosened. When he gets close to our table, he stumbles.
Oh shit.
“Hey, guys,” Alex says, reaching out to ruffle my hair and then leaning over to press a loud kiss to Mason’s cheek before he collapses onto the chair next to me.
“Hi, Al,” Jeremy says cautiously. “You just get here.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Like, five minutes ago. I didn’t really feel like doing the dinner thing, so I just skipped it,” Alex says, bobbing his head.
Amy waves him off. “Oh, the dinner wasn’t that great anyway. You didn’t miss anything.”
Alex’s eyes seem to struggle to focus her, but he eventually gets it. “Amy, hi. You look really pretty. And your dress is a lovely shade of ch… chartreuse. And Sarah, you look really nice, too. I like your hair. Did you like, put some glitter in it?”
“Yeah, it’s a special hairspray they used at the salon,” Sarah says, nodding.
Alex nods back, then looks around the table until his eyes finally land on Ben. “What’s up, Ben? You… you look really good, too.”
“Thanks,” Ben says flatly, staring at him. “Have you been drinking?”
Alex shakes his head. “Nah, let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk some more about how hot you look tonight. Seriously. Are your eyes always that blue?”
“Pretty much since the day I was born, yeah,” Ben snaps. “I can’t fucking believe you came to prom drunk. You could get expelled if you get caught.”
“Which is why I’m not going to get caught, Dad,” Alex retorts.
“You should be really fucking grateful I’m not your dad right now, because your dad would be screaming at you,” Ben says. Alex shrinks back, looking injured. Ben sighs and stands up. “Look, let’s go outside for a little bit. Some fresh air might help you.”
Alex slouches down in his seat and says sullenly, “I don’t want to.”
“Al, please?” Ben says, holding out his hand. Alex glares at him, but eventually raises a limp arm so that Ben can drag him by the wrist out onto the balcony.
Sarah stands up. “I’m going to go see if I can get someone from the kitchen staff to maybe make him a cup of coffee. It might help.”
“I’ll go with you,” Amy adds, jumping up and following her across the room. Mason sighs and stands to follow Ben and Alex out to the balcony. Jeremy sighs in frustration and plants an elbow on the table.
“God, I wish Alex would stop doing shit like this,” he says. I frown.
“What, this is a common thing?” I ask.
Jeremy eyes me for a moment before he finally nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s really common, actually. Probably sixty percent of the time we all hang out outside of school, Alex is drunk, or wants to be. It’s really messed up.”
I shift in my seat, suddenly wishing I were anywhere else. “So… so, does he have like, a problem?”
“Depends who you ask, I guess,” Jer says with a shrug. “Mase and I think it’s just… I don’t know. I guess we figure it’s just Alex being Alex. It’s not like he drives drunk or gets alcohol poisoning. So I guess he’s just a big drinker, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And I take it Ben believes something different?” I prompt. He nods.
“He thinks it’s unhealthy. Like, we all know that Alex knows how to have fun without drinking. He doesn’t have to be drunk to be happy. But Ben reckons that it’s a problem, because Al sometimes drinks alone and stuff, which is pretty weird. And, you know, there’s his dad.”
I blink. “Alex’s dad is an alcoholic?”
Jeremy laughs, though it’s without any actual humor. “Huge alcoholic. I’ve never seen him sober, actually, and I’ve known Alex since we were like, ten. And he’s… well, he’s a shitty dad, alright? He’s such a bastard to Alex, always telling him he’s not good enough and stuff like that. But it’s not like Alex can say anything back, because it’s his dad, and he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and his mom is dead, so his dad is pretty much all he’s got.”
“Fuck,” I murmur. How can I have been friends with Alex for months and not know this kind of thing?
“And the worst part is that Alex sometimes… you know, he’ll say stuff to get his dad pissed off. There are times when Mr. Baker goes days without saying a word to him, even if Al comes home drunk, or gets a bad grade in school. He just doesn’t care. So Alex’ll start mouthing off, just so his dad will finally say something to him, and Mr. Baker usually ends up screaming at him.”
“He doesn’t hit him, though, right?” I say sharply, and Jeremy dismisses me with a shake of the head.
“No, not at all. He just treats him so freaking badly.”
He pushes my buttons more than anyone I’ve ever met, so he knows when he’s saying something that’s going to piss me off. And ever since we got back together, it’s like all he does is try to get me mad at him.
I shake my head. “Yeah, but like, you can’t really blame Mr. Baker for it that much, if Alex is like… goading him into it.”
Jeremy’s hand flies out and twists around my tie. “So, what, you’re saying Alex deserves to get treated like that, just because he sometimes says stupid shit? Like, he’s asking for it?”
“No!” I protest. “I’m just saying, it seems like Mr. Baker might just be an asshole. And if he always acting like that with everyone, does it really count as—”
“Verbal abuse still counts as abuse, Travis. The fact that somebody’s just generally an asshole doesn’t mean they get a free pass, especially where people they’re supposed to love are concerned. Nobody deserves to be treated like that.”
Fuck. I can’t believe I actually left Garen alone with Dave. I can’t believe I actually acted like it was okay, like anything Dave said about Garen asking to be hit, or deserving it, or starting it was warranted. Jeremy’s right; nobody deserves to be treated like this. Alex doesn’t deserve to have a father who hates him, and Garen doesn’t deserve to have a boyfriend who hits him. This is all so fucked up. And I need to go home immediately. I need to tell Garen this.
“Travis,” Ben says from behind me, and I jump a little.
“Ben, hi. Listen, I—”
“No, wait. I’m sorry, but I really think we should go. Alex can’t be here, he’s going to get caught, and he can’t get expelled this close to graduation. So… I’m really sorry, and I’ll completely understand if you’re pissed, but I think maybe I should take him back to his house.”
I stand quickly. “I’m not mad at all. I get it.”
Ben lets out a relieved sigh and squeezes my hand. “Thank you. We managed to get him out to my car without anyone seeing, and Mason’s with him now. He’s going to drive you home in Alex’s car, then come back for the rest of the prom. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” I say, brushing his hair back from his forehead to press a kiss to his skin. “I’m glad you’re going to be taking care of Alex, alright? He’s lucky to have a friend like you. And I’m really proud of you for it.”
It’s more than I could do for Garen, anyway.
“Let me walk you to the car, at least,” Ben says. I drape an arm around his shoulders, and we slip outside in silence. Mason is waiting at the curb in Alex’s car, the engine rumbling softly. Ben opens the passenger side door for me, just like a real live gentleman would.
“Good luck with Alex,” I say, and he nods.
“Thanks,” he says. We keep our kiss brief because Mason is looking pointedly away, and afterwards, Ben waits there on the sidewalk, watching us until we round the corner out of the parking lot. The drive back to my house is silent except for the murmuring of the radio, for which I’m grateful. I am too busy trying to formulate my strategy.
The first thing I’m going to do is order Dave to get out of the house. He’ll probably yell and get pissed, so maybe I should have my cell phone handy, just in case I need to call the cops? Yeah, I should definitely be ready to call the cops. Once he’s gone, I’ll need to sit Garen down – correction, I’ll need to make Garen get dressed, first. And then I’ll sit him down, and I’ll tell him everything he needs to hear. I’ll tell him he deserves to be treated better, that he should never be with someone who would hurt him. He’ll argue with me, and I’ll argue back, but eventually, he’ll have to believe me, because it’s true. Eventually, he’ll see that he’s worth so much more than he realizes.
When Mason pulls up in front of the house, however, I’m relieved to discover that Dave has already left for the night. His car is gone, and neither Bree nor my parents have gotten back yet. This is good, I tell myself. I can talk to Garen without any interruptions. The front door is unlocked, and I head straight up to my room to change. This in itself presents a problem, actually. What the fuck do you wear for an intervention? Are my sweatpants and a t-shirt too casual? Should I put on a nice shirt? I finally decide to split the difference and don a pair of jeans and one of my track t-shirts.
Garen’s door is shut, so I knock once. “Garen, it’s me. Can I come in?” There’s no response. Did he leave with Dave? Did they go out for coffee or something? I knock again. “Garen. Open up.” I try the knob, and the door swings open easily. I only take two steps in before I lurch to a stop, my stomach rolling over.
Garen’s body is positioned on the bed like a corpse in a casket, but not as neatly; his arms are draped across his chest, less like he’s resting and more like he’s trying to hold his ribs in place. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed because his face is swollen with enough bruises to be almost inhuman. His face, his clothes, his sheets are all splattered with black-red ropes of blood, some of which still seems to be rolling in thick droplets from his possibly-broken nose. His mouth – that gorgeous mouth with perfect teeth and soft lips – looks like a crime scene, full of blood that he must be practically drowning in. At least, he should be drowning in it. That’s when I realize the thing that’s most wrong about this whole scene, even more wrong than all the gore and the bruises.
Garen isn’t breathing.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Ben ruffles my hair affectionately and pecks a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t whine. You can just wear the tux you bought for the wedding. It’s really not a big deal, I don’t expect you to wear a new one.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you have to worry about it matching a dress. Amy’s all over my ass, telling me I need to make sure my vest is ‘chartreuse.’ What the fuck is ‘chartreuse’? Is that like, blue?” Mason asks. I notice he’s directing his question mostly to Ben and I, as though liking dick means we have to like interior design and color swatches, too.
Alex shrugs. “I think it’s green. A kinda yellow-green, though. Like pus.”
“That sounds fucking hideous. Why would she get a pus-colored dress?” Jeremy laughs. “I mean, I’m taking Sarah Abrams, and she said ‘red.’ That’s it. Not ‘scarlet’ or ‘mauve,’ just red. So I’m gonna get a red vest for me, and a red corsage for her, and that’ll be it.”
“Dude, I think ‘mauve’ is purple,” Mason says.
“So? I said it’s not mauve, it’s red. So I’m good.”
“Are we even supposed to match?” I ask Ben. “I mean, I guess it makes sense when it’s a guy matching a girl’s dress, but we’ll probably just look creepy and clone-ish if we’re wearing the same thing.”
“I don’t know, I’ve never taken a guy to prom before. Should we like, Google gay prom etiquette or something?” Ben suggests. We grin at each other, but Jeremy is already sliding his phone out of his pocket to use the internet on it. He and Alex bow their heads together over the phone, conversing in low tones, and Mason turns to Ben, smiling a sleepy stoner smile.
“I’m surprised you two were allowed to go, after the thing over the loudspeaker,” he says.
Ben shrugs. “I’m pretty sure Principal Hammond was afraid that we’d try to sue the school for descrimination if he stopped me from going to prom. Which I, you know, obviously wouldn’t have done. Prom’s one of those lame high school traditions that’s supposed to be exciting, but is actually just a waste of time and money. Like getting a yearbook. Or, now that I think about it, going to the graduation ceremony at all.”
“If it’s so lame, why’d you want to go with me?” I ask, frowning. Sometimes, I wonder if Ben forgets that I’m not as anti-everything as he is. Yeah, dances are lame, but part of me enjoys the awkward pseudo-companionship I feel when all the classmates I hate want to sign my yearbook. Part of me is kind of excited that I might be the one making the cliché “the end of high school is the beginning of the rest of your life, but you’ll never forget where you come from, woo hoo Lakewood!” speech at next year’s graduation.
“Because I don’t like stuff like prom, but I do like you,” Ben says simply. “And also, you looked really fucking sexy when you’re all suited up.”
He leans over to kiss my smiling mouth, and after a few lingering seconds, something connects sharply with the back of my head. “Ow! What the fuck?”
“You two faggots might want to rethink your plans for this weekend,” says Logan, the asshole track team captain, circling around me to glare into my face. “Do you really think the rest of us want to spend our prom watching you guys give each other handjobs under the table?”
“How would you see us giving each other handjobs if it was happening under the table?” Ben asks, sounding genuinely confused. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter, I was planning to just give him head in the bathroom anyway.”
Lo flings out an arm and wraps it too-tightly around Ben’s shoulders. “Don’t get smart with me, you little cocksucker, or I’ll—”
I am off the bench in a second, wrenching Logan’s arm away and dragging him back from the table. “Look, Lo, I’m really flattered that you’re so intent on proving to me how big you think your dick is, but knock it off. There’s a line, and putting your hands on my boyfriend pretty much crosses it completely. If you do it again, I will fuck you up.”
Logan snorts and brushes me off him, the way you brush a fly off your arm. “Do you think I’m seriously afraid of you, McCall? The idea of you trying to fight me is ridiculous. Who would you call for back-up? Your midget sex slave? Not so much. Maybe I’d be worried if you were still fucking your soldier-boy brother, ‘cause I’ve heard him talking about shooting practice and combat training and tons of other shit like that. But you guys are just pathetic.”
I’m so taken aback by the mention of Garen that I actually let go, giving Logan the chance to throw one last smirk at me and swagger off. He’s actually out of the cafeteria before I sit back down, glaring at the table. It’s sort of easy to picture Garen at Patton; lining up for drills, loading his practice rifle, getting into fights with his friends, being a general pain in the ass. The problem is, it’s even easier to picture the dried blood on his lips and the sickly yellow bruises over his eye.
“You alright there, Trav?” Ben asks, glancing over at me. He’s always telling me that he doesn’t care if people treat him like shit for being gay, and apparently he’s being honest; the idea of getting his ass kicked by Logan doesn’t seem to faze him.
“Not really,” I say slowly. “But it’s not, you know… my place to say what I’m thinking about.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mason says around a mouthful of bread. “Just spit it out.”
Truth be told, my real concern is that Ben will break up with me for talking about this. But he was Garen’s friend before he was my boyfriend, so maybe, even after the stunts Garen has pulled, it’s fine? I sigh. “Did Garen ever tell you guys about his first boyfriend?”
There’s a general murmur of dissent, and Jeremy adds, “Not really. Like, he mentioned he had one, but he didn’t really go into details about it.”
“I think it’s like, three years too late to be getting jealous about that,” Ben says coolly, and I slip an arm around his waist to give him a reassuring squeeze.
“No, no. That’s not what I mean at all. I’m bringing it up because they got back together around a week or two ago.”
“Yeah?” says Alex, raising his eyebrows. “Weird that he hasn’t mentioned it. We went out for coffee the other day, actually. Didn’t say a word about it.”
I’m momentarily stunned by the idea of them having coffee together, especially after what Garen did at the party during spring break. No one else seems to think it’s weird, though, so I opt to drop it. “Well, long story short, the guys a piece of shit. He’s dangerous, and I would prefer it if Garen never spoke to him again. But I don’t know how to tell Garen that.”
“Jeaaaalous,” Ben sings under his breath.
“So are youuuuu,” Mason sings back, and Ben kicks him under the table.
“There’s nothing to be jealous of!” I snap. “I’m serious, this isn’t about me being some kind of possessive ex-boyfriend. This is about the fact that… look, this guy, Dave? He used to beat Garen up when they were together. And I don’t mean he slapped him a couple times. He hospitalized him. Broke his nose and his ribs, gave him a concussion, kept beating him up for months even after that. Garen was fifteen when they started going out.”
“Fuck,” Ben exhales, and I nod.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Jeremy leans forward. “So, do you think he’s going to start again?”
“He already has. It only took two days for Garen to come home with a split lip. Last week, it was a black eye. There hasn’t been anything since then, but it’s creepy. I’ve seen Dave, okay? He’s a big guy, but he’s closer to my height than Garen’s, and he’s not as, you know, muscular. Maybe it wasn’t like that when Garen was a sophomore, but now, he could easily beat Dave in a fight. But he isn’t. It’s… it’s like he wants Dave to kick his ass.”
“Sounds like Ben and Ethan,” Jeremy mutters, and Alex cuffs him around the back of the head.
“Dude. Don’t,” he says, then adds to me, “Jer’s an idiot. Ignore him.”
“What, that hasn’t come up yet?” Mason says.
“No, it hasn’t come up yet, you jackasses. Stop talking about it,” Alex orders.
Ben, however, glances at me and says blandly, “The first guy I slept with, Ethan, and I used to have semi-violent sex. These morons saw a few bite marks and scratches, and blew the whole thing totally out of proportion.”
Heat creeps up my neck, igniting my freckles in flames. “O-Okay. Yeah. I uh… Garen mentioned that you were kind of into that.”
“What, you didn’t know?” Jeremy says. This conversation needs to be over immediately.
“Jeremy, we’ve only slept together twice,” Ben groans.
Mason leans forward and helpfully informs me, “Ben likes it rough.”
“Shut up,” Alex demands, with a little more vehemence than necessary.
I shake my head, trying to rid my mind of the image of Ben having perverted, kinky, dangerous sex with tons of different people. “Look, can we just go back to talking about Garen and his psychotic boyfriend?”
Mason shrugs. “I don’t know that there’s much you can do, man. He’s going to do whatever he wants to do, regardless of what you tell him. Maybe it’s best to just wait it out and see what happens. If things get really bad, I’m sure Garen knows how to take care of himself. Like Douchebag Logan said, G’s a badass Army-man. He’ll be fine.”
His assurances do nothing to quell the nervousness that twists my stomach into knots, but I drop it. I come home that night to find Garen in great condition. His black eye has faded to a very pale purple, and there aren’t any cuts on his face. He’s wearing a t-shirt, so I can see that there aren’t handprints on his arms, or scrapes on his knuckles from trying to defend himself. Not like he would try to defend himself.
The thing that gets to me the most is that Bill and Mom are stupid enough to swallow his bullshit excuses. Who is actually enough of a moron to believe that he could just happen to get jumped in a parking lot, only a few days after he happens to get a busted lip in a completely improbable almost-accident? How can they not see the connection between sudden injuries and a new, evil-looking boyfriend? Despite my growing frustration, I can’t seem to bring myself to tell them. Garen would deny it and accuse me of just being jealous. And the marks are all fading, so everything must be improving.
Right?
When school gets out on the day of prom, I text my sister, asking her to pick me up and bring me to a florist to get a boutonniere for Ben. She arrives ten minutes later, frantically rolling down her car window with a wild look in her eyes. “Holy shit, Travis. You’re going to prom?”
I am far too used to this exclamation by now to really react. I climb into the passenger seat and shrug, saying, “Yeah. Ben asked me, and, you know… he shouldn’t have to miss out on prom just because he has a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend. Can we go to the flower place now?”
“No, Travis,” she says in a tone of forced calm. “First, we need to see if we can go get you a haircut. You look horrible.”
“Aww, thanks,” I say flatly. “I don’t need a haircut. Ben saw me two minutes ago, he knows what my hair looks like.”
“Yeah, he knows you look like a Shih Tzu. I’m serious, I’m only going to take you to get his boutonniere if you get a haircut first. It might not matter to you, but it’ll matter to him,” Bree declares.
I sink down in my seat and grumble, “He cares about this stupid stuff even less than I do.”
Bree ignores me and guns it for the highway. Rather than take me to the barber shop that’s ten minutes from our house, she drives two towns over to the nearest mall. As we pass through the automatic doors, a sudden sence of forboding passes over me; this whole excursion is starting to feel way too much like a girls’ night at the salon.
“Bridget,” I say slowly, “I probably won’t even be able to get an appointment on no notice like this. Besides, I may be gay, but no guy is gay enough to want to get some spa treatment bullshit like—”
“Travis, you are such an absolute troll sometimes,” she growls. “Ever since you came out, you have been such a little brat. Stop acting so put-upon. If you didn’t want to go to prom, you didn’t have to accept the invitation. But no, of course you had to. Because ‘Ben shouldn’t miss out just because he’s gay.’ And I completely agree with you, alright? But if you don’t want to go, you shouldn’t feel like you have to just to make a statement.”
“I’m not trying to making a statement!” I snap.
“That’s all you’ve been doing since Garen left! You didn’t speak to me for weeks because you thought I broke up your relationship. You don’t even talk to most of your old friends anymore. The only people you hang out with are Ben and Alex, who are gay, too. I just… I think you came out too fast, is all,” she finishes somewhat lamely, dropping onto one of the benches near the door.
My mouth drops open a little, in an almost cartoonish way. “Th-That is really rich coming from you, Bree. Whose fault is it? Whose fucking fault is it that everyone found out? ‘Cause last I checked, nobody knew about me and Garen before you went and shot your mouth off, and he got kicked—”
“I’m sorry!” Bree yells, and when a few people look over in surprise, she clamps her mouth shut until they pass. Then, more quietly, in a voice of forced calm, she repeats, “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t reacted so badly, and I wish that Mom and Bill hadn’t found out because of me. But you can’t keep blaming me and acting like I was trying to attack you for being gay. You can’t act like everyone hates you for being gay. It’s not fair to us. Stop trying to use your sexuality to distance yourself from everyone.”
“But that’s just it. It does distance me. And no, I don’t really want to go to prom that much, but if twenty years from now, Ben tells somebody he didn’t go to his high school prom, it’s not going to be the same as a straight kid who doesn’t go to prom. People will think that he didn’t go to prom because he couldn’t, that he blew it off because his school wouldn’t let him or because he couldn’t find a guy who had the balls to go with him. And since the school doesn’t give a fuck, well, I’m not going to be the nut-less douchebag who stopped him from going.”
“I just think you should maybe be careful. Going to prom with another guy is going to make a big scene, and you know it. What are you going to do when Ben goes away to college in the fall?”
I have no idea.
“Deal with it, I guess,” I say instead, looking away and sinking onto the bench next to her. “New York isn’t that far away. We’ll figure something out.”
“I meant, what are you going to do at school? You have a safety net now, Travis. Your track teammates don’t give you that much shit, nobody really tries to start fights with you, because you have this support system of other gay people and friends who don’t care who you like. And once your friends graduate and you lose them, I’m afraid something is going to happen to you.”
“I’m going to be fine,” I say, but suddenly, it seems a lot harder to believe it. At any rate, it’s a lot harder to believe I’ll be okay than it is to believe that someone is going to eventually kick my ass, tag my locker, even just say something worse than what’s already been said. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
Bree exhales harshly, glaring at the floor. “Fine. I mean, look, Travie. We fight a lot, and we don’t agree on stuff always. Or, actually, ever. But you’re my little brother, and I love you. I’m just trying to look out for you. So, please just think about what I’ve said.”
I sigh and drag my fingers through my hair. “Yeah, sure. Not about getting my hair done, though.”
“You’re not getting it done, you’re getting it cut. There’s a difference. Now shut the hell up and just come with me?”
This is the moment where I discover that my sister is a lying bitch. After several minutes spent cooing over the “lovely natural wave” and “gorgeous honey blonde color,” the hairstylist – as Bree emphatically refers to her – chops off several inches, leaving me with closely cropped hair that she then attacks with a hairdryer, flat-iron, and half a dozen bottles of crap. When the stylist finally spins me chair so that I can see my reflection in the mirror, I can only blink at myself for several moments.
I look like a complete douchebag. My hair isn’t just styled; it’s coiffed. It looks just like James’ haircut, but it isn’t effortless, it isn’t tousled, and it isn’t sexy. It just looks weird. Regardless, I thank the stylist and tip her, privately grateful for the fact that my haircut only cost a tenth of what James’ probably cost. The first thing I need to do when I get home is wash this shit off my head.
The rest of the trip doesn’t go as badly. Bree brings me to a decently priced department store and helps me pick out a dark cobalt shirt and black silk tie that she insists will make me look like a badass. At the flower shop, she helps me dig through dozens of plastic boxes to find a carnation that isn’t half-dead. We return to the house with one hour left before Ben is supposed to be picking me up, and I make a beeline for the shower. Once all the mousse and gel and pomade, or whatever it is, is rinsed out, the haircut is actually decent. I call my thanks down the hall to Bree, who shouts back that she’s leaving for her boyfriend’s house and that I should put the flower in the fridge so it doesn’t wilt.
I peer into the box on the desk. It seems to be just fine, considering it’s only been out of a cooler for an hour or so. It’s not like me finishing getting dressed is going to make it die right then and there. I put on my pants, shirt, tie, and shoes, but leave the jacket where it is for now as I head back downstairs to the kitchen. The refrigerator door is already open, and Garen is standing in front of it, staring blankly into its depths. For reasons I choose not to inquire about, he is wearing nothing but a pair of flannel sweatpants.
“Hey,” he says, not looking at me, “do you know how to make guacamole? I want to make a huge pan of nachos and eat it all in like, five seconds. Seriously.”
I can’t help but snort. “Are you stoned?”
“No, I’m not,” he replies, managing to look convincingly indignant. After a few seconds, however, he shrugs. “Well, okay, yeah, I was earlier. I used to wake-and-bake a lot during my sophomore year, and I forgot how horrible it is to have the munchies when you actually have an empty stomach and no food in the house. But I’m not high anymore.”
“Sorry, I don’t know how to make anything. Can’t help you,” I say.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m starving.”
And he really might be. I’m unable to stop myself from looking him over, and I feel nausea bubbling in my stomach as I do it. God, he’s so thin these days. I can practically see his ribs. “Yeah. You should um… you should definitely eat something, though.”
He turns towards me finally, probably to make some biting comment, but he freezes when his eyes actually land on me.
I suddenly feel as if I’m not wearing a suit. As if I’m not wearing anything. His eyes move slowly down to the floor, then back up my body, hesitating briefly on my ties, then eventually settling on my hair. I reach up self-consciously to run a hand over it. “They cut it shorter than I was expecting. I look like an idiot, I know.”
Garen shuts the fridge door and takes a small step towards me. “You look gorgeous, actually,” he says. “You uh… you look really, really great.”
“Thanks,” I say. We stare at each other, wide-eyed, for nearly a full minute before he turns to dig a bag of cookies out of the cupboard.
“So, you and Ben are going to prom, huh?” he says. “Alex told me about it when we went for coffee.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and mutter, “I can’t believe Alex is even still speaking to you at this point.”
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Garen says with a shrug that makes me want to rip his arms off. “ It’s not like he can hate me for telling the truth. And it’s not like he was doing that good of a job of hiding it, anyway.”
“It still wasn’t your place to out him like that,” I argue. “Especially in front of his friends. Especially in front of the boyfriend of the guy he likes.”
“I guess I’m just easily forgiven like that,” Garen murmurs.
Not by me. Never by me. I don’t actually have to say the words, because they are already hanging heavily in the air between us. He even looks like he’s preparing to flinch. Instead of giving him that much, though, I shake my head. “So, what are you up to tonight?”
He takes a step back at that, almost as if he’s trying to back away from my question. “Just hanging out, I guess.”
His reaction is so strange, so evasive, that I know immediately what that means. “With Dave?”
He shrugs again. “Yeah. He’s upstairs.”
Just like that, I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick again. “He’s here? You brought him into this house?”
“Yeah, dude,” Garen says, in a slightly feeble attempt at indignance. “He’s my boyfriend. He can come over anytime he wants to.”
“No, he can’t. He isn’t allowed to be here, if he’s just going to…”
“Going to what?” Garen demands. I say nothing, and he is instantly in my face, close enough for me to feel his breath on my lips. “If he’s just going to fuck me?”
Honestly, the idea hadn’t even occurred to me. His near-nakedness is so far from the point right now that I actually need to look down to remind myself that he’s clearly in his post-coital uniform. I clear my throat. “That’s not what I was talking about.”
“Then what? He can’t be here if he’s just going to beat me?” It’s the first time he’s actually confirmed it, and I wish to God he had said anything else. But I can’t make myself un-hear the question, and he doesn’t seem to want to take it back. For several long, horrible moments, we stand there and just stare. Finally, he holds out his arms, turning them over so I can see them from every angle. “Look, Trav. No marks. I’m fine.”
He twists awkwardly to show me one side, then the other, but keeps his back pointedly turned towards the counter. When I reach for his hips, he moves towards me instantly, almost as a reflex. He regrets the move when I release him and duck around behind him. I inhale sharply.
“Fuck, Garen,” I say quietly. His back is home to a gigantic, purple-black bruise. “What the fuck did he do to you this time?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Garen drones, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I got into a fight in—”
“Yeah? A fight, a fucking fight? Where was it this time? The grocery store, Target, Walmart, Home fucking Depot?” I snarl.
“Starbucks, actually,” he sneers back. “Somebody took the last piece of Very Berry Coffee Cake.”
“I’m so sure,” I say. He rolls his eyes once more and turns back to the fridge. Shaking with rage, I storm back upstairs, fully intending to barricade myself in my bedroom. I end up standing frozen on the threshold, however, because when I glance around, I realize that Garen’s door is slightly ajar. I bang it the rest of the way open.
Dave is sprawled across the bed, naked except for a sheet draped across his hips, and holding a thick book in his hand. He scowls at me and says, “Knocking would’ve been appreciated, you know. Especially since I don’t know who the hell you are.”
I shut the door behind myself and lock it with a click, then stride across the room to lean right in his face. “Does it matter? You’re in my house right now, so I’d really recommend that you shut up. Now, listen to me, because I’m going to say this once; if you hurt Garen again, I will kill you. I don’t mean in a vague, trying-to-scare-you way, either. This isn’t a threat, this is a promise. If I see another bruise, another scrape, another black eye, another anything, I will actually murder you. You will fucking disappear. Do you understand me?”
Dave’s face turns purple. “What the hell has he been telling you?”
“He lies for you, of course. He says he gets into fights or car accidents or whatever, but I’m not an idiot. You used to beat him up when he was a kid, and you’re beating him up now. And I am telling you right now, it’s going to end immediately,” I say.
He stumbles off the bed, wrapping the sheet more securely around his hips. “So, that’s how you think it is. You think that what, we just sit there, watching TV, and all of a sudden, I reach over and punch him out?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop myself from hitting him right then and there. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Bullshit,” he says with a harsh laugh.
“I don’t know what you said to get him to come back to you, but you need to—”
“I didn’t say anything. He called me up. He called me a few weeks ago, said he had just gotten out of a relationship with some asshole and wanted to see me again. Said he was sorry he was such a brat when we were together and that he shouldn’t have ended things with me, and if I was willing to try again, so was he. So, I said alright, and we went out to dinner. He kept telling me he couldn’t believe our relationship had gone so wrong in the start, that it was all because he was immature and couldn’t handle a real relationship yet.”
“Or it was because you beat him,” I say, but Dave talks over me as though I haven’t even opened my mouth.
“So things were going great for the first couple of days. And then we’re in my car, I’m driving, and he starts being a brat again, telling me how I suck at driving, how I don’t know what I’m doing at all, I’m gonna get us lost, whatever. And I tell him, I say to him, ‘man, if you don’t shut up, you’re gonna really piss me off,’ and he keeps going, just shooting his mouth off. And he keeps touching everything, fucking with the radio and the air and just being a little asshole, you know? So I reach out and I push his shoulder to just get him to, you know, knock it off. Only…” Dave sighs and rakes his fingers through his dark, curly hair. “Look, he’s not built like he used to be, okay? He says he lost a lot of weight after that guy broke up with him, and now he’s just… he’s weak. So I pushed him, just a little shove, and he goes flying across the car, smacks his face into the passenger window and splits his lip right down the middle. And I pulled over, I got him some tissues and stuff, kept apologizing, but he said it was fine, it was no big deal.”
“It was a big deal to me when he came home with his mouth fucked up,” I growl, but Dave waves me off.
“Yeah, but he just… he keeps doing shit like that. Nobody knows my triggers like Garen does, alright? He pushes my buttons more than anyone I’ve ever met, so he knows when he’s saying something that’s going to piss me off. And ever since we got back together, it’s like all he does is try to get me mad at him. He’ll flirt with other guys in front of me, or he’ll talk shit, telling me I’m weak, telling me I’m not as much of a man as his last boyfriend. Fuck, he talks about that kid all the time, never shuts up about him. It’s always ‘Travis was so smart’ and ‘Travis was so hot’ and ‘Travis was so athletic’ and what-the-fuck-ever. And I tell him, ‘Garen, you gotta stop talking about your ex, you’re supposed to talk about me like that, it sounds like you’re still in love with him.’ And he just goes ‘yeah, so what if I am?’ I mean, how the fuck would you react to somebody saying that to you?”
“So basically what you’re saying to me,” I say slowly, clenching my fists, “is that he’s asking for it?”
Dave laughs hollowly. “He’s doing a lot more than asking for it, man. He gets in my face. Not just verbally, I’m talking physically. He’ll get in my face, my space, and he’ll start giving me little pushes, saying shit like ‘what are you going to do’ and ‘hit me’ and shit like that. And I’m only human, okay? I can only take so much of that shit before yeah, you know what, I’m gonna push him back. And then he starts swinging, and I swear, most of the time, it’s just self-defence. Whoever this Travis kid is, he fucked Garen up good.”
“No, I didn’t,” I say flatly.
The silence drags out between us as Dave’s body goes through a series of terrifying, strange changes. He begins to shake, his face more purple than ever, and he clenches his fists around the sheet at his hips. “You’re Travis?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So you’re telling me that this whole time, the guy who he won’t shut up about, the guy who he’s saying he might still be into, is living in his house? Is this some kind of joke?” he demands.
“No, it’s not. I’m his stepbrother now, but I used to be his boyfriend,” I say. Downstairs, the doorbell rings. Fuck, of course Ben would show up now. I round on Dave once more. “Look, if he’s being that shitty to you, break up with him. Don’t hit him. Don’t fucking touch him again, or I’m serious, I’m going to kill you. Now, I think you should put your clothes on and get the fuck out of my house.”
I stomp back to my bedroom to get my jacket, and can still hear Dave muttering curses even once I’m halfway down the stairs.
“Don’t forget your flower,” Garen says from the kitchen, and I veer off to grab it from the fridge.
“Thanks,” I say grudgingly, not bothering to wait for a reply before I jog back to the front door and swing it open. “Ben. Wow.”
“Good wow, right?” Ben says, grinning at me. I can only get so impressed by his suit – after all, I’m wearing one just like it – but he has paired his black jacket and trousers with an ice-blue vest and tie that are the exact same color as his eyes, which bear only the faintest traces of his usual eyeliner.
I lean down to kiss him once and confirm, “Good wow.”
Neither of us is very skilled at pinning on our corsages, and I’m deeply grateful for the fact that there are no cameras here to capture the ineptitude. Eventually, though, we get into the SUV and head for the Waterfront Luxury Hotel in the next town over, where the prom is being held. It takes us almost half an hour to get into the parking lot because of the huge line of limousines, but the parking spaces are almost all free.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m too cheap to spring for a limo,” Ben says, sticking his tongue out at me.
I snort. “Oh, yeah, you can tell I’m a big stickler for rules about luxury vehicles. I demand that you take me home right now.”
“Aww,” he says softly, “I thought I had to wait until after the prom to take you home.”
A little shiver passes over me, and I try to hide my smile as we get out and head towards the glass front doors. There’s a long line of people waiting to get in, and only one man checking off names at the door; score one for LHS prom-planning.
“Hey, Ben! Travis!” calls a voice from the middle of the line. We follow the yells and eventually find Jeremy and Mason standing with two pretty girls, one of whom is definitely wearing a pus-colored dress. We wedge ourselves into line with them.
Behind us, a few people groan. Someone yells, “Back of the line, queers!”
“Bite me, Neanderthal!” Ben snarls, and the guy – a football player, by the looks of him – blinks in surprise.
“Where’s Alex?” I ask, placing my hand in the small of Ben’s back to calm him. Mason shrugs.
“Haven’t seen him yet,” he says. “I’m not even entirely sure he’s coming.”
“No, he is,” Jeremy corrects. “He said he’d be here after most of the people got in so he wouldn’t have to wait in line. He’s coming stag anyway.”
For all its length, the line moves pretty quickly. It only takes ten minutes for our group to make it to the door.
“Last name?” drawls the man at the door, flipping through the pages on his clipboard.
“McCutcheon,” Ben says.
More shuffling of papers. “Benjamin?” Ben nods. “And you signed up a guest named McCall. Which one is that?” He jabs his pen at the two girls, Amy-in-chartreuse and Sarah-in-red.
“Neither. That’s me,” I say, giving a small wave. The man blinks at the clipboard, then at me.
“No, I can sign you in next, young man. Right now, I need to see the person who ‘McCutcheon-comma-Benjamin’ signed up as his date. ‘McCall-comma-T. D.’ Where—”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say irritably. “Travis Daniel McCall.”
The man narrows his eyes. “I’m going to need to see your driver’s license.”
“Are you shitting me?” Ben demands.
“No, I’m completely serious, sir. Usually when a student shows up at one of these dates with someone of the same gender, it’s because they’re trying to sneak in someone who shouldn’t be there. I’m going to see this man’s driver’s license so that I can be certain he’s allowed to be here.”
“He doesn’t have a driver’s license, because he doesn’t drive,” Ben snaps.
I brush my hand against his elbow. “It’s fine, Ben. I’ve got my school ID.” I fish the card out of my wallet and thrust it at the man with the clipboard. “See? Travis D. McCall. Grade eleven. Identification number eight, one, five, three, two, one, two, seven. Can we go inside now?”
“Not so fast. How can I tell that you’re actually a student here?” the man asks, completely ignoring the card in my hand.
“Because you’re looking at my student ID! It says it right on the top, ‘Lakewood High School.’ Why are you—”
“If you could just step off to the side for a minute, we’ll settle this matter in a few minutes, once I’ve finished checking off the rest of the students. Now, may I have your name, please?” the man asks, turning to Jeremy.
“Jeremy Suffolk, and my date’s Sarah Abrams. But I’m not going in without my friends.”
The man heaves a sigh and turns to Mason. “Name?”
“Mason Kowalski,” he replies, then hitches his chin at his date. “Amy Tremont. And I’m not going in, either.”
“What seems to be the hold-up here, gentlemen?” says a pleasant voice from just inside the doors. I step forward to see Vice-Principal Jacobs looking back at us, her head cocked to the side.
“These young men and their dates are refusing to enter the building without their friends, who are being detained for security reasons. There may be a problem with the guest list,” the door-man sniffs.
“There isn’t a problem, though!” Ben bursts out. “He thinks that I’m trying to sneak someone in, even though my date’s on the list. This guy checked ID and everything.”
“Ben, we’ll sort this out, please don’t get angry,” Jacobs says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Now, who’s your date?”
“I am,” I say. She blinks at me, and I shift uncomfortably. The last time I spoke to this woman was the day I came back after my suicide attempt. Eventually, she cracks a smile.
“Oh, hello, Travis. I didn’t realize you were coming to the prom tonight,” she says pleasantly.
“Yeah, well, that remains to be seen,” I say, nodding towards the checklist. “He doesn’t believe I’m a student.”
“Oh, no, no,” she says quickly, slipping an arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “Andrew, these are all Lakewood students. Ben, Jeremy, Mason, Amy, and Sarah are all seniors, and Travis is a junior. They can all be checked off.” She gives us one last encouraging smile and whisks back inside. We file in after her, but I pause to glance at the doorman, only to find him glaring at me. Fucking asshole.
Things only get worse as the night goes on. I get shoved into a wall on my way back from the bathroom at one point during dinner, and take my seat again just in time to discover that someone came up to Ben in my absence and asked if he was running for prom queen. The jokes like that continue all through dinner. A guy from the next table over leans towards us and asks why neither of us is wearing a gown. Someone crosses the entire room just to ask Ben if he’s “the girl” when we “do it.” A girl I’ve never seen before in my life comes up to me and informs me that she’ll probably throw up if she has to watch “two gay dudes grind up on each other on the dance floor.”
“We shouldn’t have come,” Ben says, slouching down in his seat as yet another of his classmates returns to his table after criticizing us.
“I’m glad we did,” I say, even though it’s clearly bullshit. He just shrugs in reply.
Jeremy nudges Mason and points across the room. “Hey, at least Alex is finally here. Look.”
I glance over and see Alex weaving his way through the maze of tables towards us. He looks good, like he might have even shaved with a fresh razor, for once. His suit, however, is a little disheveled; his jacket is unbuttoned to show that his shirt is untucked, and his tie is loosened. When he gets close to our table, he stumbles.
Oh shit.
“Hey, guys,” Alex says, reaching out to ruffle my hair and then leaning over to press a loud kiss to Mason’s cheek before he collapses onto the chair next to me.
“Hi, Al,” Jeremy says cautiously. “You just get here.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Like, five minutes ago. I didn’t really feel like doing the dinner thing, so I just skipped it,” Alex says, bobbing his head.
Amy waves him off. “Oh, the dinner wasn’t that great anyway. You didn’t miss anything.”
Alex’s eyes seem to struggle to focus her, but he eventually gets it. “Amy, hi. You look really pretty. And your dress is a lovely shade of ch… chartreuse. And Sarah, you look really nice, too. I like your hair. Did you like, put some glitter in it?”
“Yeah, it’s a special hairspray they used at the salon,” Sarah says, nodding.
Alex nods back, then looks around the table until his eyes finally land on Ben. “What’s up, Ben? You… you look really good, too.”
“Thanks,” Ben says flatly, staring at him. “Have you been drinking?”
Alex shakes his head. “Nah, let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk some more about how hot you look tonight. Seriously. Are your eyes always that blue?”
“Pretty much since the day I was born, yeah,” Ben snaps. “I can’t fucking believe you came to prom drunk. You could get expelled if you get caught.”
“Which is why I’m not going to get caught, Dad,” Alex retorts.
“You should be really fucking grateful I’m not your dad right now, because your dad would be screaming at you,” Ben says. Alex shrinks back, looking injured. Ben sighs and stands up. “Look, let’s go outside for a little bit. Some fresh air might help you.”
Alex slouches down in his seat and says sullenly, “I don’t want to.”
“Al, please?” Ben says, holding out his hand. Alex glares at him, but eventually raises a limp arm so that Ben can drag him by the wrist out onto the balcony.
Sarah stands up. “I’m going to go see if I can get someone from the kitchen staff to maybe make him a cup of coffee. It might help.”
“I’ll go with you,” Amy adds, jumping up and following her across the room. Mason sighs and stands to follow Ben and Alex out to the balcony. Jeremy sighs in frustration and plants an elbow on the table.
“God, I wish Alex would stop doing shit like this,” he says. I frown.
“What, this is a common thing?” I ask.
Jeremy eyes me for a moment before he finally nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s really common, actually. Probably sixty percent of the time we all hang out outside of school, Alex is drunk, or wants to be. It’s really messed up.”
I shift in my seat, suddenly wishing I were anywhere else. “So… so, does he have like, a problem?”
“Depends who you ask, I guess,” Jer says with a shrug. “Mase and I think it’s just… I don’t know. I guess we figure it’s just Alex being Alex. It’s not like he drives drunk or gets alcohol poisoning. So I guess he’s just a big drinker, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And I take it Ben believes something different?” I prompt. He nods.
“He thinks it’s unhealthy. Like, we all know that Alex knows how to have fun without drinking. He doesn’t have to be drunk to be happy. But Ben reckons that it’s a problem, because Al sometimes drinks alone and stuff, which is pretty weird. And, you know, there’s his dad.”
I blink. “Alex’s dad is an alcoholic?”
Jeremy laughs, though it’s without any actual humor. “Huge alcoholic. I’ve never seen him sober, actually, and I’ve known Alex since we were like, ten. And he’s… well, he’s a shitty dad, alright? He’s such a bastard to Alex, always telling him he’s not good enough and stuff like that. But it’s not like Alex can say anything back, because it’s his dad, and he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and his mom is dead, so his dad is pretty much all he’s got.”
“Fuck,” I murmur. How can I have been friends with Alex for months and not know this kind of thing?
“And the worst part is that Alex sometimes… you know, he’ll say stuff to get his dad pissed off. There are times when Mr. Baker goes days without saying a word to him, even if Al comes home drunk, or gets a bad grade in school. He just doesn’t care. So Alex’ll start mouthing off, just so his dad will finally say something to him, and Mr. Baker usually ends up screaming at him.”
“He doesn’t hit him, though, right?” I say sharply, and Jeremy dismisses me with a shake of the head.
“No, not at all. He just treats him so freaking badly.”
He pushes my buttons more than anyone I’ve ever met, so he knows when he’s saying something that’s going to piss me off. And ever since we got back together, it’s like all he does is try to get me mad at him.
I shake my head. “Yeah, but like, you can’t really blame Mr. Baker for it that much, if Alex is like… goading him into it.”
Jeremy’s hand flies out and twists around my tie. “So, what, you’re saying Alex deserves to get treated like that, just because he sometimes says stupid shit? Like, he’s asking for it?”
“No!” I protest. “I’m just saying, it seems like Mr. Baker might just be an asshole. And if he always acting like that with everyone, does it really count as—”
“Verbal abuse still counts as abuse, Travis. The fact that somebody’s just generally an asshole doesn’t mean they get a free pass, especially where people they’re supposed to love are concerned. Nobody deserves to be treated like that.”
Fuck. I can’t believe I actually left Garen alone with Dave. I can’t believe I actually acted like it was okay, like anything Dave said about Garen asking to be hit, or deserving it, or starting it was warranted. Jeremy’s right; nobody deserves to be treated like this. Alex doesn’t deserve to have a father who hates him, and Garen doesn’t deserve to have a boyfriend who hits him. This is all so fucked up. And I need to go home immediately. I need to tell Garen this.
“Travis,” Ben says from behind me, and I jump a little.
“Ben, hi. Listen, I—”
“No, wait. I’m sorry, but I really think we should go. Alex can’t be here, he’s going to get caught, and he can’t get expelled this close to graduation. So… I’m really sorry, and I’ll completely understand if you’re pissed, but I think maybe I should take him back to his house.”
I stand quickly. “I’m not mad at all. I get it.”
Ben lets out a relieved sigh and squeezes my hand. “Thank you. We managed to get him out to my car without anyone seeing, and Mason’s with him now. He’s going to drive you home in Alex’s car, then come back for the rest of the prom. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” I say, brushing his hair back from his forehead to press a kiss to his skin. “I’m glad you’re going to be taking care of Alex, alright? He’s lucky to have a friend like you. And I’m really proud of you for it.”
It’s more than I could do for Garen, anyway.
“Let me walk you to the car, at least,” Ben says. I drape an arm around his shoulders, and we slip outside in silence. Mason is waiting at the curb in Alex’s car, the engine rumbling softly. Ben opens the passenger side door for me, just like a real live gentleman would.
“Good luck with Alex,” I say, and he nods.
“Thanks,” he says. We keep our kiss brief because Mason is looking pointedly away, and afterwards, Ben waits there on the sidewalk, watching us until we round the corner out of the parking lot. The drive back to my house is silent except for the murmuring of the radio, for which I’m grateful. I am too busy trying to formulate my strategy.
The first thing I’m going to do is order Dave to get out of the house. He’ll probably yell and get pissed, so maybe I should have my cell phone handy, just in case I need to call the cops? Yeah, I should definitely be ready to call the cops. Once he’s gone, I’ll need to sit Garen down – correction, I’ll need to make Garen get dressed, first. And then I’ll sit him down, and I’ll tell him everything he needs to hear. I’ll tell him he deserves to be treated better, that he should never be with someone who would hurt him. He’ll argue with me, and I’ll argue back, but eventually, he’ll have to believe me, because it’s true. Eventually, he’ll see that he’s worth so much more than he realizes.
When Mason pulls up in front of the house, however, I’m relieved to discover that Dave has already left for the night. His car is gone, and neither Bree nor my parents have gotten back yet. This is good, I tell myself. I can talk to Garen without any interruptions. The front door is unlocked, and I head straight up to my room to change. This in itself presents a problem, actually. What the fuck do you wear for an intervention? Are my sweatpants and a t-shirt too casual? Should I put on a nice shirt? I finally decide to split the difference and don a pair of jeans and one of my track t-shirts.
Garen’s door is shut, so I knock once. “Garen, it’s me. Can I come in?” There’s no response. Did he leave with Dave? Did they go out for coffee or something? I knock again. “Garen. Open up.” I try the knob, and the door swings open easily. I only take two steps in before I lurch to a stop, my stomach rolling over.
Garen’s body is positioned on the bed like a corpse in a casket, but not as neatly; his arms are draped across his chest, less like he’s resting and more like he’s trying to hold his ribs in place. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed because his face is swollen with enough bruises to be almost inhuman. His face, his clothes, his sheets are all splattered with black-red ropes of blood, some of which still seems to be rolling in thick droplets from his possibly-broken nose. His mouth – that gorgeous mouth with perfect teeth and soft lips – looks like a crime scene, full of blood that he must be practically drowning in. At least, he should be drowning in it. That’s when I realize the thing that’s most wrong about this whole scene, even more wrong than all the gore and the bruises.
Garen isn’t breathing.
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