All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at pjalexander1753@gmail.com
A Very Ordinary Boy (Part 1)
From Chapter 12:
I don't remember much about the rest of that Sunday. Most of it I spent in bed, trying to keep warm and also avoid mum and dad. In the times when I wasn't dozing the feeling of sadness would sweep over me and I'd realise I was crying again, not big, heaving sobs, more a quiet, unstoppable weeping. I didn't seem able to control it at all and I wasn't convinced I'd be able to keep it together if I had to have a conversation with the parents. Looking back on it now I realise that that was completely stupid and exactly the wrong way to think about things, but at the time it seemed totally right and sensible.
Chapter 13: Round and round and round.
Be aware, this chapter includes images of self-harm and the use of language that some people might find offensive.
Monday morning I just about managed to drag myself to school. Fortunately, dad had an early shift so he'd left before I was even out of bed and mum managed a quick, "Hi, gotta run," before taking a last gulp of coffee and then rushing off to her office to finish getting ready for her big conference.
Being at school was hard, mostly `cause I found it difficult to think about anything in class except what had happened at the weekend. But it wasn't just that, Monday was also a day when I seemed to come across Dyl and Si around every corner and the more I saw them the more I realised how much I missed them and their friendship, how tight we'd always been and how much I depended on them just being there for me. But they weren't, there for me I mean. If only I'd taken that opportunity to tell them, you know, the day of the big "Yes, we're an item" reveal. If only I'd had the sense (the guts?) to man up and let them in on the gay thing. Things might have been so different now. But I hadn't and they weren't. So suck it up, Smith. Then, at the start of lunch I saw them for about the 100th time that day, across the main entrance lobby. I knew I had to do something so I walked over to where they were, wrapped round each other as usual.
As I got near them I could see that Dyl had noticed me. He half smiled then turned his head and whispered in Si's ear. She spun round and, before I could open my mouth to speak, she took a step forward and beat me to it. So I'd finally found the balls to apologise, had I? Realised that without them I was just one of the saddos? `No-mates Smith' wanted to make up for being such a prick? Well, they were waiting. I was so shocked it felt like I'd been slapped. Or had a bucket of ice water thrown over me. I glanced at Dyl and saw the look of disbelief on his face. He put out a hand to pull Si back but she shook it off and continued to glare at me. She looked as if she wanted, at the very least, to put her hands round my throat and throttle me. It's amazing how quickly high school kids smell blood. Already a small, camera-phone-ready crowd had gathered, keen to know what new entertainment was going to be on that day's menu. I couldn't believe it. Si and Dyl were my oldest, my closest friends and I needed them now more than ever. Instead I was being publically rejected and humiliated. Shit! I was crying - again. I could feel the tears running down my face. I used my sleeve to wipe them away as I turned around and walked out of the building, behind me a chorus of camera phones clicking and excited texting. I couldn't get out fast enough.
Even walking slowly, I got home way earlier than usual. I should have used the time to come up with a more convincing reason than the class being cancelled `cause of Mr. Miles being away. I think Rosa bought it, especially as she seemed more concerned about why I was "looking so sad and miserable." I fobbed her off with something about being stressed because of stuff at school and then got out of the kitchen as quickly as I could, stupidly failing to raid the fridge on my way out.
I stayed up in my room for the rest of the afternoon, Googling images of Italian Renaissance pictures, each one triggering another unanswerable question about Noah and why he'd treated me the way he had. Was I never gonna be able to make any sense of the Noah thing? Before she left for home, Rosa knocked on my door -- unusually considerate for her, normally she'd just barge in -- and shouted that she'd left a tray of food out there and that I should eat it while it was hot. Where would I be without the wonderful Rosa? Hungry, if nothing else. Round about dinner time I texted my dad explaining about the food and saying I wouldn't be down. He messaged back saying it would be good to see me some time before I left for university and that, maybe, an early night would be a good idea. Dad!!
Around 9 my phone pinged. It was a message from Dyl:
Sorry, man. Si's gone totally badass. But what's a guy to do?
My finger was just about to send my reply pinging back when I had second thoughts about telling him to:
Grow a pair and stand up for your BFF.
Believe me, I so wanted to send it, and worse, but my head told me to ignore it and wait for Dyl to open his eyes and realise what damage he was causing by choosing a few weeks of non-stop sex with Si over years of closer-than-close friendship with me. For a split second I did start to wonder what choice I'd make if the boot were on the other foot, but quickly decided that I had no brain space left for trying to work out the answer to that one. For once I decided to do the sensible thing and actually turned my phone off completely, just in case. In case of what I wasn't sure but I felt a huge sense of relief as the screen went satisfyingly blank. At that same moment I realised that I was completely exhausted and barely had the strength to pee and brush my teeth before collapsing into bed. Amazingly I slept. Even more amazingly I didn't wank!
Morning arrived about ten minutes later (or so it seemed) and I hardly felt rested at all, even though I must have been out of it for around 10 hours. My morning routine automatically kicked in and I was on my way out of the front door before I knew there was no way I could face a day at school, not after yesterday's disaster. On the other hand, I didn't want any calls to my mum from the attendance officer asking where I was so I checked in and then walked straight out again, heading for the children's play park.
I sat on a bench over near the trees and got out my copy of Fahrenheit 451, hoping to escape into Ray Bradbury's dystopian future America. Surprisingly it worked and it was at least a couple of hours later before I became aware of how hungry I was. I couldn't go back home. There was no way Rosa would swallow another "Mr. Miles is ill" story so I set off for the only other place I knew of where I could be guaranteed to get a good feed.
By the time I got to FfT the lunchtime rush was on -- it takes a long time to walk the distance that only takes 20 minutes by bike. Michelle was really busy, too busy to ask any questions when I turned up, out of the blue, and offered to help. It was only later, once the rush was over and I was demolishing a cheese and onion pasty and a vanilla shake, that the interrogation began. Once I'd convinced her (and it wasn't easy) that me being out of school was legit, she started asking about the weekend. That was a whole lot harder to dodge around so I kept it simple, explaining how we'd gone for a ride straight after arriving at the site, built a fire and thoroughly enjoyed the food and hot chocolate she'd very generously provided and how we'd cut the trip short because of the rain. It was clear she was hoping for more stories of the `boys' adventures in the great outdoors' variety and when I didn't come up with the goods she changed tack and started asking about Noah: had he looked out for me? (what was I, a baby?); had he changed his socks and underwear? (what was she, his mum?); had he said anything about how things were at home? (what was I, a spy?)
Talking about Noah forced me to face up to something I'd been avoiding thinking about ever since I'd left the park, that the real reason I'd come to FfT was not because I was hungry (though that was part of it) but because I needed to see Noah and find out just what the deal was between the two of us.
By now it was getting close to the time I would normally start my shift so I took myself off to the book area and set about catching up on the orders and enquiries that had built up since the weekend. With that, and dealing with sales and phone calls, the next couple of hours slipped by and it didn't seem any time at all before I heard the familiar ding-a-ling which I instinctively knew was Noah's arrival. Earlier, way before he was due, I'd made sure I was in direct line of sight of his favourite window seat so we'd be able to see each other, though I hoped, of course, that he would come straight over to me rather than sitting down at all. As he came in I saw him glance in my direction but then, very deliberately as it seemed to me, he looked away and kept his attention, first on Michelle, and then on his standard coffee and brownie combo, while sitting at a different, non-window table. He couldn't have made it more obvious that he wasn't going to even look at me, much less come over to talk.
I was gutted but my brain quickly switched into `situation justification mode'. Obviously Noah was pressed for time. Possibly Noah hadn't actually seen me. Of course, Noah was waiting for Tani and she was due to arrive any minute. And I'd almost convinced myself that all of the above were true so, naturally, it wasn't surprising that he hadn't come over. But then, as he was leaving, he looked directly at me for what seemed like several minutes, though it couldn't have been more than two or three seconds, with a totally expressionless look on his face before he turned his back on me and walked out.
Message received. Over and out.
I took the bus home -- I'd walked into town so hadn't got my bike - but I don't remember anything about the journey, or what I talked to Rosa about when I got there, or whether it was just me and mum at dinner or if my dad was home too (or maybe the other way round), or what I did that evening before going to bed. In fact, most of the rest of that week went by in a fog. Wednesday and Thursday I did a repeat of Tuesday, that is I turned up at school first thing but then sloped off and filled the rest of the day at the park reading or wandering around town or walking in the woods, anything to fill the time before I could get home without arousing suspicion. All the while my head went round in ever-decreasing circles, desperately trying to come up with a convincing and, more importantly, ego-saving explanation for Noah's behaviour. I tried telling myself that what happened at the weekend was no big deal and that one-night-stands were completely normal and that I shouldn't be so hung up about it. Instead, I told myself, I should be pleased about losing my virginity as that meant I was now a man of the world and no longer an ordinary boy. You can probably work out for yourself whether that was at all convincing.
On Thursday, for the first time since I started working at FfT, I phoned in and told Michelle I wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be in for my shift. I mean, there was no way I could face being ignored by Noah for a second time. Michelle took it well, in fact she was really kind and understanding which made me feel like a total shit. But then she said I needed to be sure to get well soon as she was expecting a busy time on Saturday due to it being vintage market day and she wouldn't be able to handle it on her own. As she wished me a quick recovery and ended the call I genuinely began to feel sick. I spent that whole evening up in my room, playing my music as loud as I dared, trying to block out any thoughts of running into Noah at work on Saturday, and really hoping that his dad would send him out on a decorating job which would keep him away from the café for the whole day.
He didn't. Noah's dad, I mean. No, it was way worse than that. On Saturday morning, first thing, Michelle tells me that Noah and Tani have arranged to go to the market together with another couple and have decided to meet up first at FfT. We've only been open about half an hour and I'm waiting tables when the two of them walk in. As usual it's just about impossible to get a cigarette paper between them, Tani is clinging onto Noah that tight. A couple of times I catch her looking directly at me with an expression of concentrated ... what? Contempt? Anger? Indifference? It's as much as I can do not to march over to her and slap it off her face, instead I turn around and walk out of the back door, out into the yard that serves as the delivery area, recycling centre and car park for a group of five or six neighbouring stores on the street. I'm trying hard not to cry but I'm losing the battle. What is it with those two? What have they got against me? One of them picks me up, abuses me and then throws me away, the other one treats me like a bad smell she's picked up on the sole of her shoe.
I'm slumped in one corner, leaning against one of the garbage bins and, for no obvious reason, start thinking back over what had happened in school the day before, on Friday. I'd decided, first thing, that I couldn't keep skipping, someone was bound to find out what I'd been doing and they'd tell my parents and then all sorts of shit would start flying. So I'd gone back in and just about survived the morning without bursting into tears or throwing up. Lunch break I spent, as had become pretty much standard, in the art room, avoiding Dyl and Si. Keeping out of their way has meant that I've made a lot of progress with my project and have nearly finished my own re-working of the death of good old Saint Sebastian. Unlike the versions painted back in fifteenth century Italy which are all romantic and idealised, with a beautiful rural background, an accepting smile on Saint Seb's face and not much blood (despite the number of arrows sticking into him all over), mine is more like a 70's slasher movie set in a busted-up urban ghetto and with gallons of the red stuff pouring down his tortured and twisted body. As I'm looking at it and wondering if it's good enough to submit for assessment Chalky White comes into the room and looks at the picture over my shoulder, says he's impressed with it, thinks it might be one of my best pieces yet. I can't help the smile that starts to spread across my face -- Chalky isn't famous for his praise, but then he says he's noticed I've been spending a lot of time in the art room lately, even more than usual, and that I've seemed sort of distant and troubled. No, not troubled, preoccupied. He's also wondering if there's something big going on in my head and I do know, don't I, that I can always talk to him? Talk to him about anything. He's taught enough teenage kids, he says, to know that it can be a struggle to come to terms with exactly who you are, like under the surface, especially if that someone is not what everyone else - friends, family, teachers - wants or expects you to be.
Fuck! Has he worked it out -- the gay thing? How long has he known? What gave it away? Who's he gonna tell? As if things weren't bad enough already. Now there's a very real chance that ordinary, under-the-radar, make-no-waves Jack Smith is about to be revealed as a bent, totally faggoty queerboy. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Hey, just a minute. Slow down. Breathe. Get a grip. Chalky White is one of the good guys. Even if he does know, there's no way he'd go shouting his mouth off to anyone about it. Besides, he's taught and encouraged me for years, he rates me, thinks I might have the elusive `IT', the "indefinable something" that could mean I'd be able to make a decent living out of my art. He wouldn't want to mess up all his time and professional expertise, not by outing me. And anyway, who would he talk to? Ms. Ohura? What would she do about it? Especially after the way the brown stuff hit the fan over how she reacted to the Dan Reed and Coach Roberts affair. No, not Ms. Ohura. So who else, then, would Chalky shoot his mouth off to? Mum and dad? Why? The other teachers? Why would they care? To them I'm just another anonymous kid who keeps his head down and causes no trouble. Plenty of others who spin in the opposite direction and they're the ones the teachers are all messed up about. I need to get a grip.
Once Chalky had moved away to his office, and before the end of lunch, I'd pretty much convinced myself that I was being totally paranoid, that my secret was safe with Chalky White (that's if he even knew about it) and that I'd got other things, closer to home things, to stress about. And top of that list, still, was Noah Richmond. Somehow I manage to zombie my way through the rest of Friday afternoon and evening -- my parents must be getting used to sharing their house with a ghost -- and into work on Saturday morning and, eventually, out to the yard and the garbage bins which is where Michelle finds me not long after my dramatic walk-out from the shop.
And she's not happy, not happy at all. What's got into me? First I call in sick, which she's pretty sure was a lie (Yeah, you got that one right), and now I'm flouncing out in the middle of the busiest Saturday morning of the month (Flouncing? That's a very loaded word, usually only used to describes a specific group of people. Has she guessed?). And what is it with me and Noah? (Have you tried asking him?) One minute we're best buds and the next we're not even talking to each other and creating a toxic atmosphere which is off-putting to her customers and upsetting for Tani. (Upsetting for Little Miss Limpet?! Pl-ease!) Well, I need to get it together, stand up and go back inside and get on with what I'm being paid to do.
So I do stand up, but instead of doing all the other things Michelle has just ordered, I walk over to where my bike is parked up and ride it out of the yard. And I don't look back, not because of some pointless display of `fuck you' bravado but because I don't want her to see that I am, yet again, bawling my eyes out. I can hardly see to steer straight, but once I'm on the road and pointing in the direction of home -- of my room -- the tears dry up and I put all my energy and focus into turning the pedals, round ... and round ... and round ... and ...
I say a quick, "Hi,"/"Bye" to Rosa, who promises to bring up something to eat as soon as she's finished loading the washer, before launching myself, two at a time, up the stairs to the safety of my room. But I can't settle. I'm pacing the floor. I'm sitting, then lying, on my bed. I'm staring out of the window. And I'm thinking. Thinking about having sex with Noah. Thinking about riding home with Noah. Thinking about not speaking to Noah. And then I'm wondering. Wondering about Chalky White. About Michelle. Wondering how is it that they both seem to know about me being gay? Then I'm wondering about myself. Who is Jack Smith? What is Jack Smith? Where does he fit in the world? Who are his friends? Has he got any friends?
Then as I'm walking across to my desk, my phone pings. It's a text from Noah. I can't open it quickly enough. As I read it I more or less fall into the chair.
Well kiddo the weekend was great. Hope you had fun. I sure did. Time to move on tho so see you around. And look up Grey Garvey sometime. I reckon he'd be more than interested. N
What the fuck?
Kiddo? Kiddo? What does he think I am, like, 15? And is that all I am to him -- a bit of fun? One (admittedly amazing) blow-job and a quick fuck? And what has Grey Garvey got to do with anything? I only know him as the captain of the swimming team and I've no interest in swimming (or any other organised sport for that matter). So there I am, sitting at my desk and feeling as if I've been punched in the back of the head and kneed in the guts. This cannot be real. But it is and I've got the evidence on the screen in front of me.
Also in front of me, on my desk, is my Saint Seb sketch book. Without any sort of logical thought process guiding my actions I begin to flick through it. There are all my initial thoughts and ideas, page after page of them and I'm turning each page, staring at every image of the dying saint, who's really not much more than a boy himself. Not much older than me. And in every drawing there's blood, blood pouring from every arrow, every wound. So much blood. And that's when I notice my craft knife which is sitting in the pot with my pencils and brushes. And then I see more blood. Blood is all I can see. Blood welling up on my wrists. Blood spreading over the desk. Over the sketch book. Over Saint Seb. Over .....
To be continued.
That's the end of Part 1 of the story of A Very Ordinary Boy -- for now. The story will be back some time in the future but, for now, I'm working on the sequel to my other Nifty story, D'n'M.
As an author, it's REALLY encouraging to know that there are people out there who are taking the time to read what's been written, and then bothering to send a response. So please do feel free to write to me at the email address given at the top of the chapter. I welcome all comments and guarantee to write back. PJ
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