Andrew Smith - Winger

I finished my sandwich. I didn’t say anything, but I suddenly felt really awkward being here, in my bed, alone in my room, with a gay guy. And then I immediately got pissed off at myself for even thinking shit like that, for doing the same kind of crap to Joey that everyone else did, ’cause I knew what it felt like too, being so not-like-all-the-other-guys-here. And I don’t mean I know what it felt like to be gay, because I don’t, but I do know what it felt like to be the “only” one of something. Heck, as far as I know, there’s just got to be more gay eleventh graders than fourteen-year-old eleventh graders, anyway.

I wondered if it bothered Kevin Cantrell, though. Joey and Kevin had been roommates for two years, and no one ever talked shit about Kevin or wondered if he was gay, because everyone knew he just wasn’t.

I am such a loser.

“I feel so much better,” I said. “You want this water, Joey?”

I held the bottle out for Joey.

“No, thanks. I’m going to go watch TV with the guys until lights-out. You want to watch some too?”

“No,” I said. “I really think I just need to sleep. And anyway, aren’t Casey and Nick going to be there?”

“So what?” Joey said. “I’m not afraid of them.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“They can fuck off,” Joey said. “They’re not going to do anything else. Trust me. You’re not afraid of them, are you?”

I thought about it.

“Yes. I honestly am.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joey said. “That was a fucking awesome tackle. But don’t ever do shit like that again. Do you want the light off?” He was halfway out the door.

“Yeah. Thanks. See you in Math.”

I HEARD CHAS COME IN that night, but it didn’t fully wake me up. I was in that kind of sleep that just feels so paralyzingly restful and deep, like my body had become the mattress. So when I woke up around two o’clock, needing to pee, I actually did consider using the empty Gatorade bottle I had saved from my dinner in bed. But I decided it was a good opportunity, early on in our life together, for me to see if I could actually climb out of bed without inspiring Chas to beat the crap out of me. I thought I’d go ahead and save the Gatorade bottle for the future, though. Just in case.

And I was like some kind of ninja climbing out of bed, only my invisible and silent mission dealt with peeing, as opposed to murder.

O-Hall was completely still and dark when I stepped out into the hallway. Every part of my body felt so alive and healed; I had finally recovered from the idiocy of the previous night, and my bare feet felt so good on the slick and cool linoleum floor as I made my way down the hall toward the bathroom.

I stretched and yawned. I was actually looking forward to the morning, to the opportunity to find Annie at breakfast and try to make things right again. I had to try. It was making me crazy. After not seeing her for two-and-a-half months over the summer, we’d already had two I’m-pissed-off-and-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you episodes, and that sucked.

After I finished peeing, I switched off the light in the bathroom and headed down the hallway to bed. That’s when I saw a flash of light through the window on the door to the stairwell. It was one of those things that you just catch in the corner of an eye, but it stopped me cold and I stood there in the middle of the dark hallway, silently watching that door to see if it would flash again.

It did, but only for a second, maybe less.

It was a pale green light, the kind you see from one of those snap-activated glow sticks; it lit the stairwell, and then everything was suddenly dark again.

I thought that maybe Chas and Joey and Kevin were doing something they shouldn’t for the second night in a row, but that didn’t seem right, because I was certain I’d seen Chas sleeping in his bunk. And I was kind of scared, too, but there was something about that light that made me want to go see what the person responsible for it was doing there.

I know. Pretty stupid. And I wasn’t even drunk.

And as I padded in my bare feet to the end of the boys’ floor, I kept thinking about all the horror movies I’d ever seen where you just sit there yelling inside your head, “Don’t open that door, you fucking idiot!”

So what did I do? I opened the door.

Then I almost screamed like a little girl, but I was too scared to do that, and if I hadn’t just done what I did a minute earlier, I would have peed myself too, because when I opened the door, I was standing there, in nothing but my underwear, face to face with the so-unhot-she-is-quite-likely-the-only-two-legged-female-besides-his-mom-no-wait-including-his-mom-Ryan-Dean-West-wouldn’t-want-to-run-into-at-night-when-he-is-only-wearing-boxers-and-nothing-else Mrs. Singer from downstairs.

And I thought, I am never going to not-have diarrhea for the rest of my life.

I am such a loser.

And she was standing right there, inches away from me, in a black robe and her black hair tied back in a black scarf, looking like some kind of child-sacrificing Druid, or a bad illustration from an endless volume of Dickens; and for a moment, I was so startled, I just froze.

I should have used the Gatorade bottle.

When my knees thawed, I spun around and ran back down the hallway without saying anything or turning around, my feet frantically slapping their way back to my bedroom.

I felt something cool on my chest. My nose was bleeding again.

Okay, I thought, she’s not a witch. Casey Palmer made your nose bleed; it wasn’t that creepy Mrs. Singer. I pressed my hand to my nose, and it was immediately covered in blood.

When I got back to my room, I pulled the bloodstained shirt I was wearing when Casey punched me from my school pack and held it to my face. That shirt was beyond salvation at this point anyway. Then I attempted to one-handedly maneuver my way back to the upper bunk.

To make matters worse, I kicked Chas in the head when I climbed back up onto my bunk, not that there wasn’t a pretty big part of me that was deeply satisfied by kicking him in the head after he forced me to get drunk and caused Annie to hate me. It probably would have been more satisfying if he woke up, but he just grunted and rolled over as I pulled myself up onto my bed.

My heart was pounding. I panted. I rubbed my hair as I stared up at the ceiling, pressing the wadded-up shirt against my nose to stop the bleeding. I was actually sweating. I couldn’t get comfortable, and I guess I was fidgeting a bit, convinced that Mrs. Singer had it in for me and was just slowly working on some weird method of killing me. Then Chas punched the mattress from below; I felt the thud of a fist in my kidney.

“Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing up there, you fucking homo.”

What was he thinking? What an absolute moron Chas Becker was.

“I’m not doing nothing,” I said, my voice muffled in my ruined shirt. “I got a bloody nose. Sorry.”

He went back to sleep.

I tried to relax, but I kept thinking about that weird woman downstairs, imagining the horrible crap she was going to put me through in the morning. What could possibly be worse than day one?

I sighed, and drifted off to sleep again.

WE BOTH WOKE UP AT the same time to the buzzing jangle of the alarm clock.

I felt so rested and ready for a real, and hopefully normal, day of school. When I got down from the bed, Chas saw the bloody shirt and said, “Is that from Casey Palmer?”

I said, “Yeah.”

“I heard about that. You want me to fuck him up?”

And I thought, wow, I could almost fool myself into thinking Chas Becker cared about me or something.