I'm Sort of Okay with This

Two: Ian

"God, you're a simp," Connor said with a laugh.

"Fuck you," I replied. I didn't understand why they were so against being nice to girls. I was her boyfriend. It was literally my only job to respect her.

"Whatever. Hurry up!" Rafe barked, pushing open the locker room door. He seemed to be in a worse mood than usual.

We clamored into the room, with its rows of lockers and concrete flooring. James and I headed to our lockers, which were side by side.

James played shortstop for our team. He was a small, dark-haired guy, quick as a hummingbird. He looked younger than he was. Once, our math teacher even mistook him for a freshman. Despite his size, he was a brilliant hitter and an excellent base runner.

"Are you alright, man?" James asked me. He pulled his batting helmet out of his locker.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Nothing. You just seem sort of... I dunno. Never mind," he said.

"I'm fine," I assured him, smiling. "I just had a long day."

Coach Peebles came stomping into the locker room.

"C'mon, boys! Hustle, hustle, hustle! Last one out on the field owes me ten push-ups!"

He left again. The door slammed shut.

"Well he's in a lovely mood today," I said.

"As always," James replied.

Practice was exhausting. We did all kinds of drills, taking turns catching ground balls and pop flies. I didn't get any hits during batting practice, which my father would have told me was pathetic. I could barely focus. I was too worried about failing English, and by extension, my father finding out that I was failing English.

My pitches were alright, but not as solid as usual. I managed to strike a few guys out during batting practice.

Coach even yelled at me after I zoned out, which was beyond embarrassing.

"Get your head in the game, Kennedy! We don't got all day!"

I drove James home after practice, after I received an appropriate amount of taunts from my teammates about my poor performance. James lived close to me, and he didn't have his own car yet, so I sometimes drove him places.

"Are you sure you're okay?" James asked me.

"Yes," I said, "I'm fine. I swear."

"Does it have to do with Cheyenne?"

I shook my head. Everything with Cheyenne had been relatively normal. She'd been slightly distant all week, occasionally dropping my hand or not texting me back, but we hadn't fought, not since the night of Sasha's party.

"What about Cheyenne?" I asked, "Cheyenne's fine. We're fine."

"Oh," James said. His eyes met his feet and he frowned.

I thought of telling him about my grades, but decided not to. If word got out that I might not be able to pitch during playoffs because of my grades, everyone would lose their minds. James was never much of a gossiper, but I couldn't risk it.

***
The next day, after school, I wandered into the library. I'd spoken to Miss Benson about coming to the study hall. I'd never been there, aside from once in ninth grade when I had to use the printer. I was never much of a reader.

I usually tended to fit in, and I rarely had a hard time finding people to talk to. For some reason though, I felt like that one puzzle piece that never seems to fit anywhere. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and beyond unpleasant.