Knock On Wood (BoyxBoy)

a memory. kevin.

It was always dark back then. I wasn't necessarily the happiest kid. It was the exactly one week and two days after my mother's death.  I was allowed to stay home giving myself time to mourn, but Dad finally snapped and told me to go to school.

When I got there, I felt helpless.  Everybody knew about the death.  Teachers and students were offering their most sincere "sorry's," and I didn't want it.  I wanted to be left alone.

But I wanted just as badly to explain to someone how I was feeling--scream and cry on someone's shoulders--but to whom could I? I had nobody to confide in. It was seventh grade when my mom died, and I couldn't do anything about helping myself get rid of all the feelings I had stored up.

Soon after fifth period that day, I started feeling weird. It was like I was going to throw up, cry, scream and just all together break down in one huge package that was thrown carelessly by a person who didn't care if it said 'Be Careful; Fragile Objects Inside'. And let me tell you: it hit me, all right. Hard.

When I say hard, I mean that it came unexpectedly and all at once. The feelings flooded my young body, and I didn't know what to do about it. I felt like I was punched in the gut, and my eyes started watering.

I was popular back then, and not wanting everyone to see their favorite athlete break down, I ran out of the classroom.

My teacher tried to stop me, but I ran into the boys' bathroom anyway, ignoring her calls. Or maybe when the panic attack took over, it was more so that I didn't hear her.

Her knocks on the door were soon drowned out in my chokes and sobs, and I ignored her. She eventually went away, and I was, once again, left alone.

So now, I was the most popular kid in the grade that has officially been reduced to that kid that cried by himself on the floor of an empty bathroom stall because nobody cared about him. It didn't feel great. But what felt worse was hearing the evil creak of that old, wooden bathroom door open and shut with a loud bang.

I tried to keep down my sobs as the stranger washed their hands by covering my mouth with my hands, but they kept coming out with every tear that managed to fall down my cheeks and drip onto my hand.

"Hello?" he calls out.

I don't answer.

"Is someone in here?"

This time, I reluctantly answer with a sharp breath and a whimper.

The footsteps walk over to my stall and it slowly opens.

I put my head in my hands to hide my shameful face, but I already know that he can tell who I was. I was the only kid in the grade with such vibrant red hair, and since we couldn't wear hats in junior high, it was very obvious.

"Kevin?" he asks.

"What?" I choke out.

"Are you okay?"

"Do I look fucking okay?" I shout, my voice cracking and tears run down my face.

He licks his pink lips as he thinks, then leans down in front of me. "Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"

I shake my head.

"Why not?" he asks. "I'm a great listener."

I look up at the strange boy through bleary eyes and try to make out his features.

"I don't even know you," I say.

"That's not true," he responds. "Do you not recognize your prey?"

At that moment, I recognize the voice and choke on my tears again.

Great, I thought. This kid's gonna spread this around.

"You don't have to start crying again," he soothes. "I want to help."

"Why would you want to help?" I ask.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one," I say. "I treat you like shit."

"Oh, that is not important now, Kevin," he says. "I just hate to see the most popular person in this school brought down to something like this."

I don't say anything.

"So," he says, breaking the silence. "Would you like to tell me why you're so upset?"

Breathing in another deep breath, I explain to him what happened last week and why I was breaking down on the floor of the boy's bathroom. And he listens.

For the first time in forever, I felt kind of important; like what I said mattered.

When I finished what I was saying, it was silent. The air was heavy, and it weighed down on my thin shoulders, making the thought of divorce hurt even more.

"It is going to be okay, Kevin," he says. "I know that it will."

He hugs me after he says that. I felt conflicted about the hug, but then I embraced it. I hugged my "prey" back and cried on his shoulder. I gripped the fabric covering his shoulder blades tighter with every sickening sob and whistling wheeze.

"Shhh," he coos. "It's going to be okay."

Why was this so comforting? What would happen after this? Would he tell? Would he keep this a secret? Would we go back to predator and prey? Or maybe start being friends?

Questions filled my head as we hugged. I didn't want to stop hugging him, but soon enough he began to pull away.

"We should get back to class," he suggests.

I wipe my eyes and nod, standing up. We both leave the stall at the same time, but I stay in the bathroom a bit longer.

"Coming?" he asks.

"Y-Yeah," I answered. "Just a minute."

I look in the mirror and notice that my face is tear-stained and my eyes are red and puffy. I bend over the sink and wash my face.

"I'll wait for you," he says.

I finish and dry my face with paper towels, then look at him.

He smiles at me and I stare at him.

"Fine," I sigh, turning back to the sink. I turn it on and put my hands under the cool water, carefully rubbing them together.

My hands were still trembling as I dried them off and opened the door.

We walked together down the empty hallway, not talking. When we get to my classroom, I turn to the person that helped me when I thought nobody could care less.

"Thanks, Double D," I say.

He smiles, the gap between his teeth ever so prominent. "It was no problem at all, Kevin."