HIS FAVORITE GINGER ✓

NINE.

THERE IS AN ADDENDUM TO the list of inanimate objects mocking Alejandro. It is a lifeless, metallic void called a locker. He stares into the air till he finds himself reminiscing about the locker he had back in his former school. It wasn't only resplendent, it was suffocating! From pretty stickers, cards and pictures to obnoxious love letters and roses from both queer guys and even straight girls, thinking they can change him, like how disturbingly dumb is that?

You can't change a gay dude.

Now that he thinks of Fortinbras Academy, a downpour of nostalgia rains down on him like he's in his sauna at home. Alejandro left the millionaire private school because Freya had "important" business here which was made more important than his friends, teachers, neighbors, his boyfriend with a 's'. He'll never forgive his mother nor forget that it was heaven and he was fabulous, fabulously gay.

Sighing, he slips my singlet on and throws his dirty clothes in. He's almost forgotten he is in the gym lockers and this isn't his real locker. He doesn't care anyways, the real one is just as bad. The teeth of the comb travels through his tough locks while his pharynx reels out Taylor Swift. Like the butterfingers he is, the comb slips from his hold. Alejandro curses out loud, angry he's having a bad day - he swore, coach heard and it earned him ten sweet laps, talk about embarrassing - and too lazy to pick the comb. The mere inches down the floor is like crawling into a bottomless pit. Alejandro nonetheless bends over before his butt is smacked.

He freezes. His left fist curls into Thor's hammer laced with kryptonite and he almost swings it at Nolan's face. He is wearing a goofy smile and a towel, displaying abs that can sharpen a lightsaber.

"Nolan, it's just you." Alejandro breathes, still convinced his eyes are deceiving him.

"Yes, it's just me." Nolan didn't just slap his ass. Is this some kind of play among straight guys because he's not buying this shit.

"So, what's up with you, faggot? Nolan laughs out loud, throwing his head back in hysteria. Since that day Alejandro tried to come out to him, Nolan has nicknamed him 'faggot'. Alejandro does the casual jocular shove or slap on the back whenever Nolan utters that yechy word and smiles over it. He isn't one to pay attention to contemptible slurs but when it becomes too much and he's not able to do anything about it, it is revolting.

"To be honest, nothing."

"What? No fags to gag?"

And there it is again; that familiar bite of ill and ire. Alejandro silently prays his friend doesn't step on his karate alter ego's nerves or he'll pay an agonizing visit to Seattle Central's emergency ward. Alejandro doesn't think he can handle this round so like a coward, he lifts his gaze from Nolan back to his locker.

"Hey I'm talking to you."

Alejandro doesn't reply. He continues to toil his tight sweatpants around his ankles till he almost falls on his face. He can sense Nolan silent but his mind is struggling to think happy thoughts - no, sad thoughts. Sadness effects the human mood stronger than happiness. Alejandro is fighting the fire in his belly that is urging him to grab Nolan's afro curls, clobber his face with the locker like slabbing pancakes, bust those gummy lifesavers he calls lips, widen that annoying diastema further and bake those hazel orbs with a gargantuan, obsidian eyeshadow; a black eye.

Suddenly, Alejandro feels something warm on his arm. He pivots his neck to see a chocolate johnson. Alejandro swallows his lips from yelling blue and bloody murder and jerks away from the naked Nolan as if electrocuted. Nolan rolls in the aisles till his sides split and tears brew from his eyelids. Alejandro, on the other hand, is redder than Snow White's lips.