Bitter Affectionate

Chapter 2

"Mark!" I called once I'd gotten inside, hearing my voice reverberating off of the walls. The house was both big and empty, like you'd expect a house in our neighborhood with only two people living in it to be. The only fully furnished rooms were my room, Marks room, the living room, bathroom, and kitchen. We had a guest room as well, but it wasn't anything to see. There was a desk in the corner, with a computer, and notebooks and old blue prints. Mark worked for a construction company, which means he was up early in the morning, and home late at night. Well, most nights. Not all nights.

The guest room used to be used for Mark's office, but he started working on his laptop in the living room instead. That way, he could watch the game while he worked.

"I'm in here!" Mark replied, his voice coming from, you guessed it, the living room. I marched in and leaned over the back of the couch to see what he was working on. He was making blue prints for a house, and a pretty big one at that. He'd get a lot of money for this job if it was done right. "How're you feeling? Brent told me you weren't doing so hot," he said. Mark wasn't a very talkative guy, but when he did talk, he was straight to the point. He never wasted time.

"I'm fine now. The test was pretty stressful, but I think I did well."

"Of course you did well! You're a Sordino! Your mother was the top of her class, did you know that? Your father was, too."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. And, both were valedictorians of their graduating classes."

"Wow," I mumbled, "Those are some pretty big shoes to fill."

"You won't have trouble."

He sounded very confident in that statement. I didn't feel very confident about it.

"Did you already eat?" Mark asked, paying more attention to his screen than me.

"No, but I'll just grab something from a can and eat it in my room. I have homework."

"Alright," he said blankly, "Don't work too hard."

"Never."

I ventured into the kitchen for a can of a mysterious food-like substance and microwaved it before going upstairs to work. And, by work, I mean sit in front of a book of notes and watch Netflix. Naturally.

...

The next day, after the bell rings for third period, I walked into the school washroom to tidy up after a food fight at recess (don't ask).

After successfully wiping all of the Cheeto dust from my hair (screw you, Brent), I started in on trying to save my shirt from a pudding stain. Spoiler alert; this shirt could not be saved. Rest in piece, dear friend.

I pulled my shirt off over my head and laid it in the sink, allowing the sink to fill with water as I added soap to the mixture. Halfway through, I heard a sniffle from the only occupied stall.

For a moment, I thought I was imagining it, but when the sound arose again, I decided to investigate.

"Hey? You okay in there?" I asked into the air while scrubbing at my shirt with a damp paper towel.

When no answer came to me, I added, "If you don't want to talk, that's fine, but at least let me know that emergency services don't need to get involved."

"Don't be stupid," a voice came from the stall, very mockingly, as if he couldn't tell I was joking. Maybe he couldn't.

I continued in silence for a while, listening to rhythmic, shaking breaths from come the boy. Then, I said, "You know, I'm a pretty good listener. And I don't tell secrets. Just some facts about me, do with them what you will."

Silence again, and then a heavy sigh. The boy emerged, tears on his cheeks and bloodshot eyes, but nothing visably wrong with him. However, that was usually the way things went in high school; everyone is hurt, but no one in a way that you can see from the outside.

He was dressed in a flannel button up and a pair of jeans. On his feet were dirty converse that appeared to be falling apart at the seams. I looked him up and down before turning back to my sink. He didn't day a word as he approached the mirror next to me and started wiping his eyes off in his shirt. I grabbed a tissue from the container and handed it to him.

"This might be a little more efficient."

"Thanks," he practically spat at me. Not the most polite guy. I wasn't overly bothered. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Why are you shirtless in the schools washroom? Don't you have a washer at home?"

"I do, however I don't have the time to go home and wash my shirt or get a new one before my chem class. In fact, I'm already late for my chem class so..."

"Oh."

"Can I ask you a question?"

He glanced at me unsurely, before muttering, "It depends. What is it?"

"Are you okay?"

He rolled his eyes at me and tossed his tissue in the garbage. By now, his eyes were red all around from furiously wiping at them. It wasn't exactly helping his cause.

"I'm fine. Why are you being nice to me anyways? Your goons always pick on people like me."

"My goons?" I scoffed. "What is this, a Disney Channel show? Get your head into real time, man. Jocks aren't all bullies anymore. Some of us are intellectuals."

"And some of you are gay," he said carelessly, and my heart clenched.

"What?" I asked, pretending to be casual, but my head felt like it was going to fall off of my neck. Did he know? Did the school know? Did Brent tell?

"There's a rumour that a boy on the football team is gay. I don't believe it for a second. This town isn't exactly P-flag friendly. Nobody's sane enough to be out in this town. Damn, no one is sane enough to be closeted in this town."

The boy seemed fine now. Other than his eyes, I wouldn't have been able to tell he was crying before. I tried to focus on him instead of what he was saying, because that was freaking me out. Someone knew. Someone knew about me, and I've only ever told one person.

"There are a lot of gay girls around," I mentioned, "No one gives them shit."

"No one? There's a Catholic school specifically for 'reforming' lesbians."

"Oh."

I took in a hard breath, and tried not to let him notice. Seeing how futile my attempt was to fix my shirt, I take it out of the sink and let the water drain while I put my shirt beneath the hand drier.

Was it possible that Brent told someone? No, he wouldn't. Or would he? He had a big mouth, I would say that, but he wouldn't stoop so low as to tell my biggest secret.

I shook my head to clear the thoughts from it and took my shirt from under the drier once it was (mostly) dry. I pulled it on over my head and turned around to say something to the boy, but he was gone, leaving nothing but a crumpled tissue in his wake.

(A/N: sorry this chapter took forever to come out. I've been busy with exam review. I'll try to post regularly from now on whenever I can.)