can i kiss you?

ONE

I'm hardly awake and my cat is already screaming at me, my ever-persistent alarm clock.

"Jesus, Kirk," I raise a hand at his vague, blurry shape while feeling blindly for my glasses. I slip them on and Kirk's swaying form comes into focus, standing expectantly on my chest. With another mewl, Kirk knocks his head affectionately against my chin.

"I'm up," I grumble, shifting so I'm sitting. My movement sends Kirk hopping to the ground, where he continues to watch me, his eyes large. Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, I check my phone. It's 6:15, which gives me about two hours before I have to be in class. The temptation to close my eyes and squeeze in some more sleep is strong, but Kirk urges me with another meow. He's very particular about his breakfast.

I drag myself out of bed, much to Kirk's delight. He curls himself around my ankles the whole way over to his bowl. Before it's even full, he's happily crunching on kibble. I lean over and pet him before heading downstairs.

The house is quiet. Besides myself and my dad, everyone else is either asleep or gone to work. My mom is a teacher, so she's always gone when I wake up. Isaac is never up before noon. My dad is usually reading the newspaper or playing a crossword puzzle at the table. Today, it's the crossword.

"Morning," Dad says from behind his cup. I wrinkle my nose. I would drink coffee if it wasn't for the taste. I prefer tea. Plus, there are way more options when it comes to flavors. Coffee is just that: coffee.

"Morning," I sit down across from him. He already has cereal and milk sitting out, so I help myself to a bowl.

"Words spoken by an actor directly to the audience..." Dad mutters, the end of his pen between his teeth. It's a habit we both share, one Mom is always chastising us for.

"Spaces?"

"Five."

"An aside?" I speak around a mouthful of Lucky Charms. Zach goes on about theater stuff all the time, so I pick up things here and there. There was a time I ever considered joining, but ultimately, I decided it wasn't for me. Dad snaps his fingers, then pulls the pen from his mouth to jot it down. Simultaneously, we both eat a spoonful of cereal. Dad's already looks soggy, neglected for his word game.

We chew silently, enjoying our breakfasts and each other's company. That's the nice thing about my dad, he doesn't mind being quiet. We don't need to talk all the time, to needlessly fill the silence. Most people don't understand that.

He's still working on his crossword when I polish off my bowl. I wash it before heading back upstairs. I get dressed, brush my teeth, and stand in front of the mirror for ten minutes while I make attempts to fix my hair.

Like my mom, I have curls. They're constantly wild and astray. At this point, I don't even know why I still try, but I do.

After giving up on the hopeless cause that is my hair, I check my bag to make sure I have everything, and then I check again. When I feel like I'm set, I head downstairs, this time heading for the door. Dad is so absorbed in his puzzles that he doesn't even look up to say goodbye.

I drive myself to school. Usually, I enjoy driving. I like to be alone, to focus on the road while I listen to music. Some nights, I just get in my car and drive just to drive. Sometimes it's nice to not have to worry about where you're going, but the drive to class always makes my throat tight.

School isn't my problem. I like it and I'm good at it, too. Because she's a teacher, my mom has always placed an importance on homework and school. She teaches third graders, not high school, but it applies none-the-less. She's always been really involved in stuff like that. She still tries to do it with my brother Josh, too, even though he's well into college.

When I arrive at school, I'm early. It's 7:30. I park, but I don't get out. Minutes tick by. It's 7:40. Then, it's 7:55. I breathe in, deep through my nose. I hold it, let it sit, full in my lungs.  Then, I release, slowly from my mouth. I repeat this a few times, and then a few more after that.

It's a breathing technique—one I learned from my therapist. My anxiety used to be bad, really bad, bad to the point that I was having panic attacks before class. It's better now, but still there.

I stall for a minute longer before heading inside.

It's mid-October. Halloween is just around the corner. but it's already come to Rutherford High. The walls are decorated in orange and black, the halls dressed in cartoony pumpkins and ghouls which looked like they belonged in a kindergarten rather than a high school. My family isn't huge on Halloween. My dad's a dentist, so that kind of ruins the candy aspect. He's the type of person who hands out toothbrushes instead of sweets. It's needless to say our house doesn't get much traffic on Halloween night.

I push past the tide of students. Most people who look down are fixated on their phones. I look down because it's how I've learned to survive—if I pretended I'm not here, everyone else does too.

But, occasionally, I glance at those passing by, searching for two faces: one I wanted to see and one I desperately didn't.

One is Dennis Tenner, a longtime friend. In the mornings we meet up and he walks me to class—something I avidly protest, but a worry he always shrugs off. His grades are so good, he isn't worried about being late.

The second—

"Hey, fag," a pair of hands send me crashing into a set of lockers. I don't have to look to know who it is. Not that I can. My glasses are on the floor, along with my books.

Natt Pryer, a grade-A asshole who's been targeting me since the seventh grade. His features are blurry, but I can still picture the sneer on his lips.

"Where's your boyfriend, Bennet?"

When the year began, I told myself it'd be a fresh start. Nothing could be worse than last year, I'm confident in that. Over the summer, my parents pressed me to transfer. They practically begged me to. Despite everything, I refused. Transferring seemed too much like defeat, and I was not defeated. I'm still not.

But here before Pryer, it feels like it. I'm as helpless as always. I can't see, but going by the soft murmurs collecting around us, I can tell we've garnered an audience. It's pointless to gather my things. I know from experience they'll just end up on the floor again. Like always, I bite my lip and blink back tears. I won't cry. I will not cry. I'm so fucking over tears.

It's not Pryer. I'm just embarrassed. I won't do anything. I know it, Pryer knows it, and so does everyone watching. Pryer laughs, and a few boys echo him.

"What?" Pryer shoves my chest, and my back hits the lockers, something metal prodding into my skin. My fists are clenched so tight that my nails bite into my palms. Figures blur before me, closing in. I can't see their faces, but I still search them for someone, for anyone. I can feel Pryer's breath as he leans in.

"It's too bad that Tenner and Wickerman aren't here to save your ass."

As always, no one will step in. Not a single one of them.