Outgoing Stories

Sticks And Stones

I like autumn. Everything is so pure and yellow and cleansed by rain. Summers are trying too hard – too much heat, too much sunshine, too much free time. Winters take it to the other extreme, while springs often feel like undercooked summers. But autumns are just right. I mean, it's a matter of taste and all that, but how can you not like them? The leaves under your feet, the cool breeze, the rain lulling you to sleep.

I think about it as I walk across the school yard, heading for the gates along with the rest of the herd. I get too deep in thoughts sometimes, which is not a good thing at school, where even wearing headphones, looking under your feet and minding your own business can't provide an invisibility cloak.

Hence when a punch lands on my shoulder, I'm surprised and not surprised at the same time.

I look up and there're five of them, still wearing the team uniform after their practice. They're grinning in a bad way, and saying something, but "Für Elise" is still playing in my headphones so that's all I hear. For a moment I consider keeping the headphones on but discard the thought as suicidal—they will only get extra pissed when they realize I'm not hearing them. I remove the headphones, and the reality assaults my ears in all its ugliness.

"Daydreaming, every single time I see him, I'm telling you," says Mike Cranefield. "The dude is sleepwalking."

"Yeah," says a voice to my left, but I don't look there.

"Dreaming about dudes, are you?" Mike lands another blow on my shoulder, not a painful one but strong enough to send me stumbling back a couple of steps.

"Yeah," says the voice to my left, but I keep my eyes on Mike.

"What you're staring at? You weren't daydreaming about me, by any chance?" He frowns, putting his hands on his hips. It's clear he's not mad, just playing—for now. It's a thin line with them, to stay low but not too low, to be quiet but not too quiet, to let the episode run its course without really pissing them off.

"I'm just going home, Mike," I say.

"Oh, I'm just going home," he parrots in a high pitch voice that sounds nothing like mine. "What you got there?" He grabs the headphones from my neck and puts them on. His eyebrows go up. "What's this?"

"Beethoven," I say.

"What?" He laughs. "Are you like seventy years old or something?" He takes the headphones off and hurls them at me. I catch them by the cord and just stand there, waiting to be dismissed as the river of students flows to the both sides of our little group.

"Get lost, freak," says Mike, losing interest as abruptly as he's gained it.

"Yeah," says the voice to my left again, and I do look this time.

Jeffrey lowers his eyes under my gaze and turns away, his baseball cup in one hand, his backpack on his shoulder. He's at least half a head taller than his pals, let alone myself, and wider in the shoulders. He's always seemed like a gentle giant to me, except that sometimes I think he's a cowardly giant, or a selfish giant, like the one in Oscar Wilde's short story.

Oscar Wilde was gay, too.

I put the headphones back on and start walking. But the music doesn't sound the same and the trees aren't as yellow as they used to be, and the air is damp and unpleasant.

Eventually, I find myself on the bench in one of the more desolate alleyways of the park, wiping my cheeks that are by now way more wet than could be explained by just the humidity in the air.

I'm such an idiot. Why am I letting this get to me? It's happened before. It'll happen again. Why do I let them poison everything—the park, the music, the quiet walk home?

I know why. Because of him.

"Hey,"  says Jeffrey. "Are you crying?"

I can feel him sitting down on the bench next to me, but I keep my eyes on my hands, my fingers turning my phone over and over.

"Who were you going to call?" he says.

"You," I spit out, surprising myself. "To tell you I'll never speak to you again."

There's a pause, and then he says, "You weren't."

"No," I admit. "I wasn't."

His hand enters my field of vision and his wide palm covers both my hands with the phone, stopping their relentless motion. Then it slides to my thigh and gives it a supporting squeeze before retreating.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this," he says. "I wish I could make it easier for you."

I look up and meet his eyes. He's brushed his hair and changed into his school uniform. He's so handsome, and he looks at me so kindly when we're alone that it breaks my heart.

"Can't you?" I say. "Make it easier?"

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes wandering briefly from one end of the desolate alleyway to another. Checking there's no one to see us. Always checking.

"We've talked about this," he says. "If I try to protect you, both of us will be bullied. That's all it will achieve. And I couldn't be in the team. The guys would give me hell."

His hand finds my cheek and turns my face to him.

"So, it has to be just me," I say.

"Only until we graduate." His eyes are so deep and kind and understanding. "Then, it will be the real life. We could be whatever we want. We could be together." Another quick glance around, and then he plants a quick kiss on my lips. "You know I love you."

I feel his other hand squeeze mine and when it retreats, I feel something in in. I look down and find a chain with a locket in a shape of half a heart.

"I have the other half," he says. "Cheesy, I know, but I wanted to give you this."

"No." My eyes sting again. "Not cheesy at all."

The chain looks like he must have gotten it in one of those "everything for a dollar" shops, but the very act of him giving it to me feels deep and meaningful. Maybe I worried for nothing. Maybe he does love me.

"Sticks and stones can break your bones," he whispers. "Words can't hurt you, remember?"

"Right," I say, but inside I can't help but wonder what will happen if one day his friends decide to move past the words with me. What if it comes to actual sticks and stones? Will he step in then to protect me?

Or will he stand by and watch?

Or will he join them?

I don't want to know. I must believe that the piece of cheap jewelry in my hands means something. I have to cling to that.

"Will you hold on for me?" he says. "Just a little longer?"

"Sure," I say, watching the light play on the piece of metal in my hands. "Of course, I will."