WICKED BOY (BoyxBoy)
I met Lucas when I was eight.
He was taller, tougher-- with a light in his eyes that said he could do anything, be anything that he wanted to be. I'd instantly taken a liking to him, even when he pulled my shirt over my head, and pushed me into the puddle that contained more ice than water-- and pelted me with his glove covered fists.
I asked him if he had super powers, I remember saying it-- coughing out a bit of blood that trickled from my nose. He'd snarled at me, given me the worst sort of look, and I'd thought- aha, he does.
I thought about how I wanted to be as tough as him as I laid in my bed sick for three days after, told my mom how cool it was that his reflexes were so fast already-- even told her that I thought he was going to grow up to be a superhero.
"I wonder what kind of other super powers he has," I wondered aloud, blinked up at her from the sheets as she cleaned my face, "His eyes are scary, I bet he shoots lasers from them."
Mom hadn't agreed. She'd called him a brute and thrown out my oxford shoes, replaced my broken glasses with a sigh.
"Stay away from wicked boys like that, Miles," she'd said, "they're trouble waiting to happen."
It was the one time that I didn't listen to my mother.