Stories of an Old Boy

By: XPud
(© 2018 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

xpud@tickiestories.us

Chapter 14

My dreams that evening are a pleasant medley of times I held others in my arms or vice-versa, and of times where I sat contentedly in the same room as the one I loved. There are also a few snippets of other birthday parties I've been to, some from previous lives where nearly the same sorts of wild things happened with different people (though I for some reason didn't have nearly the amount of fun back then as I've had this go-round), and some from these last few months. And then there's a dream--an actual dream, not a memory--where I'm trying to pull someone up off a cliff that they've been hanging on for years, and there's nothing I can do, no solution to the issue, and so I just let go. The moment their hand leaves mine, my eyes snap open and I wake with a shuddering gasp.

I get my bearings, only to realize that Matty's pillow is wet with tears and the bed itself is quite soaked. Hm. It's cold, meaning it was probably a few hours ago, so I rewind to a moment in my dreams where I'm happily gazing across the living room at my husband of many years. I tell him that I'll see him later, to which he just nods and smiles while reading his novel, and force myself awake. When my eyes adjust, I see Matty, asleep with a frown on his face. The bed is still dry. I wait a moment, curious as to what he might be dreaming, when he mutters, “Nn, dontouch. Mm!” He jerks his shoulder out of the way of some unseen assailant, kicking his legs weakly under the covers as if trying to escape from his nightmares.

“Matty!” I whisper loudly, shaking him gently by the shoulder. He wrenches his shoulder out of my grasp and looks around with crazed eyes for a split second before they fall on me, immediately welling up with tears. I pull him close and hold him tightly, running my fingers through the back of his hair to try and comfort him.

Matty tries his best to stop hyperventilating, and manages it just long enough to whisper a broken, “No no no--Phillip, I can’t--I’m sorry...”

I realize what he means as I feel the warmth seeping into the sheet under me. So that's why he ends up wetting the bed. I wonder if this is the main reason it has been happening all this time. He tries to apologize again, but I just whisper, “Shh. Don't worry. It's okay. You're safe. We'll change the sheets in a moment. Just breathe.”

He begins to sob quietly in my arms; I can tell that he's trying not to wake the others, but he has more important things to worry about--namely himself. I continue to whisper reassurances as I stroke his hair. Memories of the first time I found myself comforting him play through my mind, but this time, I'm not the cause--and I'm not turned on in the least.

He regains some degree of composure as the strength of the dream quickly fades, sniffling only occasionally. I softly slip out of the bed and hold a hand out to Matty. We both quietly gather up the sheets, making sure to watch out for sleeping boys on the floor. I deposit them in the hamper while Matty gets out spares; I go get a damp washcloth to help clean the mattress protector up a bit as well, drying it with a spare shirt from the floor before we put new sheets on.

After putting the bed back together, I whisper, “Lets get cleaned up before we go back in.”

Matty nods and follows me into the bathroom. As we are washing off, Matty mutters, “I'm really sorry that I wet the bed...and you. I feel like such a...” I can see him fighting off the urge to call himself a baby, but the silent insult still carries weight.

I stare him down. “Matty, please. Number 1, I'm the one who pees on myself for fun, so let's just put that aside. 2, I love you no matter what, and you're gonna have to do a lot worse than pee on me to get rid of me.” He giggles sheepishly. “3, I may like ‘em young, but I definitely don’t date babies. I like my boys to be able to dress themselves and make a sandwich.”

He rolls his eyes and smacks me. “Okay, fine, fine.” I’ll take the smacking over him calling himself a baby, any day.

“Let's just get back to sleep after this, and we can talk about it in the morning. If you want, that is.” I use the body wash to help wash his back off, which makes him hard, which makes me hard--Predictable Pricks, at it again--but I ignore the obvious temptation in favor of getting some good sleep. We both need it.

On our way back into the dark room, I catch a glimpse of one of the twins with his head up, silently watching us from his sleeping bag. I let Matty into the bed first and follow suit, wrapping my arms around him as he tucks himself into me little-spoon style. On the good side, Matty seems to fall quickly back to sleep. For my part, though, I end up barely able to drift in and out of sleep, too nervous that something else may happen to actually fall into a deep sleep.

Morning slowly creeps in through the blinds, painting stripes on the ceiling and masking the speckled glow-in-the-dark stars. No mention of the late night episode, the bedwetting, or the dream is made in front of the other boys, who all seem oblivious to anything (even the twin who saw us must be acting ignorant; I don't see any sign of it on either of their faces) as they sit down for pancakes and eggs from Mama Petersen. Not a lot of conversation goes about the table, just silent, groggy noshing; Ms. Petersen asks Sean a little bit more about himself, the same interview-type questions she gave me, and he answers a little more reasonably than I did: knows Matty from the choir room (or at least the practice rooms between the choir and orchestra areas), wants to be a musician, etc. Everything soon wraps up and the other boys head out to enjoy a lazy Sunday.

As everyone else is leaving, Matty asks in a low voice, “Can you stay a little bit?”

“Sure,” I agree. I was already planning to, anyway. Ms. Petersen has no issue with it, so we head back to his room and sit on his bed.

“Um...” Matty begins, searching for words and thoughts. “So, I was thinking about what happened last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, it was awesome, and I really had a lot of fun. But...eh, never mind. It's stupid.”

That sounds like the kind of technique I'd use to get someone interested in what I'm about to say. Regardless of his motives, it works. “I'm sure it's not, Matty. You're not stupid, and neither are the things you think.”

“I dunno,” he warns, “this is pretty dumb. When you were talking to Sean, especially when you were giving him the massage, I got really uncomfortable. Like...jealous.”

“You know I was only showing him what feels good.”

“You're not helping,” Matty says, thin-lipped.

“Right, sorry,” I say, smacking my forehead. “Matty. When I was giving him the massage, it was only to show him some things he hadn't experienced before. That's something that I feel everyone deserves. I don't even have to like someone for that kind of thing. Truth be told, when I did it to you the first time, it was for the same reason, not because I loved you--after all, I had barely met you. I promise you it didn't mean anything.” I sigh at the sound of my own words. “I know those are exactly the words you hear from anyone, especially people who cheat, but you know me better than maybe anyone else alive right now. I love you and wouldn't give you up for anyone.”

“I guess.” He neither sounds convinced nor convincing.

I can't help but roll my eyes a bit. “First off, I'm pretty sure he's straight, so there's that. Secondly, why would I go for Sean when I have someone like you?”

“Because he's so much better-looking than me! Because he's better at music than me! Because--ugh! I don't know. I told you it was stupid.” He twists himself on the bed to face away from me, folding his arms around himself.

I reach under his folded arms and pull myself closer to him, hugging him close. “Funny. Those are the same reasons I was jealous.”

He jerks his head away from mine and looks at me in abject confusion. “What?!” he barks. “You were jealous?”

I let him go to get a better conversation vantage point. “Yeah, what, I'm not allowed to be jealous?”

“No! I mean, yeah, but--but that's not what I meant!” He narrows his eyes at me, almost as if the confusion were thick enough to be physically painful. “I mean you were jealous of me and Sean? When--what...?”

“I mean, when you first started talking to him at the movie theater, I admit I immediately felt like, 'Here's this boy who's wearing a gamer shirt and likes science and plays multiple instruments--and has a cute smile--talking to my boyfriend, and here I am looking goofy.' Then add in the fact that you hang out with him in a small practice room during or after school and, well, yeah. It made me feel jealous.”

“You don't look goofy,” Matty says with a little smile. “I mean, I really like the way you look.”

“I'm not fishing for compliments,” I say, though I can't hide the half-smile I get from it anyway. “I just wanted to explain myself. Just because I've been around forever doesn't mean I'm not still human.”

“But even after a thousand years, you still, y'know, have to deal with things like that?”

“Honestly, it doesn't matter how much time you live; if you don't work to improve something, it doesn't get better. And I admit, I spent a very long time finding ways to ignore the things about me that I need to change, rather than fixing them. It's been the hardest thing for me to just stop rewinding every time I make a mistake, but even just in these last few months, I've realized how many things about myself have just been hidden behind a veil of perfection. The 'Amazing Phillip' that most people ever knew throughout my life was always just an illusion to conceal the very human, very flawed man hiding behind a curtain of time.” An involuntary shiver ripples through my spine. “And I can't explain 100% why, but it took someone like you to make me realize that even though it's harder, sometimes it's better to live imperfectly. So, yeah: I still get jealous. It reminds me how much I really want the people that I get jealous over.”

I meet eyes with Matty, who smiles lovingly at me. “It's okay. I like you being imperfect. And if you don't want me to talk to Sean anymore, then I can--”

“No! No no no, that's not what I meant at all! Just because I feel jealous doesn't mean that I believe it. It's just a feeling. I mean, yeah, it comes from those little thoughts that I can never shut up, but I know better than to listen to them. Most of the time. I really don't think that you're gonna leave me for a straight guy, even if he's cute and a gamer and a musician and tall and nice and likes science. I trust you.”

“Well, I think I trust you finally, too. I know that you wouldn't hurt me on purpose or cheat on me.”

Wait. Oh, God. I never told him about Edgar and Beto. “I would never hurt you on purpose. Absolutely not. But, um, can we actually talk about the 'cheating' thing? We should decide what that actually means in our relationship.”

“What do you mean?” He looks at me with a mixture of confusion and deserved suspicion. “Cheating is cheating. When you have sex with someone else. Right?”

“Yes, that's what it normally is, but I've been around a very long time, and I see things a little differently.”

“Different...how?”

“Well,” I begin, but stop to collect my thoughts. The main difference I see is that I have sex to keep my mind away from itself, but that's a lame excuse and I just need to fucking deal with that at some point. “To me, sex is just another thing to do with people, with friends. It's not always about love. I mean, often it's not, for me. Most of the people I mess around with are just friends, or less.” That part is true, but the unsaid part sits like a stone in my stomach.

“Yeah, but...if you're in a relationship, it's still cheating.”

“It's not like I love them or anything. I love you, and want to be with you, not them.”

Matty narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, 'them?' Are you...are you messing around with other people?”

“It--it was just once, with two guys I helped get into a relationship with each other. I already told you, it doesn't mean I love them; I mean, I directly helped them get with each other, not with me. That should say enough, right there!”

“But why would you mess around with them? What about me?” Matty's eyes fill with tears.

“But we do things, too!”

“But you didn't even ASK!”

“I--” The realization hits me and stops my sentence. I didn't ask. I just took advantage of the situation, the same as I always fucking do, without thinking about the consequences. Without thinking of others, without considering them as people that matter. “...You're right. Matty, I love you, but I am a fucking idiot.” Matty's tear-streaked silence only drives the point home. Feeling the hot, stinging sensation of a breakdown coming on, I manage to croak out, “I'm sorry I acted without thinking about you. I'm not used to...” I take a deep breath, letting the rest of my admission out like a dying exhalation: “I'm not used to caring about people.”

“Who?” he asks in a quivering voice. “Who did you...?”

“Edgar Gutierrez and Beto...you know, the tall, skinny boy in PE.” Wow, I'm so fucking callous that I don't even know his last name. What the fuck is wrong with me? “You can ask them--I'm not trying to get with either of them, I just...” Continuing the explanation would just be running in circles, so I give up on justifying myself. Matty's response is more silent tears, so I quietly say, “I'm going to go now. Just...let me know if you ever want to talk again.”

Matty begins to say something, but his face scrunches up into a series of sobs. I should just rewind this. This is horrible--I can do better. If I just don't tell him about the boys, then we won't have to worry about it.

Wow, Phillip; that's some shitty thinking. Just keep lying to the boy, keep more secrets from him. He deserves that. Good job. No, I made this bed, and now I get to lie in it. Alone. I stay a moment longer, paralyzed with indecision about whether to try and comfort him, but the fact that I am the source of his distress wins out. I quietly leave the room, walking to the front door in a silence only broken by poorly-suppressed sobs.

“Phillip?” Ms. Petersen says from the living room. I look over to the couch and meet her concerned eyes. “What's wrong? What happened?”

“I hurt M--Matty's feelings by being ex--extremely st--stupid.” The sobbing gets worse as I admit fault.

“Oh, honey...come sit down on the couch. I'll get Matty, and we can figure--”

“No! No. I can't--I can't--” I can't finish the sentence: I can't deal with seeing Matty right now, because I can't handle my emotions as it is. Instead, I say, “I'll be o--okay. I need to--to go home anyway. Can I call h--home?”

She lets me borrow her cellphone, which I carefully avoid getting tears on as I call Mom. “Can you come get me?” I manage to say without a sob or hiccup.

“Sure...is everything okay?” Dammit. Stupid perceptive parents.

“Yeah. Fine.” Won't help to admit it anyway. “Just come g--get me.” Not like she couldn't tell, but the hiccups don't help. I hang up and give the phone back to Ms. Petersen. Grabbing my toothbrush from the bathroom, I go wait outside for my ride. By the time she arrives, I've managed to stop sniffling and hiccuping, though I'm sure my eyes are puffier than wasp stings.

Sure enough, Mom prods for information as we drive home. I don't answer the first few times, but she finally says, “Look. You know that I love you with everything I have. It hurts me to see you hurting like this. At least talk to me so I know that you're going to be okay.”

I glance sidelong at Mom, catching her quick, worried glance before she looks back at the road, and say, “You were right.”

“About what?”

“Relationships.”

She pauses a while. “How so?” she finally asks.

“I...made really stupid decisions because I'm a stup--stupid jerk and I'm not good enough f--for someone like Matty.” Fucking eye faucets turn back on, bringing the nose in on the action. God, I'm pathetic.

“You're not pathetic,” Mom says. I really need to keep track of when I'm thinking out loud. “You're just young.” She sighs, and says, “Life is full of stupid decisions and being a stupid jerk. You'll do it for years. Even when you get better at life, you'll still do it once in a while. But you're smart, Phillip. Way smarter than you ever let yourself be. I know you can learn from your mistakes, and when you do, you'll be a better person in a better relationship.”

“Yeah, but at this--this rate, it won't be with Matty.”

“Oh, hush. You're upset and not thinking rationally. I love you, but you know I don't tolerate hate of any kind, least of all self-hate.” She parks the car in the driveway and exits; I follow her, somewhat more composed than before. I'm not sure how she does it, but her 'tough love' bit always seems to work.

I spend the rest of the weekend escaping my emotions, either by reading, playing single-player games on the computer, or helping Dad clean up the lawn. My usual activity, jacking off every few hours or so, is thwarted by reminders of my thoughtless infidelity; my sex drive is replaced by a growing anger at my own stupidity. Don't get me wrong--if things were my way, 'fidelity' would consist of always telling the person you live with of all the amazing sex you have if your partner isn't part of it. I'm not jealous about sex, but I'm romantically possessive; I don't think I could do a polyamorous relationship (in fact, I haven't tried one in all my years). This is why I didn't think twice about what I did with Beto and Canelito, but got angry when Matty was talking to Sean: I was insecure about Matty loving someone else more than me, not of him having sex with others. Yeah, yeah--I know that he's barely even started sexual things on his own, but my statement still stands.

The problem, of course, is that Matty doesn't think like I do, and I damn well should've remembered that before I went dick-stickin' in someone else's mouth. Matty has every reason to think like he does, like society does, even if I don't agree with it. I certainly agreed when I was his age the first time, and quite frankly, most of the way through my first life. If I'm going to have this relationship, I need to remember how it is for Matty--how it was for me.

Being normal is hard.

It gets all the more difficult on Monday, when I can't stop thinking about being in the same room with Matty. I want desperately to make things better, to make him feel okay again, but I know that there's no way that I can make that happen yet; even if there were, I don't have the emotional stamina to try again and again just to find the right answers to say or the right things to do. Just seeing Matty get hurt by the things I say, even if he doesn't remember them, would be too much for me to bear.

Near the end of first period, though, as I sit with my head on my desk, Edgar walks by me on the way to the pencil sharpener and surreptitiously slips a note underneath my arm. He sharpens his pencil as if nothing was out of the ordinary, going back to his seat without any other attempt to communicate. I stare at the note for a moment, hesitant to open it. It's probably just another invitation to a threesome; even the thought of it chokes me up by association.

I drop the note in my lap and put my head down for a moment longer, at least until the teacher walks by and knocks on my desk. “Sleep at home, not here,” she says, continuing down the row. I know better than to disobey her more than once in a class period, so I pick my head up and take a quick peek over at Edgar, just out of curiosity; he is staring back at me with an intense expression, as if what's in the letter is seriously important. I swear, if it's a sex invitation--

Talk to me after class

I'm worried about u

When I look back, he's already concentrating on his worksheet again (though I'm sure it's because the teacher is walking by). I keep looking over there until he glances back at me; I nod slowly, which he mimics, and I go back to my work. I end up not finishing by the bell, but I couldn't be bothered less by the fact. It's the least important thing in my head, so I'll deal with the grade I get.

I don't know what class Edgar has after this, but I do know it's basically down the same halls I travel, so we walk together in silence, taking our time as the talkative tide of children washes past us. He finally asks, “What's wrong?”

“I can't talk about it.”

“Yes, you can. I'm worried about you. What's bothering you so much?”

“Why do you care all of a sudden?” I ask, stopping to look at him with frustrated confusion.

“Phillip,” he says firmly. “You've done so much for me, how could I not? Besides, I told you about me trying to commit suicide. The least you could do is tell me why you're upset.” He pauses, and adds, “Please?”

I sigh heavily and keep walking. (I'll probably be late anyway, but whatever.) “I broke my boyfriend's trust.”

Edgar halts mid-stride. “You have a boyfriend?!” he squeals.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I know what you're thinking, and it's just as stupid as it sounds. I did things with you two while he and I were already going out.”

“Like, both times you were with us?”

I look around for eavesdroppers, lowering my voice just in case. “No, just the last one on the stage. I tried to convince him that it wasn't...rrgh, never mind. It's retarded, the whole thing. I was thinking with my dick, not my heart. I was fucking stupid.”

Edgar walks with me in silence a moment before asking, “Can I...can I ask who your boyfriend is?” He sees my return glare and quickly says, “I promise I won't tell anyone. I mean, it's me you're talking to.” He follows it up with a meaningful stare.

I stop a few feet from my classroom door, checking to see if anyone is in earshot, and sigh again. “It's Matty Petersen.”

“Oh, the short dude in choir? Cool. Didn't know he was gay.”

“And you still don't, if you catch me.”

“Right.” Glancing up at the digital clock in the hallway, he says, “Well, I gotta get to class, but listen to me: this isn't the first time I've seen you super depressed in class. You can't let things get to you like that. Talk to someone. Please. I don't want you to, y'know, do something stupid.” He stares through me at the last statement for just a moment, until the bell rings for class. “Crap, gotta run. See you!” he calls as he heads farther down the hallway.

What the hell did I do to earn that level of attention? I've been planning it this time around so that nobody would bother me, and here we are with Edgar telling me what I'm feeling, like he knows me. He has no idea what I've been through, what I've done. Nobody does. Well, nobody except the people that I hurt. You'd think I'd learn.

Look, I'll just cut to the chase again, here: I suck at dealing with my emotions. At least I can admit that. Some people can deny that for their entire life, but I eventually came to terms with that fact. That said, I'm too busy stewing in them to even notice what goes on in study hall, history, or even theatre class. I do some work in each class to avoid attention, but I just want it all to be over so I can go crawl in a hole and forget I exist for a while.

Then P.E. class arrives. I show up near the bell, hoping that most of the boys would be changed out by the time I get to the locker room, but when I do, I see Matty standing next to Beto in the restroom area, already dressed out and ready to go. Their conversation seems pretty intense, but I can't hear what they're saying...and that scares me to the bone. Matty happens to look over and catch my gaze, which stops their conversation immediately. I look down and busy myself with the drawstrings of my gym shorts, unable to bring myself to talk to Matty; he starts walking toward me, but hesitates just a moment before heading into the gym itself. I do my best to clear the tears out of my eyes and stop myself from sobbing before Coach Rigby calls us all out of the locker room. As I’m about to get up, Beto walks by and puts his long-fingered hand on my shoulder for just a moment before heading out. What was that supposed to mean?

By this point I'm so worked up that I actually ask Coach Rigby if I can sit out for the day. Surprisingly, he agrees; normally, nobody gets out of anything for any reason short of missing a leg. “Just gimme double the effort tomorrow, eh?” he says casually before trotting off with his whistle in his lips. For what it's worth, watching that ass bounce as he leaves manages to cheer me up a bit. Whatever works.

I spend the class inside Coach's office, watching the boys play through the window facing the gym. Matty looks over once or twice, and even Rod does a double-take seeing me in here. Whatever--let them stare. I'm done with today already. At the end of class, I dress back into regular clothes and hightail it out of there before anybody has a chance to talk to me, heading to a table at lunch to sit quietly and reflect. This manages to work for me for about ten minutes or so, when a shadow sits down next to me. For the love of God, why does everyone have to come bother me when I'm depressed? It's--

“What the hell's eatin' you?” a husky voice asks. I turn to see Rod eating his lunch as if he'd never said a word.

“I hurt someone I love.” After an awkward pause, I add, “What's it matter to you?”

“I mean, you made me stop hanging out with all my other friends, and, I dunno, maybe if you're upset you might end up taking it out on me. So...” He takes another bite of his square pizza and continues with his mouth full, “What'dja do?”

I glance sidelong at Rod, who still hasn't looked at me. For all intents and purposes, he's sitting next to a stranger and talking to his pizza. “Tell anyone and I will hurt you. Clear?”

He finally looks me square in the eyes and nods. “I get it.”

Sighing, I admit, “I cheated.”

Rod stops mid-chew. “You mean, like, sex?”

“Something like that, yeah,” I reply with an involuntary eye roll.

He swallows. “Damn, you already gettin' pussy? And from two chicks? I mean, I always thought you were just weird, but damn.”

The absurdity of what he just said squeezes a laugh out of me. God, where to begin? “Oh come on, like you haven't.”

“Bro, you know it. But how'd your girl find out?”

I start to correct him, but for Matty's sake, I change my mind. “Because I'm honest.”

“So you honestly told on yourself for cheating.” His tone of voice clearly indicates that I've just said gravity is false and the sky is green.

“You know you're breaking your promise right now,” I say, changing the subject quickly.

He freezes for a moment before stammering, “Y...yeah, but I'm trying to do something nice. I can leave if you want.” He says the last bit in a rush.

“No, no that's fine. But why would you choose to help the asshole that's punishing you?”

“What, I can’t just help someone?”

“You wouldn’t ‘just help someone’ unless I was making you. So what gives?”

Rod licks the last of the pizza sauce off his fingers and takes a deep breath. “Because I respect you.” He must see the complete confusion on my face because he quickly adds, “Okay, look. You scare the shit out of me. But, like, I respect you for that, too. You're crazy, and smart, and strong, and nobody fucks with you.”

“So...you show your respect by fucking with me and my friends?”

He throws his head back in a frustrated sigh. “I suck at showing respect, okay? I dunno why I'm such a dick--I just am.”

That statement hits me in a way I don't expect. “Hm. Sounds like you and I are more alike than I thought.”

“Except instead of cheating on my girl, I pick on people.”

“I'm not sure which one's worse.”

Rod just shrugs. After a pause, he asks, “So is that the whole reason you were all depressed today? I mean, you didn't even eat.”

“Heh...this is going to sound really weird, but I felt so bad because I didn't even think about it until way later, like, it didn't even occur to me that I was cheating, I was so into it.”

Rod gives me a very strange look. “Either you were high, or that was some DAMN good pussy.”

I bet this boy hasn't even had pussy before. Then again, you never know. “So is that all you came over to talk about?”

He gathers his trash in silence. “Look.” He takes another breath. “I suck at this sort of thing, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I ain't never seen you so triggered that you sat out of P.E. before, and I figure...if it's bad enough to make you get all bent outta shape, then it's gotta be real bad. And I'm really tryin' to change my ways now, so...I dunno. Feel better, I guess. ...Told you I suck at this.”

“Well, miracle of miracles, it actually kinda worked,” I say with a laugh. “Consider this one out of three good things for the week. And thanks; it actually means a lot that you'd come over to talk.”

I catch a small automatic smile on Rod's lips, the same one as when he told me about holding the door at the library. I honestly don't think he knows how to handle that sort of emotion, the poor thing. Regardless, he quickly stands up with his tray. “There's still a few minutes, in case you wanna go buy a snack or somethin'.” He walks off to the trash cans without so much as a 'goodbye.'

I sit in wonder as he leaves. Do I really make so much of a difference in these people's lives? I've had crowds of people cheering my name, and entire companies toast me, but I can't remember a time where this many people have stopped by out of the goodness of their hearts (or maybe fear, in Rod's case--I'm not 100% convinced) just to try to get me to feel better. Then again, I'm used to rewinding until I'm better so that nobody gets a chance to see me in a moment of weakness. I wonder how many people would have done the same to me in my past lives.

The lunch bell rings at the same time my stomach grumbles, letting me know that I've missed the opportunity to appease the angry spirits in my belly. Ah well--I'll deal with it. I head to my next class in a strangely sedate mood, too busy mulling over new insights to be depressed any longer.

I cheer up a bit by science class, though I still find it hard to look at Matty. Nevertheless, I catch him looking over at me from halfway across the room. He gives me an inscrutable stare until the teacher calls on him to answer a question. He rattles off, “Going from solid to gas is called 'sublimation,' like with dry ice,” as if he were paying rapt attention. I gotta admit, he is pretty good at science. Just seeing him shine for that moment as the teacher compliments him fills me with adoration of his cuteness, pride of his accomplishments, anxiety about how I made him feel, worry that he won't talk to me again...it all just leaves me bewildered more than anything, to be honest.

After class, as I try to escape, Matty calls to me in the hallway, “Wait up!” He catches up and quickly asks, “Hey, um, after math class, can you walk home with me? I wanna talk.”

“Oh, uh, sure. I might need to use your phone to let Mom know I'll be home later than usual, but, yeah sure.”

“Good.” His facial expression is less satisfied and more concerned, which concerns me a bit as a result. “Let's get to class,” he adds after we stand there awkwardly for a moment.

Math class is exactly as exciting as math class ever gets, which gives me all the more time to stew in anxiety over what Matty has to say. Mercifully, time has a habit of continuing at the same pace--when I let it, anyway--so the time comes for Matty to get his stuff and meet up with me at the back door near the gym.

I call my mom to let her know where I’ll be, and we head out. We start off in awkward silence for a painfully long time, but it’s mostly because I see Matty’s face contorting in little ways here and there suggesting that he’s busy processing what he wants to say. I give him a while longer, and he finally says, “So I talked to Beto.”

“I saw.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

“No no, it’s not like that,” he says, apparently reading the tone of my voice better than I realized. “We talked, and...I get it.”

“Get what?”

“I believe you. I don't think you...did it to hurt me, or whatever. I don't really think like you, so I can't...look at things like you do, but you've always been there for me, as long as I've known you. I feel like this was all just a mistake.”

I do not deserve this boy. “A mistake that I've made a lot in my life, yeah.”

“We’re supposed to learn from mistakes, though, right? I really like you--I mean, I love you--and I kinda want us to just be for each other for right now.” His cheeks glow a bit red at the verbal admission.

“What about if we're doing something like we do at parties?”

“Well, that’s different.” I actually notice the slight flush to his cheeks spread a bit more after he says the comment, suffusing his ears and neck as well.

I nod. “I can try.”

We walk in silence a little longer. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I'm really sorry. About the whole thing. I...I guess I've learned something about myself over the last month.”

“What's that?” Matty asks.

“Well, see, I was a mostly decent person the first life I lived.” I kick a loose rock and watch it skip along the ground. “I made mistakes, I did stupid things, I learned from some of them. But after hundreds of years of being able to just take back my mistakes...I think I forgot how to be human.”

Matty looks at me with a confused (and a little amused) expression. “You're doing okay at it as far as I can tell.”

I shrug. “If I had kept rewinding all this time, so much would be different: I wouldn't feel so embarrassed by my actions, I wouldn't be making so many damn mistakes, and--sigh--both of our lives would probably be a lot simpler and less painful, I admit it. But, I dunno...I think I'm happier this way. I feel like I've done something good for myself instead of just lying. Sorry for the analogy, but it's like I finally turned off the cheat codes to life and, y’know, now I can say I'm playing the game the right way.”

Matty stares off, thinking. “That's...huh. Yeah, I get what you're saying.”

“In these few weeks, I've learned so much--remembered so much, really, about just being a decent human being without cheating--” I pause. “I mean, well, literally and figuratively, I guess.” I roll my eyes, and Matty giggles. “But seriously, like, maybe it's better for me to have restarted at this age, so I can remember how to grow up.”

Matty stays silent, but his expression betrays his thoughts. “MAN, that's weird to think about,” he finally admits.

“Tell me about it. It's why I didn't for years. Decades. Hell, I played the adult game for a few centuries, really. I grew up a few times in the middle, but never really put a whole lot of interest into it; I just passed the time until I was adult enough to go screw people over, or maybe just screw them, and make lots of money. I was a dick.” More silence. “Anyway, thank you for forgiving me, and for helping me be a better person.”

He stops to look at me with a loving smile. After an awkward pause, though, he just rolls his eyes. “Come on. You're making it all weird.”

“Hel-lo, have you met me? I make everything weird.” I laugh as he just shakes his head.

With my conscience eased, my tween angst is able to simmer down to a more manageable level of anxiety. I admit that I am hard on myself, but it's been really difficult adjusting to normal-time life, and I'm so used to being able to redo things until they're right that I don't really have much practice dealing with my emotions when things aren't okay.

We walk quietly past the sports fields and concession stands, the jogging track, and the chain-link fence that surrounds the school (thankfully with a gate installed for people like us). As we pass by the back side of the baseball field, I spy the passage that we always pass by, running off into the wooded area behind Matty’s cul-de-sac. “Hey, maybe I could make it up to you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with complete innocence.

“Follow me.” I veer off the beaten path and head toward the woods.

“Are you...sure?” Matty stammers.

“It’s fine, I promise. If there’s any rabid bears, I’ll punch them in the face.” My grin defeats the last of Matty’s resistance, and he rushes to catch up.

The woods themselves aren’t particularly dense; they’re mostly pine, though a few deciduous trees here and there dapple the ground with a decent amount of shade. One could almost pretend that the weather were cool here, though it’s still a month or so to go before that would be a reliable fact. I duck under a low-hanging oak branch and make my way deeper in, far enough away that people walking the path to the neighborhood wouldn’t be able to see us.

Shortly, I feel Matty’s hand brush mine, searching for my fingertips. Just before I grab it, though, an obnoxious voice issues from our left, “Hey, it’s Matty! Did you remember to go pee?” A couple of chuckles echo the sentiment.

I take a glance into the shade and see a trio of boys hanging out by a large pine tree; one of them is smoking a cigarette. The smoking one seems a bit short, maybe a tiny bit taller than Matty, with long straw-blond hair combed over in an outdated wave. The other two are I suppose my height or so, though it's hard to tell with them leaning. Matty mutters, “It's Chris from choir. He's a jerk; just ignore him.”

I try to do so, but as we walk off, he says, “Hey, y'all boyfriends or somethin'?”

Oh, here we go. “Why, you lookin' for one?” I ask, turning around slowly.

“I guess you like 'em faggy,” he says to Matty, looking at me with a sneer as he walks out from the tree with the other two boys behind. “That's some real fag talk there.”

“We're not boyfriends,” Matty snaps. Even though I know why he's lying, it stings to know that he has to.

One of the other boys, a broad-shouldered, squat kid with borderline emo hair, affects a baby-talk voice and teases, “Aw, is the little soprano mad?” His voice suggests he's probably in the tenor section, along with this Chris fellow. “If y'all ain't boyfriends, why y'all walking together?”

I can't help myself. “Wait, weren't y'all the ones all hiding together in the woods first? I'm pretty sure 'walking together' doesn't count as gay, but hiding in the woods? That's not suspicious or anything.”

“Keep talking, fag.” Chris's wit just gets sharper and sharper.

“Don't need to--you got the 'fag talk' covered, Princess.” I see Matty give me one of those 'shut the hell up so we can go' sorts of looks, so I add, “Look, we have some important ‘ignoring you’ to do, so you guys just--”

“What the fuck did you call me?” Chris says in his most menacing voice.

“What? Oh, it was 'Princess,' but anyway, we really gotta go. Bye, Princess!” I turn around and start walking, Matty following close behind.

“I'm not fucking done with you!” Chris spits, closing the distance rapidly between us by the sound of his voice.

I whirl around, staring him dead in the eyes. “I don't want to fight you, Chris. Why do you want to fight so bad?”

“Because fucking freak fags like you need their asses kicked!” Jesus, where do people like this come from? They're like a dime a dozen around here, and all the exact fucking same.

I take a breath instead of the bait. “Chris, please. It's not worth either of our time to do this.” I turn back around.

He replies by shoving me forward. “The fuck you got? Huh? The fuck you got?!” I admit that I've never heard that phrase before, but I'm guessing it's just fight talk.

I keep walking. “Oh, thanks for the boost. I didn't realize how slow I was walking.”

“You fucking little fa--” he says as he's striding back up to me, but the last word is drawn out in a yelp when I duck his obvious shove attempt, grab his arms, and nearly launch myself off the floor as I simultaneously lift him and flip him over my back, causing him to land with a resounding thud square on his own back. I look back to see the others have approached much closer, but on seeing that move, they both take an involuntary step back when they see my gaze.

I immediately look down with shock on my face. “Oh my God, are you all right?! That was a crazy fall! Here, let me help you up.” I extend a hand in all honesty. It seems his diaphragm is still stunned by the impact, as all he can do is try to gasp for air and mouth words at me. “Do you need me to call someone to help? You poor thing, stay right there, and I'll be right back!” I notice the lit cigarette in the dead leaves and quickly stamp it out. “Sorry. Smoky told me to do it.”

He finally gets the chance to take a breath, but as he tries to, his lip begins to quiver. “F-fuck you,” is all he can manage as tears fill his eyes.

Shit, now I kinda feel bad for him. Strangely enough, though, Matty steps over toward him. “Don't pull that. You're just crying for attention, like with the twins.”

Damn, dude. I didn’t see that coming. What I do see coming, though, is his friends. I interpose myself between them and Matty, just in case. “Don’t do this, guys. I don’t want to fight.”

The third kid, a dark-skinned boy as broad-shouldered as the other but bigger all around (mostly fat, but that’s the beginning of puberty for ya) and a face that speaks of some sort of Middle Eastern heritage, says, “Well it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” As he starts to advance, the Emo-haired kid pulls out a fucking switchblade from his pocket and closes in as well. I don’t know how he managed to get through school without that being questioned, but here he is.

“Look, I really don’t want to do this. Your friend is fine, and this isn’t gonna be a fair fight.”

Emo-hair Kid sneers. “Oh, the little bitch gonna cry now that there’s a knife?” They both advance threateningly.

“Fine,” I offer. “Just leave Matty out of it.” No sooner do I say it than Matty darts off around a nearby tree. Shortly afterward, I hear the sound of piss drenching tree bark. I turn back to Emo and say, “No, I’m not afraid of anything smaller than my dick, but I can see why it makes you feel powerful.”

“You got a big fuckin’ mouth, little man.” This coming from the kid who’s shorter than me. Granted they’re both wider than me, but it just doesn’t have the same effect. They both close in more, and I hear the shuffling of dead leaves from where I body-slammed that ‘Chris’ kid. I glance over to see him brushing himself off.

I really do have a big mouth, but I just can’t let these shitbags win. Call it a weakness of mine. “I said this wasn’t going to be a fair fight not as a surrender, but as a warning. Don’t do this. Please. I hate hurting people when I don’t have to.”

The two big kids look at each other and crack up laughing. Emo finally starts walking up with purpose, knife at the ready. I hold my hand out in a ‘gimme’ gesture. “Come on, hand over the knife before you hurt yourself.”

“Sure,” he says, reaching out with the knife in the act of giving it to me, feinting at the last second to try to slash at my hand instead. I move out of the way. He slashes at my face, a move that I easily dodge. “One more chance,” I say. “One more chance before I get serious.”

I hear the quick shiff of leaves being kicked from under a running foot, followed by the pounding of Chris’s feet. The dark-skinned boy flanks me from the side as Chris quickly charges me from behind, presumably to tackle me at the speed that he’s sprinting. All three close in as close to simultaneously as possible, leaving me an obvious exit to my left. I tuck and roll out of the way, and as I get up to reassess the situation, I hear a cracking screech (followed by one from Matty behind the tree). I see a large gash running up Chris’s arm, with Emo frozen in surprise at what he’s just done.

I detest these guys, but I just don’t think I can let that happen. I rewind (it doesn’t count if it’s in defense of someone’s life) to the point where I’m going to be tackled and instead of rolling out, I fall backward and kick up at Emo’s knife hand (it takes one or two rewinding tries--this isn’t an easy feat, so to speak) just before it would contact Chris’s arm. He yelps in surprise and loses grip of the knife, which flies up in the air. Chris lands on top of me, his face connecting harshly with my shinbone. This sends us both reeling, him off toward Kid #3 (I don’t know what to call him, so he gets a number) and me almost axe-kicking Emo with my leg. I see where the knife is headed--funny enough, almost exactly where I had rolled to previously--and with another rewind or two, I manage to roll out of the way and sit up just in time to grab the knife by the hilt. (I admit that I grabbed it by the blade on one attempt, but nobody has to know how much that bled.) I immediately point it at Emo, who has already begun to lunge at me. “Don’t you fucking think about it,” I warn with my best ‘I will kill you’ face, despite the unholy throbbing of my shinbone.

He stumbles to a stop as best he can. “Holy shit,” he whispers.

Chris is tucked in the fetal position, holding his nose, which is probably going to bruise at least as bad as my shin. Fuck. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, but sometimes you can’t avoid it. “What’re your names?” I ask.

“Eric,” Emo says quickly.

“Amir,” the other one mutters, glancing back and forth between the knife and Chris.

“Where’d you get this knife?”

Eric involuntarily glances toward the line of houses. “From my dad’s collection,” he admits.

“Well, you almost sliced Chris’s arm up with it.” I fold the blade up and put it in my pocket. “Finders keepers. Maybe when you explain to your dad that you lost his knife trying to cut some kid’s face, he’ll teach you how to keep a better hold on them. If he’s as fucked up as you are, that is.” I point at Amir. “And you. You want to show me how someone’s supposed to fight, or are you just gonna throw insults like the ‘fag’ you all said I was?”

“No, no, I’m cool. Chill.” He puts his hands up placatingly.

Back to Eric: “Do you realize you seriously were thinking of using a knife to cut up some kid? What the holy ever-living fuck is wrong with you?” I turn to all three of them with a deep breath. “You have no idea who you may be fucking with at any time. You don’t know which kid lives in a house full of guns who’s gonna come after you for bullying him. You don’t know whose dad is a Navy SEAL or even an underground cage fighter. You don’t know if that kid has been taught how to snap your neck like a twig.” I step on a nearby branch for emphasis; Amir jumps at the sound. “Sure, it’s probably not common, but you didn’t expect this either, did you? Now, I want to go on a walk with my friend here, and I want all of you to fuck off. Far away. And if I hear a word out of any of you about even having seen us, or if Matty even has a bad day and tells me he wants to see one of you get hurt, I’ll return this knife. To your kidney. So...fuck off. Quickly.”

Eric and Amir fuck off as quickly as can be fucked; Chris stumbles forward a bit, trying to gain his balance as he stands up to run. “Wait,” I tell him. He freezes, wide-eyed. “Why do you fuck with people so much? I’m really trying to figure it out. I can’t figure out why bullies do it.”

“I onno!” He says through his hands as a small trail of blood trickles through his palms. “Doh hur me!”

At this point, Matty comes out from behind the tree and rejoins me; I notice a bit of a dark spot on his khaki pants, but I’m guessing he got it mostly on the tree. I say, “So, Chris. First off, I’m sorry about your nose. I really didn’t want to hurt anyone, especially not on accident with my shin. By the way, that still hurts like a bitch--you have a solid face.” At his silence, I keep going. “So why are you so homophobic?”

“Do wha?” he asks through his hands.

“Why do you talk all this shit about ‘fags’ and ‘needing their asses kicked’ and all that?” No reply. “I personally think it’s because you’re taking something out on other people. You know what, hold on a sec.” I fish in a side pocket of my backpack and pull out an unopened package of tissues that Mom shoved in there in case I got a bad cold or something. I open it up gently and fish one out for Chris. “Here. Clean yourself up. Pinch your nose; it’ll help.”

Matty mutters, “Don’t help him. He’s not worth it.”

Chris and I both stop and stare at Matty for a moment. I say, “Matty?”

He takes a step forward and gets in Chris’s face. “All you do is tease people and make fun of them, and talk mess, and cause problems. You can’t even sing all that good, even when you DO sing. Most of the time you’re just back there making stupid comments, and when you can’t hit a note, you just make fun of the people that can! And--and THEN, when Kasha talked back to you, all of a sudden you were all pouty and stuff, like you ran out of things to say, and then you shoved him into a door. What the heck? You can’t take what you dish out? All you know how to do is...is piss people off! Why don’t you just shut up and leave people alone?!” By the end of this, Matty is veritably shrieking at Chris, tears streaming from his cheeks, his fists clenched in the closest I’ve ever seen Matty to actually fighting someone.

Chris, for his part, backs up slowly at each accusation, eyes widening at the tirade. As his response to Matty, he just stares at him, tears welling in his own eyes, and then suddenly dashes off toward the houses, scrambling to catch himself once or twice with his free hand as he holds the tissue to his nose.

Matty glares at Chris the entire time, breathing as though he had just wrestled Chris down to the ground and choked the life out of him. Even after Chris is out of sight, Matty continues to stare at the fence line until his breathing begins to slow back to normal. Then, his knees buckle and he sits down cross-legged, head hanging as if deflated.

I plop down next to him. “Matty, that was incredible! I’ve never seen you so...so powerful!”

Matty responds with a shuddering sob and begins weeping. “I just--I just can’t--take it anymore. I hate them, I h--hate them, I hate…”

I put my arms around him and hold him as he loses his words in the tears. “I know, Matty. I can’t stand them, either. That was very brave of you.” After a moment longer of Matty getting the emotions out, I add, “Um, I just wanted to say that...that whole thing was definitely NOT how I wanted to make it up to you.”

He looks at me, confused, but when the realization hits, he just snorts and breaks into hiccupping giggles. “Dangit, Phillip.” He play-smacks me and then leans in for a full hug, which I gleefully provide.

“I promise I had no idea this was apparently a hiding spot for smoking bullies. That was a complete surprise.”

Matty shrugs. “I just can’t believe he smokes cigarettes. I mean, he’s in choir.”

That makes it my turn to laugh. “Hey, uh, we should probably at least head to your place so they don’t put out an APB for us.”

We stand up, brush ourselves off, and head through the crack in Matty’s fence (I’m just thankful I don’t have to take my English textbook home or I might not fit through the gap). Matty calls out that he’s home, and Ms. Petersen looks over. “Hey, Matty--Phillip! Good to see you!”

I smile. “Hi, Ms. Petersen.” We head into Matty’s room and close the door out of habit.

Inside, Matty hops up on the bed, and I join him. It’s immediately clear that he has other things on his mind. “Phillip?” he asks. “Why does everyone pick on me?”

I look him in the eyes, taking in the pleading expression. “Every bully has their own reason, I guess, but would it surprise you if I said that, in Chris’s case, it was probably jealousy?”

He blinks a few times. “You’re trolling me.”

“No, seriously. I hurt him, but he kept coming after me. When you hurt him, you hurt him deep.”

“What do you mean?” Matty’s face hints at confusion mixed with a touch of worry.

“You pointed out every one of his weaknesses that you could. It cut him deeper than this knife could have.” I pat my pocket for emphasis. “If what you say is true--that he makes fun of the people that can hit the high notes and sing well--then he’s probably doing it to make y’all feel worse about the things he already feels bad about.”

Matty takes in the idea and tosses it about in his head a bit. “So you think he wants to sing good?”

“Yeah, and I think it’s more than that. I think he’s jealous that you sing well, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was attracted to you.”

Matty rolls his eyes hard enough to rotate the room. “Oh come ON.”

“I dunno...he seemed pretty interested in whether you had a boyfriend.” The grin I give Matty is reciprocated by a well-deserved shoulder smack. “But I’m being serious. I’ve learned something about people in my years: if someone seems to hate something for no reason, it’s probably got to do with something they hate about themselves. Unless Chris honestly believes that it’s God’s mandate that ‘fags need to have their asses kicked,’ it’s probably something his parents told him, and he wouldn’t care nearly so much unless it was personal. So either he…”

“Either he what?” Matty asks.

I debate whether I should say what I think is the truth, but I think Matty can handle it. “Either he’s gay and hates himself for it--especially if he heard that kind of shit from his parents--or he was abused by someone male and hates them for it. Not to bring up bad memories or anything, but everyone has their way of dealing with trauma. Some ways are healthy, and others are harmful; sadly, the harmful ones are bad for others just as often as for themselves.”

Matty silently ponders those words. He mumbles something that starts with “I don’t wanna,” but I miss the rest of it.

“Do what now?”

“I don’t wanna hafta go to court,” he admits. “Daddy...My dad’s trial starts next week. I don’t wanna go.”

“I don’t think you have to, Matty.”

“But if I don’t, then I won’t know what’s going on, and--I dunno, maybe I might miss something important.”

“Yeah,” I reply, “but your mom can fill you in on the details. I’m sure that if it would make you too uncomfortable to be there, your mom would want you to stay out of it. Besides, you can’t miss that much school, right? I mean, the trial could go on a while.”

Matty knits his brow. “But why? They saw him. YOU saw him, you took pictures, Mom was there...how the heck could they not just call him guilty?”

“Because court is a shitty place, sometimes.” I shake my head, recalling various times I’d been in court--and not all of them on the plaintiff’s side. “Matty, I’m sorry to say it, but there’s a chance, even with all the evidence, that he could get away with it. I’ll be honest: I’ve tested the system lots of times in my past and found it severely lacking. As an adult out to get filthy rich, I got away with more crimes--misdemeanor, felony, white-collar, you name it--than I’ll ever admit; I mean I’ve literally even killed people and managed to be acquitted, just to prove to myself that I could.”

The pause that follows is pregnant enough to have triplets. Matty tentatively takes a deep breath and stops, looking around the room and my face for the words he wants to say. “So...I know you said you’ve been in wars and shot people, but...you never said you did it on purpose.”

I smile unintentionally, both at how perceptive he is, and how much of an idiot I’ve been in life. “I’ve only once ever killed someone just for the sake of killing,” I admit. “The remorse I felt, mixed with the fear of my own power, haunted me for a very long time afterward. Needless to say, I rewound quickly. Though I’ve killed since, it’s always been ‘sanctioned’ in some way: self-defense, defense of others, war, that sort of thing. It’s never been easy to do, though, and it never should be. Killing someone should be the hardest choice anyone could ever make. If there’s any way to get what you want without ending someone else’s life, that should be what you do. Always.”

“Phillip, um, you’re bleeding.” He points to my thumb, which is streaked with red from the cuticle on the side that I’ve been unconsciously picking at.

I quickly pop that part of my thumb in my mouth, trying to keep the blood

from staining anything else while it works on clotting. “Thorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says with a growing smile and a look on his face that says, ‘I’m really trying not to laugh at how awkward you’re being.’

“Tho,” I lisp over the thumb in my mouth, “I know you keep thaying you’re a baby, but, um, your boyfriend is thucking his thumb. Juth thaying.”

Matty manages to keep a straight face for only two seconds before breaking into a giggle fit. “You’re so stupid,” he says between laughs.

“I nah thtupid! You thtupid!”

He laughs harder, swatting at my hand to get me to stop. “Stop, stop, you’re gonna make me pee!”

“Thorry, thorry.” I pop my thumb out of my mouth to check on the bleeding. “It’s a bad habit when I’m nervous or stressed.”

“What, sucking your thumb?” he asks with a barely-contained laugh.

I look sheepishly at the wall. “I walked right into that one. No, the ‘picking at my thumb’ bit. I guess the thumb-sucking comes into play when I start bleeding, so I’m like a self-vampiric baby. I only suck my thumb when I’m drinking my own blood.”

Matty stares at me for a moment, and we both crack into peals of laughter at the same time. An instant later, Matty squeals, “Ack! I’m peeing!” as he tucks his hands between his legs.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter--you had a wet spot anyway.” To drive the point home, I start tickling him.

“Stop stop stop stop!” he cries out, still laughing. “It’ll get on the bed!”

I see that the wet spot has grown to encompass a much larger area, so I quickly thrust my hands between his arms, struggling against his wiggling tickle defense, and roll with him off the bed, guiding myself to land on my butt and rolling back quickly with him landing squarely on top of me, his wet crotch smashed up against my own. “There, your bed is safe.”

“But--” he looks down between us. “Your pants--!”

I am well aware that my uniform pants probably look like I peed in them by this point, or at least that someone spilled something on me. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if I do this, then,” I say, wrapping my hands around his back to hug him close and tickling his armpits on the opposite sides.

“Aiee! Phillip! Stop!” he shrieks between giggles, squirming in vain to escape my grasp. Shortly, I feel warmth on my groin; apparently he still had more to pee. I tickle for a moment longer until he yelps out, “Stoooooop!”

I give it a rest, still holding him tightly. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. You were just so...I dunno. Ticklable.”

“Phillip!” he says with huge eyes. “You made me pee on you!”

I shrug. “Yeah, but pants are easier to clean than the bedsheets, right?” I notice a very strong tightness in my jeans and add, “Also, I don’t think anyone else has ever peed my pants before, so that’s new.”

Matty has this exasperated, exhausted, and hilariously indignant face right now. “Well, I said stop!”

“I’m so fucking hard right now.”

Matty looks between us, adding, “I can tell.”

“If I tickle you, will you pee more on me?”

“Phillip! That’s just weird. Besides, I--I think I’m out,” he admits with a strange face. “I kinda peed a lot on the tree earlier.” He immediately realizes the reason I’m asking and adds, “No! Don’t you DARE.”

I feel the wetness slowly spreading through my underwear, stopping more or less just past my balls. If I wasn’t ridiculously hard right now and bent in a strange angle, I’d add to the warmth. Even that thought gets me almost painfully harder, so that idea is out the window. Instead, I say, “That’s fine, I’m good. Well, on the tickling. Now we have the problem that we both have wet pants.”

Matty makes no attempt to move. “That’s your fault, not mine.”

“You peed.”

“You tickled me.”

“But you peed both our pants.”

“But you tickled me!”

“Okay, fine, you win. I made you pee my pants. That’s still totally fucking hot.”

Matty opens his mouth, but just sighs and shakes his head. “Let go. I need to change pants.”

I do, and he extricates himself from the tangle of arms and legs that we have become. I sit up to survey the damage: Matty is very definitely soaked throughout the front of his pants, and it’s clear that the front of my pants are wet, though it doesn’t necessarily look like a pee accident as much as a drinking mishap. I reach in my briefs to adjust myself out of the hideously uncomfortable angle I’m pointing and sit myself up. Matty shucks his pants and briefs off in a very matter-of-fact way, much less visibly upset about peeing himself than he usually is. “You’re not mad that I made you pee, are you?”

Using the legs of his pants to wipe up his groin, he wads up the soaked garments and tosses them in his laundry hamper. “Eh, like you said, they were already wet. Besides, that wasn’t my fault; that was all you.”

“So if I make you pee, it’s okay?”

He gives me a death stare, betrayed by the slight smile fighting against his pursed lips. “You stop that.”

I look at the ceiling innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah? What if I tickled you until you peed?”

“Well, first off, I’m way too hard to do that, and second, my pants are already wet after someone peed them. Oh, and three, you tickling me would be so hot I’d probably just cum. You give me a really short fuse.”

Matty just groans and shakes his head again. “I swear, Phillip.” Then, looking at my crotch, he bites his lip. “What are you gonna do about...that?” He nods to the wet spot.

I look down, pondering my options. “I mean, I could just say I peed myself. Mom might not take it well, though, so I could just as easily say I spilled a drink on me. By the time I get home, though, the wind and heat will make it not nearly as bad-looking as it is now, so I’m not too worried.”

“You sure? I kinda feel bad.”

“But I made you do it.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right--too bad.” He grins overly smugly at me and heads to his dresser, getting out a pair of shorts and a new pair of underwear. “I was gonna change into shorts, anyway, but still…” he says, giving me the stink eye on the way to the door. “I’m going to go wash up and change.”

I do my damnedest to suppress the grin I’m feeling right now--Matty peed himself and is barely even upset about it. I couldn’t possibly tell him this, but this is the first step of my evil plan to make him comfortable with himself. Let’s say that it’s a ‘stretch goal’ to see if I can get him to enjoy peeing, but I’m not holding my breath. (If I did, I’d miss out on that wonderful boy aroma, and what a tragedy that would be!)

He promises he won’t be long, so I wait until he washes up and shows back up in his cute little jean shorts. He comes to sit back on the floor with me, but glares through squinted eyes at me, first. “You better not make me pee again. Mom will be so mad.”

“I thought you were out.”

“Well, I mean, I was, but you know. Ugh, whatever, just don’t.”

“Fine, fine. Anything to make my boyfriend happy.”

He unconsciously breaks into a wide smile for a moment before some thought interrupts it. “So...do you think my dad will end up in jail?”

Oh, this poor kid. I can see the struggle written deep into his face. “Is that what you want?”

He looks into my eyes, and then at his hands. He brushes an invisible speck off the back of his hand as he replies quietly, “I don’t know.”

“Well, it depends on a lot of things: what your lawyer asks for, what the judge feels like, even what the defense does. It’s hard to say at this point, but that’s a definite possibility. Look, I didn’t mean to scare you earlier about saying that he might end up getting acquitted--‘not guilty’ (even though we all know he did it)--but you have to be prepared for all the possibilities. Really, though, I don’t think he’ll get away with it, as long as your lawyer does his job.”

He nods silently, staring off at a poster for an old video game RPG on his wall. “So what happens if he goes to jail?”

“What...do you mean?”

His eyes snap to mine. “Like, what happens to him? Is he gonna end up like all the other people after jail?”

“I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that,” I admit, “but I don’t think he’s going to come out wearing a mohawk and riding a motorcycle, if that’s what you mean.”

Matty groans out a long sigh and stares off to the side. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Taking a deep breath, I say, “Matty. Don’t worry about that right now. You just need to take care of yourself, eh? Leave all that until it happens; worrying about it right now isn’t going to change anything except your mood and health.” I lean to the side to meet his eyes again, which have misted over. I reach out and take his hands in mine. “Look at me. Now, I want you to know that I’ll do whatever I can to help you and to make you happy, because I love the hell out of you and hate seeing you sad. But I can’t work miracles.” I stop and think about what I said. “Correction: I can, but I can’t fix everything. A 12-year-old can only do so much, no matter how long he’s been around.”

Matty giggles at the absurdity of that last statement, and then stares into my eyes for a silent moment. “Phillip? Do you think I’m weak?”

“What?” The question throws me so off guard that my voice cracks heavily on the reply. “No!”

“I just feel weak, like...like I can’t do anything.”

“Oh, Matty.” I hug him to my side (avoiding my wet and now cold crotch). “Strength isn’t always about being able to do something, or being able to fix things. Just getting through life itself is a form of strength. Living through cancer and still being the freaking awesome person you are is a strength that I rarely see in people. Matty, you are stronger than you’ll ever know. Hell, you’re even better at dealing with your emotions than I’ve ever been. You’ve been bullied, you’ve been sick, you’ve been raped, and you still find ways to giggle, and--and even do better at science than I do. I still don’t know how you do it, but when I see you answer questions in science, I can’t help but feel proud for you. You really know your stuff.”

“Well, yeah, but…” he says with an irrepressible smile.

“But nothing,” I interrupt. “You can’t fix the entire world. Even I can’t, and that’s something that I still have to convince myself of, sometimes. There are over 7 billion people in the world, and if even one of them could fix everything...well, it’d be fixed by now, right?”

Matty rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” I say softly. “You can’t do anything about your body, but you can do something about how you deal with it. And from what I see, you are doing well with that.  You can’t do anything about your dad right now, or the trial, so don’t let it get you down. You certainly can’t do anything about how many jerks there are in the world, but you can do what you did today and stand up for yourself. I’ll be honest: I don’t think he’ll ever bother you again. If he does, though…” I crack my knuckles to punctuate the thought.

He laughs a little bit at my silliness, and then lays his head on my shoulder, letting out a long sigh. “You really do feel like...like my old dad sometimes. Like the way he used to be. He used to be silly, and make me laugh, and...he’d tell me he was proud of me, like when I got those trophies.” He looks up at his shelves and sighs again. “I wish he was still like that.”

I lean my head on his. “Maybe he still wants to be, but just forgot how.”

After a pause, Matty asks, “But how do you forget how to be a dad?”

“Well, I don’t like to admit this, but…you already know there will be wars in the future. They’re the ones that I was in--overseas thankfully, not here. But after I got back from those, I was a broken man. So much killing, so much...needless suffering. I tried to erase that from my memory by drinking, by using drugs, by having sex nonstop with whoever would take me. But the memories of what I saw were stronger than the memories of, well, how to be the normal ‘me’ that I used to be. Instead of losing the memories that haunted me, I lost the rest of me, leaving just the memories and...and a guy who could barely function as a human. After those wars, I’ve never been quite the same. It got so bad early on that I reset my entire life and hid my feelings in the comfort of a dark womb for a few of my own years, rewinding before I was born just to stay away from it all a little longer. All these things I did were to escape from my own mind and the torture it would inflict on me.” I take a deep breath to stop the swelling of emotion deep within my chest. “Now I’m not saying that your dad is doing things for the same reasons I did, but when someone just starts drinking, especially if they’re predisposed to being an alcoholic, it can consume them more than they consume it, if you get me. Drugs and alcohol can make a person forget everything about themselves, and sometimes, that’s what the person wants. Or, at least, that’s what they think they want. Point is, your dad isn’t the dad you knew, and won’t be until he’s far away from the drink. Maybe after the trial he’ll get a chance to go to rehab and get back to being the dad you loved.”

We both sit silently for a moment. Matty timidly says, “Can I ask a really weird question?”

“Heh, always.”

“Can...is it okay if I think of you like my dad, sometimes?” He picks his head up and turns to look at me. “I mean, you’re like a dad to me in some ways, and...and sometimes you make me feel like I used to with him.” His brow furrows in his characteristic I-can’t-figure-out-the-words face.

The surge of love I feel for this boy is utterly indescribable. “I’d be proud to be your ‘Sometimes Dad,’” I say with an ear-to-ear grin. “As long as the rest of the time I get to be either your BF, or at least BFF.”

Matty grins along with me. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” I hug him tightly.

“Boys?” Ms. Petersen says from the doorway. I whirl around in surprise as Matty and I both stand up in automatic unison.

“Hey, Ms. Petersen,” I say innocently. I mean, I am innocent. We weren’t doing anything. We were just hugging.

“You’re not in trouble or anything,” she says with a wry look on her face. “As long as you’re just hugging, I don’t really--Phillip, did you pee yourself?”

“No, he peed me.” I point to Matty, whose face is one of utter shock.

“PHILLIP!” he screeches, slapping my shoulder.

“It was totally my fault, though; I tickled him. I accept complete blame.”

“I--” Matty’s mom begins, but loses her words for a moment. Shaking her head, she mumbles to herself, “Why do I even ask?” Looking back at me, she gestures to the ‘accident’ on my pants. “You can’t just sit there in wet pants, either way. That’s not healthy. Look, I hate to break it up, but you need to go home and get a change of pants.”

“Yeah, I know.” Slumping my shoulders in a caricature of dejection, I slouch over and pick up my backpack.

“Anyway, Matty, I need to talk to you for a bit, so if you’ll come out into the living room after you two say your goodbyes.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And please--keep the kisses on the cheeks. No lip-kissing yet--you’re too young for that.”

“MOM!!”

I can’t help but break into poorly-contained laughter at Ms. Petersen’s obvious attempts to embarrass Matty. I can remember long, long ago feeling like Matty does now, and were I in his mom’s shoes, I’d probably be doing exactly the same. She ducks out of the room and I turn to see the reddest-cheeked Matty I’ve ever seen.

I place a hand on his warm cheek and smile lovingly. He gently grabs my hand, and we just stare at each other for a long moment, him holding my hand to his face, us both communicating endless volumes of emotion through wordless communion. “Well,” I finally say, “I can say that I’m just as proud to be a father figure to you as I am thrilled to be your boyfriend. You’re a wonderful person, a strong person, a caring person, and I never want any of that to change. What does need to be changed, though, is my pants, so I should probably go.”

The last bit takes him off-guard and sets him giggling. “Well, that’ll teach you to tickle your boyfriend.” He lets go of my hand and hugs me tightly, unconcerned about the dampness between us. (It’s dried out a little bit by this point, anyway.) He pulls away after a moment and pecks me on the cheek, leaving me with an unexpected smile.

We finally say our goodbyes and I walk all the way back to the school to grab my bike, fully aware that I look like I’ve pissed myself. The school grounds are mostly barren by this point, anyway, though a few kids are still camped out at the picnic-style tables that dot the front courtyard. Unsurprisingly, nobody even glances my way as I unlock my bike and start heading home. Hell, even if they did, I don’t think anything could ruin the emotional high I’m on right now.

Biking at high speed to dry my pants leaves my crotch cold and wet, and the constant reminder of why it’s wet keeps me hard on the way home. I walk through the front door; tell Mom, “No, I didn’t pee my pants, long story,” before she even gets a chance to speak; and bound up the stairs, swinging into my room around the doorframe and closing the door. I have some wicked jacking off to do. 

******* 

Thankfully enough, a few weeks pass by with almost no exciting encounters at school. I swear, they could make a soap opera: “Adventures at Akronis!” or something like that. I don’t get a chance to see Matty quite as often, but we share a decent amount of time together. (Most of it is when his mom is around, so the sexual stuff is at a minimum, sadly.)

The situation with Rod actually improves pretty dramatically over those weeks. At the third Friday of his ‘penance,’ I show up at the bike racks to see him already waiting for me.

“Hey, Phillip,” he calls out with what I could almost mistake to be a smile on his face.

“‘Sup, Rod,” I reply. “What's the news?”

“I don’t think you were in the locker room yet, but I, uh, apologized to Matty. For, you know. All the stuff I did.” He manages to maintain a pretty stoic face when he says the words, but a slight lack of eye contact and a hint of red in the neck betrays his response to the action itself.

I nod with the characteristic ‘not bad’ expression on my face for a silent moment. “Wow. That counts for...quite a few good deeds, really. Did you go through all the things you did?”

“What? No! I mean--I didn’t really have time to. I just said that I was sorry for being a dick all the time and that he didn’t deserve it.”

“Eh, that’s fair. So what else did you do this week?” I ask. When he doesn’t respond at first, I prod, “Was that it?”

“No, no! I did other things.” Rod looks around, as if the next thing he wanted to say was sensitive material. “So, Diego was messin’ around with that redhead kid in P.E., right? Like, shoving him, throwing the basketball at him, stupid shit like that. I know you told me not to even talk to him, but I figured it was important to get him to stop, y’know? So I walk over and catch the basketball as he throws it, and just act like I needed it to go shoot hoops. I didn’t say anything to him! I just stopped him from, y’know. I mean, I gave him a look, but no...no talking or anything.” He’s staring at me with this perfect mix of ‘I hope that’s enough’ and ‘Please God don’t hurt me.’ My inner sadist is pleased with the latter, and my inner optimist with the former.

“I was wondering what that was about,” I admit. “I saw something going on, but I figured you’d tell me about it. Don’t be surprised if Diego has to stay home and rest for a while after I get my hands on him. Anyway, I appreciate all the good work you’re doing.” The corners of his lips twitch again, almost like a smile that is unused to inhabiting the lips that it tries to sit on. “So...how’s it feel now?”

At the question, his tense posture breaks. “Actually, it’s...it’s not that bad. It’s kinda nice when people say ‘thanks’ to you once in a while. God, that sounds stupid to say.” At this, he breaks into a genuine grin, a sort of expression that is half-nervous and half free.

“Well, I’m not judging. If I haven’t already, I officially apologize for almost killing you, and I’m proud of you for changing who you are.” I hold out a hand.

He looks at it consideringly for a moment and accepts it, his meaty fingers enveloping my own in a firm, sincere handshake. “So do I hafta keep doing it? This whole thing.”

I grin mischievously. “How about one more week, just for a nice round month of kindness?”

“You are so fucking weird, Phillip.”

“You have no idea how often I hear that.”

He walks off with a smile of disbelief on his face, but I can tell that he’s not really all that irritated with the request. If I’m not mistaken, in fact, I think he’s actually okay with it.

The Monday a week afterward is another story, entirely. I get to gym class after a boring morning, keeping myself from imagining each of the boys in the locker room with erections, when a loud popping sound suddenly reverberates through the area. Before I can analyze the situation, I’ve already flown over the benches and am pressed up against the other side of the bathroom wall, out of sight of the entrance to the locker room. I hear confusion, and then another loud pop, followed by intense screaming from everyone in the room. Holy fuck, there’s a goddamn gunner in the school.

Suddenly, shots start ringing out one after another in semi-automatic succession, with not a lot of ricochet or metal impact sounds. If he comes around the corner, I’ll take him out--

MATTY! Oh God no, I can’t let this happen! I whirl around the corner, ready to leap at the assailant. It’s Michael, the redheaded kid. It’s always the shy, quiet ones. I don’t get much more time to think about it before he turns the gun to me and fires with almost no pause for aiming. The bullet tears through my throat, completely severing my spinal cord. There is almost no pain, but my body drops to the floor, instantly useless.

Rewind. I whirl around the corner and immediately duck, where I see most of the bodies of the students in the class already littering the floor; Matty has already been shot in the head. No. No, no, no.

Rewind further. I wait outside to see which way he approaches from. I look toward the front doors of the school, and a bullet strikes me in the back, piercing a lung.

Rewind. I turn in that direction to see his approach: he comes from the back doors that we always use for easy escape. I have just enough time to poke my head in the gym and yell, “SHOOTER! ACTIVE SHOOTER! FIND COVER!” and face off with him before he levels his gun and nails me in the shoulder.

Rewind. I wait. I yell. I dodge where the bullet will hit. The next one punctures through me square in the stomach.

Rewind. Wait. Yell. Dodge a different direction. My jaw is shattered by an accurate round.

Rewind. Wait. Yell. Dodge. Dodge. I get a step closer and yell, “Michael, please!” Chest, inches to the right of my heart. The pain and punctured lung prevent any further attempt at communication. If I can just get through to him in either body or words, I can stop this catastrophe!

Rewind. Wait. Yell. Dodge twice. Yell while moving a different direction. His gun tracks my movement like one would hunt a deer bounding through the forest. It’s exceedingly clear that this boy has had years of practice with firearms, probably that one in particular. Everything goes black.

Rewind. Rewind. Rewind. Rewind. Some of the shots are blissfully painless, others a creeping burning sensation, my body jerking at each one like I’ve been punched with a dull jousting lance. I begin to feel mentally fuzzy, like the feeling you’d get when you’ve just learned three physics lessons back-to-back and are trying to play chess afterward. Rewind. Rewind. Rewind. He’s just too good; there’s no opening, no matter what.

I can’t keep this up. I literally can’t stop this from happening.

As a last-ditch effort, I rewind to Friday, where I have a chance to see him before all of this. I catch sight of him in gym class, right after Rod catches the ball that was aimed at Michael. Diego seems irritated, but as Rod walks off with the ball anyway, Diego gives a wicked sneer to Michael, who turns and stalks off with clenched fists.

I move to intercept Michael, who nearly jumps off the floor when he realizes I’m in his way. “Hey. Stay right here a sec--I need to remind Diego of something.”

Michael stares at me with confusion and disgust seething in his red-rimmed eyes. “What, you gonna join in, too?”

I shake my head with a grim expression. “Hold on.” I walk across the court, getting hit accidentally with a flying soccer ball (it’s Free-Play Friday, so there’s all sorts of shit flying around) on my way to Diego. I completely ignore it, and Diego notices. He has since grabbed another basketball--probably from someone who was using it, the asshole--but when he sees me, he stops the shot he was about to make, instead lowering his hands and letting the ball drop to the floor. I stare hot death at him as I approach. “Did you forget?”

“What?” he asks, completely playing dumb.

“Did you forget what I would do to you?”

Surprisingly, Diego stands his ground. “You just told me not to talk to Rod ever again. I ain’t talked to him.”

I pick up the basketball and get up really close, dribbling the ball to mask my intentions and words. “The next time you fuck with someone, you’re fucked. Clear?”

He just looks at me with the expression someone wears shortly before spitting in your face, takes the basketball from me mid-dribble, and walks off to another hoop.

I find my way back to Michael, who has taken to walking circles around the gym to avoid Coach’s notice. “Hey, can we talk after school?”

“Why?” he practically spits at me.

“Hey, hey now, I’m the good guy here, remember? It’s my job to take Diego down a notch.”

He considers the words. “Where at?” he finally asks.

“You know the area out back, just behind the gym here? Just through those doors outside.”

I see a certain suspicion in his eyes. “Yeah...” he says, unconsciously glancing through the wall in the direction of the doors.

I take a risk. “I’ve seen you around there recently, so I figured you probably walked home that way or something. I just wanna talk about a couple of things--I absolutely promise it’s not like some sort of trap or whatever.”

“But why?” He narrows his eyes to near slits, as if trying to see past the illusion of someone actually caring.

“Because I see pain in your eyes, and I want to help. I have friends who have done...stupid things to escape their pain, and...look, it won’t take long; all I ask is a few minutes.” At his further hesitation, I add, “Have I ever bullied anyone?”

“You made Matty pee his pants.”

“I--that was an accident!” While a bad pun, I realize it was not, in fact, accidental, but I set it up to look as such. Sighing in frustration, I lower my voice. “C’mere,” I say, gesturing to the area between the bleachers and the wall. “Just to the corner. Okay. Michael. I’ll give you a secret about me that you can use against me if I do anything. Okay?” He continues to scrutinize me, so I take it as a ‘yes.’ I whisper, “Matty and I are going out, okay? We’re boyfriends. I’m gay, and he and I are a couple. You can ask him later if you really want to, but he really really doesn’t want anybody to know, because...well, yeah. So there. You have something against me. Is that fair? If I do anything to troll you, or, or trick you or whatever, you can go telling everyone. How’s that?”

The admission finally breaks through his defenses. “Behind the school. After classes. Right?”

“Yeah, but it might take me a few minutes, so, like 15 minutes after classes? Is that too late?”

“That’s fine,” he says. With perfect timing, though, Coach blows the whistle signaling the end of class. Without another word, he turns and heads to the locker room.

I go through the rest of the day relatively similarly to how I did before, though I feel a bit weird by the time I get to the conversation with Rod. It hits all the same points, with relatively the same effects (with a different twist to the Diego situation, of course), but by the time it gets to where he would call me ‘fucking weird,’ he instead asks, “You, uh, feelin’ okay?”

“Yeah, why?” I ask.

“I dunno. You just seem kinda...I dunno. Forget about it. Anyway, see ya.” He walks off, and I stare after him for awhile until I remember that I have another meeting, this one with Michael.

I show up at the appointed spot a little later than intended, but Michael is waiting inside for me. “Can we just talk here? It’s hot.”

“I...really don’t want people to overhear. No sense in giving people ammunition for rumors, right? Let’s go outside, right around the corner in the shade.”

“Okay...” he stammers, clearly not convinced that this isn’t all a trap. Regardless, we walk outside and around the corner, as advertised. Nobody is lying in wait to ambush, and I don’t even get the chance to talk before he snaps, “Make it quick. Mom doesn’t like it if I’m not home on time.”

“Fine,” I state. “Let me cut to the chase. When I said ‘something stupid,’ I have friends who have attempted suicide because of being bullied.”

“I’m not gonna commit suicide,” he says defiantly.

“I know. You’re too angry to kill yourself.” I let that sink in as his steady gaze falters a bit. “I see a very hurt, very angry person, and I know you have experience with guns.”

His eyes shoot open wide and his entire body tenses up. “How--why do you think that--?”

Funny enough, now that I know he was going to shoot up the school, I can look back and remember a few instances to back up my claim. “I remember hearing you in a side conversation in math class. There was some word problem about a charging rhino, and you started talking to that other kid you sit next to about how many shots it would take to stop the rhino. I’m sorry I was eavesdropping, but it was really interesting. You sounded like you really knew what you were talking about.”

He stays silent for a moment, but responds shortly with, “W-well it’s not like I’d shoot Diego or anything, just cuz I know about guns.”

“Good, ‘cuz you know that wouldn’t be worth it, right?”

Suddenly, he passionately blurts out, “Why are you acting like you know me? Is this some sort of trick? What the hell is going on?” He starts looking around, as if police were about to jump out from thin air and arrest him.

“Calm down, calm down. I promise you there’s nobody here but us, and I already gave you insurance against something happening. You don’t even have to say yes or no, or anything, but this is what I wanted to say: I see the choice you want to make, and I see the pain and hatred in your eyes. But it’s not worth dying for, even if you take a few people out. It’s not worth suicide, and it’s not worth murder. You’ll hurt so many more people that don’t deserve that. Your family, your friends, innocent people...”

“Nobody’s innocent and I don’t have any friends.”

“You have Ethan, and you have me. If you’ll have me.”

He stares at me for a long, long while, both of us locked in a battle of will. Then, prefaced only by a very slight quiver of his lower lip, his entire face slowly contorts into the grimace of intense emotional pain as he hangs his head and begins to cry. On one side, I know that I’ve succeeded in my goal of preventing the mass shooting, but on another, I’m in pain for this kid, with this kid. I place my hands on his arms and say, “It’s okay. Let it all out. It’s fine. Nobody’s here. I just want you to be okay.” He’s a little taller than Matty is, but still an inch or two shorter than me, so when I pull him in for a hug, his head rests on my shoulder as he sobs wordlessly for a minute or two. I just continue to soothe him and rub his back as I hug it out of him. He eventually sits down, still crying; I join him in the dying grass, wiping the sweat from the afternoon sun off my forehead before continuing my consolation.

Eventually, as the sobs die down, he asks to the ground, “How did you know I was planning something? Was it that obvious?”

“I don’t think a single other person suspects anything, but I...I’m pretty good at this kind of thing. At knowing people.” Not the most eloquent way to say it, but whatever works.

“So are you gonna report me now?”

“Why? Why would I?” I ask honestly. He shrugs and remains silent. I say, “I have a better idea. How about, if that motherfucker or anyone else ever bothers you, you just let me know. Call me the Batman of Akronis--they won’t even see me coming.” I punch the palm of my other hand to illustrate.

He looks at his watch, and gasps. “Crap! I gotta go!”

“Okay.” It feels like it’s only been a few seconds, but I know we’ve been talking a while. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Um, thanks...for talking to me.”

I suddenly get this weird rush of deja vu, like this whole thing has happened before, even though I know I never rewound this. Then it feels like the very act of me thinking that this has happened before has itself happened before, and so on like a hall of mirrors...of memories. Deja deja deja deja vu.

Michael gives me this weird look that I can’t quite explain, but the buzzing in my head drowns him out, anyway. Wait, was he talking?

“Did you say something, Michael?”

“No--”

I don’t remember the end of his sentence. In fact, I don’t remember us leaving, or going home, or anything else. All I know is that I’m staring at a white ceiling in an unfamiliar bed, and my mother is rushing to my side.

To be continued...