***** "Morgan" Abrams
<1 hour until your life is ruined
It is 1 A.M. on a Saturday night (it can’t become Sunday until you go to sleep), you are alone at a Halloween party, your nose is bleeding, and you might be losing your mind.
Technically, you’re in costume. It is supposed to be a costume party, after all. But the main character of Super Nova is so comfortably obscure that you’ve been able to pass it off as everyday clothes. Jeans a little tighter then you’re used to, maybe. A black shirt, pleather jacket, fingerless gloves. The badly done black nail polish is probably the riskiest thing you have going but that just makes you look more like one of the stoners people tend to slot you in with already. Hell, it barely counts as a costume. Most anyone else that sees you just sees another boring kid that didn’t want to dress up.
You were going to do Nova’s eyeliner too, originally. With the block triangles drawn under the eyes and all. But Riley made a joke about boys in eyeliner and you chickened out. Wiped it all off before even finishing.
The odds that anyone here would put two-and-two together and realize you’re dressing up as some female character from a random Chattrnet story is pretty much nil. This isn’t for anyone but you. A test. Sort of. Maybe.
Haven’t even told Riley what’s up, even if she’s probably figured out something is going on with you. You don’t usually get so particular about clothes and definitely have never done anything with eyeliner.
In the end, it’s not, strictly speaking, cross-dressing.
It’s not.
Shut up.
You’re only here anyway because Riley begged you to come, not that she needed to beg very hard. You’ve always wanted to be the kind of person that goes to parties. Cool people get to go to parties. Cool people go to senior parties without asking for parental permission.
And anyway, Riley wanted you around to help interpret for her in case her implant went on the fritz again. Loud music and lots of talking tends to overtax the bargain-bin AI in her hearing aids. Which. You sympathize. Can still feel the bass in your chest even out here in the kitchen and the full body feeling is getting to the point of overwhelm where it’s a struggle not to just curl up into a ball.
Riley’s still out there, somewhere in Jason’s parents’ condo. Probably with the rest of the Sour Grapes from school: Noor (her girlfriend; secret), Eliza, Ciara, probably not Brayden – his adoption by the rich kids is part of how any of you got an invite, but he’s been ‘too cool’ now to hang out with the rest of you all year.
They’re probably all in the living room-turned-dance floor, still. Too many people too close together and too much noise and static pressing in and someone kept trying to put hands on you and and and – you slide down the wall and sit on the kitchen floor, still pressing the tissue to your nose as you keep your head tilted back. Can already feel the steady drip of blood in the back of your throat. Great.
Some guy you vaguely recognize from theatre steps around you to get a pack of beers from the cooler on the center island counter. He’s dressed head-to-toe in black, like a stagehand. That’s… pretty clever, actually. Wish you thought of that instead of getting fixated on the idea of dressing up like Nova.
Look.
You know what it sounds like, okay? But it’s not like people are going to yell less slurs at you in school if you dressed up in something more normal, more recognizable. So what does it matter anyway? She’s just – Nova is cool, okay? She saves people and she’s strong, and smart, and people actually like her and – who are you even arguing with in your head over this? Riley?
She already thinks you have a crush on Crow – an actual superhero. She’d have no mercy if she found you out.
Besides the theatre kid, who is tactfully ignoring you on the floor as he chugs an entire can, the kitchen is mostly empty. The fridge screen doubles as a television and it doesn’t take long for Stagehand-guy-who’s-name-you-really-ought-to-remember starts skipping through channels for anything interesting.
It doesn’t take long. ‘Breaking News – Attack in Downtown’ declares the caption. The video itself is shaky, the camera being tossed around as whomever is filming is scrambling to put distance between themselves and something else. Downtown Boston is lit up against the night sky, even as street lights flicker and clouds of dust are thrown into the air. You can only assume there’s some sort of accompanying audio but the video’s mute against the noise of the party.
The camera stabilizes and refocuses as it turns back around. An impossibly tall, curved figure of vaguely humanoid shape rises above a cloud of dust and debris. It doesn’t have a head so much as a pair of smooth stalks, almost like antennae, coming out of its neck, with arms that end in thick rounded clubs. The entire body shines metallic silver in the city light.
An Imago attack on downtown certainly counts as breaking news, you guess.
Stagehand Guy curses under his breath and ducks out of the kitchen. Pulling one of his friends over by the shirt collar to watch with him. You find yourself watching too. Wondering if Crow or any other glitched vigilante hero is going to arrive on the scene.
“Think we’ll see any superheroes show up?” his friend asks.
Stagehand Guy half-laughs. “In Downtown? The cops would just shoot ‘em.”
There’s plenty of footage of Imago attacks out there if you go looking. Every one of the monsters always looks a little different but the basic humanlike body plan is the same. This one seems a little sluggish. It brings a clubbed arm down across a row of glass windows, crashing through as if it weren’t anything more than wet paper.
“Oh damn, another one?”
You jerk your head over in the direction of the new voice. Brayden is standing at the edge of the kitchen, half watching the video. Not sure what he’s dressed up as – serial killer or victim? He’s wearing what looks like a blood-spattered sports jersey, paired with a hockey mask worn atop the head like a hat. In his hand, one of those shitty red plastic cups.
You give him a curt wave and he nods at you, moving closer. You really shouldn’t be so surprised to see him. You were bound to run into each other eventually if you stuck around long enough, right?
You try to turn your attention back to the video – now drawing in a growing crowd of people wandering in from other rooms – but you can still feel Brayden’s eyes on you. Risk a glance back over and yep, he’s still staring.
“W-what?”
He winces, puts the cup down on the counter near you. “You okay?”
It’s not like you can hide what you’re doing, so you do the next best thing and pretend like you don’t have a bloody tissue shoved up one nostril. “It-it-it’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He raises an eyebrow at you. Grabs a clean cup from a stack on the counter and fills it from the sink. “Here,” he says, bending down at the knees and holding out the cup in that way people in movies might coax over a wary dog.
Part of you wants to refuse, just on sheer principle, but you think better of it. Can you imagine vomiting up a mouthful of blood at a party? There would never be any living that down.
You mouth a silent thanks, taking the cup. Check your tissue, gauge the bleed rate and judge it slowed enough for now before downing the contents in one go. Brayden watches you drink all the while, face half shadowed from this angle. A cheer erupts from the people watching the news clip on the fridge. Looks like a SWAT team has shown up to turn the Imago attack into a proper fight.
“Did Riley force you to come here? Or is this part of your side hustle thing?” Brayden asks, still infuriatingly focused on you. “I didn’t think you like, ‘did’ parties.”
“W-well. I do.” Maybe that was too snippy? “I uh, I w-wanted to–”
“Well it was pretty rude of her to just ditch you out in the kitchen. I thought you two were joined at the hip.”
No, that’s her and Noor now. A development that you’re working very hard to accept, thank you. Because you’re not going to be some creepy guy about it and – you shake your head.
“It’s– it’s n-not like that. I j-j-just uh, just needed some– some air.”
“Whatever you say, man,” Brayden sighs, shaking his head. Finally, finally, he steps away to refill his cup from a bottle of beer left out on the table.
Admittedly, you had hoped Riley would have at least swung by to check on you. She hasn’t sent so much as a text message. Glancing over, you can’t see the video on the fridge anymore. Too many people lingering.
“I was hoping we’d get to see Crow or something, this is just another boring-ass cop fight,” Stagehand Guy’s friend whispers to him, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Crow? Seriously?”
“She’s hot as hell, what can I say?”
“What are you, a fag? That’s a guy,” Stagehand Guy whispers back, smirking. “Didn’t you see the video where he admitted it on the Chattrnet?”
Your grip on the cup tightens, plastic creaking under your fingers as the two continue gossiping, their conversation quickly turning into little more than performative disgust. Great. Awesome.
Is it you that’s changed or is there something in the air? You’d swear people never used to talk about that kind of stuff before. Now it feels like you can barely get through a day without feeling like you’d had hot coffee dumped on you.
“You want to get out of here?”
Brayden, again. Back from his booze quest. He’s looking in the direction of Stagehand Guy and his friend at first, so it takes a second to realize he’s talking to you.
“Uh–” He hesitates on seeing your face, reading something in your expression you didn’t intend to put there. “I just mean, like, upstairs? There’s bedrooms and stuff. Can get some privacy away from this crowd.”
It’s like he read your mind. If you didn’t know better, you’d suspect of him of having a telepathy glitch, too. You look past him, through the door and out of the kitchen.
“Um, Riley–”
“She’s fine.” Brayden rolls his eyes. “Her and Noor are lezzing it out on the pool table. Like idiots.”
Ah.
A kernel of unearned hurt bursts a too-vivid picture into your imagination and you firmly shove it out of your head. Drown it under a hum of static.
You know what? Forget this. Forget trying to be cool, or parties, or sitting on the kitchen floor feeling like your insides are being liquified. This sucks.
Everything about being here sucks.
“Okay.”
***
Even just a little more distance from the noise and your headache situation improves almost immediately. The static thrum of so many drunk and high teenagers gathered together has been a jackhammer to the skull this entire time and now a merciful layer of plaster and metal or whatever this floor is made out of – bamboo? Some kind of wood – acts as a much welcome muffling blanket.
The third bedroom upstairs hasn’t been claimed yet. This one must be for Jason’s parents. The bed is huge, easily big enough for three, with a little table on either side of the bed. An actual, physical book is still open on one of them, dog-eared and filled with notes. Something about the diluvian crisis at the start of the 22nd century? A history book then.
You grab the box of tissues from the other table and keep it by you while you fall back onto the bed. It’s softer than yours. One of those fancy space-foam mattresses? It’s dark in here, too, the only light coming from the hall outside. Another mercy to your headache. If you’re not going to just completely ditch Riley and leave early, you could hide out in worse places than this.
Brayden, inexplicably, is still here. Sits down on the edge of the bed closest to the open door. Had relaxed the instant the two of you had gotten away from the kitchen, which was weird. You’d never thought of him as being adverse to crowds before.
If you really wanted to push yourself, you could probably sift through the static and get a better sense of what he’s thinking, but you’ve already given yourself one nosebleed today. And anyway, it’s Brayden. It’s usually not that hard to figure him out. It’s part of why you, him, and Riley used to get along so well.
He’s still looking out the open door, hands in his lap now. “So… uh, it’s been awhile?”
Yeah it sure has. ‘Remember the part where you ditched us for your new cooler, richer friends?’ you don’t say out loud.
“How… are you?” he asks.
“F-fine,” and then, in an afterthought, “um, you?”
He answers with a shrug. “Fine.”
“Is um, is Riley really…?”
He huffs, a short irritated laugh. “Being an idiot? Yeah. Those two are getting way too fucking careless. You need to knock some sense into them before they get caught.”
“Y-you do it.”
“Man, I fucking tried, okay? She told me to eat trash. If she’s going to listen to anyone, it would be you.”
How, though? How are you supposed to say to your best friend, oh yeah you might want to dial back on the public displays of affection so you don’t get outed to the school and your parents while at the same time trying damn hard to bury some incredibly inappropriate feelings and, well. Conflict of interest much? You’re probably just being jealous.
You press the palms of your hands against your eyes, willing your headache to go away. It doesn’t work. Never does.
“Nice nail polish.”
You pull your hands back down, on instinct curling your fingers away. Face heating as you glare back at him. “F-f-fuck you.”
“Uh, no– I wasn’t– I mean, did Riley do that for you?”
“No. I uh, I d-d-did it myself.” It’d be smarter to lie, but you spent almost two hours meticulously trying to get this right and like hell are you letting her get the credit for that.
“Huh.” Brayden pauses, taking this in. “You know you need to be more careful too, right?”
You stare at him.
He flinches, reaching back to rub his neck. “I just mean, like… people have some weird ideas about you too.”
Ah. People like Jason’s crowd, he means. Why did Riley even want to come to this party again? Because Noor asked her to?
“S-s-so? Who cares.” You shrug, or attempt the best approximation you can while laying down. Irritation maybe, starting to creep into your voice. “Everyone already th-th-thinks I’m uh, I’m weird already.”
Weird is the nice way to put it. People use – and think – a lot worse words than that.
Brayden holds his hands up as he shakes his head. “I’m just saying. So… what’s your costume anyway? That’s what the nail polish is for right? I don’t recognize it, you just look like some kind of vid-show street punk.”
“Uh…”
This whole experience has been so awkward.
Can you just sink into the bed? You’re done being perceived by other people, thanks.
“W-w-what’s um. What’s yours?” you ask. A blatant attempt at deflection, but if you know one cheat code to social interaction, it’s that other people love talking about themselves.
“Huh?” Brayden glances down at himself, picking at his jersey. Bait taken. “Oh, it’s some geek shit. My dad’s a big horror movie buff, remember?”
You shake your head, running through your memory. A bunch of fuzzy images, out of focus. Mostly what you remember is his dad was some kind of security guy before he had to retire. And FBI before that? Or maybe it was CIA? Something like that?
“It’s mostly early stuff he’s into. It’s… kinda lame, I guess, but I thought it would a cool way to stand out, you know?” Now he’s smiling, shy. “There can only be so many evil clowns in the world before it gets trite.”
“Ah.” As if that explained anything.
He clearly wants to say more. Is holding back. So against your better judgement, you ask. Your reward is to lose the next several minutes listening as Brayden dives into explaining the early history of American horror cinema.
It’s not easy digging up media that old. The first internet collapse, itself ancient history, took a lot of things with it. In another world, one where you don’t have a pulsing headache and a heart full of feelings better shot dead, it might have even been interesting. You’d forgotten that Brayden could hold his own in a nerd competition.
Clearly, so has he. He trails off towards the end of his talk, self-conscious again. “So… yeah. The original still has something to it, even if it is just primitive looking 2D. You can really like, appreciate the uh… the ingenuity it took to make stuff like that without modern computers. At least, you know, I think so.”
You nod in polite agreement as you rub your nose, check the latest tissue.
No red. No more bleeding. Hooray.
“So, c’mon, fess up.”
Huh?
“I just embarrassed myself being a huge loser nerd at you, so time to spill. What are you?”
“Nova,” you answer without thinking. “She’s uh, she-she-she–” fuck shit abort abort abort.
Brayden laughs. “Jesus, man, you have got to stop letting Riley dress you up like a girl.”
You groan, cover your face with your hands again. “Sh-shut up!”
“You’re so lucky that Riley’s idea of ‘girl’ is practically still a guy.”
“Sh-shut up!” you repeat, louder. Maybe second time’s the charm.
“I’m serious–”
“It w-w-was my idea!”
Silence.
Well. Shit.
“Riley– Riley d-d-doesn’t even, um, she doesn’t even know. About. Uh.” You gesture down at yourself. Babbling into the void. “C-c-can you imagine? I’d uh, I’d never hear the-the-the end of it.”
“Okay.” He’s back to looking at you know. Full attention. Like studying a bug. “So… who or what is ‘Nova’?”
Well. No point in being coy about it now.
You do what you can to give Brayden a brief summary. Web novel. Superhero. Super strong… hot girl. Even go so far as getting out your phone to bring up the Chattrnet thread and sending him the link. The second you do, the anxiety strikes your chest like a knife wound. You flinch, checking Brayden for any signs of boredom.
He skims the thread on his phone for a few seconds before saying anything. “Well, it sounds cool I guess,” he says in that polite and all too familiar tone of someone who doesn’t get it but is trying not to hurt your feelings.
You turn your head, avoiding him. Study the pillows on the bed instead. Deep shades of purple. Or is it red? Black? That in-between range, rendered indistinct in the dark.
“So, Riley seriously doesn’t know?”
“D-d-don’t tell her,” you hiss. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs. You have to twist around on the bed to face him again. Glaring.
“Serious.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds out his hand, fighting to keep his face neutral. “Don’t kill me. I seriously don’t understand your sense of humor sometimes, man.”
Sense of humor? What? Does he thinking you’re doing this as a joke?
“You d-d-don’t. Understand.”
There’s no way he gets it. Why are you even still talking about this? Here? Now? Don’t even know what you’re saying. Stupid. Your fingers flex almost unconsciously – it would be so much easier to sign this out rather than having to talk out loud.
Not least because Brayden would have no idea what you’re saying, then.
“It’s– It’s not–” you shake your head, chewing on the inside of your cheek.
Brayden’s eyes widen, and it’s too late now. Too late to deny, too late to pass it off as nothing. He’s slotted something together and there’s no way he’ll ever let it go now. You’ve no choice. You’ll have to kill everyone at this party and then yourself.
Just as soon as you can breathe again.
Brayden’s talking, oblivious to your prayer for a meteor to annihilate the entire arcology. “Do you…? Fuck me, of course you are.”
“Wh-what?”
Make him say it. Make him prove it was a mistake to come up here. To talk to him. To even try.
“You’re uh, you’re… transgender or– or whatever, aren’t you?” The way he says it: slow, deliberate. Self-editing? Or are you reading too much into it? Try to reach through the static. Get a better read on what he’s thinking. Tension, anxiety… fear? His or your own? It’s not always clear. Can’t know. It’s hurting your head even worse to keep trying in this state.
When you finally give up, it’s like snapping a rubber band against your skin.
Whatever’s going on in that head, there’s a level of sincerity you weren’t expecting.
“I…” Your voice gives out. It’s one thing to think it, to question it, to game out all the possibilities and it’s another to say it. “…Maybe?”
Less a question and more an admission of guilt.
Something is wrong with you.
Something has been wrong for a long, long time.
Admitting it. Even just the shape of it. This is like setting yourself on fire and then burying the burning corpse while it’s still alive. You’ve been sitting on this all year, looking for another answer. Something, anything less terrifying.
It’s all part of the same some sort of language you aren’t privy to. A constant, eternal feeling that somewhere the next room over is someone with all the answers but you can’t even find the wall, never mind the door. Only half-hearted, muffled noises coming across. Self-censored statements slipping through the cracks of the online censors.
Everything else you can find is grotesquery. Punchline, if not revulsion. A million more conversations like the one in the kitchen tonight, and you’re just a sick kid, not a grown adult with the ability to shoot literal lightning bolts from her fingers. If that’s how they talk about her, what will they say about you?
You’re ten years old again with a kitchen knife in your hand thinking if you carve away enough skin, you’ll reveal whatever silver-faced monster must be piloting your body and finally everyone will have to stop calling you something you’re not.
Brayden’s still watching you.
Maybe he looks worried, or maybe that crease means he’s getting annoyed by your silence. Or maybe maybe maybe, who knows. What does he even know about any of this?
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks. Oblivious to what’s going on inside your head. He clears his throat. Trying to act cool. “So like, how serious is this? You got a, uh, a girlsona or whatever?”
You could choke. “A-a-a girlsona?”
A wary look. “Yeah?”
“I– I d-d-don’t know! I’ve been tr-tr-trying not to– not to think about this at all!” Keep quiet you idiot, you’re raising your voice again. This is not anything like how you planned this. Imagined it. Whatever. Girlsona? Seriously?
“Says the person that dressed themselves up as some girl superhero.”
He’s got you there.
“I– I shouldn’t have s-s-said anything. Fuck.”
Brayden doesn’t reply.
You sit up, flinching at the sudden bout of dizziness as the world briefly blacks out. Brayden shifts on the bed towards you, alarmed. Watching. Heart pounding. Running on adrenaline. Now is not the time to be thinking about this. Not here. Not know. Why did you ever think this was a good idea? What were you thinking?
“Hey, hey, hey–” Alarm. Hand hovering, not touching, over your shoulder. “Breathe man, I mean, girl? Or, or whatever. Uh–”
You almost laugh.
“It’s–” he almost says ‘it’s okay’ but he stops himself.
Instead he says, “You’re right, you shouldn’t tell people this kinda shit.” He reaches over and flicks you on the side of the head with a finger. “You’ll get sent out to the funny farm next.”
”I– I know that. I know,” you mutter. Hands digging into the bedsheets as you stare past him, down at the floor. Willing your face to stay under control.
You aren’t a boy. You’re not. Maybe that makes you crazy. Or delusional. A liar, or a freak, or some kind of danger to everyone else but you aren’t, you aren’t, you aren’t.
And if you can’t be a girl, then–
It almost doesn’t even matter what Rivka or Riley, or anyone else might think, right? If this is you, if this is what you are, and if that ever gets out… game over. You’ll never get a job with Praxis. No job means no money, no shelter, no meds to keep your anxiety under control and your brain from melting out your ears.
Just be normal for fuck’s sake, Morgan.
“Do you… at least feel better for saying it?”
He can’t actually be interested, can he?
“No.” Don’t have the capacity left to lie. “D-d-don’t– don’t tell–”
“I’m not gonna tell! Jesus. What did I just say?” He almost, but doesn’t touch you, thank god.
Your throat hurts. Pain like a hand squeezing in, tighter and tighter. You’re having a migraine-induced meltdown at some stupid Halloween party and here’s Brayden of all the people in the world staring at you while you lose it.
“You’re not going to faint on me, are you?” he asks. Leaning over. Too close.
‘I’m fine,’ you want to say. The only acceptable thing to say.
You want to go home. This was a bad idea. Coming here was a bad idea.
You’re sorry you ever wanted to be a party person.
This is punishment for your hubris.
Brayden is saying something, way too fucking close, but all you can hear is the doubled drumbeat of hearts and the throbbing of your skull and what does he even think he’s doing and oh god, now he’s going to actually touch you please no. You try to bat his hand away, grabbing his wrist. The direct contact like an electric circuit and –
Shit
– you shove him away. Almost right off the bed as you scramble backwards, hitting the cushions, the headboard. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck
“Sorry!” Brayden gasps. Is shoving himself away in the opposite direction. Red faced and wide-eyed as he wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. Shocked back into sanity. “Sorry, shit!” he repeats himself. Over and over.
You fall back on the bed, as far away from him as you can get. Cover your face. What the hell, what the fuck, what the hell, what the fuck.
“I’m not gay,” he blurts out.
What does that mean what does that fucking mean you’re having a meltdown here and this fucking asshole is NOT helping you want to scream
“Are you okay?” he asks after what could have been five seconds or five minutes. He shifts closer on the bed, an incredibly unwelcome development as he tries to check on you. “I’m sorry, I was just – fuck, I don’t know what I was thinking, Morgan. I’m sorry.”
You’d have to be capable of thinking in complete sentences to figure out how to answer that. And great, your nose is bleeding again. Where’s the stupid fucking – your flailing arm almost knocks the tissues out of Brayden’s offering hand. You grab them and stuff your nostrils again. All you want to do is curl into a ball and sink into the ocean.
Brayden’s still there. Still talking. Still demanding your time when you are six seconds away from trying to kill him just to get him to shut up and let you pull yourself together, sticking his unwelcome face right into your field of vision.
Whatever he says next dies in his throat at the sudden sound of voices echoing from down the hall. Loud and confident and coming closer. It doesn’t take long for the for the source to come into view through the open door.
Jason stands in the doorframe, dressed like a parody of a Silicon Valley CEO. His arm is around some girl in a cheaply made angel costume, flushed and leaning on him. Half-fluttered eyes staring up at his face. And there’s one of his many shadows, Rafael, hair slicked back and following right behind, dressed like a football player. Because of course he is.
Because this night couldn’t possibly get any worse. You press yourself back against the sheets, hiding your face. Your only way out, blocked. Maybe if you keep quiet enough they won’t even notice you’re here. Like a T-rex.
Jason stops on seeing Brayden, face breaking into a grin as he raises his cup. “Hey wow, nice work B-man. I was starting to think you didn’t have it in you.”
Brayden yanks himself away from you. Pulls back to the other end of the bed, face burning red. Posture rigid and uncomfortable. “Uh– this, it isn’t what it looks like.”
“Don’t be shy man, I’ve been worried about you. Was starting to think you were gay or something.”
Rafael snickers. “So, B-man, who’s this chick you bagged?”
They– oh. Of course.
You’re not here. Go away go away go away
“None of your business,” Brayden shoots back, voice wavering. Fighting every impulse he has to just run.
Jason pulls the girl he’s with against him as they approach the bed. “Man, don’t be like that. Just for that, we’re gonna have to call dibs on the room. My house, my rules, you know.”
“All three of you?” Brayden blurts out.
“Don’t be such a prude.”
The girl in Jason’s arm giggles wildly at that.
Brayden spares a glance at you before standing up from the bed. “Guys, I don’t… wait, is that Jenna?”
Jenna, the girl, sways haphazardly as she waves. “Hiiiiiii!”
“Jason, she’s drunk.”
He stares at Brayden. “Well, yeah?”
“She’s drunk.”
“So’s yours.” A gesture to you on the bed. Limp and half curled up. What must they think happened here. You don’t want to know. You wish you didn’t know.
“I’m fiiiiiineeeee…” Jenna giggles.
“See, she’s fine. Jesus, B, I thought you were cooler than this.” Jason pulls Jenna to him as he muscles has way into the room. “Now, if you can grab your girl and go…?”
Brayden’s not having any of this. Is grateful for it, even. To be able to dive into something so clear cut. He steps up, getting in Jason’s face. “For fuck’s sake, Jason. You can’t just take advantage of someone like that.”
Jason’s smile fades. “You think you can tell me what to do?”
Rafael slides to Brayden’s side, flanking. Arms crossed over his chest. Nobody’s smiling anymore as they stare each other down. Great. Great great great. Fuck.
Well, if you’re all about to get killed anyway…
You push yourself up on the bed. A hand to your head as you squint against the hallway light. You cough, swallowing down a glob of blood. “F-f-fuck off.”
Everyone’s looking at you now.
Awesome improvement to the situation, Morgan.
“You’re not a girl,” Rafael says. Stating the obvious.
Yes, thanks. We’re all caught up now.
“It’s not – Don’t be gross, guys,” says Brayden. “It’s just Morgan. He needed some air.” You can feel how hard his heart is pounding. Or maybe that’s your own. How would you even tell at this point.
“Air, huh? Like fucking mouth to mouth?” Rafael snickers. Jenna joins in.
Brayden takes a step back, raising his hands in front of him. “It wasn’t– I’m telling you guys, it’s not like that.”
“You think we haven’t been watching the house cameras on Jay’s phone?”
Brayden feels like he’s going to cry. “You– you what?”
You’re not here. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.
Jason isn’t having it. Shakes his head like he’s disappointed. “I warned you. You needed to stop hanging out with the freaks, man, they’re gonna turn you into one of them.”
Something in Brayden’s face makes Rafael burst into laughter. “Oh man, I fucking knew it. Jason, you owe me twenty bucks.” To Brayden he says, “So what other kind of gay-ass shit were you two doing in here?”
“Ray–” Brayden starts, taking another step back. “I’m telling you, whatever you think you saw, that’s not what happened.”
He’s still laughing. “Bunch of fucking–” he doesn’t get to finish that sentence.
Because you punch him.