Four of Wands

CHAPTER 1

Spencer wasn't a poet. No, no, he wasn't a poet. No matter what his English teacher said. No, he couldn't be. He wasn't dozing off in his Algebra II class, listening to his teacher drone on about systems of equations or some stupid shit. Daichi wasn't urgently pressing a paper into his back.

"I don't want your note," he whispers urgently. Spencer stares at the blank page in front of him.

"Take it, and I'll send you the notes after school," Daichi hisses back. Spencer rolls his eyes and reaches behind him.

The crude handwriting reads, "I think I'm in love." IT'S THE SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL; he scribbles, SECOND PERIOD ON THE SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL.

Spencer flicks the note back to Daichi. He writes frantically, the scribbles standing out against Mr. Shineman's voice. Spencer feels the paper against his back again.

But have you seen Clyde? Tall, blond, and a hunk. Total hottie. He hands the note back. It reads 5 9 DOESN'T COUNT AS TALL.

His friend reads it, scoffs at the notion, and then shoves the note down Spencer's shirt. It's perfectly average.

Thank God for the ringing bell. Daichi stands up, scooping up all his books in one clean motion. Spencer shuffles out of his seat, nearly knocking over his singular folder.

"Clumsy ass," Daichi snorts. "Let's get to class." The pair walk down the hall together, Spencer in front, Daichi behind him. "I'd never been more grateful to be seven inches shorter than you until I came out."

"It's easier if people look at me weirdly than if they look at you weirdly."

"Exactly!" Spencer let out a light chuckle.

"See you at lunch, dude." The pair arrive at Daichi's chem class. His eyes light up when he reads the name on the plaque.

"You too, Pen!" Daichi rushes into the classroom, leaving Spencer standing alone.

Alone, in the middle of the flowing river of the Haven Hill hallway.

...

Spencer gets to his art class just as the bell rings. His eyes come to meet the dastardly Ms. Maou's. It all started when she told Daichi in his first year that it was his responsibility to educate transphobes. Then Spencer informed her that her terribly bleached hair was why her husband had left her.

They lock eyes for a moment, daring each other to make a move. Spencer gave her a sarcastic wink, and she buried a hand in her fried hair. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the hair intact. Her eyes dart to the only empty seat in the room, and he takes it quickly. He thinks to himself, "No problems this year." Not after what happened last year.

Maou stands up slowly, stretching her arms behind her back. Spencer slowly raised his hands to his ears, anticipating the sound of her wrist braces scratching her dress. It connects, and he winces at the sound of the soft fabric against the velcro. She picks up a stack of sketchbooks, placing a small pile on each table.

"Art supplies are not cheap," she sneers, "so we need everyone to pay a small fee. You know that arts programs don't get much funding these days, and I bought these books out of my pocket."

Spencer rolls his eyes, and he tunes out once again. He's been hearing Maou's rants for three years, and she never finds something unique to say. If you hate the education system so much, gag on it. He chuckles to himself.

"Something funny about how little money teachers make, Hendrikson?" Her voice sounds like it comes out of her ass.

"Nothing, madam," he says, avoiding her eyes. He opens his sketchbook, writing his name on the interior cover.

Spencer wasn't an artist either, no matter how much Maou insisted. He couldn't be. Why would he commit to any label that would make him feel productive? Spencer idly scratches at his stubble. He just shaved yesterday, yet thick hair had already begun growing again. That's what he gets for trying to put effort into his appearance, right?

"Introduce yourself to your neighbors!" Maou says, her screeching voice shaking him back to reality. She slumps back down at her desk, drinking from a mug labeled "not paint water."

The three freshmen sitting at his table began to chat anxiously, shooting him an occasional glance.

"I won't bite," he says blankly. He looks at a poster on the wall behind them, his eyes running over the words he has read a thousand times by now.

"Well, what's your name?" One of them says meekly.

"Spencer Hendrikson," he replies with manufactured ease. "I'm a junior, but this drawing and painting class was the only art class that fit my schedule."

"Cool, cool," the same freshman says, "That's cool. My name is Addison. My friends Charlotte and Cindy were just dying to take this class, so I had to too! "Addison chirps, turning back to her friends. They whisper until Maou commands their attention again.

"Can everyone pull out the copy of the syllabus I handed out yesterday?" Spencer slid the paper out of his folder, the green paper staring back at him. It was going to be a long year.

Once again, he finds himself relieved that the bell has rung. He parts the sea to his locker, like a corpse to the E hallway. His legs lamented a summer spent in bed staring at his ceiling. He drops his folder and sketchbook into the bottom of his locker, stopping for a second to adjust his necklace in the small mirror inside his locker door. Hoping to give himself courage this year, he affixed a tiger's eye to a chain. There was a fat chance of that happening.

Spencer flicks his locker closed and turns around quickly. He sighs and runs his hand over his face. 11 a.m., and he felt his eyebags packing up.

Shuffling down to the lunchroom, he scans the open floor for Daichi's spiky head. He unconsciously migrates to their spot from last year. The beaten-in soles of his high-tops tap as he looks, trying to catch his friend's eye. Well, until a hand reaches out and grabs his ankle, nearly knocking all 6 feet of him to the floor.

"The hell, Daichi?" He spits, catching his bearings.

"You were about to walk by me," Dachi shrugs, turning to his lunch. Spencer eyes the gray hamburger on a somehow grayer bun, and his stomach turns.

"I forgot to pack my lunch this morning," he groans. He awkwardly sits down, shuffling to be close to his friend. Daichi munches on the gummy meat and Spencer thumbs at his phone.

"Oh," Daichi says through a full mouth, "there's a football game Friday."

"And?" Spencer says, refreshing his Instagram feed for the 7th time.

"I want you to come with me, dumbass. The football guys this year are so fucking cute. I'm looking for love this year, Pen, LOVE!" Daichi spits, a small chunk of burger landing on Spencer's arm. He flicks it off onto Daichi's leg.

"Love as in the usual way you fall in love or-"

"Shhh, shhh, I'm a new man this year. No more hot girl summer shinyuu, I'm a big boy now." He swallows. "Will you go with me?"

"Sure," Spencer sighs. "Would I be doing anything else anyway?"

"Not a chance," Daichi beams. The bell rings.

trying smth new. 

-ink