Adam - A Novella

3

"Adam? Adamm?" I heard my name being called loudly over the sound of Lil Darkie bouncing around my Air Pods, actively vibrating with the beat. I ripped one out, already pissed, and Markus, a short Indian boy, was standing over me. "They been calling your name forever man." I stood up quickly and turned to see the principal and my mother in the doorway. Ah shit. I pushed my things weakly into my bag, zipping it quickly and strolling out of the classroom, snickering. I have to seem chill. They moved to the left to let me by, and I fell in line with my mother. "Damn, they got his fucking mom here, bro." I heard a whisper next to me as the door closed. I ignored it.

"Follow me." My principal's stilettos clacking on the linoleum reminded me of my mother's heels she used to wear before she had my sister. I stared at her expression, and I think she thought of that too, because her already solemn face dropped. I rubbed the corner of my eyes and pushed reddish blonde strands out of my face. Ever since my mom had my sister, my father has been even more intolerable. She's been chronically under the weather, as well, although that could be due to the amount of stress she's been under.

We entered the principal's office, which was much less decorated than the office we passed through, where clerks with longer nails than the girls in my first period typed awkwardly at their computers with colorful stickers on the back and waved at us with fake smiles that I know all too well.

Her office had awards and degrees lining the space directly behind her, and a large array of shelves with files and books galore. The school logo, a yellow bear on a white and blue background, was pasted on every spare inch. Besides her personal work desk directly in front of us, a huge circular table with ten or more plastic folding chairs was in the corner, with Caleb and his mother sitting patiently on the wall side.

Fuck.

"Sit down, Mr. Hixx. You too, ma'am." She gestured toward the seat directly across from Caleb, but I hate that seat. Plus, it was cracked. I went to sit a couple seats from Caleb, but my principal's disapproving "mm-mm" stopped me. Reluctantly, I pulled out the seat next to where she gestured.
"We've received complaints of an...internal conflict, and we were hoping we could resolve it." I could see Caleb shrink. When he leaned forward, I could see a bruise on the back of his neck from when I slammed him against the wall angrily two days ago. I looked away and stared at the wall.

"Look at his fairy ass." Thomas snickered, lightly pushing Caleb as if he were joking, but he had no playful demeanor in his face. Caleb looked behind him, scared to see me and my best bud squaring up. "Fuck off." He shoved away from us, but I grabbed his shoulder and spun him on his feet. "Sit down." I pushed vertically on his shoulder joint until he fell to his knees, where Thomas proceeded to tassel him about like a punching bag you'd pretend you were about to fight. "I don't want any problems." His voice cracked as he glanced between us, but I had already grown to like the look of pain and hopelessness on his face. "Course you don't. You just want..." He threw off some ignorant remarks and kneed his side each time while walking around him like a game of Duck Duck Goose. Caleb began to get up, before trying to crawl away and at last giving in to the playful yet painful smacks we were delivering. I went to kick his thigh as he made his final run for it, sprinting down the street at an abominably fast pace. "Bro is in track." Thomas said, slightly impressed. I stared at him running, wishing for a moment that he'd accept an apology.

"Which is why I think that we can solve this without affecting Adam's record." I zoned back into my principal babbling on. She briefly mentioned that I "passive-aggressively harassed" him on campus and there were "rumors" that we may have gotten into a fight (or ten) off school grounds, of which she couldn't do anything about. She didn't mention a reason. I looked at him with as much hatred as I could send, and he got teary-eyed. "My son is coming home with bruises every night! I refuse to let this... bully walk away scot-free!" His mother stood up quickly, her hair falling out of its messy bun. Her hands had slammed on the table, rattling the principal's coffee cup that was delicately placed on a school-logo coaster.

"Ms. Abott, I assure you, we will take whatever means possible to make sure all our students are safe and respected here on campus. However, suspending Mr. Hixx won't prove to be effective..." My mother shifted, bored, next to me. She's been in this office a million times. The most interest she's gotten from today's meeting was seeing the mother of the boy I grew up with, whom they shared plenty of laughs together, after all this time. I doubt they're going to share many more laughs after today, now that Caleb's mom knew it was me, who used to be her son's OG, who leaves a mark or two after school.

"Amaya, come on. I'd hate for us to ruin our history over this. Just boys being boys." My mom said in a low voice, when the four of us had hit the office carpet hallway, leaving my principal to sip her coffee thoughtfully. Caleb and I sat down a fair distance away, pretending to be uninterested, but listening intently.

"I know it's not playful, Maria, or I wouldn't make such a big fuss. I know how your family feels about queers. I want the boys to remain friends still, but..."

"What does this have to do with queers?" My mom fixed her posture. Caleb's mom, Amaya, suddenly looked incredibly uncomfortable. She began whispering, and my mom's eyes widened. Caleb shrunk defeated next to me. I put my Air Pods in. My mom's face hardened, and she grabbed my wrist, dragging me out of the office building. "Don't ever speak to that boy again, you hear?" I ripped my arm out of her grasp, and her eyes lit up with fire.

"Sorry about yesterday." I slunk on the brick wall next to Caleb, who was messing with his playlist on his iPhone. "Oh, it's cool." It didn't sound cool. He didn't look up at me, and I didn't get any closer to him. "Really. I don't care all that much." Complete lie, the more I thought about it. He knew I was lying, too. His lip came further out, like a pout, and my mind started racing with passion that quickly turned to anger at my own mind. Just being around him was making me gay, I thought, and I stood up quickly. He looked up at me, and before I could think, I pushed his forehead back, with a playful gait but more force than I should have mustered. He yelped and tears instinctively flew down his cheeks. I couldn't bother apologizing. I felt a pang on the back of my head and neck where he'd received the blow, but seeing his pained expression trying to compress his discomfort relieved it. I called him a slur and walked away, angry at him, angry at myself, angry at my thoughts.

The car ride home was awful. The air was stuffy, and my mom smoking but not bothering to roll down the car window made it much worse. I avoided coughing, not because of the smoke itself but because the air had become so thick it was giving me a headache. It smelled like mildew and cigarettes. My mom's gospel music playing on low yet so loud in the silence made everything even more awkward. My brain raced, thinking of the last couple weeks, of the days I went to go apologize but ended up hurting him; thinking of the days I'd been so mad at myself that I went and socked him in the nose, just for being the only friend I've had that had betrayed me within himself. That betrayed God.

"If that boy," My mom said, her croaking getting dramatically worse from the tar cementing in her throat from the cigarette she put out on something that was not in fact an ashtray, "ever tries to hit on you." I pressed into the awful feeling, reverse-velvet-like seat beneath me. "I want you to tell me or your father, and well, he'll deal with it." I entertained the idea of him hitting on me. I swallowed a smile and fought the urge to punch the dashboard for considering it. She acts a lot like my father when she's angry, smoking and suggesting thoughtless violence. Usually, or at least, before my father's alcoholism got worse, she would be the only one I could turn to, the only one who would kiss my bruises and wouldn't tell me to rub dirt on it. For the most part, she'd be kind and gentle, spreading love to her family and friends. But as I looked into the rearview mirror, studying her brown eyes, that woman was completely gone, hidden under years of beatings and child rearing she didn't want to go through what felt like alone. I nodded solemnly at her. She raised her chin slightly in response and let the tension simmer into "My Lighthouse" strumming off the blown speakers.