Illinois has all these weird laws that are supposed to keep tax payers healthier so they don't fall back on and over tax Medicare too soon. One of those is gym, all four years of highschool.
The whispers started the moment I entered the gymnasium. First week of school, we weren't expected to have our uniforms yet, so we most certainly didn't have to change into them. (Gym, the only time public school made you wear a uniform.)
Most places, people never noticed I slipped into the men's restroom, nor commented on seeing me in there. Unless their nose was shoved in the fact, most people just excepted their mistake without comment. The worst I normally got was when I wore shorts in the summer and people noticed the 'chick' didn't shave her legs. If they noticed. That was back before he'd had everything from a hint of sideburns down permanently lazored off me during one of his quirkier crazies. With thick dark body hair, apparently it was supposed to be more permanent with less sessions needed. Not that it mattered anymore, just meant people assumed more when I wore shorts in the summer now. Not my fault; not my problem.
The attention on me now meant the presumptuous jock strap from this morning had talked. A lot.
Every social circle was looking at me, the interchangables scurrying from one group to the next in various levels of subtlety, from just suddenly in a different click to outright collisions between masses.
A veritable chatty Cathy that one must be.
I wonder what exactly he'd said to get the whole four class mob this excited.
I sighed. Looked like I'd just have to give them a show first day we actually used those tiny gym locker boxes. As long as I didn't make a big deal out of it then, or in the mean time, it shouldn't cause that big a stir. Just had to avoid the one popular ass hat who made friends with everyone just so he could sexually harass every halfway attractive person in the school. Damn closet bis.
"So what's your name," a jovial nondescript girl with oblivious written on her forehead asked me, holding out a hand.
"Rawl."
Was it the unexpected timbre of my voice or the decidedly masculine name that threw her for a loop there?
Some guy she obviously barely new, judging from her uncomfortable shifting, leaned on her shoulder like an old friend.
Que pop. ass hat now.
"I'm Brandon." He wasted a brilliant smile on me.
"And I'm male." I retuned, remaining stoically impassive. Once this all blew over I was going to fade into the background, not join the breakfast club or click into mulidrum popularity.
"Fine by me," he eyed me up and down luvasiously.
Que mental face palm. Of course my pop ass hat would be out of the closet. Par for the couse, isn't it?
The girl escaped from under his shoulder and glared at him before studying me and shrugging. Too bad I wasn't making friends. I could actually like her.
A slender effeminate, carefully manicured hand latched onto my shoulder. I turn slowly back over my shoulder like you do in horror movies. The Latin version of all things stereotypically 'gay kid'/budding transsexual had a firm clasp on my collarbone. Except I was a guy, which turned the neuter quality of the 'gay best friend' into something sharp and sexual.
I was boxed in.
Please. Dear God. No!
"Nice to meet you, I'm Sammy."
YOU ARE READING
Rising Strong (BoyxBoy)
ParanormalKidnaped, raped, and twisted, Raul Soloman now needs to learn to stand on his own two feet and be his own damn hero. For who can rescue you if you're not ready to rescue yourself? (Boyxboy)
