Sweet Revenge (m|m)

Five - Aaron

Felton is the nearest large town outside Asherville—as in, large enough to have a Walmart, a Target, and a Costco within a mile of each other. Asherville's residents have successfully lobbied to keep such atrocities at a distance, which preserves the small-town charm, but is paid for with fossil fuels and a lack of convenience.

After Blake tells me about his accident, we lapse into silence. I turn on the radio to discourage him from breaking it, and let my mind wander.

It wanders straight back to high school, and the day I first laid eyes on Blake Welling.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that he doesn't remember me. Back then, I was small, gangly, awkward and asthmatic. I had braces, and I wore baggy clothes and a beanie that I almost never took off. Hell, I wouldn't recognize me now.

As the memory surfaces, I watch it play out in front of my eyes like a movie on a screen.

I'm in Phys. Ed. and we're being forced to run a mile, and it's literally killing me. 

I know that sounds melodramatic, but asthma is no joke, and physical exertion—especially on a cold January day—always sets it off.

I should have been excused from running, anyway, but my dad wouldn't sign the form I brought home. Instead, he told me I needed to 'stop being such a sissy and man-up.' Which explains why I wasn't out to him yet.

On the second lap of the quarter-mile track, I start to wheeze, but I've already used my inhaler three times that day, so I try to hold off. I'm one of the slowest runners, and most of the class has already completed the mile at this point. They're sitting on the bleachers, drinking water, talking and laughing, while I continue my lonely struggle into lap three.

The track team is also on the field, and they keep passing me in a tight, disciplined group, pacing their lead runner. I admire their backs as they go by, their bare shoulders and toned calves flashing in the cold sun.

I start the final lap when I can't hold out any longer. My breath is whistling in my throat, and there are black spots in my vision. I reach into the pocket of my gym shorts for my inhaler, and—

It's not there.

I stop running and start panicking—instantly making things worse. I retrace my steps, which is stupid because I'm on a circular track, but I'm hoping I only dropped it a few paces back.

As the track team approaches once again, my legs give out and I fall to my hands and knees. The lead runner slows and stops, and his pack of teammates stop as well.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, bending down.

"Inhaler," I wheeze. "I dropped..."

Somehow, he understands. "Guys—this kid dropped his inhaler somewhere. Spread out and look for it." He claps his hands. "Double time!" he barks.

They scatter, ranging over the field and around the track. The lead guy stays with me, and I feel his hand on my back like a hot iron.

"Hey—breathe in through your nose," he tells me. "That's it—slow down. My guys'll find your medicine. Hang on."

A moment later, there's a yell of "Found it!" from across the field, and I recognize Charlie Chung from Band as he runs up and hands over the little aerosolizer that represents my life.

The leader guy takes it and gives it a good shake. "My sister's got asthma," he explains. "Here."

He helps me hold it to my mouth and dispenses a puff, and then another.

"Good?" he asks.

I nod. The effect is instant, and within moments the tightness in my throat and lungs disappears, and I'm gulping down big, easy breaths.

Runner boy pats my arm and stands. "OK then, take it easy." He holds out his hand and helps me to my feet. Then he's off again, his pack falling into place behind him once more.

I stumble over to the bleachers. It seems my moment of drama went largely unnoticed, and the PE coach is too busy yelling at some other kid to realize that I didn't complete the mile. I write a believable time next to my name on the clipboard, and take a seat on the benches to wait for the final stragglers to finish their mandatory torment.

Every time the track team goes by, my eyes follow its leader, and pretty soon I've memorized the color of his sun-washed gold hair, the smooth curves of his shoulders, and the youthful male beauty of his face.

By the time I tell my best friend about how I almost died in PE later that evening, I've developed a bad case of boy-crush.

"That's Blake Welling," Nina informs me. "He moved here at the beginning of the year—I think his dad's in the military or something. All the girls are after him, but so far he hasn't gone out with anyone. Hey—maybe you have a chance! He might be gaaay!"

Nina had a massive collection of "boys' love" manga, which she routinely forced me to read, and her outlook on guys was 'gay until proven straight.' So far I was the only one who hadn't crushed her dreams.

"Here, look at this one," Nina tosses me a slim volume. On the cover, a girlish-looking boy blushes while his manlier counterpart stands behind him and shows him how to hold a tennis racquet.

"This is fantasy," I scoff, tossing it back. "The real world doesn't work like that. In the real world, you keep your head down and your mouth shut and hope no one notices you're different. You certainly don't fall in love with the star of the track team, and he definitely doesn't fall in love with you."

"You're such a pessimist, Aaron," she complains.

The thing is, I wasn't. Not yet, anyway. And maybe it was all those manga stories she made me read, giving me ideas, but within a week, my boy-crush had progressed to stage-four love, and I was willing to believe almost anything was possible.