Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Kyle’s, too.
“What did you just say to me?”
Your heart is beating faster. Tristan tilted his head, squinting at him in thought, as if listening to something no one else could hear. That means either you’re angry or you’re turned on. It’s a pity I can’t tell which.
A girl in the back of the class gasped.
Someone else shifted in their seat, jaw dropped.
Brock took a step forward, eclipsing the fluorescents and casting his shadow over Tristan. “Wanna get your ass kicked? Right here? In front of everyone?”
Tristan crossed his legs and calmly set down his red pen. Your name, I just realized, he went on in a lazy drawl, staring at Brock’s chest. It’s just “rock” with a “b” in front of it.
Brock’s face tightened.
Kyle wondered why no one stopped Tristan, why no one warned him not to mess with the quarterback’s best friend, not to make an enemy out of someone like Brock Hastings.
Do you like rocks? Tristan asked, carrying on blithely. He let out a tiny yawn, his eyes half-lidded as he observed Brock with mild interest. You ever slept like one? Would you like to?
Everyone in the room clung to something—their backpack, edge of the desk, pencils and binders, anything, desperate to see what was about to happen.
Blood was going to be spilled, everyone was certain.
Blood from the new kid, all over the classroom.
Instead, the teacher entered. “What’s going on here?” The silence persisted until Brock at last said, “Nothing, ma’am, I was just headed out.” He took a step back from Tristan’s desk, mumbled, “Watch your back,” under his breath, then made his way out of the classroom, on his way to his own.
That brief encounter was all anyone talked about the rest of the day. Kyle stood by his locker, burdened by schoolbooks in his arms, as he watched Tristan stroll by to another class, no care in the world. He nearly floated, the way he walked.
The truth is, Kyle hated Brock Hastings. The two used to be friends growing up, as close as friends could be. Brock’s dad was pals with the coach, them going way back, and his family had connections with countless colleges and their sports teams, from New York down to Texas, to Phoenix, Arizona and even Las Vegas. Something to do with investments and stocks and who knows. Kyle felt like he was friends with a demigod.
But rivalry and ego drove them apart, and Brock had won it all—the social power, the spotlight, the coveted role of best friend to the quarterback.
And Kyle had a pinky ring.
So it was with private satisfaction that he listened to Brock talk shit in the locker room. “What the hell is it with that guy? Wears weird clothes. Shows up to school in a floppy hat, jacket, and sunglasses. Uses an umbrella in the bright daylight. Special permission to not do PE ‘cause he can’t do laps outside ‘cause of some fuckin’ sun allergy. What kind of bullshit is that? Then he talks shit to me? To ME?” His teammates gave their nods and grunts of agreement, all of them working each other up like an engine, spitting insults and laughing. “Yeah, I know his last class of the day, you bet I know where he’ll be. You guys wanna come and witness that motherfucker gettin’ his face beat in?”
Kyle was among the five who cornered Tristan outside the doors of Study Hall C that afternoon.
There was no telling how he got roped in. It could be just as well he simply tagged along and no one noticed.
Always arriving in numbers, observed Tristan tiredly as he counted them, one by one. Never alone, guys like you. Is it perhaps that you aren’t a complete person without your friends?
“You’re gonna die today,” said Brock, jaw tightening.
I sometimes wish I had friends. Loyal … always by my side … I tell you this with absolute sincerity, I envy guys like you.
“No one here likes you,” said Brock. “No one here’s gonna be your fuckin’ friend. You act like you’re better than everyone and you just got here from wherever the hell you came. You insulted me about my name and implied I’m a homo. Insulted Jessica, the class president. You’re fuckin’ ruined.”
Which one was she? Tristan wondered aloud. The God girl?
“Go ahead, act smart, it’ll be the last time you speak before I knock every last tooth out of your mouth.”
People always resort to violence so quickly, always so angry, when they could just try the most obvious alternative. Tristan approached Brock. When he smiled, it seemed strangely sincere. Just give in to your desires. Why hide them? It’s so stressful, isn’t it? To suppress them, keep them bound down in your gut like prisoners? What did those desires ever do to you but bring you unfathomable joy? What’s their crime? It’s inhumane, to keep them locked up. Set them free.