#My brothers my two girl cousins and scrawny me with my t-shirt off

[vro0m-but-not-cars]

Quotes I've saved for some reason #47

[lefaystrent]

Five Times

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic Analogical, mentions of prinxiety

Summary: There were five times that Virgil’s path crossed with Logan Sanders. Each time memorable, each time helping to shape Virgil into the kind of person he wants to be.

AO3 Link

There were five times that Virgil’s path crossed with Logan Sanders.

The first memorable moment had been in first grade, back when he’d had a different name and different pronouns. Logan had been an oddball of a child. He was the new kid in class, his family moving over from across the sea, and instead of that winning him ‘cool’ points, most of his classmates thought his English accent was funny and something to be mocked. None of the others really wanted to play with him, not that it seemed to affect him either way. Similarly, nobody wanted to play with Virgil, or Angel as he’d been called then. But that was because she was shy and hardly spoke a word, therefore she was boring.

One day during class, they were all coloring pictures. Angel didn’t understand why, but Logan walked up to her desk to inspect her drawing. She didn’t have anything against the boy. She never joined in with the other kids when they called him stupid names. But she never intervened either, and Angel wondered briefly if Logan was upset about that and wanted to tear up her picture in revenge.

Blue eyes gauged the paper in a serious manner, and it reminded Angel of when her dad was talking about adult stuff to other adults. Logan had that older look about him, despite his scrawny size.

At length, Logan set down a crayon on her desk. “Here. Purple’s your color.”

Then he walked away with no explanation.

They never spoke to each other for years after that, though Angel would always remember it as a curious thing. The next time their paths crossed was the summer before ninth grade.

Angel had always felt out of place, whether it was at school or with her personality and body. It was a time when she still didn’t know who she was, much less what to do about it. And then she met her best friend, a girl named Jeanne. She was one of the popular girls and had seen how timid Angel was and took her under her wing some time ago. She was seen as the all-around ‘nice’ girl who everyone liked, and Angel was proud to claim that they were best friends.

In the middle of June that summer, Jeanne had a party at her house. Problem was, her parents weren’t home.

“I thought you said Valerie and Dahlia were gonna be here,” Angel whispered to her shortly after arriving.

“They are,” Jeanne laughed. “There’s just a few more people here too.”

A few more turned out to be over twenty teenagers, many of them who Angel knew but hardly spoke to. Jeanne’s family had a beautiful large house, the kind that everyone recognized and all the kids talked about having something similar when they grew up. It was able to fit all the guests, but it was still crowded and made Angel nervous. She had told her dad that she was only hanging out with a few of her girl friends. If he found out about this . . .

Jeanne tried to convince her to lighten up, to get excited. All Angel felt was resigned. She couldn’t leave because then Jeanne would think she was lame. It didn’t stop her from wishing she was home though, especially when the longer the party went on, the more Angel realized that Jeanne’s parents didn’t even know that the party was happening.

There was loud music and games, and at some point Jeanne got some of her parent’s alcohol out. Everyone wanted to try some and pretend to be adults, and the one time Angel attempted to whisper to Jeanne about them being underage, she brushed her off.

“We’re about to be high schoolers. We should start acting like it.”

If this was what it meant to be a high schooler, Angel wanted to stay in junior high forever. And yet, there was a part of her that questioned if she was being too sensitive. Jeanne was just helping her overcome her own shy, boringness. And Angel didn’t want to be shy and boring for forever.

So that’s how Angel found herself playing a game of spin the bottle. When the bottle landed on someone, the two chosen players went to the closet to have seven minutes in Heaven, apparently.

What surprised Angel was not so much her own willingness to participate in such a game. That paled in comparison to seeing Logan Sanders of all people there. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who went to parties. He was still the weird kid, and Angel wasn’t sure how many friends he actually had, but there were more people amused by him now.

“What I’m saying is that everyone has their own perspective of what Heaven is. It’s different for everyone.”

“What does that even mean, Logan?”

“It means that someone’s Heaven could consist entirely of jelly. What if I wanted seven minutes in jelly Heaven?”

Everyone in the circle cracked up. The only people who weren’t laughing were Logan and Angel. Angel was merely watching. Meanwhile, Logan looked strangely invested.

“Whatever, Logan,” someone said, a guy from their baseball team. “Just spin the bottle.”

Logan gave up his debate and spun the bottle. When it landed, there were whoops and hollers, and the next thing Angel knew, she was in a dark closet with Logan Sanders.

“It’s dark in here,” Logan said needlessly.

“That it is,” Angel agreed. She could hear the party go on outside their little space. Barely a foot in front of her stood Logan, nearly a head taller than her. Not that she could see him. She could certainly feel his presence and hear his breath, and her heart should be racing at the thought of what they were supposed to do, so why did she feel so calm?

“Do you like jelly?” he asked.

“Uh . . . yeah. I like it on toast.”

“So a heaven filled with jelly wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?”

“I don’t have any jelly on me.”

“That’s okay, I forgive you,” Logan said, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Maybe this was why she felt calm. The people outside that door were expecting them to do obscene things like regular teens would, but Logan had never been a regular teen.

They ended up sitting on the floor squished together. They talked about random things like jelly heaven, and Angel never questioned it. Likewise, Logan appeared to appreciate her never questioning the topics and allowing the conversation to flow unimpeded. It was surprisingly easy to talk to Logan once you accepted his odd trains of thought.

Inevitably, Angel asked why Logan had come to the party.

“You’re friends with Jeanne,” he stated, and for a second she thought he meant that Angel had something to do with him being there.

“Yeah?”

“You know her cousin, Roman.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s friends with my brothers. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It’s complicated. Baguettes aren’t really that useful in a sword fight.”

“I see,” she said, though she really didn’t.    

Angel would never get to hear the full explanation. She’d later assume that Roman had something to do with Logan being at the party that day, but as it was at that moment, Jeanne’s parents returned home early.

And boy were they pissed. They killed the music and Logan and Angel could hear Jeanne’s mother’s voice, shrill with anger, chewing her out. All the kids were kicked out, and Angel and Logan sat quietly wondering if the seven-minutes-rule still applied or if they could leave. They sat there awkwardly until the door opened. It was Jeanne’s dad and they nearly gave him a heart attack.

Jeanne’s parents knew Angel, and even though she hadn’t even been doing anything with Logan, they still called her dad and told him everything. After that, Angel was grounded and wasn’t allowed to hang out with Jeanne anymore.

High school came and with it came changes.

Angel became Virgil. Same anxious, confused mess true, but a mess that strived to feel more comfortable in its own skin.

Virgil made new friends. He stopped agonizing over how a girl was supposed to act and look. He allowed himself to enjoy the fact that guys were easier to connect with.

As for his best friend, he and Jeanne didn’t speak anymore. It wasn’t as big of a loss as Virgil first thought it would be. Virgil had admired Jeanne’s popularity and kindness for a long time, but Virgil deserved friends who wouldn’t force him out of his comfort zone, and Virgil felt all the more confident in his decision to stay away from Jeanne after seeing how fake she became in high school.

Years went by and Virgil didn’t see much of Logan Sanders. They were in different classes, and when the students weren’t in class, Virgil was hanging out with his friends. There was Patton, sweet and sometimes naïve and Virgil’s go-to person for when he felt overwhelmed. Then there was Roman and Dee, his gaming buddies. Emile was a chill guy and they mostly talked about tv shows of similar interest. Remy, Emile’s boyfriend, ran a ‘black magic’ club that Virgil was a part of, but they pretty much just played Dungeons & Dragons the whole time.

The third time Virgil had anything to do with Logan Sanders was during their Junior year. It was winter and apparently raining literal buckets, according to Logan.

“I guess it’s true when they say humans don’t look up enough. I should have looked up,” he said, plucking at his drenched shirt morosely.

Virgil had found him on his way to the gym for PE class. Logan had been sitting outside by himself on an out-of-the-way bench. Virgil almost didn’t stop but he’d seen the pinched look to Logan’s face and how he was sitting out in the cold in a wet t-shirt.

“You said Roman did this to you?” Virgil asked, confused. Why would Roman target Logan Sanders of all people? They never had anything to do with each other. Roman practically lived in the drama clubroom, and Logan stuck to quiz bowl type groups.

Logan shrugged. “Not on purpose. He’s in a prank war with Joan. You know Joan? Yeah, I tripped the bucket that was meant for them. My fault for not looking up.”

Virgil heaved a huge sigh. Now that sounded more like Roman. Idiot.

Speaking of idiots . . .

“Why are you just sitting out here then? You’ll freeze like this.”

“Probably for the best,” Logan said, nodding as if he’d always known it would come to this. “I didn’t have another shirt, and I can’t go to class like this. So I’ll just sit here.”

“Don’t be stupid. Come on, get up.”

“What?”

“I said get up,” Virgil ordered, waving his hands for the other to follow him. Realistically, he should have considered the fact that he and Logan weren’t friends and he was under no obligation to listen to him. He could have snapped at Virgil and would probably be justified, except the fact that he was literally freezing out here, but he didn’t even seem to register that fact.

“Why?” Logan asked. It didn’t sound like he opposed getting up, just that he wanted a good enough reason to. God, Virgil knew he was weird, but was he really this stupid too?

“Because you’ll freeze like this. Honestly, you could have asked a teacher or something for help.”

Logan glanced down at his shoes. He rubbed them in the dead grass back and forth. “I didn’t want to bother anybody.”

It occurred to Virgil then that Logan might not only be weird but socially anxious as well. Actually, that might explain why he was so weird or awkward in social situations. Maybe he had anxiety issues.

Virgil revaluated him, taking an extra minute to really look at Logan. Did he not have any friends he was comfortable enough with to seek help from? If that was the case, there was only one thing left to do.

“Here,” Virgil said, shrugging off his hoodie and offering it to him. Virgil had owned the thing for years, loving how it swallowed his figure with its bagginess, like a protective blanket. Virgil felt exposed without it on, but he couldn’t just walk away either. “You can go take your shirt off and put this on. If you zip it up, no one will notice you’re not wearing a shirt underneath.”

Logan blinked at the offered hoodie. He tilted his head slightly. “You want me to strip right here?”

If Virgil were more easily embarrassed, He would have blushed (because he didn’t doubt for a second that Logan was crazy enough to follow through on that). As it was, Virgil was more exasperated than anything. “No, I meant that you could take this to the bathroom and change.”

Logan nodded, accepting his explanation but not the hoodie. “I don’t want to touch it at the moment. I’m all sticky.”

“Uh . . . what?”

“I’m sticky.”

“Yeah, I heard that. I meant why?”

“Roman filled the bucket up with Kool-Aid. It was strawberry flavored.”

Who knew why it was important to Logan to specify the flavor, but that might explain the red tint to Logan’s skin. And here Virgil just thought it was the cold.

“Of course Roman filled it with Kool-Aid,” Virgil said, shaking his head. He gestured for Logan to follow him again. “Whatever. You can just go to the bathroom and wash off the best you can then before you put it on.”

Logan obeyed this time. Virgil stood outside the men’s bathroom while Logan cleaned himself up. Nobody stopped to question why Virgil was standing there in the hallway doing nothing while classes were in session. More than likely, the staff were mixed up in dealing with Roman and Joan and the mess of Kool-Aid. Virgil would bet money that Logan had walked off after getting the bucket dumped on him, otherwise a teacher wouldn’t have let his wet-self go sit outside in the cold. Or maybe he’d stayed long enough for the principal to show up and while the pranksters were getting chewed out, Logan slipped away to avoid the confrontation.

Virgil glanced at the closed bathroom door and checked the time on his phone.

At this rate, he’d be marked absent in PE.

He remained by the door, waiting for as long as it took.

After more time than what was probably needed, Logan came out looking far more dry and wearing Virgil’s hoodie. It was simple and black, not at all distinguishable as Virgil’s. That meant none of his friends would be able to tell he had leant it, though truthfully Virgil wasn’t ashamed of being associated with Logan. As far as Virgil knew, he was an okay guy.

“Thanks. This feels better,” Logan told him.

Virgil looked him over, spotted what was missing, and asked where he had put his shirt.

“Oh, that? I threw it in the trash.”

“But . . . that was your shirt.”

He shrugged. “It was wet and sticky and I didn’t want to carry it around. Besides, it’s not like it’s a family heirloom or anything. I can get another shirt.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” But he wasn’t exactly right either.

He plucked at the dark material, looking vaguely unsure. “Want me to give you back your jacket before the end of school?”

Virgil waved him off. “Nah. I’m not gonna make you go home shirtless. Just get it back to me tomorrow.”

“Technically, I’m shirtless right now.”

“Technically, you know what I meant, so shut up.”

“Only technically,” Logan agreed. But he nodded and for the first time, Virgil saw a little smile light up his face.

Virgil looked around himself, figured this was where they parted ways, and said, “We should probably get to class.”

Logan looked around as if just noticing that education was going on around them. “We’ve already missed the first fifteen minutes of class. We might as well miss the rest.”

What kind of logic was that?

Virgil raised a brow. “Are you suggesting that we skip?”

“Not suggesting. Actively doing.”

Virgil snorted. “Alright. But if we just stay in the hallway, someone’s gonna notice.”

Logan considered for a moment, glancing down the hall. “Want to go to the band room? No one should be in there at this time.”

Virgil didn’t question how he knew this, nor did he feel uncomfortable at following Logan to some secluded place in the school. If he had survived seven minutes in heaven with him, Virgil would be fine here too.

“Lead the way.”

The next morning when Virgil arrived to first period, he found his hoodie neatly folded on his desk. In one of the pockets he found a doodle of a bee.

Curiously, the jacket’s material had a smoky aroma to it. Virgil didn’t recognize it as cigarettes. It was something cleaner and more appealing, not unlike incense or sage. Over the next few days, as the smell faded bit by bit and was replaced again with his own, Virgil wondered at the boy he had lent it to and thought many times to approach him. Virgil could use the excuse of returning his doodle, but he kept rethinking that plan. For one, he didn’t know if it was left intentionally or not. And for another . . . he’d grown rather fond of using it as a bookmark. He was hard-pressed to let it go now.

An opportunity never seemed to come, or so Virgil told himself, and the days turned into weeks and then some. Occasionally, he remembered their time skipping class together, the minutes spent talking about things that did and didn’t matter, as well as things they couldn’t understand at all. Virgil could recall the distinct feeling of what resonated between them, as if they were flowing down a river with no end in sight, but that was alright because the current was a gentle one.

It wouldn’t matter if his friends thought him strange for suddenly wanting to hang out with Logan Sanders. They probably would have gotten on with him too, in time.

But Logan never approached Virgil either. Virgil would think about that too sometimes, if the reasons that held Logan back were similar to his own. Because it’s just easier to say, “I’ll try tomorrow, definitely,” until it becomes a lie. And then, eventually, it becomes nothing at all, because there’s more to life and distractions are plentiful.

Virgil completed his high school education and kept on with school. He and his friends were accepted into the best college in the state and it was only natural that when they moved away from home, they all moved in together. They rented a three bedroom townhouse, with Virgil and Patton rooming together (because Dee’s sanity depended on having a safe space of his own and all of them needed a safe space from Roman). The four of them were incredibly different, having varying interests, areas of study, goals for the future, but they made it work.

For years, Virgil forgot about Logan Sanders. He had his college education, his friends, work, a few relationships here and there. The most surprising relationship was between him and Roman. It happened rather suddenly, one night of tension snapping and spanning into other nights. They were exhilarating, pleasurable, but neither knew what they really wanted outside of that and they were left in a limbo that didn’t specify what they were to each other.

And yeah, it made Virgil the fool for putting off confronting things, like he’d done many times just because it was easier. He let things be until he couldn’t run away from the consequences. It’s not like you can ignore life growing inside of you, and there’re only so many positive pregnancy tests you can get before denial can’t protect you anymore.

But Roman . . .

He wouldn’t accept it.

“We can’t be parents. Can’t you just, I don’t know, do something about it?”

This didn’t fit in with Roman’s plans, and it wasn’t as if they were really together, was it?

So Virgil did do something about it. He packed his stuff and went back home to his dad. The most humiliating part of it all was the look his dad gave Virgil. It would have been better if he’d given him the whole, “I knew this would happen,” argument. Instead, his dad simply supported him in his time of need, hugging him and telling him, “I’m here for you, kiddo.”

Virgil didn’t want that. He wanted a fight, to let out all of the pent-up frustration. He wanted to scream, because how could Roman suggest giving up their child, or worse, killing it? How dare he?

But more than that . . . how dare Virgil? How could he have been so careless?

And that’s how he came to be sitting at a bar in his hometown. An untouched margarita sat on the polished wood before him. Part of him hoped the bartender would sense he shouldn’t drink alcohol. Then he could yell at Virgil. Tell him what a disappointment he was. At least then he’d be listening to someone else say it rather than listen to the voice repeating it inside his own head. He wanted to guzzle the drink down, confirm what a horrible person he was by tainting what was inside of him.

“You look like you really don’t want to drink that,” a man said from the barstool beside him.

Virgil shook his head, peering down at the liquid. “No, I’m just . . . getting warmed up for it.”

“Like the artist who does warm-up sketches to put off the true painting?”

“Sure . . .”

“You know, sometimes the warm-ups turn out to be more beautiful than the original intention.”

Was he implying something here? Did someone finally sense that Virgil shouldn’t be here and was admonishing him? He had wanted that, but now it angered him.

Images of Roman’s face flashed in his mind, the strained look he wore when Virgil had gathered the courage to tell him. The gleam of disbelief in his eyes right before it was squashed by unrelenting rejection.

“I’m just twenty-one,” Roman had said, as if Virgil wasn’t too. They were both too young, too in-over-their-heads. But only one of them had the luxury of withdrawing, to not deal with it and favor childish simplicity instead. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, do something about it?”

As if it could be swept under the rug and forgotten.

And in this moment at the bar, just like he had back then with Roman, Virgil turned and asked coldly, “What do you mean?”

Blue eyes stared back at him, much sharper and calmer than Roman’s brown hues ever were.

The other shrugged. “Technically, I was only making an observation on art processes.”

Virgil blinked, his ire sizzling out as he stared hard at the lanky man sitting beside him. He felt like he was missing something important. “Technically?”

“Only technically,” he agreed, nodding, but it was only when he gave a small half-smile that Virgil recognized him.

“Logan?” he asked, not hiding his shock.

“Virgil,” he returned, greeting him naturally like they met up at the bar often.

Of all people, Logan Sanders had found him and was sitting beside him. He honestly hadn’t changed much in neither appearance nor personality. Did Logan think the same about him, or did he look different?

“What are you doing here?” Virgil asked.

Logan jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “My brothers. We come here occasionally.”

Virgil glanced behind them at a table towards the wall where similar looking men sat. All three heads at the table ducked as they found something else to stare at. It was odd, to remember that Logan had brothers but to have thought he would never meet them.

Then again, Virgil didn’t think he would meet Logan Sanders ever again.

“What are you doing here?” Logan repeated Virgil’s question.

He couldn’t help to be defensive. “Why do you want to know?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed minimally, a small sign to show that he’d noticed and was curious. “Fair is fair.”

He wasn’t wrong. He’d answered Virgil first. Wouldn’t he be an ass for refusing to answer him too?

Virgil wanted to be an ass tonight. He wanted to tell people to fuck off and leave him alone.

But this was Logan Sanders and Virgil still used his bee doodle as a bookmark to this day. Something about it all made it impossible to project his anger onto him. In the end, he felt put-out and sulky.

“I don’t know what I’m really doing here,” he admitted. His fingernail grazed lightly down the stem of his glass, his full glass that he knew from the beginning that he wouldn’t really drink. “I guess I just wanted to get away for a while.”

“That sounds like a horrible idea.” Upon receiving an incredulous look from Virgil, he amended, “I meant coming to a bar to get away. If you really want to get away, you should go somewhere with no people. Like a deserted island.”

Virgil snorted, and once he saw how Logan maintained his serious expression and realized he wasn’t joking, he surprised both of them by laughing.

“Are deserted islands really that funny?” Logan asked, genuinely confused.

“No, it’s just that most people can’t really afford to run away to a deserted island.”

“I’m not disputing that. Ideally, that would be the case. But like you said, most people can’t achieve the ideal. So we content ourselves with as close as we can get, or the illusion of it anyway.”

Virgil gazed at him and recalled the feeling of being swept along by a gentle current. It was so refreshing that he asked, “Where do you go then? When you want to get away?”

Logan stood from the barstool. “I could show you if you want.”

Virgil dropped some cash down by his drink to pay his tab and let Logan lead him out of the bar. His brothers watched them go with questioning looks, no doubt wondering where they were going. Virgil wondered where they were going too, and he wanted to voice the question aloud.

But in a weird, undefinable way, he trusted Logan Sanders.

They walked together down poorly lit streets, neither one of them speaking. Occasionally, their arms would brush and the feeling was a comforting one. Along the way, Virgil imagined that Logan would take them back to their old high school and to an empty band room again. Did he remember that afternoon? Did he think back on it fondly?

Did he ever regret not saying anything the next day?

They eventually stopped at an apartment complex. Logan apparently lived there.

“You brought me home?” Virgil asked, more amused that he had actually brought him home than mad about any implications that might have entailed. This was Logan Sanders after all. When playing a game of seven minutes in heaven, he would sit on the floor of a closet talking about jelly rather than make-out.

“You did ask me where I went to get away,” he said. They stood shoulder to shoulder, both of them looking up at the building, pondering it. “It’s a place that’s changed over the years, but ever since I moved out from my family’s home, my apartment is my safe haven because it’s just me here. I don’t have to worry about how people see me.”

Then he welcomed Virgil inside. It was a cramped, one-bedroom apartment with a lot of clashing furniture and decorations. Parts of it would be incredibly minimalistic while others were filled with clutter. Virgil examined the tapestry in the living room, a design of a tree with swirling branches in shades of gold, black, and red. Logan told him it was the tree of life, a design derived from a historic royal palace. From peeking at the overflowing bookshelves, Logan had a large interest in history and mythology.

They made their way to the bedroom and found themselves laying on the bed. Both of them stretched out on their backs, staring up at the ceiling as if there were stars there.

For hours they talked. Logan contributed the most to the conversation. He had a lot of thoughts built up, plenty of things to say now that he had someone to listen. And Virgil, he appreciated having something new to think about. He didn’t mind listening to a different point of view. In fact, he wanted to hear what Logan had to say about one matter in particular.

“Logan, you know how you said you like being here because you don’t have to worry about how people see you?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“What about how you see yourself?”

Logan was quiet for a time. For several minutes, Virgil could only sense his even breathing. He wanted to turn his head, to see if those blue eyes were closed and if he had fallen asleep. But Virgil’s eyes were fixated on the popcorn ceiling. His own breath quieted as much as possible, too afraid to miss the answer.

“You have to live with yourself,” Logan said at length. “You don’t have to live with anyone else, but you do have to live with yourself.”

You just have to deal with it. That’s what he was getting at.

It wasn’t that reassuring or alarming. It was simply a fact, what was to be expected.

They fell asleep like that. The next morning, Virgil woke before Logan. He had curled up into Virgil’s side, not exactly on him but more pressing against him, his face nuzzled into his shoulder. He frowned in his sleep, like he dreamt of puzzles with missing pieces that wouldn’t let him fully rest.

Virgil left a note for him before he let himself out. He was grateful to Logan, but there were things that he needed to do.

He had to live with himself. But it was up to him whether or not he was the kind of person he liked to live with. And right now, he wasn’t.

But he would be.

It was a hard journey, accepting himself and what had happened and—most importantly—how to deal with the aftermath. His father had given him time to work the stress out. He grieved for friends he thought he could trust. He shook in fear at this new unstable future. And although it hurt, he picked himself up and forged ahead, if not for himself than for his child.

The first thing Virgil did was transfer to a closer university. If he was to keep the baby, he’d need to swallow his pride and accept all the support his dad offered. It would be more practical living here, allowing him to raise his child in a good environment while also continuing his education.

The second thing Virgil decided was to cut ties from his friends. They were Roman’s friends too, and with how Virgil left with no explanation to the others, Roman had probably given them his side of the story without any consideration for him. They were probably on Roman’s side, and with his words still flashing through Virgil’s mind from that day, Virgil wouldn’t allow himself to be hurt like that again.

As could be expected, his friends tried calling him a lot. Roman did too. Whatever his reasons, Virgil couldn’t care less and blocked his number in vindictive satisfaction. If he wanted to make amends and actually be there for the baby, then he could put in the effort to come see Virgil in person. It’s not like Roman didn’t know where he had gone.

Surprisingly enough, someone did put in the effort to come check on him, but it sure as hell wasn’t Roman. It was early June and Virgil was six months pregnant when he opened the front door to find Dee. Of all his friends, he would have thought Patton or even Emile would be the one to come around, not Dee. He stood there uncomfortably, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pants’ pockets. His eyes immediately zeroed in on Virgil’s round stomach.

“It’s Roman’s, isn’t it?” he blurted.

Virgil was so shocked that all he could do was stand there with his mouth open, struggling to say something. Dee seemed mildly alarmed, though whether that was at himself or seeing Virgil pregnant, he couldn’t tell. He averted his gaze to a bush beside him. His ears reddened.

“Sorry,” Dee said. “It’s just—well, I guess it all makes sense.”

“What?” Virgil asked, finally finding his voice.

“Why you and Roman got into that big fight. Why you left. He said you were ditching us, but it’s his, isn’t it?”

Virgil should have expected things to go like that, for Roman to leave out the problem altogether and blame Virgil. If Roman just ignored the existence of a baby he helped create, he wouldn’t have to worry about it, right? And if he didn’t tell their friends about it, then it was like it didn’t even exist.

And here Dee was on his doorstep, telling him that Roman had made him out to be the bad guy. Because if Roman couldn’t be the hero, he’d make do with being a victim.

It pissed Virgil off.

“What are you doing here?” he asked through gritted teeth. If not to tear the scab off of a wound that hadn’t fully healed, had Dee come for curiosity’s sake?

Dee fidgeted, crossing his arms and grumbling, “You didn’t come back, and you didn’t answer any of my texts or calls. It wasn’t like I was worried or anything.”

Just like that the anger dissipated and Virgil was crying. It caught him off guard, the swell of emotion, but not as much as it did Dee. His eyes were wide as saucers and he held his hands up as if to ward off the tears. He started stammering in a frantic rush.

“I was only stopping by to check on you. But if it upsets you that much, I’ll just go—”

Dee tried to turn to leave, but Virgil caught him by the wrist and pulled him in for a hug. Neither of them had been outwardly affectionate people, and the hug was made even more awkward by Virgil’s pregnant belly and the fact that he was crying all over Dee. He squirmed, freaking out.

“Do you want me to leave or stay? Which is it?!” he yelled in distress.

“Stay,” Virgil croaked out.

He had decided to cut off ties from his friends, but Dee had done what even Roman couldn’t be bothered to. He showed Virgil that he cared about him, and that was all he had wanted. That’s all he had wanted from Roman, to see some sign that he . . .

But he wasn’t going to show up. Somewhere deep in his heart, Virgil had hoped he would. Unconsciously, he’d been waiting for him.

It seemed he still had a ways to go.

Following that day, Virgil’s resolve deepened. Dee stayed for a while, and they talked things out and caught up. He’d been skeptical of Roman’s excuses, and his behavior as of late had become unbearably obnoxious. Dee moved out at the end of the Spring semester and now lived with his older sister just one town over. He’d be finishing out his education at a college there.

Virgil let Dee back into his life and found how much he had missed having friends. Since moving back in with his dad, any old friends from his high school days that he happened to run into didn’t get much past the, “Hey, how’ve you been?” pleasantries. That or gossiping about his pregnancy and getting his pronouns wrong.

There’d been Logan Sanders too, of course. They hadn’t exchanged numbers, but Virgil knew where he lived. He could have swung by his apartment at any time. Logan wouldn’t have turned him away, Virgil knew that. And he would have liked to talk to Logan, just like last time, and hear the calm tone of his voice as he enlightened Virgil with his eccentric considerations and pragmatic perspective.

What stopped Virgil was the note he had left him.

‘I want to be the kind of person I want to live with.’

You had to live with yourself. That was the lesson that Logan taught him.

And if he couldn’t be happy with himself, he would at least find contentment somewhere. He burned the notion into his head: the next time he saw Logan, he would have it all sorted out.

Months became years. Virgil gave birth to a baby boy and juggled family, friends, and college. After graduating, he convinced Dee to give living together another shot. They worked well together, and his son was already learning to call him uncle. Dee would play it off with a frown, but secretly Virgil knew that it warmed him.

One day, not long after his son’s fourth birthday, Virgil picked him up from school. Almost immediately after getting in the car, the child dozed off in the backseat. Virgil smiled at that, peeking glances at his little boy in the rearview mirror.

On the way, Virgil spotted a car pulled over on the side of the road. A man stood towards the back, looking over where one of the tires had blown out.

He almost didn’t stop. It wasn’t his problem, and if the guy couldn’t figure out how to change a tire, then he could call for someone to help him, right?

But the way his head hung low, and his shoulders hunched high, like he’d given up . . .

Maybe Virgil was reading too much into things, applying sentimental crap where he shouldn’t, but the point was that Virgil’s heart clenched and his foot eased on the brake pedal. He pulled over, a bit ahead of the man’s car.

He got out, closing his door as quietly as he could. Virgil wasn’t nervous about approaching the stranger. Okay, he was always nervous, but it was daylight, and the road wasn’t exactly abandoned. Plenty of vehicles came through this neighborhood. How many had passed though while the man had been stranded here? How many had labeled him as someone else’s problem?

Stupid bystander effect.

Virgil’s shoes clopped down the shoulder of the road. The man of course had noticed him pull over and watched him the whole walk over with a curious expression. He was tall, lanky as ever, hair brushed back and prickly cheeks in need of a shave, but Virgil recognized him right away.

“Logan?” he asked, hardly believing his luck.

Logan leaned back slightly, blinking at him like he had seen a ghost.

Virgil worried for a moment. “You . . . remember me, right?”

He looked him over and nodded slowly. “Virgil.”

Virgil managed a relieved smile. “Small world, eh?”

He shrugged. “We live in the same town. We were bound to run into each other sooner or later.”

Always so literal. Virgil shook his head and crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder into the side of his car. “Actually, I don’t live here anymore. I live over in Arcadia now. We were just on our way to go visit my dad.”

Logan tilted his head. “We?”

Virgil recalled that night Logan had invited him back to his apartment. He’d been pregnant with a boat load of problems weighing him down, and he’d held back from telling Logan about any one of them specifically.

Virgil glanced back over his shoulder. Suddenly he felt like being more open with him.

“C’mere,” Virgil said, waving him forward. “I want to show you something.”

It was a surreal experience, seeing Logan again after so many years and finding him here of all places. It was strange, sensing him trailing behind him, inquisitive as ever. Virgil stopped by the window, and they both looked in to see the sleeping face.

Before Logan could question him, he answered, “His name’s Thomas.”

There was a long silence where Virgil let the implication sink in. He watched the slight reflection of Logan’s face in the glass, the way his brows were furrowed deep in thought.

“I always thought that you would be a parent,” he confessed randomly. Virgil could have pointed out that lots of people were parents and that it wasn’t an unlikely hypothesis for him to have about Virgil, but it was the fact that Logan must have thought about this subject at length during some point of knowing him, and it tickled Virgil in a peculiar way. He laughed. Logan just looked at him questioningly.

“You know, I always planned to come by and see you again,” Virgil admitted. If Logan was confessing random thoughts, he might as well too. “I really wanted to.”

Logan shifted his stance. Virgil would say that he looked uncomfortable, but it was more like he never expected Virgil to say something like that and simply didn’t know what to do with the information. He settled for the obvious, logical approach. “Why didn’t you?”

Virgil stared out at the passing cars, up at the cloud covered sky. A chill wind picked up and brushed his bangs against his face, reminding him that winter was around the corner.

“Because I wanted to be a different person when we met. A better person. Someone who had a handle on his life. Someone I could be proud of.”

“And do you?” he asked, his eyes boring into Virgil’s. “Do you have a handle on your life now?”

It wasn’t an easy thing to answer, but if nothing else, Virgil had always been honest to him. “Sometimes I think so.”

Logan’s hands were hidden in the pockets of his jacket. It struck Virgil how much older he looked, and he wondered if he saw Virgil the same way or if he had aged by his view.

“We don’t ever have control of our lives. Not really,” Logan said. “You wanted to wait to see me until you were a different person? If that were possible, I’d say that was incredibly . . . sad.”

Virgil’s stomach plummeted for a brief moment at the thought that Logan—Logan Sanders—would make fun of his efforts.

He must have seen the hurt on Virgil’s face. One of his hands reached out, to touch his face or shoulder or something, but he was an awkward kind of person, like Dee, and so he lowered that hand again.

“I don’t know why you would want that.” His voice was soft, frustration edging along the lines of his words.

Virgil’s nails dug into his palms. “You don’t have to know. I don’t need yours or anyone else’s approval. If I want to change, that’s my choice.”

“You’re upset,” Logan pointed out needlessly. He shook his head. “You misunderstand. I meant if you were a different person, then you’d be gone, and that would be sad. I like who you are.”

“Oh.”

So he hadn’t been insulting him. He was still just really bad at socializing.

Virgil scratched his cheek, embarrassed. “Well then, what was all that about people not having control over their lives? You made it sound like the work I put in to better myself was pointless.”

“Not pointless. You can’t become someone else. You can only be a better you.”

“That’s what I guess I was going for then. I understand that.”

“Do you really believe then that you have a lot of choice in life?”

They were doing it again, like they tended to do. Diving in deep headfirst and getting lost in the stream of conversation.

Virgil scuffed his shoes against the asphalt, mulling over his question. “I didn’t peg you for the ‘fate believer’ type.”

“I’m not. I think people have a degree of control over where they end up. But sometimes, no matter how prepared you are . . .”

“Shit just happens?”

His lips twitched up. “I was going to say that things beyond our control interfere, but yes, your way of saying it sums it up too.”

“Things like a tire blowing out?” Virgil asked, gesturing to Logan’s crippled car.

“Among other things,” he agreed. There was more to it lingering underneath that statement. How had his life been since Virgil last saw him?

“You know how to change a tire?” he asked. If he didn’t, Virgil could offer to do it for him and that would give him a chance to talk more with him. It wouldn’t take too long, and Thomas would nap the whole time anyway.

Logan shook his head. “In theory, but I lack the tools to do so. My brother is on his way. He should be here in a few minutes.”

Guess that plan was out the window then. Virgil struggled to think of something else, a segue back into the topic he wanted. If there was something going on with Logan, he would like to help him.

“Virgil,” he spoke, breaking him from his fumbling thoughts. “I like to be in control of myself.”

“. . . yeah?”

“But as I’ve said, I don’t think we truly have control over our lives.”

“To some degree.”

“To some degree, technically, but all the same, when it comes down to it, shit just happens, as you said.”

“Right.”

“And I think that . . .” Logan paused, tapping a finger to his lips as he came to his conclusion. “I think that’s one of the hardest things a person must accept.”

Virgil thought on it long and hard, trying to see what he was getting at. In the end, Virgil nudged his shoulder with his. “It doesn’t mean that good things don’t happen that’s out of our control. Just look at Thomas. I thought my life was over when I got pregnant with him. I thought I lost pretty much everything. And I used to be so . . . angry . . . about it.”

There were times when he didn’t think he could make it through, when the safer corners of his mind reached out to him and told him to give it all up. If Roman could throw away responsibility, then so could Virgil. It was his life to do with as he pleased.

But it wouldn’t have been a very proud life, one that he could live with himself in, and that made all the difference.

“But when life throws you a curveball, you throw it right back.” Virgil smiled at Logan’s expression. “It’s something my dad says. It’s lame, but he’s kinda right. Things used to suck, but I’m glad I pushed through. I love Thomas and I love being a parent.”

“What if the metaphorical ball hits you hard?” Logan asked seriously.

Virgil leaned forward and smiled wider. “Then throw the ball back even harder.”

A truck pulled up behind Logan’s car and a tall red-headed man stepped out. He exchanged greetings with them, and though he put on a polite enough face for Virgil’s sake, he could tell that he was put out by his little brother.

As he dutifully left to change the car tire, the two of them watching him go as they stood side by side, Logan whispered to him, “I think he’s annoyed with me.”

“He still came,” Virgil pointed out. “That’s the important part.”

Logan eased at that. He turned to face Virgil fully, hands back in their pockets. “Thank you for stopping, but I don’t want to hold you up. I know you had somewhere to go.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Virgil said, though he did glance at Thomas’s sleeping face and consider that they should be heading on soon. “And it’s not like I actually helped.”

“You helped,” Logan denied firmly, meaning something entirely different.

For a few seconds, the atmosphere between them grew heavy. Lots of things were unspoken between them, lots of chances lay ready for the taking. But Logan’s shoulders weren’t hunched anymore and his eyes were brighter than ever.

“I guess I’ll be going then,” Virgil said, moving to take his leave.

Logan nodded, backing away slowly as he watched Virgil round the car to the driver’s side. His hand grazed the handle. It’d be easy to pull it open and forget about the niggling in the back of his mind. To hop in and not look back.

He looked back at Logan. He was still watching him, as if he’d been ready for Virgil to call back to him.

“Hey Logan?” he called.

“Yes?”

Virgil bit his lip, gaze searching him in an effort to etch the memory into permanence. Logan waited for him, patient as always.

“Back in first grade,” he started, “the first time you spoke to me, you told me that my color was purple. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” he said, surprising Virgil that he would remember that long-ago, seemingly unimportant experience.

“What did you mean by that?”

Logan stared into the middle distance, head gradually moving from left to right. “I have no idea.”

Virgil opened the door and slid inside. All the way to his dad’s house, he had to stifle his laughter.

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[fuzzydemolitionsquad]

The Tractor

                                                   Part   1

A rusty GNK droid plodded across the farmstead’s dirt yard, its pace much slower than its maker had programmed it to be.

It was morning. The sun had just peeked over the humped ridges of evergreen trees in the distance. The air was already beginning to warm and the humidity was high.

The GNK tried to ignore the condensation building on its circuit boards. It made a deep gonking groan and tilted its boxy body toward the sky. How dreary it was to waddle around a farm, looking for something in need of power.

Why couldn’t I have been a spaceship, a sleek X-wing, or a roaring TIE? The sky beckoned. The GNK moaned sadly .

Its dream suddenly ceased to be when a circuit in its electronic brain crackled. Sense of duty restored, the GNK marched toward a shed containing the chooken brooder. There, behind a wall of woven wire, a passel of fuzzy, powder-blue chicks snuggled together. The cord to their heater box had come loose, pulled out by a pesky varmint who chewed it to a fray . The GNK  plugged a pronged service arm into the box and powered down to fifty-percent so that it could rest.

And dream.

Pa Trodd stepped out of the farmhouse’s door and stood on the porch drinking his morning caf. He snapped his suspenders and looked at the large and formidable anooba laying upside down on her back and staring back at him.

“ Whadda yew say ol’ Gracie. . . wanna hep me till that quarter acre fer ma’s garden?”

Gracie’s tail thumped the porch’s wood planking so hard it raised a ferocious cloud of dust. The anooba stood up and stretched and trotted over to where pa was standing.

“Dat’s my girl.” The lasat thumped her side and scratched her ears.”When we done ahl gives ya a nice big soup bone anna plate a kalgow jowls for breakfast. Howzzat sound?”

The anooba's brushy black and tan mane quivered. Pa stepped off the porch, slapped his thigh and whistled. Gracie galloped to his side,  her tongue lolling and her great jaws clacking. She gently took his wrist into her mouth and followed him to the barn where the old tractor sat.

                                                                **

Zeb Orrelios opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling and smiled. He was back home.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love the barracks at the academy–on the contrary–all of his best mates were there. He chuckled as he thought of serious Geezer who–didn’t look like it– but had connections to the owners of every dive cantina and strip parlor in the Capitol.

Zeb checked his chrono on the nightstand and jumped out of bed. The delicious aroma of   bacon and maize-bread, fried eggs and beans tugged at his nostrils like a farmer leading a hammerhead bull by the nose-ring. Being away on leave meant ma’s home cooking and lots of it. It wasn’t uncommon for Zeb to put on  fifteen or twenty pounds during his stays with his family. Of course, it was all converted to muscle. Zeb  thought of the academy.  If it was one thing he didn’t like there, it was Private Rrazchow’s breakfast special, a plate of jellied meat chunks floating in greasy gravy and served on a couple pieces of stone-dry bread. Zeb and his mates affectionately referred to the entree as ‘dung on a raft.’

Zeb looked into the full length mirror and couldn’t help but smile. His stripes were growing a deeper purple, a nice contrast to the pale lavender of his base coat. His beard was darker too, and  a lot thicker than it was the last time he was home.

“Looking good.” He pointed into the mirror with both index fingers and made a clicking sound with his tongue. Pulling on a pair of skivvies he grabbed his scrub brush and towel and headed to the wash room to pump water into the round wooden tub he had taken baths in when he was a child. It seemed so big back then, a veritable ocean. Now he couldn’t even stretch out his legs.

Ma Trodd served up plates of bacon, beans and bread then padded back to the stove to pick up a huge iron skillet full of sputtering eggs. She went around the table, neatly plopping two eggs on every plate.

Jax rolled his eyes and slammed his elbows down on the table. “Aww ma, yew know I like mah aigs on m’ beans! Now there’s yolk all over the maize-bread!”

“Land-a-muddlin’ Jax!” Ma put her furry hand on her hip. “Yew done act like I kilt yer best friend. They’s a lot worse thangs happ’nin in thee universe then aigs a’leakin’ on bread!”

“I’m sorry ma. Didn’t mean t’ get yew riled.”

“She’s not riled.” Sister Sal said, cutting a dainty slice of egg with the side of her fork. “She’s worried. Mizz Yogg  was telling her about the Coruscant emperor. He’s got six more planets under his belt.”

Brother Muss wrinkled his snubby nose. “Huh? Whadda yew mean, sis?”

“He stole them. Not fair and not square.”

“How do you steal a planet?”

“With a lot of guns.” Puggles grunted through a mouthful of breakfast. Egg yolk glistened in his shaggy beard.

Sally nodded her head. “It’s true. Unfortunately.”

Ma’s yellow eyes flashed with fear. “ Some people is fightin’ back. Mercy. There might be another Clone Wars round thee corner.”

“Ain’t no Jedi left t’ fight um.” Brother Jimbo said, subdued, a sweating beer can held to his forehead. He hadn’t touched his breakfast. The hangover he was fighting demanded some hair-of the bantha first.

Sister Shoog changed the subject. “ I shore wish cuzzin Zeb could stay longer. He’s only got two more days, and he promised to take me to the fair.”

“Cuzzin Zeb never breaks his promises.” Said Muss.

“CuZzIn ZeB NEEEEEVER BreAKs his PrOmiSes. . . Puggles said in a wheedly, exaggerated voice, his face puckered like a dried korbapple.

“Did I hear my name?” Zeb said from the foot of the staircase. He hopped down and entered the kitchen.

Ma beamed. “ Bout’ time yew got up! Sit at the table. I’ll git yer vittles ready. Did you sleep well?”

“I slept like Firuz in his tomb.” Zeb  said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his breakfast.  Maybe tomorrow ma would make her special spawffles and needle tree syrup. He was about to tuck his napkin into the front of his shirt when-

“Hey, did you all hear something?”

“ Like what?”

Like bellowing. Sounds like the Lunx’s  bull got out of his pen again.”

There was a stamping of feet out on the porch. Older sister Hallie opened the front door and hurried inside. She set her basket of herbs on the table and started to pour herself a cup of caf.

“ Pa’s out in the field and he’s cussin’ up a dust storm. I mean, worse then usual.”

“ Ma clutched her apron. “Goodness child! D’yuh think he’s a’right?”

“I asked him, but he jus’ kept on a hollerin’ and   carrying on. I think the tractor musta broke down or sumthin’.”

“Great an’ benev-lent Bearded One.” Ma groaned as she served  Zeb his breakfast. “I’m  gonna hear ‘bout this til thee end a’ days…Jimbo, Jax,  go see what’s goin’ on, woudja dears?”

Jimbo looked up. His yellow-orange eyes were rimmed with red. “ Ma! I jus found out mah girl is courtin’ another he-male! I cain’t take pa’s bellyachin’ right now. I’m too e-moshan-lee com-pree-mized!”

Shoog  rolled her eyes.

Ma looked at Jax, who panicked.

“I’m late for mah sparrin’ practice!”  The blotch-coated lasat rose from his chair and threw his napkin on his plate.

“Now where’s mah boxin’ gloves at?” Jax ran from the kitchen.

Zeb forked his food between two pieces of maize-bread, making a giant to-go sandwich. He  scooted his chair back and grabbed Puggles by his scrawny wrist.

“Let’s go help pa!”

“Help Pa? Is yew crazy? He’ll tie me into a Mon Calamari sailor knot fer intrudin’ on his bad mood!”

“ Not if we solve his problem.”

Pa raged. He pounded on the tractor’s hood and stamped the turf beneath his feet, turning it  into a large patch of dark dirt. Gracie sat on her makeshift perch next to the tractor’s seat, grinning and panting, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth. Every time a fist came close she attempted to give it a sloppy kiss.

“ WHAT IN CONSARN-A-SHUN IZ WRONG WID YEW, YEH BLASTED CONTRAPTION!!!???”

“TAR-BUBBLIN’ LAZYBUMP SONNAVA JUGHEADED PLEASURE DROID!!!”

“ POCKMARKED’ PISSENGINE!!

“CHEAP PIECE A’ RUSTED RUIN!!”

“DROIDSON BATTERYDOOKER!!!”

“Do you kiss ma with that mouth?”

Rufus Trodd whirled around. He saw his beloved nephew standing there, smiling, his demeanor as calm as a boodle bug floating on the surface of a still pond.

“She would faint if she heard you cursing like that.”

Pa’s giant mitt batted at the air. “ Aww. Not now Zebidiah. I’m inna awful gaumy stew.”

Puggles stepped out from behind his brave younger cousin.

Looky here pa, I brang yeh a nice cold one! I thanked yew could use it.”

The mammoth  lasat grabbed the offered six pack of beer, cracked each can open with machine-like speed and poured six streams of  golden brew into his cavernous mouth. He wiped  the stray foam from his mane and belched.

“Thanks son. Remind me not t’ call yew an ijit next time yew piss me off.”

Zeb approached the tractor. He ran his hands over three, still-warm engine cowls and sniffed the turbines and jet ports. “What’s going on with her?”

“She were running fine, then all of a sudden, she starts a’shaking and a sputterin’. Den the jets got all quiet-like. How did I blow up three engines? That tiller I’m towin' behind her don’t weigh that much. Hells, I towed a big ol’ howler-barr to thee taxidermist with dis here tractor. ”

Zeb scratched his head. “Was there any smoke?”

Pa thrust out his thick lower lip and tapped one of his fangs. “Now thet I think about it. . . not a hole lot. Jus’ a little puffin’ out from under thee hood.”

“Ah-ha. Pop the hood Puggles.”

The little lasat obeyed and the tractor’s  boxy mouth opened with a ‘TUMP’ Zeb raised the hood, looked inside and saw the problem immediately.

“It’s not the engines, pa. It’s your injector cylinder. Are you running super-lean Kashyyk oil in her?”

“Shore as dust I am!”

“Well, it must be  clogged with dirt. The guy you bought this from should have changed it before he sold it.”

Pa snorted. “Figures.”

Zeb changed the subject. He patted the old Agri-Hover. You know, inside, these tractors are almost identical to the inside of the tanks in the royal army. They really ARE well made. Let’s pull the injector and Puggles and I will go into town and get a new one.”

Pa looked resigned to his fate of plowing the field by himself. Why did he sell that good team of muley-tauns? They weren’t that long in the tooth.

“Payday’s not fer six more days. I don’ wanna ask ma t’ dip into her savings. She ain’t got that much anyway.”

Zeb grabbed Puggles by the ear and tugged him away’t so pa couldn’t hear.

“I have some extra pay this cycle.” He whispered.

“Must be nice.” Puggles' gold eyes flashed orange. “I cain’t even afford a lil’ teeny-eeny far-cracker or a pack a smokes.”

Zeb crossed his striped arms. “First of all, you shouldn’t be smoking. It’s bad for you. Second, you’re a liar. I know for a fact Hallie gave you credits for cleaning her shed. You put them in your. . . ahem, ‘detonite fund account.’”

The little lasat was incensed. He balled his bony fists and put them up, taking a fighting stance.

“I otta whup the green right outtta yer eyes yuh sucklin’-cub!! Of all thee indig-nitities! Called a larr by m’ little cuzzin!!!! Y’ain’t got the manners of that bitch anoobie over there! Come on, git yer dukes up!”

Zeb rolled his eyes and bit his lip. “ Not again.”

The young lasat was turning out to be a rather large and honorable soldier. One befitting of admiration and praise. How much longer was he going to allow his belligerent cousin to talk to him this way? Zeb sighed. A lasat couldn’t choose his family or the members within, but if he could have chosen, he would have picked what he already had,  the hard-working and sometimes crude,  spiritual, salt-of -Lasan Trodds.

“Alright you little a-hole. I’m sorry I called you a liar.  Do you have any creds you can spare? Any at all?”

Puggles put his fists down. He retrieved a toothpick from his pocket and wedged it between his crooked incisors. He made a sucking sound with his teeth.

“Maybe. . .”

[dontbethatshank]

Teach Me How To Listen (pt. 2)

Imagine: High School AU short-series - Newt pairing

Friday. December 5th. Game Night.

It was nearing 7 pm and all of you and your friends were heading out to a soccer game. Teresa muttered something about her cousin playing and Gally mentioned having a good friend on the team. So here you all were - sitting in the bleachers, nachos, sandwiches, and in your case the world’s largest cup of coffee in hand. It was chilly, but not too terrible you thought. Teresa brought a handful of blankets, everyone sitting on them and curling into them. You wore the varsity jacket that the strange boy gave to you. The patch on the left arm was one belonging to the soccer team, so you knew he would be here tonight. You hoped to spot him and give it back, although you were now realizing you never brought a second jacket because you were the most intelligent person to ever go to Heights High.

“Welcome to the Glade, everyone! I’m your announcer and everyone’s favorite register at nutrition, Siggy! Tonight is a home game between our own Heights High Gladers and WCKD High Cranks. The game starts in only four minutes, so grab your snacks, curl up in your jackets, and get ready,” Siggy, or how everyone else knew him as Frypan, exclaimed. Frypan was a happy, joyous boy - he picked up a job in the cafeteria Freshman year, and he soon became one of the most popular registers during break time and nutrition, mostly because he also sold his own baked goods to students if they bought something from his cart.  You sat quietly, sipping at the coffee in between your hands, glancing to the side to see Minho’s arm curled around Teresa as she laughed and put the end of a sour straw into his mouth, laughing even louder as he slurped it up like a pasta noodle.

Shaking your head you smiled at them. Looking up above you slightly you saw Gally who was seated with a girl you had never met before. But after hearing bits of their conversation you knew that her name was Sonya and that she came to cheer on her brother who would be playing tonight. Gally seemed content on sharing his nachos with the girl as they chatted aimlessly, and you smiled at them too, happy Gally was smiling and talking nicely instead of grumbling or complaining at the usual. But quickly the game launched into action, and your eyes strained from the top of the bleachers to find the blonde haired boy on the field, trying to pinpoint him. But there were a handful of tall, lean blondes and you could barely see any other features besides hair and the baggy shirts over their torsos.

Oh well, you thought, I’ll have to try to find him after. And with that, you threw several pieces of popcorn into your mouth as you watched people cheer and groan. You were amused as you watched Teresa, half way into the game, shrieking as she stood up. “Tom! You moron! Don’t pass to defense if you're playing a forward! You just completely backtracked oh my God no, you idiot- no- just- oh my God, you just passed it to the other team,” Teresa groaned, slumping back into her seat. Minho laughed, rubbing her shoulder chuckled from amusement.

To be honest, you weren’t too into sports. You did t-ball when you were a kid and played soccer for a handful of years, but you instead fell in love with the arts and learning. So when the game came to an end and you completely were clueless on who won due to your daydreaming, you were unsurprised and mostly uncaring. But quickly you stood up, snatching the gray sweater/hoodie that Teresa had brought with her and mumbled a “gonna go find the blondie” before hurrying off down the stairs. Already the boys were gathering waterbottles and bags to go and shower and change. Your school won, unsurprisingly, and the opposing team sluggishly left the team.

The soccer team was laughing and cheering, chatting away. Some of the boys’ girlfriends came over to congratulate others ran off to celebrate with parents or friends, but a little over half stayed, cheering and talking animatedly. Once you got within a couple yards of the team, a few boys saw you and mumbled to one another, snickering and grabbing the attention of some of the others. “Did our boy reel in a catch or what?!” one boy said. He was tall, lean, thoroughly muscled, and had dark chocolate hair and warm caramel eyes. They twinkled with mischief but also kindness. “Now that’s a catch,” another boy smirked, leaning an arm on the other boy’s shoulder. He had dark, chocolate skin and stubbly black hair, a piercing white smile and light brown eyes that were streaked with a dark green it looked.

With a roll of your eyes, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of the varsity jacket you had on and walked right up to the first boy to say something about you. You looked up, pushing a small lock of hair from your face and raised an eyebrow expectantly at him. “Well?” you asked, “Do you know who’s the shank that owns this damn jacket or what?” He looked shocked and opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a familiar voice.

“Aye! Tom! What the fuck, loser?” came Teresa’s voice. “Hey! And stop hitting on my friends! Y/N’s my back-up in case this shank doesn’t keep up with me,” Teresa said, rolling her eyes as a thumb jut out to point at Minho, who in return gave a small cry of a protest. “I wasn’t hitting on your friend, it looks like she’s already been claimed,” Tom replied, a smirk coming back to his light peach lips, gesturing to the jacket. “Is that my brother’s jacket?” cam ea voice, and you noticed the blonde girl who was sitting with Gally now stood next to Tom, eyebrows raised. “Maybe? I don’t know the guy or anything,” you shrugged in response. “Tapping it and leaving them clueless. What a shank!” the second boy from earlier cried, sniggering.

“More like spilling milkshakes all over people and giving them something besides a sugar infested shirt to wear as an apology, but yea, close enough,” you replied, eyes rolling as sarcasm dripped from your lips. Sonya went to reply but another boy stepped up and looked at his teammates in confusion. “Thomas? Ben? What the hell? Sonya, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” it was him, you automatically decided. The accent, the hair, the twinkling eyes, and the scrawny and lean body structure were all identical. His eyes wondered over each face and then landed on yours, and his eyes widened, surprised.

“I’m here to cheer my brother on, dumbass. But Newt, who’s this?” Sonya asked, gesturing towards you, her face full of curiosity. “You’re Newt? Newton Issaics?” you asked after a minute, and the boy nodded slowly. With a shake of the head, you slid the varsity jacket off and handed t to him with his hoodie. “These belong to you from the incident on Wednesday. Thanks again...Newt,” you said, eyeing him up and down. You wore high waisted black skinnies and a simple, baggy grey tank top. your hands went into your pockets, bumps appearing on your arms as the cool air hit you.

By this point, most of Newt’s teammates had gotten distracted. Gally was talking to en, Teresa was joking with Thomas and introducing Minho, and Sonya was talking to another guy, laughing and shaking her head. Newt looked at you curiously, slipping his varsity jacket back around your shoulders. “You’re cold. Give it back another time,” he decided, holding the hoodie you handed him still. With a crooked smile, you thanked him before looking down and glancing at the thin watch on your wrist. “Shit, gotta go. Nice meeting you, Issaics,” you grinned before turning to leave, jogging off.

“Wait!” Newt called, jogging a few feet, still a couple yards away from you. “Who are you? I never got a name and you somehow knew my full name, that’s a bit unfair,” Newt said, smiling slightly. You backed away, looking at him and raising your arms into a shrug, grinning wildly. “Guess you’ll have to wait to find out, Issaics!” you called, then continued running off.

It was already 9pm but you were in your car driving to Newt’s house. Mr. Blackburn had given you his address, his number, and his mother’s number. You had gotten a message from his mother asking if you could come over after his game so she could meet you. You were supposed to meet him before the game, but things came up. You agreed, deciding this would be a short meeting, only an hour, to meet everyone and discuss things.

So here you were, your car parked on the side of the street in front of a nice, decent sized two-story house, lights on and the front door open with only a glass door cutting the inviting house out from the nipping cold. You walked up to the door and were greeted almost instantly after knocking a couple of times. A short, lean woman who was maybe in her mid-40s appeared and instantly welcomed you in. You had taken off Newt’s varsity jacket and held it folded in your arm. The woman grinned and welcomed you enthusiastically, guiding you to a glass kitchen table that had a thin, white lace covering over it. On the table were 4 cups of steaming cocoa in it and a plate of cookies. You could already tell you would like Mrs. Issaics.

“Come in dear! Newton is just getting home now with his sister from his game, and his father will be coming down any minute now,” the woman smiled. She had light teddy brown hair, much like Newts. It was thin and cut right below her collar bones, framing her face in a welcoming, warm kind of way. She had small, thin hands that moved nimbly and gracefully, arranging a couple of folders and small stacks of paper. She was just explaining to you how much you tutoring him meant to her and her husband when said man joined you, holding a large, calloused hand out to greet you. He too was a thin man, but he was very tall and was muscular from head to toe. He looked maybe a couple years younger than his wife but neither showed their age all that much. He wore baggy dark brown dress pants and had a simple plaid shirt tucket into his pants, glasses hanging from said shirt pocket. He sat next to his wife and took a small drink from the cup, snatching a cookie while his wife continued to talk.

You listened quietly and patiently, smiling and nodding when appropriate. Mrs. Issaics had just checked her watch when the door opened. “Mom! Dad! I’m home, I dropped Sonya off at Brenda’s,” the voice called out, a small clatter being heard as shoes were slipped off and knocked against the wall and a heavy bag thud against the floor. Walking into the dining area, he paused. You looked over your shoulder and smiled, a mischievious glint in your eyes. Newt’s own eyes widened, and his breath caught for a second as he realized just whom was going to be his tutor.

“Newton, dean! come, sit! This is Y/N, she will be your tutor for French. I was just showing her some of your last tests and the paperwork Mr. Blackburn sent us last week,” his mother smiled kindy, gesturing tot he chair next to you, the last cup of hot chocolate inviting him. You yourself had been eating a simple sugar cookie, sipping away at the warm, creamy liquid that was too inviting to resist in your mug. “You,” he mumbled quietly, narrowing his eyes as he sat down next to you as if he were analyzing you. “How nice to meet you, Newton,” you smiled, the same glint in your eyes as you put a hand up to shake his own hand. He did so slowly, before taking a sip from his own mug.

“I was thinking that tonight, once we were all introduced, Y/N here could show us her skills in French. I’ve heard your fluent! I figured no tutoring tonight, just a bit of introduction and such, is that okay with you dear?” Mrs. Issaics asked, a hand resting over your wrist as she smiled at you an then glanced at Newt. Newt shrugged and you nodded polietly. “Yes, of course. And actually, ma’am, I am fluent in 4 languages and am learning my 5th,” you responded kindly to the woman. You felt the need and desire to impress her, to gain her acceptance, and you quickly did. “Oh! How amazing!” she gasped, amazed by the statement. Newt choked on his drink, sputtering for a moment. “Fifth?!” he asked incredulously and you simply nodded, throwing him a lopsided grin as your response.

After only an hour, you were headed home. Your mugs were empty, most of the cookies had been eaten, and you had learned enough interesting facts about the Issaics family for the night. Mr. Issaics told you about his travels and how he himself knew two languages, Mrs. Issaics discussed her work and how Mr. Blackburn’s wife had suggested you per the eager recommendation of her husband, and Newt... well, he was quietly mostly. You got to know them a bit, discussed meeting times, materials needed, and the best way to approach the need for studying and learning the language.

By the end of the night, you had an ‘appointment’ with Newt tomorrow at 3 o’clock that evening. You slipped the jacket onto his lap before leaving, smiling at him, throwing a silent thank you at him before leaving through the door. As you got back into your car, after shooting a text to your mother to let her know that you were leaving now and would see her soon, you couldn’t help but grin widely. Newt intrigued you. In a way, you thought that fate was a cruel person who had a weird sense of humor. But then you decided that the world was just an unexplainable place that made you tutor the boys who spilled milkshakes on your favorite band tank tops at your favorite ice cream parlor.

You were oddly for tomorrow. And as you climbed into bed, you hummed in a soft contentedness as you curled into your sheet. I’m going to teach that boy French if it’s the last thing I do, you decided before drifting off to sleep. And you were not easily led astray from things you committ to.  

[rohitkkumar]

Ashwin replies to Manjrekar's remark with a hilarious meme from Tamil movie

Jeez, people are pigs!” Sam said from behind me.

“You can say that again,” I replied, looking at a dirty diaper that was stuck in a bush. “Christ, I’m glad I’m wearing gloves!”

Gingerly pulling the diaper from between the branches, I dropped it in one of the two large green trash bags I was dragging along with me. The first was for cans and bottles, the second for any other garbage I found.

“What was it?” Sam asked. “Was it grosser than the nasty sandwich I found that almost made me puke?”

“It was a diaper.” Turning to her, I grinned. “With nasty clumps of shit, so I think I’m ahead in the gross competition.”

Sam straightened up from the bush she was behind and shrugged. “Okay, I’ll give you that one, but only because we’re not done yet and I have a feeling I’ll find worse.”

“We’ll see.” I pointed. “Remember, winner pays for the next horror movie we check out.”

“Then save your money. There’s a new crappy-looking zombie thing out next week.” Sam laughed. “And this time I want a large popcorn, no cheaping out, Justin.”

“If that’s the case, I won’t go easy on you. I want a slushy and a box of duds.”

“You’re dating a dud, why would you want a box of them?” Sam grinned, waiting for me to take the bait.

Unable to help it, I said, “At least I’m dating someone. When was your last date?”

“I’d rather be alone than with a bitch,” she replied, removing her Red Sox cap and wiping the sweat from her forehead.

“Jen’s not a bitch. Why do you always call her that?”

“Because she is. Maybe you’d see it of you’d stop thinking about her tits.”

“What can I say?” I laughed. “She has nice tits.”

“I know. In fact, everyone knows. It’s not like she doesn’t flaunt them.”

“If you had them, you’d flaunt them.” I smirked, knowing it was a touchy subject.

“I have tits!” Sam snapped, biting on my joke. “I just don’t strut around showing them off.”

“I know,” I said, pointing to the pink Red Sox T-shirt she was wearing. “Is that your brother’s? It looks too big.”

“I dress comfortable, okay?” She walked around the bush, dragging her trash bag behind her along with the backpack she’d brought. “I don’t need to show what I have.” She gave her head a toss, sending her long brown braid whipping around. “If a guy wants to go out with me, I want it to be because he likes me, not because he likes my ass.”

“You have an ass in those jeans? I could have sworn you left it at home.”

Sam looked at the back of the baggy black jeans she was wearing.

I laughed. “What are you doing, looking for it?”

“Why are you being a dick to me today?” she asked, her dark brown eyes flashing. “I’m spending my Saturday helping you score brownie points for that little snot, and you’re making fun of me!”

“Whoa!” I put my hands up defensively. “Hey, Sam, I’m only busting your chops. Since when did you get so sensitive?”

“I am not defensive.” She stopped in front of me and dropped the bag “But I get a little tired of the jokes sometimes, and not just from you.” She sighed. “At least you don’t call me a dyke.”

“I’d never say that,” I told her, coming around the bush. “Who said that about you?”

“Those idiots, Joe and Dave.” Sam waved her hand. “I should just look at the source and let it go.”

“I work with Dave. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him to cut the shit or I’ll kick his scrawny ass.”

“I don’t need you sticking up for me,” she told me. “Those two idiots are like Beavis and Butthead. They don’t matter.”

“Matters if you’re mad.”

“I’m just in a mood, I guess, but what matters is you’d stick up for me.” She rolled her eyes. “God knows my brother wouldn’t.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

“Right.” Sam looked around the stand of trees in Carson’s Park I had volunteered to clean as part of Jen’s Earth Day weekend. “And I guess they’re for helping to pick up bottles and skeezy trash, too.”

“Yeah.” Removing my sunglasses, I pulled my shirt up and wiped my face. “I appreciate it, Sam. Tell you what, I’ll treat next movie.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Large popcorn?”

“Large popcorn, and I’ll even splurge for two drinks instead of two straws.”

“Ohhh, treat me like that and this girl will get spoiled!” Batting her long lashes at me, she widened her big brown eyes. “Thank you for my own personal soda, Justin! Can I have snowcaps, too?”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Please?” She pushed her lips out in a pout.

“That’s not fair,” I told her.

“Please, oh, please?” She then made her lower lip tremble, and I sighed dramatically.

“Yes, you can have snowcaps, but we share those.”

“Deal!” She clapped her gloved hands and jumped up and down like a little kid.

I laughed. “You’re too cute.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you remind me of my little cousin when you do that.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “I guess there’s worse things.”

“Well” — I put my hand up, knowing I’d made a mistake — “you’re cute in other ways, too. You’re pretty.”

“Think so?” She looked at me dubiously.

“Oh, yeah. You’re real cute. You know, like girl-next-door cute.”

“I’ll take that.” She smiled.

“Yeah, and a lot of guys like that — not hot, but cute.”

“You need to learn when to shut up, Justin.”

“Sorry, I meant — “

“Want to take a break?” interrupting me. “We’re about halfway through. The playground will be a lot quicker, so how about lunch and we finish up in one shot from here?”

I slapped my forehead. “Lunch? Shit, I didn’t think of that! You want to take a run down to the — “

“I figured you would.” Walking past me, Sam sat underneath a large tree and unzipped the backpack, pulling out a yellow can and tossing it to me. “Yoo-hoo?”

“My favorite!” I caught the can and popped the top as I sat facing Sam under the tree.

“I know,” she said, producing a plastic container with two sandwiches in it. “Just like I know Pastrami and cheese is your favorite.”

“Spicy mustard?” My mouth watered as I took the container.

“But of course!”

As Sam pulled out a bottle of Mountain Dew and a banana, I removed my work gloves and chugged half the Yoo-hoo.

“Wow, these go down too easy,” I said.

“Kind of like Jen,” Sam replied, kicking her sneakers off and stretching her long legs out in front of me. “And go ahead and finish it. I brought you two.”

“Jen’s not a slut, Sam. I told you we’ve been dating six months and we haven’t done anything but make out.”

“Didn’t say she went down on you,” Sam said, just loud enough for me to catch it.

“Really, Sam?”

“Really, Justin.” She paused, peeled the banana, and shoved it in her mouth, bobbing her head up and down as if she were blowing it. Then she winked. “Just like that to anyone that pays attention to her.”

I didn’t answer right away. The sight of Sam easily slipping most of the banana down her throat had caught me by surprise. Not that it should have. Sam not only dressed like a guy, but also had a dirtier mouth and mind then most of the ones I knew. She ruined the image by biting the tip off.

Collecting myself, I went on the defensive. “Look, Jen’s like me. She was raised to take sex seriously and that’s why we haven’t done anything yet. She thinks you should only have sex once you really care about the other person.”

“She’s a very caring person.”

“Knock it off, Samantha!” She was pissing me off at this point.

“Samantha?” She grinned. “You never call me that. Truth hurt?”

“Why do you care? You’ve done nothing but rag on Jen since I started going out with her. You say she’s stuck up and slutty and you barely know her. What’s your problem?”

“That I care about you and think you’re getting used.” Sam took the last bite of the banana and tossed the peel into her backpack. “Look at today. She’s this big green freak and says Earth Day is such a big deal, but you’re here and where is she?”

“She’s in Jamestown cleaning up the cove. She doesn’t have a lot of people helping, so she spread us out.”

“Yeah, she’s spreading all right. My sister says her ex-boyfriend is part of the cleanup. I think he’s …” She snapped her fingers. “At the beach. You can think what you want, but there’s no way in hell she isn’t fucking Rob and who knows who else. She’s using you, Justin, but I guess you’ll have to find that out yourself.”

I stared at her and frowned. I had heard Jen’s ex, Rob, was sniffing around, but whenever I mentioned it she got mad and said I was acting jealous and shouldn’t worry. When I’d pushed, Jen had brought up Sam and how much time I spent with her and how she wasn’t jealous.

Watching Sam unwrap a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and begin eating, I recalled how I had told Jen that Sam and I had been best friends since middle school, and that we’d never been more.

Jen had insisted that was because that’s how I saw it, claiming Sam had a thing for me, that I was too naïve to see it. Just like Sam was telling me I was naïve thinking Jen was waiting for the right time with me.

I was well aware I tended to take people at face value and was a little too trusting; but in these cases I was right. Sam was a good friend and had zero interest in being anything but, just as I had no interest in her as a girl.

I was also sure Jen wasn’t fucking around. Unlike me, Jen had been with someone before, and most likely more than just Ron. Then again, I was the only person my age I knew who hadn’t been with anyone.

But after my mother had discovered my asshole father had been fucking anything in sight for years, she raised me to believe that sex should be special the first time, with someone who meant something.

I not only agreed with her, but swore to her that I would be a better man than my father and would wait until I met someone special. Not that it had been easy. Although I’d never met anyone who I had a serious interest in until Jen, there had been a few girls who’d made it more than clear we could have some fun.

Sometimes I wondered if I wasn’t being an idiot waiting, passing up on some chances for a good time. But my mother was thrilled with my promise to make my first time meaningful and that had pretty much trapped me into keeping my word. There were times I thought I could just fool around and she would never know, but that would make me a lying dog no better than my father.

How many women you screwed didn’t make you a man; keeping your word to someone you loved did. And I swore to keep my vow and not be a dog in heat. I did, however, know enough not to tell anyone. That didn’t mean I had to advertise the fact I was a virgin, though. Any girl who had been interested in just a good time, I made up the excuse I was dating someone. And I was way too smart to tell any of the guys.

Sam knew because Sam pretty much knew everything about me, just as I knew more about her than her own brother and sister. We’d met in fifth grade when we’d been put together as lab partners and had immediately become good friends. We both enjoyed the same books, movies, and video games, and had the same laid-back personalities. Where we were different was when it came to what people thought about us.

Sam pretty much marched to the beat of her own drummer dressing like a tomboy and watching football and bad horror movies while spending more time around me and my friends than the other girls.

I, on the other hand, wore brand name clothes and took a lot of care with my appearance. Enough for Sam, along with my mother, to teasingly refer to me as a ‘pretty boy’ who generally tried to put myself out there as cool.

I looked down at Sam’s legs stretched out in front of me. Her feet were bare, and my eyes lingered on the butterfly tattoo on the top of her left foot. I let my gaze wander up her long legs, which I had to assume were under the baggy jeans. While she looked to her left watching the kids who were running around the small playground, I focused on her chest.

There was nothing visible in the loose shirt. Not for the first time, I wondered what she had under there. I wasn’t interested in the sense that I wanted her, but in the years I’d known her I’d never seen Sam wear anything tight or even slightly revealing.

She never attended any school dances and even when we went swimming a few times she wore shorts and a T-shirt. That was pretty much the only time I’d seen her legs, which although on the slender side, looked pretty good.

I went back to looking at the tattoo. It was colorful and in what I considered a sexy spot, yet she rarely even wore sandals to show it off. Her toenails were painted black, and I noticed a silver ring around her middle toe.

Sam had once commented she had a boyfriend who liked her feet. I idly wondered if that was why she had gotten the tattoo and wore the ring. Not wanting to look like I was staring, I glanced up.

Sam had finished eating and was resting her head against the tree with her eyes closed. I’d meant what I said; she was cute. Sam never wore makeup but didn’t seem to need to. Her skin was smooth and her cheeks had a natural color to them, and she had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen.

Those lashes, along with her huge brown eyes, she used to good effect on me, as well as her older siblings and her father. Her mother had the same eyes and would always tell Sam to knock it off, that she had created that look and was immune to it.

The use of her big eyes was usually coupled with her pushing her lips into a little-girl pout. Sam’s lips were full, and I’d once overheard a couple of guys saying she had blow-job lips. I flashed back to a couple of minutes ago when she made a show of blowing the banana and how her lips had looked wrapped around it. I shook my head.

Taking a bite of the sandwich, I looked back down at her foot, wondering what the hell a guy would do with her feet. I moved away from that image, thinking things were getting bad when I was starting to think about Sam’s sexual escapades.

But all that would change, and soon. A smile crossed my face at the thought of what I had planned for tomorrow night. Mom and her boyfriend Bill were leaving this afternoon to go visit friends in New Hampshire and wouldn’t be home until Monday.

Jen had been hinting that she was getting comfortable enough to want to sleep together, and when I mentioned my mom would be away for the weekend, she asked if I wanted company.

Jen, who was pretty much Sam’s opposite was blonde with baby-blue eyes. Whereas Sam was tall and a little on the skinny side, Jen was short with a pair of huge tits that, as Sam had said, she did flaunt. Her ass was damn fine too and she wasn’t shy about showing it off.

I couldn’t wait to get a look at those tits, to feel them, suck on them, and maybe even get my cock between them like in the dirty movies I got off to every night.

Well, tomorrow night I’d be getting off with the real thing. The idea of having Jen naked in my bed caused my cock to swell. At the same time, a twinge of nerves fluttered though my stomach. Jen didn’t know it was my first time.

I supposed I should have mentioned it, but she had experience and I didn’t want to look like an idiot. But now that it seemed the time had finally arrived, I was going to be nervous with only porn videos to go by and with a girl who’d done it before. What if I went off quick or didn’t get her off quick enough? What if — 

“Why are you staring at my foot?”

I looked up. “Huh?”

“You keep looking at my feet.” Sam wiggled her toes. “Something wrong with them?”

“No, they look fine.”

“You think my feet are fine?” She laughed. “You have a foot fetish?”

“Of course not!” Not wanting to be teased, I turned the conversation in another direction. “So why do you do that?”

“What?” She frowned, looking at her feet. “The tattoo?”

“Yeah, that and the nails and the ring. You hardly ever wear sandals, even when it’s hot, so what’s the point?”

“The point is I know it’s there and I like how the ring looks.” Sam shrugged. “I do it for me, not anyone else.”

I grinned at her. “What about foot boy?”

“I didn’t get the tattoo for him. I had just gotten it when I met him.” She winked. “But he said it made a hell of a bull’s-eye.”

“Eww!” I scrunched my face up. “TMI!”

Sam giggled. “But anyway, it’s about what’s on the inside, Justin — not the outside.”

“I get that with feelings and stuff, but why does it matter with looks?”

“Because vain people are shallow people.” Sam reached out and put her hand on my leg. “But you’re different, though. You dress like the cool jerk, but you’re a great guy.”

“I don’t dress like — “

“Bullshit!” She pointed at my sunglasses. “How much were those things?”

“A hundred, but they’re Foster — “

“Mine came from the dollar store and they do the trick.” She pulled on my shorts. “What brand are these?”

“They’re — “ I started, but she continued.

“And that’s an Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt you’re wiping your sweaty face on. What was that, thirty dollars? And you’re wearing it to clean up a park.” Pointing at her shirt, she said, “This shirt was ten dollars and the jeans were the same on sale. My whole outfit with my sneakers is less than your damn shorts.”

“It shows.” I smirked.

The look on Sam’s face told me I’d made a mistake, and she quickly made me pay for it. “You would never have made that crack before you started going with Jen.”

“Oh, come on! I’m just busting your chops.”

“Oh, that’s all? Okay, how about this one? I dress like a poor tomboy and you’re mister GQ, pretty boy, but which one of us is still a virgin?”

“What the hell kind of crack is that?” I put the sandwich down. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, you think I’m so plain and dress so crappy, but I’ve had a couple of guys who had no problem wanting to get to know me better.”

“So what? I’ve had chances, but I promised my mother I’d try to do it the right way. You decided to spread your legs when you had the chance.”

“Are you saying I’m a slut?”

“Of course not! You know better than that. But you know that’s a touchy subject with me.”

“But you never think anything bothers me.” Sam waved her hand disgustedly at me. “You really do treat me like a guy.”

“I … I treat you like a friend. Since when do I need to treat you all girly?”

“You don’t, but then again you’ve never treated a girly have you?” She raised her eyebrows after that one, as if daring me to top it.

“Guess you got me on that one,” I said with a casual shrug. “But tell you what, how about you ask me again after this weekend?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I just might…”

My phone went off and I couldn’t help smiling when “You don’t know You’re Beautiful” blared from it. It was Jen. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“Like she doesn’t think she’s beautiful.” Sam muttered

“Hey, sweetie.” I bit my lip not to laugh at the disgusted look on her face.

“Hey, hot stuff!” Jen chirped in my ear. “How goes park detail?”

“Halfway,” I told her. “It’ll be done in a couple hours.”

“Wow! That was quick!”

Hopefully she wouldn’t be saying that in my ear in bed, I thought, but said, “I have some help.”

“That’s great! More the merrier! I’m surprised you could rope any of your friends into getting up on Saturday morning.”

“They didn’t. Sam’s helping me out.” Even as I said it, I wondered why I brought her up.