Chapter 11
(Unedited)

On the contrary of belief, most people freeze and reach the instant level of anxiety as they babble in their mind what will happen next as they stay in a cat vs. mouse situation of octane awkwardness. With the knock at the door, we both separate quickly with enough force to portray Newton's third law.

The lacklustre moment led to me being uncomfortable and awkward. The jealousy and chemical erosion in my veins of how jealous I am of Christian is a new formation for me to endure as the heat of my cheeks start to die down.

"I was just getting ready to take Luke home," Christian announced proudly as his aunt opened the door. Once again, apprehending the factor, they wouldn't knock first. Linda throws on a knowing and accepting smile as though she was okay with this decision, whether it was true or not.

"No worries, Christian. I just called into work. I door dashed dinner for later," Linda tells us. "Luke dear, you look astonishing with your makeup on," she adds happily as she smiles and then shuts the door, presumably to get ready for work. Her telling me that I looked astonishing in makeup makes me fantasise that my parents wouldn't notice or ask me to take it off. In reality, I know that they would tell me just the opposite.

"That went well. My aunt thinks we're dating," Christian tells me as he walks towards me. "She also complimented your makeup," he adds happily as he places his hand on my shoulders.

"I take it; she doesn't compliment you on your makeup," I mention as I slide my school blazer on as I completely ignore anything related to the last thing that he had said. How could he even think that in the first place? I had no intention of dating or thereof until college. Here it was; Christian was feeling it.

"She fully supports it, and she even wants me to do her makeup sometime," Christian tells me happily. The statement of his aunt thinking we're dating seems to have seized from his thoughts. A slight relief I found as we got closer to the jeep.

***

With the setting of the amber sunset in the background and the ground littered with the hues of autumn, I pull out my phone to take a selfie. The serenity of my parents being at church or shopping, giving me a chance to splice the depressing tone up a notch. Leaving the makeup, Christian had applied along with astronomical glow in dark facial stickers blended with the glitter Christian blemished on my face setting the mood. A slight breeze plays with hair, bringing a chill as geese fly overhead, depriving me of taking a more vibrant photo as I toss the autumn coloured leaves above my head like a child at play as I take the picture. It had seemed like a different version of myself.

The emotional moment ends when Dryden arrives at the house. The new version of me; now shattered as I turn my phone off. It became something I did so often I now started doing it around Dryden. A butterfly effect of the activities between Christian and myself. A small scoff comes from Dryden, as I'm sure it's about the makeup.

"Puck from that Shakespeare play, right?" Dryden asks, leaving me unsure what to say as I ponder through the reference he had referred to. I remain sitting on the ground with my arms hugging my legs, revealing my bare ankles. It doesn't take him long to sit beside me.

"I haven't read that play in years," I tell him as the chill from the autumn breeze picks up again, making me cold with the weather feeling of autumn and winter mixed in one, as it gets closer to the winter season in New England.

"You wanted to be Puck so bad you got depressed when you didn't get the part," Dryden tells me as he brings up the memory of freshman year when literate history class had introduced us to the works of Shakespeare. Shakespeare, the godfather of queer playwrights as literate history, taught first-year students how plays had been in Shakespeare's time. And Mercutio, the west wing hero in the nineties version of Romeo and Juliet, paraded around his pride as the school system debated whether he was gay or not.

After thinking it would reveal too much of the real me in front of my school and community, I turned down the role. Shakespeare's controversial characters can be argued and justified in modern terms with theatrics.

"If Ms Langdon placed me as Puck, and I would've messed up," I tell Dryden, though I wasn't sure if it was because of how I felt at the time or how I felt now that Dryden had brought the subject up. "That was freshman year, and it doesn't matter now," I add as I silently hoped that he hadn't wanted to talk about when we were close and considered ourselves fervent friends on our terms.

"You're right. I didn't come over to talk freshman Shakespeare anyways, and I'm," Dryden starts to state where this entire conversation was headed. I should've been ready when he got right to the point of the topic. Party. That was where my mind caught back onto what he was talking about.

"Why do you want me there? I'm not part of your football team," I protest as teenage parties with booze, marijuana, and sex fills my mind. The stuff I knew my parents wouldn't want me around. On the other hand, I wonder if parties are really like that.

"I thought you'd want to know I applied for my scholarship," Dryden tells me as he gets up from the ground, as he brushes off staggering leaves off the rear end of his pants. Even if he didn't receive his full-ride, I thought he would've gotten accepted right out of the getgo for the University of North Carolina.

Now would have been the best opportunity to spill everything out. To make an obedient confession about it was possible that I had a potential crush on Christian. However, I found myself once again failing to do so. It shouldn't be that hard to tell him. "I," spit the first word out when everything seems lost in the vortex. "That's great," I tell Dryden as the last piece of speech falls into place.

Shortly later, he leaves, as though this entire short-lived conversation had never happened by magic. The finalising moment confirmed that neither of us had anything to talk about until the car ride to school tomorrow, where it would be sports and girls again. I leave that thought hanging in the balance as I enter my silenced house, instantly headed to the bathroom to wipe off the makeup before my parents get home.

***

"Shit. I forgot to give Christian back his shirt," I mention to myself as I slide my blazer off, seeing Christian's shirt still on. I should've given it back before I left his house. Carelessly I stuffed his sweater in my bag, and I was mainly mad at myself for being careless about bringing it home. What if his shirt gets discovered? Then I'd have to explain myself and Christian to my parents.

The first notification pings shortly after my phone bring itself back to life. A text from Christian, no doubt. My heart is racing as I'm not sure if I want to reply back or not. Not that it would matter, I'd see him in class tomorrow.

Christian:
You look handsome AF. 👑

My stomach drops as I see that I have sent him the photos from earlier. The ones I had thought I had posted to my Instagram. All my vibes and all thoughts of earlier between us, now gone. This wasn't a crush or any other Lifetime television moment my mother had envisioned me with, and the butterflies were most definitely not because of earlier.

Me;
I meant to post those on my Instagram.
I thought I had before my battery died.

The truth was: I hoped he'd believe me instead of coming back with some snarky remark that he always comes back as I lay on my back on the bed with a t-shirt I hadn't worn in a while. The design now faded as I held my phone. A smile slowly forms on my lips as Christian sends me a Spotify link, clarifying that he had made us a playlist, then we continue exchanging texts back and forth as I count down until I'd have to be the Luke that my parents wanted me to be.

Christian:
Are you doing anything tomorrow?
Besides the test?

How could I answer this? I thought tomorrow night was Dryden's party, and I wasn't sure since he hadn't mentioned a time or date. Then again, I was sure he'd say it tomorrow on the drive to school. Before I could think any more of it, I answered Christian back.

Me:
Not that I know of.
Are you planning another study session?

Christian:
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Now I've got you curious 😉😏🧐

He was right. He did have me curious, and I was probably more interested than he should have gotten me. It started to make me feel guilty about how I had carelessly scrunched his shirt in my bag as I dragged myself off the bed, finding myself reaching in and grabbing his shirt as another notification went off. Instead of answering, I started to fold his shirt, as I would fold my laundry, then carefully slid it back in my bag.

I'm in the process of working on my art homework when I hear my parents enter the house, as I know soon enough the usual homework policy will be coming. Thanking my conscience that I had hidden every evidence of Christian I had when I did. My last chance to see what the text had said before shutting my phone off again.

Christian:
Study for a bit.
I want you to feel confident about this test first.
See you tomorrow, Hemsworth 👋

****

"Hi, mom," I address as she swiftly enters my bedroom. Once again not knocking. Something Christian got to have at his house, compared to my own. Another thing I was jealous of but definitely wouldn't bring up, and I'm not surprised when she doesn't answer. A task that her parental skills had redefined somewhere in my teenagehood.

"Shouldn't you be studying maths or science instead?" she questions. I should've corrected her. Instead, I came up with why I needed a unified art if I didn't do anything on the athletic criterium and that I wished my parents would stop comparing me to Dryden. However, I couldn't find the words. She speculates how MIT doesn't accept art students, though I was sure that somewhere would need to be a skill. I'm relieved when I hear my father call for her from downstairs.

How would I be able to relax and study now?

The resolution was simple. I could either A) turn to what most teenage boys do on the internet and get lost in a world of delusional stereotypical adult fantasies; while thrusting my junk. Or B) listen to the playlist Christian sent me. When a small smile forms across my lips. I know then what I'm going to do.

Instead, I head to the kitchen for siracha vanilla flavoured ice cream.

******
I'd deeply appreciate it.

Read. Vote. Add. Share.

If you like what you're reading. underthemoment