Disclaimer: Newsies is the property of Disney. I own nothing.
We shared lockers our senior year of high school. There was a shortage of students with last names beginning with 'J' and 'K', so I, a "Jacobs," ended up with him, a "Keller." Despite having spent the last three years in the same grade at the same school, we knew little about each other. From what I gathered Brent was on the track team and captain of the basketball team. He had also managed to snag position of treasurer on the Senior Popularity…I mean Senior Executive Committee. A patch concealed his left eye, but he spoke little about it. He certainly didn't let it hinder his social life. He was popular. He kept his section of the locker a mess.
Me? Well, I was popular in my own crowd I suppose. By sophomore year I was secretary of the Science Club (though I guess that had more to do with lack of other members). My junior year I was vice-president of the Library Club (also, I suspect, due to lack of members). That year, I had earned the position of editor-in-chief of the Creative Writing Club, which was a fairly popular group considering it required both reading and writing outside of school. However, compared to him, I was a nobody. If anyone knew my name, it wasn't highly regarded with them. I didn't care though. Not much. Really. Ok…maybe a little bit…but who wouldn't? I kept my side of the locker pristine.
We had little in common. So little, that it surprised me to see him in my creative writing elective class. First I figured he'd gotten stuck in that class due to schedule conflicts with his other elective choices. When Mr. Denton, our teacher, had each of us stand and say why we were taking the class, he responded, "Writing has always interested me."
For the rest of class that day I kept glancing across the room at him, expecting to see him asleep or wearing well-hidden headphones. Each time, I was surprised to see him furiously scribbling in his notebook. After Mr. Denton asked me if I saw something interesting I'd like to share with the class, I turned red and kept to my own notes. But I didn't stop wondering about Brent. I walked into class everyday expecting him to have dropped the class for another elective, and every day he came in, notebook and pencil in hand. After the last day to switch electives passed I realized he was there to stay. A jock star taking a writing class. Who would have thought?
We spent the first week of class doing writing exercises. For example, one day each of us would start a story, and when the timer went off, we would pass our paper to the next person, receive a new paper, and continue that person's story where they left off. We did this multiple times until each story was about a page long. Another day each of us wrote a name, a place, an object, and an emotion on four separate scraps of paper. Each person randomly drew one of each from a bag and had to compose a short story involving each of the four. My face was beet red when from the "Objects" bag I pulled "condom."
For the second week we wrote a short essay about ourselves. We were given simple themes to choose from such as "My Fondest Memory" or " The Dumbest Thing I've Ever Done." I was stunned when I received my first paper back with a 'B' on it. Now I know what a 'B' is, I doubt I'd have gotten so far in school if I didn't. However, it was a very foreign letter to see on any of my work. When I approached Denton about it after class, he told me it hadn't been a mistake. "I don't see a sense of you in your writing."
"But it's a story about me."
"Yes, but a biographer could easily write about you. I'm not as interested in learning about the facts of your life as I am in learning about you. The you that is inside." He gathered his things and headed out. "Just work on that. I know I'll see more in your next paper." We were currently writing the rough drafts of our next assignment, a short horror story.
As Denton left, I felt my cheeks flaming with humiliation. I was the smartest kid in my class, probably the smartest in the school. I didn't get anything less than A's, especially not in creative writing. I walked into the hall, head low, feeling like Hester Prynne, only instead of a scarlet 'A' I had a scarlet 'B' for everyone to see. At least, that's what I thought. My mood only worsened when I reached my locker. An avalanche of papers was falling around me. But they weren't just Brent's papers. Some of them were mine. My clean locker had become a trashcan.
"Oh shit," I heard a voice behind me. Brent was standing there, his friends behind looking amused by the whole situation. "Dude, I'm sorry. I meant to try and clean it out, but I didn't have time because I had to get to class."
"Well why didn't you make it a point to get here earlier?" I snapped. "This is my locker too, you know. I don't appreciate having to clean up after you. I'm not your mother."
"Aw Brent, you got the pansy's panties in a twist," one of the lugheads cooed as the others laughed.
Thoroughly embarrassed, and unsure of how to respond to them, I grabbed my papers, shoved them quickly into my book bag, and stomped off to the school's parking lot.
I sat in my room for three hours after getting home. I was trying to read over my paper to understand what Denton had meant, but I could only focus on the large 'B' scrawled across the top. My mother knocked on my door and told me dinner was ready. "It's artichoke, your favorite." Actually, mom, that's your favorite. "You've been up here so long, you must be starving."
"Not really, mom." To be honest, I was afraid I'd vomit if I tried to eat anything.
She brushed her hand across my forehead. "You don't have a fever, do you?"
I inwardly groaned. "No…I just have a lot of homework."
She 'tsked' at that. "I swear that school is running you ragged. Well just remember that good grades aren't useful if you're starving yourself."
"How about I take my dinner up here?" Translation: I will stuff all the artichoke you want down my throat if you will leave now. With a heaping plate of food in front of me, I decided to stop obsessing for the moment over the past paper and instead turned my attention to the rough draft of our current assignment.
I cringed as I opened my book bag and saw a mass of papers shoved in. I poured them onto the ground and did my best to smooth out each one. As I searched, I realized there was something missing from the pile of papers. My rough draft. I frantically checked every inch of my room to see if I had misplaced it. I turned my book bag inside out, checking for any compartments I had forgotten about, any folders I had left in there. If my recent grade had given me a heart attack, this was going to kill me. I had written rough draft in class the day before. I hadn't had a chance to type it up and save it, so it was my only copy.
On the verge of a nervous breakdown, I grabbed the papers and began shuffling through them. I didn't find my paper, but I found something else:
The Closet By: Brent KellerI knew it wasn't mine. I knew I had no right to read it. But I was curious as to how a jock would write. I figured his idea of horror would be losing big game for his team. I first skimmed the page, back and front. Intrigued by what I had seen, I went back to the beginning and read it again.
It was good. I mean it was good. There was no denying that no matter how much I wanted to. The story centered on a hideous monster locked in a closet. No matter what the characters did, it couldn't be destroyed. The only thing they could do was keep it locked in the closet for all eternity. But no matter how securely it was locked in, it could be heard screeching to be let free when it sensed someone near the door.
The imagery of the story was astounding. The use of vocabulary was perfect, as though he always knew exactly what word to use in order to get the point across without sounding too pretentious. Of course, my anal retentive side reminded, there were grammatical errors and spelling errors. He was sloppy with his paragraph breaks, often creating an entire block of writing, which should have been three or four paragraphs. Countless run-ons and sentence fragments ran rampant about the page. However, despite all these small things that could be cleaned up with the proper proofreading, the writing itself was good.
I don't know why I did it, but I slowly stood and walked down the stairs. With a quick shout to my mother that I was going to a friend's house, I walked outside and proceeded to drive to Brent's house. True, I should have called first, but I figured if I showed up at his door, he wouldn't turn me away, not matter how many of his meathead friends he had over.
I reached his house in a matter of minutes. You could tell right away that his family was well off. The large house loomed over me, almost intimidating me. I took a breath, grabbed the large brass knocker, and rapped it against the huge door. The girl who answered had to have been about thirteen. Her blonde hair resembled Brent's, but her eyes were almond-shaped and brown and her skin was tanner. "Yeah, can I help you?" she asked. She was holding a phone in her hand and her expression told me she hadn't been happy that I had interrupted her discussion of the latest Orlando Bloom movie (though, aren't they all the same? Or is it just that his character is always the same?)
"Yeah. Uh…is Brent home? I need to get something from him."
She nodded toward the stairs. "His room is the second door on the right. He usually has his headphones on, so he may not hear you knock. So just walk in."
"Oh…ok. Thanks. I trudged up the stairs slowly, suddenly regretting my brash actions. I tried to take as much time to climb the stairs as I could by pretending to look at the family pictures hanging on the wall. When I got to his room I paused before pushing the door open. Maybe if I had paused a bit longer I wouldn't have seen it, but I did. There, in the middle of the room, was Brent. He was stark naked and, judging by the amount of water dripping from his skin, he had recently gotten out of the shower.
"What the fuck?"
"Uh…sorry!" I cried before slamming the door. I was sure that somewhere downstairs there was a girlish cackle. My heart was jumping around inside my chest and I just knew my face was redder than it had ever been. I couldn't erase the image of his naked, soaking wet body from my brain.
But I realized, part of the problem was that I didn't want to erase it.
I'd known I was gay since age fourteen. In my own fashion, I did research on the feelings I was having. I did experiments on myself through smuggled porn. The results came back positive. I was as queer as a period at the end of a question. Sorry. Grammar humor.
Dealing with my parents had been easy enough. They assumed my reason for not going on dates with girls was my devotion to my academics. They were so proud.
However, for the first time since I could remember, I felt myself becoming aroused by what I had just witnessed. Sure I'd felt attracted to guys before, but never to the point I felt now. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was that athletic build, slightly pale, with the water running down every crevice of it. When the door reopened I found myself unsure of what to say, unsure of why I was even there.
He had quickly changed into a T-shirt and pajama pants. His face was a deep crimson, though whether it was from anger or embarrassment, I couldn't tell. I spoke up quickly before he had a chance. "Your sister told me to just come in…Uh…"
He ran to the barrister. "Noelle! I swear I will strangle you one of these fucking days! You hear me you little brat?"
"You touch me and Johnny'll kill ya!" I heard before the slamming of a door.
He briskly what passed into his room, pounding his fist against the door. A grimace revealed how physically painful that had been, but didn't hinder his anger. "Damnit! She make me so fucking mad!" he went about ranting. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or having some kind of psychological episode. "I mean, she gets whatever the hell she wants and no one can do anything about it! Oh, and heaven forbid you should put her in her place! Not with Johnny around!"
He stopped ranting, bent over what appeared to be his desk (though with so many papers strewn about it, it was hard to tell), breathing heavily. Finally, he glanced up. When he saw me, he furrowed his brow as though he hadn't noticed who I was before. "Uh...hey. David, right?" I nodded. "I…uh…did I know you were coming? I mean, why are you here?"
"I…I mean…" I couldn't articulate the right words, so I dumbly held the paper out to him.
He tentatively took it. "Where'd you get this?" he asked once he realized what it was.
"I think I grabbed it by accident this afternoon."
His face reddened again. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that."
"It's ok," I said with a shrug. "I guess I can be anal about things at times."
"What? No, I mean about my friends. They can be douches sometimes."
My stomach shifted recalling the incident. "I don't care. Really."
"Yeah, but I do."
There was an awkward silence. "I was hoping you maybe had grabbed my paper on accident too."
"I wasn't really paying attention, but it can't hurt to check." As he leaned over his book bag, I couldn't help notice that he must not have had much time to dry off. In some areas his T-shirt was sticking to his form. I also noticed when he bent over his shirt came up slightly, offering a flash of his bare back.
Stop that! I mentally slapped myself. That's not why you're here! When he sat up, piles of papers in his hand, his bangs (still wet) fell into his face. His only shown eye was intensely looking over each sheet of paper. Damnit! What a time to develop a first crush!
"Here it is!" he exclaimed yanking me from my trance. He held a sheet of paper out to me, on which I recognized my handwriting. I was still a bit too dazed to care that my beautiful rough draft was crumpled and slightly torn.
"Thanks," I replied softly, gingerly taking the paper form him. I stood mutely, not knowing what to do next. "So…I guess I'll be going…" I reluctantly said.
"Oh. Well you can stay a while. You know, hang out maybe."
This was way too surreal to be true. A mega jock, popular enough to hang out with anyone he wanted, was inviting me--shy, bookwormish, me—to hang out. I was positive I'd be pinched any moment and wake up. "Don't you have something to do with your friend tonight?"
He shrugged. "They all wanted to go get trashed at some underground club. I wasn't really in the mood. Besides, sometimes you need a break from your friends, you know what I mean?"
Not a clue. "Yeah," I said lamely with a nod. "But then why are you asking me to stay?"
"I don't know." He looked me square in the eyes. "If you don't want to stay, you don't have to."
I attempted and failed to be nonchalant when I replied, "Well, I really don't have anything else to do." What to say next? "So…your story is really good."
He brightened up a bit. "You really think so? I wasn't sure."
"Of course," I continued, "it could use some proofreading."
He nodded. "You're probably right. Grammar has never been one of my strongest points."
I cleared my throat. "Well it's one of my strongest points. I mean, I could proofread it if you wanted."
"Seriously?"
"Sure," I said taking the paper from his hand, "just give me a few minutes."
"Wait, you're going to do it now?"
"What's wrong with now?"
"Nothing," he said, "I just don't want you to feel like you need to do it now. I can wait if you wa—"
"MAGGOT!"
The shout bellowed through the house, and the slamming of a door shook the walls. For the first time since I'd met him, Brent looked frightened. His knuckles gripped the edges of his desk as heavy footsteps pounded against the stairs. By the way the pictures on his wall trembled I would have expected Godzilla to crash through the door. I guess I was close.
The door flew open suddenly, causing both Brent and me to jump slightly in our seats. The man standing in the doorway had tan skin, brown eyes, and a crew-cut. He was wearing a white wife beater and jeans. His arms looked thicker than my entire body, and I noticed veins pulsating in them. His eyes were blazing and his nostrils flaring. He barely acknowledged me, instead walking to Brent. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. "Noelle tells me the two of you had some words earlier."
Brent did his best to keep his composure. "She was being a bitch."
Considering how the hulk tightened his grip, I guessed that was the wrong thing to say. "Do not say that about my sister."
Brent's eyes flashed in anger. "Half-sister. She is your half-sister. She is my half-sister. That doesn't make her any less of a bitch."
The hulk let go of Brent after a moment, but he didn't look placated. "You'd just better watch your step, faggot."
Brent's lips twitched upwards slightly. "How is it I'm the fag, Johnny, when you roll around on the floor with other guys? I mean, wrestling is probably the gayest sport I've ever seen."
Johnny's fists tightened and relaxed. "One of these days. Mark my words." With no more than a sneer in my direction, he stormed out. The slamming door once again knocked over the pictures I had just stood upright.
We were silent. I had no idea what to say next. "So, um, that was your brother?"
"Step-brother," he quickly corrected. "My mom and his dad got married twelve years ago. Shot gun wedding, "he explained with a snort. "Johnny and I were only six at the time, but we never much liked each other. Then once Noelle came along, Johnny assumed the role of protective older brother. She was so fucking spoiled. No wonder she turned out the way she did."
"Oh." That's an intelligent thing to say. "I'm really sorry."
He grinned a bit. "Why? You didn't do anything."
I blushed a bit. "I know, but…I mean…" What to say now? "Doesn't it annoy you when he calls you a faggot?"
Brent looked at me and then spun his chair to face the opposite wall. He didn't say anything, and I figured I'd it a sore spot. Finally, he turned back to face me and earnestly asked, "Why should it annoy me? Sure, I wish he would use a less derogatory term, but if the shoe fits…"
My eyes couldn't have grown wider. I'm sure he didn't just…
"You--you're gay?" I sputtered. "But you're megajock of the year!"
He chortled slightly at my surprise. "Is there a rule that jocks cannot be attracted to other men? Because if you ask me, we're more likely than anyone else, what with showering together and stuff."
I still was sure I had simply misheard. "Do any of the other guys on the team know?"
"I figured it wasn't their business."
"Well…it isn't exactly my business either…"
He tilted his head, as though studying me. I was feeling semi-uncomfortable. "You're right. It isn't." Now it was his turn to blush. "I don't know why I even told you."
When he didn't say anything more, I hesitantly began looking over his paper. This time as I read it, I began realizing something. This was about more than a monster in the closet. The thing in the closet wasn't even a monster, just something longing to be free. The captors were the monsters. There was no denying the actual meaning of the story. Denton's words echoed in the back of my mind. I don't see a sense of you in your writing. So this is what he meant. I was beginning to understand.
When I looked up, Brent was deeply immersed in my paper. I cleared my throat to get his attention. "I…I'm finished." Pause. "So does your family know?"
He rolled his eyes. "Oh boy do they. That's only added to the drama. The evil king has been a major homophobe since his first wife left him for another woman. Now he holds a vengeance against anyone who's gay. He even blamed my mom, saying she didn't remarry soon enough and that being raised by a woman had some stigmatic effect on me." He dismissed the entire notion with a wave of his hand. "The worst thing is she believes it." He sat back and sighed. "I'm not allowed to tell any of our other relatives, though."
…Why can I never think of the right thing to say?
"So, now that we're done with the Lifetime drama of the week, can I say something?" I nodded. "Well, I've been reading this story…and…well…it's kind of bad…"
Never the one to take criticism well, I jumped up. "What do you mean? Everything is perfectly expressed, nothing is misspelled,…"
"Yeah, I know. But it's so boring. The characters have no personalities."
I shifted uncomfortably and stared at my feet. "But…I mean…there are no grammatical errors."
"You aren't used to hearing this kind of thing, are you?" He smirked slightly.
"Not before today I wasn't," I muttered. "Now I'm finding out everything I've ever thought to be true is false."
"Look, it isn't that. It's just…there's more to writing than just the rules. Hell, sometimes rules are made to be broken. I mean look at things like cubism."
"Oh, I hate cubism! It looks so….so…"
"Unorganized?" he supplied. "I bet you have conniption fits when you see Jackson Pollack paintings."
"I don't know that I've seen one, but I'm a bit scared to now."
He pushed his chair closer to where I was, placing the paper in front of me. He was so close I could smell the shampoo so recently washed out. As he was talking to me, I began thinking about something I'd learned in a Mythology class. In art of any form, there should be a nice balance of both Apollo, who represented order and Dionysus, who represented chaos. Sitting there, I wondered if the same were true about life. After all, they do say opposites attract. Each one keeps the other from going to his respective extreme.
Maybe that's what Brent and I were for one another, even if only in our writing. I was the order and he was the excitement. We were the ying and the yang to one another.
We were two halves of one whole.
Wow. So I was in a Davink kind of mood thanks to Sketchy. Before I say anything else, I'd like to give a huge thanks to Aisling and Jill, the best beta readers anyone could ask for. Without them, this story would have been crap, believe me. :bows to the awesome beta readers: Anywho, a lot of different elements contributed to the overall idea of this fic, including my mythology class, a viewing of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and a scene being done in my scene study class. I'm pretty damn proud of it to say the least. I hope you enjoyed it as well. If not, you just wasted 10 minutes of your life. I'm sorry.