Funny, he thought. It was funny. He'd always figured Casey was, well, gay. Despite the porn mags he had shoved up under his mattress, despite the swimsuit-edition-Sports-Illustrated pinups he had tacked up on his walls - a crooked, scotch-taped masterpiece of male heterosexuality. Despite the stories that circulated around the school, the stories everyone heard and knew by heart, even if they pretended they didn't listen. Despite the way he dragged a fingertip possessively over Delilah's collarbone at lunch.
It was funny. Not in a laugh-out-loud, who-knew-Casey-was-such-a-ladies'-man funny. Not in a funny-how-these-things-turn-out-isn't-it funny. A chest-aching breath-stealing why-the-hell why-the-hell kind of funny that wasn't funny at all.
Stan didn't question it anymore. He thought that he must have, once, maybe the first time. Now it was instinctual to pull up in his mind a blue-eyed messy-haired blur of motion that was supposed to be Casey (He was twitchy - never stopped moving, not for a second, his foot jiggling against the chair in front of him when he studied, sucking his pencap in and out of his mouth and really it wasn't such a stretch thinking he was gay when he was doing things like that, was it?) when he slid cold fingertips down under the soft warm sheets and into his boxers.
And so he lived in this self-imposed delirium, where each moment was only tied to the next with the hope of seeing Casey somewhere, anywhere. By the water fountain, head ducked down so that the longish locks of hair that usually fell over his eyes dangled into the thin stream of water. He'd push them away, irritably, tiny wet curls that left tiny wet streaks on his forehead and dripped water in his eyes. Outside, with his camera, focused so intently on a leaf or butterfly that for once he was still, perfectly still, the tip of his tongue inching out as he lined up the shot. Asleep in class, head lolling on his arms as late-morning sunshine streamed in through the windows and created almost-imperceptible gold highlights in his hair. Somewhere, anywhere.
He almost didn't notice the balled-up wad of notebook paper that hit him somewhere between his shoulderblades and broke him out of his Caseycentric reverie. He didn't have to look to know who it was, he could hear the stinging hum of her words making their way through the throng as his pace unconsciously quickened. Stokely. There she was, as always, surrounded by her like-minded group of militant feminists. He never tried to talk over the jabbing glares and razor-sharp whispers. He knew he had nothing to say.
She was wearing black again, and he liked that. He'd always liked it when she wore black - it was what drew him to her in the first place - that rough, raw persona that was almost a boy's but not quite. Not quite enough to attract notice. Not quite enough to keep him satisfied. The look in her eyes was what almost broke him, what threatened his thread-thin grasp on a reality that wasn't completely blurred with fantasy. The anger that almost but not quite hid the hurt that he'd caused her by not wanting her. Stan turned and walked away, derisive laughter lashing his back as he fled. And it was only what he deserved.
Hours later, he was still sitting on the same swing in the old playground by his house. A slow, steady ache was crawling up his back, settling in his spine, but he didn't feel like moving yet. Not when Casey was due by any minute on his way home from school, and he could catch one more glimpse of something real before he retreated into daydreams.