disclaimer: the long walk is not mine

Pete had left the curtains of his room open, and he was now suffering greatly because of it.

The six-in-the-morning light painfully forced him out of sleep, although his head didn't feel much clearer than when he'd been asleep. After a few confusing minutes of lying down and staring at the ceiling, he concluded that he had a terrible hangover.

He hadn't even drunk anything. As the events of the past night came flooding back to him, he decided that it was some sort of...rejection hangover. Was being rejected at a school dance a valid reason to call in sick?

Pete groaned and pulled himself up out of bed, walking a few steps and then just falling flat on his face on the carpet. With his face pressed into the dark polyester of the carpet, the full effect of what had happened last night hit him.

He was probably a joke. Parker had a big mouth, he'd probably tell someone like Curley or Gribble and then it'd get around to Ray's girl or that fucking Barkovitch. He grimaced at the thought of Barkovitch.

The door of his room opened with a loud creak. He was about to bark at whoever it was to fuck off, and then he recognized his five-year-old sister Katrina's voice. "Petey?"

"Hey, Katrina," he said flatly.

"Why are you lying on the ground?" She knelt down next to him and poked him gently, as though she was afraid that he was dead.

"I'm tired," he responded. It wasn't a lie.

"You should come have breakfast, Petey. Maybe you won't be tired if you eat." Katrina beamed at him and McVries stared up at her blankly.

"Yeah, sure, Katrina. Thanks." He grabbed the edge of the bookshelf for support and pulled himself up into a standing position. Katrina beamed again and raced downstairs, obviously very excited for breakfast. Pete followed, walking slumped over and half-asleep. God, he probably looked like shit.

He fumbled for a box of cereal and ended up pouring corn flakes all over the table in an attempt to get it into the bowl. Katrina giggled. "Pete, are you alright?" His mother was a tall woman who rarely showed much outward affection to him but fussed over Katrina so much that Pete actually felt sorry for the poor kid.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, brushing the corn flakes off the table and into his palm so he could throw them away.

"Where were you for all of last night?" She sounded surprisingly casual about how late her son had been out.

"School dance," he said nonchalantly.

Katrina frowned. "Did you dance with that nice boy who called us last night?"

There were a few minutes of silence. "What?" Pete finally said, trying very hard not to glare at his younger siste.

Katrina looked like she was about to cry. "We got a phone-call from a nice boy who asked if you were home and if he could talk to you. He said he was sorry for not wanting to dance with you and that he wanted to apologize. He said...he said he thought you were nice and that dancing with you was nice and even the kissing was nice." She stretched out the word apologize, making it sound far more complex than it really was.

Pete stared down at his cereal. "Oh, fuck it," was the first phrase that came to mind.

"Peter!" His mother glared at him. "Language!"' Then, after looking at how half-hearted her son looked, she added. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"A boy, Pete?"

"It was nothing. Look, I'm going to be late for school if I don't get dressed and shave now." He got up from the table, pushing his chair in loudly and leaving a bowl of soggy, unfinished cornflakes on the table.

After he'd gotten his tangle of black hair to look at least presentable and scrubbed his face thoroughly, Pete considered just going into his room and never coming out. He could just lie there on his bed for the rest of his life.

He shoved his shirt over his head and grabbed his bag off the hook on his door. When he strode through the kitchen, his father tried to say a hello to him but was quickly cut off by the slam of the door. Pete thought about walking to school, then decided "fuck it" and slid into his car. He'd paid for half of it with allowance, he'd might as well use it.

The drive to school was uneventful, he was the only one on the road and the houses were as drab and nondescript as usual. He stared at the road ahead of him, ignoring the houses and the possible people on the sides of the road. Hell, it was only around seven fifteen. He had a whole hour before he was even supposed to be at school. He stopped the car and just sat there for a minute, staring out at the road ahead of him. The suburban Maine neighborhood was nearly empty, and he found himself transfixed with the sheer emptiness of it all.

He was brought out of his trance by a rap on his window. He turned to see Gary Barkovitch standing there, his backpack slung over his shoulders and his small, intense face twisted into an expression of disgust.

"The hell do you want, killer?"

Barkovitch was the very definition of a bad guy. He'd killed someone in a fight, surprisingly enough with his small stature, and was, in general, a gigantic dick. "Hey, I saw you chaffeurin' around fucking Blondie and his gang, care to give me a lift, Scarface?" He had a habit of making up nicknames that he thought were insulting, although 'Blondie' wasn't exactly the most insulting thing Pete had ever heard.

"Get lost," he said irritably. "I'm not in the mood for your shit, killer."

"Say, if you don't wanna give me a ride, how 'bout a light? I could really use one right about now," Barkovitch said thoughtfully. He didn't want to ask what Barkovitch was doing wandering around aimlessly at seven AM. It was better not to ask, really.

"Sure, poison your lungs all you want," Pete muttered, fishing around in the glove compartment for a fresh pack of cigarettes. "Here. All yours."

"Thanks, Scarface. What happened to that dumb fucking date you had last night? The thick-looking little piece of ass who's with that blonde girl?"

"Shut up, killer." He pressed down on the gas pedal, leaving Barkovitch standing somewhat dejectedly by the side of the road. It was true. He wasn't in any mood for Gary Barkovitch. He stopped the car again and reached into the glove compartment to pull out his schedule. Shit. There was a track meet after school. He had track with Ray.

He pulled out his phone from inside his bag, staring down at his contacts list. He had Hank Olson, Abraham, and Pearson as people was at least acquaintances with on the track team. After a few moments of speculation, Pete picked Olson. He punched the number into the phone, and waited for a couple seconds before deciding on leaving a message. "Hey, Hank, old buddy." He knew that would get into Olson's skin. The bastard sort of hated him. "I've just got a teensy little request for you. If I don't come to track today, just tell 'em I'm sick, alright? Would you do that for me?" He let his voice become a slight falsetto in the last few words, just to piss Olson off further.

After hanging up, he sank back into the seat of his car and took a deep breath. In and out. That was how people were always saying to breathe.

He knew what people did to boys like him, boys who dared to break the sexual 'norm' of life. School was going to be hell. Pete breathed out again, then put his hands on the wheel and started in the direction of school. All of it was going to be totally, completely fine.

um i really like writing mcvries he's kind of hard but really fun bye