Brace Yourself

Chapter Seven: When I Watch You, Wanna Do You

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: I don't know how this story ended up being updated the least all of a sudden. Must rectify that.


"Henrietta," I snarl.

She smiles and simpers, "Haven't you heard I've been looking for you? All. Over."

"Yeah, I've heard. I've been avoiding you," I reply, cocking my head to the side, "But you know that."

Henrietta rolls her eyes. She's dressed in some black vinyl corset thing with this midnight blue dress that would look ridiculous on anyone else in this Podunk little town. On her it looks natural.

It must be because she's the embodiment of Satan.

Did I mention Henrietta is my ex girlfriend? I had a moment of lunacy. A few moments, actually. It took several of Craig's best patented what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you lectures and several hard elbows to the gut from Clyde every time I so much looked at her cross eyed to break the habit. Back when I first assumed the name 'Raven' again, Henrietta was the goth most intent on drawing me back into her fagtastic clique. Every time I decided my time was better spent with Clyde and Craig, she'd come along, giving me a good hard look of the way her cleavage spilled out of those tight corsets. So yeah, I had a few instances of weakness. I mean Wendy had just left me. I was a fourteen year old boy.

And Henrietta brandishes her sex appeal like a weapon. Of course, in the end she was just one more domineering ex to add to the list. She's the one who made me get my lip pierced, because it was 'totally non-conformist'. I run my tongue over the scar again now, a nervous habit.

I ended up breaking it off with her for good back in junior year. I'd been doing really well before then; Craig had basically banned me from any and all Henrietta interaction through all of sophomore year. She was reduced in my mind to a freshman fling. Then Clyde threw one of his massive keggers that fall. She came. We got drunk. We hooked up. Again.

The next day I realized I'd fucked up big time, and I told her that I never wanted to see her again. In typical Henrietta fashion she flipped me off, called me a conformist, and stormed out of Clyde's house.

With my clothes.

I had to go home wearing Clyde's, which were too short and too baggy.

I steadfastly avoided the bitch ever since.

"What the hell do you want?"

"God, Raven. Stop being such a drama queen," Henrietta drawls, "It makes you seem more faggoty than usual."

This from the girl who surrounds herself with goth boys who spend their time whining about the unfairness of the universe. Yeah. And I'm the drama queen.

"Sorry, but don't really have time to talk," I inform her, taking a step towards the gym doors. Derek blocks my way. If it wasn't for him trying to warn me in Coffee Blue earlier, I probably would hit him. As it is, my fingers are twitching into a fist.

"Make time," Henrietta suggests, "Honey."

The word 'honey' sounds like poison from her mouth. I don't know what the fuck she wants. It's not like they can possibly have some sinister plan; they're goth kids. The universe's ultimate pussies. And if they had some sort of super-secret plan, I doubt they'd be trying to clue me into it. I've been on the outs with them more often than not. Still, it doesn't mean that I like being stuck behind the gym with them. I may be strong, but there's like, five of them, and I know from experience that they take sadomasochism to a whole new level. The air feels thin and dangerous, like God's about to strike us all down with electricity.

Fine. I turn around, "So talk."

God, for once, is on my side. Just as Henrietta opens her mouth to let loose whatever life changing spiel she's decided I just have to hear, two drunken idiots stumble out the back doors.

And they're my two drunken idiots.

"Stan!" Clyde and Craig cheer in raucous voices, rushing past Derek and engulfing me in a sloppy bear hug. I'm in a linebacker sandwich. That smells slightly of hops. And okay, Craig doesn't play football anymore, but he's still built like he does. Ow.

"Donovan. Tucker," Henrietta wrinkles her nose in disgust, "Could you leave now?"

Craig ignores her completely, and Clyde whispers conspiratorially, "Dude. Why are you out here with that bitch?"

"I heard that," Henrietta mutters.

"I was talking to Kyle," I tell him, not bothering to whisper, "And we have a conversation to resume. Let's go inside."

I shoot Henrietta the dirtiest look I can muster. She returns it whole-heartedly. Hmm. I doubt this little convo was about getting back together then. Of course it is Henrietta, so you never know. Whatever. Like I care about anything that fat cunt has to say.

Craig and Clyde usher me back inside, my two knights in shining armor. With a flask of Jack. They offer said flask to me, and I take a couple swigs of liquid courage before muttering, "Thanks guys. You saved my hide. Have you seen Kyle?"

"Have you seen Kyle?" Craig mocks, "How come I get the feeling you only use us for our navigational ability to find a certain redhead, Marsh?"

"Don't be a dick," Clyde chides, and it occurs to me that even though their arms are both around my shoulders, they're actually touching each other more than they're touching me.

Clyde, ever helpful, points out my target, "Kyle's over there."

I see familiar skinny frame grinding with Bebe the Bombastic, who seems intent on letting the entire school catch a glimpse of her vagina. Glad she's not my girlfriend.

"Thanks, dude. You're a lifesaver."

"What about me?" Craig demands.

"You're just kind of douchebag," I tell him with a grin. I notice that his arm is still touching Clyde's when I extricate myself. Good for them.

Kyle looks amazing out on the dance floor. Back in third grade someone told him he had no rhythm, and ever since then he's been doing his best to rectify the situation. In seventh, he had his mom sign him up for dance classes. The rest of us made fun of him like the dickholes we are, called him an assrammer and a fag. It didn't matter. Kyle stuck out the classes, and now he's twisting and winding like the sexiest thing on the floor. The only thing marring the image is Bebe's hoochie lap dance grind thing she's doing. It looks like she might devour him with her breasts and her privates. While I'm sure Kyle wouldn't mind that happening, I decide to interfere.

The stench of sweat emanating from the dance floor is strong. So is the smell of liquor, which I suspect my two bozo friends had something to do with.

I brave it out, venturing through the crowd of my hormonal peers, most of whom don't even notice me. They never do.

I cut past a couple who seems to think the fast paced song pounding through the speakers is perfect slow dancing music, and another who are firmly devoted to attempting to devour each other's faces. School dances are gross. I wonder why the chaperones aren't doing anything to stop the orgy-in-the-making, and then I see that they're too busy playing a game of strip poker in the far corner. My freshman biology teacher is in her skivvies, which I could have lived my entire life without seeing. I train my eyes on Kyle, certain that I'm going to develop post traumatic stress disorder if I have to take in any other teacher's pudge mushrooming over the waistbands of their lace panties.

When I reach my goal, I can't believe how good Kyle looks. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. His clothes are clinging to his form. He's intense, so into dancing with his girlfriend that it takes me a minute to catch his attention. I think maybe some of that intensity comes from guilt over what just happened with Kenny. And I sort of hope it doesn't, because that means Kyle feels more strongly about Kenny than he ever could about me.

Not that I want Kyle to feel anything other than friendship for me. Seriously.

Even though Kyle notices me first, Bebe's the one who straightens and hisses, "Raven."

I give her a sardonic smile and say, "Your vag is showing."

She glances down, intent on fixing her slinky blue dress which has in fact ridden up to show way too much g-string. I take this as my chance to talk to Kyle, "Dude. I need to tell you something."

"Something?" Kyle squeaks, ignoring the fact that Bebe is glaring at me hatefully. It's hard to take her seriously when her cleavage is threatening to spill over at any moment, I guess.

I quirk an eyebrow, "You want me to tell you here?"

"Um," he spares a glance at Bebe, "No."

Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me through the crowd. Bebe's calling after us, but her voice is lost beneath the animalistic pulsing of the music. We find an empty table in a corner, far from the teachers' strip poker game and the refreshment table where Cartman has been making short work of any remaining food.

"Okay. So what's up?" Kyle asks breathlessly, his green eyes wide, "I thought we were cool."

At first I don't get what he means. Then a flash of understanding hits me. He thinks I'm going to use the Kenny thing against him. There's fear in his eyes, and something I don't recognize too. Like hope, but it vanishes too quickly for me to pinpoint it. It makes me kind of angry, because I thought Kyle knew me better than that.

"I'm not going to talk about Kenny, if that's what you're thinking," I warn. The fear immediately dissolves, but the hope…it's still swimming in and out of focus.

No one has ever confused me like Kyle has.

"Okay. Then what?"

"I-" I'm scared to say it, but I'm not a wimp. I'm not going to let fear keep me from the things I want anymore. That's how this mess got started in the first place, "Kyle, I want to be friends again."

Sometimes I hate feeling. I hate it so much that I want to dig my fingernails into my stomach, my chest and pull out my insides, just so my emotions will stop being so overwhelming. Right now, I'm so fricking scared that I'm positive my heart's going to jump straight out of my chest, committing suicide there on the plastic table.

"O-oh. OH," Kyle says, like that wasn't what he'd expected me to say at all. Fuck if I know what he did expect. My heart sinks. This isn't the reaction I was hoping for.

"So?" I prompt, reaching across the table, even though I know it's not the brightest thing to do. He's skittish as one of the calves on Old Man O'Leary's farm, where I spent my summer working in seventh grade. I've never seen him look so uncertain about anything before. Kyle's the most unwavering guy I know. Once he makes a resolution, he sticks with it. But now he just looks as puzzled as I feel. My fingers brush over his wrist. Static jumps between the sleeve of my shirt and his skin, and he pulls back like he's been burned.

"Okay," I say, feeling hurt. Fuck. I knew this would happen. This is why I don't put myself out there, for anything. I stand up, "It was worth a try."

Even though I don't think it was. I probably just ruined even the few interactions we had.

Kyle jumps to his feet, "No, Stan!"

Despite myself, I still love it when he says my name.

"What?" I growl back.

"No, I mean, um, you're right."

"I'm…" Right? Does that mean what I think it means?

"We should be friends again," Kyle says, and swear to God, my heart soars.

He reaches out his hand to shake, and I take it. His palm is warm against mine.


A/N: Eh. Not my best work. The next chapter will be better. Please review!