Blink knocked impatiently on the door to Skittery's apartment. He had spent the last two hours meditating with Mush and he was in a bad mood. And it wasn't just meditating, no, it was yoga. When he wanted Blink to read the Talmud with him, he knew he had to leave.
He knocked again and this time Snitch answered. He didn't question why he was there, just went in and slumped into the soft, white, comforting leather of Skittery's couch.
"How'd you do?" Snitch plopped next to him, throwing his legs up on his lap. "I see you've met my...faithful…handyman…"
Blink shoved his legs off of him, not in the mood.
"He's just a little brought down because, when you knocked, he thought you were the…candy man."
"Shut up, Snitch. I'm not in the mood for this."
He held his hands up. "Don't get strung out, by the way that I look. Don't judge a book by its cover…"
Blink slumped lower, trying to ignore him. But, as per usual with Snitch, it was impossible to do so.
"…I'm not…much of a man by the light of day," he leaned back into Blink who promptly shoved him away. "But by night, I'm one hell of a lover!"
"Where's Skittery?"
"I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania!"
"I fucking hate you, you know that?"
Snitch was strutting about the room when Skittery walked in from his bedroom, rolling his eyes.
"Snitch watched Rocky Horror Picture Show last night. The results, as you can see, are not pretty."
Blink shrugged. "At least it's not Orca…or Kabbalah."
Snitch stopped his dancing and pulled a face.
"God, that boy needs some serious help," he observed.
"Shut up, Snitch."
Snitch shrugged and plopped down on the couch. Blink was grateful. He knew, with Snitch, that The Time Warp was soon to come. At least since he was sitting down, it wouldn't be right then.
Skittery nodded. "I have to agree with him, and I speak from experience. Mush needs help."
"No, guys. It's a phase. Cryptozoology one day, Kabbalah the next. No big. Mush is just looking for some meaning in life."
Snitch shook his head. "Dude, I don't think he knows what he's looking for. I mean, seriously, half the time I think he's on something."
Blink let out an exasperated sigh. "Mush isn't on anything."
"Then maybe he should be," Skittery put in. "As in, something prescribed by a doctor. Seriously, Blink, I think he's losing his grip on reality."
Blink cast a look at them both. These two were supposedly his friends? Where was David? Despite his issues, he was the voice of reason. He mentally scoffed. No, David would probably agree with them. They didn't…he didn't…. Blink felt rage mount inside of him.
"What do you two know? You never hang out with him at all! Neither of you know him!" he snapped. "Snitch, you even go out of your way to avoid him."
He lowered his eyes to the ground.
"Mush doesn't need help, so just shut the hell up about it!"
Silence befell them for a good two minutes before Snitch spoke up.
"It's just a jump to the left—"
"Shut up, Snitch," they said in unison.
--
Oscar sat down for the family's weekly dinner with Morris, noticing an atmosphere. For one, Sarah was there, her hands resting on her enormously pregnant belly. He frowned. Weren't teenage babies supposed to be freakishly small? He knew that he had been. But then again, according to pictures, Morris had not been. It had to be a genetic thing.
Luca was also looking at him almost smugly from his sweat across from him. He felt familiar rage build up. He and Luca had never gotten along. Mostly it was because of the pressure their respective fathers put on them to outdo the other. But recently, he had been irking him more and more with their current living situation. Luca had covered his new half of the room with posters of Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen while Oscar just kept playing his guitar at an earsplitting level.
"Ossie," his mother cooed. "Now that you're here, I have a favor to ask you."
He looked up, holding the serving spoon with a confused look on his face. It appeared his mother was addressing him.
"You know, since she's so young, Sarah's doctor thought it would be good for her to take a childbirth class."
Sarah smiled at him over the table. Oscar set down the spoon. What did this have to do with him? He sipped his soda, giving his mother an even more confused look.
"The thing is, Morris has a job now and neither me nor your father feel quite right doing it but she has to have a partner and it's only a couple hours after school."
He coughed up his soda onto his plate. Childbirth class?
"What the fuck?" he snapped.
Luca turned up the smug factor and forked some pasta into his mouth.
"Good penne, Auntie." He grinned.
Oscar shot him a death glare. Luca smiled innocently.
"Please?" Sarah asked quietly.
And it must have been Skittery's influence (or one of his more insipid friends like the little weirdo with the thing for water mammals) because he sighed.
"Fine."
His mother let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeal.
"Thanks," Morris said gratefully.
He shrugged. "It's what I do."
As if God had decided to enact some kind of kindness upon him, his cell phone started to ring. He checked the number and smiled slightly. Skittery.
"Hey."
"No phones at the table, Ossie," his mother teased.
He stood and went into his room. There were footfalls behind him and Oscar turned to see Luca.
"Go eat, Luca," he snapped.
He was grinning almost creepily.
"Is Patches there?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Your boyfriend's friend—"
Oscar's eyes shot wide and he shoved Luca into their room and slammed the door.
"Douche!" he snapped. "Mom and dad don't know, asshole!"
He held his hands up. "Okay, don't freak out on me. Now, is Patches there?"
He shoved him away.
"Oscar? What's going on?" Skittery asked.
"Nothing…is Blink there?"
"Blink? Oh, yeah. He's in a sulking mood, though…wait. Why do you want to talk to Blink?"
"I don't." He rolled his eyes. "Luca does."
"…Okay. Hold on."
Oscar handed the phone to him.
"Don't say I never did anything for you, asshole. You have ten minutes."
Luca took it and flashed him a grin. "Thanks. Have fun at childbirth class tomorrow."
"…You have five minutes."
--
"Ugh, Jack." David plugged his nose. "You smell like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
He gave him a confused look. "What?"
He shook his head and let him in. David had been stuck babysitting again and, once Jack found out about it, he decided to drop by. He was sick of doing bong hits with Race who seemed hell bent on spending senior year completely plastered. Jack, at least, had the dignity to pass up on the acid Race had somehow found.
"Hey, Good Feathers," he greeted Les and his buddies who were sprawled out on the floor watching Avatar.
Les waved to him, grinning cheekily. Apparently, he showed no distaste for Jack's dubbing of his group.
"Why do you call them the Good Feathers?" David asked irritably.
"Because there aren't enough of them to be Planeteers," he said simply, putting his arms around his waist.
"Ah, because you just have average classes, so you must have enough time to make up stupid nicknames."
Jack let out a labored sigh and turned him so they were facing. David was still moaning about that? He pushed him into his room and locked the door behind them.
With practiced ease, he pushed David onto the bed and started kissing him ferociously.
"Jack…" he warned. "We need to talk about this."
"David…" he mocked his tone. "No, we don't. We're fine. Okay?"
He sat back and pulled his shirt off. He saw David's resolve start to crumble in his eyes.
"Dave, I'm fine, you're fine, everything is fine."
He shook his head but made no move to get up. "No it's not. You're throwing away your future and—"
But Jack had learned last year that a very simple way to shut David up was to just kiss him.
"We're fine," he promised him once they broke apart. "I'm fine."
"Say that a few more times, Jack," he scoffed. "Say it a few more times and maybe I'll start to believe you."
--
"Hey," Dutchy said coolly, opening the door with a small smile.
Specs cocked a brow. No 'hey, dude!' followed by an exuberant kiss? Actually, Dutchy didn't smell like pot at all. He smelled…like laundry detergent and Axe.
"Dutchy…are you sober?" he asked skeptically.
"Hmm?" he queried when Specs was certain that he had heard him.
"Are your parents out?"
He nodded noncommittally. "Uh huh. Want something to eat?"
Specs looked at him. Alright, what was his deal? He put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly. Strange, he couldn't remember when he had initiated a kiss. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember a sober Dutchy. Yes, he had heard of his sojourn into sobriety when he was in Boston but he found it hard to believe.
"Is everything alright?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
Specs took his hand and tried to lead him into the bedroom but his feet stayed rooted in the spot.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Come on, I can cook us something."
Dutchy pulled him towards the kitchen and Specs sighed, letting him. He didn't understand why Dutchy was acting so strangely.
His phone rang. He let go of him for a moment, flashed a smile and looked at the screen. An unfamiliar number was there.
"Hello?"
"Goldstein?"
"…Spot?"
Dutchy's eyebrows shot upwards in surprise, edging to the bottom of his baseball cap.
"Just making sure this was your number. I had to threaten that pompous metalhead to get it."
Ah, Bumlets.
"So why are you calling me?"
"So we can get this fucking thing done soon, duh. What's up?"
He looked at Dutchy and then the bedroom before sighing.
"Nothing."
"Good. Keep your schedule open. Later."
There was a click. Specs stared at his cell phone. That was…strange.
"What'd Conlon want?"
"Something for our project." He shrugged. "So…your parents are out. Come on."
Dutchy blinked twice and fixed his glasses. "Pizza?"
--
"When in doubt, spend," Spot decreed, pulling into a spot in the Palisades Mall.
He put Eva's Lincoln town car into park and smiled at Specs. Admittedly, the boy hadn't been his first choice for accompaniment on this excursion but, when he called Jack, he had said he had plans. Judging by his tone, Spot could rightfully assume that plans involved David, champagne, and Digimon bed sheets.
Specs offered a smile. After Dutchy left that morning, Spot called. He was grateful. He felt so unnerved and crazy about his behavior that he needed to talk to a friend. Shopping, though, wasn't what he had in mind. He did not subscribe to the cliché of retail therapy but he needed to talk to someone. And Spot, for some reason, seemed hell-bent on shopping. When he had asked, Spot had said that he had an important mission and, unless Specs said yes, he was going to be relentless and obnoxious. Two things Spot was very good at being.
So shopping it was. At the Palisades mall, which was not too far from the city.
"But," Spot explained as they exited the borrowed car and headed towards the air-conditioned interior. "I am not talking about dropping seventy-five bucks on a pair of red leather pants that make your ass the size of New Jersey. I'm talking about spending money to get what you want."
"Which would not be an ass the size of New Jersey."
"You catch on quickly, Goldstein."
Specs smiled thinly. "Spot, there's something I want to talk to you about."
"Yes?" he asked, distracted.
They stepped into the mall and Spot immediately started looking around at the kiosks. Specs bit his lip. Talking about personal things was never his strong suit but he wanted to disclose the information to Spot all day. He was really the only person he could talk to.
"Well, it's about Dutchy," he said. "You see, he stayed over last night."
"Where the hell is that damn store?" Spot asked as their sneakers squeaked audibly over the cement floor.
"What store?"
"The one I need for Operation Racetrack. I am a man with a plan and the money to back it up."
He waved the gold card Eva had given him so it caught the fluorescent lighting. Oh, so that was what this was about. It must be nice, Specs mused, to feel certain of a game plan. Where was his Operation Figure Out What the Hell Was Really Up with Dutchy? Maybe talking about it would help.
"Something is wrong between me and Dutchy. Last night he—"
"Ass!" Spot yelled as a group of very large women with lots of bleached hair clamored by, their shopping bags winging the vertically challenged Spot in the head. "Did you see that? Anyway, Dutchy. What's wrong?"
"I don't know…he just seems distant. Last night, he stayed over and we didn't…you know."
"No kosher kielbasa?"
Specs blanched. "That's just gross."
"But accurate," Spot pointed out. "So what?"
"So shouldn't he have…you know…wanted to?"
Spot shook his head. "Honestly, Specs, how obsessive can you be? Dutchy didn't want to do it one night. That's your concept of a crisis?"
"Well, no but—"
"I would kill to have with Racetrack what you have with Dutchy right now. Do you realize that?"
"Yes but…" How could he possibly explain? Maybe he really was overreacting. Spot was the one with the more obvious boyfriend crisis. The least he could do was be supportive.
"So you're going to buy something for Race?"
"You could say that."
Specs wasn't sure he followed this logic; last he'd heard, Race could buy anything Spot could afford (they weren't exactly beacons of wealth) and wasn't speaking to him.
"Ah, here we are."
"Where we are?"
"What I'm looking for. My point—and I do have one—is that I need to be active in my pursuit for Race. Try it some time," he waved a hand toward a Cingular store.
"You're buying Race a cell phone?"
"No, Specs," Spot replied patiently. "Why would I do that? Follow me."
Specs sighed. Really, he had too much on his mind to try and follow Spot's flights of illogic. Why did Dutchy keep insisting everything was normal? He was sober. Sober Dutchy was not normal. What if he was cheating on him? No, he wasn't the type. Right?
Spot suggested that he be active. Maybe he should give it a try.
"Can I help you?" the perky, spiky-haired guy behind the counter asked.
"Yes. I need a new cell phone plan," Spot replied.
He plucked a brochure from under his desk and slid it over to Spot. "Lemme just go over the plans with you—"
"I don't need you to go over the plans. Just pick one."
"But there's different options—"
"Fine. This one," Spot pointed blindly at the page.
"Well okay. Do you need a new—?"
"Let's cut to the chase," Spot tilted his head to the side and stared the guy down with his weirdly intense eyes. "Any phone plan, any phone. I need that for one hundred phones. Which I'd like programmed now."
"Did you say—?"
Spot turned to Specs. "Did I not say one hundred phones?"
"You did," Specs confirmed. "I have no idea why but I have a feeling he's going to explain."
"That is a boy that knows me," he smiled at him. "Now. One hundred phones on plan whatever. I want every single number on them blocked except for a single number that I give you. And I want that number programmed into all of the speed dials too."
"Is this, like, a joke?"
"No, it's not, like, a joke," Spot bit.
Then it dawned on Specs. "You're ordering a hundred cell phones for Race and the only number he can call on them is yours."
"There's a reason you make straight A's, Goldstein."
"That's actually kind of…brilliant."
"Isn't it?"
He nodded. "It's sweet and funny and shows how much you want him. I should do something like that for Dutchy."
"Dutchy loves you, you paranoid idiot."
"But—"
"No buts," he held up the gold card. "Now, remind me to call Eva after this and tell her how much I love her."
