Chapter Eleven
Well, Tommy had finally done it. Finally, given up all their friendship and platonic love. Finally, washed away all those memories of the adventures they had shared, and the common bond between them. Tommy sounded like a melodramatic novel. He sounded like Merton.
No matter what he had said, all that stuff about just forgetting, Tommy had put on his football cleats and kicked their friendship right between the legs. There would be no forgetting, only awkward silences where they both would remember and not say anything.
And kissing Merton had been . . . freeing and satisfying, he tasted . . . untouched, somehow pure behind all his big Goth and Witchcraft talk. Standing in a bedroom covered in luscious red and black silk, with chains on the walls, the scent of leather on the air, surprisingly, Merton tasted like vanilla.
Love was where you found it, and there was no doubt in Tommy's mind that there was a big X right over Merton's lips. But Merton wasn't looking.
And that made it . . . sad, depraved, and wrong.
All his fantasies were tainted.
Lori was running like hell. Ms Howard had stepped into the pond. And it had flashed, blue flashes, like lightning, and then she had stood there, knee deep in the water, as the blue light/energy/freaky stuff had crawled up her legs, and wrapped itself around her torso, and surged down her finger tips, and crackled in her hair. And then she had opened her eyes. Eyes so dark and deep blue that they stood out in the night, like coals on a fire.
And Ms. Howard had turned, and looked right at her.
Would it be horrible if he went over to Tommy's right now? Wouldn't that just be asking for trouble? Merton could just see it now. Tommy, I know its two o'clock in the morning, but it's been eight hours since you kissed me. And six showers really haven't fixed anything, and it was only six because my mom came down and gave me hell because she couldn't run the washing machine. Not everybody's entire wardrobe can be washed in a cold, dark, load apparently. And I know I can't do the whole kissy-kissy thing, because you know, the thought of guy/guy quite frankly scares me, and I'm not what you deserve anyway, I'm not nearly good enough for you.
But could you hold me, please? Like you did after I got beat up?
Maybe tell me you love me again, so that this time I don't have to get all worked up about what it means and how you mean it, and I can just be comfortable in the fact that somebody loves me. Me. Merton Dingle.
Merton's fingers twisted helplessly against the smooth silk of his sheets. His pillow was getting a little soggy. And he was wearing his flannel bunny pyjamas. Becky had bought them for him for a joke one Christmas, and the joke ended up being on her, because they were the softest things that he had ever owned.
At this point he couldn't care that they were purple. And that they had little pink bunnies hopping all over them.
Tommy loved him, loved him, loved him. And he said he would always love him. Except this wasn't the Breakfast club, and Tommy wasn't Michael Fox, and Merton wasn't some gothic girl that really only needed some genuine affection. A make-over wouldn't cure him.
There were startling parallels between Michael Fox and Tommy though. Look at the whole Teen Wolf movie. . .
There was a knock at the door. Tentative, and light, but Merton wasn't anywhere near the land of sleep. "Come in, Tommy."
"How's you know it was me?" Tommy's voice was deep in the darkness.
"Who else would it be?"
"Look, Merton, I just needed to apologize. I never should have done anything I did tonight. It was selfish and it was wrong. I would understand if you never wanted to talk to me again."