III

The guy's locker room is the most disgusting facility at Eton Hall. It is a foul buffet of all things slimy, creepy, and contagious. Bacteria, both kinds of lice, fungus, algae, even STDs' run rampant in this sick pageantry of micro-biotic life. I've heard of guys catching crabs just by looking into the locker room. The floor is always wet no matter where you step, so mold grows over night. A biology class once took a couple of samples as a joke, but they ended up discovering ringworm in their petri dishes.

There was a big scandal after that one. A PTA meeting was held, a couple of angry parents had to be restrained, a few board members were fired. The Dean did eventually get around to covering it up. Lets just say that money was exchanged, but it didn't go towards improving the locker room. The parent-elected health inspector got a new Camero.

If our 'little petting zoo of magic' doesn't scare you off, the smell will. It reeks of sweat, garbage, rancid milk, and Swedish lutfisk all put in a blender and left out to dry. Yeah, it's even worse than the Bashes room, but you have to remember that it has had decades worth of experience.

Naturally, this is where I spend a lot of my time.

Less than half the ducks are even here and it's five minutes before this mysterious meeting is suppose to begin. Figures. I scan the room for the hardcore Duck cheerleaders, Adam and Julie. They're the types who are on the top of the pyramid, quacking their hearts out and promoting zany times, roller field-trips to the mall, and campfire sing-a-longs. That was so three years ago.

Right now the Dovetailing Duo are sharing a bench and talking in hushed tones. Neither of them see me and I don't feel like...what's the word? Intruding.

See, if Julie is 'Pretty in Pink' Barbie, Adam is her 'Clinically Depressed' Ken (razors, ambulance, and fake blood sold separately, batteries included!). Everyone knows that they should be together. They're always talking, meeting together, exchanging slips of paper. Julie says they're just doing homework, but I've seen too much daytime TV to fall for that. What, did she think I was born yesterday? And maybe if Adam ever got over himself and Julie stopped seeing the world through her rose-tinted glasses, it would work. Therapy would help too. Lots and lots of therapy.

But back to me, because I am a horrible self-centered creature. Remember that whole 'teenager' gag from before? That applies here too. I feel incredibly stupid standing alone in the doorway. Not quite in, but not quite out. I am your favorite boy band at the turn of the millennium. These are just the way things go with me.

I want to sigh dramatically and start speaking in tongues to my invisible pal Perry. It's not that I usually demand attention when I walk into a room, but that whole thing with Luis is really bumming me out. Right now I'm feeling particularly helpless. Like a deer frozen in a tractor trailer's headlights wondering if he left the oven on. Mixing phrases is my daily distraction. No, I'm more like a Ken that's wondering why he lets people trample all over him and not just figuratively.

Oh, there we go. Julie has finally spotted this poor lost little lamb. We've gone from deer to sheep. What next, poultry?

She grins and gives me a cheery thumbs up. I feel like I'm in a Crest advertisement. Or maybe that commercial for herpes. You know the one that starts out with that woman climbing a mountain and ends with a sunset and a voice over warning about the side affects? If you listen close, they mention diarrhea twice.

Something is wrong with me today. I think I'm broken. Do you think that if I took myself back to the hospital, they would give my parents a refund?

I give Julie a nod. One of those unwholesome, 'I hear dat' nods today's youth seems to be so fond of. I'm not even going to attempt at smiling. My face is frozen in a look of pure, unadulterated disinterest. Besides, Julie is grinning and waving enough to cover the both of us. I've met her approval: I showed up. Yay me. I wish I was that easily inspired. Don't get me wrong, I can be happy. Just not right now. Or today. Or this week. Maybe when I get my hands on one of Julie's Grandee Lattes Del Ritalin. That'd be fantastic.

Fuck. I want to turn around and leave. I want to go back to having limited amounts of fun. I want to patch things up with Luis. I want straight A's. I want cake.

It's so hard being known as the dependable one. Good ol' Ken, he wouldn't ditch his friends for cake. Goldberg would. Averman has. The Bash Brothers prefer pie, but that's another matter-what the fuck am I thinking about? Somehow, the rational part of my brain had slipped away unnoticed. All I have left now is this whiny, bitch, angsty side to contend with. Yeah, angsty isn't a word, but Kengst doesn't quite roll off the tongue.

That's when I notice that I'm not the only wallflower at this little jaunt. There is another huddled mass of flesh sitting by himself in a particularly dark, damp corner. Sweater vest, scarf, a weird hat - I'll give you three guesses who my new-found soul mate is. That's right ladies and gents, Ken has found someone he can stand next to and make strained, one-sided conversation with. You're my hero, Guy Germaine!

I carefully pick my way across the room, stepping over discarded gym bags, random pieces of hockey gear, and the odd, bloated-with-moisture textbook. There's an unspoken rule among the Ducks that you don't touch anything that isn't yours. Even if it means having to do a wild aborigine-esque dance across the locker room. Jockstraps and hockey pads and helmets are my own personal land mines.For once, I'm glad to be Ken and an idiot and a little intoxicated off of synergy. I look incredibly ridiculous.

That is, until Goldberg, Averman, and Russ barge in to the room and nearly knock me over. Then I look worse. I spin and spin and try to keep my balance while standing on one foot.

The Terrible Trio are making wild hand gestures and talking a mile-a-minute about (what are the chances of this?) pie. I was just thinking about pie and cake.

A small part of my brain shuts down and I force myself to ignore them and their fantastical descriptions of a pie-eating contest. Another part of my body had already claimed the right to this afternoon's entertainment. My tiny beating heart was set on awkward conversation with Guy, and that was exactly what I was going to get.

Inch inch inch. I eventually find myself standing next to him, no thanks to the hapless bastard who dumped out the entire contents of his gym bag on the floor (I'm looking in your direction, Conway...). I clear my throat. No good. It's too dry, it's like I'm trying to literally hack my words up. I cough and try again.

"Hey," I say. This is my great introduction.

Guy is sitting on the floor (ew ew ew), his knees pulled up against his chest. I don't think he sees me. Daydreaming? It's hard to say. I don't usually watch people when they are sleeping or whatever.

I wait. I wait some more. Avermen screeches in the background and something goes flying though the air. A couple of generic Ducks enter the locker room. I shift on my feet, but doesn't seem to help break the tension that is building up around me. Finally, when I was about to call it quits and go back to 'Frisco:

"Hey, back."

Huzzah! "What are you doing?"

"I dunno. Sitting." Guy gives me a look. "Why?"

Because I am Ka-razy Ken and I want to stalk you. But that wouldn't be very nice to say out loud.So I don't. I make a noise in the back of my throat that I hope sounds dismissive but friendly. Is that even possible?

"Mind if I join you?" I ask, against my instincts. That is, wanting to graduate with all four limbs attached and free of the pox.

He throws me a bone: "I don't care. Free country."

I am somewhat relieved. The Guy who never talked to anybody that didn't wear pigtails or a C on their jersey (and not C for Conway) hadn't snubbed me. I pick a less-moldy looking place on the floor and pop a squat. That sounds so disgusting.

"Hey, I like your hat," I make polite conversation.

"What about it?"

Well, besides the fact that it's vomit-orange, has three tassels (tassels. I can not stress that enough. TASSELS., and seems to be eating his head.

"It's nice."

"What ever," he snorts and continues to stare blankly ahead.

Mmmm... who knew Guy could be so damn intelligent? We chill for a while. Occasionally, Guy would look up at me, almost surprised. Surprised that I was still sitting there, surprised that I wasn't harping on him about his deteriorating mental abilities, surprised that I was Asian. I don't know.

"Sign my cast?" he asks/tells me.

Guy broke his arm at a party before school started. He can't play hockey anymore, but that's the least of his worries.

"Sure," I say behind my window of false confidence. He gives me a pen and I awkwardly scribble my name on his green cast. It's surprisingly blank.

"Hey, don't freak out or anything, okay?" he asks/tells me.

Freak out about what?

That is when Guy removes his hat and I notice how his hair isn't blond anymore. I am speechless. Or rather, Averman steals my words and yells them in a pitch ten times high and louder than I could ever manage.

"Guy! What'd you do to your hair? It's freakin' pink!"

Yes it has, in fact, turned a lovely shade of pink. Guy shoves his hat back on, but it's too late. The vultures are descending.

Do I flee or fight? Honestly, I am roadkill. These guys would rip me apart if I tried to defend him. I move to get up, but that is when Guy looks at me. Gives me one of those pleading puppy-dog looks. He must have been talking to Julie. I stay. I'm miserable, but I stay. He smiles.

Goldberg smugly makes a conclusion. "So, you've decided to get back to your roots? Having fun romping around with the fairies?" A conclusion that makes me glad I'm so far in the closet, I'm finding Christmas presents. (ftnt1)

This sounds harsh. It is harsh. It is a horrible thing to say. But Guy has been blacklisted by all of Eton's top society, and then people who were somewhere in the middle, and then people who were suppose to be his friends. It's acceptable, it's high school. And remember that deteriorating Duck Spirit I was telling you about earlier? Yeah, I've just realized it's completely gone. Hostile. Intolerance. Gay bashing. These are words to post up on your refrigerator.

That party where Guy broke his arm, that was when he came out. He'd been caught literally in the closet with another guy. People had been so weirded out, they'd starting throwing punches. One of those fists had assisted him down a flight of stairs.

But that was months ago. Connie had broken up with him (of course). Nobody went near him, not even the freshman. He was shit.

And me, being the suicidal loony that I was, had wanted to talk. Maybe that was a mistake, now that I think about.

Whoops.

(endpartthree)

mmmm.... everything is whacko. sorry about that.i know i have many a grammar/spelling errors. I just wanted to get his posted up. new years party to go to. and that footnote, yeah that was totally stolen from family guy. sorry about the lack of dialouge too. but hey, ken is a quite character. i think he thinks more than he talks. this story will eventually go somewhere, i just needed to wrap things up really quickly at the end there.

props to troublesometwin2 and Ladybug11 and Rachel for understanding my craziness enough to give me a review.