Still alternate universe, so John here is not as he is usually portrayed...
2
John slouched off through the deserted halls of his Wyoming public school, head down, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a big, black tee shirt; overlarge, but it had belonged to Scott, and helped hide how thin he was. Helped hide him, period.
It would have been overstating the case to say that he hated school... More accurately, John had a well-developed avoidance reflex for a place where bored teachers took an interesting topic and beat it to gummy paste before students who couldn't have cared less. Once or twice, first time round the fifth grade, he'd made a comment in class, only to find that it confused his teacher and irritated his classmates, who just didn't get it. So he'd shut up... permanently. What the hell difference did it make, anyway? Not like anyone really wanted his opinion. Not here.
They were struggling to memorize protons, neutrons and electrons, while he longed to discuss string theory, and the tenth-dimensional geometry of Calabi-Yau spaces. But, who gave a shit? Not him.
The school had once housed a much larger population, but had fallen on bleak days, as folk moved away and ranches sold out to the government food cooperatives. Now, there were dozens of classrooms standing empty, shadowed stairwells where he could wait out the school day in peace and solitude. He'd sort of promised Mrs. Flowers he'd try to sit through class, though.
All at once the bell rang, taking matters out of John's hands. Two girls from the high school side, Christy Cuthbert and her best friend Tabitha Lake, turned a far corner, spotting the silent boy before he saw them.
"Omigod!" Christy, in the first full flower of black-maned cheerleader sexiness, hissed to her pretty companion, "There he is! He is so hot!"
Tabitha, all copper hair and long legs, rolled her blue eyes.
"John Tracy...? Hot! Girl, you need help."
Christy stuck to her guns. She wasn't very tall, nor tremendously intellectual, but very sweet, and she'd mastered the fine art of frontier determination. Delicacy didn't last long in Big Horn County. Had to catch your young man before the sun, the wind and sheer hard work blunted the weapons nature gave you.
"Oh, yeah...?" She sniffed loftily, "So what would you call him, then, Miss 'If it ain't in a football jersey, I ain't interested'?"
Tabitha snorted.
"How 'bout, 'freak', and 'loser'? Besides," in a much more reasonable tone, "Sam 'll kill him, if he catches you talking to him, again."
Christy squared her slim shoulders. Tossing her head, she announced,
"Let me worry about Sam, Tabby Lake. I'll talk to John if I feel like it. Watch me."
And she did, sashaying over to the young man in question with her books balanced on one hip and a hopeful smile on her pink-lipsticked face.
"Hey, John!" She called brightly, before he could slip off. They were the same age, though he was stuck in middle school. Forever, probably. But something about the way he looked at her with that shadowed amethyst gaze released a cage full of hummingbirds in Christy's stomach. Always had.
"I was wondering...," she paused, groping for a plausible excuse for conversation, "...could you look over my math homework for me, again? It's quadratic equations, and I'm kinda stuck. I'd... I'd be real grateful." And she smiled, sort of swinging back and forth a bit with a shyly lowered head. Had John been better at reading girls, he'd have recognized an offer when he saw it, but his experience was rather limited.
What he did recognize, though, was a genuine attempt at friendship. Mrs. Flower's comment still being on his mind, heshook the hair out of his eyesand put forth a hand for the math paper. His teachers didn't realize it, but John was fully ambidexterous, and his right handwriting was different enough to allow him to complete someone else's homework without getting "spotted".
"Okay."
And that was when Sam Kemminger, Christy's very large, second-string quarterback boyfriend, blind-sided him; slamming John into the row of metal lockers that lined the nearly empty hall. He came up swinging, smashing a fist into Sam's face and bloodying the bigger boy's nose. Two of Sam's friends jumped in to help, trying to catch hold of John, who managed to evade their grasp, only to get punched in the gut. He was hurled back against the clattering lockers as Christy streaked off, calling loudly for help.
Someone seized his left arm. Instead of pulling away, John threw himself toward the guy, narrowly avoiding Sam's next punch. The big youth busted open his knuckles on the metal locker instead of John's face, but now the boy was caught and whirled around by Nate Peterson, the star running back.
Sam came forward, murder in his eyes. Bracing himself against Peterson's hefty bulk, John kicked out like a rented mule, catching Sam full in the crotch. The quarterback hit his knees, red-faced and gasping. His other toady, Patrick Ross, stepped in, meaning to deliver a long, hard lesson in respect.
Then help arrived. Kenneth Dale Flowers, a senior. He was the counselor's son, and a defensive end, big and solid as a stone wall. He thudded up with Christy, bellowing,
"Cut it out, Kemminger! Leave him alone!" (Actually, Sam Kemminger wasn't harming anyone at the moment; he was more or less curled up in the fetal position, hissing through his clenched teeth, but Nate and Patrick took notice, and released their struggling prey).
Kenneth hauled John aside, placing himself between the boy and his attackers. Quick, strong, ugly, and good clean through. That was Ken Flowers.
"He ain't done nuthin' to you, or to Christy, neither. You wanna pick on somebody, come down to the gym after school, and go a few rounds with me, jack-ass!"
Sam lifted his head with visible effort, glaring from John to Kenneth.
"Why 're ...you... protecting... this faggot..., Ken? He's trying to ... take... Christy!"
Kenneth Flowers shook his head, scowling darkly. There was a severe and serious gleam in his grey eyes that promised trouble for anyone who ignored their grim warning.
"Kemminger, you're as butt-stupid as you are mean. You want Scott in on this? He'll kick your ass up one end of this school and down the other side, all three of you! Now, beat it! Get lost, before I change my mind and tell him what's been going on!"
They obeyed, Nate and Patrick helping Sam to get up and hobble off, still glaring, snuffling and bleeding. Christy approached with an 'I'm sorry' little grimace, reaching out to touch John's shoulder, but he twitched away, stone-faced. Whatever chance he'd halfway decided to give her, was over. Access denied. Head lowered, she drifted away down the hall in Sam's dripping wake, trying not to cry.
Ken sighed gustily, then turned to face the calm, silent boy.
"Not much hurt, are you, John? The nurse ain't here except on Thursdays, but we could always go see my mom."
"I'm fine." John wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth, adding. "He needs to make up his mind if I'm gay, or trying to steal his girlfriend. Sort of mutually exclusive..."
Ken grinned, momentarily lighting up a face as homely as bubbling mud. That he and John worked together a lot, everyone knew, but there was more than that. Oddly enough, they were friends.
"Well," Ken chuckled, "Sam's got all the brains God packed into the ass-end of a sick sheep... most of the looks, too."
Something very close to a laugh escaped John, then. His shoulders un-hunched just a bit.
"Sheep-ass takes the personality award, though," he joined in, looking up a little.
Ken cocked his head to one side, saying with earnest confusion,
"How come you never talk to no one else like this? Jokes and stuff? They'd crack up all day, if they got to know you."
That did it. Once more, John's head went down. He folded his arms across his thin chest, muttering,
"I don't want them to know me. I don't want to know them. Not worth it."
Truly baffled, Ken nodded.
"Sure. Don't freeze up on me, I'll drop it. You going to class...? Didn't think so. Well, catch you later, John. Stay outta trouble."
John glanced up at his friend.
"Okay. Thanks."
He wasn't much good at expressing himself, but Ken got the point. He was a bit like Grandma and Scott in that respect. Despite what Mrs. Flowers had said, there were some folk who'd never quit tapping at the wall, trying one locked door after another till they got in for a spell, bringing something of light and warmth along with them. And John treasured them for it, though he'd have died rather than admit it.
