Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson created RENT and it's probably now "owned" by a film studio
MARK
And then, nothing. Roger was grounded until the Messiah came-- not his father's words, obviously-- but nothing more. I spent my Sunday afternoon and evening afraid that he had been beaten to death, once it was clear I would not be.
Tom's dad wanted to talk about my little "suicide problems"-- what I called them, not him-- and I told him the truth. "Sometimes I just get really overwhelmed with shit… grades, that's all my parents care about, and my sister, she got pregnant and they're practically punishing me, and there's nothing I can do for Roger…" He told me that grades aren't everything, my parents loved me and I had done Roger a great deal by being his friend, but he said the words so well that I believed him.
Dad was calm, but his muscles too tight. The silence in the car terrified me as he drove me home. We were stopped at a red light when he turned to me and said, "Mark… you know we love you, don't you, buddy?"
"Yeah, Dad." What else could I say? No, you only love me when you have something to be proud of. It was true, but it would hurt him.
"We, uh… your mom and I… are a little worried here, son. You're not entirely happy, are you?"
No. My best friend is being beaten, I'll never get into college because I'm barely passing math and oh, yeah, you don't love me. "No one's entirely happy."
Then school, and everything was normal. On Monday morning Roger hadn't a new bruise on him, and a week later we learned that our Drama class would be putting on a new short play.
Roger and I were assigned our parts on Tuesday: he played my father. Well, that won't be a little awkward. We were in tons of scenes together. "Is that okay for you guys?" Trask asked. "'Cause, you know, you'll have to hug and stuff, and I don't want you to think that's gay."
Roger shrugged. "It's fine," he said. I nodded.
And so there we were, onstage under bright lights, and Roger kept touching me. He would rub my shoulder, muss my hair, all those family gestures, and I bit my lip, wishing my dick didn't move every time Roger came close enough for me to smell his sweat. On this particular day, we were rehearsing a scene near the beginning of the play, morning at home for our characters.
Roger walked onstage. "'Morning, kiddo," he said to me, his line, then mimed something. I didn't move, just continued slouching and rolling my eyes. "Hey, better move, you've only got ten minutes before school. Mikey?" I didn't say anything. "Well, have a good day," Roger said, before heading offstage.
"Okay, Ben, what are you doing?" Trask asked. Roger was Ben. I was Michael.
"Pouring myself some coffee and going to work," Roger answered.
"And when you're talking to Mikey, what do you want to tell him? Not the words, but what are you actually saying? What do you want?"
"I… want him to talk to me, I guess," Roger said. He and his dad were not exactly close, so he preferred not to identify too strongly with Ben. "Like notice me?"
"Okay, so how are you going to do that? If you wanted Mark to notice you, what would you do?"
"Probably tap him."
"Okay, so use that. He's your son. Tap his shoulder, maybe give him a little smack--you know, like your dad smacks your shoulder and says something like, 'Go get 'em, tiger'?"
Roger laughed. "My dad doesn't say that," he said.
"Yeah, well, pretend. Go. Start over."
Roger walked offstage, then came onstage as Ben.
"'Morning, kiddo," he said, and as he was told, he smacked me. Well, not exactly as he was told. Roger was supposed to kind of pat my shoulder. Instead, he leaned down as he passed and gave me a hard smack on the behind. The sound resonated throughout the auditorium. I jumped, went rigid, and blushed. I was getting a hard-on, right there in front of the entire drama class.
The teacher found this hilarious, as did most of the class. "Okay, okay, okay," he said. "Cohen, you did your scene already, you can go." As I fled into the wings, I heard him telling Roger, "I said smack his arm, not his ass. You're not spanking him. In fact, you know what, that's a new class rule. Okay? There will be no spanking in this class." The class laughed. "Davis, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's think about other people's feelings and why incest is wrong, okay? Now go tell Cohen you're sorry."
I was in the wings. It's actually a great place to be: everything from the stage echoes, but nothing from the wings reaches out. Unfortunately, it's a terrible place to hide from the best friend who just made you spray your shorts. I fled down the stairs into the costumes room.
"Mark?" Roger called. I could see him, in a memory of something I never saw, leaning over the railing, calling down. "Mark?" Give up, Rog. Give up, I urged, but I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs. Shit. Hide.
Theoretically, in a room full of costumes, how hard can it be to hide? I climbed into one of the dress cabinets. He wouldn't think to look there. Roger's got no dedication. He would give up before he found me.
"Marcus! Shit." I heard him grumble, then the sound of a trolley being wheeled. Half of me wanted to jump out of the cabinet just to see what the hell Roger was up to. "Mark! Come on out! Mark! I'm sorry! Fine…"
When Roger grumbled past me, I couldn't believe my luck, but he only peeked into the bathroom before emerging again. "Cohen, where are you?" He pulled open the cabinet nearest him. Shit. My cabinet was next. Roger yanked it open, took one look at me, and tried hard not to smile. "Hey," he said. "Coming out of the closet?"
"Oh, fuck off, Rog," I told him, shaking my head.
"Hey, man. I came to apologize."
"I won't tell. Just leave me alone."
Roger sighed. I hadn't expected this: he climbed into the closet, sitting opposite me, his legs folded against his chest so that our toes overlapped. He pulled the door closed. "Mark, I was just playing. I'm sorry. I know I could've been a lot nicer, since I know."
My head snapped up. "You know what?"
"How you felt," Roger said. "About me."
"Yeah, well." Oh, shit. I was not crying. Not crying, that was… this wasn't big enough to cry over. What the hell, an erection in front of 30 people not big enough to cry over? Roger would make some comment about my penis being too small. I wish he didn't talk about that, things like that. It gets me hard. "Now I've got no best friend and the entire school knows that I'm a… I'm a…"
"You're a what, Mark?" Roger demanded. He reached out for my hand, but I pulled it away.
"A fag," I snapped. "I'm a fag, Roger, okay? So now you don't have to beat the shit outta anyone who says it. Hell, you can join in. Don't want to be dating a fag, do you? Not queer, are you, Davis?"
I've never before heard myself so caustic. Neither had Roger, and his face had fallen like a kicked puppy's. "What if I am?" he asked.
"What?" I asked, bewildered. "Oh, I get it. The teasing. Okay. Go."
"No, dipwad." Roger grabbed my arms and yanked, so that I fell forward into his lap. "What if I am queer? Huh? What if I do want to date a fag?" He pulled my head near to his--I hadn't the presence of mind to do anything but mumble--and kissed my lips. When he pulled away, he asked, "No one kicks the shit out of Roger Davis's boyfriend." He kissed me again. "You want to fight a queer, fight me. Open your mouth, Mark." Not thinking, I did. Roger kissed me again, this time sticking his tongue into my mouth and doing things… let's just say I had never been kissed that way before.
I moaned. "Roger…" I was already hard. How far was he going to push this? "I…" I whimpered, suddenly in pain.
"What?" Roger asked. He pulled away. "What is it?"
"Zipper," I admitted.
"Aw, fuck." And the next thing I knew Roger had his hand down the front of my pants and was essentially finger-combing my embarrassingly sparse pubic hair. Okay, a part of me knew that I should object, but a larger part of me knew that I liked what Roger was doing, that if he kept going I was going to… going to… going to…
scream.
---
Roger and I sat side-by-side in the counseling office, receiving a lecture on "appropriate on-campus conduct." Roger did his best to protect me: "It's not Mark's fault," he said, "any of it. I came on to him. I seduced him, Mr. Frank, he never would have thought of this on his own."
"Be quiet, Davis."
I wondered… was Roger serious? Were we an item? Would he do that again? I hoped he would. My eyes were fixed on my knees, but a smile and a blush crept onto my face. My boyfriend was defending me. My boyfriend stood up for me. He was perfect, perfect, perfect and he was mine!
Ms. Ariata arrived-- "Oh, Roger…"-- and Mr. Thomas shortly after. The meeting was fairly short. "While we are in no way, uh, while we fully support that choice of lifestyle-- you're gay and that's okay-- boys. Not on campus. There's a time and place for everything and sixth period drama isn't it." Roger held my hand under the table. "Now we are not going to expel you or… even suspend you. We'll let you off with a warning-- there will be no sexual interactions, touching, sodomy, or any other sort, on this campus."
I glanced at Roger and sighed in relief. Nothing but a warning! We couldn't have been more lucky.
"… and, your parents have been notified. They are coming to pick you up."
"My mom?" Roger asked.
Mr. Frank checked his notepad. "Uh… nope, looks like both of your fathers."
That night, I wondered how Roger was doing. My parents dealt surprisingly well with the revelation that their son was gay and practically sexually active. Dad gave me a box of condoms-- "I don't like what you're doing, son, but if you have to do it, do it safely."-- and an uncomfortable talk. Mom, apparently thinking I would be upset over this, made lasagna for dinner.
"Oh, man, this stuff tastes like plastic," Cindy whined, poking at her meal.
"Cindy!" Mom hissed, giving me a meaningful glance. I was not particularly hungry, not since being torn away from Roger, leaving him to who-knew-what at his father's hands, but I forced myself to eat.
The telephone call came near midnight. I was sitting awake, my head propped up on my fist, struggling to stay awake and comprehend my math homework. It was always so easy with Collins explaining each step of the equation, but the problems twisted and lied with him gone.
I jumped when the telephone rang. Who was calling at this time of night? I shook my head. Who else? And if I didn't answer it my parents would. Suddenly my heart was racing. I snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Mark?"
I clutched the receiver with both hands. "Roger?"
"Yeah. Listen, I…"
He was crying. "Roger, it's okay. Come over. Come over here, you can stay here a while." Somewhere he can't hurt you. My parents would probably ground me or possibly strangle me if I asked, but I knew that if I had the living proof-- if I had Roger with fresh bruises, they would let him stay.
"It's too late, Mark. I'm already gone."
"No!" All those little scars on his arms, the burns and the cuts I treated without a word, he was going to do it again. He was not going to hurt himself, he was going to kill himself, and I wasn't there to stop him. "No, you're not gone, Roger, you're okay. You'll be okay. I promise. Now please--"
"Mark, I'm in the city."
And all thought was gone. Numbness flushed through my body. "What?" I whispered.
"I called… I called to tell you that I love-- I loved you, Mark. But you have to realize that I was never good enough, that I never could'a been good enough. You'll find someone who deserves you, Mark. Someone as… as special and as kind as you are, someone--" Roger paused, and I heard him sniffling. "That's all, Mark. I wasn't good enough to love you. Until you find someone who is, promise me you'll love yourself?"
I said nothing.
"Well… tell Tom good-bye for me, okay? I have to go now, Mark. Take care of yourself."
I left the phone off the hook. I shut my math book; no more work would get done tonight. And I would not go to school the next day to face an absence of Roger.
Nine hours. For nine hours, I had a boyfriend. Now I had nothing. I had two friends leaving me. I had a pregnant teenage sister. I pulled the covers up over my head and wished it was raining instead of a warm April night soaked in cricket songs. He was gone. Roger was gone.
Good night. Please don't wake me tomorrow.
THE END.
Reviews would be golden-- just like Roger and Mark were when Benny bought the building.
If you're so inclined this story has a sequel called "Once More, From the Beginning".
