I want to say, before anything else, that I wasn't mad at Craig. Maybe you would be, in my shoes. No one likes dealing with fake people. I'd rather him just be honest and hate me rather than whatever bullshit lion-tamer show he put on for me. Anger has never put me anywhere good.

There is "good" anger. Or righteous anger. Productive anger. The ones that are angry for homeless LGBT youth and veterans, families being torn apart by borders, all the sexual assault not being taken seriously - these are things I will always be productively or righteously angry about.

But anger, my own personal anger, has never helped me.

When I first entered juvie, I was a giant ball of flaming anger. If I wasn't vegged out on pain medication, I was seething. I was so mad at the world. Mad at my parents. Mad at Clyde and his father. Horrified, furious at myself.

A worker approached me after breakfast and told me it was time for counseling. I said no. They said it was mandatory. I shoved them. Guards came. Cartman tried to say: "Hey, it's chill, he won't do it again." I would have done it again. They took me, kicking and screaming, in a small room with no windows and soft piano music. All of them said they understood me, understood my pain. Understood my anger.

Like hell you do.

Now I tend to skip anger and head straight for sadness.

For those last three days in the week, I harbored a small portion of sadness to myself, like a barnacle on the large ship called S.S. DARK THOUGHTS.

Craig continued his niceties. I responded with caution. Every word that fell from his mouth that wasn't work-related became fraudulent.

I kept the ladybug radio low, kept my tongue in my mouth.

Friday came, and I was exhausted, yet felt like I didn't get anything done that week. Oh well, the first week, expectations are usually low. In the morning, the air conditioning unit hummed along as it grew to 85-90 degrees outside. By noon, it clunked out. We popped open the windows and let the little breeze we had whistle through the screens. If the air wasn't back on within a half-hour, Dr. Vince said we were leaving because she didn't want us all to work inside a brazen bull.

"You ever fry an egg on the sidewalk?" Craig asked me as I was splashing cold water on the back of my neck for the 1,000th time. The sunburn got worse and I forgot to bring that damn aloe gel.

"What?"

"You know, when it's hot out like this, you put an egg on some foil and fry it on the concrete."

"Sounds like it would take a long time."

"It would be cool to see though."

"You haven't tried it?"

"No, but I saw it in a Mickey Mouse science book when I was a kid. I've always wanted to try it."

I shook my head, picturing child Craig, indoctrinated by the Mouse into the intricacies of thermodynamics.

"You could fry an egg on the back of my neck right now, it's so scorched."

"Yeah, that's pretty fucking red, dude." He reached out and touched the base of my neck with one finger, over my shirt. He might have felt me stiffen because he drew back right away. The last time someone touched my face or neck was Bebe that past Sunday, and I wasn't expecting him to touch me there. If I wasn't so awkward, I could have saved the moment by asking if he was about to check my spine for scoliosis. Suave isn't my thing. He seemed embarrassed too, and I understood. It's not like I haven't been the one to reach out and touch when I shouldn't have. Dr. Vince was on the other side of the lab, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. Had she seen?

"Hopefully you don't get too many blisters," he said quickly, then walked to one of the windows, fanning himself.

"Hopefully."

"I've had pretty nasty sun poisoning before. There was a blister so big on my chest that when my mom popped it, I fainted."

"Oh god, don't tell me that."

"The blister was actually kind of shaped like a conch shell. Perfect for a day at the beach."

"Please stop talking."

He smirked at me. Did he like making me squeamish? I've only known you for five days, buddy. Calm down.

I finally decided to text Bebe back. She probably hated me now for not saying anything for several days, but I don't believe in ghosting.

"Hey, sorry it took me forever to respond. It's been weird and chaotic and I didn't want to bum you out. The AC went out so we might leave early."

Then, almost two minutes later:

"It's okay, Ky. Do you want to meet up?"

Dr. Vince hung up the phone. "Okay, the maintenance people either really can't fix it or they don't want to. Let's just go home."

I went to the wall clock to punch out while they packed up their stuff. After I slid my ID and watched my name flash up with the time, there were sudden, panicked footsteps. Craig backed up against the lab safety posters.

A bee zipped around the three of us. It must have flown in through a tear in the screen.

"Aw, it's just a little guy," said Dr. Vince.

"I'm allergic!" Craig teleported to a different corner of the room every time the bee neared him.

"I'll get it." I grabbed two measuring cups, waited until it landed on a surface, trapped it with one cup then quickly enclosed it with the other. I've never been full-on stung before, but I've felt how sharp the stingers are and wasn't happy to be doing this, but it was better than letting Craig run around like a chicken without a head. He could have just left the room.

Dr. Vince shut down closed all the windows and shut off the lights. My shirt stuck to my back. And if you have balls, you know how uncomfortable I felt with certain parts sticking to other parts.

"Can you take my bag, please?" I asked Craig. "I kind of have my hands full here."

"Sure." He slung it over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off my new pollen companion.

Dr. Vince rolled her eyes. "I think the bee just wanted you because you're so sweet, Craig."

The elevator ride was easily in my top five elevator rides list. Craig took the stairs. Dr. Vince and I rode together, watching it fly around then give up, sitting at the glass bottom. When we got outside, I let the little bastard go, and said goodbye to Dr. Vince, who told me I could stop calling her Professor/Doctor and just call her Susan.

I texted Bebe back:

"Sure. We just left. Please for the love of god take me somewhere with air conditioning."

Bebe: "Omw."

Craig popped open the door. "Did you get rid of it?"

I held up the empty cups. "You're in the clear."

He came out, handed me my bag, which I shoved the cups into.

"Thanks, Craig. You're the bee's knees."

"Haha."

I leaned against the shady brick wall, careful not to let it rub my neck.

"Have anything going on this weekend?" he asked.

"Not really." I shrugged. "Something might come up. I don't know. I haven't had a weekend off in a long time."

"Really? Where did you work before this?"

"Coffee shop." I prayed he wouldn't ask which one.

"Not surprising."

"I guess not. What about you?"

"Mailman."

"Oh, I meant… what are your plans for the weekend, sorry."

"Oh! I have a graduation party to go to."

"That's nice."

"It's crazy how fast that shit goes. Doesn't it seem like just yesterday we were graduating high school?"

I nodded. I just wanted him to leave. I didn't know what it was like to graduate high school the way he did. My GED was earned in jail. No cap and gown, no ceremony, no party.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"No, that's okay, but thank you. My…" I panicked. Bebe was coming for me, but what role was Bebe to me now? It's complicated, so I could say "someone," but I already said "my," so it would come out "my someone." It was all going to spill out soon anyway. Fuck it. "My girlfriend is picking me up."

He stared at me. "Ah. I wouldn't have thought."

"Thought what?" I crossed my arms.

"I don't want to offend you."

"I'm not offended easily. Lay it on me."

He was starting to sweat more, but I suspected it wasn't because of the weather.

"I didn't think you were straight."

"I'm not. Not really."

Those silver eyes went wide again. "Oh?"

"You were only half wrong."

"Oh. I get it. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Like I said: Not offended."

"It's just that people like me can usually tell. There are vibes, you know."

"I know."

That seemed to put him a bit more at ease, but something about his expression was still off. A little color was drawn. His mouth was tight. It looked like disappointment. Maybe a bit of sadness.

"Well, have a good weekend, then." He turned to leave, placing his hand over his eyes.

"You too. See you later?"

"Later."

"Don't you need to take a lactose pill or something first?" Bebe asked, staring down my brownie sundae.

I stuck the plastic spoon in, listened to the squish, and the scraping against styrofoam. "I'm already balls deep, Bebe. No going back now."

"You'll shit your pants," she said, licking her cone with her pink cat's tongue.

"In the five years you've known me, have I ever shit my pants?"

"No, but if you shit your pants now, I'm going to pretend we never met."

We were sitting in the corner of Tony's, a 50s-styled ice cream parlor with photos of Elvis Presley everywhere, even in the bathroom. It's strange, to have Elvis smiling out at you, reminding you that you're nothing but a hound dog while trying to pee. A giant statue of Marilyn Monroe in her billowing white dress stands in the front window. Her face is painted a little cross-eyed but it's still cute.

I dug out a brownie chunk and shoved it in my mouth. Within that one bite, all the bullshit of the week fizzled away. The jukebox clicked to another sensuous doo-wop jingle.

"You'd look cute in a poodle skirt," I told her.

"No…"

"Yes. Well, you'd look cute in anything."

"Even in a vault suit? This music is making me want to play Fallout 3 again."

"Of course you would. And yeah, same."

We ate slowly, watching a couple of toddlers on the checkerboard floor, jumping from black tile to black tile like game pieces. One little boy stood a few feet away, staring at Bebe. She waved at him and he smacked his hands over his mouth, ran and clung to his mother's legs.

"He probably thought you were Princess Peach," I said.

"Oh, stop."

Oh, stop.

I looked down into my bowl, lifted the spoon like Arthur lifted the sword from the stone, pretended not to hear that nasally, monotone harmonize with hers.

"So, tell me about the job! You haven't said anything."

This is such a regular question, yet I fumbled for words like I was trying to describe infinity.

"I… well. There was a lot of - I don't know. It was a bit messy. A lot of salt."

"Salt?"

"In the water samples. We're trying to desalinate some water."

"Oh, cool."

"I'm still trying to get used to everything. I've never worked a full-time job before. In a lab, nevertheless."

"Yeah, that's a big change."

"I'm sorry, again, for not really talking to you. I just… it's hard, you know?"

"It's okay. I wasn't really expecting anything, to be honest."

We continued in silence as Elvis watched over us.

She took me home, watered my flowers with me, then we snuck in the back of the house so Kenny wouldn't ask her again if she wanted her nipples pierced, and we went up to my room.

After I showered, put aloe on my neck and shoulders, I walked into her watching TV on my bed and fiddling with the gold charms on her ankle bracelet.

"There's a Lifetime movie on about a personal trainer that's also a serial killer. Want to watch?"

"Hell yeah." I plopped beside her on the bed.

The platonic act didn't last long. By the commercial break, she was straddling my lap and kissing me. I wanted to give her what she wanted, but I was so damn tired. Sitting on me must have felt like sitting on soggy bread.

And I was confused. Couples on breaks don't usually do this, right? Did we actually want to stay together or did we just not know how to let go?

She pulled away. "You're not into this."

"I am - I mean, my blood is rushing into the appropriate places, but Bebe, please. I'm exhausted. It's nothing against you."

"Fine." She rolled off of me, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and started tying on her sandals.

"Hold on, you don't need to leave."

"You don't actually want me here."

"Yes, I do." I took her hand. "But what you said to me on Sunday makes me feel lost. I don't know what you want out of this relationship."

She rubbed her temple with her other hand. Pop, pop, pop. On-screen, a man was being rolled into a yoga mat and getting a weight rack dropped on his neck.

"It's difficult to get physical with you," I continued, "because you hurt me."

"You've hurt me, too."

"I know…"

"Can you just hold me, please? Like you used to?"

"Yes."

She lied down in front of me and I wrapped my arm around her waist. I had missed this, but it hurt and I knew it shouldn't be happening. I guess I'm not the only one with a fucked up pain-pleasure scale. I pulled her into me, burying my face in her back.

11