By the fourth week into his tutoring, Johnny not only gets exponents, but he gets roots, and he gets order of operations, and he gets factoring. He also gets to tutoring early for the first time. When Randy walks in after him, he nods in Johnny's direction and takes a seat. But instead of taking the seat across from him like he should, he sits directly next to him.

Johnny feels sick deep in his gut; he's jittery and his face grows red with worry. He moves all the way over on opposite side of the chair. Randy gives him a long, suspicious look before opening his notebook.

Their proximity now is glaringly different from what Johnny is comfortable with. It's deeply and profoundly wrong. They're close enough that he can smell Randy's cologne, a sickening pine-scented odor, and Johnny feels like he's going crazy because he starts hearing the boys' voices from that night as soon as he smells it. He has to hold back a gag.

All out in the dark on your lonesome, grease?

Scream as loud as you want. There's no one around to hear you. You think anyone would care if they did?

It takes Johnny a few seconds to realize he is breathing so heavy it's audible, and he's trembling. He shoots his eyes over at Randy before quickly dropping them. Randy is watching his behavior and smiling, the jerk. He is enjoying Johnny's fear.

Randy scoots over so that the seats of their chairs are touching. Johnny braces his body, holding back his fear, holding back his anger. Randy's taunting him. He has to be. There's no way that was an accident. And Johnny won't give Randy the pleasure of winning.

But then Johnny catches Randy's smile again, and it's odd. It ain't the vicious sort of smirk that goes with taunting. It's almost like the look that Johnny and Pony gave each other when they hid all of Soda's girly pictures and Steve got blamed for it. It's a smile that's happy about a secret. Except, there's something else in Randy's smile, something Johnny can't quite place.

"You bothered, Johnny?" Randy asks, his tone lilting with implication. But that can't be right. It can't be. But then, Johnny considers what Randy must think: his sudden trembling, his blushing, his looking down...Christ.

No. Even if Randy did misinterpret his fear for...that...there's no way a boy would be that open about it and announce it, right there in the library where anybody could overhear him. Besides, Johnny reasons, Randy's the least queer-looking person he's ever met. He's buff and tall and manly and athletic, and through the grapevine, Johnny's heard he has a girl. Johnny scraps that idea as soon as it comes to him.

All he knows for sure is he hates the smell of that cologne. He hates the proximity of Randy. He hates not understanding what's going on. He pulls his hand through his hair and-

"Jesus Christ!"

"What!" Still on edge, Johnny immediately darts a frantic look behind him, searching the room for danger.

"What do you mean what?" Randy finally realizes he's shouting and he drops his voice. "Have you seen your face? What happened?" Though he's whispering now, Randy doesn't disguise the panic in his voice. He reaches out towards Johnny, but Johnny leans so far backward to avoid him he almost topples his chair over.

"Don't touch me."

"What happened?"

It's nothing new. No cause for concern. Last night his dad got boozed up and decided to bash Johnny's head against (and through) the living room wall. He had neglected to do the dishes, or maybe take out the trash. At the moment he can't remember what he did wrong. But whatever the trespass, Johnny's got a swollen bruise on his temple that reaches up into the side of his head for it, as well as some open scratches where drywall cut into him. His hair and his bangs disguise most of it, so he figured he could show up at school without rousing suspicion, not that anyone has ever cared before. He took two handfuls of aspirins this morning to combat the migraine.

"You get into a fight or something?" Randy usually speaks like all Socs speak: in a cool and indifferent tone, as if perpetually bored with all the luxuries life has to offer them. But when Randy asks Johnny that question, he sounds gentle. Randy reaches out again. Instead of retreating this time, Johnny steels himself. Randy grazes his fingers over the bruise on Johnny's temple. "That's pretty bad."

"Come on man, I said don't touch me." Johnny's voice is brittle.

Randy drops his hand. "Or something?" Randy repeats. His voice is soft, the same way Dally's gets soft after his old man hits him. But no. That can't be right. Randy is nothing like Dally.

"I got into a fight," Johnny insists, in a short and snappish way that means the conversation is finished. He can take Dally's pity, sometimes, maybe, but not Randy's. He'll never accept pity from a Soc.

"I've noticed, you know," Randy says. "How you're always bruised up. I don't know anybody who gets into that many fights. Look man, I know it's not cool for me to say it, but it's pretty obvious somebody's beating on you regularly. You know, I worry about you. Some 'friend' bullying you? That Winston kid, maybe? A few of my buddies and I could take care of him for you."

Shoot, he actually does look worried. It's too surreal to contemplate.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Don't worry, you don't have to tell me to masturbate," says Randy calmly, not bothered at all by Johnny's outburst. "How about you tell me who's been hitting you."

Johnny needs to escape. Now. He needs to close his eyes to the concerned face Randy's shooting at him.

"You know, I'm not feeling too good. My head and all, you know, it's been hurting since I, um, uh...fell...off a motorcycle. Do you think we could skip this lesson?"

Randy frowns, and Johnny can see in his face that he has given in. "Sure, kid. Sure. I don't think you're in a good condition to walk, though. Do you have a ride?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Let me drive you. You don't have to go home if you don't want to. I could take you..." Randy thinks for a moment. But as the silence stretches, Johnny knows Randy can't come up with any place where it would be acceptable for them to be seen together. Any place they wouldn't get caught and shunned by their respective people.

"Let's get this straight, Randy," Johnny says, his voice hard, "I don't want your charity, and I don't want your pity. And most of all, I don't want a ride. I hate your car."

"You hate my car? How do you even know what car I drive?"

Johnny gets up and leaves the library without answering. He can feel Randy's eyes boring into him the whole time.