It's a windy day, and the view is nice from the highest bleacher. Johnny likes being perched high like this: he's used to being the shortest boy in the crowd, used to never seeing the tops of people's heads and having difficulty seeing the screen at the movies. But here, except for Randy, he is alone as far as his eyes can see. It's peaceful, without other people, surveying the grounds. The trees in the distance are a mix of yellow and orange and red, but the football field is somehow still a perfect green turf. Johnny can smell the strong scent of the woods in late autumn even from the school grounds. Randy looks like he belongs in a Boy Scout pamphlet. He's wearing a plaid shirt, a high-end windbreaker, and a woolen scarf that's blowing photogenically behind his neck. The autumn foliage behind him looks like a movie set designed to match his outfit. He doesn't realize he's staring at him until Randy gives him a knowing smirk.
Randy and Johnny haven't started studying yet. They're relaxed in companionable silence, staring out at a world that, for once, looks like it has something to offer. It always felt strange to Johnny that fall is the time of year that things die. To Johnny, he's always felt his year starts anew in September. That's when school starts, when he has a good excuse to avoid his home life as much as possible.
Johnny pulls his jean jacket more tightly around his waist, but it doesn't do much to combat the cold. He can feel the frozen chill of the bleachers straight through his jeans. The hard metal of the bench pressing into his switchblade in his back pocket is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, so he pulls it out to move it to his front pocket. From the corner of his eye, he catches Randy suppress a surprised gasp.
"You shouldn't carry that," Randy says, uncomfortable. "I mean, not even just for moral reasons. One that long, I actually think it's illegal." And the beauty of the afternoon is gone.
"It's for protection," Johnny answers bitterly. "I gotta defend myself in case somebody tries to jump me." In case you and your buddies try to jump me, he thinks.
"Yeah, but you could really hurt someone with that," Randy says, hesitantly.
"That's kinda the point."
"You could kill someone with that," Randy clarifies.
"Maybe some people deserve to die."
Randy stares at him until Johnny looks away. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Randy says. For several seconds, the only sound between them is the rustle of the wind against tree branches.
"I didn't get a chance to talk to your teachers today. How'd you do on your Civil War unit test?"
Johnny shrugs. "Fine."
"What did you get?"
"I said I did fine."
Randy bites his lip. "I know we studied for a long time, but sometimes the test is harder than you think. It's okay if you didn't do that great."
"She failed me."
"It's okay," Randy says softly. "Next time-"
"She said cheaters get zeros in her class, and that if I cheated again she'd suspend me."
"Did you cheat?"
Johnny scowls at Randy, grabs his schoolbag, and turns to leave. He starts pounding down the bleachers. Johnny is sick of people assuming the worst of him. And Randy should know him better by now.
"Johnny!" Randy calls after him. He runs so fast that he steps in front of him and blocks him. He's one bleacher step below, and for the first time, the two of them stand at the same height.
"I'm sorry," Randy says. "I shouldn't have asked that. I know you worked really hard. You deserve to be given the benefit of the doubt."
Johnny shrugs. "She said nobody goes from getting a 26 percent to an 87."
"Did you tell her you've been studying with me?"
Johnny shakes his head no.
"Why didn't you stick up for yourself? Why didn't you explain that you've been taking lessons?"
Johnny shrugs again.
Randy pats down his scarf with more force than is necessary. "You frustrate the hell out of me, do you know that?"
"I've got a solution," Johnny says. "You could get out of my life. Problem solved."
"Johnny." Randy steps up so that he's on the same level as Johnny. He's back to towering over him. And he's standing too close.
"Why won't you take a hint?" Johnny steps backward, away from Randy. He misses the bleacher behind him and tumbles down, twisting his ankle and hitting his head on the metal bench.
"Johnny!" Randy kneels down to help him up; Johnny shoves at his chest. But Randy is faster and frustrated. With one hand, Randy grabs both of Johnny's wrists mid-push. Johnny makes a small pained noise: Randy's holding on too tightly, his rough fingers pushing into Johnny's veins, cutting off his circulation. He had originally intended to help him up, but now Randy is on top of him, holding down Johnny's hands so he can't escape.
There's a primal part of Johnny that is terrified of Randy. Perhaps because of what happened that night, or perhaps that's just how Johnny is: always certain danger is just around the corner. But Johnny tries to take control of his instincts as he struggles under Randy. He tells himself to calm down. Deep inside himself, he knows Randy won't hurt him. In fact, he's damn sure hurting him is the last thing on Randy's mind. Johnny quits fighting and relaxes beneath him.
"You frustrate the hell out of me," Randy repeats. He's whispering this time. He's straddling Johnny, who's still awkwardly lying twisted on the footrest level of the bleachers, hidden from view under the benches above and below him. Johnny can feel his heart throbbing in his head. His ankle hurts, he thinks he maybe sprained it, and he's uncomfortable, pinned there beneath Randy, his whole body pressed down on the freezing cold bleachers.
But it feels good, too.
It shouldn't feel good. That's wrong. He knows it's wrong.
"I'm going to kiss you," Randy announces. He pauses and checks Johnny's face for dissent.
Johnny wants it. He wants it badly. But he doesn't want to want it.
Randy must not see any dissent, because he closes the space between them. His lips are cold against Johnny's, cold but gentle. Johnny doesn't kiss back. He lies there passively and lets Randy do what he wants. Whatever happens is not really his fault if he doesn't participate, he tries to tell himself. Randy can make all the decisions. Randy can use him, and then Johnny's not responsible.
Randy breaks from the kiss. He pulls back and studies Johnny, a quizzical look on his face. He leans in again and kisses him a second time. Johnny stays as still and unresponsive as possible. Randy stops the kissing abruptly. He's still sitting on top of Johnny, but he's leaning back on his heels. He looks hurt.
"What's wrong? Don't you want it?" Randy asks, his breath hitched. "I can feel that you want it."
Johnny's face burns. He knows exactly what Randy means by that.
"Would you please just talk to me?" Randy scoots back and off of him, giving Johnny the opportunity to sit up. Johnny does sit up, but he still doesn't speak. "Please don't shut me out, Johnny," Randy whispers. "Come on. What's the matter?"
Johnny wraps his arms around his knees. "It's wrong," Johnny finally answers. "We both know it's wrong. Everybody says it's wrong."
"I like you. I want you. I don't care what everybody says," Randy declares defiantly.
"Well I do."
"You can't keep living for other people."
Johnny doesn't know what to say to that, so he keeps staring ahead.
"I can wait," Randy says. "I'll wait until you're ready."
"I think I should go," Johnny says. "And I, uh, I, um...I don't think we should keep up with these lessons." He touches his ankle and hisses. It's throbbing.
"I got you a present."
"Non sequitur," Johnny says. That's a vocab word Randy taught him last week.
"Appropriate use of the word," Randy answers. "Let me go get my bag. It's in there." Randy turns around and runs back up to the top bleacher. Johnny pulls himself up off the footrest and onto the nearest bench. He kicks his foot up on the bleacher below him, pulls up his pant leg, and examines his ankle. It's red and swollen.
Randy's back in seconds. He's not even out of breath. "You better ice that as soon as you get home," Randy says as he reaches into his schoolbag and pulls out a book. He hands it over to Johnny and gives him a nervous look.
It's a thin, children's picture book with a hard, lime green cover. Judging by the silly cover illustration of a small child reaching for an apple from a tree, Johnny guesses it is written at a kindergardener's reading level.
"Real hilarious," Johnny snaps. He shoves the book at Randy's chest. "Thanks a lot. I get the message."
"What's the-"
"I know I'm a slow reader but I'm not a damn illiterate and this ain't funny. You're just a...you're a..." but what exactly Randy is, Johnny is too flustered to express at the moment. "Fuck you," he settles for.
"That's not what I meant! Not at all! It's not a joke, okay? It's a good book. And I want you to have it. I bought it for you. Johnny, trust me. Please?" He's waving it in Johnny's face now, insistently.
"Anybody ever tell you how annoying and pushy you are?" Johnny asks as he snatches the book back.
"Yes," Randy answers, without shame. "Read it. Not now, later. When you're alone."
#
Somehow, despite their hormones and their problems, they spend the rest of the lesson actually studying on the top bleacher like they'd planned to. They're reviewing the water cycle. Considering the troubles of the beginning of the lesson, they're actually doing quite well. And then the football team comes outside to practice.
They have matching jackets with hand-stitched varsity patches, and as Johnny watches them gather on the field, he realizes they look like they belong in a way he never has. With their padding and their helmets, they look like Greek gods or superheroes. Shoot, they are heroes, to the school.
Bob is the quarterback.
They team is running laps, and it doesn't take long until somebody spots the two boys studying on the top bench. Of course, all the jocks immediately recognize Randy. One points, and mutters something to a teammate, and then everybody momentarily stops jogging to stare at them.
"Well, that's just great," Randy says, wearing a sarcastic smile.
"Hey, Randy!" another jock, unknown to Johnny, shouts, "What'd you quit the team for? So you could waste your time hanging out with greasers?"
"That's his charity case," Bob explains to the team. He says it loud enough that his voice carries throughout the stadium. "He's tutoring that kid, although Lord knows why. All that grease in his hair blocks knowledge from getting into the brain. That's why greasers are all so dumb."
The entire team laughs. Then they keep running.
"Just ignore them," Randy mutters.
"Easier said than done," Johnny mutters. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up. "So you quit the football team," he begins conversationally. He wants to divert attention away from his recent humiliation.
"I only played safety anyway," Randy answers. "And besides, I'm already on polo, track, golf, and tennis teams. Not to mention I practice piano four days a week and tutor you six hours a week, plus I have to keep straight As and I'm taking the highest level courses our school offers in every subject. Something had to give."
"Shoot, Randy," Johnny blows out a puff of smoke, "You don't have to justify it to me. I've never even played a sport for school."
"I'm sorry." Randy unravels his scarf, which has twisted around his neck. "It's just my dad gave me a really hard time about it. You know, I got that speech about how quitters never win and winners never quit, and I was choosing to be a quitter. And how I had to man-up, because if not, one day he was going to cut me off. And of course I won't be able to make it on my own without his financial resources and business connections. I must've heard that speech a thousand times from him."
"Your dad is an asshole."
"Well, looks like we finally have something in common." Randy gives Johnny a sad smile.
"Greaser!" some jock shouts as they circle around again, passing the stands on their second lap.
"Hey hood, why don't you come down here and join us?" another one lays in. "Let's see how tough you are on the field!"
Johnny flicks the ash off his cigarette. He does his best to ignore the taunts.
"Next time, we're studying at my house," Randy says. "Okay?" He sounds nervous.
They both know it's a weighty invitation. It's a line that shouldn't be crossed.
Johnny nods. "Let's do that."