Chapter 8
Conin
To say I’m fuming is an understatement. I’m seething the longer we watch Star Wars in silence.
I hope that it takes Ezra’s mind off the horrid events of last night, but it does nothing to alleviate the bottled anger that threatens to pop inside me.
The movie is more so for him rather than my entertainment.
I’ve only watched Star Wars for Ezra’s sake. And it seems to be doing the trick.
I could care less about him ignoring my texts.
Taking away Ezra’s violin is like amputating an extra limb.
He cherishes it more than any possession he’s ever had.
I possess half the mind to storm the Grays’ home and give Lukeman a solid beating, but realistically I know nothing will come of it.
Mom’s spoken with Rochelle before, but she said it was all gaslighting and false assurances that Lukeman was going to get better, that she as Ezra’s mother would do something about it. All lies.
Ezra is alarmingly thin, with gaunt cheekbones, bags under his eyelids, and bony shoulders hidden under the oversized hoodie I fit him in.
Regardless of these faults, Ezra is undeniably attractive.
He may not see it, but I do. I love his heterochromia even when he complains there’s nothing cool about his one green eye and its blue counterpart.
As a kid, I was convinced they gave him magical powers—my friend was a superhero—invincible, powerful, and special.
Ezra’s slender frame is attractive as hell.
I suppose I have a thing for skinny boys, though really all body types are perfect.
Will he like me even though I’ve gotten fat?
Would he and I look good together even when we’re completely different people?
His hair is long and dark brown. It’s soft to the touch, perfect for raking fingers through it, which I’d do if he didn’t find it weird.
But his hair is downright swoon-worthy when it’s tied into a bun.
He taught me long ago, and when he wasn’t around, I would practice on Melissa, who was more than happy to offer her services to get me to “first base” with Ezra. I had flicked her forehead.
It’s those intimate moments between us I appreciate—Ezra trusting me to handle him, the inside jokes, the memories only he and I share.
Casual glances, secretive smirks, the way we open up when we’re around each other.
Before I realize it, calm has settled in my chest, and a grin works itself onto my face.
That sensation comes crumbling down when I cast a glance at Ezra.
There’s a deep rigidness in the posture of his frame.
He looks exactly how he did when the news played the segment on Buford Elementary.
It was devastating what happened, but what about it put him so on edge?
I don’t know. It worries me because his whole body seemed prepared for fight or flight.
Does Ezra believe recidivists are inherently evil? Was he hurt by one?
I hold no animosity against people with special abilities.
In my eyes, they aren’t any different from other marginalized groups ostracized for simply being different.
I’m queer, for hell’s sake. No, I may never face the cruelty others have, and being a straight-presenting white dude is a privilege in and of itself, but I understand.
And it’s with that I wonder if Ezra thinks the same.
Or could he have reacted that way because he’s a recidivist, too?
I’d know if he was, right? He would tell me. He’d have to.
Or maybe he’s trapped, afraid of what I’d think, of what everyone in his life would think if they knew. He’s ghosted me over the past several weeks. The trust I thought we had maybe shattered somewhere along the way. The idea is too much to bear.
My phone vibrates.
Melissa: Party at Emery’s tonight. Want to come? Ezra should come, too.
Ezra abhors social events, situations, and interactions of any kind.
He’s a champ enough to attend my football games and participates in everything related to orchestra, but parties?
Out of the question. Despite knowing this about him, this could be a good idea.
For both of us. I know I want to go, drink a beer or two, lose myself in the moment.
Maybe that’s what Ezra needs. It’s worth a shot.
“Melissa invited us to Emery’s party tonight. Do you want to go?”
“Invited . . . us?” he questions. His genuine surprise kind of hurts. If only everyone knew Ezra as I do, he wouldn’t be shocked when someone actually cares enough to invite him to a party.
“Yeah, how about it? Could be fun,” I say.
He scrunches his face in consternation. I knew better than to be hopelessly optimistic.
“Sure,” he says.
And . . . I was not expecting that. I suspect it’s the alcohol because there’s no Ogden party without it, but if it helps in getting Ezra’s mind off his current predicament, I’ll take it. I note to watch over him. He tends to get carried away with drinking. I can’t say I fault him for it.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
I want to be one hundred percent certain before I drag him into a throng of drunk high school students.
“Why not?” he rebuts.
Ezra’s eyelids are scrunched as if this conversation is bothering him.
I want to push him for the truth but think better of it.
His attention returns to the movie. For some odd reason, I feel like I’ve failed, that I lost him.
There are just some things we don’t talk about—a mutual understanding. So, I toughen up and don’t pry.
“I love this scene,” he says more to himself than me.
I glance at the TV but move to my room and grab my homework since Ezra is so enthralled with a scene he’s watched thousands of times. Upon my return, he eyes me in exasperation. With dramatic gestures of his hands, he says, “It’s the fucking weekend.”
“AP test Monday!” I argue.
“Ah, right. I forgot you’re abandoning your full-ride scholarship for no life,” Ezra says, exuding sarcasm.
“Don’t be a dick. You know why,” I say and hit him with one of Mom’s designer pillows. “And besides, if we’re talking about people with no life, you take the cake.”
Ezra hits me back. The grin from this morning makes a triumphant return.
“I do know why. Have you told your mom yet?”
I sigh. “I haven’t figured out how.”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re a great writer,” he says.
My stomach flips, elated by the praise. But wait . . .
He didn’t.
“When the hell have you read my stuff?”
I’m sure he hears the mortified tone in my voice because he suppresses a snigger and smiles a shit-eating grin.
“That one time.”
I guffaw, reach for the pillow, but Ezra is a blur, stealing the homework from my lap. I move to intercept. Ezra bounds to his feet and holds the papers high in the air. He’s using his goddamn height against me!
“You tall little shit, give it back!” I exclaim.
Crouching low and lunging forward, I tackle Ezra to the carpet.
He strains against my muscles, but he puts up a decent fight.
We wrestle, rolling along the floor. My leg hits the coffee table and I stifle a groan.
Ezra takes advantage of my momentary blunder to get on top of me, gripping my wrists and holding them to the carpet.
He pins my legs together and I suddenly feel myself go hard.
I could push back and easily overpower him, but I keep lying here, crossing my legs together to hide the erection.
Whatever just happened has become too intimate.
Too intimate for even us. Maybe not when we were in junior high, but we’re different now.
We pant, collecting our breath. He stares at me uncomfortably for longer than anyone would have otherwise. To play it off, I decide to redirect with lighthearted humor.
“We haven’t done that in a while. When did you get so strong?”
“Pfft,” he blows. “Your wrestling phase did nothing to prepare you for me.”
In his distraction, I snatch my homework and kick him off when I’m in the clear. I sit on the couch and pretend nothing happened—there was no disruption, and I did not get an erection. I cross my legs again to mask the obvious effect Ezra has on me.
He joins me seconds later, but he’s farther away this time.
Distant. He returns to the movie as if he wasn’t bothered by our farce.
It sure as hell bothered me. This may not have been a big deal to him, but it certainly evoked a multitude of hormones, emotions, and desires out of me.
Does he really not see the effect he so evidently has?
It’s not his fault, I suppose. He has no idea.
Yet, it hurts. I’m seemingly invisible to him—nothing more than a childhood best friend and a brother.
I can’t focus on homework anymore.