Chapter 37 Performance of a Lifetime #2
Matt shuddered. “He won’t leave me alone now. Even though I’m seeing Ava, he still pesters me to… do stuff with him.”
“I’m not like he is. I’m not queer.” Matt hated that word almost as much as he hated “fag.”
“It’s like you said that time I popped you in the jaw,” Matt said, “something about ‘any port in a storm.’ That’s all William was to me, just a place to park my cock until I found a girlfriend.”
Colton yawned exaggeratedly, as though he were bored. “I’m having trouble seeing how this is my problem.”
“I want him gone from campus!” Matt said. “That would be a good thing for both of us, right?”
“That fairy should never have come here,” Colton said.
That “fairy” was Matt’s friend and mentor, but he had to set such sentiments aside and remain in character.
He’d made his opening moves in this verbal chess match.
Had reinforced Colton’s air of superiority.
Had portrayed himself as weak and vulnerable, an opponent not worth serious consideration.
It was time to move his queen into position, leaving her exposed—the queen being William, of course.
Matt dangled the bait. He spoke falteringly, as if the entire subject was too painful to recount.
“When William wants to mess around, he makes me go with him to this old farm that used to belong to his grandparents. There’s nothing left there except a musty old storm shelter…
” (Matt and William had “messed around” twice at that old farm—voluntarily, no coercion involved.
The farm had no connection to William. As far as Matt knew, there was no storm shelter.)
“…A concrete hole in the ground. Claustrophobically small. Cobwebs everywhere…” (Matt drew on memories of other storm shelters he’d known. This was Oklahoma, after all.)
“…On one wall are these rickety shelves full of old jars of crap his grandma canned. Those jars and that stupid wooden box of his old love letters…” (Mason jars of soggy, bleached vegetables were ubiquitous in Oklahoma storm shelters.
They often bore hand-written labels to aid identification of the greenish-gray blobs inside.)
“…There’s a cot with a saggy, stained mattress. He makes me undress and lie down on it with him.”
Colton’s interest was piqued. “That box William brought with him to our meeting?”
“Yeah,” Matt said absently, as if the box was unimportant when, in reality, it was the bait.
“The box of fucking letters I asked you about in December?” Colton spluttered.
Matt shrugged, as if the box of letters were the least of his worries. He resumed complaining about the cot. “I think someone died on that smelly mattress. The first thing I do when I get back to campus after being there, is take a long shower.”
“Where is this farm?” Colton’s voice was urgent. He wasn’t yawning now.
Matt scrunched his face as if trying to remember. “It’s about 20 minutes from here.” (That much was true.)
“Do you know how to get there?” Colton asked. “To the farm?”
Matt nodded grimly.
“Let’s go now,” Colton said.
“Why? I told you there’s nothing there but that storm shelter.”
“And the box, you idiot,” said Colton. “I want those letters.”
Matt paused, as if pondering the concept that Colton would have any interest in that box. Not understanding the box’s importance was exactly what one would expect from a dumb jock like him.
“Here’s the thing,” Matt said, finally. “I’m having trouble seeing how that box is my problem. I didn’t write any of those fairy letters. Helping you get yours back doesn’t solve my problem of getting William out of my life.”
Colton glared at Matt. “Let’s get something straight: I didn’t write any fairy letters. I was joking when I wrote that stuff, but that nutcase took it the wrong way.”
“‘Nutcase’ is right,” Matt said of William, which was true.
Only a crazy person would fall in love with a psychopath like Colton.
Only a crazy person would still be wearing Colton’s promise ring on a chain around his neck three years later.
Factor in the two conditions William had set as the price for his reluctant cooperation with Colton’s take-down, and CRAZY might be an understatement.
Lastly, was William’s apparent intention to accept Matt’s post-dated resignation from the GM.
Not so much crazy as heartbreakingly sad.
William blamed Matt for having told Molly about the clubhouse in the first place, which had violated a fundamental rule against disclosing GM secrets.
The guy could look past all of Colton’s failings but could not forgive Matt for a single unforced error.
“Try this,” Colton said. “Drive me to that farm. We’ll take the box. I’ll remove any letters or cards from me. There are other—real fairy letters in there, right? From other guys?”
Matt nodded.
Colton smiled. “Good. I’ll take the box with those fairy letters and give it to the dean. I’ll make up some story that I got it from a student who is being sexually harassed by William but who wants to remain anonymous.”
“Do you think that will work?” Matt asked. Of course it would work. Adam had been kicked out with nothing more than Colton’s accusation against him.
“The dean trusts me. We’ve worked together on other fairy cases. This will be enough to get William expelled and out of our lives.”
Matt grinned as if this were the best news he’d heard in a long time. Inside he was seething.
“Can we go now? To the farm?” Colton asked.
Matt shook his head. “We wouldn’t be back in time for curfew. Besides, we’ll need bolt cutters to get the padlock off the storm shelter.”
“I’ll get some bolt cutters tomorrow morning. Let’s meet up after chapel,” Colton said.
“Tomorrow’s not so good either,” Matt said.
Colton crossed his arms. “Are we retrieving that box or not?”
“We will,” Matt said. “This campus needs to be William-free.”
Colton could not mask his exasperation. “Okay. When?”
And now came the fun part, according to Paul, the GM’s resident expert on all things chess.
Paul had explained to Matt (using a chess board and with constant reference to Bobby Fischer’s 1956 “Game of the Century”) that, if you made your opening moves correctly and your opponent assessed you as no threat to his superior playing skills, then, once you’d “messed up” and left your queen vulnerable, your opponent would be so distracted by the possibility of capturing your queen that he would ignore all evidence of a pending trap.
“I’ve been thinking about SGA,” Matt said.
“What about it?”
“I assume you’ll be running for re-election?” Matt asked.
Colton gave a curt nod.
“I’ll run for vice president then,” Matt said. “When are the elections?” He knew the answer but was enjoying Colton’s discomfort.
“March 22nd. But Huebsch is running for re-election as my vice president.”
“I figured as much,” said Matt. “That’s why you’ll need to endorse me.”
“Why on earth would I do that? You sucker punched me!”
“I didn’t know you as well then,” Matt said, implying that he regretted the punch, when, in reality, now that he knew Colton better, he wished he’d pummeled him senseless.
“Face it, you deserve a better vice president than Huebsch. We both know he fucked up that Paul thing. Besides, you and I are going to be the team that rids this campus of William Tyler Jennings.”
Colton grinned stupidly.
Matt continued. “So, how about this? In a couple weeks, at the end of the SGA meeting, you announce your candidacy for re-election—and endorse me for vice president? Then, on March 22nd, after the polls close at 5:00p.m., you and I drive out to that farm and get that box?”
Colton considered things a moment. “Before I endorse you, I need to see proof of your loyalty.” His beady snake eyes were bright.
Matt shrugged. “How?”
“I overheard your conversation with Laura about that vegetarian resolution,” Colton said. “The one that got tabled. When it comes up for consideration again, you’re going to speak against it and vote against it—and make sure it is defeated.”
“What do you care about the vegetarian thing?” Matt asked.
“I don’t,” said Colton. “But I heard you promise that you would support it. If you want to be my vice president, you’ll kill that resolution.”