I've always thought that substitute teachers are a fucking joke.

Maybe that's a slightly harsh assessment, though.

Leaning back in my seat, I let out a not-so-silent yawn as the substitute teacher for Economy drones on from the front. My eyes narrow into a squint. Names escape her lips, and students raise their hands accordingly.

Attendance, I'm guessing. I force my gaze back to the front, hands running through dark locks of hair as I take in the Economy sub.

The sub's kind of lanky, one of those eerily skinny teachers with blue veins popping out of her skin, and mousy hair wisping from a painfully messy ponytail. Her eyes are kind of buggy, too. And maybe it's just her glasses, but they seem insanely wide in size as the scout around the room.

"Miguel Hernandez." She calls out, and the short-ass Miguel raises a lazy hand from the front seat, letting out a semi-loud: "here."

Attendance it is. I run a hand through dark waves that I'm not necessarily planning on cutting soon, somewhat paying attention to the roll call occurring in front of the room, to the lazy hands raising to the air once their names are called.

"Jason..." Her voice shakes, and I internally cringe. "Jason..."

"Nguyen," I say, lowly, twirling a pen between my fingers. "As in, all we do is win, win, win. Nguyen. Win." I finish, eliciting snorts from the rest of the class.

"Oh." She glances back at her laptop, and I eye her from where I'm seated, somewhat unamused. 

Ms. What's-Her-Face glances up, giving me one of those shiny grins that I can see right through. "It says here that you have five overdue assignments."

Laughter erupts from the classroom as eyes find mine. I sink back into the chair, a yawn slipping from my lips.

The sub sounds almost accusing, and I don't have an answer for that.

I recognize her. She doesn't put effort into pronouncing names that don't fit into her criteria of normal, she slides cold glances whenever passing by certain students in the halls, and she makes sure that every student can feel that burn of embarrassment, climbing up your insides and dusting at your face whenever there's a slip up, whenever there's a mistake made.

"Well. I'll get to them." I manage to get out, as the teacher narrows her eyes at me. I let out a low chuckle, holding her gaze. It's a far better option than sinking back into my chair and cowering like she wants me to.

I don't cower.

"It's ridiculous." She plows on, ever-the-disciplinarian. I shake my head, letting out a raspy chuckle. She won't let it go. And while subtle jabs like this don't hurt me as much as they used to, it's difficult for me to prevent slight redness from brushing at my cheeks.

The corner of Miguel's lips curve into an amused grin, the blonde in front snorts. Ms. Baranowski maintains a steady gaze, top lip somewhat upturned as her attention zeroes in on me, as though she knows everything there is to know about me. As though her split-second judgement reflects my life.

I hate people like that. People who take one glance and just assume. I huff out a gust of air, maintaining my own steady demeanor, one that I can't shake off. 

I mean, it's not incredibly difficult to move on. All eyes in the classroom flicker to me, and I lean further down in my seat, sinking into the chair. My eyes find the board, where there's a messy scrawl in white board marker: Ms. Baranowski. 

My eyebrows fly upwards, as Baranowski stares back at me expectantly, trying to force me into explaining why my productivity in Economics has been low, instead of discussing it with me in private—like any half-decent teacher would.

Baranowski's eyes narrow into a sharp look, and I'm certain she can practically sense the defiance emitting from me. My eyes rest on her, steadily. 

We're at a stalemate.

And I'm not even close to being ready to back down like she wants me to. Folding my arms, I maintain eye contact, and I can tell Baranowski just hates it.

After all, she's one of those.

The teachers that hate being corrected. The ones that are all too familiar with the mantra: The bell doesn't dismiss you, I do. The ones that call on you when they think that you're not paying attention. That yell at you for not saying a word.

In a second, I know exactly who Ms. Baranowski is.

"What's up with that?" She asks sharply, eyes cutting into me, my last piece of patience dissipating as a smirk curves onto my lips and my eyebrows furrow slightly.

 "Oh, yeah. It's interesting." I say, voice growing in volume as I lean forward. "But, you know, personally, I'm actually curious about why your head to body ratio is off. Like, what's up with that?"

***

I end up in the principal's office.

Granted, going for her head-to-body ratio was most likely a touchy subject, and maybe it was a slight escalation from her grilling me about my overdue assignments.

I glance about the space. The principal—Anderson—hasn't ever changed the space much. It's essentially stayed the same throughout all my various visits here. 

A metronome's always been seated on her mahogany desk— for no valid reason whatsoever— and her signature petite clock is hung at the back of the room as per usual.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock is an endearing little cat with bright orange stripes, its tail swinging back and forth every time the minute hand shifts. It has an intense gaze, eyes squinted, and I glance away from it in an instant, eyes wandering to other aspects of the room as I bring my bottom lip beneath my teeth.

Ms. Anderson clasps her hands over the table, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Jason." She says, voice dripping with exhaustion, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as her dark bun stays completely smooth and glossy, eyes calculating as she looks me up and down.

"Ms. Anderson," I reply, echoing her tone as I mirror her actions. 

"This is the third time you've been here this week." She says, fingers massaging her temples. "Talk less of this month."

"Hey," I say, eyes finding the black bowl filled to the rim with mints. I grab a couple, pop one into my mouth. "I just like coming over to visit, you know, see how the family's doing and all."

Ms. Anderson isn't amused at my weak attempt at humor if the blank expression on her features is any hint, her eyes bland and clearly stating that my weak-ass joke hasn't been well-received. 

"What are we supposed to do?" She asks, letting out a sigh. "Help me help you." She finishes, and my eyes find the Newton's Cradle sitting on her bookshelf, swinging from side to side. 

Ms. Anderson snaps her fingers, and my attention is brought back to her in an instant. I bite my bottom lip, shrugging. "I guess another suspension would make sense." I trill my lips, let easy gusts of air escape them. 

I try to mirror her blank expression, doing my best to keep the grin from sliding onto my lips as I await her inevitable verdict.

"Yes, well," Ms. Anderson says, tilting her head to the side. "Believe it or not, I don't think these suspensions are working, Jason."

Ms. Anderson's head shakes, watching as I slip another mint out of the wrapper, popping yet another one into my mouth. "What do you think we can do to change this?"

"Not sure," I reply, letting the minty sweetness burn my tongue. "I wouldn't say I see a massive issue with the way things are going."

"Well, I do." Ms. Anderson says, shifting the candy bowl away from me and ignoring my mild protests. "This is disrupting your learning and your classes. It's unacceptable, Jason. You can't just keep on—"

The door is pushed open. Both Anderson and I turn in the direction of the entrance, and there he is.

Lucas Garcia. President of the GSA.

He's wearing ripped jeans like the gay fuck he is, plaid shirt casually tucked into the front, and the top couple of buttons are undone. My eyes drift up to his hair, brown waves tousled and windswept, natural highlights glowing underneath the light.

Baby brown eyes find mine, before he clears his throat and stops in front of Ms. Anderson's desk, hands clutched around three or so binders that I raise my eyebrows at.

"Mr. Garcia?" Ms. Anderson says, leaning forward in her seat as her eyes meet his. 

"Oh, um," He drums his hands across the binders, tentative grin appearing on his lips. "The GSA is planning an event in a couple of months. I sent you an email about it."

"Oh, yes," Ms. Anderson grins—in the way that she has never grinned at me—"The fundraiser dance, right?"

Lucas grins, olive skin glinting underneath the lights. "That's the one."

"Great," The principal responds, opening up her laptop— in order to check said email—  and glances up at Lucas. "So, what do you need?"

"Oh," He lets out one of those light laughs, "I was just hoping to get your permission to use the gym? And your approval?"

"Oh, of course," The principal says. Lucas hands her some sheet, and her eyes rove over the paper before scribbling an elegant signature on the bottom line. 

Readying herself to hand the sheet back to Lucas, Ms. Anderson pauses. She purses her lips, eyes finding mine, and gears visibly turning in a way that makes me extremely fucking uncomfortable.

"The GSA is organizing this?" Ms. Anderson clarifies, thoughtful expression still fluttering across her face.

Lucas nods slowly, eyebrows slightly raised. He hold onto the forms, eyes flickering about the room, confusion flying behind his irises.

Ms. Anderson's lips curve upwards. Just barely, eyes carefully vacant as though she's arrived at a final resolution. 

Needless to say, my discomfort is sky-rocketing, my anxiety spiking through the fucking charts. My chest pinches. Shit is about to hit the fan. I can feel it. Can feel it all the way down to the bottoms of my black-sprayed sneakers.

"I think it'll be a good idea for Jason to join the committee and help with the event."

I blink. Once, twice. "What?"

Lucas Garcia's eyebrows rise, eyes flickering to mine. 

"I'm not—" I fumble for words. Queer? Yeah, that's bullshit. "Isn't it like a GSA thing?"

"Mr. Nguyen," She replies, fingers drumming the table. "Whether you've already been involved in the GSA or not is irrelevant to this discussion. Joining the group is your service to the school, Jason. It'll help you be a contributive part of the community. It'll keep you busy," She hums, "keep you out of trouble."

"Trouble?" I flutter my eyelashes, trying to prevent a nearly inevitable smirk from sliding onto my lips. "What trouble?"

"Disrespecting teachers, cutting classes, insubordination..." Ms. Anderson leans back in her chair as she goes over my admittedly not-so-great history. 

"Look, Ms. Anderson, I—I haven't cut class in like..." I trail off, Ms. Anderson's eyebrow raising as an uncomfortable cough escapes my lips. Last week. There'd been a concert happening just thirty minutes away from school. Unfortunately, it'd been going on around the same time Pre-Calc had. Shit.

I open my mouth again, ready to bargain for the extra suspension when I realize how much shit that might get me in. My "parental unit" will most likely skin me alive if I get another suspension. Not because she gives a shit about my education, but it'll tarnish her image. And of course, that's the ultimate sin in her books. Either me getting another suspension, or worse, finally getting kicked out of T. Boulevard.

If that ever happens, Willis might actually come through with her ever-prominent threat and dump me back into the system. 

My stomach curls, the weight of everything in my life hanging precariously over my head. Only held up by a weak string. One more mistake, one more wrong move, and everything comes crashing down. 

Crashing and burning, like everything else.

"So, I take it you'll be joining?" Ms. Anderson asks me, only receiving a nod in response. She turns to Lucas who's been waiting off to the side. "Is that okay with you, Lucas?"

"Of course," he grins stars at her, turning over to me with eyebrows slightly raised, pure question working up his features. "You can join the GSA."

"Keep him under control. He needs that," Ms. Anderson says to Lucas as if I'm not standing right there. She leans back in her spinny chair, hands landing on the table with finality.

"Now, come to me if you have any questions." She says, and I stare blankly at her in return. "And," She rubs her temples, "please leave my office, Mr. Nguyen."

I rise to my feet, giving the principal a lazy salute as Lucas waits at the doorway, Vans tapping against the floor. And with one last shooing motion from Ms. Anderson, the door shuts behind us, and I'm walking in the hallway, adjusting my sleeveless black t-shirt as I fall into step with Lucas Garcia.

"So," he drags the word out, eyes briefly flickering to the side of my head before returning to the front, "you're coming to our next meeting, right?"

It's semi-awkward talking to him. Ironically, we've known each other since first grade, but haven't actually exchanged words with each other. Known of each other, passed by each other in the halls without a second glance. The most words we've ever exchanged likely fall under a few brief sentences.

Lucas Garcia is out there. Out there in a way I'm not. Out there in the way he commands the drama department, the beating soul of the performing arts at T. Boulevard. Out there in the way he smiles like the sky and emanates leader. 

While I don't emanate leader, nor do I emanate follower, I emanate no-fucks-given. I emanate the product of shit luck and a tumultuous childhood. I emanate kissing boys in secret and knowing who I've been since thirteen.

I emanate my presence, my misfit, my inability to fall in line with the world. 

My head shakes as my response to Lucas' question escapes my lips. "I don't remember making any deals with Ms. Anderson about attending the meetings." My voice is careful, nearly monotone, the slightest pride to my cadence.

"Well," Lucas purses his lips, eyes finding mine. "You kind of have to. Since you're helping with the event."

"Sounds like a lot of commitment, I don't know." I say, a yawn escaping my lips as we pass by blue and yellow lockers, shoes tapping against the tiles.

Lucas glances over at me, binders still pressed against a slender torso, "I guess you'll have to. Because it sounds a lot better to me than suspension. Just saying." He says, shoulders falling into a brisk shrug.

I don't form a reply to his debatable statement. Instead, I purse my lips, an exhale escaping my lips as Lucas slips a phone out of his pocket, scrolling across the screen. 

"The next meeting's in a couple of days," He glances up at me, eyes steady and voice firm. "I'll text you the details. Don't miss it." 

Yeah, yeah. I think, but I don't say a word in response as Lucas heads down a different hallway, sending me a short goodbye as he does so.

I continue making my way down the hallway, mind flickering to the GSA meeting date that I'm most likely to forget by tonight. 

The bell rings and everyone swarms into the hallways, a whole congregation of teenagers dropping by lockers and talking to friends. I come to a semi-screeching halt when I see two boys that I'm all too familiar with.

Will McClain and James Jones. Two best friends, completely and utterly inseparable. It's impossible to picture one without the other. I smile, wryly. They're a package deal; definitely into each other as more than just friends, though.

 And I know them all too well because there was a brief amount of time when it was Will and I. Will and I kissing, Will and I hanging out, Will and I testing the waters. Will and I.

But the world changed, and feelings surfaced, and my bad decisions and shit words punctured through the atmosphere, destroying whatever it is we had. Idiotic decisions that led to Will pulling away. Pulling away and falling into the arms of his best friend.

More than best friends. Best friends signify a light label. A light label to cover the secret glances and the too-big smiles and the brightened eyes and the way one of them blooms like a chrysanthemum when the other person walks into a space.

The two catch my eyes when I catch theirs. Will's gaze flickers away from me, his knuckles brushing James' as the two make their way down the hall, awkward tension filling in the split-second moment that we see each other.

I will myself not to glance back at them. It's hard not to, because there's a piece of me that misses him.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts once my eyes lock onto the three people that've gotten me through this shitfest of  a senior year.

Daniella, Amir, and Riya. They're all leaning against their lockers, Daniella's eyes widening in amusement once she sees me.

"You got in trouble again?" Riya asks, black hair falling to her waist as she shakes her head, rubbing her temples.

"Trouble's a relative term," I say, leaning against the locker as Riya rolls her eyes.

Amir just chuckles, glancing over at Daniella. He has about over a foot over her, so it's always comedic to see the tall ass fucker looking down at her, as the curly haired beauty stares back up at him, holding her ground.

"Dani," Amir sings, holding out a hand. "You owe me 10 bucks."

She blows out a frustrated gust of air, eyes narrowing at me as she rummages through her purse and paws over the spare cash, Amir taking it from her with a smug, "thank you."

"You have no faith in me." I say, shaking my head at Amir and clutching a hand to my chest. "Can't believe y'all fucking betted."

"Bitch, I'm never having faith in you again." Daniella cuts in, pursing her lips as she elbows a chuckling Amir in the arm. "Having faith in you just lost me ten bucks."

I let out a playful scoff, the four of us forming our usual congregation as we make our way out of the school doors. 

"What'd you do this time?" Amir asks, sun beating onto our faces as we make our way into the open.

I purse my lips, awkwardly glancing away. "Sub was harassing me about school shit in front of the entire class, and I may or may not have made a comment about her head to body ratio."

"I swear to fuck." Amir says, wrangled laughter escaping his lips as he reaches out for the skies, hands falling to his sides as an incredulous grin worms its way to his lips.

"It's bad," I laugh, running a hand through dark waves, "I know."

"I can't believe you," Daniella says, shaking her head, hands rubbing her temples as her shoulders shake in amusement.

"How'd you get out of it this time round?" Riya asks, mess of black hair flapping behind her as we make our way down the sidewalk outside of the school.

"Detention?" Daniella supplies.

"A slap on the wrist?" Amir coughs, and I swat at him.

"I hate all of you," I say decidedly before continuing, "I got to join the GSA and prepare from some really fucking gay event." I finish, giving the group an exaggerated thumbs up. 

"No." Riya says, biting back a laugh as her bomber jacket hangs from her waist. "No."

"Yes." I reply, shoving my hands down into my pockets.

"I mean, it's not the worst thing." Amir says, shrugging in the easy demeanor he's always had— from back when we were fifth graders. He's never changed, really. Tall and earth-shatteringly handsome, silent and calm.

"Yeah, Ms. Anderson is really going easy on you this year." Daniella adds, unwrapping a piece of gum and sliding it into her mouth.

"I know," I say, letting out a breath, "but I'm pretty sure Lucas Garcia doesn't like me all that much, and the GSA meetings are going to be uncomfortable as fuck, so."

"What do you mean? You get to hang out at the local gayborhood. Sounds like a reward to me." Riya says, giving me a not-so-gentle elbow in the side.

I just release a chuckle, shaking my head as I fall into step with them, the four of us bumping into each other, shoulders brushing and conversation filling the parking lot. 

We arrive at the middle of the parking lot, and I lean against my car, elbows supporting my torso. 

Daniella raises her phone to her face, the watercolor design I painted onto it fading underneath the sunlight. She purses her lips, fingers flying across the screen before she slips it back into her pocket. "Grandma just texted, meaning I've got to be at the bakery." She gives us little jazz hands, waving with a chirpy goodbye as she parts ways with us.

And soon, everyone goes along their own way. It's one of those days when everyone has somewhere to go, so I let out a breath once they're gone, sliding into my car, and readying myself to drive the short few minutes that'll land me home. 

It's a smooth drive, music blasting a little too loud, flipping off the occasional driver every once in a while. Possibly with some colorful language to match. By the time I arrive home, the ornate house is silent. 

I make my way through the slighty-too-large building, taking the trek to my room and falling back onto my bed, dragging an exhausted hand down my face. Why do days feel so fucking long for no reason whatsoever?

It's so silent, and I appreciate it. Because, luckily for me, Ms. Willis isn't home, yelling at me to do something. So, I let the throbbing in my head die down a little bit as I slow my breaths. 

A low breath slides from my lips, and I let myself sink further into the mattress. My eyes start to flutter shut for a well deserved nap when a ping from my phone causes a string of curses to escape my lips and both eyelids to snap right back open.

Picking up my phone, I open the notification.

Lucas Garcia.

My eyebrows fly upwards. My eyes rove over the long-ass message he sends, essentially entailing all the details for the GSA schedule, details, and the plan for the year. I'm debating between tossing the phone aside or typing my token: k in response, when another message appears on the screen.

be there.

I roll my shoulders back, a lazy grin curving onto my lips at the demanding tone lurking beneath his message. 

I finally reply with a simple whatever before finally sinking back down into my mattress and grabbing some well deserved sleep.

And so, the night falls and my breathing slows and I catch a breath for just a few seconds before the night takes me. 

***

i just updated ahh :0