Page 13 of Pieces of Me

They finished their meal in a comfortable silence, and as Rylan gathered up his trash, Gabriel leaned forward.

“Hey, Rylan,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. “I―I―uh…”

“What is it?” Rylan paused in the act of getting up from the bench and sat back down, waiting for Gabriel to marshal his thoughts.

“I’m not ready to be known as―Gabriel. I’m kind of―taking it in stages.” He waved his hand at his masculine clothing, and ran his hand through his short hair. “Dressing on the outside the way I feel on the inside. Being called a dyke…it sucks, but I can deal because I know that’s not who I am. Being called a freak or sick or mentally ill―”

Rylan nodded. “I get it,” he said softly. “How about I call you G, then? And to us, it will always stand for ‘Gabriel.’ No matter what anyone else thinks.”

Gabriel’s eyes were suspiciously shiny. “That would be good. Really good. Thanks, Rylan.”

“No problem,” Rylan replied. “And if you’re a ‘dyke,’ I’m a good old ‘fag.’”

“What?”

Rylan shrugged. “It’s true. I’m gay, and I’m going to be out at this school. Maybe it’ll take some of the heat off you. And if they want to make us outcasts, well, we’ll be outcasts together. What do you say?”

“I say hell yes, Rylan. Hell yes.” Gabriel ran the back of his hand roughly over his eyes and cleared his throat. “I almost didn’t come to school today. I’m glad I did.”

“Me too.”

With that, they got up and moved toward the trashcan.

“Meet me at the bus stop after school, G?”

Gabriel nodded. “I’ll be there.” As he turned away, he said, “You got big balls, Rylan. Bigger than mine.”

Rylan grinned at him. “Start as you mean to go on. That’s my new fucking mantra.”

✩✩✩

“You son of a bitch!”

The sandal flew by Scott’s and Rylan’s heads, and they ducked. Scott didn’t even stop, just kept moving toward his bedroom.

“You know I hate it when you call yourself names, Heather,” he called over his shoulder, and she threw another sandal, which nailed him right on the back of the head. He whirled around. “What the fuck? Stop hittin’ me!”

“Bob bought me a new carton of cigarettes,” she hissed, “and it’s gone. What did you do with it?”

He sneered at her. “Nothin’, since I don’t smoke, you dumb―”

She stormed over as if to smack him again, and he caught her hand in midair. “Don’t. Hit. Me.” He put soft menace in his voice, and she blinked, yanking her hand away.

“Tell me where my cigarettes are, you little shit!”

“Since I don’t smoke, I wouldn’t know or care.” He shoved the door to his room open. “And you’d better sober up before Bob comes home and sees what a fuckin’ lush he married.” Scott slammed the door in her face when she flew at him, and she kicked it.

“I hate you!” came through the wood, and Scott resisted the urge to punch the door in response. He stalked to his bed and threw himself down on it, taking deep breaths, listening to the voices coming from the kitchen: Heather’s strident tones and Rylan’s deeper ones. His face burned with embarrassment at the thought of what Rylan had witnessed, and he wouldn’t blame the dude if he waylaid his dad in the driveway and urged him to take him the fuck away from here.

No. Scott sat up on the bed and hugged his knees, amazed at how the thought of Rylan leaving sent a wave of mild anxiety through him. Shit, the kid had only been living with them a couple of weeks, but Scott was already used to him being around.

Soon he heard Heather’s happy squeal and a different deep voice and realized Bob must have come home. A quiet knock came on the door right before Rylan slipped into the room.

“Don’t have to knock, Ry. This is your room, too,” Scott growled, flopping down to his back and throwing his forearm over his eyes.

Rylan gave a soft chuckle. “My dad taught me to always knock on a closed door. It’s a habit.” Scott could hear him moving over to his futon and sitting down.

“I found her cigarettes.”