The Jude Project
by Edward Kyle Stokes
Chapter 1
The Project
I was fifteen when I first saw him. Jude, a beautiful boy. I don't remember coming to that conclusion, his beauty. It was self-evident, a fact that declared itself. Like the sky is blue and the grass is green, Jude was beautiful. Was he unaware of it? I thought so. His shy smile and the way he carried himself, standing apart, seemed to suggest he was. But I was wrong. He was totally aware, the master of the game, and he played things out slowly.
There were little moments. Him sitting next to me on the bench in the changing rooms before sports, his knee just brushing against mine. A cute, brief glance in the corridor between classes, our eyes meeting for just a second before we both looked away, a silent understanding passing between us. He was a whisper in my periphery, a presence I felt even when I couldn't see him.
Things really changed when we were assigned a project together.
The project was on the history of punk rock. We were meant to research and present on how the movement had evolved from its raw, three-chord beginnings into a cultural phenomenon. It was the perfect pretext for us to spend time together, and we both knew it.
We started meeting at my house. My bedroom, with its posters and overflowing bookshelves, became our headquarters. We'd sprawl out on the floor, surrounded by piles of books and our laptops. The air would be thick with the sound of music, the scent of old paper, and a nervous energy that hummed between us. We'd argue good-naturedly about which bands were truly punk and which were just posturing. He'd tell me about his older brother's record collection, and I'd show him my favorite zines.
In those moments, the world outside my bedroom faded away. We weren't just two boys working on a school project; we were two souls discovering a new rhythm together. Our conversations would drift from punk rock to everything else: our families, our fears, our dreams. We'd laugh until our stomachs hurt, and we'd share silences that were more comfortable than any conversation.
I felt a closeness with him, a deep sense of connection that was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. But it was an undeclared mystery. We never talked about what was happening between us. I attributed it to shyness, a kind of mutual reticence, or maybe just uncertainty. I was sure he felt it too, this pull that made my heart race every time he looked at me, every time his hand brushed mine as we reached for the same book. It was an unspoken promise, a secret language we were both fluent in but neither of us dared to speak aloud. It was a beautiful, terrifying dance, and I was falling, willingly, deeper into the unknown.
I knew he was good-looking, but I also knew he was more than that. I knew he was close with his friend, Michael. Michael was from his old neighborhood, a bond forged long before they came to this school. They weren't a double act, but they were almost always together, like they were glued. Michael was Jude's constant. He always had someone to back him up. I, on the other hand, had no one. My one close friend had moved away, leaving a void I hadn't yet filled.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a sad case. I wasn't a loner. I knew everyone, more or less, and I was on good terms with Jude's circle of friends. But I wasn't in with them, not really. And honestly, I didn't want to be. They were the sports guys, the team captains, the ones who chose their sides. Some of them, to be frank, were pricks.
They were a little too much, a little too loud. All talk, all bravado. They talked endlessly about girls, about what they'd done or would do. And when it wasn't girls their own age, it was singers, models, pin-ups—anyone they could objectify and boast about wanting to "fuck." Their conversations were pretty gross.
I was neither in nor out, suspended somewhere in the middle. But working on this project with Jude, spending so much time with him, was slowly pulling me closer to the "in." It was a delicate juggling act, one I was only just beginning to appreciate. It was as if I was being granted a special access pass to his world, but on my own terms, not as one of "them." I was getting to know the real Jude, not the one everyone else saw.
I did see a side to Jude once that I almost didn't like. But with my emotions and hormones in a constant state of chaos, I just overlooked it. It happened in the boys' toilets after lunch. I went in to wash my hands and saw Jude. He had a younger boy—a first-year, by the look of him—slammed against the washbasin. Jude's face was a mask of cold fury, a stark contrast to the easygoing smile I knew. He shoved the boy's face hard against the mirror, holding him there with a menacing grip.
I didn't know what it was about. I saw some of Jude's friends—Michael was there—pull him away. The boy was left standing there, visibly shaken, his eyes wide and terrified. I didn't say anything. I just washed my hands, avoided eye contact with anyone, and left. In hindsight, I should have tried to find out what was going on. I should have asked someone, anyone. But I didn't. And that didn't do me any favours.
Because one day, not too much later, I found myself in almost the same position. Not with my face pressed into a mirror, but constrained all the same. I was being manoeuvered to appease him, to do what Jude wanted. What he had probably wanted from day one, but which I had been too blind to see. My innocent crush had obscured the truth, hiding the controlling streak beneath the beautiful exterior. I was finally seeing the master of the game for who he really was.
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