Swing for the Fences
by Little Buddha
Chapter 2
He hadn't heard me come in.
Or maybe he had and didn't care.
Jack sat cross-legged on his bed, earbuds in, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. The sun streamed in from the window and hit the edge of his face, catching the lines of his cheekbone, the mess of wavy hair dyed blond, with dark roots creeping in beneath. There was a faint shadow of peach fuzz on his upper lip, and a stillness to him that didn't quite read as calm – more like practiced detachment.
He wore an oversized black T-shirt with cracked white lettering that read:"I Do What the Voices in My Head Tell Me."
Baggy jean shorts, fraying at the hem. Sandals. Painted nails – black, chipped, like he hadn't bothered to redo them. Or didn't care.
He was about my height – skinny, pale – but something about him drew your eyes, even when you didn't mean to. He wasn't classically handsome, not in the way glossy catalog models were, but there was something sharp and compelling in the way he looked, like a devil-may-care attitude.
Yes, I would definitely call him cute – maybe even beautiful in his own unique way – and having an attractive roommate could certainly cause, uh, problems . But he could also be my first real chance at making a friend, despite his appearance of aloofness.
The wall behind him was already covered in posters – grainy black-and-white photos and moody illustrations of bands I'd never heard of. One poster was signed in silver ink. Another had lyrics scribbled across the bottom in handwriting too neat to be from a fourteen-year-old.
I hadn't even unzipped my duffel.
I stood there for maybe a few moments too long, just watching, taking him in. The room smelled faintly like peppermint gum and laundry detergent, layered over the dull scent of old carpet and dust.
I cleared my throat.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at me without moving.
One earbud came out. "Hey."
"Hi," I said. "I'm—uh—Nick Kincaid. Your roommate."
He nodded. "Cool." A pause. "I'm Jack. Jack Thompson."
He didn't ask anything else. Just laid back, arms behind his head, and let the other earbud dangle loosely on his shoulder. The music still leaked faintly – something ambient, slow, and echoey.
I crossed the room and started to unpack. Slowly. Carefully.
I wasn't entirely sure what to bring with me, despite the suggestions and checklists from the school, so I brought a bit of everything. But I was a neat freak, so I was sure my side of the room would never end up looking like a bad episode of Hoarders . I put my shirts neatly on hangers and lined them up in the wardrobe by color, then folded my pants and stacked them in the dresser. Socks in the top drawer. Underwear to the right. Shoes tucked underneath the bed in pairs.
I dared a glance over my shoulder and caught Jack watching me with a bemused, slightly puzzled expression.
I then reached into the side pocket of my duffel and pulled out two posters: a detailed map of the world and a Game of Thrones print with the Stark direwolf sigil and the words Winter Is Coming in bold lettering. I tacked them to the wall above my bed, making sure they were level. I'd wanted the poster that said That's What I Do – I Drink and I Know Things , the famous quote from Tyrion Lannister, but didn't want to get a reputation right off the bat, especially since I didn't drink … at all. Jack, on the other hand, probably did drink, and even smoked pot. At least that's the impression I got. It didn't make him any less attractive, though.
Jack didn't say anything, and I didn't catch him watching me again.
At my desk, I unpacked my brand-new ASUS VivoBook laptop – the one my mom had bought me for school. I took it out like it was fragile, even though it wasn't, and set it on the clean wood surface. Then I arranged my notebooks and folders in a neat row. Pens and pencils in a holder I'd brought from home. Sticky notes. Highlighters. A small desk lamp. I adjusted it twice before leaving it alone. As a final touch, I placed a framed photo of my beloved dog, Mr. Bojangles, on the desk.
Across the room, Jack's desk looked like a completely different dimension. Books stacked sideways, a few sheets of loose paper curled at the edges, an open sketchpad with something scribbled halfway across the page, and a half-empty mug that said I'm only emotionally unstable before coffee. And after. And during.
I sat on the edge of my bed and glanced at him. He was watching me now, not in a judgmental way – just vaguely curious. I took my cue from that.
"So, um… where are you from?" I ventured.
Jack shrugged lazily, not looking up. "California."
"Oh. Cool." I tried to smile. "I'm from Michigan. Not far from here."
He nodded once, like he'd already stopped listening.
I pressed on. "You into sports or anything?"
He huffed a soft, dry laugh. "Only when I'm being forced to pretend I care."
"I like the Lions. And the Tigers, too, even though they kind of suck," I offered. "I mean, I'm not great at playing sports or anything, but I do love watching them, and I play some tennis."
I probably sounded like a total dork.
Jack tilted his head back against the pillow and blinked up at the ceiling. "Athletic and self-deprecating. Impressive combo."
I couldn't tell if he was mocking me or not. Probably.
"What do you… like to do? For fun?"
He gave a tiny shrug. "Avoid people. Doodle in sketchbooks. Pretend music makes things better."
I waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.
No offer to compare schedules. No "let me know if you need anything or have any questions."
Just… that.
He wasn't exactly rude. He wasn't warm either, though. Just a closed door with no lock.
You could knock, but that didn't mean it'd open.
A knock on the doorframe interrupted the silence.
Mr. G leaned in. "Time to head down, boys. Let's get to dinner before the big rush."
Jack stood without a word, running a hand through his dyed hair, the dark roots catching the light like ink bleeding through paper. He turned and made a beeline for the door but stopped short when Mr. G's broad arm shot out in front of him like a gate.
"Jack, my man," he said with a smile, "why don't you walk with Nick to the dining hall? Sit together. Try having a conversation like actual human beings. Who knows – maybe you'll make a new friend."
Jack rolled his eyes, and we followed Mr. G into the hallway, side by side but silent.
I felt bad for Jack (and for myself). Being "forced" to try to make friends with someone was the worst way to make new friends. If I was going to be friends with my roommate, it would have to be on his terms, not Mr. G's. I wasn't a baby; I could figure it out on my own. But I really wasn't getting a very "warm and fuzzy" vibe from Jack yet.
The dining hall looked different in motion. In the morning, it had been empty, polished and echoing. Now it was full of clatter – trays sliding across metal rails, conversations bouncing off high ceilings, the smell of warm food hitting from every direction.
I grabbed a tray and moved down the line slowly, overwhelmed in the best kind of way. There was everything: meatless options, gluten-free labels, halal symbols, plant-based entrees, allergen guides. Something for everyone, even the picky or complicated. One of the stand-out features of Harrison West I had been told on one of my tours is that it had some of the best food among the prep schools in the Midwest. Certainly not your typical fish sticks, dried-out pizza, hamburgers, tuna surprise, and sloppy joes.
I didn't think I was complicated when it came to food, but I was definitely hungry.
I picked the turkey tetrazzini, its creamy top still bubbling slightly, then mashed potatoes, asparagus, and a full plate of salad from the bar. The sign above the salad bar stated that all the produce for the salads had been grown in Harrison West's own gardens. I also added a roll, and then another when no one was looking. My appetite had always been huge – my mom joked I was a black hole with legs – but no matter how much I ate, I stayed scrawny.
I scanned the long rows of tables, most already crowded with clusters of voices calling out to old friends, laughing like no time had passed at all. One of my biggest fears about coming here was this exact moment – standing in the middle of the dining hall with no one to sit with, looking like a total doofus alone in the corner. But tonight, at least, Mr. G had taken care of that. I spotted him quickly, and to my quiet relief, he'd saved me a seat right next to him.
Jack.
He had a tray in front of him with two slices of pepperoni pizza and a heaping pile of french fries, barely touched. He didn't look up when I sat. Just shifted slightly to make room.
Eventually, I gathered up the nerve to tell him, "I'm sorry about Mr. G forcing us to sit together and pretend to be my friend and all. It's totally fine if you want to go sit with your own friends."
I half-expected him to get up and move, but instead, he just muttered, "It's fine," and carried on eating his pizza and fries.
We ate in silence.
The pizza was probably decent. The tetrazzini was better.
A few minutes later, Mr. G stood at the end of the table, hands raised until the noise dropped to a simmer.
"Okay, gents," he said, voice booming. "Just a couple of reminders for the new school year."
Conversations stilled.
"First – house rules don't change just because the weather's nice. Be where you're supposed to be, when you're supposed to be there. Keep your rooms clean, your language respectful, and your showers regular. Also, take it easy on the body spray."
A few older kids snorted at that.
"We'll head back to Linden after dinner for a quick meet-and-greet game. Some names, a little game, nothing too painful. Then I expect lights out by eleven at the latest. Classes start tomorrow – so no excuses."
He grinned. "Eat up. And try not to act too cool to make a new friend."
Laughter broke out around the table. The tension faded.
Around me, the conversations picked back up – louder now, easy and quick, like everyone had been waiting for permission. A group of boys to my left were talking about which electives they'd chosen. Someone across from them was trying to remember the name of a girl from the arts school who'd "totally flirted with him last year."
No one spoke to me.
Not even Jack.
I thought about saying something. Anything. Asking where they were from, or what dorms they were in, or whether anyone else liked world history or English literature. But every time I opened my mouth, my brain stopped me. Best not to get labeled a nerd or weirdo right off the bat. So, I just listened and observed.
Next to me, Jack dipped a fry in ketchup, then another. His earbuds were out now, but he wasn't looking at anyone. Just eating, slowly, eyes fixed somewhere on the wall. Despite his less-than-friendly nature, though, there was something about him that intrigued me, beyond just his good looks.
He didn't offer up anything, though. No comment. No icebreaker. Just quiet presence, like he'd perfected the art of being in a room without being part of it.
I wanted to ask him something else. I didn't.
The noise around me grew. And I stayed silent, small, outside of it.
I stabbed an asparagus with my fork and chewed slowly, wondering how long it would take for this place to feel anything like a home.
The "get-to-know-each-other" game was about as awkward as you'd expect from a group of teenage boys.
Mr. G stood at the front of the common room with a whiteboard marker in one hand and a stack of blank name tags in the other. "All right, Linden Hall legends-in-the-making," he said, "we're doing two truths and a lie. I know, I know—groan all you want. Just play along."
The sofas were pushed into a circle, the overhead lights just a little too bright, casting everything in an unnatural glow. I sat stiffly near the corner of one couch, surrounded by guys whose names I barely remembered. Jack was there too, slouched in an armchair, arms folded. He looked bored out of his mind.
I didn't know why I wanted Jack to notice me so badly. Maybe it was just the easiest way to make a friend – your roommate should be your first ally at boarding school, right? It seemed natural, even obvious. But Jack didn't seem interested at all, and that unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. It made my stomach twist, made my thoughts start to spin in on themselves. Why doesn't he like me? Did I do something wrong? What if there's something about me that just repels people? He didn't even know me yet – and somehow, that made it worse.
When it was my turn, I barely managed to keep my voice from cracking. "Hi, I'm Nick Kincaid," I introduced myself. "I'm a freshman and this is my first year at Harrison West."
"Nice to meet you, Nick!" bellowed Mr. G. "Now what are your two truths and a lie?"
"I… um… I, uh, once sneezed so hard I dislocated my shoulder. I accidentally started a conga line at a funeral. And I can't stand Game of Thrones ."
One kid guessed the funeral conga line was the lie. Another guessed the dislocated shoulder.
To everyone's surprise, Jack piped up. "Not liking Game of Thrones is the lie. You have a giant Game of Thrones poster on the wall in our room."
"So, wait a second," one upperclassman interrupted, "you've literally dislocated your shoulder from sneezing and started a conga line at a funeral ?"
I shrugged my shoulders, and the whole room started cracking up. "Not bad at all, frosh, not bad at all," said another upperclassman while patting me on the back.
I couldn't help smiling. Maybe I would eventually make some friends. I just had to take my time, be patient, and not be afraid to flaunt my self-deprecating humor from time to time.
Next up was Jack, and I was super curious to hear what he had to say. Jack announced, "I'm Jack Thompson. I'm a freshman, but I've been here since middle school."
Mr. G then said, "Let's hear it, Jack!"
"I've kissed people I didn't like and hurt people I did. I used to practice crying in the mirror just to see what looked most believable. I collect broken glass bottles because I think they're beautiful."
Jack was definitely kind of "out there." Barely knowing him, I had no idea what was true or not, but hopefully, once someone guessed the right answer, I might know a little more about my mysterious roommate.
I blurted out, "You've kissed people you didn't like and hurt people you did" is the lie.
Jack looked mildly impressed. "It is a lie," he explained, "because I've never actually kissed anyone."
The comment caught all of us off guard. For a second, the whole group just sat there in stunned silence. Jack had seriously never kissed anyone? I mean – neither had I – but I was a nerd (albeit without the glasses). Awkward. Invisible. Who would even want to kiss me? Jack, on the other hand, was the kind of guy you'd expect to have people lining up for the chance. He was smart, mysterious, cute – the whole brooding, effortlessly cool package. He should've been near the top of everyone's "kiss list." Then again, we were at an all-boys' boarding school. That probably didn't help.
After the game, the group loosened. Some boys clustered around the TV, flipping through streaming apps. A few decided to play a game of "Truth or Dare" (that'll be a "no" from me, dawg). I just hovered near the snack table for a few minutes, sipping a cup of Coke, stuffing Bagel Bites in my piehole, and pretending to look at the flyers pinned to the bulletin board.
I tried to join a conversation about music. Nodded when I heard an album I recognized. But I didn't know how to slide in, how to insert myself without it feeling like trespassing or trying too hard. I was really terrible at this.
What was I supposed to say?
"Hey, do you want to be friends?"
It sounded pathetic even in my head.
Eventually, I drifted back to my room.
Jack wasn't there yet. He was probably out back behind the building smoking pot or something. He seemed like the "type" (although I really had no idea what "type" of person smoked pot). I sat on my bed and checked my messages. A "good luck" from my mom. A heart emoji. I didn't answer yet.
When Jack finally came in, he was holding a small tote of toiletries and a change of clothes under one arm. "Shower's open," he said, casually. "You wanna go first?"
I shook my head. "Nah, you can go."
He nodded and disappeared down the hall.
That was probably the most he'd said to me since we first met. But somehow, the more distant and aloof he was – the way he kept everything just out of reach – the more I wanted to know him. To crack the code. I couldn't explain it, not really. I just knew I wanted in.
When he came back, his hair was damp and curling slightly, and he was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. I pretended not to stare, but failed, probably. He wasn't muscular – just lean, the kind of wiry build that never looked heavy but held definition in strange places. His collarbone and chest, the smooth curve of his stomach. He still had the tiniest bit of baby fat to lose around his mid-section, but even that I found attractive.
I turned quickly and started unzipping my bag, pretending to check for something. I ended up pulling out a stack of photos of my dog, Mr. Bojangles, and decided to pin them all up on my corkboard. Leaving him behind was one of the absolute hardest parts of moving away for boarding school.
Jack rummaged through his drawers, towel tucked expertly, totally unfazed. A moment later, he dropped it and pulled on a pair of plaid boxers without saying anything. I kept my eyes down, but my face burned. Something else I learned about Jack that was very different from me: he wasn't shy about his body.
After my own shower – quick and scalding – I came back to find him standing in front of my corkboard. He turned around when he heard me come in, and asked, "So, who is this cute little fur baby?"
"That's my dog, Mr. Bojangles," I answered, feeling a tug at my heart.
"That's an interesting name. Where'd you come up with that?"
"It's the name of a song by a country musician, Jerry Jeff Walker. It was my dad's favorite song."
"Cool," he said, as he walked back over to his bed and plopped down, picking up his tablet and starting to scroll through it.
I changed into my sleep clothes – a worn-out t-shirt and a pair of mesh shorts – and climbed into my bed. The lights were dimmed, and Mr. G would be making his rounds soon.
I cleared my throat. "Hey… do you think it's okay if I watch something on my tablet after lights out?"
Jack didn't look over. "Mr. G usually checks between 10:45 and 11. He doesn't come back after that. Just use your earbuds."
I nodded. "Cool. Thanks."
A few minutes later, the soft knock came.
Mr. G peeked in. "All good, boys?"
"Yep," Jack mumbled.
I gave a small wave. "Yeah."
Mr. G smiled. "See you in the morning. Sleep well. Breakfast starts at seven sharp."
The door clicked shut.
I pulled the covers up to my chest and propped the tablet against my knees, sliding in one earbud. I scrolled through my downloads, then pressed play on Heartstopper – my favorite guilty pleasure comfort show. Something about it resonated deeply with me. How I would love to find someone like Nick to love me and protect me and give me kisses all the time. We would go on romantic dates, hold hands, and have sleepovers. But no, I didn't want that right now. I had to stay focused on my schoolwork, nothing else. No distractions. But I kept watching anyway, the quiet warmth of Nick and Charlie's storybook romance settled me, even as nerves buzzed under the surface.
Tomorrow was the first real day.
Classes. Hallways. Schedules.
People I didn't know.
I watched the screen while Jack's steady breathing filled the room.
And I wondered if this year would be different.
If I'd finally find a place to belong.
Or at least someone who saw me.
The tablet screen faded to black, the credits of Heartstopper rolling in silence.
I closed the app, slipped the earbud out, and set it on my nightstand. Jack's breathing was even, deep – he had already fallen asleep, one arm draped over his forehead like a forgotten thought.
I rolled to my side, blanket pulled to my chin and stared at the faint outline of the ceiling fan above me.
Eventually, the room dissolved.
I'm in the dining hall again.
But it's quiet. Empty.
Trays are stacked neatly. The lights are dim. I'm alone at the table, a full plate of food in front of me – turkey tetrazzini, mashed potatoes, asparagus, untouched. I try to lift my fork, but it's heavy, like it's made of stone.
Across from me, Jack is sitting, his expression blank, looking right through me like I'm made of glass.
Then he fades.
Like smoke.
Suddenly I'm running through the academic quad.
Past the white-trimmed brick buildings.
Down tree-lined paths that twist and split.
Everything familiar, but wrong. Off.
The map in my hand keeps changing. The names blur. I'm late. I know I'm late.But no one will tell me where I'm supposed to be.
A voice calls my name. I turn.
It's Mr. G—but his back is turned.
He's holding a clipboard.
He's reading my name off it like it's been crossed out.
I gasped awake, chest tight, the room still and dim.
It took me a second to remember where I was.
Linden Hall.
My room.
My bed.
Jack was still asleep, curled slightly on his side, facing the wall. The fan above us turned slowly, blades whispering in circles.
I let out a slow breath, tucked the blanket closer to my chest, and closed my eyes again.
Sleep didn't come easily.
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