Swing for the Fences
by Little Buddha
Chapter 31
Christian slammed the pickup truck's tailgate closed with a grunt. "That's the last of the bags."
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans like the effort of shoving four teenage boys' luggage into a space designed for two was the greatest challenge of his life. It practically was. We'd tried every possible configuration, but no matter what we did, there just wasn't room for Mr. Bojangles.
And I hated it.
I crouched beside him one last time, pressing my forehead to his snout while he licked at my nose, his tail wagging in slow, confused sweeps.
"I'll be back soon, buddy," I whispered. "Be a good boy."
He stared up at me with those big brown eyes that didn't understand why I kept leaving him.
Jonah crouched down next to me and gave him a scratch behind the ears. "I love you, Sir Bojangles. You're the only sentient being I trust."
Then he sniffled. And I sniffled. And before long, we were both full-on crying and holding on to each other for dear life, while Jack and Christian awkwardly stood nearby, pretending not to be affected – even though Jack's eyes were definitely suspiciously shiny.
Just as we were about to leave, someone came sprinting toward us. It was Tommy Reese.
"You can't just leave without saying goodbye!" he panted, bent over with his hands on his knees.
"I'll be back for the summer – and probably a weekend or two before then – so we'll definitely hang out," I promised.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Jack's face tightening into a faint scowl.
I introduced Tommy to everyone, and he pulled me into a quick bro-hug before I climbed into the car. As we rolled down the driveway, I leaned out the open window and shouted that I'd text him as soon as I got back to school. Tommy grinned, but when I sank back into my seat, Jack's frown had deepened. I really hoped we could work on that – on him not seeing Tommy as a threat. Tommy was a friend, nothing more. And I need a friend back home during holidays, breaks, and stuff. And someone to talk to who wasn't involved in any of our Harrison West drama, and could give me his unbiased opinions about whatever was going on.
I was wedged between Jack and Jonah in the backseat, Christian at the wheel, our luggage stacked behind us in a precarious Jenga tower. As the car pulled away, Mr. Bojangles stood in the driveway, ears pricked and tail wagging, watching us go like he was guarding the house until we came back.
Jonah didn't waste any time trying to distract us.
"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall! Ninety-nine bottles of beer!"
By verse ninety-five, Christian was gripping the steering wheel like he was suppressing the urge to drive us into a ditch.
"If you don't stop," he said through gritted teeth, "I will personally launch you through the moon roof."
Jonah paused, then whispered to me, "Do you think he's serious?"
"Yes," I said. "And we'll likely help him."
He hummed the following verse under his breath instead.
As the suburbs thinned and the familiar stretch of Michigan countryside unfolded around us, I started feeling it – that slow, magnetic pull back to Harrison West. That mix of dread and familiarity, like returning to a haunted mansion you also kind of love.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against Jack's shoulder, hoping for a short nap. But Jack nudged me just as I started drifting.
"Nick," he said, pointing out the windshield. "We're here."
I sat up and blinked. It felt like I'd only been asleep for five minutes.
The gates.
That towering, wrought-iron entrance that both welcomed and warned. We were indeed back.
After the truck rolled to a stop near the dorms, we all tumbled out like a circus act, stretching and groaning. Christian popped the tailgate, and we started unloading and slowly making our way to Linden Hall, our home away from home.
And that's when it hit me.
The smell. The stench. The funk.
It always hit first, like a punch to the face. Today's particular blend of gloom emanating from Mr. Johnston's general direction smelled like kimchi (Korean fermented spicy cabbage), burnt popcorn, and the good old-fashioned scent of body odor. A scent bouquet for nightmares.
We walked into the common area, and there he was.
"Mr. Johnston," I muttered.
"Mr. Stinky Pants," Jonah whispered.
We lined up to check in. My stomach twisted tighter the closer I got.
"Nicholas Kincaid," Mr. Johnston called, peering down at his clipboard of doom. While searching for my name, he let out a repulsive burp and scratched himself … down there . I definitely did throw up a little in my mouth that time.
Jack stayed close beside me.
"Well, well, Nicholas," Johnston sneered. "Did you have a lovely spring break? Lots of glitter and rainbows? I hope you took care of your 'little flower' and nourished it regularly. You know you can't be giving it out to just anyone who asks, though, can you? Flowers are delicate things; you must treat them with care. Not to mention, flowers can become a little loose after too much use, with people always poking at them and trying to smell them."
I felt my hand curl into a fist.
Jack's hand clamped onto my wrist. "Don't."
But I was seething. The week I'd had – the love, the peace, the normalcy – and now this fucker wanted to drag me back down into the primordial ooze. Oh, hell no!
We made it to our room, and the second I shut the door, I exploded.
"You festering dumpster troll of a crusty, perv-soaked pedo freak – go crawl back into the sewer from where you were spawned, you swamp-scented disgrace to hygiene and decency!" I shouted, tearing open my duffel bag and flinging clothes into drawers like they'd insulted my dignity, instead of the real culprit, Mr. Stinky Pants .
Jack sat on the bed, watching with wide eyes. "That's a new combo. I don't think I've heard you say 'perv-soaked pedo freak' before. In fact, you hardly ever swear at all."
"He's ruining everything. How can a creep like that be a dorm parent? He's totally gonna ruin my life!"
Jack came up behind me and rubbed my back. "You can't let him do that. That's what he wants. He gets off on it. You need to tell your mom again, and she'll call the school."
"I know. But I just…" I sat down heavily. "I just had such a nice week. With you. With my mom. With Mr. Bojangles. I didn't want it to end. And now it has."
Jack pulled me into a hug. "It hasn't ended. It just changed location."
I buried my face into his silky-smooth neck and inhaled deeply. It was my favorite part of Jack. My safe space.
Dinner in the dining hall was a blur, but by the time the night rolled in, everyone was filtering into our room like clockwork. Our space. Our little bubble.
Mark showed up with a bag of M&M's. Emery arrived with Kit in tow, who looked extra cute and extra blushy. They were already holding hands and cuddling like a couple, and by the time they sat on Jack's bed, they were sneaking little kisses that made Jack and me exchange smiles. But after blowing the whole "matchmaker" thing with Jonah and Danny, I was determined to keep my nose out of their business.
Even Danny showed up.
I wasn't sure if he would. With Jonah there, it could've been awkward. But the two of them were… fine. A little stiff, but polite. They even had a short conversation about the spring theater production and hugged briefly. Hopefully, one less drama to worry myself over now.
The room buzzed with laughter, teasing, and spring break stories – Caribbean yachts, Hong Kong views, climbing the snow-capped mountains of Patagonia in Argentina, White Castle disasters, and Jonah's complete failure to understand how the Red Light District in Amsterdam worked, and why everyone there spoke Russian instead of Dutch. It was the most alive I'd felt since we got back. I'd missed the banter.
Until 10:30.
That's when Satan's henchman knocked on the door, fittingly smelling of sulfur, wet hay, and infected pus.
The door creaked open, and Mr. Johnston stepped in, the air around him shifting into a fog of stink and judgment. He looked like a walking compost heap – Pigpen, from the old Peanuts cartoon, but with bad intentions.
"All right, ladies," he rasped. "Party's over. Get back to your own rooms."
Jonah, of course, couldn't resist. "Did someone die inside your shoes, sir, or is that a nasty case of foot fungus, or just the ghost of joy you stomped out of your own life?"
Mr. Johnston's face went red . He mopped his forehead with what might've once been a white handkerchief and growled, "Don't forget – I can make you fairies' lives a living hell. "
He stormed out, leaving behind the unmistakable aroma of rage and sour milk.
The mood deflated instantly. Everyone left, offering quick hugs and goodnights.
Jack shut the door and turned back to me. "You okay?"
No.
There was too much uncertainty. Jack's future here. My scholarship. Finals. The possibility of Noah showing up again to harass me. And now Mr. Johnston, back like a bad case of genital warts. Not that I'd ever had genital warts, but I would never forget the pictures they showed us in Sex Ed in eighth grade. They were traumatizing.
Jack and I gathered our toiletries and walked down the hall to the communal bathroom, where we took our showers – separately, unfortunately. When we'd finished brushing our hair and brushing our teeth, we padded back to our room and were ready for bed. We had a big day lined up for tomorrow.
"I'm gonna take something," I said quietly.
Jack nodded. He didn't argue. He just pulled back the blanket and waited.
I fished the pill bottle out of my drawer, took one, and crawled into bed beside him.
His arms wrapped around me like they always did.
But tonight, even his warmth couldn't quite reach the fear twisting around in my stomach.
Sleep , I prayed – just sleep.
By Monday morning, any trace of spring break bliss had evaporated entirely.
We were all slouched around our usual breakfast table, moaning like vengeful ghosts about the month ahead.
"How are we supposed to survive?" Emery groaned, pouring syrup onto the scrambled eggs as if that would somehow help. Kit squeezed his knee and gently brushed the hair out of Emery's face, before leaning in and giving him the sweetest, softest kiss on the cheek. For his part, Emery's eyes immediately went completely gaga, and he had to very visibly adjust himself. That was so not like Emery.
"I have three essays, two presentations, and zero will to live," Christian added. "Not to mention sports."
"I haven't finished a single assigned reading since February," Jonah declared proudly. "I'm either going to fail history or revolutionize it."
And, as always, the number one topic of our collective rage was none other than the human armpit himself – Mr. Johnston.
"Seriously," I said, stabbing my pancakes with more force than necessary, "how does someone smell like human excrement, Limburger cheese, and a dead raccoon at the same time?"
"He probably ferments meat in his mattress," Jack offered.
"Oh, or maybe he is the meat," Jonah said darkly. "Sentient spam. A cursed meatloaf. A wet sock with a mustache."
"I bet he imports teenage schoolgirls' used underwear from Japan," added Mark. "I hear that's a thing over there. You can even buy them from vending machines!"
At that, Emery jumped back into the fray and insisted that there was an "all-blueberry café" in Tokyo, where the restaurant workers were fed nothing but blueberries, all day, every day. When the customers came to eat there, they were served the blueberry-aromatized shit by the pretty, blueberry-pooping waitresses.
" EWWWWWWW!!!!! " everyone shrieked at once. I almost literally threw up my breakfast.
"If Mr. Johnston has been to Japan, I'm sure he's ordered the 'blue plate special there.'"
We were howling. It was stupid and immature and so cathartic.
Which is precisely why it happened.
"Speaking of meat ," came a familiar, nasal voice. "You know, Nicholas, the Spanish word for 'milk' is leche . They also use the same word, leche , to mean semen . What do you think of that?"
I froze.
Every single one of us froze.
Because there he was – Mr. Johnston – sitting down at the end of our table like he'd been summoned by insult. Which, apparently, he had.
And suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore.
Christian stood up so quickly that his chair nearly flipped over.
"Oh, hell no," he growled, fists slamming the table.
Kit stood up right after him, jaw clenched, eyes blazing, and standing protectively in front of Emery.
"You want to say that again?" Christian said. "You want to repeat that in front of everyone here?"
Christian could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be, and I must admit, it kind of turned me on a little bit. Ugh!!!
" What the hell is going on here?! " shouted one of the deans as a cluster of faculty came rushing over.
Mr. Johnston threw his hands up like a damsel in distress. "These hooligans were about to assault me!"
"And this ignoramus was sexually harassing a student!" Christian shouted back, pointing at me.
Everyone turned to stare.
At me.
I just stood there looking as innocently as possible.
But I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I was gripping my milk glass so tightly I thought it might shatter in my hand.
Jack placed a protective arm around my shoulder, and Danny squeezed my knee under the table.
It felt like the air had vanished completely from the room, and I was having trouble breathing.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting alone in the school psychologist's office, staring at my hands and shaking. My brain wouldn't stop racing. The portrait of Sigmund Freud was seriously creeping me out. Literally, an entire field of medicine fueled by cocaine.
Where was Jack? Was Christian in trouble? Kit? Was I?
The door opened, and Dr. Szymanski stepped in, her long blond hair tied up, cardigan sleeves pushed to her elbows, like she was ready to fix something. And that "something" would be me, since I'd been coming for weekly appointments with Dr. Szymanski since my previous breakdown. I wondered what she would think if she knew that Jack and I were sex fiends now.
"Hey, Nick," she said gently. "You're not in trouble, okay? You're safe. I promise."
I nodded, but I didn't believe her yet.
She sat across from me. "I heard what happened. But I'd like to hear about it from you. Whatever you're comfortable sharing."
And it was as if someone had turned a key.
The words poured out of me – everything I told her about all the creepy things Mr. Johnston had said and done since he arrived. The first time he commented on my pajamas. The way he hovered over us creepily. The weird way he looked at me like I was his prey. How he talked about my "little flower" (by which he was clearly referring to my butt hole).
And today. The leche comment. The way he said it didn't seem like a joke to me, although that's what he claimed it was, and we all just misunderstood his "eccentric sense of humor." But I wasn't laughing. There was nothing funny about it at all. I was a fifteen-year-old boy, and he was, like, fifty or something. Gross!
"He's disgusting," I said, voice cracking. "And I feel gross. And I hate that it's me. I hate that he keeps making it about me. It makes me feel like I'm some kind of magnet for drama and problems and creeps."
I even told her about the smell—like an unholy stew of octopus guts, sweaty armpits, rotten eggs, and a faint top note of Taco Bell farts.
Because at this point, why hold back?
She didn't interrupt once.
When I finished, she leaned forward and said, "Nick, you did nothing wrong. Nothing . You were very brave, but I wish you'd come to us sooner. And you are not the only one who's noticed his behavior and his … fetid aroma . Prep schools are finally starting to take these things seriously – and I promise you, this will be handled swiftly and harshly. You are not alone, and you are safe now."
"I've heard that before from this place," I muttered.
Why would this time be any different? The only thing I wanted at that moment was to get out of this office and get back to Jack.
I barely survived the rest of the day.
Every class dragged. I couldn't concentrate. At tennis practice, I faulted on nearly every serve until Coach finally told me to hit the showers and "come back human tomorrow."
I didn't even argue.
When I got back to the dorm, I expected the usual quiet tension – but instead, I walked into our room and found everyone already there.
Even Christian and Kit.
I nearly tackled them.
"You guys aren't expelled?" I blurted.
Christian smirked. "They tried to pull the 'you assaulted a staff member' angle, but apparently, we're not the problem. "
"We're your bodyguards now," Kit added, flexing his (very real) bicep.
I laughed, and it almost brought tears to my eyes again. But I didn't want to have bodyguards. I didn't want to be a weakling who had to rely on my friends to protect me. I wanted to be able to defend myself – and Jack.
Just before dinner, the interim Dean of Student Life stopped by Linden Hall and gathered everyone in the common room. His face was pale but resolute.
"Boys," he said, "I want to update you on the matter from this morning."
Every head turned.
"Following a credible tip," he continued, "we entered Mr. Johnston's on-campus residence. What we found was… troubling. A disturbing, highly inappropriate, and obscene shrine dedicated to one of our students."
Everyone turned to look at me.
My stomach dropped.
"Based on that discovery, as well as additional testimony, Mr. Johnston has been permanently removed from campus and will not be returning here or to any job involving children ever again, if I have anything to say about it. And if you ever see him hanging around or near campus, immediately notify a teacher or security guard."
The silence lasted maybe two seconds.
Then: cheering.
Whooping. Clapping. Jonah screamed, "FREEDOM!" as if he were being released from prison. I think Mark started a conga line.
The Dean sighed. "Okay, okay, settle down. Eat dinner. Do your prep. You'll meet your new house parent at breakfast tomorrow."
I didn't even care. We were free. He was gone.
Just as I was about to step out the door, the Dean stopped me. "Nicholas, there's something you need to know. Mr. Johnston had illegally installed a hidden camera in the shower stall… the one you normally use."
I froze.
"There were photographs," he continued, his voice measured but tight. "We recovered them from his residence and turned everything over to the police. He's in custody now, and I doubt he'll be getting out anytime soon." He paused, his jaw flexing before he added, more softly, "I want you to know that you're safe. On behalf of the school, I would like to offer a sincere apology. This should never have happened. Mr. Johnston will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."
He straightened a little, regaining his formal tone. "I will personally ensure his replacement is someone of the highest quality and character. We'll also be informing your mother today. If you or she has questions, come directly to me. And please – keep meeting with the school psychologist. It's important."
My hands trembled. My throat felt raw, but I forced the words out. "Was it just me? Or… were there other boys?"
The Dean grimaced, his professional mask cracking for a moment. "It was just you, Nicholas. Only you."
The words hit like a stone in my stomach. Bile rose in my throat. Why the hell does this kind of shit always happen to me?
Almost as if he could hear my thoughts, the Dean leaned in slightly. "And Nicholas – hear me on this. You did absolutely nothing wrong. You're not in trouble. None of this is your fault." His tone was firm, steady, like he wanted to hammer it into me so I couldn't forget.
Then he set a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Stick close to your boyfriend for tonight, at least," he added quietly, giving me a quick wink before patting my back and walking away.
I just stood there, speechless, my heart racing, trying to process what had just happened.
Dinner passed in a haze. I pushed the Chicken à la King, green beans, and mashed potatoes around my plate without really tasting a bite. The whole room felt heavy, like everyone was thinking the same thing, but no one dared say it out loud. Nobody asked me to talk about Mr. Johnston, and I was grateful, because I didn't think I could. Jack kept my hand trapped firmly in his the whole time, but even that felt far away, like I was watching it happen from outside myself.
Across the dining hall, Noah caught my eye. He gave me a small, cautious smile and a quick wave. My brain registered it, but the feelings didn't follow. I lifted my hand in a dull wave back, but my face didn't move. Smiling just wasn't in me.
Later that night, the dorm felt… lighter. No ghost haunting the halls. No fear hanging over us. Sure, I still felt disgusted and violated, but I just kept reminding myself that Mr. Johnston was gone now and couldn't hurt me, and I wouldn't have to smell him ever again.
Jack turned to me and whispered, "You wanna shower together?"
I really needed the affection right then. It was worth getting caught, but even if we did, I think the school owed me anyway.
"Yes," I whispered back. "But only if you let me squeeze your butt for like an hour straight."
"Deal!" he agreed. "My butt is all yours!"
And we did. Slowly. Affectionately. Without fear of footsteps in the hallway or shadows under the door.
But this time, I wanted to try something different, something that would blow Jack's mind … or possibly gross him out completely. As I kneeled behind him to soap up his legs and those soft, fleshy, lily-white butt cheeks, I tentatively spread his cheeks apart and leaned forward, lightly touching my tongue to his tight little pink pucker. And they said porn wasn't educational!
He nearly jumped out of his skin at first contact and had to put his hands over his mouth to keep himself from squealing. I continued to work on his most delicate treasure with abandon, sloppily licking from his hole to his perineum and to his balls. The "research" I had done was correct; there was nothing gross or disgusting about it at all, especially since we'd just showered. As I picked up the rhythm with my tongue and continued to assault his most Holy of Holies, Jack's moans grew ever more desperate and intense. As he roughly grabbed my hair, I reached around to hold his stiff, throbbing boyhood. After burying my tongue as far as it could go, and after a few quick tugs, he spent himself completely on the shower floor, where I had done the same just moments before while feverishly jacking myself off.
" What. Was. That? " Jack gasped.
"You didn't like it?" I asked worriedly.
"No, Nick, that was incredible ! I just wasn't expecting it at all. Where in the hell did you learn how to do that?"
"The Internet," I shrugged.
I was proud of myself, and we now had something new to practice. And we would need to practice a lot.
When we climbed into bed, damp and warm and holding each other tight, I finally let myself believe that maybe… just maybe… things were starting to turn around. But how many times had I said that before?
Tuesday morning started early. Practically everyone in Linden Hall was up before the alarm clocks even had a chance to scream at us.
We were all nervous, buzzing, trying not to act like it was a big deal. But it was. Third house parent in one year. The rumors around campus had already started that Linden Hall was cursed. And honestly? I was beginning to wonder if the curse was… me . After all, I was involved in the premature departures of both Mr. G and Mr. Johnston. Perhaps the dorm just needed an exorcism or some feng shui, rather than a new house parent.
By 7:10, all of us were waiting in the common room. Jonah kept pacing like he was about to face a judge. "If this one smells like rotten onions, rotten cow intestines, and burnt cinnamon, I'm transferring," he muttered.
"I swear, if they send in another weird old man with unexplained stains on his pants, I'm applying to boarding school in Switzerland where some Swiss muscle daddy can pound me all day and night," Mark said. So, apparently, Mark did have a type.
Christian found me, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and I just completely melted into him. "God, I hope this is the last one," I moaned. "I can't take any more major changes this close to exams."
At exactly 7:15, the Dean of Student Life walked in, straightening his tie like he'd just come from negotiating a hostage release. Behind him walked our new house parent.
"Gentlemen," the Dean began. "I'd like to introduce Miss Charice Johnson."
She stepped forward and smiled, and the energy of the room shifted immediately. Her energy was... warm, larger-than-life. Big. Comforting but commanding. She was a large Black woman, possibly in her mid-to-late 40s, with long, gorgeous dreadlocks that reached the middle of her back. She wore oversized glasses, a colorful, patterned cardigan, chunky costume jewelry, and carried a crocheted handbag with a stitched image of a dog on the front.
In short, she looked like someone's cool aunt who brought wine to Thanksgiving and didn't care if you swore, as long as you meant it.
"Now, I go by Miss Charice," she said with a grin. "Not Miss Johnson, Mrs. Charice. Not Ms. Charice. Miss. Charice. You forget that, and I will forget your name right back."
That got a laugh.
The Dean explained she had worked in HR at Harrison West before and would be with us through the end of the year – hopefully longer. Then she made a point of greeting each of us individually, shaking our hands and making eye contact. No clipboard. No awkward silences. She called Jack's hair "handsome" and told Jonah, "You look like trouble. I like trouble." Jonah just giggled shyly. I'd never seen Jonah do anything shyly .
Once the introductions were over, we bolted to breakfast. Nobody had eaten anything yet, and the nerves had turned into growling stomachs. On our way to the dining hall, Jonah leaned over and whispered, "She's cool now. But we'll see how long that lasts. "
Classes were hard to sit through. The sun was too perfect, the trees outside exploding with green, and every single classroom felt like a dusty shoebox. But at least we were back to outdoor tennis practice, which gave me a little freedom and fresh air. Lately, I'd been thinking about switching sports next year. Maybe football? Or baseball? I wasn't sure I was fast enough, or big enough, but I liked the idea of doing something I loved instead of just something I happened to be decent at. That felt good. Plus, even if I wasn't good enough for the JV team, there were always intramurals. Or maybe I could do weightlifting with Christian and Kit. I was sure Jack would like that.
Back in Linden Hall during prep, Miss Charice made her rounds. She peeked into every room, complimented a few boys on their posture, scribbled notes on her clipboard, and disappeared without a fuss.
"She's taking notes," Jack whispered.
"Good notes or bad notes?" I asked.
"She smiled at the ramen stains on Jonah's shirt and called it 'human texture.' I think we're good."
After prep, we managed to sneak another shower together. Jack stood a little too close to me, water running down his chest, and whispered, "You think we could practice that thing again tonight?"
I looked down. He was already halfway there.
"Maybe later," I said with a smirk. In fact, there was no "maybe" about it. It's practically all I could think about doing all day, just burying my face in that delectable …
By 9:30, everyone was in our room – our usual hangout spot by default. It was just warm enough that none of us were bothering with much clothing. Jack and I were on my bed, tangled together in our boxers. Emery and Kit were doing the same on Jack's bed, giggling and whispering between kisses, while Emery lazily felt up Kit. I'd never seen Emery without a shirt before. He was even scrawnier than I was, but still beautiful. And he was like the exact opposite of Kit. But somehow, it just seemed to work, and they just seemed smitten with each other. I also kind of had a thing for boys like Kit who were built like a brick shithouse – not fat, but built, thick, and incredibly toned. Everyone else lounged around the room like half-dressed wolves, including Jonah, who was loudly monologuing about how Shakespeare was probably a time traveler from Miami, while wearing a pair of Superman tighty-whities. If he wasn't careful, someone was going to snuggle him relentlessly, and it would probably be me.
Then came a soft knock at the door.
Christian opened it, and standing there, taking in the scene, was Miss Charice.
Oh. My. God. I was just sure she thought that we were in the middle of an orgy, even though nothing sexual at all was going on.
I wanted to disappear. Crawl into the drywall and vanish. Go into hibernation. There we were half-naked boys everywhere, boys snuggling and holding hands, boys dancing around – all in just their underwear – like the most chaotic Abercrombie ad ever. It was like an all-boys' cuddle party. Fortunately, nothing "obscene" was going on, like I sad, but still, the optics weren't the greatest.
Miss Charice blinked. Then she smiled.
"Well, well, well," Miss Charice drawled, grinning as she leaned against the doorframe. "Lord have mercy… what is this? Y'all havin' a cuddle convention up in here? Mm-hm , I think I done found the party room."
"We're just super close friends, like emotionally," Jack attempted to explain.
" Mmmhmmmm ," replied Miss Charice, raising an eyebrow.
No one moved. Emery looked like he was about to cry. Danny had gone stiff as a board. Christian was probably wondering how his best friends this year turned out to be a group of very affectionate teenage gay boys, and him their adopted older, straight brother. Yet, there he was, right with them, dancing around in just his pink boxer-briefs.
Miss Charice stepped into the room.
"I'm glad to see y'all comfortable. That's important. Bein' close like this? Even more important. So tell me – who wit' who?"
There was a stunned, awkward silence.
Then, to our collective shock, Danny raised his hand. "Nick and Jack are boyfriends. They've been together, like, forever. And Kit and Emery are dating now, too. The rest of us are single. Except Christian, who's straight. I think."
Christian gave a small wave. "It's true. I like boobies."
Miss Charice nodded. " Mm-hm . That's real interestin'. Good to know. All I ask is y'all keep the private stuff… private , and there won't be no problems from me."
We all nodded like bobbleheads, a collective sigh of relief passing around the room.
"And," Miss Charice added, "if anybody need protection, there's a jar of condoms sittin' on my desk. Or you can swing by the infirmary. Be smart. Be safe. Don't break the furniture."
She turned to leave.
But of course, Jonah couldn't help himself.
"Wait!" he blurted, springing to his feet. "Before you go – what are your thoughts on the ethical implications of mating a genetically modified capybara with a feral raccoon to create a sentient custodian species capable of mopping gym floors and analyzing Shakespearean sonnets?"
Miss Charice stopped, turned slowly, and raised an eyebrow. " Mm-hm . Sounds like somebody out here projectin' their need for emotional validation onto imaginary marsupials. You tried journaling, baby? Or maybe needlepoint?"
The room exploded. Jonah staggered backward like he'd taken a bullet to the chest, then flung himself face-down onto the rug, pounding the floor with both fists. "She destroyed me!" he wailed. "Her power is absolute! She could take down Snape and Voldemort in the same duel!" He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "I am but ashes in the wind."
Miss Charice just winked and gave us a little wave. "Goodnight, gentlemen. And don't forget – vacuumin' ain't foreplay."
That finished us. The room erupted all over again – howling, wheezing, clutching pillows like we needed them to stay upright. Even Jonah, still sprawled on the rug, let out a strangled laugh. She left us there in pieces, the door swinging shut behind her, and none of us could quite believe what had just happened.
When we finally composed, Christian declared, "Yeah, she's gonna be awesome."
"Way better than Johnston," Jack said. "And she doesn't smell like raw sewage."
We all laughed.
Eventually, everyone filtered back to their rooms. Jack and I crawled into bed – naked, warm, safe.
He nudged me. "Hey. Can we still try that thing you did to me last night in the shower again? Please, Nicky!? "
Poor guy was practically begging for it now.
I stretched, pretending not to understand. "What thing was that?"
He punched my arm. Hard.
"Okay, okay," I said, laughing. I rolled him onto his stomach and spread his legs to give my tongue easier access to his "special place" and dove right in. I had to cover his mouth with my hand to muffle his screams. Jack was moaning and writhing on the bed like he had lost all ability to control his own body, and grabbing on to any part of me his hands could reach. I didn't let up until he let out one final loud groan and collapsed on the sheets.
"Nicky," he whispered, blushing. "I think I made a mess on your sheets."
"Don't worry," I told him. "We'll clean it up in the morning."
Afterward, we lay side by side, sweaty and tangled in the sheets, making goofy faces and whispering "I love you" in the dark.
"But Nicky, you didn't finish," Jack whined.
"I'm perfectly fine, my Little Prince. I just wanted to make you feel good."
We fell asleep like that – smiling, bare, together.
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