A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 15
From Heroes to…not-gay?
We were hurtling towards the end of sophomore year at Saint Luke's. It was hard to believe that a year ago, I was a Fourth Form at Merchiston Castle, obsessing over my GCSEs and the looming shadow of the British exam boards. I'd fought like hell to stay in Scotland back then; today, I'd fight like hell if anyone tried to make me leave.
Still tasting the dust of Concho, we rolled into the very last week of the regular class schedule. This week was all review—every class. We were confident, but we recognized the reviews weren't just important; they were critical. This is when the teachers told you what they thought was important—critical intelligence for determining likely areas of focus on our upcoming exams.
We took a lot of notes. In our study group debriefs, the cafeteria, and on the practice fields, we debated the significance of teacher time spent on one topic or the other. Even Jack was a welcome ally in these debates; he was in both our Geometry and English classes, and his mind for detail was sharp.
Saturday came: the last track meet of the year, and it was against our arch rival, Philips Academy. Everyone was pumped. This was it. Do or die. Leave it all on the field.
The whole team was out on the field early, stretching and warming up even before the buses from Philips arrived. The field events were all up first—the Long, High, and Triple Jumps; and the throwing events—Shot Put and Discus. Jack's powerhouses. Hank, myself, and the other distance runners had time to kill, so we watched and cheered as we continued our warm-up routine on the outer track.
Jack was dominant. Even as a sophomore, he moved with a clinical, powerful grace that the Philips throwers couldn't touch; or his teammates for that matter. It wasn't even close. The shot put flew out of his hand like he was tossing a baseball. The field judges had to furiously crank the tape measure back in for the next competitor. He took first in both shot put and discus—ten points for Saint Luke's.
His father, as always, had invited himself down onto the field, standing right with the coaches. He cheered, of course, with Jack's wins; any dad would. But he couldn't keep his mouth shut after that—sportsmanship definitely wasn't in his vocabulary. He didn't just celebrate Jack; he actively belittled the Philips boys, loud enough for them to hear.
"That all they got? No wonder they're losing the war," he'd bark, a smirk on his face. He clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture that looked more like a claim of ownership than a hug. Even Jack looked uncomfortable, his jaw tight as he wiped the chalk from his hands, refusing to meet the eyes of the boy he'd just beaten.
By the time Hank and I lined up for our first event of the day, the One-Mile, the air was thick with Texas heat and the smell of starter-pistol smoke. We were ahead twenty-four to eighteen over Philips. Not a rout by any means, but it would be by the end of the day if we kept this up.
I noticed Jack's dad had abandoned the field the moment Jack finished. He was now working those he judged as important in the stands, leaning over the railing to shake hands with a board member, his loud laugh carrying even over the announcer's voice. He was done with the work of the day; he was onto the networking.
Jack hadn't left. He was leaning against the chain-link fence about ten yards down from our start, his Lycra speed suit peeled down to his waist and his chest drenched in sweat. His abs flexed with each heavy, rhythmic gulp of air as he recovered from the explosion of his final throw. Damn he did look good…
He didn't cheer or wave. He just watched us with a steady intensity, his eyes tracking the way Hank and I tightened our laces and checked the tension in our calves. For a second, our eyes met—he gave a sharp nod and a quick smile. That was a Jack cheer. I smiled back. It was good to have him as a teammate, not an antagonist.
The official stepped onto the track, the starter pistol glinting in the 10:30 sun.
"Runners to your marks!"
We stepped onto the line—five of us in the white and blue stripes of Saint Luke's, five in the aggressive red of Philips. Ten of us across the width of the track made the start feel crowded, a line of soldiers waiting for the whistle. Hank and I stood on either side of Miller, our two juniors further out.
I was the Rabbit —Coach had decided that at the start of the week. There was no chance I'd place in this race; I'd be happy to cross the finish line at the end without puking. I was the sacrificial lamb. My job was to sprint the first two laps at a suicidal pace to trick the Philips runners into chasing me. Then, when they were dying, Miller, Hank and our juniors would kick it in—strategy.
Crack!
I exploded off the line. I wasn't running my race; I was running their race into the ground. By the backstretch of the first lap, I could hear the Philips runners' heavy footfalls behind me, their breathing already turning ragged as they scrambled to stay on my move.
"Look at that kid go!" someone yelled from the stands.
I didn't look up. I just stared at the lane line, my heart hammering against my ribs.
By the start of the third lap, the Texas bake and the sprint start began to take their toll. My vision blurred at the edges, and my quads felt like they were filled with molten lead. That's when I felt a familiar presence on my shoulder.
"Good work, Lach," Miller whispered as he glided past. "We've got it from here."
Miller and Hank surged, looking fresh and lethal. The Philips boys tried to respond, but they had nothing left—I'd already stolen their oxygen. They were gasping, their strides breaking as they tried to chase the ghosts I'd lured them into following.
I dropped back, my race was over, time to conserve. Third, fifth, eighth...the field swept past me like I was standing still. By the final lap, my legs were no longer mine; they were just heavy, wooden pillars I was forcing to move through a fog of heat and nausea. I crossed the finish line dead last, my vision tunneling as I stumbled into the grass.
Coach was there in a second, catching me before my knees hit the dirt. He wasn't looking at the scoreboard. He was looking at me. "Perfect, Lachlan. You buried them in the first half. It's a sweep," he nodded toward the Philips runners, who were slumped over, defeated, while Miller, Hank and one of our juniors stood tall at the finish line.
I just lay back on the grass and stared at the Texas blue sky—praying for more oxygen, a passing cloud, and perhaps some rain. That's when I heard him, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. "Look at that kid. Total amateur move. Ran himself out in the first two laps."
I didn't have the energy to look up, but I felt a shadow fall over me. It was Jack. His singlet was still tucked into his waistband, his chest still glistening with sweat as he watched me with that same quiet intensity. He just reached down, his chalk-stained hand closing around my forearm like a vice, and hauled me to my feet just as Miller and Hank arrived.
Miller gave me a fierce, sweaty hug, nearly knocking the remaining wind out of me. "You did it, Lach. You killed them, perfect run."
Hank and Jack each took a shoulder, half-carrying me toward the shade of the tents. Jack gabbed some iced towels for the back of my neck. I had two hours to find my legs again. Two hours to recover before the Two-Mile finale.
Hank started to work on my legs, but Jack hustled him out, "You got your own recovery to work on Hank. I'll take care of Lachlan; I'm done for the day." He peeled my singlet over my head, and tossed it aside, leaving me in just my split shorts and spikes. Then he got more ice towels, laying them across my chest and abs—I could feel my core heat recovering already.
Then he knelt and started in on my legs—the same massage that Hank had started. He had a firmer, deeper grip than Hank. It felt incredible. That's where my little problem started; or big problem, actually. Split shorts are loose, but not when they're plastered to your skin with sweat. In no time, both of us were staring at the distinct, unmistakable outline—the damp, white fabric left nothing to the imagination, right down to the fact that I wasn't circumcised.
I tried to will it down; but his hands felt too good. "Sorry," I whispered, hoping he wasn't going to punch me, or even worse, it.
He peeled his eyes away, kind of slowly, then smirked and shrugged, "Happens to all of us, Lachlan. No worries—still need to get you ready for the Two-Mile. Just warn me if this thing is about to go off!"
Punch avoided, I laughed, "Got it. I'll try to remember, but you know…"
Jack gave a short, huffed laugh—half-amused, half-disbelieving. He pretended to not see what was right in front of his face as he finished up the massage.
Jack helped me into my warm-up pants and we walked out to the team camp. For the next hour, we were stuck in Infield Limbo. We sat on a tarp under a pop-up canopy, passing around lukewarm water bottles and watching the scoreboard with growing knots in our stomachs. From our spot on the grass, we had a front-row seat to the disaster.
The Philips sprinters were legendary. In the 100-meter dash, they swept our guys. Then came the hurdles—another bloodbath. Every time the announcer called out the results, the Philips side of the bleachers erupted, their cheers echoing off the metal stands like a taunt.
"They're clawing back," Hank muttered, his eyes fixed on the manual scoreboard.
By 12:15, when the announcer called for the Two-Mile check-in, our morning lead had been cut to one point—forty-four Saint Luke's; forty-three Philips .
"Time to move, Lach," Miller said, standing up and shaking out his arms.
The next thirty minutes were pure agony. My legs felt like they'd been set in concrete. While the 200-meter heats were finishing up, we began the Wake-Up routine —slow, shuffling jogs around the backstretch, followed by strides—to remind our hearts how to pump.
"Final call for Varsity Boys Two-Mile," the loudspeaker crackled.
I stripped off the warm-up pants. My split shorts were dry now, but my skin was humming. I looked at Hank. He looked like he was heading into a boxing ring. We stepped toward the white curved line painted on the track.
In the Two-Mile, I wasn't the rabbit—that role fell to our two juniors. Hank and I were to draft on Miller the whole race. He'd set the strategy and the pace. We had to play the rabbit more subtly this time around—fooling them once, easy; fooling them twice, not so much. Our juniors two-stepped it this time, to lure Philips in. One pulling away first; the next on the quarter lap, the second. By the end of the first lap, the Philips runners were pacing them.
The juniors played their part perfectly. By the second mile, the heat had turned the track into a gauntlet of pure attrition. One by one, the Philips runners who had chased the juniors' bait began to fade—their head-position dropping, their strides shortening as the heat dissolved their resolve. We stayed tucked in Miller's shadow, a three-man white and blue machine.
Miller kicked first. It was a violent, sudden acceleration that left the remaining Philips jerseys reeling. Hank and I were used to the distance kick from cross-country. He followed, his elbows pumping. My legs, which Jack had worked back to life in that humid tent, finally found their snap. I didn't feel the pain; I just felt the rhythm Jack had massaged into my muscles.
We crossed the line 1-2-3. A total lockout—fifty-four to forty-three. The relay was just for bragging rights now.
Hank and I collapsed against each other on the infield grass, the world spinning in shades of blue and white. The blistering heat was still there, but the air felt different now—lighter, like the weight of the whole season had been lifted off our shoulders with that final lap. Both of us were laughing with relief; I could feel Hank's shoulder bouncing against mine.
I glanced towards the fence. Jack was there, still leaning against the chain-link, his upper body bare and bronze in the sun. He wasn't cheering like the rest of the school; he just stood there with that easy, confident smirk. He caught my eye; giving me a thumbs-up. I gave him a tired, shaky thumbs-up in return.
By the time we dragged ourselves upright, the stands were already clearing. Mum and Da were chatting with Hank's parents, likely already dissecting the splits. I spied Rhona, her arm linked in Miller's—not the other way around. She was talking and waving her free hand, no doubt extolling the virtues of Texas A&M.
Miller didn't even realize the lasso had already settled around his shoulders; or maybe he just didn't care. She's cute, after all. An older, girly version of me, with all the girl parts. So, if you're into that, she's a catch.
On Monday, Jack, Hank, and I were the sophomore heroes, walking tall with the expected junior and senior heroes as well. We'd carved out our own space in the Saint Luke's pantheon.
Still basking in the adulation of our win, Dead Week kicked off. Regular classes were over—we'd learned everything we were going to learn. Now we just had to perform the postmortem: digesting theorems, memorizing grammar rules, and running adversarial analysis on our teachers to second-guess their trick questions.
Hank and I had staked out a study room in the library for Spanish. We were sitting side by side, our bare knees touching under the table—a small, hidden anchor of contact in a sea of textbooks. I felt Hank suddenly pull his leg away, the contact breaking like a snapped wire.
I started to shift my leg back toward him, but he whispered, his head buried in his Level II textbook, "No, Raider. We've got eyes. Eleven o'clock. Don't look up. It's Jack."
"He was doing that yesterday too, I just figured he was bored," I said, leaning back in my chair and staring at my text took like I was waiting for it to leap into my brain. Time for subterfuge; distraction.
I leaned forward and shoved my book, and started waving my hands, "Someone needs to sue these textbook guys! All these sentences, how are you supposed to really understand what they're saying if there's no context?"
"No context?" Hank asked, not really sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Yeah, context." I spewed, "Like here— ¿Dónde está la casa de Pepe? Who's asking the question? We don't know, no context. Sure, ninety-percent assume it's some buddy, going to Pepe's house."
"But it's not?" Hank giggled.
"Maybe not. What if it's much more siniestro, what if it's Pepe asking the question! What if Pepe's just walking home from work? He's got his bag of warm street tacos, his cervezas. He's thinking he's going to get home and watch some World Cup. He turns the corner—no casa. It's gone; not even a brick. Pepe looks around, and murmurs— ¿Dónde está la casa de Pepe?"
"You have a point," Hank nodded, "a cartel, developers, aliens—who took it?"
"Exactly!" I cried, throwing my hands in the air. I looked like a kid arguing about a textbook, but inside, I was counting heartbeats.
I could feel Jack's gaze like a laser designator painting a target on the side of my head. It was that cold, clinical stare he'd perfected—the one that didn't just see you, it dissected you. Was he just looking at two sophomores being idiots, or was he cataloging the microscopic distance between our shoulders? Was he measuring the way our laughs synced up, or the way my eyes never stayed away from Hank's for more than three seconds?
"He's not just watching," Hank whispered back, his voice tight. "He's smiling, Lachlan."
We played it cool until Jack finally slung his bag over his shoulder and left the library. We gave it thirty seconds, then beat feet to a closed seminar room. I turned the lock with a definitive click.
"Do you think he suspects?" I hissed.
"Maybe. I don't know," Hank breathed a heavy sigh, leaning his back against the whiteboard. "He's spent a lot of time with us since the Games. Maybe we weren't as careful as we thought. He's picked up on the subtle signs—like Betsy said, she knew us, so it was obvious."
I crossed my arms defensively, my heart hammering. "Do you think he'd out us?"
I felt the Little Wind at our backs—all those small slips, the shared looks, the obvious signs blowing the door wide open. And I could feel the Coyote at our heels, teeth bared, waiting for us to trip so he could howl our business to the whole school.
I nodded, more to myself than to Hank. "Well, that's it then. It's time. It's not so bad, really. It's the end of the year. Everyone's crashing and cramming—you couldn't ask for a better self-absorbed distraction for our peers. And then it's summer. Three months for them all to forget, or at least get us off the front page."
Hank laughed. "Just like that then? Let's do it. We'll walk out, stand up on one of the tables in the main room, and announce it to the world." He bounced off the whiteboard and made a move toward the door.
"Wait, asshole," I giggled, reaching out to snag his arm. "Not like right now. We have a plan, remember? Like we talked about. The soft launch. We join the GSA table at lunch first—opening in the cafeteria. After that, we start openly showing we're a couple in the small ways. We prep our Inner Circle in advance so they aren't blindsided when the Coyote starts howling."
Hank stopped, his hand on the handle, leaned back against the door, and looked at me, barely controlling his smirk. "That's asshole, my love."
I teared up, the weight of what we were on the verge of doing hitting me. "I love you, Hank. So much. Like my Mum's stupid song—more today than yesterday; not as much as tomorrow."
Hank moved in, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me hard. "Not such a stupid song, actually; true for me as much as you. I can't wait to be free to hold your hand, put my arms around you, kiss you, stare into those baby blues like a fucking idiot and not care who sees."
A thousand images of us in the hallways shredded through my brain. It took me a while to even find the words. "Way to melt my heart, asshole, my love. Maybe the table right now isn't a bad idea after all."
Hank grinned. "We've been so worried about the downside; I guess the upside never really occurred to us."
"We'll be able to walk down the hallway with your hand in my back pocket, on my bum," I murmured.
"Those shorts of yours with the hole in the back pocket?" he smirked.
"I'm pretty sure all my shorts have the back pocket problem," I giggled, "or they will by tomorrow."
Still behind the locked door, we got in some serious cramming for post-outing PDA. I think we were well-prepared for that final exam.
But Dead Week has its advantages for certain tasks: no hard class schedule, complete freedom of movement, and every student on campus. The issuance of the warning order to the Inner Circle was surprisingly easy—completed that afternoon. We even had time to give Liam, the super-nice senior and head of the GSA, a heads-up we'd like to join their table at lunch. And we still had plenty of time to study.
D-Day: Tomorrow.
H-Hour: 1200 Zulu. (Actually, it's 1200 Central Daylight Time, but Zulu sounded better).
Landing Zone: The Saint Luke's Cafeteria.
Despite the wonderful anticipation of the upsides, we were both nervous as hell that night. We both talked to our parents over dinner—seemed like a prerequisite. Mine asked a lot of questions, but didn't try to talk us out of it. If they were nervous, they must have realized I needed them to be my rock, so that's what they were.
Hank and I took a study break and FaceTimed for two hours that night, talking through various outing scenarios. We even made a spreadsheet—Pro-Us, noteworthy liberals; Anti-Us, the Bible thumpers, noteworthy homophobes; and three ranges of neutral and in-between. Jack was somewhere in the middle. Hank thought more against; I thought more pro, based on the last month.
Then the text hit.
Burner: >> hey Lachlan, Jack
Me: >> new phone?
Burner: >> dad all over my phone, social media, college recruiting thing. this one safe.
Me: >> okay…
Burner: >> just wanted to say awesome one-mile on Saturday. taking one for the team. Impressive. I don't think my ego would let me do that. and your two-mile, impressive…
I blushed. >> thanks.
Burner: >> best last place finish I ever saw, u rock!
I laughed. Me: >> u saw? u too busy running around half naked for the ladies.
Burner: >> …
Burner: >> …
Burner: >> …
Burner: >> haha
Me: >> u kicked ass too. shot and discus. no one touched u
Burner: >> gotta run. oh, and nice 🍆 . thought u were a little guy
I stared at the screen long after the... bubbles disappeared. There was a ton in the text; but I had the feeling there was a whole lot more tonnage around the text.
"Earth to Lachlan," Hank broke through, "you okay?
I shook my head, "Yeah, sorry. Weird text from Jack." I held my phone up to the screen so Hank could see the glowing text. I wasn't going to forward it; who knows what Jack's dad can intercept.
Even Bonnie wanted to get in on the action. Seeing the phone held out, she trotted over and nuzzled the screen, nostrils flaring. She gave the glass a long, investigative lick, then pulled back, confirming what she already knew: it wasn't steakies and it wasn't chickies. She breathed the heavy sigh of the oppressed and dropped her head back to her paws, her role in the investigation complete.
That ended the spreadsheet exercise. We spent the next hour analyzing the deep inner meaning of six texts—good practice for our English final anyway. In the end, we went to sleep, leaving more Jack-analysis for later. We did move him into the neutral-pro column.
My brain was racing as I tried to fall asleep. Thoughts bouncing around like I was a pinball machine in a supercollider. I wondered if this was how my great grandda MacKenzie felt the night of June fifth; as he and the rest of Lord Lovat's First Special Service Brigade commandos set off for Normandy.
Me, I quietly stormed Sword Beach the next morning in light blue, specially-modified Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt. Hank met me at the door, and we immediately went incognito until the lunch reveal. We headed the opposite direction from the library, intent on secreting ourselves in the office of a teacher who had departed last month—lots of rumors, no facts, on that one.
"You fix your shorts?" he whispered as we scurried up the stairs, two steps at a time.
"Of course," I huffed.
"Which pocket?" he eagerly questioned.
I gave him a side look that mirrored Mrs. Gleason in our Geometry review last week when Paige had an epiphany— wait a minute, a-squared plus b-squared, equals c-squared? "Duh, the left. You always walk on the right. Your arm should go across my back to my left pocket."
Hank ignored my stare, "Good. I did my right pocket."
We reached the door of the abandoned office. The nameplate had been removed, leaving only a rectangular ghost of adhesive on the wood. Hank checked the hallway once more—before we slipped inside and clicked the lock.
"Okay," Hank said, dropping his bag and immediately pulling out a highlighter. "We have three hours until we have to go back out there. Three hours to prep for the English final and keep our stories straight."
"Not yet," I ordered, "Come over here first." I pretended to fiddle with the coffee pot.
Confused, Hank walked over next to me. That's when I slipped my arm around him and plunged my hand into his left pocket. My fingers slide down over naked bum. He'd done well—taken out the whole pocket of his shorts just like I did, and had gone commando.
Hank giggled and immediately did the same with mine. We half-turned and added kissing to our bum fondling. When he figured out there was enough room to shift his hand over to my cleft and started going deep, I called a halt to the verification test.
A very frustrated Hank, very reluctantly withdrew his hand, "You absolutely sure you don't want to go stand on a table in the library? What's special about three hours?"
"Shhhhh," I held my finger up, whispering as I looked around for sneaky French ambushers, " It's All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque." Then I returned my voice to normal, "Explain to me the salient themes of the loss of innocence and the bond formed in the trenches. And we're talking German trenches; not Lachlan's trench!"
Hank rolled his eyes, clearly not understanding the nefarious French like I do, then went to the white board and started writing. The pout didn't last long once he picked up the dry-erase marker. He liked being the expert too much. He started sketching out a timeline of Paul Bäumer's unit, his handwriting sharp and aggressive against the white surface. Then he moved on to the details of the two themes—tracing them back to the timeline.
Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, and the series of short stories and poems filled the rest of the three hours. Finally, I swung around one last time in the sagging swivel chair that used to belong to the vanished teacher. We both locked eyes. It was time—H-Hour.
We quietly filled our backpacks. Looked at each other. Instinctively moved together for a mutual reassuring hug and a kiss. Then we unlocked the door—two long corridors, one flight of stairs—then we'd be in the throng moving to the cafeteria.
We were wrong.
My eyes popped wide, my heart stopping, as I stared into the throng lining the hall right outside our room. Then I focused on the faces—Betsy, Dakota, our Inner Circle, Miller, Liam from GSA, and I think the biggest player on the football team.
Betsy grinned, "We thought you'd like some support as you run the gauntlet to the GSA table." She held her hand out, indicating we'd be in the forefront, the first piper off the landing craft onto the beach and into the withering fire of the enemy.
Hank and I both kind of choked up; we kind of just smiled and nodded. As we got to the end of this little gauntlet, Liam introduced Daniel—football linebacker, and his boyfriend.
The giant person gave us a smile and a handshake that swallowed my hand, "If it's okay with you, we figured it was a good time for my coming out. End of year, off to UT; coach there agreed."
"The tall guys always draw the enemy fire," I grinned, "more than happy for you to join us!"
Our little gauntlet became the back of our phalanx—Hank and I, the tip of the spear as we headed for the cafeteria. Halfway there, Hank reached out and took my hand; our very first, Saint Luke's hallway PDA. The moment we hit the first floor; we were passing kids in the hallway. Eyebrows went up, nudges to kids whose heads were elsewhere, whispers, smiles, frowns, neutrals. They had to move to the sides—the phalanx just sliced through the crowd.
No one could say we slunk into the cafeteria; we couldn't have if we'd tried. The phalanx marched us straight to the GSA table before peeling off toward the mystery meat line. Tables fell silent as we passed, then hummed with a frantic energy as the shock set in. No one leapt up to scream damnation, but no one launched into 'Y-M-C-A' either. We'd hit them with the ultimate exam trick question—they were staring at the empty pages of a blue book, trying to perform a rapid crisis analysis against a ticking clock.
Okay, maybe that was a bit too melodramatic—but we'd definitely changed the discussion topic for lunch. We took our seats at one end of the table; Liam and Daniel at the other. Liam was grinning, Daniel casually demolishing a carton of milk. Seems Daniel has to sit at the end, legs too big to fit under the table. I briefly wondered if he would give Pete's Jason a run for his money once he got to UT, or if he had already.
Someone had already gotten trays for the four of us, saving us the Sophie's Choice of the serving line. I was starving, and eating left-handed; I wasn't going to let go of Hank's hand. I had a forkful of mystery-meatloaf halfway to my mouth when I realized the table was quiet. I looked down the line. Ten faces, all staring at us—and at our still-entwined hands.
Obviously, we hadn't expected Liam to tell everyone in advance. That would have been like telling the Germans— see ya tomorrow at the beach, Fritz!
"What do we say?" Hank whispered under his breath, "we never thought this far ahead."
"Not sure, these are your people. I'm Scottish," I murmured, then inspiration, "Hi, we're gay. Guttentag, wir sind schwul. Salut, on est gays. Hola, somos gays." I'd looked that last one up yesterday during study hours. I would have thrown in some Elvish from Rogues of Drakneth, but I've never figured out how that actually speak it. I just skip over it in the book.
"No way, you're not gay," one kid mid-table shot back, "I don't believe the hand holding, that's lame. Disney even."
On his gay scale, we probably didn't register. He was a walking explosion of maximalist defiance. He wore a vintage Golden Girls t-shirt—sourced from some dark-web vintage dealer, no doubt—featuring a glitter-rimmed portrait of Betty White looking profoundly disappointed in all of us. Over that, he'd layered a sheer, neon-green mesh vest that clinked with at least twenty enamel pins, ranging from Pro-Choice, to Pro-Chaos, to Resist Everything.
He had a rhinestone beauty mark glued to one cheekbone and a pair of iridescent butterfly clips holding back a bleached-blonde fringe that looked like it had survived a chemical fire. As he leaned forward, his twelve rainbow bracelets clattered against the plastic tray like a warning.
WTF? Disney? We might not be sporting sequins, but no question we're gay; that much I definitely knew. I looked at Hank, my eyes mega-pissed. He looked back, and smirked. No words. Not needed. We simply launched into the most intense, porn-star Vegas award-winning kiss Saint Luke's has ever seen.
Our tongues touched long before our lips. Hank's pointed tip circling and twisting with mine like that Hermes caduceus thing. After an eternity, his tongue penetrated my mouth. I closed my lips and sucked, pulling it into my mouth, moaning as loudly as I could; though quite possibly drowned out by Hank. He kept leaning in, his lips eventually connecting with mine.
Our eyes were locked, laughing, but determined. We kept at it; hoping the teachers were occupied elsewhere—we were definitely violating the Saint Luke's Student Handbook. Finally, I winked at Hank—not the end—just the reverse…until our tongues finally parted at the tips. We turned our heads and looked—down a stunned table. Then the clapping. Liam and Daniel, slowly, reverently.
"Encore?" the flushed little freshman to my right croaked. His food forgotten. Both his hands under the table.
I looked back at the Golden Girls kid. Betty White was still there on his chest, but the kid himself looked like he'd just been hit by a flash-bang. His Chinese fan frozen halfway to his face.
"Still Disney?" I asked, my voice a bit raspier than I intended.
"Damn girl. That tongue." His eyes were glued to Hank, "I need some of that."
"Fat chance, Betty," I smirked, "I own that tongue; and everything attached to it. And he owns me."
"Time to count coups, Raider," Hank laughed, shoveling a fork full of tasty meatloaf into my mouth. I returned the favor.
Liam started to speak, but Daniel touched his hand and leaned forward, " Kon'nichiwa, watashitachiha geidesu. You know, just because some of us don't look gay; doesn't mean we're not, right? I think we all have the same feelings. We're all looking for the right boy, or girl. And we just want to be free to do that, agree?"
Liam was beaming with a That's my boyfriend glow. He leaned in and gave him a light kiss; Daniel returned one equally tender. I half expected their end of the table to start lifting off the ground; I mean he had to be huge, right? Then Liam looked down the table, "Inclusivity, right guys, one of our core tenets."
His leadership defused any remaining tension. Hank and I got to eat. Even Betty asked us a bunch of let's get to know each other questions and turned out to be quite clever and witty. After lunch, Hank and I abandoned incognito for the library social scene; walking there with our hands in each other's non-back pockets.
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