Gay boy

Today has gone no better than yesterday.

I somehow managed to have even less sleep, meaning that I walked into school looking like I was a zombie straight out of The Walking Dead. I almost walked into a bin twice and apologised when I walked into a lamp post erected outside of the school building. Cami was in a bad mood with me as she had to wake me up yet again because I decided to stay up until 1 a.m. watching Glee. This meant that we weren't able to get a morning coffee as usual.

The day had barely begun, but it wasn't going great at all.

"Wow, you managed to come into school not looking like a chav today. Congrats!," Alex says with a sarcastic chuckle as he opens his locker next to mine, giving me slow, fake applause afterwards. I still don't know how he knows that word.

I was able to finally do laundry last night, in hopes of not coming into school wearing sweatpants again and preventing my poor ears from having to listen to Alex attempt to use British terminology. Evidently, I've failed, and I cringe as soon as the word 'chav' rolls off his tongue. It's sounds weird coming from someone with an American accent.

I give him a pissed off glare, hoping he'll get the point and leave me alone. He doesn't. It just makes him chuckle sarcastically once again. He always chuckles. It's annoying. The girls think it's cute, but I think it sounds like a dying horse.

"Jeez, you look terrible." He states.

"Fuck off," I mutter and start to walk away, yet I am stopped once again by his hand tightly gripping my shoulder, pulling me back. I groan and walk backwards, coming to a halt in front of him. "Why do you keep doing that? What do you want from me?"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

"You're one to talk," I retort. I go to leave but he stands in my way, preventing me from doing so. I roll my eyes at him.

"Dude, I'm your tutor, remember? We have to make plans about what days I'm tutoring you and where." He says, raising his eyebrows as though I've forgotten about it—which I haven't forgotten. In fact, I've been thinking about is him being my tutor.

Actually, it's more like I've been dreading it. Life is way too cruel for me at the moment, and I have no clue as to what I've done to deserve this. I could have anyone else as my tutor—hell, even Alex's friends would suffice more than him, yet my teacher thinks it's entirely appropriate to place someone who hates me, which is pretty evident from the things he says to me in class, as my tutor. I'm more than sure that Mr Preston is not oblivious at all to our situation, so the fact that he's blindsided it makes no sense.

On top of that, Alex is the 11th-grade 'trouble maker'. Sure, he may be smart and his report card may have straight As, but that doesn't mean that he cares enough about school to be handed the responsibility of being someone's tutor, especially not mine. I'm not sure he'll even have time to be my tutor, judging by the fact that he's in detention multiple times a week. Well, it's either that or he's too out of it from smoking weed to be able to concentrate on the duty at hand.

I didn't know a teacher that's supposedly so intelligent could be so dumb. It certainly hasn't been thought through adequately. I did argue these points yesterday, knowing that the school is more than aware of Alex's issues, but I was completely dismissed. I did momentarily debate whether or not to bring my argumentative mother in to fight my corner for me but decided against it. As I said, the school doesn't listen.

"For fuck's sake, I wish Preston would let me change tutors." I mutter, running a frustrated hand through my hair.

"Honestly, it doesn't make sense as to why he hasn't told me that I'm not tutoring you anymore. You're a whiner, have you not spoken to him?"

"I have tried but he wouldn't listen. Have you not spoken to him about how unethical this all is? I thought you would at least try to get out of it."

"No, actually, I haven't, and I wasn't planning on doing so, either."

"Wait, you want to tutor me?" I say in a monotonous voice. He smirks, like always. Of course, he has a little scheme, doesn't he? Why am I surprised? "Why, though? You hate me. I hate you. We hate each other."

"Because I know you'll hate it, and I'd love to torture you." He says in a sensual like voice, hinting at something which made me shiver.

OK, what is up with this guy and what the hell was he planning to do to me?

Alex is a sociopath. He has to be, and I am going to get murdered. He acts too sadistic for him to be truly sane.

All jokes aside, it's safe to say that Alex being OK with tutoring me is kind of a shock. We've hated each other since the first day I joined this school. I sat next to him in one of my first ever classes, and he made a dig about my accent, something like it makes me sound gay, and from then on, all Alex and his friends do when they see me is insult me. On a rare occasion, words turn into shoves. I've learnt to deal with it, and I'm way beyond caring now.

Apart from a shove now and then, I'm grateful that it's never been violent. Watching shows on T.V. and reading stuff online, rivalry in high school can be harsh.

I wish I could say I properly stand up for myself, besides biting back at Alex, but I don't. While I do mutter things back, I've never found the courage to start a full-on fight with Alex or Alex's friends; not with word or physically. I'd never actually get into a physical altercation, although sometimes I feel the overwhelming urge to punch him or one of his cronies in the jaw. Then I remember that it would hurt me more than it would hurt him and he'd probably end up severely beating me up.

"What the fuck? You're crazy."

"I'm kidding, dude, oh my God," He exclaims as though he's so exasperated by me. I resist the urge to laugh at him. It humours me every time I infuriate him. It is somewhat funny. "Give me your phone." He demands out of nowhere.

"What? No!" I yell, placing a hand over my pocket as though he is going to reach in and snatch it for himself. I wouldn't put it past him. From the rumours I've heard about him, he's a criminal. Like I said, a sociopath.

"I'm not going to do anything to it, you idiot. I just want to put my number in it." I raise my eyebrow at Alex as my expression changes into one of pure confusion. "—so I can text you about the tutoring, duh. I'm not going to break your precious phone," He explains, rolling his eyes and sticking his hand out. I give in with a defeated sigh, unlocking it with my thumbprint and passing it to him.

I watch him carefully in case he pockets the phone and runs in the opposite direction. I mean, he won't get anything interesting or blackmail-worthy from it. All that is in my camera roll consists of are memes, pictures of Cami that I plan on embarrassing her with on her birthday, and random things that are amusing to me but not to anyone else.

After typing something in, he hands it back, and I can't help but tense when his finger brush past mine more than they should have done, or maybe that's because I'm too observant. A tad bit flustered, I walk off without saying another word.

Why the hell did that make me tense up?

As I walk to my next class, I absentmindedly look at my contacts. Of course, Alex wouldn't merely have just put his name in. He had to choose a nickname. And inappropriate emojis. He enjoys being an asshole, doesn't he?

"Private tutor 😉💦"

Like, why is that necessary?

I scoff and shove my phone in my pocket.

I catch the gaze of my younger sister, Eva, looking at me from her locker. She raises her eyebrows at me suggestively, evidently having seen the exchange between Alex and me, to which I mockingly raise mine back. She then stifles a giggle, spins around and is swept away by her friend. I roll my eyes and carry on stalking my way down the hallway. I reach my Art class relatively quickly.

We have two Art classes—one, which the school forces everyone to do. The school explains that it helps 'alleviate the stress of school life'. We don't do any exams or anything in this class, and we really just draw or paint or do whatever for fifty minutes a week. I think the fact that it takes place first period instead of last period is ignorant of them. How is stress going to alleviated before we even feel it?

The other is advanced Art which art freaks like me take. That is the class you do exams and all that jazz in; it's an actual subject. Today it's just regular Art, so, against my wishes, I'll be spending the next fifty minutes in the same room as Alex and his band of baboons.

Pushing the door open, I automatically see Alex sat in his usual seat with his friends. I gape at him, blinking my eyes rapidly to test if I'm hallucinating or something, but I'm not, because he's sitting right there. Getting to class quicker than me was impossible to do by foot. He didn't walk past me; I would have noticed it.

He suddenly waves at me with a look on his face that translates to why are you staring at me, you weirdo? I realise I'm staring right at his face and shake my head to snap myself out of it, then find my seat. He gives me a weird look.

Cami soon enters the room in a flurry and sits next to me like always. She places her art folder on the table which she received from her personal drawer and begins to open it, taking out work that she wants to finish. She never expresses any interest in art anywhere else, unlike me, who took it up as a hobby.

Art has always been my favourite class. Sure, it's fun, and the teacher is pretty cool, but it has a deeper meaning than that for me. I suffer from anxiety— diagnosed, not self-diagnosed for attention or to 'look cool'. I have to take medication. Not fun. It's pretty shitty.

Art has been a way for me to express my emotions. Whenever I feel myself getting worked up, I paint or draw. Everything that's clouding up in my head comes spilling out onto the canvas and becomes a beautiful picture. My room is filled with my art work, with one wall that I purposely left plain so I can paint things onto it. It's almost out of space.

When I was younger, I used to try everything to uncap the thoughts that were bottled in my head. Singing, writing, playing instruments. Nothing worked—that is, until I tried art. I didn't try it until I moved to Massachusetts nearly three years ago and joined this high school, and I'm glad I did.

I remember how I felt in my first Art lesson. Relieved. Free. Like a boulder had gotten lifted off my shoulders. I finally had something to express my feelings. I've never liked talking about how I was feeling, which made counselling difficult, and now I didn't have to. I could paint or draw instead.

In my first lesson, I ended up being so engrossed in my painting that the world I had been in while I was painting faded away, and it had been 45 minutes since everyone had left when I finished. It had not been a big problem because it was the last lesson of the day, but I had been annoyed at the teacher, who was still there sorting things to mark, for not telling me I could go home. She explained calmly, albeit my frustrated tone, that she hadn't wanted to disturb me.

My annoyance dissipated when she went on to say that she had never seen someone so passionate about art on their first-ever lesson, then asked to see my painting, so I nervously showed her. Her response to it was that I had real potential, and she was looking forward to seeing my future work. She said that I should take advanced Art, so I did.

I walked home vivaciously and slept with a smile on my face that night. I had found something that helped, and that meant an awful lot to me.

Ever since then, I have taken up my spare time with painting. My mum likes to call me a young, aspiring Leonardo Da Vinci. If my work could ever amount to the talent of his, I would be very happy.

Nothing's on my mind today, so I take my time thinking of something to draw. When my mind is full, I don't think before I draw or paint, I just do it. Once I have finished, I stand back and have a first proper look at what I've created. Today's not that day. Everyone in the class has a drawer to put their artwork in, and I remember that in mine I have an unfinished sketch, so I get up and make my way over to it.

However, life is just not that simple for me. One of Alex's friends, Luke Maddison, walks straight into me. Just my luck, he's carrying a pot of dirty water, and as he strolls right into me, he accidentally splashes the water onto both of us.

He looks down at his now wet, see-through shirt then up at me with a look of substantial annoyance. I blush at the sight of his muscles visible through his damp shirt. The words that come out of his mouth makes me tense up. "Watch where you're going, gay boy."

The topic of me being gay, or gayness in general, always makes me flinch. It's not because I'm homophobic, but because my brain is permanently in conflict, trying to figure out what my sexuality is 24/7. I've figured out that I'm almost sure that I like boys, there's no doubt about that, but I just don't know what I am or if I like girls. Gay, bisexual, pansexual, I just don't know.

It's such a sensitive topic for me, and I hate myself for it. No one knows about my questioning, not even Cami. I'm not ready for her to know. Not yet, anyway.

The thing is, I've never really talked to Cami about gay stuff, so I don't know what her thoughts are about it. I don't want to ask due to the risk of her being homophobic, as I know it would leave me feeling awkward when I'm around her. It's the same with my family.

All in all, I'm just afraid of losing people. I blame my anxiety for making this a more sensitive topic than it should be. I still don't know what my sexuality is, and I'm not ready to tell anyone. And that's OK, I hope.

I look down at the ground and stutter out a reply. "I'm not g-gay." The sentence seemed bitter on my tongue, and any sense of apologising washes out of me.

He scoffs. "Yeah, and I'm the pope. You're stuttering. That's an obvious sign that you're a closeted fag." I visibly flinch at the slur. God, I hate that word. The way it comes out of a person's mouth with the intent to hurt, it comes out spraying venom.

This situation doesn't have anything to do with sexuality, yet he deems it necessary to be oppressive, and I honestly don't understand it.

His friends laugh from behind him. Some are pretending to kiss each other in an attempt to mock me for 'being gay'. Sadly, I don't have a say in what my sexuality is at this school. It's just decided for me, I guess. Pathetic.

I can't help but notice that Alex isn't laughing along with his goonies. I would expect him to as he's the worst out of all of them, jeering and coughing up insults. I've never seen Alex be homophobic towards anyone, but if it did happen when I wasn't around, I wouldn't be surprised. I quickly look away before he realises that I'm looking at him again.

"Luke, just leave him alone," Alex says, standing up and walking towards us. He puts his hand on Luke's shoulder to pull him back with an apologetic look on his face, but I can't help but wonder what's going on. In all our time knowing each other, he has never once stuck up for me; he's always the one insulting and teasing. I don't have a clue why he's changed his demeanour.

"Dude, why are you sticking up for him?" Luke asks, scoffing.

"Yeah, why are you sticking up for me?" I mirror Luke's question. I'm aware that I sound ungrateful and like I don't want people to stick up for me, but I honestly don't care. This is different. We're talking about Alex Montgomery here. Someone who hates me and has always found a way to insult me since my first day here.

I prepare myself for a homophobic and degrading comment like 'wouldn't want you to get so anxious and sweat all your makeup off'. I don't wear makeup, but the point is, I am an anxious person and he seems to know that I like guys. He will always find a way to perpetuate both those things into his jeers.

He straightens up to his full height. "Fine then, dude, I won't stick up for you. Faggot." He says cooly and strolls back to his seat. People around us gasp while his friends laugh. I called it, but I still freeze as the slur is said yet again.

As I said, I'm not sure if I am gay or bisexual or whatever, but I can feel myself getting furious. I can't react, though. I never can as I'm a coward.

But can you blame me, really, when it's someone like Alex who is saying these things to me? He's at least half a foot taller than me and a lot stronger, he's not afraid to break rules and even the law, and he's violent. I could get myself into serious trouble with him. He could hurt me. I don't want that. I would look even weaker then and I hate how weak I appear now. It's not like I'm not weak, because I am, I know I am and it's so obvious, but I can't risk further digging myself into that hole. If I stay put where I am and continue what I'm doing, that won't happen.

I watch as Cami scrape her chair back and stand up behind me. I was about to tell her to sit back down and that it was nothing, but she has already pushed past me and halts right in front of Alex's desk. She places both of her hand on it and bends down, so they are face to face. She almost has steam coming out of her ears as she flicks her head towards the door. "Outside. I wanna talk to you."

Surprisingly, without a word, Alex pushes out his seat and leaves the classroom, Cami following shortly behind him. Once they're outside, Alex's friend's wolf whistle and make wooing sounds and sex signs with their hands. The rest of the class, including me, are dumbfounded. Everyone is aware that it is me and Cami versus Alex and his gang. We are not friends with him.

And this is why Cami is my best friend. Even when I didn't live in America, if someone said something bad about me, she would seem to always find their instagram or snapchat, and even a number at one point, and would message them with many curse words and a message about why what they did was wrong imbedded in.

In a way, it makes me feel just that little bit pathetic because it's like I can't stand up for myself when I do have that power and I use it a little bit, but I know that without her, everything could be so much worse. Her personality contrasts mine. She's snappy and feisty and not afraid to say what she wants to say. I'm quiet and nervous and I only say things when I feel like they need to be said. We fit together like two puzzle pieces. I need her, essentially.

We all sit in our seats in silence for what seems like a century, everyone staring unblinkingly at the door, eager to know what's happening with them. We're lucky the teacher isn't in the room and had to go and get something from the other side of the school or else we'd have to focus on our work and not the situation at