"Thanks, Ben," the fake Mickey Holly patted my shoulder, maybe a hair too hard. He did that. All the time. After everything I do for the paper, he comes around to my desk and pats my shoulder as if I just finished batting at my little league game.

"No problem," I forced a big grin and slammed my hand on his back.

It caught him off guard. He had to pause and gather himself again the way I have to gather a large load of laundry out of the dryer. Returning my smile, he walloped my back hard enough to knock my glasses down my nose. "Really. I meant it." He added an extra smack (must be overcompensating, I'll add it to my notes section).

He sauntered off on his merry way. While he pretended to do work, I reached for my notebook (the one I'm writing in now) and my hand merely grabbed air. I cursed. How could I forget it? Documenting the life/actions of Mickey Holly was my top priority and I was flouncing it already. Also, I had decided to continue to call this impostor Mickey just for the sake of the record. When I find out his true identity, I'll call him something like E.T, subject 145 or scum of the earth.

I pushed my glasses up and my eyes focused on him again. He looked just like the guy I remembered in the right light. Sometimes, when he looked down to study something serious, he was my Mickey for one brief moment and my chest clenched. Mickey glanced up, catching my stare. He snorted and nodded at me.

I grimaced, forcing my hand to stay on the table and not give him the finger. Too many people. I'd just hate to assault their God with my finger.

Then, something bopped off my head and fell in front of me. I looked at Cathy across the desk we shared. She leaned forward. The light from her computer washed out her dark skin. She said, eyes widening, "Oh no. Aren't you going to write that down? He flicked his head to the right." She gasped, covering her mouth and I failed to seem amused. "The real Mickey Holly would never flick his head to the right!"

Profile: Catherine Reid

• Thick black hair. Tight curls that don't pass her jaw.

• African American, wide hips and chipmunk cheeks.

• Wild, unstoppable hazel eyes and ugly neon nail polish.

• A mean streak and a good right hook.

"Har, har," I frowned.

"I'm serious!" She leaned even closer, cupping her hand as if Mickey could possibly hear, "Earlier, I swear to you, he popped his knuckles." Swiftly, she dropped her body back in her chair. She shook her head, "Thought I was going crazy."

"Are you done?" I asked her, having gone through this type of abuse yesterday and the day before that. I couldn't hide my project from my friends very long. They won't let me forget they know.

"Hey Ben," Joseph cleared his throat as he wheeled the supplies' cart by, "Do you think maybe Mickey slipped through another dimension and now we have his cross-dimensional brethren?"

Profile: Joseph Troyer

• Dirty blonde. White guy with a terrible farmer's tan.

• Too tall. Track star.

• Shitty student. 

• Too much. Too, too much.

Cathy stood and the two shared their laughs and their high-fives. They made me wince.

After I was sliced open in the beginning of the year at the hands of a fake Mickey Holly, after I became this massive opened wound, I had been trying to scab over. The wound throbbed and the pain would still hurt me in places I couldn't reach and couldn't protect, but no one noticed. No one saw the bleeding. Instead, I got jokes. I got shoves and I watched them peel open my scab again and again.

For once, I just didn't want to suffer through the pain.

"Okay!" I raised my hands and rolled back in my chair. I started packing my things, feeling my nerves rattle my bones, "I don't need this. I will just work on my article elsewhere."

Joseph abandoned his cart and set his hands on my shoulders. He guided me back down and shushed me, "Don't do that. Come on man, we're just teasing you a little."

"We're hoping you'll realize how ridiculous it all is," Cathy added and Joseph shot her a look. She shrugged, challenging him back, "What? I'm seriously worried about Ben," she said as if I wasn't literally in the middle of them. "Ben and Mickey were best friends last year and I don't know what happened, but now he's like the walking dead. He doesn't sleep and he's getting more and more paranoid and crazy."

I made an attempt to interject, though she spoke over me, "I swear, every day I hope he's just kidding about this stuff, but I know he's not. I'm worried what he's going to do if he's going to hurt himself-"

I stood, knocking my chair into Joseph's foot. He howled and hobbled back into his cart, nearly eating the floor. I draped my bag over my shoulders and took a step onto my chair. I clapped my hands, getting the attention of every single person in the room because I had to make one thing clear.

"Everyone, everyone I have something to say!" I announced. My breath caught the moment Mickey turned. His eyes gave me a once over as he crossed his arms and leaned back. And I thought I couldn't be more furious. My jaw tightened as I gave out my declaration with a mighty passion. "I'm gonna go over a few quick things. No, I don't need more than three hours of sleep a night. Yes, I'm putting on a clean uniform every morning. Yes, I will continue to provide my articles on time as well as being on the honor roll. I eat two square meals a day because anything other than coffee in the morning is a waste of my time. No, my roommate did not curse me and that's why I'm this way. I've always been this way. The only recent change is that sunsets make me puke and long walks seem like an overexertion."

I hopped off the chair, feeling no need to stay longer. I called over my shoulder, "If you have any other complaints, you can shove it!"

I only made it halfway down the hall, when someone grabbed my arm. For a moment, I was touched my friends cared enough to seek me out. I was even naïve enough to think I'd get an apology. I turned around to instead face the brown-eyed devil.

"Ben wait," Mickey pleaded, giving his best worried look. Truly, the man deserves an Oscar. Give him a hand people, I could almost mistake that for care in his eyes. "I know we've lost touch this year, but..."

"Spare me," I begged.

He was too wrapped up in his pre-written speech to care, "We were best friends. Let me help you, Ben."

"Okay, okay," I grumbled, wiggling out of his gross insulting play at a comforting touch. I laid everything out on the table, "That's it." (*Please let me note that looking back, I probably should have cooled down before I revealed myself) "Cut the crap." I pointed a dangerous finger at him, "I know there's something fishy going on here and I'm the one who's going to reveal it."

"Ben," he chuckled and cocked his head. "What are you talking about?"

"You're not Mickey Holly." I paused, keeping my shoulders high and straight. I would not be fazed by his penetrating stare. "I know you're not."

Without a word, Mickey walked closer. He popped my bubble and interrupted my personal space, lording over me with his shadow. He got me. I fumbled back, and he cocked his head with a smug smirk, "Are you sure you don't need more than three hours of sleep?"

So far, I had been a single match, dangerous but too small to cause worry, and it's like he just threw gasoline all over me. A fire raged through my veins and I raised my hands ready to choke him out. My groan rattled my throat, "One of these days! God! One of these days I'm going to punch you in your dumb face-"

"Mr. Turney!"

I froze as Mr. Woodward exited a nearby classroom, closing the door behind him. Curious freshmen leaned away from their desks, itching to see the action. It seemed Mr. Woodward was on another tour of 'what are your plans for college?' Personally, he looks too young to be guiding anyone towards anything but a keg stand.

His brow sank deeply, aimed only at me. Precious Mickey Holly was spared. Mr. Woodward asked, "What do you think you're doing? Ben, this isn't like you."

"I'm sorry sir," I took another step away from Mickey, lowering my hands.

"We just had a little miscommunication," Mickey added.

"Well," Woodward huffed, "I would have thought you had a bigger vocabulary than 'punch you in your dumb face'."

"Yes sir," I said, wishing for lightning just to strike me down now.

He stared at me long and hard, only glancing at Mickey a small moment. Finally, he sent us both away and I have found out very recently that he's given me an appointment with the guidance counselor so that's three hours I'm never going to get back. Maybe I could convince the paper to give me some side work, so I can say I'm too busy to attend.

Mickey waved goodbye to me and this time I did flip him off. He pretended not to notice. I thought about running over and demonstrating my poor vocabulary a little more. I didn't and got back to my dorm room. I stood outside of it, watching smoke billow from under the crack. I almost didn't want to know.

Just to be safe, I knocked. "Jacks, I need to come in."

"Are you alone?!" He called over the monks chanting.

I looked back and forth. "Yes."

"Did you check-"

"Yes!"

"Enter!"

I gave it another thought, but I was too exhausted to fight. I walked in and Jacks was exactly where I thought he'd be, in the middle of a giant pentagram in our room. He had moved all the furniture against the wall. Candles sat around his circle. One hand waved incense back and forth while his other hand hovered over a printed packet of paper. His black velvet cloak swallowed up his scrawny body (which he stole from the art department, but they never asked for it back).

"What are you doing?" I shouldn't have asked.

It was too late. Jacks looked up from under his hood.

Profile: Jackson Park

• Mess of black hair.

• Korean. Lanky arms. Slender.

• Always wears some form of cloak (black velvet is his favorite).

• Dog lover.

• Bat-shit crazy.

"I'm cleansing our room of foul spirits before I set up a few wards. There's something brewing, something bad and I want to protect us," he said with a straight face. Actually, Jacks always spoke with a straight face. He never joked about anything. Didn't have the capacity for it.

He never realizes how lucky he is to have me as a roommate.

Anyone else would have kicked him out at the first note of a satanic hymn.

"Okay," I said, walking around his makeshift chalk pentagram to reach my desk. Somehow with his noodle arms, Jacks had managed to stack my desk on top of my bed. I sighed, "Just put everything back when you're done and open the window or something."

"Can't. Don't open the window, you'll let them in."

"Fine. Then spray some Febreeze."

He paused and stopped waving the incense in his hand. He glanced behind his shoulder. "Do not take me lightly, Ben Turney. I'm saving your neck too, you know." He turned around before he could witness the full effect of my eye roll. He managed to shut me up good though. "How's your pointless research? Have you finally shrunk your ego long enough to figure out Holly was just dumping you?"

Jacks was the only one to know about us.

Once, after a very long make-out session, Jacks finally opened the closet door and asked us to refrain from any loud moaning. He warned he could mistake us for ghosts and that he couldn't promise we'd come out with our skin.

"He didn't dump me Jacks," I reminded him. "It doesn't make sense for him to just pretend we never happened like we really were just friends. Even in private, he acts like we never happened." I shook my head. "No, it just doesn't add up. All of it, the little changes, using his right hand, his loud laugh, the poor diet, he quit all the sports teams except baseball and how everything he does now looks so forced. You remember Mickey, there used to be a sort of... bigness about him, which is just gone now."

"You sound crazy."

Irony thus was dressed in a velvet cloak.

"Then how do you explain it?" I posed, going back to my search. Usually, I tape my journal underneath my desk inside my locked drawer. The key is always with me.

Jacks shrugged and the candles around him flickered. "He went home for the summer and maybe something happened with the family didn't go well. Nothing makes a young man obedient like some family guilt trips."

My hand stopped once the drawer unlocked. I couldn't believe I was going to credit Jacks as a genius. I admitted, "Mickey didn't really talk about his family. I'm on it, thanks Jacks."

"Don't mention it. If you would, please paint a red line down the front of our door."

#

Author's Note:

Hello, hello! Thanks for stopping by! Feel free to make yourself at home and take off your shoes. Would you like some tea? Some coffee? I'd love to know what you think so far! Who do you think is crazier? Ben or Jacks? And are you feeling fooled by this 'Mickey' or what? And what about Ben's friends? Who's your favorite friend so far?

Remember to vote on the chapter! And add this book to your library so you can keep up with the updates! If you're enjoying this book, be sure to check out my other book 30 Day Trial Period, a gay romcom!