CHANGING MY schedule around was a major pain in the ass. It meant I had to drop Digital Arts, the best part of my school day. Having to drop Team Sports also sucked, because it was my only class with Berlin. Even though we couldn’t really acknowledge each other, it was guaranteed time together.
When Mrs. Potts asked me why I wanted out of Team Sports, I told her Trent Cross and I weren’t getting along.
“I see,” she said, and that was all. I expected her to ask more questions, really get to the bottom of it, but from the expression on her face, it seemed that was all she needed to know. It pisses me off. It’s like everyone at the school knows Trent is a homophobic psychopath, and they just let it slide because he’s quarterback for the football team. And not even a good one.
Whatever. By my estimation, I’ll be dual enrolling by the end of this semester anyway, which means I can give Lowry the one-finger salute. That thought alone is what keeps me going for the rest of the week.
When I see Berlin palling around with Trent on Friday morning, I suspect their little spat is over, which is irritating, but also a relief. If they’re chummy again, then Berlin is still in the closet, and safe, which means the situation has deescalated, at least for now.
I skip the game Friday night, but I can’t resist texting Berlin after it’s over, because I miss him like crazy and still want to be with him in spite of everything.
Score any goals?
We lost, 17-7
There’s a long pause then, and I wonder if he’s going to ask me to meet up with him. I hope he will.
Want to make me feel better?
I smile, feeling the familiar flush I get whenever he says something the least bit suggestive. With Berlin, I thrive on subtext.
Yes.
Meet me at the fence in an hour.
Don’t you have a barbeque?
Change of plans.
I shower and shave even though I don’t really need to. I pick out my favorite black shirt, the one with hot pink lettering that says “Save the drama.” It’s actually my second-favorite shirt. Seth stole my first favorite, an original Petty Crime band shirt that I designed when they were just starting out. Suddenly I realize I don’t give a shit about the shirt anymore. Seth can have it. He’s in the past where he belongs. Berlin is the present, and maybe even my future.
I tell my dad I’m going out, and he grunts from behind the computer in his study. I kiss my mom good night.
“Are you meeting Berlin?” she asks with a smirk.
“Yeah,” I say, my chest expanding a little.
“He makes you smile,” she says to me in Japanese, so I scowl at her for good measure.
I hop on my bike and ride over. My palms are sweaty on the handlebar as I arrive at Berlin’s property. My heart is kind of fluttery in my chest, the way I always get at the prospect of seeing him. Usually he’s there already when I arrive, but it looks like I’ve gotten here first. I punch in the gate code, roll my bike inside, and pull out my phone to text him. I smell something like charcoal burning and figure he has a bonfire going somewhere.
Here now. You?
I’m about to hit Send when I hear footsteps galloping toward me. I spin around and someone slaps my phone out of my hand. My cheek explodes with a force that lifts me off my feet and makes my head spin. I land on my ass in the dirt, pain rocketing through my jaw, and grasp at my face to make sure it’s still a face. I’m dizzy and disoriented from the blow. I’ve never been hit that hard in my life. I paw at the ground, trying to work up the balance to stand and get away from the fuzzy, hunched shadows surrounding me.
A million hands grab me, clutching at my wrists and ankles, pinning me down. I try to curl into a ball, but they force my limbs apart. I’m an open target, I think as terror rips through me. A boot descends on my chest, one that could crush my rib cage or my skull. I go wild, fighting against their vise-like fingers. I finally get my hand free, grab the booted ankle, and yank, hard.
“Hold him down,” a voice commands. Trent’s voice. Someone else slams my wrist back to the ground and leans on it with his full weight. I know then that Trent—the whole team, probably—is going to break every bone in my body. I scream for help. I sound like a wild animal.
Someone stuffs a cloth into my mouth, jams it so far down my throat I gag. I feel the shirt being ripped off my back, then wrapped around my face so I can’t see them. I smell the charcoal again, a sooty, smoky odor, then hear something hiss as I feel heat, like from a fire. I scream into the gag, choking on my own fear and panic.
“Better bite down on that jockstrap, faggot,” Trent says calmly. “This shit is going to hurt.”
I scream again, twisting as something burning hot plunges into my chest—a red-hot iron poker, the fucking pitchfork of the devil himself. They’re carving out my heart with a razor and setting me on fire at the same time.
I scream incoherently into the gag, delirious, my mind exploding from the pain. I must black out then, because when I come to, I’m being dragged across the ground by my wrists. I can only feel one hand. My chest is on fire. I can’t catch my breath or hear anything above my wild, beating heart.
“Tie him to the fence post,” Trent tells someone, then thumps me on the shoulder. “What’s the password to your phone, Faggy?”
I’m still blindfolded as my head slumps forward. Waves of dizziness and nausea come over me as my hands are clamped behind a wooden post. I hardly feel the rope cutting into my wrists. The pain from the burning hole in my chest overrides everything else. I’m going to pass out again.
“What’s your password?” Trent shouts.
“Fuck you,” I moan into the gag. Someone rips it out of my mouth and punches me in the gut. My legs finally give out and I fall back against the wooden post.
“Tell me your fucking password or we’ll brand your ass too,” he says.
It takes me a second to process his words. They branded me? It has to be a joke—a sick, twisted joke, but the pain in my chest is unlike any I’ve ever experienced before, an ungodly burn. I can smell it too. Burnt flesh. My burnt flesh.
“Your password,” he says, and follows it with a blow to my temple.
“Fuck you,” I say weakly and give it to him.
“Text Berlin from Faggy’s phone and tell him where to find his boyfriend,” Trent says to someone else. I feel his breath, hot and foul on my neck as he whispers in my ear, “This here is what we do to faggots.”
For once I have no clever comeback.