Chapter seven

“Not to me, weirdo.”

Brain’s racing. It always does this—sprints like a pack of dogs on fire. I’m sitting outside the class, staring at nothing, wishing I could shut my head off. It feels like brain cramps. Heavy. Vomit-heavy. Collapse-and-die heavy. Sometimes it even slams me with sounds—like my mom’s voice chasing me or a sudden bang in the middle of class. It used to scare me.

Now? I’ve just accepted it.

“Bang!”

Right side. Not in my head this time. Real. I turn—

Oh no. No no no.

It’s Marcus.

Like I said:  he realized I actually talked to him ,once, he decided that meant I signed a lifelong contract to tolerate his existence. Personal space? Gone.

“Why are you sitting here?”

“To get away from people.”

“Why?”

“And that meant you too. Leave me alone.”

“Why? But I want to sit hereeeeee.”

“Leave me alone god dam it.”

“Why? I want to sit with youuuuuu.”

“You meant here?”

“No, I want to sit with YoU.”

Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Forget the mental chaos. I now have a real-world problem. He sounds like a little girl begging for a Barbie , but he’s a 200-pound 18-year-old guy with autism and the stench of fermented skunk spray.

“This is gay, what you said, and I am not one, please get away if you are not gay.”

Cruel? Yes. Necessary? Also yes. Teenage boys live by a primitive rulebook. Sometimes you have to weaponize it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

Of course he smiles. That flesh-mask grin that nearly swallows his eyes. Yellow teeth. Sour egg breath. And of course—he’s not normal. I forgot.

“Yeah, but I am not gay.”

“And I love you Boen.”

I froze.

No, I heard it right the first time.

“YOU, STAY HERE AND DONT MOVE, DONT FALLOW ME!, AND STOP TALKING!”

I fled. Straight into the classroom. Never thought I’d call it safe, but here we are. And yes—I could still hear him behind me: “I love youuuuuu boennnn—”

Deep breaths, no no, I can somehow feel his stinky breath, no no no, stop thinking Daniel, nope, nope, not happening.". He was probably joking. Boys do that. Joke about being gay. It’s nothing.

Right?

Wrong.

Next day. He walks in like a solar eclipse—blocks the sunlight from hitting my side of the table.

“I love you Boen, do you love me?”

“What the fuck Marcus. Who starts a day like that?That’s weird!”

“It’s okay, 15 years old is not that young.”

Excuse me?

So, he thinks I’m fifteen and still pulled that yesterday?

Then he poked my arm. Like… poked.

“Shut up, I am not gay.”

Whatever happened next, I didn’t let it. I moved to the floor. It was better than Marcus. He’s not gay, I hoped—he just wanted a reaction. That’s it.

But today’s also Friday.

The teacher from last time? Still nursing his pride. Wants revenge.

“You stand up, why aren’t you in the same school uniform?”

He’s new. Doesn’t know I’m trans. No one would if they didn’t see my ID. The school gave me a different dress code. He missed the memo.

“You are a little uninformed,” I replied coldly. Heart pounding, but damn, that felt good.

Whole class went silent.

He walked toward me.

I took a step forward. Made him stop.

“What did you say?”

“You are uninformed, sir.”

“Why? Why do you get to be special?”

“I do, try asking.”

Could’ve said the word. Trans. But I didn’t. Never do. I like making them squirm first.

“Okay, I will ask your CA. Don’t have to get annoyed .”

Blink. Walked away. That’s right.

But bigger problem—Marcus.

He was “more” today.

I thought maybe Farah’s presence would tone him down. Wrong.

He said he loved me every sentence like it was punctuation.

Then asked me to help him tie his tie.

“I am not going to do that, I am already doing the works for all three of us, leave me alone.”

He started making puppy sounds.

“Yo, BoEn, are you gay?”someone asked.

Oh fantastic. The others noticed.

“It’s none of your business!”

Regretted that. Should’ve just said no.

“Omg, he is totally gay.”

No, that’s not—ugh. Fine.

The teacher glanced over. His face said, “Not my problem.” Of course not.

“Give me the tie.”

That tie felt creamy, I didn't even know that word could be used to describe a tie.And it smelled like Marcus.

“I—I want to get this done as fast as possible.”

I threw it back like it burned.

“Can you help me put it on? I don’t know how.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I really don’t, pleaseeeee.”

“God, you’re a grown man, you can put on a dam tie.”

But he actually couldn’t. I watched him try.

So, I stood up, flipped his collar down, sat back down.

“Farah, please help me do some research on the Middle East restaurant design, cause at this rate we are not going home.”

Didn’t trust her. She was off. Like she wasn’t really there. So I did her part too, just in case.

Marcus? Still talking about the tie.

I ignored him.

“Do you mind? I’m working.”

“Boen look.”

“WHAT!”

He opened his shirt.

Hairy. Oily. Layered stomach. He exposed himself at me.

I stared like nothing happened.Cause how am I supposed to react to this shit.

“Don’t do that.”

“I hate you Boen.”

“The feelings neutral, Marcus.”

Let’s wrap this up.without anything extra.

“Hey Farah, it’s been an hour, what have you got?”

“I researched.”

“Good, message me the information.”

“I researched.”

“Yeah, send me.”

“I didn’t find anything.”

Of course.

“Oh,is that? Okay. We are done anyway, let me just get this over to the teacher and we are off to go.”

Not even disappointed. Already did her part. Like I said—always right.

While I showed the “group report” to the teacher, I caught it out the corner of my eye.

Marcus and Farah. Leaving.