Teacher

Brandon took off his hooded sweatshirt and hung it on the back of his chair before sitting down in it. He was the first in the room, the first in the school with nearly a half an hour before school started. He was always there first, always there when the teacher walked in to grade leftover papers; never waiting in the lobby like a normal student. Mrs. Bee didn’t mind. Though she would never say it, she liked Brandon. Sure, he never did his homework, and the highest grade he ever got on anything was a “D”, but unlike the other very boisterous, obnoxious students he was always quiet and reserved and didn’t back talk her. She liked his simple, morning company.

Brandon’s school, hell, his whole town was very different. More than half of the inhabitants were homosexual and he hated it. What straight man wanted to be surrounded by dykes and fairies?

-

“Good morning, class. Please write down your objectives for today.” Mrs. Bee said to her class and got out her teacher-textbook.

Brandon scribbled down a shortened version of the objective in the appropriate tab of his binder, then he pulled an English textbook out from his tattered, brown book-bag. Most students at the school carried their book-bags with them. Some did it to show off their stylish bags and others because they were too lazy to visit their locker every day. Brandon was one of those. He didn’t know his locker number or its combination.

English was not one of Brandon’s strong points. Actually, none of the subjects were. Most kids, adults, even teachers thought he was just stupid. The reality was just that he didn’t study. He didn’t feel the need to. After high school, he planned on moving to California, open his own business or maybe form a band. Who knows, he’d say to himself, who cares.. He’d figure it out when the time came. He’d skid his way through high school, and barely pass.

He never raised his hand; he never spoke at all.

The hallways bustled during free period. Groups of boys with tight pants and long hair bought sodas from the soda machine. Outside the front doors, girls sat on each other’s laps and smoked cigarettes.

Brandon scowled at them and made a disgusted face.

The small group of the only straight students was mostly the athletes, the older or younger brothers and sisters of someone who was gay or lesbian. No one got teased for it at this school. It was understood, and no one seemed to mind. Except for Brandon.

On his way to his next class, Brandon was tapped gently on his shoulder by none other than his little brother, Kennedy. He turned with a scowl, not surprised to see his brother’s boyfriend to be there too.

“Hey, Brandon.” Kennedy chirped, and the boy beside him just smiled softly, reaching up to push his black hair out of his face.

“What do you want, Kennedy. I’ve got class.” Brandon grumbled. Looking around for someone to save him from his brother but no one would, anyway.

“No you don’t, silly.” Kennedy lisped, and he and his boyfriend giggled. “It’s free period. Let’s go sit and talk.”

“No.” Brandon grumbled, and then said a little louder. “No, Kennedy! I left home for a reason-”

At this Kennedy scowled. “You didn’t leave, mom and a dad kicked your ass out!”

When Brandon didn’t reply, Kennedy’s face softened. “But now, now they…we…we all want you to come back Bran. We all miss you.”

Brandon scoffed as his brother kissed his boyfriend on the cheek and shooed him away.

“Bran, please. I miss you!” Kennedy leaned his head on Brandon’s shoulder and put an arm around his waist. Brandon’s face flushed from embarrassment, but he ignored it and scowled. “Come home. Please? You’re my older brother, and I love you and I want you to come home.”

Brandon shrugged Kennedy off his shoulder and walked away without replying. The answer was no.

-

Geometry was such a bore. Mr. Grouse handed back the tests that the students had taken the week prior. Brandon was not surprised to find the red “D” etched thickly onto the paper.

He ignored the feeling in his stomach that he got when Mr. Grouse passed by his desk. He passed it off as his stomach turning in disgust. It was known: Mr. Grouse was young, sexy, and openly gay. Boys swooned over him.

The lesson went on as any other day. Brandon didn’t say anything.

-

That night was extremely cold. Brandon pulled his hoodie closer to his body and sucked on the cigarette in his mouth. It was eight o’clock, the sun had set and he didn’t have a clue where he was sleeping. For the past five months he had been “sleeping at a friend’s house” or at least that’s what he had been telling his parents.

Three blocks and forty-seven steps, he counted, later he was in front of his own high school with a paper clip in his hand, ready to break inside.

The auditorium was warm and dry and the seats were padded. Brandon sat in the back row messily and flopped down his book bag. He leaned his head back on the metal bar just as someone called his name.

“What?” he grumbled, looking up just to realize who it was.

“What are you doing in here?” Mr. Grouse sighed and made his over to Brandon’s seat.

“Sleeping.” Brandon said.

“Come on.” Mr. Grouse offered, and Brandon stood up.

Mr. Grouse drove a silver sports car. Brandon leaned his tired head against the cool window as they drove out of the school’s parking lot.

“Why aren’t you at home, Brandon?” Mr. Grouse asked.

Brandon sighed loudly. “The ‘rents kicked me out.”

“Why?”

“I called Kennedy a fag.”

Mr. Grouse chuckled, showing his perfect white teeth and a dimple on his left cheek. “That’s all? My brothers tortured me and they never got a slap on the wrist.”

Brandon stayed silent, glaring at his teacher. He had the window cracked slightly, and his mousy brown hair flapped around his handsome face and perfect ears.

“You know, Kennedy really loves you.” He finally said.

Brandon scoffed. “I forgot the little nerd was in your class too.”

“Yup.” The teacher popped the “p” between his lips. “And yes, he adores you. Never stops talking about you. You know how many detentions you’ve given him?” he asked and when the seventeen year old boy in his car didn’t answer, he answered it himself. “Many. All in my class. He adores everything about you Brandon, you should treat him better.”

Brandon didn’t say anything else.

-

“You can put your bag by the door. Don’t want you to forget it.” Mr. Grouse told Brandon as they walked into his one bedroom “bachelor pad” as he liked to call it. But it was really a starter house for new couples, with an off white picket fence in the front yard.

Mr. Grouse walked down the hall to his bedroom, taking off his shift and throwing it into his hamper. On the way out, he stopped by the towel closet across from the bathroom and got out an old blanket and pillow no one had used in a while. When he turned around, Brandon was standing there, his eyes wide and mouth slightly slacked. He wasn’t expecting him to be shirtless.

“You can…sleep on the couch.” Mr. Grouse said, a little uncomfortably, walking to the cream colored sofa and throwing the pillow and blanket onto it.

Brandon’s face returned to its usual scowl; he let his sandy colored hair fall into his face as he took off his black hoodie and rested it on the sofa.

When he turned around, there was Mr. Grouse, drinking deeply from a water bottle. Brandon swallowed loudly, watching as the toned arms flexed and relaxed and his chiseled, smooth chest moved with his breathing.

The teacher watched Brandon out of the corner of his eye. For some reason, the way Brandon acted so tough, and then the way his eyes lingered too long on his body made something in him snap. His anger fuse blew, and suddenly, he was across the room, pinning Brandon to the opposite wall and glaring into the boy’s scared eyes.

“You horrible bastard, calling your only brother a fag.” He hissed, pushing his hips against Brandon’s. To prove a point. Brandon lets out a scared gasp, trying to keep his skinny body as far away from his teacher’s as he could. “You act so tough, strolling around with a scowl on your face and hatred in your eyes. You look at them like you’re disgusted at them, but really you’re just in denial. Because you’re just like the rest of them.”

Mr. Grouse’s hand traveled a bit too low, too close to the younger boy’s growing crotch and a strangled moan retched passed Brandon’s lips.

“You’re just like the rest of them. A little fag.”

Brandon was pushed forcefully to the couch with an aching hard-on and tears in his eyes.

“Tomorrow, after school, you’re going to go home, apologize to your brother, tell him you love him, and tell your parents that you’re gay. For now though, go to sleep. You’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

Brandon grabbed the blanket in his hand and fell onto the couch, crying himself to sleep like the “little fag” he never wanted to be.