Don't Want Your Love, Just Want Your Attention.

In that moment, crammed into a locker five minutes before his bus was due to leave, Frank was really glad he wasn’t claustrophobic.

He glanced at his watch again. Yeah, barring a miracle (or Ray passing on his way to the music department), he was gonna have to call his mom again. Balls.

Every damn day. Every damn day, Pete and his fucking giant Mexican friend came around, picked up all the shorties by their collars, and shoved them into confined spaces. Usually it was the full-length lockers, although there was a hellishly cramped janitor’s closet that was left propped open once, and Frank’s favorite hoodie still smelled like Pine-Sol.

At least he wasn’t William. Dude was tall, and a biter, but he had the muscles of a fourth grader and fit perfectly into the supply cupboard in the chem hall. Thankfully, Pete let him out last time when he tipped over a tub of dry ice and started screeching about frostbite. At least the asshole had a heart. Or a conscience.

Suddenly, the lock on the door started grinding. Oh, thank God, maybe Pete had a heart after all—

Or not, judging by the blonde kid being crammed into Frank’s side. Frank scooted aside to make room.

He heard Pete and his friend laughing.

“Sorry to take off, y’all,” Pete said, “but I have a bus to catch. Feel free to keep each other company, though.”

Frank sighed. “Piss off, Pete, and take your crazy Mexican with you.”

Pete’s friend laughed. “Fuck off, man, I’m not Mexican, I’m from Uruguay. Jeez, you gringos are all the

same about this shit.”

Oh. Well. Fuck, Frank was pretty sure he should’ve thought of that. Spanish speaking =/= Mexican, duh.

Did that make him racist?

Blondie kicked the door. “Get out of here before the janitor comes around and sees you talking to a locker.”

Frank could practically hear Pete flipping them off as he and Uruguay ambled down the hall. He sighed. “Hi, Patrick.”

Patrick ran a hand through his hair. “Hi, Frank. Had a nice day?”

“Believe it or not, I’ve had worse.” He chewed on his lip. “What’s with Pete’s new bro?”

“Who, Gabe?” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Dunno. He’s a fucking loon, though. I have art with him, all he ever does is doodle, like, cobras and symbols on his notebook and hum the soundtrack to ‘Snakes on a Plane’. That’s literally it.”

“Oh. Think they’re banging?” For an asshole bully, Pete was notorious for being “gay above the waist”, and it was pretty obvious he had some homo under his belt, too. Not that Frank gave a shit.

“Maybe. Gabe’s too tall for him, though. Pete would need a footstool to blow him.”

Frank snorted. “You almost sound jealous.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of Gabe or of Pete?”

“Both.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, remember how in kindergarten, when the girls complained about a boy being mean, the teachers said ‘it’s because he likes you’?”

“Oh, yeah, that was messed up— aw, man, ew, don’t go there.”

Frank sang delightedly, “Patrick an’ Petey, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

Patrick squealed in embarrassment. “Shut up! Someone’ll hear!”

“‘Someone’,” a distinctive voice echoed from outside the locker. “You mean the guy who’s gonna save your ass.”

The locker door thumped once, twice, and swung open to reveal Ray, guitar case slung over a shoulder.

Frank leaped out, throwing his arms around Ray’s neck and practically dangling there. “My savior!” he cried.

Ray laughed and patted his head. “Hey, Frank. How’s’it going?”

“Horribly.” He looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes. “I failed my math test, Pete’s seven-foot-thirteen boyfriend thinks I’m racist, and Patrick’s in love with him. With Pete, not his boyfriend.”

Patrick scoffed as he stretched out his legs. “Lies and slander. I’m not in love with anyone.”

“I’m sure,” Ray agreed, grinning and slinging his arms around the two. “Want me to escort you to the band room? You missed your buses, but if you stick around ‘til after practice, I can give you a ride.”

‘Trick smiled up at him. “You’re a true blue best friend. Did you know that?”

“I try,” he admitted. “Although…”

“Although what?” Frank prodded.

Ray made a show of being reluctant to share. “Well, if I was a real friend, I probably would’ve told Tricky earlier that Pete’s got a boner for him.”

Frank bent over laughing. Patrick froze in horror. “…What?”

“Yeah, dude,” Ray said, “I overheard him talkin’ to Gabe the other day at lunch. He heard you singing while you washed up in the boy’s bathroom, and apparently you’re an angel in disguise.”

Frank didn’t know a person’s face could go as red as Patrick’s did. “He heard me sing? In the bathroom?”

“And thought you were brilliant. Babbled for five minutes straight and was still at it when the bell rang for next class.”

Patrick was still stuck to the spot. “But…he shoved me in the locker.”

“Yeah, but he left when you told him to,” Frank pointed out. “And maybe I was right, maybe he’s acting like a five-year-old.” Wouldn’t be the first time.

Ray nodded sagely. “He could just want your attention.”

“Well, he’s fucking got it,” Patrick steamed. “He’s got it in spades. Whatever that guy’s deal is, he better keep it very far away from me.”

Frank giggled. “Are you sure about that? Maybe you should give him a chance.”

“I should give him a chance?” Patrick said.

“Yeah, dude. If you occupy him with smooches and blowjobs, he won’t harass the rest of us. Take one for the team and blow him already.”

“Or just let him blow you,” Ray suggested, patting Patrick on the back. “He sounded like he’d do it in a heartbeat—”

Patrick sighed in exasperation and stomped away toward the music hall. Frank and Ray followed and ignored his cherry-red blush, because they were fuckin’ great friends, and fuckin’ great friends keep quiet when it counts.

And two weeks later, when Patrick seemed happier than usual, Pete stopped shoving kids in lockers, and Uruguay dropped Pete in favor of some harmless stoner kids, they didn’t say a damn word. After all, Frank decided, why upset a good thing? It was nice to finally be able to catch the bus.