Making the Grade

Gerard’s P.O.V.
I go to Mr. Iero’s class, my pants feeling a touch tight around the crotch area. I slap my book over my crotch, not wanting anyone to be able to see the slight boner I have over the magnificent artwork that is Frank Iero. He was hot before, but now… with all of those tattoos? He’d win Sexiest Man of the Year, for me, in a heartbeat.
When the bell rings, Mr. Iero rises from his desk and walks to the front of the room.
“I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but I’m wearing a short sleeve, and my tattoos are showing,” Mr. Iero begins. He starts to walk down the aisle, absently tapping each student’s desk with a finger as he continues. “I apologize, and trust me, an older, and somewhat meaner, staff member rudely informed me that I did not match dress code.”
His pointer finger touches the head of my desk, and I see an ‘L’ tattooed on. I wonder what word it makes up, and try to read the rest, but his hands are gone just as suddenly as they’d arrived.
“Was it Mr. Matthews?” a boy asked.
I glanced over to the area it had come from, to realize that, again, a comment in class came from that boy with the crazy brown afro.
Mr. Iero holds his hands up, palms towards us. “I’m not going to say no.”
The class begins to laugh, as I just wonder what’s so mad about Mr. Matthews, and feel kind of sorry for the guy. I mean, an entire class is laughing at him right now, and one student even rightly assumed that they were the one to be a little less than kind.
I take out my journal, writing down,
“Do you ever feel sorry for people? Like, even when you know it’s not your fault? I get that all of the time. This burning pity- no, guilt, in my stomach. I just feel far too much and care too much about people I hardly even know. It’s kind of scary…”
I’m walking to the cafeteria when a larger boy behind me shoves me. I stumble over my own feet, nearly falling, but, miraculously, regaining my balance. I decide to ignore him, after all, though I doubt it, he could’ve pushed me on accident.
When I hear, “Hey, freakshow! Turn around, I want to talk.” I know that the shove was no accident. I stop, and face him, asking,
“Actually it’s Gerard, but what is it?”
“What’s it like to suck a dick? I’m sure you would know,” he sneers.
Oh, he’s mocking me by assuming my sexual orientation and making lewd sexual comments. How original. “It’s fucking great. Best thing ever.”
“So you admit you’re a faggot?” the boy demands, giving me another push.
“Look, I’m really not in the mood,” I snap, shoving him back.
The boy glares at me, growling, “Wrong move, queerbait.”
My first instinct is to run, but unfortunately, his first instinct must be to expect me to run, because he grabs me by the collar of my shirt and starts to drag me into a bathroom.
I gag as the front of my collar is pulled up into my throat, making it hard to breathe as I’m torn away from the hall.
“Hey!” someone barks.
On first guess, I would say it’s Mr. Iero again. After the whole incident with that Tony, I wouldn’t be surprised if he watched me to see if I was being picked on again. But, no, the voice is, somehow more boyish, not higher, but just childish, I just can’t explain it. Mostly by the way they pronounce it, I guess, with drawled out vowels.
“Leave him alone! Get away,” they order.
The grip on my collar is loosened, then altogether a thing of the past. The boy who was picking on me warns,
“You’re fucking dead, you fag.”
The person who had interjected was no one but the boy from creative writing, the kid with the afro who was fond of remarking cleverly in class. He has kind brown eyes, and something about them and his hair reminds me of a teddy bear or a puppy. He smiles at me, and offers,
“Do you want to sit at my table?”
Over the last few days, I’ve been eating lunch all alone at a table. There’s way too many vacant seats in our lunchroom. Well, I suppose I’d rather sit alone than be forced to sit with strangers, which would be incredibly awkward and unpleasant. Still, a legitimate invitation to sit and eat with someone is a Godsend.
“Yeah, sounds good,” I agree, following him into the cafeteria.
Once we sit down, I realize that the boy really doesn’t have that many friends. Only one other boy sits there, a blond boy with some scruff and his face buried in a Game Boy Advance.
“So, I’m Ray,” the boy with the fro informs. He points at the blond boy, who looks up from the console for a moment to give me a quick up and down look. “That’s Bob.”
“Are you….” Bob begins. He squints and leans closer to me, asking, “Are you wearing eyeliner?”
I turn mad red, pretending to rub my eyes so he can’t see that I, in fact, am wearing eyeliner. I have to be careful, my fists actually a centimeter away from my waterline so that the eyeliner doesn’t smear. “N-no, of course not.”
“Bob doesn’t care,” Ray says knowingly. He grins at me as I peek out from behind my hands at him.
“So….. is this all your friends?” I question, trying not to, but still sounding horribly invasive.
Ray seems taken aback by my question, I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m about to take it back when he answers earnestly, “Yeah. Sorry, but I’m not sure what you were expecting.”
“No, it’s…. cool,” I decide. “I… I wish I had a best friend. Can’t say I ever had one, really.”
Ray gives me a pensive smile. They call our year up, so Ray and I leave to get food while Bob continues to play Zelda in solitude.