The Connection

Somehow August rolls in.

It snuck into Franklin with only back to school sales and soupy weather to signal its arrival. In fact, it isn’t until Avery’s mother ask him what (if any) school supplies he needs that he remembers that his senior year is only a three days away. She asks from the kitchen, her voice trailing into the living room, where he and Kat sit, watching reruns of Deadly Women. Avery cast a panicked glance at Kat, who merely shrugs, as if to say, Hey, I’ve only got a notebook and a pack of pens but I’m good.In between letting Quinn borrow his car to see her friends, time spent with Kat, watching movies and eating junk food, and weekends (and any other time they can squeeze in) with Max, watching movies and trading lazy kisses and other not-as-lazy activities, Avery finds himself driving to school

From the passenger seat, Quinn chirps vapidly about her class schedule and how her friends from Student Council don’t really get along with her Soccer friends in between crunchy mouthfuls of granola and chocolate chips. Avery nods occasionally, but most of his focus is on the road and the other larger part is swirling with thoughts of Max and what’s going to wait for him at his locker.
They haven’t talked about it. Not once. The farthest they’ve gotten to the delicate subject of school in light of their new found relationship is when Max gathers Avery into his lap on Sunday’s to watch football, all the while talking about how Avery has to come to his games. And Avery promised that he would, every single one; even the away games. And he means it.

But he’s still so painfully unsure about how to act in school. In his head, the Max Matthews that he saw in school is a mean, cold and detached guy with daddy issues. He’s easy to peg as someone to avoid; someone to dislike. Max, himself, has craved a name for himself by being cooler than warmer and while not an outright bully (to anyone other than Avery), he doesn’t do much to quell his teammate’s bullying. It would be easy to ignore Max, go about his day with Kat as he’s done since sixth grade, and avoid a beating, as Max won’t do it and Harris graduated.

But it’s not that easy anymore.

It’s actually far from easy, as the Max Matthews he knows now is a whole different person. This Max is sweet, and protective (although still pretty gruff). He rewards Avery with smiles that are gooey in the middle even when Avery hasn’t done anything more than make a correct guess as to which Led Zeppelin song is playing from Max’s phone. This Max cuddles him and kisses his hair in front of their friends and their sisters; he even manages to rest his hand on Avery’s thigh under the table when they have dinner with his parents, this Max tells him softly, both before and after he comes that he’s beautiful and that he loves him. So lost in thought, Avery doesn’t even realize he’s pulled into his parking space, the massive trucks on either side of him dwarfing his white Volvo, until a petite hand with bright pink nails obscures his vison.

“Hey Space Ranger, you still in there?” Quinn asks, as Avery shuts off his car and pockets the keys.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Avery replies; Quinn raises a skeptical, perfectly plucked eyebrow. She sighs heavily, as if Avery’s mental crisis is wearing on her glorious return to school and its wonderful social scene.

“If you say so,” She says loftily, twisting around in her seat to grab her book bag, “If I didn’t have a Student Council meeting, I’d figure out what the hell is wrong with you.”

She gives her older brother a meaningful look through her bright, eyeliner rimmed eyes. Then she leans over to grasp Avery in an awkward one armed hug. Avery hugs her back, as much as the cramped cab of his car will allow.

“If you want to quit being a stubborn asshole, and actually talk about this, then come find me.” Quinn says into his ear.

And with a door slam and a gust of floral perfume, Quinn is gone and walking towards the school.
________

Avery makes it to his locker with twenty minutes till the first bell.

His locker is at the end of the hall and from his position in beside of the front office he can see clearly over the hubbub of other students, milling about, trading summer stories and laughing loudly. He can also see the familiar head of frizzy burgundy hair and a set of board shoulders covered in the fayed sleeves of a concert tee. The arms attached are tanned from summer spent working and practicing, freckled splattered all over. Avery swallows, irrational and with a gnawing feeling in his stomach, and turns on his heel towards the art wing.

He really doesn’t need his books anyway.
________

Avery skips lunch.

He sits in the library, chewing on a Poptart that doesn’t do much to quell his rumbling stomach. Logically, he understands he’s being stupid. He’s being avoidant. And he’s probably hurting Max’s feelings. But a voice, soft and hissing, in the bac k of his head lulls him with words of, embarrassment, peers, mocking, and the most silently uttered phase of them all, Max isn’t gay. So he sucks it up, and when his phone vibrates with a message from Kat wondering where the hell he’s at, and that Max and Cooper are asking, he doesn’t reply.

He turns his phone off and slips it back into his pocket.
________

Kat and Quinn both question him thoroughly on the ride home.

They wheedle, and then pressure and then outright beg with threats (Kat) and carefully understanding eyes (Quinn). He deflects all of their questions, resorting cowardly to claiming a headache, a stomach ache, a day long migraine, and finally when it seems useless to carry on a charade that isn’t fooling anyone, he turns up the radio. The Top 40 garbage, sets his teeth on edge and makes him long for the softer sounds of Bon Iver or Death Cab. And a mutinous part of his brain screaming for something dirty sounding and yet melodic something like Black Dog, or Kashmir.

He shakes his head, and turns to a different station.
________

MM: so I didnt see u today. but I saw quinn.

MM: did I do somethin?

MM: ok I guess. Ill see u tomorrow?
________

Three days.

Avery’s been three days at the eating-lunch-alone and going-to-my-locker-during-class game. He hasn’t felt this lonely since he was in fifth grade and no one wanted to play with him because he used big words and he would have rather draw in his notebook then play kick ball. He’s sitting (again) in the library, eating a solitary and rather unfulfilling lunch of two s’mores granola bars and a dented can of cherry coke he found in the bottom of his bag. Absently, he’s sketching; letting the meticulous yet creative nature of drawing and shading soothe the burn of loneliness. He’s so absorbed in adding the right amount of shading to a set of shoulders that has sprung up on his page that he doesn’t notice the chair beside him become occupied.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Avery doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have to. He’d know that voice anywhere, anytime, for the rest of his life. He shrugs, plucking his ear buds out to show that at least he’s listening. Quinn sighs heavily, before setting a cup of greasy, cafeteria French fries in front of him. Avery’s stomach makes a loud, pointed rumble at the smell of salt and grease. He pounces on the fries with as much dignity as he can manage, which is to say, not very much.

“Why?” Quinn says finally; as Avery starts to eagerly eat the offered food.

“Max.” Avery shrugs again, his cheeks budging with food. Quinn snorts.

“What did he do? You guys couldn’t keep your paws off of each other like, a week ago.”

“I don’t want to embarrass him.” Avery says quietly, “He’s popular. And he’s straight.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve heard all day. And I sat through an American history class this morning.” Quinn sneers, and then she seems to think better of herself and schools her features, leaving only a slight hint of distain, quirking the edge of her mouth.

“Newsflash, you and Max are Soul Mates. And judging by the way your door’s always locked when he’s over, I’m sure Max isn’t as straight as he seems.” Quinn snips, pulling Avery’s notebook towards her and plucking a purple pen out from behind her ear. She doodles long curved petals of a tiger lily in the corner of his notebook, and it reminds Avery so forcefully of when they were children.

When it was rainy, and Quinn was stuck inside, when after a few hours, tea parties and dolls no longer held their appeal and she wanted to play with Avery. And the way their mother would set up a large poster board and give them both crayons, when Quinn got upset that Avery wouldn’t let her draw on his picture. It makes his stomach clench painfully around the granola bars and the cups of fries. It makes him feel the strangest sense of longing for a time before Max, and when he was just weird, not weird and gay. And when Max’s own reputation wasn’t at stake just by association. When Max’s opinions, and his love, meant nothing to Avery.

It makes him want to hide in his room with poster board upon poster board and escape high school.

“You don’t understand.” Avery says, watching Quinn add shading with her pen, wanting to tell her if she just pressed a little lighter it would makes it better. More alive. Realer. Quinn snorts, adding a stem and a little leaf to her lily.

“I don’t think you understand.” She snips. And Avery wants to snip right back at her cryptic sass.

“Anyway, I didn’t search the entire school for your ass to tell you you’re an idiot. Are you staying after school to work in the studio?” Quinn asks naming the art room. Avery sighs as he thinks about the upcoming Art show that all students in his Advanced Art class have to participate in. And then the disaster of a piece he’s working on. He still can decide what to do. He still can’t feel enough to be inspired. Anxiety and stress color the smudgy charcoal lines, making Avery frustrated and annoyed. He’s been working on weekends and nights, or whenever Mrs. Cunningham will graciously unlock the studio for him.

“Yes—“ He starts only to be cut off.

“Good. I’m taking the car home, then.”

Avery stares at her opened mouthed for a moment.

“What?”

Quinn looks up at him finally, a huff of annoyance escaping her mouth.

“The car. I’m driving it home after school.” Quinn says slowly, as if Avery’s an idiot. Which he kind of is.

“Why?”

“Because, asshole. I want to go home after school, not wait for you to have a creative slump and come out covered in charcoal.” Quinn scowls, sticking her pen back into her messy bun, like a librarian who’s had to tell people to be quiet too many times. Avery throws his hands up in defeat, rolling his eyes as well.

“Okay, fine. But how am I getting home?”

“What time do you leave?”

“Six-thirty-ish.”

“I’ll be there. Now give me your keys.”

Avery scowls, but shimmies until his lanyard if free from his pocket. He holds them out to Quinn who snatches them away; as if Avery will suddenly come to his senses and tell her no. She pockets the keys and stands, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles out of her jeans. Slinging her bag over her shoulder she gives Avery one last, long look.

“Quit being a dick and talk to him. You might be surprised what he has to say.” And then she leaves, weaving out of the shelves that Avery has so carefully concealed himself behind.

Avery doesn’t have to ask her who she means.
________

He’s even more annoyed and stressed when he finally leaves.

He’s gone through at least three canvases (which cost money. Money-from-the-struggling-art-department money) and he feels terrible. He feels even worse when Mrs. Cunningham, with her long flowing dresses and homemade jewelry and kind, lined face, smiles sadly at him. She doesn’t say anything as she retreats into the supply closet and comes back with a brand new canvas, all cream colored and bumpy to the touch. She pats his shoulder, and says in her smoke roughed voice, ‘You’ll be inspired eventually, Avery.’ She pointedly ignores the canvases and the broken sticks of charcoal that litter his area like broken toys at ground zero of a child’s temper tantrum.

And this pointed dismissal of the obvious, makes him squirm. She’s disappointed in him, a usual superstar when it comes to art. And her disappointment only highlights the disappointment he feels from Quinn and Kat’s loaded stares and Max’s fading text messages and his string of voicemails.

The sun hangs low in the sky as he exits the building, his hands a dusty black and his temper short. This is actually Avery’s favorite time of day; right before the sunset. It’s not the romantic notions or anything like that, no, it’s the colors. The sky cut in to distinct lines of dark blue, indigo, purple, orange and pink; the sun itself, caught in its dying breath and blazing red as if this is its last chance to be remembered. Here, in the country where there are more cornfields than fast food restaurants and autumn is signaled by bonfires and football; the sunset is the brightest. The most beautiful.

But even that doesn’t lift his spirts.

Tugging his loaded bag higher on his shoulder (Why. Why on earth is he taking two AP classes?), he trudges to his usual parking spot in the upperclassmen lot, just around the building. He’s not paying much attention, his mind shifting through the debris of failed inspiration, the mound of AP English he has to do, and the confused, hurt text messages that are probably clogging up his phone. It’s not until he can see his parking spot a hundred feet away from him that he’s stopped cold.

Because his car isn’t black. And it most certainly isn’t a seventies’ muscle car, meticulously cared for. And the person, cast in orangey light of the fading sun leaning against it, is not Quinn’s pixie
like frame.

Max picks that exact, awful moment to lift his head. His eyes pin Avery’s, green and jagged with hurt, like chips of broken glass, and all thoughts of escaping slip from Avery’s mind. Max schools his features quickly, a smooth mask that makes Avery’s heart seize; curl in to itself and cry for the easy smiles and expressive eyes Avery fought tooth and nail for. He swallows his guilt and discomfort, hikes his bag higher on his shoulder, and walks forward.

“You’re not Quinn.” He says only a few feet away, looking at the smooth asphalt beneath his Chuck Taylor’s. He hears Max chuckle, tense and choking, not at all what he likes to hear.

“I’m not.” Max says lightly, conversationally. As if there isn’t the weight of a week on missed calls and avoidance between them, “You’re smart though, you shoulda figured this.”

“What, that my sister would trick me?” Avery says drily, annoyed. If Max is mad at him, he’d rather just get it out there, no loitering, and no niceties.

“Yep. Actually, Kat did a lot, too. She figured you’d be hidin’ in the library. Said you used to do that a lot. In grade school.”

“I wasn’t hiding.” Avery mumbles, scuffing his toe against the asphalt. Max laughs, dark and sharp.

“Bullshit.” He spits, “Maybe if you’d fuckin’ answered my texts and phone calls then I’d believe you—“

“What do you want me to say?” Avery concedes, finally meeting Max’s eyes. Which are hard and biting, so much so that Avery is surprised he’s not yet thrown against something, Max’s fist stretching the neckline of his shirt. Max glares; a muscle in his jaw clenching, and Avery can almost hear the scratchy, head splitting sound of his teeth grinding together.

“Why the fuck have you been avoiding us?” Max says loudly, the me hangs heavy in the air. Palatable, yet ignored; like a housewife’s first disastrous attempt at a meal. Burnt and acrid.

“I haven’t—“

“Bullshit!” Max hisses, his teeth clenched and his hands coming out from his pockets and balling tightly at his sides. Ready to fight.

“What do you want me to say!” Avery repeats, louder this time. More desperate, angrier, “What the fuck do you want me to say! Is your fucking ego it hurt? Why? Because you never wanted this? Wanted me? You and your jock friends have never—“

It happens quickly, in between one blink and another. The next thing Avery knows, Max has him by the shirt collar and flips them around, Avery’s wiry body thrown against the sleek body of Max’s car. He expects his head to collide painfully with the metal, so much like the lockers he’s used to, but a wide palm cushions his hair; doesn’t gripe or tug it, just hold it carefully. Protective, as if even in anger, even if they’re about to break up; Max will protect him.

For some reason, this only seems to infuriate Avery even more. He hisses like a cat, pushing at Max’s arms, which hold him to the car like a prison cell. Avery flails, shoving Max’s bulky frame, trying to get away. Max doesn’t give, just stands above Avery, letting him push, letting him claw and curse.

“Fine. You wanna do this? Fine!” Max says finally, his voice hard, resigned. Desperate and broken, like when he spoke about Mike and his mother’s abuse. Avery finally stops struggling, and glares up at Max, a protest sharp on his tongue. But one look at Max’s face and the half formed, venomous insult dies on his tongue, leaving a bitter taste. Max’s face isn’t hard, or unreadable. And Avery almost wishes it was. Anything would be better than this. Max’s carefully crafted mask, designed to hide him and protect him, flakes like white paint on gaudy wallpaper. All the hurt and the fear that
Avery hadn’t even assumed Max had is bleeding, spotting, staining the air between them. Max blinks twice, trying to rid the wetness in his green eyes away.

“What did I do?” Max asks in a low tone, barely audible in between the faraway sounds of car engines and wind through trees. His hand tangles in Avery’s hair, pulling softly. Like a child pulling on a security blanket twisting the fabric into little knots to soothe the knots it his own stomach.

“Just tell me. I’ll change it. I don’t wanna lose you, Av.” Max whispers brokenly, blinking back tears.

“No… Max—“

“I’ll quit football. If you want me to. I promise, Av—anything, and I’ll do it.” Max says, his words, bumping and falling over one another in his haste to remedy a situation completely Avery’s fault.
Avery feels his stomach twist and curl upon itself in tight, miserable rolls. It had never occurred to Avery. In the midst of his own thoughts of rejection and shame, he never thought of this. He isn’t the only one afraid that Max’s social stratosphere won’t accept him, will ridicule him. Max is just as afraid of this as he is. Max, sweet, protective, cool headed Max is afraid of rejections, just as he is. He’s not the only one so swallowed by this relationship; he can’t imagine never seeing Max smile again, can never imagine kissing anyone else or watching football with, or anything. Avery laughs, shakily and a bit hysterically, as tears prick his own eyes behind his glasses.

“What? Av—“Max says, confusion heavy in this watery eyes. Avery doesn’t think, only knows one way to communicate what he needs to. Gracelessly, he yanks Max’s face down to his own. He ignores the (large) height difference and the noise of confusion Max makes (maybe pain. Avery wasn’t particularly gentle) and kisses him soundly.

It takes a moment, and then Max seems to come alive. Just as frantically, he rips Avery’s bag off his shoulder, it landing with a muted thump of the asphalt. Thick, strong arms wrap around his back, and Max leans back slightly, carrying Avery’s small frame with him, off the ground. Avery’s toes dangle off the asphalt, and Max’s arms are crushing him and the hand in his hair is gripping too tightly; but none of that matters right now. All the matters is the steady pressure of Max’s lips, and the sloppy, desperate move of their mouths; hot and needy, graceless in their frantic happiness.

They kiss until Avery can’t breathe, and pulls away to pant and rest his forehead against Max’s. The older boy seems to get the hint, and lowers him to the ground, keeping his arms tightly wound around the smaller boy. Just in case.

“I don’t want you to quit football.” Avery says finally, his voice quivering with tears, “I was hiding because I thought I’d embarrass you. I thought… I’m not a cheerleader, I’m not good at sports and I have no idea how football works. I’m nerdy and weird and too skinny… I’m not a girl.”
Max smiles softly, wiping the tears off Avery’s face with broad strokes of his thumb.

“I figured you’d want someone smart. Someone who’s goin’ to college and isn’t a grease monkey.” Max confesses softly. Avery rolls his eyes and leans up to kiss Max once again, trying to push any thoughts of inferiority out of Max with tiny kisses. When he pulls away, he makes sure to look Max right in the eyes. He makes a point to memories each freckle, each laugh line, each hue of green and gold threading though his irises.

“And I won’t embarrass you? Even to your teammates?”

Max snorts, pushes Avery’s bangs back so they can really see each other.

“I don’t care. And anyway, I don’t want any of that.” Max says softly, kissing Avery’s forehead.

“I want you. I like that you’re not a cheerleader. And I like that you’re smart and nerdy and weird. You’re definitely too skinny, but that’s okay. And I love that you’re a boy. I don’t give a fuck want anyone says. I love you, and I’m gonna hold your fucking hand and ’m gonna sit with you and Kat at lunch. And ‘m gonna make out with you between classes, just like everybody else does. And if they don’t like it, then they can fuck off.”

“I’m done with carin’ what people think. I love you, Avery. Fuck everyone else.” Max says, so sincerely, truth and conviction staining his words like permeant ink on tissue paper. Avery smiles, gummy and stupidly happy. So stupidly presumptuous. Stupidly in love with a mechanic with a surly attitude. And gratefully, totally wrong.

“We’re idiots.” Avery laughs into Max’s chest. Max’s own laugh rumbles through his body, the tremors resonating in Avery’s own body.

“You shoulda said somethin’.”

“You should have something.” Avery counters snottily. Max huffs, flicks Avery’s ear.

“Fine. I’ll say somethin’. I’m starving, ‘cause you took forever—“

“I did not!”

“—So, I’m gonna drive us to Archie’s. And I’m gonna sit on the same side of the booth as you, even though it’ll be too small. And I’m gonna hold your fuckin’ hand and be obnoxious and couple-y.” Max says, reaching around Avery to open the passenger side door for him. Avery laughs and gets into the Chevelle as Max keeps rattling off stupid couple shit he’s going to impose on Avery from now on.
He’s still going, listing bizarre and hilarious things now (“I’m going to buy you desserts in France, and then we’re gonna hang out by that tower thing.”), as they hit the interstate towards Lincoln. Avery is laughing along, adding things occasionally, too. (“We’re going to find a drive in, and then make out in the back the entire time.” Max smirks and wriggles his eyebrows.) Avery, nearly crying form laughing, looks over to see Max staring at him, a soft smile playing on his usually hard face. He cast Avery a soft look, something gentle and so gooey with affection and care. When he speaks, his voice has lost its jovially quality and now, it sinks into serious syllables and a heartfelt lit that makes Avery want to cry again.

“I’m gonna stay with you forever, and I’ll try my damnedest to do all that shit. With you. Just you.”

Avery doesn’t say anything, just reaches for Max’s hand across the seat.