The Connection

“So, what did you get? Anything good?”

The Franklin High School cafeteria is generally a place Avery tries to avoid. He actually tries to avoid cafeterias in general, like the ones at hospitals, or the dining halls on campus where his dad works. He would hate the ones in the mall, too. But they have really good food, so Avery can’t find it in himself to hate them too much. He can exactly pinpoint why he hates cafeterias, too. They’re far too loud. The more people in a room, the more they talk, and then all the separate conversations compete with each other, forcing everyone to talk louder to be heard. And the high, poorly insulated ceilings only make the problem worse. And maybe, just maybe Franklin’s cafeteria would be okay… if the food was any good, or the people were less bad.

“A couple gift cards, Mom’s Death by Chocolate, and a long one sided talk about my day.” Avery rattles off his birthday gifts, only leaving out Kat’s gift, a brand new set of Prismacolor pencils. One’s that Avery’s had his eye on for a few months, and he knows cost more than Kat can afford. He’s already bitched her out for it, trying to wheedle the price from her so he can at least pay her back. She ignores him, and when he checked the barcode, there’s a deliberate Sharpie’d line through the entire thing.

Bitch.

“Ah, yes. Little Avy’s reached the age of the big Connection talk.” She smirks through the straw in between her uncolored lips. “What’s the word, then?”

Avery looks down at his French fries. They’re soggy from setting under a heat lamp for too long and probably from their microwaved demise. And the cup of yellow-orange processed cheese he’s been smothering them in probably isn’t helping. He ignores the flush in his neck, traveling like a rapidly spreading virus up into his cheeks.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before. You know how Mom is about the whole Connection, Soul Mate stuff.” Avery says schooling his voice into nonchalant, verging on boredom.

“Everyone’s big on The Connection.” Kat reminds him, picking a fry off his plate and dipping it in the cheese sauce. “You know, true love. Finding that one person you’re cosmically meant to be with; the perfect Dean Winchester to your Castiel, Gay Angel of the Lord.”

“I’m choosing to ignore you just compared me to a gay angel.” He scowls, moving his plate out of Kat’s grabby reach.

“Fine, but you can’t ignore me.” She snips, “What happened yesterday?”

Avery feels the color that has been so high in his cheeks moments ago, completely drain.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Kat snaps, “Look behind you, stupid.”

Avery rolls his eyes, but pivots in his seat across from Kat anyway. He doesn’t notice anything at first, just the long table a few rows away from them where the rowdy, navy colored, Letterman jacket clad footballers and the Fledglings in their lowly street clothes sit and hold court with cheerleaders and the other social climbers. Nothing seems out of place, but then Avery catches a glance of dark green eyes gazing at him out of the corner of his eye. But when Avery looks at the offender, the Football Admiral stares down at his untouched burger, a faint pink pulling at the edges of his cheeks. He doesn’t even seem to notice the overtly friendly hand of Nicole Allen on his forearm.

“What? Probably thinking of new ways to humiliate me, since it’s not a swim day. He’s got to be more creative… it must hurt him to actually think.” Avery replies, fully aware of the few octave rise of his voice and the positive scorching of his face and neck.

“You know, any other day I’d agree with you. I mean, staring at that sex hair of yours is a favorite lunch pastime of Matthews on a normal day—“

“Shut up, Kat. No, it’s not.” Avery says, but his face heats up, anyway. Does Max really stare at him? Kat ignores him, pressing on as if he hadn’t just spoken.

“— But you see, the kicker is, coupled with the fact that you looked like you were going to pass out when you were driving home last night and the fact that your face is about to fucking melt as we speak I’d deduce that something of significance happened yesterday.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” Avery counters defiantly, refusing to look into the pale, scouring eyes of the short redhead in front of him.

“Are you fucking serious, Avery?” Kat spits acidly, slamming her hands on the gray flecked table top. A group of drama kids looks over in trepidation, and Avery tries to shoot them an apologetic smile, one that screams I know. She’s loud, but it’s my fault, not yours. Please don’t think poorly of her, even though I do at this very moment. I’m sorry we interrupted your reading of Macbeth.

“I’m fucking serious, Kathrine.” He spits back. Kat looks like she’s swallowed a whole lemon, and then her eyes narrow into absolutely terrifying slits… And Avery almost feels bad.

”Avery William Reeves, I’m trying to help you, you little piece—“

“Fine. Yes, okay? Yes.” Avery groans, throwing his head against the round table top. His eyes blur with impact. Faintly, Avery hears the drama kids push back their chairs, muttering darkly as they move to a further table.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, something happened with Matthews.” He admits, giving up.

“You want to elaborate, a little?” Kat scoffs. And without raising his throbbing head from the undoubtedly grimy table top, Avery launches into the whole sordid tale. He tells her everything he should have told her from the beginning, the beatings, the crush he’s been harboring since sixth grade on Max, his disastrous first kiss, the comments Max made about Kat and the way he brashly retaliated, the vicious beating he was sure to come, the in time pulses of their chests, the blinding white light and the warmth that he can still recall next to his heart. Kat watches the whole thing with an alien look of concern on her face. She isn’t a bleeding heart, or she at least likes to think she isn’t. But Avery sees her look at children, and has more than once hauled bag after bag of kitten food to the local animal shelter.

“I should have told mom, but I was afraid.” He sighs, finally raising his head. There’s a quarter sized red mark where his forehead became acquainted with the table top with an impressive force.

“You’re right. You should have told her.”
“I was afraid.” Avery repeats, stressing each syllable. Kat rolls her eyes, reach across the table for Avery’s fries. He doesn’t protest, just watches her pick out the wilted, brown ones and set them on her tray.

“Of what? The gay thing or the guy that beats the shit out of you is your Soul Mate?” She says, one side of her cheek bulging with fries, one of her dark eyebrows raised. Avery looks away. He grabs a thin papery napkin and starts to twist a delicate knot in between his fingers.

“Both.” He admits sheepishly, and when Kat makes the loudest groan in the history of Illinois, he steamrolls ahead.

“No. I mean, I haven’t told anyone the gay thing. Not even you! You just guessed and I’ve never lied to you. And I know Mom and Dad will be okay with it, too. Mom’s the sweetest person I’ve ever known and won’t give a shit, and Dad teaches Literature at a liberal arts college, for Christ sake; I think they’d kick him to the curb if he disowned me… for being… cause I—“

“Then the problem’s with Matthews.” Kat saves him, not bothering to look up as she drops another French fry on the reject pile. He exhales hard through his nostrils. This is the tricky part.

“Yeah. Mom and Dad were Soul Mates and they got married like, a year later. And Grandma and Grandpa were Soul Mates, too. And most of the time, people with a Connection get married, have kids, cook dinner for each other, do each other laundry and all that other shit. And I sure as hell don’t want to do that with him.” Avery rambles. Kat sighs, totally exasperated.

“So you don’t want to see if Matthews wears boxers or briefs? Or make him steak dinners? I’m not following, Avy.” She says heavily. Avery pinches the bridge of his nose, bumping his glasses up. His head is going to explode.

“No. No, it’s… You know how into Soul Mates and Connections Mom is—“

“She tells the story of her and your dad to door-to-door salesmen, I bet.” Kat says wearily. Avery waves a dismissive hand.

“Yeah and… what will she say when I tell her it’s him? And what will I say when she asks why being his Soul Mate is such a big inconvenience.” He says pointedly. Kat’s looks unfazed.

“There’s no rule that Soul Mates have to get married. Or have kids. There’s not even a rule that says you have to talk to him, Avy.” Kat says lightly, raising an eyebrow, “I don’t really see the problem.”

But Kat does see the pink glow in his cheeks intensify.

“You want to be his Soul Mate.” Kat grins knowingly, verging on laughter, “Oh Christ. Never took you as much of a romantic, Avy.” She says laughingly. Avery throws the wadded up napkin at her head, his face positively glowing, causing Kat to giggle wildly.

“Shut up, Kathrine!” He hisses, using her full name for spite. Her full-fledged laughter turns into small hiccups, until finally she grins at him, eyes bright.

“Geeze, sorry. It’s just fu—“

Avery drills holes into Kat, hoping his glasses magnifying the heat and intensity. She swallows her comment with a cheeky grin.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Avery concedes his voice heavy with both disappointment and defeat. So what if he’s a romantic? He did grow up with his mother and Quinn, the two biggest romantic is the entire world. “There’s no way macho man Matthews is going to take a liking to me.”

But to his surprise, Kat doesn’t mirror his look of disappointment, or wear an uncharacteristic look of concern for him and his feelings. She’s grinning like a person with a secret.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Avy baby.”

Avery means to scoff, to challenge Kat’s stupid shit eating grin. But the bell rings overhead, echoing in the cavernous cafeteria. Kat slides out of her seat, tossing her messenger bag over her shoulder.

“Have fun in English, dearest.” She grins, walking away and being swallowed whole by the converging crowd heading to their next class, squeezing through a tiny set of double doors. Avery tries to yell at her, but she doesn’t hear him, or more than likely is ignoring him.

She left him her tray, too.

________

English passes by in a blur of conversations about the symbolism of Big Brother and The Ministry of Love and an abstract set of lines in Avery’s well-worn sketchbook that somehow transform into the chunky folds of a Letterman jacket.

He ignores the clear as day number forty-three he absently sketched on the back of the jacket.

P.E is usually a bittersweet affair. Sweet, because this is the only class he shares with Kat. And although he’d never admit it, Kat’s running commentary on their peers and Coach what’s-his-face is the second best part of the day, next to Drawing and Design. His best friend is most defiantly a classic bitch, but that’s what’s so endearing about her. P.E is also straight black instant coffee bitter, because of the Footballer Fledglings and their admiral, Matthews.

But at least it’s Friday. And Friday’s mean that Coach what’s-his-face is too burnt out from his oh so stressful week to actually care about planning an actual activity. This means that their ‘curriculum’ of badminton has fallen by the wayside, at least for today. However, no P.E class is ever easy. So Coach what’s-his-face insists that they at least pretend to do something. Some people choose to play basketball, or simply walk around the volleyball court… Much like himself and his slightly shorter companion.

“I’m not shorter than you.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Bullshit! We’re at least the same height.” Kat insists bumping her shoulder against his with a smidge more force than usual. Avery bumps back harder.

“I can see over the top of your badly dyed head.” Avery counters, in a monotone voice. Kat makes an indignant noise in the back of her throat.

“How tall are you, then?”

“I’m five six, as of last month.” Avery sighs. They’ve just passed Max and the Fledglings throwing a battered old Football across the length of the gym. The brown egg-shaped ball has just fallen effortlessly in Max’s open hands. He catches it like it’s an extension on his own body; like the ball has magnets buried in its insides and Max has his own set lining his palms and the tips of his thick fingers. Avery feels himself tense out of habit. He and Kat round the painted corner, Max behind them the Fledglings in front of them. Avery waits for the impact of the worn, but still rock hard ball to the back of his bruised head.

“No, you’re not. ‘Cause we were the same height last year!” Kat says shrilly. Avery rolls his eyes, looking down at his best friend.

“Well, that was last year, Shorty.”

“If you’re fond of your balls, you’ll never call me that again.” Kat says, dully. Avery cringes, both at Kat’s rather terrifying threat and at hearing the hard whoosh overhead of the thrown football. He waits for impact.

But it never comes. Instead, Avery sees the gangly whistling Fledgling catch the football, and immediately drops it, rubbing his bright red hands together with a grimace on his pimply face.

“C’mon! That was an easy one, Carter!” Max’s gruff voice carries across the gym, the irritation clear in his gravely tone. Avery dares to twist his head around slightly; Max is glaring at the Fledglings, a look of annoyance on his face. Avery feels himself smile a tiny, almost undetectable smile. It isn’t like Max to miss an opportunity to throw something at him and get away with it. Max glances his way, and Avery feels the smile fall from his face just as quickly as it appeared. Dark green eyes capture his dark blue ones briefly. Max’s face betrays no emotion; it just looks hard and blank, like stone.

“Will you stop eye-fucking your boyfriend for like, five minutes? I’m having an existential crisis over here.” Kat scowls.

“Why, because you’re shorter than me now? That’s stupid.” Avery says, ignoring the pink flowering across the skin of his neck.

“No—“

But the tinny screeching of a whistle cuts through Kat’s retort. Coach what’s-his-face doesn’t even need to speak, the whistle sound this late in the day only means one thing, and without further prompting drones of white shirted, gym short clad people head to their respective locker rooms. Kat shoots him a look over her shoulder, one the clearly states We are not done with this conversation before she slips into the navy blue door on the other side of the gym marked GIRL’s in white paint.

When Avery enters the locker room, a little later than most of the guys do, the customary chorus of jeers and profanity greets him. He enters in his combination, and dresses quickly, even though he thinks he may get off today without a beating. He’s feeling pretty optimistic, after the football incident. He tugs his Batman shirt over his head, and replaces his glasses on his face. He then tugs on his high tops using one hand splayed on the locker above him to balance.

“Reeves.”

There. That’s what he gets for being a half full kind of guy.
He lifts his head, peering almost blindly over the rims of his glasses. Max Matthews is leaning against the locker next to Avery’s, his muscular arms crossed over his faded Pink Floyd shirt. His eyes are hard as ever, but he makes no move to reach Avery. But takes a step back on one shoes and one socked foot on instinct, anyway. Avery raises an eyebrow, which he’s sure Max can’t see due to his overflowing, messy as hell bangs.

“Matthews.” Avery says carefully. The top of Avery’s messy head barely skims Max’s shoulders, and looks positively underfed compared to his huge arms and stocky middle. Max extends his arm, a folded piece of notebook paper held loosely in his fingers. He holds the paper towards Avery, raising an eyebrow when Avery doesn’t immediately grab it.

“A restraining order, I’m guessing?” Avery questions dryly. And he wouldn’t be surprised if it was, even if he never seeks out Max, it’s usually the other way around. Max rolls his eyes, giving the paper a hard shake in Avery’s direction.

“No. It’s called a phone number.” Max says tensely, looking down at Avery, a faint pink pulling at his cheek bones.

“Why?” Avery says stupidly. There’s only one reason people trade numbers. But why is Max giving him his?

“Because I figure we should get to know each other,” Max barks, slamming the carefully folded square onto the wooden bench behind Avery with a hard slap.

“But don’t text me. I really don’t give a fuck.” But the dark pink flush in his cheeks indicates, that, yes. Yes, he does care. And Avery has no fucking idea what to do with that information. Max twists on his heel, the tips of his ears matching the flush on his freckled cheeks. The slam that the locker room door makes is deafening. Curiously, Avery picks up the note tore directly from a spiral bound, college ruled notebook. Avery expects a prank. A note in bright red pen to read, Ha Ha, fooled you, you fucking faggot. Why the hell would I give you my phone number?

But he doesn’t expect what he finds.

Smack dab in the middle of the crisp white paper, a lone bottle of words floats like it’s almost lost at sea. In hastily scribbled, capital letters the note reads:

(217) 449-6515. Text or call whenever.
Hope to hear from you.
Max

Avery stares at the note for a very long time, waiting. For Max to storm back in and change his mind and rip the note clutched in his hands away, for the note itself to burst into flames, for freak lighting to come and strike him down.

For his heart to stop trying to beat out his chest.