The Connection

He takes refuge in the boy’s bathroom at the end of the hall.

It’s the one no one uses because the lights flicker, and most of the mirrors are cracked, if not totally missing chucks of themselves. Everyone thinks this bathroom is the creepiest, so some boys will dare each other to spend a whole class inside the third stall, where they say a ghost of a boy who drowned in the toilet haunts. Avery doesn’t mind that rumor. In fact, he hopes that if the rumor is true, he can meet the ghost boy. He wants to ask him if he was bullied and he drowned in the toilet because of bullies or if he did it himself.

Because there’s definitely been time where Avery’s been tempted to drown himself.

He’s a whole semester into sixth grade and he still hasn’t managed to make any friends… well, except for Kathrine. No, it’s Kat. She insists on being called Kat, because she hates her name. Avery’s not sure why. Kathrine’s a pretty name and a good name for a chubby blonde girl with boobs already. Kathrine is gender appropriate; not like his and Quinn’s names. Sometimes he really hates that his parents gave him a feminine name and his sister a boy’s name. He knows his parents wanted himself and Quinn to not follow gender stereotypes, and he thinks that good. But when he tried to explain that to a couple of seventh graders with hard smirking mouths and even harder fists, they didn’t understand. Avery hurriedly closes the door to the bathroom, he’s pretty sure that the seventh graders didn’t see him.

But he isn’t alone in the bathroom.

He’s here.

He doesn’t seem to notice Avery; he’s too engrossed in washing his hands and his face, which is bowed in the grimy sink. Avery’s never spoken to Max Matthews but he’s in his class, and Avery’s wanted too. Badly. Max is taller than him, with golden blonde hair that hangs in his eyes. And that’s a shame, Avery thinks, because Max has really nice eyes. His eyes are something Avery’s never seen before, they’re darker than Kat’s pale green eyes, but they aren’t hazel like his dad’s, either. They’re just dark. And he must have good eyes, too, because he doesn’t wear thick glasses like Avery. And he’s got a nice face, lightly tanned and freckled. He looks like the exact opposite of himself.

And Avery knows that it’s really weird, but he finds Max really attractive. He knows boys aren’t supposed to find other boy’s attractive, but he can’t help it. But that isn’t the only reason Avery is drawn to Max. Max has a lot of friends, like Avery wants. He’s friends with everyone in their class Avery thinks. Well, except him. But Avery doesn’t think Max avoids him. Max asked him for a pencil the other day and Avery handed one over and was rewarded with a wide grin, which he returned with a tiny, shy smile. Avery swallows, pulling the straps of his backpack closer to his body. Okay, he can do this. He can talk to Max.

“Uh… Hi.” Avery squeaks, from the door. Max looks up through the mirror, a startled expression on his face. Avery gasps at the state of Max’s usually wonderful looking face. One of his dark green eyes is almost swollen shut, the skin around it the same deep purple as an eggplant. There’s a tiny cut above his eyebrow and another on his cheekbone, these ones look older and scabbed. But the gash on his lower lip, still streaming bright red looks very fresh. Like this morning fresh.

“W-what happened? Are you okay?” Avery says in a hushed tone. Max looks like he’s been beat up. But who would beat up wonderful, good-looking Max Matthews? Max’s face flushes a soft pink that makes his freckles seem darker.

“’m fine. It’s nothing, really.” Max mutters, looking down at the chipped, vomit colored tiles of the floor.

“It doesn’t look like it. What happened?” Avery says worriedly. He lets his backpack slide to the floor, as he reaches for a wad of toilet paper, like his mom did when he got a spilt lip one time. Avery approaches Max and without really thinking, he presses the paper gingerly to the taller boy’s lower lip. He applies a tiny bit of pressure—

“Ow.” Max hisses out on a breath of air, but doesn’t jerk away from Avery’s touch. Avery forgets about applying pressure, just rests the steadily reddening paper against Max’s lip.

“Sorry. I-I’ve never really done this. Only watched my mom so, I’m not sure if I’m doing it right or—“

“It’s fine. You’re uh, you’re doing fine, Avery.” Max says, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. He looks down into Avery’s eyes, and Avery can feel his own cheeks blush. Max Matthews actually remembers his name? Avery ignores the racket his heart is making, and dabs lightly at Max’s lip. It isn’t bleeding anymore, but his normally full bottom lip looks more so, and beneath the bright red of bloodstain, Avery is sure it’s rapidly swelling.

“So, what happened? Was it at football practice, or…?” Avery questions, remembering that Max plays football after school with the junior league. If Avery remembers, Kat says he’s pretty good (she waits around for this Cooper guy in the other sixth grade class who plays on the same league, they walk home together). Max’s blush deepens, and worries his injured lip between his teeth, thinking. His carefully healing lip starts to blossom blood again.

“If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone.” Max whispers.

“I won’t—“

“Like, ever. You have to go to your grave with it.” Max insists his voice panicked.

“O-Okay! I won’t… I won’t tell anyone, honest.” Avery says, throwing up his hands in what he hopes is a peaceful gesture. Max regards him quietly for a minute, before he sighs and leans against the sink. The fixture bows a little and Avery hopes it doesn’t collapse.

“My… My step dad did this.” Max says quietly, and Avery can’t help the tiny gasp that escapes him. But Max acts like he didn’t hear him, he steamrolls on with the story like he’s running downhill. That small confession was the first step, and now he’s barreling ahead, like if he stops speaking he’ll fall.

“He only does this when he gets drunk. And he gets drunk a lot, he’s a mean drunk. I take most of it, so Allie doesn’t have to. Allie’s my little sister, she’s only ten and she’s small and can’t take it and I really don’t want her to, anyway, you know? And my mom, she… just kind of ignores it. She’s so busy working that she can’t really worry about me and I’ve got to take care of Allie and—“

And Avery doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s the combination of everything rolled into one explosive moment; the bullies that beat him up and the anger he feels for it, the isolation he feels here, the anger at Max’s step dad for beating this beautiful, wonderful boy, the connection that maybe Avery has been searching for coming from Max, Max’s bleeding lip and his bloodshot, steaming, stunning eyes.

In a few short steps, Avery closes the gap between himself and Max.

He tastes the coopery tang of blood, and feels the Chapstick softness juxtaposed next to the deep crack in the middle of his bottom lip. Avery has no idea what he’s doing. He’s never kissed anyone on the lips before, and he’s really not sure what to do other than apply pressure with his own closed mouth. And although Max doesn’t seem to be pushing away, he isn’t responding either. Don’t people usually kiss back? Aren’t they supposed to? Is Avery doing this wrong? Avery pulls away, and looks up at Max’s wide eyes, and tear streaked scarlet cheeks, inches apart from his own face.

“I-I’m sorry, did I—“

Avery doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Instead he’s shoved to the ground with impressive force for such a skinny boy.

“What the hell was that?” Max demands, standing above him, eyes wild and cheeks painted crimson. Avery swallows.

“I didn’t… I thought you—“

“What? You thought I like… that I’m a … a fag?” He roars. And Avery wants desperately to say no. No, I didn’t mean to call you gay. I thought I could comfort you. I want to comfort you. I want you to like me, because I like you.

“I’m… Max, I’m really—“Avery stutters, trying desperately to make Max understand. He’s sorry. So so sorry. Max garbs a fistful of Avery’s shirt; his freckled livid face inches from Avery’s pale terrified one.

“Don’t ever talk to me again, you queer!” Max shouts, jerking Avery back and forth for emphasis, before he gives Avery one last shove and storm out of the bathroom.

“I’m sorry!” Avery says loudly, but the slamming of the bathroom door drowns him out. Avery sits on the title floor, his tailbone throbbing painfully, and his stomach twisted even more so. He touches his lip where it met Max’s.

His fingers come away sticky and stained red.

Avery wakes up, just as he falls from the sofa.

He’s wrapped in a blanket like a straight jacket, and his head barely misses the cherry coffee table in front of the sofa. He sighs, lying face down in the soft beige carpet of his living room, his arms pinned to his sides by the cocoon of blanket. Somewhere, probably from the leather armchair that belongs to his dad when he’s home, Quinn guffaws. She says something, probably something mean, accented with a few swears for good measure, but Avery doesn’t hear her. His brain is pulsing painfully behind his closed eyes. He’s vaguely aware that someone kind (so not Quinn) has taken off his glasses.

It’s been a long time since he had that dream.

He hates that dream with a burning passion. It makes a swell of emotions rise in his chest, all unpleasant squirming things. Like worms, or worse maggots. He’ll have to live with that being his first kiss… and his only kiss in his whole seventeen year existence. God, what the fuck was he thinking?

“Avy, honey. Get up; don’t just lie on the floor.” His mother chides gently. Avery groan is muffled.

“No. Leave me here to die.” He grumbles, pressing his forehead deeper into the plush carpeting. His mother chuckles indulgently.

“Sorry, honey. I can’t do that, your father would be livid if there were a corpse smell on the new carpet.”
“Am I going to be this angst ridden when I turn seventeen?” Quinn says. And Avery doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s smirking widely.

“I hope not, baby,” their mother sighs. “C’mon, dinner’s almost ready and your father should be here any moment.”

With a heavy sigh, Avery untangles himself from the blanket he’s sure that his mother draped over him when he fell asleep on the couch. He’s rather stay here. Face down on the plush carpet, swathed in the holey afghan. Now that he thinks about it, he’d rather be at the dentist, or at the DMV or at a football game or really anywhere but here; he’d rather disappear than have the Connection conversation with his mother.

“Wakey wakey, Avy!” Quinn cheers, yanking the partially detangled blanket out from under Avery.

Avery’s moan could shatter the sound barrier.

________

Avery’s father looks pretty intimidating.

And that’s really odd for a man who’s all stringy muscles and crazy dark hair. Maybe it’s the glasses perched on the tip of his nose, or the tweed jackets that Avery is sure all college professors wear because they have to, like it’s in their contracts. Or maybe it’s a simple as his dad’s aloof attitude, and his dry biting wit. That’s all he inherited from his father; dark, wild hair and a surly attitude. Avery wonder’s if his students are afraid of him? Or if they wonder if he’ll call them out in class and make an example of them for not turning in Analytical critiques or coming to class late.

“William, if you don’t put that newspaper away…”

“Annie, if I don’t keep up with the—“

His mother shoots him a deadly look, a butter knife clutched in her delicate fist. His dad sheepishly sets the newspaper aside, shooting his wife an apologetic look. Avery smiles into his mashed potatoes. What would William Reeves’ students say if they saw him be so easily reprimanded by his wife, a woman with no college education, and who is a lowly coffee shop manger? A woman who doesn’t read unless she has to, and a woman who thinks George Orwell was a crazy person?

“So, how’s school Quinn? Still in Student Council?” Mr. Reeves asks cutting a pork chop into small pieces.

“Mhm. I’m actually the sophomore class rep.” She says proudly. Their father smiles at her over the top of his glasses, the perfect proud father look.

“What about you, Avery? Have you joined any clubs yet?”

“Nope, I’m still a social outcast. Just my sketchbook and I verse the world.” Avery replies dryly, chewing on a piece of pork. His father rolls his eyes and his mother smiles a little. She’s always found Avery funny, at least.

“What about Kat?” Quinn chirps across from him.

“Kat kind of negates the social outcast, loner vibe I was trying for.” Avery says.

“How is Kat doing? She still interested in English?” His dad asks, intrigued. His dad loves Kat, who so willingly reads books his dad gives her and then discusses them animatedly with him, using huge words and constructing reference points to pop culture that Avery’s dad hadn’t thought about before. She made an impressive argument that Supernatural had some definite parallels to On the Road. He’s pretty sure his dad brought that up in a lecture. She’s a bookworm and a closet poet, carrying around a journal at all times the way Avery carries his well-worn sketchbook.

“Mhm.” Avery hums, finishing off his second pork chop.

“There’s a few more chops in the skillet, want another one, honey?” His mother, as attentive as always asks, already pushing her chair back from the small dining room table.

“You’re already finished? How aren’t you six hundred pounds?” Quinn asks, astonished as always at Avery’s ability to consume his weight in food and not gain a single pound.

“I’m working on it.” Avery answers tensely, “No thanks, I’m good.” Avery smiles at his mother. The Reeves table lapses into comfortable silence. Or at least it should be a comfortable silence, however, to Avery the silence only broken by the tines of forks sliding against china, the sound of Quinn crunching on her salad, the sound of glasses clinking accidentally against a plate, it drives Avery crazy. The silence gives an insurmountable weight to his confession. It makes him squirm and twist his hands in his lap like a child caught doing something wrong. His mother’s slim hand slides onto the table, and without even looking up from his mashed potatoes, his father’s hand reaches and curls around his mother’s, who links their fingers.

“So, I met my Soul Mate the other day.”

A very uncomfortable beat of silence and then—

”What!?” his mother and Quinn screech at the same time.

“Avery, that’s wonderful!” His mother cries, and at the same time:

“Why didn’t you tell me, you jerk?” Quinn demands shrilly. He looks between the two women, and for some reason he meets his father’s eyes from across the table. His father looks mildly interested, like his son making the Connection is an interesting television documentary.

“Oh, Avy! What her name?” His mother says, practically crying tears of joy. Avery takes a drink of water; he struggles to swallow past the lump in his throat. He’s not worried that his parent’s won’t accept it. He knows all he has to do is tell them and his mother will be making dinner plans and his father will begin to ask what his college plans are. But saying it out loud… wouldn’t that make it an actual thing? He’d be admitting it. But he needs to ask his mother. Can’t Soul Mates just be friends? Okay, here goes.

“Max Matthews.” He says, and there’s no tremor in his voice. He might as well be telling them there was a chance for rain.

Quinn launches into a massive coughing fit, but if their daughter is choking to death, the Reeves’ don’t really notice. The silence is heavy, a weight dragging down on Avery’s thin neck.

“Er… Is that short for… anything? Maxine, maybe?” His father asks.

“Maxwell, I think.” Avery says. These plates are interesting. Why didn’t he notice before? The vines that snake around the edge of the plate are intricate and rather pretty. Avery can taste the silence on the tip of his tongue. It sits heavily, like a cloying sweet dessert that he would hate, but Kat would love. It coats everything, making the air weigh about a thousand pounds.

“Avery, honey, that’s wonderful.”

He looks up at his mother. Her pale delicate face is tight, but her dark cerulean eyes are bright and happy. She looks like she’s about to cry. His father sits like a stone next to his mother; her hand still gripped tightly in his own.

“No. Not really.” Avery muses, tracing one of the vines with the tine of his fork.

“Avy, if it’s because you think its… it’s not wrong to be…are you not…?”

“Oh, no; I’m defiantly gay.” Avery says lightly. His insides are shaking so bad that his steadily tracing hand is starting to quake, as well.

Now it’s his father’s turn to choke on his iced tea. But his mother and Quinn hardly pay any attention. Avery presses forward, afraid if he stops now, he’ll clam up and won’t be able to ask him mother.

“But that’s not the point,” Avery presses, looking up at his mother. Her face is tight, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “I hate Matthews. Like, a lot.”

“Honey, why would you hate him?” His mother says, almost laughing.

“Because—“ Quinn sputters with indignation. A well-aimed kick to her bony shin under the table shuts her up, even if her glare is enough to set Avery’s hair on fire.

“Because we don’t really run in the same crowds,” Avery says, speaking more calmly than he feels and giving Quinn a very loaded look, “He’s kind of a jerk. And I don’t we’d be very good together.”

“Well, that’s very silly of you, Avery.”

Avery looks up at his father. His father is looking at him with a look of interest mingled with a hint of disappointment.

“You don’t even know—“Avery sputters, only to be cut off by his father’s raised hand.

“No, I don’t. But I don’t need to. Being Soul Mates with someone doesn’t by any means mean that you have everything in common, or like all the same things. Sometimes Soul Mates mean that you level each other out. That you have qualities that he lacks and he has qualities that you lack. A yin, to your yang, if you will.” Mr. Reeves gives his and wife’s entwined hands a little shake for emphasis.

“It’s a mistake, I can’t possibly be—“Avery argues.

“Making a Connection is never a mistake, Avy;” His mother says gently, “Even two people that can’t stand each other can be perfect for each other… in time.” She smiles, nodding her head towards her husband teasingly.

“The most rude, arrogant, petty man could be changed in time. Trust me.” His mother grins. His father rolls his eyes, but smiles anyway.

“But he isn’t gay! How can I—“

“And no one says you have to marry him and have kids. Soul Mates could be close friends, or even close family members.” His father says knowingly. And his mother nods serenely. And Quinn is looking at him like he’s grown wings and sprouted an extra set of legs.

The sound of a bell comes from his jacket pocket.

He glances at his parents, who are looking at him and at Quinn who has turned back to her salad, stabbing at the lettuce like it had personally wronged her. He pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket, glancing at the screen. 1 new text message from: Kit Kat!

“It’s Kat. Can I text her back really quick?” Avery asks timidly. It’s rare when his father’s home for dinner, between grading papers, preparing lectures, office hours and the whole host of thing required of him as Chair of the English Department at Milton University. And when he is home, and they all sit down together for dinner, his mother is like a togetherness Nazi. There are no newspapers, tests, or cell phones. Just the four of them and whatever delicious thing his mother has made for dinner. His mother purses her lips, and opens her mouth to tell him it can wait—

“It’s okay, Annie. Now I hear there are brownies?” His father says, placing a hand on his mother’s shoulder. His mother shoots him a look, before she pushes back from the table and walks into the kitchen.

“Fine, but ask her for lunch tomorrow. I’m making pulled pork, and it’s her favorite.” She calls, and Avery doesn’t dare roll his eyes.

How’d it go with the parents? Or did you chicken out?

He quickly types back:

They took it pretty well, actually. I didn’t tell them everything, but I’m sure Quinn will tattle. You’re invited to lunch tomorrow. I don’t think its optional.

As soon as his mother starts handing out smaller plates topped with a square of brownie and a scoop of ice cream that he phone beeps again. He shyly takes it back out of his pocket. It’s from Kat.

Only if there’s pulled pork.