Zach's Secret (Gay Romance)

As soon as I walked out of the building, I sighed and instantly felt a fleeting moment of relief. Somehow, I had managed to survive another day at Wellston High School. It was late November and I was a senior so that meant I only had to go through the whole high school experience about 115 more times, give or take a few sick days here and there. That's doable, I told myself, 115 is about one and a half times the top speed a cheetah can run in miles per hour. Who mathematically analyzes the number of school days left compared to a cheetah's speed? That would be me - Zach Denham, Super Geek. I finished stuffing my books into my backpack just in time to see a yellow streak of light heading my way. The sun bounced off Meghan Collette's plain gold cross (worn as always on the outside of her blouse) as Meghan herself bounced across the parking lot towards me. "Hey, Zach, can I hitch a ride with you?" Meghan had a voice bursting with more enthusiasm than a rock concert groupie. Amidst all the student cars in the parking lot, there stood an old, rusting bike rack with the sorriest looking ten-speed ever created. I pointed at it, "See the one with the big lock over there?" I thought it would somehow make it seem less pathetic if I mentioned the size of the lock. "That's it until I get my car back from the shop." "Thanks, anyway." Meghan shoved a paper into my hand. "Another one?" "You'll love this one. Really," she promised. "I'll read it, but-" Meghan was already sprinting towards the bus, which was just starting to close its doors as she yelled back, "Gotta go. Late for Bible study group." I waved as she and her boundless energy boarded the bus. I pedaled home and imagined myself as some famous and cool biker - maybe a race winner like Lance Armstrong - rather than an eighteen year old on his junior high bike. I could just picture myself inches from the finish line with crowds of people cheering me on. Reality quickly caught up with me in the form of a well-worn convertible carrying four Wellston High students. It was Carl Grainger and his friends. They pretty much made my life a living hell whenever they felt like it. Grainger beeped the horn and drove close to me on purpose. I tried to look straight ahead and ignore them, but I noticed that they were all smoking and drinking beer. Grainger yelled first. "Hey, guys. What do we have here? The Wellston High Record's star reporter ridin' his little bicycle around town." It was Steve Larsen's turn next and he thought it was hilarious to use a fake British accent when he said, "He's no reporter, Sir. He's the Editor-In-Chief." That set them all off laughing and one said, "Come on, Grainger. Don't be a chicken-s**t. Swerve closer to him." I felt the breeze from the car. I knew if it came any closer, it would brush against my leg and I would lose my balance. Steve hung over the side of the car offering a lit cigarette. "Go ahead, Clark Kent, take a drag." I saw my only chance for escape - the next corner. I pedaled like that champion biker I only wished I was at the moment. Success! I made the corner, but it was too sharp for the convertible. Grainger had driven by it. I stopped and watched them cruise down the hill toward a green traffic light. Then the light changed to yellow. Grainger didn't slow down. The engine roared and the guys all whooped and hollered as the car raced towards the intersection. A truck approached the light from the cross street. Grainger's light changed to red! HONK! HONK! The truck horn blasted, but Grainger's brake lights still weren't coming on. I half wanted to cover my eyes, but I didn't dare. The truck's brakes made a terrible grinding noise. Grainger lost control and the convertible swerved. The truck skidded through the intersection with the tires screeching. I couldn't help it; I closed one eye. Then it was over...they were safe. Somehow, miraculously, the truck and the convertible narrowly avoided a collision. As a gesture of thanks, Grainger chucked his middle finger at the truck driver. I started to ride my bike again, thankful that nothing had happened to them. They were jerks, yes, but they really could have been killed pulling a stunt like that. I didn't have much time for feeling bad for them because as I rode by a grocery store parking lot, they were waiting. "Wanna really scare him?" Grainger asked his friends. "Hell yeah," was the response. Grainger floored it. He peeled out. I thought I could smell the burning rubber, but maybe that was just in my imagination as the idea that I really was going to get hit by a car took shape in my mind. "No, please, God," was all I had time to say. I tried to pedal away, but it was no use. The brakes screeched again, making that sound that can literally be the difference between life and death. I heard metal crunching. I even saw my backpack fly through the air and land on the ground with an unceremonious thud. The force split the zipper open. Papers scattered in the wind. My bike landed on its side with the tires spinning wildly, but pointlessly, in the air. It took me a moment to focus. Some crushed metal garbage cans rolled away. That's when I realized I had landed in a stack of recycled newspapers that had cushioned my fall. As the convertible backed up, I heard Grainger say to his friends, "I hope that stupid prick's bike didn't scratch my car." I struggled to my feet, brushed the dirt off my clothes, and watched them laughing uncontrollably as they drove away. What bothered me the most was that not one of them had the decency to glance back once to see if I was all right. * * * The school newspaper "office" was a cramped, converted storage closet containing an old teacher's desk, a ripped leather chair, and a wobbly table which we used to layout the pages of the current issue. A beat-up metal file cabinet held all the past issues. My desk was such a mess that the sign reading "National Disaster Area - Please send help!" had been lost in the piles the previous year and had not yet resurfaced. It seems so low tech because it was. I only wished we could have been using all the latest computer technology and sophisticated layout software programs that professional newspapers utilized. Sure, we had computers and e-mail, but nothing in the school newspaper office had been upgraded in years. We always heard there was no money in the school department budget for "extras" like the newspaper. They told us we were lucky we got to have one at all, no matter how antiquated it was. Funny, nobody ever seemed to tell the athletic department there was no money when they wanted funding for new uniforms, new equipment, or a trip to a competition. Meghan burst into the room. She never did anything quietly. She would have been great as one of those protest organizers from the 1960's that we read about in History class. "Zach, you're editing my article?" "Yes," I told her. Actually, I was only looking at it. I hadn't made up my mind until she asked. She seemed so excited that I didn't want to disappoint her. "Now I'm a writer!" she screamed and threw her arms around me. Her soft, brown hair brushed against my face. "Oh, I didn't mean to..." she said as she jumped back. I was really surprised. A girl had never hugged me like that. My aunts and cousins hugged me during the holidays, but that doesn't count. I wanted to say something about it to her, but what? Of course, it was an accident. Only an i***t would say something about an accident. Besides, one hug from Meghan couldn't change me. Could it? I broke the silence first. "I still have a lot to finish on this issue." I pointed to the front page where I was working on making the articles fit around the map of Massachusetts with Wellston written in big block letters. "What a pain. Can't you talk Miss Tellsini out of doing that on the front page of every issue?" Meghan asked. "Can you talk Niagara Falls into falling upwards?" Before Meghan had a chance to laugh, Phillip Rodrigues entered the office. He was a freshman, but he was one of the best reporters on the newspaper. I was about to ask him how his day was going, but he had his serious, let's get down to business look on his face so I knew he didn't want any small talk. "I also e-mailed you a copy. Read it. Print it!" Phillip said as he handed me several typed pages. He plopped himself down in the ratty old chair to wait. I read the headline aloud, "Teen Pregnancy - the Truth You Have to Know." I finished reading the rest silently. It was frank and brilliant. "This is the best piece you've ever written, Phillip," I complimented him. He smiled. "So can we run it this week?" "It would take the entire Wellston police department in full riot gear AND an act of God to get Miss Tellsini to approve this article." Phillip got himself all worked up like a politician giving a speech as he protested, "This is exactly what kids our age need to know. This article could win an award in the Massachusetts Scholastic Journalism Competition. Maybe even go to the New England Regionals." "True," I admitted. "Then show it to Tellsini. MAKE her publish it." "Have you ever made grass grow blue in winter?" I asked, clearly failing to come up with a clever way to avoid the cliché of saying that nobody makes her do anything. "She doesn't scare me. If you're too chicken, I'll demand that she publish it myself," Phillip said angrily grabbing the papers out of my hand. I couldn't let Phillip let do that. It would be suicide. If he confronted her, she'd make the rest of his years at Wellston High School miserable. Before I could say another word, he exited the room like he was shot out of a cannon. I yelled after him, "Wait, you forgot-" Phillip was long gone, but I finished my sentence anyway, "Your cover page." "You really think there's no chance he'll convince her?" Meghan asked. "Not in this lifetime." "Wouldn't Miss Tellsini want the paper to win awards? That would make her look good too." So, Meghan was a little more aware of the way the world worked than I had ever given her credit for. I answered, "Miss Tellsini will say we can win awards without resorting to smut about teen pregnancy." "Do you think the topic is smutty?" Meghan asked. "Do you?" I replied. Meghan didn't answer, but she didn't have to. I already knew what she thought. Meghan was the school's resident religious fanatic. I remember once during freshman year, a boy and girl were kissing in the hallway in front of the girl's locker. Meghan ran up to them and flipped open her Bible to quote something about the wickedness of an unmarried woman having s*x. It caused quite a commotion. Then she got mad when another kid called her a religious wacko. I thought she was going to whack him over the head with her Bible. Luckily, a teacher came along and broke up the whole thing before it got worse. I later asked her whether she thought it was appropriate for someone quoting the Bible to get so mad at someone who insulted her. She quoted something else from the Bible about righteous anger. Meghan had toned down a bit over the years. She was much less condemning in public. She was still very public about her personal beliefs, but she no longer tried to impose them on other people like she used to. I saw that as a giant step in her maturity and I really respected her for the beliefs and the way she now handled them. Looking at Phillip's forgotten cover page, Meghan said, "If you really believe in Phillip's article, why won't you fight for it?" "Some things are worth fighting for. Some aren't," I said as I ripped Phillip's cover page in half and dropped it into the recycle bin. "The trick is figuring out which is which." The school bell rang. We both reacted like Pavlov's dogs we'd been reading about in Psychology class as we automatically raced for the door. I got there first and held it open for her. I have no idea what came over me when I looked down at her and said, "Do you want to - I mean, sometime if, like, you're not busy? We could-" I'd never seen her smile so broadly. "I'd love to," she said as she disappeared into the swarming mass of students in the hallway. After school that day, Principal Gina Tellsini entered the newspaper office. I hated to talk to her when I sat and she stood because she was so tall. My neck ached. Miss Tellsini scanned the front page like she always did. She had to approve the content down to the letter in every issue. So much for freedom of the press! After a while, she said, "Good work, Zach. E-mail the file to me. I'll forward it to the printer tonight and it'll be ready for distribution tomorrow." She clomped out of the room on her three-inch heels. I gathered my books and left the room dropping my keys as I tried to lock the door. Why was I so nervous? Then I remembered that this was the week of the student council meeting. I thanked God they only met every two weeks as I walked to room 321. The door was half open. I saw Brandon Pasternak writing at one of the desks. He hadn't noticed me so I decided to just leave. Eternal klutz of the universe that I am, I had to go and drop my Physics and Literature books. The empty hallway turned into an echo chamber, sounding like I had knocked over a wall of library books. "Hi, Brandon," I said trying to sound as casual as possible. He ignored me and continued to write. He moved his tie out of the way each time he reached the end of a line. "Hi," I repeated more loudly this time. He finally finished and handed me the piece of paper. "Here's the school event schedule for the next two weeks." He put on his jacket and left. His manner was so formal, so cold. I wished I had said something to him, but it was too late now on so many levels. If only things had worked out differently on that wintry day two years ago. The time was not right for student council president Brandon Pasternak and I to have a civil conversation. I hoped that time would come someday soon.