Basorexia

Skin.

MAYSON -

"Mr. Carter!" My chemistry teacher, Mr. Hasting's voice echoed through my ears. I looked up from my desk suddenly, making lazy eye contact with the furious old man. Drool dripped from my lips to the worksheet on the cold desk below that had been nothing more than a pillow for the last hour. "If you feel the need to sleep during my period, then I suggest you start going to bed a bit earlier instead of staying up and playing video games."

Whipping the slobber from my chin, I rolled my eyes as I heard laughter from the classmates around me. The old man crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing me in a way he thought it would make me shrivel up in embarrassment, but I only shook my head. It seemed to have pissed him off more when he then told me I'd be spending my afternoon in detention on the track. Mr. Hastings is both a chemistry professor and the physical education teacher at Oxford University. He didn't have much else to do in his personal life since his wife left him, so he decided to teach two subjects in order to fill that shallow void inside of him that his wife left. Sighing, I glanced at the clock situated above the door, only five more minutes.

I didn't know why, but the desks in Mr. Hashing's classroom was rather comfortable, or at least that's the excuse I used for constantly falling asleep in this class. It was my second to last class of the day and right after lunch period, which always made me exhausted. Whoever thought it was smart to put a boring subject like chemistry after lunch should lose their job. Mr. Hastings's felt that when he fell asleep in his class it was because he was boring, which wasn't actually far from the truth. Believe me, they were very boring. Chemistry happened to be one of those classes I was required to take and there were no substitute classes I could take instead.

Sometimes I wish that his wife would have stayed with him, kept their relationship going for any reason to keep him out of my hair. He frequently used laps or seemingly impossible workouts as my punishment for sleeping instead of a homework assignment or essays, as a normal teacher would issue. Although I slept a lot in his class, I knew the majority of the material - or I was just a really good guesser. At the beginning of the school year, he would just give me more assignments, but since I completed them easily, it wasn't a good enough punishment for him to use on me. Sadly, gym class was right after chemistry, which meant I practically walked with Mr. Hashing to my last class. I always made sure to leave class as soon as possible and walk the long way around just to avoid the humiliation. When classmates see us walking together, they would commonly say he was my babysitter.

"One more minute, finish it up and turn it in." Mr. Hastings announced, taking a moment to gesture directly towards me, as I rushed to write down the last three answers to the packet. The paper that had picked up a few dark drool spots from me turned out to actually be an important worksheet that my professor decided to turn into a pop quiz at the last minute. By now my handwriting looked like gibberish to the point where I couldn't even read it, but it would give me an extra chance to answer the question when he asked me to clarify what I wrote when he goes to grade them. The last words tilted around the paper and seemed to be slowly transforming into another ancient language by the last question.

"Times up!", he shouted, just as the bell rang, releasing us into a passing period. Looking up, I saw his eyes lock onto me, an evil-ish smirk whipped across his face, surely thinking his plan would result in a poor grade for me, but every time he has tried previously, I would luckily make it out with a C+ at least. Which was good enough consider it was passing.

Looks like someone didn't take their anti-dickhead meds this morning.

I handed him the paper, watching as he looked briefly through the packet. It was five back to back sheets of chemistry questions that I was up all night studying for. Knowing that he hadn't done one of those quizzes in a while, it was coming soon. He made it quite obvious, giving us extra homework than normal the week before. He was an old dog that couldn't learn new tricks. He shot a look through his thick rolls on his forehead, glaring harshly. Adjusting the falling backpack strap on my shoulder, I waited impatiently to be dismissed. I could see the frustration in his eyes when he realized that I had managed to scribble something next to each answer. Leaving a question unanswered meant more laps.

"I'll see you on the field, Mr. Carter." I didn't expect anything less from him.

The college boys' locker room was the best and worst place for a gay teenager. With all these guys walking around naked throughout the period, between the towel whipping and showering, there was nowhere to hide. Being at Oxford, everyone knew I was gay. I didn't publicly come out, but no one had to ask either. I didn't go around with a pride flag like a superman cape, but I had been told before that I just look gay. The hormonal urges begged me to sneak a glance towards the men I undeniably had the chills for, but the retaliation I knew I would face kept me looking straight on. Shaking my head of the delicious thoughts, I dropped all my stuff in front of my locker, letting it hit the cold floor tiles with a thud. I had a full forty-five-minute exercise class with Mr. Hastings, then an extra hour of punishment. If I had to spend a whole extra hour working out, why couldn't I have been blessed with one of those hunky gym teachers like in the movies?

I would try to stay out of sight and hidden during the class, so I could save up my energy for afterward. Usually I would have to run multiple laps around the track or have to achieve an unreachable number of pull-ups and push-ups. Sighing, I stuffed my small collection of clothes and phone in my individual locker, pulling on the white t-shirt and faded red shorts dozens of boys wore before me.

"Get running boys," said the low familiar voice from the coach's office that sat along one of the walls of the locker room. It had a large blurry glass window that faced out towards the lockers. It was so they could watch over the students, though most of the time the teachers and coaches never cared what actually went on in the locker room.

It was supposed to be the most anticipated day of the year in gym class, mile day. All that was asked of us was to run one mile as fast as we could and try to beat our original time from the first day of class. If you beat your time, from the beginning of the year, you were able to get out of class. The most athletic students were done in a few minutes. It was easy for the guys in sports or even the blessed ones who didn't do sports, but were fast runners. I wasn't one of them. I was built like a stick, I had muscle but nothing swimsuit model material. Coach always said that making me run and sharing a hobby with the other students was to make me fit in better, but I don't see how ripping my lungs out and stomping on them helped me in any possible way. I finished over ten seconds faster than my original time, but that didn't get me out of the hour I was still ordered to serve because of my nap.

It was brutal running a mile after mile non-stop and expected to get seven minutes and thirty seconds or have to run it again, a time that was over more than a minute faster than my best. I didn't make it the first time... or second... or third; usually, we would be there until the coach's mother gave him a call and screamed at him to get home. I should have been better or more used to running with my experience of running away from all the guys who tried to tie me to a flag pool naked or shove me into a locker throughout secondary school. To me, running was a survival tactic, not a hobby.

By the time that Hastings let me leave, there were only a few people on the school campus. Of course, there were staff and janitors; but mainly football, or soccer, some called it, and the American football team. The boys were all delicious with their toned bodies and amazingly skilled performances, but their personalities instantly turned me away. However, I definitely enjoyed the eye candy while running laps. I took a quick glance over my shoulder as I began walking towards the water fountain for a drink before having to run my last mile, instantly regretting it as I locked eyes with one of the players.

"Careful boys, sweat any harder, and you might be visiting the twink in his dreams tonight!" Shouted one of the boys of the football team, slapping his teammate's ass, making them both laugh. Scoffing, I couldn't help facing him and shouting back.

"If you're there that'll be a nightmare!" Woah, where did that come from? My heart lunged as his facial expression became serious, and he took a step towards me. His fists clenched, brows pinched together like he was ready to attack. Luckily, someone stopped him. "Calum, take another step, and you're done!" number 28 ordered him. Mumbling something under his breath, he turned away and stomped back to the team. Okay, just one more mile.

Groaning, I trudged into the locker room, looking around. The smell of body odor and cheap scented body spray lingered in the air. The soccer and football teams were just here. They had wrapped up practice while I was on my last lap and I chose to walk another one to make extra sure they'd be gone by the time I got there.

"Damn it Tyler! I said no!" someone screamed. The voice echoed through the locker room. I froze, eyes bulging wide. I hadn't thought that anyone was still here. I began to change slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible to avoid any meetings or late night fun punching sessions. My locker was situated in a distant corner of the room, allowing me to have the chance to enter and exit without being seen. Pulling on my skinny jeans, a shadow caught my eye. In the reflection of the blacked-out, blurry coach's office glass window was the reflection of the Brooks brothers.

First I saw Hunter Brooks. A junior and quarterback of the football team. Messy dark brown locks stuck to his forehead from sweat. He was taller than his brother, more than, and physically bulky. He was straight with multiple side chicks who all proclaimed to be his secret girlfriend. Then there was his step-brother Tyler, who was the complete opposite of him. He was slim and pale with only a slight build, but his muscles defined like sculpted rock. He was the champion goalkeeper of the national soccer team. No one had made a goal past him since his first-year student year at Oxford. Now a sophomore, he had a huge reputation. There were rumors that Tyler was bisexual, since he had only dated a handful of girls compared to his popular step-brother's reputation.

Even more scandalous, there was an old rumors that the two had kissed on the night of their last secondary school Championship football game behind the bleachers. But, this was just dream fuel some other gay boy had made years back. Swallowing the dry lump in my throat, I hadn't noticed that I had been eyeing them for over two minutes now. Their conversation stopped, Hunter holding up his hand to hush his brother - or at least that's what it looked like in the distorted glass reflection. I watched as Tyler, who had been leaning against the cold lockers, made direct eye contact with me through the reflection.

"Hey!" he demanded, trying to stop me. Running out of the locker room and slamming the door, I made a bolt for the bus stop right off campus, not bothering to turn around and see if they had followed or seen me.

"Oh Mayson, your home!" My step-mother beamed from the kitchen, arching around the wall to see me, but I simply just walked past her.

She was a nice lady and all, don't get me wrong, but it was just that she tried so hard to be my mother. My mom died in a car crash only one and a half years ago. My three-year-old brother was in the car with her. He survived, but now he sometimes has PTSD in traffic. She tries to do everything the way my mother did, thinking it would help us cope, but it just brought back memories and didn't help the situation. I began to unpack all my gym clothes as she came in behind me.

"So, how was school today?" she asked, reaching over to help me unpack, but I pulled my book bag away to set it onto the floor. I never understood why people asked how school was; what exactly was I supposed to tell the women? Oh, it was just wonderful! I went through six and a half hours of school, got piles of homework, almost flunked a test, and got beaten up again!

Sighing, I just gave the answer anyone would, "Well... it's school" and that was just the truth, but of course, Sandra thought it was a hilarious joke and began laughing before she took my clothes and walked out towards the laundry room.

"Mayson" a high pitched voice screamed from behind me, startling me, turning I saw my three-year-old brother Jayson. He never understood how to pronounce my name so he just said, me-sun instead. "Jay, what are you doing? It's nap time." I told him, scolding him playfully as he hid his face in my leg.

"No nap without Mayson" he sang, hugging me tighter and sitting on my foot, making it difficult to walk without looking like a drunken duck.

"Fine." I groaned picking him up and wandering upstairs to my room. Setting him down on the bed, I stripped out of my clothes and into red joggers, letting out a heavy breath as I fell onto my mattress. If I smelt bad, it didn't seem to bother him as Jayson quickly climbed in next to me, cuddling onto the large pillow.

He was smart enough to know my bed was better quality than his and much bigger, so he waited till I was home to take a nap most of the time. Jayson was extremely smart for his age, but had some delays in his speech development. The doctor couldn't determine if it was to do with the concussion he got from the accident or not, but he is supposed to start speech development courses next summer. My brother looked so much like my mom it made me smile seeing the dimple in only his right cheek and his dark green eyes, he was adorable.

I woke up to a missing brother and replacement. I had a work-strained father standing over me. Rubbing my eyes tiredly, I looked up at him sighing, wanting to know what he was doing in my room, but too tired to express my frustration with the missing knock and request to enter that I had asked him to do so many times before when coming into my room.

"Dad?" I groaned, scooting back to sit against the headboard, "What is it?" I asked, pulling the warm blankets up to cover my body.

"I just got off a work call. Apparently there's a situation in Flordia that needs my attention. Sandra and I, you need to get up and pack a bag. We can't bring you with and you're not staying here alone." He explained crossing his arms over his chest. My father was a big man. He had done weight lifting competitively in his teen years, and he had always been a fit guy his whole life.

"Is it really so important, that it couldn't have waited to tell me until I woke up?" I asked, pulling the blankets back over my head as I slid back down into my mattress. My father had some weird fixation on not allowing me to stay home alone even though I'm now in college. I thought it was because he was so nervous of any chance of losing myself or my brother after my mom died, that he demanded we never be home alone.

"We can't have you here alone. Grandma and Pops can't handle both you and your brother, so I made some calls and you'll be staying with my close friend's family." I honestly didn't understand why this is so important, but I wasn't going to upset a bodybuilder. He was never abusive, but he definitely scared me whenever he got mad.

"We fly out in two days." he explained, finally walking towards the door.

"Which friend?" I asked through the sheets just as I was starting to get comfy again and ready to fall back asleep. I at least wanted to know who will be my replacement guardian for who knows how long.

"I don't think you've ever met him, but he's a work partner of mine. Vincent Brooks".

Well... Hell just officially froze over.