Date: Sat, 19 Mar 2005 07:59:54 -0800
From: Cole Parker <colepark@gmail.com>
Subject: 8th Grade, Chapter 2

The following is a work of fiction.  If you don't know the
meaning of that, then you shouldn't be reading this, as the
story is more complex than that statement and you won't
understand it.

This story will contain some sex between consenting
partners.  Both partners will be boys.  If that isn't your
cup of tea, or if this is illegal where you are or you are
underage, I respectfully suggest you find your beverage of
choice elsewhere.   If you shouldn't be reading this,
please don't.  I don't want either of us to get in trouble,
particularly me.

This story will not contain a lot of sex-- in fact, just the
exact amount appropriate for this story.  Imagine that!  If
you want a lot of sex, you probably should read a different
story.  There are a lot on this website.

Remarks can be addressed to: Cole Parker
<colepark@gmail.com>


				 8th Grade

				 Chapter 2


I was pushed up against the lockers, hard, soon after I
left class.  Brad was scowling down at me with nothing I
wanted to know anything about shooting out of his eyes.

"Fuckhead.  What do you think you're doing?" he yelled at
me.  "I'm in big trouble.  My parents are already all over
me for my grades, and now detention on top of it.  I was
supposed to get a better grade on the next quiz, and I get
a D, and I'll probably sit out my next game if I miss two
practices, and I'll make my mom have to wait till detention
is over to pick me up, and I'll be late for the dentist
appointment, and, it's all because you're such a fucking
asshole.  I'm going to kill you."

This last pleasantry was mentioned as he was drawing back
his fist to begin his announced program of mayhem.  As he
was a couple inches taller than I and perhaps 30 pounds
heavier, as he was an athlete and, to put it succinctly, I
wasn't, and as he was mad as hell and I was scared
shitless, the result of his fist flying unimpeded at my
face wasn't going to be something I'd remember fondly when
I was recalling my days at Carver Middle School.  If I
lived to remember them.

Perhaps it was my quivering demeanor, perhaps it was the
look of abject terror on my face, perhaps it was that my
only sign of defense was to tightly close my eyes, I don't
know, but in the end he didn't throw the punch.  He
stopped, took his left hand off my neck where it had been
keeping me propped in an upright position, and I promptly
slumped to the floor.  He looked down at me disgustedly,
said, "Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it," turned and steamed away.
The farther he walked, the lower his shoulders drooped in
dejection.

I should have stayed there, but I felt awful for him, this
golden boy for whom everything should go perfectly, and
despite my fear that he might change his mind about the
murder, I got up as quickly as my still trembling legs
would permit and ran stumblingly after him.

"Brad,' I called as I got nearer to him, and he stopped.  I
ran up to him and faced him, screwing up my courage.
"Brad, I'm sorry.  I really am, I'm really sorry.  I didn't
know you'd get detention.  I never would have said anything
if I'd known that.  Actually, I said it so that. . . ."  It
suddenly occurred to me, much too late, that if I said I
was feeling sorry for his humiliation he might be madder
than he already was.  You're not supposed to have
protective emotions like that for other boys, and you're
absolutely not supposed to talk about them if you do.

The pause lengthened.  "You said it why?" Brad eventually
asked.

"I was mad and wanted to make her mad.  I didn't think
anyone else would get involved.  Graedon and I have been
fighting all year since I pointed out she did a problem
wrong on the board.  She's been trying to embarrass me ever
since.  She's an evil witch and if you get on her bad side,
you never get off it.  I just snapped today.  She made me
angry and I snapped.  I can't believe I got you in trouble
too, and I'm really, really sorry."

"Fuckin' lot of good that does me.  Detention and a D.  Oh
yeah, it'll be fun times at my house tonight."

"Brad, I can help you with the math.  If you let me, we can
get your grade up in math."

"Yeah, that's just what I need.  You and your F are going
to help.  Right."  He looked disgusted.

"I don't actually get F's in there.  Even with her grading
me as hard as she can and marking me off if my handwriting
isn't neat enough or if I leave three spaces between
problems instead of two, shit like that, I'm still getting
an A-.  I just wasn't thinking about math on this quiz and
made a silly mistake.   I do know this crap, and I can
help."

Brad didn't say anything for a minute.  He was staring at
me.  Then, when he spoke, he said, "Aw shit, what harm can
it do?  You can start in detention tonight.  But I'm
hopeless.  You'll see."


                       ---{}---

So that's how I got to work with Brad Decker.  Not that I'd
planned it or anything like that.  I was much too shy to do
something like that.  Brad was the school hero.  As 8th
graders, we were in the top class in school, and Brad was
the top athlete.  He starred in all the sports we had,
playing the glamour positions, and to top that off, he was
blond, well-built, very good looking and didn't have the
stuck-up personality most guys it his position did.  Girls
were all over him and he dated a lot of them, dated as much
as a 13-year-old can, but seemed to steer clear of a steady
relationship with any one.  He ran with the popular crowd
and was pretty much the top dog of that group.  Did I say
he was good looking?

I, on very much the other hand, was a nobody.  Or less.  I
was very ordinary looking, with a mop of unruly curly muddy
brown hair that did what it wanted to do, much more into
books than sports due to an innate clumsiness I think I
inherited from my father, and shy to the point I didn't
have many friends and no really close ones.  If I hung with
any group at school, it was the "loser" crowd, and I wasn't
really even part of that group.  To top off this resume of
attributes, I was starting to consider, in an intellectual
sort of way, the possibility that I might be gay.  As I had
had no experiences with either sex, it wasn't a certainty,
but I sure thought a lot more about boys than girls.  I
sure noticed them more.  They interested me more.
Especially good looking ones.  Which meant, especially
Brad.  But he was so far beyond what I could aspire to, he
really didn't belong in my world and only occasionally
entered my fantasies.  The class system was alive and well
in our middle school.  Brad was firmly established on the
top tier.  I was somewhere beneath the lowest.  People in
my position consider the possibility of associating with
someone in Brad's position about the same as winning the
lottery, only less.

At thirteen, according to the books I'd read, I was pretty
normal, which means my hormones were bouncing through my
veins like popcorn in a theater corn popper and I didn't
have much outlet for the things they were encouraging me to
do except the traditional one, home alone, in my room, door
tightly shut.  At school I had become very efficient at
covering myself up with notebooks, untucked shirts,
carelessly hung jackets and the like as any old fleeting
thought or incidental contact could arouse me in about
three seconds flat.  It occurred to me that if I was going
to be spending a couple hours this afternoon and tomorrow
with Brad Decker, BRAD DECKER! for God's sake, I was
potentially in for a world of hurt.  I'd be sitting next to
him, leaning over a textbook with him, feeling his breath
on my neck, probably rubbing shoulders with him, oops-
something just came up.  What if it did that this
afternoon?   I'd had a crush on him for three years in a
forbidden-fruit sort of way, just dreaming, not even
hoping.  Like I did on several very attractive boys.  What
would happen if I were forced to be close to him?

What was I going to do?  What if what comes natural came
natural and Brad noticed?

I'm going to be a dead man.