FicWad

I think this might be the second worst day of my life.

The worst day of my life was a little over nine years ago, when I kissed my best friend and lost him forever.

Today, however, I was fired, and I didn't even get to kiss anyone in the process.

It actually started last week, when I was standing in the hallway, like I'm supposed to, between classes. And I'll admit, yes, when Steve Peterson came out it was a pretty big deal and I've started making sure no one is giving him crap for it, since I had to put up with crap and no teachers stopped it in high school, but I don't think that giving detention to students who call other students filthy names is favoritism. And if Steve had called anyone those same names, he'd have had detention, too.

Jesus Christ, I always figured that by the time I was an adult, society would be through this bullshit. Guess again!

So Steve thinks I'm cool, because I'm the only teacher who doesn't go magically deaf when the word fag is screamed down the hallway, and, not shockingly, a couple of kids put together the fact that I was seen out with a cute science grad student a couple weeks ago (failed attempt at a relationship number seventeen) with the fact that I have good fashion sense and occasionally, you know, gesture, with the fact that I don't let them yell homophobic epithets down the hallway, and realized that yes, in fact, I am gay.

Now, this was not exactly a big secret. The administration knew, as I wasn't about to hide in the closet for the first time since ninth grade. The teachers knew. The students didn't, though; not because I'm ashamed, or even because I was worried about parental reactions (ha ha ha, how naïve I was), but because it was none of their business and it never came up. But yes, a couple of brilliant students put it together, the word spread around school, and the students I had placed in detention decided, for a change, to actually explain to their parents why.

Because, you know, clearly the fact that I'm a fag and Steve Peterson is a fag means that I have an absolutely inappropriate relationship with my seventh grade bio student. Seventh grade! If they were even vaguely correct in their accusations, I would deserve to be fired, locked up, and forcibly castrated; but as it turns out, wait for it, no I am not a goddamn child molester.

The fact that I coach little league apparently made it even worse. All that hot young elementary school ass! It must have been heaven for a pervert like me!

So, this afternoon I was asked to stop by the superintendent's office. I figured something was coming; I know they've been getting phone calls. I expected some sort of reprimand about favoritism, as they gave me one of those at the time, maybe a vague threat at worst—best case, just wanting to let me know what's going on.

But no.

Fired.

Well, not in so many words. There's no proof of wrongdoing (perhaps because there is no goddamn wrongdoing), despite the rumors; Steve Peterson apparently told his parents that they were insane, because ew, I'm old. (Does this count as failed relationship attempt number eighteen?) No matter how many therapists and anatomically accurate dolls they threw at him, he insists I've never said anything even vaguely inappropriate to him. All I did was tell some jackasses to watch their language, stop harassing him, and give them detention.

God bless honest kids like Steve Peterson.

Not that it did me any good.

So, yes. The superintendent is there, and the principal, and the vice principal, guidance counselor, the works. Which spells out to me that this is worse than I'd thought. Then they start talking—parents are uncomfortable with me coaching little league, given my sexual preferences, parents aren't thrilled with the rumors they've been hearing that I favor gay kids and punish straight boys for being straight, that they aren't sure what values I'm teaching their children.

To be fair, I'm not teaching them values. I'm teaching them goddamn seventh grade science.

But of course, the school can't actually fire me. There's no proof; Steve Peterson told his parents that if they try and claim I raped him, he'll run away from home and start selling his body to the people who would actually do such things (okay, see, now I would be tempted to start playing favorites with Steve, just imagining the look on his mother's face); and I haven't actually done anything wrong. And apparently, someone reminded the school administration that it is, in fact, illegal to fire someone based on sexual preferences.

So I'm being told eight months in advance that they don't plan to renew my contract in June. And would I mind taking a leave of absence until then? They can make it worth my while to let it go quietly, and look, I'll have almost a year to find another job!

Fucking rat bastard assholes.

And what, exactly, can I do? Yes, if I threatened legal action, they probably would let me continue teaching for the rest of the year, or somehow find legitimate grounds to fire me—only ninety-four percent of my seventh graders are passing the state mandated standardized tests! They wanted at least ninety-/five/ percent and I'm just not getting the job done.

And there goes my severance package.

And who wants to work for fucking rat bastards anyway?

I just don't want to be the one who has to tell Steve Peterson that I'm fired for being gay. Because to know yourself that well in seventh grade, and to be so comfortable and confident in yourself that you're willing to tell the world who you are and not care about the reaction... That takes a brave kid. And I don't want to make him think he was wrong to do any of it.

I may have yelled something along those lines when I stormed out of the office.

Fucking rat bastards.

*

I straighten my tie and knock on the district office's door. There was a problem with my son's enrollment papers, and it's all my fault; I have too much dignity to play the poor, harried, doesn't-know-what-he's-doing-without-a-wife pity card, but I don't have too much dignity to try and look nice and professional when going to make sure my five-year-old is safely enrolled in kindergarten.

Though if the secretary happens to be young, female, attractive, and willing to take sympathy on a poor, harried single dad who really has no idea what he's doing (and is only partially over the death of his wife) I might, you know, play that card. It's not that I'm over Charese (even a little bit, really), it's just that it's lonely at night.

Once I can get the five-year-old to sleep, I mean.

There's no answer so I let myself in, feeling like a little kid being sent to the office when I see the row of miniature plastic chairs—and then the few adult-sized ones at the end. There is a desk; however, the secretary who I assume would usually be behind it is, in fact, standing next to a door with her ear pressed to the wall. Fascinating.

As it turns out, there's not that much need to eavesdrop; I can hear the yelling a moment later.

"This is—this is bullshit! You are firing me—"

A mumble too low to hear, but I bet the secretary can.

"—You're seriously trying to bribe me into not suing you?! I can't believe you—"

Mumble mumble; I wish I was listening in as well. It certainly sounds dramatic.

"Well, you know what? Fuck you too!" The door bangs open, and the enraged figure behind it turns out to be barely on the tall side of average, with wide shoulders and blond hair. "Because you should be—the school should be proud of kids like Steve, who are, who, who are confident and comfortable enough to not be ashamed of who they are, even in an environment where assholes like you tell them that being gay is such a fucking crime that it can get a good teacher fired for doing absolutely nothing wrong!"

The secretary hurries over to her desk and smiles at me.

"Um..." I say. "I'm here about my kid's enrollment..."

"Ha!" the teacher (or, it seems, former teacher) snorts on his way by. "You should send your kid to a real school, where teachers can get some fucking respect!"

The door slams pretty hard after him, and I blink, having caught only a very quick look at his profile. But the voice, and the hair and the chin (and the sexuality, the very loud, obvious comments about sexuality) make me wonder if...

Couldn't be. It's been ten years; it couldn't be.

And Ryan, a teacher? Never would happen.

But still...

"I'll be right back," I tell the secretary, and flash her my best grin (the one that Charese said could turn women to jelly), and hurry out the door. A head of blond hair is disappearing out the main entrance of the school, and I hurry after and yell to the retreating figure: "Ryan?!"

He freezes.

He turns around.

Jesus Christ. Ryan Ballatt, the best friend who disappeared from my life ten years ago, is standing in front of me, looking more angry than I remember seeing him in my life.

He stares, and squints, and then calls, "Michael?"

I nod, and walk towards him. He gapes at me. I gape back. Ryan looks good; he's wearing khaki and a button up shirt with a tie, his belt coordinates with his shoes, and his eyepatch is gone. The glass eye is apparent, obviously, but I barely register it.

"Hi," I finally say. "Um..."

He stares over at nothing. "Hey, Michael. I, um, should probably go before I get arrested for verbal assault."

"Um..." I trail off. "I think maybe I'll enroll Terry somewhere else, if they fire teachers for being gay."

"Oh, I'm not fired," he mutters. "I'm taking a sabbatical for the remaining eight months of the school year, and then they aren't picking up my option. You're not allowed to fire teachers for being gay."

"Jesus Christ, assholes," I mutter. "So, um, how've you... been?"

"Well, I've been better, you know, on days when I don't get fired." He sighs, takes a deep breath. "Look, Michael, my head's kind of all over the place right now, I don't know if I can manage awkward small talk right now."

"Okay, cool. I guess I should go withdraw Terry, anyway."

"You were serious?"

"About not letting my son attend a school with institutionalized homophobia? Yes, of course."

"I meant, you seriously have a son?"

I smile. "His name's Terrence; he's five last month."

"Wow." Ryan smiles at me a little. "Way to go, Mikey."

"Yes, my sperm is mighty." I laugh. "Um, I get that you're having a bad day, and I have to go pick up Terrence from day care and all, but... I just moved here, I don't know anyone, so maybe... sometime... I don't know, we could hang out or something?"

"Uh... Yeah, sure," he says hesitantly. "Here, um." He reaches into his back pocket and produces a wallet; after digging in it for a minute, he hands me a card.

I glance down. His name, classroom number, phone extension at school, and email are all listed next to the school's logo. "Um..." I say.

He's got a pen in his hand, and I hand the card back to him. He scribbles out all of that except his name, writes the word 'FUCK' in thick letters over the school's logo, and writes his home phone number on the back. "Better?" he asks.

I nod. "I'll call... um..."

"Whenever's good for you, I guess. Since you've got a kid to schedule around, and I no longer even have a job to keep me busy." He hesitates, and gives my shoulder a quick thump. "See ya, Mikey."

"Bye, Ryan."

He walks off to a car, and I walk inside. Damned if I'll let my son go to a school that thinks there's something wrong with my best friend.

Well, there are a lot of things wrong with my (former?) best friend, but his being gay isn't one of them.

*

I'm about ten minutes from my house when it actually hits me that, holy fucking shit, that was Mikey. That was my Mikey, my perfect, oblivious, sensitive, sweeter than any human should be Mikey. The Mikey I kissed nine and a half years ago, and never managed to make up with after. That Mikey.

I feel a little dizzy and pull over to the side of the road, get out of my car, and seriously debate puking. In the last half hour, I've been accused of being a child molester, fired with no grounds, and then run into my first serious love. Who now has a kid, which kind of implies a female counterpart of some sort.

So much for the theory that someday, Mikey would realize he's gay and come searching for me. And as I seem to be incapable of getting beyond the third date mark, I would be single and waiting for him. Yeah. So much for that last adolescent fantasy of mine.

When I eventually stop feeling pretty ill, I get back in the car and drive home. I'm almost twenty-eight years old; I should be able to deal with this. And the thing is, I'm more outraged about the accusations than anything else. I really don't want to work in a school that gives any credence to unsubstantiated claims that I've ever done or said anything out of line with my students or little leaguers. I'm not a goddamn child molester, and the thought that I've been accused of it makes me shake with rage.

I flop down on my couch and debate calling someone. Let's see. There's Trina, the adult faghag nursery school teacher who likes to get coffee and complain about how hard it is to find a nice guy (oh, believe me, I know). She'd probably have some sympathy for me, but on the other hand, if I slip up and mention Mikey... Then that's it, game over. Fired, who cares? Hot ass!

Hot, probably married and definitely straight ass.

There's Greg the Cute Grad Student, who I hadn't planned to call again (apparently, a mutual feeling, as it's been three weeks since our last contact) but who I didn't really leave on bad terms, precisely. And that's about the sum total of people I can call, because all my other friends are friends through work, and I'm not ready to deal with that gang yet. Not until I've come to terms with the fact that I've been fired for something I didn't do.

Trina, or Greg...

My phone rings and I seriously, seriously debate letting the machine get it. I check caller ID and it has no clue who it is, but it's a local number. Maybe the superintendent calling to apologize for being a dick and give me my job back. Not likely, but then again, neither was the fantasy that someday Mikey would appear and say he's madly in love with me, and I nursed that one until, um, about an hour ago.

So what the hell. I pick up the phone. Maybe it'll just be a telemarketer, who can take my mind off this whole mess. "Hello?"

"Hey... Ryan? It's, um, Michael."

"Hey, Mike... Michael."

"I just figured maybe... I mean, you probably have a bunch of friends to take you out and tell how unfair this is and... stuff... but I don't know, if you want to come over for a drink or anything, I mean, if you don't already have plans... I just can't believe shit like this still happens, so I figured I'd try and do the supportive... friend... thing. If you want."

"You sure you want to let me in the same house as your son? I apparently like underage ass, the younger the better."

"What?!"

So I explain to Michael how telling a seventh grader not to use derogatory language means I've apparently molested the entire little league team I coached last year. The silence I get from Michael is not exactly reassuring.

Then, "Jesus Christ, what is wrong with these people?! Have they never met you? Have they never spoken to you? I—the only reason I'm not swearing at the top of my lungs right now is that Terry can hear me from the living room."

I almost smile a little. Good old Mikey.

"Thanks, Mikey. Michael. I, uh..."

"Man, I never thought talking with you would be so awkward," he says, which kind of takes the words right out of my mouth. "But, unless you already have plans, you are going to come over tonight. It's already almost five, and Terry's bedtime is six thirty, which means he's usually asleep by eight. So you are coming over for dinner and beer, and I'm not taking no as an answer."

Well, who am I to argue? "Sure, Michael."

"Um, I hope spaghetti-os are okay. At least, that's what Terry and I are having..."

"Sounds great."

"Great! Here, I'll give you directions, then I promised Terry I'd go read to him, so..."

Mikey reading to a kindergartener. Be still my beating heart. And go away, my unrequited crush. I'm an adult. I should be over this by now.

But I still write down his slightly confused directions, as he's new to the town and not quite sure how to give them. (He starts at the school, and I realize there's actually a much quicker way, which I'll maybe tell him about later. You know, if he ever wants to know how to get to my house.)

"So, eight o'clock?"

"Sounds good. Thanks, Michael."

"Hey, I'm just glad for a little conversation that doesn't involve Pooh Bear. Speaking of which, I did promise the squirt a story, so..."

"Of course. See you in a couple hours."

"Bye!" He hangs up, and I do too, and sigh.

Crush on Mikey? Yeah, I'm feeling that about now. A guy nice enough to call and find out what happened to me, not two hours after our freak coincidence meeting; a guy nice enough to invite me over to take care of me when I'm having a shitty day, even though he hasn't seen me in going on ten years.

Oh, man. Mikey, why aren't you gay?

*

Though I still use the silly voices when I read the story of Pooh's expedition to Terry, I am inwardly seething. How dare anyone accuse Ryan of something like that? How dare they? Do they not get that he's, like, the nicest guy who ever lived? That he's always been, yes, kind of impulsive and loud, but he's never intentionally hurt anyone, ever, to the best of my knowledge? Do they not get that he knows the difference between right and wrong? What is wrong with these people?!

I put Terry to bed. Terry wants another story, but I want to clean up a little before Ryan gets here. I'm still not entirely unpacked—in fact, there are still boxes in basically every room—and I never cleaned up from dinner. The house is in a state of chaos, because, well, a five-yearoold lives here. (And me, the hapless single father.)

And do I even have beer? Oh, god, I don't. But I can't leave Terry, to run down to the store, what if something happens when I'm gone? What if he gets scared and wants me? What if the house catches fire while I'm off buying beer? Oh god, what kind of a father am I? Ryan will understand, right? That I haven't had time to do much shopping, and my son comes first. I mean, he's a teacher, he'll understand about me having a kid, right?

Why am I so nervous? It's just Ryan. Just the guy who I haven't seen in ten years. The one who kissed me and never spoke to me again.

Who I invited over for drinks (because I can't go out, I don't even know who to call for a babysitter), even though I don't have anything to drink.

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

I tell myself firmly to stop panicking, that Ryan will understand, and I flip on the TV—softly, so I don't give Terry any ideas. I collapse on the couch for a few minutes, then try and get up and straighten, but it feels kind of hopeless. Nothing is ever going to make this place less chaotic. But I figure, I've still got an hour before he gets here; I can at least feed him something better than canned spaghetti-os, since I apparently can't give him anything to drink.

He arrives just as the chicken is getting done (and the chicken means cold leftovers tomorrow for me and Terry, which is actually good to know—I'm so bad at this menu planning thing). He looks a little frazzled, and I'm sure I do too, but out of the two of us, he has a right to.

"So..." I say. "Uh, hi, come on in... Sorry about the mess, we're still unpacking."

"Um," he says hesitantly. "Who... Who is 'we' exactly? I mean, I assume that if you have a son..."

"It's just me and Terry," I say.

"Oh." He looks a little surprised.

"Charese..." I'm not sure how to say it, so I just say it. "My wife died in a car crash. About a year ago. So it's just me and Terry."

"Oh, god, Mikey," he says, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too." I wonder what Charese would have thought of Ryan, and what Ryan would have thought of Charese. I loved them both, in vastly different ways; I hope they'd get along. "Uhhh... I know I invited you over for a drink, but I checked and, well, I haven't had a lot of time to shop yet, and I'm kind of... out..."

He gives me a wan smile. "No problem," he says. "I probably shouldn't drink when I'm depressed anyway, you know... I mean, you remember Dad."

I nod. The fact that Ryan's dad was an alcoholic was his worst kept secret; it figures he wouldn't drink much. Just to be sure. And if he's responsible about that, how the hell could anyone ever accuse him of harming a kid? Jesus.

"But," I say hastily, "I made chicken."

"Oooh," he says, sounding intrigued. "I'll admit that I'm a little starving."

"Well, then." I usher him into the kitchen and wonder what he thinks. I managed to wipe down the counters, stove, and table, but there are dishes in the sink, boxes stacked all over, and cheerios on the floor. Not to mention the myriad toys that decorate the whole house.

"So..." He gestures at the boxes. "I take it you haven't been here long?"

"About a week. I wanted to get Terry started at school as soon as I could, but now I'm not sure where I'm going to send him..."

"Seriously, don't worry about—the school was fine, good for kids," Ryan says.

"Nice try, but I'll go out of my way to avoid it, thanks."

He shoots me a smile. "Just don't do it on my behalf."

"If I heard about them doing that to anyone, I wouldn't... I mean, you know me."

"Do I?" Ryan asks. "I mean... I used to..."

"Yeah," I admit. "That was kind of a long time ago, huh? What... whatever happened to us?"

Ryan looks down at the cheerio-strewn floor. "You tell me," he says. "I was just... waiting for you to let me know it was okay. I figured it wasn't since you didn't..."

I frown. "Ryan, I wasn't... You were my best friend. We're on the same page here, right? We kind of drifted apart in college... Because, um, because..."

Ryan stares at his hands. "Because I kissed you," he says, like I could forget. "Yeah, same page."

"I was just..." I sit down and try to figure out what to say. "I was startled, you know. I didn't know what to say to you."

"A simple 'I don't hate your guts' would have been nice," Ryan says, and sounds a little bitter.

I start to snap a response, then remember the kind of day he's had and keep myself calm. "Why would I hate you?" I ask. "I was just startled."

"You could have called."

"I figured you were probably... pissed at me. You know, for freaking out," I say carefully. "And I figured freaking out made me kind of a, you know, jerk, and I didn't know what to say. Ryan... Please tell me you never thought I hated you." I stare over at him, and he continues staring at his hands. "Come on, I couldn't hate you. You're my... Were my best friend."

"I just thought..." He sighs, and looks up at me. "This isn't easy, you know. To talk about."

"It was a long time ago." I shrug. Any freaking out I did back then ended a long time ago, about the time I couldn't track down my best friend to be my best man. That was when I really realized how much I missed Ryan, and was sorry I'd ever let our friendship go like that.

"That doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt," he says. "Rejection doesn't stop hurting just because... I mean... Forget it." He sighs and looks up. "You said there's food?"

"Yeah, of course." I open the stove to check on the chicken, which appears to be done, so I dig around in the chaos for potholders. "What do you mean, rejection?" I ask, as I pull the chicken out.

"What?"

"What?" I repeat.

Then he laughs, but it's not a happy laugh. It's a kind of agonized laugh, like he's about to crack and lose it for good. "Ryan?" I ask.

"You seriously never got it?" he asks. I frown. Got what? So he continues, "Oh, man, Mikey. You really were oblivious."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Michael, I... Back in high school, I was in love with you." He shakes his head. "I mean, I knew you were straight; I knew the rejection was coming, I knew it was coming for years. But when you walked out after I kissed you—and then never called me or anything—and you were in college and I—I mean, what was I supposed to think?"

I sit down abruptly, chicken on the stove-top to cool. "You what?" I ask weakly.

He shrugs. "I was in love with you. My best friend. For years."

"But..."

"I figured you'd figured it out, that you didn't want to... deal with me anymore or anything. I mean, if I were you I might have been pissed..."

"I didn't know," I say, horrified at my own oblivion, horrified that Ryan though I hated him all these years, horrified because if I'd know, I'd never, ever have let it go. I'd have made sure he knew that I still cared about him, wanted to stay friends, I'd never have lost my best friend...

I try to think of a way to explain all of that, a way to apologize, when Terry starts crying.

*

I think Mikey's kid must have good timing, because right when I can't stand it, and I don't know what to say and God knows he doesn't either, he starts screaming. Screaming and crying, sounding like something terrible is going on, and of course Mikey runs off. I wonder if I should follow, then decide it's probably some sort of father-son thing, and sit around for a few minutes. I can hear the crying, and Mikey talking, and look around.

It's obvious Mikey hasn't had time to unpack yet, but has been trying; I can see boxes and dishes and empty cabinets. There's one closet, also empty, and it's hanging open. A broom is sitting inside it, looking lonely and unused.

I can still hear the kid crying, and having nothing else to do, I get up, grab the broom, and begin to sweep. Yeah, Ryan, I tell myself. That'll make him forget you've said you're in love with him. Sweep his floor.

But I sweep his floor, and since I can still hear the poor boy crying, I start doing dishes. Then I explore the cupboards and see there's barely anything in them; the box on top of the pile is open, with mugs and glasses in it, so I pick a cupboard that looks appropriate and start putting them away. I'm halfway through the box when Michael walks back into the room, looking harried.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

He sighs. "Terry's not used to the new room yet, and he dreams about his mom sometimes, and... He's such a trooper, you know, I just moved him across the country and all."

I nod, and he sees what I've been doing.

"I, uh, meant to get around to all of that... Oh, god, you did the dishes. Ryan, I..."

I shrug. "You were doing something more important," I answer.

"He's such a good kid. I don't know what... I mean, I moved us out here to get away from all the, the memories of his mom. I figured it's closer to his grandparents, it's a nice house with a big yard, there's the one school and then the gifted high school, but I don't know if it's enough."

"Enough for what?"

"For Terry... I want to do everything for him, but I'm not a mom. I don't know what I'm doing half the time."

"You think moms do?" I ask, thinking about my own mom and how she died. In a car crash, when I was just a couple of years older than Terry. But my dad never really tried—needless to say there was no nice house and yard, no gifted and talented program in my future. "You're such a good dad," I say. "I'm sure of it."

"I wish I was sure." He sighs. "So, um, chicken. And now we have clean plates, too." He looks over at me and smiles. "Jesus, Ryan, I missed you. I called everyone we were friends with in high school when we were planning the wedding, I mean, when we were ten and my cousin got married you promised to be my best man."

I smile at him. "I didn't expect you to really do it," I say.

"I wanted to. I really... really missed you, sometimes."

"I missed you too," I say, and can't stop myself from adding, "You know, usually at this point in my fantasy, you tell me you're gay and we go have amazing sex."

He stares for a second, then laughs a little. "Ryan, if I'd ever realized you liked me, I would have... made sure you know I loved you. You know, as a brother. I never wanted to lose that, I never wanted to... to hurt you."

"I know," I say, shrugging. "If I wasn't such a chicken, I'd have called you after the kiss, just told you the truth."

"I wish you had," he says, then, "I wish I'd called you."

I clear my throat, as he hands me a plate of chicken. "Um, Mikey, if you're around... I mean, if you need any help, I'm around. If you need someone to, I don't know, go shopping or watch the kid for awhile..."

"Thank you," he says, and sounds really grateful. "I mean, I can't believe this. I pick a random town and move, and my best friend shows up out of the blue."

I hear myself asking before I think about it, and feel quite pathetic, "Am I? Your best friend?"

He shoots me a smile, the one that's always made me melt, the one I've seen in my dreams and memories for years now, and says, "You always were. No one's ever known me like you."

This is the point where I wish I could grab him and kiss him, but instead I just grin over at him. "Back at you," I say.

"All I get's a 'back at you?' Pshaw." He smirks at me. "But thanks."

"Good chicken," I say.

"Charese's recipe."

And I wonder, how long is it going to take before he and I are comfortable together again?