FicWad

He was trying to just ignore everyone.

It wasn’t exactly working, but it wasn’t exactly not working either.

Zoe was still being nice.

Jared was still ignoring him. Evan looked at him sometimes, but almost always ducked his head after, like he was too scared to actually say anything.

Mr. Weston hadn’t come back. Connor was beginning to suspect he had actually quit. Or been fired.

Brian and his idiots had mostly backed off after pulling the shit with the note on Zoe. Apparently, while the teachers hadn’t noticed Connor nearly choking Jared out in the halls, the other kids had. Suddenly, people seemed to realize that despite being one of the shortest guys in the class, Connor was.

Scary.

Violent.

Not to be messed with.

He wasn’t really going to try to convince people otherwise. It wasn’t like it would earn him any friends.

So people left him alone.

The only people that Connor had yet to receive a verdict from were Jake, Sarah, and Aidan. He’d been grounded and suspended so he hadn’t seen them after school. Connor kind of hoped that this would be another time where Jake thought something idiot thing that he had done was cool, like hurling a printer at Mrs. G.

But he had no way of knowing.

Before bed on Wednesday, Connor locked himself in the bathroom. He was in there under the pretense of brushing his teeth, but honestly he was avoiding his dad like he had been all week.

His parents still weren’t talking; Connor had realized that his dad was sleeping in the guest room this morning when he walked in on his dad shaving in the upstairs bathroom.

Connor distantly thought that someday he’d need to learn how to do that.

He wasn’t sure he could stomach the thought of Fucking Larry showing him how to put a razor to his throat and not die.

He also wasn’t sure he wanted to be alive long enough that shaving became a necessity. No. He was sure that he didn’t want to be alive by then.

Nightmare.

So Wednesday night, Connor heard his dad get home at 9:30 and hid himself in the bathroom, locking the door. He was avoiding his dad at all costs. He didn’t want to give his dad a chance to hit him again. In part because Connor was sure that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from hitting back this time. Not that he didn’t think that his dad couldn’t kick his ass. The opposite actually; if Connor hit Larry back, then Larry might use it as an opportunity to beat Connor senseless. Which would make his mom cry, it would make Zoe scream, and then the neighbors would notice and call CPS and everything would be so embarrassing for the rest of his life so he’d have to find a way to kill himself which would break his mom and ruin things for Zoe even more.

Connor caught sight of himself in the mirror. Thankfully, his hair was starting to grow back. By the end of the summer he might look like himself again.

Connor figured, since he was hiding out in the bathroom, he might as well actually brush his teeth.

He wet his toothbrush, squeezed a small amount of toothpaste onto the brush, and started to scrub his teeth. He’d read somewhere recently that you were actually meant to brush in circles, not by running the brush back and forth over your teeth. So he tried it, moving the brush in deliberate circles over his front teeth, then the sides of his teeth, then the bottom, then the top.

When he spit toothpaste into the sink, there was blood in it again, turning the white foam pink.

Connor blinked a few times.

He knew that blood probably meant he was brushing too hard.

But his mouth still felt disgusting. So he rinsed off the brush and kept at it. He brushed harder, spitting more blood. Brushed until the bristles of his toothbrush squeaked against his teeth, until the teeth gleamed white behind the little tributaries of red that collected on his lower lip. He brushed, focusing on the backs of his front teeth, and the backs of his back teeth. He rinsed out his mouth and then decided to floss. He flossed each tooth twice, his gums bleeding freely now as he decided he definitely ought to be flossing more. He’d stopped caring so much after his braces had come off. Definitely needed to try harder to floss.

After he finished flossing, he brushed again. Harder. He brushed and brushed and brushed, until the toothbrush came away pink and all the bristles flattened, he brushed until his gums throbbed and his jaw ached from being open so long, until his elbows protested the motion.

Finally satisfied that his mouth was clean, Connor rinsed with mouthwash that burned.

He stared at his face in the mirror.

Greasy. Pale, spotted.

He decided to wash his face too.

He stole some of the soap that Zoe had put in the medicine cabinet, the one that smelled sort of sweet. He read the back of the bottle, and poured out the recommended amount into his hands. He rubbed it on his face. It tingled a little, and the little scrubby particles felt good against his face, like they might peel back a layer of himself that he didn’t like.

He kept scrubbing at his face until the soap was nearly dry, then wet his hands and started again. He washed and washed and washed until his face started to burn and then he rinsed rinsed rinsedrinsedrinsed, washing away all of the soap, all of burn, all of his face, leaving behind nothing but a soaked mirror and a pair of large, scared eyes staring into the watery reflection.

What the fuck was the matter with him?

Why had he done this? What was he even doing? He was losing it, he was lost already, he was just finding newer, weirder ways to hurt himself.
Connor used a small hand towel his mom had put out in the bathroom to wipe up the water on the mirror and counter.

Satisfied that his face and mouth were as good as they were going to get, he stepped out of the bathroom to head to his room.

“What were you doing in there?” Zoe asked him, appearing in her doorway, making him jump.

“Brushing my teeth,” Connor muttered.

“You were in there for like an hour.”

“I flossed,” he said dully, bidding her goodnight and heading into his bedroom.

He climbed into bed, still dressed in that day’s clothes.

He.

He needed something.

Just something, anything, to change. To get better. He was starting to crack up, like properly lose it. Lose track of time. Lose track of himself, of what was normal anymore.

He just had no idea what would even make anything better.

Nothing seemed to work. He couldn’t read, couldn’t think, couldn’t keep his eyes open at school or keep them closed at home when he was meant to be sleeping. He’d already been shouted at by the new English teacher for falling asleep during silent reading that day.

He was losing it. He’d lost it.

Connor wished he was still a little kid. If he were little, he’d just to cry to his mom, throw himself into her lap and sob until she figured out how to fix him.

He couldn’t do that now.

He couldn’t do anything now. He just kept waiting for an idea to come to him, one that he could pull off, one that he could use to take himself out of this situation.

But nothing came to him.

Thursday, after school, while Zoe went to her guitar lesson, Connor got dragged with his mom to the grocery store. He didn’t want to go with her, but since he was grounded until his dad finally died, he didn’t have a lot of options. So he pushed the cart around behind his mom, sighing a lot, wishing he could have just stayed in the car reading.

His mom was waiting at the deli for something so she shooed him off to the dairy section to pick up milk. As he was walking, Connor thought he saw, of all people, Mr. Weston, standing in the middle of the yogurt aisle.

….Holding hands with another guy.

Connor immediately dove into the next aisle, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. Through the shelves of dairy, Connor could make out their conversation over the hum of the refrigerators.

“Still think it’s absolutely ridiculous,” The guy holding Mr. Weston’s hand said.

Mr. Weston sighed. “I don’t really have a leg to stand on. I told them I wasn’t sure I could renew my contract in good faith… and they told me not to bother returning for the rest of the year. And now I have to go crawling back to my parents, begging my mom to help me find something in her district...”

“Lucky thing, having a superintendent as your mom.”

“More like, lucky that my old school didn’t actually open an investigation into me for inappropriate behavior toward a student…”

“Obviously that was bullshit, John. They had to know you’d never hurt a kid.”

“I mean I was a diversity hire…”

“Please, you’re still white.” The guy laughed. Connor could make out a discontented sound from Mr. Weston. “They should still at least consider the feedback you gave on the progress reports,” the guy said.

Mr. Weston sighed again.. “I mean obviously they are of the opinion that they’ve got a problem kid on their hands, not someone who clearly needs help. Like I saw the cuts on his arms that week… I should have emailed his parents when I had the chance...”

Connor crept around the wall of cheese, spying. Mr. Weston had let go of the guy’s hand, starting pushing their cart forward, sticking a big tub of plain Greek yogurt into the cart. Connor followed, trying to stay far enough back that he wouldn’t attract attention but close enough that he could still hear them.

Mr. Weston had seen. Mr. Weston was talking to this guy he was holding hands with about him.

That… Connor didn’t know if that made him angry or happy or relieved or what.

Someone had noticed.

But that also meant that other people might have noticed.

Connor didn’t know what he wanted.

He just knew he didn’t want his old teacher to see him spying at the grocery store.

Connor stopped a few times to stare into the freezer cases when he thought they might be looking back at him. He knew a kid alone at the grocery store might attract looks, so he tried to keep himself looking busy and not making trouble so that nobody would look at him.

Connor actually had to stop once they reached the milk refrigerator, and he kept his eyes trained away from Mr. Weston and his (partner? boyfriend? husband?) whatever, just in case they had looked back.

“Connor?”

Damn it.

He pulled out a bottle of milk and put it into the cart and tried to look surprised. “Mr. Weston?”

“Aren’t you a little young to be shopping on your own?” Asked Mr. Weston’s… guy. Man. Hand holder. Whatever. Whoever he was.

“My mom was getting something from the deli,” Connor mumbled. “I’m getting milk.” He pointed, lamely, to the milk he had just put into the cart.

Mr. Weston shot the guy he was with a look. “Connor, I’ve been thinking about you all week. How are things at school? You’re back in classes now, right?”

Connor nodded. “Yeah. Things are… okay I guess. The substitute in your class is… sort of strict.”

Connor watched recognition dawn on the other man’s face, and Connor felt his own heat up. Mr. Weston had clearly been talking about Connor to this guy. Enough that a vague reference to Connor’s suspension made the guy know exactly who he was. It was bad enough everyone at school knew that Connor was an out and out freak, but now he was a freak in the eyes of a complete stranger.

“Are you really not coming back?” Connor asked sadly, his eyes trained on his shoes. He tried to sound indifferent, like he didn’t really care, but it was obvious how much he did...

“I… I’m not. I’m so sorry.”

“Is it… it’s not because of the stuff those kids wrote in that note, right?” Connor dared to look up then.

Mr. Weston frowned. “No. Not exactly. I… I wasn’t happy with the way the administration handled that whole situation.”

Connor swallowed hard. “I got you fired, didn’t I?”

Mr. Weston shook his head. “No Connor. No, please don’t think that. That isn’t what happened… it was. The situation was complicated, but it absolutely wasn’t your fault.”

Connor nodded, stupidly, wishing he’d never spotted them here.

“I… Connor. You said your mom was here?”

He nodded again, hating himself for opening his stupid mouth.

Mr. Weston traded a glance with his… person. “Would you mind introducing me?”

“Why?” Connor said, suspiciously, his heart speeding up, worried. He was going to tell her. He was going to tell her .

Connor weighed the pros and cons.

Pros: Connor would probably be sent back to therapy immediately, and his mom would probably cry a lot.

Cons: Connor would probably be sent back to therapy immediately, which would piss off his dad.

“I…um…”

“Look, Connor…” Mr. Weston was biting his lip. “I... “ He glanced back at his guy. “You’re a good kid. I know you’ve been working really hard to keep out of trouble, and I know that this wasn’t your fault. I just… I’m concerned about you.”

“Why?”

Mr. Weston frowned. “I can just… I can tell you’ve been having a hard time.”

Connor must have looked confused, and Mr. Weston… pushed up his sleeve, stepping closer to talk to him, but Connor didn’t hear a word he said. There, on his wrist, was a pink, vertical scar that ran from the top of his wrist to the middle of his arm. He suspected that Mr. Weston wasn’t trying to show the scar off but he also wasn’t trying to hide it. He looked so worried, like Connor’s mom had looked after his dad said that he couldn’t see Dr. Sherman anymore. “I. I was a lot like you when I was younger. I think I… I know what you’re going through. What… you’ve been doing to cope, and… And I’m worried about you.”

Connor thought he might puke.

Like literally get sick right there in the grocery store.

“I… You can’t talk to my mom.”

Mr. Weston frowned. His partner frowned. “Why not? You’re not going to get into trouble, Connor. This isn’t something you did wrong...”

“I will,” he said, pleading. “I’ll get into so much trouble… If you tell her, then she’ll tell my dad… he’s… He’s gonna leave. He’s been saying so for a while…if I can’t get it together, he’ll leave us and-and if he leaves…” If their dad left, he’d take Zoe. If their dad left, Connor’s mom would need to get a job and he’d never get to see her. If their dad left, Zoe would hate him for breaking up the family, his mom would hate him for taking away her husband, his dad would hate him because he already hated Connor but this could be a concrete reason.

Mr. Weston looked, if possible, more worried. “Connor, I just want make sure you get the help you need…”

“I don’t need anything,” Connor said, his heart racing. “I’m fine. I don’t need any help. Really, I… I’m fine.”

“Connor, please listen to me,” Mr. Weston said, his voice lower. “I get it. I understand… I’ve been there too.”

“You don’t. You don’t get it,” Connor said, shaking his head.

Mr. Weston dropped to one knee in front of Connor, so they were eye to eye because Mr. Weston was so tall and Connor was so short, and Mr. Weston put his arms on Connor’s slumped shoulders. “Connor I know. Really, I do. I was very mixed up when I was in middle school too. I…” He glanced nervously at the guy he was with, who was frowning, his eyes darting around. “That’s… That’s Gabe. He’s my boyfriend. And when I was your age… Connor, believe me when I say that I get it… I understand where you’re at. So please. Please let me talk to your parents. I won’t say anything you don’t want me to…”

“I can’t.”

“Connor….”

“Please.”

Mr. Weston looked helplessly back at his boyfriend Gabe. Then said. “Okay, fine…” He went into his pocket, and pulled out a scrap of paper, a shopping list, and a pen. He scribbled something on the back of this. “I understand if you don’t want me to talk to your parents… but please, please talk to me if you need something. Anything.” He handed the list over to Connor. It had his phone number on the back. “Anything, really. I want you to know you aren’t alone, okay?”

But he was alone.

He was.

He took the number with numb fingers.

“That’s my cell. Call, text, whatever you need.”

He knew he would never use it.

“Are you sure I can’t just talk quickly to your mom? I have a number for a psychologist in town… I…”

But Connor had pulled out of Mr. Weston’s grasp before he finished speaking, grabbed the cart he had been pushing, and hurried away away, turning down an aisle of breakfast cereal, his heart beating too fast in his chest, his breathing uneven.

Mr. Weston had clocked him from a mile away. He knew exactly what was going on. He’d seen through every single thing that Connor had tried to do to hide his disaster, the mess he was, the broken pieces he was barely holding together.

But he couldn’t let Mr. Weston help because if he got too close to Connor’s mom then she’d know, immediately, that Connor was just like Mr. Weston. Broken and wrong and bad and messed up through and through.

She’d know.

About everything .

And somehow it wasn’t even how much she would cry about the cuts and the bruises and the other ways he had hurt himself… it was the other stuff too, the stuff he tried to shut his eyes to…

Connor knew he wasn’t into girls.

He knew that if he was into anyone at all, it was boys.

But he also knew he was disgusting and wrong and ugly and broken and even if his dad didn’t murder him when he found out, Connor wasn’t ever going to find somebody who could ever like him back.

Mr. Weston was lucky.

Mr. Weston had no idea. He’d gotten out, gotten better, gotten a boyfriend or whatever.

There was no hope for anything like that for Connor. He knew that. He’d always known that. It wasn’t news, it wasn’t a secret.

But for some reason that fact sort of crashed into him then, standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery chain, and Connor just. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t just stand there and not freak out.

His face burned, his chest hurt, he just wanted to die.

In that instant he knew for certain that things might get better for people like him, but they would never ever get better for him.

He was going to be alone forever.

Connor ditched the cart and rushed to the bathroom, locking himself in a foul smelling stall stuffing the collar of his shirt into his mouth to muffle the sound of his wheezing gasps. He hit his head against the stall door once it was locked, smacking the back of his head in a repetitive rhythm, not stopping until he couldn’t feel it anymore, until all he felt was a dull ache and nothing else.

He felt his phone buzz after a minute. A text, from his mom, “Where did you go? I asked you to meet me by the frozen food.”

He stared at the text as it swam before his face.

He stared down at his shoes. They’d gotten a little too tight in the toes. His ankles poked out from the hem of his jeans, too short on him now.

He kept growing.

His body kept growing but he knew he’d never grow out of this. Some things were permanent, and how broken he was was going to stick.

Connor was struck with the thought that somehow things would only get worse for him as he got bigger. Nightmare. Utter nightmare.

Another text from his mom followed. “Connor I’m getting worried.”

He knew he needed to go then, but his giant canoe feet with bony ankles wouldn’t move.

He pulled the collar of his t-shirt out of his mouth, realizing how close to gagging on it he was. Took a few shallow breaths, not daring to breathe through his nose because the bathroom smelled like piss and shit and generic toilet bowl cleaner and flowery air freshener which didn’t freshen the air at all. He stepped out of the stall, and splashed cold water on his face. He hurried back to the cart, rushing to the frozen food section, grateful to see that Mr. Weston and his boyfriend or whatever were nowhere in sight when he found his mom.

“There you are! You scared me.”

“Sorry… I went to the bathroom,” He mumbled.

His mom shook her head. “We should go, we’ve still got to pick up your sister.”

Zoe chatted nonstop after her guitar lessons. Connor was a little bit relieved that she was back to talking to him now. Things were starting to get too quiet in his head. Even if she still hated him, at least it wasn’t too quiet.

“That sounds great honey,” their mom said from the driver’s seat. “Maybe we’ll have to have a little concert when we all get home. You can play us some of the stuff you’re working on.”

Zoe smiled. She turned around from the front seat, looking at Connor. “I have a new song I wanna learn…”

“Cool.”

“It has a piano part…”

Connor looked at her, confused.

“Could you… maybe take a look at the sheet music?”

Connor nodded uncertainly. She wanted them to play together? This was beyond Zoe’s regular levels of nice. She must really want to learn the song for some reason.

He looked the sheet music over that night, before his dad got home, sitting at the keyboard in his bedroom, volume low, tinkering with the notes, figuring out the rhythm a little. It wasn’t especially difficult, some pop song by a band that Connor didn’t know… but the melody was nice. And a little complex. He’d need to really practice to get this one right.

Sometimes he’d catch a note or two coming from Zoe’s room. She was practicing too. Connor debated knocking on her door, asking her to join him, seeing if they could work out the song together…

But then he worried she’d laugh.

He knew she was better at reading music than he was. She picked up songs faster, because she was so good at sight reading songs, whereas he needed a little bit more practice until he got it right. He was shit at sight reading, but good at playing by ear. If he weren’t so nervous he’d ask her to play him the song so he could pick out the piano parts, but he was nervous and he thought too hard about it and then his hands started to shake and it took him a while to stop letting his brain wander back to his conversation with Mr. Weston.

So he didn’t knock on Zoe’s door. Instead he just kept playing the trickiest parts, over and over, until he got it right. It took time. Hours. He wolfed down his dinner super fast so that he could get back at it. He managed to make his way through the whole song three times without stopping by the time he he heard the front door open, signaling that his dad was home, and also that Connor was finished practicing for the night. He wished his dad wasn’t so critical of his playing, or else Connor might have stayed up into the early hours of the morning practicing until it was perfect. He knew it was stupid, trying so hard to please his sister who hated him, but when was the last time they actually managed to do anything together? He wanted to get at least this right.

He remembered reading about people, mostly pianists, who had been in prisons, like during World War II and the Holocaust and stuff, who used to keep their technique sharp by imagining a piano and practicing using their fingers while they did other things, like hard labor or pretending to sleep in the barracks. Connor didn’t think his imagination was quite that good, but he went over the notes in his head again anyway, practicing moving his fingers in the air until his wrists began to ache.

He wondered if he could practice being normal this way too. If he could imagine himself into getting better, being better, being less weird and gay and whatever else was wrong with him.

Connor laid back on his bed.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to conjure up a girl in his mind. Not just any girl. A girl he could like. Like really like. Like he was supposed to. A girl he could, like, have a crush on or whatever. A girl he wanted to kiss and touch and talk to; a girl to occupy his thoughts the way that boys did.

He tried and tried and tried, but no matter what picture he pulled up in his head, no matter how hot he tried to make the girl with big boobs and wet lips and a sexy smile, it was no use. He never wanted anything to do with her, not like that. He mostly wished she’d get dressed, and maybe tell him about what things she actually liked. He couldn’t fantasize about kissing her or whatever. His body didn’t react to his imagined girl the way it did when he conjured boys into his mind without prompting.

He tried so hard not to think about boys, but he did. Not just any boys. Nice boys. Good looking ones, with good hair and nice clothes and lean muscles…

Connor frowned at the way he felt himself reacting and knew he needed to redirect his thoughts. He didn’t let himself think about any guys either.

If he couldn’t make himself start liking girls, then he’d just… practice not liking boys. He didn’t know how he’d do it, but he’d find a way.

He.

Thought about guys, the sort that came to mind when he locked himself in his bedroom or bathroom and jerked off, and then pressed down hard on one of the newer, more tender cuts on his arm. Trying to associate the thought of guys with that pain.

But of course because his brain was a fucking landfill, that didn’t work. Didn’t make him less interested in jerking off or thinking about guys.

Fuck.

Connor knew he needed to figure this out.

Even if it meant holding a pillow over his face until he passed out or something. He couldn’t go on liking other guys. He was too much of a freak already.

But as he drifted off to sleep, Connor felt envy welling inside of him.

Mr. Weston was gay. He had a boyfriend. They held hands at the grocery store and talked about work.

Nobody would ever look at Connor that way, he knew that. Even if it turned out that every single guy in his school woke up tomorrow morning realizing they were super super gay, nobody would pick him. Because nobody would ever pick him, ever. And he hated how much that hurt.

Friday at school was fine.

His parents had said that if he made it through the week without any problems, they would consider lifting the ban on going to the library.

Connor had a feeling he’d fuck that up somehow, but he agreed to the terms regardless.

The day was boring. The weather had gotten a little too warm for the long sleeves he was wearing, and the air conditioner that the school usually turned on by the end of May or early June was on the fritz. So Connor was just praying that deodorant he wore was working and tried hard not to raise his hand.

He got in trouble in gym class though. Which was really the beginning of the end.

He wouldn’t take his sweatshirt off.

Even though they were going outside and it was at least eighty degrees and Connor was already sweating, he refused to ditch the hoodie he wore over his gym clothes. Mr. Bryant didn’t look amused. “Murphy, take off he sweatshirt or you’re in detention.”

Connor ignored him.

“Fine, you know what, keep it on. Lunch detention all next week. Today you’re running laps.”

So Connor ran laps while the rest of his class got to struggle through a game of softball. Connor honestly preferred the laps; he hated any variation on baseball. He was terrible at it.

The only bad thing about the laps were that 1. Everyone was watching and 2. He was getting even more sweaty and hot. But he knew he couldn’t take off the hoodie because the moment he did that he was screwed, absolutely fucked.

So he ran and ran and ran, sweat soaking the armpits of his hoodie, staining the back, but Connor didn’t care. He kept running until the bell finally rang.

He raced, still running, back to the locker room, managing to shower and change before any of the other kids got back. He didn’t care if he was in trouble, he didn’t care about anything but not getting caught.

Connor had to walk slowly to his next class, his legs and arms shaking, still not able to catch his breath. He wished he could just go home. He wished the school would fix the stupid air conditioner. He wished he hadn’t fucked up his arms so badly.

He wished he wasn’t so badly fucked up.

As he struggled to catch his breath quietly, still sweating an embarrassing amount, Connor put his head on the lab tables in his biology class.

He only looked up when he heard a soft thump on the table.

Someone had placed a cold water bottle on his desk, next to his things.

Connor looked around anxiously, certain it was a trick or a trap or something meant to mess with him.

But also he was sort of in the process of dying of heat stroke, so some water sounded amazing.

He tried to figure out who would have done it.

“Are you okay?”

Connor turned to Alana Beck, his lab partner, sitting next to him. She still had her hair all in braids. She looked a little annoyed.

“Fine. Did you see who put this here?” Connor asked, pointed.

Alana shrugged.

Connor was starting to get desperate. His throat was so dry he was scared he might puke.

He took the water bottle, praying it wasn’t a trick, and carefully unscrewed the top. Nothing bad happened.

He took a sip.

It tasted fine. Like bottled water. It was so cold that Connor had to physically stop himself from moaning in pleasure.

Who was being nice to him? And why? What the hell?

He glanced around again to see Evan Hansen turn his face to the front quickly. The back of his neck turned red.

Perfect. Now the only other loser as pathetic as Connor felt sorry for him.

Great.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say anything. He was shutting up, that was all he was going to do anymore.

By the end of the day, Connor knew he was going home to get just… extra grounded. No doubt his exploits had managed to weave their way through the gossip pipeline and Zoe would know by now.

So long books.

Nice knowing you.

He'd probably get sent to military school or something stupid like that. Whatever.

Connor started to walk to the bus as school let out for the day, but he was distracted by Jake’s familiar voice, followed by Sarah and Aidan.

So, knowing he was already in trouble, Connor redirected his steps around the school buses to see where Jake and the others were hiding out.

He was surprised to see them talking to Zoe. Well. Not talking. Laughing. Probably at her.

Connor’s lip twitched. He didn’t mean it to, but it was sort of funny to see someone picking on perfect Zoe.

“Please, I didn’t do anything!” She whimpered.

“Take her guitar,” Jake said to Sarah who looked at him, annoyed. “Well I can’t hit her!”

Zoe turned, her oversized guitar case on her back, but Sarah caught her easily and wrenched it away, handing it to Jake. Then she pushed Zoe to the ground, hard.

“Hey!” Connor was running at them before he’d even thought about it. “What the hell are you doing? That’s my sister!”

Jake laughed. “Oh hey Connor,” he said, smiling in a way that was too bright, too wide, too creepy to be real. “How’s it going?”

Sarah kicked Zoe as she tried to scramble away.

“What the hell?” Connor said, shoving Jake.

“You dislocated my brother’s jaw,” Jake said, still smiling. “So I figured I’d do the same to precious Zoe.”

“What?” Connor said, breathing hard, and behind him he heard Zoe crying.

And then Jake launched himself at Connor but the thing was….

Connor was faster.

And when Jake went to punch Connor, his landed awkwardly and he jumped back, clutching his hand…

The thing was. Connor actually knew how to throw a punch.

He sort of stopped hearing at that moment, stopping seeing much of anything, socking Jake so hard that he watched the older boy spit blood before collapsing in a heap.

Aidan was trying to drag Sarah away, going on about how, “Murphy's lost his fucking mind man, let’s go.” And she was laughing, calling Jake a pussy, carrying on about how she’d done the dirty work, how she wasn’t afraid of a seventh grader.

But Connor rounded on them. “Did you fucking hit my sister?” He said. His voice came out a lot lower than it ever had before.

“N-no,” Sarah said, and she actually looked scared which was hilarious really, because she was at least a full head taller than Connor and had at least twenty pounds on him.

Connor could hear Zoe sobbing behind him.

Well then.

That settled it.

He tackled Sarah to the ground and ignored Aidan as he shouted that Connor couldn’t just hit a girl. He did it anyway, not as hard or as many times as he’d hit Jake, but still hit her until she started crying and her nose bled.

Aidan had tried to pull Connor off of her, unsuccessfully, because Connor was an immovable object, an unstoppable force, and so Connor hit Aidan too, even though as far as he saw Aidan hadn’t actually done anything but annoy him. Aidan doubled over, wheezing, and Connor hit him once more just to make sure he stayed down.

He took a deep breath.

Realized his head was throbbing. His hands were too. Zoe’s cries were mixed in with the groans and swearing of the older kids.

“If you ever touch her again,” Connor said, his voice still scarily low, “I’ll kill you.”

He walked over to Zoe, who was still crying, hiding her face. “Are you okay?” He asked.

And Zoe jumped back, shouting, “Don’t touch me!”

“Zo, hey, I’m not…” Connor took a step closer, and she scrambled to her feet, shouting, again.

“Stay away from me!” Her eyes were huge. She looked terrified, like he might pounce on her any second, like he might hit her too.

“Zoe, come on- ”

“You’re… you just…” Zoe was just sobbing then, like a little kid, her face shiny and slick with tears, her nose running. She bent then, still crying, to pick up her guitar case, whimpering as she did. “Please leave me alone. Please.”

“Let me carry that, Zo, come on…” Connor said quietly, reaching out an arm to offer to take the guitar for her.

“No! Don’t touch me! Don’t even look at me, psycho!”

Connor stayed back, watching as Zoe limped off, carrying her guitar case, stopping every few minutes to wipe her face. Their parents were going to absolutely murder him.

He’d scared her.

He tried to help and he’d scared her.

Fuck.

Why did he even try anymore, what was even the point?

The other kids behind him were starting to struggle to their feet.

He walked over to Jake, shoving him back to the ground.

“Hey asshole. You got any cigarettes or weed on you?” he asked.

Jake nodded meekly, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a half smoked pack of cigarettes. “There’s two joints in there too.”

“Thanks,” Connor said sarcastically, taking out a cigarette, lighting it with the lighter shoved into the pack, and walking away.

Fine.

Just.

Fine.

Whatever.

He’d just.

He’d just be numb. Stop feeling. For good.