“The fetid, black cave yawns before you. From deep within, the sound of flesh and sinew being torn from bone echoes off the slick limestone walls. Unholy groans of delight, guttural and bestial, ring in your ears, sending an involuntary shudder up your spine. As you step closer, you can just barely see the shapes of several hulking creatures hunched over the remains of what was once your friend, Count Cinderdew, and his trusty steed, Arora. Your man-servant, Hobbes, doubles over, spilling the contents of his breakfast to the mossy ground. Stringing meat sticks in the shadowy beasts’ slavering teeth. Their rope-like tongues drip spittle and blood to the rough stone floor.”
Nate loved these moments. He peered over a stack of books and loose dice at his two closest friends, Sam Meyer and Charlie Gallagher. The three of them had been retreating to the safety of the Artemis High School drama department’s costume loft to play Dungeons and Dragons since they were freshman.
Motes of dust pirouetted in the amber light thrown from the single bulb that hung from a twisted wire. It cast thick shadows across the room, creating an ideal, otherworldly atmosphere for their game. Row upon row of moth-eaten theater clothes covered the walls around them. The long-forgotten corpses of terrible musical productions and embarrassing stabs at Sophocles from years past.
Despite being only seventeen years old, Nate’s hair had already begun to thin, and he had the perpetual sourness and physical gait of a fifty-year-old accountant.
His father had always joked that he had come out of the womb middle aged; the dark rings under his eyes and furrowed brow did him no favors. He had been beaten up repeatedly in elementary school over his use of a briefcase instead of a backpack.
“Great… trolls,” Sam sighed, scratching a dry patch of skin on the back of her hand as her thick, black-framed glasses slid down her nose. Nate had always considered Sam pretty, though she tried her best not to be. Her mother had knit her an army green sweater for Christmas in the sixth grade, which she had worn almost every day since. The odors produced by the thing were tremendous. The rest of her clothes were either unintentionally stolen (Sam had a habit of borrowing things indefinitely from friends and family) or purchased from a local thrift shop.
She and Nate had bonded over their encyclopedic knowledge of Star Trek and Rick and Morty quotes and, though either would die before admitting it, the flames of a mutual attraction had, on more than one occasion, made for several severely awkward interactions. “Chuck, you got any fire?”
Charlie shook his head, rubbing the uneven goatee he had been “growing” for the past two months. Nate had been told by Charlie’s father that the Gallagher men were not built for facial hair. Charlie seemed intent on proving it. Some of his shoulder-length hair shook free, which he absentmindedly tucked back behind his ears as he scanned over his list of equipment and prepared spells.
Charlie had befriended Sam after accidentally elbowing her boob in gym class in junior high. Befriend was maybe too strong a word; Sam had taken to calling him “the groper,” and their caustic relationship had blossomed from there.
If Charlie was being honest, he still felt bad about it to this day, but Sam couldn’t stop laughing as he stuttered apologies and turned increasingly deeper shades of red. As a result, despite Charlie’s many unsuccessful attempts to woo any and all members of the opposite sex he came across, he had always been overly protective of Sam.
“Best I’ve got is a tinder box and a torch,” Charlie continued.
“Not good. Without fire, we’re screwed.”
Charlie reached into his backpack, and pulled out a bag of peanuts, tearing at the corner of the plastic bag with his mouth. Sam and Nate watched him struggled, yanking at the plastic over and over with increasing frustration until, at last, he violently tore it open, spraying his friends with the salted contents.
“Have you ever just opened something like a normal person, instead of tearing into it like a rabid badger?” Sam asked. “You’re lucky I don’t have a nut allergy.”
“Sorry,” Charlie mumbled insincerely, as he began to pick the stray nuts from the dusty floor, blowing off the occasional stray hair before tossing them into his mouth. The musk of mold hung heavy in the stale air, forcing Charlie to take the occasional angry puff from his asthma inhaler.
Charlie had discovered his asthma on a field trip to a farm in second grade. He had been forced to sit on the bus with a fellow student, named Andy, who wore monochromatic sweat suits and who was crying for an undetermined reason while he loudly sucked two of his fingers. Charlie could only gasp for air and watch, his face pressed against the filthy bus window, as his classmates played in a hay bale maze and had what appeared to be the time of their lives.
Sam tossed several of the nuts she had picked out of her oily, black hair into her mouth. “Is there anything more American than Mr. Peanut?”
“What are you talking about?” Charlie asked, sending several wet projectiles in Nate’s direction as he crunched.
“Think about it, a peanut with a top hat, monocle, and cane who amassed incomprehensible wealth by selling his fellow peanuts for food. What could be more American than that?”
“A handgun made of bacon?”
Nate grinned wickedly as his twenty-sided die rattled on the wooden floor where they sat between loose piles of notebooks filled with sketches of bestial monsters and shining knights. “One of the trolls looks up, and howls in delight as it lopes across the cave floor toward you. Roll initiative.”
Sam and Charlie sighed in unison. As their dice clattered across the floor, the school bell rang.
“I guess we’ll pick this back up tonight,” said Nate as he began to shovel his notes and books haphazardly into his worn backpack.
Charlie yawned as he stood. “What time should we head over?”
“I dunno; Sam?”
She shrugged. “I gotta be there around five for pictures. I think the ceremony starts at six, and the reception is after that.”
Charlie brushed the remaining peanut particles from his shirt. “Is your dad coming?”
Sam stared at him over the rim of her glasses. “Yes, Charlie. My dad is super excited to attend his ex-wife’s wedding.”
“I thought they were still friends.”
“They’re friends in the same way we’re friends, Charlie. They get along fine, but there’s an unhealthy hate bubbling just beneath the surface of all their interactions.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
“I know. That’s why I used it.”
“Is that why you didn’t compliment my new shirt?”
She glanced at the shirt, which had the classic portrait of Shakespeare, with the text “Shakespeare hates your emo poetry” written underneath.
“Is it supposed to be ugly?”
Nate stretched his back which popped loudly while his friends bickered. They followed him as he ducked through the small doorway, and down a spiral staircase that led to a crowded hallway lined with dark blue lockers.
They were immersed in the chaos of a high school, which smelled like a teenager who was somehow wearing both too much and not enough deodorant.
The walls were plastered with banners advertising pointless activities that meant the world to those involved, crudely painted campaign posters for the over-achievers looking to pad their college resumes, and black marker drawings of penises, boobs, and butts.
Charlie ran his finger along the seam in the cinder block wall that was painted a garish yellow. “How long do we have to stay at the reception?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m supposed to give a toast at some point. So, at least that long.”
Nate laughed. “You’d think they’d know better than to ask you.”
“I’ll have the tent and food in my car, so we can head straight to the campsite,” said Charlie.
Sam stepped over the twined legs of a pair of freshman sitting on the floor, making out so vigorously the clicking of their braces was audible. “I’ve got a surprise for tonight.”
“What’s that?” asked Nate.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. You’ll just have to be patient.”
Charlie opened his mouth to reply, but was sent sprawling to the ground as Paul Robinson slammed his shoulder into the middle of his back. The contents of his backpack sprayed across the tiled floor.
“Watch where you’re going, Gallagher,” Paul said through a shark-toothed grin, flanked by two of his lackeys, Erik and Colin; stubby boys with faces like weasels struggling to hold in a fart.
Paul had been a perpetual source of trouble for the three of them. He was everything they weren’t; handsome, well-liked, wealthy, but cruel in the way only teenagers can be. He had already kissed more girls than both Nate and Charlie combined ever would.
Sam knelt to gather Charlie’s things as a crowd of gawkers surrounded them. Charlie caught her hand.
“Remember the first law,” he whispered.
Freshman year of high school had been brutal for the trio. Both Nate and Charlie had the physiques of an underweight alley cat, and Sam had enough extra pounds to be the target of a consistent harassment campaign from her female peers.
They soon realized that while defending each other from the constant attacks was a noble gesture, the consistent result was all three of them being emotionally tortured, or worse, physically injured. After a particularly nasty scuffle that resulted in a fat lip and broken nose, they established the first law; once one of them was the target, the others were to use the distraction to escape.
It made all of them feel like garbage, but had significantly reduced the number of charlie horses, purple nurples, rusty rainbows, and ripped clothing they had collectively suffered.
Nate helped Sam to her feet, and the two of them, heads down, melted into the crowd.
Charlie began to gather his things as Paul pressed in close.
“Are you going to apologize for running into me?” Paul asked, as he and his friends herded Charlie against the lockers.
“Gosh, yes. I’m super sorry you’re a sociopath.”
Paul grinned like the devil. “What’s it like being a neck beard that can’t even grow one?”
“You know what I like about you, Paul? You’re a walking paradox.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a huge dick with a small penis.” The onlookers burst into laughter.
Paul’s cheeks flushed as he shoved Charlie hard into the locker. His two goons kicked his belongings, scattering them further across the hallway. One of them laughed, tapping Paul on the shoulder, and pointing to the bottle of sunscreen Charlie’s over-protective mother insisted he bring with him everywhere.
“Sunscreen? Really? You’re that big of a wuss?”
“I can’t imagine what it’s like living your life trying to prove you’re tougher than the sun.”
More laughter as Paul glanced around. His lip curled in a sneer. “You’re funny. You know, for a dork.”
“You really should workshop your insults a bit. A more biting version would be to say ‘who’s this dork’? Because it not only implies that I’m a dork, but not even one of the better-known dorks.”
Paul stared at Charlie, licking the corner of his mouth like a lizard. His eyes burned with the kind of narcissistic rage that only someone who had never experienced a real hardship in their life is capable of.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll just bang your mom again.”
“That’ll just mean I’m not her biggest disappointment anymore.”
More laughter. Charlie knew he was playing a dangerous game. He hoped laughter from the crowd might elicit some sympathy for his plight, maybe even an intervention. But push things too far, and it could get ugly.
“It’s a shame your friend Sam left, I was going to give her the old Rod Carew.” Paul’s friends laughed and exchanged a mistimed high-five. Charlie’s eye’s darkened. “You know, skip second base and head straight for home.”
“I’m curious, Paul, did it hurt your feelings when your uncle molested your older brother instead of you?” Charlie wasn’t entirely certain the rumors he had heard about Paul’s uncle were true, but Paul had gone after Sam. A scorched earth tactic was warranted.
A hush fell over the onlookers as Paul’s handsome face distorted in rage. “What did you say?”
“I’m trying to get a good pull quote for your feature interview in Future Rapists of America.”
Charlie doubled over as Paul punched him in the stomach. Another bell rang as Charlie slid to the floor, gasping. The crowd dissolved as students disappeared into the classrooms. Paul squatted down next to Charlie, yanking his head to the side with a fist full of hair.
“Don’t you ever talk about my family again. You got it?”
Charlie grinned through the pain. He knew he should shut up, but he couldn’t help himself.
“So I shouldn’t say things like; ‘your sister looks like she smells of cat piss?’”
Paul’s fist slammed into Charlie’s mouth, splitting his lip as his head rocked back into the lockers with a loud clang.
“No, you shouldn’t,” Paul said as he stood back up, wiping Charlie’s blood from his knuckles onto his jeans.
“Noted.”
Now alone in the empty hallway, Charlie painfully gathered his things, before heading to the bathroom to get a wet paper towel for his lip and to clean up his shirt. By the time he arrived to English class, their teacher, Mr. Kimble, was already well into his lecture.
“How kind of you to join us, Mr. Gallagher,” Mr. Kimble said. “You’d better have a good excuse for being late.”
“Nope.”
Mr. Kimble smiled. “Really? You don’t want to take a moment? Maybe make something up?”
“Not really, no.”
“Fair enough. Have a seat.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Charlie smiled weakly as he took his seat next to Sam and Nate. Mr. Kimble was a wisp of a man; his family had discussed an anorexia intervention several times during his professional career. His round head and thick glasses gave him a slightly comical appearance, but his sarcasm and quick wit had made him a favorite of his students.
“Can anyone else think of synonyms that are different because of contextual connotation?”
Sam leaned over to her friend. “You alright?”
Charlie shrugged and winked, tucking his hair behind his ear.
“Ms. Meyer, how about you?” Mr Kimble said.
Sam turned back to the teacher, tapping her pen on her desk rhythmically. “Um… how about butt dial and booty call?”
The class burst into laughter. It took several minutes for Mr. Kimble to regain control, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin while he did so.
“Alright, yes, I think everyone gets the idea. Now, I finished grading your essays.” Mr. Kimble grabbed a stack of papers from his desk, and began handing them out to the students. Nate was, as he nearly always was, sketching inside his notebook, drawing a new dungeon map in preparation for their camping trip. He wasn’t much of an artist, but loved drawing detailed maps and outlines, adding in esoteric details to his world that, in all likelihood, would never come up in the game.
He had once written a lengthy backstory for two guards in the throne room of a Wizard King named Hox the Terrible, including their penchant for theater. He even wrote a one-act play the guards had been workshopping in their spare time, only to have Charlie and Sam kill them without even so much as a “Hello.”
But that didn’t matter to him; the creative act was its own reward. Sam and Charlie had both encouraged him to consider becoming a writer, but he was resigned to the probability that he’d follow in his father’s footsteps and become a lawyer of some stripe.
“What’s that?”
Nate quickly closed his notebook, flushing a deep red as Mr. Kimble leaned over his shoulder.
“Uh, nothing,” he stammered. Mr. Kimble grinned knowingly, but chose not to press the issue. He handed Nate his paper, which as usual had a bright red “A” at the top.
“Well done, Nathan,” he said. On the first day of class with Mr. Kimble, Nate had been introduced as Nathan Nelson, since that was his full name on the attendance roll. He had almost corrected Mr. Kimble, but hesitated a hair too long and missed his window of opportunity. That was three years ago, and all of his teachers had since called him Nathan. It would be the only time in his life he would be called by that name. “I only ask that you stop pointing out all of the errors you find in the textbooks.”
“I feel like if a high school kid can find them, then an editor should have caught them.”
“You’re probably right. But, when defying tyrants in the future, you’ll say ‘give me liberty or give me meth!’ and you’ll like it.”
Nate snorted and shoved the essay into his bag.
Mr. Kimble handed Charlie his paper. “Sorry, Mr. Gallagher, you only earned a B this time around.”
Charlie shrugged. “Why?”
“Because even though it was incredibly persuasive, I can definitively tell you that the little crosses on the side of the road are not for crucifying squirrel criminals.”
“Not just criminals; they also kill religious fanatics.”
“Yes, I read your paper,” Mr. Kimble said, as he handed Sam hers. “I’d lose my job if the PTA found out I was giving top marks to your insanity.”
“Oxford didn’t seem to mind.”
Mr. Kimble raised a single eyebrow. “You already heard back?”
“He received early acceptance notices from Oxford and Princeton,” Nate grumbled. Despite his lurid attempts to appear disinterested, Charlie was driven in a way Nate had always admired. He knew what he wanted to do, and set about doing it. He had been assigned to private study in both math and physics while they were still in junior high. His teachers simply couldn’t keep up.
Mr. Kimble glanced down at Sam. “I have to say Ms. Meyer, I’ve written letters of recommendation for almost all of my students, including your two friends here. But not you. Is it something I did?”
“I’m not sure if I’m going to go to college right away, or if I’m taking a year off.”
Mr. Kimble sat on the edge of her desk. “Ah, the old ‘discovering yourself’ phase?”
“Something like that.”
“In my experience, discovering yourself usually means smoking a lot of weed while living in your parent’s basement playing video games and watching too much porn.”
“What’s wrong with video games?”
“Nothing. You’re just too smart to squander your intelligence.”
Charlie glanced up from his essay. “Personally, I find her courage to do nothing with her inestimable talents very inspiring.”
“Where did you go to college, Mr. Kimble?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter. The point is I went.”
“Sounds like shame. Was it the University of Phoenix?”
“Online college is still college!” he said, feigning defensiveness. “Just think about it, okay?”
She nodded. He returned to the front of the class.
“Alright, are you ready for your next essay assignment?” The class groaned. “I want you to think about something that inspires you. Something that moved you in your short lives, to be better or work harder, or push yourself in uncomfortable ways.”
A wave of complaints washed across the room. Mr. Kimble held his hands up, and eventually the sound subsided.
“Melissa.” One of the uninterestingly beautiful girls in the class perked up. “What’s something that has inspired you?”
Melissa snapped her gum. “I don’t know. Yesterday I saw some fat people jogging. That inspired me to get up and close the blinds.”
Mr. Kimble waited patiently until the chuckles ebbed.
She sighed. “My mom, I guess?”
“Good. Your mom. Can you elaborate?”
“I guess because her family was poor, or whatever.”
“So you were inspired by her struggle to rise out of poverty?”
“Sure.”
“Well, there you go. Write about that. What about you, Nathan?”
Nate was so engrossed in his notebook, he hadn’t heard his name. Sam elbowed him sharply.
“Are we bothering you, Mr. Nelson?”
“I wouldn’t say bother. More inconveniencing.”
“Did you hear the question?”
Nate glanced at Sam, who was usually very unhelpful in these types of situations. Today was no different. She was savoring his discomfort.
“Come up here, Nathan, would you?”
Nate closed his notebook, hoping he could disappear into the floor. As he made his way to the front of the classroom, his foot tangling in the straps of a backpack carelessly set on the floor, causing him to stumble. More laughter from his classmates. Nate’s ears burned with embarrassment. He stood next to Mr. Kimble, who put his arm around Nate’s shoulder as they faced the class.
“Nathan, what is the only rule in my classroom?”
“Life is, and always will be, terrible?”
“Yes. Class, that is your lesson for the day. Life is nothing more than a long string of disappointments that ends in the catastrophe of death. So why try?”
Nate shrugged. “You’re not wrong.”
Mr. Kimble’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Class, what is the only rule in my classroom?”
“Always pay attention,” they chanted in disinterested union.
“Right. So Nathan, as punishment, why don’t you tell us what inspires you.”
“Inspires me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another shrug.
“C’mon, there has to be something. Music? Poetry? Art? Girls?”
Nate pointedly avoided Sam’s eyes. “No, nothing.”
Mr. Kimble studied his face with a wry smile. “I know you’re probably being dismissive, but I think I believe you. And that makes me incredibly sad.”
He watched him for another minute, before clapping him on the back. “Well, I hope the rest of you can find a better answer than our friend here. You can go ahead and sit back down, Nathan.”
Nate slumped back into his chair, still avoiding Sam’s gaze.
The rest of the day passed in the usual blur of dull classes, socially awkward interactions, and homework. It was a relief when the final bell rang.
As Nate slipped his books into his locker and slung his canvas backpack over his shoulder, which was dangerously full of gaming notes, metal miniatures, and dice, he felt the usual end-of-week rush of endorphins at the thought of not having to see his classmates for two days.
He pushed his way through the cacophonous crowd of slack-jawed louts with his usual single-minded focus on escape. As he unchained his bike and slipped his headphones on, his eyes drifted to a group of girls sitting on the hood of a car in the school parking lot, laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world. It seemed like such a simple thing, laughing, talking, enjoying one another's company. Their interplay was so effortless.
Nate wondered what was wrong with him. Why were these simple interactions so painful? His mother had frequently asked him why he couldn't be more like everybody else, and the question had hung over him like an unseen specter his entire life. In theory, that could be him. Smiling without first practicing in a mirror. Telling a funny story without panicking halfway through at the realization that no one was going to laugh. Being able to sit close to a member of the opposite sex without breaking into a cold sweat.
It was then that he realized the girls had noticed his staring. The beautiful people glared coldly at him; two exchanged whispers behind their hands. He pretended to have been deep in thought, staring into the distance as though he hadn’t been staring at the attractive gaggle of girls who would forget he even existed the day they graduated. He doubted it worked as he pulled his bike free and peddled as fast as he felt he could without giving away the desperate panic welling up in his chest.
Nate had obviously never had a girlfriend, but he was a connoisseur of unrequited crushes. Had he the courage to speak up, he might have had some success with the fairer sex, but his lack of self-esteem was legendary among his friends and family.
On the island of Nate’s loneliness, even a mild crush could magnify into passionate affection, bordering on unhealthy obsession.
He had once asked a girl out on a date, and the exchange had nearly crippled him for a month. It was one of Charlie’s cousins, who lived far enough away to not know Nate’s reputation as an emotional lummox, but close enough that dating wouldn’t be entirely out of the question.
He had cornered her at one of Charlie’s birthday parties, but after exchanging a few pleasantries, and before he could barrel into his rehearsed speech about how amazing she was, she had vomited all of her disdain for Nate across his face.
She explained that he made her uncomfortable with all the attention he gave her, and Nate couldn't help but wonder what she meant, since this was the first time he had spoken to her for more than five minutes, and he certainly hadn’t expressed his feelings of affection for her. Had he been that transparent?
When she had finished, Nate muttered a soft, "Sorry.”
She looked into his eyes, and said “Nate, I just don't like you. No offense.” That last bit tacked on as if it would soften the blow of rejection from someone who tugged at your heartstrings.
"That's okay. Neither do I,” Nate replied, before retreating to lick his wounds. He vowed never again to ask a girl out on a date. Let them come to him, he thought, knowing full well that he was neither handsome enough nor sufficiently talented for that strategy to result in anything other than permanent romantic exile.
Nate had a terrible habit of perseverating over the thousands of cringe-inducing interactions he had on a daily basis. The time his aunt told him she was going to read to her best friend who was undergoing chemo-therapy, and he told her to “have fun.” Or the countless occasions he would reply to a waiter telling him to enjoy his meal with, “Thanks, you too.”
As his bike crunched along the winding gravel path he typically took home to avoid any potential human contact, he inhaled the sharp, pungent autumn air. The scent of a fire hung heavy, almost masking the fusty bouquet of decaying leaves.
Fall was his least favorite time of year. The beginning of yet another dire school year, and as the warm weather quickly turned to the cool fall, he could only dread the bitter Minnesota winter that he had endured since his parents moved from New Mexico when he was in second grade.
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind as he rounded the corner to his street. Hopping the curb, the wheel of his bike yanked sharply to the right, tossing Nate like a rag doll into the air and over the handlebars.
He clattered to the ground, tearing both pants and skin as he slid across the pavement; dirt and mud staining his shirt. He stood quickly, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. A bulky woman walking a comically small dog in clothes so tight they bordered on obscene stared at him with a crooked smile.
Nate felt his face flush as he examined the damage to his bike. The front tire flapped uselessly. There was warm trickle of blood on his shin where the top layer of skin had been peeled back.
He limped down the block, wheeling his bike awkwardly, doing his best not display any hint that it was abnormal for a teenage boy to walk his deformed bike down the street with torn pants and a bloodied leg.
He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt low, in the hopes that none of his neighbors would recognize him. As child, Nate had worn baseball hats almost constantly. He had found the sense of anonymity the brim afforded him comforting. Simply tip your head, and you became invisible.
But his head had grown exponentially in middle school, making it nearly impossible to find a hat big enough to fit. It had unfortunately also resulted in several classmates chanting “fat-head” while biking slowly behind him as he walked home from school.
He froze as he saw his neighbor, Sarah, raking leaves. Sarah was two years older than Nate, but had recently moved back home after an unsuccessful year at college. At least that was what Nate’s parents had told him over dinner. They had encouraged him to be especially kind to Sarah, since she was going through a hard time.
Sarah was one of the countless girls Nate had nursed an obsessive crush on over the years; she was popular and funny and gorgeous. He still remembered playing night games with her when they were in elementary school; the first flames of romance sparked to life as they crouched together in a thicket of bushes during a game of hide-and-go-seek-in-the-dark.
The age difference had made them drift apart, as it always does when the teen years hit. A two-year difference might as well be two decades in high school. But she was always friendly to him, even going as far as saying hello to him in the hallway at their high school, which would send Charlie into apoplectic fits of jealousy.
That someone as beautiful as Sarah would even know Nate existed was anathema to everything Charlie understood about the world. She didn’t even seem uncomfortable in his presence. Or if she was, she did a fine job covering it up.
He debated hiding in a field nearby until Sarah went back into her house, but it was too late. She had seen him approaching.
“Hey, Nate, how’s it going?” she asked, grinning.
Unsure how to greet her casually, Nate’s brain split the difference between "how are you" and "what's new" by saying, "How new?" He then prayed for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
She smiled politely, then noticed his injuries as he rushed past her. “Are you okay?”
Trying to recover, words tangled in Nate’s tongue, and all he could manage to say was "shorm" as he briskly carried his hobbled bike into his garage. He instantly regretted the entire interaction, and wondered how many people he had met assumed he was mentally deficient.
He set the bike against the cluttered back wall of the garage and entered the house. On the counter was a note from his mother, expressing her regret that he would be gone before she got home from work, and telling him to be safe on his camping trip.
Parched, he grabbed a can of soda from the refrigerator, and gulped it down. Unleashing a loud belch that reverberated through the empty house, he tossed the can into the recycling bin and made his way to the bathroom.
Peeling off his dirty and torn clothing, he examined the damage to his leg. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, just a sizable scrape along his left shin and a long shallow cut on his right butt cheek.
A quick hot shower washed the dirt and small pebbles from the wound, and then he stood naked in front of a box fan to get the torn skin and blood to dry enough so he wouldn’t stain the suit he planned to wear to the wedding that night.
On an intellectual level, Nate knew Charlie was planning on coming to his house after school to give him a ride to the wedding festivities. But between the accident, his unbearably awkward conversation with Sarah, and the impromptu shower, it had completely slipped his mind.
“Sorry I took so long. I farted pulling into the driveway and wanted to enjoy it for awhile,” Charlie said as he burst into Nate’s room, dressed in a mint-green suit with a matching sequined vest, and carrying a fat paper bag.
Horrified, Nate covered himself as best he could. “Hey, man, maybe try knocking or something?”
An equally horrified Charlie immediately turned his back to his friend. “Your door was wide open. I didn’t realize you were one of those weird naked families.”
Nate quickly pulled on his underwear and dress pants, smearing blood on both of them in his haste. “We’re not, I wiped out on my bike, and was trying to air out the cut is all.”
There was an awkward pause. “Congratulations, by the way,” Charlie finally said, and they both began to laugh as the tension eased out of the room.
“You can turn around now,” Nate said as he pulled an undershirt on.
“Are you sure? Seeing your greasy wiener once is one too many times.”
Nate’s room was spacious for a middle class kid, the walls plastered with all sorts of science fiction and fantasy artwork, from Frank Frazetta and Paul Lehr, to Larry Elmore and Jeff Easley. A Godzilla poster hung on the back of his door, not from the new slick American films, but from the cheesy Showa man-in-a-rubber-suit era that he had bonded over with his dad when he was in elementary school.
“I got you a gift,” Charlie said, handing Nate the bag.
“What for?” Nate asked suspiciously. It wasn’t his birthday, and Charlie was not known for his generosity. He had once counted the number of french fries on his plate before leaving to use the bathroom, to ensure Nate didn’t steal any.
“My mom is trying to get me to show my gratitude more. So this is a thanks for your many years as a Dungeon Master. I know it’s a lot of work, so, you know, thanks or whatever.”
“Wow, that’s unusually generous of you.” Nate opened the bag, and inside was an eight pack of steel pie tins. He pulled them out. “Pie tins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Eight of them?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, but I don’t know how to cook a pie-”
“You bake pies, you don’t cook them.”
“Okay. I don’t know how to bake a pie, much less so many kinds of pie I’d need multiple pie pans.”
“Yeah, but you could learn, right?”
“I don’t even really like pie.”
“I do. It’s my favorite desert.”
“So you got me eight pie pans, so I could learn to bake pies… for you?”
“Hey, I’m not telling you how to live your life. But, if that’s what you feel you should do…”
“I thought you preferred your pies in oatmeal cream form.”
“Don’t be stupid. I like all kinds of pie.”
“Well, thanks I guess?”
“You’re welcome!”
Charlie sat down heavily in the worn computer chair next to the desk where Nate’s computer sat, practically buried under various notebooks, sketches, and fantasy novels. A waft of acrid air filled the room from the many farts Nate had drilled into the computer chair over the years. Glancing under the bed, Charlie spotted a wooden baseball bat.
He grabbed it, holding it over his head like a club. “Why do you keep a baseball bat under your bed?”
“In case someone tries to break into my room in the middle of the night to pitch a no hitter.”
“You strike me more as a ‘run first, ask questions later’ kind of victim.”
Nate sighed. “Its a relic from when my dad still held out hopes that I would follow in his footsteps and be good at the sports ball. I’d honestly forgotten it was there.”
Charlie spun in the chair as Nate buttoned his white shirt and began to clip his black suspenders onto his dress pants.
“Really? Suspenders?”
“What’s wrong with suspenders?”
“We both know you aren’t popular enough to be different.”
Nate ignored the barb as he began to struggle with his tie. Charlie watched him, grinning.
“Hey, Nate,” he finally said, as Nate undid the mangled knot he had created for the fourth time. Nate glanced up as Charlie unclipped his tie. “Work smarter, not harder.”
“Sorry, I grew out of clip-on ties a long time ago,” Nate bristled as he started again.
“Oh yes, Nate the wise and mature,” Charlie twirled his chair to stare at the bookshelves that lined the walls. They were crammed full of novels, books Nate had inherited from his dad’s collection or had picked up from the cheap secondhand bookstore he frequented on weekends.
Unlike most of his peers, Nate still preferred the tangible sensation of a book in his hands, the slightly sour smell of the musty pages, and hunting through boxes to parse through the fascinatingly bizarre cover art that had resulted from the fantasy and sci-fi boom of the 70s and 80s.
He also had an entire shelf devoted to his love of fictitious languages. He was fluent in Elvish, Klingon, Dothraki, and Lapine. His mom had pointed out his preternatural gift for languages, suggesting he could perhaps focus on something slightly more useful, and less imaginary. But despite his gift, Nate wasn’t particularly interested in French or Mandarin when he still hadn’t mastered the Black Speech or Huttese.
“Mature? Uh… don’t you still have three of your baby teeth, Charlie?” Nate stepped back, finally satisfied with his work despite the tie resting slightly askew down his chest.
“My mom says they’re good luck. You ready?”
Nate glanced at his watch. “Won’t we be super early?”
Charlie shrugged. “Ping-pong death match then?”
“Absolutely.”