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1
Prism
The heavy beat of EDM overpowered every other sound in the old abandoned gymnasium perched on the outskirts of the Westbrook campus.
It made the perfect party spot for raves because it was still on campus but far enough removed from everything that we could get away with partying without being caught. Really though, the administration probably knew what students used this discarded building for, but they looked away because, in our world, money talked.
The massive space was bathed in neon blue and green light, turning all the bodies into nothing but gyrating shadows beneath the strobing fluorescents overhead. Sweat and alcohol permeated the humid air, overpowering the scent of chlorine I’d come to think of as my own personal cologne.
Usually, I hated loud noise. Or any noise really. But I liked these raves because the music wasn’t just loud. It was deafening. The kind of beat that penetrated the nervous system, numbing it so it was too overloaded to react, filling me instead with undeviating vibration and an odd sort of quiet.
Yeah, hi. I’m the odd fish. It’s me.
Only in my brain did uber-loud noise create silence.
Not sure I could explain it to you. And honestly, I don’t really want to. Trying to explain myself to anyone has never worked out in my favor. In fact, I could argue it made the noise inside me even more severe.
There are three people in my entire life who’ve been able to get it. No. Not get it. Accept it. Accept me in all my high-maintenance glory.
Three. Not even a big enough number to use up all the fingers on one hand.
Three was better than zero, and I was more grateful to those three people than they would ever understand. In fact, if it weren’t for them, I probably wouldn’t be here vibing beneath the neon strobe lights.
Where would I be? Locked up. Doped up. Six feet under.
Even if I hated this place like most everything else, I would still be here. And not because all of Elite was here partying it up to celebrate the end of swim season.
Because of him.
Everyone wanted to know my type.
I was looking at it.
Arsen Aaron Andrews aka Triple A. Aka the campus DJ. Aka the only guy to draw my attention over and over again. He was completely wrong for me. The polar opposite of everything I was.
So my type? Someone I couldn’t have. Someone I secretly crushed on from the concealment of gyrating bodies, buried under loud music that he skillfully remixed.
It was kind of like the hero falling for the villain.
Except not.
Look, let’s get something straight right now. Well, not straight because I’m gay, but you know what I mean. Okay, you probably don’t, but that’s the point I’m trying to make. I’m not great with words. Or thoughts. Or feelings. It’s hard to make sense of that stuff when everything is so damn loud and I exist in survival mode on a near-daily basis. Keep calm. Act normal. Don’t freak out. The noise isn’t as overwhelming as your brain thinks it is.
How was I supposed to form complete, sensible thoughts when I was just trying to function?
What was I saying again? Oh. Yeah, the hero and villain thing. Bad analogy because, in it, I would be the hero, and I’m definitely not. I wouldn’t call him a villain either. But if I were Superman, Arsen would be my kryptonite. Able to weaken then incapacitate me, take away the strength I fought for.
Still, I stood here staring at the DJ bathed in glowing green light, hypnotized by the beauty of what I knew was poison.
I didn’t know what it was about him that mesmerized me, but I couldn’t look away. Only visible from the waist up, he commanded the stage, nothing motionless about his tall frame.
He was hyper but controlled. The very air around him shimmered with confidence, body moving to the beat as if it came out of him instead of the giant speakers on either side of the platform. Headphones straddled his head, one side shoved back so his ear was out, and as he danced, the neon lights glinted on the silver piercings lining his lobe. When he lifted his face, the same light highlighted the double rings on the right side of his lower lip.
I bet they would be smooth and cool beneath my tongue.
A black T-shirt molded to his chest like a second skin, enhancing the mouthwatering V-shape of his upper body. His hand shot out, and ring-covered fingers flew over his equipment, bouncing a sick new beat through the air. The music was so loud I couldn’t hear the yell he let out, but I watched his lips part with it, and he threw his arm overhead, triceps clenching with the movement.
The crowd roared, and Arsen grinned, his teeth glowing brightly under the fluorescents. Almost as if the cheering crowd had challenged him, he went back to the table to do things I wouldn’t even be able to comprehend, and the new beat was underscored with another song as he layered sounds as if they’d always meant to be mashed together.
