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Strange, how they never said those things to Tristan’s face anymore. They were scared of him, Kyle knew.
Did that make him a fool, to not be scared of Tristan, too?
“I hate how they talk about you,” said Kyle one afternoon, sometime after the last bell rang. “They don’t even know you.”
Most things are unimportant, when you think about it, Tristan said. Even friends, even family, having ambitions or dreams. They sat together under the awning at the back of the school where the busses came. They always sat in the shade, something about a sun allergy, skin sensitivity, or rare hereditary thing Tristan had—the reason changed every time Kyle asked. People are such wastes of effort. It’s why I have no friends. When you free yourself of people, you never feel disappointment. Me?—I regret nothing. His face twisted, reconsidering. Well, except for one thing …
Their shoulders were touching. Kyle’s focus was mainly on that, truth be told. But he asked, “What thing?”
Instead of answering, Tristan just lifted his face to the sky, winced uncomfortably, and closed his eyes. Kyle didn’t pry.
After the strange sleeping incident, Brock’s life carried on like normal. The boys had stopped asking about it. Kyle wasn’t sure if Brock was protecting his ego by acting like it never happened, or exercising caution in keeping his distance.
Both choices seemed wise.
Then one day in the locker room, Brock stopped Kyle on his way out of the shower. “I know what you’re doing.”
Kyle was naked and wet. Brock stood between him and the towels, fully dressed.
They were alone.
“What?” said Kyle.
“Pretending to be the freak’s friend. Figurin’ his thing out, what his deal is, I get it … but I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Brock put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. They were close. “You’ve gotta end it with him.”
Kyle saw it all over again, the way Tristan touched Brock’s face so gently.
How Brock fell to the floor.
Out like a light.
He wondered if he could do that, too. If anyone could. If it just took the right touch, or a specific look from the eyes. One teammate even suggested Tristan had a chemical on his hands.
Kyle kept his cool. “Dude, I need to dry off. Please move.”
“I’m serious,” said Brock, not budging. “That guy has got a demon inside him, a goddamned demon. I saw it.”
“Demons don’t exist.”
“You need to stay away from him. Everyone on the team’s talkin’, Kyle, I’m being serious.”
Despite Brock’s intimidation, Kyle felt a prickle of defiance in his spine. “So we’re friends again suddenly?”
“Huh? Of course we are.”
“You never cared who I spent my time with before.”
Brock’s hand stayed on Kyle’s shoulder, his grip tightening. “What’s goin’ on with you? We always had each other’s backs.”
“Is it really my back you’ve got?”
Kyle’s eyes were stones as he faced off with Brock, naked, heart pounding with resentment. It was never clear whether the hatred was reciprocal. Was Brock too absorbed in his own life to notice how shallow their friendship had become?
Maybe Kyle just missed how things used to be. Sleepovers with Nintendo games late into the night, just the two of them, and Brock’s busybody mom bringing them fruit juice and snacks. Tossing footballs in Brock’s big backyard under the harsh sun, dripping with sweat. Playing and laughing with his feisty bull terrier out front in the sprinklers every summer.
Brock and Kyle, they were part of a pride. It wasn’t clear who was the head lion and didn’t matter. They were equals.
They were as close as friends could be. Like brothers.
Until the vultures of puberty and popularity came to nibble every last nice thing out of their friendship, leaving nothing but the bones. And even those bones were turning brittle.
“Haven’t you noticed the weird shit happenin’ round town since he arrived?” Brock pressed on, frustrated. “Margaret’s cat showin’ up dead on her front porch? The east playground bein’ set on fire? Weird Latin messages left on Ms. Liu’s chalkboard every mornin’? Looks like fuckin’ dark magic and psycho shit, and I may have no proof, but I know it’s him. All of it.” Brock’s tone lowered. “No one knows where that freak comes from, Kyle. No one knows who he is, who he really is. No one knows where he even lives. His family. Is Tristan even his real name? Do you know one single damned thing about him? Open your eyes. He’s a fuckin’ ghost.”
Kyle stood his ground, but the confidence was draining out of his eyes, his posture slowly crumbling.
“Fine,” said Brock. “It’s your funeral.” He pushed past Kyle on his way out of the locker room, leaving him standing there naked and alone, water dripping from his hair.
4.
Let It All Burn.
—·—
You’re more useful to them when you’re invisible. Just a number on the team. Throw the ball here or there. Ram your shoulders into this guy or that. They don’t want you to have opinions.
