Chapter 7: 04 | moiety

RUNNING LAPS AROUND the wide stretch of grass that made up the Mayfield track field was not Wyatt’s idea of the best way to begin his Wednesday morning, but then he couldn’t so much as blame fate rather than whoever had decided that starting a school day with PE was a good idea.

He had long given up hope of ever taking up an exercise of any kind, and using up the little energy he derived from the granola bars and dried cereal, gulped down with a glass of milk or orange juice for breakfast usually meant that Wyatt slept through the rest of his classes.

To Wyatt, the best thing about this class was that all the boys got to wear gym shorts, which let his mind run free without exerting his imagination. On the other hand, the worst thing was that he wore shorts, which meant that he usually had to ward against these thoughts to prevent a hard-on, or fake a pseudo-asthma attack―something he had been doing since middle school―so Coach Briggs, their gym teacher, would let him rest in the bleachers.

Locker rooms were infinitely worst and thoughts of him in the middle of (very naked) testosterone levels like that left Wyatt feeling lightheaded.

It was true that compared to other high schools, Mayfield took its inclusivity policies very seriously when it came to minorities in the student body. On paper, different alliances took this show of tolerance a step in the right direction, but on paper, most of them remained sufficiently underfunded.

But at least nobody could accuse them of not implying the notion.

Wyatt stopped to catch his breath, bending over as he forced lungful’s of air into his already over-exerted body. It took him two laps to get to this point, and he was proud of himself. Tobi was in the lead, followed closely by Vanda Ambridge, whose great-grandparents had founded Mayfield sometime after World War II―first as a way to homeschool their four children, before having it go public.

Vanda was blonde, cold, and a three-time national debate finalist honoree. She also happened to be in―to Wyatt at least―the world’s most complicated relationship with Tobi, in which they’d started kissing at fourteen but still pretended to hate each other’s guts most of the time. Of course, there were unspoken rules e.g. they could flirt with other people to their heart's content, but anything past that was crossing a line.

It wasn’t like everybody wasn’t aware of their arrangement.

From his bent over spot Wyatt rose his eyes in time to catch Vanda pump her long legs and suddenly launch herself into the air, screaming until she landed on Tobi’s back who stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footsteps; then his hands tightened around her thighs and she squealed as he adjusted her, still running top speed so she bounced with each step he took. They didn’t notice the attention they were garnering, people dropping whatever they were doing to watch one boy and girl stop to put aside their hating game.

To him it looked like a love story waiting to be written, and not for the first time Wyatt wondered why compared to every other person in the world, his love life was at best, nonexistent, and at worst, cursed.

He straightened, feeling the fabric of his shorts catch between his butt cheeks and spread his legs, pretending to squat and stretch to ease it out. Satisfied with his handiwork he rolled his shoulder determinedly, jaws set, as he vowed to himself that he would at least run another halfway point of the overall track field before playing his asthma card. He began.

Scratch that, a quarter of the field was more than enough.

Freshly showered and changed into his school uniform (a long-sleeved white shirt with the Mayfield Academy crest emblazoned on its breast pocket, a pair of pick axes crossed to form an X with a banner under them into which the school's motto was embroidered, conditio sine qua non; navy blue slacks, and a tie the same shade of blue the pants were―blazers were for special occasions), Wyatt power walked to his locker, and Tobi strolled casually beside him, hands in his pockets.

He had always been jealous of his best friend’s ability to remain unfazed even in the most stress-inducing situations, and while some of it probably had to do with the fact that he was a muscular, intimidating (though short) seventeen-year-old, Wyatt was sure that it was only a tip of the iceberg.

He’d always had about him an almost loud potency that called out to the people around him.

“It’s just eleven a.m. but I’d give my unborn children for an hour of rest, please.”

Tobi shook his head, a half-smile on his lips as he hummed an off-key tune.

“And I thought you said you and Vanda were on the low,” Wyatt continued, throwing a coy glance as he rose his hands to snap his fingers, a movement which was impeded by Tobi suddenly grabbing his arm and putting it back down.

“Mind your Business, Carter,” Tobi began, white teeth peeking past his now smiling lips.

“Please,” Wyatt sniffed, “nobody wants to be in your God-damned business. All I’m saying is that it didn’t seem that way this morning, thank you very much.”

If Wyatt could count on one thing in their almost eleven years of friendship, it was Tobi’s love of gossip―which he called talking because men didn’t gossip, which didn’t change the fact that if anything went down in Mayfield, say a teacher taking bribes from a student, or someone cheating on a test; Tobi probably already knew it and had no qualms about dishing out the tea.

If there was any consolation then it was the fact that he didn’t tell any of his other friends or teammates, but with Wyatt, all cards were off the table and he spilled everything, including the details of his life.

“OK,” Tobi began after barely ten seconds of saying nothing. “I don’t know why she did it, but damn, that girl weighs, like, a ton”

“Weight shaming,” Wyatt chirped, “And it’s not like anybody told you to date-not-date a skinny girl with bones of titanium.”

“No, not like that, and why do you always have to be so politically correct?”

“I’m a queer and biracial: the fact that I exist is political, baby.”

Tobi shook his head, letting it slide, which was unusual except that he happened to be in a good mood.

For his, part Wyatt couldn’t seem to get the image of Vanda suspended in the air, right before she landed on Tobi. There were no words to describe the look on her face in that moment except one, unbridled. Maybe unbridled trust, or joy, but whatever the fuck it was Wyatt was scared that he would never experience that feeling, or at least not because of another person.

When they got to his locker Wyatt immediately began the process of putting in his combination and Tobi rested on the one beside his just as Noya Smith, a co-captain of Mayfield’s cheerleading squad, and her friends walked past. Tobi whistled as she passed him and with her back still turned she flipped him the bird; the finger, her mother-flecking middle finger.

Titters could be heard from people who caught the exchange and Tobi hit the back of his head against the locker, which produced a dull thump when flesh met metal.

“You’re laughing too,” he whined, barely glancing at Wyatt who was trying (and failing) to keep himself from smiling as he rummaged through his locker for the Biology textbook he would have to have if he wanted Dr. Litt to let him in class.

“The objectification of women should be a crime punishable by castration, but since that’s off the table I believe a middle finger would suffice.”

A case of the pot calling the kettle black, considering the heights his mind went to every time he happened to be in the locker room.

“You sanctimonious little shit,” Tobi muttered, pushing him.

“Ah, ah,” Wyatt said, wagging his finger. “You can admire, but don’t touch.”

He shut his locker and they both walked to Tobi’s, who used up the time talking about Vanda as he searched for his textbook till the late bell rang, meaning they had to run to class if they didn’t want to be late; and Wyatt refused to run because sweaty and flushed was not a good look on anyone (gym, duh).

Getting into class two minutes and thirty-five seconds late meant the end of the world to Mr. Litt, who berated them and followed up with a detention slip. Tobi had taken it all stoically, apologizing profusely through the entire ordeal. Wyatt on the other hand felt humiliated.

He imagined walking up to Litt and giving voice to every mean thought he’d ever had about the man but cordially headed to his seat when the teacher finished with them.

The rest of the time was spent examining theories of evolution, which was cut short by Dr. Litt’s digression from the topic to how an Agama Lizard had two penises, and then to how he had gotten an interview at Harvard after he graduated high school but couldn’t make it because his mother had just died, which would’ve made for a great sad story if anybody asked, or cared.

By the middle of the period, Wyatt’s eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but sleep wasn’t an option seeing as the beady-eyed pudgy man in a vintage coat at the front of the class―who was now giving a breakdown of all the ways his life had veered off course after his admission into a non-Ivy League―was one of the only terrifying teachers at Mayfield. His rants were the work of nightmares, and he detested two things with everything he had in him:

1. Not getting into Harvard.

2. Students sleeping in class.

Option B probably got to him because it was a physical testament of how boring he was, but nobody got to thinking that far because they were trying to keep their eyelids from shutting. No amount of sleep was worth Dr. Litt’s attention.

When the bell signaling the end of the period rang Wyatt just about burst into song, and from the looks on his classmate’s faces, he could tell that he was not alone. Tobi had sat through the entire thing without even dozing a little, which was another thing Wyatt envied about Tobi, he never slept in class.

They’d discussed it once, in which Tobi opened up to him about how every day without fail his parents would wake him up at six a.m. sharp for prayers, and then his mother would give him a speech about how privileged they were to be in America. How his relatives in Nigeria looked up to him as a beacon of hope, that he could not fail, which explained why he clung to his position at their grades honor roll, despite playing on the Mayfield soccer team, and being present at every party worth attending in the Manhattan high school circuit.

People filed out, shoes clacking against the tiles, and Wyatt elbowed Tobi when they were outside the Biology class.

“I need a favor,” he murmured.

“Cover for you, say you’re at the infirmary. Got it.”

“I would die for you,” Wyatt muttered, standing on his tiptoes and placing a kiss on Tobi’s cheek, where he felt stubble. Tobi rolled his eyes, adjusting his backpack on his shoulders.

“You need to stop doing that you know, the random PDA.”

“You’ve been saying that for seven years and it never stopped me. Never will, either, because you like it. You’re like, the gayest straight guy I know.”

“Get out of my face before I change my mind and snitch, you slut.”

“You know I'm a slut for only you, daddy,” Wyatt called out as he walked away. “You’ll have to try harder.”