Uncaged

By Wes Leigh featuring the contributions of Rob the Scribe

 

This is a work of fiction intended solely for the entertainment of our readers; any resemblance to any real people or places is purely coincidental. Readers who would like to chat are encouraged to contact us at weston.leigh@protonmail.com and robthescribe@protonmail.com.

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Chapter Two

 

"You're gonna miss the bus," Rachel McMahon said, rushing from the stove to the table with the bowl of oatmeal.

"I won't miss the bus," RJ replied as he shoved half the slice of toast into his mouth in one bite and chewed it quickly.

Rachel slid the oatmeal onto the table and turned to the refrigerator, pulling a half carton of milk from the almost empty shelves. She poured milk into a glass, paused, and poured a bit more. It would have to last until Friday, but RJ loved milk and it was good for him. She put the milk on the table and the now almost-empty carton back in the refrigerator.

Turning to her son, she kissed him on the forehead and then rushed out of the kitchen, shouting back over one shoulder, "Don't miss the bus!"

"I won't," RJ mumbled, his mouth half full of oatmeal. He ate quickly, finishing off the slice of toast and washing it down with half the milk. Then he scooped up oatmeal in several quick bites, barely tasting it as he hurried to finish breakfast. The bowl emptied far too fast for the hungry boy. He loved oatmeal and wished he could have more than half a bowl. He used one finger to scoop up the last bit of the sweet juice on the inside of the bowl, stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked it clean, then drank the rest of his milk.

Standing up, he carried the dishes to the sink, rinsed them out quickly, and left them in the drainer to dry.

Then he grabbed his backpack from the floor and ran out the door, shouting, "See you after school, mom!"

Rachel shouted, "I'll be at work. Won't be home until late."

But RJ didn't hear her. He was already running toward the street corner where the bus was waiting for him.

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"Made it!" RJ exclaimed as he slid into a seat on the bus next to his friend Mickey Daniels.

"Just barely," Mickey said with a grin. "I lied and told the driver you had to run back for a schoolbook."

"Thanks, Mick. You're the best."

"Of course, I am," Mickey replied with an impish grin.

The two boys had been best friends since RJ and his mom had moved into the mother-in-law apartment Mickey's parents rented to RJ's mom. The two boys had hit it off right away, always covering for each other, always standing up for one another. They were an odd couple, as opposite as could be.

Mickey was short and skinny with straight blonde hair that constantly fell into his eyes. He was outgoing and friendly, popular with all the kids at school. He wore nice clothes and expensive Reeboks, which his parents could readily afford. As a student, he got by, but never excelled and sometimes needing RJ's help with math and English.

Fortunately, RJ was an exceptional student and able to explain what Mickey couldn't understand. RJ loved school, at least the academic part of it. He didn't enjoy hanging out with other students, and except for Mickey, had few he'd call a friend. RJ was tall and stocky, struggling to control his weight and not succeeding. His hair was dark and curly and cut in a no-nonsense style by his mother using scissors in the bathroom at home.

The only thing the boys shared in common was the color of their eyes. Blue. Mickey's were dark blue, almost black. RJ's were pale blue, like the summer sky.

They were an unlikely pair of thirteen-year-olds, different in so many ways, but they laughed at each other's jokes, enjoyed each other's company, and didn't mind a fart or two, even in the crowded confines of the school bus.

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Mickey and RJ exited the bus and walked onto the grassy front lawn of Vernon A. Morgan Middle School. Neither of them knew who Vernon Morgan was, but apparently he was famous enough in their little town to have a school named for him. They were glad they lived in the north part of town and attended Morgan Middle School. The kids on the other side of town were stuck with Patricia Pinker Middle School. Poor bastards. That must really suck going there. Pinker Middle School was bad, but the abbreviation was worse. PMS! Nasty!

Not that Morgan MS was all that great. The teachers were boring and irritable. Maybe it had something to do with the time of year. March was tough. No one wanted to be there. The weather was nice outside, and they were stuck inside with barely-sufficient air conditioning, a room full of hormonal teenagers, and an underpaid baby sitter trying to drill dry facts into kids who just couldn't care less.

Still, they had to try. The parents on the north side of town were generally well off and expected the graduates of old Morgan Middle School to be the cream of the crop when they headed off to high school at the tender age of fifteen.

That was still two years away for RJ and Mickey. Their goal was to survive eighth grade. Eighth grade was certainly better than seventh grade. You didn't get picked on nearly as much by the ninth graders, but you still had to watch yourself. Ninth graders were jerks. They knew their time as king of the hill was quickly passing, and soon they'd be graduating middle school and heading off to be the youngest in high school, where they would be the prey instead of the predators, so many of them were looking for opportunities to torture the younger kids while they still could.

Unfortunately, RJ was often the brunt of that torment. He was slightly overweight, poor, and a nerd. If it hadn't been for Mickey, RJ would have been picked on every moment of every day, but Mickey stood up to the bullies, and the bullies feared Mickey's parents. His dad was a deputy in the Sheriff's department. His mom was an assistant DA. They knew better than to mess with Mickey.

But Mickey couldn't be around RJ all the time. There were classes they didn't share, so the bullies took advantage of those moments to trip RJ, to shove an elbow into his side, to hiss nasty comments in his ear before walking away laughing.

Their favorite stunt was to call him Robin. Every year, when school started, teachers would take attendance by calling out his full name, Robin Jackson McMahon. He always asked them to call him RJ. He hated Robin. It was too easy for the other boys to say that Robin was a girl's name. He hated Jackson too. It was his dad's name, or so his mother told him, but he didn't know his dad and had never met him. His mom refused to talk about him, except to say he died before RJ was born. It felt kind of creepy to be named for a dead guy he'd never met, so RJ wasn't about to use the guy's name, so he asked the teachers to call him RJ instead. They scribbled a note in their attendance logs, and from that point on they called him RJ, but the damage was done and everyone knew he was Robin Jackson McMahon.

The bullies loved calling him Robin. They'd whisper it in his ear. They'd flap their wings like a bird. They whistle and make chirping noises. They'd laugh and say he'd never be able to fly because he couldn't get his fat ass off the ground.

But they wouldn't do it when Mickey was around, so RJ hung out with Mickey whenever possible. The rest of the time, RJ hated middle school.

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Fortunately for RJ, he and Mickey shared fifth period Physical Education. Mickey loved getting outside or running around in the gym. Whatever the activity, Mickey seemed to excel in it. He might have been short, but he was fast and coordinated and skilled at every sport he tried.

Not so, RJ. RJ struggled to control his body, stumbling over his own feet, missing balls thrown at him, falling on his face to the delight of the other boys. RJ's body just wouldn't cooperate. He'd grown three inches in the last year, which helped some with his slightly chubby frame, but the sudden growth spurt made him hopelessly clumsy, and he just couldn't seem to make his body do what he wanted it to do. Part of the problem was he didn't want to play sports. He hated athletics. What was the point of kicking a ball around a field for an hour, yelling and screaming at each other? It didn't even make sense, not like solving a math problem or writing an essay.

And then at the end of class, there was the dreaded shower.

It should have been RJ's moment of triumph. Naked and standing under the water spraying down, RJ was the most developed of all the boys. His cock was full and thick, hanging down over heavy balls. When erect, he was over five inches long, which fortunately never happened in the school showers. That would have been disastrous. It was bad enough that he had the biggest cock, far bigger than Mickey's immature little dick, but RJ had the added burden of a thick patch of pubic hair. Mickey had a few blonde hairs, so light you had to look close to see them. A few other boys had some pubic hair, but nothing like RJ. RJ even had the beginning of a treasure trail leading from his belly button to the hairy crotch.

You would think the other boys would be so impressed with RJ's advanced development that they'd show him a hint of respect, but instead they were jealous, and it was one more reason to hate the lonely boy who didn't fit in.

Mickey didn't care one way or the other. RJ was his friend. He was clumsy in the gym and had a huge schlong in the showers, but it didn't change a thing about the boy who was his buddy.

It wasn't so simple for RJ. Along with the long cock had come a torrent of confusing emotions and feelings. Feelings for the other boys washing their bodies and their cocks. Feelings for Mickey, his almost hairless best friend. Feelings he couldn't express because he barely understood them himself, so he always hurried through the shower, rushing back to the locker room as quickly as possible to cover up the body he couldn't control, to cover up the evidence that he was different from everyone else.

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Sixth period was RJ's favorite class: English Composition. It was an advanced placement class, with only the best students, so Mickey wasn't there with him. But he didn't care. He loved writing, and his teacher Erin Masters loved having RJ in the class. Few students showed the passion RJ had for writing. His imagination was phenomenal, his grasp of grammar and punctuation excellent, and his ability to tell an engaging story was innate. She nurtured RJ's talent, hoping to one day hear of his success as an author.

She felt an odd connection to the strange eighth grader. He was an outcast and a loner, just as she had been growing up. Somehow, she felt she needed to watch over him, protect him, and if possible, bring out the natural gift inside him. That was her goal in the few short weeks left in the school year.

She handed out the next assignment to the class. "For this week, I want an essay, two pages in length, due on Friday." A few grumbles met her announcement, but she ignored them. "Your theme will be taking a risk. It can be anything you choose, but it must somehow tie into the concept of stepping outside your comfort zone to do something you wouldn't normally try."

RJ was smiling broadly when she reached his desk and handed him the assignment sheet. She smiled back and touched him briefly on the shoulder. She was confident he'd do well with this assignment.

RJ read through the information quickly and gazed off into space. He knew exactly what he wanted to write, but before he began any story, he always allowed his mind to soar and explore the possibilities. Other students were already scribbling notes, but RJ looked out the window at the clouds floating in the pale blue sky and blinked his eyes slowly as he pictured a story taking shape at the tips of his fingers.

Who should the story be about? He needed a name. It had to be the right name. It couldn't be just any name, because the name told you everything about the person. It would shape his choices in the story. It would give him a destiny and a purpose.

He knew what the story would be about, and he almost used his own name, but he couldn't do that. That would be revealing too much. He shook his head. No. Not RJ. Not Robin. But something similar. Rodrick. Yes, Rodrick would be perfect. He didn't know anyone named Rodrick, and somehow that name seemed to fit the story as it should.

Then he turned back to his notebook, lifted his pencil, and began writing ...

TIGHTROPE WALKER

The eyes of the others rested heavily on Rodrick. Every move he made, every step he took was watched. Not the smallest emotion remained hidden from the faceless audience. This was the moment. The moment he had always been prepared for.

Back when he took his first steps, they were already there, looking at him, commenting on him, regulating him.

No.

This was the one word Rodrick had learned to hate. And yet that small word had become his guide. It had taught him everything. It had made the tightrope walker out of him. The man on whom the eyes of the crowd now rested.

No, you can't go there. Look there. You have to go there. No. Don't turn. No Don't look around. No. Don't discover. No, no, no.

It had been like that since he was a child. Back then it was still a game. A preparation for his life, as he now understood. But it had seemed so innocent so many years ago.

Rodrick could still remember it clearly. It had been a different time. A time of lightheartedness, his childhood. A time when he could still see the ground.

And yet. They had already taught him to walk straight ahead. Always straight ahead. Always along a line on the bare floor. One to follow. One on which to balance.

No penalties would have applied to him. Nothing stopping him from leaving the line. And yet Rodrick had been enthusiastic even then. Be inspired by the words of others. Be excited with the rewards. Rewards he received for walking the line. Rewards for not deviating, not stumbling.

But over time, the game had become serious. The older Rodrick had become, the more he had distanced himself from those childhood days.

The painted line had given way to a rope. At first only a few inches high. Then a foot. First a net, a balancing pole. Then nothing more. No backup, no help.

And yet he never considered stopping. The admiration of the audience, their looks, their applause. Those were the things that kept Rodrick going.

His own interest in this art had long since passed. For a long time, he hadn't enjoyed balancing on the tightrope, always walking forward, always looking at the horizon, never looking back, never looking around. Only the audience, only the looks of the strangers made him go on.

The Faceless Crowd had recently become Rodrick's purpose in life. They called him the Great One. The Incredible. The Tightrope Walker.

Rodrick could only laugh about it. He didn't understand. Didn't understand why they were watching him. Didn't understand why they admired him. Didn't understand why he wanted to please them.

But what else should he do? The question shot through his mind like a red-hot spear.

What should he do? From an early age, he had been prepared for this. Already as a child he had learned to love the rope that had to be mastered. This had always been his destiny. He was a tightrope walker. He was destined to walk the tightrope. He was destined to delight the audience. He was meant to please them.

You mustn't fall!

This sentence. Rodrick had heard it so often.

It was an absolute. A truth that could not be wiped away. Not even from Rodrick.

For all those who fell lost the favor of the spectators. Those who fell were torn apart by them. Those who fell were no longer allowed to move freely among them. Skepticism and suspicion would forever haunt those who fell.

And yet it seemed so endlessly tempting to Rodrick.

Finally leaving the wire. No longer having to follow the prescribed path. No longer forcing the balance.

Would the impact crush him? Would it free Rodrick? Would he be able to find a new purpose in life? Would he even be able to find a way?

A path he would seek himself? A path that would not be prescribed for him? A path that would take him to the place he longed for?

There. High on his rope, Rodrick couldn't find any answers to these questions. He only knew one thing: You mustn't fall!

"Why actually?" he asked himself.

This was the moment. The moment he had always been prepared for inside. The moment when he gave up the task of wanting to be in control. The balancing task. The task of wanting to hold on.

Falling. Liberation. That's how Rodrick felt. That's how he felt when he gave up the tightrope dance. So he fell into a new world.

A world that could go in any direction.

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RJ finished the essay at home that night and showed it to Mickey the next day after school. Mickey read it, amazed as always at his friend's incredible writing ability. When he finished reading, he looked at RJ nervously. Did this mean what Mickey thought it meant? Was RJ really thinking about telling everyone he was gay? Was he really going to open up and reveal what he'd been keeping a secret for so long?

It might have been a secret to everyone else, but not to Mickey. He knew RJ better than anyone else. He'd seen the nervous glances from his best friend during the showers at school. He remembered the whispered conversations during sleepovers. He knew how RJ's legs shook from nerves whenever they sat next to each other on the bus. And then there were the posters in RJ's bedroom. Posters from movies like From Dusk till Dawn and Brokeback Mountain. RJ thought he was hiding it well, but Mickey knew the secret.

Mickey didn't mind. He didn't feel the same attraction to RJ, but it also didn't matter to him. RJ was his friend, and nothing would change that. But if RJ told everyone at school that he was gay, it would be a real huge mess. As much of an outcast as RJ was now, it would be far worse if the other kids knew he was gay.

RJ probably had no idea that Mickey knew. As his closest friend, Mickey wasn't going to tell another soul. But if RJ let everyone know, how could Mickey protect RJ from the backlash that was bound to result?

Mickey smiled nervously at RJ and said, "Wow, dude. Your teacher's gonna love this. Good job!"

RJ smiled and hugged Mickey around the neck. "Thanks, Mick. You're a great friend."

Mickey nodded. Even a great friend couldn't save RJ if the school found out the truth. What the hell was he going to do now?

 

The end of UNCAGED, Chapter Two