Date: Thu, 1 Nov 2018 03:57:15 +0000 (UTC)
From: Salvador Escher <xpud@yahoo.com>
Subject: Eye to Eye Chapter 2

Eye to Eye
Written By: XPud xpud@yahoo.com © 2018

Standard disclaimer: This story mentions sexual acts involving
minors. You've been warned.

Credit goes out to NeverAnywhere for helping with formatting, editing, and
suggestions.

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Chapter 2

	Isaac wakes up to a soft, round, blue chiming sound from his
phone. He sits up and rubs his eyes, letting the sound continue for a
minute before scooting off the bed and walking across the room to turn off
his phone. His mom found out some time ago that he would just turn off the
alarm and go back to sleep when it was closer to the bed; he doesn't ever
remember doing this, but she would not be convinced otherwise. He takes off
his pajama top and bottom, and the briefs he was wearing; he throws the
briefs in the hamper in the corner of his room, but takes time to fold up
the pajama pieces so that he can put them neatly back into the bottom
drawer of his nightstand.
	He shuffles over to the closet and looks at the row of shirts
hanging up. He doesn't have a lot of them on the rack, just twelve of them:
enough to wear for two weeks, minus the two that he already wore on Sunday
and Monday. He takes the next shirt in line, a light gray t-shirt with
darker gray birds flapping up one side and across the sleeve, and wrestles
it over his head. He reaches into the top dresser drawer and pulls out a
folded pair of white briefs and low-cut white socks, putting them on the
bed behind him. He finally takes a pair of blue jeans out and lays them in
the middle of the two, to make a nice assembly line for him to put on his
clothes. This way he doesn't end up putting his pants on before his
underwear, or trying to pull them on over his shoes. Those always end up as
days where nothing goes right.
	He finishes dressing, right down to his black and silver velcro
sneakers. He had tried for years to tie his own shoes, but his mother
eventually gave up and bought him these for self-sufficiency. He liked
them, though, especially the sound they made when he opened the velcro
flap. He would sometimes open them just to enjoy the sound, but his mom
warned him that it wears them out. He wonders why they make velcro that
wears out; that seems like a pretty stupid idea. Finally getting his
glasses from the nightstand and putting them on, he feels ready to leave
his room.
	Onward to the next step of his morning routine: can't forget any
parts, or bad things happen. He goes down the hall into the bathroom and
looks in the mirror to see a pair of eyes staring back at him, above a
black-and-purple nose (it didn't grow to the size of his face like she
said) and a thin-lipped mouth. There's a pair of smallish ears there, and
some short, light blond hair, as well, but he has always had trouble
considering all of those parts as a single unit, a face. Other people have
faces, sure, and those faces have all the same pieces, but somehow it just
doesn't mean the same thing when he looks at his own.
	He runs the water in the faucet until it is at least warm,
splashing some water through his hair to help get rid of the bed head
problem. He spends a good minute working the water through his hair, just
to make absolutely sure it looks okay, of course -- certainly not wasting
time enjoying the feeling. Besides, he always makes sure he has enough time
to do this, so it's fine.
	Isaac takes a moment to study the other features on his face. There
seems to be a red spot coming out right at the high point of his cheek; it
wouldn't be the first pimple he's had, but they're coming faster these
days. His nose really doesn't look good, and he knows that a bunch of
people are going to ask him about it; the thought fills him with dread and
anxiety.
	He takes a moment to study his own eyes in the mirror. He doesn't
mind doing that -- it doesn't carry with it all the weird emotions and
connections like when he looks at others' eyes -- but it just doesn't mean
anything to him. They're a deep blue color, almost at odds with the lighter
colors of his skin and hair. He estimates that their color would sound like
a handbell tuned to middle C, or maybe the A below it. He knows that a lot
of people have complimented him on his eyes, though he tries to ignore it;
it usually means they want him to look at their eyes so they can see his
better, but that just ends poorly.
	He brushes his teeth and flosses using a little flosser pick,
though he can't watch himself do it through the mirror or he gets all kinds
of confused. With his teeth sparkling clean, he rinses everything out of
his mouth and heads out to the living room for departure. As he exits the
bathroom, he muses about how he knows the color of his eyes, but he cannot
ever seem to imagine them; he can only envision it while looking at them
directly in the mirror. He wonders if that's just one more thing different
about him, or if other people have that happen for them, too. He's far too
afraid to ask anyone, though.
	His mother is waiting for him in the living room, watching some
show she recorded. When he arrives, she pauses the show and stands up,
purse in hand. "You ready to go, Doodlebug?" She had been calling him that
for as long as he can remember; as far as he's concerned, it's just another
one of his names.
	"Mom." He states the name, rather than inflecting it as a question.
	"Yes?"
	"Can I stay after school again? I would like to play p-piano
again."
	"Of course, dear. Will your friend be there, too? What's his
name...Vin?"
	Isaac involuntarily smiles at the mention. He can't help but be
excited about the prospect of sharing new songs with Vin, and honestly,
just being there with him is enough. He nods, not even attempting to hide
the smile.
	"Sure thing," she says. Isaac glances up to see a huge grin on her
face. "Maybe you'd like to have him over sometime so I can meet your new
friend, especially if he makes you this happy."
	Isaac doesn't answer, but he ponders the idea. It doesn't seem all
that bad, really; there are no pianos here, of course, but if it would make
Mom happy, then maybe he would ask Vin to come over once. But not yet; the
idea makes him more anxious than he expects it to.
	In the car, Isaac gets an idea. Scanning quickly through YouTube,
he picks a video and asks his mom, "Can I play something on the speakers?"
	"That's fine." She keeps her eyes on the road, but fiddles with a
couple of buttons on the steering wheel.
	The dashboard stereo display changes to "Bluetooth"; it is already
paired to Isaac's phone, so he hits play and turns the volume knob up. The
song is a performance of Debussy's Arabesque No. 1 with a top-down view of
the keys, but Isaac cannot watch the video without getting carsick (that,
and the Bluetooth audio is delayed, so it ruins the whole thing anyway). He
closes his eyes instead and watches the brilliant play of lights and colors
in his mind, reliving the dance of ribbons and fireworks, the tumbling
waterfalls of melody. When it gets to the part that Vin never played
yesterday, Isaac listens intently to the new motifs and their combinations
with the familiar brush strokes of earlier sections. There are sections
that soar through the clouds delicately, like a flock of birds on a foggy
night; sections where deep burgundy velvet carpets are marched upon by
blue-purple swirls of seventh chords; a return back to the ribbon dance
once again, with a faraway call-and-response from the waterfalls; and
finally, the melody flaps its encompassing wings and disappears in the
twinkling sunset of the song.
	His mom knows better than to talk in the middle of a song -- Isaac
is a pretty well-behaved kid until you splash your voice all over the
beautiful landscapes of his music. She asks afterward, "What is that one
called?"
	"Arabesque Number 1 by Debussy, ma'am."
	"It's very nice. Where did you hear it?"
	Isaac waits a moment to answer. "From Vin, ma'am. Um, he played it
and then I listened, and then I played it."
	"Is that why he's your friend?"
	Isaac isn't sure why she asked that question, so he decides not to
answer it. Thankfully, she doesn't push the matter. He looks at her for
additional information; he notes that she has a small smile, but nothing
else that seems noteworthy.
	She drops him off near the courtyard at school, the same place she
picked him up the day before. He walks in a wide circle around the eagle
that made him slip last time, and heads up the stairs. In the mornings,
only the cafeteria door is open; the regular doors open only six minutes
before the first class. He walks past the thin crowds of people standing
outside and makes his way into the cafeteria.
	On the way to the breakfast line, he hears the words "Mime Boy" and
"beat up" pop out of the low mutter of morning conversation. He already
regrets coming to school today, if all he's going to hear is people talking
about him getting beat up.
	He does his best to tune them out, listening instead to his new
favorite piece of music in his head, exploring each and every chordal
interaction and rhythmic intricacy as if they were tunnels in an unexplored
cave system. He gets so into it that he almost walks off without paying for
his cereal and milk.
	"Young man!" the cashier lady calls.
	He stops and gasps. Immediately turning around nearly fast enough
to topple the milk carton on his tray, he quickly walks over to place his
tray back down on the rails. He reaches into his pocket and hurriedly pulls
out the cash, repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." in a soft
voice.
	"It's okay, sweetie," the lady replies, "no harm done. Have a good
morning."
	He picks back up his tray, darts a few furtive glances up near the
lady's face, and ducks around to a nearby table. He almost stole something!
She didn't seem to be mad about it, he thought, or she would have said
something else, right? Still, it takes a moment for his heart to slow down
and his mind to clear; he didn't want to end up a criminal just because he
was lost in his own thoughts.
	He centers himself by enjoying his morning cereal, Apple Jacks with
whole milk. Since cereal is harder to break into chunks of three, he
contents himself with chewing each bite in multiples of three before
swallowing. In his mind, he plays various songs that are in triple time
signatures, keeping the beat of the song with each chomp. Incidentally, it
makes for a very efficient meal, which is pleasing to Isaac, as well.
	As he finishes up his cereal, he waits at the table until the bell
rings. While waiting, he overhears more conversation from the same table
that mentioned him before:
	"No -- well yeah, Ray beat him up, but then Ray said that he was
doing some kind of voodoo shit!"
	"What the fuck -- really?"
	"Yeah! Fuckin' Mime Boy, like, made him feel pain without touching
him or some shit, like he was a living voodoo doll!"
	"Dude, no fuckin' way. That can't be real."
	"I know what I heard, and Ray wouldn't lie like that."
	"He would if he lost the fight, heh."
	"Bro, you know he ain't stupid enough to lie like that, tellin' us
some spooky voodoo shit. If he says something that crazy, I mean I gotta
believe him."
	"Oh shit, he's right there!"
	"What? Oh ff --"
	And the conversation stops there. Isaac has no desire whatsoever to
look over and see the people talking about him, so he just pretends he
didn't hear them, his usual -- but often faulty -- trick to avoid
conversation.
	It works (or at least they didn't feel like pushing the issue) so
he sits in his self-imposed isolation until the bell rings. He stands
quickly and takes his backpack, hurrying out the door and into the hallway
to beat the rush. He makes his way to Homeroom, where Mr. Coleman is
waiting outside his door to greet his students. "Good morning, Isaac."
	Isaac stops just long enough to say "Good morning, sir," before
walking into the classroom. This classroom, though, is definitely different
than the normal variety. Mr. Coleman refers to it officially as the Life
Skills room, but Isaac and the other kids affectionately call it "The
Living Room." It has a small kitchen, a restroom, an area with student
desks arranged in three groups of four, a comfy sofa, and a "reading
corner": a soft rug, a lamp, and a bookshelf full of different types of
books. Isaac knows that the reason some of the other kids don't leave this
room is because they don't know how to deal with the regular classrooms,
and sometimes not even regular life. There have been times when he has
wished he could just stay in this room all day and not have to deal with
the jerks, the stares, the confusion; however, he also realizes that he
actually can deal with all of that, at least somewhat. Some of his
classmates, or "Room-mates" as Mr. Coleman likes to call them, would just
be constantly ridiculed and bullied if they tried to be in a regular
class. There's one, Byron, who has a panic attack every morning while he's
in the hallways, and only calms down when he's in the room. He can speak a
few words, sometimes, but he mostly just stays silent or makes grunting
sounds. He'd never make it anywhere else, so it isn't fair for Isaac to be
jealous of him and the others.
	Isaac doesn't feel sorry for them, though, or consider them as
"worse" or anything. They're just "different kinds of different," another
term that Mr. Coleman taught them. "Everyone's a different kind of
different," he had said. "You're different; she's different in different
ways; he is, too. Even I am. And not one single person in here is better
than anyone else. Just different."
	Christian walks into the room and spies Isaac taking a seat on the
microfiber couch. As Isaac slowly moves his hands over the tiny, soft
fibers, Christian walks directly up to him and says (in a voice far too
loud for the first thing in the morning), "Hey! Isaac, your nose is broken!
What happened? Did someone punch you? Were you in a fight?!"
	Isaac sorts through the barrage and picks one thing to respond
to. "It's bruised. It's not broken."
	"Oh, I thought it was broken because it looks really bad,"
Christian says tactlessly, drawing out the last two words for
emphasis. "Like it looks like you broke it or something." He looks to the
floor and notices a glinting object on the carpet. He bends down fast
enough that he almost hits Isaac in the nose with his dense, wavy black
hair; oblivious to this, he stands and points out, "Hey! I found a penny!"
and holds it out in front of Isaac.
	Isaac would have to cross his eyes just to focus on the object that
has been thrust in his face. Before he gets a chance to say anything about
it, though, the bell rings for the official start of school, which means
all of the students in the room are required to be sitting
somewhere. Christian finds a chair next to the kitchen table, which is
thankfully a decent amount of space away from Isaac. Christian is nice, he
thinks, but sometimes I just want to push him.
	The principal gets on the loudspeaker to welcome everyone to
"another great day at Ophelia Adler Intermediate School" and to have
everyone stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Isaac stands with his hand
over his heart and recites the words in time with the principal's deep
voice. Though the words themselves don't mean much, there is a certain
comfort in the ritual of saying the words together that had always helped
Isaac center himself in preparation for the chaos of the day.
	There are a few other announcements, but Isaac tunes them out. He
takes out his math book and does a couple of the problems in the next
section, writing the answers in a spiral notebook from last year that still
has a few unused sheets in it. While he works, he catches a glimpse of the
dark red, flowery dress that Mrs. Jimenez, one of Mr. Coleman's assistants,
likes to wear. She doesn't say anything to him, but she is usually just
here for the less capable students.
	In an unfortunately short time, the bell rings for first period,
and Isaac is forced to go to his least favorite class. He normally tries to
be the first one out of class, both so that he can beat the rush of people
and so that he can make sure he's not late, but the reading classroom is
literally two doors down the hallway. That, and he really, really doesn't
want to go.
	Mr. Coleman walks up to him after a minute and kneels down next to
him. Staring forward, he asks, "Why are you still sitting down? You have to
go to reading class."
	Isaac doesn't reply. After Mr. Coleman asks again, though, he
mutters, "I don't want to go."
	"What is making you feel that way?"
	He thinks a moment. "I'm afraid that...that th-the people will make
fun of me again, and then th-that I won't get it. The work."
	"Well, I have good news for you: there's going to be another
teacher in there today, and he can help you with the work."
	Isaac absently picks at the side of his thumb. He already didn't
like having to meet all his new teachers last week, and the prospect of
another new one doesn't help him feel better. "Yes, sir," he finally says,
though he doesn't feel very confident about the decision.
	"Good. C'mon, Isaac -- I'll walk you there and introduce you."
	Even with the conversation taking up a few minutes, the two of them
end up walking into the reading classroom right as the bell rings. Isaac
immediately spots the new adult in the room, a man with close-cut, nearly
black hair and a short black goatee to match; Isaac is immediately
entranced by the lustrous purple button-down shirt that the man is wearing,
the color of a deep, rich major chord, and the way that it fits perfectly
across his chest and arms. He gets a glimpse of the man's eyes from the
side, noticing the dark brown color that both matches his hair, and stands
out against his light, almost pale skin; Isaac wouldn't be able to find the
words to explain, but the man definitely sparks a wave of emotion in him.
	Isaac hesitates in the doorway, but Mr. Coleman's reassuring hand
on his shoulder slowly directs him into the room and toward the man. As
Mrs. Stone begins her walk around the room as she does every morning, the
man looks up to see Isaac and Mr. Coleman approach. Isaac is quick to cast
his eyes down, where he notices the deep shine of the man's black shoes.
	"Good morning, Mr. Guthrie. This is Isaac Brooks."
	"It's a pleasure to meet you, Isaac," Mr. Guthrie says in a voice
far deeper than Isaac expected from the man's frame; it was like the sound
of a tuba coming from a trumpet.
	"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Guthrie," he repeats back.
	Mr. Guthrie continues, "I'm your education specialist. I'm sorry I
haven't been in here sooner, but the first weeks of school are always a
little crazy."
	Isaac is aware of what an "education specialist" is in this
district: they are the people that come into the classrooms and help people
who are having a hard time in the class. Isaac resents needing one, but he
is more than happy to have one for this stupid, difficult class. He says
nothing, but nods silently.
	Mr. Coleman explains in a low voice, "He can be a bit shy, but he
is definitely always listening. You've checked his I.E.P. and B.E.P.?"
	The two of them engage in conversation that is full of letters and
other definitions that Isaac probably should know but hasn't taken the time
to learn. He logs the conversation in the back of his mind, scanning it for
when he's needed again; he sits at his normal assigned seat, where the two
boys and the girl with the long braid stare at him awkwardly. He hears a
comment or two about his nose, but he's already opening up his journal and
beginning the warm-up, trying his best to ignore them.
	Mr. Coleman leaves after the conversation, and Isaac spies
Mr. Guthrie checking over the shoulder of a Hispanic girl with
shoulder-length, silky black hair. Shortly, Mr. Guthrie leaves her and
comes back to Isaac; the closer he gets, the more Isaac feels somehow
smaller, inadequate.
	Isaac tries his best to maintain concentration, writing a short
paragraph to the prompt, "Write about a time when you were brave." He
describes the time when he first came to this school.

A time wen I was brave was when I came to this school in sixth grade. I was
scard becuz I didn't know ennybody, and becuz it's hard to meet new
poeple. I met some new frends, and now I don't feel scard ennymore.

	He has a pretty good grasp of grammar rules and his handwriting is
neat; however, his spelling isn't the best, and he hates when people read
his work -- especially out loud. It never sounds as good as it does in his
head.
	Mr. Guthrie watches as Isaac finishes the last sentence and asks,
"May I read it?"
	Isaac considers saying `no' or otherwise silently refusing, but he
ends up hunching over in his seat with his hands tucked in between his
legs. "Yes, sir."
	Mr. Guthrie glances at it for a moment and passes the journal back
to Isaac. "Thank you," he says, but makes no other comment about it. Isaac
isn't sure which is worse: people reading his work and judging him, or
people reading his work and not saying anything. Then he doesn't know what
they think about it, good or bad. Mr. Guthrie then takes a seat in the back
of the classroom at the "work table" where student groups often go to put
together projects and the like. Isaac doesn't want to risk knowing whether
Mr. Guthrie is looking at him, so he just assumes that he is.
	The next part of class is the same as always, with the teacher
demonstrating the technique she is teaching to the students and having the
students practice it together with her. This time it's still about
inference; Isaac really wishes she'd just talk about grammar and such more
often. At least that's something where words have rules to follow.
	As she gets to the point where the other students are answering
questions with each other in groups, Mr. Guthrie comes over and kneels next
to Isaac. "Hey. Why don't you come over to the table and work with me on
this?"
	Isaac glances to the table and at Mr Guthrie's silky purple
shirt. He stands up, grabs his pencil and the worksheet the teacher just
passed out, and follows Mr. Guthrie over there. He takes a seat and stares
at the worksheet.
	Mr. Guthrie, however, puts a couple of pictures down on the
table. "Don't worry about the worksheet right now," he requests. "We're
going to talk about what inference is, and how you already use it."
	"Yes, sir," Isaac replies with no confidence whatsoever.
	The man slides a picture to Isaac. Mr. Guthrie asks, "What are some
of the things you notice in this picture? Can you describe it to me?"
	 "Um, there is a person holding an umbrella, and then a set of keys
in his other hand."
	"Is there a background? Do we know where he is?"
	Isaac shakes his head.
	"Why do you think he's holding an umbrella?" Mr. Guthrie asks.
	"Because it's maybe raining, or about to rain, maybe."
	"Okay," Mr. Guthrie says, "And what about the keys? Why would he be
holding keys?"
	Isaac thinks a moment. "Maybe because he's going to, um, u-unlock
something? Like maybe his h-house."
	"Sure. And how is he standing? Is he standing still, or does it
look like something else?"
	"His leg is out, like he's walking."
	"And where do you think he's walking to?"
	Isaac doesn't reply.
	Mr. Guthrie tries again, "If he has keys in his hand, and he is
going to unlock something, what do you think he might be going to unlock?"
	"Um, a door, maybe, and then he will go inside."
	"How do you know it's not, say, a filing cabinet, or a dresser?"
	"Because he is outside," Isaac replies.
	"Why so?"
	"Because it's raining, and then because you're not supposed to open
an umbrella inside." Isaac smiles a bit at the thought of a man opening a
filing cabinet in the rain.
	"Excellent," Mr. Guthrie says emphatically. "All of those things
you just did were inferences. You had to infer all of that information
since there's no background. You don't know where he is, but because he has
an umbrella -- and because you aren't supposed to open umbrellas inside --
we know he's probably outside, and also probably raining. We also know that
he's going to go in somewhere, since he has keys in his hand. I didn't have
to tell you that; you figured it out indirectly by using clues."
	Isaac doesn't respond, but he is quietly pleased with himself. Then
why is it so hard when she makes me do it? he wonders.
	"Now," Mr. Guthrie says, "How do you think the man feels?"
	This is the sort of question that Mrs. Stone would ask. Isaac has
no idea, so he remains silent.
	Mr. Guthrie waits an uncomfortably long period of time for Isaac to
answer, but he finally asks something else. "What are some of the ways we
can know how someone is feeling?"
	Isaac takes a moment, but he responds, "Um, if they're smiling, you
know that maybe they're happy."
	"Good, so the shape their mouth is in can tell us something. What
else?"
	"If they say that th-they are feeling some way."
	Mr. Guthrie laughs a bit. "Yes, if they tell us. But it's not very
often that people just say how they're feeling, right? What about another
emotion, like sadness? How can you tell, or infer, that someone is sad,
even if they don't tell you?"
	"Um, they might cry."
	"Okay, good. And angry?"
	"They will talk loud and then maybe hit things, or people." He
wishes it were really that easy to tell; there have been countless times
where someone was mad and did not give off any signs that Isaac could tell.
	Mr. Guthrie nods. "Now what about the face? Can you see anything on
the man's face that would tell you how he's feeling? Is he smiling?"
	"No, sir."
	"What do his eyes look like?"
	"Um, they look brown."
	"No, like, are his eyes wide open and surprised, or narrow and
angry, or anything like that?"
	Isaac is completely lost on this one. He knows that he could
probably tell more about someone if he looked at their eyes more often, but
even before this weird new "connection" thing started, he still hated
looking at other people in the eyes.
	"Here, look at me real quick." Mr. Guthrie turns his body directly
toward Isaac.
	A wave of anxiety passes through Isaac as Mr. Guthrie asks the
question. Isaac instead averts his gaze even farther, looking at the table.
	Mr. Guthrie gently places his hand palm-down on the table where
Isaac can see it. "Isaac. I promise it won't take long; I just want to show
you an example of how to tell certain emotions. It will help you in this
class, and in other parts of life, too."
	"Yes, sir." Isaac sighs and looks up at Mr. Guthrie, whose eyebrows
flick up a little bit as his eyes widen slightly. Isaac stares at him as
the complicated ball of emotions rises in his chest. Though he can't
pinpoint specifically why, one thing is immediately apparent to Isaac: the
man is hot. Isaac feels that "too close" feeling as the sensation of the
silken shirt sliding along his own arms and chest, the tightness of dress
shoes on his feet, and the stirring of arousal cascading from his chest
down to his crotch. He knows the shirt and shoes aren't his own, but he has
a pretty good clue where the excitement part comes from; embarrassed that
he would feel that way and overwhelmed by the sensations, Isaac quickly
tears his gaze away and looks out the window.
	The man immediately starts smoothing out his shirt, clearing his
throat a few times. "I'm sorry, I don't know what just came over me." A
moment later, as Isaac is looking back, he notices Mr. Guthrie shift
heavily in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.
	"Can I just look, um, at pictures of f-faces?" Isaac asks
meekly. "I...I don't like to look at people in the eyes."
	"Oh. Uh, yes, I can arrange for that. I think that's all for today,
though. Go ahead and find your seat back at your table. It was nice meeting
you, Isaac."
	"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Guthrie." As Isaac makes his way to
his seat, Mr. Guthrie stands up as well, adjusting his pants very
noticeably before walking quickly out of the room. Isaac takes a moment to
pick at the crotch of his pants, trying to give his awkward erection some
more room. Thankfully, it wasn't so long that it poked out of his pants or
anything; he'd heard of that being an issue for some people.
	Isaac sits in his own thoughts for the remainder of class, both to
process what he'd learned and to sort out his feelings. Mr. Guthrie is a
very handsome man; Isaac spends some time analyzing what about him was so
attractive. He liked the shape of his face, and how he had nice-looking
muscles on his chest and arms. He really liked the thick, short hair on his
head and chin, and he also had big hands, like Vin. He isn't sure when all
this started becoming a thing for him, but it is definitely a thing, now;
looking at Mr. Guthrie definitely "turned him on."
	The sudden sound of the bell ringing for the end of class breaks
Isaac out of his reverie. The bell almost has a blue sound, like his alarm,
but it's like it was trying to imitate it and failed; it's more of a sea
green color, and it has little holes all over it like a hard cheese. A
green cheese bell is not a pretty sound at all.
	Speaking of being turned on, Isaac realizes what his next class
is. Please don't let them take my clothes again, he thinks with dread as he
makes his way to the gym. Or try to stuff me in a locker, like last
year. ...Or call me Mime Boy.
	He stops in the restroom to do his business and to check on the
state of his nose. It's definitely a colorful swirl of a bruise, absolutely
noticeable. With a sigh, he laments, Or make fun of my nose. They're
definitely going to make fun of my nose.
	Sure enough, he gets immediate reactions from some of the boys in
the locker room once he walks in: "Damn, that's a big bruise!"; "Dude, look
at his nose!"; and, "Looks like he kissed a wall," among others.
	He opens his locker, the embarrassment of being the target of
everyone's attention burning hot on his cheeks, and takes his gym clothes
to the stall. While quickly dressing out, he hears some jerk of a kid ask
loudly, "Why does he hide in the bathroom? Is he like, secretly a girl or
something?"
	Someone else replies, "Wait, you're saying Mime Boy is Mime Girl?"
	Again with the "mime" crap, he mentally grumbles. He checks that
off the list of things he didn't want happening today as he finishes
dressing into his gym clothes. He takes a moment to fold his regular
clothes up nicely -- wrinkles against his skin are super annoying -- and,
taking a deep breath, he heads back through the locker room to put his
clothes up.
	The same irritating voice pipes up again; Isaac identifies the
source as a boy with round cheeks and greasy brown hair gelled to the
side. The boy looks at Isaac's bundle of clothes and turns to another boy
he's sitting next to, saying, "What the fuck? He folded his clothes! He's
either a girl or a little fag."
	Isaac averts his eyes before the jerk looks up at him; that boy is
definitely not someone that Isaac wants to get lost in. He casts his eyes
down and heads over to his locker, passing in front of the boy. The boy
sticks his leg out, which Isaac clearly sees and steps over; the boy
responds by kicking his leg up, not far enough to connect with anything,
but far enough to block Isaac's progress. He and a few boys laugh as Isaac
freezes in place.
	"Hey," Vin says suddenly from behind Isaac; he sees Vin's shoe land
on the boy's shin and slowly push it down. "Chill. Leave him alone."
	"What? I was just playin'," he replies. As Vin walks past,
Grease-Hair leans over to his friend again and mutters, "Probably a fag,
too."
	Isaac takes his glasses off and puts them in the locker, as
well. He follows Vin out, but hears, "Fag Mime Boy," as he exits the locker
room. He wonders if it's noticeable; he's just now figuring out that he
likes boys, but is it possible that other people know already? How would
they know? Then again, how does everyone seem to know everything about
everyone else just by looking at them? Mr. Guthrie's point that Isaac has
been inferring things all along is fine, but how the heck does everyone
else just automatically know what mood he's in, or whatever? Do the eyes
really hold that much information? All Isaac's eyes seem to hold right now
is a reservoir of tears waiting to fall at first blink.
	Whichever way it is, Isaac is tired of being different. So Vin is
cute, and Mr. Guthrie is hot. Why couldn't Isaac just like girls like he
was supposed to, like his mom said he would? Why would she lie about that?
It's just not fair.
	"Hey, you okay?" Vin asks, startling Isaac and making him jump a
bit. "Oh, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. I was just wondering what
happened with your nose."
	Isaac realizes that he has already made his way out to the gym
bleachers and has been standing in front of them; Vin is sitting on the
third bleacher, just out of Isaac's line of vision. Isaac squints his eyes
and rubs the remaining tears away; then he darts a quick glance to see
where Vin is, averting his eyes quickly enough to not cause a
problem. (Normally, if he has his glasses off, he doesn't get "too close"
if they are blurry enough, but it happened yesterday with Vin from like
across the room.) "Um," he replies hesitantly, "I slipped and fell outside,
and I bruised my nose." He doesn't mention the other incident that
happened, nor does he mention his elbow. His arm doesn't look that bad,
though it's a bit sore.
	Vin hisses a sharp intake of breath. "Ouch! Dude, I'm so sorry. Are
you okay?"
	"I...yes, I'm okay, Vin."
	"All right. And hey, don't let those assholes get to you, yeah?"
Vin says with a half-smile.
	Isaac isn't sure what that means, but usually a full smile means
someone is happy, so maybe he's not? Ugh, why is this so difficult for me?!
he bemoans. Outwardly, though, he mumbles, "No, sir. I mean -- um, thank
you for, for stooping those stoppid -- um, stopping..." He stops and
sighs. "For helping me again." Stop stuttering! You look stupid!
	"Hey, man, no problem." A moment of hesitation grips both of them,
but just as Vin looks like he is about to break it, the whistle slices off
any further hope for conversation.
	Thankfully, nobody messes with Isaac any further during gym class,
mostly since they were busy doing different station activities the entire
time. Time flies, and the whistle cuts Isaac's ears before he even realizes
it.
	Isaac hightails it to the locker room, trying to be mostly dressed
out before the other boys make it in as per the usual. After the bell
rings, though, Vin calls out after him, "Hey, Isaac!"
	Isaac stops in his tracks, and Vin catches up. "I was just
wondering if you were gonna be in the piano rooms today."
	Isaac's heart explodes into butterflies, but he suppresses his
smile as best he can. Don't ruin this, Isaac. "Yes, Vin," he says, nodding
furiously.
	"All right, cool! See ya then?"
	"See you then, Vin." Isaac watches Vin's feet bounce out of the gym
in front of him. He ends up stuck in the crowd of kids, but he is
sufficiently distracted to not find it a major issue. In fact, he is so
distracted that he ends up at his math class before he even realizes it. Oh
no, he thinks, did Mrs. Davis say hi to me? What if I didn't say hi to her?
The thought mortifies him, and he rushes back to her room. She isn't
waiting outside. She must have thought I was ignoring her. He walks into
the room and turns toward her desk while saying, "I'm sorry, Mrs.--"
	The old man sitting at Mrs. Davis's desk is definitely not
Mrs. Davis. He looks up from a piece of paper he's reading and says, "Oh,
Mrs. Davis is out today. Did you need her?"
	"Oh," Isaac says, averting his eyes quickly, but is otherwise
speechless. He stands in the doorway for an awkward period of time, until a
kid outside gives up on waiting for him and pushes into the room. A stream
of kids follows suit, while Isaac stares at the floor in embarrassment. He
waits until all of the kids file in past him and darts out at the earliest
convenience; he hears someone asking someone else, "Who was that?" but he
doesn't stick around for the answer. He does, however, make it to class on
time. He sits in his desk near the wall, picking at one of his thumbs and
rocking slightly in his seat until he is able to calm down. A couple of
kids look over at him during class; a few kids mumble to each other about
the huge bruise on his nose, but nobody says anything else,
thankfully. After the class gets quiet, though, everything passes by
smoothly, and lunch time sneaks up on Isaac.
	Tuesday is Isaac's least favorite day of the week for lunch, since
he has generally no idea what they are serving. If this year is anything
like last year, Mondays are usually sandwiches, Wednesdays are always some
kind of pizza, Thursdays are usually some kind of Mexican or Southwestern
sort of thing, and Fridays are burger days. All of them are relatively
predictable, but then there's Tuesday. They might have Chinese food, or
breakfast for lunch (how can anyone enjoy pancakes when it's not breakfast?
he wonders), or some other crazy thing like that. He bites his lip as he
enters the lunch line, hoping against hope that they don't have some
terrible thing like Orange Chicken or some other weird combination.
	They don't have Orange Chicken. They have Orange Beef. The thought
turns Isaac's stomach. Meat isn't supposed to be sweet. He sighs and puts
the beef on his tray; they more or less require you to have an entree
before they even let you leave the lunch line. On the plus side, lunch is
free, so Isaac never has the problem of forgetting his lunch money -- or
having it taken from him, for that matter. Either way, he grabs some
broccoli, mashed potatoes (without gravy), a roll, and a tray of apple
slices, and makes his way to his preferred table (with a mental note to
bring his lunch on Tuesdays). He sits down heavily and stares at his food
for a moment. Deciding that the broccoli and apples are the only decently
divisible food, he alternates between eating three pieces of broccoli and
one apple slice (in three bites).
	Isaac's table is shortly graced by the shadow of a
wavy-black-haired companion. "Hi, Isaac," Christian announces as he sits.
	"Hi, Christian." Isaac eats another piece of broccoli.
	"I was really worried about you this morning," he admits loudly; he
says everything loudly, though. "Your nose really looks bad."
	Isaac is about to put the third (and therefore most important)
piece of broccoli in his mouth, but he drops it on his tray. "Stop talking
about my nose!" he snaps, staring Christian down. There is no bundle of
confused emotions this time; he feels equal parts irritation and surprise,
though he's pretty sure he's not surprised at Christian. Maybe he's
surprised at how irritated he is.
	Christian stops, speechless, eyes wide. He stares back at Isaac,
tears beginning to form in his eyes. "I...I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, to,
to make you mad!"
	Isaac instantly regrets being mean; he really hates upsetting
people. He may not be able to tell the finer shades of emotion, but it's
pretty clear to him that when someone starts crying, they're either sad or
upset. He feels a wave of fear and sadness, but just looks down at his food
and tucks his hands in his lap, suddenly not hungry. "I'm sorry," he
says. After a moment, he adds, "I don't want to t-talk about my nose."
	An uncomfortable silence overtakes the two, though Christian
continues to eat his food. After a few bites, he quietly asks Isaac, "Um,
how come you're not eating?"
	Isaac stares at his food. He is hungry, and Christian doesn't seem
to be upset anymore, so he picks up the third piece of broccoli again and
eats it. "I don't like, um, this," he says, indicating the beef.
	Christian looks at his tray, at Isaac's tray, and then back to his
again. "I can give you maybe my apples and broccoli if you want, and you
can give me your meat, since I can see that you're eating the apples and
the broccoli, and I like the meat, so I can eat that."
	Isaac shrugs. "Okay," he says plainly as he passes his tray of beef
over in exchange. He takes the other two and decides to have a meal of
apples and broccoli. He doesn't even need the potatoes, now. It's not the
most filling meal he's ever had, but it's also not the first time he's
skipped the main course of a lunch. He knows that his mom gets upset if he
doesn't finish his whole lunch -- she keeps telling him that he won't grow,
and that he'll stay too skinny -- but if food wasn't so gross, he would eat
more. Besides, beef just tastes like eating a bunch of strings.
	"Um, hey Isaac," Christian asks. Loudly, as always, of course. "Do
you play Clash Royale? I got it on my phone finally and it's a lot of
fun. A lot of kids were playing it last year, but I was busy playing this
other game I got on my phone, but it's just a single player game so I
didn't play it with anyone else. But do you play the...uh, do you play
Clash Royale? You could join my clan if you do."
	Isaac takes a moment to digest the rapid stream of words. "I have
it on my phone, but I don't play it. Not since last year."
	"Do you want to join my clan? You can get some neat things and more
rewards and stuff, and we can play battles together."
	"Okay," he replies.
	"Cool!" Christian exclaims with far too much enthusiasm. "Maybe you
can set it up after school and I can show you how to do all the things and
maybe even remem--um, show you...maybe, maybe you can remember how to play
and I can help you."
	"Oh, uh..." Isaac stammers, "I am going to be in the piano rooms
after school with a friend. I'm sorry, Christian."
	"Oh." Christian falls silent and looks down at his hands for a few
seconds. Just `oh?' Isaac wonders. What's that supposed to mean? Did I
upset him again? Quickly, though, Christian recovers his normal volume as
he asks, "Is it a new friend? Is it somebody I know? Is it a boy? Are they
`gen-ed' or `sped'?"
	Isaac shakes his head to clear the half-attempted answers to the
barrage of questions. He can't even follow all of them, so he starts with
the last one. "Um, he's in regular classes, I think. He's in my gym class."
Isaac kind of hates that Christian always brings up the "gen-ed/sped"
thing; "gen-ed," or "general education," kids don't have any labels on them
as far as education. They're in all regular classes except for maybe one
"core elective" class if they need to double up on a subject for the extra
help. "Sped," or "SPecial EDucation," means that the kid has some sort of
disability or problem, which usually means they have different goals in
school. Isaac tries not to dwell on it, but it's just one more label on him
to make him different from everyone else, not that there weren't enough
reasons already. "His name is Vin," Isaac finishes, not remembering the
rest of the questions Christian shot at him.
	"Oh," Christian responds. "I don't think I know a Vin...no, wait,
`Vin' like as in `Irvin'? The tall kid that was on the basketball team last
year? I remember that he was like, not all that tall at the beginning of
last year, but then he just went like really tall and everybody was scared
of him in basketball so he usually made a lot of points because the other
kids were still really short. Is that Vin? I mean is that the same, is
that--is that who you're talking about?"
	If Christian slowed down, Isaac muses, maybe he'd know what he was
trying to say. Isaac is aware that's a rude thought, so he doesn't voice
it. "I don't know," he says instead. "I don't watch the sports teams. He
plays a lot of basketball in gym class, so I guess maybe."
	"Wow, he seems pretty cool! Can I come hang out with you and him,
too?! Maybe after the pianos, we could all go play Minecraft and I could
show you the castle that I made on the school server!"
	A pit forms in Isaac's stomach. He hadn't realized it before, but
he really wants to just be with Vin...alone. Christian is nice, he
considers, but if he were there, everything would be about him. "I just
want it to be me and him," he admits quietly. He feels very uncomfortable
saying those words, but he feels even more uncomfortable when he tries to
lie.
	Christian stares at Isaac for a long moment, which makes Isaac's
cheeks feel even warmer. "Why are you leaving me out?" he asks with a
wavering voice. "It's because I talk too much. I'm sorry -- I'll never say
another word!" Tears fill his eyes as he hangs his head.
	This, of course, makes Isaac feel like complete crap, even though
he knows that almost anything can make Christian cry. He begins to mutter,
"I'm sorry," over and over, half to make Christian feel better, and half to
make himself feel better. Christian eats the rest of his food wordlessly,
dripping tears and sniffling the entire time. Isaac just gets up with a
thousand-pound knot in his chest and walks over to throw the remainder of
his food away, not willing to eat anything.
	He wishes he had some way to get the feelings out of his chest, but
even crying doesn't ever seem to help much. He makes it to the trashcan and
throws his stuff away, but the intensity of his emotions overtake him; he
sits on the stairsteps leading to the stage and hides his face in his
hands, crying quietly. It still hurts his chest and presses on his
brain. He wants desperately to hit himself in the head or scratch at his
arm just to feel something else, to possibly distract his brain and ease
the pain. He looks up and notices a few tables staring at him, and just
seeing that many pairs of eyes staring at him breaks his last ounce of
self-control. He takes his tray and turns it on its side, digging the edge
into his forehead, hoping that the pressure will somehow help.
	"Hey! Hey!" he hears one of the lunch monitors call out. The quick
patter of business shoes approaches him and the tray is swiftly taken from
his hands. The sudden removal of the tray, Isaac's only real hope of help,
causes him to break loose into full sobs and wails; he starts to scratch
his nails down his forearm, but the lady restrains him further. By this
point, Isaac looks out to see the entire cafeteria looking at him and
mumbling, and the entire thing is far too much for him to process, to
bear. He shuts down, hanging limply from the lunch lady's arms, crying
uncontrollably.
	Isaac is too busy to hear the lunch lady ask the other monitor to
radio for Mr. Coleman, who shows up quickly to escort Isaac out of the
cafeteria. On their way back to the "Living Room," Isaac gets lost in his
own mind. Christian cries a lot, but this is the third time in two days
that I've cried at school. Last year wasn't even this bad! Why am I like
this? Now everyone knows me as Mime Boy, as a crybaby, and as some kind of
"voodoo" kid! Now the entire cafeteria watched me cry like a stupid baby
and they're all going to make fun of me forever!
	In the room, Mr. Coleman instructs Isaac to sit on the carpet and
rock. Isaac nearly collapses onto it, curling up into the tightest ball
possible and rocking back and forth, moaning, "I'm sorry, I'm--I'm sorry"
between hiccups and breaths.
	After a few minutes, Isaac is able to focus in on the sensation of
rocking back and forth long enough to center his thoughts and calm his
rampaging emotions. Once he can breathe relatively normally, give or take a
hiccup, he places his feet down and continues to rock back and forth with
his hands on the carpet, feeling the soothing texture of the plush carpet
brush across his palms and between his fingers.
	Isaac knows that there is a difference between crying from
frustration, crying because a bunch of boys just stole all of your clothes,
and crying like this. This was a "meltdown," as Mr. Coleman calls
them. Sometimes things just get too much -- too much noise, too much
embarrassment, too much emotion -- and Isaac can't keep up with it all. I
know I'm not supposed to hurt myself, he ponders, but how else am I
supposed to fix it when the emotions hurt so bad? He wonders if he's better
off not being able to tell how people feel, since it always seems to affect
him so much when he hurts them.
	Mr. Coleman gives him time to cool off, checking his head and arms
to make sure there is no injury. "Can you tell me what happened at lunch?"
he asks, as always.
	"I made Christian c-cry."
	"I see. Is that what upset you?"
	"Yes, sir. And then...and then the whole room...all the other kids
--" Isaac stops, squinting as hard as he can to stop from crying. He
doesn't want to go through all that again.
	Mr. Coleman waits for Isaac to regain composure. "And did you try
to hurt yourself?"
	Isaac stays silent.
	"Did your normal ways of coping not work for you?"
	He means the rocking, the chanting, closing his eyes, and
such. Isaac shakes his head, eyes still closed.
	"Sometimes we hurt people's feelings, Isaac," he says
softly. "Christian will be okay, though. Try to remember that we all make
mistakes, and we always get better from them. Try not to be so hard on
yourself."
	"I can't help it," he bemoans. "When I see s-someone get hurt, it
hurts me, too."
	"That's something we call empathy. It's a good thing to have, but
sometimes we let it get out of control." He falls silent.
	Empathy, Isaac thinks. Is that what I feel when I look at people's
eyes?
	Mr. Coleman interrupts the silence. "How did you make Christian
cry?"
	"I told him that, um, that I wanted to go to play p-piano with Vin,
but I didn't want him to be there. I mean, I said that I just wanted it to
be Vin and me."
	"What was his response?"
	"He said that I was leaving him out because he talks t-too much,
but that's not why I said that." While it's true that he does talk too much
sometimes, it's more important that he's not there while Isaac and Vin are
together. He still isn't sure why that thought is so thrilling to him --
they're just friends -- but it's an undeniable surge of excitement to think
about. "I just...I just want to be with Vin and then without Christian."
	"Do you not want to be friends with Christian?"
	"No, sir! I mean, sir, um, I do want to be friends, and then we can
play Clash Royale together, but maybe later and then not today."
	Isaac glances to his side to see Mr. Coleman still next to him,
staring forward as they often do while having a conversation, but he is
smiling a little bit. "Okay. You aren't being mean by wanting to be with
one friend and not another, so don't worry about that. Instead, the next
time you think that somebody feels left out, or they feel like you don't
want to hang out with them, maybe you can invite them to do something
later. When you see Christian again, maybe you should ask him to play Clash
Royale or something, possibly tomorrow or Thursday."
	"Yes, sir."
	"You don't have to, but you could make Christian feel a lot
better."
	"Yes, sir."
	"Do you think you can go back to classes, now?"
	"Yes, sir."
	"All right. Do you want me to walk you there?"
	"No, sir."
	"Okay. Have a good day, Isaac."
	"Have a good day, sir."
	He goes to U.S. history, where only a few people even look up at
him as he enters. He hands his pass to the teacher and sits down, and the
day falls back into normal routine. Soon enough, the day ends, and Isaac
practically races (while walking -- can't disobey the rules) down the halls
to the music room. He arrives as the last choir is filtering out, so he
takes a moment to call his mom. He has the same predictable conversation as
before, with the same results, as well. He waits for the last few to leave
and slips in before the door closes.
	Almost simultaneously, Vin opens the door on the other wall and
scans the room. His eyes meet Isaac's, and for a split second, Isaac feels
a rush of excitement as he looks into Vin's heterochromatic eyes. Somehow,
though, the excitement feels like it's twice as much as he would normally
feel, but that he only made half of it, or that some of it's not his fault,
or something like that. The entire effect is nearly indescribable already,
and to try to explain the emotions he feels during it is an exercise in
futility. He breaks into a grin as he sees Vin do the same, and he quickly
looks at the floor as he guides himself around the risers and to the
practice room door.
	"Hey, bud!" Vin says cheerfully. He holds out his hand palm-up,
which Isaac slaps soundly in the middle. Vin then puts a closed fist out,
which Isaac has seen people do when they're greeting each other -- though
nobody has ever done that with him, specifically. Regardless, Isaac bumps
his own fist against it, feeling more than ever before like he finally
belongs, or at least is connected to someone else. He can't possibly grin
harder. "How's the day been?" Vin continues.
	Isaac shrugs. His grin falters as he admits, "It's been a bad day."
	"Aw, no!" he says. "What happened?" He opens the door to the
practice room and motions for Isaac to go in first.
	Isaac walks in and sits at the piano bench; Vin takes the chair on
the side. Isaac stares at the piano keys as he tells the tale of gym class
(even though Vin was there), of lunch being terrible, of upsetting
Christian, and of having a meltdown. "So, s-sometimes I can't stop...I
can't c-calm down, and it, um, Mr. Coleman coles--I mean, calls it a
`meltdown.' After I made Christian c-cry, it hurt really bad, and then I
started crying and I hurt myself some." Isaac feels the pit in his stomach,
but it's easier to talk to about since he's discussed it already. That, and
it also just seems easier to talk to Vin about these things.
	"Aw, man. That really sucks. I hate making people upset too,
though. I know how you feel." Vin nods slowly. After a pause, he asks,
"Hey, did you want to hear a new song?"
	"Yes, Vin." The smile grows back quickly on Isaac's face.
	Vin takes his place on the piano bench while Isaac moves to the
chair. "Okay," he begins, "so this one's not actually a classical
piece. This is, heh, this is actually from a game I played forever
ago. Like, `Playstation 3' long ago. There was this song that I always
loved from it, and so one day I just decided to go look it up on YouTube,
and there it was, in piano form. Anyway, this one is called `Shevat, the
Wind is Calling."
	The song instantly captivates Isaac, and not just because Vin is
playing it. The right hand starts off as echoing starlights in his mind's
eye, shortly joined by unresolved indigo waves in the left hand to create a
sort of dance of windchimes. The entire structure lands on a single beat,
and then the transcendent beauty begins. The right hand, once again like in
the Arabesque, starts cascading down like emerald raindrops as the
accompaniment curls upward, a forlorn soul reaching for the sky but never
making it. The song shifts chords to a more intense, longing cry; the
raindrops burn with a sour magenta, digging their way into Isaac's
heart. The melody emerges as a soaring breeze, dancing among the driving
rain that still splashes upon the waves of the left hand, over and
over. The windy melody carries the song through new chords and emotions,
promising relief from the searing need, the unrequited longing that the
emerald rain tries to drown. Finally, it is as if the lost soul bursts from
his imprisoning waves to surge above the rain, leaving it far below in the
left hand now as the soul takes wing in the imperious, golden winds.
Still, though, the melody never quite resolves, instead dissolving back
into the rain and waves once more.
	Then the song ends abruptly, snapping Isaac out of his synesthetic
journey and back to the bland, static world. "Sorry," Vin says with a half
smile and a slight shrug, "I don't know the rest yet. But it's really
pretty, yeah?"
	Isaac nods slowly. "Yes, sir." An awkward second passes before he
realizes what he said. "Um. Yes, Vin. It was beautiful."
	"So...I'm just curious, here, but..." Vin stands up, offering the
seat. "Can you play any of it, now that you heard it?"
	Isaac freezes, unsure of how to react. What if I mess up? he
thinks. I can't play the whole thing. I might make myself look stupid!
	But, he argues inwardly, he can't play the whole thing either. And
he knows that I've never heard it.
	Isaac hesitantly gets up and takes the seat, scooting it up to
adjust for his shorter stature. He examines the keys for a moment,
orienting himself. Tentatively, he hits the first key just to make sure
he's in the right spot, and then from there he looks at the rest of the
keys. I start in the blue, then go orange down, lower purple up... He plans
his path, and then begins playing it. Each note hit twice, like the echoing
starlights that set the stage in the song. He quickly figures out the
left-hand six-note pattern that creates the windchiming waves, and adds it
into the mix.
	"Holy shit," Vin breathes.
	When all the pieces stop on a two-handed chord, he tries to make
all the notes land properly, but he didn't get enough time earlier to
explore the chord; he plays multiple wrong keys, and it sounds comically
awkward after the beautiful intro, almost like a fart in a silent
room. They both start giggling at the absurdity, and he tries a few more
times to find the right notes.
	"Here, let me show you," Vin insists, and scoots over to the piano
bench, next to Isaac. Reaching one long arm across Isaac's shoulders, he
places his large hands over Isaac's fingers and plays the correct
notes. "There we go," he says, removing his hands. "Now you try."
	Isaac blushes fiercely, hoping against all odds that his immediate
erection isn't completely obvious. Vin just had his chest pressed up
against my back, and his arm around me. Isaac's head spins, almost making
him dizzy with excitement. Focus! he chides himself, closing his eyes and
taking a deep breath. He plays the keys, already aware of where they are
even with closed eyes. Opening them back up, he stretches his fingers down
to the low end of the keyboard and plays the three-note pickup to the next
section of the song. At this point he doesn't have enough coordination or
practice to play both parts well, but he tries each side out and finds that
they match what he saw in his visual exploration of the song. "I can't do
them both. I need to practice."
	Vin looks over at Isaac. "Dude. DUDE. You just learned -- and
played -- more of the song than I could for like two weeks! I mean, I won't
lie; I seriously thought maybe you had learned some of the other song
before and were just trying to show off, but like, nobody knows that
one. That's...that's insane."
	"It's insane?" Isaac asks, concerned.
	"No, like, insanely good. I bet there aren't a hundred people who
could do something like that. It's amazing."
	Isaac smiles bashfully, staring at the keys. "Thank you, Vin."
	"Hey man, thank you." Vin shakes his head and laughs a little
bit. "Incredible. Oh, hey, did you have any other songs you wanted to show
off?"
	Isaac thinks for a moment. He decides on an all-time classic,
"Toccata and Fugue in d minor." It's the classic Halloween or spooky song,
which works well in Isaac's mind, seeing as the octaves always sound orange
or brown to him. He has to go a bit more slowly in some of the sections of
it, though; his fingers have trouble keeping up with the quicker
parts. Nevertheless, he gets to the end of the song, hammering out the last
few fortissimo chords.
	Vin again applauds excitedly. "Bravissimo! Well done, as always!"
	"Thank you, Vin," he says with redder cheeks than before. "You play
very well, too."
	"Aw, thanks," he says. "I wouldn't say I'm the best out there, but
I enjoy it, so that's what matters."
	"Um." Isaac takes a moment to plan his sentence. "Are you on the
basketball team?" He glances quickly enough to see Vin's eyebrows furrow,
but he doesn't stare.
	Vin responds, "Yeah, why? What's up?"
	"That means you are probably popular."
	"I mean, I guess so," he shrugs. "Not like Prom King-level, or
anything, but a lot of people watch the athletics here."
	Isaac begins picking at his thumbnail. "So why are you,
um...friends...with me?"
	Vin stays silent for a moment; Isaac is certain that his heart
stops beating for those few seconds. "Well, for one, we both like music. I
mean, that's like the main reason, really. I don't have any other friends
who are into music as much as I am." Isaac nods, and Vin continues, "Also,
I dunno. We haven't really hung out a lot, but there's just something about
you that makes me feel like I can just be me: a big, tall nerd who likes
music and video games -- and video game music -- instead of being `Vin the
Basketball Star' like everybody thinks I am. I mean, I don't mind being
popular, but it's like, I gotta be this person everyone sees, and I come in
here and play music so I can get away from that, sometimes. And then you
show up, and show me up, all like, learning songs and rippin' `em out over
here, and I'm like, `I like this guy.' So yeah, that's why." Isaac giggles
at the way he describes the whole thing, which sets Vin laughing a bit,
too. "What? It's true."
	"I believe you, Vin," Isaac states.
	"Heh, good." They sit there for a moment; just as soon as it starts
feeling awkward, Vin asks, "Hey, so what's your favorite instrument? Other
than piano, I mean."
	Isaac thinks through all of his favorites -- there are quite a few
-- and settles on an answer. "I like the harp. It sounds the most blue."
	"The most blue?" Vin asks.
	Isaac's eyes go wide. "Um, I...I'm sorry, I..." He locks up, frozen
in panic. You know other people don't see colors! he berates. Last time you
admitted that, you got made fun of for weeks as `The LSD Kid!' Great, now
Vin is going to think you're weird and different, and he's going to stop
coming here now.
	"What? It's cool, it's cool. I just wanted to know what you meant."
	Vin's voice doesn't sound angry or anything, but Isaac has been
tricked before. But this is Vin. He takes the chance: "Um, I like the harp
because it sounds more blue. Like, the piano sounds brown down here -- " he
hits a few keys near the bottom to demonstrate -- "and then it sounds more
blue up here." He tinkles a few high notes in illustration. "I,
um. It...it's called `synthesia'...um, wait, `syn-es-thesia.' My therapist
told me about it, and then, um, I read about it on Wikipedia. There are
other types, like sometimes, people see colors for some letters and
numbers. Like, some people see `5' as red, and then it's always red. Or,
um, maybe someone tastes things and then they see shapes." Isaac realizes
he's been talking for a very long time, so he shuts his mouth.
	"Duuuuuuuude," Vin breathes slowly. "That is freaking cool." He
gets out his phone and starts tapping on the screen. "One sec...there we
go. `Synesthesia.' I wanted to pull it up on my phone so I could read more
about it later. So like, you see colors for, what, instruments?"
	Is he really interested in how I see things? Isaac thinks in
wonderment. "I see colors for instruments, for sounds, and then for songs,
or chords, or--or sometimes just two notes. And then sometimes s-songs
have, they will...like, sometimes I can taste them. Or, like, they have,
um, a flavor, or I can feel some sounds." Isaac immediately feels as though
he's rambling and making no sense; he stops trying to explain, his cheeks
turning red.
	"God, I wish I saw music like that," Vin laments. "So what does
this sound like? What color?" He plays a C and the G above it on the piano.
	"Red-orange."
	"And this?" Vin moves his fingers up to the E and the C above it.
	"Blue. No, Blue-green...?"
	"Like teal?" Vin suggests.
	"Yes! Teal."
	"That is so cool! How about this?" He plays middle C, and the E
that is one octave above it.
	Isaac smiles. "That one is brown right here," he indicates an area
under his face in his field of vision, "and blue, maybe turquoise up here."
He waves his hand above the previous spot. "That one is my favorite."
	Vin practically bounces in his seat. "Oh my God, this is the
coolest thing. So maybe that's why you learn music so fast."
	Isaac hadn't even considered that as a possibility. "My therapist
told me that th-the people who can see colors for numbers can do math
faster if the numbers are, like, really that color, like instead of black,
they actually make the `5' red. I don't see that, but it would be neat if I
did."
	"Seriously." Vin sighs, "I wish I could see things like that; it
might make math easier."
	"What do you mean?" Isaac asks.
	"I mean math sucks, heh. Or at least, I suck at math. You'd think
with rhythms and note lengths and stuff that I'd be better at math, but all
those numbers and fractions just don't work in my head, I guess, y'know?"
He shrugs. "Like, this whole thing about evaluating equations. I don't
know, I just--it doesn't make sense."
	Isaac thinks for a moment. Wordlessly, he rummages through his
backpack and gets out his heavily-used spiral notebook and his math book
(which he always brings home, even though he almost never has homework). He
opens to the pages about evaluating equations with variables and chooses a
random problem from the practice problems, writing it down slowly and
neatly. "So, um, do you know how to do this?"
	"Heh, that's actually one that I had a problem with."
	"Okay. So, um, I look at it like a mirror: this one is plus eight
on this side, so if you look at it in the mirror, it's a minus eight on
that side. It's like it's backwards," he explains, flipping his hand, "like
there's a `plus' here, but a `minus' there. Or a `times' here, but a
`divide' there." He demonstrates with his hands as if he were flipping the
numbers backwards with his fingers from one side of the equation to the
other. "They're the same, but you just see them as the opposite on the
other side."
	"...Huh." Vin stares at the paper for a moment. "So this one...if
it's x over three minus eight equals one..."

		x/3 - 8 = 1

	"Then...so the minus eight looks like a plus eight on the other
side, and the x over three becomes...three x, like this? Wait, then what
goes on the left side?"

		? = 3x(1 + 8)

	"No," Isaac interrupts. "It's like a mirror, but, um, so everything
needs to look l-like the x. So you see everyone on one side, and x on the
other." He stops and thinks for a moment, and says, "No, wait. It's more
like x looks l-like everyone every--, um, everyone e-else all
together. Like x is looking in the mirror, and he sees all these over here,
but they're all just, um, him. X." Isaac stops explaining, half because
he's run out of things to say, and half because he's irritated at his
stuttering.
	Vin nods. "Oh! So, the `over three' turns into `times three' over
here. The x stays, `cuz he's looking in the mirror, and
then...x...okay. So, like this?"

		x = 3(1 + 8)

 	"So now, one plus eight is nine, times three
is...twenty-seven. Right?"
	"Yes," Isaac says definitively. "And then you can just say that
since x is looking in the mirror, and he sees that he is twenty-seven, then
over here," he points to the original equation, "if you just say
twenty-seven divided by three is nine, minus eight equals one. And then you
can see that it really is the same." Isaac is talking significantly faster
by the end of this than he normally does.
	Vin stares at the paper. "Wow. That's...so easy. Why the heck
didn't the teacher explain it like that? You're a freaking genius."
	Isaac doesn't respond, but he is filled with a combined sense of
incredible pride and total bashfulness.
	"You know, Isaac, you're something different." Vin laughs a bit,
patting Isaac on the shoulder.
	Isaac looks down at the floor. Different. Always different. But
before he can say anything, Vin quickly adds, "Uh, `different' like `good'
different. Amazing different. Different like `I can play a song the first
time I hear it' kind of different. Different like `I just taught the idiot
boy here how to do math in one minute' kind of different."
	Isaac, for some reason, finds Vin calling himself "idiot boy"
hilarious, and he laughs out loud for a good few seconds. "You're not an
`idiot boy,' Vin." He snorts a bit at the label again.
	"Well, you're definitely a lot smarter at math than me, that's for
sure." Vin shakes his head and sighs. "Maybe I need to pay you to tutor
me."
	Isaac quickly responds, "Um, I can--I can do it for f-for f-f..."
he closes his eyes and takes a breath. "I can do it for f-free." Suddenly,
his backpack starts playing the beginning of "Fireflies" by Owl City, his
ringtone. He pulls his phone out to see "Mom" on the display, right above
the time: 4:30. The time she said she'd be waiting to pick him up. "Oh, uh,
um--" he stammers while scrambling to unlock his phone. "Hello?"
	His mom says, "I'm waiting outside. Where are you?"
	"I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm--um, I'm coming. I'm
sorry!" He hangs up and quickly shoves his phone into its pouch in the
backpack. "Vin, I, uh, have to go."
	Vin checks the time on his own phone. "Dang, when did that happen?
Aright, man, hey--thank you so much for helping me out. That was awesome."
He holds a hand out sideways for a slap-and-tap, like he did earlier, and
Isaac accepts it with a smile. Vin continues, "Hey, you wanna hang out
again later? I got practice tomorrow, but y'know, maybe later this week or
something."
	"Yes, Vin, I would like to." He looks at Vin, and their eyes meet
again. The dark-brown bass piano left eye, and the sky-blue high note right
eye both stare back, filling Isaac with an amplified excitement and
contentment, a feeling of belonging, and of longing, and--he looks down
quickly at his backpack and hoists it up on his shoulder. "I have to
go. I'm late. Goodbye, Vin."
	"Bye, Isaac!"
	Isaac practically dashes to the door and flings it open on his way
outside. The typical group of people are there, but nobody pays him any
mind. Though the day is dry, he takes a wide circle around the painted
eagle and plops himself in the car, out of breath. "Sorry...Mom. I'm...I'm
sorry," he says between gulps of air.
	She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "It's fine, honey. I wasn't
waiting here long. Did you enjoy the pianos?"
	Isaac catches a bit of his breath. As Mom pulls out of the parking
lot, he explains, "Yes, ma'am. I...I played the "Toccata and Fugue," and
then Vin played a song that I hadn't h-heard before, and then I learned
some of it. And then, um, and then I helped Vin on his math."
	He looks over to his mom while saying this, since she is busy
looking at the road. She blinks a few times. "You helped him on his school
work?"
	"Yes, ma'am. He h-had, was having a hard time on the math, so I
showed him h-how I look at it, and then it made sense to him. He said I was
a genius." He beams at the compliment.
	"Well, I knew that," she says with a small roll of her
eyes. "You're the smartest son I've ever had."
	"I'm the only son you've ever had."
	"Right! So it's still true."
	Isaac contemplates this truism and fails to come up with any
significant increase in knowledge or understanding of the universe. He
files the comment away under "Things Mom Says That I Don't Understand," a
fairly large repository of things already.
	"Well, I'm proud of you, Isaac."
	He thinks about it, but is stumped. "Why, Mom?"
	She smiles more broadly. "Because you're talking to new people, and
even helping them out; because you're proving to everybody that you're the
good kind of different."
	The good kind of different, he contemplates. Like what Vin said.
	She continues, "I'm just proud that my son is being the best person
he can be, and that he is finding new ways to be happy. That's every
mother's dream."
	He idly wonders how every mother can dream the same thing; the very
notion seems far-fetched to him. He doesn't comment on this, though.
	A minute or so passes in silence before his mom speaks again. "So
this `Vin' boy seems very nice."
	Isaac smiles. "He is, Mom."
	"So does he just play piano?"
	"No, Mom. He plays basketball, too."
	"Oh, nice! Does he play for the school?"
	"Yes, ma'am."
	"My son, best friend and math tutor to a basketball star."
	"I..." he feels like he should correct her, but he's not exactly
sure how to do so, or if any of that is even wrong. "He's not a star," is
the only thing he can come up with. Of course she laughs at this; there's
always some joke she says that Isaac doesn't get, but he's used to it by
now.
	After another moment, she asks, "Any more problems with those
bullies?"
	Technically, it wasn't those bullies, but Isaac knows that it would
be lying to say "no." He can't figure out a way to win here, so he says
nothing, fully knowing that it basically means "yes." Maybe she'll ask
something else that's easier to answer.
	"Isaac?" she asks. "Did those bullies bother you again?"
	"N-no, ma'am," he replies. She won't leave it alone, so he guesses
she really wants to know about those specific ones.
	"Are you sure?" She drags the last word out a bit.
	"Yes, ma'am. The bullies out front didn't bother me again."
	"Then did anyone else bother you?" she asks. How does she know?
Moms must know everything, Isaac swears to himself.
	"Yes, ma'am. Some boy in gym class said that I was either a girl or
a fag because I folded my clothes, and then he wouldn't let me go past him,
but Vin made him put his foot down, and then he said we were both fags. Um,
the bully said...said that. Not Vin." Isaac knows that the word "fag" is a
bad word, but she asked for the truth, so he gave it.
	Isaac's mom falls silent for a moment. "That sort of harassment is
intolerable," she says, biting off each word in a peculiar, choppy way. "I
need to call the principal and make sure he puts a stop to this."
	Isaac's eyes go wide. "No, Mom, please, don't call the principal,
p-please!"
	"Why not? These boys need to be taught a lesson, right now! If this
isn't addressed, they'll keep bullying you, and who knows what else they'll
do!"
	"Because, Mom, then th-they'll make fun of me for being a stupid
s-snitch, too. They make fun of me for being `Mime Boy,' and then for
dressing out in the restroom, and then for being a `fag' since I fold my
clothes, and then th-they--"
	"Honey, don't say that word. You're not a `fag' just because you
care about your clothes. That's just a dirty word they use to make fun of
people. Don't ever say that about yourself -- or anyone else, for that
matter." At Isaac's silence, she adds, "You're not in trouble, dear. I just
want you to know that that is not a good word to use."
	"I know, Mom."
	"And you are absolutely not one of those."
	"I..." Isaac knows that "fag" also means "gay," which means that he
likes boys. Is he a "fag," then? "Mom?" he asks. "Is there a difference
between `gay' and, um, that word?"
	She doesn't answer for a moment. Instead, she says, "Dear, we're
almost home. I'll answer your question once we're in the living room,
okay?"
	"Okay, Mom."
	They arrive shortly, and as promised, his mom continues the
discussion in the living room -- after she gets herself a can of Diet Pepsi
from the fridge. "To answer your question, I have to say a lot of things,
so keep listening, okay?"
	Isaac nods. "Yes, ma'am."
	"Okay." She sighs, takes a deep breath, and says, "First off, the
`F-Word' that you used earlier is never something to call anyone,
ever. Nobody is a `fag.' Ever. Even if someone is gay, they are never one
of those. The word is only there to insult people, not to define people or
to say what they are. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
	Isaac takes a moment to process it. "Yes, ma'am."
	"Good." She takes another deep breath. "So. You remember the talk
we had a while back about sex and girlfriends?"
	"Yes, ma'am."
	"We never talked about it specifically, but I see that you already
know what `gay' means. Can you define it for me, please?"
	This is a routine they do when talking about new subjects; he
doesn't need the structure so much, but he's never really mad at things
that happen in predictable ways. He recites the definition from his mind as
if it were on the pages of a dictionary, but written in his own
words. "`Gay' means when two boys love each other, or when two girls love
each other. And then there's `bi,' which means that a boy can love a boy or
a girl, or a girl can love a boy or a girl." At least, that's how he
understands it; he knows that there's more to it, but there's no way he can
figure out to explain it. He doesn't think that he "loves" Vin exactly, but
he feels like he needs to be around Vin, that Vin makes Isaac excited, that
Isaac likes to play with himself while thinking about Vin. He doesn't want
to tell his mom about that part, though.
	"Very good," she says with a nod. "Now I just want you to know that
it's okay with me if you find out later that you don't love girls, or if
you love boys, or anything like that. It doesn't matter to me who you love,
okay? I will always love you for who you are."
	"Yes, ma'am." Why is she telling me this? he wonders. Does she know
that I like boys that way? How do moms know everything?
	"Now I'm not saying that you are or aren't, or anything like
that. That's something that only you can figure out. But I just figured
that I hadn't ever said that it was okay, so...it's okay if you end up gay,
or bi, or straight, or anything. I hope that you understand that."
	"I do, ma'am."
	"Good. Now no more saying that ugly `F-Word,' okay? Come give me a
hug."
	"Yes, ma'am." Isaac stands up from the couch and walks over to the
recliner, where his mom pulls him in for a big hug, swinging him back and
forth a little with it. When she lets go, he notices that she is smiling;
it always makes him smile, too, when she hugs him like that.
	"All right. Go run along, now." She picks up the remote and turns
on the TV.
	Isaac goes to his room, hoping that his mom forgot about calling
the principal. He doesn't need any more reason to be bullied or made fun
of, and he just knows that a phone call would make things far worse. He
entertains himself the typical way he often does, listening to music on his
phone and practicing random math problems for a while; he decides to get a
few pieces of paper together and multiply two very large numbers together,
and by the time he's done, he has to look up the words for how to say the
resulting number. "Quadrillion" is a new term for him, so he logs that one
away in case he comes across something that large again.
	Satisfied with numbers, he takes out his phone and checks out Clash
Royale again, since Christian was so interested in it. Isaac found the game
pretty fun back then; he doesn't like games with complex movements, like
ones that take a controller or really fast reflexes, but this one is
decently easy to play. Just drag a card over to a spot on your board, and
it becomes minions that march over and attack the opponent's forts. No
problem. He actually ended up pretty good at it; he did some
number-crunching back in the day and figured out the perfect setup for his
deck of cards, so that he'd have a nice balance of power. In fact, building
the deck may have actually been more entertaining to him than playing games
with it.
	He logs in and checks his old stuff; the deck is still there, but
now there are tons of new cards and such to look through and gain. It's
almost enough to make him close the app and never look at it again, but he
decides that it might actually be fun to start collecting the cards
again. He plays a few rounds against random people; he loses his first one
while remembering how to play effectively, but then easily stomps the next
few opponents, gaining a few chests here and there with some of the new
cards.
	Before he realizes it, his mom calls out, "Isaac! I made spaghetti
for dinner!"
	Isaac comes barrelling out of his room and down the hall; spaghetti
and meatballs is absolutely worth running for. He scrambles into his chair
and waits impatiently for the bowl to arrive in front of him; as it does,
he quickly counts five small meatballs. He frowns at his meal, wondering
how he's supposed to achieve balance without another meatball. He curiously
probes the noodles to see if perhaps...Ah hah! he thinks as he stabs into a
buried meatball. Dinner is good, now, he thinks with a nod. Six meatballs.
	Many multiples of three later, Isaac is stuffed with pasta and
happiness. He heads back to his room, wondering what to do, when he
realizes that he hasn't taken a bath yet today. He hates hates hates going
to bed without a bath; if the sheets don't slide perfectly on his skin, he
can't sleep. He heads into the bathroom and goes through his bath-time
ritual, checking the temperature, feeling the water fill up around him,
imagining the plane that intersects him as it does, and eventually turning
off the water. He thinks back to when he used to bring his toy dinosaurs
into the water, and would have them fight each other until there was more
water on the bathroom floor than in the tub (Mom was never particularly
happy about this, of course).
	He scrubs down every inch, even under his fingernails, or at least,
what's left of them; he has a bad habit of picking at them, especially when
nervous, and of biting them when they're too long. He never got the hang of
using the nail clippers, and in an effort to be more self-sufficient, he
developed a much less savory way of dealing with it; it didn't bother him,
though, as long as nobody gave him grief about it.
	Isaac goes through the same routine as before, waiting until the
end to enjoy scrubbing his hair. Suddenly, as he's massaging the shampoo
into his hair, he gets unbidden thoughts of Vin doing the same thing with
those long fingers of his, and his penis perks up immediately. He notes
that he normally has to willingly think about these kinds of things, but
this time it was just automatic. He keeps his eyes closed and continues to
rub his head, removing himself from the picture and imagining the hands to
be Vin's; the fingers aren't nearly long enough, of course, but with just a
touch of imagination, Isaac can almost feel Vin running his fingers lightly
across the back of Isaac's scalp, against the grain, across the temples,
lightly brushing the tops of the ears...
	Isaac's heart by this point is beating faster than any song he
knows how to play. He breathes rapidly, feeling like if he touched himself,
he would probably orgasm very quickly. He opens his eyes and, unable to
wait any longer, strokes himself a few times; he doesn't even get to ten
strokes before he quickly tenses, popping himself in the mouth with a glob
of semen. The rest of it dribbles onto his belly, washing away with the
water as he relaxes back into the water. He has never, ever felt that
strongly about anyone or anything. Just thinking about Vin makes Isaac's
mind and body act absolutely crazy, like he's more excited than he's ever
been in his life, which might actually be true. If he ever had a question
about his sexuality, he knows right now that it includes at least one
boy. Well, a boy and Mr. Guthrie. And all the boys in their underwear in
the locker room, too, of course. He wonders if other boys feel the same way
in gym class, too. How many people are gay? he wonders. What percent? Is it
one in thirty? One in a hundred? Two in...three thousand? He amuses himself
with coming up with more bizarre statistics for a moment, but the question
does haunt him. If he's already different by the way he thinks and acts,
and he's different by the weird things that happen when he looks at people,
how much more different is he going to be now that he's gay? I know mom
always calls me "unique," he thinks, but why couldn't I just be normal? Vin
is normal; the boys who bug me in my reading class are normal. Even
Christian is more normal than me.
	Isaac contemplates the notion that maybe he really is unique, and
not just because his mom says so. Maybe there isn't anyone like him at
all. Is that a good thing? How does he fit in if he's so different that
nobody else comes close? Why do people even like me? he wonders. Unable to
come up with the answer by bedtime, he tries his best to put the issue
aside, washing it away in the sea of color that Vin's song paints in his
mind. He drifts off, dreaming of the next time that he can share another
song with the most exciting person in his world.

		End of Chapter 2

	I swear, that boy better watch himself or he's going to jizz right
in his eye one of these days, am I right? Thanks to all y'all for reading
this, and please drop me a comment at xpud@yahoo.com if you have anything
to say about the story. I adore hearing from my readers, and I answer every
email; stop on by, and stay tuned for Chapter 3!
	<3 XPud