Reese's Complex

Defense

Reese sank deep into his mattress that night. His body hugged by mostly-clean bedding and mischievous giggles.

The vomit soup had been a stroke of genius. He fought off the slightest urge to thank his mother. After all, it was her creation that gave him the opening.

So far, he’d skated by without having his secret revealed. And the longer it stayed that way, the stronger his plausible deniability grew. Soon, he’d be able to play it off as a baseless accusation. One stirred to life by previous animosity.

Nothing could spoil his triumphant buzz. Not his brothers’ snores, nor his feet peeking out from the edges of a too-small blanket, or even a knock on the window.

Wait.

Reese flung himself into a sitting position. That was definitely the cling clang of knuckles against glass. Nobody else stirred at the sound.

The glowing numbers on the alarm clock shone too fuzzy to discern. The pitch-black silence spoke of a world post-midnight.

Another knock. This one louder. More determined.

He snuck off his bed and over to a baseball bat on the floor. It’s heft and solidity armed him with more than a weapon.

The tightness in his guts grew as he approached the curtains. A deep breath.

He threw them open.

A figure stood outside. “Open the window.”

Reese froze. “Tony?”

“Are you deaf? The window. Now.” The blonde made no attempt to keep quiet.

Dropping the bat, Reese complied. No sooner was the frame open than the taller boy stepped through it.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Tony grabbed a fistful of Reese’s shirt. “Better question, what the hell did you put in that stew?”

“What do you mean?” Reese swallowed. “I didn’t cook that. My mom did.” Technically, not a lie.

Dark blue eyes narrowed at him. “So she’s the reason my dad’s in the hospital?”

Green eyes shot open in response. “What? But how? Vomit is edible.”

They both twitched.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did you vomit in the stew!?”

A hand clasped around Reese’s throat. He yelped.

“N-no I- I didn’t! I swear!”

Tony growled. “God! You’re even more disgusting than I thought. No wonder you have no friends.”

A strangled croak came in response.

“Now I see why you had to steal a kiss from me. Because only someone with major brain damage would willingly come near a faggot like you.”

The hallway door slammed open.

“Rise and shine!” Called his mother. A stack of paper teetered in her arms.

Morning light marched through the firmly-shut window. A bedsheet clung to Reese’s bare torso, glued in place by a cold sweat. His eyes spasmed around the room.

“Good news. You don’t have to clean anything today.” She gave a vicious smile. “So, here’s some schoolwork to help fill your schedule.”

The pile was dropped unceremoniously on his lap, avalanching in all directions. Malcolm and Dewey groaned, shifting around in the corner of his vision.