One for the Team

1| before

The guys won't stop staring at the new kid.

I say kid, but he doesn't really look like one. At least I don't think so. He's probably our age but the way he carries himself makes him seem a lot older. As if he knows something we don't.

He's our school's new hot topic. People stare at him like he's out of this world and not in a good way. Sure, I am looking at him too, but I like to look at everyone. The fact that he wears nail polish and he's a boy has nothing to do with it. The guys are calling him gay. They're probably right, but so what? Some guys like other guys.

I roll my eyes. Milo has been making jokes about the kid's sexuality since we got in the line for the cafeteria. I have nothing to say to it. I don't see how it's any of our business.

"Because he's so obviously rubbing it in our faces," he argues when I say it. Milo's an idiot. He'll argue everything.

"What the fuck does he think he's doing?" Ace says next to me. I look up.

The kid's walking towards a table at the end of the cafeteria, his tray of food in one hand and an open book in the other. Who the fuck reads and walks? It doesn't matter. The thing is, he's walking towards our table.

Milo's lips turn into a grin that anticipates a lot of shit hitting a fan. He's a big fan of shit hitting fans, "I'm so ready for this."

"Shut up."

He doesn't. Instead, he says, "I mean, this obviously asks for serious measures."

"Shut the fuck up." This time, it's Ace who says it, and so this time, Milo complies. There is something about Ace that makes him do everything he says. Survival instincts perhaps.

"Ace," I say, but it's as useless as ever. He's already walking over with a dead look on his face, his favorite. I follow him. So does Milo.

Ace stops right in front of the new kid. There's a table between them, but it does nothing to relax me. Bigger things have stood in Ace's way, and none of them ever stopped him.

He puts both hands on the table, and says, "What are you doing?"

The kid looks up from his book. He has blue eyes, maybe green, and perfect white teeth. This I'm sure of, because he's smiling. For some reason, he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says, but it sounds more like a question. Like he's asking if it really is a pleasure to meet Ace. I know the answer. It isn't. I think about telling him this, but Ace speaks before I can even open my mouth.

"Pleasure's all yours." He's not smiling, not really. Instead, he's looking at the kid and he's saying, "This is our table. Get lost."

Except, of course, the kid doesn't look like he plans on getting lost any time soon. He has his tray of shit food in front of him and his book is on his lap and he's listening to music on his headphones. Worst of all, he still has a pretty smile on his face, exceptionally pretty, in fact, like Ace's red flags are really just flags.

"Well, you can sit down. I don't mind –"

"Do you wanna die?" Ace asks instead, and I roll my eyes. I wish I could say he's a taste that improves with time without turning into a liar, but I can't.

The kid isn't smiling anymore, "What the fuck's your problem?"

I know the answer to this question too. So does Ace, but this time he won't tell him. He'll show him. I see it before it happens. Ace reaches forward and wipes the kid's table clean. His tray crashes on the floor and all heads turns our way. Food splashes everywhere. This includes the shoes of a girl sitting at a different table, a backpack a few feet away, and, of course, the kid's book, still on his lap, covered in tomato sauce.