Thicker Than Paper

Teamwork

No one but my roommates know. And when they found out, they gave me shit for days. I suppose a grown man with callouses on his hands and dirt burns on his side shouldn't necessarily make little paper cranes when he feels gross. They've forgotten about it, luckily, and didn't tell anyone else. But every time I enter my room, I'm scared the little cranes will laugh at me. And to think I use to confide in them

~~~

"Hey, Weather! Did you ever read that book 'Picture of Dorian Gray'?" I bite my lip to not snap at Van. He may be an asshole, perhaps even a tiny bit homophobic, but I refuse to let him see the monster inside of me as he makes me stare at his.

"Nah, I've never been a big fan of the classics. I could barely get through Oedipus and it's only like fifty pages long," I don't look up at him, staring intently at my wrap on my hands. The locker room is loud, but not loud enough that everyone can't hear us.

"Oh, I thought you were into that shit? Isn't it about gay dudes, that's what my sister said," I roll my eyes, and push myself up.

Van Hasibe is sturdy, well built, popular because he's first to pick pitcher. That's the excuse I use whenever he talks. That he has to assert himself to stay on top. A little part of me snickers at this, as if he would feel threatened by me. 

"Wouldn't know, I never read it," Ethan chuckles next to me, still tieing his shoes. I grin a little, down at him. I ignore Van's clenched jaw and little hooligans gathered around him.

"I thought all gays read that shit to get off," I narrow my eyes, turning around slowly. This isn't unusual, the little gay remarks. But he doesn't usually keep going this long.

"You might, but I'm not that desperate yet," Van crosses his arms and I see Ethan stand up next to me, ready to fight my battles as usual. I don't tell him I'm cutting, that it's all I'm thinking about on the field and in class, everywhere. I don't tell him I'd cut Van if he'd give me an opportunity, just so he gets a hobby other than terrorizing me, "Besides if that was even remotely true, I'd get off to anything ever written, right? Because I like guys and girls. Did I ever tell you that? Maybe it was just your mom."

The locker room does a consecutive 'ooh'. I think I see a vein pop out of Van's neck. Ethan touches my elbow, a sign to back down. A sign to give up. But my head pounds, my knees weak and I know I won't ever back down. Give up. Because when I do, it will not be because of fucking Van Hasibe.

"What did you say, Weather?" It's muffled from his clenched jaw. 

Everything stirs inside me. Ever emotion possible conveys into sarcasm, "Athletic, homophobic, and deaf. You're a triple threat, Hasibe." I'm just about to wink when the bull surges forwards, slamming my back next to my cubbie.

His face is tight but not as tight as my chest. His hand feels like a snake trying to suffocate me. Long labored breaths, in and out of my nose. I finally make eye contact with his, and when I do something evil flickers in my stomach. I wonder what would happen if his grip was tighter. If my lungs couldn't get air. The flicker in my stomach begs for him to crush my neck like a snap of a twig. 

Yet, I still am so aware of my surroundings. Everyones stop everything. Many even stop breathing. No one, Van and I included, move to stop him. To pry his hand away from my throat. The silence, the stillness makes stomach swirl. I feel his fingers readjusting his grip, moving my hair. And then his angry face morphs into one of disgust. And possible concern.

He snaps his hand away like I've suddenly got a contagious disease he doesn't want. My heart doesn't stop pounding, my knees still weak. My shoulders hunch, hands on my hip. I try to will my throat to open all the way, so my lungs aren't so gripped.