PART I
Brandon sat on the uncomfortable bed in his dorm room. The sun fell in through the window over his belongings set on the cheap desk in the corner. His parents left minutes ago, and he hadn't unpacked yet. Brandon wanted to take it in--his first day at college, his first time ever being on his own, his first time potentially starting fresh with a whole new set of people.
Late elementary and high school had been hell, worse than sometimes. He had a rare hormonal skin condition--cystpermia--since 12-years-old, one that had no cure or practical treatment except for his father saying, "Hey, it could be worst, so be damn grateful." Even now, Brandon couldn't fathom being grateful for what he never asked for.
But he dealt with it, because what else was there to do? He dealt with the pointing and laughing, the jokes the girl classmates would pull on him; he dealt with being pushed and shoved during recesses, being followed after school by groups of older kids until he made it to his front porch; he dealt with the times he couldn't make it to his house and the beatings he would endure just because he was different, abnormal; and everything else he didn't want to remember. He dealt with it all without complaint, because his parents couldn't do anything about it, and the school sure as hell wouldn't either... He learned after many futile attempts to report the incidents, given the excuse: "We can't be everywhere at once."
He hoped it would be different. He knew people were people, and just because they were older didn't mean they were any better than they were as kids. There would still be teasing, gossiping, and so on, but no one knew him here, and the chance to make any sort of difference, even little, in his life was all he hoped for.
He rubbed his palms on his jeans, and stood from the bed. Sighing, he started unpacking.
* * *
For seven days, no one spoke to him, no one sat next to him in class, no one did anything besides whisper to one another while glancing at him sitting in the back. At first, it was fine. He could let it roll off his back. It was probably the first time anyone has ever seen someone with cystpermia, so the severe acne covering his face was uncommon to see out in the wild. Then, the second day was like the first, and third like the second, and by the following Monday, he was tired of it.
Brandon did his damnedest to ignore them, to focus on his school work, but the more he heard their snide remarks and laughter, saw them pointing or nodding at him, and felt the familiar pressure of judgment from classroom after classroom, he didn't know if he could take it anymore. He had four years of this, maybe more if he continued on to graduate school; in total six more years of pure hell to endure on top of the already twelve years of it. Would it always be like this? Would he always be the weird one, because of his condition? It was beyond school; it reached into adulthood and on. If college students acted the same as high schoolers, then he couldn't imagine a world in which late-20-year-olds, early-30-year-olds, wouldn't behave any differently.
He spent his Sunday night at the payphone a couple blocks from campus, using what change he could scrounge up to keep the conversation connected. Rain spit on the phone booth. Brandon could've used the telephone at school, but the last thing he wanted was to give them more ammunition against him, because seemingly anything he did could be used.
"Do you want to come home?" his mother said. "Me and your dad will come pick you up tomorrow, if that's what you want."
The outside was warped by the downpour. Across the street, pick-up trucks parked in the gravel lot of a restaurant. "I don't want to, but... I don't know what to do mom. I want to stay here, but... people."
"Is that Brandon on the phone?" His dad said in the background. Scratching noises poured from the receiver, then his father said, clearer: "What's going on, Bran?"
He repeated the situation, the same one he had so many times before.
"Just ignore them," he laughed, followed by a click of ice in a glass. "Fuck 'em, Bran. You have a little acne, who gives a shit? Let them go on about their bullshit, and just focus on your grades. One day you'll be their boss, then what the hell will they do then, huh?"
"It's not that easy, dad."
"It is, you just think it ain't. Here, look, give it another week. If things don't turn around, we'll come and get you and figure something out. You aren't dropping out, that's fucking for sure, so don't get that idea in your head."
"I wouldn't, but are you serious?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Maybe we can find a college you can do from home, or I don't know, over the phone. You can't be the only guy around with people-problems who wants a degree."
He sighed, leaning against the glass. "Thanks dad, really."
"Don't mention it, but do you want to talk to your mother again?"
"No, that's okay. Love you guys."
"You too, Bran."
The phone clanged on the receiver. A week. He only had to suffer another week, then he'd be back in the safety of his home. It felt like a weight had lifted from his shoulders, and he figured by the same time seven days from now, it would be remain gone.
* * *
With something to look forward to, his days blended together. The focus was no longer on who surrounded him, but the upcoming Sunday. By Monday morning, Brandon would be waking up in his own bed, not the bed he presently laid on in the pitch dark. He was meant to wake up in a few hours, but he couldn't fall asleep. Another issue he had to deal with since starting college.
Finally, his body was slipping into sleep when someone pounded on his dorm door. Brandon didn't move, hoping whoever it was had made a mistake or would simply leave, but soon there was another knock. Groaning, he got out of bed and opened the door.
"Whoa," she said, stepping back, her blue eyes, masked in black eyeshadow, widening. "Who're you?"
"Who're you?"
"Trixie."
"Brandon."
"Where's Beth?"
"Who's Beth?"
Trixie glanced down both ends of the white cement block hall, narrowing her eyes at other closed doors. "Isn't this dorm 64A?"
Brandon leaned out the hall, checking the painted numbers on the wall. "That's what it says."
"I was told Beth from English Lit stayed here," she said. "I lent her my notes from class, and she forgot to give them back."
"Well... There's no Beth here--just me."
She scratched the nape of her neck beneath her pixie-cut auburn hair. "Shit."
Awkwardness grew in the air. He wasn't sure what to do, or to say. Never once had he ever been alone with a girl, let alone at night. Then he scolded himself for thinking that the situation was somehow related to anything like that. She was given the wrong information, and ended up there, nothing more. "So... is this English Lit 101 with Ms. Ruth?"
"How'd you know?"
"I have her, too, in the afternoon. You're going over The Yellow Wallpaper, right?"
She nodded, her silver crescent moon earrings jiggling.
"Gimme a minute."
