This is a story not of what was, but what could have been.
James McKinley was alone. He had long been the target of bullies back when schools didn't really do anything about that kind of thing. His parents were angry all the time. And he'd never had a friend. Until, that is, Kellie Richards moved to town. She'd had her own losses in life, and her story intersected with James' in many ways.
This is the story of Kellie and James and what could have been.
This first part has very little sexuality in it. There's some kissing, and a little other stuff, but mostly it's about building a friendship and finding that first love.
All characters in the story are 18 or older.
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October 17, 1989
1.
I carried the tray holding my unappetizing lunch through the cafeteria, wishing that I'd see someone wave me over to an empty seat at their table, but knowing that wouldn't happen. Just another one of the silly fantasies in my head of a life that would never be mine. The best I could hope for was an empty table where I could pull a book out of my backpack and read for the half-hour they gave us for lunch. I was on a big horror kick right now - reading about monsters and demons was a lot less scary than dealing with actual living people. On the worst days, I'd have to choose to sit at someone else's table and hope they weren't horrified to be sharing space with me. I'd tried once to sit at Michael Thompson's table, figuring that since we'd been lab partners for a few months, it might be okay. The look I got from him as I put my tray down stopped me dead in my tracks. I walked away, blushing as the laughter burst behind me and threw my lunch in the trash, uneaten.
No empty tables today, unfortunately. The rain outside had kept most kids from going off campus for lunch, and the cafeteria was even louder and more frightening than it usually was. I stood there, frozen, for what felt like an eternity, and then I saw a group of sophomores get up from their seats. I was two years ahead of them in school but it felt like I was years behind them socially. I had no idea how they made it all look so easy - having friends, dating, laughing. Everyone told me I was the smart one, but whatever went on in my brain that allowed me to ace a calc test didn't connect at all with the parts of my brain that theoretically would allow me to connect with people.
When the last of that group had gotten up, I darted in and grabbed a seat. At least this way, if someone else sat down at the table, they'd be doing it with full knowledge that they'd be sharing space with, well, me.
I pulled out my book and started munching on the dry ham-and-cheese sandwich I'd picked for lunch. As long as nothing was moldy, something like this could only get so bad. Some of the other things they served were a lot more risky.
Thankfully, as I read, a lot of the rest of the world got quiet. It wasn't that I felt like I was actually in the horrific situation with the characters or anything. That's not how it worked in my head. But a well-told story gave my mind something to chew on other than loneliness or feeling like a failure or what was happening at home, and I willingly jumped at the chance to shut all that shit up for just a bit.
No one joined me at the table, which was for the best, and I got through another fifty pages or so before it was time to clean up my tray and head off to class. I had a history test that afternoon, but I wasn't worried. Tests were easy.
2.
The test went fine. I hadn't done the homework or anything, but the A I'd get on the test would be enough to get me a B in the class. Nobody cared about B students. They expected the world of A students and they punished C students. But B students were doing just fine, and there were bigger fish to fry.
My last class of the day was study hall, but we could sometimes be excused to go to the local public library if we had work to do, like researching a paper or something. I had an English paper I was ostensibly supposed to be working on, and I used that as my excuse to go, but it wasn't due for a week and I knew I wouldn't even type word one until the night before.
It had warmed up outside after a chilly start to the day, and I was sweaty by the time I got to the library. The hoodie I was wearing was more than a way to ward off the weather, it was my armor. After Tara Adams had mocked me in biology class and said I had bigger tits than the model of the female body that sat on the shelf, I started wearing hoodies as often as I could get away with it. She might have been complimenting me had I been a girl, but since I wasn't, it was just another in the long line of humiliations that had comprised my life.
Once I got to the library, I was free to do whatever I wanted. I had to check in so they'd tell the school I was there, but after that, nobody was going to check if I was actually working on my assignment. Since today was Tuesday, I headed down to the basement to look through the music section. New cassettes came out on Tuesdays, at least as far as the library was concerned, and there was always the hope I'd discover something new. Not that my tastes were very broad or anything - I didn't want to stand out for my music choices any more than anything else in my life - but I looked anyway.
I got lucky this week. There was a new live album by one of my favorite artists. As I took it to the counter, I wondered if concerts were as much fun as they sounded like. I'd never gone to one, of course. There were many rules I tried to live by, but one was "Don't ask for something when you know the answer will be no."
My parents didn't have going to a concert money, for one. I knew from my regular perusals of their checkbook how often we barely had food money. And even if the tickets were free, just bringing it up would lead to a thousand questions about my presumed drug use (none), my presumed sex life (ha!), and all manner of shit that would just make my life harder.
3.
As it always did, the clock on the wall ticked forward until it was time to go home. I'd been trying to ignore all the things I'd been told to do that day, but as I rode my bike up to the garage, I was almost sick with worry that I wouldn't be able to get it done in time. I mean, I knew that no matter what I did, it wouldn't be good enough, but the consequences for not even trying would be so much worse.
My adrenalin kicked in, and I did the dishes, vacuumed the living room, started a new load of laundry, generally picked up, and I'd just started dinner when I heard a car door close out front. That was dad. He'd be sore, exhausted, and more than likely pissed off. Mom would come home in an hour or so, and she'd be sad and tired and looking for a way to "help me grow," otherwise known as telling me what I'd done wrong that day.
They were both white-knuckling their way to sobriety, but no amount of AA meetings or quoting Bill W could make up for the fact that they were both deeply depressed and profoundly miserable people. Having a son with what they saw as unlimited potential who wanted nothing more than to become invisible was just the lily-gilding neither one of them needed.
"Hey, Dad," I called, and got a simple "Hey" in response. Better than some days. I heard the shower start up and knew I had about 15 minutes to get the table set and dinner ready. Tonight was a simple meal - most everything I cooked was simple - and I hoped that by making something I knew he liked, the night would go more smoothly.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Apparently, there was a piece of fluff I'd missed while vacuuming, and that - along with the unjustness of the world - started the yelling. It paused slightly during dinner, while we watched the news, and then picked up again when mom got home. She was telling the kinds of stories that I knew meant that she'd be losing her job again, and the stress that came along with that triggered everyone. I wasn't really in the mood to participate, though I was doing so more and more often, and I just took whatever words came my way until I was allowed to go to my room.
My room wasn't a safe space, of course. It's not like I could lock my door or pretend I couldn't hear what was going on out in the living room. But I could put the tape I'd gotten from the library into the classic (read: hand-me-down) stereo and grab a book and distract myself. I'd probably get yelled at more if I didn't at least look like I was doing homework, so I put a textbook on my desk along with an assignment we'd worked on in class and pretended I cared.
4.
Eventually, of course, the house quieted down. They both worked too many hours to have the energy to argue late into the night. That was a shift from when they'd both been drinking. In those days, the alcohol made the early part of the evening smoother but amplified the depression and anger later on. When I was pretty sure my parents had settled down, I left my room and started getting ready for bed.
As I got undressed, I pondered whether I wanted to get off that night. I did most nights - I was a 18 year old boy, after all, and the number of things that made me horny was uncountably infinite. Nobody knew that, of course. I would have died before admitting to anyone I did that. Not just because I knew everyone would make fun of me, but because every single time I did, I was filled with shame. It was something I had to do, but it was wrong.
I always felt like some kind of monster when I did this, although that didn't stop me from picturing Chrissy Anderson in her tight sweater or Alicia Smith in her cheerleading skirt. And it didn't stop me from pushing my briefs down and putting my hand on my hard cock. I didn't really know them, or any of the other girls or women I thought about when I did this, and I knew I was just objectifying them, seeing them as a series of body parts. Only bad people decided whether someone else was attractive based on looks, I'd learned - never judge a book by its cover - and every time I had one of these thoughts, I was a bad person.
There wasn't anything specific I'd think about while getting off. I'd never seen a woman naked, and I had no idea what sex was like or how it worked. Those of you reading this in 2023 might not know of the dark times before the internet where the only ways you could see someone naked - unless you knew someone who would show you themselves - was either through a friend's dirty magazine or something like Skinemax. As I neither had friends nor money for cable, the best I could do were the underwear ads in the Sunday paper. On the plus side, most of the time I had a bit of a hair trigger, and just thinking about being alone with a cute girl was enough to do it for me.
I finished, let the endorphins and shame run through me, and made my way to the bathroom to hide all evidence of my crime. Another red letter day had run its course. I climbed into bed and fell asleep. Life was an unhappy thing, but today was no more or less unhappy than the others.
November 14, 1989
1.
Tuesday again. The days were getting shorter, and soon biking home in the dark, with the wind and the rain, would be quite the miserable experience. But I'd do it as long as I could. There was nothing about the bus ride I wanted. Gee. Let me add another half-hour each way of feeling like I did when I was at school.
Today had been a particularly rough day. It shouldn't have been - my presentation in English class had gone really well, and I knew that I'd just about locked up an A in the class. But then I stepped out from behind the lectern, and I heard a giggle. Then a guffaw. Then a howl of laughter. Mrs. Collins tried to keep the smile from her face as she motioned me over and looked meaningfully at my crotch. I'd forgotten to zip my jeans, and now I had all of fourth period, plus the teacher, looking at my underwear. I didn't want to cry, but the tears came anyway, and I sat down at my desk (after fixing the problem) knowing exactly how the rest of the day would go.
"Hey, tighty-whitey!" The call echoed down the corridor as I tried to get to lunch. I pulled my hoodie up and wished for invisibility. "Did you get a boner for old Ms Collins?" And so much laughter.
