Once a Nerd

a/n: A shorty resolution chapter :)

You know how, in movies, they dramatize the volume of an analogue clock's ticking to emphasize silence?

It's so quiet, the second hand's rotation snaps off the walls with deafening reverb. Over the years, I've caused my fair share of trouble and was occasionally made to pay the piper, but never has the disciplinarian held their breath like this. An impassioned rant usually kicks off as soon as the door shuts on my ass. Usually, a clock is only left to tick so obnoxiously during standardized exams, and even then, at least one testee has the sniffles.

The longer the silence drags on, the harder it is not to ask, "who still uses an analogue clock?"

Neither the Vice President of Student Affairs, Dean of Students, Athletic Director, Coach Nelson, nor any of the other stiffs in this room would probably appreciate such an inquiry at this time.

The Dean, named Micheal Platt Ph.D. by his placard, leans back in an old, leather poker chair. That, too, is a piercing creak. While I can only see the back of his desktop, I can make a few guesses as to what's on the screen.

"Mr. Saunders, I believe this is our first time meeting face to face. I regret that it's under these circumstances, as I've heard nothing but good things. Before launching into an inquiry, would you care to provide your version of events?"

"So, what happened was..."

And the rest is history. More or less. The general consensus is exactly as Rebecca predicted it would be. Yes, I acted in defense of another. Yes, it was

technically

a good deed.

But,

I put a man in the hospital.

But,

the degree of violence with which I acted is borderline indefensible. The room was pretty divided, but a fabricated story about a sister that doesn't exist suffering an assault that never happened tipped opinion in my favor. 'See, I'm not a loose cannon, I just have

trauma, come on, guys.'

Sam would be devastated if I lost my scholarship, I'm not above lying. I'd rather be a celebrated hero than a martyr sent packing back to the sticks. There's also the matter of my carrying their pockets through the last season. I might not see a cent of it outside room, board, and tuition, but there's no glossing over the piles of money I've raked through their door since becoming the Bulldogs' starting quarterback. Ticket sales are

historically

high. Money talks, and it's a better defense than even Rebecca Kanade could provide.

Unfortunately, it was decided a deterrent of some kind was needed to prevent future misconduct.

Disciplinary probation for a period of two months. The way it's explained, nothing much will change in my day to day. My grades aren't in bad enough shape for them to noose me with, but if I step a toenail out of line behaviorally, there's a threat of full blown suspension. Of course, no one's stupid or brave enough to suggest denying my participation in athletics during the probationary period. Remember, kids, don't just aim for being the best. Be irreplaceable. Profitable.

The more you're worth, the more untouchable you become. Aim to wear shoes so big, no one can fill them but you.

Coach Nelson hadn't said a word during the deliberations. He was posted in a corner of the office with arms folded and a stiff, unreadable expression. Once all is said and done, he excuses himself from the room behind me, and we travel the breezeways in step with each other. He maintains that flinty silence for another few minutes, and I can't tell what he's thinking or wants to say. I brace myself for sore, squealing eardrums, but he starts off uncharacteristically mellow.

Looking ahead, "y'know, son, the world's a lot different now than when I was your age."

I slide a wary glance from the corner of my eye, and he snorts, "don't look at me like that, I'm not your fuckin' grandpa crowing on about the ol' days."

"You sure?"

"The world's bigger than it used to be, and it's turned people into defeatists. When the neighbor's house caught fire, we'd come together with buckets and garden hoses until the calvary came. When

everything's

on fire

all the time,

the bucket's just no good anymore."

"What's your point?"

"Apathy's an epidemic, Dean. No one wants to do anything about anything because it feels pointless. There might be some outrage here and there, but bad men get away with bad shit because stopping one won't stop 'em all. Today's justice isn't what it used to be. That boy you hospitalized?" He stops and turns to face me.

This isn't the same man I know from behind a whistle, from opposite the sidelines, from in front of a white board. The flat character playing a fixed role. This is a man I've never met. He's temperamental, sure, but there's no place for a bone-chilling malice like that in the everyday. Stone-faced, mouth in a terse line. His eyes reflect experience aplenty with society's scourge, and he's suddenly three-dimensional. A somebody before 'coach' replaced his forename. An enigmatic man with a colorful history.

"They don't change. They don't learn or get better. You were right to handle it how you did."

"What if I'd killed him?"

He shrugs, "then he'd be dead."

My face slackens. Well, I'll be damned. I knew he was 'old school', but brazenly advocating for hardcore Street Justice isn't what I expected from a member of the faculty.

Having said his peace, he's back to being my two-dimensional coach. He slaps a familiar hand off my bicep and turns halfway on the ball of his foot. "Anyway, watch your ass, Saunders. Whatever my opinion on it, these aren't the ol' days. You're a Bulldog until the Big Boys come knockin', so no more vigilante bullshit."

Laughing under my breath, I continue in the direction of the dormitories. I'm feeling oddly vindicated, though I wonder if he'd think the same knowing I was acting in defense of my

male

lover. Rampant homosexuality wasn't exactly a highlight of the ol' days he's so fond of. Swiping into my phone, I call Sam as promised. The second I was freed from the tigers' den, he wanted updates on my fate. The dial tone barely gets a chance before Sam's erupting over it:

"Well?!"

"It's the craziest thing, they're giving me an

award."

"Don't fuck with me, you have

no idea

how stressed I am right now."

"I think I have an idea."

He whips my name through the receiver,

"Dean."

"Two months of disciplinary probation."

"What?! What does that--?"

"It's a slap on the wrist, Sammy. I'm not actually restricted from anything, but I'm 'at risk for further punishment' if I cause more problems."

"I mean, what did they...say? Were they upset with you, or...?"

"Nelson said I should've finished the job."

"Bullshit."

Sam deadpans.

"In so many words. He said I 'was right to handle it how I did.'"

His answering silence is considerate, accompanied by the rustle of uncomfortable shifting.

"It worked out for the best. You didn't need to 'finish' anything, you wouldn't be here right now."

I refrain from the obvious observation of 'neither would he.' "It's over and done with now, okay? No more worrying about me. How are you? How was the first day back?"

A brittle sigh,

"hard. It's almost over though."

"Are you going back with your mom?"

Since my return to Fresno two weeks ago, Sam's spent every night in Jane's guest room. He's not oblivious to it, but I've reached out to her more than a few times for some honest insight into his condition. With therapy biweekly and a new regimen of trazodone and Xanax for acute attacks, he's getting by. His sleep is irregular, and when he does catch a few hours at night, they keep their bedroom doors wide open as his is adjacent to her's. His tableside lamp stays lit and reruns of

Cosmos: A Space Time Odyssey

play on his laptop at an unobtrusive volume.

During the day, his coping strategies are very Samlike. He beats no less than three miles into her treadmill in the morning, ventures out only at her insistence, and spends the rest of his time buried in this upcoming semester's work.

After x,y,z, sitting down with a paid professional might do me some good, but I don't like the idea of being analyzed. When the noise in my head gets to be too much, I rely on the tried and true method of exercising until I'd swear I'm close to death. The eternally dreaded cardio. Collapsed on my back with my heart like a Taiko drum in my chest, the beats so hard and fast, it puts hiccups in my breathing. Limbs boneless, sweat puddling under me. It's impossible to think about anything other than, 'if I don't get my pulse down, the damn thing might just give out.'

I'm sure it's the same reason Sam runs more than he used to.

"...yeah."

He says it like he's admitting to something, like there's cause for shame. In all reality, I prefer him to stay at Jane's while I'm away. He doesn't want to be alone, nor do I want him to be. There's peace of mind in knowing he has a set of physical eyes on him around the clock. The idea of Sam alone in his apartment, sitting up at night because he's too terrified to sleep, makes me nauseous. Crying, hyperventilating, crushed by inescapable dread while I'm nonethewiser. Imagery like that often channels into maladaptive daydreams of rebreaking Matt's everything, ripping out whatever plugs, tubes, and IV's keep his soul attached to this plane.

"Good."

"It's pathetic."

He argues,

"I'm a grown man sleeping with the fucking door open like there's a monster in my closet."

"For the love of God, cut yourself some slack, Sammy. It's not pathetic, it's

helpful.

It's a part of getting better. Rely on the people that love you, it's what we're here for. Leave the monsters to me, baby."

He snorts,

"my hero."

"Always and forever."

"What are you doing now? Classes are over, is there practice?"

"Nah, not today. I got my workout in this morning, so I'm headed back to the room. I've got a few assignments due."

We chat for the duration of my journey back, taking care to keep it lighthearted. My secret goal during these conversations is to make him laugh as loudly and as often as I can, and whenever accomplished, butterflies swarm in my gut. Sam's unchecked happiness is one of my simple, great pleasures, and dragging it out of him now is a responsibility I take very seriously. Laughter is chicken noodle soup for the soul, as they say. And not just his.

Coming into my shared room, I let him know against my better judgement.

Predictably,

"alright, I'm hanging up then. You need to focus."

Even more predictably, "I can focus just fine, we don't have to talk. I'm sure you have work to do--"

"You're right, so we both need to focus. I love you."

"If you really loved me--"

Click.

"Don't you have any dignity?" John grouses from his desk, having spun halfway to scowl at my entrance.

"Loads."

"Don't say 'loads.'"

"Wow, I didn't take you for such a pervert, Jonathan."

"You know damn well--" He cuts himself off with a long, hard exhale through the nose, pinching his eyes shut. 'John' isn't actually short for Jonathan, as he reminds me every time I jokingly refer to him as such. "--how'd it go?"

Dropping my bag to a bounce on the springy mattress, I shrug: "As good as it could've. Disciplinary probation for two months, which just means I have to be a very, very good boy."

"You're doomed." He says dryly.

"Hey, I can behave myself."

Doubtful, thick brows curving inward, "didn't you almost get into it with your teammate two months ago?"

Who...?

Oh,

right. Ortega, that benchwarming bitch. God, that feels like a lifetime ago. "I didn't almost get into anything. We came to a verbal resolution. He even apologized."

"Right, right, and it wasn't at all coerced."

Scoffing, "I didn't have a gun to his head."

"Dude," John starts flatly, "you

are

the gun. Always cocked and ready to fly off the handle. Most of your teammates talk like you're their personal boogeyman."

"What?" I turn to frown at him, and he shrugs unrepentantly. "Who the fuck said that?"

"Word gets around, man. Now, with this? You almost

killed

a guy, Dean. Your reputation isn't doing so hot."

"I couldn't give a flying fuck about my reputation,

John.

The only opinions that matter are the Dean, the VP, and Nelson, and they're of the opinion I'm worth more than enough to keep around. I'm not here to win a goddamn popularity contest, I'm here to lay the groundwork for a decent future. As long as they pull their weight on the field, my teammates can piss their pants all they want on their own time."

John's hands fly up in the classic 'woah, buddy' position. "Look, I'm just pointing out the obvious. You've been way too flippant to all of a sudden be on the up and up for two whole months. I understand you..." He hesitates, arms drooping like wilted plants. "...you had a good reason, but what happens when there's another 'good' reason? You get what I'm saying?"

I cycle a calming breath, because John's not said anything that isn't true. I never put the time or work into developing solid, interpersonal relationships with any of my teammates. In keeping them at an arm's length, they're bound to draw their own conclusions. Public opinion

is

important to an extent. You catch flies with honey, not vinegar. Charisma will always be more effective than fear. Before Sam, there was nothing I cared about enough to act out. Nothing to make me take a sledgehammer to the illusion of my presumed image.

Dean's parameters were unquestionably: attractive, athletic, and laissez faire to a fault.

"I get what you're saying." I admit, dropping into my own desk chair.

"I know you're a man of, uh, action? But, even if you have to fake it, you need to be..."

"Nicer?"

"Yeah, just pretend Sam's secretly watching you or something."

"That'd be nice..." I sound wistful to my own ears, and John shoots an exasperated look.

"But, um, how...how's he doing?"

Unfortunately, there wasn't much I could do in the way of salvaging Sam's privacy when it came to John and Cecilia. They're too familiar with my character to know I wouldn't beat someone close to death if he wasn't somehow involved, and the article that's since been spread around campus specifies the thwarted assault as a sexual one. Both of them are conscientious enough not to probe or ask insensitive questions, nor have I volunteered any sordid details.

"Better, I think. He's still staying at Jane's place."

"That's...good." He says slowly. "How are you, man?"

"Me?" I swing a thoughtful gaze to the ceiling, reclining my head in the laced netting of my hands.

I hadn't really thought about it. Life's been coming so fast, and that's partly due to my robotically marching through to the weekends I spend with Sam. Almost every minute of a weekday is accounted for, and it's more efficient to run on autopilot. Getting out of bed, washing, dressing, eating, and preprogrammed exercise doesn't require deep introspection. Class and assignments, at least the track I'm on, usually come with explicit, impossible-to-fuck-up instruction. I just...do. I do what's expected of me and what's necessary to achieve my modest goals of:

Get rich.

Live with Sam.

When I allow myself a moment's thought, there's only the dredges of rage and frustration. Some of it sexual, which I'm not proud of and will never admit to Sam. I've come to grips with the fact that there's always going to be a part of me that craves him, it's just a matter of how much voice and control that part can have. If there's any hope of reforming my reputation as John suggests, a man definitely not prone to violence, introspection should be staunchly avoided.

"Livin' the dream, man."

--

"No one knows."

Despite checking obsessively in the mirror of Mom's guest bathroom, no angle reveals a shadow of a bruise. They've all healed. I look exhausted and wan, but undamaged. My name's not been publicized anywhere, and in declining to seek justice through the courts, there's no potential for exposure. Matt's no longer a student, so his hospitalization shouldn't be a hot piece of gossip.

Those who do know comprise a very tight circle, and none are the 'bad refrigerator' type. I trust them not to drop the match in dry, brittle leaves, spreading the story of my misfortune for the sole sake of breakroom filler. As long as I hold it together, no one will know. No one will think differently of me, and my peers won't become the wall of eyes I often dream about. Disembodied eyes full of pity, criticism, and disgust leering from a void.

Life goes on at its steady pace of sixty, and this will fade into the Past.

"You look great, baby. Did you get more than four hours?"

Mom perches in the bathroom's threshold, shoulder resting against the jamb.

"Five and a half."

"I can tell, you're glowing."

I rip my eyes from the mirror to spare her an incredulous look. Glowing?

"If you're trying to cheer someone up, the lie should be

convincing."

She smiles wryly, "well, you've looked worse. Nightmares?"

"...yeah."

I'm not sure there was a second of last night's sleep unspoiled by my subconscious. Today starts the new semester for me, and Dean's scheduled an unofficial hearing with the upper echelon of his school's faculty. They'll be deciding whether or not his actions constitute misconduct, or if they're excusable given the circumstances. Punishment is on the table. That's more than enough material for my fragile psyche to run wild with, and it's a wonder I was able to get any sleep at all.

Benzodiazepines are good for that, I guess.

"Alright, enough primping, young man." Mom ushers me out of the bathroom, and everything's suddenly in motion.

Out the front door, in the car, on the road, a rapid series of prepositions until the bricked streets and white, Collegiate Gothic infrastructure of Berkeley's campus encroaches upon me. We have no choice but to separate not long after merging with the congested foot traffic passing beneath Sather Gate, not that I'd ever accept an escort from

my mother.

This isn't a first day at preschool.

Though I do briefly feel small, scared, and alone. An orange, translucent bottle rattles with promise in the zippered compartment of my bag, but I can't float through the day. Tranquilized, concentration slipping through my fingers like a handful of sand. I can't allow my gaze to drift dreamily from a PowerPoint I'm meant to be lecturing on. Today, I have to grab the bull by the horns and cling through the bucking. Measuring my breath, eyes constantly flickering to the actigraph strapping my wrist.

Dr. Lima says it's counterproductive to 'obsessively' track my pulse, but it soothes me to watch it fluctuate within a normal range. Resting in the seventies and eighties feels like a personal victory.

"Sam! Hey, good morning!"

Cults in Popular Culture

is the day's first seminar, and the professor I'll be assisting is a woman less than a decade my senior. She's matronly despite her age: prematurely grey, floral prints, and glasses garish and red with bejeweled chains dangling from the temple tips. She's sweet, but detrimentally type A. Instead of the protective marrow of a skull, her brain is kept in a binder, and there's different colored highlighters to categorize every thought. Without it at arm's length, she's no better than a vegetable. We're acquainted from running in the same circles, but this is my first time actively assisting her.

"Hey, Sasha, did you have a good break?"

"Gosh, it was so nice..."

She warbles on as we set up our individual stations, some early birds shuffling through the door. I'm listening with half an ear until--