Martin saw the scene from outside himself.
He saw Tommy clutching his cheek, fighting back tears as people crowded around him. The coach was there, standing between them. He said something to Martin and herded him up the hall away from the gym. All Martin could hear were the whispered words: kiss, punch, gay.
Coach put him on the bench outside the principal's office and told him to wait.
He sat for a long time. His head and shoulders felt heavy, so he stared at the ground. Pairs of feet walked by: the clacky black shoes of the secretary going from her desk to the copier and back, and the runners of the coach as he left the principal's office to attend the game. And then his mom arrived. She was wearing her black office shoes, so he knew she had been pulled away from work first thing on a Monday to deal with her delinquent son.
The principal invited them in.
It was a simple white-walled office. A metal desk sat in the centre and the boxy, stoic Mr. Kingsley sat behind it. Martin kept his eyes on the mug full of pens and pencils on the edge of the desk with the "how do you do, fellow kids?" meme on it while the principal filled his mom in on what had happened.
There wasn't much of a conversation. They asked him to explain himself, and Martin said something about it being an argument that got out of hand, that he was sorry. Mr. Kingsley explained there was no wiggle room on the rules and he was being suspended. The fact it was the last week of school didn't matter. Homework would be sent to him, he was still expected to sit exams next week, and he was not allowed to attend any school events for five days. So no Prom.
Martin nodded along and stared at the mug and waited for it to be over.
Finally, Mr. Kingsley shook his mom's hand and Martin followed her out the door, through the atrium, and out to the parking lot.
She didn't say anything until he had buckled his seatbelt.
"Do you want to stop for ice cream on the way home?"
He finally looked up, confused.
"Or maybe we should just go home and get you an ice pack. Is your hand ok?"
"My hand?"
He looked down and saw the pink bruise forming on his knuckles and it was like the connection rewired. He suddenly felt a rush of pain through his wrist as his hand throbbed.
The pain must have shown on his face because she started the car and said, "Let's get that ice pack."
Martin kept his eyes on his hand, running over every detail of the skin, but trying hard not to think about the reason it hurt. Flashes of Tommy's face appeared in his mind and he struggled to breath. His chest felt constrained, like cold fingers were slowly squeezing his heart.
He glanced up at his mom. She looked like she always did while driving: calm, quiet, and focused on checking all her mirrors twice. She turned down onto the dead-end street where they lived.
"Aren't you going to ask me about Tommy?" He said, his voice quiet.
"Do you want me to ask about Tommy?" She turned to him and the soft understanding look in her eyes made Martin want to cry.
He chewed his cheek and clenched his fist, which hurt, but he did not cry. He shook his head and said, "No."
She just nodded and continued driving.
"Am I in trouble?"
"Do you want to be?"
His voice cracked, "Why are you acting like nothing happened?"
She pulled into the driveway and parked.
As the sound of the engine faded, she seemed to be thinking through her words, but Martin was done waiting and unbuckled his seatbelt.
Just as he reached for the handle the door locked.
Nora's finger hovered on the lock button on her side and she said, still calm, "Just wait."
Martin waited, but he stared at his feet.
"I'm not trying to act like nothing happened," she explained, "But I'm not going to punish you. I think you punish yourself too much already."
He looked up at her. She was looking at him the way she used to, when he was a little kid getting angry at himself for making a mistake.
"I know the past year, everything, has been hard on you. It's a lot of change to deal with. And it's your senior year. I thought letting you process the divorce at your own pace, do your own thing, was the right way to handle it. But I think maybe I pulled back too much."
The grip on Martin's heart loosened, but he still tried to keep the emotions off his face. He wasn't going to let himself cry in front of his mom.
"I don't know what happened between you and Tommy. And you don't have to tell me. But life is..." she hesitated, looking for the right words. "Life doesn't follow a plan. You know what I mean? Sometimes unexpected things happen."
She smiled and then she unlocked the doors.
"But sometimes unexpected things are good."
Martin hesitated, but then he got out of the car and went inside.
He skipped dinner. His mom knocked on his door and offered to bring a plate up but he just told her he wasn't hungry. He felt like he didn't deserve it, like he didn't deserve anything. He'd been so desperate and scared of what Tommy made him feel that he'd exploded, and he hurt him. It almost didn't matter to him that he'd fucked up Prom and basketball and being valedictorian. The shock on Tommy's face was sitting with him, the image of it burned into his eyes.
He couldn't risk looking at his phone, so he grabbed a random movie off the shelf and tried to lose himself in The Godfather.
Martin woke up when his mom went to work.
He got out of bed and finally changed out of his basketball uniform, burying the silver and black fabric at the bottom of his laundry hamper. He put on black sweatpants and a ratty white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and emerged to scrounge for food.
The fridge had a plate of lasagna waiting for him.
He watched the plate as it rotated in the microwave, and then he devoured it while standing in the kitchen.
The house was silent.
Their neighbours were a young professional couple and their house was the last one on a dead-end street. No one drove past. Sometimes a jogging group would come by or a tweaker would shout something from the nearby trails.
Martin didn't know what else to do so he put the second Godfather film on the living room TV and sank into the couch.
Michael Corleone was in Cuba and his brother had betrayed him when the doorbell rang. It was just after noon, probably a package delivery.
He stepped up to the door and opened it.
"Don't you charge your fucking phone?" Elizabeth demanded.
She stepped inside before he could think to stop her.
"Sorry," she said, "That was aggressive. But seriously, I deserve some kind of check in."
"I'm sorry," he said.
