Cured [ManxMan]

Chapter Twelve

The irony of being assigned a project on anxiety disorders did not escape me.

Especially as I sat, in my own bedroom, on my own bed, with my books and laptop spread out in front of me, where I should have felt comfortable, were it not for the knee brushing against mine every now and then as the boy it was attached to shifted. Every time he did, I tensed, glanced up at him, and sometimes he would look back at me, a wry smile curling up the corners of his lips, before we both turned back to our work with few words exchanged.

I did not know Matthew Jimenez. I knew of him, of course; it was difficult not to notice the bundle of energy that was Matthew. He was everything I wasn't, everything I wished I could be: popular, but not in a pretentious way, kind, friendly, easy to smile, easy to laugh. And, most of all, Matthew knew who he was, and was very open and unapologetic about it. Matthew was gay, the only openly gay person in our class.

Not that I was gay. At least, I didn't think so. That was kind of the problem, actually; I didn't know. Weren't you supposed to know? Even closeted people still knew, even if they denied it, even if they pretended they weren't. All the stories on the internet talk about feeling attracted to boys instead of girls, or boys in addition to girls, and knowing they aren't straight, but what about if I didn't feel attracted to either? What did that make me?

Matthew's knee brushed mine again, and I resisted the urge to look up again. It was fine. We just needed to finish our psychology project, and then Matthew would go home, and my confused, conflicted feelings would go with him, and after we presented in class tomorrow, we wouldn't speak to each other again. Or, perhaps that wasn't true, Matthew was so friendly, he would smile at me in the hallway, say hi as we passed. But that would be it.

And it would be better that way. Matthew knew who he was, and didn't deserve to be drug through my confusion with me. Even if he was one of the few people who made my stomach twist with something more than anxiety, though the anxiety was there.

I turned my attention back to our project, reformatting the PowerPoint slide I was working on. We were more or less done; Matthew was adding a few pictures to the last slide, and I was reading the whole thing over, adjusting things slightly. The corner of my lips twitched up; a project on anxiety disorders wouldn't have been my first choice, considering the possible panic attack I was going to have presenting it, but this was still my favorite class. Maybe because my own mind was so weird and messed up, but I enjoyed learning how the mind works, or how it could go wrong, as was the case with the current unit on abnormal psychology.

Somewhere in the distance, a door opened and shut, a voice calling through the house. I couldn't make out the words, but I knew the tone, and knew it wasn't worth getting up to investigate. Matthew, after a glance at me, decided the same, turning his attention back to his laptop.

"Chris?" the voice was closer now, the door to my bedroom creaking open behind us. "Did you hear me? I asked what you want for dinner." I glanced over my shoulder, Matthew scooting away so a few inches of space separated us.

My father stood in the doorway, his hair more gray than the blonde I shared, but the gold glinted in the light from the hallway. I couldn't make out his face, the light from the hallway brighter than in my room, but something about the sudden tense set of his shoulders made anxiety twist in my gut. Was I in trouble? I hadn't asked if Matthew could come over, but I'd had people over before, and it had never been a big deal.

So I was surprised when he stomped forward, catching Matthew under the arm and hauling him up, hardly giving him the chance to close his laptop and snatch his backpack up off the floor before he was hauling the boy into the hall. I followed, not daring to ask my father what was wrong; he was deathly silent, which meant he was really mad.