What Makes You Happy

After lunch, Taylor and I head to history together. As soon as we wave goodbye to the rest of our friends, Taylor drops his smile to, what I assume, is his attempt to be serious. "Hey man, I know Davy doesn't really want you on the team and all, but you should do what makes you happy," he says this close to my ear in an attempt to be heard over the cacophony of the school hallways. I shudder at his breath hot against my neck. Wow, why can't I get this horniness under control today?

"Thanks bro, but honestly I don't really like football. I think it is a little bit boring actually," I answer honestly. I would never tell David that, but I know Taylor won't take it personally.

"Oh." He pauses, slightly confused. "Then why do you come to all our games?"

I stare at him as if he is nuts. "Really?" I ask incredulously. What must it be like to be Taylor? Completely comfortable with who he is and his place in the pack. He just doesn't understand why anyone would ever do anything they didn't want to.

"Yeah, I mean it's nice you want to support Davy and all, but you come to, like, every single game. Even our practice games! You guys aren't mates; you don't have to be glued at the hip." I just shrug, not really wanting to explain to Taylor the intricacies of social expectations. I'm not sure if he just doesn't get it or if he just doesn't care. Either way, he is undeterred by my noncommittal attitude. "Seriously man, just skip Saturday if you want to. I won't be offended, and I'll make some excuse for you with Davy."

"Yeah, maybe. Thanks, bro, I'll think about it," I answer vaguely.

We walk in silence for a moment before he returns to his normal jovial self. "Shit dude! I had no idea there were gays who didn't enjoy watching all our tight asses in spandex bumping and grinding. Seriously, football has got to be the gayest sport out there! Besides maybe wrestling. Well, that'll teach me to harbor subconscious biases! Thanks, bro, you've really opened my eyes." He clutches his chest in mock sincerity, and I laugh despite his vulgar comments.

We walk into history together laughing. Taylor really does know how to make me feel better. My slight buzz from good conversation quickly fades as the combination of the history teacher's monotone voice, a full stomach, and the afternoon sun lulls me to sleep. Taylor has to nudge me awake several times, even though we are just going over the syllabus today. It's not like I'll miss anything important.

Finally, it's time for my two favorite classes, Chemistry and then Precalculus. I've heard all about the crazy AP Chemistry teacher, Dr. Schneider, from the upperclassmen in the pack. I must say, he does not disappoint. A stark white afro encapsulates his head and thick square frames consume his face. He wears royal blue slacks with a white blazer—an outfit only a black guy could pull off—and, just by his appearance alone, he has already become my idol. I get more and more stoked for this semester as he tells us about some of the experiments that we will be performing.

I'm particularly excited about the field trip to the local college planned for the week before winter break. There we will get to experiment with a real electron microscope and photon gun! Damn, Dr. Schneider is so cool. He is secretly an aasimar and older than dirt, so he literally remembers when all the great advancements in science were discovered. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he was best buds with Newton and Einstein from the way he talks. If only he could be my history teacher, then it might actually be interesting. Of course, society—for some reason—seems to think kids need to know about all these old white racists who started a bunch of wars, instead of learning about—I don't know—human discovery and advancements? (Seriously, why are all history teachers obsessed with wars?) But I digress.

I leave chem with a pep in my step and practically float to precalc; happy not only because it is the last period of this incredibly long first day, but also because precalc is my favorite subject. Math just makes sense. There is always a right answer to everything, no trick questions or opinion answers that really mean guess what the teacher's opinion is. There are never any group projects or class presentations. No need to socialize or pretend I'm something I'm not. Just worksheets, quizzes, and tests. Just me and simple, straightforward, non-judgmental numbers.

I examine the class seating chart posted on the white board with a smile on my face, trying to find my name. My smile falters when I see another name right next to mine. My desk mate is none other than Alastair Malum.