Free T.J. Klune - Bear, Otter, and the Kid 2 - Who We Are by TK Klune

nervousness that has plagued him since he opened his mouth slowly melt away. The smile that grows on his face is breathtaking. Jesus, I’m so proud I feel like a mom at a soccer game whose kid has just scored his first goal.
    The others in the room (those that haven’t gotten to see the Kid’s interpretation of “poetic license”) are staring at him with what can only be described as matching looks of awe. I can’t tell yet if that’s a good thing or not. It’s how I would imagine people would look like after they’ve discovered a new species of bug, and they don’t know yet if it’s poisonous. They are filled with wonder, but it’s cautious.
    Tyson doesn’t seem to notice any of that, so I guess it’s okay, although it doesn’t stop me from shooting glares at all three of them, which they recognize and begin to clap politely. I didn’t know that Seafare was the center of the poetry universe to allow them to be such snobs about the whole thing.
Jerks.
    But it’s enough, and Ty’s courage returns in full force and for the next twenty minutes, he speaks, sliding page after page off the stand, laying out each and every bullet point that Otter and I had read over and allowed to stay in, not knowing it would be the Kid presenting them. There’s times he veers off on random tangents (“I would also like to implement a student council that could assist the faculty in moving this school into the future; to start with, we need to go green, people. We only have one Earth. I think new leadership is needed to bring about this change. But please don’t think I mean my administration to be a dictatorship. You, as the paid staff, would still be allowed to provide what I’m sure is your valuable input. This isn’t Cuba, after all.”) and times that he gets preachy (“Did you know that thirty cows are slaughtered somewhere in the world every two hours? How is that fair?”), but in the end, it doesn’t matter. It’s obvious he’s thought this through, his master thesis on what it means to be the Kid. If anyone ever again asks me how he can be the way he is, I’m just going to have him give a repeat performance, poem and all.
    I’m about to give him the universal signal to wrap it up, but he finishes with a flourish, quoting some dead guy who said something about something. I don’t know. I’m half listening as it is, making sure to keep an eye on the faculty members across from us, ready to launch myself across the table in case one of them shows even the remotest signs of disinterest. Otter knows this, and his grip on my hand tightens ever so gently, and I have moments to marvel that I’m sitting here in public, watching my little brother give his fifth grade dissertation while my boyfriend—er, partner—holds my hand.
    Gee, look how far I’ve come. I only think nervously about removing my hand once or twice, especially when I catch David sneaking glances at Otter’s apparent need for public displays of affection. Yeah, maybe I am rubbing it in a little, but he’s gotten under my skin somehow, and not in a good way.
    But the Kid finishes and bows slightly, and we clap again, and I notice with trace amusement when the faculty immediately applauds, louder this time. Either they got my pointed stares, or they’re just glad it’s over.
    Ty puts his stuff away and comes to sit down next to me in his chair and leans over, burying his face in my shoulder. Otter leans over, almost resting his chin against my other shoulder, his breath sliding over my neck, causing gooseflesh to prickle, and we both wait for the Kid, knowing he’s going to need reassurance with whatever it is going on in his head right now. This has been a big step for him, one that I’m sure he wouldn’t have been capable of four months ago.
    “Derrick?” he finally asks, his voice muffled by my shirt. Worse than I thought, I guess. He usually reserves calling me Derrick when he’s about to ask one of his Very Important Questions About