Free Christmas Kitsch (Hol) (MM) by Amy Lane

much studying my pants across my legs. There were wrinkles across my thighs, when there didn’t used to be. I guess I had lost weight.
    “I want to kiss Oliver some more,” I mumbled, and Rex heard me from across the room and guffawed.
    Professor Pritchard smiled, and then took that as his cue. He stood up and started gathering plates, and said, “Rex and I are going to leave, because Rex is going to try to make it to class. And Rusty?”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “I’ll see you Wednesday, okay?”
    I nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you for the pie, and for . . . you know. Coming to see me.”
    Pritchard’s look was . . . well, I guess it was uncomfortable, really. “Thanks for not screaming obscenities in my face,” he said after a moment. “And thanks for writing me a really good paper.”
    I smiled. “It was good, right?”
    “Yeah. Whatever you decide, you may want to make sure you write more of those, okay? A college education—that doesn’t come to everyone. Whatever happens, tell me you won’t just throw it away.”
    I nodded. “Thanks, professor. I won’t.”
    They left, and I don’t even want to know what Rex was saying to Professor Pritchard, but they were sort of laughing like equals. I guess Rex did that to people—lucky him. Some of the rest of us had to earn that feeling some other way than just by being awesome.
    Squat little Mrs. Li waved good-bye while she was eating another piece of crust, and then she said, “So, Oliver. Tell me about him.”
    And that was when the hard shit started, you feel me? ’Cause I for damned sure started feeling it myself.

The next three weeks weren’t easy, but they weren’t the cesspool of misery that I’d been in, either. I talked to Mrs. Li a lot , and I realized somewhere in there that Rex, being the Superman he was, had completely bypassed about six dozen people in his quest to get me help. Apparently I should have seen my RA first, and then the school shrink and then gone up and talked to actual professors and counselors and stuff—but not with Rex. With Rex, you get your professor dragged out of a lecture and hand-delivered to you on a platter with pie. Just as well, our RA was a weaselly little guy with a chia beard who smelled—you know the aroma where you can’t decide if it’s pot or body odor? In his case, I think it was both.
    And in the end, after all that talking and stating the obvious—my parents were sort of cold, Berkeley was sort of hard, and Rusty was sort of gay—we came to the same conclusions I’d known when I’d graduated from high school: I shouldn’t be here.
    But, on the side of progress, I guess now I knew where I should be.

    Oliver, you there?
    Define “there,” Rusty. I’m at the other end of the phone.
    I don’t know if you’re being a smartass or what. You just had to say yes.
    Sorry. Fighting with my dad again.
    About what?
    Nothing important. It’s just irritating when he’s right.
    You were right the last time. I DID need to figure stuff out.
    Yeah? What’d you figure out?
    I want to kiss you again. And feel you up this time—I totally missed my chance.
    Nope. I’m pretty sure you’ll get a few more chances over Thanksgiving break.
    Awesome! What about Christmas?
    That depends.
    On? ’Cause I have the feeling I’m going to want more.
    That depends on what you’re doing after Christmas?
    Well, according to my guidance counselor, I’ll be signing up for classes at Sierra.
    Excellent! In that case, you can feel me up a LOT over Christmas. What are you going to tell your parents?
    I sighed. The guidance counselor and I had gone over this too. She seemed to think my folks would be all right about it, but if Professor Pritchard had taught me anything , it was never to underestimate the stupidity of people in power.
    I’m going to tell them I’m in love.
    Because that was the truth. But when he texted back, I realized I hadn’t said it out loud since the day I’d gotten out of bed.
    With me, right?
    Yeah. Is