Free True Letters from a Fictional Life by Kenneth Logan

counselor, but she looked terrified.
    â€œBoys, I need to ask you to lower your voices,” she managed, pushing her hair back behind her ears.
    â€œThis school’s full of homophobic idiots,” snarled Noah, ignoring the counselor. “It’s amazing that it took this long for the redneck jocks to start attacking people.”
    â€œRedneck jocks?” I laughed, and Hawken stood up. The blue-haired boy’s eyes grew wide. Hawken didn’t even lookat him. Instead, he said quietly to the counselor, “This group’s not helpful. You’re letting that kid spread rumors.” And then he picked up his backpack and walked out.
    I followed him. As the door closed, I heard the counselor pleading, “Okay, okay, I need to ask everyone to just take a deep breath and refocus.”
    We walked down the hallway in silence for a few yards. “I knew this was going to happen,” Hawken said eventually. “I knew kids were going to start saying Mark had it out for Aaron.”
    â€œYeah, I sort of figured people would draw that conclusion, too.”
    â€œThe thing is, it matters. If the story becomes that Mark punched Aaron on purpose, he could be in even more trouble. I’m not defending what he did, but he didn’t even know who he was hitting.”
    â€œIt’ll be okay, dude.” I didn’t know what else to say.
    â€œHe doesn’t hate gay people.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œHe talks to my brother when he’s home.”
    I talk to his brother when he’s home. I had no idea that he was gay until Hawken told me.
    â€œMark’s dad made him call Aaron’s mom, you know. Apologize and all.”
    â€œWhoa. How did that go?”
    â€œHe said it was terrible. She let him have it. He won’t tell anyone this—he’s never going to let down his tough-guyimage—but he does feel bad about what happened. He didn’t mean to get that drunk. He cried when he apologized to me. He couldn’t stop. He was curled on my bed with his face in his hands. It was awful.”
    â€œMark?”
    â€œYeah, Mark. Everyone thinks they have him pegged. That guy back there in the conference room? The kid with blue hair? Mark and I changed his tire in the parking lot last year because he didn’t know how to do it. It’s screwed up.”
    Later on, Mark was walking down the hall a few yards ahead of me. Kids looked up, saw him coming, and got out of his way in a hurry. I don’t think he even noticed.
    Theresa and I hung out after school that day. She lives down the road from a general store that sells milk, bread, and beer to locals, and it sells postcards, maple syrup, and moose miscellanea to tourists. We walk down there when we have nothing else to do. I picked a big chunk of ice and snow from the snowbank on the roadside and threw it way up in the air. It thudded on the pavement but didn’t break, so we kicked it down the road for a few yards. Theresa picked up another chunk of snow and tossed it way into the air, and this one exploded— poof! We stood over the aftermath. “Look at those lines shooting away from the center,” she said, and she took a photo. “Like a white-hot starburst.”
    â€œIn cold black space,” I said. “It’s freezing out here.”
    Theresa bought a hot chocolate. I got a small black coffee.I’d just started drinking coffee, to my parents’ chagrin. When I put the cup on the counter, Theresa grabbed a pack of gum from the candy rack. “You have to start chewing gum if you’re going to start drinking coffee,” she explained. “Otherwise, your breath’s going to smell like Mr. Nash’s, that substitute teacher.” I nodded. You don’t argue with girls about that kind of thing. I dug in my pocket for a few crumpled dollars, but Theresa beat me to it.
    â€œNo, let me get it!” I said, pushing money toward the