Free Creeps by Darren Hynes Page B

that’s when he feels the warmth in his shorts, which runs down his leg and into one sock, one boot. He opens his eyes and sees that Pete has already noticed, followed by Kenny, Harvey, and Bobby at pretty much the same time.
    The loudest laughter that Wayne thinks he’s ever heard then. The gut-holding and stomping feet kind, and then they’re letting Wayne go because they can’t breathe. Bobby actually falls to his knees; Harvey bends over and holds his thighs; The Meat, uncharacteristically, jumps on the spot.
    And Wayne runs. His boots might have slowed him earlier, but not now, no. He’s like the wind now, Flash Gordon, a cheetah, his feet aren’t even touching the ground. No sound, not even their laughter. Pants hardening from the piss. Is it possible to run forever? he wonders. He’ll try.

TWO
    Wayne’s naked from the waist down and throwing his pants and underwear into the clothes hamper when the bathroom door suddenly opens. “I’m in here!” he shouts.
    â€œJesus!” his father says, closing the door. “What are you doing home?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be at school— What? I can’t hear you.”
    â€œI said I don’t want to go today.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    No answer.
    â€œWayne?”
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be at work?”
    â€œHey, we’re talking about you now.”
    No sound from Wayne’s side of the door.
    â€œCome out,” his father says.
    â€œI’m not done—”
    â€œOut, I said. I need to use it.”
    â€œI’m not wearing pants.”
    â€œGrab a towel. Hurry up.”
    A moment later Wayne comes out, a beige towel wrapped around his waist.
    â€œWhat the hell were you doing in there?” his dad says, pushing past him.
    Wayne runs to his bedroom and slams the door and puts on clean underwear and brown cords and sits on the edge of his bed with a palm over each knee. He stares at the wall and imagines himself passing through it into another place but even there The Meat’s pointing and breathing tuna and smoothing his almost-a-moustache and Wayne wonders if there’s anywhere that Pete isn’t.
    Knocking on his door, then the knob turning and catching. His father’s voice: “Since when do you lock your door?”
    Wayne stays quiet. “Wayne!”
    â€œI’m sick.”
    â€œSick?”
    â€œI threw up.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œOn my way to school.”
    Silence.
    His father coughs, then says, “Let me in.”
    â€œI just want to lie down—”
    â€œI’ll put a bucket by your bed—”
    â€œIf I could just sleep—”
    â€œGive you a Gravol—”
    â€œIf I need anything, I’ll sing out.”
    Nothing for a moment, followed by the sound of his father resting his weight against the door. After a while, he says, “I called in sick.” Then, “Wayne?”
    â€œI heard you.”
    â€œDon’t tell your mother.”
    Silence.
    â€œWayne?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAll right then. Go to sleep. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
    Wayne waits until his father pushes himself away from the door and walks down the hall before getting up and going over to sit at his desk. He opens a nearly filled notebook and grabs a Razor Point extra-fine pen and writes:
    Dear Pete The Meat,
    Is it the way I walk? Talk? Is it because I’m small? Is my laugh strange? My voice? Do I smell funny or dress stupid or style my hair the wrong way? Are my eyes too far apart? WHAT? Or maybe I’m juts just an easy target, slow and easy to grab hold of and to givea wedgie to, is that it? Do I remind you of someone you hate? Is it because I sometimes piss my pants and this is something for you and Bobby and Harvey and Kenny to laugh about and point fingers at and then get other people’s attention so that they can laugh and point too?