I want you to listen to The Words 'Best Friends' Become Redefined, by Chiodos, when you read this part.  Don't insult the band.  Don't insult the song.  Respect my wishes.  Respect the dead.

Given, I'm a tad too sophomoric to be a sophomore.  And forgive me, but the fact that the echo echoed pissed me off a little.

I'm not even going to tell you what was echoing, just to bother you, because all my life, people have left things out when they tell me things, and that means that I have to, too.  Isn't that right?  Because, if it's not, then I've been doing it wrong all these years.
Left, right, left, right, right, chatter, drone, left.
I'm not going to tell you what that means, either.
Feet within boundaries, inside the stall walls.  I looked back.  Lock, inside of hole.  Safety was warm, warm and soft like that scarf, the blue one that seemed to have a heat of its own.  And, I'm not going to tell you who that scarf belongs to, either, or why it got run over by a car one day.  Because that would be way too easy.  And then, you probably wouldn't read this.  If anyone's reading this in the first place.

The ever so loud buzz of chatter nearly drowned out the monotonous thoughts in my head.  Footsteps? ...no.  No footsteps.  And that was very, very good, because I can't tell you what I would have done if someone had caught me.  Not that they would have been audible of the volume of the guys; with them, twenty-three sounded like a hundred.  And locker room walls have a history of bouncing noise back and forth. Footsteps....no.  And, with that, my finger prodded the back of my esophagus, or epiglottis, or whatever.  Past the--what was that, cartilage? And the fleshy, soft part of the lining.  

I could smell the puke in my nose.  Hydrochloria, I should call the world.  

Yes.  Hydrochloria.

It sounds better than Incestia.

Now get your ass out of the stall, before they lock you in the locker room again.

Cough-cough.  Not sickly, though.  "Ads, where's your brat pack?"  Duncan pushed his glasses up his nose, back under the yellow mess he called his hair, then pulled his shirt on over his two-pack.  Two's enough.  Six overdoes it.  Two is perfect.

Maybe if you got a haircut, you'd be able to see them.  Forgive my triteness, but that joke is a necessity.

I scratched the back of my neck, "...I don't know."  I've been busy, Duncan, puking up my insides.  Maybe, if you knew that, you wouldn't be asking.  Maybe, if you knew that, though, I probably wouldn't be doing it in a locker room.  But locker rooms are the perfect place to do it, because it's so loud that no one can hear you.  So, ha!  Triumph hath graced me with its sweet presence!

Duncan made a noise, and stretched his irritated arms behind his head, and then walked away.  "...dude...I need Monster...now..."  

His caffeine infatuation was common knowledge.  I was bright enough not to argue with him before a caffeinated beverage had spilled down his addicted throat.  Duncan was the kind of person who kept Jolt and Red Bull on the store shelves, and brought Cocaine back.  There were only a few of his kind, sprinkled throughout the country, but that was enough.

Actually, that was more than enough.

"Slay-ter," Mike tapped me on the part of my shoulder that's half shoulder and half neck, and I winced.  Wince.  Flinch.  Zero injuries, just twitches.  Twitchy people, twitchy actions, they usually have twitchy friends.  I pretended to hit him in the face, and he didn't even blink.

Usually, they have twitchy friends.
Just usually.

Touch me again just so you can watch me squirm, and I may just get some guts and pull those curls right out of your fucking scalp.  "Duncan's looking for you."  I looked at Jason.  You, too.  "..."

Draft.  Mike had passed me out.  Jason, hadn't even made eye contact back yet.  His visible eyebrow tilted up towards the middle of his forehead.  Another mess that I'd like to cut, another friend.  Difference: This one was Worrywart.  Or, 'Jason' worked, too.  Again, difference: his hair, which had been blonde before, was now green, courtesy of me, Duncan, and a boring Sunday night.  Because it's too easy to go out on Friday.

Because on Friday, I had better things to do.
He pulled a face and pulled my hair.  When he turned around to walk away, to follow Mike, I kicked his ass.

Literally.  

But then I followed him, because that's what followers do.

Locker room door, open.  Temperature, dropped.  Body heat of hormonal boys, now ineffective.  I dunno.  Maybe he wants to announce that he found the cure for cancer? Look.  He has a negative IQ; what could he want that matters?  "No clue."
"You, Jolly Green Giant!"  Duncan's voice carried from the few feet away he was, to the place where Jason and I were standing.  Yelling? As far as practicality goes, unnecessary.  I saw Jason bite the inside of his mouth.  It didn't take an idiot to figure out that he hated when people called him that.

In high school, nonconfrontational equals freedom of speech.

No one gives a shit.

Jason mumbled under his breath, "Fido's taller than me..."

Yeah.  But he's also gauged and violent, and often mistaken for a sexual predator.  "He's not here."
Mike was leaning against one of the padded walls of the gym, and Duncan looked really...serious.  I wasn't used to seeing anyone but Jason that serious, so this struck me as odd.  But, instead of worrying about it, I just admired the padded walls and thought about the many similarities between our school and an insane asylum.

I will not state the obvious.

I will not state the obvious.

"Prepare yourself, I think he's gonna--"

He already has.  "...--"

"Shut up, Michael."  Duncan fiddled with his left jeans pocket nervously.  In out, over, out, under, in, out, in.  The smirk that crossed Mike's face made no sense to me, and the pattern of similarities between nuthouse and schoolhouse continued.

I will not state the obvious.

We stood there for a second, until I couldn't stand the silence anymore.  Dude.  Say something already.  You don't just call everyone over and act like someone shot the president, and then let Suspense eat them.  "So...what?"

"...uh... Halloween...would you guys care -- care if—"

"Aymes!"  A nameless stoner, one of the school's background children, called Duncan's last name, and all four of us looked over.

Yes, we're all Duncan Alexander Joseph Aymes.

Duncan inhaled and exhaled, "What?!"  

Jason scratched his philtrum.  Duncan's eyes, locked with mine.  His, averted.  Locked with Mike's.  "...I'm gonna...I'll see you guys at lunch, okay?"  He glanced back at me.  

Don't.  I hate eye contact, you know that.  Especially now.  "..."  Hello, floor.  When I looked up, he was shaking his head, left to right, and taking off to go meet the scuzz that had called for him.

Pause.

Wait for it.

I will not state the obvious.