Em and I ended up not checking up on Morgue at all on Sunday. We sort of realized we had been overreacting just a tiny little bit– Morgue is a big kid, after all, he can handle himself. He’s actually older than both of us– he’s already 17, while Em and I won’t be until July. Our birthdays are only a week apart, I forgot if I mentioned that before. We actually have a lot more in common than at first glance, Em and I. We read a lot of the same books, laugh at a lot of the same shows. She prefers small groups over partying, like me, and vanilla trumps chocolate in both our opinions. I’ve never noticed before how we complement each other so well, but we really do...
Anyway, so, what was I talking about? Morgue, right. I wish he were here right now, no matter how bitchy he’d be acting. Science has never been a subject of much interest for me, or for anyone else in the class apparently. I don’t know if Mr. Cellian has ever noticed, but just about everyone either naps or texts during his lectures and other assorted weapons of torture. I think it’d be bearable if I was close friends to anyone in the class; the only one I say more than hi to is Steve, and the only thing we talk about is baseball, which by year’s end is a topic that is quickly wearing thin. He’s not even here today, so the only form of entertainment it seems I have left is counting exactly how many brave little hairs are still clinging, however futilely, to Mr. Cellian’s head. That captures my interest for about six minutes before I begin to zone out. I’m very close to reaching that zen-like point that occurs when all your attention is focused on not paying attention when I hear a rustle of chains and straps from behind me. I turn quickly, desperate for someone to burst in through that doorway and murder the monotony, and get the biggest surprise of the day– it’s the one, the only kid I know who can rock the liner without looking like the worst drag queen ever, Morgue. He looks a bit disgruntled as he walks up to my bald-headed professor, waving around a blue sheet of paper in his hand as he tries to explain through the ear wax that he has to makeup a test– however this changes when he accidently catches sight of me and grins for half a second before remembering he’s mad at me.
Now his nose is snuggling up to a depressing frown as he takes a seat at the lab counters a feet behind me and begins scribbling out little chemistry formulas onto the page. I think he really believes he has the ability to ignore me, which I find funny because he can’t, ever. To prove the point I shift my chair around and snarl at him. If he wasn’t looking at me already, he wouldn’t have noticed but of course he was so he interrupts my teacher’s speech about the importance of chlorides with a cluster of giggles that seem to echo in the cold, funeral-like silence that always permeates this class.
Mr. Cellian puts down his wooden pointer thing and stares at Morgue, as if thinking this would actually make someone who skips school every few days feel bad about disrupting the magical process of learning.
“I hope you can keep it quiet back there...I didn’t realize Ms. Zuckner’s exams were so funny.”
Morgue buries his face into the arm of his sweatshirt for a moment before rising up, smiling, and shaking his head. “Sorry, won’t happen again.” He shoots me an angry glance as Mr. Cellian returns to his beloved blackboard, and mouths, “Fucking stop it.”
“Make me,” I silently challenge.
He replies by rolling his eyes and returning to his paper. I just wait, because the Morgue I know never backs down from a challenge.
Five minutes later, his nose is still pressed to the desk, and I’m getting impatient. What, is that how it’s going to go? Jesus, I wouldn’t have wished him here at all if I had known he’d be so boring and lame. Sullenly, I resort to scribbling like a kindergartner over my notebook when I suddenly feel something hit my back. My hand reaches to the back of the chair, and my fingers make contact with smooth paper– it’s a paper airplane, and oh gee, I wonder where in the world this might’ve come from. Smiling to myself, I unfold the sheet, and see there’s a note inside. Foss-
About Friday– I guess I didn’t really mean what I said. I guess I still want to be friends, except I still remember what you said. I don’t know if you know this, but I don’t need you around. I have other friends, and now I have Shane. If you don’t want to hang with me because I’m gay, that’s fine. Whatever. I couldn’t care less now.
I crumple the paper in my hand and sigh. Did he really think I meant that, that I hate him because he’s gay? I throw the balled up sheet on the ground and lean back in my chair, not even bothering to turn around and see if Morgue’s looking at me for my reaction. Of course he did...of course he thought that, because that’s what I said– and I had sounded damn angry about it, too. This is really my fault, and unfortunately I guess I have to right it...and we all know how bad I am at making things better. Incorporating my messiest handwriting to date, I jot back on the lower half of the page, M–
Look, I’m sorry. Really really sorry. I didn’t mean that okay? I was just mad about you liking me. I know, i know– it’s a lot worse for you and I’m being really selfish by thinking only about how it affects me..I sorta get that now, thanks. I still really want to be your friend...you’re one of the closest friends I have...but if you don’t want to whatever, I understand.
I fold the note back into airplane mode and let it soar. “Fuck!,” I hear behind me, and realize belatedly that throwing a plane without watching where you’re throwing it is not such a good idea, as they can sometimes choose to land in someone’s eye. Mr. Cellian looks mad as hell now, and he stops the lesson seemingly for good as he shifts as quick as an infuriated snail to where Morgue’s covering his right eye with his hand and starts screaming at him. And when I say screaming, I mean screaming– this bombastic stream of words is just hurtling out of his mouth, and he’s emphasizing key points with a furious wave of his hand and a stomp of his foot. It’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him, actually.
“–and if you ever come into this class again, God help me, I will have you deported right back to the dank little cave you came from!” Spittle rains upon the black, plastic counters as my teacher’s tirade abruptly ends, leaving Morgue dazed and everyone else dying of laughter. “Now please find some other room to finish your test in, I can’t have you here, that’s for certain,” Mr. Cellian mumbles as he drags Morgue to the door and literally, to the class’ further delight, throws him out the doorway along with the half-finished quiz. I try to muffle my laughter out of guilt, but I can’t help it– that was the funniest thing I’ve seen all day. And, hopefully, it means that we’re pretty much back to square one, at least temporarily. This is hard for me to believe, but I think I’m finally beginning to be okay with it. With him, you know, being like that...and having a crush on me. I had a crush on Em for ages, but that never ruined our friendship, did it? And what if she had been a lesbian...would’ve she have been weirded out by my liking her?
The answer to that is as obvious as the answer to the ‘problem’ I’m having with Morgue– it’s not his fault this is becoming a big issue, it’s mine for being a huge bigot. If I accepted him way back when in freshman year, when I was naive and he was the mature one, I can do it now...after all, things haven’t really changed, have they?
...
"only form of entertainment it seems I have left is counting exactly how many brave little hairs are still clinging, however futilely, to Mr. Cellian’s head."
Loved that line, ha.
Pretty cool, that you implemented notes between Morgue and Derek into the story. Boosted up the level of entertainment.
"And what if she had been a lesbian...would’ve she have been weirded out by my liking her? "
And this one line, interesting way of putting things. Made me think.
Great job once again! I'm heading on to the next chapter now.
Short Stories 
