Gabe’s always the one that gets the alcohol. He flashes a big smile and a twenty at someone walking into a liquor mart. Twinky guy or sorority girl, he knows the type that have him as a type. It’s a situation mirrored by teens all over the country every day, but it’s one that they all fail at, and he succeeds. Because he’s Gabe fucking Saporta, and he knows how to smile.
Mikey’s always the one that gets the cigarettes. It takes him three buses to get to school, and at each stop he casually asks if he can bum one. He looks harmless, hair squished between his eyes and glasses, skinnier than the branch of a tree, and more often than not people take pity on him.
Pete doesn’t get anything contraband, but he’s the one that can procure the most important thing; privacy. Gabe and Mikey still don’t know for sure what he said, how things went down. There are a dozen rumors, each more ridiculous -and therefore more plausible when it comes to Pete Wentz- than the last. But each day they go sit under the wooden slatted bleachers outside, and nobody says a thing. Well, it’s entirely possible they say things, Gabe and Mikey aren’t exempt from the rumours that constantly surround Pete. But nobody comes to try to kick them out or join them, and that's what matters.
They smoke Mikey’s cigarettes, and they take sips from Gabe’s rum carefully transferred into a plastic water bottle, and they sit on the gravel with weeds poking out every square inch, and they talk. Pete once called it their ‘after school special’. They’ve never actually watched an after school special, but they know they’re supposed to be lame, so they laugh anyway.
Sometimes, if the mood hits them -if the sun is hitting at the right angle, or the wind blowing in the right direction, or god knows what the qualifiers are, most of the time they don’t even know what they’re doing- they’ll kiss.
Pete hates the taste of rum, so he’ll take a swig then pop a spearmint gum or an entire package of Chiclets and let the flavours wash the spice away.
When Mikey kisses he clings to the person facing him. He curls his fingers in their collar, or hem, and doesn’t let go until they pull away to breathe.
Gabe always wants more. He’s the first to put his hand on someone’s ass, the first to pepper kisses against someone’s jawline until he’s sucking the sweet spot just under their ear.
At four pm their rides come. There are no hugs or promises to call each other later, they’re teenage males and they don’t do that sort of thing.
Gerard, an old car with every possible surface littered with wrappers and burnt cds and random detritus. Mikey has to spend a minute shoving everything on the passenger’s seat onto the floor before he can climb in. Gerard turns the metal a bit higher and the last thing that can be seen before they peel away is two ratty haired heads nodding to the music.
Mrs Wentz, a brand new SUV. Pete suspects she goes to the station to wash it each day, it’s never anything but pristine when it pulls to a stop in front of the school. Sometimes it looks like it’s shuddering in horror when he climbs up the step and slams the door. The drive home is silent.
Mr Saporta, on the way home from his shift. The ashtray is full, crammed into the cup holder and held down with clear packing tape. There’s always at least one lighter sitting in the white ash. They talk in Spanish as they make the way back to the house.
Three boys in three cars. Completely different attitudes and atmospheres, except for one thing. They have left each other mildly drunk and completely turned on. Each sit with their backpack on their lap, hoping to avoid notice. The outcome is foreseen. Dad would chuckle and talk about the women they must have at high school, better than the woman they had in his day. Mother would sneer and tell him to control himself. Gerard wouldn’t say anything, but he’d turn down the music a notch and look at him like he was waiting for information. None of them want it.
They get home, and it’s three boys racing to their bedroom.
Mikey gives Gerard a look and closes their shared bedroom door. It doesn’t have to be said. They so rarely want privacy from each other that a closed door speaks volumes. He doesn’t bother to kick off his sneakers or take off his pants, just falls onto the crumb sprinkled bedspread and opens his jeans. His left hand clutches the body pillow beside him, fingers spasming with each stroke. He thinks of Pete and spearmint gum and Listerine and first dates, Gabe telling him only girls don’t put out the first night.
Gabe gets inside the house and goes to say hello to his mom. He hugs her, carefully holding his body away from her so she doesn’t notice, comments on the delicious aroma of the kitchen, and finally escapes to his room. His jeans go in a pile of semi-dirty clothes in the corner, the stuff that can either be washed or worn again, depending on how much he feels like doing the laundry. He pushes the comforter to the side and buries his face in the pillow while he rubs his dick against the mattress. It’s not enough friction, but it’s better than nothing. He doesn’t have either of his best friends to rub on, so he tries to content himself imagining how Pete would feel, scabby and calloused from various spills from his skateboard, how Mikey might open his wide mouth and go down on him.
Pete always tries to delay it as long as possible. He doesn’t let himself go soft, he keeps thoughts of Mikey begging Gabe to fuck him in his mind. But the wait always adds something to it. He thinks of them, how they’re probably already sitting down for dinner, how neither of them would have the patience to torture themselves into pleasure. He doesn’t know who’s better off. Eventually he can’t stand it any longer, and he’ll strip naked and let his body slip along the silky sheets. It’s the texture of luxury, but Pete would rather have gravel and weeds, cheap booze and tobacco.
They come. They wait for tomorrow.