Chapter Four: Fan Club

Run.

That’s the only word to register in my mind when the raining glitter finally ceased and his green eyes locked with mine. Instantly, I turned to the window behind me, understanding there was no way he would let me pass him by the door.

Scrambling down the fire escape was easy; everything was up to its prime state since it was a new building. Without looking back, from the moment my feet hit the gravel, I ran with all my might to my next class.

**

“No, the hell not.”

Professor Armand says without even taking her eyes off her notes.

“But-”

“You do not enter my class after I have arrived.”

Her dark brown eyes finally look up at me through the gap between her glasses.

“Out. Mr Vale. Try again tomorrow.”

She finalises before her eyes turn back to her notes, and she continues to teach as if I were not standing by the door sweating and panting my lungs out.

She is also, unfortunately, the head of the fashion department, meaning I should be grateful she didn’t say ‘try again next week’.

Without another word to add to my pathetic state, I leave the class, and before I make it down the hall, my phone buzzes—it's Reign.

[Head to the café, I’ll meet you there after class.]

{In-campus cafe? That place is expensive, maybe off campus.}

[I’ll pay.]

{Yessir!}

My reply comes easy: unlike my taste buds, Reign dislikes food from what he calls ‘cheap’ places; well, it works in my favour, so I don’t mind the casual insults that he passes as ‘constructive criticism’.

**

“You need to leave. You need to vanish. You need to change your name to Noella, no Noelita, maybe change your gender, grow bangs; no, your hair is too curly for that, so maybe perm it? Yeah, perm it and then transfer to a women's college in Sweden.”

These are the first words to leave Reign’s lips as soon as I finish narrating my afternoon to him; the worst part is that his voice is serious, even though all he is spouting is nonsense.

“You're being dramatic. It was just glitter.”

I say as I mix my green melon boba and take another sip. It tastes like heaven and a wrecked toilet, courtesy of my lactose-intolerant self, but thank God, my roommate will be with me through it all.

“Are you bleeding?”

Reign asks as he zeroes in on the nick on my arm.

“Scratched myself when I ran down the fire escape.”

Reign takes my hand and pushes my sleeves out of the way, exposing a red mark on my wrist.

“Even this is a scratch?”

I frown.

“He grabbed my arm; I didn’t realise it would bruise.”

I mutter as I pull my hand from his grasp.

“Anyway, point is, I won.”

I say finally and sip my drink loudly.

“How would you classify that as a victory? He knows where you sleep.”

Before I can utter, ‘On that note, do you have space in your condo?’ Reign’s eyes lift to something behind me that causes his face to turn pale.

“What?”

I ask as I place my drink on the table.

“He’s coming.”

“What?”

“The student president is coming.”

My heart leaps to my throat, causing a boba ball to get stuck in my oesophagus on the way down, forcing my hand to pound on my chest as if that would help it travel smoothly.

“Let’s leave.”

“Too late.”

Reign says as he casts his gaze on his Americano and sips deeply.

Familiar cologne washes over me before Beaumont’s voice follows.

“Come with me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I am not asking.”

He says and enters the café. I thought ‘come with me’ meant ‘let's go somewhere private.’ Apparently not. Still, this is fine. We are in public; he won't do anything to ruin his image.

That’s the first thing I learned about the golden boys here at Saint Alderic; by the golden boys, I mean Beaumont, the president of the student body and occasional football enthusiast; Kent, the vice president and a grand chess master; Raymond, the Football captain and Enzo, to be honest, no one knows much about Enzo, but apparently his family has ties with the mafia(??) among other ghost stories; anyway, the four of them have sparkling records.

At least, I believed that until one of them called me the F* word, causing rumours that were long buried of his homophobia to resurface in my mind, meaning their personas may be entirely fabricated, and they like it that way.

The cafe door closes, and two steps in, my eyes catch the pink glitter cosily embedded in his damp-looking hair.

Hah, that’s not coming out, ever. Glitter is forever, baby.

“Did my fairy dust bruise your ego?”

Huh…wait, did I say that out loud?

Someone, anyone, stop me.

Beaumont, as if hearing my murmur, turns around and walks back to me, causing me to lean on the café door in an attempt to escape his overwhelming build.

The café falls silent; there are at least six girls inside, all watching us.

“You keep crossing the line with me.”

There is no violence or force in his body language, but pressure oozes from him, leaving me under his mercy.

The door was definitely ‘push’ from the outside, so it’s ‘pull’ from this side. To run away from him, I would have to step into him first; why did I think he wouldn’t do anything out in public?

Beaumont places his hand on one side of my head while his other hand falls on my cheek as if he is removing something.

The glitter in his hair shimmers brilliantly.

“You know what the funny thing is about people like you?”

He leans into my ear and whispers the words slowly, causing me to shiver as if my body refuses to believe that he has not just ‘you peopled me’.

He smells…so good, expensively good.

But this distance…

Is... is he flirting with me?

“You think expulsions are the only way people like me get our points across to people like you.”

No, definitely not flirting.

Contrary to his lover-like body language, his words are cold. No sarcasm, no humour…just deadpan, as if exhaustion has taken him too far from his feelings.

“What are you gonna do, Rich kid? Write me a mean poem?”

To my surprise, he chuckles—a deep, rich sound that fills my ears and throbs the ‘Mr’ locked tight in my pants, forcing me to swallow.

No way, Noel. You are not delulu enough to feel anything for this macho cis male, who’s probably the poster child to what the 1950s once called ‘perfect’.

“You are hilarious, Noel.”

This time, he speaks loud enough for everyone in the café to hear, but his tone is nowhere near as menacing as before; rather, it’s almost as if he is flirting with me, causing me to frown.

What the hell is going on?

Before I can ask if he drank something funny, he pulls away from me.

“See you tonight.”

He says as his finger taps my chin.

“Is that a threat?”

I ask, and rather than reply, he chuckles like a lovesick teenager.

“You are too much, Noel.”

Seriously, am I in the Twilight Zone?

And just like that, he peels me from the door, as easy as if we were dancing, and walks through it, leaving me stunned.

Seriously, what the hell-

Click!

The distinct and unmistakable sound of someone sucking their teeth in disapproval echoes loud enough in the deafening silence to cause me to turn to the ladies I had sighted.

Their glares are horrid, as if I stole something that belonged to them, and they intend to get it back.

“Look at that bastard. Flirting with every guy on campus. Considering his face, confidence has to be a God-given talent.”

The words are said just loud enough for me to hear them, but again, not loud enough to be considered direct confrontation.

“Is that... Noel Vale?”

Another girl chimes in, causing my gaze to whirl to their table.

“Yap, Marlow said he ‘thrifts’. Ew, that’s just desperate.”

Laughter bubbles in the Café as if everyone heard the words and agreed with them.

My entire body freezes, the kind of freezing where everything goes numb, and all you can feel is your neck getting hot.

It feels like junior high all over again.

“Poor and gay? Like…pick a struggle.”

My fingers ball up into fists, and as if remembering my free will, I turn and leave the café, returning to my seat opposite Reign.

“He’s marked you.”

Reign says, not even giving me a chance to sip my drink and pretend that the whole roast session didn’t happen.

“What does that mean?”

“There’s a reason guys like him don’t date in school. Especially not poor kids.”

“For the last time, my family is middle class.”

Well, lower middle class, but everything that’s not dressed in Balenciaga to him is poor.

“Point is…”

Reign stresses, ignoring my interjection.

“Because their fan club would eat them up.”

“‘Fan club’, aren’t we too old for that shit?”

Splash!

The feel of liquid and ice trickling down my face and neck, followed by the smell of citrus and the stickiness of sugar, overwhelm me. Before I can say anything, a girl in a perfectly pressed Saint Alderic blazer walks past me, holding an empty lemonade cup.

“Oops. I’m just so clumsy these days.”

She says with a chuckle; she doesn’t even look back at me nor offer an apology.

The citrus stinging the scratch on my arm reminds me this is happening. I did not dream that.

My eyes lift to Reign; he hands me a napkin.

“Still think you won?”

His voice is soft. There is no teasing this time.

“Better buckle up, girl. You just got drafted into the Hunger Games.”