Dear Mr. Brody by A.M. Johnson

Parker

With a hangover from hell, I had a hard time keeping my eyes open. It was barely ten in the morning, and the wall clock in the study room seemed to tick louder than usual. I’d started working as a tutor at Pride House, a shelter for homeless LGBTQ youth, when I’d moved back to Atlanta two years ago. I’d sort of fallen into the role of unofficial counselor for a few of the residents, as well, which on most days I loved, but today I couldn’t seem to keep focus. Denny, one of my regulars, grumbled and scratched out the last sentence he’d written with his eraser. While most seventeen-year-old kids worried about who to ask to their senior prom, Denny had to worry if he had enough money to eat. He was rough around the edges, scarred from his time on the streets, and locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Running an aggravated hand through his short, blue hair, he slapped the pencil down on the table. The loud smack resonated through my head like shrapnel. Fucking Marcos and his whiskey. I should have known better not to go out when I had to work the next morning.

“I hate this shit.” Denny shoved his paper to the side, knocking his pencil to the tile floor. “Why can’t I just work full time at the shop, man. Why do I need some stupid diploma anyway?”

“Because it’s required to become a mechanic.”

He leaned back in his chair and pulled at the piercing in his bottom lip with his teeth. He’d been homeless since his parents had thrown him out at fourteen. His offense—kissing a boy in the backyard. He’d told us, when he’d started coming to Pride House six months ago, it had been his choice to leave. He’d said his parents had given him an ultimatum. Change or get out. My gut, already uneasy from last night’s poor decisions, churned as I thought about how scared and alone he must feel every fucking day. I got lucky in the parent department and getting to work with these kids reminded me of that fact every day.

“You think you’ll be happy working the register, that’s fine, nothing wrong with that, but you want to get your hands dirty, am I right?”

“I wanna fix cars, why do I gotta know how to write an essay?” He leaned down and grabbed his pencil. “I ain’t smart enough for this bullshit.”

“Hey… look at me.” He kept his head down, carrying the weight of every last insecurity the world had given him on his shoulders. “You’re smart… there’s no way you would’ve made it on your own for the last two years without being smart. This stuff…” I tapped my finger on the piece of notebook paper in front of him. “It’s important, Denny. Knowledge is a weapon… a tool, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You need tools to survive, weapons to protect yourself,” I said, and he nodded. “You’re not stupid, you’re learning. There’s a difference.”

“Why do you like writing so much?” he asked, drumming his fingers against the edge of the table.

“It helps me clear my head, I guess.”

“Heavy…” He gave me a small smile and sat up. “I like reading sometimes. Graphic novels and comics.”

“I used to read The Sandman series when I was a kid.”

“No shit, Gaiman is legit.”

I reached into my backpack and grabbed my well-worn copy of The Lost Boys. “Have you ever read Pen Aster?” I held out the book and he stared at it. “It’s not a graphic novel, but if you love Gaiman, you have to read this.”

“Never heard of it.”

“This is hands down one of my favorite books of all time. It has killer LGBTQ rep, and the writer is gay too. Check it out…”

Denny hesitated, his eyes taking in the pale purple and blue cover. “It’s your favorite?”

Nodding, I set the book in front of him, hoping he’d pick it up. Trust was hard to come by with these kids, and I wanted him to know I was someone he could count on. Maybe giving him a piece of myself, something I loved, would let him know he mattered to someone.

“It’s a queer retelling of Peter Pan.”

“No way,” he said, and I smiled when he finally opened the cover.

“The author created his own world but kept a lot of the original elements. It’s phenomenal.”

Denny turned the book over, whispering the words as he read the synopsis. “Pan falls in love with one of the lost boys?”

Biting back a smirk, I shrugged. “I know nothing.”

“Is King Juno supposed to be Captain Hook?”

“Yeah, and Wendy is a villain.”

“Fuck... this sounds awesome.”

The excitement in his voice was palpable.

“It’s yours.”

Denny’s smile fell as he set the book on the table. “Nah… it’s your favorite. I ain’t gonna do that.”

“I can buy another one.” Which was true, it wasn’t like the book was out of print. I’d had this copy since I was seventeen. And sure, it was sentimental. It was the first book I’d read that had characters I could relate to as a gay teen. But if it gave him the same peace it had given me, I wanted him to have it. “Take it… seriously. I want you to have it.”

He swallowed as he picked at the corner of his essay, tearing off a small piece. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s always something, man.” He could barely look me in the eyes, and it broke my fucking heart.

Thinking about some of the shit this kid must have gone through, the way people had hurt him, manipulated him while he was most vulnerable, made me want to punch something.

“Denny… I don’t expect anything from you. Not one damn thing. This book is yours, okay?”

“Yeah, alright…” His fingers trembled as he picked up the book. “Thanks… I mean, yeah… that’s cool. I’ll read it.”

“Cool.”

Denny put the book in his bag, and while he grabbed the pencil from the floor, I fought to contain my smile. Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal, but it sure as hell felt like a win to me. I cleared my throat and rapped my knuckles on the desk once he was settled and back in his chair. “Should we finish this damn essay so we can grab some cookies from the kitchen?”

“Hell yes.”

“Alright… then show me what you got.”

I quietly slid into my seat next to Marcos near the back of the room, thankful Mr. Brody had his back to the class while he scribbled what I assumed was our next assignment onto the white board.

“You’re late,” Marcos whispered. “You missed it.”

“Missed what?” I asked and opened my notebook. “Did you take notes?”

Marcos reared his head, his nostrils flaring like I’d just shit in his lap.

“Um… of course not.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “When I walked in, Mr. Brody stared at me, and I swear to God, you should have seen his face… it was like I stole his ice cream cone or some shit. I think he was disappointed you weren’t with me.”

“This again? I should have never told you I talked to him at the club last night.” I ignored him and flipped past my math notes to find a clean page to write on.

“Listen…okay, you weren’t here, you didn’t see his face. I’m telling you—”

“Welcome to class, Mr. Mills. I’m sure you and Mr. Basulto have a lot to catch up on, but I’d appreciate it if you both could wait until after my class.”  Mr. Brody set his dry-erase marker down on his desk, his piercing gaze sending a flash of heat to my neck and face.

Shit.

“Yes, sir. My apologies.”

Marcos chuckled, and I gave him my shut-the-fuck-up-or-I-will-end-you look. It only made his immature ass laugh harder.

“I want to thank everyone for getting their essays in on time,” Mr. Brody continued, no trace of the adorably nervous smile I’d been treated to last night.

Running into him had been awkward, but considering the obscene amount of alcohol I’d consumed, I thought I’d handled myself well enough. Too bad I hadn’t been able to muster up some of that control when Tam asked to suck me off. He’d shared a ride with us, and instead of going back to his own place, he wound up in my bed. Not one of my finer moments. He’d left right after we hooked up, and when I’d woken up this morning, I’d almost thought I might’ve had some weird, drunk, sex dream. But Marcos had been sure to remind me I had him to thank for my “good time.”

I was too busy worrying I’d made a huge mistake fucking around with one of Marcos’s co-workers, I missed it when Mr. Brody called my name.

“Park,” Marcos hissed. “Wake up, mijo. He’s talking to you.”

I lifted my eyes from my notebook and met Mr. Brody’s expectant stare.

“Could you repeat the question?”

Hell, had he even asked me a question, his quiet laugh had me thinking maybe not?

Before he could speak, a girl in the front raised her hand.

“Yes, Ms. Williams?”

“I’m not very good at free writing…”

“What did he say?” I whispered to Marcos while Mr. Brody discussed the merits of free writing.

“He asked if you could tell the class the definition of free writing.” Marcos flicked his gaze to the front of the room before he whispered, “And you literally said nothing.”

“It’s your fault, I’m still hungover from last night. Never again, Basulto.”

“Whatever, you enjoyed yourself… according to Tam, a couple of times, actually.” He smirked and I dropped my face into my hand. “Don’t worry, he said it was casual… Though, I think you should text him for a re-do. You get cranky when you haven’t gotten any.”

“I hate you.”

He squeezed my thigh under the table and kissed my cheek. “I love you too, mijo.”

A quiet laugh escaped my chest, and as I turned to face the front of the class, I caught Mr. Brody staring at us. Two or three seconds passed before he lowered his eyes and cleared his throat, shuffling a few papers on his desk. Feeling like a dick for disrupting his class again, I focused on my notes and tried not to engage with Marcos about his ridiculous hot-for-teacher theories, and by the end of the hour, I’d wished I’d never asked him to take the class with me in the first place.

“That’s it for today,” Mr. Brody announced, and laughed when practically everyone jumped up, eager to leave. “Don’t forget,” he said, raising his voice over the rustling of backpacks and whizzing zippers. “You need to choose a book to read before our next class… That’s Monday, guys,” he added when no one seemed to be paying attention.

“Want me to grab some take-out on my way home?” Marcos asked as he slipped the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “I was thinking about that amazing tikka masala we had last week.”

“Sure.”  I shoved my notebook into my backpack. “Make sure you order extra bread this time.”

“So needy.” He grinned as he brushed past me. “See you at the apartment.”

I pulled my bag onto my shoulders and was about to follow him out when Mr. Brody approached me. “May I speak to you before you go?”

“Uh... sure, I have a second.” Anxiety kicked off the drum in my chest. “I’ll see you at home, Marcos.”

His brows raised all the way to his hairline, but miraculously, he didn’t say anything stupid. “See you later.”

Mr. Brody nodded and smiled at the rest of the students as they cleared out. Once the room emptied, we both tried to talk at the same time.

“I wanted to—”

“Sorry I was—”

Laughing, I rubbed the top of my head, nervous as hell.

“What were you going to say?” he asked first, his smile less confident than a moment before.

Under the bright light of the classroom, his eyes were less gray and more of a silvery blue. Distracted, it took me a second to remember what I’d wanted to say. “Umm… I’m sorry for being late… and disrupting the class. Marcos struggles with a filter sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it, I probably shouldn’t have called you out in front of everyone.” He huffed out a laugh. “I never thought I’d be one of those teachers.”

“We were being rude. You were in the right.”

“Water under the bridge,” he said, an anxious edge to his tone. “I actually wanted to discuss your essay.”

“Oh, okay… did I do it wrong?”

“No… not at all, Par…” He caught himself before he said my name, and I smiled when he exhaled a flustered breath. “Mr. Mills, it was excellent.”

“Excellent?” I asked, realizing how much I’d needed his approval.

Not his necessarily. But someone besides Marcos to tell me I could do this. That writing didn’t have to be lies. That my truths mattered.

Real words matter.

“Truly. I know good writing when I read it. It’s kind of my job.”

Maybe I was high on his praise, because even though I shouldn’t have, I loved the easy, almost arrogant smirk on his lips.

“Wow… uh…” I laughed at the irony of my inability, in that moment, to articulate a sentence. I shoved my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and bit the corner of my bottom lip trying to collect my thoughts. “I wanted to say something more eloquent than a simple thanks, but I think I’m in shock.”

“Thanks, works just fine,” he said, and the silence stretched between us again. “You’re a communications major?”

“Yeah, for now. It’s kind of what I did for the Air Force. I worked in Public Affairs.”

“Ever thought about majoring in creative writing?”

Every day.

“Not really,” I lied. “Starving artist isn’t really my goal.”

“You’re talented, Mr. Mills. I think it’s something you should at least consider.”

“Maybe… you know you can call me Parker. The Mr. Mills thing is kind of stuffy.”

“It’s stuffy?” he asked, and I noticed he’d shaved today. His jaw line was unfuckingreal.

“Definitely,” I said. “You might get more engagement in class if… I don’t know… maybe you relaxed a little.”

“Thanks for the tip.” A pale pink filled his cheeks and he glanced at his watch. “Well, I should let you get going…”

“Yeah… you too.”

Neither one of us made the first move to leave, and the same weighted static from last night surrounded our clumsy goodbye.

“About last night...” I started to say, but he cut me off with the wave of his hand.

“It’s not my business what you and your boyfriend do outside of class, Mr. Mills.”

“Boyfriend? Last time I checked I was single.”

“I thought…” His eyes drifted to the seat Marcos had been sitting in earlier.

“Marcos and I are just friends who unfortunately live together.”

He raked a hand through his dark hair, the thick strands falling back over his brow shadowed his eyes as he laughed. “I saw you dancing together last night, and I assumed he—”

“You saw us dancing together?” I asked, unable to hide the humor in my tone. “And you didn’t join us?”

Three soft laugh lines appeared at the corner of each of his eyes as his crooked smile spread across his face.

“And this is why I’ll never call you Parker.”