Chris

“Now class, can anyone tell me what the word of the day means?” As usual Mrs. Pelo’s question is answered with silence. Half of my first hour Spanish class has no idea what the foreign word on the white board means, so they can’t answer. The second half knows full well what the word is but doesn’t answer because it is only 8:30 am and normal high-school-aged brains aren’t quite awake that early. I usually don’t know the Word of the Day, but today I do. The word is calabaza, which translates to pumpkin in English. The teacher continues to unsuccessfully prompt anyone in the class to answer while I stare at an empty section of the board and think about non-Spanish related thoughts.

My name is Tanner Hofland and I confess I am mediocre when it comes to Spanish. Some people can absorb the language like a sponge, while some are naturally configured to be terrible at learning another language. I am in the middle I suppose. I get much of what is going on and what words mean, but I don’t remember their meaning often and I have trouble motivating myself to try to effectively learn Spanish. I’m more of a science person anyway.

I shift in my hard ceramic and metal chair. All chairs in the school are required by law to be non-combustible. This implies that while the chairs will never explode for any reason they also will never be comfortable.

I look to the right side of my two person table and notice it’s empty. My table partner Chris Hutmachson is late again. This is a common occurrence. I don’t recall why he’s late all the time. I know I asked once, but I can’t remember the reason. Chris is white, or Caucasian as some say, like me. Based off my height of approximately five feet ten inches, I would estimate him to be around the same height; perhaps one inch taller. There are some key differences between us though. For one, he is two grades below me. I am a senior in high school. Chris is only a sophomore.

Another thing is that he is buff. He has muscle tone that I don’t possess. I mean, when I look at him I see defined biceps and other muscle. Once I caught a glimpse of his abs when he was stretching in class. I got a hard on in about two seconds. He has muscles. I am thin and give the illusion of muscles. Now granted, I’m not wimpy. I am just not as defined as Chris’s hot body.

After wondering where he is, which I do every day, I go back to what the teacher is saying. “So you see class, the accent mark shows you which syllable in the word is stressed. For instance, the word for dad is papá. Say it with me class, papA. Very good! If you didn’t pronounce it correctly it would be papa, which means potato.” I think about how many Hispanic people have gotten a laugh from hearing little children call their father potato. Just as I am about to consider calling my own dad that later on, the classroom door opens. Naturally the entire class turns to see who it is. I am excited to see that it is Chris. And like every day, I am the only one who is enthusiastic to see him. “Hola Chris. Glad to see you here,” says Mrs. Pelo in her usual peppy tone. Chris flashes her a brief polite smile and throws his backpack on our table.

After he gets all of his necessary materials for this class, he looks up at the board. “Hey, what have I missed?” he asks me in a hushed tone.
“Nothing much,” I reply. “We went over the word of the day which is pumpkin, and we just got a lecture on correct pronunciation of accent marks.”
“Oh, ok.” He isn’t a man of many words, but then again I wouldn’t know that for sure since the only time I ever see or speak to him is this one Spanish class. One thing I like about Chris is that even though I am shaky at Spanish, he always makes we feel like the smartest person in the class. This is probably due to the fact he is terrible at it and he always asks me for help. I know this is only because I am the closest person to him, but I like to fantasize it is because he enjoys talking to me.
The next day was Thursday and our teacher reminds us of the upcoming vocabulary test tomorrow. “Just as a reminder class, the vocab test on words 80-100 is tomorrow. I know you have studied all week like I hoped you would.” No one says anything. As usual her blatant attempt at humor is ignored.

“Fuck!” said Chris, but quiet enough so Mrs. Pelo doesn’t hear.
“What?” I ask even though I already know the reason he swore.
“I forgot about the test and I haven’t studied.”
“That’s ok, neither have I,” I offer. “You have tonight and a bit before class tomorrow to study. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” He doesn’t sound assured or as if he is going to study at all.
“If you need help I don’t work this week, so I can help you study after school.” After saying it I immediately will him to say yes.

“No, that’s ok. Thanks anyway, man.” I die a little inside. Besides, I don’t even know if Chris is gay. I’ve just been secretly hoping he is. Come to think of it, I have never seen him do anything or say anything that can be thought of as gay. I guess this is purely a fantasy.
The biggest shock of my life comes later. I’m in the lunch room sitting at one of the round tables with five of my “other friends.” I have two best friends. They are my only true friends because they are the ones I hang out with outside of school. The people at my lunch table are my friends by necessity. I like them well enough and I do consider them friends, I just never do anything with them outside school. I barley even talk to them outside the lunch room. I sit there listening to two girls who secretly hate each other pretend to be friends, when someone taps me on the shoulder. Being me I instantly think it is someone wanting to say something spiteful. Usually I ignore these kinds of scenarios, but I can’t ignore being tapped, so I turn around.

I stare straight into a familiar shirt-covered buff chest. I look up into Chris’s sexy brown eyes. My heart beats faster, but my face doesn’t change expressions. “Hi Tanner, remember this morning when you offered to help me study?” He is always so to the point. “I thought about it some more, and I would like to not fail another Spanish test. I’ve got a C right now and I don’t want it to go any lower.”
“Of course I can help you,” I reply, praying I haven’t answered too quickly. “Does after school today work for you?”
“Yeah. That is what I had in mind.” Chris tells me his last hour class, and we agree to meet in the school’s library right after the last bell rings.

The rest of the day I am unable to function let alone be expected to learn anything. The only thing I can think about is Chris and having the privilege of staring at his body for longer than one class period. Also, he would have to talk to me for longer than two second intervals. I am really looking forward to this. In fact, both of my teachers I have after lunch yell at me for studying my Spanish vocab when I “should be focusing on the task at hand and not be wasting my class time learning about something other than what I’m teaching.”
The final bell rings. I grab the crap on my desk in one motion and gracefully rush out the door toward my locker. I am so eager for what I have dubbed our “Spanish Date,” I am running on autopilot. I am weaving in and out of cliquey groups of people. I hastily shove my stuff into my locker and shut it. And as swiftly as possible without appearing anxious, I run down the two hallways to the library.

As I enter the library I look around to find Chris. He isn’t there yet. His tardiness is not surprising in the slightest. I sit down at one of the many rectangle-shaped tables in the room and start scanning my Spanish vocab to prepare for our “date.” A short while later I hear the door open. I instinctively look up to see who it is. There, standing in the doorway, is the librarian Mr. Tomson. A sigh escapes my mouth as I slump further into my seat. I glance back at the door and notice that Mr. Tomson is actually holding the door open. To my delight Chris walks through the door next. My face is too fast for me and a smile slips out.

I watch him as he walks over, sets his backpack on the table, and sits down. “So, you ready to study?” I ask.
“Yep,” he replies. Every time he responds with one word I want to yell at him to say more. I always want to hear him talk, to hear his voice.
“Good, let’s start from word 80 and see what you already know.”

We practice for a little over an hour. He knows only three of the twenty vocab words, so he has to learn and remember the other seventeen during our practice. I am having a wonderful time. I learn he can’t speak with a Spanish accent to any extent. I also find out he likes football and hunting. Some of the words are questions, so I make him practice by having him ask me the questions and vice versa. After the Q and A is memorized… for the most part, we practice the individual nouns. They take more time than the questions, but I enjoy every minute of our “date.” At around 4:30 pm Chris has memorized all the vocab words. I am very impressed, not only because he was able to memorize the words so quickly, and not because he took the time to practice before his usual ten minutes before the test. Mostly I am impressed because he came to me and personally requested this practice after he had already rejected my offer. I don’t tell him this, however.
“I believe that you have all the vocab down. You are going to ace tomorrow’s test,” I say encouragingly.
“Yeah, we’ll see," Chris replies halfheartedly.
“Hey now, don’t be like that. I know from our practice that you are going to do great. In fact, you are going to do so well that your grade is actually going to go up. Trust me, you got this.”

He stares at the floor for a few seconds, sighs, then looks into my eyes and says, “You’re right. I feel like I’m going to do better. Thanks, man. I owe you one. Hey, is there anything you’d like in return?”
Without stopping to censor myself I blurt out “Sure, how ‘bout a kiss.” I instantly regret saying it. He gives me a concerned look that says did I hear you right?
“What did you say?” he asks with a sly smile on his lips.
“Nothing, I was just trying to be funny. I don’t actually mean it,” I tell him quickly and awkwardly.
“Dude, are you gay?”
“No, of course not,” I lie. “Like I said, I was just joking.”

He nods and says “Ok. Thanks again, Tanner.” He picks up his backpack and walks out the library door. I gather my things and head to my locker.
At my locker I angrily put my things away. I can’t believe I told him I wanted a kiss. How could I have been so careless? So stupid? And why did I lie about being gay? I’ve wanted him to know I’m gay for weeks and when I get my one chance I blow it. Great Tanner, you’ll never get in his pants now. My mind is filled with these kinds of thoughts as I continue to get ready to leave.
I hear a cough behind me. As usual I ignore it, assuming it is just some random person I don’t need to be talking to. I hear another cough, this time a bit louder and with more purpose. Not being able to ignore that kind of cough I turn around. Once again, it’s Chris.
“Hi,” he says.
“H-Hi,” I staggeringly respond.
“I was thinking about your request some more and I want to talk to you about it.”
“Well, I told you bef…” Before I can continue with my explanation he interrupts me.

“Actually, I want to show you more than talk.” After that he swiftly and unexpectedly advances toward me. With one hand he pins my shoulder against my locker, with the other hand he gently tilts my face toward his. Before I even have time to act, to think, to breathe, he kisses me. The passion unloaded in his kiss is evident and immense.
My brain still isn’t working and my arms are at my sides paralyzed with a mixture of shock and pleasure. Chris then takes his arms, wraps them around me, and muscularly pulls me toward him. I feel his abs. They are like I imagined only… better. He stops kissing me and we both inhale. His is elegant, mine is not. By this time I am no longer in control of my body. I have just enough mind yet to feel the huge erection I am getting. Unfortunately, being so close to Chris, he feels it too. “Ah, you’re sure enjoying this,” he cockily says. He then reaches down into my pants and starts to fondle my cock. As he rubs his hand on my hard dick I moan a little.

“Chris, I… I have wanted you to do this for so long,” I whisper.
“I thought so. Actually, I have thought that for a long time.” He then let’s go off me, takes his hands and starts to undo my button and zipper. “Chris, we can’t, not here,” I plead but to no avail. He pulls my pants down a bit. Then he does the same with my underwear. My cock, which is the hardest it has ever been, sticks straight out. Chris takes it in his hand and…and…and then my fantasy ends. I only wish that had been the case. I come back to reality, close my locker door, pick up my bag, and leave for home. I’m lucky no one is around this late in the day otherwise someone would definitely notice my obvious hard on.

It was now Friday, the day of this week’s vocabulary test. I had just gotten my vocab notes out to do some last minute studying when to my and especially Mrs. Pelo’s surprise, Chris walks into the room. He tosses his backpack on the table and sits down. “Hi,” I say, “you’re here early.”

“Yeah, but I’m not usually late on Fridays though.” He was right. I had forgotten that he doesn’t do whatever it is he does in the morning on Friday, until now. The rest of the class files in little by little. At 8:35 am the entire class has congregated in the Spanish room. The morning announcements come on over the speaker system. As usual nobody cares and continues talking right over our principle.

“All right class,” says Mrs. Pelo, “put your notes away and get ready to take the vocab test. You should have come to class prepared, so stop studying and get ready.” With only a few groans the entire class puts their study materials away; I put mine away too. The test commences and I remember what all of the words mean. It is the practice that helps. I usually don’t study for tests, because I always get A’s whether I do or not.
I finish my test, walk to the front of the room, and hand it in. On my return I notice that Chris hasn’t finished his test yet. This is not surprising at first since I always finish before him, but after five more minutes and with over 3/4 the class done, I start to get worried. After what seems like half an hour but is only 3 minutes in reality, Chris finally hands in his test.

Today we are starting a movie on Hispanic music artists, so Mrs. Pelo puts the movie in the VCR and presses play. As someone close to the door turns off the lights, the movie begins. Approximately forty five minutes later the teacher interrupts us. “Due to the movie, class, I was able to grade your tests early. When I call your name come up and look at your score. Do not take them though, I do need them back.” This is great news to me! Now I can see how Chris did. I get called up to look at my score before Chris. On the top of my paper a red 20/20 and a smiley face are circled. A tiny red “Good job!” follows.

Shortly after I receive my score Chris is called forward too. I can’t see his face as he goes up there, so I worry some more. As he walks back to our table his face is glowing. He sits down in his seat with pride spewing out of every corner of his body. I already know the answer, but to make him talk and to be polite I ask, “How did you do?”
“I got a hundred!” he replies with smothered excitement.
“That’s wonderful!” I reply.
“Yeah, I’m really happy. Thanks for practicing with me, man. It helped a lot.”
“You’re very welcome. I’m just glad to see you do well. I’m gladder to see you smile instead of the usual look of disappointment on your face. I don’t like seeing you depressed.” I look into his eyes and hope I didn’t just say something stupid again.
“Ha-ha. Hey, I’m having a party at my house tonight. It won’t be big, just me and a few others. Would you like to come? Consider it my “thank you” for helping me study, and for helping me get a hundred on my test.”

After three seconds of silent shock, I manage to say “Yeah, of course. I’ll be there.”
“Great. Oh, it starts at eight.”
“Wait, I don’t know how to get to your house.”
“Oh, right. Here, I’ll draw you a map.” He doesn’t draw a very good map, but I know the area well enough and his handwriting is just legible enough to make out the words.

After school I drive home as fast as the in-town speed limit will allow. I run to my bedroom, dress in the best house-party outfit I can whip up, and put on more deodorant to set the right impression. After combing my hair for an unnecessary ten minutes I grab the directions to Chris’s home and drive away just as fast as before.
It takes fifteen-ish minutes to get to his driveway. He has a nice home, at least from the outside. It isn’t fancy, but by no means is it rundown. I would call his home average. I park my car in a place that is sort of out of the way of anyone else that might come. I am very lucky. I get to park really close to the front of the house. I’m ten minutes early, so I’m not surprised I’m first; it happens to me a lot actually.

I ring the doorbell next to the front entrance. It sounds like a short mixture of chimes and bells. The door swings inward. Chris holds it open with one hand and says “Hey!” He is dressed in a gray muscle shirt with overly big arm holes. They’re more like side holes because they completely expose the entire sides of his torso. He is wearing shiny red sports shorts which hang down below his knees. He is completely barefoot too. I at least expected him to wear socks or something other than this outfit.
I am wearing red skinny jeans, a studded belt, a fun red and black striped V-neck shirt, black socks, and my one pair of shoes which are black too. I am dressed to party. He is dressed to go jogging or lift weights. I give him one final look over and respond back with “Hey.”

“Come on in. Make yourself comfortable,” he says.
“Thanks,” I respond. “I thought there would be more people here by now.”
“Yeah, but you are early. That could be why.”
“I’m only early by ten minutes. Usually there are at least a few who show up earlier.”
“Well, I guess there just aren’t any this time. Let’s go sit in the living room and wait for more to show up.” Chris directs me toward a big arch. Through it is his nice, open living room. “Would you like anything to drink?” he offers.
“No thanks. Not right now.”

“Ok.” We sit on the bigger couch in awkward silence. I try to think of something to ask him that doesn’t sound like types of questions the dentist would ask. I know the answers to those perpetual inquiries anyway. After about three minutes of discomfort I manage to ask “So what do you do outside school?”
“Not much,” he quickly replies. “I usually just come home and play Xbox or I go on the computer.”
“What Xbox games do you play?”
“Mostly I play Call of Duty, but sometimes I like to play Madden 10. I don’t have the newer one yet.” After nine more seconds of torturous silence he asks “Would you like to play Xbox? It’s all set up right here.” He points at the TV sitting on top of a wooden entertainment center.

“Sure,” I begrudgingly answer. I hate sports games, and I suck at shooting games. I’m more of a fantasy, shoot evil creatures with magic sort of guy. This is where the effeminate side of my sexuality chooses to show.
For the next hour we play Call of Duty. He is really good and kills me ten times in about twenty minutes. I tire of being killed relentlessly and ask him if we can play on the same team. He says “Sure,” and instead, to my disappointment, we play the zombie killing segment of Call of Duty. Not only do I hate shooting games, I hate shooting zombies. They freak me out. I don’t tell Chris this. I suck it up and help him kill a hoard of zombies. Every time I shoot one he has killed five. Every time I hear the creepy background music and sounds I want to hide behind one of the couch pillows. Chris kills fifteen more zombies while I get two. Then one comes up from behind and kills me. “I suck at this game,” I tell him, hoping he will realize that means I want to stop playing.

“You are pretty bad, but you’re just a beginner. You’ll get better with practice.” After hearing him say that, I look around the room, desperately trying to find something else to do before I am subjected to more violence. It is at this point I notice the time. It’s nine o’clock at night. I scan around some more. We are still the only people in Chris’s house.