There's this thing I learned about in science called Fixed Action Response. It's when an animal encounters a certain stimulus, it has to immediately responds. No choice, because the behavior is hardwired into their DNA. I heave a long sigh and push my glasses up onto my nose, remembering that fact and holding it in my mind. It's no use.

"Yes, David?" Mr. Webster blinks down at me. The snickering crescendoes. That's the jocks' automatic response, I tell myself. The stimulus is me raising my hand, and they have to laugh. I don't turn around and give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence.

"The main conflict in the story is man, or woman in this case, versus nature," I state. Mr. Webster's face lights up, and he runs a hand through his hair, showing off his biceps and straining his shirt. Not that I care. He's doing it on purpose.

"Anyone else besides David want to give another conflict?" I sink down into my chair, huddling into the shell that the desk provides me. Lauren, the only other kid in the class who bothers to participate, raises her hand and says something. I pray to God-

And feel something hit my shoulder, a rustle as it bounces to the floor. I flinch and wrinkle up my lip, staring straight ahead.

There's a hot, slow breath in my ear. "Go ahead. Pick it up, dork." The heavyset jock behind me, I don't even know his name, settles back into his seat and snorts. Accepting defeat, I inch my torso down and reach out to pick up the balled-up page (torn straight out from a book!) and observe the artistic genius that is displayed. The Mona Lisa-level artistry that depicts a tall man with hearts for eyes, wearing a suit and tie, kissing a stick figure boy with eye hearts even bigger than Mr. Webster's. Because that's who it's supposed to be, me and him.

Underneath the drawing, there is a f-word that makes my heart stop and eyes burn and fingers clench all on their own, tearing the page apart and then crumpling it back up into a mess of snow and snatches of graphite. I squeeze my eyes closed as my ears roar and Mr. Webster asks, his voice close, "David, you all right? You need to go to the nurse?"

I bite my lip and open my eyes to see inquiring blue ones peering into mine. "No, I'm fine," I hiss at him, and he withdrawals.

"Please stay after class, David," he says, eyes crinkling with worry, loud enough (of course!) for every one else to hear.

For the rest of the class, his eyes are on me, everyone's eyes are on me, and the jocks are satisfied, leaning back in their chairs as if they won a Nobel Peace Prize for their hard work. The irony. I'm swimming in a fish bowl, except I'm a rainbow colored-fish and all the rest are black.

I stay in my seat as the door slams shut, the bell rattling as the alpha jock shoots a look through the window and makes a kissy face with his lips. I stare up at the ceiling, where a world map is glued. There's a pencil sticking right through Australia and embedded into the ceiling tiles.

"I don't know what's happening with you, David," Mr. Webster says. He comes up to my desk and puts his hands on the edge, leaning close. "You have such a bright, literary mind. A bright future. Why are you so afraid to participate? And your tests. It's like you intentionally fail them. What's going on?"

"You want to know what's happening?" I say with a shaky breath. "I'm gay."

There. I said it. I wait for a bomb to go off. It doesn't. "I've had my suspicions," and my teacher's voice is low and intrusive. I lean my head back, trying to widen the distance between us.

"No, you don't get it. Those jerks are making fun of me. They're homophobes, snickering all the time, throwing notes at me-"

"David. I understand," Mr. Webster interrupts me. "I'm gay, too. I was teased my whole childhood, but now that I'm an adult, no one cares!" He laughs and throws his hands up, a laugh that startles me. Like a gun going off.  "Or, at least they pretend not to. I can help you, if you want."

I stare at my desk. "No, thank you," I say evenly.

"What is it? What's holding you back?"

"I just-"

"Is it some sort of... Feeling you have for me?" He turns around now, his eyes that are always full of excitement about books and authors now are filled with disgusting glee. "Because, you know..."

"No, it's not," I say, springing up out of my desk and choking on a sob. My hands can't seem to hold my books, and one tumbles to the floor. I bend at the waist and grasp at it, feeling Mr. Webster's eyes roam downwards, where they shouldn't be. "Just... Just go away. Please." I step forward, and my pencil case falls from between by books, the zipper open and spitting out all of my pencils. Mr. Webster scoops them all up in a blink and is handing them back to me, and we're standing up and he's way too close. I snatch them out of his hand and turn around, sprinting out the door and to my locker, almost feeling the brush of his hand against my side, I'm shivering and shaking.

I can't even sort through my books right now, so I shove them all into my backpack, bulging and poking, zipper reluctant- why do zippers hate me today? and heaving it onto my bony back, my bony body, sprinting down the stairs, panting like I just ran a marathon.

Outside I can breathe. There's that fall smell that floats into my lungs and fills me with cold, brings me back to dead leaves and earth. I tilt my head up, eyes searching, and find him. He's standing by the janitor's door, as always, and I push through the crowd to the little alcove filled with pipes. It's clammy and it's gross, but we're not seen.

It's Mark. His amazingly pale eyes are filled with worry today, and guilt, and he shivers as he zips up his varsity jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Sorry," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut just like I did before, and I bring my hand up to touch his soft, dark cheek.

"It's okay. You did what you had to do." I keep my hand there, savoring the touch. This is real. Mr. Webster, that filthy pig, isn't real and this is. I search Mark's face to see if it's okay if I keep my hand there, and it is, because the lines on his forehead are disappearing. We haven't touched before, not like this, nothing besides for kissing.

"No, I really didn't. All the laughing, I can't-" He heaves a sigh and opens his eyes, reaching out his own hand and resting it on my cheek. "They would find some way to kick me off the football team, I just know it. And it's everything to me, football."

"It's all right," I repeat. "I know how important it is to you. I wouldn't ask you to give it up," I say, standing up on my tiptoes and planting a kiss on his lips. "Just, tell me. What artist drew that beautiful picture?" I laugh, trying to lighten the mood, thinking of the stupid drawing, not thinking of the word scrawled underneath in shaky handwriting.

And Mark closes his eyes, holds me tight to his chest, and whispers into my hair, "It was me."