Matty wears big shirts. It’s not like he’s trying to be a thug or ‘gangsta’, but his clothes hang on him, and sometimes I think he’s wearing a blanket and not a shirt. I don’t like his clothes, and occasionally I rip on in him about it, but he ignores me but not really. I always think that if I could cut his curly black locks into a suitable short regular preppy boy-cut and convert him to Hollister, Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle, and Aeropostale he’ll seem normal, and we won’t have to pass each other in the halls, ignoring each other but not really.

But I haven’t cut his hair into a normal cut, and I haven’t slapped an eagle on his back, and people haven’t been swooning over him like they should be if they could actually see him, so we haven’t spoken to each other in public or kissed each other in public or held each other in public.

That’s what parentless homes are for.

But parentless homes burn into my chest when I see what strolls into band.

See, I joined band because I heard that you get to go places for some concert or something. You get to go across country if you’re lucky. Maybe even Disney Land. That’s probably only the main reason most people join band. I also joined band because I actually like playing. Most people quit after they found out that they have to learn scales, music, and that they’re tested on it. But really, if you thought it was easy as shit, then why do you think it was a separate class?

I have band first period, and I play trumpet, so as I’m setting up my instrument, I look up, coincidentally to the side, where everyone was gasping and pointing, and by ‘everyone’ I mean ‘girls’ and by ‘gasping and pointing’ I mean , well, gasping and pointing.

And I can’t say I don’t agree with those girls because in fact that guy is pretty gasp-worthy. He’s like a real-life Jonas Brother, even though those guys are real . . . but still.

The first things I see are his shoes. They’re skater shoes and they’re seemingly cool, but it looks like his shoes are too big for his feet because when he makes his first step, he has to stomp on the ground to push his foot back in. Then I see his jeans. I don’t particularly notice jean types, but they look clean and blue and tight like the girl-jean-that-guys-wear tight. Then I look at his shirt, and it’s a Hollister shirt, and it’s tight, so tight you can see his nipples. Then I see his hair because wisps of it tickle his neck and his black locks curl into his face with high cheekbones and the most cheery eyes, like he’s truly happy, like they’re built like that, during conception, it was planned that his eyes would indubitably happy. Usually, when you think of cheery eyes you think of blue eyes, but no. His eyes are brown like chocolate, and like the smell of gas, I can’t get enough of it. And staring at this newfound Asian prep, I know I’ve seen this guy before—

Even though it’s cheesy, it’s Matty.

But I don’t think he’ll go by Matty anymore. He’s too grown up for it. He’s Matt or Matthew. He’s sophisticated.

And the first thing I want to do is grab him, hoist him up, wrap his legs around my waist, smash him between me and the wall, and ravish him. I’d do it even in front of the band room, and I do it again and again and again and again and again—

Until I hear Kelsey Grey, Slutty Poster Girl Who Plays a Flute, shout, “Whoa, Matt! I never knew you looked this hot!”

A few people laugh at this, but Matt just looks down, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, but I know he’s enjoying it. And I know the whole room is enjoying it, even Miss Okata, the band teacher, is enjoying it. His newfound hotness is cheering up the room.

And I don’t want it. I don’t want him looking hot. I don’t want people like Kelsey Grey to stare at him, flirtatiously. I’m the only one that can do that. I’m the only one to imagine him without his clothes. I’m the only one to see him panting and moaning under me. I’m the only one allowed to love him like that.

Envy boils in my body as I see everyone playing squeaky notes as they try to grab a look at Matty, who comes strolling by after getting our band folder and his trumpet. I know that everyone is just acting like oh, this is just an ordinary thing, like oh, a hot something comes by everyday that I wanna hump till I’m dead. They’re so fucking FAKE!

I don’t even look at Matty as he sits down next to me. I notice his chair is closer than usual, but I don’t say anything. I know he smiles at me, but I don’t smile back. I know he opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t, and I feel his tap on my shoulder, but I don’t turn, and I know my face is saying tens of thousands of ways of anger, and I don’t want Matty to see that, but I have to because I love him, and I have to because Matty’s tapping my arm slightly, like I might break if he takes more than a second and a half of contact.

“Well?” Matty asks. He’s really happy.

“Well what?” My words slice through the air like a meteor.

“Do you like it?” he edges on.

“Like what?” I snap.

“My clothes, Dave. My clothes, my hair—Goddamn it, I even got rid of my glasses. Don’t you like it?”

Pause, think, answer, “No.”

Matty chokes a “What?” and accidentally slices his finger on our sheet music. He lifts his finger to his mouth, sucking the blood away. I notice Kelsey Grey, watching intently.

“B-but you know why I did this, right?” Matty nervously laughs, like he’s trying to better the situation by making my answer a joke, which it isn’t.

“No. Not a clue. I think it sucks ass. You should just change into your gym clothes,” I mumble and raise my trumpet to my lips, trying to churn out a few measures of The Carolers, ignoring the smidgen of Matty’s blood next to an A flat.

Matty smacks my trumpet away, causing the mouthpiece to hit my upper lip, and I curse a “Fuck!” as Matty hisses harshly, “What’s your problem, Dave? You don’t even know why I did this and you’re blowing me off!”

I’m partially aware that Miss Okata is about to start because she’s raising her baton, quieting us all, but I’m shouting, “Fine, then what made you decide to go all slutty?”

To which Matty, launches up, screaming, “’Slutty’? You dress like this too!”

“I don’t have people drooling over me!” and I scream, jumping out of my chair to get face-to-face with Matty, unaware of Miss Okata saying, “Settle down, Matty, Dave. We’re about to start.”

“So? So what if I actually have people starting to like me?”

“They don’t like you for you! They like you for your fucking body!” I screech. I think Kelsey is shouting, “No , I don’t!” and Miss Okata raising her voice politely—but I know she’s sort of interested in what we’re arguing about—saying, “Settle down, people. Band’s about to begin.”

“Is it wrong for attention to be on me for once?” Matty spits.

“Yes! Yes, it’s very wrong!”

“How? Dave? Tell me how it’s so fucking wrong? Is it wrong that you’re not the center of attention anymore? That I might steal your friends or something fucking stupid like that—?”

“NO! OKAY? NO!”

“THEN TELL ME WHY, DAVE!”

“BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE STARING AT YOU, AND I CAN’T HAVE IT!”

Miss Okata mumbles in the background, “That’s so selfish,” but I ignore her and mumble only to Matty, grabbing my sweater draped over my instrument,

“Put this on,” I mumble dejectedly.

“No,” he snaps.

“Put it on.” I shove the sweater to his chest, grazing a nipple.

“No.”

“PUT IT ON, NOW!” and I’m furious, and I think Matty knows it, and I think he knows why, and I think that’s why he puts on the sweater.

Miss Okata shakily proceeds after noticing Matty and I silent. The rest of the period, Matty doesn’t talk to me.

“Did you see Matty today? He’s changed!”

“Oh, my God, yeah. I didn’t notice. He looks hot.”

“What’s changed? Why’s he like this now?”

“I dunno. . . . But, you know, I heard Dave got into some fight with him during band.”

“Why?”

“Psh, I dunno. Anything can get Dave ticked off. Maybe Matty looked too hot and that made Dave look bad or something—!”

The conversation stops immediately when I sit down. My friend’s conversations dwindle down into nothing to the point where we’re just munching on our food, looking around the cafeteria for ‘Hotty Matty’ now. Fuck. That’s gross.

I spot Matty with a handful of girls sitting next to him. He’s ignoring them, looking glumly at his sandwich in front of him. The girls notice, but they don’t pay attention. They probably think that ‘Fatty Matty’ just acted like that all the time so it must’ve worn off to ‘Hotty Matty’. I jump up, leaving my friends to gossip about my sudden move toward Matty. They probably think I’m gonna beat him up.

I stand in front of Matty, waiting for him to look up, but I don’t think he notices until some bitch spits out to me, “Go away, Dave,” like my name is a hippo, “I don’t think Matty wants to talk to you.”

“You don’t talk for Matty,” I spit.

No, I actually spit an inch away from her hand, and she shrieks, screaming that I’m a freak.

I ignore her and go for Matty, saying, “About this morning. . . .”

Matty sighs, dismally, “I asked you a question.”

“What?”

“I asked, ‘Why do you think I did this?’ You never answered me.” I think the bitch is now listening in.

“I-I—”

Matty looks me in the eye, the only thing he’s ever done when we’ve been in private. “I did this because . . . you know how you always say that I should cut my hair, change my clothes . . . remember?” I nod, and he continues, “Well, I did it because you told me to. You were always talking about how you wish things were different, and . . . I thought if I dressed, you know, normal,” Matty scoffs at the word, “you’d like me more . . . and maybe you’d like to be, you know, ‘out’.”

I stare at him, my jaw open. Matty gets nervous and starts picking at the fries on his lunch tray, anxiously. I know he’s getting ready to take it all back, pretend nothing happened, because his actions are getting extremely frantic, he’s shaking.

“You really want that?” I ask finally.

“I don’t want to be a dirty little secret,” Matty whispers, his head down low. I can tell he’s trying to look at me without showing it.

So I just nod, knowing my inevitable doom will come when I lean down to kiss Matty on the cheek.