They Call Him Brooks











I.

English Class and Cheetahs



Ken Buck Brooks.



People just call me Kenny—not like I’ve got better options. I’ll either become the local druggie, “Kenny, the stoner on the curb,” or some potbellied “Ken: the washed-up twice-divorced addict.” Doesn’t matter, they both suck.



I don’t really consider myself a teenager despite being 17. I’m not an adult but I’m not a kid either. I guess I’m just developmentally doomed—stunted, arrested, whatever word makes it sound less pathetic. Maybe it’s because of how I was raised, or maybe I’m just genetically wired to be a piece of shit. Either way, if I want to salvage the last rotting crumbs of my bent-over-and-fucked ego, I can always host another self-indulgent pity party about dear old Mom and Dad.



Blood drips slow and steady from my left nostril with a quiet burn, tracing a path down to the dry crack in my lips. My tongue moved before I could think, chasing the iron—slipping into the pool like a kid testing bathwater. I say let it drown.



The first taste spread through me like a secret I already knew. Warmth blooms in my chest and dulls the edges of my thoughts. The metallic tang clings to my tongue—soft as velvet, thick as a memory.



It was like I was being swaddled in a wool blanket, something warm and breathable and something safe—but that was just the weed talking. Weed or marijuana? Kush or pot? I don’t know—whatever sounds less pathetic and more heroic. Would Batman smoke weed? I’m getting off topic.



The teacher’s been pacing like an overweight cheetah stuck in a cage way too small. At this point, someone should just shoot this bitch and put us all out of our misery. Her mouth moves like it’s trying to sell me death by boredom with words slathered in sticky, rancid syrup that I can’t choke down. The clock’s ticking in the corner like the grim reaper’s watch, counting down my slow roast in hell. Twenty minutes down, thirty-three to go, which feels like a death sentence with hall passes.



My brain’s wrapped in a cotton ball soaked in stale smoke and bad decisions which is apparently thick and fuzzy enough to make the walls drip like melted crayons left out in the sun too long. The fluorescent lights buzz like a pissed-off hornet nest, turning everything a sickly shade of “why even bother.” Sounds slosh around like I’m underwater, muffled except for that damn clock beating like a jackhammer inside my skull.



Was it the weed that was making me zone out or the class just that gay? Harvard, call me in for Nobel Prize in obvious shit. I’ll defend my argument like a judge backing the middle-aged baby daddy of a minor student.



This place is a rotting heap of shit. A locker-room-smelling heap of shit riddled with females dressed like sorority sluts… I wonder if I’d make a good frat boy.



Blood is still leaking from my nose, slow but insistent, almost like a crimson snake slithering down my face. It pools at my chin in a perfect, glowing bead—too light to fall yet burning with a molten heat only I can feel. Then it drips; a single drop falling in slow motion; a pulse of red thunder smashing onto my paper.



The splash blooms like a scarlet flower or a fiery blossom spreading ripples that glow and shimmer, rendering alive under the pulsing classroom light.



When I sniffle it’s raw and ragged and it feels like a cheese grater in my nostril—and my eyes lock on that bleeding thread weaving through the white. It’s a living line drawn just for me. It’s my own personal signal in this silent haze. My cheek melts into the rough fabric of my sleeve.



Mrs. Blubberknob’s gaze flickers my way, but I don’t care. I’m wrapped up in the bleeding light show—the way the blood glows fierce and bright as a bloody beacon slicing through the dull grey fog of everything else.



“Kenny”—that’s me!



“Would you like to go to the nurse?” she asks, voice melted marshmallow and salt.



I hate teachers like that. The fake smiles, the syrupy honey tone, it’s worse than the ones who just humiliate you for not having a #2 pencil. Pick a struggle, whore.



No, fuck that. I’m not wasting time on some burnt-out nurse who smells like stale cigarettes and divorce.



But I leave. Mrs. Blubberknob knows it too. Neither of us is fooled. I’m not heading anywhere but out for a smoke.

II.

Senior Bathroom and Chase



The senior bathroom is about four minutes away from any normal class with the exception of the office and tutoring center. It’s shoved all the way in the back of the building, right in the corner beside the lecture hall—like they hoped everyone would forget it exists. The lecture hall butts up against the girls’ senior bathroom, which backs against the cafeteria. Altogether, it makes this neat little pipeline straight to the senior benches and the courtyard. Real convenient if you’re trying to skip class without making it obvious. Not that anyone really cares. It’s typically barren of any teachers or snitches; an unspoken reservation for shitheads like me.



Our bathroom’s—except for the staff and special ed.—don’t have doors. No doors. Just wide open entryways like we’re animals or something. Admin says it’s to “stop smoking”, as if that’s ever worked. Like someone’s going to pull out a cigarette or joint and then go oh no! wait, there’s no doors—guess I’ll respect the rules now. Fucking idiots. Half these kids just smoke in the stalls anyways, crouched on the toilet seat like little gremlins, and the rest go behind the gym, or in the courtyard crouched at the back where there are no windows. But sure, take away the doors. That’ll fix everything. It’s not like the school cares about smoking.



And meanwhile, you’ve got the sink and mirror positioned perfectly so anyone walking by can catch a glimpse of you mid-hand-wash, mid-piss, mid-anything, as long as your reflection is caught by the mirror. Real nice design. Real classy. Nothing says “we care about your education and future” like making you piss with an open audience. Real fucking dignified.



I walk in with my fingertips grazing the bumpy tile, trailing like I’m blind or just bored. My fingers catch the edge of the black doorway, curling around for half a second before I slip inside—like the room needs permission to let me in. It doesn’t, it never does.



Chase is already in the bathroom when I step in, easy to clock by the reek—stale cigarette smoke, weed haze, and cheap-ass cologne. It’s his signature scent—eau de burnout. The mix hits quick and sticks to the inside of your nose like tar. I breathe it in anyway. It’s him; it’s always him.



I move to the counter beside him, shoulders tight, rolling them back until my spine gives a couple of weak little pops. I feel small next to him. Not just shorter—though I am—but smaller. Like I take up less space. Like if someone walked in, they’d see him first, and maybe never see me at all. He’s got that kind of presence. Scruffy in a way that looks deliberate. Built lean like a switchblade—rangy, sharp. That missing tooth just makes him look meaner. The lisp doesn’t take the edge off either; somehow, it makes him sound even more dangerous, like he doesn’t give a fuck what he sounds like because he already knows nobody’s going to laugh.



I don’t look in the mirror. I never do, I don’t like seeing myself—skin too pale, eyes too weird, face too something. Too soft, too wrong. The weed still fuzzes the edges of things, makes the lights a little yellower, makes Chase’s reflection bleed at the corners. He’s clearer than I am, always has been.



Sometimes I look up just to see him. Just him, not me.



But not right now. Not with him so close. Not when I feel like my ribs are showing through my shirt and I can’t tell if I’m just hungry or hollow.



He doesn’t even look at me as I come in. He just leans over the sink, flicking ash off the edge like he owns the place. Which he kind of does. Nobody questions Chase—not the other dealers, not the kids skipping class to sneak hits behind the dumpster, not even the teachers half the time. He walks around like the rules don’t apply—they don’t. He’s Chase. He’s always been Chase.



We were what—nine, ten, when we met? Still smelled like plastic pencil cases and school cafeteria pizza. Back then it was cigarettes we stole from our parents’ pockets and joints rolled too loose to stay lit—that was my experience with smoking at least. Chase has always been the expert, always been the type of guy to know these things. His parents supplied him like how he supplies the entire school—lighters, cigarettes, bud, the whole package. I did coke back then—too—because of course I did. Got it from my mom. Chase hated it—said it was too much, too fast—but he tried anyway. Because I offered. And I tried weed because he did.



That’s how we work. Always have.



He’s still the same—and I guess I am too. Same hunched shoulders. Same twitchy fingers. Same I-don’t-give-a-fuck grin when someone looks too long. It’s like he was born immune to shame. Like he never once stopped to wonder if anyone would love him less for the way he is. I envy the fuck out of that. I’d skin myself alive just to know what that feels like for a second.



Sometimes I look at him—I wonder how the fuck he does it. How he walks around half-high, half-dead, missing a tooth, lisping through thick clouds of smoke, and still looks like he belongs here more than I ever have. Like he wants to be here, like the world might be shit, but he found his corner of it and pissed on it and now it’s his, and everyone just accepts that.



I don’t even know what I want from him. I don’t want to fuck him. I don’t think I do—I’m not a faggot. It’s not that. I want to matter to him, almost. I want to be someone he thinks about when I’m not around. I want him to need me in the way I need him, but not in a pathetic, clingy way—more like a permanent fixture. Like a scar he’s proud of. Like one of those things you don’t try to explain because it’s just there and always has been.



And still, I don’t look in the mirror. Not at myself. Because if I do, I’ll see what I’m not—I’ll see the difference between us, drawn out in sharp lines and bad posture and purple-freak eyes. I’ll see the kid who followed him into this mess and never quite managed to crawl out.



I feel it before I see it—Chase sparing me a glance. Abrupt, but it hits like a shove. My eyes flick up before I can stop them, before I can pretend I don’t care. He’s still looking when I meet his gaze. His body angled slightly toward the farthest stall—like a silent cue. Like we’ve done this before—well, we have.



I nod and he shrugs and swallow it down—whatever that feeling is—and cross the distance in two quick strides. Like a fucking trained dog, as if I know my place.



There’s something about the way he looks at me that I can’t stand. Not because it’s cruel. It’s worse—because it isn’t. It’s casual. Dismissive, even. Like I’m nothing new—like I’m already part of the scenery, something expected—something he’s long since stopped thinking about.



That’s what kills me.



We used to matter to each other, didn’t we? Back when our voices cracked and we wore stupid band shirts that didn’t fit right. When we’d duck behind the dumpsters at lunch and whisper like the whole world was going to end if someone heard us. He used to light my cigarettes for me. Not because I couldn’t, but because he wanted to. That meant something. It had to.



I don’t think he remembers that version of us. Maybe I don’t either. Maybe I made it up.



He walks to a stall and I follow. Like always.



Too easy.



Too practiced.



Sometimes I think I could just unzip him—just crawl inside his skin—I could finally feel okay. He could wear me like one of his old jackets and I’d finally mean something. But he never lets me get that close. Not really. He gives me crumbs, and I eat them like they’re gold.



God, what the fuck is wrong with me?



I lock the stall behind me. The metal clicks into place like a final verdict. I settle into the corner closest to the door, like always—legs stiff beneath me, as far from the bacterial war zone of the toilet I can get. This isn’t about comfort, it’s about routine, and about pretending this is normal.



Chase doesn’t say anything. Just pulls out a pre-rolled joint and a lighter, the one he always uses, the surface worn smooth with sweat and smoke and rough handling. I watch him work like it’s a ritual. Flick because it’s old. Flick because he probably needs a new one. Flick because I should’ve gotten him the one at the gas station— and then it’s lit, and I swear to god it’s the closest thing to religion I’ve got.



I don’t even have to hit it yet—my throat already burns. My body starts to jitter like it’s caught in static, like the anticipation alone is enough to short-circuit me. I feel the high before it hits, just from watching him move. That’s how bad it is—is that how far I’ve fallen?



He exhales slowly, like he has all the time in the world. As if he knows I’m watching and doesn’t care. The smoke curls out of his nose, thick and lazy, and I can taste it from here.



And then, like a glitch in my fucked-up brain, I’m not in the stall anymore. I’m nine or maybe ten, huddled behind the shed of Chase’s yard, both of us too small for our jackets, our hands shaking from the cold or withdrawal or fear—who the fuck knows. He was the one with the lighter. I was the one with the pills. We’d trade them like it was lunch money. He’d roll the joint with calloused fingers like he’d done it a thousand times already. I’d crush my mom’s Vicodin on the back of my math homework—not that I’d do it anyways—because that’s what friendship looked like back then: shared poison and quiet understanding.



I remember him handing me the joint with that cocky grin, the one he still has, like he was doing me a favor. And I remember thinking—I’d follow him anywhere, into smoke, into hell, into whatever came next. Because Chase belonged, even then. And me? I was lucky to be orbiting him.



Nothings changed, not really, the only thing that’s changed is now I’m crouched in a fucking school bathroom stall, high off the memory of him, while he hits a joint and doesn’t even look at me. He doesn’t need to because he knows I’m here.



I never believed I was an addict. Still don’t, not really. Not in the way the word sounds in my head—desperate, shaking, begging-on-the-streetcorner kind of addict. That’s not me. Right?



It’s hard to tell the difference between can’t quit and don’t want to. Like, really hard. People don’t get that. They think it’s all willpower. Like if I wanted to stop, I would’ve. But what if I don’t want to stop? What if I do—but just not enough? What if I like the edge too much? Like the way the buzz quiets the noise? Makes things slow down just enough to think without hearing my own voice screaming in the back of my own head?



What if I like the smoke more than I hate myself?



What if I need it to stand next to Chase and not fall apart?



What if I’m not addicted, just fucked up?



Maybe that’s different or maybe that’s worse.



Chase’s lips purse around the joint again, and the sizzle it makes is soft—barely there—but it cuts through me like a needle. Wind in a bottle, smoke from a god.



His eyes are half-lidded, lazy, indifferent, like this means nothing to him. But he still passes it to me, and that means something. It has to. It feels like a ritual—like a promise. I take it with both hands like he’s just handed me his trust, or his attention, or his something.



For a second, everything is OK. My fingers wrap around the joint like it’s a lifeline, like if I hold it just right, it’ll anchor me to this moment, this bathroom, this us. Just a few minutes, I think. Just a few minutes ‘til happiness. Just a few minutes where my ribs don’t ache with wanting and my head doesn’t feel too loud. Just a few minutes where I’m not hollowed out, strung out, left behind. Just let me have this.



I inhale like I’m starving. Like I’ve been underwater too long and this is my first breath. The smoke is hot, chemical, burning down my throat in a way that screams yes, yes, yes. I don’t even flinch when Chase exhales his wad of smoke toward me—it’s just more of him, and I want it. I want all of it. I nurse the tip like a child, like a fucking lunatic, until the flare starts burning red and hot and then keeps hissing, warning me I’ve gone too far, that it’s spent. Just like me.



I hand it back to him with shaking fingers, not even looking, not trusting myself to speak, and I let my head drop against the stall door. The thunk echoes, metallic and cheap, but grounding. I feel the lock rattle like it might break open. Like someone might burst in and see me like this—high, cracked open, clinging to a moment like it’s a person. I close my eyes and the smoke swirls in my chest, blooming like flowers in reverse, and for one stupid second, I believe I’m OK. I believe Chase is here because he wants to be. That we’re still those kids who shared lighters and cheap laughs and cold-ass concrete floors. That I’m not chasing a ghost of him with every inhale.



Just a few more minutes, until the world starts feeling like something I can stand to be a part of, until he looks at me and I don’t want to ask if I matter—I know.



Just until then.



I watch as smoke filters out my nose like it’s always belonged there—slow, steady, natural. I feel like a dragon. A hollow-chested, fucked-up, chain-smoking dragon guarding a hoard of nothingness. Just smoke, just heat, just Chase.



The burn starts crawling its way up my throat, slow and scratchy, and I clamp my mouth shut to hold back the coughs. It tickles and taunts the back of my throat like it’s got some sick sense of humor, like it wants me to gag just to get this over with. I swallow it down instead, my eyes watering. Could marijuana be kinky? Is that what this is? A little pain, a little pleasure? Figures I’d fall for something that hurts me on purpose.



I spend… I don’t even know how long in that stall with Chase. Time doesn’t work right when I’m high. It stretches and folds and loops in on itself like melted tape. But eventually, inevitably, Chase shifts, clears his throat, and mutters something about going back to class. As if it’s nothing, as if he’s not about to leave me here alone with the smoke hanging in the air like his ghost.



And I nod. Of course I nod. What else am I supposed to do? Beg? Cry? Tell him please don’t go, not yet, not now, not when everything still feels okay for once? Tell him I need him to stay because the second that door opens and he walks out, I’m going to feel cold again, feel the silence collapse around me like wet cement?



No. I nod. Like it’s fine. Like I’m fine.



We exit the stall—me first, him just behind—and for a second, I pretend it means something that he doesn’t rush ahead. I pretend he lingers because he wants to. I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I look, I’ll break. So I keep my eyes low, and my mouth even lower and let out a quiet “thanks,” that no one even hears, not even him.



The stall door closes behind us. The smoke swirls a little, then thins.



And he’s gone.



I stagger forward, legs moving without asking me first. The echo of three quick flicks still rattles in my chest, then the hush—the soft slap of Chase’s footsteps fading down the tiled hall until even that’s gone. Chase leaves stillness. It’s not comforting and it’s not clean, it’s just hollow and dead.



My palms find the counters chipped edge, slick and cold with water that kisses my fingertips and then seeps in, slow and deep. I don’t pull away. I let it leech the heat off of me because now it needs me and I’m finally needed.



The silence settles like dust that’s heavy and stale. The light above hums faintly, like its tired too, and somewhere in that humming is the sound of a fly. A single one, invisible, somewhere in the corners—buzzing low and slow over something dead and rotting, something long since given up.



I don’t bother to look on the mirror. I never do, not when I’m like this: buzzing and hollow, too full and too empty. I fidget instead. Thumb to knuckle. Knuckle to palm. Bone pops beneath skin the color of cold milk, paper-thin, and speckled like bruised fruit. My nail hunts the corner of my cuticle, digs in, and begins to peel.



The skin resists at first, pretending it’s stronger than it is. It fights back with the resilience of a tired woman wedged between a monster and her crying child—bracing, trembling, but doomed to snap. And I am the man. And I win because I always win.



The blood comes slow at first, then in lazy, weeping beads—ruby red, glistening under the dull bathroom light like something sacred. It trickles down the side of my thumb, curls there like it’s trying to comfort me.



It’s warm, it’s real, and it’s mine. It’s the only reflection I can stand to see—liquid, warped, and glowing.



It’s not a face and not me. It’s just a shimmer of red in a world gone yellow and grey. It’s almost beautiful—it’s almost enough.