Excerpt: Orion's Shoes

By early evening, badminton practise was over, and Sebastian slowly finished folding the nets into the large blue bins in the equipment room. As usual he was alone in cleaning up, but he didn’t mind, as it left time for everyone else to shower and change before he needed to – not to mention the fact that if he didn’t put away the nets, they were a tangled mess the next time the team needed them.

“Hey, Sebastian, nice game today,” said one of the boys who was on his way out, and Sebastian merely nodded. He waited as the rest of them slowly filtered out, all of them with wet hair and bags of gym clothes under their arms. When he figured that most of them had left he headed for the change-room to find only a few stragglers left at their lockers. That, he didn’t mind.

Sebastian stripped and showered, spinning the tap until the water that pelted down on him was hot enough to steam. When he was done he towel-dried his hair and listened to the silence of the change-room for several seconds before concluding its emptiness. After that he padded silently to his locker and twirled the dial of his combination lock until it relaxed open. With his towel tied around his waist he lifted out his folded clothes, but froze when he heard the change-room door close.

“Hello?”

There was no reply. Sebastian slowly stepped towards the door, around the showers and the tiled wall that served to hide the change-room from the gym. The door was closed, and the room was quiet. Sebastian shivered despite himself, still damp from the shower, and walked back to his locker.

“So it’s true. You are just as beautiful as your photographs.”

Sebastian gasped and whirled around, clutching his t-shirt to his chest with one hand, his towel with the other. There on the other side of the change-room was a boy he’d seen only a few times; shorter than him and blond, wearing glasses with thick black frames and trendy clothes that were meant to look old and worn – but Sebastian knew the difference.

“What are you talking about?” Sebastian spewed at light-speed, his face getting hot. He shifted his feet, feeling the grit of the concrete floor under them. “Who are you? What’re you doing here?”

“I’m a boy, and this is the boy’s change-room; what’s the problem?” replied the other in a low and annoyingly calm voice. He rose from the bench, an old Polaroid camera clasped lightly in his fingers.

“Who are you? Why do you have a camera?” Sebastian stammered, then more slowly, “What photos..?”

The blond tilted his head as he got nearer, his thick lips rounding into a clever smile. Despite his calm demeanour, the blond was flushed, Sebastian noticed. When he was a few meters away, he stopped.

“Your photos in SMart, of course. Which others are there, aside from online?”

“There are photos of me online?” Sebastian blurted, and the blond’s smile faded into a look of annoyed incredulity.

“Google yourself,” he said bluntly, then just continued to stare, his golden eyes traveling up and down Sebastian’s body. The latter started to sweat, and only after long moments was he able to form words again.

“Who... are you? Really, whaddyou want?” he asked, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

“I just wanted to look at you,” said the blond with a shrug, glancing away – though only for a moment. “In real life, I mean. I wanted to meet you, I guess. I admire you. I have for a long time. I guess since you were... oh, what, fifteen?”

Sebastian felt his insides go cold. At the age of fifteen he had started modeling for SMart, but no one was supposed to know that. He’d told the magazine he was sixteen, and even at that age they had been reluctant to accept him, and he’d had to forge Orion’s signature for a long time. Of course, if Sam had been following his career for that long and had now found him in grade twelve, it would have been easy for him to figure out...

“I don’t find mathematics particularly difficult, Sebastian,” the blond said quietly. “And to use your real name at that age... very brave of you. I thought it was fake for the longest time, but I guess not...”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Sebastian ordered through clenched teeth. In his mind it was a plea, but it came out a dark order. That made the blond smile.

“I don’t intend to.”

“Then what do you want?” Sebastian asked loudly, his hands still tight around what few clothes he had. “Who the hell are you, seriously?”

“My name is Sam, and I’d like to take some photographs – if you don’t mind. You don’t, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Sebastian growled. His skin felt hot from embarrassment and anger, and more than anything else in the world he just wanted Sam to leave. “I don’t just let anyone take pictures of me.”

“Well then maybe I should take you on a date; would that help?” Sam asked, as easily and reasonably as if he were asking for Pepsi with his burger. Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt himself blush even deeper. Trying to maintain his cool, he forced a laugh and looked away.

“Yeah, right. You’re nuts. Do you realise how uncomfortable this is?” he asked, trying to be as biting as possible. It didn’t seem to phase Sam, who merely shrugged.

“Think about how I feel,” he said calmly. “I don’t even know for sure if you’re gay.”

Sebastian opened his mouth, but made only a slight noise in his throat before closing it again. Holding his camera in one hand, Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, folded paper, which he held out to Sebastian.

“This is my phone number. Call me sometime soon alright?” he said, but it was more of a command than a favour. Sebastian swallowed and took the paper, then took a slight step back until he felt the wall of lockers behind him, looking at the folded note. Sam started to walk away, but turned back before he was out of site. “Oh, and Sebastian...”

Sebastian looked up, only to be blinded by the flash and deafened by the familiar snap of the camera’s shutter. He heard the distinctive hum as the photo printed, and watched as Sam smiled and flicked the photo like a fan, back and forth as it developed. He laughed as he left the change-room, and Sebastian didn’t breathe until he heard the door close. Like a machine he turned back to his locker, but then could only stare at its darkened interior. Only after a minute did he manage to calm himself down enough to laugh, and then he hastily dressed.

“What a psychopath,” he muttered to himself, pulling his shirt over his head and down over his body, which was still sticky with sweat. He was soon putting on pants and lacing up his shoes, and not until he was ready to leave did he unfold the note, which revealed very little: Sam LaFontaine, and a phone number, all in a well-practised hand.