A Queer Sort of Clockwork (Official Title)
an excerpt

The options were this: Act like a child and throw a tantrum in my room until Wesh frowned and shook his head and looked thoroughly disappointed and my uncle threatened to throw me out on my ass and make me sleep outside or in the garage or something; or go for a long run and then maybe go play some 2-on-1 on the playground if the kids with the basketball were hanging around.

I went with option A for a good ten minutes. It was how long it took to find a pair of track pants that didn’t smell like skank. Wesh asked what was wrong, but I just told him I’d be back when I didn’t want to punch holes in the sheet rock, I had my phone, and if I didn’t come home for a few days could he please not freak out like he was actually my mom or something?

Option B had me jogging around as much of the city as I could, before it felt like my legs were going to give out, and then I jogged some more. When it finally came down to it, I was back at the playground, and I spent almost an hour warming down and waiting for the feeling to come back to my legs entirely. I ached everywhere.

When I could stand without feeling like my legs were made of jelly, I flopped myself onto a swing and swung for a while, legs and arms pumping until I was high enough that the little kids on the jungle-gym were watching me with that kind of awe you give superheros and shit like that.

In October, this wouldn’t have gotten to me. In October, I would have been all, “Yeah, sure, whatever. Let the little queen leave. Maybe he’ll get the stick torn out of his ass and get what he really wants up there.” In October, I would have been a douche at other people about this whole thing.

But it wasn’t October any more. It was the end of May, and all I could think was, “Are they taking him out because of me? Because of this stupid project? Because I made him look at himself?” I slowed my pumping, and eventually I was just swaying on the swing, toes planted in the wood chips under my feet, legs bending as the swing rotated and moved under me.

The street lights were coming on when Hwan Ji settled into the swing next to me, the chains clattering noisily as he settled back and gave two or three short little pumps.

“Hope you have fun in California. Where exactly are you moving to?”

“I’m not going,” he whispered. I didn’t look at him, just picked at the inseam of my jeans. They were the ones we’d bought at the Gap. I kicked my shoes through the wood chips.

“Are they really taking you out of school?”

“I’m working on that.” I grabbed the swing chain, stalling his next pump. It made the swing snap and rotate toward me; I grabbed the second chain, and held him, facing me. He met my eyes and held my gaze and didn’t look a bit like the annoying, denial-ridden kid that had sat across the classroom in October when Prof Thom had called our names.

After a minute, he smiled, and said, “I’ve got a plan.”

“Does this plan involve us still giving our presentation tomorrow?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Screw you.” I was the one to lean in then, brush of lips against his, hands never leaving the chains so I wouldn’t have to lose him—like some damn girl or something. His hands left the chains though, carded through my hair once, twice, before taking a hold at my neck.

And that was just it, which was nice. Just that one kiss, before he pulled away and stood up and said, “I’ve gotta go. I’m in enough trouble as it is.” My hands slid from the chains, and the swing thawked him in the leg.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.”

He bent, grabbed my neck, and kissed me hard—like we’d kissed in the back of the sedan, only this time it left me whimpering and with no phone ringing in my pocket to disturb us, just his sense of moral rightness and whatever half thought through plan he had in the works that I’d rather he tell me about instead of just wandering off with that as the parting gift.