Wicked Boy (Chapter Two) (Patreon)

Like most young boys, Lucas had gotten over the ungraceful shove into the water quickly — and like most young boys with an unhealthy inferiority complex — I followed him around like a lost puppy after my initial playground humiliation had subsided.

He seemed irate at first, threatened to stick his gum in my hair and break my glasses again. Luckily for me, he soon he discovered that we had a mutual interest in bugs and race cars — and we made up a secret handshake, spat in each others' palms — wrote letters in poorly developed code.

I was no longer an unwelcome shadow to him, but instead, was his best friend.  One day he'd pulled my spit covered hand in his and whispered quite seriously,

"You were right about me bein' a superhero all along," and as his wet grip slid from mine he added, "and now you're my sidekick."

Things never stay just as simple and sweet as they were when we were children — we have no right to expect them to be.  It's been nearly fourteen years since then, since Lucas and I had decided that we'd be best friends forever.

Forever is a child's word, for everything feels like forever when you're a child. It's a simple promise to keep when you pledge eternity at eight years old.  Unfortunately, as you grow older, forever doesn't seem to last like you'd hope.  Realizing that was my first warning sign of adulthood.

As Lucas grew older, so did others' interest in him. He wasn't the poor boy with holes in his shoes and mismatched clothes, no, suddenly everyone was drawn to that same magnetism, that same wicked smile that would spread on his lips when I knew he was going to do something he shouldn't.  He was blossoming alright; blossoming like I didn't.

Couldn't.

Suddenly he was my best friend, my only friend —and I was just one, one of many — but I was his favorite.  Something about that still lit my nerves, kept me as happy as could be.

I attended my parent's stupid parties, listened to old men ramble on about their insurance companies and how I'd become a great asset if I kept a strong head like my father.

They were wrong.  My father thought he raised me with a strong hand, thought he raised a man with an iron fist by wielding me with welts in my skin and bruises on my ego. 

It didn't turn out that way.  I was doe-eyed like my mother but with none of her strong will and confidence.  I lacked the strength my dad carried in his voice and the way he seemed to tower over everyone around him — a perpetual pedestal placed underneath.  I lacked his ruthlessness and manipulative streak and my mother's knack for escapism and sense of self-fulfillment.

I'd never be able to carry their name with the same unfettered and unyielding pride. I was too soft.

Lucas liked that.  He said that he thought I was the most honest person he knew.  He said guys like me did great things, way better than my parents could ever do.  I didn't have to be charming, or manipulative, or cruel.  In his company, all I needed to be was myself, and soon — I realized he was right.

Lucas was like that, had a way with words.  He was quite the charmer — passed through people like phases, traded friends and lovers through his life like trending accessories, popped in and out of school like it didn't mean a thing.

He'd get distracted, for a bit, each time he met someone new — but at the end of the night he'd still crawl through my window and perch himself in the chair next to my bed and ask me what ridiculous things the country club members had spouted that day.

"You prissy little shit."  He'd smile, tug at my stupid sweater vest and chuckle — eye whatever new gadget my dad left in his wake.  "Aren't you just the luckiest little lad?" I'd scold him for his language, but quietly smile to myself bit in return — happy when he was happy.

He'd make fun of the way I vacuumed my carpet twice a day, laugh when I lint-rolled my pants after school.  He was different than I who was nearly always hidden in my bedroom — while he was wild and reckless — always disheveled, jacket half zipped and jeans dirty.

Opposites attract, they say.

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