The Bones: Chapter Four

Max arrives at the locker rooms for his censure, running into a familiar, if reviled, face: Trevor. Who says you can't do your best work on your hands and knees?

Starting from the beginning? Read Chapter One of The Bones here and Chapter Two here. They’re free for all subscribers.

—

I sat in fourth-period English, notebook before me, a list already begun.

POTENTIAL BONES, read the top.

1. Trevor Shults.

2.

The second entry was blank. One name was all I had to start, selected with abject certainty that all roads led back to Trevor, no matter who else was involved.

The rest would require digging.

I tried to refocus my attention on the class at hand, smiling as Thomas spouted off on Emily Brontë, the way his hair fell across his forehead as he read aloud.

He was the quintessential Hanover man brought into the 21^st century. Politely handsome, with tanned skin and a floppy haircut that alone read academic, he was Dead Poets Society meets TikTok. At once strong and forceful and sensitive and soulful, he possessed a duality that felt…rare, perhaps made possible by his being one of the few gay faculty members on campus.

More importantly, he was one of the few teachers who gave a fuck about his students.

It was no surprise he’d been the first on the quad to extinguish the fire. Thomas had his finger on the pulse of the student body. He spent actual time with us, and he leveraged that intimacy and familiarity for good.

And, okay, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a little bit of a crush on him, too.

I’d get lost for hours as he dove deep into Wuthering Heights, reflecting on why Heathcliff was such a little bitch, or why Nick in The Great Gatsby seemed so fucking gay.

Okay, maybe that was just me.

He was a prince among frogs, though, that Thomas, and I often wondered why he’d ended up back at Hanover. Sure, it was prestigious, similar to teaching at a small, liberal arts college like Amherst or Williams. But he could have done anything—investment banker, lawyer, tech bro. I knew his family was loaded, his worn khakis and fraying oxfords belying tremendous wealth, but even the rich kids I knew still had loftier ambitions.

I hung back after class, piling my items into my bag until the room was mostly empty.

“Everything all right, Max?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah, of course,” I replied, making my way over to his desk. “It’s just this thing with the Bones.”

“Ah.” He rearranged the papers on his desk into a pile. “That.”

“It all smells like bullshit to me. The way they’re brushing it off like it’s nothing.”

“Well, I think they’re trying not to stoke alarm. You try managing 1,000 kids with 2,000 concerned, anxious helicopter parents who are kept up at night wondering if their kid is getting into Harvard.”

“But what if there is reason for alarm?”

His eyes searched mine. “What do you mean?”

I reached into my bag, pulling out the envelope and handing it to him.

“What’s this?”

“Have a look for yourself.”

He studied it, his brow furrowing as he pulled out the card. “When did you get this?” he asked.

“Yesterday afternoon, after everything went down. And after I had an altercation with Trevor Shults.”

“The football player? Why’s that relevant?’

“C’mon,” I started. “Trevor? He’s like Bones suspect number one.”

Genuine concern colored his face. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

“No, sir. I’m keeping this one to myself.”

“Why?”

“They’ll bury it like they have everything else.”

“But if you’re being actively threatened, that’s a different story than some mild prank.”

“I can handle myself.” I ran my fingers along my backpack straps awkwardly. “But I would like your help, though.”

“Me? What can I do?”

“You lived through four years here, and not that long ago. You might remember something, anything from your time that could help.”

“I’m not sure I’m useful, I don’t remember a lot…” His voice trailed off. “I blocked out a lot of those years. They weren’t kind to the only gay kid.”

My heart warmed at his vulnerability, imagining him whiling away the hours reading the classics while underappreciated by his peers. If only they could see him now.

“Well, at the very least, we can compare notes.”

“Max, I can’t go against the school to encourage your independent investigation into something they don’t feel is a problem.”

I shrugged. “Well, then, consider it something else—research into a bit of fiction, me studying Hanover’s past.”

He rolled his eyes, hardly placated. But I pressed on.

“How about tomorrow, after class?”

“And if I say no?”

I grinned. “Then I’ll tell our entire section that you dressed up like Dolly Parton for Halloween your senior year.”

His face broke. “How did you…?”

“I’m a reporter, baby. And old yearbooks from, say, 6 years ago, are entirely public record.”

“You little shit.” I could tell he wanted to be angry but couldn’t quite muster it. “Fine.”

“I thought you’d say that. Tomorrow it is.”

And with that, I walked out of the classroom, ever pleased with myself, Thomas’s smile beaming on my back. I didn’t have to turn around—I just knew it.

As I bolted out of Bulfinch, a thought dawned on me—or more accurately, a wish, one buried deep inside me. While I couldn’t be certain, I had an inkling that maybe, just maybe, Thomas might have the tiniest crush on me, too.

My grin widened to a full smile.

A boy could dream.

—

The laundry room of Hanover was located at the very epicenter of where soiled linens were made—the gym, of course.

I reported for censure duty just after dinner, dressed appropriately for the role of gay day laborer—tight tank, wide-leg sweatpants, a Hanover sweatshirt resting over my shoulders.

Sammy, the laundry attendant, greeted me warmly, a glimmer in his eye.

“Max!” he said, “So glad to have you here!”

He was always so friendly it was at once intoxicating and disorienting.

“Me too, Sammy,” I replied, doing my best to feign enthusiasm. “Me too.”

I suppose I’d earned this punishment. And if this man’s job was good enough for him, well, it was good enough for me, too. Who was I to be above a cleaning?

“So,” Sammy said, joining me in the washroom. “We’ll start with folding everything clean, as I’ll show you. And then, once it’s finished, I’ll have you do the rounds to pick up anything that’s dirty. Sound good?”

I nodded in the affirmative, already trying to think of any excuse to delay that second, less appealing portion of the effort.

Sammy left me to a large pile of clean towels, and I got to work, doing it just as he showed me—halfway across, fold and fold—making them all into perfect white almost-squares.

This wouldn’t be so bad.

20 towels later, I glanced at the clock on the wall. 7:07.

Fuck me. I still had over an hour and forty-five to go.

“You’re fast!” Sammy exclaimed when I brought the pile of finished linens back to him. I watched as he hoisted a pile of washed sheets into the dryer in one massive dump. “If I’m not careful, you’ll take my job!”

Not a chance, Sammy. Not a chance.

“Have a walk through the locker room, and pull together everything in the remaining bins.” He pointed at one on the older side of the room—big, wide, on wheels. “Like that.”

“Ay ay, captain,” I said, saluting him as I made my way down the hall to the men’s locker room.

The building had mostly cleared out, everyone already at the library or their dorm rooms or study halls if they were freshmen. It was dead quiet and, might I add, a bit spooky being here all by myself.

I should have brought AirPods, I thought to myself, anything to make this more interesting. A podcast. Maybe some Charli.

I turned into the locker room, cavernous with its ancient fixtures and lockers. Somehow, despite having all the money in the world and a phenomenal athletic program, the gym remained just as dingy and gross as a public school. It was Gotham City cum fitness center.

Which was fine by me, really. I spent almost no time in here because…well, why would I, really? Anxiety was my cardio. And while drop-the-soap shower fantasies were well within my wheelhouse, I was a busy guy and getting plenty at home, you know?

What if I ended up marrying Reed?

I shuddered at the thought.

Then I reconsidered. Maybe having a dumb, hot, loaded househusband—aka a wife—was just what I needed, particularly if I was going to be a career newspaperman. I mean, there was something vaguely domestic about our current arrangement. We lived together after all.

I was deep into wondering if I could convince Reed to use only my sperm for the test tube babies we’d spawn as I went to work in the locker room. First, I emptied a bin at the farthest end, gathering up the small pile of towels remaining. And then I headed to the next corner, and the next. The entire space was deserted, most of them practically empty. This was going to be the biggest waste of a few hours in my already very busy existence.

I was about to turn back around when I heard something.

Footsteps.

I stopped short.

“Hello?” I called out.

Nothing. Silence.

I was about to continue when I heard them again, closer this time.

“Hello?” I called out again, my voice practically echoing throughout the emptied space.

No reply.

And so I booked it quickly towards the front, turning the corner in the first aisle when I bashed into a figure, all 150 pounds of me stumbling back to the floor.

I smarted, shaken, but when I regained my composure, I saw him—naked, dripping, wearing only a towel.

Trevor fucking Shults.