First Time For Everything

PART I

Brandon sat on the uncomfortable bed in his dorm room. The sun fell in through the window over his belongings set on the cheap desk in the corner. His parents left minutes ago, and he hadn't unpacked yet. Brandon wanted to take it in--his first day at college, his first time ever being on his own, his first time potentially starting fresh with a whole new set of people.

Late elementary and high school had been hell, worse than sometimes. He had a rare hormonal skin condition--cystpermia--since 12-years-old, one that had no cure or practical treatment except for his father saying, "Hey, it could be worst, so be damn grateful." Even now, Brandon couldn't fathom being grateful for what he never asked for.

But he dealt with it, because what else was there to do? He dealt with the pointing and laughing, the jokes the girl classmates would pull on him; he dealt with being pushed and shoved during recesses, being followed after school by groups of older kids until he made it to his front porch; he dealt with the times he couldn't make it to his house and the beatings he would endure just because he was different, abnormal; and everything else he didn't want to remember. He dealt with it all without complaint, because his parents couldn't do anything about it, and the school sure as hell wouldn't either... He learned after many futile attempts to report the incidents, given the excuse: "We can't be everywhere at once."

He hoped it would be different. He knew people were people, and just because they were older didn't mean they were any better than they were as kids. There would still be teasing, gossiping, and so on, but no one knew him here, and the chance to make any sort of difference, even little, in his life was all he hoped for.

He rubbed his palms on his jeans, and stood from the bed. Sighing, he started unpacking.

* * *

For seven days, no one spoke to him, no one sat next to him in class, no one did anything besides whisper to one another while glancing at him sitting in the back. At first, it was fine. He could let it roll off his back. It was probably the first time anyone has ever seen someone with cystpermia, so the severe acne covering his face was uncommon to see out in the wild. Then, the second day was like the first, and third like the second, and by the following Monday, he was tired of it.

Brandon did his damnedest to ignore them, to focus on his school work, but the more he heard their snide remarks and laughter, saw them pointing or nodding at him, and felt the familiar pressure of judgment from classroom after classroom, he didn't know if he could take it anymore. He had four years of this, maybe more if he continued on to graduate school; in total six more years of pure hell to endure on top of the already twelve years of it. Would it always be like this? Would he always be the weird one, because of his condition? It was beyond school; it reached into adulthood and on. If college students acted the same as high schoolers, then he couldn't imagine a world in which late-20-year-olds, early-30-year-olds, wouldn't behave any differently.

He spent his Sunday night at the payphone a couple blocks from campus, using what change he could scrounge up to keep the conversation connected. Rain spit on the phone booth. Brandon could've used the telephone at school, but the last thing he wanted was to give them more ammunition against him, because seemingly anything he did could be used.

"Do you want to come home?" his mother said. "Me and your dad will come pick you up tomorrow, if that's what you want."

The outside was warped by the downpour. Across the street, pick-up trucks parked in the gravel lot of a restaurant. "I don't want to, but... I don't know what to do mom. I want to stay here, but... people."

"Is that Brandon on the phone?" His dad said in the background. Scratching noises poured from the receiver, then his father said, clearer: "What's going on, Bran?"

He repeated the situation, the same one he had so many times before.

"Just ignore them," he laughed, followed by a click of ice in a glass. "Fuck 'em, Bran. You have a little acne, who gives a shit? Let them go on about their bullshit, and just focus on your grades. One day you'll be their boss, then what the hell will they do then, huh?"

"It's not that easy, dad."

"It is, you just think it ain't. Here, look, give it another week. If things don't turn around, we'll come and get you and figure something out. You aren't dropping out, that's fucking for sure, so don't get that idea in your head."

"I wouldn't, but are you serious?"

"Absolutely," he said. "Maybe we can find a college you can do from home, or I don't know, over the phone. You can't be the only guy around with people-problems who wants a degree."

He sighed, leaning against the glass. "Thanks dad, really."

"Don't mention it, but do you want to talk to your mother again?"

"No, that's okay. Love you guys."

"You too, Bran."

The phone clanged on the receiver. A week. He only had to suffer another week, then he'd be back in the safety of his home. It felt like a weight had lifted from his shoulders, and he figured by the same time seven days from now, it would be remain gone.

* * *

With something to look forward to, his days blended together. The focus was no longer on who surrounded him, but the upcoming Sunday. By Monday morning, Brandon would be waking up in his own bed, not the bed he presently laid on in the pitch dark. He was meant to wake up in a few hours, but he couldn't fall asleep. Another issue he had to deal with since starting college.

Finally, his body was slipping into sleep when someone pounded on his dorm door. Brandon didn't move, hoping whoever it was had made a mistake or would simply leave, but soon there was another knock. Groaning, he got out of bed and opened the door.

"Whoa," she said, stepping back, her blue eyes, masked in black eyeshadow, widening. "Who're you?"

"Who're you?"

"Trixie."

"Brandon."

"Where's Beth?"

"Who's Beth?"

Trixie glanced down both ends of the white cement block hall, narrowing her eyes at other closed doors. "Isn't this dorm 64A?"

Brandon leaned out the hall, checking the painted numbers on the wall. "That's what it says."

"I was told Beth from English Lit stayed here," she said. "I lent her my notes from class, and she forgot to give them back."

"Well... There's no Beth here--just me."

She scratched the nape of her neck beneath her pixie-cut auburn hair. "Shit."

Awkwardness grew in the air. He wasn't sure what to do, or to say. Never once had he ever been alone with a girl, let alone at night. Then he scolded himself for thinking that the situation was somehow related to anything like that. She was given the wrong information, and ended up there, nothing more. "So... is this English Lit 101 with Ms. Ruth?"

"How'd you know?"

"I have her, too, in the afternoon. You're going over The Yellow Wallpaper, right?"

She nodded, her silver crescent moon earrings jiggling.

"Gimme a minute."

Brandon went to his desk, flipped through his binder, and found the notes he assumed she wanted. Tearing them out, he brought them back to her. "If you're talking about the ones today, here they are."

Trixie skimmed them, and looked back at him. "Are you serious? You're just going to give me these?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "I read the book a lot during high school, so the notes aren't really important."

"Your handwriting's really nice," she said. "Way better than mine..."

"Thanks," he said, starting to close the door, but she said: "Wait! I have to pay for these or something, I can't just take them. I'm not like that."

"Uh... No, that's fine. I don't want anything."

"How about a coffee from the cafeteria?"

"Sure," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. "A coffee's fine."

"Great! Get your jacket and shoes on and we'll go get it."

"It's four in the morning, the cafeteria's closed."

She smirked, taking a keyring from her back jean pocket. "It's only closed to those without a key."

He wanted to ask how she got them, but chose not to; he also wanted to say, "No, thank you" and return to bed, but this was another first for him: someone asking him to do something, a girl. Despite how exhausted he'd be later that day, he shoved his shoes on, threw on the jacket hanging on the back of the door, and followed her out of the dorms.

* * *

"So, what're majoring in?" Trixie said, sitting across from him at one of the dozen small tables filling the empty cafeteria. She stirred her drink absentmindedly.

"Creative writing," he said after sipping the bitter coffee, which he showed no sign of displeasure after what she did to get him the drink.

"Makes sense, with the notes and stuff."

"Yup, you?"

"General studies, so not really a major." She sighed, taking a sip. "Really didn't want to major in anything."

"Then why come--to college, I mean?"

"My dad's gung-ho on 'bettering my life through the next step in education,' which is a bunch of bullshit, really." She spun one of the many silver rings on her finger with her thumb. "But he's all I got, so I'm here, doing the thing... Don't know how long, though."

"That sucks," he said, almost taking a gulp of the foul brew, but decided against it. "What would you be doing if you stayed home? Work, or...?"

"Painting, probably. It was really the only thing I enjoyed and was good at during high school, but painting, according to everyone everywhere, isn't a real job and I can't expect to live off of it."

"Well that's bullshit. There's hundreds of famous painters, and they seemed to live off their work without much trouble."

"Yeah, well, we can't all be Picasso or van Gogh, although Gogh was penniless when he died, so there's that." She set the Styrofoam cup down. "Enough about me, what's up with your face?"

His fingers dug into the cup, and it felt like he was thrown against the wall. Words tased wrong in his mouth, every syllable uncomfortable. He didn't know what to say--it was so out of left field, his brain hitched. He debated just getting up and leaving, but at the same time, Trixie seemed like someone he could open up to, at least a little. She wasn't like the girls in high school who played those horrible pranks, or hounded him about his face. She seemed... different.

"I have a skin condition," he let out. "I was born with it."

"Is there medicine for it?"

"No, not yet at least. There's some research being done on it somewhere in Germany, but it's very rare."

Trixe glanced into her cup, seemingly found it empty, and stood. As she went back to the carafe, she said: "Are they like normal acne? Like popping them and they'll go away?"

"I avoid doing that."

"Why?" She returned to her seat, blowing on her steaming coffee. "Wouldn't it feel better if you did?"

He knew from experience it did, probably better than anything else he'd ever felt before, but the shame and disgust he had for himself afterwards was far stronger than the pleasure. It wasn't normal. It was weird. It furthered the fact that he was different, a freak. And, Brandon couldn't share that fear with anyone, ever. "No, it wouldn't."

Melancholy gradually filled the dark sky, and birds began chirping. Had it been two hours already? "But, hey, thanks for the coffee," he said, rising. "I have Creative Writing in like an hour, so I need to get ready."

"No problem," she said, leaning back. "Wanna do this again?"

"Have coffee?"

"That or something else, like food or milkshakes."

He didn't want to say the word to only be shot down. "Like a...?"

"Date, yeah, sure, if that's what you wanna call it."

The smile couldn't be held back. Tears were on the brink of coming out. "That'd be great. Where?"

"Let's meet here at six, then we'll figure something out from there." Her eyes met his. "That sound good?"

He nodded, shocked, frozen.

"Shouldn't you be getting to class?" she said.

"Oh, right, bye."

Trixie waved as he hurried out of the cafeteria.

* * *

The day like his week was a blur. Hardly any school work was done, and no notes were written. This would be his first date, ever. It wasn't the first time he was asked out on one, though. In the ninth grade Julia Stummer asked him out, and when he showed up at the roller rink he found it closed down... His parents were going out that night and dropped him off about a quarter mile from the rink on the way to the city, so he had no way to get home or contact them. So he sat and waited until they came back hours later. Brandon never admitted to his parents what happened.

And it could be the same with Trixie. He halted as he just got into his dorm. Trixie could be another Julia. He could show up to only be stood up, to only look like an idiot like before. Was it worth it? Was it worth taking the chance of dealing with the crushing hurt of being mocked, again? He looked at his bed, the desk, his work sitting in his backpack on the ground. He could stay instead, get something done or start packing for Sunday. Beat her at her own potential game.

But what if he was wrong? What if she really wanted to go out with him? He couldn't understand what she saw in him beyond good handwriting and his acne. If he was the one who stood her up, he'd never forgive himself for screwing up the one opportunity with a girl he had been given. He exhaled, forgetting the breath he held. Brandon would take the chance, because being wrong felt worse than being right. He'd rather be hurt than hurt her.

Striding to his clothes, he sifted through them to find something nice to wear. Granted, all he brought were t-shirts, sweaters, jeans, socks; the usual, boring clothes everyone wore. Despite that, he wanted to look the best he could with what he had. She could wear whatever she wanted and she'd still look great to him, though in the back of his mind he hoped she wore something tight-fitting... Scolding himself for thinking that way, especially at this stage of whatever they were, he focused on the task at hand. After discovering cleaner, albeit not nicer, clothes, he got dressed and left his dorm.

Trixie had the same black eyeshadow, dangling silver crescent moon earring, and short hair, but wore a plain black t-shirt, belted blue jeans, and converse shoes. A coconut aroma drifted from her. She looked and smelled amazing.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He shook his head. "Sorry, just, uh..."

She stood from the chair, adjusted her pants by pulling up on her belt. "So, anywhere you wanna go?"

"Not particularly," he said. "I don't know this area well. I lived in Anteaville."

"The boonies, huh?" Trixie walked towards the door. He had to jog to catch up.

"Just about, where're you from?"

"Cookstown." Brandon pushed open the door for her before she got to it. They slipped out into the summer evening.

"You're not too far from here."

"Nope. Parents wanted me to stay nearby, just in case."

A group of kids parted for them, but Brandon caught their remarks. Trixie didn't seem to have heard, so he didn't bring it up. The lush trees flanking the walkway swayed in the cooling breeze, and students sat beneath their canopies reading books, listening to their CD players, smoking, or talking to their friends. It was a nice place, yet he couldn't ignore the ugly beneath it all. "In case of what?"

She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they thought if it didn't work out, it would be a quick trip back home."

"What'd they do if you did that?" They came to a crosswalk, and he pressed the metal button on the street light. "Would they be pissed?"

"Little bit of that, maybe a little bit happy that their little girl's come back home." The light across the way turned white. "It's weird, now that we're talking about it. They didn't want me to pursue painting as a career, which would have me staying home at the start, yet they would be secretly joyful if I left college to come back."

"Parents are weird." Another crosswalk to the other side, and they followed the sidewalk further into town. "My dad refused to let me stay home from high school, said to deal with it, but now... He was fine with me dropping out, going back to Anteaville."

"Why would you drop out?" She pushed her hair behind her ear, glancing at him. "You just got here, right?"

"Ah..." Brandon didn't know if he wanted to dump all that onto her already. He felt that was meant for later in their relationship, or at least until he knew more about her and her, him. "Just college might not be for me."

They came to a coffee shop at the corner of the strip. Inside, hazelnut and bakery goods permeated the air. The tall tables were filled with college students, paintings hung on the olive green walls, and at the counter, they got in line. "It doesn't have anything to do with people saying shit about you?"

How the hell had she known that? He never said a word about it. Her bluntness threw him off, again. Brandon dealt with a lot of upfront people--bullies were that type of breed--but not someone who seemed to not want to hurt him, but to cut the bullshit and get to the core of the issue to learn more about him. "Maybe."

She ordered a decaf coffee with four splashes of cream, and he got the same, because he didn't care what he had to drink as long as it was with her. They got their orders quickly, and he elected to pay, giving a generous tip. Blowing on her paper cup, they left the cafe and moved onto the stone patio outside. It was as packed as it was inside, but they managed to score a small table in the corner in the back where the hanging lights hardly reached.

Trixie sat on the stool across from him. "So..."

"Yeah," he said, looking at his drink. "You were right... It's just..."

"You don't have to get into it, if you don't want to."

"I do, but it's hard to explain without talking about high school and all that." He rotated the cup just to give hands something to do. "To make a story short, it's hard to deal with it now after so many years... And I don't think I can deal with it for another four years."

"That's understandable." She blew on her drink. "Really, I get it, not exactly the way you do, but I deal with that sort of bullshit all my life."

"Really?" Brandon looked at her.

"Obviously, don't you see my hair, my clothes, my make-up? Being a woman in general is sufferable. Growing up around pissants who think they can just touch and prod you anytime they want. I can't count how many times a guy's touched my tits or slapped my ass without my consent." She laughed. "Boys will be boys and all that."

"Didn't the teachers do anything?"

"Did yours?"

She had a point, and he didn't know what to say. What she had gone through felt worse than he did, both born with things they didn't ask for to only deal with assholes growing up. Granted, bullies stopped with just beating him up, if he had been a girl, who knew what lengths they would've gone to prove whatever useless point they thought justified it. "Do you still go through that now?"

She shrugged. "Not as much. People don't change much when they get older, but at least we're a little more respectful. I'll get cat-called once in a while, or if I'm somewhere by myself, someone may try to get handsy, but it's way, way better than high school."

"Well... That's good at least."

They fell into silence, allowing the indie music playing from the mounted speakers to fill the void of their conversation. Evening darkened and stars sprinkled the black above. "Any plans after this?" she asked.

"I have a test tomorrow to study for, but that's about it. You?"

"Same, same. You ever been to the arcade cafe?"

He told her hadn't.

"Do you wanna go?"

He raised his cup. "But we already got coffee."

"What's another going to hurt?" She grinned.