The Sinclairs have been in Larkwood for five centuries. I've been here for five weeks. It's starting to feel like the same thing.

When a guy as tall as me walks through the door, it's hard enough for people not to look, but when he's almost as big in diameter and hairy and appears to have fished his clothes out of a dumpster, what are you gonna do? You're gonna stare, obviously. I get it, I do. It's just that I've had hundreds of eyes glued to my back, my front, and my sides since the day I walked into Larkwood High and I'm kind of over it. When I lived in St. Richard, I got my fair share of judgmental looks, but at least people didn't really know who I was. In a town with a dozen high schools with thousands of students, I was just another kid. Larkwood has the one high school and nothing else, so everyone notices when a new student comes in. Everyone. My only consolation is that they don't know why.

I've heard the rumors. They don't try to hide that they're talking about me. They'll say it right to my face: "Hey, Gus, did your house blow up, for real?" "Dude, I heard you were in jail. What were you in for?" "My dad said you're a thief. Is that true?" Or they'll actually make an effort to ask: "Why did you come to Larkwood, of all places?"

They wouldn't like the answer. I know they wouldn't, because I don't.

So I tell them they're right. Every single time. They laugh and ooh and ah, and the next time they come to me, I tell them a new story. It's the only reason worth going to school. They'll grow tired of it soon enough, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

At least I'm not the only one they gossip about. Being obscenely rich is just as bad as looking like a crossbreed between a neanderthal and a giant with empty pockets, and the Sinclairs practically own the town. If I am to believe anything I hear, Haley Sinclair has a kid, three STDs, and an addiction to anything he can put in his body through any possible orifice. Whether any of that is true is unclear. No one's got the balls to ask. I would, but I like my body parts attached to my body. The thing is, I can't really talk to somebody like Haley Sinclair. I might as well put a sign on my back that says, "Bully me!" I may not be the happiest person in the world, but I'm not suicidal, so I'm not gonna do that. Only speak when spoken to. That's the rule.

So when I'm walking home from work on a Friday night and find Haley Sinclair spraying paint on the inside of this badly lit, cold, hundred foot long tunnel near my home, I don't know what to do but freeze and stare. First of all, what the hell is he doing here? Secondly, are those dicks?

He steps back to admire his work, moving his dark brown hair back with a satisfied grin, then notices me at the end of the tunnel. He makes a surprised noise, and my eyes widen. Fuck, I'm done. I'm so done—

"Has your hair always been green?" he asks.

"What?"

"Your hair," he says, pointing.

I push my glasses up and peer at him in the dim light. "Uh . . . no. It's blond."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. Uh . . . sorry to disappoint?"

He suddenly tosses his can of spray paint at me. I almost drop it. He gives me a smile and says, "You should make it green."

I look down at the can. "This is yellow."

"Is it?"

"Are you color blind?" I ask.

He bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard he falls over and catches himself on the wall of the tunnel. His hand lands right on the tip of the penis he painted. "I took some CM. It does not work how you think it does."

He took Color Magic?

Yeah, I know that's not the scientific name, but that's basically what it is.

"You're high?"

"And even more color blind than I used to be," he says, snorting, before looking back at his artwork. "What is this? Brown?"

"Purple."

"I can live with that. You should do one."

"No, thank you," I say quickly, walking over to put the can in his backpack, which is resting against the wall with a dozen cans inside. They've obviously all been used. The backpack itself has stains on it, too. My hand pauses over the open compartment as I stare inside. Is this what Haley Sinclair has been doing in his free time all this time?

"Come on, man," he says. "Don't be a pussy."

I stand up straight, looking down at him. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're here."

His hazel eyes are wide open, his pupils dilated, and a soft smile plays on his lips. I can't tell if he's so high he's forgotten he isn't supposed to talk to me or if he's fucking with me. "I'll get in trouble," I tell him, stepping back. "I can't."

"You won't get in trouble."

"Yeah, I'm not falling for that. Have a good day, Sinclair."

"No, wait—" As I walk away, he calls after me, "Hey! Wait! Gus, right? Gus! Falling for what, man? I literally just asked you to paint with me."

I keep walking.

"I know what happened to your mom," he says.

My heart skips a beat and drops all the way to the ground. I turn on my heels and glare at him. "What?"

He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, ten feet away from me, and stares. The smile is gone now. Instead, I find something akin to pity. Blood is rushing in my ears. After all I did to keep my secret, Haley Sinclair blurts it out as freshly as a greeting. He bends down to pull another can out of his bag and holds it out for me.

I stomp over and yank it out of his hand. "Fine. Don't tell anyone."

"I wasn't going to."

During the following ten minutes, we spray paint in silence. I'm no artist, but that's not the point. It's therapeutic. I add flames to Haley's dicks. He paints clouds that rain down on the fires. I make waves until not a single penis is visible and all the blue paint is gone. He's painting a yellow shark when my can starts to sputter. He looks over at the sound.

"Sorry," I say.

"Don't worry about it. I've got more where that came from."

"Right."

He walks over to the other side of the tunnel and sits down against the wall, crossing his arms over his knees. The threads in the holes of his jeans are stretched over his pale skin. "We should be fucking artists, man. Look at that."

"What does it look like?"

"You mean the colors?" he asks.

I nod.

"The CM's wearing off, so it's just a whole lot of teal now. The shark is pink." He lifts the can and snorts at the label. "Yellow."

"Why do you use all these colors if you can't see them?"

He shrugs. "I don't need to."

"Hm." I drop the empty can in his backpack and take it with me as I sit down beside him. Mirroring his pose, I look at the waves. There's a spot in the middle where the green of a penis shines through. "There are probably yellow sharks somewhere in the world," I say. "Nature's done stranger things."

I know all about that.

"Yeah. It has."

We sit in silence for another moment before he says, "Sorry about your mom."

It's so out of nowhere. My chest constricts. I take a breath, pushing the emotions down, and mutter, "Whatever. Shit happens."

"Yeah. Shit happens." He lets out a bitter laugh and reaches for his backpack, unzipping the front compartment to pull out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you smoke?"

"Sure. Sometimes."

He hands me one and lights it for me, then takes one for himself. The tobacco fills my lungs, and the tension leaves my body. Every breath helps. When half of my cigarette has crumbled to ash, I ask, "Why did you decide to talk to me?"

"You looked like you could use a friend."

"So?"

He looks at me. "Well, so do I."

"And you thought I was a good candidate? You don't even know me."

Not to mention the obvious.

With a shrug, he takes a drag and blows out a cloud of smoke. "Fresh start."

"You're weird, man."

"I know."

I shake my head, chuckling. "Alright, Sinclair, humor me. Why do you need a friend?" Because for all intents and purposes, Haley Sinclair is not a lonely person. He's always surrounded by people, joking and laughing like they've known each other since they were in diapers. There are parties, too. I've never been to any of them—I wasn't invited—but I know what happens there. Alcohol, sex, even drugs sometimes, especially when Haley Sinclair is involved, apparently.

"Is this, like, some kind of game?" I ask. "You make someone believe they're your friend and have a laugh about it with your real friends?"

"What real friends, Gus?" Haley mutters, throwing the stub of his cigarette to the left end of the tunnel. He watches it fall. "The ones who hang out with me because my parents own half this town? Or the ones who hang out with me because they don't?"

My eyes roll before I can stop them.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighs.

"I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, you did."

"What makes you think I won't hang out with you because of those reasons?"

"Only—"

The whine of a police car cuts him off.

He freezes, then jumps to his feet, throwing the backpack up into his arms. He seemingly forgot it was open because half of the cans clatter to the pavement, rolling in four different directions. "Shit," he hisses. I glance at the red flashes of law enforcement lighting up the inside of the tunnel, my pulse quickening, before scooping up four cans and stuffing them into the backpack. Haley grabs the remaining cans and yells, "Run!"

The car is already entering the tunnel on the far end, barely fifty feet away. I turn my face away and hunch over to make myself smaller as I run. Not even two seconds pass before Haley pushes the backpack out in front of him, smacking me in the chest with it.

"I'll deal with them," he pants.

"But—"

"Go. You'll get in trouble. I won't."

Somehow I doubt that, even if he's Haley Sinclair, but I take the backpack with a grunt and run. I can still hear his footsteps behind me until I reach the end of the tunnel. Then they stop. I take the first turn I see—a stretch of grass between two houses with abandoned machinery and toys. Behind me, I hear the sound of a bin falling over, trash scattering, and Haley cursing. Car doors. More feet. Shouting.

I know I should keep running. I don't owe it to Haley Sinclair to stay, even if he helped me for no obvious reason other than that he apparently wants to be friends with me. With me.

Perhaps that's why I stay. I'm sitting around the corner, waiting, when I hear two male voices and one female; the policemen and a . . . neighbor, judging by their dialogue. She's telling them where Haley and I went. She cusses us out, too. I frown and pull the backpack against my chest, wondering what she would have said if the burning penises were still visible. She's rather critical of our ocean art. I wait until the policemen get back in their car before I lean around the fence I'm hiding behind.

There's a blonde woman across the street. She's grinning, for some reason, staring after the car as it picks up speed. Then her face shifts, her hair darkens, her shape contorts, until the person I'm looking at is no longer a woman.

It's Haley Sinclair.

☽〇☾

A/N: Please leave lots of comments. (I will die if you don't.) I hope you're enjoying it so far. And if you wanna come and chat with me, I have a Discord server with channels for every book I write and you can also find me in LL, where I have my own little corner. Links to both servers are in my bio.

Also, there's early access to this novella on Patreon. Just in case anyone is confused about that: that means you're getting the whole thing for free on Wattpad, just a bit later. Link to my Patreon is also in my bio.