Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

when Order of the Phoenix came out. The whole year kids called me "phlegm." Eighth grade sucked ass.
    Heath cringes and looks at the floor, "Yeah, okay. I'm sorry, Fleury."
    He surprises me with his capitulation because he usually fights back. He looks contrite this time, too, another out of character reaction. Usually he's so arrogant you can't get an apology out of him. I let go of the frown.
    "I know you weren't expecting me so soon, Heath, but this is ridiculous. You know that, right?"
    Heath shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He won't look at me directly, but he peeks up at me from beneath his lashes once. Where's the confident Heath I remember?
    Something is not right.
    I finally notice the sweat streaming down his face and neck. He must have just finished his run.
    "Go take a shower and clean up. We'll finish the room after we've eaten. I'll order a pizza. I can't find a damn thing to eat in this house except the ramen I saw earlier on the bed." The coaches don't like us to have pizza (or ramen) during track season, but it's not track season until school starts back and I feel like indulging.
    His eyes widen and I swear he flushes ever so slightly as he nods, grabbing a towel off a peg and scooting across the hall to the bathroom. It's a little bit unnerving. I can't find any of the normal Heath in his actions.
    ****
    When Heath joined the team as a freshman, he wouldn't shut up about how great a runner he is and how everyone would be eating his dust. You'd think the new guy would want to fit in and make friends, not alienate himself by pissing off the upperclassmen, but he started talking smack from day one.
    He was king of the hill on the distance runs during his first race season. He and I run the same distances, but I don't run cross-country, so our paths didn't cross until indoor track season started in January.
    On the first day of practice, when he started to brag about his speed, the coach told him to line up against me. I won the first three races against him. To add insult to injury, the longer the distance, the further ahead of him I was when I crossed the finish line. They also tested his baton passing and receiving for relays. He fumbled the pass during most of the drills.
    To this day, I think the coaching staff and the rest of the track team didn't tell him about me on purpose. I think they all took perverse glee from watching him be humiliated by someone better and who doesn't brag about it.
    I just wish they'd told me that I was the secret weapon. I'm the one who has to put up with his attitude because his pride took a dump in front of everyone. My wins didn't humble him, they pissed him off. He pitched one hell of a fit that day. He reminded me a lot of South Park's Cartman whining when things don't go his way.
    My existence offends him because I'm "the reason no one recognizes his greatness." I am his biggest rival on the team, smack-dab in the middle of his path to glory— and chicks. And I'm not even in the race with him on that count, much less competing. I just "make him look not as good as he is." Right.
    His loathing has always been kind of adorable in an annoying, little brotherly sort of way. But it does get old after a while. Really old. Very quickly.
    Thus I was already at the top of his hit list when he discovered my full name and what it means.
    Heath usually takes gleeful pride in pissing me off by addressing me as "flower," so I started calling him "CJ" in retaliation. And I won't tell him what it stands for. Every time he asks, I make up something different, like "court jester." (I was angry the day I told him it meant "cunt juicer". I'm not usually so vulgar.) I rarely say it though. I usually only throw it back at him when he's on my last nerve. After so much time, he knows he's got me when I start calling him that. He makes it a game now to piss me off enough to get me to call him "CJ."
    ****
    I hear the shower start and go find the number for the pizza joint on the fridge. After the call, I run out to my car and grab a couple more boxes. Fortunately, since this is my last semester before graduation, I don't have much with me, just necessities. Setting the boxes on the mattress, I ponder what all we need to do to the room. Laundry, definitely. Organizing and boxing his crap. Vacuuming. And probably a wipe-down with disinfectant won't hurt either.
    Then I can finally unpack.
    I'm separating his clothing into lights and darks when he walks back into the room wearing a