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As they have been every year, the rising juniors of Cavelier Highschool are being provided a new printing of the student handbook, accounting for changing staff and new district bylaws and some new very pointed rules about exactly who is permitted in which bathrooms.
This particular book's cover appears to be a misprint, CMYK all disjoint, but apart from the slightly dizzying misalignment it appears entirely ordinary.
It lands on its appointed desk, and the student passing out books moves on.
...on the one hand, this is going to make him late for class.
On the other hand, dollars to doughnuts, Z is going to get to his locker and forget why he's there.
Camillo follows him.
Z is in the process of entering his locker combination when Camillo shows up.
“—you didn’t have to come,” he says, and then stares at the lock for a moment in despair before starting from the beginning.
"I will take any excuse to miss getting my quiz back, Mr. Harding always hands them out face-up and I don't know if it's worse when I have an A+ or an F."
“Like you ever fail.”
The lock clicks open, and Z peers into his backpack.
“…uh, what was I—”
“Homework,” he confirms, and after a moment of searching he pulls a notebook out of the backpack.
“Did he let you fix it?”
“Man, you need to stick up for yourself.”
He pushes his locker shut and heads back down the hall.
“…well, your bubbles were more wrong, I guess.”
This is where Z has to break off and, after a brief wave, sprint up the stairs to his next class.
Time for chemistry!
(He has an A- on the quiz. It goes in the bottom of his backpack, on top of the student handbook, so he doesn't have to look at the offensive grade any more.)
Z is waiting in their usual spot at lunch.
By the time Camillo sits down, he’s already through most of his sandwich, and is wolfing down the rest of his lunch as fast as possible.
Camillo deconstructs his own sandwich, and nudges the offensive components (tomato slices, the bun with mayo on it) onto Z's plate.
"Did you remember to turn in your homework?"
Ooh, free food. He disappears that too.
“Yep,” he says, a little triumphantly, through a bite of tomato.
He laughs, shoves him a little, and then stands up, tossing him the packet of cookies out of his lunch box before heading down the hall.
He’s still not back after fifteen minutes.
It occurs to Camillo to wonder if "bathroom shift" meant "drop the kids off at the pool" or, like, "do hard drugs." Probably he should go find out if it meant "do hard drugs."
He crams the last of the cookies into his mouth and goes Z-hunting.
He does find him — in the first bathroom he checks, too!
He’s knelt up against the wall by the urinals, getting his throat fucked by a bored-looking senior with one eye on his phone.
There are a few more people in line.
Okay so like.
Number one: hot.
Number two: what.
Number three: it's not like this is, necessarily, totally unprecedented behavior. He would not necessarily have been flabbergasted to find Z sucking dick in the bathroom. But, like ... in a stall. Like a normal person. With one dude. Maybe two, if it was his birthday or something.
Number four: wait, he said shift. Is this a thing Z's doing? Is he charging? Is this sex work? Oh god is his friend a survival sex worker?
Number five: how come he wasn't informed?
Number six: is this even consensual? Did these guys just jump him? That might be Z's number one fantasy but that doesn't make it okay!
Number seven -- and for some reason this is the one that comes out of his mouth --
"--really, dude? On your phone?"
The guy looks aside at him, annoyed.
“What?”
(An exaggerated moan plays quietly from the phone’s tinny speakers.)
Well now he's committed to this angle, apparently.
"Do you seriously have to watch porn to get it up for a blowjob? That's pretty fucking pathetic."
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