Page 10 of Beautifully Conflicted

A shadow blocks my view of the screen right before someone takes the seat next to me, and I look up to find Aiden’s smiling face.

I’m glad to see he isn’t shunning me after yesterday’s interesting video game sesh. Clearly, he didn’t know I knew Bennet—or that we had history—before he invited me over. Despite Bennet’s predictable freak out, Aiden was pretty cool when I left. He even tried to make excuses for me when my mouth kept running.

They seem like good friends, and I’d never want to come between them, but if he’s choosing to sit next to me… I think I can assume that means he’s up for making his own opinion of me instead of takingBennet’s word for it, which I appreciate. Especially since I can’t seem to say anything that doesn’t piss him off, even when I’m not trying to.

“Hey.” I pop out my earbuds.

“SpongeBob?” He tips his head toward my phone screen, where what’s supposed to be an actual fish is comically opening and closing its mouth like, well, like it’s out of water. Personally, I think it’s a thumb moving in back of a stationary fish image, but taken as a whole it does resemble a talking fish, so… I guess it works.

“Bikini Bottom News. It’s how I stay informed about current events.”

He cocks his head to the side like he’s waiting for the punchline, but I stay silent since there isn’t one. Finally, he breaks the awkward pause. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” I hand him an earbud and push play, and Realistic Fish Head resumes talking about a lawsuit against Ticketmaster for being a monopoly.

Aiden visibly starts when the voice echoes in his ear—thebreaking newsintro is kinda loud – then looks at me with wide, astonished eyes. “It’s actual news.”

“Told ya.”

He grabs my phone and scrolls to the next video, about a proposal for part of Oregon to separate from that state and join with Idaho, where their political values are more closely aligned.

“And it’s all facts. There’s no spin on any of it, just…news.”

“I know, right!” I offer a little wiggle in my seat at the fact he thinks it’s cool. I don’t know what Aiden studies, but helookslike a smart guy, so if I’m showing him something he thinks has value, that makes me feel pretty good.

I’ve never been regarded as the sharpest tool in the shed. I’m not an idiot, numbers actually make a lot of sense to me, although mybrain tends to confuse words. However, I know for a fact that I process things better visually—like how plays are drawn out on the whiteboard—and I prefer short and sweet, to the point explanations. Like Bikini Bottom News.

Plus, it’s just funny to watch an animated fish.

“Did you get stuck taking a humanities credit too?” Aiden asks, handing the earbud back to me.

I assume he’s talking about the Culture and Gender in Film course we’re here for. “You didn’t want to take this class?”

“Not really. I’m a computer science major so a class where I expect they’re going to try to explain gay history through film to a gay guy doesn’t really appeal. But I need this, or something like it, to graduate.”

“They’ll probably cover some gay stuff, yeah, but I think they cover wars, religion, and politics too.”

“You sound pretty excited about those topics.”

“I’m studying marketing, so learning how culture influenced film, or vice versa, would probably be useful. Plus,film. Who wouldn’t like a class where we talk about movies?”

Aiden chuckles.

I figure now’s as good a time as any to bring up the shitshow of yesterday. “Hey, sorry for causing shit at your house.”

“How did you cause shit?”

I scratch the bridge of my nose. “Mainly just walking through the front door, I think.”

Aiden gives me a sympathetic smile. “That’s hardly an offensive act.”

“Not to you, but to Bennet it is. I should’ve just left when I realized he lived there.”

“Why do you guys hate each other somuch?”

“I don’t hate him. I want to beat him on the field cause he’s a tough opponent and getting the best of him means my stats look better, but I don’t hate him.”

“Okay, why does he hate you, then?” Aiden’s chocolate eyes don’t hold any bias, just curiosity.

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