For a weekly challenge on bmbficCyanide Torres hated standardized tests.
"I hate them too," said Skids sympathetically. "I hate how you can't draw anywhere outside one little oval. And why do you always have to pick one? What if there's more than one answer you think is right?"
Cy smiled at his friend. But Skids didn't get it. Cyanide didn't just *dislike* standardized tests. He didn't just *object* to the principle. Cyanide felt physically ill when he looked at the little columns of bubbles.
His father had died at 10:37 on a Saturday morning.
While Cyanide was taking the PSAT.
He hadn't wanted to go. How could they expect him to think about synonyms and angle theorems with his papa in the hospital? His papa, who had a laugh like a drumroll? His papa, who had worn the same shoes for eight years while buying his son books about dinosaurs and astronomy? His papa, who had gone to the high school and refused to leave until his son was placed in the highest track of algebra classes when some bigot in the office had assumed Cyanide couldn't possibly be college-bound with a Hispanic last name? But it was his papa who had insisted.
"El hospital no es ningún lugar para un hombre joven," his papa told him. "¿Qué vas a hacer, mira mi cabeza?"
Cyanide told himself over and over that his father had been right, that he couldn't have done anything. That it was just irrational to think that the infection couldn't have gotten his papa if he had been "watching his head". And that it had made him happy when Cyanide had agreed to go ahead and take the exam as scheduled.
"La educacion es la cosa mas importante. ¡Esta prueba le consigue el dinero para la universidad, Cyanide!" Even sick, his father had a forceful voice.
So he had agreed to go, to honor the values his father had taught him. He had wanted to write across the top of the exam that THIS PSAT WAS IN HONOR OF GUSTAVO TORRES, so they knew... but it was like Skids said, you couldn't write anywhere outside the bubbles.
He had tried, as the test dragged on, to remember the questions he struggled over - his papa's last words had been to command him to tell him all about it when he got back, so he would know what to work on for the SATs.
He had run from the exam when he finished, almost forgetting about the hospital in the exhilaration of knowing he had gotten almost every question right. Papa would be so proud!
He found out, later, that he had gotten a 1510. He left the score report on the grave.
Cyanide Torres hated standardized tests.
And two bonus ficlets from when someone on the boymeetsboy message board posted a list of "least likely plot twists"...
Boy Band quits playing punk and finds their true calling: POLKA!
By this time, everyone knew to be wary when Harley called a band meeting.
"Ok, guys, we have a gig!" he announced triumphantly.
Silence.
"And the bad news?" Cy asked in a tone of long-suffering hopelessness.
"Who- who says there has to be bad news?" stuttered Harley.
The other Boy Band members traded glances and waited.
"Okay," Harley sighed, defeated. "My mom wants us to play for my grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary."
"And your grandparents happen to be Operation :Ivy fans?" This was Skids, always optimistic.
"Um... not exactly..."
***
The scary thing was that Skids' uncle actually owned a melodeon and was happy to teach him the basics, and Rasheequa had played trumpet in the high school marching band before she decided it was "too hierarchical".
The *really* scary thing was that they enjoyed it.
For no good reason, cast members just start to blow up. Damn spontaneous human combustion.
Harley found Skids in tears.
"He, he wuh- was right heeere, Harley," he blubbered. "We were t-t-talking about relationships, and he, he said, he said he luh-loved me! And then he just... he just... it was so fast, and he was gooooone..." He broke down into wails.
"Oh, Skids," Harley said, gathering the taller boy into his arms and stroking his back soothingly. "I'm sure he'll come back. It'll be okay, honey. I know it took me a long time to accept the thought of you two together, he probably just got scared, it must have been so hard for him after being "the hetero one" for so long, but it'll all work out, sweetie..."
"You- you don't under*stand*," Skids said, pulling back. "He's really *gone*."
A tiny feather of hope unfurled in Harley's chest.
"Skids," he said, trying to pour all of his passion into his voice. "This doesn't mean you have to be alone. I didn't want to come between you and Cy, but, Skids, I've always loved you-"
There was a *poof*, and Harley ignited. Skids watched as he burned down to a pale smear of ash just like Cyanide had.
"Damn," said Skids. "There goes another one."
(Last line taken from the wonderful Bobs' song "Spontaneous Human Combustion")