The memory of my experience in Mr. Bassett's office was still in my mind during classes the following day. When I thought about Lane and the things that had happened, my mind wandered away from whatever my professor was talking about. A pencil was in my mouth. It tasted unreasonably salty.
After class, I was sitting on a sofa in the school's lounge, clicking away at my laptop. I was finishing up my comp project, but the words were mixing together on the page, incomprehensible. I couldn't pay attention. This was starting to become a problem.
That's when I noticed Lane sitting across the room from me. He had his own laptop out, and he sat there frowning at the screen. He was dressed in a tight black shirt and sweatpants, with a backwards Yankees hat. The prominent veins in his arms were visible even to me. I thought tentatively about yesterday, about what those hands had done to me, about what I wanted those hands to do to me. A rush of chills went through my body at the thought.
"Slower," I could still hear Basset's deep voice in the back of my mind. He had been barking orders at Lane. "Grab his neck. His chest. His..."
I had been told to stay still, to be the object, so to speak. Move every now and then, but nothing drastic. Play the part. Look into Lane's eyes, widen mine, and stay silent. I must have been somewhat okay at it, because Bassett had continually said the words, "Good, Matt." That had to have meant something.
I thought hesitantly about the last thing Bassett had said, "You will be notified of your results in less than twenty-four hours." After this, his webcam had disconnected, leaving me alone with Lane on the sofa.
What did that mean? Our results? Was this some sort of test? What if we failed? These questions and more were whirling around in my mind when I noticed Lane shift in his seat.
He was staring at his computer screen, discomfort covering his features, rereading something over and over, his eyes wild. I was ridiculously curious, until I heard the familiar ding of my own email notification.
I clicked on the message quickly, knowing full well who it had to be from.
From: Robert Bassett (Dean of Student's)
To: Mathew French
Subject: Evaluation 1.0
Subject one (Mathew) performed well, with little assistance. He showed true discipline and desire for excellence. His role was achieved believably, and he exceeded even my own expectations.
Result: will return.
*
Subject two (Lane) performed at a par less than desirable. He showed little self-control and much discomfort. He did not provide a believable performance of his role. However, at the points of his success, he showed bravery and experimentation, which must be noted.
Result: will return (on conditions).
I found myself doing the same thing as Lane, rereading the message until the words began to make sense. I had performed... well? I had done something that Bassett liked. The notion seemed ridiculous. What could Bassett have liked so much about me? Lane was the hot one, easily. His body was out of this world, whereas I was lean, at best. He had those gorgeous green eyes and thick brown hair. What did I have?
