Maps by Nash Summers

not have a too-charming-for-his-own-good gap between his two front teeth.
    Maps didn’t feel all that much like talking anymore. “Sorry Benji, I have to go.”
    “Yeah, no problem. Hope you feel better by tomorrow. See you at school on Monday?”
    “You bet.”
    Maps hung up the phone and flopped back on his pillow. He stared up at the ceiling wishing he was staring at the map on his wall. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, paused, swung them back onto the bed, then crossed his arms over his chest.
    He would not succumb to his stupid emotions and go look at some piece of paper on the wall. He was smarter than that, and much, much tougher.
    Twenty-four seconds ticked by. Maps knew; he counted.
    Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of his bed again, then paused, and swung them back onto the bed.
    “Damn you, self!” he yelled.
    Maps finally hopped off the bed, raced over to the wall, almost tripped on his school bag, and stood in front of that map. It looked so innocent—just a piece of paper. Yet it caused his heart and mind so much grief. He briefly contemplated tearing it off the wall and chucking it into the garbage bin, but he knew that wouldn’t help. It wasn’t the map that had ensnared him, it was Lane.
    Lane. The nicest boy he’d ever met. He might not be on track to winning a MacArthur grant, but he had the best laugh on the planet, and had more patience than a hundred saints combined. He was thoughtful and committed, and the way he blushed when he couldn’t understand a math problem was nothing short of enchanting.
    Maps thought that if he could make an experiment to create a world full of Lane’s, well, that would be a world Maps wouldn’t mind living in.
    It was late; he should be getting to bed. His parents were away visiting his aunt for the evening, and since Maps had complained enough about his shoulder, he hadn’t been forced to go. It was almost worth having Benji’s brother pummel him into the ground to not have to go to Aunt Helen’s house.
    It was old and the furniture was covered in plastic and everything smelled like cats and old coffee beans. Plus, there was nothing fun to do there. The one time Maps had taken some old rags and tied them together to create an experiment on the effects of tying the rag-rope to the rafters and swinging Indiana Jones style, Aunt Helen had yelled at him until his ears bled.
    Instead of grabbing his eReader like he normally would, Maps lay on his back, reached under the side of his bed, grabbed a baseball, and the red baseball cap he kept next to it. After securing the slightly-too-large ball cap on his head and being careful not to drop the baseball and nail himself in the face, he tossed the ball in the air and caught it.
    Maps was getting better. He’d been practicing, of course, because practice makes perfect. He hadn’t told Lane that he was practicing outside of their sessions and he definitely hadn’t told Lane that he’d worn Lane’s old red ball cap each time he did, but he had a feeling that Lane already knew—at least the part about the practicing. He’d made such a big deal over the amount Maps had improved in such a short amount of time that it made Maps’ stomach swirl like a whirlpool.
    He tossed the baseball up in the air and caught it, trying his best but failing to not think of Lane.
    Minutes, hours, maybe lifetimes flew by until he heard a gentle tapping sound at the window. Maps whipped his head to the side and looked at the window, forgetting about the baseball. It dropped with a heavy thud on his chest.
    “Maps?” Lane whispered from outside.
    Maps’ heart skipped a beat. Or two. Okay, probably more like all the beats and he was now the walking dead. His body broke out into a cold sweat, his tongue was proverbially tied, and he couldn’t seem to make his legs work.
    Maps wanted to move, wanted to speak, wanted to do something, anything, but his brain only had one singular thought at that