Sam says, “What the hell?” His voice is loud enough to make people stop and stare.
I don’t want him to make a scene. And I don’t want him getting involved. I grab the crook of his elbow and shake my head firmly, silently plead for him to let it go, but he ignores me.
“Knock it off,” he says to Lowell, who throws him a bored look over his shoulder.
“Hey, I might not be an art freak like you two, but I think it’s pretty good so far,” Lowell says. He turns his back to Sam again, taking his own sweet time with his artwork.
Too much time for Sam’s taste, apparently, because he pushes Lowell against the lockers. The sound of his back ramming into the metal makes a tinny thud, and heads everywhere turn to see what’s happening.
Lowell just laughs. “Oooh, you got me, I’m so scared.”
“Maybe you should be.”
What does Sam think he’s doing?
“What are you gonna do, make out with me? Sorry, I’m not into dudes. And what would your little girlfriend think?”
“Shut up,” Sam says, voice rising. “Just shut the hell up.”
“Fuck you. We both know you’re not going to do anything, fag.” Lowell pushes him off and starts to walk away, then throws over his shoulder, “Say hi to Noah for me.”
Sam grabs the back of Lowell’s shirt collar and slams him into the lockers again, harder than before. Way harder. This time Lowell actually flinches a little.
“You don’t get to say his name,” Sam growls. “Not now. Not ever. You hear me, you ignorant, piece-of-shit Neanderthal?”
Lowell wriggles under his grasp. “Dude, let go.”
“Not until you answer me,” Sam replies, shoving him back again.
Some guy down the hall randomly yells, “Oh, snaaa-aaap!”
And I, of course, can only stand there, watching along with everyone else. Passive as always. All of us.
Except for Brendon.