The Glass House Inquisition

Amidst the humidity of the school conservatory, a misplaced journal sparks a theatrical war of words between two boys who feel too much. Accusations of betrayal crumble under the weight of a far more terrifying truth.

The humidity in the conservatory was a physical weight, pressing wet wool against the back of Jack’s neck. Outside, the spring sky had bruised itself purple, threatening a deluge that the glass roof seemed ill-equipped to handle. The air handler in the corner rattled with a persistent, mechanical cough, vibrating the metal potting benches.

Jack stood by the propagation station, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the galvanized steel table. He felt sick. Not the vague nausea of a missed lunch, but the hot, roiling sickness of humiliation. Across from him, standing with infuriating stillness between a rack of ferns and a dying fiddle-leaf fig, was Sammie.

Sammie looked unbothered. That was the worst part. He was wearing his debate blazer, the navy one with the gold buttons that Jack had always secretly thought made him look like a tragic sea captain, but right now, it just made him look like a lawyer prepared to dismiss a nuisance lawsuit. Sammie was checking his watch. He was actually checking his watch while Jack’s entire social existence hung in the balance.

"We have five minutes before the bell rings," Sammie said. His voice was a low baritone, polished smooth by years of public speaking drills. It lacked urgency. It lacked guilt.

"Do not cite the schedule to me," Jack snapped, his voice cracking mid-sentence. He hated that crack. It was a betrayal of his own larynx. He gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly knocking over a tray of seedlings. "We are past the point of schedules, Sammie. We are in the realm of high treason."

Sammie sighed, a sound of long-suffering patience that grated against Jack’s nerves like sandpaper. "Treason. You always escalate to capital crimes. I moved a notebook, Jack. I did not sell nuclear secrets."

"You didn't just move it!" Jack lunged forward, stopping only when the toe of his sneaker hit a puddle of rusty water on the concrete floor. "You took it. You sequestered it. And then—and this is the part that truly requires a sprawling, multi-volume explanation—I find it in the hands of the drama department head? Mr. Harrison was reading it, Sammie. Reading. My. Drafts."

The accusation hung in the humid air, heavier than the moisture. The notebook in question was a battered Moleskine, held together by hope and an elastic band that had lost its snap months ago. It contained not just Jack’s chaotic scrawlings for the playwriting competition, but things that were… less for public consumption. Notes. Observations. Sketches of a certain person’s profile when they were focused on a calculus problem.

Sammie adjusted his cuffs. "Mr. Harrison is a surprisingly astute critic. You should value his input."

"Value his—?" Jack choked on the absurdity. "It wasn’t ready! It was raw! It was unedited, unpolished, and unauthorized! You violated the sanctity of the draft, Sammie. It’s the one rule. The only rule between us."

"It was stagnating," Sammie said, his tone shifting from dismissive to something sharper. He took a step closer, his boots crunching on grit. "You’ve been rewriting that second act for three months. You were going to miss the submission deadline. Again. I simply… expedited the process."

"You had no right," Jack hissed. The anger was a hot wire in his chest, vibrating. But beneath the anger was the terrifying drop of vulnerability. If Harrison had read the play, he had read the subtext. And the subtext wasn't subtle. It was a neon sign screaming about unrequited longing set against a backdrop of a dystopian debate team. "You don’t get to play god with my work just because you think you know better."

"Someone has to," Sammie countered, and for the first time, his mask slipped. His jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping near his ear. "You were drowning in doubt. I pulled you out. If that makes me a villain in your little melodrama, so be it."

"My little melodrama?" Jack laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "Oh, that’s rich coming from you. You, who treats every student council motion like it’s the Treaty of Versailles. You think because you don’t wave your arms and shout that you aren’t dramatic? You’re the most dramatic person I know, Sammie. You just hide it behind that suffocating wall of competence."

Thunder rumbled overhead, a low growl that shook the glass panes. The rain began, tapping tentatively at first, then drumming with increasing violence. The noise enclosed them, sealing them into the greenhouse. The world outside—the sprawling suburban campus, the pristine athletic fields, the parking lot full of parents’ SUVs—ceased to exist. It was just the smell of wet dirt and the electricity crackling between them.

Sammie looked away, staring at a row of thirsty succulents. "I did it for you," he said, his voice lower, almost lost under the rain. "Harrison thinks it's brilliant, by the way. He wants to produce it for the spring showcase."

Jack froze. The wind went out of his sails so fast he felt dizzy. "What?"

"He called it 'visceral' and 'uncomfortably honest'," Sammie recited, looking back at Jack. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. "He asked if the protagonist was based on anyone specific."

The blood drained from Jack’s face. "And what did you say?"

"I said it was an amalgamation," Sammie said smoothly. "A literary construct."

"You lied," Jack whispered.

"I protected the narrative," Sammie corrected. "And the author."

Jack leaned back against the potting bench, the metal digging into his lower back. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt exposed, peeled open like an orange. Sammie had read it. Of course he had read it. He wouldn't have given it to Harrison without vetting it first. Sammie vetted everything.

"So you read it," Jack said. It wasn't a question.

Sammie didn't answer immediately. He walked over to a workbench and idly picked up a pair of pruning shears, testing the spring mechanism with his thumb. Click. Click. Click. "I did."

"And?" Jack’s voice was barely audible over the rain.

"The dialogue in the second scene is derivative," Sammie critiqued, keeping his eyes on the shears. "The protagonist… the 'brooding intellectual' archetype… he speaks in run-on sentences when he’s nervous. It’s annoying."

Jack felt a flush rise up his neck. "It’s a character flaw."

"It’s a mirror," Sammie said. He set the shears down with a heavy clatter. He turned to face Jack fully, bridging the distance between them with two long strides. He was close now. Too close. Jack could smell him—clean laundry detergent, old paper, and the faint, bitter scent of coffee. "You wrote me, Jack. You didn't even bother to change the cadence of my speech."

Jack swallowed. There was nowhere to look but at Sammie’s tie, a striped silk thing that was perfectly knotted. "It’s fiction."

"The protagonist confesses his love in a monologue on page forty-two," Sammie continued, relentless. "He says, 'I hate him because he makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and I’m terrified I’m going to jump.'"

"It’s a metaphor," Jack argued feebly, pressing himself harder against the bench.

"Is it?" Sammie stepped into Jack’s personal space. He was taller, broader, a solid wall of presence. He placed a hand on the potting bench, just to the left of Jack’s hip, effectively boxing him in. "Because it felt specific. It felt… observed."

Jack’s breath hitched. The air in the greenhouse felt suddenly thin. "You had no right to read that part. That was—that was in the margins. It wasn't part of the script."

"I read the margins, Jack. I always read the margins. That’s where you actually say what you mean."

The rain lashed against the roof, a chaotic percussion that matched the riot in Jack’s head. He wanted to push Sammie away, to scream at him for invading his privacy, for stripping him bare. But more than that, he wanted to grab the lapels of that stupid navy blazer and pull him closer.

"You’re mocking me," Jack whispered, his eyes stinging. "You think it’s funny. The little writer boy and his pathetic crush."

Sammie’s expression shifted. The cool detachment cracked, revealing something raw and blazing underneath. "Is that what you think this is? Mockery?" His voice dropped, rougher now. "You think I risked detention, theft, and Harrison’s insufferable breath on my face to mock you?"

"Then why?" Jack demanded, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. "Why interfere? Why force this?"

"Because you were never going to do it yourself!" Sammie shouted, the volume startling in the small space. "You were going to let that notebook rot in your bag because you’re a coward, Jack! You write these beautiful, devastating things, and then you hide them. You hide yourself."

"I am not hiding!" Jack shouted back.

"You are!" Sammie slammed his hand against the metal table, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. "You wrote a hundred pages about how much you want me, and you’ve never said a single word to my face. Do you know how maddening that is? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the subject of your art but not the object of your affection?"

The silence that followed was deafening. The rain seemed to pause, the world holding its breath.

Jack stared at him, mouth slightly open. "What?"

Sammie looked furious. His chest was heaving, his composure shattered. He looked, for the first time, like a teenager who was in over his head. "You heard me."

"Subject, but not…" Jack’s mind raced, trying to parse the grammar of Sammie’s outburst. "Wait. Are you saying… you wanted me to say it?"

Sammie let out a short, bitter laugh. "I wanted you to do something. Anything. Scream at me. Kiss me. Hit me. Anything other than writing soliloquies in a notebook and pretending I’m just your debate partner."

Jack felt the floor tilt. The anger was draining away, replaced by a terrifying, buoyant hope. "I thought you’d hate it," he admitted, his voice trembling. "I thought you’d think it was… unprofessional."

"Unprofessional," Sammie repeated, shaking his head. He looked exhausted. "We aren’t colleagues, Jack. We’re seventeen. We aren't supposed to be professional. We’re supposed to be… this."

"This?" Jack asked.

"Messy," Sammie said. "Stupid. Honest."

Jack looked at the hand Sammie still had planted on the table. It was trembling slightly. The great Sammie, the unshakeable debate captain, was shaking. That small, imperfect detail broke Jack’s heart in the best way possible.

"I was scared," Jack whispered. "I am scared."

"Good," Sammie said. He moved his hand, sliding it slowly along the metal until his pinky finger brushed against Jack’s. The contact was electric. "Fear suggests you understand the stakes."

"And what are the stakes?" Jack asked, his voice barely a breath.

Sammie looked at him, really looked at him, with an intensity that made Jack’s knees weak. "Everything," Sammie said. "Absolute ruin. Or… the opposite."

Jack let out a shaky breath. "You’re so dramatic."

"I learned from the best," Sammie murmured.

The distance between them had vanished. Jack didn't remember moving, or maybe Sammie had moved, but suddenly they were breathing the same air. The smell of rain and coffee was overwhelming. Jack reached up, his hand hovering uncertainly before settling on Sammie’s shoulder. The wool of the blazer was damp.

"So," Jack said, trying to regain some shred of his usual verbal dexterity. "The play. Harrison really liked it?"

Sammie rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it. "Focus, Jack."

"I am focusing. I'm focusing on the fact that you committed larceny for my artistic career."

"I committed larceny for us," Sammie corrected. He leaned in, his forehead resting against Jack’s. His skin was hot. "Because if I had to spend one more afternoon watching you chew on your pen and stare at me without saying anything, I was going to set the library on fire."

Jack laughed, a startled, bubbly sound. "Arson. Another capital crime."

"I’m a desperate man," Sammie muttered.

Then he kissed him. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was clumsy, forceful, and desperate. Sammie’s mouth was hard against Jack’s, tasting of mint and unspoken arguments. Jack gasped, his hands flying up to grip Sammie’s lapels, pulling him closer, anchoring him. It was a collision of teeth and breath, a release of months of tension stored in the muscles of their jaws.

Sammie groaned, a low sound in his throat, and wrapped his arms around Jack’s waist, lifting him slightly, pressing him back against the potting bench. A clay pot was knocked over in the process, shattering on the concrete floor, but neither of them flinched. The sound was just punctuation.

Jack’s mind, usually a cacophony of anxious thoughts and editing notes, went blissfully silent. There was only the pressure of Sammie’s hands, the heat of his body, the rough texture of his hair under Jack’s fingers. This was real. This wasn't a draft. This was the final performance.

They broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together. Jack’s lips felt bruised. He opened his eyes and saw Sammie watching him with a look of terrifying openness. The mask was gone. There was just a boy, looking at him like he was the only source of light in the room.

"Page forty-two," Sammie whispered, his voice rough. "You need to rewrite the ending."

"Oh?" Jack managed, his voice sounding wrecked. "What’s wrong with the ending?"

"The protagonist walks away," Sammie said. "He leaves the other boy standing in the rain. It’s a tragedy."

"It felt realistic at the time," Jack defended weaky.

"It’s garbage," Sammie said firmly. "Rewrite it."

"What do you suggest?" Jack asked, running his thumb along Sammie’s cheekbone.

Sammie turned his head, kissing Jack’s palm. "Make them stay. Make them figure it out. Even if it’s messy."

Jack smiled, a genuine, crooked smile that felt like it cracked his face open. "I can do that. But I’ll need to do some research. Experiential learning."

"I’m available for consultation," Sammie said, his lips curving into a smirk that was pure trouble.

The rain was still hammering the glass, a relentless assault, but inside the greenhouse, the storm had broken. Jack looked at the shattered pot on the floor, the dirt spilled over Sammie’s pristine boots. It was a mess. It was perfect.

"Sammie," Jack said, suddenly serious.

"Hmm?"

"You still stole my notebook. I’m not forgiving that immediately. There will be penance."

Sammie pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow. "I expect nothing less. I’m sure you’ll devise a punishment that is suitably elaborate and poetic."

"I'm thinking public apology," Jack mused. "Or maybe you have to star in the play. As the brooding love interest."

Sammie paled. "Absolutely not. I work behind the scenes. I am the power behind the throne, Jack, not the jester upon it."

"We'll see," Jack teased. He felt light, untethered. "But for now..."

"For now," Sammie interrupted, leaning back in. "Shut up."

He was about to kiss him again, to seal the deal, when the heavy metal door of the conservatory creaked open with a groan of rusted hinges. A beam of artificial light cut through the gloom, sweeping across the rows of plants.

"Hello?" A voice boomed out. It was Mr. Harrison. "I saw the lights. Is someone in here?"

Sammie and Jack froze. They were tangled together against a potting bench, surrounded by broken pottery, looking thoroughly disheveled. There was no back exit. The beam of the flashlight swung closer, dancing over the ferns, inching toward their corner.