

Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the Author
Also from Dreamspinner Press

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
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Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Summer Song
Copyright © 2010 by Louise Blaydon
Cover Art by Justin James www.wix.com/qpm2010/justinjames
Cover Design by Mara McKennen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61581-452-7
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
June, 2010
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-453-4
For Heike,
my inspiration and support
in this and outside of it.
The only thing that sticks to Billy Bronner is sex. That's what the guys say, anyway, and I've got to admit, I've never seen any counterevidence.
You're gonna tell me everybody catches shit. Well, buddy, as a general rule, you're right, of course. Everybody from the jocks to the calculus nerds gets screwed over somehow: you're failing math, so they want to throw you off the football team; or you've aced every test you ever took but you suck on the field, which is just as bad. Some teacher hates you. That chick you're crushing on laughed in your face. Everybody gets screwed over, one way or the other, because that's just the way high school works.
Thing is, Billy isn't everybody. He's not even somebody. It's like he's in this little box all on his own, and maybe it's got a nonstick coating or something, like one of those expensive frying pans, 'cause he doesn't catch anything he doesn't want to keep ahold of. In this neck of the woods, let me tell you: Billy Bronner? He's a man apart.
Looking at his permanent record, you'd be damn lucky if you could find an empty space to put your stamp without obscuring some facet of his demigodhood. Captain of first-string football, obviously. Honor roll student. Ranked first in his class in Lit and French and half a dozen other things, and---although it doesn't say this on his record---you can take it from me, he never lifted a finger to study. Record-wise, Billy Bronner is the goddamn American dream.
Off the record, there's still not a speck on this cat's shine. Good-looking, undoubtedly, with the kind of face guys respect and girls go crazy for. Great threads. Great car. It's a '49 Chevy, bright blood-red, and he got it for nothing 'cause he works in his uncle's garage in the evenings, poking the undersides of cars until they run again. That Chevy was a wreck when he got her, and he fixed her up with the kind of care you'd show a little girl. She's his pride and joy, and of course, all the chicks want a ride in her. Result is, Billy gets a ride on all the chicks. That's just the kind of luck this guy has. And the worst of it is, apart from a general assumption that he can be pretty damn arrogant when he feels like it, people like him. Not only is he incredibly good-looking, talented, dexterous, clever, and charming, he is also---drum roll, please---pretty much a nice guy.
Bet you hate him, don't you? That's the thing---if you met him, you wouldn't. I mean, he can be a little oblivious, sure, and that rubs some people the wrong way, but you just gotta realize he doesn't mean anything by his bullshit; there's no malice in him. You met him with an open mind, and he'd just grin his hundred-watt grin at you and call you "buddy," and you'd be lost. Trust me. I know.
Nothing gets under Billy's skin. Everybody knows that.
This is the story of what happened when something did.
There's something about that dry-paper smell of new books in September that makes summer feel like a long-forgotten dream. Driving in on the first day of a new semester, and Billy's beautiful ride feels like a hearse. He's got all his attention on the road, eyes dark-smudged underneath from one last sleepless summer night, and my eyes are on him, 'cause something about the set of his shoulders just isn't like Billy at all.
"Hey, Kit?" Caitlyn creeps her little hand into mine. "What you thinking about?"
Damn. I must look like my attention's wandered. It's all right, baby; I'm not thinking about that chick with the hair, or even Marianne "D-Cup" Barrett. That's not me. I've only got eyes for Caitlyn, but right now I want to know why Billy looks like death warmed up. He's chewing gum, jaw working casually, methodically, but there's something in his face like everything broke in the night, and I want to know what everything is. Can't fool me, Billy-boy. I remember you with braces on your teeth.
I put my arm around Caitlyn's shoulders and give her a little squeeze. "Nothing, baby," I tell her, 'cause I don't feel like explaining, not right now. "Hoping it isn't Calculus first period."
"It will be," Bill throws in dully, as he flicks on his turn signal and glances both ways for traffic, looking magnificently, devastatingly bored. I roll my eyes.
"Hey, who rained on your parade?" From here in the backseat, I can just see a packet of gum sticking out of the pocket of his jeans. One arm still around Caitlyn, I lean forward and snatch it. He slaps at my hand but I'm too quick, and I grin at him as I pop a stick into my mouth. He makes a face.
"The hell are you doing? You can't just go taking things out of a man's goddamn pockets---"
"Eyes on the road, Billy," I tell him easily, and he flips me the finger and puts both hands back on the wheel. Caitlyn laughs. A muscle twitches in his face, but he doesn't say anything else. He's taking the high road this morning, Billy is. Problem is, I know him, and I know he's quite capable of taking that road right off a goddamn cliff, if I let him.
I've got no intention of letting him.
"Where were you last night?" I ask, extracting a second stick of gum for Caitlyn. "I called you and your mom said you were out."
"Went for a walk," says Billy, without looking round.
Now, if there's one thing Billy Bronner can't do, it's lie. He knows it, and he damn well knows I know it. So when he tries a blatant untruth like that one, what he means is he doesn't want to talk about it, and whatever he's actually said, what everybody hears is "none of your goddamn business." I try to catch his eye in the rearview mirror, but he's looking away, watching the curb as we pull into the parking lot. Here already, and he's decided to play the international man of mystery, and it's probably gonna be Calculus first period.
Yeah, there's that new-semester feeling. It's kind of like the feeling you get when you realize you just sat on someone's gum.
Billy switches the engine off and leaps out of the car. There was a time when Billy was capable of exiting a car like a normal person, but those days are long gone. Now, he invariably stands up and vaults over the closed driver's door, and he's damn lucky he's a limber little thing, 'cause most of the guys I've seen pull that trick have got four or five inches on him, heightwise. This morning, though, it gives me a little hope to see him do that, he's been acting so unlike himself.
I mean, Billy's a sunbeam, as a rule. No two ways about it; if he's not laughing about something, it's usually only because he's got his sexface on, trying to charm his way up some chick's skirt. And today---well, let's just say the outlook is cloudy.
I get out of the car---yes, like a normal person---and hold the door open for Caitlyn. By the time I've got her hand in mine again and the door slammed behind us, he's walking away, collar up and hips swinging. Billy wears his pants too goddamn tight, a denim second skin from waist to ankle. I tell him it makes him look like he's selling something obscene, but the girls go stupid for it, so why would he listen to me?
"Billy!" I holler after him. He hesitates, and then looks round.
"What?"
"Where you going?"
He's patting his pockets. Like there's even a chance he could have missed something in the negative space between his jeans and his skin. "Homeroom. You still got my gum?"
I toss it to him, and he snatches it deftly out of the air, easy as you might expect from a cat who plays every sport going like he was born to do it. "Wait up, and we'll come with you."
He waits, but he doesn't look too happy about it. He's got this look on his face like he doesn't want to be here, and while that's not surprising in itself---I guess nobody wants to be here, except a few select freaks---there's an edge of cynicism under it that I haven't seen in Billy's face before, and would never have expected to see there. I'm just thinking about this, as Lyn and I cross the yard toward him, when the look... changes.
It's shock, now, pure and simple. Shock, and then, in the aftermath of that first stunned, blank expression, a quick succession of other things flickering over his face. Recognition, definitely, from the first; then anxiety, a distinct oh shit expression; and maybe a little something else I can't put my finger on. He's just seen someone unexpected, clearly, and I swing around quick as blinking to find out who this apparition is.
The other side of the yard is pretty empty---kids always tend to gather close to the building on the first day of a new school year, it's easier to find your buddies that way---so it doesn't take much to work out who's in his line of sight. Thing is, this cat's so damn unlikely I almost think the relevant person must have dodged out of the way before I could turn my head. But Billy's still staring, and his forty-yard stare's still directly aligned with this guy's face, so I put my doubts aside and give him the once-over.
Judging on his clothes alone, I'd have called him a nerd. He's totally square from head to foot: sweater under a blazer; shirt under that; neat, pressed pants like my dad wears to work. I'm looking at his face, though, and something about it makes me quail from calling him anything at all. It's a strong face, all planes and angles and high cheekbones, and eyes so black you can't stop looking. Jewish face, I'd guess, good-looking in a severe sort of way. Dark hair, lots of it, parted on one side, and a twist to his mouth that says don't fuck with me.
He's staring at Billy, no doubt about it. And Billy's staring back at him like he just saw a goddamn ghost, which, however threatening this cat's expression is---and I admit, it's pretty damn unnerving---seems like an overreaction. The only things I'm sure of in this situation are firstly, that I've never seen this guy before in my goddamn life, and secondly, that Billy most definitely has.
"Billy," I begin warily. I'm about to ask him something, everything, like who the hell this kid is, and how Billy knows him, and why he's got that look on his face, and whether this has anything to do with how weird he seems today in general. But before I can even draw breath to go on, Billy's shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walked off at a pace that says pretty clearly that I'd better not follow if I like my nose the shape it is. Caitlyn looks at me with a question in her eyes, and all I can do is shrug, because I'm just as in the dark about all this as she is.
And when I glance back across the yard, wanting to know how the mystery guy has reacted to Billy's abrupt departure, I find that he's gone too.
New-semester feeling. I can tell you, it's a drag.
The lunch bell rings, and Billy's somehow managed to avoid me all day, unless you count the brief moment between second and third period when he hit me in the arm with his bag as we passed the drinking fountain in the atrium. As we were both moving at great speed, in opposite directions, I don't think I really need to take it into account. Especially since he, whether by accident or design, didn't even make eye contact. Talk about ships passing in the night. We haven't had any classes together yet, so I'm looking forward to catching up with him to compare timetables, see whether he's in any of my afternoon classes. And, hey, I want to know if he had Calculus first period, 'cause Lyn and I were in the chem lab, but I'm still damn sure there must have been someone doing calculus first thing after summer vacation. It just wouldn't be high school, after all, without those subtle touches of administrative evil.
The period before lunch, I'm in a physics class with Mr. Rosenberg, who pissed me off all junior year with his illegible handwriting, so I'm not in the best possible mood when I get to the cafeteria. I look around for Billy, of course, but he isn't here yet. Caitlyn is, though, sitting by the window with Angela and Marianne, and a couple of other chicks I know by sight but not by name. She waves at me when she sees me, and I throw her a wink to indicate that I'll be over as soon as I've picked up lunch.
It's not like Billy to be late for lunch. I said already that he wasn't acting like himself, but this is something really serious. I can't actually remember the last time he wasn't in line ahead of me when I got down here for lunch period, even when I was setting record times for the journey down. I'm just starting to get worried---the weird-looking stuff they're passing off as spaghetti is only adding to the creeping sense of unease---when I see him saunter in, hands in his pockets, hair fallen over his forehead in that perfect goddamn wave. He's chewing gum, swinging his hips, not looking at anything he doesn't have to. To everyone else, I guess he just looks like Billy Bronner, going about his daily business: cool, collected, just a little above it all. To me, though, his indifference is telling, that jocklike moody expression a world away from his usual cheery demeanor. He should have been grinning at me by now; he should have been calling out, "Hey, Kit, you save me a seat?" and slapping my pockets for smokes. Hell, Billy Bronner is late for lunch. That on its own is quite enough to tell me that something's gone wrong with the works.
"Bill!" I wave a hand, gesturing for him to come join me. He nods acknowledgement, and sure, the corners of his mouth quirk up, but it's not exactly a smile, you know. Not from a guy like Billy, who can throw out a stunner like it's nothing. When he reaches me, plastic tray in hand, I nudge his shoulder, trying to jolt him back into some sense of normality.
"Hey. Lemme guess---you had Calculus first period?"
"I had Am Lit," says Billy, picking up milk cartons and shaking them till he finds one that satisfies whatever test he's carrying out here. How it's different from any of the ones that came before it, I don't have a damn clue, but there it is.
Goddamn. This is like pulling teeth. I feel like a dentist with a whole enormous mouth to denude, and I'm still struggling on the first molar. I sigh, and decide to go straight in for the kill.
"Billy," I begin, going for casual, "is something wrong?"
He shrugs. "I hate spaghetti?"
I look at the spaghetti on his plate and shake my head. This is typical Bill evasion, and I'm not gonna fall for it. "Who doesn't? Apart from that."
"Why should anything be wrong?"
That's when I see him. Billy's glaring at me, on the defensive, anticipating my reply, but suddenly I'm looking past him. Bill's face goes a weird color in my peripheral vision and he turns around to follow my gaze, all the way to the skinny guy on the other side of the cafeteria, with his square old-man clothes and his coal-black eyes. I look him over a minute, and then catch Bill's eye again. "You tell me, Billy-boy. Who's that cat?"
Billy gathers up his tray and immediately tries to move away. "Nobody."
"Don't give me that bullshit!" I stick out an arm to bar his way. For a second, he looks like he might actually hit me or something, just to get past. But then his shoulders kind of slump, and he looks up at me with this face that's gone all weirdly slack, like all the fight's gone out of him, and that's worse.
He says, "He's just some guy, Kit. We---we got in a... a fight, but I thought he was going back off to Massachusetts or someplace, so it wouldn't matter. And instead, turns out he's here, so I'm understandably pissed about it." He shoots me a look with a little of the old fire in it. "Okay?"
I hold up my hands, like I surrender. "Okay, okay." I point across the room to where the girls are sitting. "Let's just go eat, all right?"
"Sure," Billy says, tossing me a smile like he's trying to console me or something, and he picks up his tray and does as he's told, for once.
At the table, everyone's talking at once, comparing their timetables and their vacation spots and their holiday flings. Billy smiles and nods and compliments the chicks, and everyone's pleased to see him, just exactly as usual.
Seems like I'm the only one who's noticed that he doesn't say a single damn word about himself.
And that's not usual at all.
After last period, Billy drives me and Caitlyn home.
This is established fact, and has been since the week after Billy's sixteenth birthday, when he showed up at my door at the wheel of his massive Chevy, grinning all over his face and desperate to take me for a spin. Man, he was pleased with himself. I don't think he stopped grinning for that whole crazy ride he took me on, weaving in and out of the city blocks, past the garage where he picked her up, past the soda fountain so's we could stick up our fingers at the guys from school and laugh.
He was so damn proud of that car---although, of course, back in those days she wasn't even close to being the sexy lady she is today. Nah, she had paint peeling off her every damn place, and I gotta admit, her suspension left her a little closer to the road than I might have liked. But she was Billy's, and he was gonna fix her up good, and he didn't care what she looked like for now, because she was a car, dammit, and that meant freedom. That meant we were grown-ups, man; that meant we could go to drive-in movies and slip off into the next town on weekends, if we could afford the gas. And of course---I think this was Billy's major concern---when you have your own set of wheels, you can take your girl down to that place up at the edge of town where the seniors go, and if you're lucky, and you've been good, she might let you touch her tits through her shirt. If you've been good.
That car opened up a whole world of possibilities for us, and for Billy in particular, I'm tellin' ya.
Today, though, I have kind of an awful moment as I swing by the main steps after last period, and he isn't there. We're seniors this year. That means we got a duty to be cool, even those of us who maybe never managed it completely before, and cool guys? Do not ride the bus. They especially don't confess to the beautiful girl who's wearing their class ring that, actually, honey, today we gotta sit behind a load of tenth-graders and duck spitwads, because my number one guy, who I'm always telling you I'd trust with my life, has left us in the lurch. For some inexplicable reason, apparently connected with the fact that he's acting like he's losing his goddamn mind.
For a second, I just stand there, rocking to and fro a little on the balls of my feet, and fume. We didn't have any afternoon classes together, Billy and I, and Caitlyn's timetable snatched her from my side and delivered her into the welcoming arms of Home Ec for last period, when I was struggling alone through the perils and pitfalls of Calculus II. (Finally. I knew it had to happen at some point). I didn't even see Billy in the hallway. The year before last, we somehow wound up in different classes for everything, and sure, it was a major drag, but Billy still never failed to meet me thirty seconds after the bell had rung, that grin on his face and his keys in his hand.
And today... well, there's sure as hell no Billy. I spot Caitlyn after a second, halfway up the stairs in the middle of a gaggle of chicks in wide-swung skirts who look like they're exchanging books, or knitting patterns, or ancient mystic secrets, all those kinda things girls like. Now, obviously, I can't actually not address her, however afraid I may be of the violent and socially devastating embarrassment that's gonna ensue for both of us when I confess to being without a ride today. She's my girl, after all, and we've been going steady for a while. We've got to stick together through thick and thin, even when the thin part's finer than a strand of dental floss halved, and is driven by a balding guy answering to "Bubba." Still, a guy can be forgiven for taking a minute to compose himself in circumstances like these. So I'm standing there, leaning on the balustrade and taking calming breaths, wondering where the fuck Billy's got to and thinking up insults to throw at him when I next see him. Picture me doing this. You got it? There I am, in jeans that aren't ridiculously tight, and my football jacket. For purposes of detailing, I'm number eight. There's Caitlyn on the stairs; you'll know her by the fact that she's the one I've got my eyes on, and also 'cause she's prettier than all the rest of 'em put together. See this scene, right, buddy? Hold it right there in your head.
Okay. Now I want you to sketch into your mental tableau a total jackass in painted-on pants, sauntering up behind me without a sound, and grabbing me by the shoulder. I want you to put that bit in because that's what happens next, before I've thought up what I'm gonna say to Caitlyn, or even adequately constructed a line of argument to level at Bill when I get my hands on him. And now here he is with his hands on me, and for a second, I'm speechless. Then he says, "Hey, Kit," and his tone is so goddamn nonchalant that my own voice surges back into my throat all in one whoosh, the way the air whooshes out of a balloon when you let go of its neck---although kinda in reverse, I guess, here.
Anyway, I take hold of his damn unauthorized grabbing hand and I scowl at him, and I say, "Don't do that, Billy, jeez." He has the grace to look a little sheepish, and pulls his hand away immediately, which makes me soften a bit, but I still sound pretty damn irritated when I go on. "Where the goddamn hell were you?"
He hesitates. And then I see his eyes flicker sideways, away from mine and beyond me. I guess he doesn't expect me to notice, and it's a tiny gesture, minuscule, but I'm on the lookout for Billy today and I catch it, and frown, and turn quick as thought... and who d'you reckon I see?
Damn right, it's him. Our mystery man, alone and sullen-faced, slinking across the other side of the front yard with his satchel over his arm. He walks kinda strangely, really straight-backed and upright, and every facet of his office-boy outfit is still as immaculate as it was this morning, like he hasn't just sat through four periods straight on a dusty California afternoon. He's looking at Billy as I look at him. Looks at Billy all the way over to his neat little boxy car, and damn him, Billy's looking back, and this is getting fucking weird.
"Billy," I demand, turning back to him, "seriously, who the fuck is that?"
But Billy only shakes his head, pulling himself suddenly upright, and kind of claps my shoulder again, like he didn't even hear what I asked him, even though I know damn well he did. "Come on," he's saying. "I'm sorry---got held up. Hey, Caitlyn!"
Before I can protest, he's waving her over, and her face lights up at the sound of his voice so's I can't bring myself to pursue it. She's got the cutest way of running, Caitlyn, like some kind of little skipping dance, and she's doing it now from the stoop to my side with her wide skirt flaring around her. She puts her hand in mine immediately, and she kisses my cheek and says something teasingly to Billy, like, "Gonna be late every day this semester, Bill?" and he's smiling as he turns toward the car, like nothing's going on.
But something fucking is, and it's all tied up with that sharp-faced cat, and whatever the hell he did to get to Billy the way he has. And if Billy thinks I won't find out about it, I can tell you right here and now he's got another goddamn think coming.
I get in the car beside Caitlyn, fuming quietly while the two of them make small talk about Mrs. Rogerson's beard, and whether it's grown over the summer. Oh, Billy, you're a sly one, but I know you like I know the inside of my own mouth, and you can't play innocent with me. Nuh-uh, Billy, I'm onto you, and I'm gonna get to the bottom of this if it's the last damn thing I ever do.
Monday's not exactly a big night for after-hours fun, especially not on the first day back after summer vacation, so normally I wouldn't be concentrating on anything but my own damn back-to-school business. But nobody's gone crazy with the homework, for once---which is a pretty shocking occurrence and should be taken advantage of---and, more importantly, I want to know what Billy-boy is up to. Hell, it's not like you'd ever catch him doing any homework, anyway. I mean, he'd never give a teacher an excuse to throw him into detention; always breezes into class with something in hand, which usually works its way back to him next period with an A in the top right corner. But I've never in my life managed to catch him doing any of this stuff. It's like he's got a load of little house-pixies doing it while he's asleep or something, copying his handwriting absolutely to the last scrawled flourish, and always knowing everything about everything.
Nah. Even if Billy's got a shitload of work to do, he won't be doing it at six in the evening. So I make my excuses after dinner, slip upstairs to commandeer the phone in Mom and Dad's room, and call his house.
"Hello?"
It's his mom, same as yesterday. I have this thing I do when I end up having to talk to people's parents on the telephone, where for some reason I get this polite smile on my face even though they can't see I'm doing it, and the only purpose it actually serves is to make the muscles in my cheeks ache. I can feel myself doing it now as I say, "Evening, Mrs. Bronner. Is Billy around, please?"
"Is that Christopher?" she asks me.
"Yes, ma'am."
"All right, honey. Give me a minute."
I nod consent, and then sit there listening to the sound of her footsteps retreating from the phone for about forty seconds before I remember that, you know, people can't hear you nodding down the phone line. I can hear Billy's stupid huge-ass Rottweiler bounding around in the background, wuffing to itself, and Mrs. Bronner's footsteps as she climbs the stairs, calling "Billy? Billy, zeeskeit, are you in there?"
Billy's family is Jewish. This means his mother calls him by endearments that sound like somebody scraping bits of scrap metal against each other, and never lets him leave the house without a sweater, even in June when it's ninety degrees out.
He's obviously around. They don't have a big house, and I can hear the little murmuring sound of her voice, going up and down at the end like she's arguing with someone and getting more and more exasperated about it. The next thing I know, there's a rattle on the line as she picks up the handset again and says, "Bill's not here right now, Christopher, honey. I'm sorry about that. "
I suck back the urge to whistle my disbelief through the little gap between my front teeth. Yeah, right, I'm thinking. In a goddamn pig's eye, Billy's not there. This is his mom, though, and you can't say that kinda stuff to moms, so I put on my chirpiest tone of gratitude instead, and act like I just swallowed her line whole. "Okay, Mrs. Bronner. I guess I'll see him tomorrow."
"That's right, dear. Bye for now."
She hangs up before I can say anything else, which pretty much seals the deal as far as I'm concerned. She's embarrassed, because fucking Billy's got his mother lying through her teeth for him, since for some reason best known to himself, he doesn't want to talk to me.
Maybe he thinks I'm onto him, and he's avoiding me because he thinks I'm too close to cracking his big bad secret for him to dare engaging with me. Maybe he thinks I've figured it out already, and he doesn't want to be confronted with it.
Goddamn, but I wish that was true.
Next morning, I do something I haven't done since I started dating Caitlyn, and ride shotgun with Billy all the way to school. I'm hoping it'll help me catch a break in my quest for knowledge of whatever fuckery's got him in its grip, but he's sulky and silent all the way there, and Caitlyn's tone of voice tells me she's confused and a little upset by the fact that I've left her to fend for herself in the backseat, so in the end, my plan gets me nothing but a pissed-off girlfriend and a really awkward ride. Lyn's a little huffy when she kisses me good-bye before homeroom, and Billy's still doing a pretty good impression of a goddamn clam.
Shit, O'Reilly, I think to myself, as he stalks down the hallway to French first period, and I trot behind him feeling dumb; something's gotta give. Thank hell we're in this class together, at least; gives me something to work with.
I'm still racking my brains, trying to work out what something I can kick in the teeth and see if it screams, when I see him.
You got it, buddy. Mr. Strong-and-Silent's sitting pretty in the front row with all his shit ready on the desk, staring at the chalkboard like he expects it to somehow start spontaneously generating information for him to note down. He looks up at us when we come in, catching Billy's eyes all level and square. Billy freezes stock-still just inside the room, without warning, so I walk abruptly into his back. For a long span of silence, they eye each other up.
He's a handsome guy, this cat, no doubt about it. Transfer student, I guess, although I can't be sure where from---I might have said some prep school, but close up I can see that his clothes aren't expensive enough for that, despite the excess of tailoring. I remember that Billy said something about Massachusetts, and yeah, now I see him close up, that fits. His face is set like flint, as they say, and something in his eyes has New England written all over it.
We're still here in the doorway, making this tiny little island of trouble, them shooting daggers with their goddamn eyes and me as confused as ever, when the teacher decides to show. This is Fox's class, and he's a good guy, but he ain't no pushover, and he sure as hell won't stand for cats loitering in his classroom doorway after the bell has rung. If I'd seen him coming, I'd have pointed this out to Billy; I'd have suggested we go find a goddamn desk before Foxy threw us into detention just to show the class who's boss for another year. But, as it happens, I didn't exactly have my eyes on the door, so the flat of his hand making contact with my shoulder takes me totally by surprise.
"O'Reilly," he says, in that smooth-treacle voice teachers put on when they're about to tell you to do something you won't like, and they're feeling pretty good about it. "And Bronner. Is there a reason you're blocking up my doorway, gentlemen? 'Cause you're not improving the scenery any, you know."
"Sorry," I say quickly, moving to sit down. Billy gives a little apologetic shrug and half-turns, but old Foxy is too fast for him, catching him by the back of the neck---not hard, but too firmly for Billy to dare wriggling out of the grip without inviting real trouble. I sneak a glance at the guy in the front seat. He's staring straight at Billy, frowning a little, but mostly his expression is unreadable.
"Sir---" Billy begins, about to turn on the charm, but Mr. Fox knows all about Billy's sunshine defensive, and he isn't having any of it.
"No, you don't," he says, that little smile playing round the corners of his mouth. And then he points to the front desk. "Sit down, Bronner. Where I can keep an eye on you."
Next to him.
I'm not kidding when I say we all do a double take in perfect unison. It's like something out of a Marx Brothers movie or something: me twitching, and Billy flinching, and that guy at his desk jerking out of his goddamn little box of moody composure and looking up at Fox like he's going to protest.
Billy does protest. "Oh, but Mr. Fox, Kit and I---" But Foxy is adamant. When he's said something, he doesn't waver.
"Down, Bronner," he says, pointing a long arm at the desk. "And if I hear another word from you, it'll be a detention. All right?"
There's this standoff kinda moment where I think Billy's actually going to challenge him. But then the indignant expression on his face, that kind of incipient fire, fades gradually into what is patently a pout, and he nods his head like a kicked dog. 'Course, he's only doing it as a last-ditch attempt to get some sympathy out of Foxy, but hell, I'm falling for it. Billy does not want to sit next to that cat, and damned if I know why, but I feel for him, however much he's been pissing me off these past couple days.
Foxy doesn't feel for him. He crosses his arms and stands there tapping his foot until Billy slouches down into the seat indicated. I guess Fox thinks he just doesn't want to sit in the front row, but I know better. And so, by the look on his face, does Silent Boy. He's looking at Billy sidelong, and Billy's trying damn hard not to look back at him, but he keeps doing it, tiny little glances in the kid's direction.
"Thank you," Fox says grandly, with an edge of sarcasm. "O'Reilly, take a seat somewhere, please." And he walks off toward his desk at the front of the room.
I try to signal my sympathy to Billy with my eyes, but he's not looking at me, and Foxy's clapping his hands for our attention, so I slink away, defeated, to the first spare desk I can find. Which is two rows behind Billy, too far even to pass notes, and I know Mr. Fox likes everyone to sit at the same damn desk all year in his class.
The guy to my left is Jimmy Mathis, who used to steal my lunch money in third grade, before I got taller than him. The girl to my right I don't know from Eve. Good times are obviously here again.
Now, Mr. Fox isn't exactly compelling as a teacher at the best of times, though that may have a little more to do with my total disinterest in his class than in his teaching style, as such. Or, you know. Today, it may have something to do with the way Billy and that guy keep looking at each other in a way I can't read, and with the fact that I'm so desperate to work out what the hell is up with that, I can't spare any of my attention for anything else.
Which is why, about twenty minutes into the class, I notice Billy's beautiful sleight of hand at work as he demonstrates the subtle art of front-row note-passing.
To that guy. Who reads it, gives him the wonky eyebrow, scribbles his own note, and passes it back.
Well. I don't know about you, buddy, but I'm not in the habit of passing notes to guys I just got in enormous fights with. Especially if it just so happens that I've been pointedly ignoring these guys---or, I guess, this particular hypothetical guy---all through school since it happened. Unless they're throwing down the gauntlet for another round, but....
The guy is smiling at Billy. It transforms his face, really. He's got perfect teeth, dammit, white and even and straight in that natural way you don't get with braces, and he looks---I don't know. I can't even describe it. Not like a guy who wants to go another round with Billy somewhere they won't be spotted till they've bludgeoned each other half to death, anyway. His expression is so unexpected, so goddamn dazzling in just how fucking bizarre it is, that I can't look away.
"Mr. O'Reilly."
I blink back to wakefulness, my elbow slipping off the desk and my head snapping up to face the front desk. I probably look like a startled rabbit. Jimmy is snickering next to me, and I curse myself, and him, and Billy, and that guy, all in one thought. Fox is glaring at me. It's not a happy glare.
"Mr. O'Reilly. If I have to speak to you again today, it's going to be detention, all right?"
"Sir---" I begin. It's a bad idea. He narrows his eyes.
"See me after class," he raps out smartly. My mouth opens slightly in silent protest, but he's resumed his train of thought again and I don't dare complain, anyway, because when someone's as goddamn unfair as he is, what's the point? I'd just get myself into another two weeks' worth of unjust detentions. Who pays attention in French class, anyway?
I try very hard not to stare at the back of Billy's head for the rest of class. I think I succeed, and hell, I should get some kind of medal for that, because now I know Billy's been lying to me, and I want to know why. What the fuck is going on here? I wonder if the two of them have been running some kind of covert operation over the summer, and then they went bust and now they're having a business conflict or something. Except they don't look... angry. I don't know. There's definitely some kind of tension there, and clearly they've known each other quite well in some way or another, but I can't put my finger on it.
Hell, Christopher. That'll teach you to piss off to Mississippi for the summer and leave Billy all on his own. I shoulda known he'd get himself into some kind of trouble.
After class, the two of them get up and make for the door together. Something twitches in my chest, like something could be revealed here if I could only catch up with them quick enough, but---
"O'Reilly?"
Goddammit. I halt on my way to the door; I turn around, and I do my best to smile for him.
"Wipe that smirk off your face."
Obligingly, I don the scowl beloved of sulking teenagers everywhere.
"Come here, O'Reilly. I want to get something straight from the first. You're gonna have to give this class your full attention this year if you want to do well in...."
Yada, yada, yada. I try to listen. Probably my face has gone blank. When Fox eventually shuts up, I bolt outta there like a bat out of hell, but Billy is already long gone to his next class, which is not the same as mine. Shit, I think to myself furiously, still glancing around in vain for any evidence of him or the other guy. Shit.
And now I have Lit. And I'm going to be late. Jesus God. This day is going downhill like a goddamn steam engine cut loose.
Nobody's around---hell, because everybody else got out of class five minutes ago---so I indulge myself with a firm kick to the water fountain before I stalk off to class.
After school? Billy's gonna get the third degree, if it's the last thing I do.
His name, apparently, is Leonard Nachman.
This is a pretty big step forward, in my book, from where I was at this morning---which basically consisted of me standing alone and totally fucking bemused, narrowing my eyes at Mystery Guy and knowing so damn little about his history that he could just as easily have been generated spontaneously when the semester started. Turns out, spending the summer with my grandparents has put me at a bigger disadvantage than I thought. After Billy did his disappearing act with this Nachman cat, I had to skedaddle across campus to my Lit class and still caught shit from Schneider for being late, so I wasn't exactly sweetness and light by the time I finally got my ass to a desk. The only guy I even vaguely knew in the whole damn place was Jimmy Curragh, who was in my physics lab last year, so I threw myself down on the left hand side of him, and sat there scowling at the desk like I wanted to burn a hole into it, which was pretty much true.
Now, the best thing about Schneider, as far as his students are concerned, is that he's about eighty percent deafer than your average plank of wood, which makes him a really great teacher when you're mad enough that you just don't want to keep your rage inside. Jimmy was giving me a sympathetic look, which was pretty much all the encouragement I needed to shuffle my desk a little closer to his, and whisper, "Fucking Fox."
Jimmy made a face. It was fairly obvious that he had more interest in my heartrending plight than in Great Expectations, which I'd been sort of counting on. Jimmy's a science whiz, and he's damn clever, but I don't think he reads anything that's not a technical manual about something complicated. He whispered back, "He keep you behind?"
I snuck a glance up front. I really didn't want to get in any more trouble today, but Schneider had his back to us and was scrawling something on the chalkboard, so I decided I was pretty safe to get my irritation out. "Yeah, and I didn't even do anything. He had it in for me the whole class, just because we were kind of blocking the door when he came in."
Jimmy quirked his head. "You and...?"
"And Billy Bronner." I scowled. "Although really, it was all mostly to do with that new kid, the skinny, dark one---you know him? Billy's got a goddamn undue fascination."
I hadn't really expected Jimmy to be the voice of enlightenment on this, but his face kinda changed like he knew what I was talking about, and he said, "Oh---you mean Nachman?"
"Huh?"
"Nachman. His name's Leonard Nachman. He's been hanging out with Bronner all summer. I kept bumping into them down at the beach."
And that, kids, was when I felt that weird dark feeling hit me in the stomach. You know the one---you get it when you're sitting pretty in the back of the class and the teacher says, "Homework now, please?" and you suddenly realize you forgot about it completely. Or, you know, the feeling you get when you walk in on some cat talking to your girl, and you realize he's way better-looking than you are and she looks pretty damn flattered. Those are two slightly different flavors of the dark feeling, but I guess this one was kind of like the demon love child of both of them.
See, Billy doesn't do friends. I mean, he's popular, all right, but he's not popular-popular, he's not a jock. Guys kinda respect him, girls' clothes magically fall off when he comes into the room, but he hasn't got a gang, or a clique, or a club. He does acquaintances. But I kinda thought the only friend he had was me.
I do go away for the summer, occasionally. Not usually, but it's not all that rare; maybe every three summers or something. Anyway, normally, when I do, Billy just writes me fucktons of letters telling me how bored he is without me, and telling me stuff his sisters have said. This past summer, though, I had so many letters from Lyn---who's a real sweetheart about stuff like that---that I kind of failed to realize that I didn't hear much from Billy at all.
Well, I realize it now, I tell you what. Eight damn weeks, I was away, and apart from a couple postcards, I never heard a damn word from him.
I milked Jimmy for information for the rest of the class, probably with a manic gleam in my eye. He didn't know much, but he knew some: basically, that Billy and this Nachman kid had been hanging out at the beach since Nachman turned up in early July, and that they were looking pretty tight. Nachman's from Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where he had a scholarship to some up-itself school that had uniforms, and everyone kind of expected him to fuck off back there at the end of the vacation---but, evidently, he didn't. Jimmy doesn't know why. More importantly, he doesn't know why Billy might be less than stars and sparkles when confronted with this cat, and he seemed pretty surprised when I told him how weird they'd both been acting.
"Honestly, Kit," he told me as we packed up our books to leave forty minutes later, "I don't know anymore about it. But like I said, they were pretty tight."
I looked down at my notebook. I'd written: "Dickens. Dress = prison. Hates men. 1840?"
Still, I felt like I'd gotten a lot out of this period.
Class lets out bang on the bell, so I'm standing at the bottom of the main front steps, waiting for Billy and triumphantly rehearsing all the things I'm gonna say to him, all the accusations I'm gonna level when he gets here and tries to act all innocent. Billy, I'm gonna say, you know this kid. You like this kid. Billy, you have been found guilty of having friends behind my back and then trying to hide them from me, for some reason best known to yourself.
I mean, is it ridiculously arrogant of me to think that might be it? Like, maybe Billy suddenly realized he'd been ignoring me for eight weeks in favor of this new cat, and now that Nachman's actually sticking around, he feels guilty enough to stonewall him at school so's I won't find out they've been hanging out all summer?
... Yeah, that does sound like pure arrogance, really, doesn't it? It's not as if Billy's not allowed to have other friends. I'm not some kind of tyrant, and it's definitely not like I think he belongs to me or any stupid shit like that, but... I don't know. Somehow, by Billy logic, I can kinda see this making sense. It's about the only thing I can think of at the moment, anyway: he doesn't want me to know that he knows the new kid on any level at all, but he's fucked up his charade in typical Billy fashion by making it look, instead, like they're mortal enemies. And now he's gonna spend as long as possible avoiding the guy while I'm around, pretending there's absolutely no connection there until I literally shake it out of him.
That's the best I got, buddy, and, hey---I don't think it sounds too far off base. So the only thing to do now is to come up with some foolproof ways of shaking him.
So, I'm standing at the bottom of the main front steps, scanning the courtyard for Billy and thinking about just how I might hit this up, when his voice startles me from somewhere behind my left shoulder. "Hey, Kit."
I spin around, all fired up and ready to say something casually back, but what I see makes my breath freeze up in my throat like someone sprayed hairspray in there or something. There's Billy, sure enough, hands in his pockets and his hair in his eyes: so far, so SNAFU. But the thing is---he's not alone. No sir, Billy's standing there grinning at me like the world just up and kissed him, and next to him, mouth kinda turned up slightly at the corners, is Nachman.
I'm telling you, you could knock me over with a feather right now, if you felt like trying. I'm so stunned, I just kinda stand there opening and closing my mouth like that goldfish Caitlyn won at the county fair last June. The fish died pretty quick, so I hope the similarities don't run any deeper than this gaping thing I'm doing, particularly since the gaping thing is pretty fucking undignified all on its own. Eventually, I manage, "Who's your friend?"
He glances sideways, like he's forgotten the other guy is there---or maybe like he's forgotten that he and I have never met. Whatever. It takes him a couple seconds to pull his mind together long enough to say, "Oh---right. Kit, this is Len. Len, Kit."
"Leonard Nachman," the guy interrupts, holding out his hand to be shaken. He's got one of those smooth, deep voices that make guys sound way older than they really are, when they come on strong like that when you're still in high school, so I already feel a little inadequate. He's taller than me, I notice, and I'm not a short guy; definitely a few inches taller than Billy, these last few years. That's okay---I mean, I'm not put out by it or anything. There's a look he gets, though, when he cuts into Billy's totally inadequate introductory routine, that I don't like---this kind of sidelong glance at Billy with one eyebrow quirked a little, and his mouth twitching. I don't even know how to describe it. It's like he's thinking, Aw, Bill, you always did suck at this kind of thing, but I don't actually mind all that much because you're Billy, after all. It's that kind of look, that fond, maybe even possessive kinda look, and that does get to me a little. Because, to the best of my knowledge, this kid's known Billy for about eight weeks, maximum, and that does not give him the right to take that kind of attitude. Hell, nobody has the right to look at Billy that way except me, and, maybe, at a push, Caitlyn. She's been exposed to him for long enough that she's discovered his failings and still thinks they're more charming than not, anyway.
This guy, though? No. I shake his hand, making sure to do it firmly, but I'm a little wary and a lot curious as I say, kind of as a warning to Billy that I have my own sources, dammit, "Jimmy Curragh says you guys have been hanging out all summer?"
Billy's face twitches. I've surprised him. Nachman, though, is cool as the proverbial goddamn cucumber (which, I guess, there's no reason he shouldn't be---it's not a crime, after all, to hang out with Billy, unless, like Billy in my earlier projection, you decide it is). He just says, "Yes. I got here from Stockbridge with my mom in June." He shrugs. "Just bumped into Billy one day."
"You're not going back out there?" I'm probably prying. But hell, I want to get as much information out of this as I can while he's actually volunteering it.
He shakes his head. "Mom's from near here---this is where my grandparents live. We came down because my parents...." He pauses. "Well. My parents separated in June, and now it turns out they're getting a divorce after all, so we're staying here." He shrugs. "Thought they'd probably get back together and it would all be back to normal by the time school started again, but obviously it wasn't meant to be."
Something about the tone of his voice is very resigned, this kind of quiet acceptance that makes me think harder about irrationally disliking him, which is what I was just planning on doing. I start to wonder whether I can dislike him. There's something interesting about him, something compelling. He talks with kind of a weird accent, but I guess that's to be expected---hell, he probably thinks mine's just as bad. He looks at you when he speaks, really looks at you, and I dunno, I guess I respect that.
I wonder what the hell made him decide to stick to Billy, of all people. All dark-brown calm and mystery, this guy, against Billy's reckless energy and easy grin. They should be totally mismatched, but they're standing here in front of me and they're in each other's personal space like they fit there, and---I don't know. I guess they do match, like they complement each other instead of reflecting.
I'm not actually sure how I feel about that, just now.
It's kind of hard to find anything to say, when someone you've just met tells you personal shit about their parents' marriage, so we all just stand there for a few seconds, looking at each other; and a few seconds in real time feels like a lot. Eventually, Billy says, "Len and me were gonna go for a drive, Kit. He's got his car here, but he's gonna just leave it and pick it up in the morning, and we'll go in mine. We'll drop you guys off first, obviously. Where's Caitlyn?"
I blink a few times, trying to process this information. Not you want to come for a drive with Len and me, Kit? Not even, I'm driving Len home as well. Nuh-uh, Billy's going for a drive with this cat, and I am definitely not invited.
Well, shit.
This whole situation, I'm starting to think, is fucked up.
No, seriously. What I said earlier, about how maybe they're running some kind of shady business thing? I'm not too sure that's all that much of a ways off the mark, you know? Me and Billy, we go back years. I've known him since grade school, for crying out loud, and he does not keep secrets from me. Like I said---Billy Bronner cannot tell a lie. Not convincingly, anyway, and not to me. But with this cat? I can't help thinking there's something inherently dubious about the fact that he doesn't ask me and Caitlyn along on this "drive" with them. It's only a drive, after all. It's not like it's me and Caitlyn, where going for a drive means I'm borrowing Billy's car so I can park it underneath the biggest cherry tree I can find, turn on some soppy music, and kiss her till she says I have to stop. Hell, I missed that, this past summer. I was even kinda hoping I could beg the car off Billy soon, take her for our first drive as seniors.
These two, though. Like I said, it's not like it's me and Caitlyn, "driving." I can't actually think of a single reason they might want to go off in the car without us, unless it's something just a little bit illegal.
Oh, I'm not going to stick my nose into it, if that's what it is; not just now, anyway. This Nachman kid looks like he's fully capable of taking care of himself and Billy, even if I wouldn't trust Billy with something like this, not as far as I could throw him. If things start to look fishy, though, I'll have to step in. I don't want Billy doing anything dangerous, and I sure as hell don't want his mom---or mine---finding out on the grapevine that he's up to something. His mom, because she'll kill him, and mine, because she'll kill me without even pausing to ask if I'm in on it. And she'd be justified, too, I guess. Me and Billy have always done everything together.
Not this, though, whatever it is. Not this.
I turn my head and look around for Caitlyn; I spot her quite quickly by the water fountain and call her over, raising an eyebrow at Billy like there she is. When she reaches us, I do a quick introduction, and not for the first time, I'm pretty damn proud to be able to tell someone that this is my beautiful girlfriend. Nachman smiles at her, looks at Billy kind of for a cue or something, and then gets into the front passenger seat of the car. Caitlyn and I get into the back, as usual, and she gives me a sidelong look all the way home that says so who is this guy?
Caitlyn, honey, I really wish I could answer that.
When I get out of the car, they're both looking at me with identical expressions on their faces: this wide-eyed, ears-pricked, innocent look that makes me think immediately of rabbits. It would have been even more comical than it is, if I wasn't so nervous about this all leading to trouble. I slap my hand on the driver's side window, and give Billy a warning look. "You guys be careful, okay?" I warn them. "I don't want to have to come bail you out of any awkward situations."
The look they give each other right then does nothing to assuage my worries. (Great word, that, isn't it? Assuage.) It's just a flicker, both of them patently trying not to let the happy bunny expressions falter, but they do, and I catch it, and man, I don't like it. They're scared that I'm onto them. And hell, I do not want to know what they're doing that they need to be scared about little ol' me finding out.
Against my better judgment, maybe, I leave it at that, turning away from the car window with a backhanded wave. If they don't want me to notice how nervous they are, then fine, they got it: I never noticed a thing.
"See you tomorrow, Kit," Billy calls after me, in a voice a little frayed around the edges.
I pretend not to notice the fraying, either. "See ya," I call back, grinning to show no hard feelings. He looks at me a second longer, and then pulls away, and I watch that beautiful car all the way to the corner, where it disappears from view.
Man, I hope I see him tomorrow, I'm tellin' ya. I don't like this. I don't like this at all.
June 31st, 1955
Please pardon the state of my handwriting. I'm writing this from the front seat of Mom's car, and her driving has always left much to be desired, so any and all wobbles and extraneous lines should be blamed on that, and not on me. We're somewhere in California now, I think, but it's a little difficult to tell, since the landscape has looked kind of the same for a long time, and seems to be mostly rocks. Seriously, it literally looks like someone took an enormous bag of rocks and turned it upside-down in a pile of dust. It's also horrendously hot. I cannot understand why anyone would want to live here.
Promised to call Dad the moment we arrive, but at this rate, I don't know when that will be. I feel like we've been driving for weeks. I don't know why they can't just GET OVER THEMSELVES AND STOP ARGUING, since we'll be back in Stockbridge before school starts again anyway. I wish they would quit "separating" like this when we all know it doesn't mean jack shit.
I was only going to write about the scenery or something in this book. I'm going to have to hide it now because of that stuff about Mom and Dad. And Mom would kill me for writing cusswords in a book.
FUCK THEM.
Okay, I have just had a conversation with Mom and she says we should reach Grandpa's house before dinnertime, so I'm going to put this away now. I may try and get a lock for it, when we eventually get where we're going. I still have no clue where we're at just now.
July 3rd, 1955
This place is a little less crappy than it seemed on the way in. California kind of evens out once you get far enough in, past the dry desert rocks and the scrubby little bushes all lined up in rows like some kind of demon crop. Once you get into the coastal part, where the sea runs all the way down one side of the road all wide and blue, it's different. You start to realize why maybe they used to think California was some kind of paradise, back in the days of the gold rush.
Anyway, we've been here a couple days now. I kind of forgot about this journal, but I just unpacked my travel bag and came across it under a pile of other stuff, so I thought I'd update my record a little bit, for future reference. Or something. I bet I never read this over again, actually, and I really can't think anyone else will. I don't know. Maybe sometime in the future, when I've played my Hamlet, someone might give a damn, but just at the moment, nobody cares. Hell, Mom sure doesn't.
She doesn't even seem unhappy, you know? I mean, it's not as if I want my mother to be miserable or anything like that, because I don't, but I would have expected her to be at least a little bummed about the fact that she's just separated from her husband, again, to drive all the way across the country with her seventeen-year-old son and one suitcase. Maybe it's just that this has happened so many times, even she doesn't believe in it anymore. That could be it. I guess if she knows they'll be back together again before the summer is out, there's really no reason for her to roam the halls weeping. Right now she's in the backyard with Grandma, drinking a daiquiri and talking about hitting the beach, so I guess she's pretty certain this doesn't really mean what they're both pretending it does.
The beach is pretty sweet. It's kinda crowded, but I think I may have worked out how to avoid that. Yesterday I woke up real early, couldn't sleep. I went for a walk, down to the sand. It must have been---oh, six-thirty? Seven? Anyway, there was nobody there, at all. Place was deserted, gorgeous. I just stood there for a while, looking out to sea, listening to it rushing in and out and just letting the wave-sound wash over me. It's soothing, the sea. I've never really been near it before. I guess I never really realized just how vast it really is, what ocean really means. I didn't know it could be calming like that, as if it was pulling my feelings to and fro with the movement of the waves, making them regular and smooth enough to fit more easily inside me.
I stood there... oh, fifteen minutes? Then I decided I'd better go back in, in case Mom woke up, and in fact I only just got back in time. I don't want any awkward questions about this, because I want to do it again tomorrow, and if she finds out about it, she'll try and stop me. I don't know why---it's not like any harm is going to come to me on an empty beach at dawn---but I know she will, so I'm going to keep schtum about it.
It'll be my secret. I quite like having secrets, after all, and if she had her way, I wouldn't have any.
July 5th, 1955
It turns out I'm not the only one who thinks the beach is better without anyone else on it.
I didn't get a chance to go down yesterday, because my mother decided at the very last minute that it would be a really great idea to wake me up at seven, and then drive me into LA to go shopping. Shopping for her, of course, but for some reason it was imperative both that I go with her, and also that we leave early enough to get there right when the stores were opening up. God only knows why. It's not like anyone else was about to come roaring up from behind her and snatch that dress she wanted out of her very clutches, or whatever. I think she was just being obsessive, frankly. Carried away with the joy of being back in this consumer paradise, probably.
This morning, though, she didn't want anything from me, for once, and she knocked back enough alcohol last night that I was pretty sure she'd sleep until at least eight-thirty, so I let myself out of the house at six-thirty. I didn't set an alarm or anything, because I don't have one, but normally if I want to wake up early, I'm so preoccupied with whether or not it's time to get up yet that I can't stay asleep for more than an hour or so at a time. I just keep jerking awake at intervals, until it actually is time to wake up, and then I leap out of bed all bright and perky, even if I do have that crusty feeling around my eyes.
The best thing about California is that you can wash the crusty feeling off in the sea. When I got to the beach, I wasn't thinking about anything except the fact that, okay, I wanted to actually go swimming, because I hadn't done that since we got here and I felt like it was overdue, and also my eyes felt funny and I wanted the cold smack of it to wake me up properly, wash all the sleep away. So basically the first thing I did was run down over the sand and throw myself into the sea.
Seriously, I never saw anyone---not on the beach, not by it, and not in the sea, either. So as you can imagine, I was pretty shocked when I surged back up to the surface out of a great big wave, and smacked something with the arm that was breaking the surf.
For a moment, I had wild visions of sea monsters patrolling the coasts of California in the early hours, just waiting for strangers like me to stumble into their trap. For all I knew, that could well be why the beach was empty, if there was some kind of danger all the local people knew about, keeping them away. But then I opened my eyes, spluttering and choking and flailing about in the waves, and of course it wasn't a sea monster at all, or anything like it.
It was a kid.
His name is Billy Bronner and he's the same age as I am. He'll be a senior this coming fall semester at the local high school, and he says he comes down here most mornings to swim, because he's on the swim team and apparently it's better practice to swim against waves than it is to swim in a pool, which does make sense. How he ended up right there in the same stretch of water that I was in, I have no idea. It seems kind of unlikely, but I had drifted a bit, so I guess it could be that currents drew us both to a similar place in the water. It's not a very big beach, after all. He was pretty apologetic about getting in my way, and also pretty eager to find out as much about me as he could, kind of unsubtly. I suppose they don't see many new people around here. It's not the kind of town people come to on purpose, not unless they, like, me, have some kind of internal connection reeling them in like fish. It's not like I exactly came here for the beautiful scenery, myself, although, now it comes down to it, the scenery certainly is beautiful. Rocks and waves and big, big sky.
He was really... I dunno, I guess pleased to talk to me? Or to talk to someone, anyway. He's not the kind of guy I'd usually hang out with, but he was nice and all, and smiled a lot, and he seemed kind of lonely, considering he lives here all the time. I guess I felt sorry for him, out there on his own when everyone else was still asleep. I mean, I did enjoy myself there on my own the last time I went out that early, but firstly, he didn't seem like he was looking for solitude in the same way, and secondly, it was good to actually speak to someone who, in a certain way, seemed as weirdly displaced as I was. Essentially, what I'm trying to say is that, although I went down there expecting to be alone, I didn't get that sinking feeling when it turned out I was with him instead. You know?
He talks too much, about nothing. But I like him. We're going to meet up again tomorrow morning to swim, provided Mom doesn't present any difficulty.
July 6th, 1955
Swam with Billy. Actually swam a bit today, instead of just splashing around and talking. He's a really strong swimmer. When I told him so he kind of shrugged it off and said it was because he grew up by the sea and I didn't. I said I never said I wasn't a strong swimmer, just that he was one. He kind of looked at me with this expression that clearly said, "well, but you're not," which is pretty unfair because I'm doing okay for a guy from Stockbridge who never really played sports. I got a bit pissy with him and swam off. I don't know, in retrospect I guess it was stupid, but at the time I kind of felt like he was being imperious about taking the compliment, you know, like it was his due or something, and he could just put me down while he was on. I splashed about a bit on my own, fuming.
Anyone else probably would have had the sense to go off and leave me, but he didn't. He gave me five minutes and then followed me, and I didn't have a chance because he is, damn him, a way stronger swimmer than me. So I gave in, ready for an argument. He paused, treading water, hanging there perfectly upright just as if he was on land, like it took no effort at all. Then he put his hand on my shoulder---again, didn't make him waver one bit in the water---and said "Hey, sorry," even though I had the feeling he didn't really know what he had done to apologize for, exactly. He just didn't want me to be mad at him.
Anyone else would have had the sense just to leave me alone, sure. But I think I like that he came after me.
July 8th, 1955
Billy took me for lunch today. When we were done swimming, which was about eight, he said he had some work to do (he works for his uncle a little), but if I wanted he would come get me at about a quarter after one. The alternative was having lunch with my mom, who's still whining at me to get out in the sun, meet people, yada yada yada. I thought she'd be pleased to see I was going out with someone my own age. And the idea was appealing enough all on its own, anyway, so I said yes.
He drives this massive red Chevy that makes me ashamed of my own little boxy thing back in Stockbridge. It struck me when he pulled up outside the house that this was the first time I'd seen him with his clothes on. Isn't that weird?
I got a hamburger and a vanilla milkshake. They do pretty good ones here.
July 11th, 1955
Forgot about this diary. Sorry, hypothetical researcher of the future: when you come to detail the early life of the famous actor Leonard Christopher Nachman, you will only be able to speculate on the events of the 9th and 10th of July, 1955. Ha ha ha.
Nah, I swam with Billy and bickered with my mom and my grandma force-fed me and my grandfather disapproved of everything I do and am. That's about all.
It's four in the afternoon right now. I'm trying to read, but they don't seem to have any good books here, just trashy historical romances and stuff like that. Grandfather is apparently obsessed with stories about the British Navy. They're not even good ones. I actually prefer the romances, if pushed.
Anyway I'm waiting for Billy; he gets off work at four-thirty and then we're going to hang out.
July 15th, 1955
Shit, I'm not good at this, am I? I just looked back at the first couple entries, and they're all long and nicely composed, as befits something that might actually be used as some sort of record of time invested, even if only by me. But recently, I've just sort of jotted things down as they came into my head, when I've remembered to write anything at all. I think, when I started writing in this book in Mom's car on the way into the state, I anticipated much more time spent inside and alone than has actually proved to be the case.
It just feels a bit redundant to keep writing "Swam with Billy. Ate lunch with Billy. Hung out with Billy. Went for a drive in Billy's car." Interspersed with "Bickered with Mom. Wrote to Dad. Was ritually stuffed with food by Grandma. Continued to be stunned by the total lack of participation shown by Grandfather in any conversation held, even when he's meant to be part of said conversation. Even when directly addressed. Read trashy novels. Went to store with Mom." Etc, etc. My life is so exciting.
I like Billy a lot. I never really had a close friend like this, one where there was just the two of us and we'd hang out and do stuff together without outside interference, and be the first person the other would call, always, and mostly agree about stuff and not really mind when we didn't, and bicker a bit and not have it be the end of the world. It's like that with Billy. I know it's just because there's nobody else here, so we're sort of acting like best friends by default, but still. Billy does have a best friend, a guy called Kit O'Reilly, but he's away in Mississippi at the moment with his grandparents.
I think I'll write to Billy when I get back to Stockbridge. I can't believe we haven't even known each other two weeks.
July 18th, 1955
Why can't I be built like him? He has actual muscles in his arms. Like, actual muscles. He says they're just from swimming. Well, I've been swimming like hell, so why don't I have muscles like that yet?
Oddly enough, I'm still as strong as him, though. Today he dived on me and ducked me under the water, but I fought him off pretty easily. He came up out of the water like a big fish, gasping, and then he just started laughing like he couldn't stop. He has this laugh that makes me want to join in, quite irrationally, even when I don't know what he's laughing about. His teeth are very white and straight, and when he laughs, it makes his eyes crinkle up at the corners.
I was going to say something else, but now I can't remember what it was.
July 21st, 1955
This afternoon I met Billy's parents. It was accidental, really. He suddenly said, when we were lying in the surf this morning, after we'd swum ourselves out and my arms and legs felt all funny and weak from fighting against the tide, that I needed to see his record collection. I, of course, asked him why, because we hadn't even been talking about records---I can't remember what the topic of conversation was, but it was probably something to do with funny-colored seashells, or his dogs, or something equally pointless.
Actually, there you are: it must have been the dogs that did it. Billy keeps a Rottweiler called Flippin. He brought it up on, oh, maybe the second day we went swimming, which should be sufficient indication of just how attached to it he is. (Please note, I haven't actually checked with Billy about the spelling of "Flippin", so this is an artist's impression only. God knows what it means. He says he can't remember.) He's pretty insistent that it's the best dog in the world, and he keeps saying that Flippin and I need to meet each other. (Because we're two of his favorite people. Yes, "people" here, including the dog. Like I said, he's pretty attached.) So I think what happened on this occasion was that he brought up the dog again, and said, again, that I needed to see him to believe just how neat he was, and this somehow led onto the other thing in his house that I apparently needed to see: viz, his record collection.
Now, I'm not much for dogs, certainly not like Billy is. But I do like music. I told him I played guitar, and his eyes practically leapt out of his head in excitement. He was bummed to hear that I didn't bring my guitar with me, which was kind of gratifying. All Mom ever says about it is "shut up that goddamn racket," which is not really the sort of encouragement I'm looking for. And I'm not allowed to actually sing at all, period, when she's around. Billy made it unequivocally clear that he'd love to hear me play something, preferably with singing as well, which was nice to hear, even if I couldn't do anything about it right then.
I mean, Billy, unlike Mom, has not heard me either play or sing, but I'm trying not to let that impinge on how happy it made me.
He had to go to work then, but I told Mom I was going over to a friend's house for dinner (she's still so delighted that I have a friend here to keep me out of her hair, she'd let me do absolutely anything I wanted with him), and walked over to the address he gave me at around five. He was home, but he clearly hadn't showered yet---he does a lot of climbing around under cars and stuff, and there was grime smeared on his face and hands and forearms. He let me in, and took me up to his room, but then he said he had to go and degrimify himself before his mom caught him like that, and zipped off to shower.
I was glad he thought to take me to his room, really. So many people forget how weird it is to be hanging around in a communal space at someone else's house while they're indisposed, and there you are sitting on the edge of your seat, praying their parents don't come home. This is doubly true when you haven't met the parents before. Billy seemed to know that the only place you really feel safe in a friend's house is in the friend's bedroom, since it's the only place you can guarantee won't be unexpectedly invaded---at least, not before there's been enough getting-home commotion to warn you that something parental's just blown in. Besides, I was interested to see Billy's room. People's rooms give away a lot about them, and Billy's is just like him. For one, it's bright yellow, which fits him just right. It's a little untidy, without being in any way dirty; there were books in it, and some sports banners, and a picture of a lion on one wall and a photograph of (I assumed) the famous Flippin on another. If I'd ever paused to imagine what his room would look like, I'd probably have pictured it as being pretty close to the reality.
I think Billy was keeping le grand introduction for after he'd showered, but if so, he was thwarted. Flippin wandered in after I'd been sitting on the bed for about five minutes, padded over to me, and licked my hand, effectively proving immediately that he was a great big softie. As I said, I'm not much for dogs as a rule, but I guess he's kind of cute, in a big, lollopy, tongue-lolling kind of way.
Billy showers pretty quick. He came back into the room looking distracted, toweling his hair dry with one hand, but when he saw that I was---for want of a better word---talking to Flippin, he looked up, laughed, and came over to scratch the dog's ears.
Him: "I see you two have met?"
Me: "Yeah, he must have known I was here."
Him: (rubbing the dog under the jaw now) "He must have smelled you. What do you think of him?"
Me: "He's a good boy." (thinking saying "he's a sweetheart" might not go down well)
Billy: "Damn right, he is. Aren't you, you brute?" (to the dog)
Flippin: (licks Billy's hand) (behaves in no way at all like a brute)
This general fussing over the dog went on for about five minutes of actual time before Billy remembered that, much as his mother doesn't like to come home and find him still dirty from work, she probably wouldn't like to come home and find him wandering about naked, either, clean or not. He started rifling through drawers and struggling into clean clothes, while I peered at his record collection.
In the end, I think I put on Elvis or something, I can't really remember. We didn't listen particularly closely. Billy had some cigarettes and we smoked them out of the window, and then we lay on his bed (with the dog, naturally) and talked about random stuff, exactly the same as we do on the beach. About seven, Billy's parents came home, and called us down for dinner. (Billy had at least called his mom to say he was asking me over for dinner, so there wasn't the embarrassing difficulty of having to explain why I was there the moment they walked in the door. Apparently it was fine by her, because she makes these massive stews and slow-cooks them, and according to Billy, the pot could feed an army. I tend to agree.)
Nobody likes having dinner with another guy's parents. I mean, really. It's always either weirdly silent, or everyone talks over each other, or the guy's father takes it upon himself to quiz you in depth about your professional hopes for the next fifty years, like he's practicing for when he'll have to quiz his daughter's aspiring husband on all the same topics. So this wasn't as bad as it could have been, leaning mostly toward the kind of quiet end of the spectrum. Billy's mom is little and smiley. His dad is pretty short as well, and skinny, which is weird, because Billy's, you know, compact, but like I said, he's got muscle on him. He obviously doesn't get it from his father. He has two sisters, but they're both away at some camp for the summer, so that was that. The major topic of conversation was Flippin, who helped us along by turning up at intervals and barking, which made us all laugh, and usually prompted another story about Past Antics of Our Rottweiler.
Yeah... I don't know. I mean, like I said, it's always awkward having a meal like that, and this wasn't the conversational event of the century, but. I kind of liked it. I'm kind of glad I met his parents. I don't really know why. They seemed to like me. We went back up to Billy's room after, and played more records and talked about school.
I got home around eight-thirty, and Mom was already in bed, so not having to recap the whole thing to her made the evening just that much better than it was all on its own. It's taken me about a half hour to write this, so I'm going to get ready for bed now. Billy's going to San Diego for a few days with his dad, on business. (His dad's business, obviously. I didn't quite work out what he does, but apparently it's something Billy sometimes helps with.) I'm going to be bored stupid, but he lent me some books that aren't trashy romance novels, so that's something.
July 23rd, 1955
He sent me a postcard! It's of the zoo. Just says:
"Hi Lenny,
Haven't been to the zoo, before you ask. Man, this is boring. San Diego is beautiful but I can't stick Dad's work stuff. What are you up to? Dying to get back. Don't do anything fun without me.
Billy."
Yeah, right. Like there's anything fun for me to do.
July 25th, 1955
Saw Billy's mom at the grocery store. Of course I happened to have my arms full of total crap, and was eating a hot dog at the time. She kind of looked at the hot dog and then looked at me with this expression on her face that said "I'm not going to say it, because I'm not your mother, but God Knows About This." Felt like shit. I only got the damn thing because I was irritated with my mother, and it kind of felt like I was getting back at her somehow.
Anyway, she says Billy should be back tomorrow night. This is excellent news, because I'm bored out of my mind.
July 26th, 1955
Billy just called. He got back about an hour ago and he's coming over. It's already seven, so Grandma isn't exactly throwing a party over the idea, but she said it was okay. He says he brought me something, ha! I wonder what it is. I told him to bring his toothbrush and stuff in case it gets late and he wants to sleep over, and he said he'd tell his mom he might be staying.
Right, now I have to tidy this room. For all I know, he makes the same associations between rooms and people that I do. I'd hate for his first impression of my bedroom---reflecting on me---to be mountains of trashy romance novels and clothes all over the floor. I don't even know what that might imply about me.
Proper entry tomorrow.
July 27th, 1955
It seems that Billy needs more sleep than I do. I mean, it's not as if he's been asleep for a long time, as such---it's eight thirty, now, and we finally stopped talking at about three---but I assume he must be an eight-hours-a-night kind of guy. I wake up when the sun shows through the curtains, no matter what time I go to sleep, so I've been awake about twenty minutes. He's not showing any signs of life, so I'm entertaining myself with this. He brought me candies from San Diego, which we never got to eating. I may break into them if he doesn't wake up soon, but I kind of wanted to keep them to eat together, so I think I'll hold off and just stick with this, for the moment.
Of course, now that it comes time to actually write for pleasure, or whatever, I can't think of anything to say. I just keep glancing over at Billy and hoping he'll wake up, and then hoping he won't so I can go on writing, except I'm not writing, not really, because I'm hoping he'll wake up. I think this is what they call a vicious circle.
I thought we might go swimming today, just because it's been a few days and I don't want to lose all the ground I've gained since I got here. Billy's shown me all kinds of nifty stuff I had no idea was possible, turns and flips and that thing swimmers do where they change direction mid-stroke, and I want to practice all these things before I forget how to do them. We'll probably do that later, I think Billy'll be up for it. He likes to swim, and he's not working today, he said, so that's not going to complicate anything.
I really missed him, when he was gone. Funny, that. We haven't known each other for very long at all, in the grand scheme of things. But, when I refer back through this diary, I notice that I already felt we knew each other pretty well two weeks ago. (That's the kind of thing this was supposed to come in useful for, as a "record," I suppose. Nice to see it actually serves that purpose, to an extent.)
I'm trying to say more, but I don't feel like I can with him lying right there. Last night was just---I don't know. One of those conversations that starts out of nothing and rambles all over the place, and catches hold of you somewhere deep in your chest and makes you laugh and makes you feel like crying, and goes on for hours and hours. And then, at the end of it, you feel so incredibly close to the other person, you don't want to stop talking, even when you've thrashed out everything you wanted to say, so you just go on repeating things over and over again, just for the sound of his voice, just to keep that connection going between you. It was like that. We didn't even do anything, we just talked and talked and talked, propped up on our elbows on the bed and facing each other, at first, until our elbows gave out. After that, we lay on our backs and stared up at the ceiling, although there was nothing to see because we had to put out the light when Mom came in and told us to go to sleep at eleven. Just the shadows on the walls from the streetlight outside. It's really quiet, in this neighborhood, so in the little pauses where we weren't saying anything, I could hear him breathing, which somehow more than made up for the fact that nobody was talking.
Oh, he's waking up. Stopping now.
July 29th, 1955
Dad called. I hate talking to Dad on the phone. He's difficult enough to hold a proper conversation with at the best of times, when you're right there in the room with him, and on the telephone the task becomes impossible. He doesn't know what to say, and even when he does know what he wants to say to you, the telephone makes him nervous, and then he can't hear you properly and that makes him even more nervous. He just asked a load of questions about how I was doing, and what I was doing, and whether I'd read anything worth reading. I didn't tell him about Billy, mainly because I didn't want the bother of trying to explain it to him over a slightly crackly line, but also partly because he doesn't really ask these things because he wants to know. He just asks because, I guess, he thinks he should, and he doesn't expect proper answers, so I don't give him any. I said I was fine, I was swimming a lot, and I just read Mr. Midshipman Hornblower, which were all nice, short, true responses for him. He didn't say anything about Mom at all.
Then he went off on a tangent just when I thought we were done, about school and what I thought of it, and whether I was---I quote---"very deeply attached to that school you're at." All I could think was that he must be short of money or something, and wants to transfer me to public school. I told him I wasn't particularly attached to that school, no, which is perfectly true. It's okay, but it isn't like I have deep and meaningful relationships in that environment, nor am I desperate to go on wearing that uniform for another year. I fully expect to be told, in a few weeks, that he's sending me somewhere else next semester.
August 1st, 1955
August already! What a weird thought. Time seems to have become curiously telescoped lately, as someone said once in a book. Dammit, what was the book? I'm sure I didn't just make that up.
August 4th, 1955
Just a note to say, for the record, that I'm not going to make a proper entry today because I'm going to Bill's for dinner, and then probably I'll stay over. Also for the record, I didn't make proper entries the last three days because....
Oh, look, there's Billy in his Chevy. Must run.
August 5th, 1955
Something important has just occurred to me, apropos of last night. Billy had to work this morning, so we didn't stay up until the tiny small hours, but we kept it going till nearly midnight, and, since I went over there at about four-thirty, that gave us seven hours, more or less, of nothing but us talking to each other. And you know what he didn't do? He didn't do any of the things other guys do when it gets to the middle of the night. He didn't bring up any of the things other guys suddenly decide are fair game, just because it's dark and you're all in pajamas. He didn't ask stupid questions about girls and kissing and groping. He didn't even touch on any of that trivial crap you normally can't get away from on occasions like this. He never does. We talk about things, real things, the things we like to do and the things we're really thinking: our parents and our schoolwork and our futures, and all the things we dream of and worry about.
That must be why I like him so much. I mean, Billy is perfectly capable of talking a whole load of shit, but it's somehow not the really annoying kind of shit. It's not the mundane, ordinary sort of shit everyone else is full of. It's just him, and the idiosyncratic way his brain works.
"Idiosyncratic" there, future self, is meant to mean ridiculous, and brilliant.
August 8th, 1955
I don't like going swimming in the middle of the day, really. The problem with it is the fact that there are just so many other damn kids in this town, and they all flock to the beach in summer like flies to something sweet. There's this one guy, Jimmy, who we've bumped into a few times, and he's nice enough, but he doesn't seem to be especially fond of Billy, and while he's always pleasant with me, he keeps giving Billy this kind of wary look, like he'd be arguing with him if I wasn't around. I don't know why he goes on talking to us, unless it's because everyone's nosy and he's the designated spy. I mean, it's not like I'm all that interesting, at all, but I am new, and these are small-town kids, I guess. It's really all I can think.
Billy said once he might know a place we could go during the day, but that was a couple days ago and he hasn't said anything more about it. Maybe it fell through.
He has the most unusual eyes I've ever seen. I was just looking at him yesterday, when he was telling me the twisted and vague backstory of him and Jimmy Curragh kind of disliking each other for no particular reason, and I couldn't stop thinking about how his eyes are literally gold. With bits of green and brown and so on, but mostly they're kind of caramel-colored, and I've never seen that before. It makes me wish I could paint or something, just because it saddens me that photographs will never show that.
I mean, I can't. But still.
August 10th, 1955
Yeah, so, remember I said Billy never went on and on about girls? Well, I'm not surprised now I know the kind of girls he's apparently gotten entangled with in the past. Some stupid blonde chick practically attacked him in town today when I met him outside the garage. She had the nerve to be wearing a full face of makeup at four in the afternoon, and she had these big dumb sunglasses on, though it wasn't even very sunny. He looked pretty shocked to see her, really, and he kept smiling all polite and trying to be gentle about escaping, but she just went on and on and on with the old flirtatious smile routine, asking him what he was doing, asking him if he had a new girl, and all this, putting her hands all over him. She'd never have dared do any of the shit she was doing in front of her mother, unless her mother's just as bad. Took us ages to get out of there.
I thought she must have been Billy's steady or something, but he said in the car when we finally got away from her that they just made out one time and now whenever she sees Billy, she acts like she owns him. I asked him if she was the only one, and he said he's never had a steady; there are a couple others like her, but she's the worst.
God, she was such a stupid bitch. Augh, I still get angry when I think about how fucking brazen she was, it makes me want to scribble all over the page. I hate stupid people.
Future self, that's not a word at the start of the last sentence, and it's not poor handwriting---it's just fury.
August 12th, 1955
Billy actually went and found me a guitar!!
Apparently one of the guys at work used to play, and he had three or four old guitars he wasn't using anymore, and Billy just went and asked him straight out if he could have one. The guy said yes right away, because they're cluttering up his house and his wife wants them gone, so Billy swung by in his car and collected the least-decrepit-looking one. He had it propped up against his bookcase when I went over there tonight.
I couldn't believe it when he pointed it out, seriously. I was absolutely over the moon. I've really been missing playing, and I've never actually been around anyone who wanted to hear me play, so the fact that he went out of his way to get the thing for me was just---I don't even know. I was so surprised and pleased I just started laughing like an idiot, and then I hugged him really hard on impulse, and he grinned fit to split his face for the next twenty minutes at how happy I was.
When I finally recovered, I played him practically my entire repertoire and he just went on grinning. After about four songs, he joined in singing. He can't sing worth a damn, but he looked like he was enjoying himself, so I didn't stop him. Last thing I played was "Rock Around The Clock," and he was so impressed that I could play it that he made me go through it twice, and the second time, he came and sat on the bed beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. When I was done, he kind of pushed his forehead against the side of my face, like he was a cat or something, and told me I was really good. He smelled like cut grass. I didn't want to go home.
August 14th, 1955
Billy had the day off work, today, so he took the opportunity to sleep until nine. I think I mentioned a while back that Billy likes sleeping, and he'd happily stay in bed until ten or eleven if his mom would let him. As it is, she seems to think staying in bed beyond nine in the morning is some kind of an affront to God, who obviously gets up at five-thirty, so nine is the best Billy can get. The only reason he usually gets up so early is that he has to fit his swim practice in, or he'll catch it when school starts again, and that's basically the only time he can do it.
Anyway, I didn't go down to the beach today because I knew Billy wouldn't be there, but he called me up at nine thirty or so and asked if I wanted to go swim. I was kind of skeptical---pointed out all the beach-related problems we usually have if we miss our early slot---but he waved me down, said he knew some place we could go swim during the day and not be interrupted by idiot girls and Jimmy Curragh and company.
This is what he said a little while back, but then he never told me any more about it, and I was pretty damn curious then and damn curious this morning. So I said, okay, come pick me up and show me, then. He grinned down the phone, told me he'd be ten minutes, and hung up.
He wasn't kidding when he said he knew somewhere private we could go. I thought he must mean somewhere a little ways away, if it was as secret as all that, so I was peering down the street expecting to see his Chevy pull into view when he turned the corner, on foot, and waved at me. As it turns out, the reason that this place is still secret is not that it's very far removed from anything else, geographically, but just that it's the kind of place you could only find if you were on your own, and you really wanted somewhere you could go on being on your own. Billy and I walked down along the seafront, down past the main open part of the beach, and onto the strip where the rocks loom up by the sidewalk. There's not a solid wall of rock or anything---just lots and lots of big rocks all wedged together, like they were put there specially by god-sized, semi-competent construction workers. Most people would just walk straight past, not looking at anything except that space in the distance where the rocks dissipate and the view out to sea comes back in force. I mean, I've done the same myself, plenty of times. Billy, though, must have come down here at some point with his full attention on the rocks, because he knows them like they're old friends; knows them well enough to stop me suddenly, at a point that looked to me like absolutely every other part of the sidewalk, and say, "Here."
There, if you look really closely, there is a narrow gap in the rocks, a neat little chasm about four feet up that channels all the way through. Two summers ago, Billy discovered that if you stand with your front pressed flat against the rock, and try to ignore the fact that you'll definitely be claustrophobic as hell, you can pull yourself up with your hands and wriggle headfirst into the passage. A big guy couldn't manage it. Hell, if we get much bigger, we won't be able to manage it, but as it is, there's just about room to inch through and out the other side.
And the other side was no less than a revelation. I'd never thought about it before, but of course there's a whole section of beach in here, cut off from the main part by the rocks that make up the long wall of boulders I talked about. When you wriggle through the little gap in the rocks, you come out in this nifty little cove with rock on three sides, and the sea lapping in and out right ahead of you. Billy went through first, because he's done it a million times before, and stood at the end of the little corridor to help me out, and then I just stood there in total shock while he grinned at me and said, "Isn't it neat?"
I told him "neat" just wasn't good enough a word for having your own private beach, which is basically what this is. He just went right on grinning, and said, "I know, right?" Then he pulled his T-shirt up over his head and tossed it onto the sand, just anywhere, because there was nobody else around to care where our stuff ended up. I didn't notice he hadn't brought anything with him till he'd skinned out of his shorts and underwear and was giving me a look that demanded to know why I was taking so damn long.
Me: (taking off T-shirt) "Hang on, Billy. I'm on it." (getting swim gear out of bag)
Him: (noticing) "Leave it, man. There's nobody else here."
Me: (raising my eyebrow) "You gonna swim naked?"
Him: (shrugging) "I always do, here. You saw how hard it is to find."
Me: (thinking) "Well, I don't think I will, if it's all the same to you."
Him: (shrugging again) "Whatever." (turning and walking toward water) (quietly, but really not quietly enough, if he didn't want to be heard) "Square."
It was pretty unashamed provocation on his part, but I didn't feel like getting all indignant and not rising to the bait, whatever. I wanted to rise to it, really. He was right, after all: there was nobody there, there would never be anyone there but us, and the sea was gloriously blue. Billy's hair is golden in the sunlight, just like his eyes. And his skin.
Anyway, so we swam and I didn't bother with my swim gear, REBEL.
We didn't bring any towels, either. We never do, for anything other than the kind of early morning swim where Billy has to scrub himself dry and jet off to work immediately. Normally, if we're drying in the sun, we're lying there in swim trunks so the sun'll dry them as well. It was a little different, lying in the sand without any clothes on. I felt... skinny. I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye, thinking how he didn't look awkward at all---he had one leg kind of up a little, at the knee, and one hand behind his head, and the rest of him just laid out all perfect like in a drawing, kind of stylized. He didn't notice. He didn't look at me. He had his eyes closed, and he didn't seem to want to talk about anything much except baseball, which is no good because I'm Red Sox and he's Yankees and that is not something we should discuss.
Okay, I just stopped writing there for about ten minutes, because I was thinking about things, like what this diary is actually supposed to be for, and if it's going to be an accurate representation of my life as myself in 1955, or if it's going to be something I could show to my mom. And, well, we already established way back on the first page that it's not something I could show to my mom. So. To hell with it. I'll get a lock for it, and I'll write what I damn well think.
Okay, so. I hope this'll seem funny in twenty years, Mr. Nachman. I kept looking at him because, because, I just, I wanted to look at him. And it made me hard. And I had to put my knee up so he wouldn't see. And the more I looked at him, the more I wanted to touch him.
So, is that funny to you, now, reading that? I hope it is. Because it's not, right now. You probably remember that.
Did you know that on August 14th, 1914, France invaded Alsace-Loraine? They did. It was called the Battle of the Frontiers.
August 16th, 1955
I'm embarrassed to talk to my diary now, or something. How dumb is that?
Nothing to say, anyway. Hung out with Billy. Oh, and yesterday morning he wrapped a bar of chocolate up in brown paper and wrote my name on it, and put it through the door before I was even dressed and downstairs. Why the hell did he do that? He was gonna see me later in the day anyway, after work. And he never brought it up, so I couldn't ask, because he didn't sign it, even though it was obvious to everyone that it was his writing on the paper.
Weird.
August 18th, 1955
Billy called this morning to ask if I wanted to go down to his cove again. Part of me couldn't wait to, because it's such a great place to swim, all empty and quiet and it's all sun and no shadow and just Billy and me. But, you know. Then there was the other stuff. So I said to him on the phone that I wanted to go, but I was going to bring my swim gear this time and I was going to wear it, because otherwise I felt weird. I was all ready for him to complain and laugh and call me a square, but he didn't. He just said okay. And then when we got to the beach, he had brought his swimming stuff as well. So I was way less uncomfortable on the beach after we swam, not being all naked.
I mean, we were still pretty naked. But still. Also, Billy was in a more talkative mood, and it's way easier not to look at how he looks like a painting when he's telling funny stories about riding at his grandfather's ranch in Colorado. We got milkshakes afterward.
August 20th, 1955
Dad called. Asked all the same questions again. Gave all the same answers. Mom has literally not mentioned him once to me the whole time we've been here. She still doesn't even seem upset. I have no idea who she thinks she's fooling. It's obvious we're just going to go back to Stockbridge at the end of the month, and this will have been her holiday from him or something, for the year.
God, I don't want to think about going home. Billy said something earlier that almost led directly onto the topic, and we both just sort of stopped for a minute and then he changed the subject like he doesn't want to think about it either.
I don't even want to think about it now, however much of a truth-book this damn thing is meant to be. No.
August 23rd, 1955
Billy staying over, no time, coming over now, don't know if he's walking or in his car or what, so can't hang about, I wonder if he'll borrow my pajamas again?
August 24th, 1955
There just isn't anybody in Stockbridge like Billy. When I go home I'm going to run up massive long-distance telephone bills, and I won't even care. I'll get a job and work specially to pay off the goddamn phone bill if I have to. I need to talk to him. When we have a conversation, a proper long conversation, it's like he's turned on this faucet in my mind and everything just comes pouring out, everything, it's like lancing a boil and letting out all the crap, and afterwards I just feel euphoric, I feel perfect, I'm so happy. It reaches this point where my face is aching and I'm getting a headache from laughing so much, but I can't stop and I want to just go on saying these things, over and over and over again because he gets them.
When he's close to me, and he laughs like that, I want to touch his face. It's like this irresistible urge; it makes my arms tingle all the way from the elbows to the wrists. I didn't tell him that. I thought it would be the one thing he wouldn't get.
Right before he got off my bed to get into the spare, he leaned over and put his hand on my cheek. I thought I was going to die. Then he took it away again, and I could feel it on my face, like he'd burned me or something. I felt like it must be glowing in the dark, the shadow of his hand on my skin.
August 26th, 1955
<~ yes, that's a torn edge. I wrote a poem but I tore it out and burned it with a match. I know I said I was going to tell the truth here, but I just came back and read it after an interval of three hours, and I swear to God, there is no fucking excuse for that kind of shit, especially not the fact that it's true.
August 28th, 1955
Mom says we're leaving on the 30th. Told Billy this evening. He went all quiet. Then he hugged me. We were in his room and I had the guitar in my lap, and he just reached over and kind of acted as if the guitar just wasn't there, and hugged me round it. I went a little stiff and awkward, but he didn't even seem to notice, just pulled me against him real tight until I could hardly breathe, and eventually I stopped feeling weird---I don't know why; it was just so like him---and hugged him back. He hugged me like that for literally ten minutes, and didn't say a word.
We're going to go to the movies tomorrow for my last night.
August 30th, 1955
Well, we've left. I'm writing this in the car. We're now about fifty miles out of town.
Billy swung by about seven last night to pick me up. I hadn't expected it to be anything special, really, so I was kind of surprised when I got into the car and he'd put on what I can only describe as a nice shirt---that's what my mom would have called it---and a pair of jeans that were clearly brand new. I didn't say anything, but I felt suddenly a little underdressed.
He was acting kind of strange at first, a little overexcited, like he was trying to compensate for the fact that he was really a little down about the fact that I was going back to Stockbridge in the morning. I don't know why, really, but for some reason that made me feel all fond of him, instead of just irritated with him, because it felt like he was trying so hard not to be weird, and failing so completely at it, it was pitiable. Like, literally, pitiable. I felt sorry enough for him that it stopped me being weird myself, which I otherwise definitely would have been. I just replied to everything he said in the most normal tone of voice I could muster, until he calmed down, which was a gradual process, but it had definitely begun by the time we got to the drive-in theater and parked the car.
The place wasn't too full, although it wasn't empty enough to feel desolate, and we managed to get a good spot. I don't even know what the movie was. I'm sorry, Posterity. It was totally forgettable. Something to do with a mass invasion of Earth. I guess we didn't really come to pay attention to the movie. It was more of a gesture, of doing something to mark my last night here, sort of commemorating the end of an era. Just when it was starting, I asked Billy if he came here much.
Him: "Sometimes, with girls."
Me: "Not with your friends?"
Him: "Been with Kit, once or twice."
Me: "Not regularly, though."
Him: "No."
Both: (staring unseeingly at the screen for a bit)
Me: "I don't want to go home."
Him: (quietly) "I don't want you to go home, either."
We must have stared at the screen in silence for about twenty minutes, after that. I don't know if he was watching the movie properly. I wasn't. I have no clue what happened. I was too---I don't even know what. The front seat of his car is one of those long, bench-like things, you know, all one seat with a back to it, and he had his hand on the seat between us. I couldn't stop glancing at it. It was as if there were some sort of small animal there, and I couldn't concentrate because I was waiting for it to do something I'd have to react to, like it was going to jump off the seat or something and I'd have to catch it.
That sounds really disgusting, now.
It was just---his hand. And my hand. And fine, fuck it, I had this mad idea that I was going to take hold of his with mine. I kept thinking this and then thinking how dumb it was and then thinking it again.
And then, maybe thirty minutes into the movie, just when I almost thought I might dare to reach out and put just my fingertips in his palm, he moved it.
Onto the back of the seat. So it was behind my shoulder.
I can't even describe how I felt after that. If you're just future me, reading this, then I'm sure you haven't forgotten. Just this roiling feeling in my stomach, like I was waiting for something and knew what it was and yet didn't dare know. He didn't smell like grass last night. He smelled like cologne or something, too expensive to be his, maybe his Dad's stuff for special occasions, whatever. And then this soap smell. And warm, he smelled warm, sort of in general. My skin was prickling, as if all the hairs were standing on end.
About an hour into the movie, he closed his hand around my shoulder. After that, it was like he thought he'd broken the city or something, like he'd got himself over the big outer wall and now all that was left were these little wooden ramparts and he just climbed over them one by one. Or maybe he was just conscious that the movie might not go on much longer. Anyway, I felt him shifting closer to me on the seat, so we were touching. My breathing was funny, but I could hear his, right next to me, and it was funny, too, all quick and shallow like he couldn't quite get enough oxygen. Then he sort of leaned his head against mine, and I just about stopped breathing entirely.
We sat like that, just like that, for a while. I don't know how long. Things flashed by on the screen, but I wasn't paying any attention, and neither was he. I could just see him, out of the corner of my eye, looking at me. I knew he was looking at me because I could feel my skin tingling, the way it only does under somebody's stare like that. I wanted to turn around and look at him right back, but it seemed as if he were trying to gear himself up for something, and I was worried that if I looked at him, if I interrupted that, he'd lose whatever nerve he'd built up. So I just sat tight, and stared at the screen, and thought about how warm his breath was all down my neck.
Right before the end of a movie, the screen starts to do certain things. You can tell by the pace of it, even when you're not watching it properly, that it's about to be over. Billy is obviously just as aware of this as I am, because right when these signs started to show up, I heard him suck in his breath through his teeth, and then the next thing I knew was his hand on my face. I went totally still. He---sort of rubbed his mouth against my jaw. Then he said, "Len."
I turned toward him, and he lifted his chin slightly, and between the both of us his mouth brushed over mine, just slightly. I stopped mid-motion. I held my breath like that, just turned toward him there with his arm around my shoulders. And then he sort of pressed his lips against mine, real careful, like he was scared I was going to jerk away, or smack him. When I didn't move, he did it again. And then again. And then I shifted slightly, so the angle was less difficult, and he kissed me properly, right on my half-open mouth.
Hello again, book of awkward truths. I may as well say I would have made out with him if he'd opened his mouth right then. Hell, I have nothing to lose, now. I'm on the way back to goddamn godforsaken Stockbridge. I wish I'd reached up and held him there when he started to pull away. I wish I'd licked his stupid pretty mouth until he got the message. Hell, I wish, I wish.
I didn't, though. And he didn't. We just sat there for this long long second with our lips just touching, and my heart doing the tarantella in my throat. And then he pulled back, and the credits were rolling. And then he started the engine.
He drove me straight home in silence. Outside my house, he said he'd write to me, told me to have a safe journey. His voice was a little weird, kind of tight. It was light, you know, friendly, but---I don't know. I felt like he'd shut off his mind from mine, you know? Like I couldn't reach him.
And then this morning my goddamn mother woke me up at six and now we're driving back to fucking Stockbridge and I'm probably never going to see him again, and OH LOOK I KISSED A GODDAMN BOY AND I WANTED TO KEEP KISSING HIM, ALL RIGHT? ALL RIGHT. FUCK YOU.
Goddammit.
September 1st, 1955
We're in a hotel in Stockbridge. Dad won't let us in the house, apparently. No clue what the hell is going on. More later.
September 3rd, 1955
I never thought I'd write this/say it/whatever.
But.
I think they may have actually broken up.
I think Dad means it about not letting her back in the house.
I think Mom knew this all summer.
And I think we only came back here to get our stuff.
AND SHE DIDN'T FUCKING TELL ME.
September 4th, 1955
Tomorrow is Labor Day. School starts the day after. We're driving back out to California. I am going to follow Mom in my car, because we're moving in with Grandma and Grandpa, effective immediately, and I'm going to need the car because I am, APPARENTLY, already enrolled at the local high school. Yeah, that high school. The one Billy goes to.
I'm so angry, I don't even know where to begin. Last week the thought of leaving that place made me want to pull my skin off, but now the thought of going back just makes my mind feel all empty and vast and blank, like I don't know what to do with it because I have no idea which way it might go. Like, if he hadn't thought I was going back to Stockbridge, Billy and I would never have gone to that movie theater; and then THAT would never have happened; and then we wouldn't have parted on weird terms. And now I'm... going back?
Yeah, that and the fact that NOBODY FUCKING TELLS ME ANYTHING.
And I still haven't got a lock for this goddamn diary.
I don't think I'm even going to want to write about what happens when we get back down there. I seriously fucking don't.
You think this is what they mean by an "unforgettable summer"?
My baby goes like greased lightning when I want her to: wheels spinning, engine purring, the road just a blur underneath us. Kit and me, we used to ride this lady all over creation when I first fixed her up, right out of town and into the nowhere places, feeling like we owned the whole goddamn world. That was before he was going steady with Caitlyn, of course. Don't get me wrong; I like Caitlyn, a lot. She's a real little dazzler, and she's funny, too, and she likes me. But man, I sure as hell haven't seen as much of Kit since she's been his girl. I guess that's just the way the world works---you grow up, you get a girl, just like all the cats you know. And then, 'stead of hitting the beach with the guys in the evening, you take your ladyfriend someplace nice, to dinner or the movies, or even the theater if you're feeling flush. That's kind of what Kit's been doing, since he got all starry-eyed. I never blamed him---I mean, I expected it, sooner or later, and he could have taken up with some screech-voiced horror, instead of sweet little Lyn. I lent him my baby girl more than once, 'cause he doesn't have his own and it's hella easier to manage your dates on wheels than without 'em. If it had been anyone else, there would have been more of a debate, but this is Kit. I'd do anything for Kit, even lend him the little red angel. He's my best friend, man, the way nothing could change.
This thing with Len. I know you're thinking about it. You're wondering, aren't you tight with him now? You're thinking, hasn't he kind of pushed Kit out of the picture, these past few weeks? Well, buddy, I think you better button up your brain just to keep all that kind of shit out of there, okay? Len and me, the way we are together, it's just not comparable. It's like trying to weigh up apples against oranges: you put the two together and you get a fruit salad, but you sure as hell won't come up with any decent answers.
I think that was a mixed metaphor. Hell, maybe it was just a metaphor that fell on its ass halfway to the finish line and died. Whatever. The point is, Len and me just aren't the same damn thing at all. Kit is my best bud, always has been, and always will. Len is... Len is....
Hell, I don't even want to think about this. Last time I made the idiot mistake of trying to analyze it, all kinds of stupid shit went down. First, he disappeared off home to goddamn Stockbridge, and that left me on my own with my mom and my dad, nobody to talk to, and this great big pain in my chest when I thought about swimming alone. I didn't know what to do with myself, after that night at the movies, especially 'cause he wasn't there to help me. I mean, the reason I thought it would be a good idea in the first place, right, is because he was going home. I don't know when I first contracted the crazy-ass idea of kissing him, or whatever the fuck I thought I was doing. All I know is, he said he was leaving for Stockbridge, and my mind went into shutdown mode like some kind of big metal clenchy thing, all the little arms and doors and shit kind of moving over and focusing just on that one dumb thought, like they had to protect it, had to make it happen. I made the suggestion practically without my own consent. It was like suggestion rape, or something.
Two more metaphors just fell on their asses, I know, I know. I should stop, but they help me work through what I mean in my head, even when they make no fucking sense, you know? So if you don't mind, I'll probably just keep using them. If it pisses you off, you're obviously clever enough to work out what I'm trying to say without the clumsy illustration, and that means you're clever enough to just ignore them and move right along, okay? Okay.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Yeah, how weird it was in my head after Len went away, and I couldn't get over the fact that I not only kissed the guy at a drive-in, hello, where clichés are born, but, in fact, I took him to the drive-in for that express purpose. And managed it. Because I'm goddamn Billy Bronner, and I get what I fucking want. Thing is, though, Len is totally not what I should be wanting at this point in my life. Don't think I don't know that. Every fucking thing I encounter, from morning till night: every person, every flyer, every magazine, every newspaper headline, every commercial, and every goddamn dentist's waiting room poster, they're telling me that what I should want is someone like Caitlyn. Someone, namely, you know, who wears a skirt.
Len would look like shit in a skirt, before you say anything.
I mean, don't read too much into the whole me and Len thing. It's not like there's anything wrong with me. I like things in skirts just as much as the next guy, all things considered. Probably more. I like girls' mouths. I like the way their hair smells. I like how their clothes are soft. I like the way they go in at the waist; I like their tits. I especially like it when I'm super incredibly lucky and I hit up some chick who's either stupid or slutty or, you know, maybe both, and she lets me hit a fucking home run, right there in the back of my car. Man, I like that. The girls have always seemed to like it too.
It's just that, right now, I don't want them. Not at the moment, not this past summer, not when I could hang out with Leonard instead, and smell his hair and touch his skin and kiss his mouth. Do not even think I don't know how fucking weird and wrong that is. He doesn't go in at the waist. He certainly hasn't got any tits. He's just some skinny Jew boy with a Stockbridge accent, and when we talk I want to talk forever, and when he sings my insides squiggle up like they're alive in their own right, and yeah, I want to make out with him. I do.
And I'm not looking for any suggestions on what that makes me, thank you. I'm really not. I don't want to hear it, because there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
I know this, okay, because I damn well tried. I tried it when I first started feeling that way, and then I tried it again when he left. (It was too hard to try when I was seeing him every day and my skin just tingled all the time he was with me.) When I saw him at school, I practically had kittens, I was so shook-up. I was feeling pretty down anyway, mostly because of not being able to tell Kit about it, because a) I tell Kit everything, so keeping things from him makes me jittery, but b) there was just no fucking way Kit was going to get me on this one. I didn't want to watch Kit looking all disbelieving, or confused, or disgusted, or whatever. I wanted him to be sorry for me 'cause I had a summer thing and then the person went away, only Len is Len, so Kit couldn't be, could he? And I couldn't expect him to get it.
So I was acting pretty weird, and Len was acting pretty weird, and Kit sure as hell didn't miss that.
This thing with Len, it's nothing to do with me and Kit, because... well. Kit, right, he's best friends with me, and then he's got Caitlyn, and she's his girl. And me, right, I'm best friends with Kit, and then we gotta put Len in the Caitlyn position. Not 'cause he's a girl, and not cause I see him like that in any way, but just because otherwise I don't even have a frame of reference to hold this thing up against, and that way lies madness and despair.
I guess if you were going to be really sappy, you could say I love Kit, but I'm in love with Len.
If you were going to be sappy. Which I have no intention of doing.
But yeah, if you're interested? That's how it's fucking different. And if you can't deal with that, then I don't know what else to tell you.
I'm grateful to old Foxy, really, for shoving us together this afternoon. If he hadn't done that, I'd probably still be mooching about with a face like a smacked hyena. I just---he was right there, you know? And he smelled all Len-like, and even his handwriting was cute. I just wanted to hug him, and kind of jump around a bit and shout, "Oh my God, you're not in Stockbridge, you're here, you're here, you're here!" But you can't do stuff like that in the middle of class, not if you want to live. Besides invoking the wrath of Foxy, I'd probably have been murdered by jocks for being... whatever. (Fuck that.)
Anyway, I had to do something. In the end, I slipped him a note. It said---I think this is exact: "Lenny, I'm sorry. Come to the cove with me after school? I'll drive you."
Pretty neat and to the point, right? I'm good at notes, the writing and passing thereof. Anyway, he brightened, kind of, when he read it, and then he scribbled back, "Sure, we need to talk." At which point I turned the bit of paper over, and put, "I'm so happy to see you."
When he got that one, he turned right round and looked at me, totally mindless of the fact that we were in the middle of class, and he grinned at me like the goddamn sun coming out. And man, was I really happy to see him when he smiled like that, like I meant something that only a look like that one could express.
There's something to us, me and Len, something amazing. I don't know what it is, but when he looks at me, I can't doubt it's there.
Kit knows something's up, 'cause Kit knows me, and that's a fact I just can't get away from. I can get away from school, though, and from my parents and my homework and that goddamn achy feeling of being on my own, and I put my foot down 'cause Len's in the passenger seat and I don't give a damn about anything else. My heart's going fast, pitter-pat, pitter-pat, and the whole car smells like new semester and his hair. So much fucking hair, I want to rub my face in it. I want to pull over by the side of the road, and pull him toward me by his thick dark hair and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.
Fuck, I want to kiss him. I want it so sudden and so hard, it's like I'm choking on it; it's so real, it's like it's a chicken bone or something, lodged in my throat.
(Yeah, whatever. Skip the fucking simile if you hate it that much. It's a free country.)
Even I'm not dumb enough to think that would be a good idea. I said "cove," man, and I goddamn meant it. Len's beside me, and we're zipping along the seafront, now, and all I got to do is pull over at the roadside and get out, get out, get out.
I fumble with the parking brake, unfasten my seat belt. It's new, that; my dad made me put one in. Len's not wearing his, which is unsafe, kids, but makes it easier to push him toward the car door, gesturing, in total silence with the palms of my hands tingling. I can hear myself breathing; I can hear him breathing; I'm trying not to laugh. I don't even know what I'm doing, but I climb out of the car, and he climbs out, and I lock it. We look at each other.
We're parked right up by that place in the wall, where the niche in the rocks lets you wriggle through and out the other side. I hitch myself up and worm my way through on my front, grateful as ever that the sand is soft when I emerge. Len follows after, not a moment's hesitation before he works his way through that little gap, collapses onto the sand with this soft little whumph, and then we're sitting there, and we're looking at each other, and the sea's rushing in and out, in and out. I say, "Len."
We're thinking about the last time I said his name like that, all soft and warm and questioning with my mouth against his jaw. I know that's what he's thinking, 'cause his eyes are going dark; they're wide and black and his hand's creeping up my arm. When he reaches my hair, he winds his fingers into it, and I remember how soft his mouth felt, and how dry. He says my name back to me: "Billy."
For a second, I'm struck by the feeling that, hell, we're just going to sit here like this until Kingdom Come, aren't we? Saying each other's names over and over again, till the tide changes and the sea comes right in, and the next thing we know, it's fifty thousand years in the future, and we haven't got as far as a proper kiss. But even as I'm thinking this, he's leaning in toward me, and when I lift my chin, his mouth is right there against mine, touching. His hand in my hair, his pulse rushing wild in his wrist. Holy fuck, I want to kiss him till he drowns in it.
His breath makes a sound in his throat when I pull him toward me, this tight little sound like surprise, or impatience, or relief. His hair is like silk under my palms. He opens his mouth almost immediately, and I lick at his lips, suck on his tongue. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back, and he's up on his elbows over me. He presses little kisses all over my face, these hot little darting kisses, and then I pull him back by the nape of the neck till his mouth is on mine again, sliding wet and open, and I lick him deep to his back teeth, flatten my tongue against his.
If Len were a girl, it would have taken me an hour to reach this point. But he's not a girl, and he's kissing me back with this heat and this fury that girls just don't have; he's kissing me like it's the only thing he ever wants to do; and he's rocking against me like his body knows it seriously fucking isn't. I don't know if he's even noticed this, he's so intent on what he's doing: his fingers in my hair, his teeth nipping at my lower lip, the way he keeps lapping at the corners of my mouth while he makes these breathy little wanting sounds. I'm hot all over; I'm hard as fuck and my skin jumps when his teeth scrape it, and this feeling goes through me like it's burning. He's running his hands over me like he's checking me for injuries, thorough and smooth and slow, and I pull him down to me by the back of the skull. He's gasping then, digging his fingernails into my hips, and I mmmph underneath him, my jaw loose and my mouth open to his tongue. God, Leonard, Leonard, I've never been kissed like this, never so deeply or so bucketful of sparks. I rock up toward him without even thinking, it's too late for thinking and thinking is bad. He traces the waistband of my pants across my stomach, rubbing his fingerpads gently over the skin, and it's driving me mad.
The next thing I know is the scrape of his fingernails lower, lower; he rubs his knuckles over me there where I'm hard, fuck. I pull my mouth away and stare up at him, gasping. Suddenly I don't know what this is anymore and suddenly it matters, don't ask me why, it makes no sense; moments ago I was happy as a clam just to go on kissing him till my jaw went into fucking syndication (dead metaphor dead metaphor), but this isn't that. This is him, this is Leonard, this is his goddamn hand on my goddamn dick and I don't know if it's 'cause he's a guy or maybe cause he actually means something to me but I don't want to do this without being sure. I find his eyes, his deep black gorgeous eyes, and I say: "Leonard, if someone catches us, we're fucked."
He says, "Who's going to catch us?" And he's right, you know, 'cause nobody knows about this place, not even Kit, and anyone half an inch wider than me wouldn't fit anyway. Then he says, "I think we're fucked anyway."
I don't know what he means by that, except for the part where I do. My mind skitters away from it, back to his fingers creeping over my zipper. "I'm sorry," I tell him. "It's just I don't know what I'm doing. This is all kind of---I mean, it's kinda... new, you know? And just---"
I mean a lot of things by that, even though it comes out all stuttery like it's nonsense: kissing guys is new, yeah, and I guess he takes it that way, but me and Len are new as well, together like this; and it's new kissing someone you won't want to get away from afterwards, someone you want to talk to and sleep over with and go to the movies with and understand. He touches my face, long fucking beautiful fingers on my face and he says, "Well, Billy, I've never done this either, but..."---(fingers creeping over me again, goddamn)---"...the logistics seem straightforward enough."
And fuck, fuck, fuck my whole body goes weak to him then, just hearing him say that while he's leaning over me in the sand with his hand on my cock. It's so fucking Leonard, so exactly and totally this guy I've gone stupid for: Lenny who's so smart and so quick and smiles bright like the goddamn sun and oh, shit, now his palm is flat against me and I think I cry out. Then he's kissing me again, wet and open-mouthed and easy, his hand working my pants open, but my belt is in the way and even Len can't manage that one-handed. So I break away, laughing, and go at it myself, and my fingers kind of brush over his where he's unbuckling himself, and there shouldn't be any goddamn poetry in the way our fingers get all tangled up unbuckling our belt buckles but there totally is, goddammit, there is. When we've got our pants undone, he says my name under his breath and closes his hand around me and I buck into it, put my own hand on him and he's hot and he feels so strong in my fist I can't swallow. It's different, this, jerking someone else off, just like it's different being jerked off by someone else's fingers, and fuck it, fuck it but I want to hear those sounds dropping from his lips, rubbing my mouth in the hollow of his throat and saying oh---oh---oh while he strokes me.
I guess it's clumsy, and I guess it's too quick, but it's not masturbation and it's not even just a hand job, really, cause it's him, you know? And that makes my chest ache. I come for him first, all over his hand, and then I pull my face quickly away from his neck; I push him onto his back and I watch him while he gets there, his head back and his mouth open and this tiny little furrow of concentration between his brows. It's just gorgeous, man, fucking gorgeous to see that dark sugar face all tense and waiting, like he's seeing something amazing and it's just moving closer all the time, and then I flick my thumb right over the head of him and he curls up his body and comes.
There's this second, right after he's done, while he's lying there panting, where I get this weird clarity in my head, this worry I don't fucking want while he's there underneath me, this dammit, what did we just do? But then he opens his eyes and, dammit, I forget; I don't even care, because he's pulling me down to kiss him again, and fuck, I could do this forever. There's no urgency to it this time; he's got his arms around me and it's gentle and careful and I think we're getting better at it, fitting our mouths together without quite being deep enough inside each other that we're all swallowed up in the feeling. He strokes my back, kind of plays with my hair, and you know, I fucking hate it when girls want you to cuddle them afterwards, when all I want to do is get up and go wash the stickiness off myself, but this isn't like that at all. I'm covered in sticky, all over my hands and my stomach, but I don't want to move, not when I could lie here and be wrapped up in Len and not think.
Thing is, though, in a California fall, it gets dark. When it starts to get dim, Leonard wriggles away, reluctant, like he'd really rather not, and he says, "Let's go wash up." So we slip down to the sea, rub our hands in the surf, rub the surf over our stomachs. I guess it should be embarrassing as fuck, but I don't really mind, and he keeps grinning at me sidelong even when his mouth is impassive. It's all in his eyes, with Leonard, always.
When we're all clean again, and buttoned up and fit for human company, I find I don't want to go home. I make this case, and Leonard kind of laughs and pulls me toward him, right there in the surf at the ocean's edge. He kisses me. I tip my head up, I don't even care that he's taller than I am, and I let him do it. He says, "Come on, Billy. We'll go home, and you'll call that friend of yours, and you'll tell him you're home."
I raise my eyebrow, confused. "Kit? Why?"
He raises his own brow right back, and dammit, but he does it so much better than I do. I can never do it again, now. "'Cause he's onto us," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "He thinks something's up, anyway. You have to put him off or he'll find out."
And that gives me a weird feeling in my stomach, this tight little clutching feeling that I seriously don't dig. The rest of me still feels all tingly and pleased, all warm and soaring and wrapped up in Leonard and fuck, I want to tell Kit about that, the way I tell him how happy I am all the other times anything's got me all fuzzy (which is often enough, even if never quite like this). But he's right, of course. I can't. I can't, because this is fucking illegal, what we just did, and fuck, fuck, fuck. I look at him, find his eyes, take his hands. I say, "Len, what did w---"
He kisses me again before I can finish, running his fingers into my hair and licking into my mouth. When he pulls away I'm too breathless to say anything, as he doubtless intended, and he just says, "It'll be okay, Bill, s'long as you call him. You do that for me?"
I want to say I love you. His hair is kinda damp, blowing up and away from his face in the breeze, his dark angular face and his massive black eyes, and I love him, right this second, I fucking do. But obviously it would freak him out no end if I told him so, so instead I just nod, and touch his face. "Come on, then. I'll drive you home."
We drive home quietly, his hand on the seat beside me, uncurled, inviting. I grin at him without looking at him, put my hand in his and squeeze. I snap the radio on with my other hand, flash him a proper grin while he looks at the steering wheel, alarmed for the half second while we're driving hands-free, and then we have music, like the lady on her way to Banbury Cross. Elvis, again. I can just tell, in the future, he's gonna remind me of Len. I don't know if that's going to be the most embarrassing thing in the world or not, just yet.
If Len had been a girl, I coulda kissed him here in the street, outside his house. But he's not, and I can't, so I just grip his hand, and he slips his fingers gently down out of mine, tracing the lines of my palm with his fingertips. It's like a kiss, somehow, and it makes me shiver. I say, "'Night, Lenny," and fuck it, I mean a load of other things, and he probably goddamn knows it. He just smiles at me, though, and says, "'Night," and goes indoors. I watch the way his hips go, the straight uprightness of his back, and try not to think about Kit. My God, Leonard. What the fuck have you done to me?
Driving home, I still feel all full of sunshine. The car barely touches the road; my hands barely touch the wheel. I can't sing worth fuck, but I sing along anyway, grinning at the kids on the sidewalk who throw me weird looks. "Life could be a dream," I announce to some girl at the stoplight. "Baby, we'd be so fine," I go on, through a damn-fool laugh as I pass old Mrs. Lopez with her shopping. This song is sappy as hell, and I know it, but I want Len to sing it to me; I want to sing it to Len. I want to drive straight back to his house, turn the car around, and sing up under his window like some idiot in a medieval romance. Life could be a dream, sweetheart.
Fuck them, my mother and my father and Mr. Fox and Mrs. Lopez and that idiot girl with the sunglasses. Fuck you, whoever you are, complaining; fuck you all cause I don't give a damn anymore. I'll put Kit off, 'cause I love him and I guess he deserves it, but what I want to do is to call him up and say "Kit, listen, that guy at school, I'm in love with him," and then damn whatever he thinks of that.
He might not care. He might not care. Could I make him not care?
I park the car, I run up the drive, I go inside the empty house. I pick up the phone, and I dial, and I wait to be answered.
"Hello?" says the voice on the other end, confused. "Hello?"
"Hey, Lenny," I say, and my cheeks ache with grinning. "I missed you."
He laughs at that, and my whole fucking heart goes nova.
I'm just about asleep when I hear the telephone jangling. Hell, it's not like it's late or anything, not by the standards I've been setting lately, but I've just worked my way through a ton of goddamn calculus, and nothing tires a cat out quicker'n that. So I'm all tucked up in beddy-byes when I hear my mother's voice breaking on a yell, "Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, it's for youuuuuuuuuuuu!"
It's times like this I wonder whether my mom and dad didn't just give me my damn stupid name purely because it's so incredibly easy to shout. Like naming a cat, you know---there are certain factors to consider. Firstly, the embarrassment factor. You're gonna have to call this name, whatever it is, into the soft suburban evening probably several times a week, and that means you gotta think hard about how it'd make you feel for the big jock two doors down to know you thought "Fluffkins" was the perfect fit for your kitty. That's the most obvious one, but there are other things, too, and one of the important ones is volume. A guy can shout as loud as he wants but the thing is---I don't know whether science has managed to prove this just yet, but I'm telling you, it's true---some words just don't come out as loud as others. Monosyllabic names, for example, if they end in a consonant, are no fucking good at all. We used to have a bitch of a Siamese named Trio, and that is certainly a name that takes all the vital things into account and uses them to its best advantage.
Triiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo... has a really great ring to it, you can yell it real loud down whatever street you like, and nobody's gonna beat you up over it, and your cat'll probably hear you. Great stuff all round.
Anyway, back to my original point: times like this, when I hear my mom hollering my name up the stairs in just exactly the tone she used to call for Trio, I think they must have applied the Rules of Cat Naming to their kids as well. In my case, I guess it must have been retrospective---my name is Jackson Christopher O'Reilly, but I haven't ever been called anything 'cept Kit in this house. It's short, it's to the point, it's weird, but it's not embarrassing, and you can make it as long as you damn well like. Same with Billy from William, come to think of it: Bill is too short, but with Billy, you get to draw out the final eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee until your lungs give out.
I let Mom drag out her own iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii on the stairs for a second longer than I should, sighing up at the ceiling while I entertain brief, bitter thoughts about how nobody ever leaves me the hell alone, and how a guy goes about selling his soul for some peace. Then I yell, "What?"
(Case in point: "What?" is no good, really. Doesn't follow the Rules at all. I mean, sure, you can draw out the a a little, and the ultimate t cuts it off nice and sharp and angry, but it cuts it off, you know? Nah,"What?" is no damn good as a yelling word.)
Mom, in her infinite wisdom, totally misses the fact that whatever I just did, it was barely more than a huff, compared to her own caterwauling. "Don't you shout at me," she shrieks; and then, on a note of abrupt and sympathetic sweetness, "It's Billy, honey. Don't stay on too long."
I roll my eyes ceilingward. Oh, it's not Mom's fault, of course, and the tone of her voice tells me she's known Billy far too long to blame me for anything he takes it into his head to do, such as calling his buddies at nine-thirty at night. Billy Bronner does whatever Billy Bronner pleases, and most of the time, he does it pleasantly enough that everyone just lets him get the hell on with it, my mom included. Sure, I've heard her complain about him, mildly and in a superficial kind of way, but when it comes down to it, she's as much a slave to that goddamn golden smile of his as any sixteen-year-old girl, and boy, does Billy know it. He's always given it mouth, you know---"This is excellent, Mrs O'Reilly," and "I love your shoes, Mrs O'Reilly," and "Promise I'll have Kit back in your capable hands by nine, Mrs. O'Reilly," as if I wasn't both older than him and the one who'd probably be saving his sorry ass, if it ever came to that. Which, pray God, it never will.
Billy just does these things, you know? Things like zip off in his nifty little lady to some unknown destination, with some unknown Yankee cat, and then call me up when I've just hauled my aching bones to bed. I swear to God, if he's perky at me, I will strangle him with his own goddamn phone cord, logistical impossibility or not. But I tell my mother I'm on my way, disentangle myself from my comforter, and stumble down the stairs like a zombie in one of those old movies where the rhythm's not quite right, so everyone looks like a wind-up toy. She's left the receiver face up on the hall table, and I pick it up, cradle it to my ear, and say through a yawn, "This better be good, Bronner."
He laughs on the other end of the line. There's a pause between the end of the laugh and the next breath he draws, like he's thinking or something, which is not like Billy at all. But then, Billy's not being particularly like himself of late, so I guess I'm not too surprised. I wait. Eventually he says, "I just wanted to call and say I was home."
I blink. I blink three times, ostentatiously, before I realize he can't actually see that I'm blinking down the goddamn telephone line (when are they going to make these things with pictures, anyway?) and then I sputter, "You what?"
Silence. I go on, "What am I, now, your keeper or something? Since when do you call me to tell me you're home? Where the hell else would you be?"
Even as I'm saying this, rasping it out a little too harshly so it grates back into my ear through a feedback loop, I know maybe I'm being too hard on him. After all, I did tell him I was worried, when he kicked off in his car after school; and I did tell him I had a bad feeling about this. Which I did, mainly because I was convinced they were about to do something ridiculously, horrifically stupid, probably illegal, and (I bet) maybe distasteful as well. They're selling something. Or they're making something. Or, fuck, maybe they're taking something; I don't know. Thing is, I know that Billy actually calling me like this to tell me he's okay, that's him being nice, that's him being thoughtful, not him deliberately trying to fuck up my sleep cycle. But---hear me out---it's not Billy. Now, I love Billy to death, don't get me wrong, and I know he'd do absolutely anything for me if I asked him to, but remembering to call, intuiting that he'd better call and offer reassurance, is just exactly the kind of simple courtesy he forgets all about (unless the person being called is a girl he just screwed, in which case he always remembers. Always. Jeez, I wonder why.) So you see, what would have been a straightforward gesture from anyone else becomes something totally different in Billy's hands, something altogether more unnerving.
The way I see it, one of two things could have made Billy call me like this. Lemme see if I can set them out for you.
Okay: number one? He just did something so stupid, so monumentally dumb, so toe-curlingly illegal that even he knows it's time to eat dirt and fucking pray. You know, something that felt so shivery and thrilling and guilty and bad the whole way through that he couldn't even begin to forget it was dangerous. Something where he spent the whole drive home sweating and shaking his head and being shocked enough that he got out alive that he feels the need to dial me up and say "Hey, Kit, I'm home safe and sound," just to reassure himself that he is. Now, I don't want to believe in option number one, I really don't. I have some ideas about what they're up to, but they're all pretty mild, you know; dubious stuff, but nothing on this level of potential shit-hitting-fan. This succession of pictures goes flicking through my mind like one of those books where the little stick-figure guy runs over the pages if you turn 'em quick enough, 'cept none of these pictures are fit for your kids. Drug labs, I think about. We're always hearing shit about drug labs and Puerto Ricans. Hell, smugglers. I don't know what smugglers look like in 1955 California, so my mind puts them in tricorner hats and thigh-boots, but that can't be helped. Even just climbing would be bad enough, the way I bet Billy would do it: the two of them clambering over impossibly narrow beams, hanging from the roofs of warehouses, knocking back whisky and swinging from chimneys. I imagine the crunch of his body as it hits the ground: BAM. Man, I hope it's not option one.
Option two is simpler. Note: simpler. The second thing that coulda made Billy call me like a normal person would, as far as I can guess, is... him. Nachman. As far as I can judge, the only thing other than an absolute flat-out no-save dumb-ass horror of a situation that could have made Billy call me up, just to tell me he's home and safe, would be if someone else told him to do it.
I don't know how I feel about Leonard Nachman telling Billy to check in with me like this. After they drove off together into the goddamned sunset and I still haven't been briefed on anything, not how they met, not why they clicked, not what they do or talk about.
Fuck it, I'm not jealous. I'm not. I take a deep breath.
If you remember, way back up there I was asking Billy, over harshly, why he felt the need to suddenly start calling me. Well, so I get done saying that, and Billy waits half a second before he comes back at me defensively, "Well, Kit, I thought you'd want to know I wasn't dead in a ditch; you always do go on like I can't take care of myself."
"Why the hell would you be dead in a ditch?" I shoot back at him, and then, because I can't leave it alone, "And anyway, you had someone to take care of you, didn't you? So what'd you need me for?"
Goddammit, I don't know why I'm saying this shit. It's just coming out, and I'm kind of looking at it like it's something that fell out of a hole in the ceiling, unidentifiable and just a little gross, and definitely not mine. He hesitates, and I correct myself, "No---wait." I breathe deep, again, again. "Thanks for calling. I was worried. You were right."
He mumbles something. It sounds like "Sorry," but this is Billy Bronner so I must be hearing things.
I go on, "Why was I worried, though, Billy? You guys didn't do anything dumb, did you?"
His breathing falters, and dammit, I don't like the sound of that. Shit, shit, shit, Billy, what the hell are you doing? What the fuck happened, while I was away? I know I've seen less of him lately, since Caitlyn and everything, but we used to be joined at the goddamn hip. There was no way I could possibly not have seen less of him, short of Caitlyn dating us both simultaneously. I didn't think he'd go right off the rails just because I spent eight weeks stuffing myself with Creole food and mint juleps without him.
I'm just starting to get really worried, brows pulling together over my nose in that way they do when I really don't like the sound of something, when he says, "No, Kit. We just took a drive to the beach, that's all. But---" I can almost hear him shrug, I've spent so much of my life watching him talk. "We were out late. That's all."
Man, I am so unconvinced, it'd be funny---if I wasn't so on edge. "Uh-huh. What did you do at the beach?"
If they were at the beach, they must be growing prescription medicine in the sand, that's all I can say. Or---
"Billy," I put in quickly, remembering something, "You weren't diving off that goddamn rock, were you? Because you know if you hit your head in the shallows---"
"No, Kit," he interrupts me on a sigh, and then, more gently, "No. We didn't even swim. We just went to the beach and we talked, okay?"
My stomach turns over. Suddenly I can feel my skin prickling like there are little spiders crawling all over me, into my ears and around the back of my neck and down the front of my shirt. Damn, damn, damned if I know what this feeling is, what I'm thinking. My head feels like I caught it in the doors of an elevator: thud---thud---thud---whoosh---thud. They went to the beach. And they talked?
I realize in this instant that I'd rather Billy were lying to me. I realize, in this way that makes me feel suddenly, hotly nauseous, that I'd actually rather Billy had spent the evening playing the dangerous show-off in the rocky shallow water than gone to the beach with some-cat-not-me, and talked. For hours. And Christ, that makes me feel like shit, saying that, but fuck it, he's my best friend and this is not cool. I mean, okay, sure, sometimes I take off with Caitlyn and he doesn't come with us. I don't have to tell him he can't. It's goddamn obvious. I take off with Caitlyn because we're going on a date. If Billy feels slighted, or whatever, the logical response is to actually go get a steady girl, instead of just making out with them one after another in the back of his car, and go on his own damn dates. The logical response is not to take up with some skinny North-coaster (although he does have kind eyes) and then go talk with him somewhere without inviting me along.
They went to the beach. And they talked. Fuck, it's true, isn't it? No messed-up plans, no gunrunners, no drug lords. Just Billy and him in the sand together, talking. Something about it, now I think on it, is actually just so like Billy I can't even describe it. Everyone else, you know, they hit sixteen and think, hey, it's about time I got myself a girl, took her to the movies, kissed her in the back row. Not Billy. Oh, hell, no. Billy has to be different, Billy has to have his goddamn cake---or his goddamn smooth curves and kisses with all the easy girls---and eat it. Bill won't be tied down, oh, no. I get myself a girl, and Billy? Billy decides they had it better back in the old country, on the old continent, whatever. Billy's gonna have his fucking blood brother, mind-companion, cara macree, what the fuck ever, instead.
I'm seething through my teeth, I realize. Fuck it, he can probably hear me. I close my mouth and try to breathe through my nose. Hell, I don't know why I'm so worked up. I'm clutching the phone hard enough that my knuckles have gone white.
"You talked," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "You talked."
I don't think level is working. On the other end of the line, Billy is very silent. My mind is suddenly full of fucking unpunctuated Morte D'Arthur: :...and moche more I am soryer for my good knyghtes losse than for the losse of my fayre quene for quenes I myghte haue ynowe / but suche a felaushyp of good knyghtes shalle neuer be to gyders in no company---"
Hell, why is it so like Billy to find the romantic edge in all the wrong places? Why, why, why? He likes taking girls flowers. He likes smiling at them sidelong till they giggle and melt and flutter their eyelashes. Is it that it's too easy for him, maybe? He wants more of a challenge? He fancies himself as some prince of ages past, and he needs his goddamn warrior bond to be emotionally complete?
I guess I can't give him enough for that, not anymore. I'm quieter than he is, calmer. I was always going to be happy with just the right girl and a job that pays the bills. And Caitlyn is definitely the right girl. Billy... well. Obviously not. All hail Billy Bronner, for he is great and dazzling, and above such feeble institutions as taking your goddamn girl to the goddamn movies, and being happy with that.
He's not saying anything. I guess he knows how I feel better than I do; I'd say he's probably got the wrong end of the stick, but hell, for tonight? He probably hasn't. He's sitting there holding the phone, thinking I'm angry and jealous and behaving irrationally. He thinks I'm being a possessive jerk. He thinks I have no right to be that way, not anymore. He's rubbing the nape of his neck and looking down, the way he does when something's got him stumped. He's not answering me, cause he knows it'll hurt me if he says anything else. He doesn't want to get a shitload more questions, like:
"Why couldn't I come with you, Billy?"
"Why couldn't you talk to me, Billy?"
"What the hell is this, Billy, and why aren't I invited?"
He doesn't want to deal with that right now. And, you know what? Neither do I. I'm tired, and my hand aches from holding the phone too damn tight, and my ear burns where I've got the earpiece crushed there too hard, and I've done too much fucking calculus and I'd really like to go to bed and fume, all right? I just want to go to bed. And try not to think about losing him.
"We talked," he says softly. It's so quiet, I can barely make it out. He sounds sad, and small, and shit, my anger goes right out of me then and there's nothing left but the tiredness, all melancholy and thin. I sigh.
"Okay, Billy," I tell him gently. "Look---I'm beat. I'm gonna go to bed. Thanks for calling to let me know. You'll be by in the morning?"
He makes a valiant attempt at going straight back to the perky, chirpy Bill voice I'd been dreading the thought of when I came down the stairs in the first place, sounding far too damn awake for this time of night, and I love him a little bit for it. He says, "Sure. Same time, same place, don't miss it, etcetera."
(He says etceteraaaaa with all the emphasis on the last syllable. I've never heard anyone do that but Billy. Come to think of it, I can't even think of anyone else I know who'd ever say it aloud.)
"I won't," I say, a little too quickly. "'Night, Bill."
"'Night."
I put the phone down. I try to be quiet about it, try to put it back carefully, but the damn thing still jangles when I hang up the receiver and my chest kind of clenches at the sound. I wait for my mother to come out and say something, but she doesn't. I guess it was a pretty short conversation, really. It felt a lot longer, with all the mishmash going on in my head.
I go up to bed real slow, feeling like an old man. There's an empty glass on my nightstand when I reach it, and I think, as I pick it up and set it out of harm's way on my desk: ten minutes ago, I would have thrown the damn thing at the wall, and not even cared. Hell, I would have thrown it full.
I'm too tired, now, though; deflated. I get in bed, I pull up the covers, I try to count sheep. I stare at my ceiling, I try to think school; I try to think about something, anything but Billy.
It's like that game, you know---you ever played it? When someone comes up behind you and says, "Hey, don't think about bacon," and so of course it pops right into your mind in glorious Technicolor. This is like that. I'm thinking about Billy and me, way back. Billy and me in the playground at our elementary school. The way he used to be taller than me. His smug little grin. Christ, he was a cheeky kid, and they loved him anyway cause he looked like a kid from a Hallmark greeting card. Me and Billy in junior high, painting banners for the football team, racing each other at track. Later, when Billy got his car, and the two of us riding out in it like the goddamn high kings of everything.
Caitlyn and me, then. Billy in the front seat of the car. Me and Caitlyn in the back.
I close my eyes, but somehow I can't see anything except the look on Bill's face this afternoon when he introduced me to that Nachman cat, that soft little lopsided smile. Fuck, why is it different, Billy and me, Billy and him? What was he missing?
I put my hands over my face, try to calm my racing mind.
Predictably, I can't sleep.
When morning rolls around, my God, I'm tired. I'm tired all the way to school in the car, clenching my teeth against the nauseous feeling Billy's driving brings on at the best of times, and I can feel the two of them looking at me, Caitlyn and him, like they're worried.
She's afraid I'm going to throw up on her, probably. What's he afraid of, huh? What are you afraid of, Billy?
God, I don't know. I don't know much anymore.
Time passes. It's funny, that, the way it just breaks away from you sometimes, does its own thing no matter how hard you wish it would just give the hell over and wait for your mind to catch up with the rest of you. Time doesn't work that way. I'm sure everyone must have had that feeling---you know the one, where you sit down one day and you say decisively, "Man, you know what? I'm gonna start working out again tomorrow, and that way, by (say) the beginning of December, I'll be a walking wall of rock-solid muscle." But then, obviously, stuff gets in the way, all that infuriatingly necessary stuff like schoolwork and sleeping and mowing the lawn, and the next thing you know, the beginning of December's rolled around and you're no different from the way you were when you conceived this brilliant plan, but the time's passed all the same, exactly as if you'd actually gotten off your ass and reinvented yourself the way you said you were gonna. The moral of this little illustrative fable, kids, is that time does not give a flying fuck what you're doing while it whooshes past your ears; you'll look up at the end of six weeks, or six months, or six years, and ol' Father Time will be in the exact same place, irrespective of wherever the hell you find your sorry self.
And so, in this way, time passes. Three weeks into school, after That Incident with the beach expedition and the late-night phone call, and I realize halfway through a chem lab, while I'm staring blankly at the back of Leonard's head, that I know absolutely goddamn nothing about him. Three weeks, when you're in high school, can be a pretty damn long time. It's easily long enough to get to know someone, if you sit with this person for lunch every day and hang about with this person outside the building in the morning, and go home with them at night---you get the picture. But I, just exactly like in the not-altogether-hypothetical parable about my workout schedule, have somehow completely failed to hop on the train of good intentions I set out for myself, once I was (mostly) done being irrationally jealous, and the result is that I still haven't indulged in more than the most superficial of conversations with this cat. Hell, I certainly haven't attempted to wiggle my way into one of his secretive little expeditions with Bill, however much I may have wanted to. This last, in particular, is nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me being a big damn coward. Sure, they've never asked me to come along, and that's kinda disheartening, but then, I've never asked them if I could attach myself to the after-school delegation, so I guess there's fault on all the sides of this triangle.
And man, is it a triangle. I mean, don't get me wrong, please---I like this new cat, I really do, what I've seen of him. I like his face, which is always important to me; there's something honest about it, and that's vital. I like the way he laughs, which is another thing I tend to judge a guy by. What I don't like, though, is the way he keeps skittering off with Bill, in the evenings, at weekends, and not letting slip one damn word about what's going on there.
Oh, Billy's a little less vague about it, I guess. I get the typical Billy responses to my half-expressed questions, you know: "Hey, Kit, you taking Lyn out after football practice this Saturday? Lenny and I are gonna go swim, I think," or, "Kit, you got a notepad or something I can borrow? Me and Lenny're gonna need one this afternoon." Now, note the careful, Billyesque construction of these statements. I find it's often easier to get where Billy's coming from if you pick him to bits like an English paper, look at all the parts in detail, find that kernel of meaning buried under all the surface crap. So, question: what is the common purpose of these two remarks? Sample answer: the remarks are both intended to convey basic amounts of information, such that the speaker's friend will know the concrete facts as to the speaker's whereabouts and the company he will be keeping at particular times. Despite this informative function, however, both statements in fact conceal the most important pieces of information about each circumstance beneath a veneer of openness and cheer, perhaps in an attempt to dissuade the listener from asking any further questions.
Look at that. Sometimes, you know, I outdo myself. Thing is, I may be able to see right through Billy like a plate-glass window, but his little games are still, on some level, working. I don't ask any further questions. I don't try and tag along when he uses the "Hey, Kit, you taking Caitlyn out?" back-off line. And, of course, I do take Caitlyn out, and yeah, that's great; and Billy still drives us to school and drops us home after, absolutely and totally the same as ever. But it isn't me he fixes with that conspiratorial smile, and it isn't me he swims with, or laughs with till you can see right in to his back teeth. We all eat together, most days, but it isn't me he sits next to, me he's always giving bits of food to, me he keeps kicking under the goddamn table like he's sharing some monumental private joke. Nah, I get the feeling, lately---correct me if I'm wrong, but I really don't think I can be---that I'm just not Billy's favorite person in the world anymore. And something about that gives me an ache between the shoulder blades when I think about it too long, the kind of ache that shimmers on down my arms and makes me feel like I've got supercharged electric fists, exactly suited to punching Nachman in his goddamn smirking mouth.
Okay, okay. Fine. Maybe not all the irrational jealousy has been disposed of. But I just, I feel like I can't help it, you know? Billy's been my best friend for close to thirteen years now. Dammit, we grew up together; I close my eyes and I can see him in our kindergarten class, back when his hair was properly blond and he still looked the picture of innocence (misleading, even then). And now, I get the feeling that he isn't my best friend anymore. Hell, I see him with Nachman---the way they look at each other---and I start to wonder whether he ever really coulda been. We were never like that about each other, after all. I love the guy, but I think if I slept over with him upwards of three nights a week, I'd be insane within the month.
Thing is, it's not like I can say any of this stuff, can I? I mean, first of all, what the hell do I say? "Hey, Billy, it pisses me off that you have other friends," sounds downright tyrannical, especially since I'm totally aware---a helluva lot more, recently, than I was before---that I did kinda ditch him several evenings a week, for a while there, in favor of Caitlyn. How the hell else did he have so much time to bring his beautiful Chevy up to the level of spit and polish she's at right now? I mean, sure, the Nachman thing and the Caitlyn thing shouldn't really be comparable, but---hey. This is Billy. And it seems like, in his own special way, he's decided that they are, and that kind of traps me in a little glass box, doesn't it? He's glaring in at me through transparent walls, daring me to comment, and he knows damn well that I can't say a thing, because whatever I said would just be a load of facial contortions that wouldn't get me anywhere. We both know that.
I don't know if I'm still concerned, the way I was before, about what they're doing. I thought about it a lot, and somehow, the more I see of Leonard---which, as I say, isn't exactly a lot, but it's enough---the more I really don't see him as the type to drag anyone else into trouble. Really, he's totally the opposite kinda guy. If anyone would be dragging anyone into a less-than-ideal situation, my money would definitely be on Billy. I mean, this Leonard cat: he's clean, he's polite, he's middle class; he still dresses like a square and wears glasses "for close work," according to him, and he talks like a book when he's mad at you. Doesn't really strike you as rebel material, does he? Hell, no. And that just---I mean, I guess it should be reassuring to me, and yeah, in a big way, it is. I don't want to get a phone call in the middle of the night telling me Billy and Len have just driven themselves off a cliff in a state of chronic intoxication, or been hauled off to prison for gunrunning. Not that they'd call me, of course, anyway, and that's an even scarier thought. But the alternative, you see, is that they're just hanging out, without me. Like Billy is, very thoughtfully, finding a way to occupy himself so's I can spend my time with my lady friend, which, if it's true, sounds like something I should shut up and be grateful about, right? Yeah. I know. And instead, I'm sitting here grumbling to myself, watching them talk out of the corner of my eye, and praying---goddamn praying---he doesn't jet off and leave me completely alone in the dust.
You see why there's nothing I can say? There isn't. There just isn't.
Saturday evenings, I usually take Lyn out somewhere---like I say, the movies, and milkshake, too, if I'm feeling particularly flush. There's places you can't take your girl without a set of wheels, and there's places your girl won't go with you before the socially accepted amount of time has passed. Now, I don't have a car, although my old man taught me the moves on his precious truck, and getting one at the moment is out of the question. This leaves me to direct my attention to the second variable, here: just when is it socially acceptable to take your girl to The Beeches? I think it's pretty generally believed that the answer to this is: when you can convince her that it is. This basically means you gotta bring it up as often as you think is wise, until the day that she says yes. This is a hard balance to strike. Too often, and she'll think you're a jerk. Not often enough, and she'll think you're not interested. This Saturday? I finally strike my gold.
The Beeches, I guess, is only our manifestation of what's gotta be a pretty common phenomenon. In this town, The Beeches is that place where the seniors go with their steadies, supposedly to spread out rugs and look at the stars from within this little clearing in the woods that's sort of become legend. Actually, of course, you go there to spread out rugs and make out lying down, which is a total no-no anywhere parents might potentially catch you, but does have the advantage of being way less strain on your neck than trying to kiss sitting up. You walk along the seafront, effectively as far as you can go. When you get to the end of the little rock wall that follows the sidewalk, you turn off right until you get to the woods, which kind of rise up outta nowhere, looking like they're kinda surprised to find themselves so close to the beach. This Saturday, anyway, I ask Lyn if she wants to take a walk to The Beeches, and she, without any debate at all, suddenly and decisively says yes. I---understandably over the moon---waste no time whatsoever in getting her down there, holding her pretty little hand all the way to the coppice, and she just smiles at me the whole time like she's assuring me she isn't being coerced. Which, you know, is the kind of thing a guy like me wants to be sure of, when he's just asked a girl a question like that.
I'm pretty sure you can guess what goes on when we finally get where we're going. You don't need me to paint you a goddamn picture, and I don't think Caitlyn would thank me for spilling my guts about it---although I will say, for the record, that yes, I am a gentleman, and no, she isn't that kinda girl. The point is not the Beeches. The point is, actually, that because of taking Lyn to The Beeches, I'm still out here at eleven on a Saturday night, after Lyn's met up with a girlfriend and they've walked each other home---without me, I guess because Caitlyn wants to gossip about the two of us. I can't say the thought doesn't thrill me just a little, since I'd bet good money she only has good things to say. I'm feeling pretty good as I weave about along the seafront, singing something catchy under my breath, just that little bit closer to being a man. I took my girl to The Beeches, goddammit, and I didn't screw anything up! I swear to God, this deserves a celebration.
I've just gotten to wondering when I can tell Billy about it, when he materializes before my eyes like the proverbial devil, that neat little figure and sharp little profile unmistakable even in the dark. The weird part is, though, that materializes really is the word for it. I don't say that metaphorically, or any shit like that; I don't mean he shows up, or he walks into view, or anything that makes any goddamn sense. Nuh-uh, when I say Billy materializes, I mean he seems to have just emerged out of a wall of solid rock. I'm still standing there in shocked silence, blinking at him, when I realize that Nachman's joining him---head first, and then the rest of him, slithering out of the rock face like he's being vomited up. What the fuck, guys? I think to myself, trying to find the right words to yell at them, and actually partly afraid to say anything at all, 'case they're just figments of my imagination, or maybe they both got dashed to bits on the rocks and I'm seeing their ghosts. I don't want to talk to any ghosts, man. I really, really don't. Especially not on this empty sidewalk, in this silent, dusky neighborhood, just when the last of the kids have gone home for the night.
So I stand there just a minute longer, and I don't say anything. I can see them as solid forms, not just as shadows, but it's too dark to pick out any detail at all, and everything they do's kind of mapped out vaguely, like they're boys in an impressionist painting, all wide brush strokes and weird-ass angles. When I hear them muttering stuff under their breath, and then this sudden outpouring of giggles, my nerves are soothed a little. I'm just about to say something---"Hey, guys, didn't expect to see you again today, you wanna give me a ride home?"---when Leonard raises his shadowy arm, all blurry in the darkness, and touches his fingers to Billy's equally shadowy face. And then I close my mouth again, because I don't know what the fuck he can possibly be doing there, and I'm an inquisitive sonofabitch sometimes, and I want to know.
His fingers trace the lines of Billy's face. Even in the half-light, his motions are obvious enough---I know that face too damn well not to be able to picture it the way it is, not just the way it looks all fuzzy-edged like this. I know he's running his hand up Billy's cheek, tracing his cheekbone, his eyebrow. I watch him trail the tips of his fingers over the upper curve of Billy's left ear. And then Billy's hand comes up, and settles on the side of Leonard's face like some kind of goddamn exploratory spider... and it's like something just snaps right there in my head. Billy's leaning toward the other guy. Their two shadows meet each other, press together, and blur until they're touching all the way down their fronts, and they're just one big black mass that has two heads. And then they're murmuring something, something I don't quite catch, and the next thing I know, this creature only has one head, after all. It only has one head, because Nachman's goddamn mouth is on Billy's, like he's trying to fucking kiss him or something, and I can't even look at this; goddammit, I don't want to. I don't want to.
I hiss, "Jesus Christ, Billy!"
They throw themselves three feet away from each other within the space of half a nanosecond, and suddenly the blood rushes back into my feet and I can move again. I don't waste my goddamn time, either; I stalk down the sidewalk toward them, and before I've even thought about what I'm gonna do, I've got Bill's shirt collar clutched in my hot little fist, and at this distance, I can see Billy's face.
He looks fucking terrified. Hell, they both do, although my attention right now is all saved up for Billy, staring at me wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open like a goddamn Venus flytrap. I yell something along the lines of "What the goddamn hell was that?" just as he's stuttering out, "Kit---that wasn't---we weren't---"
What they were or weren't doing, I don't even want to hazard a fucking guess. Oh, sure, the mechanics of it are simple enough. I know what I saw, and that thing was Billy's mouth, with Nachman's pressed against it, like he thinks he can treat Billy like his goddamn girlfriend. The rest of it, though---the actual, you know, the thingness of it, the whys and the hows and the what the goddamn hell---I am absolutely, mind-gapingly stumped. Hell, it's not like Billy needs to practice on a buddy. He never had an iota of trouble finding chicks to make out with him, and I know for a fact that recently he's had more than a couple unscrupulous girls who let him actually, you know. Maybe this Nachman cat never had the same kinda luck, but if he didn't, it's only 'cause he's shy. He's handsome enough that if he ever told Billy he was looking for a girl, Billy'd only have to point him out and there'd be plenty chicks who'd take him on Bill's recommendation. He did the same for me, once or twice, in the days before Caitlyn.
So as I say, this whole goddamn weird-ass situation? It's got me. Boy, has it got me by the scruff of the neck. I can't understand why Billy would be desperate enough to lip-lock with another guy, and even if he were, something tells me it's not the kinda thing he should be doing out here on the sidewalk, dark or no dark. It gives me that crawling feeling in my stomach, like the whole damn thing is wrong from the upside down, and now I'm going to have to fucking deal with it. 'Cause you know, he isn't doing it 'cause he can't find anyone prettier to kiss. He's just not. And damned if I want to consider the alternatives here.
So we're staring at each other, stock-still, stalemate, and he's blinking like a deer in the headlights. And hell, I'd say something, but I don't know what to say; I'd ask, but I don't think I want the answers. I think I'm seeing something, and it sure isn't a picture I'd willingly hang on my wall. But as long as he doesn't say it, as long as he doesn't describe the goddamn thing to me, at least I can pretend, suggest other things, hypothesize. Maybe it's another one of Billy's dumb schemes; maybe they were trying something out. Maybe it was a joke, the way they pressed together like that. The way they kissed.
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck it.
It's his voice that snaps us out of it; Nachman's, cutting, all dark Stockbridge-growl, through the helter-skelter jumble in my head. He says, "Christopher---" in this tone that's like oil on a sea storm, and then he says, "Look, whatever you thought---"
And hell, I'm with him, for once, I'm with him; I gabble and clutch and staple myself to that last straw before he takes the damn thing away. I say, "No---look, I know---thought it was something else, too dark---" and then Billy's breaking in to agree with me, with us. My stomach is crawling so violently it feels like it must be audible, but from the looks on their faces, they're both of them feeling just the same. I guess if there's sound, we're all too busy with our own to catch anyone else's.
"C'mon, Billy," Leonard cuts in, again, "How about you drive us both home? You and Kit have football practice tomorrow afternoon, right?"
Hell, football practice. I feel like I'm gonna be sick. I think I may contract some mysterious illness because, fuck, I don't want to talk to Billy tomorrow; I don't think I want to talk to Billy ever again. Or at least, not until I've come up with a decent explanation for what I just saw on the sidewalk. I said too dark, but he didn't believe me any more than I believed myself. We just none of us want to say what we're thinking, 'cause that way lies serious trouble. I hate to say it, and I hate to even think it of Billy. I hope if it is what I'm hoping to God it's not, then at least it's only just gotten started, right? They can't have actually reached the kind of place where the police response would be prison, right?
Fuck, Billy, seriously, just---fuck. I knew they were up to no good; I goddamn knew it.
But I don't know, not as such. Nobody's said anything; I barely saw anything. I don't know. There's got to be another explanation; hell, there has to be. Maybe I'll come up with one and put it to Billy during football practice tomorrow. Then he can tell me that, yeah, Kit, that's exactly what it is, and we can both go back to normal. 'Cause this is intolerable, this twist in my gut, the way I can't look at him without seeing that all over again. The way I keep looking at Billy's goddamn mouth, the way it turns up a little at the corners, always, like he's smiling. The way I suddenly can't stop thinking how close together they always stand, how much they touch each other.
"Where'd you leave the car?" I rap out sharply, like a sergeant major. They jump at the sound of it, but the way they snap to makes me think they're just a little bit grateful for it, for this kind of firm decisiveness. I only wish to hell I actually felt it.
The car is by the hydrant on the corner, same place he always leaves it. I get in the back, and when Billy gets around to the driver's side, he opens the door.
He opens the door. Hell, the world has gone mad. Billy Bronner, the swaggering charmer, the guy who grins at you under his sunglasses and vaults into his Chevy like he owns the universe---I can't see him, just now. There's just this kid with his eyes downcast, hoping nobody asks any questions. There's just this kid I saw kissing another guy, like... hell, like it wasn't the first time.
I'm not thinking about this. Fuck it, I can't. I won't.
They seem to agree, 'cause there's no sound all the way home, not even the radio. The streets are empty---vast and dark, like the world already ended and we're the only suckers nobody told. Every goddamn place I look, I'm seeing shadows. My head is buzzing, and God, I hate this. I hate this.
When he drops me at my door, Billy waves at me vaguely, but even in the dark I can tell he's not quite looking my way. My chest clutches, and for a second I feel like I gotta drag him out of that car, goddammit; I've got to keep him with me, 'cause if I let him drive away I'll never see the Billy I know ever again. But then the madness passes, just like time, just like that. I say, "See ya," in this vague sort of way where I could be talking to one or both of them, and I could mean tomorrow, but maybe I just mean on Monday. I don't even know myself, if we're being brutally honest.
As they drive away, I can't keep my eyes off their silhouettes. They're distinct, right now, and I stare at them fixedly all the way to the goddamn corner. If they merge again, I think my brain might short right out. Fact is, though, I can't seem to turn away. So it's probably damn lucky that they stay distinct all the way out of sight, the space between them blessedly constant.
It takes a massive effort of will, but when I go inside, my mind is blank. I don't know what the fuck is going on here, and I wish to God I could hope to go on not knowing.
But I don't rate my chances.
September 26th, 1955
I'm very aware that I've been lax about writing in this diary for the past few weeks. I have, frankly, had other things to think about, including the question of whether it would actually be wise to catalogue recent events where they could be held up in evidence against me. On balance, I decided that it would not be a smart move at all, and might, in fact, jeopardize the safety of both myself and Billy. Also, the teachers in this place seem to be crazy about homework, so between these two things, the diary kind of fell by the wayside.
Right now, though, I can't sleep. It's too late to call Billy, and I already got in trouble with my mom because I came home a little after curfew, so I really don't want to try her patience any more tonight. But my mind's just whirring like a spinning top, all kaleidoscope colors, and as I can't seem to slow it down, I thought it might help to write it out.
Okay. Okay. So. Essentially, the thing that has me all wound up is this: Kit O'Reilly just caught us kissing on the sidewalk. This is totally my own fault, because I should never have kissed Billy on the sidewalk, or anywhere, really, except in either the cove or someone's bedroom. I think the last time I wrote in this thing, everything was still up in the air, so for clarification (as if you need reminding, Mr. Future Nachman) I will just note here that everything is fine, and Billy and I are kissing rather a lot, recently. And, you know, stuff. I would have made an entry saying at least that I had finally lost my you-know-what, but I'm kind of not sure if I have or not. It's sort of hard to tell. It feels like I have. Billy showed me something some girl did to him once with her mouth, so now we do that mostly, because it's better than just hands, although when you do hands you can kiss at the same time, which is nice. Also, you can do each other with hands much more quickly and easily without needing so much privacy and space and stuff. We don't do the mouth thing anywhere except the cove now, because last week he was doing it and my mother started rattling the door handle and asking about dinner. It was locked, but I had to answer and my brain felt like it was dripping out of my ears, and then he just laughed after, when she finally left. I don't think Billy always gets how careful we have to be about this. I know if someone found out it would be bad, bad, bad, hell would it be bad.
I mean, I know this. Which is why I'm still kicking myself for being so FUCKING STUPID tonight. Kit didn't say anything much, just kind of a "what the hell, Billy?" thing, and then he pretended he thought he'd made a mistake, like actually we were just adjusting each other's ties or something but he got confused because of the dark. Yeah, right. We all knew that was a massive lie, even Billy. And he didn't, you know, explode or anything, so I couldn't even get to the part where I could ask him just not to tell anyone for Billy's sake. He just went all strange and stammery, and then everything was DAMN awkward, so I had Billy drive us both home right then.
Aaaaaaaaaaaah, I wish I hadn't done that, now! Why didn't I push it? God, I so wish I'd had it out with him. As it is, I'm just lying here (well---sitting here, now) wondering whether he's told someone, and what he actually thinks is going on, and I really don't know how to stop thinking about it. I mean, from what he said last night, and from the look on Billy's face, I'll be surprised if they bring it up again. Hell, I'll be surprised if they can even look at each other. My guess is, they'll go to great lengths to avoid the whole issue, and I think that would be a second massive mistake. Christopher will still be thinking about it, and we will both be thinking about him thinking about it, and then eventually it will come out, and probably in a very bad way and place, just because behavior like that always creates the sort of tension that has to snap at some point.
No, no, no, okay, I'm going to have to bring it up. The problem is that sometimes I think he thinks he owns Billy, you know? He often gets this little twist to his mouth when I say things about Billy and me, or when Billy and I leave him to go somewhere, especially if he doesn't have plans with his girlfriend. And then he tells all these stories about how he and Billy have known each other forever and how he knows all these little things about Billy I could never ever guess, and other total garbage. I never know whether he thinks he's being subtle or if he's totally aware that he's completely transparent and just doesn't care. Anyway, I can see this being an issue if I try to say anything, like no matter what happens it'll all be my fault. Even though Billy kissed me first, but never mind that. Mark my words, diary: everything will have been my fault, Billy will have been corrupted by my satanic North-coast influence, and I will catch an absolute barrage of shit.
Still. I hope if I get the chance to point out to him that Billy will also get in a load of trouble if he says anything to anyone, it'll keep him quiet. He wouldn't hurt Billy for the whole world, that I'm sure of. I think, however furious the shitstorm gets on Monday, that will at least keep it contained.
I don't really feel all that much better for writing this out, you know.
Hell. Shit shit shit shit SHIT. GODDAMN MY OWN IDIOCY.
Right, now I have to at least try and get some sleep. It's after midnight, and I have to strategize tomorrow.
Sunday, I skip football practice. It's not like I have any decent excuse, except for the part where, oh, you know, I don't feel like I can look Billy in the eye ever again without wanting to either shake him by the shoulders or smack him across the face and ask him what the goddamn hell he thinks he's doing. I don't think the coach would really be down with that, so I do the moaning groaning thing and make like I'm dying, and my mom brings me chicken soup and lets me stay in bed. She's not the greatest fan of football anyway, so it doesn't take too much whining from me to get her to be a doll and call the coach for me. I kind of think that, secretly, she wishes I'd do this more often. That way I'd get thrown off the team and have more time to spend on college prep. She's not even subtle about it. It's like, in comes Mom before school to wake me up, and I get, "'Morning, Kit, honey... there's some laundry for you, I left it on the chair... hurry up or you'll be late... I washed your football shorts... oh, and by the way, honey, I looked at your English homework just now and it's beautiful, have you thought any more about which college you might like to go to?"
Yeah, man, you know the stuff, don't you? That's not even an exaggeration. Why is it your mom is always so much more excited about you going to college than you are? Sometimes I think there's more to it than the fact that she wants to tell her girlfriends I'm getting a college education, like maybe she just wants me out of the house so she can finally implement some dastardly plan she's been cooking for the last eighteen years, you know? She just gets this gleam in her eye, sometimes, when she talks about it, and I just... I don't know.
Christ, I'm wandering off the point, aren't I? The point is so damn far behind me, it's just a speck right now. It may be waving its little arms---damn right, this speck has arms, illogical or not---and yelling "LOOK AT ME, Christopher!" but it's a speck all the same, and I guess I'm ignoring it a little too transparently. Yeah, I know I have to get out of this bed and go to school. Dammit, I am very well aware of that. But, see, when I get to school, Billy will be there. And where Billy is, these days, Leonard Nachman is too. And the last time I saw those two together, I think my brain ruptured. I've been trying damn hard not to touch the wound, but the moment I get in Billy's car, that'll be over. I'll have to act all natural all the way there, because of Caitlyn, and the whole time I'll be unable to stop thinking about the fact that I saw Billy kissing a guy Saturday night, you know?
Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Yeah, that's the edge of the cut, right there, and it hasn't even started to scab over. My feet are in it now, paddling, like I'm this tiny little lost cat, poking about in the dangerous places inside my own head. Hell, I guess I may as well get on with it. I can't seem to stay the hell away, however hard I tell myself I'm gonna.
So. Like always, Billy picks me up at the door. Like always, Caitlyn's already there in the car with him. Like always, he's chewing gum and watching the cars flit past. Not like always, he barely speaks to me when I get in, just kind of grunts peremptorily over his shoulder, and for some reason, I break out in a five-thousand-degree blush right there and then, before I've even grunted back.
Fuck, but there have been a lot of goddamn awkward rides to school lately. Poor little Lyn puts her hand out for me to take, oblivious to the problem but not to its effects, and I have to do a lot of forced smiling and hand-squeezing to get that little concerned frown to leave her face, 'cause she sure as hell isn't stupid, and she knows when I'm upset. This takes up a helluva lot of my attention, mercifully, and when we get to school, I hop out of the car practically before it stops moving, call "See you later," to Billy, and haul Caitlyn off by the hand. God, she must think she's dating a nut these days, seriously. To her credit, she doesn't say a word, just gives me kind of a knowing look and follows.
Hell, I wish I could pull off a knowing look right about now. Too bad I feel like I don't know anything about anything, anymore. Nothing that matters, anyway.
What does matter to me, anyway, you know? I manage to get all the way to Chem Lab without encountering anyone whose eyes I can't meet, but even as I'm pulling out my lab stool, I know this is a temporary relief at best. Billy matters to me, I think. I just kind of sit there thinking that, the whole time the teacher is writing up the day's experiment on the chalkboard, the whole time I'm meant to be making notes so I can do some goddamn work. I just sit there, and I think about Billy and me, and Billy and him, and fuck it, this is gonna be the end of us, isn't it? It's gonna be the end of us, because Billy is possessive enough and single-minded enough, and---damn it to hell---perverted enough that he's gotta be able to make out with his best friend, for whatever reason he's got in his stupid head. And I can't do that for him, I can't fucking be that, so he thought he'd just go and get himself another best friend. The whole thing is damn simple and goddamn fucking ridiculous, and I fume about it all the way through Lab, which naturally results in me titrating something purple all over my shirt.
Why, God, I ask you? Why are you ruining my life? What did I ever do to you? This is my favorite shirt. Also, it's recess right after Lab, and that means I have to spend the next thirty minutes avoiding the two of them. Why don't I just lie down and die, you know? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I haven't even decided on a plan of action when the whole damn thing gets decided for me. I'm on my way down the corridor that leads away from the science block when the two of them step right out in front of me like members of the goddamn Mafia, Nachman with his arms folded, Billy slightly behind him, looking apprehensive and, underneath that, kind of determined. He's got his jaw jutting out a little, the way he does when he's made up his mind, and hell, that almost worries me more than the decisive look on Nachman's face; even more than the way he takes me by the wrist and tugs me right out of the flow of moving people and over to the side of the hall.
Billy's expression doesn't irritate me, though, the way that touch does, the goddamn fresh presumption of it. I smack his hand away and step back, away from him, and it feels like this wildfire has leapt up from nowhere into the base of my spine, and fuck it, it's spreading. I rap out, "What the hell do you think you're doing? You memorize my schedule or something?"
They look at each other. It's the kind of conspiratorial look my mom gives my dad right before they pass judgment on whatever stupid thing I just did, and all it does is make the fire leap that little bit higher. Billy says---only half-looking at me, like he was told to say it---"Kit, can we talk?" The little inclination of Nachman's head, afterwards, makes me all the more sure that this little intervention, or whatever the hell it is, was all his idea, and not Billy's. Billy might be capable of absolutely monumental dumbness, sometimes, but he knows when to leave me alone. That would be times like right now, when all I want to do is get the hell out of here.
.... Well. I want to punch Leonard Nachman right in the mouth, actually. And then after that, I'd get the hell out of here.
Unfortunately, staying put seems to be my only option, for now. Billy's giving me that look of his, all wide dark puppy-dog eyes, and damn it to hell, I can't walk away from that. I sigh, trying to sound as long-suffering as possible, and say, "About what, Billy?"
"You know what," says Nachman quietly. I narrow my eyes at him.
"I wasn't asking you," I tell him. He raises an eyebrow, which only increases my violent desire to smash his face in, and then he pushes open the nearest door. After a brief couple seconds of confusion, I realize it's the dark room, and then I get that this was intentional, stopping me here. Kids are allowed to use the dark room, provided they reserve it first. I wonder whether he actually went and reserved the damn thing just so we could have an argument in it. I wouldn't put it past him.
He holds out his hand, palm outward, like some kind of goddamn waiter, inviting me in. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. I throw him a look, but people are starting to peer at us, huddled here by the open door, so I swallow back whatever brilliant remark I was about to make and walk past him into the room. He and Billy slip in behind me and someone closes the door. Then he says, in a voice as smooth and measured as a shot of cream liqueur, "We need to talk about Saturday."
This is about when I start to see red. The whole room's kind of red, really; small and dark and stuffy, full of this sharp-sour chemical smell and the sound of our breathing, and there he is saying we need to talk about Saturday like I did something that has to be discussed. "Oh, do we?" I shoot back. "What were you thinking of saying about it? I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I know what you were doing."
He shifts, and something in my stomach bursts open in this hot little glow, like it knows I scored a point. He says, "You know what we were doing, yes."
What the hell kind of smug comeback is that? Bile, again, in the back of my throat. "You started it," I point out, voice rising all tight and hard through the burning feeling, and he kind of shrugs at me, raises that goddamn eyebrow again.
"Christopher," he says calmly, "it doesn't matter who started it. I know you're not my biggest fan, but if you tell anyone, it'll be Billy in trouble just as much as me."
Something snaps in my chest, click, like a lock snicking open (or shut?), like something sliding into place or slipping out of it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Billy looking between us, white-faced in this reddish light, but I can't waste any time on him right now, not with this jolt of anger propelling my fist toward Nachman's smug goddamn face.
"Damn you to hell," I snap imaginatively, right as my knuckles collide with his jaw. He's not expecting it, and he stumbles backward, but he recovers himself quick enough, grabs me by the collar, and smacks me across the cheek, open-handed.
"Don't you dare hit me!" His voice has fallen to something kind of more a growl than anything else, and fuck it, his hands are strong. I can see the knuckles whitening out of the corner of one eye, and on the far side of the room, Billy starting to move toward us.
"What the fuck?" he puts in, but Nachman throws one arm out to stop him and he does stop, right there, like he thinks he has to; like he thinks this cat has the right to tell him what to do. I take the opportunity to completely ignore what was just said, and throw my fist again in the general direction of Nachman's face.
Like I said, though, he's quick, and the next thing I know, both my wrists are in his hands, and I'm being shoved back roughly against the wall. I'm so angry for a moment, I almost spit at him. But then I look past him, past his dark-drawn face and the way his brows are drawn together, and my eyes find Billy's. He's standing there, looking totally at a loss. His hands are sort of held out in front of him, half-raised, like he wants to intervene but doesn't know where to begin, and the look on his face is... God. I never want to see that look there again, is all. That's all.
So I stop. I'm almost ashamed, if only because of Billy, and that desperation in his eyes. I stop struggling; let him feel the tension go out of me. "I'm sorry," I say.
Nachman studies my face. I can tell he's debating whether or not to believe me, and whatever I might have against the cat, I can't say I blame him for it. Hell, I wouldn't believe me, either. But I do my best to look sincere, despite the way that sorry makes my gut twist like I'm gonna be sick, and something about it must be right, because he lets go of my wrists and steps back.
"Look, I won't tell anyone," I go on, because nobody else is saying anything and, after all the yelling, the silence is loud enough to hurt my ears. "I won't tell anyone, I promise. But I want to talk to Billy." I shoot him a look. "Alone."
The glance that passes between him and Billy doesn't escape me; the way Billy kind of nods his head incrementally, like he's saying it's fine, he'll be fine. Hell, like he has to assure this Nachman cat that he'll be okay alone with me, like I haven't been his best buddy for as long as we've been sentient. What the fuck has happened here, Billy? What the goddamn fuck?
After a second, Nachman says, "Fine. I need to finish my calculus homework, anyway. See you at lunch, Billy. Christopher." He nods at me, this tiny little inclination of his head, like a prince acknowledging another. And then he leaves, and it seems like nothing's ever been so loud as the sound of that door shutting behind him.
Before I can even start worrying about what to do now, Billy moves toward me, grips me by the shoulders. "Kit---"
I cut him off. "Billy, what are you doing with him?"
I didn't mean to say it. I don't know what I meant to say. God, I don't know; I don't know. He looks away, kind of at my left shoulder, right where the seam of my shirt looks like it's about to separate. I wonder, for a mad second, if he's noticing that. Then Billy says, "I love him," and suddenly my mind is as clear as fucking Austrian crystal.
"Billy, he's a guy," I rap out, trying to ignore the lump at the back of my throat, every feeling I ever had rolled up and shoved there for me to choke on.
He laughs, but it's more in reaction than anything else. "Yeah, I noticed, Kit."
"And you're---doing---things... with him?"
He nods. He has the grace to blush, but he nods.
"Billy, I think that's illegal," I tell him. I sound like I'm wheedling now, and hell, I hate that, but I want to understand, fuck it. I just want to get this whole fucking mess.
He says, "It is." A pause. "Lenny looked it up."
"But you're doing it anyway?"
"Nobody will know," he says. He looks up then, meets my eyes. "Nobody will know if you don't tell anyone."
I look back at him. God, why can't I say no to him? I know his face way, way better than I know the back of my own hand. That always struck me as kind of a dumb comparison, because, really, who the hell spends that much time looking at their own damn hands? I don't think I could describe mine if you asked me to. Certainly not well enough for anyone to find them in, you know, a big pile of amputated hands, or whatever. I could describe Billy's face, though. His mouth, the way it curves up at the corners; his eyelashes, just a little too long. His caramel eyes. Fuck, I can't hurt him. But I don't want to lose him to this, either. God, I don't know what I would do without him.
"Billy," I say to him, because I have to know, "what did I do wrong?"
He looks confused. Actually, totally, honest-to-God confused. He says, "How do you mean?"
I shrug. "Well, there must have been something, if you felt like you needed a new best friend. Did I spend too much time with Lyn, or what? Is it 'cause I was in Mississippi too long?"
He just stares at me, mouth a little open, eyes wide. It's not his most intelligent look ever, but dammit, I shouldn't be thinking things like that at a time like this; why the hell do I always think these stupid things? He says, "He's---Lenny's not my new best friend. Kit, you're my best friend. This isn't the same. Me and you, we're not like that. You know that."
Goddamn, the back of my throat feels weird. My chest feels weird; my whole head feels weird, these little shooting pains jumping here, there, and everywhere, and that ache behind my eyes like the one you get when you're about to cry. Fuck it, I am not about to cry about this. I'm not.
"Kit." He shakes me, this look on his face like he thinks I'm so dumb, he actually can't believe it. "Kit, listen to me. This is nothing to do with me and you. This is just me and Leonard being, I don't know, it's totally stupid but I can't help it, we can't help it, okay? So if you just won't say anything, I won't---I mean, hell, I still love you, man, exactly the same; we just---"
And this is when I go completely insane. I hear what he's saying; fuck it, I hear what he's saying but I can't put it right in my head, somehow. He's saying he loves this Nachman cat and he's saying the whole damn thing is different, but all I can see is my best buddy in front of me and this look on his face like he's trying to hold the edges of the world together, all by his own little self. And, God help me, I don't want to hear that this is different, 'cause it all seems kinda the same to me and the ache in my chest is overriding the better parts of me; saying I'm gonna lose him over this business, still; I'm gonna lose him 'cause I can't be Leonard Nachman. Because, you know, I'm Kit O'Reilly, I'm Mr. Nice; I smile at people's mothers and I have sensible fun, and playing first-string high school football is the most remarkable thing I've ever done. God, I'm so conventional, it hurts your goddamn teeth, and this clutch in my chest says that will be the end of me and Billy.
I'm not making any sense here, am I? See, the thing is, I'm trying to explain what really isn't explicable: namely, the fact that right here, in the middle of his impassioned speech, it somehow seems like an excellent idea for me to reach up and grab him by the nape of the neck, pull him up toward me, and kiss him.
I say "kiss." It's more a sort of ungodly mush of his mouth against mine, and the first thing he does when he's got over the shock is try to pull away. But I won't let him, goddammit; I hold him there by the hair and I push against his mouth, and eventually when he has to open his mouth to try and breathe, I fit my lips properly over his so the angle's a little less odd. He tastes like bubblegum and cigarettes, and his whole body feels wrong pressed against me like this, and fuck it, I have no idea at all what the hell I'm doing. Why did I think this was a good idea? Why? Man, it's weird. It's so weird, and uncomfortable, and so definitely not in any way the answer to our difficulty, that I start laughing into his mouth.
And then he pulls away, jerks away, and stares at me wide-eyed, and he says "What the hell, Kit?" and that just makes me laugh harder. After another second, he seems to give up on being indignant, and he starts laughing as well, until we're both kind of slumped against each other and against the wall, giggling like idiot schoolchildren.
When we've recovered slightly, I pant out, breathless, "Fuck, that was weird."
He says, "Well, I told you so. I told you we weren't like that. Didn't I say me and you were a totally different thing?"
I press both hands to my face and try to struggle into some position where I can stand up straight unaided. "Yeah, you did," I admit. "You did. I'm sorry." I separate my fingers a little and peer at him between them. "I'm guessing it's not like that when you kiss"---I catch myself, remember I'd probably better use his first name---"Leonard?"
"No," Billy says, pulling his shirt straight and rolling his eyes, "Because then it's not weird."
"Well," I say, smoothing my hair, "it's still weird. He's still a guy."
Billy pauses in the middle of smoothing his hair back into its perfect little comma and says, "I know. I know it's not really fair to ask you to, you know, deal with it or whatever. But---just---promise you won't tell?"
I shrug. "I guess it's the least I can do, now."
What is it about high school bells, the way they shrill into your ear like they're trying to burrow right into your brain and lay eggs? Maybe they think they have to make them as ear-splittingly horrific as possible, or we'll all just, I don't know, stay right where we are and decide to blow off class until the school breaks out the big guns. Anyway, the bell goes off right when he's about to launch into another speech, and we both stop what we're doing to wince. When it finally stops, he says, "I guess we better go to class." As he moves toward the door, though, he pauses, with his hand on the handle, and looks at me. I look back at him, waiting, cause he's got that look on his face, like he's gonna say something impassioned, or at least, you know, earnest.
He reaches for my hand, squeezes it. Then he says, "Kit... look. You are still my best friend, you know. Just like I didn't stop being your best friend just because you were dating Caitlyn, you know?" He pauses. "Or I hope I didn't, anyway."
I laugh. My chest's clutching again, in a far less uncomfortable way this time, and I squeeze his hand back, feeling at least a little reassured. "So you're dating Leonard, are you?"
He colors, and shrugs, but he goes on smiling. "Look, I'll see you at lunch. You've got a free, right?"
"Yeah," I say. "See you at lunch."
"Mr. Jackson's gonna kill me," Billy says, "You know how he is. See you later." He waves at me as he slips out, into the throng of kids seething down the hall toward wherever they were meant to be thirty seconds ago, leaving me alone in the darkroom.
For a second, I stand in the middle of the room, staring at the door like I'm waiting for it to start dancing for me. I'm probably gaping like a moron, but dammit, I'm thinking, and fuck, there's a lot to think about right now. Billy is... dating this Leonard cat, apparently. They're dating. Which makes it (yeah, okay, I can see why) totally different to the thing where me and Billy are best friends. As indicated by the fact that I have never had a weirder kiss in my life than the one that just happened. And, I mean, maybe I'd have said that's because guys aren't meant to kiss each other, because, you know, they're not. But Billy says it isn't like that, with him and Leonard. He says it's, you know, the way it is with me and Caitlyn.
He says he loves him.
Fuck.
I know I should tell someone about this: a teacher, Billy's mom, Billy's dad. I also know that there's absolutely no way that I will, barring torture. Billy's been fucking up my view of the world for years, now; I don't know why I ever thought he'd stop at the fringe of normal. And, I won't lie---I'm kind of glad he hasn't stopped, if only because it means we haven't stopped. I guess what I'm saying is that I'd rather have Billy go on fucking up my mental landscape than not have Billy there at all. Does that make any sense? Hell, does any of this make any sense?
When the noise has died away, when the mass of kids has dispersed and everyone who's going to class has gone, I let myself out of the darkroom and head for the atrium. I'm gonna do my calculus homework, I think. The thing about math is, however long it takes you to figure the damn thing out, every problem has, ultimately, a simple answer: with calculus, it's either right, or it's wrong. This makes it kind of a reassuring thing to occupy yourself with, although it also means it's boring as shit. Things that are black and white, this or that... well. I guess they're often pretty dull.
I guess this means I'm gonna have to start calling Leonard by his first name.
These past few days, I've been doing a whole lot of thinking. If you asked Kit---asked him anything, that is, with the words "Billy" and "thinking" right there in the same sentence---I'm tellin' you right now, he'd probably laugh at you and make some smart-ass quip about how one of these things just doesn't belong, you know? As far as Kit's concerned, "thinking" just isn't something I'm wired up to do, and really, if we're talking about the Billy he hung out with before he pissed off to sunny Mississippi for the summer, then I guess he's right. It's a fact that a guy can function for a hell of a long time without ever having to stop and actually process, deliberate about, what he's doing.
Did you catch that, right there? That totally excellent word? I draw your attention to it only because deliberation, as a concept, pretty damn perfectly explains what I've been doing lately, and how it's different to the thing my brain usually does, when it's ticking, thrum-thrum like an engine, over calculus or college prep or football, or tryin' to plan out how best to get my hands up a girl's blouse. Deliberation, right, is what Kit means when he talks about "thinking," 'specially when he's up there mouthing off 'bout how it's something Billy doesn't do. Usually, as I just said, I wouldn't even argue the toss, man. Thinking just isn't necessary for a stellar high-school career. You know what? I think it might actually impede your progress. Thinking is probably what got Leonard into the position he's at, all tweed-pantsed and quiet-voiced, and that look in his eyes that got there after one too many big guys thought he looked like easy meat. I wouldn't be surprised.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. That, right there---that's what I've been fixing all this deliberation business on, in case you hadn't guessed. Leonard. I just mentioned his voice sorta more by accident than design, or whatever, but I'm gonna come back to it, because otherwise I don't know how I'm ever gonna drag this thing back around to a place where it might be even tangentially relevant to point out that, whatever anyone else says about that voice, it's hot. Yeah, yeah, yeah---he has a weird accent, I know. But, to put it bluntly, so has Kit, goddamn him, so going on and on about certain words Leonard says like a retard or an Englishman just isn't gonna cut it, and is a pile of shit anyway. I love it when I hear that kinda break in his voice, all the little things he says in ways I just wouldn't say them. Can't, he says, with this deep long ah that kinda rolls over the back of his tongue. Couple days ago, he told me something was just a minor issue, and I thought, fuck, there actually is an O in that word right there, isn't there? And he pronounces it, and again it sounds like it's being unrolled from some place a little further down in his throat than all the rest of the stuff he's saying, and sure, half the time he acts like all the R's took the kids and left him behind in penury, but hell, I guess you win some, you lose some. I'm not gonna pretend I don't kinda like the way he says indoors with the "rrrrrrr" in place, and then casually kicks it aside seventy percent of the rest of the time.
I'm not gonna pretend, basically, that I don't like eighty-five percent of the stuff he does.
Hell, I don't know where all these percentages are springing up from. I think that's probably Leonard's fault too. He has this crazy, irritating habit of standing there quietly for a second before he answers a question, if he thinks it's important at all. And then when he does answer, fairly often there's a percentage in there somewhere, and you realize the pause was just while he was working it out, you know; trying to be precise. You ask a simple question, like---oh, I don't know, "Do you always eat chips like that?"---and he furrows his brows a little and gives it ten seconds, and then he says, "Maybe eighty percent of the time." The whole damn thing is crazy irritating, and actually also kind of the hottest thing since the last time Leonard did anything at all. He is really clever, man. It kinda makes me feel like I've just been wearing a clever hat this whole damn time, and now everyone's gonna realize I need the hat to function, and Leonard just goes sailing on by, thinking bareheaded.
I don't know why I'm still at it with these goddamn metaphors. That one wasn't even clear, which I think I usually am. When I'm saying all this shit about clever hats, right, I mean in a classroom, you know? Where the clever hat is---I don't know---schoolwork, or something; and when someone gives me a homework assignment, then, hell, yes, I can think it through; and sure, I can get the right answers. But Leonard has that thing in his mind that's more skittish than the goddamn Scarlet Pimpernel, what the teachers all call flair. Flair is when you can turn a phrase without pausing to oil your brain first, and when you can come up with an original idea without having to chip bits off eighteen others and stick 'em together with charm. Leonard has that. I guess if it was anyone else, I'd be jealous---and, you know, kinda worried about my cover being blown, everyone finding out I'm not really any kind of special flower at all. But I keep kind of starting to think about that, and then I think about his mouth saying all these clever things, and then I start thinking about all the other clever things that mouth can do. And that, to be honest with you, kinda puts an end to the whole issue of me being jealous, basically because I'm too busy thinking about getting off.
Yeah, yeah, I know, okay? I'm not exactly making myself sound much more intellectual by admitting shit like that, but whatever, you know? It's true. I'm goddamn well gonna say it, because what the hell else would I say? Maybe, I don't know, "I have a new friend. His name is Leonard. He is cleverer and more academic than I am, but I enjoy his company greatly, and as a result I am less distressed by his superior intelligence than I might have been otherwise."
Ha. I was just gonna say: that do, you nitpicky fuckers? Boring as shit, isn't it, and avoiding the goddamn point, to boot? But now I look it over, it kinda reads like Leonard talking, so I'm just gonna breeze on by here, with the comment that that is not even half the damn story. It's definitely not the important part of the thing. Let's just say there's nothing in that sentence about any of the stuff I've been deliberating over recently.
I guess what started the deliberating in earnest, really, was the fact that Leonard decided Kit had to be told. I mean, it was pretty inevitable, really---we were completely and utterly fucking dumb one night, and I don't even want to think about what would have happened if the guy coming along the sidewalk right then had been anyone but Kit. It's one thing for your kinda straightlaced, but totally trustworthy childhood friend to catch you kissing some guy in the shadows by the waterline. I guess it woulda been a different story if Jimmy Curragh had caught us, say, or that big guy who plays quarterback in the flickers when his grades are good enough. Point is, Kit was shocked as all get-out, but he's Kit. And being Kit, he decided to act like he didn't see even the shadow of a shadow of a totally inappropriate lip-lock, and that was good, you know, except for the part where it left me and Leonard kind of floating in limbo, and totally scared of what Kit was gonna say to us on Monday, even if he wouldn't have dreamed of telling anyone else. So Leonard decided we had to stage some kind of intervention, and I guess what convinced me on the whole damn thing was the ride to school on Monday morning. I sort of realized then, as I was turning into the parking lot, that if we didn't actually bring this up with Kit, I was doomed to spend the next nine months driving to school with him in a silence so complete I could hear him chewing his gum, and the whole goddamn time, poor little Caitlyn was confused as fuck in the backseat. We were only in the car ten goddamn minutes, but I'm not gonna lie to you, man---those minutes dragged. So when I got my ass inside the building---and when, you know, I got Leonard's ass up against the door in that empty room by the water fountain in the hall---I said that yeah, okay, I was up for talking to Kit about it, and Leonard's face went all pleased, like he was a general and I'd just given him the go-ahead for some dangerous but cherished plan. (I guess this analogy makes me the king of some undisclosed country. I could get behind that.) He told me to meet him by the darkroom hallway right after the bell rang for recess, and the rest, shall we say, is history.
What happened in the darkroom at recess was kind of a showdown. I wish, you know, it coulda been more exciting than it was, but yeah, I'm pretty sure it qualifies as a showdown. Kit and Len got in a couple punches at each other before they realized they were acting like goddamn juvenile delinquents, and then they kinda straightened their clothes at each other in a dignified way, and Len went to class so Kit could talk to me alone. And by talk, I mean squish his mouth against mine in possibly the most disgusting kiss I have ever taken part in, although I didn't, really, you know, except to try and push him off, because fuck it, I just got done talking about how me and Len were a thing, and he decides that kissing me is totally the way forward. Luckily, the sheer vileness of it I think convinced him that, uh, yeah, me and Kit are not like me and Len, in any way, at all. And then we kinda laughed a lot, mostly at how gross it was, and he promised not to tell anyone, and that was that. And I had class. And so I left.
On the face of it, Leonard's whole intervention thing was a pretty neat move. Kit promised he wasn't gonna tell anyone about me and Len. I explained that, yeah, okay, the whole goddamn thing was actually illegal, and that if he told anyone we were pretty much screwed up one side and down the other. Kit made noises about not wanting us to stop being friends. I assured him, in every damn way I could think of, that he was still the best friend I ever had or ever will have, and that, you know, the me-and-Len thing is totally different, because.... I mean, okay, I hate to use the terminology he used, because it's way off base for the way I'm thinking about the whole thing (oh, yes, thinking!), but Kit asked if me and Len were dating, and I didn't say yes. Tell the truth, I kinda acted like I didn't hear---but that's kind of a half-decent way to understand the difference. So by the end of this recess, Kit knew me and Len were... whatever we are, and I knew Kit wasn't about to go running off to tell on us. And I was pretty sure he wasn't about to stop hanging with the two of us, partly because he was so desperate to stay my friend, and partly because, you know, he came by at lunch and sat right there at the table and he and Leonard actually almost kind of had a conversation. So that's how neat the whole thing was. On the face of it.
Under the face of it---you know, right in there behind the eyes, in the sinuses, right back into the brain where all the actual shit goes on---I don't know. I don't know what he actually thinks, about any of it. His goddamn grandfather way down in Mississippi is a Baptist minister, for cryin' out loud, and nice old man though he is, I have my doubts about whether he'd be down with this shit at all. Not that anyone is, you know, but it's a helluva lot easier to convince someone he's wrong when he hasn't actually got any justification for why he's right. Most people, I think, would just kinda think the idea of me and Len together was disgusting. That's okay by me, as long as they don't actively try and kill us---and, you know, obviously I'm never going to let anyone else find out, so hopefully it wouldn't be an issue. Now, Kit, he's devoted to me. Hell, I know that. He sure as hell wouldn't try and kill me, and he's promised me already that he'd never give Len and me away. If it ran any deeper than that, though? You know: if Kit thought we were heading for his fiery hell and brimstone and what the fuck ever? That could be worse. Man, could that be worse.
I don't know why I'm so worried about that, really. I mean, I'm not, as such---Kit isn't crazy religious, himself, and I guess that even if he were, he'd probably think me and Len were past saving already, since I'm a Jew who doesn't actually believe too hard in anything, and as far as I can work out, it's pretty much the same for Len. I know he believes in God, but he doesn't believe in kosher. In a lot of ways, that's kind of Leonard all over: upholding the big picture, that's great, and he likes it, but sticking to all the goddamn tiny little rules along the way is too much trouble. That's another one of the bazillions of things I like so much about him, before you ask.
Back to Kit, though. Thing is, you know, I don't know if he even understands what I told him. He said me and Len were doing stuff, and I left it there. It's not like I want to force a load of details down Kit's throat, the kind of details he probably never wanted to know in a million years, but I kind of want---selfishly, I guess---to be sure and certain he knows we're, you know, having sex. 'Cause I always told Kit everything before, right up to the exact inch on whatever girl's thigh I got up to before she pushed me away; and then, when I met some girls who actually didn't stop me, man, did I tell Kit allllllll about it. We actually made a pact, a couple years ago, that whoever hit the mother lode first had to tell the other guy about it in unflinching detail, and yeah, I guess my detail was pretty unflinching. Kit looked happy about it, anyway, except for the part where his face was pretty much jade-green with envy. If he wants that kinda jazz from Caitlyn, he's gonna have to marry her first, and really? I know he loves that; he wouldn't have her be different. But the fact still stands that Kit is still a virgin, and I am totally not, and obviously he's gonna be jealous about it.
Me and Len, though. Kit's not about to be jealous of that, I guess; and in that he is totally wrong. (Jealous? Envious? Whatever.) My problem is that, in Kit's mind, whatever he thinks I'm doing with Len is probably completely revolting. It's nearly a week, now, since all this shit went down, and to his credit, Kit has gone out of his way to be nice to Leonard. Hell, Leonard's gone out of his way right back; they've polited each other from the dinner table halfway to Texas. But there's still just this little glimmer of wariness in the deep parts of Len's eyes that Kit doesn't see down to; and Kit, meanwhile, looks at Len when they speak, but he always looks away again before he actually has to, which a) betrays his bad taste in not wanting to look at Leonard every minute of every day, but also b) kind of makes me wonder if looking too long gives him Images.
Now, like I said---have I said this?---it's not like Kit isn't free to think whatever he damn well wants. I mean, he is, of course, especially if he's gonna be all polite about it. But, I don't know, I guess it's completely selfish of me when he's being so good about what coulda been the end of my goddamn life, for now, as a free man (Overdramatic, sure, but actually true! Neat.), but still. The thing is, I don't want him to think what I'm doing in the evenings with Len is, you know, disgusting. I want him to think it's, you know, enviable, because it is, and that I'm lucky, 'cause I am. Fuck, I just wish he could understand why I'd rather make out with Leonard than with some tits-heavy blonde, you know? And yeah, I know he never will; I know that, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
There are a ton of little things, a whole load of little things, that I really like about Leonard. Hell, I've said this already, probably more than once. I've said already that I like his hands, and his rough-velvet voice and his eyes. I guess I could point these things out to Kit. I guess he'd completely fail to see my point, somehow. The thing I like absolutely the most about Leonard, though, is something I really wish I could tell Kit about, and I know I can't. Hell, even I'm not that dumb. But I wish I could share, you know? I've gotten so used to sharing, over the years.
This thing, anyway, the thing I like most, it's an expression he has. You're probably shocked to hear that, aren't you? I bet you thought I was gonna say I liked his cock or something, which, you know, I do, but as far as I'm aware it doesn't actually do any tricks that other cocks can't do. I mean, I may be mistaken, here. But you'd have to ask Leonard about that. To date, his cock has proven itself capable of performing admirably in all fields, but I'm not about to write any odes to it just yet.
Nah, the thing that brings the odes is more what he does while I'm communing with little Leonard. He just---I don't know---he gets this look on his face, this series of looks, really, and they kill me. I don't mean that they're hot, or anything like that, although yeah, okay, they are. It's not that at all. I just... I love the way he pulls his eyebrows together over his nose while I'm touching him, with his mouth kind of half-open like he's concentrating on something deep down in his mind, something he's looking for and can't quite catch ahold of. There's something, I don't know, endearing about it. I remember the first time I touched him, his face went like that, and I was kinda busy with his cock in my hand and his hand on my cock, but somehow I couldn't quite make myself close my eyes, for ages and ages and ages, because of that look he was wearing. And he does that every time, and I always want to kiss the little frown right off his face. Like I say, there's something so sweet about it, really lovely. I feel like such a dumb sap explaining it, I really do. Thing is, I used to tell Kit a whole load of crap that made me feel dumb while I was saying it, and then he got that look on his face like he understood where I was coming from, and suddenly I didn't feel so ridiculous about it anymore.
This time, looks like I'm gonna have to deal with the ridiculous part all on my own.
I want to tell him so bad, though, you know? Leonard was pretty much a virgin, first time we made out. By which I mean that he was totally and completely a virgin, except for some kissing, and not even too much of that. It can be hard to get any, apparently, when you go to private school. I want to tell my goddamn best friend about the way his mouth felt, the way I could taste him learning how to do this right. I want to tell him about the way Leonard kind of grabbed at my hair the first time I had my brilliant idea, and started kissing my way down his stomach. Or, you know, the way he kind of stopped grabbing when I got down below his navel; the way his hips twitched when I rubbed my mouth against the inside of his thigh. God, I was terrified. I guess I was scared of doing the whole thing wrong, or hurting him, or something, whatever; maybe of this turning me into something I didn't want to be. Whatever. So I was kind of really careful about it, sort of licking him a little with my tongue before I dared get any closer, and fuck, he jerked right up against me practically at the moment of contact, twisted his hands in my hair and it fucking hurt so I went with the pulling and then the next thing I knew he was right there, actually in my mouth. And fuck, the noise he made. This kind of anguished sound, you know, like he couldn't believe it or he was in pain or whatever, both, neither; and he threw himself backward onto his elbows in the sand and his head went back, at first. But then I looked up at him when I'd done sinking down as far as I could go, just to see if he was impressed about the fact that the head of his cock was actually touching the back of my throat, and he was watching me. And God, okay, that right there, is one of my most favorite things about Leonard, okay? That, right there. The way he watched me the first time I tried sucking his cock into my mouth, with this look on his face like he couldn't quite breathe and his hair all stuck sweatily to his forehead. And I didn't even mind, you know, the way he thrust his hips up into my mouth, even though the girl who did this to me got pissed as hell when I tried that, and pinned me down by the hips. I didn't want to pin him down, man. I liked it, the way he kept jerking up like that; made it easier for me, really, if he slid himself in and out of my mouth and I could let everything kind of go slack and concentrate on sucking.
I confess, there was some concentration involved. Yeah, sucking cock? Harder than it looks, man. And that is not a pun, so you can just shut up and let me talk myself further into the gutter, okay? Okay. No, just, the way he moved, you know? I mean, he still moves like that, almost every time. But that first time, me feeling my way, and him kind of thrashing into my mouth and watching me swallow him down till his elbows gave out---fuck. Makes me hard for it again just thinking about it, and the way his spine curves right up off the bed/sand/floor/whatever when I do that to him, and the way he holds me there by the back of the neck. Again, the chick who did this to me wasn't cool about that, but I---I don't know, I kind of like it. Letting him finish himself off in my mouth like that, and me holding his hips and his ass and him going "Billy---fuck, Billy, oh my God...." and me biting back some quip about yes I am his god in favor of listening to him yell---literally fucking yell---and come like he'd never stop.
It always feels like that, when he's in my mouth, you know? Like he's never gonna stop. I try and swallow it, for the simple reason that it's actually easier and less disgusting than trying to spit it out. You actually taste it less. But there's always just too much of it to swallow everything, so you're always gonna be crawling back up toward him with his come all over your face, and he's always gonna give you that semi-disgusted look before his eyes go dark again and he starts to laugh, 'cause he thinks it's funny and he also thinks it's hot, but doesn't dare actually say so. I always want to kiss him, with the taste of his come in my mouth, 'cause somehow in those seconds between him finishing and me pulling him into my arms, it stops being nasty and starts being amazing, you know, that I have that, the taste of him, on my tongue. And I can give it back to him.
God, it probably is a good thing I can't say this stuff to Kit, you know? I think it would probably kill him. That, and it'd make me look like both a total sap, and also maybe some kind of fetishistic pervert. I guess it would be acknowledged by a lot of people that I actually am both these things, if they knew. Again, good thing I'm keeping it to myself.
Doesn't mean I don't want to share it, though. I want to tell my best friend that I like sucking Leonard off more than I like it when he does it to me, even though that makes me feel like my brain is dissolving and he's sucking my goddamn soul/heart/other potentially disgusting and/or sappy thing right out through my cock, and it did even the first time when he was all teeth and his jaw started aching halfway through, and then he dribbled all over my stomach on the way back up. Yeah, buddy, Leonard's first attempt was kinda messy. He got better. Don't get me wrong, seriously; Leonard is excellent at cocksucking. But see, the thing is---when he's the one sucking me, I don't get to see his face. I don't get to see all those little expressions changing and shifting, while I work him over; I don't get to see him looking down at me when I look up. I don't get to feel his hand in my hair, holding me there, needing me. I don't get to feel important, and amazing and goddamn fucking godly sometimes, like I'm doing something to this clever gorgeous spectacular person that nobody else has ever fucking done.
Man, I know it's just sex we're talking about. I know it. But one of the home truths I've learned about myself since I somehow managed to fall in love with a guy who follows the goddamn Boston Red Sox is that I'm kind of, sort of, totally a ridiculous romantic. I'm not talking the dumb stuff, the stuff you give girls you've just met so they'll kiss you on Valentine's night, or the stuff you say when you give someone her corsage at the prom. Nah, I'm talking real stuff, this stuff, that look on his face and the way it makes me melt inside like I'm having some kind of serious organ failure and I don't even care.
This is the stuff I really want to tell Kit, you know? It's about the sex, yeah. But it's not about the sex, not really. Kit said we were doing stuff, but God, I hope he doesn't think that's really all it is, because if Kit thinks I'd be willing to risk fuck-knows-what to do stuff with just some guy, then I'm pretty worried that he'd have that opinion of me after all the time he's known me. He can't possibly think that---can he? I don't actually come off that fucking shallow, do I? Not to Kit. At least, not to him.
The worst part is, if it was really like that, I wouldn't care. If I knew I was only doing this to fuck around, to get amazing head and give amazing head and kind of play the system just a little bit, I wouldn't care. I wouldn't be scared, not of anything. Fuck 'em all, I'd say, and swagger a bit as I said it. Fuck 'em all, you know; 'cause I'd be riding off with some chick on the back of my motorbike in the end.
This is not that movie, though, you know? This is the movie where I missed whoever the love interest was meant to be, and I saw this guy and he was just some kid and I fell half-insane for his skinny little hips and the way his black eyes go on forever. Yeah, it's dumb. Yeah, I know. I should be fucking shot. I'd think I was a total prize idiot among a world of imbeciles, except for the fact that I think he loves me too. And I've never met anyone as clever as Leonard. Hell, Leonard isn't just intelligent, either, you know? Leonard has flair. As my English teacher would say.
Hell, I don't know what to do about Kit. I don't know what to do about Leonard, or me, or any of it. But I just wish I could be sure Kit knew it wasn't me being stupid, again, over something totally meaningless, again. I think I really love him, you know? I've thought about it---deliberated---and I love him.
That doesn't help anything, at all. But it sure as hell keeps the sappy quota up up up, right?
God.
Someday soon, I guess I'll have to tell Leonard exactly what he's wrought. I just hope to God he doesn't run screaming for the nearest cliff.
October 5th, 1955
I woke up yesterday morning fighting a sudden, inexplicable urge to empty my thoughts, such as they were, into this diary. This was all well and good, except for the fact that I was rather afraid that the contents of my mind, at that moment in time, were not really suitable for a book that couldn't be properly secured, so I kept them to myself and went out in search of some kind of lock.
For some reason, this town does not seem to understand the concept of the padlock. I would have thought, you know, that they'd be easily enough found---people always need to lock things up, don't they, surely? Bicycles have to be locked to railings, gates have to be fastened shut, and so on. But poking around the stores yesterday afternoon, I kind of felt like maybe I'd stumbled into Shinytown, Home of the Honest People, where the padlock was something only heard of in fable, and generally thought to be a myth. The world, obviously, was conspiring against me. I already had to keep myself entertained for the evening, because Billy had a shit-ton of studying to do for a History test, and he'd already kind of skipped over it three nights running, so's we could lie in the sand and make out.
God, it feels good, writing that. Good, but at the same time, sort of tingly in my wrists and clenchy in my chest, like my body hasn't realized yet that I can actually commit these things to paper, in the knowledge that my mother can't possibly read them without breaking the locks. Yes, the locks. I eventually managed to find some hiding out at the back of the corner store, despite the fact that the goddamn hardware store didn't have anything small enough to padlock anything less heavy-duty than a pickup truck. I practically dove on them when I saw them. The book I have came with little metal clippy bits on the outsides of the front and back covers, so it's really easy to fasten it shut, IF you have a padlock that'll fit through the holes. And that's a pretty big IF, as I found out yesterday. I had actually given up and gone to drown my sorrows in strawberry milk when I found some little locks at the back of the store. I mean, they're tiny little things (I had to get two) and they'd hardly survive the nuclear holocaust, but it'd still take Mom some effort to break the damn thing open, and more importantly, I'd know. Obviously. So she wouldn't. So that's okay.
God, I don't even know, really, why I'm so fixated on this image of her coming in here and rifling through my diary. She's kind of nosy, but she doesn't have a history of doing anything so devious or underhanded as that. It's just... this is important, you know? It's important, and more to the point, she's started actually pushing the question, recently, of wanting to know who my "friends" are and who I'm going out with, and so on. This is, to put it mildly, kind of irritating, because when we first came out here she just let me do whatever the hell I liked, like she was so overjoyed to have me out of her hair that she wouldn't have cared if I'd been hanging out in soda fountains with Jack the goddamn Ripper. And now it's all, "So who is it you swim with, Lenny?" and "Why don't you ask your friend home, honey?" and once or twice, "Haven't you met any pretty girls yet, sweetheart?"
This "pretty girls" question. I have no reason to lie to you, future self, since you know already how nervous and jumpy it makes me. I'm sure you remember. Yeah, Mom, I know plenty of pretty girls. No, Mom, I'm not about to ask any of them to go to the movies with me. And no, I am not about to tell you why. You wouldn't like it, I wouldn't like it, Billy wouldn't like it, his parents wouldn't like it, and hell, I think if you stumbled on the information, it might even make you stoop to contacting Dad, after all these weeks of ignoring his calls. And he certainly wouldn't like it. But the thing is, even though I know it's unlikely she'd actually go to the extreme of reading my diary, she's interested, at the moment, in what I'm doing and who I'm doing it with. So, yeah, dammit, I'm nervous; and that means I needed a lock or I couldn't write anything more. I've written some pretty damn incriminating stuff in this book already, as you well know.
The worst thing about it is that I don't even need to say anything very obvious for it to be something I shouldn't be saying. Like: I don't want to ask a girl out, because I guess, if you had to put it in that context to make sense of it, you could say that it's Billy I'm metaphorically taking to the movies.
Simple words, and totally innocent on their own, there. But you put them in that order, and what they signify is (apparently) obscene. And I'm just getting started.
Hence, the lock.
I can't write any more just now. I have to go do my math, and I didn't even write anything worth writing, yet. Can't be helped right now, though. Tomorrow.
October 7th, 1955
Yes, all right. I lied about writing more tomorrow. Yesterday. "Tomorrow" is yesterday, now, so I guess it doesn't matter. Basically, I meant to come home at a reasonable time after school, and write up what it was I wanted to say when I decided that the last straw had snapped and I needed a padlock, pronto. But I guess I got distracted. We didn't go to the cove last night, because we both had French vocab to learn and it's just impossible to do that stuff on the beach. So, because it always helps, you know, to have a study buddy, we went back to Billy's house and up to his bedroom with some orange juice and Oreos, meaning to cram as much French as possible into our heads before it was too late. I thought, more fool me, that we'd be able to buckle down and get on with it, mainly because his mom was padding around downstairs, moving stuff about and making irritating little clunky sounds. Obviously, I was wrong. I ate maybe half an Oreo, and we got done with the first of about fifty of these vocabulary cards, and then Billy leaned over and kissed me and that was effectively it for French. If he'd stopped with just the kiss, it might have still been salvageable, but then he put his hand in my hair and gripped, and I opened my mouth under his, and yeah, all hope was lost.
God, I love being kissed by him. I love kissing him as well. I make the distinction because it is different, you know, to just be sort of sitting there, minding your own business, and have someone lean over and put his mouth over yours, and press at your lips until you give up your resistance and open for him. There's a lot to think about, there, interesting stuff, because he's initiated it, right, so he's sort of, on that level, in control; but if you don't open your mouth, and you don't kiss him back, he can't take it any further. He has to wait for you to decide you're gonna let him in, and that gives you a totally different kind of power to the kind you have when you're pulling someone into your arms, pressing your mouth over theirs and waiting for this reaction yourself. Because even if you pushed it, you know---even if you forced the issue---you couldn't make the other person kiss you back. They have to do that on their own, and that means that ultimately, I guess, it is the kissee, and not the kisser, who holds the cards when the kissing first starts out.
I like holding the cards, I guess. I like it just as much when he holds them and I have to pry them out of his hands. It never takes much, with us, which is effectively why Spanish turned out to be a total dud of an idea. His mom was making this weird little woodpecker noise downstairs, like she was whisking something and the bowl was maybe knocking on the countertop, that kind of thing. Anyway, it was annoying as all hell, but he just went on kissing me and I pulled him down on top of me and then that was that. We kissed until I was dizzy, shifting against each other through our pants; and then he shoved his hand down between us and opened the buttons on my trousers, pushed my underwear out of the way so he could touch me. And, you know, I like Billy's mouth on me there, and that's a whole kind of wet fire like nothing else you could ever do to yourself, but there's still something about Billy's hand that isn't like my hand at all, and something about Billy touching me that makes me buck up and tense and---what---finish before I can even tell myself I'm going to push him off. And by the time I'm done, he's panting, leaning over me with his face real close to mine, and shifting against me like it's the hottest thing in the world for him, working me with his fingers till I come.
That's what he called it. Coming.
Anyway, Billy seems to like it, whatever you call it. He likes doing it himself and he likes making me do it. He does this thing when he's stroked me off, where he brings up his sticky hand and licks it off his fingers. Anyone else, I might have thought it was some kind of show-off thing, like he wanted to gross me out or something, for some reason. But when Billy does it, he gets this look on his face, all smug and pleased and heavy-lidded, it couldn't be faked, and damn, it's hot. I get all funny again, just watching him do that. And then he'll reach over, and take my hand, and slip it just under his waistband. And then he tilts his hips up, as if I didn't know what he wanted already, and says something like, "Come on, Len. Touch me, please. Please."
And if I leave him to his own devices, you know, he'll go on like that for ages, murmuring dumb things into my ear and rocking up against my hand and making it hard for me to do anything, because he just won't stop moving. So I shut him up with my mouth, usually, and I work him fast till his mouth goes all loose and slack and he can't kiss me back any longer. And he'll seize up, after a few minutes of this, and dig his hands into the sheets or the back of my neck, and if his feet are bare, I always notice that his toes sort of clench, right before he gets there. I don't think mine do that when I come. I wonder why that is? There's probably some sort of physiological reason for it, but if that were true, wouldn't it happen to everyone?
Anyway, I digress, as usual. The above scenario is pretty much exactly what happened in Billy's bedroom yesterday, and also a fairly close approximation of what's happened every other time we've tried studying together. I just keep hoping we'll grow up a bit, you know? But we never do. I guess making out is still a surprise every time, with how nice it is.
So that's what happened yesterday, and it's why I didn't get around to writing in this diary. But basically, what I just wrote is about all I wanted to talk about. I kind of thought it might be useful to explain how exactly we got to the point where making out is an everyday occurrence. You know the kind of thing---essential information, dates and places and stuff about the first time it happened, so I wouldn't forget. I even tried to think about how I might start, and where. But then it just---it wouldn't come out, you know?
(I was going to just put "it wouldn't come", but then I realized that I will never be able to use that word seriously again. Ever. Oh, dear.)
Anyway, Mr. Nachman, I bet you anything you haven't forgotten how it all went down. I don't need to spell it out. It's burned on my brain.
Still, it looks like I'm going to be spending a lot of pages talking about me and Billy and---sex. Which is what it is. Sex. I looked it up and once you've put your hand on another guy's Reproductive Equipment, the law says you've had sex, right? So if I've done enough to be punished for it, I've done enough not to be a virgin anymore, goddammit. I'm not one. I spend far too much time COMING these days to be a virgin. And I wish to God the infuriating upperclassmen back home in Stockbridge could find out that part, I'm telling you. They talked big, but talk was all it was. I thought so at the time, and now I'm sure of it. If they'd ever actually felt this kind of stuff, they wouldn't talk about it the way they did.
You know they actually punish you by degrees, if they find you out, though? Like, graduated levels of sex. On the first floor, as it were, you have hand jobs. Then, a little up from that, sucking. Then, way up at the top of the list, you have sodomy. The law code in the library managed to make it pretty damn clear, even through all that neutral legalese, that it couldn't understand why the goddamn hell anyone would want to make a go at that.
Still, the book seemed to think pretty much the same thing about sucking another guy's dick, which is actually sort of exciting, once you've gotten the hang of it and know how to position yourself so he's not repeatedly thrusting into your soft palate. They even give the impression that just touching a cock is sort of inherently vile. So, you know. I do wonder, sometimes, whether they're wrong once---twice---three times, instead of just the twice I know about for sure. Strike one. Strike two....
I somehow don't think the school library's going to be very well equipped to help me with this question, but I guess I could revisit Catullus.
October 8th, 1955
Just got back from Mindy's. Mindy's is a little restaurant kind of thing; it seems to be popular with the high school seniors in this town, I guess because it's cheap while actually being pretty good. Anyway, Billy and I have breezed in there once or twice before, but it somehow got decided at some point today---I think when Billy and Christopher had a free before lunch, while I was stuck in a science class---that we should all swing by together, the four of us. I'm pretty sure this was mostly Billy's idea. I mean, I like Christopher, I guess; he's a nice guy. And I would really like it if we could get rid of that tiny bit of residual awkwardness we still have when we talk, the kind that's sort of inevitable when you're talking to someone who once swung for your face when he found out what you were doing with his best bud. But I would have thought, myself, that maybe it was too soon for this kind of crucible situation. I don't know. Billy obviously wants to try and seamlessly assimilate the two halves of his existence, at the moment, but I don't know how far that can happen, you know? I mean, I sympathize. I really do. I'd probably feel the same, if I actually had another friend to worry about. But since I don't, I'm in the enviable (ha!) position of being able to say, objectively, that it might be kind of hard to be normal around Kit, when I'm there. Maybe when they're alone together, Billy might be able to pull it off, because he's Billy. But when I'm there, Kit's always going to be thinking, isn't he, about just what I am to his Billy? And even if he's putting on a pretty neutral face about it, because he's totally unwilling to let Billy get dragged away from him, I can't see it getting too much easier than that. I don't want to drag Billy off to keep all to myself (although I kind of do, I guess, but I won't, is the point). But in my opinion, things might be less weird for everyone if I just sucked it up and let Billy go a couple nights a week to be with Kit, or something.
I thought this was a pretty hot idea, but Billy actually freaked out when I suggested it, for some reason. He caught me at lunch and asked if I wanted to go eat with Kit and Caitlyn after school. I told him all the stuff I just wrote up above, plus how awkward it's going to be if Caitlyn never knows why everyone's all strained, and then I said maybe he should just go along without me. And then he completely lost it, told me the whole point was that he wanted the two of us to be friends as well, and said I was deliberately being a jerk. I said I was just being sensible. He said, "Fuck sensible! You're being passive aggressive!" which wasn't true at all, but since he was obviously getting all wound up over this, I gave in and said I'd go, but I wasn't too happy about it. He pouted at me silently for fifteen minutes while he shoveled Tater Tots into his mouth. Then he got up, took hold of me by the wrist, and pulled me into the hallway without saying anything else at all.
There's this little space in the hallway sort of behind the trophy cabinet, where you often see kids slipping in to talk or, more often, have arguments. There's this kind of unspoken understanding that, if someone's in there, you don't go in after. I was pretty apprehensive when I worked out where he was taking me, but he just sort of touched both my wrists with his fingers, and then pressed his face against my collarbone. Then he said, all muffled in my sweater, "Please, Len, do it for me?"
I think if he asked me to kill someone, I'd do it. I should maybe be a whole lot more worried about this than I am.
So anyway, as I already said, we went to Mindy's. And it wasn't actually as bad as I thought it might be, mostly because Caitlyn was so sweet and oblivious to the depths of weird the rest of us were feeling (although I'm pretty sure she knows that something a little unusual's been going on). But she was all solicitous and smiley, shy and giggly by turns, and she kept squeezing Kit's hand and touching his foot under the table (with a total lack of subtlety), and I guess he kind of got swept up in her enjoyment enough that he could relax, himself. And once he was relaxed, it helped me relax; and man, I felt the way Billy went slack with relief when Kit said something funny and I laughed at it, just like everything was normal. I mean, obviously, it's not normal, not as such. He still knows something I wish he didn't know, and I still feel like maybe Bill is happy that he knows, in his own, loyal little way, which makes it hard for me to balance things. But maybe we can function together, I guess. For Billy. I'm still going to be tense every time he wants to push us together for longer than a lunch period. But he's insistent, and when he gets like that, I'm doomed.
Poor Billy. He really does love Christopher.
So anyway, that was my evening at Mindy's. He dropped me off deliberately at the end of the street, where there aren't any streetlights, so he could lean across and kiss me before I got out. I tried to stop him when I worked out what he was going to do; I sort of put my hand on his shoulder and told him he shouldn't do this here, because much as I wanted to kiss him, it was unbelievably stupid. And he said---I kid you not---"You make me stupid," and kissed me anyway.
I have no idea where he got that from. Probably some old movie, or one of those trashy novels you steal from your mom for the sexy bits. Anyway, I wanted to laugh at him, or cringe at just how dumb and cheesy it was for him to have said something quite so clichéd and think he could get away with it. But obviously, I must have it even worse than I thought, because I kind of thought it was cute. And let him kiss me, because hell, Billy makes me stupid too.
And following on from Billy making my judgment less than sound: I got Catullus out of the library, for the dirty parts. I am researching, and the lack of material is so frustrating that you probably remember just how irritated you were, future self. The basics of breaking that final little law seem simple enough, on the one hand; but then when I think about it I just can't understand how it would work, you know, without hurting like hell? Somehow, I don't think reading Roman pornography will help me with that. It seems pretty obvious you've got to have something to cut the friction. It kind of seems like it would hurt, even with that. But then, if you reason through it logically, you have to draw the conclusion that it's got to feel good more than it hurts, right? States don't need laws to stop people doing things they don't want to do. That wouldn't make sense. And to judge by their previous track record, whatever they say about this, they're probably completely wrong. I haven't mentioned this to Billy, as yet. I want to be sure it works out, before I do. And dammit, I really think it might work out, but unfortunately there's nobody who'll confirm this.
If I can't find any written information, I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands and conduct a private investigation. My homework's all done already. I have a couple hours before I have to go to bed, and a tub of Vaseline, and plenty of patience. One can but try, you know?
October 10th, 1955
11:30. Billy's not speaking to me. Everything is blown. Going to bed.
October 11th, 1955
All right. It's now 12:02, and that means I get to start a whole fresh page, just so I'll be constantly aware of what a loser I am, to be spreading this crap over two completely separate calendar days. I got into bed just now, but after I'd been lying there for thirty minutes, staring at the ceiling with my arms and legs feeling all weird and inflexible and unhappy, I figured it was pretty hopeless to expect any kind of sleep to happen. So I might as well expound on---well, yesterday's statement, technically.
Hell, I'm just so goddamn annoyed. I'm not even sure if I'm more irritated with Billy or with myself. I got so caught up in all my neat-as-a-button plans, it didn't even occur to me that Billy might not be okay with the idea, and that's my fault. But then, on the other hand, I have never known Billy not to be okay with an idea, any idea, pretty much. Normally, if I suggest doing something, he'll do it, and more often than not he'll find a way to make it just that little bit more reckless. I would have thought this would be right up his alley, so to speak, for that reason, even if there wasn't any other spark of attraction in it.
To his credit, I guess, he did give the thing a shot. But man, it was a totally lame shot, by his standards or anyone's. You could pick out a target standing motionless two inches from the end of your gun, and if you shot at it the way he shot at this, you couldn't expect to hit it. I don't even know what his problem was with the whole thing. He didn't believe me when I said I'd already worked it out, mostly. And then when I gave up explaining, and tried to show him what the hell I was talking about, he flipped out like a---dammit, I'm too tired to think what it was like, but anyway, he slapped my hand away and scooted back like he thought I was trying to inconspicuously poison him. And I'm saying, "Billy, it doesn't hurt, let me show you," and he's saying "I don't even want to know where the fuck you got this from, but it's just---not---"
Me: "Not what?"
Him: "It's nasty, man."
Me: "Don't you read Latin?"
Him: "What?"
Me: "Or Greek, better still?"
Him: "Leonard, is this---what are we even talking about, here? Because I was kind of under the impression we were discussing the fact that you just tried to put your---"
Me: "Oh, for God's sake, we are. I'm just trying to explain that lots of people do it. Did it. In the Classics."
Him: (suspicious look under his eyelashes) "... you're making this shit up."
Me: "I am not!"
Him: "I cannot believe you are making this shit up just to get me to let you put your goddamn cock in my ass!" (wildly indignant)
Me: (increasingly feeling that this is spiraling out of all control) "Look---Billy---it's not that at all, okay? I just thought, if all these people did it, there must be some reason."
Him: (tucking his knees up to his chest) "Well, yeah, I bet there's a reason. I bet it's great for the guy who's not in agonizing pain!"
Me: "Billy"---(wishing I had an endearment I could call him that didn't sound dumb)---"Baby...."
Him: "Oh, hell, Leonard, I can't believe you just said that to me. That is the oldest trick in the goddamn book, and it might work on stupid chicks---"
Me: (cutting in sharply) "Billy!" (a pause) "Look, Billy, for crying out loud, calm down. I wouldn't have brought it up if it wasn't supposed to be good for the person being---the other person, as well. I'm not trying to seduce you, or whatever. You can do it to me first, if you like. I don't care. I just thought it was interesting."
Him: (subsides, a little) (suspicious look threatening to turn into a pout) "You wouldn't mind that?" (totally doubtful)
Me: "No! I mean---I tried it the other night, to see if it was doable, and---"
Him: "You tried it??" (eyebrows up)
Me: "Well, with my fingers."
Him: (gets to feet abruptly) "Okay, Leonard, look---I am not going to put my fingers, I mean, nobody is putting anyone's fingers where fingers shouldn't go, all right? That's---that's---that. It's just. Horrible. So...." (doing that thing he does, where he holds out both his hands in front of him like a barrier, damn him) "So I'm just gonna go home now, and you can go home yourself in a bit, and then tomorrow we'll pretend you never brought up this totally weird shit, okay?" (putting his clothes on hurriedly)
Me: (despairing sigh) "Billy...."
Him: "See ya." (walks three steps up the beach, toward the little tunnel in the rock that leads out onto the sidewalk)
Me: (slumping, because shit. SHIT.)
Him: (turns around abruptly) (dashes back to me and kisses me on the top of the head) (shoots off silently up to the tunnel)
So then he left, and I was alone in the sand, wearing nothing but my skin and my frustration. And damned if I had the faintest clue what just happened.
Obviously, since I'm here now---and since, you know, I'm sure you remember; I really don't feel like I'm ever gonna forget tonight---I managed to get myself up and dressed, and back onto the sidewalk. But of course, I didn't bring my car, because we always go everywhere in Billy's, at the moment, really. So I had to walk home, and this is a small town, but you forget how big small towns can be when you've gotten used to being driven around them, and then suddenly your only form of transportation is your own two feet. (Forms of transportation? Are your own two feet? God, I'm tired, too tired to navigate grammatical minefields. Even ones that will probably look stupidly straightforward in the morning---ha! Later on in the morning, let's make that.) Anyway, it took me far too long to get home, and then my mom had waited up to complain about me being out so late on a school night, even though she's never actually imposed a curfew since we got here. I was already in a pretty diabolical mood, but that just put the proverbial tin hat on it, and I guess it was dumb of me to even try to get to sleep after all that, despite being tired enough that my brain feels like it needs to be oiled. So what do I do now, huh, except sit here and fume? God, I wish I knew what the goddamn fuck to do now.
Even if I put it aside, you know, and never actually mention it again, it's going to be weird tomorrow at school, isn't it? Billy'll be thinking about it, and I'll be thinking about Billy thinking about it, and he'll be thinking about me thinking about him thinking about it. And so on, and on, and on, in this endless knot of horrors. Besides which, I don't want to put the thing aside! After all the trouble I went to, trying to puzzle all this stuff out, it's pissing me off that Billy wouldn't even play along. It's not like him, from what I've seen, to freak out and buckle down when Adventure Beckons, but the look on his face was scared, when he worked out what I meant. There's no other word for it: it was fear. And I guess I never realized till then that he wouldn't have even heard of this, you know? It's not like it ever gets talked about, but up here, in the ass-end of surfside California, they don't even have the resources, not really. Obviously, I blame the educational system.
I think I might be putting this all wrong. It's starting to sound like everyone in Stockbridge is all up and chirpy over the prospect of sodomy, which, as you well know, isn't the case at all. It's not something anyone ever talks about, not something anyone ever thinks about, in the modern context. But the thing is, I grew up in a very upmarket school system. My prep school back home was the kind of place that had uniforms and house colors, and sent its alumni (yeah, they called them that) to goddamn Oxford. It wasn't a ridiculously expensive school, as these places go, but my God, was it up itself. And I guess it's pretty unsurprising for a school that is so damn far up its own ass to want its boys to know about the ancients being always up each other's asses. In, of course, the literal sense, and not the metaphorical.
I mean, okay. Maybe before I came all the way out here and met Billy, I never really connected this stuff to what it actually meant. Catullus, and all his filthy boy-poems. Apparently, having sex with a boy is called pedication. I don't think it's pedication when it's me and Billy, though, because it seems like the word applies only to men having sex with boys, in that vaguely creepy way the ancients did. But that's the kind of word they use in the notes to these books, I think because they don't want you to know what they're actually talking about. Another great word I found was irrumation. This was delightfully defined as "coition with the mouth." So effectively, it's what Billy calls, much more simply, "sucking". As in, "Sssh, Lenny, lay back. Let me suck you."
... fuck.
God, I hope he snaps out of being mad at me.
Where was I?
Oh, right. I was explaining about the benefits of a prep school education. Yeah, I mean---like I say, they didn't exactly give us a book full of doodled guys sticking it in each other. It was just all this Plato and related crap, and the notes at the back for the stuff you didn't understand first time. But mostly, we never actually looked at the notes; and mostly, we cared more about getting out of class and over to the cafeteria than we did about clarifying the complicated parts. But I think I'd worked out---although I couldn't understand how it could feel good---about the sodomy thing, before I ever left Stockbridge. It was just that it wasn't till after I left Stockbridge that I worked out all the other bits, irrumation included, and then came to the logical conclusion that maybe the other thing would feel nice, too, if you tried it.
Point is, it was in the back of my mind, at least, that this was something guys could do with each other. And Billy? Well. The beautiful state of California has a decent state school system, as these things go, but they don't teach Classics unless there's some real specific reason. And Billy, I am now pretty damn sure, had never even been waved in the general direction of the fact that this could happen, before I tried to introduce the possibility tonight.
Oh, hell. It's my fault, isn't it? I should have known he'd freak out. The idea is pretty terrifying, if you've really never thought about it before, at all. Although God knows what he thought was going on at Sodom. Maybe he just never paid attention to that bit of the Torah. Hell, it's not like they don't gloss over it there too.
I think I'm going to try him again, gently. And definitely not with the suggestion that I want to do it to him. I spent ages the other night, working out whether this could possibly happen in the real world, and I will be damned if all that research is going to go to waste. I was nearly falling asleep on the desk in Calculus the next morning because I stayed up so late trying to figure it out. And more to the point, I kind of think Billy would like it. He isn't happy with the thought of me doing it to him: fair enough. If he's not too pleased, either, about the thought of doing it to me, then I just might have to do it to myself in front of him, just until he sees the effect it has.
I haven't actually worked out how or why it feels the way it does, and it must be said, I kind of didn't expect it to feel like anything at all, you know? I was sort of under the impression that, if you loosened it up enough, with your fingers and your Vaseline and then maybe something bigger if you had anything suitable, your partner (i.e., Billy) would slide in and out pretty easily without hurting you, and that this was basically the whole point of the exercise. So it was kind of nice, after I'd lain there in a position worthy of those Russian contortionist girls for fifteen minutes, trying to get two fingers in without the first one coming out again/it hurting like hell, to feel this weird little buzz when I reached up inside there, like I'd brushed some kind of happy button. I literally jumped. And then, of course, being only human, I flicked my fingers against the little button again, to see if it would do the same thing. And when it did, I went on doing it for maybe the next five minutes of real time, and by the end of that, it actually wasn't too hard to get a third finger up with the first two, and crook the whole lot toward that little spongy bump. It was kind of a stretch, but luckily, I've always had very long fingers, and by the time I'd worked them in and out a few times so they kind of jabbed at the happy button, instead of rubbing it directly from up close, I really, really wanted to come. You know. So I took care of that with the other hand, and kept doing what I was doing with the inside business until the coordination became an issue, and wow, just, wow, when it was all finished, it was just. Amazing.
I was pretty sure I wanted to try this with Billy inside me instead of my fingers, I tell you what. God, why did I even attempt to touch him first? The more I think about it, the more it becomes obvious that it was a COMPLETELY IDIOTIC IDEA. Of course, he was going to flip his lid. Of course, he was going to be terrified. And the whole time, what I really wanted, to chime with recent experience, was Billy thrusting against that what-the-fuck-amazing little spot inside me, and kissing me kissing me kissing me while he did it.
Holy shit, I really wish Billy would fuck me.
I want to cross that out. I'm kind of looking at it now, and it's giving me these funny little twitchy feelings in my stomach and, other places. Like I'm nervous, and worried, and trying really hard not to think about how weird this is, or worse still, what would happen if anyone ever found out about it, and at the same time, that part of me that goes off on mental tangents at inappropriate moments just won't quit.
I just. Keep. Thinking about it. Suddenly, I can't stop. His skin is so smooth all over, Billy's; it's like this warm caramel-colored satiny stuff, and that makes it sound totally unlike what it is, there, but I just want to rub my face against it and run my hands over it and over it and over it and never stop; and so I'm thinking of him pressed against me head to foot and naked, and my hands moving down his back, the way it curves right in at the base of his spine and goes right back out with the swell of his backside, God. And him inside me, the way he might feel: all hot and hard and bigger than my fingers, stretching more, but I'd have slicked him up good so it wouldn't matter; and it would be so much easier for him to reach that place than it was to do it by myself with my hand. God, just, kissing him while he makes those little sounds, the way he rubs his mouth against me when I'm touching him and he's losing his grip on reality; except this time he'd be inside of me, and I'd be doing the same thing, rocking up against him and clinging to his shoulders and ratcheting up to that point just before you come. And then, just, the way he might feel, coming inside me; I'm just thinking about how he kind of twitches, you know, when he does that? I wonder if I could feel it, happening like that in the depths of me, and then when he'd shoot, if I'd feel that too. I wonder, would it make me come, or would he have to touch me?
I think I could have come, the other night, from the inside out. Fuck, I want to try it with Billy; I want to show him what it does.
And now I'm all worked up, and it's after one in the morning. I do not have time to sit and work myself open with the Vaseline again, but shit, that's all I actually fucking want. Oh, man. That's IT, there will be no excuses tolerated from Billy a second time, if it means sitting him down and saying "just shut up and watch", and then getting myself off with my fingers till he gets the point.
Gnargh. Okay, I am going to jerk myself off unsatisfactorily and then I am actually going to sleep. I really must.
October 12th, 1955
Writing this quickly, because I'm in the communal area, and man, is it communal. "Common" would probably be more like it. First period of the afternoon, and my Chem teacher is sick and apparently they couldn't find a replacement, so I have a free, and I thought I might as well use it to briefly note that I bulldozed Billy's resistance this morning, and we're going down to the cove again tonight. I sort of half-told him that I wanted to initiate some kind of cunning plan---I said I wanted to show him something, anyway. He was a little odd, kind of falsely bright and chirpy, when I first saw him; but I just pulled him aside over lunch, and told him I was really sorry about yesterday and that I didn't mean to freak him out.
Him: "You didn't freak me out, Len."
Me: "Yeah, I did. It's okay. You can admit it."
Him: (pause) "Well. Maybe a little."
Me: "Like I said. Anyway, I'm sorry."
Him: "It's okay."
Me: (anxious still, a little, despite pasted-on confidence) "You sure? We're totally okay?"
Him: (smiles, that warm gold smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and my whole chest collapse into liquid with how much I fucking love him) "Len, honestly." (glances from side to side) (pulls me down briefly by the hair and kisses my cheek, this little darting kiss) "We're okay. Seriously. I'm not a holding-a-grudge kinda guy. You know that."
Me: (smiling back, because how the hell could I not) "Okay... well, you free tonight?"
Him: (tilts head to one side) "How formal, to invite me specially. You have plans or something?"
Me: "I want to show you something." (touching his wrist)
Him: (looks at me under his eyelashes) "Will I like it?"
Me: "Yes." (squeezing his hand inconspicuously) "I think you will. I promise. If you trust me."
Him: (looks at me kind of searchingly, for another minute) (then) "Okay. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."
And so he went off to class, and I came straight over here to write this down. Diary is getting very carefully locked and rebolted after this, I tell you what.
God, I can't wait for tonight. I can't wait, I can't wait. How the hell I'm going to concentrate through Lit, I have no clue. I may skip class and run around madly on the football field. I've never exactly been one for physical exercise, but my God, I feel so wound up, like I have to move or I'll explode.
I swear to God, diary, this is going to happen. Scout's honor.
You know, I've said it before, and it looks like I'm just gonna go on saying it till somebody tells me to stop: Leonard? Is clever. Not clever the way I guess I'm clever, the way where you remember stuff and can be pretty sure of pulling a 4.0 out of your ass, even if you happen to be "sick" a couple times a semester. Or, you know, more than a couple times, depending. Nuh-uh, Leonard's cleverness is of a whole different order. It's that kind of inquisitive, adventurous cleverness that wants to push itself beyond the borders of the textbook, strike way out like the goddamn Lone Ranger and canter bareback through the nearest encyclopedia. And by encyclopedia, in this particular case, I guess I mean "book of weird-ass Latin poetry nobody else has ever actually heard of, let alone read, and probably wouldn't unless you held the barrel of a gun to their heads." I've seen him flipping secretively through that thing for days, now. I never did work out what the fuck he was up to.
Still, you never know. I'm an open-minded guy. I'm willing to believe there could be something in it, if I'm rubbed up the right way.
And hell, am I being rubbed up the right way just now. Metaphorically, I guess---is it actually metaphorical if he's still turning me on, or does that just make it indirect rubbing? Either way, I don't want him to stop. And the thing is, I don't even know why, except that it's something to do with the tightness around his eyes, that little indentation his teeth have made in his lower lip. The way he's breathing hard through his nose, like he just got done running. He's up on his knees, one palm flat in the sand by my head, and he's straddling my thighs. I'm trapped, kind of, naked underneath him in this position; and he's got his one hand stretched back behind his own body, but like this, I can't see what the fuck he's actually doing. Like this, I can't see anything but his face, the way it's changing; and the way he keeps jerking his hips forward and letting out these tight little breaths like he's doing something right.
Let me show you, Billy, he said, ten minutes ago when he'd kissed me up and wriggled me out of my jeans. You don't even have to do anything. Just lie still, and I'll tell you when I need you.
He coulda laid down on his back, to do whatever it is he's doing. It might have been easier that way, but see: if he'd done it like that, I would have had to watch him do it, and maybe he doesn't want that. I can't tell if it's because he's embarrassed, or 'cause he thinks I would be, but it's making me twitchy just listening to the catches in his breath, let alone anything goddamn else about this picture, and dammit, Leonard, goddammit, I want to know what you're up to.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't have the faintest idea. After last night, it kinda got a little bit obvious, what with his finger making little circles where nobody's finger should be, and him with a jar of Vaseline in his bag like a chick at a college party. I told him I wasn't having any of it, 'cause the whole idea kind of stuck in the back of my throat in a way that made my gut heave just thinking about it. But like this, somehow, it's a totally different thing, with him pressing back between his own legs, him canting his hips toward me till the tip of his cock kind of brushes against my stomach, making the both of us gasp. This is probably yet another thing on the list of my goddamn perversions, but I want to see what he's doing. I mean, I think I know what he's doing (thrusts back onto his fingers, the tension in his shoulders; there are various tiny giveaways). But I want (what the fuck, God knows why) to see him do it. And from here, that just ain't happening.
So I take him by the hips, gently, gently, like I think he's made of glass, even though I'm pretty thoroughly convinced that he isn't. And he opens his eyes, looks down at me black and open, and God, I just have to lean up right then and kiss him, his mouth a little reddened from the way he's been worrying at it, his teeth this edge of shine in the dark place inside. And he lets me do it, kisses me back the way he always does, like he wants to drink me up; and I take the opportunity to turn him carefully sideways, push him down onto the blanket and straddle his hips while he's still working out what the fuck I'm doing. He's gasping up at me, blinking and grappling for breath, and it's pretty damn clear that he doesn't know where to go from here. And holy fuck, he's hot like this: his long, languid, winter-white body, the muscles in his limbs just suggested under his skin. He looks so skinny in his preppy school threads, but he's not, underneath, not the way you might think. He gets this sheen on his chest when we do this; gets it on his forehead and in that little hollow in his throat. I lean in way close and press my mouth to it, lick the salt off of his skin and dig my fingernails in. He makes this little yelp like he didn't see that coming, and I laugh all smug against his neck.
"Billy---" he gets out, fumbling at my waist; but I'm sweat-damp already and any kinda grip's gonna slip. I shift my position, lift myself up so he can move his arms properly and scissor his legs however the fuck he wants them, and then I breathe, "You don't have to stop," and lick along the outside of his ear.
His eyes get even wider at that, which a minute ago I'd have said was damn near impossible, but obviously I need to start believing the unbelievable, 'cause this whole fucking situation's like somebody's fabrication. Hell, don't even ask me what kind of somebody; I don't know if I'd want to hide from this person or make out with him/her in the back of someone's car, just to show 'em how grateful I am for this feeling. And fuck, am I grateful. The way Leonard surges up against me like this, when all I can see of him is this weird-ass angle of cheekbone and eyebrow and nose, and he's gasping a little and rubbing his ear against my mouth like some kind of gorgeous greedy cat. And his hands got all tangled up somewhere in the move down here, but they're back again at what they were doing before, his body shifting up in these tiny little increments, those goddamn sinful hands doing something to make him bite his lip and shiver. His skin's gone all flushed and pink across his cheekbones; this hot little blush that makes me want to lick it off, and so I shift over, rub my mouth over his cheekbone and lick the side of his face. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, really, besides making his cheek all sticky and wet, but my mouth wants to go on doing it and his mouth's too busy with panting, so I go on licking him till I hear him cry out, an honest-to-goodness cry, and then I turn my face and look down the long white stretch of his body on the blanket, and fuck.
Hoooooooooooly fuck.
He's got his fingers up inside himself---not one finger, not even two, but two with the tip of a third just working its way in there. And I feel this tiny little shiver of something nasty kind of ripple through my stomach for a second, but then there's this fuck-off massive tidal wave of something else, washing all the dark feelings right out of there because holy hell, I don't know why, but this is hot. He's got his eyes closed, ridiculous long eyelashes feathering over his cheekbones and fuck, he's rocking his hips up against his hand, and his fingers are slick and shiny with Vaseline and every buck of his hips draws them further into him. He's got to know I'm looking, now, but he just goes on doing it, breath puffing out against my ear and his skinny hips moving, moving, moving like that, like it's good, like he likes it. I'm still staring at this, feeling the blood prickle up under my scalp like there are spiders or something walking around in my hair, when it's like he hits something and cries out against my face and then fuck, I can't breathe, I can't even. When I glance up at him, I see he's looking back at me, and the flush on his cheeks has gone crimson and he doesn't look away.
God, I don't know how long I look back at him. It's got to be pretty damn obvious to him how much this is turning me on, if he's in any doubt about that, but he just goes on looking at me like he's worried or something, worried and defiant and mouth open and head falling back a little 'cause his hand's still moving. And then I kind of get that he's not gonna be convinced, for some reason, till I show him I don't give a fuck that this is weird as hell, if it's going to do things like this to him; so I slide my hand down from his hip, over his stomach; and I take a deep breath and slip it down between his legs and touch his fingers, right there where they disappear inside him. And I say, "You like that?" all careful and soft and I'm shocked at how rough my voice has gotten.
And he says, "Billy," and slides his fingers back out of himself.
I'm so fascinated just by that motion---he's got beautiful hands, and Jesus Christ, now I know what they were meant for, seeing them all slicked up and glistening---that I barely notice him shifting me, mostly 'cause the way he grabs at me is embarrassed and hasty and then his legs are either side of me before I've worked out what the fuck is going on. And then, fuck, he's reaching down, and his sticky hands are fumbling for my cock and then he's lifting himself up so the muscles in his thighs show the strain of it, and he's adjusting himself and me so I'm right there where he's opened himself, like that whole performance was just him getting warmed up. I feel like my brain's gone blank, but the way my pulse is racing I begin to think maybe my body shut it off, all the parts of my mind that want to say this is weird and it's dirty and what the fuck is he doing? Because, hell, he's spread out underneath me and I'm leaking like hell just looking at him; and then he says, "Billy, let's try this," and he pulls at my hips and I'm gone.
I remember the first time I managed to hit a home run. Hell, I should remember; it's not like it was all that long ago. But here in the cove, with him, it feels like everything that came before was someone else's life. I think her name was Ellen, but I never actually worked that one out, 'cause everyone called her Elle and that might have been the whole thing. She had the most amazing blonde hair I've ever seen, all yellow and gold and it wasn't peroxide, either, 'cause I checked to be sure. It's pretty easy, to look at the roots of someone's hair when she's four inches shorter than you and her arms are round your waist. Everyone said she was a stupid little skank, and yeah, I guess she was, but I kinda felt sorry for her before the actual sex part but even more afterwards, 'cause it felt like she only did it so I'd like her, you know? I mean, okay, at the time, this didn't exactly occur to me, mostly because I'd gotten my hand way up to the lace trim on her panties and she hadn't moved away, and I guess I was floating on a cloud of my own cleverness, or something equally dumb. And then, you know, I kind of let my fingers slip, and the whole time my heart is thundering like I'm doing something incredibly fucking daring, which obviously nobody had ever done before, etc, etc, all that stuff. And so I kind of pressed my fingers against her through her white cotton panties---I'm kissing her this whole time, mind you, though it'd gotten kind of formulaic by this time because I was thinking about other things, notably conquering the southern front---and my heart's rushing, like I said, like I'm gonna have a heart attack and then she just says, "Do you want to?"
Fuck, you could have knocked me down with a Kleenex. I remember having this incredibly intricate plan in mind, you know, for how I was gonna go about trying to persuade her just to let me put my fingers in there, and then here she was saying did I want to, like there was any fucking doubt at all in the matter. And, you know, of course fools rush in and all that crap, so I said yes practically before she got done asking her question, and then she just took her panties off and that was it. I remember I sort of ran my fingers up between her legs, two fingers, and I remember being totally surprised by how fucking wet she was, 'cause nobody ever told me that would happen. And I kind of fumbled about for some kind of orifice, whatever, and pushed my fingers inside it when I found it and she sort of squirmed against me, in a way which was obviously, in retrospect, more discomfort than anything else, and then she kind of pushed my hand away and unzipped my pants.
And, you know, like I said, that was pretty much it. I pushed into her, she held herself really still so I could do it without her getting in my way, and yeah, I guess it did kind of occur to me that maybe she should be participating a bit more, or whatever, but then it sort of got me in the gut and I stopped worrying. I mean, okay, she offered. It took me long enough to remember to be suddenly freaked out about her getting pregnant (apparently she was wearing a thing inside her, I don't know), let alone to start worrying about why the hell she actually let me do that. Don't get me wrong; I thought the whole damn thing was fucking amazing, that first time. I kissed her for ages afterwards, 'cause girls like it when you do that and I was really grateful to her for letting me pour my goddamn infuriating virginity into her without me even having to try. But she transferred away pretty quickly after that, and someone whispered Tommy Donnell had gotten her knocked up so she and her mom had to leave town, and I got to wondering why the fuck she let all these guys do that shit to her. I guess she was scared of something, and she wanted to make sure she had a fuckton of guys who owed her something, if she ever needed them. Everyone called her a skank, but man, I felt bad for her. Grateful, too, but mostly bad, especially after I managed to hit last base with a couple girls who actually seemed to like getting screwed, even though it took me closer to six months than six weeks, in both cases. (Simultaneously, of course. If I'd taken six months with each chick one after the other, I'd have gotten pretty old pretty fast, and besides, they'd have thought I was dating them, which I wasn't. Not really.)
Anyway, the whole point of this digression is this: fucking chicks? Yeah, okay, I like that. I love that. It's all wet and hot and they make good sounds and you can hold them by the waist while you do it, and for some reason I'm fond of waists. But fucking Leonard is turning out to be a whole other thing entirely. I mean, okay, for the record? I had no idea this was even possible. Thinking about it, I guess I'd heard a load of stuff that now makes more sense than it did then, but nobody ever told me out and out that you could do this, maybe because they didn't want to give us kids ideas. So I don't know where the hell Leonard got this idea, but whatever, whatever, I could care less, because he's gripping me tighter than I've ever been gripped and he's so fucking hot inside, I could cry. I'm kind of terrified I'm gonna hurt him, but then I remember his three fingers up in there, slipping out all smooth and easy, and I relax a little and let him pull me in, trying like hell to keep it slow even though I want to just grab hold of him by the hips and fuck him deep. 'Cause, you know, he might have loosened himself up, but it still feels like this probably isn't actually a place a cock is meant to go, and that means I'm gonna have to be careful with him if I don't want to rupture something; and I'm still telling himself this when he suddenly jerks underneath me and gasps out, "There," and that's when all my rationality goes to hell on rollerskates.
He's holding me tight by the waist, then by the small of the back, and I fall down over him and grip him anywhere I can reach, and just thrust. And God, fuck, he's shifting up against me, canting his hips and arching his back and his head's fallen back on the blanket; and I'm rocking down into him and watching his face and my mind feels like it's leaking out my ears. I'm touching his chest, his shoulders, his sides, his waist; I'm slipping in and out of him and letting it pick up speed, because he's holding me there and he's gripping my backside and he's twitching his pelvis like he wants it he wants it he wants it, and nothing's hotter than that. I don't know what it is that I'm trying to do, here; I haven't the blurriest trace of a clue about how the hell this can be doing it for him, and you know, I actually care about that, for once, despite the fact that my stomach's got that burn low at the bottom of it, and all my body wants to do is fuck itself apart; and then, then, it's like I hit this place inside him that flips some switch, or whatever, because he jolts like a livewire and cries out sharp, and hell, I almost come on the spot. His hair's fallen back from his face, and his chin is lifted, and his mouth's all wet with saliva and pink from making out, and he's the most fucking incredible thing I've ever seen in my life, and God, I'm fucking him. And he's liking it. He's liking it.
This is the part where I've got to let you fill in your own blanks, really. I'm sorry, but my mind's just this blur of color and sound, everything running into itself like when you paint on the yellow bits before the red paint's done drying; and the whole thing's this hideous mess but something about it's almost glorious, if you look at it the right way. And this is like that; hell, I'm sure it's all a mess, me just fucking him artless and hard, forgetting all that stuff about being careful with him 'cause he's arching his back and crying out every time I thrust now, and my whole damn mind is blown. He's twisting his body underneath me, shuddering and jerking and his cock is twitching on his stomach and it's rubbing against me all slick and hot, and he's so fucking hot, like the whole of him is burning me inside and out, and God, I want to let him char me to ashes. I'm probably making all kinds of undignified noises, but I'm rubbing my face against the side of his neck, all open-mouthed and wet and uncoordinated, and he's gasping and whimpering and keening, fucking keening in my ear, and I barrel on like a steam engine, piston-piston-piston into him and then he's arching up against me and his back is going all bowstring-taut and then he's shooting all over my stomach, the fuck, he's coming just from this and that makes me shoot so hard I actually black out, just for a second there, I swear to holy God.
And then it's over, and I'm softening inside of him and he's rasping in my ear, and I don't even, I don't even, I can't, I just. He is. His hands sliding limp up my back, clutching at my shoulders. His head fallen back on the blanket, his thighs fallen apart around me. God, I know I should move; this is probably hurting him just from the strain of having to keep his thighs spread that far for that long, but I don't want to; hell, I should probably be having an existential crisis of the what did we just do sort, but the thing is, I know what we just did and I want to do it again, pronto. We just fucked, I just screwed him; dammit, we just fucking made love and I'm going to fucking say that, even if it was rushed and too hard and I hurt him a little going in and I'm going to hurt him more when I pull out, I can tell; it's not just screwing when your heart's all twisted 'round your gut like some bad-taste butchers' joke. I kiss the side of his face, his cheek, his neck, these tiny little kisses while I get my breath 'cause the sound he made when he came is still ringing in my ears, that final breathless shout that made everything dissolve way down between my legs, and fuck, I love him.
I don't even care anymore, I just, I love him. It's the way my mom and dad loved each other back before they were millions of years old, and the way Kit and Lyn might love each other after they're married and he can actually put his hand up her skirt without being scared she's gonna get pregnant, except it's better than that or anything else 'cause it's us, man, and we are this, you know? We just are. I love the way he feels underneath me; hell, I don't even care that there's gonna be sand in really weird places for at least the next couple days, or that our stomachs are getting all sticky and chilled because his---stuff---is all over me and it's getting to be kind of nasty. Whatever, you know? I don't fucking care anymore.
When I inch out of him, he does kind of wince a little, and okay, I care about that. I fuss over him a bit, and he smiles and tells me it's fine, don't worry, I'm not made of glass, Billy, jeez, you should have worked that out just there. And he catches my eyes, and the look on his face is so him, I have to pull him back against me by the nape of his neck, and I kiss him till he pushes me away and says, "God, Billy, you gotta stop or we'll never get home."
And I say, "Who says I want to get home?" and start kissing him again.
He's like brown sugar, Leonard; he's like cinnamon and toffee and all that dark rich sweet stuff you wish you could just go on eating, 'cause once you start, you don't want to put it down. By the time I finally drop him home, it's way, way after eleven, and he's gonna get in trouble and I'm going to be absolutely in the shit; but I'm still tingling from the way he felt around me and if any part of me cares, I think it's being kicked to death in some corner of my brain by the whole damn rest of me. He grins at me, and I slide my fingers up the inside of his wrist, turn my hand and run it back down his palm so he shivers. "See you tomorrow?" I say, 'cause it's a ritual, now, despite the part where it's usually a foregone conclusion.
"I'll pick you up after football practice," he says, getting out of the car. I notice he's walking just a little bit weird, like he's doing some kind of sailor impression with his legs a little astride, but it's not bad enough for anyone else to get worried, and just bad enough that I feel a little smug, knowing why. I watch him all the way up to his front door; wait for the little triangle of light spilling onto the doorstep and then the long silhouette of his body, all dark in the doorway. It shouldn't be possible to miss someone before they're out of sight, but hell, that's the way I feel about Leonard, sometimes; I almost wish I could just sit here in the street all night, like some kind of guard dog, just waiting. I almost want to go and throw pebbles at his window, sing him some kind of retarded love song till he---what---climbs out the window?
Hell, no.
So, I fucked him. Doesn't mean I think he's a girl, or anything; 'cause kind of the whole point is that he's not, you know? That's what made the whole thing so tight and close and him, underneath me; that's what makes my skin tingle all over; that's what this is. I'm not under any illusions about that, not anymore. I haven't gone into the implications of it, because frankly, I don't fucking want to, but just so we're clear on this I'm gonna say it again: the fact that we did this doesn't make him The Girl.
Hell, it doesn't even mean I might not want him to do it to me, maybe. Maybe.
The thought of that makes my gut twist, for the millionth time tonight, in a way I can't put my finger on just now but might be able to later, when I've lain there long enough and stared at the ceiling and thought of what it might be like to be underneath him like that, the way he was keening under me. There was something in there, obviously, that made him shiver and cling; something's got to feel good in there, and hell, I'm all about feeling good.
I drive home in a contemplative mood, I guess you might call it, and climb in the French windows round the back of the house. If Mom asks me in the morning, I came in while she was taking her nine-thirty bath, and I didn't want to disturb her. She'll never know the difference.
God, football practice in the morning, and I can't stop grinning. Fuck, I hope to hell Kit doesn't notice anything.
I haven't ever been very interested in football, which, in a small town like this one, can make life more than a little difficult. This is the sort of place where everybody turns out to support the high school football team, and of course, I always went along with my girlfriends, and cheered just like everybody else, because I didn't want people to think I was sulking, or anything. Honestly, I was perfectly happy to spend my evenings screaming myself hoarse, if it would do our team some good, but I never actually understood who was passing to whom, or why, or why I should care, and the problem with that was that it made it difficult even to know when to scream. Screaming when the other team scores is definitively frowned upon, as I found out the hard way.
When I started dating Kit, everyone I knew was pretty impressed, which delighted me at first until I realized they were mostly just pleased that I was going with a first-string football player. I mean, I met Kit in the first place through my friend Candice, who's cheered for the team since junior year, and sure, I knew he played, and sure, that was nice for him and all. But we properly met at a soda fountain after a game, and I was a little more concerned with just how blue his eyes were when they met mine over our milkshakes, and the way his beautiful accent lilts over my name. Kit is lovely, he's so tall and handsome and such a perfect gentleman, the kind who never forgets to open a door for you and never looks like he wants something when he does it, unlike some people I could name. I pretty much fell for him immediately, right there at that sticky little table with my friends all yadayadayada-ing around me, but it had absolutely nothing to do with him being a football player.
Like I say, my problem with football has always been that I just don't get it---nobody's ever properly explained the rules to me, and when I'm watching a game I just don't know what I'm looking for. But after that evening in the soda fountain with Kit---and especially after he took me to the movies on our own the next Friday night, in Billy's little red car---I discovered I had something to focus my attention on, way down there on the field, and that somehow made the whole thing a lot more exciting. From what I can tell, other people keep their eyes on the ball. I keep my eyes on that big black O'Reilly on the back of Kit's shirt. I follow the great big zigzags he makes to and fro across the grass; I watch him steam up to the sideline and back until I'm dizzy. Sometimes, when there's a lull in play, he'll turn toward the bleachers and wave right up at me, and I can't see his lovely face because of that silly little wire cage thing on his helmet, but I know anyway that he's smiling. And Kit's smile is one of my favorite things in the whole world.
Other people, they don't watch football like this. Other people watch football for the game, not the players. I kind of thought I was the only person who did it my way, until I come to sit out a whole hour of play---plus breaks---next to Leonard Nachman.
Now, if you watch the game for love of football, you cheer in the same places as everyone else. This is pretty much a given. Even if you're not particularly interested, you tend to just join in with the general waves of yelling and raising of hands, which is the kind of thing you can manage with only a mild sort of dedication. Only if you're watching the game for one person in particular do your eyes track back and forth across the field the way Leonard's are tracking now, following some shifting mark that clearly is not the ball. Only if you're watching the game for that player alone do you lean forward in your seat while everyone else is totally unconcerned, because maybe it looks like someone just kicked your guy, or he stumbled a little mid-run. The way Leonard watches is so patently the way I watch that I actually stop following Kit, just for a little while, to observe what Leonard is doing. (I'm not too worried about taking my eyes off Kit, these days. I know I'll always find him again.)
Looking at his face like this, in motion, it occurs to me, not for the first time, that Leonard is a pretty handsome guy. He has this dark-and-mysterious thing going on, all high cheekbones and black eyes, and the kind of quietude a lot of girls go for, because everyone thinks, of course, that she would be that one exception he'd shoot his mouth off to, if he'd only give her a chance. Yada yada yada. He's not my type, anyway---I've always liked the clean-cut blue-eyed boys, and Kit, of course, fits right into this trend. But he's good looking... intense, I guess, is the word. He'd have girls lining up for him, if he ever gave any indication that he wanted them to. Heck, I know at least a couple girls who're already thinking about making a play for him. Leonard Nachman, I have to admit, is a total catch.
He is also, without a doubt, watching this football game entirely for Billy Bronner.
If it wasn't obvious just from close observation of his face, relative to what's going on down on the field, he manages to make it so by clutching his hands together in his lap and pulling these funny little buoyant expressions whenever Billy catches the ball---and there's definitely an absolute correlation, because I checked. He is completely ignoring the rest of play in favor of following Billy back and forth with his eyes, exactly the way that I follow Kit.
I don't... I don't even know what to think about that. But I'm smiling at him without realizing it, and something in my chest's telling me the whole thing is kind of endearing.
We don't speak much, because you can't, in an atmosphere like this one, with far too many high school kids all standing up and sitting down and intermittently cheering and cursing in your ear. But he smiles at me, a couple times, and leans over to me when Kit goes skidding across the sideline with the ball clutched under his arm to say, "That was a good one," while we're on our feet and clapping. So okay, he doesn't completely miss the touchdowns. But Billy passed that ball right into Kit's arms, and the way he was watching, he couldn't have failed to follow the toss. He's watching for Billy.
After the game, Kit stumbles up into the bleachers to get me, unbuckling his helmet as he climbs toward us and stopping with one foot by Leonard's thigh on the bench. Billy is, as always, right behind him, his helmet already in his hand and his hair all sweaty. They won the game by a pretty wide margin, I think, and so he's grinning like a madman, first at me and then at Leonard. Kit eases the helmet off of his head, and shakes out his hair. I love the way he does that, so all his beautiful hair falls into his face, and the fact that he's always smiling under there. It reminds me of when you lift the mold off of a JELL-O or something, or a blancmange, or even some kind of fancy cake, and you sort of expected it to be busted at least a little bit, but it's more perfect than you ever dared hope and you're delighted. I feel like that when Kit smiles down at me like that, and even more so when he leans over to pull me up by the hand.
"Hey, sugar," he says, running a hand through his damp hair. "What did you think of the game?"
"Oh, it was great," I tell him, nodding just so he gets how enthusiastic I am. He doesn't have to know it's not the football I'm enthusiastic about. He grins a little more widely at me and Leonard chimes in, in his strange, deep voice:
"Yeah, it was a good game."
Kit inclines his head a little, pleased. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Billy is standing right by Leonard's shoulder, giving him one of those trademark smiles that make his eyes crinkle up. There's no denying that Billy is a beauty of incredible caliber, and a heck of a nice guy in small doses, though personally I think I'd probably smother him in his sleep if I had to marry him. But Leonard is looking at him like he's some kind of god, a little golden god in a sweaty football jersey, and I---I don't---
Kit leans down and presses a kiss to the side of my face, before I can get over the hump of the thought. He says, "You want to go get some food?" He glances back toward Leonard and Billy, and from this close, it seems like maybe his face twitches a little, when he looks at them. I could be wrong, of course, so I don't say anything. I just look over at them, at the way they're grinning at each other, and wait for them to register the way Kit's clearing his throat, and look back at him, their faces all innocence.
Kit says, "Guys? Food?"
They look at each other again, as if exchanging some kind of silent signal. Then Billy says, "Sure, Kit. I'm starving." He puts his hand on Leonard's shoulder, squeezing gently, and keeps it there even while he turns his attention, ostensibly, to me. "Give us a few minutes to get cleaned up, then, and we'll be right with you."
When they've gone back down the bleachers to change, Leonard says to me, "D'you think they'll be long?"
I smile at him sideways and say, "Nah. They're usually pretty quick."
He smells real good, like vanilla, maybe, or sandalwood. I don't know. He nods, like he's gotten all he wanted to know, and I say, "You really like Billy, don't you?"
He looks at me sharply, flinging a sidelong look like a fine-point dagger. "What do you mean?" Defensive. Gosh, I wonder.
"Nothing," I say soothingly, and grip him by the wrist to calm him. "Nothing, it's just you two seem to have gotten close fast."
He nods again, at that, his body kind of slackening under my hand. Then he says, "Yeah." A pause. "Yeah, I guess we just... clicked?"
"I get that," I tell him, squeezing his wrist again and letting go. "It was like that with Kit and me, right from the first. We just clicked."
His eyes bore back into mine, unreadable. Then, "Yeah," he says, "Sometimes people just do."
I think about the way he looks at Billy, the way his eyes go soft when he's around. If he were a girl, I'd know what this meant already.
But he's not a girl, and I don't know. And maybe I'd better just go on not knowing, for everybody's good.
Billy Bronner drives like a maniac. I like the guy, don't get me wrong; he's a nice kid and he's nice to drive me everywhere the way that he unfailingly does. But he drives too fast, and he grins too much, and he's always twisting around in his seat to yell things at Kit and me when he ought to be watching the road in front of him. So I'm in the backseat, clinging to Kit for dear life, and he's whipping out these hairpin turns, like we have to get to the joint in the next three minutes, or the world will explode. Honestly. He's so silly. But then, this is probably in part because he's looking at Leonard, mostly, instead of at what he's supposed to be doing.
I'm always grateful to get out of Billy's Chevy alive. I'm even more grateful right now because, if it isn't too strong a word, I'm starving all of a sudden, with that sort of low-down ache you get when you've been hungry for a while but something was distracting you from it. And then the something stops, and it all comes flooding back. "I could kill for a hamburger," I inform Kit, as we walk across the parking lot together.
Billy and Leonard are walking a little in front of us. Billy has those ridiculous blue jeans on again, the collar of his jacket turned up over the back of his neck. He thinks he looks like hot stuff, I know. I think he just wants everyone to look at his butt. For pants like that, there can be no other explanation.
Beside me, Kit squeezes my arm and grins. "You won't have to kill anyone," he promises, and kisses my hair. "Whatever my girl wants, she gets. Right now, anyway, while I'm feeling kinda flush."
(Kit's grandpa in Mississippi sent him a check on Saturday. Kit didn't know why, but he sure as anything wasn't going to look a gift horse like that in the mouth, not a horse to the tune of forty dollars.)
I smile at him and slip my hand into his.
We come to this place often enough that we don't need to look at the menu. When the waitress comes over, I order first, the #4 and the #2 with an ice water. Kit orders the same thing, except with two root beer floats instead of the water. The waitress gives him kind of a funny look and says, "Two floats?" as if he just demanded Mexico City on a plate or something. He just nods, and I kick him under the table and grin.
"I'll get fat," I warn him.
"Who says I'm not gonna drink them both myself?" he says, my innocent blue-eyed boy. His foot finds mine, and he rubs his toe against my ankle. I laugh.
"Have it your way," I tell him, and he grins and says he will.
Leonard is taking longer to choose. In the first place, he hasn't been here anything like as many times as we have, although we've come out here together a few times before. Secondly, it always takes him and Billy longer than us to decide what they want, because first they have to sit and wrestle with their consciences and decide whether the joy of a cheeseburger is worth wrangling later on with God/their mothers, which always depends on the day. In the end, they both get the same as us---no cheese, which keeps everything nicely kosher, as well as perfectly symmetrical all the way round, as Billy remarks.
Leonard grins at him. I wonder if he's kicking him under the table right about now.
There are a few places like this one in this town, and this isn't even the most popular joint with kids our age, really. But it does have something most of the other places don't have, and Kit and Billy decided long ago that this was enough of an incentive to forsake all other burger bars and be faithful to this one, the establishment with the mighty jukebox. I mean, the food here is good, too, but it really is the music that makes it, and we never, ever leave this place without turning a song or two. Kit and Billy used to come here alone sometimes and play track after track all night, back when they were younger. Kit and I come here alone sometimes, and put on some of the really good slow stuff, and dance.
Billy announces that he feels like dancing right now, but somehow I don't think he means he wants a slow sway with a pretty girl. He digs a handful of change out of his pocket, and there's so much of it, I'm convinced he must have stashed it there on purpose, just so he'd be able to play a whole succession of songs after the game. I wonder briefly if he would have done the same thing if they'd lost. I think, probably, he would. Billy loves to play football, but it doesn't seem to affect him much beyond the boundaries of play and practice. He ate, slept, and breathed his car for a long while there, and real hard-core football players couldn't ever have that kind of dedication to anything but the game. Lately, he's been hanging out with Leonard at pretty much every opportunity, or so it seems. Anyway, I don't think he's too bothered by the football league tables right at the moment.
We're all laughing at the way he leaps up like an overexcited dog, dashing over to the jukebox the moment the waitress has cleared our table. He thinks he's so cool, in his painted-on clothes, Billy does, and then he does stuff like this and he's just a big kid. Kit rolls the straw in his float between his finger and thumb, and grins at me conspiratorially. Leonard looks at Kit, and laughs a little more. Billy, slotting coins into the machine, is totally unconcerned.
"What're you putting on, Billy?" Kit calls, one arm around my shoulders and his other hand cupped around his glass.
Billy saunters, hips first, back toward us; stops right in the middle of the little cleared space of floor they left for dancing in. There's nobody else in this corner of the restaurant, just now. He's standing there all on his own, this little upright figure with his thumbs tucked into his belt-loops, and he says, "Wait and see!"
The jukebox is flashing, the record clicking painstakingly into place. When it starts, I don't recognize it, but it's perky and upbeat and Billy starts to move to it immediately, winking at me and rolling his hips like Elvis. Leonard puts his hand over his face and groans.
"Billy," he calls out, voice cracking with embarrassment, or maybe just amusement, "Are you really gonna stand there and dance all on your own?"
"Sure," Billy says, rotating on the spot and lifting up his arms to join in the motion. Leonard laughs outright then, not laughing at him, quite, but for him, and Billy shoots him a grin like a galaxy of suns. He says, "'Course, if any of you losers would come join me...."
Kit snorts, rubs his face in my hair, and shakes his head at Billy. "I couldn't do that with my pelvis if you paid me, Billy. Not in a million years."
Billy lifts his chin, shimmies a little closer to Kit and says, "You're kidding, right? You think you couldn't do this?"
The way he moves isn't exactly flawless, but he's pretty damn good at it, all tight little circles in perfect rhythm, round and round and round. He grins at Kit, cajoling, and then he dances two steps back and brings his hands down to waist level, holding them out. "Come on," he says, shooting me a look and smiling. He curls his fingers, come on, come on, come on. Kit makes a noise like he's about to reject the idea all right, but I think it's kind of a good one, and I cut him off with a shove and a grin back at Billy.
"Come on, Kit," I say, pushing him toward the edge of the booth. "I bet you can do that. Go on, do it for me."
Billy laughs aloud at that, and on the other side of the table, Leonard leans across toward me and grins. "You're in league with the devil, I see," he says, all dark and treacle-sweet, like he's pretty pleased about this. Kit rolls his eyes, but Billy is too psyched to take any notice, and when he hauls him onto his feet with a hand around each wrist, Kit can't actually find the energy to protest.
"Come on," Billy's saying, "You do it like this---look...."
And his hands come up again, onto Kit's waist, his hips, steadying. Kit says, "What the hell?" and Billy nudges his arms up and out of the way, out to his sides, still moving, always moving.
He says, "Come on, Kit, jeez, I know you can do this. Do it like me, look. Like this. Like this." And he's circling his hips, rolling twisting shifting, and his hands on Kit's waist are in time with his own movements, guiding with his palms as he moves. Kit stumbles a little at first, but after a few rotations, he's got it, by George, he's got it, and Billy grins at him and smacks him on the backside and steps back. Kit's grinning all over his face now, too pleased that he's actually managing this to go on pretending to be annoyed, and Billy looks over at me and calls out, "Come on, Lyn, you gonna make that lesson worth his while?"
I stick my tongue out at him, but the music is infectious, and Kit is good at this. I'm up and in his arms in half a second, hands on his shoulders and his hands on my waist and he's dancing half an arm's length away from me, all circles and swishes and my skirt is flaring around me with everything I do. Billy's danced away from us, and I can still hear him laughing, but just for the moment, I don't care what he's doing; I'm too caught up in Kit's hundred-megawatt smile, and Kit's blue eyes, and Kit's warm hands on my waist through sweater and blouse and undershirt. He says, "Hey, why don't we dance more often?" and I shake my head, not knowing, hoping it'll change.
We dance to the end of that song, and don't stop moving while the record changes. Halfway through the next track, Kit spins me, and I'm laughing as I turn and see them, and remember with a jolt that we're not actually alone on the dance floor.
Billy's got Leonard the way he had Kit before, his hands on his waist, on his hips, just barely. They're both grinning at each other---everything and everyone is grinning, tonight---and that beautiful smile on Leonard's slightly severe face just lights him up in a way you'd have to see to believe. He's got these moves down, too, it seems, his hands out to the side, half-raised, not touching anything at all, but his pelvis moving in perfect tandem with Billy's, their movements getting wilder and more enthusiastic as the music escalates. They look good together, the two of them, like folk dancers or something, in perfect accord, and suddenly Leonard starts laughing and Billy is laughing, too, his eyes firmly on Leonard's face as his fingers close more firmly on hips, holding them together.
"Hey," I say, because I'm flushed and happy and they're good and I want them to know it, "you guys are really good at that!"
Behind me, I can feel Kit grinning as he says, "Don't encourage them," warm against my ear. Billy circles them around so he can see me properly, never missing a beat.
"What'd you expect, Lyn?" he demands, rocking his hips into Leonard's. Leonard blushes, but I notice he doesn't protest the compliment. "Is there anything I'm not good at?"
"Singing," I say immediately. He sticks his tongue out at me and backs away from Leonard a little, raising a hand to push back the hair that's fallen down over his forehead. Okay, he looks good, white T-shirt, blue jeans. He also totally knows it, so I ignore it completely.
"You just don't appreciate me," he says haughtily. Leonard grins, and flicks him in the chest.
"Nobody appreciates your singing, Billy," he counters.
"Amen to that!" Kit puts in, behind me.
I'm happy. Gosh, I'm so happy, and all the reasons are so simple: my Kit, and his friends, and the way we've all been smiling at each other all night, and the way the music's cycling with my heartbeat and the way Kit's hand feels, steady on my waist. I want to dance together again, and soon. I hope we can. I really, really hope we can.
I say, "You think we can do this at Homecoming?"
Billy and Leonard glance at each other. They're still smiling, but there's something in that glance, and suddenly I realize that, yes, of course, Kit is going to take me to the dance at Thanksgiving---that's only two weeks away---but Billy and Len are going to have to bring somebody else each, aren't they? And then there won't be just the four of us, and I won't be here like this, feeling like a princess among them. There'll be six of us. I don't know if I like that very much. I suddenly wish I hadn't brought it up.
Kit, though, doesn't seem to have noticed the exchange of glances. He says, "Do what, sweetheart? Dance like idiots?" He laughs, and the sound is so warm that I let go of the momentary uncertainty, and turn around in his arms.
"No, silly," I say, reaching up to push his hair back. "Just dance. You know. The four of us."
I guess we can't, really. I know that. But who are they going to take to dance, even? I know either one of them could have his pick of any number of girls. But somehow, I can't for the life of me think of any particularly likely candidates.
The next thing I know, the two of them are behind me, Billy a little to the left of me, Leonard slightly to the right. Billy touches my shoulder. He says, "Never mind Homecoming." The music is still going, and it's obvious he doesn't want to stop. "We still have another three tracks, at least. Let's dance more now, huh?"
And he spins me away from Kit and into the center of the floor, and then the music is threading through me again, Billy moving so perfectly with it and his hands so sure as he steers me; and then the next thing I know, Kit's got me again, and he turns me the other way, whispers "Don't get dizzy, babe," as he does it, and I grin at him and tell him I'm fine. And I am, right now; I am, even if I'm surprised when Kit spins me right into Leonard's arms and he awkwardly, earnestly, spins me, too, all long limbs and warmth and whiteness. I can't stop laughing, and the boys seem to take this as a cue to just go on doing this, because they're boys, and boys are stupid. By the time I'm on my second go-around, I can't actually see anything properly anymore; the world is just this dizzy blur and I'm shrieking with laughter. "Stop it---stop it, Christopher, I swear, I am not---you are not going to get away with this---Billy, stop him---"
Somewhere in the melee, Billy's hands find my shoulders, straighten me, push me into Kit's arms. I catch my breath, leaning there against his chest, waiting for the world to stop spinning, but for a long time I can't see anything properly but it doesn't really matter. Bits of things... Kit's cheek; Billy's hair; Leonard's hand in Billy's, for a moment.
Leonard's hand. In Billy's.
Oh heck. The music is still going as Kit leads me back to my seat, and they're all grinning fit to split their faces and I don't want to think about anything but this, not anything. Not Homecoming, not football, not why I can't see Billy and Len fighting over the pretty girls for the dance. Not anything.
I steal Kit's other root beer float, instead, since he obviously bought it for me anyway, and tell him I want ice cream.
Kit smiles and orders vanilla for four.
November 8th, 1955
Even in California, it isn't always summer. True enough, it was warm out right to the middle of October, when back home in Stockbridge I'd already have dug out my gloves and scarf in a bad year. Hell, Billy and I were still hanging out down by the sea until a couple weeks ago, 'cause even when the evenings got a little chilly around the edges, I'd still have put the temperatures at summer ones rather than fall, if forced to pick one or the other. Besides which, I think we were both of us pretty determined to cling onto our little cove for as long as was humanly possible. I could write out reams and reams on the reasons why. But you know already, don't you, Mr. Nachman, that most of these reasons start with "Because my mom---" and end with "---fucking Billy".
Looking back at that, I'm actually becoming distinctly aware that it could be read in more ways than I intended. Hmm. For example, if I said the sentence went like this:
1. Because my mom.............................fucking Billy.
I guess you could fill in the middle part and come out with something completely different to what I was trying to imply. Huh. You could end up with:
1. Because my mom is already irritated enough just at me being in the house, let alone fucking Billy.
Or, taking the game to extremes:
2. Because my mom would call the cops if she realized I was only coming down here out of a strong desire to murder fucking Billy.
Put simply, you could really easily misinterpret the juxtaposition of the words "fucking" and "Billy" as implying some kind of criticism, where "fucking" is used as an adjective. Actually, pretty much all of my reasons would render "fucking" as an active verb in the continuous present. Just so you're aware of that. Although, of course, you are.
Until about a week ago, we clung onto that cove by our fingernails just so that I could go on actively and continuously fucking Billy in the present, without fear of comment from our parents or suspicion from the neighbors. This is, pretty much, the major motivating factor in my abandoning this diary just a little, over the past couple of weeks. I could write about Billy fucking me, or me fucking Billy, but that would have taken up valuable time that could have been better spent actually doing it and I wasn't really ready to push myself toward that kind of self-discipline while we still had a private place to go. I know you know, dear reader of this diary, that my cunning little plan was successful, and that Billy certainly didn't have half so much of a problem with the idea of just slipping right in where I'd already gotten myself ready for him. But I don't think I've explained that explicitly here, and just in case I find myself coming back to read the story of my life when I'm ninety-six and showing the signs of dementia, I'd rather like to have all the vital pieces of information included, just in case my memory starts to go faulty.
Not that I think I'll ever, ever forget the way it felt when Billy finally got the picture and pushed himself inside me, that burn that stung and prickled a little till he hit that place and then everything was right. I heard, though, that sometimes the first things to go when you lose your mind are the beautiful things, all that real-world stuff you'll want with you on your deathbed to see you through, remind you that you were alive once. And... well, I guess, if you forgot about your wedding, or the day you collected your PhD, or the way your firstborn baby smiled when they put him in your arms, you could always ask someone. There'd be witnesses, people who could help you remember, maybe even photographs, to bring it all back clearest of all. But when I get old, there won't be any pictures of Billy and me together like that, and there won't be any pictures of that night, the way he looked at me when we were done. Nobody's going to hold my hand and say, "Hey, Leonard, remember the summer of '55, when you lost your virginity to another guy? Remember how it felt, how he was wider than your fingers and all solid-warm on top of you, and how stupidly pleased you were to be able to kiss him while he fucked you into the sand?"
Nobody is going to be there to tell me this stuff. So I'm writing it down for you, Mr. Nachman, in case you ever need it, because I never want to forget about that first time.
The second thing to disappear would be the converse, of course: the way Billy took my hand on the evening after that one, and pressed it back between his legs. He said, "You have to do it; I don't know how," with his face sort of pressed to my shoulder and his voice all tight, as if he were embarrassed, or afraid. I never actually asked him if we could try it like this, with him underneath. God, I'd have been perfectly happy just to have him do it to me until the raw feeling escalated beyond what was actually bearable, it was so good; him hitting that happy place with every thrust of his hips, and me underneath him just riding it out like a storm. No, sir, the switch-over was all his own idea, and that made my heart start skipping like a preschooler, just thinking about it. I mean, I asked him if he was sure, of course, and told him he didn't have to do this if he didn't want to, honestly. But he just kind of wriggled and groped around for my industrial-sized tub of Vaseline (which Mom still hasn't noticed is missing, PRAISE THE LORD) and he plonked it down where I could reach it easily, and said, "No, I want to."
And, although obviously I wanted to be very careful not to freak him out any more than necessary, I didn't need telling twice.
His face got a little strange when I pressed inside him, and at first I was sort of worried that he was finding it more uncomfortable than I had. That got me worrying that maybe everybody's body was configured differently down there, and that maybe it'd be harder working him open than it was with me, and then maybe he wouldn't even like it once I got inside, and maybe that whole happy button thing (which, really, is what makes the whole thing incredible) was actually unique to me, like I was some sort of lucky freak of nature. I was still biting my lip and wrestling this slew of unhappy possibilities when Billy sort of twisted under my hand and gasped, "Fuck---what the fuck was that?"
I'd gotten two fingers inside of him by this point. I forgot all the crap I'd been thinking just before he spoke, and crooked my fingers over a little, inside of him. And of course, that little spongy bit was there in his body right where it is in mine, and when I touched it, he jerked again and said "God!" and that's when I knew it was going to be okay.
I was more careful with him than I was with myself, partly because I didn't want him to panic and change his mind, and partly because I wanted him to be pretty damn sure already that this was going to feel amazing, before I actually switched over from fingers to, you know, actually being inside him. That, and obviously it's harder to gauge what's going on when you're dealing with someone else's body instead of your own. Sometimes, my mom used to leave out her earrings for months and months at a time, and then when she finally decided she wanted to wear her diamonds for a night out with Dad, or whatever, the little holes in her ears would have closed up too tight. So she'd get me to push pins through them, 'cause she said she couldn't stand to do it herself, and I get that, but I really hated doing it. I couldn't tell what I was doing or how much it was hurting her, and every time this happened, I always thought about how if it was me, I'd deal with it myself, even if it did mean having a hell of a lot of self-control. At least I'd know what to expect, what was coming. And it was kind of like that, working Billy over like this---I'd have let him do it to me, if he'd shown any inclination, but in retrospect I think I'm pretty glad that I did it all myself, so I knew what to expect before we did anything for real. And Billy---well, I do think Billy is exactly like my mom with her earrings, with this. We were both scared about it, but him being scared meant he wanted to leave it all to me, let it be my responsibility if it hurt, and that was just as terrifying as it used to be when I'd shove the pins into Mom's ears and she'd hiss in her breath like I'd stabbed her... but at the same time, it was kind of flattering, and it was really hot. I took a long time about doing it, smearing more Vaseline around my fingers and around him at intervals, just to make it as easy as possible, and listened real closely to the little sounds he made, the way he jerked under my fingers; the way he bit his lip before he'd gasp out instructions, there and keep doing that and Leonard.
(It sounded like an instruction, Leonard, when he breathed it all rough like that. Leonard, and the fourth or fifth time he said it, I finally took him at his word, and slid my three fingers out of him. I felt him clench, this whole-body seizing that almost felt like even the air around us was protesting, and then I wriggled up over him until we were face to face, and I said, "Are you sure?"
And he said, "Leonard," and spread his legs wide, and it was an instruction. It couldn't have been anything else.)
I think I still hurt him, kind of, when I finally pushed inside him, sort of pressing on his thighs to keep them wide and steering, you know, with one hand. He sucked in his breath, exactly the way Mom does when I've shoved the pin just a little too hard through her ear; but then he let it out again once I was more than a couple inches inside of him, and his whole body seemed to unfurl, like he was reassured, like he wanted it. I would have kept it slow, you know, the way it'd been slow all along, but he wasn't having that, for some reason; he had his hands on my waist and kept shoving them down over the small of my back to sort of grip the undersides of my thighs and pull me closer, like he thought there wasn't enough movement going on. I was still terrified of hurting him and that being the end of it, so I held myself back and tried to pull out and go back in again carefully---and that was hard enough as it was, what with this whole thing feeling like nothing in the world and him gripping me fast, so hot, and so tight it made my eyes blur. But when Billy decides he knows best, hell, Billy decides, and the next thing I knew was a sting, which it took me a couple seconds to work out was the aftereffect of him smacking me across the backside.
I blinked down at him, shoulders all shivery from holding myself up and keeping still, and he pulled me down by the back of the neck and licked my mouth open, all wet-hot-hard with his fingernails digging into me. And then he said, just breathed against my lips, "Move, Len," and my body overrode all my ideas about gentleness right there with his mouth on mine. Hell, if I was rough, he'd have brought it on himself.
I mean, I don't think I was rough with him, not really. I let him pull me closer, let him haul our hips together till the whole thing got faster and faster and the colors started spiraling into madness behind my eyes, and he's panting and gasping and rolling his pelvis up against me the way he does when he decides he wants to dance. Only this time, it felt so incredible I didn't care what it looked like; couldn't think about anything but the way he cried out when I slammed down into him; the way he actually seemed to like it better when it was harder and faster and uncontrolled. The faster it got, the further that little lucid part of my mind seemed to recede into the distance, till all that was left was this vague worry that if I lost control completely, I might actually do him some damage. And then he smacked me again and I thrust down unconsciously, like this full-body twitch in response, and Billy yelled; goddammit, he threw back his head and twisted his hips and he yelled.
This was when I worked out that Billy really doesn't do patient. I mean, he's kind of like that by nature, of course; everything has to be fast for Billy, it has to happen now-now-now or he just isn't interested; except in those occasional moments where he holds himself real still and I start to wonder whether there's something wrong with him, and it turns out he's just thinking. But it still struck me as pretty amazing that he was just like that when he was under me, like this, pulling me into him; muttering things against the side of my face that I couldn't even hear because my head had gone all funny, and shifting his hands all the time, all the time, rocking his hips to make me go faster. In the end, I was clinging onto him just to stay conscious, him panting in my ear and him all wet and sticky between our stomachs where they slid together over sweat, and when he came, he torqued himself like whiplash, kind of clenching on me in ripples so I couldn't do anything except agree with him, and shoot till my head felt full of cotton.
When we were done, he thought for a bit, the way he does; stroking my hair and kissing my temple in this calm like the eye of a storm. He was up again in another few minutes, of course; telling me how great I was (okay, I wasn't complaining about that) and nudging me down to the freezing sea to get clean. But just that little time, him all sticky underneath me, and his fingers gentle in my hair---that's what I want most, to leaf through when I'm dying. I guess that makes me a great big girl; Billy'd probably say so. But I don't care; nobody else is ever going to read this. What the hell do I care?
Anyway. That got a little longer than I meant it to. But the point is: Billy totally understood what I was getting at, and he wanted to do it again. And again. And again, switching from one of us to the other. And we did that until it got so cold out that we were shivering when we were done, and then we had to actually stop and think about what the hell we were going to do now.
I just got back from the middle of nowhere; he did his thing with his mouth in the backseat of his car. I love Billy's mouth, but dammit, we need a new place to go, I tell you that. Goddamn winter.
November 10th, 1955
Attempted to do it in Billy's car again. Started to panic about ten minutes in over how long it actually takes to open him up enough for me to dare to actually do anything else. Suddenly occurred to me that darkness + trees + car = safe environment in which nobody will ever notice what we are doing, especially if someone turned up when we'd gotten carried away. Plus, wouldn't the car rock? I bet the car would rock.
Anyway, in the end we didn't dare. Did discover, however, that it is actually possible to bring Billy all the way off just with my fingers. Rubbed the happy place until his whole body had gone all tight and trembly, and then sucked him into my mouth just a tiny bit and he came all over everything. This is, at least, something to remember.
Why do we both have such annoyingly massive families?? He has two sisters, so even if his parents left for some reason, we'd have to get them out of the house before we could do anything. It's one thing doing stuff with your clothes on; you can always pretend you were wrestling or something if the worst comes to the worst. But if you're naked, there's kind of nothing for it, and we're not going to chance that.
November 11th, 1955
They have put up the posters for Homecoming. It is on November 25th.
Fuck.
Billy and I saw them on the way to lunch, and kind of looked at each other for a moment without saying anything. He had this expression on his face that clearly said he'd been dreading this, and I probably looked exactly the same way, to be honest. Caitlyn mentioned Homecoming last weekend when we went out after the football game, but I sort of shoved it down to the back of my mind, mainly because I didn't want to have to think about the facts:
a. Clearly every girl in school is going to throw herself at Billy;
b. Billy is clearly going to have to pick one, because otherwise it'll look really weird;
c. I am going to be jealous as all hell, even though I know it'd only be for the sake of goddamn social expectations.
I mean. It's not like these are the only things I was Not Thinking About. Add to the list:
d. I hate dances at the best of times, but my mom WILL find out and she WILL make me go.
e. This means I have to find a date. The only girl I know is Caitlyn. OH, HELL.
f. I dance like a sparrow with two left feet. Scratch that, I dance like an oven with two left feet. I, as a dancer, do not deserve to be likened to anything in the natural world.
g. I hate dances.
h. I hate dances.
i. The only thing that might make a school dance less unbearable than it normally is would be hanging out with Billy all night, even if (obviously) we couldn't actually Go With each other. So... find disinterested dates who know each other, then?
j. I hate dances.
Billy spent about ten minutes just trying to get into his milk carton. I guess he was preoccupied. Then he said, "What the fuck are we going to do about the fucking dance?" (milk carton to the chest) "Open this."
He'd done that thing where he'd bent the end of the straw and made it completely impossible to pierce the little hole with it, so I fished his car keys out of his pocket and punctured it with those. Then I put them neatly back into his pocket (they were, luckily, in his jacket, not his skintight jeans) and slipped the straw in. "Take some girls, I guess."
Him: "I don't want to."
Me: "My mom'll make me go." (shrugging)
Him: "So will mine." (moodily drinking milk) "You think we could all take Caitlyn?"
Me: "... Sadly, no."
Him: (under breath) "Why can't I go with you?"
Me: (eyebrow)
Him: (sighing) "I know, I know." (a pause) "Annie Decker asked me in the hall already if I was taking anyone."
Me: (narrowing eyes, fighting down stupid jolt to stomach) "What did you say?"
Him: (shrugs) "Said 'Not yet', and beat it. I thought about maybe taking someone plain, 'cause then she'd be happy with anything and wouldn't mind if I left her alone all night. What do you think?"
Me: "Who did you take last year?"
Him: (sighs) "Marianne."
Me: "...Yeah." (sighs as well) "So if you did that, people would think you'd come down in the world. It would draw attention."
Him: (sucks on milk a little more) (frowning) "I guess we'll just have to pick a couple of girls and hope they're not the type to think a dance means something it doesn't, right?"
Me: "...I guess...."
Him: (runs fingers through hair irritably) "Why can't I just be ill, dammit?"
Me: (laughing) "Throw a sick day for Homecoming. Of course!"
Him: "Eh." (scrunching up empty milk carton) "I hate high school."
It is, as they say, a dilemma.
I don't know who they are, just there. I don't know why I wrote that. I'm saying it's a dilemma, because it is one. I mean, I'm sure in the end we'll just end up taking a couple totally random girls, who'll expect to be danced with and fussed over all night, and isn't that a wonderful prospect? By which I mean that the idea makes me want to throw myself off something. At least if we wait to be asked, we don't have to pretend to be too interested, I guess? And if I wait long enough, maybe nobody will ask me at all if I'm taking anyone, and I can beg off on the grounds of not having a date.
Oh hell. Why is high school such a damn complicated mass of politics and backstabbing and messed-up social mores? It is a ridiculous institution, built upon a morally bankrupt hierarchy. I wish I could boycott the whole thing, but I would never hear the end of it.
I wish even more that I could just turn up on Billy's arm and say "Up yours!" to them all. I wouldn't even mind if he did his stupid Elvis-pelvis thing, if it meant I didn't have to dance with some stupid girl I hardly even know.
Bah. I am going to do my Spanish homework, and then I am going to go to sleep. And then I am going to go on pretending this problem doesn't exist, in the hope that maybe it will just go away.
No?
AAAAH. WHY CAN'T I JUST BE AN ADULT ALREADY? THEY HAVE LIFE SO MUCH EASIER.
[furious scratchings-out] [remnant might possibly read ... 's n...t f..ir!]
Sometimes, you know, the thought occurs to me that I shouldn't have to spend half my goddamn life watching Billy Bronner's lackadaisical back. That's not my task in this world, you know what I mean? I'm not my brother's keeper, and all that crap. Hell, I've already wrenched my head practically inside out just trying to keep up with whatever it is he's been making of himself since Leonard blew in, and Christ knows I'm not exactly certain I've got that straight, even now. I'm not about to go running to complain about it, and I guess I'm pretty much used to it, after all these weeks of hanging out with the two of them---Leonard and me, we get along okay, now we're over that big mess-up with the bickering over Billy, and everything else that went down like a fucking flaming elevator when this all kicked off.
I don't know what I think about it, to be honest. I guess if you'd asked me a year ago, A. you'd have had to explain the whole goddamn concept to me first; and then B. I'd probably have fed you what I thought must be the party line, just to shut you up and move the conversation onto something less thinky. But this---I mean, it's not about The Thing In General, is it? It's just about whether I think Billy should be allowed to do whatever it is he does with Leonard when they're holed up in their bedrooms, pretending to study, and I guess I don't really have much of an opinion on that. I flared up at first, sure, and I can't say the idea of rubbing myself up against another cat's body doesn't fill me with a vague shudder of yuck, but then on the other hand I was sort of overcome with the need to mash my mouth against Billy's---in a moment of madness of which we're just not gonna speak ever again---so I guess I don't really get to complain too much.
I mean, I think that was mostly the possessive little bit of my brain deciding that obviously, putting your physical claim on something is the best way of making sure nobody else can take it from you, even if you don't really want it; like when there's only one chocolate left in the box and you kind of shove it in your mouth because your stupid cousin's eyeing it covetously and hell, you're damn well gonna make sure he doesn't get to it, even though you don't actually like coconut that much and you're not hungry anymore anyway. It was like that, and anyway, that whole thing is pretty much sorted now. But still, I guess if Leonard actually does like coconut, I can kind of understand why he might enjoy it more. Like, it's not as if coconut is totally unlikable. You know? Does that make any sense? Hell, I hope that makes sense.
I guess Billy should be a caramel, really.
Point is, I seem to have gotten 'round to a point where, okay, I understand that Billy and Leonard liking Billy and Leonard, where I am way fonder of Caitlyn, is kind of similar to the way everyone in my house knows they have to save up the cherry liqueurs for me, whereas some people think cherry liqueur is disgusting and would rather have, for the sake of argument, something a little more exotic, like, dare I repeat it, the coconut. (Yeah, yeah, we're back to that.) That's okay. At least where these two are concerned: okay, whatever. If it makes Billy grin like a clown on weed, just shimmying 'round the soda fountain with Leonard's skinny hips under his hands, then hey, let him do it. No skin off my nose, in general, right? Right.
Except, you see, the thing is, Billy isn't a coconut. He just---isn't. Billy Bronner has always been caramel, all golden skin and hair and eyes and rich and sweet and goes down smooth as honey, and everybody, everybody likes a caramel cream. And now, dance time's rolling around, and the girls are all scrabbling around like mad for the picks of the senior year chocolate box, and sure enough, there're a ton of little hands going for Billy. Leonard, okay, he's less of an issue. I guess he's, what, a dark chocolate? That, and he's still a bit of a dark horse; they don't know what to make of him. But Billy's spent kind of a lot of his high school career trying to slide smooth as caramel down as many female throats as possible, and they've somehow missed the part where he's taken a little break from this exercise just recently. Still, you know, girls are girls, and obviously their little hawk-eyes (or their gossip network, I guess) are still working on one level, and that's the level where Billy and me are still hanging out several nights a week, and playing football together and all that typical jazz. Which, apparently, has somehow gotten spun by girl-logic into this amazing, semi-universal scheme where they come to me to try and get dates with Billy: they ask me where they might be able to track him down; they ask me whether I know who he's taking to the dance; and they ask me, damn their stupid little faces to hell, if I might happen to know who he likes.
Well, shit. Billy, I love you, but dodging this subject isn't gonna work forever. I'm sick to death of saying I don't know to every damn one of these queries, and I'm even sicker of worrying about what might happen if anyone ever actually worked out that, yeah, I do know whose throat Billy Bronner's had his tongue down lately; and yeah, actually he hasn't asked any one of you chicks to the goddamn dance, mostly because he's far too busy jerking off Leonard Nachman in the backseat of his car.
I mean, fuck, you know? This isn't my fucking shit to have to deal with, or it shouldn't be, anyway. But Billy is Billy, and I can't seem to give up this thing in my head where I want to save him from fucking everything, and that means a backup plan generated itself in the back of my mind while I was staring at the chalkboard in Calculus, trying not to actually fall asleep on the desk. I'm sorry, you know, but they're gonna have to pick some girls and take 'em to the goddamn dance, just to shut everyone up. Yeah, whatever, I guess it'll be kind of a drag, especially if the girl takes it into her head that this means they're going steady, the way chicks sometimes do. But everyone knows Billy Bronner doesn't go steady, right? Everybody knows he loves 'em and leaves 'em.
And shit, I've thought about it, and I really can't see any other way around this. Suck it up, Billy, and take some fucking chick to the fucking dance, 'cause you're always gonna be a fucking caramel, and that means you're in demand. I'm gonna have to speak to him about it---the both of them, actually---and I don't exactly relish the argument, but on the other hand I relish spending my afternoon repeating myself actually even less, so you know, on balance, it works.
Man, high school. It's a complicated, complicated place.
Lunch period, I catch hold of Billy by the back of his pants as he passes me in the hall. He half-turns, and I grin and tug him backward by the belt loop, and say, "I need to talk to you."
He's on his way, as you might have guessed, to meet Leonard. As if, you know, we'd have expected anything else. He opens his mouth and I preempt him saying it, peer into the cafeteria and catch sight of that skinny ass, leaning against the serving hatch and looking shifty. He always looks a little shifty, though, so it's not like that means anything. I have a helluva whistle on me, so I stick the fingers of my other hand in my mouth right there and blow, and he turns round real quick with everyone else and spots me beckoning him over. Billy just kind of submits to this, like an animal that knows it's caught. I wonder how much of this he's anticipated already. It wouldn't surprise me if Billy'd known for days that I must be catching his flak from every damn side, and thought he'd just go on letting me deal with it all till I finally snapped and pulled him up on it.
Well, I've snapped, goddammit, and I'm pulling. Billy's got to put everyone out of their collective misery here, and I'm damn well gonna keep at him till he does. I haul the two of them off in search of a classroom, closet, corner, whatever; I find a door and lean against it and pull them both into English 112, feeling like the wrath of a mildly grumpy god and probably looking kinda constipated. This is always the way with me. Leonard would have looked like a storm at sea and Billy woulda had that intimidating bantam-of-death thing going on, but me? Well, I'm just me. It's disappointing, at times, especially since this pulling-each-other-into-empty rooms (and not for anything fun, either) seems to be getting to be a bit of a thing with us. I might as well learn how to do the damn thing right.
In this case, though, it's pretty obvious by now that they know just what I'm up to---or Billy does, at least. I can never tell what Leonard's thinking. He just goes all quiet and simmers through conversations on a trail of monosyllables, and once he's gotten his dark face on, you couldn't get the thing off him with a blowtorch. Billy's picking at his nails, though, the way he only ever does when he's nervous and kind of awaiting punishment, so I get the hell on with it and push the door shut behind us.
"Billy," I say, "you know you're gonna have to just decide on some goddamn chick to take to Homecoming, and take her, right? I know you're not exactly as peachy-keen as you usually are, but that's what, eleven, I've fended off for you, now? You're gonna need a date, or I'll need a better reason why you don't have one."
Leonard looks at him, one of those looks he throws like dark rope between them when he thinks I'm not looking. Billy catches it, clings to it; looks right back at me, square in the eyes. "What reason have you been giving, out of interest?"
Hell, he's cheeky, and goddammit, I'm not in the mood. "For Christ's sake, Billy, I'm not your fucking public spokesman!" I run my hand through my hair, agitated and shifty. I'm hungry, too, and I want this over with so I can just go and pick up my goddamn Tater Tots and stuff them down in peace. "So far, for your information, my reason is: ummmmmmmm. Which doesn't give you a whole lot of leeway."
"What would you suggest?" Leonard asks, calm as ever.
"Get a date," I shoot back flatly, answering his (thankfully) straightforward question with my most straightforward response. "Get a date, take the date to the dance, be done with it. I guess you're still enough of a dark horse that you don't have to, Len---I mean, hell, they certainly don't know enough about you to assume you're the dancing sort---but Bill, goddammit, you need to take a girl and she needs to be pretty, or I won't be responsible for whatever shit people start talking about you." I pause. "Both of you."
They exchange another look at that, stretching and slow. Then Bill says, like Leonard just told him to say it (although he never said a word), "Okay. Any suggestions?"
It's always a little weird, when they do that. I've seen them at it plenty of times, and still I get this little shiver like someone's dropped ice cubes down my back, the way they'll look and then one of 'em'll say something and somehow, it feels like they talked about it beforehand, somewhere in the ether where nobody else coulda caught it. I shake the shiver away, and sigh. "Great, some sense. No, Billy, I have no suggestions. Tell ya what, next time someone asks me if you're taking anyone, I'll tell her no, will I? Or should I wait for one of the ones who want to know who you 'like'?"
I make air quotes. Billy laughs. "Sure, send 'em along. I can't promise to pay too much attention, so it doesn't really matter who it is."
I pull a face. "Jeez, Bronner, look at you being sensitive to women's needs, there." I roll my eyes. "You're gonna have to at least pretend to be interested, okay? Hell, it shouldn't be that goddamn hard." I take a deep breath. "Look, I know you and Leonard are---you know---but me and Caitlyn are, you know, as well"---I flap my hands, shit, this is making me blush like a goddamn tomato and I can feel it creeping up my cheeks---"but I can still be nice to other girls, all right? It's not like you have to take her out and try and steal her virtue." I narrow my eyes and flash him a pointed glance. "Like you usually do."
Billy, goddamn him, is still smiling. Leonard hasn't said anything, just moved a little closer to Billy so their shoulders are touching, and he's looking back at me steadily. Hell, it worries me when he does that. I always feel weirdly like he knows everything about me, whether I want him to or not. The longer I know him, the more I feel like I could trust him with pretty much anything, but at the same time it's like it's damn lucky I feel that way, 'cause I don't have any choice in the matter, you know? He's a weird cat---deep, I guess I'd have to call him.
Eventually Billy says, "Point taken, Kit. Thanks." He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes a little, and hell, he's Billy, so I can't help but smile back at him. I grip him by the back of the head and shake him a little, pulling his head down and then yanking it back by the hair. Billy's always been big on the rough affection. It's the way he operates, and I guess it's kind of rubbed off on me.
"Any preferences?" I ask him, sarcastically. "Blonde? Brunette? Tall, short, curvy?"
"Not clingy," says Leonard, and Billy nods and laughs a little more.
"He"---he jabs his thumb in Leonard's direction---"doesn't want to go at all, so you can pass that on, if anyone asks. We were just saying, it woulda been so much easier if we could have all just gone with Lyn."
"He was saying," Leonard puts in smartly, but his fingers creep out and brush against Billy's wrist, like he's making sure it's known that he's not really pissed. "I had no part in these propositions of polyandry."
Well, hell, I have to laugh at that, and he throws one of his own smiles back at me as I open the door to indicate that this little meeting is over. He doesn't smile at many people, Leonard, not the way he smiles at Billy, and I gotta admit, it makes my chest do this pleased little wiggly thing when I get a look like that, like he actually properly likes me. It's hard to tell whether that cat really likes anybody, but nowadays I'm pretty sure he's warmed to me, most of the time, and after what happened that's a pretty awesome feeling. It coulda been goddamn awkward, otherwise.
Something tells me he doesn't plan on disentangling himself from Billy any time soon. And more and more, when we're hanging out together and the four of us seem to click so perfectly, like the other night, I really don't think I'd like it too much if he did.
Sunday morning, Billy wakes me up at goddamn eight-thirty a.m. Or, you know, my mom bangs on the door and yells at me to get my ass out of bed because Billy is on the phone and won't take no for an answer, but the short version is: Billy, goddamn him, woke me the hell up, again. I don't know how he does it. He has this amazing trick of getting to me right when I'm having the most amazing dream, you know? Or I'm just lying pooled in the last few glorious moments I get to snatch in my beautiful snuggled-in bed, when it's warm the way it only gets when you've slept in it all night already, and were just looking forward to another few dozing minutes more. Totally consistently---absolutely without fail---this is when Billy decides he's just got to call me, or rap on my door, or throw pebbles at my window, or something equally retarded and impossible to ignore.
Anyway, Sunday morning, he wakes me up at eight-thirty. It's not like this is a totally ludicrous hour for anyone to be moving, but it's the principle of the thing, you know? He wakes me up, and I stumble blearily down the fifteen steps, held upright by the combined forces of God and my mother's elbow, and I say "'lo?" into the receiver and he says, "Connie Alexander!"
"What?" I rub at my eyes, cup my hand a little more tightly around the telephone, and search for the part of my brain that needs to be plugged in before this is gonna make sense. "Billy, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Connie Alexander," he repeats---clipped, like it's obvious. "I'm taking her to Homecoming. What do you think? She suitable?"
I try to think, but it's kinda hard when you still feel all heavy and drugged, with that sticky, slow pressure in your head like someone stuffed a load of cotton balls in through your ears. "Enlighten me," I say wearily after a minute. "Who is she?"
"Blonde girl," Billy says promptly. "Sits behind me in Calculus. Says she asked you Friday morning if I was taking anyone, and you told her no. She kind of accosted me on my way out of the drugstore with Len last night."
Okay, so things are starting to make sense. It's slow going, whatever, but yeah, okay, I think I remember this girl. She had the most stupidly enormous tits I have ever seen on anyone with a waist that small. I'm shocked she can actually walk upright, to be honest. Thinking about it, I couldn't have picked better myself. She's exactly the kind of chick people'd expect Billy to go for. "What the hell were you doing at the drugstore?"
On the other end of the line, Billy huffs and makes this little embarrassed hum that makes me wish I hadn't asked. "You're missing the point, Christopher. Are you still asleep?"
"Yes," I say tartly, "because I was in bed." I soften, after a moment. "No, seriously, though. She sounds perfect. She didn't seem clingy, did she?"
Billy snorts. "Not emotionally, no, if that's what you mean. Physically might be different, but I guess I can probably still work out how to deal with that."
I laugh, shifting the telephone cord so I can lean against the stairwell. "Oh, yeah? I've been catching you up, you know, Billy. There's gonna need to be wandering hands if you want to keep up your reputation."
He laughs as well, at that, but it's kind of flat, you know? This low-level huffing into the phone that's weirdly humorless. "Yeah, I know. I'm sure I can cover it, Kit." He pauses. "Wish I didn't have to, though."
"You do, Billy," I tell him, soft and firm.
"I know," he says, tangled up in this resigned little sigh. "Yeah, I know."
It should be making me feel better, knowing this is all sorted out---and in a way, yeah, I guess it is, knowing he'll be there all slicked hair and tight pants and his goddamn toothpaste-commercial grin, twirling the chicks like he always has and doing that totally dumb thing with his hips, the one he seems to think looks cool. In a way, it's a load off my mind to realize that he gets it, he knows he's got to do this and he'll do it 'cause he's a damn fine actor, when he wants to be. Yeah, I'm glad he's not being difficult. I kind of worried a little that he might.
But then there's the part of me that keeps hearing that little sigh in my ear, just half a breath that tells me everything. He'll do what he has to do, but he will be acting. He'll dance with Connie, but he'll wish she was someone else. And yeah, that's still weird to me; yeah, I still find it kind of inexplicable that he'd rather lick Leonard's skinny throat than cup his hand round the warm, curvy parts of a pretty girl, at least for the time being. But that... I guess it's not the point. I know damn well that Leonard makes him happy. Pretending, and deception---Billy's used to wearing his heart on his sleeve, you know? Hell, he's practically smeared his insides all over the outside of his body his whole goddamn life, and keeping it in just isn't what he's used to. I want him to go to Homecoming with us, but I want him to do it and be happy about it; I don't want to watch him, and know he's just smiling the Billy Bronner Patented Smile-in-a-Box, the one he puts on when he totally disagrees but someone's told him to just shut the hell up and go along with things. Leonard makes him happy, and whatever the fuck else I want in life, I still want that for him. Billy and me, we go way back, you know? He's Billy. That's just the way things are.
I just can't see any other way in this. He's gonna be weird all night, and he's gonna hate it. Sure, I'd love to tell myself he'll have a great time once he gets there and gets going, but Billy, while a premium bullshitter, hates any truly devious shit with the fire of a thousand suns, and man, I bet he'll be cranky for days afterwards. As for Leonard, hell, I can't even begin to guess how he'll be about it. Yeah, okay, so he's saying the whole thing is fine. But I wouldn't want to be sitting at home, knowing my Lyn had gone off to a dance with someone else, I can tell you. He may have that whole quiet meditation thing going on, or whatever, but I know firsthand he's definitely no goddamn saint.
If there was anything else to be done, you can bet your last whatever-you-like I'd be on it like dip on a chip. But like I said, there isn't, you know? There just isn't.
When he hangs up, the idea of getting back into bed has totally lost its appeal. I hit the shower instead, and try not to think about it. Connie Alexander, and fancy dresses, and the fact that I still can't goddamn dance and that I hate that look Billy gets when he's feeling put-upon---whatever, you know? They can all just fucking wait till I absolutely have to think about them. For now, I'm taking a shower, and that is all.
That. Is. All.
Man, I really hate waiting for shit to happen, you know? I mean, sometimes, when there are actually long spells of sunshine and flowers and what the hell ever else, I manage to haul my ass out of the habit; get to this place, you know, where it's been so long since anything was hanging over my head like one of those cartoon anvils that I've lost track of that feeling altogether. And that's good, sure; I mean, I'm not about to complain about this last sunny stretch, no sir, not at all. But the thing is, even the smoothest roads always have those gravelly bits that play hell with your fucking undercarriage---you know how it is, where you skid all of a sudden into this slippery run of tarmac, all these pebbles and shit flying up at your baby and there's fuck all you can do except shoot your mouth off cursing, and pray. And the longer the road's been beautiful smooth, the more of a fucking shock you get when everything gets all snarled up again, because everything's worse when you've turned off your inner cynic completely.
I wouldn't say I've exactly done that, lately---I mean, there's always been that buzz at the back of our brains, 'bout keeping this quiet, keeping it safe---but yeah, I guess it's easy to forget what rain feels like when you've been in the sun all summer. And now it's November, and it's too goddamn cold for the cove, and all I can do is fucking wait for this goddamn dance to be over with, and hell, it's driving me crazy.
I'm not the most patient guy, you know? And, I mean, I guess this isn't exactly something I should spread like I'm actually proud of it, but I'm kind of used to things going my way and I don't do shit I don't want to, man, not if I can help it. Weirdest thing is? This time last year, I'd have leapt on Connie Alexander like a dog on a bleeding steak, no doubt about it. Chick's got tits on her like I don't even know what, and her legs go all the way up to her goddamn face. But right now, I just don't want to play, okay? I can't even explain it. It's not like I've gone all-out twisted, or whatever, 'cause I still like a curvy waist just as much as the rest of the football team, and I still think Connie's drop-dead flaming hot. But I don't want to touch her; I don't want to talk to her; and I definitely don't want to have to spend a whole night pretending I want to be with her, man, you get me? I want to go to the goddamn dance with Len, if I have to go at all, and if you think I'm nuts 'cause I'd rather have his fucking sinful mouth all over me than hers, well, I'm sorry, but I guess I am, and I don't fucking care. Hell, he's got legs right up to his face, as well, if it comes to that.
Yeah, yeah, I know: I'm talking crap. But it's murder, waiting around like this; watching the days go by like fucking snails, crawling on past just to spite me, and then jacking into gear and zooming along like they've all strapped on a load of jetpacks or something, whenever I decide maybe I'd rather time just never actually got all the way to Thanksgiving. When I want to get the whole thing over with, I feel like I'm moving at half speed. And the moment I change my mind? Yeah. It's down to spite, seriously, I'm fucking convinced. Somebody's trying to mess with my head, and I'm not in the goddamn mood. She keeps trying to talk to me when she sees me around; she even came and sat with us for lunch the other day in the cafeteria. Lyn, bless her heart, put on one of those ladylike glowers throughout. Len rubbed his foot against my ankle under the table, and said these occasional ominous-sounding things that kept making her laugh and then shoot him weird looks immediately after, like she didn't know what to make of him. He's always saying I have all the subtlety of a brick, but hell, sometimes I think he's even worse. He might as well have stuck a sign around my neck saying, PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OFF. Hell, I'm so far past caring, I probably would have let him.
Kit, goddamn him, is actually looking forward to the fucking thing, I think, even if he says he isn't. Kit can say one thing and mean the exact opposite, and hell, I don't know why he bothers, 'cept to try and make me feel better, 'cause I can see through him like a plate-glass door, and he has to know that by now, you know? You'd think. But yeah, anyway, it's all right for him, with his steady girl and his nice suit and his Mr. Fucking Normal thing going on. Even before all this, I never got that down. I was always kind of a free radical, you know, when stuff like this rolled round---seventy percent Captain America, all decent grades and straight-teeth smile and promising football career, but always this thirty percent of not-quite-right: too short, you know; too Jewish; too much that guy who won't just lay off and ask a girl to go steady, already; jeez. Chicks like to go to these things and come away at the end of the night with someone's class ring on their finger, you know? And that was pretty much never gonna happen, with me. That's something, at least, that Connie can't possibly be expecting that---and hell, if she does, she'll be pretty much derided by everyone for being an idiot. Billy Bronner does not do steadies, and it's a damn good thing I got that established.
And then---well, yeah, then there's Leonard. Who, damn him to hell, basically put his foot right down on the concept of even showing up to give us some goddamn moral support at this fucking dance, and is apparently just gonna sit the thing out safe at home, doing his thing in his room while I suffer through fucking black tie and chick music and talking about people's cats, and all that crap. I keep dragging the subject out again, and he keeps just as firmly shoving it right back where it came from, like when your mom wants you to tidy your room or something and you sort of go to pull out the furniture and then you see the pile of empty papers, or whatever, sort of teetering on its back teeth behind your desk. And that's when you shove the desk back up against the wall, right, and just go on with the rest of the damn floor and hope nobody comes in to check you're doing a thorough job of it. And here I am, pulling out the fucking desk like nobody's business, and there he is shoving it back against the wall 'cause he doesn't want to deal with the pile of crap. And hell, apparently that's his prerogative; and okay, I get why he doesn't like it when I bring this up right after he's shot down my throat and he hasn't actually got his breath back yet. I just think the whole thing would be better if he'd at least show, you know? But he says it'd look weird if he came without a date, and he doesn't want a date, so that's that. He says he can get away with this crap because nobody knows who he is, much, and that kind of logic leaves me nowhere to go except down onto my knees, pouting. And, you know, that's worked for me pretty damn well on everything else I've wanted from him, but he must have grown an extra backbone or something 'cause I'm getting refusal after refusal, and the worst part of that is that goddamn Kit is agreeing with him, so that just leaves me cornered, doesn't it? And hell, I know there's no way out of this, but it doesn't stop me complaining. I kind of feel like I'm entitled to, just at the minute.
So anyway, here's time: crawling, then bolting like a kicked horse till it decides to pull up short again. Lather, rinse, repeat. By the time the week of the dance rolls around, Lyn has her dress and Kit has his tux and I'm just feeling like someone force-fed me a boatload of butterflies. Butterflies of death, flapping their mean little wings in my abdominal cavity, right in that hollow bit under your ribs where all your nasty feelings go to curl up and fester. You know? Man, of course you do; everybody knows how that shit feels. Thing is, you normally only have to put up with it till your Spanish test is done or your mom's got the yelling part over with. But me, I've been feeling this for over a week, like perpetual nausea, and I don't know if I want to keep it in or just finally throw up and get done with the inevitable. He won't be there to stroke my hair when I get to that, so what's the damn difference, you know?
When the day rolls round, I don't even have Kit for support. I woulda driven him and Lyn like always, but Kit got it into his head to go ask his dad if he could borrow the family car for the occasion; and ol' Pop O'Reilly, because he's too damn nice for his own good even if he does try and pretend he's the grumpiest cat in town, caved in and said he could. Apparently, Kit doesn't think it's fair on Lyn to always have to be driven by someone other'n her guy. Personally, I think it's a helluva lot more unfair to ask her to get into a car Kit's driving, but that's just me. He warned me off telling her 'bout the time he skidded nose-first into that Buick minding its own business on the sidewalk, and 'cause I'm a man of integrity, I'm keeping my mouth shut. But I'm just sayin', I don't think Lyn's gonna find him any better of a driver than me, you know?
Not that I'm really all that concerned about Caitlyn, here. Yeah, I know; you're looking at me like there's got to be some other reason this whole concept pisses me off, and yeah, buddy, you're right. Thing is, with Kit and Lyn in the car, it'd be a whole lot less awkward picking up Connie in her fancy dress and driving her up to the dance. But Kit and Lyn aren't here to help me; Kit and Lyn, damn 'em, are driving, all smiles, in Kit's father's Leviathan, which leaves me stuck flirting with Connie Alexander, promising her father I'll take good care of her and tryin' to look starstruck by the sight of her in her new dress. And hell, you know, it's a helluva gorgeous dress, clinging and flaring in all the right places and shimmering over her body like moonlight on water; but when I promise her father I'll bring her back safe, it's the first time I've ever been able to say that and mean it. I say it, and I know I won't fuck with that frock; won't be sticking my fingers in between the little buttons or groping her tits through the silk. Your baby's virtue, Mr. Alexander, is quite safe with me.
Man, I hope Connie doesn't expect anything different.
I don't think I've ever felt as all-out dumb as I do on the drive from her house to the school. She keeps looking at me sidelong, and man, I can feel the smile on her face, I can feel those soft brown eyes watching me like she's waiting for me to look back at her, and all I can hear is Kit's voice in the back of my mind, that pissed-off tone he gets when he thinks I'm being deliberately obtuse or something: "Billy, for Chrissake don't be weird, okay? If you're not gonna be convincing, there's no point in doing the damn thing."
Course, he didn't mean that, 'cause when I suggested just calling it quits, he got that frown between his eyebrows---the one that makes a little crease there that lasts for hours afterwards---and I shut up real quick. Which is why I'm here, trying to look like the reason I'm not all over her is that I'm keeping my eyes on the road and I don't like driving in the dark, or something, which is partly true, 'specially when I've got someone else in the car. I tell her so---"Hey, sorry if I don't talk much, sweetheart; I don't want to make a mess of anything 'cause of driving in the dark."---and she kind of smiles at me and says, "Sure, Billy, that's fine," in this voice that's all honey pouring out of her throat and I'm cursing her already, 'cause Connie doesn't talk that way except when she's being Charming. Still, I nod kind of tight, and remember to call her sweetheart and babe whenever she speaks to me, pointless little remarks she throws my way while we drive.
I've never been so happy to see Kit in my life as when he flashes into view right there in the beam of my headlights when we pull into the parking lot, and that's saying something, 'cause seeing Kit pretty much usually makes me happier than I was before, unless we've had some kind of minor bust-up. But there he is, with Lyn on his arm, and they're both waving at me and she looks goddamn beautiful and they're my ticket to a nonsuspicious conversation with Connie, man, you know? So I leap outta the car, and I wave back at Kit with one hand while I skip round the hood with the other to open Connie's door. Hell, I can be a gentleman when I want to; that's never been in question. I take her by her silver-gloved hand, and I do my best little courtly bow and smile, and she giggles and lets me help her out, kind of hanging on my arm a little too much like she's lacking any proper strength of her own. Caitlyn's right there the moment Connie's far enough away from the car for me to shut the door behind her; and that's so unlike Lyn---who, you know, is pretty damn shy, most of the time---that I think right off that they must have talked about this, maybe making it easier on me, and that thought makes the clutched-up feeling in my stomach unravel just a little, 'cause it's them, you know, looking out for me. Hell, I know they mean well; they always do, and somehow it always catches me by the chest all over again, every damn time, cause I don't fucking deserve that kind of support, 'specially not when I call Kit out about it every damn time, like he's trying to kill me 'stead of save me from myself. So I pull him toward me by the shoulder, throw my arm around his neck, and squeeze, just to make sure he knows I appreciate this, and he smiles back at me, all white teeth and blue eyes in the lot full of headlight-glare, this smile that says everything.
I say it anyway: "Hey, thanks." He just ruffles my hair, like, don't mention it, and takes Caitlyn's arm again.
"Shall we go in?" he asks, all faux-beautiful courtly manners, only they don't seem all that fake on him, somehow; they seem real. Like, I don't know, that's the real Kit underneath the seventeen-year-old football-playin' all-American cat, this smooth-talking gentleman who'd know the right way to treat a princess. Dumb thing to think, I guess, but true all the same. He catches my eyes, all bright-blue reassurance, and I say with a flourish, "I think so. Milady?" and it is fake on me, forced and ridiculous, but the way she smiles at me says she doesn't care. I feel the light brush of Lyn's fingers against the small of my back through the suit jacket as we go in, well done, that's it, keep it up.
Hell, I couldn't do this without them. I couldn't do any of this without them.
When it comes to dancing, you know, I'm actually pretty good, or so I've been told---not just at that nifty hip-shimmying shit, but at the actual old-style proper dancing, the kind my mom taught me back when I was a kid and we first got the record player in the living room. So once we're past the small talk and into the dancing itself, I'm actually pretty okay. Connie's not an excellent dancer, like some of the chicks I've taken out in the past, but she's okay; she's got a sense of rhythm in her, at any rate, which is more'n I can say for some people. So, you know, when I turn her, she turns the right way, and when I lead her, she follows pretty well, like she's done it plenty of times before; and the look on her face says she's enjoying the dancing without too much of that being down to me personally, which is reassuring, at least. After a couple songs, she even loses that slightly artificial feeling she had to begin with---like she had all the steps down pat, but she kinda had to count them out in her head, you know? I smile at her genuinely when she spins out on my arm like a star shooting out of orbit, all sudden flair and her skirt swirling round her like a nebula and she's at the middle of it.
"You like this song, or what?" I ask her, spinning her back into position, and she laughs and says, "Yeah. You can really dance, Billy."
I nod my head thanks, and she doesn't say anything more, just puts a little more of herself into what she's doing, till a couple songs down the line, she's dancing like a pro. I'm looking around me most of the time, the way I've gotten used to; looking at the way they've got the place all decked out, looking at who's come with who and who's in the shadows, clinging to the edges of the party like dust on silver. I do this, you know; it's habit, and I'm doing okay, though I'm still relieved to the core of me that she doesn't seem to want to talk much, and still wishing from my ankles on upwards that Leonard would at least have shown up for moral support. I guess that's why I'm paying so much attention to the hangers-on, really; I know he said he wasn't gonna show, and sure, I believe him, but it doesn't stop me wishing. And I guess that's why I notice Jimmy Curragh in the corner, legs crossed, eyes fixed on Connie, even though he's winched himself into the kind of dark space you only sink into when you never want to be found.
When I look back, though, it seems I'm not the only one who's found him.
She's staring at him, watching him; eyes all the time right there on his face while she turns her body and shines in that beautiful dress, like she's cut out of glass. Not even glass, you know; she's like mercury in it, liquid. And suddenly I understand what turned her from a competent dancer into an artist, all impetus and life; and I know it's exactly the way I got at the diner that time with Leonard's hips in my hands, the way dancing with him made the whole thing into something else, something that gets you in the stomach and rips you up burning from the inside. She's watching Jimmy, and Jimmy's watching her like she's a goddess he'd never dare touch in a million years, and hell, you know, I'm sure that's it. Thinking about it now, I realize it's him she sits next to, in Calculus and French and Chem Lab; and yeah, it's him she always tries to partner up with, if she can. Hell, more'n once she's kind of hung back deliberately---I noticed particularly, 'cause the chicks usually bind together like they're magnetized that way, rather'n be forcibly paired up with some cat they barely know. And God, the more I look at them, the longer it goes on without her noticing I've got her goddamn number, the more I think it's just like Jimmy not to realize she likes him, and even more like him to think rejection was so inevitable, it wouldn't even be worth the ten seconds it'd take to ask her.
She's here with me, but she wants to be with somebody else. I never thought I'd feel any affinity with Connie till this moment, but suddenly I want to sweep her off her feet.
I don't, of course, 'cause I'm cannier than that, whatever anyone might tell you. No, man; I dance out the next song, and the one after that; but I know what I'm waiting for, and the whole time we're dancing I'm just biding my time for the slow song, the one they always play to mark the transition between the madness of the first part of a high school dance party and the second half, where everyone's gotten all romantic on cheap punch and half-darkness. When it comes 'round, I step back from her a little, and let go of her. She looks up at me sharply, like she's surprised, but I move quick, before she can say anything. "You don't want to dance this with me, Connie, do you?"
Her eyes narrow, this tight little flicker shivering over her forehead and away again, like she's nervous, maybe even scared. "What do you mean?"
I raise an eyebrow. "C'mon, Connie. I know you like Jimmy. He likes you too." So far, so truthful, 'cause an idiot coulda worked this out by now, and I'm not one. "He told me so." Okay, so that part's a white lie, but I think she needs it.
She raises her eyebrows back, face going all loose like she suddenly doesn't know what the hell to think. "He told you?"
"Sure," I say, thinking I may as well push for gold, since she hasn't even tried denial. "But he's too nervous to ask you to dance. He thought you'd say no if he asked you to go to Homecoming with him." I nod my head toward him; he's still over there by the wall, looking straight at us, his mouth all kind of twisted up at one side like he's confused as fuck about why we've stopped in the middle of the dance floor, just when everyone else has gotten way into each other.
She follows my eyes for a minute, watching Jimmy. Then she turns back to me; catches me square with a look. "He wants me to ask him?" A pause. "You don't mind?"
I shrug, and give her my most dazzling smile. "I don't mind at all, Connie." Right now, I'm kind of elated by my own cleverness, and I bring her little hand up to my face and touch it lightly with my mouth, just that little touch of gallantry of my own. "You're an excellent dancer, but if you want to be with him, and he wants to be with you...." I shrug. "It's romantic, I guess?"
She laughs at that, this shatter-glass starburst in her throat, and then she says, "You're a gentleman, Billy," like she'd kind of expected something different. I kind of want to protest, jokingly, if nothing else; but then she leans up on tiptoe and kisses me on the cheek, and before I can say anything, she's slipped off out of the central circle of light, moving out into the darkness in her quicksilver dress like some kind of beacon on one of those empty roads where they forgot to put streetlights. Leonard and I drive out there sometimes, on weekends, and park the car in the pitch-black darkness and make love like we're shadows melting together. I watch her greeting him; watch him stand up with her little hand clutched in his, this sort of dazzled disbelief spreading over his face. Hell, it's not like me and Jimmy are the best of friends, or, you know, friends at all. But right now, I wish him all the goddamn happiness in the world, if this is what it gets me; because I've done my duty and I've played my little turn, and now I can go home and find him, Leonard, and they'll all just think I've slipped off with someone else's date to make out, or something like that. They're useful, sometimes, these fallacious reputations. Or so I've found.
They've left the doors open in the gym, I guess to stop us all overheating and collapsing from overexposure to the hormonal inferno every school dance will inevitably become, especially once the slow songs have started. When I slip out into the parking lot, I can still hear the music bleeding out into the cool November air; can still see clear enough because of all the light pollution, so the whole area still kind of looks dusky even though it's nearly ten. I'm gonna go find him, I tell myself. I'm gonna go find him, and tell him 'bout how I spent the whole evening wishing either he was here or I was there. I'm gonna wrap myself up in him and tell him this is it, you know? He's it, and fuck it, I am never doing this again, not for anything, not unless he comes with me. We'll be away, next school dance, or whatever; we'll be ill; we'll find some way to cover it up that's not just me going along with the first girl I can stand to take, just to keep everyone else happy. I love him, man, you know? And dammit, it's not the kind of love that's gonna bleed out before summer rolls round again; we've never been that way. It's the kind that makes me feel like my insides have been scraped out with a spoon when I can't be with him. It's the kind that makes my pulse flare up like a rocket into my throat when he smiles at me across a room. It's the kind that makes me goddamn fucking cry when he holds me in the darkness, out there in the backseat of my car in the middle of Nowhere, California. It's the kind where I have to think hard about what I would do if they sent me to prison because of this. It's the kind where, in the end, it would still have been worth it.
I haven't told him. But I can't believe he actually doesn't know.
When I turn toward my car and see him standing there, for a moment I think I've just wanted him so hard I'm seeing things. Then he takes a step closer, and I see he's actually wearing a tux, all long, dark elegance in the half-light and I have to think: seriously, if I was making him up, would I really dress him like that? Normally, I think, when you see visions of people you know, you tend to see them pretty much the way they exist to you in your head; the way you see them every day, when things are drifting along all status quo. So if I was imagining Leonard, right, it stands to reason he'd be in a sweater and soft pants, hair all thick and mussed like I've had my hands through it, the way I usually have. He wouldn't be like this, all suited up and perfectly groomed and so goddamn handsome it makes my breath actually stop for a second before I can get it out again. I'm so stunned, I just stare at him, limbs all loose like I'll never be able to move them again.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he says, smiling. I blink a few times, hard, and press my hand to my face.
"Well," I rap out, "do you blame me? What the hell are you doing here?"
He laughs, looking at me darkly under his eyelashes, brows quirked in this way that's so Leonard, it hurts. "Thought you'd be pleased to see me." He steps closer again, close enough to take hold of me loosely by the elbows so our bodies almost touch; so I can feel him like a warm breeze all down my front. "You went on about it so much, it made me feel guilty. Eventually I thought I might as well cave, and come see how you were doing."
I laugh. The parking lot is empty, completely; just us and the pulse of people in the gym behind us. I let my hands settle on his waist, slim and strong under the tuxedo jacket. "I was just leaving," I tell him, voice thick with smiling. "Turns out Connie has a thing for Jimmy, and vice-versa. I may have done a bit of yenta-ing."
"You meddled," Leonard says. He doesn't sound too unhappy about it. I mean, actually, he sounds pretty amused, and the way he pulls me against him says he's really not too put out. He runs the flats of his hands down my back, presses a kiss to my cheek. I let my own arms go round him, and hold him, and hold him, and hold him. "That was lucky," he goes on, into my hair.
"Thank you," I say, pointlessly, against his neck. He snorts.
"For what?"
"For coming." I nuzzle my face a little in the hollow beneath his ear. "You look gorgeous. Where'd this come from, anyway?"
"It's mine," he says, half-surprised, and yeah, okay; I remember all of a sudden that he used to actually go to a real live prep school, the kind where hiring a tux woulda been totally out of the question.
"Suits you," I say, and he rubs his face in my hair and laughs.
"I missed you," he says, slowly. It kind of comes out of nowhere, rumbles out of the back of his throat all hesitant and gravelly like he's not sure he can say it, and I feel my chest clench. "I wish you wouldn't have to do this again."
"I'm not," I tell him, quick and sharp and certain. Man, I'd been hoping he wouldn't kick up a fuss when I raged at him about that, so I'm goddamn delighted to hear him say it of his own accord. "Fuck it, Len, I'm never doing this again. We can be sick next time, or something. We can be away."
"We can be together," he says, mouth brushing the corner of mine as he speaks.
He says that, and it's like whatever dam was holding everything back all these months can't take it; that tone to his voice, the way his mouth touches mine as gentle as breathing. My head feels strange, all of a sudden, like I'm dizzy, or sick; I clutch at him and cling to him and the next thing I know there are tears in my eyes, goddammit, and I don't even know why. I have that metallic taste in the back of my throat, burning ferric, and my jaw aches all the way back, like it's clenched too tight. When I pull him closer, I only mean to kiss him back, but somehow, instead, I say, "I love you," and tighten my fingers in his hair.
"Fuck it, Billy," he rasps, fucking rasps against my face, and then he's kissing me, never mind the fact that we're standing in the middle of the goddamn school parking lot; never mind the fact that we can still hear the music clear enough that we're sort of shifting with it unconsciously; never mind the fact that this is still fucked up and illegal and ridiculous and I'm so in love with him I could scream it forever and it'd still be there in my chest, this tight bright feeling saying tell the whole damn world again and again. Fucking hell, but I love this: his lips on mine all soft and familiar and the way he licks into my mouth with the tip of his tongue; the way he pulls me against his body and the fact that he's taller enough that I have to reach up; the smell of his throat and the softness of his hair and the fact that he makes me feel like nothing could ever hurt me again. Man, don't tell me it's stupid. I know, I know how goddamn fucking stupid it is; I know we're taking our lives in our hands, doing this. But you try caring, when he's kissing your ear and your throat and your temple and your eyebrow, for some reason, your eyebrow; and he's saying love you, love you, hell, I love you over and over so it touches your skin like rain. You try remembering how stupid it actually is, when the madness has passed a little and you're standing, just standing there in his arms, with the music wrapping round you, and he's moving you gently to and fro like you really did go to the goddamn dance together; like you really could be together, you and him, like Kit and Lyn or Jimmy and Connie or whoever.
You try being logical and rational and smart, when you love someone like I love him.
He holds me there for a long, long time. When he pulls away for a minute, I don't even understand why; and then I hear Kit's voice behind me, agitated, like it's the third or fourth time he's said it: "Billy, you okay?"
"Yeah," I manage, catching my breath, pushing my hair out of my face and throwing him a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine." I laugh. "Len was just coming to join us. I'm fine."
He's still holding my hand, clutching it in the darkness. I squeeze back, smiling at Kit, at Caitlyn behind him. Leonard's still holding my hand, and the world could go blow itself up right now and I'd be too complete to care.
"We thought you might have gotten sick," Lyn says gently. I notice the way her fingers curl on the inside of Kit's elbow; the way his hand closes over hers, possessive, warm. I shake my head.
"Connie wanted to dance with Jimmy," I explain. "You can ask her about it. I matchmade---matchmaked?---whatever." I cock my head and grin. "I think you'll find she's pleased."
"You look pleased," Kit says, with one of those smiles that draws up one whole wry side of his face. "You coming back to the gym with us, or what?"
"You go," Leonard says, in his dark, firm voice. "Have fun. Billy and I are going for a drive."
"We are?" I say.
"Unless you don't want to," he corrects.
"Oh, Billy wants to," Caitlyn says, reaching out to touch my arm. "You guys couldn't dance in there, after all."
Kit rolls his eyes, but I know Kit, and I know that eye roll. He only actually does it when he's amused. When he's pissed off, his whole face kind of scrunches up like an apple left to go dry, and it's way less attractive. "Get off with you, then," he says, flapping his hands. "Have fun. No need to tell me about it tomorrow."
Leonard catches my eye, and I hold his gaze, laughing. God, I love them; right now, I love goddamn everybody. I love Kit, and his disgruntled acceptance; I love that he loves me and he always fucking will, even if he'd never admit it. I love Caitlyn, stunning tonight in that dress, and I love them together, the way they look at each other, how perfect they fit when they dance. I love them for pretending not to care till maybe it was actually true, or it will be; for looking out for us and keeping watch for us, and not saying what they had every right to say.
And then there's Leonard, and---well. I already said what I thought about him, a few times, I think? I could say it again:
I love him.
I love him.
I love him.
I could say it some more, but I think I might end up strangled. And I don't think Leonard would be too happy about that.
They go back to the gym, anyway; and we drive way out past the city limits with the radio up in my car, his arm around my shoulder and my hand on his knee and my heart flaring out like a goddamn beacon, like it's gotta be lighting up the road for miles ahead. We drive and we drive till we're completely fucking lost; and then he works me out of my tux and I work him out of his, and he fucks me in the backseat till I can't breathe anymore; and then he fucks me some more and I cry and I don't even care.
Sometimes, you want something too much for reason to matter. I never believed in that kind of mindless love, the sort where no consideration is big enough to hold you back; where nothing anyone says can stop you feeling like your heart'll go BANG like the end of the world if you can't be as essential to someone as blood. I never believed it; I thought it was dumb, and irrational, and illogical, and stupid.
I guess I'm all these things, but I don't care. We run together like water, and I don't care.
January 24th, 2005
Probably, this isn't a good idea. I'm sure it would be in everybody's best interests if I just left this thing exactly the way I found it, battered little notebook scribbled over in handwriting so small and spidery, there were parts I needed a magnifying glass to be sure of. God, I used to write small, didn't I! No wonder everybody was always telling me to be careful when I wrote exams, make sure it was legible. That used to piss me off so much. I remember fuming at my mother some afternoon about how my writing was perfectly, meticulously neat and they didn't have a clue what they were going on about. Except, now I'm the one with the aged eyes, and sure, it's neat, but damn me if it isn't tiny as all get-out. Billy used to flail all over the page in these massive letters, rather squashed at the edges, and God, it irritated me that nobody ever complained about that. Looking at this, I suppose they were just counting their lucky stars that they could see it without a telescope.
That lock was still in place, you know. It took me a minute to work out what the book actually was, and then of course I got a little excited about it, only to be dashed down again by the realization that although the diary has survived, the key, apparently, has not. To its credit, it refused to be jimmied off with a knife, which does actually reassure me a little. I was pretty naïve, at seventeen, so I'm kind of proud of that kid (is he me? I can't believe he and I are really the same person) for not just picking up the kind of padlock anyone curious enough could have snapped in half a second. Still, it wasn't strong enough to withstand my two years' Army service with all those wonderful criminals, and it gave after a few minutes' prodding with a paper clip, unbent. Not, of course, that just any old guy could have done that. Well done, Lenny: you kept your secret, secret.
I just got done reading this whole thing back through. Took me a couple hours---longer than it should have done, what with the scrawl---but I couldn't stop. Dear God, I am amazed at that kid. Those were the days, I suppose. It was a different life. Hey, Lenny. It was nice to hear from you again after all this time. It really was. You remember our story so differently than I do. The balance of fear and joy must have gotten scrambled in my head somehow, somewhere along the line.
I guess you want to know what's gone on these past fifty years, huh? Oh, I know you. I know you do. In fact, you've probably guessed already what I'm going to say, right? You guessed it right from the very first time you committed something criminal to paper, I know you did. Let me see, now. If I'm not mistaken, your guess probably goes a little like this.
We bluffed our way through senior year, somehow. There were a lot of near misses, suspicious teachers, confused girls, especially when we didn't show up for senior prom in the summer; but always we managed to stay just one step ahead of all of them, just smart enough that no one could quite pin us down to anything. Eventually, in this way, high school ended. We went to different colleges, saw each other a lot for the first year, occasionally after that; fucked every time we met... for five years. Then he got married. Came home one Christmas and there she was, some chick on his arm. I disliked her on sight, and he seemed different. He started pretending we never used to do that. Tried to go on being best friends with me anyway, and we stayed that way, kind of, right past the part where I got married, too, and we both cranked out the requisite number of kids, somehow or other.
Then, you'd guess, we drifted. Still friendly into our thirties, sort of, but then kind of losing touch. Met very occasionally after that, at various events and functions, when both of us happened to be back in town---or both of us were somewhere else, by whatever strange coincidence. Mostly, though, no contact. We forgot about us, about that summer, about that first love.
And now we barely know each other anymore.
I could tell you that story. That's the kind of story you anticipated, isn't it? I'm telling you, I know you. However happy you are, you always think it's got to end soon, just to spite you. I know you.
I don't want to tell you that. I have better things to say, Lenny. Let's see if I can think up a happier story for you, okay? Okay.
Here's one. It goes like this:
We moved back up to Stockbridge on July 9th, 2004. Now, everybody knows I'm an East Coaster at heart, but I think it still surprised a lot of people when we announced the proposed relocation, mainly because we'd lived forty-five years together in California by then, and forty of those years mostly in LA. Given the field we've both ended up in---I tend to refer to it, delicately and in an attempt to cover all bases, as The Entertainment Business---this seemed a logical option, and indeed it was.
Thing is, though, there was also a very logical reason for us to make the great cross-country trek to Massachusetts, despite Billy's sun-kissed Californian soul, despite all the excellent professional reasons why LA has been the hub of our existence all this time. You'll never guess what it was, Lenny. It was about as personal a reason as you could think of, let me tell you that, and even with my faulty memory, I know it's nothing you ever expected could happen in this country, this world. But it's a different world, now, and, kaynahorah, it looks like there's a different America on the rise, as well.
Still no guesses?
Never mind; I didn't really expect you to be able to puzzle it out for yourself. I'll tell you, shall I?
On May 18th, Bill came home late from some interview, conference, whatever. I'd been home alone all day, trying to write (yes, Lenny, I write) and failing, mainly because I kept getting distracted by minor concerns, until such time as I gave up and went out into the garden with some iced tea and a book written by someone altogether more competent than me. Billy was in kind of a bad mood, not for any real reason, but just the natural result of tiredness and stupid questions from stupid journalists, and battling with LA evening traffic. He called for me a couple times when he came in, and I yelled back at him, "Out here, Billy!" till I heard him stumbling in the right direction and out of the French doors onto the patio.
There was a perfectly good chair right by me, the chair he usually sits in, but he was in kind of an objectionable mood tonight, and apparently the chair held no interest for him. He came over and wrapped his arms around my neck instead, putting a hell of a lot of strain on my chair, but I didn't have the heart to complain much. I don't know, I guess I like him when he's being contrary. You know how it is, Lenny, don't you?
Anyway, he leaned his head against mine, and huffed a little. I smiled up at him, indulgent, a little mocking. "Bad day?"
"I hate everyone," he announced, "except you." He kissed the side of my face. "Why'd you have to be in this damn chair, when it's not strong enough for me to sit in your lap and complain?"
"My lap isn't strong enough for you to sit in my lap, these days, you big lump," I told him, turning my head enough that I could kiss his mouth. Billy's a little buttery, of late. It's cute. He's still ridiculously fit for a man his age---got all into horse riding---so it's really not much of a reflection on anything except his love of eating out, which I can't really object to, since I share it. It just shows less on me. Now, anyway. For a while there, I thought I was having a metabolic crash, but then I passed right on into the skinny-old-man phase I now seem to be entering, and it went away again.
Anyway, he huffed a little bit more and leaned more heavily against me. "I love you too, Leonard," he said, poutily.
I ran my hand through his hair. "How much?" I asked, lightly.
He laughed. "Oh, we're playing that game, are we? What, did you get lonely without me?"
"I'm always lonely without you," I said, willing to be teased, but unwilling to be distracted away from the question. "C'mon, Billy, how much?"
For a minute there, he looked at me as if he thought something was up. Goodness knows what. Perhaps that I was about to make some request of him, or confess some enormous indiscretion. Then the look passed. The shadow of it receding, visibly, made my heart clench a little, just seeing how much he trusts me; how sure he was that I would never have anything hurtful to confess or demand. Eventually, he said, "I couldn't quantify it, Leonard." His voice had gone all soft and serious, curious, but patient. I love him when he's patient, when his eyes go all liquid, and I can see the gold there in the darkness like candles burning down in a dark room.
I felt my own face changing in response, the same serious look coming into it as I looked back at him. He's beautiful, Lenny, isn't he? He was sixty-six, that day in May, with crinkle marks at the corners of his eyes and the gold all gone from his skin, but he's loved me nearly fifty years, all right there in his eyes, and he was beautiful. I said, "Enough to marry me?"
The look on his face, right there when I said that---God. I do wish I'd had my camera, but it's burned forever into my mind regardless, the confusion, and then the realization growing. "Enough to...?" And then the poor old chair was groaning under our combined weight, and he was mostly in my lap, kissing all over my face, my mouth, and I was laughing, protesting---"Billy, you schmuck, we're both gonna end up on the ground!"---and he crowed like Peter Pan and said "Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?" until we were both sick of him saying it and we fell apart giggling.
See, Lenny, the thing is---if I'd asked him that a week earlier, he'd probably just have looked at me like I was mad, or maybe, because he's Bill, done some kind of Scarlett O'Hara toss of his head and said "Of course," but it wouldn't have meant a thing. But this was May 18th, 2004. I've said that before, but I'm saying it again, because it's important.
On May 17th, 2004, the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts ruled that it was unconstitutional under the Massachusetts constitution to allow only heterosexual couples to marry.
Yes, Len. That means exactly what you think it means.
First thing he did, after the chair had actually given up the ghost and he'd picked me up and apologized and then thrown himself at me again and we'd made out in a completely inappropriate fashion I'm sure you don't want to hear about, was call Kit and Caitlyn. Lyn picked up, and her sedate "Hello?" was immediately drowned in laughing and hooting from Billy to the tune of "Guess who's getting married, Lyn? Guess, guess, guess!" until such time as I took the phone off him and reassured Caitlyn that no, he actually hadn't gone mad---at least, no madder than usual, at any rate. Caitlyn put the phone on speaker because Kit was getting pretty agitated in the background, thinking one of us must have had a seizure or something from all the wailing and shrieking, and then Billy yelled into the mouthpiece (because either he doesn't get the point of speaker phone, or he just wanted to yell, which is maybe more likely) "KIT, KIT, KIT, Leonard asked me to marry him; you gonna be my maid of honor?"
A little more madness ensued, with lots of Kit saying "What? WHAT?" and then "About time!" until finally it was agreed that yes, we were going to get married in Stockbridge, at the earliest opportunity; and that Kit was going to be Billy's best man, and Lyn, because we are going for equal opportunities in all things, was going to be mine. Since Billy was best man at Kit's wedding, it seemed only fair to reciprocate in that respect, and Lyn was the other obvious choice, so there it was. We couldn't imagine America would complain about that, what with everything else that was going on.
Just to explain, Lenny, in case you're confused---it's been legal since the late sixties, in California, for Billy and me to be together the way we'd actually already been for over a decade, but the fact remains that it wasn't exactly well received in those days, particularly outside of the state. So, although we stopped being quite so worried, we never told anyone that we were a couple, and although increasingly everyone effectively knew, we never issued any confirmations---and for some reason, were rarely asked directly---so when we did get married up in Stockbridge, the national reaction was rather a massive one.
Oh, yes, we did get married. We made arrangements to move up to Massachusetts as quickly as possible, because although we could have gotten married in Stockbridge and then gone straight back to California, it was decided, among the four of us, that really, we didn't want to live anywhere where our marriage wouldn't actually be legal, because that would seem to sort of defeat the point. And besides, we're both working a lot less these days, doing more from home when we do work---Billy has discovered the joys of narrating novels into a tape recorder and having someone else write them up, which seems to amuse him---so staying in LA was no longer massively necessary. There was Kit and Lyn to think about, of course, but there are such things as planes, and telephones, and this amazing communications network called the Internet, which Billy and Lyn understand pretty well, even though Kit and I are still limping along a bit with it. So, to cut a long story short, it was decided that there was no reason to worry about falling out of touch with our best friends just because we wanted to move cross-country. And that, as they say, was that.
We tried our damnedest to keep the thing under wraps, but inevitably, when we came out of City Hall that day with Kit and Lyn on either side of us, there were a number of photographers and journalists hanging around outside, desperate to get the scoop on what was going on here. We were smiling too hard to care all that much, and we pushed through the small crowd to the car without too much difficulty. They wanted statements and God knows what else, but all they got was me saying that my husband and I were very happy, thank you; and Billy saying that his husband and himself (said just like that) would actually like to go right home to their beautiful new house where they (we) were going to live not in sin for the first time in fifty years, if they didn't mind. And then they all went mad, all the camera bulbs seemed to flash in unison, and we got into the car and drove off, pointedly ignoring all further attempts to get our attention.
And that, effectively, was the last step in the chain that brought us here, to our house in Stockbridge with its big master bedroom and a study for each of us and a guest room for Kit and Lyn when they visit, which is fairly often. We keep getting contacted by "gay" magazines---that's homosexual magazines, rather---to give interviews and whatnot, and mostly we give them a few words each just because we wish so much that they had been around in our day. (Even though Billy strongly objects to being called a homosexual, or indeed anything at all, apparently, except for "Billy", variations thereof, "sweetheart", and "you schmuck." By me. At least, this is what he said when the subject came up). The madness has died down, though, mostly, and we've gotten our house more or less the way we want it. Billy is, as we speak, narrating a rather ridiculous love scene in his study for his latest literary endeavor, declaiming sweet nothings to the tape recorder at ludicrous volume. For some reason he can't seem to get it out if he doesn't shout. I don't mind too much. I've always rather liked it when Billy shouts, especially when it's "Fuck, yeah, like that!" right into my ear.
... I think I'm going to leave this here, before I scar anyone for life. I'm going to go and get him in a minute, drag him outside for our Sunday night ritual in the backyard: him talking, mostly; me smiling at him; the two of us bickering for the sheer pleasure of it, from time to time.
Now, wasn't that a better story, Lenny, hmm? Of all the things you might have anticipated, I know for a fact you never imagined it could ever end up quite like this. Married. In Stockbridge, again. The two of us out under the cherry tree with our glasses of wine on summer Sunday evenings, you gotten too skinny and him gotten kind of round, and neither of you giving a shit. Yeah, you never did. I know you never did.
I've got more stories where that one came from, Lenny boy. I could tell you a whole lifetime's worth of stories. But you know what? I like that one. The tree, the golden glow of the kitchen window in the dusk, the way he's soft around the middle. I like that one. Like I say, I could write more, but I have an appointment with my husband.
So I'll just leave it there, and consider this case closed. I'll get a new lock for the diary in the morning.
An avid reader of everything from New Scientist to the back of the cereal box, Louise Blaydon has been writing, encouraged by her father, ever since she could hold a pen. Her writing, like her reading, has wandered erratically from genre to genre, but has settled firmly on gay romance, to the mild bemusement of Dad. Louise also writes sporadically for various journalistic publications and has been known to print the occasional poem.
She owes much of her inspiration and support these days to an amazing network of friends, whose willingness to listen to her rail against life, the universe, and everything she could not live without. Louise's pursuits beyond writing are worryingly few, chief among them being Worrying About Not Having Pursuits Beyond Writing. However, this has long been the case, and after many abortive attempts to pad her leisure-time resume with everything from hiking to yoga, she has pretty much given up. She does enjoy singing, country walking, making deep-voiced sardonic remarks, and tasting the rain, but has a horror of organized activities.
Louise has altogether too many academic qualifications and can only dream that her list of published works will one day be equally long.
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