The State of Us

by Shaun David Hutchinson

“I don’t know if I’m scared about coming out,” I said. “You’re the first person I’ve told, and it wasn’t so terrible.”

  “I’m the first person you’ve told?” Dre stood again and raked his hands through his hair. “This is huge, Dean! I mean, I’m honored, but there should be cake or something.”

  “Cake?”

  “Yes! I think everyone’s coming out should involve cake.” He stopped pacing and turned to me, wearing this endearingly goofy smile. “Don’t you think people would be less anxious about having to do it if they knew there’d be cake at the end?”

  “I don’t need a cake, and it’s not a big deal. I came to terms with being different a while ago, and I figured I’d tell people when necessary.” I spread my hands. “Honestly, I’ve never understood why people feel the need to come out. The only people who really need to know your sexual orientation are your potential sexual or romantic partners.”

  If I’d learned one thing about Dre in our short time together, it was that he couldn’t control his facial expressions. He wore his emotions plainly on the outside. It was kind of sweet, though it would have made it almost too easy for me to beat him in a debate. At the moment, he was looking shocked.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Dre said. “It’s just . . . I didn’t expect you to be—”

  “Anything more than a clone of my mother?”

  “Like me.”

  Dre’s answer might have offended me under different circumstances, but there was such an honesty to it that it caught me a bit off guard. Only, before I could come up with a suitable response, the lights flickered and cut out, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Dean?!”

  “Stay where you are,” I said. “The emergency lights will come on in—”

  The emergency lights over the door flared to life, bathing the walls in their halogen glow.

  “What the hell is going on, Dean?”

  I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to lie to Dre. My heart was pounding faster and my mouth was dry. Keeping him calm was the only thing keeping me calm. “Sit,” I told him. “You don’t want to trip in the dark and break your leg.”

  Dre marched mechanically to the couch and sat across from me. He tugged at his tie and tried his phone again, his frustration growing. “I can’t deal with this!”

  “Everything will be fine,” I said. “I promise.” It would only be a lie if I couldn’t keep that promise, but I couldn’t bear to see Dre so upset, especially about something over which we had no control.

  “Maybe this time, but what about next time? Or the time after that?”

  “There’s always a bomb scare or a threatening letter or a suspicious package.” I was supposed to be trying to make Dre feel better, and I realized I was probably having the opposite effect, so I hurried along. “But in all of the years my mother’s been in office, she’s never even come close to being in real danger because the people in charge of her security are good at their jobs. And so is the Secret Service.”

  “I hate this! I hate that every time my dad leaves the house, I’m worried someone with a gun and a twenty-page handwritten manifesto is going to find him and shoot him.” He stood and began pacing again despite the dark. “This whole thing is ridiculous. Journalists digging into the most obscure parts of our lives, photographers following us everywhere. What’s the upside? What makes this worth the bullshit?”

  I tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t sound cheesy, but honesty often carries a whiff of cheese. “The opportunity to make the world a better place. That’s the only good reason to do it.”

  “Is it enough?”

  “I hope so.”

  Dre sat back down, looking slightly more relaxed than before. “Thanks,” he said. “I tried talking to Mel about this stuff, but I don’t think she gets it.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Dre smiled. “You really do, don’t you?”

  Dre

  IF SOMEONE HAD told me that Dean Arnault would be the one who kept me from having a panic attack while my parents’ lives were potentially in danger, I would have laughed so hard I might’ve peed my pants. The idea that we could have anything in common was ludicrous. Yet, there we were, sitting in the dark having a conversation like two people who could’ve been friends. And the messed-up thing was that there was a small part of me that didn’t want the lockdown to end so that I could spend more time alone with Dean.

  “So your parents don’t know about you, then?” I asked. Dean and I had fallen back into silence, and I needed to keep talking or my brain would spin out scenarios about what was happening on the other side of the doors—like the one where a dude with a bomb strapped to his chest had cornered my parents so he could tell them his hard-luck story and make them feel sympathy for him before blowing them up—and I wanted to avoid that.

  “No.”

  “Is it because your mom would disown you or something?”

  Dean’s mouth tightened into a frown. “No,” he said. “She wouldn’t because she’s not an awful person. I haven’t told her, or anyone, because there’s nothing to tell yet. When I know for sure, I’ll tell my parents, but until then it’s no one’s business but mine.”

  I felt like I’d struck a raw nerve. “What’d I say? I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s not that.” Dean dry-washed his hands, rubbing them over and over.

  “Then what?”

  “Before you met me, you’d made these assumptions about me, most of which were probably wrong. And now that you know this one thing about me—a thing that I don’t even consider to be a particularly huge part of who I am—you’re making an entirely new set of assumptions about me. Most of which are also probably wrong.”

  “You may not think it’s a big part of who you are,” I said, “but it’s still a big deal. And you can’t tell me that your mom running for president isn’t affecting your decision to keep it to yourself.”

  Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a second. It was the first time I think I’d stumped him. Finally, he said, “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

  I hadn’t expected to see Dean look so unsure of himself. I had him on the run, and I could’ve gone on the attack, really nailed him for being queer and supporting his mom, who definitely didn’t support our community, but no matter how Dean had played it off, it’d taken a lot of courage for him to tell me his secret, and I owed him better than jumping on him for it.

  I held out my hand. “Gimme your phone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your cell phone?” I said. “Square, flat, probably got some pictures on it you wouldn’t want your friends swiping through.”

  “There are no such pictures.”

  I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “It was a joke. Now gimme your phone. Unlocked.”

  Part of me expected Dean to refuse. I’m not sure I would’ve given up my phone, and if I had, I’m sure Jose would’ve cussed me out for it. Besides, I was the son of his mother’s enemy. But that didn’t mean we had to be enemies, did it? Dean and I could be friends, even if our parents weren’t.

  Dean reached into his coat pocket, unlocked his phone, and handed it to me. The background picture was his mother’s campaign logo.

  “Mama’s boy.”

  “And proud of it.” Dean watched me quietly for a second before saying, “What, exactly, are you doing?”

  I held up his phone so he could see. “Downloading Promethean.” The app’s icon was a stylized flame.

  “Okay?”

  “And now I’m setting up your account and adding my username to your contacts.”

  “Why again?”

  I sighed the sigh of the weary. Clearly, I had a lot to teach Dean. “Promethean is totally secure. Like, end-to-end encryption that even the company doesn’t have the keys to.” Dean was still watching me like I was speaking in Klingon. “It’s so we can talk? Without anyone knowing? In case you want to. About whatever.”

 
“You want to talk to me?”

  “I mean, yeah,” I said. “You’re not totally horrible, and you’re kind of the only other person in the world who gets what this is like.”

  “I thought people only used this app for sending dick pics and cheating on their significant others.”

  “Hold up,” I said. “I’m having trouble wrapping my brain around hearing you say ‘dick pics.’” I shut my eyes and shuddered, though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t have been into getting a couple of those pics from Dean. He wasn’t the type of guy I usually thought was cute, but there was definitely something about his stern-economics-professor-at-a-wealthy-private-school vibe that I liked.

  “I’m serious. What are we going to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever we want. School, college, how annoying all this presidential stuff is?” I couldn’t believe I was having to explain to Dean what two people talked about. He probably didn’t have any friends that his mom hadn’t vetted and approved.

  I handed Dean back his phone. “All set.”

  Dean immediately tapped the icon to open it. “PrezMamasBoy?” He glared down his nose at me, and I broke out in a grin, unable to help myself.

  “I’m in there as DreOfTheDead. You can change your name if you really hate it.”

  Dean shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “It’s fine. The missing possessive apostrophe is killing me, but at least you’ve come around to correctly assuming my mother’s going to win the election.”

  “Like hell,” I said. “Maybe Jackson McMann will surprise everyone and beat both our parents.”

  “There is an almost zero-percent chance of that happening.”

  “That’s why it’d be a surprise.”

  Jackson McMann was a billionaire who’d made his fortune starting up and then selling tech companies. He had a reputation for treating his employees like garbage, for thumbing his nose at the law, and for exploiting anyone and everything he could in order to make money. According to my dad, he was an entitled rich dude who’d entered the race as an independent to create chaos and line his own pockets, and because he liked seeing his face on the news. According to my mom, he was an asshole.

  “The only way McMann could possibly win is by cheating,” Dean said. “And I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  As I nodded my agreement, Dean furrowed his brow and looked at his phone. “Wait, how did you download this if there’s no signal?”

  Dean was right. I shouldn’t have been able to access the app store. “I just—”

  The lights came back on, and I stood and rushed toward the door as the agent who’d shut us in peeked her head in and told us the lockdown was over.

  “My parents?” I asked.

  “Everyone is safe and secure.”

  Relief flooded through me, and my legs felt like jelly as the adrenaline surge that had been keeping me upright dissolved. I had to hold on to the wall for a second to keep steady.

  “See?” Dean said. “I told you everything would be all right.”

  Moments later, the Arnaults showed up, followed by my parents. My mom and dad wouldn’t stop hugging me, even though Dad said there hadn’t actually been anything to worry about. A shelf in a janitorial closet had collapsed, spilling chemicals on the floor that might have been dangerous but ultimately weren’t. The power going out had been a fluke and had been unconnected to the scare.

  “At least you weren’t trapped in a room with Jose,” my dad was saying as we got ready to leave. “He used the time to force me to go over my schedule for the rest of the week. It was pure torture.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said, but I kept stealing glances at Dean.

  From across the room, Governor Arnault said, “I hope you weren’t too bored, Dean.”

  That hint of a smile that I’d come to recognize hit Dean’s lips, and he risked looking my way. “Actually, it wasn’t terrible.”

  Not terrible. Dean Arnault thought spending time with me “wasn’t terrible.” I don’t know why that made me so happy, but it kind of really did.

  Dean

  I STOOD OVER Tamal, holding my hands under the bar as he breathed in, preparing to lift. Tamal bared his teeth and grunted as he pushed. His arms wobbled and I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it, but with one final burst of energy, he powered through. I grabbed the weight, guiding it onto the rack.

  Tamal sat up, grinning. “Two-seventy-five, baby!” He grabbed a towel from between his legs and mopped the sweat from his angelic face.

  I’d known Tamal since my family had moved to Tallahassee. We were on the baseball team together, and he’d run my campaign for class president. He’d created an app that let students rank issues they thought were the most important. I hadn’t thought anyone would bother with it, but Tamal is a heck of a coder and people really love ranking things.

  “Good job,” I said. “Pretty soon you’ll be joining the two-hundred-percent club.”

  “Doubt it.” But Tamal was flexing his arms like he could already see himself lifting 200 percent of his body weight. And maybe he would. Tamal was the kind of guy who usually succeeded through hard work and perseverance. His charming smile and personality helped, but he didn’t need them.

  The gym was quiet, still in that space between the end of school and the end of work when the only people who were there were students like Tamal and me or adults who weren’t stuck in a nine-to-five job. It was a locally owned place, not as big or clean as some of the chains. They taught boxing in the evenings, the owners were nice, and they knew about my mom and made sure no one bothered me, including the press.

  “Your turn.” Tamal wiped down the bench and helped me change out the weights. I considered myself in good shape, but Tamal seriously outclassed me.

  It felt good to push myself, to feel my pectoral muscles stretch and contract as I held the bar steady and drove it upward, defying gravity. I was going to hurt a little when I was done, but it was a good hurt. There was satisfaction in the pain gained from doing something honest and pure. I guess that sounds a little ridiculous, but I felt no shame enjoying a little simplicity in a complicated world.

  “You can do better than that,” Tamal said between sets. “Gotta make sure you stay in shape until baseball starts or Coach will kick my ass.”

  “Fine. Add another ten pounds, please.” The weights clanked as Tamal slid them onto the ends of the bar, and then I quickly grabbed the bar and started the set. An extra ten pounds may not sound like much, but there’s a fine line between the exact right amount of weight and too much. Luckily, I had Tamal spotting me.

  My arms were jelly after I finished, and I didn’t think I could lift so much as a bag of flour, so Tamal and I hit the treadmills. It might have been fall everywhere else in the country, but it was still summer in Florida. Not only was it hot, but there were clouds of gnats everywhere waiting to fly into my mouth. And then there were the mosquitoes. I hated running outside when I didn’t have to.

  Tamal and I fell into our strides, his heavy-footed and quick, mine light and long. I liked running for the same reason I liked lifting. It was easy to lose myself in the rhythm of it. It was one of the few times when I felt free to let my thoughts and worries fall away and I could exist as the embodiment of physical effort.

  But there was one thought I couldn’t outrun.

  “You know there’s a real chance that I won’t be playing this season, right?”

  “It’s your senior year, Dean. We’re gonna be co-captains.”

  “I know,” I said. “But when my mother wins the election, we’ll be moving to Washington, DC. She’s already introduced me to the baseball coach at the school I’ll be attending and selected my classes, and I’ve looked into a mentoring program where I can volunteer.”

  The probability of my mother winning the election had gone up slightly since the debate. Mr. Rosario was magnetic when he was given the space to speak at length, but debates were an area where my mother excelled. No
t only did she come armed with facts, but she understood how to deliver them in concise, devastating shots. During her first gubernatorial debate, a newspaper reporter had noted my mother’s uncanny ability to slide in a kill shot right before she ran out of time, creating perfect sound bites and viral video clips.

  Each side had declared their candidate the winner, and different media sites had provided legitimate analyses of why one candidate had won over the other, and while Mr. Rosario had done well, a week later people were still talking about my mother.

  Tamal grunted. “Trying not to think about that, Dean.”

  “It’s difficult for me to not think about it.”

  “You could stay with me,” he said. “You know my folks would go for it. At least so you can finish out senior year.”

  I didn’t bother arguing with Tamal because we both knew it wasn’t his parents I’d need to convince. There was no way my mother would let me live with Tamal and miss the opportunity to present the Arnaults as the perfect first family.

  “Wait,” Tamal said. “Does that mean Astrid’s going to be class prez if you go?”

  “She’s class vice president,” I said. “So, yes. She would take over.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.” Tamal glanced at me and stumbled, grabbing the railings to keep from being thrown back against the wall. He cleared his throat when he was running steadily again. “What do you think of her? Astrid, I mean.”

  I shrugged. “She’s a good vice president, editor of the school paper, and she’s on the debate team. I think she’ll be a good president.”

  Tamal was avoiding looking at me, which was strange. “I mean, personally.”

  It took me a moment for the clues to click into place. “You like Astrid?”

  Red bloomed across Tamal’s cheeks. “Kinda, yeah. She’s smart and cute, and I was thinking I might ask her to homecoming.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m certainly not judging, but homecoming is less than two weeks away. Why have you waited so long?”

  “Oh, well, my sister heard Astrid was getting back together with her ex, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of all that, but then Nadiya said the ex was toast and I should make my move. Only, you never have a date to these things and we always kind of go as a team, but maybe since you’re not gonna be around . . .”