by Drew Hunt
Things had been tense between Steve and his best friend—and Steve knew it was all his fault.
“Hey, bud,” JJ said, lightly punching Steve’s upper arm.
“Hey,” Steve returned cautiously.
The ice had thawed considerably the day before when Steve had taken Milton to JJ’s for the traditional Sunday sports afternoon. Steve was hoping he was still in his best friend’s good books.
“You seen Maggie?” JJ asked, scanning the crowd.
“Uh uh.”
Turning his attention back to Steve, JJ asked, “Milton get home okay yesterday?” He waggled his eyebrows.
Steve nodded and felt his face heat.
Steve had insisted on accompanying Milton back home, even though it was out of his way. The little guy had put up a protest, but Steve had known it was only half-hearted, so they’d ridden the subway to Harlem and walked the couple of blocks to Milton’s building.
“Gotta say, Milton can sure cook,” JJ said.
Once he and Milton had reached the lobby Steve had received a sweet kiss of thanks, which Steve had returned…twice.
“And there were leftovers. Me and Dad fought over who got them.” JJ hitched his book bag higher on his shoulder.
Steve nodded, although it took him a second to process what JJ had said. Once he had, he experienced another moment of panic. The previous night Steve had realized he would be expected to sit next to Milton in the lunchroom. Not doing so would hurt the little guy, and Steve was determined not to do that again. JJ was known to be friends with Milton, and everyone who was anyone knew Steve was best friends with JJ so Steve had figured, if the three of them ate lunch together, no one would say anything.
But his plan had just been blown out of the water. Or had it?
“So, uh, who won the battle?” Steve asked, aiming for nonchalance.
“Dad. He’s stronger than me and, like he told me, he pays my allowance,” JJ smiled.
“Uh, yeah.” Steve tried not to let his relief show. “So you’ll be free to eat with me and Milt in the lunchroom?” He was careful to ask quietly, taking a quick look around to see that no one was close enough to hear.
“Nah, I thought I’d eat with the team today.”
“Oh.”
“’Cause I thought you’d want to be alone with your guy.”
Steve looked around again. “I, uh…”
JJ smirked. “It’s okay, bud, I’ll hold your hand, metaphorically speaking.”
Steve let out a breath. “Thanks. I know I’m being a dumbass about this, but…”
JJ nodded. “Yes, you are, but I understand, and so does Milton. In fact he asked me yesterday if I could have lunch with him for the next few days, hoping you’d feel comfortable enough to join us.”
“He did?” Steve felt conflicted: relieved Milton knew and understood, proud that his guy was looking out for him, and sad that there had to be such subterfuge in the first place.
“Hi, guys,” Maggie said, pulling JJ into a one-armed hug.
Previously, when Maggie and JJ had shown affection to each other, Steve had been uncomfortable, wishing he were in Maggie’s place. Now…he didn’t know. It certainly didn’t hurt as much. And Milton sure was a lot softer to hug and kiss than JJ.
“You boys have a good time yesterday?” she asked, running a hand through JJ’s blond hair.
“Yes, thanks,” Steve said, and meant it.
It had been great hanging out with his best friend again. And Milton being there, too, was like the cherry on top, even though Milton had spent the second half of the game in Calvin’s office. Part of Steve had wondered-hoped-worried that he’d been the chief topic of conversation. When he’d asked Milton about it later, Milton had smiled.
“You were mentioned.” He kissed Steve’s cheek, then added, “Briefly.”
* * * *
“Damn!” Milton stared at the shirt button in his palm.
“What is it, hon?” his mother called from the kitchen where she was giving his suit pants a final pressing.
“Can you sew on a button for me? It just came off in my hand.”
“Okay, give me a minute.”
“God, why did I let Steve talk me into this?” Milton asked, looking down at the open cuff.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. And you agreed to go to the winter semi-formal, or whatever it’s called these days, because that’s what couples do.” His mom said, coming into his room, the pants draped over her arm. “Come here, let me have a look.”
Milton held out the button and showed her where it had come from. “Should I take it off, maybe put on a different shirt?” It was a new shirt, one his mom had bought especially for the dance.
“It’s okay. I can sew it back on.” She laid the pants on the bed and left the room. “Start putting the pants on, you haven’t got much time.”
Milton rolled his eyes. Steve wasn’t due to pick him up for another half hour. He knew he’d be hanging around the apartment for ages, trying not to get his suit creased or dirty. But his mom had insisted he start getting ready early, “just in case.” She had a thing about not being late for anything and not keeping people waiting.
“There. Cinderella can now go to the ball,” she said, biting off the thread to the newly reattached button.
“Mom!”
“This is important, Milton. It’s your first dance.”
Milton had told her several times he and Steve were going stag, so it was no big deal, but she refused to listen. He and Steve weren’t a couple, officially.
Pointing at the pants, she said, “I took them in the best I could. You should still wear suspenders, though.”
“Thanks, Mom, you’re the greatest.” He kissed her cheek.
Maggie had helped Milton find a suit at a vintage shop. It was a little big, but his mother had said she could make the necessary alterations.
She smiled and touched his cheek. “You’ll be just fine.”
Milton nodded. Despite what he’d said about it being no big deal, he was nervous.
“Go on, finish getting ready. I want to take your picture.”
“Mom!” He knew it would get worse when Steve showed up and she’d want pictures of them together.
Life, Milton reflected as he sat on his bed to pull on his pants, was pretty good. He went to a good school and had a roof over his head and a mom who was supportive of his sexuality. Just as importantly, for the first time he could remember he had friends as well as a boyfriend. Okay, despite being together for six weeks, neither he nor Steve had used the “B” word.
But boyfriends or not, the two of them spent much of their free time together, often at Milton’s or JJ’s apartments. Only once did he go to Steve’s place, and that was really tense. Steve’s dad was easy-going, but his mom was cold.
If they weren’t at someone’s apartment, the four teens hung out at bookstores, record stores, the comic shop, and once a clothing store. However, the guys had grown bored because Maggie insisted on trying on almost everything in her size. JJ snickered when all she’d ended up buying was a T-shirt for a band no one, including Maggie, had heard of.
They sometimes hung out at a diner, Milton preferring the one where he and Steve had first talked.
Now and again—and these were Milton’s absolute favorites—the two of them went somewhere by themselves. Once Steve took Milton to an upscale restaurant. The maître d’ addressed Steve by name, making Milton assume Steve had been there several times before, presumably with his parents. The food was wonderful, but the best part of the evening was how attentive Steve was. They even held hands on top of the table.
“To us,” Steve said, raising his glass of grape juice.
“To us,” Milton repeated, clinking their glasses and staring at his handsome boyfriend in the flickering candlelight.
Steve insisted on getting the check. He always insisted on paying for everything, but did so without making a fuss, ensuring Milton didn’t feel uncomfortable.
It was this caring side that Milton could never have guessed at. Outwardly, Steve was large and looked, well, dopey. But looks were deceiving. The man—for that was how Milton saw him—was intelligent, witty, and kind. He was also a cuddler, and with all those muscles, Milton had plenty to cuddle up to.
It was almost Christmas and choosing just the right gift for Steve was difficult, if not impossible. Nothing worked. The guy had lots of clothes—Milton had been right, his closet was huge—Steve had a large CD collection and a kick-ass entertainment center to play them on.
Finally Milton asked Maggie for advice. Her face lit up; the girl just loved to shop. Her suggestion came as a surprise, however.
“Your comic strip, the one you drew in art class.”
“I can’t just give him that,” Milton protested.
“Sure you can. And if you write SM on the superhero’s chest, then…” She sighed. “He’ll love it.”
“I don’t know.”
Milton had thought about adding Steve’s initials to his superhero’s costume but had rejected it as little better than drawing love hearts on school desks or carving them onto tree trunks. But Steve really had become his idea of a hero. Although that was an uncomfortable image, because JJ had been—still was—a hero to him. What did that make Steve then? His superhero? Steve had become much more than a fictionalized and idealized cartoon character. Ultimate hero? Milton wondered.
“You could get a nice frame for it, and of course you have to sign it. Hey, a Milton Katz original might be worth a lot of money once you’re famous,” Maggie said.
“Yeah, right.”
Milton sighed, still sitting on the bed with his suit pants still around his ankles. I’m so lucky. God knows what he sees in me.
“Did you find those suspenders?” his mom called out from the hallway. “Steve will be here soon, and you still have to put your jacket and shoes on.”
“The suspenders are on the shelf in my closet.” Next to the framed and signed comic strip. Milton’s suit jacket was hanging on the closet door, and his newly-shined shoes were by his bed.
The first couple of days back at school after Steve had invited Milton to spend Sunday at JJ’s were tense but, to give Steve his due, he manned up and, even though Milton saw how nervous he was, Steve didn’t hide the fact that the two of them were friends.
There was a tricky situation that first Thursday just before lunch. Steve and Milton were walking down the hallway discussing their new English assignment, Catcher in the Rye, when a guy Milton didn’t know frowned at Steve.
“Hey, Morrison, didn’t know you hung around with fags.”
Milton started to edge away, he didn’t want Steve to have to defend him—or, more accurately, didn’t want to hear Steve say he and Milton weren’t friends—but Steve’s words froze Milton in place.
“Jealous, Peterson? You want to ask me out?”
Peterson’s mouth fell open, and it took him a couple of seconds to form a response. But whatever he said was drowned out by the laughter of his friends.
“Come on, Milt, time for lunch.” Steve put a hand to the middle of Milton’s back and applied gentle pressure.
Milton was amazed, overwhelmed, and incredibly happy.
Later that evening, safely in his room, Milton thanked Steve…profusely. That was when Milton discovered just how much of a man Steve was.
“Milton, stop daydreaming and finish getting ready!” his mom said from the kitchen.
“Yes, mom!” Milton did up his pants and found the suspenders.
He was about to slide into his shoes when he heard, “Use a shoehorn. I don’t want you to break down the backs of your new shoes.”
Shoehorn? Milton silently asked himself, looking around his room.
“There’s one in my bedroom. Hang on, I’ll get it.”
“You psychic?”
“No, hon, I just know what it takes to get a man ready to go out on a date.”
“Mom! It’s not a date.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
Five minutes later she was fussing at an imaginary piece of lint on his shoulder when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Steve,” his mom said. “Are you nervous?” Only his mom could manage two obvious things in the same statement.
Oh really, I thought it might be the UPS guy. And yeah, I want to throw up, Milton thought as his stomach churned. Out loud, he said, “It’s all good, Mom.”
Just before getting the door she touched his cheek. “You’ll be fine.”
* * * *
“You aren’t wearing your tuxedo? We had it specially made, seems a pity to—”
“Mom, it’s a semi-formal dance.” Steve had told his mother this, several times, but she wasn’t listening…as usual. “This suit, which was also made for me, will work just fine.”
Steve checked himself in the mirror on his closet door. Was he broader in the shoulders since he’d last put on this dark-blue suit?
“I suppose, but you should always look smart at these things. You’re representing the family.”
“Yes, Mom.” There was little point in arguing with her when she was on a roll. “I think I look pretty smart in this, don’t you?”
She ran a hand across his shoulder. “Yes, dear, of course. But maybe you need a new business suit. This jacket might be a bit on the small side. Your tux probably fits better.”
Steve ground his teeth, but stayed silent as he pulled a tie off the rack.
“You are not wearing that…that…thing. We’ll be a laughingstock.” Her finger pointed accusingly at the red tie.
“What’s wrong with it?” Steve wrapped it around his neck. He liked the Superman motif that was repeated all the way down the tie. Milton had bought it for him the previous week.
“It’s…polyester, it’s cheap, garish, and… Oh, Harold, tell him,” his mother said, appealing to her husband who had just come down the hallway.
“Tell him what?” Mr. Morrison said, poking his head through the door.
“Tell Steven he cannot wear that…that tie.”
“Looks good to me, son. Different.”
“The Morrisons are not different,” his mother said, whirling on her husband. “I don’t know why I asked you, anyway. You men always stick together.”
Steve grinned to himself as he finished knotting the tie. If she knew I was wearing a Superman tee under this shirt, she’d have a fit.
“What time did you say you ordered the limo for?” his dad asked.
Mrs. Morrison sniffed.
“Six-thirty. Now, what’s next.” He snapped his fingers. “Shoes!”
“I don’t know why you wanted to rent a limousine. It’s only a semi-formal,” his mother said, sitting on the foot of Steve’s bed, obviously determined to continue the discussion.
Steve stuck his head in his closet and bent to retrieve his best dress shoes from the rack. Stepping back into the light he eyed them critically. Maybe he should have given them a polish, but there wasn’t time now.
“Oh, Steven, you’re not going to wear those!” Mrs. Morrison shook her head.
Steve started to count to ten. Why did the ladies steering committee have to cancel their meeting tonight?
“It’s okay, son, I’ll give them a quick polish while you finish getting ready,” his dad said, taking the shoes.
“Thanks, Dad.” Steve patted his pants pockets. “Keys, wallet—”
“Clean handkerchief?” his mother enquired.
“Yes, Mom, got that.” He preferred tissues, but it was easier to go with the flow with the less important stuff.
“I don’t know why you couldn’t have taken Angela, she did ask you.”
Steve sighed. He’d been waiting for this, and was surprised his mom had left it so late before bringing it out. Angela Farrell was his mom’s idea of the perfect partner-wife-baby incubator.
“Don’t sigh at me like that.”
“No, Mom.” Steve snuck a quick look at his wristwatch. The limo
should be there any second. He’d asked the company to tell the driver to call him when… “My cell!” He dove for his nightstand. Glancing at the screen, he was relieved to see the battery was still half full. He should have put it on charge earlier.
“Angela is a nice girl. You could do a lot worse.”
“Yes, if I were straight. But I’m gay.” How many times had they had this discussion?
His mom sniffed.
Steve knew what was coming next.
“What about Peter Rosenthall, then? He’s from a good family, I’m on the Friends of Central Park with his mother and…”
Yep, right on cue, Steve thought, pocketing his phone. “Peter doesn’t go to our school, so I wouldn’t have been able to invite him.” Even if I’d have wanted to, he silently added.
Peter Rosenthall was a momma’s boy, unable to wipe his own nose without prior written permission from his mother; if Steve thought his own mother was controlling, she had nothing on Mrs. Rosenthal.
“Think that’s everything,” Steve said, finishing another mental checklist.
“I just think that you could have chosen better than…that boy.”
One, two, three… “That boy is Milton, someone I think a great deal of. He’s kind, gentle, funny, and…” Steve didn’t know why he was bothering, because he knew his mother wasn’t listening.
“We’re only thinking of you, dear. You shouldn’t tie yourself down, you’re still young.”
You wouldn’t object if I were tied to Angela Farrell, Steve said to himself, refusing to get into an argument. Not tonight.
“And Morton of course, he…”
Steve growled. His mother knew the guy’s name, she just refused to use it.
“…must move in very different social circles to us.”
“We’re both going to the same social event tonight.” Steve checked his hair one last time, glad he’d had the chance to get it styled the day before.
“Christmas, for example. I doubt he would be able to afford the airfare to Aspen, let alone the cost of skis, and clothing and… I’m thinking of him. He would be embarrassed to have to admit he couldn’t vacation with us.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not going to Aspen this year, then.” Steve left his room and headed for the kitchen, his father, and—hopefully—his shined shoes.