Six
“I want everything on this board copied into your notebooks,” Mr. Quinn directed to the class, while dragging a squeaky blue marker across the dry erase board. “We’re going to continue working on convergence tests.”
“Yeah, this is something we’re going to use the rest of our lives,” I heard Daniel say from behind me.
“Mr. Landon,” Quinn said, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “unless you’re volunteering to explain the class how a series converges to a sum, I suggest you close your mouth and open your notebook.”
“Seriously, can you name one real life situation where we’re going to need to know this?” he challenged him. Daniel never really got the hang of thinking before saying stupid shit out loud. Today was certainly no exception.
“Thank you, Mr. Landon,” Mr. Quinn looked at him with a smirk. “As a reward for your curiosity, I’m going to amend the homework assignment for this weekend. I want everyone to arrive Monday with a real life example that requires the use of convergence.”
A resounding groan swept through the classroom, followed by angry comments directed toward Daniel.
“Nice going, dumb ass,” Rich said.
Lisa, who was sitting to his left said, “Can’t you ever keep your mouth shut?”
“Don’t tell me what to do with my mouth and I won’t tell you what to do with yours,” Daniel retorted.
“Oh, snap!” came from someone across the room.
Mr. Quinn, it seemed, was disliked by the majority of his students, but something about his weird sense of humor amused me. If I was a teacher, I think I’d be a bit like him. Does that mean I’m going to do his stupid assignment over the weekend? Hell, no.
After the bell rang and I exited into the hallway, I ran into Kate. I took the opportunity to resume complaining about Ryan.
“But it’s been almost a week,” I whined.
Kate rolled her brown eyes at me. “I know how long it’s been. You remind me every time I talk to you. Call him, already. Or at least text him. What’s the big deal?”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if he hates me?”
“What if he lost your number?”
Why did Kate always have to rationalize everything? No matter what my problem was, she had to find something logical to throw in there.
“He knows where I live,” I pointed out. “If he lost my number he could just come see me.”
Kate sighed. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m not talking to you until you call him, and that’s it.”
“What? You can’t be serious,” I said, slinging my backpack over my right shoulder.
Kate made an exaggerated face and pointed at her tightly closed lips to emphasize how she wasn’t speaking to me and walked away.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said. She shook her head and pointed at me as she kept walking. I’m ridiculous.
When I got home, I tossed my backpack down near the door and opened the fridge to grab a can of soda. There wasn’t much food left and I would soon have to go to the grocery store, which I never really looked forward to. I always felt awkward pushing around a shopping cart. But why should I? Doesn’t everyone go food shopping? Maybe it was the fact that it’s usually me in a sea of middle aged women.
I heard the answering machine in the kitchen beeping with one new message. I pressed play knowing exactly who it would be.
“Hey, it’s dad,” a disembodied voice said from the ancient machine. “Just letting you know I’ll be home on Monday or Tuesday. Give me a call.”
This was the third message predicting when he would be home. I’d been so wrapped up in everything going on with myself lately that I barely even thought about him. A normal son would probably miss his father if he’d been away for a long period of time. But then again, a normal father would probably tell you that they loved you or missed you. It felt more like he was my roommate than a parent. To be honest, I was starting to like it better when he was gone.
I grabbed my phone, kicked off my sneakers and plopped down onto the couch.
I dialed and a familiar voice said, “Hello?”
“Hey, what’s up? I asked.
“Call him,” he said, without hesitation.
“You already talked to Kate, huh?” I asked.
“Did you call me for anything other than to obsess about Ryan?” Patrick asked and when I didn’t respond quickly he added, “I thought so.”
“I want to. I’m nervous,” I said.
“Why? Even if he hated your guts, wouldn’t it be easier to know than to be worrying about it all the time?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I just felt like I clicked so well with him. More than anyone else I’ve ever met. I don’t want it to be over before it began. And if he really did hate my guts, why would I want to know that? Who wants to go through life knowing that someone they really liked actually hated them?”
“Look,” Patrick said after a moment, with an unusual tone, “I’m gonna be totally honest with you here because we’ve been best friends forever. I really think you have an anxiety problem.”
“Duh,” I responded, taking his observation lightly.
“No, Travis, I’m serious. I think you need help. You need to talk to someone. Maybe get some medication or something.” He was speaking quietly.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “You’re serious,” I said.
“I’m worried about you, Trav.”
“You think I’m so freaked out I need to be put on drugs?” I asked, getting defensive.
“That’s not what I said.”
Was he for real? Doesn’t everyone feel anxious sometimes? Isn’t that a normal part of life? Or was Patrick just so annoyed by me that he’s trying to pass off my problems to someone else?
“Look, forget I said anything,” Patrick said, back peddling.
“Okay, I’ll forget that you think I’m so nuts I need to be medicated,” I said, sarcastically.
“You’re totally taking what I said out of context,” he said, now sounding angry. “I’m telling you this because I’m your friend and I care about you.”
“If you were my friend you wouldn’t be telling me I need drugs and a shrink to fix me,” I shot back. Before he had a chance to say anything else, I said, “Later,” and quickly hung up.
I couldn’t believe how after all the years we’ve been friends, he would say something so vicious. Sure, I got nervous sometimes. Everyone does. Don’t they? And haven’t I always been there for Patrick? I never made him feel like a freak when he talked about his problems.
I decided that I would show Patrick and Kate they were wrong. I quickly navigated to Ryan’s number in my contacts and stared at the ‘call’ button for about ten seconds. Then I put the phone down and turned the television on.
A guy with orange hair had just been voted off a singing competition when I went to the kitchen to attempt to find something marginally edible when I heard my cell phone ringing from the living room. By the time I got to it, the ringing had stopped. One missed call. Ryan.
“Goddamn it,” I said out loud. I waited a minute to see if a voicemail appeared. And then another minute. And another. He obviously hadn’t left a message.
I immediately went to call him back, but then decided to wait a minute as not to appear overeager. After what felt like an ice age had passed (which in reality had been about 45 seconds) I took a deep breath and called him back. The disadvantage of cell phone dialing was that it was instantaneous and eliminated that extra moment in which a person could chicken out any time over the course of having to press all ten digits to make the call.
“Hello?” I heard him say.
“Ryan?”
“Hey, Travis.”
“Hey,” I said back. “I saw that you called. What’s up?” I asked cautiously. Please don’t let him be calling to tell me he hates my guts.
“Well, we haven’t talked since last week. I guess I just figured you’d call me, but then you didn’t. I got worr
ied.”
I let out a big sigh.
“I was nervous about calling you,” I confessed. “I was worried you didn’t have a good time.”
“Really? I had a great time. Why would you think that I didn’t?”
Should I tell him the real reason? Should I bring up the saga of the kiss that never happened?
“I don’t know. I’ve been told that I worry too much,” I said.
“It’s all good,” he said. It was amazing how Ryan always sounded so calm and relaxed.
I was feeling less nervous, so before I could chicken out, I managed to ask, “So how do you feel about a second date?” I had a feeling since the whole guy-dating thing was new to him it would be up to me to make all the moves. This was something I wasn’t entirely comfortable with either, but it seemed like the only way we would make any progress.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
I had no idea what to suggest so I said the first thing that came into my head. “Why don’t you come over for dinner? I’ll make something.” I’ll make something? What the hell did I know how to make? My cooking skills were mostly limited to frozen things that came in cardboard boxes and macaroni and cheese. Maybe he would be happy with that.
“A home cooked meal? That sounds amazing,” he said enthusiastically.
Amazing. Now, not only was I committed to cooking something, but the pressure was on to live up to whatever delicious fantasy his brain was now dreaming up.
“Uh, sure,” I said, not sure at all. “A home cooked meal. Do you have any special requests?” I asked, hoping by some crazy cosmic intervention he might request something simple. Like Pop Tarts.
“I’ll leave that up to you,” Ryan said. “I’m not a picky eater.”
“Alright,” I said. “But don’t get your hopes up too high. I’m no Martha Stewart.”
“Who?” he asked.
This dude was seriously going to need a crash course in homosexual culture.
“Never mind,” I said. “So, can you come over tomorrow night around 6:00?”
“Sounds great,” he said.
The next day at school I decided still to avoid Patrick. Part of me felt as if I had overreacted to what he said. He did have my best interest at heart. I never thought I was so crazy that I needed to get professional help. Maybe I’m so crazy that I just don’t know it. But I still decided to wait and let Patrick sweat it out. Keeping him off my mind was relatively easy, as the whole school day was a bit of a blur since I was mostly preoccupied with planning my dinner menu.
It was better all-around for me to make something relatively uncomplicated, though it still had to be impressive enough to look like I knew what I was doing. It also had to be something that didn’t take a lot of preparation time as I still needed to go to the market after school and buy all the food. Eventually, I decided to make one of my mom’s go-tos that seemed easy enough: oven roasted chicken cutlets with rice and green beans. It was something I knew wouldn’t take a lot of time; the clock was ticking and I had less than two hours to get home with groceries and learn how to cook.
I arrived home with some chicken breasts, a can of green beans, a box of white rice, and a large premade Caesar salad. It was already almost 5:00 and I seriously needed to get my ass into gear. I Googled how long chicken should be cooked and got a variety of answers ranging anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours. This was not particularly helpful, and I definitely didn’t have time to watch a YouTube chicken tutorial. I decided one hour should be plenty of time.
I used a knife to slit a hole in the cellophane that was tightly wrapped around the chicken. Though I’d seen my mother prepare chicken many ways, probably hundreds of times, I had never actually touched raw chicken meat.
“This is really unpleasant,” I said to nobody, as I plopped the slimy bird parts into the baking pan.
My mom would usually bread the cutlets, but I hadn’t really thought of that until I was about to cook them and I was certain the only breadcrumbs in my house would be at the bottom of the toaster. While poking around to see what else I could put on them, a bottle of ranch dressing jumped out at me. I mean, it literally fell out of the cabinet and rolled under the table. Chicken and ranch are always paired together, right? It seemed logical to me, so I returned to the baking pan and slathered the cutlets with the dressing.
Once the chicken was in the oven, I filled a pot with water for the rice and set it on the stove. I dumped the green beans into a bowl and covered them with plastic wrap since they would only need a short trip to the microwave. With everything set in the kitchen, I had just enough time to run upstairs to shower and get dressed. In a genius move the night before, I had chosen and set aside the clothes that I’d be wearing for tonight’s date so I wouldn’t have to agonize over it while trying to prepare dinner.
When I returned to the kitchen to resume my foray into culinary arts, I only had about ten minutes before Ryan would arrive. I turned the heat on under the rice pot and stuck the green beans in the microwave. In the dining room, I arranged two place settings at the table and, in an effort to be somewhat romantic, lit two candles and turned down the lights. I switched the living room stereo on, which my dad had already conveniently tuned to easy listening.
I had just dumped the rice into the pot when the doorbell rang.
I opened the door and there was Ryan, cute as ever, in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a well-worn brown leather aviator jacket; a look I would never attempt to pull off. Somehow, on Ryan, it was perfect.
“Hey there,” I said as he walked in. I couldn’t help but smile.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” I said. “Here, I’ll take your coat.” As he took it off and handed it to me, I noticed he’d come empty-handed this time. “So, no ratchet or anything tonight?” I asked, as I placed his jacket on the coat rack near the front door.
“What?” he asked, but then realized what I meant. “Oh,” he chuckled. “Nah, I didn’t bring any stupid gifts tonight.”
“It wasn’t stupid. It was cute,” I said.
He put his hands in his pockets. “Well, I have a toolbox in my truck. You can pick something out if you want,” he said with a smirk.
“Maybe later,” I said. There was really only one tool I wanted to get my hands on, but that wasn’t happening any time in the immediate future.
“Everything should be ready in a few minutes,” I said, with Ryan following me into the kitchen.
The rice was just hitting the floor when I came in.
“What the hell?!” I shouted, watching the rice that was still cascading over the side of the pot and down the front of the stove, like Mount Uncle Ben had just erupted.
“Dude, how much rice are you making?” Ryan asked, as I turned the burner off.
“Only one box,” I said. It was nearly impossible to avoid stepping on it at this point.
“Only?” he asked incredulously. “A box of rice is supposed to feed, like, a hundred people.” He grabbed a wad of paper towels and looked at me with a stupid grin. “Don’t the directions say how much to use?”
“Well, I was running out of time. I didn’t read all the directions,” I confessed. “Or, actually, any of them.” I could feel myself turning red.
Ryan helped me clean the rice off the stove and floor, and afterward, I retrieved the chicken from the oven and placed it on the stovetop. I nuked the green beans for a couple minutes and then suggested we sit down to have the salad.
“I hope the rice is okay,” I said. “I mean, whatever is left in the pot.”
“Yeah, rice expands, like a thousand times when you cook it,” Ryan said.
“I knew it did,” I said. “Just not that much.”
“You know, they have a kind that only takes like two minutes and it’s a lot easier. That’s what we use at my house,” he said.
“It sounds like you know a lot more about this cooking stuff than I do,” I said. I knew Ryan had no intention of hurting my
feelings, but his casual way of spouting his cooking knowledge was making me feel more embarrassed.
“Well, the salad is good,” he said, enthusiastically.
“Well, it was just one of those salad-in-a-bag things,” I admitted.
“It’s still good,” he reaffirmed. “My dad is a great cook. I learned a lot from him. But I really never cook anything myself because he normally makes a big meal on the weekend and then we have leftovers and takeout during the week. Like, I’m not gonna make a lasagna just for me, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s why I never really cook either.” And also because I’m obviously physically incapable of making something edible that requires more than one ingredient or heat. “My dad doesn’t cook, like, ever. He won’t do anything domestic. A woman comes once a week to clean the house. He has his laundry sent out. Landscapers take care of the lawn. And he pretty much lives at the office.”
“It sounds like you’re not too crazy about him,” Ryan said.
“Well,” I said, thinking on it for a moment, “Sometimes I just feel like I don’t really have a dad.”
When I was younger, it used to upset me, having to see my friends actually having functional relationships with their fathers and that they actually did stuff together. They would go to games, take family vacations, build tree houses, and have days out at the beach, all of which were things that my father would never waste time on. The only trips I went on were either when mom and I went by ourselves or if I happened to get invited along with a friend or other relative. If I had asked for a tree house, he’d have surely hired someone else to build it. Sports were something to have on the television in the background while preparing contracts.
There were times I wondered if my dad always knew there was something a little different about me. Was there a time when I was a kid that I said or did something to lose his attention? Did he somehow know sooner than I did that I wasn’t like the other boys? Maybe he decided it was best just to tune me out altogether. Even if I was terrible at throwing a ball, it would have been nice to have been asked, even just once.
I didn’t really want to have a discussion about the dysfunctional relationship I had with my father. I picked up our empty salad plates and brought them into the kitchen. I surveyed the dinner I had made. The chicken looked dry and the rice felt hard. I should have known I couldn’t pull this off. What the hell were you thinking, Travis? I begrudgingly filled our dinner plates with the ranch chicken, volcanic rice and nuclear green beans, and brought them into the dining room.
“This looks great,” Ryan said. I don’t know if he actually meant it or if he was just being nice. It certainly didn’t look great to me, or at least, it didn’t look anything like when my mom made it.
“Save the compliments until we find out if this crap is any good,” I said, no longer optimistic about any part of the meal.
“You worry too much, man,” Ryan said. If only he knew how many times I’d heard that.
With a fork in my left hand and a knife in my right, I stabbed the chicken and started sawing away. It was extremely tough, and I silently prayed to the poultry gods that Ryan got a better piece, but, by the look on his face, I could tell he didn’t. I couldn’t watch as he took a bite. I took one, too.
“Interesting flavor,” he commented. That statement could have just as easily been a criticism as a compliment, and the way the night was unfolding, I knew to quit while I was ahead and not ask for further explanation.
I took another bite and swallowed after about a thousand chews.
“Okay,” I said. “This is terrible. It tastes like leather.”
“And… salad dressing?” Ryan asked.
“I improvised,” I said.
Shortly after, we discovered the rice was not fully cooked, just as I had expected. It was hard and had no taste at all, even after we loaded it up with salt and pepper.
I put down my fork and sat back in my chair with a sigh. This was not at all how I was hoping this night would go. We were supposed to sit down to a romantic dinner, then talk and get to know each other better until, by the end of the date, he fell madly in love with me. At this point I was surprised Ryan hadn’t already gone to McDonald’s and try to forget I ever existed.
“The green beans are good,” he said, interrupting my self-destructive train of thought.
“Of course they are. All I had to do was open a can,” I said, obviously overtaken by a foul mood. This was getting awkward and beyond embarrassing.
Ryan, who seemingly never ran out of optimism, tried to cheer me up. “So, it didn’t turn out the way you expected. It’s pretty good for someone that’s not used to cooking a full meal. All you have to do is tweak a couple things next time.”
“Next time I’m going to invite you for breakfast. I can at least manage to pour milk into cereal without making a mess. Most of the time.”
We left the mess in the dining room along with my broken dreams and went to sit in the living room. I flopped down on the sofa, still disheartened from my failed attempt at cooking dinner. Ryan sat next to me and I turned the television on. Ryan had gotten quiet, probably because he didn’t know what to say to me anymore since I was insisting on feeling miserable about dinner. On the television, a sitcom wife was playfully reprimanding her husband who had gotten himself into some wacky trouble.
“Do you ever wonder what it will be like? I asked, still looking forward at the screen.
“What?”
“You know,” I said. “Being married. Coming home to a husband. Someone making dinner. Eating at the table. Talking about your day.”
“Hmm. I guess I never really thought about it.”
I turned to look at him. “But you want to get married someday, right?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess.” He clearly was not interested in having this conversation. “Gotta use the bathroom,” he said, immediately getting up and trotting off down the hallway. Either this topic was making him extremely uncomfortable, or tonight’s dinner was about to come back out for an encore. Either way, it spelled bad news for me.
A minute later he returned and again sat next to me. There were no signs of just having barfed up his meal. At least I hadn’t poisoned him.
I couldn’t help but notice that our legs were just about touching. I tried to ignore it while I searched the TV for something else to watch, eventually stopping at Big Bang Theory.
“Is this good?” I asked.
“Yeah, I like this show,” he said.
“Cool,” I said. “I kind of feel like I could be in this show,” I said. “Like, there’s a little bit of me in all these characters.”
“Like what?” Ryan asked, sounding more interested in this conversation than the previous one about marriage.
“Well, I’m kind of neurotic, like Leonard. I think about sex too much, like Howard. Raj is clumsy when it comes to dating. I’m obviously not much better.” I was waiting for him to dispute that last one but that didn’t happen.
“What about Sheldon? How are you like him?” he asked.
I had to think about this for a minute. I shrugged. “Jim Parsons is gay,” I finally said. It was the only relatable thing that came to mind.
Ryan looked at me strangely. “For real?”
I shook my head disapprovingly. “We need to get you a subscription to Entertainment Weekly,” I said.
A second episode came on and his leg was still brushing against mine. It was trivial, but it was the closest thing we had to intimacy so far and it was driving me crazy. I decided to make a bold move and hold Ryan’s hand. I let my hand drift to the side of my leg, and after waiting an unnecessary length of time, I made the jump from my lap to his. The second my hand touched his, he flinched. This was definitely not the reaction I was going for. He seemingly froze. I laid my hand on his and he didn’t pull away, but he also didn’t react as if he was particularly comfortable with it. His hand remained rigid and after a minute or so I finally let my own hand make the long, lonely
journey back to my own lap, where it would presumably contemplate amputation. Ryan’s eyes stayed fixed on the television screen. Maybe it was him that was like Sheldon, who was completely impervious to intimacy. And I was like Amy, begging for affection and failing miserably.
We had settled into watching TV in uncomfortable silence when I heard the distinct sound of a car coming up the gravel driveway.
“Oh, no,” I said, running to look out the window. “Shit, it’s my dad.”
Ryan just stared for a moment.
“Come on,” I said, running to the dining room. “We have to get rid of everything.”
Ryan followed me into the dining room.
“I’ll take care of this,” I said. “Go in the kitchen and find somewhere to hide the pots and stuff,” I instructed.”
“O…kay,” Ryan responded, sounding uncertain.
I was trying to figure out how to carry everything in the dining room out at once, but time was running out. My father would be coming through the door any second. I grabbed the corners of the table cloth and pulled it, along with all of its contents, making a big sack, off the table and ran into the kitchen. Ryan was just slamming the cabinet under the sink.
“Here, take this,” I said, handing him the table cloth full of dishes, silverware, and two candles I hoped I’d remembered to blow out. I opened the door to the basement. “Go! My dad can’t see this,” I said. Ryan reluctantly walked through and I quickly closed the door behind him. I threw the last remnants of my cooking disaster in the garbage as I heard the front door shut. I ran to the doorway leading into the living room and my dad turned to look at me.
“Hi,” I said awkwardly.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Everything okay?” he asked, probably because I looked like a crazy person.
“Yeah, everything’s good,” I lied. “I didn’t know you were coming home tonight. I was just surprised to hear someone come in.” It sounded somewhat believable, right?
“I left you a message that I would be home,” he said, placing his briefcase and suitcase down. “New jacket?” he asked, noticing Ryan’s jacket on the coat rack.
“Um, no. It’s not mine,” I said, searching my brain for an explanation. “I borrowed it from Patrick,” I lied, again.
“Ah.” He walked through the living room toward the kitchen and stopped at the dining room. “What happened to the table cloth?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly, and he looked at me. “I mean, I spilled something on it so I threw it in the washing machine.”
“I hope you’re not putting anything on the bare wood,” he said. “Anything hot or wet will leave a permanent mark.”
“It just happened tonight, dad. I only took it off a few minutes ago.” I said, finally saying something that wasn’t a complete lie. When he turned to walk into the kitchen I quickly grabbed the two glasses that were on the coffee table, one of which was still half full of soda. I tossed the empty one under the couch. I quickly followed him into the kitchen, hoping I hadn’t left anymore evidence behind.
“What is that awful smell?” he asked, taking a glass from the cabinet.
He was certainly picking a fine time to be overly observant. Some days I think I could have had a sex change operation and he probably wouldn’t notice until the bill for the surgery came. Now, all of a sudden, he’s an investigative reporter.
“I made one of those frozen dinners tonight,” I said. “You know how bad they smell sometimes.”
He filled the glass with water from the tap and started to drink, noticing me staring at him. “Do you need something?” he asked.
“No, I’m good,” I said.
After a moment he asked, “Why are you being so strange? Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked, accusingly.
“Of course not,” I said. Except that I’m gay and I invited a guy over for a date and he’s hiding out in the basement while I keep making up shit because you won’t stop asking me questions while I’m trying to come up with a way to get you the hell out of here so I can sneak the guy in the basement outside.
I was still holding the half full glass of Coke and decided it was time to do something drastic. I walked across the kitchen until I got close enough to him and pretended to trip, purposely spilling the soda on his pants.
“Travis!” he yelled, turning around.
“Sorry,” I quickly said, trying to sound innocent. “I was coming to put this in the sink and I tripped.”
He grabbed a towel and started dabbing the back of his pants. “You’re a real piece of work,” he said.
“I’ll clean this up,” I said, grabbing a few paper towels. “You can go change your pants.”
“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. For the first time tonight, something I did actually had gone as planned. I felt like genius. As I wiped the floor, I kept an eye on him through the doorway and watched until I knew he was upstairs.
I opened the basement door and blinked the light. Ryan appeared at the bottom of the steps.
“Come on,” I said quietly.
He slowly walked up the stairs and I kept an eye on the doorway, looking into the living room.
“I put that stuff in the laundry room,” he whispered.
“Okay,” I whispered back, still watching the living room. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“It’s okay. I guess,” he said. I grabbed a hoodie I had left in the kitchen and handed it to him.
“You have to go. I’ll give you your other jacket later,” I said.
I opened the back door and he walked through and then turned around to look at me. He had a blank look on his face and I couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking. This night had been an epic failure all the way around.
“Bye,” was all he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, quickly shutting the door before I could mess up anything else.
Lucky Page 6