by Roan Parrish
“Because he’s not self-loathing,” Dorothy mutters, and DeShawn elbows her.
“He just wouldn’t,” says Carlos, like it’s obvious. “Besides, DeShawn’s uncle is, like, the hottest guy you’ve ever seen, and Rafe doesn’t look at him the way he looks at you.” DeShawn looks embarrassed but everyone else nods their assent.
“Wow, seriously,” says Mikal, staring off into the distance dreamily. He shakes his head.
“Well, he never really dates anyone,” Carlos starts to say, but Mischa cuts him off.
“Okay,” she says, “but how do you know he just wasn’t attracted to DeShawn’s uncle? That doesn’t mean he’d never go for a straight guy.”
“Um, no offense,” says Mikal, “but you’ve never seen DeShawn’s uncle so you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mischa looks confused.
“He’s fine,” Dorothy says. “Like, for real, undeniably.”
“I still don’t get how—”
“Rafael touches us if we touch him first,” Ricky says, her voice flat, her gaze distant, and I know she means the other kids, since she doesn’t touch anyone. “Only for two seconds. Then he stops. He shakes hands with grown-ups but never touches them even if they touch him first. You have never touched Rafael. But Rafael touches you at least five times every workshop. And you’re a grown-up.”
Everyone stares at her in silence, including me.
“What did I miss?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the crowd as he walks back over to us and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“The viscosity of oil changes based on temperature so you have to use a multigrade oil to account for heat fluctuation.” Ricky doesn’t miss a beat, and her eyes stay glued to the engine block the entire time. There’s general throat-clearing and knuckle-cracking and then Mikal starts to laugh.
“What?” says Rafe, and everyone just shakes their heads.
“See ya next week, Winchester,” Carlos calls as the group fractures and everyone goes their separate ways. Okay, I guess Winchester is kind of a badass nickname.
The kids all basically told me that they know I’m—that Rafe and I—whatever—and nothing happened.
Nothing happened at all.
“So, um,” I say to Rafe once everyone’s gone. “Do you want to run?” I brought my running clothes in case he did, so we wouldn’t have to go back to my neighborhood. It seems only fair.
Rafe looks conflicted.
“I can’t today,” he says.
I didn’t realize how much I was counting on him saying yes. The idea that now we’re going to go our separate ways makes me feel twitchy and wrong. But why would he want to hang out with me? I didn’t call him and tell him what he needed to hear. I came and did the workshop and never mentioned it. Even fourteen-year-olds have more balls than me. And Rafe deserves that. Um, not a fourteen-year-old, I mean. Someone who isn’t a coward and a fucking phony.
“No problem,” I say. “I get it. Um, see you next week?”
Something flashes in Rafe’s eyes. Gone is the even-tempered guy who was here during the workshop and in his place is the intense one that the kids were talking about. Rafe steps up to me and slides one hand around the back of my neck, shaking me lightly.
“This has nothing to do with that,” he says.
I just shrug.
“I’m serious, Colin. I meant what I said. You let me know when you’re ready. Everything’s fine.”
Hunh. That’s not actually what he said.
“Why don’t you come with me?”
“What? Oh, nah.” Jesus, the last thing I want is to tag along because Rafe feels sorry for me. Of course he has shit to do and real friends.
“Look,” Rafe says, putting a little bit more pressure on my neck. “I’d like to spend time with you, but there’s somewhere I need to be. If you come with me, I get the best of both worlds. What do you say?”
It must be nice to have somewhere you need to be. Besides work, I mean. And I don’t really want to go sit at home the rest of the day, so I find myself nodding.
“Okay.”
He smiles and leans a little closer and says, “You don’t even know what you just signed on for,” his tone managing to make his words seem filthy.
Jesus. Rafe glances down at the front of my jeans and his smile turns predatory.
“Careful, Colin.”
His hold on me turns to a caress, fingers stroking the nape of my neck. His eyes may be teasing, but the heat there is real. What would he do if I leaned up and kissed him? If I wrapped my arms around him? God, have I ever hugged a man before?
When Mom died, Pop hugged me, I think. Luther did at the funeral, too. But not since then. A few girls have hugged me at bars. Flirtatious pressings together that I think were mostly about rubbing their tits against my chest. The idea of Rafe hugging me—shit, even the word sounds childish—pressing against me, holding me, our whole bodies in contact—makes my heart beat faster.
“What?” Rafe asks, studying my face. “What were you just thinking about?”
I drop my eyes to the ground. “What? Uh, nothing,” I say, and I pull away from him. “So, that Mischa is pretty chatty.”
Rafe nods and runs a hand through his hair, releasing the scent of something spicy.
“She just moved here from Georgia. She knew Mikal from some Facebook thing.”
“Does she play soccer?”
“I don’t know,” Rafe says, cocking his head. “Why?”
I shake my head. “No, I just—doesn’t she look like she should play soccer?”
Rafe smiles. “I guess I can see it.”
“Anyway.”
“Did you drive or train?”
“Drove.”
“You want to follow me or leave your car?”
“I’ll follow you. Where are we going?”
“West Philly. Books Through Bars packing session.”
“Uh. What?”
“You’ll see.”
Rafe winds through Saturday traffic: up past the art museum and over the river, then through University City into a neighborhood I haven’t been in. We park in a lot between a community garden with a huge mural on the wall, a bar with outdoor seating strung with lanterns, and a Vietnamese restaurant with its windows open wide enough for the smells to make my stomach growl.
“You need a snack?” Rafe teases. “There’s usually bagels and stuff inside.”
I shake my head. It’s only a working theory, but my stupid breathing thing seems to be better when I’m hungry.
“There’s only an hour and a half or so left,” Rafe’s saying. I nod, still not sure where we’re going. Outside the entrance, card tables are filled with haphazardly stacked books, with signs that say Free and Help yourself.
The second the door clangs shut behind us, several voices call out, “Rafe!”
He picks his way between long tables crowded with chairs on either side, at which people are busily writing, stacking books, and wrapping them in brown paper. Almost everyone seems to know him, half of them shaking his hand, hugging him, or patting him on the back. At least three seem to have urgent things to talk to him about, but the scratch of packing tape being torn and the ripping of paper grocery bags makes it hard to hear the conversations.
“Hey, bud,” says a man in shredded jeans, a worn T-shirt, and purple hiking boots. He claps a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen you for a few weeks. How’ve you been doing?” The guy says this like there’s a special meaning to it, and I feel my neck muscles tense up.
Rafe glances at me sheepishly but just says, “Not bad. Stuff at the YA’s been a little crazy lately.” The guy’s expression turns even more sympathetic and he pats Rafe on the arm. He’s probably in his midforties, but his expression is as sincere as a little kid’s.
“Colin, this is Tony,” Rafe says, cutting the guy off before he can say anything. I stick out my hand automatically, tensing since the cut is still a bit sore, but Tony’s handshake is gentle, if overlong. “I
t’s Colin’s first time,” Rafe says, “so I thought I’d just get him situated and take him through a few packages. Then I’ll make those calls.”
“Great, great. Good to see you. We’re being a bit careful with tape today because of those packages that got sent back. Well, and because we’re running out, like always.” Rafe smiles and nods. “Okay. Glad you’re here, Colin,” Tony says, and then he’s called away by a skinny girl in jeans and about three layers of flannel even though I’m starting to sweat because the small room is so crowded.
“So,” Rafe says, walking over to a corrugated plastic mail bin full of letters. “People who are incarcerated across Pennsylvania write to us and request books.” He rips open the letter. “They say what kinds of books they’re interested in—sometimes a specific book, sometimes a genre or a subject. Like, here.” He hands me the letter. “This man wants a dictionary and books on World War II.”
The handwriting in the letter is the neatest I’ve ever seen. It looks like an old-fashioned love letter or something, every loop perfectly formed. I guess you have a lot of time to practice penmanship in prison.
Thank you for the books you sent on dogs, the letter says. I have read them three times so far. I enjoy the pictures too so if there are histories of this war with pictures then great! The paper is thinner than the lined paper I used in high school.
“Once we know what he wants,” Rafe continues, “we go look up which prison he’s in and see if there are any restrictions on what we can send.” He follows a line on the sign taped to the wall with his finger. “Okay, no hardcovers.” He grabs a paperback dictionary from a stack of fifty or so against the far wall and then gestures for me to follow him down a steep staircase. “Dictionaries are a really popular request so we get them wholesale. The rest of the books are donated.” He hits a button and the basement illuminates in a crackle of dusty, mismatched bulbs. It’s a lot cooler down here, and it smells like mold.
“All the shelves are labeled by topic. Fiction’s upstairs and nonfiction’s down here.” He points to the right. “World War II” is written in faded blue bubble letters on a sign laminated with tape.
“Rafe, what is this? Why are these people sending books to people in prison?” I’m overwhelmed by strangeness. Like I’ve gone to sleep and woken up somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“Well, people in prison want to read too, Colin.”
“Aren’t there libraries?” I know I’ve seen that in movies.
“There are. But they’re extremely underfunded and very small. And copies of popular books—dictionaries, popular fiction, anything with sex or violence in it—have a way of disappearing. Besides, a lot of incarcerated folks have read everything in their prison’s library, so this gives them a chance to request things they couldn’t get otherwise.”
Rafe’s voice is animated, passionate.
“I get that,” I say. “But, I mean, aren’t they supposed to be being punished?”
Rafe pulls himself up straight and it’s only then that I realize how often he leans in toward me. He seems more remote, and when he speaks, he sounds impatient.
“People make mistakes, Colin. That doesn’t mean they deserve to suffer forever. Besides, self-education will be an advantage to them when they’re released.”
I nod, feeling like I’ve waded into waters that are deeper than I suspected.
“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” I say. “I just didn’t know this was, like, a thing.”
Rafe touches my shoulder lightly, turning me toward the books.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Do you want to pick a book for him? A softcover.”
I don’t really get what we’re doing here, but I flip through a few books on World War II, looking for one that doesn’t seem too dry. Finally, I find a good one and hold it out to Rafe.
“He said he wanted pictures,” I say, and Rafe smiles.
Upstairs, Rafe grabs us the corner of a table and shows me how to respond to the letter and package the books for mailing. The other people at the table all seem to know each other, and Rafe introduces me.
“So,” a girl with artfully styled hair says, “do you live in the neighborhood?” She’s just trying to be polite, I know, and make conversation, but though the people don’t all look the same, they all look different than me and I’m hyperaware that I don’t know what I’m doing.
“No, I live in South Philly,” I say. Then, because these are Rafe’s friends—or acquaintances, at least—I add, “You?”
“Yeah, I live at 48th and Kingsessing.” She points south. “So, like, what’s your story? I haven’t seen you here before.”
I fucking hate that question. What’s your story, like the person expects you to entertain them or something. I think of all the conversations I could start, the topics I could bring up, and the jokes I could make to get in with them and find that none of them really seem suited to this crowd. In fact, I have no idea how to make them like me.
“Um, no story, man. I’m an auto mechanic.”
“Oh. Cool. I’ve always wanted to do a skillshare about how to fix cars. Neat.” But she keeps looking at me like she’s waiting for me to explain myself and my presence here and I don’t know what she expects. And what the hell is a skillshare?
“So….” She tries again. “Have you been involved in prison justice and decarceration before, or…?”
“Uh… what’s decarceration?”
She seems puzzled and looks around at the others. “Oh well, it’s trying to get the state not to funnel any more money into building prisons and to eventually release incarcerated folks from prison, you know?”
Everyone else at the table nods as they pack their books.
“Um, is that… I mean… you don’t really want to release people from prison, though, right? Like, what about murderers and rapists?”
Every head at the table snaps up to look at me. A few start to say something but then look at Rafe and look at each other, puzzled.
“How’s it going, Colin,” Tony says, coming to lean over me on the table.
“Um, fine.” I lean away from him.
“Cool, cool.” He hesitates. “Okay, well, just let me know if you get stuck.”
“Am I doing something wrong?” I ask Rafe quietly.
He shakes his head. I meant with the people at our table, but Rafe says, “He’s just making sure, since it’s your first time.”
“Dude, stop saying that. You make me sound like a virgin.”
I’m joking, but Rafe’s expression changes quickly and he swallows hard. Which, of course, makes my stupid dick sit up and take notice again. Rafe clears his throat.
“I’m gonna get another.” I gesture to the letter bin.
This letter is from a woman. It’s dumb, I guess, but I never thought about the fact that there are women are in prison too. Her name’s Jane and she wants romance novels set in Scotland. I wander into the room with the fiction, where it quickly becomes clear not only that a lot of the romances are set in Scotland but also that you can tell just by the covers, all of which feature plaid, bare-chested men in kilts, or both.
I grab a few of the least tattered ones, but instead of going back to my table I veer right and go in the basement, hoping to delay the moment when I have to make small talk with the other volunteers. Okay, they seem friendly, and obviously they’re doing a nice thing, but… I don’t know, there’s something about them that I’m clearly missing. Like, they all seem to agree with each other without saying anything, but I’m not sure what they agree about. And Rafe clearly agrees with… whatever they’re doing, and I don’t like not getting something about him.
I lean against a shelf marked “Prison Abolition” and look at the books I grabbed. The first one is called Kiss of the Highlander, and the cover shows the bottom half of a man’s face and his bare shoulders draped in plaid. I can’t tear my eyes away from the cover because the mouth looks kind of like Rafe’s mouth. I’ve never read a romance novel, never even seen one
except when people are reading them on the train. Curious, I flip it open to read just the beginning.
I startle at a hand on my shoulder and practically decapitate myself jerking around to look up at Rafe.
“Jesus,” he says. “I thought you left.”
“Sorry,” I say, pushing myself up and holding the books behind my back. “Just, um, getting some books.”
“What’d you get?”
“Oh, just, you know.”
“Nope, I don’t.” He looks quizzical.
“Um.” I hold out the books.
Rafe laughs. “Very steamy, Colin. So.” He leans in close. “Do highlanders do it for you?”
“Well, I saw the movie. Queen. Best soundtrack ever.”
“Mmhmm. Well, it’s about time to go, if you want to come finish up this last package.”
Thank god. “Sure.”
Back at our table, a skinny guy wearing a bike helmet is talking loudly about how everyone should come to a film screening later that night. Everyone nods like they already know about it, but he never says what the movie is. I keep my head down and write back to Jane.
Hi Jane, I write. I have to admit I’ve never read a romance novel so I hope these are the kind of thing you were thinking of. I read the very beginning of the time travel one just now and it seems pretty cool and mysterious. Then the other one says on the back that it’s supposed to be funny so I hope it is. Nothing worse than when someone says something’s funny but it’s not. Have a good one. Colin.
I nudge Rafe. “I don’t know what to say. Is this okay, or…?”
Rafe reads it over my shoulder and he bites his lip.
“I can—”
Rafe bumps my shoulder. “It’s perfect.”
I wake up on Sunday in a shitty mood. I don’t realize how shitty until I go to make coffee and Shelby darts in front of me and I have to basically throw myself against the wall to avoid stepping on her.
“Fuck!”
I punch the wall in a flash of hot anger, which, it turns out, just hurts a lot. It’s not a good start to the day, and every little thing irritates me more than the last. I have a voice mail message from Sam from last night, asking where I am and accusing me of “never being around anymore.” Yeah, like he’s ever around since he married Liza. We used to hang out all the time, but once they moved in together, he always wanted us to come to their house. And it wasn’t the same. I’m out of fucking milk, so I shove handfuls of cereal into my mouth from the box while slumped on the couch.