Two Roads from Here

by Teddy Steinkellner

  * * *

  ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR DAWGS?”

  “YEAH!”

  “I SAID, ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR DAWGS??”

  “YEAH!!!”

  “WE LOVE YOU, DESEAN!”

  “I SEE YOU, SCROTES!”

  “TUA, HAVE MY BABIES!!!”

  The guys from the team were all together, up on the Greek stage. They were in a big huddle, wearing their blue and gold Bulldog jerseys. DeSean was in the center, barking at the rest of them, bouncing up and down on his crutches, rocking his fatty full-leg cast with the entire team’s signatures.

  I wasn’t up there with the guys.

  I mean, obviously.

  The music started. The huddle broke. Each guy spun out, one by one, and struck a pose.

  A ballet pose.

  And yeah, every single dude up there—DeSean, Tua, Nesto, Hector, Cody, Scrotes, all of them—in addition to their jerseys, they were also wearing puffy pink tutus.

  And at the sight of those meatheads in those froufrou skirts, the crowd in the Greek went even more monkeyshit than before.

  I was sitting in the middle of the masses, watching my former teammates.

  I was the only one not cheering.

  The Male Ballet is a time-honored tradition. It’s a crazy-ass, man-humping, motorboating riot. Next to maybe Grease Pole Day, it’s probably my favorite day of the year.

  Last year I was the star of the dance. There was this one part when the song “Santa Baby” started playing. I was wearing a Santa hat and a wifebeater so tight it barely covered my nips, and holding a giant, three-foot candy cane. The whole team got in a row and bent over, and I smacked each of them on the ass with the cane like I was the pledge master of a kinky Christmas frat. Then the music switched to that song “Dancing Queen,” and someone put a feather boa around my neck, and I led all the boys in a choreographed disco dance. People were shocked by my surprisingly fluid moves, and everyone called it the best Male Ballet ever. Even my dad and brother had to admit it when they saw it on YouTube that night. “Fat Sexy Santa Punishes his Naughty List”—ten thousand hits and counting.

  So that was last year. Some hilarious groovaliciousness from Mr. Big Mack. All-time life boner moment, for sure.

  And this year . . . I guess I was the star of Male Ballet again.

  The show kicked off with some fancy classical music. The guys pranced around in a circle on their tippy-toes. Everyone whooped and whistled for them, and I clapped too, because hey, those are my guys, and even if I let them down this season, I’ve got a lot of memories with those idiots. Anyway, then the music changed, and this super-ancient pop song started to play: “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

  Enter Scrotes. He jumped out with his head shaved—which was crazy, I’ve never seen that ass weasel without his ass weasel bowl cut—and he ripped off his jersey, and he had something painted on his chubster tummy: a cartoon bulldog, and some words, too:

  BIG MACK.

  Oh, so this was how it was gonna be.

  I stood up in my seat and waved my hands toward myself like, “All right, I can take it, bring it on, guys,” but no one cared, because everyone’s eyes were still glued on Scrotes, who jiggled his boobs around and pretended to suck on them—is that a thing that I do? Tua and Ernesto danced out, and the team surrounded them in a circle, and Tua climbed onto Scrotes’s shoulders, and Nesto jumped onto both of them, and it made for a painfully familiar image.

  That song “Bad Day” by that whiny loser guy started to play, and Ernesto and Tua pretended to fall off the dude pile and on to Scrotes’s skull, and then Scrotes staggered around for a second, looking hella brain dead, completely concussed.

  Then the music switched again, and that song about liking big butts came on. Scrotes turned his back to us and pulled his pants down, and he fully mooned the entire Greek. Written on his bare ass was LITTLE BITCH. He worked that hairy thing like he was grinding it up and down a strip club pole. A few kids in the crowd even flung dollar bills at me. Scrotes kept shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking that healthy butt until a bunch of teachers dragged him offstage, pants still below his cheeks, everyone at school still bouncing and shouting, pointing and laughing, laughing at me, same as they’ve been doing every friggin’ day for the past six weeks. Only now they weren’t doing it in secret. Now I was a school-wide meme wherever I went. The fatty who failed. The lonely oaf.

  I had to get out of there.

  Why the hell was I fool enough to subject myself to this? I should have gone off-campus for lunch, or eaten by myself in the bathroom, like I’ve done every other day lately. But at least I was smart enough to get out now, at least I could—

  “Yo, BRIAN!” someone yelled.

  I spun around to see who—

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  DeSean Weems was only a foot away from me, even though he’d been onstage, like, five seconds before, because hey, even with a compound fracture in his tibia and fibula, dude’s apparently still the fastest QB in the state. My boys Ernesto and Tua were right behind D, their arms folded all nightclub-bouncer-style. Queen Nikki was at DeSean’s side. She was literally perched on him, like a tiny bird. Some of her long wavy hair was draped over his shoulder, and she was looking up at him with those deep blue eyes of hers. Sweet middle-aged Jesus, that girl is beautiful.

  “So . . . Big Mack,” DeSean said, making the most of every syllable. “Just wanted to see how you liked your musical tribute. You like it, bro?”

  “You know, whatever,” I said, hoping I was smiling. “It’s important to laugh, right? We’ve got to laugh at ourselves. Even if the season didn’t quite go the way we wanted, you know?”

  I tried to laugh as I said that. DeSean laughed too, but the way he did it was different. He laughed all over-the-top, like an old-school video-game boss.

  “Awesome, buddy,” he said. “Just the awesomest. Glad to see you have such a healthy perspective.”

  He put his fingers to his chin, like he was pretending to think, like he hadn’t already scripted this entire scene in his mind, word for word.

  “But wait. . . . Have you ever stopped to think about why our season didn’t go as planned?”

  “Hey,” I said. “I should probably get going.”

  “Maybe because, just like last year, you were too pussy-ass to play through a little boo-boo. Maybe because your pussy-ass quitting ruined our O line, which put me in harm’s way. Maybe because your decision to be a little bitch ruined both our season and my body, which means I’ve stopped getting recruiting letters from SC and started getting them from Fresno State.”

  I tried laughing again.

  “Fresno State . . . At least you’ll still get to be a Bulldog, eh?”

  DeSean growled at me.

  “Look, man,” I tried. “I don’t wanna focus on negative stuff. I just want to keep things light and fun.”

  “You’re not supposed to have fun,” DeSean snapped back. “You’re supposed to be depressed. You’re supposed to be suicidal, bro. Come on, asshole. You too developmentally challenged to figure that out? Earth to dumbshit: Everyone hates you. That was the whole goddamn point of Nikki’s dance.”

  Huh?

  I looked at Nikki. She wouldn’t look back at me.

  “Who else do you think choreographed that bad boy? Granted, the concept was pure DeSean. You like that ending? I thought ‘little bitch’ was a nice touch.”

  “Ha,” I said. “Super-funny stuff.” I gave him a little dap on the arm. “You know, man, I’ve actually gotta get somewhere before fifth.”

  “I heard a rumor,” DeSean said, “that that’s really what it says on your ass.”

  “Dude,” I said. “I already told you and the guys so many times, I’m sorry for quitting. I didn’t mean to eff up the season. I’m so sorry.”

  “Duuude,” DeSean said, saying the word slowly and bringing Nikki closer to him at the same time, in a totally rehearsed way, because he’d definitely planned exactly what was coming nex
t.

  “Fuuuhhh.”

  “Kkkkkkkk.”

  “Yooouuu.”

  I wanted to reshatter his leg right then. I wanted to so hard. But at the same time, I had to save some dignity. I tried to leave, but as soon as I made a move, Ernesto and Tua blocked my way. I had no idea what they were doing, no clue what could possibly be more humiliating than everything that had come before. But then I found out, because each of them leaned in and grabbed a leg of my shorts, and before I could book it they just yanked and—

  “NOPE!” DeSean shouted to all the people crowded around us in the Greek, pointing down at my shame. “LOOKS LIKE IT DOESN’T SAY ‘LITTLE BITCH’ ON THERE LIKE WE THOUGHT! JUST SOME SKID MARKS ON HIS TIGHTY-WHITIES, THAT’S ALL!”

  • • •

  All those people are assholes.

  DeSean. My ex-teammates. Everyone at school. Coach Dent. Hell, I’ll throw my family in there too. And Nikki Foxworth, that two-faced whore. Can’t forget her.

  All those people are dead to me. They can burn in hell forever.

  And me? What am I supposed to do now?

  Well, it’s simple, isn’t it?

  I’ve got to keep on dancing.

  * * *

  4. COLE MARTIN-HAMMER

  * * *

  Cole,” Neil said. “Must you keep checking your phone?”

  “One more time,” I said, refreshing yet again.

  Simultaneously, to satiate the changeling, I lobbed a Slim Jim chunk at him. Neil opened his mouth wide to catch it but missed, the beef tube bouncing off his forehead and onto the ground. He then picked it up and stuck it in his mouth all hurriedly. Gerd, I love that little guy.

  “Find anyfing dis dime?” Neil said.

  I shut my eyes and sighed.

  “Still no word. These colleges say they’ll e-mail with their decision Friday afternoon, but then Friday afternoon comes and it’s like, where’s my damn e-mail? Guh. I feel like murdering some exotic birds.”

  “I’m sure you’re in good shape,” Neil said. “What with your improvement and all.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. Two hundred points. I should be golden.”

  Neither of us spoke for several seconds.

  “By the way, Changeling, thank you again. You know, for everything.”

  “I told you,” Neil said softly. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Totes. For sure.”

  Part of me still feels awkward about the whole SAT thing, even a weensy bit dirty. My head tells me I was only taking advantage of what was available to me and that there’s nothing wrong with that. Yet the raw, churning ache I get in my stomach every time I try to discuss it with Neil suggests otherwise, to say nothing of the trouble I’ve had falling asleep.

  But I’m just anxious about Stanford’s decision—that’s all that is. And I didn’t hurt anyone else, not really. I mean, not to the extent that I already harm peeps via gossip anyway. And come on, Neil helped me execute my plan. He’s, like, the most moral soul alive. He wouldn’t have aided me in the service of genuine evil. I deserved my higher score. I outsmarted the system, fair and square. He believes that. I’m sure of it.

  “Moving on,” Neil said. “Should we get back to work?”

  It was after school, halfway through December, the last Friday before winter break. The two of us were standing outside the theater, one pair of thespians among thirty or so others. The air was filled with that distinctly panicked callbacks energy.

  I patted my diminutive friend on the head.

  “If you say so. But look, sidekick, I can see into the future. I know exactly how this whole thing’s gonna go. I’m a shoo-in for Cat in the Hat; there’s no question about it. Most sheer talent, most charisma, and this is my senior musical—I’ve earned this. You’ve got a shot at Jojo if you play your cards right, but don’t choke onstage or else Bayer’s gonna cast you as a Who, or shudder, a Thing. I think Sofia would make a lovely Gertrude McFuzz, and Margot is like the dictionary definition of the Sour Kangaroo. And as far as Horton goes . . . I mean, I don’t know. I’m not positive there’s a Horton in our midst. It’s like, think about it for a min: Who among us theater kids really has the girth and gravitas to convincingly portray a sad, lonely elephant . . . ?”

  Then I saw him.

  Just like that, there he was.

  Plodding along, right toward us. Toward me. Gray hoodie, gray sweatpants, belly as big as a prize-winning pumpkin, shiny chrome scalp, and a frown on his face.

  Horton the elephant.

  • • •

  People assume I was born this way.

  They take it for granted that I up and sprang from my mama’s womb fully formed, just as deviously bitchtastic as I am now.

  People are idiots.

  I was a shy, bitter, confused kid growing up. Shy because I was the only black kid at my elementary and middle schools, and I wanted more than anything to fit in. Bitter because of stuff with my dad. Confused because I didn’t know my sexuality for a long while, and especially confused because everyone else seemed to know it for me.

  These were not ideal circumstances for a lonely lil’ loser entering the ninth grade.

  From day one, the assholes preyed on me mercilessly. The baseball players applied medieval torture to me every day in the PE locker room. DeSean’s football goons invented sexually explicit slurs for me like they were J. R. R. Tolkien creating a new language. Even the wrestlers had the audacity to get in on the homophobia, and I mean, come on . . . wrestling.

  Thank heavens there was theater.

  Once I transferred out of PE and into Mr. Bayer’s beginning acting class, everything changed, all at once. I changed. Being onstage gave me the confidence to say what I truly think and never hold back. The theater community gave me the pride to be who I am and to like who I like. Hanging out backstage and in the dressing room gave me the never-ending source of scandalous gossip that continues to serve as my lifeblood to this very day.

  And, of course, theater gave me Brian.

  When Bayer initially called the two of us onstage to do a scene together in beginning drama, I remember looking up at that squash-faced, scowly mouthed brute and thinking, Oh no, what have I done to deserve this?

  Yet from the first-ever moment Brian wrapped me in one of his jelly roll hugs, it immediately hit me, like—well, too soon, I suppose—but like a big ol’ ka-thunk, right on the noggin:

  I realized I love this guy.

  I loved how playful Brian and I could be together, making fun of the world on a mischief frequency only we could hear. I loved how nonjudgmental he was, how he never fabricated any BS tension over whether I found him attractive, which many of the other paranoid theater guys tended to do at the time. I loved his belly jiggles, his butt wiggles, his piggish giggles, and more than anything, I loved his talent.

  Let’s just say I’ve been out-acted only once in my entire career. Freshman year. The end-of-year showcase. The “tell me about the rabbits” scene from Of Mice and Men. I was, of course, my usual breathtaking self as George, but Brian’s portrayal of Lennie, I mean . . . shit. Second best was good enough for me that day. A star knows a supernova when it sees one.

  Sadly, like all beautiful things, Brian the actor died far too young. He told me that June that he wanted to try out for plays with me in tenth grade, but then his father, probably worried his son was being homo-fied by yours truly, forced Bri to enroll in weight-lifting period the following fall and focus on football full-time. And although Brian and I continued to joke around with each other in the halls every once in a while, it was clear that our connection, our practically best friend bond, was very much a relic of the past.

  And yet here he was, all these years later, today at the Seussical callbacks. Here he was, standing before Neil and me, a glum and determined look on his face.

  The prodigal porker returneth.

  • • •

  “Well, well, well,” I said. “Slap my daddy and call him deranged. If i
t isn’t Mr. Big.”

  Brian’s forehead turned mildly pink.

  “Hi, Cole. Sorry it’s, you know, been a while. Can I . . . talk to you?”

  I tilted my head toward Neil. I clapped my hands together twice.

  “Changeling, my boy, be a precious gemstone and grab me some Horton sides, will you? And two Dasanis?”

  Neil scurried off. I gave Brian a hard stare.

  “I assume you’re here to audition for the musical. You know, you would be ideal for the role of Horton. I’m already getting chills imagining you singing ‘Alone in the Universe.’ ”

  Brian scratched his chest. “Thanks? But I don’t know. After lunch the other day, I don’t think I want to be up in front of people anytime soon.”

  I raised a finger in the air. I jabbed it at him dramatically.

  “Aha! I knew that’s why you were here! I’m sorry, Brian. That must have been really embarrassing for you, baring your ass in public for the five hundredth time.”

  “Hey,” Brian said, grinning despite himself. “Come on, now.”

  I let a smile spread across my face too. But not a gleeful twinkler like Big Bri’s. No, this one was more, shall we say . . . supervillainesque.

  “I know real reason you come see me,” I said in an Eastern European vampire voice. “Eet ees because you desire . . . revenge.”

  Brian’s mouth fell slightly open. “Well, yeah,” he said. “How’d you know?”

  I made a scoffing sound. “Daddy, please! You’re hardly the first customer at the Ye Olde Gossip Shoppe. People love doing deals with this handsome devil. So what you looking for here, Biggie? Shameful family baggage? Adulterous online correspondences? Secret gay pics?”

  “I don’t care,” Brian said without hesitation. “I just want to ruin his life.”

  “Fair enough. And whose life, may I ask, will we be ruining?”

  “DeSean Weems.”

  I stepped back and whistled. “Damn, boy. C’est impossible. The kid is squeaky freaky clean. It’s like he’s been running for president his whole damn life. He attends church, seems to respect women okay, doesn’t break any laws that I’m aware of. . . .”