Fourth and Long

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Fourth and Long Page 4

by Chris Scully


  I let him go with a shove and stalked off the field. So much for not fucking with the universe.

  TWITTER has nothing on the internal gossip network of a high school. Fifteen minutes later, word of my “fight” with Brad had spread throughout the student body, judging by the looks I got as I walked down the hallway. It didn’t seem as though anyone knew the actual cause yet, but it was still an unpleasant feeling to be the subject of speculation and feel all those eyes on you; twenty years ago I wouldn’t have been able to bear it, but I was a reasonably secure middle-aged man in a teenager’s body, and this was only a small sample of what Jake had to endure on a regular basis. My admiration for him increased even more.

  I had a spare last period, and since for all intents and purposes final grades were in, I decided to end the day early. Maybe I could even convince Jake to cut with me and go back to his place. With that thought in mind, I headed for his locker. But every action has a consequence and I saw—no, smelled—mine as soon as I turned the corner.

  By the smell of it, Jake’s locker had been smeared with shit. He was fighting back tears as a small crowd of curious onlookers gathered and laughed. It broke my heart to see him so exposed like that. Oh yeah, the universe was definitely fucking back with a vengeance. I shoved a few people out of the way and put my hand on Jake’s shoulder. “That’s it. I’m getting Principal Jackson.”

  “No. I don’t want any trouble. Only one more week, remember? I’ll clean it up.”

  I ground my teeth in frustration. “Wait here.” I disappeared into the nearest restroom and came back with a stack of dampened and soaped paper towels. I handed him half the stack.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to help,” he said in a small voice. I just glared at him and started scrubbing. It was disgusting work, but we got most of it cleaned up pretty quickly. At that point, with nothing more to look at, any remaining gawkers melted away. For good measure we soaped up some more paper towels and gave the locker another wipe down. Just as we were finishing I heard the squelch of familiar footsteps and tensed.

  “Hey, Somers,” Brad sneered, “your choice in friends is shitty. Get it?” He laughed and swatted his two companions so they could appreciate his brilliance as well.

  I looked at Brad pointedly. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Better watch your back, bitch.”

  Brad’s nose was twice the normal size and dried blood encrusted the nostrils. “How’s the nose, Brad?” I asked with a touch of sarcasm. Brad gave me the finger and moved on with his buddies. How I had ever been friends with that asshole, I would never know.

  Jake was staring at me with wide eyes. “So you did beat him up.”

  “I landed a lucky punch.”

  “For me?” He seemed astonished that anyone would do that for him.

  “No, actually it was for me.”

  “I’m sorry I caused trouble for you.”

  “It’s okay. Trust me, Brad deserved it.”

  We finished cleaning up in silence then disposed of the used paper towels. As we scrubbed our hands raw in the restroom, I started to laugh. “God, I really hope that wasn’t Brad’s shit.”

  “Does it matter? It’s shit!” At Jake’s disgusted expression, I cracked up even further. His mouth started to twitch, and then he joined in. It felt so good to see that fear gone from his eyes that I pulled him into my arms and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. God, I wanted to see what kind of a man he’d become. Did he have someone to love? Was he happy? I prayed he hadn’t lost that scrappy spirit.

  I stepped away when someone entered the restroom and went into one of the stalls. “Can I come over tonight?” I asked softly, knowing that we needed to talk. I needed to convince him to stay away from the prom. “I want to take a long hot shower first, though. And I’ve got yard work to do. Maybe after dinner?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” he replied with a smile.

  MRS. LOCKWOOD was just leaving the house as I walked up the drive. “Hi, Eric. Go on in. Jake’s downstairs.”

  As soon as I walked through the front door, I heard the stereo blasting from the basement. Descending the stairs, I found Jake sitting on the floor cross-legged with his head leaning back on the couch and his eyes closed. For a minute I thought he might be sleeping, but his toe tapped in time with the beat. I vaguely recognized the tune.

  “You like Heart? Really?” I shouted over the music. “I never figured you for a power-ballad kind of guy.”

  He jumped in surprise at the sound of my voice but didn’t get up. “Are you kidding? Ann Wilson is a goddess.”

  The track ended and shifted into the softer chords of “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You,” a song I had always found ridiculously sappy. Jake hadn’t moved, so I sat down on the floor next to him with my back against the couch. I was a little unsure what to do—we were in uncharted territory. None of this had happened before. I had thrown out the playbook and was starting over.

  We sat shoulder to shoulder, Jake’s bent knee resting on my thigh. Every place our bodies touched, I felt a warm glow spread. I relaxed and just enjoyed the moment. When the song changed again—another slow one—I inhaled sharply as the words hit home. I’ve never been the type of guy to get emotional over music. I never made a mixed tape for someone. I never looked for hidden meaning in lyrics, but I could have sworn the Wilson sisters were singing directly to me. To us. A lump rose in my throat as I listened to the words about two lovers who had to love in secret, too afraid to make a move, but unable to bear letting go of the other. I looked over at Jake to see if he felt it too. He had his head down, so I couldn’t see his face. I put my arm around his shoulder, and he raised his head in surprise. There was a challenge in his eyes but also, I thought, a touch of fear.

  Slowly I felt him relax, and then he leaned his head on my shoulder. His hand came to rest at my waist. I realized I had been holding my breath and slowly let it out. No matter what happened, it was worth it for this moment.

  We stayed that way for a long time, just holding each other, even when that side of the cassette finished and the tape deck automatically flipped to the other side. It was new for me, this wanting to be close to someone but without sex getting in the way. In twenty years I’d never done this—never just been held, never offered comfort. How sad was that? The moment felt fragile, yet at the same time infinitely strong. My heart swelled with an unfamiliar combination of lust, affection, and protectiveness that threatened to overwhelm me.

  Jake curled tighter against me, wrapping his thin arms around my waist. “What if it doesn’t get better?”

  “It will. I promise.” I stroked his silky head, resting my hand on the back of his slender neck. I knew I’d do just about anything to keep that promise.

  All my life it seemed I’d been searching for that one perfect moment of happiness. I never found it in football or popularity, or even in the hot young bodies of the men I dated. Only now did I realize that was because I’d already had it. I had it all those years ago in this musty basement with this boy who had only ever asked me to do my best, and I’d turned my back on it. I had spent the better part of two decades trying to find it again. All this time I thought guilt had brought me back here, but I was wrong; it was love.

  I held him close and pressed my face against his hair to hide my suddenly wet eyes. “Jake? Are you going to Prom?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’m going with Rebecca Lister.”

  “Is that the goth girl I saw you with today?”

  He nodded against my shoulder. “She’s a freak too.”

  “You’re not a freak.” I squeezed him tight. “Jake, listen—don’t go to Prom, okay?”

  I felt him stiffen in my arms. “You’re afraid I’ll embarrass you.”

  “God, no.” I hated that the thought even occurred to him. I had never wanted to be anyone’s hero before, but I wanted to be Jake’s. Suddenly an idea came to me. “Let’s just do something together, you and me. We could hang out here. Or go to a movie?”


  Jake raised his head. His eyes had gone hard, the full lips flattened into a thin line. “What’s your problem? It’s not like I’m going to ask you to dance or anything. You think because I’m a fag I don’t deserve to go to my own prom?”

  “No… I never meant…,” I floundered. How had this gone downhill so quickly? Jesus, all I wanted to do was keep him safe.

  Jake jumped to his feet. “I think you should leave.”

  “Look, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but it’s important. It could be dangerous. Please don’t go—.”

  “You can spend your life hiding if you want to, Eric, but I refuse to.”

  Looking at that stubborn face, I knew he wouldn’t back down, and why should he? He was right about most of it. Maybe I had been approaching this wrong by focusing on defensive maneuvers—I was a quarterback, not a defensive lineman—which left me with only one alternative: to take the offensive position.

  FOR most of us, Senior Prom is the last chance to show off before we become small fish in a big pond; before the real world swallows us up and shows us that we’re not as smart, as attractive, or as good as we think we are. We dress up, we drink, we maybe get laid—but it all has a hint of desperation I didn’t notice the first time. Now, as I stood for about a thousand pictures for Trish’s parents, her in a pink fluffy creation and me in the rented tux my dad had actually paid for, I came to the conclusion that no sane adult would ever go through this voluntarily.

  My dad, in a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, loaned me his five-year-old Monte Carlo with the Strato bucket seats for the night. I knew better than to mistake this for anything other than what it was—him fondly remembering his own prom and hoping I’d follow in his footsteps. Once in the car, alone with Trish, I found myself even more tongue-tied than I had been the first time around. I had nothing to say to her. But Trish barely noticed the silence, which spoke volumes about her personality if only I had realized it twenty years ago. She was so excited about being Prom Queen (she was a shoe-in) that she babbled happily the whole way to the school.

  As the largest space in the school, dances were always held in the gym. The dance committee had done their best to disguise it with twinkling lights, silver streamers, and paper flowers. In the dark, it didn’t look half bad as we entered. A small stage had been erected in front of the fold-away bleachers and next to it was the DJ’s table. The dance floor was already jammed with teenaged party-goers. I hadn’t seen so much taffeta and lace in a long time.

  My first prom should have been a new start for me, an escape from my family. Back then my whole future lay ahead of me, ready for the taking: a gorgeous girlfriend, a football scholarship, a new city. At the time it seemed everything I needed. It was selfish, I know, but show me a teenager who’s not just a little bit self-centered.

  Every detail of that long-ago night came back to me in a flash, still as vivid as if it had occurred just yesterday instead of twenty years ago. Trish, as predicted, had been named Prom Queen and I her consort. We’d danced to Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” with the entire senior class watching, and if out of the corner of my eye I saw Jake wistfully watching, then I did my best to ignore him. I had not allowed anything to ruin that night for me.

  It was only much later, after Prom, as Trish and I had driven away in my dad’s car toward our rented motel room that my world came crashing down. She had been critiquing some of the less popular girls, and starting to annoy me in the process, when she said, “Did you see that gay kid tonight? Good thing he didn’t bring a boyfriend.”

  My stomach immediately clenched. “He’s a good guy, Trish. He can’t help the way he is.”

  “Yeah, well, Brad was talking about getting some of the guys together and teaching him a lesson tonight.”

  I slammed on the brakes. Fortunately, there was no one behind us or else we’d have been rear-ended. “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he made a pass at Brad or something.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “What does it matter? Does there have to be a reason?”

  I looked at her in horror and wondered who this stranger next to me was. “Get out.”

  “What?”

  “Get the fuck out of my car,” I snarled.

  Barely waiting long enough for Trish to slam the door shut, I pulled a U-turn and sped back to the school, pulling into the parking lot just in time for my high beams to catch Jake’s bloodied form drop to the ground. I cried out his name, running to the small crowd that had formed, not even bothering to take the keys from the ignition. He’d put up a good fight, judging by Brad’s bloodied nose, but he was no match for three angry football players. I had to physically pull Billy Waylans off him and toss him aside. Throwing myself between Jake and his attackers, I had gathered his unconscious body in my arms. “Somebody go inside and call an ambulance,” I remember ordering, then my world narrowed to just him and me. I had held him until help arrived and the paramedics had to pry him away from me.

  “Eric?” Trish touched my arm and pulled me back to the present, or, rather, this version of the present. I had to blink back the tears that blurred my vision. “What’s up with you lately?”

  Only the game of my life, I thought a little angrily, but I put on a fake smile and pretended to enjoy myself.

  I saw Jake arrive with Becca Lister some time later, and my protective instincts immediately kicked in. He looked like a little kid playing dress up in a suit too big for him. She had added pink streaks to her inky hair and wore tights to match beneath a dress that looked like shredded black lace curtains. They couldn’t have stood out any more if they’d tried. Jake met my eyes across the room and raised his chin with stubborn defiance. I couldn’t help but smile. Damn, he had balls. His eyebrows slammed together in confusion at my unexpected reaction.

  I spent the evening dancing with Trish and keeping a close eye on Jake. Brad and I maintained a wary distance, but I could tell he had something up his sleeve. We watched each other like hawks, each of us sizing up the opposition. Someone had spiked the punch, and in no time jackets and ties had been discarded and the dancing got a little dirtier.

  Finally it came time to crown King and Queen. The music stopped and Principal Jackson stepped up on the stage and tapped the microphone to get everyone’s attention. After a few brief words about the past year, he got down to the big announcement. Beside me, Trish squeezed my hand in a death grip. I felt the tension mount as we got closer to the moment I dreaded. “And now….” Here he paused for effect, opening an envelope. “It’s my pleasure to present our class of ’91 Prom King and Queen. I give you Trish Elliot and… Steve Kirk?” There was a brief stunned silence—apparently I wasn’t the only one expecting my name to be called—followed by a smattering of polite applause. Steve looked at me almost as if in apology as he stepped forward.

  Trish pulled on my arm. “What happened?” she hissed. I could tell she was royally pissed that her plans had been thwarted. I met Brad’s narrowed eyes over Trish’s head. He had something to do with this, no doubt. Did they honestly think this was a punishment, I wondered, as Trish plastered on a smile and received her crown on stage. Maybe once upon a time I would have been crushed, but now I felt only relief.

  Trish beamed and kissed the cheek of her consort. Man, she would have made a great actress. As she and Steve left the podium to begin their official Royal Dance, I stepped back into the crowd, and then staggered to a stop as I recognized the song that just started.

  It was our song—Heart’s “Secret,” which in my mind had become Jake’s and mine. I looked over at the DJ and saw Coach Carter standing behind the man. He nodded in my direction as if to say, “It’s up to you now, kid. You’ve got the ball.”

  I grinned. Why not? What the hell did I have left to lose? It was time for a Hail Mary pass. I wove in and out of the dancers toward the corner where Jake was standing. His eyes widened in surprise as I got closer.

  “Hi,” I said when I fi
nally stood in front of him.

  He cleared his throat nervously. “Hi.”

  “Want to dance?” Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the dance floor.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed. “Everybody’s looking.”

  “Let them look,” I said, ignoring the curious stares as we left the gym. We walked along the darkened hallway until I found what I was looking for. I tugged him beneath the stairs and into my arms. We could still hear the music through the cinder-block walls.

  “Seriously, what are you doing, Eric?”

  “I want to dance with you.” It was pretty dark, but I could see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I just wish we didn’t have to hide here, but….”

  “This is perfect.” He melted against me, wrapping his trembling arms around my waist and laying his head on my shoulder. Nothing had ever felt so right. We hardly even moved, but let the words and music say what we could not. Neither of us spoke until the song was over. Even then I didn’t release him, and he seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t make Prom King.”

  “Are you really?” I teased.

  Jake gave a watery laugh. “Well, no.”

  “Neither am I.” I held Jake closer and marveled at how perfectly we fit. “I wish I hadn’t let you down. I wish I hadn’t let myself down. I was too scared the first time,” I whispered into his hair.

 

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