Gabe confirmed Mason’s suspicions—that Pedro was their half brother and, yes, his father had cheated on their mom with Clara’s mother. Pedro was the result. Mason asked Gabe why no one in the family ever told him about the affair. And Gabe said, “You’ve always known about Pedro. I just didn’t know you thought he was eighteen.”
In Mason’s mind, Pedro’s age changed everything.
He had heard the family story that his father wasn’t there when he was born—a month premature. He knew that his mom had named him Mason and that his father didn’t like it—he had planned on naming him Diego so all five of them would have Spanish names. Now Mason knew about Pedro, and—according to Londa—that their father had been in Mexico with Pedro instead of at the hospital with their mom.
Mason is his mother’s maiden name, and it fits—because he is pretty brick-headed sometimes. That summer, Mason built a wall between himself and his father. He stopped speaking Spanish. Not a word. He signed up for French the following year, even though he could have tested out of all the foreign language credits, like Gabe and Londa did. And now? Exchanges between Mason and his father sound pretty much like what just happened in the kitchen.
“Do you think Sal would hire me?” Mason asks, breaking the silence.
“You want to mow lawns?”
“More like I don’t want to work for my dad.”
“Probably,” I say. “I’ll tell Frank you’re interested.”
“Thanks,” he says, and takes a bite of his burger. When he’s finished chewing, he changes the topic. “You should ask that art-geek girl to prom. I think she likes you.”
“Challis? She’s a lesbian. And pissed that she didn’t get into Gumshoe,” I say, even though Challis would be a perfect prom date. If she wasn’t mad at me.
“No. The other one. The one you sit with?”
“Eden O’Shea?”
“Yeah.”
“Eden likes me?” I never got that vibe from her. I mean, we’re strictly platonic.
“In a googly-eyed-fan-girl way, yeah.”
“It’s not like that.”
Mason presses his lips together, but the corner of his mouth curls up in a grin.
I elbow him.
“Sooo . . . ,” he drawls. “You’re just friends, huh?”
“Yeah. Just friends.”
“Girls don’t want to go as friends, though,” Mason says. “They want romance, slow dancing, hotel rooms.”
“Hotel rooms?” I hadn’t thought of that.
“Yeah, duh. Why do you think prom is at the Riverside Hotel?”
The color has probably drained from my face. There is no way I’d be caught dead in a hotel room with a girl. Okay, well, maybe if I were dead.
“Kidding,” Mason says quietly, bumping my shoulder.
I bump his shoulder back and let the silence fall around us once again. We don’t talk, just eat. Our elbows brush each other’s on occasion, but neither of us moves away.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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FIVE
Michael has a date. Mason has a date. The popular guys like Brodie and Kellen have had dates since elementary school. I still do not have a prom date.
But this doesn’t stop me from marching up to the prom ticket table after school. “Two please,” I say to Bahti.
“We’re sharing a limo,” she says in her British-tinged accent.
“Yeah.” I hand her the money.
“Who’s your date?” she asks, friendly because we know each other from band.
“Dunno.”
“You don’t know?” she asks. “Prom is a week and a half away, Jamie. All my friends are taken.”
Thank God, I almost blurt. Because Bahti’s friends are supersmart—like Mason—and I don’t want to spend the evening comparing GPAs. (For the record, I am not a runner-up for anything.)
Then I remember my manners and say, “That so?”
“So sorry. Good luck.” She hands me my tickets with a smile that’s edged with pity.
At home I drop my backpack on the floor, shout “I’m home,” and head to the kitchen for a snack. I make a triple-decker-raspberry-jam PB&J, take the carton of milk into the living room, and collapse on the couch in front of the TV. A Jerry Springer rerun is on, and I watch it on mute—Mom doesn’t want the twins to hear people argue like that. It’s funnier this way, anyway. A heavy chick’s arm flab jiggles as she jabs a finger at a rapping midget.
Ann Marie waddles in, holding out my English notebook as if it is some sort of present.
“Thank you,” I coo to her sweetly, while my mind says, Oh crap.
The twins got into my backpack. Or, well, Elisabeth has it hiked up over one shoulder and is dragging it around behind her, upside down, its contents spilling out in a slow-motion avalanche.
I take another bite of my sandwich and tiptoe after her—so she won’t break into a run.
“Oh, honey, thank you,” Mom says in the other room. Ann Marie must have given her some of my homework to do.
I coax my backpack away from Elisabeth by convincing her it’s time to play baby dolls, then I sweep my stuff back inside before Ann Marie returns for another load.
I’m sitting on the floor of the twins’ room, rocking a doll in one arm while Elisabeth holds a bottle to its lips, when my mom appears in the doorway.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” she asks, fanning herself with my prom tickets.
“Mom!” My cheeks grow warm.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I was just curious.”
“It’s just that—Well, I don’t know yet.”
She laughs gently then asks, “Can I pay for your tickets anyway?”
I nod, not having the heart to tell her that I’ll probably chicken out and ask a girl, not a guy, to prom. Which I could, technically. But it doesn’t seem worth the fuss, even if I liked someone, which I don’t. Lincoln High isn’t exactly crawling with cute gay guys, except maybe a sophomore or two. I wonder if Mom will be disappointed. She’s been this way—eager—ever since I came out to her, as if she can’t wait for me to bring a boyfriend home to meet her.
“Burp,” Elisabeth says.
I shift a doll over my shoulder and pat its back absentmindedly.
I never had baby dolls, never played dress up in my mom’s high heels, and never wanted to join the cheerleading squad, so it wasn’t like my mom knew I was gay. So I had to come out to her and Frank. Believe me, it was the worst thing ever. It’s not like they kicked me out of the house or sent me to boarding school or anything, but it was awful. I wanted to tell them before they got married, just in case big guy’s guy Frank had a problem with having a gay step-kid. But as the weeks and months passed by, they picked out flowers, hired a photographer, and ordered cake—and I kept choking on the words. The longer it dragged on, the harder it got to say. I couldn’t sleep at night, and my stomach was a constant knot of worry. I lost a few pounds, dragged myself out of bed in the morning, and watched way too many talk shows after school.
My mom was convinced that something was wrong with me and made a doctor’s appointment for me. Then, when the doctor confirmed that I was physically fine, she made me an appointment with a counselor. And counselor is a nice word for shrink. So I said it. In the car, on the way to the shrink’s. “Mom, I’m gay.”
She pulled over—right there on Capitol Boulevard—and gave me a great big hug. She started crying, and I thought it was because she was upset. No one wants a gay kid, right? All parents want is weddings and daughters-in-law and grandchildren, right? Well, no. My mom was happy about it! She asked if I was seeing anyone. And her face fell a little when I said no. But I was in ninth grade, for Pete’s sake.
“You have to tell Frank and Grandma,” I informed her. Coming out once was all I had in me.
“You sure?” she asked, mopping up tears with a yellow Wendy’s nap
kin she found in the console. “It’s your special news.”
And while I spent the next fifty minutes talking to that counselor about anything but being gay, my mom called Frank.
To this day I don’t know how he pulled it off. But when we came home, the kitchen was decorated. Decorated! With two dozen balloons, rainbow streamers, and pink heart-shaped confetti. There was an ice-cream cake with rainbow sprinkles and Way to go, Jamie! written on it.
I was mortified.
I couldn’t tell him that coming out was private—to me, anyway—and celebrating it made me cringe inside. So I tried to sneak upstairs to my bedroom and crawl back in the closet, but Frank cajoled me into staying with a stack of brightly wrapped presents.
I should have gone upstairs.
They were books. Embarrassing books with titles like The LGBTQ High School Survival Guide, Your Sexuality and You, and Queue: Authors Line Up Tell Their Coming-Out Stories. My mom got Parenting Your Gay Teen, and for Frank, The Dummies’ Guide to Stepparenting an LGBT Child. He must have bought the whole shelf at the bookstore.
I grabbed Frank’s book and paged through it furiously. I was looking for the idiot box where it told him to throw me a party. I didn’t find one. And my heart sank. I would have felt better if he had done this because some dummy told him to.
But he came up with it on his own.
imagined
—E. K. O.
there’s this boy in my class
who’s matt-damon adorable,
with idaho summer-sky blue eyes,
the same turned-up nose
smattered with freckles,
and lips quick to reveal
his famous, nervous smile.
all the girls are in love with him,
but he doesn’t know it,
and perhaps this is what
we love about him.
or maybe we love
how he and his best friend
are perfect for each other,
only they don’t realize it.
and maybe, just maybe,
this is what we love about him.
the idea of them together—
walking side by side, hand in hand
under an idaho blue summer sky,
across an emerald hayfield
smattered with wildflowers,
his lips quick to say
a nervous “i love you.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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SIX
I find a poem in my locker when I get to school. And even though I know it’s someone’s Gumshoe submission, I don’t read it, but rather pretend for a minute that it’s for me from a secret admirer and slip it into my pocket. I imagine it’s full of intimate details, like how he likes my hair or my ridiculously childish freckles. It ends with a clue—there’d have to be a clue—of where to meet and when. We’d both show up, of course, and sit on a blanket under the stars, the warm April air having nothing to do with the shiver running down my spine.
Too bad imaginary secret admirers don’t make viable prom dates.
In art, Ms. Maude has the lights off and the projector on, and we’re flying through art history at breakneck speed. We started the semester with the cave paintings in Lascaux and, with three weeks of classes to go, we are up to Marcel Duchamp and his urinal. Ms. Maude is certain we’ll get up to present-day art by the end of the term, but the class has a bet going—most of the girls say she will and the guys say she won’t.
I write $1 in my notebook and slide it across the table to Eden.
In my pocket, she writes back.
I’m about to write No way when Ms. Maude leaps ahead half a decade and sums up Dadaism in one sentence. No fair. She segues to the Bauhaus, and I know I should be listening. Those Bauhaus dudes are the founding fathers of graphic design.
But I’m not listening. You going to prom? I write. Again I slide my notebook to Eden.
She looks at me, an are-you-crazy? expression on her face.
I gesture at the note.
She writes something. Slides it back. No.
Why not? I scribble.
She doesn’t wait for me to pass the notebook; she just reaches over and writes. No date.
Be mine.
She looks at me again then writes: I thought you were gay.
I freeze. How the hell does she know?
Eden takes the paper back before I write anything. And you want to go to prom with me?
Yes.
Not possible, she scribbles.
Why not?
Ms. Maude glances our way, and Eden pretends she’s taking notes on the lecture. When she slides my notebook back, it reads: You’re out of my league. Not to mention the wrong gender.
The wrong gender? I try not to look surprised and I ignore that part. What league?
The popular one.
I’m not popular. I’m in band.
Eden sighs as if I’m clueless, and she pushes my notebook back at me without an answer.
Please, I write. I didn’t know dating involved so much persuasion.
Why?
Because you’re cool. I offer her the notebook.
She reads my note and shakes her head.
I try again. Because I want to get to know you better.
She fake gags on her finger.
Because I’ll have a good time if you’re there.
Eden smiles.
And I have a prom date.
“Here’s the thing,” Eden says as we pack up our stuff after class. “My parents are überstrict about stuff I do—they don’t usually let me go to school dances.”
All that work and she can’t go? Dang it.
“But since it’s prom and you’re a guy, I think it’ll be okay.”
Phew.
“But before I can go anywhere with you, you’ll have to prove you’re an upstanding citizen.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“We’ll start with just my mom. You come over, and we’ll go somewhere like we’re dating.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s how prom works. I pick you up. We go to prom.”
“Before prom. Like, today. Or tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I agree, because if finding one prom date was this difficult, finding a second one is out of the question. And besides, Eden and I are sort of friends. We could do stuff outside of art class.
Eden takes my hand, turns it palm up, and writes down an address.
“Four thirty,” she says.
When I find the address that Eden wrote on my hand, I’m relieved not to see her brother’s truck parked in the driveway. Seeing him once a day is about my limit.
After I’ve answered no fewer than twenty questions for Eden’s mom, including if I have taken the Lord Jesus Christ as my savior—which, well, I might have lied about—Eden and I are seated in a booth at a Shari’s.
“When did you know?” Eden asks me, her emphasis implying everything.
“Huh?” I play dumb. If she thinks I’m going to come out to her just so she’ll go to prom with me, she’s going to wait until the second coming.
“Oh,” she says, suddenly interested in the menu. “Sorry, I just thought we had something in common. I can totally relate, you know?”
This is why I don’t date girls. They’re weird. They talk about everything and assume you want to too. I don’t get it. It’s as if their bras are filled with words.
“In sixth grade I had a crush on a girl in Sunday school,” she offers up as proof to my theory.
“How’d that work out for you?” I ask.
“Not good,” Eden says. “This other girl squealed when she saw us kissing behind the boathouse at church camp.”
“Bummer.”
“Nothing brings down the wrath of God faster than two girls kissing,” she says.
I wonder about two boys kissing, but I don’t say anything.
The waitress comes to take our orders. I get a burger and fries. Eden just orders a soda.
“So you’re out with your parents?” I ask when the waitress is out of earshot.
“Tried to be,” Eden says. “But they don’t believe in lesbians—for them, it’s something I did, not something I am. And, well, their daughter can’t possibly be one.”
“That’s pretty weird,” I say.
“I’ve tried to educate them, but every time I bring it up, my mom gets really upset.”
I nod sympathetically.
“So Nick can do whatever he wants—as long as he goes to church on Sunday. Has his own truck. And me? They won’t let me out of their sight. They wouldn’t want me to be tempted by the she devil.”
The waitress brings us our drinks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You wouldn’t want a girl like you to step out the house. She might drink a soda at Shari’s.”
Eden laughs. “I know. I am such a rebel.”
My burger arrives, and we share the fries and gab about prom—the limo plans and who is going with whom.
An hour later I pull into Eden’s driveway behind the Redneck’s truck. She doesn’t open her door right away, as if she’s waiting for something.
“You okay?” I ask, following her gaze and feeling a flicker of worry in my gut.
Fan Art Page 3