Fan Art

by Tregay, Sarah

  Then she’s hugging me, and we’re bouncing up and down.

  Soon everyone is thumbing through a copy, looking for Challis’s graphic short. They fall quiet as they start to read.

  “It’s über-maginificent-amazing,” Eden tells everyone.

  When he’s done reading, Wesley looks up at me. “What can we do?”

  “Buy a copy,” I answer. “Or five. Let the administration know that you appreciate diversity in our school’s literary magazine.”

  “Yeah,” Challis chimes in. “My story was rejected because it had gay characters, but Jamie here snuck it in under the radar—”

  “They rejected this?” Wesley asks. “Why?”

  “Some of the students didn’t want to lose funding for next year.”

  “Give me four copies,” he says, and pulls a twenty from his wallet.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It doesn’t take long for the art-geek girls to start talking about Gumshoe. The next morning magazines are being passed around art class. Ms. Maude even threatens to take Eden’s away if she doesn’t stop reading instead of working. Part of me hopes the gossip will build buzz and sell more magazines as soon as Dr. Taylor and Principal Chambers make a decision—because nothing would prove me right more than selling tons of copies. And part of me wishes the buzz would die down before Mason hears it.

  In government, we’re reviewing a chapter when Mr. Purdy gets a call. He listens then announces, “James, your presence is requested in Principal Chambers’s office.”

  I let my head fall into my hands. This is it. I’m in a shipload of trouble, because A) someone told the principal I knew who made Abe into a dick and I’ll have to narc not only on the Redneck, but on all my friends, too; B) Dr. Taylor told the principal I hijacked Gumshoe, took it for a joyride, and sold it to my classmates like black-market contraband; or C) I published a gay comic and, in a matter of hours, my best friend will know I’m as queer as a three-dollar bill and forgot to mention it.

  Chambers’s chambers, here I come, guilty of D) all of the above.

  “Mr. Peterson?” Purdy asks. “I said your pre—”

  I jolt upright out of my thoughts. I put one hand on my diaphragm and try to stop it from jumping up and down. The fluttering is making me queasy. I grab my things with my other hand and stand, my chair screeching across the floor.

  Mason turns around.

  I find his gaze. Lock my eyes on his as I walk up the aisle, followed by a chorus of low “oohs” coming from the back of the room.

  “You okay?” Mason whispers when I reach his desk.

  I nod in an attempt to say that I am okay—even though I’m not—and the motion sends the room into orbit around me. I steady myself on the nearest stable object, Mason’s desk.

  His eyes fill up with concern, dark as molasses and as sweet as hot chocolate. I swallow, practically basking in his gaze as it warms my throat, my chest, my heart.

  Then he smiles—not an all-out grin, but a genuine, encouraging one. One that says, You can do this, Jamie. And I’ll be here for you.

  My heart feels too big and my lungs too small, and I say, “I love you, man.”

  Only it didn’t sound Brodie Hamilton cool. My voice comes out quiet, and not at all sarcastic—as if I mean it.

  My face flames. And I leave the room before my clothes ignite and my ego spontaneously combusts.

  I’m halfway down the hall before reality hits me. If I walk into the office with my heart racing, breathing fast, and turning green under a feverish blush, there’s no way I’m going to pass a lie detector test. I stop in the restroom and splash my face with water. I dry it with the hem of my shirt while I hold my breath. When I’m done, I exhale slowly. I run my fingers through my hair so it looks just-right messy. Then I tuck in my shirt in an attempt to look respectable.

  I walk into the office and tell the secretary my name.

  “I believe Principal Chambers is expecting you. Third door on the left.”

  The dreaded Chambers’s chambers.

  I walk down the short, narrow hall, hoping I can catch a glimpse inside before I have to enter. The blinds on the glass part of the door are down, but the door is open a crack. I’m about to knock when I hear a familiar voice.

  My mom’s.

  “Come in,” Principal Chambers calls.

  I push the door open and force myself to smile. It doesn’t work.

  “Hi, honey,” Mom says.

  “Jamie,” Dr. Taylor says with a nod. He has several copies of Gumshoe on his lap.

  “Hi,” I squeak. There’s one empty chair and I sit. I press my fingertips together as if in prayer, and then pinch them between my knees.

  “We were just discussing your work with the school literary magazine,” Principal Chambers informs me, as if I hadn’t guessed. “It appears as if you published a submission without the other staff members’ consent?”

  I think this is a question, so I answer, “Yes. Challis Carmine is extremely talented, and I thought her graphic short was perfect for the magazine.”

  “But your peers didn’t agree with you?”

  “They voted to reject the piece.” I refrain from adding “your honor” like people do in the movies.

  “Please explain.”

  I look at Dr. Taylor. He was there. He could explain. But he just nods as if to say, Go on.

  “Could you tell us why the other students rejected Challis’s submission?” the principal repeats.

  “At first they thought it was lacking in plot,” I begin, knowing I have to bring up the other reason too. I close my eyes and try to form a sentence. “But it was also because of the—uh, the characters’ orientations.”

  “So they didn’t want an illustrated short story depicting homosexuals in the literary magazine?” she asks me.

  I nod.

  “But you put it in anyway?”

  I nod again.

  “Why?”

  I pinch my fingers between my knees again and think back to how I told off Michael and Lia. I had been able to explain it then. But now, I don’t know. I can’t seem to get the words out. I shake my head.

  “You pulled a stunt that could get you expelled before exams your senior year and you can’t tell me why?”

  “Expelled?” I croak.

  My mother glances over at Principal Chambers and gives her head a minute shake. I’ve seen her do this with Frank when she wants to tell him to calm down, but I don’t think Principal Chambers knows secret Mom code.

  The words begin to tumble from my lips, tripping over themselves to get out, “Gumshoe is Lincoln High’s magazine. It belongs to all of us, not just Michael and Lia, and I thought—I thought it should represent everyone, even the LGBT students. I couldn’t let it be censored.” I take a breath. “The Gumshoe staff . . . They were just worried about funding. You know, if the school board didn’t like it that they might not fund the magazine next year. But I fixed that. I raised the pri—” I stop rambling when I realize that I didn’t admit just to one crime but two. And a premeditated one at that. Double crap.

  Pressing my lips together, I look around the room. Dr. Taylor is nodding, as if the pieces of my confession are falling into place on the timeline in his head.

  “So while you were making changes to the magazine, you were also changing the price?” Principal Chambers asks.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “By how much?”

  “A dollar. I sold some for five dollars instead of four.”

  “Wait, you’re selling copies?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I admit to yet another infraction.

  “How did you get copies? Dr. Taylor and I have not made a decision yet.”

  “The printer gave me samples,” I say. Then add to my rap sheet. “And I took a stack of them on Thursday.”

  Principal Chambers s
ighs as if she can’t believe how stupid I am.

  “I wanted to prove that students would buy them. And they did. Fifteen copies.”

  “And this money? Did it get turned in to Dr. Taylor?”

  Oh my God. She just accused me of stealing! On top of everything else. No wonder I am in the principal’s office with my mother and about to get expelled. “No. But I have it all here.” I take an envelope from inside my binder and put it on her desk. “There’s seventy-five dollars in there.”

  “So you didn’t plan on profiting from the additional comic nor from the increased price?” Mrs. Chambers clarifies.

  “No. That’s the money. I was going to turn it in.”

  Dr. Taylor reaches for the envelope. He counts the money, down to the quarters that Challis paid for her copy with. “Seventy-five,” he confirms.

  At last Principal Chambers says, “Okay. Well, then I think that’s all we need.”

  “Um?” I ask. “Am I . . . ?” I start. “Am I going to be expelled?”

  “We don’t make the decisions. The disciplinary committee does,” Mrs. Chambers says to me. Then to the others she says, “Thank you for your time.”

  We all stand. My mom and Dr. Taylor file out the door first. Mrs. Chambers stays behind her desk.

  “Jamie, should the disciplinary committee decide that this offense is punishable by expulsion, there’s a chance you won’t graduate,” Principal Chambers says, her voice like a warning. “So I’d recommend you keep your nose clean in the meantime.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The committee meets on Monday at noon.” She taps a stack of folders on her desk as if to straighten them, but it sounds like a gavel. “And if you or your friends know anything about the Abraham Lincoln sculpture incident, I’ll take that into consideration.”

  Blood drains from my extremities. Does she know something? I shake my head. I can’t turn myself in for that! I won’t turn in my friends. And if you think I’d rat on Nick O’Shea? Think again.

  “Your diploma is on the line,” she reminds me.

  I walk out of the office, not sure what to do with the door. Do I close it? Do I say good-bye? I’m not up on principal-office etiquette. So I don’t do either one.

  My mom is in the lobby, being all polite and thanking Dr. Taylor for his time.

  “Oh, Jamie,” Mom says once Dr. Taylor has left. “I had no idea about this Gumshoe thing.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  Mom tries to smile, but it doesn’t really work. She shakes her head. “It doesn’t sound that way to me.”

  Her eyes grow glossy, and I’m torn between consoling her and wanting to crawl under the secretary’s desk in utter embarrassment.

  “I know I should be angry,” she says. “But I’m so proud of you!” That does it. The tears wobble and then spill.

  She’s crying. In school. The secretary’s desk is looking very appealing, but I don’t crawl under it. Instead I man up and reach for her.

  She hugs me, pressing her cheek to my shoulder. “You stood up for yourself—came out for what you believed in.”

  “Shh, Mom,” I say, urging her to stop spilling my secrets. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “You did the right thing,” Mom tells my shirt. “Maybe not in the right way, but—”

  I am holding my teary-eyed mother while she pours her heart out on the floor when a shadow fills the doorway and rumbles in like a storm cloud.

  The Redneck.

  I turn slightly, selfishly putting my mother between us.

  His glare is as calm as the eye of a hurricane, as dark as a thunderstorm. My mother doesn’t notice.

  Over her shoulder, he mouths his favorite name for me, Fagmag, and I get the message. He’s going to hurt whomever tattled on him for having his truck at the senior prank—and if that person was me—well, I better tell my mother I love her before it’s too late.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THIRTY-SIX

  I tiptoe into the house after school. I’d tried to not come home, but Eden had Bible study and I didn’t need to practice for the concert. It wasn’t like I could go over to the Viveroses’ and try to mooch dinner because I can’t possibly talk to Mason after what I said in government.

  I know my mom is home and Frank is out of town—her car is in the driveway and his truck is nowhere to be seen. And I don’t want to explain to her that my Gumshoe stunt wasn’t really about coming out—at least not intentionally. She was so proud of me—like I did it to make a personal statement. How can I tell her that I am still not out? That I’m deathly afraid of telling Mason and how everything between us will change forever after I say it?

  And I don’t feel like talking about it.

  I hear my mom in the kitchen, talking on the phone. She’s here and so are the twins—their baby dolls and a grocery store’s worth of plastic food are strewn across the living room carpet. One of them spies me as I toe off my sneakers and tiptoe toward the stairs, trying to avoid stepping on a plastic steak. It’s a dog toy and it squeaks.

  I put my finger to my lips, “Shh.”

  Surprisingly, she stays quiet.

  “Good girl, Annie M,” I whisper, figuring it must be her and not talks-up-a-storm Elisabeth. I’m stepping over the baby gate when I hear a little voice ask, “Amy?”

  “What’d you say?” I ask.

  “Amy,” she says.

  Weird. Elisabeth calls me Jamie. Not Amy. “Ann Marie?” I ask.

  She nods.

  Then I realize that my sister just said her first word. “Mom!”

  Mom comes rushing in, clutching her phone to her chest. “What?”

  “Ann Marie talked!” I say.

  The panicked look on my mother’s face falls away as she drops to her knees. “What’d you say, sweetie?”

  “Amy,” she announces, pointing at me with a chubby finger.

  “Yeah,” Mom says. “Jamie and I have some talking to do.”

  Damn it. I was hoping she might forget.

  Then into the phone, she asks, “Did you hear that, Frank? Your daughter spoke.”

  Frank’s voice is muffled.

  I wonder if he had hoped it’d be Dada. Elisabeth’s was Mama.

  “Say it again so Daddy can hear,” Mom says, and holds out the phone.

  “Amy,” Anne Marie says.

  This time I hear Frank laugh. And I think to myself, Did she know I was trying to sneak to my room?

  “I’m so relieved,” Mom says to Frank. “I know the pediatrician said not to worry, but she was so far behind Elisabeth. . . . Yes . . . Me too.”

  I escape while I can. I flop down on my bed and wish there was a restart button for the day because, God knows, I need to push it. Why the hell did I have to say “I love you, man”?

  I hardly ever say, “I love you, man” because I worry that people will think I mean it in the very real, very gay sense, and not as a joke. But I did. And I do. And I never should have said it. Not in the middle of government. Not to Mason.

  Crap. All that stuff that happens to guys who are friends with gay kids? The jokes that they might be gay too? Those have probably already started circulating. Mason was counting on me—on our car—to get the hell out of Dodge. Forget the closet, all of Dodge was running out of ventilation right about now.

  “Amy?” Mom asks, poking her head in around my bedroom door.

  “Not funny,” I say to the ceiling.

  “She loves you,” she says. “Her first word was your name.”

  I soften, look at her.

  “Come downstairs?” she asks. “We need to talk.”

  I sigh and get up.

  Mom and I sit on the couch where we can see the twins playing.

  “There are better ways to do things, Jamie,” she starts, patting my knee. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you stood up for what you thought w
as right, but you shouldn’t have taken advantage of your position on the Gumshoe staff. The literary magazine was their baby too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It wasn’t yours to manipulate. It wasn’t yours to use to make your own statement. You understand?”

  I nod.

  “You should have worked together with Michael and Lia and the others to come to a consensus.”

  “I know. But it wasn’t going to happen. I felt like I had to—” I stop.

  She waits for me, but when I don’t continue, she touches my knee again. “It’s a cute story. Flattering, huh?”

  I don’t understand.

  “The boys in the story—they look like you and Mason.”

  My skin goes cold, like the air conditioning just kicked on. I lunge for my backpack, reach for a copy of Gumshoe. But I don’t need to open the magazine. I know she’s right—even without a pair of chunky black glasses and a mop of unruly hair, I can imagine Tony as Mason. And Justin? She might as well have named him James.

  “You didn’t notice?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Once to the right and back to center.

  “Oh, honey. It’s probably nothing. Just me thinking of you two . . . ,” she trails off.

  “No,” I say. “You’re right.”

  “Mason’s seen this, hasn’t he?” Mom asks.

  I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, you might want to warn him. He’s going to see it eventually.”

  I don’t tell her I can’t possibly talk to him ever again.

  “Jamie, you found time to come out to him, haven’t you?”

  I bite my lip. Feel the sting of tears prickling behind my eyes.

  Mom reaches for me, pulls my head down to her shoulder.

  I melt into her, cry as if the tears are the last of my ice-cube resolve. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” she whispers gently.

  “I can’t—I can’t—” I sputter. “I won’t be able to stand it if he—”

  “He’s your best friend, Jamie. I don’t think he’ll reject you.”