by John Green
But it doesn’t seem that improbable to me. It seems to me that all the things we keep in sealed boxes are both alive and dead until we open the box, that the unobserved is both there and not. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about the other Will Grayson’s huge eyes in Frenchy’s: because he had just rendered the dead-and-alive cat dead. I realize that’s why I never put myself in a situation where I really need Tiny, and why I followed the rules instead of kissing her when she was available: I chose the closed box. “Okay,” I say. I don’t look at her. “I think I get it.”
“Well, that’s not all, actually. It turns out to be somewhat more complicated.”
“I don’t think I’m smart enough to handle more complicated,” I say.
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she says.
The porch swing creaks as I try to think everything through. I look over at her.
“Eventually, they figured out that keeping the box closed doesn’t actually keep the cat alive-and-dead. Even if you don’t observe the cat in whatever state it’s in, the air in the box does. So keeping the box closed just keeps you in the dark, not the universe.”
“Got it,” I say. “But failing to open the box doesn’t kill the cat.” We aren’t talking about physics anymore.
“No,” she says. “The cat was already dead—or alive, as the case may be.”
“Well, the cat has a boyfriend,” I say.
“Maybe the physicist likes that the cat has a boyfriend.”
“Possible,” I say.
“Friends,” she says.
“Friends,” I say. We shake on it.
chapter fourteen
mom insists that before i go anywhere with tiny, he has to come over for dinner. i’m sure she checks all the sex predator websites beforehand. she doesn’t trust that i met him over the internet. and, given the circumstances, i can’t really blame her. she’s a little surprised when i go along with the plan, even if i do tell her me: just don’t ask about his forty-three ex-boyfriends, okay? or ask him about why he’s carrying around an axe.
mom: . . .
me: i’m kidding about the axe part.
but really, nothing i can say can calm the woman down. it’s insane. she puts on those yellow rubber gloves and starts scrubbing with the intensity you usually reserve for when someone’s thrown up all over the furniture. i tell her she really doesn’t have to do that, because it’s not like tiny’s going to be eating off the floor. but she just waves me away and tells me to clean up my room.
i mean to clean up my room. really, i do. but all i manage to do is wipe the history from my web browser, and then i’m totally exhausted. it’s not like i don’t wipe the snot flakes from my bed in the morning. i’m a pretty clean guy. all the dirty clothes are shoved in the bottom of my closet. he’s not going to see them.
finally, it’s time for him to get here. at school, gideon asks me if i’m nervous about tiny coming over, and i tell him i’m totally not. but, yeah, that’s a lie. mostly i’m nervous about my mom and how she’s going to act.
i’m waiting for him in the kitchen, and mom’s running around like a madwoman.
mom: i should fix the salad.
me: why should you fix the salad?
mom: doesn’t tiny like salad?
me: i told you, i think tiny would eat baby seals if we gave them to him. but i mean, why do you have to fix the salad? who broke it? i didn’t touch it. did you break the salad, mom? if you did, YOU’D BETTER FIX IT!
i’m joking, but she’s not really finding it funny. and i’m thinking, aren’t i supposed to be the one who’s freaking out here? tiny is going to be the first b-b-b- (i can’t do it) boy-f-f-f (c’mon, will) boyf-boyf (here we go) boyfriend of mine that she’s ever met. although if she keeps talking about salad, i might have to lock her in her bedroom before he comes over.
mom: you’re sure he doesn’t have any allergies?
me: calm. down.
like i suddenly have supercanine sound skills, i hear a car pulling into the driveway. before mom can tell me to comb my hair and put on some shoes, i’m out the front door and watching tiny turn off the ignition.
me: run! run!
but the radio’s so loud that tiny can’t hear me. he just grins. as he opens the door, i get a look at his car.
me: what the—?!?
it’s this silver mercedes, the kind of car you’d expect to be driven by a plastic surgeon - and not the kind of plastic surgeon who fixes the fucked-up faces of starving african babies, but the kind of plastic surgeon who convinces women that their lives will be over if they look older than twelve.
tiny: greetings, earthling! i come in peace. take me to your leader!
it should be weird to have him right in front of me for only the second time in our boyfriendship, and it should be really exciting that i’m about to be caught up in those big arms of his, but really i’m still stuck on the car.
me: please tell me you stole that.
he looks a little confused, and holds up the shopping bag he’s carrying.
tiny: this?
me: no. the car.
tiny: oh. well, i did steal it.
me: you did?
tiny: yeah, from my mother. my car was almost out of gas.
it’s so bizarre. all the times we’ve been talking or texting or IMing or whatever, i’ve always imagined that tiny was in a house like mine, or a school like mine, or a car like the one i might get someday - a car almost as old as me, probably bought off an old woman who isn’t allowed to drive anymore. now i’m realizing it’s not like that at all.
me: you live in a big house, don’t you?
tiny: big enough to fit me!
me: that’s not what i mean.
i have no idea what i’m doing. because i’ve totally slowed us down, and even though he’s right in front of me now, it’s not like it should be.
tiny: come here, you.
and with that, he puts his bag down and opens his arms to me, and his smile is so wide that i’d be an asshole to do anything but walk right inside his welcome. once i’m there, he leans down to kiss me lightly.
tiny: hello.
i kiss him back.
me: hello.
okay, so this is the reality: he is here. he is real. we are real. i shouldn’t care about his car.
mom’s got her apron off by the time we get inside the house. even though i warned her that he’s the shape of utah, there’s still a slight moment of astonishment when she first sees tiny in the flesh. he must be used to this, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because he glides right over to her and starts saying all the right things, about how excited he is to meet her, and how amazing it is that she cooked dinner, and how wonderful the house looks.
mom gestures him over to the couch and asks him if he wants anything to drink.
mom: we have coke, diet coke, lemonade, orange juice -
tiny: ooh, i love lemonade.
me: it’s not real lemonade. it’s just lemon-flavored crystal light.
both mom and tiny look at me like i’m the fucking grinch.
me: i didn’t want you to get all excited for real lemonade!
i can’t help it - i’m seeing our apartment through his eyes - our whole lives through his eyes - and it all looks so . . . shabby. the water stains on the ceiling and the dull-colored rug and the decades-old tv. the whole house smells like debt.
mom: why don’t you go sit next to tiny, and i’ll get you a coke?
i took my pills this morning, i swear. but it’s like they ended up in my leg instead of my brain, because i just can’t get happy. i sit down on the couch, and as soon as mom is out of the room, tiny’s hand is on my hand, fingers rubbing over my fingers.
tiny: it’s okay, will. i love being here.
i know he’s been having a bad week. i know things haven’t been going his way, and that he’s worried his show is going to bomb. he’s rewriting it daily. (‘who knew it would be so complicated to fit love into fourteen s
ongs?’) i know he’s been looking forward to this - and i know that i’ve been looking forward to this. but now i have to stop looking forward and start looking at where i am. it’s hard.
i lean into tiny’s meaty shoulder.
i can’t believe i’m turned on by anything i’d call ‘meaty.’
me: this is the rough part, okay? so just stay tuned for the good part. i promise it’ll come soon.
when mom comes back in, i’m still leaning there. she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem to mind. she puts our drinks down, then runs to the kitchen again. i hear the oven open and close, then the scrape of a spatula against a cookie sheet. a minute later, she’s back with a plate of mini hot dogs and mini egg rolls. there are even two little bowls, one with ketchup and one with mustard.
tiny: yum!
we dig in, and tiny starts telling mom about the week he’s had, and so many details about hold me closer that i can see she’s thoroughly confused. as he’s talking, she remains hovering above us, until finally i tell her she should join us, sit down. so she pulls over a chair and listens, even having an egg roll or two herself.
it starts to feel more normal. tiny being here. mom seeing the two of us. me sitting so that at least one part of my body is always touching his. it’s almost like i’m back in millennium park with him, that we’re continuing that first time-bending conversation, and this is where the story is supposed to go. as always, the only question is whether i’ll fuck it all up.
when there are no finger foods left to finger, mom clears the dishes and says dinner will be ready in a few minutes. as soon as she’s out of the room, tiny turns to me.
tiny: i love her.
yes, i think, he’s the type of person who can love someone that easily.
me: she’s not bad.
when she comes in to tell us dinner’s ready, tiny flies up from the couch.
tiny: ooh! i almost forgot.
he reaches for the shopping bag he brought and hands it to my mother.
tiny: a host gift!
mom looks really surprised. she takes a box out of the bag - it has a ribbon on it and everything. tiny sits back down so she won’t feel awkward sitting down to open it. very carefully, she undoes the ribbon. then she gently lifts open the top of the box. there’s a black foam cushion, then something surrounded by bubble wrap. With even more care, she undoes the wrapping, and takes out this plain glass bowl.
at first, i don’t get it. i mean, it’s a glass bowl. but my mother’s breath catches. she’s blinking back tears. because it’s not just a plain glass bowl. it’s perfect. i mean, it’s so smooth and perfect, we all sit there and stare at it for a moment, as my mother turns it slowly in her hand. even in our shabby living room, it catches the light.
nobody’s given her anything like this in ages. maybe ever. nobody ever gives her anything this beautiful.
tiny: i picked it out myself!
he has no idea. he has no clue what he’s just done.
mom: oh, tiny . . .
she’s lost the words. but i can tell. it’s the way she holds that bowl in her hand. it’s the way she’s looking at it.
i know what her mind is telling her to do - to say it’s too much, that she couldn’t possibly have such a thing. even if she wants it so badly. even if she loves it that much.
so it’s me who says
me: it’s beautiful. thank you so much, tiny.
i hug him, really send him my thank you that way, too. then mom is putting the bowl on the coffee table she cleaned to a shine. she’s standing up, and she’s opening her arms, and then he’s hugging her, too.
this is what i never allow myself to need.
and of course i’ve been needing it all along.
to tell the truth, tiny eats most of the chicken parm at dinner, and takes up most of the conversation as well. mostly, we talk about stupid things - why mini hot dogs taste better than regular-size hot dogs, why dogs are better than cats, why cats was so successful in the eighties when sondheim was writing rings around lloyd webber (neither mom or i really contribute much to that one). at one point, tiny sees the da vinci postcard mom has on the refrigerator, and he asks her if she’s ever been to italy. so she tells him about the trip she took with three college friends their junior year, and it’s an interesting story for once. he tells her he likes naples even more than rome, because the people in naples are so intensely from the place they’re from. he says he wrote a song about traveling for his musical, but ultimately it didn’t make the cut. he sings us a few lines: Once you’ve been to Naples
it’s hard to shop at Staples,
And once you’ve been to Milan
it’s hard to eat at Au Bon Pain.
Once you’ve been to Venice
you turn from iceberg lettuce.
And you learn that baloney’s baloney
When Bologna feeds you rigatoni.
Being a transatlantic gay
is a dangerous game to play.
Because once you’ve been to Rome
it’s hard to call a suburb home
for the first time i can recall, mom looks completely tickled. she even hums along a little. when tiny is done, her applause is genuine. i figure it’s time to end the lovefest, before tiny and mom run off together and start a band.
i offer to do the dishes, and mom acts like she’s completely shocked by this.
me: i do the dishes all the time.
mom looks seriously at tiny.
mom: really, he does.
then she bursts out laughing.
i am not really appreciating this, even though i’m aware there are many worse ways this could’ve played out.
tiny: i want to see your room!
this is not a hey!-my-zipper’s-getting-itchy! request. when tiny says he wants to see your room, it means he wants to see . . . your room.
mom: go ahead. i’ve got the dishes.
tiny: thanks, mrs. grayson.
mom: anne. call me anne.
tiny: thanks, anne!
me: yeah, thanks, anne.
tiny hits me on the shoulder. i think he means to do it lightly, but i feel like someone’s just driven a volkswagen into my arm.
i lead him to my room, and even manage a ta-da! when i open the door. he walks to the center of the room and takes it all in, smiling the whole time.
tiny: goldfish!
he goes right over to the bowl. i explain to him that if goldfish ever take over the world and decide to have a war crimes trial, i am going to be noosebait, because the mortality rate of my little goldfish bowl is much much higher than if they’d lived in the moat at some chinese restaurant.
tiny: what are their names?
oh, lord.
me: samson and delilah.
tiny: really?
me: she’s a total slut.
he leans over for a closer look at the fish food.
tiny: you feed them prescription drugs?
me: oh, no. those are mine.
it’s the only way i’ll remember to feed the fish and take my meds, if i keep them together. still, i’m thinking maybe i should’ve cleaned a little more. because of course tiny’s now blushing and not going to ask anything else, and while i don’t want to go into it, i also don’t want him to think i’m being treated for scabies or something.
me: it’s a depression thing.
tiny: oh, i feel depressed, too. sometimes.
we’re coming dangerously close to the conversations i’d have with maura, when she’d say she knew exactly what i was going through, and i’d have to explain that, no, she didn’t, because her sadness never went as deep as mine. i had no doubt that tiny thought he got depressed, but that was probably because he had nothing to compare it to. still, what could i say? that i didn’t just feel depressed - instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? that if he got blue, i got black? that i hated those pills so much, because i knew how much i relied on them to l
ive?
no, i couldn’t say any of this. because, when it all comes down to it, nobody wants to hear it. no matter how much they like you or love you, they don’t want to hear it.
tiny: which one’s samson and which one’s delilah? me: honestly? i forget.
tiny scans my bookshelf, runs his hand over my keyboard, spins the globe i got when i graduated fifth grade.
tiny: look! a bed!
for a second, i think he’s going to leap onto it, which would kill my bed frame for sure. but with an almost-shy grin, he sits gingerly on its edge.
tiny: comfy!
how have i ended up dating this sprinkled donut of a person? with a not-unfriendly sigh, i sit down next to him. the mattress is definitely canyoning his way.
but before the inevitable next step, my phone vibrates on my desk. i’m going to ignore it, but then it buzzes again and tiny tells me to get it.
i flip open the phone and read what’s there.
tiny: who’s it from?
me: just gideon. he wants to see how things are going.
tiny: gideon, huh?
there’s an unmistakable suspicion in tiny’s voice. i close the phone and head back to the bed.
me: you’re not jealous of gideon, are you?
tiny: what, that he’s cute and young and gay and gets to see you every day? what’s there to be jealous of?
i kiss him.
me: you have nothing to be jealous of. we’re just friends.
something hits me then, and i start to laugh.
tiny: what?
me: there’s a boy in my bed!