“Yes, I said ‘friend.’ ”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “But we can be so much more if you’ll just give us a chance. That’s all I’m asking for, a chance.”
“I’m sorry, Les.”
“I—I can’t believe you’re being so . . . so closed-minded about this!” I am nearly shouting, my chest is heaving. Keep it cool—maybe she’s just scared?
“Les, what I’m about to tell you, you’ve got to promise not to tell a soul. Do you promise? Not a soul.”
I nod.
“I like girls.”
“What?”
“I’m a lesbian, Les.”
“You’re you are? Seriously?”
She nods, her eyes dead serious.
“One hundred percent?” I ask.
“One hundred percent.”
Feeling light-headed, I lean against the refrigerator and put my sweaty palms to my face. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This. Is. Not. Happening.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“How long have you known?” I say through my fingers.
“Pretty much my whole life.”
“Have you ever dated guys?”
She shakes her head. “Guys just don’t do it for me. Sorry.”
“But how do you know that if you’ve never dated one?”
“Les, I know.” She reaches into her black feathered purse, which is slung over the wooden kitchen chair, and removes a strip of small black-and-white photos, the type you take in one of those booths, and hands it to me. They show her and a very cute blonde in each picture. Their arms are around each other, and in two of the photos they are kissing. “This is my Lauren.”
I hand back the photo strip and try not to look like I want to cry. “Does your mom know?”
“It’s the biggest reason we don’t get along. She insists I’m doing this to get back at her for something.”
“And your dad?”
“It’s why he moved us back here. To keep me away from Lauren.”
The kitchen suddenly feels hot, cramped, and it’s hard for me to catch my breath.
“No one else knows,” she says. “Please don’t say anything.”
I nod numbly and walk toward her front door.
“Les . . . I hope this won’t hurt our friendship,” she says. “I really like hanging out with you.”
I manage to ride my bike out of view of her house before the tears break.
***
Jesus . . . why? Aren’t I allowed to become a man? Who’s going to help me with this? What have I done to deserve this? Where is Your heart?
Seduction Tip Number 7:
That Voice
Get a tape recorder and say the following into the microphone: “Has anyone ever told you you have the most amazing eyes?” Now listen to your recorded self. Are you speaking from the deep masculine chest or the strained virginal throat? Is your voice smooth or shaky? Record yourself again and hone your technique until you master the deep, alluring purr of the Seductive Man.
I spend the rest of Saturday in bed, facing the wall, with the covers pulled up to my chin. A lesbian in Harker City. Who’d guess such a thing? How could I possibly have known she was one of those? It was only a couple of years ago that I even heard the term “lesbian.” And aren’t they always manly women? Is this a ploy for her to appear special and different? Like her flapper costumes? Or does she just need to be with the right guy? After all, she’s never dated a guy. Could I change her? Except . . . she seems like she knows exactly who she is and she and the blonde looked very much in love in those pictures. This is not fair. Still, if I could only convince her to give me a shot . . . who knows?
Sunday afternoon. I’m lying in bed, wondering if I will ever get over Charity, when the phone rings. Moments later Mom yells from downstairs, “Les, you’re wanted on the phone—by a girl.”
No. I’m not, Mom. I’m not wanted by any girl.
Still, I force myself to take the call.
“Hey, Les, it’s me.” Sounds like she’s been crying. Over me?
“Hey.”
“Can you meet me at the Frosty Queen in an hour?” she asks. “I need to talk to you.”
Maybe she’s given it some more thought and discovered she isn’t as lesbian as she thought? Could she have feelings for me after all?
“Uh, okay. See you soon.”
I hang up, wondering if Jesus has decided to throw me a bone. I warn myself against such feelings—but my hopes are up. I will play it cool. Just a sexy, experienced guy, willing to forgive her. And then . . .
When I step into the garage to fetch my bike, I freeze at the sight of my Chinese vanishing box—100 percent finished. And it’s painted a fancy shiny black. A red velvet curtain hangs regally in its doorway. It looks like a million bucks.
I find Mom and Dad in the garden, on their knees weeding.
“Dad, it looks awesome!” I say. “It’s totally perfect!”
Dad turns to me, shaking his head. “What’re you talking about, son?”
“The vanishing box. I just know I’m going to win the talent show now.”
Dad still looks baffled. “I haven’t worked on it.”
“Your uncle finished it last night,” Mom declares as she falls back on her heels.
“Well, that was certainly nice of him,” Dad says, looking almost hurt.
“I have to thank him,” I say. “Where is he?”
“Hard telling,” Mom says. “He drove off after lunch. By the way, young man, I thought you were sick.”
“I suddenly feel better. Much, much better. See ya!”
***
The Trailways bus pulls away as I steer my bike into the Frosty Queen parking lot. I spot Uncle Ray’s Corvette parked in front of one of the motel rooms. No doubt he and that Shelleby are engaging in a little afternoon delight. Stepping into the air-conditioning of the café is like diving into a swimming pool in the Sahara. Sheriff Bottoms hunches at the counter, sipping coffee. Charity gives a little wave from a window booth. As I slide in across from her, I see she has a handwritten letter in front of her, and her eyes look all puffy and bloodshot.
“Thanks for meeting me.” She sniffs and tucks the letter into a stamped envelope, depositing it in her backpack.
I nod and lean back, very cool, very “sure, whatever, nothing fazes me.”
Jesus . . . You can walk on water, turn water into wine, arise from the dead. So please do this one small thing for me and make Charity fall in love with me. Amen.
“I asked you here because I owe you an apology,” she says.
I crinkle my eyebrows seductively. “Oh, you do?”
“I feel I wasn’t entirely fair to you, that maybe I led you on.” She briefly glances outside, then back to me. “Truth was, I was flattered you liked me. It felt good. But it was wrong of me and I’m sorry.”
I keep waiting for the real confession: that she is, in fact, attracted to me. But what I hear is: “I should’ve told you from the get-go that I am the way I am. I should’ve been honest.”
So why is she crying? Does she feel that sorry for me? Am I that much of a loser?
Carla, diner waitress extraordinaire, appears tableside and sets down a piece of coconut cream pie, with meringue that scrapes the clouds, in front of Charity.
“What can I get you, Les?” Carla asks.
“Nothing, thanks. Absolutely nothing.”
Carla shrugs and makes her way back to the counter. Charity hands me the extra fork and says, “I got this for both of us.”
I set down the fork and ask, “So why were you crying?”
“I received a Dear Jane letter from Lauren yesterday,” she says, and starts to tear up a little. “It said ‘There’s no reason to continue our relationship,’ and ‘I don’t want to be tied down to someone so far away,’ and ‘Let’s stay friends.’ Blah, blah, blah . . . Blecch!”
“Maybe, maybe this means you should be with someone . . . different. Like me.”
&n
bsp; She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Les. It’s like I said. I’m just not attracted to guys. Any guys.”
God, why am I so stupid? So very, very stupid.
“Please, don’t hate me,” she says. “I need a friend in this place.”
Her sad blue eyes. The way the sun shines through the window and illuminates her hair. I can’t believe she’ll never be my girlfriend. How am I supposed to just switch off who I am? From outside I hear a truck engine humming in low gear.
“Hey, I’d still like to be your magician’s assistant for the talent show,” she says. “If you’re cool with that.”
“But why would you want to hang around with me if it’s not going to lead anywhere?”
“Why do you hang out with Howard?” she asks. “Is that leading anywhere?”
Outside, the engine grows louder.
“But don’t lesbians hate men?”
“Where do guys get that idea? If anything, dykes and guys have a lot in common: we both love the ladies. If it helps, you can think of me as a guy with turkey tits.”
“Ew.” But I almost smile.
I note Sheriff Bottoms glancing over his shoulder and giving us a strange look.
“So, then,” I start to ask in a low voice, “do you feel like a guy trapped in a girl’s body?”
“No,” she laughs. “I feel like a perfectly normal girl who is attracted to other girls.”
“And you think that’s normal?”
“Who gets to decide what’s normal? The good folks of Harker City? Besides, normal is overrated, and unattainable.” She stabs the pie with her fork, then pops a bite into her mouth. “Mmm. You should really try this.”
I taste its creamy lusciousness. Mmm.
“Les, I think we can be really good for each other,” she says. “Y’know, be each other’s confidantes. We can talk about girls we find cute.”
“Might be too weird for a God-fearing, clean-living Lutheran boy like me.”
“This from a guy who wears a cape and calls himself the Great Linguini?”
Now I can’t help but smile. She’s a sharp one, this lesbian. I clear my throat and ask, “How long have you . . . known?”
“Let’s see . . . I remember being in the third grade and listening to a bunch of girls talk about boys they wanted to kiss, and I kept thinking about how I wanted to smooch Heather Adams.”
“But you’ve never, y’know, gone all the way with a guy, right?”
She shakes her head as she chews more pie.
“So how do you really know you’re gay if you’ve never done it with a guy?”
“Have you ever done it with a guy?” she asks.
“Heck, no!”
“And you know you don’t want to, right?”
“Positively.”
“Exactly,” she says, pointing her fork. “It’s about attraction, it’s about who excites you, it’s about . . . knowing.”
I finally and fully believe her now. All right, all right, all right. I’m reluctantly convinced.
“But . . . ,” I start to say.
“But what?”
“Never mind.”
“But what?” she groans. “Just say it.”
“But Reverend Bachbaugh says homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of God.”
“Is it one of the Ten Commandments?” she asks.
“Well, no.”
“And wasn’t Christ all about acceptance and forgiveness?” she asks. “About a year ago my mom sent me to Christian counseling in an attempt to ‘straighten’ me out. It was quickly clear to me that the church picks and chooses what it wants from the Bible. And they pick sin and hellfire much more than they choose Jesus’s unconditional love. I don’t know, Les, maybe I am some sort of sinner, but what am I supposed to do?”
“You’ve gotta be yourself,” I say, and am proud I’m more open-minded than Reverend Bachbaugh. Still, I thank God I’m not gay.
The engine, now roaring, causes the window to vibrate. Charity glances outside and her eyes widen. “What the . . . ?”
A cement-mixer truck is parked beside Uncle Ray’s Corvette, its massive barrel spinning. Suddenly the large metal chute at the back of the truck pours wet concrete into the front seat!
“Holy shit!”
Shelleby’s tall, broad-shouldered, bearded husband, Leo, stands beside the chute and calmly watches the concrete flow into the convertible.
By the time I make it to the parking lot, the concrete has risen to the level of the dashboard.
“Stop!” I yell, but Leo just stands there, watching the car with calm, vengeful eyes.
The door to a motel room opens, and Uncle Ray and Shelleby poke their heads out.
“What the fuck?!” Uncle Ray yells. Shelleby screams. I can see her boobs!
My uncle Ray storms outside, his arms flailing, his penis bouncing like a hot dog on a string. “You crazy son of a bitch!”
I should do something, but what?
As Uncle Ray goes to push away the spout, Leo punches him in the jaw sending him collapsing against the car. Uncle Ray throws himself at Leo and they tussle. I run to them, yelling, “Stop it!”
Uncle Ray is no match for the massive Leo, who tucks his hands under Uncle Ray’s arms, lifts him up, and drops him into the car with a splash.
Stunned, Uncle Ray is sinking fast into the gray sludge when I see Leo remove a shovel from the side of the truck.
“No!” I yell, holding out my hands as I scramble over to him.
Leo raises the shovel high. It comes down with a resounding clank. Right on top of Uncle Ray’s head.
PART TWO
Seduction Tip Number 8:
Her Ears
The Seductive Man knows that a lady’s ears are one of her most sensitive erogenous zones. Lobe nibbling, flicking, and sucking, along with heavy breathing and whispering, can transform any ice queen into a willing Aphrodite. When blowing in her ear, try not to use so much force as to shock her. And when kissing her ear, don’t slobber or drench her. Finally, speak softly when close up. Try practicing on rubber ears commonly found in costume shops.
“Carrying on with another man’s wife. It’s a sin!” says Mom at breakfast the next morning. “What will people think of our family?”
Dad, unshaven, with purple bags under his eyes, just hangs his head as he stares at his coffee cup. In addition to taking care of Uncle Ray, he was up most of the night delivering twins.
“Bev, just try to keep this in perspective,” Dad says. “He could’ve been killed.”
Mom, lips pursed, sits back in her chair. “Well, Raymond is not allowed back in this house.”
“Once I release him from the hospital, my brother will recuperate right here,” Dad says adamantly, pointing at the table. “He’s had a serious concussion. I’m going to have to observe him closely for at least a week.”
Mom shakes her head. “No, not in my house he’s not—”
Dad slams his fist on the table, rattling the dishes; Mom and I both flinch. “Goddamn it, he’s my brother!” Dad seethes through gritted teeth. “He will always be welcome in this house! My house!”
Dad leaps up with such force that his chair shoots back a good three feet and slams against the wall. He stomps out.
He cursed at Mom! She looks so stunned and hurt. My first instinct is to quickly leave the kitchen so I won’t have to see her cry. Instead, I go over and awkwardly pat her back while she sniffles into my shirt.
***
During second period Principal Cheavers leads the entire eighth-grade class out of school and to an idling bus. This is to be the official tour of where we are to spend the next four years, Dickerson County Consolidated High School, and we’re each given a name tag (the school secretary typed “Less” on mine), so that our new principal can get to know us. When I step aboard, I see Charity sitting and laughing with Kristy Lynn Hagel, our star girls’ basketball player, on the hump seat. I had no idea she and the big-boned Kristy Lynn were friends. Does Charity like
like her? Does Kristy Lynn like Charity?
“How’s your uncle?” Charity asks as I file past.
“Pretty busted up,” I say, “but recuperating.”
I plop down in the seat beside Howard, who’s reading Facts & Fallacies.
“Fact or fallacy?” he asks. “It takes longer for Newton’s apple to fall to earth now than it did in 1665.”
“Fact—or fallacy?” I say. “Asking annoying and pointless questions is what led to the murder of Howard Bachbaugh.”
“What’s eating you?” he asks, closing the book.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, and my eyes return to Charity, who’s laughing with Kristy Lynn.
“I gather Instinct cologne doesn’t work so well on female Homo sapiens,” he says.
I whirl to him and whisper, “How’d you know she was gay?”
He shakes his head. “Gay?”
“You said it doesn’t work on female homosexuals. How’d you know she was?”
“I said ‘Homo sapiens.’ Means mankind.” Then he covers his mouth. “Oh my God, she’s gay?!”
“Geez! Shh! You didn’t get that from me, understand?”
“That’s so great! I mean, not for you,” he says. “And that explains why she’s all over Kristy Lynn.”
“Is Kristy Lynn . . . ?”
“Fact or fallacy?” Howard asks. “A girl basketball star who never dates boys, goes by the name Kris, and wears steel-toed boots to the spring dance is straight.”
Does he have a point? You always hear about how there’s a high percentage of lesbians in girls’ sports.
I watch as Charity and Kristy Lynn laugh and flirt it up, and I feel my heart drop to the floor. Kristy Lynn is not good-looking, or Miss Personality. I mean, I think I’m a lot better-looking and way funnier. And, still, she’s going to land my Charity. That’s totally unfair. Does Charity have no taste?
Ten minutes later the bus lumbers into the high school lot.
“Look at all the cars,” I say to Howard. “They must have a lot more teachers than the junior high.”
“Most of those are the students’, Einstein,” Howard says. “Unless you’re some kind of loser and take the bus, you drive to high school.”
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