by Bethny Ebert
Nick smiled into the mouth of his empty beer bottle, feeling more than a little stupid.
The band was on their last song of the night. “Cupcake Wolverine”. Nick helped write that song, right after his Confirmation thing. He was surprised and a little flattered they’d learned it so fast.
Both of them were raised Catholic, sort of. Parker liked the idea and found it romantic, but he believed more in nature than in any sort of creator. Nick was Buddhist. He saw common ground between Buddhism and Catholicism, both postulating guidelines and stipulations for morally sound behavior. He suspected that was most religion, anyway, stipulations, but somehow Buddhism seemed more lenient.
After his Confirmation, he only attended services when his parents were home.
They didn’t notice that he was Buddhist, of course. They didn’t notice anything. Work was always more important. Nick and Brooke were about as much a priority as the cute ceramic dishware they got in China. They joked about it with each other, calling themselves Housekeeper 1 and Housekeeper 2.
“Hey, cupcake Wolverine, why you gotta always fuck with my shit. Big Jesus face. What do you do all day? What what what what do you do.”
He wondered if his parents’ neglect was why he’d grown so close with Parker, needing a replacement family. Most guys didn’t form such close friendships. The Beloit family was pretty good to him. They never asked any questions, just accepted him into their circle. Best friend, brother maybe, heart-match.
It didn’t mean he was gay.
“Cupcake Wolverine, like your life is so hard. Desert Jesus, deserting me. You’re a big pastry!” they sang.
Maybe he was lonely. But he didn’t really feel like dating girls. They just weren’t that interesting. Even the girls who were into music and had good manners and cared about school, they weren’t anyone he could sleep with.
But he wasn’t sleeping with Parker, either.
Maybe he would never sleep with anybody.
It wasn’t guilt. He never felt guilty about being gay. He wasn’t gay. Loving another guy didn’t mean anything. That was just love.
Sex was different. Sort of like pepperoni and sausage on a pizza – not bad in theory, but largely unnecessary. Pizza was fine with just cheese.
His friend Vanessa, who knew everything, said that made him asexual. He didn’t tell her about Parker. Vanessa was cool. She probably would have understood. But he didn’t feel like telling anyone. Some people guessed, but he never answered one way or the other. It wasn’t their business.
Deathskull Bombshell finished up, and the audience yelled at them for an encore.
“We’re taking donations,” Elizabeth shouted to the audience. “To show some appreciation for us and for Ȼørpseflowerź and Zombie Bratwurst and Aborted Dreams of a Better Catharsis. Jars are located on the counter upstairs by the toaster, and the other one is on the coffee table in the living room. How about it?”
“You suck!” yelled the audience. “Fuck you! Play more music!”
“I LOVE YOU!” some drunk guy shouted.
“Let’s just play some shit,” Trevor muttered, and they started on their original song “Annoying Vapid Wormhole Whore,” then “Make Me Puke (Your Love)”. They moved on to a cover of Jefferson Airplane “Somebody To Love”. The Ȼørpseflowerź joined in, providing growling metal vocals and scary synthesizers. When they shouted along with the chorus they sounded just like Black Sabbath. Bjorn-Trevor looked ready to pass out next to them; with their face makeup and Marilyn Manson eye contacts they were scarier than he was, and much taller.
Nick didn’t care one way or the other if Trevor fainted on stage. Trevor Ericksen was not a conscientious sort of guy. Playing guitar had gone to his head. Brooke followed him around like she needed him, like she wouldn’t know her ass from her elbow if he wasn’t around to point it out.
It was depressing.
Trevor still made his mother fold his clothes during band practice. The idea of Brooke being someone’s laundry bitch was sad. She was a feminist. She could do better for herself.
Some things had to be learned, Parker said once. He had to let her make mistakes or she’d never learn anything.
“Of all the mistakes,” Nick said that day, “why that one.”
Parker shrugged. “You can’t choose it. It just happens.”
Like herpes, Nick thought. “I guess.”
The band was really done now. Elizabeth threw her sticks into the audience. A hyperactive fan caught both of them, jumping over several concert attendees in her rush. She squealed and jumped up and down, clutching her prize.
Elizabeth hunched down, leaning into her drum set. Her face was very pale. She had anxiety issues that liked to creep up every once in a while. Brooke grabbed her hand, and they snuck offstage while the remaining members of Deathskull Bombshell and the Ȼørpseflowerź attempted to tame the raging beast of an audience. They started playing another song, but nobody knew what they were supposed to be playing so they just did a bunch of solos.
Nick followed them to the kitchen. Brooke pulled out a folding chair from behind the fridge for Elizabeth to sit on, and Nick grabbed her an empty beer can, filling it with water. He grabbed another folding chair for his sister.
Elizabeth chugged the water down and leaned her head on Brooke’s shoulder. “Dear Christ,” she said.
Brooke laughed. “Yeah.”
“What a concert. I’m fucking exhausted.” Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts. “I wonder where that guy ran off to.”
“What guy?”
Covering her mouth, Elizabeth yawned.
“We drove some guy here after his car broke down,” Nick explained. He grabbed the donation jar from the counter and shook it, trying to weigh the profits in his mind. The coins jingled quiet, muffled by the dollars. He told himself not to get too optimistic about it. They were going to have to split it all up anyway.
“Oh, cool,” Brooke said. She grinned. “Was he cute?”
“What?” Nick said, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. God.” He glared at her.
“Way-ooooooooooooooh!” Parker yelled then, running up from downstairs, and they stared at him. “That was amazing! Fuckin’ Ȼørpseflowerź! Right there!”
Nick nodded.
“They were so tall!” Parker said, drunk, slurring his speech. He wobbled slightly, then leaned against the counter to steady himself. “And they had a real synthesizer! And the bassist let me touch his Fender!”
Nick stared at him, mortified.
“How was it?” Brooke said, suppressing a giggle. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Awesome!” Parker said. He jumped around, exclaiming over everything.
A few other people wandered upstairs. They all chatted for a while about the show and about other shows that were going on later that week. Some guy was throwing a party. Nick didn’t know him, but it felt nice to be invited. One guy wore an Anti-Flag shirt, prompting a discussion about their new album.
Parker found someone with rolling papers and gradually calmed down. Brooke smoked a few cigarettes with him and some guys she didn’t know very well. She was getting really into this whole thing, the attention. It worried him.
Nick wondered if this was his future, sitting around like a nerd and fetching water while everyone else got drunk and high. It almost made him want to get high too. He tried to remember some Buddhist quotes about heedlessness and sobriety. Thinking helped.
Trevor came upstairs a while later, a leggy drunk girl on his arm. He blinked, looking dazed, surprised to see everyone still there.
“Yo, bro,” Elizabeth said.
He nodded at her. “Brooke,” he said to Brooke.
“Bjorn,” Brooke said, hooking her fingers through the belt loops of her jeans. She was the only one who put up with his stupid rock star nicknames.
Trevor smirked. “I was pretty good up there, huh?” He ran a hand through his crunchy gelled hair, and the girl giggled at him. He winke
d at her.
“We were all pretty good,” Elizabeth said.
“Gotta go,” Parker said, jumping up. He ran off, out of the house.
Nick followed him. He sucked at running, and he had to reach into his pocket for his inhaler once they were outside. Parker waited next to him as he huffed and puffed, pressing the inhaler to his mouth and breathing in the medicinal vapors.
“Was that really necessary?” he complained.
Parker looked at the sky. “Yes.”
Nick took another puff on his inhaler. “Why?”
“All that sleazy post-show bullshit,” Parker said. “I can’t stand it.”
“Yeah.”
They stood there, quiet, while Nick’s panting subsided. Whoever heard of a punk with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease? Lame.
His breathing slowed after a few minutes. Cool and dark, the sky was littered with a bunch of stars, and there weren’t any people outside. If it wasn’t for the light glinting off their glasses, they could both be invisible.
They stared at each other in the inky dark.
Parker grabbed Nick’s wrist, inspecting his hand for no real reason. “I can read palms,” he bragged. Drinking made him bold.
“It’s a little dark for that.”
Parker said nothing. He studied Nick’s hand. He tapped Nick’s fingertips, touched his fingernails, traced a line over his palm. He was very gentle. Then he turned Nick’s hand over. He ran a hand over Nick’s bracelets for a second, then traced a line up his arm, feather-light, with his fingertips.
“Hm,” he said, touching Nick’s knuckles.
“What?” Nick asked.
“Says here you’re gonna get married.”
Nick retracted his hand. “Shut up.”
Parker laughed. “Who is she? Is she cute?”
“Argh.” Nick covered his ears. “Stop.”
“Woooooooooo!” screamed the squirrely punk girl from earlier, running out of the house. She still had Elizabeth’s drumsticks in her hands, running, careening into the blustery night.
“Doing alright?” Parker shouted after her.
“Fantastic! Thank you!” She ran away then, to wherever girls like that run off to.
The guys looked at each other, as if sensing the other’s thoughts. After three years of best friendship, it wasn’t hard. Trevor was the type to obsess over his hair for hours, but he didn’t give a damn about car security.
The Toyota was messy, but in a comfortable way. Familiar. Mardi Gras beads and fuzzy dice dangling from the mirror, a Kurt Cobain Has A Posse sticker on the back bumper, beer cans on the floor, and a rather spacious backseat. It smelled like weed and Chinese food. The beer cans crunched beneath their feet as they climbed in, being careful not to slam the door.
They looked at each other, alone in the backseat.
“So,” Parker said, breathing funny.
“Hi,” Nick said. He could hardly breathe at all.
Parker leaned in and kissed him, putting his hands on Nick’s face. Nick ran a hand through Parker’s hair, damp with sweat from the concert. It curled up when it was wet, which was kind of cute. He put his hand on Parker’s ear, tracing a line down his chin, and they kissed further. Nick wondered if he’d get arrested for breaking and entering an unlocked vehicle.
Parker kissed and bit at his neck. Was this foreplay? Were they going to have sex? He wondered if gay guys got sent to jail for sex. He was sixteen. If he got sent to jail for statutory rape, he’d be on a list. They’d fire him from his job. He’d never wash dishes again.
Parker nibbled on his ear, trying different things, and he felt his body respond.
Maybe someone would kill him. Probably Parker’s dad. Mr. Beloit fought in the military a long time ago. He felt his heart slam up against his ribcage. With any luck he’d pass out from shock. That way, at least, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting killed.
Parker covered his chest with kisses, caressing his stomach. He brought his lips back to Nick’s mouth. He tasted like beer and cigarettes.
Nick pushed a hand against Parker’s chest, gently pushing him back. “You guys played good tonight,” he said.
“Thanks,” Parker said. He pushed his hair out of his face and went back to kissing him.
Nick put a hand up. “Like, really good,” he said. “I think you guys could make it to Mopeapalooza this year, if you practiced enough.”
Parker sighed. “Shut up.” He kissed Nick again, a bit more forcefully.
They heard someone just then, in the gravel of the driveway. Scratching feet. They sounded pretty close.
“Fuck!” Nick said, and Parker hit his head on the car ceiling. They both ducked. Then they sat up.
Parker climbed off of him. He pointed at the windows of the Toyota, fogged up. Nick snickered. Before long, they were both laughing, manic. It freaked him out. Sixteen was too young for prison, for solitary confinement. Too young to be murdered by Parker’s dad.
He took another drag on his inhaler, trying to calm his fragmented nerves.
“Dude,” Parker said. He pinched his nose, scratched his eyebrow. “Inhalers aren’t cigarettes. Don’t confuse it.”
“You’re one to talk,” Nick said.
Parker squinted at Nick. He put his glasses on. “Excuse me?” he asked.
“You’re acting like a fucking homo.”
“So?” Parker asked.
“I’m not gay,” Nick said. And there it was, the god honest truth. As soon as he said it, he knew it was untrue. He broke into a cold sweat.
He was gay. He’d never be anything else.
“Well, then you should probably stop making out with me,” Parker said.
“Screw you,” Nick said, shoving him.
“Yeah, whatever.” Parker shoved him back. “You’re boring anyway.”
“At least I don’t jerk off to Green Day posters,” Nick said. “Fucking pervert.”
Parker pushed Nick then, hard enough that he got backed up against the car door.
Nick punched him in the nose, smashing his glasses. It hurt his hand, and he shouted in surprise, jerking his hand back. He never punched anybody before. “Ow! Fuck!” He looked at Parker. “Holy shit. Are you okay, man?”
Parker reached a hand to his nose. It was bleeding, bright stripes of red. His glasses were twisted out of shape from the impact. He stared at the blood on his hand, then at Nick. “Get out,” he said. His voice cracked. “We’re not friends anymore.”
“But—“
Parker shoved past him and opened the door of the Toyota. “Out.”
Nick stumbled out. His heart flapped around in his chest like a fish out of water. He wandered through the parking lot, then down the sidewalk. He walked the cold lonely two miles home, dug into his dad’s liquor cabinet and drank old wine until he fell asleep.
Chapter seventeen
September 2015
It was about 10:00 PM, and Margot was driving everybody back from the fall pow-wow in Ma’s old Honda Civic. She had the speed of a turtle on the road, no, a tortoise, so slow, so careful. She craned her neck at intersections, squinting her eyes behind her glasses. It made her look even more like a tortoise.
“Hurry up!” Kylie hollered from the backseat. “I gotta check my Facebook messages. Gawd, you take forever. Old woman. Mindimooyenh.”
Parker smiled to himself. Secretly he was glad his parents refused to buy Kylie a cell phone. Even though she whined like a banshee, it sure beat the alternative. Boys followed Kylie like gnats to a streetlight, and the less portable the conversation the better.
There were enough pregnant girls.
Margot stared at the road. “Wait,” she said.
She stopped the car.
“What’s up?” Parker asked. Then he looked out at the road. A fox crossed, staring up at them, beady eyes like little stars in the darkness. He put his head down and ran faster, slinking like a cat.
“Cool,” all three of them said, same voice.
Margot
waited, in case any others would pass. Then she put her foot down. The Civic sped up considerably, and, at least for a moment, Kylie stopped complaining.
The car flew along the highway.
Gradually Kylie fell asleep.
Margot looked at Parker. “You mind taking her tonight? I think Ma and Dad are at Uncle Duane’s until tomorrow.”
Parker eyed Kylie, snoring in the backseat. Even asleep she was loud.
“I gotta be up early for school,” she added, “and I still have to finish these term papers.”
“Yeah, okay,” Parker said. He had to go to school tomorrow, too, but there wasn’t much homework this early in the semester. He had a daily art journal for Intro to Drawing, which he worked on between dances at the pow-wow, and then some preliminary sketches for his painting class. It was okay. Not like Margot had much space in her apartment anyway. Parker and Nick had an entire house. It was an easy choice.
“We’re here,” Margot announced.
“What?” Parker asked. “Dude, this is the middle of nowhere.”
“Don’t call me ‘dude’,” she admonished him. “I’m a grown woman. I deserve to be addressed as such. And this isn’t nowhere. We’re at a gas station. I need Red Bull.”
“That shit’ll kill you,” Parker warned.
“Don’t worry. I can handle it.” She turned the car off, decisive, and walked inside the gas station, leaving Parker with Kylie and any crazed gunmen that might be out this late on a Sunday.
Parker was getting more panicky in his old age. At twenty-eight, his hair already had grey stripes creeping through, and his muscles hurt more than they did in his early twenties. Work made him sore. If there was ever a crazed gunman… well, he tried not to think about it.
“Get some real food, stupid!” Parker shouted after Margot, but she was already gone. He could see her in the bakery section, dawdling over the Twinkies and Swiss Cake Rolls.
He sighed and lit a cigarette, breathing in the menthol smoke. Life was bad for his nerves.
Chapter eighteen
April 2009