It’s like this for the rest of the day. Zach popping into my head without warning. Me trying to switch my brain to other things. It’s exhausting. And it’s stressing the hell out of me. This is not overactive hormones. Because it’s more than just about sex. I want to be with Zach. Spend time with him. Like, go to a movie. Watch a football game. In addition to being cute, he’s funny. I like him.
It’s a crush. I’m crushing on a friggin’ guy. That’s sick. And I don’t know what to do about it. When I think about going to art class in the morning, I break out in a sweat. I want these feelings to go away. At the same time, I don’t want them to go away.
Yeah, I could have slept in and gone to school an hour late Monday morning. I thought about it. Right this second, I could turn around and spend first period at McDonald’s eating an Egg McMuffin. But here I am, walking to the art building on time. I stand in the doorway of the drawing room. Look inside. The first thing I notice is Zach isn’t there. Then I see Melanie, grinning and waving at me. She pats the empty stool next to her.
Fine. Good a place as any.
Taking a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and stroll in. Like I’m Brett Miller the football star. Like I’ve got it all under control.
“Hi, Brett,” she says as I settle myself onto the stool.
“Hi, Melanie.”
Her grin stretches to her ears. She does this wriggly thing on her stool, like she’s a puppy that can’t sit still. “Did you have a good weekend?” she asks.
“Sure.” I search around the room. I think the bell is about to ring. Zach’s still not here.
“We’re drawing a still life today,” Melanie says. “Isn’t that cool?”
“Yeah. Cool.” What’s a still life? I swear, it’s like I’m here, but I’m not.
“This seat taken?”
I glance over. My heart speeds up. My throat tightens. “Uh … no,” I squeak out. Recover my normal voice. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Groovy,” Zach says.
I realize I’m smiling. I hope it’s not a goofy grin, the way Melanie was gawking at me. The thought makes my pits sweat. I force the corners of my mouth down. Shift the easel around, just for something to do. My heart is totally pounding. I look over. Notice he’s taking a zippered pouch out of his backpack.
“Chewing tobacco?” I ask.
He snickers. “Nah. I save that for the weekends.” He pulls out a couple of expensive-looking pencils.
“Wow,” I say. “You bring your own equipment?”
“Yep. Right tool for the right job.”
“That’s what my dad said. When I tried to change a spark plug with a regular socket.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but … exactly.” He smiles. He’s got these dimples in his cheeks.
I clear my throat and stare at the floor. “So you’re serious about this art stuff?”
“Pretty much. I want to be an illustrator when I grow up.”
“That’s awesome. I mean, that you want to grow up and everything.”
He laughs. Our eyes meet.
“Uh, gentlemen?”
I look up front. The entire class is quiet. Mr. Spencer is staring at us with his arms crossed. “If I can have your attention, I’d like to start class.”
“Sure,” Zach and I say at the same time.
My face is hot. I know my cheeks are red. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Did that look like flirting? Because we weren’t flirting. Were we? Was I? I glance quickly around the room. None of my teammates are here. But they might have friends. A couple kids are eyeing us smugly. Who are they?
I turn away. Try to focus on Mr. Spencer. He’s talking about a bowl of fruit on a table. We’re supposed to draw the bowl of fruit. It’s a still life. Okay. I pick up my pencil.
Except I’m sweating like crazy. The pencil slides in my clammy fingers. I can feel sweat running down my sides. I can’t breathe. It’s so friggin’ hot in here. I’m going to puke. Or explode. I set my pencil down. Whisper to Melanie, “Tell Spencer I got sick.”
She nods with a worried look.
I grab my backpack and run outside.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller.” The school secretary peers over her glasses at me. Her forehead is creased with fake sympathy. “It’s too late in the semester to transfer. And all elective classes are full.”
“Even music appreciation?”
“It’s full, Mr. Miller. And even if it wasn’t, it’s—”
“Too late in the semester,” I finish for her. “I get it.” I slide my backpack off the counter. “Thanks.”
“And next time, don’t leave class without a permission slip.”
I stomp out. Barely get out of the way of Principal Nakamura, who’s strolling in.
“Hey, Brett,” he says. “Everything okay?”
“Sure,” I grunt back. Being on the football team has its perks. But there are times I’d rather be a generic student, a kid no one recognizes. “I have to get back to class.”
“Okay, bud.” He slaps my shoulder.
But I don’t go back to class. I sneak out to the football bleachers. I’m a pretty good student. I’ve only skipped a class one other time since I was a freshman. So I feel a little guilty, hiding underneath the stands. But when I think about going back to drawing, my chest tightens up. Like I’m going to suffocate.
I drop my backpack on the ground. Lean against a support post and cross my arms. When I look up, I see gay Nate standing about ten posts away. He’s staring back at me.
CHAPTER
7
Nate is not smiling. His arms are crossed, matching mine. I lower my hands, because. … Well, just because I don’t want to match him in any way. This is majorly awkward. What Fermio and I did to him and Ryan on Friday was wrong. I admit it. I’m not proud of what we did.
But Nate and his friends are so out. It’s like they’re advertising their gayness. I mean, they even started a school club. Why? They might as well be wearing signs that say, “Hit me, I’m pathetic.”
Even so, I don’t want to be an ass. So I kind of nod at him. He just looks away.
Fine. Whatever.
But as I stand there, rolling the past twenty minutes through my mind, I’m thinking Nate knows stuff. Stuff I don’t know. That maybe I should. Maybe it would help.
I look over. No. No way can I talk to him about Zach. Nate is gazing out at the football field. His arms still crossed, clearly hating my guts. But I can’t keep living like this. Not knowing what’s going on. Feeling like I’m going crazy.
Am I really this desperate?
Yes. I really am.
I take a deep breath. Look around for anyone else who might be nearby. Walk over, not too close. Just to the post nearest his where I lean back. All casual. Don’t want to spook him.
“Hi, Nate,” I say.
He looks at me. No smile, no frown, just a blank mask.
“Sorry about the other day,” I say.
Nothing.
“So why are you skipping first period?”
His left eye twitches. He gazes out at the field again.
“Okay,” I say, giving up. “You’re pissed. Whatever.” I push myself away from the post. Start to walk away.
“You want to know why I’m skipping first period?” he asks.
I face him.
“Because I happen to share it with two of your football buddies.”
That info only takes a second to process. “They’re not treating you well?”
“What do you think?” Nate’s cheeks are pink.
I know this is advice he probably doesn’t want to hear, but I can’t help myself. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be so obvious.”
“Obvious. You mean about being gay? Gee, that would be swell if I knew how.”
“Well, you can start by not having a club. Or not joining it. Maybe go out for a sport—”
“A sport.” He laughs. “What, instead of drama? Or music? Because sports are so much manlier. And are you
saying being bullied is my fault?”
“No. I’m saying maybe you wouldn’t get teased so much if—”
“If I wasn’t so gay?” He shakes his head. “First of all, I can’t be more or less gay. And second, it’s not teasing. It’s harassment. I want to be in math right now, not hiding under the bleachers.” He reaches down and picks up his ultra-gay neon-orange backpack. “At least I had a quiet place to chill. Then, just my luck, you come along and harass me some more. Thanks.” He starts to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute.” How did this conversation get so messed up? “Nate, I didn’t come over here to harass you.”
He faces me. “I don’t have to justify my existence to you. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Um, sensitive much?” I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know you. Maybe I should. I just want to ask you something.”
His shoulders drop a tiny bit. “What?”
Okay. How do I word this? “I have this friend. He’s, like, confused. About … things.”
“Things,” Nate repeats.
“Yeah. He has feelings for … someone.”
Nate is quiet a second. Then says, “Are you saying you have a friend who thinks he’s gay but isn’t sure?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Nate nods. Like he gets it. Like he’s going to say something meaningful. Then, suddenly, his eyes narrow. He shakes his head. “This is a prank, isn’t it?” He quickly looks around the bleachers. “Who’s in on this? Fermio? Keesy?”
“What?”
“Are you recording me? You’re going to post the video on YouTube? Facebook? Well, you can tell your friend to go screw himself.” He marches off, throwing his orange backpack over his shoulders.
“That went well,” I say to myself. “Let’s do it again sometime.”
I walk back to where I left my backpack. Stand there a minute, feeling like I want to crawl out of my skin. Scream, “S——t!” Slug my fist into the metal seat above my head. Grab my skinned knuckles. Flex my fingers.
It must be close to the end of the period. I yank my backpack off the ground and head toward English. As I walk past the gym, I hear balls thwoinging on the court. Guys yelling. Why didn’t I take first-period PE? I wouldn’t be in this stupid mess.
I stand in the open doorway, gripping the jamb. Josh is in there. He does a nice layup for a score. They’re playing shirts and skins. Josh is shirtless. He’s sweating like crazy. I study him, like a girl might study a guy. He’s tall. Shoulders a little narrow, but he’s got a six-pack stomach. He’s really fit. The word lithe comes to mind. Like a deer. Like a good pass receiver, which he is.
I admit it, he’s good looking. I can see why girls like him. Why Sanya drapes all over him. But I couldn’t care less. I can look at Josh and my knees don’t buckle. My stomach doesn’t give birth to a hive of bumblebees.
Just Zach does it for me.
Why? I mean, why not Josh? I know every guy is not attracted to every girl, and vice versa. Is it some kind of scent? Tone of voice? What?
And why now, all of a sudden? If I’m into guys, then why wasn’t I crushing over someone when I was fifteen? Fourteen? And then I remember. There was a guy. Oh yeah.
There was a guy.
CHAPTER
8
I move away from the open doorway of the gym. Lean my back against the outside wall. The cold cement seeps through my jacket and into my skin. I don’t remember his name. But I remember his freckled face and sandy hair. It was summer camp before sixth grade. I was eleven. He was in my cabin. We shared a bunk. Me above, him below.
Jerry. That’s right. His name was Jerry.
I was homesick when I first got to camp. He was too. Then we told each other a few jokes, laughed, and got over it. He was really funny. We liked the same things, especially football and cars. We became instant best friends. I remember lying in the bunk at night. Wanting to climb down the ladder. Wanting to get into bed with him. Wanting to hold him. Kiss him.
I cringe at the memory. But the feelings seemed normal at the time. I just wanted to take the relationship further. Get closer to him. What kept me in my own sleeping bag was a bigger sense that something was wrong with me. Boys did not kiss other boys. Boys did not get into bed with other boys. I remember staring at the ceiling, thinking about what would happen if someone caught us. They’d laugh. Call us freaks. Send us home. My parents would be shocked. They might kill me.
Jerry wrote me a couple of letters after camp. I really wanted to write back. I missed him like crazy. But I never did. My feelings scared me too much. I shoved him completely out of my mind. Completely. Until today.
The bell ending first period rings right over my head. I jump, my heart knocking in my chest.
“Are you and Jillia getting married?” Darla asks out of the blue.
The three of us are finishing dinner. I’m scraping the last clump of rice and broiled rockfish onto my fork. “We’re sixteen.”
“So? Juliet was only thirteen.”
“We’re not Romeo and Juliet.”
“Why are you asking?” Dad says.
Darla slides a chunk of fish around her plate. “Because Larissa’s sister is getting married and Larissa is a bridesmaid. She gets to wear a long dress and carry flowers.”
“Oh,” Dad says. He glances at me, a corner of his mouth turning up. “Not gonna help your sister out?”
“No!” I push my chair back. Carry my plate to the sink. Remember washing dishes with Jillia last week. How nice it was. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I want a blue dress, okay?” Darla says. “Not pink.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll make sure to tell Jillia.” I start washing my dishes. “Hey, Dad, um, the alternator in the Nissan is about shot. There’s one at Earl’s.”
“How much?”
I hesitate. “Thirty bucks.”
He doesn’t say anything. I turn around to make sure he heard me. He’s staring at his plate. Tapping the end of his fork on the table. The smile he had a second ago is gone. Now I feel like a complete ass. Even a half smile is rare from him these days, and I just ruined his mood. “Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You need it. But maybe not for a couple of weeks.”
“Okay. That’s fine. Thanks.”
“What about my 4-H dues?” Darla asks.
“We’ll see,” Dad says.
“They have to buy cows and crap,” I inform him.
“No we don’t!” Then she says, “Well, maybe a chicken.”
After doing homework and texting back and forth with Jillia about a hundred times, I finally go to bed. As I try to sleep, I think about Jerry. Think about Zach. Unlike Jerry, Zach won’t be out of my life after a week. He’s in my class all semester. A class I have to finish if I want to graduate. But just because I’ve got these feelings doesn’t mean I have to act on them. I never crawled into bed with Jerry. Just like I don’t have to do any of the things I imagine doing with Zach. I’m the one in control, not my screwed-up hormones.
I am in control. I repeat it a few times in my head to make sure it sinks in.
I sleep amazingly well that night. I’m still feeling pretty good when I walk into drawing the next day. Like, enough of this garbage already. I won’t let this screw up my life.
Someone has taken the spot next to Melanie. Fine. Good, actually. That whole fan-girl thing was getting on my nerves. She gives me a sad shrug as I sit at an easel on the other side of the room. Not wanting to seem stuck up, I give her a sad shrug in return.
I don’t see Zach. Don’t care. I stare straight ahead. The bowl of fruit is still on the pedestal. I guess we’ll be drawing still lifes again. That’s good, since I missed class yesterday. Here goes nothing. I pick up a pencil. Flip it around in my hand.
I glance at the doorway just as Zach walks in. He sees me. Smiles. I quickly study the fruit bowl again. Square my shoulders. The easels on either side of me are taken. He passes behind me, his
soapy scent wafting over. He stops three easels down. I tap the pencil on the wooden tray. Tap-tap-tap. He’s probably unzipping his pouch by now. Pulling out his professional drawing pencils. Good for him. Good for him and his pencils. He is a good artist, though. An amazing artist. Now I feel like a jerk for not smiling back at him. I’ll talk to him after class. No reason for me to be a jerk. I’m not a jerk.
Drawing a bowl of fruit is harder than it looks. My bowl ends up lopsided. The grapes are weightless bubbles. The apple kind of sinks into everything like a blob. Mr. Spencer ends class. I sign my page at the bottom. Rip it off the pad. Slowly carry it up to the assignments table.
I glance at Zach’s easel. He’s still there. Talking to the girl next to him. He’s laughing. They’re both laughing.
I walk quickly back to my easel. Grab my backpack. Rush outside. My face is hot. My hands are shaking. All the air has gone out of me, like I’ve been tackled by a three-hundred-pound lineman. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I cannot possibly be jealous. But that’s exactly how this feels.
“Hey, Brett!” I turn. Zach is trotting up behind me.
I stop. Take a deep breath. Wish there was a way to get the red out of my face. I know it’s flaming.
“Hey,” I say when he catches up.
“You okay? Yesterday the girl with the braces said you got sick.”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m better.” I press my hand on my stomach. “Cramps. That time of the month.” I can’t believe I just said that.
He laughs. “Yeah, I hear it’s a bummer.” Then he says, “Sorry I didn’t see your still-life drawing.”
“You’re lucky. It would have turned you to stone.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
He points with his thumb over his shoulder. “Well, I’ve got gym next.”
“English,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Just wanted to say hi. Make sure you’re alive and everything.” He smiles. That dimple-cheeked, white-toothed, full-lipped smile. “See you tomorrow.”
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