Struggling to come up with a response, I finally say, “I’m sorry,” but it feels shamefully inadequate.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It was not an apology.”
“Oh,” he says. “Thank you, then.”
We sit in silence for a while, then I say, “So what do you wanna do?”
“I don’t know? We still have work to do, no?”
“Dude, I have never in my entire life done schoolwork on a Saturday night, and I’m definitely not gonna start today. Let’s just watch some TV or something.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. But first let’s make your bed.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s more comfortable,” I say, and I honestly have no shady agenda. I just enjoy watching TV better when I’m lying down instead of sitting up, and since my loveseat is wider than my bed it’ll probably be less awkward.
Once we’re done converting the loveseat into a futon-style bed, Phil takes a look at my books-and-random-junk shelf. As he bends his head to read the spines, I join him in case I need to provide information on my favorite books. The first thing that catches his attention, though, is a six-inch E.T. doll that I’ve called my own almost my entire life. He takes it in his hand, examines it, and asks, “What’s that?”
“Seriously?”
He looks at me, his face sporting a look of innocent ignorance. “Yes?”
“You don’t know E.T.?”
He quickly puts the doll back on the shelf, as if it’s suddenly become toxic.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like E.T.,” he says.
I’m puzzled. “You don’t like E.T. but you don’t even recognize him when you see him? How does that even work?”
It’s obvious the question makes him feel uncomfortable, which makes me want to know the answer even more.
“Well?” I say, poking his ribs with my finger.
He twitches, the external stimulus producing a brief smile on his face. Then he says, “When I was little, the other kids used to call me E.T. because of how I look.”
“And that’s why you don’t like E.T.?”
He nods.
“And you’ve never even seen the movie?”
He shakes his head.
“Dude,” I say, “I think you’re under a terrible misconception about extraterrestrials. Everyone loves E.T.”
He looks at me as if I’d just told him the sky is green and clouds are unicorn farts. He wants to believe it, but it simply sounds too fantastic.
As I walk over to my laptop and open my movies folder, he asks, “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to watch E.T.,” I say. “Haven’t seen it myself in a while.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather not.”
“I know,” I say, turning to look at him. “But I don’t care. Nobody can be my friend if they haven’t seen E.T. House rules. So make yourself comfortable and get ready to face your demons.”
I grab my laptop and sit down on Phil’s bed. As I mirror my computer screen on the TV and start the video, Phil sits down next to me. I put the laptop down and pull the bed sheet over our knees.
“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen E.T.”
“Sorry,” he says.
“I forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
Our eyes meet, and it’s one of those strange moments where we both seem to be trying to figure out what’s going on in the other’s mind. I keep wondering if he’s for real. Does he mean everything he says, or is he just a master of deadpan humor? Does he even have a sense of humor at all, or does he take everything I say at face value even if I’m obviously joking? And what does he make of me and my clumsy attempts to be nice and friendly when nobody else is ever nice and friendly to him?
“You’re so weird,” I say.
He shrugs. “When being normal is not an option, being weird is not a choice.”
I let his words linger for a moment, then I snap my fingers in front of his face to catch his attention, even though he’s still looking at me.
“What?”
Without averting my eyes I point at the TV and say, “Look, a movie.”
He holds my glare for another two or three seconds before he finally says, “You’re weird, too.”
We focus our attention on the movie. Or at least he does, while I keep watching him from the corner of my eye. A few minutes into the movie he’s mesmerized. His eyes are glued to the screen, his mouth half open, taking long, calm breaths. He laughs and flinches and frowns at the right moments, and he seems so fascinated by the experience that I wonder if he’s seen any movie before, ever. Who knows, if he doesn’t have Internet access at home, maybe his family doesn’t even own a TV. Very occasionally he catches me staring at him, and then I pretend I was only checking if he’s still awake, but he is. He’s wide awake. At one point when E.T. burps because he’s had too much beer, Phil chuckles, so I take a couple of big swigs of Coke and burp too, which makes him chuckle more. He’s easily amused by bodily noises, like a seven-year-old, which is rather endearing, and I enjoy sharing those chuckles with him.
When he picks up on the deep, even telepathic connection between E.T. and Elliot, he says, “I wonder if there’s a word for it.”
“For what?”
“A romantic relationship between a human and an alien.”
I look at him, frowning. “You think they’re in love?”
“I don’t know about E.T.,” he says, shrugging, “but the boy sure feels a deep, personal connection that goes beyond friendship.”
“Not sure that’s love, though.”
“I didn’t say love. I said romantic relationship.”
“What’s the difference?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”
We turn our attention back to the movie. Things aren’t going well for E.T., and when he almost dies, Phil’s eyes glaze over. It makes me think he might be human after all.
Phil, I mean, not E.T.
Anyway, all is well that ends well, and when the movie is over and the credits start to roll, he keeps his eyes glued to the TV, which I take as a good sign.
“So what do you make of it?” I ask.
“That could never happen.”
What surprises me is that even though his response is classic Phil, it still manages to baffle me. “What?”
“Aliens from three million light-years away could never visit the earth because even if they could travel at the speed of light it would take them three million years to get here. And even if they could, the military would kill them right away. And they would kill the human family too, because they could be infected with alien diseases. And a bunch of kids would never be able to assemble a machine that could contact the alien spaceship from the junk they find in their garage. And—”
“All right, stop it!” I interrupt him. “You realize it’s just a movie, right?”
“Yes?”
“Then stop analyzing it as if any of it could be real.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying.”
“Have you ever been a child?” I ask, looking at him. “I mean, a real child?”
“No,” he says. His reply is so casual and blunt that I’m at a loss for words. “I didn’t have time to be a child. I had to fight for my life from the first day. My earliest childhood memory is being in hospital. Most of my childhood memories are about getting ready for surgery, having surgery, or recovering from surgery. I didn’t have any friends I could play with, because nobody wanted to be friends with a freak. I didn’t even have any toys or anything.”
I frown at him. “You didn’t have any toys?”
This sob story is getting way too fantastic, yet somehow I know for some wicked reason it has to be true.
“My parents don’t believe in toys, or that toys contribute to anything. They think toys are just a waste of time and money. My dad says the only toys he had as a child were sticks and empty tin cans.”
“Lucky you,” he says with no hint of sarcasm. “I was always left to my own devices. I remember once when I was in hospital I made my own doll. I would take a towel and roll it up and bend it in half, and then I would tie it in the middle with a piece of string so that one end would become the head and the other end would be the legs. Anyway, my parents didn’t like it. They’re very conservative and don’t think boys should play with dolls, but I didn’t know how to turn a towel into a car.”
“That is the saddest story I have ever heard,” I say, but it turns out I haven’t even heard the punchline yet.
“By the way, regardless of what my parents think about toys, socially they would buy toys for other people’s kids, and I never understood why they never bought anything for me.”
I feel miserable, and since I don’t know what else to do or say, I get up, grab the E.T. doll off my shelf and hand it to Phil. He looks at me, not quite sure what to do with it.
“I want you to have it,” I say, sitting back down.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”
He obviously lacks the experience to know that rejecting a gift is considered rude.
“But I want to. Take it as a souvenir from your first ever sleepover. Unless you still hate the movie, now that you’ve seen it.”
“No,” he says.
“No what? No, you don’t want the doll, or no, you don’t hate the movie?”
“I don’t hate the movie. And thank you for the doll.”
“You’re welcome.”
I look at him looking at the doll. At first he’s handling it clumsily as if he isn’t quite sure what to do with it, but then, slowly, his movements become more graceful, gentler, even loving, and when he finally cradles the doll in his arm, his eyes glaze over.
“Sorry,” I say in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He just shakes his head.
We sit in silence for a while. I don’t know what else to say, and I want to give him a few moments to collect himself. I even avoid staring at him any longer, because at this point it feels like an inappropriate invasion of his privacy. I wonder if I should leave him alone for a few minutes and go to the bathroom, but then, from the corner of my eye, I notice a movement of his hand. When I turn my head to look, I see him raising his hand to my face, his index finger extended. He moves his finger closer until it very gently touches my cheek, and in a croaky E.T.-style voice he says, “Elliot.”
The level of dorkiness is off the chart, but his acting like a silly little boy is such a rare and unexpected event that I don’t want to spoil it, so I hold my laughter.
“Hey,” I say, “who told you my middle name?”
“Elliot is your middle name?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Do you have a middle name?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Viengkhone.”
“Is that Laotian?”
“No,” he says, “it’s Swedish,” and when he sees my puzzled face, he grins.
“Stupid question, stupid answer,” I say, scratching my head. “I probably deserved that.”
“You sure did. Of course it’s Laotian.”
“What does it mean? Does it mean anything?”
“I don’t know. Does Elliot mean anything?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s derived of Elijah, and it means ‘The Lord is my God.’”
“And does Matthew mean anything?”
“Yes, it means ‘the dude who wrote the first book in the New Testament.’”
“Your parents must be very religious.”
“No,” I say, “they’re not religious at all. They just liked the names.”
He shakes his head. “No, they’re religious. You’re religious, too.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Of course you are.”
“No, I’m not. Jesus Christ!”
“See?”
“Shut up!”
“Make me,” he challenges me.
So I make him shut up by leaning into him and pressing my lips on his. He flinches, presumably because he hasn’t seen this type of physical assault coming, and he moves his head back to look me in the eyes as if in search of an explanation. But when I put my hand on his neck and gently pull his head toward mine, I’m met with little resistance.
“What are you doing?” he whispers.
“Picking up where we left off,” I say and kiss him again, my tongue entering his welcoming mouth. I gently roll Phil on his back, my left hand caught between the pillow and the back of his head while my right hand is touching his glowing, fiery cheek. While our passionate kiss continues, I let my hand wander down his neck and to his chest, rubbing it gently. I lift my leg and force it between his legs, although not much force is required as he puts his hand on my back and pulls me on top of him, welcoming my vanguard leg like a liberating soldier, embracing it, entwining it with his own. Then, as our bodies react in that awkward, embarrassing way, that physical manifestation of teenage lust that is impossible to ignore, we end our kiss. I put my head next to his, our glowing cheeks touching. My hand stroking his head, his hand rubbing my back, gently as if he were afraid to burst a bubble, we just lie there, silently breathing into each other’s ears, allowing ourselves to savor a sweet, delicious tenderness that neither of us has ever experienced before.
* * *
The warm sensation of Phil’s long, deep breaths on my neck tickles me awake. When I open my eyes and turn my head to the left, I find his waxy face next to mine. He is lying on his belly, his face half buried in his pillow. His wet lips glistening in the gleaming morning sun, his mouth is half open, feeding the drool stain on the pillow next to my neck which is gross and adorable. His limbs sprawled in all directions, bent and twisted as if he’d hit the ground after a ten-thousand-foot drop from the skies, his left arm is resting heavily on my belly. The smell of his sweet, warm breath mixes with the musty scent of teenage sleep and triggers memories of the night we very nearly lost our innocence in exchange for … for what? Some kind of bond that comes with shared intimacy? I guess that will depend on how Phil will react when he wakes up from what was not just a dream.
If he doesn’t end up running down the street in his undies, screaming, we’ll probably be fine.
Accompanied by a big yawn I stretch my arms and legs. Phil’s body twitches. He licks his lips like a baby that’s just had his bottle, then he slowly opens his eyes. As his gaze falls upon my torso, he moves his arm and repositions it so that his hand comes to rest on my chest, just above my heart. With a hint of a smile on his lips, he closes his eyes again. Trying not to disturb our peaceful tranquility I watch him in silence for a while, enjoying the warmth of his hand on my chest.
Sadly, it isn’t meant to last.
Of course it’s not.
After a minute or two he rolls on his back, removing his hand from my chest. Stretching his limbs, he moans. Then he turns his head, his tired eyes blinking, and when he catches me staring at him, his moan grows louder, less content, more disapproving, and he pulls the sheets over his face. Such behavior being entirely unacceptable, I pull the sheets away, prompting him to avert his face while failing miserably at his half-hearted attempt to conceal a bashful smile.
“Good morning,” I whisper because it’s early in the morning and the walls in this house are thin.
Sitting up and scratching his head, he replies, “Morning.”
While I look at him, he rubs his elbows, scratches his knees, and does everything humanly possible to avoid my gaze. We sit like that in silence for a while, and I wonder what the socially accepted standard for this kind of situation is. Given the events of the night, would it be okay for me to j
ust lean into him for a good-morning kiss?
Would it even be expected?
What about bad morning breath, though?
Or are we supposed to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary happened, in order to provide an easy, graceful way out in case either one of us should come to the conclusion that this is all but a terrible mistake? What baffles me is the thought that I couldn’t be any more confused if our close encounter had been the result of an alcohol-induced loss of self-control.
But it wasn’t.
We knew exactly what we were doing. Or, in fact, not doing.
“This is awkward,” I say.
“I know,” he says, offering no further insight into his state of mind. Instead, he keeps playing with his fingers. In a reckless act of boldness I finally reach out, force his hands apart and insert my own, interlocking the fingers of my right hand with his. His soft, warm hand gently squeezes mine, which is comforting and reassuring. Then he turns on his side, away from me, pulling my arm across his chest and inviting me to spoon. I snuggle my chest against his back and put my nose in the thick, black hair on the back of his head so I can inhale the beautiful, fragrant scent of his scalp.
Motionless and silent, we just lie there, listening to our long, deep breaths, his hand on mine, my hand feeling the beating of his heart in his scrawny chest. Still sleepy, I close my eyes, enjoying the silence, the coziness, and the unfamiliar yet unspeakably comforting sensation of another body nestled against mine. As I let my thoughts meander through the twisted valley my life has been in those first few weeks of high school, I can’t help but wonder how I got where I am and what I am doing here.
Somehow, I’m a pillar of the Brookhurst High School track team that will compete at the Brookhurst County Schoolympics in a few weeks.
Me!
It’s kind of ridiculous.
It’s also incredibly well deserved.
Somehow, I’m officially out and proud.
My coming out didn’t go any way I would have done it, had the choice been mine.
Then again, it’s easy to argue that I had plenty of opportunities to do it my way before the decision was taken out of my hand.
Cupid Painted Blind Page 26