by AnonYMous
“You’ve only heard him do ‘Trouble,’ which is really good,” she said. “But his singing voice is amazing.”
“I’ve heard him sing, too.” I didn’t really think about it before I said it.
“When?” Monica was looking at me, then over at Jon.
“When he was helping me study for my English test.”
Jon started laughing. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”
I told everybody how Jon had played the Boison song as a ballad, and the girls all made him promise to play it for them that night after the game when we were at Jon’s place.
“I can also report that Jon is an excellent kisser,” Monica said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “At least onstage. We’ll have to ask Amy about other places.”
Amy giggled and blushed. I glanced at Jon, who rolled his eyes and smirked at me while he shook his head.
“You kissing my girl onstage?” I asked.
“No tongue,” he said. “It’s barely a peck, but we hold our lips together for a while.”
“It’s a stage kiss, babe.” Monica draped her arms around my neck. “Jealous?”
The weird thing is, I am jealous—but not of Jon, I don’t think. I think I’m jealous of Monica. I wanna know what it’s like to kiss Jon.
Shit. Did I just write that down?
All week long, I’ve just hung out with Jon and it’s been so easy without Tyler here. Tracker and Watters and the rest of the guys think Jon is great, and they’re all jazzed about the party at his place. With Tyler gone, I haven’t been giving much thought to “what’s going on with me.” I’ve been reminding myself to just be me and go with my gut—exactly like I do on the field.
On the way into class, Erin said she was so excited because Tyler would be back next week. Thinking about that started my stomach on a slow boil. I realize now that I’ve written all this that I’m not nervous about the game—or even about Jon. I’m nervous about Tyler coming back to school.
All I can do is put that out of my head. It’s not happening right now, so I shouldn’t waste time worrying about it right now. At this moment, there’s no problem. Jon is sitting across the aisle, Monica is sitting across the room, and I’m going to try for another passing record again tonight. Then there’s a party at Jon’s. That’s what’s going on right now.
So why don’t I feel more in control? If everything is really okay, why doesn’t it feel like it? Why do I feel like the floor is about to fall out from under me?
Saturday, September 22
I’ve been staring at this blank page forever. I don’t even know how to start writing down what’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. I feel like I’m splitting in two on the inside. There’s this thinking part of me that needs to write this all down in order to make sense of it, and there’s this feeling part of me that is running around like a crazy person—shouting and screaming and laughing and crying. The feeling part is afraid—afraid that if I write down what actually happened last night it will make it . . . real. It’s like I’m staring at a movie of last night in my mind. Right now, if I keep it there in my head, nobody knows. But if I write it down, if I see it in my own handwriting on a page in this journal, it means that it exists—that it really happened, not just in my head.
And what really happened?
• We won the football game.
• I completed a lot of passes.
• I came close to breaking the passing record I set last week.
• The scouts were back, including two I’d never seen before.
• A camera crew showed up from Channel 7 to interview me and Coach afterward.
• We went to Jon’s for a party.
But none of that is what really happened.
Sometimes the facts seem to boil down to one specific moment—the only thing that’s happened all week, or all year, or maybe in my entire life that really matters. The other stuff has happened before. It happened last week. It’ll happen again next week—some version of it, anyway.
But last night something really happened.
And I can’t even write it down yet.
The thing is, I need to write it down. I know it. I need to write it down so that I can see it on the page and make sense of what happened somehow. Thinking about it only goes so far. I can watch it on the movie screen in my mind, but I can’t really wrap my head around it. Writing it down will help me sort it out. It’ll help me figure out what the play is—how to maneuver this pigskin of an experience into the end zone where it belongs. Writing it down will help me make it a win instead of a fumble.
But I can’t do it.
Not yet.
Maybe if I write in the direction of what happened, I can get there. Maybe I can make a long, slow march down the field toward the end zone.
The kickoff was really when we all got to Jon’s place. Sure, there was exciting stuff before: the game, the passing, the crowd, the thunderstorm at halftime, the cameras on the sideline draped with tarps and rain covers, sliding around in the mud on the field, the water flying off the ball as I flung it toward Tracker and Watters, the spray as one of them would catch it and dive into the giant mud puddle of an end zone, the fourth win in a row, the reporters excited about the undefeated season so far, and Alicia Stevenson, heels in one hand, umbrella in the other, walking me back to my car, promising me paperwork that very week, wondering when she could sit down with me to sign.
But the night really started at Jon’s.
His house isn’t far from mine and Monica’s as it turns out—different end of the same neighborhood on the bluff overlooking the river. Only his house is higher up than either of ours. It’s a big glass box with whole walls that are glass and slide open onto a deck that wraps all the way around the place. The roof is flat but seems to be propped up somehow, giving a steady rise toward a view of the Arkansas River and the endless sky.
The furniture inside is all really cool and retro. There are lighting fixtures that look like spaceships and low-slung sectionals that curve. The fireplace is stone and has a big metal sunburst piece of wall art on it. The big coffee table in the den curves like a boomerang.
The party was smaller than the rager at Monica’s for my birthday. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe Jon didn’t invite as many people, but by two a.m., it was just me and Jon and the bottle of Maker’s Mark he’d pulled out of his dad’s stash in the garage.
“Isn’t your dad gonna miss this bottle?” I asked.
“Nah. He always gets bottles as gifts from the hospital. He doesn’t drink much—only when we have company over, which isn’t very often.”
I can’t imagine my dad drinking only when we had people over. In fact, I don’t remember the last time my parents had friends of their own over. Usually it’s just me and Tracy who have friends over. I wonder if Mom would have people over if Dad drank less. Maybe if he only drank when they had people over, Mom would have more people over.
Monica and Amy had not forgotten about Jon playing that Boison song, and they didn’t shut up about it until he finally grabbed the guitar in the middle of the living room and performed for everybody.
Just like in my bedroom that night, Jon’s voice was clear and strong, floating over the chords as he tapped his fingers to the rhythm beneath the strings. This time as he started singing he kept his eyes open and looked around the room. There was something about having an audience that was magical for Jon—his eyes were electric. His voice was flawless. The effect was mesmerizing. And then he got to the bridge and stared straight at me:
And
I don’t know what happens now
But
I just have to tell you somehow
Those lines don’t take very long to sing, and nobody seemed to notice, but I felt my pulse kick into high gear. It couldn’t just be a coincidence that the two times I’d seen him sing this song, he stared right at me during those words, right?
As he got back to the chorus, he tossed his head back a little and closed his eyes:
You’re the one I’ve always wanted
You’re the one I’ve always wanted
You’re the one I’ve always wanted
To love.
There was a hush over the room as Jon finished and then an explosion of mainly Monica squealing and the rest of the cheerleading squad rushing him. Amy got there first and had her arms around his neck, hugging him. The guys were all jealous as hell of the attention he was getting, but they couldn’t deny he had skills.
“I guess I’ll be going home to kill myself,” Tracker said grimly, pouring us all another shot of Maker’s.
“That white boy got skills.” Sears shook his head. “Ladies love a man who can sing.”
Sears and Tracker polished off, like, half the bottle between them, and Mike Watters told them he refused to drive them back to their cars at the school that night.
“We’ve got a good thing going,” he said over their protests. “We’re four and oh on the season, and we’re not losing anybody to a DUI or worse.” Monica had only had a single sip, and she and Amy left early because they had an all-day rehearsal for The Music Man today.
Finally, by two a.m., it was just me and him. We drank a little more. We laughed a lot. We polished off a pint of Ben & Jerry’s apiece while watching TV. I told him I was fine to drive—that I really didn’t need to stay the night.
He was rinsing out all the empty glasses in the kitchen sink when I said it. I saw a tiny frown crease his brow, but he shrugged it off. “Sure, man. Whatever works.” He dried his hands, poured one more shot and knocked it back, then gazed at me across the island countertop and just waited.
I didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t look away from those eyes. I felt the color rising in my cheeks. Just be you. Just be you. What do you want to do?
I wanted to stay, but it felt dangerous. It felt like if I stayed, something would be different between me and Jon—and not just me and Jon. It felt like everything would change.
“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” I asked him.
“Nah. Mr. London is blocking Monica’s big solo tomorrow morning. My call time isn’t until after lunch.”
“You’re really good onstage,” I said.
He sort of laughed through his nose and put his glass in the sink, then ran a hand over his eyes and through his dark hair. A couple pieces fell back down across his forehead. He looked over at me again.
“I know,” he said.
I laughed. “Wow. Modest, too.”
He walked across the kitchen and hit the lights. The spots in the ceiling faded out, the whole room now bathed in the bluish glow of the LEDs under the stainless-steel range hood. This kitchen was like a movie set.
“I don’t perform to be told I’m good,” he said. “I do it because I love it.” He walked into the living room.
“Where are you going?” I followed him.
He stopped at the foot of the short staircase that led to the hallway and the other side of the house. “To bed, man. Where are you going?”
His question hung in the air. I could make out the silhouette of his body standing by the stairs. The moonlight poured in through the wall of windows behind him. The curve of both shoulders spilled into his biceps. I couldn’t see his face.
Could he see mine?
The air felt thick all of a sudden. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. Jesus. This is no big deal. He crashed at your place. Spend the night.
“I guess I’ll stay.”
“Cool.” Even in the dark, I could hear the smile in his voice. He turned and headed up the stairs. I followed, repeating to myself: Just be you. Just be you. As we walked into his room, I realized I had no idea who that was anymore.
Who am I?
Jon flipped on the light in the bathroom, then the floor lamp in the corner of his room. His bed was a king size, but his room was so big that there was plenty of space for a desk with a computer and a chair on wheels. At the other end of the room was a floor-to-ceiling window that had a view of the river. I could see the lights of the bridge over the dam where we’d hung out the week before. I turned around in time to see Jon pull his T-shirt off and toss it onto the ottoman that matched the cool black leather chair in the corner where I was standing. It looked like the place where the captain of a spaceship would sit.
“Nice view,” I said. Jon stopped short and looked at me. It registered with me that he’d just taken off his shirt. I blushed. Hard. He laughed as he walked into the bathroom.
“Yeah, man. You can see the dam from here. Pretty cool, huh?” I heard the water running and Jon brushing his teeth. I stood there, staring out the window. I could see the faint glow of my own reflection in the glass and then the lights along the river beyond. I took deep breaths and looked at my own eyes shining in the glass.
Who are you? Why does this feel so dangerous?
“Left a new toothbrush on the sink for you if you want it.” Jon’s voice startled me, and I almost jumped out of my skin. “Whoa! Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“It’s cool.” I tried to laugh it off.
Jon’s smirk came unfurled like a flag across his face. “Usually, you’re the one lurking out there in the dark.”
“I didn’t mean to lurk,” I said. “I just heard the music—that’s all.”
Jon pulled open a drawer and tossed a piece of clothing my way. “Shorts if you want ’em.” He unbuckled his belt and kicked off his sneakers at the same time. I practically ran into the bathroom, hearing his jeans come off behind me. All I could see was that image of his boxer briefs in my mind. I didn’t want to get caught staring again, but part of me was disappointed I hadn’t seen him take his jeans off.
I brushed my teeth, staring into my eyes in the mirror.
Just be you. Just be you. Just be you.
I rinsed and spat and hesitated.
Who am I?
I took a deep breath and ran a hand through my hair. It was sticking up every which way—sort of spiky the way I liked it. Monica says it looks like bed head. I pulled off my polo and stood in front of the mirror. I flexed my right arm and let my eyes wander over my biceps and down my abs. I had those lines that ran into the waistband of my jeans like those guys in the big black-and-white ads at the clothing stores in the mall. Monica would always giggle and wrinkle her nose when she touched my stomach.
Why did I care so much how I looked? I turned the water back and splashed some on my face; then I blotted it dry with a towel. I slid out of my jeans. I stood there and took one more quick glance at myself standing there in my boxers.
Should I put on these shorts? Is he wearing shorts?
I grabbed my clothes and the shorts Jon had given me and took a final deep breath, then opened the door and walked back into his room.
Jon was propped up in his bed, shirtless, on one elbow, tapping something into his phone. I tossed my clothes onto the chair, pulled back the sheet and comforter, and slid into the gigantic bed before I thought about it too much.
“Is it totally gay that we’re sleeping in the same bed?” I asked.
Jon didn’t answer right away. He put his phone on the nightstand and reached over to turn off the lamp by the bed. I saw a flash of his lats as he did. Swimming must be the best workout in the entire world.
“Do you know any gay people?” My eyes were adjusting to the dark, but Jon’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. This bed was huge. There was no danger of us touching, but something about his question made the air thick in the room. I felt that familiar weight on my chest that I felt so often when I was alone with him. I rolled toward my side of the bed and hugged the pillow, punching it a couple of times.
“Actually, I do know one,” I said. “Monica’s uncle. Brent. He was at dinner at her place on Sunday.”
“Huh.” The lights from the bridge over the river floated in through the windows, turning Jon’s room a dark blue. I saw him roll onto his back and put his hands under his head. “What was Bren
t like?” he asked.
I told him a little bit about Brent, but it was hard to breathe. I was lying in bed in my boxers talking to a dude about a gay guy I’d met. I was lying on my stomach, and I made sure to keep my left leg against the very edge of the mattress. I didn’t want Jon to think I was trying to cuddle up.
“He actually seemed really . . . normal,” I said. “He was funny, and way into baseball.”
“Was he handsome?”
The minute Jon said this, my stomach did a somersault. All of a sudden I was totally turned on. I couldn’t move. I could barely speak. It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. I squirmed against the sheets and finally choked out an answer. “I guess so. I mean, if you . . . Yeah, he’s a good-looking guy.”
Jon glanced over at me and smiled. The silence was killing me. I squeezed the pillow under my head to make my hands stop shaking. Why were my hands shaking? I had to keep talking. “He said he was having problems finding somebody to date. He had these hilarious stories about these guys he’d gone out with and how lame they were. He said the last one kissed like a weed eater.”
Jon rolled onto his side, facing me, his arm bent underneath his head, his biceps and shoulder creating a pillow on top of his pillow. “Have you ever kissed a dude before?”
“No.” My heart leaped into my throat. It felt like there was a power surge in the sheets, static flying through the air. I felt like I might explode. “Have you?” I croaked.
Jon just looked at me for a split second, and then somehow, he was right beside me, his hand on the side of my neck, his thumb resting on my jaw just like that one night at his Jeep when he was leaving. Only this time, he didn’t turn away. He gently pulled my head toward his, and I felt his lips pressed against mine.
My whole body tensed, then relaxed into his. His mouth was firm and strong and warm against mine. The hum that seemed to flow through the sheets shot through my whole body, and Jon brought us closer together. I felt his leg and hip pressed against my leg and my hip. His tongue searched out mine for a moment, warm but not wet or sloppy. Sometimes when I kissed Monica, I felt like I was going to drown, but kissing Jon was so different. After a second he broke away, his hand still on my neck and jaw where it had been, his forehead against mine.