The Book of David

by AnonYMous

  He held out his hand again. I shook it. There was a business card pressed into my palm.

  “Don’t get stuck in the Midwest, man. Come to LA. We’ll make you a star. It’s what we do there.”

  As I watched them stride away across the field toward the parking lot, I felt my phone buzz in my bag. When I pulled it out, I had a text from Tyler:

  USC, huh? Nice!

  I called him and could hear the genuine excitement in his voice. I knew it was mainly because he knew I wouldn’t take his Arkansas deal any longer. And he was right. I laughed with Tyler for the first time in a long time. I asked him how his knee was, and he said it hurt like a bitch, but that he was in it to win it.

  Alicia Stevenson must’ve gotten tipped off. She called my cell three times today and left voice mails at home, too. When I got home from school today, Dad was all over it.

  “You don’t wanna move to the Left Coast with all those fairies, do you?”

  Literally, that’s what he said. Not “good work” or “amazing job” or “it’s incredible that you’ve got three schools fighting over you now.” It all came down to California and fairies.

  I knew the minute I heard they were from USC that this was my chance—not just to play college ball, but my chance to get out of here. Out of the South in general. I don’t need my dad’s permission to take a scholarship. I’m eighteen years old. This is where I start to decide what I want for my own life. This is my decision, not his.

  This is how it happens.

  I texted Jon about it. He’s calling me right now.

  Later . . .

  Just got off the phone with Jon. He may be more amped up about the USC offer than I am. It made me feel so good to get really excited about it with him. Suddenly I wasn’t worried about what had been going on between us. I was just happy to be sharing good news with my friend. And he had news for me, too.

  “You know, I’ve been looking at UCLA.”

  “Get the hell out!” I was almost shouting.

  “True story,” he said.

  “For swimming?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? You’re the world-class athlete. They’ve got a decent English program and a decent music program. I’m not really sure what I want to major in, but I know I want do it in LA.”

  In a flash I saw the whole thing: We could escape to LA together. I felt silly right away. Are you planning happily ever after? He’ll hardly look at you since last weekend.

  I took a deep breath. “Dude, since I . . . crashed at your place the other night, has everything been . . . okay?”

  He hemmed and hawed for a little while: homework, writing assignments, rehearsals . . .

  Finally I said, “Spill it. What’s going on?”

  “I’ve just been . . . busy.”

  “Okay.” The way I said it, he knew I wasn’t buying whatever it was he was selling.

  He sighed. “Look, I just . . . I didn’t want you to feel like I was pressuring you.”

  This made me smile. Somewhere deep inside of me, it made me like Jon even more. “Pressuring me?” I said. “You’re hardly talking to me.”

  “I just don’t want you to think I’m making this something that it isn’t.” He said this slowly, like he was trying to choose exactly the right words.

  “What is this?” I blurted out.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was soft—like he wasn’t sure what to say next.

  “I don’t know either,” I said. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

  I waited for him to say something for what seemed like an eternity. The air across the line was like a freight train.

  Finally I heard him take a deep breath. “Me neither,” he said.

  “So . . . maybe you should talk to me in the halls or something?” I suggested. Jon laughed, and I felt relief splash over me like jumping into the pool on a hot day. “Whatever else you are, you’re my friend first,” I said. “Don’t forget that part.”

  “Deal,” he said. “See you tomorrow?”

  “If you’re lucky.”

  “You’re trouble,” he said.

  “With a capital T. ”

  Wednesday, September 26

  English—First Period

  Jon stopped by my locker this morning on the way to class. Monica and Amy were with him as usual, but it was different this morning. He actually looked me in the eyes and talked to me.

  The Music Man opens this weekend, so Monica and Jon will be missing the game on Friday night. Then a bunch of us are supposed to go see it together on Saturday night. Mom has even got Dad to agree to come. She told him all about how Monica is the lead, but then she talked about what an amazing voice Jon has. I think it’s a pretty safe bet that she and Tracy are more excited about seeing Jon sing than they are about seeing Monica.

  I probably shouldn’t admit this, but that’s makes three of us.

  I’m calling USC to give them a verbal agreement today. I haven’t really told anybody yet. I’m just going to do it. For the first time in my life, I have the power to actually make something happen for myself. I have the power to decide who I will be, where I will go . . . and when I think that Jon will be there, too, in a dorm across town . . .

  I have this daydream that after our freshman years we get an apartment together somewhere off campus. What would it be like to wake up and see him standing there in his boxer briefs every morning? What would it feel like to crawl into bed next to him every night?

  Jesus. I’ve spent only one night in an actual bed next to him and I’m already grinning like a moron while I write about it. That’s way too much. It’s way too far down the line. I can’t even let myself think about that.

  Head in the game.

  Call USC.

  Give a verbal agreement to play for them. I’ll sign my letter of intent in February. National signing day is February 6 this year. Then it won’t matter what my dad says. Or what anybody says. I’ll be headed to California next fall.

  With Jon.

  Friday, September 28

  English—First Period

  Tough team tonight. North Hall is still undefeated too. One of us is going down. I’m less nervous about that than I am about tomorrow night. Going to see the musical with my parents has turned into an avalanche of worlds colliding.

  That sounds way more dramatic than it is, probably.

  Monica announced yesterday at lunch that her mom and Brent would be coming to the show tomorrow night. She wants us all to go out for dessert afterward. Tyler and Erin are going to come too, which makes me nervous. I just don’t think Tyler has ever really hung out with an out gay guy before, and I don’t want him to say anything stupid in front of Brent. Plus, I’m not sure how my parents are going to deal with him. It’s just . . . a lot.

  Why do I want to control this?

  Why do I think I should? Or that it’s even possible?

  I can’t control what these people do or say any more than I can control whether we win or lose out there tonight. I can only control what I do on the field—not what anybody else does. I can throw a hundred perfect passes, but if Tracker or Watters don’t catch them, or if Sears doesn’t block well and I get sacked, there’s nothing I can do about that.

  If Tyler freaks out or my dad gets drunk and acts like a moron, what can I do about that? Nothing. So why do I always pressure myself to manage all these people? It’s like I think it’s my job to run the freaking universe. Not only is it not my job, but I can’t do it. When I try, I just end up disappointing myself and getting pissed off at all the people around me.

  I don’t want to be disappointed. That’s what it comes down to. I don’t want to lose. I don’t want people to not like me. Somehow, if my dad or Tyler bags on Brent tomorrow night, it’s not Brent that I’m worried about. It’s me.

  I want to talk to Jon about this, but we barely see each other. I hung around and waited for him last night after practice. They are all in dress rehearsals this week, and so they only got a half-hour break for d
inner.

  I drove him and Monica and Amy down to Sonic. He got the double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a gigantic cherry limeade. The girls both got grilled chicken wraps and diet Cokes. Monica was sitting up front, so I barely got to see him, but just knowing that Jon was behind me in the truck felt like it turned the temperature up in my whole body.

  I handed Jon’s food over the seat to him, and when he took it, he grabbed my hand and held it for a second. Nobody saw this—it happened so fast—but it made my night.

  Monica laughed as I drove them back to campus.

  “What are you so smiley about?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just fun to hang out with you guys.” It wasn’t really a lie. “I barely get to see you anymore ’cause you’ve always got play practice.”

  All three of them said it at once: “REHEARSAL!”

  Jon texted me after I dropped them off:

  Don’t forget to get Monica flowers for opening night.

  I texted back:

  Is that a thing?

  Jon:

  Yes. #yourehopeless

  Me:

  wanna kiss you again

  Jon:

  backatcha. Flowers. Don’t forget.

  Later . . .

  I told Mom I wanted to get Monica some flowers for opening night. She thought that was really sweet and got all crazy and gushy about it. She ordered them from a florist to have them delivered. I told her I was just going to swing by the grocery store and get some roses or something and drop them off in the dressing room, but Mom wouldn’t hear of it. So, Monica is getting a dozen roses tonight.

  Later I decided to get Jon some flowers at the grocery store after school. They had lots of different kinds, but I wasn’t sure what to get. I just knew I didn’t want to give him roses. That just seemed not like him. It felt sort of mushy and weird. I guess the idea of giving another boy flowers is mushy and weird, and I almost left without getting any. Then I saw these bright yellow tulips, and I thought they looked less frilly and more bright and encouraging. They seemed like flowers you might give a friend instead of somebody you were in love with.

  Jesus. That’s a stretch. I mean, what is up with me? I’m a dude buying tulips for another dude.

  But I did. I just didn’t want him to think I didn’t care about this.

  Of course, when I got them back to school, I realized I couldn’t actually write a note on them. I mean, what if somebody found it and read it and recognized my handwriting? Even if I didn’t put my name on it, it was too risky. Plus, as I got out of my truck, I looked toward the doors of the theater and there was somebody or a group of people hanging out at every single entrance.

  Then I saw Erin. She was talking to a couple of the other girls in our class who are in the musical by the backstage door. So I called her over and gave them to her.

  “Ooooh! Are these for Monica?” she asked. She said it like this was just the sweetest thing ever.

  “No, I had Monica’s delivered. They should already be here.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Who did you get these for?”

  I stood there staring at her like a jackass. Think. Think. Think. “I didn’t get these, actually. They’re for Jon.”

  She smiled slyly. “Oh! That Amy!” she squealed. “She’s a tricky one.” She grabbed the flowers and whispered, “I’ll sneak them in and put them on his dressing table backstage.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I smiled and winked at her like we were pulling off a bank heist. “Not a word to anybody,” I said. “Don’t even tell Amy you know about it.”

  Erin pantomimed locking her lips with a tiny key and tossing the key over her shoulder. Then she turned and half skipped over to the back of the theater and disappeared inside.

  I smiled as I watched her go, then headed for the locker room to suit up.

  We won. It wasn’t easy, but we did it. North Central has a tough defensive line and they came prepped to shut down our passing game. Tracker and Watters were double-teamed most of the time, and it forced me to scramble and run a lot. I’m feeling pretty banged up from winding up on the bottom of the pile a lot more than usual.

  We were tied at fourteen each when Sears wrestled a fumble away from their quarterback and we had a final chance with three minutes left at our own thirty-yard line. I knew I had to get Casey inside their thirty if I wanted a sure bet.

  So I did it.

  Maybe it was the momentum of the fumble going our way, or maybe it was just Tracker turning on the power and getting open, but I nailed two twenty-yard passes in a row right at him, and he caught them both. Boom: thirty-yard line. By that point, their defense had wised up and shut Tracker down again. I threw one pass out of bounds to stop the clock and then gained another four yards running before Casey sauntered out on the field and kicked an easy field goal with twenty-four seconds left in the game.

  Afterward Coach came to find me in the locker room while I was pulling off my pads.

  “So,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Two more camera crews out there tonight, and Arkansas guys are here watching North Central’s running back. Funny thing, though . . . Surprising absence of scouts hanging out by our locker room doors tonight.”

  I kept stashing my gear. I didn’t want to tell him about USC yet.

  “You stonewalling me here?” He laughed. “Okay. Fine. But don’t think I don’t know when my best player has made a verbal. Not my first time at this rodeo.”

  I looked up at him with a shrug and a smile. “Maybe they’re just tired of watching us smoke the competition.”

  “USC?” he asked. It hadn’t occurred to me before that he might be excited about one of his players heading to a college in a different conference. I looked him in the eyes and saw something I hadn’t seen there before: hope.

  I did my best version of Jon’s smirk. “Maybe.”

  He leaned in closer. “Your parents on board?” Coach knew my dad from church and hunting. Dad’s crew had even closed in a porch on Coach’s house when I was in junior high.

  “Maybe.”

  He shook his head with a smile. “You got balls, son.” He turned to go but stepped back toward me. “None of my business, I know, but if your old man gives you any hassle about going away to school . . . you let me know?”

  He didn’t wait for a response, just whacked my butt with his clipboard as he left.

  I took my time in the shower. I didn’t feel like talking to anybody. Jon was the only one I really wanted to see, and I knew he and Monica were doing the show tonight. As I headed to my truck, the parking lot was still packed over by the theater, and I dumped my bag in my SUV, then headed over and walked into the lobby. I could hear music coming through the doors at the back of the theater, so I snuck up and opened one very slowly, slipping into the walkway behind the last row of seats under the balcony.

  Jon was onstage with Monica, holding both of her hands in his, singing a song about how there had been birds and flowers and music all around him everywhere, but he’d never noticed them until he’d met her. Then, just as he was about to lean in for a kiss, they were interrupted by a bunch of kids playing band instruments—really badly. It was sort of hilarious, and amazing, and I actually forgot about how tired I was and how much my arms and legs ached from being pummeled on the field tonight. I just stood there in the back with this big smile on my face, laughing along with the rest of the audience.

  At the end, the lights came up on the stage and everybody took a bow. Jon and Monica bowed last, and everybody in the audience stood up for them and clapped and cheered. I don’t know why, but my eyes filled up with tears when that happened. I ducked back out the door and got into the parking lot before anybody saw me.

  I saw Jon’s Jeep when I was pulling out of the lot. I parked next to it and decided to wait for him to come out. It took so long that I actually nodded off with my engine running, listening to the radio. When he knocked on the window, I jumped.

  “Sorry,” he said when I rolled down my window.


  “No worries.” I smiled.

  Jon reached out and slid his hand under my elbow where it was propped on the window. I wondered if maybe he’d been thinking about touching me as much as I was thinking about touching him. Just feeling his fingers under my forearm made my breathing shallow.

  He smirked. He knew exactly what he was doing. “How was the game?”

  “Rough, but we won. Show go well?”

  He smiled. “It was awesome.”

  “Seemed like it. You got a standing ovation.”

  He frowned. “How did you . . . ?” He stopped. “No. You didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “You came in after the game and watched the end of the show?” He pulled his hands back and threw them both into the air, shaking his firsts into the sky. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen him do.

  “I couldn’t help it!”

  “Now you know the ending!” he yelped. “That is not the way this is supposed to go.”

  “I’m sorry! I’ll forget the ending. Just for you!”

  He slid both hands under my arm and pulled himself forward on the door. His face came dangerously close to mine. “You better,” he whispered.

  “Whatcha doing now?” I asked.

  “Opening night cast party,” he said. “Mr. London is throwing it at his place. I’d invite you, but it’s sort of a cast-only thing.”

  My heart sank. “Do you have to go?” I asked.

  Jon laughed. “Uh, yeah. I’m playing the Music Man in a musical called The Music Man. So, yes. I do have to attend the cast party.”

  Jon leaned back and stuck his head out from between the back of his Jeep and my SUV, taking a quick peek both ways. “Tomorrow night? I’m all yours.” Then he leaned in the window and kissed me.

  “Dude . . .” I wanted to yell at him, but I couldn’t. I was weak in the knees. “You’re gonna get us in trouble,” I whispered.

  “Nah.” He winked. “See you tomorrow night.”

  I’m still so horny from that kiss, I can’t sleep. Only one thing to do about that . . .