Every Time I Think of You

by Jim Provenzano

  “Actually, this is the fifty-third Spring Fling,” Mrs. Forrester said with a hint of familial pride after we settled to our table at the center of the dining room. Two other older couples were also at the table. Everett and I were briefly introduced. I promptly forgot their names, and they politely ignored us.

  A small army of waiters appeared with plates, serving our table first. My limited experience with formal dining (a cousin’s wedding in Scranton and our grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary) told me that this meant something. The Forresters, divorce or no, still had status.

  Everett’s mother led our table conversation with more of a historic lecture from across a floral centerpiece which, compared to my woodland preferences, was almost psychedelic.

  “Carl’s great-grandfather Isaac Forrester inaugurated the gala in 1926 by celebrating the completion of the original club, a much smaller building, but set on the same property.”

  “Which burned to the ground in 1937,” Mr. Forrester added with a sardonic grin. “Kitchen grease fire.”

  Mrs. Forrester shot her ex-husband a glare as Everett and I stifled laughter over our plates. She continued her lecture to the others.

  Everett leaned in and muttered to me, “Start scoping out a girl to ask to dance once or twice.”

  I gave him a quizzical stare, then discretely glanced about the room. A few girls our age sat alertly at their parents’ tables. I heard a laugh behind me, and saw one girl with braces and glasses. Yes, definitely. As I had for those few school dances, I could do this again, this little lie, the pretext of heterosexuality, with him.

  “Target acquired,” I nudged to Everett.

  He glanced, withheld a snort, and muttered, “Ellen Hodge.”

  After a smattering of applause amid the light clatter of dinner plates being removed, a few people resumed a place on the dance floor.

  “That’s my favorite Cole Porter song,” Mrs. Forrester announced. “Did you know, he fell off a horse and was paralyzed for a great part of his life.”

  “I did not know that,” one of the other guests said.

  “He wrote some of his best musicals after that. Remember when we went to see that production of Kiss Me, Kate?”

  “I do,” her ex-husband chimed in.

  “And then, he didn’t,” Everett grumbled. He and his father shared mutual silent glares.

  Fed up with the entire situation, Everett abruptly rose and announced, “Well, we’ll let you all stroll down Memory Lane,” then nodded for me to accompany him. “As requested, Reid and I are going to see if a few of the young ladies might like to dance.”

  “Oh! How nice of you,” Mrs. Forrester said, in a tone that made me wonder if this family ever spoke to each other without an undercurrent of sarcasm.

  The girls were surprised and giddy. Ellen kept glancing past my shoulder to see who was watching her dance with me, as if one slow dance with a boy might solve some unspoken self-esteem problems. We chatted in between my clumsy footwork. When I mentioned that I was Everett’s guest, she seemed impressed, and perhaps a bit jealous that he’d chosen her friend.

  After our one slow dance, Everett and I were about to thank our partners and excuse ourselves, when the bandleader stepped up to a microphone and announced a “kids only” dance. “Let’s shake it up a little,” he said, attempting a sort of joke.

  The band’s rendition of “Stayin’ Alive” was an even greater joke. The girls attempted to shake their hips and get into it, but were clearly unprepared, as was I.

  But then I noticed Everett’s arm nearly poking me, and he turned to me with that mischievous grin, some rather suggestive hip thrusts, and a hoot of, “Get it goin’, Reid!” A sort of disco dance-off ensued, the girls stepped back, and before I knew it, he and I were sort of dancing together.

  That the band proceeded into “I’m Your Boogie Man” only got more kids onto the dance floor, and my duet with Everett became less obvious. I sought out Ellen and waved her back, but she smiled and held up her hands in surrender.

  As the song reached its end, Everett dragged me to the girls for a thank you bow, took me by the elbow, sweat beginning to glisten on his brow, and led me toward a back exit beside the stage. On the way, he grabbed an open bottle of red wine from a serving tray.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Under the stars, for our real date.”

  Traipsing off into the expansive back lawn of the club’s golf course, Everett stopped by a cluster of trees, gulped down some wine, and gestured for me to follow. His dares were taking on a different tactic. I wasn’t sure how much a part I was playing in it all, other than as an accessory.

  Huddled in our newly found hiding place, Everett handed me the bottle. I took a swig, careful not to spill any wine on my tux, but less concerned when he casually leaned against a tree trunk. His jacket wasn’t a rental.

  “Come ‘ere, handsome.”

  “That was so fun, dancing with you,” I said as we drew closer. We took turns kissing and finishing off the bottle before I set it on the ground.

  Everett’s hand dug inside my jacket. He stroked up and down my torso, then abruptly pulled my shirt up. His cold hands made contact with my stomach, my chest, inducing shivers as we kissed. It was sloppy, urgent, sweetened by the wine, interrupted by a few burps and resultant giggles.

  “A lil warmer this time, huh?” Everett smiled as he reached down into my pants to grasp what had been jutting against his thigh. I returned the gesture, dug into his shorts, kissed him from his lips, chin, jaw, and down his neck to just above his bow tie, which I also kissed.

  I parted my legs to keep my pants from completely falling to the moist lawn. Everett yanked my shorts down, letting my dick spring free, and was about to kneel, or crouch, probably, when we heard a voice.

  “Boys?”

  Everett froze, jerked his head around. I turned to see his father standing in a surprisingly casual stance.

  “How about you zip up, wash your hands, and come on back inside, okay?”

  “Sorry,” Everett said, yanking his pants up as we both turned away.

  “No, you’re not. Make it snappy.”

  “How did you–”

  “One of the kitchen guys saw you leave with a bottle; thought he ought to tell me.”

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  “Yeah. And the next time you think you’re hiding out, you might not do it in white jackets in the moonlight.”

  Mr. Forrester turned away, preceding us back toward the club.

  “Fuck!” I hissed at Everett.

  “Well, not this time.”

  In the men’s room, after making sure we were alone, Everett tried to calm me down. “It’s okay. He won’t–”

  “Won’t what? Why do you always–”

  “Oh, like you didn’t want to?”

  “No. Yes. But it’s not–” I hesitated, dizzy, realizing I was a bit drunk.

  “What? Not right?” Everett snarled as he turned away to check himself in the mirror.

  “Yes, it’s right to do,” I stammered. “It’s right for us to … but it’s like you wanted to get caught.”

  “So?”

  “Dude. I’m here, too. Let me decide when I do that.”

  “Okay. I get it. Sorry.” Everett’s comic glance lightened me up enough to accept his rushed apology kiss. “But remember; you came with me, willingly.”

  “A few more minutes, and we would have.”

  He snorted a chuckle as he fixed my tie.

  As we headed out, he said, “Besides, the rich girls in this crowd get parties thrown for them when they’re ready to put out.”

  “So?”

  He patted my butt. “You just helped me celebrate my coming out ball.”

  Chapter 15

  Through the thankfully brief ride home, Mrs. Forrester, aided by a few drinks, acted more than cheerful, apparently as yet uninformed of our little escapade. Everett’s father dropped me off with a curt, “Good night,” while from th
e back seat, Everett offered nothing but a parting wink.

  Back inside the house, I slumped onto the couch, my tux in slight disarray like some junior James Bond. The combination of alcohol and Everett’s inspiring brash actions sparked my moment of bravery.

  My father turned his attention away from a book and the softly playing Herb Alpert record as I sighed, “I’m in love.”

  “Are you now?”

  Despite the late hour, I had his attention, and figured I might as well head off any upcoming gossip or crisis. Mr. Forrester would probably want to talk with my dad, or beat him up, or do whatever fathers do. Since my father had never been in such a situation with me, it seemed sensible to prepare him.

  “You met a girl tonight?” He spoke softly. Mom was asleep in their bedroom, I guessed.

  “No, Dad.”

  “You met a girl some other night and she was there.”

  “Dad. There is no girl in the equation.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “A bit, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Okay.” He turned the music down a little, looked down the hallway, as if expecting Mom to enter with perfect timing to relieve him of this sudden parental duty. A quizzical frown came over him, like when he’d sit hunched over the dining room table doing some after-work accounting while piecing together old cardboard jigsaw puzzles to break up the monotony.

  He wouldn’t erupt in hatred or rage. I knew that. He wasn’t a religious man, or a bigoted man, but merely a calm intelligent soul who had just realized that the missing puzzle piece was right in front of him.

  “Your little friend, the Forrester kid.”

  “Bingo.” And then my eyes welled up, perhaps from the drink, with a happy sort of relief that I was sharing the knowledge of this bundled up joy.

  “Huh. Well, gosh, Reid. Are you … Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “I mean, is he … Does he know? Has he … reciprocated?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, you know we love you. Should I get your mother?”

  “No, no. I just wan’ you to know, because–”

  “Well, of course I’d want to know. For a while back there, we thought you weren’t even … I mean, good. He’s being nice to you?”

  “Oh, yeah. We definitely resifripated.”

  Dad withheld a chuckle. “You’ve been, I dunno, a little different lately, but happier. I thought he was just your friend, but I guess I wasn’t even looking.”

  “There is this … situation. We kinda got caught makin’ out tonight, so, I just wanted to give you a heads up, in case it gets around.”

  “Oh. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll be invited back to the country club any time soon.”

  “Darn.”

  “Only one person caught us.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Everett’s dad.”

  “Not so good.”

  “Yeah. So, anyway…” I stood up, swaying. He stood up to catch me. It became an awkward brief hug.

  “You sure you don’t want to wake your mother, talk to her?”

  “No, I think she’s already figured it out.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. G’night Dad.”

  “Good night?”

  I didn’t remember taking off my tux and hanging it up so neatly before passing out in my bed, but I did. At least I think I did. I didn’t wake up until my mother barged into my bedroom around noon.

  “Telephone. Your ___friend, Everett.”

  She said it exactly like that, pausing where she could have said ‘boy.’ Dad had obviously had a follow-up conversation that morning as I slept off my hangover. I think my mother was more upset that I hadn’t come out to her first.

  Groggy and queasy, in a T-shirt, some sweatpants over the previous night’s shorts and my itchy black socks, I followed her into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

  “I’m totally grounded,” Everett growled.

  “Dude,” I whispered, “is your dad gonna–”

  “Him? No, don’t worry. He’s … Don’t worry about it. Dad and my mom had a big fight about something else, and I’m in trouble by extension, plus the drinking, so I can’t see you today and I gotta head back to school tonight. My dad’s got chauffeur duties, even though it’s two hours out of his way.” A bit of silence, then, “So, anyway, we had fun, yeah?”

  I felt a lurch in my stomach, as if his saying ‘had fun’ meant there wouldn’t be any more.

  “Yeah. Yes, we did.” And then, impulsively, I said it, attempting to sound casual. “What if I drove up to your school?”

  “What?”

  “Come up and visit you.”

  “Oh. Um…”

  “Forget it. Stupid idea.”

  “No, no, it’s … Sure. This weekend’s no good. We have a home game Saturday after next. They have guest dorms, but we’ll figure something out.”

  I assumed he meant that we would have to concoct some clandestine scheme to make out in private, if at all. But more than that, I couldn’t understand how he could be so casual, let alone not hung over. Would my visiting mean anything? Would it mean too much?

  “You think your parents’ll be cool with it?” Everett asked.

  Recalling my drunken confessions of the previous night, I snuck a peek around the hallway toward the kitchen and living room. While Mom angrily scrubbed some surface, Dad calmly read the Sunday paper.

  “Fifty-fifty chance.”

  “I like those odds,” he said. “Gotta go. I’ll call you with directions in a few days.”

  I didn’t tell him I knew exactly where his school was –twenty-nine miles north– having looked it up on a state road map.

  The next week, the Three Mile Island nuclear power plant nearly blew up on the other side of Pennsylvania. People starting talking about panicking, but nobody panicked. Gas lines got longer, then shortened. My dad held some serious discussions with some business associates most evenings about their truck drivers. The news on television and in the papers honed in on our state in a somewhat gruesome fascination with the near-disaster area that it was.

  I thought about doing an extra credit paper for Biology on the potential effects of nuclear fallout on the environment, but I couldn’t muster any interest. I didn’t expect my level of apathy, nor did my parents.

  “I would think you would care more, with your interest in nature,” Mom said over a humorless dinner.

  “Actually, I do. It’s just, if we’re going to all die of radiation, I’d like to have one more visit with my, uh, ___friend.”

  What I didn’t expect was my mom allowing my visit, but then only a day beforehand telling me she needed her car. She seemed upset about something, that something being me.

  I told her that was fine, I would simply take a bus and jog the rest of the way. They didn’t know I was bluffing, that there were no buses to Saltsburg. Despite that, and in spite of my mother, Dad casually tossed me his car keys.

  I’m pretty sure it was all good timing that I was leaving for a day, because for the first time in years, my parents were about to have an argument.

  Chapter 16

  A brick castled estate, a miniature fortress, a quaint campus, a beguiling maze of handsome young men in jackets and ties, Pinecrest Academy for Boys fulfilled most of my expectations. While the campus was a bit smaller than I’d expected, it had the look of prep authenticity.

  Everett told me to just meet him on the field, but by the time I arrived, the players were already warming up. Less than fifty fans sat in the bleachers, somewhat arranged in clusters for one team or the other. Being a home game, most of those fans were Pinecrest students and a few parents.

  Although I had expressed my disinterest in team sports, specifically ones which involve a ball of some kind being tossed back and forth, because it was Everett’s sport, I had done a little research and checked out a book about it from the library. Discovering that its her
itage stemmed from Native American history going back centuries made the game appear less odd and more of an underdog sport.

  Everett raced across the field in his shorts, jersey, gloves and a helmet that resembled a motorcycle-football hybrid. His schoolmates hooted and hollered for their every goal and turnover as I sat quietly, marveling at Everett’s every leap and jump. Watching any other game would have left me unfazed. But with Everett on the field, I found myself rapt by following his every move. The somewhat revealing shorts helped.