A Surplus of Light

by Chase Connor

  Sometimes I’d have to walk to the trail where he had punched Carson to find him. He’d be sitting in the same spot by the tree, sketching in his pad or just laid back against the tree, seemingly napping, but I knew that he was aware of everything going on around him. He could sense me there, watching him, trying to figure him out. Trying to muster up the courage to introduce myself and attempt to make him my new friend.

  But he never opened his eyes when I watched him lay back with them closed. He never suddenly raised his head languidly to stare back at me. It was if I ceased to exist to him. It was utterly frustrating and made my stomach flip and flop even more every time I watched him. Sometimes I’d find myself staring for minutes on end, not worrying about whether or not anyone else noticed my intent stares towards him.

  A full week of summer went by where I stalked and stared, acted like I didn’t have any sense or social skills. Finally, I realized that Ian Chambers was not going to speak to me unless he was spoken to directly. I had to make the move towards friendship if I wanted it. On a Sunday morning, when everyone was getting ready for church, I mustered up all of the courage I had and walked to the store. Using some of my allowance from the week, I bought two sodas and two bags of chips. I set out for the creek.

  Ian Chambers was sitting in his same spot by the tree, but the creek was empty of any other kids. Everyone was going to church with their families. Then lunch—maybe by mid-afternoon there would be kids at the creek enjoying their summer away from school. But for now, this was Ian’s personal sanctuary. I almost didn’t approach him. But as I stood there, twenty feet away, the plastic bag from the store, dangling at my side, Ian looked up and his eyes caught mine. He had been expecting me.

  “You still stalking me?” He asked, then turned his attention back to his sketchpad. “I thought you’d have given up by now.”

  He didn’t talk like other kids who were about to start high school. He spoke like a world-weary adult. It matched his constantly bored facial expression.

  “What are you always drawing?” I asked, giving him a wide berth as I walked towards him.

  I walked towards him in an arc, not letting my eyes look at his sketchpad. That was too intimate. I didn’t want to invade his vacuum. Gently, I sat down a few feet away, giving him plenty of room as he pulled his hand away from the sketchpad.

  “Usually trees.” He said simply, those blue eyes coming to rest on mine. “Sometimes other kids. Birds. That squirrel there.”

  He motioned with his head. I looked in the direction he had nodded and saw a squirrel laid out on a large rock behind me. My eyes grew wide, taking in the stillness and quiet of the squirrel.

  “Is he dead?” I whispered.

  Ian made a sudden, high-pitched squealing noise. The squirrel jumped up quickly onto its hindquarters, its head whipping back and forth. It looked at Ian quickly, then me, then it dashed away so quickly it was a blur.

  “He was just sunning himself,” Ian said.

  I gave a relieved chuckle then turned my attention back to Ian.

  “What have you got there?” Ian nodded at the bag.

  “I, uh, I brought us some sodas and chips,” I replied shyly. “If you want some, anyway.”

  “I don’t eat,” Ian said.

  I frowned at him.

  “Or drink.” He continued. ”I consume the blood of virgins and smoke the reefer and I joined a gang right before school last year. Sometimes you can see me swimming in the creek at night, worshipping Satan.”

  I stared at him for a long time.

  “Is any of that true?” I asked lowly.

  He stared back for an even longer time, considering me. The silence hung between us as he leveled me with his eyes.

  “I like swimming at night.” He nodded. “But I don’t believe in Satan. And it’s kind of hard to find a virgin nowadays.”

  I gave a nervous chuckle.

  “Why does everyone say those things about you?”

  “Carson, the guy you saw me with the other day?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s not the first time I’ve had to punch him,” Ian replied, his eyes sad. “After the first time, he started making up stories about me. He didn’t realize that it made no difference to me.”

  “I guess he never learns.” I smiled sheepishly.

  “I don’t like hurting people. No matter what you might have heard.”

  I glanced at his knuckles. They were covered in old, dark bruises.

  “I believe you.” I breathed out, my stomach flipping around.

  Ian watched me for a moment, then closed his sketchpad and stretched his legs out, letting the sketchpad lay in his lap.

  “So, what kind of chips and soda did you bring?” He smiled.

  “I, uh, didn’t know what you’d like, so,” I opened the bag and pulled out my purchases, “I just got two Cokes and a couple of bags of Cheetos.”

  “Perfect.” He said. “But I don’t have any money.”

  “It’s cool.” I tried to cover up my pride at responding so casually. “I had some allowance saved up.”

  Ian Chambers stared at me for a moment, then flipped his sketchpad open, flipping through pages casually before stopping. He deftly ripped one of the pages out and held it out towards me.

  “We’re even.” He said simply.

  My eyes stayed on his as I took the paper from him. I didn’t look away from him until the paper was in front of me. Ian Chambers had sketched me. Sitting on the other side of the bank on the day that I had first laid eyes on him. He had probably done it from memory. It was remarkable.

  “Wow.” I breathed the word.

  “It’s not my best.” Ian rose to his knees so that he could grab his Coke and bag of Cheetos. His fingertips were charcoal black. “But it’s not my worst.”

  “It’s…amazing.” I looked up at him with a smile.

  “Thank you.” He replied, twisting the cap of his soda as he sat back down. “I like your hair. You should let it grow out even more.”

  The butterflies in my stomach rejoiced. My cheeks flushed.

  “So…what’s your name?” I asked him.

  Ian cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Okay.” I blushed deeper.

  “And you’re Michael Steedman.”

  “Mike. I go by ‘Mike’ to everyone but my mom.” I replied.

  “What does your mom call you, Mike?” He grinned as he brought the Coke to his glorious lips and took a sip.

  “Sugar Man, mostly.” I blushed so deeply that I could feel the heat of my own face.

  Ian continued to grin. But he didn’t laugh.

  “You look like a ‘baby boy’ or ‘junior’ to me, personally.” He replied. “Sugar Man doesn’t really fit you.”

  I laughed gently, grateful that he hadn’t teased me.

  “But there are worse things than ‘Sugar Man’, I guess.” He shrugged.

  “Do you want to be my friend?” I spat it out.

  I cursed myself for being such a dork. Ian’s grin disappeared. We were staring at each other again.

  “All right.” He nodded.

  “Good.” I smiled and reached for my bag of Cheetos.

  Chapter 3

  Mike

  Later That Summer

  “Will you teach me to fight?” I spoke without moving my lips too much. “Please?”

  “No,” Ian answered. “Stop moving.”

  “I’m not moving,” I mumbled.

  He growled playfully at me as I sat there. I smiled internally but fixed my face and kept staring straight ahead—as I had been for far too long. The last bit of summer sun pierced through the trees and cast circles and squares of yellow light on everything around us. Everything was dry and crisp, the ground hard and crumbly. The grass was like hay. Summer was ending and this was our last Saturday before we had to return to school.

  All summer long, Ian and I had been inseparable. Day after day we had spent together, one adventure after another. At night, for as long as w
e were allowed, we sat outside of my house, talking, laughing, whispering secrets like we were girls. When I had told Ian that we whispering like girls, he had frowned and said: “Girls aren’t the only humans who want to keep their secrets.” I had taken that to heart. I no longer intimated such things again.

  Girls aren’t sluts and whores just because they like sex. They’re sexually liberated. Women aren’t bitches because they’re confident and aggressive. Ian corrected me when I got confused about those things.

  Ian taught me how to sneak into the movies. How to approach animals in the woods so as to not startle them away. How to hold and flex one’s hand so that a nearby butterfly might alight. How laying on top of a round hay bale under the moon felt like you were staring out into the universe as the sweet smell of bundled, dried grass tickled your nose. He taught me how to talk to people in a way that honored them in the way that a person ought to be. He taught me to respect everyone. Even if they didn’t respect you.

  He taught me how to look a person in the eyes, no matter how big and bold they were, and tell them the truth. Even when they didn’t want to hear it. I also learned that he absolutely hated Cokes and Cheetos. He preferred ice tea mixed with lemonade and dill pickle sunflower seeds. Which he taught me to shell using just my teeth and tongue and to spit the shells so far you’d never find them. He showed me all of the lesser traveled trails in the woods. Where the best parts to swim in the creek were. How to stand up for myself. How to be a good friend.

  When he wasn’t paying attention—which wasn’t often, since he seemed to be hyper-aware of everything around him—I’d stare at his lips. His eyes. Study his profile. Let my stomach dance joyfully within my belly. Once or twice, he’d turn and catch me staring at him, smiling like a puppy dog. After a few times of catching me, he started returning to the position he was in, and hold it. He’d let me study him for as long as I liked. He never said anything about it. Never teased me.

  Summer had always been the best part of the year, but now I had a love affair with the season. The days were long and the sun hung heavily in the sky for a length of time that was never long enough each day. Those minutes and hours were filled with an irrevocable obsession with my new friend. The best friend I’d ever had. I could just be me. Ian let me just be me.

  “How long does this take?” I mumbled again.

  “I’m almost done, but it’ll take longer if you don’t stop moving.” He hissed at me, a smile on his face as he concentrated. “You’re the one who wanted this, so suck it up.”

  I smiled but quickly affixed the blank look back on my face.

  A few minutes later and Ian’s hand dropped from his sketchpad.

  “Okay.” He sighed. “We’re done.”

  I rolled my neck and wiggled my limbs, my muscles and joints sore from sitting in the same position for so long. Ian held his sketchpad out to me. I reached out and took it from him, once again looking him in the eyes as I accepted his offering. When the sketchpad was before me, I looked down. It was the most beautiful drawing that I’d ever seen. It was a real portrait of me—not one that he had sketched from memory. He had captured the miniscule bump on the ridge of my nose. The freckles that always decorated my cheeks at the end of summer. The way my hair had grown out, golden and down to my ears. The way one side of my mouth was always upturned.

  “It’s…it’s amazing, Ian.” I breathed out.

  “Thank you.” He replied evenly. “It’s all yours.”

  “Really?” I grinned down at the picture.

  “Si, senor.” He replied. “For being such a good friend all summer.”

  I looked up at my new best friend—the best friend I’d ever had, holding the sketchpad tightly in my hands. I wanted to tell him that it was he who had been the best part of my summer. It was he who had made the whole season as glorious as it had been. That my life was made immeasurably better just by becoming his friend. That I had never had such a great two-and-a-half months in my entire life. That when it rose each day, I was invigorated with all the light of the sun, knowing that I was going to see him again. But I didn’t have the words at that age.

  “It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever given me,” I said, basically to no one and everyone.

  “I’m glad you like it.” The corner of his mouth turned up.

  “I do.” I nodded. “You’re crazy talented, Ian.”

  He shrugged. “I could be better. I’m taking art for my freshmen elective.”

  “I’m taking Public Speaking.” I frowned. “Getting that out of the way.”

  He laughed.

  “I think I’ll wait ‘til sophomore year for that.” He shrugged again.

  “Maybe we’ll have some classes together?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ian stretched out and laid back in the dry grass under the tree, his skin shiny with perspiration. He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes as he smiled to himself. Gently, I crawled up beside him and laid down, mimicking his positioning and posture. But I didn’t close my eyes. I turned my head to stare at him, taking in the curves and angles of his profile. Butterflies had lived in my stomach all summer. I was starting to understand what that meant. But it didn’t unnerve me. It felt like a final piece to the puzzle of who I was had been dropped into place.

  “This has been the best summer of my life,” I said softly.

  “All fifteen years of it.” He chuckled, his eyes staying shut.

  “Exactly.” I chuckled with him.

  I rolled to my side, propping myself up on my elbow as I stared at my best friend. He continued to lay there, his forehead, upper lip, and torso shiny with sweat. Something in my inexperienced teenage gut leapt. I didn’t quite understand it at that age, but I knew that I liked it. That I wanted that feeling to be what I felt all day every day.

  “I hate that summer’s over,” I said simply.

  “It’s not quite over.” He grinned, his eyes still closed.

  “May as well be.” I sighed.

  Ian’s eyes flicked open before I could move my gaze from his stomach.

  I blushed.

  “Are you gay?” He asked.

  “Wh-what?” I sputtered.

  “It’s a pretty simple, innocent question.”

  “Why would you think that I’m gay?!?”

  “It’s just a question, Mike.”

  “I like girls,” I answered quickly.

  Ian stared at me for a very long time. He stared until I was uncomfortable and wondering if his near-lethal fist would strike out if he suspected that I was gay. Suddenly, he just nodded. He laid back in the grass, his hands under the back of his head.

  “I suppose that’s an answer.” He said simply.

  I swallowed hard.

  “You can stare all you want.” He sighed, stretching his body languorously. “It’s just us here.”

  “You…you don’t care?” I whispered, wary.

  “No, Mike.” He opened his eyes briefly to look at me. “It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

  “Okay,” I replied gently.

  So, I stared. I took in the way that the beads of sweat shone on his forehead, the way his forehead dipped down to the bridge of his nose, then back up to his button nose. The prominent dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. His kissable lips. His dark hair that hung towards the grass around his head. His chest, rising and falling with each breath, beaded with sweat. The way his rib cage led to his abdomen and the way his stomach looked concave as he laid there on his back, his lower ribs poking out with each breath. My best friend made my stomach dance.

  We stayed like that for a very long time. Ian’s eyes stayed closed, respectful and permissive of this private time that my eyes had with his body. My best friend knew that I was drawn to him in this way, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t threatened or offended—just curious about it. And he didn’t care if I appreciated his body. He was an artist. He had probably stared at people like this before, too. What went on in his head while he stared
could have been the same as what went on inside of mine, but he wasn’t giving that information.

  “Don’t you think you should get home to eat?” Ian spoke, his eyes still closed.

  I looked up, realizing that the sun was dipping close to the horizon.

  I sputtered for a moment.

  “Um, yeah,” I said finally. “Mom probably has dinner ready.”

  He opened his eyes and propped himself up with his elbows.

  I stood from my spot beside him and started to walk away.

  “You…you won’t say anything to anyone, will you?” I turned my head slightly. “Please?”

  “It never would have crossed my mind, Mike.” He replied.

  “Okay.” I breathed out slowly.

  “What are you doing tonight?” He asked, making no effort to move.

  “Um, nothing I guess.” I didn’t want to turn back.

  I was in no condition to do that.

  “Meet me at the creek?” He suggested. “One last swim before school starts? Midnight?”

  “I don’t know if I can sneak out that late.” My stomach was fluttering again.

  “I’ll see you at midnight then, Mike.” I could hear the grin in his voice.

  That was the first time that I felt hate for my best friend. Well, not real hate. But I wanted to hate him. Because he knew me as well as I knew myself. I would sneak out of the house at midnight—no matter the consequence. Because I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to have one last swim with my friend. And he’d never invited me to swim at night with him before. I had been dying for him to invite me out to the creek at night. And he knew that.

  God, I wanted to hate him.

  But my stomach just fluttered instead.

  So, at midnight that night, my swimsuit put on under my jeans, and a t-shirt pulled on over my head, I scurried out of my bedroom window, silent as I could be. There was no moon to speak of and everything was quiet in my neighborhood. The whole town was dead. Which was never unusual for such a small town on a Saturday night. I ducked between houses, scurried down streets like a bandit, and made my way to the woods.