More Happy Than Not

by Adam Silvera

  I turn and Genevieve isn’t at the jewelry table anymore. I tiptoe and find her waving me down. I make my way to her and she’s holding a blue moleskin sketchbook. “What do you think? I want to make sure you actually like it before I surprise you with it.”

  “I don’t need a new notebook,” I say. I still have enough spiral notebooks with loose leaf I haven’t used up yet.

  “But do you want a new one?”

  “No thanks.” I know she’s not some rich girl, but she’s definitely much better off than I am with her own bedroom and weekly allowances. She doesn’t really understand Want versus Need like we do at home; just because you can afford something doesn’t mean you have to have it.

  Things I Want: new video games; trendier sneakers; a laptop with Photoshop; a home with enough bedrooms so friends can stay over.

  Things I Need: food and water; coats and boots during the winter; a home to come home to, no matter how small; a girlfriend like Genevieve; and a best friend like Thomas instead of a sort of best friend like Brendan.

  Genevieve grabs my hand and I fake a smile. I notice she’s still a little unhappy herself.

  Later that night, there’s a knock on the door. Eric’s about to leave for his overnight inventory shift and Mom is laid out from her double. I sometimes catch myself mistaking a knock on the door for Dad without his keys. It’ll be a while until I shake that off, I think. Normally my friends call for me outside the window. I pause my game and pray it’s not someone ding-dong-ditching me because so help me God . . .

  I open the door and it’s Thomas. “Hey,” he says with a smile.

  I smile back.

  “You game to come over tonight?” he asks after I say nothing. “I’ve made progress on my life chart and thought we could catch up. Been a while.”

  Yeah, eight days since I last saw him and ten hours since we last texted. I should really stay home and rest because I’m spending the day with Genevieve again tomorrow. But if I stay, I’ll be up all night anxious over how I could’ve been helping him figure out who he is so he isn’t walking around blind and lost. “Yeah, I’m down. Give me a sec.”

  I go back inside to turn off the Xbox, and Eric is eyeing me like he knows all my secrets and lies; it’s the same look he had the day I left home to go have sex for the first time. I let Mom sleep since I’ll be home before she even wakes up during the middle of the night to pee. To avoid all our friends in the court, I lead Thomas out of the back staircase. It smells like recently lit weed. I put a hand on Thomas’s chest to stop him so we can listen out for anyone down there.

  When I don’t hear anything, we go down and bump into Brendan and this girl Nate. Nate’s real name is Natalie but she’s been reinventing herself as a dude for the past four years with thick braids, fake gold medallions, fitted hats, and basketball jerseys. Brendan looks at Thomas but asks me, “What you doing here, A?”

  “Heading out.” I see the packet of weed in his hand. “You?”

  “Business,” Brendan says.

  “You would’ve been busted if I was a security guard,” I say.

  “Nah. Their loud-ass keys always give them up.”

  “I could’ve been someone who would’ve snitched.”

  “My grandfather doesn’t care what I do to bring home paper,” Brendan says, rubbing his fingers together. “I should finish up here.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  When we leave, I hear Brendan ask Nate something: “You sure you don’t like guys?”

  We stop into Good Food’s and Thomas buys Pop-Tarts, sour candy, and enough bags of potato chips for a party of six. It’s nice out, so we go up to his roof and play cards. It’s a little dark, but Thomas saved a green paper lantern from his birthday that miraculously still works. I tear into the sour candy and ask him, “So what’s new with your future?”

  “I figured out something big. About who I want to be.” Thomas downs his Top Pop and burps. “Or more like who I don’t want to be.”

  I don’t know if it’s the sugar, or where he could be going with this, but I’m a little shaky. “And who’s that?”

  “I don’t want to be a director,” Thomas says—exactly the kind of thing you expect to hear from someone who is so young and lost. “I just don’t think I’m as passionate about it as I thought I was. Think about it, I haven’t ever filmed anything or even put up a video on YouTube. All I do is look up directors and watch movies as if that’s all it takes.”

  “But you’ve been writing scripts,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I don’t have any real stories to tell. I can write all the scripts I want, but I’m only seventeen and haven’t lived anything interesting enough to write about. When your life sucks, your story sucks.”

  “Sometimes your story is worth reading about because your life sucks,” I say. “And I don’t think your life sucks.”

  “Sure it does. I don’t know what I want to do when I’m older. You’re my only real friend. My mother is always working and never has time for me, and my father might be dead for all I know.” Thomas immediately looks up at me, horrified. “I’m sorry. That was such a dickhead thing to say.”

  I want to tell him that it’s okay, that it’s not like my father killed himself because of me, but that will only sound like his father left because of him. So I say nothing. It’s quiet except for the wind. I throw a rock back onto the ground. “I think it’s okay for you to be confused by things right now, Thomas. We’re young and figuring shit out, but our lives don’t completely suck. Take it from the kid whose bedroom is the living room.”

  “I just want the future figured out, you know?” He grins. “Maybe we should invite your girlfriend up here with her tarot cards to lay it all out for us.”

  “I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be dating,” I say, looking down.

  “Why’s that?” Thomas asks, and I can see from the corner of my eyes that he’s lowered his head too.

  “Things aren’t what they once were. And I think I’m going to take a page out of your book and put some distance between me and her.” I’m tugging at my sleeve now, something I used to do as a kid whenever I got really nervous. “I love her, and I want to know her forever, but we don’t fit.”

  “I get that.”

  I’m staring very hard at my hands now. “I feel weird talking like this. Do guys do this kind of thing? Hang out and talk about love?”

  “You ask that like you haven’t been a guy your entire life. Some dudes make their mind a prison. I like living outside of bars. If we’re different, that’s fine with me.”

  He’s right. I will dare to be different. I will prove to everyone that the world won’t turn to ash or spin out of control or be swallowed alive by a black hole. But someone has to man up first to get this ball rolling.

  “There’s something I want to tell you but it has to stay between us,” I say. The words almost sound like they’re being spoken by someone else. “And you can’t go running away.”

  “Please tell me you have a superpower, like you’re actually a descendant from aliens or something. I’ve always wanted to be the best friend in a superhero movie who keeps the superhero’s secret,” Thomas says. “Sorry, too many movies. Of course you can trust me, Stretch.”

  “There’s two sides to this and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell you both yet. But I want to soon.”

  “Okay. So tell me Side A now. Or whenever you’re ready.”

  I look down again and massage my temples, my head ready to explode from what I’m about to admit. “Look, you’re my best friend and everything, but if what I’m about to tell you is too much for you, it’s fine and—”

  “Shut up and talk to me,” Thomas interrupts.

  “That’s kind of a mixed signal.” He stares at me with shut-up-and-talk eyes. “Okay. No wasting time. I’m going to come out and say it. I think I might . . . maybe . . . kind
of . . . sort of . . . possibly . . . be . . .”

  “ . . . Is this fill-in-the-blank?”

  “No, no. I can say it. Let me say it. I’m going to say it. I think I might . . . kind of . . . sort of . . . possibly, no, definitely . . .” I can’t spit the last word out, the unknown of everything that will come after choking me.

  “Maybe it would actually help you if I guessed. Should we try that?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re a virgin.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re a descendant of aliens.”

  “Still no.”

  “I’m out of guesses. Let me tell you something about me: I don’t care if you’re a gigantic virgin who’s part alien. You’re Stretch and nothing you say is going to change that.”

  I hide in my hands, and then dig my nails into my head as if I can tear off my face and unmask the person I’m trying to reveal. “Okay, yeah, I kind of, maybe, sort of, might . . . I think I might . . . I like guys, okay?” And then I sit here, unable to take the words back. I wait for the world to spin out of control, or worse, for Thomas to get up and walk away.

  “That’s it?”

  “Kind of maybe sort of.”

  “Okay. So what?”

  I look up and the sky isn’t bleeding. I hear cars honking and drunk people shouting. Birds are still flying and stars are coming out of hiding, like me. Kids my age are having their first kisses right now or even taking it a step further. Everything, life, is continuing. “You don’t care?”

  “I care about you but I don’t care about that. I mean, I do care but I don’t care in that way you think I care.” Thomas scratches his head and whistles. “You know what I mean, right? I don’t care that you’re gay.”

  “Can we maybe use a different word? I’m still wrapping my head around this.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up. “Dude, this is your business. If a code word makes you feel more comfortable, I’m in.”

  “I don’t have anything in mind.”

  “How about dude-liker? It sounds pretty matter-of-fact.”

  “Yeah,” I say. It sucks how a word that’s supposed to mean happiness can somehow feel warped.

  “It’s your call, dude-liker. So no one knows?”

  “Just us,” I say. “Not even Gen. I’m going to figure out how to handle that when I understand what’s going on with me. Maybe it happens like this for all dude-likers, where one day you’re a girl-liker and the next day you’re not. I guess maybe I could be a girl-slash-dude-liker, but I don’t know.”

  Thomas readjusts himself, coming a little toward me or maybe just leaned my way for a second. “So what do you think changed everything?”

  You did, I want to say but don’t. It’s quiet. This silence makes me uncomfortable, like I’ll never be comfortable again. If I play my cards wrong, I’ll not only lose my privacy, but maybe rob myself of my happiness, too. “I’ve been thinking about my happy ending even more than usual, probably because you’re trying to engineer yours right now. I don’t think I’ll ever be happy until I figure out who I am and it comes down to me not being a hundred percent happy with the life I have.”

  “Do you mind being a dude-liker?”

  “I don’t know yet. Obviously I’m scared for my throat being a dude-liker around here, but I’m not exactly rushing to tell everyone tomorrow. I also don’t think I’ll be campaigning anytime soon with other dude-liker-friendly organizations. I mean, if they can create a future where I can get married to another dude without it seeming like a big deal, then good on them. I’ll remember to send a fruit basket or something.”

  Thomas laughs and I know this is it, this is when he confesses that he’s been pranking me and dropping signs he likes guys too just to get me to say it. “F-fruit b-b-basket. Pun intended?”

  “You’re an asshole and I hate you.”

  He’s rocking back and forth and when his laugh finally winds down—though I wouldn’t have minded watching him for a few more seconds—he says, “So what’s next? Are you on the hunt for a guy in your happy ending?”

  “I have zero clue.”

  Thomas inches toward me, for sure this time, and folds his hands in his lap. “Well, this all kind of reminds me of that blackout a few years ago. Remember? I was outside when it happened and it was so dark out I could barely see my own hand, let alone what was up the street. But I kept going forward, step by step, until I reached a familiar corner. Sometimes you just have to push ahead to find what you’re looking for.”

  “Do you still have the fortune cookie you ripped that off of?”

  “Nah, had to get rid of the evidence.”

  I smile, and like earlier, it feels legit, because it always is with him. But there’s still a sinking feeling in my chest. I don’t know what else I can say to him that’ll make him feel comfortable enough to do what I just did. Since he doesn’t ever lie, I wonder what he would say if I just directly asked him if he likes dudes too. If he says no, I would know that he is capable of lying. But if he says yes, I don’t know how I would feel by dragging it out of him like that.

  “Maybe you look distressed or maybe I’m a mind reader, but I want you to know that nothing is different, Stretch. Sure, you do things differently and that’s okay. Nothing is changing,” Thomas says, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder as if this were ordinary. This is the guy who makes me happy.

  “Thanks for being telepathic,” I say. I pat his knee. “So I guess this means I’m no longer allowed to call ‘No Homo’ anymore, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Thomas laughs and I want every night to be like this, where we can just laugh against each other without it being weird.

  But for tonight, this is enough. From the shapes cast by the green paper lantern, you would never know that there were two boys sitting closely to one another trying to find themselves. You would only see shadows hugging, indiscriminate.

  4

  REMEMBER THAT TIME

  Instead of manning up, I’ve been standing outside in the pouring rain for the past twenty minutes under Genevieve’s window. A cab with an ad for the Leteo Institute drives through a puddle and soaks my jeans. I really, really wish Genevieve could just forget me.

  And I really, really wish I had another pair of pants right now.

  I finally go upstairs and leave my sneakers outside the door. I almost slide across her hallway in my wet socks but she holds my hand and keeps me steady. I almost come up with a bullshit excuse about how we should stay out in the living room so I don’t get her bed wet, when I actually have other reasons not to go in there, but she leads and I follow.

  “The flea market is totally closed today,” Genevieve says. She helps me out of my hoodie and pinches my nipple through my white shirt. It tickles but I barely laugh. “Bright side of having a terrible father is he’s never around.” We sit on her bed. She kisses me and I know I should push her off but I don’t. “I love you,” she says, and before there’s an awkward silence where I don’t say it back, she adds, “Remember that time your soaking-wet jeans ruined my bed?”

  The game has lost its spark, and maybe it’s because of my low spirits, but it’s also very likely because it’s kind of, sort of, definitely ridiculous to ask me to remember something that is happening right now.

  I’m being unfair.

  I sit up, cross my legs, hold her hands, and play along. “Remember that time we bought water guns last summer and I chased you around Fort Wille Park? And you kept calling time out and sprayed me whenever I stopped?”

  She sits up and tangles her legs in mine. “Remember when we kept riding the subway back and forth last February because it was too cold to go outside?”

  “Which was stupid because it was even colder when we finally got off at one in the morning,” I say, recalling how the cold was killing us, me especially since I had wrapped my jacket around he
r. “Remember that time we were writing each other messages in a crossword puzzle during study hall and it got taken away? I lost the evidence on how you misspelled tornado with an e.”

  Genevieve punches me. “Remember that time we texted each other using only song titles?”

  “And how about that time it started raining when we were rowing the boat in Central Park and I started panicking?”

  Genevieve laughs. While playing this game might be even worse than being intimate with her, it’s both the right and wrong time to stroll down memory lane. “Remember that time we time-traveled together on my birthday and you told me you love me?” She climbs into my lap and feels up my arms.

  We look into each other’s eyes and when she leans in to kiss me, I let her because this will be the last kiss we share whether she knows it or not. Then she rests her chin on my shoulder and I hold her, hard.

  “Remember that time I was a better boyfriend who gave you happy memories like these?” I feel her try to pull back, so she can meet my eyes again and tell me that I’m a good boyfriend, but I continue holding her because I can’t look her in the face and do this. “I’m not the guy we’re remembering anymore.”

  She stops resisting. She holds me tighter too, her nails digging into my arms. “Are you . . . ? You are. Aren’t you?”

  She’s gotta be asking me if I’m breaking up with her, but I consider the chance that she’s asking me if I’m a dude-liker.

  I know this: the part of me that was playing straight for so long wants to lie and tell her that I can transform back into the person she needs me to be, except that’s not who I am anymore or who I ever should’ve been. So I just nod and say, “Yeah.” I’m about to apologize and try to explain why, but she breaks free from my hug and sits at the edge of her bed with her back to me.