More Happy Than Not

by Adam Silvera

  “Sure, even if that speech was a bit much.”

  “Asshole. Your turn: Why me?”

  I shrug, get in his face, and tell him he’s cool. We both look downstairs at the same time to make sure no one’s coming up, and then we turn and kiss.

  (AGE SIXTEEN—NOVEMBER, EIGHT MONTHS AGO)

  “I’m teaching you how to ride a bike,” Collin says as he wheels over a beat-up ten-speed with a popped chain toward me. “You’re sixteen and officially ten years too old to wait around for your daddy to teach you.” He kneels over and fixes the chain; I can see the skin of his lower back.

  “Maybe I’m too old to learn.”

  “No, you’ll never get a driver’s license if you can’t even ride a bike. Come on, you can act like it’s Scorpius’s broom. The Red Sprite, right?”

  “Sold.”

  I get on and Collin tells me the basics. I expect him to hold my back or my shoulder but we’re in his neighborhood and his friends are around. I pedal and fall over, almost banging my head into a fire hydrant. He extends his hand to me and asks, “Any chance I’m forgetting a broom with training wheels?”

  Collin has already lost both of his virginities.

  He got it on with this girl Suria when he was fourteen, after she gave him a hand job under the bleachers in the gym. Then he let this guy plow him last year when he was vacationing in the Poconos.

  I still have both of my virginities to lose. I’ve only gotten as far as groping with Genevieve. I want to take it to the next level with Collin.

  We recently tried doing it in a nearby building’s staircase, but didn’t get very far undressing ourselves before we heard someone coming down. The same deal with this abandoned porch up on the balcony a few nights ago, which was really risky, but worth risking, I think. We’ve ventured far away from my block and stumble on to a hiding space behind a wired fence, in-between a meat market and a flower shop, businesses of death and life.

  “It smells like dead cow,” I say. “But kind of nice too. Weird.”

  “Jesus, do you want me to go get you a flower?” Collin asks, flipping me off. We always flip each other off because it’s how we remain guys, you know. Collin steps over a rusty bike without wheels, leaving me to wonder the next time he’ll try and teach me how to ride a bike, and he wrenches the bottom of the fence until it folds back enough for us to crawl through.

  It’s dark out and we’re so far away from our friends on the block and our girlfriends at home. I bet the fucking moon can’t even see us right now. I shove him and he shoves me back. I tackle him against the wall, unbuttoning his shirt, and it’s all condoms and awkward memories from there.

  It’s chillier today, so we can’t have sex when we go to our spot. We decide to leave a physical mark instead. I borrowed some cans of spray paint from Genevieve she had left over from an assignment a year ago. I was happy as hell when Collin agreed to this because it meant we shared something beyond sex.

  Collin sprays a black-and-blue world onto the dirty wall. I hear police sirens so I have to think quickly in case they’re coming for us. I streak a green arrow over the world. It looks like the universal icon for boys, which makes sense because we’re men no matter what we do together. Collin adds a crown and makes us kings.

  The sirens fade into the distance so we hang around and keep decorating—for lack of a straighter word. He sprays some weird, shapeless creature on the other wall. “Hey, can I borrow a kiss?”

  “Nah.”

  “Okay, let’s try this again: kiss me or I’ll spray you,” Collin threatens.

  I smile. I walk toward him and he aims the can at me. “Don’t fucking do it, Collin Vaughn.” I back up and a spray of blue hits me in the chest. “You motherfucker.” I pick up a can and spray green all over his back while he runs around. The war goes on for ten minutes until we’re both covered in blue and green and black and I have no idea how I’ll even begin to explain this to my parents.

  (AGE SIXTEEN—DECEMBER, SEVEN MONTHS AGO)

  Kenneth was fucking gunned down yesterday and it’s all Kyle’s fucking fault. Kyle couldn’t fucking help himself and just had to fucking fuck Jordan’s fucking sister, even though we all fucking knew Jordan is the kind of fucking guy who would fucking kill someone if you fucking crossed him. Those bullets were fucking meant for fucking Kyle but no, they fucking found their way into fucking Kenneth when he was fucking innocently coming home from his fucking clarinet lessons at school. We will never get the fucking chance to see Kenneth on a fucking stage, playing us a song we would fucking call him a little bitch for, even if we are so fucking proud of him for fucking making something of himself.

  Thankfully I have Collin here. He is being a real fucking champ and letting me cry into his chest. He promises distractions, like movies and comics, but the best fucking distraction of all is having someone who will hold me whenever I’m fucking lost and defeated.

  Collin and I were pumped to see the new Avengers movie together—until our girlfriends invited themselves to join us. But like good boyfriends, we let them tag along. Genevieve fought to sit next to Nicole so they could swoon and stuff over Robert Downey Jr. but Collin argued this was a dude’s movie and the dudes should get to sit next to each other. Collin even faked jealousy over them wanting to talk about other guys. Crazy.

  An hour into the movie, I reach for a handful of popcorn from the bucket on Collin’s lap, slyly brushing his arm. I think pretty little of myself for being such a dick with Genevieve directly to my left, and even when she’s far away, but Collin makes me happy and that’s that.

  “Best. Fucking. Movie. Ever,” Collin whispers to me, pressing his lips against my ear for a second. This double date is kind of a turn-on, but there’s a big hole here: we won’t go home with each other.

  “I’ve seen better,” I whisper back.

  “The hell you have.”

  I punch his arm and elbow him. (Tip: your girlfriends won’t suspect you’re sleeping with your guy friend if you’re hitting them.)

  “Get a room,” Nicole hisses after some popcorn flies on her. (Or maybe they will.)

  Genevieve calls my name right as Collin leans in to whisper something else to me and I turn to him. I laugh at his dumb joke about a monkey and a dragon in a bar, pissing off others in the theater. Genevieve included, probably. I want to ask her what’s up but I can’t expose myself for ignoring her in favor of my undercover boyfriend—or whatever we are—so instead I lean in on her and whisper, “I cannot wait for later tonight, Gen.”

  Genevieve pulls my belt and drags me to the edge of her bed. Her father is out of town until tomorrow, for a reason I can’t remember, and it’s obvious what her intentions were after the double date. If I want to keep what I have with Collin, I have to play along so she doesn’t get suspicious. She climbs onto her bed and relaxes on her knees, pausing in front of my face.

  “You want this, right?”

  I should tell her something like “Not really” and just walk away and call up Collin. Instead, I grab her shoulders and pull her to me, kissing her neck, face, and lips. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper right into her ear.

  These seem like all the right things to do.

  She takes off my shirt and throws it across the room. “Unbutton my shirt,” she says, tracing circles into my chest with her fingers. Every time I rip a button off, she breathes this low moan that seems artificial, but it’s crazy to think we’re both faking our way through this. I drop her shirt and we study each other’s bodies. She’s in a green bra she probably bought for tonight while I’m in the same boxers as yesterday.

  Genevieve falls to her back and turns off her bedside lamp. “Come here.”

  Hopefully the moonlight doesn’t expose the dread on my face that I’m disguising with suggestive eyebrow bounces and smirks as I crawl toward her. I grip her waist and before I can kiss her, I slap a hand on my bare
stomach and groan. “I feel like I might puke . . . I think it was the popcorn. Too much butter.”

  This sensual Genevieve that confuses me switches off and the real Genevieve is back. “Do you want me to go get you something from the kitchen? I have some ginger ale and bread—”

  “I think I should try and sleep it off. That usually does the trick.”

  “Okay, but . . . Babe, are you sure you don’t want to stay awake and see if it passes? Tonight’s the only night we can finally do this until who knows when.”

  “I know. I want to do this but—” Whatever lie that follows doesn’t matter because I already told her the truth for once: I don’t want to do this.

  (AGE SIXTEEN—JANUARY, SIX MONTHS AGO)

  This was a bit of a shock, but Collin got me something for Christmas: a twenty-dollar gift card to Comic Book Asylum.

  I’ve been begging Mohad, the big boss man at Good Food’s, for a job and he said he might need a cashier soon. I did a few chores for Dad, like washing his car and running out to get him sandwiches from Joey’s, and he gave me fifteen dollars to buy something nice for Genevieve. But I didn’t spend it on her.

  Okay, I spent four dollars on a blank pad and created a flip book for her, but I spent the rest of it on two copies of The Dark Alternates, Issue #1 for Collin and me. It’s the start of a new Marvel series where all the heroes are combating their dark counterparts in a medieval landscape of fiery storms and dead warriors. We read them both in his hallway the day after Christmas.

  I go to Comic Book Asylum when they reopen for business on January 2. I head straight to the counter before I’m tempted to spend the gift card on some comics I’ll never find in the dollar cart. I catch up with Stan about his holidays and then ask, “Could I get a monthly subscription for The Dark Alternates?”

  “Have you read the first yet? It’s epic, bro. When that tornado destroyed their headquarters I lost my head.”

  “That was my friend’s favorite part too,” I say. He rings me up for the New Year’s promo and it comes out to twenty-four dollars. I use up the entire gift card and pay the difference. “So there are seven issues, right?”

  “The magic number. Once a month.”

  I have six more comics to read with Collin.

  Awesome.

  I’ve been throwing myself into a new project lately to distract myself from several things, like Kenneth’s death, Kyle’s distance from all of us, and my guilt over playing Genevieve. It’s a comic book about a hero I’ve made up, Sun Warden. I once had this dream where I was so hungry I ate the sun and my bones were really hot, but I didn’t blow up or melt or anything like that. Seemed like a decent enough idea. I think once I finish the comic, I’m going to give it to Collin as a gift.

  (AGE SIXTEEN—FEBRUARY, FIVE MONTHS AGO)

  “Aaron, you can tell me anything.”

  I’m sitting across from Mom in her bedroom, and my heart is pounding like crazy.

  “Since you were a kid, I’ve told you this. Remember when you didn’t want to tell me that—”

  “I like guys, Mom.” I spit out the words. I stare at dirty laundry on the floor. “Sorry. I just . . . yeah.”

  She steps to me and lifts my chin, but I still don’t look at her. “Baby, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  “I’ve, you know, lied and been a dick,” I say. She holds my hand and I almost start crying what Collin would call little-bitch tears because guys don’t cry. “I can go stay somewhere, I don’t know where, but somewhere if—”

  “Aaron Soto, you are going nowhere. Not until college. Then you get your ass out of here, graduate, get a job, and pay me back all the money I’ve spent on you since giving birth.” She smiles and I force a smile back.

  “So, what? You going to tell me you always knew or something like that?”

  “I’m better than that, my son.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me about a million dollars, but that’s beside the point. I’m happy you’re ready and you seem okay with it. That’s always been my biggest worry, that you wouldn’t understand it.”

  I know what she means. I’ve been hanging out less with Brendan and my friends, and they’ve seen me crossing the street to meet with Collin. He does come over and hang sometimes, but I try to keep Collin all to myself for the most part. I just know they won’t be so accepting of what we’re doing, and everyone’s mood has been off since we lost Kenneth.

  “Is there a young gentleman in your life?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, but I bet you’re playing dumb and already know it’s Collin.” I talk about him enough. When someone makes you happy, it’s pretty impossible to cage the excitement.

  She sits down beside me on the bed where we all slept together until I was thirteen, before I moved out into the living room with Eric to sleep in our own beds. “Do you have a photo?”

  “I’m sixteen, no shit I have a photo.” I scroll through my phone’s photo album with Mom looking over my shoulders. We slide past a picture of me with Genevieve.

  “So I take it you and Genevieve aren’t actually dating then, are you?”

  Telling Mom was one thing. Telling Dad is another.

  He’s in the living room smoking and watching what he claims is a very important Yankees game. It’s in the ninth inning and the teams are tied. I consider backing out, maybe waiting another week or so, but maybe he won’t actually care when I tell him. Maybe all that stuff he said when I was younger, about never acting like a girl or playing with any female action figures, will go away once he realizes I am the way I am without any choice. Maybe he’ll accept me.

  Mom follows me into the living room and sits down on Eric’s bed. “Mark, do you have a minute? Aaron has something he wants to talk about.”

  He exhales cigarette smoke. “I’m listening.” He never looks away from the game.

  “Forget it, we can do it another time.” I turn around to go back into my parents’ room, but Mom catches my hand. She knows I may never feel ready to do this, that I may keep finding excuses to push this off until long after my dad is gone, and then maybe I’ll go to his grave and come out. But the time has to be now so I can feel as comfortable in my home as I am chilling with Collin.

  “Mark,” Mom says again.

  His eyes are still on the TV. I take a deep breath.

  “Dad, I hope you’re cool with this, but I sort of, kind of am dating someone and . . .” I can already see him getting confused, like I’m challenging him to solve an algebraic equation with no pen, paper, or calculator. “And that someone is my friend Collin.”

  Only then does Dad turn toward us. His face immediately goes from confused to furious. You would think the Yankees not only lost the game but also decided to give up and retire the team forever. He points his cigarette at Mom. “This is all your doing. You have to be the one to tell him he’s wrong.” He’s talking about me like I’m not even in the room.

  “Mark, we always said we would love our kids no matter what, and—”

  “Empty fucking promise, Elsie. Make him cut it out or get him out of here.”

  “If there’s something about homosexuality you don’t understand, you can talk to your son about it in a kind way,” Mom says, maintaining a steady tone that’s both fearless for me and respectful toward Dad. We all know what he’s capable of. “If you want to ignore it or need time, we can give that to you, but Aaron isn’t going anywhere.”

  Dad places his cigarette in the ashtray and then kicks over the hamper he was resting his feet on. We back up. I don’t often wish this, but I really, really wish Eric were here right now in case this gets as ugly as I think it might. He points his finger at me. “I’ll fucking throw him out myself.”

  My mom guards me.

  Dad wraps his big hands around her throat, shaking her. “Huh, you still think he’s making the right choice
?”

  I run over, grab his TV remote, and hit him so hard in the back of his head with it that the batteries pop out. He shoves my mom into the intercom phone and she falls to the floor, desperately trying to catch her breath. Before I can check on her, my dad—the man who fucking played catch with me—punches me in the back of my head, and I crash into a tower of Eric’s used games. He drags me by my shirt collar and leaves me outside the apartment door. “I’ll be damned if I’m alive the day you bring a boy home, you fucking faggot.”

  I hear the door lock and I cry harder than I ever have in my entire life because I can’t change the way I am, not as fast and as easily as my father just stopped being Dad.

  Last night I was left out in the hallway banging on the door for over an hour. I didn’t want my father to strangle or beat me to death, but I was so scared for my mom. With all my freaking out, someone called the cops. When they knocked on the door, my father opened up and simply left with them. He didn’t even look at me as they handcuffed him and read him his rights. Mom went to the hospital to make sure she was okay.

  It’s absolutely the worst nightmare stored in my memory bank.

  I needed Collin and our hangout at Pelham Park today. He taught me how to be my own compass around the city since I’m always getting lost despite having grown up here. We didn’t talk a lot about what happened last night, but we did admit that it’s time to break up with our girlfriends. Sure, they shield us from events like yesterday unfolding, but we can’t expect to keep leading them on to keep ourselves safe.

  “You better not get clingy like Nicole,” Collin says while we’re riding the train home. “She stays hitting me up in the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Unlikely,” I say, even though it’s very likely. It’s weirdly possessive and obsessive to like someone; you want to learn all of his stories before anyone else and sometimes you want to be the only one who knows at all.