Extra Credit

by Sarina Bowen

  Right here! he replies immediately.

  I quickly relax. I survived the sculpture garden and a nature show on TV, I tap out. How was your day?

  Horny, is his quick response. And I laugh.

  I dream about that fucking penguin. And the next day passes slowly. I take my parents out to lunch, which isn’t so bad. But my dad goes back to work afterwards, leaving my mom and I alone to struggle for conversation in the afternoon.

  At five o’clock my mother suggests that I put on a nice shirt for dinner. “I’m making a taco bake,” she adds.

  I hesitate, trying to follow this logic. As far as I know, faux-Mexican food doesn’t require proper attire. “Who am I dressing up for?” I ask. If she’s trying to fix me up with a “nice girl” from church, it’s going to be a long evening.

  “Father VanderBeek is coming over,” she says. “He loves my taco bake.”

  Her pastor.

  Shit.

  I go into my bedroom and open the closet door. I take out the lone button-down shirt I’ve brought and slowly put it on. Then I sit down on the familiar bedspread and listen to the bed springs creak in the silence.

  Maybe Father VanderBeek comes for dinner a lot. Maybe it’s nothing. But I have a bad feeling about this dinner.

  I get up and go back to the kitchen. “Mom? Is there any particular topic on the agenda for tonight? Or is this just a friendly visit from the pastor?”

  She adjusts the flame under the saucepan of refried beans she’s heating. “Of course it’s a friendly visit. But he will also minister to our needs while he’s here.”

  “And what needs might those be?” I ask, irritation creeping into the question.

  She turns and pins me with a stare. “He wants to talk to you about therapy, John. Just a chat about your options.”

  “My options,” I say slowly. “I don’t need options. I’m good the way I am.”

  She sighs and stirs the beans. “Just hear him out. It’s an hour of your time. He only has your best interests at heart. We all do.”

  My blood pressure spikes, and I turn around and walk out of the kitchen.

  Back in the bedroom, I unlock my phone. My hands are actually shaking. You around? I text Graham.

  No response.

  Shit.

  I grab my suitcase off the floor and set it on the bed. From the bathroom I retrieve my shaving kit and my toothbrush. Those go into the bag. Then I slip into Mom’s laundry room and open the dryer mid-cycle. The two T-shirts I’d thrown in with her load this afternoon are still damp, but I take them out anyway, restarting the dryer afterwards.

  As I push the black button, I feel certifiably insane. After all, it’s only polite to restart the dryer when you’re making your escape from Crazyville.

  It takes me about three minutes to pack completely. Then I just sit there on the edge of the bed for a little while longer, checking in with myself about what I’m about to do. Is it worth getting cut off financially by my parents to avoid a really uncomfortable couple of hours with a bigot who believes I’m heading straight for hell?

  I take a deep breath and blow it out.

  Yeah.

  This was never going to work.

  On shaking legs, I stand. Then I walk slowly through my parents’ little house for the last time. My mother has disappeared, probably into her bedroom to change. So it is without confrontation or ceremony that I let myself out the front door, my bag on my shoulder. The walk to the Grahams’ place won’t take long at all.

  Chapter 5

  Graham

  The Founders Brewing Company Taproom is a place my friends and I had always yearned to go as teenagers. Now walking in is as easy as handing over my ID.

  “Enjoy,” the bouncer says.

  “Thanks, man.” I’ll try. But it’s gonna be interesting.

  I glance around the big room, looking for my high school friends. The place is so large that it takes me a minute to spot them at a long table against the far wall.

  Maybe it’s generosity, or maybe it’s nerves, but I count heads and then make a stop at the bar. My first move will be to buy a round of whatever award-winning fancy ale is on special today.

  “Can I help you?”

  The beer sure can. “Tell me about the special.”

  The bartender launches into a description of its fruity hops and flavors, but I’m too nervous to listen. At the end of his lengthy recitation I realize I haven’t heard a word. “Eight pints of the special, please.”

  The bartender quotes a surprisingly high price, and I hand him my credit card. Fancy ale does not come cheap, apparently, even in the Midwest.

  They give me a tray, which I carefully transport to the table full of hockey players.

  “Hey, does anyone recognize that guy?” our old captain crows.

  “Yeah, do we know you?” someone adds.

  As a matter of fact, you really don’t! “Yeah.” I clear my throat, setting the tray down on the table. “I’m the guy who just bought you a beer.”

  “Well, all right,” my former teammate Jason says with a smile. “Suppose you can stay.”

  I settle into a chair beside Jason and sip my overpriced beer. Everyone has a story. And since we’re all graduating in the spring, post-college plans are the topic du jour. One guy is headed to California for law school. Another one has taken a job here in town at an investment firm. Someone else is taking the MCATs for a try at med school.

  Our team captain, Matty Newman, is getting married this winter. Jesus.

  “Dude, why?” someone teases. “Is she pregnant?”

  Newman shakes his head with a smile. “Just ready to tie the knot. We’ve been together four years already. We want to live together, and her parents would make a big stink if she just moved in with me.”

  “Who cares what they think?” I hear myself ask. Heads swivel in my direction, and I regret the outburst. “You seem really happy about it, and that’s cool. But I hope making her daddy happy is just an added benny, not the only reason to get hitched.”

  Newman’s fingers worry the edges of the coaster under his beer. “It makes Lisa happy. She really wants out of that house. And I want to give that to her.”

  “Ah,” I say gruffly. “I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.”

  “People keep saying, ‘You two are so young.’ We’re getting that a lot.”

  “Fuck ’em,” somebody says.

  “But that’s what Matty won’t be doing,” Jason points out. “He’s gonna fuck one person for the rest of his life. And that’s why we all look a little freaked out when we talk about marriage.”

  I don’t agree. Fucking one person forever doesn’t scare me at all. I only hope I’ll have that chance. But I don’t say that, because I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Yet. Instead, I wave down the server and order another pint of the special ale. Maybe nerves have killed off my tolerance for alcohol, because I am already feeling the one beer.

  “Graham, my man,” Jason says beside me. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Oh boy. “Is that right?” I ask, feeling everyone’s attention land on me.

  “Yeah, man. Your team goes to the Frozen Four, and we don’t hear about it from you? Where is the smack talk? Or do you think it’s enough to just grace us with your heroic presence?”

  I grin, loosening up at this temporary reprieve. “You know I didn’t play in any of those championship games last year, right? I got a serious concussion right before the post-season.”

  “That sucks, man.”

  “It did. Still, it was a trip watching my guys make headlines.” My guys. One in particular, especially.

  “Why aren’t you playing this year?” Jason asks. “Your head is okay now, right?”

  “Sure,” I say slowly. “There were a few reasons. Recovering from that head injury was a bitch. It could have wrecked my academic semester. And if you get a second concussion it can take even longer to heal. Also, I wanted to take a job editing the sports
section of my campus paper. That gamble will hopefully pay off in job interviews at sports networks.”

  “That could be a fun permanent job,” Newman admits.

  “Could be,” I agree. “If I find something.”

  “Are we gonna see you on TV calling the games?” someone asks.

  “You never know.” The moment lingers and I wonder what to say next. And also guys I’m totally gay! Group hug! I feel a little bubble of hysteria rise in my chest.

  So I swallow down another gulp of this excellent beer.

  “All right,” Matty Newman says. “I’ll be the one who bring this up…”

  I brace myself.

  “That gay guy who made the news on your team last year—John Rikker. I remember him from freshman year. What was that like, when he showed up at Harkness?”

  “Um…” I actually laugh, and I can feel my face getting red. “Now there’s a story.”

  “Hell of a player he turned out to be,” somebody mutters.

  “Sure, but who knew we had a fag on our team?” Jerry Bakey asks.

  I lift a hand in the air. “Hang on now. Let’s not break out the slurs, shall we?” I look Bakey in the eye, though I’m starting to sweat.

  The server takes that moment to return, plunking a pint glass down in front of me. I curl my hand around its chilly surface and try to feel calm.

  “Didn’t mean nothing by it,” Bakey says.

  “Good to know,” I say, then wait a few seconds for the rest of the beers to land on the table. When the server leaves, I clear my throat. “John Rikker is a hell of a player. He’s also my boyfriend.”

  Newman’s pint glass hits the table with a bang, and the sound is followed immediately by his laughter. “Way to stir the pot, Graham. Good one. I’ve missed you.”

  A couple of other guys laugh, too, while my heart does a frantic dance inside my chest. I take a deep drink of my beer and then sigh.

  “Holy shit,” Jason says slowly. “Wait. Were you kidding, or not?”

  I shake my head.

  Silence falls swiftly. Everyone stares. It’s the perfect opportunity to say something breezy. If only I knew what that was. I’ve just spent the better part of two years learning to tell the truth, whatever the cost. But as the silence thickens, I realize these friends are the least likely to stick with me. Unlike my Harkness teammates, we don’t have any meaningful contact anymore, and that makes it harder for them to feel comfortable.

  And still—if this bunch is the worst of my collateral damage, I’ll take it.

  “So…” Jason says slowly. “You’re…”

  “Gay.” Rikker would cheer to hear me say it so plainly.

  “Like, for r-real?” Newman stutters.

  “That is correct. Always have been,” I add. With my free hand, I trace the outline of my car keys in my pocket, wondering if I’ll be leaving abruptly. I should have stopped at one beer. That was bad planning.

  More silence and gaping stares.

  “But…” Jason continues, not ready to let it go. “You screwed Harper’s twin sister on prom night. That’s what she told everyone, anyway.”

  The pressure must have been getting to me because a bark of laughter escapes my chest. “True story.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jason insists. He doesn’t look angry or disgusted, though. Just very confused.

  My finger takes another trip around the rim of my pint glass. “Spent a really long time trying to be straight, that’s all. But it doesn’t work like that.”

  “Christ,” Newman says. “What did your parents say? Do they know?”

  “Yeah. Took me a long time to tell them, and then I wished I’d done it sooner. My parents are great,” I add. “Anyway. That’s my news. Didn’t expect you all to be real excited about it, but there it is. Too bad this place doesn’t serve shots,” I joke.

  The jaws around the table still hang open. Two guys won’t look me in the eye. Bakey, for one. But Newman lifts his glass in my direction. “I think Graham just won the night, guys. And here I thought my engagement was a shocker.”

  Most people laugh and join in the toast. A couple don’t.

  But I’ve done it. Telling them the truth has left me sweaty and shaking with adrenaline. But I’ve done it, nonetheless. I take a deep gulp of my beer in celebration.

  Another coming-out moment survived.

  Chapter 6

  Rikker

  I’ve made it about half a block down the street when two things happen. First, my phone buzzes with a new text. Second, as I reach to retrieve it from my pocket, my father’s Camry rolls slowly toward me on the street. He’s on his way home from work.

  Shit.

  The car pulls over to the curb, and the window rolls down. “John? Something wrong?”

  Why yes, there is.

  I walk over to the car and peer into the window. “I’m sorry,” I say, then kick myself. This shit just isn’t my fault. “Mom invited Pastor VanderBeek over for dinner. I asked her whether there was some kind of agenda there. She said yes. They want to talk about therapy.”

  My father’s face falls. “I didn’t know she would do that.”

  “I know,” I say, certain he’s telling the truth. “But she did it anyway.”

  “Get in,” my dad urges, reaching across to pull the handle on the passenger door.

  “Uh, I can’t, okay? I was fine with silence, but I don’t need to hear that man shame me to my face.”

  “Just get in so I can talk to you for a second.” He turns the key, cutting the engine to prove his intentions.

  So I do it. I slide onto the passenger seat, my bag at my feet, and we sit parked in front of a stranger’s house, both silent for a moment.

  “Look. I understand if you can’t stay,” he says.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, okay? Yes. I get it. Your mother isn’t going about this the right way.”

  “Going about what?” I demand. “You can’t change me, and I don’t want to be changed.” My throat closes up on the last word, leaving me to gulp audibly. For the first time in ages, I feel out of control.

  “I’m not going to try to change you,” he says quietly. “I…did some reading. Those therapies don’t work, and they’re cruel.”

  The pressure builds inside my chest. “No kidding. But it pisses me off that you’d want to change me. That’s not what parents are supposed to do.” You’re just supposed to love me.

  Right. Dream on.

  Dad lets out a sigh. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t have chosen a different path for you. Don’t forget that my introduction to the topic was finding you bloody in a hospital bed. What parent wants that?”

  I make an angry noise. “That’s a cop-out. It shouldn’t matter that my life got a little ugly there for a minute. That was just bad luck. You don’t get to tell me that you wish the world was different, and then drive my ass out of state to solve the problem. ‘Better sprint out of town with our pervert kid so nobody knows.’”

  My father’s chin drops. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like a dirty secret.”

  “But you’re still doing it! If you want me to come home and eat taco bake, I shouldn’t have to lie to do it. Either I’m your son and you can say that out loud, or I’m not. It’s your call.”

  “You are my son,” he says quickly. “I accept you. But I don’t know how to get your mother to do the same.”

  “I don’t trust it.” Shit. The truth just keeps falling out of my mouth. “If you accept me, then you should be able to tell her how it is.”

  “I have,” he says with a sharpness I’m not expecting. “But she won’t engage. And so I’m just stumped. When I married your mother, I said, ‘Until death do us part.’ I made a vow. There’s no exception for when your spouse is wrong, John. Seven years ago we had a crisis, and I didn’t like any of your mother’s solutions.”

  A chill snakes up my back. “What did she want to do with me?”

  He tosses his head as if shaking off the memory
. “It doesn’t matter now. I knew she was wrong. So I did the best thing I could at the time. I put you in the car and I drove you to the person that I trust most in the world.” My father’s voice is shaking now. “And she was so good for you. When we walked in the door of your grandmother’s home, she smiled like your bruised face was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.” He swipes at his eyes with the back of one hand.

  And now mine are damp, too.

  “…so I knew I’d done something right. I left you in her care. Then I came home to work on your mother. I thought she needed just a little time to get over her shock. That she’d calm down and make the right decision. But it backfired. You were out of her sight, and she rewrote the story in a way that was easier for her to accept. And meanwhile, you were doing so well. You had a new hockey team and good grades. Friends. Your grandmother made sure to tell me all the nice things that happened to you.”

  “I had a boyfriend,” I say, wondering if he can say that word aloud.

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “Skippy. I knew that, too. So even though I failed you at home, I knew you were okay. I’d done one little thing right. And I let myself believe it was enough. I’m sorry if I ever made you think I didn’t care.”

  My eyes leak. We sit there in silence for a couple of minutes, just taking up space and feeling like shit.

  I never should have come here.

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go now,” my father says eventually. “You’re right that there’s no reason why you need to listen to VanderBeek’s bullshit. We could go out for a beer somewhere together.”

  “I’m going to stay with Graham,” I say, clearing my throat. “I already texted him.” I haven’t actually communicated with him yet, but it doesn’t matter. When someone loves you, they’re always ready for you.

  I pull out my phone and find his response. At Founders Brewing Co with HS hockey team. Miss you.

  “Can you drive me to Founders?” I ask. “That’s where G is, and I’ve never been to that place.”

  My dad lets out a disappointed sigh. “All right. But I hope you’ll say goodbye before you go on Thursday.”