me: run! run!
but the radio’s so loud that tiny can’t hear me. he just grins. as he opens the door, i get a look at his car.
me: what the—?!?
it’s this silver mercedes, the kind of car you’d expect to be driven by a plastic surgeon - and not the kind of plastic surgeon who fixes the fucked-up faces of starving african babies, but the kind of plastic surgeon who convinces women that their lives will be over if they look older than twelve.
tiny: greetings, earthling! i come in peace. take me to your leader!
it should be weird to have him right in front of me for only the second time in our boyfriendship, and it should be really exciting that i’m about to be caught up in those big arms of his, but really i’m still stuck on the car.
me: please tell me you stole that.
he looks a little confused, and holds up the shopping bag he’s carrying.
tiny: this?
me: no. the car.
tiny: oh. well, i did steal it.
me: you did?
tiny: yeah, from my mother. my car was almost out of gas.
it’s so bizarre. all the times we’ve been talking or texting or IMing or whatever, i’ve always imagined that tiny was in a house like mine, or a school like mine, or a car like the one i might get someday - a car almost as old as me, probably bought off an old woman who isn’t allowed to drive anymore. now i’m realizing it’s not like that at all.
me: you live in a big house, don’t you?
tiny: big enough to fit me!
me: that’s not what i mean.
i have no idea what i’m doing. because i’ve totally slowed us down, and even though he’s right in front of me now, it’s not like it should be.
tiny: come here, you.
and with that, he puts his bag down and opens his arms to me, and his smile is so wide that i’d be an asshole to do anything but walk right inside his welcome. once i’m there, he leans down to kiss me lightly.
tiny: hello.
i kiss him back.
me: hello.
okay, so this is the reality: he is here. he is real. we are real. i shouldn’t care about his car.
mom’s got her apron off by the time we get inside the house. even though i warned her that he’s the shape of utah, there’s still a slight moment of astonishment when she first sees tiny in the flesh. he must be used to this, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because he glides right over to her and starts saying all the right things, about how excited he is to meet her, and how amazing it is that she cooked dinner, and how wonderful the house looks.
mom gestures him over to the couch and asks him if he wants anything to drink.
mom: we have coke, diet coke, lemonade, orange juice -
tiny: ooh, i love lemonade.
me: it’s not real lemonade. it’s just lemon-flavored crystal light.
both mom and tiny look at me like i’m the fucking grinch.
me: i didn’t want you to get all excited for real lemonade!
i can’t help it - i’m seeing our apartment through his eyes - our whole lives through his eyes - and it all looks so . . . shabby. the water stains on the ceiling and the dull-colored rug and the decades-old tv. the whole house smells like debt.
mom: why don’t you go sit next to tiny, and i’ll get you a coke?
i took my pills this morning, i swear. but it’s like they ended up in my leg instead of my brain, because i just can’t get happy. i sit down on the couch, and as soon as mom is out of the room, tiny’s hand is on my hand, fingers rubbing over my fingers.
tiny: it’s okay, will. i love being here.
i know he’s been having a bad week. i know things haven’t been going his way, and that he’s worried his show is going to bomb. he’s rewriting it daily. (‘who knew it would be so complicated to fit love into fourteen songs?’) i know he’s been looking forward to this - and i know that i’ve been looking forward to this. but now i have to stop looking forward and start looking at where i am. it’s hard.
i lean into tiny’s meaty shoulder.
i can’t believe i’m turned on by anything i’d call ‘meaty.’
me: this is the rough part, okay? so just stay tuned for the good part. i promise it’ll come soon.
when mom comes back in, i’m still leaning there. she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem to mind. she puts our drinks down, then runs to the kitchen again. i hear the oven open and close, then the scrape of a spatula against a cookie sheet. a minute later, she’s back with a plate of mini hot dogs and mini egg rolls. there are even two little bowls, one with ketchup and one with mustard.
tiny: yum!
we dig in, and tiny starts telling mom about the week he’s had, and so many details about hold me closer that i can see she’s thoroughly confused. as he’s talking, she remains hovering above us, until finally i tell her she should join us, sit down. so she pulls over a chair and listens, even having an egg roll or two herself.
it starts to feel more normal. tiny being here. mom seeing the two of us. me sitting so that at least one part of my body is always touching his. it’s almost like i’m back in millennium park with him, that we’re continuing that first time-bending conversation, and this is where the story is supposed to go. as always, the only question is whether i’ll fuck it all up.
when there are no finger foods left to finger, mom clears the dishes and says dinner will be ready in a few minutes. as soon as she’s out of the room, tiny turns to me.
tiny: i love her.
yes, i think, he’s the type of person who can love someone that easily.
me: she’s not bad.
when she comes in to tell us dinner’s ready, tiny flies up from the couch.
tiny: ooh! i almost forgot.
he reaches for the shopping bag he brought and hands it to my mother.
tiny: a host gift!
mom looks really surprised. she takes a box out of the bag - it has a ribbon on it and everything. tiny sits back down so she won’t feel awkward sitting down to open it. very carefully, she undoes the ribbon. then she gently lifts open the top of the box. there’s a black foam cushion, then something surrounded by bubble wrap. With even more care, she undoes the wrapping, and takes out this plain glass bowl.
at first, i don’t get it. i mean, it’s a glass bowl. but my mother’s breath catches. she’s blinking back tears. because it’s not just a plain glass bowl. it’s perfect. i mean, it’s so smooth and perfect, we all sit there and stare at it for a moment, as my mother turns it slowly in her hand. even in our shabby living room, it catches the light.
nobody’s given her anything like this in ages. maybe ever. nobody ever gives her anything this beautiful.
tiny: i picked it out myself!
he has no idea. he has no clue what he’s just done.
mom: oh, tiny . . .
she’s lost the words. but i can tell. it’s the way she holds that bowl in her hand. it’s the way she’s looking at it.
i know what her mind is telling her to do - to say it’s too much, that she couldn’t possibly have such a thing. even if she wants it so badly. even if she loves it that much.
so it’s me who says
me: it’s beautiful. thank you so much, tiny.
i hug him, really send him my thank you that way, too. then mom is putting the bowl on the coffee table she cleaned to a shine. she’s standing up, and she’s opening her arms, and then he’s hugging her, too.
this is what i never allow myself to need.
and of course i’ve been needing it all along.
to tell the truth, tiny eats most of the chicken parm at dinner, and takes up most of the conversation as well. mostly, we talk about stupid things - why mini hot dogs taste better than regular-size hot dogs, why dogs are better than cats, why cats was so successful in the eighties when sondheim was writing rings around lloyd webber (neither mom or i really contribute much to that one). at one point, tiny sees the da vinci postcard mom h
as on the refrigerator, and he asks her if she’s ever been to italy. so she tells him about the trip she took with three college friends their junior year, and it’s an interesting story for once. he tells her he likes naples even more than rome, because the people in naples are so intensely from the place they’re from. he says he wrote a song about traveling for his musical, but ultimately it didn’t make the cut. he sings us a few lines:
Once you’ve been to Naples
it’s hard to shop at Staples,
And once you’ve been to Milan
it’s hard to eat at Au Bon Pain.
Once you’ve been to Venice
you turn from iceberg lettuce.
And you learn that baloney’s baloney
When Bologna feeds you rigatoni.
Being a transatlantic gay
is a dangerous game to play.
Because once you’ve been to Rome
it’s hard to call a suburb home
for the first time i can recall, mom looks completely tickled. she even hums along a little. when tiny is done, her applause is genuine. i figure it’s time to end the lovefest, before tiny and mom run off together and start a band.
i offer to do the dishes, and mom acts like she’s completely shocked by this.
me: i do the dishes all the time.
mom looks seriously at tiny.
mom: really, he does.
then she bursts out laughing.
i am not really appreciating this, even though i’m aware there are many worse ways this could’ve played out.
tiny: i want to see your room!
this is not a hey!-my-zipper’s-getting-itchy! request. when tiny says he wants to see your room, it means he wants to see . . . your room.
mom: go ahead. i’ve got the dishes.
tiny: thanks, mrs. grayson.
mom: anne. call me anne.
tiny: thanks, anne!
me: yeah, thanks, anne.
tiny hits me on the shoulder. i think he means to do it lightly, but i feel like someone’s just driven a volkswagen into my arm.
i lead him to my room, and even manage a ta-da! when i open the door. he walks to the center of the room and takes it all in, smiling the whole time.
tiny: goldfish!
he goes right over to the bowl. i explain to him that if goldfish ever take over the world and decide to have a war crimes trial, i am going to be noosebait, because the mortality rate of my little goldfish bowl is much much higher than if they’d lived in the moat at some chinese restaurant.
tiny: what are their names?
oh, lord.
me: samson and delilah.
tiny: really?
me: she’s a total slut.
he leans over for a closer look at the fish food.
tiny: you feed them prescription drugs?
me: oh, no. those are mine.
it’s the only way i’ll remember to feed the fish and take my meds, if i keep them together. still, i’m thinking maybe i should’ve cleaned a little more. because of course tiny’s now blushing and not going to ask anything else, and while i don’t want to go into it, i also don’t want him to think i’m being treated for scabies or something.
me: it’s a depression thing.
tiny: oh, i feel depressed, too. sometimes.
we’re coming dangerously close to the conversations i’d have with maura, when she’d say she knew exactly what i was going through, and i’d have to explain that, no, she didn’t, because her sadness never went as deep as mine. i had no doubt that tiny thought he got depressed, but that was probably because he had nothing to compare it to. still, what could i say? that i didn’t just feel depressed - instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? that if he got blue, i got black? that i hated those pills so much, because i knew how much i relied on them to live?
no, i couldn’t say any of this. because, when it all comes down to it, nobody wants to hear it. no matter how much they like you or love you, they don’t want to hear it.
tiny: which one’s samson and which one’s delilah? me: honestly? i forget.
tiny scans my bookshelf, runs his hand over my keyboard, spins the globe i got when i graduated fifth grade.
tiny: look! a bed!
for a second, i think he’s going to leap onto it, which would kill my bed frame for sure. but with an almost-shy grin, he sits gingerly on its edge.
tiny: comfy!
how have i ended up dating this sprinkled donut of a person? with a not-unfriendly sigh, i sit down next to him. the mattress is definitely canyoning his way.
but before the inevitable next step, my phone vibrates on my desk. i’m going to ignore it, but then it buzzes again and tiny tells me to get it.
i flip open the phone and read what’s there.
tiny: who’s it from?
me: just gideon. he wants to see how things are going.
tiny: gideon, huh?
there’s an unmistakable suspicion in tiny’s voice. i close the phone and head back to the bed.
me: you’re not jealous of gideon, are you?
tiny: what, that he’s cute and young and gay and gets to see you every day? what’s there to be jealous of?
i kiss him.
me: you have nothing to be jealous of. we’re just friends.
something hits me then, and i start to laugh.
tiny: what?
me: there’s a boy in my bed!
it’s such a stupid, gay thought. i feel like i have to carve ‘I HATE THE WORLD’ into my arm about a hundred times to make up for it.
the bed really isn’t big enough for the two of us. twice i end up on the floor. all our clothes stay on - but it’s almost like that doesn’t matter. because we’re all over each other. he’s big and strong, but i match him in the push and pull. soon we’re a complete hot mess.
when we’ve tired ourselves out, we just lie there. his heartbeat is huge.
we hear my mother turn on the tv. the detectives start talking. tiny runs his hand under my shirt.
tiny: where’s your dad?
i’m totally not ready for the question. i feel myself tense.
me: i don’t know.
tiny’s touch tries to soothe me. his voice tries to calm me.
tiny: it’s okay.
but i can’t take that. i sit up, knocking us right out of our dreamy breathing, making him shift away a little so he can see me clearly. the impulse in me is loud and clear: immediately, i can’t do this. not because of my father - i don’t really care that much about my father - but because of this whole process of knowing everything.
i argue with myself.
stop.
stay here.
talk.
tiny is waiting. tiny is looking at me. tiny is being kind, because he hasn’t realized yet who i am, what i am. i will never be kind back. the best i can do is give him reasons to give up.
tiny: tell me. what do you want to say? don’t ask me, i want to warn him. but then i’m talking.
me: look, tiny - i’m trying to be on my best behavior, but you have to understand - i’m always standing on the edge of something bad. and sometimes someone like you can make me look the other way, so that i don’t know how close i am to falling over. but i always end up turning my head. always. i always walk off that edge. and it’s shit i deal with every day, and it’s shit that’s not going away any time soon. it’s really nice to have you here, but do want to know something? do you really want me to be honest?
he should take this as the warning it is. but no. he nods.
me: it feels like a vacation. i don’t think you know what that’s like. which is good - you don’t want to. you have no idea how much i hate this. i hate the fact that i’m ruining the night right now, ruining everything -
tiny: you’re not.
me: i am.
tiny: says who?
me: says me?
tiny: don’t i get any say?
me: no
. i just ruin it. you don’t get any say.
tiny touches my ear lightly.
John Green & David Levithan Page 17