Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  I APPROACHED JONATHAN IN THE SCHOOL YARD DURING RECESS. Standing in the far corner by the convent, he looked defenseless without his paperback to shield him. From the other side of the yard, I estimated that a direct approach might draw the attention of Seth Connelly and his gang.

  The aroma of soft pretzels being sold out of the eighth-grade homeroom window caught my attention for a second. Then, a trio of girls, led by Karen Rae, formed a kick line across my path. I heard them approaching: “If anybody’s in my way, they’re gonna get a kick, boom!”

  I raced behind them, toward Jonathan. Breathless, I blurted out, “I have all of Stephen King’s novels. Did you know that?” I noted a subtle sign of interest. “Carrie was the first book I ever bought. It’s actually a lot shorter than I expected. I’m collecting all of Stephen King’s books, in hardcover of course.”

  Jonathan, who always read paperbacks, seemed impressed.

  “Did you know they changed the name of the gym teacher for the movie? Originally, her name was Desjardins. Betty Buckley from Eight Is Enough played her in the movie, but they called her Miss Collins.”

  Jonathan smirked. “Duh, I know that.”

  “So you’re a Stephen King fan?”

  “I love The Shining and Salem’s Lot more than Carrie. Did you know that Salem’s Lot started out as a short story called “Jerusalem’s Lot,” which was featured in the book called Night Shift?”

  “Of course, duh.” Then we both burst out laughing.

  “I saw you last night,” said Jonathan.

  “Where?”

  “At the Boy Scout meeting. You’re in the group with Louis Minitoni.”

  “Yeah, but there is nothing mini about him.”

  Jonathan laughed again. He covered his mouth to hide his braces.

  “I didn’t see you. My parents made me join right after my birthday. I hate it.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I like it. I started out as a Webelo.”

  “Ha, Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down,” I sang. “Do you want to come over to my house after school? There’s a forest nearby that’s supposed to be haunted with a burial ground set up by devil worshipers.”

  “Sure. Where do you live?”

  THAT AFTERNOON, JONATHAN RODE UP to the front of my house on a white Schwinn bicycle with a banana seat. I watched him from the living room window as he released the kickstand with his foot. It was a slate-gray afternoon, and I was concerned that a storm was coming.

  Jonathan wore stone-washed denim jeans and a red-and-white horizontal-striped T-shirt. He appeared leaner in street clothes, and as he walked up to ring the bell, I pressed my hand over my stomach, concerned that I was too overweight to be his friend. Opening the door, I stopped him before he could come inside. “Let’s go before it starts to rain.”

  The block before my house was a dead end called Newbury Street, which led into a natural preserve called the Green Belt. The College of Staten Island ran along the entire course of the Green Belt, partitioned off by a fence. I took Jonathan into the woods beyond the fence heading north so that we could explore the forest without seeing the college parking lot. “There’s actually a stream farther back that cuts a gorge into the ground. Clay lines the floor, and you can make cool sculptures. It’s even better than Play-Doh because it gets soft again if you wet it. Do you want me to show you?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Jonathan was easygoing and acquiescent; he agreed to pretty much everything I said. That made him a perfect comrade, not because he was passive but because he was always eager to play along.

  “Have you ever tried to test your telepathic powers?” he asked as we entered the woods.

  “It’s kind of hard to do on your own,” I replied. “But I’m willing to try.”

  That afternoon kindled a friendship that lasted nearly three years. When I tried to analyze what made us friends in the first place, I can think of only one thing: we were exact opposites and yet exactly the same. At the time, neither of us knew we were gay, yet something inexplicable drew us together. It hid behind a love of horror stories and an interest in telepathy. For now, Jonathan and I were content with the notion that we had each found a buddy in a school full of bullies waiting to prey on boys like us.

  CHAPTER 16

  Camp Creeps

  BOY SCOUT MEETINGS BECAME JUST ANOTHER RITUAL I had to endure, much like basketball and baseball practice. Instead of sitting on a bench every Saturday morning, now I attended weekly meetings and went on monthly hiking trips. I preferred spending my Saturdays watching cartoons and ignoring my mother’s pleas to get dressed and go outside. Now that I was a Boy Scout, I was forced to sleep in a canvas tent or a musty wooden lean-to out in the forest. Since the age of five, I’d had my own bedroom. It wasn’t an easy transition, sharing quarters with other boys.

  My first trip took place at Pouch Camp on Staten Island, less than three miles from my home. My father dropped me off in the parking lot of St. Sylvester’s Friday night. Once the troop had assembled, we filed into our individual patrols. Davis called out our last names. We responded by stepping forward, shouting, “Present, sir!” and saluting him with two fingers extended from our foreheads. I was wedged in line between Minitoni and Pip Squeak. Since Achilles was by far the tallest, he was made to stand in the rear. We waited in formation until we were assigned cars that would transport us to camp.

  My mother packed my brand-new bright red backpack with enough clothing to last a week. It was weighed down severely by the unofficial mess kit she assembled: an old frying pan loaded with a blue plastic sectional plate, utensils, and mug we bought while on vacation in Maine. My mother refused to buy me the official Boy Scout mess kit, which was designed efficiently using featherweight stainless steel and included a dish and a pot secured together by a detachable frying pan handle. As she put it, everything I needed was in her kitchen. Unfortunately, the frying pan didn’t fit properly in my knapsack, and the handle jutted into the small of my back, poking me with each step.

  Once we arrived at Pouch Camp, we hiked for one mile to our campsite. I felt like a prisoner in a chain gang, being led in the dark to the state penitentiary. The forest echoed with the caw of crows overhead and the trudging of our feet over sticks and twigs. By this time, the sun had nearly set. Davis lit the kerosene lamp because flashlights were forbidden. Minitoni immediately began to tire, and that forced our entire patrol to lag behind the rest of the troop. Davis had to stop us on several occasions to allow Minitoni to catch up. Each time we waited for him, I saw Davis’s jaw clench so tightly that the muscles in his face twitched.

  Several minutes later, Achilles called out. “We lost Minitoni again.”

  “Are you shitting me?” cried Davis. He lifted the lantern and immediately began counting heads. “Goddamnit!” We stood in silence. In the distance, I heard a faint panting sound. “Spinelli, hold this while I go look for that fat fuck.” I took the lantern by the handle while Davis reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. Pip Squeak gasped. Davis flashed his eyes back at him. “You guys say anything about this,” he warned, “and I’ll personally see to it that you’re on latrine duty for life.” Davis disappeared into the darkness, the cone of light in his hand waving from side to side like a game of Pong.

  Minutes later, Davis returned, dragging the puffing Minitoni behind him. “Just give me a second, you guys,” huffed Minitoni. Davis and I shone a light on him. His pasty white face was now sweaty and red. His soaked hair clung together in spikes on the top of his head.

  “What’s weighing you down?” asked Davis.

  “He’s probably got a Thanksgiving dinner in his knapsack,” said Pip Squeak.

  “I’m gonna stuff my fist up your ass like a turkey if you don’t quit it, Pip Squeak,” countered Minitoni.

  “Everyone shut up,” yelled Davis. “Let’s move it so that we can get to camp before sunrise.”

  I thought of my warm bed, my Evel Knievel Scramble Van, and all the television I was m
issing. Instead, I was marching in the dark with a bunch of nerds. Then it occurred to me. That was what Boy Scouts was—nerds in uniforms.

  Up ahead, I heard voices. Davis switched off his flashlight and reached out for the lantern I was holding. Without thinking, I released the handle but grabbed the glass bulb. I heard the singe of my flesh burn, releasing smoke and a putrid smell, followed by the most exquisite pain I’d ever felt.

  “Fuck!” I screamed.

  “Goddamnit, Spinelli,” growled Davis through clenched teeth. “What did you do that for? The glass is the hottest part.”

  From the darkness, a voice called out. “What’s the holdup, ladies?”

  In the distance, three shadowy figures emerged. As they approached, I could make out the faces of three senior Scouts: James Mendola, Stanley Metheny, and Chris Spivey.

  “Nothing,” said Davis. “We had a little holdup.”

  “Little?” mocked Spivey, “or mini?”

  Mendola and Metheny laughed. I turned in time to see Minitoni hang his head in shame. “We should really get going before it gets too late,” encouraged Achilles.

  “Listen,” warned Mendola. “You’re not making the decisions here. Understand?”

  Achilles nodded.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “Yes, sir,” muttered Achilles.

  “Now, why don’t you ladies pick up your shit and march to camp before I make you sleep here!” ordered Spivey.

  “Yes, sir,” said Davis.

  Our patrol followed silently behind Davis. We walked less than ten yards before I saw the roaring flames of the campfire in a pit that had been dug into the ground and surrounded by stones. Tents were assembled in a circle around the fire but spaced far back enough to avoid stray sparks. Despite the chilly night air, my middle finger throbbed uncontrollably. I noticed a blister forming. Without thinking, I brought it up to my lip and bit into the fluctuant area, releasing the tangy fluid into my mouth. The raw skin underneath flared, and I sucked on it deeply to numb the pain.

  “Spinelli, you want to suck my finger next or would you prefer something else to suck on?” asked Spivey. I turned around to see him standing there with his hands on his hips. His tall, sinewy body caught the light from the campfire, illuminating his long, flaxen hair. Stepping closer, he waved his index finger in my face. “Here. Suck this!”

  Suddenly another voice called out from the darkness. “What’s going on over here?” Behind Spivey I saw the large outline of a man. It was Bill. “Spinelli, is there a problem here?” Spivey slowly backed off. His eyes tightened to warn me.

  “No,” I said. “No problem.”

  “Spivey! Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, turning to Bill. “It’s just that we noticed Spinelli was hurting, so we came over to help.”

  “Really?” asked Bill suspiciously. “Spinelli, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Davis stepped in to offer an explanation. “Spinelli burned himself on the lantern, sir.”

  “Is this true?” asked Bill. I nodded. “Then come with me,” he said. “The rest of you clowns find something to do and stay out of trouble.” I picked up my backpack and followed Bill. Spivey’s eyes stayed with me until Mendola patted him on the back, and then they both walked away.

  Bill took me to a small cabin where the adults slept. He instructed me to remove my backpack. “Leave that filthy thing out here,” he said. Then he went inside. I followed in after him. The room was dark except for the light from a lantern on the table. The room smelled like mildew with a faint hint of kerosene. There was a doorway that led into a large room, but it was too dark for me to see inside. “Sit down,” he instructed. “Let’s see what you did.” I placed my hand on the table, and he grabbed my wrist while he inspected my fingers. Once he noticed the blister had ruptured, he asked, “Did you do this?” I stared up at his face, petrified. In that eerie, dim light, Bill looked deranged. “Goddamnit!”

  All at once, he stood up and walked into the other room. I sat there alone, nervous, and in pain. Seconds later, he returned with a tackle box and a Boy Scout Handbook. He set the box on the table and began flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted. Then he smacked it with the back of his hand. “Here,” he said, holding it out in front of me. “Read this.” My eyes desperately scanned the page, but before I had a chance to finish, Bill told me what it said: “You never, ever burst a blister. The fluid inside has natural healing properties.” Then he slammed the book shut and set it down.

  Next, he opened the tackle box and removed a small jar with white cream in it. Using a tongue depressor, he spread it on my burn. Immediately the magic frosting relieved the pain. With a roll of gauze, he wrapped my finger and secured it with white tape. “I want you to read your handbook, and don’t ever let this happen again,” he instructed. “Do you understand?” I nodded.

  BACK AT THE CAMPFIRE, I FOUND MY PATROL’S TENT. Forced to settle down next to Minitoni, it was impossible to fall asleep that night on the ground. With each turn, I felt the jab of a twig in my side or the poke of a rock in my hip. Finally, I lay on my back, staring at the half-open flap of the tent’s entrance as it waved in the breeze like a sail. The ambient light from the moon and the stars filtered through and illuminated the inside of our small confines so that I could almost make out the rolling curves of Minitoni’s belly, heaving up and down in time to his breathing. Then, for the first time, I noticed the delicate features of Pip Squeak’s angelic face: his small, upturned nose and dimpled chin. I felt safe again with my patrol, but still, I wanted nothing more than to be home in my own bed.

  I counted stars to fall asleep and wondered where Jonathan was. My finger continued to throb, less so than before but persistent enough that I wanted to cut it off. In the darkness, as I drifted off, I saw Spivey’s face, remembered his eyes as he warned me not to tell on him. But more than anything else, I felt the power of his hatred and wondered why I had been chosen to bear the brunt of his ridicule.

  I hate it here. I hate these boys, and I hate being a Boy Scout.

  CHAPTER 17

  Look Me in the Eyes

  FOR THE NEXT TWO MONTHS, I avoided hiking trips by lying. My parents were the easiest to fool; they didn’t care one way or the other, as long as I attended the weekly meetings. Jonathan was the only one who knew how much I hated Boy Scouts. “You’re going to quit, aren’t you?” he asked one day in the school yard.

  “I wish,” I said. “I don’t get you. Boy Scouts to me is like going to school but in a different uniform. I get picked on enough during the day. Why would I want to hang out with another bunch of bullies at night? I have enough problems with Seth Connelly and his gang as it is.”

  That afternoon, when the 2:30 P.M. bell rang and Mrs. Schiavone dismissed the class, I packed up my books and flew out of the doors. In the parking lot, I found my mother talking to Mrs. Duran. Normally, she waited for me in her car. When they saw me approach, I noticed my mother’s nostrils flare as if she was suppressing an incredible urge to scream.

  “There he is,” said Mrs. Duran, snuffing out her cigarette on the ground with her heel. “Let me go find my sons. Nice seeing you again, Lina.” As Mrs. Duran slid past me, she gripped my shoulder. “Bye, Frankie. Good luck.”

  In the car, my mother quietly stared out at the road ahead as I fiddled with the radio. Without warning she began. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been missing hiking trips?” she asked. I stopped playing with the radio and sank back in my seat. “You know, Frank, I’m only going to put up with just so much before I explode. You made me look like a fool in front of Jonathan’s mother. Do you think I’m a fool?”

  “No.”

  “Then how come I have to hear the truth from a stranger? She knows more about my own son than I do.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” I protested.

  “No?” she questioned, staring at me. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

&nbs
p; I was terrified. If I looked directly into my mother’s eyes, I knew she would see the truth behind my lie. So I stared straight ahead.

  “I’m waiting outside to pick up my son, and Sharon Duran comes over to me, and says, ‘Lina, how is Frankie? I guess he doesn’t like Boy Scouts?’ And I thought to myself, why would she say that? Then she says, ‘He hasn’t been on the last two hikes?’ I thought, what is she talking about? So I say, ‘He told me the one last month was cancelled.’ Then she looked at me like I was crazy. That’s when I realized you’ve been lying to me.”

  “It was cancelled,” I said, peeking over to look at her.

  Her eyebrows arched like two broken arrows. Her eyes seemed to scorch the skin on my body. “How can you lie right to my face? You think it’s nice that I have to learn the truth from a stranger? Jonathan’s mother has to tell me my own son is a liar. I felt like a complete fool!”

  Up ahead, I watched the traffic light turn red. I screamed and pointed to it. “Mom, the light!”

  She jammed the brakes and shifted the car into PARK. I lurched forward, nearly hitting the dashboard. Then she lunged toward me, pointing her finger in my face. “You ever lie to me again, and I’m going to put you in military school. You hear me?” I crossed my forearms over my face to shield myself. “I don’t care if you have walking pneumonia. You’re going on the next camping trip, so help me God!”

  That evening my mother recounted this story several times: Once when Josephine came home from school. Another as Maria changed out of her work clothes, and, finally, when my father returned home for dinner. By the time we sat down to eat, my mother’s anger had snowballed. “What I don’t understand is why I cook and clean for this family when all that my children do is lie to me?” she continued. Josephine glared at me from across the table while Maria kept her head down, staring silently at her dish.