Absolutely Positively Not

by David LaRochelle

  Beaver Lake postmark. No return address. Unfamiliar handwriting. Probably from the Coast Guard, trying to camouflage their latest recruitment plea. When I ripped open the back, the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.

  It was one of Rachel’s pink handouts for the gay/straight alliance.

  Rachel had promised that she wouldn’t show anyone these flyers until I was ready. Had she lied to me? For the second time that day, I felt betrayed.

  There was nothing else inside the envelope, not even a Post-it note. I unfolded the wrinkled sheet, turned it over, and discovered the handwritten message on the back:

  Dear Steven,

  We’ve missed you at the Busy Bees. Mavis feels real bad that she might have scared you off with all her talk about Belinda. In case you’re wondering, Belinda found a boyfriend. He’s a trombone player in the marching band. Real nice, but not as nice as you.

  By the way, this fell out of your pocket the last time we saw you. Thought it might be important. I was hoping to give it to you in person, but you haven’t been around and I didn’t know if I should send it home with your mom.

  Hope to see you square dancing again.

  Morris Swenson

  P.S. Our grandson Phillip used to attend a group like this at the coffeehouse in Summerfield. Mavis said she’d like the two of you to go out for burgers sometime, except Phillip lives away at college now and doesn’t get home much. That wife of mine never learns, does she?

  Eight times I dialed the phone number. Eight times I hung up. Finally, on the ninth try, I stayed on the line.

  “Summerfield Coffeehouse. This is Sheila.”

  “Hi. I was wondering …”

  “Yes?”

  “When do you open?”

  “Six A.M., seven days a week, thanks for calling —”

  “Wait! I was also wondering … do you have organic green tea?”

  It was Rachel’s favorite drink. I tried it once and thought it tasted like grass clippings.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “And do you serve sandwiches?”

  “We bake our own bread every morning.”

  “And do you accept credit cards?”

  “Yup.”

  I was running out of questions.

  “And are there any groups that hold meetings there?”

  “Sure. Plenty.”

  “Like what?”

  In the background I heard plates rattling and someone calling for a mocha latte.

  “Single Fathers, Fantasy War Gamers, Summerfield Knitting Circle …”

  The whipping sound of the espresso machine almost drowned out her voice.

  “… Parents of Twins, Seniors Who Swing …”

  Maybe the group that Mavis and Morris’s grandson had attended no longer existed. Maybe it had disbanded due to lack of interest.

  “… Llama Ranchers of Minnesota, Gay and Lesbian Youth Group —”

  “Gee,” I said, interrupting her. “That last one — just out of curiosity — not that I’m planning on attending or anything, but when do they meet?”

  “The first Sunday of every month. One o’clock, upstairs.”

  The first Sunday of the month was this weekend.

  I thanked Sheila six or seven times and promised that whenever I was in Summerfield, I’d be sure to stop by the coffeehouse and leave her an extra-big tip.

  No, I still wasn’t ready to make a public announcement on CNN, but attending a support group an hour’s drive from home, where there was little chance that I’d run into anyone else that I knew … that sounded good. Very good.

  Now all I had to do was figure out a way of getting there.

  “Mom, I need my license.”

  She was at her computer, typing away.

  “It’s going to be spring before you know it, Steven. In just a few short weeks you’ll be able to ride your bike. Then, after a good solid three months of practice driving this summer, we’ll have a serious discussion about whether you’re ready to take your test again.”

  “But I need my driver’s license now.”

  She swiveled around in her desk chair. “We’ve been through this before, Steven. We’ve seen what happens when you take your test prematurely. What could possibly be so important that you need to get your driver’s license right this very minute?”

  I took a deep breath. “I want to go to a gay youth group that meets in Summerfield. And I want to be able to drive there by myself.”

  The color fled from her face. The “later” when she had promised we’d talk about being gay, and which had resided so safely in the future, had finally arrived.

  “Oh. I see.”

  She bit the bottom of her lip so hard that I thought she was going to chew a hole through the skin. “Isn’t this rather sudden?”

  “No, not really. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

  Ever since yesterday, when I’d gotten the note from Morris and talked with Sheila at the coffeehouse.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said my mom. “Why don’t we go to the library and see if they have any movies about being gay? Didn’t Tom Hanks win an Oscar for playing a homosexual? We could check the movie out and watch it together.”

  “I don’t want to watch Tom Hanks, Mom. I want to talk with other people in person.” Then I added, “Please. It’s important to me.”

  From somewhere on her cluttered desktop my mother produced a large yellow paper clip. She began twisting it back and forth.

  “Who exactly is going to be there?” she asked.

  “Kids,” I said. “Gay kids.”

  “And just what are these gay kids going to be doing?”

  “It’s a support group. They’ll be supporting each other.” At least that was my educated guess.

  “There won’t be any alcohol involved, will there? One drink can make a young person do all sorts of things that he’ll regret for the rest of his life.”

  “It’s at a coffeehouse, Mom. You don’t get drunk on cappuccinos.”

  “Does it meet at night?” she asked. “I am not going to let you socialize with a group of total strangers after dark.”

  “It’s at one in the afternoon.”

  She had now mangled the paper clip into an unrecognizable shape. “But Summerfield is so far away.”

  “It’s only an hour’s drive — on a smooth, straight road. I can do it, Mom. You know I can.”

  The paper clip snapped in two. She set the pieces on her desk and looked for something else she could mangle. She settled on squeezing the arms of her chair.

  “I’ll tell you what, Steven. I’ll let you take your driving test one more time. If you pass, you can go to this group. If not, we’ll look for a movie. If that isn’t a reasonable offer, then I don’t know what is.”

  As my mom and I sat in the waiting area, I wondered who my driving examiner would be this time. The Easter Bunny? My preschool teacher? An alien from the planet Pituku?

  “DeNarski? You’re next.”

  A young man with shoulder-length black hair and a wicked grin was standing at the door with a clipboard.

  “Good luck,” said my mother. “And remember, failing your driving test three times in a row is nothing to feel embarrassed about.”

  The examiner and I walked out to the car and climbed in. There was something sexy and familiar about this guy, especially around his dark eyes. Was he an actor? A rock star? A model from one of the underwear catalogs? His name badge said TONY, but that didn’t help.

  He looked at his clipboard, then gave me the once-over. “Say, aren’t you the kid who took a golden retriever to the dance? My cousin Victor was telling me all about you.”

  Of course! How could I have missed the resemblance? No shortage of handsome genes in that family.

  Remembering how Kelly and I had been the hit of the evening, I sat up a little straighter. I was now a semi-legend, recognized by gorgeous civil servants. “Yup,” I said. “That was me.”

  Tony wagged his head. �
�Man. And I thought Victor was pulling my leg. I didn’t think anyone was really that deranged.”

  With those words of confidence, my test began.

  There’s something to be said for taking your driver’s test three times. I knew exactly what to expect. I stopped at all the right places. I only checked my mirrors twice before changing lanes. I even managed to parallel park an inch from the curb in three skillful moves. The entire test went as smoothly as a well-rehearsed promenade.

  When Tony told me I could drive the car back to the exam building, I had to refrain from dancing in my seat. I had passed. I knew it. Even if he considered me a lunatic for dating a dog, there was no way he could give me a failing grade. He jotted a few final notes on his clipboard, then ripped off my copy of the test and held it out.

  “Sorry, Dog Man. Better luck next time.”

  I felt my heart being torn from my chest and slammed down a mine shaft. When it hit the bottom, I looked at what Tony had written: 95 percent.

  “Just kidding,” he said, then laughed at his own clever joke.

  A handsome face does not necessarily equal a good sense of humor.

  When my mother discovered that I had passed my test and was actually going to this meeting, her worries multiplied exponentially. By Sunday morning, I thought she was going to need a sedative.

  “Don’t give your phone number out to anyone.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Don’t use the bathroom unless there’s a lock on the door.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Call if there’s anything you need. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  Getting to Summerfield in thirty minutes would require considerable speeding on her part, a clear indication of how panicked she felt.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” I told her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go along?” She had followed me out to the car in her bedroom slippers and was standing in a pile of slush. “I’ll just stay a few minutes, until you get a chance to meet some of the other kids.”

  “Mom, this isn’t the first day of kindergarten.”

  “Well, it certainly feels like it.”

  She closed her eyes and took several calming breaths. She was doing her best, and I had to give her credit for that. When she opened her eyes again, her face looked a little more relaxed. “Can I at least give you a kiss good-bye?”

  For some reason that made me laugh. “Sure.”

  She gave me a peck on the cheek and rearranged the hair I had spent an hour combing. “Now go and have fun,” she told me. “I’ll be waiting to hear all about it the moment you get home.”

  It was a strange feeling being in the car by myself. I liked it. I turned the radio on full blast, something neither of my parents would have allowed. After about two blocks, I turned it off again. I don’t like loud music. Instead, I recklessly rebelled against both my mom and dad and drove precisely the speed limit all the way to Summerfield.

  The hour drive gave me plenty of time to continue with what I’d been thinking about all week. What would these other gay teenagers be like? Would they be like Big Daddy from the Internet: ready for sex and poised to pounce? Or would they be like the photo of teenagers I had glimpsed in Rachel’s gay magazine: reserved, sophisticated, and witty-looking?

  I pictured a room filled with young GQ models, all of them holding fancy coffees and discussing great literature. The only great literature I had read this year was The Great Gatsby, which we were studying in English. I tried to remember the comments on the back of the book, and practiced making intelligent remarks.

  “Oh, yes, I think Gatsby is a perfect metaphor for today’s society, just as relevant now as when it was written.”

  On second thought, maybe I should keep my mouth shut and stick to smiling quietly.

  The Summerfield Coffeehouse was located in the center of town, right alongside an old movie theater. They shared a roomy parking lot, but I drove down the block till I found two cars that I could parallel park between. Successfully demonstrating my driving skills gave me the confidence to go inside.

  A bell jingled above the door as I entered. The place was packed with Sunday afternoon coffee drinkers sitting at tiny tables, reading the paper or laughing in groups of two and three. A jungle of philodendron vines drooped from the ceiling, and the air was mixed with the smells of cinnamon, chocolate, and freshly ground coffee beans.

  And there, on the far side of the room, was the wooden stairway leading up to the second floor.

  I sat down in an overstuffed armchair as far from the staircase as possible.

  “Our flavor of the day is roasted hazelnut decaf.”

  A sleepy-looking college student in a Gumby T-shirt was standing over me, holding a small notepad in his hand. Shiny silver rings pierced his ear, nose, cheek, and lip, and a long silver chain connected them all before disappearing down the neck of his shirt.

  “No thank you,” I said. “I don’t like coffee.”

  “We’ve got tea, Italian soda, fruit juice, and mineral water. Which do you want?”

  “I’m not very thirsty.”

  “Brownie? Bagel? There’s one slice of banana pumpkin bread left.”

  I picked up a copy of Haiku Journal from the table next to me.

  “Actually, I just came here to read.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said the waiter. He gestured with his notepad to the stairway. “The gay and lesbian group meets up there.”

  Before I could think of a snappy response, he was gone.

  It was now or never. I stood, walked to the stairs, and began the climb. With each step my nervousness shrank and my excitement increased. So what if everyone else was more experienced or more sophisticated than I was? It didn’t matter. I was finally going to meet some other gay guys my own age.

  My head cleared the second-floor landing. I was looking into a large, open area lit by two sunny skylights. A garage sale assortment of chairs and tables was scattered about the room. The walls were painted with a mural of a colorful rain forest. And everywhere I looked, there were teenagers.

  They were all girls.

  Teenage girls playing Trivial Pursuit. Teenage girls watching an Ellen DeGeneres special on an old TV set. Teenage girls chatting with one another on a red satin couch. If it hadn’t been for the GAY/LESBIAN/BISEXUAL/TRANSGENDER/TRANSSEXUAL SAFE PLACE banner hanging from the ceiling, I would have thought I had walked into a Girl Scout reunion.

  Had I gotten the date wrong? Did males and females alternate months? Or maybe … maybe there weren’t any other gay guys in this part of the state.

  A pair of girls politely excused themselves as they came up the stairs and edged their way around me.

  “Lynne! Angie!”

  The girls on the couch called them over. Soon they were laughing and joking with the others. I watched them and wilted.

  Where were the other guys?

  Where were the other guys who kept underwear magazines beneath their beds? Where were the other guys who had erotic dreams about their male teachers? Where were the other guys who someday, possibly, might want to double-date with me and Rachel and Victor?

  Where were the other guys I could talk to?

  Wherever they were, they certainly weren’t here in this coffeehouse.

  I wallowed in self-pity for several well-deserved minutes. Then I gave myself a kick. Figuratively, not literally.

  So what? Who cared if there weren’t any other guys? Gay girls could be just as supportive as gay boys, couldn’t they? I had come all this way to meet other gay teenagers, and that was exactly what I was going to do.

  I looked around the room and tried to find a group that might welcome a dull male square dancer. Who knows, maybe some of these girls had gay brothers. I saw a girl who looked a little like Rachel and was about to approach her, then froze. I spotted him. Another male. He was mostly hidden behind a brick pillar, but I could definitely tell he was male.

  A jolt of electricity rushed to the ends o
f my fingers and toes. Thank you, thank you, oh gods of the coffeehouse!

  He stepped forward and moved into view.

  It was Dwayne Becker, from the hockey table.

  The room began to tilt.

  The testosterone king of the school was gay? Impossible. If Trent Beachum were here, he’d die.

  Forget about Trent, I was going to die.

  I knew it was rude, but I couldn’t pry my eyes off him. How could Dwayne be gay? It was simply not within the realm of belief.

  And then I thought, why not? Who says hockey players can’t be homosexuals? I had enjoyed a very brief career as a puckster myself way back in my younger days. Maybe his date with Solveig had been just an act. Been there, done that too. And I distinctly remembered that Dwayne had not laughed at Pangborn’s stupid comments.

  All the pieces were beginning to fit. Of course Dwayne was gay! Why hadn’t I figured it out before?

  Dwayne caught me staring and turned the other way. I had scared him. He probably didn’t expect to run into somebody else that he knew. Well, neither had I.

  We could have stood there on opposite sides of the room forever, but I was determined to meet another guy, and if that meant making the first move, so be it.

  “Hey, Dwayne,” I said, walking his way and showing my friendliest let’s-get-acquainted smile.

  Dwayne pretended not to hear.

  “First time here?” I asked.

  He folded his arms and looked at the ceiling.

  “Yeah, mine too,” I said.

  Continued stony silence. Not exactly the warm, male-bonding experience I had hoped for, but maybe if I opened up a little, Dwayne would relax and start talking. “I don’t know about you, but I was pretty nervous coming here. In fact, you’re the first gay person I’ve ever met.”

  That finally loosened him up. “I’m not gay,” he said.

  Boy, was that a phrase I was familiar with.

  “I know what you mean,” I told him. “I said the same thing myself for a long, long time.”

  Dwayne put his hand over his face as if to hide. This guy was even more closeted than I was.

  “Even if you can’t say it, you took a big step in coming here. Congratulations. That took guts. Real guts. You should be proud of yourself.”