Calling Calling Calling Me

by Natasha Washington

  “You must be Mr. Maloney,” Kai said, smiling. “So good to meet you, sir.”

  His dad looked pleased at the greeting, and they chatted a bit about the weather here and how different it was from the blinding desert haze of Fresno.

  “It’s those ocean breezes, sir, keeps the heat off our backs,” Kai said, while Patrick rolled up the back door of the U-Haul and tried to will all its contents inside the apartment with the power of his mind.

  Mike and Josh tumbled out a minute later, Mike half-asleep and looking like a hot mess in a wrinkled T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Josh had enough energy for all of them combined, though, as he orchestrated the moving of furniture and boxes like someone who was either extraordinarily good at strategic planning or had done this a lot.

  The next hour passed in a blur of sweat and shouting and angling around doorways and upstairs. At the end of it, Patrick’s bed and desk and dresser were inside, his boxes were piled up in all the available space, and he was fairly certain they hadn’t even managed to break anything.

  “Whoa,” Josh said, settling down on the front step and accepting the can of Coke Mike pressed into his hand. “I think that was our best time yet.”

  “Patrick didn’t have much stuff,” Kai said, “unlike some people I know who own like five hundred musical instruments—”

  “I don’t have a drum set,” Josh cut him off. “That is all I’m going to say.”

  “But I only have a drum set,” Mike said, his voice dangerously close to a whine. “I have, like, nothing else.”

  “And the giant-ass TV,” Kai said.

  “Oh right, like you were complaining about that,” Mike said. “How did you even survive before I moved in?”

  “I don’t know,” Kai said, sounding sad. “It was a dark time.”

  “Honey?” Patrick’s mom said, her eyes flickering between the boys. “I think your father and I are going to head back and return the truck.”

  Patrick felt some combination of relief and terror. He did want his parents to leave, as that seriously decreased the chances of them embarrassing him in front of his new roommates, but—then they would have left. Then he’d really be here, in San Francisco, on his own. By himself. In a crowded apartment filled with other guys, but still. Still.

  “Okay,” Patrick said. “I— Thank you. For all your help.”

  For raising me and feeding me and clothing me and housing me for eighteen years, he wanted to say, but Kai and Mike and Josh were watching them while pretending like they weren’t, and how did you even thank your parents for that? While he was at it, he should thank them for creating him, for bringing him to life.

  Thank you for making all this possible.

  “Oh, sweetie,” his mom said, and that was it, that was her limit—she crumpled, pulling him into a tight embrace and sniffling into his shoulder.

  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry, he instructed himself, but when she tugged him closer, he swallowed around the lump in his throat and tried to breathe.

  In that moment, all he could think about was that night in middle school when he’d come home with the black eye, again. His mom had sat with him at the dining room table and said: Pat, this has to stop.

  He’d hung his head and whispered, Mom, I’m sorry.

  She’d reached across the table and said: Don’t be sorry, sweetheart. It isn’t your fault that these kids are awful. We’re just gonna have to figure out a way to make them stop.

  That was what Patrick’s mom was to him—his safe place when nothing else was.

  Who would be that person for him in San Francisco?

  “You’ll be fine,” he heard his dad say softly, patting him on the shoulder, awkward in the way he always was. Patrick was pretty sure he’d inherited the awkward gene from his dad.

  “I will,” Patrick said, his voice coming out thicker than he thought it would.

  “I know you will,” his mom said, and kissed him on the cheek. Patrick closed his eyes and thought, I am going to make you proud of me.

  When he opened his eyes and stepped away, his mom finally easing up her grip, he realized that Josh and Mike and Kai had all gone inside. He could cry now. It would be okay.

  But he wouldn’t.

  “Call me to tell me how you’re settling in, Pat,” his mom said.

  “I will,” Patrick repeated, and his mom reached for his hand and squeezed it, fingers lingering at his wrist when she let go.

  I will, he thought. I will make you proud of me. I will. I will.

  * * *

  Patrick surveyed his clusterfuck of a room. There was no good place to begin. This sucked.

  “I heard you bitches already replaced me,” a shrill voice came from the living room, followed by a door slam.

  “Replaced you?” Mike said. “You moved out, Alexis. Who do you think pays our rent?”

  “Are you saying you don’t make enough money hustling, baby?” Alexis said. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m a hustla, baby,” someone sang—probably Josh. “And I wantcha to know—”

  “I don’t miss you at all,” Alexis said. “Any of you.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Mike said. “Because you don’t miss us?”

  “I’m here because it’s Saturday and you have a new roommate,” Alexis said, “and traditions are traditions, Michael.”

  “He’s really young, though,” Mike said. “I don’t know if we should—”

  Patrick felt his chest seize up. Was this the part where his new roommates turned out to be cult members? Because that wouldn’t be good at all. San Francisco was on a peninsula. There were so many places they could dump him, and the police would never find the body.

  “Did you miss the part where this is the Castro?” Alexis said. “You can totally buy him drinks. Even Josh can buy drinks now. Not that he ever needs to.”

  “I can’t help it if people buy me drinks,” Josh said.

  “People buy you drinks because you’re a hilarious drunk,” Alexis said. “That’s why I buy you drinks, anyway. It’s like an investment in my entertainment for the evening. Dinner and a show.”

  Patrick was considering whether he should reveal himself to Alexis or attempt to hide out in his room until she got bored and left, when his door wrenched open and a small, curvy brunette sashayed through it.

  “My old room,” she said grandly. “I had so much amazing sex in here. With and without Theo. It’s like it’s a blessed space or something.”

  Patrick felt as if his head were exploding. He reached out and steadied himself on the corner of his bed.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello, adorable boy from Fresno,” Alexis said, and gave him a shark-like smile.

  It was maybe four p.m., and Patrick was trying to gauge if she was drunk. It was possible. He lived in the big city now. Maybe people were drunk here twenty-four hours a day. It would explain all the nudity at parades.

  “I’m Patrick,” Patrick said, feeling like an idiot.

  Alexis examined him with narrowed eyes. She looked a bit like a ferret when she did that, but Patrick certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it.

  “Oh, you are young,” Alexis said. “Are you a runaway? Because I would understand, coming from Fresno, why you’d want to run away.”

  Patrick bristled. Never mind that he kind of was a runaway. Nobody got to talk shit about Fresno but him.

  “Alexis, don’t bother him,” Josh said, pushing the door open all the way. “He’s trying to unpack.”

  “But he needs to forget all that and start drinking,” Alexis said. “It’s tradition.”

  “All in due time,” Josh said with his most charming smile, and ushered Alexis out of the room with a hand at the small of her back, shooting Patrick an apologetic look over his shoulder.

  “I want pizza,” Alexis said. “Pizza and Patrón. Let’s make this happen.”

  “As you wish, m’lady,” Josh said, and Mike’s laughter carried
all the way down the hall.

  * * *

  They were settled in the living room with Alexis’s pizza and tequila shots when Freddy turned to him and said thoughtfully, “What are you into, man?”

  Patrick froze mid-bite.

  “Guys? Girls?” Freddy continued. “Genderqueer folks? Drag queens? Drag kings? Trans—”

  “That is so rude,” Josh said. “You don’t ask questions like that.”

  “I am only saying,” Freddy said, “it might be a good idea to figure that out. Otherwise, the Castro will help you work that out right quick if you don’t do it for yourself first.”

  Kai snickered. Patrick could tell there was a story there, especially because then Kai caught Mike’s eye and Mike made a gesture like he was zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

  “Freddy is right,” Alexis said, holding up her shot glass of tequila and eyeing the clear, viscous liquid. “This is totally relevant information.”

  “Depending on what you’re into,” Freddy continued with an air of authority, “you could be increasing the queer population of this apartment by roughly 13.5 percent.”

  “Wait, wait,” Mike said. “I can’t do math, are you saying all of us are straight or all of us are gay? Or is this about that whole sexuality spectrum thing, because I get it, I do, but I get confused about—”

  “None of those things, genius,” Freddy said. “I’m saying we’re all, like, Kinsey ones and twos, mostly hetero, and Josh is more…on the fence.”

  Patrick’s face flushed hot.

  No. Way.

  “I’m pretty sure your math sucks anyway,” Kai said. He was wrinkling his forehead like he was actually trying to figure it out.

  “I resent the label of ‘on the fence,’” Josh said.

  Patrick noticed the way Josh’s lips turned down. He was tuning his guitar, and every so often he strummed a quiet, forlorn chord.

  “It’s true, the label ‘nymphomaniac’ is probably more accurate,” Mike put in.

  “That is so offensive,” Josh said. “Just because I’m pan—”

  “It has nothing to do with you being bisexual or pan or whatever,” Mike said. “What I’m saying is that you’re a player who gets a crazy amount of ass.”

  Josh glanced up and caught Patrick’s eye. His jaw was tight, and Patrick could tell he was pissed.

  “You’re both bastards,” Josh said, and set his guitar aside with a jangle of dissonant notes.

  “I made out with Josh once,” Alexis said, swaying slightly. “It was nice.”

  Patrick was still reeling from all these revelations and was completely unprepared when Freddy focused his gaze on him again and said, “You didn’t answer the questions, young’un.”

  “He doesn’t have to answer the question,” Josh said, voice sharp.

  “If we’re going to go out, I want to know who I should be scouting for him,” Freddy said.

  “You don’t have to scout for me at all,” Patrick said.

  “Don’t let him scout for you,” Josh said. “When I was a sophomore—”

  “There is a statute of limitations on that story, and you have reached it, my friend,” Freddy interrupted.

  “It’s a cautionary tale, and Patrick should know that—”

  “I’m gay,” Patrick said suddenly. “That’s what I’m into.”

  In the silence that followed, Patrick had one long, terrible, irrational moment when he wondered if they would kick him out. Even with Josh there, even with Mike talking about Kinsey and Freddy wanting to be his scout…you never knew, did you? High school had been filled with guys who’d flinched when he’d entered a locker room or made snide remarks to him in the halls or “accidentally” shoved him when he’d walked past. Sometimes the bullying had been subtle: the coughed faggot or the pointed laugh. Sometimes it had been less subtle. Patrick remembered the bruises and the aches, the meetings with the principal and parents that never went anywhere, the threats people left on his Facebook wall and in his Instagram comments.

  Bruises healed, but Patrick would never forget what it felt like to be hurt like that.

  He knew San Francisco was supposed to be different, but as far as he was concerned, nowhere was really that different.

  I’m gay.

  He realized he’d never said those words out loud.

  “All I’m saying,” Josh said, finally breaking the silence, “is don’t let Freddy be your wingman.”

  “Rule of life,” Mike said.

  “Definite rule to live by,” Kai said.

  “Ungrateful bastards,” Freddy said, and took a long pull of his beer.

  Patrick knew they’d all heard him. There was no way they could have missed what he’d said.

  It doesn’t matter. They don’t care.

  San Francisco was different, it turned out.

  He exhaled.

  4

  Josh watched Patrick’s mouth form the words: I’m gay.

  Called it, he thought.

  When straight people joked about gaydar, Josh felt like pointing out that it wasn’t some fun party game, it was a matter of self-preservation. Even in San Francisco, hitting on the wrong person could mean getting your ass kicked.

  Or sometimes it could mean you got rejected and humiliated because you hit on the wrong person at the wrong time. That, to Josh, was worse than getting your ass kicked. That was everything Josh hated all put together: being wrong, being pushed away, being a disappointment. Josh had worked hard to hone his powers of perception because he never wanted to be wrong like that again.

  He blinked his way back into the moment. The jokes came fast and furious, and Josh tried to let go of how he felt about the way Mike had called Josh a nympho and a player. This was a common joke around their house. Still, he wished that wasn’t one of the first things they’d chosen to tell Patrick about.

  Josh wanted to over-explain, to tell Patrick the things his so-called friends had said about his less-than-monogamous tendencies were false. Except they weren’t, exactly. Maybe they were lacking nuance, but it was true that Josh had been with a lot of people, specifically within the last three years.

  What he really wanted to tell Patrick was: I sleep around because I finally discovered something I’m good at.

  Good job, self, Josh thought. Tell your newly gay roommate how great you are in bed and see how that goes over. He’ll definitely not think you’re an asshole.

  But maybe Josh was taking everything too seriously, because right now, Patrick was smiling.

  Josh thought: At least we can give you this.

  * * *

  As everyone began getting ready for the club, Patrick, in his snug jeans and simple black T-shirt, stood awkwardly in the corner of the living room and scrolled through his phone. He looked amazing, but Josh had a feeling he was going for basic because he didn’t have anything else to wear. Josh strongly doubted that Patrick had gone to a ton of gay clubs in Fresno.

  Josh had a sudden wave of anxiety. What if Patrick hated the club? What if he hated the Castro? What if Josh fucked this up on his very first day?

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Josh said to Patrick.

  Patrick looked up.

  Patrick’s eyes were a stunning, perfect blue. So blue for a boy who grew up so far from the ocean.

  Josh’s breath caught in his throat.

  “I want to go,” Patrick said.

  “Okay,” Josh said. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, ever, by our dumb traditions or the comments people make or—”

  “I don’t feel pressured,” Patrick said. “Anyway…sometimes it’s good to get a little push.”

  How have you been pushed? Josh wondered. But something about Patrick’s expression made him swallow down all his questions.

  “Well,” Josh said. “Let me know if it makes you uncomfortable ever. Because I—we don’t want that.”

  Patrick’s face shifted, and he gave Josh that adorable smile.

  “I’ll let you know,”
Patrick said.

  In his room, Josh slipped on his own tightest jeans with the suggestive rip in the thigh, found his threadbare Queen T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash, and shrugged into his leather jacket.

  Josh’s phone buzzed. He sighed and looked down at it.

  Hey Josh, long time no see. This is Ramon. Hope it’s okay I got your new number from Alan. Just wanted to say hi. Maybe we can hang while I’m in town? Leaving pretty soon for the beginning of the semester, but I’ll be back around Thanksgiving.

  Josh reread the message four times. His hands hovered over the phone for a full minute before he typed out a reply.

  Sure, let’s do it.

  You’re over this, Josh told himself. You’re cool.

  “Walking tour departs in ten,” Freddy shouted from the living room. “Seconds, that is.”

  Things to do, Josh thought, and stepped out into the hall.

  * * *

  The club was the club. He’d been there so often, it was more like his local coffee shop than a gay bar where go-go boys sometimes danced in cages in silver, glittery booty shorts. Thankfully tonight was more average: a mixed crowd, loud dance music playing, an abundance of drinks with dirty names. Freddy handed him a shot of tequila and he downed it, and then Freddy handed him another. This was their routine, and after that Ramon text, Josh felt especially in need of a drink or five.

  “What do you think?” Alexis asked, placing a hand on his arm.

  Alexis was always touching him, almost like she wanted to make sure he was still there.

  “About the club?” Josh asked. Everything was already starting to blur around the edges.

  She gave him a look. “About the new roommate,” she said.

  “Patrick is awesome,” Josh said.

  “He’s so young,” Alexis said.

  Patrick was not that young, but Josh could see how Alexis might see him that way. To Alexis, being young had everything to do with experience, because that was how she’d learned to frame adulthood: as some contest in which you racked up maturity points on the Upper East Side like there was a prize to be won. Patrick seemed…different. Josh wasn’t sure why, but he did.