“San Francisco is best on Sundays because the city’s a little sleepy and sore from the night before,” Josh told him. “And it’s quiet and slow enough to be manageable.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Patrick said suddenly.
Josh didn’t know why Patrick seemed so nervous—Josh had never indicated that he was anything but eager to take Patrick around.
“Dude, I love giving the grand tour,” Josh said. “San Francisco is my home. This is seriously no trouble. You’re basically doing me a favor.”
Patrick still looked freaked out. Josh reached out and placed a hand on his arm, gentle as anything but definitely there.
“Hey,” Josh said. “I want to do this. Seriously.”
Patrick bit his lip, but he seemed to relax. Josh let go of Patrick’s arm, and he exhaled.
“Well, okay then,” Patrick said.
The grand tour started on Castro Street, only a couple blocks from their apartment, where Josh pointed out the old-school Castro Theatre with its huge, light-studded sign—best place ever to go to a sing-along musical, dude, plus they show awesome classic movies—and Harvey’s—great burgers, A+ Bloody Marys…oh, maybe you don’t want to think about that right now, sorry, man—and Cliff’s Variety, which, true to its name, sold a little bit of everything—plus the best costume stuff at Halloween, and oh my God, Patrick, San Francisco at Halloween, it’s like queer Christmas, it’s insane, you’ll lose your mind.
Patrick took it all in, listening with a thoughtful look on his face. Patrick’s quiet demeanor didn’t feel like a judgment, but more of a gesture of respect. For this afternoon, Josh was the teacher in the ways of this city and Patrick was the student, and Patrick clearly wanted to learn it all.
They made their way to Church and Dolores and a giant field of hilly green across from an enormous church.
Josh didn’t notice Patrick had stopped until he was several paces ahead. He turned on his heel and cocked his head to one side, puzzled.
“You all right?” Josh called, and Patrick shuffled forward, looking awkward and tired.
“That’s a big church,” Patrick said.
“Yeah,” Josh said, watching Patrick very closely.
“I guess…I feel like I’ve always known, even before I knew, that there was some reason I didn’t belong in a church. Like I didn’t belong in a space dedicated to worshipping a God who apparently loved everyone—except for all those He doesn’t,” Patrick said. “All the so-called deviants and weirdos and freaks.”
Josh realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled.
“I didn’t grow up in the church,” Josh said.
Patrick ran a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky,” he said.
“Did you—” Josh started to say, then stopped.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I mean…mostly because everybody I knew did. My parents weren’t fanatics or anything, but we went to church every Sunday. It was just what you did.”
Josh felt de-railed. “Well, this is Mission Dolores,” he said, pretty sure he sounded like some kind of chirpy tour guide. “It’s been here forever, before all of this was here, you know? It’s one of the original Spanish missions.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “I’m a total history nerd. I’ve read all about the Spanish missions, mostly the long streak of blood and slavery and disease the colonizers traced up the coast of California in the name of ‘civilizing’ the natives.”
This time Josh found himself entirely without anything to say.
Patrick laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m the worst. My family gets mad at me all the time. Everywhere we go, I start talking about stuff I’ve read, accounts of squalid living conditions and coercion and rape, and they’re like, Patrick, can’t you let us take a nice drive without bringing up colonization and imperialism?”
“No, by all means, bring up colonization,” Josh said. “The Missions give me the creeps too. But they’re here, and I feel like we gotta acknowledge them, right? It’s the oldest building in San Francisco. If we don’t include it on the grand tour, isn’t that kind of like erasing all that history?”
Patrick looked up at him, his mouth curving at one corner.
Of all the versions of Patrick’s smile that Josh had seen so far, this was definitely his favorite.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “That exactly.”
There was a moment where Josh thought Patrick might move forward into his space. He tried to telegraph that it was okay, but then Patrick’s gaze skimmed away, and the moment was gone.
“Look, this is really about the green space,” Josh said, “because no tour of San Francisco could possibly be complete without a little quality time spent in Dolores Park.”
Soon they were spread out flat on their backs on the dewy grass, the air heavy with the combined scent of some sort of fried food, burritos, and cigarette smoke. The sky was blue and smattered with wispy clouds. Wind tousled their hair. Some guys had set up a complete drum set nearby and were busy pounding out a steady beat, while down at the base of the hill two girls were doing things with hula-hoops that Josh did not think were physically possible.
Patrick had his eyes closed, long, dark eyelashes a shock against his pale skin.
“Welcome,” Josh said softly, “to San Francisco.”
He could feel Patrick beside him, warm and strong and smelling faintly of soap, his shoulder pressed to Josh’s. He inhaled and closed his eyes and thought: Yes. Yes. Yes.
7
After the grand tour, everything felt different. More charged. Patrick watched Josh out of the corner of his eye and prayed Josh wouldn’t see him watching. He thought about how Josh had wanted to be his tour guide, but not like the guy drawling about the Golden Gate Bridge on one of those old-fashioned streetcars: This is the house where they filmed Full House. This is the place Jack Kerouac had a drink once.
None of that. Josh had given Patrick his own personalized grand tour, better and more informative than his school orientation. It was everything Patrick had hoped for in moving to San Francisco, and he’d gotten in on day two. How would he ever top that? Josh seemed unfazed, like this was a thing he did all the time, and maybe he did. But with all those houses and stores and people, how did Josh know that what Patrick wanted most was the view?
He didn’t know how to say this to Josh, though. How to thank him for the way he’d opened his arms and said: This is your city now too.
When Patrick woke up on Monday, he had to remind himself: I came here for college, not to go clubbing in the Castro and fall head-over-heels for my extreme welcome wagon of a roommate.
He mobilized slowly, threw on jeans and a T-shirt and a hoodie and a jacket, and caught the Muni to school for his first day.
Patrick felt like the oddest man out in his first college class. It was Intro to Creative Writing, which should be absolutely in his wheelhouse, but he couldn’t help feeling like everyone could tell…what, exactly? That he wasn’t from around here? That he’d started a writing club in high school and was the only member? That when he was nine he belonged to 4H and his parents took him to the rodeo because they thought that was what little boys liked—wearing cowboy hats and roping steer? That only this weekend, he’d told his new (older, cooler) roommates that he was gay for the first time ever? That he’d spent most of his teen years trying to avoid his more aggro classmates, researching everything queer he could find on the internet, and dreaming of the day that he’d be here, so far away from all that b.s. that he could almost—almost—pretend like it never happened?
“You are all going to be reading each other’s work for this entire semester,” said the teacher, Professor Cafferty, interrupting Patrick’s minor internal meltdown. She was a slender brunette with short hair cut in a slash across her forehead and a sleeve of tattoos winding around one arm. “I think you should get to know each other a bit first, don’t you? Let’s divide into groups and chat.”
Patrick was slightly terrified of this exercise. It was reminiscent
of group projects he had to do in high school that always resulted in his group mates coercing him into doing all the work while they blew him off to go drink their parents’ liquor and play video games and make out.
A pretty, curvaceous dark-skinned girl swiveled her chair around to face him, giving him a bright smile.
“Hi, I’m Taneisha,” she said.
“Hi,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick.”
“Where are you from, Patrick?” Taneisha said.
The dreaded question.
“Uh—outside of Fresno,” Patrick said. “Fresno, basically.”
“Can I be a part of all this?” cut in a lovely slim blonde wearing a flower-patterned dress with cowboy boots. She pulled a chair up beside them. She smelled like lilacs.
“I saw him first,” Taneisha informed the blonde.
She made a face at Taneisha before crossing her legs and holding out her hand to Patrick.
“I’m Artemis,” she said, smiling.
She was the kind of gorgeous that people write songs about. Patrick was about as homosexual as a person could possibly be, but he was not blind.
“I’m Patrick,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it. His voice came out a little scratchy. He cleared his throat.
“You aren’t going to tell me how cute this dress is?” Artemis said, gesturing to what was, in fact, a very cute dress. “I’m offended, Patrick.”
Patrick flushed. “I mean—I didn’t want to presume to—I’m—”
“Honey, we know,” Taneisha said, squeezing his arm, then narrowed her eyes at Artemis. “You should shut up. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
“Am I, though?” Artemis said, placing a hand on Patrick’s arm.
Patrick remembered Josh, doing the same thing yesterday before they began the tour. He flushed. Everyone in SF was so touchy-feely. Was this going to be a thing? He needed to adjust.
“Artemis,” Taneisha drawled.
“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Artemis said, removing her hand from his arm. “I think we’re supposed to be getting to know each other. I should start by saying that I’m not really a writer. I have a blog but I mostly post pictures.”
“Is your blog called Instagram?” Taneisha joked.
“Do you write a lot, Patrick?” Artemis asked, ignoring her.
Only every moment I’m able to, Patrick thought, but managed, “Uh—a good amount, yeah. I like to write.”
“Like, online?” Taneisha asked. “Stories?”
“Stories, plays, screenplays,” Patrick said. “A little bit of everything.”
“You wrote a screenplay?” Artemis said. “That’s cool! What’s it about?”
“Oh—uh—” Alienation and bullying and wanting to die because nobody understands you. “High school stuff. It’s sort of a dark comedy.”
“Uh-oh, y’all,” Taneisha said. “We have a real writer in our group!”
“What about you guys?” Patrick said. “What do you like to do?”
“I like to sing,” Taneisha said. “I sing solo, but I’ve done a couple musicals here too.”
“Oh—musicals!” Patrick said. “I love musicals. Especially Sondheim and Wicked—”
“I wish we could do Wicked here,” Taneisha said, “but it was playing at the Orpheum for so long, and it costs crazy money to get the rights if it’s being done professionally nearby.”
“Hey, do you know Josh Dirda?” Patrick said. “He’s a theater major here.”
Both Taneisha and Artemis froze, staring at Patrick.
“How do you know Josh Dirda?” Artemis asked.
Patrick had no idea what was going on, but he was already a little scared.
“Uh—he’s my roommate. I moved in this weekend. He’s really nice.”
Taneisha burst out laughing. Artemis’s eyes sparkled, her lips tipping into a smirk.
“Am I missing something?” Patrick asked, his voice going high in an embarrassing fashion.
“Oh, baby, no,” Taneisha said, hiccupping out a giggle. “You’re not missing anything.”
“I don’t know,” Artemis said, arching an eyebrow. “He might be missing a little something.”
“Are you serious?” Taneisha said, leaning across to Artemis. “When did that happen?”
Patrick felt like they were speaking another language.
“Um, last semester?” Artemis said. “It was at a party.”
“Artemis,” Taneisha said. “I thought you were stronger than that, girlfriend.”
Artemis shrugged, her cheeks flushing. “He is really cute, okay? And he wrote me a song.”
Taneisha fell apart laughing while Artemis shook her head ruefully.
Oh…oh.
Patrick thought: On the fence. He could see Josh and that girl on the dance floor, the way she turned into his body and fit against him, the way he leaned down.
“Okay, we seem to have some healthy conversation going here,” Professor Cafferty said loudly, and the room quieted. “This is a good thing because you all just chose your mini-workshop groups for the semester! Get ready to know each other on paper, escritores.”
Taneisha squeezed his shoulder, smiling at him. “I can’t wait to read your screenplay, Patrick.”
“Me too,” Artemis said.
Patrick glanced at Artemis, her perfect hair and rosebud lips and high cheekbones, and his stomach dropped.
It had nothing to do with the idea of sharing his writing, though. Nothing to do with that at all.
* * *
When Patrick got back to the apartment that afternoon after an epic battle with a chemistry class he was already considering dropping despite the fact that he needed the lab science credit to graduate, he found Josh lying flat on his back on the living floor with his guitar on his chest, playing the melody to “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” while Mike accompanied him with a jazz beat on his drums.
“Hey, Patrick!” Josh said, without even a break in the jaunty tune. “How was your first day of class?”
“Fine,” Patrick said. “I’ll—uh. I’ll be in my room.”
He turned on his heel and went. He knew he’d probably sounded rude, but he was also tired and annoyed and didn’t really want to deal with Josh right now—Josh and his guitar and his songs and his wild curly hair and his everything.
His phone rang the second he closed his door. He flipped it over to see Mom flash across the screen and thought: Of course. It was like she sensed the exact worst moment to try to initiate contact.
“Hi, Mom,” he said into the phone, collapsing back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. It was blank and cream white, like all his walls, none of which he’d bothered to decorate yet.
“Patrick!”
She sounded so thrilled to hear his voice. His heart tipped. He’d never felt homesick before. He’d never been far enough away to miss it.
“How are you?” he asked. “How’s Dad?”
“We miss you, sweetie,” she said. “Katie too. How was your first day of class?”
“Oh, come on, Katie does not miss me,” Patrick said. “Katie is probably glad there’s more room on the couch when she watches her cartoons.”
“What are you saying? Of course, your sister misses you. And you know you can’t call them cartoons.”
Patrick remembered the last time they’d watched Naruto, right before he’d started packing up his room—Katie had curled up next to him on the couch and pinched his arm repeatedly until he finally gave up and slid onto the floor. After that she’d messed with his hair for a good forty minutes, and by the time they were done watching, every strand seemed charged with static electricity.
“What classes did you have today?” his mom asked. “Tell me everything.”
Patrick dutifully described his creative writing professor’s body art and ranted for a bit about his complete and utter hatred for the periodic table of elements. He trailed off somewhere in the middle of some concentrated vitriol on balancing chemical equations thinking about Artemis,
and how Josh had written her a song because she was the type of girl people write songs about, and then they did stuff, who knew what, and Patrick will never know the details, didn’t want to know, not really—
“Pat?”
He jerked out of that demented train of thought and made a soft sound in his throat, an almost-cough.
“Um—y-yes?”
“Are you all right, honey? Is your apartment okay? Are you warm enough? I can send you pajamas, you know. I’m sure those ocean breezes are chilly and there’s all that fog—”
“No, no, Mom, I’m fine,” Patrick said. “The apartment is fine. Everything is fine.”
There was a moment of quiet, and then she said, softly enough that Patrick had to press his phone closer to his ear, “We miss you so much. So much.”
Patrick felt his chest contract, tight and awful. He turned his face into the pillow and exhaled.
“I miss you guys too,” Patrick said, just as softly.
* * *
Josh knocked on his door a few minutes later and asked if Patrick wanted to join them in the world’s most incredible game of PS4 Bowling. That is how he phrased it, exactly. The most incredible game of PS4 Bowling in the world.
“Um, not really?” Patrick said. “If that’s okay.”
Josh gave him a slow smile. “It is so okay. Honestly, I don’t want to play either. I hate PS4 Bowling. I don’t even like actual bowling. I can’t say that real loud, though, because they take away your San Francisco residency for saying stuff like that.”
There was a succession of shouts, then a crash. He heard Kai say, “Mike, if you break my controller, I swear to God—”
“Can I hide out in here for a bit?” Josh said. “If I go back, Kai’s going to make me be on his team, and he gets super-angry when I suck.”
Patrick shrugged, trying to ignore the fluttering in his chest when Josh sprawled out on his bed, his shirt riding up over his stomach. Patrick had to sleep there tonight, in that exact spot where Josh was currently laid out. It would probably smell like him, that distinctive Josh smell, a mixture of incense and laundry detergent and sweat—
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