It’s kind of nice knowing the Myers talk about the same dumb shit my family does. Here I was thinking the topics of discussion would be theology and scriptures, but it’s been homework and whose turn it is to wash the dishes.
Once we’ve had our sweets, Chris offers to drive me home.
“It was lovely having you, Michael.” Vanessa gives me a polite one-armed hug over my shoulder. “Be sure to tell your parents I said hello.”
“Sure,” I reply. Why do adults always seem so keen on telling each other hello through their offspring? We all know they have Facebook. Just poke each other and leave me out of it. “Thank you for dinner, it was so good.”
“You’re welcome anytime. Chris, please drive safely.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods, jingling his keys.
The two of us make it to the car just as his dad pulls into the driveway. I climb into the car, head ducking instinctively. Chris hesitates.
“I’ll be just a second,” he tells me, leaning over the steering wheel to start the engine. He walks across to his father’s car, speaking to him through the driver’s window.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I watch pastor Myers’s face in the side mirror. He doesn’t look happy. Then again, he doesn’t really ever look happy unless he’s talking about Revelation or, maybe, the annual church picnic. The man does love his picnics.
After another minute or so, Chris trudges back to his car, plopping down in the driver’s seat.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves the question off. “Sorry about that.” He flicks on the radio without further explanation, cranking the volume.
Thankfully, traffic has died down from rush hour, and it doesn’t take us long to reach my house. Chris pulls into the driveway, lowering the music back to a reasonable level.
“Thanks again,” he says, “for helping me out. I should have cash for you tomorrow. Do you think you could come over again and finish it up?”
“Yeah.” I retrieve my messenger bag from the floorboard. “Maybe I can invite Jackie to come hang out while I work?”
“Nah.” Chris shakes his head. “She’d be too much of a distraction. We’d never be able to get any work done.”
He laughs, and I’m more than a little confused. I would have thought he’d jump at the chance to hang out with her. Doesn’t he want to get in her pants?
But then again, what do I know about straight guys? They’re an enigma.
“Cool.” I climb out of the car. “See you tomorrow then?”
“See ya.” He waits for me to shut the door before backing out a little faster than he should.
I suck in a breath as he clears the mailbox by a fraction of an inch.
Once he is out of sight, I head inside. The living room is dark, meaning Dad must still be working in his home office. Mom is bound to be asleep by this time, and Rosy is probably in her room, like always. We’re all creatures of habit.
Climbing the stairs, I flex my hand, knuckles cracking. It felt good to sketch today. Or should I say to have the urge to draw. I haven’t been able to bring myself to so much as lift a pencil since my sketchbook went missing.
But this was easy. Maybe that’s because it was for someone else? It’s always easier to do something for someone else. It’s the people pleaser in me.
I shed my jacket, hanging it on the back of my computer chair.
The day has kept me so busy, I haven’t really had a moment to worry about the whole missing book situation. But now I’m slowing down, the deferred anxiety builds in my stomach once more. Suddenly, I’m regretting that second helping of pasta.
Big Guy? Just checking in on that request for a sketchbook incineration. We still on schedule for that?
I let out a sigh. These one-sided conversations are starting to get old. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help things look better in the morning.
“How was the bro-date with Chris?” Jackie stomps out the end of a cigarette while lighting a new one. Are all women good multitaskers?
“All we did was sit in his room, working on his mom’s gift. I don’t think that classifies as a bro-date,” I reply, attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes. My plans for a full night sleep were ruined when I fell into the Tumblr trap. Three hours later, I was wide awake, scrolling through an endless feed of puppies and pornography.
“Anything can be a bro-date if you believe, Mike.”
“Then it was fine.”
“You’re no fun to tease.” She pouts. “Where’s Tanner when I need him?”
“The computer lab, doing something incredibly boring, I’m sure.”
“That boy and technology. I’m surprised he hasn’t built himself a girlfriend by now.”
“Why waste time and resources? God gave you hands for a reason….”
Jackie snorts, checking her phone. “Hey, did you ever find your sketchbook?”
My pulse quickens. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.” She types with her free hand. “I haven’t seen you doodling in a couple of days. I figure you have creative blue balls by now.”
“That’s a lovely way to put it.”
“I thought so too.”
“But the answer is no. I haven’t found it yet.”
“Fuck. That’s a bummer. Might be time to just let it go. Maybe go get a new one?”
If only letting go was that simple. If only any of this were that simple.
“Yeah, you may be right.”
“Don’t worry, Mike.” She pats my shoulder, showering my collar with ashes. “It’ll turn up. Or it won’t. Either way, you’ll keep on living.”
And with that piece of wisdom, she snuffs her vice, and we head for class.
“We’ve burned through Helplessness Blues,” Chris announces, laying his pen and paper down as he scrolls through the music on his phone. “What do you want to listen to next?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. I’m too wrapped up in shaping stands of hair to care what’s playing. The portrait is almost finished. Just a few finishing touches left before I turn it over to Chris.
“Sylvan Esso it is,” he concludes, starting a song with a synth-heavy beat.
The afternoon has flown by, and I can’t believe I’m so close to finishing. It must a record for me. Chris hit a writer’s block an hour ago and has devolved into spinning around in his chair, mumbling incoherent phrases.
Now more music has been selected, he continues with this strange behavior.
“Chris!” a deep voice booms from downstairs. “I need you!”
“Shit,” Chris mutters and then realizes what he said. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” I laugh. “Shit is one of my favorite words.”
“I’ll be right back.” He stands from his chair, kicking it back a little harder than I think he anticipated. It collides with one of the bookshelves as he clears the door.
My concentration is ruined by a clatter and things scattering across the floor. I glance over at a mess of papers and books strewn from the bookshelf. A box is overturned on top of the chair. It must have fallen from the top shelf.
I set my pencil down, flexing my wrist. Gathering the loose scraps, I notice they’re lined with what appear to be poems. It’s difficult, but I try not to look at Chris’s private words. Once they’ve all been returned to the box, I strain to return it back to the shelf, but I’m not quite tall enough. Using the chair, I balance carefully, placing the box back where it belongs.
Awesome. Now, I can get back to…
I stop.
Pushed against the wall on the top shelf, beside a random trophy and some old baseball cards, sits a sketchbook with a brown cover.
My heart hammers in my ears as I reach for it, pushing everything out of the way haphazardly. I seize the book, almost face planting as I step off the chair. My fingers tremble as I flip open the back cover to see my name and phone number scrawled in a familiar script.
I
don’t feel relieved to be reunited with it, especially given my surroundings. My jaw is clenched so tight I don’t even think I can form words. Anger like a flash fire courses through me.
Why would Chris take this? More importantly, why would he hide it?
I don’t have long to question his motives before he comes back up the stairs.
“Sorry about that.” He steps back into the room. “Dad needed me to— Oh, shit.”
“What is this?” I hold the book out.
He freezes like a deer in headlights.
“What the fuck, Chris?”
“Shh!”
He shuts the door behind him, and suddenly I feel very trapped. I need to get out of here.
“I can explain,” he whispers. “Let me—”
“Don’t take another fucking step!”
“Mike.” Chris holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” I spit my words. “A game you like to play with that bigot of a father? Let’s torture the fag!”
“Please, Mike, this is all just a misunderstanding.” He takes a step towards me.
I pull the chair in front of me like a shield. “Bullshit!” I shout. “This is all some kind of trick. You kept it, so you could humiliate me with it!”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know!”
I push the chair at him, and he knocks it aside.
“Maybe, to you, this is just some joke, but it’s not funny. You and your sadistic father can both just burn in he—”
Chris catches my arm, pulling me toward him. In a split second, lips find mine, and he presses into me.
I’m paralyzed with shock. My brain shuts down. Hot tears roll down my cheeks.
Chris breaks away, and it only takes a second to regain my senses. His head jerks to the side as my palm makes contact with his face. I dash by him, pulling the door open and taking the steps two at a time.
“Mike!”
“Michael?” Vanessa calls as I hit the front door, bursting through it and down to the driveway.
I don’t stop. I keep running until my lungs are bursting and a stitch burns in my side.
Thankfully, when my body can’t go any farther, my brain kicks in. I pull out my phone and signal an Uber to take me home.
I’ve been in bed for three hours, staring at the ceiling. Every time I think I have an explanation, an answer to my situation, three more questions pop up.
Just what was Chris planning to do with my sketches, anyway?
And what was that kiss? Just another way for him to humiliate me? That has to be the reason. No way he would have done that if it wasn’t to degrade me.
I flip through the book again, taking stock. The sketches are all here, unharmed and just as I left them. The knots in my stomach twist as I picture Chris going through them. He must think I’m some sick, demented freak.
And, Jesus Christ, why the hell do I care what he thinks about me?
He’s nothing but a liar. A hateful piece of shit just like his dad.
I stow the book in my bag, clutching it against my chest and reveling in the familiar weight. It’s back where it belongs, but I have a feeling my troubles are far from over.
Chris is waiting for me the next morning, leaning against my locker and fidgeting with his hands. I want to knock his teeth in, but Jackie is with me, and that might raise some suspicions.
“Hey, Chris,” Jackie greets him, oblivious to the fact he is the scum of the fucking Earth.
“Hey, Jackie.” Chris doesn’t move from his perch, just stares at me.
I open my locker, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact.
“Did you guys finish the thing for your mom?” she asks.
“For the most part,” he answers. He looks like he wants to say more but stops himself.
What, Chris? Don’t you want to out me right here in the hallway? Don’t you want to lead the mob of angry villagers to crucify me?
“Oh cool,” Jackie types away on her phone.
Chris looks at me again, and I hate that my heart is hammering in my ears. Any second, he’s going to spill my secret. He’s going to ruin my life in an instant, and nothing will ever be the same. It’s killing me that he has so much power.
He inhales but chokes on the words.
I grab my New Testament book from my locker, slamming it shut with excess force.
“Jeez, Mike.” Jackie looks up from her phone. “Been juicing up?”
“Something like that,” I say flatly.
“How was your night, Jackie?” Chris asks through clenched teeth.
“It was all right. I stayed up way too late working on that stupid history— Shit!” Jackie hisses, pulling her backpack off to dig through. “I left it in the car! I have to go find Mom before the bell. See you guys at lunch!”
She hurries off, leaving me to stare daggers at Chris and imagine all the wonderful ways in which he could die a slow and painful death.
“We need to talk,” he says in a hushed tone.
I laugh in his face. “You got to be fucking kidding me.” I turn to leave, but he catches my arm.
“Please,” he insists, tears shining in the corners of his eyes. “Please, I just need to explain myself.”
My anger flickers. I wasn’t expecting tears. With an exasperated sigh, I nod.
“Not here.” He throws a glance over his shoulder. “Someplace private.”
“Fine.” I shake his hand off. “Come on.”
My face is still flushed when we exit the school, heading for the back of the building. I lead him into the brick-walled sanctuary that is the dumpster pad.
“Jesus.” Chris covers his nose. “It smells like something died.”
“Just wait ‘til Tuesday.” I snort. It makes me feel a little better that I’m forcing him to endure the stench. “Now, what the fuck do you want, Myers?”
Chris recoils from his last name like an obscenity.
“I wanted to explain about the sketchbook,” he starts. “And to apologize.”
Apologize? Once again, not exactly what I had in mind.
“Okay?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I found it.” He drops his head, so I can’t see his face. “That was really shitty of me, but you have to understand I had my reasons.”
He doesn’t keep going.
“And they are?” I prod.
“The thing is…” Chris’s hands fidget with his backpack straps.
“What?” I can’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “What reason could you possibly have to take my book other than to hold it against me?”
“You don’t understand,” he replies.
“Try me.” The stench of the garbage is getting worse by the minute. I blame the sun that’s starting to make its way over the brick wall. “Why did you keep it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.” I sneer, stepping past him. “See you around, Myers.”
He catches my shoulder.
“Fine!” he shouts, spinning me around. “Fine, okay? I kept the dumb thing because I liked the drawings.”
I blink.
Chris pulls on his straps, eyes trained downward.
“You like my sketches?”
He nods his head.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Which ones?”
“The…the ones in the back,” he says, face flushing a deep scarlet.
Oh. Oh. Oh, holy shit.
“I swear to God, if you are messing with me, Myers—”
“Stop calling me that!” he snaps, eyes lifting to me. “And why would I lie about something like this?”
“Because this doesn’t make any sense!” I’m beyond dumbfounded.
“Look—” Chris takes a shuddered breath— “I kept that book because I was building up the courage to give it back to you. I knew I couldn’t just walk up and say I found it. So, I had this plan to get you to do that portrait just as an excuse to be alone with yo
u. So, maybe I could bring it up. I didn’t—”
“Wait.” I stop him. “So, it’s not your mom’s birthday next Saturday?”
“No, it’s in November.”
“So not only did you steal my sketchbook, but you lied and abused my art. Here I was thinking you asked me to help because I was good artist. Thanks a lot.”
“You are. That’s not the point!” Chris grunts. “Look, I’m sorry I took it. But you have to believe me when I say I never intended to do anything with it. I saw it laying on the ground in the Well, and I just couldn’t help myself. And then, when I saw what was on those pages, I…” He trails off, scarlet faced.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
He has to say it. I won’t believe it until he does. The whole thing is just too bizarre.
“I’m…gay,” he whispers, throwing a worried glance over his shoulder.
There it is. The word. But it’s not exactly in the context I thought it would come. I take a second to process.
Seriously, Big Guy? I mean, I know You had to have something special in store for Myers, but giving him a gay son? That’s just cruel.
“Mike?”
Chris’s eyes are dinner plates. His hands have passed fidgeting into full-on tremble mode. The poor kid is falling apart.
“You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone,” he whispers, throwing another paranoid glance over his shoulder.
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it.
“You don’t have to be a dick about it.” Chris huffs, crossing his arms. “You know I did all this because I thought, of all people, you’d understand.”
“W-wait.” I regain my composure. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve been freaking out for the past three days, thinking my secret will come out one way or the other. Then, I was sure you were going to ruin my life. And, now, here you are asking me to keep the very same secret I thought you’d expose. You can see the irony.”
Chris doesn’t smile. “And why exactly did you think I’d do something like that?”
“Um, your last name may have a little something to do with that.”
“Jesus,” he hisses. “My fucking last name dictates everything I do.”
“Whoa, there.” I grin. “I don’t think that’s appropriate language for a P.K. to be using.”
There Goes Sunday School Page 9