“Oh, go fuck yourself.” A hint of a smile hangs on his lips, and it’s enough to lighten the mood.
“Dude,” I say as I place a hand on his shoulder, “your secret is safe with me. What kind of person would I be to take advantage of that?”
He nods slowly. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Plus, you still owe me fifty bucks.”
That gets a smile.
By lunch time, I’m as light as a feather. I practically dance my way through the line and back to the table where Jackie and Tanner are waiting.
“What’s up with you?” Tanner asks, looking up from his laptop. “Did you get a hummer in the bathroom or something?”
“That’s not appropriate meal-time discussion,” Jackie scolds him. “Besides, if that were the case, he would have already told me.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Tanner elbows her side. “He doesn’t want to make you jealous.”
“Knock it off you two.” I kick both their shins under the table. “No one is getting a hummer. Well, unless you’re talking about an actual Hummer, because I think Allen Coleman got one of those for his birthday last week.”
“Fucking rich white people.” Jackie scoffs, stabbing a tater tot with her fork.
“I hate to break it to you, Jackie,” I say with a laugh, “but you’re the most basic of white people.”
“That is not true!” she rebuts. “I’m woke. I listen to NPR.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I’m certainly not rich!”
“Just privileged,” chimes Tanner.
“Um, mind if I sit with y’all?”
Chris stands at the head of the table, doing an awkward shuffle with his feet.
What’s he doing here?
“Duh,” Jackie replies. “Scoot over, sasquatch.”
Tanner slides down, moving his laptop with him.
“And to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence today, Mr. Myers?” Jackie asks, brandishing her potato-loaded utensil.
“I invited him.” I jump in before Chris can answer.
“So, this is super-secret project business then.” She narrows her eyes. “Well, fine. You two just whisper in each other’s ears, and I’ll pretend I’m not eavesdropping.”
Chris makes eye contact, and I hope my smile is reassuring. Now I know he isn’t out to ruin my life, he might actually be fun to hang around.
“Okay, I lied. I’m not going to be able to keep myself quiet.” Jackie leans back towards us. “Can we talk about theology class for a second?”
Chris and Jackie become engrossed in their conversation while I zone out. Even though my own burden has been lifted, I keep thinking about Chris. How awful it must be to have that for a father? I mean, Mom and Dad aren’t the most progressive parents in the world, but they don’t go around openly bashing gay people. They just make snide passing comments every now and again. Those sting but not anywhere near what Chris must feel on the daily.
“Mike, are you even listening?”
“Huh?”
“I said Mom wants to know what the game plan is for next Saturday.”
“Oh, right.” I press my palm to my forehead. They’ve switched topics on me. “Your party.”
“Not just any party,” Jackie replies for Chris’s sake. “My not-quite-as-sweet-as-sixteen-but-still-pretty-sweet-like-maybe-some-kind-of-artificial-sweetener seventeenth birthday party.”
“Actually,” interjects Tanner, “most artificial sweeteners are thousands of times sweeter than cane sugar. So, that’s not an accurate example for—”
“Did I fucking ask you, Tanner?” Jackie smacks him on the shoulder. “I need you to work with me here.”
“What did you want to do?” I ask.
“Nothing special.” She leans forward on her elbows. “I told her we’d probably just order pizza and binge Bill Nye on Netflix.”
“That’s what we do every weekend,” Tanner points out.
“But this time it will be with a larger circle of friends, so I can get lots of presents.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’re totally invited, Chris.” Jackie puts her arm around his shoulder. “The more the merrier.”
“Sure.” He smiles. “That’d be great.”
“It’ll be a blast,” I tell him.
God knows he could use a little fun.
“Hey, Mike?”
I close my locker, slinging my messenger bag back on my shoulder. Chris makes his way over from the other side of the hall.
“What’s up?”
It feels weird to not immediately be filled with dread when he says my name.
“I was wondering if you were busy this afternoon?”
“I’m not actually,” I answer. “Swim practice was cancelled. Something about coach Schmidt’s hemorrhoids flaring up. Honestly, I wasn’t listening that carefully.”
“Wow.” Chris laughs. “That was way more information than I ever needed.”
“You’re welcome.” I lean against the locker. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“I was going to head into the city and wanted to see if you’d like to tag along?”
“Oh, sure.” I pull out my phone. “Just let me clear it with the parental units.”
“Yeah, of course. I have to go check in with Dr. Redford about that stupid pop quiz anyway. Meet you at the car?”
“Yeah.” I nod, holding my phone to my ear.
Dad’s phone goes to voicemail, so I try Rosy next.
“What?” she answers.
“Why are you like that?” I ask.
“It’s my job. Now, stop beating around the bush.”
“I’m going into the city with Chris,” I tell her. “Would you let Dad know when he picks you up?”
“You got it, fam.”
She hangs up before I can say anything else.
I stow my phone, heading for the parking lot.
We don’t have much to say as we drive south on I-75.
“Have you listened to Ben Howard?” Chris asks as we come to a halt just short of the Grady curve.
“Yeah,” I reply, turning the volume up a tad. “I think he came up on Spotify for me a few months ago. I like him.”
“Me too.” Chris selects the track while edging his way onto the exit ramp.
“Where did you say we’re going?” I ask, peering out the window. I don’t recognize any of my surroundings, but we’re moving away from the heinous traffic, so that’s a plus.
Everyone who’s been to Atlanta knows what I’m talking about. It’s a special kind of hell, being trapped on the highway with a million of your closest friends in standstill traffic and wondering if you’ll ever see the end of the monotonous stop and go or if you’ll eventually just blow your brains out.
I heard on the radio, a few weeks ago, Atlanta has somewhere close to three million commuters a day. Now the film industry is here, it’s only going to get worse. If you can hear this message, get out while you still can.
The tall buildings are distorted by the shimmer of heat coming from the asphalt and cars. It transforms the city into a mirage—a place where nothing is solid, and everything changes by the way you look at it.
That familiar creative itch works its way up my arm.
I don’t usually come this far downtown. My family spends a lot of time in Buckhead and Lenox on the north side. Mom tends to avoid what she thinks are the sketchy parts of town. Which, apparently, is most of the city.
“It’s a surprise,” Chris finally replies. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
He leaves me to ponder as we keep moving east of the city. Passing outside the window are an interesting blend of new buildings and ones that are practically crumbling. Then again, you could say that about most of Atlanta. Something old beside something new.
“I’ve never seen this part of the city.” I raise my voice over the music. The juxtaposition on the streets creates a strange beauty. A subtle harmony of vitality and history, the majority fal
ling somewhere between the two.
I really want to sketch right now.
“Dude, you need to get out more.” Chris laughs.
A new song starts, and I’m pulled away from the hustle and bustle of the street.
“I love this song,” I say.
“I know,” Chris replies. “You said that the other night in my room.”
“Oh, yeah,” I reply, soaking up every beat of the hypnotic rhythm.
“I have one rule for this song.” He presses the buttons on the armrest, windows lowering as warm wind whips the hair off my forehead. “All windows must be down.”
“Perfect.” I reach my arm out the side of the car, a buffeting breeze coaxing it back and forth.
A freedom hangs in the air.
After they get their fill of the city, my eyes wander to Chris. I’ve never really given him a second glance before. I guess I always assumed he was off limits, given his parental situation. So, I just skipped over him in my discreet ogling. Now, I feel like I’m almost required to check him out.
His hair is darker than mine—jet black and cut short on the sides—but his bangs fall down to his eyebrows. I’m jealous of how straight it lays. I have so many curls I have to keep my hair short if I want any chance at styling it. Chris sits rigidly in his seat, posture immaculate. It must come with the rigor of a strict upbringing. His shirt is rolled to the elbow, patterned tie hanging loose around his neck. A faded line of freckles runs along his cheekbones, just under his eyes. It’s kind of adorable.
He’s kind of adorable.
Ugh. What am I thinking? This guy almost ruined my life. But, then again…he didn’t.
We pulled off the highway almost half an hour ago and are now carving our way through a sketchy section of Moreland Avenue. A big sign welcomes us to the East Atlanta Village. It’s funny, I’ve never heard of it before.
When we reach a particularly colorful part of the village, Chris pulls over, rolling the windows up and parking on the side of the road.
“Where are we?” I ask, in no hurry to open my door.
“Little Five Points,” Chris answers, already climbing out of the driver’s seat. “I’m guessing you’ve never been here either?”
“Never,” I confess, opening my door. I step out on the sidewalk, feeling incredibly out of place. Two men walk past us, hand in hand, laughing together. That’s definitely something I don’t see every day.
“Then you haven’t lived.” Chris slaps me on the back with a playful grin. “Come on, we gotta walk a little way.”
Once we’re out in the heat, my eyes have more than their fair share of things to devour. The sidewalk is cracked and withered, but that doesn’t seem to bother those passing by. They move in tandem, each step like the beating of a heart. I guess people are like blood in that way, carrying life to every inch of the neighborhood. It’s beautiful to watch.
This village houses an eclectic mix of people, each of them more vibrant than the last. Couples walk in stride, businessmen talk on cell phones as they traverse the pavement, and everywhere I look, there’s something new to see.
Chris acts as my guide, pointing out shops as we pass. “That is Junkman’s Daughter,” he says, motioning to the blue building covered in graffiti. “A great place to waste an afternoon. That place over there serves the best burgers in town, but you gotta be twenty-one to get in. They have this huge wooden dick right when you walk in. It’s great. Oh! If you’ve ever wondered what your parents wore when they were our age, check out that shop. It’s terrifying. And next door is this amazing record store. My dad loves spending hours in there, it drives my mom crazy.”
Pastor Myers spends time in this neighborhood? I try to picture him walking under the plethora of rainbow flags fluttering in the breeze, but it just doesn’t feel right. It’s like those terrible magazines you see at the grocery store—blurry Photoshop pictures of famous people in places they’ve never been.
“This way.” Chris leads me.
We turn the corner, and houses line either side now as we head down McLendon Avenue. There are even more flags here. One house in particular displays a beautiful collection of colored glass, and it’s stunning when the sun hits it. I’ve never seen so much pride in one place before.
“How often does your family come here?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Not so much anymore,” he replies, eyes locked directly ahead as we stroll down the sidewalk. “But we used to visit a lot when I was younger. Sometimes, Mom and I will come down on the weekend, but it’s complicated now.”
I don’t press the subject. I can’t imagine being here with my parents. They’d take one look at me, eyes wide with awe, and know exactly what I am. My face must be screaming “Take me, Atlanta, into your gay bosom!”
“I’m guessing your family doesn’t spend much time in the city?” He looks to me now.
“Definitely not.” I knock a pebble along with my foot. “The last time we even went downtown was for the College Football Hall of Fame. That’s four hours of my life I can never get back. To be honest, I can’t imagine them stopping anywhere like this.”
“Well, it’s their loss.” He stops in front of a rust-colored building with a big red door. There are a few metal tables and chairs out front, and the wooden sign hanging above displays a large painted moustache.
“What is this place?” I peer through the huge window. A weird assortment of furniture spreads across the room, covering a massive red patterned rug.
“This is our destination. Welcome to Dr. Bombay’s Underwater Tea Party.” He holds the door open expectantly.
“Excuse me?”
“Just go in.” Chris smiles.
Heat rises to my cheeks.
That’s…weird.
I pass through the threshold, the sweet smell of coffee blending with the musty scent of old books. More dusty carpet sprawls under my feet, patterned red. Chris steps behind me, making his way to the counter.
I’ve never seen so much crammed into a tiny space. To be honest, a bit of claustrophobia starts to set in. Bookshelves line the mustard tinted walls on my left and right, an assortment of colored covers and bindings splashed against the dark wooden shelves. A wooden bird cage hangs above my head, surrounded with dozens of folded paper cranes—frozen in flight. The mismatched tables and chairs fill all possible space, people draped around them in various stages of engagement.
Some are huddled over laptops, faces illuminated by the glow of their screens. Others are sipping tea from beautiful china, and three-tiered trays piled with cookies and sandwiches resting on the tables. And still more sit quietly, a book held in their hands as they turn page after page, oblivious to onlookers.
I meander to the counter where Chis is speaking with a young woman with several lips piercings. Her hair is a strange shade of teal, and it makes her russet skin look warmer. The wall beside us is covered in chalkboards hanging from simple black chains. They’re riddled with lists I quickly realize must be different kinds of tea—more than I would have imagined possible.
An icebox sits beside the pick-up counter, containing a spectrum of delicious looking ice cream waiting to be scooped. Beside that is a glass display full of cakes and pastries. My stomach rubbles just looking at them. My sweet tooth is insatiable.
“Thank you very much.” Chris turns back to me, excitement bubbling under his usually reserved demeanor. “We have a table in the other room. Come on!”
We step up through the doorframe to our left, Chris half dragging me into the other side of the shop. More bookshelves line the walls, rows of paper lanterns, parasols, lampshades, and various and sundry other peculiar things suspended above us by fishing line. They cast pockets of light down on the floor from above. An old piano sits in the corner by the window, the stool seated in front of it covered in a knit slip with a floral print. Two long tables run the length of the room, parallel to each other. Laughter bubbles from the cluster of friends at the end of the table closest to us.<
br />
“That’s ours.” Chris points to the small table by the window and ushers me towards it.
“This place is ridiculous.” I marvel, senses overwhelmed. Chris moves to the table, behind him a cluster of paintings catch my attention—a vase of flowers, antique style portraits, a sailing ship on deep blue waves, and a lush meadow landscape piece. “It looks like it jumped off the page of a book.”
“You’d be surprised what you can find if you look hard enough.” Chris pulls out his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the concrete floor. “Have a seat. It’s a better vantage point.”
Taking the spot across from him, I sink into the chair. The cacophony of bright colors and vivacious chatter from the other side of the room keep it difficult for me to focus.
“We’re just in time for high tea,” Chris tells me, leaning his elbows on the table.
“You’re kidding.” Images of Pride and Prejudice era waistcoats and gloves fill my head. “We’re having a tea party?”
“In a sense, yeah, I guess we are. Are you a coffee drinker?”
I nod my head. “Avid.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.”
He smiles at me again, and his eyes are alight with even more excitement. Just what exactly is going on here?
“Here we go.” The lip-ringed goddess with teal hair sets our own tiered tray down on the table, the golden plates pilled with more sweets than I can dream of. Next, comes a porcelain tea pot and two cups on saucers. Last, she sets down a plate with a cup of what looks like whipped cream and plastic containers of jam. “Enjoy, fellas.”
“Whoa.” The floral scent coming from the steaming pot is strong enough to make my eyes water. “What is that?”
“It’s dandelion tea,” Chris explains, grabbing one of the triangular scones and popping the lid off the orange-hued jelly. “You have to let it steep for a few minutes before you pour it or else it’s gross. But, when it’s done, it tastes a lot like coffee.”
“It smells…interesting,” I say, stealing a mini cupcake from the tray and pulling the wax paper from the bottom. I take a bite. It’s strawberry and delicious.
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