Exiled to Iowa. Send Help. And Couture

by Chris O'Guinn

  Was that the barest hint of a smile I got from him on that?

  “You don’t look green from here.”

  “It’s the lighting. Also, I work wonders with makeup.” I told myself to absolutely not let my camp get out of control. I’d already been lame enough for one day. “But, no, actually, L.A.”

  “Where’s that?”

  I blinked and then saw yet another ghost of a smile on his face. And it was literally a ghost of a smile—the undead remnants of something that clearly had perished a long time ago.

  “Funny man,” I commented with a grin.

  “Says the Martian.”

  “Fair point.”

  Austin was not relaxing, per se, but he was definitely growing more animated, which I hoped was a good sign. Though I could not pin down exactly why, I was drawn to him and I wanted to be able to be friends. The fact that it would kill any chance for improving my social standing was something that did not occur to me then.

  We made small talk, which was painful and awkward, but kind of awesome at the same time. I could tell how out of practice he was with the whole talking thing and it was sort of sweet, really. I told him a little of L.A. and he volunteered absolutely nothing about himself.

  I finally screwed up the courage to blurt out the question that had been lurking between us since his little declaration about not being a mad bomber. “So, why did you get transferred, then?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, if you know what the rumors say, but you haven’t corrected them ... what could the real reason be? It couldn’t be worse than everyone thinking you’re nuts. Why haven’t you told people the real reason?”

  Austin had a mild panic attack, his eyes going wider than I had yet seen them. I had apparently blitzed him with questions he had hoped to not have to answer for a while ... or forever. He stammered, folded his arms around his chest and closed down. It was frustrating and confusing and left me a bit at a loss for what to do.

  No, I don’t like bad boys and you’re a terrible person if you were thinking that. I wasn’t into him because he was troubled.... I was into him because he was interesting ... in a troubled way.

  I had utterly lost track of practice, though, and my brother had inconveniently finished showering and was now calling for me. I was about to protest, but he had a look on his face which I recognized as “don’t give me any crap” so I let Austin off the hook.

  “See you around,” I told the mysterious young man and went to see what had set Shawn off.

  I was going to get an answer from Austin on that question though, at some point.

  Chapter 5

  MY BROTHER'S CAR WAS A 1986 Mercury Capri, two-door. It wasn't fancy, it would never impress girls on Rodeo Drive, but he was as proud of it as he was of the time he made some impossible shot one time which won his team the game. The reason was that it was his. Our dad had purchased it as a junker when Shawn was thirteen. Even when we were upper middle class, my dad had not been foolish about money. He had explained to both of us that our first cars would be old, reliable machines. We would learn to fix cars with them and learn to drive on them.

  Every weekend, my dad and Shawn spent hours out in the garage, tinkering with the thing. I hung out with them sometimes, fetching tools, beverages and otherwise just soaking up that ineffable feeling that comes with being a part of a family. I admit to having been dubious that the thing would ever actually run under its own power, but that was unimportant. It was the time spent together that was the real reward.

  Amazingly, it did run and took Shawn through his driving test and into the wide world of independence, a fact he enjoyed lording over me at every possible opportunity. He stopped, though, when my own project-car (an adorable 89 Pontiac Sunbird) had to be scrapped owing to the unexpected need for a new transmission and our sudden lack of money. They say you can't miss what you never had, but that’s a vicious lie, like the Easter Bunny, or sitting too close to the TV will ruin your eyes. I had been practicing driving every weekend and was ready to take the test when I turned sixteen (now only a few weeks off) so losing the car had been something like having my hands cut off. My moping over it had been superseded only by the need to sulk over our move.

  Priorities, you understand.

  As I sat in the passenger seat, my thoughts were still back in the gym with my new friend and the laundry list of complications he brought to my life. For one, obviously I didn't need any help in killing my popularity; which is what a friendship with him would do. For another, I had some uneasy suspicions about the reasons for my fascination with him and the last time someone had inspired those feelings it had gotten me outed, ostracized and avoided. I wasn't anxious to go through that again.

  “Why were you talking to the school freak?” Shawn asked me suddenly.

  His peevish tone reminded me that he was in a mood for some reason. It was not like him to refer to people as “freak” so something was definitely up. “His name's Austin, actually. He's nice.”

  “I hear he's trouble. And didn't we agree you would avoid trouble?”

  “I'm trying.... But it clings to me like lint.” I huffed in annoyance, not sure why he was taking out his mood on me. It wasn't like I had done anything. Lately.

  “Trying? Are you? What's with the blood on your shirt?”

  “Er....” I had sort of forgotten about the telltale signs of my run-in with Billy. “Nosebleed?”

  Shawn's jaw clenched, which was not a good sign. He was pissed. “Was that before or after that guy socked you in the face?”

  I sighed and looked out the window. The part of Buford we lived in was actually sort of quaint, at a glance. The houses were well tended and the lawns perfectly manicured. It was like something out of a postcard. There was a peaceful feeling about the hominess of it all. Now that I was not as embittered as I had been about the move, I could appreciate the idyllic qualities of my new home.

  “It wasn't my fault,” I told my brother. “I tried to get away, but his pack of goons wouldn't let me.”

  Shawn turned onto our street—Buford wasn't very big, after all, and the trip home was not very long. “The first day, and you're already making enemies. I asked—I almost begged you—to rein it in. I've got a lot going on, Col, and I don't have time to be leaping in to save you every five minutes. So, for the love of God, will you please just tone it down and stay out of trouble?”

  This was too much. It hurt like hell to hear Shawn blaming me like everyone else did and I couldn't deal with it anymore. I leaped out of the car before he had finished parking and just started walking. I needed to get away from him, the stupid house … everything.

  “Collin…?”

  “Leave me alone, Shawn.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I turned and spread my arms wide as if to encompass the entire town of Buford, which was to blame for everything going so very wrong in my life. My expression was bitter as I said, “Nowhere.”

  Then I took off, because I didn't want to say any of the things that were leaping to my mind right then — I just didn't have the energy to fight with Shawn. He let me go, fortunately. It would have been quite a show for the neighbors otherwise. In fact, people would have heard the shouting clear down to Dallas.

  I had no destination in mind. I just needed to get away. When things pile up too high, I start walking, as if to outrun whatever it is that's eating at me. It had been a horrible day, maybe the second worst of my life. It might not have been so bad if it hadn't been for how very hard I had tried to just blend in and not make waves. I had made sacrifices, real ones, and I had tried to keep a positive attitude towards the situation my parents had dumped me in.

  All for nothing.

  My bitterness welled up within me and I started thinking grimly about unleashing the Full Collin on this stupid hick town; of dressing how I liked to dress and acting like I wanted to act. The shocked and unsettled responses I imagined seeing made it very appealing. It might even make a jerk like Billy nervo
us enough that he'd stay away from me just to avoid getting gay cooties.

  Or it might wind me up in the hospital. But hey, that would be a way to get out of going to school.

  I eventually climbed aboard a bus so I could go to the soda shop Becca and Keith had shown me and sulked my way over to a table in the corner. The heavenly milkshake went a long way to calming me down. Even its pure, creamy goodness could not erase the facts I was dealing with, sadly, but I was able to stop seeing red. The only solace I had was that I was going to be eighteen eventually and I could go live wherever I wanted.

  After I calmed down, I returned home, though I took the scenic route. I was just not in any hurry to add a parental lecture onto my day. It was inevitable, of course. I had taken off without telling anyone where I was going and had disappeared for hours … and I still had blood on my shirt. Yeah, it was going to be a tense conversation, and I had endured enough of those for one day. Not that I was given a vote.

  I slipped into our house and started to announce my arrival when I became aware of raised voices in the den. I froze and listened very intently. I had a very bad feeling that the principal had called Mom and Dad and they and Shawn were fighting about me or something. It would be the perfect cap to a perfect day, after all. A grounding on top of a near-expulsion … a real red-letter day for Collin.

  Strangely, it wasn't about me at all.

  “—see why I can't! Jack and his parents said it would be fine,” Shawn hollered.

  “Because you're my son and I need you here. I'll talk to your coach, like I said. I'll fix it.” My dad was not yelling, but he was certainly speaking louder and more sternly than he ever did with my brother.

  “Oh, Jesus.... Dad, that won't help! Coach has a proven team he's happy with and he's gonna keep me on the bench unless someone gets hurt. Those scouts see me on the bench and I'll never get a scholarship. And it's not like you can afford to send me to college.”

  “That was uncalled for, son. I know you're angry, I would be too. But there's more to life than basketball and if that's not going to work out, we'll find another way.”

  “Jesus Christ, will you be reasonable? What do you need me here for?”

  “There's still work around this place that needs doing. Your brother needs help adjusting—I got a call from the school. I'm going to have to start working longer hours, so I'll need someone I can count on here, looking after things.”

  “That's not fair, Dad.”

  “I'm sorry, son.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  Footsteps retreating upstairs and a slammed door announced that the conversation had abruptly ended. I stood frozen as Guilt settled into my gut, drew up a chair and started to watch TV while my inner voice of Prudence suggested I go to my room to hide until my dad calmed down.

  The opportunity to choose disappeared in an instant; apparently he had sensed me with his annoying “parent radar” or something.

  “In here, son,” he summoned me.

  I trudged in morosely, hoping that enough pathetic vibes from me would soften the scolding that was about to rain down on my fashionably-coiffed head.

  “Fighting, Col?” he asked.

  Him too? Did everyone think I was suicidal? “That's not how I would phrase it,” I said with open hostility. My Irish temper was frayed down to the last strand.

  “On your first day?”

  I folded my arms sullenly and glowered in my best put-upon way. “Come on, Dad, seriously? Do you really think I would pick a fight? You should see this guy. He's a walking Bowflex commercial.”

  My father considered it, taking in my face and bloody shirt and reassessing my presumed guilt. “If you didn't start the fight, then why does the principal think you did?”

  “Because I'm not stupid or suicidal!” I snapped. “Jesus, if I get that goon in trouble, then he and his buds trash me every day from now until Doomsday. And I'm trying to not get into trouble. So, I kept my trap shut … which was easy, since my jaw was swelling closed. I’m doing the best I can with this crap you’ve dumped me in.”

  His own temper flared. It was never good when the Irish in us went to war. “I won’t have that tone from you, young man.”

  “Oh, well, so sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you with that fact that if you hadn’t moved us to the backwoods of nowhere, I wouldn’t be getting savaged just for knowing how to dress myself.”

  “I’ve had just about enough of this martyr routine of yours, son. I didn’t want to move here either, but it was the best I could do. I’m sorry if it’s not Disneyland, but as we say in the adult world, ‘tough luck.’ Now, you just go to your room until dinner.”

  I stormed up to my room, fuming. However, with one hurdle leaped, I now had to contend with what I had overheard about my brother. I felt pretty awful for Shawn. Now I knew why he was in such a terrible mood. Worse, it seemed to be partly my fault that he was stuck here. I had no idea his friend Jack and he had talked about him living with Jack's family for senior year. Now he was apparently getting screwed by his new coach. I was, as usual, clueless about problems my brother was having. Shawn was usually so busy looking out for me that he didn't often let me know what was wrong in his own world.

  Guilt has never been something I excel at coping with.

  My day would not, of course, have been complete without one more kick in my pearly-white teeth. As I wrestled with a guilty conscience over Shawn and struggled to think of some way I could actually help him, I received a call at last from Jen.

  The news was not good. On a day like the one I was having, how could it possibly have been good?

  “Look, Col,” she told me after some very awkward pleasantries. “You know I've always been honest with you—but I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you. I'd sort of hoped you'd just figure it out on your own.”

  Ice ran down my spine. “Yeah?”

  “When you and Mike had your blow-up, it really messed up a lot of things for a lot of people. Now, a lot of us stuck with you because we'd known you longer, but now that you're gone…. Dude, I'm sorry, but our group is sort of back together. And the stuff Mike is saying you did.... Well, not many of the guys care if they see you again.”

  I slumped, defeated. “What is he saying I did?”

  “I don't think that will help—”

  “Just ... tell me, Jen.”

  “He's saying when you guys got wasted at Dave's party, you tried to kiss him and ... put your hands on him....”

  Christ, Mike, what did I do to make you hate me that much?

  “I didn't.” It hurt that my former best friend, the previous love of my life, would be spreading lies about me to our entire circle. “All I did— I swear to God, Jen, all I did was I told him I loved him. That's it. That's what the whole stupid mess was about.”

  There was a long pause, and I was not sure how I would react if my last truly close friend believed the crap Mike was selling.

  “I know,” she told me finally. “I told him he's full of crap. But the other guys.... Look, people just want things back the way they were ... or as close as possible. If you were still here, maybe it would be different, but….” Jen sounded sorry.

  “Yeah....” That was it. I had to accept it, because there was no way to change it. My friends, my pals, the ones I had trusted to always be there for me, had turned their backs on me. I was suddenly very tired and I just wanted to crawl under my covers. “Jen....”

  “I'm still pissed you didn't tell me you're gay, you know,” she told me sternly. “I feel pretty betrayed, still, and we're not okay, you and me.”

  That was fair, of course. Of all my L.A. crowd, she was the only person who had any business hating on me. “I just figured…. I mean, it seems so obvious to me I just assumed people knew.”

  “Oh, I suspected, but I assumed that if you were, you would tell me. Since you didn’t, I had to believe you were just a really secure straight guy.”

  That made my gut twist with more guilt. “I should have told
you…. I was ... scared and stupid. I'm sorry.”

  “I don’t care so much that you’re gay, Col; it’s the lying that has me not sure what to think.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah.... Look, I need some time to figure things out and decide what I want to do. I don't want you or Mike making those choices for me. You get that?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed solemnly. “I hope.... I hope we can be friends again someday….”

  I stared at the phone for a long while after we hung up, replaying the conversation in my mind. I was well and truly cut off from my old life now. There was nothing to long for or wish to go back to. I wasn't sure what to even feel about it. Relief? Regret? An aspiration toward heights of melodrama I had not yet dreamt of?

  Grimly and vindictively, I sat at my computer and proceeded to cut every one of the traitors from my friend lists. My mouse became the righteous sword of justice, and my social networking sites ran red with blood as I struck down every turncoat. In the end, only Jen remained.

  Afterwards, I shuffled over to my bed and slumped down upon it. Morbidly, I sighed and sniffled a little. The day had rung me out like an old rag and tossed me into the hamper. I was done in and really not sure I wanted to venture out of my room again for the next … ever, for fear of something else going wrong.

  “Bad day, huh?” Shawn asked, climbing the steps to the attic.

  I bit my lip and looked over at him. “Yeah, come to tell me you hate me too?”

  “Of course not.”

  He sat on my bed and put his arm around my shoulders. It was a familiar comfort, but I wasn't sure I deserved it. I might have nothing to go back to in Los Angeles, but he did and he couldn't go back there because our Dad thought I needed watching. That, on top of now knowing that apparently I had burdened my friends with a need to divide their loyalties had me feeling rather low.

  My guilt didn't keep me from soaking up the offered comfort like a sponge, however.

  “I'm sorry I got in your face, bro,” Shawn said gently.

  “Eh, I kind of deserved it. I heard ... you and Dad. I know ... I know you're sort of stuck here because Dad thinks I need extra supervision.”