“I thought you guys provided the car.”
She sighs like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “No, sweetheart, we don’t provide the car. You have to bring your own.” She glances down at her clipboard and then, perhaps noticing I’m on the verge of tears, shows a sliver of humanity. “I’ll file your paperwork. Come back next week with your own car and we’ll finish it then.”
“Are you open tomorrow?” I whine. It’s nearing closing time, so even if I managed to get my mom’s car, by the time I got back, it’ll be too late.
“Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Make an appointment next time and it will go faster.”
I moan, still trying to keep it together, then exit the DMV in a huff. I’m sticky from the ride and grimy from sitting on my ass in the DMV all day. My emotions are running amok when I imagine all the people who must have by now seen my mug performing fellatio on Asshole Dave and the last thing I want to do is go home and face my raging sister making this all about her again. And Chris. I don’t want to have to explain that picture to him.
Knowing Chris, he’s probably got our apartment cased, waiting to ambush me. Or maybe it’s the opposite and he never wants to talk to me again after today. Even though he won’t admit it, some part of Chris likes being a cool kid, and this was definitely not cool. The thought of him abandoning me is too depressing to even contemplate.
I hop on my board and head for the beach, thinking it’s the last place I can run and hide.
When I get there an hour or so later, the sun is at my back and there’s a damp chill in the air. There are a few guys out surfing, but I’m not in the mood to beg for a board.
My stomach growls because all I’ve eaten today is cake, a candy bar, and chips. I recognize one of the beach bums, Lieutenant Sean Knox, picking through the trashcans that line the beach access. Sean’s one of the guys who will reliably buy us beer if we give him a cut, and I decide to spend the last of my birthday money from my mom on getting totally shit-faced. Seems like the only way to end this awful day.
I offer up my plan to Sean with the option that he keep the difference in cash. He suggests we split the case of beer instead, and I tell him I’m game. He asks me what kind I want, and I tell him to pick since it’s all the same to me. He comes back from the convenience store with a case of Miller Light under his arm. I figured we’d just split it there on the sidewalk, but he tells me to follow him down to the beach.
Once there, he ducks under the pier and climbs up to where the sand meets the pilings and creates a secluded kind of cave. Not a bad place to camp out for the night, which makes me wonder if Sean does that on the regular. He plops down and motions for me to join him, cracks open a beer, and tosses me one. I thought I’d be drinking alone, but I suppose it’s just as well to drink with a friend. I pop the top and it foams up a bit. I slurp it up, thinking it tastes only a little bit better than it smells.
By this time the sun is starting to set and the surfers are all going out for their last few rides. I get to thinking about my surf trips with Chris, how I’ve usually punked out by this time and I’m just sitting on the beach wrapped in a towel watching him surf. If I make my eyes go wide and fuzzy, I can almost see him out there on the waves right now, and it fills me with a sense of calm and contentment that also feels dangerous, and I know I’ve really screwed things up this time.
While we drink, Sean tells me about his time in the army and where he spent his tours. I’ve heard it before, but I listen again to be polite. Then he starts telling me about this city in Afghanistan, this one particular battle, which apparently has been made into a movie and stars an ex-marine who was there.
“He was the only one of his platoon to survive. I mean, what are the chances?” Sean says with a bitter edge to his voice, and I’m not sure I understand the significance except to think that he is one lucky bastard.
“Know what I think?” Sean leans in like we’re two gangsters planning our next bank robbery.
“What?” I’m light-headed and at ease. I could listen to Sean all night long. Just two buds, kicking back a few beers, telling war stories.
“I think that fucker was hiding. I think he abandoned his boys. Because the shit he was able to remember.” Sean shakes his head. His upper lip curls into a snarl. “I mean, I was in some shit, man, and I can’t remember anything.”
“It happens so fast,” I say. In the blink of an eye, everything turns upside down and you’re dumped on your ass.
“Hell yeah. It was over like that.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “And this fucker is coming up with all these details about what guns were fired—the mortars and shells, who was hit and where. Bullshit, man. He wasn’t there. Maybe he was part of the cleanup crew, but he sure as shit wasn’t there.”
I nod in agreement, wondering how it was that Sean ended up picking through the trash on the beach, and who we are as a society if we can’t even take care of our veterans.
“So, what’s your story, man?” Sean turns toward me, catching me by surprise. I’m flattered he wants to know me better. A lot of the bums just want to talk about themselves, mostly to tell you a sob story so you feel bad enough to give them money to go buy beer or drugs. Not that I’m judging. We all get by however we can.
“I don’t know if I have a story.” I’m not necessarily looking for sympathy, but not avoiding it early. “It’s my birthday today.”
“Really? Shit, happy birthday.” He claps me on the back and taps the rim of his can against mine. His is already empty, so he cracks open another one. “Drink up, man. These won’t stay cold for long, and they taste like ass when they’re warm.”
I chug the rest of my beer and accept the open one he offers to me. The first beer was ice cold and went down like water with only a mildly bitter aftertaste. My stomach is full and sloshy, but I start on the second one with just as much enthusiasm.
“So, how old are you now?” Sean asks.
“Sixteen.”
“Sweet sixteen, never been kissed,” Sean muses.
I chirp a bitter laugh because it’s true. I’ve still never been kissed. Saving myself, I guess.
“Where’s all your boys?” Sean scans the shoreline, where the surfers are all packing up for the night, maybe wondering if I know them. I probably do, but not well enough to call them my boys.
There’s something about this second beer, which is quickly going down the gullet and working its way through my bloodstream, making me giddy and light-headed with a general sense of not giving a fuck. “There’s a picture of me going around school,” I tell Sean. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Dick pic?” he asks.
If only it were that. “No. It’s of me sucking off another guy.”
Sean flinches like he’s just woken up from a bad dream. “Shit, man, that’s a lot to unpack.”
I laugh at the way he says it. “You’re telling me.”
“That’s pretty shitty, sending around that picture. You know who did it?”
I sigh because more than being pissed at Dave, I’m disappointed. I trusted him, and he screwed me over. It hurts on a superficial level—my reputation and my privacy and the fact that I don’t want to show my face at Sabal Palm High ever again—but it also hurts on a much deeper level.
“Yeah, I know who did it,” I tell him.
“You going to beat his ass?”
I consider it. I can’t really see myself beating Dave’s ass, if I even could. I’ll probably never talk to him again and avoid him at all costs, but hitting people isn’t really my style. “Probably not,” I tell Sean. “I’m kind of a pussy.”
Sean’s head wobbles back and forth like he can’t make the call either way. “You do that, though? Give head?” Sean glances over with what I can only describe as a hopeful look on his face.
“No.” I shake my head. “I mean, not as like, a job. The guy who took the picture, I was interested in him, even though he’s kind of an asshole. I guess he showed his true colors.”
“That he did.” Sean crushes his empty can between two fists. Like a real man, I think. A real man would beat Dave’s ass, wouldn’t he, which makes me wonder, what is a real man, anyway? All I have as a reference is my dad and all the mixed emotions tied up in who he is and what he’s done or failed to do for our family.
“Anyway.” I stare out at the waves, finish my beer, and toss the can in the sand. Just when I think the silence is going to be awkward, Sean starts talking about how when he came home from his last tour in Afghanistan, he was in all kinds of bad shape, how he felt like no one understood him and he couldn’t adapt to everyday life. How things that shouldn’t scare him did, and the things that should scare him didn’t.
“Then I started smoking crack, man,” Sean says. “I was working nights at Publix, stocking shelves, and there was a guy there who offered to get me high, and I was, like, yeah, sure, why not? I mean, I’ve survived a war, twice, what could crack do to me?”
I’m silent at that, sensing it’s a rhetorical question.
“You ever tried crack?” Sean asks.
I shake my head. Until this moment, I’ve never gotten drunk either. Crack seems like the Mount Everest of drugs, even though I could probably score some there at the beach before the night was over if I really wanted to.
“Man, it’s good. So goddamned good. Made me feel like I was all right. Actually, made me not give a shit about anything else but getting high, which was a relief in a weird way.” Sean glances around at who might be listening, but there are only a few shifty characters gathered over in the parking lot and a couple making out on a blanket farther down the beach. The dusk settles in around us like a fat, fluffy cat.
“Wish I had some right now,” Sean says longingly, like he’s pining for a lost lover.
“Probably best to stay away from it,” I tell him, thinking what a hypocrite I am because here I am getting drunk when my father’s an alcoholic.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sean admits.
I finish my third beer and then my fourth. I don’t notice much of anything outside the steady rhythm of Sean’s voice and the wave of indifference I’m currently riding. The perfect wave. Makes me a little nauseous, but I can’t seem to get off. Somewhere in between Sean talking about stealing his mother’s silver only to discover it wasn’t real silver and nearly setting his sister’s place on fire, I tell him about my infatuation with my best friend, who is straight and how he’s the person I want to be with all the time. I really stress that phrase, all the time. Because when we’re not together, I miss him, and lately it’s the same way even when we’re in the same room. I miss the effortless friendship we used to have when I didn’t have to think so hard on what to say or what not to say, or wonder at any given second what he’s thinking, worried he might see my feelings on my face. I blubber all this to Sean, not sure if I’m making any sense, but Sean keeps nodding sympathetically and goes so far as to wrap his arm around me and say, “There are worse things in the world, buddy, and it’s not what happens to you, but what you let it do to you. If this friend of yours is as good as you say he is, you should tell him what’s up. Clear the air, you know?”
“Clear the air,” I repeat sluggishly, making sure I got it right.
And somewhere along the way, I have the sense to warn Sean I’m about to pass out, and ask him politely not to gank my shit when I do. Sean swears to me that he won’t, lifting three fingers in Scout’s honor. That’s the last thing I remember, Sean’s three fingers and the earnest look on his face, as I ride that wave into a sweet and cozy oblivion.
Sweet Sixteen?
“THEO.”
I wake to Chris gazing down at me, figure it’s a dream, and close my eyes again to hold on to it a little longer, but then he’s calling my name kind of frantically and I decide this must be really happening, because his grip on my shoulders cuts into the muscle and his panic vibrates in the sound of his voice.
“Theo, man, wake up.”
My head is thick and mossy, my limbs like lead weights and mostly unresponsive. My eyes are gritty and my vision a little fuzzy. I glance around and see that I’m still on the beach. My hair and back are damp with clumps of sand stuck to me. There’s a wet chill in the air and a fog on the water that clues me in that it’s the middle of the night. Sean’s gone, and it looks like he cleaned up after us, because there are no empty cans or cardboard box to tell of our adventures.
“Where’s Sean?” I ask.
“Who?” Chris asks.
“Lieutenant Sean Knox.”
“Are you drunk?” Chris asks me. “Did he buy you beer?”
I rise to a sitting position, and my head pounds like the deep bass of a lowrider. I cradle it in my hands while Chris calls who I’m assuming is my mom. “Yeah, I’ve got him,” he says. “He fell asleep at the pier. I’ll bring him home.” Chris glances down at me as I mime a pleading gesture that he not tell her I was drinking and may still currently be drunk. I don’t want her to see how far I’ve fallen since this morning when I was her sweet, innocent baby boy. Chris shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk or because I can’t hold my alcohol.
“You mind if I take him to my house tonight?” Chris asks my mom. “He’s had a pretty rough day.”
I wonder how much she knows about my day. What did my sister or Chris tell her? Hopefully they didn’t show her the picture. No, they wouldn’t. Tabs and I might not see eye to eye on everything, but we have a mutual understanding to not involve my mom in one another’s drama. I’m thankful Chris is covering for me. And speaking to me. And cares enough to come find my drunk ass and bring me home.
Chris ends the call and drops down to sit next to me, rests his forearms on his knees, and runs his fingers through his thick, golden hair like I’ve seen him do before when he’s stressed. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t offer anything up. I appreciate the few minutes wherein I try to collect my thoughts and make the ground stop tilting.
“You hungry?” he says at last.
“Yeah.” Food might be a good way to sop up the alcohol.
“Harley’s?”
I nod and slowly rise to follow him to the Volvo, brushing the sand off my ass before collapsing inside it. It’s immediately calming because it’s warm and familiar and smells like him. There’s probably an indentation of my buttcheeks on the seat. Chris turns down the music so it won’t aggravate my headache but leaves it on low, so it’s not just this balloon of silence between us.
“What time is it?” I think to ask as we roll through the mostly deserted streets. I must have passed out around ten or eleven. I wonder how long Chris has been looking for me.
“About 2:00 a.m.”
“Wow, that late?” I glance over at him, wondering if his stony expression means he’s pissed at me. Probably. There are so many threads as to why, the task of unraveling it seems overwhelming. “Thanks for finding me. I’m sure my mom was worried.”
“We were all worried,” Chris says stiffly.
“Sorry.” All I do any more is apologize. Chris seems to be cleaning up all my messes lately.
He sighs. “You should probably know, I kicked Dave’s ass.”
So Chris knows what’s been going on between us. He’s seen it now, up close and personal. I swallow, or at least attempt to. My throat is swollen and feels like it’s full of sand. Chris kicked Dave’s ass. I find that I don’t have many thoughts about it either way, except to hope he didn’t kick it too hard.
“When?” I ask him.
“After school. I went over to his house and asked him about the picture. He got smart with me. It was almost too easy.”
“He was probably expecting it.” What a dumbass. “You didn’t break anything, did you?”
“No,” Chris says like he regrets it.
“Did it make you feel better?”
“Not really, but it had to be done.”
Chris says it with such certainty, as though it were
somewhere ordained that an ass beating was in order. I glance down at my phone and see Dave has texted me pictures of Chris’s handiwork captioned with Your boyfriend paid me a visit. From the looks of it, Chris went easy on him. There are a few text apologies from Dave as well to the tune of I was drunk and didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t check his voicemails, but they’re probably the same flavor. I really don’t give a shit about Dave’s feelings. Screw that asshole.
“That should have never happened,” Chris says, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
I wonder what he means by “that”—Dave’s cock in my mouth, the scene being captured on camera, or that it spread like a virus throughout the school, so I ask him. “Which part?”
“None of it.”
“I’m gay, Chris.” It seems obvious, but some things need to be said.
Chris shakes his head. “Not that. You should have never gotten involved with Asshole Dave. He’s been a jerk to you from the beginning. Why would you choose him, of all people?”
I’ve been asking myself the same question, but I know the answer already. I needed someone to keep my mind off Chris.
“He was there and he was interested.” It’s not until I say it out loud that I realize how lame it sounds. How needy. There was more to Dave than a warm body, though, which is why this whole thing is so messed up and only adds to my overall confusion. I thought Dave and I were friends, at least. A real friend would never do that to me.
Chris glances over at me, his lips tight against his teeth like a dog baring its fangs. “I wanted to kill him, T. I’ve never been so mad before in my life.”
I don’t want Chris hating himself on account of my dumb ass or getting in trouble for it. “I’m sorry I brought that out in you.”
“It’s not that. I don’t want you to apologize. You’re the victim here.” He sounds like he’s trying very hard to speak gently to me. Even now, Chris cares about my feelings enough to rein in his anger at the situation.
When Everything Is Blue Page 13