I head downstairs and jog next door as Chris is telling Paloma that he’ll take care of the rest. I ask him where Tabs is at, and Chris says he sent her off with her friends to continue the celebration downtown. I silently curse my sister for bailing.
“We missed you today,” Chris says as I collect empty bottles and cans and dump them in the recycling bin.
“I wasn’t up for it.”
“I figured.”
“Did Tabs have fun?” I hope I didn’t totally ruin her sixteenth birthday.
“Yeah, I think she did.”
He tells me some of the highlights, including who all was there, which makes me smile. A few of the upper echelon made an appearance, likely at Chris’s request, which probably made my sister’s day. She likes being included in the inner circle. Chris and I continue collecting trash for a while until the pool area is mostly clean. Then we go inside to tackle the kitchen, wrapping up the leftover food and wiping down the counters.
“What are you doing tonight?” Chris asks me when we’re mostly finished. “We should go out and celebrate.”
I rub my head, which still hasn’t completely cleared from last night. “I think I did that already.”
“We don’t have to drink. What do you want to do? Anything at all. Magic cards?”
I laugh, because all I ever wanted to do in middle school was play Magic cards. God, I was such a geek. Maybe I’m simple or unimaginative, but all I want to do now is go down to the BOA and skate to get my mind off everything. I tell Chris and he’s down. An hour later we arrive to where there’s a small crowd of skaters we all know. It’s unfortunate, but Dave’s also there, looking pretty torn up from his beatdown from Chris. A flare of anger courses through me, mostly because this is my skate spot, and I hate feeling like it’s not my home anymore because there’s an intruder.
“I’ll tell him to leave,” Chris says.
“Don’t. I don’t want a scene. He’s not going to try anything anyway. He’s afraid of you.”
As I predicted, Dave hardly even looks at us and keeps to the center of his cluster of friends, perhaps afraid of Chris getting him alone. I ignore the rest of them and do my circuit of the BOA. Perhaps because I know there’s a competition coming up, I take it a little more seriously this time, thinking about which combinations I’ll do and in what sequence. I have this combination, which is a series of 180s in quick succession that makes it look like that old-school dance, the twist. I skate goofy-footed—right foot forward—but I’m pretty ambidextrous. When I add a few backside kickflips to the combo, it looks pretty slick.
I gauge the crew’s reactions, trying to determine which of my repertoire are crowd pleasers. It’s hard to know, though, because as soon as a trick becomes popular or makes a comeback, it’s chow time for the haters and the trick is no longer deemed worthy. I used to care more, but now I don’t really give a shit what’s considered cool, just try to make my tricks look smooth and effortless. I know it’s not anything like ballet in terms of an art form, but there is some definite artistry to the different combinations.
After my third run, I’m thirsty and I’ve sweated through my T-shirt. I tell Chris I’m heading next door for drinks, and he asks me if I want him to come with me. “I got this, bro,” I tell him and skate over to the 7-Eleven. While in there, I say what’s up to Justin, who’s working the night shift. I hang out in front of the drink cooler with the door open to cool off a bit, lifting my shirt to evaporate the sweat from my stomach and chest. As I’m paying, Justin is super slow to ring up my drinks, to the point that I wonder if he’s on drugs or something.
He gives me my total and I hand him a five-dollar bill. He stares at me, holding the bill in midair, and looks so frozen I finally ask him if he’s all right.
“I saw that picture of you.” He says it so quietly that I almost don’t hear him.
I take a deep breath and think Shit, here we go. “And?” My wall goes up straight away, preparing for whatever ill he’s about to lay on me.
“I thought it was really hot.” He smiles like he can’t help it.
Not what I was expecting. At all. Also, precisely what is the reach of this damn photo? It’s already spread outside of Sabal Palm High. Will my mom end up seeing it, or Christ, my dad? Am I going to Google myself and find that goddamned photo? Is it going to haunt me in ten years? Shit.
And just when I’m in the middle of this mini existential crisis at the 7-Eleven counter, Justin slides a scrap of paper over toward me. I stare at it—his phone number.
“I’m, um, into that sort of thing. So if you ever get bored, or, you know, want to, um, you know, just… give me a call.”
I stare at him, stunned silent, while he hands me my change. I stuff the money in my pocket along with his number and grab the drinks, backing out of there blindly, overcome by the unintended consequences. Who does that? I think. Sees a picture on the internet and then makes a move. When I get back to BOA, Chris notices something is up and asks me what’s wrong.
“Nothing,” I tell him, glancing around at all the guys milling about, wondering how many of them have seen the picture, who they’ve shown it to, and what’s been said. The panic hits me, this spiral of anxiety and fear. Will I ever be able to get past this, or will I always be that kid who sucks cock? What if I’m going in for a job interview and they Google me? Or applying for a scholarship. Shit, have I just screwed up my entire future? My vision constricts into a pea-sized view of the concrete, and I realize I’m leaned over and having trouble catching my breath. Chris is shouting, kind of panicked, asking if he should call 911 and I tell him I’m fine, only I don’t feel the words come out of my mouth, only hear them bouncing around my head like a distant echo, and for some reason I think of the expression bats in the belfry and then batshit crazy while wondering what the hell did bats ever do to be associated with insanity?
And then I’m in the back seat of someone’s car with my head between my knees. Chris is rubbing my back and barking directions on how to get us home. “I’m fine,” I keep hearing me say, but I’m having my doubts.
Chris leads me up his stairs, and I sit down on the edge of the bed, still dizzy and nauseous, sweating, and short of breath. He sits across from me on the carpet, knees up, back against his dresser, and waits patiently while I pull it together. I focus on the texture of his comforter under my fingers, a loose thread I twine around my finger, the color of his walls—blue—and then his face. His face is just as it has always been. Kind eyes, square jaw, stubborn chin. Eventually everything stops shrinking and expanding, my ears stop ringing, my heart returns to normal volume and slinks down from my throat back into my chest, and it’s just Chris and me alone in his room.
“I think I just had a panic attack,” I tell him.
He nods without saying anything, rattled as well.
“Shit.” I run my hands through my hair and pat myself down. There was a moment there where I didn’t feel real—like, I had no physical presence. I was floating just above myself, like I was perched on my shoulder viewing what was going on without being an actual participant.
“What happened?” Chris asks.
“I freaked the fuck out.”
“What happened to cause it? You came back from the gas station all pale and shit.”
“Oh.” I think back, having trouble remembering. “This guy gave me his number.” Only that wasn’t exactly it. It was everything else, the sensation that this would never end and I had no control over it. That my life was not my own.
“Who was it?” he asks.
“Justin.”
“Justin who?” Chris looks like he’s gearing up to kick some more ass.
“Justin from the gas station. He said he’d seen the picture, and he gave me his number. Told me to call him.” I reach into my pocket and produce the strip of paper, uncrumple it, and stare at it—okay, at least I’m not imagining things. Chris springs to his feet and paces the room.
“He doesn’t even go to our school, Chri
s. How many people do you think saw the picture?” My heart flutters, and the swell of panic balloons all over again.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m scared,” I admit. “There’s this whole other level to my social anxiety now, wondering who’s seen it. What they’re thinking, whether they’ll turn around and talk shit behind my back.”
“People will forget about it in a few days,” Chris says.
“Will they?”
He frowns and doesn’t offer any more encouragement.
“What if it follows me forever?”
“It won’t.”
“Shit,” I curl up on his bed, squeezing a pillow to my chest. Chris sits down at my back and lays a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m with you, Theo. I’ll be there every step of the way. You’re not alone.”
“Okay,” I say shakily and then a little stronger, “Okay.”
What’s in Wooten’s Mouth?
I WAKE up early Sunday morning for work. I took off Saturday because of the party, but it’s good to be back in the real world, surrounded by guys who have no idea I’m making the circuit on social media. Yeah, I checked my accounts that morning, and it’s not pretty. There’s this whole thread with the headline, “What’s in Wooten’s mouth?” There are all these filters people have put on top of the photo—a banana, a pickle, a dog’s butt…. The dog’s expression is one of surprise and dismay. Pretty creative. If it wasn’t me they were mocking, I might even find it mildly humorous.
The comments range from wisecracks to propositions and then, farther down, a forum of debate between gay rights advocates and bigots. I sign out so I won’t be tempted to dig further, excusing myself entirely from the conversation.
I decide then I’m not going to let Dave run me out of my own school or dwell on the fact that everyone now knows I have a taste for cock. It’s time for me to man up, and by that I mean, own my shit and be real about who I am. Screw the haters. I never had much use for them anyway.
At work I enjoy the solidness of the tools in my hand, the vibrations of the mowers and edgers, the sun on my skin, and the utter exhaustion of eight hours of manual labor. At the end of the day, I text my boss and tell him I’m ready to take on more hours. I need something to occupy my time and keep me out of my own head.
After work I consider going straight to Chris’s house and hiding out for a few more hours until his parents get back but figure I can’t delay the inevitable much longer. I climb the stairs to our kitchen. My sister’s nowhere in sight, so I tiptoe past her room so that she won’t know I’m home. But when I open my door, she’s sitting there on my bed, legs crossed, waiting for me.
I eye her warily and try to determine the nature of this intrusion. She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. She looks like a younger, sassier version of our mom.
“So, are you gay or what?” She purses her lips and looks at me expectantly.
I lean against the doorway and try to predict which way this thing will go. “Yeah, I am.”
She huffs, audibly. “You could have told me, you know?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Not even Chris?”
“Nope.” Especially not Chris.
She sighs, uncrosses her arms, and pats my bed for me to join her.
“You inviting me in to my own room?”
She tilts her head and scowls. “Come sit, baby brother.”
Tabs is about two minutes older than me, and she loves reminding me of it whenever she has the opportunity. She probably elbowed me out of the way to be first. I slouch over and sit with my back against the headboard, swat at her with one of the pillows, then hug it to my chest. I need something to hold on to.
“Here’s the thing,” she begins. “I always thought you were being weird on purpose—”
“Why would anyone be weird on purpose?” I interrupt.
“I don’t know. You’re so good at everything, Theo. I figured being weird was one more thing you were good at.” She shakes her head. “But I realize you probably had a lot on your mind, and because you don’t tell anyone anything….” Here she pauses to give me an accusing look, then rolls her eyes to further her point. “Anyway, I’m sorry I was rude to you on your birthday. Whoever did that… they suck, and if there’s anything I can do—”
“It’s fine, Tabs. I’m handling it. Just… don’t tell Dad, okay?”
She looks stricken. Her mouth falls open a little. “I wouldn’t, Theo. Trust me. And I’m sorry about that night at dinner. If I had known….” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have walked out like that. I should have just….” I drift off, not knowing what I should have done… cared less? Kept it all bottled up inside? That’s the story of my life. “Anyway, I’m sorry too. I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”
“Then you shouldn’t do things to make me so mad.” She punches my shoulder playfully. Her phone dings, and she checks it.
“Can you believe this shit?” she demands, shaking her phone in the air like the device is the problem. I figure it can only mean she’s found the controversy brewing online—What’s in Wooten’s mouth and why does it matter?
I watch as she furiously types into her phone.
“You’re not commenting, are you?” I bury my head in the pillow, dreading her answer.
“Of course I am. I’m not going to let them get away with this. Carson Fuller is dead to me.”
Carson is one of the guys calling me a faggot with AIDS and blaming gays for the economy. I’m surprised he even knows enough about the economy to make the leap. I really bring out the crazy in people, apparently.
“You can’t take them all on,” I tell her, though I’m flattered she would try.
“Yes, I can. They can’t treat my brother like this.” Her face is pinched and furious, and I realize that same fierce protection she exhibits for our father, she also has for me.
“I appreciate it, Tabs. I’m going to stay off the interwebs for a while, so don’t feel like you have to keep me updated.”
“Don’t worry, Theo. I got this.”
I stand to go take a shower, then shove her on impulse.
“What was that for?” she asks.
“That’s me showing affection,” I tell her.
She smiles and holds up both arms, asking for a hug. “Come on, it’s not going to kill you.”
“It might.”
She turns her wrists, insisting, so I reach down and hug her.
“See, that doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“A little.”
I grab some clothes and head out to the hall bathroom to take a shower, thinking how lucky I am to have Chris and my sister on my side. And my mom. Apparently Uncle Theo as well. Then I think about Dave being kicked out by his parents and find myself feeling sorry for him again, wishing he hadn’t gotten drunk and been so spiteful as to spread that picture of me around, because I could have been a friend to him too. Fucking asshole.
Afterward I’m alone in my bedroom when I hear something buzzing outside my window. I glance over to see a big, black bug. A bat? Shit, am I seeing things now? I go over and pull up the blinds. It’s a drone. I throw up the window to find Chris is in his driveway, holding a remote control. “Come over,” he calls. “My parents’ flight got delayed, and I’m bored.”
I tell Tabitha I’m going next door. She’s moved to the living room but remains glued to her phone. Even though it’d probably be better for all of us if she didn’t suffer the trolls, it’s the thought that counts.
Next door, Chris seems to know I’ll be hungry, because he’s pulled out the leftovers from my sister’s birthday party, and we pick through the platters and tubs of salads until we’re both full. Then we head upstairs and play video games. Chris is telling me about this story he saw online about a cockroach that crawled up a woman’s nose while she was sleeping and how she could feel it scooting around inside her head, so she
went to the doctor and some surgeons had to operate on her to get it out.
“She said when it moved around it made her eyes burn,” Chris says, squinting. There’s a hint of a smile on his face, like he’s waiting for my reaction—he knows how I feel about roaches. Creepy, crawly little fuckers. Just when you think you’ve killed them, they’re all, psyche, then they reanimate and scurry away.
“That’s such bullshit,” I tell him. Chris has been known to exaggerate or even make shit up in order to freak me out. He’s good at it too.
“I’m not lying, T. There’s a YouTube video of the surgery and everything.”
“Did you watch it?”
“Hell no. I don’t like roaches either.”
“Pull it up.” I pause the game and set down the controller.
“You don’t believe me?” he says like I’ve insulted him, still with that mischievous grin on his face.
“Pull it up and we’ll watch it together.” He pulls out his phone and finds the video, shows me the story to prove he’s not lying. We dare each other to watch it, going back and forth like morons until I finally just hit the Play button. It’s only about two minutes long, but the shit is straight-up nasty and totally makes me want to barf, yet neither of us can look away. There are tubes all in the woman’s nose and mouth and some god-awful long instrument like a tiny snake the surgeons are manipulating. And here’s the grossest part: the cockroach is still alive when they pull it out. You can see its legs twitching and everything. Chris keeps saying holy shit over and over again.
“That’s fucking gross,” I tell him, pushing his phone away. “I’m never falling asleep again.” Cockroaches are everywhere in Florida, even with pest service. They love that swampy heat, just like the snowbirds.
“I’d kill that motherfucker twice,” Chris says, slapping his hands together and grinning.
Chris goes on about what it would be like to have a cockroach squirming around in your head, trying to gross me out even more, making his fingers like insect legs and crawling up my arm to freak me out until we’re both cracking up. We go back to playing our video game, and it’s so normal and right between us that I’m overcome by Chris’s devotion to me, even in my lowest of lows. He’s an even better friend when I’m down, and how many people are there out there like that? Heart of gold, man. He’s not going to abandon me, no matter what it seems. Seriously, I don’t think his loyalty could be tested any more than it has been.
When Everything Is Blue Page 15