I Will Be Okay

by Bill Elenbark

  “We’re going, too!” I shout and I look across to Stick but he doesn’t notice. Michaela is hanging off his arm and laughing.

  “That’s awesome,” Cara says.

  “Umm … yeah,” I say, toning it down.

  “Well well welly well well, we might just have to hang out down there,” she says.

  “I thought you said you didn’t like them—”

  “Eh, they’re alright. And my brother invited me.”

  “Brother?”

  I look to Kepler and he starts to laugh and my embarrassed face is red again. The music swells from the speakers in the living room and Sammy is dancing by himself.

  “Kepler’s my brother,” Cara says. “Well, half-brother. Same mom, different dad, it’s a whole thing. Not exactly Jarrett’s family situation, which is insane, but yes, I’m his sister.”

  “Not just my sister,” Kepler says. “She’s my best friend.” He smiles all corny-like but it’s cool, in a way. Cara hugs him sideways.

  “Oh crap what time is it?” She grabs at his watch and shouts for Rhonda to come over. Stick looks up and notices me. Finally.

  “We have to leave,” Cara says.

  “Right, right,” Kepler says. “Our reservations.”

  “Yes, so sorry, we have ‘reservations’,” Cara says, with a fake British accent.

  “You’re taking Jarrett out for his birthday?” I ask.

  “It’s not his birthday,” Stick says. It’s Stick! Stepping up the steps to the counter between us.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s going to college tomorrow, this is his going-away party,” Stick says. Jarrett and Rhonda join us in the space between the wide center counter and the cooking part of the kitchen. A few children run past giggling.

  “But you were singing—wait … what?”

  “I told you they’re not that bright,” Cara says to Kepler. He laughs.

  “No one knew the appropriate song for ‘good luck playing football in college’ so we kind of winged it,” Rhonda says.

  “Yo, later Stick,” Jarrett says and engulfs him in a massive bear hug as Cara touches my arm.

  “Hey, give me your number,” she says, pulling out her phone.

  “Huh?”

  “Número de teléfono?” she says and I hesitate. “Para el concierto? Oh wait, do you not speak Spanish?”

  She looks at me side-eyed almost like she’s winking at me, or flirting even but there’s no way she’s flirting. Or is she? Rhonda and Jarrett do their rounds of goodbyes at the table by the window where the rest of the family is eating cake.

  “That actually was a little racist. Sorry ‘mate,” she says, again with the British accent, and Stick laughs as he gives her my number. I feel a surge of delight that he has it memorized.

  “See you guys at the show?” Kepler says.

  Stick nods and Cara says she’ll text me as Sammy steps over to join us. I’m still not sure what’s happening. Cara and Kepler follow Jarrett and Rhonda through the door to the garage.

  “Yo, when is your family leaving?” Sammy says.

  “Soon, I think.”

  “And then Staci’s coming over?”

  “Yeah,” Stick says, glancing my way, and all of a sudden the confusion spins to panic, instant panic, a swift rush of blood to my face at the mention of her name.

  “What?” I say.

  “Staci’s friend Krystle’s been texting me,” Sammy says, “and Stick got her to come tonight. She’s flicking fine.”

  “What?”

  Sammy laughs. Like always.

  I look back to Stick, staring hard so he can catch my eyes, the anger rising behind the panic, coming on so strong that I have to fight to keep from screaming out.

  WHY IS STACI COMING OVER?????

  “Sammy’s been bugging me to set them up,” Stick says, like he can read my mind. “I don’t know.”

  This is why he hasn’t been texting. He never admitted he was gay, not fully, and maybe he lied when he said he didn’t like her and that he really liked me, and I don’t know what the shit is happening.

  “You should have her bring another girl for Matt,” Sammy says. Always helpful. The room explodes as Frank enters—he’s one of Stick’s older brothers who never comes around, and everyone turns to cheer but Stick is stuck on me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Cara used my phone to text you. She said she wanted to see you.”

  I nod but I don’t move. I’m watching from above as a laser beam shoots out of Mecha-Naruto’s eyes and pierces my skull into thirty-eight pieces. He didn’t even want to see me.

  “Staci’s been texting but we’re not back together or anything,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

  His lips keep moving but I can’t hear the sound and what must be the longest Rihanna song in the history of music shatters the remnants of my brain. Frank calls for Stick to come over and he touches my wrist, disappearing into his family. It’s over. It’s definitely over. I just want to go home.

  FIFTEEN

  EVERYONE’S GONE HOME.

  Well, not everyone. Krystle’s here, this girl from our school, and she’s Korean or maybe Japanese—I should probably know or at least not assume because I hate when that happens to me. I’m about as white as a Latino can look but I still get asked if I’m Mexican or Columbian when I’m rocking the Puerto Rican fro and a deep summer tan, I just wish it didn’t matter, or that we didn’t share a school with the children of Trump voters trying to make America white again. Stick’s siblings left the house and Marcus and David are in the garage so we retreated to the living room where Sammy’s all up next to Krystle, and Staci’s close to Stick, inching into him on the sectional. I’m plowing through my second margarita.

  Staci has long straight hair, bleached blonde, and she’s wearing an oddly colored shirt, not quite red but not maroon and it doesn’t look right, not to me. And I don’t know why she’s hovering so close to Stick—I mean I think I know why, Stick’s in denial and he might even try to date her again, but he should have told me, the least he could have done was warn me, because my brain exploded when Staci arrived and it oozed down my throat into my stomach, where it’s festering. With the tequila.

  “You think Bieber’s hot?” Sammy says.

  “No, I don’t know, I guess,” Krystle says.

  She giggles and closes her eyes next to Sammy, who’s been up and down serving us drinks. Staci brought the tequila and they found the margarita mix in the kitchen and I’m alone in the recliner on the other side, drinking.

  “He’s gay,” Sammy says.

  “He’s not gay,” Staci says. “But I don’t know, he seems greasy, or dirty. A little gross.” After the rest of Stick’s family left, he invited Trevor and Gavin over, but Trevor said he was at work and Gavin hasn’t responded because he never hangs out without Trevor anyway—maybe the two of them are gay, like they said about Stick and me and it freaked him out, all this shit in his head about his father finding out or all those idiots at school who have nothing better to do than make up rumors that are sort of true, and I can’t believe how close Staci is to him.

  “What bands do you guys like?” Krystle says. Her voice drifts higher at the end of her sentences, which is annoying, and she’s wearing a white beaded dress like a summer dress but way too dressy for this party.

  “The World is a Beautiful Place and I Am No Longer Afraid to Die,” Stick says, pointing to his T-shirt, jet black with white trees extending from his stomach. “You know them?”

  “No,” Krystle says.

  “Yeah,” Stick says. “Most people don’t.”

  “It’s a cool shirt, though,” she says.

  Stick pulls away from Staci but not far enough, it’s like she’s stuck to him, the light above their heads shining on their faces. Staci’s teeth are aligned in a smile, but Stick is hiding his eyes, like he’s afraid to face me. He should be.

  “Stick’s going to see them live,” Staci says.

  “Oh really?” Krystle
says. “Where are they playing?”

  “Not sure,” Stick says.

  The audience on the television is screaming at the end of Bieber’s song and Staci sneaks her hand onto Stick’s bare leg, quick enough that he doesn’t notice, the way I notice, the way she inches her hand up his thigh, close to his waist. Bitch.

  “Matt?” Sammy says.

  “What?”

  “The World Is show. Where is it?”

  “Asbury Park,” I say.

  Staci grabs hold of Stick’s hand, yanking it from his lap and yanking herself up until she’s almost on top of him, smothering him, and I think this girl wants a punch in her face, like she really wants to get hit by me even though I wouldn’t ever hit a girl, I don’t think. I take a long drink of the margarita and finish the cup. I might have actually gone insane.

  “Matt?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said ‘what venue’?” Krystle repeats, in her grating up-speak. “I go to Asbury all the time.”

  “I think it’s called the Wonder Bar.” I scan the table for more margaritas and settle on the tequila by the TV.

  “Oh, I know that place,” Krystle says. “It’s right by the beach.”

  “Oh yeah? You go to a lot of bars?” Sammy says.

  “No,” Krystle laughs, elongated and strange, slapping him in the chest like they’re a comedy act and I don’t know why I’m watching this show. “My uncle lives downtown, so I visit him all the time. They have an awesome beach.”

  “Cool,” Sammy says and jumps up just as I reach the bottle. He pours us each a shot.

  “I was there last weekend,” Krystle says.

  “Aren’t there a lot of gays down there?” Sammy says as he lifts his glass to mine.

  Krystle laughs again, like what the hell is so funny, and I choke down the shot in one bitter breath.

  “Well my uncle is gay, so yeah, I guess there are,” Krystle says. “Is that an issue for you?”

  “No,” Sammy says, coughing after the tequila, and I can’t help but stare at Staci’s hand near Stick’s crotch.

  “Okay, good. Because my uncle is awesome and gays are, too,” Krystle says.

  “You tell ’em sister,” Staci says and lifts up her cup as the TV keeps blaring this awful fucking music. Staci’s more into Stick than he’s into her so maybe that’s a sign, the only positive sign, but I can’t keep focus, I can’t even stand straight, and I look to Stick but he won’t look up from his drink—he won’t even look at me—and I know I told him I’d be fine if he just wanted to be friends but I’m not fine and I won’t be fine and I can’t believe he’s touching her in front me. He doesn’t give a shit about our friendship.

  I stumble my way to the bathroom, scrolling past the thirty-eight messages from Mom asking where I am, hoping to find a text from Stick, apologizing for what he did. What he’s doing. Right there in front of me. The lights are off when I return to the room and Staci’s head is buried in Stick’s chest.

  When Stick and Staci were dating at the end of the school year, I felt this weird distance between us, not all the time but enough that it tore me apart and ripped out my guts and left them bleeding on the afghan hanging over the couch. It’s dark when I return to the room so I have to stare to focus but I don’t care if Stick sees me, I want him to see me. I want him to shove her face off his chest, his hands off her breasts. I need him to do that for me.

  “Oh my god oh my god, here he is!” Krystle screams at the screen. Staci’s legs curl across Stick’s knees. I need to leave.

  “You okay, man?” Sammy says when I stagger around the recliner to get to the door, all the spinning speeding up all at once, like Mecha-Naruto took my skull and threw it into the blender with the tequila. I look toward Stick. Desperate.

  “Matt?”

  He shifts in his seat like he wants to get up, but he’s stuck beneath Staci, her legs pushed all the way up onto his chest.

  “I gotta go,” I say but the door won’t open or I don’t know how to open it and Sammy laughs, he’s always fucking laughing, and I can’t take this anymore, I can’t care this much. I pull the handle and stumble outside.

  The heat against my face is immediate and strange, and I bend over the porch to heave. But nothing comes out.

  I lurch down the stairs onto the grass where we escaped the bushy-bearded freak and ended up in my basement kissing like it was the start of something, fully everything for less than a week, and I look back to see if Stick is chasing me but he’s not, he doesn’t come. No one comes. I hear screaming in the garage with David and Marcus, like a fight is starting. I leave my bike behind.

  SIXTEEN

  You ran away.

  You were afraid to make mistakes.

  But that’s the biggest one you made.

  And it’s unfortunate.

  You hit the road,

  Yeah you finally left your home

  Somewhere to the west I suppose

  And I feel bad for you.

  I TOOK THE NORTH JERSEY Coast Line from Woodbridge Station and transferred at Long Branch, which was confusing, there weren’t any signs and I was waiting by the tracks about to go back, north to New York City instead of further south to Asbury Park until I overheard a conversation that this was the way to Penn Station, so I rushed down the steps over to the other side because I really am stupid sometimes, like with Stick this whole summer and this whole past year, thinking he might be gay and that he could like me like that, this wasted summer waiting for Stick. Fucking Stick.

  He texted me this morning like last night didn’t happen, like everything is normal but it’s not. Maybe he feels bad and he wants to make it up to me by finally talking to me but when I asked if he was free tonight he said he wasn’t and when I asked if he was working he said he wasn’t so I stopped asking because I know the fucking answer and I can’t believe he’s dating her again.

  Staci. Stick and Staci. It almost rhymes without the rhythm and I guess he’s just decided now that he’s going to be straight, despite all the evidence.

  Mom suggested at dinner that we have Family Game Night, something we used to do all the time when I was younger, but I’m not that young and it isn’t that fun and I told her I had plans with Sammy, a half-hearted lie so I could get out of the house and away from my family. Krystle mentioned how she and her friends go down to Asbury Park on the train from Woodbridge, packing backpacks with blankets and food and enough sunscreen to prevent burning—Asians don’t tan, she said—and she was kind of funny, or funnier than Staci. Who is the worst. Like literally the worst human being on the planet. And I know that’s mean but she stole Stick from me so I’m allowed to hate her, I think. I can’t get it out of my head.

  Asbury Park is a town at the Jersey Shore, known for the beach and Bruce Springsteen and its gay-friendly bars, like the one I walked past on my way from the train. I stopped in front, across the street, pretending to play with my phone but kind of watching, looking, because it said on Google Maps that they have live music and drag shows—not that I want to see a drag show, or want to be surrounded by gay men watching me watch a drag show, or even hitting on me and touching me but I kept staring at the front entrance, waiting for something to happen. A gaggle of girls came screaming past and knocked me over almost, like they didn’t even notice, and one of them made a comment about Paradise, whether or not they should try to get in, but they were too young and none of this is fun and I sprinted all the way to the beach.

  It isn’t easy to unfold a blanket with one hand, the drifting sands spilling over the sides as I take a seat near the water. The crowd has thinned this late in the day and I close my eyes to the waves rolling onto the sand, pulling back the beach by inches and feet. I must have set the blanket too close because the spray is touching my toes but I don’t have the energy to move it.

  Because Stick.

  I wanted to go in. To Paradise. I still want to maybe. It’s a cool name, just “paradise,” like it’s some kind of sign, waving me in to join the
m but I don’t have a fake ID and I don’t know if they make exceptions for 15-year-olds who got dumped for a girl with fake blonde hair and the personality of a leech. I mean, maybe they’ll take sympathy on me, pull me into the crowd and teach me how to be a real live gay guy because that’s what I am now, or I need to be, now that Stick doesn’t like me and I don’t like girls and I’m alone on this beach with nothing to read.

  The sun is still bright so I take off my shirt and stuff it under my legs, the wind whipping against my skin. I finished Kakashi’s Story on the train—spoiler alert, the airship landed safely and Kakashi’s punishment for Kahyo was fair and just, but I don’t have any phone service and I didn’t bring another book to read. It’s empty around me, the nearest are a group of girls on a blanket behind me with a family beside them, a few adults and a smattering of children, smacking each other with plastic weapons for sandcastles, oblivious to everything.

  The girls on the blanket next to me start packing up their stuff, sandals and towels and lotions into multi-colored backpacks, chattering away and throwing back their hair, and I can’t hear what they’re saying with my headphones blaring but they keep looking at me, maybe they’re talking about me, hoping to snag a gay boy like Staci did. I wonder if Stick is just pretending to be straight because that’s what his father wanted for him, that’s what the whole world wants for him, and maybe I should fake it too, ask one of these girls to go out with me. Maybe I’ve never been this depressed before.

  I looked at some pictures from inside Paradise and they were “normal” enough, even the drag queens, I mean I’m a little freaked about it all but I’m okay with being gay—or I will be—I just never really thought about going into a club in Asbury Park with shirtless dudes and their muscled chests and super tight shorts flexed around their butts. It’s frightening.

  And what if I met someone—what if I started dating someone—would I bring him home to meet my parents? I mean at least with Stick they know him, and they like him—or my mom does, at least, and Dad wouldn’t freak. But some dude from Asbury with thirty-eight piercings and tattoos peeking out of his shirt—Dad would lose it. He’d say I’m way too gay to play baseball and I should just join the theater club with all the other faggots at school. Give up on me and sports. Give up on me completely. My last year in Little League, I hit a home run to win a playoff game and my teammates carried me off the field—they literally tackled me at home plate and carried me on their shoulders and it was amazing, jumping into Stevie Ryan’s arms when we won the championship two days later, rolling around on the hard dirt ground before rushing the mound in celebration. I miss Stevie Ryan and his short wavy hair. I miss Dad giving a crap about me.