Boy Loses Boy
I throw pebbles at Noah's window. Finally the light goes on. He opens the window and looks out. Then he starts throwing the pebbles back at me.
"Go away," he whisper-shouts.
"I need to talk to you," I whisper-shout back.
"But I don't need to talk to you"
"Please."
He closes the window and puts out the light. I linger for a minute, then give up. It was stupid to come here, stupid to expect to be treated better than I rightfully deserve.
As I hit the street, I hear a door open. Noah comes out of the house in his bare feet, and I step back onto the curb. The neighborhood is lamplight quiet. I can hear Noah take in a breath, waiting for me to speak. I look at his feet on the gravel, then at his pajama bottoms and tattered RISD T-shirt.
"Why are you wearing that stupid vest?" he asks.
"My parents made me wear it," I explain. I begin to pull it off.
"I don't remember saying you could take off your clothes," Noah says dryly. I keep the vest on.
The tone feels almost familiar. Then I remember why I am here in the dead of night.
"I'm sorry," I say, finally looking him in the eye. "I don't know what you heard or how-you heard it, but I want you to know that it was something that just happened. He needed me in a really serious way, so I kissed him. Just once. Just for a moment. I wasn't thinking about you, or even about me. I was thinking about him."
I pause, then continue. "I know that doesn't make it right. And I know I'm probably not your favorite person right now. But the bottom line is that I still like you and want to be with you. I don't want to have to wait for Thursday or next week or next year. I want to talk to you and be random with you and be ridiculous with you. I don't know what I want from you, and I don't know what you want from me. If anything. What I do know, though, is that I don't want you to hate me because of one spur-of-the-moment kiss."
I stop here for his reaction. His face shows more hurt than anger. I don't know if he's going to simply walk away, or lash out at me.
"So you did kiss him?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"When?"
"This morning."
"Yeah."
"Okay," he says. "What I want to know is this. All along, I assumed you and Tony were just friends. So does this mean it's more than that?"
I double-take.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I mean, is this the first time you've kissed Tony?"
"Tony?" I want to laugh.
"Yeah, Tony."
Now I'm smiling despite myself. "I didn't kiss Tony. Is that what you heard? Oh, God! I was in the park with him yesterday and gave him a hug because he was bummed out. That's all."
I figure this will clear things up. But Noah looks more confused than ever.
"So who did you kiss this morning, then?" he asks.
Gulp.
"Uh. . .er. . ."
"Uh? Er?"
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
"Kyle?" I say
Noah's eyes widen. He's totally awake now.
"Your ex-boyfriend Kyle?"
I nod.
Now it's Noah who's laughing.
"Man," he says, "I really have great taste in guys. I think I'd rather have you kissing Tony.
But Kyle--wow."
"I can explain," I interject, although I suppose I already have explained.
"Don't bother," Noah says. "Really. You weren't going to tell me, were you?"
"But I did tell you," I point out. I should at least have that in my favor.
Noah goes on. "When I was home over the weekend, I hung out with my three best girlfriends. I told them all about you. And you know what they said? They told me to watch out. Chloe, Angela, and Jen all said that I'm too easy on people. I think things are too good to be true, and it ends up that they are too good to be true. I liked you so much, Paul. You have no idea how hard that was for me. To come to this new town, to leave everything I love behind--and then suddenly to put all this hope and trust into a stranger. I did that with Pitt, and then--despite the fact that I swore I wouldn't do it again -- I started to do it with you.
Luckily, it didn't get that far. Luckily I'm finding this out now instead of two months from now."
I see where this is going. I want to stop it.
"Please don t do this, I say quietly.
He starts to back away. "I'm not doing it," he says. "You already did."
"It was just a kiss!"
Noah shakes his head. "It's never just a kiss. You know that. So just go home."
I am starting to cry. I have no control over it. I try to keep it in, just until he gets back inside and stops looking at me. Now he has the anger and I feel the hurt--hurt that is all the more painful because it's been self-inflicted. All he wanted was for me to be careful. And I was careless. So careless.
"Goodnight," I say as he ebbs away to his front porch.
"Goodnight," he says back--out of habit, out of kindness, who knows?
I walk home in the middle of the street, all alone with my thoughts and my frustration.
Perhaps craziest of all, I still feel a flicker of hope. I know there isn't anything I can say or do right now to change Noah's mind about me. But soon right now will be minutes ago and days ago and weeks ago. What I feel about Noah can't be extinguished with one shut-down conversation. The fact that I feel so awful is a perverse proof of his worth and meaning to me.
I got myself into this mess. I can get myself out.
Or so I think.
Dealing with the Club Kids
My mother finds me the next morning as I'm deciding whether or not to get out of bed. I don't see why I get to stay home when I have a fever (something that will pass in time) and yet have to brave the lonesome hallways when there isn't a single person I'm looking forward to seeing (something that may or may not pass). I quickly try to formulate an excuse, but before I can even open my mouth, she says, "Don't even try it. And be sure to hang the safety vest back up in the closet before you go. Don't leave it on the floor like that."
Snagged on two counts. Not a great way to start the day.
I become neurotic about what to wear. Because suddenly every piece of clothing has something to do with someone else. Shirts that Jess helped me pick out. The pants I wore the night I first met Noah. The clothes from yesterday thrown over the back of the chair--it's amazing to believe that I kissed Kyle and was dumped by Noah all in the span of a single pair of jeans.
In the end I dig into the back of my closet and find a sweater my aunt got me for my birthday last year. It's orange and green, and brings out the orange in my eyes even though my eyes are usually green. The neck is a little too tight and the arms are a little too long. I wear it anyway.
I figure this is my new beginning . . . or my last resort.
The first person I bump into when I get to school is Rip, the bookie. I can tell he's been waiting for me. He stares for a moment at my sweater but doesn't say anything about it.
"So is that it, then?" he asks me. "You got no one, right?"
Technically, I figure this is true. I've lost Noah. I don't want Kyle. Tony was never an option.
I don't have anybody.
But. . .
I think again of Noah.
"The betting .isn't over yet," I tell Rip.
"Seems pretty over to me," he says with a grin. I can see him counting the money in his head.
I surprise myself by clamping my hand down on his shoulder and thinking of a sports metaphor.
"Listen to me," I say. "You can't run a Super Bowl pool and then declare the winner midseason. As far as I'm concerned, we haven't even gotten to the playoffs yet. If you start collecting, I'm going to tell everyone that you're playing them for a fast one. They won't like that."
Rip thinks for a moment.
"I'll give you until the Dowager's Dance," he says finally. "That way, more people can place bets."
I nod and remove my hand from hi
s shoulder.
As he skulks off, Infinite Darlene appears from behind me.
"Rip never dates anyone," she observes.
"Why?" I ask.
"He doesn't like the odds."
Infinite Darlene is staring at my sweater now.
"I know I should hate it," she says, "but I actually like it."
"Thanks, I think."
She is dressed immaculately in a vintage Charlie's Angels T-shirt and white pleather miniskirt. (I have no idea how she pulls it off. In fact, I have no idea how she pulls it on.)
"How's it going?" she asks me.
"I can't even begin to tell you," I say, then blurt out the whole story.
"Oh, honey," she says when I'm done with my wallowing, "it's like my grandma used to say: Just when you think life's got you in a gutter, a tornado will come along and destroy your house."
"And then you rebuild?" I ask.
"Well, she never mentioned that part, but I suppose it could happen."
I am not cheered up.
Then, to make matters worse, Infinite Darlene coos, "So, sweetheart, are you ready for the committee meeting sixth period?"
The dance committee meeting. I've totally forgotten about it. And I'm in charge.
Infinite Darlene continues. "I know that wench"--that would be Trilby Pope--"will be there.
I know there was no way for you to stop her from signing up. So it's not like I hold you responsible. But please make sure she keeps her talking to a minimum. It gives me such a migraine."
"I'll be fair," I tell Infinite Darlene.
She sighs. "That's what I'm afraid of. Believe me, it does neither of us any favors."
With that, she swings and sashays away.
I don't see her again until sixth period, in the small room the library reserves for meetings like this. I am not at all prepared, but I'm ready to fake it.
There are ten people on the committee. The first I see are two best friends who join everything together; since their names are Amy and Emily, we call them the Indigo Girls, even though they're straight. Then there's Trilby Pope and Infinite Darlene, sitting at opposite ends of the room--Infinite Darlene is glaring at Trilby, and Trilby is simply gazing at the floor in response. I'm sure this drives Infinite Darlene crazy--she likes nothing better than a glaring match.
Kyle is in the back of the room looking a little lost. He's not on my list, and I have a sneaking suspicion he joined up late.
Then there are the Club Kids. From the start of kindergarten, they have been slaves to their college applications. They join any club available, perform every volunteer hour they can, and stab each other in the backs with sharpened No. 2 pencils in order to be valedictorian.
(Ironically, the kid who's going to end up being our valedictorian, Dixie LaRue, is a total party girl who refuses to let the Club Kid pressure get to her.) Since the Club Kids tend to spread themselves thinner than Saran Wrap--with the personality to match -- I know they'll probably show up for one or two committee meetings at most, put it on their resume, and then move on to the Future Arms Merchants of America Club, or whatever.
The problem is, they always want to speak up before they leave. They feel that doing so many things qualifies them as experts in everything.
This is very rarely the case.
"I think we should have a seventies theme" Club Kid A calls out as soon as I gather the group.
"Having a seventies theme is so nineties," I tell her. "Any other suggestions?"
"How about 'The Future'?" Club Kid B chimes in.
"Or 'The Diversity of Life'?" Club Kid C adds.
"How about we just go for 'Vagueness' as a theme, huh?" I interject. "This is a dance, folks --not a science fair."
Club Kid D, who'd been raising his hand, puts it down now. No doubt, he thought he was at the committee meeting for the science fair.
"How about The Wizard of Oz" Club Kid E meekly proposes. I can tell from the glint in her eye that she's at least an acquaintance of Dorothy.
It's not a bad idea. But like many Club Kid ideas, it's not particularly grounded in originality.
Last year's Dowager's Dance theme was The Sound of Music. And as much as I'd love to lay a yellow brick road down in the middle of the gymnasium and force the cheaper ones to dress like flying bellhop monkeys, I'm afraid it will only pale in comparison to last year, when most of the kids showed up in outfits made from their parents' old curtains.
I explain this to Club Kid E, who doesn't seem too deterred. I think there just might be hope for her yet. I ask what her name is, and she tells me it's Amber.
"Anybody else have an idea?" I ask.
"How about death?" Kyle says.
"Excuse me?"
"Death. As the theme."
We all pause for a second.
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Trilby Pope sneers.
"I love it," Infinite Darlene predictably disagrees.
"I'm not so sure . . . ," I say.
"No, think about it," Amy pipes up. "It could be really neat. In most cultures, dancing is part of the death ceremony. It makes life seem even cooler than it did before."
"You could decorate with images of death," Emily says.
"And people could dress up as their favorite dead person." Amy is pretty engaged right now.
"You could use tombstones as centerpieces," I say, warming up to the idea.
"I mean, someone has to dance with the portrait of the dead dowager, anyway," Kyle points out.
"You guys are sick," Club Kid B says.
Shut up, Nelly, Amber interjects. "This could be better than last year's debake-off finals!"
I shoot her a blank look.
"One of the finalists from Petaluma wet his pants onstage because of the pressure," Amber explains. "It was fantastic."
"You guys aren't serious, are you?" Trilby trills.
"You wouldn't know serious if it gave you a makeover," Infinite Darlene shoots back.
"Well, at least I know how to apply my eye shadow."
Infinite Darlene jumps out of her seat, yelling, "Do you want to take this outside, Trilby?"
"Kicking your butt isn't worth risking a run in my stockings, Daryl"
I step in before Infinite Darlene can lunge at her.
"Enough!" I shout. "We're trying to architect a dance here, so crouch your tigers some other time. Infinite Darlene, sit down. Trilby, if you can't say something nice, then get the hell out of the room. Okay?"
They both nod.
"Now, let's talk a little more about death. . .."
I'm starting to have a vision for this dance. For the rest of the period, we shoot out ideas and the architecture takes form. When the bell rings, most of us look satisfied. Club Kids A through D are a total loss, but Amber's sure to be a keeper. Trilby and Infinite Darlene have disagreed on every issue brought up, but their disagreement has at least given two points of view for the rest of us to choose between.
Amy and Emily stay a little late--they want to work some death poems into the DJ's mix.
When they leave, it's only me and Kyle in the room. I feel a little awkward--the last time I saw him, I ran out of the building. I expect him to ask for an explanation. But instead he surprises me by saying, "You're really good at this, you know."
"It was your idea," I point out.
"I guess so." He pauses and studies his sneakers.
"How are you doing?" I ask. "I mean, with your aunt and all."
He looks back up at me. "Okay, I guess. My mom is really sad. I don't know what to say to her. Nothing is easy, you know?"
Some things are easy. But I realize he might not be experiencing them now.
"Thanks for asking," he adds, and it's entirely genuine. -
I -ask him a little more--about home, about the funeral that morning. I don't touch him, and he doesn't seem to need to be touched.
The second bell rings. We're both late for seventh period. We pack up our bags and leave together. As we do, we talk about lif
e being unfair and the idea of a death-themed dance. We don't talk about the kiss or anything after. And I find myself thinking how strange it is--once upon a time, when we were going out, all I wanted was for Kyle to open up to me and tell me what he felt about us. Now I am grateful to him for letting us talk without having A Talk.
Boy Meets Boy Page 12