If I Told You So

by Timothy Woodward

  So my mom and I would make the most of the time we had. We’d go hiking or swimming in the summer, skiing or sledding in the winter. Some weekends, if my dad said he was busy at work, she would pack me up in the car, and we’d head to my gram’s house in Vermont. My mom and I were best friends. We didn’t have secrets.

  So I don’t know why I felt the need to keep this part of me a secret. I guess, as I’ve gotten older, I haven’t been as close to my mom. We haven’t grown apart exactly; I just don’t tell her every detail of my life. But I should have trusted her on this. I should have known she’d be cool.

  The thoughts drift through my mind like the clouds in the sky above. It’s almost like I’m drifting with them on the lake breeze. A new smell rides up on the wind, and my nose is filled with pizza from the Gold House and fried clams from the Clam Hut. My stomach clenches, reminding me that all I have had to eat is a cup of coffee. Reluctantly, I climb down from the table rock and find my bike. I don’t use my brakes all the way down the hill. By the time I reach Main Street, I’m flying.

  I don’t stop until I get to the Lakeside Cottages. I ride to number 8 and park my bike by a tree. The Lakeside Cottages are a series of small log cabins with screened porches that overlook the lake on the east side of Bell Cove. Each cabin has a corny, tree-themed name to distinguish it from the others, like “The Pines,” “The Willows,” or “The Elms.” Number 8 is “The Spruces.”

  I knock on the screen door and call inside, “Hello! Becky?”

  “I’m on the porch!” I follow the sound of her voice through the cabin. There’s a small kitchen with a two-burner stove and an ancient-looking refrigerator, the kind where the freezer is an aluminum box inside the refrigerator instead of a separate compartment. The kitchen is connected to the combo living/ dining room. There’s a table and four chairs, a sagging sofa in a green burlap material straight from 1967, and an Adirondack chair just like the ones on our deck except for a floral print cushion. Two doors off the living room lead to a bathroom and to the main bedroom. I also see the ladder that goes to the loft where Becky sleeps. Lofts are a really cool idea, except for the total lack of privacy and the fact that you have to go up and down a ladder every time you need to use the bathroom.

  I find Becky lying in a hammock on the back porch reading a book. “So this is what the Lakeview Cottages look like. I always wondered.”

  Becky hates spending time at the cottage so much that I never come here with her. She always meets me in town or at my house.

  “So you gave yourself the grand tour? Saves me the trouble,” she says without looking up. “And what brings you here? Why didn’t you call me?” Becky keeps reading her book.

  “My mom was on the phone and then I was on my bike. Where are your parents?”

  “My dad took my mom fishing,” she says.

  “Fishing?”

  “Yeah, actually my mom loves it, as long as she doesn’t have to touch any bait or any fish.” Becky finally puts her book down and looks at me. “What’s up, Chuck?”

  “I told my mom.”

  It takes a moment for her to register my meaning. “You told your. . . ?” Then she’s out of the hammock so fast she almost flips and lands smack on her butt. I have flashbacks to the canoe. “Sean Jackson, get out!”

  “Apparently, I am.”

  “Oh—my—God! I am so proud of you! You’re smiling, so it went well?”

  “Yeah. There was a rough moment or two, but it was hugs and tears by the end.”

  “This calls for a celebration. Let’s go shopping and get you some new clothes!” Becky is on her feet and already pushing me toward the door.

  “But . . .”

  “No buts! Move it!” she orders.

  “Can we at least stop for lunch first?”

  Chapter 16

  Becky and I eat our Gold House sandwiches on the same bench we had lunch the day we met. It hasn’t even been a month, but I feel like I’ve known Becky forever.

  “So, where are the best places to shop around here?” Becky asks between mouthfuls of meatball sub.

  “Well, there’s a Walmart a couple exits down the highway.”

  Becky practically chokes on a meatball. “Sean Jackson, please tell me you are not serious!”

  “Well, not totally serious.” Truth is, I do own a few articles of clothing from Walmart, but I keep this fact to myself. “The nearest mall is in Concord. Probably thirty miles away or so,” I offer instead.

  “Nothing in town?”

  “Not unless you want to buy a magnet shaped like New Hampshire or a sun catcher made by a local artist.”

  “Country living.” Becky throws her hands in the air like she’s offering herself up for sacrifice. “Gotta love it.”

  “Hey, this is my hometown!”

  “And a sweet hometown it is. A little sleepy, though.”

  “I’m sorry we disappoint the New York princess!” I roll my eyes at Becky. “But at least our streets are clean, you can breathe the air, and you don’t have to keep a pocket full of change for the homeless guy on every corner.”

  “Well, of course you don’t have any homeless people. They’d have to spend their quarters at Walmart. In New York, our homeless have style. It’s Dolce & Gabbana and Ralph Lauren for them. Nothing else will do.”

  “You like New York, don’t you?”

  “I love it. You’re right about some of the drawbacks, but it makes up for it in culture, and food, and especially shopping. There’s seriously nowhere to get you some new duds?”

  Becky’s joke about the homeless actually did give me an idea. “Well, there is one place.”

  After lunch, I take Becky to Sew Much More, the local thrift and consignment shop. The mother of one of my classmates at school owns the store, and it features a wide selection of “gently used” clothes. Also, the owner is a seamstress, and there are many original designs as well. I’ve never been in, but then again, I’ve never been much for shopping, especially for clothes.

  “What do you mean, you don’t like shopping?” Becky asks me as we enter the store. “Are you gay or aren’t you?”

  “Not so loud.” Just because I came out to my mother does not mean I am ready for the whole town to know. Sometimes I think Becky does it on purpose.

  “It’s just a stereotype. Just because you’re Jewish doesn’t mean I think you like bagels,” I say.

  “But I love bagels!” Becky puts an arm around my shoulder and pushes me toward the racks of clothes. “You just need to see what’s out there. I’ve only ever seen you wear cargo shorts and T-shirts.”

  “What’s wrong with what I wear?”

  “Nothing. But change is good. A new outfit can make you feel like a new person.” Becky has pulled me to the back of the store where there are several racks of men’s clothes. She’s quickly shuffling the hangers, which make high-pitched squeaks as they slide across the metal rack.

  She pulls out a pair of dark blue Levi’s and holds them out toward me. “What size are you? I think these might fit.” She tosses the jeans at me and turns back to the rack. She’s already on to the shirts before I can answer.

  “Omigod, look at this!” She has pulled out a white shirt with a ruffled front. The ruffles are tipped with light blue. It’s hideous.

  “What is it?” She can’t possibly expect me to wear it.

  “It’s a vintage tuxedo shirt with baby-blue piping! It’s fabulous!”

  “You sound like Renée.”

  “You’ll look great in it.”

  “I will?” She spins me around and has the shirt up to my back. She measures the sleeves against my arms and hums an approving sound.

  “Go try these on,” she says. Before I know it I’m in the changing room at the back of the store. How can I say no? With a deep sigh, I pull off my trusty cargos and put on the jeans. Becky must have magic clothes powers or something because the jeans fit perfectly. When I go shopping with my mother I usually have to try on six or seven pairs before I can fi
nd a pair that’s acceptable, so I’m shocked at Becky’s instant success. I’m still skeptical about the tuxedo shirt and I stare at it for several seconds, trying to decide how hurt Becky would be if I refuse. I’m surprised by a knock on the door.

  “Are you decent?” Becky doesn’t wait for me to respond and pulls open the dressing room door.

  “Becky!”

  She shoves another hanger at me and closes the door again. This time I use the little metal hook to lock it.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Don’t you love it?” “It” is a bright yellow T-shirt with diagrams of the sign language alphabet across the front. Over the pictures in blue letters it says, LET’S HEAR IT FOR SIGN LANGUAGE! I have to admit, it’s pretty funny.

  “But what about the ruffles?”

  “Wear them both, silly. You’ll need something under the tuxedo shirt anyway,” Becky says through the door.

  I look at the two shirts with skepticism, but there’s only one way out of this store, and that’s through Becky. I put them on.

  “What do you think?” I step out of the dressing room and do a spin for Becky.

  “You look so cute!” Becky says. “If you weren’t gay, I’d eat you up right here.”

  “Shh! Becky, please! This is a small town.” I look toward the front of the store where the owner is absorbed in a sewing project. She doesn’t seem to notice. But Becky’s right, I have to admit, I do kind of look like I belong on the cover of a magazine.

  “Oh, and look what else I found.” Becky holds up a worn leather jacket. “It’s perfect.”

  I slip the jacket on, completing the look.

  “Do you really think it’s me?”

  “The new you,” Becky says.

  We go to the front of the store to pay for the new clothes, and the owner gives me smile.

  “You look great!” she says. She puts my cargo shorts and old T-shirt in a bag for me. “Let’s see, thirty-seven dollars.”

  I open my wallet, but I only have a twenty and three ones.

  “Um, Becky, do you have any money?”

  “Just a ten.” I give Becky a helpless look.

  “I don’t really need the tuxedo shirt.”

  “Forget it, hon.” The owner reaches across the counter and pats my hand. “Thirty-three will be fine.”

  “Really?”

  “You look too good to make you put anything back.” She hits a button and the cash register opens. “Do me a favor? Make sure you tell everyone where you got the clothes, and we’ll call it even.”

  Outside the store, the sun is still bright, but everything looks different. Becky was right: a new outfit does make you feel like a new person, and with it comes new perspective.

  “I can’t wait to show Jay my new look.”

  “I think he’s working tonight; maybe we can stop by after dinner. ”

  “Is it weird that I feel so much better about myself?”

  “No. For the first time in your life you’re being honest with your feelings and with the important people in your life.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Look at you, this is the happiest I’ve seen you. You’re like a walking commercial for honesty.” Becky stands in front of me and puts her hands up, making a “frame” with her thumbs and index fingers. She looks at me as if she was directing the commercial. “Thrift-store jeans, six dollars. Graphic T-shirt, two dollars. Vintage tuxedo shirt, four dollars. Vintage leather jacket, twenty-five dollars. Coming out of the closet—”

  We both shout together, “Priceless!”

  “Hey, let’s head back to my cabin. If my parents are back from fishing, I can bum some more cash from them and we can take your mother out to dinner, my treat.”

  I think about my empty wallet and give Becky a skeptical look. She points a finger at me to stop me from arguing.

  “I told you we were going to celebrate. Besides, you’re all dressed up; now you need someplace to go.”

  Chapter 17

  It’s incredible how a new outfit can completely change you. I’m practically strutting as we walk down Main Street away from the thrift store. It’s like being on stage. When I’m in a stage production at school, as soon as I put on that costume, I have a part to play. I’m expecting all eyes to be on me, so I act the part.

  With my new outfit, that part is Sean Jackson, who just came out to his mom. I’m proud of myself; I’ve started a new life for myself. I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t mind if he gets noticed.

  It also happens to be two days before the Fourth of July, and Main Street is crowded. Independence Day is one of the biggest holidays in Bell Cove. Not only is it the height of summer, but the lake always draws people from all over for the fireworks. A lot of the lakeside towns have fireworks displays, so if you have a boat it can be fun to go out onto the lake where you can see several displays at once. The towns all try to coordinate as well, so no two towns are going off at the same time. If Bell Cove is at seven thirty, then maybe Eastford will be at seven forty-five, and Bolton will be at eight. I’m hoping Jay will invite me out on his boat to watch.

  Becky and I dodge through the crowds walking along the lake as we make our way toward her cabin. We’re just passing the post office when I spot them.

  “Shit,” I say under my breath but loud enough for Becky to hear.

  “What’s up?”

  “Dan Sweeney and friends.” I jerk my chin in the direction of three teenage boys walking toward us on the other side of the street.

  “The no-necks at ten o’clock?”

  I nod. “Let’s just say we don’t travel in the same circles.”

  Dan is tossing a football in the air as he walks, and with his attention on that, I’m hoping Becky and I might sneak by unnoticed. No such luck.

  Morgan Watson, the tallest of the three, wearing a Tom Brady Patriots jersey, spots me and shouts, “Jackson!” Next thing I know, all three are heading across the street.

  There aren’t many kids at school that I have a real problem with. Bell Cove is a small place, and most of us have known each other since at least first grade. So even if I’m not friends with someone, we know each other well enough to stay out of each other’s way. Dan Sweeney is the exception.

  Dan and his ubiquitous buddies, Morgan Watson and Tom Michaud, are the stereotypical jocks who run the school. Dan is the captain of the football team, the popular kid who throws keggers on the weekends and gets away with it because he led the team to the championship for the first time in twenty years last year. They’re not really bullies; they just feel the need to remind some of us who’s in charge on occasion. As one of the “artsy” kids, I’m one of their more frequent targets.

  “Who’s the girl, Jackson?” Dan stops tossing his football long enough to look Becky up and down. “She’s got nice tits.”

  “Excuse me?” Becky takes a step forward. She’s not intimidated by anyone. I really admire that.

  “It’s a compliment.” Dan shows his teeth in a leering grin at Becky. “What are you doing with Jackson, anyway? I didn’t think he was into tits.”

  “Judging from that shirt, I don’t think that’s changed,” Tom chimes in from behind Dan. “Nice outfit, Jackson.”

  And just like that, the Sean Jackson of two minutes ago, the one excited to show off his new look and ready to celebrate his coming out has been thrown back in the closet. I don’t say anything; I can’t figure out what I could say that Dan wouldn’t just twist into some cruel gay joke. Instead, I just stand there, feeling like a deflated balloon.

  “I think he looks hot,” Becky says, latching herself on to my arm. “C’mon, Sean, we need to get going.” Becky starts to walk off, pulling me with her.

  Dan’s smile shrinks just a little bit, as if he’s confused that Becky won’t defer to his superior physical presence. He takes a step forward to block me from passing. But Becky doesn’t stop, and I just keep following. Dan’s shoulder crashes into mi
ne, with a force that surprises me since I didn’t even see him move to make it happen, but I don’t slow down. I can feel Becky’s energy start to flow into me. Dan Sweeney can kiss my ass. A smile comes to my lips as I pass the trio of jocks.

  “Fag,” Dan says, so he can have the last word, but he doesn’t try to come after us. I take a deep breath and let it out in a slow stream.

  “Wasn’t he a charmer,” Becky says as we get out of earshot.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?” Becky stops for a moment and looks me in the eye. “Guys like that have nowhere to go but down. They’ve already reached their peak. Honestly, it’s pretty sad. If you remember that, they just don’t seem so scary anymore.”

  All I can do is shake my head. The logic of Becky strikes again. But I can’t stop to think about it for too long because Becky is already off and heading toward the cabins. I’ve got to run to catch up.

  We return to the cabin just as Becky’s parents are pulling a small fishing boat up to the dock. Becky’s parents look surprisingly normal. They’re both about forty, dressed in standard “vacation wear”: khaki shorts and short-sleeved polo shirts. Somehow I expected something more. I find it hard to believe that two people so normal looking could have Becky for a daughter.

  “Did you catch anything?” Becky shouts from the porch.

  Her dad holds up a stringer with four bass on it. They’re each about a pound. Not bad for a guy from the city. Becky’s mom ties up the front of the boat and climbs onto the dock, then takes the stringer of fish from her husband. She holds them out away from her body as if they were radioactive. One of the fish still has some life and flips its tail in a futile attempt to escape. Becky’s mom squeals and drops the stringer on the dock. The fish continues to flop and manages to make it over the edge of the dock.

  “Hon, watch out!” Becky’s father says.