Tips on Having a Gay (Ex) Boyfriend

  “What?” Tom stands up and starts toward me. I fiddle with the strings, pretending like I’m tuning them.

  “I said, ‘Do you want your coat back?’”

  “You said, ‘jacket,’” he says, standing just a foot away from me.

  “Whatever.” My heart beats too fast, ready for the pain. “Do you want it?”

  I balance Gabriel on a nearby desk and start pulling my arms out of Tom’s jacket. I feel like I’ve lost another layer of myself, like I’m part naked without it. I hold it out to him.

  “I don’t want my jacket, Belle.” He shakes his head like I’ve failed him, which I guess I have. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I nod and shrug. Then I pull the jacket back to me and clutch it against my chest.

  “Dylan told me he went to your house last night,” Tom says, leaning back against a desk and crossing his arms in front of him. “He said you were doing okay, that Eddie didn’t hurt you too much.”

  “Yeah.” I look away. I look back. I don’t know where to look. I decide to focus on my Snoopy shoes. Good ole Snoopy, clutching those balloons, hoping to fly away.

  Tom touches my arm and I jump. He stares into my eyes, forcing me to look, seeming startled himself, but serious, really serious. “Do you still love him?”

  I tilt my head. “What?”

  “You heard me. Don’t make me say it again,” he says, pleading now, but steady, strong.

  “Of course, I love him,” I say. “I’ll always love him, but I don’t love him love him like in a sexual romantic way. Does that make sense?”

  He nods and turns, paces away a few steps, runs his hand through his hair. That place in his cheek spasms. He looks up in the air and then back at me. “It just about killed me when he said he slept with you.”

  “He didn’t sleep with me! He hugged me!” I yell and I toss Tom’s jacket onto a desk, angry and stomp closer to him. The light above our heads buzzes and flickers out. “That’s not the same thing.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “It isn’t?”

  “You know it isn’t.”

  He pauses and says slowly like every word matters, “How would you feel if you found out I was on a bed hugging Mimi Cote for hours?”

  It is so quiet I can hear the clock on the wall tick away the seconds as my heart breaks. “Fully clothed?”

  He nods. “Fully clothed.”

  “I’d tear her heart out.”

  He smiles, but it’s just a little, sad smile and my heart, my own heart flip flops in my chest and aches for him. I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry. He came and I was so sad, but nothing happened. I’m sorry.”

  I bite my lip and the words come out before I can stop them. “I wish it was you. I wish it was you holding me.”

  He scratches at his hair and then holds open his arms, and I don’t think. I rush into them.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  And he leans in and kisses me, so much harder, so much deeper than our other two kisses. It’s long and full of comforter cover dreams and bathtubs and singing on grassy lawns holding hands and it’s full of want and need and love.

  I sigh against him. I lean against him and he leans against me. Our hands hold each other up and our lips talk and talk and tell each other’s soul secrets, all without words.

  His hands rub my back in little circles as we leave the study hall and head to class and I manage to say, “What about the seizure thing?”

  “What about it?” Tom asks. He holds the door.

  “Well, I have seizures, you know. I mean, people are probably going to think I’m a freak and everything and if you hang out with me . . .”

  Tom puts a finger over my lips. “Belle, I knew you had seizures.”

  “You did?” my voice squeaks and my lips touch his finger as they move. My free hand grabs at his shirt, holds the cotton in between my fingers.

  “Belle, I hate to tell you this, but this is Eastbrook. Everybody knows you have seizures.”

  I let go of his shirt, turn my head up to him. “They do?”

  He laughs and pulls me along with him down the hallway. “Commie, the People, they know everything.”

  Mr. Zeki checks me out when I go into class. Tom plants a kiss on my cheek and heads off. Mr. Zeki wiggles his eyebrows at me and Em groans, “Dirty old man.”

  Mr. Zeki heads to our table and squats down beside me. “You doing okay, Belle? Feeling alright?”

  I nod.

  He eyes me like I’m lying and says in his super-effeminate voice, “I’d like to crush that Eddie Caron boy.”

  He hits his fist into his palm and it’s all I can do not to laugh. Em snorts next to me. Mr. Zeki doesn’t notice. Instead, he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  He nods at Em. “For either of you girls.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say and look to Em for help. She just gives me big eyes and Mr. Zeki sashays away and announces, “I’m tired. It’s Friday. How about you all talk and pretend to study for the test Monday? I’m going to sit here, take some Motrin, and do a crossword.”

  “Looks like you just got yourself a bodyguard,” Anna says to me. Then she smiles. “Two if you want me.”

  I smile back. “I’ll be okay.”

  After we assure all the curious around us that Eddie did not rape me and I am fine and will be going to the dance with Tom, Em and I get down to our serious talk.

  “Bob and Dylan had a huge fight in the cafeteria before school,” she says, pulling out a piece of gum and munching on it. “It was really embarrassing. Bob just flew into Dylan about what happened last night.”

  “What happened last night?” I ask her, pulling out my Tic Tacs. “Is my breath bad?”

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, pointing at her gum. “That was not a sign. I have bad breath. I had coffee at lunch since you weren’t there.”

  “You never drink coffee,” I say, confused and popping in some Tic Tacs anyway.

  “That’s because I know you can’t.”

  “You still chew gum. I can’t have that either, unless it’s the crappy kind.”

  She smiles. “Friendship can only go so far.”

  I whack her with my notebook, but not hard. She whacks me back and I pretend to be all smiley happy, but what I’m really thinking is that I don’t know who anyone is, really, not even Emily, my best friend. I whack her again.

  “Girls!” Mr. Zeki yells. “Isn’t Miss Philbrick recovering from a head injury?”

  “Sorry!” Em yells. “I won’t hurt her.”

  She giggles behind her hand and adds, “Much.”

  Mr. Zeki shakes his head and goes back to his crossword. Anna turns around and hisses, “He is so in love with you two.”

  “We get our brownie points where we can,” Em says.

  I lower my voice once Anna turns around. “So, what happened last night?”

  Em shoots me a look that means she thinks I’m being stupid on purpose.

  “What?” I say.

  “About you guys sleeping together.”

  “We did not sleep together!” I yell.

  Everyone turns around and starts laughing. Mr. Zeki shouts, “Good to know! If you do, use a condom! We all had our little safe-sex lecture when we were freshman. Don’t make me have to give it again.”

  I flush so much my face burns. Em doubles over laughing. When she’s done, I tell her what happened. She shakes her head when I’m done. “That’s not how Bob made it sound.”

  “Bob’s an idiot,” I say.

  She agrees, snaps her gum. “Dylan can do better.”

  “Do you think they’ll make up and go to the dance tonight?” I ask her.

  “Probably,” she shrugs, puts h
er notebook back in her bag. “Are you still going with Tom?”

  I smile, which she understands as a yes.

  “He was pretty pissed when he heard about you and Dylan last night,” she says. “Did you guys talk about it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering his lips on my lips, his hands on my back, that electric feeling. I start blushing again. “We talked. Did you send him to hear me play?”

  “Yeah. He really likes you, you know.”

  “I really like him.”

  “Good,” she nods at my gig bag, safe over by the lab sinks, tucked out of the way. “I’m glad you’re playing again.”

  I tuck my arm into hers and she leans her head on my shoulder when I say, “I didn’t actually play yet.”

  “God, don’t tell me you just sat there.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell you.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  “Love me?” I suggest.

  She shrugs. “That works.”

  The hardest part of the day is going to German, because that’s where it all happened, where everybody saw me jerk and shake and pass out.

  Tom told me it didn’t last long, maybe five seconds, but that doesn’t make me feel better.

  Anna walks with me because she has Spanish next door. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, but truth is I’m close to hyperventilating as I walk by the radiator where it happened. Truth is, I’d rather do anything than tromp through that door and go into German.

  Anna slaps me on the back. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  One step over the threshold. Another step into the room. I stare at the floor, at the cracked tiles. No, that’s no good. I look up, straight ahead.

  Herr Reitz opens his arms up wide and says, “Belle, guten tag!”

  He is trying too hard. He snaps the straps on his lederhosen and smiles too big.

  I look out the window at the sky. It’s actually blue right now. The tree branches poke into it, scraping against it. My heart skitters to the side. “Guten tag.”

  As quickly as possible, I file into the room. Tom barrels in after me, slams into his seat, and reaches out to touch my shoulder.

  “Hey, hot stuff,” he whispers.

  “Hot stuff?”

  Crash starts laughing and says like everything’s normal, “Herr Reitz, Tomen and Bellen is geflirten again.”

  “Rasheesh! Will you at least try to say it in German,” Herr Reitz scolds and starts writing out how to say it on the board. Everybody laughs. Tom especially. I can’t believe it. It’s like everything is fine.

  But it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. Bob coughs and raises his hand and says, “Herr Reitz, I’m no longer comfortable sitting near Belle. I’d like to move.”

  My heart falls onto the floor. Tears rush to my eyes, but hate comes faster, quicker. Tom stands up behind me. Herr Reitz’s arm freezes in the middle of a word. And Bob, Bob just keeps standing there in his jeans that ride up his butt too high and his white ankles sticking out. Dylan left me for him, for him.

  Herr Reitz turns around, nods at Tom. “Sit down, Tom.”

  Tom sits and reaches his leg forward to hook his foot around my foot beneath my chair. A tiny red spider crawls across the corner of my desk. He’s so small, like I’d like to be, scurrying around with nobody noticing him.

  Herr Reitz stares at Bob. His cheeks bulge out and in, out and in, just like my heart. He takes a breath and says, “Bob. You want to move?”

  Bob nods. The spider scampers off the top of my desk and hides on the side.

  “Your seat?”

  “Yes, my seat.” Bob’s voice is the strongest I’ve ever heard it.

  Herr Reitz crosses his arms in front of his lederhosen. “Because of Belle?”

  Bob shifts his weight. His eyes glance at me. My hands tremble, not in a seizure way, but in an angry, hate, scared way. Tom’s foot tugs against mine. The spider drops onto my leg and is still, waiting.

  “Yeah,” Bob says, “because of Belle.”

  Hate frames his words.

  Herr Reitz nods really slowly and as if he’s a reporter trying to get the facts straight he says, “Because of what happened in class yesterday?”

  Bob nods back, just as slowly.

  “I thought so,” Herr Reitz says and he straightens up, sighs. “Okay, Bob, you can move. You can move right out that door.”

  Bob’s body is still. The rest of us gasp but don’t say anything, not even Crash. Then Bob comes to life, his voice high and scared, and Bob-like. “What do you mean? I have to leave? She’s the freak!”

  Tom jumps up and lunges toward Bob, but little Crash gets in the way. At the same time, Herr Reitz strides down between the desks so he’s right in front of Bob. “Out. Just get out! I’m ashamed to be your teacher.”

  Bob sputters. Tom relaxes enough so that he doesn’t look as if he’s going to immediately tear out Bob’s throat, but not by much. I sink into my chair and cover my eyes with my hands.

  “What do you think, Bob?” Herr Reitz says. “Are you going to leave yourself or am I going to have to have Tom escort you?”

  Bob’s eyes start watering and I feel bad. I lift up my head and reach out my hand. “Bob.”

  But he just grabs his books and runs right by me, out into the hall, and away.

  My hand still reaches out to the air. Crash slaps it five because somebody has to do something, I guess. Herr Reitz comes and kneels in front of me. His bologna halitosis breath hits me full force. “Belle? You okay? You want to leave?”

  “No.” I shake my head. I look into Crash’s eyes, Tom’s. “I want to stay.”

  “I’ll pick you up for the dance?” Tom says when the bell rings. He doesn’t ask me if I’m okay about the whole Bob scene, which is good, because it would probably push me over the edge and into the land of melodrama girl, where nothing can stop the tears or the screaming or me from finding Bob’s pasty butt and kicking it into New Hampshire.

  “Sure,” I say and smile up at him. I zip Gabriel back into her gig bag.

  Tom shakes his head at me, while I pull Gabriel’s bag over my shoulder. “How did I get so lucky?”

  “You?” I am stunned.

  “Yeah, me.” There goes that Tom smile again, straight to my heart. I shake my head, because this is all so strange and raw and new and good, like your leg right after you shave it. I think about all those years of high school with Tom calling me a Commie and me cringing whenever he was around because I used to like him in middle school and he so obviously was this jock boy whose deepest emotion was teasing. Not that teasing is an emotion, but that’s how shallow I thought he was.

  “I can’t believe you,” I tell Tom.

  “What do you mean?” He moves his arm in a gallant way to let me out the door first.

  My free hand flaps around in the air. “I don’t know. You’re so nice. I mean, before Monday, I thought you were just some teasing jerk who didn’t care about me at all.”

  “Belle,” he whispers, staring into my eyes, “people aren’t always what they seem.”

  I giggle and pretend to be that guy in the old karate movie or the kid in the cartoon Avatar. “Oh, wise one, you are so wise.”

  He grabs my gig bag off my shoulder and laughs. “Shut up and let me carry that.”

  “Okay,” I say and watch his cute bottom strut down the corridor. I scurry after him. “Okay.”

  When Tom’s truck parks into my driveway, the rain pours down, hammering a percussion tune against the roof and sides of my house. Down the road, just a bit, Eddie’s house lights flash on and off like a warning. He left a note for me outside the house. I found it when I got home from school. A four-word note: Sorry. I’m so sorry. I shuddered, remembering Eddie’s han
d and his hard voice. What had happened to the Eddie I used to know, I have no clue.

  “He’s here,” my mom says, rushing into my room.

  I step away from my window. “I know.”

  My mom grabs my hands and pulls my arms away from my side. “Don’t you look beautiful?”

  “Mom, it’s not like the prom or anything. It’s just a skirt,” I blush.

  She pulls me into a hug. “Well, you’re my beautiful baby.”

  Letting go, she searches my face. “You feeling strong enough to go?”

  “Mom, it was just a little concussion,” I say, trying to make my voice not annoyed. It doesn’t work but she doesn’t care, she just tweaks my nose while the doorbell rings.

  She rushes off. “I better let that poor boy in from the rain.”

  Then she throws the kicker over her shoulder, “I was talking about your emotional health, not just your physical health, know-it-all.”

  Her big yellow slippers flip flop down the hallway. I turn to the mirror and put on some lip gloss. Mothers. I try not too hard to look at my face, paler than normal because of the lack of sun and too much stress. My hair will be wet soon, so there was no use struggling over that.

  “Fine,” I sigh at myself. “I look fine.”

  Tom chuckles at the door. “You sure do.”

  “Look who’s talking?” I say, turning and smiling. He just keeps his little half grin plastered on his face while I look him up and down. His pants fit against those muscular thighs just the right way and his wet coat make his shoulders seem even broader.

  He runs a hand through his brown hair. “Good show?”

  I trot over to him, stand on my toes, and kiss his lips, just a tiny, light peck that still makes me want to swoon. Then I pull away. His eyes are still closed. “You bet.”

  I pick up his gray, shiny tie, and it lands heavy against my palm. I finger the material. “This is?”

  “Duct tape.”

  I let it drop against his chest, my fingers graze the wetness of his unzipped jacket.

  “No quotes though?”

  “Not today.”