Boy Meets Boy

  "Not in those exact words, but yes."

  "And you think she'll listen to me?"

  "Honey, if she's stopped listening to you, then that's a bigger problem than anything else."

  I know this much is true.

  "Fine," I say. I expect Infinite Darlene to be relieved by this,; but she doesn't look relieved.

  "They're over there," she says, pointing to Joni and Chuck in the cafeteria, somehow eating and snuggling at the same time. "Now's as good a time as any."

  Naturally, I want to look for Noah (don't I?), but I can't find a way to say no to Infinite Darlene. I head over to Joni under her watchful eye.

  Joni doesn't even detach herself from Chuck when I come into range. She lets him put his hand in her back pocket. I fight the urge to ewww.

  "What's up?" she asks. She sounds defensive, so the ewww must be noticeable.

  "Can we talk?"

  "Sure." She doesn't move.

  "I mean, somewhere else."

  She looks at Chuck, who's looking at me.

  "We can talk here, can't we?" she says, turning back in my direction.

  "No."

  It's such a simple word-- no. But it has the force of a slam. I am not going to talk to Joni in front of Chuck because that's not what I came over here to do. And Joni's not going to budge.

  I know this already. And that sound you hear--that no, that slam -- is the sound of our friendship taking on the tone of a war.

  "Why can't we talk here?"

  "Because I want to talk to you alone."

  "Well, you can't now. I'm busy."

  Busy with Chuck's hand in her back pocket, and him stuffing french fries into his face, possibly thinking that his revenge against Infinite Darlene is working perfectly.

  "Sorry to bother you, then," I say, hoping to thrust one last dagger of guilt her way. I turn away abruptly because I'm too afraid to see if I got the reaction I wanted.

  I can't find Noah anywhere in the cafeteria. I really want to see him now. I ask around, and Eight tells me she saw him out by the soccer field with his camera. I immediately head in that direction.

  He is exactly where Eight said he'd be. He is on the edge of the field, in the space between the goal line and the surrounding woods. His camera is held to his eye, his posture silently observant. I am walking up behind him, but I cannot figure out what he is taking a picture of.

  I see an empty set of bleachers with a half-full garbage can at its side, nothing more.

  There is a faint click, then another. I circle around into Noah's side view. I look at his haphazard hair and his blue hooded sweatshirt and I realize how much I've missed him. More than touching him or kissing him, I just want to talk to him.

  I feel like the Paul who kissed Kyle is a totally different person from the Paul who likes Noah.

  And right now, I am entirely the Paul who likes Noah. The other Paul is in another country.

  "Hey," I say. He turns to me with the camera still to his eye. He doesn't smile or say anything back. He maintains his concentration, seeing me through the viewfinder.

  I walk closer, until I can see myself reflected in the glass of the lens.

  "Everyone's freaking out," I continue. "I'm freaking out. So much is happening. God, I've missed you. I'm sorry I've been so out of range."

  I hear another click. I smile after the picture has been taken.

  "It's okay," he says. Then he puts the camera down and I can see his headlong expression.

  "How was your weekend?" I ask.

  "Good. I thought about some things." From the way he says it, I can tell that all of these things are me, and that I'm not going to like what follows.

  "Like what?"

  "Like . . . maybe we should slow down a little. Take a time-out."

  I nod as if I understand what he's saying. But then I ask, "Why?"

  "Because I need to."

  "Why?"

  "Because . . . I feel. . . I feel like I don't know what I feel. I really like you, but I'm not sure what that means. I don't know what you want from me. And I don't know if I can give it to you. I went home this weekend and I thought about all these things. I was talking to my old friends about you, and about me, and hearing it all out loud I realized that I've gotten myself into something that I might not be ready for. I mean, I know you're not going to hurt me, but at the same time I don't want to throw myself into a place where I can be hurt. Chloe, Angela, and Jen pointed that out to me, and I can see where they're coming from."

  The bottom line is clear to me. "You're freaking out," I say.

  He smiles a little at that. "Maybe. But I need to sort this out. And I can't be with you while I'm doing that."

  "You're overanalyzing it," I argue. In the back of my mind, I'm thinking: There are so many other reasons for you to break it off with me. Why this one?

  He raises the camera back to his eye.

  "Don't take my picture," I say.

  "Okay." He puts the, camera down again.

  "Do you want to do something this afternoon?"

  He shakes his head. "How about Thursday?" he offers.

  "Thursday," I repeat. Is there some sort of equation he's following that makes going out on Thursday okay, but not this afternoon?

  I don't want to, but I sort of understand where he's coming from. Be careful he's saying. I want him to be careful with me, too. And sometimes careful feels like it has to be slow.

  Especially if you've been with someone fast and- careless before.

  He looks so nervous. He does still like me, but it's freaking him out.

  "Is that okay?" he asks, backing down a little.

  "How about Tuesday?" I say.

  "Wednesday." His seriousness is cracking.

  "Tuesday and a half."

  "Tuesday and three-quarters."

  Because I can't think of what's between a half and three-quarters quickly, enough, I agree to seeing him on Tuesday and three-quarters.

  "I just need to think," he says.

  I know I shouldn't, but I lean over and kiss him. I press against his camera, and it takes pictures of our feet as he kisses me back.

  "That's definitely something to think about," he says once we pull apart. But he doesn't give in entirely.

  "Tuesday and three-quarters," he says.

  "Tuesday and three-quarters," I agree.

  When he's gone, I miss him. I know I will miss him for the rest of today and tomorrow, and the three-quarters after. Even though he doesn't know about the Paul who kissed Kyle, even though I can't think of anything I might have said or done to make him freak out, I feel like it's all my fault. I tempted fate, and now fate is kicking me back a little.

  What's worse is that I don't have anyone to talk to about it. Tony's in exile, Joni's experiencing pair-a-noia, Ted isn't a real option, and Infinite Darlene would probably tell me I'm getting what I deserve. So all the words stay contained in my head, never leaving me alone.

  I space through the rest of the school day. Then Joni shoots me down to earth.

  "What were you trying to pull at lunch?'" she rails at me as I'm piling books back into my locker.

  I notice Chuck isn't with her.

  "Hey," I say, "where's your appendage?"

  She slams my locker shut, narrowly missing my fingers.

  "I'm sick of it, Paul," she yells. "I'm sick of your attitude and everybody else's. You want everything to stay the same. You want me to be back with Ted, and all of us to be the same little group for the rest of our little lives. But I'm not going to be: like that. My world is bigger than that."

  My defense mechanism kicks in. "Are you quoting Chuck directly or just paraphrasing him?"

  I ask, more to anger her than because I think it's true.

  Bull's-eye. If my locker had popped back open, she'd be slamming it again--this time with my head in it.

  "You think you're such a good friend, don't you?" she snarks. "Is that why Tony's grounded and Infinite Darlene can make you do her dirty work?"
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  "What are you talking about?"

  "I know what she's saying about me and Chuck."

  "And have you maybe paused for one clueful second to wonder if it's true? Infinite Darlene's your friend, remember?"

  "She used to be my friend."

  "Just like me, huh?"

  I've pushed her to it, but still I'm startled when she says, "Just like you."

  It's Kyle, of all people, who breaks in at this point.

  "Hey, Paul Hey, Joni." He bounds over and flashes me an eager look. I try to downplay it, but Joni's eyes widen a little. She's seen-- I'm not sure exactly what, but it won't go unremarked upon.

  I can't take it anymore. I am freaking out because I know I made a mistake with Kyle, and I am freaking out because it doesn't totally feel like a mistake. I am freaking out because my friendship with Joni is at a ten-year low, and I am freaking out because she doesn't seem to care. I am freaking out because Noah doesn't know what I want from him, and I am freaking out because I don't know what I could possibly give him in*return. I am freaking out because I've been caught--not by anyone else, but by myself. I see what I am doing. And I can't stop myself from making things worse.

  So I run. I make excuses and I run. Out the door. Out of the school.

  But not away.

  I can't make it away.

  When I get home, I find a note from Noah in the front pocket of my backpack. Somehow he managed to slip it in without me noticing. Since I know I got a calculator out of the pocket after lunch, I know he got to me after I saw him. The note has only one line on it, but I'm sure it's his handwriting.

  The note says:

  I can't believe you kissed him.

  Elsewhere

  Since I was a little kid, I've been doing this thing I call Going Elsewhere. It's almost like meditation, but instead of blanking myself out, I try to color myself in. I sit in the middle of my room, on the floor, and close my eyes. I put the tunes on the stereo that will take me to the right Elsewhere. I fill myself with images. And then I watch them unwind.

  My parents and even my brother are pretty cool about letting me do this. They never ask me why I need to leave. They respect my closed door. If someone calls on the phone, they tell the caller I'm Elsewhere and that I'll be back soon.

  When I get home after school, the house is empty. I write a note on the pad lying on the kitchen table-- Elsewhere--and head to my room. I put on Erasure's "Always" and take off my shoes. I sit in the exact center of the room. When I close my eyes, I begin with red.

  The colors come first. Red. Orange. Aquamarine. Flashes of solid color, like origami paper lit by television light. After going through colors, I picture patterns -- stripes, slants, dots.

  Sometimes I pass through an image in a split second. Others I hold on to. I pause on the way to Elsewhere. And then I'm there.

  I never have a plan. I never know what I'm going to see after the colors and patterns are done.

  This time it s a duck.

  It splashes into view and beckons me forward. I see an island-- your usual desert island, with crystal-blue water, perfect beach sand, and a palm tree angled in an arched slant. I pull myself ashore and lie looking at the sky. I can feel Joni pounding at a door, but I don't let her in.

  When I go Elsewhere, I travel alone. Shells ring my shadow. I reach over and pick one up, expecting to hear the sea. But the shells are silent. Tony walks by and waves. He looks happy, and I'm glad. I hear volcanoes in the distance, but I know I'm safe. The duck waddles at my feet. I laugh at its movements. Then it plops down into the water and begins to glide. I follow it in, wanting a swim.

  I begin to sink. I am not drowning--there is no struggle, no fear. It's the opposite of floating, a simple downward fall. I am pushing through the empty water, unaware of what lies at the bottom. I expect rocks, fish, wreckage. But instead I find Noah in his studio, slashing colors into a canvas. I try to see what he's painting, but I can't. Then it occurs to me that he's not painting a picture. Instead he's painting emotions, and every color he uses means hurt. I try to swim away, but I hang suspended. This isn't Elsewhere; this is Somewhere. I try to switch back to colors and patterns, but all of them now come from Noah's brush. I try to go back to the beach, back to the volcano. But even the music in my head is telling me there's no escape.

  And I know this. I am floating back to the surface now. Noah grows smaller, his room diminishes. But I know it's my ultimate destination. He's where I want to be.

  I don't open my eyes. Not yet. I am back now; I am sitting in the absolute center of my room, my brother's footsteps new on the stairs.

  Sometimes the space between knowing what to do and actually doing it is a very short walk.

  Other times it is an impossible expanse. As I sit with my eyes closed, I try to gauge the distance between me and the words that I will have to say. It seems far. Very far.

  I'm not ready yet.

  I put my hand in my pocket and feel the edges of Noah's note. I can't believe you kissed him.

  It would be so easy to obsess about how he found out. But that's only a speculative digression.

  The real problem is that it's the truth.

  I open my eyes. I take out my homework and do it with even less enthusiasm than usual.

  I decide to call Tony. His mother answers.

  "May I please speak to Tony?" I say.

  "He's not here," his mother frostily answers.

  "Where is he?" I ask.

  She hangs up.

  I call my friend Laura and am relieved to find she's not at her girlfriend's house. I ask her to call Tony and see if he's okay (I'm sure his mom will let a female caller through). She readily agrees to the assignment, and calls back fifteen minutes later to tell me he's feeling low, but the situation is survivable. His parents are keeping him under constant watch, afraid he might steal some kisses if they're not on guard. The chances of me getting to see him in the near future are about as likely as me becoming Heavyweight Champion of the World.

  At dinner, my parents notice my gloom. They try to skirt around it at first, but curiosity gets the best of them, and by dessert they're plunging right in.

  "What's going on?" my mother asks.

  "Are you okay?" my father backs her up.

  "What have you done now?" Jay chimes in.

  I tell them about what happened with Tony.

  "Perhaps it's time to send in the P-FLAG commandos," Jay suggests. In our town, P-FLAG

  (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) is as big a draw as the PTA.

  My mother nods at my brother while my father shakes his head at Tony's parents.

  I dash back up to my room before I start blabbing about Noah. Jay calls me on it anyway.

  "Busy day?" he pokes his head in and asks.

  "How'd you bet?" I ask, since I know he must've heard things from Rip.

  "I didn't," he says, and holds on for a second. "Just do me a favor and tip me off when you know which way it's going to go."

  "I'll do that," I say.

  "Hang in, Paul." He closes the door gently.

  I try to arm myself with distractions. I finish my homework. I read a book. I go downstairs and watch TV. But the image of Elsewhere -- of Noah in his studio--hasn't gone away.

  I can't believe you kissed him.

  It isn't until eleven that I decide I can't take it any longer. I know what I have to do.

  My parents are in their bedroom, watching a cop show on cable.

  "I have to go out," I tell them. "I know it's late and I know you probably won't let me, but I have to go and do something because if I don't, I will be up all night and by the time I get to talk to Noah, it will probably be too late."

  My parents look at each other and converse without speaking.

  "You can go as long as you wear the reflective vest," my mom says.

  "Mom."

  "We're not having you walk outside in the middle of the night without wearing the vest. End of discussion. You decide."


  I go to our front closet and pull out the hideous orange polyurethane beast. I put it on and head back to my parents' room.

  "Satisfied?" I ask.

  "Be back by midnight."

  I don't even have time to think about the words I'm going to say. I have to hope they'll be there when I need them.