Boy Meets Boy

  "but you just blew your chance."

  Jay stops chewing and pauses before making a grab for Arkansas. "Is she hot?" he asks.

  "Your sister?"

  "She's malaria hot," Noah tells him. "Isn't that right, Paul?"

  "I had to look twice when I saw her," I chime in. "And I don't even like girls that way."

  Jay nods in approval. My mother swats his hand with a spatula as he goes to stick his finger in the leftover batter. My father looks at us both, wondering how he can have two sons who make him feel so midway.

  Finally, Jay starts to talk about practice, and Noah and I get our share of the edible nation.

  My mom asks us if we want more ("I can do provinces, if you'd like"), but we both take a pass.

  We're ready to leave the house.

  "I'd like to meet her!" my brother shouts out as we head for the door (after thanking my mom profusely). It takes me a second to realize he's talking about Noah's sister.

  We have a laugh about that as we bound down my front path. :

  "Where now?" we ask each other at the same time.

  Both of us hesitate, not wanting to be the first to answer.

  Finally, we can't take it.

  "The park," we say at the same time.

  Which is very cool.

  We hold hands as we walk through town. If anybody notices, nobody cares. I know we all like to think of the heart as the center of the body, but at this moment, every conscious part of me is in the hand that he holds. It is through that hand, that feeling, that I experience everything else. The only things I notice around me are the good things--the mesmerizing tunes spilling out from the open door of the record store; the older man and the even older woman sitting on a park bench, sharing a blintz; the seven-year-old leaping from sidewalk square to sidewalk square, teetering and shifting to avoid stepping on a crack.

  As if by agreement, although we haven't made a plan, we head for the paddleboat pavilion. A lone duck greets our arrival. To our right, the skatepunks swoosh-ride on a ramp made of hemp, speeding to queercore thrash and the sound of their own bodies merging with the wind.

  To our left, a posse of Joy Scouts takes guitar lessons from a retired monk. (We used to have a troop of Boy Scouts, but when the Boy Scouts decided gays had no place in their ranks, our Scouts decided the organization had no place in our town; they changed their name and continued on.)

  The pond's surface is like a wrinkled blue shirt, with small buoy-buttons marking the distance of water. The paddleboat wrangler has named the boats after his seven daughters. From the time I was little, I've always chosen Trixie, because she's orange and has the funniest name.

  This time the paddleboat wrangler lifts his eyebrow at me because I go along when Noah chooses the light green Adaline. I like the idea of following his whims. I like the idea of going with him into a boat I've never been in before. Trixie has seen me with Joni and Kyle, other friends and other guys; she has also seen me paddle alone for hours, trying to sort out my problems by leaving a wake. Adaline doesn't know any of my secrets.

  Noah and I start to talk about our favorite books and our favorite paintings -- sharing our Indicators, hoping the other person will appreciate them as much. I know this is a normal early-date thing to do, but it's still unusual to me; since I've lived in the same ; town my whole life, I'm used to dating people I already know well.

  There are always smaller mysteries to unravel, but I often have the general picture right in my mind when the dating begins. Noah, however, is entirely new to me. And I am entirely new to him. It would be so easy to lie--to make my favorites the same as his, or to pick more impressive choices. And yet I tell the truth. I want this all to be the truth.

  The paddling pond isn't very large. We intersect it at constantly different angles. We shift direction like we shift conversation -- in slow, subtle, natural ways.

  "I don't do this very often," Noah says to me. "You know, go out."

  "Neither do I," I assure him. It's mostly true, although not quite as true as what he's said to me.

  "It's been a while."

  "What happened?" I ask, because I sense he wants me to ask.

  But maybe I've sensed wrong. He stops paddling for a second and his looks dark-cloud on me.

  "You don't have to tell me," I say quietly.

  He shakes his head. "No . . . it's okay. It's one of those things that you don't want to come up, but you know it has to come up, and then when it does you hope that once you've talked about it, it won't be that important anymore. It's really not a very interesting story. I liked this guy a lot. And I thought he liked me a lot, but in truth he didn't really like me at all. He was my first boyfriend, and I made him my everything--he was my new life, my new love, my new compass point. I guess that's the danger with firsts--you lose all sense of proportion. So I made a fool of myself, even though I didn't realize it at the time. I was so devoted to him."

  His "devoted" is italicized by sarcasm, underlined by hurt. "And he didn't really care. He was a year older than me, and for a while I used that as an excuse for not knowing he was cheating on me with roughly half his grade. I thought I could see him so well. But I didn't see him at all, really. And he didn't even try to see me.

  "Finally, he told me. And the really screwed-up thing is, when he told me, it was one of the most caring things he'd ever done for me--at least in a while. I guess he got a ninth-inning conscience. He told me I was great, and that because I was great there were some things I needed to know. And of course I wondered for months afterwards why, if I was so great, he had to go play on me. I felt so destroyed. More than I should have--but I only realize that now. It was so unfair. It was so unkind.

  "I was still getting over it when my parents decided to move. In a lot of ways, I was relieved.

  I couldn't stand seeing him in the halls. He was this constant, living reminder of my biggest mistake."

  I nod, and sift through my noticings. I notice that Noah hasn't mentioned this boy by name (even though I'm sure it's Pitt, the one Noah's sister mentioned before). I notice that Noah has been facing me the whole time instead of looking to the water or in the direction we're paddling; he is not just telling this story--he is giving it to me. I notice the hope and expectation in his eyes, the desire to have me understand exactly what he's saying. Which I do, to some extent. It reminds me of my time with Kyle, without really being the story of me and Kyle. Kyle was certainly unfair, and he was certainly unkind, but his intentions were more confused, less deliberate. Or so I like to think.

  I tell Noah a little about Kyle--how could I not? -- and about some of the other disastrous dates I've had. More the funny stories than the pained ones. The blind date with the boy in seventh grade who tucked his shirt into his underwear and his pants into his socks, just to be

  "more secure." The boy at sleep-away camp who giggled whenever I used an adverb. The Finnish exchange student who wanted me to pretend to be Molly Ringwald whenever we went out.

  There is an unspoken recognition as we share these stories--we can talk about the bad dates and bad boyfriends because this is not a bad date, and we will not be bad boyfriends. We forget the fact that many of our earlier relationships (definitely with Kyle, probably with Pitt) started in the same way. We pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast it to the Technicolor of the moment.

  This is how we proclaim a beginning.

  We talk about school and we talk about the other kids in town. I talk about my brother and he talks about his sister. After a while, our legs are getting tired and we're running out of new angles to cross the pond. So we stop paddling and let ourselves drift. We push our legs forward and slump in the seats. I put my arm around his shoulders and he puts his arm around mine. We close our eyes and feel the sun glow on our faces. I open my eyes first and study the curve of his jaw, the smoothness of his cheeks, the random arrangement of his hair. I imprint him with my shadow as I lean in closer. I kiss him once, but it lasts a long time.

  T
his, too, is how we proclaim a beginning.

  The sun starts to dip lower, and we return to clock time. We make our way to the paddleboat pavilion, where the paddleboat wrangler gives us an approving nod for bringing Adaline safely home.

  As we cross back through the park we see more people, mostly regulars. The Old Queen sits at his bench, reminiscing about Broadway in the 1920s. Two benches away, the Young Punk shouts loudly about Sid and Nancy and the birth of revolt. They rarely find themselves without a willing audience, but when the foot traffic slows, the Old Queen and the Young Punk sit together and share memories of events that happened long before they were born.

  I explain this all to Noah, and I love the wonder that shows in his eyes. We continue to tour through the town, and everything is new to him: the I Scream Parlor, which shows horror movies as you wait for your double dip; the elementary school playground, where I used to tell the jungle gym all my secrets; the Pink Floyd shrine in our local barber's backyard. I know people always talk about living in the middle of nowhere--there s always another place (some city some foreign country) they'd rather be. But it's moments like this that I feel like I live in the middle of somewhere. My somewhere.

  We walk rings around Noah's neighborhood, and then when we enter it, we walk rings around his block. He has to be home at a certain time, and it's unclear to me whether I'm being invited along.

  "Both my parents will be there," he says, to explain his hesitation.

  "I can handle them," I reply.

  He's still unsure.

  "They're not like your parents," he warns.

  "That's a good thing!"

  "I don't think so."

  Suddenly I'm picturing Tony's parents, who need to think that Joni and I are safely dating in order for Tony to leave the house with us. They think that Tony's personality is simply a matter of switches, and that if they find the right one, they can turn off his attraction to other guys and put him back on the road to God.

  "Do they know you're gay?" I ask Noah.

  "They couldn't care less. But with other things--well, their priorities are a little weird."

  We've stopped circling now--we're in front of his house.

  "What the heck," he says. We walk inside and he calls out, "I'm home!"

  "Who cares?" Claudia yells back from a distant room.

  We head to the kitchen for ice pops. I can't help but notice three credit cards sitting on the counter.

  "Mom!? Dad?! I'm home!"

  Claudia trundles into the room. "You are, but they're not. They say hi, though. We can order whatever we want. Just use the United card, because they need the mileage there more than on Continental."

  "Where'd they go?" Noah asks.

  "Out to dinner, to celebrate. Mom finally got admitted to the Commander Club. She can now use the Commander Club lounges at all major airports, including free coffee and Internet access."

  As Noah ponders this, Claudia pulls the ice pop out of his hand and takes it for herself. She walks back into her distant room; I can hear her footsteps fade, and then the TV blare up.

  "I guess we have to stay in," Noah says.

  "Isn't she old enough to be alone by herself?" I ask.

  "I'm not worried about her being alone. I'm worried about her being lonely."

  I feel guilty for bringing it up; it would never occur to me to worry about Jay being lonely.

  I follow Noah into the TV room, where Claudia sits ensconced on a lime-green couch like a kindergartner who's built her own fort from cushions. She has all the modern comforts -- a remote control, snack food, a half-read magazine, and full-purpose climate control. She looks miserable in her attempt to hide how miserable she feels.

  "What do you want?" she asks with her normal hostility.

  "Just want to plan the evening's entertainment. Would you like to go out?"

  "Do I look like I want to go out?"

  "Then how 'bout pizza and a rental?"

  "Fine."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I said 'fine.' What more do you want from me?"

  Now, if this were my sister talking, I would say something like, I want you to stop being such a glum diva. But Noah is clearly a better (or, at the very least, a more patient) person than I am, since he takes it all in stride.

  "One pizza and one rental coming up!" he says cheerily. "We'll be back soon." Claudia doesn't respond. She just turns the TV up louder.

  "Exit . . . stage right," Noah says to me. We barrel back to the kitchen.

  "Is this her usual state?" I have to ask.

  "Not always. Right now I think she's mad at our parents. And I think she's trying to impress you."

  "Impress me?"

  "Well. . . maybe impress isn't the right word. I think she's picked up on the fact. . . that I like you."

  "And does she realize I like you back?" I ask, drifting closer, fingers moving over his shirt.

  "Definitely."

  "Then I must say, you have a very observant sister." We are at whisper distance now.

  "Cut it out!" Claudia shouts from the other room.

  Noah and I burst out laughing, which no doubt will only make her angrier. The TV is silent now, waiting for our next move.

  We pick up the credit cards and head back to town.

  Please 'Rewind Before Returning

  Noah and I split up--he'll get the pizza while I get the rental. This is probably for the best, since I'm headed to Spiff's Videorama, where newbies are discouraged. Spiff is the reason most of us still have VCRs--he's a tapehead like djs are vinyl freaks. He refuses to carry DVDs or any of the new technology.

  Spiff arranges the videos in his store according to his own logic. American Pie is filed under Action/Adventure, while Forrest Gump sits in Pornography along with other inspirational classics. Spiff will never, ever tell you where a tape is, or even if it's in. You have to find it for yourself or leave empty-handed. He doesn't give a damn about any of us--just the movies.

  This is probably why we keep coming back.

  Noah has given me a brief lowdown of what Claudia is willing to watch. Basically, if it features an Indie It Girl, it's a safe bet. John Cusack is also a plus. I head to Drama to look for Say Anything (knowing full well that Spiff believes that comedies hold life's true drama).

  "Hey, Paul."

  It's my name, coming from Foreign Language. It's my name . . . and it's Kyle's voice.

  I'm caught in Comedy. Only Science Fiction stands between us. It's a big section, but not big enough.

  "Paul?" Kyle says again, this time hesitant. His expression is more open to me than it's been since we broke up. I mean, since he dumped me.

  "Hey, Kyle."

  There's nobody else in the store--just me and Kyle and Spiff at the counter, watching the monitor he devotes solely to Tarantino and Julie Andrews.

  "I've been meaning to talk to you," he says. He shifts from foot to foot. I look down at the frayed cuffs above his shoes. I remember pulling a thread from those very frays and then touching the ankle underneath, all a part of a Sunday-park daydream that surprised me by actually being real.

  His sneakers, are different, though. I notice that.

  I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I don't really want to get into a conversation right now, especially since Noah is supposed to drop by when the pizza's ready. And at the same time, I'm dying to know: What could he possibly have to tell me?

  "I'm sorry," he says. So plain, so clear. I lean on the nearest rack, nearly knocking over a full collection of Abbott and Costello.

  "Why?" I ask. Maybe I've misheard him. I try to think of a word that could sound like sorry, but there isn't a single one.

  "I was wrong. I made a mistake. I hurt you. And I'm sorry." Then, as an afterthought--a punctuation--"I just had to tell you that."

  How many times have I imagined this conversation? And yet, it's not at all like I pictured it would be. I thought I would be angry. I thought I would turn his sorry into a spiked thing to throw right back at
his heart. I thought I would say, I'll bet you're sorry or Not as sorry as I am for ever getting involved with you.

  I didn't think I'd feel such a lack of rage. I didn't think I'd want to tell him it was okay.

  I look at The Breakfast Club in his hands and remember all the times we rented it, how we would take turns reciting the lines--sometimes I'd be the jock, sometimes he'd be the geek or the princess. I know he must remember this, too. I know he couldn't rent that movie without in some way thinking of me.