Tina delivered a table’s worth of ice cream goodies, waggling her shaved-off-then-painted-back-on-again black eyebrows at me. I sipped my water as she handed me a one-scoop sundae with a napkin wrapped around it.
Unwrapping it slowly, I held the napkin under the table and peeked at it. Sure enough, there was a note: Astrid looks like she wants to kill you! Smooch, M.
I looked over at Marcus and he grinned at me. My head felt light with relief. . . . At least he wasn’t mad at me anymore.
And it seemed like I’d finally done one thing right, I thought. Actually, that whole Eritrea thing reminded me of Marcus’s little Coogie Fuji test the night before. I have to admit, I admired Sundance for telling the truth and not trying to play it cool. I guess you have to be the kind of guy who doesn’t care about cool if you’re going to go around wearing jeans and cowboy boots in Chicago, right?
Actually, I’d had a great time the night before. I hadn’t realized that line dancing would be so much fun! I mean, nobody cares if you suck or anything—so I’d really let loose, dancing and whooping and hollering like a maniac. Why not, right? I was never going to see any of those people again. Except for Patricia and Manfred, and they’d been hollering just as loudly as I was. Besides, I knew that Marcus would never tell anyone about what an idiot I’d made of myself. He’d be too embarrassed for me.
Just thinking about it made me giggle.
Suddenly, I realized that everyone at the table was staring at me.
Omigosh. Had I just giggled out loud? I cleared my throat, hoping desperately that we hadn’t been discussing world famine or something. Jeffrey was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read, and a knot of nerves tightened across my chest, making it hard to breathe. Please tell me that I haven’t done something that’s going to take my future-smooch-probability rating down to zero, I begged silently.
“I agree with Frannie,” Glenn said after a beat of silence. “The UN is a joke.”
“But it could be so important if the leadership were effective!” Jeffrey argued.
This set the club off again.
I smiled my thanks at Glenn, who winked. Leaning toward me, he whispered, “I wasn’t sure about Eritrea, either.”
I laughed, and the knot of nerves across my chest loosened a little.
“So,” Glenn said after a minute, “seen any good movies lately?”
I shrugged and took a bite of my mini-sundae. Mmmm. Marcus knows just what I like—a half scoop of Chocopalooza and a half scoop of vanilla, hot fudge, whipped cream, and three cherries—no nuts. “Well . . . Marcus keeps dragging me to these film festivals. So I just saw Persona.”
The left side of Glenn’s mouth ticked up into a smile. “And?”
I rolled my eyes. “I hate going to movies that make me feel dumb,” I confessed. I tried to sneak in a little scalp scratch. God, my head was itching horrendously.
Glenn laughed. “Oh, man,” he said with a grin. “Nobody ever admits that they have no idea what that movie is about.”
“Thank you,” I said warmly, digging into my sundae. “Marcus loved it, but I didn’t get it at all. I hate having to use my brain when I see a movie. I just want to laugh and have a good time. It’s not like I’m looking for extra things to get depressed about.”
“Give me kung fu any day,” Glenn agreed.
“Marcus loves kung fu.” Hey! There’s something Marcus and Glenn have in common, I thought. I knew Marcus thought Glenn was kind of annoying, but I was really starting to like the guy. It would be so great if my best friend and Jeffrey’s best friend got along. I started picturing them having animated talks about directors while Jeffrey and I made out on the couch. . . .
Without thinking, I tried to twirl a piece of hair around my finger. My finger got stuck again.
I tried to play it off, but Glenn noticed, of course. “Are you using some new kind of gel?”
I sighed and glanced in Jeffrey’s direction. He was talking to Leila, so I leaned forward and whispered, “It’s all natural.”
Glenn nodded. “I switched my shampoo once because Jeff suggested this biodegradable crap,” he admitted. “It totally made my scalp itch.”
“I have that problem, too!”
Glenn laughed, and then I giggled, which made him laugh harder. Then I let out a little snort, and it was all over for the both of us.
Just then, Marcus walked over to our table. He had his pink-and-white hat and apron tucked under his arm, and he frowned at me as Glenn and we brought our giggles under control. “Hey, everyone.”
The International Club chorused a hello.
“Sit down with us,” Jeffrey said, gesturing to the booth.
There was space next to Glenn, but Marcus motioned me over, so everyone had to scootch around the horseshoe until Glenn was at the edge of the seat and Marcus was sitting next to me. That wasn’t so bad, though, because my leg was pressing against Jeffrey’s. He didn’t move away, either, which I took as a good sign.
For a moment, nobody said anything.
I was feeling the pressure. I guessed that whole UN debate had come to a close. Okay, we needed a new topic. . . . “So . . . uh . . . Marcus and I went out with his grandmother and her boyfriend last weekend,” I said brightly.
Silence.
“We went line dancing,” I elaborated.
More silence. Everyone looked like they had no idea how to respond. Jeffrey, in particular, was giving me an odd look.
Marcus sighed.
Okay—is that or is that not a good conversational opener? I mean, any normal group of people would laugh and demand details, right? Going line dancing with your grandmother—that has to be funny, right? Right?
Glenn took pity on me. “Where’d you go?”
“This crazy place called Line ’Em Up,” I told him.
“Oh, Line ’Em Up,” Glenn said, giving Jeffrey a knowing smile. “That place has gay night on Thursdays.” He winked at Jeffrey. “You’re going to take me there next week, right Jeffrey?” he asked in this mock-flirty tone.
Jeffrey laughed awkwardly.
Ooh, I could practically feel Marcus’s blood boiling at the gay joke. Crap. I always just assume that people know Marcus is queer . . . but ever since that convo with my dad, I’ve realized maybe it’s not as obvious as I thought. “Don’t be a jerk, Glenn,” I told him.
Glenn looked surprised. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Sorry.” He reached out and touched my hand lightly with long, slim fingers. His palm felt warm over my hand. For some reason, it didn’t strike me as strange that he had his hand on mine . . . it just seemed like a friendly gesture. But when I looked up at Marcus, I saw that he was glaring at Glenn’s hand as though he were about to rip it from the end of Glenn’s arm and chuck it behind the ice cream counter. Reflexively, I pulled my hand away.
Marcus stood up. “Frannie and I have to get going,” he announced. Actually, I think he might have considered just walking out and leaving me there if he hadn’t been counting on me for a ride.
“Oh, right,” I said quickly. “I forgot we have that—thing. Okay, everyone, well, this has been a blast!” I stood up. My leg felt cold once it wasn’t touching Jeffrey’s anymore. “See you tomorrow!”
Jeffrey flashed his super-white smile at me. “Thanks for suggesting this place, Fran.”
“Sure.” I hesitated for a moment, then retreated without even giving Jeffrey a special little hug or anything. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think about the fact that I’d blown my chances at kissing Jeffrey—again—until it was too late. I just trotted after Marcus as the International Club waved and shouted goodbyes after us.
“How can you stand that guy?” Marcus raged as we stormed through the mall toward the parking lot. “He’s a homophobic jerk!”
I winced. I mean, Marcus had a point—Glenn’s comment had been pretty bad. Still, I knew he could be a nice guy. . . . “Maybe he didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” I suggested.
Marcus stared at me lik
e he’d just been stabbed in the back and found me holding the dagger.
I could feel my face flushing. “I mean, you’d make the same kind of joke. So would Ethan Schumacher—he’s always kidding around about hitting on guys, and he’s head of the GSA!”
“Uh, this just in, Frannie—Ethan is queer, and so am I,” Marcus snapped. “I’m not some good-looking frat boy wannabe who thinks it’s okay to call people faggot.”
“He didn’t call you that.”
“What’s the difference?”
I sighed. Marcus was right, and I knew it. Stupid Glenn. Why did he have to make that joke just as I’d found a little glimmer of hope that he and Marcus might actually get along? “Well, at least he backed off when I called him on it.”
“Ooh, yeah, let’s give him the Nobel Peace Prize.” Marcus’s voice was dripping sarcasm.
I decided not to say anything else. There were too many thoughts crowding my brain. For a moment there, when Glenn was touching my hand, I’d felt the rage coming off Marcus like a torch radiating heat. But it had seemed so out of proportion. . . . And then there was the way he’d overreacted when Jeffrey and the other ICers had shown up. . . . It was almost like Marcus was jealous or something.
I snuck a sideways look at my best friend and watched his jaw muscles as they worked angrily. He is jealous, I realized suddenly. He thinks he’s losing me, and he’s jealous. Suddenly, all of my annoyance faded away. I wanted him to know that he had nothing to worry about. But I couldn’t think of the right thing to say—somehow “You’ll never lose me to Jeffrey” sounded so presumptuous on so many levels that I could never have let the words out of my mouth—so I just slipped my hand into his.
Marcus didn’t look up. He didn’t look at me; he didn’t speak. He just wrapped his fingers around mine, and we walked through the mall together in silence, hand in hand.
I was actually feeling happy. That floaty kind of happy, where you feel totally comfortable, as though everything is all right and nothing could go very wrong.
That didn’t last long.
We were just passing Totally Stuff, this store that sells lots of useless crap—like blue sparkly CD holders and bowls that say BITE THIS! on them—that I always have to buy a ton of, when Marcus stopped dead in his tracks.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Don’t look,” he said. Then he tried to change directions, but he was still holding my hand, so he ended up yanking me around like a Mylar balloon.
“Ow,” I griped, twisting to see. “What is it?”
“I said, don’t look,” Marcus repeated. He pulled on my arm, but I dug in and didn’t budge. “Trust me,” he begged. “I’m saving you thousands of dollars in future therapy bills.”
That did it. Of course I had to look—so I craned my neck just in time to see my mom and dad walking out of Intimate Pleasures. My dad was holding a giant red bag, and Mom was giggling. My eyes darted over the display in the Intimate Pleasures window—a see-through black teddy trimmed in red feathers.
I felt the Chocopalooza crawling up the back of my throat.
Damn you, chapter six! “I think I’ve been struck blind,” I said.
“I told you not to look,” Marcus said. His voice was half scolding, half sympathetic. “I’m just surprised we didn’t see my grandmother and Manfred walking out with them.”
“Oh my God,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I actually just wondered what was in the bag.”
“Don’t think about it,” Marcus commanded, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t ever let those thoughts dirty your brain.”
“Let’s pretend this never happened,” I suggested.
“We’ll never speak of it again.” Marcus drew an X over his heart and looked so serious that it actually made me smile.
I looked up at him for a moment. “I’m so glad that I’m here with you,” I told him finally. I really meant it.
Marcus ran a hand through his shaggy hair, like he always does when he’s not sure what I’m talking about. “What?”
“I mean—Belina would have tried to give me a lecture about older people’s sexuality,” I explained. “And Jenn . . . I don’t know. She just would have thought it was cute that my parents were at Intimate Pleasures. Anyone else would have tried to pretend it was totally normal and nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Marcus nodded solemnly. “But I’m totally grossed out.”
We both laughed, and that was when I knew for sure that everything was all right between us. I mean, we were so on the same wavelength—it made sense that Marcus might feel a flash of jealousy. But he had to know that I just couldn’t function without him. With a sigh, I pressed my forehead against his chest, feeling the rough fabric of his polyester Scoops shirt against my skin. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s just what I needed right now.”
Laughing, Marcus touched my hair. He lifted a limp lock, then let it drop. “Frannie,” he said after a moment, “let’s get you home so that you can wash this goo off your head.”
“Marcus . . .” I gazed up into his warm hazel eyes. He was smiling his real Marcus smile—the one that shows off his dimples. “You always know just what to say.”
Nine
This next scene opens with a tracking shot. The camera moves slowly through my house, like it’s looking for something. Pass through the living room, where Dad is parked in front of the TV. Continue into the kitchen. Patricia is sitting at the counter and talking on the phone. You can only half hear her voice behind the music on the sound track, which is ominous but cheesy, like something out of a sequel to a sequel to a slasher flick.
Now we’re in the hallway. It’s dark, except for one light coming from a room at the far end. The camera accelerates toward it, moving in for the climax. It reaches the end of the hall, swings around the corner and through the door. There’s a big screech of music, all high-pitched and synthesized. . . .
But instead of some chain-saw-mangled body, there’s just me sitting there, typing away at the computer with this silly grin on my face. Cut to a tight close-up of the computer screen, where the chat scrolls by.
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Somehow, somehow, SOMEHOW, I had convinced myself that it was okay to keep having these unauthorized conversations, like the seal on my promise to Frannie had already been broken and there was no harm in continuing. Yeah, right.
Jeffrey, I was learning, had layers. There was First Impression Jeffrey, who was the one I knew from school, all popular, quiet, serious, and politically correct. But there was also Funny Jeffrey, Insecure Jeffrey, Able to Play the Games of Life Jeffrey, and who knew what else, but I wanted to find out . . . Jeffrey. The more of these conversations I had, the more I wanted to have them. They were my junk food, my bad TV, and my drug of choice all rolled into one. All of which is an explanation, not to be confused with a rationalizatio
n or an excuse for what I was doing. But I had those too.
My rationalization was something like this: Everything was still on track. Jeffrey was more into Frannie than ever. Frannie was happy. Whatever I was doing, it seemed to be helping.
And if I had to pick one excuse, it was the fact that sometimes, Jeffrey asked Frannie questions about me. I don’t know anyone who could have resisted hanging around for that.
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I couldn’t resist. . . .
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What did I think of Glenn? Now, that was a two-part question. Part one: I think Glenn is a homophobic attention hog who should go back to Alaska and take Astrid with him while he’s at it. Part two:
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