No, dumbass, I tell myself. He wouldn’t be on the boys’ side of the gym at P.E.
I can’t stop myself from sneaking a glance at him every so often. His eyes are closed, his head is bowed towards the wine colored carpeting, and I stare out of the corner of my eye at the long, dark fringe of his eyelashes.
The most subtle movement, a tiny contraction of his hand around mine, and my focus is fully stolen from Yvette in spite of her iniquitous attentions. I turn myhead to the right, remembering the odd little flutter that happened inside me when his fingers curled just a little tighter around mine for that instant. Our eyes meet a second time as he looks up at me. The contact lasts for a few beats, but time is stretched like a rubber band. Those huge eyes open impossibly wider for a split second, and I see something I can’t describe in words. I feel my stomach quiver again, and his eyes close, his fingernails gently dig into the palm of myhand…
…and I can barelybreathe…
I’ve seen him…I know him…Where have I seen him before…?!
When we’re asked to sit back down in the padded mauve pews, everyone lets go of each other’s hands. I can’t fathom what’s come over me. I’ve got the easiest piece of ass in town squeezing my thighs under the hymnal and instead of giving her myundivided attention, I’m…
What
am
I doing?
I have to ask myself that, because every so often, even as I scold myself fiercely, I feel my neck rotating away from Yvette, my eyes seeking his. I’m disappointed when he refuses to look my wayagain.After church, I search for him in the crowd, scanning for Stacy’s violet hair or those big eyes.
But he’s gone. Yvette has to drag me to her house. Both our Moms will be gabbing in the fellowship hall for at least half an hour and then they’ll have potluck. I can’t believe my reluctant movements. Yvette’s a guarantee when it comes to ass.
In her bed, my mind drifts away time and again. Angrily, I push the image away, the small, delicately beautiful visage, the bright, round, cobalt-blue eyes, the black bracelets encircling the slender wrist, the fingers around mine, squeezing...
It’s absurd. As the hours pass, the little face fades from memory, and I can actuallythink about anything else. It’s a relief.
A few days later, I learn his name is Jamie Pearce. It’s a small high school and from casual conversations, I quicklyfind out that he’s an orphan and that one of the cops in town adopted him a year or so ago. As the weeks pass, I hear more whispers. I wonder whether to believe ninety-nine percent of them. He’s never far from Stacy and Yvette’s brother Ray. Sometimes he wears eye makeup. Principal’s been all over him about it of course.
At the start of their freshman year, he and Stacy are both sopranos in the school choir. In late September, when the Panther sends one of the staff reporters along with the choir to cover a state competition in San Francisco, I find myself wishing I wasn’t confined to the sports beat.
We’re in a small town as well, and I begin to see the three of them, Ray, Stacyand Jamie, everywhere, including the Fridaynight home football games. One night, after we win against Rio Vista, I scoop Yvette up and plant a sloppy one on her. Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I look over.
I’m magneticallydrawn,
pulled,
into his eyes.
He’s chewing on a rope of Red Vine licorice.
A grocery trip with Mom long ago…a dark haired woman…a
baby boy sitting in the cart ahead of us…Red Vines…the baby’s sweet voice and angelic blue peepers as he tried to talk to me… reach for me…
I kissed his cheek…
He kissed my lips…
I taste the gooey sweetness…
It’s him…
They’re everywhere…working at the church rummage sale, riding in the van with the church youth when we all go out to eat, singing at the illicit weekend parties the seniors throw, singing at The End…they’re everywhere.
And so am I. I’m not officiallyin the youth group of course, but Yvette insists I come along whenever and wherever they go, and since it usuallyresults in sexafterward, I guess I don’t mind.
When Ray begins going out with Stacy, Yvette starts acting like a first class bitch to Stacy and Jamie, always making comments about how her brother is too good for Stacy, and “Why do those little twerps have to tag along everywhere with us?”
One night we go to The End, where they have a karaoke contest everyThursday. Yvette, who prides herself on being one of the best voices in the church youth chorale, gets up and completely slaughters “The Rose” by Bette Midler. We sit in the back, howling our glee at how bad she is. “I could
fart
it better!” I proclaim, and everyone within hearing range of our table is bent over in such hilarity that their faces are bright red. I glance over at Stacy, Ray and Jamie as I laugh. Jamie’s looking right at me, giggling helplessly in response to my comment. I feel my face involuntarily smiling back at him as I stare into his eyes for just seconds before he looks away. I’m elated, bewildered, my heart going ninetymiles an hour.
Yvette is super-pissed at me when she makes her way off the stage and back to our table. She won’t speak to me for the rest of the night.
Stacy and Jamie talk intensely for a few minutes. Jamie shakes his head vigorouslyand I hear Stacynudging him, “Come on! It’ll be awesome!” He finally stands up and follows her to the stage, hugging himself, tucking his chin into his chest, horrorstricken.
I squint through the stage lights as their song begins. It’s one of my favorites, “The Warrior” by Scandal and Patty Smyth. I hardly ever hear it on radio anymore and the cassette I had ages ago is long gone. Theysing it as a duet, and I sit straight up in my chair, letting the melody, the lyrics, the rhythm flow through me. Their voices and attitudes are perfectly suited, along with their matching black shirts with long sleeves and their black jeans with rhinestones twinkling along the seams. That fear on Jamie’s face when they first got on stage is gone. I
love
his voice…if it was a soprano before, it’s not now…it’s gotten deeper in the past couple of months. When he sings, he sounds like Billy Idol, or Morissey, or Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode.
“His voice changed!” I sayto Ray.
“Yeah,” grunts Ray. “He finally sounds like he has a Y chromosome, so he’s been moved to the boys’ section.” He snickers, and I glare at him.
I love the energyin Jamie’s slim, slight silhouette against the glare of the lights as he bounces in cadence with the music, the wayhis hair tumbles into his eyes. I’m so captivated that it’s easy to ignore the rage I feel emanating off of Yvette like heat. The song ends and the crowd roars their approval. My eyes never leave Jamie as he and Stacy leave the stage and return to their table, bowing playfullyand then sitting. Jamie feels not onlymystare, but admiring eyes from all directions, and he tucks his knees under his chin.
I’ve been inspired by what Jamie and Stacy did. After a couple of weeks, I finally do it. I drag Ray and Benny up on stage and sing, “I Only Have Eyes For You.” I wink in Yvette’s direction throughout myperformance, but it’s not
her
I’m singing to.
Things begin to sour between me and Yvette when she begins to make snide comments about Stacy’s hair, her clothes, her nose-ring, whatever. She also starts talking about Jamie because he wears the mascara sometimes, calling him “a little faggot.” One night she says, “I’ll prove it. I’ll tell him I broke up with you and want to get with him.” She returns later, boasting, “Yeah, he’s a fag. He told me he wasn’t interested.
Nobody
turns me down unless they’re a fag.”
After I’ve had enough, I sever ties with her as amicably as I can. She’s not the kind who’s without a boyfriend for long. She hooks up with Benny, who’s almost twenty, and before we can blink, they’re engaged. He’s going into the marines in February, so they’re set to get hitched in January. Yvette plans to continue high school a married woman. I haven’t bothered to ask whether or not that’s allowed. If she can’t return to campus, it’ll be good riddance.
Even though Yvette won’t have a thing to do with me now, I still hang around the church youth, sticking close to Ray and Benny. We go to some Mexican restaurant in Sactown in celebration of Yvette’s upcoming nuptials (gag). In true form, she wants to hog all the attention. She starts babbling about baby names. I ask her if she’s pregnant by any chance and she gives me a dirtylook. “Of course not!” Bennylooks more annoyed bythe minute as she goes through a long list of atrocious names for boys. “And if our first is a girl, I’m gonna name her…”
“Bill!” I interrupt, and I’m surrounded by gales of mirth. Stacy and Jamie are about to choke on their chips and salsa.
I can’t denymydelight whenever I see Jamie laugh or smile. He doesn’t smile enough. I mean, he’s always cutting up and grinning when he’s with Stacyand them, but when he’s alone and he doesn’t know I’m watching him, he looks
sad
. I’ve never spoken directlyto him, and I have to fight back the urge to walk up to him and ask....
The waitress comes to take our orders. I’m sitting in just the right seat for my new plan to make everyone laugh. “Yeah, let’s see,” I say, flipping nonchalantly through the menu. “I want a basket of chips. And some salsa, of course, and water to drink. And when I’m finished with that, I think I’ll have…hmmm…some more of those great chips and salsa. Oh yeah, and you see that table over there?” I point. “Give ‘em a round of waters, on me.” The server is a good sport, shaking her head at me as I collect my aural reward before shrugging and ordering my usual carne asada with red rice.
On the dayof the rehearsal for Yvette’s wedding, I am tagging along everybit as much as Stacyand Jamie are. I’ll bet it reallysits well with Yvette when Rayasks Stacy, who in turn invites Jamie, to come to the church and watch the pre-production. I don’t think anyone invites me. I just come. I know I’m going to enjoy myself if there’s another episode of merriment that ends in Yvette being pissed beyond reason.
And there is. The sanctuary is adorned with lengths of wide, peach colored silk ribbon, and reeks of peach roses and Yvette’s Estee Slaughter perfume. The bride tries as usual to keep the focus on her and her oh-so-serious wedding business, but Stacy and Jamie (I’ve begun to realize that in their little capers, Stacy’s usually the instigator and Jamie the reluctant-at-first-but-soonenough-enthusiastic-as-hell follower) take possession of the mics and start lip-syncing to the song Yvette hand-picked as her “love-theme.” “You Light Up My Life” by Debby Boone blasts from the speakers in the ribbon-festooned church, and Yvette’s eyes are positively satanic as she observes the two serenading each other on their knees, emphatically mouthing the god-awful lyrics and laughing hysterically. Everyone is laughing, even Yvette’s folks. Pastor Asshole clears his throat. “Ahem…And at this point, I’ll have everyone join together in prayer.” The preacher wants to practice the prayer,
now
, and waits, barelymasking his impatience as he rolls back and forth in his shined black church shoes. Stacy and Jamie continue giggling, and clutching their microphones, and I just
have
to saysomething.
“Uhmmm, Stacy? Jamie? Will you join us in prayer?” I call, stifling a chortle, unable to keep myself from smirking at them. Pastor gives me a look.
For a moment, they gawk at me, thinking I’m scolding them and that I don’t find them funny. But too many people are tittering. Even Benny is having a good time. I give Stacy and Jamie an approving wink, and they light up, both of them, like Christmas trees, loving that I am in on their joke. This wedding stuff is waytoo formal, everyone agrees, with the notable exceptions of Yvette and the old man.
When I tease him and Stacyabout the Asshole wanting to get serious and pray, it’s the first time I’ve spoken directlyto Jamie. It’s apparent I’ve opened a can of worms, when I try to sneak my millionth glance at him to find him smiling at me, his fine-featured face echoing my own joy as our eyes meet. I’m filled with both anticipation and panic as he walks in my direction, no smile, his movements ambiguous. He keeps a safe distance, his eyes refusing to meet mine again as he says softly, “You’re funny.”
His soft, lilting voice makes me hard. I swallow and replywith difficulty, “Oh yeah?”
“You always make us laugh.” The cherry-hued petals of his mouth bloom full into a smile so gorgeous I have to bite back a moan. His eyes raise, and now
I
must look away. I’m sensing something that disturbs me so much that I grunt dismissively at him before abruptlywalking over to Rayand Bennytalking nearby. I don’t even look back to see the effects of my sudden rudeness. I have to get awayfrom him.
He likes me!
I don’t think it in words, I just feel it. My heart throbs, my cock throbs, and pleasure flash-floods warmly throughout mybody. I find refuge with Rayand Benny, eager to get mymind on something else…anything...
That night I dream about him, and I wake up floating on cloud nine and simultaneouslyfilled with anxietyand disgust in myself.
What’s
wrong
with me?! Whyam I acting this way, feeling this way? Why am I constantly thinking about him? Why do I always look for him in the milling crowds at school? Why does his sad little smile make me ache inside? Why do I perpetually wish he’d look at me so I can get lost in those eyes?
From that day, I’m a mess, uneasyand thrilled whenever I’m within a few hundred feet of him, fucking
confused
, not understanding what’s happening, not
wanting
what’s happening (I’m not gay!), yet viscerallyloving everysecond.
Around Valentine’s Day I find a card clamped under one of mywindshield wipers. It says:
I wish I could tell you, I wish I could show you how I feel about you.
Other than the
XXXOOO
, it’s not signed.
I hope it’s from him…I can’t believe myself.
Or what I do next.
I buya bag of those little pastel candy hearts. I handpick two or three, put them in an envelope and shove them between the vents of his locker at school, praying to God nobodycatches me. If anyone sees me doing this, I’ll end up having to leave town before I’m readyto.
The ongoing turmoil manifests itself as moodiness. I begin reacting to Jamie’s every smile, his every attempt to connect, with irate growls and icyscowls, and I watch, in covert horror, as his joy melts away, substituted bya dejection that is wrenching.