First Time for Everything (28 page)

“Not for you,” Cam shouted back, hand brushing against Jen’s.

W
HEN
J
EN
walked past the poster on her way to hockey practice that evening, someone had crossed out “faggot” over her face and replaced it with, “Pretty sure she’s straight (unfortunately). Signed Cassie, member #5.” Underneath that, unsigned but obviously from Cam, was written, “Fortunate for some,” and a tiny heart.

Jen grinned, slung her hockey stick over her shoulder, and let herself bounce, just a bit, all the way to the locker room.

E
MILY
M
ORETON
published her first short story in 2007, for a charity anthology in aid of victims of Hurricane Katrina. Since then she has published over thirty short stories about lesbian, gay, bi, and trans characters. In 2011, she had a story accepted into the anthology of best speculative lesbian fiction, and in 2013 was part of an anthology nominated in Goodreads’ M/M Romance Members’ Choice Awards.

Emily lives in Bristol, UK, with her cat, where she works as a data analyst, studies towards her PhD, and tries not to sleep through Sunday morning archery class.

Follow her on Facebook: http://facebook.com/emilyj.moreton or at her blog: http://emilyjmoreton.wordpress.com.

E
MERY
C. W
ALTERS

I
T
WAS
the feedback from the English teacher that started it all. We had to write a paper on the old corny “what I did on my summer vacation” crap. It turned out I was the only one who didn’t include the phrase “me and my friend” on his paper. That’s partly because I’m about the only one who knows it’s “my friend and I” and partly because I don’t have any friends.

The next thing that happened was at supper that night, which our mom insisted we all eat together no matter what.
Ugh
. My brother, Tim, had swiped my paper off our desk (we had to share a bedroom) and started reading out of it at dinner. It was corny and funny and of course they were all in it, but then he started reading the teacher’s comments and criticisms. The fact I had gotten—I mean “had received”—the only A didn’t come up.

As he read and shoveled pork pie in his mouth at the same time, I tried not to glare openly at him. He was so handsome, the bastard. No one would ever know we were brothers. He had curly black hair, a nice open face, and gorgeous blue eyes. His eyebrows arched, and his lips had a bow. If he weren’t my brother, I’d like him. A lot.
Ahem
. Never mind that now. And never mind the fact that he, the golden boy, was straight. And could track baseballs with his sharp blue eyes.

I was still waiting for the aliens, my real parents, to get the spaceship fixed and come back and get me. I must look like them with my narrow face, mud brown hair, mud brown eyes that really needed glasses. I wouldn’t tell anyone about the glasses even though it was blatantly obvious I couldn’t track a baseball.

“You know, dear,” my mother began, and I silently thought
Lecture forty-three
. My sister Janice flashed her fingers at me, forty-three. She winked. With her short blonde hair in an old fashion DA, she was way more butch than I was. She also had about eighteen boyfriends and one special girlfriend. For a fourteen-year-old, who was almost my size and played hockey, she was also way more cool. Let me rephrase that; she was “mostly” cool. I had, however, just lost a bet to her and had to wear a shirt of her choosing all day tomorrow. Thank God it was Saturday.

Mom had picked up on the part about my not having friends. That’s probably all she got out of the paper, as it had been a theme with her for a long time. Her main goal in life, besides feeding us, was making sure we had plenty of, and the right kind of, friends. I’m sure Tim had stressed that part just to get her going. She’d already interrupted him twice with comments like “oh how sad, all alone,” or “that would have been so much more fun with a couple of friends!”

After asking if anyone wanted seconds, Mom looked at me soulfully, gazing at me with her crinkly, secret-keeping mud brown eyes. I could never tell what she was thinking or even
if
she was thinking. “You know, dear, if you made the first move,” she said, patting my hand, “if you said the first hello and like that, maybe you’d have friends like Janice and Pig Face.” Only she called my brother Timothy by his real name.

Timothy smiled sadly and nodded earnestly, brown-nose shining, the perfect minion, a hand-rubbing, toady suck-up. Janice just rolled her eyes.

Dad buttered a roll. Trying to look friendly, he continued, “’If you want a friend, be a friend.’ You could ask Tim for tips, you know.” He smiled and added, tapping his knife on the butter dish, “Smile! People are drawn to happy, positive people!” He waved his knife in Tim’s general direction. “Just join in with Tim and his friends; I’m sure they’d be glad to have you.”

Tim’s eyebrows went up, and he made his left eye twitch. Tim and his friends would not be glad to have me, but he tried to live up to Dad’s expectations. “Yeah, just be yourself. Stop thinking you are not
cool
enough to talk to them. I’m sure all my friends will want to be with you after they….” Bless his heart, he could not keep this shit up. We both knew it was complete bullshit. I wanted to stab him with my fork. Him and Dad both. Brown-nosing piece of duck doo.

Tim managed to submerge his incipient laughing fit and sat up straighter. He even used his napkin like an adult. “It’s easy, Aiden,” he continued, patronizing now. “Even someone like you should be able to… uh, all you have to do is go up to people and smile.” He smiled, as if to show me how it was done. His nice white straight teeth gleamed, except for the piece of broccoli stuck between the bottom front two. “See? Didn’t hurt a bit. Then you tell them you’re my brother….” A frown closed his mouth, thank God. Janice kicked me under the table. I was afraid to look at her, even though as angry as I was getting, I knew we’d still both burst out laughing.

“What’s wrong with that?” Mom asked. “That’s a great idea!”

Tim’s upper lip twitched, halfway to his infamous snarl. He didn’t want people to know that I was his brother.

Dad talked. Breadcrumbs dripped, and butter hung down like snot. “Just smile, ask them about their interests, and compliment them.” He turned toward Mom with a brilliant example. “Dear, this roll is excellent! Do you enjoy baking?”

I thought I heard Janice whimper. She excused herself, the little bitch, leaving me halfway to laughing but a lot closer to whimpering for real myself. Her leaving the table was for trying not to laugh. Plus she was a terrific mimic. I’d get the replay later tonight, and again tomorrow, and probably for the rest of my life.

That night, lying in bed with my hands behind my head, I stared out the window and thought about what my parents had said. Was there any truth to it—I don’t mean how things worked, but that I was the one at fault for not having friends? That it was so easy and nobody had ever told me before, what most people seem to have known all along? That led me down the alley of
what is wrong with me?
that I traveled so often that the darkness was familiar, almost comforting. I decided that tomorrow I’d spend the day trying everything they had said. Saying hello, smiling—the works. There’s a first time for everything, right?

As I fell asleep, I wondered which of Janice’s many T-shirts she would make me wear. Maybe something silly and bright would be a good change from my usual dark choices, a good accompaniment to my new and friendly approach to people.

W
ELL
,
A
cat with a rainbow, fine, but did it have to come out from under its tail? Janice laughed as I pulled it on. Luckily it fit—not that our proportions were the same, but our shoulder widths were.

I checked myself out in the hall mirror. Janice was looking at me with pride. My stupid brother walked out to go to football practice, laughing and pointing at me on his way past. The heck with him. I nodded at myself and smiled. “Helloooo there, sexy!” I said to me.

Janice whacked me on the head. “Get out of here!” she giggled.

I should have been warned. She was not the kind to giggle. But I looked okay, and I felt pretty good, cat farting a rainbow or not. The sun was shining, and I had turned over a new leaf, right? Taking a deep breath, I left the house, shutting the door behind me like it was the door to the past. It was a new day, the start of a new—something. I felt like I was glowing with confidence, another first for me.

That lasted about three blocks. Then I began to see people I could actually speak to. There were young ones, old ones, and in-between ones. There were men, women, and in-between ones. There were Goths and hipsters and grumpy-looking folks and happy kids and winos begging for change on the street corners. And all the different colors of the rainbow. Well, not quite, but all different shapes, sizes, and nationalities. I had no idea where to start. I was beginning to feel an old acquaintance coming over me. Fear. I did not want to acknowledge it.

People had dogs, babies, friends, packages…. The first time one of them smiled at me, I almost smiled back but thought
no, dammit, he’s ruined it now
. Later I wondered if he liked me or was just amused by my shirt. Oh God, this was horrible! I looked back to see. No. Yes! Dammit, he did have a nice ass, Okay? Are you happy? And no, he wasn’t looking back at me.

I turned down a side street. Main Street was too populated for me. What if I saw someone I knew? I missed my own irony. There was a homeless guy in the alley. I smiled at him instead of averting my eyes. Oh shit! He was pissing against a trash can. “What are you looking at, pervert?” he asked. I kept walking. Fear was laughing at me now, laughing and pointing. My bottom lip trembled, and my left eyelid twitched. Shit. I. Was. Not. Afraid. Well, actually, yes, yes I was. I was absolutely terrified.

I remembered my father leaning forward over his pie last night, pointing his knife at me. “You need to step out of your comfort zone once in a while, ya big… lug.”

Comfort zone? Why was having a comfort zone a bad thing?

Okay. I’m going to do it.
I won’t let fear and comfort stop me. That bum in the alley, I thought scientifically, was not anyone I would want to know anyhow. I don’t believe my smile made his day better or made him feel “connected.” I was glad I’d read a few studies on the Internet last night in preparation. They’d just been random samples and only mentioned that “place” was important as well as warmth and sincerity. Apparently there was a lot more to it than just a simple hello. I’d also read that it helped to have something in common to build on. What did I have in common, being human? Was that enough? Apparently not.

Once again, I came out onto Main Street. Art Fair was setting up—how could I have forgotten about the madness that took over our city this weekend? Thousands of people! That was good, though; I could get lost in the crowd. I’d have my pick of people. Alleys and privacy were obviously not a good choice. I shuddered.
Not afraid
, I repeated to myself, feeling my eye twitch like it had a fit of giggles.

I was thinking about connection and inclusion as I passed Shaky Jake, who was setting up his guitar case to receive the spare change of people who appreciated terrible music and unusual locals. Before I could think about it, I blurted, “Hello, Shaky Jake!” and he smiled and reached to shake my hand. My face dropped, but I took it, hoping he didn’t have anything contagious. He wasn’t homeless, and he was clean. I was ashamed. He didn’t notice. “How’s it hangin’, boy?” he enthused and then turned away. I almost ran.

The streets were filling up with the 30,000 or so visitors who all wanted to walk in the same space and look at the same booths. The moms pushing strollers were the worst. You could kill yourself tripping over one of those. I smiled at one of the moms, and she looked away. I smiled at her kid. He picked his nose and showed me what he found. Cute.

At the next booth, I saw three girls I knew from school. They sat near me in the lunchroom and never looked at me. I could hear some of their juicier gossip. Holy cow! I was terrified to say hello to them, but what the hell. I was pretty sure they didn’t pick their noses.

“Hi, Lauren,” I said and smiled at the other two when they looked up.

Lauren looked at me, sort of smiled, and said, “Oh… Adam, right?” And she turned away.

Maybe I could change my name? Aiden, Adam, close enough, I guess. Then I saw the prices of the jewelry they were looking at. Holy crap. I walked away and heard them giggling. One said, “Did you see his shirt?” I could feel my face reddening.

Note to self: don’t talk to rich bitches. Don’t talk to crazy people. Don’t talk to homeless guys pissing on trash cans. Lessons learned.

A little farther along, I walked into a large booth full of photographs. They were mostly portraits, families posed together in the woods, babies sitting on father’s laps, stuff like that. I looked at them aimlessly. One was a black family, and the father looked like George Carlin. I remember what he once said: “
One good reason to only maintain a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who know the victim
.” I snickered, and the photographer/owner looked at me as if I’d just thrown paint on him. I said, “Hello,” and he turned his back on me to talk to a paying customer.

W
ELL
. I
usually avoid Art Fair weekend, but this was turning out to be fun—well, interesting, anyway. Like the picture of that cat on its back on the floor, saying, “Okay, ceiling fan. Not a toy.” That was … different. There were hundreds of booths, thousands of people, and half a dozen music venues. I got something to eat and sat down on a low wall to listen to the Peruvian group. I loved the sound of their flutes. I discovered it was easier to smile at people when I was enjoying myself, distracted from my fear by the music. Everyone seemed friendlier; it wasn’t just me. That made a huge difference, but I didn’t really understand it. Was there any way I could transfer that knowledge to school?