Is He Or Isn't He? (7 page)

A
nthony couldn't wait until gym class was over.

He was being tortured.

Tortured!

Anthony struggled to finish his push-ups as Coach Harris kept counting. “Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty!” Coach Harris blew on his whistle. “Okay, that's it for today. Everybody head for the showers.”

Anthony collapsed on the floor, struggling to catch his breath as he mopped his sweaty face with the bottom of his T-shirt.

Anthony
hated
gym class.

It was the one class where he always felt inferior. He'd never had any interest in sports so he didn't know the rules of any of the games. And gym class was nothing but games. Baseball, football, basketball, volleyball. All he knew was
that the balls came in different shapes and colors.

Yet because he was a guy, he was supposed to
love
sports. He was supposed to want to spend hours in front of the TV watching groups of guys running after a ball.

Ugh!

He had better things to do with his time.

Okay, some of the players did look good in their form-fitting uniforms, but that wasn't enough of a reason for him to watch.

Gym class was a breeze in September because they often went out to Central Park and jogged. In October and November, they played football and basketball. Those games were never a problem. He could just run away from the ball—making it look like he was running
after
the ball, of course—and let his teammates who were into the game handle it.

December was the month he hated most. That was when they played volleyball. Anthony shuddered. Volleyball was the one game where you couldn't run away from the ball. If the ball was headed your way, you better hit it. Or else.

Anthony knew about
or else
.

On more than one occasion, he had missed hitting the ball when it came in his direction. Or he'd cringed at an approaching ball, afraid of getting hit, using his hands to shield his face. He'd had more than one irate teammate scream at him, “Are you
blind
?! Hit the frigging ball!”

“Hey, Ants!”

He looked up at the sound of Max's voice. Anthony had gotten to class late and found a spot at the back of the gym. Max must have been hidden out of sight in one of the front rows.

Anthony did a double take when he got a look at Max.

Okay, it was time to rethink gym class.

Max looked fine.

Mighty
fine.

Unlike Anthony, Max's gym uniform fit him perfectly. His shorts weren't baggy and his T-shirt, instead of being loose and flowing, was tight and form-fitting.

Like Anthony, he was drenched in sweat, but his sweat wasn't in big messy patches. He looked cool and comfortable, like someone who had just stepped out of a TV commercial, and his hair was all in place, yet slick with moisture.

Did this guy ever
not
look good?!

Anthony shuddered to think what he looked like. Not his best. And definitely not cover model material. He wasn't a ninety-eight-pound weakling, but he wasn't buff and muscular the way Paolo was; his older brother had gotten all those family genes.

Max punched Anthony playfully on the shoulder. “This guy's pretty tough. I haven't had a workout like that in ages.”

“Coach Harris knows how to crack the whip.”

“He's better than my personal trainer.”

“You have a personal trainer?”

“Only three times a week.” Max looked around, then leaned in close to Anthony. “I'll let you in on a little secret. When I was younger, I was kind of chubby. No, that's not true. I was fat. Kids at my old grammar school used to call me Maximum because I was so big. I had the worst sweet tooth. Still do.”

“You're not fat any more. You're all muscle.”

Max lifted his T-shirt and slapped a hand across his abs.
“That's 'cause I work at staying in shape.”

Oh my god, he has a six-pack!

“A couple of years ago, it was all flab,” Max said. “Exercise made the difference, but I outgrew some of it, too. How about you? You look like you're pretty fit.”

He thinks I look fit?!

Calm down, Anthony. He's only making an observation. It's not like he's declared his love!

Much to Anthony's disappointment, Max pulled down his T-shirt, hiding his mesmerizing abs. But their disappearance helped. Anthony no longer felt like a powerless mouse being hypnotized by a hungry snake. He was able to focus again.

“I'm not an exercise junkie, but I try to watch what I eat,” Anthony said. “Sometimes I go to the gym to lift weights.”

Like on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I know that cute personal trainer with the barbed wire tattoo on his right bicep is working. Girls aren't the only ones who can play dumb when it comes to figuring out how to use exercise equipment.

Max squeezed Anthony's arm. “It shows.”

Tingles shot up Anthony's arm and he could feel his cheeks turning red.

“You okay?” Max asked.

“Just need to get some water,” Anthony croaked, walking in the direction of the locker room. “Still recovering from the Harris workout.”

“Sorry I've been out of touch,” Max said. “Felix's been taking me everywhere. I hardly have five minutes to myself.”

“Felix is great,” Anthony lied, leaning over a water fountain.

He's a great big scheming conniver who wants you all to himself!

“Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out together one afternoon. You know, so we can get to know each other better. I'd like to start making some friends of my own. That way Felix doesn't have to feel like he's babysitting me.”

This is your chance, Anthony. Do it, do it, do it! Invite him over this afternoon!

Anthony took a sip of water and wiped his mouth. “We must be psychic twins or something, because I was going to ask if you wanted to come over to my place this afternoon.”

“You were?”

“I wanted to run an idea by you.”

“Shoot.”

“At my party you told me you wanted to be an actor. Well, I'm trying to become a screenwriter and I've just finished a screenplay. I'm going to be including it with my admissions packet to UCLA and I'm going to shoot it this fall—just on a video camera. I'm casting some of the parts and I think you'd be great as Michael, my lead character.”

“What's it called?”

Anthony paused and then said, “
Not All Italian Boys Are Straight.
” He waited to see if the title had any effect, but Max just looked like he was listening. “It's a gay coming of age comedy set in Brooklyn.”

Anthony held his breath. This was it. The moment of truth. Either Max was going to say yes or he was going to run screaming for the hills.

“Sounds interesting. I'd love to read it.”

“Really? You would?”

“Absolutely. What time do you want me to come over?”

“How does four sound?”

“It's a date.”

Date? It's a date? Okay, Anthony, calm down. It's just a figure of speech. He didn't mean date in a romantic way. He meant it as in a time and a place kind of thing.

But what if he didn't?

Concentrate, Anthony. Concentrate. Stay focused!

“Okay, I'll see you later.”

After changing back into his clothes, Anthony whipped out his cell phone and called Paige.

“It's about time you called!” she exclaimed.

“Gym's now my favorite class. You would not
beee-lieve
the bod he has. Jealous, much?”

“If you were standing in front of me, I'd scratch your eyes out. So you talked to him?”

“I did more than just talk to him. I invited him over this afternoon. And he's coming!”

“Whoa! You didn't waste any time.”

“You sound bummed.”

Paige sighed. “I had an opportunity for a little alone time this afternoon with Max, but I blew it.”

“Enlighten me.”

“He wanted to cut class and spend the afternoon together in Central Park.”

“And you said
no
?!” Anthony was horrified. “What are you, crazy?!”

“I know, I know. Don't remind me. Anyway, what are you planning?”

“He's coming over to read my screenplay.”

“Did you tell him the plot?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You told him
everything
about the story?”

“Everything except the kissing scene.”

“The kiss is nothing.”

“I wouldn't be too sure.”

“Tell him he doesn't have script approval,” Paige teased. “What are you going to wear?”

“Yikes! I forgot all about that.” Anthony glanced at his watch. “And I don't have time to do any shopping. I'm going to have to find something in my closet. Gotta go!”

“I want a full report,” Paige called out before Anthony disconnected her.

 

Anthony had a huge walk-in closet.

There was rack after rack of leather jackets, suits, sport jackets, dress pants, jeans, khakis and sweatpants.

There were shelves of sweaters, T-shirts, cotton shirts, silk shirts, tank tops and vests in a variety of colors.

There was pair after pair of shoes, sneakers, boots and sandals.

With so much to choose from, you would think he could find one perfect outfit.

Yet there was nothing to wear! Nothing!

Anthony didn't want Max thinking he'd dressed up for him Then again, he wanted to look good, of course.

Anthony pulled out a pair of black leather jeans and a Dolce & Gabbana shirt with a wild polka dot pattern.

Too gay.

He threw the outfit to one side.

A pair of olive khakis and a plum-colored Ralph Lauren polo shirt came out next.

Too preppy.

They fell on top of the leather pants and the D&G shirt.

Everything he pulled out had a problem.

Too loud.

Too quiet.

Too tight.

Too baggy.

Too dated.

A pile of clothes was building on the floor. After pulling out each outfit, Anthony would hold it in front of himself before his full-length mirror. Then he'd discard it. As impossible as it was to believe, he was starting to run out of clothes. What was he going to do?!

“What's going on in here? I could hear you rustling through your hangers all the way in the living room.”

Paolo stood in the doorway of Anthony's closet, gazing at the scattered outfits.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asked. “I thought you lived at the dorms during the week.”

“There's an Italian soccer match on this afternoon and our dorm TV doesn't get the channel.”

“You and your sports! Is that all you live for?”

“That and making your life miserable.”

“Max is coming over at four. He's going to read my screenplay. I'm trying to decide what to wear.”

“Hmmm. I'd go casual.”

“You think?”

Paolo shrugged. “That's what I always do. At least on the first date.”

“It's not a date.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

Paolo sighed. “Look, Ants, you didn't want to take my advice the other day, but I'm serious.”

“Fine. What?” Anthony said impatiently.

“Take things slow with Max.”

“Why, because you think he's straight and I'm setting myself up for humiliation?”

“No, it's just…even if he is gay, or whatever, you might want to get to know him as a person first. That's all.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“It wouldn't hurt for you to learn from someone who's actually been in more than one relationship.”

“Don't worry, Max isn't going to go all
Fatal Attraction
on me the way some of your girlfriends have.”

“Hey! That was just Linda. And she had issues.”

“Whatever. Now get lost. And stay lost when Max gets here!”

Paolo balled up one of Anthony's T-shirts and was getting ready to throw it at him, when he took a closer look at it. “Hey! This is mine!” Paolo took another look at the clothes scattered around the floor of Anthony's closet and his eyes widened. “And so's that striped shirt. I've been looking for it for months! I thought the dry cleaners had lost it. And those jeans!” Paolo's face turned red. “What have I told you about wearing my clothes?” he screamed.

“Calm down, Pow,” Anthony said, using his childhood
nickname for Paolo. When he was a baby, he'd never been able to say Paolo. Instead, all he'd been able to say was Pow. “I only borrowed your stuff. I was going to put it back.”

“When? You borrowed it around a year ago!”

Paolo angrily began snatching clothes up off the floor. “I'm warning you for the last time, Ants, stay out of my closet! If it wasn't for your sticky fingers, I wouldn't have had to buy all those new clothes last month.”

After Paolo left, Anthony mulled over his brother's words. The ones of advice, not the ones banning him from his closet. He knew that Paolo was only looking out for him, but his words bugged him. His brother—and all straight guys—had it so easy. If they saw a girl that they liked and wanted to go out with, they could just walk up to her, start a conversation, see how it went and then ask her out. He couldn't do that. Everything was so much more complicated for him. If he met a guy that he liked and started steering the conversation in a more romantic direction, he'd better be sure the guy was gay. Otherwise he was going to get insulted, get punched in the nose, or worse.

Anthony gave up on his closet. What was he going to do? He didn't have anything to wear.

Unless…

He knew he was taking his life into his own hands but Paolo
had
mentioned buying some new clothes last month. Knowing his brother, who always wore the same three T-shirts and jeans, the clothes were probably still in the shopping bags they'd come in.