The Book of David (7 page)

I mean . . . what? What don't I want him to think?

That I'm a fag?

That I'm into Jon?

What if both of those things are true? I don't want my best friend to know the truth about me? I hate this limbo. After what Tyler said to me on Monday about things never being the same again, I'm pretty sure he knows. Or suspects.

What would it be like if Tyler knew who I
really
was? What if he knew that yesterday when I stood in front of the cast list at
the water fountain and Jon put his hand on my back, my knees went weak like I'd been running line drills across the football field for a month?

It was like no sensation I'd ever had before; it was what I know Tyler talks about when he tells me stories about hooking up with Erin. Even the first time Monica and I got naked together, I didn't feel a jolt course through me like I did from just the touch of Jon's hand on my back in the hallway. Standing there yesterday, I felt like my legs might buckle underneath me at any moment, and somehow at the same time I knew that as long as Jon was there, no one could ever knock me down.

Big write-up in the
Democrat-Gazette
yesterday about the game last week—picture of me and everything. The reporter mentioned the scouts who were there to recruit Tyler, who was “felled early on by an injury,” and how they were “pleasantly surprised” by my “seasoned passing game.”

Mom had gone to buy five extra copies of the paper and had one spread out on the table while she put one into a scrapbook and stuffed envelopes with the other clippings for Grandma and Grandpa in Dallas. Dad whooped and squeezed me into a big bear hug when I walked through the door.

“You're gonna get that full ride to Oklahoma! You're the
man!” He was red-faced and had the skunky smell of a man who was three beers into a celebration already, but it was fun to see him excited.

“There's a YouTube video of that big pass you made, and it already has more than seven thousand views.” Little sisters are notoriously hard to impress—especially when they're in eighth grade—but YouTube hits are apparently the ticket.

“Have you heard from that woman who was at the game on Friday yet, sweetheart?” Mom handed me a warm plate of meat loaf and potatoes au gratin—my favorite kind out of the box. She made them special for me.

I smiled. “This looks great. And no, not yet. I left her a voice mail on Sunday, but her message said she'd be away until Friday.”

“You'll hear from her now,” Dad said, a little too loudly. Sometimes when he gets buzzed, it's like the volume gets turned up too loud, and it drives me a little nuts. But not tonight. He beamed at me from the end of the table. “You're golden.”

It's actually after midnight on Thursday night. I guess it's technically Friday morning. I have been lying in bed for, like, two hours and can't sleep.

Monica and Jon were waiting for me at my truck this
afternoon when I was done with practice. Monica was talking one hundred miles per hour to Jon. She had her arm laced through his and was sort of hanging on him and laughing. It was weird because if it were anybody else, I might have felt jealous. Or at least had the idea that I should feel jealous. But not Jon. He was just leaning against the side of the truck, listening to Monica, but staring over her head right at me.

Sometimes there are these moments when I feel like I'm living a movie version of my own life. The sun was setting, and a breeze carried the smell of cut grass off the field. Something about all that and Jon's gaze—as still and calm as Monica was animated and boisterous—made me feel this weird sense of excitement and relief all at once. Something about the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm invincible.

Monica turned and saw me and came running up. She threw her arms around my neck and never stopped talking about their first rehearsal and how great Jon was and how much fun this is going to be, and on and on and on. . . .

And the whole time she talked, I just smiled and held Jon's gaze.

Monica's great—don't get me wrong. I just . . . I don't even know how to write it down. . . .

I just feel this thing when Jon is looking at me with those eyes. It's like he sucks me into a freaking mind meld. I couldn't
even hear anything Monica was saying—something about . . . I don't even remember. I forgot all about being worried about the quiz and tonight's game and whether Tyler can tell I'm into Jon or not. As I stood there at the truck with the clouds turning neon orange, I just knew that everything was going to work out, that as long as Jon was looking at me, everything was going to be okay.

Monica finally stopped and realized neither one of us was listening to her.

“What?”

I glanced down at her. “Huh?”

“Do I have something in my teeth?” she asked, suddenly panicked. She whirled and playfully smacked Jon on the shoulder. “Um. You're supposed to
tell
me. . . .” She ducked around me and peered into the side mirror on the cab.

Jon shook his head, laughing. “You're beautiful, crazy.” Then he winked at me. “How was football practice?”

“Brutal. How was play practice?”

He arched an eyebrow. “It's
rehearsal
. Only Philistines call it ‘play practice.' ”

“I
am
the quarterback of the football team.”

“Philistine.” He sighed. “We're gonna have to get you some culture.” His look of pity dissolved into a smirk that made me feel like I'd just popped over the top of a steep hill driving a little too fast.

“Fine, but first I need some food. And what the hell with this chemistry quiz?”

We wound up studying for the quiz together. I texted my mom and let her know I was having dinner with Monica and Jon so we could study. We went to IHOP and got a booth in the back. I ordered a burger and a stack of pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream. Somehow, between the two of them, they drilled the noble gasses and halogens from the periodic table into my head.

Afterward there was this weird moment when we headed into the parking lot. Monica gave Jon a big hug and said, “See you tomorrow,” then grabbed my hand and kind of waited. I saw this look pass over Jon's face, and he nodded—sort of like he knew this was where he should say good night, but he didn't want to leave.

Something flipped in my stomach right then—this weird knot of . . . what? Stress? Panic? I couldn't tell what was happening. I just got . . . annoyed. With Monica. Of all things. Suddenly I felt miffed that I had to walk her to her car instead of walking Jon down to his. I even started to take a step toward him, but then I caught myself:

What the hell are you doing, dude? Monica is your
girlfriend.

It was Tyler's voice in my brain. Calling me out.

I turned bright red. I could feel it happening. I was trying
to cover, but I could tell Jon had caught this weird start-stop moment, and I didn't know what to do. I put out an arm, sorta like I was going to hug him, but then stopped myself halfway through the motion, which was like this weird fumble. He sort of leaned in when he saw me raise my arm, and then stopped when I did, and finally he held out his hand, and we freaking shook hands. Which . . . I mean . . . Nothing could have been more awkward than that.

I kicked myself all the way back to the car, Monica talking ninety-to-nothing about . . . what? I don't even know. All I could see was the smirk on Jon's face as I turned away to walk Monica through the parking lot. I finally got her to her car, and she wanted to make out, but I told her I had to get home. We kissed a couple times, but I couldn't stop thinking that Jon was gonna see us, and . . .

And what? Why did I give a shit if Jon saw us? I leaned in to Monica, pressing her up against the side of the car, and kissed her nice and hard. I could taste the watermelon lip gloss she'd just reapplied, and her mouth was fruity and soft and wet and warm, and for some reason, I just thought,
This is like kissing Jell-O.

That made me laugh, and she pulled away and started laughing too. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Sorry. That lip gloss tastes like Jolly Ranchers.”

She giggled and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I have delicious lips.”

I watched her drive away and felt my phone buzz in my hip pocket. I pulled it out and there was a text from Jon:

Nice lip-lock. ;)

My heart sped up when I read it. I tapped out a single-word reply on the screen; then my thumbs froze for a second over Send. Finally I hit it. The word popped up in a little green bubble on the screen:

Jealous?

I almost couldn't breathe while I waited for his response. I could see that he was texting something back, and my hands got so sweaty, I almost dropped my phone. Two seconds later, his response came through:

Maybe a little. ;)

I laughed out loud in my truck, and I couldn't stop smiling all the way home. I don't even know how to explain how weird it felt—how happy I was.

And how scared that makes me.

I mean, if Tyler or my dad or my mom, or . . . well . . . anybody, really . . . saw my phone and read those texts, they'd know that I was flirting. With a guy. Was he serious?

Am I?

I haven't responded again to Jon's text, but I want to. I want to feel the rush of waiting for his reply. It feels dangerous—like I'm a little out of control.

Okay, here it is: the truth . . . Shit. I can't believe I'm gonna write this down.

The truth is, I've been lying here awake 'cause I can't stop thinking about pushing Jon up against my truck and kissing him instead of Monica. What would that feel like? What would it be like to kiss a dude? It wouldn't taste like watermelon—that much I know for sure. I even went online and searched “boys kissing.” Some of the videos that popped up were just guys horsing around being stupid, and some of them were kind of gross, but there was one of these two guys on a beach. They looked like they were about my age, and they were just sitting in this big tidal pool making out as the waves rolled in behind them. It made my heart speed up the way that getting Jon's text tonight did. These dudes didn't seem like they were afraid of getting caught, or of anybody seeing them. They were just kissing each other like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to feel Jon's lips on mine now. And it's, like, one a.m. and I really need to get to sleep, or I'm so screwed for the game tomorrow.

Holy crap. I was up way too late last night.

When I finally drifted off to sleep, I had another dream. Only this time, instead of Tyler chasing Jon, he was chasing me down the football field. I was running as fast as I could, but the end zone kept getting farther and farther away. I looked back, and Tyler was chasing me with a crutch that he held up like a rifle and started shooting at me.

I'm so tired today, I'm not sure how I'm going to make it to the game tonight. When I saw Jon this morning, he just grinned and tossed his chin at me, like
What's up?
He didn't say anything about our texts. Maybe he was just joking around. Maybe I was too. Then why am I having these whacked-out dreams about Tyler? And why can't I stop thinking about Jon? And what if I walk out on the field and choke? What if last Friday was a fluke?

I can't afford to be this tired. Coach is always after us: “Keep your head in the game.” My head is everywhere
but
the game right now.

What the hell am I doing?

I am writing this from hell.

Actually, it's my bedroom, but Tracy just downloaded the new Boison album. Get it? Like “Poison” only they're “Deadly to Boys,” as the title track has reminded me for the past thirty-two minutes. They're this sixteen-year-old girl group that came from some TV show for kids, and they sing the worst pop singles of all time. They're fast and stupid, and have terrible lyrics. They sound just like the color hot pink. You can totally picture eighth-grade girls jumping up and down and screaming along. The track Tracy is singing to right now has this awful chorus about how some dude is “the one I've always wanted,” and they say that like five hundred times in a row. She's had this album on repeat for two days now. I'm about to lose my shit.

Anyway, in better news, we beat Central High last night. Didn't choke. We were up by three at the half, but it could've gone either way. I got sacked twice really hard the first two plays of the second half, and on the second one, the ball got away from me. Somehow the defensive lineman from the other team who was closest to the ball kicked it as he scrambled for it, and I grabbed it—but I got piled on pretty hard.

That put us at third and fourteen on our own forty-yard line. I was not feeling good about it. If we had to punt, I knew
Central would score, and I knew we'd give up the momentum. The hardest thing in football isn't scoring. It's keeping the momentum. Getting the ball down the field when you're behind because you had to punt is somehow twice as hard. The number of yards to the end zone is the exact same as if you're ahead, but the challenge is all between your ears, as Coach likes to say, and it feels like trying to run through knee-deep mud.

I knew we had to make the first down or we'd be in serious shit.

Walker, our center, smacked my helmet when we came out of the huddle and just said, “You got this.”

And I realized he was right. I could do this.

He snapped me the ball, and I dropped back. For some reason, our line was screwed, and none of my guys were where I needed them to be. I saw the same dude who had kicked the ball on the last play break free and barrel toward me. I took a couple steps to my right, ready to run for it, but just those two steps to the right gave me a whole new view of the field, and I saw Mike Watters wide open way down on their ten.