The Cranberry Hush: A Novel (8 page)

“I probably knew that and chose to ignore it.”

“Man. I had no idea I was such a charmer. I can go around
seducing people with just a mere bat of the eyelash, huh? I’ll have to keep
that in mind. So what happened next?”

“It drove me insane.”

***

I had to know what the wink meant. Was it a secret
signal from one closeted dude to another? It could be! I waited for more
signals. In class I watched Griffin’s hands and sneakers for discreet taps, for
a queer Morse code.
Tap tap I think I love
you tap tap tap ask me out tap tap.

When I figured I wasn’t picking up anything I decided to
send out signals of my own. I made tiny attempts to copy his movements: I
crossed my arms when he crossed his, sat on my leg when he sat on his. I hoped
he would see this synchronicity and know I’d
noticed
him. It was never blatant, though. It wouldn’t do just to
attract his attention. He had to be watching for it. Closely.

But nothing happened. Not that class or the next or the next
or the next. And I began to realize that my whole semester was unraveling
waiting for something that wasn’t ever going to come. Never unless I did more
than scratch my nose when he scratched his. Never unless I just grew a pair and
asked him out.

But not only did I not know whether he was
interested—I didn’t know whether he even
could
be interested.

How could I find out whether Griffin Dean liked guys?

*

“My turn,” Griff said. He returned to the chair and
curled up with his legs under him. “So you were a lovesick swain trying to
figure out what to do. Finally you came up with both an idea and the nerve to put
it in action, so you’d know whether to expect to get smacked if you asked me
out. Although why you thought that was a possibility is beyond me. But anyway,
anyway— You made a special screen name and sent me a nice and, I must
say, well-written but extremely anonymous email asking me if I dated guys. Am I
right so far?”

“Yes.” I pulled the blanket down tighter on my shoulders.
“Maybe we should skip this part?”

“Vince, if you can’t see the humor in this you’re taking
life way too seriously. Right? Yeah, you know I’m right. So you sent the email.
I got the letter, and yeah, I
was
weirded out. Not so much about it being from a guy, but I didn’t know
which
guy. I would’ve been flattered if
I’d known it was you. You’ve always had enviable biceps. But you could’ve just
as easily been that dipshit with the hacky sack who was always blocking the
front door. Remember him?”

“Ryan Sedgwick.”

“Yeah, what a fucker. I hated that kid. So anyway, I didn’t
respond.”

***

As the week went by I felt more and more guilty
about sending the email. On top of everything, on top of my weird and
overwhelming attraction to Griffin, I liked him. I
cared
about him. And the last thing I ever wanted to do was make
him uncomfortable.

If he didn’t like guys the way I did (and that was likely,
right? like ninety-something-percent likely?), was he just totally confused
about why some mysterious person going by the name of Truman thought he might?
And if he did like guys but was closeted, was he afraid he’d been discovered?
Was he scanning every face wondering if any of those people were Truman? Did he
sit in the dining hall glancing around while his food got cold and his soda
went flat? Did he lie awake at night? The whole thing made me feel lonely and
villainous and sick to my stomach.

Nicole started the first class of March by
announcing a group project and then began counting around our circle, dividing
us into groups. I tried counting ahead, my eyes racing past the pen she was
ticking against desks, desperately trying to figure out whether Griffin and I
would be assigned to the same group—but Nicole’s counting kept messing me
up. Griffin got labeled a four. If I’d known about the group project I would’ve
tried rigging the outcome. I thought, as it was, that my chances were not
one-in-five, but somehow much closer to zero.

But at last fate had been bribed and the planets were
aligned and when Nicole clicked her red pen on my desk and said
four
it felt like getting knighted.

Ninety-seven seconds later I found myself sitting directly
opposite Griffin, our desks pushed together front-to-front. My happiness was
bittersweet, though, because even in my happiness I felt guilty knowing what
I’d done, and fearful too that he’d somehow uncovered my deceit, that he would
at any moment reach across our desks and slug me. Ah, but he was here and it
was worth it. There were two other people in our group—just scenery, just
mannequins.

Maybe we would eat lunch together, I thought, nervously
rolling myself up in the fantasy. His eyes were green and seemed to hint at
things he wanted to say but couldn’t, at least not here. I watched his hands as
he jotted notes. He had nice fingernails and a very even skin-tone. Maybe we
would hang out in each other’s rooms, sixty-nine for hours while our roommates
were away, become life partners, adopt foreign orphans.

While I was daydreaming of these things I could feel my
mouth moving, could vaguely hear words coming out of it. I had some awareness
of books being handed out, and of listening while Nicole gave instructions. But
it was something Griffin said that blasted apart my reverie—the worst
thing a guy who likes a guy can possibly hear:

“My girlfriend read this book last semester.”

At first I thought maybe it was one of the mannequins in our
group speaking, but—oh man,
oh no
—it
was Griffin. The rest of what he said—the things the girlfriend had told
him about the book, and how we could use that now in this project so we
wouldn’t have to actually read it ourselves—all blended into a monotone
hum like that emergency alert tone they test on TV.

A girlfriend. He had one. At worst he was straight. But even
if he was bi, he was taken. He was someone else’s. Of course. Of course he was.

The tiny pessimistic devil who usually sat on my shoulder
and who’d warned me not to even bother with Griffin in the first place suddenly
conjured himself in my stomach and began crawling up my throat, making it
tight. I wasn’t sure whether to cry that fucker out or throw him up. I thought
I might do both, and collapse in a puddle of tears and puke.

By the time class was over, though, I’d talked myself into
being thankful that I’d made no real connection with Griffin before finding out
he had a girlfriend. Somehow not having him in my life right now made it a
little easier to know he’d never be in it at all.

One week later I laid my arms across the window
sill and rested my chin in the crook of my elbow. Through my fifth-floor window
and across Beacon Street, over the row of brownstones on the other side, were
the tall glass buildings that made up Boston’s ever more jagged skyline. Waning
sunlight lit up the Hancock and Prudential buildings with blazing orange. As
the sun descended behind the horizon the light crept down the sides of the
buildings, burning them up, until finally it disappeared into dark embers at
the bottoms. I tried to watch the sunset as often as possible.

“
God I hope I get it,
I hope I get it
,” sang my roommate Brian. He was standing on his bed. His
strawberry hair was pushed up severely in the front. “
Oh god I really, really need to get this job!
Wait, fuckadilly—how’s
this go?” He reached for a sheet of lyrics that lay on his pillow.

It was mid-March. Room selection for our sophomore year was
in less than a month and I did not consider it an option to spend another year
living with Brian Lauder (pronounced
louder
).
My few other friends were either seniors or girls or both. As a freshman I
wouldn’t have a chance at getting a single. I was shit out of luck.

I needed a roommate.

*

“There’s that total hunk you still have the crush
on,” Griff suggested as he poked the fire.

“You mean the one I just found out had a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, him. You could ask him.—No you
couldn’t.—Yes you could. You play Gollum/Sméagol for a while and finally
decide that you’re young and ridiculous—”

“And desperate.”

“—and desperate—OK mostly desperate—and
you do. You send me another email, this time from your real Shuster address,
telling me that since we got along fine during groupwork and since you have no
one else to ask, you wonder if I’m looking for a roommate for sophomore year.”

***

I sent that second email on a Saturday morning
(taking pains to use a different font from the Truman email) and all weekend
waited in a state of near panic for Griffin to reply. I clicked refresh on the
browser like a gambling addict at a slot machine, hoping, believing, that the
next click would be the jackpot. But by Sunday night I was bitter and broke.

On Monday morning I sulked to class not wanting to see
Griffin at all. I was angry not only because he’d given me no
answer—again!—but because he was continually breaking my heart. The
worst part was that he didn’t even know it.

I chose a desk in the circle and sat down to read the
homework assignment I’d been too busy refreshing my email to read the night
before. When someone took the seat beside me I didn’t look up, didn’t so much
as raise my eyes. The person was fidgeting with a click-pen, that much I could
hear.
Clicka clicka clicka.

“Hey, I got your email,” the person said after a minute or
two, mid-breath, as though he’d only just sat down. Or as though he’d been
rehearsing.

I put my book down. “Oh, cool.” Something was different
about him. His eyes were brighter or his skin was darker. Yes, it was his
skin—he had a tan. In March. It took my breath away.

“Sorry I didn’t reply,” he went on. “I was in Florida this
weekend and I just got it this morning. A few minutes ago, actually.”

“That’s OK,” I said nonchalantly, as though his response was
of minimal interest. “How was Florida?”

“It was all right. My cousin lives there, so... Would you
want to hit the dining hall after class?”

“Sure.”

“Cool.”

That was all. He put down his pen and folded his hands in
his lap. I picked up my book and read the same sentence of
Letters From A Birmingham Jail
over and over. Goosebumps rose on my
arms. It used to be that I savored every minute of this class because that was
Griffin Time. But now that Griffin Time was about to extend beyond class,
outside of class, and be
better
, I
was desperate for the 105 minutes to be over.

When Nicole was done talking I packed my notebook into my
backpack slowly, making every effort to be casual and suave. My post-class exit
was no longer about trying to match Griffin’s speed to the door so maybe I
could hold it for him or have it held by him, with the chance of our fingers
brushing. This was about waiting for him so we could leave together.

Together. Imagine!

“I’m starving,” I said, trying to hide my giddiness.

“Me too,” said Griffin. “What were the pages for the
homework?”

“I think it—”

“Never mind, I’ll get it from you later.” He closed his book
onto a sheet of paper and stuffed it in his backpack. “After you,” he said, and
held the door.

We walked up Beacon Street and through Boston Common. Spring
had begun a few days ago, and while the trees were still winter-bare, the sun
on the branches seemed to be selling the idea that it was time to start pushing
out new buds.

“So you’re having trouble finding a roommate too, huh?” he
said, backpack slung by one strap over his shoulder. He was taller than me by a
couple inches, even in his thin-soled Converse, but skinnier.

“Most of my friends are seniors,” I said. “The guy I live
with now is a musical theatre major. Let’s just say I’d prefer someone a little
quieter.”

“Quiet would be a nice change,” he said. He hooked a thumb
under his backpack strap. “I’m in a triple right now. It’s OK I guess but I’m
kind of the third wheel. I’m pretty sure the other two guys are gay for each
other, so, you know...”

“That’s funny,” I said, trying to decide whether he’d meant
that the problem was the gay roommates or his third-wheel status. “Which dorm
are you in?”

“Beacon-Storrow,” he said.

“...You are? What floor?”

“Ten.”

“I’m on Five. It’s weird that I’ve never seen you around
there.” It seemed suddenly funny that while I was scanning through the student
directory he was only five floors above me, sleeping, showering, practicing
karate naked.

“I actually just transferred here this semester,” he said.

Ah, that explained why he wasn’t in the directory. “Where
were you before?”

“Roger Williams. In Rhode Island.”

“No good?”

“I don’t know, it just wasn’t right for me somehow and I was
shit-unhappy about it. I couldn’t get settled. I get kind of antsy sometimes.”
He wiggled his hands as though they’d fallen asleep.

Two Shuster girls were playing tennis in the Common courts.
Like window shoppers we stopped and watched them without saying anything, our
fingers hooked through the green chain-link fence that surrounded the courts.

“The one on the left is gorgeous,” Griff said. “If I could
draw people I’d draw her picture.”

“Didn’t you say you have a girlfriend?”

He looked at me with an embarrassed grin. “I didn’t say I
wanted to
sleep
with her,” he said.
“There are the girls you want to go to bed with, and then the girls you want to
put a frame around and just gaze at, you know? Girls are art sometimes, I
think. Don’t you?” He looked at me again, swinging himself playfully on the
fence, but his feet were still touching the ground. “Sorry, I sound like a
total homo.”