The Book of David (13 page)

And who are these people that Pastor Colbert was talking about? These gays with the agenda? I mean, that's not me either.

None of these people are who I am.

Maybe I'm not really gay. Maybe I just need to focus on girls. Maybe I just need to find a girl who will freaking sleep with me.

Monica may not do that, but she'll at least make out with me and maybe even give me a blow job. At least that's a start.

Okay, if there really is a capital-G “God,” he's screwing around with me.

I get to Monica's for dinner. Usually it's just me, Monica, and her mom when I go over there for dinner. Her mom usually has a little too much wine and talks about what a “sweet boy” I am and insists that I call her “Barbara” instead of Ms. Nichols. If she gets to that point with the wine drinking, she'll also tell us how she wishes she had married somebody half as nice as me instead of Monica's dad, who took off with his secretary when Monica was six. Typically, this whole line of conversation makes me a little uncomfortable, but she's generally a really nice lady. Plus, when I come to dinner, she always makes steaks. I'm a sucker for a good steak.

Anyway, so I'm walking up to the front door of Monica's house when this dude swings open the door and steps out onto the porch. He's shorter than me and has dark hair like Monica's. He's wearing an Arkansas Travelers T-shirt and jeans with low-top Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. The T-shirt shows off his arms and chest, and he stops when he sees me on the stairs.

“Oh—hey. Dang. Monica wasn't kidding about you.”

I smile, but I'm confused. “Hey, I'm—”

“Oh, I know all about who you are.” He laughs and holds out a hand. “Sorry. I'm Brent. Barbara's brother. Headed out to get the wine I left in the car. Gimme a hand?”

Monica had mentioned her uncle Brent before, but I'd never met him. I thought she'd said he lived in Memphis and traveled a lot for work. I guess I'd pictured some old guy with a beer belly and a goatee. Not . . . well, this guy who looked like he hit the gym a lot.

Anyway, we get inside, and Barbara reintroduces us while she opens the wine and finishes cooking the steaks. Monica kisses me, and I help her set the table. The whole time, Brent is telling me stories about the guys Monica's mom used to date when she was in high school. Brent is three years younger than Barbara, so he was a freshman when she was a senior, and his memories about the guys were cracking me and Monica up.

When we sit down to eat, Brent is telling us about this guy Barbara used to date when she was a senior who would give him a joint if Brent would let him climb in the bedroom window at night so he could sneak into Barbara's room.

Monica was shocked. “Mom!”

Barbara sighed. “Let's just say I didn't make the best choices as a high school student. You've done much better than I have, Monica.” She winked at me, and I blushed.

“I'll say,” said Brent. “Monica tells me you're breaking records on the football field.”

“Got lucky,” I said.

“Whatever, man. Nobody is that lucky. That's hard work and sheer talent.”

“Thanks,” I said. I am still not used to taking compliments. I tried to change the subject. “You a Travelers fan?” I asked, pointing at Brent's T-shirt.

“Sorta,” he said. “This guy I was seeing was. We drove over for a bunch of games this summer.”

My brain sort of shut down when he said “guy I was seeing.” I must've looked like an idiot, because I just stared at him.
Brent is . . . gay?

Barbara didn't miss a beat. She laughed and poured some more wine. “Talk about poor choices.”

Brent shook his head. “Jesus. What was I thinking? I mean, I thought this guy was the one: loved baseball as much as I do, hot as hell.”

Monica piped up, “Yeah, he was gorgeous.”

I felt like I'd been transported to Mars. “This was your ex-boyfriend?” I asked.

Brent laughed. “Well, ‘boyfriend' might be a strong term for it. We were dating.”

Barbara snorted. “Brent saved
his
poor choices in men for adulthood.”

“I liked him,” Monica said. She turned to me. “Brent has had a run of bad luck.”

“It's not so easy,” he protested. “I just want to find somebody who is in good shape and actually has a brain. It's a plus if he's into sports a little. I just can't watch
The Real Housewives
twenty-four-seven.”

I couldn't believe it. I almost expected to be on one of those hidden camera shows. It was just what I'd been writing about in this journal this afternoon. I mean, here was a gay guy who was . . . like me. Into sports, seems pretty normal.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked Brent.

“Pharmaceutical rep. Pays the bills. Lots of vacation time when I want it. Was able to get to Florida this year and catch some preseason baseball during spring training.”

Brent was exactly the opposite of the gay guys I'd seen on TV. I mean, he was handsome and funny, but not in a bitchy way. He was real, and nice. He didn't seem like he was out to corrupt anybody or push his ideas on others.

“So, what did you guys do today?” Brent directed the question at Monica.

“Well, we went to church this morning,” she said.

“And how was that?” Brent raised an eyebrow when he asked.

“Weird.” I just blurted it out. I didn't mean to, but I said it before I thought about it. Everybody looked at me, and Barbara laughed.

“Yeah, that sermon was a little over-the-top for my tastes.” She sighed.

“Fire and brimstone?” Brent asked.

“No, more election-year politics,” Barbara said. “We veered into ‘gay agenda' territory.”

Brent rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Barb. Why are you dragging my niece to a place like that?”

“Please, Brent. She's dragging me.”

“It's just that all my friends go there. Usually it's pretty good.”

“What was weird about it for you?” Brent asked me.

I felt my cheeks flush as everybody waited for me to answer. I took a drink of iced tea to stall for time. “I don't know,” I said. “I just feel like . . . well, this morning, it got all judgmental. I mean, isn't God supposed to be about love?”

“You'd think,” Brent said, helping himself to more mashed potatoes.

Barbara sighed again. “Some Sundays I swear that preacher is trying to make Episcopalians out of all of us.”

“Well, let me tell you about my homosexual agenda,” Brent said. “First, I want to mandate that all gay pride parades end at a baseball game. There should be free draft beer for anybody who wants one. We'll make the lesbians pitch, and we'll have the musical theater boys do a big number on the pitcher's mound during the seventh-inning stretch.”

This cracked me and Monica up, and as we all sat there laughing, this big wave of relief swept over me. Brent was a guy I identified with. He was somebody I'd like to be friends with. He was somebody I could see myself being like in my thirties. I'd never met anybody quite like him who was so . . . at ease in his own skin.

Monica wanted to study for a history quiz we have tomorrow, and of course we wound up making out for a little while in her room after dinner, but the urgency to get her into the car and prove something to myself was gone. I left to come home before she got me too worked up and left me hanging again.

On the way out, Brent shook my hand and told me he was back in town at the end of next week for some meetings.

“Maybe I'll stop by and catch the game next Friday,” he said. “Wanna see you in action with that magic passing arm.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “Tell Monica if you can make it.”

Barbara gave me a hug, and Monica walked me out to the car.

“You never told me your uncle is gay,” I said.

“I don't know. I guess I just don't think of him as ‘gay,' ” she said. “I just think of him as Uncle Brent.”

Something about that stuck with me as I drove home. Maybe I'm making way too much of this whole thing. Maybe I should stop worrying so much about being gay or being straight and just be me.

Tyler had left me a voice mail during dinner at Monica's. He said he was sorry about the whole scene on Friday night and asked me to call him back. When I did, he apologized again.

“It was really lame,” I said.

“Yeah, man, I know.” He was squirming on the other end of the phone. “I just . . . I guess I'm just really jealous.”

“Of what? You're going to get back in shape, and this spring you'll still be able to go do a walk-on at U of A. They'll still give you a scholarship.”

“I know.”

There was silence for a minute. I wasn't sure how to bring it up, so I just forged ahead.

“You gotta chill out about Jon,” I said.

Tyler didn't say anything.

“You still there?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“He's a good guy.”

“Whatever,” he said.

“No, Tyler, not whatever. Jon is a good guy. You've gotta give him a chance.”

“I just . . .” Tyler's voice trailed off.

“You just what?” I asked.

“I just liked it when it was you and me.”

“Well, then act that way, man. Stop calling me names and
being a tool. I'm really sorry that you got hurt. You're my best friend. I didn't want that to happen. But it's not my fault, and it sure as hell isn't Jon's.”

We talked about the schedule for his surgery, and I told him I'd text him tomorrow night to see how he was doing. We made plans that I'd come by on Tuesday after class if he was feeling okay.

I can't believe how much better I feel after tonight. Still, I have this little knot in the pit of my stomach every time I think about Pastor Colbert's sermon this morning. It's not the sermon, really. It's the sight of Mom nodding and the sound of Dad's voice shouting, “Amen.”

I wonder how Brent figured out he wasn't an “abomination.”

Mrs. Harrison put a topic on the board this morning:
WHAT YOU SEE WHEN YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES.

She had all of us close our eyes for fifteen seconds. Now we're supposed to write about what we saw.

The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was Jon's triceps pressing against the sleeve of his T-shirt across the aisle, one desk up. Today his T-shirt says
MOUNTAIN GOATS
, and of course, that made me think of his
IMPERIAL TEEN
T-shirt from Friday night, and
that
made me think of him peeling that shirt off in
our rec room. All I can see is him grabbing the hem of that shirt and pulling it up, up, up, revealing the bright green waistband of those boxer briefs he was wearing. I can see him undoing the buckle on his belt and sliding his jeans off and every ripple in his abs, his chest, his shoulders as wide as a house from swim practice.

My heart is pounding right now as I think about it. I can barely catch a breath.

I just glanced up at Jon, and it was almost like he
knew
. He turned around and winked at me across the aisle. Now I really can't breathe. I just have to keep my hand moving across this page until time is up. I can't think too much about this. I can't let myself fall into this excitement and this fear. It feels too deep and too difficult when I think about it.

Just be me.

Just be me.

Just be me.

Jesus. Thank God Tyler isn't here today. I feel like a crazy person.

Last night after practice, I was heading to my car when I saw that the side exit doors of the theater building were propped
open way across the parking lot, and I heard music coming through them. I was tired, but I wondered who was singing, so I tossed my bag into my truck and walked over. I poked my head into the back door, farthest from the stage.

The music stopped right as I walked in. The whole theater was dark except for the stage lights, which were on full blast, and it looked like the entire cast was in this number. Mr. London jumped up onto the stage and talked to Jon about something, pointing and telling him to step up on this box in the middle of the stage on a certain word.

“That'll be the big statue in the town square once the set is done,” he explained.

“Got it.” Jon nodded.

Mr. London jumped back down off the stage and turned to the music teacher, Miss Lee, who raised her arms and beat out a four count. The whole band, including a piano, jumped to life, and as the music began, Jon strode to the center of the stage like he owned the place.

He started half talking/half singing at the rest of the cast, who were all leaning in toward him with their hands on their knees, bouncing along with the music. It was sort of like an old-fashioned rap, only there was no slang, and it was funny.

Jon's voice was strong and clear, and he was saying all these words really fast, but really clearly and in rhythm to this
group of townspeople. He was warning them about their kids frittering away their days shooting pool at the town pool hall and how there was “Trouble, right here in River City.” He ran around the stage, whipping the crowd into a frenzy of singing, all raising their hands and singing harmonies on the word “trouble” each time Jon said it.

As the song ended, Jon jumped up onto the box Mr. London had pointed out and shouted “Trouble with a capital T, that rhymes with P, which stands for POOL!” I actually laughed out loud, and Mr. London turned around and stared into the darkness, and I panicked and ducked out the side door, but not before I saw a big grin spread over Jon's face.

By the time I got home, I had a text from Jon:

Who u lurkin' at? LOL

Me:

#caught

Jon:

I'd know that laugh anywhere.