True Letters from a Fictional Life (10 page)

Topher's car pulled into our
driveway at eight o'clock sharp on Friday evening, and I bounded up the stairs for my jacket and keys. While fishing my keys out of the coffee can, I avoided touching the alligator PEZ dispenser, as if it might wake up and bite me. I snatched my woolen hat, raced back down the stairs, shouted good-bye, then shut the front door slowly and strolled, casually, to Topher's car. I'd told my mom I was going to hang out with Derek, and I'd told Derek that I was going to lie low, that I wasn't feeling all that well.

Topher leaned across the passenger seat when I opened the door of his rusting Subaru. He had a green tartan scarf draped over his blue ski jacket, and he pointed at my feet with
black leather gloves. “What do you have on your feet, dude?”

“Boots,” I shrugged. “It's wet.”

“Perfect.”

He sat back up and stared at me, smiling, while I climbed in and fought with the seat belt. When I'd won, I looked at him and nervously folded my hands in my lap.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” There was that cologne again. And that smile. “All buckled up?”

“All buckled up.”

I didn't ask where we were going until we hit the highway, and then Topher pulled a pair of headlamps from his jacket pocket and explained that he knew a good little hike. It wasn't too far, and the trail led to a rocky ledge overlooking the Connecticut River. “It turns out we don't get Great Hockey Television,” he admitted apologetically. “I did suggest to my mom that we should add it, but she looked at me as if I'd asked for the Playboy Channel.”

I laughed. “She'd be surprised, huh?”

“She'd be thrilled. If you and your friends want to come over and watch it at my house, I'm sure she'd consider it a good influence.”

“And yet the hockey channel request didn't move her?”

“I think she was suspicious of my motives.” He sighed. “She's getting better, but she still isn't totally comfortable with the idea that I'm gay. I told my parents when I was in ninth grade, and my mom made me go to a psychiatrist. She
asked him to prescribe me something.”

“No kidding. Did he put you on meds?”

“No, that old guy's my hero. He spoke with me for about an hour, and when my mom came to get me, he said to her, ‘Mrs. Owens, your son is a happy, articulate young man. He also happens to like other boys. He has a bright future ahead of him, and you should decide now whether you want to be part of it.'”

“Wow, I might need that guy's number.”

“For real. I can get it for you. I saw him at Food Safari one time, and we high-fived. He did it reluctantly, but we high-fived.”

We pulled into a little dirt parking area just off the road, and Topher reached behind him for his backpack. “I brought snacks,” he explained. “Don't forget your headlamp.”

The trail was even muddier than I'd expected, and it was tough to avoid stumbling on roots and rocks in our lamps' soft light. Ten minutes in, we had to scramble up a slick, granite face. Topher scurried up first. When he reached the top, he squatted down and stretched out his hand. I didn't need the help, but I put my hand in his anyway, and he pulled me up the rock. Then we walked like that, holding hands—I felt sort of dizzy—until we reached a fallen pine. Again, I let Topher go first, and he ducked under the branches, disappearing for a few seconds beneath a cloak of green needles. “Watch out for sap!” he called, and then started cracking up. “Watch out for sap! The words of a true woodsman.”

I tried climbing over the tree instead, but slipped on the wet bark and nearly ended up straddling the trunk. Luckily, I caught myself just in time. “Holy smokes!” I cried. “This was almost a date to the emergency room.”

“Nice save.” He laughed, and then, “Date, huh? Remember, we're just hiking.”

“And nearly emasculating ourselves,” I muttered, disentangling myself from the tree.

“We were only holding hands,” he joked, reaching out to me as I walked onto the flat, open trail.

“I'll kill you,” I whispered, taking his hand in mine.

“You use big words,” he whispered back.

The overlook wasn't much farther beyond the downed pine. Standing on a little granite lip, we gazed out at mist rising from the Connecticut as it wound between hills. So many stars packed the sky it was a wonder they didn't make any noise. It's one of the things I miss most about Vermont when I visit a city, the unreal quiet.

Topher squeezed my hand after a minute or two and shrugged off his backpack. “The snacks,” he said excitedly. “I almost forgot about the snacks.” He pulled out a carefully folded fleece jacket and produced two bottles.

“No way! You carried up beers?”

“Apple thi-der,” he gushed. “The
sans
alcohol variety. I don't drink all that often. But I thought this might be a good compromise, since, you know, it's brown and fizzy and comes in a bottle.”

“Sure, I didn't really want a beer,” I lied.

“Yup. But wait. There's more.” I heard paper crinkling and tearing, and then Topher handed me a smaller bottle. “Would you please open this?”

“Are these olives?” I asked as I popped the lid.

“Yeah. I dig olives. And I have smoked Gouda cheese here and some kind of artichoke spread.”

“Wow. I was expecting soda and chips.”

“I have stone ground wheat crisps. This is all I could find in the fridge.” He put his hands on his hips. “We could stop at a gas station for doughnuts on the way home if you'd like, James.”

“No, dude,” I protested, hands up. “This is great. It's what Derek and Hawken and I usually snack on when we're watching
Hockey Night in Canada
. I like apple juice. Shall we sit?”

“Apple cider. Yes, we shall sit.”

Our knees touched as we settled in, stared down the valley, and used Topher's pocketknife to cut ourselves hunks of cheese.

“How do we get these olives out of here?”

“Let me see it,” Topher demanded. He emptied the oil onto the ground and handed the bottle back to me. “The thing is, now we have to eat them all.”

“We could have speared them with a stick or something.”

“Nope. It's better to just go for it, go all the way.” He knocked a few olives into his hand, popped them in his mouth, and chewed them thoughtfully. “I'm like that with
most things. If I open a gallon of milk, I finish it on the spot. I never have only a slice of cake.”

“That's sort of terrifying,” I said. “You throw up often?”

“It's how I keep the weight off.”

“Mmm. This artichoke dip must help with that.”

He shook his head and sipped from his apple cider. “And things had been going so well, dude.” He threw a handful of wheat crisps at me. They fluttered in the wind and landed in leaves near our outstretched feet. “Things had been going so well,” he repeated over my laughter. “I bait a cute soccer player, a nice guy, all the way up to my favorite spot, and it turns out he doesn't know the difference between juice and cider, dip and spread.”

“I know a spot kind of like this one that I'll take you to next time.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, it's up behind my house a ways.”

He grinned and popped another olive into his mouth. “I'm glad we've got a second not-date.” He knocked my knee with his fist.

It was his idea to race back to the car. I don't normally run down muddy trails in the dark, but I figured I could beat him. It turned out he's really quick, and he's not afraid to cheat. He checked me into a bush right at the bottom and tagged the Subaru. I went home with filthy jeans and a wicked scratch on my face.

“Your mom's going to hate me,” he said miserably as he
drove up my driveway.

“She thinks I was out with Derek,” I said. “He can do no wrong. You're fine.”

“Well,” he said, sticking out his hand, “I had fun, James.”

We shook hands a few seconds too long.

“I did, too, Topher. Thanks. I'll call you soon.”

“Sounds good,” and he smiled at the dashboard. I got out, leaned into the car before I shut the door, and said, “Good night, dude. Drive safely.”

“Night!” And he threw the car in reverse.

Should I have kissed him? Even just on the cheek? The sound of his car faded down the road. I stood on the driveway for a while longer, hands in my pockets, and stared up at the stars. I'd just gone on a date with another boy. No difference in the heavens.

Kim texted me the next morning to ask if I'd go to lunch with her at the Sleeping Badger Diner. I couldn't avoid her forever, so I agreed to meet up at 1:00 p.m. Just the two of us.

No one knows why the Sleeping Badger is called the Sleeping Badger. I looked up the badger's range one time. It doesn't live in Vermont. Still, the diner's decorated with a few hundred stuffed badgers from the size of mice to bears. None of them are sleeping. We sat in a red pleather booth at the back of the diner, far from any other patrons. Our waitress called me Sugar when she gave us our menus, which made us both crack up.

I didn't open my menu.

“You going to eat?” asked Kim.

“Yeah, I know what I'm getting.”

“Me, too. So, listen, Sugar, I'm guessing you've figured out that I want to talk to you about a couple of things.”

“Right. I figured.” I opened my menu and began reading the breakfast specials.

“James, you have to listen to me.”

“I'm listening.”

“You just said you know what you want to order. Put the menu down.”

I folded it, placed it on the table, grabbed a stack of jelly packets from the condiment rack, and lined them up in front of me. Apricot in the middle of two strawberries. Then strawberry, strawberry, apricot.

“James. For real.” She knocked on the table in front of me. “Look at me.” She pointed at my eyes with two fingers and then pointed at her own. Her earrings had little strings of blue and yellow beads, and the left one dangled a little lower than the right. “Listen, I never do this, right? But for real, I'm in a very weird spot. You're sort of dating, maybe kind of dating, two of my best friends who are not both girls, and I'm not sure what's okay to say to—”

“Right, right,” I interrupted. “Just don't say anything to either of them.”

“You want me to stop talking to them both?”

“Not
forever
. But maybe for a little bit if that makes things easier.”

She looked at me as if she couldn't tell whether I was joking. “James, I'm not going to stop talking to them. I talk to them both every day. I already spoke to them both this morning.”

“What'd they say about me?”

“No, that's not what we're here to discuss. You need to talk to Theresa and tell her what's going on.”

“Did you say anything to her?” I whispered quickly. The waitress arrived with glasses of water, and I guzzled from mine. Kim ordered a Greek salad. I ordered a grilled cheese and a milk shake and fries. I waited until the waitress had moved away before asking again, more slowly, but just as quietly, “Did you say anything to Theresa about me?”

“No, of course not. But even if I wanted to, I wouldn't know
what
to say. I don't know what's going on. That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you.”

I nodded and stacked the jelly packets in a tower. “I'm not sure what's going on either.” I flicked the tower so it tumbled over. “It's sort of confusing.”

“Well, let's start at the beginning. First, you told me that you think Sean Gates the goalie is cute.”

I looked behind me. The booth between us and the wall was empty. No one was at the table on the other side either. I shrugged and nodded and couldn't help grinning a little.

“And you don't want to date Theresa, right?”

I restacked the jellies. “Not really, no,” I admitted. “It's
not that I don't like her. She's nice and funny.”

“But you're not attracted to her. Not that way. And you like Topher.”

I nodded. “He's a good guy.”

“And you're attracted to
him.”

“I like hanging out with him.”

“James, you have to tell Theresa that you like boys.”

“I like Topher.”

“And the goalie of my school's soccer team.”

“No, I don't like Sean Gates. He cheats. All I meant was that I recognize that he's a good-looking kid.”

“You're being ridiculous. You have to tell Theresa that you're gay. Especially if you and Topher are going to start hooking up—”

“Who said anything about us hooking up?”

“No one, but—”

“Did Topher say that? Did he say—” I dropped my voice. “Did he say that we hooked up? We didn't hook up.”

“No! Relax. My God. All I'm saying is that you have to be honest with Theresa so she's not thinking that she could be dating you if she's patient or persistent or whatever. Because at the moment, she thinks that's a possibility. She's always thought you guys would get serious someday as long as she didn't scare you away.”

“I know. But I don't know what I'm supposed to do to make it clear that it's not what I want.” I balanced the salt shaker on top of the pepper.

“James, you shouldn't be worried about what to do. You should be worried about what to
say
. Talk to her.”

“OK. I'll talk to her. I promise. How was the rest of that party last weekend? Did you stay long?”

“
When
are you going to talk to her?”

“Soon. I promise. Don't say anything until then.”

“You have one week, James.”

“Don't give me a deadline. Nobody likes deadlines. I'll talk to her really soon, I swear.”

“Let Topher know what's up, too.”