Cut Both Ways (27 page)

The kitchen has all brand-new appliances, with the stickers from the showroom still on them. And the island is a big rough slab of marble, slate black and rough cut; probably some weird salvage thing my dad got on Craigslist. An orange pendant lamp hangs over it, shaped like a flame or a teardrop.

“Wow,” Brandy says.

“Yeah,” I say. I look up the stairs. The carpet is gone, replaced by wood steps, which are black, with white risers. The handrail is silver. The walls are fresh and white and the whole place smells like Sheetrock. It's amazing. I almost feel like I might cry. And I feel like I should have listened to Brandy, too. I'm ruining this, the surprise, by looking too soon. By not being patient. I don't want to go further. Don't want to get caught.

“We should go,” I say.

Brandy nods and we slip out and to my car, silent. Brandy doesn't say anything for a few more blocks.

“I can't believe it,” she says. “I didn't think he'd do it.”

“Me either,” I say.

I stop at a gas station to fill up and then go in and get us some coffee and a pack of mint gum. I don't like coffee and don't think Brandy does, either, but I figure it'll help with her breath and sobriety, maybe.

When I come out, she's on her phone, texting.

“Shania,” she says, explaining. “Back with DeKalb.”

“Yeah, what's that about?”

“I don't know,” she says. “Who am I to judge, really.”

I don't care about Shania and DeKalb. Because my dad really did it. It's almost like there was a reason for throwing me out. I just didn't believe in him, not in the way I should have. I feel like a terrible son. Roy has been more faithful than me.

We drink our coffee for a minute. No talking. I just want her to feel better. Or really, just feel good enough so I can get her home. She just needs to sleep. This will be okay. It can't be that. It can't be what she thinks. And if it is, well. We'll handle it. We'll . . .

No. It's not going to happen. My dad finished the house. He did it. It's a sign. It's a sign of something changing.

But not changing that way. Not in a-baby's-coming way. Brandy's mom had her when she was a teenager. Brandy's mom is knocked up right now. It's so fucking perfectly obvious that
this would be what happens to her, that she wouldn't escape this. That I went along with it makes me feel even more guilty. Because I can fucking walk away. Even if I don't want to, I can.

“It's going to be all right,” I say, driving toward her house.

“How do you even know?”

“I just do,” I say.

“Well, I don't,” she says. “And it's my body. I don't see how you can see that.”

I don't point out how she told me before that it was her body, how she said she would've known then.

“Just don't worry about it,” I say. “It'll be okay. Both of us; we'll be okay.”

She puts down her coffee in the cup holder. I've barely touched mine. First off, it's hot. Second, it tastes horrible.

“No, we're not. We're not okay. You're almost done with school. We're exactly like DeKalb and Shania. Exactly. And look at them! DeKalb's leaving the day after graduation. Shania's just like me. Another two years.”

“DeKalb's just doing Habitat for Humanity in Georgia,” I say. “He'll be back to start at the U in August.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really,” I say.

“It's just, we can't last forever,” she says. “You've got a totally different thing going in your life. You're on a different schedule.”

“I haven't even applied to college,” I say. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She doesn't say anything. My words hanging there sound
awful. Because I'm filling them in:
I'm going to be the father of her baby. I'm not going anywhere.

I pull up to her house. I don't shut the car off.

“Sometimes I wish we'd never done this,” she says. “But then, I don't know. God. I don't fucking know.”

“Brandy, don't say stuff like that.”

She's crying again, but it's quiet. Just big huge drippy tears. I know what I could say right now to make her stop crying. I can feel the words sticking in my throat. But they don't want to roll out. I want her to stop crying, I want her to stop worrying, I want her to stop feeling so shitty about me and her—us—but not enough to say the words.

“Come on, Brandy,” I say. “Please?”

I don't know what I'm asking, exactly. And neither does she. Her lips get real tight, then, and she wrenches open the door, slamming it, and stomping up the path to her house. And then I feel nothing but hate. And relief. And like I've done nothing but made everything worse.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

IT'S EARLY WHEN
I get back to Oak Prairie but everyone's in bed at my mom's, so I walk to Angus's house. His car is out front, but he's not in the garage when I head back there. I go into the side door and the kitchen is dark, the dishwasher humming, the light above the stove on.

The house feels empty and I wonder if that bothers him. Being the only one around. Maybe that's why we get along so well? We're both always the only one.

“Angus?” I call down the stairs.

Nothing.

I go down and he's there, in the dark, the only light from the television. He's got his headphones on and he's playing a game. I stand in front of the screen and wave.

He pulls them off right away when he sees me, and I can hear the sound gushing through them. He pauses the game. Smiles.

“Hey,” we both say at once.

Then I laugh, ask where his family is.

“Some party,” he says.

“No gig tonight?”

“Not until next week.”

I nod. Then I reach over to where he's holding the game controller. Chuck it away from him until it yanks out of the game box. Then I grab him and we just hold each other for a minute.

I want to say lots of things.

Like,
I'm so fucked
.

Like,
how do I fix this?

Like,
I'm not going to college but I cannot have a baby with Brandy.

Like,
how much can an abortion cost? And can a sixteen-year-old girl get one without an adult knowing?

Instead, I kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Say, “I fucking need this so bad.” Undo his belt, his shorts. Pull them down.

He laughs. I slide between his knees.

He laughs a little more.

I put him in my mouth. He sucks in a breath and I feel his stomach tense up under my hands.

A few hours later, we're watching a movie. We've both seen it before. I have my head in his lap; his forearm is around my neck. It's comfortable, but I'm glad no one can see us. There's no way we don't look like two gay guys like this.

When the movie ends, he gets up to hit the bathroom and I
call my mom, tell her I'm at Angus's, and she yawns and she's like,
Will, I'm asleep
,
but just come home in the morning so you can help me move some furniture
—she's bought new dressers for the twins and Jay needs help carrying them upstairs. I say all right and stretch on the sofa. I'm still worried about things with Brandy, but I feel better. Safe, somehow.

I hear movement upstairs. Angus's parents have come home. His mother hollers down the stairs.

“He's in the bathroom,” I holler up.

“Is that Will?” Angus's mom hollers back.

“Yeah.”

“Tell him we're home,” she says.

“And we're going to bed,” his dad yells. “
Now
, Gina.” I hear her giggle. I wonder if they're kind of drunk or something; they make a lot of noise, knocking around upstairs.

Angus comes back, and I tell him they're home. He nods, runs upstairs, and is gone for a while. I get up and go into his room. Take my shirt off. We never bother with one of us sleeping on the sofa anymore. His parents never come down here, anyway.

I turn on the nightstand lamp. Angus's room is a mess, clothes everywhere, bed unmade. It always seems sort of alarming, seeing his room a mess. My mom never allows that—she always makes me make my bed, clean off the floor. And my dad, well. I just felt like I had to keep my stuff together, packed properly. Every week, I was somewhere new. I couldn't just toss my shit everywhere like I was staying on permanently.

My phone's almost dead; I plug it into Angus's charger—we
have the same kind of phone. I think about how weird that is. I think about how if we lived together, that'd be easy, our phones. And our clothes. There's nothing Angus wears that I wouldn't wear. It's not that I mind, really. I like all of it, just like I like the girl things about Brandy. Her candles, the way she smells, the jewelry she wears, the stickers she puts on her cell-phone case. I take off my glasses. I can't think about her while I'm here. I just can't. Or I'll never be able to stand it, the guilt. I'll have to tell him everything.

I'm sitting on the bed, undoing my boots, when Angus comes in.

“My mom's tipsy,” he says. Laughs. “Can't unbuckle her sandals. My dad and I were making fun of her.”

“Jesus,” I say. I've never seen my mom drunk.

“Yeah, she's nuts,” he says. “I think she can't wait for me to move out. I wonder if they'll just walk around naked when I'm gone.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Probably,” he says. Then he takes off his shirt and his shorts. Dumps his phone and wallet on the nightstand next to mine.

“I went to my dad's house,” I say. “He fucking did it, Angus. It's all finished. Just like Roy said.”

“I got the invitation to the party,” he says, coming close to me. Sitting beside me. I see our big knobby boy knees next to each other, and I unlace my other boot. Brandy's knees are tiny, in comparison. Just one round bump, then her thigh. While Angus and me seem to have big old lump knee knuckles practically. And way more hair, for sure, than Brandy's smooth legs. One thing
I've always liked is that feeling. Her smooth legs on mine. Soft and slippery. Like a bar of soap.

I take off my socks, chuck them next to my boots. Angus starts touching me. I can tell he's already hard. I'm already hard, too. But I want to tell him about my dad and the house. I explain how I wasn't sure. How I had been spying, checking in. What Roy had said. And now, it's done. The kitchen, the floors, the walls. A new sofa, a new TV. Cabinets, counters, a sink, all new appliances. A beautiful open room, kitchen and living room on the main floor. The bathroom now a bathroom again, closed up with fresh painted walls, a new pocket door. Just like he's planned.

“It's great timing,” he says, kissing around my neck.

“It's a fucking miracle is what it is,” I say. Then I kiss him on the mouth. I love kissing Angus. His mouth is so soft but I don't give him stubble-burn like I give Brandy. And he's smooth, for a guy. He doesn't have chest hair like me. He's a good mix of both things.

His hands skim around my belt.

“What the hell's this?” he asks.

I look up. He's holding the tampon that was in my pocket.

I want to laugh. I want to tell him. But there's no way I can tell him.

“Brandy made me hold it,” I say. “She . . . it's a long story.”

He chucks it on the floor. “God, I'm glad I'm gay,” he says, pushing me on my back, onto the bed. This time it'll be my turn, because Angus understands what this is, what sex is for.

He sucks me off and I swear, he means it to last forever. Like, he stops and goes and stops and goes and I want to kill him.
I can't stand it. And just when I think, I'll never come, my balls are about blue from waiting, then he just sucks harder and I swear, when I come, it's so good, I don't know how I'll live when he goes to Chicago.

“I wish you were, too,” he says, while we're falling asleep a little bit later. His hands are on my back, running up my shoulder blades.

“What?”

“I wish you were glad you were gay, too,” he says. “Or just would admit it.”

There's nowhere to go now, otherwise I might leave. He wraps an arm around me, his wrist hanging around my hip. Presses himself up to me. I'm exhausted. I just want to sleep. Just want to stop thinking.

At five a.m., a phone rings. Angus is closer to the nightstand so he reaches for his phone first—we have the same ringtone, the boring one the factory gives you—but he says, “It's yours.”

“What?”

He sits up. “Oh,” I hear him say. “It's . . . her.”

I open my eyes. He hands me my phone. The room's half light, because the sun's just starting to come up through the window well.

He can't say her name. Which is probably for the best. The way he says
her
is bad enough.

I sit up.

“Brandy?” I say, as low as I can.

“It's okay, Will,” she says. “Just like you said it would be.”

“What?”

“I got it,” she says. She's almost yelling; it's like she's in Angus's room with us. “Started bleeding just now. My period. I pretty much woke up in a puddle. It's so gross. But I'm so happy. You just don't even know!” She laughs. I look up. Angus is across from me. Blurry.

“So, we're not pregnant,” she says. “No baby! It's okay. We can just . . . I don't know. We can just be together. Normal. And you're right: I'll never let you do that again. We can't go through this again. I've been totally messed up. Not sleeping. Looking at how much diapers cost in Target. And cribs? And car seats? Everything's so expensive! And you need so much shit, Will. And an abortion is like four hundred bucks, too. None of it's cheap. God. I was going insane. But now?” She breathes out. Laughs. “Now I don't have to. Oh man.”

“That's great, Brandy,” I say. I look up again. Feel across the nightstand for my glasses. Put them on. Angus is staring at me. The expression on his face is clear; I know he can hear everything. Has heard everything.

“I want to celebrate or something! Don't you?”

“Well, yeah, but Brandy, it's like five in the morning,” I say. “I'm not even awake.”

“Sorry!” she says. “I know! I couldn't help it! I figured you'd want to know the second I did, though.”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “Thanks for calling. I'm glad you did. Thanks.”

I hang up. Angus leaves the room. I hear the bathroom door
close. And then I sit there for so long, waiting for him to come back, to explain, that I realize he's the one waiting, not me. He's waiting for me to fucking leave his bed and his house.

That when he said he wished I was glad I was gay, or that I'd just admit I was, that was a test. I failed. And now I've failed again.

I get dressed, put my feet into my boots without lacing them up, and head out into the weak sunlight, where the heat already feels vicious and hot. Today is my commencement. I have to be there at noon, so they can line us all up and congratulate us for what we've done.

Commencement's outside on the football field, and the day is perfect and sunny. Not a cloud in the sky.

Everyone is here, too. My mom, Jay, my aunt and uncle from Duluth, Kinney and Taylor. Brandy and her aunt Megan. Garrett and Kristin. Even Roy's here. All of them in the same section of the bleachers.

Everyone, including my dad. I see him coming in just after we're seated for the official ceremony. I have a perfect view of him, because he's not in the bleachers, but standing off to the side.

He's even wearing a nice shirt, a plaid button-down with a collar. Same shitty Carhartts, but still. He looks clean. He's wearing sunglasses and fanning himself with his program.

I don't know what to do with myself, I'm thinking so many things. I'm nervous about seeing him; I don't want him to know that I've seen the house, don't want to ruin the surprise. And I'm worried he'll still be mad at me. Or some other thing could go wrong. He
and my mom could fight in front of everyone. They never have done that before, but that doesn't mean it couldn't happen.

I try not to look at him for the whole ceremony but it's hard. I guess I can't quite believe it. It doesn't seem right that I'm here, that I'm getting this. My entire family is here, the house is done and it's beautiful, and there's going to be a party for it next weekend. Everything's ordered, and organized. My mom and dad have worked together, talking on the phone, figuring things out. Roy and I will help set things up; my mom's put together all sorts of old photos of me.

It's so cheesy of me, but I'm sitting at my graduation, trying not to look at my dad and listening to the speeches and I'm feeling, like, a sense of accomplishment. Just like the speeches say: the girl talking about going after our dreams, the teacher telling us how hard we've all worked to get here, how proud we should be.

I haven't worked hard at school; a lot of people have worked harder. And I'm not proud of my grades. I mean, they're not horrible, but even if they were, I wouldn't feel too bad about it. Getting good grades has never been something that I really cared about. I mainly did my school work so I could avoid the hassle that not doing it would bring.

But I feel like something did happen, something got done, and after all these years of bullshit, back and forth, and not saying what everyone could feel, that now we're all here and it's turned out fine. It's a strange feeling. Seeing my dad off to the side. Knowing my mom and everyone's behind me. It's a good feeling, a flash of happy that lasts all through the ceremony, through the speeches,
through the walk up to get the diploma, through the photographs and hugging and handshakes afterward, the shouts of congratulations as we all turn in our caps and gowns and board the bus to the senior party at the bowling-alley place where we're to celebrate all night without alcohol or drugs. I don't even care about that; about not being wasted to celebrate. I feel high as it is, just from that two hours on the football field, me sitting in a chair, waiting my turn. My mom and my dad and my family, and Brandy, everyone there for me. We've all made it. And it's not just about me, it's not just my graduation. It's unbelievable, how good it feels.

And I'm not waiting for my diploma, or for the principal to say my name. I'm waiting for my dad to see me on the field. To see me and hug me and say, “You did it, Will. I'm so proud of you. You did it.” I want it to happen so bad that I can barely let him go when it does. I can barely look at his face when it does, because his smile is so big and proud. I stand beside him and people take pictures of us and I like that position better, next to him, his hand strong on my shoulder. Looking at him is so unbelievable and good that it's like looking into the sun. I tell him thanks, and he tells me he knew I could do it and I know no one has to say they're sorry or explain. It's all okay. It's a fucking miracle.