Jumbo (6 page)

Mitchell jumped up and the shoe swung wildly.

“What the
fuck?
” Pete’s eyes were wide.

Mitchell gripped the finger puzzle and jerked at it. It bit into his cock and he yelped. Pulling it (as he later told himself) was the stupidest thing he could have done, but he kept at it, staring at Pete anxiously as Pete stared back at him.

He tugged again and his groin collapsed inwards. He winced, and bit his lips, and then remembered to work the puzzle the other way. The shoe fell onto his foot, and he hopped backwards, coming up hard against his desk.

“What have you
done
to yourself?” Pete was staring at his groin, where his cock had quickly retreated. Mitchell glanced at it and pushed himself away from the desk. “Have you cut your cock
off?
”

Mitchell shook his head, dumb. He clapped his hands over his groin. He knew what it looked like when his cock was soft, like there was nothing there, nothing but a foreskin.

They stood facing each other for a moment, Pete looking angry, and then he slapped Mitchell’s elbow, making him take his hands away.

Mitchell lifted his hands to his face and watched Pete, whose face was working through a whole series of confusions. And then suddenly, inexplicably, Mitchell’s cock jerked forward into a hard little nugget, his erection.

Pete’s eyes flipped from Mitchell’s cock to his face and to his cock again.

“What have you
done?
” Pete said.

“I haven’t done anything.”

Mitchell stumbled across the room and found his underwear. He stepped into it and pulled it up, pulling the waistband a little high, before he looked down at his groin and saw how hopeless it looked in a pair of tighty-whities, the pouch empty and crumpled. Pete was staring at it. Mitchell’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“That’s my cock,” he said, though he knew as soon as he said it that it was a stupid thing to say. “I was trying to make it — I’m trying to do something about
it
.” On the last word he crumpled and sat down on his bed, putting his head in his hands and beginning to cry hopelessly.

Pete stood over him, not saying anything, not moving.

“Don’t you have a problem?” Mitchell said, after moments had passed. He stole a glance at Pete. Pete shook his head. Mitchell turned his head down and stared at Pete’s runners. Silence for what seemed like minutes. Time seemed to stretch on interminably.

“So you’re not so perfect then?” Pete suddenly said.

Mitchell lifted his head. “
What?
”

“You’re not the perfect boy.”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“Little Angel Face is missing something in the downstairs department.”

Mitchell felt his bottom lip fold into his mouth.

“Little mommy’s favorite is a freak.”

“Favorite?”

“And Dad’s.” Pete laughed. “That’s funny,” he said. He had his hands on his hips now. “I thought you had it made.”

Mitchell wiped his tears away and stood up. “I’m not anybody’s favorite.”

“Oh, no,” Pete said sarcastically. “Not on the swim team. Not the one with the grades. Not the one with the face. Not the one with the body. You’re nothing, are you Mitchell?”

13

The following day at school, Mitchell sat next to Sarah in physics. He had been aiming to get a seat next to Tadd, though as he walked toward Tadd, Tadd had looked at him with a sort of funny look, as though he was saying, “Don’t come sit next to me, Little Dick.” Tadd could be so weird sometimes, though after Mitchell had passed him, he had seen Tadd raise his hand, and had heard Robby Michaels say, “Taddster!”

Mitchell sat at the next bench, though he only realized as he sat down that Sarah was already sitting there, and that he was sitting down beside her.

“Hi,” he said.

Sarah said hi and mentioned how she had seen him at swim training yesterday. “That’s pretty impressive, the way you can backstroke. My head goes under.”

“It’s not that hard.”

They stared at each other for a moment or so, Sarah’s eyes flitting all over his face, though she then turned away. They didn’t talk again until the end of the class, and that was only to say, “See you.”

Mitchell toyed with the idea of asking her out. He supposed he could do it, though he didn’t know where it would lead. He certainly didn’t want a girlfriend. Some of the guys, occasionally — not just guys on the team — had ribbed him about never having a girlfriend. He had never had one, not since the seventh grade, a girl called Amanda who had left West River High and gone to live in Rittersville. If Mitchell asked Sarah then he supposed it would be like that — stupid — because it had been stupid, though Sarah and he would be expected to do something more than simply hold hands — kiss, and, well .... Mitchell shook his head. He simply couldn’t do it. He put the thought out of his mind.

That afternoon, Sarah was at training again. He waved to her and she waved back, and he supposed he would have to go over and speak to her once training was over, but as he picked up his gear he saw Luke walking towards her and he supposed he could get out of it. He could tell her he had been in a hurry. He turned and began to walk toward the showers, only realizing, as he did so, that he wanted to slow down. He didn’t want to get there before Luke, though he didn’t see how he could really avoid it.

He had got used to the idea of the corner showers now, used to the idea of sharing the corner showers with Tyler and Tadd. If he got there before Luke, then he might end up sharing Luke’s shower with Jack. He hesitated as he stepped into the locker room and spent a little time drying himself, which was pointless. He fiddled with his locker as though it was hard to open. It wasn’t, and as he pulled the door back he was surprised to see a piece of paper sitting on top of his pack, fluttering in the breeze. It was folded, but half open. He frowned, wiped his hands on his towel, and picked it up.

Can’t stop thinking about your ass
, it said.

Mitchell swallowed.

It was written in a red felt marker, and his first thought was that it was from Sarah, though it didn’t look like a girl’s writing. A girl would make it pretty, with kisses and smiley faces, and she would do it in colored pens and make an envelope as well. Mitchell frowned. Someone must have pushed it through the vents in the top of his locker, and he supposed that Sarah must have done it, must have come in here while they were training or got one of the guys to do it for her.

He turned the note over and read it again, and then he stood for a moment, staring at it, unable to think of anything.

Someone came through the door, and Mitchell turned to see Luke, who smiled at him a little half-heartedly. Was he nervous about something? He glanced at the note in Mitchell’s hand and hesitated, as though he was going to say something. He moved his hands indecisively, but turned his head down and walked past Mitchell, heading for the showers.

Mitchell felt a flood of emotion wash through his body from his head to his feet. He suddenly understood. The note was from Luke. It had to be.

Can’t stop thinking about your ass
.

Luke wanted to fuck him. What other explanation could there be?

Mitchell zipped the note into his pack and pulled his speedos down, aware, suddenly, of his naked ass.
Can’t stop thinking about your ass
. Did his ass look good? He walked toward the showers in something of a daze, and without asking or waiting to see if it was okay, he walked into the corner, where Tyler and Tadd were showering.

That afternoon, when he got home, he went upstairs and stood in front of his mirror. He pulled his jeans and underwear down to his knees, lifted his T-shirt and sweater and stood, looking over his shoulder at his naked ass. He supposed it did look pretty good. It was creamy and smooth and rounded, maybe a little too firm and round, and a little too high. And it was small. Compact, he supposed. He hadn’t ever really thought of it before. He liked the sensation of sticking things up it, but he hadn’t ever really thought about his ass. Would someone who wanted to fuck him be turned on by his ass?

At that moment, the door from the bathroom opened — Pete walking through from his room. Pete stopped with the door half-open and stared at Mitchell. Mitchell gripped his jeans and underwear and sank backwards, trying to cover himself.

“Naked again?”

Mitchell turned away, his ass naked as he pulled up his jeans. He turned back to Pete, zipping himself up.

“Admiring yourself?”

Mitchell shook his head, but knew he was blushing.

Pete hesitated for a moment and closed the door behind him. “I heard the guys at school are calling you Jumbo,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Is that because ...?”

Mitchell nodded.

Pete sat down on the bed. “Sorry if I was a bit of a prick yesterday. It’s just — I thought you were so ... perfect.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea.”

“Oh, come on, Mitch,” Pete said. “You know you’re Mom and Dad’s favorite — the golden boy.”

“I don’t think so.”

Mitchell straddled his chair and Pete stretched out on the bed. It was just like it had used to be — Pete coming into Mitchell’s room to talk to him. They stared at each other for a moment, and there was the ghost of a smile, a silent recognition between them that it had been some time since they had talked.

“You know,” Pete said, “if it was me, I wouldn’t be so worried about it. It’s not the end of the world.”

“There’s an operation I could get. A couple of operations.”

“Yeah?”

Mitchell nodded.

“There you go then.”

“I don’t think I will, though — get the operations. They don’t sound that great, once you look into it.”

“Well it’s up to you,” Pete said, and then there was silence. Pete put his hands behind his head and shifted his weight on the bed. “Have Mom and Dad spoken to you?” he said.

“About the divorce?”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything. It’s just ... that’s what I came in here for.”

At that moment there was a knock on the door — Mitchell’s father. Mitchell said, “Come in,” and his father opened the door.

“Have you spoken to him?” Mr Cunningham said to Pete, and Pete said no, that he hadn’t. He got off the bed and walked out of the room, walking through the bathroom door again and closing it behind him.

14

Mitchell’s dad asked him to come downstairs and Mitchell followed him, wondering what the hell was going on. In the living room, his mother was sitting on the couch, staring blankly into space. Mitchell sat next to her, and his father started to pace, walking up and down the room.

Mitchell wondered what the hell was going on. He glanced sideways at his mother, who seemed lost in thought, apparently unaware of him or of his father.

There were moments of uncomfortable silence before Mitchell’s mother suddenly startled and said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mike. Sit down.”

Mr Cunningham took a seat and glanced at Mitchell before glancing away again.

Silence.

Mitchell’s father was staring at the cabinet now, where a collection of porcelain figurines were trapped behind glass, frozen in a variety of postures, just as they had been for as long as Mitchell could remember.

Mitchell glanced at them, and then at his father, who seemed mesmerized.

It was a little after six o’clock.

Mitchell shuffled his feet, and frowned at the sight of Jimmy Hansen, visible through the front window, cycling a bike out on the street and dressed as Superman, in a costume that had to belong to his little brother. Jimmy was around Mitchell’s age, but had always been a little odd.

“We don’t want to upset you,” Mitchell’s father suddenly said, and he was staring at Mitchell now.

Mitchell glanced away from Jimmy Hansen, who had crashed into the gutter, apparently deliberately, his groin collapsing onto the crossbar of the bike.

 “We realize you’re still at school, and that this might ....”

“Just say it,” his mother said. She was stony-faced, and had apparently been crying. Normally, at this time, she would be in the kitchen, preparing dinner, but nothing seemed to be happening this evening.

“As I told you, your mother and I are getting a divorce.”

“Your father is divorcing me,” his mother said. She sat up a little straighter and touched her forehead. “He’s found someone else, apparently.”

Mitchell turned to his father with his mouth open. The way his father had told him in the car yesterday, he had made out that it was a mutual thing. Now his mother was saying that it was his father who wanted the divorce. Mitchell frowned. It seemed impossible to believe. His father had always been so strong, so dependable, and now he had found someone else?

“It’s a man,” his mother said, almost spitting the words, “a young man, not much older than yourself.”

Mitchell felt his body flood with cold.

“He’s twenty-seven, Helen.”

Mitchell nodded dumbly, trying to take this in. Jimmy Hansen was staggering away from the bike, his hands cupped over his groin.

“You might remember him,” his mother said, turning to him suddenly, “Jake Walker — that
friend
of Alan’s.”

Alan Williamson was the only gay person Mitchell knew. He was a friend of Mitchell’s mom and dad, someone who came to parties at their house, and Mitchell did remember Jake Walker, a dark-haired young man who Alan Williamson had brought to the house a couple of times, at Christmas and at New Year.

Mitchell remembered Alan Williamson arriving with Jake Walker on Christmas Eve last year, though he could only remember the man vaguely, as someone rather tall and effeminate.

Mitchell didn’t know what to say. His father was with that guy now? How did that make sense?

Now his father was staring at his fingers, his hands clasped in his lap.

“Your father’s gay, apparently. Why don’t you tell him, Mike?”

“Well, Mitchell,” his father began, not looking at him.

Mitchell got up. Slowly, without even knowing what he was doing, he walked out of the room and upstairs, where from his bedroom window he watched Jimmy Hansen wheeling his bike into his garage, still dressed as Superman, the tights of the costume drawn tightly into the crack of his ass.