More Happy Than Not (16 page)

3

SIDE A

I
f I could afford a Leteo procedure, I'd give Genevieve the money so she could forget me, but since that's never going to happen, I'm outside trying to sketch what our future will look like if we stick together. The page is still blank. It's been a week since Thomas's birthday, and despite another awkward phone call last night, I'm still pretty sure Genevieve doesn't believe I love her anymore.

I put down my notebook when I see Me-Crazy coming through the gates, his head craned back and fingers pinching his bloody nose. Brendan, Skinny-Dave, and Baby Freddy are all behind him. I rush over. “What happened?”

“Nosebleed,” Me-Crazy says, laughing.

“Nosebleed after beating down some Joey Rosa dick suckers,” Skinny-Dave says, hopping up and down and smacking his fists like he was a part of the fight. Whenever we brawled with kids from the Joey Rosa Projects, he always bitched out and hid in bodegas or behind trash cans.

“What the fuck did they do to you?”

Brendan sits Me-Crazy down on the bench. “We were walking by when the usual suspects ran their mouths because we partied on your boy's roof. Danny blew a kiss at Me-Crazy and got his shit rocked.”

“Me-Crazy wrecked them all!” Skinny-Dave shouts.

Baby Freddy and Skinny-Dave are walking to Good Food's to grab some tissues, and I hear them recapping their favorite part of the fight—when Me-Crazy made Danny kiss the bottom of his boot—seven times. I don't even think Danny is gay, but that kind of stuff just sets Me-Crazy off like little white party poppers. He's fucking insane, but at least he's on our side.

And here's one of my problems: if I don't choose Genevieve, I'll find myself on the receiving end of a boot to the face.

Before I head out
to meet Genevieve, I suddenly have a big to-do list. It ranges from balling up socks to color-coding my comics to add some life to my corner of the living room. But I snap out of it because I'm excited to see her, or at least I'm telling myself I am, because it's how I would've behaved if I were going to see Thomas.

On the phone last night, Genevieve mentioned there's a flea market opening up today, and I invited myself along because that's what a good boyfriend does.

When I see her, I make it a point to tell her something really nice about herself, like how much I love the constellation of freckles running down from her neck to her shoulder blade. I'm trying to prove to her that she's my universe and I orbit within her, simple as that. I learned how to be this way because of my friends. Not directly, of course, since Brendan blasts his way through girls, and Skinny-Dave is always texting multiple prospects simultaneously, but anti–role models are just as enlightening. And at the very least she seems to appreciate the effort. Or she pretends she does.

The flea market is packed. We pass by boring vendors selling buttons, shoelaces, tube socks, and underwear. She tries on some emerald earrings by one table and I walk off a little bit to find a comic worth buying. I check out the next table and there's a sign that reads
vintage video games
. They have the old Nintendo cartridges for Pac-Man and
Super Mario Bros. 3 and Castlevania, all priced for twenty dollars or more with a marker. I nod at the guy in the Zelda shirt and move on to the next table with all these fridge magnets. I consider buying one for Thomas. But that would just be an excuse to go see him, so I don't, even though there are words crawling around my brain that I want to come out and say.

I turn and Genevieve isn't at the jewelry table anymore. I tiptoe and find her waving me down. I make my way to her and she's holding a blue moleskin sketchbook. “What do you think? I want to make sure you actually like it before I surprise you with it.”

“I don't need a new notebook,” I say. I still have enough spiral notebooks with loose leaf I haven't used up yet.

“But do you want a new one?”

“No thanks.” I know she's not some rich girl, but she's definitely much better off than I am with her own bedroom and weekly allowances. She doesn't really understand Want versus Need like we do at home; just because you can afford something doesn't mean you have to have it.

Things I Want: new video games; trendier sneakers; a laptop with Photoshop; a home with enough bedrooms so friends can stay over.

Things I Need: food and water; coats and boots during the winter; a home to come home to, no matter how small; a girlfriend like Genevieve; and a best friend like Thomas instead of a sort of best friend like Brendan.

Genevieve grabs my hand and I fake a smile. I notice she's still a little unhappy herself.

Later that night, there's
a knock on the door. Eric's about to leave for his overnight inventory shift and Mom is laid out from her double. I sometimes catch myself mistaking a knock on the door for Dad without his keys. It'll be a while until I shake that off, I think. Normally my friends call for me outside the window. I pause my game and pray it's not someone ding-dong-ditching me because so help me God
. . .

I open the door and it's Thomas. “Hey,” he says with a smile.

I smile back.

“You game to come over tonight?” he asks after I say nothing. “I've made progress on my life chart and thought we could catch up. Been a while.”

Yeah, eight days since I last saw him and ten hours since we last texted. I should really stay home and rest because I'm spending the day with Genevieve again tomorrow. But if I stay, I'll be up all night anxious over how I could've been helping him figure out who he is so he isn't walking around blind and lost. “Yeah, I'm down. Give me a sec.”

I go back inside to turn off the Xbox, and Eric is eyeing me like he knows all my secrets and lies; it's the same look he had the day I left home to go have sex for the first time. I let Mom sleep since I'll be home before she even wakes up during the middle of the night to pee. To avoid all our friends in the court, I lead Thomas out of the back staircase. It smells like recently lit weed. I put a hand on Thomas's chest to stop him so we can listen out for anyone down there.

When I don't hear anything, we go down and bump into Brendan and this girl Nate. Nate's real name is Natalie but she's been reinventing herself as a dude for the past four years with thick braids, fake gold medallions, fitted hats, and basketball jerseys. Brendan looks at Thomas but asks me, “What you doing here, A?”

“Heading out.” I see the packet of weed in his hand. “You?”

“Business,” Brendan says.

“You would've been busted if I was a security guard,” I say.

“Nah. Their loud-ass keys always give them up.”

“I could've been someone who would've snitched.”

“My grandfather doesn't care what I do to bring home paper,” Brendan says, rubbing his fingers together. “I should finish up here.”

“Yeah,” I say.

When we leave, I hear Brendan ask Nate something: “You sure you don't like guys?”

We stop into Good Food's and Thomas buys Pop-Tarts, sour candy, and enough bags of potato chips for a party of six. It's nice out, so we go up to his roof and play cards. It's a little dark, but Thomas saved a green paper lantern from his birthday that miraculously still works. I tear into the sour candy and ask him, “So what's new with your future?”

“I figured out something big. About who I want to be.” Thomas downs his Top Pop and burps. “Or more like who I don't want to be.”

I don't know if it's the sugar, or where he could be going with this, but I'm a little shaky. “And who's that?”

“I don't want to be a director,” Thomas says—exactly the kind of thing you expect to hear from someone who is so young and lost. “I just don't think I'm as passionate about it as I thought I was. Think about it, I haven't ever filmed anything or even put up a video on YouTube. All I do is look up directors and watch movies as if that's all it takes.”

“But you've been writing scripts,” I say.

He shrugs. “I don't have any real stories to tell. I can write all the scripts I want, but I'm only seventeen and haven't lived anything interesting enough to write about. When your life sucks, your story sucks.”

“Sometimes your story is worth reading about because your life sucks,” I say. “And I don't think your life sucks.”

“Sure it does. I don't know what I want to do when I'm older. You're my only real friend. My mother is always working and never has time for me, and my father might be dead for all I know.” Thomas immediately looks up at me, horrified. “I'm sorry. That was such a dickhead thing to say.”

I want to tell him that it's okay, that it's not like my father killed himself because of me, but that will only sound like his father left because of him. So I say nothing. It's quiet except for the wind. I throw a rock back onto the ground. “I think it's okay for you to be confused by things right now, Thomas. We're young and figuring shit out, but our lives don't completely suck. Take it from the kid whose bedroom is the living room.”

“I just want the future figured out, you know?” He grins. “Maybe we should invite your girlfriend up here with her tarot cards to lay it all out for us.”

“I'm not sure how much longer we'll be dating,” I say, looking down.

“Why's that?” Thomas asks, and I can see from the corner of my eyes that he's lowered his head too.

“Things aren't what they once were. And I think I'm going to take a page out of your book and put some distance between me and her.” I'm tugging at my sleeve now, something I used to do as a kid whenever I got really nervous. “I love her, and I want to know her forever, but we don't fit.”

“I get that.”

I'm staring very hard at my hands now. “I feel weird talking like this. Do guys do this kind of thing? Hang out and talk about love?”

“You ask that like you haven't been a guy your entire life. Some dudes make their mind a prison. I like living outside of bars. If we're different, that's fine with me.”

He's right. I will dare to be different. I will prove to everyone that the world won't turn to ash or spin out of control or be swallowed alive by a black hole. But someone has to man up first to get this ball rolling.

“There's something I want to tell you but it has to stay between us,” I say. The words almost sound like they're being spoken by someone else. “And you can't go running away.”

“Please tell me you have a superpower, like you're actually a descendant from aliens or something. I've always wanted to be the best friend in a superhero movie who keeps the superhero's secret,” Thomas says. “Sorry, too many movies. Of course you can trust me, Stretch.”

“There's two sides to this and I'm not sure I'm ready to tell you both yet. But I want to soon.”

“Okay. So tell me Side A now. Or whenever you're ready.”

I look down again and massage my temples, my head ready to explode from what I'm about to admit. “Look, you're my best friend and everything, but if what I'm about to tell you is too much for you, it's fine and—”

“Shut up and talk to me,” Thomas interrupts.

“That's kind of a mixed signal.” He stares at me with shut-up-and-talk eyes. “Okay. No wasting time. I'm going to come out and say it. I think I might
. . .
maybe
. . .
kind of
. . .
sort of
. . .
possibly
. . .
be
. . .
”

“
. . .
Is this fill-in-the-blank?”

“No, no. I can say it. Let me say it. I'm going to say it. I think I might
. . .
kind of
. . .
sort of
. . .
possibly, no, definitely
. . .
” I can't spit the last word out, the unknown of everything that will come after choking me.

“Maybe it would actually help you if I guessed. Should we try that?”

“Okay.”

“You're a virgin.”

“Nope.”

“You're a descendant of aliens.”

“Still no.”

“I'm out of guesses. Let me tell you something about me: I don't care if you're a gigantic virgin who's part alien. You're Stretch and nothing you say is going to change that.”

I hide in my hands, and then dig my nails into my head as if I can tear off my face and unmask the person I'm trying to reveal. “Okay, yeah, I kind of, maybe, sort of, might
. . .
I think I might
. . .
I like guys, okay?” And then I sit here, unable to take the words back. I wait for the world to spin out of control, or worse, for Thomas to get up and walk away.

“That's it?”

“Kind of maybe sort of.”

“Okay. So what?”