Stand-Off (19 page)

I figured we were going to make small talk before Spotted John broke down and did what he agreed to do. Maybe he was lonely without Cotton Balls around on the weekend. I got that. Being alone at Pine Mountain was rough sometimes. Weekends could be insufferably long.

“Since you're a ninja and all, I was wondering, have you ever killed anyone?”

“Not in this country,” Spotted John answered. He bit the edge of his lip and flipped buttons on his game controller. “Do you ever smoke weed?”

I shook my head. “Nah. Not in Oregon.”

He said, “How are your ribs?”

I shrugged. “I think you were right. Just bruised. They're a lot better now. Thanks for the pain pills, though.”

“Anytime, dude.”

Spotted John touched my side where JP Tureau had splattered my ribs. I kind of did what any guy would do and leaned away from him. Then he let his hand rest on my thigh.

What?

No no no no no.

I tried to make a joke of it. “Um, Spotted John, you are never going to get to checkpoint one on Mrs. Blyleven's roadmap to consent, dude. So forget about it.”

“Ha ha,” he laughed.

“Heh.” I laughed back at him.

So fucking awkward.

And he left his hand there on my thigh for just a little bit too long for it to have been a Danish mistake, or a rogue five-fingered asteroid for that matter.

It was way too weird. What did I get myself into this time?

Spotted John paused his game. He pressed his hands into his knees and stood up. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, I'm going to have a beer, then. I'll get the phone for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Spotted John sat beside me and drank his Danish beer. He watched to be certain I didn't get into the personal stuff he was concealing on his phone, and he listened, at least to the Ryan Dean West lines in the conversation I had with Nico Cosentino.

And I'll admit my voice was a little shaky, because
what the holy crap was Spotted John thinking
?

NICO COSENTINO:
Hello?

RYAN DEAN WEST:
Hi. Nico? This is Ryan Dean West, Joey's . . . uh . . . friend. Is this Nico?

NICO COSENTINO:
Yeah. Hi.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
Hi.

NICO COSENTINO:
Is that all we're going to do? Just keep greeting each other, back and forth?

Side note: To be honest, it was a fair question, and one I was asking myself, which made me realize that I liked Nico Cosentino for thinking the same way I did, at least about stuff like saying “hi” and stuff.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
I hope not, because this is a borrowed cell phone and I probably don't have all night.

NICO COSENTINO:
Yeah. I didn't think you guys were allowed to have shit like cell phones at Pine Mountain.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
We're not. The dude I got it from's a ninja.

NICO COSENTINO:
That must explain it, then. Did he kill anyone for it?

RYAN DEAN WEST:
Not in America. But who knows?

NICO COSENTINO:
(
He laughs. I made him laugh.
) Look, Ryan Dean, I just wanted to say that I've been thinking about my brother a lot since yesterday. And, well, he'd probably be mad at me about the way I acted. So, I know you were his friend, and you meant a lot to him, and I'm sorry I was such a dick.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
It's no big deal. I guess I was pretty annoying. I should have left you and your family alone. I'm sorry.

NICO COSENTINO:
So now we're just going to apologize back and forth all night?

RYAN DEAN WEST:
No. No.

(There is a really awkward five seconds of silence, during which time
I avoided looking at Spotted John, who was really, really close to me on his couch.)

NICO COSENTINO:
So, anyway, I talked to my mom and dad about it, and I asked them if they'd let me come up to Pine Mountain next week to watch your friendly. My team hasn't even started practicing yet, and I thought I'd like to see how you guys play.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
You play too? I knew you did as soon as I saw you! What position do you play?

NICO COSENTINO:
Winger.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
I did that for a couple years.

NICO COSENTINO:
I know. Joey talked about you and your team all the time. In fact, he almost never shut up about you. The game's on Thursday, right?

RYAN DEAN WEST:
(
Side note: I'm a little choked up thinking about Joey never shutting up about me. It was probably really embarrassing stuff Nico knew about me too.
) After school, at four.

NICO COSENTINO:
Maybe we could hang out and talk after the game.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
I'd really like that. That would be fucking awesome.

Side note: Okay. You know. I didn't really say “fucking,” but I did feel like kicking my feet in the air and doing one of those little Sam-Abernathy-quick-tug-TSEs on myself.

NICO COSENTINO:
Okay. My parents really want me to talk to you for some reason. You know. Well, I'm taking a bus up from Portland. If I needed to spend the night, could I crash on your floor?

Side note: Things like visitors sleeping over were entirely against the rules at PM. And then there was the issue of the size of our dorm room. Not to mention the Abernathy and open windows and shit. But Mr. Bream was kind of clueless, as my beer-drinking, pot-smoking, ninja love-seat-mate proved on an ongoing basis.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
Dude. Yes. You can. That would be great.

NICO COSENTINO:
Okay, then. Sorry I was such a douche to you, and I'll see you Thursday.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
Hey, if you need to call or text me, just use this number and the ninja will get the message to me.

NICO COSENTINO:
Okay, bro. See you, Ryan Dean.

RYAN DEAN WEST:
See you Thursday, Nico.

And, yeah, he
broed
me.

Again.

I thanked Spotted John for the phone and didn't wait for him to say anything else before I got the hell out of there.

I ENTERED THE ICEBOX OF
Unit 113.

Something was going to have to fix itself inside the Abernathy's little short-circuited brain before the first snowfall or I was going to change the lock on our door.

“Hi, Ryan Dean! I wasn't sure if you'd come back home tonight, but I already decided I wasn't going to say anything to Mr. Bream. You know, because of our
code
.”

The Abernathy was bundled up in his soccer jammies, wrapped in his Super Mario Bros. blanket, sitting cross-legged at the head of his bed beside the open goddamned window, watching a program about risotto with truffles.

I absolutely wanted to take off a shoe and bung it at his head.

But I was in a pretty good mood after talking to Nico and managing to escape Spotted John's ninja video-arcade-slash-pot-den-slash-adult-toy-shop without being pressured into doing anything I never would have thought Spotted John might want to do with me. I already convinced myself that Spotted John Nygaard
did not
actually make a pass at me. Right?

No way.

“It's freezing in here, and stop talking to me.”

See? Ryan Dean West: a good mood personified.

“I was going to make some popcorn. Would you like to share a bag of popcorn with me?” The Abernathy wriggled like a chubby maggot in his blanket.

Actually, I was hungry. So, whatever.

“Look, if you want to share your popcorn with me, that's fine. I
am
hungry. And I'm also
cold
. So I'm changing into my pajamas and getting into bed,” I said.

“You have
pajamas
, Ryan Dean?”

“No. That's exactly what I mean, Abernathy.” I didn't even need to unbuckle Spotted John's belt to get out of my deflated giant suit. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my too-big school pants on the floor. “I am taking off these stupid pants and shirt and I'm going to try to climb into my bed before hypothermia sets in.”

“Ha ha,” the Abernathy laughed. Then he got out of bed and rustled around in his desk to find a packet of popcorn.

I shivered in my icy Princess Snugglewarm sheets, and while the microwave was
pop-pop-popping
, the Abernathy picked up my borrowed clothes from the floor where I'd abandoned them and hung them up.

“I also did your regular-size school laundry, Ryan Dean!” he chirped.

My clothes had come down from the tree. Heartwarming.

I sighed. And then I said what was probably the longest stream of nonirate words I had ever coherently woven together for Sam Abernathy.
“I really wish you could do something about this claustrophobia thing.”

The Abernathy stood in front of the microwave, just looking at me. Half of his face pulsed in the microwave's light-shadow-light-shadow as the bag of popcorn spun around and around on the carousel of radiation.

He shook his head. “It's pretty much incurable, Ryan Dean. Please don't hate me.”

“But this is getting to be ridiculous. No, it's
been
ridiculous ever since the day you moved in and opened everything in our room and then I actually allowed you to talk me into waiting outside so you could change your clothes or poop or take a shower or do your little TSE or whatever.”

“You taught me how to do that, Ryan Dean!”

I really, really, really wanted to punch him.

“But, Sam, it's going to start snowing here soon. You know what that's going to be like?”

“I've never seen snow before!” the Abernathy said.

He opened the microwave and shook the bag.

I rolled over in bed and faced the wall because I didn't want to look at Sam Abernathy's sad little cocker spaniel eyes.

“I'm sorry, Ryan Dean.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you want me to turn the TV this way so you can see it too, Ryan Dean? I really love making risotto.”

“I don't care about risotto. I'm trying to stay alive.”

The Abernathy laughed. “You're so funny, Ryan Dean!”

Then Sam shook some popcorn into a plastic bowl and handed what was left in the bag to me.

I sighed again. This whole being-nice thing was wearing me out, but I said it anyway. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
for having popcorn with me!” the delighted little weasel said. Then he climbed back onto his bed and resumed his cross-legged pose.

“Could you just please shut the window, Sam?”

I must have sounded pathetic. But the Abernathy didn't answer me. He got up, went to the window, and—miracle of miracles—slid it shut. And then he walked across the room and opened the front door.

“How's that, Ryan Dean?”

“Don't talk to me.”

But the popcorn was pretty good.

And I still fucking hated Sam Abernathy, no matter what.

I WAS A WRECK FOR
the next two days.

I couldn't sleep at all, and the terror at night kept getting more and more intense. When Sam Abernathy left our door open on Friday night, I was certain that every guy who passed in the hallway was Nate. I couldn't take it. If I started to doze off from exhaustion, I would see Nate and my lungs would stop working.

And I ran into Spotted John at breakfast on Saturday morning when there were no other kids around. He sat down right next to me and his knee bumped mine, so I scooted away from him. It was so awkward and uncomfortable. And then Spotted John Nygaard came right out and told me that he hoped I'd still be his friend, at which I assured him that of course I was his friend—we were teammates after all, and besides that, he was a pretty decent guy who was always there to help out. So Spotted John admitted to me that he really was bisexual—and not just in the video game—and he also hoped that one day I'd maybe be interested in “hooking up” with him for fun.

Just like that—that's what he said.

Fun.

This was something I had no experience in dealing with.

I said no thanks, but Spotted John persisted in asking if I'd spend
the night on Saturday—he told me we could drink beer and play around online with his iPad and do whatever we wanted—because Cotton Balls wouldn't be back until Sunday.

What could I do?

“Really, no thanks, Spotted John. Snack-Pack would tell on me if I didn't come home again.”

Home?

Ridiculous. I was using the Abernathy as some kind of protection against Spotted John's advances.

“Well, you should come over this afternoon, then.”

“I don't think so, Spotted John. Annie and Mrs. Blyleven would not approve of me ‘hooking up' with our eight-man.”

I tried to make it sound all locker room jokey—just two dudes shooting the shit—but it was so fucking uncomfortable because there was so much more going on that was entirely unsaid.

And I had this kind of Health class epiphany that would have made Mrs. Blyleven so proud of me: Consent applies in every direction, not just between straight guys and the girls they pursue. Those happened to be the only types of consent scenarios Mrs. Blyleven had bothered to cover in class. I realized how ridiculous that was, and that just because you're a straight guy, it doesn't necessarily mean someone else—anyone else—won't ever go a little—or a lot—overboard with pressure and make you feel like you're the bad guy for saying no. Now, if only Spotted John got that message too, I could get on with just
being Ryan Dean West and ignore everything about Spotted John Nygaard's . . . um . . . attraction.

“Do you feel like maybe lifting some weights with me today?” Spotted John asked.