Stick (9 page)

I slipped my new Steelers cap off my head and stuffed it into my back pocket as I headed down the hallway to where Mom and Mrs. Buckley were waiting for me.

The sunroom extended from the back of the house, surrounded by windows that faced out on the small harbor where the Buckleys' neighbors all kept boats. The polished wood floor was slick under my socks, and I had to resist the strong temptation to skate on it.

Mom and Mrs. Buckley sat beside each other on a short blue sofa. They drank coffee; and both of them had cigarettes, tilted and burning, resting in an ashtray. Mrs. Buckley looked so pretty that I actually was embarrassed and felt a lump in my throat when I saw her, thinking about how I got a boner when she put her hand on my knee at Paul's basketball game.

Something was happening to me.

All of a sudden.

Everything was changing.

I didn't think I liked it very much.

Then she said, “Stark,      I can't believe how tall you've gotten!     And to imagine all three of you boys will be in     high school              together   next year.      You should think      about going out for the basketball team with Paul. Wouldn't that be nice?”

I
had
thought about it.

And I felt weak in my legs with Mrs. Buckley smiling, glowing, looking me up and down. I tried willing myself to not get an erection, but that kind of thinking always has a reverse-psychology effect on my penis.

“I'm not good enough to,” I said.

“Oh, of course you                             are,” she said, brushing my arm with her fingers.

Then Mom took a last drag from her cigarette, and every word came out in a haze of smoke. “Joy said that                                Bosten               told her a different story than what Mr. Dostal said to us about                             the fight with Ricky.”

Dad never

asked us what happened.

He never asked at all.

He was too busy

beating

the shit

out of my brother.

He didn't care what happened.

You held me there,

with your hands pulling my hair so I wouldn't look away.

You are

both so angry at us.

Why would you care

what we had to say?

As long as we'd

stand

still.

“Uh. I don't know what Mr. Dostal told you,” I said.

Then Mrs. Buckley looked at me. Her eyes were so soft and blue. “Bosten said  Ricky started the fight                  in the bathroom.”

I shrugged. I thought, how long could these people live here and think Ricky Dostal
wasn't
the one who was always starting fights? “Well, Ricky did. Bosten would never start a fight with no one.”

Then I kind of got mad, and looked directly at Mom and said, “Dad never asked us what happened. Neither one of you did.”

And Mom said, “Don't get            that tone with me, young man.”

I glanced at Mrs. Buckley. I could tell she felt uncomfortable, and I was certain I'd hear about my “tone” later, after we got home.

“I'm sorry, Mom.”

She pressed her lips together and took in a breath through her nose.

“I left                  an extra pack         of cigarettes     in the glove box. Run          out         and get them for me.”

And I was relieved to be out of the spotlight for the moment. I spun around on my socks.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Paul and Bosten took the opportunity to play Ditch Stick while I was in the sunroom. When I got back to Paul's bedroom, they were gone.

They did that kind of stuff all the time, and Paul's property had so many hiding places I almost always lost the game.

“Screw you both,” I said to the empty room. “Let's see who drives home next time you guys decide you want to get stoned.”

And for just a moment, I thought about looking for Dad's magazine under the bed, but I was afraid of the disgusting stuff Paul Buckley was probably hiding under there, how I might touch it with my bare hands. So I snuck out through the side door and headed down toward the boat dock to look for my brother and him.

It was a false-spring day, the kind of day where boys in Washington would play outside shirtless, as though all that pale, winter-bleached skin could act as some kind of magic charm to turn the seasons. I even considered taking my own shirt off as I walked out onto the Buckleys' dock and checked around their sailboat for my brother and Paul. Out at the entrance to the harbor, I could see the small aluminum boat coming back in from the Sound, with Dad and Mr. Buckley riding in it, bouncing up and down on the troughs of the chop as they got nearer.

I turned and headed out along a deer trail that led into the woods.

*   *   *

I wandered around
the property for about twenty minutes and was about to give up looking for Paul and Bosten, when I caught a glimpse of them through a break in the trees. I noticed them because they had their shirts off, and the whiteness of Paul's skin was like a spotlight shining in the woods.

Bosten was standing under a bare dogwood tree.

They were kissing each other.

Not just kissing—Paul and Bosten were
making out
. They had their mouths open and their jaws pumped, opening and closing like they were chewing on each other's tongues. It wasn't a trick or a game, either. I could tell it wasn't, by how lovingly Bosten stroked his hand through Paul's hair.

I'd heard about stuff like that. Boys constantly teased about it at school, but until that day, I never honestly thought it was real, or that I'd ever know any other boys who actually wanted to do things like that with each other.

I was scared and ashamed at the same time.

It was like watching my house catch fire, but I couldn't look away, because how many times do you ever get to see a house burn down?

Paul unbuckled Bosten's belt and slipped his hand down inside my brother's jeans. Paul started kissing my brother's chest and belly. Then he pulled Bosten's jeans and underwear all the way down to his feet.

Then, after that, I'm not going to say what happened. It's because what happened next wasn't ever about me. It was about my brother and Paul.

I knew I had to get out of there and leave them alone and never talk about it to Bosten.

Let him and Paul do whatever they wanted to do. It wasn't my business, and I shouldn't have been there. I suddenly felt so sad for Bosten, like I was hurting him or I was doing something wrong. But I didn't even think Bosten was doing anything “wrong” with Paul. It was just surprising to me, I guess.

Just then, Bosten opened his eyes and looked right at me.

I turned and ran.

And I know Bosten yelled something. There was a kind of urgent and pleading sound behind me, but I couldn't hear anything anymore, except my feet crashing through the brush, slipping on slick spots of mud and leaves.

I just ran.

I was stupid to think I might outrun Paul Buckley.

When he caught up to me from behind—I couldn't hear him at all—he pushed me, square between my shoulder blades; and I fell, face-first, into a tangle of thorny blackberry vines.

It hurt.

My hands and wrists started bleeding, cut with little slashes from the thorns, and I was completely out of breath. I turned over and saw Paul standing behind me. He had a crazed look on his face. His cheeks were red, and his stomach and chest pumped nervously.

“What                           the fuck                    do you think you're doing?”

I didn't know what to say. I was so scared that Paul was going to do something crazy.

He took a step toward me. His neck was bulging. He looked like he could explode. Paul punched the air and kicked the brush next to my feet. He screamed,

       “WHAT      THE FUCK,          STICK?”

I stared directly into Paul's eyes, but neither of us backed down and looked away.

I felt the tickle of blood running from my wrist down toward my hand.

“I … I'm sorry, Buck. It's …  I didn't…”

Paul ranted,                “What did       you see? What did you       see?”

I didn't want to answer him.

“If you say              anything       about this to anyone, I'll fucking…”

Then he took another step toward me, leaning heavily on one leg. He was going to kick me. But by that time, Bosten had caught up to us.

“Hey!                        Cool it!”

Paul glanced back, then he relaxed.

Bosten had gotten his clothes back on, but his shirt hung open, and his belt dangled, unbuckled and jangling. He carried Paul's basketball sweatshirt with him.

Bosten looked at me, but quickly turned his eyes back on Paul.

My brother looked sick, worn-out. Pale. He fired an angry look at Paul. “What            did                you do?”

Before Paul could say anything, I answered, “I tripped. Buck didn't do anything.”

Paul looked down, and Bosten handed him his shirt. “Here,” he said.

Paul slipped it on and turned around, making it obvious that he didn't want to look at either one of us.

It was so quiet.

The three of us seemed frozen in place.

“I'm sorry, Bosten.”

My brother shrugged.

“For what?”

“If you guys would have told me to leave you alone, I would have left you alone.”

“I know that.”

Paul stood, facing away from us. He pulled his hood up over his head. He rubbed his eyes, then put his hands in his pockets.

Bosten reached out for me. “Come on. Get              up.”

“There's blood on my hands.”

“Let                    me see.”

He fumbled at buckling his belt, and gave me an embarrassed kind of smirk as he straightened his clothing. Then he kneeled down and began pulling the dried vines from around my ankles.

“It's not too bad,” I said. I held my palms up in front of me, turned them over. The cuts stung, and the sleeves of my flannel had bloodstains around the cuffs.

“Here.” Bosten grabbed my hand and grunted as he pulled me to my feet.

“They're ringing                  the bell,” Paul said.

I couldn't hear it.

Mrs. Buckley had a big brass bell hanging outside the back of the house. She'd use it to get Paul back inside.

I followed them. Paul never once looked at me the whole way back to his house.

Not one of us said a word to one another.

Mom and Dad were sitting in the living room with Paul's father when we got to the house. Mrs. Buckley waited at the door, sweeping her arm down the hallway with instructions for us to clean up for dinner in Paul's bathroom.

She noticed the blood on my hands and sleeves and stopped me, alarmed and looking so soft and concerned.

“Stark! What happened      to your arms?”

Paul and Bosten froze in the hallway.

“Oh. We were just playing around and I fell in some blackberries.”

“It looks       awful!” she said. “Paul, bring the Bactine out here.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and pushed me inside the kitchen, toward the sink. She ran the water, testing it with the back of her arm. I watched as it ran over her peach-fuzz skin. Then she turned to me and began unbuttoning my shirt.

I thought I was going to pass out.

This was the most insane day I could ever imagine.

Actually, I don't think I ever could have imagined it.

“Let's get this                off you, honey.” Mrs. Buckley pulled my shirttails up out of my jeans. My dick was so hard, I thought she must have noticed, but I couldn't say or do anything. I felt like a fish, just lying there, yawning my useless gills.

She balled my shirt up and dropped it on the kitchen counter. Then she gently grabbed my arms and began bathing them under the warm flow of water, stroking my skin, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt.

Mrs. Buckley turned the water off.

“You stay there,         Stark. I'm going to throw             this shirt in the washer. I'll be right back.”

I followed her out with my eyes.

Bosten and Paul stood behind me with the first-aid spray.

And Paul said, “Please      don't say anything,        Stick. I'm sorry I got mad.”

He sounded weak.

I whispered, “Why would I say anything? Why would I do something like that to my own brother? You're my friend, too, Buck.”

Bosten stared down at his feet and shook his head.

Mrs. Buckley came back in, carrying a towel and a clean sweatshirt for me. It was one of Paul's basketball sweats. She toweled off my arms and sprayed my cuts with Bactine.

It stung and smelled good at the same time.

Then Mrs. Buckley handed me the sweatshirt. “I'm certain                 this will fit you. You're               just as tall as Paul.”

Paul and Bosten quietly stared at me while I put it on.

DAD AND MOM

Paul had his own
color television set in his bedroom.

The Buckleys even had a special cable service that let him watch R-rated movies. I'd never heard cussing or seen naked breasts on television before I watched TV in Paul's room.

After dinner, our parents all played cards and drank. Dad and Mr. Buckley were already drunk when they came back from fishing, anyway. I was glad for that because I was still worried that Mom would say something after we got home about how disrespectful I was to her in front of Mrs. Buckley.