The Roommate Situation (30 page)

“I’m not afraid of talking to Pastor Nivens. I’m afraid of having to sit through more of this bullshit. I mean, really—are you fucking serious?”

She thumps her finger on the table. “There is a homosexual agenda, my darling boy, and this Derek person has caught you up in it.”

“Okay.” I push away from the table. “I’m done.”

“Don’t you walk away from me.” The legs of her chair scrape fast across the floor. “What they’re doing is real. They are indoctrinating young men and women—in colleges, in high schools, online.” The heels of her shoes clack on the parquet as she follows me. “They’re doing it in the media, in television shows, in music. And they are getting away with it.”

I turn abruptly, stepping back quick as she just about charges into me. She clutches my arms. “Shane, it’s not too late. This was not your fault.”

“You’re insane,” I say.

“They put you in a room with that person, in close quarters, where he could get his hooks into you, telling you whatever you needed to hear, seducing you to his side. And there you were, away from home, in all new surroundings. You were an easy target.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Wait until your father gets home.”

“Whatever.” I pull out of her grasp and take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding, my armpits soaked. I shove the bedroom door shut and drop my body against it, tipping my head back, my skull thunking the wood. My nostrils flare. My blood pressure’s so high that I’m seeing faint circles moving in my vision. I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut.

God
damn
it.

I press my hands against my eyes. Coming home for winter break is like being slowly lowered into the fires of hell.

I sink into a crouch, my back sliding down the door. How many more days of this?

I can’t do it.

I’ll camp out at Jamie’s if I have to. I’ll camp out on the front steps of Quaid till they open the residence hall again if I have to. I cannot do this anymore. The house is a looney bin.

My elbow bangs the door as I launch myself forward and grab my duffel bag from where I’d left it by the dresser. I throw shit into it—clean clothes, dirty clothes, it doesn’t fucking matter. Whatever fits. My laptop and power cord go into my backpack, with room left for toiletries. Pressing my ear to the door, I listen for noises on the second floor. Nothing. I crack the door and peek out. The hall’s empty. At the far end of it, my parents’ door is ajar and the room beyond dark. I slip across the hall to the bathroom, where I sweep my toothbrush, toothpaste, and everything else into my backpack. I’m not staying in this fucking house one more fucking night.

I sit on the bed with my bags at my feet, my guitar in its black, padded gig bag leaning on my thigh. Jamie’s number rings in my ear. And rings. And rings.

“Dude! I’m not picking up! I must be getting stoned or something. Leave a message. Or, you know, not. I probably won’t check it anyway. Text me! Peace out.”

Shit.

The house starts to rumble, one of the garage doors coming up.

Shit
shit.

No quick escape now.
I don’t think this is working out
. That’s what I should say.
I think it would be better for everyone if I left for a while. Let’s call it a cooling-off period.

My parents’ voices are just murmurs through the floor. I can’t hear what they’re saying, how much she’s filling Dad in on. I imagine her half in hysterics—but what about Dad? They go to the same church, hear the same sermons. Once I questioned the “bullcrap” they made me sit through, and my dad said, “You take what you need out of it, Shane.” What had he taken out of Pastor Niven’s gay-agenda talk?

I try Jamie’s number again, get voice mail again.

Eventually there’s silence downstairs and, not long after that, a knock at my door. My fingers vibrate against my phone, and not in a good way.

“Yeah,” I say, my stomach doing flips. I’m about to leave my parents’ house. And he doesn’t realize he’s here to talk me out of it, but that’s what he’s going to wind up trying to do.

I should have left while I had the chance, called Jamie from the road.

Dad pushes the door open, looking around the jamb—first at me, sitting on the side of my bed, then to the bags at my feet. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I think I am.”

He nods, then eases into the room and closes the door behind him. “Listen, sport.”

Sport? What am I, six years old?

He crouches by my knee and removes his glasses, lets them dangle from his fingers. “I understand, uh…you and your mother had a…um, a little bit of an unexpected discussion.”

“Unexpected in the extent of her bigotry,” I say.

He clasps my knee. “Your mother’s going through a rough time right now.”

“I’m so sorry I’m ruining her life.”

“Not everything has to do with you.”

I look over at him, actually
looking
at him. “Is she sick?”

“No, no, she’s healthy. She’s fine, Shane. She’s just…delicate at the moment, okay?”

“So I should stop being gay for her sake.”

“You should stop instigating her for both your sakes,” he says, only flinching a little at the G-word.

“I’m sorry my love life instigates her,” I say.

“I just—can you try to be patient with her for right now? A little considerate?”

“When is it my turn to have you guys be considerate of me?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, looking older suddenly. It’s only now that I realize why he’s even been looking younger. I thought he’d been going grayer, but I see now he’s dyed his hair an ashy blond. I move out of the house, and my parents turn into weird strangers.

He says, “This is not a good time, Shane.”

“It’s never a good time, not when it comes to getting anything I want. That always gets pushed to the side. You two always get your fucking way.”

“And you’re an adult now, right?” he asks.

“Yes!”

“Then grow up and act like one. Your mother’s upset after that bombshell you dropped, and she has a lot on her plate besides that.”

“Well.” I hike my guitar over my shoulder and stand, pulling my duffel bag and backpack up with me. “I’m about to take something off her plate.”

“This isn’t going to make the situation better.”

“Better than staying under this roof. The things she said, Dad. Just…just fuck this shit. I’ll be at school after the new year if you need me.”

I leave him sitting with his head bent, glasses still dangling from his hand. His other hand is against the bed to keep his balance.

I expect any moment to run into my mother, but I make my way down the stairs and across the foyer without sight or sound of her. The night’s cold but still. At the end of the driveway, I dig in my bag for a knit cap and tug it on. I shrug the backpack on, then hook my gig bag over my shoulder again. My breath steams as I make my way up the street, listening for the sound of the garage door, for a front door opening, for someone calling my name.

At the end of the street, I turn and keep walking. The area we live in—nice houses with sprawling lawns—has no sidewalks. I walk in the pebbles and the bits of ice at the side of the road.

Headlights splash over the asphalt ahead of me. I don’t turn to look. The car sweeps past without slowing.

After half a mile, I take my hand out of my pocket to try Jamie’s number again.

Voice mail.

As I’m stuffing the phone back in my pocket, it rings.

“Hey,” I say to Derek.

“Hey. How’d the discussion about your major go?”

“Oh boy.”

“Oh boy? Are you breathing heavy?”

“I’m walking.”

“Getting some air?” he asks.

“Looking for a place to sleep for the next week.”

“Shit, really? How’d a discussion about your academic major turn into you leaving home?”

I sigh. “I told my mom about you and me.”

“Ouch. How’d a discussion about your academic major turn into a confession about your sex life?”

“I don’t even know. She was dogging you again, I just…got fucking fed up. I’ve been trying to get a hold of a friend of mine and see if he can put me up at his place, but he’s not picking up.”

“So you’re just walking around?”

“To the bus stop if I don’t get a hold of Jamie. I’ll catch a ride back to school and find someplace to sleep there until they open the dorms.” That’s if I have enough money for a bus ticket.

Fuck it. I’ll put it on the debit card. I don’t fucking care if they see that transaction on it.

“That’s a week away. Hold on.” After a few seconds, he says, “Let me call you back. Ten minutes.”

“Sure.” I shove my hand and the phone into my jacket pocket. I wish I’d brought gloves. I have some sitting in my locker at school, and probably half a dozen pairs in a box in my parents’ garage. A lot of good they do me here. My other hand’s been out in the cold longer, my knuckles raw and stinging, so I switch the bag to my warmer hand. At least the rest of me’s not doing too bad, thanks to the layers and the walking and the being pissed off. It’s just my hands and face suffering.

I make it another half mile before my phone rings again.

“Do you want to come here for the week?” Derek asks.

“There? How would I get there?”

“I’ll come get you.”

“Are you crazy? On your bike? It’s fucking frigid out.”

“In my dad’s truck. Do you have someplace you can wait inside till I get there?”

“If I keep going the way I’m going, I’ll be at a Dunkin’ Donuts in a half hour.”

“Hang on. I’ve got Google Maps up, looking for the Dunkin’s in your area.”

“There’s only the one,” I say. Another car sweeps past me, fast, bringing a blast of wind behind it. I hunch into my jacket. “It’s in the same building as a gas station.”

“Got it,” he says. “It’ll take me about an hour forty to get there.”

“I can wait.”

“If anything changes,” he says, “give me a call. I’ll have my phone on. And do me a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t hitchhike to Dunkin’s. I don’t want to read in the papers tomorrow they found your body in a ditch somewhere.”

“No hitching, got it.”

“All right. See you in a bit.”

Now that warms me up, that and the prospect of a hot coffee in a warm doughnut shop.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When I push through the door at the shop, heat sweeps into my face, making it prickle and itch. It feels like heaven. The aroma of coffee and baked goods is heaven too. I think for the first time of the roast I missed out on, leaving like I had.

Not that a roast was worth staying for.

I buy myself a steaming coffee and a jelly doughnut and dump my shit at a table against a window that looks out onto the parking lot. My cheeks are so cold they’re numb. I barely taste the doughnut as I scarf it down.

A bell over the door rings, a guy holding the door for his wife or girlfriend, both of them in ski hats and knit mittens, scarves around their necks. Laughing.

I sip the coffee, keeping my hands clasped around the Styrofoam.

The couple leaves; others come in. Most of the traffic is in and out. An old man settles carefully into a chair. A couple of truckers sit down after getting coffees and sandwiches, the smell of which makes my tummy rumble. I sweep over the prices on the menu and decide two doughnuts are a better deal for the money than a sandwich. I eat while swapping my attention between the clock on my phone and the headlights of every vehicle that slows to turn in.

When my coffee’s done, my bladder’s full. I have at least twenty minutes before Derek’ll be here. I drag my bags with me to the restroom.

Coming out, I hope to see him standing just inside the doors, looking for me, but no luck. The guys in truck caps are still there. The old man has been joined by another. A short line’s going at the counter.

I sit by the window again, resting my chin on my hand.

Headlights on a panel truck slow, its orange turn signal flashing. Derek didn’t say what
kind
of truck his dad had. I touch my forehead to the glass, trying to get a glimpse inside the cab. It drives past the Dunkin’s and pulls up at a gas pump. A heavyset guy climbs out of the driver’s side, more hair on his face than his scalp.

Another set of headlights slows, a pickup this time. It pulls right up to the Dunkin’s.

Derek’s eyes are turned down as he fiddles with something in the dash. He’s got a cigarette clamped between his lips. The headlights go out, and he looks up. Our eyes meet. I grin. By the time he’s pulling open the restaurant’s door, I have two bags over my shoulder and the third gripped in my hand.

“Let me take a leak first,” he says, his face dark with beard growth.

“Yeah, sure.” The stubble makes him look like he’s been driving for two days instead of two hours. “You want some coffee?”

“That’d be great.”

While he heads off to the restroom, I try to get myself back on kilter. The collision of Derek with a place I knew before I knew Derek is almost surreal.

When he comes back out, I’m holding his cup in my free hand.

“All set?” His fingers bump mine as he takes the coffee.

“Oh Jesus God yes.”

“Want me to carry something?”

“I’ve got it.”

His hair curls in the back, where it touches his jacket collar. He looks a little weary, familiar and foreign at the same time. I just want to lean against him and feel how real he is.

He holds the door open, saying, “After you.”

The truck’s warm, its ashtray half-full. It takes two tries to get the engine to turn over, and then we’re backing out, Derek’s arm stretched across the seat as he looks over his shoulder.

“Thanks for coming all this way,” I say.

“I wasn’t doing anything anyway.” He puts it in Drive. “You been there long?”

“An hour or so. Your dad doesn’t mind me staying over?”

“Nah.”

I look at him in the dim glow of the dash lights and can’t help smiling. I’m riding in a truck with him, on the way to his house. How perfect can life get?

“You can fiddle with the radio if you want.” His coffee rests between his thighs.

Country comes on when I turn on the radio. I twist the knob till I the station I usually listen to, when I’m stuck listening to the radio, comes in. “Let me know if you need me to help with the driving,” I say.