True Letters from a Fictional Life (14 page)

Kim:
Hey, I drove past you in the Food Safari parking lot the other day. I'm telling Topher that you were with another boy.

Me:
What?? That was my brother. And he's ten.

Kim:
Yeah, but he's a hot ten.

Me:
You're going to prison.

Kim:
Hey, I held Theresa off as long as I could. Sorry it turned out the way it did.

Me:
Not your fault. But thanks. Different topic, please . . .

Kim:
Umm, how are things with Topher?

Me:
Good. I like him a lot. I don't know why, but I do.

Kim:
Maybe because he's cool and honest and super cute?

Me:
All true. Also, it's like he's untouchable. He has this crazy confidence. He's totally out, and no one gives him a hard time.

Kim:
He used to get picked on. He got the crap kicked out of him in ninth grade.

“What?” I whispered.

Me:
He's never said anything about that.

Kim
:
Have you noticed his chipped front tooth?

Me:
I figured he fell off his bike or something.

Kim
: Some kid banged his head into the water fountain while he was drinking. And he stopped playing hockey. He's a beautiful skater, but he stopped playing after he fell on the ice during a practice and a kid kicked him a bunch of times, cracked his ribs.

I stared at the blinking cursor.

Me:
I talk about watching hockey all the time. He's never said a word about playing.

Kim
:
He doesn't like talking about it. He really loved it.

Me:
Then how does he pull off the ‘no one can touch me' attitude now? Why does everything seem so easy for him?

Kim:
He got into acting, for one thing. I think that gave
him confidence and a supportive group. But also, I remember him telling me that he just decided he had to make a choice. He could either be who everyone wanted him to be—and be miserable—or he could just ignore people who hated him, be himself, and be happy.

I drummed a pencil on my desk.

Kim:
There is a moral in that story.

Me:
Yeah, yeah. Talk to you soon.

Kim:
XXOO.

I had checked out completely
by second period on Friday. Glancing up from my desk in Breyer's class, I found everyone staring at me. “Can you repeat the question?” I asked, sitting back up straight. A few kids laughed.

“There wasn't any question,” Breyer said softly, smiling a little. “I said you looked tired. Do you want to get a drink of water, go for a little walk?”

“Yeah, I do, thanks.” I started to get up. Then I remembered that Mark had history class two doors down. What if I ran into him alone in the hall? “Wait, no,” I said, sitting back down. “I don't. I'm good.”

Breyer raised his eyebrow but went on with the lesson. At
the end of class, I waited until another student had Breyer's attention, then shot past him, out the door before he could corner me. Hawken grabbed me by the arm in the hall. “Dude, you're wearing your shirt back to front. You are a mess.”

Topher texted me later on.
Hey, 18 & under show tonite. Come with me?

Concerts weren't really my thing and I was worried I might fall asleep on my feet, but I couldn't face staring at the wall worrying about everything for another night, and being around Topher would make feel better. Without even asking what kind of music it was, I texted:
Great. What time?

He texted back a minute later.
It's Neil Diamond, okay?

I thought I recognized the name, but I wasn't sure.
OK, cool,
I replied.

Ten seconds later:
I like you when you're clueless.

Topher picked me up in his old Subaru and waited until we were on the highway before leaning over to kiss me on the ear. He sort of missed my cheek because he didn't want to take his eyes off the road.

“You have to be anywhere tomorrow morning?” he asked.

“Nope, I don't think so.”

“Good. My parents are gone. Stay at my place tonight.”

“Cool, sure,” I said nonchalantly, but I felt myself go tense. Did I care what Derek would say about me? Or Luke?
I imagined my father finding out. My mom.

Topher put his hand on my thigh. “Hey, how would you feel about me filming you?”

“What?!”

“I'm joking, joking,” he said. “But in all seriousness,” and he glanced at me with a look of concern. “What size handcuffs do you wear?”

“Stop it!” I laughed.

My phone rang in my pocket, and when I fished it out, Derek's name flashed on the screen.

“Derek!” chirped Topher. “You want to invite him along?”

Frowning, I turned the phone off.

Topher was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “You could've answered that. I don't mind.”

“It's all right. I don't feel like talking to him right now.”

The show turned out to be in a little student theater at Dartmouth College, not too far from where I live. As we crossed the campus green, I kept glancing over at Topher, his easy smile, the curves in his arms. He's not at all a big guy, but he's the kind of kid who makes pull-ups look easy. Part of me wished that everyone we passed knew that I was with him, that he was mine. I looked up at the sky, grinning at the thought, and nearly walked right into this guy and girl holding hands. Topher and I kept ours in our pockets.

The theater's walls were painted black and all the pipes
and air ducts on the ceiling were exposed. Topher and I stood at the back for a while. I didn't recognize anyone—no one from my school was there—but Topher nodded at a few scruffy kids and they wandered over to say hi. Near us, a bearded guy had sleeves of tattoos and wore a fluorescent orange woolen hat. A lot of people up here use those bright orange hats when they're out in the woods during hunting season. But we were not outside, and it was not deer season. The first time I saw a city guy wearing a hat like that was when Derek's cousin visited from Los Angeles. He also wore a John Deere shirt, which Mark complimented. The kid seemed confused, which confused Mark, and the subject was dropped. I didn't know if the clown next to us was a Dartmouth student or what, but it felt like he was making fun of us locals somehow. I sort of hated him.

The band climbed on stage at nine fifteen, even though there were only a couple dozen people milling around. The guy in the orange hat turned out to be the bassist. The lead singer was a skinny guy with a mop of brown hair, a big smile, and a hint of a lisp that a girl Topher knew declared “so adorable.” A lot of his songs were about breakups or death, but most of them ended on happy notes. Everyone else seemed a lot more lost in the music than I was, their heads nodding, shoulders moving. Some people were even singing along.

When the singer panted “We have one more for you!”, I cheered loudly. Then they played four more.

After we got to leave, we huddled in the parking lot with
Topher's friends. “Where to next?” was the big question.

“Why don't we head back to Topher's place?” someone suggested. “Aren't your folks gone for the weekend?”

Topher sighed. “Let's keep it very small.”

About ten kids showed up, but it didn't get out of hand. Everyone just stood around talking, very mellow, and Topher made sure the drivers were drinking Cokes or water.

A guy wearing a striped scarf had appointed himself DJ for the night. Every once in a while, Topher would walk past the stereo and turn the volume down, and the kid in the scarf would turn it back up. I didn't recognize a single song he played. Some of it had acoustic guitar and harmonica. I'd been avoiding him, but as I walked by him and two other guys to get a beer from the fridge, he insisted on introducing himself.

“I'm Michael, and you're Topher's . . .”—he paused dramatically—“new friend?”

“Yup. Who are we listening to? Bob Dylan?”

“Earlier it was Dylan. This is Lou Reed.”

“Who the hell is this Lou Reed character?” a kid named Ronan asked. He had both ears pierced with little black squares. His pal, Glenn, had startling green eyes. “Whoever he is, he needs to cheer up.”

“You don't know who Lou Reed is?” Michael asked, flipping his scarf over his shoulder. “He was, like, an American poet slash rock star. He played in The Velvet Underground.
He was friends with Andy Warhol.”

“Oh, he was friends with Andy Warhol.” Ronan laughed, fiddling with one of his earrings. “Well, in that case . . .”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Andy Warhol. Pop art? Campbell's Soup paintings?”

The other boys laughed harder. I edged my way past them and opened the fridge.

“James, you'd like Lou Reed,” Michael insisted. “He was bisexual.”

Their laughter turned to coughs. They were all staring at me when I turned around. I told myself to relax.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “He doesn't sound bisexual.”

Michael just shook his head, but Ronan and Glenn smiled.

“They did electroshock therapy on him when he was a teenager,” Michael said.

“Electro-
what
?” said Glenn. “They electrocuted people?”

“Kind of. They zapped their brains to alter their personalities. That's how they tried to make gay people straight back then.”

They all looked at me for a response.

I shrugged. “So, he was bisexual? It worked halfway?”

The boys cracked up, and Michael sipped from a big bottle of sparkling water. “We are very lucky is all I'm saying. No electroshock therapy for our generation.”

“Just Ritalin,” Glenn said happily.

“Ritalin makes you not gay?” asked Ronan.

“I guess so. It's been working for me, anyway. Maybe
that's just if you snort it.”

Topher came into the kitchen just then. “Hey, no snorting anything. No snorting anything in my house.”

“Nobody's snorting nothing,” Ronan said, hands up. “But it might help pick things up more than this Lou Reed's doing. Come on, put on something that makes everyone want to wear their pants on their heads.”

An upbeat hip-hop song kicked in.

“This does make you want to dance,” said Glenn. “Or at least jump up and down. Get it started, Topher! Ditch those jeans and hop up on that table!”

“My house is not your jungle gym!” Topher hollered, and then he pointed at Michael. “No more we-are-all-going-to-die-slowly songs,” he warned. “And keep it down.” He took me by the hand and led me out of the kitchen. Ronan and Glenn clinked my bottle and nodded as we passed.

“You ever date one of those guys?” I whispered to Topher.

“Who? Ronan? Glenn?”

“I don't know. Either one.”

“No, they're straight. They're both straight. That's Glenn's girlfriend over there. Wait, are you jealous?” He punched my arm. “Very cute.”

By one thirty, Michael was the only one left other than Topher and me. Topher must have walked through the place six times before he announced that there wasn't any major damage. Someone had dribbled beer on the living room carpet, but he'd get carpet cleaner in the morning.

“After you use it, get rid of the container,” Michael advised. “Sure way to get busted is to put new cleaning products under the kitchen sink.” He yawned. “I don't know why I'm so tired!”

“Because it's one thirty in the morning,” Topher said, pouring a glass of water. He handed me the glass, clapped Michael on the back, and walked him to the door. I padded upstairs to find Topher's bedroom.

His room smelled like the cologne he wore. Two big windows looked out over the backyard. Burgundy walls. Wood floor. Tidy desk. Curious George and an orangutan slouched next to trophies and family photos on top of the bookcase. A framed poster of muddy cyclists passing a cigarette between them dominated one wall. His neatly made bed was the same size as mine, just for one person. I picked up one of his hockey trophies to read the date. He won it when he was thirteen.

“Hey.” Topher stood in the doorway, grinning. “There's a boy in my room. Weird. Did you find the bathroom okay?”

“Yeah, thanks, I'm good.” I'd brushed my teeth with toothpaste on my finger and gargled blue mouthwash earlier, figuring this point in the night was near.

“Back in a minute. Don't steal nothing.”

Topher's closet door was open, and a sleeping bag was rolled up on the top shelf. I looked at the bed, looked back at the sleeping bag, and pulled off my socks and my shirt. Curious George and I made eye contact. I picked him up and
turned him around so that he faced the wall. Then I did the same to his orangutan friend.

When I crawled under the covers, I could hear Topher brushing his teeth. He spat. The faucet went on. The faucet went off. Part of a radio ad for a local mechanic was whistled. The bathroom door opened. Footsteps down the hall.

He stopped in the doorway. “You okay in there?” he whispered.

“Yup, I'm good.”

He walked to his closet, and, standing on one leg to pull off a sock, observed, “That bed is not made for two.”

“I know. Get out of here.”

He laughed, tossed his socks into his closet, pulled off his shirt, and dropped it on the floor. For a moment, he stood still, as if unsure about what to do next.

“How can you be that fit,” I whispered, “when you don't even play any sports?”

“My mom and I do Jazzercise.”

“No. Not true.”

“But you would still like me if it
were
true, right?”

“Not really, nope.”

He sat on the bed and his belt buckle jingled as he unclasped it. I put my hand on his back, feeling his warmth. For a little while, like me, he was holding his breath. He wriggled out of his pants as he leaned in to kiss me, resting his hand over my heart, as if trying to slow it down. I skimmed my hand up to his shoulder as he curled his leg across my
waist. I resisted the urge to peek at the door to make sure it was closed.

He broke the kiss and laughed. “Why are you still wearing jeans, dude?”

“I don't know. I didn't want to make any, you know, bad assumptions.”

He cracked up again.

I began to unbuckle my belt.

“No, it's cool,” he said, slipping his hand over my stomach and wrapping his fingers over my own. “I got 'em.”

But first he reached over to the bedside table and switched off the light.

When I woke up, Topher was sleeping with his head on my chest, an arm and leg wrapped around me. The clock said 7:42. I wondered where my parents thought I was right then. I'd called home the night before to tell them I was crashing at Derek's, but it had probably crossed their minds that I might be lying, that I might be in a bed or on a couch somewhere with Theresa. I thought of all the people I knew, all the awkward conversations ahead, all the stuff that would be said about me behind my back. I closed my eyes again, and we slept until ten, when a huge truck snored and rattled past the house.

Topher insisted on bringing me coffee in bed, and we stayed there until noon.

My dad was fixing the lawnmower on the driveway when Topher dropped me off. “Is he going to be weirded out when I climb into your lap to kiss you good-bye?” Topher asked.

“Keep that seat belt buckled,” I answered sternly.

We made a show of shaking hands. Topher waved at my dad. My dad waved back.

“Who was that?” he called to me as Topher's car reversed onto the road. “I don't recognize him.”

“Kim's pal. He stayed over at Derek's last night, too. Dropped me off on his way past.” That seemed to satisfy him. He went back to fixing the lawnmower, totally oblivious to who Topher was, to who I was, to the fact that I'd woken with a boy in my arms that morning. The guilt that seeped through me was physical, a heaviness in my legs and arms. I was wading through cold water. I wondered if I looked pale when I said hello to my mom in the kitchen.