Two Parties, One Tux, and a Very Short Film about The Grapes of Wrath (13 page)

On card one I write, “Hello, may I please speak to Amanda?” It sounds formal, but it seems safer than “Is Amanda home?” because who knows, I might get her parents or I might get Amanda and not recognize her voice, particularly if I'm nervous, or she might have a sister who sounds like her, and sometimes people just say “Hi” quickly and you can't be sure who it is that answered.

On card two I write, “How's it going?” It doesn't look right, so I rip it up, but I can't think of anything better, so I write it again on a new card. It still looks wrong. I decide to leave it for now.

On card three I write, “Not much,” because I assume she'll ask me what's up with me. On the same card I write, “I was just wondering whether you'd like to go see
Rear Window
with me.” Our one sort of artsy theater is
doing a Hitchcock retrospective, and Amanda had said she liked Hitchcock. It seems pretty safe. I cross out “just” because it sounds like that's the only reason I'm calling, then write it back in because it sounds more conversational. I decide I'm perseverating. The reality is that I won't get the words out right anyway.

I put away the note cards. I am not calling Amanda.

What is wrong with me?

“I can't believe that you aren't asking Amanda to the prom.” Carrie is pissed.

“I don't want to. I never told you I would.”

“You didn't say you weren't going to. I already told her you would. What is wrong with you?”

Lots, actually. I look at my little sister, who is a good three inches taller than I am, and try to come up with a reasonable response. Then I try not to cry.

“You can't just push me around all the time. I can choose who I want to date.”

“And what were you going to do, take David to the prom?”

As she glares at me, I say the only thing that comes to mind.

“He already has a date.”

“Is the atomic weight of cobalt 58.9?”

“What happened with Amanda?” David asks me. We are lining up our storyboards in the chalk tray of the
blackboard that runs the length of the troll cave. It is about the only thing the board gets used for. We feel safe talking back here because all of the high-end computers are on the other side of the lab. We'd have to be shouting for someone to hear us.

“I didn't call her. Carrie already yelled at me about it.”

“Why didn't you call her?”

“I didn't want to take her.”

“So you're not going?”

“No.”

“So you set me up to take M.C. so we can double-date for the prom, and now you aren't going?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of, my ass. Thanks, Mitchell. M.C. has never even sat in the front seat of my car, and I'm going to spend a buttload of money to take her to a dance I don't even want to go to …”

“Why'd you ask her?”

“Because I thought you wanted me to.”

I could point out that I never told him to, that all I did was relay Carrie's plan, but he's already decided that it is all my fault.

“I'll take her.”

“I already asked her. You can't just trade dates.”

I hate it when David has a point. Besides, he said that he liked her and wanted to take her to the prom. I watch David set up a few more storyboards.

“You know, I don't know why you think you're gay.”

“It's pretty simple, Mitchell. I'm gay because I like guys.”

“Then why aren't you taking some guy to the prom?”

“Because I'm not dating any guys.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason you aren't.”

“I'm not because I'm not gay.”

“Not the same reason you aren't dating guys, dumb-ass, the same reason you aren't dating
anyone
.”

I think about that one for a second. “Because you're a pathetic loser with a nearly diagnosable personality disorder who is completely unappealing to the opposite, or in your case, the same sex?” I suggest.

“No, I take it back. For a different reason.”

“Explain.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“It's mathematics.”

“Now I'm really not believing you.”

“Hold on. It's not calculus; it's more like set theory. Remember Venn diagrams—the little overlapping circles? Circle 1 is straight males, circle 2 is males I know who are gay and willing to admit they are, and circle 3 is males I like.” David draws the three overlapping circles on the chalkboard. He does not label them.

“At this moment the one little area of overlap that counts, this intersection here,” he says, pointing, “males
who will admit that they are gay, and whom I also like, that little piece of the diagram is empty. Not a name. Therefore, no dates.”

I stare at the chalkboard and think about what David is saying. It seems like a very specific, very small niche.

USPS

There are two envelopes waiting for me when I get home. I pick them both up and take them to my room. I place them on my desk. I stare at them. I start to get up so I can go do something else, homework or watching television. I sit back down. I open the first one. I look at it, refold it, and place it back in its envelope. I leave the second one unopened on my desk and rummage around in my backpack for my calculus book. I sit back down at my desk. I open the second envelope.

SAT

Knock on the door. I start to get up, but before I get out of my chair the door opens and my sister is standing by my desk.

“So, what did you get? I saw the envelope when I got home, so don't pretend it didn't come.”

“I don't have to tell you, Carrie.”

“Sure you do. Everyone tells their scores.” Carrie's height advantage is intimidating enough when we are standing; with me sitting, she totally towers over me. I fight the urge to adjust my desk chair to a taller position.

“I really don't want to talk about this right now.”

“That bad.”

“Not that bad.”

“So sort of middle of the road. Not Princeton, but not community college material.” Carrie picks up my battery-powered pencil sharpener and turns it over, watching the shavings collect in the plastic top. A CPA snow globe. She's waiting for my answer.

“I'm not telling you.”

“So it can't be good.” Tired of standing, Carrie finds butt room on the corner of my desk. She turns the sharpener back over and begins to sharpen my already sharp pencils.

“It could be good, but I'm not telling you.”

“How good can it be if you aren't telling me?” She looks up from the pencil sharpener and raises both eyebrows.

“It could be very good even if I'm not telling you.” So there.

“But it isn't very good, is it? It's only somewhat good? Am I right?”

She's right. The score is perfectly respectable, but not amazing.

“Why didn't you check it online? You did, didn't you? But you didn't tell Mom and Dad! Ooh—you have changed. When did you get so sneaky? Sneaky—or just embarrassed?”

Embarrassed. I know what Mom and Dad would say. They would be proud of me. They would tell me they were proud of me even if I had bombed the thing. I look down at the desk to avoid confirming her suspicions. David's letter.

“I don't think I want to continue this conversation,” I tell her as nonchalantly as I can. I look her directly in the eyes and try to slip David's letter underneath my calculus book.

“Who wrote you a letter?” Carrie makes a grab at it, but I pull it away.

“Would you go away!”

Carrie makes her pucker face, a mix of bewildered and pissed-off. “Love letter? No, no female would write you a love letter in pencil.”

“Go away.”

“Suddenly full of secrets. I'm your sister, you can tell me.”

“Please go away.”

My voice sounds more desperate than angry. I think Carrie realizes that she has somehow pushed this too far and she backs off, but not apologetically.

“Geez, I was only asking.”

www.atomfilms.com

David and I sit on the couch in the living room watching a DVD of
Pib and Pog
episodes that Wallman lent us about three months ago. Eventually, we'll have to give it back. We are drinking Diet Coke and eating cold pizza left over from the aftermath of one of my mother's cooking disasters. We aren't talking much, but we never talk during the show. We might miss something we didn't catch before in the twenty times we've already watched Pib slice off Pog's face with a large chef's knife.

He must know I got the letter, but I haven't told him I got it. He must have guessed that I read it. We both pretend that nothing is different.

Is something different?

S

There are two Davids: the one who will letter in baseball and the one who hangs out with me. Sometimes I get them confused.

Baseball David has lots of friends. Not that he spends time with any of them, but when they pass each other in the hall they do this weird touch-knuckles-and-bump-into-each-other routine that I assume is sports-related. Baseball David is the one who takes me along to parties and finds me a beer to drink so I don't look like a total loser.

The other David is the one who reassures me about my pending expulsion by listing famous people who
never finished high school. This David is sort of an anti-Superman. Superman dives into phone booths, rips off the drab suit, and emerges with the
S
emblazoned on his chest. Drab is not David's disguise.

Which one wrote me the letter? Is there a third David?

David calls me later to ask about some assignment, but it feels like more of an excuse than a question. We talk about some asinine thing Thad said in the hallway. The conversation is over but neither of us have said good-bye. I know I'm supposed to say something about the letter, but since I wasn't supposed to have read it, I'm not sure what to say. Telephone silence. I have let it go on too long to pretend it doesn't mean something.

Q and A

“Did you get the letter?”

“Yes.”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

ASAP

Life would be a lot easier if we could schedule our crises. I can give you from 3:30 to 5:45 tomorrow to discuss our
lives, but then I need to pick my sister up from a friend's house, have dinner, and study for my calculus test. If I finish early, we could talk on the phone between 10:48 and 11:10, but no later or I'll fall asleep during history—and Kalikowski has started to notice that I often fall asleep during her class. If you give me a ride to school tomorrow, we can talk as we walk from the parking lot, but I can't afford to be late to first period again. If that isn't enough, I can try to schedule a good chunk of time for emotional outpourings early next week after my history paper is due and after I find out whether I've been expelled.

OK

More silence.

David breaks first. “I think I would like to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Should I come over there?”

“Okay.”

“Would you rather meet somewhere else?”

“No, here is okay.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I guess. No. Can we wait?”

More silence. This one sounds impatient.

“I'd like some time,” I say. “How about this weekend? Friday? We could go grab some pizza and talk.”

There's a code here. Friday is two days away, which is
admittedly blowing him off, but we have set aside time, and it is a weekend evening. This means we are still friends. I said we will talk. It is a promise that I will deal with it.

“Sure, that makes sense. Yeah,” David answers. Three affirmatives in a row but not one of them sounds convincing.

RE:

I look at the letter. I know it is in English, but I still don't know how to read it.

David says we already have a relationship, we just don't admit it. I looked up the word “relationship” in the dictionary. It can mean a lot of things.

David says he feels like we are more than friends. He does not attach a list describing the ways in which what we do goes beyond friendship. He does not say he considers me his boyfriend, just his best friend. He says he knows I'm not gay. Is he hoping that I'll change? If he did fall in love with someone else, would we still be friends? How would I be different from the guy he is in love with? It can't be all about sex.

There's a lot here about needing to describe what he's feeling. He uses the word “feeling” a lot. Nothing in this letter actually tells me
what
he's feeling, just that he needs to tell me. I think there are some words missing.