With or Without You (3 page)

My mother becomes an asylum escapee: wild green eyes, clenched fists, gritted teeth. No one can push Mom’s buttons like Dad.

“Listen,” I offer diplomatically, “since getting Dad around is such a pain, I’ll understand if you need to skip the ceremony tonight.” I measure my tone. It says
I’m only thinking of you
and not
Please, for the love of God, don’t come to graduation
.

Neither message is received. She peers at her reflection in the microwave, fixes her hair, and heads to the door.

“Don’t forget. Your summer hours start tomorrow. No running off with
him
until work is done.” Anyone unfamiliar with a Wisconsin dialect wouldn’t know that
him
is how Mom pronounces “Davis.”

That’s it. No “Happy graduation.” No “Congratulations.” An outsider would assume my parents and I don’t like each other. “Like” doesn’t figure into it. It’s more a matter of failed comprehension on both sides. They think,
How did we raise a daughter who’s outgoing and a son who’s an introvert?
I think,
Who wants to run a grocery store?
Trying to be helpful, I offer, “Ceremony starts at seven. Just, you know, so you have time to get Dad down the stairs—”

Mom clenches her teeth, growls, and slams the door on her way out.

“Joan!” Dad calls. “It’s Dairy Day!”

I meet Davis near the Coke machine in the commons at school. It’s half an hour until graduation and we’re two bruises in a sea of goldenrod robes. I’ve got my sore arm in an old sling, hidden under my robe. Davis is antsy, his eyes darting everywhere, his fingers flexing open and shut. I know he’s looking for Pete and the trogs. If they plan to continue what they started in the field, it’ll be tonight.

“Isn’t Shan coming?” Davis asks. I follow his eyes to where everyone’s families are filing into the gymnasium for the ceremony. I spot my folks. Where other parents dressed up a little, Mom’s still wearing her clothes from work. Dad’s in a wheelchair, his leg thrust out in front
of him like a lance. He’s wearing his red flannel shirt, the one he wears when he works the meat counter at the store. Classy.

“No,” I grumble. The one person in the family I wanted at graduation and she screws up her flight home. But I can’t complain. Davis’s dad is, of course, absent. And his mom …

Davis isn’t listening anymore. He’s spotted Pete and the trogs across the way. They’re not even looking at us. Just laughing to one another. Instead of honors cords, Pete’s wearing those stupid dog tags over the top of his gown.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Davis’s arm retract into his gown. His fingers emerge a moment later, a flash of silver catching the light.

“What are you—” I gasp, snatching his wrist with my good hand and pulling his arm toward me. I nearly nick myself on the kitchen knife he’s palmed.

“Pete’s two spots behind me in the processional,” Davis says through gnashed teeth, his eyes never leaving Pete. “He’s gonna try something tonight. I know it. If he touches me, if he even comes near me …”

Even with his fist clenched, it’s easy to pry the knife from his small hand. I toss it in a nearby garbage can.

“Are you crazy?” I say before he can protest. “Tonight, Pete’s just a turbo-douche. Nothing illegal about that.
A knife”—I point to the garbage—“can land you in jail. Pete can’t touch you. There’re witnesses everywhere. Just relax.”

His jaw stiffens but he won’t stop glaring at Pete. “I’d like to shove those dog tags—”

The destination of the dog tags will forever remain a mystery because Vice Principal Hagen enters with a bullhorn and begins directing students to line up for the processional. Dutifully, we arrange ourselves alphabetically, which separates me from Davis. But from the back of the line, I keep an eye on him and hope that knife was the only thing he hid under his gown.

The orchestra plays and we enter the gymnasium. The center of the gym is filled with folding chairs for the graduates. Friends and family flank the chairs on either side, sitting on bleachers. Flashbulbs ignite the air. Looking around, I see people weeping through smiles. Before I take my seat, I catch sight of my folks in the front row. Mom’s checking her watch. Dad shifts uncomfortably in his wheelchair.

The choir sings. Principal Andrews speaks. Our vale-dictorian drones on about the future and the friendships we’ve made during our “school careers.” How great it was to share these years together. It’s all I can do not to laugh. Ask Davis’s swollen face about sharing these years.

There are tears. There is boredom. I want it to be over with. What feels like a year later, we’re all asked to stand.

Do not applaud for the individual graduates; hold all applause until the last graduate has received their diploma.

The crowd is not deterred. They holler and whoop for their favorites. Someone from the orchestra shouts, “Hey, Boom Boom!” as Heather Carter, class slut, shakes the principal’s hand. If she’s embarrassed by the nickname, she doesn’t show it. I stand on my toes and look toward the head of the line. Davis must be near the front by now. I’ve got his back, scanning the line to see if Pete’s preparing.

“Davis Grayson.”

Davis takes the stage with a confident strut. If I didn’t know him, I might be fooled. As he shakes the principal’s hand, someone in the bleachers yells, “Faggot!” There is laughter. Davis turns in the direction of the shout, glares, and flips the bird. Gasps, boos. Davis is ushered offstage by a teacher. I catch a glimpse of Pete, who’s laughing. Big surprise.

Our assembly line trudges forward. As I get to the stage, I look over at my parents. Holy shit, Mom brought a camera. Ten bucks says Shan had to remind her. Now I have to worry about smiling. I almost miss hearing my name.

“Evan Weiss.”

Posture perfect, stride sure. Shake hands, pause for picture. Then, from somewhere out in the crowd, comes a piercing whistle. Not derisive, but celebratory. It’s certainly not my parents; they’re grimacing at the noise. It’s not Davis; he can’t whistle. The warbling, lauding whistle continues until I finish crossing the stage and step down.

Weird.

More words. More choir. Canary cardboard hats sail into the air and then there is screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. The orchestra starts up and everyone begins filing out. I navigate my way through the mob and meet up with Davis near the front of the stage. Angry, knife-wielding Davis is gone. He smiles and my closest friend is back. We hug and cry and, with everyone else doing the same, for the first time ever, we go unnoticed.

“Next stop: Chicago!” Davis whoops.

I scan the crowd, hoping the mystery whistler will appear. No suspects emerge.

Davis glances at his watch. “Shit. I gotta get the car home.”

I nod. “Yeah, my ’rents are probably waiting in the parking lot. Mom will need my help maneuvering Dad into the car.”

He nods. “See you tomorrow, right? Chasers. RYC.”

We separate, negotiating the current of sobbing families.

I make my way to the exit on the side of the gymnasium. A hand waving near the back of the bleachers catches my eye. I squint. Someone definitely wants me. I head over and once I’m close, the hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me into the shadowy niche below the bleachers. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut.

Hit the ground.

Curl into a ball.

I brace for the whiff of wrestler sweat coupled with the first blow. But there is no sweat, only chai-scented breath. Instead of a fist in my stomach, soft, full lips press hard against my own. I don’t need to open my eyes to know what’s happening. I go back to the volleyball game at Madison Park, almost a year ago. The one that lead to my first date. My first yoga lesson. My …

When the lips pull away slowly and I finally open my eyes, Erik grins at me in the crosshatch of light filtering down through the bleachers. Breathing becomes something I forget how to do. My insides lurch, powered by shock and ecstasy.

His brow scrunches and I worry that he’s mistaken my surprise for disappointment or fear. He asks, “What happened?”

I wipe my eyes. “This? No biggie. Tears of joy, y’know?”

Erik takes hold of my chin and tilts my head left to right, like a mother inspecting for dirt. He examines the
bruises and cuts that Mom missed this morning. Thankfully, he can’t see my arm.

“Did somebody hit you?”

I have seen Erik angry exactly twice since we started dating a year ago. Last fall, when he lost out on a scholarship that he should have gotten, and on Christmas, when his car was broken into and the gifts he’d gotten his family were all stolen. He’s never once been angry with me. He is not angry with me now. But he is not happy.

And I see my life for what it is: a pentimento. That’s what they call it when an artist changes his mind while working on a painting—choosing another perspective, varying the color palette—so they paint over what they’ve already done, obscuring the original work. But over time, the paint can grow thin. Aborted lines and faded images begin to show through. And something that was never meant to be seen becomes all too evident.

My life—the one before I met Erik—cowers in the background, ghostly images of a family that doesn’t get me, classmates who ridicule me, and a lone friend. My life since Erik bursts in the foreground with bright images from a year of walks at sundown, holding hands at the zoo, learning yoga, and being held tightly for the first time while completely naked.

For eleven months, I’ve managed to keep the layers
of my life separate. No one knows I have a boyfriend. Not my parents, not my best friend, not my sister. Here, with Erik in close proximity to the life I’ve hidden from him, the two works smear together in a pastiche of clashing hues. I knew this would happen at some point. Obscuring the background takes more skill than I’ve got.

I offer a small laugh. “If someone had hit me, wouldn’t I send my manly-man boyfriend out to knock him around a little?”

Royal blood surges through my veins: I am the King of Evasions. I can change a subject with the deftness of a judo master. And no one notices when I do this. Not my parents. Not Davis.

But in Erik, I’ve met my match. He is the first person ever to call me on my avoidance tactics. He has two looks: The first says,
I’m not buying it. Tell me what’s wrong.
The second says,
I’m not buying it but I’m going to respect your privacy and hope you’ll explain things to me later.
I’m glad when he chooses the latter. I’m more glad that he has two looks he’s devised for these situations, two looks just for me.

I’m marking time. Trying to recover my wits without hyperventilating. Reeling from the idea of it: Erik Goodhue, the college boy I’ve been secretly dating for nearly a year, is standing here in my high school. Here.
I’m scrambling for something, anything, to say.

“Were you here for the whole ceremony?” I ask, trying to carefully remove my arm from the sling under my robe and slide it back into the sleeve of my gown before he notices. I must look like I’m doing the Hokey Pokey for Dummies. My sore arm emerges from the empty sleeve and I hold him around the waist.

If he notices anything, he chooses to keep quiet. Erik cups the back of my head in his hand and draws me gently forward until our foreheads touch. His burnt sienna eyes are inches from my own.

“The whole thing,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

I kiss him and, even after eleven months, I’m still astonished when he kisses me back.

I poke him in the chest. “That was you. The whistle.”

His eyes dart side to side with impish denial. “Who? Me?”

That earns him another kiss.

The tumult in the gym decrescendoes as more people vacate. By now, Mom’s probably muttering under her breath, wondering why I’m not helping her load Dad in the car. I’m torn. I don’t want Erik to have to hide into the shadows. But he has thus far accepted his role as the Secret Boyfriend.
You’ll tell your folks when you’re ready,
he’s said dozens of times, in that patient way of his. I’ve always suspected that patience would be finite. So far, it isn’t.

So far.

I want to take his hand and walk out with him. Go right up to my folks and say,
This is my boyfriend, Erik. He’s a nursing student at the UW, he’s graduating this summer, and we’re very happy.
But I don’t want this to happen more than I sometimes wish it would.

Erik, as usual, is two steps ahead of my neuroses. “Look, I know you gotta go do the family thing and all. Maybe meet up with Davis later?”

I blush. Erik has always respected my friendship with Davis. His best friend is a guy named Tyler. They grew up together in Arizona, came to the UW together. Erik understands that impossibly close bond, carving out time in your life for that person who’s always been there. But Erik knows there’s absolutely nothing romantic between Davis and me. If Erik has a problem with me being close to Davis, he’s never voiced it. There are many things, I suspect, Erik’s never voiced. His need to trust me stops him.

He slips a small cream-colored envelope into my hand, mischief tinting his eyes. “Details for Saturday night.” Saturday, we celebrate my graduation privately … but he won’t tell me what he’s planning. My guess: Inside this envelope, all will be revealed.

“And if you show,” he teases, raising his eyebrows, “there just might be a present in it for you.”

I grin and gush playfully. “A present. For me?”

Erik bites his lower lip and nods. “Yep. Well, presents. A couple. A few.”

God, he’s cute when he does that lip thing.

I promise Erik I’ll see him Saturday. One more kiss, then his signature farewell: “Miss me.”

Like I could do anything but.

Erik slips unnoticed into the stream of exiting families and I brace myself for the walk out to the parking lot.

My parents glare as I approach. Mom wordlessly opens the passenger door and I gently scuttle Dad into his seat. Mom hands me the digital camera before climbing into the driver’s seat. I browse the memory card to find she took one shot of me shaking the principal’s hand. It’s blurry and the top of my head is cut off. Ansel Adams, eat your heart out.