Read Between the Lines (14 page)

“I told her I was confused. That it wouldn’t happen again.”

I shake my head and start to leave. “Then, I guess it won’t.”

“Wait!” he says, reaching for me. “You make everything sound so easy. Like there was some switch someone clicked, and I’m this new person now —”

“I know it’s not easy. But accepting who you are is . . .
necessary.
”

He steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says for the third time. Each time, it feels less true and more like an excuse.

“Me too,” I say. “I have to go.”

He grabs my arm again as I try to leave and pulls me to him. We kiss. Hard. Ninety-nine percent of me wants to stay. Right here. Forever. But the one percent pulls me off him.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say. I step out from our hiding place under the stairs. School just got out and I know if I walk down the hall, he won’t risk following me. Won’t risk being seen with me. It hurts, but I wait a few seconds anyway. Just in case.

He stays under the darkened stairs, though, just like I knew he would.

The parking lot is in its usual chaotic state. I zigzag between parked cars until I find my mom’s old Civic. Normally I have to take the bus, but she let me borrow it today because she wanted to walk to work. Inside, the car is toasty warm from being in the sun all day. I toss my bag on the backseat and lean back before starting the engine.

I don’t want to go home.

I don’t want to go anywhere.

I wish I could call Lacy. That’s what I would have done before. But everything’s different now that she left me for her cheerleader friends and I ruined her life by secretly seeing her brother.

“You’re going to ruin everything for everyone,” is what she said.

“Those girls are just using you to get to Ben,” is what I said.

“You’re wrong.”

“You’ll see.”

We’re still waiting.

Ben is still fake-dating Grace, but it’s only a matter of time before someone figures stuff out. As soon as that happens, I’m sure Lacy’s so-called new friends will dump her. People like Grace don’t seek out people like me and Lacy to be friends with unless they want something. I’m just still shocked that Lacy (a) fell for it and (b) dumped me for them.

I jump when the passenger door opens.

“Hey,” Ben says, and hops in the car, as if it’s something he does every day.

Instinctively, I look around to see if anyone noticed.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Let’s just get out of here.”

The traffic at school is terrible, though, and the longer we inch out of the parking lot, the more nervous I get.

My palms sweat around the steering wheel. I can feel the slippery wet between my fingers, but every time I move my hands, it makes a gross sticky noise, so I keep them where they are. I’m a nervous sweater. It kind of sucks.

We don’t talk. Every time I glance over, I can see Ben’s jaw twitching. He has a baseball hat on and is hunched low in the seat.

“Don’t you have a basketball game tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah. So?”

I shrug. “Just figured you’d be with the team doing . . . whatever you do.”

“Away game. The bus doesn’t leave for a while. We have time.”

“For?”

“I don’t know.”

When we finally pull out of the parking lot, he sits up a little. I wipe my hands on my jeans one at a time. I’ve only had my license for a few months, and I’m trying to keep my hands at the right points on the steering wheel. Trying to look in my rearview mirror, side-view mirror, and on the road in front of me all at the same time. Meanwhile, I can feel Ben’s eyes on me.

“Sooooo,” I finally say. “Where are we going?”

“Wherever. I just needed to see you. I didn’t want to leave things like we did under the stairs.”

“But . . . they’re ending.”

He looks out the window. “Yeah. I guess.”

We drive for a while longer, until I decide I’ll take him home. What’s the point of dragging this out? When he realizes we’re headed in that direction, he reaches over and awkwardly puts his hand on my thigh.

“I’m just really confused,” he says.

“God. Please don’t say that with your hand on my thigh. Seriously.”

He takes his hand back.

“Those are your parents’ words,” I say. “Not yours. You
know
what you want. You’re scared. That’s not the same as confused.”

From what I’ve gathered, there are two general reactions parents have when you come out to them: “supportive” and “not supportive.”

“Supportive” first reactions:
Are you sure? Maybe you’re just confused. It’s natural to experiment. You’re too young to know for sure. We love you no matter what, but . . . are you sure??

“Not supportive” first reactions:
Over my dead body! You disgust me! You’re going to hell! You’re no longer my son/daughter! Get out of this house!

My parents’ first reaction:
We’re so glad you told us. We’re so glad you trust us.
We’re so proud of you, no matter what.
It could have been worse, but it was the
no matter what
that killed me. What does that mean? No matter how disgusting I am? That, and the brief look of disappointment I saw on my dad’s face before he could hide it — the realization that, in addition to all his other failures, he failed to have a “normal” kid.

“My parents don’t even know,” Ben says.

“But that’s what you think they’ll say. That you’re confused.”

“What I think they’ll say is nothing. Because they’ll never know.”

“Never? So . . . you’re just going to hide who you are all your life? Your parents aren’t complete jerks. They might be upset at first, but they’ll get over it.”

“You obviously don’t know my parents.”

“Lacy will support you.”

“Lacy won’t even
talk
to me.”

“That’s not because you’re
gay.
God. She’s mad because you’re cheating on her new best friend with her old best friend.”

He ignores that. “Listen. I just can’t tell my parents. OK? I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

We’re quiet again. I hate this. I hate him. I hate him because he’s a jock. And he has a fake girlfriend. And he wants to go to college and keep being a jock and having fake girlfriends. I hate him because he is never going to change. Not even for me. It figures that out of all the gay guys at school (and let’s face it, there aren’t that many, but still) I have to fall for the dude with the fake girlfriend.

I pull up to the curb of his house. I wonder if Lacy’s inside.

“I guess this is it, then,” I say.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

I sigh. “It kind of does.”

“Please, Stephen. Don’t make me choose.”

I look at him. I mean really look. At the guy who invited me to his house to watch movies but said I couldn’t tell anyone. Who gave me my first boy kiss. First in his living room with the lights out, then in the stairwell at school. Who told me he had a girlfriend to keep his friends from finding out the truth. Who said sometimes she didn’t feel like a lie. Who said sometimes he thinks he loves her. Who whispered her name,
Grace
, as if she was the secret instead of me. Who told me he really
was
confused. So confused. Who cried, so I held him. Who, on a whim, kissed my neck between the stacks at the school library. Who punched me in the side when he realized someone saw. And cried again when he realized that someone was Grace.

Why does it have to be like this?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But you have to.”

He opens the door but doesn’t get out. Just waits. I’m not sure for what. I know neither of us wants it to end this way. But we also both know there’s no point in staying together, either. If he has to make a choice, it won’t be me.

He gets out. Before he shuts the door, he leans back in. His face is wet with tears again.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says, and pushes the door shut.

When I get home, my mom’s standing in the driveway, waving excitedly.

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting!” She runs over to the car.

“Did I miss something?” I ask.

“Your dad called. He said he has some news for us!”

“What is it?”

“You know your dad. He wants to surprise us.”

She runs around to the other side of the car and gets in. “C’mon. Let’s go meet him.”

She’s beaming — until she sees my face.

“What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

“It’s nothing,” I say. Because now that’s true.

My mom reaches for my thigh and squeezes it exactly where Ben was touching me earlier. I push her hand away. “I said it’s nothing.”

She takes her hand back. “Whatever you say,” she says sarcastically.

“So, why are we meeting Dad?” I ask to change the subject. “Is this about another ‘job opportunity’?”

“Oh, honey, don’t spoil it.”

“I was just asking.”

She doesn’t answer. Now we’re both in a bad mood. At least temporarily. My mom’s bad moods last approximately thirty seconds.

The truth is, my dad has a lot of “job opportunities.” Unfortunately, they all end in disappointment. This never seems to get my parents down, though. “Close, but no cigar,” my dad always says. And my mom chimes in, “Just wasn’t meant to be. But that’s OK! Something even better is right around the corner!”

It’s hard living with eternal optimists. No matter how many times life craps on them, they wipe it off their faces and smile.

I seem to be the only one who has accepted the truth: there is nothing around that corner but more crap.

“Your father is really excited about this one, hon. He thinks this is it. The one. Finally!”

I turn for a brief second to give her my
Really?
look. As in
Really? You really believe this?
But the expression on her face, the hope, keeps me from following through. Instead, I say, “That’s great. I hope he’s right.”

My eyes move from the speedometer to the road to the rearview mirror, in that order, for the next several minutes. Beside me, I can almost see the dream scene playing out in my mom’s head. She believes it all so strongly, even though “it all” has never happened. We have never even come close to “it all.” Not once. And honestly, after the day I’ve had? The last thing I need is to go hear my dad talk about what a great job opportunity he’s found, when in reality it will probably go to someone else. Someone more pushy. More needy. More assertive. More . . . qualified.

My dad’s best quality is the very thing that condemns him to a life of disappointment: he’s too nice.

He will never be first because he is always holding the door open for someone else to go ahead of him. He’s the poster guy for the saying “Nice guys finish last.”

It’s also why I love him.

I hate him and I love him. It hurts to see someone you love get hurt over and over. It also depresses the hell out of me. Why do I always end up with people I love and hate at the same time?

In ninth grade we had to read
Death of a Salesman
, and I was down and out for weeks. All I could think was,
My dad is Willy Loman.
He talks and talks about all these amazing things he’s going to do and how successful he’s going to be and how we’re going to have this great house and new car and live in a nice neighborhood and go out for dinner and finally buy clothes from a real store instead of the thrift store in the city, where I pray every time I enter that no one I know will see me.

But my dad will never be rich. He will never get a job that lasts. He will never get respect. He will never be really happy even though he acts like happiness is nearly in sight. He will never be the someone he pretends to believe in when he looks in the mirror and forces himself to smile. More dead than alive. Willy Loman’s biggest fear.

It’s hard to know that about your dad. It must be even harder to know it about your husband. I can see the disappointment that has drawn itself across my mother’s face in the deep worry lines that only get deeper. The mask of truth.

She doesn’t reveal an ounce of doubt to my dad, though. She just cheers and consoles, cheers and consoles.

It makes me love and hate her, too.

“Take the interstate,” she says as we approach the on-ramp.

I put my signal on and begin to merge onto the highway when a car blasts its horn at me. It must have been in my blind spot. The driver pulls up beside us in the other lane and gives us the finger. It’s a guy driving a Volvo station wagon with two little kids in the backseat.

I wave at him, like
Yeah, yeah, sorry, my bad
, and he drives on.

“Did that man just give you the finger?” my mom asks. “He has two young kids in the car.”

“I must have cut him off by accident.”

“No, you didn’t. He should have pulled over to let you in! If anyone deserves to get the finger, it’s him.” She whispers the last bit as if she can’t bring herself to be nasty too loudly.

I burst out laughing. Partly because I’m so nervous and partly because it’s hysterical. It feels strange to laugh, and I realize how pathetic that is. It’s been too long.

“It’s not funny!” my mom yells. She clutches the handgrip above her for dear life.

“It’s OK, Mom,” I say.