The Vast Fields of Ordinary (23 page)

“Yeah. I hope he gets done doing his thing, though. I want to kick it with him. We’re still in that phase where we’re getting to know each other. I feel like we need to do more of that.”

“He’s cute.”

“Very,” I said.

“Cuter than Pablo.”

“Obviously,” I agreed.

“Not that that matters . . . but it does.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and flipped it open. It was a text from Alex. “He’s outside, apparently.”

“Let’s go find him,” said Lucy.

We went back outside, and within a few moments I spotted him. He was at the far end of the porch, looking out over the backyard with Darnell Jackson. They were drinking beer from plastic cups. Darnell pointed at something in the distance and they both started laughing. I wondered how long they’d been out there, why he hadn’t called. Had he been purposefully avoiding me? A feeling of jealousy welled up in me like a toxic stomach-ache.

“Who’s that hot boy that he’s with?” Lucy asked

“Darnell Jackson,” I said. “The patron saint of hot black guys.”

“He’s hot.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Well, you agreed.”

“You’re supposed to say he’s not. To make me feel better.”

“Dade, for better or worse, I’ll never lie to you,” Lucy said. “And don’t be so insecure. Alex likes you.”

It was stupid for me to feel jealous. Darnell was anything but gay. He’d been dating Matrisha Barnes since freshman year and was actually a decent guy. He’d once called Jessica a stupid-ass trick during study hall, which earned him some big points in my book, but still, even the thought of Alex being mildly interested in anyone else, even on the level of superficial attraction, was torture.

Calm down
,
Dade,
I thought to myself.
He’s just talking to someone. Get a grip.

He turned around and noticed Lucy and me. He smiled brightly, and eagerly waved over. All that freaking out for nothing.

“Darnell, this is my good friend Dade and his friend Lucy,” Alex said.

“I went to school with you,” I said, extending my hand.

“Totally,” Darnell said. “I remember Dave.”

“Dade,” Lucy said.

I turned to Alex. “So, how are things?”

“Great,” he said. “Business is good. I’m done. We can leave whenever.”

Darnell excused himself and drifted off into the backyard. “Jay’s in the pool with a girl,” Lucy said.

“I noticed,” Alex said. “Good for him. He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, I like him,” Lucy said. “Is it freakish that I’m having an okay time?”

“Not at all,” Alex said. “It’s a party. You’re supposed to have fun.”

“Well, now that I have your permission,” Lucy said, “I’m getting back in the pool where the girls in bikinis are.”

“You’re supposed to wait twenty minutes after eating before you go swimming,” I said.

She laughed and gave me the finger as she bounded off the porch.

“How are you?” Alex asked.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?” he said. “Not great?”

“I ran into Pablo.”

“Was it okay?”

“It was fine,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“When you say that things are fine so much, it sounds like a lie,” Alex said.

“Well, I’m not lying,” I said. I gave him a serious look, hoping this would end the conversation. “Things are fine.”

That last time it felt like a lie. The truth was that my encounter with Pablo had unnerved me. I found myself wondering if I’d been too mean to him. I thought about going off and finding him, seeing if he wanted to talk. Not about us or our situation, but just about life in general. The end of the summer was growing closer every day and pretty soon he’d be gone.

Alex and I watched the party from the porch. Lucy stripped down to her underwear again and jumped into the pool. A big group of people were dancing in a corner of the yard. The thought occurred to me that so much of life is reenactment, people doing things that they saw other people do in the hopes that it could somehow make them rich or happy or popular. I wondered if people would be happier if they just were who they really were, if they didn’t try and find themselves in other people. I could feel Alex watching me out of the corner of his eye. He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me toward him.

“Sorry. I just really wanted to do that. Is that okay?”

His mouth was right against my ear. Somewhere in my mind I could actually see his breath winding around my outer ear, then disappearing into the canal like water down a drain. A hard shiver went down my spine. I felt plugged in.

“I guess,” I said. “What if someone says something?”

“No one will,” he assured me. He took my hand. “And if they do, I’ll kick their ass.”

He leaned in and kissed my neck, causing my body to suddenly relax. I hadn’t realized until then how rigid I was. Whatever song was playing ended, and “Some Boys Keep Their Heads Down All the Time” by the Diligent Frenchmen came on, and I had one of those moments where life suddenly feels perfect and meaningful, one of those moments that’s so pure and focused that you sorta start to freak out because it can’t last forever.

People walked by as they went in and out of the house. Some of them glanced over at the two boys holding hands on the porch, some of them didn’t. The few that did looked more confused than anything, as if they were wondering how in God’s name we hadn’t gotten our asses kicked yet. A tipsy, bookish-looking girl wearing glasses and a Tomato Hoof T-shirt did a double take and stopped to say, “I just want you two to know that you are the cutest couple ever, and I really support all of what’s happening here.” She stumbled drunkenly into the house without another word. We laughed.

“Oh shit,” I said, extracting my hand from Alex’s. “Look who it is.”

Bert McGraw was standing by the pool with a couple of other guys from the football team. All three of them were giving us a death glare.

“We should probably go,” I said.

Alex laughed and took my hand again. “No. No way. Screw them. Plus, I just sold him a fat sack. Kicking my ass would be such bad manners.”

After a couple of moments Alex told me to come with him. He pulled me into the house, through the crowded kitchen and the dining room, where a whole other spread of alcohol covered the dining room table. A red wine spill on the floor. A piece of lime stuck to the wall. I couldn’t stop laughing. He took me to the second floor and led me down the hall to an overwhelmingly green guest bedroom. He pulled me into the closet and shut the door behind us. He clicked on the overhead light. Nothing in there but us, a vacuum cleaner, and the ugliest fur coat I’d ever seen. I was still laughing, and now he was too.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“I scoped this spot before I came downstairs,” he said. “I knew we’d need one eventually.” He started kissing me. All I could do was kiss him back. He slipped his hands under my shirt and felt around my chest. He bit my lower lip just a little. Just the tiniest bit.

“Alex.”

His name just fell out of my mouth. Like so many of the things I said.

“What?” He started kissing my neck.

“I don’t know. I just felt like saying your name.”

He laughed and kissed me again.

“Is that weird?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

He moved back in and kissed me again. Slower this time. So slow, it wasn’t so much a kiss. It was more like he was trying to tell me something, something that couldn’t be put into words. He touched my face with both hands, made a little noise in his throat, a whimpering gasp that drove me wild. I fell into him, begging him with my body to make that noise again.

Jay lost his amazing blue T-shirt that night. He ended up giving it to Decora Whitman. He told her it was a token of his love, a symbol of the hope that they would someday be together forever, deeply in love until the very end. She laughed and rolled her eyes, and Lucy, Alex, and I all laughed and applauded when she put it on over her bikini and walked away. Jay shook his fists at the sky. Out front, Lucy jumped on Jay’s back and he took off down the street toward the car, zigzagging back and forth as he ran. Lucy let out one of those insanely loud girl-squeals that echoed throughout the neighborhood.

“Don’t drop her,” I called.

My phone vibrated. I took it out and flipped it open. It was a text message from Pablo.

I slowed my step and looked back at the McGraw residence. There were a few people talking on the street, a few people in the yard. No one I recognized as him. Alex noticed and slowed down too.

“Did you forget something?”

“No. I just thought I heard someone call my name.”

He laughed. “They were probably saying
Dave
.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Alex took off screaming down the street, arms outstretched like an airplane. He went straight for Lucy and Jay like he was going to knock them down. They both screamed, and at the last minute he veered toward my car. Lucy hopped down and collapsed into a pile of laughter. My phone vibrated again.

I spent the next day locked in my room writing poetry about Alex. It was a sunny day, humid and in the high eighties, but I didn’t care. I was determined to stay indoors, wear all black, and write poetry about the boy I was obsessed with. I imagined Lucy watching all this from the foot of my bed and saying, “Do it, Dade! Young gay love! Surrender to the cliché!”

I wrote nine poems about him, the shortest being four lines (“Sprawled out on the front lawn / Looking up at an ordinary sky / It could fall on me and somehow be / The day I didn’t die”) and the longest coming in at just over seven pages. Late in the afternoon I decided it was all shit. I took everything I’d written and burned it in my bathroom sink. I sprawled out on my bed and sent Alex a text message saying hello. Just that. Hello. I’d just pushed send when there was a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I said, sitting up.

It was my dad. He was still in his work clothes. Fancy pants, a short-sleeved shirt, and the yellow Brooks Brothers tie my mother had bought him the previous Christmas. He sat on the edge of my bed and gave me a weak smile.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hey.”

“It smells like smoke,” he said.

“Well, I haven’t been smoking.”

“No,” he said. “Like paper burning.”

“Oh,” I said. “I burned some poetry in my bathroom sink earlier.”

He gave a muted sigh and turned his eyes to the floor as if he’d been brutally reminded that he’d never understand me.

“Dinner tonight at the country club?” he asked. “We haven’t been for a while.”

“Um . . . sure.”

“Great.”

He seemed relaxed, like he was trying to be kind. Was he coming to bury the hatchet? Was there a hatchet to even be buried? For some reason I started thinking of how weird it was that I would always be his son and he would always my father, that there was nothing that could ever change that. I didn’t know whether this permanence was comforting or terrifying.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“Great.”

“Nothing bad. Just talk to you.” He considered his words before going on. “Dade, I want us to be friends.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“No, scratch that. Not friends.” He thought for a moment. “I want to know what you’re going through. I want to understand this. As your father, I want to be there for you and your . . .” He gestured loosely with one hand until he found the word. “Gayness.”

“My gayness?”

“Your homosexuality. I guess that’s a better term.”

“Well, you didn’t seem too keen on understanding it the other day.”

“I was more angry about the fact that I found you half naked in the yard. The two got confused. You know, I love you too. Your mother’s not the only one.”

Love. People threw that word around like crazy. I thought about the poems I’d turned into ash. We sat there in silence for a few minutes. My dad looked around my room. At my posters, my books. Scattered clothes and the pile of crap my mother had bought me the other day. He let his gaze linger on the Johnny Morgan shrine on my wall.

“Is he your type?” he asked.

“Dad . . .”

“I want to know.” He pointed at a shirtless picture of Johnny. He was smiling cheesily into the camera. “Is he your dream guy? I mean, I’m assuming that’s why you put it up.”

“Dad, seriously. This is super awkward.”

“I just wanna know.”

Through the wall I heard the opening strains of “Never Forget.” My mother in her meditation room. Fleetwood Mac. She was probably drinking.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I said, getting up. “And then we can go to dinner.”

I went into my bathroom and shut the door, leaving him there on the edge of my bed. I thought I heard him say my name. I imagined him on my bed, lost among my things. My discarded clothing and my Johnny Morgan shrine. Dog-eared books by the Beats, by tragic female poets of the early twentieth century. My Andy Warhol calendar and the piles of
GQ
s that I’d stolen from him over the years. All those little parts of my life that made up who I was. I looked in the mirror and stared at my reflection, until I was in the head-clearing trance that comes when you stare at something for a long time, and then I turned on the shower and told myself that he hadn’t just said my name in the next room, that I’d imagined it.