True Letters from a Fictional Life (7 page)

Theresa called for a repeat
dinner party at her place that Saturday night. Her parents were out of town, and once again it would be just Derek, Kim, Theresa, and me. I agreed to go only because it was a second chance for Derek with Kim, but I knew Theresa saw the night as a chance to fix things with me. My plan was to play it cool, go home at the end of the night, avoid giving her the wrong idea.

Theresa told us not to bring anything to drink because she had it covered, but given that she'd run out last time, Derek and I decided to bring a few bottles of wine just in case.

When we got out of the car at Theresa's and were fixing
our ties in the driveway, Derek stopped me from bringing the wine in with us. “Just in case she really does have it covered.”

Once inside, we followed Theresa into her kitchen. “Mind if I pour us some wine?” I asked.

“Oh, dear,” said Theresa, a finger to her lips, pretending she hadn't even thought about it. “It appears that I am fresh out. But there's some beer in the fridge.”

I looked over Derek's shoulder as he pushed aside cartons of orange juice and milk. He found four beers. “Is this the fridge you were talking about?” he asked.

“Dude, you left your car unlocked, right?” I whispered.

Three minutes later everyone was holding a glass of four-dollar red, but only Derek and I looked really happy about it. Kim's smile was nervous. “C'mon, Theresa, cheer up! It's a glass of wine!”

“It's three
bottles
of wine.”

Derek offered a toast, “To the Boy Scouts, who exhort us to always be prepared.” I laughed loud enough that Theresa winced, and I apologized, but she told us to get out of her way, to go hang out in the living room. When I came back into the kitchen twenty minutes later to uncork another bottle, she looked tense. “Can we save that one for dinner?” she asked.

I pointed to the third bottle on the counter. “We got plenty. You seen the corkscrew?”

She stepped in front of me, fixed my collar and tie, and kissed me. “Hi,” I responded. She was waiting for me to kiss
her back. So I did. “The corkscrew? Where does it live? This drawer?”

She turned back to fixing a salad. “You know,” she said, “it'd be nice if you were somewhat sober at the end of the night.”

“Hey! This bottle's a twist-off anyway—I don't even need the corkscrew!” I started to leave and then stopped. “Do you want me to help?”

She shook her head. Silently.

Looking back on the night, I don't think I even drank that much, but I hadn't eaten anything all day. I remember coming back into the kitchen, taking over the job of sautéing Brussels sprouts, and feeling like I was doing an awesome job. While I cooked, I told Kim a long story about how Derek once rescued dozens of puppies from a burning skyscraper—“he's that good of a guy.” Derek kept telling me to shut up, but he was laughing, and at one point Kim giggled with her forehead on his shoulder, and he put his arm around her. I remember shouting that I'd discovered my passion, that I was going to apply to culinary school, which made even Theresa crack up.

I don't remember everything I said at dinner but I do remember talking about the semiformal dance Theresa and I were going to the next weekend at Kim's school. The dance was to raise money for a kid who got hurt in a snowmobile accident. I really didn't want to go. “Are you
sure
kids from
other schools are allowed in?” I asked.

“They just want your money, James. Wear that tie, and you're good.”

“Hey,” I yelled, pointing at Kim and Derek. Theresa hushed me. “You guys should go! Do you have a date, Kim?”

She drank from her glass and shook her head at the same time.

“That would've been good, but I can't go,” Derek said quietly. “I'm going to see my aunt in Boston with my parents. She's not doing well.”

“Ah, crap,” I cried. “Well, next time then. Maybe Hawken should go.”

Derek dropped his fork, and Theresa glared at me.

“Not with Kim.” I laughed. “I just mean it'd be fun if he came along, too. You know. For the hell of it.” No one seemed to think it was a good idea. “I'm sure that messed up snowmobiler kid would appreciate Hawken coming along,” I muttered.

Later, after telling a story about one of Hawken's amazing goals in soccer, I remember closing my eyes and telling myself,
Don't bring him up anymore
. And I remember Derek saying, “Liddell, put down your glass, take out your phone, and call home to say you're staying at my place. Right now.” I remember Rex answering, shouting the news to my parents, and then shouting into the phone, “They said okay.”

Not long after, Theresa whispered, “James, you're slurring.” I vaguely remember hugging Kim good night when her
brother picked her up, and I remember lying on the couch, leaving Derek the job of talking to Theresa in the kitchen. The room started to spin, and I tried to stop it by pressing my foot into the floor.

Then I woke up at 5:40 a.m., my mouth dry and a wrecking ball swaying inside my head. I was in Theresa's bed, wearing only boxers. What had I done?

She was there, too, her back to me. Was that taste just wine? It wasn't vomit. At least I hadn't been sick. I stood up, felt dizzy, and grabbed the bedpost to steady myself, then shuffled to the bathroom. When I came back, Theresa was awake and facing me.

“Morning,” I croaked. “Sorry to wake you.”

“You okay?” she asked.

“I'm good. I mean, I want to die, but I'm good.” I tried to laugh, dropping onto the bed. “I got really drunk, huh?”

“You got
really
drunk.”

“Did I have a good time?”

No response.

“I mean, did
you
have a good time?”

She didn't answer right away. “It's not all that nice climbing into bed with a corpse, you know?”

I was probably supposed to apologize by taking her hand in mine or something. I didn't. “I didn't even drink that much,” I groaned. “I don't know what happened.” How much had I talked about Hawken? What had I said about him?

“You were a drunken idiot. That's what happened.”

I rolled away from her. Part of me was relieved—I hadn't done anything to make her think we were any more serious than before. But I didn't like her calling me a drunken idiot. I once saw a guy at a Bruins game, years earlier, who was so drunk that he fell over the seats in front of him and spilled beer all over these little kids. My dad turned to my brothers and me and said over the shouting and crying, “And
that
, my friends, is why you don't want to become a drinker.”

Birds were beginning to chirp in the gray light. I rolled over onto my back. “You have any Advil or anything like that?” She didn't offer to get it for me. She just told me where to find it, and I nodded, flung my arm over my face, and tried pushing against that wrecking ball to make room for sleep.

That afternoon I drank gallons of water, fell into a coma for two hours, and then forced myself to go for a long run. I'd read that it's a good way to feel better after a night like that one. I don't know if it's because you sweat the poison out of your system or because it just feels like the right punishment, but either way it works for me. I threw up on a back road at the top of the biggest hill. It was self-inflicted misery that I was somehow proud to suffer. The rest of the way home was torture, too, which made me feel even better. When I got out of the shower, I actually felt pretty good, if not exactly relaxed.

I couldn't stop thinking about how I just had to get over
Hawken and either make things work with Theresa or tell her we were done. Those thoughts were on a loop in my head. They kept me awake that night. Eventually, I turned my light on and tried anesthetizing myself with the collection of Nathaniel Hawthorne stories that I keep by my bed for just such emergencies. But even that didn't work. I got up and started writing a letter at 2:00 a.m., and, looking back, I think I was trying too hard to sound cheerful.

Sunday, April 24th

Dear God,

Since you're all-knowing and all-powerful, omniscient even, it may be unnecessary to put what's going through my head on paper. I suspect you already know what I'm thinking and feeling. That is, of course, if you actually exist. To be honest, I have my doubts. You have to admit, given this world of suffering, it can be tough to believe there's any sort of Loving Grand Design. But let's assume for at least the length of this letter that you do exist and you're not the sicko that all the violence in this world suggests you must be. Heck, from now on, for decorum's sake, I'll even give you the respect of capitalizing the pronouns that refer to You.

So—You already know what I'm going to write, but I'll go through the motions of doing it anyway. I guess that's what praying is all about, huh? You're probably not impressed that I have to ask about the point of prayer, but You can take that up with my parents. They fell away from
religion before I had any say in the matter.

Anyway, I'm writing to ask for a cure. “For Aaron?” You ask. Well, yes and no. Please let him get better soon, yeah, but the work's not done after that.

I want a cure for boys who like other boys. I've read that three percent of the population's afflicted, so it's not totally selfish. Gagging syrups, nauseating serums, caustic powders, horse-sized pills: I'll take 'em. I'll wash 'em down with orange juice. Just make my life a little easier, would You? I mean, how the hell am I supposed to handle all this? I don't know if it's Your fault that I like guys, but I don't think it's mine.

Here's what I'd like to happen: Tomorrow morning when I wake up I want to be with Theresa. I want to call her. She's on my mind all day. I sit next to Hawken in math, and he interests me as much as the dull numbers on the blackboard. He smiles at me, and I do not want to put my arm around him. Theresa sits down next to me at lunch, and I get all nervous and happy, the way I usually do when I sit next to Hawken. When I kiss Theresa at her locker after school, I'm all grinny the way Derek used to get when he'd kiss what's her name. Oh, that's a good one: I can suddenly remember Derek's girlfriends' names without any trouble because I think they're cute, too. Maybe Derek and I swap girls at some point. You might not be as into that part of the plan, but You get the idea.

I'm glad We have an agreement. (Do I capitalize We because You're involved, or does my own inclusion in the term sink it to the lowercase?) I'm looking forward to waking
up straight tomorrow morning. I'll strut downstairs into the kitchen, pour myself some cereal, and when my mom asks, “What's happening at school today?” I'll say, “Mom, I don't know, but I want to go screw me some girls.”

You're the one who said go forth and multiply. Just trying to be obedient.

Your faithful servant,

James

I barely saw Theresa the
rest of the week, and Derek mentioned the dinner party only once, during an afternoon run. “You were funny for about forty-five minutes, and then I wanted to murder you. I didn't because I figured Theresa would want to do it herself.” I tried to change the subject. Had he talked to Kim since then? “We've texted, yeah. But you should be more worried about whether Theresa's finally going to lose her patience with you,” he warned. “If I were you, I'd be on my best behavior at that dance on Friday. It might be your last chance with her.”

Hawken and I had a rare midweek indoor soccer match, so I drove us down to the field with my dad. We were
listening to the oldies station. It's a habit we've developed because there are so few options on the radio dial up here and Rex jammed a bunch of nickels into the CD drive a few years ago. While we were pulling onto the highway, the song “Just My Imagination” by the Temptations came on, the one with the chorus: “It was just my imagination / Running away with me.” It was weird, because I'd had that song stuck in my head all week. There had been moments in the days after Aaron got punched when I'd been convinced that I was going to wake up in my bed to find that nothing had happened.

“I was reading the town's online forum this morning,” my dad said suddenly. “There was a thread about bullying at your school.” And then he asked point-blank, “Is Aaron really gay?”

I glanced at Hawken in the rearview mirror. He made his eyes wide. They were exactly the same color as his bright blue fleece. I took a few seconds to think about my answer.

Aaron acts gay. He dresses gay. He walks and talks gay. I'd heard that he has declared more than once, publicly, “I am gay.”

“I don't know,” I mumbled.

“Why do so many people
think
he's gay? Does he have a boyfriend?”

“I don't know,” I said again. Not a word from Hawken.

“I mean, is he really effeminate? Your mom said he dresses sort of differently from other boys in your class, but
he might just have a different sort of style, right? It doesn't necessarily mean he's a homosexual.”

Neither Hawken nor I responded, but my dad went on doggedly. “The reason I wonder about it is because some people are saying that Mark punched Aaron because he's gay, right? But how would Mark know? How would Aaron even know? He's, what, sixteen? Seventeen? I mean, it's clear that he goes out of his way to be different, and if kids are bullying him, it might be because they feel threatened somehow by Aaron's decision to flout social norms. But if Aaron blended in a bit more, the other boys might not feel so aggressive toward him, right?”

“I don't know,” I muttered.

“I'm not at all defending Mark for being a belligerent drunk. I'm not saying that he deserves our sympathy for throwing punches, although I have to say I do feel sorry for anyone who's messed up his own life for a while, not to mention someone else's. But I wonder whether Aaron's sexual orientation makes any difference here. If Aaron were straight and dressed and acted the way he does, wouldn't he be just as likely to earn your classmates' contempt?”

“I don't know.”

“And if kids like you two, who dress normally, walk and talk normally, do well in school and in sports, try to makes friends with everyone, if either of you were gay, you probably wouldn't be a target of violence, would you? I bet, in fact, that no one would care very much that you were gay. They
wouldn't feel like you were challenging them, the way that Aaron seems to.”

“It's true,” Hawken finally chimed in. “I don't think anyone would care that much if one of us were gay.” He uttered those last words uncomfortably slowly. We made eye contact in the rearview mirror again, and I felt like I could read his mind:
Tell him
. I scowled just enough for him to see, and he put his forehead on the cold window. I wanted to do the same thing.

“Slow down, James.”

Glancing at the dashboard, I saw that I was doing seventy-five. I slowed down.

If I'd been alone with my dad in the car, I wondered, would I have taken the chance to open up? Would I have found the guts just to start talking and say,
Well, as a matter of fact . . .
I wondered if Aaron had told his mom. I mean, unless his mom's brain-damaged, the news wouldn't be a big surprise to her. He could probably just say, “Mom, I'm gay, and also I need more glitter nail polish.” He wouldn't be turning her world upside down.

“It must be hard for Aaron's parents,” my dad mused.

I looked back at Hawken. He frowned and sat up straight. “His father's not in the picture,” he said. “I think his parents are divorced.”

“Rocket Man” by Elton John came on the radio just then, and my hand collided with my dad's as we both lunged for the dial. He cracked up. My brother Luke used to play that tune
on the piano so often that my dad finally banned it. I was relieved when he did. Elton John made me uncomfortable.

When we got back from the game, my brother Luke called from college. He's two years older than me, and he goes to college in Maine. I'd spoken to him briefly last week and told him about Aaron and Mark. I'm sure my parents had talked to him about it, too, but they must not have described Aaron in much detail. Luke got under my skin that night, so I ended up climbing out of bed at 12:34 a.m. and scribbling him a letter.

I didn't really start writing right away. I did what I often do—I just sat there with my notebook open and my pen in my hand and stared out the window, off into the forest, waiting for that moose to come back out of the trees. I know it gets cold out there, but wandering over the hills, not worrying about who you're going to be in ten or twenty years, whether you'll keep your friends and family—I've spent a lot of time imagining myself setting off into those woods with just a backpack.

In some ways, Luke's changed a lot since he went away, but in others he's exactly the same. We've never been the kind of brothers who have to be kept in separate cages so we won't claw or bite each other, but for a while, when I was in middle school, we weren't all that close. It wasn't until the fall of my freshman year, when Luke was a junior, that we became pretty tight. Our relationship changed in a single afternoon, a perfect Saturday in October, when the hills were red and
yellow against a bright blue sky, and Luke nearly burned the house down.

My parents had gone to a wedding and left him in charge. About an hour after, Rex began demanding lunch, and Luke announced that he would make his specialty, grilled cheese. “You have a specialty?” I asked.

“I'm developing it today,” he explained.

Sometimes to keep Rex in one place, especially at meal times, we tied him to a kitchen chair and told him we were playing “Kidnapped on Planet Xiphoid.” And sometimes, when Rex wasn't in a high-pitched screaming mood, we blindfolded him, too. Luke had just shoved bread topped with cheddar into the toaster oven and was pulling anything red or peppery from the spice rack, and I was just tying the last knots over the blindfolded prisoner's wrists when I smelled smoke. I turned around and screamed. Flames shot from the toaster oven and licked at the curtains and kitchen cabinets. Luke looked up from the spices, leaped to the sink, and filled a pitcher with water.

“Unplug it! Unplug it!” I yelled, and lunged across the kitchen to pull the plug from its socket just before Luke threw water at the inferno and mostly missed, soaking a row of cookbooks. Rex stood with his chair and ran for the door, but hit the wall next to it instead. I knocked the flaming oven off the counter so it banged to the floor, and then I grabbed my favorite hoodie, my all-time favorite gray hoodie, and with half a dozen whumping blows, beat the flames to death.

Luke kicked the smoking oven and cursed at it.

Breathing hard, we surveyed the damage. Blackened cabinets. Charcoal-stained rug. Sopping-wet cookbooks. Blindfolded seven-year-old brother tied to kitchen chair.

Luke started to giggle.

“You nearly burned the freaking house down,” I panted, still shaking with adrenaline. “The curtains almost caught fire! The whole place could've gone up! What's funny about that?”

“Imagine mom walking into the kitchen right now,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

I started to laugh, too. “They're going to kill us.”

Luke pointed at Rex, face to the wall, the chair still tied to him.

“I don't want to play this anymore,” Rex called over our laughter.

It didn't take long to mop up the water, air out the house, and dispose of the toaster and rug, and Rex agreed it would be wise to skip his role in the drama when we explained the burned cabinets to our parents.

My mom had to sit down when she saw the damage. “The one time we leave you in charge you nearly burn down the house?” she shouted at Luke. “How is it that the toaster oven has worked perfectly well for fifteen years and suddenly, today, when you happen to be on your own, it goes up in flames?”

“Maybe because it was fifteen years old?” I suggested.

“Maybe because it hated you and saw its chance to kill your children?” proposed Luke.

“It's caught fire before,” my dad muttered. My mom swung to face him. “Crumbs catch fire,” he said with a shrug.

Maybe it was my willingness to share the blame. Maybe it was our telling and retelling of the story to everyone at school. In any case, Luke and I spent more time together and laughed at each other's jokes more easily after that day.

I started writing to Luke at a little past one in the morning, while Aaron's pink PEZ alligator peeked at me over the rim of the coffee can.

Wednesday, April 27th

Hey, Luke,

I just spoke to you a little while ago, but here I am writing a letter anyway because you started doing this thing tonight that I haven't heard you do in a long time and, to be honest, I was glad when you stopped doing it. You started lisping like some sort of drag queen and calling me darling and stuff like that, and I could hear your buddies cracking up in the background. It's not that big of a deal or anything, but I kept wishing you'd stop. That's why I was saying, “Luke. Hey, Luke, listen,” really patiently, but sometimes it's pretty tough to shut you up, you know? I sort of wanted to hang up.

The thing is, I might as well tell you since you're not getting this letter, I'm pretty sure I do like boys, and listening to
you lisp makes me think we're probably not going to be friends some day. I know you're just joking around, but it makes me worry that when you find out, we're never going to speak again. And, frankly, if you continue lisping, that'll be fine. Most of the time I do like hanging out with you, Luke. I like being your brother, but I don't know how our lives are all going to work out. Maybe you'll realize that just because I like boys, it doesn't mean I'm going to become a flaming fashion designer. Or maybe we'll talk only once every couple of years when we happen to cross paths in the driveway at Christmas. If I'm still allowed home.

I get pretty scared about all of this. Remember that time you announced you were going to become a Yankees fan, just to annoy Dad? His response: “I'd have an easier time if you came home and told me you were gay.” It was probably a forgettable comment for you. I remember exactly where I was standing in the living room. I'm still hoping I wake up totally straight tomorrow and none of this will be an issue. That'd be great. Until that happens, though, do me a favor and quit the lisping.

Okay, Luke. We're all set, then. I've had my moment of super-mature honesty, so now I can go back to being your annoying little brother. Always loyal to that role, I have stolen a jacket and a lamp from your room, and I think Derek might have pocketed some of your stuff as well. We were digging through your sock drawer a couple of weeks ago, hoping to find a lighter, but all we found was a copy of
Playboy.
Derek pointed out that you're the only person on the planet who
actually buys dirty magazines anymore. Anyway, it answered any doubts I had about your sexuality. I had to feign interest while Derek examined every page. Very awkward. He wanted to borrow it, but I made him return it to your hiding spot.

Those are the moments when I really worry about myself. I wasn't all that interested. I just wanted a beer. We ended up drinking warm Michelob Lights that we'd stolen from Derek's garage. Of course, his dad noticed them missing and went ballistic. But it was light beer—fewer calories. Parents never see the bright side of delinquency.

Talk to you soon, dude.

James

Breyer started English class on Friday with good news. He'd just hung up the phone with Aaron's mom, and the doctors said Aaron could probably go home that weekend. “What a f-f-freaking relief.” Breyer laughed. We'd never heard him come even close to cursing, so we all cracked up. Everyone was suddenly in a good mood as we pushed desks aside for little performances of scenes from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. Breyer assigned us our roles, and Hawken and I ended up in the same group. We had to act out the play within the play—Hawken was Pyramus, and I was Thisby. Hawken stabbed himself and sprawled on the floor and I had to kneel right next to him and say:

Asleep my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise!

Speak, speak. Quite dumb?

Dead, dead? A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,

Are gone, are gone.

Lover, make moan.

His eyes were green as leeks.

Breyer took me aside beforehand and instructed me to perform that passage in two different ways: once to get a laugh, and once to “hush the room with sadness,” as he put it. He said it would be really hard to manage the second, serious reading, but I nailed it by getting all quiet and whispering some of the words. I didn't touch Hawken while he was lying there, but I had to remind myself not to stroke his hair or anything. When we finished, everyone applauded, genuinely—it wasn't the usual polite golf-clap. Hawken was smirking as he stood up, and he pretended to punch me in the gut.