Where You Are

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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O
UTSTANDING
P
RAISE FOR
J. H. T
RUMBLE AND
D
ON'T
L
ET
M
E
G
O
“J. H. Trumble's
Don't Let Me Go
is a sexy, vibrant, and heartfelt debut that captures the drama, heartache, joy, and all-around craziness of being young and in love.”
—Martin Wilson, award-winning author of
What They Always Tell Us
 
“
Don't Let Me Go
is a charming story about a boy who, although courageous, is no better than he needs to be—until he needs to be better. Trumble's love for the characters is evident on every page, and it's contagious.”
—Robin Reardon, author of
A Secret Edge
 
“Trumble's debut is a deeply moving and in-depth look at the perils and anxieties of being gay in high school.... Layered with the gritty everyday details of teen existence, the book provides a convincingly clear window into the many perils and sometimes scant pleasures of life in high school while never feeling overly grim; it will be appreciated by adults and teens alike.”
—
Publishers Weekly,
starred
 
“This is a book I could go on and on about. I loved it that much. It's a stellar debut.”
—GuysLit Wire
 
“Highly engaging . . . A relevant message coupled with a charming teen romance makes this debut novel a true champion.”
—
Edge
 
“This is an excellent coming-out/first love novel, giving a realistic look at the feelings as well as concerns that come along with each . . . Can't give it less than five stars out of five.”
—Bob Lind,
Echo Magazine
 
“This high-school-set story richly and smartly captures the thrilling highs and the devastating lows of a first love between two young men who deal with far more than the typical dramas in an average teenager's life.”
—
Instinct Magazine
 
“Poignant.”—
Next Magazine
 
“A great book for teens and adults alike.”—
Washington Blade
 
“Trumble excels at putting the reader inside the mind of a gay young man living in a largely unaccepting community. The emotion brought to this work is its strength and will leave readers pondering the reality of life as a queer teen . . . A wonderful first book.”
—
VOYA
Books by J. H. Trumble
 
Don't Let Me Go
 
Where You Are
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Where You Are
 
J. H. Trumble
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Steve, who adored his own children, but didn't get to see them grow up
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
From those early days when I was finding my way through this story to the final days of production, there were many who contributed to bringing this story to print. A heartfelt thank you to all of them:
My friend Brent Taylor (who squealed over my idea); my agent, Stephen Fraser; and my editor, Peter Senftleben—their enthusiasm for these characters and their brilliant suggestions made this story so much better than it might have been otherwise. And all those at Kensington Publishing who lent their talents to this work.
My sister-in-law, Dr. Teresa Guerrero, who's always generous with her medical expertise and rarely raises an eyebrow at my offbeat questions.
Don Stirman, who answered my legal questions, provided me with some interesting plot details, and shared his own story of falling in love with one of his students while never crossing that line. (He and Marie have been happily married for . . . well, a long time.)
My colleagues: Nancy Smith for giving her time and talent to excising my excess verbiage; Holly Walsh and Shelley Racca, whose classroom-management skills and dedication to their students inspired many elements in this story; Aimee Felio and Antoinette Sherman for their painstaking proofreading; and Sue Cox, my steadfast friend and head cheerleader.
The librarians of LM_NET who responded to my query and suggested
Robert the Rose Horse,
and thus led me to one of my favorite scenes.
And finally, my kids, Danny and Anna, whose pride in my accomplishments means more to me than anyone else's. You are my world.
They say, write what you know. And while, as writers do, I have drawn liberally from my own experiences to bring these characters to life, this novel is in no way a memoir.
Chapter 1
Andrew
 
You still here?
I'm giving a makeup test.
Crap! Stop by when you're done.
 
I close Jen's e-mail and check the time in the corner of my computer screen—ten minutes—then glance up at Robert Westfall again. He's resting his cheek on his fist now and absently doodling in the margins of his test. My heart breaks for him, and I find myself wondering what's showing at the cinema in his head. Memories of hanging out with his dad—maybe playing catch in the backyard, learning to swim at a neighborhood pool, pushing a lawnmower for the first time. Or maybe it's the moment he got the news yesterday, an endless loop of shock, terror, sadness. Or is it some future flick about life without a father?
I pick up my red pen again and straighten the stack of tests in front of me, but I don't grade any of them. I just watch him.
I knew something was going on. It was just a feeling, this sense that he was off balance and couldn't quite get his feet under him. And now as I watch him struggle with a calculus test that he'd methodically tear up any other day, I'm struck with the desire to reach out to him; I'm just not sure how.
It's funny really. I'm not usually this intuitive. While I'd like to believe that I'm in sync with my students, that I know when they're having a bad day or when their hormones are raging and they've chosen to indulge their impulses instead of doing their homework or studying, I'm not.
My freshman Algebra kids are so squirrely that all my energy goes into maintaining order and keeping those classes moving forward. My senior AP Calculus students, on the other hand, have a laser focus on that end-of-course exam. I challenge them academically; they challenge me. If anybody's having a bad day in that class, I guess they keep it to themselves.
But with Robert, I knew. He still turned in his homework. He paid attention. He even answered questions when I asked them. But he's been quieter. More introspective, I think. Just not himself.
He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand and attempts to focus on the problems again, but he looks perplexed, as if I've written the test in hieroglyphics and he just can't quite translate the problems.
Yesterday, his absence, that empty desk in the front row, pricked at my conscience. I thought about calling to make sure he was okay. I even retrieved his phone number. But I didn't call. Kids are absent—they get sick, they oversleep, they skip. The motivation to make that phone call seemed pretty thin. But Robert's not one of those kids. His absence was noteworthy and it bothered me more than it probably should have.
I turn back to my computer and scroll through the day's e-mail—notices of meetings scheduled and meetings canceled, an it's-still-not-too-late-to-sign-up invitation to Saturday night's school Christmas party (No, thank you.), a few eleventh-hour pleas from parents for extra-credit work, and a reminder that grades are due at three o'clock Friday afternoon. The
high priority
makes Ms. Lincoln's e-mail easy to spot.
To:
Fabiola Cortez, Bob Benson, Annet Nguyen, Richard Gorman, Susan Weatherford, Andrew McNelis, Bette Flowers
From:
Lynn Lincoln
Subject:
Robert Westfall
Teachers—
As you may already know, Robert Westfall's father has been battling brain cancer for the past ten years.
Yesterday the family received some devastating news.
Mr. Westfall's illness is terminal. According to Mrs.
Westfall, the doctors estimate that Robert's father may have only three to four weeks. Understandably, this is a difficult time for the family. It is likely that Robert's attendance may become intermittent during the next few months. Please be flexible in your expectations and offer him whatever accommodations are necessary to get him through this time. If you see that he is struggling emotionally, or if you have any concerns at all, please contact me. Thank you as always for all you do for our students.
 
Lynn Lincoln
Twelfth Grade Counselor
Poor kid
. I check the time again. Fifteen minutes now. I push back my chair and get up. It's my day to pick up Kiki, and I have a feeling that I could sit here with Robert for another fifteen hours, and he'd still be doodling in the margins.
In fact, he's so caught up in his head that he doesn't notice me approach or say his name. When I place my hand on his shoulder, he jumps.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”
His eyes fall on the test in front of him and he seems surprised that he's only addressed a couple of the questions. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. Then immediately follows that with an apology for his language.
“It's okay.” I pull a desk up close to his and sit. “A rough day yesterday?”
“Yeah. Pretty rough,” he says quietly.
“Anything I can do?”
He looks up at me, and his eyes seem to search mine like he's measuring the sincerity of my question. Suddenly I have a feeling the one thing this kid needs is the one thing I can't give him—a hug or maybe a friend he can really talk to.
“No,” he says, palming the back of his neck. “But thanks.”
“You look tired.”
Depressed
is what I'm really thinking. When he doesn't respond, I decide to make one of those accommodations Ms. Lincoln spoke of. “You know, you don't have to take this test,” I say, reaching for it. “I'm not worried about your mastery of this unit. You've mastered it. I can just double your last—”
“No. I can take the test,” he says, flattening his hand on the paper to hold it in place. I notice he's not wearing a class ring.
“Okay. But, you know, I have a daughter. She's going to be pretty upset if I don't pick her up from her day care before dark.”
He drops his head and then, suddenly agitated, runs his hand over his short blond hair a few times, then sighs heavily. “I'm sorry, Mr. Mac.” He grips his pencil and punches down the lead a few clicks. “I'll have it done in a few minutes.”
A few minutes? I don't think so. Not even for Robert. “It's okay.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I have some time. How about I walk you through the test? Maybe that will help you focus.”
I don't wait for him to answer. I collect a pencil and a few sheets of printer paper from my desk and sit back down. On the blank paper, I quickly review the first section, then wait while he works through the set of problems. I guess something about me sitting there with him chases away the distractions—he's quick and he's precise, making his marks with his distinct handwriting, which is tiny but highly legible.
When he's finished, he twists his head up to me.
“Nicely done,” I say, smiling. It feels good when he smiles back.
I place a big check mark over the section, and we move on to the next. While Robert is working, I find myself studying his face—the straight line of his nose, the freckle at the base of his neatly trimmed sideburn, the stray blond hairs on his jaw that he missed shaving this morning—and I can't help wishing that I'd known him when I was in high school.
Aside from the fact that he's a stellar student and a nice-looking kid, here's what I know about Robert:
1.
He's a member of the band guard. The only male member in fact. I might not have known this—I don't attend football games. No time with school and grad classes in the fall, and Kiki—but it seems to be an endless source of amusement for Jennifer.
2.
He has a boyfriend. Nicholas Taylor—Nic—cheerleader, ditzy blond, ghetto queen, Whore-Hay. All the kids call him that. Jorge, Whore-Hay. It's the year-round, fluorescent-lamp-enhanced tan, I think. I honestly don't get what Robert sees in Nic. The kid's a pretentious, over-the-top, party boy. Not his type at all.
3.
Robert is one hell of a brave kid. (See numbers 1 and 2.) I'd never have had the courage to be 100 percent O-U-T in high school. And he's not just Out; he's got that quiet confidence that draws other kids to him. I don't know if he knows it, but he does a lot to bring skeptics into the fold on our campus. You just can't not like him or respect him.
And right now, I can't not look at him.
When he finishes the set, he looks up at me, and I drop my eyes to the test and make a quick assessment of his answers.
Another big check mark and we move on. The next set is a little more challenging. I force myself to focus on this work. A couple of times he missteps, but a quick
uh-uh
from me makes him stop, rethink, erase, then move forward on the right track.
The last section is the trickiest, and I get a kick out of watching him wrestle with the problems. He looks at me a couple of times, but I just raise my brows and shrug. He takes that as a challenge. I don't help him on this section, so when he missteps, he finds himself in a tangle and has to back up. I'm proud of him when he finishes the last problem and slides the test across his desk to mine.
“I knew you could do it.”
“You did, huh?”
I check that section, then close the test and scrawl a big
100
across the top before I look back at him. “Yeah, I did.”
We enjoy a moment of what I think is mutual admiration, and then I clap him on the shoulder and take the test with me back to my desk.
Robert stands, stretches, then grabs his letter jacket off the back of the desk chair as I enter his grade in the computer. I'd like to close out my grade book, but I have some Algebra kids who are under water and need a lifeline, which I will attempt to provide over the next couple of days before grades are due.
As he leans down to zip up his backpack, I take a quick inventory of the letters on his jacket—academics, band, guard, choir. They should give letters for courage too.
He grabs his backpack by the strap and shoulders it, but seems reluctant to leave.
“I'm really sorry about your dad. How are you holding up?” I ask, coming around the desk. I lean against it and slide my hands in my pockets.
He chews on his bottom lip a moment, then says, “I don't even know how to answer that, Mr. Mac.”
How do I respond to that? I hate this. They don't train us for this kind of stuff. There are things I want to convey to him:
I'm here for you if you need to talk. I know what it's like to lose someone
. But all that sticks in my throat, because the truth is, I'm a teacher—not a friend, not a counselor. And I don't know what it's like to lose someone; my own parents are safe and sound in Oklahoma. I've not lost a single person in my life, not permanently at least. Besides, does he even want my sympathy? Kids can be so hard to read.
Jennifer Went makes my indecision moot when she chooses that moment to stick her head in the door.
“Oh. You're done,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say as she steps into the room. Robert mumbles a thank you, hitches up his backpack, and slips past her and out the door.
“They're making them big these days, aren't they?” she says, sticking her head back out the door to watch him go. “Mmm-mmm. He's a hottie.”
“You're not going all Mary Kay Letourneau on me, are you?”
“I don't know. I might be willing to spend a few years in prison for a few minutes in heaven with that one—”
“Arrgghh. Kidding, right?”
“—even if he is a little light on his feet,” she finishes, then laughs.
I ignore the slur.
“So, how about I buy you a Frappuccino?” she asks brightly.
I already know that
buy you a Frappuccino
is just code for
read my next chapter
. Jennifer fancies herself a romance author. Her college roommate put herself through school writing erotica. Jen sees no reason she can't get herself out of school writing romance.
I suspect she fancies me as well. I mean, what could be more attractive than a twenty-four-year-old, divorced high school teacher with a two-year-old, a student-loan debt that rivals the GNP of any number of small nations, an efficiency apartment, and a six-year-old Civic with a crack in the windshield?
“I've got Kiki,” I say.
“Aaaah. Bring her too.”
 
“So? What do you think?” Jennifer asks. “Juicy, huh?”
Kiki is sitting on her knees and eating a yogurt parfait. I wrinkle my nose at her and she wrinkles hers back. I stack the pages neatly together and hand them across the table to Jen.

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