“But he was with him!”
“I know. That’s the fourth time you’ve told me.”
“But . . . ”
“Matt, did you talk to him? Of course you did. What did he say?”
“He said he was sitting at the concert and there was an empty seat next to him, and Timothy came and sat in it.”
Becky was looking at me, clearly waiting for me to go on. I didn’t. That was all Kevin had said.
When she saw I was done, she just shook her head at me and leaned back against the pillows that were propped against the headboard of her bed. I was pacing the floor at the end of her bed.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re worried because some kid Kevin doesn’t even know seems like he might be interested in him. Either that, or the kid was looking for an empty seat, found one, and sat in it, and it happened to be next to Kevin. And what else? Oh, I know. You’re the one who keeps telling Kevin he needs to find someone his own age to be with. That you want to be his friend, but not his boyfriend. He might want to mess around a little, but you’re against that. No no no, no messing around with Kevin for you. And now, a kid his own age might be interested in him, and you’re over here pacing all around my bedroom, all worked up over it. Am I saying this right? Am I missing something?”
I nodded. I knew it was crazy. But that didn’t make me feel any better. Logic and emotions were two different things.
“You do want him to be happy, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. It’s just—”
“And you’re not planning on being boyfriends any time soon, are you?” she asked, cutting me off.
“No, but—”
“Matt, you can’t have it both ways. He wants you. Only you. But at some point, you have to decide what you want. If you want him, he’s there, and you’ll make two people really happy. Three, really, because I’ll be happy, too. If you can’t make that decision, then you have to let him go. You have to allow him to be happy. That’s all there is to it.”
“I’m not ready for that! I know how I feel about him, but nothing’s changed. He’s still two years and two grades younger than I am, and I’ll still be leaving him for college. Nothing’s changed!”
“Oh yes it has. A cute boy is attracted to him. At least that’s what you think. That’s what you’re afraid of. That’s certainly a change.”
I knew that. Which is why I felt so awful and confused and scared, and, and, and awful.
◊ ◊
It was near the end of the first week of school after Christmas break. We were in Kevin’s room, lying on his bed. He came to my house more than I went to his, probably because I didn’t just show up at his door as much as he showed up at mine. I didn’t feel good just dropping in on him. It was the age thing again. We were friends and all, but I thought I was too old for him, and it embarrassed me; it seemed somehow inappropriate to just knock on his door like we were buddies who hung out together. I mean, we were, and we did, but it felt funny. Maybe you had to be 16 to understand.
But I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days. He’d been sick and missed two days of school, and then when he came back he’d been spending time getting missed assignments figured out, and then he told me he had a meeting with his guidance counselor and so we only had a couple minutes at lunch, and he missed gym for some reason, he probably had a doctor’s note, and I was feeling lonely without seeing enough of him. So, I went to his house.
He was happy to see me if his smile meant anything. He’d complained once or twice about the fact he was always coming to my house, and whenever I did go to his, the surprised smile on his face told me that it really did bother him that I didn’t do it more often. I think my coming to his house confirmed to him that I really did like him.
He’d been doing makeup work, and I asked if he wanted me to leave so he could get it done, and the look on his face told me he didn’t, if I interpreted his disgusted scowl correctly. That general idea was reinforced, too, when he quickly closed his door and leaned his back against it.
We were lying on the bed now, mostly talking about nothing, just the crap teens talk about. Our shoulders were touching. I don’t know if he knew that. I did. What we were saying wasn’t of any consequence. School gossip, teachers, why they had to be like they were, what classes sucked big time and why, what movies we wanted to see, the usual stuff. Then he changed the subject.
“Matt, I haven’t said anything for a while, but, well, you know how I was complaining I hadn’t started puberty yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I did, or I have. I’ve grown a little, and I have hair, and I’m developing. I want to show you.”
“Show me?! You don’t need to show me! I believe you. I’ve already noticed you’ve got hair in your pits, and I assumed that wasn’t the only place. And I saw that you’re growing. You’re still a runt, of course. What are you now, five foot one?”
I said all this in a teasing voice, of course, not a mean one. I was happy for him.
“No, I’m five three, or maybe even four now, as fast as I’m shooting up. I’ll catch your five six by the end of the year.”
“No way! I’m still growing too, and I’m almost six feet now. Five six?! You’re out of your mind!”
“Sure I am. Just like you are when you say you’re almost six feet. And when I pass you and am looking down on you, you’ll still be saying that. Stop lying to yourself, Matt. Someday, not too far out, you’re going to be the shrimp. I won’t beat you up too often; just as often as you need it.”
I rolled over and started tickling him, and he squirmed and rolled around, and got hard like he always did. He told me to stop and did so in the way he used that told me he meant it, so I stopped. He was lying next to me, and his pants were pooched out.
“Okay, now I can really show you how much I’ve grown.” And he reached for his buckle.
“Stop, Kevin!”
“Why?” he asked, and continued to undo his belt.
I grabbed his hand. “Kevin, don’t you know how difficult this is for me? Saying no to you all the time when I really want to say yes? If you take off your clothes, and you’re hard, you’re not going to want to stop at that, and I might not be able to either. You can’t do this. It’s just too hard.”
“Yeah, I can see you’re hard, too. Let me see it. Pleeeease!.”
“No! Come on, Kevin!”
“Matt, you keep telling me I’m too young. I want to show you I’m not. Not any more. I want to prove it. You’ll believe me if you see me hard. I want you to.”
“I know you do. And there’s something wrong with me because I want to see it. But it’ll lead us where I can’t let us go. We have to stop. This is too hard.”
“Yeah I want to see just how hard it is.” And he reached down and felt me!
I looked at him dumbfounded, but then the absurdity of the whole situation hit me. We wanted each other, the atmosphere was filled with emotion and excitement and sexual tension, and I was refusing to do what we both wanted to do because of my stupid principles, that was the only thing stopping us, and right now it all seemed so very silly, and maybe there was a little fear mixed in, too, but I began to laugh. Nervously at first, then it changed into a fully-engaged, roaring, tension-easing laugh. I guess it was contagious because he began laughing too, after another squeeze. We laughed together, lying on our backs. We laughed till we had tears in our eyes. I was hoping he thought all mine came from the laughing.
◊ ◊
He was back in gym the next day. We were playing volleyball now, and Kevin’s quickness and athleticism made him a great setter. We had a couple tall kids playing the front line, and Kevin and I did our best to set the ball up for spikes. It shouldn’t surprise you that Kevin and I were on the same team again. We’d been on the same team since I’d talked to my dad about it before Christmas. One way or another, it always seemed to work out that way.
I did mention that I loved my dad, didn’t I?
We had a good couple games, then hit the locker room, tired and happy. I told Kevin I’d see him at lunch, and joined the other guys who showered. I was enjoying the hot water and had just lathered my hair when I heard, “Mind if I shower here?” I knew that voice.
“Kevin?” Oh shit, I thought.
I rinsed the shampoo off as quickly as I could and when I could safely open my eyes, did so and turned my head to my right. Kevin was showering right next to me. I tried to look away, but there was no way I could do that. I’d always thought that Kevin was the best looking boy I’d ever seen. Now I was seeing all of him. All of him! I suppose I should try to describe him, but all he was, was a naked, wet, unbelievably attractive blond boy. And you certainly know what one of those looks like. However, he was a more beautiful one than the one you’re thinking of. An almost breathtakingly beautiful one. He was still smaller than most of us, especially as mostly only upper classmen showered, but he was perfect. Shoulders wider than his hips, slender but with some muscle in his chest and arms, perfect skin, perfect—well, just perfect. And gorgeous. His equipment was small, like he was, but nothing to be ashamed of, and I couldn’t look at it without feeling an accustomed tingling down below that was always a precursor of things to come, so I looked away quickly. I looked back at his face, and saw where he was looking. He was being a bit obvious about it, too. He was staring at me the same way I’d oh so briefly glanced at him.
I turned and shut off my shower, then strode quickly from the shower room, grabbing two towels on my way out and wrapping one around myself. Just in time.
◊ ◊
Lunch that day was different. Not the setting. We were at our table, Becky, Kevin and I. It was a gorgeous, warm day. The other tables were full of noisy, boisterous kids, except the tables where kids were doing homework or reading as they ate. A couple of lunch monitors were talking to each other. There was a feeling of normality about everything. That was as it always was. It was our conversation that was different.
“You did?!”
“Yep. I just stripped naked and walked proudly into the showers, right through the locker room where every eye turned to ogle at the spectacle of pure male godliness marching past them. Marching bravely and proudly, no embarrassment or doubt in my mien.”
“Did you just say ‘ your mien?’ Really?” Becky was leaning forward slightly, a grin on her face, her eyes eager, so taken by what Kevin was saying, and what he’d be saying next. And after that.
“My mien. My bearing. Haughty and noble.”
“Hope you didn’t trip over your haughty and noble ego,” I put in, but they both ignored me. It didn’t bother me; when these two got going, I was used to it.
“Anyway, I walk into the showers and look around. There was all this upper-classman nudity on display, guys washing their balls and whatnots. I hardly know where to look, what to do. I mean, if you’ve never had ice cream before in your life and you walk into a Baskin-Robbins and there are all those barrels of the stuff on display, and they’re even offering free samples, what do you do?”
Becky leaned forward even farther; her eyes were sparkling.
“So I stand there just taking in the sights, maybe licking my lips a little, but, you know, you have to show a little decorum, a little tact, you need to look like you’ve been around the track a couple times or the guys’ll think you’re pretty raw and might treat you like a newbie. Hey, I ain’t no punk, man. So, I—”
He paused there and twisted so more of his back was toward me as he waited for me to stop laughing, which I eventually did.
“—I don’t just stand there drooling very long at all. Instead I sort of saunter casually over to this empty showerhead. I just pick one at random.”
“Yeah. Random. Yeah.”
“Shut up, Matt. Go ahead, Kevin.”
“So I politely ask whoever it is if I can shower there, you know, showing respect for one of the older guys, not acting like a pussy or anything, just being polite and dignified and letting everyone know I belong among them, like I’m a regular customer there. Well, you can imagine my surprise when the guy I’m asking, whose head is covered in suds so I have no idea who it is, him being naked and all and I’ve never seen a naked guy that looks, so, so, gee, what’s the word—?”
“Handsome? Buff? Hung? Large? Studly?”
“No, those aren’t the words I was looking for, Becky. Oh, wait, now I got it. Abnormal. That’s it. That the abnormal guy is Matt!”
I’d been drinking my milk, and it sort of accidentally exploded all over the table in front of me. “Abnormal?!”
“Uh oh, my mother warned me about being too honest,” Kevin said as a sort of aside to Becky.
“What do you mean, abnormal?” I almost shouted, and Becky looked around in alarm. People were looking our way.
“Well, you have to admit, you aren’t, uh, normal, down there.”
“I am too,” I was protesting, while at the same time Becky, almost frothing at the mouth in her excitement, was saying, “What’s he look like? Tell me!”
“Well, you see—” he began, when I jumped in ahead of him. “Kevin, we’re NOT going to talk about my, uh, parts at the lunch table. In fact, we’re NEVER going to talk about them with Becky. And,” I said, turning to Becky, “they’re perfectly normal, and that’s all you ever need to know.” Then I added, to reinforce what I was saying and avoid any misunderstandings, I said, “About them.”
She was turned back to Kevin by then, and totally ignoring my outburst, eyes sparkling in eager anticipation, said, “Go ahead. Tell me.”
Kevin looked a little apologetically at me for a moment, then said softly, almost sadly, “You know I have to do this, Matt,” and turned back to her.
“Becky, I don’t have great experience in looking at naked male youths. So for comparative purposes, I’m probably not the one to come to as an expert. In fact, it would probably be appropriate to say that today, I saw examples of the species gathered together en masse in the raw, for the very first time open for my review. So ‘abnormal’ is a value judgment based on a narrow set of samples. You do understand, don’t you?”
Becky couldn’t even speak, as engrossed in the subject as she was. She nodded, and motioned with her hands for him to go on.
“Well then, when I say ‘abnormal,’ it is meant to convey the fact that Matt’s, uh, dangling participles were much different from the others that were on display before my eyes today. I saw lots of stuff in that room. Long and short, pale and dark, fat and thin. I saw scroti—” He looked at me then, and raised his eyebrows, conveying the impression that I was an expert on these matters and should know the correct plural of ‘scrotum’ as well as I knew my name. I just frowned at him. This was his performance, not mine—”scroti, scrotums, whatever, and pubes and believe me, it was a feast set before a hungry traveler, but my eyes were drawn to Matt, and to that piece of elongated meat and hanging doodads he possessed. As I say, my impression was fast, but pure. ‘Abnormal,’ indeed. Because there, before me, uncovered, finally, finally, was displayed the most perfect set of genitalia I could imagine seeing. ‘Abnormal’ they must be, because they weren’t anything like the ordinary stuff the other boys in that room boasted. That was prosaic, uninspired genitalia, and, while certainly enticing as it was in its own right, it paled by comparison. It was simply penises and balls, while Matt was, in his own retiring and entirely unassuming manner, showing us the quintessential, the exemplar, the apotheosis of the ideal package. It just can’t be denied, Becky. Matt has the perfect dick.”
I dropped my head on the table and covered it with my arms, and rocked my upper body back and forth, all the time moaning softly. I tried to think thoughts of other subjects. I thought of verdant country landscapes, of streams babbling through them. I thought of fast cars taking tight corners, the outer wheels starting to rise off the pavement as though God were tugging on them. I thought of cotton candy, sticky and sweet and light as air. Anything, anything at all to take me somewhere else.
But in the background, as though at a distance, as though being filtered through that billowy pink confection, I could hear, “But how big is it? Is it longer than average? Was it a little hard? Or a lot? Tell me!”
◊ ◊
I knocked on Mr. Tollini’s office door, and entered after hearing his familiar, “Come.”
“Hey, Matt? How’s it going. By the way, I need to compliment you. The clarinets are sounding the best they ever have. You’ve been working with them, haven’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but I can only do so much. If they’re getting better, they deserve the credit because they’re doing the work to make it happen.”
He looked at me and a grin formed, but he didn’t say anything else, letting his silence talk for him.
“Uh, Mr. T., I want to talk to you about the concerto.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Well, I don’t want to play it. I want to do something else, instead.”
His grin turned into a small frown. “Matt, I know the solo’s hard, but we’ve still got time. And you don’t really need to memorize it. Lots of soloists have a stand and music in front of them.”
“That’s not the problem. In fact, I’ve got it memorized. You practice something a lot, you almost memorize it without trying.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve spent hours practicing this? So many that you’ve memorized it? Well, if that’s true, it also tells me you’ve really learned it, I mean really, really learned it, and can play it flawlessly. Right?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“So why don’t you want to play it?”
“Because I want to do something else. Something I’d like you to agree to.”
“Yeah, right.” I could hear his sarcasm, and maybe his disappointment. “Well, what?”
I had to sell this. “Do you know Weber’s Concertino?”
“Of course. It’s a wonderful piece, but not on the level of the Mozart Concerto. It’s fun and frothy and a crowd pleaser, but altogether in a different class of music. I wanted you to play something from the repertoire of the classical clarinetist that would show off your real talent, Matt, and while the Concertino takes some technique and talent, it’s just not like the Mozart. But you know that. So, why do you want to play it?”
“I had an idea, Mr. T. I’ve been listening to our section, and coaching them, and working with them, and I had an idea. Sure, I could get up and play the Mozart, and it would sound pretty good, and the audience would clap, and everyone would walk out saying, ‘Wow, that kid can play the licorice stick. Pretty good. Hey, you want to get pizza tonight, or go home and have spaghetti. What’s on TV, anyway?’”
Mr. T. laughed. “Well, maybe, but to some, it would be more special than that. It would be a big night for you.”
“I want it to be a big night for all of us. And I think we can make it bigger than just for me.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I want the band to play the Weber, but instead of me playing the solo part, I want the first four chairs of the clarinet section to play the solo part. Together. I think it’ll be spectacular. Four of us, standing in front of the band, no music, all memorized, playing all those flashy runs, and trills and everything. I think we’ll bring the house down.”
Mr. Tollini didn’t answer. Instead, he thought about it. He started to speak, then turned around so I got a good view of his back while he thought some more.
Finally, without turning around, he asked, “Can they do it?”
“Without question.”
“Have you bounced this off them yet?”
“Of course not. It’s your band. I just had the idea.”
He turned around and looked at me. In the eyes. “And you’re willing to give up your big moment for this. To share the spotlight with the others. Matt, no kid has ever played a concerto with the band before. And the Mozart is a big piece. It would be in the paper. Your picture and everything. It would probably guarantee you a scholarship somewhere. We’d record it, and the recording would be your ticket into any of the big music schools. Eastman, Curtis, Peabody, Julliard. Indiana. Any of the others.”
“I’d rather do this,” I said with some passion in my voice and eyes. “Mr. T., those kids have worked hard. They’re great. They deserve the attention they’ll get. They’re really great.”
He didn’t respond for a moment, and I thought I saw something in his eyes. Then he said, very softly, “So are you, Matt.”
Which embarrassed me to all get out. “So, can we do it?”
“Yes, Matt. I’ll order the music.”
“Great! That’s wonderful. Hey, can you tell them? The other clarinets. Tell them it was your idea? It would embarrass me.”
He looked at me and grinned and shook his head. “You’re really something, you know that? Next year, we’re doing the Mozart. Unless you figure out a way to get the band a recording contract or something.”
“I’ll look into that.” And I grinned at him. I wasn’t expecting him to hug me, but he did.
◊ ◊
It was two weeks later when Mr. T. announced to the band at the end of that day’s rehearsal that he’d decided, in concert with me, that we were going to perform the Weber Concertino instead of the Mozart concerto.
He told everyone that we’d decided the Weber might be more accessible music for the audience than the Mozart we’d just begun to rehearse, and furthermore, more fun for the band to perform. Then he announced that it was his intention to have the solo part performed by me, Monica, Jason and Stephanie. All four of us, playing the part together.
To the rest of the band, this was just another announcement, and some relief as many of the kids had found the Mozart both boring to rehearse and difficult to make sound good; one had to play very precisely and in tune to make anything at all of Mozart. To the first clarinets, it was exciting and nervous-making news all at once. They were going to play standing as a group in front of the band. The four of us. Together.
The band was excused as the period ended then. Everyone started packing up their instruments and taking off. Everyone except my fellow soloists, who crowded around me and Mr. Tollini. They were all talking at once, asking questions, confused and excited. Mr. Tollini handed each one a copy of the solo part. He told them he hoped they’d all be able to learn it in the two months we had before the concert, and also told them that I’d assured him personally they’d be able to do it.
Then he told them that any more questions they had, to just ask me, smiled at them, congratulated them, and went into his office.
I asked them each if they’d ever seen the piece before. Monica had, the others hadn’t. I gave them an internet link I’d found by looking up the piece on Google so they could hear what it sounded like and what their part, the solo part, would be. I wanted them to hear what the piece sounded like with an orchestra behind the soloist and the approximate tempo it should be taken at.
I thought the best way to prepare this would be for them all to practice it on their own for a couple weeks, and then we could all get together and play it and decide after that whether there were any special problems that needed to be worked out, or whether just normal practicing together would be all that was needed. They all agreed with that.
So then I asked, “If you’d all like to, we can meet at my house, two weeks from now, on a Saturday afternoon, for a joint rehearsal. We can run though the piece together for the first time, and then, when we’re done, we have a pool, and if you’d like, I’d think it would be fun if we all swam, and then my father could barbecue some steaks for us.”
They thought that sounded pretty good, and it was decided. I told them that there was no way I could get away with having kids over to swim and eat without asking my two best friends to join us for the after-practice activities, and that it wasn’t fair for only me to have my best friends over, and that they could all bring a best friend or two over, too, if they wanted. I asked them to let me know how many would be coming so I could make sure we had enough steaks. They said they’d do that.
I left then, and they were all chattering together. I loved it that they were all so excited and enthusiastic about this. I’d been worried maybe I was forcing them into something they wouldn’t want to do. I guess this was just something else I shouldn’t have been worrying about.