♦
I’ve been doing so much better! Then this Barry kid faces off with me and it all falls apart. I fall apart. I’m so stupid!
What happens is this: I leave my French class, everything’s fine like always, and suddenly this big kid—older, too—is in my face, yelling about me showing him up in French class. I try to meet his eyes. I have been doing better, and I really do try—but he pokes me in the chest, hard enough to hurt, and I stumble back and he comes after me. I’m sure he’s going to hit me, and suddenly, I just kind of disappear into myself. I’m looking at the floor, can’t hear anything, just half existing and simply waiting for whatever’s going to happen to happen. I’ve been in this place many times before. I thought I was past it. Past the fear of being hurt, of being humiliated, the knowledge that I’m worthless, a nobody.
But then a funny thing happens. No one is yelling at me any longer. I’m not being punched. Or told how worthless I am or anything else. I feel a gentle hand on my arm and raise my head and eyes. Terry is here. He’s looking into my face with a questioning look.
I always had a hard time coming back before. Sometimes it took hours. But this time, it’s much easier, much faster. Terry’s smile at seeing me recover helps a lot, too. Having a friend, someone who likes you—well, it means everything. “Come on,” he says, “or we’ll be late to our next class. You can tell me what that was all about on the way.”
Maybe I am getting better, but I’m simply not there yet. But getting there. That’s a glass-half-full kind of thought; for me, it’s almost a miracle.
I think about that, walking to class. Things are better now, and I’m better, and aren’t people allowed to have relapses? Maybe that’s what this is, a relapse. I am coming out of it, though.
To hasten moving past this, to forget about what just happened, I try to think about
something good. That brings me back to meeting Daryl and then asking Terry about him when we
were in the pool that day. Whether Daryl was gay.
Terry had given me a look. “Trying to replace me already?”
“No! Didn’t we already talk about this? You’re my friend, and Daryl, well, he might turn into a boyfriend if I’m lucky enough to ever have one, but right now, a best friend is much more important than a boyfriend. We’re just 14. I think boyfriends are for much later. At least 14 and a half.”
He’d laughed and said, “Well, Daryl, I’m not really sure. There have been times I’ve wondered whether he might be gay. He does give that impression. But he’s never come out, not at school at least. He hangs around with a kid I also suspect is gay, but he’s not out, either, and they might just be friends. You know, like we are.”
“I kinda like how he acts,” I’d said, still speaking about Daryl. “Like he’s older than he is, yet still my age, and he’s funny. I guess I’ll get to know him better if we’re on the newspaper together.”
And that’s what I do. I join the newspaper staff and get to know Daryl. I like him more and more the better I get to know him. The thing is, he does hang out with his friend Ryan. Seems to be with him all the time he isn’t in the newspaper office, actually. When I see them together and Daryl notices me looking at them, he always gives me a smile, a very nice smile, but also always manages to touch Ryan while doing it, and he seems to make sure I see that. Is he sending me a message that he’s with Ryan? Or he could be flirting and trying to make me jealous. Does he know I’m interested in him? If so, is he touching Ryan to tell me he isn’t available? If he knew I liked him, wouldn’t he let me know if he were gay, at least, or with Ryan?
I can’t tell him I’m gay. I’m not brave enough to be out. So I’m
just left to wonder. All the time getting to like him better and better. That’s still
happening, and we’re all the way into November now. I’m just like Terry: thinking
Daryl’s probably gay but not sure and not knowing a way to find out.
Terry and I still swim every day. It’s November and we’re swimming in an unheated
pool and it’s great! The pool has a heater, but we’ve never had to turn it on.
Southern California is nothing like Massachusetts!
We’re still fooling around, too. We’ve advanced from just rubbing each other. There are a lot more things two boys can do together, and we’re discovering them. I’m still not in love with Terry, and he’s certainly not in love with me. I asked him if he was looking for a girl to date, and he said not really. He said there is a girl he’s got a strong crush on, but she’s a sophomore and has a boyfriend. He has no hope there, he admits, then says that besides all that, he’s with me and has no time for a girl.
We’re best friends, and I guess best friends have certain privileges that regular friends don’t. Or maybe they do, too. Some of them. Maybe it depends on how horny you are. Terry and I, we’re horny.
♦
Thanksgiving is coming up soon. Daniel’s mother calls and speaks to him about us going there for Thanksgiving dinner. She talks to me, too. She calls about once a week and always asks for me before hanging up. Asks me about my week, how I’m doing, whether I need anything. She isn’t all about advice all the time, either. It’s clear: what she’s all about is caring about me. It feels like I have a grandmother. I’d never had one of those. I really like her. I tell her things, things I feel and think about that I don’t even talk to Daniel about.
But anyway, Daniel tells her he’ll discuss it with me and let her know.
“I’d kind of like to go, and kind of like to celebrate our first Thanksgiving at our own home,” he says. “Besides, I think you’d like to have Terry with you, and I’d like to ask Betsy and Foster. Foster, at least, has no one here. So I’m kind of torn. What are your feelings? What would you want to do?”
“You know, you always have me making decisions I feel are over my pay grade.” I bitch, but then I smile. Daniel’s smiling, too. He really knows me now, knows how I like to gripe about things that really don’t bother me much. I was never free to bitch and moan about anything growing up. Now I can, and I’m making a science out of it!
I love it that he treats me like an equal partner in what we do. “Actually, I’m torn, too. I love your mom. But we’ve visited them what, three times now? And we haven’t had a special holiday here yet. So my vote would be to have it here—but only if it wouldn’t upset her too much. I don’t want to do that.”
“Actually, I think my father would prefer that choice. If we visit them, with all the people my mother would have to invite, she’d be cooking up a feast for 12 people—a whole lot of work—and if we stay here, there’d only be four of us, and she wouldn’t have any work at all. What they’ve done the past few years when I haven’t been able to get home for Thanksgiving was go to the country club my dad belongs to. They put on a big feed on that day, and it spares Mom all that cooking. No, they’ll be fine. They’ll eat with friends and have a great time bitching about how all their ungrateful kids leave them alone on holidays and then segue into ‘remember whens’. Hey, maybe we can invite them here for Christmas. Or we can go there. This Thanksgiving can be just for us and our friends.”
I ask Terry if he’d like to have Thanksgiving dinner with us.
“Who’s going to cook it?” he asks.
“Well, I’ll probably do most of it. Daniel’s getting awfully lazy and puts more and more of the cooking chores off on me, just like he’s already done with all the cleaning and gardening and snow shoveling.”
“We never get snow here,” Terry says, but I can see he realizes I’m saying this mostly for Daniel who’s reading the paper well within earshot of us.
“Well, when we do, you know who he’ll have doing it. He’ll probably tell me to use one of the garden trowels, too.”
“Hey, rich guy,” Daniel says without even lowering the paper so I can see his face. “Nothing’s stopping you from buying a regular snow shovel right now, just in case. You have to resort to a trowel, it’s your own fault.”
So I say to Terry, under my breath, just loud enough so Daniel can hear, “See? No denial about me having to do all the rest.”
Can’t see Daniel’s face, but can hear the chuckle coming from that end of the room.
“Dinner?” I ask again.
Terry sort of frowns. “Come on,” I say, and take him to my room. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk with an audience.
In my room, we both sit on the bed. We’re used to being on it together; we’re both small, and there’s plenty of room for us. “What?” I ask.
“My folks are fighting a lot. I think they’ll be getting a divorce. I hear the word mentioned now and then when they’re loud and I’m trying not to listen.”
“Oh, no!” I say. “You wouldn’t be moving away, would you? Would that hurt you as much as me? I think it would kill me. How could I get along without you beside me?”
“You’d manage. Probably even find another friend. Nowhere near as good of one, of course.”
He wants to joke, but I don’t. This is frightening. “That’s a nonstarter. You’re not worried about this?”
“Well, not too much. Getting a divorce might be better for both of them—and for me; I wouldn’t have to hear them fight. They fight all the time. Why do you think I’m here more than there?”
“My winning personality?”
He smiles warmly but has to keep up pretenses. “Yeah, dream on. No, home is not a good place to be. If I’m given a choice, I’d live with dad. Mom still has notions of me being a priest, and if she had full custody of me, she might well force me to go to a Catholic high school even if there isn’t one close by.”
“Damn! Well, I’ve read that, with older kids like us, the judge usually asks which parent we want to live with. So maybe you’d get to live with him. But would he move away?”
Terry shook his head. “No, his business is here. He’d find an apartment somewhere, and I could tell him it has to be in Rancho High’s district. I’m pretty sure it would all work out. Otherwise, I’d have to run away, change my name, and then come live here.”
I am calmer now. “Great idea! I’ve always wanted an errand boy living with me to do stuff, like pick up my dirty underwear and hand wash it for me and dry me after I shower and tuck me in at night. Maybe read me a story. Maybe attend to my bodily needs. This could work out well.”
Daniel is home, so we can’t take this where we want to. But we both know we want to, and that we will when we can, and that is enough for right now.
♦
After Foster told me about Robin’s confrontation with Barry Gaines, I’d gone home immediately to check on Robin. I found him with Terry. They were sitting on the patio, talking.
“Hey, you okay?” I asked Robin after saying hi to both of them.
“You heard?”
“Yeah. Mr. Lees told me about it.”
“He stopped it.” Robin smiled at me, a reaction I wasn’t expecting at all. “And then Terry showed up, and I came out of it. You know, I think I’m getting better. I wasn’t nearly as deep inside myself. Nothing like before. I could actually hear what the jerk was saying to me; well, not really understand the words but knew he was hurling them at me. Before, when this happened with me, everything and everyone was completely shut out. But this time, I was still aware of where I was and what was happening. I was aware of Mr. Lees pulling him away. And I totally came out of it when Terry got there.”
“You don’t need to see anyone? Talk to someone?”
“No, I’m fine now.”
“What about when you see Barry in the halls? How will you react to that?”
“I don’t really know but don’t think it’ll be a problem. I could hear some of what Mr. Lees was saying to him. He told Barry he had to apologize to me, and that if anything else happened, he’d get expelled. I saw Barry as he left the classroom. Terry and I were down the hall, but I was glancing back when he walked out. From the expression on his face, I could see Mr. Lees had made an impression on him. He didn’t have the cocky grin on his face he’d always had before, and he wasn’t walking like lord of the manor like he usually did.”
“You’ll let me know if there’s any more trouble. With him or anyone else?”
“Of course. I know you have my back. So does Terry. I’m good. And that’s
because of you guys.”
“And Foster Lees,” I said, and he had the chutzpa to laugh.
♦
Robin and I decided to stay at home for Thanksgiving. I invited both Betsy and Foster. Betsy said she’d love to come, but her parents were having much of the extended family to their house and she was expected to be there and help out with the extra work. I could tell that she really would have preferred to accept my invitation. I didn’t blame her. From what I’d heard about how she got along with her brothers and sisters and their broods, it wasn’t going to be a great day for her. There’d be stories told of her embarrassing moments as a kid. There always were. Her nieces and nephews ate them up, and she had to suffer through them with good humor when she felt like lashing out at the narrator.
So it would be just the four of us as Terry had said he was coming even if his parents promised it would be a day of entente cordiale. He didn’t believe for a second they’d live up to it, and besides, he said I was a better cook.
I bought a 16-pound bird and the other stuff we’d need: canned pumpkin, jellied cranberry sauce, yams and marshmallows, string beans and like that. I was looking forward to showing Robin how to make a grand Thanksgiving feast. He’d told me he’d never had one where he used to live, that his mom was too lazy or else thought cooking beneath her, and that his stepfather couldn’t cook water to make tea. He’d never had the initiative to try cooking anything himself, as his mother kept filling his head with remarks about being too young and incapable. They’d always gone out.
I was so looking forward to this. I loved spending time with Robin, and the kitchen seemed such an intimate place for the two of us to be together.
♦
A lot to do! A lot to do! Why was I getting stressed while Robin was joking around? Didn’t he know we had a dinner to have on the table in only six hours?
I’d turned over the pie making to him. We’d have a pecan and a pumpkin. He knew how to make great pie crust and the pecan filling, and the recipe for the pumpkin was easy as, dare I say it, pie? Basically it was evaporated milk, pureed pumpkin, eggs and some spices. I bought just the pure pumpkin puree, not the seasoned kind, because I liked to add the spices myself. Seemed more authentic that way. Besides, I like more than just a pinch of cloves.
I wasn’t the only one assigning chores. Robin made Terry the designated cream whipper. Both pies would be enhanced with dollops of whipped cream on them.
Robin had never seen a turkey being prepared for the oven. He’d really seen none of the various jobs needing doing. He’d asked me the night before why I was opening and spreading out bread slices. “They’ll get stale, won’t they?”
“Sure will. That’s what I want, dried-out bread for the dressing. If you use fresh bread, it’ll all clump up and turn to mush.
He loved watching me make the dressing and got right into the program. I had him help tear the bread into small pieces while I was melting butter in a large skillet before sauteeing a lot of minced onion. I threw in some diced celery, sage—lots of sage, actually—some poultry seasoning and dill weed, salt and pepper, and when all that was softened, added some chicken stock and the bread pieces. I let Robin stir it carefully because it was easy for the bread to spill out of the pan. It smelled wonderful. Smelled like Thanksgiving.
I told Robin some people put really odd things in their dressing, like sausage bits or even, I swear to God, oysters. I told him I was a purist and avoided such nonsense, but some people had to make fools of themselves. He promised me he’d never do anything as outrageous as that.
I stuffed the bird, having to put up with Terry’s and Rob‘s crude, tasteless and very funny comments about where my hand was going and why it was spending so much time up there.
Robin started in on the pies while I threw together a green-bean casserole and got the yams
cooking. I put two bottles of champagne in the fridge and started setting the table, using a
tablecloth and cloth napkins my mother had given me. Terry helped. I didn’t have any fine
china. Or real-silver silverware. Too early in the game of being an adult for me. But you get
that stuff as gifts when you marry, don’t you? Maybe I wouldn’t have ‘that
stuff’ for a long while yet.
But we finished with the dining room, and Terry left me to go whip the cream. Robin had both
pies in the second oven. This house had a modern kitchen with two ovens, one on top of the
other. The turkey was filling the house with its amazing and unique aromas from the bottom
oven, and Robin was using two shelves in the top one.
Terry was following Robin’s instructions for the whipped cream. I looked and it was just starting to thicken. “You added some confectioner’s sugar, didn’t you? And a few drops of vanilla?”
“Vanilla, yes. Sugar, I forgot.”
“Still time,” I said and went to check on the yams. When I finally got back to Terry, I discovered he was still looking for the sugar in the cupboards. I pointed to where it was already out on the counter, waiting to be used.
“You don’t really need it now, though,” I said. “You’ve made us a nice batch of butter; you can add a pinch of salt if you like, but sugared butter isn’t really all that good.”
He looked like he wanted to cry! It’s so easy to forget how fragile teenagers can be. I quickly settled him down and made a quick trip to the store. I got the last pint of whipping cream they had. Lucky us
♦
Dinner was special. That happens with good food and good company. It happened for us. We were all in good humor, the boys especially. I didn’t think one person could actually have three helpings of turkey, mashed potatoes and dressing all slathered with gravy. But two of us did just that, and it wasn’t Foster and me. Those boys were eating machines. I kept telling them we had two pretty-good-looking pies for dessert, and they said they’d be ready when their mouths were able and weren’t full of Thanksgiving.
Both boys trotted off to Robin’s bedroom after the meal, and I saw them sprawled out on the bed. I couldn’t tell if they were asleep or not, but they looked that way. They looked way cute, too, and I used my phone to take a picture. That made me wonder if there were many, or any, pictures of Robin growing up. That saddened me, thinking about his stark childhood.
Foster and I had eaten a normal amount of food and so were able to have our pie after we’d cleared and refrigerated all the leftover food and put the dishes and utensils in the dishwasher. I hated a messy kitchen and always cleaned it up before anything else after a meal.
“Coffee?”
Foster nodded. “Please. And a small piece of each pie. They look delicious.”
I cut him two small pieces, added whipped cream to both, made a similar plate for myself, then put them along with forks on a tray. I added two empty cups and then the coffee pot, and we went out onto the patio.
You never really know much in advance what the weather is going to be like in late November. This day, it was about as typical as one could get: warm, in the 80’s during the day, and now, in the early evening, cooling a bit but still in the 70’s. It would drop to the high 60’s during the night.
I put the tray on the table that was part of our patio furniture, and we both pulled up chairs.
“This is wonderful!” Foster said, trying the pecan pie. “The crust is much better than commercial pies. Rob made this?”
I chuckled. “I think he might decide to be a chef. I can’t imagine any boy picking up things as quickly as he does. He didn’t know how to do much of anything when he came here and had been convinced he was hopeless. But everything he tries, he learns how. He’s a wonder.”
Foster gave me a look, then softly asked, “You love him, don’t you?”
I simply nodded.
I tried both pies and agreed with Foster: as long as I had Robin, I didn’t think I’d ever need to make a pie again.
We chatted and each had a couple of cups of coffee, emptying the pot. It was a beautiful early evening, and I felt an aura of contentment around me as strong as I could remember having: a belly full of great food, sitting in the near dark, talking with Foster.
He picked up his cup, then realized it was empty and put it back down.
“Hold on; I’ll get something,” I said, and went into the house, coming back with a bottle of Remy Martin XO cognac and two snifters. As I was sitting down, I told Foster, “I don’t drink much, either. My dad gave me this bottle when I graduated with my master’s degree. He said it was expensive and to use it on special occasions. I have no idea what it’s like. As I don’t drink much and just about never alone, I’ve never had any reason to open it. But tonight, well, it feels perfect sitting here with you. I can’t imagine a better time to try this. Will you join me?”
He smiled. That was the only encouragement I needed.
We both sipped, and I felt the warmth trickle down my throat. I sat back in my chair and thought how wonderful the world could be.
Foster broke the silence, asking me a question, speaking softly. “You realize, I suppose, that Rob’s gay? I’m pretty sure Terry isn’t. I hope that isn’t going to be a problem for Rob. Those two seem very close.”
I took another sip and settled back again. “I guess I’m not letting the cat out of the bag by saying yes to your question. Rob’s not out and is afraid to be out, but he has told Terry. Terry is straight, as you guessed. I don’t know what they do together when I’m not here, but I remember being 14. I remember the urges that wouldn’t be denied. I know they swim together, and I haven’t found any wet bathing suits in the house anywhere. It’s easy to draw conclusions. I’m happy for them.”
Foster was looking steadily at me. “Wish I’d had that kind of support when I was his age. But it was a different era: society was just beginning to become more enlightened, becoming like it is now. Still a long way to go, but so much better these days. My parents were old school. I didn’t come out to them till I was in college, and they didn’t take it well. I’d already become more shut down, more reticent by then. Couldn’t tell anyone when I was at the age that kids come out now. Holding that back takes something out of you.”
I nodded. “It does. Luckily, my parents came around, if only slowly.”
He sat up, eyes wide and almost dropping his snifter. “You!”
I nodded. “Me.”
“But, but… I thought I could always tell. I didn’t read that in you at all.”
“I don’t want people knowing. I’m not as brave as you are. Plus, there’s Robin to think of. If people know I’m gay and living with a young teen, well, mouths tend to flap. It’s just better this way.”
“You’re gay!”
I grinned at him. “Yeah.”
He looked at me with some intensity. “I’ve been working hard on not getting attracted to you!”
“Well,” I said, smiling but no longer joking, “it’s fine if you want to stop doing that.”
♦