DISCLAIMER:
Characters in this story are fiction. This is not to imply any lifestyle choices of actual persons. This is strictly from the imagination of the author.
JORDAN SUMMER By
J. Larson
I first met my father the day he came to the hospital. He sat in a chair by the bed and looked down on me like I was some kind of lab experiment he had to do in a class he didn't want to be taking. Like I was a dissected frog pinned to a tray with my guts spread out and labeled.
How did they find him? I didn't even know where he was, until they told me. I never wanted to know. The fact was that I lived like I lived, and the last thing I needed was to be judged or rejected by some genetic donor that had never taken the time or trouble to come and find out about me in the first place.
Dad must have known why I was in the hospital. Surely they told him. The way he looked at me, I think he would rather if they had told him that I was dead. Anything but having to face me at all.
It looked like he was having trouble coming up with something civilized to say to me, so I saved him the trouble. I eased my eyelids closed and let him think I'd passed out again. I had no idea what to say to him, either, and I didn't want to listen to some forced, strained conversation.
He came back the next day and looked at me some more. If I'd known he was coming back, I would have run away from the hospital and gone home. I could heal there just as easy, and nobody there would look down on me.
"So," He said after a long time. "You're my son." He said it resignedly, a fact he was forced to face. At that moment, I knew that he'd insisted upon a blood test. He'd made them prove to him that I was his before he would accept it. That jerk. I didn't answer him. I wouldn't have admitted it at the time, but his denial hurt more than getting kicked in the face by a steel-tipped boot did. It hurt deeper.
Nothing surprised me more than when he said that I was going home with him. That was a line I'd heard from lots of men, but none of them meant for more than a few hours. Dad was talking about for good. I didn't even want to look at him, much less live with him.
But he was rich. And nobody knew better than I did that money was the name of the game. He never helped my Mom out, never sent her a dime. Maybe if he had, things could have been different. I decided I would go with him. I was going to get whatever I could out of him. I could always disappear without a trace. I figured I could still always go back and pick up where I left off, hopefully with some of his green in my pocket. The South end of town wasn't going anywhere. Neither was my end.
I didn't understand the clothes he wanted me to wear, or the manners he tried to teach me. He said that it was all for my own good, but I understood that least of all. It seemed that it was more for his good, for his image. He didn't care what I wore. He just didn't want me to embarrass him when he introduced me to his friends.
But I liked sleeping in a warm bed without keeping one eye open for whoever might get into it with me. I liked sleeping on fresh sheets every night and eating food I didn't have to check for roaches. So I kept my mouth shut. The payday was too good. Wasn't that a good enough reason to pimp out my pride?
Dad didn't understand me any more than I did him, and he didn't try to. At least he didn't hit me. He could have, and I probably would have let him.
He wouldn't have been the first.
When Dad told me about going to camp Wanakonda, it wasn't a conversation. It was an edict. He sat me down at the kitchen table and told me the way it was going to be.
"I know you just got here, and I can't pretend to know what you've gone through, but I think it would be the best thing. I have to go to Europe on a business trip that's going to last at least three weeks. I won't have time for you."
'When do you ever?' I thought.
"Besides" he continued, "You'll be around other kids your own age."
Kids? I didn't think of myself as a kid, even at "just" fifteen. I didn't feel like one. I felt old. Like it was the miles I traveled in my life that got counted, not the years.
Maybe I should have tried harder to tell him what I am. Maybe I should have told him from the start. Maybe we could have found a way to get along with it. Part of me wanted to think we could have a relationship like a father and son ought to. Part of me wanted that very badly, not that I would have admitted it to him. He was the jerk who had abandoned my mother, and I had to remember that. He was bound to find me out, any way. I knew that. And when he did, he'd throw me out on my well-educated ass. No way would my Dad let somebody like me tarnish his perfect image. He'd dump me just like he dumped her. So I didn't tell him. I kept my mouth shut, did what he told me, and kept the tally of our relationship in the billfold of my wallet.
Watching the cloud of dust from the busses settle back onto the road, I thought about running away from Wanakonda. It would have been really easy. Follow the busses up the road or high-tail it into the woods.
I'd be okay, if I ran. It was just that I didn't want to go back to living hand (or other body parts) to mouth, if I didn't have to. I'd find a way to deal with it, for the money's sake.
I felt like an idiot, standing there with my bags at my feet. All the other boys clowned around together. They had probably been coming to Camp Wanakonda together since conception. Somebody like me could never belong with them.
All those boys my own age, and I felt like I was standing on Mars.
It seemed like hours before an older guy strolled onto the middle of the yard with a loudspeaker. He looked ridiculous, wearing khaki shorts and a plaid print top. It took all the will power I had not to laugh at him. I used to beat dorks like that up, just for dressing like that.
"Okay, everybody," he crackled into his megaphone. "As you know, I'm Buster Craig. Welcome to another summer at Camp Wanakonda!" This met with polite, apathetic applause.
Buster introduced us, one by one, to our camp counselors and sent us off to be assigned to our rooms.
I thought we would be in some kind of bug-infested log cabins, but the building they led us into looked like a five-star hotel. Wanakonda, it seems, is a summer camp for rich kids whose parents have other summer plans. My Dad was rich, but the most money I ever had on my own was a crumpled twenty stuffed in my pocket. I didn't belong in a place like this.
At each room, the counselors read off two names, and those two boys were assigned to that room. Mine was at the end of the hall, near the fire escape. I liked that just fine, in case I decided to leave in a hurry.
The room had two beds, of course, one on either side of the room. There were two computers and desks, a microwave and a mini fridge. I could have spent the whole summer in a room like that without ever having to leave it.
"Which?"
I jumped about a foot off the floor and spun around, startled. When I saw who spoke, I was taken aback. A step back. The most beautiful guy I've ever seen in my life stood there with his bags in his hands. He was incredible, with fair skin, long blond hair, and breathtaking sky blue eyes. His mouth could have easily been a girl's. Believe me. I knew what a mouth like that could do to a guy. And he was so lean! I knew I would imagine what it would feel to have him wrap those long legs around me. He was going to live in this room with me?
"What? Which what?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
"Which bed do you want, Einstein?" He laughed at me. His smile lit up his face and, somehow, made him even prettier.
I looked around the room and didn't see a tactical advantage to either bed. Whichever bed I took, I would have to sleep in it knowing that this stunning creature was lounging in the other bed, only a few feet away from me. Oh, God.
"I don't care. That one, I guess." I pointed to the bed I thought I was closer to.
"Whatever," he tossed his stuff on the other bed and stuck his hand out at me. "I'm Jordan." I shook his hand and introduced myself. I felt like a fucking idiot. I flustered and yanked my hand away from him too fast. He probably thought I was the world's biggest moron.
I took way too long unpacking my things. I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't face that beautiful boy. Fussing over my clothes kept me from having to look at Jordan. I could hear him bustling around on his side of the room, unpacking his own things. I wondered if he was thinking about me.
How the hell was I supposed to last all summer, stuck in the same room with him? It was going to be hard enough, trying to fit in with these straight rich kids. Jordan was one of them.
When I had nothing else to unpack, I left the room. There wasn't anything I could say to Jordan that wouldn't shove me screaming out of the closet. If that happened, my free ride would be over and done with.
Outside, others were already walking around, cell phone in one hand and a tennis racket or bottle of water in the other. Most of them had sweaters slung across their shoulders. These were the types of guys I used to beat the hell out of if I caught them on my side of the street. It was like walking into a yuppie plague.
I hated Wanakonda. It was too different from my old block. At home, if I saw somebody I wanted, I knew how to handle it. I just went and got it. So far away from my corner, though, I didn't even know how to start a polite conversation. I felt so stupid.
I didn't see Jordan at dinner. I sat by myself in a corner of the plush dining hall. Beepers and phones went off every two seconds, and conversation never rose above a polite hum. All I could think of was getting a couple of guys in there from my old neighborhood. We'd level the place, silver in our pockets and not a preppie left standing. I ate my steak and pictured street punks going through the hall in biker boots and trenches, all chains and leather. I could see us turning tables over and kicking the snot out of these self-righteous assholes, not one of them even thinking of fighting back. They would have surprised looks on their faces, spring sheep to the slaughter. It never occurred to me that I was sitting in the same place as them, wearing the same clothes (except for that sweater thing), and eating the same food. I'd get beat up just as quick as they would.
Jordan was in our room when I got there. He was fresh-scrubbed, wearing his pajamas, and was lying on his bed. If there had been any doubts about how good he looked, they were dispelled at a glance. He looked so good it hurt. I couldn't believe it.
He looked at me when I came in, and I wanted to fall through the floor. I couldn't bear to have those pretty blue eyes on me. Without saying anything, I grabbed my robe and retreated into the bathroom for a shower.
It felt so good to have the hot water sluicing the dirt off me. Too good.
I shouldn't have thought of Jordan while I soaped myself up, but I couldn't help it. I closed my eyes and saw his beautiful face and his perfect lips. What would they feel like to me if I kissed him? How would they taste? I knew how incredible it would be if he... If he...
Oh if he...
I whimpered when I came, thinking of him. God, I hoped he didn't hear me from out there in his bed.
I let the hot water run on me for a long time before I started to feel clean again. I felt so guilty thinking about him like that.
When I left the bathroom, I was glad to see that Jordan had turned off the lights and gone to bed. I felt so guilty, molesting him with my mind the way I did in the shower. I didn't want to face him. I slipped into my bed and turned to face the wall.
I'd almost drifted off when Jordan's voice startled me.
"Goodnight."
I didn't answer, and he didn't say anything else. I knew that he must have heard.
It was a long time before I went to sleep.
............To be continued....