What You Won't Do for Love, Chapter 1 By JoshBabe joshbabe22@hotmail.com
This work contains depictions of homosexuality. If that is illegal in your jurisdiction, please, do not continue reading this.
This work is copyright (c) 2001 by JoshBabe. You may download and keep an unlimited number of copies for personal use, but this work may not be used under any circumstances without the prior consent of the author with the exception of a personal copy. Aesthetic changes (font size, font face, whitespace) do not constitute a change that requires the author's permission; any non-whitespace changes to the actual text of the story require prior permission.
WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR LOVE, CHAPTER ONE
There were still people streaming across the lawn and across the parking lot into the football field, for the Homecoming Assembly, the morning that everything really began. October 13. It was the first time in anyone's memory that the assembly had been held outside; enrollment at Kennedy High School had been low enough for a generation that the assembly was always held in the cafeteria. But with over 2000 students for the first time since the late '70s, the assembly would either have been held in two shifts, or outdoors. We were having a beautiful fall, Oregon's version of an Indian summer, so Principal Martin decided that we'd go outside and cheer on the football team, and peripherally the other fall sports, too. Not like it helped the football team; their season was still a joke.
I was just starting my sophomore year in the fall, and doing pretty well in school. I was taking accelerated classes, to keep my parents happy; I had an attractive girlfriend; everything looked to be panning out into the stereotypical future, which made sense, as far as I could tell, to everyone.
Actually, I'll digress a moment before I get back to the Homecoming Assembly, and introduce myself. My name is Josh Heilig, and, like I said, I'm a sophomore. I live in Oregon, in a town called Forestdale. It's actually more complicated than that--it's part of Portland, more like a neighborhood, but until the '50s it was actually a separate town. When they were annexed by Portland, a lot of their farmland went to build an elementary school and a high school-no one is really sure why the middle school is about a mile away down the road. Anyway, that high school was Forestdale High School, until 1964, at the height of President Johnson's popularity, at which time a number of schools around the country were renamed. Ironically, almost all of them were named for his predecessor, President Kennedy, who got all the credit for the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The building is really ugly, a kind of reddish brick used for accents around a dark blue metal frame. There are too many windows, so you don't appreciate the way they're used in the design or anything. But maybe I'm too critical of the school.
The high school attracted lots of neat stuff into Forestdale, like a small commercial area with a grocery store and a couple of restaurants, a Starbucks, two stop lights, a public library and a huge number of people moving in, taking up more farmland to build their nuclear-family tract houses. It has that kind of warm, sunny look, whenever you think of it, no matter what the weather's actually like, and the streets are all curved around hills and places where at one time a farmer held out on selling a part of his land or wouldn't cut down a tree.
Between downtown Forestdale, which in modern Portland is sort of a joke but at one time, that's what they called it, I guess, and the houses, was the school. In the 1970s, the farmland on the north side of the "downtown" area had houses and condos built on it, too, but those are newer, and they're still developing little parcels here and there as farmers' sons and daughters die, and their children sell their property. But I live on the old side, in the original farmhouse on the hill, built in 1873.
My mother's family, the Fletchers, owned most of the farmland around here before the development. They sold out on all of the farmland, and so as soon as you enter Forestdale, Miller Avenue becomes Fletcher's Hwy. The road signs still say Miller Ave., but all of us write our addresses as being on Fletcher's and the mail keeps coming through, and my mom, Elise, thinks she can get the Forestdale Community Fund to cough up a little money, and her brothers to come up with some more, to get street signs put up that say, "Historic Forestdale," and below them have both "Fletcher's Hwy" and "Miller Ave."
As it turns out, I wasn't just well-connected in the little community around Kennedy, although that helped me pull some strings later on, as you'll see, in keeping some secrets. I was also well on my way to being a valedictorian, being a workaholic and knowing every teacher in the building. I was the band's star trumpet player, and sports editor of the high school newspaper. My girlfriend was actually way better looking than I deserved, probably the prettiest girl in the school and besides a blonde of the finest variety: sweet, smart, funny. She was also, as a side note, notoriously prudish, but that was cool, I wasn't looking to ruin my future by getting a girl pregnant at 15.
How could I compete? I was tall, sure, about 5'10", but a little unsure of myself, slim and well toned, with brownish-blackish hair in what my mom calls a stylized bowl cut. Basically, I part it down the center of my head and then brush the bangs aside, leaving my forehead exposed. That way, you can see the onyx eyes, my pride and joy. I wish I could describe my figure better, but that should give you a decent picture, at any rate.
So. Where was I? Oh, yes. The Homecoming Assembly.
We were all streaming across the lawn, through the front doors, and through the parking lot, from the back doors, headed toward the football field. The gates were thrown wide open, a sort of welcome that was atypical at a school used to holding assemblies in the cramped gym with its miniscule entrances, and there were people everywhere dressed in our emblematic pumpkin orange and white. Someone told me that the pumpkin-orange color was supposed to give off the optimism that came through so poignantly with JFK, but I'm convinced that Jackie O. would have prevailed on her husband to veto a hideous color like that from school colors.
In the stands, there was a section roped off for alumni, and another for the team captains that would be speaking during the assembly. In the announcer's box, we could see Mr. Sellis, tall, pale, white hair unruly, dressed like an English teacher to a fault with the tweed coat and khakis over a pinstriped white shirt, waving at all of us; his voice, coming over the PA, called out, "Homecoming, or welcome home, Kennedy High School!" Someone cheered. Most of us were embarrassed at how dorky he could be sometimes. I made my way into the stands, feeling more like a lemming or a sheep every minute, bumped from this direction and jostled from that, and found a seat somewhere at least marginally convenient to see the entire field, so I could watch my girlfriend the cheerleader shake her pom-poms, and, well, other body parts. A couple of my friends took their seats around me, and all I could do was grin when they saw just how nicely I had situated myself.
"Nice seats, Josh. Now we can watch your woman wave her ass around, too," Ira grinned. "I mean, you know that we all want to." I looked over at him, basically same hairdo as mine but in a light brown, green eyes, and clothing baggy and clashing colors left and right.
All I could do was grin, at the sight of what he's wearing. "You think she'd come and do a little dancing for you if you were dressed like you fell into your closet like now?"
"Screw you."
Oh, he just set himself up for that one. I crossed my legs, waved my left hand, and lisped, "Let's not discuss that in public, Ira, baby."
Whoops, I just KNEW that would get a reaction from Jackson, who absolutely hated any sort of reference to homosexuality. He snapped his head our direction, eyes rolled about as far back as they can go without rolling all the way around and popping back out again, right side forward, and then bit his lower lip for a second, and then told us, religious righteousness and venom dripping from his words. "You both know that's absolutely wrong. Disgusting, too. You're just helping them move their agenda forward."
I had never realized, I suppose, until that day, that he was so virulently religious-right. I think that was the beginning of the end for that friendship... I didn't want to push too far, with Jackson, anyway.
So I rolled my eyes back. Sometimes, he was a really great guy, and other times, like this, he was such a jerk that I wanted to punch him. "Shut up, Jackson. We don't give a damn what you think about religion."
He glowered at us, long and hard, and then went and sat with his other Bible-thumper friends. Goodbye, and good riddance, at least in the mood he was in today.
Then next to me appeared Jessica, one of my closest and oldest friends, and pretty damn attractive, too. She was cute in that sort of petite way, with medium- length black hair and, well, "huge tracts of land," if you recognize the Monty Python reference. She was also only about 5'2", which put her on par with my mom. Her dad was some kind of foreign diplomat, from -- France, was it? I never remembered. They assigned him in Portland for God knows what reason, and her mom was still in Europe. Interestingly, she was an American citizen, but both her parents were French. I never could fathom how she acquired the name Jessica. Anyway, that's Jessica, no accent but French, and very small but absolutely exquisite, and always incredibly well-dressed. Makes her much more endearing that way.
Anyway, we were talking amongst ourselves, and then we heard Mr. Sellis again. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd please take your seats, we'll begin the assembly now-I have the honor of first introducing you to the man who leads us through thick and thin, between the rock and the hard place, from the frying-pan into the fire, ... oh, sorry. Principal Martin, folks!"
Down below, on the track, we could see him waving his arms vigorously. The crowd cheered; he was a popular principal. He had a cordless mike in his hand, and he waved it at the crowd, listening to the band, seated at the far left of the bandstand, strike up the school fight song. He even sang along to the last line: "Fight, fight, fight, forever might, Kennedy High means victory!" Whoever wrote that song deserves to be shot, in my opinion, if only just for that last line.
"Welcome to the first outdoor Homecoming Assembly in twenty-seven years, guys!" The crowd roared. Why, I'll never know. "Because of that, we've invited alumni from classes throughout the years that this school has been here, most of whom remember the outdoor assemblies. Give them a warm reception, folks, they'll be here all day!"
He continued, walking in front of the crowd the entire time. Interestingly, he wasn't facing the opposing bandstand, where they'd put a lot of the overflow because of the huge number of alumni. "First, I want to introduce to you this year's varsity football team! They have the magic, the passion, the fire, to carry us to our first district football title in eighteen years-- and here's your team captain, quarterback John Sandy, to introduce his starting lineup!"
Off to Principal Martin's left strutted John, playing big, strong, macho man with his football jersey and gear on. He actually had a nicely toned body, could run like nobody's business, throw pretty well, and on the whole looked like the all-star American quarterback. It was a shame he couldn't be, but then again, when your football team is terrible, not much the quarterback can do. Anyway, he carried his helmet in his right hand, and a football in the left. He rolled right, stepped back just a little, to the far end of the bandstand, and launched a pass almost the entire length of the field, caught by our receiver, Jake Fieder. Ira looked at me and grinned. "It's the only pass they're going to complete all season, we may as well enjoy it."
I was pretty impressed, actually. Most people can't throw the length like that, although usually it's because it's so windy up on the football field. Today, it really wasn't; maybe that was the truck.
Anyway, in with Jake Fieder came the rest of the starting offensive line of the football squad, running their way in a big phalanx toward John. The crowd cheered, and clapped, and all those fun things, and then John introduced them all, jersey number by jersey number. Then he closed with saying, "And here's Alex Wright, to introduce the cross-country squad, defending league champions for full-squad scores for eleven years running and looking to take state title for the fifth time in a decade!"
From somewhere in the first few rows came down this guy, Alex, who I'd never seen before. Something about him just drew the eye to him... wow. Talk about handsome. Tall, with a definite runner's build, long, slender legs, a smooth and well-shaped but not overly muscular chest. He had blonde hair on the top, and darker brown hair on the sides, suggesting that he either spent a long summer somewhere sunny or had his hair dyed, parted down the right side, and brushed across the front. He had a nice, high forehead, sharp cheekbones defining long cheeks that swooped their way down to his chin. Good nose, long, straight, just fitting his face, and thick lips lacking any sort of puffiness at all. He was wearing a dark maroon sweater--it looked like a Columbia Sportswear sweater I had, and it may very well have been-with a V-neck collar, and blue jeans that were full enough not to be tight, but still hugged his legs enough to see the muscles clearly. Like I said, a runner's build. It was like seeing some kind of blonde Germanic model from a magazine, almost.
Wait a minute. Why was I looking at him? There was Julie, my girlfriend, standing in the football field on the other side of the track, and I wasn't even watching her. I tried to focus on her... my eyes were drawn back to Alex again.
What was going on here? It wasn't like I was interested in this... this... this GUY, after all. I had the single most attractive girl in our school as my girlfriend, and I wasn't even watching her doing her routines.
Or was I interested in him?
Am I gay?
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Couldn't you be attracted to them both?
Why should I be?
Why not?
Oh, Jesus.
Then, just as suddenly as he'd come, he was gone. Mmmn. Well. So was any consciousness I had, for that day... I was off on a cloud, contemplating myself, dreaming about this guy Alex, dreaming about myself, not dreaming about Julie... somehow, I made my way home--it wasn't far--and ate a snack, and went upstairs, and managed to sit around my room doing something, without even noticing it. I actually think I started dusting the furniture, nice light cherry stuff in a very traditional style that my great- grandfather made by hand, like most of the rest of the house. Our house, the farmhouse like I mentioned earlier, was actually a pretty nice place, if a little old. All of the furniture was, too, or at least everything except in the entertainment area, I should say. My mom's pride and joy, since she was something of an electronics geek, was the TV and associated stuff She loved it.
Well, I knew the instant I heard the garage door open that I was going to be in for trouble. "Jesus! I didn't make dinner!" I screamed at myself mentally. "Mom had a meeting today, and she is gonna be pissed if you don't make it ... and now you're screwed."
So I hurriedly scribbled a note--I had some time, after all, being that in a farmhouse the garage was converted from a barn and therefore detached--and stuck it to the fridge, and bolted the opposite direction off the property. "Went to go fetch dinner." I time stamped it, as Mom would say, to 6:00, and she'd never know the difference.
It was 6:25, and I was going to have to make it look awfully convincing that I had been at Porter's, the neighborhood grocery store. Which meant that I couldn't be back much longer than 6:35, and I could use the excuse that I'd been talking to a friend I saw there. I probably would also have to say hi to Ty, the owner, before I went, or he'd have my head and Mom's if he knew I'd been in without saying hello. Like I was going to make it back by 6:35.
This was, of course, the ultimate test, too... oh, that's right, I haven't yet mentioned it. While I was dusting, I was also pondering my existence, with more of those same evil questions running through my head. To be totally honest, I have absolutely no idea how I managed to make it through that entire day, I was so abysmally torn apart by this. Many of you have no idea; you just accepted it. Others of you, well, you had to go through what I did, and you can empathize.
So while I was at it, I managed to decide on a course of action. I admitted to myself that I was bisexual, and then figured, I would take it from there.
Hah! So there!
Oh, wait. What about Jackson?
Screw Jackson.
Not THAT way! He's not at all attractive.
And who is?
You know who.
Mmmn.
OK, enough daydreaming. I was at the grocery store, and already I was stalling. I had to be back quickly, to say the least, and with some dinner, which meant something pre-cooked. Ty was behind the counter, and helped me pick out a couple of empanadas, which he recommended very highly. They were stuffed with chicken and cheese with jalapenos, which in retrospect is highly unconventional for an empanada, a Spanish dish. Who cared? I just needed some food. I also got some potatoes, and some excellent pasta salad, and pulled out my credit card to pay.
"Josh, buddy, it's on the house tonight, I can tell you're in a hurry."
A perplexed look on my face preceded, by a few seconds, the obvious question. "How? I've been sort of out of it all day..."
Ty looked at me, and just grinned. "Elise told me yesterday that you'd be in, probably just as she was about to walk in the door at 6:30. Don't worry," and he winked at me conspiratorially, his eyebrows rising dramatically, "I won't tell... I know you probably pre-dated your note, but I don't think that ever occurred to her."
All of a sudden, a ringing started coming from my belt. I blushed, and picked up my phone. Nice phone, a Motorola Timeport, nice and small, and silver too. "Hello?"
I quickly yanked the phone as far from my ear as possible, and started lowering the volume. "Hi sweetie!" my mother's voice blared out of the receiver, so loudly I swear it could have woken the dead. She's loud.
"What's up, Mom? I'm down here, talking to Ty and picking up dinner," I replied, cautiously. He just grinned at me from the other side of the deli counter.
I could practically hear her laughing. "Sweetie, I'll be over to pick you up soon, so we can eat."
So I hung up, and Ty looked at me, and said, "Oh, put the remorse away, and just take the food, kid. I'll take care of everything, next time your mother comes in-- if she gives you any shit about it, I'll be there to help you out."
What was there to do? I let a dramatic shrug heave off my shoulders, first the left and the right -- a chronic lefty's gesture, you know -- and then I walked out of the store. Mom was there in no time flat, as could be expected from someone who lived under five minutes' walking distance from where I was.
She pulled up, and said, "Honey, I don't care why it was you just left when I was coming... doesn't matter to me. Let's go home and eat. What'd you get?"
I swear, I must have been seven or eight different shades of red, all at once, and I couldn't even speak, so wildly was I stammering.
"Ahh, yes. Empanadas. Excellent choice, Joshua."
"Mom!" I cried, mortified.
My mother, although I love her dearly, is not equipped for remorse. At ALL. She tried, and failed abysmally, but gave me a look, and said, "Oh, I had forgotten. Josh. Sorry."
I knew she wasn't. At any rate, I thought about discussing with her my ... predicament. But I decided it would be best to wait, at least until we got home. Meredith, one of my closest friends, and a lesbian, once emailed me a rather humorous list of things gay people can avoid doing to make straight people's lives miserable, and things that straight people can avoid doing to make gay people's lives miserable. It contained as one of the primary items for gay people, "Never, ever come out in a moving vehicle. The last thing you'd want to be said of gay people is that they cause car accidents."
OK, so I couldn't tell her now. Dinnertime would be a good time to discuss it. My parents are divorced, keep in mind for future reference, but Mom and I still do pretty well, given the demand for city planning work like Mom does here, plus the trust fund my grandfather set up when he started selling off property. You see, this house had been empty, Mom and Dad and I had been living in Seattle, but they divorced when I was five and we moved to Portland. So when she got here, they let her share in the funds, because we really did need it more than they did.
So we got home, and Mom pulled out two plates, two glasses, two forks, two knives, two napkins, and then added a third setting for my grandfather. That's our way of remembering him... we always leave off the napkin, though, since he would have had it in his lap.
I took my glass, plopped a few ice cubes in and poured some cherry Coke in it, and then washed my hands, while Mom got out a large plate and piled the empanadas on it, and set it on the table, beside the bowl with potatoes and the bowl with pasta salad. I really do think she's the only person I know who would ever lavish that kind of attention over a grocery- store meal, like she's serving it off the prettified label of the package or something.
So once we'd said our 'grace'-- did I neglect to mention that we're Unitarians? Oh. Well, we are. Shouldn't make a difference, anyway. Mom is very spiritual, and so am I, although we approach it in totally different ways. Anyway. Prayers are done, in an agnostic and nondenominational manner, and we say a 'grace' of sorts before every meal.
Mom turned her fork over, and set it in front of her plate. This was her signal that the table was open for discussion. "Open discussion time."
"God, Mom, are you going to do this tonight? Don't you just want to rant about work or something?"
I saw her pause. "No, Joshu-- Josh. I don't want to rant, tonight... I want to talk to you, listen to you."
So I rolled my eyes, practically seeing Jackson in my mind's eye while I was doing it, and said, "Well. Let me think of a topic to introduce, if you don't want to do it."
And all of a sudden, my heart started racing, and I was glad I had my hands under the table because they started to shake. Should I tell her? Am I sure? What can I do?
In the end I decided to go ahead and talk about it with her. "Mom, I have something to discuss..."
"I'm all ears, sweetie."
"God. I don't know where to start."
"At the beginning of the first sentence? Beginning on a word other than a preposition or conjunction?"
I rolled my eyes at her, and then continued. "No, seriously. I'm not sure how to introduce this one."
She looked at me, and I'm sure she saw the deer-in- the-headlights look I could sense coming out of my eyes at that moment. "OK, honey, I can tell there's lot on your mind. Maybe a formal discussion isn't appropriate for the situation. Grab your plate, and we'll go sit on the couch and talk."
I love my mom, like I always said. She's so willing to listen, so patient, so careful, -- every person ever born should have a mom like her. Except she's weird, you know, in that kind of kooky way, but that doesn't make me love her any less.
Once we had situated ourselves comfortably on the couch, she could see I was visibly shaking, looking anxious. "Oh, my... sweetie, come over here. Just set your plate down. What's the matter? Tell your mother."
I looked up at her, and I could only cry. Unbelievable. "Mom, ... I'm... I'm..."
Right back into my eyes, she stared. "It's going to be one of these," she muttered, and then she said, "Shhh... shhh... you know you can tell me."
So I decided, I'm just going to have to blurt it out before I can't say it. "Mom, I think I'm bisexual."
No reaction. Not fazed. "Well. I didn't think you'd be so nervous about that."
"You're not angry?" "I don't know if I should tell you this, but..." Her voice trailed off.
Now I wanted to know. "What?"
"Shoot. It's going to be one of these nights. I've known for a long time, honey."
I was fazed. Dang, I wish I could be totally iron like Mom is, sometimes. "How did you know? I didn't even know! Was I, like, sending off a homing beacon or something? Does everyone know?"
She shook her head. "No. You're subtle, but Meredith suggested to me about a year ago that she'd been getting constant signals for a while from you. She got feelers, really discreetly, like you know she can, from some other people who we all trust and who have reliable ... feelers, if you will."
I was in disbelief. She knew! "And you never confronted me about it? Either of you?"
"I hated not to discuss it with you, but Meredith said she didn't think you would take well to it if we just abruptly told you, 'Josh, we think you're gay. Are you?'"
"Am I? Until 9:00 this morning, I thought I was straight; I'm settled on bi, but am I gay?"
She looked a little taken aback by the question. "If anyone can answer that, Josh, it's you, not me. How do you expect me to tell you whether you're attracted to girls or not?"
I could practically sense the pause. It was palpable, like I could reach out and touch it. Then she broke the silence. "Wait. Until 9:00 this morning? At the homecoming assembly? What happened?"
Through my eyelashes, I squinted at her. "Umm... a ... a ... a guy happened to me."
"Like, what kind of happened?"
I was ashamed. "It was like this magnetic attraction... he came down and spoke, you know, and all of a sudden I couldn't watch Julie anymore."
She smiled, a little primly. "Who? I want to know what your taste is like."
I went and dug my yearbook out of my room; it held a place of eminent pride on my shelf. I started to page through the junior-class photos, until I reached around the 'W' section. Eww. Terrible picture. Maybe there was something in the cross-country section?
Oh, yes, there we go... here he is, with a couple of other teammates, seated in the bleachers. "Here. Alex Wright."
Her eyebrows shot up, rather dramatically. "The cross- country captain? No way! I know his dad! He coaches for the track team, for the younger son, whatever his name is."
Really? So my mother knows him... hmm...
"Oh, I remember now! His brother's name is Eric," I heard Mom say. "So this Alex is the guy? What happened?"
I was still trying to get over the shock of Mom accepting that I was attracted to men, but she didn't appear to be letting up on her interest any time soon, given the face she made at me when she could tell I was balking. "OK, well, they had all of the team captains come down and introduce themselves and their squad, and when their next match was, and, well, he came down to talk about the cross-country team right after the football team was on. It was like being hit square on the chest with this incredible weight, but I couldn't keep my eyes off of him... it was unbelievable."
She smiled at me. "Ah. I guess it shouldn't be any surprise to me that it would be a blonde, given all those girls, but..."
"Mom!"
"What?"
"Come on, be fair! Just because he's got hair like gold, and a body to match, doesn't mean that..." My voice trailed off, as I heard the phone ring. "I'll get it."
I ran off into the kitchen a little nervously, hopping around the table and peeling through the little doorway that led from the family room into the main hallway, and then picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Josh, buddy, are you up for some partying tonight?" Ira's voice asked me from the other end of the phone.
Pondering, I scratched my head a little. On the one hand, it would let me get out a little frustration I'd had sitting squarely on my shoulders for some time; on the other hand, I might just get myself in trouble. But I decided on going -- I can't cloister myself endlessly because I'm having an identity crisis, you know?
I took the phone between my jaw and my shoulder, you know, cocked my head to the side, and told him, "Well, sure, I don't see why not... where and what time?"
"Here. Nine."
I rolled my eyes. "Jesus. It's seven. Don't you think you could have given me a little notice?"
On the other end, I could practically hear his shrug. "Just came up with the idea... I've been inviting people all afternoon, you know, but no one answered your phone earlier today."
I guess I hadn't really been paying a lot of attention; I was distracted, you know? "Bring something to the party, too, man. You know, Coke or stuff like that?"
"OK, can do," I told him, and then we quickly ended the conversation so he could call more people. I ducked back into the family room, and told Mom, "Uhh, Ira wants me to go to a party at his house-- is that OK with you?"
She shrugged. It seemed to be a common theme this evening. God, was everyone so ambivalent about my identity problem?
"I don't see why not, sweetie... I hope you have fun. Oh, do you need the car?"
Yes, that's right, I neglected to mention that I had gotten my license about two weeks prior. We had more than one car -- three, in fact -- but one was a 1960s Chevy station wagon that didn't fit in our garage, and hadn't been driven since that garage was brand-new in 1974 when Mom graduated from high school, the youngest of the four kids. The other one was a 1987 Caravan that Bernie, my oldest uncle, had given us when they got a smaller car after their oldest son graduated. Small wonder we referred to Mom's BMW, a red 325i, as "the car"; I walked to school, it being about a block and a half from home, so the Caravan was useful only for moving furniture and the station wagon not at all.
I grinned broadly. "I wouldn't mind taking it... better than a minivan to show up in."
"Just don't get it wrecked, sweetie, and try and keep it clean. Oh, and I'll warn you -- the backseat is notoriously uncomfortable, don't use it for anything other than the intended purposes."
"MOM!" I cried; God, she had a way of embarrassing me sometimes.
But she was relentless. "I know what teenagers use cars for, and it's not always the intended purpose."
I could only blush.
"But then again," she added, patiently, "I know you're a good kid, so I expect that if you should happen to abuse any portion of the car, including the back seat, you will clean it and make certain that it returns in excellent shape at the end of the evening. Be careful, on your way home, and don't get caught past curfew."
Wow. That was an interesting lecture. Not many people can say their mother encourages them to break curfew. "What time do you want me home by?"
"The sun rises about when I get up in the morning these days, around 6:30. I want you home before I get up in the morning -- if you see the sun rising, come home quick. Otherwise, whenever you want, dear."
I don't know why I was so surprised; she always says something like that when I go to a party. Was I expecting her to trust me less since I was attracted to guys? Did that somehow impinge upon everyone else's trust in me?
You know what? I didn't want to answer those questions. So I ignored them, and I grabbed my keys out of the kitchen drawer on my way out, picked up my wallet, and went out to the garage. I opened the door, hopped in, set the radio to a decent radio station--I go for classic rock myself, and Mom seems to like 'middle-aged-woman rock'--and pulled out of the garage. I loved the feel of the brown leather under me, the tight steering; driving a BMW was a really incredible experience. I cruised into town, though, looking for a real grocery store, and pulled into the Thriftway about a mile and a half west of Forestdale on Miller.
As I pulled into a parking spot, I started scouting for carts, so I could get in and out quickly and have enough time to shower and change. It usually takes me about an hour to change, given that I have to agonize over all of my clothes first, and then once I've done that, well, there you go. I'm ready. Except for my hair. That's another fifteen minutes. You see why I wanted to get in and out? I mean, no, I wasn't going to get to Ira's at nine -- that would have been on time, and totally, utterly inexcusable -- I would have been surprised if Ira was at his house at nine -- but I didn't want to get there later than ten.
I ducked into the store, and scurried to the section where they corralled away all the soda. "What should I bring?" I asked myself.
Actually, I didn't see the guy standing next to me, who was, as it turned out, agonizing over the same thing. "Join the club, bud," he told me. I looked him over -- dang, this kid was thin, about 5'5", hair dyed bleach-blonde at the tips, and well-dressed, at least. Nice, black Kenneth Cole shoes, a pair of cargos and a navy blue button-down, sleeves rolled up, over a white T-shirt. Talk about a deep voice, though; it was absolutely weird, disconcerting. I was envious that I didn't look as good, sound as good.
"What do you usually prefer?"
"I dunno, something dark, none of that pansy yellow stuff, but rich, mild with a little bite, sharp, you know? Not as ubiquitous as Coke or Pepsi, but just as good."
All I could feel was my face warming. Was it just me, or was he talking about something besides the soda? Ten minutes after coming out to one person, and I'm getting hit on?
Or maybe not.
"Well, there's always Cherry Coke."
"Who wants cherry?"
Whoa. Dirty mind alert... dirty mind alert... OK, amigo, two can play at this game. Or, well, I can try, right? "So what's the matter with the yellow stuff?"
"Real men don't need yellow. Brown is a man's color."
"OK."
He picked up a notepad out of his shirt pocket, and scribbled, with the little pencil that was attached to it, a phone number and a name, with the message, 'Call Me.'
Jesus. Was this how it was going to be with guys? Was I always going to have to do this surreptitiously? Actually, no, that wasn't fair, my first girl did that to me too. But this was weird. All we talked about is soda.
"That's cool," he said. "I'm James. Nice to meet you, bud."
"Josh. Pleasure to meet you."
His eyes lit up. "Josh? Like, Old Man Fletcher's nephew?"
Uncle Bernie, the 800-pound gorilla. "Yeah. He's my mom's brother."
"Fletcher, then?" "Kinda. That's my middle name... my dad's last name was Heilig."
He grinned, broadly, and extended a hand. "Pleasure to meet you, anyway, Josh. My last name is Dixon."
I dramatically shrugged and let a grin roll off my cheekbones, toward my mouth. "Nice to meet you too. So what kind of soda do you want?"
"Oh, I don't need it, I guess," he said, and started walking away, whistling a little. "Seeya around!"
Dang, did I deserve a punching for that one. He was so interested, he didn't even need soda; he was just hanging in the aisle to hit on me.
Well, I grabbed some orange soda and some Coke, went up to the counter, checked out, feeling the delirious sensation of ringing a credit card through the machine, and headed off home. "OK, so what am I going to wear tonight?" I thought to myself, and started cataloguing my wardrobe mentally as I headed home.
Once I pulled into the garage, closed the sunroof, shut off the radio and hopped out, Mom came out to meet me. "Better look your best tonight, honey -- word on the grapevine has it that Alex is making an appearance at Ira's big party this evening."
"Ira knows Alex?" I was stunned. Not fair. My not- attractive-at-all best friend knew the unbelievably delicious hombre who had, in one stroke, managed to out me to myself and my mother, and that guy James in the supermarket, and I didn't. Just wait. If he was one of Ira's friends, he was probably quite straight, too.
She smiled at me, broadly, her long, naturally-honey- colored hair flashing in a circle of bright color as she turned around. "Don't worry, I didn't let on about you; remember, I know his Dad. He's on the Forestdale Planning Committee. So I came up with a question to ask him about the street signs, and happened to inquire after his kids this evening, and with a little careful research it turns out that there are only two parties tonight. I contacted the parent of the party besides Ira's, in my capacity as a sports reporter for the Guardian, and asked to speak with the daughter, to whom I inquired as to whether I might find Alex there that night, for an interview. She said no. I concluded, therefore, that Ira would have your beloved this evening.
Talk about incredible. My mom just pulled strings that I didn't know existed, although I could have done it myself as the premier sports reporter, columnist and editor of the Kennedy newspaper, the Cold Warrior, so I could go meet a guy. A guy I didn't even know. I'd have to be kind of subtle, or I'd ruin all of her work. So I'd bring a notebook and pen in my backpack, and "interview" him, or something.
I raced upstairs, my heart thumping like mad, and I started picking out some clothes, running my fingers through my hair and racing about like nobody's business. "Mom! What do you think of this outfit?" I called down the stairs, after taking a long, invigorating shower, brushing my hair patiently and carefully until it had just the right look, and taking care to put on cologne. I had slid into a pair of my plaid boxers, which I think make me look much sexier than plain white ones, and I had about nineteen different possible permutations on the same basic theme laying on my bed.
I had decided I was going for a sophisticated, preppy, I-care-enough-to-dress-but-not-enough-to-look-stupid kind of look.
"I like it, sweetie," she said as I stepped out in a pair of rumpled khaki cargos and a ribbed long-sleeved shirt. "Don't you think it's kind of warm for long sleeves, though?"
Back into my room I went, and I re-emerged with a black ribbed T-shirt on its stead, and a long-sleeved red plaid wrapped around my waist. "Perfect! You'll knock him dead!"
That was weird. Him? How many times had she said that, using 'her'? What about Julie?
Oh, Christ. I forgot to ask her if she wanted to come with me. You know what? I don't know how badly I want her to come with me anyway.
So I hurriedly finished up my empanada, which I hadn't ever gotten around to eating, and raced upstairs, brushed my teeth, flossed, grabbed a tin of Altoids for the road, and did a little last-minute adjusting for the mirror.
At the bottom of the stairs were my tennis shoes, which I hurriedly put on. I kissed my mother on the way out, and, feeling her grinning at me without even looking back, I did a little dance on my way out to the car, for a spin over to Ira's.
WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR LOVE, CHAPTER ONE CLIFFHANGER
What's going to happen with Alex? How about James? How does Josh propose to deal with Julie, who doesn't know yet? Will he tell Meredith, who already suspects? How about Ira? Certainly we know he won't tell Jackson, but will he find out from the grapevine? What's going to happen with Josh's life?
COMMENTS FROM THE AUTHOR
This is unfamiliar territory for me. I've been reading these stories for about as long as I've had a computer of my own. That would have been early 1998, meaning it's been three years now. I've never given anything back, though, and this is my way of thanking my favorite authors, particularly Jay Trower for 'Strawberry Boy', Ardveche for 'New to this State' and Satori for 'Secrets Uncovered'. It's the love, and the friendship, in your stories that made me come to grips with who I am.
I've been itching to write, because of that, and I finally found my inspiration the other day... there's a picture in our school yearbook of the day, and, well, the guy who nine months ago was the reason I came out to myself at all. This is, of course, fiction after Josh first sees Alex, based on what might have happened if I had met this guy, who will go unnamed.
What does that mean? I'm not really Josh Heilig. I'm NOT telling you who I am. Forestdale doesn't exist, nor does Kennedy High School. The characters depicted are amalgams of people I've known through the years, friends, acquaintances, and total strangers. Just sit back, guys, and enjoy. Thank you for all the years of entertainment-- to quote Bill Clinton's farewell speech, "You gave me the ride of my life, and I've tried to give as good as I've got. Thank you, and God bless you. Thank you."
Give me your feedback, please... send them to joshbabe22@hotmail.com. Flames will go to /dev/null.