Cut Both Ways (28 page)

Two days later, I'm still a little out of it. Staying up all night playing laser tag with the entire senior class at Franklin screwed with my system in a way I didn't expect. It's like I'm hungover.

I'm at my mom's, in bed and slowly waking up. I'd woken up in the middle of night, totally awake to the point where I just
got up and watched TV and texted with Brandy—who was also awake for some lucky reason. But finally, I crashed out and now my alarm clock says 2:47 p.m., which is pretty goddamn late. My sisters have tried to wake me up twice, but I just growled at them and they finally gave up, when my mom called them to come out for some other thing they had to do: soccer or dance, who knows. I heard the door open and close; heard the garage door go up, the car start. I don't know where Jay is but the house feeling empty again makes me fall back asleep.

I'm having a dream about Angus; we're in a car, going somewhere, and we're not sure how to get off the highway, and I have to take a piss but there's no exits or places to pull over. That's when the door opens. More like explodes open; it's like Jay doesn't even use the doorknob but just kicks it open.

“Your mother needs to talk to you,” he says. “Right now.”

I sit up. He looks at my bare chest, makes a face.

“Get some clothes on. And come out here right now.”

It's darker now; the sun looks like it's going down. I have no idea how long I've been asleep, but the piss boner I'm rocking is uncomfortable. Jay never tells me to do anything. Barely even talks to me. And he's never come in my room, never mind come in without knocking.

I get dressed fast, take a quick piss. In the bathroom, I can hear my mom trying to talk quietly. One of my sisters is crying. Jay is
not
trying to talk quieter. I hear him say, “goddammit” a whole bunch. And: “Who the fuck does shit like that?”

My skin's tightening all over my body. I don't know what the
fuck is going on but I think it's got to be my dad. He's turned the whole graduation miracle into shit again. He has to have. Did he cancel the party? Jay doesn't swear that much, and never in front of his daughters. My mom sounds like she's crying. Pretty much I never want to come out of the bathroom ever again. But then my mom says, in a shaky voice, “Will? Will, can you please come into the kitchen?”

I go into the kitchen, trying to be casual. Trying to be strong. Trying to keep my chin up, for my dad's sake. It occurs to me for a minute that he's dead. That maybe he's killed himself. I imagine him swinging from a rope, hanging. I don't know why; the image just pops into my brain.

Jay'sstanding at the counter, his hands pressed over the granite. Then he pushes back, stands up, scoops up the crying Taylor, who's lying on the floor at his feet. He stomps upstairs with Taylor crying in his arms like a little child bride, and his face is hard the entire time.

“Mom?”

She's at the counter, too. Next to where Jay was. I wonder if Kinney's on the floor. I ask where she is.

“Dance,” she says. She's staring down at the counter and then I see it. My phone. My phone is sitting on the counter, in the space where Jay's hands were.

“What is going on?” I say, again, trying for casual. I know exactly what's going on. The photos on my phone. Of Brandy, but most of those are back farther in the gallery. The most recent ones are of Angus. And me; he sent me the ones of me because
he wanted to tell me that I don't understand how good-looking I am. And it's like ten pictures, all in motion. You can see my dick, especially in the fifth one. Which is his favorite, incidentally. Or was. We haven't spoken since that night I stayed at his house and Brandy got her period.

I could throw up all over the granite countertop and fake-wood floor right now.

“Will, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

“Who found them? Was it Jay? Or you?”

She looks undeniably guilty. She looks like I must look. I take off my glasses and wipe them on my T-shirt.

“It wasn't me or Jay,” she says. “Though Jay is obviously . . . upset.” She says that last word and I know Jay's furious.

“Taylor?”

She nods.

Fucking Christ.
“Mom, what in the hell . . . ?”

“You left that phone out on the sofa,” she says, her voice getting louder. “Where anyone could have found it. And someone did.” She starts to cry again.

Here is how I come out
, I think. My mom's crying, my stepdad's pissed, my little sister's scarred for life. Angus wants me to come out of the closet so bad; well, here I go. I'm going to tell my family I'm gay, when I'm not really even gay. All because my sister wanted to play Fruit Ninja or some other dumb game she could have easily gotten on her iPad.

“You did that shit in my house. With my kids upstairs.”

Jay, behind me. Standing there, across the living room.
Taylor must be in her room with commands to stay put. I wonder if she will.

“Jay . . . ,” my mom says.

“In my fucking house,” he continues. He looks like he's about to cry, and like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. They're just shaking by his sides. “We left you in charge of our girls, and what the fuck do you do?” He shakes his head, looks down. “I mean, you just better thank God that they never caught you doing that shit right here. Right underneath where they sleep! Jesus Christ, what is your problem?”

I can't look at him. I can't tell him that I didn't do anything wrong; that my mom never said anything about Angus. That it was only Brandy she asked not to stay over. And that the pictures aren't proof of anything. I could say that; that it was a joke, just us fooling around, no big deal.

But those sound like lies even in my head. I'm just as guilty as if the whole family, including my dad and Garrett and Kristin and the Everetts from across the street, too, had found us in bed, fucking each other up the ass.

Which we've never done. But we might as well have, given how Jay's face is turning red. He looks like something invisible is choking him.

“Will,” my mom starts again, but Jay cuts her off again.

“There's no trust,” Jay says. “None. This has wiped away my trust in you. Both of you,” he adds, pointing. I look at my mom, because I don't want him to include her in the no-trust thing, but then I wonder if he's talking about Angus, too.

“Honey, we're not upset with you about it being . . . Angus,” my mom says.

“Speak for yourself!” Jay yells.

“It's not about being gay,” my mom tries again. “It's about—”

“It's about trust!” Jay yells again. “I mean, you've been living here all these years and all of a sudden, this happens! We've got zero reason to expect you'd abuse our trust, that you'd do something so irresponsible! And boom! Out of the blue, there it is!”

There
what
is, I wonder? He's acting like gayness is some kind of tumor. Or a wild animal ready to pounce.

“It's just that, we need you to be honest with us,” my mom says. “Because—”

“We need you to be a person who doesn't take sleazy pictures on his phone and leave them out where children can find them!”

This pisses me off. “It's my fucking phone!” I yell at Jay. “Taylor had no right to look at it.”

“That's beside the point!” Jay yells. “You did it and you weren't even careful with it!”

Again: it. The gayness object.

“You left it out where anyone could come across it! Never mind who the hell does that to start with. You're probably breaking a whole ton of laws taking those pictures, as it is!”

“I'm eighteen,” I say. “I'm not a fucking minor.”

“That girl isn't, though,” Jay says, pointing at me again. “And yeah, I found those, too. Of course, Taylor found the other ones, not the ones with the girl. Do you have any idea how goddamn confused that kid is? Talk about loss of trust.”

Jay screaming isn't helping Taylor, I think. I'm getting pissed just thinking about how he keeps talking about it like it's hurting the kids. It's not my fucking fault Jay and my mom apparently have never explained what being gay is to their kids. I'm not their parent. If she's shocked about that shit, then that's their fault.

“To think,” my mom says, “how much fun they'd had, the girls. With both of you. And how we thought nothing of it. That's what it is, Will. That's the part I don't appreciate. The
lying.
Why couldn't you just have told us—”

“Why couldn't you do that somewhere else?” Jay interrupts. “If you had to do it at all!”

“Jay, you are out of control!” my mom suddenly yells. “Let me handle this!”

Jay's lips pinch into themselves and he looks like he wants to yell back. But my mom's fierce stare keeps him quiet. He steps back, reaches into the side pocket of his all-terrain cargo pants, and pulls out his keys.

“I'm going out for a bit,” he says. “If you don't mind, Tess.”

They stare at each other some more. Like they are sending silent messages between them via their eyeballs. My mom's lip trembles a little, but she doesn't look away or give in until Jay turns and goes out the door.

We don't look at each other, then. It's mother-son time and I feel a little more at ease, knowing Jay isn't here. Jay, who's apparently more homophobic than anyone knew. Even my mom. I know my mom isn't. I know she's trying to understand and be progressive and whatever. I know she's got to balance her kid dealing with sex
shit and her husband being pissed and the shock of realizing that me and Angus are homos under the brand-new quilt she bought for my bedroom, but she's going to pull it together. She's going to back me. What choice does she have?

“I think you need to find another place to stay tonight, Will,” she says.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I GO TO
Carl's. I know he's not at work. He's not even surprised when I call. Just meets me at the front entrance of his apartment, barefoot, holding an unlit cigarette.

“They kick you out or what?” he asks, lighting the cigarette. We sit down on the front cement stoop of the building. I set down my backpack between my feet; I've got a change of clothes, my phone charger, and that's it. It's like we're having a sleepover. I wish I could be excited about it. It's actually not a bad day, as June goes. Sun's out. It's not too hot.

“For the night, at least,” I say.

“Did you call Garrett?” he asks, exhaling smoke. I notice even his toes have red hair on them. It's sort of funny but I have no way to explain this.

“I will,” I say. I don't bother bringing up my dad, and not just because he punched Carl in the face. I know my mom will call my dad and probably tell him everything and I just can't fucking do it.

I don't have to tell Carl why I need a place to stay tonight. He doesn't flinch at the idea that the world is full of people who fuck you over and don't take care of you. He finishes his cigarette and we go inside and he says he's making tacos, do I want any?

I sit on the couch. I eat Carl's tacos. They're pretty fucking good tacos. I don't know why I'm surprised. Carl's a goddamn cook. I never cook outside of work. I don't do anything like that if I'm not getting paid. But Carl's got no choice.

“You want to go do something? I was just gonna stay in and chill,” he says, after we finish eating. He lights another cigarette, sits down on the couch beside me. “My roommate went to a wedding in Des Moines, so it's pretty quiet right now.”

I can't decide if I feel shitty for invading his quiet or good because he sounds lonely. It's hard to tell with Carl. His mood is always pretty much the same.

My phone beeps a bunch with texts.

Brandy. As usual. She's going into text-panic mode because I haven't responded.

One from Angus, though, gets me all tense:
wanna talk to you if yr around

“No, I don't need to go anywhere,” I say. Carl nods and turns on the television. I get up and clear my plate and do the dishes. Carl doesn't have a dishwasher, which depresses me. It's like his job is everywhere and he can never avoid it. I do all the dishes by hand, laying them on a towel on the tiny counter because I don't know where to put them away. When he tells me there's beer in the fridge, I go grab two and sit back down. He's watching a movie that
I've seen; there's a bank robbery that goes wrong and the money is flying everywhere. There's a woman who's got a big rack who's holding a machine gun. She kind of looks like Sierra and I say so.

“Sierra's way hotter than that dumb chick,” Carl says. “And she'd never touch a goddamn gun.”

“If you jacked her tips, she might.”

“Sierra's pretty relaxed about money,” Carl says. “I mean, for a waitress. She told me she makes these candles, with pennies in the bottom of them, and covered in mint oil. Mint brings money to you or something. And when her bills get too much, and she's not getting the tips she needs, she lights one of them until the tips pop back up.”

I keep thinking he's saying
tits
instead of
tips
.

“You got her number?” I say.

“It's on the call list for work,” he says.

“No, I mean, you should call her,” I say. “Have her come over.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? There's no way I'm doing that.”

I think for a minute about this; he changes the channel. I'm surprised he's talked to Sierra that much but I'm also surprised he's that sure about not calling her. I mean, his apartment's crappy, but it's not that bad. It's sort of clean. There's a dinky little balcony. And nobody's around right now. I mean, I could leave and he and Sierra could do whatever they wanted. Drink beer, smoke pot, watch shitty movies. They're adults and they've got money—and she's even got magic candles—so why he's just sitting here is a mystery to me. But then I look at his toes, with their little gingery hairs on them, curled over the edge of the coffee
table, the giant ashtray that's shaped like the state of Minnesota, full of crushed butts. Carl doesn't even have good cable.

What we end up doing is he sets up his bong and we rip a couple tubes, but I'm not used to bongs and get so high I'm paralyzed. It's kind of the worst. Carl doesn't seem to blink at it. He seems to be unaffected. He puts away the bong after we're done and he goes out on the balcony and smokes and looks at the sky. Or the stars. Whatever. I think about the texts on my phone, beeping in my pocket, beeping over and over.

I've made a fucking mess of my fucking stupid life.

“You want a pillow or something?” Carl, standing over me. I tell him no. I can barely keep my eyes open.

“I'm going to bed, then,” he says.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. Twenty-four new texts. One from my dad. Did my mom tell him about Angus? I turn the whole thing off, chuck it on the coffee table and it clanks against the full ashtray.

“Easy, dude,” Carl says.

“I gotta work tomorrow.”

“I'll wake you up,” he says. He kind of nudges my leg on the sofa with his leg and then walks back to where his room is. I wonder if it's a dump. If he makes his bed. If he's ever fucked anyone in it. Poor sad Carl. Fucking bitches, making money, sleeping alone.

Nobody's there when it happens. Not Roy, not my dad. But nobody knows this at first.

I'm in Carl's shower getting ready for a morning shift at Time to Eat when I get the first calls, though I haven't turned on my phone to hear them. Carl's shower isn't gross, like you'd think. I'm sort of embarrassed about how I assumed his whole life outside of work was pretty much shitty.

Once I'm dressed, though, and turn my phone on, I know I can't avoid it. There are eight missed calls. And the second the phone powers all the way on, Brandy calls again. She's the one who tells me; she's at the Vances' babysitting, which is how she knows. I can barely tell Carl what she says, I'm in such a hurry.

“Go, man,” he says. “Just go. I'll tell Garrett what's up.”

All the way to my dad's, I'm on the phone. To Roy and Garrett, who don't answer. To Kristin, who tells me to call the restaurant, and that she's so sorry, and to keep her updated.

I refuse to call my mom. Or my dad. If his phone goes to voice mail, I'll lose it.

I have to park on the end of the street and Brandy runs toward me. She's telling me the whole thing, as if it's already not clear: how she showed up early to work at the Vances', expecting them to be in their morning shuffle off to work, only to find them out in the street with all the other neighbors. The alley was blocked by the firefighters and cops.

I run ahead of her, and she trails me, until we get to the police line. The entire house isn't burned, just the attic. But you can see the smoke, still. The Vances, like the other neighbors, are worried the fire would jump, spread to their house, since everyone's houses in this neighborhood are built so close together. The
firefighters are already preemptively watering down the neighbors on either side of my dad's place.

A mob of people watch my dad's house smoke away in the already steaming-hot June morning. I stand by Brandy and stare at them, my dad's neighbors, the ones who called the county on him, the ones he pissed off over and over with his endless sloppy remodeling. I hate them in their pajamas and bathrobes and yoga pants and khakis-for-work and heels and briefcases. I hate them staring at the burned house. The miracle house, now smoking and ruined.

Brandy puts her hand in the corner of my elbow, clamping to me, and I don't jerk away, but I don't lean into her. She looks almost happy, her eyes are wide and her lips are glossed-up red, and she seems to vibrate, bouncing on her feet. Like she's turned on instead of worried. I imagine the tampon soaking up all her blood. Her panties crusted with it.

I look at the attic—or the smoking space where the attic was—and think about the futon where we first made out. There's nothing there, just thin sticks of wood poking up like black toothpicks.

The crowd of people pushes toward the closed-off tape the cops have set up. Like they want to get singed. Like they want to see everything inside, finally. Like they've been robbed.

Even Brandy does this, on her tiptoes, pressing forward.

That's when I pull away from her. I haven't said a word. I'm wearing my boots, and my shit jeans, the ones I like to wear to work because I don't care if they get stained. They are soft and
worn in, because I bleach them after wearing and the denim is going to fall apart soon, but I don't care. I have two pairs of these jeans and I rotate them and this is my uniform. Shit boots, worn jeans, a T-shirt I can pit out and not care about. I am holding my keys in a wad, flipping them around my index finger.

“Will?” Brandy is saying. “Will? Are you all right?”

I nod. I tell her I'm okay.

“Just a minute,” she says. She moves to talk to another woman. Mrs. Vance, maybe? I step back. Again. Again. The smoke rises up farther into the sky, where the sun is so bright it seems like it'll burn it all off.

I'm standing around the mob of people looking.

“Faulty wiring,” some guy says.

“Space heaters, maybe,” someone else says.

“In June?” someone answers. “Surely not.”

Everyone murmurs. All these people who never talked to us, or talked to my dad and got the rough side of his tongue. They don't wait long to dish up on the failure.

I step back again, budge into a woman who's holding a baby. I apologize. The woman barely notices me, she's staring so hard at the smoky sky.

“Will?”

Brandy, pointing at me. The woman next to her, staring over at me.

“They're saying nobody was in the house, Will. But do you know where your dad is?”

I don't know. I can't see my dad's truck. Or the shitty van. Or
Roy's car. He can't be in there, but part of me thinks that it might be better if he was.

“Just the dog in a painting,” I say. I don't know if anyone hears me.

I step back again. People turn to stare at me.

“There was a dog?” I hear someone say.

“Will, where are you going?” Brandy, near me. Up under my chin. Her arms trying to circle around me, but I keep moving back. Back. Back. I just want to get into my car.

I walk and walk and walk until I'm through the mob of people and to my car. I get into the car and sit there, holding my keys. Looking down at them in the little cup of my palms.

A knock comes at the window. Brandy.

“Will, your dad is here,” she says. “He just showed up with Roy, do you—”

“I have to be at work.”

“Will,” she says and then I put the keys into the ignition and drive. Turn the radio all the way up until I can't hear anything.

All the way to work, I see the picture of the dog in the attic. Curling up in smoke. Then ashes. Then blowing away. Less than ashes. The sky is very blue but I think I can see bits of smoke and ashes. Following me all the way to work.

I punch in. Sierra says hello, introduces me to the new waitress. She's cute. Lillian. The new cook is working through breakfast rush with the other prep cook, a girl whose name is either Jenny
or Jen. Or maybe Jan. I can never remember. And she's one of those people who won't shut the fuck up, who tires you out with all their information so that you don't even want to get to know her. She's a good worker, though.

I go into the walk-in, look at the list of deliveries. It's Wednesday, so we're flush. Time to unpack and chop. There's a fresh box of tomatoes and just one cambro of diced left, for omelets. I start on that, decide I'll do lettuce next, then cheese stacks.

Carl comes over, then. Asks if I'm all right. I nod at him. He just stares for a minute; he's sucking on a huge cup of Mountain Dew from a straw. Then he ducks back out front.

A minute later, Sierra's standing by me: “Will, are you okay?”

I look up from my chopping, sweep a bunch of tomato guts into the trash bin.

“I'm fine,” I say.

“Okay. Lemme know if you want a pop or anything. Okay?”

I nod, keep chopping. Keep my eyes on the knife.

I don't know when she leaves, but I'm about to start on lettuce when Garrett's there.

“Have you talked to your dad?”

“No,” I tell him.

“You need to punch out,” he says. “Your girlfriend told me you just left without saying what was up. And I . . . your dad needs you.”

“I was scheduled for ten.”

He shakes his head. “You don't . . . it'll be fine, Will. Just go.”

“I'm finishing my shift,” I say.

He says more stuff, but I'm in the walk-in, getting lettuce. Coming back out. Garrett's by the prep counter. He looks exhausted. His hair grayer. Like ashes. I wonder if they're starting to drop from the sky above my dad's house.

“You don't need to be here,” he says.

I want to say,
No. No, I do.
I don't say anything, though. I need to keep standing. I need to do something. Anything. I don't want to talk or look at him.

My phone is vibrating in my pocket with texts. I would turn it off but I kind of like knowing I'm ignoring everyone. Everything.

“Fair enough,” he says. “Though I think you need to be with your family. But I guess . . .” He looks up at the ceiling. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Nope.”

Lettuce. Cheese. Mushrooms. Stack beef patties, then chicken portions. Then taco meat.