Cut Both Ways (7 page)

There's a dent in the happy, then. I don't know if it's that I'm tired or if I know I'm ruining the Brandy Magic. I don't know what the fuck this is. But I don't want to think about it too much.

By the time I pull up to Angus's house, I feel like I drank a million cups of coffee, even though I don't drink coffee. Angus is standing in front of his garage when I pull up, and he tells me to park in the garage, where there's a spot because his parents' car is gone.

“You want to smoke out?” he asks.

I shrug, but it's a lie. I'm so fucking zingy. I feel like a little kid in gym class, excited to play the dog-catcher game where you chased everyone everywhere and put them in the pound, which was really just the basketball key lines on the gym floor.

“Here?”

“Come inside.”

He doesn't say it sexy. Like it's supposed to mean something else. But tell that to my dick. I've got the shouting in my head again. FUCK. WANT TO. FUCK.

The Rackler house is ice cold from air-conditioning. We take off our shoes just like at my mom's house.

“Let's go on the patio.”

This time he's got a joint. We step through the sliding glass door and smoke it together, standing up. Passing it back and forth. I'm aware of his spit on the paper. Maybe it's the pot, but I'm aware of how sticky my skin is. Of how it's weird to do it here; this is where the adults hang out and drink wine and beer and talk about their adult shit. Maybe that's why he wanted to do it here, instead of the garage.

The Racklers' backyard seems empty compared to my mom's backyard, where there's the above-ground pool and the play system thing, which is almost identical to the one in the park. Of course, Taylor and Kinney need their own personal one for some dumb reason. Probably it's the pot, because at the same time, the Racklers' yard seems endless. Huge. Mrs. Rackler has a garden and flower beds, and the grass goes on for what looks like a mile. The yard ends in a tall wooden fence, so you can't see the adjoining backyard. No chain link like in my dad's neighborhood. No alley.

“Look at the moon. Damn,” Angus says. We stare at the moon for a minute. It's huge. Round and white. Kind of fuzzy around the edges, like it has a halo.

“Yeah,” I say. Again, it's just bullshit about the moon, but all of it just makes me more excited. I wonder for a minute if I'm reading this all wrong. After all, I told him I wasn't gay. And we hung out after that and nothing happened. Maybe he's taken me at my word?

“You like the job, then?” he asks, and I say yeah. Tell him about
Garrett and the used grease and the hash and whatever. He says he likes the garden-center place okay. I think he might ask about how much I make an hour, but he doesn't and I'm glad, because that's one thing I never asked Garrett. Angus wouldn't ask that shit. He doesn't need money. He doesn't think about money like I do. I feel the money, crisp, folded in my pocket. I worry my pocket isn't deep enough. If it might fall out. I slide my hand down there. Feel for it. Still there.

I'm still hard too.

By the time we finish the joint, I'm feeling more mellow: chilling out, you could say. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe it's good weed. We go inside. Angus turns off the lights as we go. I follow him to the basement, where Angus's bedroom is, along with another TV and a Ping-Pong table and all Mr. Rackler's weights and exercise equipment. Angus asks if I want to watch a movie but I'm yawning. He tells me I can have his bed. Then I know he's not into the sex part. Then I feel even stupider for my boner. Embarrassed. Worried he can see it all over me, all these feelings. Dumb that I maybe ruined the Brandy Magic for no reason.

In his room, alone, I can smell Time to Eat all over my clothes. It's kind of awful. It's weird to think that all the food I chopped and washed and fried makes this kind of smell, especially since it goes into making things other people pay to eat. The smell doesn't belong in a bedroom. Maybe not even a restaurant. It's so bad I want to set them on fire. I strip to my boxers and set my glasses on the dresser. Then I get into Angus's bed, which is not a futon, but an actual bed. A mattress with a pillowtop and lots
of pillows. Plush and soft, but it smells like a boy. Like Angus. Like his stupid body spray he insists isn't gross like Axe or Old Spice but this stuff his dad gets from Macy's or whatever. The second I lie down I can feel how exhausted I am and before I know it I'm asleep.

Later, though, I wake up, because Angus is getting in the bed. My back is to him but I feel the mattress shift and the covers flip up. Then I feel him, beside me. Feel his hand slip across my back, over my shoulder. Feel him move against me so I turn myself, eyes still closed, all the way toward him. I feel his mouth on my mouth again and it's just like the other time. Natural. Normal. But this time there is no stopping. No glasses between our faces. And I'm not just lying there. It's like I'm asleep, but I know what I'm doing. I like what I'm doing. I feel his chest and it's so smooth. I have more hair than he does. His hands are all over me too. His hair falls into my eyes. It's so relaxing, but, like with Brandy, my body's all tight too. Everywhere alive. I don't know if it's the weed or the kissing and touching.

I stop kissing for a minute. My hand's on his stomach. Angus's mouth is down around my jaw.

Angus says, “Are you okay, Will?”

And I don't say anything, but I know it's okay. I kiss him again instead of saying it and then my hand goes down lower, where we're both hard. And then it's like we just know exactly what to do. Underwear gets pushed down, sheets and covers move out of the way, and he's got my dick in his hand and I've got mine on
his and it feels like being in a mirror, holding and being held and there's no wondering involved. It's automatic. Perfect. So we get to it. Get each other off.

It's not like regular jerking off. Well, it is. But it's so much better. I wonder if Brandy did this, would it feel the same? Better? Or worse? Maybe it's just because I'm surprised about how it'll go, unlike when it's my own hand and I know what'll happen next. Maybe because Angus is a guy and knows what feels good?

We're so quiet, but I don't know why. No one's here except us. But he's quiet, so I am too. Nothing but the slurpy sounds of our hands on each other's dicks. Which is gross and embarrassing but unmistakable. Maybe that's why we don't talk? Nothing but that sound, until Angus's voice catches in his throat and he comes. And then I can't help it and I come too.

A minute later, he gets one of his towels hanging off a chair and we wipe everything off. Our hands, our stomachs, everything. It kind of erases the whole thing out. Smooths it over. Makes it less gross in my mind, or something. Makes it so I'm forgiving myself.

My body feels chilled with the air-conditioning. We're still not saying anything, though I am breathing harder than a motherfucker. So's he.

And then, even though I think we shouldn't, I can tell he's going to fall asleep. I think maybe we should figure this out. Talk about what the hell this is. Because it's like I'm gay again. But I just can't find the words. So we fall asleep, my back to him, but
his hands around me. When I wake up next, the sun's just coming up and when I sit up, he opens his eyes and looks at me.

It's blurry, because my glasses are on the dresser, but I kiss him on the mouth. No tongue, because I can't stay. I get dressed, put on my glasses. I don't look at him, though I know he's watching me. I leave without saying good-bye.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

ONCE THE ROOF
comes off my dad's house, things change. There's insurance money and not so much with the Craigslist runs. Roy doesn't look hesitant anymore. The mismatched work crews of friends who owe my dad favors show up. There are coolers of beer and grill-outs and long days and nights. There's even an actual roofing crew with a tear-off Dumpster. My dad's laughing a lot. It goes on for a while, but I'm not around as much because of my new work schedule. I feel a little guilty about that, but it seems like my dad's got it handled.

A couple of times, Angus comes into the restaurant to say hi and I buy him a burger. Everything's cool. I don't know if it's because we're both guys that we're able to be normal about things. It's not like I have do something drastic like buy him flowers. It's basically the same as before, except for the part underneath that only we know about.

Since it all happened when she was in Wisconsin, I tell myself
that there's still Brandy Magic. No dent in it. Nothing's changed.

But when Brandy comes back, the day after the roofers finish the house, I'm nervous. I'm worried she'll know something.

We meet up in the afternoon at the Laundromat and both do our laundry. None of that is sexy, but Brandy's aunt let stuff pile up while Brandy was gone and I'm out of stuff to wear to both work and remodeling. I'm nervous, but at least we have something to do, to cover that up. Brandy kisses me and then she goes next door and gets us coffees at the coffee shop and we get all hyper on caffeine and I push her around in the rolling hampers and it's just kind of stupid but we are both laughing our asses off. Then we fold everything and put it in the backseat of my car and then she asks if I'm hungry.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Let's go get dinner.”

Brandy Corvallis likes veggie burgers. And french fries. And onion rings.

I have never heard of Miller Grill and would never have noticed it in a million years; it's in a strip mall next to a discount furniture store and an Indian grocery. But Brandy comes here a lot with her aunt, and her aunt spends ten bucks in the jukebox and orders a pitcher of beer and she and Brandy play cards while they eat. The waitress nods at Brandy as we seat ourselves at a little booth. The table's kind of uneven. Brandy pulls two menus from behind the ketchup and mustard in their rack and we start looking them over.

This is a date. Even though we didn't plan it. It's very clear to me, shouting over my brain: YOU ARE HAVING A DATE WITH A GIRL.

I act casual. Like it's something I've done before. In my wallet is some cash that Sierra tipped me out with. Two school buses of soccer players had showed up the day before and Garrett told me to go out and give the waitresses a hand. Move chairs around for everyone, clear tables, deliver fresh cups to the beverage station. She gave me twenty-five bucks, which made me wonder how much money she made normally.

But this is the first time I've spent any money from the summer. I have only gotten one check from Garrett, but it was pretty small and I still haven't cashed it. It's tacked up on the fridge at my mom's house.

I still have the sixty bucks Garrett paid me for my first shift, too. It's in my wallet, next to Sierra's tips. Probably I should get a bank account of my own, but I keep putting it off. I like seeing the money. And I've counted it several times, a stack of slightly greasy ones, plus the twenties. Anytime I think about buying anything with it, I hesitate.

But I know I have to spend it. I can't be all weird about it in front of Brandy.

Because Brandy just orders things so easily, without doing the calculation, things that aren't even given a price on the menu. Like the extra sides: barbecue sauce with her fries and the ranch with her onion rings. And the pitcher of Dr Pepper she orders. Not diet. And not caring if there's no free refills. But after a
little nervous counting of everything, worrying I won't be able to afford it, I relax. She's smiling a lot and the window we're sitting by is big and wide and it's still light out, though it's almost eight o'clock. Brandy's wearing an army-green tank top and I can see the top part of her bra, which is red. Her face is kind of sunburned from being at the water parks in Wisconsin. I get hard sneaking glances at her.

When the waitress gives us the bill, Brandy pulls out her wallet thing. Which is like a little pocketbook with a strap around her wrist. She takes out a bunch of cash and puts it on the table.

“Hey,” I say. I'm horrified. She's assumed she's paying for everything. I'm still sitting on my ass. On my wallet.

“We can split it,” she shrugs. “Unless you don't have cash.”

“I have cash,” I say.

She looks over the bill once more, like she's doing math in her head. “We always tip twenty percent here,” she says. “My aunt says you have to do that, because it's out of respect for waiting tables and knowing how hard it is.”

“You wait tables?”

“No, but she did,” she says, adding another five to the pile, while I scramble to pull out my wallet. It's not like the bill is huge or anything, but I feel a step behind. This is the first time I've gone out to eat with a girl, but you'd think I'd be on it, working at Time to Eat.

I do the fastest math of my life, making sure the money pile is equitable, that the tip will be good for our waitress, even if she's nowhere as good as Sierra. Brandy goes to the bathroom while
I'm in the middle of this, which takes a lot of pressure off, I admit.

“Now what do you want to do?” I ask her, when she comes back from the bathroom. I hold open the door for her and we're walking out. She's chewing a toothpick and hands me one; it tastes like mint.

“I don't know,” she says. “I guess it
is
Friday night. I never do anything, really. I mean, what can I do? I'm only going to be a sophomore, Will. I can't even drive. You know that, right?”

I tell her, who cares.

“School starts in a month, though,” she says. “Maybe then you'll care?”

But I just go to open her car door for her and pretend she didn't say it. Because DeKalb will say something to me. Jack will tell me I'm a pedo or something. Though Jack would probably go out with a girl in junior high if he could manage even that.

We get in the car. I start it. She puts on her seatbelt and opens her little thing of lip stuff and puts it all over her mouth. Then she twists toward me.

“Does that bother you? Hanging out with a sophomore?”

“Don't even talk about school right now,” I say. I kiss her and get a mouth full of the lip stuff, which tastes like watermelon. We've never done anything in the backseat of the Audi yet, but just now I wish there wasn't laundry back there.

But she stops kissing, like she knows what's in my mind. I have to quick get my face to look not disappointed.

“I have to get some things from Target. Want to come with?”

White wine, Dr Pepper, veggie burgers, barbecue sauce, Target: these are all things Brandy likes. So I try to like them, too, because I want the Brandy Magic back.

I don't go to Target much. One, because it's kind of the place my mom goes to get everyone stuff. And two, because my dad doesn't go anywhere except Walmart, because it's cheaper. Walmart always makes me feel like I'm one step from standing on the corner of the exit ramp and begging for change, though. It feels sad and pathetic. I don't want to be reminded of the low low prices. I don't want to see the sad fat people in their scooters or mean parents in the long checkout lines yelling at their kids. I'm not much of a shopper, and I tell Brandy this as we walk inside.

“Target just makes me feel good,” she says. “Whether I buy something or not. You'll see.”

I doubt this, but I get out a shopping cart and swing it toward her like I'm full of good manners. “I'll drive,” I say.

She laughs. “What a dork.”

“You are, too,” I say.

“Hang on,” she says, and steps over to the snack area. She comes back a minute later with a giant cherry slushy and a box of popcorn, which she sets in the front part of the cart, where you'd put a little kid.

Then she starts walking beside me and the cart. Eating popcorn. Sipping the slushy, which makes her lips look like blood.

“The best thing is that nobody's in this Target on Friday
night. I never go in the grocery part,” she adds, tugging the cart away from the produce section. We tick past the food aisles: soup, pasta, cereal.

“Eat some,” she says, pushing the popcorn and slushy toward me. “I got it for us to share.”

I'm not a huge fan of popcorn, but this stuff is actually kind of tasty. And I'm glad Brandy isn't all picky about sharing the same straw in the slushy. I mean, we've had our tongues in each other's mouths, so I guess what's the point of worrying about germs, anyway?

We pass the soda-and-candy aisle and I stop.

“Wait,” I say, turning the cart. There's this kind of root beer that Roy always brings to our house. I wonder if Target has it. I decide that I will get it, if it's on sale. Now that I've started spending, it's like I broke the seal or something. The Savings Seal.

“What are you looking for?” Brandy asks.

“This root beer . . . ,” I say. “There!” Schlager's House Brew, it's called. It's in a six-pack, bottles, and it's on sale for $5.88. I don't know if that's worth it, but I put it into the cart.

“See?” Brandy says. I shrug at her. Smile a little.

We pass through the pet aisle, the automotive aisle, the seasonal section. The outdoor/garden junk is still out, though all on sale. On the perimeter, there are stacks of Back to School supplies. Paper and notebooks and glue and pencils.

“You know, I actually like that,” she says. “Getting new supplies. Plus school means Halloween's up next.”

“Can't we just enjoy where we are now? How can you think of Halloween right now?”

“I love Halloween,” Brandy says. “Totally love it. Even if my nana's a freak about it and doesn't like us handing out candy and stuff.”

“Is she religious or something?”

“No,” Brandy says, looking at a display of mud boots and gloves. “She's afraid of kids coming and stealing things. She's weird. But my aunt Megan's like, that's ridiculous. My aunt is pretty normal like that. We just hand out candy on the screened porch. Nana's pretty deaf. She won't notice.”

“When's the last time you trick-or-treated?” I ask. “Be honest.”

“Seventh grade,” she says.

“Huh,” I say, somewhat surprised she admits that.

“How about you?” she asks.

I tell her sixth grade and she accuses me of lying, trying to one-up her, and then she sees a giant bag of Fun Dip and says, “What if we bought that? Would you help me eat it?”

“Yes,” I say. She laughs, tosses the bag into the cart.

We move through toys and electronics. I don't give a shit about electronics; I think I'm the only guy alive who doesn't. But aside from my phone, I just don't need anything else. You can even get porn on your phone; I've barely opened my laptop since school let out.

We examine My Little Ponies and LEGOs and Barbies for a while, making fun of some of the Ken dolls and their plastic dickless crotches, and then she says we have to go to the
magazine and book section and I didn't even know Target sold books, or magazines, except the junky celebrity ones up by the checkout lanes.

She looks through several magazines, all fashion ones with glossy covers featuring chicks in tight clothes, with their boobs or asses hanging out, their hair flying everywhere. Everyone on the cover is the exact opposite of Brandy Corvallis, but she studies each picture like it's Jesus riding a bicycle or something. I half-heartedly look through some of the men's magazines but they are all about hunting or lifting weights or sports or motorcycles. I've never really given a shit about all of that stuff. Even if it's guy stuff. I feel weird about this for a minute—realizing I have no hobbies, no interests, there aren't magazines for guys like me, at least—but then Brandy picks up a bridal magazine that's four inches thick.

“This is fifteen dollars,” she says, lifting the thing up. “And it's mostly just advertisements.”

“What the hell?”

“Like, people pay lots of money for these pictures,” she says. “That's me someday. Not for a bunch of wedding stuff, though. I hope.”

She keeps paging through the bridal magazine. I stand around like a dumbass and I ask her if she's going to buy the thing, and she's like, “Relax, already, Will. I'm never getting married. Ever.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I don't know what to do with this information. I'm thinking about her taking pictures. Being serious about photography. And
not getting married. And Target, in general. Is it still making her feel happy? She puts the giant bridal magazine down and we move on.

We pass through the baby section, which she doesn't even acknowledge, then shoes, where she zips through the aisles touching every other shoe and making comments. (“No. No. No. Ick—that's plastic. Awful detailing.”) I don't even bother to pretend to be interested in shoes. I have three pairs of shoes. Flip-flops, running shoes for gym, and work boots. And snow boots. Okay, four.

Then we're in men's clothing. “My favorite!” she says, jumping a little. I push the cart like it's my skateboard, sliding along and skidding to a stop. At first I think she'll just try on the clothes herself. But then she starts whisking out button-down shirts and jeans and stuff and holding them up to me. Like I'm her personal paper doll.

“God, no,” I say to the millionth shirt she slaps against me. It's striped and has these two weird hipster pockets on the chest. “That is awful.”