Rumble (16 page)

Embarrassing me.

Losing his friends

and me losing mine.

All because of who he was.

How he was born. Who

he was programmed genetically

to love. Although, tell

that to Dad, he’d claim

you were insane, that no

gene of his could possibly

be responsible for gayness.

The funny thing is, until

his meltdown at Aunt Sophie’s

wedding, I’d never before

witnessed Dad’s raging

homophobia. Did he only

hate “gay” when it so obviously

manifested itself in his son?

I Watch Him Now

One minute to go in the game,

Cottage Grove leading by sixteen

points, but he’s not celebrating yet.

In fact, he paces the sideline, yelling,

Move it! Watch the block!

Pressure, pressure, even more pressure.

That’s how he coaches and, hey, who

am I to argue with a winning strategy?

Hayden et al scream right along with him.

I slip my arm around her shoulder, pull

her ear against my lips. “We already won.”

Then, in a bold bid for attention, I run

the tip of my tongue along the contours

of her auricle. Great word, and interesting

that the term for outer ear is also a part

of the heart. Are they physically connected?

Could the way into a girl’s inner chamber

in fact be licking her ear?

Apparently Not

Hayden gives me an inelegant

elbow to the ribs and hisses,

Stop it. Do you want everyone to see?

Before I can respond, tell her

I really hope the entire world

sees, the buzzer rings. Game over.

The crowd is on its collective feet,

our side cheering, theirs sighing.

One or two look like they might define

poor sportsmanship. I can see more

than one raised middle finger. Lame.

It’s just a freaking game. Hayden and I

trail the Biblettes down from the bleachers.

As they start toward the exit doors, I figure

I’d better ask, “I’m driving you, right?”

She hesitates.
It’s late, and a school

night, and I’ve got a chem quiz tomorrow. . . .

“I swear I’ll take you straight home and only

bum a kiss or two for my effort. Don’t worry.

It’s too dark for your dad to play spy.”

I can tell she’s thinking about saying

no, so I tempt, “Please? I want to tell

you about what my therapist said.”

Success! She taps Jocelyn’s shoulder.

Matt’s taking me home. See you tomorrow.

That nets me a wicked glare from

Big J, but then she shrugs and hurries

ahead. Score one for me, and why not?

It’s only fair that I win once in a while.

The teams are finished shaking hands.

Dad’s at the end of the line, looking . . .

My first thought was “proud,” but I realize

a more accurate word would be “smug.”

Maybe he’s the one who those guys

were flipping off. Whatever. I wave

and he reciprocates. “What got into

my dad? He actually acknowledged me.”

Don’t be so melodramatic, Matt.

Why wouldn’t he acknowledge you?

“Me? Melodramatic?” Only if truth is melodrama.

Outside

The usual mist has turned to out-and-out

downpour. I halt Hayden beneath

the wide overhang. “Stay here and I’ll bring

the truck around.” It doesn’t take long,

but by the time I return, she’s standing

alone, haloed yellow by sodium light,

an angel. If there were any argument

for a heaven, or even paradise on earth,

there it is, embodied by my beautiful

Hayden. I park on the sidewalk, close

as I can, so she doesn’t have to take

more than three steps in the rain. Still,

when she climbs up into the truck,

her long hair drips, and her makeup

smears beneath her eyes. I think about

making a joke, but she looks fragile,

so wordlessly, I reach into the center

console, extract a tissue, and gently wipe

the black streaks away. “Have I ever told

you you’re amazing?” I expect a love-

sponged response. Instead, she pushes

my hand away.
I think we’d better go.

Seriously Stung

I put the truck into gear, pull

into the stream of cars leaving

the parking lot before I say,

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t know.

“Of course you do.

Talk to me.”

I can’t tell you.

“Martha says—”

Who’s Martha?

“My therapist, but you

should know that. I’ve

told you her name before.”

Guess I should pay

better attention. What

does she say?

“That relationships struggle

without open communication.”

I don’t mention the fact that I

was supposed to be the one

communicating my displeasure.

Martha’s right, but . . .

“But what?”

But sometimes I worry

if I tell you what’s on

my mind, you’ll freak.

“Come on, Hayd. You know

I’m the benevolent King

of Cool. What’s the problem?”

She thinks it over. Finally

decides to take Martha’s advice.

It’s just you always say

things like I’m amazing.

And you kiss me like you

really love me . . .

“I love you with all my heart.”

So why don’t you want me?

Want? Wait

Just hold on one freaking second.

Is she saying what I think she is?

“I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”

I mean, if I’m so amazing and

beautiful and all, why don’t you

ever try to have sex with me?

Holy shit! She was saying what

I thought she was. “I—I—I’m kind

of speechless, Hayden. It’s called

respect—for you, and your beliefs.

I just never thought . . .” Not for one

second did I consider she might be

like my mother was at her age.

You could have at least given

me the chance to say no. I feel

like you say all the right things,

but you don’t really mean them.

Maybe I’m not so attractive, or

maybe there’s something else

going on, something a whole

lot worse, like . . .

Oh Man

I think I set myself up with all that

communication business. “Like what?”

We’re closing in on her house,

so I pull over a couple of blocks

away, just in case her dear old dad

has night-vision binocs or something.

Well, I talked to Joce about it and

she said maybe the problem is

you’re like your brother.

“Wait. You talked to fucking

Jocelyn about why I’ve never tried

to have my way with you? And wait.

The prevailing theory is it’s because

I’m gay? Why, because if Luke

was there’s a good chance I am, too?”

Anger courses like a storm-swollen

creek.
Judah says it’s possible,

that there does seem to be—

“Okay, screw that! You talked to
him

about me, too? What the hell is wrong

with you? Oh, I get it. This is the way

good Christians gossip, right? Bathroom

discussions, post-communion, about

how to make their boyfriends come on

to them, so they can feel all holy about

turning them down—sanctimonious prick

tease.” I grab her hand, yank it into my crotch.

“You want to feel my boner? It won’t take

much. Just wiggle your fingers a little.

Jesus Christ, Hayden, I am so not gay!

Do you have any idea how many times

I’ve left you and had to go home and jerk

off?” As if to prove it, my dick jumps

to attention. “There. See? Let’s have sex

right now! Unzip me. This will be fun.”

Stop it!
She jerks her hand away,

and now somehow it’s her who’s

pissed. Her eyes spill pain-spiked

tears.
Why are you being so mean?

“I’m not the one talking shit about

you behind your back! Might as well

give you something to bitch about

tomorrow. Anyway, I thought this is what

you wanted. Make up your mind, okay?”

I’m out of breath, and she’s out the door,

stomping up the sidewalk in the rain. Fuck.

I Drive Home

Way too fast on the storm-slicked streets, but recklessness

feels good, feels right. This late on a weeknight, traffic

is light, but should I come across someone minding

the speed limit, I punch the accelerator, pass without

much thought. The abandon initiates a major head rush,

no foreign substance required. I’m buzzed. Buzzing.

It feels so good, I drive right by the turnoff to our house,

head out a deserted back road, almost daring some lazing

cop to fire up his engine and come after me. But I see

no cruisers. No other cars. Nothing but a fucking deer,

smack on the center line! “Oh, shit!” I hit the horn,

stomp the brakes, steer into the inevitable fishtail,

and somehow manage to correct without losing

the asphalt or catching the doe with my bumper.

Now I feel better than buzzed. I feel invincible.

At least, until I remember what brought this on

in the first place. One close call tonight is more

than enough. I drive home ten above the limit.

I Walk Through the Door

A little past eleven. The house is already

fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.

No need to expose the ruse. I’m still wound

up, and in fact the recent exhilaration, coupled

with the earlier conversation with Hayden,

has made me want a shower. And not a cold one.

I go to my room for clean post-soaping clothes,

and when I extricate my cell from my jeans,

notice I’ve got a text. Unbelievably, Hayden

has already apologized.
VERY SORRY. I WAS

TOTALLY WRONG. FORGIVE ME?
Bitch. I toss

the phone on my bed, grab fresh underwear,

a folded T-shirt, some flannel pants, try

to remember not to slam my way down the hall,

into the bathroom. By the time the water

steams, I’m hard as hell—from frustration

and anger and that incredibly close call

on the highway. I am a warrior, and suddenly

I understand the base desire of the conquerer.

Having no one to rape and nothing to pillage

but myself, I step into the hot water stream,

lather up with Mom’s fancy rosemary bath gel,

and when I close my eyes, it is Hayden I imagine

ramming into, take extreme pleasure in her pain.

Marginally Satisfied

Skin and hair scented with rosemary,

I return to my room, check my cell.

Sure enough, there’s another text:

YOU’RE NOT STILL MAD AT ME, RIGHT?

Had it really been her in the shower,

I might have found a small measure

of forgiveness, but as it is, hell yeah,

I’m still pissed. Thankfully, Martha

has prescribed medication for nights

like this, when I just won’t sleep any

other way. The dosage on the label

reads,
Take one or two for anxiety.

Since I already brushed my teeth

and won’t be chasing the pills with beer,

I pop three with water, turn off the lights,

burrow in beneath my thick, heavy quilt,

wait for the plunge into paradise. My brain

begins to thicken, a not altogether unpleasant

sensation except for the way it coalesces

around a single word: forgiveness.

Forgive

Forgive.

Forgive.

Forgive.

Over and over,

smaller and smaller,

a receding echo.

Forgive Hayden.

Forgive Mom and Dad.

Forgive yourself.

And where did that come from?

Forgive myself for what, exactly,

you bastard internal voice?

I wait for the answer,

but before it comes, I’m falling,

somersaulting down into Shangri-la,

courtesy of Miss Martha’s little helpers,