In my room, we sat side by side with our backs against the headboard. He had his laptop on his lap, typing up an outline to our paper. We picked the Watergate Scandal to write our report on. We both found it interesting, as well as having a fair bit of prior knowledge going in. Several hours later, we took a break. Like boys of all ages are want to do, we shifted to life's more sensual pleasures.
"So, how is Mr. Muscles, the football jock, not dating anyone?"
He had his back propped up on the large wooden front of my four poster bed, which looked like a headboard for the foot of the bed. Nothing like passed down furniture. One arm was sprawled over the edge of the board while he used his left hand to twine a toothpick through his teeth. We had eaten some leftover chicken at one point. I rested on a mound of pillows against the headboard.
"Why do you keep calling me Mr. Muscles? I'm too slim. You seem to think I'm a linebacker."
"At least it's not a lineman."
"That much weight wouldn't work well with my height."
"No it wouldn't. The slim and trim thing works for you, but you've got more muscle than me. Thus, you are muscle boy to me. Too short to be muscle man." He laughed.
"Thanks for the confidence booster. Remind me never to ask you for a compliment."
"You still didn't answer my question."
"What question? Why am I single?"
He nodded, his hand motioning for me to continue.
"Well, Stacey Peterson and I broke up early into the summer break, as I'm sure you remember."
"I heard she gave you the clap." He smiled at this. Bastard.
"She most certainly did not! The only thing that bitch gave me was endless torment. She spread so many rumors about me that three-quarters of the ladies won't even talk to me anymore. The other quarter are in the band."
This seemed to intrigue him.
"What kind of rumors?" He leaned forward slightly, as well as pausing in his toothpick escapades.
"Well, for starters, she told them I was standoffish. Apparently, I didn't pay her enough attention."
"She is quite annoying. If you gave me a choice between soaking my balls in ice water for five minutes or being alone in a room with her for an hour, I'd be sitting in front of a heater after six minutes." We both laughed. Honestly, I hadn't had this much fun just talking to someone in a long time.
"I couldn't stand how self-centered she was. Hell, she still is. Everything with her is me, me, me with no room for anyone else. She would unload every little thing she went through that day onto me. At once. It was fucking intolerable. If I even tried to tell her how my day went, something that happened at practice or someone I talked to, she would just cut me off with 'That's nice honey.' And then keep talking about whatever she was on about."
Richey chuckled along, eyes holding mine.
"That's why you've been ostracized from the females?"
"She told them I'm gay too."
He started to choke, on air I presume, coughing several times. When he recovered he looked up at me in shock.
"I'm sorry, do what now?"
"She told everyone who would listen that I'm gay." I stated simply. "Apparently, wanting to take it slow and not fucking her when she practically begged me to on several occasions was a dead giveaway in her book."
"How long did ya'll date?"
"Six months." Worse six months of my life. I'd rather spray water on a hornet's nest than spend another day listening to her rant about her enemy's list. Cheerleaders are cutthroat. They hold grudges like the IRS. I once heard her tell me about some chick who had fucked her over in the fifth grade. The fifth grade! Something about an argument over whose makeup was better, back in that time period when girls had just started being allowed to wear it. Anyway, thanks to this moment of impudence on the other girl's part, Stacey blackballed her from the cheerleading squad three years later.
"Ethan, Ya there hoss?"
"Huh- Oh yeah, I'm fine. Where were we?"
"Something about you're gay because you didn't fuck Stacey Peterson."
"Yeah, enough of that. What about you?"
"You actually want to hear about my love life?"
"Seems only fair."
He stared at me for a moment, seemingly arriving at some conclusion.
"Fuck, you're serious about this. Okay. Just remember, you asked." He sat up straight while crossing his legs Indian style. "So this one time, at band camp-"
I threw a pillow at him.
"Shut up and tell me you asshole." We both laughed. He seemed to know when to break the tension.
"Well, I dated this guy from Woodrow High last year for a while."
I sat stunned for a moment. He kept talking for a sentence or so before looking at me with concern.
"You dated a guy?"
"Yeaaaah... I am gay. Maybe you forgot? I didn't think the head trauma stuff would affect you so early. Is football really that dangerous?"
"Shut up," I said between giggles. My face was no doubt bright red. "I thought those were just rumors."
He shrugged his shoulders. "People have called me gay, queer-boy, queen, and faggot since they found out what those words meant. When I found out what it meant, I didn't even know I was gay, I just knew those people were assholes." He looked in my eyes, as if to challenge me.
"You'll get no argument from me."
He visibly relaxed.
"I can't believe you didn't know." He shook his head as he muttered this.
I scratched my arm, unsure of what to say.
"It doesn't matter. You're a great dude, I'm cool. None of the rest matters."
His smile could've lit up a city. Part of him looked on the verge of tears while another looked happy beyond belief, the two emotions in a terf war on his face.
"Did your father know?"
"Who says father?"
"I do."
"Yeah, he knew. My mother," Said in a seriously shitty British accent, "Knows as well."
"How'd they take it?"
"How would yours?"
"Why does that matter?"
"It doesn't."
I thought about it for a moment. My mother had always been supportive of me, from peewee to career goals. She didn't talk very much about politics, nor did she force me to go to church with her. Our views on religion were very different. We once had a long talk about why I didn't want to go. I thought it would end with her demanding I still go. She listened to my points, made some counterarguments of her own, but left the decision in my hands once she had seen that I'd actually put some thought into my beliefs.
"If I came home one day and just said, 'Hey mom, I'm gay.' Over dinner, I'm sure she'd choke to death on whatever she had been eating. But, I think she would eventually come around. There'd probably be a long talk about why I felt that way, I'm sure."
He nodded along with what I said.
"The same went for mine. My mom exiled herself to the eastern wing of the house, A.K.A. their bedroom, while my dad seemed to stay at work for longer."
"That sounds horrible."
"Not really," He shook his head once, shrugging one shoulder. "It was better than being kicked out or told I was going to hell. We all sorta became roomates who didn't speak to each other, just lived in the same house. One day my dad came home early and asked how I was doing. I was just watching TV on the couch, so all I said was 'fine'. He walked over and patted me on the shoulder. Said, 'I love you son, no matter what.'" A tear rolled down one cheek, only to be angrily wiped away. "My mother took another month of my dad wearing her down before she would speak to me again. It started out slow. We're on good terms now."
"That's good to hear." I didn't know what else to say. Felt stupid saying that.
A door closed in the front of the house. The distinct sound of keys hitting the counter could be heard.
"Want to meet my mother?"
"On the first date? We're moving a little fast here, ain't we?"
"You'll be fine."
Laughter bubbled from both of us as we stood up of the bed to stretch. It'd been a while since we started.
Mother was reading through our mail when we walked in the kitchen. I leaned on the bar while Richey stood behind me, to the right.
"Mother, this is Richey. He's a friend of mine from school."
"We're working on a project together." He said.
"Nice to meet you dear." She said without looking up from the mail. A couple of pieces of junk mail got torn up to be tossed in the trash can. She called out behind her as she walked to the fridge. "Do you boys want anything to eat? I've got eggs, some sandwich meat, a few-" She looked out from behind the door to Richey's face.
"Oh! You're the Kirk boy. Honey come here." She raced over to hug Richey. "I'm so sorry. I know it's been a while now, but that doesn't make it any better. Here, you sit down." She pushed him into a chair at the kitchen table. "What kind of cake do you like dear? I've been meaning to make one."
"No you haven't-" I said.
"Quiet Ethan, and get out my flour bowl while you're at it."
"Yes ma'am." I crouched below the counter to fetch her massive flour bowl. I'd been through this before, so I gathered the confectionary sugar as well for her icing.
"I don't need a cake Mrs. Doyle."
"Everyone needs cake dear. And it's Ms. Sorvino since Mr. Doyle found his way to the door." My mother never missed an opportunity to shit on my dad. Who could really blame her? She walked over to the cupboard we keep the cake mixes in. "We have yellow, marble, spice, German chocolate, devil's chocolate, and a strawberry bread mix. You have the choice between chocolate and vanilla icing." She leafed through the mix boxes on the shelf as if they were books in a library.
