by Andrew Smith
RYAN DEAN WEST: Not in America. But who knows?
NICO COSENTINO: (He laughs. I made him laugh.) Look, Ryan Dean, I just wanted to say that I’ve been thinking about my brother a lot since yesterday. And, well, he’d probably be mad at me about the way I acted. So, I know you were his friend, and you meant a lot to him, and I’m sorry I was such a dick.
RYAN DEAN WEST: It’s no big deal. I guess I was pretty annoying. I should have left you and your family alone. I’m sorry.
NICO COSENTINO: So now we’re just going to apologize back and forth all night?
RYAN DEAN WEST: No. No.
(There is a really awkward five seconds of silence, during which time I avoided looking at Spotted John, who was really, really close to me on his couch.)
NICO COSENTINO: So, anyway, I talked to my mom and dad about it, and I asked them if they’d let me come up to Pine Mountain next week to watch your friendly. My team hasn’t even started practicing yet, and I thought I’d like to see how you guys play.
RYAN DEAN WEST: You play too? I knew you did as soon as I saw you! What position do you play?
NICO COSENTINO: Winger.
RYAN DEAN WEST: I did that for a couple years.
NICO COSENTINO: I know. Joey talked about you and your team all the time. In fact, he almost never shut up about you. The game’s on Thursday, right?
RYAN DEAN WEST: (Side note: I’m a little choked up thinking about Joey never shutting up about me. It was probably really embarrassing stuff Nico knew about me too.) After school, at four.
NICO COSENTINO: Maybe we could hang out and talk after the game.
RYAN DEAN WEST: I’d really like that. That would be fucking awesome.
Side note: Okay. You know. I didn’t really say “fucking,” but I did feel like kicking my feet in the air and doing one of those little Sam-Abernathy-quick-tug-TSEs on myself.
NICO COSENTINO: Okay. My parents really want me to talk to you for some reason. You know. Well, I’m taking a bus up from Portland. If I needed to spend the night, could I crash on your floor?
Side note: Things like visitors sleeping over were entirely against the rules at PM. And then there was the issue of the size of our dorm room. Not to mention the Abernathy and open windows and shit. But Mr. Bream was kind of clueless, as my beer-drinking, pot-smoking, ninja love-seat-mate proved on an ongoing basis.
RYAN DEAN WEST: Dude. Yes. You can. That would be great.
NICO COSENTINO: Okay, then. Sorry I was such a douche to you, and I’ll see you Thursday.
RYAN DEAN WEST: Hey, if you need to call or text me, just use this number and the ninja will get the message to me.
NICO COSENTINO: Okay, bro. See you, Ryan Dean.
RYAN DEAN WEST: See you Thursday, Nico.
And, yeah, he broed me.
Again.
I thanked Spotted John for the phone and didn’t wait for him to say anything else before I got the hell out of there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I ENTERED THE ICEBOX OF Unit 113.
Something was going to have to fix itself inside the Abernathy’s little short-circuited brain before the first snowfall or I was going to change the lock on our door.
“Hi, Ryan Dean! I wasn’t sure if you’d come back home tonight, but I already decided I wasn’t going to say anything to Mr. Bream. You know, because of our code.”
The Abernathy was bundled up in his soccer jammies, wrapped in his Super Mario Bros. blanket, sitting cross-legged at the head of his bed beside the open goddamned window, watching a program about risotto with truffles.
I absolutely wanted to take off a shoe and bung it at his head.
But I was in a pretty good mood after talking to Nico and managing to escape Spotted John’s ninja video-arcade-slash-pot-den-slash-adult-toy-shop without being pressured into doing anything I never would have thought Spotted John might want to do with me. I already convinced myself that Spotted John Nygaard did not actually make a pass at me. Right?
No way.
“It’s freezing in here, and stop talking to me.”
See? Ryan Dean West: a good mood personified.
“I was going to make some popcorn. Would you like to share a bag of popcorn with me?” The Abernathy wriggled like a chubby maggot in his blanket.
Actually, I was hungry. So, whatever.
“Look, if you want to share your popcorn with me, that’s fine. I am hungry. And I’m also cold. So I’m changing into my pajamas and getting into bed,” I said.
“You have pajamas, Ryan Dean?”
“No. That’s exactly what I mean, Abernathy.” I didn’t even need to unbuckle Spotted John’s belt to get out of my deflated giant suit. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my too-big school pants on the floor. “I am taking off these stupid pants and shirt and I’m going to try to climb into my bed before hypothermia sets in.”
“Ha ha,” the Abernathy laughed. Then he got out of bed and rustled around in his desk to find a packet of popcorn.
I shivered in my icy Princess Snugglewarm sheets, and while the microwave was pop-pop-popping, the Abernathy picked up my borrowed clothes from the floor where I’d abandoned them and hung them up.
“I also did your regular-size school laundry, Ryan Dean!” he chirped.
My clothes had come down from the tree. Heartwarming.
I sighed. And then I said what was probably the longest stream of nonirate words I had ever coherently woven together for Sam Abernathy. “I really wish you could do something about this claustrophobia thing.”
The Abernathy stood in front of the microwave, just looking at me. Half of his face pulsed in the microwave’s light-shadow-light-shadow as the bag of popcorn spun around and around on the carousel of radiation.
He shook his head. “It’s pretty much incurable, Ryan Dean. Please don’t hate me.”
“But this is getting to be ridiculous. No, it’s been ridiculous ever since the day you moved in and opened everything in our room and then I actually allowed you to talk me into waiting outside so you could change your clothes or poop or take a shower or do your little TSE or whatever.”
“You taught me how to do that, Ryan Dean!”
I really, really, really wanted to punch him.
“But, Sam, it’s going to start snowing here soon. You know what that’s going to be like?”
“I’ve never seen snow before!” the Abernathy said.
He opened the microwave and shook the bag.
I rolled over in bed and faced the wall because I didn’t want to look at Sam Abernathy’s sad little cocker spaniel eyes.
“I’m sorry, Ryan Dean.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you want me to turn the TV this way so you can see it too, Ryan Dean? I really love making risotto.”
“I don’t care about risotto. I’m trying to stay alive.”
The Abernathy laughed. “You’re so funny, Ryan Dean!”
Then Sam shook some popcorn into a plastic bowl and handed what was left in the bag to me.
I sighed again. This whole being-nice thing was wearing me out, but I said it anyway. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for having popcorn with me!” the delighted little weasel said. Then he climbed back onto his bed and resumed his cross-legged pose.
“Could you just please shut the window, Sam?”
I must have sounded pathetic. But the Abernathy didn’t answer me. He got up, went to the window, and—miracle of miracles—slid it shut. And then he walked across the room and opened the front door.
“How’s that, Ryan Dean?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
But the popcorn was pretty good.
And I still fucking hated Sam Abernathy, no matter what.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I WAS A WRECK FOR the next two days.
I couldn’t sleep at all, and the terror at night kept getting more and more intense. When Sam Abernathy left our door open on Friday night, I was certain that every guy who passed in the hallw
ay was Nate. I couldn’t take it. If I started to doze off from exhaustion, I would see Nate and my lungs would stop working.
And I ran into Spotted John at breakfast on Saturday morning when there were no other kids around. He sat down right next to me and his knee bumped mine, so I scooted away from him. It was so awkward and uncomfortable. And then Spotted John Nygaard came right out and told me that he hoped I’d still be his friend, at which I assured him that of course I was his friend—we were teammates after all, and besides that, he was a pretty decent guy who was always there to help out. So Spotted John admitted to me that he really was bisexual—and not just in the video game—and he also hoped that one day I’d maybe be interested in “hooking up” with him for fun.
Just like that—that’s what he said.
Fun.
This was something I had no experience in dealing with.
I said no thanks, but Spotted John persisted in asking if I’d spend the night on Saturday—he told me we could drink beer and play around online with his iPad and do whatever we wanted—because Cotton Balls wouldn’t be back until Sunday.
What could I do?
“Really, no thanks, Spotted John. Snack-Pack would tell on me if I didn’t come home again.”
Home?
Ridiculous. I was using the Abernathy as some kind of protection against Spotted John’s advances.
“Well, you should come over this afternoon, then.”
“I don’t think so, Spotted John. Annie and Mrs. Blyleven would not approve of me ‘hooking up’ with our eight-man.”
I tried to make it sound all locker room jokey—just two dudes shooting the shit—but it was so fucking uncomfortable because there was so much more going on that was entirely unsaid.
And I had this kind of Health class epiphany that would have made Mrs. Blyleven so proud of me: Consent applies in every direction, not just between straight guys and the girls they pursue. Those happened to be the only types of consent scenarios Mrs. Blyleven had bothered to cover in class. I realized how ridiculous that was, and that just because you’re a straight guy, it doesn’t necessarily mean someone else—anyone else—won’t ever go a little—or a lot—overboard with pressure and make you feel like you’re the bad guy for saying no. Now, if only Spotted John got that message too, I could get on with just being Ryan Dean West and ignore everything about Spotted John Nygaard’s . . . um . . . attraction.
“Do you feel like maybe lifting some weights with me today?” Spotted John asked.
“Look, that’s three strikes, John. Remember the poster in Mrs. Blyleven’s class that says “CONSENT: The first NO is the LAST WORD”? Give me a break, man. I like you and all, but that’s about it, Spotted John. I could never be into it.”
“Really? I think under the right circumstances, any guy could be into it.”
“Is that what you think? Because I don’t. It’s a no, dude.”
And Spotted John said, “Okay, Ryan Dean. I won’t pressure you. Because I really do like you. Just remember you still owe me a favor.”
“I won’t forget,” I said.
How could I forget?
This was bullshit.
“And the other thing—I mean, I wasn’t an asshole about it or anything. My friends, the guys on the team, they all know I’m bi. So if you’re going to say anything—”
“Why would I say anything about it? You’re my friend, John. It’s no big deal. I just never thought about stuff like this. But, to be honest, you were an asshole4 about it. You took pictures of me in my underwear and posted them online. Do you realize you could get kicked out of Pine Mountain for doing stuff like that? I mean, I know it was a joke and all, and I even think it was pretty funny, to tell you the truth. But it was a real dick5 move.”
Spotted John reddened and looked down. “I . . . I’m sorry, man. I’ll remove the pictures. I promise. Really, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
And we shook hands and left it at that.
So I asked, “Does this count as my anything-you-want favor?”
I made air quotes when I said “anything you want.”
“Ha ha,” Spotted John laughed.
“Heh.”
* * *
4. Yes, I really did say that.
5. And that, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I could not believe I was actually hanging out with the Abernathy on a Saturday afternoon.
A sudden Indian summer had set in that day, so everything felt like we’d gone back in time to July, which would have been fine with me because (1) I’d be at home, and (2) I would have no awareness of the existence of the kid my team named Snack-Pack. The Abernathy could open the window all he wanted to tonight. Hell, I’d even suggest it.
Maybe the warming of the weather caused some mystical increase of my tolerance, or maybe those pain pills Spotted John gave me had serious long-term, niceness-inducing side effects.
Who was I kidding?
To tell the truth, I was just trying to avoid Spotted John, and the Abernathy was the best deterrent I could come up with. Because now, on top of my anxiety, night terrors, fear of the dark shadowy guy who was following me everywhere, and sharing a coffin-size room with a claustrophobic twelve-year-old, I also had to deal with Spotted John’s horniness.
So awkward.
Mrs. Blyleven could not possibly have dreamed up a better practical lesson for straight guys about consent. Now I totally understood what I must have seemed like to so many girls last year when I was fourteen. You’d think Spotted John, at seventeen, would be grown-up enough to make it clear to his penis who was the bigger boss, which was Penis Commandment Three, according to Mrs. Blyleven, by the way.
To be perfectly honest, in my case, I believe my penis and rational brain were twin copilots on the same plane, and I couldn’t really tell who was flying for Ryan Dean West Airlines. But at least we both flew fairly level. Well, most of the time.
So on Saturday afternoon, with our window open and the outside temperature warm enough for us to wear shorts (and I voluntarily left the room when Sam Abernathy wanted to change—I was such a well-trained loser), we sat at our desks and—unthinkable as it may sound—did homework together.
“What are you working on?” the Abernathy asked.
“Health. Don’t talk to me.”
I caught the Abernathy as he took a quick glance under my desk.
“Not that part, Snack-Pack,” I said. “I am supposed to write a reflective paragraph about performing my TSE.”
“Oh! What are you going to say?” he asked. “Do you want to share out with me, like we do in Dr. Wellins’s class?”
“Never.”
“Maybe I’ll write a paragraph, then, too. Would you like to read mine?”
“Stop talking to me.”
It was so embarrassing, writing that goddamned paragraph for that stupid class.
“Ryan Dean?”
“What?”
“Are you any good at calculus?”
“What part?”
“Derivatives of implicit functions?”
I had fashioned a kind of barrier using a row of novels between our desks, which otherwise may just as well have been connected. I moved the books out of the way and sighed. “Let me see what you’re doing.”
The Abernathy slid his notebook and text across the now-unfortified border between our desks so I could see.
“This is pretty hard stuff, but I can show you how to do it,” I said.
The Abernathy squirmed with joy.
For the next hour and a half, I did math with Sam Abernathy.
Fun.
To be honest, I missed doing calculus and being in Mrs. Kurtz’s class.
By the time we were all homeworked-out and I was midway through my what-I-think-about-fondling-my-balls reflective paragraph for Mrs. Blyleven, the Abernathy said, “I have to tell you something, Ryan Dean.”
“No you don’t.”
“I live in Texas.”
; “I’m happy for you.”
“Well, the reason I’m claustrophobic is because when I was four years old, I fell into an uncovered well that was about sixty feet deep and only this big around.”
When he said “this big around,” the Abernathy made a circle the size of a soccer ball between his curled hands.
“Oh. That would suck.”
“It took them three days to get me out. I almost died.”
“Oh.”
Why was he telling me this? I was actually beginning to feel sorry for him, so I had to keep reminding myself that Risotto Boy was currently alive and that he was also my roommate.
“And the other thing is, the reason I don’t ever get undressed or take showers around other boys here is because . . . well . . . I’m not really starting to . . . um, change yet, and I don’t have, you know, any hair around my wiener or under my arms. And it’s embarrassing.”
No.
He actually was talking to me about his wiener.
I never wanted to talk to Sam Abernathy about his wiener.
But I also recalled, with deep horror, what it was like to be the only twelve-year-old freshman in a pretty much entirely sixteen-year-old-boys’ locker room. I had nearly blocked it out of my mind, and I decided then and there that if I ever had a son (which meant I would eventually have the opportunity to actually breed with a noninflatable living female human being), I would never, never, never allow anyone to suggest the idea of moving him forward in school.
Trust me, it was the most God-awful thing that could ever happen to a boy.
“Nobody cares about that, Sam,” I said, which was kind of a lie, and also unwarrantedly kind.
“Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t have come here to Pine Mountain, because I don’t belong with all you grown-up boys.”
Why the hell was he telling me this?
I couldn’t even respond to him, because I felt so bad for the kid. I was such an asshole to him.
I was not supposed to feel sorry for Sam Abernathy.
But Sam Abernathy was a living photocopy of all the terrible shit I had experienced for three solid years at Pine Mountain. Now that I was fifteen, and a senior, I had finally started to feel like I was on a level playing field with all the other boys at PM, and here that little bastard Sam Abernathy had to disinter all the shitty loser feelings I thought I’d buried over the summer. To be honest, I was getting a bit choked up, so I turned my face down at the page I’d been writing on and focused my attention on a description of rolling my testicles between my fingers (Mrs. Blyleven had strict rules about using correct vocabulary terms, so we had to include words like “penis,” “testicles,” and “scrotum,” regardless of how stupid those words sound in comparison with the preferred, simpler vernacular).
