by Andrew Smith
“I need to take a shower,” I said.
“Do you want me to leave?”
I’d been wanting Sam Abernathy to leave since the first moment I saw him.
“Don’t be dumb, Sam.”
But I felt really weird, and really guilty, taking off my clothes in front of him.
What had I done to myself? To Annie?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“DUDE. SNACK-PACK. WHAT HAPPENED to your eye?” Seanie asked.
Here are the depths to which I’d descended: Annie was apparently mad at me—or something was going on. She didn’t come down to eat that evening. I was so distracted, wondering what was wrong with me—and with Annie—and maybe if she’d regretted what we did by the creek that day. I couldn’t help but worry if she felt as terribly guilty and changed by what had happened. And there was no going back now, but I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
I didn’t feel like it was good, but like I said, there was no going back.
Seanie and I sat in the dining hall after finishing dinner, when the Abernathy came down and joined us at our table, just like that. And nobody said anything about the inappropriateness of a freshman—a twelve-year-old freshman, no less—sitting at a table with two senior boys.
That’s how low I’d sunk.
“Oh. Nothing, really,” Sam Abernathy answered. “Ryan Dean and I were just wrestling around, and I bumped my eye against his desk chair.”
Seanie gave me one of his patented I-know-you-secretly-must-be-gay-Ryan-Dean looks.
Whatever.
“Wrestling?” Seanie chuckled.
And the Abernathy, for reasons that escaped me, felt compelled to give Seanie more details.
“Yeah, well, actually, I fell off Ryan Dean’s bed.”
This was a gold mine for Seanie Flaherty. He wriggled in his seat like Sam Abernathy contemplating fondue recipes, or bonding with me over a creative writing session. I think Seanie even gave himself an excited little Sam-Abernathy-tug-slash-TSE.
Seanie’s ears raised slightly. “And what were you wearing when this intense bed-wrestling session took place?”
And the kid would not shut up.
“I was in my pajamas. Ryan Dean doesn’t have pajamas. He was in his underwear.”
Seanie Flaherty looked at me, then at Sam Abernathy, then back at me.
“Dude. Seriously. Come out, Ryan Dean. Admit it and move on. You’ll feel so much better about yourself.”
Seanie Flaherty had serious issues. And I know that it’s totally normal (at least, it’s normal according to Mrs. Blyleven) for teenage boys to wonder if their guy friends are maybe a little bit into guys, but Seanie never let up, which kind of made me think that deep down Seanie was the one who needed to come out or shut up, or something. So I put that in my little mental notebook of things to ask Annie: if Isabel had sex over the summer, and, if so, who did she do it with; and, after all the alone time she spent in Seanie’s car with him, if Annie thought maybe Seanie was into guys but so hung up on shit that he could never relax and be himself.
“If you must know, to be perfectly honest, Annie Altman and I got completely naked together and had sex in the woods this afternoon.”
Okay. To be honest, I did not say that. But I really wanted to. It would have felt so good to see the looks on Seanie’s and Sam’s faces if I let that out.
What I actually said was, “Feel free to fantasize as much as you want, Seanie. Yes, I was in my underwear. Briefs, in fact. Wrestling. With Sam Abernathy, on my bed. At two in the morning.”
Seanie took a deep, thoughtful breath. “Fair enough. Still, it’s a nice shiner, Snack-Pack. But if I were you, I wouldn’t tell the guys you got it wrestling in bed with Ryan Dean in his underwear. They might not be as open-minded as me, you know.”
Yeah. Open-minded Sean Russell Flaherty.
I was so sleepy, but I was afraid of going back to my room alone. So even after Seanie got up to leave, I—and this is hard for me to admit—stayed and hung out with the Abernathy while he ate his dinner. And how that kid managed to prepare a dish of pasta with ham, peas, and fresh mint in a microwave oven was something I simply could not wrap my head around.
“Would you like some of this pasta, Ryan Dean?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
“I never knew you drew comics. I seriously love that comic you made for me so much, Ryan Dean. How’d you ever learn to draw like that?”
I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am for being such an asshole. Things are really fucked up for me, Sam, and I’m sorry I took it out on you.”
And, yes, I really did say that.
Sam Abernathy stopped eating and looked at me with his large bunny-about-to-be-wolf-food eyes. “I’ve never heard you swear before, Ryan Dean!”
“Sorry. I don’t usually cuss.”
“Well, you should stop it right now.”
“Things have just been so messed up for me.”
“Well, I told you I won’t say anything to anyone, because it’s part of the code, right? But if you ask me . . .”
The Abernathy stopped as though he was suddenly aware that maybe he was going too far and that maybe he should shut up.
“Ask you what?”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, Ryan Dean.”
And the kid filled his mouth with more pasta.
Whatever.
I needed sleep. I was scared to try, though. So I actually hung out with the Abernathy, all because I was afraid of being alone. It felt so uncomfortable, too, like we were on a date or something. Because Sam Abernathy was just so damned excited about spending time with me.
When he finished eating, the Abernathy said, “What do you want to do now, Ryan Dean? Lift weights or something?”
No. No.
“I’m supertired, Sam. You know, after last night and all.”
It wasn’t even seven thirty, another indication of how decayed my life had become.
“Cool! Let’s just kick back and watch TV, then!” He was, as always, just a little too tolerant of me, a little too overjoyed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“NO WRESTLING TONIGHT, SAM.”
I crawled between my sheets and lay down with my hands folded behind my head.
“Ha ha! You’re too funny, Ryan Dean!”
Sam Abernathy turned the TV at an angle. He assumed I wanted to watch it too.
Whatever.
Of course the window was open. But a partial breakthrough had been established. I didn’t have to leave the room when the Abernathy changed into his soccer jammies, and when we did the whole brushing-the-teeth prelude-to-bed thing, he even told me he was going to pee (naturally, the boy from the well left the door to our tiny toilet closet open) and asked me to please not look at him.
I was really hoping the program Sam had on—it was about a foodie traveler who ate roasted scorpions and curry from street vendors in Myanmar—would bore me to sleep. Just the white noise of the show I wasn’t following, and the flashing colors of the images I wasn’t really looking at, distracted me enough that I actually felt pretty good about things.
“Would you ever do that, just because someone asked you to?”
“Huh?” I was mortified. At first I thought the Abernathy was talking about what Annie and I had done by the creek that day. To be honest, I really wanted to tell someone about it, what it felt like. Maybe that’s a gross guy thing, though, but I did kind of want to tell Sam Abernathy, and especially that creepy Seanie Flaherty. But Copilot One knew saying anything to anyone was a sure way to get Copilot Two grounded for life.
“What?” I said.
“Eat a scorpion. Would you ever eat a scorpion?”
“Would you?”
“Yes. I’d eat a scorpion.”
“I guess I would too.”
The Abernathy wriggled on his bed.
Then I said, “Can I ask yo
u something?”
“Sure.”
“Tonight at dinner, you said that it was part of the code that you wouldn’t say anything about me to anyone, and then you said ‘But if you ask me . . .’ and you didn’t finish. I need to know what you were going to say to me, Sam.”
It got really quiet. Except for scorpion-curry dude on TV.
“If I asked you what, Sam?”
“I feel sad for you, Ryan Dean. Something bad happened to you, didn’t it?”
Quiet again.
“Yeah. Something pretty bad.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with asking someone for help, you know.”
“You’re twelve years old. You can’t help me, but thanks.”
“I wasn’t talking about me, Ryan Dean. I was talking about Mrs. Dvorak, the school psychologist,” Sam said.
“Did Annie say something to you about me?”
“Um . . . I don’t know,” the Abernathy said. “Would that be breaking the boyfriend code if she did?”
“Just talking to your roommate’s girlfriend is a violation of the roommate code, Sam.”
“Oh. Sorry. Well, I go and talk to Mrs. Dvorak about once a week.”
“You? Why?”
Now scorpion-curry foodie dude was drinking beer, at sunrise, and eating something brothy in a bowl. And there was an actual chicken head in the bowl. Gross.
“You know, Ryan Dean. I told you. It’s because I feel like I don’t belong here with all you older guys, and my claustrophobia, and how embarrassed I am about everything.”
Someone like the Abernathy could keep a psychologist gainfully employed for a long time, I thought. And then I found myself wondering if the Abernathy also told her about the no-hair-around-his-wiener thing, and then I really wanted to slap myself because the Abernathy’s wiener was something I never wanted to think about again, even though—since it was the Abernathy—I was certain he did tell her exactly that.
And he continued, “Anyway, I think Mrs. Dvorak is nice. She’s helped me a lot.”
I yawned. “Okay. Whatever. Sam? If my thing happens again tonight . . . well, I’m sorry in advance if it does.”
“Don’t be scared, Ryan Dean. I’ll be here. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I would have never gotten out of that well when I was four if people didn’t come to help me.”
No. Do not say something smart now, Sam. You’re only twelve; therefore, you are not allowed to make such observations to me.
“Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Ryan Dean. Thanks again for the comic, and for being my friend.”
Also, no. I could not be friends with Sam Abernathy.
Right?
I shut my eyes and went to sleep. I dreamed about being with Annie Altman by the creek in the woods. The dream was a solid five out of five yapping Pomeranians on the Ryan Dean West Scale of Things That Keep Copilot Two Up All Night Long.
But Copilot One slept like a comatose sloth.
And my thing did not happen.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I GAVE A NOTE FOR Sam to pass on to Coach M, explaining that I’d be late to practice.
I also wrote a note to Annie, which I gave her at breakfast. And breakfast was awfully weird and quiet. I hated it.
I think Annie and I were both embarrassed and weirded out by what we did the day before. Also, I couldn’t quite figure out if she was mad at me, if I did something wrong, or what was going on. And the whole thing was even weirder because Spotted John Nygaard sat right beside me (and he accidentally touched my knee, the douche), while Seanie Flaherty sat right next to Annie, which, all things considered, created a Jupiter-size planet of weirdness around our little breakfast group. And Copilot Two took the opportunity to make an announcement from the flight deck that he was taking over the controls of Ryan Dean West Airlines for a while and wanted to let me know that the best way for Annie and me to get over the weirdness we felt would be for us to do it again, but this time with condoms, which—as weird as it made me feel—I thought was a pretty awesome idea, considering it came from Copilot Two, who usually only had terrible ideas.
So, that’s a lot of weird. And it was only breakfast.
Dear Annie,
How are you? I am fine. Well, kind of. I hope you are not too weirded out by what we did yesterday, because I am just a little weirded out, but not so much that I wouldn’t do it again in, like, a second. Well, I’m pretty sure I would. I hope you’re not mad at me about yesterday, Annie. That would kill me.
Can I tell you one thing?
(Ryan Dean West waits for an answer, which I am assuming will be a yes.)
Okay, it is this: I love you more than anything or anyone in the world, Annie. Just saying it (well, writing it) makes me feel happy inside.
But you know, there are other things going on in the Ryan Dean West interior that are making me not very happy, and I really don’t know what to do about them, so I am going to take your (and Sam Abernathy’s—God help me!) advice. I made an appointment to see Mrs. Dvorak today at twelve thirty, which, as you know, is during lunch, so I will not be able to spend the whole hour with you.
It is okay with me if you hang with Sam Abernathy, as long as you keep telling him to stop talking, which is something he needs to be reminded of almost constantly.
Maybe you could write me a note, so I can read it while I’m waiting outside Mrs. Dvorak’s office, which I am already getting nervous about, just thinking about being there. And maybe your note will tell me that you aren’t mad at me, and that I didn’t do anything bad or clumsy with you yesterday.
I really want to kiss you so bad right now.
I also totally wouldn’t mind “going for a run” too. (Ha ha)
Sometimes I really hate this school.
Love,
Ryan Dean West
PS—Remind me to ask you two questions (not about you or me), about Isabel and Seanie. And you better spill what you know, girl.
I’ll be honest: I did not want to go see Mrs. Dvorak.
But I wanted Annie to be happy with me, so I figured if the Abernathy had the balls to spill the intimate details of his hairless wiener to a school psychologist, then maybe I could do it too. Well, not the hairless-wiener part. But you know what I mean.
I seriously have to never think about that again.
Anyway, like I said, I had to force myself to get better. You can do that, right?
I mean, I hadn’t skipped any meals in over a day, and I even grabbed two sandwiches from the lunch cart where I met Annie, so I could take them with me and eat one before my therapy session, and then one more before rugby practice.
Annie understood when I told her I didn’t want her to come with me to Mrs. Dvorak’s. She had a softer, more relaxed look in her eyes that told me things were okay and maybe we should just get over ourselves and stop being so freaked out about the fact that we’d had real, one-on-one, mutually pleasing sexual contact. Because as far as Copilot Two and I were concerned, it was something that needed to happen again—and soon. And that was probably the biggest reason why I took Annie’s advice about speaking to Mrs. Dvorak. I had to show Annie that I would do anything for her, in case there was ever any doubt.
So I sat in the waiting area outside Mrs. Dvorak’s office, worrying about everything she might want to dig into, and wondering if maybe I had a disgusting piece of sandwich lettuce stuck to my front teeth. I gave them a quick index-finger brush, then unfolded the note Annie had handed me before I left.
Her note was written on the back of one of Annie’s British Literature assignments—a paragraph about some dude tearing the arm off some monster named Grendel.
Dear Ryan Dean,
Thank you for the note today. Do you realize you wrote it on the back of your Health class homework paragraph? So, you actually did your TSE in the bathroom while Sam was on the other side of the door doing the same thing on himself???
Boys are sooooooo weird.
/> Really. Really. Weird.
Anyway, in response to your first question, I am fine, thank you. Also, I am not “weirded out” about what we did yesterday. I think you are beautiful.
I’m happy.
I’m happy because I love you so much, and I’m proud of you for being brave and open with me, and for having the courage to talk to Mrs. Dvorak. This will be good, Ryan Dean. You will see. You need to be happy again. I love seeing you when you’re just your normal, extremely goofy self, because it makes everything so much brighter.
I was a little bit mad at you last night because you wouldn’t consider talking to someone about what’s going on, but mostly it made me sad because there was nothing I could do about it if you insisted on being stubborn, which is something you’re very good at. I wonder what happened to change your mind? Did Sam talk you into it?
I like hanging out with Sam Abernathy, by the way, and I don’t think he talks too much. He really likes you, Ryan Dean. You’re his hero, do you know that? You know what he said to me? He told me he wishes he could be like Ryan Dean West. You should really try to be nice to him once in a while.
As for the last part—I really want to kiss you right now too, Ryan Dean. And, you know . . . next time we “go for a run,” we should find somewhere nice and indoors.
Love,
Annie Altman xxoo
First off, it was not actually my Health homework that I’d written my note on—it was just a draft. I thought Annie would appreciate it. At least I didn’t write it on a page where someone is tearing someone else’s arm off. And, second, the Abernathy could be more careful of what he wishes for. He already was exactly like me, which is a completely pathetic confession to make. But, more important, Annie said “next time,” and that made me feel all tingly and conspiratorial about finding some indoor place where we could be alone. Copilot Two was definitely enthusiastic about the idea, which was probably not good timing, because just then Mrs. Dvorak came out of her office and smiled at me.
