Bigger Love

by Rick R. Reed

  It wasn’t only the fact that he was gorgeous—which he was, with cropped black hair and a five o’clock shadow—but there was something about him that called to the nurturing side of Truman. Even at a glance and from this distance, there was something dark and brooding about him. It set him apart, making him both mysterious and alluring. For just a moment, everything around Truman silenced—the chatter and laughter of the other kids on the bus, the grumble of its engine, the whine of its brakes as it slowed to a stop, and the pneumatic whoosh of the doors opening.

  Truman knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that these sounds should be there, but for one brief, shining moment, all that existed was the boy.

  He was at least six feet tall, probably a couple of inches above that. Broad shoulders. Beefy. To use one of Patsy’s terms, he was “strapping.” Unlike Truman he dressed not to attract attention to himself. He wore only a pair of faded Levi’s, a plain white crewneck T-shirt that had seen many washings, and a pair of very basic black canvas tennis shoes. Slung over one shoulder was a battered and faded red backpack.

  Mesmerized, Truman watched as he made his way to the bus and then disappeared from view for an instant as he boarded. Truman snapped out of his reverie as he realized Alicia was staring at him as she stood a few people back in line. She stuck her tongue out as their eyes met. Truman chuckled. And he went right back to searching for just one more glimpse of that face.

  And then he was on the bus, passing close enough to Truman to touch. Truman swore his heart stopped. Their eyes met, and Truman was nearly bowled over by how crystalline blue they were, bluer than Truman’s own, with an icy paleness from which it was impossible to look away. The lashes fringing those eyes were as black as the hair on his head—which, by the way, contrasted wonderfully with the pale blue—and long enough to cause a twinge of jealousy and desire to flare up in Truman.

  Truman swore he felt something pass between him and the boy in that smallest exchange of glances. Something charged. Truman actually felt the downy hair on his neck rise, tingling. He would be hard-pressed to say just what that something was, but he knew for certain that a kind of communication definitely took place.

  For the fearful, teased boy who still lived somewhere inside Truman, there was a supposition that the good-looking boy met his glance because he was appalled by what he saw. Through those self-hating eyes, Truman would see a boy dressed all wrong, a boy with makeup who should be ashamed of himself. He wasn’t a real boy. Through that lens, Truman saw disgust.

  And it made his blood run cold.

  But the other—and ever-growing-even-stronger—part of Truman hoped that what had passed between them was recognition, a kind of kindred-souls thing. Maybe a little interest?

  Dare he hope for attraction? Even lust?

  Alicia plopped into the seat beside him with a sigh. She punched him, hard, in the bicep, which drew his reverie to a close. Frowning, Truman looked over at her and began rubbing at his upper arm. “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “Dude! Where were you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Honey, you were not on this bus. You were someplace far, far away. Over the rainbow, maybe?” Alicia snickered as she settled into the seat, spreading her stretch-pant-clad legs and crowding Truman. Some things never changed.

  “Very funny.” Truman had a lingering thought, yearning, about the black-haired boy and had to fight the impulse to turn and look for him in the seats behind. “I was just thinking about the year ahead.”

  “I know, right? Seniors. Can you believe it?” Alicia settled her stuff on her lap—her phone, a spiral-bound notebook, and one of those clear plastic organizers that seemed so old-school, which had an assortment of pens and pencils in it.

  “It should be an interesting year,” Truman said and thought Especially if he’s in some of my classes. And then he chastised himself. Jesus, pull yourself together. Next you’re gonna be doodling his name in your notebook, right in the middle of a big red heart. Whatever his name was…. Heathcliff? Gage? Hunter?

  “Interesting?” Alicia made a huffing sound. “That’s a good word for it. There’s way too many days ahead of us until graduation, and we can finally break free from this shithole one-horse town.”

  “And be the superstars we are meant to be?”

  “Damn right.” Their heads canted toward each other as they laughed. “Who you got for homeroom?”

  “Mr. Bernard! I am so grateful.” Dane Bernard, although old enough to be Truman’s dad—and could be, for all Truman knew—had come out almost simultaneously with Truman during Truman’s freshman year. That connection helped negate a thirtysome-year difference in their ages. They’d forged a special bond. Truman considered Mr. Bernard, and his new husband, Mr. Wolcott, friends as well as mentors and role models. He and Patsy had even been honored to attend their wedding at the beginning of last summer.

  “Lucky,” Alicia said. “I’m stuck with some chick goes by the name of Ms. Waggle.”

  Truman cocked his head. “Who dat?”

  “I don’t know. She’s new. First job out of school from what I hear.”

  “So that means go easy on her. Behave yourself,” Truman said, knowing what he was asking for was hopeless.

  “Right. Sure thing.” Alicia snickered. “You know how easy I go on everyone.”

  They sat, for once, in silence for the rest of the ride to Summitville High.

  Truman didn’t know what Alicia was thinking about. For one, he supposed she was preoccupied with what kind of year it might turn out to be. Remarkable? Devastating? A year in which she might finally find herself a boyfriend, maybe? Would she pull good enough grades to get into a decent college, like her brother, with his basketball full-ride scholarship? Alicia’s family, like Truman’s, could never in a million years afford to send a kid through college, even one of the cheapest state schools, without help. It was reaching for the stars.

  He supposed all or none of those things might be cycling through Alicia’s mind. Maybe she was simply thinking about what color to paint her nails. Or nothing at all.

  As for Truman, his mind was filled with one thought.

  That boy.

  Chapter 2

  TWO WEEKS into the school year and Truman had pretty much forgotten all about the boy, because he’d yet to see him a second time. Of course, he’d looked and looked for him at Alicia’s bus stop every day for at least the next six mornings, but then he got involved with homework, fear of gym class, and the routine of his school days. The boy slipped from the prominent place he’d held in Truman’s head. Almost. Once in a while, especially if Alicia was late and missed the bus, he’d picture him all over again, imagining him coming aboard the bus, replaying the first day of school in his head. In Truman’s fantasies, he’d sit next to Truman, even though there were other seats available. And, with a smile that would melt granite, he would meet Truman’s gaze and shyly say, “Hi.” They’d ride the rest of the way to school together, their legs barely touching, but intent on that touch and the heat generated by something as simple as two thighs pressed together.

  But most mornings lately, there was gossip to attend to with Alicia. There was last-minute homework to read or write. There were taunts and jeers to deal with now and then.

  But it was this morning, near the end of September, that would transform a ho-hum senior year into a remarkable one. And the change was brought about by something as simple as a flyer tacked to the bulletin board opposite the main entrance to the school.

  CASTING CALL, the flyer shouted out in bold all-capital lettering.

  It went on to say:

  The senior class play this year is a classic. Harvey by Mary Chase is a comedy about Elwood P. Dowd and his best buddy, an invisible six-foot-three-inch tall rabbit (called a ‘pooka’) known as Harvey. The play won the Pulitzer Prize!

  There are a total of twelve roles available, six male and six female.

  Auditions are next Wednesday immediately after school in the au
ditorium. Mr. Wolcott will direct and cast the play. Email or see him for an audition package. He’ll give you sample scenes and a synopsis of the play.

  All roles will be cast by Thursday, and rehearsals will start directly after school the following week. The play is scheduled to be performed the first and second weekends in November.

  Please come and try out! Note: the role of Harvey will be played by an invisible actor. LOL.

  Below the announcement was a drawing of a pair of rabbit ears.

  Cute, Truman thought. He walked away from the bulletin board, thinking not about the play but about his first-period class, the hated geometry with Ms. Rosemary Hissom, who lacked even the slightest sense of humor. Truman wished she were more likable, because he harbored a sneaking suspicion she was a lesbian, and anyone on the LGBTQ rainbow really needed to be fabulous and not a drone like Ms. Hissom. In class he daydreamed about her getting up to all sorts of shenanigans with other female teachers in the teacher’s lounge. She was a mistress of depravity everyone called Butch.

  And then, as though he’d been tapped on the shoulder by an invisible rabbit, Truman was seized by a thought that came completely out of nowhere but was so irresistible that he couldn’t ignore it.

  You have to do it. The play. You simply have to.

  The thought wasn’t so surprising, because Truman had secret dreams about being an actor and had since he was about six years old, but the insistence and unexpectedness with which this current thought came was, well, kind of shocking.

  It was as though it was imperative that he try out. As though the universe, and not his own subconscious, was speaking to him….

  TRUMAN RUSHED from his last class the following Wednesday to get to the auditions early. He wanted a chance to grab a seat at the back of the auditorium to see who his competition might be. Last week he’d dropped by Mr. Wolcott’s room to pick up the audition package.

  Truman loved Seth Wolcott. Not in that way, of course, but more as someone to be looked up to and admired. Unlike poor Dane Bernard, Mr. Wolcott had never—at least as far as Truman knew—struggled with coming out and being gay. He was simply out and proud, confident in who he was. Being gay was just an integral part of him, neither good nor bad, and Truman admired how he never made it central to his being. He looked up to the man and hoped one day he could be as easygoing about his own orientation.

  Plus, if he were being totally honest, Truman would be forced to admit to maybe the tiniest of crushes. With his tight, fit build, curly hair, and fondness for jeans and sweater-vest combinations, he always put Truman in mind of Mr. Schuester from Glee, which Truman had watched faithfully growing up.

  “Which part should I try out for?” he’d asked Mr. Wolcott.

  “That’s hard to say,” Mr. Wolcott told him as he handed him a sheaf of stapled pages. “Read through the audition scenes I put together and see which one speaks to you the most. A good actor can find an ‘in’ to almost any part.”

  Truman wanted to ask him other questions, things that might give him an edge, but Mr. Wolcott was preoccupied. His next class was starting up in just a few minutes, and already the students for that class were streaming in, skirting Mr. Wolcott and Truman as they headed for their seats.

  Now, as Truman sat in the cool dark of the empty auditorium, he tried to psych himself up for his audition. He was going to read a scene from almost the end of the play, when a taxicab driver talks about how the fares he brings to Chumley’s Rest, a sanitarium, are changed for the worse. Going to, they’re easy, happy, big tippers. But coming back, they’re “normal;” they don’t tip, they’ve got no time. He even says what “stinkers” normal folks are. There was a kind of yearning about the taxicab driver’s speech that Truman identified with—in his own humble way, the driver celebrated being different, being an outcast, following the beat of your own drum. Truman identified with that.

  It also gave him his best chance, he believed, to show off his thespian skills. The winsome longing the driver displayed for a more easygoing world would be, he hoped, riveting, profound. The speech was one of the best, too, from the sample scenes Mr. Wolcott had put together.

  And speaking of Mr. Wolcott, he was just now coming into the auditorium. Truman sucked in a breath, realizing he didn’t see him sitting there in the shadows.

  Mr. Wolcott wasn’t alone. Mr. Bernard, his husband, walked beside him, one hand on his arm. They were laughing and whispering. The couple still didn’t realize Truman was sitting there in the dimness of the last row, which was why, Truman thought, grinning, they felt free to have a totally inappropriate conversation.

  “Both kids are gone tonight,” Mr. Bernard said. “We have the whole place to ourselves.”

  “Oh? Whatever shall we do?” Mr. Wolcott pulled Mr. Bernard close, hand wandering down to his ass.

  Truman bit his lip. He wished there was now a way for him to discreetly draw attention to himself, or that he could put on a cloak of invisibility for just a moment and slip soundlessly from the room.

  “Yeah. Think we can shake up the routine a little bit?” Mr. Bernard yanked Mr. Wolcott even closer and kissed him.

  The kiss didn’t last long.

  Mr. Wolcott was eyeing the double doors to the auditorium over Mr. Bernard’s shoulder. “Maybe we can christen that new dining room table that was delivered over the weekend,” Mr. Wolcott said, a little breathless, breaking away.

  And then he spied Truman sitting there.

  Mr. Wolcott leaped back even farther, putting at least a foot between himself and Mr. Bernard. “Truman! Buddy, I didn’t see you there.” He gave Truman one of the most sheepish smiles Truman believed he’d ever seen. It made him want to laugh. It made him want to cringe in empathy.

  Even in the dim light, Truman could see that Mr. Wolcott’s face was beet red, the flush rising from his neck on up to his cheeks. “Clearly,” Truman said. He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Your secret is safe with me.”

  As he said the words, two more kids, a boy and a girl Truman was only vaguely acquainted with, entered the auditorium. They were giggling, the girl shoving the boy.

  Mr. Wolcott hurried to the wall and flipped several light switches. The stage illuminated, along with the sconces along the wall.

  “I’ll see you at home!” Mr. Bernard called. “I’ll stop at the deli and pick up some of that rotisserie chicken you like, some Jo Jo potatoes, and a salad. Okay?”

  Mr. Wolcott first glanced over at Truman, as though searching for approval on the menu. “That sounds great. I should be home no later than six thirty.”

  God. Please eat before you put that dining room table to other uses. Truman suppressed a snicker at the thought. He started to let his mind wander to an extremely pornographic image, one in which Mr. Wolcott’s legs were astride Mr. Bernard’s shoulders, but he forced himself to stop. The swelling in his loose-cut pants would be far too apparent when he stood.

  Mr. Bernard left, and about twenty other kids milled into the auditorium in groups of twos and threes. Truman searched in vain for Alicia, who’d said she was going to come to try out for the ingénue role of Myrtle, but she must have gotten cold feet.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted You coming?

  She immediately texted back. Nah. Theater is for sissies and losers. Like you.

  Very funny, Truman keyed in, then turned off his phone because Mr. Wolcott had moved to the front of the auditorium and clapped his hands a couple of times to get everyone to settle down.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I’d like to thank all of you for coming today. It’s great to see so many familiar faces. We’re going to get started right now, because I don’t want to draw the process out any longer than we have to. As you may or may not know, each of you will have five minutes to audition, whether you read from my suggested scenes or not. I’ll be making up my mind and casting tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll post the cast list on the main bulletin board. It looks like we’ve got more folks than parts, but rest as
sured everybody here can do something in the show if they want to, whether you’re onstage or behind-the-scenes. Next to the cast list I put up, I’ll also add a sign-up sheet for stage crew.”

  Truman rolled his eyes. If he didn’t get a part, no way was he being reduced to stage crew. If he couldn’t be in the spotlight, he wouldn’t be caught dead offstage operating that same spotlight for some other kid. It would simply be too cruel, too hard.

  Besides, he’d get a part. He just knew it.

  He glanced down at the scene he planned to do again. He read it over as Mr. Wolcott answered questions about—again—how long they’d have to read, when they’d know if they got a part, would there be understudies, and so on. Hadn’t anyone read the flyer… or even better, listened to Mr. Wolcott as he spoke?

  No, they were probably busy looking at their Facebook feeds or texting on their phones. Truman was convinced his generation would have permanently downturned faces from staring at handheld screens all day.

  Just as he had that thought, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Probably Alicia. He resisted the phone’s siren-call imperative and let it remain in his pocket, especially since he’d just been mentally chastising his peers for their obsession with smartphones.

  “And is there a difference in pay between a leading and a supporting role?” Jason Abner asked, snickering.

  “Yes,” Mr. Wolcott replied, his face and expression serious, earnest.

  Some of the chatter died down. There was pay involved?

  “Leads get double the amount that supporting players will receive.”

  The chatter started up again.

  “Who can do a little math?” Mr. Wolcott asked.

  Stacy Timmons raised her hand. She was a dark-haired girl who put Truman in mind of a young Natalie Wood. He knew most of his generation didn’t even know who Natalie Wood was, but he had several DVDs of her movies at home: Gypsy, This Property is Condemned, and his favorite, Splendor in the Grass. Poor Alicia, Truman thought, would never stand a chance against Stacy Timmons for the female lead.