by Rick R. Reed
Mike wanted to yell at him, to call him a freak. But he said nothing. With a shaking hand, he started the car up and gave the engine too much gas. He pulled out of his spot in a hurry, kicking up gravel and dust.
And for the second time that night, he looked in his rearview mirror to see someone laughing at him.
Chapter 13
ONCE AGAIN, Truman found himself walking home alone. He was in a jubilant mood. He’d met Mr. Wolcott’s challenge head-on, “becoming” Myrtle Mae for that night’s rehearsal. He’d been petrified as he changed in the restroom before, putting on the dress, stockings, and heels with shaking hands, questioning his own sanity, wondering if he was only making things worse for himself.
You should know better snaked through his thoughts more than once.
He was able to quell the trembling in his limbs enough to apply the makeup very successfully. When he stepped back and stared at himself in the mirror, Truman Reid did not gaze back, but a young lady of a certain social position did, a very pretty and believable one. He knew he’d need to get his hands on a wig at some point, but the white straw picture hat worked just fine for tonight.
When he went into the auditorium, he was afraid he’d pass out from fear, that his knees would simply buckle beneath him and he’d go facedown onto the linoleum floor.
He was afraid of a lot of things—that he’d be laughed out of the space. That there would be jeers and finger-pointing. That all the old bullying behavior would rise up once more, worse than ever. That there would be no taking back the plunge he was about to make.
Before he opened the doors, he was almost breathless with terror.
And yet he was determined to see things through.
One thing he’d learned as a studier of stagecraft was that they “didn’t have to see you sweat.” In other words, he knew he could go through the motions of whatever he wanted to project and could effectively hide his nerves, no matter how tied up in knots his gut was.
So he strode inside and struck a pose, praying for a good outcome. Patsy liked the old cliché In for a penny, in for a pound. Truman was never sure what she meant by it.
Until tonight.
He was prepared to be a laughingstock at best, to be the object of hatred and scorn at worst.
But the kids surprised him. Maybe it was because Mr. Wolcott pointed them in the right direction with his cheery call, “Well, as I live and breathe! If it isn’t Miss Myrtle Mae Simmons. In the flesh!” But everyone, from what Truman could gauge, got what he was doing and were actually kind of tickled by it. And not in a bad way….
Had he crossed some bridge into a parallel universe where people simply accepted others at face value?
Were the kids, his castmates and classmates, simply too stunned to bring out their arsenal of teasing?
Or did they accept him? Not as Truman, but as the character he was bringing to life… as Mr. Wolcott said they might?
Truman decided he could go with any one of the scenarios coursing through his somewhat addled brain, but why not choose the one that made him happiest?
So he did. And his sashay down the center aisle was sheer feminine perfection.
He was not Truman Reid, he told himself as he met the eyes of his peers, but Myrtle Mae Simmons. And if that’s what he believed, then so would everyone else.
Rehearsal went better than it ever had, now that a “real” Myrtle Mae was in place. The acceptance continued through both acts they rehearsed that night. Oh sure, there were a few whispers and giggles from the stage crew, but overall, Truman couldn’t have asked for a better reception.
He felt a momentary sense of sadness when he thought of Stacy and how her misfortune had gotten him this part. He wondered how she was doing and wished, for the thousandth time, that she’d be in touch. Even a text would have been nice.
He looked for Mike to see what his reaction might be. But it appeared he’d left before Truman even made his entrance. And Truman, despite his glow of self-acceptance, felt a measure of relief at Mike’s not being there. And a small measure of worry too. Had he left because he’d seen Truman—and was disgusted?
Truman told himself he couldn’t allow such thinking, not if he wanted to continue to ride the high of his performance. He’d been good. And he even thought he’d made everyone around him a little better too, as they reacted to his performance and not just lines called from offstage. He’d transformed himself, disappearing totally into his character. Wasn’t that the goal to which all actors aspired?
And now, as he neared the foot of the hill, Truman realized he was smiling.
Right at the bottom of the parkway, there was an old gas station that had been out of business for just about as long as Truman could remember. The pumps were gone but the ghost of the station remained, the big windows long ago boarded up. White paint peeled from its exterior. The lot it sat on was choked with weeds coming up through broken concrete. Ghosts of mechanics, Truman thought fancifully, worked on engine parts inside, clad in grease-stained coveralls, heavy metal music accompanying the sounds of drills and the hydraulic lift.
Truman was surprised to see a pickup truck parked in the lot.
He was even more surprised to see Mike, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed over his broad chest. When he saw Truman, he nodded.
Truman nodded back, both glad and a little ticked at himself for being relieved he wore only a pair of beat-up jeans, a Scooby-Doo T-shirt, and a red hoodie. He’d even removed all the makeup in the boys’ room before heading for home.
“I thought you might come along this way, if I only waited long enough,” Mike said.
Truman wasn’t sure how to take the statement. From his stance and expression, he couldn’t feel confident that Mike was happy to see him. “Well, they say all good things come to those who wait.” Truman, heart in his throat, ventured closer to Mike. When he was a foot or so away, he asked, “C’mon now. Were you really waiting for me?”
“I really was.” Mike’s voice was gruff, all gravel, sandpaper, and velvet. Truman knew it wasn’t the gust of cold wind blowing off the Ohio River a few blocks over that made him shiver.
Truman cocked his head. “Why?”
Mike laughed. “Why was I waiting for you?”
“Uh-huh.” Because, really, Truman couldn’t imagine. The guy had stood him up and ignored him so totally he’d made Truman feel invisible for the past several weeks. He had to bite his tongue to not put these thoughts into words. The moment, right now, between them seemed charged with a kind of electricity Truman failed to understand, let alone describe.
Mike stared at him for a long time, and Truman felt he was being appraised. Instead of making him feel awkward and scrutinized, though, Mike’s gaze made him feel appreciated.
Wishful think much, Tru?
“What? You don’t believe you’re worth waiting for? Because I have news for you, buddy—” And here, Mike gently poked Truman’s chest. “You are.”
Was this really happening? Truman wondered. Here I was, just coming down the hill, pretty as you please, headed for home, some leftovers, homework, and maybe, if I could stay awake long enough, a little Chelsea Handler on Netflix.
And then, bam, my Prince Charming shows up.
Truman smiled, knowing his grin was coming out sheepish, embarrassed, awkward, all those awful things a person doesn’t want when what he really needs is to appear cool. He nodded and said, his voice barely above a whisper, “Thanks.”
“I wanted to pick you up at the school, but my timing was off. So I came here and waited….”
“I’m glad.”
“I know it’s only half a mile or so to your place, but do you want a ride?”
Truman again questioned if this was a dream, if he’d awaken with the sun streaming in his bedroom window, Odd Thomas’s smelly breath in his face.
“Yeah, that’d be cool.” Truman grinned. “No skin off my ass.”
Mike side-eyed him. “You makin’ fun of me?”
Truman stopped himself, realizing a couple things he’d just said, the endearments that tumbled effortlessly from his mouth. Sweetie? Dear boy? Truman! Seriously? You looking to get your face punched in?
But Mike looked serene, staring up a little at the night sky, which was clear and glistening with clusters of stars. All was quiet around them. If Mike had heard and not approved, he surely wasn’t showing it.
“You’re a nice guy.” Mike laid a hand for just a moment on Truman’s shoulder. “Kind. I like that.”
The words of argument and dismissal were poised at Truman’s lips. But then he thought, simply, no, and just said, “Thanks.”
Mike rubbed his hands together, and for the first time, Truman noticed the mist, like smoke, coming out of his mouth when he spoke. “So, you want to go? It’s freezing out here.”
Truman moved around the front of the truck and climbed up into the passenger seat. He settled in, thinking If I didn’t know better, I’d say the cab of this thing smells like come. Truman put the idea down to a flight of fancy, to simply being excited at being so near to Mike.
Mike hopped in and grinned at him. “Home, then?”
Truman nodded. “Home.”
Mike started the truck but didn’t pull forward toward the road. He simply sat there for what Truman thought was the longest time. Truman wondered if he’d changed his mind. After all, maybe the guy really didn’t want to be seen with him. Stop it! Truman admonished himself.
Mike stared out the window, almost as though he was afraid of looking at Truman. Truman could tell he was poised to say something.
Go ahead. Say it. You just remembered you have to be somewhere. You have to get up extra early tomorrow. Your ma needs you to pick her up from the bar.
“Um, if it’s not too late, and it’s cool with you, maybe we could take a ride over by the river? Sit and talk?”
“Okay,” Truman said, knowing how unsure he sounded. He wasn’t tentative about the idea. No, not at all. He was tentative because Mike had just dangled a wonderful carrot in front of his face, and he feared that, if he reached for it too eagerly, it would be snatched away.
“I mean, it’s cool if you don’t wanna, it being a school night and all….”
“No. No. I wanna.” Truman stared at Mike until Mike surrendered and looked back at him.
They smiled at each other.
Mike started the truck up. “Let’s go, then.”
River Road was a two-lane stretch of pockmarked and broken concrete. Once upon a time, it had been a busy thoroughfare between East End, where Truman lived, and Summitville’s downtown. But since they built the new bridge into West Virginia, and the four-lane that entered and exited it, the old River Road was virtually abandoned.
The truck bounced over potholes, once sending Truman flying up so hard his head hit the ceiling. They both laughed.
Mike pulled over and parked under the great supporting beams of the bridge, dirt and pebbles flying up beneath the truck. They were in almost total darkness. Through Mike’s cracked windshield, the river spread out before them like some kind of liquid black snake, reflecting that night’s sliver of moon and even some of the stars. A tugboat, trailed by a barge piled high with gravel, cut through the dark water, heading up toward Pittsburgh.
They had an even better view of the river than they would have even two weeks ago, what with autumn’s leaf attrition.
The two of them said nothing for a long time, simply staring out at the water and the clear night. Down here, so close to the river, they were virtually alone. On summer days people might be nearby, putting their speedboats in, swimming from the shore, feeding the ducks at the downtown wharf at the foot of the hill.
But the night and the chill kept everyone away. Truman could close his eyes and imagine he and Mike were the only people in the world right now.
And what a lovely world that would be.
He allowed himself, in the silence, to wonder why Mike was doing this. Was it just out of friendship? Or was there something more? Truman was savvy enough to know—and had had a little experience in this area too—that just because a guy came across as all macho, 100 percent man, it didn’t really mean anything when it came to which way his bread was buttered, so to speak.
Could Mike… like me? he asked himself.
The thought, the dream, was almost too fanciful—and painful—to entertain. Of course, he just wants to be friends. It makes sense. He’s new in town, all alone. He’s a little awkward. Shy. Quiet. He’s probably just reaching out to me because my mom is dating his dad. We’re like brothers. Yeah, right….
“It’s really beautiful tonight,” Mike said. “The river, those hills over there in West Virginia. The lights here and there on the other side of the water. It’s kind of magical.”
Ah, he has a poet’s heart! And Truman felt himself falling a little bit, maybe, in love with Mike. He was already in full-on, no-cure lust for him, and there was no way to deny that, but love? That was a new sensation, an addition that could either be a delight or the beginning of a broken heart. Ever the drama queen, Truman predicted the latter.
“Yeah,” Truman said softly, wishing his brain would kick in gear and he could make even a little more intelligent conversation. But it was hard when there was one question that kept coming back, burning to be answered. Truman knew he was risking pain, but he had to ask, even if it meant putting Mike on the spot. “Why are you doing this?”
Mike turned to him in the dark. His eyebrows scrunched together a little, as though Truman’s question stymied him. “Because I like you.”
Truman felt a ripple of electricity course through him but said nothing more.
“Something happened earlier tonight,” Mike said. “I don’t wanna go into what or where. Those things aren’t important. But what happened made me realize I shouldn’t be ashamed of who I am.” Truman watched Mike’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard. “Or what I am.”
Here it comes.
Mike went on. “I noticed you that very first day of school when I got on the bus.”
You did? Truman still couldn’t find the coordination in himself to unite tongue, lips, and teeth together to form coherent speech. He was buzzing—in a way he imagined a hit of cocaine would bring on.
Mike sighed. “I thought you were hot.” He looked away from Truman. “Just my type.” He snickered. “I like my guys small.”
Truman asked what he knew was a dumbass question, but he had to be sure. “So you’re, um, gay?”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Dude, seriously. Do you really have to ask after what I just said?”
“Well, I just wanted to be sure. You never know. I mean—” Truman could have gone on, said a lot more. A torrent of words just waited to emerge, born of nerves and excitement.
But Mike interrupted him by scooting across the seat, grabbing the back of his neck, and drawing him in for a kiss. Momentarily stunned, Truman began to pull away as though he was the one initiating the kiss, but he was able to stop himself in time. Mike’s lips were surprisingly soft. When he gently parted Truman’s lips with his tongue, he wasn’t forceful about it, his tongue almost fluttering into Truman’s mouth, where it drew out Truman’s own tongue, initiating a kind of duel.
It was magic.
And Truman had to repeat to himself over and over—This isn’t a dream. This is real. This is really happening. Bu
t gradually, or maybe not so gradually at all, coherent thought took a back seat to passion. Mike pulled Truman even closer. Even though Mike’s lips were soft, the sandpaper roughness of his stubble was all man, and Truman finally understood what people meant when they said something “hurt so good.”
In no time Truman found himself on Mike’s lap, straddling him and kissing him with a hunger he’d never experienced. Somehow, almost of their own accord, their shirts disappeared, pulled off heedlessly with no regard for which pair of hands was doing the pulling. And when Truman’s chest came in total contact with Mike’s, he was afraid this whole moment might crash to a very abrupt—and very messy—conclusion. He was that excited. Early tremors began to pulse through him at just the feel of Mike’s hairy chest against his own smooth one.
Mike pulled away, staring at Truman in the darkness. Even though they were steeped in shadows, Mike’s pale eyes sparkled like liquid. “Are we really doing this?” he asked a little breathlessly.
“I was just going to ask you the same thing. Never in a million years, when I left play practice tonight, could I have even imagined things would end this way.”
Mike drew in a quick breath. “Things aren’t ending, are they? I couldn’t stand it.”
“Oh, hell no,” Truman answered and affixed his mouth to Mike’s once more.
In a very short while, both of them were dissatisfied with the skin-on-skin sensations being limited to only their top halves.
“I want you naked,” Mike gasped.
“I want to be naked—for you.” Damn practicalities! As much as Truman hated to do it, he had to slide off Mike’s lap. Things like shoes and pants were simply too hard to remove when straddling a hot—and big—guy’s lap. Quickly he yanked off shoes and socks, and then he leaned to one side to unzip and pull down his jeans. In less than thirty seconds, it seemed to Tru, he was naked. The air coming in through the slightly cracked-open passenger window felt delightful on his heated flesh. He watched, feeling a little dazed, a little high, a little breathless, as Mike struggled out of his own jeans. And he sucked in a breath when he saw Mike’s dick rising up from a thick dark thatch of curly hair. A drop of precome oozed out of the top and then dribbled down its veiny shaft. Truman looked down at himself to find he was similarly situated, so to speak.
