by Roan Parrish
“Like the news?” Just the sound of those people talking puts me to sleep.
“No. I like ones about history or politics, sometimes science. Do you listen to podcasts?”
I shake my head, my mouth full.
“They’re usually about specific topics, like… the Boxer Rebellion or black holes or how icebergs work. And then, depending on the show, they go into different levels of detail on the topic, tell stories about it, that kind of thing.”
“So, they’re like little documentaries?”
“Basically, yeah.”
Hmm. Sounds like school. But, again, he seems so interested in everything. “Black holes… I guess that’s pretty cool.”
“Actually, DeShawn’s the one who first turned me on to the podcast about astrophysics—black holes. DeShawn’s the—”
“Big Black dude?”
Rafe nods. “He’s incredibly smart. Obsessed with science. He wants to be a geneticist.” A shadow crosses Rafe’s expression, as if that makes him sad or something.
“Hey, what’s the deal with Ricky? Does she really have a photographic memory? I didn’t know that was a real thing.”
“I heard a podcast about that too. Most people don’t believe in photographic memory, per se. Not as we think of it, anyway, with someone looking at a book and being able to see each page in their head later on. But people, especially kids, have an incredible ability to recall huge amounts of information, especially if they actively work at it. Like you saw, Ricky does have amazing recall, but I don’t think her memory’s actually photographic. She doesn’t like to talk about it, so I only know what I’ve seen.”
“Is she like—sorry, I don’t know the right term or whatever, but does she have that, uh, Rain Man thing going on?”
“Autism,” Rafe supplies. He runs a hand through his hair, which seems to be an indicator that he’s uncertain. “Colin, I’m sorry, but I can’t really tell you anything personal like that about the kids. Confidentiality, you know?”
“Oh yeah, of course.”
I feel like an idiot for asking. Of course he’s not going to just tell shit about the kids to some random mechanic who met them once.
“But I can tell you that I’ve never seen her that intent on something at a workshop before. She was really into it. Mostly, she’s interested in military history, like you probably noticed from the stuff she was saying about the world wars. That kid can tell you every battle that was fought during World War II, in order. It’s pretty amazing.”
“Wow. Isn’t it a little strange for a kid to be obsessed with military history? She’s, what, like thirteen, fourteen?”
“She’s sixteen. I don’t think so. Not any weirder than being obsessed with cars when you’re sixteen, is it?”
“Yeah, I guess not.” But I was only interested in cars because they were around all the time, because Pop was always talking about them and I wanted to be just like him. But hey, maybe Ricky feels the same way about history.
“You were good with them, Colin.” Every time he says my name, a little shiver runs down my spine. It makes me realize that people almost never say my name at all. Pop calls us all “kid,” Xavier usually calls me “man” or “bro” or something. “You gave them a lot of information but still made it fun. And they responded well to you.”
“Heh, yeah, well, I really like explosions, what can I say.” Rafe nods. “Um,” I start, but then I shove the rest of my burger in my mouth, hoping Rafe’ll just keep talking about the kids. But he doesn’t. He looks at me, waiting for me to go on.
I choke a little under his regard. It feels like everywhere he looks, I can feel his eyes on me. No one else in the burger place is paying any attention to us, but I suddenly feel like everyone is staring at me, able to read every thought in my head. Rafe pats me on the back as I cough and I flinch. He takes his hand away.
“What were you going to say?”
“Oh well, I remember you said that maybe I could do more workshops—I mean, if the kids’d want me to come back….”
Rafe smiles at me. “You’d want to come back?”
I nod.
“Why?” he asks, and though his tone is matter-of-fact, I can tell my answer is important. He’s obviously really protective of the kids.
“It was cool,” I say automatically, “getting to shoot the shit about cars.”
When he says nothing, just keeps looking at me like he’s waiting for my real answer, I try to pinpoint it for myself so I can have some hope of explaining it to him. It’s not the cars. Not really. Hell, I talk about cars all day long most days. And it’s not the kids, exactly. I mean, I liked them a lot, but… it’s me.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but… it feels different from the other stuff I do. Like, I go to work and I run and I… I just. It’s nice to do something that’s not about… me, I guess.” Shit, that’s it. I don’t do anything for anyone else. I mean, I fix cars because I get paid to do it. I listen to music and watch movies for entertainment. I run and lift weights because if I don’t, I’ll go crazy. But none of that feels good; it’s… necessary. Even building my models is just a distraction. Something to do with my hands, a problem to solve, like fixing cars, so I don’t have to think.
Rafe is looking at me intently, nodding.
“Javier was the first one who got me to understand that. That doing something for someone else, for a cause, was the best way to get outside of myself, of my own shit. That being a part of something—at least trying to make things better—was a way to feel like I had something to offer.” His voice is fierce.
Something to offer. Yeah, that’s how I feel. In the shop I have something to offer, sure, but it’s always been more about getting to a place where I could offer the same thing as Pop or Luther or the other guys who I learned from. But this—I get what he’s saying. It’s not just information about cars that I’m offering these kids; it’s, like, the possibility that they can be good at something.
“I thought, um, Javier might be there today. Since you’ve talked so much about him,” I say, and I cringe a little because I sound… jealous.
Rafe’s eyes widen and he swallows hard. He shakes his head and looks at his hands, fisted on his knees. Not so relaxed now.
“Javi’s dead,” he says, his voice breaking. “He died three months ago.”
“What? Fuck, man, I’m—shit! I just thought… shit, sorry.”
Rafe’s arms are crossed over his chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut. His posture reminds me of Ricky’s as she walked away, her skinny arms holding herself tight against the world. He shakes his head like he wants very much for me not to make him talk about it.
“I run it now. The YA. I’ve run it since Javi died.” Rafe clears his throat, and I can tell he’s making a conscious effort to keep his voice steady. He fists his hands but uncrosses his arms. “So, if you want to make these workshops a regular thing, I think that’d be great. Maybe we could figure out a way to get a car you could actually work on.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Rafe obviously wants to change the subject and it seems like the least I can do after stumbling into it. “Um, we get piece-of-shit cars at the shop all the time, like I was saying. I could bring one over and leave it in the parking lot? I guess I could tow it over; that way I could get one that didn’t run and it’d be more stuff for me to show the kids how to fix? Oh yeah, well, I have one that came in the other day—the engine basically seized completely and it would’ve cost about five grand to fix so the guy just left it there. That’d be awesome to show them because the whole engine kind of melted….”
Rafe’s staring at me. He seems to realize he’s doing it and clears his throat.
“Let me check with Marcus. He’s in charge of the actual church and the parking lot. He’ll know if it’s okay to leave the car there. I think it sounds great, though, if he’s all right with it.”
Then he gets a wicked gleam in his eye.
“I know someone who will be very excited to see
you again,” he says. “Mikal took quite a shine to you.”
“Yeah, what was the deal with that, man? I’m surprised some of the other kids don’t want to kick his ass, being so obvious like that. Like, uh, Carlos? He seems like the type… well, at least when I was in school, he would’ve been the type to kick someone’s ass for acting, um—”
“Gay,” Rafe supplies easily.
I nod and Rafe’s smile turns wry.
“Colin,” he says, shaking his head, “YA is a queer youth group.”
“Uh, what?”
“Did I not mention that? Huh. I guess I forgot.”
“Queer? Like… all of them?”
Rafe nods.
“Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously,” Rafe says calmly.
My heart starts to pound. “Wait, wait, so do they think I’m—” My breath starts coming faster than it should, and I note, absently, that I haven’t had any problems with my breathing all day.
Rafe puts his hand on my forearm. I jerk my arm away and look around to make sure no one saw. He sighs and leans back.
“No,” Rafe says. “We have straight volunteers. They don’t know anything. I promised you I wouldn’t expose you like that and I meant it. I wouldn’t expose you by implication either. I swear.” He’s careful not to touch me, but he’s looking at me intently, like he can will me to trust him.
“So, then, why didn’t you tell me it was a… queer”—the word sounds wrong in my mouth, like it should be an insult but it isn’t—“group? And drop that bullshit about forgetting. You seem like you never forget anything.”
“Fine. I didn’t mention it because I wanted you to go into it with an open mind. Not only for yourself, but for the kids. A lot of people bring a shitload of stereotypes to working with queer youth. I’ll bet you know exactly the stereotypes I’m talking about, because I think you might have them for yourself.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
“If you want to change your mind now that you know, I suppose that’s your prerogative.”
Wow, way to totally put me in a tight spot, dude. Now I’ll look like a complete asshole if I don’t come back. But if someone found out about it, they’d ask all kinds of questions—questions about me.
Then I think about how DeShawn shook my hand, so polite and grateful; how Ricky seemed mesmerized by the insides of the car just like I am; how kid-in-black seems to love Harry Potter…. He kind of reminded me of Daniel, relating real shit to books.
“No, I—I’m not changing my mind. Next Saturday?”
Relaxed Rafe is back.
“Yes, absolutely,” he says, smiling at me. “If it’s going to be a regular thing, I’ll look at our schedule and see if we want to keep it at this time or if another time is better. Do you have a preference?”
“Well, ordinarily I work Saturday mornings until two. If it was in the afternoon, I guess I could still go to work and—” I break off. It was nice this morning to wake up and know that I had something to do but have it not be going to work. “You know what, actually, the morning is great.”
“Hey,” Rafe says suddenly, “did you say you run?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. We should go running some time.”
“Sure, man, that sounds good.”
Rafe nods. “Thanks, Colin. For today.” His voice is warm and when we shake, his hand swallows mine up, embraces it. He holds on a second longer than most guys would, and looks right in my eyes. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.
And it sounds like a promise.
4
Chapter 4
On a good day, running is when I feel most… normal. The tension slowly drains out of me and after a few miles I’m relaxed, floating, like the buzz off a few beers. I’m weightless, suspended between each step as if I might never land, muscles, joints, blood, breath all working together like the parts of a perfectly functioning vehicle.
“How far do you like to go?” Rafe asks.
“I don’t really keep track. You?”
“About five miles, usually. But I’ll follow your lead, okay?”
I set a steady pace to get warmed up and Rafe follows me, speeding up when I do. After about ten blocks, we settle in, him on my left. His strides are longer than mine since he’s so freaking tall, but I’m faster. He’s steady, each footfall in perfect rhythm, almost like he’s running in place, whereas I know I speed up and slow down a little as the rhythm of my music changes. Since I never ran track, I never bothered with things like keeping a consistent pace or paying attention to how far or how fast I ran. Mostly I just run until I’m tired. Or, depending on the day, until I’m so exhausted that I can’t run anymore.
Today I’m taking it easy, though, because when Rafe texted to invite me to go running, I’d already gone.
It’s kind of nice to have him by my side. Every now and then, I’ll drop the slightest bit back and get a glimpse of lean calves and thickly muscled thighs, of his broad back, sweat turning his white T-shirt translucent along his spine and in the small of his back.
When my thighs start to burn and my knees begin to complain about two runs in one day with a bunch of kneeling on cement in between, I slow to a jog, looking to Rafe, who gives me a thumbs-up.
I jog us back to my house, and Rafe sinks onto the porch steps, breathing heavily.
“You’re fast,” he says, quirking that broken eyebrow at me. His thick hair is bunched into a kind of knot or something, like a ponytail that he folded in half. It should look girly—like a bun or something—but it’s just the opposite. He looks like a warrior, hair tied back for battle. When he reclines on the porch, his arms and neck shiny with sweat, his legs splayed, and closes his eyes, it takes every ounce of concentration I have left not to mold myself to him and taste the salt in the dip of his neck.
He opens his eyes suddenly and I tear mine away so he won’t see me staring, but when I look back, his gaze is steady and he’s smiling a little.
“What are you up to now?” he asks.
“Nothing. Gotta feed the cat.”
“Can I say hi?”
“To the cat?”
“Mmhmm,” he drawls.
“Sure.”
The second I unlock the door, Shelby’s right there, attacking Rafe’s shoelaces and making little yipping sounds as the loops flop back and forth. When Rafe squats down to pet her, I can’t look away from the straight groove of his spine and the way his shorts ride up high on his powerful thighs, dark hair dusting golden skin and tight muscle.
“You want to watch a movie or something?” he asks as he entices Shelby to jump for his wiggling fingers.
I clear my throat. “Um, sure. Let me just shower. You can too, if you want,” I say, trying to remember to be polite, which I’m not used to. Sam and Brian just make themselves at home, and Xavier and I have known each other too long to bother with that shit.
“With you?”
“What?”
“You offering to let me shower with you?”
“Holy shit,” I say, “did you finally make a joke?” But Rafe just raises an eyebrow.
After my shower I tidy my already tidy house to keep myself from picturing Rafe naked in my bathroom. But I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About showering with me. Because Rafe doesn’t actually seem to ever be joking. Sometimes he says things lightly, but…. So, then, what would he have done if I said yes? Does that mean he wants to…?
I’m standing in the middle of my floor, so paralyzed by the implications of this that I guess I didn’t even hear the shower turn off. Rafe’s suddenly right next to me and the sight of him makes my stomach tighten.
Wet, his hair is nearly black, waving wildly around his face, cheekbones flushed from the run and the hot water. His gray T-shirt is threadbare and molded to his muscular chest and stomach in damp spots. His jeans are the ones he was wearing on Saturday at the workshop, and his feet are bare. He’s so intensely, unavoidably here.
“You don�
�t have any shampoo,” he says, cocking his head confusedly. It makes him look kind of sweet.
“I don’t have any hair.”
He reaches up, ghosts a palm over my nearly dry hair.
“It’s growing out a little,” he says.
“Yeah, I need to cut it.”
We get hoagies from down the street and settle on the couch. Rafe’s so big that any way I sit, I’m closer to him than I’m used to with Brian or Sam or X.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, flipping through the On Demand channels.
“Oh, Runaway Jury,” he says. “I liked that movie.” I shrug. “There’s a big trial about this tobacco company that’s hiding really shady business practices and John Cusack and Rachel… something—that pretty British lady—are trying to trick them into admitting it.”
“Um….” That sounds like the most boring movie ever.
“Or The Bourne Ultimatum. Did you see the other ones?”
“Is that the dude who’s really good at reading maps or something?” So. Boring. Rafe must hear it in my voice because he leans back and says, “Why don’t you pick.”
“Ooh, Cube. It’s awesome. All these people wake up locked inside a cube that tries to kill them in different ways….” I trail off, realizing how stupid it sounds when I describe it. Rafe looks uncertain. “Or, how about Cabin in the Woods? Did you see it? It’s like a horror movie about horror movies—well, I don’t want to give anything away.”
Rafe’s mouth is open, like he’s not sure what to say.
“Horror movies…,” he says slowly. “Not really my thing. Do you like fantasy? Or… action?”
“Sometimes?”
“Here, Gladiator. Have you seen that?”
“No. But, uh, I kind of wanted to.”
This is not true, but I’d rather watch almost anything than have an endless negotiation about it.
The movie’s… long. I kind of dig it, I guess. I really like the music, and the scenes of them actually gladiating—is that a word?—are pretty awesome. Russell Crowe is badass. But all the, like, royal intrigue and plotting is dull. Rafe seems to like that stuff, though. The scheming, talky parts.
