But, I don’t know, right here, right now, it’s like it has some merit. I shove my tongue into Cora’s mouth, because she shoved her tongue in my mouth and, I dunno, it seems fair, and all I can think is, like, excuse me while I lick your tonsils and enjoy your Nerd remnants. I don’t know. It’s like there’s never that – that thing where you get lost, that feeling that they show in movies by making the music swell and the camera sweep around. I feel so friggin’ here. Embarrassingly unlost.
I should want her more.
I mean, sure, I sort of want her. I’m not dead, and she’s writhing all over me.
But I should want her more.
Her fingers traipse down to my pants, take their time with the button. A damn hallelujah chorus should be bursting out in my head, but all that’s there is, Okay. Okay. Let’s do this.
“Howie?” she breathes into my ear.
“Yeah?” I mumble back.
Her hands abandon my zipper. “Who the fuck are you kidding, honeybee?”
I pull away. “What?”
She just looks at me. The Cheshire Cat smile is in full swing.
“What?” I say again.
Suddenly, I want to be kissing her. Probably more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anybody in my life. Bring on the lip ring, is what I’m saying.
“You are having exactly no fun,” she informs me matter-of-factly.
“What?? Yes I am! This is the best. This is way better than Old Yeller.”
“Yeah, thanks, that’s real sweet,” Cora drawls. She pushes me off of her and sits up. She crosses her legs all dainty. Then she levels me with this look.
“Buddy, do you need me to tell you something about yourself?” she says.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say. My cheeks feel really hot. My heart is going to quit on me any second now. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“Oh, Howie,” Cora sighs. “Howie, Howie, Howie.”
“Come on.” I put a hand on her waist, trying to pull her back to me. “Why’d you stop? Let’s – let’s do this thing.”
“Honey,” Cora says, brushing me off. “Please.”
“No,” I insist, “I really think that we should – that’s to say, I really want to – I –” I give up, because whatever, actions speak louder than words, right? So I lean in and try to kiss her neck. I mostly just get hair, but I think I feel skin down there somewhere. Good. Progress. Now, if we just keep—
“Fine,” Cora says with an ‘I’m so over this’ sigh. “You think that’s gonna help? Here.”
She grabs my hand and plants it firmly on her boob.
“Do you like this?” she demands.
And, well, what kind of a question is that?
“What?” I ask, trying to look at her like she’s nuts. Not so hard. “Yeah. Of course. Why are you even asking me that?”
“Because there are some guys,” she replies, “who prefer rippling pectorals.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing myself to scoff, “I’m not one of ‘em.”
We sit in silence.
I really just – I want to move my hand. I get that she put it there and all, but this seems rude.
“What do you like about it?” Cora asks then.
Seriously??
But the expression on her face tells me that, yeah, seriously, so I figure I’ve just gotta answer this question and answer it good.
“It’s … plump,” I say, feeling around a little, feeling terrible doing it. I’m fairly certain my mother raised me to be better than this. “Kinda squishy, but you know, not – too– Fuck, I don’t know, Cora!” I move my hand away. I can’t do this anymore. “It’s a tit. Guys like tits. It’s the rules.”
“What rules?” Cora demands, sitting up taller and fixing me with a glare that could easily take on even Amber’s fiercest. “The rules of frigid heterosexuality?”
“Well, yeah!” I shout without thinking about it.
“You know what, Jenkins, I’ve enjoyed a tit or two in my time,” she tells me, eyes blazing. “Am I a guy?”
“You’re a lesbian?” I ask blankly. Now that I think about it …
“And give up my chance at scoring Gerard Butler someday? I don’t think so.”
“You’re bi,” I surmise. I’m starting to feel dizzy.
“I’m gonna be with whoever I want to. Whoever makes me feel good. I’m not going to let some stupid, like, societal need to categorize tell me that that feeling’s wrong, no matter who’s making me feel it.”
“What if it was, like, a goose?” I challenge. I don’t know. It’s starting to make too much sense, to sound too logical the way she says it, and I don’t want any of that.
“Geese don’t tend to make me horny,” she replies without missing a beat. “How ‘bout you?”
“I’m a chicken man,” I retort.
This shocks a smile out of her. A laugh, too. And even though this is currently rivaling a certain fake flower aisle kiss for the craziest moment that I have ever had, stuff relaxes a little.
“Howie,” she says, drawing my name out. She reaches over and I get a little nervous, but then it’s just to brush a hand against my cheek. That’s not so bad. “You know what?” she asks, looking right into my eyes. “Honestly? You make me sad. And I’m not saying that in a bitchy way. I’m just saying it in a true way. You’re so, like … you’re like the most trapped person I’ve ever met. Out of anyone.”
“What, because you think I’m gay?”
“Because I think you’re really, really into Arthur,” she replies. She says it simply, like it’s a thing that’s even remotely okay. “And you won’t let yourself know it.”
“God,” I say, hating hearing it out loud. I’ve never had to hear it out loud, I never planned on hearing it out loud. I bury my face in one hand. “God, that is so not …”
“And Arthur’s a good guy. I can’t stand the bastard most of the time, but he is. And, you know what, he’s pretty damn trapped too.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, pulling my hand away to look at her. “He’s out. He’s gay. He had a – Patrick, or whatever.”
“Like that’s the only way to be trapped?”
How one person so little and so crazy can sound so right when she says stuff is just … beyond me.
“I’m not …” But I know that no matter what I say, she’s not going to believe me. And right now, that’s not a battle I want to fight. I’m tired. “Shit, I don’t know.”
“Hey,” she says, knocking her shoulder against mine. “I have a great idea.”
“What?” I ask wearily.
“How ‘bout you give me a ride back to my car, and then you go somewhere and think about this enlightening conversation?”
“Sure,” I say. Mostly because the prospect of being rid of her? Such a good one.
“And don’t drive your car into a lake or something,” she adds, squeezing my knee. “Because then I’d have to feel bad, and I don’t really have time for that right now. We’ve got tech rehearsals starting this week.”
I promise her I won’t drive into a lake.
“Why did you even …?” I ask her once we’re both properly front-seated and on the way back to the store. I’m not really sure how to finish the question.
“Dude, I’ve been doing theatre my whole life. You think I haven’t learned to recognize that special glint of oh-God-I’m-gay fear in a man’s eyes?”
“Huh,” I say. It’s not like it’s a confession, or some big revelation, or anything. It’s ‘huh.’ Slightly more sophisticated cousin of ‘uh.’ It means next to nothing.
“And besides,” she adds after a little bit of quiet, “kinda been there. What?” she adds, laughing a little at the look I must be giving her. “Believe it or not, I haven’t always been the masterpiece of blazing self-esteem you see before you today.”
I gotta admit: that’s comforting. I guess I always figured Cora sprang fully formed and badass from Shirley Manson’s forehead. �
�Oh yeah?”
She smirks. “Is anyone ever a masterpiece of blazing self-esteem in middle school?”
In another five minutes, we’re outside Artie Kraft’s.
She pecks me on the cheek, then climbs out.
“Thanks for a splendid evening,” she tells me in this fluttery ingénue voice.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply, scowling.
“And thanks for dragging me out of there,” she adds, becoming Cora again. “That movie still makes me cry like a fucking baby.”
With that, she slams the door and jogs to her car. I watch her go, and in spite of the mad sick hell she’s put me through, I don’t hate her.
I stare at the store for a second, not really knowing why. Then I pull out of the parking lot and back onto the street. I find myself turning right, even though I need to go left to get back to my house. I decide that I need to make a quick stop first. I’ve given Kristy a ride home a couple times. I know the way.
Chapter Ten
“Howie,” Arthur says, surprised, when he opens the door.
“Is Kristy here?” I ask quickly.
“No, she and Nikki went out. I can tell her you stopped—”
“Good. I need to ask you some stuff.”
“Um. All right. Come on in.”
I follow him inside. The apartment is nice and warm. There’s opera floating through the air, and even though I’m not exactly a big fan – like, at all – it seems to match. Make things warmer. Nicer. Plus, the air’s full of the smell of something delicious cooking. My mouth starts watering a little, even though the last thing on my mind right now is food.
And then there’s Arthur himself. He’s not wearing a tie, marvel to end all marvels. The top button of his shirt is undone. He looks all relaxed, and – well, good, he looks good, I think he looks good. Which brings us back to the problem at hand.
“Nice tunes,” I remark. Stupidly, inanely. I don’t break the ice; the ice breaks me.
“La Boheme,” Arthur says in this way that’s sort of self-indulgent, accompanied by a little half-embarrassed smile. The way my mom would say, like, The Carpenters.
“Cool,” I say. I don’t have anything else to say about La Boheme.
“Would you like something to drink? There’s … well, water, and diet Sprite, and some sort of … fruit punch. All Kristy and Nikki’s, I’m afraid. And I was going to open a bottle of wine with dinner, if—”
“No, that’s okay—” I pause, because I’ve just followed him into the living room, and amongst the pastel colors and the fairy lights strung across the walls and the eighty zillion cute throw pillows, there’s— “What the hell is that?”
I know what it is. It’s a poster. A poster of—
“Kittens,” Arthur says, with great resignation, “dressed like angels. Well,” he amends, “cherubs, to be precise, I think. Ergo the—”
“Diapers,” I say, mesmerized.
“Precisely,” he sighs.
“That one’s holding a harp. How is that even possible?”
“An ungodly act of Photoshop, I suspect.”
I wince. “Sorry, man.”
“I try pretend it’s not there when I go to sleep at night,” he replies grimly.
“How’s that goin’ for you?”
“Better. Slowly.”
I laugh. Like, genuinely.
“I’ve just got to check on the stove really quickly,” Arthur says. The kitchen’s right opposite the living room, separated by a breakfast bar counter. There’s a big pan on the stove contentedly puffing out steam from beneath the lid.
“Sure, go for it,” I reply.
Another thing about Artie (I muse as I watch him go over to the stove): he says his adverbs when he’s supposed to. That’s tremendous and weird and sort of awesome. How many people do that these days? Say ‘really quickly’ instead of ‘really quick’?
And then suddenly I realize, watching him, that opera and delicious-smelling food aren’t exactly the makings of a solo evening.
Oh, jeez, what if he’s getting back with the mysterious Patrick dude? Not that I care, but, I don’t know, that guy strikes me as sort of an asshole. Really shady. Not the sort of person anybody should be dealing with, even Artie. Not that it’s my business. “Are you having people over or something? Because I can take off. I don’t really—”
“No, no, it’s just me.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“And you made … that?” I stare at the skillet.
“Chicken cacciatore. And, yes.”
“Why?”
“I enjoy cooking. And I guess I fell into the habit of having decent meals. Even if I’m the only one eating them.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Is that terribly sad?” he finishes with a wry smile.
“Not really,” I reply truthfully. “The majority of my meals come out of cans. Or, like, Ramen packets. Or fast food drive-thrus. That’s terribly sad.”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “that’s alarming.”
He smiles at me, though, this ‘aw, don’t worry, I’m just messing with you’ smile. I find myself smiling back – not to uphold the general rules of smiling, wherein when someone smiles at you, you return it, but because I want to.
“You wanted to ask me about something?” he says.
“Um,” I say, “yeah.”
To be honest, I’m weirdly disappointed that he brought it up. I dunno, just – with the warmth, and the dinner for one, and the actual pleasantness he and I are suddenly rocking … it seems a lot more appealing than facing the ugly maybe-truth, you know?
But it’s not like I can say ‘Nah, forget about it, ooh, look, chicken!’. I came here with a purpose, and that purpose must be upheld.
Friggin’ purpose.
So I follow Arthur into the living room. He tells me to have a seat, so I do, on a puffy pink armchair. Arthur sits down on the futon across from me. Of course there’s a futon. It’s got a pink-and-green quilt folded quaintly over it, which I’m guessing he uses to sleep with.
For a few seconds, we just look at each other, and La Boheme la bohemes around us.
“You’re gay,” I say at last, because – well, that’s the reason I’m here. That’s the aforementioned friggin’ purpose.
Arthur nods. “Yes. That’s true.”
“So you probably know all about that stuff.”
“What stuff?” Arthur asks. Maybe this time, he’s a tiny bit sarcastic. With him it’s really hard to tell, since he’s that winning combination of wry and chill all the time. “Being gay?”
“Yeah. That.”
“I’ve had some experience, yes.”
“So, like …” God, it’s hard to talk about this, with him sitting maybe four feet away from me, looking at me with all that green-eyed focus. “How did you figure that out?”
“How did I figure out I was gay?” I don’t know if it’s just me, or if he really is acting like that’s a weird question. How the hell is that weird?
“Well, yeah! Because, I don’t know, it seems like a pretty complicated process to me.”
“Actually,” Arthur says, “I found it fairly simple.”
“Of course you did,” I grumble.
“Howie,” he says, frowning a little, “are you okay?”
Gee, I don’t know, Arthur. Am I okay? My dad’s dead; my mom excels at pretending to be all right but I’m pretty sure she’s a vacant shell of a human being underneath all the smiling; my twin brother’s off being an unstoppable genius, living in the actual world, whatever that faraway elusive thing might be; somewhere along the line my loftiest life goal became trying to determine whether you can lie on the couch and watch TBS for twenty-four straight hours; and just to make things really special, just to put the fuckin’ cherry on top of the fuckin’ sundae of suck that is my whole existence, is the fact that I can’t even manage to like girls right—
“I use my mom’s shampoo sometimes,” I blurt out. “I know I shouldn’t. I
know it’s lady shampoo. But it smells better than mine, and I think my hair might like it better, and – but that doesn’t change the fact that that stuff, that’s for chicks. And, that, that’s probably gay, isn’t it? Like, at least a little.”
“I don’t know whether—”
“And I cried once listening to ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay. I don’t know, I was in sort of a lousy mood anyway, but it’s not like that excuses that stuff. Like, that was gay, wasn’t it? Guys don’t just sit around and cry over Coldplay.”
“Howie—”
“And I loved Mamma Mia. Like, loved it. Amber made me watch it with her on TV once, and I didn’t want to, and she wound up thinking it was this sentimental piece of crap, but I loved it. It was all sunny and happy and there was all that blue sky and blue ocean, and everyone was just, like, so chill, all bouncing and singing and being so happy, and I just wanted to, I don’t know, live there or something. Jump right into the screen and sing backup to Dancing Queen. That’s gay, right? That’s queeriest queerdom. There’s no way that’s not totally gay. It’s gay. It’s so gay. I’m … I …”
“If I may,” Arthur says.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.”
“I don’t like any of those things,” Arthur says, “and I am gay. So maybe you’re just girly.”
That?
That’s his answer?
“I’m not girly,” I say, affronted.
“Just an observation,” Arthur replies innocently.
“You didn’t like Mamma Mia?” I ask, feeling like I just got kicked.
“I’m not even really sure what it is,” Arthur replies, frowning thoughtfully.
Useless bastard.
“You kissed me,” I add. I don’t know if there’ll ever be a good time, but I doubt I’ll find a better one. So. “We – kissed.”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees. He suddenly sounds almost as awkward as I do. It’s comforting. “That was gay.”
“Uh, yeah.” Oh, Christ. Here goes. “I – didn’t hate that.”
“Me either,” he says gently.
And even though I’m pretty sure I just doomed myself to a whole lifetime of freaking out – always, forever, completely – well, there’s at least a part of me that goes calm when he says it.
Know Not Why: A Novel Page 10
