by Gene Gant
Did this guy have amnesia or something? “Uh… it’s me.” I leaned forward, patting at my chest with my hand to jog his memory.
“I remember you, kid,” Dylan said, his voice rising with impatience. “What do you want?”
He wasn’t going to make this easy, not that I deserved it. I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I came to turn myself in.”
Dylan’s eyes widened. For a moment, it seemed he was at a complete loss. Then his face tightened with suspicion. “Enough with the games, okay. Just get outta here. Go, before I call the sheriff.” He stepped back inside and started to close the door.
The dam in my head broke, and all the pent-up emotion came spilling out. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to hurt you, I swear. I’m so sorry, and that’s why I’m here, so you can call the sheriff. Please!”
Dylan froze, the door half-closed. There was still doubt in his face. Before he could make another move, I started bawling, my chest heaving with tremulous, gasping sobs. Surprisingly, Dylan’s face softened with sympathy, which just made me cry harder.
He reached out as if to put his arm around my shoulders but stopped himself before he could touch me. Then he pulled the door open and waved for me to come in.
Chapter 4
I AM not a pretty weeper. My entire face leaks like a broken faucet. Along with the tears pouring from my eyes, my nose runs, and I drool. Not even Mom will hug me when I’m crying.
I couldn’t see as I stumbled into Dylan’s house, mostly because I had my knuckles jammed in my eyes. Slumping into a chair, I lifted my jersey and buried my face in it to soak up the juices. A bath towel materialized in my hands, and I cried into that. The sobs tapered off within minutes but I kept my face hidden. Here’s a bit of advice: Don’t break down and weep like an abandoned two-year-old in front of a complete stranger. It’s highly embarrassing.
My body felt drained, and I knew I’d wind up snoring if I remained sunken in that cushy chair. Falling asleep in front of a man whose head I’d bashed open didn’t seem especially wise. I rubbed the towel briskly across my face, both to reinvigorate myself and remove all traces of mucus. Then I lowered the towel and pushed myself upright.
Dylan stood beside the chair, holding a steaming mug in his hand. He was smiling, but not in a boy-did-you-just-make-a-fool-of-yourself sort of way. His expression was full of concern. “Here,” he said, presenting the mug to me.
I took the mug and sniffed. The stuff inside looked like coffee, but it smelled like the chocolate-covered mints my dad hides around the house to snack on. Are there poisons that have a minty-fresh aroma?
My apprehension must have shown, because Dylan shook his head, laughed, and said, “It’s just coffee. I added a shot of peppermint flavor. Trust me, you need it. Drink up.”
The stuff was hot, so I took a long, noisy slurp from the mug to avoid burning my mouth. When it went down, warmth quickly swelled throughout my torso. It was a really good warmth, making me feel as if I were going to float off the chair. Or sink right through it. The second slurp was even better. I started wondering what was in that shot of peppermint flavor, and then decided I didn’t give a crap. For the first time in two days, I smiled.
“Feeling better?” Dylan asked. His own smile had gotten wider, so it was obvious he knew the answer to that one.
I nodded anyway and took another gulp from the mug.
Dylan’s living room had an elegant, homey, but somewhat empty feel to it. The sofa, loveseat, and chair were overstuffed, covered in white leather. The glass-top tables were bare except for a tall, narrow brass lamp on one of the end tables. The only picture was a big, brass-framed painting of Saturn and its rings as seen from one of its moons. My parents’ living room was absolutely cluttered by comparison. My folks have a thing for ethnic art. They had sculptures, pottery, and figurines from Africa, China, India, Mexico, and God knows where else displayed on every available surface.
Dylan sat down on the sofa, carefully leaning his head against the backrest. He folded his hands across his chest and looked at me. “So. You want me to call the sheriff?”
That wiped the edge off the pleasant buzz the coffee had given me. I nodded and said, “I’m ready to turn myself in.” I took another sip from the mug to steel myself.
Dylan seemed amazed. “You really mean that. Wow.” He laughed again. “Well, forget it. I never reported you.”
“You didn’t?” Now it was my turn to be amazed. “Why not?”
“Sheriff Chandler and I don’t see eye to eye on most things. I’ve had people vandalizing my house and my car for months. I filed reports, but the sheriff can’t stand me and never did a thing to help.”
“But… how could he get away with that?”
“Easily. He’d go through the motions, open a file, take my statements, and make pictures of the damage. But that was just to cover his ass. He never lifted a finger to track down the perpetrators. In his opinion, I got what I deserved. So I stopped reporting anything to him.”
“But… that’s not fair.”
Dylan gave a short, bitter grunt of a laugh. “Tell me about it.”
“What we—what I did to you was wrong. I feel really bad about it.”
“Yeah, I got that much, kid. What’s your name?”
“Jericho Jiles.”
“Well, I’m glad you have a conscience, Jericho. That kind of thing seems to be in short supply these days.”
“So what happens now, Mr. Cussler? You gonna take me in?”
He shook his head. “No. And you can call me Dylan.”
“But I hurt you—”
“Yes, you did a real number on me. It took five staples to close the gash in my head. My doctor just took them out yesterday. You also broke the glass in my kitchen door, trashed a hundred dollars’ worth of food, wrote lots of nasty comments on the walls of my bedroom, cracked one of my cabinets, and smashed a set of dishes my mother left me.”
The graffiti on the bedroom walls must have been Mac’s doing. Still, each offense he ticked off was like a jab to my head. I slouched down in the chair, clamping my free hand over my eyes. “Oh God. Okay, just shoot me now.”
Total silence. I lifted my hand from my face.
Dylan was leaning forward on the sofa, staring at me, annoyed. “Look, if you came here just to make yourself feel better—”
“No, it’s not about that,” I said quickly, sitting up in the chair again. “I know what I did was wrong, and I should be punished.”
“Then tell your parents. Let them punish you.”
I would have rather faced the sheriff than my parents. The sheriff would just throw me in jail. My folks would do something far worse. They’d give me this wounded, disappointed stare that makes me feel as if I’ve cut out their souls. I could take being handcuffed, perp-walked before all my friends, locked in a cell with muscle-swollen guys who’d make me wash their dirty drawers by hand, but I couldn’t take that look from my parents. Yet I knew Dylan was right. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I’ll tell them. They’ll turn me in.”
“To the sheriff?”
I nodded.
Dylan gave a frustrated grunt. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to have anything to do with Chandler.” He actually grimaced, as if just the thought of the sheriff caused him pain. “Besides, you seem like a nice kid. Do you realize that if I press charges, you could wind up in some juvie facility until you’re eighteen? And then you’ll have a record floating over your head. Is that what you want?” He settled back against the sofa again.
“No. But there’s a consequence to every action. That’s what my folks always tell me.”
“Well, I’ll let you work that out with your folks. You can let them know that I won’t be pressing charges.”
This was providence. I should have downed the rest of the coffee, thanked Dylan for his understanding, apologized profusely, and walked out the door to resume my happy, uncomplicated life. And that was fully what I intended to do when I began with
, “Dylan, I’m really, really sorry for what I did. And I appreciate that you’re willing to let this drop.” I took a sip from the mug, and in that interval, my brain shifted direction so completely I almost didn’t recognize my own voice when I spoke again. “I’m gonna pay you back.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna pay back all the money I cost you. I get twenty-five bucks a week for my allowance. I’ll give that to you every week until I pay you back.”
“Jericho, forget it.”
“Just tell me how much—”
“Kid, my insurance took care of most of the medical bills. I’ll get around to painting my bedroom walls and replacing that broken glass and cracked cabinet door eventually. I would have probably pitched that food myself under the circumstances. And those dishes were priceless, at least to me. They were a family heirloom, passed down from my great grandmother. My parents didn’t have a girl, so my mother gave them to me, the last thing I got from her before she died. They can’t be replaced. So just forget about it.”
I groaned, convinced more than ever of my utter worthlessness as a human being. “I have to do something….”
“Fine.” Dylan sat up on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees. His gaze became intense. “Tell me why you did it.”
I TOLD him almost everything about the break-in, leaving out only the participation of my accomplice. Dylan listened raptly to every word, and when I was done, he just stared at me. The stare couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds, but it felt longer. Much longer.
Finally, just when I was ready to squeeze myself behind the chair to get away from those eyes, he said, “Does that make sense to you? You may not like the way I’m living my life, but I’ve never hurt you or interfered with you in any way. You don’t even know me. Do you really think you were justified in doing what you did in my house?”
Well, yeah. The idea of trashing Dylan’s place made perfect sense, at least when Mac and I were pontificating on the evils of fagdom there in the steamy, noisy confines of the locker room. At the time, I wanted Dylan and his boyfriend to go away so I could forget all about them. Now, sitting in front of the wounded victim of our scheme, I could see how monumentally dumb the notion was. It’s amazing how easily and completely stupidity reinforces itself in the right company. Gay or not, no guy deserved to have his house trashed or his scalp split open. I shrugged, shaking my head ruefully at Dylan and then lowering my gaze.
“Being gay is tough,” Dylan said, his voice suddenly hard with anger. “And people doing what you did don’t make it any easier.”
“Then why flaunt it?”
“I wasn’t flaunting anything!” he snapped back. “I was living my life, just like everybody else. It’s not my problem if this damn town isn’t comfortable with that. I finally get past my fears, enough to where I can accept myself and be proud of who I really am. I find someone who loves me, and I build a life with him. What am I supposed to do, hide under a rock and pretend I don’t have romantic feelings, pretend I don’t want to be loved and show my affection, just so my neighbors don’t have to see me holding hands with my partner?”
Damn. I had my issues with society too. I didn’t exactly like the way my folks practically ran my life. I enjoyed church, but some Sundays I would have just liked to kick back and kill a few hours watching the Cartoon Network or an NFL game. And it would have been nice to hang out with my friends without watching the clock to make sure I didn’t miss curfew. But there was only so far I was willing to go in pressing for more freedom. Hanging out a couple of hours past curfew would be fun, but getting grounded for life afterward would be a bit of a downer.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dylan said. His entire body stiffened defensively. “You don’t get to judge me, kid. For twenty years, I worked my ass off trying to measure up, trying to fit into the neat little boxes everybody wanted me in. The church wanted Hail Marys, no sex until marriage, and no beating off in the bathroom. My dad wanted a lady-killing scholar and an award-winning athlete through high school and college, and a decorated military officer after that. Mom wanted a gracious, charming little gentleman. My friends wanted a raunchy drinking buddy and pothead—”
“But that’s the way the world works,” I broke in. “Everybody’s got expectations.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to let society dictate our lives down to the last detail. By the time I turned twenty, I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown. It was ridiculous, shape-shifting all the time to fit the mold depending on whose presence I was in. Some rules are needed, of course. Otherwise we’d completely destroy ourselves. Even with laws and penalties in place, we still get people committing murder, bilking the elderly out of their life savings, vandalizing property.” On that last one, he gave me a crooked, cutting smile. “But when I started having thoughts of suicide, I realized that society can go too far with all its rules and expectations. It can actually destroy individuality. So I rebelled. My mom was dead by that time, and she’s the only one I would have regretted hurting in any way. I told the rest of the world it could go to hell.”
“And you started being openly gay.”
“Yes. It’s who and what I am, and I don’t care if some people can’t deal with that. At some point in your life, you just have to buck the system.”
That might be true, but going the gay route sure wouldn’t be my first choice if I wanted to buck the system. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, the leather scrunching softly beneath me. I downed the rest of the coffee. There were no coasters in sight, so I dangled the empty mug over my right knee.
“Would you like some more coffee?”
Hospitality was the last thing I was due here. But since he asked…. “Yes, please.”
Dylan took the mug, grabbed the towel damp with my bodily fluids, and disappeared into the kitchen. When he re-emerged, he carried two steaming mugs. “You look perky enough now, so I left out the peppermint flavor this time,” he said as he extended a mug to me. “I put in milk and lots of sugar, though. Hope that’s all right.”
I took a sip. The stuff tasted like candy. “It’s great.”
“By the way, I think these are yours.” He reached down and slipped his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. I realized then that I was staring at his bare, hairy chest and quickly looked away, following the motion of his hand. I noticed the hockey mask was dangling by its strap from his pocket. As he pulled the strap free, the pocket also yielded my cell phone.
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. I tucked the phone deep in my own pocket and hung the mask around my neck. I’d have to slip the mask back into Steve’s locker tomorrow.
Dylan sat down on the sofa again, clutching his mug in both hands as if to warm them. He seemed relaxed now, and he stared at the floor, drifting off into his thoughts.
“That’s a nice painting,” I said, pointing at the rendering of Saturn.
His eyes shifted to me, but his attention was still elsewhere. “Thanks,” he said. “I love space. I wanted to be an astrophysicist, but I’m lousy in math.”
“And I like that you keep everything so open.” I gestured at the room, still trying to draw him back from his inward turn. “My folks have so much stuff that you can barely turn around in our house without knocking something over.”
He whiffed out a soft, wistful laugh. “Oh, there was a bunch of stuff around here too, until my boyfriend moved out. A lot of the paintings and bric-a-brac were his.”
“Oh.” That was so not where I wanted to go. I looked down at the coffee table and saw blank geometric shapes in the thin layer of dust where objects had once been. It was a sad sight.
“He couldn’t take it,” Dylan continued, his eyes growing distant and regretful. “Ron’s a great guy. He was committed to the cause and to our relationship. Or so I thought. The picketing, the tire slashing, the death threats… it was too much for him. The day you broke in, I was going to make a special dinner to cheer him up, but he didn’t come ho
me.”
The dude’s heart was breaking all over again, right in front of me. He seemed so alone, so hurt. And I, in my brainlessness, had contributed to his pain. I stared at him, and I felt this weird rush of heat flash through my body so strongly that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
I had to help him.
I had to make things better.
“Dylan,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m… going gay.”
Uh. Did that actually come out of my mouth?
Chapter 5
LISSANDRA ACKERMAN is crazy tall for a girl, only two inches shy of six feet. She doesn’t like most sports, but she jogs every day at dawn with her mom, even in winter. She has cocoa-colored skin and black hair so naturally curly it forms a little cloud around her head. She’s lean, but she’s round in all the right places, and she’s very pretty.
Most importantly, she likes me.
She lives in an unincorporated subdivision south of Webster’s Glen. It teeters on the edge of a small, unnamed lake that her father fishes in just about year-round. She and I met last year in freshman English. The minute I walked into that classroom and laid eyes on her, I fell in love. I’d been in love before, lots of times, but it was always one-sided. The girls I tended to fall in love with on sight were all beauties, and they wanted guys who were just as attractive as they were. I’m not decayed zombie material, but I don’t exactly turn female heads when I walk by, either. (Bulging muscles would help, but those things are not so easy to come by.) Lissandra was the first, and only, girl who showed any interest in me.
Of course, that just made me love her even more.
When I met her, she was living under this rule her folks set forth, forbidding her to date until she turned sixteen. We counted down the days to that magic birthday, May 21st. Along the way, we met every morning in the cafeteria before homeroom, sharing pints of orange juice and talking our heads off. We kissed in the stairwells between classes. We held hands when we walked along the halls together and sometimes, hidden away in an empty janitor’s closet, our hands explored uncharted territory.
