Bi-Normal

by M. G. Higgins

  I smile back. “Yep. For sure.”

  He starts to walk away, then turns. “Hey, I take it from that socket comment last week that you’re into cars?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “There’s this woman I work with at Coffee Plantation after school. She’s got a cherry ’65 Mustang, completely restored. You might want to stop by, check it out.”

  I nod.

  He leaves.

  I walk to English, thinking, No way. No way in hell am I meeting you out in the real world.

  CHAPTER

  9

  For the rest of the week, my new philosophy—the one where I’m in control—works pretty well. I stop trying to avoid Zach in art class. I mean, why should I? He’s a nice guy. We’re becoming, like, friends. We talk. Joke about stuff. Tease each other about drawing. Well, he mostly teases me, since my artwork sucks. His is beautiful. Every drawing, every time.

  Do I fantasize about him? Yeah. A lot, unfortunately. The thing is, I don’t act on it. I think about my eleven-year-old self, snug in my sleeping bag, only thinking about Jerry. That’s the way it needs to be. A semester is longer than a week, but so what?

  I can do this.

  Friday after school, I’m in my pickup on my way home. Since Jillia and I are both broke, she’s coming over tonight instead of going out. We’ll watch TV, maybe do a little homework. It’s been days since we had a good make-out session. I hope Darla’s got a sleepover at a friend’s house or something. Maybe Dad will take pity on me and go to bed early. Jillia hasn’t told me sex is a go yet, but I can use my studly charms, try to convince her.

  I’ve just reached downtown. Zach told me he works after school today. I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but I know Coffee Plantation. It’s the best coffee shop in town, or so I’ve heard. I’ve only been there once. It’s popular with brainiacs and artsy-fartsy types. The guys on the football team prefer fast-food drive-throughs and the 7-Eleven.

  I stop at the signal on Main and Fifth. Straight is home. Coffee Plantation is left.

  I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. The afternoon is cold and overcast. Something hot would go down pretty good right now. I’m not all that into Mustangs, but I like restored cars. The light turns green. What the hell. I turn left. Park down the street.

  When I walk in, soft jazz is playing over the sound system. Glass light fixtures hang above natural wood tables. A few people are hunched over their computers. I don’t recognize anyone. They’re all older. It feels like I’m in a foreign country. I think about turning around and leaving.

  “Hey, Brett!” Zach beams at me from behind the counter. My heart does that fluttery thing that I hate. He goes back to helping a customer.

  I take my time walking up to the counter. Study the menu hanging on the back wall. Can’t make sense of it. Take a deep breath. My heart’s beating kind of fast. Zach finishes with his customer. Comes over.

  “Hey. Great to see you,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Um … I’m not sure.”

  “Not a coffee drinker?”

  “Not much. Guess I’ll have a mocha.”

  “Whipped?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want whipped cream on top of your mocha?”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

  He grins. “Man, you really are a novice.”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s got to be something I’m better at than you.”

  He scribbles on a coffee cup with a pen. Slides it down the counter where a woman is operating a machine that’s hissing loudly. Then he says, “Well, there’s that game with the pointy brown ball and guys running into each other.”

  “Oh yeah. Maybe I am better at football.”

  Zach laughs. “It’s not too busy. I’ll bring your coffee out. Sit wherever you want.”

  I find a table in the corner. Fold my hands on the table. Drop them onto my lap. Wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here. This is not a good idea. This is not art class. This is the real world. I’m feeling out of control. Like I’m eleven, up on that top bunk, unzipping my sleeping bag, getting ready to …

  No. No way.

  I’m just getting to my feet to leave when Zach arrives with my coffee. “Sorry that took a while.” He sits across from me. “I’ve got a ten-minute break.”

  Okay, I can’t leave now. I pull my chair back to the table. Hold the cup in both hands. It’s hot. I take a sip. Wipe whipped cream off my nose. “This is good,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, Sarah makes a good mocha.”

  He’s pressing his hands on top of the table. He’s got long, graceful fingers. I don’t know what artist’s hands are supposed to look like, but they must look like Zach’s. My fingers are only inches from his. I want to reach out. Press my hand on the back of his. Wrap my fingers around his palm.

  “The car’s out back,” he says.

  I look up. “What?”

  “Sarah’s Mustang? I can’t be gone from the counter too long.”

  “Oh, right.” I jump up. I’m such an idiot. My hand shakes as I hold my cup, almost spilling the coffee.

  As he leads me to a back door, I try not to stare at his butt. We emerge into a small employee parking lot. You can’t miss the car. It’s bright fire-engine red.

  “I don’t know too much about cars,” Zach says, pulling a key from his pocket. “I just know what I like. And this I like.” He unlocks the driver’s-side door. Points to the passenger side. “Hop in. Sarah’s okay with interior tours as long as we don’t spill anything.”

  I want to get in there with him. I really want to. But the seats are too close together. The parking lot is too private. I back away. Almost trip over my feet. The drink sloshes. “You know what? I, uh, just remembered. I need to get home. I have to babysit my little sister. I totally forgot.” Darla hasn’t needed a babysitter since she turned twelve.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “Yeah. She’s a brat. But somebody has to watch her.”

  “I hear you. I’ve got a younger brother. He’s a brat too. Maybe we can hook them up sometime.”

  “Yeah. Hah. So … thanks for the mocha and everything. I’ll take a rain check on the car tour if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” His eyes narrow. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yeah. Great. I just need to get home or my dad will kill me.”

  “Okay. Well, have a good weekend.”

  I stroll around the building. When I’m out of sight, I run up the street to my truck. Throw the mostly full cup in the gutter. Turn the key in the ignition. The engine sputters and stalls. “Come on!” I pound my fist on the dashboard. Turn the key again. The Nissan rasps to life. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. Knock my head against it a few times. Then I push myself upright and drive home.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Before Jillia comes over, I’m thinking about Jekyll and Hyde. The dude who’s got two personalities—a normal guy and a monster guy. Because here I am, totally wanting to see Jillia. Thinking about running my fingers through her apple-scented hair. Kissing her luscious, soft lips. Touching her athletically tight, yet womanly soft body.

  But if that’s me, then who was that guy this afternoon all fluttery over Zach? That guy can’t be me. It’s impossible.

  I get up from my desk. Look down the hallway. Hear one of those pawnshop reality shows. Which means Dad must be in front of the TV. I hope Darla’s in her room. Dad glances at me as I walk to the kitchen. “We just ate,” he says.

  “I’m not getting food. I need to use the computer.”

  Pause. “What are you working on?”

  “History report.”

  He nods his approval, then sets his eyes back on the TV.

  I reach the kitchen. Awesome, Darla’s not here. I sit in front of the computer. Press the space bar. The screen lights up. I open the browser. Slide the mouse to the search-engine box. The
cursor blinks, waiting. My hands freeze over the keyboard. Wonder where to start.

  Guys who like guys and also like girls.

  Man crushes.

  I love my girlfriend but I’m overly attracted to a guy in my art class.

  I slouch. Comb my fingers through my hair. It doesn’t matter what I type. I just need to start somewhere. I sit up straight. Type, Guys who like—

  “Are you gonna be long?”

  I jump. Darla’s standing inches from my shoulder. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “Why are you so nervous?”

  I don’t answer. Quickly backspace over the characters I just typed.

  “What are you searching for?” she asks.

  “None of your business.”

  “You’re jumpy and your neck is red. It must be something erotic.”

  I stare at her. “Do you even know what that means?”

  She shrugs. “Something about sex.”

  I get up and back away from the computer. “I’m finished. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.” She settles onto the chair like a princess. “You know Dad checks the search-engine history, right?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Of course I know.”

  I can’t believe Dad is that paranoid. Wait, yes I can. I’m suddenly grateful Darla interrupted me.

  The doorbell rings.

  “I got it!” I yell, running for the door. I fling it open. Jillia is standing on the porch like an angel. I throw my arms around her. Whisper in her hair, “I am so glad you’re here.”

  She giggles. Hugs me back. Squirms under my maybe-too-tight embrace. “Can I come in, please?”

  I reluctantly release her. Close the door behind her. Take her by the hand and lead her down the hall. “We’re doing homework,” I inform my dad as we pass the living room.

  “Hi, Mr. Miller.” Jillia gives him a small wave.

  “Hi, Jillia.” Dad looks at me. “Door open.”

  “I know.”

  We get to my room, and I press my hands against her cheeks. Press my lips against hers. I am hungry for her. Starving. Like she’s a juicy burger and I haven’t eaten in a month. She kisses me back. Moans a little. Ooh, a good sign. We move to the edge of the bed and sit. We’re both breathing heavy. I whisper, “We’ve probably got fifteen minutes before Dad checks on us. Or Darla decides to be a pest.”

  She smiles. “Okay.”

  Holy moly. I am so turned on. After what must be the quickest fifteen minutes of my life, Jillia pushes me away. “Hey. We’d better stop.”

  “No,” I murmur, going in for another kiss.

  “Really,” she says. “Your dad.”

  That kills it. I take a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.” I let everything go except her hand, which I grip like it’s an anchor. “That was nice.”

  She nods. Slides down to the floor. Reaches over and drags her backpack in front of her. “Want to review for our bio test?”

  “No. But okay.” I stare at the top of her shiny, apple-scented head. “So … are you any readier than you were last week?”

  She tilts her head back and looks up at me. “Brett.”

  “Sorry! I was just thinking that after Dad and Darla go to bed, I could sneak you back in the house—”

  “No! I told you I’d let you know.”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  Dad appears in the doorway. “Hey,” he says. His eyes scan the room.

  “Hey, Dad. Big bio test on Monday.”

  He nods. “Study hard.” Then he’s gone.

  “I like your dad.” She pulls her biology textbook out of her backpack. “I think it’s cool he checks on you.”

  “No, it’s decidedly uncool.” I get off the bed and grab my textbook from the desk.

  “He’s just being a good parent,” she says.

  “He’s being a prison guard.” I plop back onto the bed on my stomach. “He even checks the Internet history on the computer.”

  Jillia shrugs. “So? If you don’t have anything to hide, why does that bother you?”

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” I say quickly. “It’s an invasion of privacy. Like if he snuck into my room and snooped through my drawers.”

  “I guess I see your point.” She looks up at me. Squints. “Wait. Are you one of those weirdos leading a secret life on the Internet?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  She flips through her textbook and stops on a page. “So … symbiosis,” she reads. “‘Two different organisms living for mutual benefit.’”

  This is when I’d normally say in a smarmy voice, “Yeah, you and me, baby.”

  But I’m not in the mood to joke around. I’m thinking about being a weirdo, leading a secret life. And what will happen if Jillia ever finds out. I simply ask, “What page are you on?”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Jillia has family stuff the rest of the weekend. That means I’m on my own. While eating breakfast Saturday morning, I think about texting Fermio. Maybe Josh and Keesy. Find out what they’re up to. Maybe hang out tonight. But, I don’t know. As I pour another bowl of cereal, I get that image of Nate hiding under the bleachers. He’s not my favorite person in the world. But he should have the right to sit in class without being tormented. Same as he should be able to watch a softball game in peace.

  I mean, it’s not like the football team hulks through the hallways, stuffing freshmen in trash cans. Well, maybe a couple of freshmen. But we do act like we’re better than everyone else. We’re stars. School heroes. We get away with stuff other students don’t. I used to like that. Now I’m not so sure.

  Still, they’re my friends. My only friends. I’ve known them forever.

  I drop my bowl in the sink. Decide to wash it later. Dad’s out crabbing. Darla’s at a 4-H meeting at an actual farm. I hope she doesn’t come home with a loaner goat or something. I wish I had a job to go to right now. Or football practice. Even being on the boat with Dad would be better than sitting at home with my stupid thoughts.

  Man, I think too much.

  I need to do something. Get out of the house.

  I march to my room. Tie on my running shoes. Jog down the street. Up the street. Block after block. After a while I’m not paying attention to where I’m running. I’m just breathing. Placing one foot in front of the other. Most of the time I’m blissfully not thinking.

  Then, a block from home, I suddenly get a flash why I’m really not calling the guys. It’s because I’m scared. What if I slip up and say something about Zach? Or what if their gaydar picks up something new and different about me? I know that’s crazy. I wouldn’t mention Zach. And I’m pretty sure I’m not acting any differently.

  But I don’t want to risk it. It’s the same as if Jillia ever finds out. The outcome makes me want to kill myself.

  Monday morning, I try to be cool to Zach. If I can squash my feelings for him, then I’ve got nothing to worry about with Jillia or the guys. Zach is friendly as usual. Delicious as usual. It makes me want to rip my hair out. Stab myself with my friggin’ drawing pencil. But I make it through class.

  As I’m walking down the hallway to English, I see a large, bright blue flyer stapled to a school bulletin board.

  Elkhead High School

  Gay-Straight Alliance (GSA)

  Support for those in the

  LGBTQ community.

  If you’re gay, straight, or questioning,

  come check us out.

  We meet every Wednesday at 3:00,

  Room 124.

  They’ve got to be kidding. It’s one thing to have a club. But do they have to advertise? I’m tempted to rip the flyer off the board.

  “What is it?” Aggie is standing next to me.

  “Read it. Stupid gay club.”

  He takes a minute to read the flyer. Shrugs his shoulders.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I ask.

  “No. Should it?”

  I turn away from the board. Aggie walks with me toward English. I
wish he wouldn’t. I’m in a bad mood and don’t feel like talking.

  “My brother is gay,” he says. “I kind of get why they need a club.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Haven’t you ever been bullied?” Aggie asks.

  I think about it. “No.”

  “Lucky you. It bites.” He says it like he’s pissed at me. Why?

  We’ve reached English. I go to my seat. Consider Miguel Aguilar. To me, Aggie’s just a good lineman. Maybe he was bullied when he was younger for being Mexican or whatever. I don’t know. It’s not my problem.

  Great, now I’m in an even crappier mood.

  I toss my textbook on the desk. It lands with a loud thwack. Kids turn and look at me. “What?” I growl.

  Ms. Littlefield starts class. I watch as she writes something on the whiteboard. Her hair is short. From the back, she looks kind of like a guy. Josh would say she’s gay. Is she? How can you tell? Do I look gay? Does Zach? Is he? Is he just being friendly? Or has he been flirting? Have I been flirting? I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. I scribble back and forth with my pen on my notebook until the lines form a dark blue blob and the paper rips.

  I press my forehead in my hands. I’m guessing the gay club sponsor must be a gay teacher. Room 124. Wait. That’s my history class. Ms. Tierney? I like her. She’s cool. I’d heard a rumor she was gay, but I didn’t believe it. Maybe she’s just gay-friendly. Or Principal Nakamura forced her to sponsor it.

  Fourth period, my curiosity is killing me. I get to class early. Ms. Tierney isn’t there. Her desk is in the far corner of the classroom. I casually walk behind it. There’s a photo in a frame. Of her and another woman. Their arms around each other. Two kids in front of them.

  “Hi, Brett.”

  I twist around. Ms. Tierney is standing behind me holding a mug of coffee. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Um. No,” I say. “I was just. … It’s nothing.”

  She smiles. “Okay.”

  As I walk to my desk, all I can think is No way.

  For the rest of the afternoon my mind races. What if I am gay? Could I really handle it? I mean, live like a couple with another guy? Raise kids with him? I get this picture of Zach in my mind, like the photo on Ms. Tierney’s desk. Our arms wrapped around each other. A couple of kids in front of us. And I think the image won’t stick in my head. It will be so wrong I can’t even imagine it.