Starry-Eyed

by Ted Michael

  Landon had ultimately decided that was a relief. Controlling people like puppets would be completely creepy. Even controlling their emotions was weird—he was a freak and now he knew it—but it wasn’t, well, evil. Not if all he did was make sure his parents didn’t hate him for being gay, or let people believe a bad movie was hilarious.

  When he’d asked himself how he could use his talent in a way that wouldn’t hurt anyone, immediately he’d realized the answer: acting.

  His whole life, Landon had dreamed of being an actor. Most people who said they wanted to go into acting really just wanted to be famous. But Landon hoped to seriously pursue drama, to create characters from the inside out. When other little kids were watching cartoons, he’d been watching reruns of Inside the Actors Studio. But he’d never had the self-confidence to believe he could actually get up on a stage and convince other people he was this completely different person . . . until his strange new talent showed him a way in.

  He threw himself into the drama department. Every time he auditioned, Mrs. K was blown away, and even the other students trying out for the same part said he should get the role. When he performed onstage, the audience came alive. If he wasn’t really acting, he was at least using his natural talents, right? Just making people happy. That had to be okay.

  There were other uses, as well. When Mitchell McLane and his thick-necked friends started coughing “fag” under their breath at him, Landon made them feel ashamed of themselves. After that, he noticed most of those guys became not only nicer to him, but also to the other kids in school believed to be gay. Emboldened, Landon came out. While some people still hated him for it, he made sure none of them felt like saying anything about it to his face. He used his talent for others, too: whenever Claire started looking worried about exams or auditions or anything else, he made sure she felt like everything would work out.

  And now his parents were members of PFLAG. They proudly supported him no matter what. Only Landon wondered how deep their acceptance went, whether anything like love was behind their constant smiles. All he knew was that every time the subject came up, he instinctively used his talent again, felt the thump, and ensured that they’d think they still loved him . . . even if maybe, deep down, they didn’t.

  That was why Landon had never dated anyone, or even kissed another guy. What if he accidentally willed someone into liking him back? It was bad enough to not know if his parents really liked him anymore. Landon thought being alone forever couldn’t be half as horrible as always having to wonder if the person you loved would love you back. Or if they had any choice.

  . . . . .

  Scotsville High was a pretty big school, and Landon didn’t make a habit of attending swim meets, so he’d never actually seen Jesse Pearce except at a distance. The guy turned out to be even better looking close up, which ought to have been impossible.

  Jesse was tall—six feet or so. He had coal-black hair and eyes so dark they seemed to match. Swimming had given him broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a tapered waist. But he wasn’t vain or loudmouthed like most of the jocks. He was, as Claire had whispered once, “the strong, silent type.”

  Landon had never known that was his type. He knew now.

  After the first read-through, Landon understood why Jesse had been cast. Mrs. K always liked to throw a small role to one of the nondrama students—see, everyone can get involved!—but Jesse had a quality of barely controlled power that just worked for Tybalt. Instead of playing his character as the stereotypical hothead, Jesse infused Tybalt with a kind of quiet menace.

  As if he’s angry, Landon thought as he lay in the wings, his head pillowed on his balled-up jacket. Jesse stood onstage as Mrs. K blocked out his first scene. Like there’s this fury waiting to boil over, right beneath the surface—

  “Someone’s got a cruuuu-uuush,” Claire singsonged in his ear, softly enough that no one else would hear.

  “I know it’s hopeless. But I can look, can’t I?”

  “As long as I can look too.” She stretched on her belly beside him, miniskirt only kept decent by the black tights she wore. “But stop being so cold to Jesse, okay? You’ve spent the past three weeks trying so hard not to show how crushed out you are that you’re broadcasting it. Like, the volume is up to eleven, Landon. Turn it down.”

  “I’m not being unfriendly,” he protested, but she was right. While he hadn’t been outright rude, he’d never joked around with Jesse, struck up conversations, or anything like that. “Not so he’s noticed, anyway.”

  “He’s noticed. Sometimes I see him looking at you. Like he’s wondering what’s what.”

  There had been other moments, ones Claire apparently hadn’t seen. Jesse had asked Landon to interpret a couple Shakespearian phrases into modern-human-speak; they’d leaned together over the script, working out what a “runagate” was, or why it was insulting to be called “goodman boy.” Jesse always asked nicely, always said thank you. The only reason anybody thought Jesse was stuck up was because he was so quiet, but that was just his way. He could be drawn out, probably, if you had the chance and the time. But whenever they spoke, Landon felt like he had to escape before he did something stupid.

  Landon sighed. Jesse would never know that Landon was dodging him for his own protection. And he didn’t see how he could spend much more time around Jesse and not wish for Jesse to want him back.

  At the end of rehearsal, though, despite Landon’s best efforts to steer clear, Jesse walked right up to him.

  “Hi.” Jesse had a deeper voice than most guys. “Listen, I’d like to go over the fight scene sometime. You and me. Sean and I worked on it, but the early part, where you draw and we get started, it’s tricky.”

  “Yeah. It . . . definitely is.” Oh, God, did he hear me talking to Claire? He didn’t. Okay. But now he’s talking to me, and I feel like I should run away. Or kiss him. Or kiss him and then run away. How was he supposed to get out of this one?

  But as Landon looked up at Jesse, the two of them together in a half-dark hallway behind the stage, everyone else in the world seemingly far in the distance, his resolve weakened.

  Jesse’s straight. Totally straight. It’s not like I could make a straight guy fall for me, even if I tried, which I wouldn’t, Landon rationalized. He could affect emotions, not actions. Worst-case scenario, he might make Jesse . . . question himself, but not even his strange talent could make Jesse do something they’d both regret. Besides, I need to stop broadcasting. Act natural.

  “Yeah. Let’s do it.” Their eyes met, and Landon had to swallow hard before asking, “When?”

  . . . . .

  When turned out to be Thursday night, and where turned out to be Jesse’s house, which was only about a mile away from Landon’s. Landon rode his bike over after class rather than ask for a ride from his mom. It was no big deal, just an extra rehearsal; Landon was proud of himself for not even changing clothes before heading over.

  But that morning he’d been sure to put on the black T-shirt Claire always said made him look hot.

  He had always assumed Jesse was one of the rich kids; most of the really popular people at Scotsville had money. But the Pearce house wasn’t that different from Landon’s own home, except for all of Jesse’s trophies in the living room. Jesse’s parents were out for the night—an unexpected bonus.

  “Hey.” Jesse smiled, and only then did Landon realize how rare that smile was. “Glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

  That had to be a reference to Landon’s standoffishness. Landon decided it was best glossed over. “You’re right. We should nail this scene. It’s the most important one in the play.”

  “More important than the balcony scene?”

  “First rule of acting: your big scene is always the most important one, no matter who you’re playing.” That made Jesse smile again, which made Landon feel witty, intelligent, and sort of like he might be melting inside. “Besides that,” Landon continued, “the fight between Mercutio and Tybalt is ke
y. Before the fight, Romeo and Juliet is mostly a comedy, you know? You have to kill me before it turns into a tragedy.”

  “Good point.”

  It had occurred to Landon that if they really wanted to perfect this scene, they ought to have asked over the other actors who appeared in it. But neither of them had brought it up.

  Jesse’s room was almost scarily neat, with a lot of empty floor space they could use. His fat Siamese cat slept in the desk chair, which they sometimes rolled into place so that the cat could be Benvolio or Romeo as the moment demanded. They wound up using old Nerf bats as their swords, but Landon didn’t care. Not as long as he and Jesse were having fun.

  “Okay, so, Mercutio is the one who starts it,” Landon said. “He’s full of himself, and it’s like he doesn’t even get that swords can actually hurt people.”

  “Right.” Jesse wasn’t off-book yet; he held his copy in his Nerf-wordless hand. “And Mercutio doesn’t really care much about the whole family feud thing. It’s Tybalt himself he doesn’t like. Mostly because he’s a good swordfighter, though that doesn’t make sense. Why would Mercutio care?”

  “He’s jealous,” Landon suggested. “Let’s say Mercutio’s mostly jealous of Tybalt. You know, Tybalt’s good at swordfighting—he’s good at everything, and Mercutio knows he’s only ever going to be second-best.”

  “But Mercutio’s funny. Everybody likes him.”

  “He’ll never be important the way Tybalt already is. Come on. Let’s try it that way.”

  Jesse went into a fighting stance. Just seeing Jesse’s muscles flex beneath his T-shirt was enough to make Landon almost forget his lines. Luckily, Jesse spoke first: “Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.”

  As Jesse tried lowering his sword, Landon pushed forward, using his own Nerf blade to knock Jesse’s back into dueling position. ‘“But I’ll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your livery—’”

  “Wait,” Jesse cut in. “Is it, like—we decided Mercutio’s jealous of Tybalt, but he’s protecting Romeo.”

  “A lot of productions portray Mercutio being in love with Romeo.” Landon couldn’t quite meet Jesse’s eyes. Yeah, he was out and everybody in school knew it; that didn’t make it much easier to talk about it. “Romeo doesn’t love him back. Obviously. The play’s not Romeo and Mercutio. But that’s one reason Mercutio might be so—over the top here. Not that he’s not over the top everywhere.”

  That made Jesse smile again. “So does he think Tybalt’s a rival?”

  Maybe it was just an acting suggestion. But the idea that Mercutio could be gay—layered on the well-known fact that Landon was gay—and this didn’t seem to turn Jesse off, and in fact Jesse seemed to want to play with the concept . . . well, it was all extremely interesting.

  Heart thumping, Landon tried to speak casually. “What if maybe Mercutio’s only pretending to be into Romeo? What if he’s trying to make Tybalt jealous for a change?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, Mercutio wants to see how Tybalt would react. To find out if maybe—maybe Tybalt would wish Mercutio was into him instead of Romeo.” Had he actually spoken those words out loud? Too late to take them back now. Landon plowed ahead. “Which of course is a long shot and maybe even kind of crazy, but that’s how Mercutio acts a lot of the time.”

  Jesse just went back into a fighting stance. “Let’s try it.”

  They tried it, and the scene went from merely okay to bottled lightning. Or so it seemed to Landon. He was acting now, really acting, or at least it felt like it. But the thrill came from more than just feeling like he could play a scene without having to cheat. Every time his eyes met Jesse’s, he was free to show all the longing he felt—the hopeless, helpless desire. And every time, the mysterious dark fire in Jesse’s gaze answered him.

  After three or four run-throughs, Landon felt like they had it.

  They ran through it twelve times.

  Then they made pizza bites. Then they played Resident Evil for an hour. Then they hung out up in Jesse’s room, lying on the floor, listening to the Kills, and Landon stopped looking at the time. Even if he broke curfew for once, he could make sure his parents didn’t care.

  Which depressed him, as usual. So Landon decided to stop thinking about himself for a while. “What are you putting into Tybalt?”

  “What do you mean?” Jesse lay next to him. Their feet were touching, but that was probably accidental. Probably.

  Landon kept staring at their feet, instead of Jesse’s face; that seemed easier. “He’s so angry, but it’s all beneath the surface. How did you come up with that?”

  Jesse was quiet for a while. The only sound was the music. By now Jesse could have pulled his foot back, but he hadn’t. “Well. I thought maybe Tybalt’s the golden boy, you know? Capulet doesn’t have a son, so he puts it all on him. Tybalt has to be the next in line. The best at everything. And he’s good at a lot of stuff, but it’s never enough. He just wishes he could stop doing what everyone else wants him to do and find out what he wants to do. But he can’t. So he lashes out. He thinks attacking the Montagues will make him feel stronger, but it’s not them he hates. It’s everybody who keeps putting pressure on him.”

  For a few minutes more, they lay there together. The floor seemed to vibrate with the bass beat. Finally Landon said, “Why did you try out for the play?”

  “My parents thought my college applications needed to be ‘well-rounded.’”

  “That’s crazy. You’re already good at everything. How many trophies are there in your living room? What, like, three dozen?”

  Jesse shrugged.

  It occurred to Landon that none of the trophies were in Jesse’s room. No team photos, either. His parents were the ones who wanted to look at them. He remembered the bitter edge in Jesse’s voice as he’d said the golden boy. “So you never even wanted to try theater?”

  “I don’t know. I thought about it, but I never—well, it always seemed like I had too much to do, before.” He turned his head sideways just as Landon did. Their eyes met, and suddenly Landon felt like he could hardly breathe. “Turns out I like being in the play, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Some parts of it.” Jesse’s gaze had drifted from Landon’s eyes to his mouth.

  I’m not doing this, Landon thought desperately. I’m not. No thump. I’m not doing this, so it can’t be happening, but I’m pretty sure it’s happening, but it can’t be—

  “Like what?” Landon said. The words came out unsteady.

  But Jesse didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t answer, either. He just rolled onto his side, bringing his face closer to Landon’s—not close enough to kiss, but too close for it to be nothing. Way too close for that. They hesitated there for a moment. Landon wasn’t going to make the first move. He couldn’t, knowing what he knew about himself. But he realized he’d parted his lips, and he wasn’t going to pull away.

  Jesse kissed him.

  In that first instant, Landon felt nothing but shock. Ohmigod Jesse’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back and it’s nothing like I thought it would be.

  But then their lips met again, and Landon got pulled out of his over-active brain and into his skin. Into the way that they touched, the way they started to breathe in and out in a rhythm, in the way Jesse moved and tasted. There weren’t any words left in his brain, except maybe Jesse’s name.

  They tangled together on the floor, kissing faster and slower, shallow and deep. Jesse’s fingers wound through Landon’s hair; Landon’s fingers found the belt loops of Jesse’s jeans. Landon’s body seemed to be taking over for his mind more every moment, but nothing his body felt was more powerful than this unfamiliar, incredible joy.

  Jesse rolled Landon onto his back, and Landon helped tug Jesse on top of him—but that was the moment the song ended, the moment they heard a woman’s voice call, “Jesse?”

  “Mom.” Eyes wide, Jesse scrambled off Landon about as fast as Landon scrambled out from under him. As footst
eps came closer to the door, they both jumped to their feet. Jesse’s long T-shirt gave him some coverage, but Landon realized he needed camouflage right away. He flung himself into Jesse’s desk chair, scooping up the drowsy cat and depositing her in his lap so Mrs. Pearce wouldn’t see just how much fun they’d been having.

  When she opened the bedroom door, she suspected nothing. (“Well, I’m glad you kids want to do your best! But isn’t it getting late? Jesse, you know you’ve got swim practice tomorrow morning.”) Then they had to say their good-byes quickly, with Mrs. Pearce standing right there, which meant the most incredible first kiss imaginable ended with an awkward wave and a promise to see each other in class tomorrow. Within five minutes, Landon was back outside, walking his bike to the curb, almost shaky from the jolt of panic and arousal together.

  He tried burning off the energy by pedaling home fast; the whole way, he composed text messages to Jesse. No two were the same, because he had no idea what to say.

  I had fun tonight. No. Want to “rehearse” again this weekend?;) Absolutely no. That was awful. Sorry if that got weird. Even worse. Maybe he should try the absolute truth. All I can think about is what it was like to kiss you.

  Oh, no. Definitely not that. He might as well text, Hi, my name’s Landon, and I’ll be your creepy gay stalker this evening.

  As soon as he pulled into his own yard, though, his phone chimed. Landon lifted it to see a text from Jesse: Quick thinking up there. But my cat might need therapy.

  It would be so easy to laugh. To send back a joke, something else, anything. Instead, he could only stand there staring at the phone.