As I look after him, I wonder if Phil is in some kind of trouble because why else would his dad see the principal in the middle of the school year? I also wonder if I should just follow Mr. Thongrivong to the school secretariat and tell them I’m sick so I can go home and bail out of today’s track session. Maybe I could be, like, really really sick and bail out of school entirely for the rest of the year. Maybe I should tell them I have the swine flu or chickenpox or lymphoma.
No, not chickenpox.
They’ll see I don’t have chickenpox.
Maybe Ebola, though.
Ebola sounds good, but in the end I have to dismiss this enticing idea because nature calls, loudly, so I continue on my way down the hall.
The restroom is just as deserted as the hallway, but I take a stall instead of a urinal anyway, because I like my privacy when I go about my business, and you can never know who walks in on you. It turns out to be the right decision, because when I shake off the last drops, I hear someone enter the restroom. I flush, and when I exit my stall, Jack is blocking my way.
So this is it. He’s either going to come on to me and finish where he left off on Friday, or he’ll threaten to kill me if I ever speak to anyone about what happened. I briefly contemplate whether I should dash past him and try to reach the door or turn around and jump out of the second-floor window.
“Hey,” he says, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and when I don’t reply he continues, “So listen, about Friday. That was pretty awkward, huh?”
This has to be a trick question with no right answer, so I decide to exercise my constitutional right to remain silent.
“Anyway, I think if word got around of what happened, it could be pretty embarrassing for both of us, so here’s the deal: you keep my secret and I keep yours. It’s a win-win. What do you think?”
I look at him. I look him right in the eyes, and suddenly it dawns on me. His weird behavior is beginning to make perfect sense. He’s not so much embarrassed about what happened as he is scared that anyone might find out. He’s scared out of his wits, and he’s trying to pass something off as a ‘deal’ that really isn’t, at least not for me.
“My secret?” I say, frowning. “What secret? You’ve been calling me a fag my entire life, so as far as your audience is concerned, this isn’t much of a secret, is it?”
His shoulders slump. He’s writhing because I’m squeezing his balls. Figuratively speaking, of course, not literally, but it’s a great feeling nonetheless.
Beware; for I am fearless and therefore powerful.
“Come on, Matt,” he says in a low voice.
A glare at him for a while—a long while, because I’m enjoying his desperate, begging look way too much—until I finally say, “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I never did and I still don’t. So whatever’s gonna happen is up to you.”
Then I walk past him and out of the restroom because I can’t stand the tension any longer. Not only is my high horse so high I’m beginning to experience vertigo, it’s also uncomfortably painful to watch Jack buckle under the pressure he’s built up himself his entire life by being—or pretending to be—a homophobic bully. My head makes me almost feel sorry for him while my heart wants to jump at the unexpected and tantalizing chance to crush him like a bug.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Looking over my shoulder, I see Jack running toward me, his legs pumping like pistons, his feet beating the ground like a drum. His face is tense, his eyes fixed on me as he is taking deep breaths through his nose and exhaling through his mouth so forcefully that he sprays droplets of saliva, brute and raw like an attack dog ready to pounce on his prey.
I better start running before he reaches me, so I get moving, slowly at first because I can’t see where I’m going. As he keeps closing in on me, I gradually increase my own speed, occasionally looking ahead to make sure I don’t veer off course. The distance between us is decreasing more and more slowly with every step, and when he’s so close that I can hear his deep, ferocious breaths, he reaches out his right arm. At the same time, I reach out my own toward him, but our hands are still too far apart.
Six inches.
Five.
Four …
“Come on!” I shout at him, my voice forceful and commanding.
Jack keeps pushing forward, toiling, agonizing, torturing himself, and as I’m looking at his face, I can pinpoint the exact moment he crosses the threshold of pain, accompanied by a deep, primal moan. Feeling the touch of the baton in my hand, I clasp my fingers around it, and the last thing I see before I avert my eyes is how the pain and tension recede from Jack’s face the moment he lets go of the baton.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” I can hear Coach Gutierrez shout from the sideline.
When we started out as a team I used to feel intimidated by the sight of Jack running toward me with that fierce look on his face. Today, for the first time, it’s all different, and instead of intimidating me, that sight is only motivating me to push myself even harder. I stood up to Jack in the restroom during lunch, and here on the track I’m going to show him—and everyone else—what I got, so I pound my legs hard, my eyes fixed on the figure that’s waiting for me in the distance.
I’m not looking Chris in the eyes, though.
His eyes are irrelevant. All they have to offer is distraction. What I need is focus, so I look at his hands, at his right hand that’s already wriggling its fingers in anticipation of the baton.
Three or four steps before I reach the go-mark, Chris suddenly takes off.
What the hell is he doing?
As he’s picking up speed, I push myself harder, because now I have a longer distance to cover. I’ve long since passed my own threshold of pain, and my thighs are on fire. Nevertheless, I keep pushing myself to make up the distance to Chris inch by inch, but to no avail. By the time he leaves the exchange zone, his left arm stretched out behind him, I’m still a good three feet behind him. I pass the end of the zone, then I slow down and stop. It would be pointless to keep running because if this were an official competition and not just a training session, we’d be disqualified now. I stoop over and prop my hands against my knees, still holding on to the baton and taking deep, painful breaths. Meanwhile, Chris has noticed what’s going on, and as the other three teams finish the race he comes stomping towards me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouts, his fists clenched in anger. “Why do you stop?”
I’m not having this.
Not today.
Not from Chris.
“What’s wrong with me?” I stride back to the end of the exchange zone and point at the tape mark on the track. “Just freaking look! Where did you want to do the hand-off? Ten meters before the finish line? You took off way too early, so don’t you dare blame me for your cock-up!”
I throw the baton at his feet.
“Dude, screw the tape marks!” He shouts at me. “This isn’t a competition, this is practice! Why do you stop running?”
“Because it’s not my job to fix your stupid mistakes, so screw you!”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Coach Gutierrez shouts as he walks up to us, each hey louder than the previous one. “Shut up, both of you!”
Chris and I both turn our heads and look at the chubby little man who’s about to blow up in our faces.
“You!” he shouts at Chris. “You know why the go-mark is where it is? Because when the kid passes the mark is when you go, not when he’s still ten feet out, you get that?”
“Yes,” Chris says in a low voice, putting his hands on his hips.
“I can’t hear you! And put your arms down! Your attitude isn’t doing anything for you right now!”
“Yes, coach!” Chris says louder, dropping his arms.
“As for you, kid …” The coach turns to me, his voice softening but still no-nonsense assertive. “Never stop unless your coach or a judge tells you to stop!”
“But—”
“I know! It doesn’t matter. I
t’s not your job to make those decisions. Your job is to focus on your running, and nothing else. Never assume, and never give up. A judge might be distracted because he has to sneeze or he’s thinking about his mortgage or whatever, and he might miss your screw-up. Don’t do his job for him. You just keep on running until you’ve made the pass, got it?”
“Yes, coach.”
“Good. Now shake hands and get the hell out of here!”
I shake Chris’s hand without looking him in the eyes, then I turn around and make my way off the track.
As I pass Jack, he holds up his hand and says, “Good exchange.”
Being gracious and a good sport, I high five him as hard as I can, making him shake his hand in pain.
* * *
I’m about to rush out of the locker room with my backpack hoisted over one shoulder. I’m not going to take a shower today, or ever, because I don’t ever want to get naked in front of Jack again, let alone Chris.
“Matt, wait!” I hear him say behind me.
I look at him. “What?”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever.” I turn to leave, but before I open the door he’s caught up with me and holds my shoulder.
“Can we talk?”
I shrug his hand off my shoulder. “What’s to talk about? You heard the coach. You took off early, I should have kept going. We’re even.”
“Not … that.”
“What else is there to talk about?”
“Friday,” he says as behind him the other team members start trickling into the locker room.
“Not here,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder, then he nods at me. “Yeah, not here. The Korova? Please.”
I sigh, and apparently in Chris’s universe that means yes.
“Awesome,” he says. “Let me get changed real quick and I’ll catch up with you.”
Without another word I open the door and leave.
I want this talk. Of course I want it.
What I don’t want is Chris to know how much I want it.
I think I might be enjoying this little betrayed-wife act a little too much. Keeping people on tenterhooks, first Jack and now Chris, gives me a feeling of power. It’s an intriguing experience, but it’s all too easy to get drunk with power, and the last time I got drunk with anything … well, we all know how that ended.
“Why, hello there!” Milo exclaims as I enter the Korova.
“Hey, Milo.”
“How are you, darling? You look so much better than … well, than the last time I saw you.”
“That doesn’t really mean a lot, does it?”
“Oh stop it, darling,” Milo says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Even when you’re drunk you still look more gorgeous than most people when they’re sober.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but thanks.” I drop my bag in our regular booth. “Anyway, Chris will be here in a minute. Fix us two chocolate milkshakes, will you? I’m off to the boys’ room real quick.”
I know Chris likes strawberry.
Milo knows it too.
“Two chocolate shakes, are you sure?” Milo says, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” I say and walk into the restroom.
When I return, Chris is there. I slide into our booth, and Milo serves us our milkshakes.
“Thanks, Milo,” Chris says and sucks on his straw. He looks at me. “Chocolate?”
“Is that a problem?”
He looks at me, and I can see how he’s trying to make sense of the bellicose tone in my voice.
“All right,” he finally says, pushing his milkshake to the side. “What’s going on, Matthew?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“Honestly, I have no idea. You got totally wasted on Friday, and you’ve been acting all weird ever since.”
“Me?” I say a little agitated, causing Milo behind the counter to raise an eyebrow. “I’m the one who’s been acting weird? Look, I may be new to that whole gay sex thing, but I’m pretty sure that if you like someone and you make out with them, you don’t let some other guy get into your guy’s pants!”
“Come on now,” Chris says and shrugs. “We were just fooling around.”
Wrong answer.
“Maybe you were.” My anger giving way to the underlying hurt, I lower my eyes and my voice. “I wasn’t.”
After a few moments of silence during which I’m seriously contemplating to just get up and leave, Chris puts his hand on my arm and says, “I’m really proud of you, you know?”
I frown at him. What the hell is he even talking about?
“I mean, look, just because I’m openly gay and I seem to be handling it all right doesn’t mean I don’t know how hard it is. It’s not like I woke up one morning and was like, ‘Oh, I guess I’m gay. Well, that’s all right then, what’s for breakfast?’ I know all the Why me? and Why can’t I be normal like everyone else? and What are people gonna think? type questions. I had to go through all that, too. We all do. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing really well.”
I snort. “Yeah, right.”
“Well, you’re doing a whole lot better than Jack, that’s for sure.”
“So he’s really gay then, is he?”
Chris shrugs. “He is on a good day, but he doesn’t have a whole lot of good days. I guess he’s going through kind of a it’s-probably-just-a-phase phase. When he’s sober, he’s trying really hard to convince everyone—including himself—that he’s that really tough, manly guy who’s totally into boobs and stuff. It’s only when he’s drunk or stoned that he can be himself and, like, go online and look at gay porn and whatnot. So yeah.”
I lean back, my shoulders slumping. “Fricking hell.”
“I know, right?” He sucks on his milkshake. “This is quite nice, actually.”
“I know.”
“So anyway, I’m kind of trying to steer Jack in the right direction.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, I’m not trying to get him drunk at any opportunity or anything. He doesn’t need to be encouraged to drink anyway. But when he’s drunk and he’s in the mood for gay stuff, I kinda encourage that, because I think the more he does that, the more it will eventually spill over into his sober state or something. I don’t know.”
It’s amazing how much sense things seem to make when Chris casually tells them like that, and you’re so easily distracted by his handsomeness and his winning smile—until you’re directly affected yourself and you’ve had a chance to look behind the pretty façade.
“That’s very helpful of you,” I say.
He smiles almost bashfully. “I guess.”
“Does he want your help?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did he ask you to help him come to terms with his sexuality? Or is that something you do for the sake of some greater cause?”
His face turns serious, and I bet I know what’s coming.
“I want to live in a world where everyone can live the way they want to, a world where homophobic bullying is a thing of the past. And I think the more people chose to come out and be proud of who and what they are, the better for all of us.”
“Right,” I say, tempted to call him out on the irresponsibility to push someone out of the closet who has an openly homophobic stepdad with a history of domestic violence, but I don’t really care about Jack at this point. I care about Chris and me, if there has indeed ever been such a thing as Chris and me. “So how do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“You said when he’s drunk and in the mood for gay stuff, how do you encourage that? What exactly do you do? Go online and watch gay porn?”
He grins. “Sometimes.”
“And then what happens?”
His grin widens. “Well, you know.”
“He gets aroused?”
“Sure.”
“You get aroused too?”
“Hey, I’m only human.”
“And you help him relieve the tension?”
“Sometimes.”
“Physically.”
“How else?”
“When was the last time you did that?”
He shrugs, still grinning. “I’m not sure.”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Last week or something, I don’t know.”
I look at him for a long time. He holds my glare, but his expression slowly changes. His boisterous grins wilts and withers and eventually dissipates into a blank stare, empty and cold. Ironically, I find this pure, raw look much more attractive than his usual smug smile and the impish twinkle in his eyes. Deep down inside I still feel so many beautiful feelings for him. Looking at him still makes my mouth feel dry, my heart race, and the airplanes in my stomach fly in loops and spins. But I have to be careful as to not lose my focus on the issue at hand, so I avert my gaze and look at my hands and watch my fingers picking away at my cuticles. It’s not that I don’t want to explode in Chris’s face. I do. I want to shout at him and pull his hair and scratch his stupid eyes out of their stupid sockets but—and this is where my tactical thinking kicks in—I don’t want him to see me mad.
I want him to see me sad.
If I get mad at him he’ll probably get all defensive and brush it off as me being hysterical—which would make me even madder and prove his point. If I want to find out if he cares about my feelings, I have to see how he deals with me being heartbroken.
“I’m just so disappointed, you know?” I finally say in the lowest and most miserable voice I can muster. “I mean, technically, this was my first sexual encounter. Call me old-fashioned, but I was expecting it to be less of an ambush and with a person of my own choosing.”
“Come on, Matt,” Chris says putting a hand on mine, and I hate how the touch of his soft, warm skin sends shivers down my spine. “I wouldn’t call that a sexual encounter. Like I said, we were just fooling around. I’m sure your first real sexual encounter will be awesome and with exactly the person you want.”
He squeezes my hands a little as he says it, undoubtedly suggesting that person could be him.
Cupid Painted Blind Page 20
