She released the ladle and it slid back into the red liquid, disappearing beneath a layer of floating orange slices. “Damn,” he said and she started to laugh.
“No worry,” she offered, struggling to be heard over the contagious beat of the hot song. “I wasn’t thirsty anyway.”
He licked his lips and when he spoke, Jillian could feel his warm breath on her cheeks. “Are you hungry?” he asked, with half a grin.
She glanced at his chest and let her eyes wander down to the front of his black pants. She fought the impulse to reach out and touch him, to grab his cock and squeeze it. She knew he had to be hard. “I’m starving,” she answered.
He leaned in and his words crawled into her ear, causing a vibrating shiver to whirl through her body. “Meet me in the auditorium in ten minutes,” he instructed.
She smiled back and asked, “Are we going to see a private show?”
He glanced around, nervous and cautious. Worried they’d been speaking too long, that people might start to wonder, speculate, talk?
“No,” he said before he walked away, “we’re going to create one of our own.”
*
For a moment, Jillian wished someone would’ve stopped her.
She walked alone down the deathly quiet and eerie main corridor of Harmonville High. It was dark, but strips of moonlight shot through the small windows where the ceiling and the walls met. The bluish silver light cast drifting shadows across the metal faces of the goldenrod lockers. Some of them looked like hands moving toward her, trying to hold her back.
Her boots made an echoing sound with each step she took. The reverberation of the tap, tap, tap seemed haunted and ghostly to her, like a voice from the grave crying out stop!
She paused for a moment outside the door to Harley’s classroom, where discussions of Hawthorne and Salinger and Shakespeare took place. Where she sat in the front row, swooning like a lovesick idiot day after day. Hoping Harley would see her, pay attention to her, return the same level of deep desire. She wondered if her classmates saw it—how much teacher and student wanted each other. Did they feel the intense heat in their suggestive words and lingering looks? Would they be shocked by what she was about to do? With a married man? The old guy who taught English? That’s disgusting.
Jillian hoped she’d find Martha LaMont at the end of the long hallway. It didn’t matter if she was pissed off or hysterical—or even if she glared at Jillian with heavy disappointment and anger dancing in her green eyes. “Please don’t do this,” she imagined Martha pleading. “He’s my husband. He took a vow.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jillian said aloud and the sound of her own voice surprised her when it filled the empty space, cutting through the chilly air in the corridor.
Jillian almost turned back when she thought of her mother. This is exactly what she would do—everyone else be damned as long as I have a good time. Jillian felt angry with herself for a brief moment. She’d worked so hard to prove to everyone she was nothing like her mother. She would never sleep with a guy just because he paid her a compliment. She wouldn’t get stuck in some small town in Georgia, waiting on tables. No, Jillian knew she was destined to end up in Manhattan, dressed to kill at cocktail parties, flirting with beautiful rich men, climbing out of taxicabs into the slush and the snow, dining in restaurants her mother never even dreamed about.
Damn you, Delilah Dambro. Why didn’t you leave this place when you had the chance?
The vague memory of her father flickered in Jillian’s mind—but only for a few seconds. Each time she tried to remember his face, the deep hollow of his voice, the roughness of his hand in hers—it was becoming more and more difficult. She’d only been five when he left.
Never to be heard from again.
No one in town seemed to remember her father—except for Alex’s crotchety neighbor, Mrs. Gregory. “He fixed my car once,” she shared when pressed for details one afternoon when a twelve-year-old Jillian had cleaned the old woman’s house for ten dollars. “But the damn thing broke down a week later.”
*
Jillian was surprised to find the door to the auditorium was unlocked.
Harley must have beaten me here. He’s anxious.
She pulled the door open and stepped into the dark theater. She was blind, couldn’t even see her hands in front of her face when she held them up. She turned back, afraid, retreating from her planned rendezvous out of fear, second thoughts.
Instinct.
The stage lights clicked, springing to life with a crackle and a wild buzz. Jillian could feel the warmth of their glow from behind her. She turned and there was Harley, standing center stage.
She stood, frozen for a moment by the majestic sight of him. A smile exploded across her face—she couldn’t help or hide it. Just one glance at him, and she was delirious. Giddy. Temporarily insane.
“Did you get lost?” he asked with a grin. He lifted up his arm, extending a hand in her direction, waiting for her to meet him onstage.
Jillian walked slowly, taking in the beautiful view. Harley looked strangely out of place, dressed as Dracula and standing on the set of the school’s production of Into the Woods. He was surrounded by beautiful trees, and Jillian was amazed at how real they looked from the audience. She slid her gloved hand into one of the pockets of her red velvet cape and retrieved her tube of lip gloss. She coated her dry lips with a layer of cherry-flavored shine before starting her rise up to the stage. She climbed the seven wooden steps in the orchestra pit and exhaled an invisible cloud of nervous energy when she reached the top.
Jillian made her entrance onstage, stepping into the golden light, to join her Prince of Darkness in the forest. She accepted his hand and was surprised by the incredible force with which he pulled her into his arms. His lips silenced her before she could speak. She felt his five o’clock shadow scraping her cheeks; his stubble was sharp and rough.
The world felt like it tripped into hyperspeed to Jillian. Everything around her was moving so fast. Harley’s hands were all over her body, tearing at her costume, grabbing her breasts and squeezing them hard—like he was angry at them. His mouth was covering her skin. He was devouring her whole.
The next thing she knew, they were behind the set—hidden from the audience’s view by the trees. Harley had her down on the ground, pressing so hard against her, Jillian feared she might fall straight through the floor of the stage and plunge into the dark depths of hell. She felt pain between her legs, sharp and tearing, and it caused her eyes to fill with hot tears.
Harley was grunting and sweating on top of her, so she glanced away, in the opposite direction. It was then she realized the trees in the make-believe forest weren’t so real after all. They were only painted cardboard and tissue paper.
They were just an illusion.
November/Noyember
Alex
“Tell me something about Armenia,” Robby suggested.
Alex stayed silent and took another sip from the bottle of Armenian whiskey his mother used to stash behind the washer in the laundry room. He’d been saving it for a special occasion. After the three of them had survived Thanksgiving dinner together with Robby’s caffeinated mother, Alex’s subdued father, and Jillian’s slightly buzzed and recently single mother, Alex felt it was the right night to break out the stolen booze.
“He doesn’t like to talk about Armenia,” Jillian answered for him.
“Why not?” Robby pushed. “Isn’t that where he’s from?”
The exasperation was heavy in Jillian’s voice. Alex grinned at the sound of it, at her lack of attempt to hide her irritation. “He was born here.”
Robby’s gentle smile didn’t falter. Alex admired him for not taking Jillian’s bait and engaging in a contest of who can be the bigger bitch? “Well, I know that,” he said with a small laugh. “I guess I’m just curious.”
Alex took another sip and passed the whiskey to an all-too-eager Jillian, who tilted back the bottle and gulped the liquor like i
t was water. She stopped, choked, coughed. “Jesus!” she fumed. “Damn. This shit is strong.”
“I warned you,” Alex reminded her.
“Can I try some?” Robby asked, apparently not wanting to be outdone by a girl. Jillian shot him a look of “whatever” and handed him the bottle.
Robby took one sniff of the liquid and his eyes watered. He quickly gave the bottle back to Jillian with a dismissive “no, thank you.”
Alex stood up. The three of them were sitting in the dark on his island. The only source of light was the reflection of the late November moon floating on the still surface of the lake water.
The three of them had stumbled off the back porch and raced to the water’s edge, climbed into a metal rowboat belonging to Alex’s dad, and headed out across the lake. Robby and Alex had sliced the water with sturdy oars, sweating and paddling to the shore of the island. Jillian smoked a cigarette, guarded the bottle of whiskey between her legs while threatening them if they splashed her, she’d ruin their lives.
Even though the tension between Robby and Jillian was thick and awkward, Alex was thrilled to be spending the night with two people he loved most in the world. Besides, the bantering and bickering flying back and forth between his boyfriend and his best friend was often amusing. Alex knew the only reason Robby and Jillian were jealous of each other was because of him. They both wanted to be the one thing in the world that mattered most to him.
He leaned up against the sturdy trunk of the oak tree and looked down at the two people sitting at his feet. Robby with his soft skin and shaggy hair, and those big brown eyes Alex could never refuse. Jillian with her low-lying blond ponytail and graceful, long body and the sexy way she pouted when she didn’t get her way. Alex suddenly remembered a time when they were little when Jillian insisted she was going to be a dancer. He smiled at the random memory, having forgotten about it over the years.
He looked at Robby and said, “Apricots.”
Robby looked up at him and asked “What?”
Alex felt the sudden need to be closer to him. He sat down behind Robby on the cold, damp ground, resting his cheek on the boy’s shoulder. “Apricots come from Armenia,” he said. “They’re the best in the world. Ask anyone.”
“It’s true,” Jillian chimed in. “Except in Armenia, they’re called dziran.”
Alex took the bottle from her. “How’d you know that?”
“How do you think?” she tossed back at him. “Your mother taught me. She used to make that dish…what was it called?”
Alex took a sip of the whiskey and answered, “Missov dziran,” before adding, “It’s disgusting.”
Jillian shot him a look. “I liked it. She used to send me home with leftovers.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, avoiding the sadness shifting into Jillian’s gaze. “I remember.” He wrapped his arms around Robby and closed his eyes.
Jillian jumped to her feet. “If you two start making out, I’m stealing the boat and leaving you here.”
Alex smiled and could feel Robby shudder with laughter.
“Are we allowed to smoke on this island?” Jillian asked, digging into the pockets of her sweatshirt. “Or is there a no-smoking policy in this lovely place?”
Alex tightened his grip on Robby. “We’re free here,” he replied. “We can do whatever we want.”
*
It was well after midnight when Alex received the text. The message was short, simple: Can you meet me?
It was from Tommy Freeman. Concern spread through Alex like a house fire, yanking him out of his buzz and sobering him up instantly.
Alex texted back, without hesitation: Where?
He looked out his bedroom window and across the street. The lights were off at the LaMonts’. Alex contemplated texting Robby to see if he was still awake, to tell him he was going out to meet Tommy. It seemed like the right thing to do.
No, Alex decided. Let him sleep.
A half hour later, Alex was on foot and shivering, approaching the empty parking lot of the pizzeria. He found Tommy sitting on a cement parking block beneath the pale yellow glow of a fluorescent street lamp, nursing a forty-ounce bottle of Old English. The pizzeria was dark and deserted. Chairs were stacked on tables. The neon open sign was turned off. Outside, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
Except for Tommy.
“Was your Thanksgiving that bad?” Alex asked the football player.
Tommy looked up. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. He was either really drunk or else he’d been crying. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, sounding wounded.
“I figured it was important.” Alex sat down next to Tommy on the cement block beneath a posted blue and white handicapped parking sign. He winced a little when the cold concrete stung his skin, right through his thin black jeans. “And you’re my friend.”
“Am I?” Tommy asked. “You haven’t said shit to me since that kid moved to Harmonville.”
“Robby,” Alex said. He felt guilty saying Robby’s name, like he had no business being in the pizzeria parking lot with Tommy in the middle of the night. But Alex was certain nothing intimate would ever happen again between him and Tommy. All of that was in their past.
Besides, Alex thought, I’m not in love with Tommy. I never was. My heart belongs to Robby.
Tommy drained the bottle before asking, “I guess you’re with him, right?”
Alex nodded. The temperature had dropped since he was on the island with Robby and Jillian earlier. He could see his breath each time he exhaled. “Yeah, but don’t tell anybody. I don’t want trouble for him.”
Tommy turned the empty bottle on its side and kicked it gently with his foot. It rolled away from them, across the broken asphalt, disappearing into the dark. “No one would believe you’re a fag, Alex. They all think you’re sleeping with Jillian.”
“Keep it that way,” Alex said. “Hunter and the other guys—I don’t want them messing with Robby.”
Tommy’s voice broke then. He tried to fight tears off, but they cut right through his words. “Why’d you come?”
“Why’d you ask me to?”
Tommy wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Guess I just needed someone to talk to.”
“About what?” Alex asked. “Your old man on you again about stuff?”
Tommy nodded and sniffed. “Yeah, you could say that. He told me after dinner I was the biggest disappointment in his life.”
Alex gave Tommy a soft, playful punch in the arm, trying to lighten the mood. And to stop thinking about his mother, what her body looked like hanging from the rope in the garage. Her face. “Man,” he said, “don’t listen to him. Tommy, your dad’s an asshole. Everybody knows it.”
Tommy turned to Alex and his tears were visible then, glistening on his skin beneath the pale light above them. “You’re right,” he said. “He is an asshole. But…I kinda think he’s right about me. I am a big disappointment.”
Alex shook his head and held Tommy’s gaze. “Don’t talk like that.”
Another tear spilled down his cheek before he said to Alex, “I didn’t get a scholarship.”
Alex felt his mouth go dry. Stunned, all he could say was, “What?”
“Most of the recruiters—they all thought I was no good. I might have to stay here, Alex. In Harmonville.”
“That’s crazy,” Alex said, dismissing the seriousness of the situation with a small, nervous laugh. “Nobody knows football better than you.”
Tommy started to sob then, as if his heart were breaking open wide and every emotion he’d kept hidden was pouring out into the parking lot at once. “My dad can’t even look at me now,” he whimpered. “He hates me, Alex.”
Alex put a comforting arm around his friend’s shoulders. It felt so strange to hold Tommy again, to touch him.
I want to go home. To my mother. I need her right now.
“You’re going to be okay,” Alex said, to both of them.
Tommy shook his head, struggling to reel hi
s feelings back in. “Can you imagine what he’d do…if he knew…about me…how I like guys.”
Alex pulled away from him. “You’re gay, Tommy. You can say it. So am I. It’s not a big deal.”
Tommy turned and stared into the darkness in the distance, beyond the edges of the circle of the lamplight. “Yes,” he said to the night around them. “It is.”
December/Dektemper
John
Martha decided to stay in the car at the cemetery. She told John if he needed her, she’d be right there waiting for him. He knew her words were true. Martha was a good woman, which made him feel like it was okay to fall in love with her so soon after Siran was gone.
Alex also stayed behind, sullen and stubborn in the backseat with his headphones on, refusing to show one ounce of emotion to anyone. He was still doing his best to ignore Martha whenever she was around. In the few instances Alex did say something to her, it was to remind her of her place—of the love and regard he deeply held for his mother, and the blatant lack of respect he had for her.
John figured he was on his own that Christmas morning—his son and the woman he loved would stay in the warmth of the car, leave him to suffer through his sadness alone. So it surprised him when he heard one of the car doors open—that annoying electronic beeping sound. He was kneeling in the grass next to Siran’s headstone, placing a beautiful bouquet of flowers down, when he sensed his son standing behind him. John stood and faced the seventeen-year-old.
“Alex?”
“I didn’t think you missed her anymore,” his son told him, staring him directly in the eye.
John slipped his hands into the side pockets of his gray pea coat and shivered. “Of course I miss her. Every single moment of every single day.”
“Why?” Alex challenged. “You have Martha now.”
John nodded. “I know,” he said. “And it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.”
Swimming to Chicago Page 10
