Choices(Waiting for Forever BK 1)

by Jamie Mayfield

  Slowly raising my eyes to his face, I wondered if he could see right through me. His brow was furrowed, and he looked worried. For some reason, that made me feel conflicted. I was pleased by the way he cared, even if it was only as a friend, but at the same time I felt guilty about my attraction to him, my need for him. I was terrified someone would find out about that need, because in our small town, anyone who was even the least bit different from the stereotypical Southern boy was ostracized, vilified, as were those close to him. I couldn’t imagine Carolyn would be pleased to be asked to leave her sewing circle because of her queer foster kid.

  “I’m fine,” I told him in a clipped tone, not meeting his eyes. “Let’s go to class.” I started to walk around him, but he grabbed my arm. A feeling like an electric current shot through my skin, and I pulled away sharply. When my eyes finally met his, I was saddened by the hurt and confusion I saw in them. Pushing past him gently, not wanting to make either of us feel more uncomfortable, I headed for English. Jamie was right behind me as we passed door after door of teenagers piling into their classes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of people wave at Jamie, but he only gave them a halfhearted nod. His legs were longer, so he caught up with me by the time we reached the doorway to our first class. He didn’t say anything, just took his customary seat to the right of mine.

  I felt like people were staring at me, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Glancing around, I saw the rest of the kids in the room were only now taking out their books, getting ready for class to start. Feeling utterly paranoid, I turned back around in my seat and noticed Jamie watching me from my right. Grabbing my English book, a beat-up notebook, and my pen, I turned and waited not-so-patiently for the teacher. I was about to focus in class for probably the first time that year.

  For the next hour, I earnestly tried to pay attention to the material being presented, nearly boring a hole in the wall behind Mrs. Cornell’s head with my unflinching stare. By the time the bell rang, I could have told you how many books were in the bookcase behind her desk, listed every piece of paper on the bulletin board, and described in detail the intricate pattern of the crack in her “Best Teacher Ever” coffee mug. Doing everything I could to push the fear out of my mind was fruitless, however, because of all the sideways glances from Jamie. He must have tried to catch my eye at least thirty times during the hour-long lesson, and if he didn’t stop, people were going to talk. Nothing in the world caused more drama than teenagers. What if people start to suspect? What if they start rumors about us? What would I do then?

  The rest of the day was spent in a similar manner. Our school was small, so the entire junior class generally moved as one from room to room, trudging down the hall together like a chain gang of criminals out for their afternoon at the rock quarry. Some people ventured off to band instead of choir, or remedial math instead of algebra, but Jamie was a constant throughout my day.

  At that point, it was both a blessing and a curse.

  The thought of sitting next to him, trying to ignore the gnawing guilt in my stomach for the whole lunch hour, was not pleasant. When the bell rang, I told him I had to get my lunch bag from my locker, and I’d meet him in the cafeteria. Of course, there was no bag. I headed past the hallway that led to my locker and kept walking right through the double doors and outside. Sitting on the far side of a large oak away from the few students who had ventured out on the gloomy, overcast day, I noticed that it looked like a storm was threatening, but I didn’t care. Let the skies open up and wash away my sins.

  As I sat outside, away from the watchful eyes of several dozen nosy teenagers and away from Jamie’s baleful stares, I was able to relax a little and breathe again. The panic started to return when I thought of having to hide like this for the next six weeks until school was out. It’s only the end of April now; how the hell am I supposed to keep this up until the beginning of June? If someone started the rumor, or even just insinuated that I spent just a little too much time tagging along after Jamie Mayfield, it could ruin us both. The fear settled in my stomach, rooting itself there, like an infestation of my body and soul.

  Our last class of the day was the generic rotating “extra” electives. That day, it was art. Music was actually my favorite extra elective class, but art wasn’t bad. I enjoyed the creative element, and usually it was a pleasant diversion from the normal boredom that made up our high school curriculum. As Jamie and I walked in, we saw Mr. Barnes in the back of the room setting out supplies. He wore a similar T-shirt, sweater-vest, and khakis to the ones I’d seen him in every Monday since the start of term. It almost screamed “gay,” but everyone in school knew that already; it wasn’t like you couldn’t tell.

  I stopped dead in the doorway, Jamie nearly slamming into me from behind. Mr. Barnes was gay. Everyone knew Mr. Barnes was gay; he just gave off that vibe. Will everyone know about me? I’d never really given it any thought before. Like the pea-green walls of the art room, it had just become background noise. What if he can tell that I think about other guys? Suddenly, I felt sick and fell onto the bench at the picnic table, my skin crawling with a cold sweat.

  Ignoring Jamie completely, I rushed through my charcoal representation of a birdhouse and was cleaning up long before the bell rang. For the remaining twenty minutes of class, feeling Jamie’s worried gaze as he worked, I stared unseeingly out of the classroom window, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do. When class ended, Jamie looked at me once and then left the room without another word.

  I had a feeling I would have to get used to that. It did nothing to help the sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Brian? Could you stick around for a minute?” Mr. Barnes requested quietly as everyone else filed out of the room and into the hall. I looked around wildly at the slowly emptying wooden tables with loose benches, but I didn’t see anyone looking or whispering. No one seemed surprised or even interested in his request. I had to get a hold of myself, or I would be the one to expose my secret.

  Packing up my stuff, I tried to look like everyone else, but I felt trapped, panicky. Once the rest of the class had left the room, I sat back down at the art bench. My breathing was shallow and uneven as I used my nail to pick at a spot of dried paint. Not even having the balls to look him in the eye, I just sat there, waiting for the axe to fall. He knows. He has to know, or why else would he want to talk to me? I’d never been in trouble, never been disrespectful. I felt sick that now everyone else would know too. My life would be over. Maybe the Schreibers would even send me back to the state. I mean, who wanted a perverted freak in the next bedroom?

  “Brian, I’ve noticed that you have been fairly distracted the last few classes. You seem upset about something,” he started, sitting down across from me. He folded his arms delicately on the worn and scored wooden table. I could feel his eyes on my face. “Is everything all right at home?”

  “Yeah,” I said quietly, only it came out more like a croak than an actual word. Why is he dragging this out? Can’t he just get on with it? My life is going to be ruined now; doesn’t he have the decency to make my end swift? It was like he was trying to perform surgery with a dull, rusty scalpel.

  “Brian, unless someone is physically hurting you, which I don’t think is the case, anything that you tell me will stay between us,” he reassured gently. Finally, I raised my head.

  “It’s not…. No one is hurting me,” I started hesitantly. “I just…. I can’t talk about it.” I really wanted to talk to someone, anyone, who could help me not feel so scared all the time. But I was afraid once I said it out loud, it would be true. It would be real. I would be gay, and my secret would be known by everyone. My friends, the other kids at school, the Schreibers… Jamie. They would all know.

  “Does it have anything to do with Jamie Mayfield?” My eyes shot up to meet his, and I saw they were solemn; his normally impassive face had softened. “I noticed that you two were distant today. Usually you’re two peas in a pod,” he mused, and I blan
ched. If he’s noticed what Jamie means to me, will other people notice too, or is it just because he’s gay? I couldn’t drag Jamie down with me in this. His parents were such zealots about their religion, they would never forgive him. Shaking my head violently, I tried to quell the panic rolling in my stomach.

  “I know I’m a teacher, but I might just understand,” he offered, patting my arm as he stood. “If you change your mind, my door is always open. Please, come and see me any time, okay?” Nodding as I grabbed my bag, I practically ran from the room. I had debated about just telling him, just saying the words. All I had to say was that I thought I might be gay, but the fear of saying it out loud, making it tangible, pushed me out the door without looking back.

  FOR the rest of the week, I did my best to appear normal. I went to all my classes, spent time in the cafeteria at lunch, and tried to be actively engaged in conversations with our friends. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to suspect there was something bothering me—or more to the point, something wrong with me. I’d been scared of how I felt for years, but now that my feelings for Jamie had been more clearly defined, and labeled as evil, it was all I could think about. Only Jamie had really figured out I was having some kind of problem. I caught him watching me a few times—in class, at lunch with our friends, and at our lockers. I made a point of not being alone with him. If we weren’t alone, he couldn’t corner me to ask what was wrong. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever, but it was all going fairly smoothly—until Friday afternoon.

  Gym had never been my favorite class, but I tolerated it because it wasn’t exactly optional. I didn’t mind the physical exertion or the games we played; it was the drill sergeant they called a teacher. That Coach Williams was recently back from his overseas deployment didn’t make me crazy; it was the fact that he worked us like we were storming the beaches at Normandy rather than just trying to earn high school credit. However, lately gym had become almost physical torture. Being in the showers, naked near Jamie, it was all I could do to think of multiplication tables to stop myself from getting hard. I had to force myself not to watch as he used his bare hands to lather up his skin. Those were images to feed the fantasies I would have later at night as I lay alone in bed.

  Friday, however, I had one more factor working against me. In my quest to become more normal, I had refrained from jacking off all week. If I didn’t jack off, I couldn’t think of guys while doing it. If I thought about sex at all, the next thing that popped into my mind was that stout preacher man. That, in and of itself, was a wonderful way to kill the mood. In my imagination, he was standing there, using his huge ham-like hands to push me straight to hell to atone for my sins.

  Only right then, it wasn’t working.

  Unfortunately, without that release, I was paying for my pent-up sexual tension. I hadn’t even taken off my gym uniform of short shorts and tight T-shirt emblazoned with our red-and-white school colors, and I was already hard. I knew there was no way I could strip and get into the showers. Completely mortified, I stood in the boys’ locker room, surrounded by thirty of my half-naked male classmates. Looking over in alarm, I noticed Jamie watching me. My locker was open in front of me, the door blocking my bulging shorts, but I had to get out of there. I couldn’t let him or anyone else see I was aroused by the sight of other naked boys. After throwing the jeans and T-shirt I had worn to school into my backpack, I ran, not really having any kind of plan as to where I would end up.

  I had sprinted about a block from the high school when I realized it was raining, but my momentum and my adrenaline continued to carry me forward. I ran through the streets and past the quiet houses, until finally I stopped at a garage overhang where I could catch my breath out of the rain. Bent over with my hands on my knees, I gulped down air. Extremely pleased that my erection had finally gone down, I remained partially stooped, breathing heavily. The mist dripping off the roof cooled the back of my neck as I tried to get myself under control. The noise of the driving rain on the tin roof over my head masked the sound of heavy footsteps pounding toward the garage. I didn’t have any indication that Jamie was approaching until he stood in front of me. When I tried to make a break for it, he grabbed my shirt.

  “No,” he said in a stern voice, and I gaped at him. “You and I are going to go to my house to talk—now.” I looked away from the alley. With a sinking feeling, I realized we stood just yards from his house. Without even thinking about it, I had run right to him. He dragged me the few remaining feet to his back gate, and, resigned to my fate, I let him push me through it.

  Seeing the house that held so many good memories for me, I felt my insides go cold. What the hell was I going to tell him? I couldn’t tell him the truth. As we climbed up the stairs of the large wooden deck, I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie to him. He was the best friend I ever had, and deep down I knew I cared for him much more than I should. The rain spattered against the large bay windows that overlooked the Mayfields’ kitchen. The white trim around the window seemed to set off the light-gray siding perfectly. Everything about Jamie’s house, from the expensive brick patio to the perfectly cut lawn, said “upper middle class.” It was just another reason why Jamie and I could never be more than what we were. His parents tolerated me as the local charity case; they would never accept me as anything more.

  When we got to the back door, he swore. I turned to look at him and for the first time noticed that he was still wearing his gym uniform. He must have taken off right after me. The white-and-red T-shirt clung to his chest, and while I didn’t check, I was sure the shorts were clinging too.

  “I left my keys at school.” He looked around, and I saw his eyes fix on the tree house. We had spent so many hours in it when we were younger. It was one of the first places I had ever felt safe after coming to live with the Schreibers. At nearly seventeen, we were a little old to be playing in tree houses. In fact, I think Jamie had said his dad was going to take it down at the end of the summer.

  I still remembered how completely impressed I’d been the first time I had seen it. It was masterfully built from sturdy pine with a real roof like that on their home. Apparently Jamie’s father had built it around the time they’d had their roof retiled, and he’d used the leftover material to build a roof for the tree house. The wood looked old and a little rough, and there were large openings on two sides with shutters tied closed to keep out the elements. The whole tree house looked battered now. Even the wooden ladder, which was simply the front part of a painter’s ladder disassembled and affixed to the huge oak where the tree house was built, was starting to show signs of wear.

  The model of the tree house sitting on my dresser was in much better condition.

  After climbing up the old ladder and pushing through the trapdoor at the top, we stood hunched in the small space, which seemed to have shrunk since the last time I’d been up there. A six-foot-by-six-foot space seems so much larger when you’re just a kid. The pictures of different comic book heroes we’d drawn as kids still hung on the walls. Most of the paper was molded and yellowed with age, the tape that held them up peeling and brittle. The beanbag chairs Mrs. Mayfield had made for us were long gone, but the milk crates and scrap wood we’d used for a table were still there. Playing cards and various broken crayons were strewn over the table and floor.

  I sat down in the corner and brushed a cobweb from the ceiling just above my head as Jamie shrugged out of his wet T-shirt and hung it on a nearby nail. The sight of him, so close and shirtless, made my temperature jump in our impromptu confessional. It was already hot and musty in the closed space, but his proximity intensified that, and I felt the sweat bead on my forehead and cheeks. He sat down on the floor, cross-legged, right in front of me and stared into my face for a long moment. Then he spoke.

  “What did I do?” His voice was tender but strong, as though determined to get an answer. “Please, just tell me what I did.” The pain in his eyes was heartbreaking. I couldn’t believe he thought I was mad at him, that he ha
d done something wrong. But looking back at my behavior over the last week, I could understand how he might have come to that conclusion. Stunting our conversations, avoiding him, running from him in gym—yeah, I certainly followed his logic.

  I have to tell him.

  I can’t tell him.

  He’ll hate me, and I’ll lose my best friend.

  That thought was like a knife through my heart, and I felt my throat start to burn. Oh God, I can’t cry in front of him too, not after everything else that’s happened. He already had to think I was a pansy. Looking up at the ceiling, I tried desperately to calm myself, but it was no use. The tears began to fall.

  “Brian, please,” he murmured and scooted closer. Then his arm was around my shoulders and my forehead was pressed against his neck. He was holding me, and it felt so good. This wasn’t like the quick hug I’d given him when his aunt had died last year, or even the tight squeeze he’d given me last week when I’d thought I was going to fail my math test. The way he was holding me, comforting me, was something else entirely, and it felt so good to not feel like a freak, even if only for just a few minutes. His temple was pressed against my shoulder, and I could feel his quick breath against my wet skin. It was like every dream I’d ever had about being with him, only better because he was actually here, touching me. Jamie’s touch felt so tender that I could pretend for that one moment we were everything I wanted us to be. Before I could sink too far into my fantasy, I began to pull away, but slowly, hesitantly, he turned his face to the side and kissed the exposed skin of my neck. I sucked in a breath, stunned. The feeling of his soft lips on my throat, even just in that small comforting gesture, shocked me into complete silence. I had no idea what to say, no idea what to do next. All I knew was, in that moment, I needed to look into his eyes. I had to know what he felt.

  When I pulled back, I saw the shock and utter terror I was feeling reflected back at me from his perfect face.