Michael looked up. “I either need to break out a flashlight or we’re going to have to go inside.”
“I’m starting to get cold,” I admitted.
Michael was lying on his belly on the soft grass of the quad, and I was using his butt as a pillow. That was the problem with fall. The temperatures dropped as the sun went down.
I nodded toward the coffee house. “That all right? I’m getting hungry again.”
“Sure, but I have to leave by nine. The olds are getting on my case again. I cannot wait to graduate and get out of here.” Michael threw one arm over my shoulder as we headed toward the coffee house. “You, me, and schools far away from here.”
There it was again. I needed to grow a pair and tell him already. Somehow it wasn’t that easy. Maybe because it felt like breaking up? “Bring it on.”
“I know it’s not even Halloween yet, but do you feel like talking about the Junior Prom?”
I smiled thinking about last year. “Sure, what’s up?”
“I feel a smirk. What’re you laughing about?” Michael nudged my shoulder.
“My mother’s antics at last year’s prom.” I laughed. How could I not? I held the door open for him.
Apparently Michael thought so, too. “Awww jeez. I wouldn’t have thought I could’ve forgotten that, but I did. That was classic. Can I presume we won’t have to go through that this time?”
I snorted as we sat down at a table. “Yes, if only because I’m not speaking to them at the moment, and that doesn’t look to be changing any time soon.”
“You’re not? What’s going on, Rem?” He stopped laughing. He didn’t even pull out his books.
“Do we have to go into this?” Dragging it back out into the light held almost as much interest for me as oral surgery without the benefits of modern anesthetics.
Michael look concerned. He placed his hand on mine. “I think we do, Rem.”
“Okay, so right before I left for Boston, my parents summoned me home.”
“That sounds ominous.” He made a face, but then, he knew my parents and knew what they were capable of when they got their backs up, especially my dad.
“I know, right?” Was I really doing this?
So I bit the proverbial projectile and told him, a thumbnail sketch, at least. He didn’t need to know the whole argument. I watched him, however, and I noticed something. Sure, he made all the right noises. He was a stand-up guy and the best boyfriend I could imagine, but his eyes. They didn’t react. I’d like to think that telling him the crap my parents crapped out would elicit some reaction.
“You knew about this.” It wasn’t even an accusation. It was a simple statement of fact. “How?”
Michael looked guilty. “Geoff e-mailed me. He’s worried about you.”
“That’s because I’m not speaking to him, either.”
That caught his attention. “What’s going on, Rem?”
“He agrees with them, Michael,” I said flatly.
“The hell? Your whole family hates me?” His mouth hung open.
I leaned over and kissed him. “Not my whole family.”
“So what is this about? I’m thinking your brother left out a certain amount of detail.” Michael looked miserable. Sometimes I forgot he was only seventeen.
“A little, yeah.” I moved my chair so I sat next to him. I put my arm around him and pulled him down. My man needed to be held, even if he didn’t know it. “I don’t know what’s ultimately driving it, but the proximate cause is that everyone seems to think I’m too dependent on you because I made sure my classes are done by the time you get off the water.”
Michael raised his head. “That’s it? That’s not what Geoff said.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Did he say they thought you exert too much influence on me?” I paused. “Or I on you. It went both ways.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t even make sense.” Michael glared at me.
I shrugged, which was hard while I held him. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
The part about not trusting myself to make real decisions in the wake of my colossal blunder the summer before my senior year? I left it out. There was some truth to that, and I didn’t want to go into it then, and in any event, he didn’t need to hear it. Besides, I already had one therapist and I didn’t need Michael trying to step into that role.
“I know.” Michael wilted. “I… how can I win against that?”
“Michael… it’s not a contest.” I stroked his hair. “You already won. You’re my guy. They’re my past. You’re my future.”
Could I still make that come true?
“What about Geoff?” Michael said, his voice muffled by my chest.
“Okay, that one’s tougher, but he’ll come around once he sees he’s wrong.”
Michael sat up and looked at me. “Will he? Come around, I mean?”
I kissed him softly. “I hope so. I think he’s parroting what my parents have said. It’s not like he’s seen me much since school started this summer. And you’ve seen him with Laurel. Who influences who in that relationship?”
“Good point.” Michael laughed, but it sounded weak, even tenuous. “Rem… I’m sorry. If it becomes a choice between me and your family—”
“No.”
He started. I guess I sounded sharper than I realized.
“No,” I said, softer this time. “Michael, this isn’t a contest or some kind of gay Sophie’s Choice. I shouldn’t have to choose between you, if only because they’re wrong and because you’re not the one putting me in this position. For allegedly supportive parents, mine are suddenly being the exact opposite of that. It’s not my job to figure out why, and it’s not your job to accommodate them.”
I didn’t say anything about his less than supportive parents, no matter how much I wanted to. My usually strong boyfriend was doubting and uncertain, and when it came down to it, scoring cheap rhetorical points was a shitty and unloving thing to do.
“So tell me about your plans for prom.” I made no attempt to be subtle. If this had been a teen comedy, the sound of a needle dragging across a record would be heard here. And who listened to records on turntables, anymore? Hipsters? Screw them. They don’t watch teen comedies. Everything I listened to is digital and fits on my iPhone.
“Thanks, Rem.” Michael kissed me on the cheek. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “Okay, so here’s what I’ve thought of. Thanks to us, there are several more out couples at Davis High this year.”
That warmed me to hear. As ambivalent as I felt about my high school experience, even at über-liberal Davis High, the fact that Michael and I had blazed a trail—no matter how narrow—for others helped put a shine on it.
“I’ve told you about Casey and James, right?”
I nodded. “I think so, yes.”
“So them, plus two girl couples, and then a straight couple for the sake of diversity.”
“Have I met any of the rest of them?” I knew some of them, at least, had to be juniors because it was the Junior Prom. Or maybe they were all giving money to Michael… who couldn’t buy the tickets. I was pretty sure at least half of each couple had to be a junior. Huh. I wondered how we were going to swing this one.
“Tiffany and Stella were novices at Cap City last year, so was Matrixa, and Darren was JV, so yes, you either knew part of each couple or at least saw them around the boathouse,” Michael said.
“There’s that much to quell my social anxiety issues, at least. Next question—how are we going to get in?”
Michael smiled, the sparkle back in his eyes. “I knew you’d ask that. Matrixa is on the organizing committee. She’s going to get us in.”
“Even though I’m not even a student at Davis High anymore?” How could this not blow up in our faces?
“She promised.” Michael sounded so confident.
I couldn’t say much to that, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t have alternate plans, j
ust in case. There would be faculty advisors present, after all. I assumed sneaking upperclassmen and their college boyfriends in would be only a little easier than putting white rum or vodka in the punch.
So as Michael spoke and then as the books came out, I turned inward, thinking. Michael and I would be the oldest students present, obviously. No, I would be the oldest. I already felt like a babysitter around Michael’s younger friends. What on earth would I have to talk to these children about? Rowing, I guess, but only the most vague and superficial aspects of the sport. Head of the Charles? They’d never rowed it.
Safer sex, at least to the boys? That ought to cover an awkward five minutes. Don’t do what I did, kids! HIV is a gift that keeps on giving, and frankly the meds are a drag. Truvada? Ask Michael about the names he’s already been called for taking it because I’m poz. What did safer sex look like for women? Dental dams? I knew no lesbians who actually deployed those. But wait, there’s more! The other STIs are equal opportunity infectors, and the biggest one of all is the easiest to prevent. Yes, that’s right, babies! Wrap that rascal, boys, unless you’re ready to be called “Daddy.”
I shuddered. I tried to shunt my thoughts onto something—anything—else. But some things were too deeply rooted to get rid of that easily. I couldn’t brush this one aside with a few parlor tricks. It didn’t matter to me what Alicia said, or what Michael might say if I ever told him about this, I truly felt like Josh Brennan these days, preying upon a younger man. It didn’t help that both sets of parents seemed to think my relationship with my boyfriend was unhealthy or that I exerted an unhealthy influence on him. I wondered how much of it was AIDS-phobia? They had no idea how afraid I was of infecting Michael or how careful I was with his health. They didn’t know that I beat myself up on a daily basis because I’d done this to myself. If I’d only been honest about my age, Josh wouldn’t have wandered.
I sighed. Or he might have, after all. Rationally I knew that Alicia was right. Josh might’ve been the source of my infection. Or it could’ve been Todd, the guy I’d met online and hooked up with at that first Youth Nationals. Like I said, rationally I could never know, but on this subject I reacted emotionally, and emotionally I was terrified of doing anything to hurt Michael.
I obviously had more work to do, either in a journal or with Alicia or both. What burned me up about my conviction that in some manner I was no different from Josh was that this whole line of thinking was nothing new. I’d been making myself miserable with this for most of the fall semester. Obviously I was still troubled by my disquieting realization about Josh Brennan, and it wasn’t going to go away any time soon. Could I manage to come to terms with it, kind of like learning to live with the monster under the bed? It might still scare the crap out of me, but I’d get used to the chill in my guts?
I guess I’d have to.
BEFORE I could worry about the Yo Gabba Gabba prom and what sounded like some immature hijinks at the hands of my boyfriend’s friends, I first needed to endure Thanksgiving. Seeing as how my parents had yet to so much as send up a smoke signal in the month since the Head of the Charles Massacre, I had to scramble for Turkey Day. What was slaughtered at the massacre? I’d say my youthful illusions, but I’d killed those off myself a long time ago. Maybe it was the fiction of family unity or the idea that my parents supported my relationship with Michael, or even that my relationships counted as much as Geoff’s.
Anyway, CalPac closed the dorms. Those who weren’t leaving campus or couldn’t go home were herded into the one dorm that remained open, perforce to sleep in strangers’ bedrooms. The thought creeped me out. So not suave.
Thus it was with relief one afternoon to find an e-mail from Heath Nichols waiting for me. Heath had been the nurse practitioner who’d treated me when I first started getting sick before I was diagnosed with HIV. I had e-mailed him when I’d been released from the hospital after I’d been so sick. I figured the man who had pushed for me to get tested deserved to know how far awry things had gone before I’d seen the light. I’d underestimated both Heath and his husband, Jerry Fortier. Both had flown right into “Mah poor BAY-bee” mode and immediately adopted me as some sort of honorary nephew. By the time Geoff and I graduated high school, he had taken to grumbling about not having his own fairy godfathers.
All I had to say was “Be glad you don’t need fairy HIV-fathers of your very own.”
So when Heath e-mailed to check up on me, as per his custom, I knew I could be completely honest. My parents aren’t speaking to me, and I’m not sure what I’m doing for Thanksgiving.
Within ten minutes Jerry called me. “What do you mean your parents aren’t speaking to you?”
“Do you want the long version or the short version?”
“That bad?” I could practically see him making a face.
I sighed. “That typical.”
“Save it for dinner next Thursday. You’ll arrive after your last class on whatever day it is they spring you children from that asylum.” Jerry made his typical busy noises in the kitchen in the background. Everyone knew who did the cooking in that family.
“I have classes Wednesday morning and then practice Wednesday afternoon.” I loved these men so much, but I still wouldn’t skip sculling for them. “Are you sure? You don’t mind me crashing your holiday?”
Whatever he was doing, it hit the counter with a clatter. “I said it, didn’t I? Get your lily-white ass over here after practice. After you shower, if you please.”
“Thanks, Jerry.” I had to smile. That was his therapeutic technique. All smiles and warmth until you crossed him. Then the orders started.
“I swear, you rowers will be the death of me. Did I ever tell you how that child Nick Bedford snatched from the cradle took ten years off of my life?”
“No.” Actually he had, but I loved this story. Nick Bedford was the legend who put CalPac’s rowing program on the map, but among the gays? He was a god who walked the earth. No one talked about it, but the rumor was his husband was once one of his rowers, and that he had quit coaching for true love. Or twu wuv, if you were a fan of The Princess Bride. Which I was.
“Liar.” Jerry laughed. “We’ll see you next Wednesday. Wear something tight-fitting.”
“Jerry!” I heard Heath in the background.
I grinned. I loved them so much. “They’re all tight, Jerry. It drives my boyfriend insane.”
“Where were you when I was younger?”
“Kindergarten.”
Jerry sighed. “You’re a cruel, cruel child, Remy Babcock.”
“I know.” I cackled with glee. I hadn’t been this delighted in some time. It was funny how a single phone call lightened a sour mood months in the making.
I heard a scuffle, and then Heath was on the line. “Don’t listen to him. Come over when you can on Wednesday. We expect you to stay through Sunday or whenever you can return to your dorm.”
I thought of Brady. No real hurry there.
“Ask the boy if he can make anything,” Jerry called.
“Tell him I make an orange-glazed cranberry relish because I refuse to eat anything that came from a can that jiggles like that.” Seriously, yuck. “But one of you will need to furnish alcohol to a minor because the orange comes from Cointreau.”
Heath snorted. “Of course you will, honey. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. Kiss, kiss.”
“Precious, precious.” I disconnected the call. That locked Thanksgiving down but only put off the larger questions of holidays and family, since my fight with my family no longer looked like it would resolve itself quickly.
WHEN I’D told Heath and Jerry that I’d be over after practice, what I’d meant was after I finished sculling. I had to relax somehow, after all. But thirty minutes into what I’d intended to be a ninety-minute row, I realized my mind was on everything but the boat. I knew I should’ve cut myself some slack, but the only thing I could think of as I turned the single around was “herding squirrels,” only the squirrels were a
ll my scattered thoughts.
Oh well, whatcha gonna do?
Michael’s school took the entire week off, so after I cleaned up, he and I hung out at the CalPac boathouse for a while, at least until his continued absence would be difficult to explain to his parents. I schooled my expression into as bland a mask as possible, so score one for me. The last thing either of us needed was me picking a fight with the Castelreighs, but seriously, I failed to understand their animosity, although they’d certainly piqued mine. But Michael seemed like he was in a vulnerable place these days, and I didn’t feel like I could ask him what their issues with me were. He might not know the reasons himself.
At least by the time the Dead Bird Derby itself rolled around, Michael’s Thanksgiving holiday would almost be finished, and if he snuck out for the pretense of Black Friday shopping, we could spend more time together. I could meet him at the maul—I hated shopping, and the day after Thanksgiving? Shoot me—so he had some packages to show for his efforts, and then we could hit the water. Yes, that’s all I thought about, but he knew that.
But first, the Dead Bird Derby. I had ingredients to buy.
I hit the grocery store on the way to Heath and Jerry’s, because nothing screams cray-cray like Trader Joe’s the afternoon before Turkey Day. I thought this was a good idea? Seriously, never mind my relationship with Michael, this was why my parents should’ve questioned my maturity. Bedlam hardly covered it. It started with me parking on the street in a residential neighborhood six blocks away. Not a problem. With my canvas bags tucked under one arm, I’d make walking sexy again, and in any event, the Fab Forties was a brilliant neighborhood to be seen in. What passed for fall foliage was on vivid display, and so was I. Another thing I loved about the Fab Forties was its location cheek by jowl with the gayborhood, Lavender Heights. A funny name, really. The hills in Sacramento started much farther to the east.
I elbowed my way into the store and dove into the fray. Being tall but slender had its advantages, and I worked all of them. Reaching through the throng for bags of cranberries? Check. Snaking two organic oranges while others argued over them? Check. Holding my basket over my head when people figured out what I’d done? Deploying my thousand-yard death glare? Check and double-check.
All That Is Solid Melts Into Air Page 8
