Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  Sighing, he calls Lisa. When she picks up, he says, “Do you think you can get details about a Junior Meat King party?”

  “Er, yeah?”

  “Fuck. Fine, okay, do that.”

  “Do I want to know why?”

  “No,” Mike says. “No, you really don’t.”

  * * *

  For the rest of the week, Lisa gives him weird looks while Mike keeps his trap shut, because the last thing he needs is more witnesses for whatever disaster is going to go down on Saturday night. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Does he show up with an apology? Is J. J. going to assume his presence is a come-on? He half thinks he just shouldn’t go at all, but there’s that little niggling thread of guilt, and Mike just kind of wants the whole thing to be over with. Maybe he’ll sit Scalzetti down and explain how very, very drunk he was, and how it’d all been a harmless little mistake.

  On Friday, Cam grins across the table at him at lunch and says, “Word on the street is we’re crashing Scalzetti’s this weekend.”

  Mike glares at Lisa and says, “It’s not crashing if you’re invited,” and he feels only marginally smug at Lisa’s fleeting look of surprise before Cam says, “We’re invited? That’s totally weird.”

  Even though Scalzetti and the rest of the Our Lady crowd frequently show up at Cam’s parties—Cam’s got an email chain set up—they’ve never before returned the favor.

  “Kind of,” Mike acknowledges. He doesn’t really want to specify that he was invited, not all of them together, because Cam’s not dumb, no matter how stupid he acts. He’d know something was up.

  Omar palms his apple, pushing his tray farther onto the table with his elbows. He says, “Scalzetti likes Mike.”

  Mike almost has a heart attack before realizing Omar meant that in the totally platonic way. Probably. He barely manages to choke out, “He does not!” anyway.

  Omar eyes him oddly. “Chill, man. I spent an hour with him at Cam’s last party, talking about the band. He likes the way you play.”

  “He totally wants to be your groupie,” Cam says, doing something obscene with his tongue, because Cam’s a dirty pirate hooker.

  Jason snorts a laugh into his soda can and Mike kicks him in the shin.

  Things are getting out of control.

  “It’s just a party,” Mike says with a tight shrug. “Not a big deal.”

  Lisa’s face says maybe he’s making it a big deal. He swallows hard and takes a bite of his sandwich and very carefully avoids everyone’s eyes.

  Cam spends the rest of lunch talking about hats and the merits of facial hair—“I’m thinking about going for the Abe Lincoln,” he says. “You know, party around the jaw, business above the mouth.”

  Mike’s totally okay. He’s not going to freak out, now that they’re all going to J. J.’s party. In fact, it’ll end up being better, because it’s not like J. J. can expect him to do anything in front of his friends. Mike just has to stay sober and clear-headed.

  Piece of cake.

  * * *

  The Scalzettis, Mike knows, live in the gated community of Richmond Plains. Mike’s pretty sure their McMansion has a live-in maid and a cook. J. J.’s party isn’t at the Scalzetti house, though. Lisa’s intel says it’s at an old farm property ten miles out of town, and they barely need directions—you can hear the music and see the bright spotlights from about a half mile away.

  There’s a massive crowd of bikers—leather, tats and all—hanging around fire-lit oil drums when they pull in, and Cam says, “Holy shit,” his voice filled with awe.

  At least twenty cars and just as many motorcycles are squeezed into a small plot of dirt next to a dilapidated farmhouse, which is covered in overgrown weeds. There’s one big bonfire surrounded by half-log benches. A green-and-yellow tractor is pulling a hay-filled wagon around an empty, fenced-in pasture, and a goddamn horse is chomping away at a patch of tall grass, big head hanging out of the Dutch door of an adjoining barn.

  Mike thinks it’s got to be an elaborate joke.

  It’s not at all what he had been expecting.

  “Is that a biker gang?” Cam asks, incredulous.

  Mike wants to say no, because that’s just ridiculous, right? But he’s pretty sure they are. Why the hell would J. J. have a motorcycle gang at his party? The crowd’s a mix of adults, teenagers, and kids, and even though there’s a ton of people there, Mike kind of has the feeling that this is more for family than casual school friends. It makes Mike feel even weirder about being there.

  Cam drags Omar and Deanna off to stare in wonder at the bikers. Mike just hopes nobody gets killed. Cam isn’t exactly subtle about anything.

  Mike spots J. J. down by the hayride, back to the fence, face tilted down to talk to a kid who looks about twelve, her head coming up to his shoulder. He’s got jeans on. Not just jeans, but worn-in jeans. J. J. tucks one hand in a pocket, the other dragging up his nape to ruffle his hair.

  J. J. has a thin neck. And thin wrists, pale, like they haven’t seen the sun for a while, if ever, and he’s got the shoulder width of a baby bird. He’s probably got delicate collarbones, and, like, a concave chest or some shit. Mike should really not ever picture J. J. shirtless, fuck, he’s putting too much thought into this.

  “Are you seeing this?” Mike hisses in Lisa’s ear. “How could I have hooked up with that? He’s like an ostrich with pretty hair.”

  “I don’t know, he’s got nice legs,” Lisa says thoughtfully.

  “Not helping.” Neither is the fact that J. J.’s smiling at him now, and that his face is actually as handsome as Mike remembers it being. Mike’s cheeks heat, because nothing says giant girl like a good, old-fashioned blush.

  J. J. slowly makes his way over to them, and there’s a lazy hitch to his step that makes Mike think he’s more comfortable here than he is anywhere else. “Michael,” he says, “glad you could make it.”

  Jason snickers—he’s getting too big for his britches. Mike approves of a little attitude, but Jason better watch out. Mike gives him the evil eye, but Jason just smiles wider, like he thinks he has Mike’s number. He probably does.

  J. J.’s grin falters when Mike doesn’t say anything back, and Mike quickly says, “Yeah,” gruff, just because he doesn’t want to be rude.

  Jason coughs a laugh into his fist.

  Seriously, he hates everybody.

  Bobbing his head a little, J. J. says, “Right, so. There are sodas and beers and grills over on the other end of the clearing. Please make yourselves at home.” He looks up at Mike through his eyelashes and something in Mike’s chest gets tight.

  Weird.

  It’s twilight, but almost everything is bathed in gold from the various fires scattered around. He’s kind of mesmerized by the way shadows cut sharp lines along J. J.’s cheekbones.

  Lisa clears her throat and says, “Jay and I are just gonna go, um, get something to eat.”

  Mike could man up here and figure out what the hell is going on with his hormones, or he could take the coward’s way out and latch onto Lisa. Mike wants to be the good guy, he really does, but strange attraction to J. J. aside, he really doesn’t like him.

  He says, “Hold up, I’ll come with,” and pretends not to see J. J.’s disappointed frown.

  * * *

  Mike is not drunk later when J. J. catches his arm and tugs him into the dim shadow of a gigantic oak tree, just outside the firelight cast by the main bonfire. Mike definitely isn’t drunk when J. J. leans his full weight all along Mike’s front. He’s just about three inches shorter than him, and Mike has to tip his head down to look him in the eyes. They’re dark, and a little unfocused, and he smells like wood smoke and beer.

  Mike grimaces, placing palms on J. J.’s waist and leveraging him away. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Why not?” J. J. says, smirking at him.

  “Because this isn’t a thing,” Mike says. “Between us, I mean.”

  J. J.’s smirk turns sly, which is good, b
ecause it gets Mike pissed, which is how he should be around J. J.

  “Right,” J. J. says.

  “Look.” Mike pauses, because he’d rather carve out his eyeball with a spoon than have this conversation with J. J., but something has to be said. “Look,” he starts again, “there’s some stuff I have to work out on my own.”

  J. J.’s eyes narrow. “Okay.”

  “And you really fucking annoy me, most of the time,” Mike says. By breathing, or cocking his hip, or smirking in his face, or …

  God, J. J. is the motherfucking enemy! This was a bad idea, coming here.

  J. J.’s eyes narrow more, and his mouth tightens, and the angles of his face get mean. Mike isn’t exactly sure how he does it, but there it is. “All right,” J. J. says. He takes a slow step backward, and rubs a hand over his chin.

  He looks speculative, and Mike thinks for a split second that J. J.’s gonna go for blackmail, except this isn’t a bad teen romance, and if they’re both gay here—or bi, or whatever—J. J.’s got his own coming-out drama to deal with. They don’t need to screw each other over on this. Mike even says that, and J. J. nods.

  He says, “You’re right, of course, even though I really wish you weren’t.” He sighs and lightly touches Mike’s hair where it falls over his temple. “I don’t know what it is about you, Michael. You have entirely too much nose and your eyebrows need a vigorous grooming—”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “—but I really want to stick my tongue down your throat and suck on your very nice bottom lip.”

  Mike’s mouth dries up. “Uh.”

  J. J. smiles and walks away, throwing a fruity “Ta” over his shoulder.

  Mike’s left feeling equal parts horny and disgusted. “I’m too sober for this,” he says to himself, slumped back against the rough bark of the tree. What the actual fuck just happened?

  But clearly, something about J. J. turns him on. He’s willing to admit it was nice, the hard planes of J. J.’s body pressed up along his own. It felt … not exactly foreign, but really fucking different anyway. J. J. is sharp all the way around; there’s no mistaking him for a girl. With a deep, bracing breath, Mike pushes himself upright and steps out into the firelight again.

  Cam calls across to him, “Dude, s’mores!”

  Chocolate, always good for what ails you. Mike pulls himself together as best he can and goes back to his friends.

  * * *

  Mike isn’t sure what he was expecting to get out of the night, but whatever it was, he doesn’t feel like he got it. He feels sort of lost, sprawled across the all-the-way-back seat in Omar’s van, head pillowed on Lisa’s thigh.

  He somehow has to deal with the reality that he finds J. J. hot even without being blind, stinking drunk. So, drunken guy make-out? Probably not an anomaly. If he’s honest with himself, the thought of sticking a hand down the back of J. J.’s pants kicks his heartbeat up a lot faster than the hands-on reality of touching Lisa’s boobs. It also scares the shit out of him. Almost first-wet-dream scary, with the same mix of shame, embarrassment, and hell yes.

  It’d be a lot easier if he just liked girls. And he’s actually starting to think that he maybe doesn’t really like girls at all, or he’s leaning so far into the dude side of the Kinsey scale that he might as well not like girls at all. Scary, and kind of depressing.

  From his position, Mike can just make out Girl Meckles’ teased-up Mohawk, a couple messy strands trailing along the seatback in front of him. Cam has his head tipped back, snoring. He can hear Omar and Jason talking in low voices up front, but he can’t make out their words.

  Lisa smooths hair off his forehead, humming absently.

  Mike says, “Hey,” softly.

  When Lisa looks down at him, he can’t quite parse her expression. Too many shadows fall over her eyes and mouth. Her hand slides down to his collarbone and she says, “Yeah?”

  “Why didn’t you bring Larson?” he asks. He can feel Lisa’s leg tense under his head.

  “I thought you didn’t like him,” she says, almost tentatively, which sits strangely on her. Lisa isn’t really tentative about anything, she’s always the first out of the gate, damn the man, straight on till morning.

  And Mike doesn’t know why that would matter, anyhow. So he thinks Larson’s not good enough for her, so what? He doesn’t think Cam’s good enough for Deanna, but that doesn’t stop them. He reaches up and tugs on an end of Lisa’s long, dark hair.

  “Bring him,” he says. “Next time.”

  Shadows still hide her face, but her fingers are light, tapping at the side of his throat, and he can almost, almost see her smile.

  nine.

  At the first official Homecoming committee meeting, Dotty brings her cheer-pal Lenny Lad. Mike hasn’t had face-to-face contact with Lenny since the fourth grade, when they’d both had a brief imaginative stint pretending to be Russian spies. Mike doesn’t hate her or anything; she’s just in all the smart classes, so it’s not like they’ve had any reason to talk.

  She’s kind of a flirt, though, and Mike has to move out of the way when she sits down and flutters her eyelashes at him. Mike leans around her and says to Dotty, “I needed three of you.”

  Dotty rolls her eyes. “Relax, he’s on his way.”

  He turns out to be Rook Wallace. Of course. Mike didn’t honestly expect anything else, given the way his cookies have been crumbling.

  Wallace slides into the room just this side of breathless, black curls a mess, like he’s run sweaty hands through it over and over again.

  Mike says, “Don’t you have basketball practice?” Their season just started. No way would the coach let him skip.

  “I’ll make it if we hurry this up,” Wallace says, dropping into the empty seat next to Mike. He grins with his eyes, looking straight at Mike, like he’s daring him to say something about being late.

  Mike settles back down in his chair with a scowl.

  The committee is meeting twice before Royal and Junior Court nominations, and then twice a week after that to organize the theme, refreshments, and decorations, and any other major and minor things that come up before the big day.

  Besides the four of them, there are five seniors that Mike recognizes but has never interacted with before, including the senior class vice president. Right now they’re arguing, as far as Mike can tell, about the validity of self-nominations. They’ve been here before, obviously, and Mike just lets them hash it out without him. He broods to himself, scribbling a dark patch of ink on his notebook and thinking up ways he can make Lisa pay. There aren’t many he can actually pull off.

  Homecoming is not really as big a deal as TV and movies would have him believe. At least, Mike doesn’t think so. Their football team is mediocre, even though their marching band is amazing, and no one Mike knows personally has ever even been to a post-game celebration. Unless he counts getting plastered with the drum section last year, but, look, Mike has weaknesses, and one of those weaknesses is the sharp precision of fifteen snare drums doing their thing.

  Of course, Mike’s never been an upperclassman before.

  Wallace jostles his elbow and Mike startles out of his daze and glares.

  “What?” Mike says.

  Wallace ducks his head down close to his ear, and Mike refuses to flinch away when warm, damp breath ghosts over his cheek. “I hear the Bobcats are the undefeated champs of intramural baseball,” he says.

  “We still have one game left,” Mike says, but he can’t stop the slight flush of pride. The Bobcats are annihilating the Slugs, and it doesn’t hurt that Wallace called them Bobcats instead of the Blue team, which Higgins still insists on using, because he’s a tiny, stubborn douche bag.

  “You and Scott should think about trying out in the spring,” Wallace says.

  “Uh, yeah, no,” Mike says, because he doesn’t think he can be on the same field as Wallace without trying to take his head off with a baseball.

  “I mean it,” Wallace says in this rea
lly earnest voice. “We could use you.”

  Mike doesn’t bother pointing out all the crap that went down before, in their Little League, because if Wallace is going to pretend it never happened, then Mike can do that, too. It doesn’t mean he can forget about it, though. Those weren’t exactly the happiest times of Mike’s life, despite his love of playing the game.

  “Forget it, Wallace,” Mike says shortly.

  Wallace’s forehead wrinkles, like he can’t figure out what he said wrong, and Mike ignores him for the rest of the hour.

  * * *

  Cam shows up for their final baseball game against the Slugs wearing a fanny pack, BluBlocker shades and a mustache. He’s got a red-and-orange Hawaiian shirt open over his Bobcats tee, and his hair is being held off his forehead by a stark white visor, Hang Loose etched in neon green puffy paint around the band.

  “Hang loose?” Mike says.

  Cam grins and says, “I needed a catchphrase.”

  “That’s the catchphrase of the entire state of Hawaii,” Omar points out.

  “Aloha.” Cam waggles his thumb and pinky in the air, like he’s a surfer dude instead of a denizen of a town where the largest body of water is the drainage ditch behind the SuperFresh. “Now,” he claps his hands together gleefully, “are we ready to take these dudes down?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Mike says.

  “What’s with the facial hair?” Omar says, still staring at Cam. “Is that real?” He pokes at Cam’s face curiously and Cam slaps away his finger.

  “No touching the lip wig,” Cam says.

  Omar mouths Lip wig? at Mike, but Mike has no clue. It’s not worth it, trying to figure Cam out—part of Cam’s special brand of charm is the screwed-up mystery meat that masquerades as his brain. Besides, they’re wasting valuable daylight.

  The afternoon is overcast, and since it’s the end of October, it’s getting pretty dark early anyway. There are no lights over the community center diamond, so by the time they’re starting their ninth inning, Mike can barely see the ball. He’s in the outfield when Weedy Jim swings blindly and gets off a lucky hit, a homer that sails over Mike’s head. Then the heavens open up.