Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  “He still stutters around Dotty,” Deanna says, “and they’ve been officially dating for three weeks.”

  Mike wouldn’t exactly call what Meckles and Dotty are doing dating. It’s more like Dotty is stalking Meckles—showing up at the same places, hanging out with Deanna, leaving him notes in class, calling him constantly—and Meckles has decided to be more or less okay with that. The stuttering and blushing, well. Mike doubts Meckles will ever get over that.

  Mike has been Meckles’ friend since the second grade, since the twins joined Boy Scouts. They let Deanna join unofficially, since they used to be codependent freaks who dressed alike and always held hands. Mike had legitimately thought they were aliens, at first. So even if Meckles has a real crush on him, which he doesn’t, they’ve been over the awkward, shy, my-sister-talks-for-me crap since they bonded over derby cars and Yu-Gi-Oh!

  “It’s not the same thing,” Mike says.

  “No, it’s not. He’ll figure that out eventually,” she says.

  “Right,” Mike says. He’s kind of sick of exercising all this patience that he doesn’t actually have.

  Deanna squeezes his arm. “It sucks, Mike, but it’ll be okay. Now, c’mon. I can’t feel my nose, and Mom’s gonna break out the pies soon. She made shoofly just for you.”

  * * *

  It takes a big effort, but Mike tries to ignore the fact that Wallace is there, grin plastic and fake, that Leoni looks like he wants to kick the shit out of him, and that Meckles is laughing too loudly across the room. Omar has been avoiding looking him in the eyes, like maybe gay rays are going to leap out of them and wrestle him to the floor. He’s equal parts hurt and angry—the anger has been building, because Mike honestly doesn’t think he deserves this.

  Eventually, Mike mostly shakes it off. They play party games, because it’s tradition. Mo and Mike kick everyone’s asses at charades, Jason pins a tail on Lenny’s boobs, and Mike sits Twister out, because he doesn’t want to deal with touching limbs—or avoiding touching limbs—for the homophobes in the room. Instead, he sits with Dotty and Weedy Jim and Jules Fitzsimmons. Jules looks at him sourly—but she always looks like that, so it might not have anything to do with her judgment of the so-called evils of homosexuality. Whatever.

  After the game falls apart—Cam humps Mo into a pile of giggles and declares himself the winner—Mike gets up to search for more pie and some Baileys for his hot chocolate. He hooks a candy cane into his mouth like a pipe and skirts the room, and he’s so busy trying to be invisible that he doesn’t notice the traffic jam around the kitchen doorway. He accidentally bumps Wallace with his elbow, and Wallace spins around. Now, Mike is faced with his reindeer sweater, red nose blinking on and off.

  “Uh,” Mike says. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, and he feels like he should maybe comment on the sweetness of Wallace’s sweater, but he can’t get his brain to work. They’re way too close. Mike hasn’t been this close to him since Wallace had his hand down his pants. That sort of makes a difference.

  And then Lenny shouts, “Mistletoe!” at them, because she’s an asshole.

  Apparently they’re standing under it, although Mike doubts it’s actual mistletoe. It looks sort of like wilted lettuce. That isn’t the problem, though. The problem is that Wallace’s face is so red he’s steadily turning purple, and Mike is going to kill Lenny.

  “Sorry,” Mike says, voice low. He grits his teeth and moves around Wallace and into the kitchen, even though he isn’t really hungry anymore.

  * * *

  Birthmas parties start early, with a delicious holiday dinner, and end late, with the sunrise. By dawn, every single surface area of Meckles’ den is covered in bodies and pillows and blankets, and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is playing for the third time on the big-screen TV. There are maybe only four people still awake enough to watch it. As Mike leverages up from his spot by the couch and winds his way out of the room, he sees Cam’s slit eyes gleam in the TV glow.

  Mike slips outside the back door with an afghan and walks off the patio, down through Mom Meckles’ dormant garden and out onto the frozen lawn. He settles down on the snow, back to the house, and watches the inky blue-black sky lighten to gray. The stars fade and the moon softens to a white stamp over the trees. On the other side of the house, he knows, the pink-and-orange streaks from the rising sun are probably just cresting slanted roofs. Back here, Mike’s only getting the aftershocks.

  In the end, the thing that Mike hates, that really gets him, is that it feels like everybody thinks they know who Mike should be.

  Not just Omar and Meckles, but Lisa and J. J. and goddamn Lenny. And even Wallace. Mike doesn’t know who he is, so why the hell does everyone else have to shove it down his throat?

  He knows he’s not really being fair. He feels bad for making it hard for everyone. He wishes he didn’t have to. He knows that what’s happened is more his own fault than anybody else’s, but it doesn’t really help, knowing that. He’s letting it fester. He’s letting Meckles’ weird looks and Omar’s silence and Wallace’s hurt and anger get to him, and Cam’s words of wisdom lose some of their appeal when Mike feels so fucking alone. And yet—

  Mike isn’t really alone. Not now, at least.

  He hears a measured crunch of plodding footsteps through snow. A shadow falls across him and he feels someone sit down, settling into the cold beside him. He glances over and something jumps up high in his throat at the sight of Omar.

  Omar just stares off across the long expanse of Meckles’ backyard. He pushes his hoodie off his head and scratches his scalp, and Mike watches the thin, steady line of his mouth.

  Finally, Omar says gruffly, “Sorry I’m being weird.”

  Mike’s mouth is dry. His “It’s okay” comes out raspy and hoarse. It’s not actually okay, but he’s fully aware that it has to be.

  Omar snorts.

  “What, you think I’m not being weird about this?” Mike says.

  Omar turns and gives him a long look. “No. I know you are.”

  Mike bobs his head, then looks off into the distance again. The sky is blue-gray, lighter than it was five minutes ago, but still not light enough. Tufts of grass are starting to poke through the layer of snow—it’s lasted too long already, anyhow, with cold air and overcast skies.

  His jeans are soaked through and his ass is frozen and he doesn’t feel like moving yet. Omar doesn’t look like he wants to, either.

  He feels like he has so much to say to Omar after over two weeks of silence, but he can’t think of a single thing. “My mom was pretty cool about it. Everything,” Mike says, for lack of anything else. He’s grateful, fuck is he grateful, but he keeps waiting to stumble on her hiding somewhere, quietly sobbing about her big gay son, and how now she’ll never have little Mikes to coddle. On the other hand, though, it’s not like his mom had gone the conventional route with starting a family herself.

  “Mike, nothing much fazes your mom,” Omar says.

  It’s true. Mike’s mom is unshakable. He thinks it’s Cam’s fault for desensitizing her to catastrophic events, like getting arrested, accidentally setting things on fire, and self-inflicting deep tissue wounds.

  Omar shrugs with one shoulder and says, “She loves you.”

  “Yeah, well. I thought you loved me, too, asshole.” His cheeks heat, because he’s totally fishing here. He’s not ashamed to admit that. There’s still a big ball of hurt sitting like a stone in his stomach, and he really wants Omar to make it go away. He doesn’t think that’s asking for too much.

  “I know.” Omar sighs. He rubs his palms over his eyes, pressing them into the sockets, curling his fingers up over his temples, the dark, rough stubble from his hair growing back in. Mike watches his thumb sweep over the dip of smooth skin in front of his ear, back and forth, methodical. “I’m trying really hard to understand this.”

  Mike nods, even though Omar isn’t looking. Mike’s trying really hard to understand this, too. He says, “It’s not—you get
this doesn’t affect you, right?”

  Omar doesn’t say anything.

  Mike pushes a little. He says, “You’re not going to catch gay cooties or something. This is about me, and how much I—”

  “If you say ‘like cock,’ I’m going to punch you in the head,” Omar says. There’s a tightness around his eyes when he looks at him, but the words still make Mike grin a very small grin—they’re so normal.

  “Okay,” Mike says. Okay. Things aren’t perfect, they’re not the same, but maybe they’re just a little better.

  nineteen.

  “You have to fix things with Rook,” Lisa says after they’re sitting in a booth at Carmine’s with a couple slices of pizza each.

  Mike says, “Why?” even though he knows why. He maybe doesn’t have the same reasons as Lisa, who thinks they’re adorable together and that a sad Wallace is just awful, but he misses Wallace a lot more than he thought he ever would.

  Wallace has always been something to him. Enemy or friend or more. There’s a Wallace-shaped hole in his life, and in some ways it’s worse than the estrangement with Omar, because at least Omar was still there. Quiet and subdued, but there. Mike feels a little guilty thinking like that—that maybe it means Wallace is more to him than Omar—except that’s a fucking joke, because they’re both important to Mike in different ways. Maybe, now that Omar is starting to make an effort with him, that just makes the hole Wallace has left seem even more pronounced.

  Christ, Mike is totally fucking whipped. By everyone.

  Lisa gives him a duh look and ignores him. She says, “This is what you do: you apologize.”

  Mike thinks it can’t be that easy. Plus, Mike obviously has some major issues. Why would Wallace want to deal with all of that? “Apologize,” he echoes dully.

  “Say you’re sorry. Simple and effective.”

  Mike looks down at his pizza. He’s not really all that hungry anymore. He wasn’t all that hungry to begin with, actually, but Lisa had shown up at his house and tricked him into taking her out to dinner. “This isn’t like I was a dick to him only once,” Mike says. He recognizes that he’s pretty much always treated Wallace like garbage. Not that he hasn’t had his reasons, but still.

  “And yet,” Lisa says, “he still asked you out.” She nudges him with her feet under the table. “Do it.”

  “Lisa.”

  “Do it. Do it, do it, dooooo it,” Lisa says, grinning, because she knows she’s won, the harpy.

  “Do what?” Cam says, sliding onto the bench next to Mike. He takes Mike’s uneaten slice, rolls it up and takes a huge bite. It’s like Cam has some sixth sense for when people are having private conversations and pizza.

  “Tell Rook he’s sorry for breaking his heart,” Lisa says.

  “I didn’t break his heart,” Mike says.

  “I don’t know, dude, he seems pretty fucking tragic,” Cam says. “You should tell your hot boyfriend you’re sorry.”

  Mike splutters like a cartoon character, because this is his life. “He’s not my—would you stop calling him hot?”

  “Jealous?” Cam grins.

  Mike palms his face and groans. “I fucking hate you guys.”

  Cam pats his back. “Don’t worry, Mike, he’s totally not my type.”

  * * *

  Rosie stares at him across the kitchen table. It’s a Sunday, so she has a hot dog and mashed potatoes and a pile of peas that she may or may not eat, depending on Sandwich’s mood.

  Mike has a Pop-Tart.

  Their mom is at a meeting, the last one, she swears, before the new year. She’ll be all theirs for the holidays. Mom’s always great with Christmas, though. She and Rosie decorated the whole house while he was at Cam’s birthmas party, they have a huge tree in the den, and they got out the matching Tate elf hats that Mom makes them wear every Christmas morning. Rosie has hers on already, red-and-green striped with bells on the tip.

  Mike’s not feeling very festive, though.

  Rosie tips her head to one side, then the other, jangling the bells.

  Finally, Mike says, “What?”

  Rosie frowns. She says, “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  Mike seriously hates his nana. “No one,” he says.

  “Sure?” she asks.

  Mike shrugs and stares down at his half-eaten brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart. He wants to tell her that it’s complicated, but she’s six, and complications are pretty much lost on her.

  “Sandwich says you’re sad,” she says. She shifts up onto her knees and leans her elbows on the table, narrowly missing her mashies. “Are you sad ’cause you don’t have a boyfriend?”

  “Uh.” Yes and no. Her earnest face kind of makes him want to laugh.

  “You should find one then,” she says decisively. “Nana’s always right.”

  “She told you to say that,” Mike says, and he can’t believe his grandmother is meddling in his love life by way of his little sister. That’s just wrong. Christ, she probably put her up to this entire conversation.

  Rosie just pushes her plate away and says, “Okay, I’m done.”

  “You barely ate a fourth of your hot dog,” Mike says, but he drops what’s left of his Pop-Tart onto her plate and gets to his feet.

  “I saved room for ice cream,” she says.

  “Good thinking,” he says, and then she shouts, “Ice cream and Rudolph!” and Mike finds himself spending the rest of the night sprawled on the couch with Rosie tucked into his side, marathoning claymation Christmas movies.

  She falls asleep before Mom gets home. Usually, Mike will poke her awake and follow her zombie walk up the stairs, making sure she brushes her teeth before falling into bed. This time, he just hefts her up—she’s getting heavy—and tucks her under her bedcovers and turns on the night-slash-hermit-crab-cage light and softly ruffles her hair.

  She reaches up sleepily and wraps small fingers over his wrist. “You should be happy,” she says, and fuck, she’s right—Mike should be. He’s got an awesome little sister, a cool mom, good friends, mostly, even the ones currently being weird, and he’s got a guy who likes him, who deserves an apology. His life is pretty fucking charmed, actually. Maybe he’s just being a cranky asshole brat.

  “Thanks, Rosalinda,” he says softly. “Sleep tight.”

  * * *

  Mike thinks it would be a bad idea to approach Wallace at school—public humiliation is the last thing he needs—so he reluctantly trudges down the street to Wallace’s house Monday afternoon.

  Serge opens the door when he knocks.

  Serge is scowling at him, which isn’t all that unusual, except for once his eyes look just as unfriendly as his mouth. Great. Another friend who hates him. He should have counted on that happening.

  “Hey,” Mike says, rocking back on his heels. “Is your brother home?”

  Serge slams the door in his face.

  Mike grimaces, bows his head and scuffs his sneakers on their welcome mat. He’s contemplating knocking again when the door creaks and two booted feet step out onto the front stoop. Mike’s gaze travels up Wallace’s legs, takes in the wide, defensive stance. Wallace’s face would be expressionless, except there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a happy twitch. A downward-curving twitch that makes Mike want to look away.

  He doesn’t, though. He stands his ground and says, “Wallace. Rook. I just wanted—”

  “Now you call me Rook?” Wallace says, incredulous.

  Mike feels like he’s been sucker punched by Leoni again, but he’s not sure why. “Sorry. I don’t have to. I mean, I won’t.” He glances over Wallace’s shoulder and back again. “I’m fucking this up.”

  “You’ve already fucked this up, Tate,” Wallace says, voice hard.

  Mike bobs his head. “I know. Fuck, I know. It’s just—I’m sorry.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Not for your name, Wallace,” Mike says. “I’m sorry about everything. This is just really hard for me. This guy thing.” It’s n
ew and scary, he wants to say. He wants to shake Wallace until he gets that. Until he sees how fucking difficult it is.

  “What, you think I’m just okay with this?” Wallace says, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Yes,” Mike says, waving a hand around. He’s not screeching or anything, and Wallace has no business wincing like that.

  Wallace shoves a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, Mike. I’m—I’m terrified. And you just—everybody—you act like you’re just shrugging on a new coat.”

  “What?”

  “Like, like it’s maybe tight on you, but if you wiggle a little it’ll stretch to fit.”

  “What?” Mike’s lost, are they having the same conversation?

  “You! You’re owning this,” Wallace nearly shouts. “I haven’t even told my dad yet.”

  Mike stares at Wallace. “What?” he says, one more time, for posterity, and then he starts laughing. Huge, almost forceful laughs, from deep down in his belly, the kind that make his stomach and throat hurt, the kind that make his eyes tear and his nose run. He vaguely takes in the way Wallace shifts on his feet, scowling, arms crossed over his chest.

  “It’s not funny,” Wallace snaps, which just means it’s hysterical.

  And sad. So, so sad.

  Finally, Mike catches his breath and Wallace’s arms, fingers hooking into his elbows. He says, “You kissed me. Twice. In public. We had sex in your car. In a packed parking lot, Wallace, are you kidding me?”

  Wallace’s arms slip down to hang at his sides, shifting Mike’s grip to his forearms. “That wasn’t—”

  “That was you owning the fuck out of this,” Mike says, shaking him a little. He doesn’t know exactly why he finds it so funny, because it is serious. Serious fucking business; this out and proud shit takes balls Mike still doesn’t think he’s grown yet. Cam would just tell him to nut up, but Cam can kiss his tight, homosexual ass. Cam doesn’t have to worry about anything except whether Girl Meckles will forgive him for whatever stunt he’s trying to pull that week.