Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

“My friends know,” Mike says. “My mom found my porn, and my nana decided to make a Thanksgiving celebration out of it. One of my best friends isn’t really talking to me right now, and another one probably thinks I’m going to Hell. I’m not in control of this, Wallace. You don’t get to have a monopoly on being scared here.”

  But neither, Mike realizes, does he. It’s kind of really freeing, that thought.

  Wallace nods a little. Mike watches the slow slide of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the way tension sort of seeps out of the line of his shoulders, even though the skin around his eyes still looks thin and tight. “So what do we do, then?”

  Mike shrugs, drops his hands. “Beats the fuck out of me. I don’t think we have to do anything.”

  “Right,” Wallace says. He looks at Mike, and whatever he sees there—Mike isn’t sure what he’s projecting, but when Wallace reaches out to rub a hand over Mike’s jaw, up over the still sore spot where Leoni had nearly cracked his face in two, Mike finds himself smiling at the warm press of his fingers.

  “You owe me a date, though,” Mike says. He’s not sure that’s true. It’s actually more like Mike owes Wallace a date, but it doesn’t matter.

  Wallace grins a very small grin back.

  twenty.

  The last week before Christmas break is weird. It’s weird primarily because of Meckles and Wallace. Not even Wallace, actually. Wallace, with his awkwardness and oddly shy smiles, is a very small, minuscule part of the weirdness that is the week before Christmas. Meckles makes sure of this.

  Omar has been picking him up for school again, which is great, since he’d probably freeze his balls off trying to bike it. Conversation is a little stilted, but Mike appreciates the effort.

  On Wednesday, Meckles gets bookended by Cam and Jason at the lunch table. Cam’s eating everyone’s pudding, and Jay is studiously cutting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a knife and fork. They’re both abnormally close to Meckles, like they’re pinning him in, and Meckles is staring at Mike directly across the suspiciously sticky length of faux wood.

  Staring at him with purpose. It’s Meckles’ I’m-listening-to-Temple-of-the-Dog look, half awe and half like he wants to tongue-kiss Eddie Vedder. Which is so appropriate; Meckles really does have a stupid crush on him. Meckles’ cheeks are flushed and his fingers are white-knuckled around his Coke can.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Mike says. It’s not that he didn’t believe Deanna, it’s just that he didn’t actually fucking believe her.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Meckles says quickly. “It’s not—I’m not calling it a man-crush, okay.”

  Mike grins at him and says, “I am never ever letting you live this down, you realize that, right?”

  Meckles mutters, “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” and shoves half his sandwich in his mouth.

  Cam snickers.

  “What’s going on?” Omar says, sitting down next to Mike.

  “Nothing,” Meckles says, digging an elbow into Cam’s side.

  An elbow jab never stopped Cam from doing anything ever, though. Mike kicks him really hard in the shin.

  Cam yelps and jerks back in his chair. The chair fails to jerk back with him, though, and it tips over backward. His feet catch the edge of the table as he topples, spilling Jason’s juice box and Meckles’ can of soda, and Omar surveys them all with a deep frown.

  “Nothing,” Omar says, skeptical.

  “Yep, nothing at all,” Mike says, nodding at him, doing his best to radiate peace and calm and innocence, because there is no way he’s going to bring up to Omar the fact that Meckles has a giant man-crush on Mike. He doubts it works—Omar has always been able to see what Mike’s face is trying hard not to say—but Omar just smiles at him, shaking his head. At some point, probably when Omar accidentally catches Mike sucking face with some dude, everyone is going to freak out all over again, but Mike’s content, for right then, to just let it lie.

  * * *

  Mike is not scared of Serge. It’s really stupid to be scared of Serge, right, but there’s just something about him that’s currently creeping Mike out.

  “Dude, there’s something wrong with Wallace’s brother,” Cam says, hunching his shoulders as a gust of wind whips around the abandoned Sears.

  Mike says, “He’s trying to intimidate me.” That fucker. It’s totally not working, either. Serge can glare at him as much as he wants; he still just looks like an angry fluff-ball kitten in oversized pants and a beanie. A really, really angry fluff-ball kitten. Mike has to fight the urge to cover his junk—he happens to know that Serge is lethal with his Doc Martens.

  “It’s totally working,” Cam says.

  “Fuck you,” Mike says, but there isn’t any heat to his words.

  It’s freezing at the Lot, and Mike’s not sure what they’re doing there, anyway. Deanna’s sprawled on a mound of plowed snow, Omar is sitting on the roof of his van, knees pulled up to his chin, Serge is standing with Meckles and Jay only a little ways away from Mike and Cam.

  Otherwise, the Lot’s practically empty. There’s only the faint sound of skateboarders from down by the Payless.

  Cam knocks their shoulders together. “I bet it’s because you’ve been dicking around with his brother.” Cam snickers, and Mike kind of wants to punch his face in.

  Instead, he just shoves his fists into his armpits and shivers. It’s cold.

  “He’s probably going to give you the ‘break my brother’s heart and I’ll rip out your lungs’ speech,” Cam says, grinning wider. “I will fucking pay to see that. I’ll give you my firstborn if you let me video it and put it up on YouTube. That kid’s like a miniature pony with an attitude; you just want to pet him and put bows in his mane while he tries to snap your fingers like carrots.”

  Mike huffs a laugh. “What the fuck, Cam?”

  The thing is, though, that Mike hasn’t talked to Serge since Serge slammed the door in his face. Mike and Wallace might have made up, but Serge is, like, a sensitive soul, and as unforgiving as a mule. Mike has seen his Revenge List of people who’ve wronged him; it goes all the way back to kindergarten.

  “Christ,” Mike mutters under his breath. He does not want to do this.

  He’s got an obligation, though. Serge is his friend, he’s all their friend. He’s been officially brought into the fold, he can tell by the affectionate look in Deanna’s eyes. Serge is also Wallace’s little brother, so he can either get over whatever the fuck is bothering him or punch Mike in the gut and move on. Mike should probably give him the opportunity to do both.

  Cam pushes him in the back with his elbow, making Mike stumble, and Mike says, “Fuck this,” and stalks over to where Meckles seems to be teaching Jason how to beatbox.

  Serge cocks his head at him, expression petulant.

  Mike rolls his eyes. He jerks his head to the side and says, “Come on.”

  “What?” Serge sneers, but follows him over toward the sidewalk.

  “You have some sort of problem with me now?” Mike says when they’re out of earshot of everyone else. He crosses his arms over his chest.

  “No,” Serge says, scowling.

  “Bullshit.” Mike narrows his eyes, staring at him, until Serge breaks and huffs a breath and sort of throws his arms up in the air like a hilarious Muppet.

  “I’m just, like—” Serge glares at Mike, then down at his shoes. “Are we still gonna hang out?”

  Mike blinks. Not at all what he was expecting. “What?”

  “You, um—you used me for my brother, so—”

  “Wait, what? Why would I—?” Mike pinches the bridge of his nose. He kind of wants to laugh, but it’s probably a bad time. “Dude, we’re friends. That has nothing to do with your brother.”

  Serge gives him a skeptical look.

  “No, for real, pissing Wallace off for a while there was fun, but that’s not why”—he can’t believe he has to do this—“I like you.” This is so humiliating. “You’re, uh, cool, you know, I like ha
nging out with you, the guys like hanging out with you.” Mike shrugs. He likes watching cartoons with him and Teeny and Rosie; he likes arguing with him about ice cream flavors and Bruce Willis movies—but not music, because Serge stubbornly refuses to admit he’s wrong about everything, which makes Mike’s head hurt. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  Serge nods his head slowly, like he’s still not entirely sure. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Serge says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Fine.”

  Mike slaps his shoulder. “Good. Now stop being a pussy and go dare Cam to stick an icicle up his nose.” Cam will do it, too. There’ll probably be a walrus impression involved, it’ll be great.

  Serge makes a face.

  “No, seriously, just make sure he doesn’t accidentally stab his brain.”

  * * *

  Mike is feeling pretty good about Friday. In fact, he’s feeling so fantastic about Friday, he shows up with a smile on his face and everything, because it’s the last school day before break, and only two days before Christmas.

  This good mood, predictably, only lasts until just before homeroom. Wallace corners him at his locker with a sheepish look and an envelope.

  “What’s this?” Mike asks when Wallace shoves the envelope into his hands.

  Wallace scratches his forearm and shrugs. “It’s, uh—”

  Mike flips open the flap and peeks inside. It’s the tickets to see Evan Dando. He looks up at Wallace again, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What?”

  “You should take Cam,” Wallace says.

  “I should,” Mike says dumbly. Right. Of course.

  Wallace smiles at him, though. “You’d probably have more fun with Cam,” he says reasonably.

  “Right,” Mike says. He’d crush the envelope in his palm except it’s Evan Dando tickets, he’ll probably want to frame the stubs once he’s done having his heart ground underneath the sole of Wallace’s size-eleven shoes. And then he mentally shakes himself and stops being so stupid, because Wallace is right—he probably would have more fun with Cam.

  Cam knows all the words to the songs, and he won’t care if maybe Mike tears up a little bit during “The Great Big No,” and he’d definitely hang with him outside the venue afterward for as long as it takes Evan Dando to appear.

  But that doesn’t mean—well, Mike isn’t exactly sure what it means, but he still wants to go with Wallace, anyway. Shit.

  Mike nods. He says, “I’m pretty sure I should take you, though,” and watches Wallace’s smile get bigger. Mike doesn’t even know, but it’s kind of infectious.

  “You’re sure?” Wallace says. He ducks his head, and the tops of his cheeks are pink, because he’s obviously a giant girl.

  “Yeah, Wallace,” Mike says, hooking his thumbs into his jean pockets, pleased, because obviously he’s a giant fucking girl too, “I’m sure.”

  twenty-one.

  Christmas Eve is cold and quiet. By the time the concert lets out, the street is nearly deserted, and the people pouring out of the Theater of the Living Arts are surprisingly hushed. It hasn’t snowed in Philly yet, but the air is frigid. Most of the shops have closed for the holiday, so it seems like it’s just them awake in the usually busy neighborhood.

  It’s not dark, even though it’s after midnight, because Christmas lights are strung up everywhere, and the skies are inky pink above them.

  Mike feels good. He feels even better when Wallace hooks his arm through his and tugs him down the sidewalk, steering them toward the car and the river. The crowd follows, mellow and subdued. Or maybe they’re following the crowd. Either way, it’s nice.

  Calling his grandmother had been completely embarrassing, but ultimately worth it, he thinks. She’d been smug—he could hear it through the phone—and then she’d said, “Let’s talk about condoms,” and Mike had totally been expecting that, of course, even though he’d already had the safe sex talk with his mom, thanks, and didn’t need one from his nana, too. When he’d told her that, she’d said, “I’m sure,” and, “I hope she reminded you to use one during fellatio as well, Michael,” and Mike had seriously considered giving up all possibility of blow jobs ever, Jesus Christ, but then he realized that’s crazy talk.

  Anyway, this night has been worth all that, he’s pretty sure.

  Wallace says, “Enjoy it?”

  “Fuck, yeah!” Evan Dando is a rock god. Everyone who doesn’t think so can go fuck themselves. The concert had been freaking magical; Mike’s sure he’d had stars in his eyes through the entire set, and Wallace only teased him a little for shouting all the words to “Confetti” along with the rest of the audience.

  Wallace laughs, then tugs Mike closer and wraps his arm around his back. Their hips bump together when they walk, and Mike doesn’t mind. This having a hot boyfriend thing is pretty fucking sweet, actually; Cam was right.

  He is never telling Cam that ever. It’s bad enough that he’s successfully brought the fanny pack back.

  Someone pushes past them, knocking into Mike’s shoulder, and Wallace tenses all along his side, because this whole out and proud in public thing is still weird, Mike can admit that.

  The guy just arches an eyebrow at them, says, “Sorry, man,” and tugs his girlfriend along by way of their clasped hands. It’s the wonder of Evan Dando and his acoustic guitar, Mike thinks. All is right with the world.

  Wallace relaxes against him. He drops his arm but twines their fingers together, and Mike totally doesn’t care that they’re now holding hands in public—something he swore he’d never do, with anyone—because Mike’s fingers are cold, and fuck everyone, anyway.

  He hums “It’s a Shame About Ray,” idly watching his breath smoke and disappear, and Wallace suddenly tightens his grip, twisting his other hand in Mike’s coat to swing him into a quick kiss, his lips softly grinning.

  Mike blinks up at him.

  “What was that for?” he asks, because people are still spilling around them, murmuring, talking, laughing. Mike can feel eyes on them, curious.

  Wallace shrugs, still grinning. “No reason.”

  There are no visible stars. There’s smog and glittering lights from Camden’s waterfront and the briny scent of the river, and Wallace is acting like they’re the only people in the world. It’s not true, not even for their current tiny corner of it, paused across the street from the parking lot, but for the moment, Mike doesn’t really care. He doesn’t think Wallace does, either.

  “Okay, then,” Mike says. He tugs on a curl of Wallace’s hair that’s fallen over his forehead. “Cool.”

  acknowledgments.

  I want to give special thanks to my husband, Jesse, who serves as a deep well of cautionary high school tales, and has always given me endless and enthusiastic support in whatever I’ve chosen to do. And to Kerry Shallis, who would be the Cam to my Mike, if either of us were ever anything like Cam and Mike.

  I’m also forever grateful to the amazingly talented Melissa Barr for putting up with all my writing panics and anxieties, for doling out the best advice, for being limitless in her encouragement, and for being my sounding board and brain-storming partner—you’re such a good writer, and you’ve always helped me try to be one, too.

  And, finally, enormous thanks to my wonderful editor Connie Hsu, and everyone else at Roaring Brook Press who loved this story enough to help me spit-shine and polish it and present it to the world.

  about the author

  S. J. Goslee graduated from West Chester University with a BA in Literature and a minor in creative writing. She’s been writing fan fiction in multiple fandoms for over a decade, amounting to over 140 stories and a million words. Whatever. is her debut novel. She lives in Glenolden, PA with her husband, two young sons, three cats and two dogs (one giant, one tiny). You can sign up for email updates here.

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  contents

  Title Page 1

  Title Page 2

  Copyright Notice

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  Eleven.

  Twelve.

  Thirteen.

  Fourteen.

  Fifteen.

  Sixteen.

  Seventeen.

  Eighteen.

  Nineteen.

  Twenty.

  Twenty-one.

  Acknowledgments.

  About the Author

  Copyright and Dedication

  for my boys, sullivan and flynn

  Text copyright © 2016 by S. J. Goslee

  Published by Roaring Brook Press

  Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck

  Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership

  175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  fiercereads.com

  All rights reserved

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Goslee, S. J., author.

  Title: Whatever: a novel / by S.J. Goslee.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Roaring Brook Press, 2016. | Summary: Junior year is going to be the best ever for slacker Mike until he loses his girlfriend, gets roped into school activities, and becomes totally confused about his sexual orientation after sharing a drunken kiss with a guy.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015023376 | ISBN 9781626723993 (hardback) | ISBN 9781626724006 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | Coming out (Sexual orientation)—Fiction. | Gays—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Love & Romance. | JUVENILE NONFICTION / Boys & Men. | JUVENILE FICTION / Humorous Stories.