by T. J. Klune
Trust me, I know a thing or two about drowning.
“I didn’t know who to trust at the time,” I finally say to the others, my voice low but steady. “I’m not going to try and convince you that I handled everything as I should have, because I didn’t. I know that. But we’re here now. We’ve made it this far. And we did it on our own, and we’re in a place that we don’t need your help. Not that it’s not appreciated,” I tack on hastily.
Otter squeezes my hand again, just to let me know he’s there, before he says, “And Bear is working full time at the grocery store, though I’ve got enough money saved that he’ll be able to go down to part time once he goes back to school.”
Oh shit! I totally forgot to tell you. Yeah, apparently I’m starting school again at the community college this fall. And apparently this isn’t up for debate. You should have seen the look on my face when Otter told me this. Oh, and the Kid was in on the whole ambush, as well, agreeing with everything Otter said, every perfectly valid point he made, that we were financially secure, which allowed me to lessen my hours at work (oh, and let me tell you the joy I felt in that, knowing that Otter had already put my name on his banking accounts—he takes this “partner” crap way too literally; that didn’t stop me from opening the first statement that came in the mail, which caused me to go into apoplectic shock by just how big the number was—San Diego had been kind to Otter, at least financially). If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few weeks, aside from the fact that I should never be allowed to think on my own, it’s that trying to win an argument against Otter and the Kid when they’re united is an impossible task. It’s easier for me just to say “yes.”
Otter was right. Christ, I’m turning into such a softie in my old age.
So yeah, I’m going back to school at the age of twenty-one. I figure I’ll start with a few classes just to get back into the swing of things. I don’t know what I want to be anymore, although Otter wants me to continue with the whole writing thing. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll become a dentist. Or a bug scientist (whatever they’re called). I’m super excited about homework. That’s a lie. But Otter knows me too well and told me he’s going to sit next to me while I register online, just to make sure I do it. Knowing me, I would probably chicken out, tell him I did do it, and then pretend to go to class and really sit in a Denny’s until a couple of hours had passed. Of course, that train of thought blew up in my mind, and I had gotten to the point where I realized I would eventually have to plan a fake graduation, and I wondered if I knew enough people to make a fake graduation look realistic when I realized that sounded like way too much work and that it would be easier just to really go to school.
Needless to say, Otter won that round.
“I figure the Kid can help me with my homework too,” I joke with the faculty. But it appears their sense of humor has died working in the public school system, and they don’t find it funny. I think I’m hilarious, so their loss.
“And how will the custody hearings interfere with all of this?” Principal Franklin asks. “The only reason I mention it is because I know that moving a child up a grade can create additional stresses on a person, even one as… intuitive as Tyson.”
“I won’t get stressed—” the Kid starts, sounding offended. I shake my head at him, and he stops, but not before he shoots a dirty look at me.
“I’ve thought about that,” I admit. “I wondered if he was going to be able to handle it. But I think he’s a lot stronger than you’re giving him credit for. I know he’s stronger than I gave him credit for. And as for the custody issues, we are taking it as it comes. The attorney has laid out what the potential issues could be, and we’ve decided that, regardless, it needs to be done.”
“And will Tyson have to undergo counseling?” Leslie asks. “Oregon custody laws usually dictate that a psychologist or counselor will have to give their opinion to the courts on the well-being of the child, in addition to any visits by a social worker through Child Protective Services.”
Uh-oh.
“I have to go to therapy?” the Kid asks me, his voice so incredulous you would think we’re suggesting he bathe in raw hamburger. “I’m not crazy, Bear! You know how I feel about those quacks!”
“You’ve made it clear, Kid,” I tell him, trying to keep myself from leaping over the desk and throttling the superintendent until the light fades from her eyes. “Many, many times. But this is something that is nonnegotiable. We’ll discuss it when we get home, okay?” I hear him grumble his response, which sounds suspiciously like “You bet your ass we will,” but I let it go and turn back to the stupid woman who let the therapeutic cat out of the bag. “Yes, he will undergo an evaluation, and yes, we will have a social worker assigned to us. And I’ve been told this process can take some time. But I’ve got faith in him. He would tell me if he thought he couldn’t do it. He says he can.” I shrug. “That’s good enough for me.”
Leslie nods at me and glances over at the principal and David Trent before turning back to me. “Well, this was never about whether or not Tyson would be moved up, because academically, I believe he is ready. His maturity also suggests he could handle the transition. And while I admit to being worried about the stresses on his life with all that is going on, the decision on whether or not to move him up was with you, Derrick, and your mother.” She blushes slightly, as if mentioning my mom is a faux pas she should have avoided. “And now we know that it is just up to you, well, again this is about what’s best for Tyson, and if you put your support into it, then I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t move up.” She looked down at the Kid. “And, Tyson, I expect you to let us know if there are any issues that need to be brought to our attention.”
Tyson looked at her suspiciously. “You mean you want me to tell you if Mr. Trent is a bad teacher?”
Oh, Jesus.
Leslie Parker coughs politely while the principal turns red and David Trent stares, dumbfounded. “No,” Leslie says. “That’s not quite what I meant. I mean if the workload begins to be too much for you, I expect you to speak up and let someone know.”
“I think division and fractions and I will be just fine,” he says, sneaking a quick glance at me. “But I will let Bear and Otter know if something goes wrong. Or you guys. Or maybe I’ll just cry to my therapist about it and he can put me on Ritalin and I’ll become a mindless drone, incapable of feeling anything.”
Great. No way is he letting that go. Fantastic.
“Kid,” I warn again. “Now’s not the time for your views on psychotherapy.” And trust me when I say he has views on it. How could he not? He has views on everything.
His face goes slack as he turns to me jerkily, saying in a flat monotone, “Does not compute. Does not compute. I don’t have feelings thanks to artificial chemicals coursing through my veins. What… is this human… emotion… called love?”
Ladies and gentleman, Tyson McKenna.
But it appears I’m the only one glaring. The others seem to be amused, even Principal Franklin. While I had no doubt that the Kid would win them over, I would rather it not have been done at my expense. But, really? Whatever works.
David takes us down to his classroom and shows the Kid around, and I can tell there’s a moment when they randomly begin discussing the Civil War and Pop-Tarts that Tyson begins to get excited. I smile at them sadly, knowing that this is just another step for the Kid on his quest for world domination. And another step away from me.
Blah, blah, blah.
The Kid is looking through some of the textbooks he’ll be using for the year when Otter’s phone rings. He glances down at the display and a weird look crosses his face. “I better get this,” he says.
“It’s not Jonah, is it?” I ask, my voice hard. Jonah would be the only one I could think of that would explain why Otter suddenly looks tense. We haven’t heard from him since I tried to break his face off the night of Creed’s end of summer party. He’d run back to San Diego, for all I knew. Talking about Jonah is
not a good thing for me.
Otter shakes his head and says, “Hello” into the phone as he walks out of the classroom.
“Who’s Jonah?” David asks, suddenly standing next to me.
“Just this dick I know,” I grumble before I can stop myself. I squint at David. “Why do you care?”
David shrugs. “You looked really pissed off when you said that name, so I just wondered I guess. That was rude of me. I apologize.” He grins, and of course it looks perfect. All those even teeth that look like they get bleached every day and would probably glow as brightly as the sun in a black light.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say.
“You and Otter, huh?”
Oh, how professional. You should be fired! “Yep, me and Otter.”
“Been a long time?”
“Why?” I glare at him.
“Just wondering.”
“Long enough.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Yes. It is.” I don’t want to talk to Mr. Perfect anymore.
But apparently he wants to talk to me. “Look, Derrick, I’m not trying to hone in on anything here. Just trying to figure out how things are, is all.”
I think he’s telling the truth, but he could be a pathological liar. And a sociopath. He looks like the type. He probably has dead bodies stacked four deep in his closet. “You want to know how things are?” I ask him quietly. He nods.
I turn to face him full on, and he’s about as tall as Otter, though not as big around. I’m not kidding myself into thinking I can intimidate anyone, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. “Otter’s mine,” I tell him softly. “He’s mine, and he’s not going anywhere. So you can stop thinking whatever you’re thinking about him, because it ain’t gonna happen. We clear?”
David grins. “Crystal. I like you, Derrick. You’re very funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny,” I growl.
“That’s what’s so funny about it,” he reassures me. “You won’t have any problems from me. Otter’s wanted you for years.”
“Uh, what?” I knew this, but how the fuck does David know this?
David watches me as he speaks, looking for what, I don’t know. “We dated about five years ago. Nothing too serious, it only went on for seven or eight months. Neither one of us really broke it off; it just sort of ended. But every now and then, he would talk about you, and you could just hear something in his voice, see something in his eyes.” He shrugs. “There was something about him when he talked about you. He never got like that when speaking of anyone else. But you were still in high school and underage, so obviously he wasn’t going to do anything. Well, that, and the fact that you had a girlfriend, from what I remember.” He says this last like he expects a response.
But I don’t want to give him one, because even though I’d known how Otter had felt about me, had heard it from the man himself, it still shocks me to know how other people could have seen it too, that it is a real thing, that it has memory because people have seen it. I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say. How is it that all these people could have seen what was right in front of me and I didn’t know?
Before the silence can get more awkward, Otter walks back into the room, and the lines on his forehead tell me that whatever that phone call was about, it can’t possibly be good. Shit. And here I was thinking that today would be all easy. Between Tyson’s attempt to become poet laureate to Seafare Elementary, and his new teacher who looks like a porn star and who has apparently had sex with my boyfriend (stop thinking about that!), I don’t know how much more I can handle today.
I give Otter a quizzical look, and he shakes his head once, and I know he wants to wait until we get out to the car before he says anything. I call for the Kid, who says good-bye to David and jumps up onto my back and starts babbling about the stuff he’d read in the textbooks and how excited he was and that he was nervous when he started to give his presentation and did I think his poem was good and did I think that everyone else thought his poem was good? I notice Otter and David shaking hands again, David grinning at Otter, but Otter’s distracted and drops his hand and follows us out the door.
It’s not until we’re in the car and driving home that he tells me who was on the phone. And when I hear who it was, my heart stops in my chest, and I think maybe I’m going to puke all over Otter’s Jeep. And when I hear what they want us to do… well, when I hear what they want us to do, I tell Otter to keep on driving until we reach Mexico. He just smiles at me weakly.
Who is it, you ask? Who was on the phone?
Well, it would seem that Creed and Otter’s parents are home from their trip abroad, where they were fighting Pygmies in the Amazon (okay, that’s not what they were really doing, but I still don’t know what they were actually doing). And they were surprised to learn that Otter was back in Seafare. And they would like him to come for dinner this Saturday. And they would like me and Ty to come for dinner. Otter was with us already? Oh, great! That saves them a phone call! Oh, and Creed is flying back for a short weekend to see his parents, even though he just left. And Creed invited Anna! Oh, and wouldn’t you know, Anna had, in turn, invited Mrs. Paquinn! Wasn’t it just so wonderful? It’s like the whole family back together again! We’ll make it a celebration!
Alice and Jerry Thompson do not know about me and Otter. Or me and Anna. Or me and Creed.
This isn’t going to be awkward at all.
3.
Where Bear Attends
the Most Awkward Dinner Ever
“ARE you absolutely sure about this?” I hiss at Otter as we pull into the driveway of his parents’ house. “We could tell them we’re all sick with SARS.”
The Kid snorts from the backseat. “Wow, way to be topical. Bear, the likelihood of any of us coming down with SARS is—”
“Not a good time, Tyson,” I growl at him as I look at the backseat. He rolls his eyes.
Otter shrugs. “How could I not be sure? You did make a Bundt cake, after all,” he says, grinning as he points at the container on my lap.
I’m insulted. “Everyone likes Bundt cake.”
“Kid, do you like Bundt cake?”
“Oh, am I allowed to give my opinion now?” the Kid asks wryly. “Well, then, Otter, of course I don’t like Bundt cake. It has eggs in it. Baby chicken eggs. You don’t see chickens standing outside of maternity wards waiting to get our babies to make their Bundt cake, do you?”
“No,” Otter says thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “No, you sure don’t. That would be weird, though. Can you imagine like a long line of chickens, just getting handed babies one by one? I would pay money to see that.”
I would too, but I’m not giving them the satisfaction of saying so. “Back on track, boys,” I snap at them.
The Kid sighs. “What are you so freaked out about, Bear?” he asks. “I thought you weren’t going to worry about stuff like this anymore.”
Shit, he has a point. Why am I freaking out? It’s not like I’m worried that anyone in that house is going to be able to take these two away from me. The only person who’s capable of something like that is going to be me, and no matter how stupid I can be sometimes, there’s no way in hell that I’m going to let that happen. Why should I care what his parents think?
Maybe it’s because Alice and Jerry were better parental figures than my mother ever was. Maybe it’s because I can’t stand the thought of the disapproval I could see on their faces. They hadn’t taken Otter’s own coming out very well, regardless of how liberal they seem. I remember the ache I heard in Otter’s voice when he’d told me about how he’d finally gotten the courage to tell his parents about himself, how he’d expected there to be questions and possibly tears. What he hadn’t expected was the crushing silence he’d gotten, the looks of disbelief that turned into confusion and anger. Words were said, things that I know still haunt Otter to this day. They’d formed an uneasy truce after a time, but his sexuality has always been an unc
omfortable topic of conversation. I know they love him (how could they not?), but when Otter had described the hurt in their eyes and the despair he’d felt, I could only feel myself grow angry at them, regardless of how hypocritical that was.
And maybe I’m freaked out because they see me as their son too. Imagine having two gay kids. Crap.
It isn’t just about you, though, is it? it chuckles, that damnable voice I don’t think I’ll ever escape. Yes, you’re freaked out, yes, you are worried about what they will think, but can’t you hear yourself? It’s not always about you, Bear, no matter how much you’d like to think it is. For once in your damn life, stop worrying about what others think of you when you should really be wondering just how much Otter needs you right now. You said it yourself: they can’t take the guys away from you. He has so much more to lose than you.
Dammit. I hate it when my crazy is right.
I look over at Otter, who’s watching me with careful eyes, no judgment, just waiting. His fingers are tapping rapidly against his leg, and I know he’s nervous. Shit. I told myself a while ago that I was going to do whatever I could to make this man happy, to make this man know every day just how I felt about him, that the fight for him was all I’ve ever known. It doesn’t matter what happens in there. If he needs me, I’ve got his back. And I swear to Christ if anyone so much as looks at him funny, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing they do.
