The World of Normal Boys

by K. M. Soehnlein

  Robin breathes out slowly, relieved that Scott has bought his lie. He asks carefully, “Todd’s weird—don’t you think?” Scott does not answer, so he goes on. “He’s never what you think he is. First I thought he was really mean, when I was little and he used to call me ‘Girly Underwear’ all the time and tease me. And then he started being nice to me. He asked me to go to Maggio’s party, like he wanted to be friends. Then yesterday . . .” He pantomimes Todd’s smack to his face.

  “He’s a user,” Scott says. He shifts closer to Robin so that their hips are touching.

  “He’s kind of conceited, too,” Robin says. “After the party he was talking about how he was going to go cross-country and be a drifter. I could tell he thought he was so cool.”

  “He’s full of shit,” Scott says.

  “Yeah.” Robin takes a quick breath and then says something experimental, something he thinks Scott might not be able to handle: “I still think he’s cute, though.”

  Scott says nothing. He clears his throat. Then he says in a soft, uninflected voice, “You’re cuter.”

  Robin is caught off guard. “I am not.”

  Scott looks off into the darkness, picks a pebble off the roof, and chucks it into the bushes. “I said that to my father tonight.”

  “You said what?”

  “That you were cute. That’s why he went after me.”

  Robin squints through the darkness, trying to read Scott’s face, unsure if this is some kind of joke. But Scott has dropped his head between his knees and is sniffling. The curve of his back trembles.

  “You really told your father that?”

  “It just came out!” Scott lifts his face—his eyes are wet, his voice thick with phlegm. He sucks a gob of snot into his throat and spits, wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his wrist. “I told him I was going out. And he was like, ‘You’re staying home and gonna help me go through some of the lumber in the shed.’ Which was bullshit because he was home all day doing nothing and could-a looked through the fucking lumber before, but now suddenly I’m home and we both gotta look through the fucking lumber. So the first thing I think of to say is, ‘I’ve already got plans to hang out with Robin.’ And he’s like, ‘Who the fuck is that? Robin from Batman?’ as if that’s really fucking original. And I’m like, ‘He’s this guy at school. He was here the other day.’ And he’s like, ‘Oh, that fucking wimpy kid.’ ” The insult jolts Robin; he’s forever being called names, but it’s worse coming from out of the blue like that, as if at any given moment someone he hardly knows might be slamming him. He shakes the thought away, not wanting to break the momentum of Scott’s story: this might be the longest he’s heard Scott speak about himself without interruption. “So I’m like, ‘Fuck you, Dad, he’s not wimpy.’ And he’s like, ‘Sure looked it to me, he looked like a girl.’ And I’m like, ‘How can you say he looks like a girl, he’s practically the cutest guy in the ninth grade.’ ” He stops abruptly, locking his eyes on Robin’s, as if expecting the answer to a question.

  Robin’s stomach tightens; his face heats up. Even if he could believe that Scott really meant this (but why would Scott lie this way?), he’d also have to imagine Scott saying this to his father. It’s too good to be true—Scott thinks I’m the cutest boy in the ninth grade—and just plain scary, as if he’s found out that he’s been implicated in a misdemeanor Scott committed and must now share his fate.

  “It just came out without thinking,” Scott says, almost pleading. “I don’t know. I guess I was just thinking that, and then it came out. That you were cute.” He slides the bottom of his sneaker on a roof shingle, the noise like sandpaper on wood. “Part of me wanted to say it just to piss him off. So, like, mission accomplished on that one.”

  In the pause Robin realizes how constant the night’s many noises are: the sounds of tires on asphalt, the random call of a night bird, a clunky slam of a windowpane, and the echo of a voice calling a lost pet. And he realizes that he is cold and that he does not want Scott to leave, and that if he is implicated in anything it is exactly what he’s wanted all along. In this unexpected moment he understands that Scott has become the person who matters to him most.

  “So do you want to come in?” he asks.

  Just the sound of Scott’s sneakers landing on his rug is enough to accelerate Robin’s heartbeat. Terror and excitement. He wants Scott to share his bed rather than getting into Jackson’s, but he is too nervous to ask him. Scott glances from one bed to the other and lets his eyes rest on the unmade one: Robin’s. An involuntary prayer: Thank You, God. Without hesitation Scott unzips his jacket and sits on the bed, kicking off his sneakers, dropping his pants. His colored underwear fades into the dimly lit room; his legs, which Robin has never looked at closely, are pale and thin and bruised on both shins. Robin takes off his own T-shirt. Scott looks at him and after a moment does the same. Robin has always thought of himself as too scrawny but Scott is a rail in comparison: his shoulder blades like bird wings, the concave slope at the center of his chest as bright and delicate as an eggshell. Robin carefully folds his T-shirt and lays it on a chair.

  Scott says, “I should be on the outside so I can get out quick in the morning.” Robin slides across the bed to the wall and Scott follows.

  Robin lies on his back, hearing his every breath and Scott’s beside him, out of sync, restless. He shifts his body so that he is touching Scott in random places: their ankles, the curve of their hips, the flat smoothness of their upper arms.

  He waits for Scott to get settled, and when Scott rolls away, facing out into the room, Robin lets his body ease slowly toward him. He moves in increments, more nervous than he ever remembers being. First his knees lock behind Scott’s; then his stomach presses against Scott’s back, and finally his hard-on, cramped in the pouch of his underwear, nestles against Scott’s ass.

  Scott pulls Robin’s arm into his stomach. Robin has been holding his breath; now he exhales. At any moment he expects this to sour, but Scott is different tonight. Unguarded. Robin’s other arm has been forced uncomfortably upward, over his head, but he leaves it there, afraid to upset anything. In this too awake state he dreads being caught, dreads everything beyond the shelter of his bedroom. His mind forms images of discovery: his parents, or Scott’s father, suddenly banging down the door; Todd Spicer secretly spying on them with binoculars. He imagines Ruby coming into the room, intent on occupying Jackson’s bed again.

  He is jarred by the disturbing thought that if Jackson hadn’t fallen and busted his neck, Jackson would be here right now, and Scott, of course, wouldn’t. If the accident had never happened, Robin realizes now, he wouldn’t have gone to the hospital on his bike that first night, that night he and Scott first spoke to each other in the Dairy Queen parking lot, when Scott had a bloody nose of his own. If he hadn’t met Scott that night, they wouldn’t have ditched together, they wouldn’t have gotten stoned at The Bird, they would never have had sex. And if he hadn’t done all of that with Scott, he wonders, would he have ever agreed to go with Todd to that party, much less leave with him and go to the golf course? For the first time Robin draws this map, this chain of events beginning with Jackson’s fall and ending up right here, with Scott in his bed. He keeps himself awake for a very long time, until the map mutates into a tangled, layered web. He falls asleep unsure if he is the spinner of this web or a creature trapped at its heart.

  Scott is gone. Robin finds his parents in the kitchen, his mother holding a cold cloth to her head, his father silently studying a sheet of white paper. His father says sternly, “Robin, you have some explaining to do.”

  Dorothy says, “Clark, let me.” She slides the white paper from Clark’s hands with a coaxing glance and reads from it: “‘Robin, thanks for helping me out. Scott.’ ”

  An instant knot in his stomach. “Where did you find that?”

  “On the refrigerator. Under this magnet.”

  Robin’s eyes widen. “How’d it get there?”

  Dorothy says
, “That’s the question I have for you.” Her lips press together in a false smile, as if trying to smooth the way for his confession.

  “I don’t know how it got there.” Could Scott have been stupid enough to stick this note to the fridge? He tries to not sound defensive, sets a lie in motion. “This kid Scott wrote it, ’cause I helped him on his English exam.”

  Clark grabs the note out of Dorothy’s hands, snapping the paper crisply in the air. “It’s written on my business letterhead!”

  “It is?” Maybe Scott wasn’t being stupid—maybe this was intentional, some kind of mean trick. His parents are scrutinizing him expectantly. “I mean—yeah, I know it is. Because I gave him a piece.”

  Clark is stunned. “You gave it to him?”

  Robin tries to make his explanation sound truthful. “I just had it with me. I took some and put it in my notebook. You know, you leave a pile of it in that drawer, right there.” He makes his face sheepish, lays it on thick. “I just thought it was cool that you have your own stationery. I guess I was showing off, Dad.”

  Clark smiles in spite of himself. “Look, this isn’t for show and tell. This is for business purposes and business purposes only. Don’t go passing it out like Monopoly money.”

  “I didn’t. I just lent Scott a couple of pieces while we were studying.”

  Dorothy crosses her arms, suspicion in her eyes despite the placid smile. “I still don’t understand how it wound up on the refrigerator.”

  “I put it there last night.” He fears his voice is less convincing now.

  “Oh, so now you remember?”

  “Yeah, sure. Last night I found it in my notebook and I didn’t know where to put it. I guess I just stuck it up there and forgot about it.”

  “You guess?” she asks.

  Clark pushes his chair back and waves his hand. “Who cares when he put it on the fridge? He can put his goddamn birth certificate on the fridge as far as I care. Just don’t go handing out my letterhead to your friends. I only get a five hundred sheet allotment per year.”

  “Sorry, Dad.” He turns his back to them both, wipes perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. What was Scott trying to do, get him in trouble?

  Clark stands up, effectively ending the discussion. He gulps down his coffee and straightens his tie. It’s the first time he’s been in a business suit since Jackson’s accident. “I’ve got to go to the office today for a couple of hours and talk to Steinberg about the Connecticut route, before that shyster tries to reassign my territory to someone else.” He leaves without a good-bye, the clinical smell of aftershave lingering behind.

  From behind his back, Robin hears the clatter of dishes being cleared, his mother sighing frustratedly before she speaks. “So if I’m not mistaken, this Scott is the boy with whom you went AWOL right after your brother went into the hospital?” He detects the false ring of nonchalance in her question, a breezy layer blanketing her real concern.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Should I be concerned that you’ve continued your friendship with a delinquent?”

  He turns around, angrily taking her bait. “I was helping him with some work. That’s all.”

  She picks up the note and places it on the fridge, the magnet tapping into place. “I just can’t shake the notion that he was actually here.”

  “Mom, give me a break.” Lately she is fussy when he wants her to leave him alone and distant when he wants access to her. It crosses his mind that she wants him to hate her, that she’s punishing him for something, but the thought is eerie and poisonous, and he makes it go away. He snatches Scott’s note from the refrigerator and crushes it in his fist.

  She peers into his face. “The bags under your eyes are big enough to pack a lunch in.” All false brightness has left her voice.

  “I’m just tired,” he says.

  “So am I, Robin. Tired of it all.” She walks across the room and routs through her purse, surprising him by pulling out her Pall Malls and lighting one up. He’s never before seen his mother smoke in the house. Cold air scurries toward them as she slides open a window. He watches smoke coat the glass, meeting the reflection of her exhausted face.

  All morning, as he waits to see Scott, static interference courses along Robin’s nerves. There is the memory of him and Scott wedged together in his bed, the damp heat of their entangled embrace, the rasp of Scott’s breath, vapors settling on his skin. There is also a pit of bitterness at the note left behind, the unnecessary run-in with his parents. And there is his unease about Scott’s predicament at home: Mr. Schatz’s threats, the violence between them. Where did Scott go when he left his house that morning?

  Scott shuffles into phys. ed. late. Robin mouths, “How are you?” across the gymnasium, and Scott pantomimes back, “Stoned.” They are assigned to opposing basketball teams, meant to guard each other. The game’s momentum carries them back and forth across the court, affording them fragments of conversation.

  Robin whispers, “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  Scott replies evasively, “Yeah, I was thinking about your room—how come you don’t fuck it up at all? It just looked like something from a TV show.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Leave some fucking clothes on the floor for one. Just put up some posters and shit. And you could get a black light, or an aquarium like mine, or something cool like that. You just have books and a desk. And all that sports shit in the corner.”

  “That’s Jackson’s.”

  “I thought he’s getting his own room.”

  Robin sighs. Construction has been moving along steadily for a couple of weeks, but in the last few days, Clark has seemed drained of enthusiasm. Robin is wondering if this is the point at which Clark will give up, leave things undone as he has so many times in the past. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says.

  Then the basketball shoots toward Robin. He grabs it and stops in his tracks, immediately and totally perplexed as to what should be done with it. Bodies are swarming around him. For a horrible, extended moment, the entire game hinges upon his action. He locates someone he’s pretty sure is on his team and hurls it nervously his way. The tidal relief of accomplishment: his teammate is off and running, the ball in his command, the pack trailing behind.

  Scott’s eyes are closed. He’s just been waiting for the interruption to pass.

  Robin says, “My parents found that note.”

  “What note?”

  “Don’t even pretend . . .” Suddenly the ball is flying toward him again. Robin jitterishly swats it away. It almost lands out of bounds, but a boy on the other team intercepts it. Robin shrinks away as his teammates complain.

  Scott says, “I thought your house was gonna be more like Spicer’s.”

  “No way, they’re rich. Mr. Spicer’s a lawyer. Can’t you tell by just looking?”

  “Yeah. Well, you still got more money than me.”

  He tries again. “Scott, why’d you leave that note? I almost got in trouble.”

  A guy from Robin’s team bounds past the two of them in a burst of heat and body odor on his way to a dunk. One of Scott’s teammates yells at him for not intervening. Scott flicks him the finger.

  The shrill chirp of Mr. Pintack’s whistle calls the action to a halt. Pintack, all bulk and polyester, is striding toward them. “Schatz! MacKenzie!” Robin holds his breath, all eyes are upon them. “Maybe you two should check your schedule,” Pintack snarls, pointing toward the door to the girls’ gym, “because maybe you’re supposed to be on the other side of that wall.” He smiles cruelly, looking around at the other boys for confirmation, gathering an alliance.

  Robin’s usual impulse is to silently look at his feet and blank out his thoughts until moments like this one pass. But there is Scott rolling his eyes, merely bothered and not intimidated by Pintack’s braying. Pintack, Robin realizes, is nothing compared to Mr. Schatz. He thinks of Todd Spicer punching him in the face: Pintack can’t even go that far. He’s
all hot air.

  “You two want to play ball or you want to stand around gossiping like a couple of chicks?”

  Robin looks up into Pintack’s infuriating, cocky grin. “Aren’t there any other choices?”

  Now some of the muffled laughter is with him, not at him.

  The moment of triumph is fleeting, squashed by Pintack choosing another option for him: twenty-five push-ups.

  After ten he thinks he will collapse, but he forces himself to continue. His arms inflame, his chest contracts, the heels of his hands cry out for relief. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—the blood and breath in his head seem to be fighting for space. It’s over at fifteen. He is panting, his hot face against the dirty floorboards, the smell of rubber soles enclosing him. Humiliation, as was intended.

  He and Scott are sent to opposite benches for the rest of class. Robin spits between a crack in the bleachers. Fifteen push-ups was better than he expected. His muscles throb with a newly discovered assertiveness.

  Scott’s wearing sweat pants and the same long-sleeve sweatjacket he always has on, and it occurs to Robin that Scott keeps himself covered up to hide the bruises Robin saw last night. In the locker room he asks him, “What are you going to do?”

  Scott looks at him blankly. “About what?”

  “About your father.”

  “Next time I’ll hit him harder.” He forces a laugh, but Robin can’t bring himself to smile.

  His mother comes into his room at bedtime with ideas about art school, mentioning schools she’s heard of, talking as if it’s a done deal. She asks for a report on how his story is progressing, and when he tells her that he’s having trouble starting, she reminds him of details from various trips they’ve taken together, events that they’ve attended, restaurants at which they’ve eaten, stores where they have shopped. The more she wants to talk about this, the less he wants to listen to her. More than even the completion of Jackson’s room, art school has become something he doesn’t believe will ever really come to pass.