Cycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  “Don’t leave anything out,” I say. “Wait, did you say Michael Tinsley?”

  “You know him?”

  So it wasn’t a rich girl’s name after all. “No,” I say. “Go ahead.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod. Truthfully, I’m not sure I can handle this story. But I’ll never sleep again unless I force myself to try.

  “You asked for it,” he says. “First of all, Michael was a bit older than me.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-three,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. It wasn’t a molestation thing or anything.”

  “How did you meet?” I say.

  “We met at—please don’t laugh when I tell you this.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “All right,” he says. “We met at the Super Weenie.”

  I am unable to prevent a chuckle from slipping out.

  “You promised!” he says.

  “I’m not laughing,” I say. “What’s the Super Weenie?”

  “It’s a hot dog stand,” he says. “On Long Island. It was on the way to the beach where I worked that summer. I’d go there every night to get the California Wonder Weenie.”

  “Okay.”

  He glances up to make sure I’m not laughing. “So anyway, Michael worked there. And one night, I kind of hung around the picnic tables after finishing my—” He throws me a warning look.

  “After finishing your weenie?” I say.

  He looks away, then whips his face back to me.

  “I am so not laughing,” I tell him.

  He faces the soccer field. “Why am I doing this?” he says. “I must be a masochist.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “So anyway, that night, Michael came out of the little shack and we kind of hung out together at the picnic tables while the manager closed the place down.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We talked for a while about music and movies and stuff. Then the mosquitoes started biting, so we got into his car. The front seat, not the backseat. We talked for a little bit and then at one point, he just kind of looked at me. It was so strange. I’d never had a guy look at me like that before. I put my hand on the door handle, thinking I should run, you know? But I didn’t want to. He just kept looking at me. Didn’t try anything. I don’t know how long we sat there staring at each other. Seemed like forever. Eventually, I opened the door and went home.”

  My stomach, ignorant bigot that it is, flips over. Nevertheless, I can’t peel my eyes from Tommy. “What happened next?” I say.

  “I came back the next night,” he says. “And we did the same thing, but this time he put his hand on my leg and just kind of left it there.” He glances up to check my reaction. Despite the churning storm of acid in my stomach, I show none.

  “We must have sat there for half an hour,” he says. “But that’s all we did. So I came back the next night, and . . .” He swallows. “And that was the night he kissed me.”

  He looks at me full bore. I do my best to hide the chaos in my stomach. “Uh-huh,” I say. “Then what?”

  Seeing my discomfort, he nods knowingly, then stares out at the soccer field. “It’s okay, Jill,” he says. “You got further than I thought you would.”

  “Please.” I put my hand on his arm and slide closer to him. “I want to know what happened. I really do.”

  “Fine,” he says. But his mood has darkened. “Next night, he’s not there. Night after that, same thing. I show up every day for a week, and eventually, the manager tells me he split. No forwarding address, no phone number, nothing. Didn’t even pick up his last paycheck. I never heard from him again.” He faces me. “Happy?”

  “He never called or anything?”

  “He never asked for my number.”

  “Wow.”

  Tommy stares at me as if daring me to look away.

  I don’t.

  “Do you think you were his first too?” I say.

  He nods, keeping his eyes on me.

  “He shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “He shouldn’t have just left like that.”

  Eyes still burning into me, he shakes his head.

  “You’re better off without him,” I say.

  He nods.

  We must be well beyond seven Mississippis by now but I’m not counting.

  And I’m not looking away. I have survived the story. What’s more, I actually sympathize. I want to find that Michael Tinsley guy and send him a nasty e-mail.

  “That was cowardly and mean of him,” I say.

  Tommy shrugs. “It’s my own fault. I don’t know how I managed to fall so hard for the guy. All we ever did was make out in the front seat of his car.”

  Make out in the front seat of his car. His car. Not her car. It’s the pronouns that get me.

  But I can do this. I am still doing sticky eyes with Tommy. I haven’t looked away.

  Neither has he.

  “Was he the only—”

  “He was the first,” Tommy says. “But no, he wasn’t the last. If you’re keeping track, my tally so far is two guys and six girls. And yes, I’m still a gay virgin. But not a straight one. Is there anything else you want to know?”

  He lasers those deep brown eyes right through me. Despite the turmoil in my stomach, I rise to the challenge.

  “You think I’m a jerk, don’t you?” I say.

  “No,” he says. “I’m just sick of having to explain myself. It would be so much easier if I were just gay. Then they’d have a box to put me in. People don’t understand bi. They think I’m really gay but not brave enough to admit it, like I have sex with girls as a cover.”

  Which is exactly what I let my mother convince me of. It seems absurd now. I assumed that because I didn’t understand something, it had to be a lie. How could I have been so stupid?

  “It’s not true,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I don’t have sex with girls as a cover. I really am into them.”

  “All of them?” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Every last one of them.”

  “Slut.”

  “Prude.”

  I whack him on the arm. He smiles. “So,” he says. “How’d you do?”

  “Still standing.”

  “You’re sitting.”

  “Metaphor, dude.”

  He keeps looking at me. I think we’re heading for the Guinness World Record of sticky eyes.

  “Anyway,” I say, “being bi is one thing, but I’m much more loath to be seen with someone who’s flunking calculus.”

  “Loath?”

  “It’s a word,” I say.

  He laughs.

  “Maybe we should sneak back inside,” I say. “We could go to the library.”

  He kicks at a Trident gum wrapper with the toe of his dirty white sneaker. “Word got out while you were absent, you know.”

  “Really?”

  Daria, undoubtedly. She’d never do it out of malice, but she does have a tendency toward chattiness.

  “Word always gets out,” he says. “Eventually.”

  He keeps his eyes locked on mine as the cool air makes us shudder. The combination of fear and desire washing through me is a brand-new sensation. A terrifying sensation. But I feel braver than I’ve ever felt. Whatever Tommy and the gay leg-touchers from his past have to throw at me, I can take it.

  Half an hour later, between A Block and B Block, I race to Ramie’s locker, where she’s trying on a necklace from the stash she hangs on her locker door.

  “We need to talk prom dresses,” I tell her.

  “What?” She slams her locker shut and stares at me.

  Over her shoulder, I spot Daria rushing toward us. She has to pause and wait for some wrestling freshboys to get out of her way. “Hey, Jill,” she says. “Did you cut A Block?”

  Ramie looks at me, stunned.

  “Walk and talk,” I say, “or we’ll b
e late.” I rush them both toward the South Wing.

  “So?” Ramie says.

  “Yes,” I say. “I did cut A Block in order to have a chat with Tommy Knutson at the soccer bleachers.”

  Ramie stops short, causing Wayne and Gloria, a.k.a. the Siamese Couple, to bump into us. “You did what?” Ramie says.

  “Come on.” I tug her along with me. When we get to the intersection of South Wing and East Wing, Ramie pulls me with her, even though I should be walking in the other direction.

  “Talk,” she says.

  Daria, who should be heading to gym class, tags along.

  “Call me crazy,” I say, “but I don’t care if Tommy’s bi. He’s still Tommy.”

  “So he’s not a ‘gay man in training’?” Ramie says.

  I shake my head. “That is such a brain-dead philosophy.”

  Daria skips around Ramie and walks on my other side. “But Jill,” she says. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “About what?”

  Daria leans in close. “AIDS.”

  “Daria!” Ramie reaches over me to whack Daria on the shoulder. “Don’t be ignorant. Hey, Jill, has he actually had sex with a guy?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but no. He’s still a gay virgin.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “But not a straight one.”

  “That is so gross,” Daria says.

  Ramie shoots her a scowl. “No it isn’t. It’s deeply normal.” She looks at me again and there’s something strange in her expression. When we get to Ramie’s chemistry class, we hang back outside the door while the other students filter in.

  “So,” I say. “We’re back to the original plan, right?”

  “What plan?” Ramie says.

  “Shhh!” I pull them both close. “The prom,” I say. “I still have to score an invite. And I need to start thinking about a dress. A normal dress, Ramie. Nothing bizarre.”

  Daria’s face scrunches up so much it looks like it hurts. “You still want to go to the prom with him?”

  “Of course,” I say. “He’s going to look so cute in a tux.”

  The late bell rings.

  Ramie squeezes my arm. “Jill, listen—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me I shouldn’t go with him because he’s bi.”

  “Yeah, right, dingbat. I became a homophobe like Daria over the weekend.”

  “Shut up,” Daria says. Then she lowers her voice. “I’m not a homophobe. My cousin Sasha is gay.”

  “Congratulations,” Ramie says. “Anyway, Jill, listen.” She grabs my head, buries her mouth in my ear and whispers, “I let a stranger into my bedroom window last night.”

  “You what!” I pull away from her.

  She yanks my ear back to her mouth and whispers, “We made out on my bed.” She pulls away and looks at me. “Deets later. Gotta run. Total support on the Tommy front. I’m proud of you.” She slips into the classroom.

  “What?” Daria says. “What did she say?”

  Ramie smiles at me from her seat in the third row.

  Daria grabs my arm.

  “She’s lying,” I tell her. “She’s trying to one-up me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing,” I tell her. I turn and run back down the East Wing to art class. “Go to class.”

  Daria stomps her foot, then runs off.

  Love, or something like it, must be in the air. In chem lab, Steven Price giddily recounts his successful attainment of a prom date with fellow trombone player, Petra Klimova, an accomplishment that apparently eviscerates any residual mal feelings he has for me. So we’re back to being buds. Then, just as the bell rings, Ramie pushes the door open, all excited to fill me in with the “deets” about her window guy.

  Placing the last beaker in the drying rack, I grab my bag and head into the hallway with her.

  “Did you cut class early?” I say.

  Nodding, she hooks her arm through mine and rushes me down the hall.

  “So,” I say. “Full disclosure.”

  “Like I ever leave anything out,” she says. “Jill, when I say he’s hot, I’m talking supernova. I’m talking the big bang. I’m talking—”

  “Very nice, Ramie. Who is he?”

  She shrugs theatrically.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? What’s his name?”

  She shrugs again, then throws her arms around me and nudges her nose behind my ear. “I think I’m in love.”

  Behind us, a pair of freshman boys giggle; then one of them blurts out, “Kiss her.”

  Ramie glances over her shoulder at them, then grabs my face and plants one on my lips.

  I shove her away and wipe her spit from my mouth. “Ramie! I am deeply not into that Girls Gone Wild crap.”

  The freshman boys are already cheering.

  I grab Ramie’s bony wrist and yank her along with me. “You’re such a deviant,” I say. “How did you meet this guy?”

  “He just showed up at my window,” she says. “But the weird thing is, Jill, I feel like I know him. Don’t ask me how. It’s like we have this—”

  “Don’t say ‘connection.’ ”

  “We do!”

  “Ramie!” It’s déjà vu all over again. “You mean like you had with that Lansdale kid?”

  “He’s not a Lansdale kid.”

  Lansdale is a sleepaway school for boys from broken homes. Sad cases. Every once in a while, a Winterhead girl gets mixed up with one of them and it always ends badly. Ask Ramie.

  “So,” I say. “What did you do with him?”

  Ramie gets all swoony and says, “We mostly just did, like, tongues and stuff, but he was lying on top of me and he had his hand up my shirt.”

  “And you don’t even know his name?”

  “What’s in a name?” she says.

  “Right,” I say. “And when are you seeing him again?”

  She shrugs.

  “You don’t know?”

  “It’s not a conventional relationship, Jill. Don’t be boring.”

  “So, it’s a relationship now?” I say.

  Ramie nods.

  “Oh, this is promising.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

  When we get to the art room, I pull her aside. “Ramie, promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “Promise you’ll call me the next time he shows up at your window.”

  “Why?” she says. “You want to watch?”

  I poke her bony sternum with my finger. “You are a sick and dangerous individual.”

  She smiles sweetly. “I know. But you’re the one who’s dating a bi.” She winks at me, then skips down the hallway, her wild black hair flowing like a wave.

  On the one hand, it’s nice to see Ramie take an interest in guys again. On the other, she’s reached a new depth of malness in her choice of lust objects. And this guy has some stiff competition, no pun intended. Two weeks pass, and surprise, surprise, Mr. No-name Window Stalker fails to make an appearance. Fortunately, Ramie has my deeply urgent prom situation to occasionally distract her from the never-ending play-by-play of their one night of tongue action. She’s even put together a “look book” of prom dress ideas for me. Most of them are wildly unacceptable, but I appreciate the effort.

  On Friday, May 18, thirty-six days until prom night, I enter the cafeteria solo and find Daria and Ramie sitting at a table by the window.

  “Where’s Loverboy?” Daria says. “Aren’t you tutoring him today?” She makes room between herself and Melinda Peters.

  I sit down and take out my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “I think Tommy’s absent. I haven’t seen him all day.”

  Ramie reaches into her bag, then slaps a big piece of paper in front of me. “My final offer,” she says.

  On the left side of the page is a colored-pencil drawing of a silver, pink and black dress. On the right, she’s pasted a photo of a vintage silver ball gown, a one-inch square of black tulle and a magazine cutout of a pink col
umn dress.

  “It’s a cut-and-paste job,” Ramie says. “The vintage number is my mom’s, which I’m sure she’ll donate. The black tulle I already have. And we need this pink column dress, which I’m pretty sure we can pick up at Le Château for under a hundred.”

  “Oh, Ramie,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, Jill. I am constitutionally incapable of designing anything more conservative than that. If you don’t—”

  I throw my arms around her. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Let me see.” Daria grabs the paper. “Wow, Rames. That is deeply cool.”

  Ramie pulls away and looks at me. “Do you mean it? Do you really like it?”

  “I love it,” I tell her. “You’re a genius. The black tulle peeking through the slit and the way it contrasts with the pale pink and silver? It’s inspired. It’s . . . I don’t even know what to say, Rames. It’s like you designed the dress of my dreams.”

  Ramie beams. “That’s ’cause I know my girl.”

  I take the paper back from Daria and stare at the dress. “You must. You really must.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ramie says. “I can deeply pull it off.”

  “I know you can,” I say. “All right. The prom dress is settled thanks to Ramie’s brilliance. Now all I have to do is ramp things up with Tommy.”

  “Right,” Daria says. “Back to Project X.”

  “No!” I say. I look around to make sure no one’s listening. Melinda Peters is trying to look like she’s not eavesdropping. I shoot her an eyeball missile and she resumes her fake conversation with Alicia Bernstein. Then I lean over the table for a bit of privacy, or what passes for it in this Orwellian environment. “Project X is eighty-sixed,” I say.

  “Because it’s sexist,” Ramie adds.

  “Yes, whatever,” I say. “And archaic and dishonest and just generally mal. But I still need to score a prom invite.”

  “Oh,” Daria says. “I thought scoring a prom invite was Project X.”

  Ramie shakes her head. “Did you even read the mission statement? Jill, how can we work with her?”

  “Testify,” I say. “Anyway. Let’s focus here. I think the boy needs a nudge.”

  “Really?” Ramie stabs at a cube of tofu with a pair of red lacquer chopsticks. “He seems fairly Jill positive to me. You’re doing sticky eyes again, right?”