Stacy's pretty, with almond shaped amber eyes and long brown hair that she takes to the salon for a spiral perm every few weeks, until too many chemicals have totally fried it and she has it cut into a cute, short pixie do.
Stacy becomes my best friend. She's so laid back, yet kind of wild and crazy, always the one to come up with a scheme. At first, we all ring doorbells and run away, we have food fights in the cafeteria and get sent to the principal's office, those kinds of things. Not long later, we discover we love music, especially the music that was new when we were babies. We listen to '80s new wave like Human League, Bananarama, Pat Benetar, the Police, U2 and the Smiths. We also like R&B music from the Isley Brothers, the Mary Jane Girls, Rick James, Prince, and Michael Jackson before "Thriller" was released. We practise singing songs from these bands, and we talk about becoming our own band one day.
The group of us dress alike, day after day. I'm not into frilly or flowery stuff and neither is Stacy, who is called a "tomboy" because of her disdain for pink party dresses and oversized hair bows. We just like to wear jeans and printed tees of our favourite movies or bands, even in church. We dye our hair crazy colours, Stacy's pixie cut in electric purple and my shoulder-length waves in dark magenta with bright yellow stripes. It's then that the pastor at the Baptist church politely tells me that I can't sing at the pulpit again until I dye it back to its natural colour. I'm stung, but I decide I'd rather sing new wave anyway.
I get my ears pierced and Stacy gets a nose ring. She gets an electric guitar and I get a karaoke machine. We begin a "goth" phase together, and get high by sniffing the black polish we paint our nails with before adding a topcoat of glitter. We like to get high, and we ask each other in whispers if it's wrong to inhale nail lacquer and take our brains to weird, wavering, colourful places. My new girlfriends begin smoking, and of course I'm invited to join them. The first sight I have of a lit cancer stick triggers images and sense memories, but before long, I become one of those awful people who actually loves to smoke.
Stacy's as lonely as I am. The thing is, we're having too much fun to realise it. Her parents are divorced, her mom having taken her older sister Michelle to live in Texas. Her dad is an agent at the Farmer's Insurance office in West Sac. Our experimentation with mind-expansion evolves into swallowing his Vicodin and drinking his beer after school. She gets pizza and ice cream out of the icebox for us to eat, and gets mad at me when I only have a few bites. She hates it when I go home, and wishes I could spend nights at her house, but her dad says no.
Pastor Sellers insists on a sit-down with Lloyd about me. I'm not invited, but Lloyd tells me everything. He tells me that Pastor is concerned about my "burgeoning sexuality", and Pastor says that now is the time to nip me in the bud about my pierced ears, my enjoyment of lip liners and mascara, my coloured hair, my penchant for black rubber bracelets, leather chokers, and other gothic jewellery, my non-existent interest in sports, having a girl as a best friend, et cetera and so on.
Lloyd is the best person on earth. He tells me, "Forget that windbag! Sitting around passing judgment on you, on everyone around him, while he ignores his own son!"
"Who's his son?" I ask.
"His name is Timmy," replies Lloyd. "My sister and his mama were friends, years ago. Big, good looking boy, on the football team, I think. He's still in school—you'll probably see him when you start high school. Don't tell anyone what I told you about the pastor. Timmy's mama told me about all that a few years ago, and I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone 'cause she's embarrassed he's married, you know. Just a bad mistake, she said. He ignores her and pretends that boy ain't his... I don't think a lot of folks in town know about the matter, so please don't say nothing... I don't want to get her upset at me.
"Anyway, forget Pastor Sellers. You are who you are. I'm never going to force you to be someone you're not. The Lord loves you as you are. And you're a good boy, Jamie."
We begin to miss church more often than not. Stacy and I find our outlet for singing at keggers. Stacy has to be there. I might be able to perform for a crowd, but never on my own. It's one thing to sing solo in front of older, kinder church people. It's something else entirely to try to sing in front of my peers. With each performance, our voices refine. People actually begin telling us how well we sing.
"Ray, where's Temmy been lately?" asks Stacy at a party one weekend.
"You know Temmy," a dark haired guy replies with a smile. "If he's got a girl with her legs open, that's high priority. He 'couldn't make it'. That's what I'll hear on Monday."
"Who's Temmy?" I ask. What a strange name!
"Who are you?" the guy asks me, raising his eyebrows at my hair and makeup.
"Ray, this is Jamie," Stacy introduces me.
"You'll meet Temmy sooner or later, I guarantee that," Ray snickers. "He'd have been here tonight. No parents. Lots of beer. Tons of chicks. Where there's girls, there's Temmy, but he had a date tonight, a guarantee, if I know my sister."
"Temmy's fucking Yvette now?!" Stacy chortles. "Oh my God, you're kidding!"
"Yup," Ray nods. "She finally snagged him. Won't be long till she's picking shitty wedding songs, God help us!"
After that night, Ray and his friend, an older guy named Benny, are part of our little clique, and it's not as fun. The girls take to whispering and giggling and acting silly when the guys are around. Besides, I think Ray and Benny are nosey and intrusive, always telling me about girls they know are single. I smoothly refuse their offers to introduce me. I just don't feel interested. Stacy's never been pushy like that.
Sometimes, I worry Stacy will start to like me in a romantic way. I hope not. I love her to pieces, but only as a friend. I feel so comfortable with her and I don't want to lose that. I've never had a best friend, and to lose her would end me.
Some mornings, Stacy comes over to my house an hour or so before school, and I borrow her makeup stuff. I use powder to conceal the light spatter of golden freckles over my nose. I use dark pink pencil to draw a line around my mouth, and then fill my lips in with shiny gloss. I love what Stacy's mascara does to my eyes. As I check myself in the bathroom mirror, Stacy hugs my shoulders from the side. "Look how pretty you are!" she beams.
I've gotten better with mirrors. As long as the mascara erases all traces of Mom's crazed, bloodshot eyes, as long as my fuchsia and neon yellow dyes have obliterated Daddy's honey blonde hair, I can look at myself in the mirror without feeling nauseated, without feeling the red rings of memory around my ankles begin to throb...
Once, Benny asks point blank if I'm gay, why I'm always tagging along with Stacy and always surrounded by her girlfriends and why I'm right in there painting my fingers and dyeing my hair. No other guy at middle school or at church wears makeup. No other guy at school or church has mostly girls for friends either. Ray and Benny don't "get" me any better than other boys do. I don't wear makeup to seek attention. I wear makeup because it's always felt like the thing for me to do, and because I love makeup. Anyway, I know most of the boys ignore me, or they make remarks like, "I guess Jamie can also be a girl's name!". I'd be hurt if I didn't like being "one of Stacy's girls" so much.
Unfortunately, one of our girls, a pretty Mexican girl named Lydia Rocha, tells Stacy she likes me. Though I've always loved Lydia and had fun times with her, I have to avoid her for a few days, afraid she'll think I like her back in that same way. She's hurt of course, and stays away for a while. I'm relieved when later on, she tells everyone she has a crush on that guy "Temmy".
It's never occurred to me that I might be gay. I only know that unlike most of the other boys my age, thirteen going on fourteen, I've never kissed a girl or held hands or anything. But I've never been kissed or touched by a boy either. Instinctively, I know I keep to myself because I'm ruined. Lloyd's goodness can't remedy the damage done long before he came along.
Whenever Stacy gently hints or asks, I tell her I simply don't know what I am, gay, straight, bi. If the truth be told, I'm one of the A-Team. I d
on't feel attracted to anyone. I don't seek out that kind of companionship, I avoid it. As I get used to life outside that filthy bedroom, I realise that what me and Daddy did was wrong, and the mortification inside of me swells and throbs. I don't want to do that ever again. I hear kids at school talking about sex and how fun it is. I remember the sex I had with Daddy and it makes me nauseous. I don't ever want to be naked and do those disgusting things ever again.
I've told Stacy the barest version of what my birth parents did to me. Aside from Lloyd, Stacy is the only person who knows much at all about me. Of course, in the back of my mind is the fact that the Sommerville Police know things too, that they found things when they found me locked in my room. Channel 10 probably has some souvenirs as well.
There are others too, from long ago. I've always known there are others who know, people who liked the videos... I try not to think about it, how there are people on this planet who know the darkest, most wretched details about that room, those chains, that bed.
If I pick up the slightest indication that a girl is interested in me, I leave the situation immediately.
Fortunately, no guy has ever been interested, so I don't have to face the gay questions head on.
I have my own idea about when it's fun to be admired, and that's when I get up and sing on Thursday nights at The End, the only bar in town that lets kids in to sing karaoke. We've been going almost every week. The whole town seems to love it. Unless he has to work, Lloyd doesn't miss a chance to come see me sing, and he cries sometimes when we're up there. I'd be embarrassed, but I love him too much.
The only touches I accept are the warm, secure embraces from Lloyd and Stacy's friendly, energetic hugs.
To be frank, I've never kissed my foster dad, except maybe a peck or two over the past year. I feel bad about it—I don't know—I guess I'm just not a kissy person. I love hugging him, and I have let him kiss me, on the cheek or forehead a few times. I hope he knows I do love him. I tell him every now and again, but I still wonder if he knows.
At about the same time Stacy and I begin frequenting The End, we begin high school, and that's when everything suddenly changes, and I fall in love for the first and last time.
five:
tammy
(high school)
While I'm an underclassman, I learn that the seniors at Sommerville High School know how to find the best parties in Davis and Sac, and it's easy to charm my way into getting rides from them. I bag my first piece of ass at fourteen. Her name is Karla Grey, and she's a sophomore at UC Davis. She's short, curvaceous, with straight honey blonde hair and a perpetually grouchy expression. She's not interested in getting serious with a high school freshman, and for all of a week, I carry a torch before forgetting about her and hooking up with a twenty-four year old redhead from Sac State.
As the first three years of high school unfurl, I find that the days practising my smile in the mirror have been well spent. I hardly study, but I manage a low A average, my best grades being in English, Creative Writing, and Journalism. I'm no nerd, and a 3.6 GPA will be enough to get me out of this pathetic town.
I'm a reporter for the Panther, Sommerville High's school paper all four years as well. At first I'm just a staff writer, covering plays from the drama department, band and choir performances for the music department, the efforts of SADD to curb teen drinking and driving (yeah right!), club fundraisers, student body elections, and how-do-you-do-let's-get-to-know-you interviews of the foreign exchange students.
It's boring as fuck, but it's valuable experience for my future sitting alongside Wolf or Tom, and it's an outlet for my urge to write (even if it is stuff I find boring as fuck), and I get to travel to other schools all over the state (which means I get to hook up with all kinds of girls who aren't from Sommerville).
In my junior year, I'm promoted to head sports writer for the Panther. Let's face it, unless it's something I find important or at least interesting, like a crime against a student, or maybe vandalism against a teacher's car (heh!) I could care less. In this dull hamlet, sport is the most exciting thing I can write about.
I'm too busy trying to get into every girl's pants I can to bother with exhausting myself over piles of homework. Besides, I've gotta be sure to save my best for the game on Friday nights. I'm a fullback, number 19. It doesn't matter that I only score a touchdown every three or four weeks. What matters is I score with every chick I can. The combination of height, shoulder pads and mud is magnetic, and once I've been introduced to the pleasures of the flesh, I'm beyond hope. My groupies tell me I'm destined to be famous, and I'm already planning on moving to Los Angeles after graduation. I'm going to one of the good schools (no crappy community colleges for me!), getting my degree, and working for ABC or NBC News.
But I'm frightened of what was once inside of me. I hate that part of me that wrote stories of murder only a couple of years ago. I don't want to be a bad person. I want people to love me, not be afraid of me.
I don't know why I wrote that shit, why I beat poor little Cotton, why I've been so cruel. I hate to even think about it. I still wish I could get rid of those dust-coated diaries in my bookcase.
I turn seventeen in September of my senior year. One day, one of the legion of sluts I regularly boink invites me to church. I'd rather have a root canal than see my old man, but the girl tells me she'll reward me afterward, so I consent. She's one of the girls I knew as a kid, Yvette Battle, Ray's sister. She's tall and brunette with black, beady eyes and a big, round rear end. She's really great in bed. The fact that she pretends to be such a good little God-fearing girl makes it hot. Every guy who's had her agrees to that. She suggestively whispers to me as my dad, the Pastor, lists all the prayer needs and requests.
"We need to pray for our sister, Evelyn Beehan, who's still battling breast cancer. And Frances Blackwell, who had her knees replaced. We should also remember Andy Welling, who is flying to Florida this week for his brother's funeral." The pastor goes down a long list. Then he asks, "And are there any unspoken requests this morning?" Several hands raise. "Alright then, take the hand of the person next to you as we pray."
Yvette's naughty words are in my left ear as I turn to my right to see whose hand I'm holding. It's a kid, small with wavy dark red hair, blonde at the tips. His head is lowered reverently. To his right is Stacy Pendleton, the girl I knew years ago. There's no mistaking that purple hair of hers. The principal's already threatened to suspend her, and she still hasn't dyed over it.
I start to recognise the boy as the one who's always been with Stacy the past month, as they've scurried all over the high school grounds, exploring their new territory. I glance down at him again.
Once, I think I've seen this little kid singing with Stacy at a kegger in Solano a month ago, only then it seemed like it was a brighter raspberry fuchsia with bright yellow at the ends.
The preacher asks us to stand, hands still joined, so we can all sing together. Yvette fondles my ass and starts whispering again. I plan to turn to her and whisper my reply, but instead I look to my right, and my eyes meet those of the boy holding my right hand.
They're blue. I've never seen eyes so blue.
Déjà vu. I feel like I've seen those eyes somewhere...
I can't remember where I could have seen him.
Enormous and set off by unplucked, yet graceful, naturally arched brows, his eyes nearly dominate his face. In that moment when our eyes meet, I quickly examine the rest of him.
I can't believe this kid's a freshman. He's probably only two or three years or so younger than me, but he's tiny. He looks way too small to be in high school. He's even shorter and smaller than Stacy, his skinny figure encased in a Depeche Mode t-shirt and black jeans. His little face is exotic and peculiar, with surprisingly high cheekbones, a pert little nose, and red lips, the kind you see on those old dolls in glass cases. He looks away, and Pastor begins droning an extended prayer. For a second, I wonder if Stacy's little friend is a girl, if I've mistaken him for a boy
.
No, dumbass, I tell myself. He wouldn't be on the boys' side of the gym at P.E.
I can't stop myself from sneaking a glance at him every so often. His eyes are closed, his head is bowed towards the wine coloured carpeting, and I stare out of the corner of my eye at the long, dark fringe of his eyelashes.
The most subtle movement, a tiny contraction of his hand around mine, and my focus is fully stolen from Yvette in spite of her iniquitous attentions. I turn my head to the right, remembering the odd little flutter that happened inside me when his fingers curled just a little tighter around mine for that instant. Our eyes meet a second time as he looks up at me. The contact lasts for a few beats, but time is stretched like a rubber band. Those huge eyes open impossibly wider for a split second, and I see something I can't describe in words. I feel my stomach quiver again, and his eyes close, his fingernails gently dig into the palm of my hand...
...and I can barely breathe...
I've seen him. I know him. Where have I seen him before?!
When we're asked to sit back down in the padded mauve pews, everyone lets go of each other's hands. I can't fathom what's come over me. I've got the easiest piece of ass in town squeezing my thighs under the hymnal and instead of giving her my undivided attention, I'm...
What am I doing?
I have to ask myself that, because every so often, even as I scold myself fiercely, I feel my neck rotating away from Yvette, my eyes seeking his. I'm disappointed when he refuses to look my way again. After church, I search for him in the crowd, scanning for Stacy's violet hair or those big eyes.
But he's gone. Yvette has to drag me to her house. Both our moms will be gabbing in the fellowship hall for at least half an hour and then they'll have potluck. I can't believe my reluctant movements. Yvette's a guarantee when it comes to ass.
In her bed, my mind drifts away time and again. Angrily, I push the image away, the small, delicately beautiful visage, the bright, round, cobalt-blue eyes, the black bracelets encircling the slender wrist, the fingers around mine, squeezing...
Crush Page 4
