It's absurd. As the hours pass, the little face fades from memory, and I can actually think about other things. It's a relief.
A few days later, I learn his name is Jamie Pearce. It's a small high school and from casual conversations, I quickly find out that he's an orphan and that one of the cops in town adopted him a year or so ago. As the weeks pass, I hear more whispers. I wonder whether to believe ninety-nine percent of them. He's never far from Stacy and Yvette's brother Ray. Sometimes he wears eye makeup. Principal's been all over him about it of course.
At the start of their freshman year, he and Stacy are both sopranos in the school choir. In late September, when the Panther sends one of the staff reporters along with the choir to cover a state competition in San Francisco, I find myself wishing I wasn't confined to the sports beat.
We're in a small town as well, and I begin to see the three of them, Ray, Stacy and Jamie, everywhere, including the Friday night home football games. One night, after we win against Rio Vista, I scoop Yvette up and plant a sloppy one on her. Feeling someone's eyes on me, I look over.
I'm magnetically drawn, pulled, into his eyes.
He's chewing on a rope of Red Vine liquorice.
A grocery trip with Mom long ago: a dark haired woman; a baby boy sitting in the cart ahead of us; Red Vines; the baby's sweet voice and angelic blue peepers as he tried to talk to me, reach for me...
I kissed his cheek.
He kissed my lips.
I taste the gooey sweetness.
It's him...
They're everywhere—working at the church rummage sale, riding in the van with the church youth when we all go out to eat, singing at the illicit weekend parties the seniors throw, singing at The End—they're everywhere.
And so am I. I'm not officially in the youth group of course, but Yvette insists I come along whenever and wherever they go, and since it usually results in sex afterward, I guess I don't mind.
When Ray begins going out with Stacy, Yvette starts acting like a first class bitch to Stacy and Jamie, always making comments about how her brother is too good for Stacy, and "Why do those little twerps have to tag along everywhere with us?"
One night we go to The End, where they have a karaoke contest every Thursday. Yvette, who prides herself on being one of the best voices in the church youth chorale, gets up and completely slaughters "The Rose" by Bette Midler. We sit in the back, howling our glee at how bad she is. "I could fart it better!" I proclaim, and everyone within hearing range of our table is bent over in such hilarity that their faces are bright red. I glance over at Stacy, Ray and Jamie as I laugh. Jamie's looking right at me, giggling helplessly in response to my comment. I feel my face involuntarily smiling back at him as I stare into his eyes for just seconds before he looks away. I'm elated, bewildered, my heart going ninety miles an hour.
Yvette is super-pissed at me when she makes her way off the stage and back to our table. She won't speak to me for the rest of the night.
Stacy and Jamie talk intensely for a few minutes. Jamie shakes his head vigorously and I hear Stacy nudging him, "Come on! It'll be awesome!" He finally stands up and follows her to the stage, hugging himself, tucking his chin into his chest, horror-stricken.
I squint through the stage lights as their song begins. It's one of my favourites, "The Warrior" by Scandal and Patty Smyth. I hardly ever hear it on the radio anymore and the cassette I had ages ago is long gone. They sing it as a duet, and I sit straight up in my chair, letting the melody, the lyrics, the rhythm flow through me. Their voices and attitudes are perfectly suited, along with their matching black shirts with long sleeves and their black jeans with rhinestones twinkling along the seams. That fear on Jamie's face when they first got on stage is gone. I love his voice! If it was a soprano before, it's not now. It's gotten deeper in the past couple of months. When he sings, he sounds like Billy Idol, or Morrissey, or Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode.
"His voice changed!" I say to Ray.
"Yeah," grunts Ray. "He finally sounds like he has a Y chromosome, so he's been moved to the boys' section." He sniggers, and I glare at him.
I love the energy in Jamie's slim, slight silhouette against the glare of the lights as he bounces in cadence with the music, the way his hair tumbles into his eyes. I'm so captivated that it's easy to ignore the rage I feel emanating off of Yvette like heat. The song ends and the crowd roars their approval. My eyes never leave Jamie as he and Stacy leave the stage and return to their table, bowing playfully and then sitting. Jamie feels not only my stare, but admiring eyes from all directions, and he tucks his knees under his chin.
I've been inspired by what Jamie and Stacy did. After a couple of weeks, I finally do it. I drag Ray and Benny up on stage and sing, "I Only Have Eyes For You". I wink in Yvette's direction throughout my performance, but it's not her I'm singing to.
Things begin to sour between me and Yvette when she begins to make snide comments about Stacy's hair, her clothes, her nose-ring, whatever. She also starts talking about Jamie because he wears the mascara sometimes, calling him "a little faggot". One night she says, "I'll prove it. I'll tell him I broke up with you and want to get with him." She returns later, boasting, "Yeah, he's a fag. He told me he wasn't interested. Nobody turns me down unless they're a fag."
After I've had enough, I sever ties with her as amicably as I can. She's not the kind who's without a boyfriend for long. She hooks up with Benny, who's almost twenty, and before we can blink, they're engaged. He's going into the marines in February, so they're set to get hitched in January. Yvette plans to continue high school as a married woman. I haven't bothered to ask whether or not that's allowed. If she can't return to campus, it'll be good riddance.
Even though Yvette won't have a thing to do with me now, I still hang around the church youth, sticking close to Ray and Benny. We go to some Mexican restaurant in Sactown in celebration of Yvette's upcoming nuptials (gag). In true form, she wants to hog all the attention. She starts babbling about baby names. I ask her if she's pregnant by any chance and she gives me a dirty look. "Of course not!" Benny looks more annoyed by the minute as she goes through a long list of atrocious names for boys. "And if our first is a girl, I'm gonna name her..."
"Bill!" I interrupt, and I'm surrounded by gales of mirth. Stacy and Jamie are about to choke on their chips and salsa.
I can't deny my delight whenever I see Jamie laugh or smile. He doesn't smile enough. I mean, he's always cutting up and grinning when he's with Stacy and them, but when he's alone and he doesn't know I'm watching him, he looks sad. I've never spoken directly to him, and I have to fight back the urge to walk up to him and ask...
The waitress comes to take our orders. I'm sitting in just the right seat for my new plan to make everyone laugh. "Yeah, let's see," I say, flipping nonchalantly through the menu. "I want a basket of chips. And some salsa, of course, and water to drink. And when I'm finished with that, I think I'll have... hmmm... some more of those great chips and salsa. Oh yeah, and you see that table over there?" I point. "Give 'em a round of waters, on me." The server is a good sport, shaking her head at me as I collect my aural reward before shrugging and ordering my usual carne asada with red rice.
On the day of the rehearsal for Yvette's wedding, I am tagging along every bit as much as Stacy and Jamie are. I'll bet it really sits well with Yvette when Ray asks Stacy, who in turn invites Jamie, to come to the church and watch the pre-production. I don't think anyone invites me. I just come. I know I'm going to enjoy myself if there's another episode of merriment that ends in Yvette being pissed beyond reason.
And there is. The sanctuary is adorned with lengths of wide, peach coloured silk ribbon, and reeks of peach roses and Yvette's Estee Slaughter perfume. The bride tries as usual to keep the focus on her and her oh-so-serious wedding business, but Stacy and Jamie (I've begun to realise that in their little capers, Stacy's usually the instigator and Jamie the reluctant-at-first-but-soon-enough-enthusiastic-as-hell follower) take possession of
the mics and start lip-syncing to the song Yvette hand-picked as her "love-theme". "You Light Up My Life" by Debby Boone blasts from the speakers in the ribbon-festooned church, and Yvette's eyes are positively satanic as she observes the two serenading each other on their knees, emphatically mouthing the god-awful lyrics and laughing hysterically. Everyone is laughing, even Yvette's folks. Pastor Asshole clears his throat. "Ahem. And at this point, I'll have everyone join together in prayer." The preacher wants to practice the prayer, now, and waits, barely masking his impatience as he rolls back and forth in his shined black church shoes. Stacy and Jamie continue giggling, and clutching their microphones, and I just have to say something.
"Uhmmm, Stacy? Jamie? Will you join us in prayer?" I call, stifling a chortle, unable to keep myself from smirking at them. Pastor gives me a look.
For a moment, they gawk at me, thinking I'm scolding them and that I don't find them funny. But too many people are tittering. Even Benny is having a good time. I give Stacy and Jamie an approving wink, and they light up, both of them, like Christmas trees, loving that I am in on their joke. This wedding stuff is way too formal, everyone agrees, with the notable exceptions of Yvette and the old man.
When I tease him and Stacy about the Asshole wanting to get serious and pray, it's the first time I've spoken directly to Jamie. It's apparent I've opened a can of worms, when I try to sneak my millionth glance at him to find him smiling at me, his fine-featured face echoing my own joy as our eyes meet. I'm filled with both anticipation and panic as he walks in my direction, no smile, his movements ambiguous. He keeps a safe distance, his eyes refusing to meet mine again as he says softly, "You're funny."
His soft, lilting voice makes me hard. I swallow and reply with difficulty, "Oh yeah?"
"You always make us laugh." The cherry-hued petals of his mouth bloom full into a smile so gorgeous I have to bite back a moan. His eyes raise, and now I must look away. I'm sensing something that disturbs me so much that I grunt dismissively at him before abruptly walking over to Ray and Benny talking nearby. I don't even look back to see the effects of my sudden rudeness. I have to get away from him.
He likes me! I don't think it in words, I just feel it. My heart throbs, my cock throbs, and pleasure flash-floods warmly throughout my body. I find refuge with Ray and Benny, eager to get my mind on something else... anything...
That night I dream about him, and I wake up floating on cloud nine and simultaneously filled with anxiety and disgust in myself.
What's wrong with me?! Why am I acting this way, feeling this way? Why am I constantly thinking about him? Why do I always look for him in the milling crowds at school? Why does his sad little smile make me ache inside? Why do I perpetually wish he'd look at me so I can get lost in those eyes?
From that day, I'm a mess, uneasy and thrilled whenever I'm within a few hundred feet of him, fucking confused, not understanding what's happening, not wanting what's happening (I'm not gay!), yet viscerally loving every second.
Around Valentine's Day I find a card clamped under one of my windscreen wipers. It says:
I wish I could tell you, I wish I could show you how I feel about you.
Other than the XXXOOO, it's not signed.
I hope it's from him. I can't believe myself.
Or what I do next.
I buy a bag of those little pastel candy hearts. I handpick two or three, put them in an envelope and shove them between the vents of his locker at school, praying to God nobody catches me. If anyone sees me doing this, I'll end up having to leave town before I'm ready to.
The ongoing turmoil manifests itself as moodiness. I begin reacting to Jamie's every smile, his every attempt to connect, with irate growls and icy scowls, and I watch, in covert horror, as his joy melts away, substituted by a dejection that is wrenching.
One day while I'm practising with the soccer team, someone kicks the ball and it lands right by him as he's walking home. My entire body reacts joyfully to the very sight of him. Though nobody can see it, I'm embarrassed, and it makes me so angry, at him, for existing! When he tries to pick up the ball for me, I scream so viciously at him that he flinches, stumbles backward, almost falls, and the hurt sparkling in his eyes mangles me. I never knew I could be so evil. I turn my back on the urge to put my arms around him and crush him against me...
...and I leave him standing there. I feel my soul rejecting my actions the way a body rejects a defective heart. That evening I skip dinner and go to bed early, but I don't sleep. I cry silently under my blankets in the dark. I want to wail, get this agony out of me, but if I cry too loudly, Mom will hear me. The pain sits there.
I'm miserable, but I go on doing what I'm "supposed" to do, fucking every easy girl from the home and away teams I can possibly put my dick into, bragging about my conquests in the locker room, doing everything I can to prove to myself that I'm a "normal" guy, straight, randy, meat-eating and beer-drinking, and all about pussy.
Anyway, so what? Just because I frequently catch him watching me (with those spectacular blue eyes), just because my smile (along with my huge boner) is involuntary whenever I see his smile, it doesn't mean anything. I'm reading too much into this! Maybe he's just friendly, for God's sake!
But, just in case, I never fail to enforce the sculpture—a derisive frown from the clay of my smile—so that if he does like me in that certain way, he'll get the message. He'll give the idea up, and he'll turn away (leaving me with a distressing pain in my centre after I've seen the resultant grief).
There's nothing here. He needs to know, and I have to be strong. I'm not gay and there's no way this can be...
And yet, whenever he's absent from school, or not there when the church youth get together for something, I'm not just dismayed, I'm desolate, unable to enjoy anything or anyone, incapable of prohibiting myself from hoping he's just late arriving on scene. After a day or more of not seeing him, a mere glimpse of him, even from a distance, is like water for a man lost in the Sahara.
six:
jamie
(high school)
It all starts in September, right after high school begins, on a Sunday at church. It's such a small thing. He simply holds my hand while we have prayer... and I've been obsessed ever since.
Stacy's the first and only one I've told, and it takes me a long, long time, at least a few weeks after school starts, to work up the courage. We've been passing notes back and forth, writing about the massive crush she's developed on Ray Battle. He got held back in sixth grade so he and his sister Yvette are both seniors. She's a snob but Ray's pretty cool. We three hang out a lot, mostly with the youth at the Baptist church, many of whom attend the high school with us. I don't go to church as often as I used to, but lately I've been willing to attend again. It's where I can see Tammy Mattheis when we're not in school.
Before I tell Stacy that I'm in love, I make her swear. Not to laugh at me. Not to think I'm a freak. Not to tell another living soul, not Lydia, or Sylvie, or Patti or Deeanna, not Ray, or that other dude Benny—not even Lloyd, as long as she lives. She promises, and when I tell her, she's so great. She doesn't say, "So you are gay!" She just hugs me and says, "Oh, my God, Jamie! He's so hot!"
He's at least two or three years my senior, stands at least six feet one inches tall, his fatless, flawless body weighing in at one-eighty or one-eighty-five. He stalks the campus like he owns it. He dresses in t-shirts fitted to flatter, jeans that hug his superb rear-end, Nike shoes, and his letterman jacket draped over those ample shoulders.
But it's not just the stuff that's so obvious about him, the beauty and confidence that is immediate and on the surface. There is something in his eyes, a real and solid presence of mind. He's very smart, with a self-possession that unnerves me. Believe me when I say, that is what really makes him irresistible to me. If he was the typical jock airhead, a big, dumb muscle, he wouldn't make me swoon as I do. I'm not one of his dozen or so bimbos. None of the other jocks interest me. Not a one of them can compete.
My heart pounds mercilessly in my chest and a hot blush stains the white skin of my throat and face when I see him, hear his voice, hear his name, think about him or even talk about him. "Oh my God," I sigh and hug her back, burying my scarlet face against her neck. "He is!"
My secret brings us closer. Our notes are now about Ray and Tammy. We've always heard that Mr. Monroe takes notes and reads them aloud to class when he catches people passing them. One day he takes a note from a girl and reads every private, embarrassing word to everyone. After that, Stacy and I are extremely cautious, and our grade point averages climb a notch or two.
We go to the Friday night football games to watch the guys we're in love with collide noisily in tackles and get mud splattered all over their beautiful blue, black and white uniforms. I've never wanted to play football in my life, and at my size, I doubt anyone would allow me on the team, but watching Tammy Mattheis throwing that ball, jogging lazily across the turf, running swiftly to crash against other bodies, does something to my insides.
I'm fourteen at this time, and in spite of what I'd experienced at the hands of my biological parents, I'm something of an innocent. I'm not ignorant, just ingenuous. Just because I've been penetrated and fucked, it doesn't mean I know anything about the exhilaration that comes over me whenever I look at this towering, dark haired icon whose hand held mine for the duration of a prayer.
These are feelings I'm having. Feelings that are new. Feelings that are real. I see the distinction between what I experienced with my parents and my feelings for Tammy.
I'm shy—far too shy to approach Tammy Mattheis and talk to him. My introversion is an enduring consequence of the life I lived before Lloyd changed everything with those bolt cutters. I've had to spend a lot of my energy pushing away memories of the abuse I suffered, and it's exhausting. Miss Halliday, the psychologist Lloyd sends me to, tries to help as much as she can. She's very kind and open-minded, and the way she lets her yellow hair hang down on her shoulders instead of wearing it in a severe bun puts me at ease. Lloyd's debriefed her on all the incest and abuse, but because I can't stand to talk about it, and because she doesn't force me to, I don't think the counselling's done me much good.
Crush Page 5
