by L. Philips
I look where she’s looking, in the direction of the entrance, where two boys about my age enter. One’s thin with spiked-up hair and a great smile and the other . . .
The other is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s small, with icy green eyes and thick black hair that falls into his face as he moves. And the way he moves makes me want to quote Byron.
I watch in what I think is a discreet manner as they shed their jackets and claim a table by the window. They’re both wearing green-and-gray ties, with gray sweaters over them that have the same emblem embroidered on the chest.
I turn back to Meg. “Holy Cross High School?”
She nods, mouth agape. “Maybe I should have let my parents send me there.”
“Yeah,” I agree, snorting. “Although something tells me I have a better chance with these boys than you do.”
“Oh I don’t think so. The blond one checked me out as they walked in.”
“Well, you can have that one, I’m more into—” I stop my teasing short because the beautiful one is standing right next to me at the bar. Right next to me. And holy shnikes, Batman, he even smells good.
Ted—stupid Ted with his stupid easy excuses to talk to cute boys—offers the boy a big smile and says, “What’ll it be today?”
The beautiful boy replies, “Spearmint tea for me. Triple espresso for Brad.”
“I’ll bring it out to you,” Ted promises, but the boy doesn’t move. I dare to look in his direction and see that he’s staring down at my homework. Meg elbows me in the ribs again.
I clear my throat and the pretty one flushes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy. Your homework caught my attention. I sort of love Latin.”
“If I’m doing this wrong, please tell me. I was distracted today during class.” I shoot Meg a scathing glance for good measure, because now it’s all her fault if the beautiful boy thinks I’m stupid. Her eyes are wide and she’s nodding at me, urging me to keep talking.
“Well, actually, if you want to conjugate this . . .” I don’t have any clue what else he says, because at that moment he reaches for my pencil and our hands brush. I almost yelp when his skin touches mine.
He corrects my homework for me and explains it, but then Ted delivers his drinks. In a rush to keep him there, I pick up my notebook to ask about another translation, and he sees my English notebook underneath. Before I can cover it up, he’s read all three items on my list.
“Eyes,” he says to me, and I’m too busy willing myself to shrivel up and die to fathom what he’s talking about. Another sharp elbow lands in my side.
“Huh?” I ask. Oh Sam, you’re an idiot.
“For your list, which . . . I assume isn’t homework.” The beautiful Catholic-school boy smirks at me from behind his cup of spearmint tea. “The windows of the soul. Nice eyes should be on your list.”
“Hey, ready?” Suddenly the other boy is there, and he gives me a disdainful glance before slipping his hand into his boyfriend’s. He’s maybe a 5 or a 6 on the hotness scale, while the pretty boy is easily a 9.8. It’s totally off balance, but I’ll give him one thing: he’s got beautiful amber eyes that seem to be lit up from within, especially when he looks at his boyfriend.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Thanks for the help . . . um . . .”
“Nic,” the pretty boy says. “And this is Brad.”
“I’m Sam, and this is Meg. Thanks for explaining the Latin. I’m usually really good at this, honest.” Meg jumps to my defense beside me, echoing my claim.
Nic just nods. There’s a bit of laughter behind his eyes like there’s no way in hell he believes me. “Good luck with the rest of your work.” He winks, which just about gives me a heart attack, then he and his boyfriend leave the Donkey without looking back.
“What the hell, Meg?” I ask, turning slowly toward her. “What the hell?”
“Should have gone to Holy Cross,” she mumbles into her cappuccino.
“Why? Why are there pretty gay boys at a Catholic school in Nelsonville, the biggest hick town this side of the Hocking River, and none in Athens?”
“Isn’t there a law about that? Murphy’s law or something?”
“A law about how all gay boys will be wherever Sam Raines is not?”
“Something like that.” She snorts, then pats my hand. “So . . . what have you learned?”
I think for a beat. “I have a Catholic-school boy kink?”
“Besides that.”
I think hard, remembering the pretty boy, taking in the details. “I want someone with nice eyes. And that hair. Meg, did you see his hair?”
Meg is busy pulling my list out of the pile of homework in front of me. “Yeah, I saw his hair. So . . . nice eyes and good hair?”
“Thick hair,” I amend. “Something I can run my fingers through.”
She scribbles these things on the list in her loopy handwriting, then looks back to me impatiently. “And what else have we learned?”
I’m clueless, so I shrug. I have no doubt that whatever I’m meant to have learned has something to do with signs from a goddess or the mysteries of the universe.
She lays her hand over mine and pats it like she’s explaining something to a small child. “We’ve learned this isn’t impossible. There are plenty of boys close by, now we just need them to come to you.”
Perfect 10
1. Sexy
2. Talented
3. Style
4. Nice eyes
5. Thick hair
I stare at my list. I’m in Latin class. My homework was perfect and I even understand it now that I look over the slanted letters Catholic Boy printed to replace my mistakes. Mr. Ames isn’t much for grammar today, though, so he’s lecturing on the Colosseum instead of actually teaching the language. That’s just fine with me. I have to work on my list. I need five more things, and I have only one day left to come up with them. How had I thought twenty would be a reasonable number? Clearly, zeroing in on things that would make Mr. Right, well, right is going to take a while.
“Sam.”
Rachel Gliesner taps me on the shoulder and I reach back automatically for the note she’s going to hand me. Rachel sits between me and Landon in the middle row in Latin, and has since freshman year. Thank goodness she’s a sweet girl with a sense of humor, because she’s probably passed a million and a half notes between us over the years, and I’m sure that as sweet as she is, she probably wanted to wring both our necks while we were dating.
I open the note. Landon has scrawled, After school?
I scribble, Coffee with Meg. Come with? and hand it back over my shoulder to Rachel. Seconds later the note is returned to me with a simple smiley face drawn on it.
Typical Landon.
I met Landon freshman year. He’d gone to West Middle School because he lives in the snobby part of town, so I hadn’t met him until my middle school and his merged into Athens High.
It was sort of a mutual, easy thing. I’d told everyone I was gay by the time I hit eighth grade, and it wasn’t a secret for him either. So naturally the rest of the school pushed and shoved until we found each other, and we started dating by the time Christmas break rolled around. We didn’t even really ask each other out, it was just assumed after we kissed (that happened at Jack Grossman’s Christmas party, which was in his basement while his parents hovered nervously upstairs, but it was the first time any of us had been to a real party) that we were together.
Landon was my first kiss. And here it comes: Landon was my first everything. Everything, if you catch my drift. That’s the truth of it and it might also have been our biggest mistake.
Once we were together we fell in love hard and fast, and we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. To be blunt, the hormones were a-raging. When sex happened, it caught us completely by surprise. Don’t get me wrong, even though sex ed is
clearly just for straight people, it’s not like we didn’t know what we were doing. My parents, in their usual fashion, had bought me books about gay sex, and Landon had done his fair share of “research” online (read: porn). We knew the mechanics, how part A fits into slot B, et cetera, but we were totally, completely, utterly unprepared for how it made us feel.
By then we were fifteen, it was the summer between our freshman and sophomore years in high school (simultaneously the best and worst summer of my life), and to be honest, I figured there must be something wrong with me that I couldn’t handle it. We’re guys, after all, isn’t this what we were supposed to do? Shouldn’t it be no big deal?
But as it turns out, it was a big freaking deal, because it made everything else so intense. Sometimes that was nice. Every kiss became a promise of something more. Every time he said “I love you” I felt invincible. But on the flip side, the bad stuff blew up too. The smallest disagreement became an enormous fight. The tiniest doubt grew into suspicion and accusations. The weight of our feelings settled on us and began to smother. It was too much, too fast, and we were underprepared and too young.
That’s right, I’ll say it: we were too young to have sex. Write that down in the books, ladies and gentlemen. A teenager admitted he was too young for sex. Go ahead. Throw your Abstinence Club party. Don’t forget the streamers.
Of course we didn’t figure that out then. We were both too stupid/stubborn/in love to really get what was going on. All we knew was it felt like we were slowly suffocating each other.
I broke things off with him on a bench on College Green, one October afternoon. It was a cowardly move on my part, because my dad was going to New York the next day, and Mom and I were going with him, and I wouldn’t be home for a week, but it was the only way I could go through with it.
Landon didn’t talk to me for six months. I think—and I don’t mean to sound vain about this—that it was harder for him than it was for me. As jealous and possessive as I was about him, he was ten times worse about me. I would hear things—through Meg, who was good friends with him too, or from random people at school—about how he wasn’t coping well. But one day he showed up on my doorstep with a single rose and simply said, “Sorry I’ve been distant. I’ve been processing.”
Of course I wanted to dive in and analyze things, but it seemed he was already done with that part. Before I could say anything else, he said, “It was too intense. Way too intense.”
And that was that. No analysis required. We’d both arrived at the same conclusion, and there was nothing more to talk about.
It’s always different when Landon joins us at the Donkey. Not a bad different, just different. We talk more and work less. Meg sets aside her witch book, I abandon the short story I’ve been writing, and we let Landon tell us the latest gossip. The thing about Landon is that he’s really easygoing and really quiet when he wants to be, so people tend to talk around him, even the teachers, under the false impression that he’s not listening or he doesn’t care enough to tell anyone else. He’s always got a variety too, since he floats between cliques at our school and fits in with all of them equally well. He’s like a walking Us Weekly.
When he’s done, Meg fills Landon in on our latest: the status of the list and the voodoo she’s researched that will go along with it. Landon’s intrigued, to say the least.
“So what do you have so far?”
I pick up my short story and reveal the list to him. He scans it and snorts as he gets to the last item on the list.
“Thick hair? Well, I guess that means I’m out.” He chuckles, running a hand self-consciously through his blond hair, which is baby fine and falls around his head in chunks that alternate between limp and sticking straight out. Yes, I was once very attracted to this boy, but that was eons ago and I wasn’t really thinking with my brain. Thick hair isn’t the only item on the list Landon falls short with, but the one he has a shot with is his eyes. They’re a pretty shade between gray and blue, and huge.
“You should have seen the boy that inspired him to put thick hair on the list.” Meg’s practically swooning as she talks.
“Tell me,” Landon says, and gives me his full attention. I tell him all about the Catholic-school boy, unafraid to share every detail, and he hums his approval when appropriate. It’s times like these that I’m really thankful that Landon and I became friends after the breakup. Meg is always great for girl talk, but Landon truly gets where I’m coming from.
Meg gets up to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Landon for a few minutes, and Landon doesn’t let the opportunity go to waste.
“You’re actually hoping this spell will work, aren’t you?”
I laugh a little, staring down at my list. “You know I don’t believe in this shit.”
“I know, but that’s not stopping you from wanting it to work, is it?”
I look up at him. “It would be nice if it did. That’s all.”
“I understand that completely,” he says. Then, “Hey, Sam? Can I be there tomorrow night? For this little black magic ritual, I mean.”
“Meg says it’s actually white magic, whatever the glittery hell that means, so don’t let her hear you call it black. And of course,” I answer. “Want to make your own list? I’m sure we could do the spell for two.”
Landon smirks at the offer, but there’s something a little off in his eyes. Distant.
“Nah, I think I’ll wait and see how yours goes first.”
“I see. You’re letting me be the guinea pig.”
“There’s a reason why royalty always had people taste their food.”
We’re laughing at that when Meg sits down with us again. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Landon says. “I was asking if I could be there when you two perform magic.”
“No.”
Meg’s answer is so quick and final that it takes both Landon and me a moment to recover. I get there first. “What? Why not?”
“Because,” Meg begins, using the tone she always uses when she thinks we’re being idiots, “this spell is about your future, Sam, and Landon is a part of your past. You don’t want his presence interfering with that. It’s bad juju.”
“I thought you said this wasn’t voodoo?” Landon asks me, and Meg glares at him.
I sigh. “He’s part of my future too, Meg. As a friend. Just like you. I want him there.” When she says nothing, I pout. “Please, Meghan Grace?”
“Don’t call me that. And fine,” she relents. “If you want him there, it’s your call. But you have to follow my instructions exactly. I don’t want his presence mucking this up.”
“Yes, great voodoo priestess!” Landon says, and Meg, finally laughing, wads up a napkin and tosses it at Landon’s face.
Going home from the Donkey is better when Landon’s there, because he has a car and Meg and I don’t have to walk. It’s a Honda Civic that’s seen better days, nothing in comparison to the Mercedes and Audi that his parents have in their garage, but it’s a car. They told him when they bought it for him that he’d have to work to get a car like theirs, just like they did. It was supposed to teach him responsibility or prove he wasn’t totally spoiled or something, but he never had to pay a cent for it regardless.
I have permanent shotgun in his car so Meg doesn’t even try to call it. I promise I’ll call her later when Landon drops her off at her house, and we drive off. We head to my house, where my mother welcomes him with so much fanfare you’d think he’d been off fighting in a war.
She pushes muffins (lemon poppy seed, still warm from the oven) our way, then makes herself scarce, but not without ruffling Landon’s already messy hair on her way out. Landon helps himself, and through a mouthful of muffiny goodness says, “Your dad home?”
I shake my head and pull on the fridge door, removing two Diet Cokes from the inside. We pop them open and settle onto stools at t
he kitchen counter. “New York again. Probably until the end of the month. I think he’s even doing a couple of book signings.”
And because Landon knows Allen Raines, he chuckles. “I bet he hates it.”
I laugh too. “Mom and I are bracing ourselves for the Fame Stifles My Creativity rant when he gets back.”
“Which isn’t much different from his son’s English Class Stifles My Creativity rant.”
I lean across the counter so I can get closer to his face when I stick my tongue out at him. Landon ignores me in favor of another bite of muffin, then picks up his phone. I peer down, nosy. He’s checking the weather for tomorrow’s big event.
“Gonna be freezing in a graveyard at midnight,” Landon says with a slight wince.
“I just hope it doesn’t take forever. You know how Meg is with this stuff.”
“Yeah, didn’t she meditate in the woods for five solid hours last summer?”
“According to her.” I grin at him and polish off my muffin. I take another from the plate. “We’ll just have to rein her in. The spell I wrote is short, anyway. And the list itself is only ten words. Or it will be, when I’m done.”
Landon recites the list from memory. That’s another one of Landon’s skills. Near photographic memory. That’s why he can pass all of his classes with minimal effort. Of course he gets minimal grades as well, but Landon isn’t one to do any work he doesn’t have to do.
“Sexy, talented, style, nice eyes, thick hair . . .” He sniffs. “That’s only half of Mr. Right. You need five more.”
I groan. “I know. Help me think.”
“Hmm.” Landon takes a long swallow of Coke and muses. “What about a sense of humor? You’re pretty funny sometimes. Mostly unintentionally. You should have a boyfriend who laughs at your jokes.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, but consider it. “And shouldn’t he make me laugh too?”
Landon shrugs. “Sure.”
“So that would be two different things, right? He should be funny and he should find me funny.”
