Autoboyography

by Christina Lauren

  Side by side, we stand at the sink, lathering our hands and rinsing them under the tap. Our elbows knock together, and when I reach across him for the towel, my hip bumps into his. It’s just a hip, but my mind goes from hips to hip bones to what’s in between in a fraction of a second. My perving is nothing if not efficient.

  Realizing I can’t just stand there at the sink and think about his hips, I hand him the towel and return to the fridge. “Sandwiches okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I pull out lunch meat and cheese and whatever else I can find and snag plates and a few knives from the dishwasher. Sebastian has taken a seat on one of the kitchen stools. I slide the bread across the counter toward him.

  “So how’s the project coming?” He untwists the plastic bag, placing bread on the plates.

  “Project?”

  He laughs, leaning forward to meet my eyes. “You know, the book? For the class you’re in?”

  “The book, right.” The lunch meat is new, so it requires a little of my attention to open, which means I get at least ten seconds to stall. It’s still not enough. “It’s great.”

  He lifts a brow, surprised. “Great?”

  Everything I’ve written lately is about you, but it’s cool. No need for things to be awkward between us.

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug, unable to come up with anything more articulate under the weight of his attention. “I feel pretty solid.”

  Sebastian rips a piece of lettuce off the head and places it neatly on the center of his bread. “You going to let me read more?”

  “Yeah, totally,” I lie.

  “Now?”

  My answer comes out too sharply: “Not yet. No.”

  “You could come by after school next week, and we could look through it.”

  A mouthful of water seems to solidify in my throat. With effort, I swallow. “Really?”

  “Sure. How about Friday?”

  It gives me nearly a week to edit the book. “Okay.”

  “Bring me the first few chapters.” His eyes twinkle.

  I have just over five days to triage my book. Change the names, at the very least. Maybe take this book out of diary territory and into novel territory.

  Lord, give me strength.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, passing the bag of chips back and forth and finally cracking open a few caffeinated Cokes—so scandalous!—when Sebastian stands, walking over to a photograph stuck to the fridge. “That’s a great picture,” he says, leaning in to get a better look. “Where was this? This building is insane.”

  It’s a photo of me the summer after tenth grade. I’m standing in front of a towering, elaborately constructed church. “That’s the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona.”

  Sebastian blinks over to me, eyes wide. “You’ve been to Barcelona?”

  “My dad had a big conference and brought us along. It was pretty cool.” Moving to stand just behind him, I reach over his shoulder and touch part of the photo. “It looks different on each side. Where I’m standing is the passion side, and it’s simpler than the others. And in these towers”—I point to the stone spheres that seem to stretch into the clouds—“you can take a lift to the top.”

  “Your expression.” He laughs. “You look like you know something the person taking the picture doesn’t.”

  I look down at him, so close I can see the freckle he has on the side of his nose, the way his eyelashes practically touch his cheeks when he blinks. What I want to tell him is that I’d made out with a guy on that trip, only the second guy I’ve ever kissed. His name was Dax, and he’d been visiting with his parents. We snuck off during a dinner with a bunch of the other doctors and their families and kissed until our lips were numb.

  So yeah, I guess I did know something the person taking the picture didn’t know. But I told Dad and Mom about Dax a few months later.

  I want to tell Sebastian that he’s right, if only to see his reaction when I explain why.

  “I have this thing about heights,” I say instead. “And nearly lost it when my parents explained we had tickets to go to the top.”

  Lifting his chin, he looks up at me. “Did you go?”

  “Yeah, I did. I think I held my mom’s hand the entire time, but I made it. Maybe that’s why I look a little proud.”

  Sebastian steps away, sitting at the counter again. “We drove forty miles to Nephi once,” he says. “I think it’s safe to say you win.”

  I cough out a laugh. “Nephi sounds pretty cool.”

  “We visited the temple in Payson and watched a handcart reenactment along the Mormon trail. So . . . yeah.”

  We both laugh now. I cup a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Okay, maybe you’ll win the next one.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says, grinning at me over the top of his Coke. His smile dumps endorphins into my veins.

  “Maybe when we get the boat finished we can take it out.”

  He sets his can down next to his plate. “You’ve done that before?”

  “I mean, I’ve never pulled the trailer by myself, but I’m sure I can handle it. You could even come when we go to Lake Powell in July.”

  Sebastian’s face falls for a fraction of a second before his standard perfect persona slips back into place. “Sounds good.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll warm up soon,” I say. “An early summer.”

  I wonder if he can see the way my heart is banging against my ribs. “I hope so.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I spend all of my free time every weeknight frantically doing a find and replace for the names “Tanner,” “Tann,” and “Sebastian.” Tanner becomes Colin. Sebastian becomes Evan. Everyone I go to school with gets a new, generic name. Autumn becomes Annie. Fujita becomes Franklin, and the class becomes an honors chemistry lab.

  I realize it’s an exercise in futility. Even when I save the book in a new version, where “Colin” is actually interested in “Ian,” one of the LDS students in the class, I know my changes are sloppy and unconvincing at best.

  Friday after school, with the first four chapters printed and tucked under my arm, I walk from my car to the front door of Sebastian’s house. I would swear under oath that their doorbell is the loudest in existence. At least, it feels that way as soon as I’ve depressed the button. My pulse takes off without looking both directions; my nerves get slammed by an eighteen-wheeler.

  But there’s no going back now. I am about to enter Sebastian’s house. The bishop’s house.

  This isn’t really my first rodeo. I’ve been inside Eric’s house before, but his place is more LDS-lite. Eric’s senior photo now hangs where the portrait of the Savior used to be. They still have a framed photograph of the temple on the wall, but they also have a coffeemaker, like civilized people.

  This all means that part of the anticipation I’m feeling is the same way an archaeologist might feel before a big dig in Egypt: There’s going to be a lot to unearth here.

  Heavy footsteps land on the wood floors inside. They’re heavy enough to make me wonder whether it’s Mr. Brother on the other side of the door, and then I panic in a burst because I got my hair cut and put on my best clothes and what if instead of looking passably Mormon I look super gay?

  What if Sebastian’s father immediately sees my intentions for what they are and sends me away, forbidding his son from ever talking to me again?

  My panic spirals. I’m clean but don’t look particularly clean-cut; I’m obviously in lust with Sebastian; my dad is Jewish—is that bad? There aren’t a whole lot of Jews in Provo, but since we don’t really practice anyway, I never considered how that might make me more of an outsider. God, I don’t even know how to use the word “covenant” correctly. I feel sweat pricking at the back of my neck, and the door is swinging open. . . .

  But it’s only Sebastian, with a kid in a headlock under his arm.

  “This is Aaron,” he says, spinning slightly so I can see his b
rother better. “This is Tanner.” His brother is lanky, smiling, and has a head of dark floppy hair: a miniature version of his big brother. Well done, genetics.

  Aaron pushes away and stands, extending a hand for me to shake. “Hi.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He’s thirteen, and here I am wondering whether my handshake is sufficient. Mormons just seem so fucking good at these things.

  I let go and smile, resisting the urge to apologize. The cursing is going to have to stop, even if it’s only in my head.

  Almost as if he can tell there is a silent Chernobyl happening inside me, Sebastian ushers Aaron back inside and then tilts his head for me to follow him.

  “Come in,” he says, and then grins. “You won’t catch fire.”

  Inside, it is immaculate. And very, very Mormon. It makes me wonder how similar this is to Mom’s childhood home.

  Up front, there is a living room with two couches that face each other, an upright piano, and an enormous framed picture of the Salt Lake Temple. Beside it is a framed painting of Joseph Smith. I follow Sebastian down the hall, past a curio cabinet with a white statue of Jesus with his hands outstretched, framed photos of their four kids, and a wedding photo of his parents dressed completely in white. The two of them look like they’re barely out of puberty, if I’m being honest, and the wedding dress nearly climbs all the way to her chin.

  In the kitchen, as expected, there is no coffeemaker on the counter, but to my eternal delight, on the wall just by the kitchen table is a huge eight-by-ten photo of Sebastian standing on a brilliant green lawn, smiling from ear to ear and casually clutching a copy of the Book of Mormon.

  He catches me studying it and clears his throat. “Want something to drink? Root beer, Hi-C . . . lemonade?”

  I break my attention away from the photo to look over at him in the flesh—somehow so different here in front of me: eyes more guarded, skin clear even without photoshopping, stubble shadowing his jaw—and as ever my eyes are drawn to his splotchy cheeks. Is he embarrassed, or excited? I want to learn each and every one of his blushes. “Water’s fine.”

  He turns, and I watch him walk away before returning my attention to each of the framed wonders in this house. Such as a document in a heavy, gilded frame, entitled THE FAMILY: A PROCLAMATION TO THE WORLD.

  I never see stuff like this. In our house, you’d be much more likely to see a liberal manifesto nailed to the wall.

  I’ve read to the fourth paragraph, where the LDS Church proclaims that “the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife,” when Sebastian presses a cold glass of water into my hand.

  I’m so startled, I nearly knock it onto the floor.

  “So, this is interesting,” I say, working to keep my tone neutral. I’m torn between wanting to finish reading it and to somehow unread everything I’ve already absorbed.

  I’m starting to understand what Mom means about protecting me from the church’s toxic message.

  “There’s a lot packed into that one page,” Sebastian agrees, but from his voice I can’t tell how he feels about it. I knew all of this before I came over here—that is, sex is for heterosexuals; parents are obligated to teach their children these values; no sex before marriage; and above all, pray, pray, pray—but seeing it here in Sebastian’s house makes it feel more real.

  Which makes everything I’ve been feeling a little more unreal.

  I’m left momentarily dizzy by the realization that Sebastian’s family aren’t just enjoying the nice idea of this. They’re not just visualizing an idealized world; they’re not playing a game of Wouldn’t-It-Be-Nice-If. They genuinely, truly believe in this God, in these doctrines.

  I look over at Sebastian. He’s watching me, eyes unreadable.

  “I’ve never had someone over before who wasn’t a member,” he says. The mind reader. “I’m just watching you take it all in.”

  I decide to go for pure honesty: “It’s hard to understand.”

  “I wonder if you opened the Book of Mormon and just read a bit of it, whether it would speak to you.” He holds up his hands. “I’m not recruiting you. I’m just curious.”

  “I could try.” I don’t really want to try.

  He shrugs. “For now, let’s go sit down and talk about your book.”

  The tension of the moment snaps, and only after it’s gone do I realize I’ve been holding my breath, muscles clenched all over.

  We head into the family room, which is much cozier and less sterile than the living room up at the front of the house. Here, there are countless framed photos of the family: together, in pairs, alone leaning against a tree—but in every single one, they’re smiling. The smiles look real, too. My family is as happy as they come, but during our most recent photo session, my mom threatened Hailey with a closet full of colorful sundresses from the Gap if she didn’t stop sulking.

  “Tanner,” Sebastian says quietly. I look at him, and a slow grin spreads over his face until he breaks, laughing. “Is it that fascinating?”

  The way he’s teasing me makes me realize I’m acting like early man emerging from a cave. “Sorry. It’s just so adorably wholesome.”

  He shakes his head, looking down, but he’s still smiling. “Okay, so about your book.”

  Yeah, Sebastian. About my book. My book about you.

  My confidence bolts, leaving the scene of the crime. I hand over the printed pages. “I don’t think it’s great yet, but . . .”

  This makes him look up at me, interest lighting his eyes. “We’ll get it there.”

  Well, at least one of us is optimistic.

  I lift my chin, gesturing that he should dig in. He smiles, holding my gaze and offering a teasing “Don’t be nervous” before he blinks down to the pages in his hand. I watch his eyes flicker back and forth, and my heart is a grenade in my throat.

  Why did I even agree to this? Why did I try to rewrite the class sections? Yes, I wanted to spend time with Sebastian today, but wouldn’t it be so much easier to keep this a secret from him until I know where he and I stand?

  As soon as I have the thought, I realize my subconscious has already won: I wanted him to look for himself in it. So much of this is taken from our conversations. I’m here because I want him to tell me which love interest he wants to be: Evan or Ian.

  He nods as he finishes, and it seems like he goes back and reads the last section again.

  I do not expect him to say, “I have some time this weekend. I could help then.”

  This is probably a terrible idea. Yes, I’m attracted to him, but I worry that if I dig deeper, I won’t like him.

  But that would be for the best, wouldn’t it? It certainly wouldn’t hurt to get some time outside of this class, to get an answer to my question: Could we even be friends, let alone more?

  He swallows, and I watch as it moves his throat.

  “Does that work?” he asks, pulling my eyes back up to his face.

  “Yeah,” I say, and swallow. This time he watches. “What time?”

  He grins, handing it back to me. “Wow.”

  Wow? I wince. Obviously, that means it’s horrible. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “Don’t,” he says. “Tanner, I really like it.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nods and then bites his lip. “So . . . I’m in your book?”

  I shake my head. The pin is pulled from the grenade. “No one we know. Well, except Franklin is a stand-in for Fujita, obviously. I’m just using the class as the structure.”

  Running a finger under his bottom lip, Sebastian watches me for a few quiet seconds. “I think . . . I mean, I think this is about us.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “What? No.”

  He laughs easily. “Colin and . . . Ian? Or is it Evan, the TA?”

  “It’s about Colin and Ian. Another student.”

  Oh God. Oh God.

  “But,” he starts, and then looks down, blushing.r />
  I struggle to hold my cards close to my chest. “What?”

  He flips to a page and puts his index finger there. “You had a typo in Tanner here. Right where I think you mean to put ‘Colin.’ It didn’t pick up on your search and replace.”

  ARGH.

  The same stupid typo in my name I always make. “Okay, yeah. Originally it was about me and some theoretical person.”

  “Really?” he asks, eyes lit with curiosity.

  I fidget with the binder clip I’d used to hold the pages together. “No. I know you’re not . . .”

  He flips to another page and hands it to me.

  I curse under my breath.

  With his hands laced together in front of him, Franklin rocks back on his heels. “Seb has a very busy schedule, of course”—I mentally groan. Seb— “but he and I both feel that his experience can benefit each of you. I believe he will inspire you.”

  Seb. I never did a search and replace for the nickname.

  Sebastian’s about to say something else—his expression is impossible for me to read, but it doesn’t look like horror—when a voice rises from the doorway.

  “Sebastian, honey?”

  We both turn and look up at the sound. I want to kiss the woman who has derailed this awkward hellhole. His mother, I recognize from the photos, steps into the room. She’s petite, with dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I don’t know why I was expecting some frumpy, floral sister-wife dress and a giant Molly Mormon bow in her hair, but my synapses quickly rearrange themselves.

  “Hey, Mom,” Sebastian says, smiling. “This is Tanner. He’s in the Seminar this term.”

  His mother smiles at me, walking over to shake my hand and welcome me to the house. My heart is still jackhammering around inside my ribs, and I wonder if I look like I might pass out. She offers me something to drink, something to eat. She asks what we’re working on, and we both mumble out something blah, blah book-related without looking at each other.

  But apparently our answers were sufficiently wholesome because she turns to Sebastian. “Did you call Ashley Davis back?”

  As if on their own steam, Sebastian’s eyes flicker to me and then back. “Remind me again who she is?”