Riding with Brighton

by Haven Francis

  “Got anything interesting going on this weekend?” I ask in a lame attempt to engage him. I mean, if the kid is gonna be my role model, I should know something about him, right?

  “There’s always something interesting going on so, yeah, I do.” He smiles at me again.

  “In this town?” I ask with a doubtful eyebrow raised.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Yeah, of course.” His tone makes me feel stupid. Like there really is something interesting going on in this town, which really is not possible. “What about you?”

  “Not really. Same shit as usual: baseball… parties.”

  “Cool,” he tells me.

  “You don’t really think that’s cool.”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Sure I do.”

  “Really?” I laugh at what has to be sarcasm. “Have you been to any of our games?”

  “Well, no. I mean, it’s not my thing, but it’s yours. And you know… that’s cool.”

  “What’s your thing?”

  “I got all kinds of things.”

  Fine. Don’t tell me anything. I’m not gonna beg.

  “What the hell is going on in your drawing?” I ask, my eyebrows pinched together as I stare at all the crazy shit that seems to be spinning out of her mouth.

  “She’s an oracle,” he states, like that should explain it all. When I don’t respond he adds, “She’s speaking the words of gods into some poor unsuspecting guy’s head.”

  “No shit, huh?” I think about my dream, then ask him, “Did they really believe that? That something could just put thoughts in their heads?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  He cocks his head at me and kind of shuts one eye like he can’t quite get me in focus. “No, Jay, I don’t,” he says with a smirk. “But I can see how they could. I mean, a world with little actual knowledge of how things work is a world where you’ll grasp on to just about anything to make sense of the crazy shit running through your brain, right?”

  “What about dreams?” Okay, yes—I’m blatantly grasping on to the possibility that God himself was whispering to me last night and that’s why I woke up with such clarity, trying to take on the world. I’m desperate for a reason to get back to that place where change is possible.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you think the oracles whispered the words of the gods while the poor unsuspecting guys were sleeping?” He’s already looking at me weird, so I add, “That’s what I would believe if I were them. I mean, that’s when all the unexplained weird ideas end up in your head, right?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  I shake my head and look away from him. “I must have had some crazy dream last night because when I woke up I didn’t feel like myself.”

  “That shit happens to me all the time. Don’t stress, Jay. There aren’t oracles coming into your room at night.”

  “Really? I mean, about the dreams happening to you.”

  “Yeah. Last week I was pissed off all day at Shaw… you know him?”

  “Yeah, of course I know him.” He’s one of Brighton’s best friends.

  “So you know that doesn’t make any sense because there’s no one nicer than Shaw. He’s about the only person I’ve never been pissed off at in real life. But then I remembered that I had a dream where he dropped his pants and pissed all over Nico’s Xbox and ruined the thing right when I was about to kick his ass for the first time in Mortal Kombat.”

  He laughs, and I want to cry because that’s about as far away from a message from God as you can get. And yet I ask him, “So what do you think it meant?”

  “The dream?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. I guess my subconscious was feeling inferior that night—I don’t have a shot in hell at ever beating Nico at that game, and I’ll never be hung like Shaw is. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my dick’s plenty big….”

  I practically choke on the pen that, somehow, ended up back in my mouth.

  “Careful there,” Brighton says with a laugh. “If you can’t handle that tiny Bic, what are you gonna do if you ever have a big one in your mouth?”

  I throw my pen at him. “Can we stop with the fucking Bic jokes?”

  He picks the pen up off his lap and casually starts drumming his, now two, pens against his desk for a few seconds before turning to me and saying, “You got another uni-ball in your backpack? I would really like a complete set.”

  I reach over and yank the uni-ball out of his hand. “I get it, okay. I have obscene pens. Jesus, I’ve never talked about Bics and balls so much in my entire life. Can we change the damn subject?”

  “Sure. You want to talk about breasts or vaginas? Would that make you feel more comfortable?”

  I throw him a seething glare.

  “What? I’m sorry, okay. You have no idea how fun it is to mess with homophobes when given the chance. I mean, it’s so fun right up until the second they threaten to tear your intestines out of your body and strangle you with them.”

  My head snaps back, and my eyebrows furrow. “I’m not homophobic, asshole.”

  “Asshole? Is that your subconscious talking again?”

  “Jesus, is everything a perverted joke to you?”

  His smile slowly slips away, and then he starts chewing on the inside of his mouth like he’s contemplating. “I went too far, didn’t I? You’re pissed at me.”

  “Yes, you went too far. But no, I’m not pissed at you. It’s just a little insulting that you think I’m homophobic. I mean, I know we’re not best friends, but I thought you knew enough of me to understand that I’m not some judgmental, closed-minded prick.”

  He props his head on his hand and looks up at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “I mean, honestly, I think you’re cool. I wouldn’t mind hanging with you,” I tell him. Then I think, That was weird. Was that weird?

  The bell rings, and Ms. Case dismisses us over the clattering of the desks. Shit.

  I pack up my bag, then stand. When I turn to leave, Brighton’s standing in front of me holding out a piece of paper. “Seriously, I’m sorry. Hit me up sometime if you want.”

  I take the paper and nod at him, and then he’s gone.

  I look at the piece of paper and smile because a little bit of the fight just came alive in me again.

  “Did that fag just give you his number?” Brian, one of my awesome friends, asks me with disgust in his voice.

  “Fuck off,” I say, shoving it in my back pocket. “It’s Amy’s. I guess it fell out of my pocket and he picked it up.”

  And then I feel that little bit of fight, that hint of euphoria, run the hell away from me screaming because why would it want to take up residence in some ass who willingly pretends to be a homophobic, closed-minded, judgmental prick?

  Why would someone like that deserve to be anything but fucking miserable?

  Chapter Two

  Brighton

  “HEY,” JAY says, walking up to the bench where I’m sitting. I turn my head to him with an amused smirk on my face.

  With one glance I can tell the kid is nervous as hell. I figured he would be. When he called me last night to ask if I would meet him here, you could already tell he was freaking out about it. I was surprised he called at all. I thought he said that shit to prove how not-homophobic he was, and the only reason I gave him my number was because I felt bad about how much crap I had given him. “What’s up?”

  “Uh….” He stalls, taking his baseball cap off, running his fingers through his blond hair, then pulling it on backward now so I have a clear view of his blue eyes. “Nothin’ really. Just, you know… finished practice.”

  “Awesome.” His eyes veer farther away from mine, so I turn back around and wait for him to say something. I take the moment of silence to assess the situation. I’m pretty sure I know why he’s here. There’s really only one reason for Mr. Popular to want to meet me at the park. I mean, despite the fact that we have a class together and during
that hour we’re cool, it’s not like we’re friends. And this isn’t the first time a guy has tried “getting to know me” or wanted to “meet up” because I’m the only gay guy they know and they’re curious if maybe they got some gay in them too. I learned pretty quickly that I don’t have the patience to counsel some confused kid through the perils of coming to terms with who they are, so I don’t normally do this.

  But Jay… I didn’t see that one coming. I was too curious about what, exactly, he wanted from me. And a little too turned on by that athletic body to blow him off.

  But one look at him and I can already tell how this is gonna go down. If he is here for the reasons I think he is, then he clearly jumped the gun—he’s not ready. And if something were to go down, it would end up in one of those shameful situations where he avoids looking at me for the rest of the year. And what the hell is up with meeting me at a park? For sure I’m not willing to be on the other side of a glory hole, which is totally how this park situation feels. I mean, isn’t a park the stereotypical place closeted guys think they should go to experiment? I keep glancing at the brick bathroom and shuddering at the thought of dried piss and sharp metal.

  I’m not doing this.

  “Listen, Jay…,” I say, leaning forward on my knees, cranking my head again to look at him. I stop, though, when his face tightens and his gaze hits the ground. For a second he looks completely vulnerable and not at all like the kid who runs the school.

  “Shit,” he mutters, running his hands down his face. When he takes them away, he’s looking directly at me for the first time, and he smiles. And then he laughs. It’s damn cute, and I smile back. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head and coming to sit next to me on the bench. His hesitation is gone now, the confident kid he usually is taking over again. He leans into the bench, propping his elbows on the back of it and stretching his legs out in front of him. He turns to me and gives me a crooked smile. Jay’s got a dozen smiles, but I don’t know the one he’s given me, twice now, today. By far, it’s the cutest out of all of them and, honestly, all his other smiles are damn cute already.

  “What are you sorry about?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I just had a little ‘what the hell am I doing’ moment there. You gotta think I’m weird… asking you to hang out with me today.”

  I laugh and sit back on the bench, mimicking his posture. “You’d be surprised how often random people ask me to hang out with them.”

  “Really? I mean, we’re a little old to be making new friends, right? Like, ‘hey dude, I think the two of us would get along, and I’m tired of the friends I got, so I thought we could chill. What do you say?’” He laughs at himself and shakes his head.

  And I’m confused. It almost sounds like that’s what he’s doing—trying to make a new friend. “Why do you think we’d get along?”

  He narrows his eyes. “We do get along, right? I mean, when we talk in class it seems like we get along. And you’re about the only guy who wants to talk to me about something other than sports and partying and…. you know… whatever.” He looks away and shakes his head before speaking again. “I keep thinking when I get to college, I’ll just start over… choose my friends more wisely. But I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

  Okay. I’m confused as fuck now. I think when he hesitated the word girls should have been inserted, which would mean it’s one of the things—along with sports and partying—that he’s sick of talking about. Or maybe he just thinks the word would offend my sensitive gay ears. I mean, yeah, sometimes in class it seems like we’re flirting, but I generally tell myself it’s my active and stupidly optimistic brain making shit up. I’m not really getting any gay vibes from him, and I get what he’s saying—the guys he hangs out with all seem like they came out of a copy machine, and I can’t imagine their conversations are breaking any virgin ground. “So you want me to be your new friend?”

  He laughs again. “It’s stupid, right? You already got a ton of friends… interesting friends. People that are nothing like me. Jesus, I seriously feel like I’m in second grade. And also like a charity case. I shouldn’t have… I mean, you probably got better things to do than sit around a park with me. Sorry….” He leans forward like he’s about to stand and walk and, even though I don’t know what the hell he wants from me, I know I’m not ready to see him go yet.

  “It’s cool, man. There’s always room for more friends, right? And I do have other shit I need to be doing today, but it’s nothing you can’t do with me.”

  “Yeah?” he asks, that damn cute grin back on his face.

  I shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

  “Cool,” he says, relaxing back into the bench.

  We’re silent for a few moments, staring at the archaic park in front of us. “So why’d you pick this place?” My right eye twitches as I try to avoid looking at the brick building in the corner.

  “You live around here, right?”

  “Down the street.”

  “Just being courteous I guess. Plus, I always liked it here. I used to play Little League on that field.” He nods toward a patch of grass where a chain-link fence suggests the diamond it used to be. “I thought that rocket was the coolest thing in the world. In my memories it’s way bigger than that.” His eyes shift to the metal rocket in the center of the playground that really should be torn down. If a kid were to go up that rusted piece of shit, I’m sure he’d come down minus a quart of blood. “It looks so damn small now,” he says like he’s fascinated. He stands suddenly and heads toward it. I watch as he walks across the playground. He’s wearing his white baseball pants and a black-and-white jersey. I’m thinking I’m gonna be damn disappointed if all the kid really wants is a new buddy.

  He gets to the base of it, holding on to the railing that leads inside and looking up like he’s thinking about climbing in.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Why not?” Before I can answer, he ducks and takes a step inside.

  Shit. I stand and cross the playground. “Because it’s either gonna collapse under you or you’re gonna slice yourself open. You up to date on your tetanus shot?” I call up the damn rocket he’s ascending.

  “You scared?” he asks, looking down at me. He looks like a giant in the small space.

  “Of course I’m not scared.”

  “Get your ass up here, then.” He maneuvers his long body so he’s sitting on top of the slide.

  “I’m pretty sure I can’t fit in there.”

  “Bullshit. If I did it, you can too.”

  “I got a couple inches on you, pretty boy.”

  “Pretty boy? Really?”

  “Yeah, pretty boy.”

  “I think you’re the one who’s afraid of tearing your clothes… or cutting your flawless skin.”

  Flawless skin? He’s obviously taking a jab at me, but that definitely sounded gay.

  I climb into the rocket.

  With my first step, the whole thing shakes. “Oh shit,” I mumble, taking the next steps three at a time, praying to God the whole thing doesn’t topple over. When my head pops out the top, I’m practically on top of Jay.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I say snidely.

  “Are you sure? Sounded like maybe you shit your pants on the way up.”

  “Yeah, I totally shit my pants…. Shut the hell up and get your ass down the damn slide so I can get out of here.”

  “I don’t know if I want to do that. I kind of like the view.” He crosses his arms over his chest like he’s getting comfortable.

  I push him, but he’s quick, and he grabs a hold of the slide, stopping his descent. “There are park rules, Brighton. No pushing. You gotta wait your turn.”

  “I was never any good at following rules,” I tell him, hoisting my body up into the small opening and throwing my legs out in front of me so they’re hanging off the sides of the slide. I’m practically straddling Jay now and this is just too gay, even for me. “Oh shit,” I mut
ter when I realize how narrow the slide is and how much higher it feels now that I’m on it. And how damn hot it is. “Jesus, will you go already? I think I just got third-degree burns on my hands.”

  “Let go of the slide,” he says, laughing easily. “Or are you afraid?”

  “I am a little afraid, honestly. This thing is not wide enough for me, and I’m sure as hell not letting go.” I bend my knee and shove my boot into his back.

  He slides, and I’m right behind him, desperate to get off this death trap. At the end he stands, and I run into him, knocking him forward and toppling down on him. Oh shit. I literally just fell on top of him in the perfect rear-entry position. I roll off him and onto my back. He flips over so he’s on his back too. He’s laughing again, which is better than calling me a fag and telling me to stop trying to break into his back door, which, sadly, is the more likely response I would expect from him. But he’s just lying next to me. Laughing.

  “This is funny, huh?”

  “Yeah. Holy shit, you’re a total pussy.”

  “Shut the hell up. What grown-ass man climbs into something like that so he can go down a slide?”

  “You—apparently.”

  “God… you’re right. I totally just reverted back to a five-year-old, doing stupid shit because some asshole kid called me scared.”

  “So I’m an asshole kid?” His voice is no longer easy, so I turn my head to look at him. He’s got his head turned, looking at me too. Our faces are maybe two feet apart. He’s definitely hot. Especially like this—his brows furrowed, his eyes searching, his lips parted like he’s about to speak.

  “I hope not. I don’t hang out with assholes.”

  He turns his head away from me. “I’m serious. Am I an asshole? Is that what people think about me?”

  “How the hell do I know what people think about you? It’s not like I sit around having conversations about you.”

  “Right. That was stupid. Why the hell would people like you give a shit about people like me?”