Summer of the Boy
By: Sarah Zolton Arthur
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Zolton Arthur
All rights reserved. This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Check Out More from Sarah Zolton Arthur
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MY FEARLESS FAKE FLING
May
Chapter One
“I’m so stupid.” His voice rises loud above the clatter of voices. Voices belonging to the throngs of men and women packed in two rows deep, all of them waiting for a turn at each game running along the boardwalk. Duck Hunt. Fish Bowl Toss. Ring Toss. Lots of “toss” games at a carnival. Over and over again I hear, “I’m so stupid.”
What the hell?
The crowd of gawkers swells with each of the poor man’s cries. As they move in, his cries grow louder, causing the crowd to gawk harder.
Someone has to put him out of his misery.
Someone, it seems in this case, has to be me as no one else steps up to do the job. When I muscle my way through the tight gathering of bodies, well, I’m momentarily struck dumb. Even amid a major freak-out, men with his level of hotness only exist in magazines and wet dreams. And I would know, I’ve had plenty of both.
Having been back in town for a couple of days, I’ve seen him around, working here, but never really gave him a second look. Why didn’t I second look sooner? Spending my days at the boardwalk was already better than being stuck at home. Now though, whoa.
He’s usually a quiet guy. Mostly keeps to himself, unless someone speaks directly to him which must have happened since he’s in the center of an ever growing circle of losers, screaming and crying, his face puffy, and red.
“I’m so stupid.” He screams again. Hitting himself repeatedly on the head. Hard.
“What happened?” I ask the random standing next to me.
“Don’t know. He was already mid freak-out when I got here. So weird,” he answers with a strain to his voice from craning his neck to get a look at the spectacle.
“Shut the fuck up. I think he’s autistic, you douche.” He reminds me of my cousin who happens to be autistic. “Somebody needs to stop this.”
“Whatever. That chick.” Douche loser points to a woman standing off to freak-out boy’s side. “Says she’s a social worker. Tried to talk to him all nice and soft. He just kept screaming and hitting himself.”
“Well, she’s not doing the right thing.”
“Then you do it if you’re so mighty.”
Me? Everyone would be watching. When I decided to wade in, I wanted to be the good guy. Now I’m wishing I’d have kept my yap shut. All these faces, so many of them familiar. It’ll be social suicide to get involved. I know it. None of these people know about me, and I graduated with half of them. For my family, who still live locally, I should keep my mouth shut.
But hell, not one of these former classmates, some who recognize me, turning their noses up at my appearance, some who don’t recognize me and turn their noses up at my appearance, show the least bit of compassion for the guy. And god, he needs someone.
Screw it.
Who needs a social life anyway, right? A couple of months and I’ll be back to the safety of school, town forgotten. I’m not the guy they knew, namely the prom king who escorted his girlfriend, and as cliché as it sounds, pom captain, up the stage to receive her crown for prom queen as well.
We were the “it” couple.
I never wanted it. I had to pretend I wanted it. When we broke up after graduation, I thought the road had been cleared of all obstacles. Go to college two states over, and finally get to be me. My folks took the whole guess what, I’m gay thing pretty well, but no sense rocking that boat without getting to test the waters first. The plan had been to blend this summer. Keep a low profile.
“Stupid.” The guy still yells, while smacking his head hard.
After rubbing my clammy hands down the front of my jeans and one huffed out breath big enough to flutter the purple streaked bangs from my eyes later, I push through the crowd the rest of the way.
“Hey,” I say with a firm tone, although not yelling.
No response.
“Hey, stop this now,” I repeat, with double the firmness this time. He pauses for a moment and I mentally cheer for getting through to him.
Not even close.
He pauses but keeps on hitting his head and crying. “Hey.” I go for a third time at maximum firmness.
He stops.
And stares.
But he stops.
“Come on, come with me.” Thankfully when I reach out gently grabbing his hand, he flinches but doesn’t freak out again.
I should’ve stopped to consider if he’s the kind of autistic who hates to be touched. The thought just hadn’t come to me until I’d already touched him. Anyway, he doesn’t seem to mind. He walks alongside me, not speaking, though no longer crying or hitting himself.
So I’ll call it a win.
We walk to the most secluded spot on the boardwalk, stopping in front of an old automaton the park owners haven’t bothered to remove yet. The only things nearby us, an underutilized restroom and semi-rusted out drinking fountain.
“Lean down,” I order. “I’m going to splash some water on your face. It’ll make you feel a little better.” Again, he doesn’t argue or protest in anyway, lowering his face, I do just as I said and splash two handfuls of water. He cringes and shakes his head. He does not pull away.
Another win.
“All right, we’re done. Here.” Shrugging out of my hoodie, I offer it up for him to dry his face off.
The dude takes it but doesn’t use it at first.
“Is there a problem?”
“Your shirt will get wet,” he answers.
“It’s okay. If I minded, I wouldn’t offer.”
He smiles. This man I’ve socially killed myself for smiles at me and it hits me, I’m staring at the face of probably the most beautiful man-boy I’ve ever seen in my life. Though even as his grin reaches his ears, his hazel eyes never meet my brown ones. Glassy and blank, but not vacant. His eyes, I can see the intelligence running behind them even if he won’t look directly at me.
Whatever he’s thinking about by not looking at me must come to a head in his mind. Then it’s as if his happiness bubble suddenly pops, poof! His mouth drops to a flat line just that quickly. Face dried, he hands me back the hoodie.
We stand there both silent. Me wondering what’s going through the guy’s head. Does he wonder what’s going through my head? What should I do next?
Screw it. “What was all that about?” I ask.
Silence.
The bell from his strength game dings in the distance. Someone either took over for him, or the park is losing money on an unattended game.
“Okay then. I’m gonna…” I thumb behind me to show him I’m leaving.
“They’re bullies,” he says in a voice too soft to come from the freak
-out kid of the carnival. Too soft but filled with just as much sadness.
“Who?” I mean, there was a whole cast of characters standing around gawking for him to refer to. Pick your age, weight or size.
“Baseball.” That’s his answer. Dammit, I know who he’s talking about. I’d seen the prick. I’d graduated with the prick. Hell, I’d played ball with the prick. One drunken night, just before graduation, I’d played with his prick and balls. Back when I wore my hair jock short and pretended to be straight. He still pretends. Or I don’t know. He sure seemed to enjoy our playtime that night. Even though we never spoke again, and he’s here with a girl. Star on the field for State now, he needs to prove his prowess. The ones like him are never the kind to let the high school glory days go.
“Gabe?” I ask. “Gabe Cera?” He nods. “And all his buddies?” My freaking ex-teammates thought they owned the springtime, and even though we’ve been away for a year, think they own the summer too. Stupid lunk-head jocks. Too many roids cloud their overly testosterone-filled minds. I’d once been one of them. Though, I’d never been one of them.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes. It does. It matters. You matter.” What is wrong with you, Leif? You matter? I don’t even know his name, but he needs to know he does. The man is a person just like the rest of us and doesn’t deserve the crap the world throws at him every day.
“He wanted to show off for his girl. I didn’t mean to look, but he’s strong, nice arms. They saw me looking.”
Shit. I could see this playing out. “Did they call you names?” Standing there in his striped golf shorts, yellow polo and Keds, looking like his mother still buys his clothes, looking lost to the world, he shakes his head yes.
“When I turned away, someone swiped my legs.”
“And you fell backwards?” Yes again. “Did you land on the ground?”
Silence.
Then he speaks, “No. I landed on one of his friends. He shoved me off, then I fell.”
“They laughed, didn’t they?”
More silence.
He doesn’t need to answer. His non-answer confirms enough. “Can I ask you a question?” Not waiting for his answer or non-answer I push on. “First, what’s your name?”
“Ridley. McAllister.” Like my cousin, his answer sounds automated and I wonder if he’s always lived lacking inflection or if it’s because he’s nervous.
“Okay Ridley McAllister, are you…” Well shit. It sounded like a perfectly legitimate question in my head. I don’t want to offend the guy but he’s gorgeous and I don’t know enough about autistics to know if I’m picking up the right signals. “Are you, that is, you wouldn’t be…gay?”
I want him to look me in the eyes. But he won’t. Instead of doing what I want, he begins pacing back and forth with his arms straight at his sides, opening and closing his hands into fists.
I’m losing him again.
“Ridley. Stop.” To my great surprise, he does. Stops mid-step, back to me. “Turn around.”
He does. Slowly.
“John won’t be happy.”
“Who’s John?” My mind fills with some other guy touching him, celebrating with him when he’s happy, comforting when he’s sad. Getting to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles which just about brought me to my knees. Whoa! What is wrong with me? I helped the guy out of a bad situation. I have no right to feel this protectiveness, possessiveness toward him. Closing my eyes for a couple seconds, I try to regroup. Clearly, there’d been an attraction since I first laid eyes on the man, but this is a hell of a reaction for a first meeting.
Ridley lets me off the hook, though. “Therapist,” he says. “He helps me.”
Therapist.
Okay, I can work with therapist. “Why won’t he be happy?”
“Because when Mr. Trucker, he’s my boss, calls my mom. He’s supposed to call her if I have an episode. She’ll call John. He’ll be disappointed. We have to reset the DWI chart now.”
DWI? “Driving while intoxicated?” I ask. He cocks his head, staring at me like I’ve just said the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.
“Days without incident.”
“Well that makes more sense, doesn’t it?” I’m not really asking him, more speaking to myself out loud. Ridley nods just the same. “But you didn’t answer my first question.”
More opening and closing his hands.
“Mom says it’s just my autism. Autistics can’t be gay.” Whoa. Mom sounds like a judgmental, in denial, bitch and I call bullshit.
“When did she say that?”
“When I told her a boy from therapy was pretty.”
Yes. Judgmental. In denial. Bitch.
“What do you think?”
Nothing.
“Would it help you to know I am too?” I ask while rubbing at the back of my neck. This whole conversation has taken a turn I had no intension of turning down. Great, who else can I blurt it out too? My family won’t be able to show their faces in public I keep this up.
He averts his eyes, smirking instead of smiling full on, but highly effective nonetheless. “I know.”
“How do you know?”
“You grabbed my hand, not my arm.”
Ah, yes. I hadn’t realized I’d done that until just now.
Time for a subject change. “How about this,” I say, moving my hand from my neck to run my fingers through my shaggy hair. I get it now. We all have ticks. He might open and close his hands, but how many times have I run my fingers through my hair when nervous? “What if I meet you at work? We can hang out, even get lunch together so you don’t have to worry about Gabe Cera or his friends starting crap. Besides, I’m in the market for a new friend.”
“Okay.”
“Sure? You don’t mind being seen with a purple-haired freak?” He laughs, deep and beautiful. I like the sound of it maybe too much.
“I think the purple’s sexy.” And there, I get the full on smile back. So I return it with one of my own. “Leif,” he says and pauses a long effective pause. Ridley knows my name? How does he know my name? We didn’t go to school together. I think I’d remember not just someone who looks like him, but him period.
Finally, he finishes his thought, “Mom homeschooled me, but I used to watch you play ball.”
Well, one question answered.
“So are we friends now?” he continues.
“Do you want to be?”
“Yes.”
Good, yes. He wants to be my friend. Friends are workable. But god, his gorgeousness knows no bounds. And that smile. What about the laws? Can a non-autistic date an autistic? Would I go to jail or some shit?
This is where my mind wanders when we hear, “There you are.”
Mr. Trucker, the boss, startles us both with his too gruff for dealing with an autistic kid who’s prone to freaking out voice. I jump. Ridley does too. And then I notice his arms go straight, rigid at his sides. His hands opening and closing. Open. Close. Open. Close.
He mesmerizes me and I can’t help think the guy could probably hypnotize me into clucking like a chicken if he keeps it up.
“Your mother is here, Mr. McAllister,” Mr. Trucker continues. “You,” he turns on me. “Are you harassing this boy?”
What? “No. I’m helping the man. He needed—”
“Then that’ll be all. I have him from here.”
“He’s my friend,” Ridley chimes in. “He can walk with me.” I see the panic forming behind his hazel eyes which refuse to look directly at Mr. Trucker. And I might be mistaken, but it doesn’t seem he’s ever stood up for himself or talked back to an authority figure before.
Who wouldn’t be proud to inspire someone’s independence?
“Please, sir.” Pricks like him love words like sir. “He trusts me,” I say. Not saying the obvious, he doesn’t trust you. It really seems like Mr. Up-his-own-ass is going to send me off. Take some kind of glory for saving Ridley for himself. There should never be glory for helping an
other person. Brightside, sometimes even men like Mr. Trucker surprise me. Which this time he does, nodding his head in a nonverbal agreement.
“Come on, then.” The boss man ushers us away from the abandon automaton and underutilized restrooms. Ridley’s hands still open and close at his sides, but as we fall in step next to each other, they slow considerably.
Chapter Two
The carnival had been constructed along the boardwalk in a pitchfork design. The boardwalk we walk down, one of the two outer prongs jutting up to a dead end chain link fence, leaving the innermost prong to hold the front and back entrances to the carnival, along with the employee only trailers and offices.
Mrs. McAllister stands out front of the main office to the front entrance, hugging her arms tightly around her waist.
She’s lean, has Ridley’s sandy blonde hair and looks far too young from a distance to be the mother of an over-eighteen-year-old. “Rid. Rid, you okay?” She asks, and sounds like she’s worried, but addressing a child at the same time. What is with these people? It’s no wonder he doesn’t look his mother in the eye.
Although, he introduces me.
“This is Leif. He’s my friend.” Mrs. McAllister turns from her son to me to him again, eyes widening as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. Is it really so odd for the beautiful man-boy to have a friend?
Well since my presence throws her enough to negate any form of proper meeting your son’s friend for the first time manners, I step closer, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I offer, this time noticing the fine worry wrinkles around her eyes and across her brow.
Definitely younger than the average mom, but she’s clearly lived through a lot, probably because of Ridley. After hesitating only briefly, she shakes my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Leaf.”
“It’s pronounced Layf.” Ridley corrects before I have the chance. “Not Leaf, mom.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, not that she sounds sorry at all.
“It’s fine,” I return in my I’m speaking to a parent voice. Then turning to Rid, as his mother called him, “You’re going to wait for me, yeah? We’ll hang. Have lunch tomorrow?” And God help me if I don’t almost swoon on the spot when that great, beautiful smile graces me again.
Summer of the Boy Page 1
