Boy Meets Boy

by David Levithan

  I know Tony still goes to the clearing every now and then, to think or to dream. I give it a silent salute every time we pass. We never sit down there together. I don't want to trespass on his solitude-- I want to be around when he chooses to step out of it.

  "How are things with Noah?" he asks me now, as we set off on our hike. As usual, we have the path to ourselves.

  "Good. I miss him."

  "Do you wish he was here now?"

  "No."

  "Good."

  We walk a few more steps, then Tony asks, "So how are things with Kyle?" I love Tony dearly because there's no judgment in this question.

  "I don't know what's going on," I tell him. "He loved me, then he loved me not. Now he needs me. I'm sure pretty soon he'll need me not.

  We walk along for a few minutes in silence. I know Tony hasn't lost the subject, though.

  "Are you sure that's- healthy?" he asks at last.

  "I think it's good he's opening up," I say.

  "I don't mean for him. I mean for you."

  I'm confused. "He's the one asking for help. Why would it be unhealthy for me?"

  Tony shrugs.

  The thing is, I m not vulnerable this time, I explain. 'It doesn't mean everything to me."

  "Did you know you were vulnerable last time?"

  This one I can answer in confidence. "Yes. Of course. That's what falling in love is all about."

  Tony sighs. "I wouldn't know."

  The part of me that misses Noah right now has an equal part in Tony. The difference is that his longing doesn't have a name or a face.

  "Someday your prince will come," I assure him.

  "And the first thing I'm going to say to him is, 'What took you so long?'"

  We reach the mountain's steepest incline. We pick up fallen branches to use as walking sticks--not because we really need them, but because it's more fun-to walk that way. We start talking in our own language ("Sasquan helderfigglebarth?" "Yeh sesta." "Cumpsy!"), then stop when Tony hears a birdcall that interests him greatly. (The only birdcall I know is the Road Runner's BEEP BEEP.)

  Tony's sights alight on the highest branches. I can't see a thing, but after a moment, he looks very pleased.

  "A bohunk. Not native to this area. But that makes it more mysterious."

  I nod. I can go for mysterious.

  We continue walking.

  "So what's up with you?" I ask.

  "Not much."

  "And how are things?"

  RRRRRRRRR. I make a loud game-show-buzzer noise. "I'm sorry," I say, "we don't recognize

  'fine' as an acceptable answer. We see it as a conversational cop-out. So please, try again."

  Tony sighs again, but not that heavily. He knows he's been snagged. If I ever say "fine" to him, he reacts the same way.

  "I've actually been thinking about life lately, and this one image keeps coming to me," he says. "Do you know when you cross against traffic? You look down the street and see a car coming, but you know you can get across before it gets to you. So even though there's a DON'T WALK sign, you cross anyway. And there's always a split second when you turn and see that car coming, and you know that if you don't continue moving, it will all be over.

  That's how I feel a lot of the" time. I know I'll make it across. I always make it across. But the car is always there, and I always stop to watch it coming."

  He gives me a low smile. "You know, sometimes I wish I had your life. But I'm sure I wouldn't be much good at it."

  "I'm not that great at it myself."

  "You get by"

  "So do you."

  I try.

  I find myself thinking back to something I saw on the local news about a year ago. A teen football player had died in a car accident. The cameras showed all his friends after the funeral--these big hulking guys, all in tears, saying, "I loved him. We all loved him so much." I started crying, too, and I wondered if these guys had told the football player they loved him while he was alive, or whether it was only with death that this strange word, love, could be used. I vowed then and there that I would never hesitate to speak up to the people I loved. They deserved to know they gave meaning to my life. They deserved to know I thought the world of them.

  "You know I love you," I say to Tony now, not for the first time. "You are really one of the greatest people I know."

  Tony can't take a compliment, and here I am, giving him the best one I can give. He brushes it off, sweeping his hand to the side. But I know he's heard it. I know he knows it.

  "I'm glad we're here," he says.

  We switch to another language--not our invented language or the language we've learned from our lives. As we walk further into the woods and up the mountain, we speak the language of silence. This language gives us space to think and move. We can be both here and elsewhere at the same time.

  I hit the peak with Tony and then we turn back around. I am conscious of this in my silence, but I am also conscious of Noah and Kyle at their different destinations, miles away. I am conscious of Joni, who is no doubt somewhere with Chuck, not getting any silence unless he permits it. (Is this an unfair thought? I'm truly not sure.)

  I don't know where Tony is while he's with me -- maybe he's simply concentrating on the birdcalls and the slant of the sunlight, which hits through the trees in a pattern that decorates his arm with the space between leaves.

  But maybe it's more than that. As we get back to the main path, Tony turns to me and asks for a hug.

  Now, I don't believe in doing hugs halfway. I can't stand people who try to hug without touching. A hug should be a full embrace-- as I wrap my arms around Tony, I am not just holding him, but also trying to lift off his troubles for a moment so that the only thing he can feel is my presence, my support. He accepts this embrace and hugs me back. Then his posture raises an alarm--his back straightens out of the hug, his hands fall a little.

  I look at his face and realize that he's seen something behind me. I let go of him and turn to find two adults gawking.

  "Tony?" the woman asks.

  But she doesn't really need to ask. She knows it's Tony.

  After all, she's his mother's best friend.

  Everybody Freaks Out

  Tony is grounded, and his mom's best friend can't keep her mouth shut. The church group network goes into overtime, and by the time I get to school on Monday, I find out that Rip's odds on my love life are now twelve to one for me and Noah, ten to one for me and Kyle, eight to one for me and Tony, and one to two for me botching everything up and spending the rest of my life unrequited.

  By the end of the day, the odds have changed even further, and I'm a total basket case.

  It's no use protesting to people that Tony and I are just friends (only the people who know us believe me, and all the rest want to believe the opposite because it's a better story). I can't even talk to Tony anymore--I tried on Sunday but his mom hung up on me, muttering something about the devil's influence, which I think was a little overstated.

  "Do you think I'm an agent of the devil?" I ask Lyssa Ling after she briefs me on Rip's odds and hands me my Dowager's Dance committee list.

  "I would hope that an agent of the devil would be more attractive than you," Lyssa zings back.

  Before I take offense, I look at the committee list . . . and gulp.

  "Um, Lyssa? You've put both Trilby Pope and Infinite Darlene on my committee?"

  "So? It's already posted. A done deal."

  "Clearly, you don't realize the implications of this. They both HATE EACH OTHER'S GUTS.

  They can't be on my committee together."

  "They both wanted to architect, and I'm not going to be the one to play favorites. They'll just have to deal. And so will you."

  With that, she pulls her clipboard back to her chest and walks away.

  I've gotten to .school early to find Noah and see how his weekend went. But before I can find Noah, Kyle finds me.

  "We have to talk," he says urgently.

 
"How about after school,?" I ask.

  "No. Right now."

  As Kyle drags me into the janitor's closet, I can see the whole school watching through the eyes of the few people in the hall. I can only imagine what they're thinking, and what they'll say.

  The janitor's closet has the usual brooms, mops, and buckets. At its center, though, is a state-of-the-art computer. Our janitorial staff is one of the richest in the country because of their day-trading skills. They could have retired long ago, but they all have a compulsion to clean schools. <

  "What is it?" I ask Kyle, trying to ignore the stock ticker scrolling across the computer screen.

  Some of the confusion has lifted from his face, replaced by this decisive urgency. He doesn't look sad or happy. He looks as emotionless as a fact.

  "My aunt died this weekend," he says, "and I decided that we should be together."

  Before I can say anything, he continues.

  "She wasn't very old, only a few years older than my mom. She always lived far away, so I didn't really know her until she moved out here for treatment. Her husband was with her; they got married two days after she got her diagnosis. He vowed he would never leave her side, and he didn't. I don't know how to describe it. She could be retching or shaking or not really there, and he would kneel right beside her, look her right in the eye, and say, 'I'm here.' And the way he said it-- I'm here' --was an 'I love you' and a 'Hang in there' and an 'I'll do anything, absolutely anything'--all these intense feelings in this one calm phrase. If he had to leave the room, he made sure she had this teddy bear propped up next to her--they called him Quincy--to take his place. Toward the end, there were these few moments when she got all anxious a few minutes after he left the room, and he would come right back in, as if he knew exactly how she felt. I came to the room early on Saturday and I saw him curled up in the hospital bed, singing Beatles songs to her and looking her in the eye. I couldn't go inside. I just stood in the doorway crying, because it was so sad and it was so beautiful.

  "That night I stayed awake thinking about things. I thought about all the stupid things I've done, and you were at the top of the list. You gave me something, Paul. And I don't think I realized it until I saw Tom with my aunt Maura. Then I knew. I knew what I wanted."

  He sees my expression and laughs, which makes it worse, because I like him more for it.

  "Don't worry," he says. "I'm not asking you to marry me, or to curl up with me in a hospital bed. I don't know what I'm asking you. All I know is this: I want something real. I know I'm young, and I know 'real' doesn't mean forever, like it did for Tom and Aunt Maura. But I want to feel like life matters. I had something real with you, but then the realness scared me. I decided to go for other things instead."

  "Like Mary Anne McAllister?"

  "Look, I freaked out on you. And now I'm freaking out about it. I'm a mess. Aunt Maura died last night, as we were driving back.

  I have to go to the funeral tomorrow morning. It's going to be the worst thing. And I. . . I don't know. I wanted to talk to you before that."

  What can I say to him? I think about him standing in that hospital doorway-- it was so sad and it was so beautiful. Because, yes, I see it: Right now, tears in his eyes, not yet released, Kyle is so sad and so beautiful.

  He needs me.

  I know I must step to him. He won't step to me. I open my arms and he folds himself inside. I hold him as he shivers. I stroke his hair. I whisper caring, words. Then he pulls his face back, tears now released, and I kiss him. Just once, so I can take some of the tears away. Just once, because I want him to know something. I'm here.

  We hold each other again, and I can feel the moment drain from us. We are transitioning to the moment when we have to open the door and head to class. What we have right now is real, but it is an isolated reality. It is the reality of a moment, of a separate calm. When we open the door, life will resume. We will be confused once more.

  I know Kyle will not ask anything else of me. I know I have taken some of his freak-out and made it my own.

  Even in the janitor's closet, the bell-for first period rings. Kyle wipes his face with his shirtfront--not the most delicate of gestures-- and picks up his book bag.

  "Thanks," he says.

  "No problem," I say, and immediately regret my choice of words.

  Once in the halls, we go our separate ways. I don't have time now to find Noah. Part of me is relieved.

  I expect to see him after first period, by which time I've managed to turn the moment with Kyle into a dreamlike surreality, to the point that I can pretend it didn't really happen. I have a note in my hand for Noah, but he never shows up to pick it up.

  Bad timing, I figure. After second period, I head straight to the classroom he's coming from.

  But he's not waiting for me there, either. And while an hour and a half ago I was somewhat happy to avoid him, now I'm somewhat worried that he's avoiding me.

  At the next break, I head to the fourth-period class he's going to instead of the third-period class he's coming from. Sure enough, our paths cross. He seems happy to see me, but I'm not sure he is happy to see me. He takes my note and says we should "touch base" at lunch.

  He doesn't have a note for me in return.

  I stress about this on my way to lunch, also wondering what Kyle's reaction will be if I see him again. As I head distractedly to the cafeteria, I am waylaid by Infinite Darlene.

  "I must talk to you right this moment--I am outraged}" she exclaims.

  Here it comes, I think. Infinite Darlene has no doubt heard she's on the same committee as Trilby Pope. And she is no doubt aggrieved.

  "It's not my fault," I say defensively.

  "How could it be?" Infinite Darlene asks, shooting me a tilted look. "You had nothing to do with Truck kidnapping Joni's heart. And now all my fears have been realized. He is an awful, awful, subhuman being."

  "What are you telling me?" I ask her.

  "My goodness, haven't you heard? Truck and I had something of an altercation yesterday, and I'm afraid the truth came out." Infinite Darlene pauses dramatically. Then, seeing that I'm still in the dark, she resumes. "It was on the bus ride home from our game in Passaic. He was brooding like a pit bull because he felt I'd called the wrong plays. Please note that we won the game anyway, but that's beside the point. I said something that set him off--I honestly can't recall what it was -- and he said something like, 'Well, maybe we would have scored more if you'd made more passes my way' and I shot back, 'Honey, you know I'm not going to be making any passes your way.' This evil grin popped onto his face and he said, 'Well, I'm scoring anyway, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.' I said, 'So* is that why you're doing this?' He grinned even wider. His eyes were pure spite. And I knew. That's what this is all about. Not Joni. Not love. He's getting back at me. He's going to hurt one of my friends, and it will be my fault unless I stop it. He hates us, Paul. Make no mistake."

  Even for Infinite Darlene, this seems a little far-fetched. "Don't you think Joni could see through him if he was really doing this out of spite?"

  Infinite Darlene puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me deep in the eye. "C'mon, Paul," she says. "We all know love makes you do stupid things."

  This close, I can see through all her layers. Beneath the mascara and the lipstick and the chicken pox scar on her lower lip, beneath the girl and the boy to the person within, who is concerned and confused and sincere. I wonder if she can see through my layers as well, right through my badly held peace to all of the love confusion underneath. There's no way she can know I kissed Kyle unless she sees it in my face. I wonder if my freak-out is as legible as hers.

  "We have to do something," she 'says. "We have to stop him,"

  "How?"

  "I don't know. First and foremost, you have to talk to Joni."

  I knew this was coming.

  "You want me to tell her that the only reason Chuck is going out with her is to get back at you?"