I lay lost in my thoughts for several minutes before I flipped over and faced his back. His long hair lay bunched up against it in a big shaggy pile. I smiled, thinking about how proud he was of that Rapunzel-like hair.
Reaching out, I ran my fingers through some of the strands, careful as not to disturb him. Feeling its silky texture between my fingers, I lifted some of it to my nose and breathed in deeply. It smelled of baked apples and cinnamon. I reasoned he must have used one of his stepsister’s shampoo to wash it. I certainly knew he would not have chosen that scent on purpose, so he must have been out of his usual brand.
I wish he’d just tell me what’s bothering him, I thought to myself. Obviously, whatever he’s keeping from me must be something major. We always told each other everything.
Dropping the blond strands, I lifted my hand and moved it gently to his shoulder feeling the overwhelming desire to comfort him. Just as my cupped hand hovered mere inches from his body, I jerked it back. Brad wasn’t ready to talk and it wasn’t right for me to continue pressuring him. I rolled over, let out a deep sigh, and closed my eyes.
• • •
The next morning, I awoke to the smell of bacon and I knew what that meant: Mom was cooking her famous blueberry pancakes. I looked over at Brad who was lying on his back still asleep. I watched his breathing with fascination; his chest rising and falling gave me a calming feeling.
I chuckled at the sight of his abundant hair that fanned out over his pillow, body, and bed.
A sudden grumbling startled me.
“Mmm…bacon.” He slowly opened his eyes and grinned, before cutting his eyes toward me.
I smiled back, glad to see that he seemed to be starting the day in a better mood. “Yeah.”
He sat up. “I could dig some of your mom’s blueberry pancakes.”
“You know she’ll have them.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
“Let’s go,” I said as I jumped up and bolted through the door.
• • •
Upon entering the kitchen, the smell of blueberry pancakes, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee filled my nose. I saw Mom at the stove, dressed in a pair of blue polyester slacks and flower-print blouse, flipping a flapjack.
She turned to greet us and wiped her hands on her apron. “Good morning, boys.”
“Good morning.” I headed directly for Mr. Coffee; my bare feet slapping noisily against the cold floor.
Reaching into the cabinet, I grabbed my favorite coffee mug and set it on the counter. I smiled fondly at the writing on the mug that read World’s Greatest Dad. Although I had given the oversized coffee cup to my Dad for Father’s Day, he never used it. I guessed it must have been the size because I had noticed he always tended to grab the smaller mugs. It worked out for me because I loved coffee, and the fewer trips I had to make to the coffee pot, the better.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stuart,” greeted Brad, who went and pulled out one of the plastic tulip-shaped chairs and sat down at the table. He grabbed the plate of steaming-hot pancakes sitting in the middle of the table.
“You’re making blueberry pancakes.” I grabbed the handle of the coffee pot.
“Don’t get used to it.” She glanced over her shoulder at me and grinned as she laid another flapjack on another plate containing three perfectly sized pancakes. “This is a special post-birthday breakfast.”
“You’re the best, Mom,” I said as I poured myself a cup of Joe, careful not to spill the steaming hot liquid. I had to admire my mother. She worked full-time and yet still found the time to wait on me hand and foot. To say my mother spoiled me would have been an understatement.
Picking up my mug and blowing into it, I leaned against the counter watching her stir the large plastic bowl of pancake batter with a wooden spoon.
“I see we forgot our modesty once again.” She poured some more pancake batter onto the griddle; the sizzling sound of the liquid hitting the hot metal making me want my pancakes hot off the stove.
“Oh, sorry, Mom,” I looked down at my briefs, “I forgot. Do you want me to go put some clothes on?”
I really hadn’t forgot, I just didn’t want to take the time to get dressed, and it wasn’t as if my underwear was any more revealing than my swimsuits.
“I’ll overlook it this time but try to remember your manners, especially when we have company.” She glanced back at Brad, wearing his pajamas, who was pouring himself a glass of orange juice.
I waved my hand dismissively. “It’s just Brad, he’s family.” I stepped carefully to the table, trying not to spill the contents of my overfilled mug.
Brad looked up at me, then at Mom, and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind, Mrs. Stuart.”
I looked at him quizzically. Suddenly, me in underwear didn’t bother him anymore? I swear Brad’s moods changed like the weather.
“Uh huh.” Mom focused her attention back to the stove.
I sat down in one of the chairs surrounding the smoked-glass kitchen table next to Brad. “When’s Dad coming home?” I asked, glancing at Brad who had stuffed a large syrup-soaked bite into his mouth.
“Tomorrow, I hope. At least maybe we’ll get to see him for a couple of days before he’s off to Vancouver.” Mom walked over with another plate of food and set it on the table; the ringing sounds of glass-on-glass making me cringe like the sounds of fingernails on a chalkboard.
“I wish Dad didn’t have to travel so much.” I blew on my coffee.
“Me too, honey.”
Brad swallowed and leaned over and mumbled to me, “Wish your father and John could trade jobs.”
I chuckled knowing how Brad felt about his stepfather. While I normally tried to like everyone, John Norris was one man I did not like. The man strutted around their home like he was the King of the Roost and expected everyone to follow his every order without question. Unfortunately, Brad bore the brunt of his commands, especially when it came to chores around the house. The worst part: John didn’t even give him money for mowing the yard, helping him fix things, or even an allowance. That’s why he never had cash for such things as movie tickets or snacks. The couple of times Brad had brought up the subject of an allowance, John’s reply both times was: “Your allowance is that food that sits on the supper table every night.”
“What are you boys doing today?” Mom asked as she turned off the stove burner and joined us at the table.
“Oh, I don’t know. Hang out here, I guess. Maybe swim a bit.” I shrugged as I spotted syrup running down Brad’s chin.
“Your dad said the heating element is acting up in the pool again, so the water may be a little cool. A repairman is coming next week to look at it,” Mom stated as she poured herself a glass of orange juice.
“I think we can handle the cold,” Brad said with a smile, oblivious to the syrup.
“Speak for yourself.” I causally grabbed my napkin, reached over, and carefully wiped the syrup off Brad’s chin. “I’ve learned my lesson about swimming in cold water especially after that last swim meet,” I replied, recalling how Coach Mansfield refused to call off the meet, even though he knew the heating element in the pool was broken.
“Yeah, I remember,” Mom said. “You got sick afterward.”
“Half the team did.” I shook my head at Brad’s sloppy eating habits to which he just grinned at me. “No. We’ll find something else to do.”
• • •
Later that afternoon, Brad and I found ourselves perched in my old childhood treehouse in my backyard.
“They’re huge!” I gasped as I peered through the binoculars at a topless Mrs. Peterson standing in front of her bedroom window.
Brad grabbed the binoculars from me and lay down beside me. “Let me see.”
“Man, don’t let her see you!” I placed my hand on the back of his head and shoved it down as he put the binoculars up to his eyes.
“They’re a lot bigger than Tabitha’s,” he said evenly.
“Of course, Brad, Tab
itha is fifteen. Mrs. Peterson is like…old,” I scoffed.
“Eh.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They’re okay.” He handed the binoculars back to me, rolled back, and sat against the wall.
“Okay?” My mouth dropped. “You think those jugs are just okay?” I lowered my eyebrows, not believing that Brad wasn’t the least bit impressed with the fact she probably wore a size double D bra.
“I’m not into boobs. I told you that.” He looked up as if thinking. “I wonder if Mr. Peterson knows his wife likes to walk around topless in her bedroom with the window shade up.”
“Dude! I’ve seen her topless happily waving down to Mr. Peterson mowing the lawn. One time he was so distracted, he pushed the mower right into the pool.” I laughed, recalling the scene that could have come straight from a raunchy comedy.
“Have you ever seen them doing it?” Brad asked.
“Uggh. Brad. Gross.” I wrinkled my nose. “Why would I want to see two old people do that?”
“I don’t know.” He chuckled. “You know? I just bet Mr. Peterson has a hard time keeping a woman like that satisfied.”
“Why do you say that?” I brought the binoculars back to my eyes and snuck another up-close peek.
“I don’t know. Mrs. Peterson just looks like a woman that John would call ‘high maintenance’. He must either have lots of money, or he’s hung like a horse.” He glanced out the window again.
“Well they definitely have money.” I stared at the modern three-story house that sat directly behind our house. The Petersons had the house built a couple of years prior, long after my grandfather had already paid to have my treehouse built in the huge oak tree that grew along our shared back fence.
Pulling myself back up and sitting against the opposite wall from Brad, I glanced around the walls of the treehouse recalling my childhood summers of me and Brad spending nights lying in sleeping bags telling stupid jokes while devouring a plate of Mom’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. I glanced at the tree that grew up through the middle of the floor and the familiar writing carved into it: SRS & BPD 7-6-66.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Brad lifting a small board in the floor and the crinkling of a paper bag.
He held up the small paper bag and looked at me questioningly. “We smoking?”
“Out of rolling papers. Remember?” I frowned.
Brad grinned, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small tin. He opened it revealing a stack of papers inside.
“Where did you get those?” The corners of my mouth lifted.
“My parents’ bedroom. They’ll never miss them.” He returned the smile and reached into the bag pulling out a pinch of the dried stems.
“Cool, dude!” I scooted across the treehouse floor until I was sitting beside him. I watched as Brad sprinkled the green flakes into the paper, before looking up and studying the serious look on his face as he carefully prepared the joint. My gaze moved to his long blond hair that rustled slightly in the breeze, and watched mesmerized as he took his long fingers and pushed it back over his shoulder; the golden strands falling down his back and sweeping against the floor behind him. Brad is such a good-looking guy, I can’t believe he doesn’t have girls all over him. The thought occurred to me: My best friend deserves so much better than Poison Penny.
Brad paused, licking the paper, and cut his eyes to me.
“What?” He smiled, his face mere inches from mine.
“Just watching you.” I grinned back, feeling a sense of happiness and comfort. “You look so serious.”
“Doobie smokin’ is serious business.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully and went back to wetting the paper.
I laughed.
Sunday, October 21, 1973
Dear Journal,
Brad spent the weekend at my house as usual. He acted all depressed Friday, but by Saturday, he seemed to be in a better mood, especially after we smoked a couple of joints in the treehouse. At one point we were laying side-by-side on the floor staring up at the ceiling talking crazy shit like we usually do when we’re high, when he turned his head toward me and asked if I would ever kiss a guy. I immediately said, “Hell no!” I then proposed the same question to him. In typical Brad fashion, he gave me a serious look, then said, “Maybe.” When my jaw dropped, he burst out laughing and started pointing at me, playing the whole thing off as a joke. I know when we’re high, we talk stupid shit like that time we convinced ourselves that Paul McCartney had been replaced with a clone that was grown in a lab on the moon, but his question seemed genuinely weird.
~ Shawn
Chapter Three
I sat at the lunchroom table picking the burnt cheese off my slice of cafeteria pizza. How they called this square piece of ground hamburger in tomato sauce on a piece of cardboard-like crust a pizza was beyond me. I glanced up at my friend Matt, who was going after it like a starved man; the small pieces of hamburger rolling down his chin and landing in his lap making me cringe at his lack of table manners.
“You actually like this slop?” I looked down at my salad, consisting of wilted lettuce and overripe tomatoes drowned in very runny ranch dressing.
“Mmhmm,” he said with his mouth full.
Matt had a weight problem, but it never seemed to bother him. His biggest problem was his loose tongue. If you didn’t want something told, you best not tell Matt “The Mouth”.
I wrinkled my nose and picked up the slice of garlic toast that looked to be the only edible piece of food on the plate. About that time, I felt a bump on my shoulder.
“Hey, guys,” Brad greeted as he sat down in the chair next to me. I glanced up at the Led Zeppelin T-shirt he wore and pointed.
“Hey! That’s my shirt!” I said as he leaned forward, releasing his hair from the trapped space between him and the back of the chair.
“Yeah. You left it last time you crashed at my pad.” He leaned back again; his hair splaying down the back of the chair. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it.”
“Na.” I dismissed it before I glanced down. “Wait! Those are my jeans, too!”
Matt, who had finally stopped eating for a brief moment, laughed. Brad glanced at his lap and then turned to me, smiling coyly. “Yeah, I haven’t done my laundry this week and these were the only clean clothes in my room. They’re a little short on me.”
I looked down at his partially exposed ankles.
“Dude, if you say you’re wearing Stuart’s underwear—” Matt jumped in before Brad cut him off.
“No!” He scowled as he opened his carton of milk. “Besides, his underwear is too small for me, if you know what I mean.” He winked as he took a sip.
“Dude!” I reached down and grabbed a baby carrot from my plate. “This carrot is bigger than what you’re packing down there.” I nodded toward his lap.
“Burn!” Matt yelled and looked at Brad waiting on his response.
“That’s not what your momma said last night,” Brad snapped back. I could see from the look on Brad’s face he was ready to burst with laughter; although he tried his best to hold it in.
Matt shot his eyes to me, waiting for me to volley my response.
“Boy, your momma’s so ugly, she makes her pillow cry,” I sassed.
“Boy, your momma’s so—” Brad started.
“Hi, Shawn.” A female voice interrupted Brad’s serve.
I whipped my head toward the voice and spotted Tabitha in a short green mini-skirt and matching blouse. Her usual gaggle of hens fell in behind her in a sort of pyramid shape as they flocked toward the cheerleader table.
“Oh. Hi, Tabitha,” I greeted as two of her friends whispered in her ear before continuing their journey to the popular girls’ table.
“Tabitha is such a fox.” Matt stared at her butt before turning back to me.
“Yep. She is.” I couldn’t help but puff my chest outward boastfully, “and she’s my date for the dance.”
“No way, man!” Matt’s mouth fell open. “You and Tabi
tha? When did you ask her?”
“I didn’t,” I said, my grin as wide as the Grand Canyon. “She asked me.”
Truthfully, getting asked by the foxiest girl in the school to the Fall Dance was going to push me into the top ten rankings of the most popular guy in school.
“Way to go, Stuart!” Matt lifted his hand for a high-five, which I returned. “I bet she’ll put out for you if you play your cards right.”
I widened my eyes. “You think?” I mean, I never really tried to get into a girl’s pants before. I had dreamed about it more than a few times, but never really expected it to happen anytime soon.
Matt leaned forward and lowered his voice. Following his lead, I moved in; Brad seemed perfectly happy to sit back and chew on his pizza. “I heard she put out for Vince Carmichael at the Spring Formal last year. He’s the first guy she’d ever asked out. It’s said she only does guys she asks out.”
The thought that I might be having sex with Tabitha blew my mind. Obviously, she wanted more than a date to the dance, if Matt’s information was reliable.
“She sounds like a slut,” Brad said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders and taking another bite of his pizza.
Immediately my face went red and I narrowed my eyes at him. “Doing it with one guy does not mean she’s a slut, Brad.”
I couldn’t believe his nerve to say something like that knowing how much I looked forward to going to the dance with her. The mental picture of me walking through the doors of the gym arm-in-arm with the most popular girl in school who might actually want to have sex with me afterward would be a dream come true.
“I just call it as I see it,” he said flatly.
“Well maybe you should just keep your calls to yourself,” I said angrily as Matt sat back and began eating his salad, obviously uncomfortable at my and Brad’s exchange.
A Gay Polyester High School Romance Page 4
