Anatomy of a Boyfriend (6 page)

A minute later she walks out with discus boy. Wes and I are left alone, and things are suddenly a little tense. We both know what the two of them are going to do now—it‘s like they left behind a hookup vibe that Amy, I‘m sure, means for me to take advantage of.

8

“H
ey, can you help me straighten up the living room before I drive you?‖ Wes asks me. ―I don‘t want my mom to wake up and walk in here and go ballistic over the mess.‖

Great, you’re already talking about taking me home.

―Sure! I don‘t need to get back right away, anyway,‖ I say, trying to sound chipper. I grab an empty takeout carton and start flattening it.

A few minutes later, after we‘ve cleaned the coffee table with the DustBuster and taken out the trash, I pipe up, ―So, it was cool to have us all over and order us dinner.‖

―Yeah…I think my parents wish I were more, you know, social, so they do stuff like this a couple times a semester.‖

―I‘m glad I got to meet them; they were really nice. I like your house too.‖

―Well, I can give you the fifty-cent tour if you‘d like.‖

I’d pay you a lot more than that if your bedroom is on the tour.
―Yeah, that‘d be great.‖

On the way to the stairwell I trip over the hallway‘s Persian runner and grunt like an ogre as my knees slam against the floor. I grab his arm so I don‘t fall flat on my face.

He laughs. ―Traveling by foot isn‘t exactly your strong suit, is it?‖

―Yeah. I don‘t know why I‘ve been so clumsy lately,‖ I mutter, trying not to sound like I‘m going to die of embarrassment. I purposely take my time regaining my balance, though, releasing his arm at the last possible second.

From the outside, Wes‘s house looks like a generic, beige stucco split-level home, but inside, each room is painted in a different pastel color, reminding me of Wes‘s parents‘ sweatsuits.

There‘s also a really cozy basement furnished with leather couches, Chinese lanterns, and even one of those stereos from the seventies with a turntable and dropdown spindle.
What a great
make-out room,
I think.

Wes‘s bedroom is on the last leg of our tour. It‘s boyishly messy, with a tangle of papers, sneakers, and computer cables spread out over the powder blue carpet. Posters of Olympic runners hang above his stuffed bookshelves. Dozens of track trophies, plaques, and medals sit atop his dresser. The cutest part—he has Marvin the Martian bedsheets. I don‘t know why, but I immediately wonder how many wet dreams he‘s had on them, and how often he jacks off. I haven‘t tried touching myself since the time Dad almost walked in on me, although I‘ve thought about it.

―I really like your room,‖ I say, hoping he can‘t read my mind.

―The best is this.‖ He points to the minifridge and fruit bowl underneath his desk. ―I keep various stashes here, like Gatorades and energy bars.‖

I am expecting him to lead me out of his room and take me home, but instead he breaks off two bananas, throws one to me, and sits down on the floor. So I sit down too, a few feet away from him. After I peel the banana, it occurs to me that eating it normally might resemble performing a blow job. I want to look attractive, not trashy. So I break off bite-sized pieces with my fingers and pop them into my mouth one at a time.

Wes‘s collie, who‘s been following us the whole time, bounds onto his lap. I‘m not really a pet person, but I figure I better make some kind of nice remark about the animal when I see how it makes Wes‘s eyes light up.

―Jessica has to be the most darling dog on Earth,‖ I say, trying not to feel jealous as it crawls all over Wes. ―You‘ve had her since she was a puppy, right?‖

―Yeah. She‘ll be eleven soon.‖

―It must have been good to have her with you through all your moves, if you were always making new friends.‖

―Yeah, she was always there for me. Along with my books and my brother—well, until he went away to college.‖

―Oh, is this him?‖ I ask, pointing to a framed photograph on Wes‘s desk.

―Yep. That‘s me and Art the Fart in the City. And that‘s the Washington Square Arch behind us.

My grandparents live a few blocks from there.‖

―He looks like you.‖

―I think he‘d take that as an insult.‖

I laugh and ask if he has any older family photos. Wes says his mom keeps them in the basement and that he‘d be glad to show me. ―Just promise not to trip walking down the stairs,‖

he adds, smiling over his shoulder. I‘m glad he can joke around with me.

When we get to the basement I pluck an album from the shelf and start leafing through it on the hardwood floor. Wes kneels behind me and leans over my right shoulder so he can see.

Somehow I work up the nerve to rock back so my right shoulder blade is ever so slightly resting against his chest.

―That‘s Mom.‖ He points to a thirty-something blonde in a bikini. I can tell her hair color is natural in the picture, unlike its current shade of platinum.

―She used to be pretty,‖ I blurt out. ―I mean, she still is.‖

―Yeah. Dad picked a fox.‖

I wonder if he considers me a ―fox.‖

He continues, ―Here they are on their honeymoon on Captiva Island. My grandparents, the ones in SoHo, keep a condo on Captiva where they vacation sometimes.‖

―Cool. My grandparents used to drive to Captiva once a week to eat at The Bubble Room. I don‘t think Grandma‘s been back, though, since Grandpa died.‖

I turn the page and see more honeymoon pictures of Wes‘s parents, this time with Wes‘s brother as a two-year-old. Wes can tell I‘m perplexed.

He explains, ―They had Arthur before they got married. Mom was actually pregnant with me when they made it legal.‖

―Oh,‖ I say, blushing as I thumb through the next few pages. I‘ve always wondered if my parents had sex before they got married. I wonder if Wes has had sex yet. He‘s a senior, a jock, and cute, so he‘s the last person you‘d expect to be a virgin. But he‘s never mentioned having a girlfriend, not that you need to be in a relationship to get laid. I wish I could ask him how far he‘s gone, but Amy says talking too much about past love lives can get you stuck in friend zone.

I flip to another page and find a picture of young Wes wearing a cone-shaped birthday hat and blowing out eight candles on a race car cake.

―You‘re so cute! Are all these people your family?‖

―No, these are the Skys, our neighbors from San Antonio. There‘s the original Jessica, see?‖

Wes points to a pretty red-haired girl, about ten, sitting next to him. She‘s probably a beauty queen now.

―Oh. So this is the girl next door with the dog-fur hair?‖

―Yeah.‖ He chuckles. ―Jess is also the one who got me into running. She and my brother would jog every morning, and I‘d tag along. Now she runs track at Columbia University.‖

―Very impressive. Do you guys, um, talk often?‖

―Nah.‖

Phew.

―But our families vacation together every spring break. This year we‘re meeting in Paris. Jess is a French major, so she wants to practice speaking it.‖

―Paris? That will be so much fun!‖ I pretend being excited for him, but I‘m crushed he‘s not going to be in town over break. I also can‘t help wondering if Jessica is part of the reason he wants to go to college in New York.

As I continue flipping through party pictures, I ask when his birthday is.

―December twenty-second.‖

―Get out!‖ I turn my head to his. Our lips are about eight inches apart. ―December twenty-second is
my
birthday! But wait, you‘re probably eighteen, right?‖

―Aren‘t you?‖

I shake my head. ―Seventeen. They started me early because I was too mature for nursery school.‖

―They started me late because I was too
im
mature.‖

After we both laugh, I look back at the album, but all I can concentrate on are Wes‘s breaths landing on the back of my neck. The heart beats an average of seventy times a minute. Right now mine is doing a hundred and twenty easy, and with each inhalation I‘m drinking in Wes‘s healthy, clean scent—a delicious combination of sweat and fabric softener. In biology we learned how animals can smell each other‘s pheromones, chemical signals that prompt them to mate. I can almost hear my pheromones bouncing into Wes‘s.

When we finish the album, Wes gets up to reshelve it. I take the opportunity to move this operation to the couch. He follows me but sits on the opposite side, holding his knees to his chest with his forearms. Not exactly the most receptive pose.

We stare into space for a couple minutes before I say, ―Mmm…I really like your house. I feel so at home here.‖

Then out of nowhere Wes grins and makes the most promising statement of the evening. ―I‘m really happy you were able to come tonight.‖

I rush in with, ―Me too. I had a lot of fun.‖

Wes shifts his position and leans toward me. My heart starts racing again and I instinctively wet my lips.

Then he stops and says, ―I should take you home. I don‘t want your dad to be mad at me for keeping you out late, him being the chief of police and everything.‖

―Yeah,‖ I answer, attempting to sound indifferent. ―I do have to be up in, like, five hours as it is to make Science Quiz practice.‖

Wes is mute on the drive to my place, and I can‘t think of anything not small-talky to say. So I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. When we get to my apartment building, he murmurs, ―Dom?

Dom?‖

I am hoping he‘ll try to wake me by gently nudging me. Or perhaps by kissing me. The moment is perfect.

Suddenly the car stereo is blasting rap at full volume.

―Okay, I‘m up, I‘m up! Turn that off!‖

―Couldn‘t resist.‖ He laughs. ―See you at the next meet.‖

I feel as if I‘m tied to the passenger seat. There‘s no way we can part ways this unemotionally after how much we‘ve talked tonight, let alone been e-mailing. I clear my throat, smile, and extend my right arm toward him, inviting him in for a hug. He leans into me for only a couple seconds before pulling back and saying goodbye again.

I bow my head in defeat. ―Good night, Wes.‖

Subject: Have a minute?

Date: Monday, January 21, 1:31 a.m.

Dear Wes,

When I got to my bedroom just now, I thought,
Yes! Finally I’ll get some sleep.
I jumped into bed, and then I thought,
Wow, this was such an awesome night.

So before I hit the hay, I wanted to write and let you know I had mucho fun talking to you just now. I totally enjoy our e-mails, and hanging with your friends tonight was great, but it was triply great just being with you without anyone else around. I really felt like I got to know you better. Maybe we could arrange for something similar again soon, if you want and if you have time.

Anyway, off to bed now. Hugs, Dom

Subject: Yes, I have a minute

Date: Monday, January 21, 2:00 a.m.

I agree. We need to hang out more before the year is up. I wish we‘d met before we did. I always wanted to go up into the bleachers and introduce myself to you at the meets last year, but I was afraid you‘d think I was strange. I really wish I had now, we could have spent more time together. Dom, I hope we keep in touch after graduation. I‘ll be really bummed if we don‘t.

G‘night.—W

9

B
eing an only child, I can‘t help that my parents are really tuned in to my life and can detect when something‘s on my mind besides school. They finally confront me one evening in late January. When they walk into my room, I turn off my monitor so they won‘t see I‘m in the middle of e-mailing Wes.

Dad sits down on the foot of my bed and asks, ―Have you been feeling all right?‖

―Yeah, why? Have
you
been feeling all right?‖ I know I‘m sounding adversarial, but I‘m
really
ticked off at them for interrupting my train of thought.

―We‘re a little concerned, Dommie. You seem preoccupied,‖ Mom says.

―Preoccupied?‖ I guffaw dismissively. ―Don‘t you remember last semester? College crapplications? The SATs? I am perfectly relaxed in comparison.‖

Mom nods but says, ―It‘s just that lately we barely see you. You hardly touch your dinner, and then you race into your room.‖

―What are you trying to say?‖

―What your father and I are asking you is if you‘re having any bad thoughts or feelings about eating, or your body.‖

Normally, I laugh good-naturedly when my parents jump to crazy conclusions. Instead, I roll my eyes and raise my voice.

―Mom, don‘t be crazy. I do not have an eating disorder.‖

―Don‘t call your mother crazy,‖ Dad stays sternly.

―Tonight, for instance,‖ Mom goes on, ―you didn‘t eat the bass Daddy caught, and that‘s your favorite.‖

―That‘s because I‘ve been toying with the idea of becoming a vegetarian.‖

―A vegetarian!‖ Dad‘s already losing his cool. It usually takes a lot longer for that to happen.

―Oh,‖ Mom says thoughtfully. ―Well, I guess I could start preparing some more veggies with dinner—‖

―Veggies, schmeggies,‖ Dad barks at me. ―Having meat in your diet is important!‖

I can‘t believe how out of touch he is. ―Dad, you can totally get the benefits of meat from other things, like these energy bars I‘ve been devouring.‖ I open my desk drawer to reveal my new stockpile. ―They‘re made with real tofu.‖

―Tofu? Tofu is nothing more than white shit. What the hell brought this on? Wait—‖ Dad sounds like he‘s having a revelation. ―You‘re not falling for that animal rights propaganda crap, are you? Is this why you haven‘t been coming fishing with us?‖

―Calm down, Dad. Although fishing
is
a pretty cruel sport when you think about it, I‘m being vegetarian for purely nutritional reasons, and it‘s been working.‖ I try to smile pleasantly.

―Honestly, I‘ve never felt so energetic before.‖

After a silence I continue, ―Is that all you came in to say?‖

―Well,‖ Mom hedges, ―we were wondering—‖

―Are you talking a lot with that boy?‖ Dad asks brusquely. ―The one whose movie party you went to?‖

Finally, they get to the point. After a heavy sigh, I answer proudly, ―‗That boy‘ has a name. It‘s Wes. Yes, we e-mail once a day, we‘ve hung out a couple times, and I go to his track meets.