Boy Minus Girl (8 page)

Dear Jesus . . . I’ll give my life to the Lutheran Church, I’ll never daydream through another sermon, if You’ll let her say yes. Amen
.

Soon I’m on Charity’s street. I ditch my bike on the lawn, leap up on the porch, and knock on the screen door. The sweet scent of cookies baking wafts out.

“Who is it?” Charity calls from somewhere inside.

“It’s Les!”

“It’s open!”

The living room is comfortable-looking, with lots of magazines and ceramic figurines. An old-timey organ dominates the wall behind the dining table.

“In the kitchen!” she says.

I find Charity, in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, standing at the stove, smiling over her shoulder at me. “You’re just in time for cookies, Booger. What’s with the outfit?”

She holds a spatula in her right hand as she transfers the cookies from the baking sheet onto a cooling rack.

“Charity, I need to tell you something.” I’m breathless.

“I’m all ears.” She places the empty cookie sheet and spatula in the sink.

“Are we alone?”

She nods as she pulls off her baking mitt. “Dad’s at work and Grandma’s playing a funeral.”

I lower myself onto one knee, extend my arm, and pop the rose out of my right sleeve, holding it out for her.

“Uh, thanks,” she says. “But what’s all this for?”

I draw in a deep breath and remove my top hat while slowly exhaling the words: “Charity Conners, I’m in love with you.”

She stares at me.

“There, I said it.”

Wait. Wait some more. Why is she staring at me with that
look
? Why hasn’t she taken the rose? A gnawing begins in the pit of my stomach.

“Do you feel the same about me?” Ach! My voice is a squeak.

“No, Les, I’m afraid I don’t.”

The rose drops from my grip.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But you see . . . I just can’t. Not like that.”

When I stagger to my feet, the cape catches under my heel and starts to rip. “But we’re perfect for each other!” I say. It is hard to breathe and speak at the same time. “I mean, we have so much in common. You said yourself I’m your only real friend in town.”

“Yes, I said ‘friend.’ ”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “But we can be so much more if you’ll just give us a chance. That’s all I’m asking for, a chance.”

“I’m sorry, Les.”

“I—I can’t believe you’re being so . . . so closed-minded about this!” I am nearly shouting, my chest is heaving.
Keep it cool—maybe she’s just scared?

“Les, what I’m about to tell you, you’ve got to promise not to tell a soul. Do you promise? Not a soul.”

I nod.

“I like girls.”

“What?”

“I’m a lesbian, Les.”

“You’re you are? Seriously?”

She nods, her eyes dead serious.

“One hundred percent?” I ask.

“One hundred percent.”

Feeling light-headed, I lean against the refrigerator and put my sweaty palms to my face.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This. Is. Not. Happening.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“How long have you known?” I say through my fingers.

“Pretty much my whole life.”

“Have you ever dated guys?”

She shakes her head. “Guys just don’t do it for me. Sorry.”

“But how do you know that if you’ve never dated one?”

“Les, I know.” She reaches into her black feathered purse, which is slung over the wooden kitchen chair, and removes a strip of small black-and-white photos, the type you take in one of those booths, and hands it to me. They show her and a very cute blonde in each picture. Their arms are around each other, and in two of the photos they are kissing. “This is my Lauren.”

I hand back the photo strip and try not to look like I want to cry. “Does your mom know?”

“It’s the biggest reason we don’t get along. She insists I’m doing this to get back at her for something.”

“And your dad?”

“It’s why he moved us back here. To keep me away from Lauren.”

The kitchen suddenly feels hot, cramped, and it’s hard for me to catch my breath.

“No one else knows,” she says. “Please don’t say anything.”

I nod numbly and walk toward her front door.

“Les . . . I hope this won’t hurt our friendship,” she says. “I really like hanging out with you.”

I manage to ride my bike out of view of her house before the tears break.

***

Jesus . . . why? Aren’t I allowed to become a man? Who’s going to help me with this? What have I done to deserve this? Where is Your heart?

Seduction Tip Number 7:

That Voice

I spend the rest of Saturday in bed, facing the wall, with the covers pulled up to my chin. A lesbian in Harker City. Who’d guess such a thing? How could I possibly have known she was one of those? It was only a couple of years ago that I even heard the term “lesbian.” And aren’t they always manly women? Is this a ploy for her to appear special and different? Like her flapper costumes?
Or
does she just need to be with the right guy? After all, she’s never dated a guy. Could
I
change her? Except . . . she seems like she knows exactly who she is and she and the blonde looked very much in love in those pictures. This is not fair. Still, if I could only convince her to give me a shot . . . who knows?

Sunday afternoon. I’m lying in bed, wondering if I will ever get over Charity, when the phone rings. Moments later Mom yells from downstairs, “Les, you’re wanted on the phone—by a girl.”

No. I’m not, Mom. I’m not wanted by any girl.

Still, I force myself to take the call.

“Hey, Les, it’s me.” Sounds like she’s been crying.
Over me?

“Hey.”

“Can you meet me at the Frosty Queen in an hour?” she asks. “I need to talk to you.”

Maybe she’s given it some more thought and discovered she isn’t as lesbian as she thought? Could she have feelings for me after all?

“Uh, okay. See you soon.”

I hang up, wondering if Jesus has decided to throw me a bone. I warn myself against such feelings—but my hopes
are
up. I will play it cool. Just a sexy, experienced guy, willing to forgive her. And then . . .

When I step into the garage to fetch my bike, I freeze at the sight of my Chinese vanishing box—100 percent finished. And it’s painted a fancy shiny black. A red velvet curtain hangs regally in its doorway. It looks like a million bucks.

I find Mom and Dad in the garden, on their knees weeding.

“Dad, it looks awesome!” I say. “It’s totally perfect!”

Dad turns to me, shaking his head. “What’re you talking about, son?”

“The vanishing box. I just know I’m going to win the talent show now.”

Dad still looks baffled. “I haven’t worked on it.”

“Your uncle finished it last night,” Mom declares as she falls back on her heels.

“Well, that was certainly nice of him,” Dad says, looking almost hurt.

“I have to thank him,” I say. “Where is he?”

“Hard telling,” Mom says. “He drove off after lunch. By the way, young man, I thought you were sick.”

“I suddenly feel better. Much, much better. See ya!”

***

The Trailways bus pulls away as I steer my bike into the Frosty Queen parking lot. I spot Uncle Ray’s Corvette parked in front of one of the motel rooms. No doubt he and that Shelleby are engaging in a little afternoon delight. Stepping into the air-conditioning of the café is like diving into a swimming pool in the Sahara. Sheriff Bottoms hunches at the counter, sipping coffee. Charity gives a little wave from a window booth. As I slide in across from her, I see she has a handwritten letter in front of her, and her eyes look all puffy and bloodshot.

“Thanks for meeting me.” She sniffs and tucks the letter into a stamped envelope, depositing it in her backpack.

I nod and lean back, very cool, very “sure, whatever, nothing fazes me.”

Jesus . . . You can walk on water, turn water into wine, arise from the dead. So please do this one small thing for me and make Charity fall in love with me. Amen.

“I asked you here because I owe you an apology,” she says.

I crinkle my eyebrows seductively. “Oh, you do?”

“I feel I wasn’t entirely fair to you, that maybe I led you on.” She briefly glances outside, then back to me. “Truth was, I was flattered you liked me. It felt good. But it was wrong of me and I’m sorry.”

I keep waiting for the real confession: that she is, in fact, attracted to me. But what I hear is: “I should’ve told you from the get-go that I am the way I am. I should’ve been honest.”

So why is
she
crying? Does she feel that sorry for me? Am I that much of a loser?

Carla, diner waitress extraordinaire, appears tableside and sets down a piece of coconut cream pie, with meringue that scrapes the clouds, in front of Charity.

“What can I get you, Les?” Carla asks.

“Nothing, thanks. Absolutely nothing.”

Carla shrugs and makes her way back to the counter. Charity hands me the extra fork and says, “I got this for both of us.”

I set down the fork and ask, “So why were you crying?”

“I received a Dear Jane letter from Lauren yesterday,” she says, and starts to tear up a little. “It said ‘There’s no reason to continue our relationship,’ and ‘I don’t want to be tied down to someone so far away,’ and ‘Let’s stay friends.’ Blah, blah, blah . . .
Blecch!
”

“Maybe, maybe this means you should be with someone . . . different. Like me.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Les. It’s like I said. I’m just not attracted to guys. Any guys.”

God, why am I so stupid? So very, very stupid.

“Please, don’t hate me,” she says. “I need a friend in this place.”

Her sad blue eyes. The way the sun shines through the window and illuminates her hair. I can’t believe she’ll never be my girlfriend. How am I supposed to just switch off who
I
am? From outside I hear a truck engine humming in low gear.

“Hey, I’d still like to be your magician’s assistant for the talent show,” she says. “If you’re cool with that.”

“But why would you want to hang around with me if it’s not going to lead anywhere?”

“Why do you hang out with Howard?” she asks. “Is that leading anywhere?”

Outside, the engine grows louder.

“But don’t lesbians hate men?”

“Where do guys get that idea? If anything, dykes and guys have a lot in common: we both love the ladies. If it helps, you can think of me as a guy with turkey tits.”

“Ew.” But I almost smile.

I note Sheriff Bottoms glancing over his shoulder and giving us a strange look.

“So, then,” I start to ask in a low voice, “do you feel like a guy trapped in a girl’s body?”

“No,” she laughs. “I feel like a perfectly normal girl who is attracted to other girls.”

“And you think that’s normal?”

“Who gets to decide what’s normal? The good folks of Harker City? Besides, normal is overrated, and unattainable.” She stabs the pie with her fork, then pops a bite into her mouth. “Mmm. You should really try this.”

I taste its creamy lusciousness.
Mmm.

“Les, I think we can be really good for each other,” she says. “Y’know, be each other’s confidantes. We can talk about girls we find cute.”

“Might be too weird for a God-fearing, clean-living Lutheran boy like me.”

“This from a guy who wears a cape and calls himself the Great Linguini?”

Now I can’t help but smile. She’s a sharp one, this lesbian. I clear my throat and ask, “How long have you . . . known?”

“Let’s see . . . I remember being in the third grade and listening to a bunch of girls talk about boys they wanted to kiss, and I kept thinking about how I wanted to smooch Heather Adams.”

“But you’ve never, y’know, gone all the way with a guy, right?”

She shakes her head as she chews more pie.

“So how do you
really
know you’re gay if you’ve never done it with a guy?”

“Have you ever done it with a guy?” she asks.

“Heck, no!”

“And you know you don’t want to, right?”

“Positively.”

“Exactly,” she says, pointing her fork. “It’s about attraction, it’s about who excites you, it’s about . . . knowing.”

I finally and fully believe her now.
All right, all right, all right.
I’m reluctantly convinced.

“But . . . ,” I start to say.

“But what?”

“Never mind.”

“But what?” she groans. “Just say it.”

“But Reverend Bachbaugh says homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of God.”

“Is it one of the Ten Commandments?” she asks.

“Well, no.”

“And wasn’t Christ all about acceptance and forgiveness?” she asks. “About a year ago my mom sent me to Christian counseling in an attempt to ‘straighten’ me out. It was quickly clear to me that the church picks and chooses what it wants from the Bible. And they pick sin and hellfire much more than they choose Jesus’s unconditional love. I don’t know, Les, maybe I am some sort of sinner, but what am I supposed to do?”

“You’ve gotta be yourself,” I say, and am proud I’m more open-minded than Reverend Bachbaugh. Still, I thank God I’m not gay.

The engine, now roaring, causes the window to vibrate. Charity glances outside and her eyes widen. “What the . . . ?”

A cement-mixer truck is parked beside Uncle Ray’s Corvette, its massive barrel spinning. Suddenly the large metal chute at the back of the truck pours wet concrete into the front seat!

“Holy shit!”

Shelleby’s tall, broad-shouldered, bearded husband, Leo, stands beside the chute and calmly watches the concrete flow into the convertible.

By the time I make it to the parking lot, the concrete has risen to the level of the dashboard.

“Stop!” I yell, but Leo just stands there, watching the car with calm, vengeful eyes.

The door to a motel room opens, and Uncle Ray and Shelleby poke their heads out.

“What the fuck?!” Uncle Ray yells. Shelleby screams. I can see her boobs!

My uncle Ray storms outside, his arms flailing, his penis bouncing like a hot dog on a string. “You crazy son of a bitch!”

I should do something, but what?

As Uncle Ray goes to push away the spout, Leo punches him in the jaw sending him collapsing against the car. Uncle Ray throws himself at Leo and they tussle. I run to them, yelling, “Stop it!”

Uncle Ray is no match for the massive Leo, who tucks his hands under Uncle Ray’s arms, lifts him up, and drops him into the car with a splash.

Stunned, Uncle Ray is sinking fast into the gray sludge when I see Leo remove a shovel from the side of the truck.

“No!” I yell, holding out my hands as I scramble over to him.

Leo raises the shovel high. It comes down with a resounding clank. Right on top of Uncle Ray’s head.