Call the Shots (3 page)

See, he’s a nice guy. Let’s send him someone really special.

“I
love
this song!” Evelyn sways in time to the beat as the female singer bellows on about how people wait their whole lives for a moment like this.

“Careful now,” I shout over the music. “Focus on your balance. Don’t get too carried away.”

“I’m already carried away.” She looks over at me as the song swells, her eyes wide and wet like a love-starved puppy.

Oh, crap. I think I might have boarded a runaway train here. Not good.

I flip through the possible excuses in my head. Food. Bathroom. Leg cramp. They all sound so made-up. And nowhere near good enough to make her release the death grip she’s got on my hand.

Still, it’s not fair to lead her on.

I’m about to throw myself to the ice under the guise that I’ve lost an edge on my skate blade when Coop and Helen glide up next to us, the flickering fairy lights of the disco ball dancing across their faces. Helen gives me a big smile. Coop shoots me a way-to-go wink and thumbs-up combo.

I glance over at Evelyn again. The muted lights make the left side of her face that much more appealing. Cute, even.

Could I overlook all that other stuff — the voice, the whiff of cheese, the sweaty palms — for a girl with a moderately pleasant profile?

Yeah, I think I probably could. I mean, I’m not looking for someone to marry. I just want a girlfriend. Someone to go to the movies with. And watch TV with. And to hang out along with my friends.

Besides, everyone says you should play the field before you settle down. This would just be like that. Who knows? Maybe we’d really get along.

And then, out of the blue, I get a pang of uncertainty. Like, what if I read the signs wrong? What if I imagined that look of longing in her eyes? What if I make a move and she smacks me down? Rejected by a sort-of-homely ninth-grader. That would
not
look good on the dating résumé.

Suddenly, just as the cornball song reaches a crescendo, Evelyn’s skate blade catches a rut and she trips.

I grasp her hand tightly and pull her up before she hits the ice.

“Oh, my God.” Evelyn gazes into my eyes, her arms somehow having wound up around my neck. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I ask, wondering if she popped her shoulder or something.

We’re standing in the middle of the rink, all the other couples streaming past us like a river around a rock.

“The lyrics to the song,” Evelyn says breathlessly. “She was singing about how she wants someone to catch her when she falls. And then you caught me just as I was falling! It’s a sign, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t really listen —”

Evelyn leaps up and smashes her mouth against mine. Her tongue pries open my lips and she’s exploring the inside of my mouth like a spelunker searching for cave treasure. There’s a moment when I think she’s actually playing tetherball with my uvula.

Part of me wants to detach Evelyn from my face, but another part — a
lower
part — is enjoying the kiss too much, however ferocious it might be. My eyes dart around like crazy as I try to guide the two of us out of traffic and toward the boards.

When I finally get us to safety, she pulls away with a loud wet smack, biting my lower lip like a wild animal.

Evelyn’s out of breath. She’s staring at me with this strange hungry look in her eyes. Like if she could, she would actually eat my entire head.

She grabs me in a powerful hug, pressing her cheek to my chest and squeezing the air from my lungs. “I guess this means we’re going out now, huh?”

“Uhhh.” I choke. “I . . . um . . .” My brain is short-circuiting. Can’t focus. Though the throbbing in my boxers is unmistakable.

And that’s when I see Val and Matt, smiling and waving from the other side of the glass.

Something about how they’re beaming at me, and the swirl of the song coming to an end, and how I don’t want to wind up being the guy at college who dated only one girl in high school, clears the fog from my head.

Well, that, and the uprising going on downstairs.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”

Evelyn laughs and hugs me harder, if that’s even possible. “Ohmygod, my very first boyfriend! I can’t even believe it!” She leans back, her dead-serious stare boring into me. “Don’t
ever
break up with me, okay?” Her eyes start to fill up at just the thought of it. “I mean it. I don’t think . . . I don’t think I could take it. Promise me, okay?”

“Uh . . . okay,” I croak. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” Evelyn buries her face in my coat and sniffles. “I believe you.”

I pat her back awkwardly.

I should be happy here, right? I mean, I’m finally dating someone again. Someone fairly cute. Sort of. From the side. So why do I feel a nauseous sourness in my stomach? Like I just ate three Big Macs with way too much special sauce?

Like, I maybe just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life?

I
’VE GOT BROCK LESNAR
down on the mat — ready to take my rightful place as the Ultimate Fighting Champion — when I hear the family-room door open and footsteps coming up behind me.

“Off the TV, scrotum. I’m watching a movie.” It’s Cathy, Queen of Darkness.

“Clearly you’re not,” I say, waving my Xbox controller.

“I will be once you turn off your idiot games.” She gestures at the cold pack I’ve got wrapped around my neck. “What’s up with the ice? Get a little too vigorous with the wanking?”

“Ha, ha. You should be a clown, Cath. You’ve already got the white face makeup.”

“Is that right?” Cathy snatches the ice pack from my neck and dangles it in the air. “Who’s laughing now, little boy?”

“Give it back, jerk!” I pause my game and leap off the couch.

Her dark-shadowed eyes go wide when she sees my neck. “Holy crap, Sean. Where’d you get all those welts? Were you attacked by bats or something?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Some of your vampire buds ambushed me last night.” I lunge for the cold pack, but she swings it behind her.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say those were some major hickeys.” Cathy laughs. “Tell me who gave them to you, and I’ll give you back your ice.”

“Eat it,” I say, glaring at her. It looks like she’s got a new brow piercing, which makes two over each eye now. Mom’s going to flip.

Cathy shrugs. “Fine. But secrets just lead to speculation.” She taps the silver stud in her lip. “Let me guess: Johnny Weir showed up at the rink last night and the two of you spent the entire evening doing some serious neck sucking.”

“Johnny Weir would never skate at the Salisbury Park Ice Rink,” I say, making a grab for her arm that she easily dodges. “He trains at the Ice Vault Arena in Wayne, New Jersey.”

Cathy’s jaw drops.

“Well, well, well,” she says. “Someone knows quite a lot about a certain flamboyant figure skater.”

“Just give me the freakin’ ice pack, will ya? I have to get rid of these things before school on Monday.”

“It’s a simple barter system, baby brother.” Cathy dangles the cold pack in the air. “Goods for information. Now come on. Tell your big sister who’s been gnawing on your neck.”

Cathy was born nine minutes before me, which she loves to rub in any chance she gets.

“Don’t you have a cemetery to haunt or something?” I say.

“Listen, Sean.” Cathy gives me her I’m-so-compassionate look. “I could be your biggest champion if you let me.” She reaches out and grabs my shoulder. “All you have to do is be honest. I’d be totally supportive, I swear. Now tell me, do I know him?”

“I’m
not
gay.” I step back from her. “What about that don’t you understand?”

She cocks her head. “
Please.
It’s so obvious. I mean, besides your stalker-like knowledge of Johnny Weir’s whereabouts, there’s also the little matter of your iTunes library. Lady Gaga? Justin Bieber? The
Sweeney Todd
soundtrack? The signs are everywhere, sweetie. You dress up in women’s clothing. You’re a mama’s boy. You play homoerotic video games. Should I go on?”

“One time! I dressed up in girls’ clothes one time! And it was to see a naked
girl,
which you seem to have conveniently forgotten.”

“So you claim. But what about this?” Cathy gestures at the television, where Brock Lesnar and Heath Herring are lying frozen on the mat in a bare-torsoed grasp. “Tell me there’s nothing gay about two barely clothed men embracing each other on the floor.”

I point at the screen. “That’s a rear naked choke.”

Cathy raises her eyebrows. “I rest my case.”

“They’re beating the pus out of each other.”

She shrugs. “If you say so. But it looks like man-love to me. And it’s totally cool. Some of the most influential people in the world have been gay. Leonardo da Vinci. Alexander the Great. Oscar Wilde. Isaac Newton. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m
not
ashamed.” A vein in my left temple pulses. “If I was gay, I’d admit it.”

“Really? I’m not so sure. Or maybe you just don’t realize what’s so clear to the rest of us.”

“You know what? Keep the stupid ice pack.” I grab the remote control, shut off the television, and storm out of the family room.

The second I’m through the door, I am engulfed by our panting, whining dogs. I make my way through the living room, trying to pretend that I can’t hear Cathy hot on my heels.

Ingrid, our African gray parrot, squawks from her cage in the corner of the room. “I’m hung like a horse!”

“You’re a
girl,
Ingrid,” I snap. “You’re not even hung like a bird.”

“Take the pecker!” She jabs her beak at the air.

Two years ago, Ingrid was found in the home of some dead old guy who must have had nothing better to do with his time than teach her how to curse at people. Strangely enough, we haven’t been able to adopt her out.

“You like it birdie style!” she caws, grabbing the side of her cage with her claws and doing little thrusting motions with her body.

“You see?” Cathy laughs. “Even Ingrid knows.”

I ignore both of them and go to the kitchen. Yank open the freezer door and look inside to see if we have anything I can use as a substitute cold pack. Peas. A box of Fudgsicles. A whole salmon.

“I mean, Mom and Dad probably won’t understand,” I hear Cathy say from the doorway. “Being as uptight as they are. But they’d have to accept it eventually. With some counseling, they’d learn to love you again. And think about how much more interesting you’d be.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” I stare into the freezer, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of my full attention, even if it means I have to shout for her to hear me. “You can talk and talk all you want. It doesn’t matter. There is nothing you can say that is ever going to convince me to change how I feel about guys, okay? I know who I like and who I don’t. And frankly, what Mom and Dad think about my sexual tendencies doesn’t even enter the picture.”

Someone clears their throat behind me and I can tell immediately that it’s not Cathy.

I whip around to see my parents standing there, shopping bags dangling from their hands, their eyes wide. I scan the kitchen for my sister, but she’s nowhere to be found.

I shut the freezer door and clap my hand on my hickey-peppered neck. “Hi, guys.”

Mom’s eyes start to tear up. She glances at Dad, then back to me. “Is there . . . ? Is there something you’d like to tell us, hon?”

I blink, confused. Then it finally hits me. “Oh! No. No, there’s nothing. Cathy was just . . . She was trying to . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Mom takes a deep breath, sniffling. “It’s okay, sweetie.” She uses her placating, everything’s-fine-here voice. The one she uses whenever Dixie — our lactose-intolerant beagle — accidentally soft-serves on the living-room carpet. She plops her bags on the kitchen table, then looks at Dad. “Believe it or not, your father and I have actually discussed this. We had a . . . a hunch that you might be . . . you know . . . and we are . . .” She swallows the jagged little pill. “We are okay with it. Aren’t we, honey?” She looks over at Dad again.

“Yes,” Dad says, sounding like his shorts just shrank three sizes. “As long as you’re absolutely sure. And you don’t want to, you know, maybe talk to Father Hurley about it first.”

“What? No! I don’t —”

“I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Mom says, coming to my rescue. “If he knows, he knows. It’s not going to make a difference.”

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” I say. “What you heard me say was . . . I was talking to Cathy and . . . Look, the point is, I like girls, okay? End of story. I’ve had a girlfriend. Tianna, remember? You met her.”

“You mean”— Mom scrunches up her face —“the girl who sort of looked like a boy?”

“
What?
She did not!”

Dad grimaces. “She kind of did, Sean. Like that actor. What’s his name? The one who played the hobbit.”

I smack my forehead. “Holy crap, are you serious?”

“Sean,”
Mom scolds. “Language. Please. My goodness. And here I was under the impression that the gays were more refined.”

“You know what? Forget it. I’m just going to pretend we never had this discussion.” I storm out of the kitchen, the excited dogs swarming around me.