Chicken (25 page)

Brother Mackey shuts the club down on round five, probably because the old folks are going to start dropping like flies if he makes them go one more time. He dismisses the musicians and says, “Let’s get our fellowship on!”

Back in the sound booth, Colton plays something less aggressive but equally upbeat as the members of Harvest Mission begin roaming around the church with their hands outstretched, sharing God’s love and the world’s germs. 

Brant slips back into his pew before anyone can get him. He wraps his arm around Hannah’s shoulder. She hugs him around the waist. He whispers something in her ear. She digs in her purse and hands him a pen. He squeezes past Lauren and plops down on the pew. She cranes her neck to see what he’s writing, but he hunches his shoulders and gives her a sharp look.

Someone punches me in the back, hard enough to hurt, but light enough for no one else to think anything of it. I turn around, and Mathis sticks out his hand, which probably hasn’t been washed since the last time he jacked off, but I shake it anyway. He’s slicked back the hair over his ears, which makes his mullet look even more mulletentious.

He grins, baring his unbrushed teeth.  “Don’t you just love fried chicken?”

And then, somehow, Brant is behind Mathis, one arm draped over his shoulder, side-hugging him like a boss. “Everyone loves fried chicken, Tyler. Where do you think we are? San Francisco?”

Mathis shrugs him off and walks away. Brant curls a lip at his back. Then he thrusts his hand at me, and I take it, even though I don’t want to shake it, I want to hold it and never let him go. Something smooth touches my palm. When we let go, I close my hand fast around the note. 

Brant gets swept into a hug with breathless, sweaty Brother Raymond, and then he disappears, passed from one person who adores him to another, probably all around the church. I sit. Unfold the note before my parents and sister come back. 

It’s a shred from the church bulletin. Under the announcement about the trip switch, Brant has scrawled in very tiny, close-together letters: Just because you can’t afford something, don’t mean you don’t want it more than anything.

MONDAY, JULY 16, 2012

I’m mowing Sister Bonnie’s lawn, maneuvering an elderly push-mower around a rusty old swing-and-slide set, when Brant’s silver pick-up comes crunching down the gravel drive, inciting a small panic attack because I’m shirtless and covered in freckles and tiny pieces of grass. I stop the mower and bolt for the front porch where I left my shirt on the rail.

Brant hangs his elbow out his open window and whistles. “Hey, you sexy beast. Let’s get out of here.”

I slide into my shirt, even though I’ll be itching like crazy with all this grass stuck to my skin. “I ain’t done mowing.”

The front door opens and Sister Bonnie leans out, looks at her half-mowed yard. “Looks good to me, Casper.”

I slick my hand through my wet hair. “But—”

She waves dismissively. “It’s too hot for you to be working this hard. You can finish in the morning.”

I step onto the porch. “I should probably call—”

She holds out her hands, looks at the grass clumped on my boots. “That’s all right. I’ll take care of it. Unless, of course, you’re supposed to be watching your sister.”

I shake my head. “No, ma’am. And that was never an official plan!”

She gives me a look, the kind that says I know you didn’t really lose that overdue book, and says, “Alright. You boys go play. Just come back here when you’re done.”

I should argue because I don’t see how this can end without me getting in a world of trouble, but I jump off the porch and run around to the passenger side of Brant’s truck before she can change her mind. Brant throws the truck into reverse and backs down the driveway even though there’s plenty of room to turn around. 

“Brant Mitchell!” Sister Bonnie shouts.

He slams on the brake, leans out his window. “Yes ma’am?”

“You be safe. You hear me?” She levels him with a gaze that says You’re fines are due this instant, young man. 

Brant goes paler than I’d have thought possible. “Yes, ma’am.”

She lifts her chin and her eyebrows. “You hear me?”

Brant swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am! I hear you!”

She waves, and he lets off the brake. We roll backward all the way to the paved street. I figured he’d turn east toward town and his house, but instead he heads west toward the mountains. I twist my neck around, watch Sister Bonnie watching us go.

“I think she knows. I mean, I think I kind of came out to her last week. Before anything.”

“When you found out she’s a liberal agitator?”

“Uh-huh.”

He purses his lips and then shrugs. “She’s a cool lady.”

“Are you mad? Are you worried?”

He sticks his hand out his window into the breeze. “If I say she’s a cool lady, I mean she’s a cool lady.”

“If she says be safe, I don’t think she means drive one-handed.”

Brant smirks. “You really think she was talking about driving?”

I blush, look out my window. “Where are we going?”

He grunts. “Not as far as I’d like.”

Fields rush by, a blur of bright yellow bitter weed and rusty barbed wire. Silos and sheds, stock ponds and tractors. It’s not so different from Texas, only greener and with bigger trees and less sky. Brant hits the seek button again and again, passing several perfectly good country songs and a few perfectly creepy praise songs and a few perfectly incoherent rock songs until suddenly Lady Gaga.

Brant whoops. “Now here’s a cool lady!”

He spins the volume dial until her voice creates so much pressure in the cab that I’m surprised the truck doesn’t blow apart. Brant bounces in his seat, swinging his head and careening the truck back and forth across the yellow line.

I grab his forearm. “Could you maybe pick one side of the road and stick with it?”

“Is that some sort of euphemism?”

“No! It’s a straightforward request for you to drive like someone who knows how to drive!”

He steadies the truck, but keeps shouting along, making up words when he don’t know them, though mostly he does. I press my hands over my ears until I can’t take it any longer. I jab the seek button and make her shut up.

Brant laughs. “What? I thought we were gay now?”

“I don’t know. Someone told me we were just guys who like kissing.”

The radio lands on some Christian station. Suddenly, our former governor’s drawling voice fills the cab, pleading for us to show up at National Wings of Glory Appreciation Day. Brant slams his whole palm on the seek button. Again and again and again. I pull his hand onto the armrest between us, lace up our fingers like they should have been that night at the movies. The Eli Young Band sings, and I turn the volume back down to a non-lethal level.

“This is my jam,” Brant says, but his jaw is tight, all his neck muscles flexed.

“I guess there’s no way around it.”

He bites at a hangnail.  “Not unless the Rapture happens.”

“You think we’ll get to go?”

He turns and spits his own skin out the window. He settles back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping mine. The song reaches its climax and he mumble-sings along ’til the end. He lifts my hand, kisses my knuckles.

“No, Casper. I think we’ll get to stay.”

Brant takes me to the rodeo.

Well, he takes me to the arena where the rodeo happens. But today, there’s only hoof-pocked dirt in the ring and weeds growing up under the bleachers and three dented, orange-and-white barrels set up in that triangle pattern I could ride in my sleep. I lean my chest against the tall, white, rust-crusted railing, breathing in all the lingering horsey smells. 

Brant leans his back against the fence, sucking on his bloody finger under the shadow of his hat. I grab his wrist and pull his hand away. He starts nibbling his chapped lips, and I wince when he rips off a shred.

“You don’t got to be nervous around me.”

He licks his bloody lip. “I wasn’t sure how this’d make you feel.”

I turn sideways to face him, hook my elbow over one of the white rails. “You know I haven’t been to an arena since it happened?”

He looks down at his boots, scuffs them in the yellow grass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up bad stuff.”

I kick his toe. “’I’ve missed it every single day.” 

He kicks my shin. “So it was a good idea?”

“Best second date I’ve ever been on.”

I try to kick him again, but he pounces on me, pins me up against the rails. He buries his face in my neck, and I don’t hear him laughing, but I can feel it in his mouth against my skin. I rub my cheek on his coarse hair and can’t stop my whimper. My arms fold around his back, grip his shoulder blades. His lips move in a line from my ear to my shoulder. It’s weird how thinking about this stuff used to make me so horny I couldn’t stand it, but now that’s it happening, I just want to cry in relief. 

He backs away, blushing. Swipes his wrist over his wet lips. “Sorry.”

I shake my head. “There’s things you can apologize for, but not kissing. Never kissing.”

He puts a boot on the lowest rail. “I wanted to bring your rotten horse, but I couldn’t figure a way to get the trailer.”

I look at the barrels. “He wouldn’t know what to do anyway.”

Brant straddles the top of the fence and holds out his hand. “I think I can figure it out.”

I don’t need any help climbing fences, but just like on the mountain, I take his hand because it’s mine to take whenever I want to now. No, that’s not true. Whenever I want to and no one else is around, which is all the more reason to grab it whenever he’s holding it out. I climb the bars, swing my leg over the top. He drops into the arena, kicking up a cloud of dust. 

He hunches over, hands on his knees. “Alright. Hop on.”

“Are you crazy?”

He reaches over his shoulder to pat his own back. “Come on. I’ll be your horse.”

I laugh and laugh and laugh. He looks up at me, lifts an eyebrow, and I remember he can’t read my mind. He doesn’t know about all my stupid daydreams. I cover my face with both hands and shake my head.

“I’m not gonna ride you around like a horse.”

“Sure you are.” He pats his back again. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Come on. I’ve been jealous of your horses for like ten years now. Just get on.”

I’m still shaking my head, but I’m also easing over the rail, dangling my legs in his direction. He pushes his butt against the fence, pats his shoulder. I land on the small of his back, one leg on either side of his hips. He stumbles, but stays on his feet. His hands loop under my thighs, holding me up. I take the hat off his head and put it on mine.

“Hey!”

“Horses don’t wear hats.”

“If you can be a gay cowboy, I think I can be a horse who wears a hat.”

I squeeze his ribs. He just stands there. I squeeze again. Nothing.

“That means go. You’re a terrible horse.”

He lurches forward, takes maybe ten wobbly steps, and then falls on his face. I flip over his head. This seems to be something we do a lot. We lie crown to crown, coughing up dust. He wiggles forward on his stomach, props himself up on his forearms, and peers down at my face with a flattened brow.

“There are reasons, Casper.”

I smirk. “Reasons, Brant?”

“Why you shouldn’t take me seriously when I say stupid shit.”

I grab him by the hair. His chin crushes my nose, but it’s fine. I cup one hand around the back of his neck, feel the rough ridges of his scars under my palm. I want to hear the whole story, but reckon now is now the time. I’ve got more pressing questions anyway.

I turn my head to the side. “What about the shit you said yesterday?”

He disappears from my field of vision, and I sit up, find him cross-legged behind me, hands on his knees like a meditating Jedi. I mirror him, letting my kneecaps brush his so that together our legs make a diamond in the dust. 

“You’re more than just kissing to me, if that’s what you mean.”

I scratch at a threadbare spot on my jeans. “You’re more than just kissing to me too.”

His hand hops from his knee to mine. “I didn’t kiss Lauren.”

“I kissed Hannah. For like twenty minutes. Then we watched Doctor Who for three hours.”

“Okay, now tell me, this is important—can you understand a word they’re saying?”

I laugh. “Maybe one out of ten.”

“It’s like they ain’t even speaking English! I gave up halfway through the first season.”

“She won’t let me. But there was a cool werewolf. Made me miss you.”

He grins, baring his teeth. I lean forward, slide my fingertips along his jaw until I’m holding the side of his neck. He bows his head, hiding his eyes behind a curtain of curls. I tug on his neck, and his head bumps into my chest. His hands clutch my legs, and I wrap my arms around his back, my fingers tracing the bumpy line of his backbone. I hook my chin over his scars.

“Tell me the truth about Caleb.”

His back stiffens. “He’s not a ghost.”

“Is he even dead?”

Brant leans back, shoves his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“But he didn’t drown.”

Brant looks off toward the bleachers. “I don’t think so.”

“Why are you keeping his secrets?”

“Because that’s what you do when someone asks you to keep their secrets.” He looks at me. “Isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“You understand how important it is?”

“I’m not going to tell anyone about us.”

He stands, whacks the dust out of his jeans. He walks over and picks up his cowboy hat, plunks it on his head. He heads toward the chutes under the announcer’s booth. I scramble after him.

“Hey! I’m not going to tell anyone. My parents would kill me.”

“Mine would do a lot worse.”

He slinks through the chutes, slipping through some rails, climbing over others. I follow him to the foot of the steep, narrow stairs leading up to the booth. I grab the back of his shirt.

“Brant. I’m not going to tell.”

He holds my hand and pulls me up the stairs. The rusty metal grates and sways. At the top, there’s an even thinner catwalk over to the booth. My stomach churns and my free hand sweats on the flimsy railing.