Fan Art (21 page)

Thank you, God, for my second family and for Mason. Especially for Mason. And if you grant wonderful things to quasibelievers like me, all I ask for is this: Please don’t let anything change when I come out to him. Amen.

And then we are passing plates, praising Londa’s cooking, and eating. I listen as everyone shares stories of school and work and odd customer requests.

“She didn’t know you don’t buy risotto at the grocery store. It’s a dish, not a type of rice,” Mrs. V explains.

“He wanted one tire—for sixteen-inch rims. SUVs are
eighteen now, so it’s not like we had a sixteen-incher just lying around,” Mason says.

“So we put on his spare,” Gabe adds.

“I hope he doesn’t get a flat,” Londa says.

“Not my problem,” Mr. V says. “I tried to tell him it’d be best to order two.”

I file that in the back of my head.
Always order two tires
. And
Risotto isn’t rice
. I take a bite of cheese-smothered enchilada and find myself savoring it, as if I’m trying to remember the complex combination of flavors. I look at each person as I eat. Mr. V is eating slowly, his face serious, his stern-father-boss-business-owner expression etched into the wrinkles between his eyebrows. Gabe serves himself seconds, his biceps filling out the sleeves of his T-shirt as he puts the tray of enchiladas back on the table. Londa, the girl I probably would have fallen in love with if I liked girls, smiles at me—beautiful and perfect—and I feel a pang of longing under my heart. Mrs. V—her name is Jean—touches my arm before asking me to please pass the salad dressing. She sometimes jokes that she used to be a tiny little thing before she met Mexican food. I think I might even miss her corny joke. I pull my gaze away and glance at Mason. He’s shoveling dinner into his mouth as if there might not be any tomorrow. He pauses and takes a drink of milk. A drop lingers on his lips and my heart aches. I know I’ll miss that.

He catches me looking. “Too spicy?” he asks about
my half-eaten enchilada. His concern is genuine, because he can eat a whole bowl of the hottest salsa while I’m good with a few bites of
pico de gallo
. And I think my heart might split in two.

I shake my head and take another bite.

“Okay,” he says as if he believes me. Then to his family, “Anyone know what’s showing at the dollar theater?”

“Oh, yeah—only the next installment of the best spy thriller ever!” Gabe says.

“You already saw that,” Londa tells him. “I know. We went together.”

“And I didn’t get to go?” Mason asks.

“You were at your girlfriend’s house,” Londa reminds him. Then makes air quotes when she says, “Studying.”

This is news to me.

“For AP, and she’s not my girlfriend,” he retaliates.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Londa says as Mason attempts to inform her of his no-dating-in-high-school rule.

“Movie starts at seven fifteen,” Gabe says.

“Same as last week,” Londa says. “Big surprise.”

“We should go,” Gabe says to the two of us.

Mason looks at me.

And a little tiny part of me wants to burst into tears.
This wasn’t how my plan was supposed to go.
I try to smile.

“Come on, Jamie, you look like you could use a break.”

“Yeah,” Gabe adds. “Senior year is rough sh—” He stops before he curses at the dinner table.

Mason presses his shoulder into mine. “Just us guys. Whaddaya say?”

“It’s not like I want to see that movie again,” Londa says.

“Yeah. I’ll go,” I agree, because sitting in the dark with bullets flying and things exploding will be so much better than sitting on the couch with my mom explaining how my confession riddled our friendship with bullet holes and the whole thing exploded in my face.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THIRTY-FOUR

I am so dead. One-thousand
-copies-of-
Gumshoe
-with-um-a-little-addition-are-going-to-be-delivered-to-the-loading-dock-in-fifteen-minutes dead. And Michael is already pissed at me for a little “typo” on the posters that changed the price of
Gumshoe
by a dollar. He noticed it first thing this morning.

“Honest mistake,” I told him as we hung up our green posters among the pink ones for the GSA’s end-of-year party. “I forgot the price,” I say, even though I didn’t. It is part of my evil plan to take over the world one high school literary magazine at a time.

“So we make a little more money,” Holland said, tearing a piece of masking tape off with her teeth. “That’ll be great for next year’s budget.”

“But everyone knows it costs four dollars,” Michael protested with a nasally huff.

“Not everyone.” Holland tipped the top of her head toward me.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said, taping another
Gumshoe
poster next to a GSA one as I read the copy.
GSA Party! Room 302. 3:15, Thursday. Everyone is welcome!

But I’m sure that in fifteen minutes, I am really going to be sorry. Not for what I did—it needed to be done—but I am going to be sorry that people will be upset. At me.

Especially Mason. Because he’ll figure it out. He’ll figure me out. And pretend everything’s okay. Even when it isn’t. Even when he knows I am a big fat liar.

And a party at 3:15?
Out of the question.

Even though the loading dock is in the shade and I’m only missing Mr. Purdy’s class, my T-shirt has damp spots growing under each arm. I check my cell for the time and when I look up, I see a truck pulling into the parking lot. The printer’s logo on the side is as tall as I am.

The truck backs up into place and the driver steps out. “Delivery for Lincoln High, attention James Peterson?” he asks, looking up at me.

I nod.

The driver climbs the stairs and unlatches the truck door. It rolls up. He maneuvers a stack of white boxes onto a dolly and then rolls his way over to me. I open the door. “Here okay?”

I’m not really sure where to put the evidence that
might get me expelled, so I say, “That’s great.”

He goes back for another load, and another. With each box a little pebble of guilt drops into my stomach. I count twenty boxes, and my stomach aches as if it’s filled with twenty stones.

“That should be all,” he says. “Sign here.”

And again I am signing my name—as if the authorities need more proof that I’m the perp.

“Here’s your samples,” the driver says, and hands me a shrink-wrapped package with the koi fish shining through.

“Thanks,” I say, gulping down a lump in my throat. “Have a nice day!”

“Sure thing,” he says, and heads out.

I sit on the cool cement floor, my back against the boxes, and tear open the shrink-wrap. I run my fingers over the fish on the cover, and then I open to the table of contents. Slowly, I turn the pages, checking the commas and inspecting the images. They look good—there’s plenty of contrast.

Then I’m there: at the comic book within a book. The cover that Challis drew that night I called her is all crisp whites and inky blacks, the words I hand-lettered for her,
The Love Dare
, are made of bold strokes and odd angles like graffiti. And, under the title, is a picture of Tony and Justin standing back to back, their arms crossed defiantly across their chests.

Dare us
, their faces say, as if the world just told them that they could never fall in love.

I leave the boxes and take the package of samples back to government.

“You’re late,” Mr. Purdy informs me. “Got a pass?”

“No. I was doing
Gumshoe
stuff.”

“That is an extracurricular activity, Mr. Peterson.”

Mason catches my eye and smirks.

I don’t wait for him to send me to the principal. I’ve already signed myself up for a very long appointment. I just walk to my desk and hide the package of samples in my binder.

Mr. Purdy huffs and goes back to due process.

I pay attention. For once. Because, as a common criminal, I’m thinking due process is suddenly very important.

Walking into Dr. Taylor’s room, I don’t feel so awesome. Not when I see twenty boxes of
Gumshoe
magazines and Michael sitting on a desk next to them. Holland, Lia, DeMarco, and Dr. Taylor are standing around talking.

“You’re here!” Lia says. “We were waiting to do the big reveal all together!”

“Yeah,” Holland adds. “We’ve got sparkling cider to celebrate!”

“Oh,” I say.
We are so not going to be celebrating.

“You do the honors, Michael. You’re the editor!” Lia says.

So Michael lifts a box onto the desk, and with his car key, slices through the packing tape. He folds back the flaps and I get the feeling that I am watching this all unfold from a distance, like I’m a fly on the ceiling.

Dr. Taylor stands back, his hands in his pockets with an air of confidence that there isn’t a misspelled word or misplaced comma in the whole damn thing.

Michael also takes out a copy. Then Holland, then Lia, DeMarco, and me.

I watch Michael as he turns the pages, only to be distracted by a gasp from Holland. She must have been turning pages faster than Michael. I watch her eyes grow wide.

“What?” Lia asks. And soon she is leaning over Holland’s issue, staring at the centerfold.

“What the hell?” Michael asks, spraying spittle and catching on.

Michael’s question wipes the confidence from Dr. Taylor’s face. He reaches for a copy too.

“I know you disagreed with us, Jamie,” Michael says to me, his voice low but growing louder. “But that’s no reason to ruin
our
magazine. Our hard work!”

“We didn’t want gay smut in it!” Lia says. “We voted!”

“It’s not smut!” Holland snaps.

“Whoa,” DeMarco says real low.

Michael picks up another copy, flips to the middle
and sees the comic again. “They’re all like this?” he asks, his voice booming around the room.

“No,” I say, and take the one from his hands. “We have a homophobic version too.” I pinch the middle eight pages and give them a tug. The paper tears at the staples. The pages come free. I crumple the comic with one hand and give the magazine back to Michael with the other.

He’s sputtering and wheezing, hatred for me boiling in the red-hot blood flooding his face. “You’re a piece of work, Peterson!”

“So are you, Schnozbooger.”

Michael lunges at me, his hands gripping my shirt as he gives me a shake.

“Go to hell.” I shove him back, breaking his grip.

One of the girls yelps as he bumps into her.

DeMarco jumps out of the way as Michael lunges at me.

“Boys!” Dr. Taylor says, stepping between us.

I force my feet to stop and wrangle my clenched fist into my side. My chest heaves with the effort and my teeth grind together. I can hear my heart thudding in my ears, almost drowning out my thoughts. I’d been ready to punch Michael in his famous schnoz. But hitting a teacher?
No way.

Michael, though, barrels into Dr. Taylor’s outstretched hand.

“Enough!” Dr. Taylor shouts. “I will not tolerate this in my classroom.”

Michael huffs and exhales a wet breath.

“Sit.” Dr. Taylor points to two chairs on opposite sides of the room.

I sit in mine.

“Jamie,” Dr. Taylor starts in on what I know will be a very long lecture. “You seem to have a problem respecting the decisions of your peers.”

“They make bad deci—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“It isn’t your place to judge others, you were sup—”

I jump in. “They’re the ones being judge and jury.” I point at Michael first then include the others with a sweep of my arm.

“Jamie,” Dr. Taylor warns.

But I continue, “They were the ones censoring
Gumshoe
, cutting stuff they didn’t agree with.”

“Only because we won’t get funding next year because of his stupid-ass move!” Michael shouts.

“Language, Michael,” Dr. Taylor says, his attention off of me.

“Who cares about next year if
Gumshoe
doesn’t reflect the diversity in our school?” I ask. “Doesn’t tell our story, doesn’t represent us? It’s
Lincoln High’s
literary magazine, not yours.”

Dr. Taylor looks at me, listens.

“What about the awards?” Lia asks.

“I think Challis’s story will help us win awards,” I say, hoping it’s true.

“Yeah,” Holland says. “A gay graphic short? We will so stand out in the crowd!”

“You want to keep it in?” Lia asks as if the words taste rancid.

“Yes,” Holland says.

DeMarco nods before saying, “Me too.”

“What?” Michael asks.

“I vote we keep it,” DeMarco says.

“But it’s not up for a vote!” Michael says. “We
already
voted on it. And it lost!”

All heads turn to Dr. Taylor, as if he’ll cast the final decision.

“The comic is in the magazines. We could take them all out, as Jamie demonstrated. Or we could sell them as is,” Dr. Taylor reasons.

“But—” Michael and Lia protest in unison.

“Should we take another vote?” Dr. Taylor asks us.

“But, Dr. Taylor,” Michael says, much calmer now. “We shouldn’t change our minds because one person can’t respect his peers or follow simple instructions. That’s not fair.”

“Okay, Michael. I understand that we should be fair,” Dr. Taylor says. “So let me talk to Principal Chambers before we proceed. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes by acting too quickly. Okay?”

Michael nods, satisfied. And as if the principal will, obviously, be on his side.

The classroom falls silent, as we each stew in our own juices. Michael and Lia look at me as if I am the devil incarnate.

I can’t sit any longer. Not with them looking at me like that—like I’m a sinner of the worst kind and so beyond stupid that I can’t follow simple instructions. I grab a stack of magazines from the box and stomp out of the room.

I am so steamed, I can’t even think straight. With an armload of
Gumshoe
s and a burning desire to be right, I march out of Dr. Taylor’s room and up one flight of stairs. I hear a chorus of laughter coming from room 302. I take one last look at the pink poster—the one that welcomes everyone. I inhale a deep breath and exhale slowly.