M or F? (23 page)

“I'll be there,” I said.

“Excellent. Bring Frannie if she wants to come.”

Ouch. “I don't know if she can make it.”

“Well, bring anyone,” he said. “The more the merrier. And for that matter, the more guys, the more merrier.”

“I'll see what I can do,” I said, and then suddenly, “Hey, Ethan? Do you want to go see a movie or something this weekend?”

He blinked and adjusted his glasses.

I wondered if he thought I meant a date, which I didn't.

“Uh . . .” he said. “I'm kind of overextended these days. But I'll see you at the meeting. Okay? Cool. Later.” And he beat it out of the library even faster than his usual rabbity pace.

I had to laugh. It was either that or start crying and never stop. The person who was so far on my back burner that I didn't even know he was there wasn't interested in hanging out with me. Whatever the social version of body odor is, I obviously had it. I was going to have to start paying people to get close to me.

By the end of that week, I couldn't stand the idea of sitting home alone anymore, especially on a Saturday night, when I should have been video festing with Frannie. So I called myself up and asked if maybe
I
wanted to go to a movie with me.

Thank God, I said yes.

The local theater in Roaring Brook was playing
Crap
, and
Crap II
, and
Return of the Son of Crap
. For anything decent, you had to go into Chicago, but one of Dad's rules was no riding the El downtown at night by myself. It would have been easy enough to sneak away, but I was still hungover from the latest round of lies. I decided to opt for the dumb-movie/no-lying route.

I was standing at the counter waiting to buy some Twizzlers when I heard my name.

“Hey, it's Marcus of the South!”

I recognized Glenn's voice right away, not to mention that annoying Southern fixation of his. When I turned around, I found him standing there with Astrid, whose neon fuchsia clogs were enough to distract me for a second. Frannie definitely would have had something to say about those.

“What are you seeing?” Glenn asked.

I tore my eyes away from Astrid's shoes and looked at my ticket stub. “Um . . .
Head for Hell
.”

“Us too,” Astrid said.

Glenn nodded. “Yeah, the preview looks terrible and the reviews are like, worst movie of the year, so we figured we had to see it.” I noticed the way he used “we” and wondered if it meant something about him and Astrid. “Is Frannie here?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “She's . . . not here.” I was little surprised Glenn didn't know about our fight by now. Maybe he had been too busy with his own love life to obsess over his best friend's.

“Come. Sit with us,” Astrid said.

“No thanks,” I said. “I'm going to sit in the balcony.”

“Okay, well—” Astrid moved toward the entrance to the theater.

“No, come on,” Glenn insisted. “Do you really want to sit alone?”

“It's fine.” Message to Glenn: Some people actually like to be alone.

“Why don't I meet you both up there?” Astrid said, like I hadn't even spoken, and she ducked off to the ladies' room.

“Listen, I don't want to bogart your date,” I told Glenn. “I'll sit downstairs.”

That didn't work either. Glenn blew a mouthful of air. “Dude, it's not a date. Don't worry about it.”

I wondered if “it's not a date” was code for “it's
totally
a date.” I hoped so, for Frannie's sake. If Astrid was otherwise occupied, Frannie would have nothing to worry about when it came to Jeffrey. I knew what a good friend would do in this situation. A good friend would confirm whether or not Astrid was truly out of the picture.

As some kind of penance, I followed Glenn up to the balcony.

“Third row center okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, perfect.” We sat down with an empty seat in the middle for Astrid, although it made me self-conscious that someone would think I was one of those straight boys who always sit two seats apart in the theater So No One Will Think They're Homos. Obviously, that was more Glenn's gig.

“Twizzler?” I offered him. Maybe we could eat instead of talk.

No such luck. When he leaned over to take it, he said, “Can I ask you an honest question?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you think I'm, like, the most obnoxious person you've ever known?”

“Wow,” I said. “That
is
an honest question.”

He looked at me and smiled, but not in a hurt way. “I'll take that as a yes.”

It seemed clear to me that this was my own doing, too. Whatever I had said about Glenn, as Frannie, to Jeffrey had obviously gotten back.

“No,” I said automatically. “I didn't mean—”

Glenn stopped me with a ducked-chin-and-raised-eyebrow look that was something along the lines of,
Don't even try.

“Well,” I started again, “not the
most
obnoxious. There was a kid in third grade one time who threw up on me on purpose.”

Glenn laughed and then I actually did too.

“So I get second place,” he said.

Astrid came into the aisle and sat down. “What are you laughing at?”

“Vomit,” Glenn said, and I laughed harder in spite of myself. I didn't want to super-size his extra-large ego, but the look on Astrid's face was pretty funny.

“I'm not getting you,” she said to Glenn. She put her big pink feet up on the seat, and my mind snapped right back to Frannie like a boomerang.

“So, is Frannie laying low or what?” Glenn asked me.

I looked over at him in that way you look at someone when they pluck a thought out of your brain. It seemed to be happening to me a lot these days.

“What is it?” Glenn asked.

“Nothing, I was just . . . thinking about her.”

“Jeff said she's been kind of scarce lately.”

I was starving for information here. Did that mean Frannie and Jeffrey weren't out tonight? Was she avoiding him? Why was she scarce? But the last thing in the world I wanted was for Glenn to know any more of my business than he already did.

“Yeah,” I said in that way that sounds casual and detached but is actually very close to depressed. “I guess she's got a lot to do these days.”

I could just imagine her to-do list:

 

The cursor on my screen just blipped on and off, daring me to write something. But it was so hard! Jeffrey and I were online, but the conversation wasn't going so well. Here's what we had so far:

 

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The truth was, I'd racked my brain trying to come up with a clever new name, but the only thing I'd thought of was “total_jerkwad,” which was what I felt like, but it seemed a little harsh for a chat. So I'd just gone with what Marcus had been using—which I instantly regretted, by the way, because it reminded me of how I'd left things with him, which made me feel even worse.

So, back to
blinkblinkblink.

Okay, I told myself. What would Marcus say?

Something clever.

Okay, think clever.

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I know, I know. The wit is blinding.

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Oh, jeez. Now what?

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Yeah, right. Laugh out loud. More like groan quietly.

That cursor was really starting to get to me. Did it really have to blink so much? I mean, okay! I know you're ready for me! You don't need to constantly remind me that I'm not writing something.

The truth was, I didn't feel like talking to Jeffrey. Actually, I'd been avoiding him for the past couple of days. I couldn't face him . . . or Marcus. I guess I still just had so many questions that I wasn't sure I wanted answered. I mean, ever since my conversation with Jenn, I couldn't help thinking: Straight or gay? Straight or gay? Straight or gay? every time I saw Jeffrey.

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So he'd noticed. Did it mean he was sensitive—ergo, queer? Or really into me—ergo, straight? Typical Jeffrey—could be either.

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Hey, I realized suddenly, this conversation is going better than it ever has before. So what does that mean? asked another voice in my mind. That doesn't mean anything. Maybe you and Jeffrey have flow. Maybe Jeffrey and Marcus have
more
flow. You have no idea, do you?

Grr. Hate you, evil little voice in my brain! I thought. Oof, if only Marcus were here right now! He was good at finding out information. But if he were actually here, then I'd have to talk to him . . . and that would lead to all kinds of problems.

Wait a minute. If I can't have Marcus with me, maybe I can channel him. I mean, what's a brain twin for? Okay, if Marcus wanted to find out if someone was gay, what would he do? Aside from ask, I mean . . .

Brainstorm!

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Heh, heh. It's also called “gay or straight?” And Jeffrey Osborne, step right up, because you're our first contestant!

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Okay—that's definitely a couple of points on the queerometer, I thought. All straight guys like football. I mean, that's a real straight-guy thing, right?

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My heart thudded hopefully in my chest. Basketball isn't very queer.

Wait—unless you're just watching it because you like guys in shorts . . .

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Hockey? Okay, so now Jeffrey was
definitely
edging up the straightometer. Gay boys do not like watching men with no teeth bash each other on the head with sticks while wearing three tons of padding. At least, none of the gay guys
I
knew did. . . .

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Okay, so I had to try a different tack. <> I typed.

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Can't name a supermodel, eh? Well, come to think of it, that didn't really mean anything. I mean, I'd been thinking that a straight guy would know the names of supermodels because they were hot. But on the other hand, any gay guy who was into fashion would have been able to name his favorite supermodel too. I bet Marcus could have named twenty models with his brain tied behind his back. Dumb question, Frannie, you'll have to do better. Give him an arty one.

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Oh, perfect, I thought with a groan. The guy who did both
Gladiator
and
Thelma & Louise
. I glared at the computer screen. Jeffrey, I thought at it, are you trying to make me insane?

Just then, my cell phone started to sing its cheery little song. I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“You are getting nowhere,” Jenn's voice informed me.

“Don't you want to find out if he's gay?” she asked. “Because this little game is
so
not working.”

“Wait—have you been watching me online?” I peered at the screen. Jeffrey and I weren't in a private chat room. We were just in the normal bulletin board, but we had it to ourselves. After all, it was Friday night, and most normal people were out doing normal-people things.

“Girl, what was that question about supermodels? Who has a favorite supermodel?”