Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend (24 page)

Em takes a picture of me running to school. I look frantic. My backpack swings out from my shoulder. My hair tangles behind me. My mouth tights itself into my face. I look like a girl who has never plucked a guitar, a girl who never sings.

Law class. Mr. Richter rushes in ten minutes after we all get there. Emily and I have escaped a tardy.

The first five minutes Mr. Richter didn’t show up, we all sat in our chairs and were good kids. We waited and wondered where Mr. Punctual was, but after awhile it just became party time. Emily swished over and sat on Shawn’s desk. Anna, Andrew, and Kara tried to talk to me about Dylan and his “newly discovered” gayness, but I couldn’t say anything with no voice and everyone eventually gave up.

So, I put my head down on the desk and wait, wait, wait for something to happen. Every once in awhile, when I poke my head up, Mimi Cote stares at me and picks at her nails. I shiver. I try to clear my throat. Even with everything, I am so glad that Dylan picked me, sang stupid songs with me, and not her.

Mr. Richter finally bangs in, his hair standing up straight and tie whacked to the side.

“People,” he says with an elaborate sigh, leaning against his desk, hands on his narrow hips. “You will never believe what was in my swimming pool.”

“Ronald McDonald!” Emily yells as she scrambles off Shawn’s desk and back to her seat.

He shakes his head.

“A stripper!” someone shouts out. Shawn, I think.

He rolls his eyes. “No. Two moose.”

We say nothing.

He points a finger in the air. “Two gay moose. They were mating or whatever gay moose do.”

Shocked silence. Then Emily says, “In your swimming pool?”

Mr. Richter shakes his head. “They tore the liner to bits.”

Emily makes eyes at me. I nod. We think the same thing. Is everybody in the world gay? And no one’s told us.

“Even the moose,” she mouths at me.

I mouth it back. “Even the moose.”

“Do you think they wore condoms?” she mouths.

I twitch my nose at her and she smiles.

“Eww,” says Mimi, trying to pull her miniskirt down, despite the fact that she’s sitting on it. “That’s sick.”

Em does a perfect Mimi-twisted face impression behind her back and I start laughing so hard I have to put my head back down on my desk.

Mr. Richter uses Mimi’s comment to start a debate about sexuality and privacy rights. He tells us about a case where two men were in their own house having sex and they were arrested for sodomy.

“In some states,” Mr. Richter points his pencil at us, “it is illegal for men to engage in anal sex. In some states it is illegal for a man and a woman to engage in oral sex.”

Someone makes a gagging noise, but Shawn raises his hand and squeaks out, “Not here, right?”

Mr. Richter nods.

Emily can’t help herself. “You’re safe, Shawn.”

Shawn crosses his arm, shakes his head, leans back in his chair, and smiles.

Dylan, do you know how dangerous the world is for you? Do you know that your kind of love is against the law? When I think your name, I become an ache. You were my best friend. You are my best friend.

I miss you.

I’ve written you a lot of notes since Saturday, but this one I’m going to give you.

You’re gay, I’ve got it. So what? So let’s be us still, Dylan and Belle, best of friends, harmony and melody, show tune and folk song, friends, soul swappers, okay?

I wait outside his math class like some sort of stalker. I wave to people I know. Shawn and Em walk by and he pets my head like I’m some sort of puppy dog. And then Dylan trots down the hall. There’s no pink triangle on his shirt today. His face wears shadows and suspicion. His head darts to the side, looking for predators, behind him, I think.

“Dylan,” my word is one note, one note in the hall.

He sees me. “Belle.”

My lips turn up into a slow smile. His mouth flashes brilliant teeth. He comes close, in my space, really, like he’s still a boyfriend. Boy. Friend. He is.

“You’re in my personal space,” I laugh at my half-there voice and my half-there joke.

He jerks back and starts to apologize, but I grab his sleeve. “No, I’m teasing.”

He smiles again. Some kid excuses himself and pushes by us, but really slow, ’cause he wants to hear what’s going on. “You lost your voice?”

I shrug and fish inside my pocket. I refuse to think about condoms. “I wrote you a note.”

He takes it. Our fingers brush, but there’s no super-electric funky sparks. I swallow. Dylan looks at the paper.

“It’s okay,” I croak. “It’s not mean or angry or anything.”

He nods. He clears his throat. Someone else pushes by and Dylan says, “I never meant to hurt you, Belle.”

His green-grass eyes water like rain is stuck there.

“I know,” I whisper say with my almost voice. “Me either.”

By the time I climb into Tom’s truck, my voice is back, which is good and bad, because now I have to talk to Tom with his black truck and sin eyes and man-low voice. I don’t know what to say.

“Thanks for the ride,” I manage as he shifts. My lips twitch, remembering lip things that they shouldn’t be remembering. Bad lips.

He shrugs. “Like I said, I didn’t want to have to bring Crash or Bob.”

There’s duct tape on the steering wheel, duct tape on the seat, and a little duct tape man standing on the dash, forever kicking a little duct tape soccer ball that’s attached to his foot.

I touch the duct tape man with my pinky finger. Tom turns on the ignition and says, “Ready.”

“For a fun night of German food, yum. Yippee,” I deadpan.

He laughs.

His truck smells like him, deodorant and soap, clean and musky, but with just a bit of burnt marshmallow mixed in. It smells like man. Dylan never smelled like man. He smelled like pine woods and grass. Why didn’t I notice that? Why didn’t I notice things?

Herr Reitz, who smells like halitosis and bologna, skips up to our car and hands us a map of where to go. “Just in case you get lost.”

Tom raises his eyebrows because how long have all of us lived in this town? All our lives. And how often do we go to Bangor? Every week. “That’s a good idea.”

I nod in an overenthusiastic way and Tom presses his lips together to keep from laughing.

Herr Reitz fake scowls at us, points his finger. “No hanky panky, you two.”

Then he winks.

My cheeks turn scarlet. My hands touch the hotness of them. Tom shakes his head. “What a freak.”

I nod. Herr Reitz bounces on his toes, giving a girl named Janelle a map. Her car is crammed with people. I am sure there are not enough seat belts to go around. Bob is riding with Herr Reitz. I feel sorry for him.

Herr Reitz finally gets into his car and toots out a happy little beep.

“Finally,” Tom breathes out. He takes his foot off the brake, eases down the parking lot.

His thighs fill out his jeans. I close my eyes, lean my head against the back of the seat. “You already sick of me?”

My voice betrays my heart and it comes out sad and pathetic.

“Sick of my pinko commie friend,” he laughs. “Never.”

I open my eyes to make sure I don’t miss when I punch him in the arm. He just laughs harder and yells, “Assault! Assault! I’ve been attacked by a peacenik hippie freak.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. He turns on the radio, not to something loud, like I expect from those over-adrenalined soccer player rich boys, but something chocolate-cake smooth, old soul music from our grandparents’ days. I raise my eyebrows at him again and then wonder if they’ll get stuck there. Maybe I should plaster some duct tape over them.