True Letters from a Fictional Life (21 page)

“Sure, busy, I guess.”

“They're still assigning you a lot of homework?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I'm going to go get started on it.”

“Did you ice your eye today? It looks better,” she claimed, even though she still hadn't looked at me.

“I did, yeah,” I lied again. I stood there for a few seconds, then went up to my room and slept until dinner.

Conversation at dinner was equally polite and stiff.

“James, would you pass your brother the kale?”

“I didn't ask for the kale. I can't handle any more kale.”

And thirty silent seconds later, “James, did you submit your history term paper yet?”

“Yup. It's all done. I turned it in last week.”

“Well, that must be a relief.”

“Yeah, what a weight off my mind.”

It was as if we were new colleagues in an office.

“Why'd Mark hit you?” Rex asked suddenly.

“Because he's a . . .” I reconsidered. I tried answering exactly as my mom would have done. “Because he's a very confused young man.”

Rex furrowed his brow. My mother chewed with raised eyebrows.

“He's got a lot of anger and he likes to punch people,” my father explained.

Rex was satisfied.

Later on that night, my dad leaned against my bedroom
doorframe. “How you feeling?”

“It still hurts.”

“Yeah, I bet it does. I'm sorry. And how's your eye feeling?”

I swallowed hard. “Hurts.”

“You want ice? I'm not sure it will do you any good at this point, but do you want some?”

“I'm good.”

The championship game of the indoor season was on Thursday evening against Done Right Plumbing, the team with the goalie I'd scuffled with earlier in the season. I invited Topher, even though my dad would probably recognize him on the sidelines and feel obligated to say hello, and it would be very awkward for everyone. But Topher had a rehearsal that he couldn't miss. I was kind of relieved.
No fightin',
he texted me that evening.

When Hawken and I arrived at the field, Coach Greschner did a double take. Hawken saw him coming and stepped in front of me. “Tell him everything,” he whispered. “Now's your chance to stop worrying about that conversation. Tell him. If you don't, I will.”

“No,” I whispered fiercely. “How am I going to bring that up?”

“I got punched in the eye because I'm gay. Done.”

Greschner reached us. “What in the world happened to you, Liddell?” he cried. He was smiling but looked concerned.
“I'd prepared my Leave-that-Goalie-Alone speech and here you are, beaten up before the whistle.”

“Coach, let's talk over here,” Hawken said, nodding toward an empty corner near a drink machine. I followed them over and leaned against the wall.

Greschner wasn't smiling anymore, and he looked so worried that I had to take a deep breath to keep it together. He put his hand on my shoulder. “What happened?”

“I got hit,” I said. “I got punched by this kid at school.” I looked at Hawken, and he frowned just enough to remind me of his threat. “And he hit me because I'm gay. So that's what happened. I got punched because this kid found out that I'm gay.”

“What?” whispered Greschner.

Oh God,
I thought.
Here we go.

“What?” he repeated. “He punched you? Did you annihilate him? Hawken, did you and Derek find and kill the son of—”

Hawken hugged him, cutting him off. “Perfect,” I heard him say into our coach's shirt. I laughed nervously, and Greschner looked uncomfortable but patted Hawken on the back. When Hawken let go, he didn't even look at me. He just walked away to join the guys warming up on the field.

“So that's it,” I said, my hands on my head as if I were under arrest. “I can see okay to play and all. I hope it doesn't, you know, change anything.”

“If you can see okay, it doesn't change anything, right?”

“No, I meant, you know, the other—”

“Don't insult me,” he interrupted. And then he grabbed the back of my neck in one hand, the way I do to Rex, and started walking me to the field. “You think the guys on the school team know?”

“Oh. Dude.” My laugh came out like a sob. “They all know. Believe me, everybody knows.”

“Excellent.” He pushed me in the back. “So go score some goals.”

I felt jittery with relief and excitement, like a newborn colt anxious to try out its legs. When I jogged onto the field, kids on Done Right Plumbing yelled to their goalie, pointing at me and my black eye, and laughed. At the coin toss, their captain shook his head at me and said, “What up, thug?”

The ref put up his finger. “No nonsense between you boys tonight, you hear me? Clean playing and have fun.”

And we did. At least, my team did. There are games when it seems like you and your teammates are telepathic. Every pass connects like there's metal in the ball leather and magnets in your boots. One person's magic seems to cast a spell on everybody else. Four minutes into the game, Hawken beat three kids along the boards and drilled the ball into the top left corner of the goal. Two minutes later, a normally flat-footed kid on our defense spun his way around a couple of players and fed me a perfect ball, which I tucked beneath the diving goalie. I hadn't had so much fun on the field in a long, long time. The best moment came when the goalie
shoved me after my second goal, and I stumbled, but walked away, never even looking at him. He got a yellow card, and his coach yanked him from the game. Our own goalie lived up to his nickname, Señor Fuego, and Hawken and I each scored twice. We won 6–2. On the way home, we cranked Queen and sang out the car windows, cracking up each time we missed the high notes.

We ate dinner late that night after I came home from the game. My mom distracted herself by talking about her plans for Rex's summer. “I'm going to see if I can still get you into a soccer camp”—she twirled her fork in the air—“or a baseball camp. Wouldn't you like that?”

“Baseball? I don't play baseball. I just want to hang out.”

She wasn't listening, though, and she wasn't actually going to sign him up for baseball. She was just making noise.

I tried to redirect the conversation. “Luke comes home this weekend, huh?”

Rex heard only the word
weekend
. “Can my friend Jack come over this weekend?” he asked. “I want to show him the fort.”

“You have a fort?” I asked. I wanted to see the fort.

“Can he come over?” he asked again, ignoring me.

“Of course,” my mother replied. “You have a soccer game on Saturday, so Sunday's better. Do we need to pick him up?”

“His mom can drop him off, I think. He doesn't have a dad. And his brother is, you know—got hit in the head.”

“Jack Foster,” my mother said.

“Yeah, Jack Foster.”

Aaron Foster's younger brother. Small school, small town.

My mom nodded slowly at her plate while she chewed. “Would you mind if I invited Jack's mother for lunch?” she asked after a minute.

Rex looked from her to our dad to me, clearly unsure who she was asking. “Sure,” he said finally. “I don't care.”

My mom looked at me. “We should invite Aaron, too.”

I couldn't imagine what my mother thought she was going to say to the Fosters, but I nodded. “Yeah, sure. Talk to his mom.”

When I came down to the kitchen later that evening, my mom was crying silently while folding laundry with my father. She left as I walked in. My dad tried to smile at me. “Hey, Champ,” he said. He never called me Champ, but it was nice of him anyway. I leaned against the doorframe.

“When Luke comes home this weekend,” he began, “why don't you two go hike Camel's Hump while your mom and I take Rex down to his soccer game in Springfield. You know how Luke gets when he has to watch you guys play soccer.”

It's true. Luke always ends up in a crummy mood when he has to stand bored on the sidelines. But that's not why my dad was suggesting the hike.

“It's been a while since either of you went up there,” he continued. “And, well, we haven't said a word to Luke yet.
We figured you'd want to talk to him yourself.”

“Yeah. Cool. I do. Thanks.”

“And maybe you two can figure out how to break the news to Rex.”

I nodded, turned quickly, and walked back down the hall to the stairs.

“I didn't mean
break the news
,” my dad said behind me. “Explain things to Rex. That's all I meant.”

The last half day of
school, a Friday, was a scorcher. In most of my classes, we just sort of hung out, panting and sweating. But Breyer made us write. I used the time to write the letter I'd composed while lying sleepless in bed the night before.

Friday, June 10th

Theresa,

We walked past each other without a word a little while ago, and now I'm in English class, scribbling my final “quick-write” of junior year. We're supposed to be writing about what we learned this year. In fifteen minutes.

One thing I learned: It turns out that a black eye hurts a hell of a lot less than being betrayed. Than being lied to. Manipulated. Whatever you want to call it.

I suppose in your head, we're even on that score. I'm sorry you felt like you had to do something so desperate to deal with the situation. I'm sorry I left you feeling that crazy. Although I'll never understand how you could think it was okay to do what you did to me, I guess you'll never understand why I let you believe that things between us might work out one day. All I can say is that part of me thought it was true. I should've been more honest with you about the part of me that knew it wasn't.

I wish I could take credit for being mature enough to look at all of this from your perspective, but Topher's the one who talked me through it. We spoke on the phone for a long time last night. I should've listened to him weeks ago, as he pointed out several times, and explained everything to you.

I told Topher that I was trying to figure out how to tell Hawken that he should have nothing to do with you, but Topher argued that you're probably not as rotten as the past few weeks suggest. You probably only temporarily have a rancid soul. His words, by the way. He reminded me that I used to think you were great and that I had good reasons to think so, and he made me admit that there's a chance you'll turn back into a real person sometime soon, especially if you're given some encouragement. He suggested I say nothing to Hawken and instead say all this to you.

So here you have it. I hope it helps bring the real Theresa back.

Happy Summer Vacation,

James

When Breyer called time, I tore the letter from my notebook and folded it into quarters. On my way to my next class, I slipped it into Theresa's locker.

Topher came to my house that afternoon. I'd sent him a photo of my black eye, but we hadn't hung out since the day before I got punched. I was counting on my parents working late and Rex going to a friend's house.

I led Topher up to my bedroom, shut the door, and tackled him onto my bed. “Congrats, James Liddell.” He laughed. “You made it!”

I broke our kiss. “Made it where?” I whispered, running my hands up his arms.

“Wherever we are. This place without secrets. It feels good, right?”

I put my chin on his chest. “I have never, ever felt this free.”

The sun was still a new thing, so we went outside, took off our shirts, and lounged on the back porch. Twenty minutes later I heard my mom's car pulling into the garage and Rex
tearing into the house.

“Oh, man, are you kidding me?” I groaned.

Topher put his shirt back on.

“Dude, don't,” I whispered. “We're just lying here.”

I could see my mom enter the kitchen, glance outside, and freeze. I waved. She fixed her hair and put on a tight smile as she walked to the porch door.

“You remember Topher, Mom.”

Topher stood. “Hello, Mrs. Liddell. Good to see you.”

“Hi,” she managed. “James, put your shirt on please, dear.” She smiled at me as though she expected me to agree that she was being perfectly reasonable.

“What? Mom, no. It's like a hundred degrees.”

She stood there for a moment, carefully choosing her next words.

Just then, Rex pushed past her wearing only bright green shorts and sunglasses with fluorescent blue frames. He pulled his chair right up next to Topher's and sprawled in it. Topher had to shift his leg so their feet wouldn't touch.

“Rex,” my mother began, uncertainly.

“He's fine, Mom. Leave him alone.”

She looked at the sky. “Wear sunscreen,” she said finally, and shut the door.

Topher and I took off a little while after that. Normally, my mom wants to know where I'm going and when I'll be home. This time, I just shouted toward the kitchen, “See you later!” She looked up from her laptop to watch us leave, but
didn't say a word. We drove to a swimming hole over in New Hampshire. Thankfully, we didn't know any of the other kids leaping from the cliffs and splashing around. We sprawled on a high rock and basked in the sun until Topher looked at his watch and yelped. He was supposed to go to dinner with his parents, and I knew I should be home to greet Luke.

That evening, before Luke arrived, I was inspecting my black eye in the bathroom mirror when Rex appeared in the doorway. “How come Mark punched you?” he asked.

I answered without looking at him. “We already talked about this, remember? Why are you bringing it up?”

“Because when Dad got home tonight, I heard him telling Mom about how he talked to Mark's dad.”

I turned and stared at him. “And what did Dad say?”

“He said that he told Mark's father to teach Mark how to control his temper or something like that, and Mark's dad said, ‘You aren't in any position to tell anyone how to raise a son.'”

My mouth felt dry. “And then what?”

“And then Mom noticed me under the kitchen table and got all mad and told me to go outside.”

“That's all you heard?”

“That's all I heard.”

I shook my head. Why would my dad do that? He'd just set me up for more trouble.

Rex gripped the sides of the bathroom door and leaned forward, arms at full length. “Are you scared?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Of getting punched in the face again?”

“No,” I lied.

He was still leaning in, and now he squinted at me.

“Rex, don't worry. I'm not going to get into any more fights. Mark's not going to hit me again.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he's not allowed to,” I said.

He pulled himself back to standing up. “That doesn't make any sense,” he said as he disappeared down the hall.

Camel's Hump rises about halfway between Montpelier and Burlington. The best time I'd ever had up on that mountain was on a Friday in October during my freshman year, when Luke was a junior. For some reason, my father decided to take us hiking instead of sending us to school. My mom wasn't so pleased, but we were ecstatic—until my dad announced that we were leaving at four thirty in the morning. We started climbing in the frozen dark, up through endless switchbacks. When we scrambled up the rock and ice of that last few hundred yards, that last steep pitch where any bad step could send you tumbling headfirst down the granite, the sun had just peeked above the horizon and golden light seeped across frosted, fiery maples and green spruce. No one spoke once we were above tree line. There wasn't even much wind that day. We were the only ones up there, crunching granola bars and apples, enjoying the cold, inhaling that long view
across impossibly colored hills.

That's the kind of morning I looked forward to: alone with Luke on the summit and the whole world feeling so right that my words couldn't break a thing.

I underestimated how important my dad's four thirty departure time was to the success of that previous expedition. The morning Luke and I hiked, we didn't leave the house until after 9:00 a.m., when the first hordes were probably already climbing back down the trail. Conversation in the car was one-sided. I asked questions to keep him talking about his own life over the past few months instead of him asking me about mine. When he'd arrived home the night before, at almost midnight, I told him I got the black eye from soccer. My parents must've understood that I didn't want to get into it right then. All the way up 89 North, during the drive to the mountain, I was building up my courage.

When we had to park in the overflow lot, I should have abandoned my plan. I should have known it was a crummy idea. But I'd spent so much energy gathering the guts, and I remember thinking,
Screw it, I'm telling him anyway.

On the way up the trail, Luke was practically panting, so we couldn't talk much about anything until the first time we stopped for water. “Did they make this mountain steeper?” he managed.

At the top, there must have been thirty people perched on those rocks. Clouds ripped past in the north, but it was sunny and clear in the southeast, back toward our home. I hardly
looked at the views, though. I was searching for a space to hide from the wind, eat my sandwich, and possibly ruin my relationship with my brother forever.

Half-sheltered from the gusts by a couple of big rocks, we ate in a little hollow. Luke was chewing his sandwich with his eyes closed, when I thought,
Just start talking.
As Topher had promised, starting the conversation had become easier with practice.

“Dude,” I began formally, and pulled my fleece collar up against the deafening wind. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“What?” he shouted back, cupping a hand to his ear without opening his eyes.

“I have to talk to you about something!”

He opened his eyes and must have seen that I looked all serious. “Oh, yeah?” he shouted, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Did I do something wrong or did you?”

I shook my head and laughed. My legs were pulled against my chest and I wrapped my arms around my shins. Dropping my head against my knees, I took a deep breath and peeked up at him.

He'd been lying across a slab of granite, but now he sat up, looking very concerned. “Hey. What's up?”

I tried to smile. “So,” I started, “there's a reason that I don't want to go out with Theresa.”

A big gust of wind picked up right then, but I could see Luke say, “Yeah?”

I could hear Topher urging me, “Just say it.” The wind fell silent just as I yelled, “Because I'm gay!”

Feet scuffled on the rock behind me, and I hugged my legs a little tighter.

Luke looked stunned for a moment, then shifted on his rock, rubbed his black woolen hat so that his eyes disappeared beneath it. He wasn't exactly frowning, but I was waiting for him to start smiling a little, and he didn't.

“For real?” he finally asked, pushing his hat back from his eyes.

I nodded and put my forehead on my knees.

“No, seriously, man. For
real
for real?”

I didn't say anything.

“What, you and Derek?”

“Really?” I said, looking up again. “You think me and Derek? He's like my third brother, Luke. No, not me and Derek.”

It wasn't the way I'd expected the conversation to go, but then again I shouldn't have been surprised. No one has ever called Luke predictable.

“Tim Hawken. It's Tim Hawken.”

“What? No.” My voice sounded a little desperate, and I stood up.

“Dude, sit back down.” Now he smiled, but barely. “Come on. I'm trying to make sense of this. You, it never even crossed my mind. Rich, I always figured. You've met my pal Rich up at school. He never talked about girls, but he didn't actually tell
me he was gay until one night when we were skinny-dipping. At least you managed to find a moment when we're both wearing pants to tell me that you like naked boys.”

I looked over my shoulder. The wind had died completely, and a family of four was eating lunch on the other side of our rock. The parents did not look up, but their sons stared at us, their apples arrested at chin level. Neither of them was much younger than me. I motioned for Luke to drop his voice.

“How long have you known?” he asked, just as loudly as before.

I didn't answer. I was stuffing trail mix and a half-eaten sandwich back in my pack.

“Dude, how long have you known?”

I hoisted my pack on my shoulders.

“Come on, James,” he spoke softly now. “Sit back down.”

I started for the trail.

“James!”

I took long strides across the granite, but he still caught up quickly and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Dude, stop.”

He put his arms around me as I turned toward him, and I buried my face in his shoulder.

“I don't give a shit,” Luke whispered. “You freaking moron.”

I nodded into his jacket. I couldn't see them, so it was easier to ignore the dozens of people who must have been watching us stand in that embrace. We stood like that for a long time. Eventually, I took a deep breath and rubbed my
runny nose into Luke's fleece collar until he pushed me away.

“I cannot freaking believe you just did that,” he said, inspecting the damage.

I snuffled, wiped my eyes, and, turning slowly in place, tried to burn the sweep of blurry mountains into my memory.

“Dad know?”

I nodded.

“Mom?”

“Yup.”

“What fun. Rex?”

“No.”

“Good, I want to be there for that one. Theresa?”

“Oh, yeah.” I tried to laugh. “I'll tell you about it.”

And we started to walk. Just as we were about to enter the narrow, roped descent from the summit, a pretty blond girl and her boyfriend, a cute kid with big brown eyes, stepped past us. They were about Luke's age, and he turned to watch the girl after she passed. “So, all these years,” he said once we were alone, “you've pretended to like her when you've actually liked him, huh?”

I didn't respond.

“That is rough, man. That is rough.”

Luke whistled and moaned at the right moments in my story as we descended through spruce and into groves of maple and ash. “Tim Hawken?” he asked again when I said I had a boyfriend.