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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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Chapter 24
Andrew
 
The furniture is rented, so the packing goes quickly. It's unsettling how few boxes it takes to close up one chapter of my life and start another. It's almost like that last chapter didn't count. I didn't bring much with me when I moved out a year ago. I'm not bringing much back now.
I've been thinking about Kevin again. They're not happy thoughts, and I wish Maya hadn't mentioned his name. Because hearing his name means living it all over again—the desperation, the heartbreak, the shame.
When we were in high school, Maya and I used to sit on the fluffy pink throw on her bed and talk about boys. Who was cute. What it would feel like to actually kiss one. What it might feel like to fall in love.
That didn't change when we went off to college together and moved into dorm rooms.
Maya is incredibly beautiful. She had lots of potential suitors, but she always found fault in them. For me, it was all about just one guy. Kevin McPherson.
I had this romantic idea that the fact that our last names both began with
Mc
was a sign that we were destined to be together. Kevin was a grad student, some five years older than me. He was a teaching assistant in charge of my biology lab.
I remember the way my eyes used to follow him around the room, like Robert's eyes followed me, the way I lingered behind after every class, helping put away lab materials, straightening stools, anything to be alone with him for a few minutes.
A month or so into the school year, he asked me to help him take some trays into his office. He locked the door behind us, calmly set the trays on a counter, then backed me against the door and groped at my crotch. I was so excited he was paying attention to me, and I was finally going to find out what sex was all about, that it didn't occur to me that something was wrong when he pushed his jeans to his knees—“Is this what you want?”—then pushed me to mine.
It escalated from there. By the end of the semester I had made five visits to the university health clinic—abrasions that bled and scared me to death, hemorrhoids that itched and made going to the bathroom painful—each visit more humiliating than the last.
But here's the thing that causes me such shame: I actually thought he cared about me. How stupid is that? It didn't matter what he told me to do; I did it. Then I told myself it was because he wanted me so desperately.
But Maya, she knew something wasn't right. She begged me to quit seeing him, but even when the semester ended and he cut me loose, I continued to call, text, show up at his apartment, plead, beg.
I didn't get it.
One day when I knocked on his apartment door, desperate to see him and find out what was wrong, he invited me in. I was hopeful that maybe we could work this out, until I saw the guy sitting on his couch. He was wearing a mesh T-shirt, a massive hard-on, and nothing else. He stroked himself as Kevin introduced him as his new friend, Sam. Then Kevin gave me a slimy smile as he dropped to his knees and took that prick in his mouth. I remember being rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe.
It took me more than a year to get over the humiliation and self-loathing.
It took Kiki.
I heave a box into the small U-Haul trailer. There's enough room left for double my possessions, but they are what they are.
I've tried not to think too much about moving back in with Maya. The biggest plus is that I'll be with Kiki now every day, not just Wednesday nights and every other weekend. The second is that I won't have to pretend that I want to date Jennifer anymore.
But I am worried. I love Maya; that much is true. But I know it's hard for her to separate her feelings for me. Friend, lover. She wants both, even though she pretends only one is enough. But I've made a commitment.
It took only minutes this morning to complete the forms in the management office, pay the last month's rent, and make arrangements to return the keys and have the furniture picked up. The U-Haul was easy too. Apparently there's not a lot of moving in January, and I had my pick of trailers. I chose the smallest one—a four-by-eight cargo trailer.
I finger the carnations Robert brought me. They are still on the kitchen counter where I left them last night, now dry and wilted. I regret not putting them in water.
I've left the bathroom for last. I take an empty box and set it on the counter. Then I look at Robert's note again. He wrote it on a small whiteboard I suctioned to my bathroom mirror when I moved in to remind myself of meetings and appointments. I never used it.
But Robert did before he let himself out last night.
You lied too.
I'm not sorry.
I tried all night to think what he meant, what I'd lied to him about. But mostly I was thinking about the way he felt, the way I felt when my skin touched his.
I didn't mean for this to happen. But am I sorry it happened? I don't know the answer to that.
I pull the whiteboard from the mirror and lay it gently on top of the hand towels and toilet paper and toiletries and fold the cardboard flaps over it. I tape the box closed, then mark it
personal
with a Sharpie.
Then I sit on the toilet and read his texts one more time. There are thirty-seven, the last one sent at one o'clock in the morning when I finally blocked his number. My heart aches for him as I read through them, deleting each one as I go. I know what that hurt feels like, because I'm feeling it too.
 
Robert
 
Hey, Nic. Can we talk?
Sorry. I've got my girls over.
I need to talk to you. I'll come over there.
Um, no.
Too damn bad. I'm coming anyway.
 
“Why are you here?” he asks, like he can't believe he had to leave
his girls,
walk down the stairs, and open the damn door for me. He's leaning against the door frame, dressed in cut-off jeans and a tight, sleeveless Nike wick-away T-shirt. He doesn't sweat. And he doesn't have any muscles to show off. But that doesn't keep
him
from showing off.
Why
am
I here? Maybe I'm trying to salvage something with Andrew—make things right with Nic so he can relax and quit being so fucking afraid. Or maybe I want to know why our relationship stalled at
Boys ask me out
. But now, seeing that mixture of irritation and boredom on his face, I'm angry at myself for all the time I've wasted on him. And I'm just angry.
“I have something I need to tell you.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “What?”
“You're an ass. Get yourself another boyfriend.” I start to turn away, then stop. “Oh, and you look like an idiot in those shorts.” Then I do go. I'm halfway down the sidewalk when he catches my elbow.
“You're just jealous of my girls, aren't you?”
“Yep. That's it.”
Chapter 25
Andrew
 
Stephen Newman is passing some notes around. He thinks I don't see him. I do.
Kids aren't nearly as covert as they think they are. But teachers learn to pick their battles. Sometimes it's best just to ignore a behavior until it dies. And when it doesn't, the district policy is to name the infraction and redirect:
You are talking; you need to get back to work.
But I have found that making a game out of discipline is more effective as long as I remain the adult. In any event, you never let them see you sweat. If you do, you lose.
Sometimes, though, you just have to suit up and take on the offender.
I wait until one of the notes makes its way to the edge of the classroom, then I write an equation on the board and ask the students to solve it on their own.
They moan and groan, but eventually they turn their pencils to the task, and when they do, I nonchalantly make my way around the room. When I reach the kid who last got the note, I pause and hold my hand out. At first he acts like he doesn't know what I want, but when I don't move on, he pulls the folded note from under his spiral and hands it to me. He's grinning, and trying not to. There's snickering all around the room.
I don't open the note. I've learned that that is a bad idea. That any reaction from me will be the wrong reaction. It's best to just take the note and get back to business.
I walk by Stephen's desk. He looks up at me with these innocent eyes. I want to wrap my fingers around his neck and squeeze until his eyeballs pop out. But I don't do that either. I keep my face neutral and tap on his notebook. “Get to work.”
When the class from hell finally leaves my room, I open the note. It's a cartoon drawing, a face, male, judging from the hair, the features overwhelmed by a gaping mouth and a rather large penis perched just at his lips.
Above the face is a caption.
Mr. McNelis.
I'm gonna kill that little twit.
I'm short with my second-period class. They look a little nervous and don't give me much trouble. By the time I get to my third-period conference, I know I need to get it back together. I check e-mail, make a few notes on my calendar, then, as if on autopilot, I open Facebook and search Robert's fan page.
I'd never post or comment at school. I just want to look. Something I haven't done since we sat at my desk over lunch and looked at it together. I try not to think about that.
There are new photos now. Robert in the band hall retrieving his sax. Robert at his locker, in the lunchroom, standing in the hallway outside a classroom that I suddenly realize is mine. The photo's been cropped, but I can just make out the sleeve of my sweater. Robert is holding a half-empty Powerade in his hand.
Those little creeps aren't just taking photos on their phone during the school day—a definite violation of school rules—they're actually stalking Robert. Why else would they be in my hallway during lunch?
In the photo, Robert's smiling. God, I want to see that smile again. But, somehow, I don't think he'll be smiling sixth period. I can't wait to see him, and I'm dreading it at the same time.
“Hey, partner,” Jennifer says from the doorway.
I quickly X out of the screen. “Hey,” I say, turning to her with a bright smile.
“You didn't call me.”
Shit.
I'd hoped to avoid this little scene today, but I guess there's no sense in delaying the inevitable. I clear my throat and hope she's not packing a gun in her bag.
“Yeah, about that.” I try to look contrite. “Jen, I moved back in with my ex-wife.”
Her face pales. “You moved back in with your ex-wife.” She grips the door frame really hard, and my balls creep up to my belly button. “Really? And how long have you been planning that? Why would you ask me out if you were even considering getting back together with your ex? I mean, what the hell was that all about?”
It strikes me how very little she knows me, even after sharing a wall for a year and a half. “I'm sorry.”
“Yeah,” she says sharply. “Me too, asshole.”
Chapter 26
Robert
 
I won't look at him. I will sit in my seat, I will do my work (although I may or may not turn it in), I will keep my mouth shut, but I
will not
look at him. And that's what I do on Monday. And that's what I do on Tuesday. And that's what I intend to do on Wednesday when Ms. Lincoln catches me in the hallway before sixth period.
“Robert, how are you doing?”
“Great. Fine.” I'm already running a little late. Somebody stuck a bunch of confetti hearts through the vents in my locker, and when I opened it, they fluttered to the floor. I lost a minute scooping them up and shoving them back in. And now Ms. Lincoln wants to talk.
“I really need to get to class.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling gently. “I just want you to know that if you need to talk, you can come to my office anytime. Just fill out a counselor request form, or just stop by.”
I mumble a thank you, then jog to Calculus. The bell rings just as I reach the door.
“You're late,” Andrew—
Mr. McNelis
—says. He's standing at the whiteboard, his dry erase marker poised in his hand. “You need to get a pass.”
I am not late, and I am not getting a pass. I take my seat.
The classroom falls silent when he turns on me. “Go!”
So I go, but I knock the dry erase marker out of his hand as I do. He follows me out the door and closes it behind him with enough force to make me shrink back.
“What was that all about, huh? I am still the teacher in this classroom. And you are the student. I will
not
have you or anyone else challenging me. You're late. You get a pass. End of story.”
“I was at the door,” I say, angry too.
He drops his voice even more, but he's in my face, and I hear every word loud and clear. “You know,
this
is why teachers don't date students.
This
is why teachers don't give their phone numbers to students.
This
is why—”
“I'll get the goddamned pass,” I say, cutting him off. I don't want to cry. At least I don't want him to see me cry. I turn to leave. He stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Robert . . . I'm sorry.”
I jerk my arm free.
 
The band hall is a cacophony of chatter and music. These are friends. This is where I'm most comfortable. Usually.
Caleb Smith, freshman trumpet and Robert Westfall fan-club groupie, has his head in my instrument locker. Unbelievable.
“What are you doing?”
He jerks his head out so fast he bangs it on the metal opening.
“Oh, hi.” He flashes me a big guilty smile. “Robert Westfall. Um . . . oh . . . is this your locker? Oh my God, I'm so stupid. I thought it was, uh, Erick Wasserman's. I was, um, looking for something for him.”
I glare at him, and he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. But the smile is stuck on his face, and now he's beaming.
“The alto sax lockers are over there.” I jerk my thumb in the general direction.
“Oh. Okay. Sorry.”
He slinks away, past Luke Chesser, who gives him a friendly hey. As drum major, Luke has to like everybody. Luke leans against the locker next to mine and watches me pull out my bari sax case.
“Hey, man, what was that all about?” he asks.
“That is a charter member of my fan club. He and Erick Wasserman and Zach Townley started a Facebook fan page on me. And they didn't even bother protecting the page, so anyone can see it. The little twerps.”
“I don't think you can protect a fan page, but really? I'm gonna have to go check that out.”
I set my case on the floor and open it. “Please. Don't. And now they're following me around school. I can't turn a corner without bumping into one of them.”
“Aaah. You should be flattered.”
“So I've been told.”
“You want me to talk to them?”
“No. I don't know. Maybe if I just ignore them they'll go away.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.” He stoops down next to me. “Hey, I haven't gotten to tell you yet how sorry I am about your dad.”
“Thanks.” I examine a crack in my reed.
Change the subject
. “I'm just curious. Did Curtis ever get that smell out of his truck?”
He laughs and drops back on his butt, stretches out his legs, and crosses his ankles. “You know, now that you mention it, I do still get a whiff of rotten eggs every now and then. I don't think he's fully forgiven me for that.”
“I'm glad things worked out for you two.”
“Me too.”
I have my sax together and I'm tightening the ligature on a new reed when suddenly I just don't feel like playing anymore. “Hey, you want to go get a soda or something?”
 
There was a time when Curtis wouldn't let Luke get close to him, despite the fact that everybody knew they were crazy in love with each other. It was actually Curtis's idea for Luke to ask me out. I was to be the buffer that protected them from each other. It was a dumb idea that was destined for failure from the get-go. There's more to the story, but the bottom line is that Curtis hurt him, and Luke paid him back one night in spades. He egged and floured his truck while I played lookout. I remember telling Luke as he wadded up the empty five-pound bag of flour, “Remind me never to piss you off.”
We sit in the same booth we did on our first “date” about a year ago. It hadn't taken long for Luke to come clean about why he'd asked me out. He shared a lot of secrets with me during those weeks we pretended to be a couple. He trusted me, and I trust him now.
So when he says, “What's going on?” I unload.
“Oh,
shit!
You and Mr. McNelis?” His voice is too loud. I glance around nervously, and he drops his voice and repeats, “Oh, shit! You and Mr. McNelis?”
I shrug, but I can't help smiling a little as I pick up my soda and take a sip.
“Okay, give me a minute here.
Wow
.” He fans himself with his napkin, then grins at me. “Okay, okay. I'm good. Dang, he's cute. How old is he?”
“Twenty-four, I think.”
“That's just three years older than Curtis.”
“He's freaked out about it. And now he won't even talk to me except to yell at me in class.”
“Curtis did that kind of stuff. For a different reason. But it sounds like Mr. McNelis is just scared, like Curtis was. Don't be too hard on him.” He slips his straw up and down in the plastic lid on his cup. “Glaze on a donut, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Four months. Big deal.”
“I don't think he even wants that anymore.”
“I wouldn't be too sure about that.” He picks up an onion ring and pinches it flat. “You know, we could always egg his car.”
There is that. Luke could always make me laugh.
“Four months,” he says, thoughtfully. “I waited a lot longer than that for Curtis to come around. Did you know he sent me a message on a Cracker Jack prize at the first football game?”
“Was that the game security hauled you two out of the stall in the men's room?”
“Yep.” He laughs now. “I got suspended for two games, and Curtis got thrown out of the stadium. We were just talking—well—arguing. Oh, God, I was pissed about that. I do all that work to make drum major and then have to sit in the stands for two half-time performances.” He shrugs and his mouth settles into an impish grin. “But, in the end, he made it up to me.”
I bet.
“Listen,” he says, folding his arms on the table and leaning in. “I'm here for you, okay? And if you want me to pretend to be your bitch for a while and make him jealous, well, I owe you one.”
“Curtis would break my neck.”
“Probably.”
By the time we head to the car, some of the air has been let out of the balloon of my righteous indignation. I'll play the game. And if that doesn't work, I'll egg his car.

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