When the phone rings halfway through dinner, Mom jumps up and attacks it, yanking it from the cradle like everyone in the world should have gotten the memo about the McCall-Anderson household’s six thirty dinner.
“Hello?” The greeting comes out as an accusation, and then she tenses a little more. “Oh. Oh, hello, I didn’t know you’d be calling back so soon. No, it’s no trouble at all. Do you want to talk to him? He was just eating dinner.” A short, strained laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I know the difference between here and Oregon.”
“Fuck,” I say. Garen nudges my elbow.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“It’s my dad,” I say. I push to my feet, but Mom snags my arm before I can escape. We argue silently in a series of frantic gestures, but after a few seconds, I yank the phone away.
“Hi, Dad,” I say flatly. The word is like a rock rolling around in my mouth. Hank McCall hasn’t been my dad for years, but we keep it up so as not to hurt his ego.
“Your mom says you’ve been acting out,” he replies. No greeting.
“Yep. I have. Did she tell you she’s getting married?” I ask, taking my seat again.
“She did,” Hank says carefully.
“Did you start throwing shit too?” I ask. He sighs heavily.
“Have you been taking your medications?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you doing this? For attention? Because I missed your birthday? I know I told you last year that I’d come out to Lakewood for it, but I got tied up with work,” he says. I pin the phone between my ear and shoulder, and cross my arms.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t miss you much,” I say. There’s silence on the other end.
“I’m trying to be a good father, Travis,” he says finally.
“Well, you’re failing. You can’t avoid me three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year and then decide to be daddy for twenty-four hours every time a birthday rolls around. So do me a favor, and the next time I scare the hell out of Mom and she calls you, tell her that she should try using someone who actually means something to me,” I say, and I drop the phone on the counter on my way out.
“Can you go after him?” I hear Mom implore behind me, followed by the scrape of a chair. As I reach the foot of the stairs, Garen cuts in front of me and steers me towards the front door.
“Come on, let’s go,” he murmurs. I let him pull me outside and then into his car. It’s ten minutes before I think to ask where we’re going.
“Coffee, I guess. Anywhere is better than there,” he says. A few minutes later, he pulls into a Starbucks parking lot, and shortly after that, I’m settled into an overstuffed loveseat, chai in hand.
“I’m a traitor. If Jerry knew I were here, he’d fire me,” I say. Garen’s head settles against my shoulder, and his eyes fall shut.
“I can keep a secret,” he says softly. Probably against my better judgment, I cast an eye around the café and drape an arm across his shoulders. I half-expect some overly-caffeinated barista to pop up and tell us to get out. But nothing happens. Eventually, the place gets emptier and emptier. I know how it feels to be stuck behind the counter when people just won’t finish the cold remains of old coffee, so I gently shake Garen’s shoulder.
“You asleep?” I whisper. His wispy spikes tickle my neck as he shakes his head.
“Nah, I’m good. You wanna go?” he asks. We unfold ourselves from the loveseat, stretch, and head for the parking lot. Across the street, a guy and girl about our age are leaving the Olive Garden. That’s when I realize that we are them right now. A random, anonymous couple. No one who can see us right now knows who we are or how we know each other. I’m stunned for a minute by how normal it all feels. How I’m just somebody leaving a goddamn Starbucks with their boyfriend. I pull Garen into the glow of the nearest street lamp on blind impulse.
“Come here,” I say. He kisses me like he knows that was my intention, and we return to the car, our fingers laced between us.
The next morning, I know something is wrong as soon as I reach my locker. The hall is eerily quiet around me, even though it’s as populated as usual. Just as I’m jamming my backpack onto the hook, Garen appears at my side.
“I’m about to tell you something, but you need to be all poker-face about it and act like it’s nothing important, because people are watching,” he says in a voice so low I can barely hear. I stare at him, a rising feeling of panic boiling inside me. Slowly, I nod and turn my attention to my locker.
“Someone saw,” he says. I shrug, even though I think I already know the rest. “Last night, outside the coffee place. A girl who recognized me from my World Civics class. She took a picture of us kissing on her phone, and it’s all over school now. With the angle and the shitty light quality, I was able to convince some people that it’s not you, it’s a guy named Seth Hayden who I went to boarding school with. It’s definitely me in the picture, though, so if anyone asks, tell them Seth Hayden is staying with us this weekend, and that’s who is in the picture, okay?”
My head is kind of exploding, but I stare into my locker until I think I can speak without having a complete mental breakdown.
“Can I see the picture?” I ask finally. My voice is shaking and I clear my throat to try to get rid of it. Garen pulls out his cell phone and flips it open.
“That looks nothing like me,” I say with a pretty convincing laugh.
“I know. People are just twisted fucks,” he replies. We’re just loud enough to be heard, still quiet enough to seem real. It’s not real, though, because the picture is definitely me, the way I see it. My track hoodie (even though the logo isn’t visible), my messy dirty-blonde hair (even though it looks sort of dark in the grainy picture), my hand curled around Garen’s bicep (even though I think I’m the only one looking hard enough to see the ring). The picture is replaced suddenly by a call alert.
“That’s Nicole’s number,” I say, frowning. Garen doesn’t move to answer, so I take it instead. “Nicole? How did you get this number?”
“Ugh, of course you’re with him. I got it from Faye. Listen, Travis, what’s going on?” she demands. “Did you suddenly go fag and decide we didn’t need to know?”
“The picture isn’t of me,” I say numbly, “it’s of Garen and some guy from his old school. He’s staying with us for the weekend. Seth Hayden.”
“Bullshit, that’s definitely you. Look at the track sweater,” Nicole snaps.
“So I’m the only guy in the state with a gray hoodie? Look, for all I know, Seth borrowed it last night. I have no idea, I was in my room all night, studying for the Brit Lit quiz today. You know me. You know I wouldn’t be out when I’ve got so much work to do, especially—” It catches in my throat chokes me. I swallow it and move on. “Especially out fagging it up with my stepbrother in a parking lot.”
Garen looks sharply away and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You’re right. It’s so not like you. Just so not you. Want me to put the truth out on the grapevine?” Nicole asks.
“Do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter,” I say. I hang up and hold out the phone. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s true. No way in hell would Travis McCall, honor student, sports star, straight boy extraordinaire, be caught fagging it up with a flaming homosexual such as myself,” he says.
“Fuck off. I had to say it. If it got out, if people know about us, I—”
“Stop it, Travis. You wanna keep it quiet? Then shut the fuck up and let me walk away,” he mutters. And then he’s gone.
“Hello?” The greeting comes out as an accusation, and then she tenses a little more. “Oh. Oh, hello, I didn’t know you’d be calling back so soon. No, it’s no trouble at all. Do you want to talk to him? He was just eating dinner.” A short, strained laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I know the difference between here and Oregon.”
“Fuck,” I say. Garen nudges my elbow.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“It’s my dad,” I say. I push to my feet, but Mom snags my arm before I can escape. We argue silently in a series of frantic gestures, but after a few seconds, I yank the phone away.
“Hi, Dad,” I say flatly. The word is like a rock rolling around in my mouth. Hank McCall hasn’t been my dad for years, but we keep it up so as not to hurt his ego.
“Your mom says you’ve been acting out,” he replies. No greeting.
“Yep. I have. Did she tell you she’s getting married?” I ask, taking my seat again.
“She did,” Hank says carefully.
“Did you start throwing shit too?” I ask. He sighs heavily.
“Have you been taking your medications?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you doing this? For attention? Because I missed your birthday? I know I told you last year that I’d come out to Lakewood for it, but I got tied up with work,” he says. I pin the phone between my ear and shoulder, and cross my arms.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t miss you much,” I say. There’s silence on the other end.
“I’m trying to be a good father, Travis,” he says finally.
“Well, you’re failing. You can’t avoid me three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year and then decide to be daddy for twenty-four hours every time a birthday rolls around. So do me a favor, and the next time I scare the hell out of Mom and she calls you, tell her that she should try using someone who actually means something to me,” I say, and I drop the phone on the counter on my way out.
“Can you go after him?” I hear Mom implore behind me, followed by the scrape of a chair. As I reach the foot of the stairs, Garen cuts in front of me and steers me towards the front door.
“Come on, let’s go,” he murmurs. I let him pull me outside and then into his car. It’s ten minutes before I think to ask where we’re going.
“Coffee, I guess. Anywhere is better than there,” he says. A few minutes later, he pulls into a Starbucks parking lot, and shortly after that, I’m settled into an overstuffed loveseat, chai in hand.
“I’m a traitor. If Jerry knew I were here, he’d fire me,” I say. Garen’s head settles against my shoulder, and his eyes fall shut.
“I can keep a secret,” he says softly. Probably against my better judgment, I cast an eye around the café and drape an arm across his shoulders. I half-expect some overly-caffeinated barista to pop up and tell us to get out. But nothing happens. Eventually, the place gets emptier and emptier. I know how it feels to be stuck behind the counter when people just won’t finish the cold remains of old coffee, so I gently shake Garen’s shoulder.
“You asleep?” I whisper. His wispy spikes tickle my neck as he shakes his head.
“Nah, I’m good. You wanna go?” he asks. We unfold ourselves from the loveseat, stretch, and head for the parking lot. Across the street, a guy and girl about our age are leaving the Olive Garden. That’s when I realize that we are them right now. A random, anonymous couple. No one who can see us right now knows who we are or how we know each other. I’m stunned for a minute by how normal it all feels. How I’m just somebody leaving a goddamn Starbucks with their boyfriend. I pull Garen into the glow of the nearest street lamp on blind impulse.
“Come here,” I say. He kisses me like he knows that was my intention, and we return to the car, our fingers laced between us.
The next morning, I know something is wrong as soon as I reach my locker. The hall is eerily quiet around me, even though it’s as populated as usual. Just as I’m jamming my backpack onto the hook, Garen appears at my side.
“I’m about to tell you something, but you need to be all poker-face about it and act like it’s nothing important, because people are watching,” he says in a voice so low I can barely hear. I stare at him, a rising feeling of panic boiling inside me. Slowly, I nod and turn my attention to my locker.
“Someone saw,” he says. I shrug, even though I think I already know the rest. “Last night, outside the coffee place. A girl who recognized me from my World Civics class. She took a picture of us kissing on her phone, and it’s all over school now. With the angle and the shitty light quality, I was able to convince some people that it’s not you, it’s a guy named Seth Hayden who I went to boarding school with. It’s definitely me in the picture, though, so if anyone asks, tell them Seth Hayden is staying with us this weekend, and that’s who is in the picture, okay?”
My head is kind of exploding, but I stare into my locker until I think I can speak without having a complete mental breakdown.
“Can I see the picture?” I ask finally. My voice is shaking and I clear my throat to try to get rid of it. Garen pulls out his cell phone and flips it open.
“That looks nothing like me,” I say with a pretty convincing laugh.
“I know. People are just twisted fucks,” he replies. We’re just loud enough to be heard, still quiet enough to seem real. It’s not real, though, because the picture is definitely me, the way I see it. My track hoodie (even though the logo isn’t visible), my messy dirty-blonde hair (even though it looks sort of dark in the grainy picture), my hand curled around Garen’s bicep (even though I think I’m the only one looking hard enough to see the ring). The picture is replaced suddenly by a call alert.
“That’s Nicole’s number,” I say, frowning. Garen doesn’t move to answer, so I take it instead. “Nicole? How did you get this number?”
“Ugh, of course you’re with him. I got it from Faye. Listen, Travis, what’s going on?” she demands. “Did you suddenly go fag and decide we didn’t need to know?”
“The picture isn’t of me,” I say numbly, “it’s of Garen and some guy from his old school. He’s staying with us for the weekend. Seth Hayden.”
“Bullshit, that’s definitely you. Look at the track sweater,” Nicole snaps.
“So I’m the only guy in the state with a gray hoodie? Look, for all I know, Seth borrowed it last night. I have no idea, I was in my room all night, studying for the Brit Lit quiz today. You know me. You know I wouldn’t be out when I’ve got so much work to do, especially—” It catches in my throat chokes me. I swallow it and move on. “Especially out fagging it up with my stepbrother in a parking lot.”
Garen looks sharply away and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You’re right. It’s so not like you. Just so not you. Want me to put the truth out on the grapevine?” Nicole asks.
“Do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter,” I say. I hang up and hold out the phone. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s true. No way in hell would Travis McCall, honor student, sports star, straight boy extraordinaire, be caught fagging it up with a flaming homosexual such as myself,” he says.
“Fuck off. I had to say it. If it got out, if people know about us, I—”
“Stop it, Travis. You wanna keep it quiet? Then shut the fuck up and let me walk away,” he mutters. And then he’s gone.