I don’t know what it is, but sometimes things just don’t end up as big as they seem at first. I still don’t know the whole story about party night — like, did I do something weird with Track? Or did we do something weird together? It couldn’t have been much of anything. I was way too drunk. And even if I somehow found out something, I just don’t think it would seem so big anymore.
And the whole thing from last week at Big Bend, with Track crying and Celeste hugging him? I mean, that seemed huge when we were there. But, really, after all that, nothing seems different. Track didn’t really say that he was gay. Maybe he doesn’t even know. Is that possible? And even when I think that he is, I’m starting to think, like, whatever. I mean, who doesn’t have to find out someone they know is gay? Yeah there are a few assholes at school who are like dinosaur male morons who might mess with somebody who’s gay, but even at my fucking school that’s mostly gone. I think. And I don’t think Track’s dad would be bad with it. He’s… a science guy I guess you’d say.
Yeah, and what about me? So what if party night showed that I’ve got some gay in me? Is that how you’d say it? I am not gay, but could I have some gay in me? People say you can’t be part gay, but then what is bi? If someone is bi, does that mean they’re 50-50 bi, or can they be a little one way and a lot another? … It seems to me that all this shit is not simple.
And if it’s not simple, then what are you supposed to want? What are you supposed to worry about? The more I think about it, the more it’s like, whatever, who cares. Actually, I’m kind of tired of thinking about it. …To be honest, I thought about it for a couple days, but I haven’t really been thinking about it much at all the rest of this week. I didn’t really see anyone since last Friday. I’m just thinking about it right now because I’m walking with Track. It’s Thursday after dinner, it’s really nice out, and we’re going up to the Falls to see if anyone is hanging out. It’s staying light really late.
Well anyway, if there’s one thing I do want is to just have fun.
* * *
Kara was pretty sick of babysitting. She had said yes when Mrs. Pickett said, “We’ve booked for a six week course at the college, Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings, 7 to 9. Victoria can sit for us Mondays. Can you do Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
“Sure!” she’d said, like a perky minion or something. “Sure!” she said to herself now in the same stupid voice. She lay sprawled on the couch, sick of TV, sick of social, sick of feeling like her summer was burning away already. “Sure! Sure! Sure! Fuck.”
Chrissa Pickett was fine. She was already 10, and she was no problem. But Scram Pickett was a whiny little, mess-making pain in the ass — clingy and needy one minute, friggin’ evil the next. She had been thrilled to arrive that evening to hear he was sick — sick enough to be so tired he didn’t bitch about going to bed before 8, and then to zonk out like a light.
Of course, that meant an hour and a half of boredom, waiting for the Picketts to get home with the usual, “Sorry we’re a little late, we got to talking with blah blah blah are you sure you don’t want a ride blah blah blah…” …Oh, they were nice enough. And they paid good. She sighed. Staring at the textured ceiling. Scratching her ear. Lifting her phone to glance at it. Nothing. She sighed again.
Then she smiled a little. Almost slyly.
Closed her eyes.
And thought of swimming.
Of Lather.
Naked.
* * *
Archie stood in front of his house, scared — as scared as he could ever remember being, and that was saying a lot. He’d been standing there for awhile, and it was almost full dark now. Past 9:30.
He had turned off his phone, because he just couldn't bear the thought of trying to talk with Dara. And this was even too much for asking his dad. It was Lather he wanted to talk to, but he knew Lather had gone to the Falls with Track, and he didn't want to talk to him when he was partying. He wanted to talk to him quiet. And private. Archie didn't feel quite as good a friend of Lather's as Track was, but there was something about Lather. You could trust him to understand stuff, and to be kind. Archie felt like his whole world had crashed. He needed Lather's kindness.
Oh, at some level Archie knew that what had happened wasn’t the end of the world, but it sure felt like the end of his world.
The evening had been so perfect. He ran through the memory again. …Yeah, like he could help it. The memory ran over and over like video loop.
They had sat at Chipotle for a long time. That was their favorite place to go out. Then they had gone into the park. The park! Right in the middle of town. Lights all around the edge, but dark where they were, just off the middle on a bench that was hard to see, sitting, holding, kissing. Like always! Archie loved kissing Dara, and then stopping to talk about things. To laugh. He knew it wasn’t as much as other kids were doing, but it was so comfortable — talking, laughing, kissing, walking.
But now he’s holding her and kissing her, and staring down the little path at the statue that’s right in the middle of the park. A guy on a horse — a general or something. You could see the horse part of the statue easy — the bottom part — but the light was pointed wrong or something, so the guy on the horse was dark. But the bottom half of the horse was easy to see. A guy horse — a stallion. It’s up on two legs, like action. It’s clearly a stallion, even if it’s just a statue and the male parts were sort of not a big deal. But somehow Archie’s mind wandered while he kissed and looked, and he imagined. He imagined someone riding a horse. A girl. A girl he had seen with no clothes. A beautiful naked girl. …But not Dara. It was Celeste he saw in his imagining, with her long legs around the horse, her long hair flying, riding that horse — that stallion. And Archie was kissing. His mind swimming. His eyes opening to see the stallion, then closing to see Celeste. More closed than open, now. Kissing. Breathing. Holding Dara. Arms moving. Celeste. Imagining. The stallion. And then…
“Oh god,” Archie said to himself, standing alone, just outside the light from the front door, standing in the grass, under the birch tree his dad had planted the year Archie had been born. “Oh god.”
The end of the memory was always the same. Right there. Right then. …Right into his briefs.
ns 18.68.41.177da2
