"God," I said, squinting up at them. "God."
Byron glanced up too, but just for a second, clearly not as impressed with the sight as I was.
"Wasn't supposed to snow yet," he said, and reached into his coat pocket; his hand emerged holding a pair of gloves.
"That was smart," I commented as he slipped them on.
"Don't tell me you didn't bring any."
"I'm not even sure I bought any," and I shoved my hands as deeply into my own pockets as they'd go.
"You'd have never made it through Boy Scouts."
"Huh?"
"The Boy Scout motto. It's, 'Be prepared.'"
"Oh. Well, guess not. Never could build a fire with just a couple of sticks either." I took my hands back out to breathe warm air onto them. "The weatherman said it's supposed to heat up tomorrow anyway. I'll be fine."
But the weatherman was wrong. It didn't snow for long, but it stuck, the temperature holding fast in the high twenties. At home, we consider anything in the fifties or below to be freezing; a day this cold would be illegal.
Byron shook his head at me and chuckled when he saw my bare hands again the next morning.
"Genius," he said.
"Shut up," I mumbled.
He turned a little so his back was toward me. "Here, go into the front pocket."
"What?" I stared dumbly at the sturdy blue material of his Jansport.
"Just do it."
Fumbling a little with my stiff hands, I unzipped the pocket and pulled out a pair of thick gloves. I stared at them for a second then glanced at Byron's hands; they were already covered.
"Jeez. Thanks."
I grinned at him as I slipped them on, instantly relieved by the warmth. He smiled back, then looked out at the empty street.
"I had a feeling you weren't Boy Scout material," he explained.
"Hey, I would've bought some gloves. Eventually."
"Eventually! Save yourself the trouble of gradual frostbite and go stick your hands in the snow right now. You don't need your fingers for anything useful, right?"
"Does frostbite really make your fingers fall off?"
"Yeah. My sister Claire almost lost a toe because of it, a couple years ago."
"What the hell was her toe doing in the snow?"
"Margo dared her to see how long she could stick her foot in it."
"How long did she last?"
"Oh, about half an hour, I think."
"Jesus."
"I know; it was impressive."
The high school was looming in the distance, tall against the cloudy sky. I thought back to my old high school, Vista, which looked pretty much like every other high school back home – one story, with breezy, outdoor corridors and a minimum of walls. Old SHS, on the other hand, was a big, old-fashioned enclosed building, which always vaguely smelled like sweat and stale water. Not quite the same, right?
I sighed heavily, looking at it.
"What's wrong?" Byron asked.
How could I explain it without completely dissing what would one day be his beloved alma mater?
"Macbeth test tomorrow," I said, hoping he'd take it for an answer.
"Yeah, me too." He shook his head. "I don't know. I think I understand it."
We made our way through the sporadic groups of people huddling out in front of the school, unwilling to go inside until the last possible minute. They parted for the two of us like the Red Sea parted for Moses, easily, without protest, and we slipped into the even more crowded and infinitely nosier halls of SHS. There, the people didn't move away, but skimmed along side us, forcing us to push.
"We could get together and study," I suggested.
His eyes flickered to my face. "You don't mind?"
"Nope."
"Would your mom mind?"
"Are you serious? When I tell her I'm actually studying, she'll start doing cartwheels or something. Being grounded is irrelevant here."
"Mine won't care either. Um. Your place, then?"
We were headed toward his locker. It was our stop, every morning, and when we walked home I met up with him there. I don't know how that happened, how an unspoken route was planned, considering my own locker was way the hell on the other side of the school. It was just something that was.
I shook my head. "Can't. Richard told me that he'd really rather I informed him of any company I have over at least twenty-four hours in advance."
Byron grinned wryly. "His words?"
"Duh."
We stopped at his locker, and he began fiddling with the combination, finally opening it with a sudden click. He took off his gloves and tossed them inside.
"Well…" He hesitated, shrugging a little. "Mom won't mind. It's just – well, my house…"
"It's crazy. I know."
"But it's been a while."
"I was there for the car thing!"
"We were hiding in the garage for a reason."
"So, we study in the garage," I offered, grinning. "We can use the hood as a desk. That's good for the paint job, right?"
Byron shook his head, laughing softly. "We'd probably just end up high off the gas fumes."
"Hey, that's not always a bad thing."
He pulled off his jacket and balled it up, stuffing it into his locker. There was a rubber band around his wrist for some reason; I absently reached out to snap it. Byron watched my hand's approach, but didn't try to stop me; his eyes fluttered when it cracked against his skin.
"So. What time?" I asked.
His gaze lingered on his wrist for a second before he looked up and answered, "Right after school would work, I guess."
"Okay, just don't let me forget to check in with my mom when we get to your house." He nodded. "Meet you here."
He nodded again, and I adjusted my backpack before turning around and heading toward my own locker.
I could hear the screaming before we stepped onto the front porch. Very much a girlish screaming, but bloodcurdling, like someone's puppy was about to get tossed into the fire or something. I stared up at the Pike house dubiously.
Byron smiled uneasily. "It's okay, really. No one…no one's dying or anything. Just sisters, you know?"
I nodded, even though my own sisters hadn't ever shrieked like freaking banshees on an acid trip, but then, maybe they were the weird ones.
He tapped on the doorknob idly for a second, glancing over at me. "Um…yeah." And he opened the door.
The screaming magnified, more shrill than anything else, but from this distance, I was surprised to find out that it actually contained words:
"GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT!"
Byron winced and, dropping his bag on the couch, strode through the living room and into the kitchen. Standing awkwardly for a moment in the unfamiliar room, I decided to follow. There, pounding on a door near the entrance to the garage, was the source of the screams – a petite girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, who looked a lot like Byron.
"Margo," Byron said softly, but firmly, going over to stand in front of her. "What the hell?"
She stopped screaming to take a deep breath and answer, "Nicky won't let me in. I need in."
"Where's Mom?"
"She took Claire and Vanessa to get shoes. And I. Need. In."
"How long's he been in there?"
"Like ten minutes!"
He shook his head, sighing. "Well, jeez, Margo, that's not – "
"I'm on my period!" she shrieked suddenly, stamping her foot. "I need in!"
Byron's face flushed bright red, but then I couldn't really blame him; I think mine did too. He leaned over and pounded on the bathroom door.
"Nicky, man, she needs in! Hurry it up!"
"Now!"
There was some angry mumbling from inside the bathroom, then a toilet flush. Byron walked away, not meeting my eyes as he brushed past me and toward the kitchen door.
"Let's – my room," he said, and it wasn't until we were safely up the stairs, around the corner, and behind his closed door that he went on to say, "Sorry about that. Like I said…"
"It's cool," I laughed. "You warned me, right?"
He gave me a small smile. "Right. Well…oh, shit, you need the phone."
"Oh. Yeah."
"Just…here, I'll go get it." And he was out of the room, footsteps pounding down the stairs. Faintly, I could hear him calling for something once he was in the living room.
Standing there, alone, I tossed down my bag and looked around idly. It was just a guy's room, only magnified, considering it was occupied by four guys; Adam, Jordan, Nicky, and Byron all had to share. Two sets of bunk beds lined the walls, covers rumpled and unmade, pillows strewn around. Clothes and various random items just were kind of everywhere. I liked it. It looked lived-in, like mine.
I sat down on one of the bottom beds, the one with the thick blue comforter. It wasn't all that uncomfortable, except that the bottom of the bed above me sort of grazed the crown of my head, tugging at my hair a bit. My hand brushed over something cool, and I found myself pulling a magazine out from under the pillow.
It all got a little surreal for me here. Slow-motion and everything. Unzipped, I remember thinking. Interesting title, and I started flipping through it, totally neglecting to notice that on the cover was a rather muscled dude, and inside, well, needless to say, the pictures were all of other dudes, in various stages of undress, sometimes with little more than sultry glares at the camera, and…yeah.
Eventually, I got it. Connected the dots. Because, well, one – a magazine that is hidden on the bed is hidden for a reason (I thought of my own illicit reading material in the dark recesses of under-the-mattress), and two – this wasn't exactly Maxim. This –
And I heard footsteps again, coming closer. I shoved the magazine back under the pillow and practically vaulted to the far end of the bed, like I was a fucking gold medal gymnast or something, and was sitting there innocently by the time Byron walked in.
He closed the door behind him, his backpack over his shoulder, and held out a cordless phone to me. "Here."
"Uh. Thanks." I took it, looking down at the lighted buttons before asking, "It okay that I sit on the bed?"
He didn't even look at me before nodding. "Yeah. It's mine."
And my stomach felt like it dropped out of my body and into places unknown.
While I called my mother, I kept my eyes on my legs, stretched out in front of me. There was a small hole starting in one of the knees, and I was probably doing more damage by staring at it so hard. By the time the call was ended and I looked up, Byron was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his textbook splayed open on his lap.
"All right?" he asked.
I knew he meant the call, but I wasn't sure what I meant when I muttered, "Fine."
And then I just picked up my own book and tried to study.
Yes, 'tried.' I mean, what can I say? Forgive me but, okay, I'd just something of a shock. Hey, look, seems that my friend – male friend – my friend – really possibly my best friend in Stoneybrook – my friend was gay or at least liked to look at pictures of pretty much naked guys. Which, excuse me, kind of spells out gay.
It's not a bad thing to be gay. I knew it then, and I still know it. It just…this was big. Did everyone know? I didn't think so. Someone would have said something by now to clue me in.
"Who's Banquo again?" Byron asked from the floor.
"Uh. Wasn't that Hamlet's friend?" I answered, eyes on my open book.
There was a long silence before Byron went, "What?" and I didn't respond.
It also just weirded me out that I knew something he didn't know I knew. Yeah, it was as confusing as it sounds. I mean, if he'd wanted to clue me in that he was – gay? – I would have known by now. He could've said something. Done something.
So I really didn't know for sure. Hypothetically, there could have been other perfectly good explanations for that magazine. Maybe Byron was just confused and wanted to take a look. I could buy that. Maybe one of his sisters had left it there (gross), or, hell, even one of his brothers, as a joke or something. Maybe he was doing research on gay porn. Right.
Holy crap, my friend was gay.
There were several silent minutes of Byron probably actually studying and me freaking out (I don't know why – there's nothing wrong with being gay, I know, and I was freaking out even more because I knew it but didn't know why I was upset in the first place) when there was a thundering up the stairs and outside the door. Adam and Jordan burst in, laughing at something one of them had said, and tossed their bags down. Adam looked at me in surprise.
"Oh, hey, Jeff," he said. "I thought you were grounded."
"I am," I answered, and held up my book. "Mom doesn't care if I'm studying."
Jordan read the title and grinned.
"Helping our English idiot, huh?" he laughed, and leaned down to muss Byron's hair affectionately. Byron smiled wryly.
"He's the only one of all of us who's not in honors English," Adam explained. "Byron's not really bright."
"I'm good at math!"
"Yeah, thank God."
"Byron does our math homework, and we do his Lit papers," Jordan told me as he pulled off his sweater. "We have practically the same handwriting."
"What about tests?" I asked.
"Then at least we have great homework and essay scores to fall back on."
They all laughed, at once, and I saw for the first time in a while that they were triplets.
Adam leaned over a dresser and peered into a mirror, trying to smooth a patch of hair that curled near his temple.
"We're getting together tonight at Scott's," he said to Byron. "You coming?"
Byron shook his head. "No, I really need to study."
I frowned. "I thought you were grounded."
"Byron's been off the hook for days," Jordan told me.
"He just says he likes walking to school for some reason," Adam added.
They went on talking about something, but I don't know what. It was kind of hard to concentrate with Oh my God oh my God oh my God running through my head over and over again.
Hello. Final dot? Connected.
I should have been telling myself that there was nothing wrong with this. I should have.
Funny that, when you're looking for something, it's so easy to find.
Like when I met up for Byron on the walk to school the next morning – he had his car privileges back, he didn't need to – he grinned big at me, showed me his teeth. I wore the gloves he'd given me, protecting my hands, and he talked idly, more than usual, maybe because I wasn't saying much. I was thinking of soda cans and paper cups and The Joker and Justin Forbes and nightlights instead, trying to figure out how I'd missed it. I hadn't missed it with Mandy, or other girls, who just usually giggled a lot and touched my arm or something when they liked me. I couldn't recall Byron ever touching me, never skin to skin, and I knew I would have remembered if he had, and how his fingertips would probably feel cool if he did, cool like his blue, blue eyes.
When we stopped to say hi to Sara right outside SHS, all she got from him was a close-lipped smile.
At lunch, he sat next to me, but we always sat together – that's just the way things had been, ever since we played pool. I know I had sat down next to him before too. Our shoulders brushed once, just the brief ruffling of cotton together, and I turned away from him and focused on the rest of the table.
Haley was wearing a low-cut top, and when she leaned across the table to grad a napkin, all male eyes were on here. Specifically, they were on her cleavage. There were two exceptions – Byron, who didn't even give so much as a cursory glance at the view and instead was looking around the cafeteria. And me. I was, of course, watching Byron.
For a split second, Byron's gaze shifted. Our eyes met, and without hesitation I found myself staring down at Haley's breasts, my stomach lurching.
It was going to get better, though. My grounding was almost over, and I was going to get my car back. My beautiful blue Cadillac, hidden away at my grandparents' house since the day I was put on restriction. Then I'd be able to actually drive to school, away from the cold and snow and unbearable weight of awkwardness I was going to be carrying anytime I was alone with Byron.
I felt like a jerk about it. I still feel like a jerk about it. I kept telling myself that there was nothing wrong with it, and I believed it, but Byron was still different now.
Anyway, so I waited patiently waited all day, if patient means almost ready to jump straight out of my skin. By the time they got home from work, I felt like I had the proverbial ants in my pants. And I expected them to say something about it, make some sort of production about giving me my keys back and lecturing me on following the rules. I was prepared to nod and swear my undying loyalty to whatever fucking commandments they were going to tack on the wall. I just wanted that car.
Only they didn't. They just started making dinner like it was any other night, like it was not the much-anticipated day of my liberation. But hey, maybe they were going to do it during dinner. My temper was what'd lost me the car. So I just kept quiet and set the table. I silently ate my zucchini casserole while Mom talked about whatever the hell she does at her job and Richard told her about some new client he had. Rather than listen, I thought of shining blue paint, and the clean black interior, and the smooth solidness of the steering wheel, and, despite myself, the only person I'd ever taken for a ride.
When Richard reached across the table to start clearing away the plates, I finally blurted out,
"Hey! I'm not grounded any more, you know."
Richard glanced at my mother across the table; she looked away and absently slipped her rumpled napkin into her pocket. Optimistically, I went on,
"So, you know, my car. I mean, can I have the keys?"
That was my case, and, having finished with it, there were a few moments of silence. My stepfather looked at my mother, and I didn't need to be a genius to see, Well, he belongs to you written all over his face.
"Jeff…" she started, hesitating. "No."
"Huh?" was my brilliant response.
"We decided that now just isn't the right time for you to have a car," she continued. She tossed some silverware onto her dinner plate, scratching the floral design.
"Giving you more freedom was not exactly the point in you coming to Stoneybrook," Richard added, really unnecessarily, because believe me, I got it.
"But…it was a present. From Granny and Pop-Pop," I reminded them.
"We've explained a few things," Mom answered wearily. "They understand."
Translation: my darling grandparents now knew that I was a guy-slut. Oh, this was just getting better and better. My hands were clenching and unclenching beneath the table, fisting the hem of the tablecloth unconsciously.
"But it was mine."
"Well, that ceases to be," Richard said curtly, and really, I think it was the pretentiousness that got me.
I was surprised by how calmly I handled it.
"I really fucking hate you both," I said quietly, and pushed myself away from the table.
"Jeffrey!" Richard bellowed as I left the room.
"Don't – " was all I heard Mom say to him, her voice choked as she started to cry.
When I got to my bedroom, I closed the door behind me carefully. Then I lost it.
Ripped the posters off the wall, shook my dresser until the drawers rattled, yanked the blankets off the bed and left the mattress half-hanging off, kicked the wall until there was a dent and one of Dawn's old ceramic dolphins fell off my shelf and cracked. The windows shook when I pulled off the curtains, and then I stood back, breathing hard; one of my hands was bleeding from something I'd done. And I still didn't feel any better. Plus, you know, my shit was ruined.
All in all, I was still pretty pleased with how well I'd taken it.
I paced. There was still adrenalin pumping. I read somewhere that when you're stressed, there's this fight or flight response that gets triggered in the brain, and so you either have to run away or fight back or you can die. I don't know if I felt like I was dying, but I sure as hell wanted to beat something up, and I couldn't do either of those, and because it was winter and dark and cold out I couldn't really run, and God God God, there was nothing left in my room that I could destroy.
I picked up the cordless phone on the nightstand by my bed.
But who the fuck could I call for a rant? Seriously? My dad? He'd agree with Mom and Richard, and he probably wasn't even home from work yet. I couldn't really handle talking to Granny and Pop-Pop now that they knew I had crumbled ungracefully under pressure from a girl to have sexual relations. Call Mandy and tell her how all this is her fault? She'd just want to know why I hadn't gotten in contact with her since I'd gone to Stoneybrook.
There really was only one option.
"Pikes," a girl answered after I looked up the number and dialed.
"Can I talk to Byron?"
"Yeah." I heard a muffled brushing sound, then, "Byron! Phone for you!"
A small tap from the phone being set down, then, "Hello?"
"They took my car away," was my greeting.
"Oh."
"Said it was too soon. Too much freedom. I mean, shit!"
"That's fucked up, Jeff..."
"Can you come over?"
"What?"
"Come over. I need to talk to somebody."
"Well – yes."
"I'm going to yell."
"I know."
"Probably at you."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to be an asshole."
"I can be there in fifteen minutes."
And he was.
When the doorbell rang, I ran down the stairs. My mother and stepfather were in the living room, talking in hushed tones. I stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
"That's Byron," I announced loudly. "Can he come in, or is it too soon for me to have a friend?"
Richard opened his mouth to answer, but Mom wiped her eyes and broke in hoarsely, "No, it's fine, it's fine."
I answered the door. Byron and I nodded grimly at each other and went upstairs without a word. His eyes widened at the destruction that was now my room.
"Shit. You were mad."
"No fucking kidding." I closed the door behind us. "Can you believe it? I mean, Jesus, they didn't even give me the Cadillac! What makes them think they can take it away?"
Byron sat down on the ruin that was my bed, the mattress threatening to slide onto the floor, his hands clasped in front of himself.
"It was a shitty thing to do."
"I know! And you know what else?" I started pacing again. "They told my grandparents!"
"About what?"
"About Mandy!"
"Who's Mandy?"
"My – the girl I – "
"Oh."
"I mean, what do they think of me now? I was their darling two fucking seconds ago, now, what? A freaking man-whore!"
"That might be stretching it."
"Well, okay, maybe. But still!"
"It wasn't cool." He picked up the ceramic dolphin and turned the pieces in his hands, testing angles to see if it could be fitted back together.
"No, it wasn't! And all because I made one mistake. One mistake! Fucking Richard said it was too much freedom – "
"And you need freedom," he broke in.
I stopped. "What?"
"You. You're always moving, pacing and fidgeting. It's like you're in a cage or something. You need to room to move, and this town can't – " He stopped abruptly and shut his mouth; the very tips of his ears turned pink.
I stared at him. He stared at the blue and gray dolphin fragments in his hands.
"You get me," I whispered, astonished.
He looked up me hesitantly, face flushed. "I – I just pay attention."
And all of a sudden he ceased to the person I had just discovered as being gay, and was just Byron again. Byron, my friend, sitting in the middle of a room full of broken things, trying to put a dolphin statuette back together again. Someone who almost certainly liked me, not just like friends do.
For the first time in days, I didn't need to tell myself that it wasn't wrong, because I knew.
"I know you do," I answered. I nudged the corner of the mattress with my foot. "Let's watch a movie."
"What?"
"Movie."
"I thought you wanted to yell."
"I did. I feel better," I answered, and smiled.
Byron sat on the far end of the mattress, and I curled up on the other. We watched Thelma and Louise for some reason, and he shifted when Brad Pitt first came on the screen. About halfway through, the mattress finally gave away and slid onto the floor completely, sending him rocking forward; my knee brushed against his thigh for less than ten seconds, and he jerked away like I was made of fire.
I was the one paying attention now.
The next morning, long after he'd gone home, I ran downstairs to find my mother making me a western omelet for breakfast – my favorite. I kissed her cheek, and all the tension melted from her face.
When I went outside to get the newspaper, I found that the snow had melted a little.
Author's Note: I, for one,am thankful that FF.N is finally letting me update. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and thanks to everyone who's been reviewing. Next chapter in the works as soon as I can figure it out.