It just sort of happened. Isn't that the old cliché? And yet, to his surprise, Snake finds that it just sort of happens when he's not looking. (Or maybe it's not surprising at all.)

Really, it doesn't start with Wheels—actually, it's difficult to pinpoint where it starts, unless he wants to get philosophical and say it started when he was born or something— but it sort of starts when he finds a letter waiting for him on the kitchen table. The return address says Simpson/Randall. He tears it open.

Dear Archie,

As promised, here are the pictures of Greg, me, and Ginger all together. Hope you enjoy them and that you're doing well. Please give Mom and Dad my love.

Glen

Enclosed with the letter are a few photos with notes on the back in Glen's careful cursive. The first one, Me and Ginger, is of Glen sitting in front of the animal shelter with his arms wrapped around the dog. She's chubby and fluffy, with dark golden fur that only makes her lolling tongue look pinker. Then there's another, Ginger and her puppies— the puppies have all been adopted, apparently. The last one is labeled The three of us. Glen's holding Ginger again, but Greg has his arm around Glen's shoulders and is petting the dog too. The two of them are smiling ear to ear as Ginger pants.

Snake stands and holds the photos for a long time.

Mom glances over from the stove. "Did you get a letter, honey?"

Carefully, Snake folds the letter and The three of us into quarters and tucks them in his back pocket. Then he grabs the other two and heads over. Mom's boiling potatoes.

"Glen got a dog." He fans out the photos for her.

Mom takes Ginger and her puppies by two fingers and squints at it. "How sweet." She doesn't smile.

"He says he loves you."

The words burst out on their own. As soon as he says them, Snake is gripped with an unexplainable sense of urgency. She has to know right now that Glen, at this very minute, loves her. She just has to.

Mom's shoulders tense. She sets the photo on the counter like it might shatter. "Could you set the table, please." It's not a request.

Snake sets the table.

Dinner is quiet.

For the next few days, Snake feels under the weather. The spider-crawling feeling and the upset stomach never go away entirely. They follow him around all day and keep him up all night. He has to start drinking coffee to stay awake at all. No matter what he does, he can't shake it. Whenever he sees Wheels, all he can think about is the guy sprawled out asleep, and Snake finding himself unable to look away.

And if it were a one-off, a trick of his sleep-addled brain, that'd be one thing. But whenever he zones out in class, he'll come to and find himself watching Wheels doodling or cleaning his glasses. He's not doing it on purpose— it's rarely even accompanied by conscious thought. But then it keeps happening. It keeps happening. Why does it keep happening?

He's not a bigot— not anymore, anyway, not now that he knows better. But it's impossible to see Wheels in the same light now. He can't push the "being gay" thing out of his mind. It shouldn't bother him; it's got nothing to do with him. And it's not like he spends his time thinking about Wheels in bed with some guy. The thought makes his stomach flip over. But it bugs him, knowing, even though it's wrong.

He sees Melanie sometimes. Whenever he treks into the grade nine hallway to find Joey, he looks for her, almost habitually. It's not that he needs to talk to her, but he needs to see that she's still there, that's she's doing okay.

She sees him too—being literally head and shoulders above most of the other kids means he gets noticed. One day, as she's leaving math, she glances at him and waves slightly.

"Melanie, hi!" Of course he rushes over and holds the door for her. He's not a barbarian.

"Hi, Snake," she lisps. He always liked that about her, the cute way she used to call him thnake.

"So!" His grin is a bit too wide. It hurts his mouth. "How's, uh… how's grade nine?"

"Oh, you know. The same."

"That's good."

He leans against the door, summoning that tough-guy swagger that used to come— well, no, it never really came easily, but it used to be available. Now he's worried he'll push too hard on the door and fall flat on his face. He should be past this awkwardness by now, he knows. He and Melanie haven't dated since May, half a year ago, and they never really "went steady" anyway. (How steadily do you have to go before you're going steady? He's got no clue.) But she's still got a cute smile and a sweet laugh. And that gives him, not quite the proverbial warm-and-fuzzy-feeling of old, but the memory of feeling warm and fuzzy with her. And the memory is good enough for him now.

Really, they have nothing to say to each other. And maybe that's okay. She smiles at him, looking a little half-hearted, before wandering off toward her friends. He watches her leave.

Basketball helps, at least. He's not a good enough player to be scatterbrained during practice. The game itself pulls him in different directions: the flash of orange as the ball flies past him, the sound of shoes squeaking against the hardwood, the feeling of his heart pounding as he races across the court, all of them jockeying for his focus. Here he's in the zone. He has to be.

At last, Coach Cook dismisses them. Snake spends as little time in the showers as possible and scrambles back into his clothes with his hair still dripping. BLT, meanwhile, takes his time. As he sprays himself down with deodorant, casually half-dressed, Snake feels oddly embarrassed, like he's seeing something he shouldn't, and looks away. He tries not to give it any thought.

"Hey, guys," BLT says. "Did you hear? Michelle found a place!"

"Sweet!" Luke calls from a few lockers over. "Have you checked it out yet?"

"A couple times. It's like a youth hostel type of thing, so she's not supposed to have guests after ten."

"Wait," Snake cuts in. "She's not at her dad's anymore? What happened?" As long as he's known her, Michelle's always been a sweet, good-natured, rule-following girl. Surely her dad wouldn't throw her out. (Then again, maybe he would.)

"So, her dad," BLT replies, sounding well-rehearsed, "He's a racist asshole. We had to sneak around; I wasn't even allowed in her yard." He scoffs. "Plus he's super strict and never lets her go anywhere, not even on the weekends. So finally, she got sick of his crap, sold some stuff, and moved into her own place!"

"Wow." Mild-mannered Michelle making such a huge decision to stay with BLT? It's hard to fathom.

"Yeah. I'm proud of her." A dreamy look falls over BLT's face. "Standing up for herself."

"I bet you get to go over there when-ever, huh, man?" Yick yells from the far end of the locker room, leering.

"Yeah, hope the walls aren't too thin," Luke adds with a cackle.

BLT smirks, but doesn't add fuel to the fire, only straightens his gym bag and ignores their escalating teasing. For as much as he goes on about his girlfriend, he's stayed shockingly tight-lipped on exactly how far they've gone. Snake appreciates it— he's not interested in any more conversations on who is or isn't doing it. As if that fascinating well of conversation hasn't gone completely dry. He's not doing it, and at his current success rate he probably never will, so beyond that he doesn't really care. But the thought of Michelle on her own— not thrown out but storming out, not rejected but rejecting— lingers.

"Pleeeeease?"

Snake barely glances down at Joey as he whines. His hands are clasped theatrically against his chest as if in prayer.

"Joey, stop."

"Well, can you at least spot me the money?"

"Can't you wait until you get your allowance?"

Joey scoffs. "I don't get my allowance until Monday," he replies, like it should've been obvious. "I have to go tonight."

"Why? Wheels' birthday isn't until next Thursday. You're just going to have to hide it under your bed or something all week."

"Be-cause," Joey says, "I have to go while he's with his, uh, parole officer… guy."

"You mean social worker."

"Whatever. It's the perfect time! Look, I'll go if you're so worried— just let me borrow five bucks! You can go pick up some marshmallows, and we'll all meet at my place at eight."

"I'm not going to buy marshmallows a week in advance. They'll get stale." The amount of effort Joey put into this plan would be sweet if it weren't so annoying. "Anyway, I have homework. I'll just come over straight from my house."

"Oh, you have homework, big shocker." Joey laughs. "No biggie, Wheels said he'd be over around seven-thirty. Whenever works."

They split off from there. When he watches Joey head further and further down the street, he wonders fleetingly what would happen if he followed. If he didn't call home with a half-baked lie about who he was with or where he'd be, would his parents look for him? Would they make sure he came home all right? He doesn't test it. He walks home instead.

He lets himself in quietly. As soon as he opens the back door, he can tell: Mom and Dad are arguing. They're not yelling— they're never loud enough for the neighbors to hear— but the tension in their voices is thick and obvious. Snake shuts the door millimeter by millimeter so it won't creak.

"...We need to invite him for Christmas," Mom says.

"I said no."

Snake tiptoes up the stairs. He leans as far over the balcony as he can without being noticed, watching the living room from above. Waiting.

"We haven't talked about it in months."

"And my answer is still no." Dad sinks further into his chair, staring ahead. He grabs blindly at the coffee table.

Mom takes a step toward the chair. "It'll be our first Christmas without him."

"I know that."

"We can't just leave him all alone—"

"Do you think this is easy for me?" Dad sighs, long and heavy. Snake can't make out his expression. "I'm not going to promote that kind of immorality in my home. I refuse to allow it."

"He is twenty-three years old, Harold," Mom says sharply. "He's an adult. I don't think his lifestyle choices are any of our concern—"

"Archie's only fifteen!" Dad's voice is getting louder with every word. "He's too young to be exposed to it!"

"He already knows. It's not as if Glen hid it from him."

"It's one thing to hear about such things," Dad says, "but to be exposed to it in the flesh— with that man around the house…"

"We're talking about inviting Glen! Not his… lover…" Mom trails off.

"And I'm talking about protecting our son."

"Glen is still our son!"

Silence spreads over the house.

Snake hears his own pulse.

With visible effort, Dad finally gets up from his chair. "Where's that damn remote?" he grumbles.

Snake slips into his room.

That night, he finds himself in a weird state of in-between. When he's alone, he thinks of Wheels; when he's with Wheels, he tries to think about anything else.

The hug stays in his mind more than anything. It's not like he's never hugged Wheels before (or Joey, for that matter). And it's not like he needed a hug any more than he usually does. But he wears the memory around his shoulders, feeling the tightness of it, the warmth. It's getting colder outside, and his room is usually a little drafty— the windows are old and don't like to shut all the way— so he ends up thinking of the warmth as he means to think about geometry.

A circular swimming pool with a diameter of 28 feet has a deck of uniform width built around it.

Wheels had his head nearly resting on Snake's shoulder. Their faces could've touched if he'd moved.

If the area of the deck is 60? square feet, find its width.

He sketches a jagged circle within another circle and tries to label them. Which label goes where? How big is the pool? The numbers bounce off of each other, just meaningless shapes on a page. He knows how to solve this one, but he can't clear his mind long enough to find the answer.

Against his will, he remembers trying to help Wheels with his math homework last year, when everything was a disaster, when Wheels needed his help more than he needed Wheels'. He never hid his contempt for the subject and his absolute lack of aptitude for it, but still Snake soldiered on, writing up endless practice problems until Wheels would finally make a breakthrough and Snake saw that look of comprehension on his face. The slight smile cloaked in a layer of sarcasm. The excitement when they could finally move on to something else.

If the diameter of the pool is 28, is the radius 14? Or 56? Which one is which?

He definitely knows this. But he and Wheels were so close together. If he'd turned his face just slightly…

Snake jumps up from his desk so fast that his chair falls over with a clatter. He winces— any minute now Mom could be up to check on him. No matter how old he gets, she still frets over him like he's a toddler falling off a slide. He holds his breath.

There's no footsteps, but Mom yells up the stairs, "Archie, what are you doing up there?"

"Nothing!" he yells back, but the question remains. What are you doing, Archie? What are you going to do?

He could've kissed Wheels then, with no one around, with nothing separating them. But why would he? Why does he want to?

He rushes to reassure himself: It's not like you want to kiss Wheels, right? You just thought about it. Sometimes brains do weird things. And that's true. This whole thing could be like one long, weird dream. Eventually, it'll end, and things will settle back to normal, even if Wheels is gay and he is definitely straight.

Because he is straight, despite what his sleep-deprived brain may conjure up occasionally. It felt so real, so right, going out with Melanie, no matter how nerve-wracking or awkward it was at times. He did want to kiss her, even if he never quite found the nerve. He remembers last year, at the end-of-year dance, how nice it was holding her in his arms and swaying. Neither of them were particularly confident dancers, but it was wonderful anyway. Sure, he put on a fake air of confidence when he was with her, but he never had to fake liking her, not the way Wheels describes. Even after his feelings have been cooling for months, he still has a soft spot for her. The memories are nothing but tender.

He picks up his chair and pushes it in. Geometry can wait for a bit. For now, he sits on his bed. On the opposite wall, Miss July stares at him from the confines of her glossy eleven-by-seventeen poster, winking. Inviting as ever.

He can't be gay if he likes girls, right? That seems to be the cornerstone of the whole gay thing. And really he doesn't like "guys," per se. At least not as far as he's noticed. He's never really thought about kissing any guys before, except as a dumb joke at a Spin-the-Bottle party back in junior high. Not that he can't recognize an attractive guy, in the abstract, like how he recognizes a nice painting or a tasty-looking burger. Right?

It's really just one particular guy.

What does that mean? It wouldn't make him gay, really. If he tallies up all the crushes he's ever had in his life and adds Wheels into the count, it wouldn't even be statistically significant. He can think of nine gorgeous girls at school just off the top of his head. Even just counting them and Wheels, that makes him ninety percent straight. And a ninety percent is still an A.

Great job, Snake. You're getting an A-minus in heterosexuality.

What would it have been like if he'd made a move in the band room? He imagines himself approaching from across the band room— not sniveling, not crumpled in a chair pathetically. He dramatically casts his guitar aside, closing the distance between the two of them with a confident stride, tilting Wheels' chin up and catching him by surprise. Wheels would be startled at first— maybe he'd add a Snake, I never knew you felt that way and a crooked smile— but he'd melt against his chest and kiss him again.

Realistically, though, he knows there would have been a lot more stuttering. His hands would be shaking.

God, you're so fucked.

After briefly considering whether or not he could fake a debilitating stomach bug, Snake heads to Joey's.

Joey opens the door as the doorbell is still ringing, grinning like mad. "Finally!"

"What do you mean, 'finally'? It's only eight-ten," Snake says as he steps inside.

"Wheels got here at seven forty-five."

"I would've gotten here earlier," Wheels calls from the other room, "but they were holding me hostage."

Snake stops halfway into the living room. Wheels is sprawled out on the couch, one foot on the armrest, the other dangling. He's got a bag of chips resting on his stomach. Hm, Snake thinks intently. Low salt. Did Mrs. Jeremiah buy those?

"Yeah, well, you're here now. Move over." Joey shoves Wheels' ankle off the side of the couch and tries to push him to one side, firmly planting himself on the middle cushion. Their thighs are touching; Wheels looks utterly blasé at the contact, if he even notices. Snake folds himself up and leans into the other armrest, as far away from Joey as possible. The couch cover makes a plasticky noise as he inches away.

Joey rewinds the tape. Snake leans on his arm and watches the ads reverse, the people walk backwards, and imagines what it would be like to rewind the real world just for a day. He stares into the reversing world until, abruptly, the tape stops. "Look, look, look!" Joey says. "It's starting!"

The music video starts with no introduction, just a small graphic in the corner – The Zits: Everybody Wants Something.

"Joey, we saw this already," Wheels groans.

"Snake didn't," Joey replies. "Stop hogging the chips."

"Get your own chips!"

"Those are my chips!"

Snake says nothing. He looks into his own face, striped with scan lines as he strums. Video Snake and Video Wheels glance at each other with a sideways grin. Snake resists the urge to look over Joey's head.

"Oh, oh!" Joey says through a mouthful of chips. "This is my favorite part!"

"Joey, stop bouncing your leg, you're shaking the whole couch." Wheels laughs, teasing, and Snake finally has to look over.

Wheels is genuinely smiling. In a flash, the shaky feeling comes rushing back. What's the game the girls used to play with him at camp, the one that always made him shudder?

Crack an egg on your head, let the yolk drip down. Stab a knife in your back, let the blood drip down...

He imagines Wheels tracing shapes on his back, feather-light, giving him the shivers. Snake forces himself to turn away, but when he looks back, Video Wheels is looking at him.

Snake lumbers to his feet, awkwardly avoiding touching Joey. "Is there any pop in the fridge?" His voice cracks on the last word.

Joey's still engrossed as the song starts to wind down. He doesn't even notices the comment.

"Joey!" No response.

"There should be one left," Wheels cuts in. "I saved you one."

He bolts for the kitchen a bit too fast, cracks open the can, and takes a long drink with the fridge door still open. This is ridiculous. He knows he's being ridiculous. Wheels is exactly the same as he was last week, or last month, or last year. It's Snake who woke up changed. It's Snake who let this one fact, this minor thing about one of his best friends in the whole world, turn into a full-blown crisis. He has to get past it.

But how can he get past it when he can barely share a couch with the guy? For God's sake, Joey is between them, completely oblivious. It's not like he could lean over and rest his arm across Wheels' shoulder or lie with Wheels' head in his lap.

Why are you still thinking about this?!

Snake stands in front of the open refrigerator and lets the cold air blow over him. He closes his eyes and breathes.

When he looks up again, Wheels is standing in the kitchen, on the threshold where the linoleum meets the dining room hardwood. "Video's over."

"Oh."

Wheels walks in front of the fridge. Too close for comfort. "Joey take the last pop?"

"No, I got it." He takes a swig, just now really registering that it's still in his hand.

"You feeling okay?" Wheels presses his hand to Snake's forehead.

Snake jerks backwards. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I'm worried about geometry."

Wheels snorts. "You were thinking about geometry while we were on TV?"

"We have a test coming up." Technically true. In three weeks.

Wheels shrugs— surely he's not fooled, but he's polite enough not to say so.

"So, uh…" Finally, it occurs to Snake to close the fridge. "Is that it? Are we going home now that the video's over?"

"I'm staying. Joey wants to watch Terminator." He leaves the offer unspoken.

"Oh." Snake steps back. "Well, I should be getting home. My mom's expecting me."

Wheels' expression is impossible to read. "Have a good night."

Snake barely remembers to thank Mrs. Jeremiah before he leaves. He runs out the door, down the steps, down the street. His thoughts of stopping are drowned out by his pulse roaring in his ears, over and over, the thudding inescapable. When he finally stops at the intersection before his house, he's alone under the burning streetlight, trying to breathe slowly, to quiet his pulse. But still, it roars.

The house is mostly dark when he's cooled off enough to let himself in— Mom and Dad tend to go to bed early— but to his surprise, Mom is sitting in the living room. Not mad, just watching him. Evaluating him. He tries not to squirm.

"Hi, Archie." Her voice is soft. She smiles gently.

"Hi, Mom. I'm not late, am I?" In the rush, he'd forgotten to check his watch.

"No, no. I just wanted to talk to you. Just the two of us."

Snake's heart stops.

"I don't know if you heard the discussion your father and I were having this afternoon."

"Not really," he manages to squeak out.

"Well," she begins. Her voice, too, is a little unsteady, but her words are calm and steady. "Your father thinks Glen should stay at university for Christmas break."

Snake exhales.

"I'm… of two minds. And I think you're old enough to have an opinion. Would you mind if he came home for a few days? It'd just be him, not that… man he lives with."

He can't think straight long enough to measure his words. "I miss him," he blurts out. "A lot."

Mom watches him stoically. Finally, very quietly, she says, "I miss him too."

He never imagined his mother missing Glen.

"What if Dad still says no?" he says in a low voice.

"Marriage is a partnership." She glances up at the clock. "Thank you, honey. I think you should go to bed."

His head is filled with static. Somehow, Snake stumbles his way up the staircase.

The overhead light stings his eyes when he goes into his room. On top of his dresser are a few photos, small and framed and dusty. One of him and his parents at his grade five music recital. They were all smiles then, even though they had to hear him and fifty other ten-year-olds squeak their way through Ode to Joy. Another: him and Glen at Niagara Falls. He's about seven; Glen must be fifteen. Then, on the far end of the dresser, there's a photo of the Zits, then unnamed. They must have been thirteen then. He's got his arm across Wheels' shoulder and his guitar in his other hand, with Joey to his left.

They look so happy.

Buried in his sock drawer is The three of us. Carefully, Snake smoothes out its deep creases and tapes it above his dresser, hanging above the others. He stands and smiles. It looks right being there.