My mood for the rest of the day only worsened. People looked at me strangely, and they had hushed conversations and stopped just in time for me to walk by, making it clear that they were talking about me.
Josh even spray painted 'HOMO' on my locker, in case anyone hadn't heard the news. Thanks bunches, Josh. I owe ya one.
I felt like a fish out of water, just barely breathing and hanging on as every second went by.
But then, like a Jedi with powers (and a funky coloured light saber of course), Max saved my mood. Max being Mr. Hot Stuff from my Psych class.
I saw him outside the school as I was walking to the subway. My head was slightly bowed and I couldn't really see where I was going. I walked right into him.
"Sorry," I muttered, without looking up.
"That's cool," he replied, causing me to look right up into those foresty-green eyes. "See ya around."
Am I supposed to reply? I mean, is he actually talking to ME? I quickly turned around to see if Michael Peterson was behind me. I wouldn't put it past that bastard to have befriended Max already. But there was no one behind me.
"Uh, sure," I said as he started walking away. "See ya."
Smooth, Moscovitz. Real smooth. Oh well. At least I didn't start babbling about Star Trek or X Men or something. I'm sure THAT'D really impress a guy like Max.
But nonetheless, him not running from me the second he saw me sure did put a skip into my step for the rest of the afternoon. I even called Thermopolis later to gush about him, I couldn't help it. When confronted with such perfectness (and not in the form of a Josh Richter type, at least he doesn't seem to be so far) I am powerless to keep such feelings to myself.
She assumed I wanted the details on Max's little brother. Puh-lease. I mean, sure. That Leaves guy is also a fine looking fella, but Max is all man, all the way.
"What was his name again?" she asked. "Matt?"
Lord no. Matt is just so...common. Like Michael. Everywhere you go there's, like, three Michaels. Max is different. It's one of a kind. Which is exactly what he is.
"Max," I corrected her. "And, Lord, is he fine." Understatement, much?
Just as I was launching into my well versed description of his shiney, jet black hair, his perfect eyes coupled with perfect lashes, and his totally kissable lips, my MOM, of all people opened my bedroom door and walked in.
I quickly covered the phone with my hand, my face turning what I'm sure was a brilliant shade of red. "Go away, Mom," I hissed at her. I'm not usually that rude to her but who knows what she heard!
She looked taken aback for a second. I'm not sure if it's because of what she heard of my conversation with Mia or my reaction to her interrupting said conversation. "When you're ready, Michael, I'd like to talk to you in the kitchen please."
"Fine, whatever. I'll be there in a second."
She turned and left, shutting the door. I quickly got up and locked it behind her.
Damnit! What does she want to talk about?
"Oh, God, Thermopolis," I said, practically crying into the phone. "She just walked in when I was gushing over how his pants really accentuated his assets."
"What'd she say?" she asked.
"She wants to talk to me in the kitchen. Shit."
She asked me what I was going to do and I considered my options.
1. I can tell her I was talking about the school play, and how the costumes really fit the actors well.
2. I can deny everything she heard on the phone and ask her if she's still taking those pills I saw in the cabinet last week. But that may incur more trouble than it's worth for my 'cheek.'
3. I can tell the truth and see how they take it.
4. I can joke it off, pretend it was a girl I was talking about and she misheard.
5. I can jump out the window (from fifteen stories high) and try my luck in the big, bad world by myself.
"The only thing I can do..." I finally said, "lie."
I sighed loudly, trying to prepare myself for the 'talk'.
We spoke for a few more minutes, until I thought I was a little more ready. Then I hung up and was on my own. I walked out into the kitchen, my heart beating a million miles an hour.
"You wanted to see me?" I asked her when I walked in. She's sitting at the table with dad and Lilly.
Oh God, it's like a family conference.
Is it too late to go for option number 5? The street isn't that far down, right?
I sat down and looked at them expectantly.
Dad started. "Well, son. Lilly's just been telling us about what happened at school today, and firstly we just want to say how proud of you we are..."
Oh God. Here it comes. There's a but in there somewhere, I can practically smell it. It''ll be something like, "BUT, we're uncomfortable with you living under our roof and you have thirty minutes to pack up your stuff and get out."
I just know it.
"Yes, Michael," Mom cut in. "We want you to know that we'll support you in whatever you chose to do. We love you no matter what."
Gush gush. Does that mean I'm not getting kicked out?
"But there is something we'd like to ask of you," Dad continued, looking at me strangely.
Here it is. The 'Get out of our house' part. Maybe Thermopolis can let me crash at her place until I can find my own crib. Who knows, maybe they have a shelter for teenage boys who've been kicked out because of their sexual preference.
"We're writing a book. and we'd like you to be a part of it."
Huh? What do I or my current situation have to do with a book?
"What kind of book are you talking about?"
Please don't say Kama Sutra for Homosexuals, please don't say Kama Sutra for Homosexuals...
"Karen, would you like to explain," dad asked her.
Sure, because my mother talking about Kama Sutra is more comfortable for me.
"Michael, honey, we want to use your views as an example of how minorities in society are unfairly judged. We think you'd be perfect for a chapter or two."
Well at least it's nothing to do with Kama Sutra. BUT STILL! No way do I want 'my views' to be published! It'd be like taking a page out of Luke (my journal, named after Luke Skywalker, of course) and publishing THAT!
I pushed my chair back and stood up. "You want to use MY views?" I asked. They both nodded eagerly, Lilly just looked at my pityingly. At least she's taking my side, but I don't want her pity. "I think it's a freaking crazy idea and I think you're freaking twisted if you think I'm going to just give you my freaking views about ANYTHING. I'm happy you aren't chucking me out of the house, but there's no way I'm being a part of any book you write."
And of course I didn't actually use the word 'freaking.'
I walked out of the room and locked myself in my room, ignoring their sorry attempts to apologise or 'talk' about it. I told them I don't want to talk to them about anything I'm going through.
And I don't. They're only going to turn around and publish it. I wouldn't be surprised if the kitchen was bugged so they could record my every word. Well I hope the mic picked up my colourful language. It should make for great book information.
I went to bed dreading the morning. It's only going to get worse when EVERYONE finds out, isn't it?
Maybe I can still go with option 5...
