Chicken (29 page)

I cross my arms over my bare chest. “What’s wrong with me?”

“God, Casper.” He buries his face in his hands. “Nothing. You’re perfect. You’re life. I just can’t. Be with anyone. Not all the way.”

“Are you sick?”

He shrugs. “Sure. If that makes it easier.”

“Then let me take care of you.”

He sobs then and turns away, flopping onto his pillow, hugging it to his face to muffle the sounds. There’s nothing I can do but curl up behind him and hold him like he held me in his truck. His whole body shakes with the effort of crying quietly. I finally get to kiss the scars on the back of his neck, not because they’re cool or sexy, but because they’re the only ones I know how to reach.

SATURDAY, JULY 21, 2012

The doorbell rings.

I wake up with his head on my chest, his arm draped over my waist. Raindrops cling to the window screens, but the sun is bright and glinting off the still bottles. There is no breeze today. Birds sing anyway. 

The doorbell rings a second time, and I don’t know how, but I can feel it changing our story into one I won’t want to tell. I tighten my arm around Brant’s shoulder, feel his muscles bunching even as he sleeps. I nuzzle my nose in his curls and breathe, command myself to remember this, whatever happens next, remember this.

The doorbell rings a third time.

Sister Cindy greets my mother. They speak in hushed tones. Like someone has died, and at least one person has—my mother’s idea of her son. Their voices rise sharply for only a moment, and then go back down, much lower now. They move from the entryway into the kitchen, maybe arguing. 

I hug Brant so hard, kiss the top of his head. He mumbles and stirs, but God, this boy can sleep. I roll him off me. He sprawls across his side of the bed, his shoulders straining the seams of that old flannel shirt. 

The only thing that matters now is that I take all the blame. I press my cheek against his shoulder blade as footsteps shuffle toward the stairs. I think about Peter, denying Jesus three times, and maybe we’ve had it all wrong, maybe he wasn’t ashamed or even afraid, maybe he just wanted to turn back time, make it true that they were never even friends. Maybe he thought that would save Him. 

I start to grab my pillow and roll onto the floor, pretend that’s where I’ve been sleeping, but it’s too late. The doorknob turns. Sister Cindy clears her throat.

“Could you boy comes downstairs, please?”

My mother drives us to the house she grew up in. We lived there for a month last summer, and then my grandparents sold it right out from under us. They wanted to go ahead and pay off their new home in Colorado. We had nowhere to go. My parents’ credit was trashed, their income too small, their debts, even after selling everything that mattered, were still too great. No one would take us. Brother Mackey talked to Sister Bonnie about a temporary solution, her empty old trailer.

The new owners aren’t home so Mama idles the car in their driveway. The house is huge and white and relentlessly southern with its screened-in, wrap-around porch. A little brown dog yaps like crazy, telling us to go away, and he’s right, we should, this is weird, but Mama has some sort of point to make about everything she gave up for me, like I forced her to run away and conceive me, like it’s my fault she’ll spend the rest of her life begging Daddy to take his anti-depressants.

“You will not do this to this family.”

I slump harder against my door. “I’m not doing anything.”

She slams her hand on the wheel, accidentally honking at the angry dog, which makes it even angrier. I want to stick my fingers in my ears.

“Casper. This is one of those situations where telling the truth won’t get you off the hook, but you should do it anyway because dealing with your lies is really pissing me off.”

“I told you what happened.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. You’re only here because I was seventeen once.”

In the end, it was my own stupidity, not Laramie’s question, that gave me away. They didn’t believe her. Sent her to bed without finishing her supper. Listened to her cry and kick the walls all night. Early this morning, Mama went to gather my laundry and found an uneven number of socks. She got down on her elbows and knees, lifted the bed skirt and felt between boxes of trophies and novels until she felt something cotton stuffed in a tube. She pulled it out, correctly guessing the real reason it was down there, and not thinking much of it because boys will be boys, but then her motherly instincts kicked in and said, “Hey, you’ve never bought Casper any boxers.”

The truth is so simple it sounds like a lie. I grind my forehead on the window and can’t help but laugh, like Cal in Titanic when he realized he left the Heart of the Ocean in the coat he put on Rose. I’m in trouble for having sex with the boy who told me we could never, ever, not once in our lifetimes have sex with each other.

But that’s okay. Mama doesn’t have to buy my true story. What matter is that Sister Cindy believed it. What matters is she won’t tell Brant’s dad, won’t send him away. My story made her blush, but her eyes blazed with relief. She said, “Well, that’s settled!” and offered us sandwiches. Mama declined. She dragged me out the door, and I was too embarrassed to meet Brant’s eyes. God, he must hate me.

“You’re not gay.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“You are not gay.”

“I’m not arguing. You’re right. I’m not gay.”

“You’re not. And that’s the end of this discussion.”

“Sounds great.”

She puts her fingers to her temples and presses hard. “You’re not going to see that boy.”

“Are you just reciting lines from The Notebook now?”

She slaps me like she slapped Laramie, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I tucked my emotions under Brant’s covers, and I can never go back and retrieve them.

“Can I see Hannah? My girlfriend?”

“Yes. See her every day if you want.”

“Can I have sex with her? Because that would be super not gay.”

She slaps me again. 

“We’re not telling your father.”

“Good. Because it’s not true.”

“You will never tell your father. You hear me? You and I will stay home sick tomorrow. Because I mean it. You’re not seeing him.”

Like he’s a toy or an impulse-purchased hamster. Something to play with for a week and then forget if I don’t see it for ten minutes.

I shrug. “All you’re doing is making us look queer, but whatever. You’re the mom. You know best.”

She slaps me again for good measure, and then she reverses the car.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 25, 2012

Brother Mackey doesn’t make the same mistake twice. I don’t know how the Sunday services went because, true to her word, Mama made me play sick, but, true to my word, she couldn’t maintain the ruse without arousing Daddy’s suspicion, so here I am, and boy, is this preacher on fire tonight. He stalks the platform, shaking his Bible at the people on the left, thumping its page at the people on the right. His hair breaks free from its gel, falls in crispy strands over his eyes. Sweat slides down the bulging veins in his throat and spittle dances across his quivering lips.

Halfway through the sermon, Brother Raymond receives a word from the Lord. He explodes out of his pew, throws back his head, and lets loose a string of nonsense syllables. Voices all around the sanctuary shout out, “Praise Jesus!” and “Bless him, Lord!” and “Hallelu-Hallelu-Hallelu!” 

I press my spine against the hard back of the pew. Hannah reaches for my hand, and I hold on tight. We’re in the back with my parents. Brant sits with Lauren on our regular pew. He looks resigned; she looks alarmed. Brother Dean and Sister Helen rush the stage. Sister Cindy snatches up her tambourine. Music fills the sanctuary, followed by random outbursts of laughter and weeping. 

Brother Dean motions for Brant to join him. He obeys, but Lauren stays rooted to the pew. Brant drags his feet over the platform steps, past Brother Mackey who rocks from side to side, hands in the air, lips fluttering with prayer.  Brant retrieves his fiddle from behind the piano. He takes his place beside his father, and I’ve never seen him look so tired, so small, so totally baked. But no one else notices because when he draws his bow across his strings, pandemonium breaks loose.

Brother Raymond dances into the center aisle, swinging his arms and spinning in circles. Sister Edie tries to get up out of her wheelchair and faceplants on the floor. Brother Mackey’s wife waddles to her side, throws a special cloth just for such occasions over the old woman’s legs. 

Brant plays like the devil challenged him to a contest. Muscles bulging, veins popping, sweat dripping into his eyes. Brother Dean does all the singing. Sister Cindy jangles the tambourine over her fountain of curls. Even Sister Bonnie’s got her hand in the air, tears on her cheeks.

Something warm presses into my side. Laramie. I smile, whisper, “Everything’s alright.” 

That’s when Daddy whoops and takes off running.

Right down the center aisle, right over prostrate Sister Edie. He jumps over the left altar and lands right on the stage. Brant falters, recoils from his mic, but Brother Dean slams a hand on his shoulder, pushes him forward again.  Daddy does a loop around the pulpit and leaps off the other side, right over the altar.

Brother Mackey pumps his fists. “Yes, that’s right! Praise him, Brother Russ! Praise the Lord! Bless him, Jesus!”

Daddy runs around the far aisle, now with Brother Raymond and Brother Tucker hot on his heels. When they come around the back of the church, I can see all three pairs of eyes clenched shut. The whoosh behind us, sending cold chills down my neck. They fly down the left-hand aisle and Sister Sharon rushes out to join them. On their next lap, Sister Cindy falls in, holding up her denim skirt with one while the other keeps jangling her tambourine. 

I look to my right, over Laramie’s head. Mama sits like a stone, like her spirit left her shell, as my lame father leads half the church on a holy high-speed chase. 

FRIDAY, JULY 27, 2012

The lake flashes green and pink and blue, reflections of the swirling lights mounted on the top of some dude bro’s truck. A classic car that’s probably super cool to people who know its name quivers with the force of the electronic music blaring from its popped rear trunk. Kids dance around a bonfire, tipping beer cans to their lips and grinding on each other’s butts. I smell burnt marshmallows, hot dogs, whiskey, and weed. Hannah and I sit on a stranger’s tail gate, drinking Coke like good little Pentecostals who don’t touch beverages that might make them act crazy. 

“Can’t we just go?” I whine, crushing my can on the tail gate.

Hannah checks her phone. “No. Just wait.”

“For what?” I reach into the cooler behind me and grab another Coke because I need something to do with my hands.

She squints into the crowd. Orange embers float through the air, much like fireflies, only, you know, able to start actual forest fires. Everyone looks like an alien in the seizure-inducing lights. Everyone is alien. I don’t know any of them.

Hannah beams and points. “There!”

I follow her finger. My heart leaps right out of my open mouth, flops around in the dust and ash like a fish. The cowboy hat. The straw poking out of that lazy, dimpled grin. Our eyes meet, and I have to duck my head, pretend I’ve caught some ash in my eye. Hannah nudges me off the tailgate. Brant stops a few feet in front of me. Both girls roll their eyes.

“It’s okay. You can hug.”

They push us into each other’s arms, but still we do the man thing where we pound each other on the back. It feels weird. We step back and jam our hands in our pockets. So many things I want to tell him, but none I can say here. 

“You’re welcome,” Lauren says, hopping onto the tail gate, making the truck sway and the metal whimper.

Hannah throws her arm around my neck and shakes me. “Now maybe you’ll tell us why you aren’t allowed to speak.”

Brant pulls the straw from his mouth and exhales. “All in due time.”

Hannah groans. “I literally can’t with you guys.”

Lauren pops a Coke and takes a swig. “They’ll tell us when they’re ready.”

Brant wiggles his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. “Right now I’m ready to dance. The way normal people do it. Who’s with me?”

He holds out his hand to Lauren, who just looks at him and mouths no. He swivels so his hand is facing Hannah. She looks at me, and I shrug. My girlfriend grabs my boyfriend’s hand and off they go into the bonfire’s glow, becoming shadowy, spinning, hip-shaking wraiths as Nicki Minaj begs someone to turn her on.

I sigh and lean against the tailgate, retrieve my lukewarm Coke. 

Lauren lifts hers. “To being a wallflower.” 

I tap my can against hers. “To being a wallflower.”

We sit in silence. Well, not silence because the lake and the trees and the trucks and the people are all throbbing with music, but we don’t speak, just drink our Cokes and watch our friends dance like a couple of dorks. 

“You really can tell us, you know.”

“Nothing to tell.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okayyy.”

I chuck the can over my shoulder into the stranger’s truck bed. “I gotta piss.”

She laughs. “What is it about unwanted conversation that makes guys have to piss?” She says the last part in a gruff voice.

I don’t answer, just keep moving toward the trees. The music and lights begin to fade, and my ears and eyes thank me. I cross the tree line and keep going, weaving through pines and stumbling over scrubby little cedars. Finally, after several song changes back at the party, my bladder notifies me that I really do have to piss, and I scoot up to what my primal animal instincts tell me is a good tree and unzip my fly. 

I let myself moan with the release the way other guys let themselves moan in a public restroom, but I never have because, come on, that’s weird. I’m shaking off when I hear leaves being kicked up behind me. I zip quick—a near miss—and spin around, fists up, ready for a fight.