Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (6 page)

Refusing to respond, he presses on as a light wind troubles the palms in the courtyard where the American flag waves like an enthusiastic friend, reminding me that I have the freedom of speech and I need to tell Billy the truth: I’m carrying his baby!

Not really! But a boy can wish!

No, seriously. I just need him to know that I know how pathetic I look, but I’m afraid if I don’t follow him, I’ll never get ahead (or at least give head) in this lifetime, and I’ll forever be alone, wondering what could have been if only I had the balls to open my mouth.

My, my, heavy is the weight of the tongue of the first to have feelings.

“So I have your schedule, just like you asked,” I say. “And I know you have to mentor kids at the elementary school in about –” I check the hand on my yellow watch. “Let’s say about fifteen minutes. So, how about we kill time by doing coffee?”

Tired of my routine, Billy swings around with hot air oozing from his nostrils. Still, he manages to contain himself; he’s such a gentleman. “Dude, I don’t KNOW you.”

“You know my name.”

“That doesn’t mean I know you.”

“Well…I know you, and that should count for something.”

“Not really.”

“It counts to me.”

The exhausted look on Billy’s tanned face signals he realizes this conversation is going in a circle, and he’s dizzy. “What do you want?”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

I snap my finger. “Damn!”

“Anything else?”

“YES! You know what? I don’t like coffee anyway.”

Billy is stumped. “Are you on something?”

No, I’m just thirsty, and in my heart, I’m as hungry as ever. And just this once I’d like a nibble, a sample of what it’s like to spend time alone with someone who might see me as something other than a friend. Oh, and if you could see how jealous I am each time I see ‘more than friends’ holding hands on campus, you would understand why I’m making a fool of myself over you.

“I just want to hang out,” I say, fighting myself from tearing up. “And I have no idea how to get there without looking crazy. So here I am, crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Billy sighs. Then silently, he allows me a moment to contain myself, as three short girls from the cross-country team sprint by in purple shorts; fighting for female dominance, each seems determined to lead. “Listen, man. I’m heading over to the elementary school. You ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Cool, I’m out. We’ll talk,” he assures me, like we’re platonic. And in his mind, we might be. Still, something very whiny inside tells me not to give up.

“Wait! I don’t have a ride!” I call out. “That’s all I need. We don’t have to stop for coffee.” From a distance, Billy fails to slow, shaking his head no. “I’ll sit in the trunk!” Still, he refuses to bend. Damn! What now? With my think-tank running on empty, I search my brain and finally hear the ghost of Jenny, coaxing me to flatter him. “I’m not popular like you. I don’t have a lot of friends.”

And just then, a glimmer of hope is revealed, or at least a dull sparkle, as Billy shrugs his broad shoulders and succumbs to my request, waving me over to a tall cypress tree, where in the shade he tells me the one thing every hopeless romantic needs to hear at least once: “Forget about the trunk. You can have the back seat…but you have to duck.”

It’s funny; when you find yourself in a superb place, one in which you never dreamed possible, you will do almost anything to keep from messing it up. Yes, even if it means keeping your mouth closed no matter how much you want to scream to the world that your life feels a tad better, you shut your fat trap in fear that saying the wrong thing might wake you.

Like now, taking a route through the Mennonite sector of Rivershore, chock-full of baby blue cottages and women in dresses on bicycles, there are so many things I’d like to share with Billy except I don’t feel he wants to talk. So I spare telling him that I feel like a petulant, married couple because he’s making me sit in the back seat; I simply marvel in the thought he loves me enough to fight me.

“Don’t touch anything back there,” Billy instructs.

We take a sharp right down a busy city street in his black Volkswagen coupe when I notice a stack of Xeroxed articles on nutrition, where the tiny print instructs readers to eat a rainbow each day.

No wonder Billy’s in perfect shape; he’s a rainbow muncher. Just observe the car floor, how it’s piled with cups from the local smoothie shop. Oh, how I’d love to offer him my own personal fruit platter: my naked body garnished with red globe grapes, kiwi, and spiced plantains. I’d exhaust him, I would. But he’d have to be in the right mood, not like now, where irritated, he takes a phone call, saying no, he doesn’t want to talk about the audition. “How’s mom?” he asks. His tone is sharp like the thorns in the rose garden growing beside an Amish restaurant we pass.

With the urge to sneeze, I focus on the restaurant’s billboard, where red letters spell HOME OF THE PEANUT BUTTER PIE!

“What do you mean?” Billy says. Growing angry, his voice thickens. “Then when will we know?” He rubs his forehead, as I clasp my nostrils. Still, there’s no use.

“Achooooo!”

Billy eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Forget it. I can’t talk. Be home later,” he tells the caller. Hanging up, he twists his neck and stares me down.

“Uh…uh…uh,” I stutter.

“Bless you,” he snaps, with a watery, distraught look in his green eyes. Then biting his tongue, he turns back to navigate, attempting to wipe his eyes before easing on the gas to make a right turn on Oleander Street – a two-lane road with three speed bumps that dead-ends at Becker Elementary.

Looking out the window I mutter thanks, but I don’t think he hears me. That’s fine. I know how men are when they’re upset. It’s best to leave them alone since they’re not supposed to have feelings.

“Hey back there,” Billy says, grabbing my attention as we pass a gated L-shaped pond, left of the Becker Elementary parking lot. A caution sign shaped like a diamond warns drivers to slow down; children are at play. “You’ll have to wait before I get you home. I’m going to see my kid first. That way, I don’t have to drive back.”

“That’s cool,” I say. Honestly, anything to prolong my time with Billy works; throw me in a snake pit or needle my butt with a pinecone, just make sure Billy is within my line of sight and I’ll be ok. “Should I come with you?” I ask, as we park.

Already one foot out of the door, Billy hesitates. “I guess,” he sighs. “But don’t….”

“What?”

“Just don’t…well, you know.” My man of little words is SO SEXY.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I assure him, before we trek to the front office: a glass-walled dome inhabited by houseplants and volunteer senior citizens who gleefully assist with secretarial duties. The remainder of the school is made up of purple concrete classrooms separated by a wooden playground in its outdoor core.

“That’s where Harley’s waiting,” a crinkly secretary with a black beehive tells Billy. “He has a surprise for you,” she winks, handing each of us a green visitor sticker to wear.

Moving along, a gold sign informs us that the word of the day is broom. Taking a moment to read the definition, I catch up to Billy, who’s down a hall decorated with orange streamers and spiders dangling on white webbing. Up ahead, red-haired twin girls, fashioned in white socks and pink dresses, hold hands and escape into the library door.

“So is Harley the kid you mentor?” I ask.

“Yep,” Billy replies, looking straight ahead. His He-Man-length hair absorbs the florescent lights and flickers in the tiniest spots, as if containing fairy dust. Who knows? Maybe I spread germs on him in the car when I sneezed. Tee hee! Billy has cooties!

Oh, I’m so immature!

I guess this date has me reverting back to my childhood!

But wait! Is this a date? I can’t tell.

Should I ask Billy?

Hmmm. Maybe not.

Still, it may be smart to pick up some condoms at the infirmary so we don’t have to deal with any unplanned pregnancies. I don’t want to reveal all of my secrets but being close to Billy has me ovulating. Not that he needs to know that. He’s just a stupid boy who should be holding my hand. And guess what? I’d let him, even though I’d put up a battle in an attempt to appear coy. Boys want what they can’t have. So in my little mind, I’m playing hard to get. Billy wants to hold my hand; I’m just not letting him yet.

“Stop Billy!” I yell, brushing my fingers on his palm.

Astounded, he turns with his mouth ajar. “Stop what?”

“Stop trying to hold my hand. The kids might see you.”

“I wasn’t trying to hold your hand.”

“Yes you were.”

“You keep bumping into me!”

“Bumping into you? Please. You tried to hold my hand.”

Billy struggles to remain calm. “I told you before…don’t.”

“Don’t what? What would the kids think? It’s not normal.”

“Yeah it is,” Billy slips. And suddenly, the excitement in my heart tells me I’ve just scored my first goal toward victory. I can’t believe it. Billy thinks two boys holding hands is normal? There! He said it!

“You really think it’s normal?” I ask.

“I meant….” he stalls. “I meant the kids think it’s normal. At least, the kids who are taught right. Now, drop it.”

“But.”

“DROP IT.” Opening the steel exit door, he reveals the playground, where children run freely, full of laughter. With boys chasing girls, girls chasing boys, the truth is evident: these kids have more physical contact in their life than I do. Sure, they’re only playing, but at least they can touch. That’s all I want: to feel the warmth of another. That never changes, I guess.

“Billy!” I hear a boy holler. Trailing his voice, I view the boy slip down a tall silver slide, where he collides with another boy. Racing to us, he lassos himself to Billy’s calf.

“Harley!” Billy says.

“See my hair?” Harley responds.

“Whoa! Awesome,” Billy smiles, running his index finger along one of the black spikes that make up Harley’s mohawk. The punk rock style makes him appear like a mini brontosaurus to me. I imagine his hair as a defense mechanism; when threatened, it rises to intimidate foes.

After introducing me to Harley, Billy tells me a little about the mentor program as Harley shows off by climbing to the top of the wooden jungle gym. “It’s for kids who have troubled homes,” he says. Nearby a female teacher, dressed in a plaid prep school skirt, scolds Harley for being aggressive toward another boy.

In return, Harley devilishly smiles. “Me?”

“This is your warning,” she replies. “Do it again and you’ll lose your playground privilege.” Taking heed, Harley squeals before setting off to another task: hanging like a monkey from a wooden beam.

“Look Billy!” Harley screams.

“I see you, guy!” Billy replies.

“Watch how long I can hang. Count!” Harley yells.

“One…two…three,” Billy begins with a grin. He elbows me to join him, and I do.

“Four, five, six,” I count with Billy, feeling warmth coat my heart.

The truth is this whole ‘big brother’ side to Billy seemed sweet at first, but suddenly I find it sexy too. Is that normal? Who knows? A paternal instinct has never been on my list of ‘must-haves’ when seeking out a suitor. Still, I dig it and I know I’m setting the gay movement back a thousand years but seeing Billy taking care of Harley make me want him to take care of me.

Releasing his grip, Harley falls to the ground and ties his white Puma sneaker before racing up to us. “Let’s go!” he urges, taking Billy by the hand. “You too,” Harley says, reaching for my hand as well. “We’re going to play a game.”

“What game?” I ask.

“Jailbreak,” Harley says. He leads us toward an igloo-shaped play set made of thin red bars.

“Sounds exciting. I can’t wait!”

“You talk like a girl,” Harley laughs. “You walk like a girl too.”

There are moments in life when people welcome death.

This is one of those moments.

OK. Play it cool, I think to myself. Billy is watching.

“How kind of you to notice,” I tell Harley, laughing off the comment. Why should I be mad? It’s just a kid being a kid, right?

“Who wants to be the police officer?” Harley asks.

“Billy would fill out the uniform better,” I reply.

Displeased, Billy shoots me a cautionary glare. Still, my bullish nature tells me he’s not really mad; rather, he’s resistant to flirt.

“Billy, you’re the police officer,” Harley declares. “You wait here and try to catch Tye and me when we come out of the jail,” he states, pointing to a red igloo. Billy agrees.

Then leading me into the igloo, Harley says we should both run at the same time to confuse Billy. Wiping snot from his nose, he digs his hand in the white sand by his feet. “If we make a big enough hole, we can reach China in an hour,” he says.

“I don’t know. It might take two hours since we’re in Florida and we’d hit water.”

“You’re smart,” he says after a moment of gazing at my face. Then without skipping a beat, he asks, “Are you Billy’s boyfriend?”