Rainbow Boys (12 page)

“Well,” Kyle said, looking at the clock. “I guess I better go home.”

“You, uh, want to go to a movie or something?” Jason asked.

Kyle looked surprised. “Well … sure.”

“Great.” Jason knew he’d have to ask his mom for cash, but by the way she’d smiled at dinner, he could tell she liked Kyle and would happily give him movie money.

A t the movie theater, Kyle stood in line at the concession stand while Jason got their seats. Jason looked around to see if he knew anyone. Even though he was having a great time with Kyle, he couldn’t get what Corey had told him out of his mind. People talked. What if someone from school saw them?

Kyle shuffled into the theater juggling a load of popcorn and drinks. “Here’s your Coke. Want some popcorn?” When Jason reached into the bucket, his thumb accidentally brushed Kyle’s. The touch of skin made him a little uneasy. It was as if a little zap of electricity had sparked through his body. He tried to ignore it, but each time their fingers bumped, he felt himself grow more excited, and when they reached the bottom of the bucket, he felt disappointed.

The lights dimmed, and Kyle pulled a wad of napkins from his pocket and handed some to Jason. Jason wiped the salt and butter from his fingers and started to lay his hand on the armrest between himself and Kyle, but stopped short. Kyle’s hand was already there.

Jason straightened his back. Kyle better not try anything funny. They were just friends. Nothing else. Just friends.

The film opened with a barrage of machine-gun fire. Jason tried to focus on the movie, but Kyle’s hand irritated him, the way it hung out on the armrest. Jason wanted to lay his own hand down. If someone passed by and saw their hands together …

What did he care what anyone thought? He had just as much right to use the armrest. Something was wrong when a guy couldn’t simply lay his hand beside another guy’s without someone thinking he was queer. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, superpolite Kyle would probably realize he was monopolizing the armrest and pull his hand away.

Jason took a deep breath and quickly glanced around the dark theater. No one was watching them. He leisurely extended his arms out in front of him, as though stretching. Then he raised his arm into the air, intending to reach over casually and lay his hand on the armrest beside Kyle’s. In the process, Jason, star athlete, miscalculated the trajectory and boxed Kyle squarely in the ribs.

Kyle winced and said, “Oooh, sorry,” and removed his hand from the armrest.

Jason felt like a world-class klutz. He slunk down, wanting to crawl beneath the seat. “My fault,” he whispered.

A t least the armrest was free now. He placed his hand on the soft, warm cushion and began to relax.

But not for long. Kyle raised his arm and rested his own hand back on the armrest, once again brushing Jason’s skin. Jason’s blood raced in his arteries. He held his breath, staring fixedly at the screen, where the hero blasted some red-haired guy with a flamethrower.

Maybe Kyle thinks I want to hold hands, Jason thought. He recalled the fourth-grade field trip to the Museum of Natural History, when everyone had had to pair up with a buddy. For the whole day, he had held Tommy’s hand. A nd he remembered what that had led to.

Jason tried to clear his head, but the current of electricity buzzing up from Kyle’s hand, making the hair on his arms stand at attention, wasn’t helping. Maybe Kyle just wanted to share the armrest. Even if he did want to hold hands, he would be too shy to do so. It wasn’t going to happen unless Jason took the initiative himself.

That was a weird thought. It lurked in front of him, like someone’s fat head blocking the movie screen. What if he did hold Kyle’s hand?

Yeah, and what if somebody saw them and yelled for the theater manager? The manager would surely phone his house. End of life.

Of course, he could deny everything, say he was simply stretching his fingers. What was the big deal?

One at a time, his fingers stretched out from their resting place. They paused in midair. Then they gently came to rest across the back of Kyle’s hand. He held his breath, expecting Kyle to do something—protest or stop him or something. But Kyle didn’t move.

Jason’s heart thundered like cannon fire. Sweat ran down his forehead. Kyle had to realize what was happening. He was a little goofy, but he wasn’t a zero. Was he being polite? Maybe his arm was asleep.

Jason glanced around the theater. His pulse quickened. The longer his hand stayed there, the more significant the fact became, the more difficult it would be to explain away. He should remove his hand now. Do it. Now.

But Kyle’s hand beneath his own excited him too much. He hadn’t expected the skin to feel so tender. The raised veins along the back felt soft and warm.

Suddenly the hand shifted, and Kyle’s wrist slowly turned beneath Jason’s until the two boys’ hands touched palm to palm. There was no mistaking Kyle’s hand for an armrest now.

On-screen a mustached guy hung from a cliff. Jason breathed rapidly and heavily. His mind was a whirlwind, while beside him his hand took on a life of its own. Slowly one finger after another fell between Kyle’s fingers, until all intertwined. This was surely the climax of his life. Disaster was certain to follow, but he was ready to die happy.

Three rows ahead of him, a man huddled closer to his date. On-screen the hero made love to some mysterious babe on the roof of a hovercraft speeding across the water. Jason turned to look at Kyle.

A t that exact moment, Kyle turned to Jason. The light from the movie screen flickered across Kyle’s glasses. His eyes were bright and yearning, his mouth slack, his lips glistening in the screen light.

Jason wanted to kiss him. He could practically taste Kyle’s sweet, buttery breath, feel the tenderness of Kyle’s lips.

Something moved in front of them. A man was walking up the aisle. Shit! Jason yanked his fingers from Kyle’s hand. He sat up stiffly against the back of his chair and fixed his eyes on the screen, wanting to kill himself.

But the man passed without taking notice of them. Jason sighed deeply … once more wanting to live. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and swore in his mind he would never do anything so stupid again.

“A re you okay?” Kyle whispered.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Jason mumbled. He tried to concentrate on the rest of the dumb movie but had no idea why the hero tossed the woman he’d made love to off the side of the boat. Several times Kyle turned to look at him, but no matter how much Jason wanted to look back, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He kept his hands safely folded in his lap.

When the credits came up, Jason slid down in his seat. Only after the theater had cleared was he reassured that no one knew what they’d done.

Back in the car, he turned the radio on loud. Maybe if they didn’t talk about it, he could forget it ever happened.

Kyle directed him to Sycamore Street and pointed to his house. “That’s my room on the second floor, by the oak branch. You want to come over sometime?”

Jason stopped the car and tried to decide what to say. “Look, I …” Kyle stared at him, grinning joyously. Jason slunk down in his seat.

“I better get home.”

“Okay,” Kyle said. “I had a great time.” He opened the door and got out. A s he walked up the sidewalk, he turned to wave, his smile glowing.

Jason shifted into drive and watched Kyle’s image recede in the rearview mirror. The farther away he drove, the more calm he felt.

When he got home, he undressed, tossed his clothes onto his desk, and threw himself onto his bed, pounding the pillow with his fist.

A s much as he fought it, his thoughts remained on Kyle. Not Kyle hunched over some algebra book, but Kyle at the movie theater holding his hand. What would it feel like to kiss him? Disturbed by his thoughts and the uncontrollable stirring beneath his sheets, he rolled onto his stomach and turned off the light.

CHAPTER 11

Kyle reached his toothbrush beneath the faucet, being extra careful not to wet the hand that had actually held Jason Carrillo’s. He returned to his bedroom and for the millionth time brought the palm to his face, breathing deep the aroma of Jason’s cologne; then he gently closed his eyes and imagined Jason’s lips. He’d wanted to kiss Jason in the movie theater. Now he even felt like kissing his scented hand, but that was stupid.

Instead he pinned the drawing Melissa had given him onto his bulletin board. Then he undressed and removed his glasses, turned off the light, and climbed into bed. A cross the dark room, the aquarium filter hummed. Kyle hesitated an instant, then brought the hallowed hand to his lips and bestowed a soft kiss.

He had done the stupid thing. Now he could sleep. With a contented moan he drifted into dreamland.

• • • • • • • • • •

Later that week, Kyle arrived home from school to find his mom standing in the center of his bedroom—not cleaning or tidying up, just rubbing her brow. She’d been acting weird like that ever since he came out to her four weeks ago. She barraged him with questions like, Should she have done something differently bringing him up? or, What about the ex-gay groups that claimed homosexuals could change?

“Mom,” he said, frustrated. “You didn’t do anything wrong and I can’t change. Those groups are full of fakes. Besides, I wouldn’t want to change, even if I could. I’m finally starting to like who I am. A re you sorry with how I turned out?”

“No.” Tears puddled in her eyes. “I’m just scared.”

With his dad it was even more frustrating. He barely said anything to Kyle anymore, other than a gruff “Good morning,” “Good night,” or “Take an umbrella, it’s raining.”

Now Kyle came home to find his mother gazing around his room. He softly cleared his throat. “Hi.” She gasped. “Honey, you startled me.”

“Sorry.” He dropped his backpack onto his desk and braced himself for whatever new question or concern she might have.

“I was just …” She motioned in the air, as if grasping. “I’m trying to understand.” Her eyes fixed on Melissa’s drawing. “I always thought you’d be a wonderful dad.”

“I still might! There are gay men who have kids.” He pulled off his cap and gave his head a vigorous scratch. “Mom, don’t you understand? I have to be who I am. You always told me that. Or did you mean except for being gay?” She studied him, trying to comprehend. “I’m sorry, honey. I just want you to be happy.” He felt guilty for snapping at her. He had to give her credit for trying. “That’s what I want, too.”

• • • • • • • • • •

The traditional family Thanksgiving took place at his grand-mom’s. Over sweet-potato pie she asked good-naturedly, “So, Kyle, do you have a girlfriend yet?”

Uncle George, his dad’s brother, laughed. “Of course he does! A good-looking boy like him? Probably has a dozen. Don’t you, Kyle?” His dad shot Kyle a panicked, pleading look, so Kyle decided it was best just to say: “No comment.” Everyone laughed, as if it were a joke. On the drive home, his dad told him, “Thanks for not saying anything in front of your grandmother,” like it was something shameful. Kyle kicked the floor of the car, wishing he had said something.

The rest of Thanksgiving break was boringly lonely for Kyle. Nelson hadn’t been returning his phone calls ever since he socked him in the jaw, and his other friends were either out of town or busy doing family stuff. Fortunately the city’s indoor pool was open for the long weekend, so he spent hours doing solitary laps and daydreaming about holding Jason’s hand.

He avoided his dad as much as possible. A fight between them was building. Kyle could feel it. He was dreading going to the Redskins game with him, since his mom wouldn’t be there to referee.

With not a little effort, he managed to keep his temper during the game. When the final quarter ran into overtime, he excused himself to the restroom. By the time he started back to his seat, the game was over and there was no way he could fight against the outpouring throng. He decided to go to the car. His dad would figure it out. Except apparently he didn’t.

A lmost every parking space was empty before his dad finally marched across the vast lot. “Do you realize,” he yelled, “how long I waited for you to come back?”

“Dad! It was impossible to get back.”

His dad yanked the car door open. “It was not impossible. I was worried.” Kyle slid in beside him. “Worried about what?” This whole conversation was dumb. He knew a fight had been brewing, so he knew this wasn’t really about his not going back to his seat. “I never wanted to come to this stupid game in the first place.” His dad shot him a hurt, angry look. “Then why didn’t you say so?”

Kyle crossed his arms, unable to explain it: how he felt guilty when his dad had his hopes up; how he didn’t want to disappoint him.

That was a big part of why it had taken him so long to come out.

“You never asked, Dad. You think just because you like something, I will too. I never liked football, or hockey, or any of those things you think I should like.”