The Book of David (12 page)

Jon shot me a glance, but I stayed quiet and smiled. There was no way I was going to the same school that Tyler had hoped to go to. He might still end up there on scholarship if his knee healed up and he was in shape enough to do a walk-on practice in the spring. After tonight, I wanted to get as far away from Tyler during college as possible. But for now, I let Monica have her vision of going to the same place for college.

“Not to bring everybody down,” said Amy, “but what are things going to be like on Monday with Tyler? It's not like we aren't going to see him again.”

“It'll blow over,” I said. Jon looked unconvinced. Monica looked pissed at the thought of it. “It will,” I said. “He'll be out next week anyway. His surgery is on Monday morning, and I'll go see him once he gets home. He won't stay mad.”

“Why?” Monica asked.

“Why what?” I frowned.

“Why are you going to go see him?

“He's my . . . friend.” I almost said “best” friend, but something stopped me. It dawned on me that maybe best friends didn't treat each other the way Tyler had treated me—even when they were angry at each other.

“That's really big of you,” said Jon. “Proud of you, man.” He
held out the flask, and we passed it around the circle one more time.

Monica was a little tipsy from her three swallows of Maker's Mark, and she always gets kissy when she's buzzed. She pulled me down the running path off the bridge to a picnic table under a big elm tree in the grass along the river. She pushed me down onto the bench, my back against the edge of the table, and she straddled me, kissing me with soft, sweet lips that smelled like lip gloss and bourbon.

Her short cheerleading skirt didn't cover much and before long she was grinding against the fly of my jeans with the slick fabric of her Under Armour. I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the bourbon coursing through me take over, but as I felt her lips against mine and her hips against mine, I heard Amy's laugh float over the water down from the bridge, and I had to resist the urge to pull away and look.

What did Jon say? Are they making out too?

I kept my eyes closed, and my hands ran down Monica's back, then pushed her hips even tighter down on my lap. I saw a flash of Jon kissing Amy in my imagination. His eyes were closed, and his arms were wrapped around her, one hand on the back of her head.

“Whoa . . . hang on, mister.” Monica came up for air. “Whew! That was intense.”

My heart was racing, and I was short of breath. Why was
she always stopping when it got good? I tried to lean in to kiss her again, but she swung a leg out of the picnic table and slid off my lap. She tossed her hair and stood up, then leaned over and pecked me on the lips.

“Where are you going?” I asked with a smile. “Get back here.”

“We have to go,” she said.

“What? Why? Now? We just got here.” She was already headed back toward the bridge. I followed her.

“I have rehearsal tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp. It's almost midnight.” She started giggling.

“What's so funny?”

She turned and threw both arms around my neck with a big smile. “I'm too tipsy to keep making out. If I did, I might not want to stop.”

“That's fine with me,” I whispered, and tried to kiss her again. She pulled away and called for Amy, who jumped up with Jon and came walking down the running path from the bridge to meet us.

When we got back to my place, I tried to convince the girls to come in, but Monica wouldn't hear of it. Amy was too looped from the bourbon to drive home. I parked Amy's car on the street and she climbed in with Monica, who gave Jon strict instructions not to be late.

That's probably why he had to leave so early. It's barely nine
thirty now. He must've gone home to shower and change. I wonder if he's half as hungover as I am.

We polished off the Maker's Mark after the girls left, and I was feeling no pain, but Jon didn't seem too screwed up, just really smiley. He has such a great smile that it makes me smile just to think about it. I guess you'd call that infectious.

Anyway, we were sitting on the front porch when I drank the last of the bourbon and handed the flask back to him.

“And . . . good night.” He screwed the top back on the silver flask.

“Are you leaving?” I asked.

“You want me to?” Did I mention his smile?

My instinct was to yell,
Hell NO!
Something inside me—some quiet fear—told me to play it cool. I shrugged. “You can crash here if you want.”

Jon stood up and stretched. His shirt said
IMPERIAL TEEN
and had a picture of an old-fashioned electric fan on it—the kind with the three blades behind a metal cage. I tried like hell to keep my eyes on the graphic on the shirt instead of the hem that I knew was riding up and showing off his abs again.
Is he going to leave?

He turned toward me on the stairs and said, “Okay, well . . . yeah. If it's no trouble, I think I'll crash here. Just gonna text my mom.”

He pulled out his phone, and the glow of the screen briefly lit up his face as he tapped out a message. I thought about the image of him kissing Amy that had flashed through my mind earlier and stared at his lips in the cool blue light from his phone.

We headed inside. “Wanna watch some TV or something?” I asked.

“Sure . . . or something.”

These words shot down my spine and made my stomach do somersaults.
What did he mean?
I forced myself not to turn around and just led the way downstairs to the rec room where our media center is. I flipped on the TV and tossed Jon the remote.

“We can sleep down here,” I said, pointing to the massive sectional. It made a big L in the room, and there was plenty of room for one of us on each of the sides. “My bed's a little . . . small.”

“A queen.” Something about the way he said this—it was like he was making a joke, but I wasn't sure. And if he was making a joke, I didn't get it. He smiled and let me off the hook. “This is perfect. You mind if I borrow some shorts to sleep in?”

I just blinked at him. Maybe the booze was making me stupid.

“You know, like, just some gym shorts?” He tried to help me out.

“Oh!” I laughed. “Sure, no sweat. Be right back.” I ran upstairs and changed out of my jeans into workout shorts and grabbed an extra pair for Jon. I got a couple sheets and blankets from the hall closet and the pillows off my bed, then headed back downstairs.

“There's a bathroom right there,” I said, tossing Jon the shorts and pointing. I started to spread the sheets out on both sides of the couch and tossed a blanket and pillow on top of both.

“It's cool,” he said. He kicked off his sneakers and shucked off his jeans right there. He was so casual and slow about it, like he didn't care if I looked or not. He was wearing these really cool boxer briefs—gray with bright neon-green stripes and waistband. My eyes wandered across the bulge in the front, and I immediately felt my cheeks go red. I spun back around and started tucking the sheet in on my side of the sectional. I did this with such intense focus that you'd have thought my entire goal in life was to secure this freaking sheet under the cushions.
Don't look Don't look Don't look Don't look
was pounding in my ears.

I turned back around when I heard Jon toss his jeans onto the couch. I was just in time to see him lift the hem of his T-shirt and pull it off over his head. This time, I couldn't move. His torso was so lean and ripped, you could see every single muscle.

“Dude!” I just started laughing.

“What?” He turned around, wide-eyed, like he was completely oblivious.

“You're just . . . totally cut up. Damn. Your six-pack is an eight-pack.”

He smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Butterfly, man. It's not just you meatheads packing on the muscle. The swim boys will give you a run for your money.”

Maybe it was the bourbon, or the challenge, or both. I pulled off my T-shirt from the neck and dropped it on the carpet, then grabbed a couple of forty-pound dumbbells from the weight rack in the far corner next to the pool table. “Let's do this.”

Jon started laughing. “Bring it.”

I started with iron crosses, and I couldn't believe it: Jon matched me set for set, pound for pound, until we were both beet red, sweating and grunting like idiots. Finally I collapsed on the floor, and he leaned over me, smirking.

“Had enough?”

We both laughed, but there was something about the way he said that; it made me wonder for a second what he was talking about. I grabbed a couple of waters from the fridge under the bar and tossed him one. I was breathing pretty hard.

“You're panting like you were earlier tonight with
Monica.” Jon settled in on the sectional and winked.

“Dammit. That girl. Always getting me worked up and then leaving me high and dry.”

Jon nodded. “She's such a prick tease.”

“Yes! That's exactly what she is. What about you? How'd it go with Amy?”

“Don't kiss and tell.”

“Oh, c'mon,” I said. “Gimme a break. You had the perfect chance to put the moves on her.”

“Let's just say you're not the only one with blue balls.”

I tried to pry some details out of him, but he was solid as a rock. He wouldn't even give me a hint. At some point we both drifted off to sleep, and when I saw that he wasn't here this morning, I had this weird wave of disappointment flood over me. I just felt really bummed.

My phone just chimed. It was Jon:

Dancing with a hangover is hell. =P

I wrote back:

Had fun last night.

His response just flashed up:

Me 2. Call u l8r.

And just like that, I feel 100 percent better. Just because he texted me. This is ridiculous. I am losing my shit over this guy.

I'm scamming on him in his boxer briefs and letting my eyes wander all over his muscles. I'm seeing him in my head when I'm making out with my girlfriend. This whole thing is supposed to be a secret, and for the first time in my life—since I was a little kid in second grade and tried to hold hands with Bobby Lamont in the carpool—I am allowing myself to actually entertain the idea that I like a guy.

Not just like.

That I am turned on by this guy.

There. I wrote it. See? That wasn't so hard.

But what if somebody were to see that? What if somebody actually knew? What if my dad knew? He'd lose his shit. I cannot let anybody find out about this. I have to keep this to myself. I have to keep my head in the game, as Coach would say. It's bad enough that Tyler is being a douche bag.

I can't deal with this right now. I have to get out of school. I have to nail down a scholarship. I have get to college. All that stuff could fall apart on me if I'm not careful.

Still, I'm glad Jon is gonna call me later.

There's nothing wrong with us being friends.

Back in church.

Pastor Colbert is going at it today. He started talking about the election in November and how our nation is going down the “moral sewer.” He says God is angry at our country for legalizing abortion and giving homosexual people rights. He's all red in the face, talking about the agenda that homosexuals are trying to push on young people.

When he said this, I got scared and angry at the same time. I'm a young person. No homosexual has ever tried to push an agenda on me. What does that even mean? What would that look like? This is freaking crazy that he's preaching this sermon today. It's like he can read my mind. Or my journal. I mean, what if I'm a gay person? I don't want to push an agenda on anybody else. What is he talking about?

Jeez. Pastor Colbert just said that homosexuals are “an abomination,” and my dad and, like, twenty other men in the congregation shouted out “AMEN!” really loudly. I can feel myself blushing. I want to get up and go to the bathroom, or just get out of this room somehow, but then everybody would see me leave. Would they think it's because I'm afraid that I'm gay? Do they think I'm gay already?

My hand is shaking while I write this. All I can think about is talking to Jon last night. When he called, I was getting ready
for bed. We talked for like twenty minutes about his day and rehearsals for the musical and how much fun we had hanging last night. I kept picturing him the night before and how he looked in those boxer briefs. (Why can't I get that image out of my head?) I got totally turned on while I was talking to him.

I want to look up from this notebook, but every time I do, I see my mom nodding at Pastor Colbert, and I wonder if she and Dad can tell what I've been writing in this notebook. Is this a sign from God? What if he's not angry at the whole country? What if he's just angry at me?

What if everybody knows I'm gay? What if Mom is nodding and Dad is saying “Amen” because they want me to know that I'd better not even think about being a homo?

My hand is shaking, and I feel like I'm gonna throw up. I want to run out of this building and never come back.

On my way out of church, Monica reminded me that I'm supposed to come over for dinner. That is
exactly
what I need to do. I am going to her house for dinner, and then I'm going to make out with her like crazy. Maybe we can go for a drive out to Pinnacle Mountain and climb into the back of my truck like we did last summer. Jon is a nice guy and everything, but it's just not an option for me.

There are a couple kids at school who have announced that they're lesbian or gay. One sophomore says he's “bisexual.” They get picked on all the time, even though the teachers are supposed to be on the lookout for bullies. Those kids don't have many friends. They don't have any power.

The gay people I've seen on TV are all lawyers or interior designers or artists. A lot of times the actors who play them are straight—or at least claim to be. I've seen only one or two gay characters who actually like sports or are into the things that I'm into. Most of the time they're really funny or really dramatic or really fashionable or superbitchy. Sometimes they go on dates or have a “partner.” Every once in a while they might kiss, but it's never for very long, or like they're really into it—at least not on the shows I've seen. I mean, I'm usually at practice or doing homework, and it's not like my dad is going to sit and watch “fags” on TV, so usually the second any story line takes that turn, he flips the channel to ESPN.