if it involves underage drinking,
illegal substances and the possibility
of sex. This is the first party of
the summer. I plan on an all-nighter.
Which means I can’t say I’m going
out with Dylan. So I invented a sleep-
over at Emily’s. “Hey, Mom,” I call
toward her bedroom. “I’m leaving
now.” I grab my backpack and keys,
start toward the door. I’m almost there
when my brother comes out of the kitchen,
yacking down a sandwich. Emily’s,
huh? Trace checks out my shorts,
the scoop of my tank. God, man,
you look like a Fourth Street hooker.
“When were you on Fourth Street?
Anyway, know what they call a guy
who looks at his sister’s attributes
like that? Pervert.” His face turns
the color of ripe watermelon flesh.
Ka-ching! Got him. Trace is fifteen
and never been kissed. At least, I’m pretty
sure he hasn’t been. It’s not like I follow him
around, and it’s not like he’d go
bragging about it if he had. Trace is
the so-quiet-you-have-to-wonder-what-
he’s-hiding type. Except, that is, when
it comes to ragging on me. “Tell
Mom I said bye, okay?” I escape into
the gentle warmth of late afternoon
June. The party won’t start until after
dark. But I don’t have to wait that long
to see Dylan. He’s picking me up at
Em’s. I see it as a French vanilla lie.
Not totally white. But close enough.
Emily’s Parents Aren’t Home
So I don’t bother with the doorbell. “Hello?”
No response but a meow from Monster Cat.
Ah, now I hear giggling behind her bedroom
door. She’s either on the phone or not alone.
I probably shouldn’t barge in. Tyler’s probably
in there, too. Instead, I text Dylan. HEY, BABY.
COME GET ME. Just as he says he’s on his way,
Emily comes out of her room, adjusting clothes,
hair mussed and makeup smeared. Good call.
“I take it Ty’s here?” They’ve been going
out for almost a year. Serious love.
Uh, no, actually. It’s not Tyler. It’s Clay.
The look she gives me is half challenge,
half plea. Last time I looked, Clay happened
to be going out with our mutual friend,
Audrey. “Hey, I won’t tell.” But I can’t
believe she’d cheat on Tyler. “Did you and
Ty have a fight or something?”
She smiles. Nothing like that. I just
wanted to try something different is all.
Something Different?
God, I’m glad Dylan is everything
I need. Two horn blasts tell me he’s outside,
waiting. “Are you coming to the party later?”
I don’t ask, “Are you coming with Tyler or Clay?”
Probably. She grins. Depending.
Whatever. All I really care about
right now is Dylan. My pulse picks
up speed as I hurry down the walk
to his shiny green Jeep. He always
keeps the Wrangler spotless. When
he sees me, he gets out and waits,
and his perfect smile spreads across
his incredible face. God, he’s amazing—
bronze skin beneath too-long blond
hair that makes him look like a little boy.
Well, except for the fact that he’s six
foot two and buff as hell. He opens
his arms. I give a little jump, and
he’s holding me and we’re kissing.
His lips are smooth and he tastes like
peppermint. And I never want to stop.
But he does. And he says, I love you.
Three Words
And everything bad in my life
melts away. I look into the turquoise
deep of his eyes. “I love you, too.”
I tangle my hands into his hair,
pull his face into mine for another
kiss, this one hotter than the last.
A passing car beeps going by.
Dylan draws back, laughing.
Maybe we should get a room?
“Maybe.” We could probably
get one inside. But then Dylan
would find out about Clay.
He and Tyler are friends.
“Let’s get something to eat.
Not good to drink on an empty
stomach.” Experience has
taught me that. Dylan agrees.
But before he detaches himself
totally from me, he slips a hand
down the scoop of my tank.
Can’t wait to kiss these, too.
Dylan
Can’t Wait
To get her all alone,
pull her nakedness into
me, silk skin slick against
my own, eliciting
the proper reaction.
She
smells like summer
wildflowers, as if
they were woven into
her hair and crushed
by the weight of our love.
Tastes
like strawberry pie,
thick drizzles of whipped
cream melting down over
luscious ripe fruit.
I could lick her all day.
Of
all the girls to inhabit
my dreams, she is the one
I want to stay there,
a shimmer of winter
beneath the heat of
summer.
Shane
Thank God It’s Summer
I thought I’d never drag myself
through the last few weeks of school.
It wasn’t the work or the struggle
to pull exceptional grades.
It wasn’t even the gay-bashing.
I got used to that in grade school,
before I even knew for sure I was
gay. Somehow, a few other people
sensed it, like coyotes sniffing out
a pack misfit. Something weak.
Something that needs culling.
Coyotes hunt in packs, and so do
assholes. There’s safety in numbers,
especially when attacking prey
that’s bigger. I’m pretty big, and
one-on-one I can hold my own,
queer or no. But facing down
a posse of pricks requires charisma.
Intelligence. The ability to redirect
negative energy toward something
more deserving—the fast approach
of a teacher, or a cheerleader’s barely-
there skirt. I am an expert bad mojo
shifter. But that has nothing to do
with why I’m glad it’s summer.
What’s Got My Tightie Whities
All bunched up is my sixteenth birthday
in two weeks. Give me a car, everything
about my life will move into the plus column.
I’m sick of bumming rides with my own pack
of losers and freaks. Not that I mind the perks—
a regular supply of weed and the occasional snort.
But I need a reliable way out of this house,
which reeks of rubbing alcohol and dirty diapers.
The stink permeates everything, despite the incense
I keep burning behind my bedroom door. Cherry.
Vanilla. Sandalwood. A thick combination. None
of it can disguise the smell of Shelby. My sister
is four, and though her doctor says it’s a miracle
a kid with Type I SMA has lived this long, I don’t
see it that way. She will never walk. Never even
sit up on her own. Her muscles are wasting away.
And the most vicious thing of all about spinal
muscular atrophy is the disease lets her think.
Lets her feel. Lets her attempt communication,
though the best she can manage is pigeonlike coos.
Trapped inside that useless body is a beautiful spirit,
one that deserves to fly, untethered. Instead,
it is earthbound, jailed by flesh. Fed by tubes.
Lungs pumped free of snot. Miracle? In hell,
maybe. Then again, this house is a lot like hell.
My parents despise each other, but don’t dare
divorce. I mean, what would the neighbors think?
Mom is so hung up on caring for Shelby
that she has lost all her friends. No one calls.
No one comes over, not even Aunt Andrea.
Dad spends all his time at work. And when
he actually has to come home, he makes sure
to get in very late and sleep in the guest room.
He hardly ever talks to Mom. And when he
wastes a few words on me, it’s almost always
some snarky remark about queers. Dad hates
me, too. At least Mom accepts who I am,
or claims to. I don’t know if she’s really that
open-minded, or just can’t stand the thought
of losing her other kid. Shelby doesn’t have
a lot more time here. Despite its omnipresent
proximity, her death will devastate Mom.
And So
My desire for regular escape.
My best friend, Tara, usually
provides it. But her parents
are touring Europe. Without her.
So she’s spending the summer
with her aunt Dee in San Francisco.
Tara and I have been friends since
before I outed, and she was the first
person I told. Well, duh, was what
she said. I’ve known that forever.
“Really? How come you still hang
out with me? I don’t embarrass you?”
It’s who you are. And I love who
you are. Just the way you are.
Tara is a big reason I am proud
of who I am. She’s smart. Pretty.
If she can love me, other people
can, too. Exactly the way I am.
I Actually Met Tara
In Sunday school. When I was a kid,
Dad was a decent Christian. I’d say
it’s funny his name is Christian, except
his parents were hard-core Methodists,
who named him that for a reason.
Tara and I were drawn to each other
right away, like we knew we were
destined to be friends, even though
we were only eight. That was B.S.,
of course—Before Shelby. Mom
was all about having a little girl,
something I didn’t understand. All
women want daughters, Tara counseled,
as if she could know that in second grade.
Don’t be jealous. You’ll always have me.
Except for today. And there are things
I want to tell her. Developments.
I text her: INTERESTING STUFF GOING
ON. CALL ME WHEN YOU GET UP, OKAY?
I don’t say I think I’ve met someone great.
I Want Her Opinion
And I really want out of here.
Later, I’ll call someone for a ride.
Somewhere. Anywhere. For now,
I’ll distract myself with some
fine medicinal green and a little
porn of the guy-on-guy variety.
You can get anything you
want online. It’s crazy, really.
All you have to do is lie and say
you’re eighteen. Well, you need
a credit card, but I borrowed one
of Dad’s once when he passed
out, totally drunk, before lunch.
That’s not a rare occurrence.
This time, I managed to store
the numbers from one of his Visa
cards on my computer. Pretty
sure it wasn’t one of his company
expense account cards, or I’d
have heard about it by now.
Then again, maybe Dad has
a porn allowance. Don’t most
mega-corporation vice presidents?
Whatever. So far, I’ve had no
problem at all satisfying
my sleaze curiosity. These
guys have freaking amazing
bodies, especially Mr. Top. God!
If I ever have that kind of sex,
I hope it’s with someone like him.
Okay, kind of unrealistic, but
still. So far, I haven’t had any
kind of sex, with any kind of guy.
Nothing but fantasy boinking.
I’m saving myself for true love.
And that’s never easy to find.
Till Cupid Comes Calling
I’ll make do with this. I finish
off a fat blunt and am almost ready
to finish myself off when I hear
footsteps come down the hallway.
Clip-clip. Clip-clip. They pause
at my door. Shit. Not now, Mom.
My window is cracked, but it reeks
in here and I really don’t need grief.
Shane! A fist volley tests the wood.
Open up right this minute! I stay quiet.
I’m not leaving until you open the door.
Quiet. I know how to unlock it, you know.
What the hell. If she insists on
being privy to my every move,
fine. I don’t even turn off the movie.
“Yes, Mother? What can I do for you?”
She blows through the door, stomps
to my desk, double-takes the roach,
still leaking a thin stream of stink.
What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?
hands on hips, pretending to be
tough. I try to hold the laughter
back, but it snorts from my mouth.
“I would think that’s obvious, Mom.
I’m smoking weed and checking out
a little guy-on-guy action.” She never
even noticed! Her eyes go wide at
Mr. Top drilling Mr. Bottom. God,
Shane! She clicks the mouse and
the screensaver pops up as she launches
a rant about how am I paying for porn
and pot and now she’s onto Grandma’s
good china, which I remind her she
never uses anyway. But when I joke
about hooking her up with my connection,
she rails about not smoking in the house
and asks if I want to kill my sister.
“No, Mom. I don’t want to kill her.”
Deep breath. “But I wish God would.”
Too Far
I pushed too far. Mom’s face goes
white and she folds up into herself.
I know you don’t mean that
is all she says, before leaving
me listing in a wake of sadness.
I wish I didn’t mean it. But I do.
I love my sister. Wish her inner
light could somehow make her whole.
But her only chance at perfection
is on the far side of death. And until
that door opens for her, those of us left
on this side can’t get on with living again.
Instead, we stumbl
e through our days,
barely connecting, and when we do,
it’s often with misplaced anger.
Happiness seems just out of view.
I won’t find it here. But that doesn’t
stop me from searching elsewhere.
Lately I’ve Been Searching Online
It’s not like I can reasonably look
for a boyfriend at school. Same-sex
hand-holding is frowned upon at Reno
High. And while I don’t exactly
hide my queerness, I don’t flaunt
it, either. Anyway, if heteros can
find love on the web, I don’t
know why I can’t, too. I’ve cyber-
met several, weeded out the total
pervs and ding-your-warning-
bell creepsters. That left a few
possibilities, which I’ve narrowed
down to one incredible boy.
Alex is seventeen, smart as hell,
and his webcam shows him Goth-hot.
I hope when we meet in person
that he likes me as much for real
as he seems to like me online.
Alex
When We Finally Meet
How much do I confess?
Our bond is tenuous.
Frail as a drift of moon-
light on open sea.
Would
the truth crash us
apart? Some secrets
can’t be kept too long.
No matter how hard
you
try to hide them, sooner
or later, they scurry out
from your cupboards,
cockroaches on the
run.
No way to grow closer
with deceit wedged
between us. Should I tell?
Or should I hide it
away?
Harley
I Hide Hurt
Behind a fake smile. I wear
it all the time. Everyone says how
I always look so cheerful.
Shows what they know, I guess.
Not that things are so bad.
When I think of little kids starving
in Africa, or old people freezing
to death, my life seems pretty good.
Mom’s got a decent job at DMV.
There’s plenty of food in the fridge.
I wear semi-nice clothes, and I’ve got
stuff—a cell, an iPod, a laptop.
School is okay, at least up till
now. I start high school end of