When Everything Is Blue Read online

  “It just happened. He cut my hair and then it was like, whatever, you know?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Chris grumbles.

  “Sorry,” I say, not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for.

  Chris breathes out a long, bullish sigh. What’s his problem? He’s always hanging out with other people—other girls—doing God knows what, and I don’t give him the third degree.

  “How’s Kelli?” I ask to remind him of the score and the fact that he’s, you know, straight.

  His head snaps in my direction, and he practically glares at me. Honestly, it stings.

  “She’s fine,” he growls.

  We play in silence for another ten minutes, and then Chris stands abruptly. “I’m heading out,” he says.

  “Hot date?”

  “Not quite,” he says testily and strides out of my room without looking back. I hear him say goodbye to my sister and my mom, and then the front door opens and shuts. I turn off my light and go to the window to watch him stalk across our driveways and into his house. I hate it when Chris is mad at me, and even though he has nothing to be angry about, it feels like my fault. Or like he’s making it my fault.

  Maybe this has nothing to do with Dave, specifically, and everything to do with the fact that Chris suspects I might be into dudes. Is he worried I’m going to ruin his rep? Knock his cool factor down a few pegs? The thought of that being his problem makes me kind of pissed.

  Would Chris ditch me if he found out I was gay? I hope not, but there’s no way to know unless I tell him, and I’m not even ready to face that myself.

  I turn off the TV, brush my teeth, and climb into bed, thinking about Dave, seeing if I can get hard, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Chris, that night in Sebastian, the look on his face, the smell of him, the way I felt cocooned inside the tent with him like he and I were the whole world and nothing outside even mattered. The release I achieve on my own is an echo of the one Chris gave me, and I find myself feeling a little bitter I need him for that too.

  As Beyoncé Would Say, Watermelon

  I PICK up some hair gel on my way home from work on Sunday. I feel a little stupid doing it, and it’s probably not worth the money, but I want to look nice when I go over to Dave’s, even if all we do is play video games.

  When Dave opens the door to his apartment, I can tell from the curl in his upper lip he likes what I’ve done with it. “Aye, Papi,” he says like an asshole, almost ruining it but not quite because I’m getting used to Dave’s particular brand of humor. When a guy is into you and makes it known, you make some allowances.

  I go inside and cross the room, not knowing what to do with myself, which happens quite often. My mom says it’s because I’m growing so fast, but to be truthful, I’ve never felt comfortable in my skin unless I’m doing something like skating or playing soccer or mowing lawns, something to take my mind off my own bumbling awkwardness.

  It feels so small in here, just the two of us. Like a fishbowl. I glance toward the couch, but I don’t really want to play video games. Then the bed, which is, like, way too intimidating. I start doubting myself, thinking I shouldn’t have come at all. Dave seems to sense my anxiety because he offers me a drink. I tell him I’m not thirsty.

  “You want to play video games?” he asks. I stare at him, unable to form the words. I shake my head instead. “Okay.” He takes a step toward me, and I shift nervously from one foot to the other. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, studying me like an algebraic equation.

  “You’ve never done this before,” he says, a statement, not a question.

  I shake my head again and glance toward the door. I don’t want to leave, but this is awkward as hell. What changed since yesterday? Dave tells me to have a seat on the couch and make myself comfortable. He puts on some music, not anything romantic either. Hip-hop. Not too soft, not too loud.

  He plops down on the couch next to me, yawns, and puts his arm behind my back like we’re on a date at the movies. He’s trying to loosen me up by making me laugh, but the joke falls flat. My sense of humor is buried somewhere beneath all the nerves and whatever I had for lunch that afternoon.

  “So, how about those Dolphins?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “I don’t follow football.”

  “That was just my opener. You want to mess around?”

  I shrug. Meanwhile, my junk starts acting up at the prospect and my pits start sweating something fierce. Dave glances at my crotch, then nods like he’s figured something out. “Take off your shirt,” he says. I take a deep breath, sit up, and pull my shirt over my shoulders, feeling a little self-conscious because I’ve got some muscles but I’m by no means buff. I’m hoping my deodorant did its job today. The air conditioner clicks on, and the cold air sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Yeah,” Dave says like he approves and gestures at my pants. “Unbutton.”

  It’s easier when he tells me what to do, less room for me to overthink or second-guess myself. He stares at me—up, down, and back again, moistens his lips with his tongue, and reaches into his pants.

  “Show me what you’ve got,” he says while pulling out his own.

  I stroke myself a few times with a trembling hand, wishing I had more confidence or that my body would just take over for me in situations like this. Regardless, I can see Dave getting turned on by it, which turns me on. It’s different from how it is with Chris. Chris can walk into a room and I’m hard. With Dave, it’s more like I’m turned on by thinking about what he wants. The anticipation.

  Dave moves closer to me on the couch and takes off his shirt. He’s got a nice chest, hairy too, which I like. He’s not that cut, but there’s a solidness to his physique I appreciate. And he seems very comfortable with this dance, which eases my mind a bit.

  “What are you into?” he asks, and I freeze. “Never mind.” He squints and assesses me, like I’m on a job interview and he’s trying to determine if I’m a hard worker or a slacker, whether or not he’s going to take the chance on me. I want to offer him some bit of assurance, but I’m pretty unqualified for the job.

  “You ever had a blowjob before?” he asks.

  I shake my head and try to swallow, remembering when Chris told me about that girl who offered to give him one and he turned her down. Now I’m in that same situation.

  “You interested?”

  It’s not much different from when he offered to cut my hair. Strangely, it reminds me that I still need to mow his grass.

  “Yeah,” I say, because my prick is already twitching at the thought of it.

  Dave buttons up, tells me to lean back and relax. Like when he cut my hair and taught me how to shave, there’s some preparation. He gets a pillow, for instance, and a condom, then gets comfortable on his knees in front of me. I feel really exposed as he looks me over, like he could make one wisecrack and ruin everything, but he doesn’t. He rubs me up and down a few times, not rough, but not too gently either. Kind of like it’s a regular old job and he’s done it a million times before. Strangely, his efficiency helps me relax a little. I lean back and close my eyes, gripping the couch cushions with both hands like it’s Space Mountain and I’m twelve years old, knowing there’s all this hype to the ride without knowing the ride itself.

  Then Dave starts doing things with his mouth that feel really, really good. Like that roller coaster, my whole body is going for the ride. He’s drawing all these sensations out of me I could never accomplish by myself, making me utter things in a voice I’ve never heard before—yeah, come on, right there, fuck yeah. My hips lift off the couch as my dick goes deeper inside his mouth. His lips smack as he moans, and it sounds so wet and nasty and I want to ram it farther down his throat, but I don’t. No wonder the guys at school are always going on about it. Just when I’m about to cum, he slides me out, strips off the condom, and finishes me off with his fist. My dick explodes, and I think of that guy who used to smash watermelons with a hammer. All the red meat going everywhere, landing on
people’s faces. I’m not very tidy.

  “Goooooooal,” Dave says, and I chuckle, though it sounds more like I’m being strangled. I’ve been holding on to the couch for dear life the whole time, so when he backs away, I have to take a few deep breaths and uncoil myself like a snake.

  Dave goes to the bathroom for a minute, comes back with a towel, and tosses it to me.

  “Well?” he asks. “How was it?”

  “Damn,” I utter, catching my breath. My dick is still raw and throbbing and exposed to the cold air conditioner. I put it away before it starts to look sad and dejected, thinking what most guys have probably thought at some point in their lives: if I could do that for myself, I’d never leave my bedroom.

  “You’re welcome,” Dave says, and his self-satisfied smirk is back. I finish buttoning my pants and glance over at him, hoping he’ll tell me what happens next.

  “You want to give it a try?” he asks with a teasing smile.

  Like I said before, I’m a person who likes to return the favor. I settle down on my knees in front of him, appreciating the forethought of the pillow. Dave tells me what to do every step of the way. It’s not much different from when he taught me how to shave.

  Dave’s a good teacher.

  How Big Is a Centaur’s Junk?

  MY ARRANGEMENT with Dave is unusual. Even I, with my limited experience, know that. We slip into a kind of routine. I come over to his place in the afternoons. We mess around some, then settle in to play video games or watch TV. Sometimes he smokes pot, and I listen to him tell stories about his friends in North Carolina. He seems homesick, and he’s always showing me pictures on his phone of people he used to hang out with and his little brothers. Not his parents, though. I don’t think they got along too well, even before he came out.

  Neither of us are too concerned with putting a label on what we have going. Nor do we let on to the rest of our friends that we’re seeing each other on the side. After a couple weeks of hooking up, we’re at school one day when Dave starts telling this story to our friends about a girl who once jacked him off so hard that he came in her eye and she was practically blind for a few hours. He really gets into it, shouting and miming out the scene. Everyone thinks it’s hilarious, except for me, because I’m the “girl” it happened to.

  Chris shakes his head and says to me, “I don’t believe half the shit that asshole says.”

  “Me neither,” I say, while wishing Dave would shut the hell up. He should know better than to tell that story. It makes me feel like a tool, not to mention that if Chris found out it was me, I’d be completely humiliated.

  Later on, when no one else is around, Dave asks me if I’m coming over that afternoon. I tell him I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t want to give him any more material.

  He keeps bugging me about it while I load up my backpack with what I need for that night. My academic classes are all AP and honors. Other than a lot of homework and some studying, the classes aren’t that hard, but I do need to keep up with it if I want to make that scholarship money rain down.

  “Is it because of what I said earlier?” Dave asks.

  I shrug and don’t meet his eyes. I’m not the best at feelings or speaking the words necessary to express them.

  “Papi,” he says, the name he uses whenever he’s teasing me, or in moments like these, to get my hackles up.

  “Don’t call me that.” I’m not in the mood for his mouth.

  “It was just so damn funny, I couldn’t help it.”

  “I don’t want you telling other people my business,” I practically growl.

  “Yeah, I got that impression already,” he says with less humor.

  It pisses me off that he hasn’t already apologized and I have to explain to him why what he did was shitty. “How would you feel if I shared completely personal things about you and you had to stand around and listen to everyone laugh about it?”

  He crosses his arms and stares at me. “And you wouldn’t want Mitcham to find out, right?”

  “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I glance around to make sure no one can hear us. I feel like a whiny bitch, but damn if I don’t expect some things to stay private.

  He sighs. “Nothing. Forget I said it.”

  “This is about your mouth,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, I know. Listen, I’m an asshole. It won’t happen again, okay? Come over today. I’ll make it up to you.”

  I glance up and down the hallway. Ryanne catches my eye and waves. I wave back. I wonder if anyone else could guess at the topic of our conversation. Do we look like we’re having a lovers’ quarrel? Then I think, what if Dave decides to tell people he’s gay or that we’ve been hooking up? I’m not even completely sure I’m gay. The guys at our school who are out seem so sure about it. Maybe I’m not gay enough. Like, a seven out of ten on the gayometer. Ugh, my mind is spinning and I can’t make it stop. There are all these consequences to what Dave and I are doing that I really don’t want to deal with.

  “Theo?” Dave asks because I still haven’t answered him.

  “I don’t know,” I say, which is the best I can muster without giving in completely. Dave is good with his hands and his mouth. And even when he’s being an asshole, he’s still kind of funny. I have fun when we’re together, and it feels really good. It’s nice to be wanted.

  Chris comes up then, and Dave acts like we were talking about football, which is a dead giveaway because other than playing Madden with Chris from time to time, I don’t keep up with football and Dave knows that.

  “Go, Dolphins,” Dave says like a smartass. He once went on a ten-minute diatribe about how bad the Dolphins suck, detailing just about every awful season they’ve had for the past two decades. I’m not a huge fan, but still, you don’t rip on the Dolphins to someone from South Florida. It’s poor form.

  Chris glares at Dave until he bows slightly and walks away. Chris has been chilly with me lately, both of us going out of our way to be extra polite, which is a sure sign that something’s wrong. We walk out together to the student parking lot, and I try to shake off the conversation I just had with Dave.

  “Your birthday’s next weekend,” Chris says. “The party’s coming together, in case you’re wondering.”

  My sister and he both seem a little put out that I haven’t been involved with the planning, even though I told them from the start I’m not into it.

  “I should probably practice my driving before Friday.” The party’s on Saturday, but our actual birthday’s the day before. I want to pass my driving test on the first go-round.

  “We can practice now if you want.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. I don’t have anything else going on.”

  Even though it’s technically illegal, Chris is the one who’s taken me out driving most of the time. My mom works a lot, and she’s tired when she gets home and just wants to relax. She also scares easily and sets me on edge when I’m driving.

  “Sounds good,” I tell him. I pull out my phone to text Dave that I won’t be able to meet up with him. He responds by telling me I’m a gilipollas.

  “Who’s that?” Chris asks.

  I glance over and because I don’t want to lie, I tell him, “no one,” which is probably worse.

  Chris frowns but doesn’t say anything more about it. He drives us out of the school parking lot, then pulls over and lets me take the wheel. I was nervous at first driving his car, but he’s good about helping me relax. He doesn’t get pissed at me when I make mistakes. I clipped a mailbox once taking a turn too close, and he just laughed his ass off.

  We’re on the bridge going over the intercoastal to the beaches. Windows down, hair blowing in the breeze. Perfect, until Chris ruins it by saying, “You and Dave have been hanging out a lot.”

  I think back to the story Dave shared earlier that day. I haven’t said a word about Dave to Chris. And at school Dave and I hardly even talk to each other, so where is Chris getting his information?

  �
��How do you know?”

  “Find My Friends.”

  We installed that app when I first got my cell phone a couple of years back. I checked it a few times when Chris was in California, just to see how far away he was, but I haven’t looked at it since then. Kind of strange that he has. And how does he know where Dave lives?

  “I asked him if he had any decks for sale,” Chris says, then waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he says, “He didn’t.”

  “You ask him to cut your hair too?” I don’t like Chris checking up on me, especially when I have something to hide.

  “Why are you lying to me?”

  “About Dave selling decks?”

  “About everything.”

  We exit off the bridge, and I pull over into a beach access and park the car, grab my stuff from the back seat, including my deck. I so don’t want to have this conversation with him. Chris has a way of getting me to spill my guts.

  “What the hell, Theo?” Chris grabs hold of my arm and squeezes. He’s strong. Even though I’m pissed, I kind of like it. I never back away or flinch when Chris touches me. I like his grip. So messed up, I know.

  “We used to tell each other everything,” he says. “Now you act like you don’t even know me.”

  “It’s not that.” Chris takes everything so personal. I dump my stuff on my lap. The car’s still running, so I turn it off.

  “What is it, then? Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Because of what happened in—”

  “No,” I interrupt him. Chris can’t have it both ways. He can’t have me as his ever-faithful lap dog and expect me to just sit around and watch him hold court with every hot babe that struts through Sabal Palm High. It’s not fair. I’m friggin’ lonely. Dave is there, and he’s into me. He’s not Chris, but he’s not nothing either.

  “Maybe I’m too dependent on you, you know?” I say to him. “Like, for the past five years, it’s just been you and me. And I do whatever you tell me to.”