A to Z - 47. Chapter 47 Is This Normal?

February 19

The busy-ness hasn’t really let up. Living with a family – especially a family with Zander in it – is exhilarating and exhausting. For one thing, the appointment schedule has been unceasing. How Mrs. Stevenson (I’m still getting used to calling her Monica, like she wants me to) managed to keep it all up, I have no idea. That is, until I discovered she’s been taking time off from work to take me to all these things, and to show up for meetings.

I feel bad that she’s had to do that, but when I mentioned it, she just laughed and told me not to worry about it.

I’m having a harder time getting used to what happens when things go wrong. I mean, I still screw up all the time. Just yesterday, I dropped a glass when I went to get a drink of water. It just shattered into a million pieces, and the crash was loud enough to bring Mr. Stevenson out of his study. My instincts made me freeze. I waited to be punished. I mean, I know that the Stevensons are different, but something made me just stand there, staring at the floor.

“Andy, are you all right?” I heard my guardian ask.

“I’m sorry, I dropped a glass,” I began. “I was clumsy. I won’t do it again. I’ll clean it up,” I started to move, still not looking at him.

I felt a hand on my arm, and I flinched, waiting for the inevitable blow. I deserved to be punished. When it didn’t come, I looked up at Mr. Stevenson fearfully.

“Is everything all right?” I heard Mrs. Stevenson call from upstairs.

“It’s fine, Monica,” he called out over his shoulder. Then he spoke directly to me. “Andy, I don’t care about the glass. I care about whether you’re hurt. Are you okay?”

I nodded. “I’m fine. Just stupid, that’s all.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid. These things happen.” He paused a moment. “Andy, if this had happened back in Carlsberg, when you lived with your dad, would he have hit you for it?”

Hit me for it? Beaten me to a bloody pulp, more like. I nodded slowly.

“Well, it’s not going to happen anymore,” he said carefully. “You’re not getting hit, or beaten or whipped ever again. Not if we can help it.”

I nodded again. Even though he said it, it was hard to really believe.

“But you can get a broom and clean things up,” he continued quietly.

“Okay. Thank you,” I practically whispered. I didn’t want my voice to break.

So where have I had to go this past week? Let’s see – Wednesday, the dentist. The dentist wasn’t too painful, but it sure was awkward. I’m not sure my jaw has recovered. I got x-rayed, a couple of cavities filled, and had my teeth industrially cleaned. Then I got taught how to brush and floss my teeth by a nice, cheerful woman who clearly took her job seriously. All this took far too long after school on Wednesday.

Thursday, the eye doctor, plus another session with Dr. O’Shea. The eye doctor was quick, especially compared to the dentist. My eyes were pronounced perfectly good, and I was told to return in a year. Dr. O’Shea was also very good to talk with. I’m enjoying our conversations so far. We only had an hour on Thursday, and the time went quickly. She pushed me to describe things – lots of things – like the roads I had taken, my neighborhood in Carlsberg, all kinds of stuff. The hardest question she posed for me was asking me to describe Uncle Ray.

I hesitated, deciding whether to put her off or not. I chose to speak. “Uncle Ray is younger than my Dad, and better looking. Brown hair instead of blond, but the same ice-blue eyes. But he’s evil. He gets this look on his face, like you’re a mouse, and he’s the cat. A really hungry cat. If you don’t look at his eyes, he almost looks normal. But watch out for that guy, you know?”

Dr. O’Shea nodded, but didn’t say much, except to ask, “When was the last time you saw your uncle?”

“A few months before the…before I got…before Dad disappeared. I think.” Again the nod, and a few notes written. I thought to ask to look at her notes, but I forgot.

On Friday, I had a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson and the high school principal. This was not a meeting I wanted to have, but Mr. Stevenson explained that it was necessary to give the school notice of the change in my status, and the reasons for it. His thinking was that if we got the school on our side, they’d actually help me graduate on time.

I hadn’t really thought about graduating. I hadn’t gotten much farther than thinking about what to do when springtime came along, honestly. The principal, Mrs. Vetter, was a much, much nicer person than Dr. what’s-his-name back in Carlsberg. She was courteous and actually seemed concerned.

We all sat together in a group in her office; she and I on a little couch, and the Stevensons in comfortable chairs. When Mr. Stevenson explained the situation – using the barest outline of the facts – Mrs. Vetter looked both concerned and sympathetic.

“Andy, I’ve had a chance to look at your grades since you’ve been at Blackburn High. You’re doing remarkably well here. Straight A’s.” She spoke directly to me, which I appreciated. “But the transcript I have from – let me see, New Salem High School? – am I right in understanding that it isn’t accurate?”

I looked at the floor. “No, ma’am.”

“So, how did we get this document?” she asked.

“I forged it, ma’am. I put in all the class names and the grades I could remember from my old school and printed it out. I’m sorry. I…I just didn’t want to have to leave here.”

I tiny smile creased her lips. Then she frowned professionally again. “I see. I understand your father – now deceased – was abusive. Is there anything physical I or the staff here needs to be aware of?”

I swallowed hard. “There are…scars. Mostly on my back. I don’t take my shirt off for gym class. Not ever. Not that anyone’s ever bugged me about it.”

Mr. Stevenson intervened, “I’m working on obtaining Andrew’s official birth, school and medical records from his original city of residence. You should have this information as soon as I have certified documents for you to look at. We’ve also had Andrew in for a variety of medical checkups and tests; Dr. Wagner will forward you a valid medical form by Monday.”

Mrs. Vetter nodded. “I understand that getting accurate records might be hard. We will need them fairly soon. Should I expect them from you or from Judge Harrison’s office?”

“I’m not sure. But I hope to have what you need within a few weeks. Would that be sufficient?”

“That will work, as long as Andrew’s medical forms from Dr. Wagner come in on Monday.”

Mr. Stevenson had another item. “The other thing is that Andrew is still dealing with issues related to his father’s death and his subsequent homelessness. We’d be very, very grateful if all of this was kept strictly confidential.”

“Of course. Andrew, is there anything you want to tell me, or that I can do?”

I shook my head. “No ma’am. I’m just sorry to be so much trouble.”

“That’s all right. You’re no trouble. But I want you to promise me – here, in front of your guardians – that if there is something you need, you will come and ask me for it. If it is in my power to help, I’ll be happy to do so.”

Again, I nodded. “All right. I can do that.”

That night, Judge Harrison and his wife came to dinner. It seemed like a pleasant social affair, but at least part of the purpose of the visit was for the Judge to check up on me. His ward. The dinner was enjoyable – I am going to have to learn how to cook pork like that, because I couldn’t help eating a lot – but afterwards, the Judge took me into Mr. Stevenson’s study for a few minutes.

We sat in the room’s only chairs.

“So, Andrew, you look healthy, and I’m told your physical and dental checkups went fairly well. And you certainly seem to eat well,” he added.

I blushed at that. “I know, I probably took more than I should have.”

“Nonsense, Andrew. You’re a growing boy. How Garrett and Monica manage to feed you and Zander is astonishing. That you’re hungry is not. Now, how is school going?”

We spent a little while talking about school, my classes and teachers, and that sort of thing. He moved on. "I want you to know I haven't heard back yet in response to my inquiries in Carlsberg."

I sat up straighter and paid attention.

"That doesn't mean you're in the clear, you understand," he warned. "It just means my sources haven't answered my inquiry for information. These things can sometimes take a while if you're asking outside of normal channels."

"So I might still be taken back to Carlsberg," I said.

"Yes, you could," he admitted, "but if you go, I'm sure your guardian will be there with you."

That was slightly reassuring.

Judge Harrison changed the subject. “Do you have chores?”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “Mrs. Stevenson gives me and Zander a list for the week. It’s not hard at all. Really. They’ve been so good to me, it’s incredible. And I can still do my running and work…”

“You work after school?” Judge Harrison interrupted.

“Yes, sir. I work shoveling walks and doing chores for Harold Abbott and Marjorie McDowell. I’ve worked for them since September.”

The Judge seemed pleased at that. “You know Marge McDowell? That’s very good.” He paused for a moment. “Well, that’s enough for now. You go on and find Zander. We’ll talk again in a week or so.”

And on top of all the doctoring and meetings and stuff, it snowed on Wednesday, and again on Thursday, so there was shoveling at the Abbott’s and Mrs. Marjorie’s to do. Zander had a swim meet Thursday that I wasn’t going to miss. There was running with Kaz in the morning. And chores. And homework.

All pretty much the same as before. Kaz and Terry know about me and Zander being together, but nobody else does. That's the way we want it. I think it might have gotten out that I'm living with the Stevensons, though. I got that idea listening to passing lunch table conversation. I didn't want to speak up about it and make it obvious, but I don't really mind. People have seen me at Zander's swim meets and leaving school with Zander's mother. We have the same last name, after all. Maybe they think I'm some kind of cousin.

By Saturday, I was more than ready to luxuriate in sleeping late. I can’t believe how much just a week has changed my life. Every day, I drowse happily, held comfortably in Zander’s arms. I haven’t had a single bad dream since we’d started sharing a bed. Zander has been amazingly cool about just being there for me. I love kissing him and holding him, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. I get hard when we make out, and I know he does too. I’ve felt it, even though Zander sometimes tries to keep me from knowing. But he has been very careful not to touch me in a sexual way, really. That's probably as much as we can handle right now.

Zander's parents seem to be okay with our sleeping together, at least for the moment. I think they know that I need Zander, and maybe that he might need me, too. I know that Mrs. Stevenson – Monica – checks on us sometimes, because I've heard the door open very quietly once or twice in the middle of the night.

My nightmares seem to have faded, at least for now, replaced by the reality of Zander’s love. I’m beginning to wonder if I could let him in, at least a little.

For now, I’m content to let him circle his arms around me and wonder how I can ever begin to return what he’s given me.

February 22

Finally, life is a little bit more normal. Okay, not normal for me, but less busy. My only appointment so far this week was yesterday with Dr. O’Shea. She keeps coming back to my dreams, and about Dad and Uncle Ray. She asked again for me to describe them in more detail, and to talk about the dreams in greater depth. Funny, now that I’ve stopped having them, I dread them less. I can talk about them more. But Dr. O’Shea is really kind, and she hasn’t pushed me too hard about this. I have the feeling that she might do that, one day.

On the other hand, I got pushed this morning on a subject I’d quietly hoped to avoid. Surprisingly, it was Kaz who brought it up while I ran alongside him and Zander in the cold, dark morning air.

We’d finished most of our run and were in the last part of our warm-down before getting to the school and a hot shower. Kaz and Zander, at least, had enough breath for conversation. It was at this point that Kaz spoke up.

“I’ve got a question that’s been bugging me,” he said as he jogged along.

I looked over at him quizzically. I had a bad feeling about the question that was about to follow.

“If your dad died last summer, then that guy at the movie theater last fall – who was he?”

The question shouldn’t have stunned me, but it did. This wasn’t a question I wanted to answer. I avoided it, for what, two weeks, changing the subject whenever there was even a hint of it in the air. Every time, I'd successfully shrugged, shaken my head, made the whole thing go away. But not this time. No luck.

Kaz kept talking, the way he always does while we run together. He didn’t mean anything by it; he just likes to fill the silence with sound.

“It’s been bothering me for a while, now…” Kaz began, talking as if my discomfort wasn’t obvious.

Of course, I hadn’t told anyone about Roger Green Hat. I hadn’t explained to anyone what had happened that night. I’d had such a hard time with it myself. Now I wanted to get away from it.

“…it just doesn’t add up, you know? So I was wondering…” Kaz went on.

I felt so ashamed. Ashamed I hadn’t told them – especially Zander. I hadn’t confided in these wonderful people who I should have trusted weeks, months ago. And I didn’t want to face it. I didn’t want to relive that night, I didn’t want to face my shame, and I didn’t want to face the guilt I felt for not telling Zander about it.

“Who was that guy, Andy?” Kaz persisted.

I wasn’t going to stick around for this discussion. Unconsciously, I put on a burst of speed, pulling away from my running partners.

“Whoa, did I say something wrong?” I heard Kaz ask behind me.

Something just made me want to try to run away from him, away from the awful memory, away from my shame. I ran. I ran like the wind; I ran like the devil was right behind me, like Roger Green Hat was after me again; like I’d run back to the school to hide back in November. I didn’t just pull away from Zander and Kaz. I left them in the dust.

I half expected Kaz to be right behind me when I got to the athletic door at the school, but I was way ahead of them. I was in the shower stall with the water running when I heard them come in. I was out of the shower and off to breakfast before they came out, done with breakfast as they came in. I didn’t see Kaz or Zander for the rest of the morning, and in Physics, Terry looked at me strangely.

At lunch, I decided to hide. I just couldn’t face Kaz. Or Zander. Or the memory of that night. Not for the first time, I crept quietly into my closet in the Library. I sat on a couple of boxes, with my head in my hands, trying to let go of all the emotion – the fear, the shame, the embarrassment from running away and losing control - that I’d been suppressing all morning. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

I fumbled with it for a few seconds – I wasn’t used to it. A text, from Zander.

“Where R U?”

“Alone. Thinking.” I typed back. I had to answer, at least.

There was no response. I figured Zander would let me be for a while. I was wrong. About a minute later, the door to the closet silently opened, and Zander slipped in. He stood there, awkwardly, arms folded across his t-shirt.

“Um, hey,” I tried, softly. I stood.

And before anything else could be said or done, Zander reached out and hugged me tight. Immediately, I felt better.

“Hey, yourself,” he whispered. “I thought you’d be here. Are you OK?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I took a deep breath. “No, I’m not OK. Kaz freaked me out this morning. I’m sorry.”

“Well, he’s freaked out, too. He thinks he insulted you or something.”

I shook my head. “It’s all me. He didn’t do anything. He just asked a simple question. A question I should have talked about a long time ago. Especially with you.”

I didn’t want to have this conversation, but we were going to have it. Right there in the Library closet. I couldn’t look at Zander. I just let him hold me. I thought this might be the last time he ever did that.

“That guy, at the theater last November… He was a guy I met on the road back last summer. There was a day when I got hungry. Really hungry. I hadn’t eaten for days, and I was down to what, maybe eighty five cents? That guy – his name’s Roger…he offered me money and a meal if I’d blow him.” My voice shook, even though I was just whispering. I wiped my nose with my hand. “I did it. He took me back to his truck and I…I sucked his cock for him. Actually, he fucked my face…he…he was pretty rough with me.”

Zander said nothing.

I went on. “And after…he tried to sell me to one of his buddies. He was going to whore me out.”

Zander just held me tighter. He kissed the top of my head. He wasn’t letting go. “But you got away,” Zander stated.

I nodded. “I ran away from the first guy he rented me out to,” I said, through my tears. “It was just bad luck that he was passing through town that night last November and ran into us. He thought I owed him for it. He was going to make me pay him back…and probably something more.”

“So what happened last November?” I heard him ask.

There, in my quiet little closet sanctuary, I decided to tell Zander everything. Every gory detail. He listened as I told him about the gun at my head, about being whipped, stripped and taped up, about shooting Roger’s pillow, about fleeing naked from the truck, and about hiding in that very closet, trying to cope with my stupid emotions. He said nothing the whole time. I didn’t dare look at him.

In the silence, I could hear Zander’s heart beating.

Finally, he spoke.

“He hurt you, didn’t he? That guy, I mean…” Zander interrupted, quietly.

“You saw the cut on my head,” I reminded him.

“No, he hurt you…like…shit, I don’t even want to think about it,” he finally spat out, “and we just let him take you off like that…”

“No,” I said more firmly, “no, he didn’t do anything…to me… that way. I think he was going to, but he passed out drunk before he could.” I paused. “I’m sorry, Zander. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid you’d hate me,” I sniffed again.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Zander said, very seriously. “Me? Hating you? Not possible. I’m sad – incredibly sad – that this happened to you; sad and frustrated that someone hurt you, and I let it happen.” Zander lifted my chin so our eyes met. It was then I realized he’d been crying, too. “But there is no way I could hate you. Never.”

“But I’m a…whore, and a…” I began.

“No, you’re not,” he cut me off. “You’re strong, and smart and determined, and you’re my boyfriend. You’ve got more courage than anyone I know. The more I know about you, the more I want to be with you.”

We were startled by the bell. Lunch period was over – we’d missed it completely.

Zander kissed me, tenderly. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I stood by and let it happen. But we’re here, together, now,” he tried to smile at me, “and it’s never, ever, happening again.”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “You’re too good to me, Zander.”

“No, I’m not good enough for you. Not yet, anyway,” he said with a real smile beginning to break out. “Come on, let’s get to Trig. Don’t want to be late.”

February 24

I wondered what would happen after telling Zander about Roger. The answer was – nothing. Nothing new, that is. Zander and I have kept to our routine: running, work, swim practice/chores, study and writing/drawing time. Sometimes, I can tell that Zander might be thinking about what I told him because his eyes go all sad for a few seconds, but that’s it. No rejection, no shame, no awkward questions. At night, we share a bed – last night, we slept in mine. Nothing happens, unless kissing or cuddling count. There is nothing better than kissing Zander, or being held by him as I fall asleep.

There was one thing about telling Zander the whole Roger Green Hat story – it was easier to tell Dr. O’Shea about it on Thursday. And she helped me think of a way to tell the story to Kaz without him – or me – freaking out about it.

Besides, Kaz had other things on his mind. At lunch on Thursday, Kaz greeted me with, “Shit, Andy, you can sprint!”

I shook my head, wondering what he meant.

“Don’t play all modest on me, pal, I saw you. You left me and Zander gasping. You are way, way, faster than you let on,” Kaz enthused.

“You’re still the fastest guy on two feet,” I tried turning it back on him, “I just surprised you, that’s all.”

“Sorry, Andy, but I know speed when I see it. You’ve gotta try out for the track team this spring.”

Again, I shook my head. I didn’t say anything, but no way is that happening.

Judge Harrison still hasn't heard anything about me from his contacts in Carlsberg. Garrett told me at supper he'd spoken with the Judge this afternoon. Maybe I can hope a little that they forgot all about me.

Tomorrow, Zander has a swim meet out of town again, but I’m not going. He says it’s a dual meet that won’t take long – hardly worth the long drive. He’ll be back by suppertime. I’ll spend the day either working for Mrs. Marjorie or doing chores at home.

Home. I really do like the sound of that.

February 25

Zander got out of bed at five in the morning. On a Saturday. When the alarm went off, I was in the middle of a fantastic dream. In the dream, Zander and I were making out, but we didn’t have any clothes on. I could feel him, all of him. I woke up completely hard, totally turned on, latched on to Zander. I didn’t want to let him go, but I pulled away, embarrassed when I realized he could sense me poking his hip.

“Good dream, huh?” he smiled, kissing me. He turned on the lamp.

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” I returned quietly.

“I’m not sorry, Andy. It feels good.”

God, did it ever feel good to me, too. Zander grinned, as if reading my thoughts. He rolled over on top of me, covering my mouth with his. I savored the long, deep, kiss he gave me. I could feel his hardness. I shivered, but not with fear or shame.

Suddenly, it was over.

“I’m sorry,” he said, moving away quickly, “I must taste awful.”

“I don’t mind. I'm not any different.”

Zander grinned, then looked serious. “I don’t want to push you or pressure you, Andy. It’s just that you’re so damn beautiful, I sometimes forget.”

I just shook my head. Beautiful does not describe me.

Zander got out of bed. “I’ve gotta get going. The team bus leaves in half an hour, and I’ve got to be ready to go.” He smiled at me and entered the bathroom.

I may not be very good looking, but I sure am lucky. The sweetest, kindest, hottest boy in the world loves me. He was going to be gone all day, and I was going to miss him just about every second. But he had to go. This was the last swim meet of the season before the state invitationals.

I went downstairs with Zander and Monica to see him off. She is getting more insistent that I call her that, and I’m trying. I still catch myself calling her ‘ma’am’ or ‘Mrs. Stevenson,’ though. Zander and I kissed again right in front of her before he went out the door. We’re both getting more comfortable with that. I hope she is, also, because it's not something I can stop.

I decided that, as long as I was up, I’d get something done. I threw on my work clothes – my oldest, trustiest jeans and flannel button-down – and got out to the barn to muck the place out.

This wasn’t anywhere near the size of the job I had at the Whitley farm, but there was still plenty to do. The Stevensons kept three llamas, a pair of goats, and couple of cats. Until recently, there had been an old horse, but it had died almost a year ago. I enjoyed the quiet work in the barn. I get along with animals. They don’t mind me, much.

I got into a rhythm, shoveling and mucking, moving and stacking hay, and so on. I kind of zoned out. I didn’t hear Mrs. Stevenson get back. I must have worked for a while when she walked in on me as I was finishing up.

“Goodness, Andy, you startled me!” she cried. She looked around. “I was going to do this, but you look like you’re just about done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I nodded.

“Ooooh, stubborn boys,” she said, smiling. “But really, what are you doing up? Honestly, Andy, you should be back in bed, sleeping late.”

Without thinking, I replied, “I didn’t think I’d get back to sleep without Zander in my bed.”

She raised her eyebrows for a moment. I couldn’t believe I’d blurted that out.

“Let’s go inside,” she said quietly. I put my shovel away, and followed.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Stevenson hung up her old tan barn coat and sighed. “I’m going to make some coffee. How about you?”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “No, thank you.”

“Well, get some juice or something. And maybe pull out some cereal from the pantry, all right?”

I got some breakfast ready for the two of us, and we sat down. There was a nervous silence as we poured milk and started eating.

“Andy, what you said in the barn…” her words trailed off.

I put down my spoon and looked up at her.

“I mean…oh hell, I just need to know,” she said getting frustrated, “are you boys having sex?”

I shook my head, embarrassed at the question. “No. No, we’re not. I don’t think…I’m not ready.” I paused for a few moments. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.” I kept my head down. Things had gotten a little better since I’d talked some things through with Dr. O’Shea, but I wasn’t anywhere near doing anything with Zander. “We sleep together. That’s it.” I wasn’t going to mention kissing and making out. I didn’t think I had to.

She looked a little relieved. “Oh. I’m sorry, Andy, that’s a hell of a question for me to ask. Please forgive me.” She stirred her coffee. “I didn't think you were, but, I just wanted to…it's just that, as I get to know you more and more, Andy, the more and more I get to like you. I can tell what Zander sees in you. You’re good for him, and I think he’s good for you, too, isn’t he?”

I nodded, feeling warm both from the praise and from knowing how much I loved her son.

“I admit, I’m prying,” she continued, speaking carefully, “but I know it’s going to happen sometime, sooner or later. But I want the time to be right. For you. For both of you. And I just wanted to know because, well, because I want the two of you to be safe.”

“You want us to be safe,” I repeated, carefully.

What was she telling me? That it was all right with her if Zander and I were fucking like rabbits? As long as we were safe?

She nodded, "Yes. Safe. And not just with your bodies, but with your hearts."

I stared at the table.

“Garrett and I have talked about this. You say you’re not doing anything, and I believe you. Really, I'd rather it stayed that way. But one day, I know that’s going to change. Someday in the future, you and Zander will want to start…” her words stalled out again, like a mower choked on too much grass. She was finding this rough going, but Monica started up again. “I mean, Andy, I hate to have to ask, but what do you know about sex?” Mrs. Stevenson inquired bluntly.

“You mean gay sex? Sex with guys?” I figured I could be as blunt with her as she was being with me.

She nodded.

“I don’t know much,” I admitted after a few moments. “I’ve…I’ve done oral sex before. Once.”

She took a sip of her coffee and set it down again. “When was that?”

I decided I could do this. I could tell her. After all, Zander knew, and so did Kaz, at least in outline form. I related the story about Roger Green Hat, and what had happened when I was on the road. I gave her an edited version of my second encounter with him in November. When I was done, Monica reached her hand across the table and took mine. I looked up into her face, full of pain and pity.

“You realize, Andy, that none of this was your fault? You couldn’t help being hungry, and you had the worst luck running into a crazy man a second time. Really. It’s not your fault,” she spoke emphatically.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I’m not sure I really believed what she said.

“And that’s the only time you did anything with another guy?” she probed a little further.

I gulped. Dark clouds rapidly formed on the edges of my mind. My heart started pinging hard in my chest. There were things I just wasn’t able to talk about.

I stared at my bowl of cereal slowly growing soggy with every passing minute.

“I’m sorry,” Monica said, “this must be incredibly embarrassing for you. Look, as far as…sex…is concerned, I’m pretty sure Zander knows the theory, but I doubt he knows much about how it works in reality. Is that about how it is for you?”

Finally, question I could answer a little more easily. Maybe someday I'd know how it was supposed to be. How it was supposed to feel.

“Yeah,” I nodded, “that’s kind of where I am.”

“You know about sexually transmitted diseases? HIV and AIDS? Hepatitis?” She quizzed me.

This was embarrassing. I nodded again. “Yes. It was almost all my health class ever talked about back in Carlsberg.”

Monica was relentless. Apologetic, but relentless. In a brisk, businesslike way, she tried to explain the mechanics of gay sex. It sounded like a biology lecture, but I got red-faced, anyway. And then she plowed into safety: condoms, lube, dental dams (that was one I’d never heard of) – and the dangers behind the countless infections waiting to lay low the unwary boy. Maybe she was trying to turn me off of sex altogether. Part of me was listening and part of me was thinking about Roger Green Hat. And Uncle Ray.

Suddenly, and not for the first time, I felt really, really filthy.

How could I think of trying to be with Zander? He didn’t deserve this. He didn't deserve me hurting his heart. The familiar panic began to rise. I’d have to run. I’d have to find a new place where I could just keep away from people, to keep from infecting them with my disease.

I hardly heard Monica change the subject.

“The good news is that your blood work from the lab came back from the doctor. They did a really broad range of tests, and everything – and I mean everything - came up negative. You’re squeaky clean.”

I had trouble with that for a moment. “You mean, I don’t have any of that…stuff…in my blood?”

She smiled at me. “No, you’re safe. I just want to keep you that way.” She changed the subject again. “So why don’t we get you a haircut today? It’s about time, I think.”

I blinked.

So I’m clean. I can’t infect Zander. Or anyone. Why do I still feel dirty? This is something to ask Dr. O’Shea, I think.

The last meet of the season before the State Invitationals was brutal. Not because of the competition; there was only one serious competitor there, Greg Earwin, from last summer. He backed up his boasts with real action; that guy could swim. And he was gay.

Aggressively so. He decided to flirt with me from the first moment he saw me enter the pool area. I couldn’t seem to avoid him. Was he trying to distract me? Make me lose a second or two? If so, it worked. Maybe he thought the flirting would unsettle me. It wasn’t his vaguely dirty doubletalk that did it. The truth is that the image of him screwing the coach in the showers last summer messed up my concentration. I wanted you, not him; but the memory of Greg buried in the coach’s ass was burned into my mind.

I lost a relay I ought to have won. Coach was frustrated; I was just mad. Greg didn’t let up; the subtle touching, the arch looks, the suggestive remarks under his breath just kept coming. Finally, after nearly losing the two hundred free to a kid on Greg’s team who had no business getting close, Greg sat down next to me on a bench and started in on me again in a low, smooth voice.

“Hey, Zander, buddy, you’re looking tired. Maybe you need a rubdown after this? I can help you out, you know.”

The aggravation and annoyance had been building hour by hour. Enough. I snapped at him. “Sorry, Greg. Not interested. My boyfriend would object. Can’t wait to get home to him ‘cause his hands are magic.”

For an instant, it was fun watching his jaw drop. He thought he’d been rattling a straight boy’s cage all day. Greg tried to recover. “Boyfriend? Whoa, whoa, you mean you play for my team?” The look on that guy’s face was priceless.

Shit. Well, if I was going to be out, I wasn’t going to apologize for it.

“Let’s just say my guy is back home, waiting for me right now, probably in my room. Maybe even in my bed. And he’s a whole lot cuter than you.”

That last bit is absolutely true, by the way. You are so much cuter than Greg. It left Greg speechless for the first time that day. In my last event, only thoughts of you filled my mind. The way you look when you’re concentrating, the way you breathe when you’re asleep, the smile you save only for me. That’s what I thought of. And I won. I beat Greg himself in the 500 free by a mile. Served him right, dammit.

Back home, the first thing I did was to give you the biggest hug. You looked different somehow. Mom had made you get a haircut; it looked fantastic on you. That night, in your bed, I asked, “Andy? Could you rub my shoulders a little?” Honestly, there was a twinge under my left shoulder. No lie.

It wasn’t hard to sense your indecision. Was it too much to push you that way? Then you said, “Okay. Turn over.” I felt you straddle my back; you weren’t heavy at all. I heard you breathe. And then your fingers and hands started in on me. Even through my t-shirt, your touch on my shoulders really was magic to me. You kneaded the muscles under and around the shoulder blade and up by my neck, and whatever stiffness I’d had fled. Well, sort of. My shoulders were fine, but I was really stiff elsewhere. And I didn’t want that to go away.