Dark Star - 9. Chapter 9

The food tastes like ashes. It's steak with grilled veggies, one of my favorites, but I have to force every bite like I'm eating gravel. All I can think of is what I have to say to my parents to make them move me to a different school.

I wish someone would say something. The sound of chewing and clinking becomes infuriating. Usually, Mom and Dad talk about their days or complain about politics. It’s like my mood is so strong that it radiates to the whole room. Like there's nothing left worth talking about.

We're saved by the energy crisis or whatever it is that makes the lights flicker and go off, leaving us in a complete blackout. Enough to remind us that we live in a society.

"Just great!" Dad smashes the table in the darkness.

"It's not just us," Mom says, looking outside the window. She stands up and goes to the kitchen, lighting her way with her phone. She returns a few seconds later, holding a few candles, and proceeds to light them up so we can finish eating.

"Of course, it's not just us," Dad goes. "Go wonder, sitting on a rotten energy deal for literal years would seem like an urgent matter. Not to our fucking beautiful city council, though, oh no! They'd rather sit back and discuss Christmas preparations or gay rights. Gay rights! They already have rights, more than they should." He stands up, seemingly having lost his appetite, and continues his rant. "But you know what we don't have? That's right, electricity! Neither do gays, for that matter. That's the most ironic take on equal rights I've ever heard. No power to the people. Beautiful! Unless they have fucking rainbow power generators in their basements, we are all fucked just the same. You know what I think? I think the council is doing it on purpose. They knew they'd already lost the vote and decided to leave the dirty job to us. Very well! We'll show them how it's done. This is outrageous and pathetic."

I use his outburst as a distraction to excuse myself, but Mom won't have it.

"You've barely touched the food, Tyler," she says.

I look up at her. I don't know what she sees in my eyes, but her face becomes mortified. "I'm not hungry," I say with a tight throat.

"I see," she says and looks away. "It's fine. You can finish later if you want."

No one protests when I go to my room without a word and close the door behind me. I fall on my bed face down and shudder. In the darkness, I almost feel like I'm nowhere. Or back in the womb. Wouldn't it be nice to stay here for a couple months?

I'm woken up in the middle of the night by my lamp, which turns on itself. Looks like the power is back. The light must've been left on when the blackout happened. Half-asleep, I go to take a leak. I feel really weak, dry, and groggy. When I go back to sleep, I'm haunted by strange dreams and visions that make no sense but somehow feel like real life. My life doesn't make sense anymore, so I guess… that makes sense.

When I wake up in the morning, I'm burning up. My throat is sore, and my nose is running and stuffed. I think I heard knocking, but I'm not sure if it was a dream or not. But then I hear it again. It's Mom.

"Tyler, it's half past seven. Come out now!"

This is how she usually wakes me up, and it never takes me more than a few minutes to get downstairs. It means she knocked before, and I didn't hear it.

"Mom!" I call, and my voice sounds like an old saw cutting through a wooden log. She opens the door and comes in. "I think I got a cold."

"Oh god, you look terrible! I should've noticed yesterday."

The good side of having a stay-at-home Mom is that I get complete room service and care. She's always been protective of me whenever I'm sick, but now she seems to double down on her efforts, almost like it's a competition.

"Do you want another tea? Don't answer. You need one," she says, only passing by my room, and a few minutes later, she's back with a hot mug smelling of cloves, ginger, and orange.

Dad works from home today. I know because my room is directly above his office, and I can hear his muffled voice whenever he goes live on Facebook. Luckily, I can't make out any words, but it drones for an hour, and my headache gets even worse.

Rufus texts me around midday. "Where are you?"

I stare at his message for a long time. Why does he make me feel so good and so bad at the same time? Why won’t he leave me alone and focus on actual things of value in his life?

"I'm home, sick. I have a fever," I text back.

"Do you want me to come over after school?"

He just won’t give up, will he?

"No, Rufus. Let me go. It's over. I can't handle it. I'm sorry. Goodbye."

"I get it. Goodbye," he texts me and that's it. I feel sad and relieved at the same time. Maybe in ten years, I will be mature enough to be in a relationship with someone like him. Tons of people just want to have fun these days. I should just hop on board and have some fun too. No need to break anyone’s heart in the process.

The next day, I feel a bit better. Good enough to get a shower and wash off all the sweat. I'm rinsing myself when there's a knock on the bathroom door.

"Tyler, Jim is here!" Mom calls.

My heart races for a second. What is he doing here?

"Is he alone?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Then let him in. He can wait in my room."

I'm relieved that it's just him and not Dwight and Clyde. I feel too weak for another drama; if Jims comes alone, he must come in peace.

I dry myself and realize I didn't bring any clothes, so I wrap the towel around my waist and go to my room on the other end of the corridor. Jim is already there, sitting on my bed.

"Hey, man," he says and ogles me suspiciously. "Your mom says you're sick. Is that true?"

"It is. I have a fever. Now move. I have to get under the sheets."

Jim stands up, and I crawl under the cover. When there, I remove the towel and throw it on my chair, but it slides off to the ground. Jim comes over to pick it up and hangs it with more care.

"Do you sleep naked?" he asks.

"Usually, yeah."

"Your voice sounds rough," he notices.

"Told you, I'm sick."

"We thought you were just hiding."

"This is convenient, not gonna lie," I smile weakly. "But I feel like shit. What are you doing here anyway?"

"I was worried about you, man. I thought you were going to hurt yourself or something."

"No," I say slowly. "Didn't even cross my mind. I have a strong survival instinct, even if everything turns to shit."

"So… can you tell me what's going on now?"

"About what?" I ask. Let's see how far I can go playing stupid. If he wants direct answers, he better learn to ask direct questions. But then he does just that.

"Why didn't you tell me you were into boys?"

I can't look at him. One side of internalized homophobia is that I don't like saying stuff like "being into boys," "gay," or referring to it directly in any other way. A part of it is my hate of being labeled and singled out. But then again, isn't it the same thing?

"I'm into both," I say without conviction.

"So you're bi?" he asks.

"Call it what you want," I shrug.

He looks at me as if calculating how to breach my defenses. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, so good luck with that.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

I shake my head. "It's too much to explain, dude."

This is only partially true. It could be explained with a simple "I'm a spineless coward," but I know where that would lead.

"Did you think I wouldn't want to be friends anymore? We’ve been friends since we were little!"

I sigh and look away. It’s true. Somehow, I tend to forget it. Ever since we started hanging out with Dwight and Clyde, we’ve changed. I know I did. Not sure if I can go back to what I was before.

I look back at him with shame. "It's not like we ever talk about our inner feelings, right? It's good to hear that you don't care, but it's not about you. I told my mom the other day…"

"Really?"

"Yeah. She said it better be a joke."

"Shit… rough."

"And Dad… you know how he is. Don't get me started about everyone at school. I could never do it."

"Why do you think they wouldn't accept you at school? It's not the '80s, dude. Apart from Dwight, no one gave Rufus any shit after he'd come out today."

"Dwight gave him shit?" I ask, and in my mind, another question rings - Rufus came out???

"He didn't beat him up, you know. Just the usual jokes. Nothing too harmful."

"Yeah… Anyway, thanks for not ratting me out the other day."

"Don't worry about it. It sucked that you didn't tell me, but I gotta say, you and Rufus looked cute holding hands."

"Did we?"

"Yes. It was a shocker, ain't gonna lie. But then it started making sense."

"How so?"

"You know, how you suddenly started spending so much time together, how you looked at him… I know we laughed it off, but I'm not that stupid. And maybe I have some sort of a gaydar, too."

"You?" I give him a doubtful look.

"What's wrong? You don't have to be gay to have a gaydar. Which doesn't mean that I'm not."

I squint my eyes at him, but the dorky smile doesn't leave his face. "Drop this bullshit, Jim. You're the least gay person I've ever known."

"That's exactly what I thought about you," he shrugs. "I'm gay. I've done things with guys. Shit, I even messed around with Clyde. He's straight," Jim adds when I open my eyes wide. "But he doesn't mind getting his dick sucked from time to time. Haha, sorry, you didn't want to know that! Just don't tell anyone about me."

"Why? Didn't you just tell me it's alright to come out?"

"Yes, because you seem miserable in the closet. I can tell. Me? I'm happy as I can be. It adds an extra thrill to it."

"That doesn't make much sense."

"It does! I'd never switch it for a boring straight life. Sometimes I wish being gay would be illegal. That would add real stakes to it!"

"You're nuts," I chuckle. "You can move to Iran if you really want to live dangerously."

"Good idea! But for now, since I'm still here… are you and Rufus…"

"No. Don't ask why. As far as I'm concerned, he's free game, but you don't have a chance with your attitude.”

Jim gets up from the chair and sits on the bed next to me. "I wasn't talking about him. Wanna fool around?"

I open my eyes wider. Jim isn't bad-looking, and I do love him - as a friend, almost brother. But I friend-zoned him ages ago, and no matter how strong my gay gene would be, I'd never even start thinking about him that way.

"Dude, we're friends. I don't want stuff to get weird between us."

"It won't get weird. I promise."

"Dude… no. I'm not exactly in a mood. And my mom is downstairs."

"Can I at least see it? Since you're already naked."

“You saw it in the showers. Many times.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. So??

"Dude, just drop it! I’m not in a mood, I told you.”

"Okay, calm down. No means no. Are we good?"

"Yeah, we're good, Jim. Just leave me alone. I need to rest."

"Okay," he says as he stands up. "Don't get up. I'll show myself out."

"Thanks, Jim. We'll talk later. Thanks for talking to me. I feel better."

"De nada, friend. See you later."

I keep thinking about Jim. His visit was strange but therapeutic. Lifestyles are like shoes. There's no one size fits all, and you can't force the wrong size on your foot, or else it'll hurt. Or - you won't be able to fill it.

Mom visits me later with a fresh mug of tea. She's smiling strangely.

"I'm happy that Rufus didn't replace your old friends," she says before leaving the room.