You, Me, and Henry Rollins - 2. Chapter 2

He´s thought about it for a long long time
About being attracted to his own kind
He´s ready to take those fantasies
And make them into something real
And finally do all the things
He´s been dreaming of
He´s joining the cocksucker club
To not have to pretend he was drunk
When he seduced his roommate on his bunk
He might be bi, he might be gay
But he knows he´s finally ready to say
Some of the things
He´s constantly thinking of
By joining the cocksucker club
So lick lick lick suck suck suck
Unroll the condoms and fuck fuck fuck
Down on your knees, giving good head
Do it on your parents´queen-size bed
- Cocksucker's Club by Pansy Division

---

When I get home, Abby is sitting at the kitchen table with a tall glass of milk and some Oreo cookies, like something out of a cheesy ad. She looks up at me with suspicion as I come in. Her eyes narrow and she purses her lips like an old lady.

“You smell like smoke,” she bitches, and dunks an Oreo. “I’m going to tell mom.” She smirks and pops the Oreo in her small mouth. Her cheeks bulge and she looks like a chipmunk. Chipmunk girl.

I ignore her and pour myself my own glass of milk. I watch her eat her Oreos from mom’s spot in the kitchen. She really is methodical about her eating habits. She dunks the cookie halfway in the milk, and doesn’t let a drop land on her plate. Sometimes she’ll take the cookie apart, scrape out the middle, and then dunk the cookie halves individually. She’s kind of anal retentive for a five year old.

“Where were you?” she asks, dusting her hands off over the plate, looking up at me with a vaguely cherubic expression.

I finish my milk and dump the glass in the sink. “A concert.” I look at the clock on the microwave. “It’s kind of late. Why aren’t you in bed?” She shrugs, lifting her little hands in a gesture subconsciously adopted from watching Mom.

She finishes her glass of milk and wipes away the moustache with the back of her hand. “Felt like staying up. Mom didn’t stop me.” She’s probably storing away this information for future use. It’s weird to watch her learn how to get away with shit; I don’t remember doing that kind of thing when I was little. As I’ve said, I’m nowhere near as smart as she is, but I wasn’t even slightly conniving.

She gets up and walks over to the sink, her padded feet scuffing on the hardwood floor. She likes those jumper things, you know, the ones that kids wear when they’re really little? With the bootie feet and the zipper up the middle. She looks like some kid in a old seventies movie, with dark pig-tails and bright red footed pyjamas. She puts her plate in the sink and looks up at me, holding her hand out expectantly.

Sometimes I forget how young she is ‘cause she’s so fucking precocious. Stuff like wetting the bed, and nightmares, and imaginary friends, she’s going through all that. I barely remember any of those things. And I’m sort of used to my mom putting her to bed and stuff. So I guess now she wants me to walk her upstairs.

So I do. And she seems to have forgotten that I smell like smoke and sweat, and she’s chatting away happily about Winnie the Pooh. I forgot about Winnie the Pooh. She says that Eeyore is her favourite, and she thinks Owl is a bitch. Her words, not mine.

“Don’t use that word,” I admonish.

“You use it all the time,” she replies smugly and climbs into her twin bed. I pull up her comforter, and she holds out her arms.

“What?”

“A hug,” she says, exasperated. I hug her gently, sort of afraid I’ll break her. She lets me go after a few moments and waves me out of the room regally. “Go shower.” She wrinkles her nose and waves her hand in front of her face. “Ew.”

Thanks, Abby, thanks a lot.

I drive Abby to school the next morning. She doesn’t like first grade, but I think it’s only because she actually has homework now. She’s still the queen of the playground, and she seems like the kind of girl who will stay in charge. I sort of hope she doesn’t turn out like one of those cheer leading, Abercrombie girls. They fucking annoying me. I think she’s too smart for that. I don’t know. She’s already popular, and in a way that I never was. I think I was too obsessed with boogers to garner much popularity. Abby, on the other hand, can command the entire playground in a bizarre make believe game that involves Dora the Explorer, Pooh Bear, and about a billion Barbies. Why do kids like Barbies? I don’t get it.

So I drop her off, and she surprises me with a sticky kiss as she gets out of the car. “Mom is picking me up,” she yells over her shoulder and she sprints off to join her little friends and I idle for a few moments more, just watching her tackle some poor little boy in a green polo shirt.

I pick up Carl from his house. His parents apparently impounded his car due to “reckless behaviour.” Translation: they caught him smoking pot in his bathtub. I don’t really see how it was reckless; it wasn’t like he was at any risk of drowning. Anyhow, so Tom has been giving him rides, but apparently Tom isn’t really coming to school much right now, so Carl asked me for a ride. I like Carl a lot, so I don’t mind.

I should probably admit something here. I like Carl. A lot. I mean, I always have. And for a long time, I liked him “like that.” Yeah, of course, that’s me, falling for the ambiguously straight guys. I mean, if you didn’t know that Carl was an affirmed snatch-catcher you might think he was like gay or something, but the truth is, he’s just effeminate. And he likes pussy, a lot. I mean, he’s not one of those horrible people who feels they have to prove they’re straight (haha, like me?), but he’s definitely straight. And the girls love that he’s so in touch with his feelings, and that he can go shopping with them. He’s more gay than I am, if you pay any attention to stereotypes that is. Luckily I haven’t tried to kiss him or anything. I cling to him when I’m super drunk though, or so they tell me.

Carl was my best friend when we were kids. We’ve grown apart, and we don’t have sleep overs any more (shame about that, really). But we were inseparable until he started dating, and now we’re just good friends who talk a lot. He’s kind of distant sometimes though, like right now.

He’s really quiet this morning and I wonder if he’s had a fight with Ellen, which would be a shame, because she’s beginning to grow on me, although she reminds me a lot of that chick from Juno, although that might just be her name. Ellen Page, is the actress’s name, so I guess I’m just doing some bizarre association thing. Brunette indie girl named Ellen, must be like Ellen Page. Stupid, I know.

“What’s up?” I ask him, finally breaking our slightly uncomfortable silence.

He smiles, but it’s a kind of stressed one. Like the middle of his brow gets all frowny and wrinkled, even though he’s smiling. It’s kind of a weird mix. I don’t really like it. But he gets like this all the time. When he’s worried, when he’s upset. It’s like his default face.

“Nothing, really,” he says lamely. It’s the “really” that tips me off.

“Oh.” I look at him out of the corner of my eye. Yeah, the corners of his mouth are turned down, but not in a stupid clown face, but more like a trying not to cry face. Oh fuck. I can’t remember the last time Carl cried. Probably that time I pushed him into the pool with his favourite shirt on. He was so pissed off. “Carl, what’s up? You look... really sad.” I want to smack myself upside the head. I sound so fucking eloquent. Not.

He struggles for a few moments, but I know him and I know that he’ll fess up soon enough, as long as I keep my trap shut and don’t force it.

“I just...” He sighs and rubs his face with his hands. “I don’t know. I’m just a little sad today, you know?” He looks at me glumly. “Just one of those days.”

“Those days” happen to Carl a lot. I mean, he’s not suicidal or anything, but about once a week he’ll get the frowny expression and his eyes get all big and he’s in his own little world. It’s weird, but he doesn’t think seeing a doctor will help. I want to try doping him up with Prozac just to see what happens, but I’m probably not the best judge on these things anyway.

Sometimes I want to be mad at him. He doesn’t have any problems, or real ones any way. But then I feel selfish, because I don’t really have any problems either. I mean, besides that one little GAY part, but really, that’s not a big deal. That’s my issue to deal with. We both have good parents, good families. Good grades (most of the time), we’re not addicted to anything, yet.

As I always do, I tell Carl to see a therapist.

He shakes his head, and it’s like every single conversation we’ve ever had on “one of those days.” He doesn’t want to see a doctor because he thinks that it’s something that’s not a big deal and it’ll go away. Well, it hasn’t gone away and it’s been around for a few years, so I think a therapist is a good thing. Hell, maybe he has some big secret like I do. Maybe he’s got some bizarre fetish that he needs to tell someone about. Whatever. My point is, he’s stubborn. It’s like he likes staying sad and feeling sorry for himself.

We arrive at school and we’re still arguing about this.

“Just see a fucking doctor already,” I say, trying not to sound unsympathetic. “Carl, it’s not a joke any more. It’s not something you can just wish away.” Oh god do I know about wishing things away. Like wishing away a boner caused by Mr A, or more commonly, by Carl.

He rolls his eyes and pretends he doesn’t hear me. Ellen is waiting for him at his locker, and she doesn’t seem to notice, probably because she’s already talking about something very important, even though it’s just about Gabby’s new boyfriend, who apparently does meth. Whoop-dee-doo. I like Ellen, but she’s pretty stupid if she can’t tell Carl’s not in the mood to hear about Gabby’s boyfriend’s crystal habit.

I leave them, Ellen gabbing away, and head towards my first class. Carl may not want to talk to anyone, but even I know that sometimes you can’t keep everything bottled up. I’m one to talk, really, but I don’t let it get to me.

I’m beginning to think I’m sort of a hypocrite. Which is not a revelation anyone wants to come to.

Lunch is the usual group, you know. The same people over and over again. I like most everybody in our gang, although Tom can be a prick. Like right now. He’s still bitching about Teddy, only because Teddy isn’t here to defend himself. Not that any of us are paying any attention to Tom, because we know his deal. Although the little freshman, I think his name is Luke, is hanging onto Tom’s words like he’s some sort of god. I hate it when we get these kids who cling to Tom. Maybe it’s his attitude, but all these lower class boys seem to think he’s the shit. He’s not. Believe me, he’s a jerk most of the time. But we love him anyway, ‘cause we’re his friends. It’s not like we’re going to start acting like him, like these kids. Stupid shits.

“Teddy has no loyalty!” he mutters to himself, and Luke nods avidly, as if he’s expecting us all to start nodding like old biddies or something. Stupid shit.

Carl seems ill at ease. He keeps fidgeting, playing with his lighter: on off on off. I watch him, chewing slowly. My sandwich tastes like sawdust in my mouth. I keep thinking about Adrian, that stupid boy from last night. And Carl. And my usual sexual fantasies involving Carl have morphed into this bizarre threesome with Adrian.

“...Teddy needs to be taught a lesson,” Tom growls, throwing the wax from his cheese at Bobby, who catches it easily and chucks it back, beaning Tom in the head. Tom’s startled for a moment, but is barely derailed from his “I hate Teddy” speech. God, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was jealous of the girlfriend. Although that might be it, now that I think about it. I look at Tom quickly. Gay? Probably not. Just manipulative and neurotic. He keeps going.

His voice is a dull drone in the back of my head. I stare at the tomato in my sandwich and wonder how many miles it's gone to be in my lunch. It’s kind of mealy, one of those hard tomatoes from the store that have virtually no taste and no colour.

“Hey guys,” someone says.

I look up from my tomato. It’s Adrian. I nearly jump out of my pants, and succeed in dropping my sandwich in the dirt.

Adrian leans over and scoops it up, furrowing his brow.

“Sorry about that, man.” He puts it in my hands, his long fingers brushing against mine. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” I glare at him and look at my sandwich. It didn’t taste very good, but I still wanted to eat it. I sigh bitchily and put it back in the bag before throwing the bag into my backpack.

“Hey Adrian,” Carl says, talking over Tom’s steady monotone about Teddy. “How’s it going?”

How the fuck does Carl know Adrian? This is way too much. I’ve been doing okay all day, and now I’m all on edge and wired. I feel like I can feel each pore, each cell. And my dick is already starting to stiffen in my briefs. Shit shit shit.

I’m really gay, really really gay. I try to think about old lady vaginas and smashed bananas and anything nasty just to deflate my trouser snake. Not working! I give Carl a stricken look which he does not notice. Fucker. He’s busy talking to Adrian about their city college class, something about economics, and I’m squeezing my legs together and flushing the colour of my tomato in the dirt.

“I gotta go,” I say, standing, legs crossed. I stumble a bit and everyone watches me, surprised. Well, I’m sure they’ve never seen me this flustered. Except when I’m drunk; apparently I’m pretty clumsy then too. And right now I want nothing more than to run away. “I have to go... bathroom.” I point weakly towards the school, and take off.

“Wait up, I’ll come with you,” Adrian calls and before I can start sprinting, he’s at my side, talking. Talking. Fuckity fuck fuck. I feel like one of those girls in the old Beatles videos. “Ahhh it’s Ringo!” Except that Adrian is a lot hotter than Ringo.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Adrian says, and I realise that he’s probably been talking this whole time and I haven’t said a word.

“You have?” I try to sound calm, and sound like a chipmunk instead. Great. Now I’ll be known as the boy with the constant woody and the chipmunk voice. And I’m sure he can tell that I’ve got it bad for him. Except that I hate, hate straight boys who mess with gay guys. I hate them, hate them. And I want to hate Adrian, but it’s very hard when he’s smiling all innocent like. Fucker.

He grins. “Oh yeah. You seem interesting. Carl only says good things about you.”

Carl talks about me? “Oh yeah? What does he say?” I can’t help myself. I’m a gossipy fag deep down. Or not so deep down if Adrian can elicit this from me within moments. I mentally slap myself and put on my best sneer. Sneer, sneer. Channel Draco Malfoy, dammit!

Adrian smirks, as if he knows just what I’m doing. “Yep. Says you’re a cool guy.”

Cool? That’s it? Fuck you too, Carl. I grunt sarcastically (I don’t know if grunts can be sarcastic, but I sure as hell mean for this one to be). Cool?

As if he knows what I’m talking about, he continues. “Yeah, he says you’re smart and you have a good record collection. Can I see it sometime?” I nearly stop in my tracks. And now I’m pissed at Carl for telling Mr Hotness (I did not just think that) about my record collection.

My dad started collecting vinyls for me when I was born. It was mostly stuff he likes, you know, oldies. Beatles, Led Zeppelin. And he likes eighties stuff too, so there’s a T-Rex vinyl, and a Wham album (I laugh at him about that one), and all this music that I really love. So he gave it to me when I turned ten, and told me how to take care of it, and how I could get more. And ever since then I’ve been collecting vinyls. I don’t like to DJ, and plus I don’t want to scratch any of my precious LPs, but I have a really big stack at home now. I think I have over a hundred. A lot. Mostly punk, but a good number of electronic and ambient.

“Uh...” I don’t want Adrian to see it. It’s my baby. It’s like, my substitute for a boyfriend.

He pouts and I want to chew on his lower lip, which is hanging out impressively. Fuck this.

“No.” I walk away.

“Uh, Eli?”

“What?” I snap, turning around. He points.

“The bathroom is right here.”

I glare at him and rush into the bathroom lest I burst into tears or something equally girly.

I need a shirt that says “FAG” on it, so that I don’t have to tell people, but they know anyway. It’s not that I’m not proud of myself, or that it’s disgraceful to be gay or something. I know, I know, equality for all and all that stuff is great and realistically I’m not worried about getting the shit beaten out of me. We’re in a pretty liberal town, I don’t think I’ll be beaten up. I’m worried about the little stuff. The snubs, and losing friends. I guess any friend who can’t handle me being gay isn’t much of a friend, but that doesn’t mean I want no friends at all.

I am sitting on the bluffs right now. I went to Isla Vista and got some food at Naan Stop, some kind of daal, and now I’m out here watching people jog by and looking for dolphins in the surf way down below. No dolphins today, not sunny enough for them.

Carl and I have this bench we always come to on the bluffs. It’s an old wooden thing that the University refuses to replace, and we’re glad of it. There are lots of things carved on it. You know, the usual. “Britney loves Matt.” “Suck my dick.” The usual things people like to etch into wood for posterity. I wonder if Britney and Matt are still together. I wonder if they guy who wrote “Suck my dick” was gay. Probably not. Probably just rude. I sigh and stare at my daal.

I’m picking up Carl tonight and we’re going to a party in I.V. Carl’s not really looking forward to it because a bunch of his ex-girlfriends will be there and at least one will probably succeed in seducing him when he’s super drunk and take him home, and in the morning he’ll have to explain everything to Ellen. Which doesn’t sound attractive at all. Maybe I should be glad I’m single. Sure, wanking off alone is well, lonely, but at least it doesn’t involve having to actually relate to someone.
Anyhow, Carl has a low tolerance threshold, and all his girlfriends seem to still have the hots for him (not that I can blame them), no matter how the relationship ended. Even if he was a cheating shit who broke her heart, chances are she’ll happily take him back. Weird, huh? I don’t get why he has this magnetism that just draws people.

I wanted to carve “I love Carl” in that damn bench when I was sixteen. I came out here, drunk as a skunk and just a bit high, emo as hell. Of course, I sat on the bench and cried my little sixteen year old heart out because “oh woe, I’m gay and nobody loves me, etc.” You know, the regular shit when you’re young and kind of different. I’m over that, I should let you know. Well maybe not “over” it, but I definitely handle it much better. Anyhow, so I hauled out my pocket knife and got halfway through the heart before I sobered up and realised that Carl would probably be heading out here to join me momentarily and if he found my carving “I love Carl” into our bench, it might just be the end of everything.

And every time I come back here, I check for that half carved heart and contemplate finishing it. I guess I’m still holding a candle for Carl (what a horrible phrase) and part of me (all of me) pines for him still, but whatever. I never finish that heart.

Sounds cheesy huh? Even I think it sounds cheesy. I’m supposed to be this butch guy with gnarly piercings in certain places that take serious resistance to pain, and here I am pining after my best very straight friend and doing things like carving hearts into fucking benches. Very fucking sappy and very stupid.

I finish my daal and throw my trash in the can. I have to pick up Teddy.

Teddy’s a good guy. I mean, he got me cheesecake.

“You’ve seemed kind of bummed for the last few days,” he explains, handing me a slice. There’s a raspberry on top. I want to kiss him, but figure that’s probably not okay. Instead I grin like a fucking idiot. He’s got another slice in his other hand. He sees me watching and explains. “This is for Carl. Wanna drive over to his place? He’s expecting us.”

I gingerly give him back my plate and start the engine.

Teddy’s a really good guy. I mean, how many guys notice when their friends are down in the dumps? Not many, that’s for sure. I’ve always considered myself closer to Tom, but Tom doesn’t notice shit. I could be slicing my wrists with a butcher knife and Tom would tell me about his lactose intolerance. But Teddy, Teddy cares about everyone. He’s like a teddy bear of a guy. Not that he’s hairy or fat, or even like a “bear” in any sense of the word, he’s actually a really skinny dude. But I mean more like, he’s really sweet. I think his Goth girl is pretty lucky to have him. Although she probably wants him to drink her blood or something, so maybe she doesn’t appreciate his sweetness. I fucking hope she does. He got me cheesecake!

When we get there, Carl is in his living room, staring at the television with a rather dead looking expression. But he brightens when he sees us, and squeals when he sees the cheesecake. He gives Teddy a kiss on the cheek and I am instantly very jealous of both of them.

I’m not jealous of the kiss, don’t worry, I’m not that stupid. I’m very aware that it was completely platonic (although it’d be hot if it wasn’t). No, I’m kind of jealous that they can express that sort of physical affection. I mean, guys don’t really. But my friends are the huggy sort. They hug, a lot. I guess it’s because they’re all pretty liberal. And in junior high, we would dare each other to make out with each other because apparently it didn’t mean anything, we were just “practising” for when we met girls. Sure, for everyone else. But for me, a hug means I could get found out. So I don’t hug. And I never participated in those kissing dares. Except for once, but I don’t want to talk about that.

Well, I do hug Carl. But he’s an exception to the rule. And I never hug him in front of other people. And I have to be pretty skunked. Or blitzed.

We sit on his couch eating cheesecake. Carl mutes the T.V. And Teddy provides commentary for Tila Tequila. It's mostly about her breasts, and even though I don't feel any attraction to them, I still find his comments funny. We all laugh and I snort cheesecake a few times, and before we know it, it's time to go to the party.

The thing about high school parties is that they're stupid. So we don’t go to high school parties. Carl’s cousin is going to the university, so we get invited to his parties all the time. And there’s always beer and pretty good music, and sometimes we mosh around in his living room, which he clears out for that exact purpose. Best of all (to some, at least) it’s a way to meet girls. So Carl and Teddy will work their way through the crowd, steadily checking off girls. If they’ve slept with them before, it’s a no go, and if they’re skanky, usually it’s a no. I follow them and try to flirt too, and sometimes I even get a girl interested. And then I ask for her number and never call.

Well, sometimes I do. And we go for a movie and dinner, and it’s just to get Tom off my back and keep the guys at bay. As long as they think I’m sexually active they’ll leave me alone. And I know it’s time to pretend to hook up with someone as soon as they start telling me I need to get laid.

Truth is, and you probably already guessed this, I’m a virgin. My mom even thinks I’m banging chicks. She buys me condoms for Christmas, and has been since I was fourteen. My dad just rolls his eyes and says “Boys.” As if that explains everything. And my mom gives me “the speech” once a year about how I shouldn’t knock people up and how I should date someone. She doesn’t like the idea of sleeping around. I guess she’s scared I’ll catch syphilis. Which would be funny, in a weird way. Not that catching syphilis is funny, it’s just impossible if you aren’t even having sex.

A couple girls have given me blow jobs, but that was because we were both drunk enough for me to let her. Not because I wanted or even asked for one. I don’t think it’s right to ask a girl to go down on me, especially if I don’t feel anything remotely close to attraction to her.

I guess on the Kinsey scale I’m a perfect homo. A perfect faggy six. I have never had a crush on a girl. I’ve faked a few crushes, but that’s not hard to do. No sexual feelings for girls at all. I did fall in love with a girl once. But she turned out to be a transsexual, female to male. And he’s really hot now. But it's not like I'm out to him or anything.

So we arrive at the party and I’m already wanting to go home. It’s not that Carl’s cousin, Marc, throws bad parties. The beer is good, and rarely piss, and the people are all nice and very few are jocks or normal people. It’s nice to be at a place where I don’t stand out because of the weird bars in my ears, or because of Carl’s tattoos. We’re like, practically normal here. Except for me, because not only am I a punk, I’m a bona fide homo. And I can’t get drunk, because I’m the designated driver. Dammit.

It’s just past midnight and I’m sitting on the edge of the pool. My shoes are on the deck and I’m swishing my toes in the blue. I want to swim, but I haven’t the balls to get naked in front of all these people. I may be the only person sober enough to get in safely, but that doesn’t mean I should.

Someone puts their hand on my shoulder and I almost fall in the pool from shock. It’s Adrian.

Why the hell does this guy keep surprising me? I’m too surprised to spring wood, thank god, but I am a little disturbed to see him here.

“Adrian,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

“Eli,” he says, and he sounds genuinely pleased to see me. Now I feel bad. But really, I don’t want another unrequited friendship. I have enough of those. Hell, I’ve probably had major crushes on all my friends (save Tom) at least once.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My brother’s house.”

“Your brother’s house?” I repeat stupidly.

“Yeah, my brother.”

“I thought this was Carl’s cousin’s house.”

“Carl’s my cousin too,” Adrian explains.

This is a fucking annoying coincidence. I try to hide my distress, but I guess I fail. He sits down next to me and puts a hand on the small of my back. I jerk forward. And lose my balance. And fall in the fucking pool.

I mean, I know I wanted to go swimming, but this isn’t what I had in mind.

I surface, spluttering and cussing up a storm. Adrian is trying not to laugh, but he’s failing pretty miserably.

“What the fuck?” I can’t hide my outrage. “What is it with you and scaring the shit out of me?”

He’s laughing outright now and I splash water at him, only slightly pissed off now. He’s fucking adorable when he laughs. He does this like bendy over thing, clutching his stomach, heaving like he can’t breathe and turning pink. And there are crinkles around his eyes. Now I’m laughing too, and it’s stupid and I guess he doesn’t realise it but I’m a fast swimmer, and before he knows it, I’m pulling him in as revenge of sorts. Not to mention I want to see how hot he is when he’s wet.

He comes up choking and for a moment I’m scared that I killed him. No, he’s fine. Indignant, in a good way.

“Fuck you,” he says good-naturedly, coming over to me with sure strokes. Oh fuck, he’s going to dunk me. And then he’s sitting on me, and I go under like a rock. And I realise that if the water wasn’t absolutely freezing, I’d be harder than a rock.

I drive Teddy home. Carl’s gone home with an ex (I told you he would). Teddy seems a little smacked, and I’m reluctant to let him go in, but his mom doesn’t seem upset, in fact, she seems glad I brought him home. Probably so she can chew him out when he wakes up. At least she cares, unlike some parents.

Adrian and I hung out most of the evening, around the food. I ate chips compulsively, dipping them in guacamole and avoiding his eyes. They're blue. His eyes, that is. This kind of watery blue. Not electric or anything. But it's a pretty baby blue, and I kind of like them. I know that falling in love with straight boys always leads to trouble. Don't get me wrong, I know all about that. But when there don't seem to be any gay guys around, who else are you going to fall for?

That's not true, there are gay guys around. There's a few out guys at school. Eric Lakota, for one. But he's treated like shit. Nobody beats him up or anything, but the guys at school aren't very nice. Eric's pretty flamboyant, and he's not ashamed of shit, and I guess I admire him for that. I always try to be nice to him, but I guess I can't associate with him too closely or people will figure stuff out. I already worry about that. I mean, I have no idea if I pass as straight. I know there's that whole “gaydar” thing and I have no idea if that's real. If it's real, mine must be broken. Because I really can't tell for shit.

And besides, I'm in the closet. Not to myself, obviously, but I haven't even told my parents. And I'm pretty sure they'll react reasonably, they're not total monsters. And I'm not an only child, so they can demand children from Abby. I guess I'm worried that they'll tell their co-workers or something and then the whole town will know that that Smith boy is a fag. And I'll end up with no friends.

Anyhow, maybe I'm just a pansy. Haha. Get it? Pansy?

I drive home slowly. I don't really want to sleep at home. I hope that Abby's not still up. I don't want to have another one of those weird conversations we had a day ago. That was slightly absurd. And I'm a little too high to have another one of those. I know that pot makes most people intellectual, or at the very least, deep, but I've had enough soul-searching with Teddy already and now I just want to sleep.