October 1985
With the bell echoing in his ears, Frank pushed himself into the clog of students who were trying to pass through the single open door. A teacher’s efforts to wrestle a second door open were impeded by the flow of book bags and elbows. The second door came free, and Frank followed the swell outside, making his way down the line of buses until he reached his.
He hated the bus, especially after having had two older siblings with cars. In a few months, he’d be sixteen and have wheels of his own, God willing.
Climbing the steps, he scanned heads for the familiar dark mop, and stopped when he saw that Tommy wasn’t alone. Grace Carleton had wedged herself into the seat next to him. Well, not wedged. Though there was more of Grace than most girls. She seemed thrust into the seat next to Tommy in the way a cork stoppered a bottle. Sealed tight and not leaving without a lot of twisting and prying.
And Tommy didn’t seem to mind. His head bobbed up and down and his hands flew up over the back of the seat in front of him. He was telling a story. To Grace. A story Frank really wanted to hear, even if he’d already heard it a thousand times. Which he probably had? Unless something had happened today.
“Find a seat already,” came a grumble from behind.
Frank moved down the aisle and paused next to Grace. Cleared his throat. She didn’t notice him. He threw a silent and desperate plea toward Tommy, but he didn’t look up either. Face burning with embarrassment, Frank continued on toward the back of the bus and the only empty seat—the one next to Neil Crook. Neil was weird. He wore big googly glasses and smelled like mothballs. Thankfully, he didn’t try to make conversation. Frank might have had to smother him if he did. Anything that distracted him from the back of Tommy the Traitor’s head was forbidden.
Why was Tommy sitting with Grace?
On some level, Frank had known this would happen one day; that his infatuation with his best friend was a one-headed beast with only one known direction. Okay . . . so maybe that metaphor didn’t quite work. Frank dug into the side pocket of his backpack and pulled out a bag of Twizzlers. He peeled one from the warm and sticky clump and folded it into his mouth. Now wasn’t the time to eat it bite by bite, seeing if he could find the hollow space in the center. He simply needed something to chew and swallow and chew again.
His angry chomping finally distracted Neil from the book he was reading: a tattered paperback with a spaceship on the cover. Neil peered at the packet of Twizzlers and licked his lips. Narrowing his eyes, Frank got ready to tell him to piss off when he noticed that Neil’s leg was pressed against his, and that Neil’s hand was creeping across the back of his book.
He glanced at Neil’s face again, right when Neil looked up and sideways. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes had an indistinct appearance. Or maybe it only seemed that way because Frank was staring. Frank blinked and Neil’s face came into focus. Huh. He’d changed since third grade, which, okay, most people did. His glasses were just as nerdy, but his face had new and interesting angles to it. And he didn’t seem to suffer the same rash of acne that infected half the high school.
Frank nudged the Twizzlers packet toward Neil and watched, fascinated, as Neil stretched long fingers toward the licorice. Did long fingers really mean a long dick? Frank had measured his but didn’t have anything to compare it to. He had spent a lot of time thinking about the length of Tommy’s fingers—among other things.
Neil peeled off a Twizzler and lifted it toward his mouth. Frank couldn’t stop staring. Neil’s lips parted and his tongue poked out again, touching the tip of the red strip. Then his lips closed over only that part and his cheeks hollowed slightly. He was . . . sucking it. People sucked Twizzlers? Apparently Neil Crook did.
Why was he sucking it? Was this a clue? A cue? A hint?
Blood left Frank’s brain in a dizzying rush, flowing directly southward. His dick twitched. Frank thought in metaphors until it seemed he had the errant appendage under control. Neil shattered all such illusion by opening his mouth and licking the Twizzler, wrapping his tongue around the end, nibbling, and sucking. A keen built in Frank’s chest. A whimper. Maybe a moan? Swallowing, he scrunched the bag of Twizzlers closed and shoved it in the pocket of his backpack, which would remain right where it was in his lap, thank you very much.
The crinkle of plastic drew the attention of the guy across the aisle, who looked over just in time to see Neil thrusting the licorice in and out of his mouth with alarming focus.
“That has got to be the most disturbing thing I have ever seen,” he said.
“You and me both,” Frank muttered.
Neil’s antics were weirdly arousing, but also plain weird. As soon as the bus turned the corner into his neighborhood, Frank got up out of his seat, ignoring the bus driver’s instruction to wait until the damn bus had stopped. The urge to growl as he pushed past Tommy and Grace was strong and strange. Walking with a semi-chub was also strange. The bus pulled to a halt and Frank practically leaped down the stairs. He turned toward the end of the street, desperate to get home and to his room where he could think about a few things. Like why his dick was sort of hard and what Neil’s tongue might feel—
“Wait up.” Tommy fell into step behind him. “Jeez, where’s the fire?”
“Probably in Grace’s panties.”
“What?”
Snorting, Frank lengthened his stride. If he got far enough ahead, Tommy might just wander off. But Tommy caught up and kept pace, panting slightly as he talked. “What’s your malfunction? Was it Ms. Hines? Did you get your essay back?”
Frank clamped his mouth shut and walked faster until his heart knocked wildly behind his ribs. An athlete he was not. At least his dick was under control now.
Tommy grabbed his arm. “Frank, stop. Is this about Grace sitting next to me? It was just a bus ride. What’s wrong?”
“Neil is a freak is what’s wrong.”
“You had to sit next to Crooked Neil? Sorry, wow. Okay, I’m going to make it up to you. What do you want?”
“Not Twizzlers.”
“But those are your favorite.”
Frank stopped, chest heaving. “I may never eat them again.”
“Why?”
Unable to explain all the thoughts zipping around his brain, Frank shook his head and pushed through the front gate of his house. Tommy followed. Frank turned a couple of times to tell him to just go home, but the words wouldn’t come, and when he reached his second-floor bedroom, he was hot, sweaty, tired, frustrated, horny, and kinda mad.
“Do you like her?” he asked Tommy.
“Who, Grace?”
“No, the other girl squashed into the seat with you.”
Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to make fat jokes? Because if you are, I’m heading out.”
“She’s not fat.” Frank should know. He’d been wearing husky sizes since he was six. “I just . . .” She was a girl. Female. And not Frank. Obviously. And how did you tell your friend you wanted to suck his dick like a Twizzler and—
Whoa, where had that thought come from? The candy bag in his head, obviously.
Frank flopped backward onto his bed, letting his book bag thump to the ground, and stared up at the ceiling until the white no longer looked just white.
“What happened with Neil?”
“I gave him a Twizzler and he sucked on it like it was . . .” Frank gestured toward his crotch.
“Wow.”
Frank pushed up to his elbows. Tommy had his desk chair turned sideways so he could sit with his heels up on the desk, ankles crossed. “Are you and Grace going to go out?” Frank asked.
Tommy shrugged. “I dunno. I think she wants to, but . . .” He chewed on his bottom lip. “I don’t know if I like her like that.”
“Who do you like?”
Letting his head drop back, Tommy groaned. “What, are we twelve? I don’t like anyone. Or I like everyone. I don’t know. Why are we having this conversation?” His head jerked up and swiveled toward the bed. “Wait, do you like someone?”
Frank shook his head.
“Liar. I can see it all over your face. Your cheeks are red.”
“That’s because I ran home.”
“Nuh-uh. You like someone. Who is it?”
“You’re right, this is a stupid conversation. We should do our homework.” Or something.
“Is it Neeeiiil?”
Frank felt his mouth drop open. He tried to push some words out, but his tongue got all tangled up. Did Tommy know? No one was supposed to know. Not about Neil, because there was no Neil Crook in any of Frank’s fantasies. Before he’d licked the Twizzler, there might have been a little spark of interest. Neil’s thigh had felt pretty good pressed against his. But now? No way, Jose. Not happening. Ever.
“Not sure if you’re noticed, but Neil’s a guy,” Frank finally managed, his argument solid, his tone feeble.
“So?”
“Guys aren’t supposed to be with guys.” According to nearly everything he’d read on the subject—which hadn’t been a lot. The local library didn’t have any books helpfully titled Advice for Kids Who Think They Might Be Gay. Frank tried not to fidget, but couldn’t control the reflexive movement of his fingers as he gripped and squeezed the quilt. “It’s not normal,” he said, spilling the most often repeated fact. “And, you know, there’s AIDs.”
Tommy’s forehead wrinkled. “Two separate issues.”
“What makes you say that?”
Tommy touched the tip of his pointer finger. “One, AIDS isn’t confined to gay men. It doesn’t help that some guys don’t want to use condoms or that people hate the idea of gay sex so much they’re not willing to help educate people on how to do it safely.”
Frank’s mouth was edging open again.
Tommy touched his middle finger, “Men have been having sex with men since the dawn of time and the planet hasn’t managed to fall out of orbit yet. Even dolphins are doing it.”
Dolphins?
Next finger: “People are always scared of what they don’t understand.”
“That’s three issues.”
“Not really.”
“How do you know about all this stuff?”
“I read.” He’d obviously discovered books Frank hadn’t.
Tommy dug in his book bag until he found a magazine. It was the August issue of Time magazine, the one with the scary cover picture of a magnified AIDs virus destroying healthy cells. Frank had read it when it came out—his dad had a subscription—and he remembered feeling sick for about a week afterward, and wondering whether he could catch the disease just by thinking about having sex with . . . Not Tommy. Surely what he felt for Tommy was too pure and lovely to be threatened by such awfulness.
“Why would you read about a gay disease? And why is that in your backpack?”
“I was doing a report on it for biology.” Tommy was studying the front of the magazine. He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “And because I wanted to know about it.”
But why?
Even unvoiced, the question hung between them—as did a strange and uncomfortable silence. They’d been able to do the quiet thing together for years. Sit side by side, each reading or doodling or daydreaming while the other did whatever. An hour might pass, or only ten minutes, then one of them would say something and it was as though they’d never stopped talking.
Frank looked away first, down at his backpack. The corner of the Twizzler packet poked out of the side pocket, and just the thought of the sweet, strawberry licorice made his stomach flip and fold. Was Tommy reading that magazine because he knew where Frank’s interests lay? He would do that. Research and study and prepare. Or was he reading it because he had the same thoughts?
Tommy got up and came over to sit on the bed. He didn’t lean in close like he sometimes did and the distance felt all wrong. Frank could hear him swallowing and moving his tongue around as though he was searching for words. Then he spoke, quietly, a tremor in his voice. “I think about guys sometimes. So I wanted to know.”
Head snapping up, Frank studied Tommy’s profile—at the way his dark shaggy hair brushed over his cheekbone. The shape of his mouth. The line of his neck as his chin dipped forward. Frank’s fingers itched with the urge to touch those three points. To see if his skin was warm or cool.
Before he could make such a move, Tommy turned his head slightly, peeking up at him. “I figured you’d be the first to say it, but you never did. So I’m saying it.”
“Saying what?”
“I might be gay.”
Frank waved his hands in the air. “But what about Grace?”
“What about her? She’s nice, Frank. I’d ask her out if I thought she’d say yes.”
“Do you actually know what ‘gay’ means?”
“Homosexual.”
“Right and ‘homo’ is ‘same.’ Not sure if you noticed, but Grace is a girl.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “So maybe I don’t feel gay all the time. Maybe it’s just a phase.”
Frank sucked in a careful breath. “Do you ever think about me?”
Tommy stiffened. He went to shake his head and stopped. Dipped his chin once. Then faced him with a fierce expression. “Don’t even pretend to be surprised, Franklin Tern, because I know you think about me.”
Gaping was getting to be a new habit, one Frank did not particularly enjoy. “What, no, I . . . How did you know?” And did this mean they could kiss?
“Because of the way looking at guys makes me feel. I see it in your eyes when you’re looking at me sometimes. So I got to wondering.”
Frank thought he might choke. On nothing, which would be embarrassing. Boy found dead. Choked on air. “I, ah.” This was Tommy and hadn’t he been trying to find a way to say this? No, not really, but maybe? “So, I guess I might be gay too.” But a different sort of gay to Tommy, because the idea of kissing Grace only made him feel uncomfortable. And a little ill. “So does that mean you want to—”
“No!”
Frank leaned back, hurt by the quick rebuff. “Um . . .”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“Then why can’t we? If ever two guys were going to keep a secret, it would be us.”
“That’s just it, Frankie. Everyone already thinks we’re queer for each other.”
“They do?”
“You’re not in my gym class, so you don’t hear the same shit, I guess.”
And because of his size, people rarely messed with Frank. He’d used that to protect both of them in junior high, but hadn’t realized Tommy was still having a hard time. “Who’s saying this? Tell me their names.”
“So you can punch them out? No way.”
“I’m confused. I mean, okay, if we both think about guys, why can’t we try it out? Because if it’s true”—if? Oh, please—“then we might have a hard time meeting other guys who feel the same we do, or who don’t want to tenderize us with their fists first.”
Tommy was shaking his head. “It can’t be me and you.”
Frank might just die. Surely such a statement was designed to kill. “Why not?” Fuck embarrassment. This might be his only chance to know how Tommy’s lips would feel against his own. Kissing his hand while he jerked off just wasn’t going to cut it after this.
“Because you’re my best friend and I already love you. I don’t think we should mess with that.”
“But if you—”
Tommy put his hand over Frank’s mouth. “Don’t, Frankie. Please? You’re all I have. You know that, right? You’re it. My every day and every night. My sun and stars. No one gets me like you do, or loves me like you do. But we have our whole lives ahead of us. We’re too young to decide here and now that this is it. Might be the best decision we ever made, but it could also be the end of us, of everything, and I don’t want to risk that.”
Frank peeled Tommy’s hand away but didn’t let it go. He threaded their fingers together and was mildly surprised that Tommy let him do it. “If we’re already throwing the l-word around, maybe we’re past the hard part.”
Tommy shook his head. “It’s a different love. We’re . . . soul mates or whatever. Sex doesn’t work like that.” His expression darkened. “It’s another love and it fades.”
Frank rarely mulled over the fact Tommy didn’t have a father, but as he sat there, fingers entwined with those of the only person he thought he could ever love for the entirety of his life—a person who said they couldn’t possibly be what he wanted them to be—he felt a surge of anger. The camo shirt and rucksack he understood. The Aztec-warrior thing. The secret billionaire who was waiting until Tommy turned twenty-one to introduce him to his empire. The rock singer who’d forgotten he’d stopped by Pennsylvania on the way to somewhere, anywhere. The astronaut who’d had higher ambitions. The professor, the chef, the movie star. He’d been through every iteration with Tommy until it had become a sort of game. But this . . . Right now, he hated Tommy’s father, whoever he was.
It hurt to pull his fingers from Tommy’s. To disentangle two hands that should be forever joined. But whatever Tommy’s thoughts on love, Frank had his own ideas. He wrapped his arm around his best friend’s narrow shoulders and tugged him close. Tommy unbent slowly until they inclined together in a comfortable, familiar slump.
Words revolved around Frank’s head. A few even teased his tongue. But in the end, he swallowed them. He didn’t want to mess this up . . . and besides, this was where it was at. Just this. And if this was all he could get, then it would have to be good enough.