Chapter Text
I fucking hate icebreakers. Especially in school. I’ve known most of these people my entire life, so it’s not like I have anything interesting left to say about myself. “I’m a triplet” is only interesting until, like, third grade. It got a little easier in high school, because at least a third of the student body funneled in from Kelsey. That meant I got to revive the classic for a couple years. But now, junior year, everybody’s already seen me with Jordan and Byron, so the novelty of seeing three identical people has worn off.
“I’m captain of the boys’ soccer team” isn’t a great icebreaker, either, because, frankly, it’s not that interesting. Not that I’m not proud of it—I am—but everybody already knows that, too, and the only people who really care are, well, the other soccer players. And Coach Morgan, I guess.
“I’m gay” also doesn’t work, for obvious reasons. That’s one fun fact that’s actually not so fun, and one I actively try to ignore. I’ve been pushing it to the side for years now, hoping that if I act straight long enough, I will be.
Look, before you raise your pitchforks, it’s not that I think being gay is a bad thing. I really don’t. But that’s for other people, you know? All things considered, I’m a pretty masculine guy. I was always the boyish wild-child of the family when I was younger, once proclaimed the Terror of Slate Street. I’ve always liked sports. Byron, Jordan, and I used to play on the same Little League team, and we did a couple seasons of hockey, but they stuck with baseball, while soccer became my true passion in middle school.
Besides sports, I like to roughhouse with my brothers, and while I’m not a mechanic, I’m pretty good at basic car maintenance. I work hard and love my mother and all that. The typical all-American boy.
All that to say, I just can’t be gay. It doesn’t fit with who I am. I’m not some dainty Christian Stovitz type, and I’m not like the gay friend from Bride of Chucky. If you’re like that, cool, but I prefer to be manly, so you can see why being gay wouldn’t exactly work for me.
I’m fine in the closet. Really. I get enough girls flocking around me due to my captain status (I’m not trying to sound arrogant—it’s just true), so nobody has ever questioned me. It’s not a big deal that whenever I’m making out with Kerry Bruno, I’m thinking of her older brother. It doesn’t matter that when I watch That ‘70s Show with my brothers, they’re checking out Mila Kunis while I’m checking out Ashton Kutcher. And it definitely isn’t important that it takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep my eyes on faces when I’m having conversations in the locker room before and after practice. Like I said, I’m happy to play straight until even I believe it.
Or at least, I was, until Tom fucking Cates came along.
“I’m going to assign you your first-quarter lab partners today,” my chemistry teacher, Mrs. Martinez, announced. It was mid-September. School had only started about two weeks ago. We’d been doing simple experiments so far, things we could do right in the classroom, and I’d worked with almost everybody in my class by now.
“Thank God,” I muttered, quietly, so Lynn wouldn’t hear me. I like her okay as a person, but she’s not very bright. I had only worked with her for two days, but I’d quickly discovered that she flirts constantly. I’m used to girls flirting, but chemistry class seems like the worst time for that, you know? I mean, what if she distracted me while we were in the lab and I accidentally blew something up? I can’t imagine I wouldn’t fail the class for that one, and I’m quite fond of my B-average.
Mrs. Martinez brought around what she calls the Partner Box. Inside are pairs of things, like salt and pepper, or peanut butter and jelly, and we have to find our match.
I wish she’d just read them out like a normal teacher.
Anyway, I reached into the box and pulled out a picture of Buzz from Toy Story. I glanced around. Nobody immediately near me had Woody, so I sighed and pushed myself out of my chair. I wandered around the room, comparing pictures with people. I found my match in Tom Cates.
Oh, just great, I thought. I like Tom—he’s friends with Byron, and often eats lunch with us—but he’s more of an English guy. Looked like I was facing nine weeks of picking up someone’s slack.
At least he wouldn’t be flirting with me.
I considered that an upgrade, so I sat down at the table next to him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He tapped his pencil on his notebook. “I’m glad you’re not Simon,” he said. “He never had any idea what was going on in here.”
“And you do?”
He gave me a weird look. “Well, yeah. My mom is a pharmacist.”
“She is?”
“Yeah.” He shifted slightly at the mention of his mom. His parents are divorced, and I think Byron has mentioned he doesn’t see her often.
“I would’ve pegged you as more of an English guy,” I said.
He cracked a thin smile. “Well, I like math and science, but I do prefer English. I’m kind of a walking cliché, you know. The brooding literary nerd who lives above a bookstore. At least I’m always guaranteed an A when we get to the Poe unit.”
His dad owns this mystery bookshop downtown, Poe and Co., and Mr. Cates is more than a little obsessed with it. It’s pretty weird. Like, they even have a raven named Lenore, and a black cat named Pluto. Guy’s dedicated to his theme, I’ll give him that.
Mrs. Martinez clapped her hands. “Here’s your icebreaker. Tell your partner your favorite scary movie.”
I rolled my eyes and turned to Tom. “I guess I’d say Nightmare on Elm Street.”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “My choice was Halloween.”
I nodded. I could respect that. “Well, those are good, but Freddy is way scarier than Michael.”
He huffed a laugh. “Nobody is scarier than Michael Myers.”
I laughed, too. “Are you serious? All you have to do to get away from Michael is run. You can’t avoid sleeping. And Freddy is in all of his movies. Even John Carpenter knew Michael’s time was up.”
“Hang on, let’s not disrespect the misunderstood masterpiece that is Halloween III.”
I snorted. “Oh, please.”
“I’m serious.” He brushed some of his dark hair out of his face. “John Carpenter only wanted to do one movie with Michael. The rest of the series was supposed to be an anthology of stories that took place on Halloween, but the studio wanted a sequel, so he gave it to them. Halloween III was more in line with his vision, but people were so whiny about the fact that it didn’t have Michael that they weren’t willing to see it as a good movie in its own right. It’s people like you who are to blame for Halloween: Resurrection.”
I couldn’t help laughing at his indignation. “I didn’t realize you were so passionate about the Halloween movies.”
“I just want justice for the underdog.”
“Boys?” We turned to find Mrs. Martinez (and the rest of the class) watching us. “Care to join us?”
“Sorry,” we said. But we kept looking at each other, trying not to laugh. And, after we finished the pre-lab questions, we continued our conversation about other horror movies we liked. I found that I enjoyed talking to him. Byron hates horror movies, and Jordan kind of lost interest in them as we got older, so the only person I really knew who was willing to watch them with me was our fourteen-year-old brother, Nick (oh, yeah, I’m one of eight kids—there’s a fun fact for you), and he can be pretty annoying sometimes.
“I didn’t know you liked scary movies,” I said as class ended.
He slung his backpack onto his shoulder. “I like the classics. Newer ones are kind of lame.”
“The Blair Witch Project is pretty good.”
He shook his head. “I can’t watch it. The constant camera movement makes me sick.” He gave me a sheepish smile. “See you at lunch?”
“Yeah.” As we separated, I couldn’t help but think that chemistry would actually be bearable now.
I was the last one getting to the lunch table that day. All the usual suspects were there. There was Byron, having already made a good dent in his chicken strips. (He eats more than anybody I know. Good thing he plays baseball, or he’d be a walrus.) Our friend Scott Danby was there, copying math homework from Joey Lancaster. Gabe Taylor and Aaron Washington, who are both on the soccer team with me, were talking about some TV show they both like to watch. And there, sitting next to Byron, eating some grapes, was Tom. I sat down in the empty space between him and Gabe.
“Hey, Adam,” Scott greeted me, barely glancing up.
“Why are you copying Joey’s homework?” I asked. “He can barely add two plus two.”
Joey threw a grape at me. Scott snorted before replying, “Well, I’m barely passing math as it is, and I figured D homework is better than a zero.”
“You should be copying Tom’s,” Byron broke in. “He’s got over a hundred percent in his math class right now.”
“What?” Scott lifted his head in disbelief. “Man, are you serious? I’ve been struggling in math for years now and I’m just now finding out you’re a math nerd?”
Tom shot Byron a “thanks a lot” smirk. “You didn’t ask.”
Joey shook his head. “Bro code, man.”
He shrugged. “We don’t even have the same teacher. If you need help understanding something, just ask next time.”
Scott slid Joey’s homework back to him. “Joseph Lancaster, you are a prince among men, and I worship the ground you walk on.”
Joey snickered. “Chill out, dude. Don’t be such a homo.”
Scott flipped him off. “Call me a homo one more time and see what happens.”
So, yeah, there’s another reason I won’t ever come out. I can’t imagine my friends not acting like apes about it, and I don’t feel like getting called a faggot or eating lunch alone, you know?
I saw Tom roll his eyes before he changed the subject by asking Scott about the next football game. At least he’s a little more evolved than my other friends. More evolved than Scott, at least. I like the guy fine, but he’s a bit hard of thinking. He once thought that any direction you faced was automatically north. It took us forty-five minutes and a compass tutorial to get him to understand. So yeah, not a lot going on upstairs. At least he’s pretty.
Hey, shut up
Well he is.
I don’t care. Keep that to yourself.
See, I have this voice in my head that I call my gay voice. I try to keep it separate from myself so I don’t actually feel like it’s part of me. It’s almost like there are two cartoon versions of me in my head, one normal and one overly flamboyant, and they argue with each other a lot. The normal me’s job is to keep the gay me in check. It works about ninety-five percent of the time. The other five percent of the time, it’s checking out other guys at the pool under the cover of my mirrored sunglasses, or having way too many fantasies about my teammates.
Thankfully, before I could think too much about Scott’s prettiness, the editor of the school newspaper, Sophie McCann, stopped by our table to talk to me. She wanted to ask me some questions about the soccer team for the school paper, so I told her I could talk to her during my study hall.
“Great, thanks,” she said, scribbling it down in her planner. (Sophie is the most meticulous, organized, neurotic person I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t be surprised if she schedules in time to breathe.) “Come by the newspaper room. I’ll see you later.”
“See you then.” I threw in a wink for good measure, and her cheeks turned slightly pink before she stuffed the planner back in her backpack and hurried away.
“She’s hot,” Aaron said, leaning across the table to punch my shoulder.
I shrugged casually. “Yeah, but a bit too uptight for my taste.” I felt a little bad saying it, because Sophie is uptight, but she’s also really nice.
Scott grinned. “Every uptight girl just needs a little action to loosen her up. I bet you could loosen her up nicely.”
“Yeah, man!” Gabe slapped me on the back and I forced a laugh.
“I’d probably have to wait until she could pencil me into that schedule of hers.” Gabe, Aaron, and Scott all burst out laughing, like I’d said something incredibly clever and hilarious. Byron chuckled, but Tom just shook his head in disapproval. He didn’t say anything, but it kind of made me feel…I don’t know, slimy. I quickly asked Gabe and Aaron about the show they’d been discussing, and we spent the rest of lunch talking about our favorite shows.
It was hot out during soccer practice that afternoon, but I barely noticed the sweat dripping down my face. I love being on the field. When I get to play, it’s nothing but me and the game. Coach Morgan had me lead the team in some drills for the first twenty minutes. But, instead of playing in our scrimmage, he wanted me to watch from the sidelines and help him determine where our weak spots were. (It made sense, considering we were still early in the season, but I was itching to get out there and actually play.) I obediently observed the game, gave Coach my notes, and made a few suggestions. He nodded thoughtfully as he scanned them.
“Good work, Pike. Go ahead and sub in for Richards,” he finally said.
I ran onto the field and took my place as forward. Coach rearranged a few of my teammates, and we were off again. It was a great practice. By the time we finished, I was drenched in sweat and all my muscles ached, but I felt exhilarated instead of tired. “Great practice, guys,” I called as we all shuffled off the field.
Movement to my left caught my eye, and I turned to see Tom standing on the sidelines with a camera. He lowered it and waved when he saw me looking at him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I approached him.
“Taking pictures for the paper.” He gestured to his camera as if it were proof.
“You’re on the newspaper staff?”
He shook his head. “No, but they don’t have a staff photographer, so Sophie asked if I could grab a few pictures of you for that article she’s working on.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “I hope you got my good side.”
He chuckled. “You don’t strike me as a guy who thinks he has a bad side.”
“You got me there. Well, I’m sure I look like a mess right now, so I’m gonna get home.”
“Do you want a ride?”
I paused. I had never really spent time alone with Tom before. But I was pretty tired, even if it wasn’t a very long walk home. “Well, sure. If you don’t mind. Let me just grab my stuff from the locker room. Meet you in the parking lot?”
“Sure.”
I jogged to the locker room. A lot of my teammates still lingered, talking as they changed out of their sweaty clothes. I quickly averted my eyes, pretending to search my bag for something of great importance. (Top Gun had really made me believe my locker room encounters would be a lot more homoerotic. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed to discover they weren’t actually like that.) I quickly ran some baby wipes over my sweatiest bits (a tip I picked up from last year’s captain) and pulled on the clothes I had worn to school. I stuffed my gross soccer clothes into the bag, making a mental note to throw them in the washing machine when I got home, said goodbye to everyone, and made my way out to the parking lot.
Tom was leaning up against a yellow Jeep, hands in his pockets, eyes closed, and face tilted toward the sun. (I’m a sucker for that kind of look, but I pushed the thought away almost before it could fully form.)
“You’re the owner of the Yellow Submarine?” I called.
He opened his eyes and used his hand to shield his eyes against the brightness. “The Yellow Submarine?”
“Yeah. That’s what Jordan and I always call it, at least.”
He smiled slightly. “That’s way better than my name for it.”
He hit a button on his keys, and I heard the doors unlock. “What do you call it?” I asked as we climbed in.
“The Solar Flare. ‘Cause the official color is solar yellow.” The engine coughed a few times as he started it up, and he rolled the windows down.
“I always kind of thought this car belonged to, like, a substitute teacher or someone.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s not here every day.”
He pulled out of the parking lot. “I usually walk to school when it’s nice out. Saves my gas for important things. I only drove it today because I was supposed to swing by the grocery store for my dad.”
“Well, it’s a nice car.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, when it actually runs. It’s kind of a wreck, but I love it.” He turned up the radio as we exited the parking lot. “Hey, this is a good one.”
“‘With the lights out, it’s less dangerous,’” I yelled out the open window.
“‘Here we are now, entertain us,’” he sang, though he was laughing at my terrible attempt at singing.
When the song ended, we chatted the entire way back to my house, mostly about chemistry class and the article Sophie was writing. He pulled into my driveway, where Margo, my thirteen-year-old sister, was sitting on the front porch, reading. She looked up and grinned, lifting her hand in a wave. “Hey, Tom!” she called.
“Hi,” he called back. He turned back to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, for sure. Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem.”
Margo had abandoned her book and was stretching out her legs, desperately trying to appear casual. “What’s he doing here?” she asked as I approached the porch.
“He came to scope out the place. He said his sister’s been driving him crazy and he wants to move in with us.”
“Really?” Margo eyed me skeptically.
I knocked her on the head as I passed her. “No, dumbass. He just gave me a ride home. By the way, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you if you’re interested.”
She lifted her nose the way Vanessa always does while she watched Tom back out of the driveway from the corner of her eye. “I’m telling Mom you called me a dumbass.”
I threw myself on my knees in front of her. “Please, God, Margo, not that! I’ll do anything. I’ll do your homework until you graduate. I’ll name my firstborn after you. I’ll dedicate my life to finding the genetic cause of motion sickness so I can cure you. Just please don’t tell Mom!”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” She got up from the porch and followed me inside. “And my motion sickness isn’t that bad, thank you very much.”
“You could get sick on a waterbed,” I threw back as I headed for the stairs. I heard her huff as she headed for the rec room.
“Your face is enough to make me sick,” she called.
“She got you there,” Jordan said as we met on the landing.
I punched him on the shoulder. “Well that sucks for you, considering we have the same face.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Don’t talk about your mother that way,” Byron added, poking his head out into the hall. It’s the oldest joke in the book, but the three of us still laugh about it every single time.
“Hey, can you help me with my math homework?” I asked Byron when we stopped laughing.
“Sure, if you’ll help me with my history assignment.”
“What’s it about?” I asked as we settled in the room he and Nick share. Byron sat on his bed and I sat in his desk chair.
“The Italian Renaissance.”
I paused as I unzipped my backpack. “I thought you were taking world history.”
Byron lifted his hands in exasperation. “Is Europe not part of the world?”
I crumpled a piece of paper and threw it at him. “World history usually starts with, like, the Egyptians, or Mesopotamia. I could tell you more about them. My European history knowledge is kind of limited.”
He opened his notebook. “Well, I was going to take world history, but I ended up switching when they tried to put me in Mr. Romansky’s class, and European history was the only class that had a free spot. Just tell me everything you know about the Renaissance. It’s gotta be better than nothing.”
I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much, but he scribbled it all down appreciatively. “That was way more than I was hoping for,” he said, looking it over. “Thanks.”
“Sure. Now me. Explain to me what domains and ranges are.”
“Oh, that’s easy stuff.” He sure didn’t make it easy though. His explanation went all over the place, and I ended up more confused than before.
“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” I finally said.
He sighed in exasperation. “I literally do not know how to make this any clearer.”
I threw my pencil down on the notebook. “Clear as mud, maybe.”
He rolled his eyes and picked up the hall phone that he had left on his nightstand. “I give up. Call Tom.”
I considered that. It wasn’t a horrible idea. “Fine.” I paused. “Do you know his number?”
“It should be on the list on my corkboard.” I turned and checked the cluttered board above his desk. Sure enough, between a doodle of a cow being abducted by a UFO that Danielle Roberts had given him and a weekly to-do list, there was a list of his friends’ phone numbers. I dialed Tom’s.
“Hello?” It was his dad.
“Hi, Mr. Cates. Can I talk to Tom, please?”
“Tom, phone,” he called. I heard him set it down. A few seconds later, Tom’s voice came through the speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Adam.”
“Oh, hey.” He sounded surprised to hear from me. Which made sense, considering I’d never called him before. “What’s up?”
“I’m doing my math homework and Byron is being extremely unhelpful, and he finally told me to call you. Can you help me out?” I ignored Byron as he stuck his tongue out at me.
He chuckled. “Sure.”
He walked me through the first couple problems. By the time I got to the last problem, I was actually doing it on my own. “Thanks,” I said as I wrote down my final answer. “You’re a way better teacher than Byron.” I made a face at him. He had finished his homework and was now lounging on his bed with a book. He flipped me off without looking up.
“Glad I could help,” Tom said, and I could hear him smiling. I was about to say something else when someone else got on the line.
“I don’t know who’s hogging the phone, but wrap it up,” Vanessa said. Then she hung up. Tom and I laughed.
“Sisters,” I said.
“No doubt,” he agreed.
“I guess I should go before she decides to tear into my self-esteem. But thanks again.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
We hung up. “Thanks for nothing,” I said to Byron.
“It’s not my fault you’re mathematically inept.”
Jordan bounded into the room just then, holding his own math book. “Can one of you help me with my math homework?”
I made eye contact with Byron when he looked up from his book, and we both cracked up. Jordan stared between the two of us, bewildered.
“You two are fucking psychotic,” he declared, shaking his head.
“I make Patrick Bateman look sane,” I replied as I headed for the door. “You guys want to watch the Yankees game tonight after dinner?”
“Sure,” Jordan said. Byron nodded.
“Great.” I left the room and decided to go down to the rec room and see if the TV was free. “‘I feel stupid and contagious,’” I sang to myself as I descended the stairs.