chapter eleven ~ <3 when it comes to shove



xxx Coy’s POV xxx

I try to wrench out of the grasp of the man in the suit, but he hangs on even though he's shorter than me. His saggy face is angry; I know he's saying something, but I don't care what. I twist again and he holds tight, so I finally take a swing at him and he goes down like a sack of bricks. I run out of the restaurant, elbowing a kid and two men out of my way as I go. I gasp in the cold air, relieved to be outside. The Ihop sign revolves above me and the sky is a luminous white-grey, matching the situation with irritating perfection. Several people from inside have followed me out and stare fish mouthed, waiting for my next move. The sidewalks are clear and I spin wildly, searching for a boy in a brown sweater with a big white belt. After sprinting to the van, I find he isn’t there; I have the keys, so he can't be far.

I hear car horns honk shrilly far down the street and past a silver station wagon at the intersection, I see someone. Keith’s run into traffic again, but this time, it stopped for him. He continues down the street, running like the wind, a spindly blur. I chase after him, cutting diagonally through the parking lot of a bank. I get closer but he just keeps running and running and running. Does he know I’m here? I don’t think he does, he hasn’t looked back. His shy voice echoes in my ears, all the times he said “I’d die if anyone knew.” As of today, at least thirty people in Kingston know. What now?

He’s six meters ahead of me, if that. His heaving, tired breaths and the tack-tack-tack-tack of his rubber-soled shoes ring out above the sounds of traffic. I scream out his name but he only runs faster. I reach an arm out, snatching just air. I yell at him, things like “It’s okay!” and “Slow down!” but I keep falling farther and farther behind. As a last ditch effort, I move to his left and lunge at him. It’s perfect. I manage to knock him down onto the grass next to the sidewalk, taking the force of the impact on my elbows and knees, which now burn like my knuckles already did, raw from punching Cameron. Keith tries to get away but I crush him under me. He tries to kick me in the crotch, which I find astonishingly upsetting. He keeps struggling valiantly, so I pin his elbows down with my knees.

I start crying because I see him crying. He isn’t just crying, but sobbing, his chest is heaving horribly, shuddering, his glasses askew. But he keeps fighting me, kicking his legs, squirming like a worm.

“Keith!” I lower my face to his. “Keith, calm down, please, calm down -”

He tosses his head in frustration, wanting to get me away, and his skull and the edge of his glasses hit me in the nose. I collapse on top of him and he throws me off with both his hands and feet flat on my chest, tossing me like a cat. Through pain that’s more annoying than anything, I expect to hear his fast, retreating footsteps through the grass and on the concrete. Instead, I just hear him gulping for breath and I feel the barely-there touch of his forearm against mine.

I look up into the grey sky with thick warm blood streaming from my nose, trailing across my face to my ear. I stay perfectly still, worried that a sudden movement would make him run; like he’s a jackrabbit. He keeps sobbing, but the touch and angle of his forearm say he’s still on his back. In a quick motion fit for hunting, I flip over and grab his biceps, keeping him pinned in case he tries to run. He shuts his mouth tight, crying, quieting down. He just looks up at me, face red and sweaty from running and crying. The blood still streaming from my nose drips down over my mouth and onto his neck.

“Everyone knows ...” he breathes, quiet enough to be a whisper.

Please, don’t be -”

“That whole restaurant was looking at me ... Each and every person ...”

“We don’t live here, you’ll never see them again, they’ll forget this!” I put my hand on his neck to wipe away the blood, but he slaps it off. I pinch the bridge of my nose with it instead.

“Every single person was horrified ...” He hiccups, sobs. “... and disgusted and disgusted and they think I’m gross, they hate me!” He sobs some more, tears and mascara running down his cheeks. I wipe them away with my thumb, quickly, before he can stop me. My nose keeps bleeding because I’m bent over, but I don’t dare sit up.

“They don’t hate you, please don’t cry ...” Tears start pricking hotly at my own eyes and I bite at the inside of my lip.

“They do, you do, Brandon does ...”

“Why would I hate you?” I make another move to wipe the blood from his neck. This time he lets me, exhausted.

“B-because,” he stutters, choking on his tears. “I’m a freak and disgusting and -”

I kiss him for a second, just a peck on the lips. He’s now covered in blood, though he doesn’t seem to care. He keeps crying, doesn’t wipe it off. “I do not hate you, Brandon does not hate you.” I assure him. “You know who I hate? Cam.”

He sniffs, wiping his nose, which just spreads my blood further. I feel bad. “Me too ... This is all his fault.”

“Mostly his fault.” I correct him, then instantly feel terrible for it. “You provoked him ... but he went way WAY overboard ... You don’t deserve this, you’d never deserve this ...”

“Coy ...” He starts blubbering and crying again and he buries his face in my chest, staining my tie. I pull him upright and into my lap, rubbing his back as he cries, murmuring what I hope is soothingly. We sit under the dim morning sun in the cold grass and only three or four people walk by. Two nearly ask if we need help, but I give them looks and shoo them away before they can open their mouths. Five full minutes pass by while we sit and cry, hating Cameron. Keith eventually looks up at me, all bloody. “I’m sorry about your nose,” he says quietly. “At least the bleeding has stopped ...”

“It’s alright.” I smile a little and rub under my nose, trying to make him feel better. “But the last thing I need is a swollen nose.”

He chuckles, but rightfully doesn’t appreciate the joke. “You ... you don’t think Brandon will hate me...?” he asks shyly. Part of me wonders if he’ll recede back now and become ashamed and embarrassed like he used to be. He was doing so well, too. I’d hate to see him any more devastated over this.

“Of course he won’t, he loves you. But, he wouldn’t like you sitting out here in the cold, so come back to the van.”

He hesitates. “... I don’t want to go back there ... They’ll be waiting.” He looks up at me with his big green eyes. “Can you drive the van around to here and come get me?”

We kiss for a few seconds and he kisses me back, tasting like blood and tears. I can’t believe Cam did that, I can’t believe he made Keith cry. “Couldn’t say no to you if I wanted to.”

I get up and walk back to Ihop, feeling twisty and terrible about leaving him alone. Running has made me tired, so it’s a slow walk back. When I get there, there’s no crowd as Keith predicted, just our cherry-red van with Phil waiting, sitting on the hood. When he sees me, he leaps down and runs up to me, grumpy mood from earlier obviously shattered. “Where is he?!” he asks with wide eyes.

“Sitting on the sidewalk on Wilson road.” I drop my voice. “How much shit are we in?”

“Why are you so bloody?!” Phil’s eyes go wide in alarm, staring in horror at my blood-smeared face and stained tie.

“He hit me in the nose. How much trouble are we in?” I press on.

“None. Apparently, that hobo has a silver tongue, he said -”

He’s cut off when Cam and Shelf walk out of the Ihop behind him. Cam’s face is red and possibly bruised and I clench my jaw, angry just at the sight of him and his smile. He hurt Keith, he made him cry, he’s a dirty filthy bastard. With a big, pleased grin on his face, he walks right up to me, next to Phil.

“What’s the haps?” He continues to smile until I punch him in the nose with my still-sore knuckles. He jerks back and Phil catches him, almost knocked over by his weight which must be a lot to Phil, who’s four inches shorter. The two of them hit the van with a thump, stumbling back. Cam rights himself like a haughty cat as he pushes Phil away, glaring and holding his nose as blood pours from it as mine was a few minutes ago. I’m glad there’s at least a bit of retribution here. Phil looks very alarmed and his arms twitch up like he wants to help, but in the end, he doesn’t. He fidgets.

“Fuck you.” I step closer to Cam, looming over him. He doesn’t move, he lets me get close, he glares up at me. His blood steams in the cold. “Fuck -” I accentuate it, drawing it out. “- you.”

He grins widely with blood streaming between his teeth. “Don’t get mad at me because your boyfriend is an incestuous freak.”

My hands move faster than I thought possible. They tighten around his neck, thumbs digging into his trachea, lifting him up on the tips of his toes. His face is going red, he’s coughing, his hands cover mine but don’t pull, he just takes it, squinting.

“Stop it!” Phil yells. I’m surprised, but I’m also kind of not. Phil likes Keith, but Cam has something on him, something sick. He still likes him, doesn’t he? For the first time since we met, I think I’m angry at Phil. He pulls at my wrists, but he's short and small to do much. “Stop it, you’ll kill him!”

“He made Keith cry.” I growl. Cam’s eyes water. I won’t kill him, but I have to do something. “He told everyone. He called him a freak.”

“Stop it!” Phil cries again, pulling harder at my wrists. I feel my grip start to slip and soon my arms are at my sides and Cam is slumped against the van, hacking his lungs up, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his arm. He’s horribly red, he looks hideous, like an over-ripe tomato, and I’ve never been happier while looking at him. Phil’s next to him, staring anxiously, not touching him or rubbing his back. Neither is Shelf. He watches, his thick eyebrows raised, the only sign of emotion on his face.

“Unlock the van,” he asks me and I mindlessly agree, reaching into my pocket and finding the keys. I toss them at him and he catches them with ease, looking at Cam as he walks up. He opens the back door and leans in, pulling Cam’s backpack towards him, and after rooting around for a few moments he comes up with a single white sock that looks clean. Face still odd and impassive, he walks over to Cam and tips his face up. Even through the blood and anger, Cam looks astonished by this. I realize now that I was quick to name Shelf’s expression as impassive, but I’m seeing now that it’s serious. His eyebrows knit down and he presses the sock under Cam’s nose, his other hand at the back of his head, steadying him. He tosses me the keys, they bounce off my chest.

The sock starts turning red with blood. I look at Phil, staring helplessly at the pair, and then I make a decision to clear things up and help Keith get his mind off what Cam said by giving him something else to think about. “In the van.” I order the three of them. Phil leaps in after me, apparently as eager as I am to get to Keith, hopefully. Cam and Shelf crawl in afterwards, Cam attempting to keep the sock on his own nose after Shelf’s hand falls away. I start up the van and maneuver out of the parking lot as quickly as I can; it's almost full because so many people are leaving, appetites lost after our disruption. I don’t want to leave Keith alone for too long.

I see Keith from the red light at the corner, a dot in the distance. He’s sitting on his calves, arms wrapped around himself, lost in the thin woolly sweater of mine. He’s looking at the van as it nears, rubbing the tears from his eyes. I screech to a stop in front of him, one tire up on the curb. I smile, he smiles. I open the door, which surprises him. I look over my shoulder. “Phil, get out here. We need to talk.”

Phil’s skeptic, but he opens his own door as I shut mine, walking around the hood of the van. Keith stands, twiggy legs protruding from the bottom of the sweater like toothpicks, made even smaller when compared to the size of the sweater, like he’s wearing a potato sack. He looks from me to Phil. “What’s going on?”

“Phil said he was over Cam, didn’t he?” I ask Keith this. Phil’s staring at his shoes, but he glances anxiously to the van. The engine continues to run, but that isn’t what he’s looking at. Visible through the tinted back windows are the silhouettes of Cam and Shelf.

Keith rubs smeared mascara from his cheeks. “Yeah, but -”

“He stood up for Cam a moment ago, in the parking lot.”

“... What?”

“I was choking him.” I’m almost embarrassed to tell Keith that, I don’t know if he’s morbid enough to enjoy me choking Cam, but it was for him - because of him. It was childish revenge, and I don’t think Keith is above that. “And he tried to make me stop, even though Cam said all those horrible things to you, even though he made you cry.”

Keith looks at Phil, an icy chill running through the air. He’s angry at him just as I am. Phil’s staring back now, less passive than his usual self. “Because I don’t want him to die, I’m in love with him?” he argues.

“Under normal circumstances, probably not.” Keith steps in closer, speaking in cold, calculating tones. “But this is you.” He steps in closer. He’s Cam’s height – four inches taller than Phil. He looks down at him. “And this is him.” Closer. I watch helplessly. “And he has some serious hold on you. You’d give him your organs, your money, your heart ... Everything but your body.”

Phil’s mouth moves to the left, then the right. He puts his hands in the pockets of his grey-brown hoodie, the one he wore the first night here, with the spatter and calligraphy and rose. He isn’t confident, but he isn’t backing down. “I don’t know.”

“You stood up for him?” Hurt lies under Keith’s words. “He ... He humiliated me. Completely and utterly. You ... like me, don’t you?” At the shocked look that appears on Phil’s face, he backtracks. “I mean – not like that, not love, but you care, don’t you? A little?” He wants Phil to, I know. Maybe I should be the one teasing him about a crush, not vice versa.

Phil blinks a few times, long eyelashes touching his cheeks. I look at him closely for a second, taking in his braces and blond roots and his round, tanned face with those blue-yellow eyes. How can he like Cam? How can he even tolerate him? Why are they so opposite? From the day I met them, that winter of changes in Lauren’s house with her and Keith and Damian, I knew they were different. Phil was curious, enigmatic. Cam was smarmy and loud. “I care,” he says simply, sounding matter-of-fact. He goes to say something else, but as soon as he takes a breath in, Keith interrupts.

“And you’re still okay with him doing that to me? To Coy? To Brandon?” He wrinkles his nose and blinks a lot, telltale signs of upcoming tears. “That was a secret.”

“I’m not okay with it.” Phil raises his hand and it hovers between them for a few seconds, awkwardly indecisive, but he ends up putting it on Keith’s shoulder, small between his chubby fingers. “Of course I’m not. That ... That was horrible, and I apologize for him, but he’s ... still a -”

“Don’t.” Keith looks down, rubbing more dried blood from his upper lip and mouth, smeared from my own. Phil’s hand drops. Keith sniffs loudly and moves his hand up his face to his eyes, wiping away tears. “Don’t tell me he’s still anything, don’t ... defend him. Think whatever you want, think he’s a saint, think he’s perfect, think this is all just fun and games, but -” His voice breaks and my heart breaks with it. I step closer and put my arm around him, rubbing his back, unable to stand seeing him sad because he doesn’t deserve to be sad, ever. “- but don’t try to make me believe you.”

Phil’s looking down at his shoes again, and I actually hope he’s ashamed. While I’m not mad at him, I’m very disappointed. I’ve never seen a boy so horribly smitten with someone so wrong for him. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

I don’t know what to say, none of us do. None of us move. “I punched Cam in the face,” I finally blurt out, kissing the crown of Keith’s head. I hear him laugh, that little accidental hiccup making it all the more adorable.

“Is he bleeding?” he asks, turning in my arms, turning his back on Phil. He braces his hands on my chest and I remember him telling me once that he liked how wide I was. I took offense, of course, because when I think wide, I think fat. He may have meant my shoulders. I should ask him to clarify.

“He certainly was before, from his nose.” I smile, trying not to.

“Thank you ...” he says quietly, standing on tip toe to kiss me on the mouth, hands fluttering onto my cheeks. I think back to when he was Phil’s height, during eleventh and twelfth grade. He had to drag me down to kiss me, or be lifted up. Now it’s just the tip toe. “You always know just what to say.”

I find that hilarious because I’m such a screw up when it comes to delicate situations, or so I thought. I’m glad punching Cam in the face cheers him up, I’ll have to remember that next time he’s upset. I wish I was better with things like this, he deserves better, despite what he says ... He deserves a very suave boyfriend, and I try to do my best, but usually fail. I tell him I love him, whispering it against his lips. I don’t hear him say it back because my eyes are suddenly on the van, where Shelf’s face is pressed to the glass like an eager six year old’s, staring at us, looking amazed.

I put my hands on Keith’s shoulders and ease his lips off mine and he’s hurt until I nod towards Shelf, and then he’s annoyed. “Is it just me, or do you really want to go home?” he murmurs.

“Soon.” I kiss his temple, letting my lips linger there, caught in the soft warmth in contrast to the bitter air, the bitter smell of blood. He smelled like citrus fruits, his shampoo. “Just to Lomoni and back.”


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cam, it turns out, is about as stupid as he is cruel.

It’s a cold day, despite being summer. It’s crisp, it’s chilly. The rest of us are bundled up, but Cam isn’t. He is apparently above the climate, so today he wears his normal black tank top. He’s so arrogant that he thinks he is above nature and to pay for it, he’s getting the flu.

He starts sniffling. We’re out on the highway by this time, rolling hills and jagged cliffs as far as the eye can see, ginseng and hay fields dotting the landscape. When I first hear him, I chalk it up to dried blood left in his nose from this morning and I just turn up the music, letting his coughs get lost in Jeff Tweedy’s dulcet tones. Keith and I are both valiantly ignoring both Cameron and Phil, though Phil to a lesser extent. Cam isn’t addressing us either, just chattering on with Shelf.

Well, he used to be chattering. He quiets down about an hour into the drive, lying on his back with his feet on the ceiling, using his backpack as a pillow. His sniffles slow down and he falls asleep, feet dropping from the ceiling, legs going slack and smacking Shelf in the head on their way down. He snores quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the music. His lungs sound raspy, and that’s when I realize he may be sick.

Another half hour goes by and we decide to stop at a gas station for snacks, gas, and to stretch our legs. Thankfully, Keith and I changed our shirts so we wouldn’t get weird looks; Keith is horrified at the fact that my brown striped sweater may be stained. I lean against the van, watching numbers flick by, and Keith calls my name. I half-turn and peek over the roof to find Keith standing just inside the glass storefront with an armful of junk food, giving me a questioning thumbs up. My wallet hangs out of his pocket. I give him a thumbs up back, one eyebrow raised. He sticks his tongue out and goes to pay.

I look down, smiling, chuckling to myself, being disgustingly sentimental. I really love him, sometimes it’s almost frightening. It’s beyond love, it’s a terrifying co-dependence that grabs at us and won’t let go, because I don’t know what I’d do without him, really. I like it that way.

He runs up to the van, holding a big plastic bag. He’s cheerful and bright like a kid at Christmas. “I got you four bags of Cheetos. Good?”

I laugh. “You should have waited, now I have to go back in and pay for the gas separately.”

For a second, he looks lost. “But ... wait, do you want the Cheetos or not?”

“I do, I do, don’t worry.” I squeeze his arm. “But four bags?”

He looks down into the bag, rummaging around until he finds the Cheetos. “You said you were hungry ...”

“But four bags? I’m not like you! I’ll get fat!” I snatch the bag from him, seeing what else he bought. Orange Crush, Pepsi, Mountain Dew. Three bags of Lays sour cream and onion, two hazelnut chocolate bars, a mint aero, a kinder bueno. “Is this all for the two of us?”

He turns his nose up snootily. “We’ll see how things go.”

“I can’t eat all this! I can’t even eat half of it!”

“You can too!” “No!” I shove the bag back at him. “I’ll get fat! You don’t want a tubby boyfriend!”

He takes the bag, cradling it like a child. “You’ll just have to work out, then.”

“Oh really?” The boys come out of the store and only Phil has anything, a bottle of Coke. I assume the others had no money.

“Yes, really. You can go to that gym on Victoria street, and come back all ... sweaty and ... warm ...” He smiles in a cheeky, flirty way. He steps a little closer, twisting the sleeve of my sweater between his fingers. “... and tired ...”

“You’re such a pervert, Keith.” Our faces are close, his smiling mouth inches from mine. His irises are striped softy with a lighter green. You really have to look to see it, but it’s gorgeous. He looks so happy when he smiles ... I know that’s just about the most obvious statement in the world, but it’s true. He positively glows, like a pregnant lady, minus the fat and mood swings. Actually, just minus the fat.

“Maybe,” he mutters, leaning up, starting to kiss me. His lips are dry but not chapped, pursed and innocent, which is both annoying and lovely. I cover his hands with mine and slip the bag from his grasp. He pulls away instantly with a cry of horror as I dart to the driver’s side door, open it, and climb inside. When he shows up at the window and hears me lock the door, he glares. I simply grin at him. “Just go pay for the gas.”


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two uneventful cheetoh-munching hours go by. Keith continues working on diminishing the stash of cherry lollipops and spills Mountain Dew on the dashboard, but other that that, little goes on. We talk about going to university this fall, our excitement, our worries since we’re going later than most people; we waited three years after high school. We both took outside classes, which we think will help. Keith’s especially excited, he almost starts bouncing in his seat talking about it.

But then, just outside Quesnel, Cam throws up.

“Oh, gross.” Keith unbuckles his seatbelt and turns in his seat, peering over the headrest. I pull over as quickly as I can, nearly nicking a shiny sports car driving alongside us. I come to a stop, turning around. The four of us all stare at Cam, doubled over, face bent into the bag from the gas station that’s now free of all our snack food and instead, filled with vomit.

“Jesus ...” I turn the engine off and get out, opening the back left-hand door. Keith opens the right, waving his hand uselessly, as if that will get the smell to go outside. “Cam, stand up, get out.” I wasn’t going to talk to him for a long while, but this warrants it. I won’t be nice, though, or forgive him.

With the gross plastic bag still lying across his leg, he scoots to the open door on the left, near me, and he leans over the edge and throws up again. I back up and grimace at the sick gagging noise he makes and the wet splatter on the gravel below. Most of what comes up is water; he hasn’t eaten a lot today, we haven’t shared our snacks. Shelf moves beside him and holds his hair back diligently, rubbing his back. He rolls over, thankfully clean. His face is red and kind of sweaty, breathing hard. He looks at Shelf, who hasn’t moved.

“I think I’m sick.”


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Are you surprised?”

“No,” I whisper back. “He wouldn’t put a sweater on, he just has a cold.” I pause, considering this. “Is it, like, bad for AIDS?”

“ No clue. Serves him fucking right.” Keith pats me on the arm and leans back into his own seat. Though he hasn’t vomited again, Cam doesn’t look too good. He has a fever hot enough that you could cook an egg on his forehead and he’s coughing badly. Neither Keith nor I have said a word to him, too angry, too hurt. We have come to the decision that he doesn’t even deserve our words or our kindness.

Shelf is being surprising, however. Other than fraternizing with Cam, he has done nothing wrong so we haven’t been quite as cold to him. We shared our snacks with him because come on, he’s homeless, and I can’t eat four bags of Cheetos, I swear. But, back on the surprising: He isn’t really helping Cam. No compassion, no hugs, no reassuring belly rubs. He sits there near Cam’s outstretched feet, leaning against the closed trunk of the van. He doesn’t do a lot other than lip-sync to whatever music we play.

Phil, on the other hand, has managed to be both surprising and typical. I keep a vigilant eye on him, watching in the rear view mirror. He’s helping Cam: he sits near his head, taking advantage of Cam’s subdued state to not be told to fuck off. Every so often he touches the back of his hand to Cam’s forehead, always removing it quickly with a worried look. He holds his half-finished bottle of coke to his cheek in hopes to cool him down. Cam just coughs on it. Eventually as his last resort, he goes to his duffle bag and comes out with his zip lock bag full of pot, which catches Shelf’s attention. The song playing drifts into an interlude without lyrics and Shelf quiets down.

“Is that weed?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Cam answers first, also unsurprising. Things are coming together, slowly but surely: Cam likes Shelf. Phil likes Cam. Shelf ... can’t sing very well.

Phil looks down at the bag, puts it on his knees. He opens it and there’s one thin cigarette left lingering in the bottom but he quickly fishes it out, pinching it between his index finger and thumb. Cam eyes it, but I can’t see his expression. Phil leans to the left without moving his legs and grabs his hoodie and once again produces his cheap bic lighter, an abrasive lime green color. Cam plucks it from his hand and sits up a little, resting back on his elbows.

For a few long seconds he looks at Phil and I still can’t see his face. Phil backs up a little, leaning away, face full of wariness. He’s looking back at Cam, not blushing, just looking serious. “If you give me time I can roll a few more.” His words are confident and strong, far from cheery. “But I’d rather have some sort of table to do it on.”

Cam scratches the back of his head, fingers buried for a moment in his yarn-like hair. “We’ll be at somewhere soon.” He turns his head towards the front of the van, eyes drifting from Keith’s twiggy leg sprawled over the dashboard, the sole of his shoe pressed to the glass, to the setting sun in front of us. “Hey, Coy.” He uses my name, which surprises me. I fully expected ‘big red’ or ‘mother dearest’ or something more demeaning. Like ‘pussy'. “How long ‘till the next stop?”

But I love Keith, which means instead of answering Cam verbally, I stick my right arm into the space he can see between Keith’s seat and mine, and I flip my middle finger up. I keep it there for a few seconds, then put it back on the steering wheel. I gage his reaction in the mirror as I maneuver the van around a turn in the road. A big red billboard next to the road tells me to eat at McDonald's at the next exit, and the one after that tells me to shop and Safeway. I ignore both the signs, focusing on Cam, who’s ... smiling?

He’s smiling at me. His skin seems sallow and saggy (more than usual) and he’s definitely sick, but he’s smiling. Why is he smiling? It’s more of a smirk, to be honest. “Finally,” he grins. “Some backbone.”

I turn quickly to Keith, trying to figure out exactly what he thinks of that. He’s looking back at me, an eyebrow raised and he’s frowning. It obviously means what I think it means: he’s calling me a pussy after all. I look back at the road, angry. Fucking Cameron. He has issues coming out of his goddamn ass and he still insults anything that can walk. I try to take my mind off it. I look at the road stretching ahead of me and at its very tip on the horizon, some white buildings signaling the edge of Rockwell, a nondescript little town where my aunt lives, famous for its wool. Everything in sight glows an unreal orange from the sunset, casting long shadows, making me wish I had my sunglasses in reach.

My mind continues to drift back to Cam. Why is he so difficult? If I had AIDS, I’d be kissing extra ass. He seems to be doing everything but that. Why the sudden change? Phil’s told us that he used to be great; always snarky and rude, but great. He was never cruel, he never took things that far. Phil said it was hormones and his sex drive that pushed him over the edge, that made him chronically angry. I can’t tell for sure. Maybe he just woke up and decided to be a complete jerk.

I need to stop thinking about Cam. I think about sex instead, unsurprising. It’s never too far from my mind. I think about tonight and Keith. I think about his mouth and his sharp little animal teeth and the pink flush of his cock and the way the back of his knees taste. I wonder if having sex tonight is completely out of the question with three boys hovering around, no matter how independent those boys are. We can’t tell them to leave whatever motel we stay at, right? Well, we could, but I don’t think they’d listen. I barely care, to be honest. We should look for a place with a separate bedroom so the two of us can take that, at least not be in plain view, even the walls are as thin as rice paper. Hearing us doing it and seeing us doing it are two very different things. Christ, Shelf would go nuts if the looks he gets when Keith and I kiss are any indication.

My cell phone, nestled in one of the empty cupholders near my knee, begins to ring and vibrate. I kept the generic standard ring the phone came with and it blasts out loudly into the still air of the van, smelling sickeningly strongly of weed. The smoke curls around us, thicker in the back than in the front. Keith opened his window a while ago, muttering something about hotboxing, but it still smells. I can’t tell if it’s a bad smell, it isn’t really, it’s just herby and heavy and a little bitter.

Keith hands my cell to me, fingertips pressing it to my palm, sticky from the lollipop currently hanging out of his mouth. “Caller ID says ‘Russel,’ you mama’s boy,” he laughs.

I smile at him but I can’t say that it’s completely sincere because I’m still picturing him naked. I flip the phone open and put it to my ear, trying my hardest to keep the van steady with only one hand. “Hello?”

A recognizable voice sounds in my ear, raspy. The reception isn’t too good out here, but it works. “Coy?”

I grin. “Br-” I stop myself. “Hi, dad.” Both mom and Brad like me calling Brad ‘dad’, but I’m not sure if my heart is into it. I mean, Brad’s great, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not really his son. It isn’t the same. Only once in a blue moon do I miss my real dad, I barely remember him, but I have a shred of inexplicable family honor.

“How’s the trip going?” Brad asks me, his end of the phone silent in the background. I picture him in the kitchen, leaning against the wall, wearing some sort of sweater. I haven’t seen him in a while, but I remember what he looks like – mom always jokes that I have his nose. “Where are you?”

“We’re just outside Rockwell, things are going fine. Weather’s great.”

“Rockwell?” He sounds mildly puzzled. “Where’s that?”

“Up north past Kingston, we went there last year to visit aunt Joanne, remember?” It was a bad trip, I’m surprised he doesn’t recall. Aunt Joanne has three annoying little kids with Uncle Jeff and since I brought Keith along, they were asking all these questions and then Joanne got mad at Keith and I for ‘acting like that’ (we were just sitting close, no closer than my mom and Brad or Joanne and Jeff) so mom got mad at her and they had a long angry talk on the porch.

“Oh ... Oh, yeah.” He chuckles, reminiscing. “Yeah, that was quite the weekend.” He pauses and I hear papers rustle somewhere on his end of the line. “So, how’s Keith?”

I squint as the sun peaks over the mountain it was hiding behind, blinding me. “He’s doing good.” I choose not to mention anything about the fights with Keith or the Ihop incident just because it isn’t Brad’s business. I also don’t tell him about Shelf, because he’d just worry and then tell mom and then mom would worry and yell at me. “A little hungry, but good.”

Brad, of course, knows about Keith and I. While he’s okay with it and never gives us a hard time, he’s very awkward about it. I don’t think he’s ever known a gay man in his life because he tries too hard to make it seem like it’s a normal thing. Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t faking being happy for us, he’s just not used to it. He’s a nice guy though, and mom really loves him, even if he’s a bit of a dork.

There’s an awkward silence between us. I cough. “So, we’re gonna look for a motel now ...”

“Oh, okay, I’ll let you go then. You’re driving safely?”

“Yes.” I roll my eyes because people really need to stop telling me to drive safe. Even if I’m kind of not.

“Good. Should I tell your mother you say hello?”

“Yeah, and tell her Phil’s doing okay too. She was worried last time we talked.”

“Okay. Well ...” He hesitates here because he’s never good at closers because he isn’t sure whether or not to say ‘I love you’ or something of the like. “... stay safe. G’bye.”

“Bye.”

And I hang up, rubbing my ear. Keith looks at me and takes the phone, smiling that cute wry smile of his, lip ring hitting his teeth. “Brad?”

I nod, looking back at the road and Rockwell nearing in the distance. I don’t dislike it as much as I did last time I was here, visiting aunt, because this time I’m here of my own accord and don’t have to visit her. Looking at it now, I only think of how quaint it is. It’s like a grandparent’s condo in the form of a town. “Yeah, he just wanted to check up on us."

Keith stretches his legs, now with both resting on the dashboard with his skinny little jeans sliding up his leg, revealing a few inches of pattered socks above his robot patterned slip-ons. Raising his arms above him with a flourish, he yawns and sucks in marijuana-tainted air. “We’re almost there?”

“Yup.” We’re starting to go through pig-smelling farms on the outskirts of town. “Shouldn’t be too long now. We’ll find a dinky little motel and stretch our legs and get some dinner.”

Keith groans and takes off his glasses, resting them on his open palm before rubbing at his temple where they’ve sat for the last few hours. “Fuckin’ restaurant food, I’m sick of it.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling then squeezes them shut. “I miss your cooking.”

I try not to smile by pressing my lips together, but I smile anyways, breaking out into a thin grin. I’m secretly enthralled that he likes the food I make, and I think his enthusiasm is what has inspired me to want to be a chef. I’ve been making a lot of my own meals since we were in elementary school - he always shared my salami sandwiches - up until the end of high school, where he would steal bits of my walnut chicken stir fry as we sat against our lockers in the hallway during lunch. I never objected because of my secret happiness over it and I continued to make fancier and fancier meals to impress him, much to his obvious delight. I loved being able to cook for someone who had no qualms about high fat meals. Now he’s spoiled on it yet he remains a taut little skeleton, that lucky slut. He tells me I’m thin too, but I have to be more cautious than he does.

“That’s good.”

“Oh, for you.” He slips his glasses back on his nose, eyes weary under them. He’s an energetic boy and sitting down all these days has bugged him, I know. “You get to have someone pining for your food, and you don’t miss it at all. You just get to be wanted.”

“Hey, I miss it too!”

“It’s not the same.” He feigns huffy annoyance, crossing his arms, turning away from me with his nose in the air. I laugh. “You don’t appreciate your food.”

“Why not?! Don’t I appreciate it more, having made it?”

“Nope. Not as much as I appreciate it.”

“I’m glad.” My heart swells happily and my fingers drum against the wheel. Behind us, conversation has ceased in a cloud of smoke. Shelf takes deep breaths and smiles, able to get slightly stoned without Phil’s permission. Phil is, I can tell, and Cam is. Cam has stopped smoking and is lying back down with his hands folded across his stomach and an unhappy expression on his face, so I guess he’s still sick. Phil has the remaining stub of the joint bit between his teeth as he looks down at Cam with worry burning so brightly on his face.

I clack my teeth together a few times, moving my jaw back and forth so the peaks and valleys of my molars touch and scrape, resembling the beat of army boots when I do it right. That damn Phil, how can he still care about Cam? After all this? It makes me pity him and makes me sick at the same time. I listen intently to the clackity-clackit-clack of my back molars, capped with fillings since I was seventeen, and I try to sort Phil out as the farms around us turn into buildings. Why does he keep pushing contact on Cam? He’s a cute kid with a golden personality, he’s funny, smart, humble and honest, he could get a lot of decent boys his age if he wanted to. He could get some nonthreatening blond boy with freckles who wants to bake him cookies and tell him jokes and be cute, that’s exactly what he needs, not ... Cam. Cam. What the hell is wrong with Phil? Cam is horrible to him. He’s subjecting himself to Cam’s abuse. They couldn’t have been so close that he should stay with him now, they’re only fifteen. What do they know?

The steady army boot clackit-clack-clack of my molars has turned into a beat for the music Keith has turned up. He sings along to the music, quietly, because he isn’t too fond of his singing voice but he can’t do anything other than sing because it’s catchy. I fight back a scowl, passing a gas station and an old wooden museum on the way into Rockwell. If I were heading to aunt Joanne’s, I’d turn left here, but I’m looking for a motel so I head for where the buildings seem to get busier, the center of town.

I look at Keith, who’s smiling at the road ahead, eyes searching for a place to stay. He sings along with the music, “Heart carved tree trunk, yankee bayonet, a sweetheart left behind,” with a big smile. I start to smile too, pushing Phil and his reasoning out of my mind. Keith looks serene, lost in the music. “Far from the hills of the sea-swaled Carolinas, that's where my true love li- There!” He stops singing abruptly and jabs his finger against the windshield. I scan the road ahead to see what he’s pointing at, and I find a tiny little Super 8 motel nestled in next to a Dairy Queen. Having to make a split-second decision, I navigate over and turn into the parking lot, littered with newspaper pages and paper cups. The van crunches over one pulling into a parking space, and I switch the engine off and for a minute we just sit there silently.

That doesn’t last long. I hear Cam curse in the back and then the door is sliding open and he’s throwing up into the bushes outside, bent over as the remaining smoke billows out of the open door. I roll my eyes and sigh, opening my own door. “Let’s get settled in then. We should go to sleep early, I wanna leave early tomorrow.” I open the back door – the other one, not near Cam – and haul my suitcase out. Keith’s standing behind me, rocking on his heels, smiling like an angel. I grin and shove his suitcase at him, making him scowl. “You’re such a lady, you hate carrying things,” I laugh. He waddles with his suitcase a little, unsure of how to carry it. Mine is slung under my arm like a lumberjack, but he can’t do that because he’s smaller than me and his suitcase is bigger than mine.

“The boy is supposed to carry bags,” he grumbles, ignoring the rest of the boys - Shelf, stretching his legs, Cam, still throwing up, Phil, holding his hair back - as he starts waddling across the near-empty parking lot, balancing the bottom of the suitcase on his feet, walking on his heels. He looks ridiculous. I just catch him quietly muttering, “Why do you think I take it? Less carrying things ...”

I follow him to the lobby, choking on laughter the whole way.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ten minutes later we’re in the tiniest motel room ever made and it smells like hippie and mould and the beds are hard, but we won’t be here for long; it’s already late. Cam is in the bathroom, gagging, vomiting water because he hasn’t eaten much. I almost feel bad for him, but not really. It’s just payback for him being such a huge ass; he deserves this and more. Phil, much to our anger, is in there with him. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, not doing a lot other than rubbing his back; his hair is now back in a ponytail. When he isn’t throwing up, he’s leaning against the wall next to the toilet, eyes shut, shivering because he’s cold.

He definitely has a flu of some kind, if that wasn’t obvious. He hasn’t worn any sort of sweater this whole trip, it’s no surprise that he got a cold. I do like to think that it’s some god-like karma that’s doing this because he was so horrible to Keith, but that’s a long shot. But you know what the best part is? Shelf isn’t in there pampering him. He’s in here with us, staring at the tiny little TV, sprawled on the opposite bed. He’s watching Iron Chef, basically salivating. Keith and I are reading our respective books, curled around each other. I have my back against the bed, pillow behind my head, with my book resting on the crown of Keith’s head as he uses my chest for a pillow, lying out the other way with his book on his stomach. I hold my book up with one hand, careful to make sure the bottom of the spine doesn’t hurt his head, and I use my free hand to pet his chest like you’d do to a cat.

If it weren’t for the sound of Cam vomiting in the bathroom, this could be nice. It’s like we’re home again, and thinking of home, our little apartment with the drippy faucet and loud fridge, I get a bit homesick for privacy and quiet. I tap Keith and he marks the spot in his book and looks up at me. “What?”

I beckon him closer so he rolls over and lies next to me, concerned. “What is it?” he repeats. I stick my neck out and kiss him, letting my book fall, marked, onto the mattress. He flounders for a moment, shocked, before he rolls his shoulders and kisses me back, soft and warm and reassuring, as if he’s drawing homesickness and regret and unhappy thoughts right out of my mouth. I rest my palms on his back, warm through his sheer t-shirt, and press hard to just keep him here. He eases my mouth open and taps and slides his tongue against mine, sending such devastating sparks of everything down my spine. I slip my hands down his back and grab just below his ass, pulling him on top of me, tugging at his bottom lip with my teeth. His hands grip hard at my shoulders; he’s quicker than he usually is, the movements of his mouth and tongue and hands careless and rough.

I squeeze his ass, hard. He squirms and leans away just enough so that our lips don’t touch. I’m breathing hard, looking up at him so close, trying not to go crosseyed. “You know they’re watching us,” he whispers, his breath faintly sweet with cherry lollipop.

I look sharply to the left, where Phil and Cam sit in the bathroom, eyes our way. Cam’s grinning lopsidedly, Phil’s face is the color of a radish and he looks mortified. Keith blocks my view of Shelf. Looking back up at Keith, he looks flushed and absolutely incredible and if we were at home I’d have my hands down his pants right now. I smooth my palm over his ass and down his left thigh as far as I can reach. “I don’t care,” I tell him, voice low and serious, rumbling.

When I go to kiss him again, he stops me. “It’s just ...” He pauses, licking his lips, which makes me such an un-manly level of desperate. I really wish we were at home. Really really really really really really ohgod what is he doing. He crawls off me, rolling against the pillows. I hear him sigh angrily and when I see why, I do the same. Shelf has his hand down his pants. I go beet red.

“You’re kidding me,” I say in a deadpan voice.

He twists backwards and falls off the bed with a loud thump then reappears, just his nose and upwards, with the most emotion I’ve ever seen on him. Cheeky, pleased, giddy, nervous, embarrassed, mortified. He leaps up and darts across the room, saying something very rushed-like, that sounds a lot like “I’ll be right back” as he goes to the door and leaves, slamming it behind him.

I sit up, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to figure out exactly what it was that just happened so quickly. I look at Keith, who’s pressing his lips together tightly, clearly trying not to laugh. “So, uh ...” he finally says, voice is shaky with suppressed giggles. “... So Shelf’s gay, huh?”

We burst out laughing over the sound of Cam throwing up in the bathroom.





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