Date: Thu, 24 Nov 2005 23:55:46 -0800 (PST) From: Robin Eagleson Subject: The Luckiest Summer, Part Seven The Luckiest Summer Robin Eagleson robineagleson@yahoo.com Part Seven On Wednesday she still hadn't come home, and Dad and Mom were on the phone regularly about it. Mom was now going through a pack of cigarettes a day, and she barely spoke to me. The situation had started to upset me deeply, and both Tuesday and the first part of today had been miserable, leaving me in a very sour mood indeed. At around two, I went outside barefoot and shirtless to hit tennis balls at my garage. I hadn't been in to see Brad at work, although if tomorrow wasn't any better than the last few days had been, that was going to change. In fact, I hadn't seen him at all since Monday, which added to my sourness. He always went through streaks where he was never around. I needed to get his cell phone number so I could bug him even when he wasn't home or at work. Nadia had called me earlier in the afternoon and we'd had the longest phone conversation yet. As usual, I had told her everything, about how Jesse still hadn't come home and how Mom had hit me last weekend. She said she was going to come over on Friday afternoon and swim, but I couldn't tell if she was serious or not and I didn't want to sound stupid by asking. My mind was everywhere but on the balls I was hitting at the garage. I was getting good at backhanding. Every once in a while I even got enough force behind my shots to make a loud bang when the ball hit the garage, instead of the usual thud. I practiced with two hands and with one hand, and decided I was better with two. I was oblivious to everything around me until I saw Brad's car squeal around the corner and into his driveway. I knew it was him just by the sound, and I turned excitedly to wave at him. His music blaring through the windows, he was looking right at me, and returning my wave. I hoped he would come over and take me to play at the park. The ball I had hit at the garage had come back to me, and in my urgency to wave to Brad I had missed it, and it passed me and bounded out into the street. I turned quickly and went after it, not realizing there was a car coming from the opposite direction. I saw it after I had already taken two steps into the street, and quickly jumped out of the way. The driver had seen me all along, though, and skidded to a screeching, painfully loud stop, dark skid marks decorating the road and the smell of burning rubber wafting up towards my nostrils. The driver slowly pulled up beside me and rolled down his window. He wasn't old at all; maybe in his early twenties. I heard footsteps behind me and saw Brad hurrying over, looking as though he had just suffered a heart attack. "You're a dumb little shit, aren't you?" the driver asked me, his head leaning out the window, his features darkened considerably with a scowl. I tried to apologize, but couldn't get my mouth to work. My heart was still hammering in my chest from the fright. I had forgotten all about the tennis ball at this point. "He didn't see you; he was waving at me," Brad said. He had finally caught up to me and was standing right beside me. "I suppose that makes it okay. He could have sent my friend through the windshield," the driver spat, gesturing to the passenger seat where his equally angry friend sat. They both looked like they wanted to do it over again so they could run through me this time. "Your friend should be wearing a seat belt," Brad said evenly. "Anyway, it was an accident. He's thirteen, for God's sake. You want to crucify him?" "He needs to try looking before he goes running into the god damn street," the passenger leaned over his friend to yell at Brad. The passenger was younger than the driver, a little bigger, and quite red-faced. "Is he a fucking retard or something? We were inches away from him when he ran out in front of us. He should be dead right now. He should be embedded into the pavement just because he couldn't be bothered to watch out for traffic." I whipped my head back and forth between the people in the car and Brad, who looked as though he hadn't appreciated the last comment. "If every kid died because he did something stupid, no one would ever live to see puberty!" Brad argued heatedly. "Besides, if you ask me," he added as I tried to hide behind him, "it's a lot stupider for an adult to be speeding on a residential street than it is for a kid to accidentally jump in the way of a car," Brad said, his voice rising with each word. "How would you know how fast I was going? I don't see a fucking radar gun in your hands," the driver retorted as he scratched his neatly trimmed dark brown goatee. "I wasn't speeding." "Bullshit," Brad said incredulously, rolling his eyes. "I was watching you the whole time, and you were flying." Brad probably knew a thing or two about speeding on a residential street, so I trusted his opinion. "Why don't you guys just get out of here?" he asked when the occupants of the car continued to stare at him angrily. "Unless there's something we have to take care of first, that is." The threat did not go unnoticed; the driver scoffed and turned away from Brad's gaze, but the passenger started to rise from his seat. The driver gave him a dismissive hand signal to keep him in his place, perhaps because he sensed Brad was big enough to back his words up. "If it happens again, I'm going to save my brakes the effort," the driver said, rolling up his window and idling slowly up to the stop sign at the end of the street. The passenger looked back to flip us off. "I'm sorry," I said meekly to Brad, finding my voice for the first time in a while. Brad went out into the street and picked up my tennis ball, walked back over and handed it to me. "Here," he said quietly, his face slowly transforming from the angry, confrontational one to the pleasant, easy-going one I had gotten so used to seeing. "That wasn't the brightest thing you've ever done, you know," he informed me, cracking a grin. "I guess not," I replied, and then I started laughing, too, a desperately nervous sort of giggle that I didn't even recognize as my own voice. "My backhand is getting better, though. Want to see?" "I have to go take a nap," he said quickly, much to my disappointment. "But maybe you can show it to me on the court later tonight." My heart ascended in my chest quickly. "Really?" I asked, as if he might be merely teasing me. "Sure," he said. "I'm not doing anything else." "Maybe I could spend the night, too?" I ventured hopefully. The way Mom had been acting lately, I wasn't looking forward to another night with her. We had talked about what Dad had suggested, and she assured me it really had been his idea, and that she liked having me around. All the same, I still got the message she would like me to spend a few nights a week away from the house just to give her some time to think, and I figured maybe staying with Brad would make her happy. "Maybe," he said, hesitating slightly. "You'll have to ask your mom, though. I don't want her getting suspicious or anything. She knows you sleep in your own bed, right?" he asked, and I giggled. "She didn't ask," I said. "Should I just bring it up out of nowhere? `Mom, in case you're wondering, I don't sleep with Brad when I stay over there.'" "Shut up, dork," he responded, unable to keep from smiling. "Anyway, we'll see. I'm taking a nap. Come get me later if you want to play tennis." He started to walk back to his driveway, but then turned around. "Watch out for assholes," he grinned, loping the rest of the way across the lawn and shaking his head in disbelief over the bizarre incident I'd just gotten us into. I would be counting the minutes until I could go over and wake him up. I hit the ball back into the garage door, setting up for my backhand and connecting with an especially solid sound. I beamed with pride and looked over to see if Brad was still outside, but he'd already disappeared. I missed the ball on its way back because I'd taken my eyes off it. This time I paid special attention to the street to make sure no one was coming, and then went jogging after it. My thoughts turned to the night I hoped I would be spending at Brad's house as I continued to tap the ball off the garage. It was funny he had brought up the bed situation. I had been wondering where I'd sleep if Tyler weren't gone at camp, and, assuming I was still able to spend the night occasionally when Tyler had returned, where I'd sleep then. I wondered if Brad would let me cram into his tiny twin bed with him. I'd been doing some research this week on my computer. I liked to think of it as research, but a small part of me knew better. I had taken to downloading gay porn and watching it with a curious fascination over the past few days. Initially I had wanted to see if my feelings for Brad meant I was gay; if I was, wouldn't I enjoy watching a guy have sex with another guy? I had my computer completely to myself, but I was still paranoid about the porn, and I always deleted the files guiltily after I watched them, like a binge eater who takes a special trip across the street to throw the evidence into his neighbor's trash so no one will ever find out what's been consumed. I'd stayed up late both of the last few nights for this so called research, and gone to bed each time with strange dreams awaiting me. It shocked me, at first, to see the stuff guys could do together. I knew, of course, about the anal sex; everyone knew that. I wasn't completely wide-eyed about it, but I had to admit some of it had caught me off guard. I didn't live an entirely sheltered existence. Like any boy with free access to the internet, I'd seen more of the female anatomy than Mom or Dad would have suspected. It wasn't that I had never seen porn before, but this was just different. My fascination with homosexuality was almost of the morbid variety. I was surprised to see guys kissed each other just as a regular couple might. I also noticed they never took their hands off their dicks, whether it was their own or whoever it was they were having sex with. There was always something stimulating their penis, no matter what else was going on. I'd seen so many blow jobs over the last two days I became pretty familiar with the concept, and thought I could even manage to give a decent one if I had to. The question was, did I want to? I fired another backhand off the garage and scooped the ball up when it came bouncing back to me. I didn't know what I wanted. Almost without being able to help it, I had automatically pictured doing all the things I had seen on my computer with Brad, and in many instances it didn't feel right. All the same, I had gone to sleep both of the last two nights after jacking off to those images in bed, waking up under stiff sheets and wearing soiled boxers. I didn't know if I wanted to do all those things with Brad, but I did know I wanted to sleep in the same bed with him. But what did that mean? I wasn't paying attention to my backhand anymore, so I gave up and went inside. After debating whether or not I wanted to go swimming, I decided instead to lounge on the couch and watch TV. It was only three. I flipped through the channels aimlessly, fighting off the urge to go continue my research while ignoring the slight stirring in my shorts. The research only went on at night; for some reason I didn't feel comfortable doing it while the sun was up. By the time I got to the Discovery Channel there was a massive tent in my shorts, and it had nothing to do with the program about fighter jets during the World War Two era. Absent mindedly, I petted myself through the silky material of my shorts, changing the channel to ESPN in desperation. If some random sporting activity didn't flatten me out, I was pretty sure nothing would. It was a talk show I'd never seen before. I watched patiently for a few minutes, listening to the man drone on about the latest sports controversies, and then sighed and flipped the TV off. I settled back against the arm of the couch and worked my shorts and boxers down to my knees. My dick popped out eagerly as soon as it was freed, and I had to giggle as I played with it from my resting position, pinning it against my stomach and watching as it sprung gleefully back to attention. I was in plain sight to anyone who might have bothered to look in the bay windows as they passed by, but I didn't care. I just knew I was going to enjoy this. There was the pool, his arms around me, my naked skin dripping wet and pressed against him. His hands, so big, so soft, going astray underneath the water. My heart thudding in my chest, knowing he was touching me somewhere; somewhere he shouldn't. Turning my head to look at his face, because it must have been an accident. But he's not pulling back in surprise. Instead his hand ventures farther, inside my swim shorts, and caresses me. I can only smile at him sweetly, not knowing what words I could use to tell him that if he stops I'll die, that the world around me will simply collapse and consume me and take me to a place where there is no Brad, where there's nothing at all. He doesn't stop, because he knows I need it. He knows everything about me. Inside, arms and legs entwined on the couch, I kiss him teasingly, dainty pecks on his broad, bare chest while he runs his hands through my hair, a cascade of dark brown strands spilling into his face, across his open lips. In my bed, lying flat on my back under the sheets, tensing as I feel the warmth of a mouth on my most sacred of places. In the shower, my mouth seeking his greedily, my arms hugging his waist with the water bouncing off my back, his tongue wrestling forcefully with mine. I heard a high frequency whining somewhere in the distance, and then I realized it was coming from me. I erupted, biting down on my lip hard to suppress the animal noises I had been creating. The explosion nearly propelled me into the air, and one of my legs slid slowly off the side of the couch, my eyes fluttering momentarily before I closed them altogether and leaned back, trying to catch my breath and knowing it would take a minute even as I did so. I draped my right arm across my head and laid there in unmoving silence for over ten minutes. Then, finally, I could feel myself coming back to life. I was starving. I needed something sweet badly. In a shaky daze, I pulled my boxers and shorts back up carelessly around my waist, wiping some of the stickiness on my hands off on my chest, digging it into my bare skin. I stumbled into the kitchen, feeling as though I'd taken an especially long afternoon nap and was still trying to gather my senses. I tore open the cabinets, desperately trying to find something that had a great deal of chocolate in it. I had never experienced such an overwhelming need to eat something sweet. I wondered, briefly, if my latest jack-off session had turned me into a diabetic. The cabinets held nothing of the junk food variety I was looking for, so I ran my eyes quickly over the counter before finally hitting the jackpot: Mom's fudge. I ripped the plastic lid off, hastily grabbed a plump square of fudge, and forced it messily into my mouth. I ate the first half in one gulp, and when it tasted just as good as I thought it would, the second half followed shortly thereafter. I'd eaten three before I remembered to get something to drink. I grabbed one of the biggest glasses I could find out of the cabinet, filled the whole thing with milk, and noisily slurped it in almost one gulp. My body had stopped shaking, so I figured I'd given it whatever it had been in need of. I ran the back of my hand across my mouth to rid my lips of the leftover milk residue, and then sucked the chocolate off each individual finger. Halfway through I realized I was eating with the same hand I had just jacked off with moments ago, and strangely enough that didn't really bother me. As an afterthought I stuffed another piece of Mom's fudge in my mouth, and then went to take a shower, neglecting to remember to put the lid back on. I threw my boxers in the hamper, but opted to keep my shorts. They were my white Nike ones, and I wanted to wear them for tennis tonight; they were my favorite. I took my time in the shower. I wanted to be clean for Brad when I saw him later. I convinced myself that if I was thorough in my washing it would benefit me around him. I had the gel and deodorant Brad had donated to my hygiene cause on my counter now, and I intended to use both. First, I slipped into a clean pair of boxers, and then pulled the shorts back on. I didn't intend to wear a shirt tonight, at least not until after we played tennis, maybe. I studied myself, turning around and looking at my reflection as I spun in a deliberate circle. I lifted each arm ceremoniously and applied a liberal amount of the Old Spice under it, and then focused on my hair. I had yet to apply the gel myself, but I was sure I could make it look as good as it had the two times Brad had helped me with it. When my palm had the amount I figured would be about right, I rubbed my hands together and then started to attack. Just as I began my stylish tweaking, I heard the door open and then bang shut. Someone had come in the house. I froze, staring at my expression in the mirror while I waited for the intruder to be revealed. I knew even before I saw the figure in the hallway. It was my sister. "What are you getting so fixed up for?" she asked, standing at the end of the hallway and looking straight across at me into the open bathroom. "Nothing," I mumbled, my face glowing red. I went back to work on styling my hair so I would have something to do while she looked at me. Then I remembered she'd been missing for several days. "You're in a lot of trouble," I said stupidly. "Really?" she asked, but her sneer seemed tired, less effective than usual. "I thought there would be a party thrown for my return." "Maybe if we'd known when you were coming back," I shrugged. "I was kidding, Zach," she sighed. "So was I." She gave me a surprised look, as if she didn't realize I ever employed a sense of humor. "Was Mom pretty pissed?" she asked, standing perfectly still in her position at the end of the hall. "I think so. She wouldn't talk about it much with me. She's been on the phone to Dad a lot. I got in a fight with her one night about it. She hit me," I said matter-of-factly, as if recapping the highlights of something I had witnessed but not experienced personally. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice strangely quiet. I wasn't sure what she was apologizing for, or why she was apologizing to me. Then she came down the hall and hugged me from the side. I stood there awkwardly, keeping my arms straight down at my sides. If I hugged her back it would just get gel on her clothes anyway. Besides, I didn't have any memory of hugging her in my life, and I didn't feel comfortable about it. I waited for her to let go, and finally she did. "It's okay," I finally said. "I'm not mad at you." I looked up at her face, and she gave me a tight smile. She looked awful, like everyone in my family did if you saw them up close lately. Her eyes were as puffy as Mom's had been on those first few nights after the separation, and her skin was as pale as Dad's. She smelled like cigarette smoke; everyone did these days. "She didn't call the police or anything, did she?" "I don't think so," I answered. "I think she was going to pretty soon, though. Why didn't you come home?" "It's a long story," she sighed. "I'll have to tell it to Mom soon, so I'd rather not talk about it right now." "Are you going to leave again after you talk to her?" I asked. "Are you serious? Do you think I'll be able to go anywhere on my own in the next couple of weeks?" "I guess not," I admitted. "I was afraid you weren't going to come back at all." "I thought I wasn't going to for a while," she said, stepping all the way into the bathroom and studying her face in the mirror. She didn't seem pleased by what she saw. "But I changed my mind. I decided it's not such a big deal if Mom and Dad get divorced. There are worse things, you know?" Worse things? What could be worse than having your entire family crumble apart? Back at the beginning of the summer, I really might not have had an answer for that. Now I thought of Brad, and how the situation had brought me closer to him. Suppose I hadn't looked so sad the day he came by to get his ball out of the backyard. Suppose it had been just any regular day, and Mom and Dad had still been together, and I hadn't been moping on the couch when he saw me through the window. Would he still have invited me over if he hadn't felt sorry for me? I would never know the answer, but I did know that being friends with Brad was worth almost anything to me. I did know that I had never recalled wanting to be with someone quite as much as I wanted to be with him, even if that's all I knew. Were there worse things than your parents separating? "Yeah," I agreed quietly. "There are." "Do you need a ride somewhere?" she asked, cocking her head at me as if putting gel on my hair must have meant I was going out. I shook my head, realizing she was trying especially hard to be nice. I left my hair unfinished so she could use the bathroom. She needed it more than I did right now. I headed back to the living room and flopped on the couch in the spot I had been sitting in before going into my sex-crazed frenzy. I sat and watched TV quietly, unmoving all the way until five, when the garage door opened almost exactly when the clock changed. Mom came in seconds later, customary fast food bag in her hands, her black purse slung over her shoulder. "Jesse's back, I see," she said tonelessly, noting the return of her worn down Probe in the driveway. "Did you talk to her?" she asked, going into the kitchen and setting everything down on the table. "Yeah," I said softly, wishing I could sneak out the door before the two of them had it out. "She's fine," I added quickly. "Wonderful," she said, dropping heavily into the couch beside me and slowly pulling her feet out of her high heels. "I hope she had a good time wherever she was, because she's not going out for a long time." She sighed and took a moment to watch TV with me. "Since when do you watch sports?" she asked skeptically. The TV had been on ESPN when I turned it back on, and since there was a tennis match on, I had left it there in hopes of picking something up from the professionals. All I had noticed so far was that their backhand shots were about ten times harder than my forehand ones. "I like tennis," I said quietly. "I'm playing with Brad later on tonight," I informed her, turning my eyes to the side to gauge her reaction. She hadn't been making any objections lately. "That's fine," she said. I kept looking at her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for the right opportunity. "After we're done I might just stay there for the night," I added timidly, feeling guilty for some reason I couldn't quite pinpoint. "I suppose that's fine, too," she said. "Are you sure he doesn't mind you being over there so much? You don't want to be a nuisance to him, you know." She reached over and tousled my hair. I hadn't actually ended up getting much gel in it, so it was mostly soft, and she rearranged the front of it so it wasn't hanging in my eyes. Of course, as soon as I moved, the strands would fall back where they had been, but this didn't seem to matter to her so long as they were out of the way for now. "We're friends," I shrugged, slightly offended she couldn't see for herself that Brad enjoyed my company. "Why would he not want me around?" "Your hair appointment is on Saturday," she said, choosing to let the previous subject drop. "We'll need to be there at noon, and I have to do some shopping before that. If you're well behaved we can get some lunch after all the errands are taken care of. You need to mow the lawn this week, too." I squirmed away from her touch and crossed my legs underneath me on the couch. She watched me for a few seconds and then patted my knee lightly. When she got up, I knew without having to ask that she was going to talk to Jesse. I was glad they were going to do it in her room instead of out here. As soon as I heard Mom's soft knock on Jesse's closed door, I got up to have a look at the bag on the table. It was from Sonic tonight, which meant, in all likelihood, that I had a six inch Coney and an orange slush. Despite my recent intake of fudge, I found that I was more than hungry for yet another dinner Mom had not cooked herself. We used to eat out maybe two or three times a month. I took my seat at the table, the seat I had hardly sat in since the separation, the seat that faced away from the bay windows, and ate in silence. I set my tator tots aside while I ate the Coney; they were my favorite part, and I wanted to save them for last. I ate quickly, draining the last of my slush, and then scooped up my tator tots and walked out the front door. Mom and Jesse had been quiet so far; I hadn't even heard either of their voices. The early evening air was hot, and the humidity immediately clung to the bare skin above my waist. I still hadn't even put any shoes on. My feet pattering against the warm driveway, I crossed the grass over to Brad's yard, climbed the stairs up his porch, and rapped sharply on his door. It was answered quickly, but not by whom I was expecting. "Yes?" came the voice from the tall figure at the door. It was Brad's dad. He looked me over for a few seconds, and then recognized my face. "Hello, Zach," he offered awkwardly, clearly not comfortable getting visitors at his door that he had to be polite to. "Is Brad inside?" I asked, following his gaze down my right arm to the container of tator tots I had in my hand. He seemed to think it was odd that I went walking around with uneaten fast food. "I think he's sleeping," he said, choosing not to elaborate any further on his comment. I caught my reflection in his glasses and saw a boy who didn't know quite what to say in response. "Well," I stammered uncertainly, "we're supposed to play tennis tonight. Would it be okay if I woke him up?" The man pondered this for a moment, as if perhaps he might have to deny me the right. "Sure," he said finally, as if he'd just undergone a long inward battle. "He probably shouldn't be asleep at this time anyway," he chuckled. "I'll go get him," he said, and just as I started to step into the foyer he turned and let the glass door shut on me. I backed away, blinking in surprise. Was I supposed to wait outside? I didn't feel like I could just barge in on my own, so I stayed on the porch, shifting my feet restlessly. Finally Brad came to the doorway and pulled the door open for me, looking sleepy-eyed. "Hey, man," he smiled, motioning me in. I made it safely into the foyer this time and stood uncertainly in front of Brad, who hadn't indicated where we should go. "Thanks," he grinned, reaching down and taking a tator tot. He chewed it thoughtfully and then turned to the living room and sank into the couch. Finally getting a cue of some sort, I followed him and sat next to him, setting my tator tots in my lap. "Sorry I woke you up," I said sheepishly. "My sister finally came home, so when my mom got back from work I didn't want to be there too long." "Oh," he answered, nodding in comprehension. "I can't blame you. Were they pretty loud?" "Not yet," I said. "But I was afraid they would get that way soon," I explained, my voice trailing off. "So you came here," Brad finished for me, "where it's never loud. Unless Tyler's here and my dad's trying to get him to do something besides play video games." I liked it when he made fun of Tyler, so I laughed. "Well, I'm glad you came when you did," he said, looking up at the clock and turning on the TV. "The Astros are in Pittsburgh tonight, and the game starts at six, so I would have missed the start if you hadn't woken me up." I groaned. "I thought we were playing tennis," I complained. "We are," he said. "Can't we watch some baseball first? The Astros are playing so much better now. They could win their fourth straight tonight!" I didn't care how many games they'd won in a row, but I didn't have it in me to argue. "Do we have to watch the whole game?" I asked, resigning myself to the task at hand. Privately I thought it was worth the boredom of a baseball game just to be able to hang out with Brad. "Depends on how good the game is," Brad said, reaching over to the coffee table to get his bag of sunflower seeds. He was wearing a sleeveless grey shirt that was slightly rumpled from his nap, and a pair of white athletic shorts that matched mine. I looked him over briefly and then took a tator tot out of the container, stuffing it in my mouth and savoring the taste. He glanced over, reached across me and got another one. My heart jumped momentarily when he brushed his hand high on my leg on the route his arm took to the tator tots, still nestled in my lap. I was glad I had put them there. "I watched tennis today on ESPN," I told him proudly, looking back up at him as his eyes fell back on the TV screen. The game was soon to be underway, and his focus was narrowing already. "Excellent," he commented. "You'll be as good as the pros are in a few months at the rate you're learning." "I think I'm going to beat you tonight," I purred, taking the opportunity to scoot an inch closer to him. He laughed at my cocky prediction. "You'd better not. I'm leaving you at the park if you win." "You wouldn't. Where would I sleep?" I rested my head against his shoulder and cast my eyes up to him pleadingly, trying to make him feel guilty. "You're the big shot tennis player. You could figure something out," he said, wrapping his arm around me and actually pulling me towards him more. I couldn't believe my luck. He didn't let me go when the first pitch was thrown, but every time I glanced at him I could tell he had forgotten all about me. I ate my tator tots quietly while alternating my attention between the game and Brad, mostly the latter. I could feel him jump up slightly when Lance Berkman hit a solo home run in the first inning. He kept yelling at the Astros' pitcher, who he called Andy. His body would tense up and then release when the Pirates threatened to score but then didn't. He punched the air excitedly whenever a Pirate struck out, like in the fourth inning when two in a row swung and missed for strike three. Then in the sixth, when I was almost nodding off against his side, he threw me off him altogether and bounded to his feet, yelling so loudly his dad told him to stop being an idiot from back in his room. There had been an ejection earlier, and then a couple of batters later Morgan Ensberg singled and drove in a run. The batter after him, Mike Lamb, hit a three-run home run, which had been the play that Brad had been unable to stay seated for. It was 5-0 Astros now. "Now can we leave?" I asked, yawning. I remembered I had one more tator tot, and I tossed it in my mouth casually and settled back in my spot, laying my head down close to where Brad had been sitting. "Not yet," he said, still grinning sheepishly over his excited display. "We have to watch the end of the inning." He turned back to sit down, saw I was taking up most of the couch now, and with an irritated grunt, put a hand under my shoulders and lifted me up, reclaiming his old spot. I let my head drop back down as soon as he had let it go, and it landed with a thud on his right thigh. I turned sideways so my back was facing the TV and dug my head around his leg until I found a soft enough position for it. I closed my eyes but listened closely to the game. When I heard the inning end and the commercial break, I waited for him to tell me we could leave. When the game came back on and he still hadn't moved, I grabbed his arm and bit it lightly. "What the hell?" he demanded, pulling it away from me quickly. He looked at it in disbelief, checking for teeth marks. "What's wrong with you?" I picked my head up off his leg and looked at him with an evil grin. "You said we'd go after the inning was over." "I thought you fell asleep! You could have just said, `Hey Brad, I'm ready to go play.' But no, you had to sink your teeth into my flesh instead." He rubbed his arm again and shot me a dirty look, as if I had nearly drawn blood. I giggled at his anger and put my head back on his leg. "I'll kiss it if you want," I whispered in what I hoped was a seductive tone. Unfortunately I didn't know the first thing about seducing someone, but I was trying. I reached out and rubbed the spot I had bitten until he smacked my hand away. "You're crazy tonight," he grumbled, finally turning off the TV and getting to his feet. "Let's go. You might want to go get your shoes." "I'll be right back!" I said happily, scampering to my feet and out the door, noting the slight tent that had popped up in my shorts as I took off. When I got to my door I paused for a second, listening for the sound of screaming, and when I heard nothing I crept quietly inside, darted into my room, stepped into my shoes, grabbed my racket, and then quickly left again without being seen. Brad was already backing out of his driveway in customary fashion, so I hurried over to him and climbed in the passenger seat. "So are you staying tonight?" he asked me as we started off down the street, stopping only halfway at the stop sign. "Can I?" I asked, looking at him hopefully. "If you want," he shrugged. "Are you coming to work with me again tomorrow?" "Uh-uh. I'm expecting someone," I said mysteriously. "I wonder who that would be," he said with a smile. "What's she doing coming over to your house while you guys are all alone?" "I dunno," I said honestly. "It was her idea. She wanted to swim." "I see," he said, looking at me closely. I frowned. "What?" "Nothing," he lied. "Just seeing if you know more than you're letting on." "I really don't," I said. "Why? Is there something I should know? Tell me!" "I just think it's interesting she wants to come over to your house while you're the only one there. I mean, usually that sort of thing is hard to pull off when you're thirteen. I doubt her Mom would knowingly drop her off at a boy's house if she knew the truth." "She wouldn't care," I said. "Oh, I forgot. You guys are just friends." He gave me a smile and shook his head, as if I didn't have a clue. "Just don't be surprised if she has a different idea in her head tomorrow." I didn't really understand what he was trying to imply, so I let the subject drop. We got to the court and hit a couple balls back and forth casually. Every time I tried to hit the ball especially hard, I either sent it straight into the net or way out of bounds, and several times I wanted to throw my racket in frustration. It was clear to me that I had been exceptionally lucky on the first shot I'd ever made against Brad. He wanted to play for real, and despite my protests, we began a match; the first set was over in less than fifteen minutes. I had once again failed to win a single game. "You're a little improved," he assured me when we started a new set. "Your backhand is actually decent now. You just need to learn how to aim your shots better." I finally won a game after he started the second set up 1-0, but he quickly stormed back to take the next five and beat me 6-1. Briefly, though, we had been tied on a number in the set other than zero. We switched sides again, and he served first, slamming down an ace to start things off, but then double faulting after that to even things out. I was dripping sweat from every part of my body. A couple of lucky breaks later, I had somehow managed to take the first game. Serving was getting easier and easier, and I was starting to really look forward to it. "How fast do you think I'm serving?" I asked as we started the second game. I hit a ball as hard as I could and watched as it smacked predictably against the bottom of the net. "Maybe fifty or sixty miles an hour," he shrugged. "That's all?" I asked, disappointed. The game I had watched earlier had a radar gun on the serves, and one of the players was consistently clocked in the 130-140 range. I lobbed a get-me-over for my second serve, and waited for the shot I knew he was going to make. It was the same thing he did every time, a line drive in the corner opposite the side I had served on. I anticipated his shot perfectly and actually returned it to him. He slammed it back at me and I couldn't do anything but stick my racket out. The ball bounced crookedly off my racket and landed just barely on the other side of the net. Brad couldn't reach it. My point. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He cussed a lot when we played, even when he had scored sometimes. This time he was frustrated that I had gotten a lucky break. I grinned widely and pumped my fist to rub it in, just like I always did when I experienced the rare joy of scoring on him. But somehow my luck had changed during this set, and my luck continued. I watched as his frustration grew more and more pronounced, and somehow, inexplicably, I found myself up 3-0, my biggest lead ever. He was too angry to even talk to me now, but I was so determined to hold on to my lead I didn't care. We had an argument on the very next serve. I faulted on my first attempt and had to give him an easy one so I didn't double fault, and his return was too fast and hard for me to get to. I thought he had hit it too far, but he insisted he saw it hit the line. I ended up winning the point by sheer persistence, and continual whining that he always won and I should get the benefit of the doubt. He was so frustrated after that, all of his shots were out and I went up 4-0. By this time I was starting to get nervous. I had never been this close to winning before, even if it was just one set. He would still be up 2-1 in the overall match if I did win the set, and I had no doubt he would end up beating me anyway, but I wanted this set more than I had wanted anything in a long time. He was so agitated he was trying to tomahawk all his serves, and he slammed several almost straight into the ground. By the time he composed himself he was already down 15-40, and I was only one score away from taking another game. His next serve was perfect, and I couldn't even get my racket on it. If we were playing around like normal he would have jokingly shouted "Ace!" but apparently something as small as an ace wasn't enough to please him anymore. With grim determination, he went to the other side and fired another perfect one at me. I might as well have closed my eyes when I hit it; I couldn't do anything but blindly stick out my racket and hope it worked. Amazingly, it did. The result was another one of my patented floaters that barely cleared the net. Brad charged it, his eyes lit up, and brought his racket down onto the ball hard. I immediately knew there was no way I could return it based on the sound it made. It might put a hole in me if I got in the way. But it landed with a sharp thud at the tip of the net, a hard crack as it smashed into the tape, and then bounced innocently back to him. I had won another game. He nearly threw his racket, but gained control of himself and calmly tossed me the ball. I was too scared to announce the score like was usually our custom; I was pretty sure we both knew it anyway. It was 5-0. If I could just win one more, I would take the set. I made sure to wait until I was calm and focused before I served. I wanted to play smart, making practical serves that I knew could clear the net instead of trying to get anything by him and faulting my way out of points. But he pounced on all of my precise serves with astounding energy, and the game was quickly over. He had drawn blood, making the score 5-1. His serves were all amazing in the next game. He only faulted once, giving me brief hope, but then his second serve was just as hard as any of his first ones, and I quickly found my lead cut to three games. I tried hard to keep my composure and not play sloppy. If I had gotten lucky five times already, surely I could do it one more time to take the set. But he had settled into a groove. Inwardly, I was a mess after he won the third straight game to make it 5-3. I had already decided it was over in my head, and Brad had told me from the beginning that the mental aspect of tennis was crucial (he liked using that word). My confidence was shattered, though, and I found myself giving up on the balls he hit back to me as soon as they cleared the net, whereas earlier I had been hustling after them all. Soon we were knotted at five, and if I were to win now I'd have to take the next two, because you had to win by at least two games to take a set. When he won the next game, too, it was down to the wire, and even if I did win it we would just go to the tiebreak. I had no chance of winning it outright now. It was my serve, but I was down 5-6. We had switched demeanors now. Brad had stopped cussing and looking as though he might snap his racket in half, and I'd taken to excessive pouting. My first serve was perhaps the best one I'd ever made, but he returned it to my backhand side and I swatted it well out of bounds. Taking a deep breath, I served from the left and quickly faulted twice. Down love-thirty, I was already beaten, and I wanted to throw my racket down and run home. Couldn't he have just let me win one set? I glared across the net at him, but he wasn't seeing me as a person with emotions; he saw only his opponent on the opposite side of the net. He was set in his return stance, a stoical warrior waiting patiently, locked into whatever state of mind he got in when he was playing tennis. I hit it to him. His return shot was actually not impossible this time, so I was able to hit back, but then he lined one in the corner that I didn't even bother going after. "Love serving forty," I announced glumly as I tossed the ball high up in the air and hit it poorly. Brad still positioned himself right on the edge of the serving line when I set up. I had to play him as far back as I could afford to because he served so hard. This serve was a fault. I was down to one last chance. Carefully, I tossed the ball up again and hit it squarely this time. It cleared the net in its usual slow arch, and I immediately took off for the opposite side of the court, knowing he was going to try to aim for that corner. But he saw me running there and changed his shot at the last second, sending a bullet right to the exact location I had originally been standing at when I served. The match was over; he had won seven consecutive games to take the set from me. I couldn't hold back my anger now, so I let out an anguished noise of disgust and flung Dad's horrible racket against the fence. I sat down on the edge of the court, leaning against the cool metal of the fence and crossed my arms over my chest, glaring into the ground at my feet. Fittingly, the lights went out as soon as I had sat down, and the court was pitch black now. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the dark and I saw Brad was walking around picking up the scattered balls. Normally I would help him, but I was too angry at him currently. I stayed right where I was until he had returned all the balls to their respective cans. Then he made his way over to me, picked up my racket and held it out to me from above. "Good match," he said. I didn't answer, but I took the racket back from him. He held out his hand again, this time to help me up, but I ignored it and got to my feet on my own, walking ahead of him towards the car. I knew it was stupid to pout like this, but I really didn't understand why he had to play so hard against me. I thought he was nicer than that. It was quiet in the car. He asked me if I was thirsty, and I just shook my head moodily even though I was close to dying. I would have polished off a Route 44 at Sonic in under a minute, but when I shook my head he just shrugged and drove back to our neighborhood. He had a different CD in the car this time, and I actually recognized it for a change. It was Weezer's new album. The song was loud and fast, and it fit my mood well. "You played well, Zach, really," Brad started cautiously, sensing I was still mad. "I've been playing tennis since I was eight. You can't expect to beat me when you just started playing." I turned up the volume of the song to drown him out, and he got the message, although he gave me a disapproving look, reached over and turned the volume back down. He didn't try to say anything else on the way back, and he looked as though he wanted to drop me off at my house. I suppose, based on the way I was acting, I might as well have gone home, but I went inside with him anyway. I accepted the water he handed me inside, and we watched TV for a while, the volume turned down nearly all the way because his dad was already asleep. He seemed to enjoy the History Channel, but the program wasn't about serial killers tonight, so it bored me. Quietly, I slipped off the couch, used his bathroom quickly, and then ducked into Tyler's room to play on his Xbox, still pouting. Even I knew it was ridiculous by this point, but once you get mad at someone it's kind of hard to just go back to normal right away; there has to be an awkward transitional period first. So I played Doom 3 for the next hour, stumbling around helplessly and repeatedly jumping in fright when a monster would startle me, because I wasn't paying much attention anyway. At around midnight Brad came into the hallway, and I heard him peeing in the bathroom. The faucet ran for a few seconds, and I paused the game to listen so I would know if he went into his room. When I heard him click off the light in the bathroom I quickly went back to playing, pretending to be engrossed in it and completely unconcerned with what he was doing. I was facing away from the doorway, but I could sense him behind me. "Hey," he said, standing right underneath the door frame. "I'm going to sleep, alright? You can stay up, though. Eat or drink anything you want. I'll wake you up tomorrow before I go to work." He shut the door then, even though I didn't want it closed, and seconds later I heard his door shut across the hall. I started to feel bad then, because I had wasted a night that I could have spent hanging out with Brad. I shut off Doom as soon as I heard his door close and tried a few other games, but with no success. I ventured out into the kitchen to get another bottle of water, and then went back to Tyler's room where I threw myself onto his bed and stared grumpily up at the ceiling and watched the ceiling fan spin endlessly. After counting the number of times the fan had spun in circles for several minutes, I couldn't take the feeling of guilt that had surfaced clearly into my conscious thought any longer. I scooted out of the bed, padded across the hall, and cracked open Brad's door, squeezing in through the narrow opening I'd given myself. I left it slightly ajar so my eyes would adjust to the darkness faster, and then made my way slowly over to his bed, watching Brad's sleeping form under the sheets. I tiptoed in the stealthy manner of a cat burglar, and then pulled up the corner of his sheets, sliding in underneath them and forcing myself next to Brad. His bed was pushed against the wall, and he was taking up all of the side closest it, so I had climbed in on the opposite end, positioning myself on my side like he was and backing in firmly against him. He might not have known it in his current state, but we were spooning. I heard his breathing take on a more active sound, and he tried to adjust his position but found he couldn't. "For Christ's sake, Zach," he grumbled, his trademark complaint. "I have a hard enough time fitting in this bed by myself." He was talking almost directly into the back of my head due to how close I was to him. I could feel the heat coming off his body as tightly as we were crammed together, my bottom pressed firmly into his crotch. I tried not to squirm against it even though my instincts told me to. "I'm sorry I got mad during tennis," I said softly, finding it easier to apologize in the dark without having to face him while I said it. "Couldn't you have just let me win once?" He was quiet for several seconds, and I wondered if he had fallen back asleep. Then there was a great sigh that slowly filled the room like air being blown into a balloon. "I could," he said, his voice just as soft as mine. "But do you really want me to treat you like that? What if you beat me? Would you want to know if you had done it for real or if I had just taken pity on you and let you win?" "I would want to know," I admitted. "Well, you never have to wonder with me. I know I played you hard, but that's because I don't bullshit people. I'm not going to lie to you. If you're good enough to beat me, then you'll beat me. Until then you won't. That's just the way I am," he finished, and I thought I understood what he meant. "You could have let me win that one set," I said anyway, whining just a bit. "If you want me to act like you're five, I can," he said shortly in a no nonsense tone that was filled with stern impatience. "I just know you're smarter than that, and I figured if I let you win you'd be insulted. You're not a baby; you can handle losing, right?" I had to think about that. I decided he was right. Couldn't he have faulted a few more times and acted like he didn't mean to, though? I smiled in the dark, keeping the thought to myself. "So are you going to stop being a brat now?" he asked, and I detected a note of teasing in his voice. I flipped over to face him. "I'm going to fucking destroy you the next time we play," I breathed into his face. I honestly considered kissing him. His lips were inches from mine. I could just lean in quickly and give him a quick smack and see what he did. If he liked it I would dig my hands into the side of his face and kiss him harder, just like the guys in the videos I had found during my research. If he didn't like it I would find the nearest escape route. But I didn't kiss him. I just kept staring at him instead, looking directly into his eyes. He was smiling at my threat, clearly relieved I had finally gotten over my anger. "We'll see," he said, tickling my chest briefly, much to my delight. I squealed because I really was ticklish, but the contact also excited me in a different way. His hands didn't roam any, though, despite all my fantasies to the contrary. In fact he took his hand off me altogether, so I reached under the sheets until I found it, kneading his fingers as innocently as I could. "When did you have your first girlfriend?" I asked him sleepily, stifling a yawn while I played with his hand. He held it limply in my grip, as if to neither consent nor protest. "Sixth grade," he answered softly. "Dana Garrison. She was fucking hot. We only went out for about a week though. We didn't even break up; I think we just stopped talking. I wish it was still that easy now." "I don't understand how going out with someone works," I said with a frown. "I've been out with Nadia several times now. Does that mean we're going out?" "Have you asked her?" "No," I said, flipping onto my back but not letting go of his hand, which I continued to squeeze tightly in between both of mine. I pulled his fingers apart and tried to pop his knuckles absent mindedly. "You have to ask her out, you little tool," he said with a small laugh. He, too, had settled on his back now. He had scooted over closer to the wall to accommodate me, and I accepted this extra space by pressing my side in harder against him. I was still prodding at his hand as if it were a toy, but now I had set it down on my chest. He tried to pull it back but I grabbed it again. "Oh," I answered. "What if she says no?" "She won't," he grunted. "She called you in the first place." "Oh yeah," I agreed. "So what about kissing?" I asked boldly, strangely unabashed in my nosy questioning. "When did you first do that?" "Seventh grade," he answered, just as quickly as the last question. "Rachel Betancourt. Total slut," he grinned towards the ceiling. "We made out in the movie theater. Something with Will Smith in it. Wild Wild West I think." "That movie sucks," I giggled. "I didn't go to see the movie, Zach," he laughed. "It's a perfect make out location. So I suggest if you're looking to kiss Nadia, think about doing it during a movie." "Have you ever gone skinny dipping with a girl?" I asked, barely holding back another high pitched giggle. "Oh yeah," he said. "But I'm not telling you anything about that. Too much action for you to handle." "Please?" I asked, tracing the outline of his knuckles with my pointer finger. He yanked his hand back and tucked it away. "No," he replied firmly. "And if you're going to stay in here you need to shut up and go to sleep." "Do you want me to go back to Tyler's room?" I asked, trying to sound as though I didn't mind either way. I held my breath. "You can stay if you want," he said as I exhaled. "But I wouldn't go around mentioning it to anyone. Someone might get the wrong idea," he explained, sounding on the verge of falling asleep. "What do you mean?" I asked him, yawning again, even though I understood exactly what he meant. "You know," he answered, sounding distant. "Someone might think I was tinkering with your innocence," he finally said after searching for the right wording. Of all the subjects in the world, I thought I might have finally found one that had Brad at a loss for words. He was being just slightly more cautious, albeit not much. "But you don't mind if I stay?" I asked again, settling up against him despite his warnings, my hair pressing against his nose. My innocence wasn't as intact as he seemed to believe, but I did have something between my legs he could tinker with, if only I could get him interested. "Why would I care?" he asked. He squeezed me tight with his right arm hooking underneath my neck. "You're a cool little kid," he said, his mouth near my ear. "A little weird, though." His breath in my ear sent shivers down my body, an explosive electricity running rampant inside of me. I was tingling all over as I drifted off to a very content sleep.