JEFF’S PUNISHMENT is extreme. Strict quarantine until the start of school. He can’t leave the house, not without one of his parents, unless it’s something church-related, which he wouldn’t do without one of his parents, and the stepfuck took away his phone for five days. He got it back last night, so we talked for a bit but he didn’t talk about the kiss.
I wanted to—it’s the only thing I’ve thought about all week—his lips on my lips, dry at first, or stiff, I guess. But when I tasted his spit on my tongue, every organ inside my chest pushed into my throat then burst through my mouth like a plant in bloom, fast-forward on the Discovery Channel, green flowered buds becoming white silken petals shot out from the stem.
After we separated, Jeff laughed—we both laughed—because we’re best friends and we shouldn’t be kissing, or maybe we should, and we did, and I wanted to—and we did—but I never had something I wanted that bad come true so I had no frame of reference. Then Jeff rolled over and fell asleep, or fake fell asleep, so I was sitting on the sleeping bag on the floor next to my mattress, thinking of moving to the bed, but the longer I sat there the more awkward it felt to try to make that move, not knowing how he’d react and knowing I’d have to wake him up to squeeze onto the mattress, so I decided a trip to the bathroom might provide some kind of cover but when I got back he was snoring and the next morning he was gone.
I didn’t hear from him all week.
“Cyrus?”
Mindy Won is standing in the doorway of the guidance office in a rainbow-colored shirt, book bag slung over her shoulder.
“Hey, Cyrus!”
She’s way more excited than anyone needs to be excited inside our high school in the summer.
“What are you doing here?”
“Great to see you, too.” She scrunches her face and I feel bad but I didn’t mean it to be mean, I’m just surprised. “I was supposed to meet up with Dr. Gallagher, but Ms. Stillwater said he wasn’t in so I figured I’d come by and see you.”
Jeff picked out a song for us last night so I stayed up late trying to learn “Younger Us” by Japandroids. It’s super hard to master, the way the Japandroids’ drummer rotates through the beats with unrelenting speed, but I have all weekend to practice. Jeff’s on punishment so I have nothing else to do.
“Why did you want to see the principal?”
“I have all these forms to fill out to try to get students signed up as volunteers at the Food Bank, like as an after-school activity for service credits.” She taps on her backpack and her eyes stray to the wall behind me, a collage of college brochures I spent way too long assembling. “I’ve been trying to make an appointment but no one seems to answer the phone.”
“The secretaries here aren’t the greatest,” I say, although technically I’m supposed to answer when no one else answers, which is annoying. I hate picking up the phone.
“I’m not sure what the mix-up was but hey, I’m here now, so—” A wide smile forms across her lips. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I say, which is the truth.
“What are your plans for the weekend?”
I don’t respond because “hoping Jeff calls” isn’t an actual plan. But Sharane told Jeff she was into me so if I told her about Jeff and me, she would know that I’m gay and let me get back to pretending to work in peace. Which sounds meaner than I mean it, but I’m tired. And I miss Jeff.
“Earth to Cyrus,” she says, waving her hand in front of my eyes. I don’t know how long she’s been waiting.
“I’m trying to learn a song,” I say. “For the band.”
“What song?”
“It’s called ‘Younger Us.’ By Japandroids.”
“Japan what?” she says.
“Droids. They’re Canadian.”
“The droids are Canadian? Were they manufactured in Japan?”
“No, I mean, um—they’re from Canada. The band. They’re white.”
I turn thirty-eight shades of this-is-not-okay, because she’s Asian-American and that had to be offensive, and now I realize I never asked which nation her parents emigrated from, which is even more offensive. I think.
“You’re funny, Cyrus,” she says. “Quiet. But funny.”
Her hair is pulled back from her eyes, with a large blue clip at the center holding the stray strands in place, and her lips have a fresh coat of paint, this bright bluish purple, matching the tie-dye on her shirt. We’ve always been cool in class but I haven’t thought of her like that because I don’t ever think of girls like that. Not anymore. In sixth or seventh grade I started to notice girls a bit, because all the boys in my class were talking about the girls in class, but I never wanted to kiss one—a girl—the way I wanted to kiss the boys. And I know it’s not the same for everyone—how it’s confusing for some—but Jeff’s always been clear with me about being straight. Then he kissed me in my bedroom.
“Well, first of all, I will indeed check out these droids from Japan by way of our great neighbor to the north, because if I am to play in this band, I will need a better descriptor of your sound than ‘hardcore,’” she says, waving her hands as she speaks. “And I’m still not sure if you need a bassist or a keyboardist, or a singer maybe? I do sing in choir for the church.”
“Jeff’s the singer,” I say.
“Okay, good. Because I’m a horrible singer. The church, they take anyone.” She laughs at her own joke and I force a smile. “Anyway, other than practicing the song by the hardcore band with the weird name, are you otherwise free?”
I look toward the wall of windows separating the guidance office from the hallway, pretending like I’m figuring out whether or not I can rearrange my busy schedule on such short notice. I do have FaceTime with Cody planned, and I do feel bad for kissing Jeff without telling Cody, because he’s smart and funny and he wouldn’t have to be blackout drunk to kiss me, I don’t think. Mindy shakes her head.
“You know, Cyrus, I remember you being chattier in English class. What was the word you used to describe Ms. Patterson’s breath?”
“Of course. So pungent you need to run away.”
She smiles and waits for me to speak but I don’t know what to say. I wish Jeff hadn’t said anything, or Sharane hadn’t said anything to Jeff, because this shouldn’t be awkward—Mindy and me—and if we were only friends, she could help me sort out what’s going on with Jeff. I mean, I guess I couldn’t tell her because then I’d be outing Jeff, but I’m dying to tell someone. To make it real.
“Well, if you are free, there’s this documentary playing in Glen Rock I wanted to check out and I thought you might join me,” she says. “It’s about skaters and punk music and I don’t know if you skate but if you’re into hardcore, you must be into punk, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay, perfect. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night?”
I squint and grit my teeth, like I’m confused about what’s happening, because I don’t know what’s happening or what I just agreed to but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Text me your address. I’ll send you the movie schedule.”
“O—kay,” I say, leaning back in my faux leather seat because Mindy is cool—she used to make Ms. Patterson’s class bearable—but she’s way more forward than I was ready for and I don’t know how to get out of this.
“Don’t be so frightened, Cyrus,” she says, her wide smile spread beneath her purple lips. “It’s just a movie. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“It was a disaster.”
Cody coughs on his coffee through the laptop, the liquid spilling up the straw over the sides of his cup.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You didn’t sit with your date. On your date.”
“I mean, no. Not after the previews.”
“But why? I need details.” His wispy eyebrows furrow on my screen.
“Well, you know how the theaters have assigned seating—at least by me they do.”
“We’ve had that in California for years.”
He sets his cold brew out of view.
“Right,” I say. “Of course.”
His hair is curly and brown but the California sun turns most of it blond and he enhances the tips with a white-colored gel to keep it light and slick and straight.
“Well, Mindy texted which seat she got so I could get a seat next to her and I must have read the text wrong or fat fingered the request but we realized when we got there we’d bought different seats.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah, so at first it was fine and I sat next to her. But then some old couple came in and one of them had my seat and they wouldn’t switch.”
“So, you moved?”
I nod, reaching for my water on the nightstand next to my mattress but the bottle is empty.
“And you watched the entire movie in separate seats?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh my god, you’re so gay.” He laughs. Cody convinced his mother to convert the attic into a bedroom this summer, to give him more room and more freedom from his brother, a gift of sorts after she finalized the divorce from his father. The sunshine through the skylight bathes the surfing poster behind his bed in yellows and oranges and reds.
“She still doesn’t know you’re gay?”
I crinkle my nose. “No.”
“You’re crazy,” he says, leaning away from his desk, tucked into an alcove next to a window, cater-cornered from the bed. “Is there going to be a second date?”
“I had no idea this was a date!” I say. “Not until she picked me up wearing a dress.”
“And what were you wearing?” Cody says.
“This.” I point to my METZ T-shirt—the one with the drums at the center on a stark black background—because that’s what I was wearing when she arrived last night in her summer dress, low-cut with a pattern of bluish-green flowers over her breasts. “I haven’t changed.”
I haven’t even gotten out of bed.
“Was there a mention of a second date?”
“No. We talked about the documentary after, which was really good. Side note, I did not realize documentaries could be good.” Cody laughs. “But then we fell into silence for the rest of the ride home. There’s no way she’s doing that again.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Cyrus—wait, do I know your last name?”
“I’m not sure.”
It looks like his FaceTime might have frozen for a moment.
“Is it going to remain a mystery?”
“Oh. Yes. Mystery. That’s who Cyrus Dunn is. A man of mystery—hey wait—”
He laughs at my lame attempt at humor.
“Cyrus Dunn, huh?” Cody says, sucking at the bottom of his cup, the ice sticking to the plastic. “Is that Irish?”
“I think so. My mom was Polish and my dad is Irish and German,” I say. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just white?”
I laugh. His brown eyes sparkle when he spins in his chair, the tips of his hair like icicles in the skylight.
“Um, es tu nombre?” I say, the accent all wrong. He laughs. Señora Diaz gave up on correcting my pronunciations two months into Spanish III.
“I appreciate the effort,” he says. “Martin. Cody Martin. My dad is muy blanco.”
Cody’s parents were separated for years before the divorce and I guess they still get along. His mom and his brother live with him in Manhattan Beach and his father lives in a neighboring town a bike ride away.
“Well, Cody Martin, it’s nice to formally meet you.”
“Same here, Cyrus Dunn.” He sticks out his hand to shake through the laptop and I follow suit, like we’ve just signed a contract for representation for our band. He laughs again.
“And maybe we could formally go to a movie next time I’m in California?” I say.
“I mean, sure,” he says. “But I do prefer dates that sit next to me.”
“Who said anything about a date?”
“Oh right, I forgot. Cyrus Dunn needs exact clarification as to what constitutes a date.”
“This is true,” I say. “Or at least some assistance on seat selection in a movie theater app.”
He snorts through his laughter and drops the cup of ice. I like this, flirting like this—I think this is flirting—and taking the lead, because the distance makes it easier, easier than Jeff and me. And Cody’s out, which is less confusing than Jeff, but also—he isn’t Jeff. We still haven’t talked—not for very long and not about the kiss. Last night before Mindy picked me up, Jeff had Japandroids cranking on his laptop speakers while he spoke in short, low bursts so the stepfuck couldn’t hear him.
I hear knocking at my door.
“Hey Cody, I gotta go,” I say.
“No worries. Call me later.”
“Absolutely.”
He smiles, the sun in his eyes, bright and brown with the lashes dipping down, curly like his hair and shining in the light. I hold on for as long as I can before I stumble out of bed to let Dad in.
“You’re not dressed?”
Cody called before his morning surfing session, which is early for us but he was eager for details when I texted about the “date.”
“Did you forget your driving lesson?” Dad says, standing in the doorway. “Again.”
“No.”
I do have a vague recollection of driving practice, but Dad’s been so smothering this week—more than his usual smothering—with Angela off to Penn State. It’s like we don’t have the balance of my sister’s attitude to distract us from ourselves.
“I set aside this Sunday for you,” he says. “You could at least be ready.”
“I am,” I say, adding. “I will be.”
Dad’s job involves managing massive schedules on projects he’ll print out and tape to the dining room wall some nights, so he schedules everything in his life within an inch of a minute and doesn’t quite get why I don’t do that too. Like if I procrastinate on my homework or say I’ll get to it later, he thinks it’s a personal affront to him. Like his brain can’t compute why I would let something fun get in the way of “my responsibilities” and then he’ll ask formal questions like “were you not aware you had homework to complete?”
It’s annoying.
“You’re almost sixteen, Cyrus. You need to start being more responsible.” He steps two steps inside the room. “I need you to follow through when I ask you to do things. I don’t ask for much.”
I don’t know why he’s saying that, because he asks me for a lot of things, I just don’t have the energy for an argument this morning. Sometimes I think he makes up reasons to be upset because I never get in trouble in school and I never drank before Jeff and Jeff smokes way more than me. He gives me a curt “ten minutes,” and leaves the door open behind him.
During our last session before the party at Tyler Brower’s uncle’s house, Jeff suggested we run away to Brooklyn, where all these punk bands play and they know each other and support one another and if we practiced long enough, we could become part of the scene, like Joyce Manor or Cloud Nothings, who both formed when their members were sixteen. I wonder if Jeff would come out if we ran away to Brooklyn, so we could be in the band and be lovers too.
I wonder if we’ll still be friends if he doesn’t want to kiss me again.
It’s killing me.