didn’t understand what he saw in her, but she was pretty enough and had a nice enough body, if you were into girls. So at least I didn’t have to worry about sharing his free time with her.
But the summer turned out to be even worse than I could have dreamed. He had to be at work every day from ten in the morning until the pool closed at eight. By the time he punched the time clock and walked the two miles home, he was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed. He was off on Wednesdays and Sundays, but his dad kept him busy doing yard work and chores around their house. Every time I saw him, he was so tired and worn out he could barely speak in anything more than words of one syllable and grunts.
I tried hanging out at the pool, and managed to get really tanned, but it was so boring . He had to sit in his lifeguard tower, so high up we had to shout at each other to be heard. We could talk when he had his lunch break, but that was about it. And all the little kids running and yelling and splashing while their mothers talked to each other and ignored them drove me crazy. I read a lot of books while my skin got darker, headphones firmly in place trying to drown out the screaming of the kids—how Marc stood all the noise was beyond me—and tried to sneak glances at him, up on the tower behind his dark sunglasses, as his skin turned golden and the sun bleached out the hair on his legs.
And that had to be enough for me. To see the sun glinting on his muscles as I watched the girls in their bikinis flirting with him, my heart aching as I rode my bike home when I couldn’t stand to be out in the sun anymore, hoping that he wouldn’t be too tired to stop by and hang out for a while.
He rarely wasn’t, as June turned into July, and next thing I knew it was August and time for the annual family vacation.
Pretty much our only contact all summer long had been through text messages and posts on Facebook.
It was the worst summer of my life, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. At least when we were in school, we saw each other all the time—we were both in the college-prep program and always took as many classes together as we could manage.
I didn’t even get to see him before we left for Sanibel. He was supposed to come over the night before we left, but he texted me that, once again, he was too tired—and he’d see me when I got back. I miss you so much, I typed out…but deleted it instead of sending it.
We’re not even friends anymore, I thought, burying my face in my pillows, not bothering to respond to his text. The job was worse than any girlfriend. Feeling like an idiot for crying over someone who didn’t feel the same way about me that I felt about him, I vowed to myself that when I got back from Sanibel I was moving on.
I’d find a boyfriend if it killed me.
But the night we got back from Sanibel, I was in my room unpacking. I’d gone completely incommunicado there—I didn’t even take my phone with me on the trip, so I avoided Facebook and e-mails and everything. I figured it was better not to be tempted to send him desperate texts, to pour all my feelings for him out in an e-mail, or whatever. I was miserable, of course, the whole time we were in Florida, but nobody seemed to notice because I’d gotten really good at pretending to be happy when I was miserable—just like I’d gotten really good at pretending to not be gay, or pretending Marc was just my best friend. On the flight back to Chicago, I decided I was tired of pretending. About everything.
It was on the plane I decided I was going to tell my parents I was gay. I was going to tell everyone, and I didn’t care if it cost me friends or if kids picked on me at school or said nasty things to me on Facebook or Twitter. No matter how bad it got, it couldn’t be any worse than lying to everyone, including myself.
I was putting my duffel bag away in my closet when I heard knuckles rapping on my doorframe. “Come in!” I’d called without
But the summer turned out to be even worse than I could have dreamed. He had to be at work every day from ten in the morning until the pool closed at eight. By the time he punched the time clock and walked the two miles home, he was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed. He was off on Wednesdays and Sundays, but his dad kept him busy doing yard work and chores around their house. Every time I saw him, he was so tired and worn out he could barely speak in anything more than words of one syllable and grunts.
I tried hanging out at the pool, and managed to get really tanned, but it was so boring . He had to sit in his lifeguard tower, so high up we had to shout at each other to be heard. We could talk when he had his lunch break, but that was about it. And all the little kids running and yelling and splashing while their mothers talked to each other and ignored them drove me crazy. I read a lot of books while my skin got darker, headphones firmly in place trying to drown out the screaming of the kids—how Marc stood all the noise was beyond me—and tried to sneak glances at him, up on the tower behind his dark sunglasses, as his skin turned golden and the sun bleached out the hair on his legs.
And that had to be enough for me. To see the sun glinting on his muscles as I watched the girls in their bikinis flirting with him, my heart aching as I rode my bike home when I couldn’t stand to be out in the sun anymore, hoping that he wouldn’t be too tired to stop by and hang out for a while.
He rarely wasn’t, as June turned into July, and next thing I knew it was August and time for the annual family vacation.
Pretty much our only contact all summer long had been through text messages and posts on Facebook.
It was the worst summer of my life, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. At least when we were in school, we saw each other all the time—we were both in the college-prep program and always took as many classes together as we could manage.
I didn’t even get to see him before we left for Sanibel. He was supposed to come over the night before we left, but he texted me that, once again, he was too tired—and he’d see me when I got back. I miss you so much, I typed out…but deleted it instead of sending it.
We’re not even friends anymore, I thought, burying my face in my pillows, not bothering to respond to his text. The job was worse than any girlfriend. Feeling like an idiot for crying over someone who didn’t feel the same way about me that I felt about him, I vowed to myself that when I got back from Sanibel I was moving on.
I’d find a boyfriend if it killed me.
But the night we got back from Sanibel, I was in my room unpacking. I’d gone completely incommunicado there—I didn’t even take my phone with me on the trip, so I avoided Facebook and e-mails and everything. I figured it was better not to be tempted to send him desperate texts, to pour all my feelings for him out in an e-mail, or whatever. I was miserable, of course, the whole time we were in Florida, but nobody seemed to notice because I’d gotten really good at pretending to be happy when I was miserable—just like I’d gotten really good at pretending to not be gay, or pretending Marc was just my best friend. On the flight back to Chicago, I decided I was tired of pretending. About everything.
It was on the plane I decided I was going to tell my parents I was gay. I was going to tell everyone, and I didn’t care if it cost me friends or if kids picked on me at school or said nasty things to me on Facebook or Twitter. No matter how bad it got, it couldn’t be any worse than lying to everyone, including myself.
I was putting my duffel bag away in my closet when I heard knuckles rapping on my doorframe. “Come in!” I’d called without
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