it. Sure enough, there was a name on the paper that made my eyes bug.
Midway down the list was one Barry Nathaniel “Hutch” Hutchison.
Chapter 7
Y OU share classes with a guy for more than a year, have lunch with him five days a week, hang out at each other’s homes on the weekends. You think you know the guy after all that.
On the list were four other dudes from Gordon Browning High, as well as a couple of girls. I didn’t know any of them all that well. But Hutch? He had become my second-closest friend, after Mac. His parents were just as strict and religious as mine. We both loved math class and hated English class. We exchanged embarrassing anecdotes like sinners at confession. Hutch—who was deathly afraid of all dogs, big or small—told me he screeched like a girl in the middle of a church picnic two years ago when a six-month-old stray pup ran up and licked him on the ankle. He once stuffed a rock up his nose on a dare and got it stuck in his nostril. There was the time he got sick while riding the roller coaster at the Middle Tennessee State Fair and sprayed upchuck all over the crowd waiting in line below.
But there hadn’t been a single clue, not a passing hint, that he’d gone gay. He went by “Hutch” because he hated his name; he said Barry Nathaniel was “freaking faggoty.” He was the one who started calling the broken-nose freshie “gay boy.”
My God. For weeks we’d been showering together, naked , in the school locker room.
Suddenly, I felt so violated.
I grabbed the phone off my nightstand and punched in Hutch’s telephone number.
“Hello?”
“Hutch, man, it’s Jerry. Can you get out for a minute?”
“Why? I’m in the middle of—”
“Just find out if you can get out for a minute.”
He must have put his hand over the mouthpiece; there was a brief, muffled conversation on his end. Then he came back on the line. “My mom says it’s okay. What’s up?”
“Meet me at the basketball court in the park. Be there in ten minutes.”
I hung up, grabbed my jacket, and walked back to the kitchen.
Dad was still grading papers. He looked up at me as I entered. “Jericho?”
“I have to meet Hutch about a… project we’re working on,” I said, sliding into my jacket.
“It’s after seven, boy.”
“But my curfew’s not until eight tonight. I’ll be back by then.”
Dad wasn’t crazy about the idea. I knew this because his harsh gaze promised me misery if I were even one minute late.
H UTCH lived closer to the park than I did, and he was already at the court when I arrived. The park was empty, and the temperature had dropped considerably. With his jacket zipped to his neck, he was leaning against the lamppost, arms wrapped around his chest for warmth.
“Hey, man,” he said, annoyed. He was a few inches shorter than me, but more solid and muscular in build. His hair was sort of sandy brown, straight and thick, and he wore it long. He really did have nice eyes; they were green with long, thick lashes. He was cute for a guy. No, I mean… he was good-looking. Wait, I mean, he looked okay. Yeah, he was okay looking. “What’s up with all that guff you were giving me on the phone?” he asked.
The question only made me angrier, and I had to fight a sudden urge to swat him in the head. “You want to know what’s up? What about this, you little bastard?” I growled through my teeth, shoving the list in his face.
Hutch reacted as if the sheet of paper was a gun. His face paled so quickly I thought he was going to faint. He raised his hands and braced himself against the post as if a tsunami was smashing down on him. He was speechless. His arms and legs actually started to tremble.
Then I did hit him, but not out of anger. He started making these strange choking noises, and I slapped him soundly on the back because I was afraid he was about to have a fit or strangle to death or something.
Hutch pushed away, holding out one arm to ward me off.
Midway down the list was one Barry Nathaniel “Hutch” Hutchison.
Chapter 7
Y OU share classes with a guy for more than a year, have lunch with him five days a week, hang out at each other’s homes on the weekends. You think you know the guy after all that.
On the list were four other dudes from Gordon Browning High, as well as a couple of girls. I didn’t know any of them all that well. But Hutch? He had become my second-closest friend, after Mac. His parents were just as strict and religious as mine. We both loved math class and hated English class. We exchanged embarrassing anecdotes like sinners at confession. Hutch—who was deathly afraid of all dogs, big or small—told me he screeched like a girl in the middle of a church picnic two years ago when a six-month-old stray pup ran up and licked him on the ankle. He once stuffed a rock up his nose on a dare and got it stuck in his nostril. There was the time he got sick while riding the roller coaster at the Middle Tennessee State Fair and sprayed upchuck all over the crowd waiting in line below.
But there hadn’t been a single clue, not a passing hint, that he’d gone gay. He went by “Hutch” because he hated his name; he said Barry Nathaniel was “freaking faggoty.” He was the one who started calling the broken-nose freshie “gay boy.”
My God. For weeks we’d been showering together, naked , in the school locker room.
Suddenly, I felt so violated.
I grabbed the phone off my nightstand and punched in Hutch’s telephone number.
“Hello?”
“Hutch, man, it’s Jerry. Can you get out for a minute?”
“Why? I’m in the middle of—”
“Just find out if you can get out for a minute.”
He must have put his hand over the mouthpiece; there was a brief, muffled conversation on his end. Then he came back on the line. “My mom says it’s okay. What’s up?”
“Meet me at the basketball court in the park. Be there in ten minutes.”
I hung up, grabbed my jacket, and walked back to the kitchen.
Dad was still grading papers. He looked up at me as I entered. “Jericho?”
“I have to meet Hutch about a… project we’re working on,” I said, sliding into my jacket.
“It’s after seven, boy.”
“But my curfew’s not until eight tonight. I’ll be back by then.”
Dad wasn’t crazy about the idea. I knew this because his harsh gaze promised me misery if I were even one minute late.
H UTCH lived closer to the park than I did, and he was already at the court when I arrived. The park was empty, and the temperature had dropped considerably. With his jacket zipped to his neck, he was leaning against the lamppost, arms wrapped around his chest for warmth.
“Hey, man,” he said, annoyed. He was a few inches shorter than me, but more solid and muscular in build. His hair was sort of sandy brown, straight and thick, and he wore it long. He really did have nice eyes; they were green with long, thick lashes. He was cute for a guy. No, I mean… he was good-looking. Wait, I mean, he looked okay. Yeah, he was okay looking. “What’s up with all that guff you were giving me on the phone?” he asked.
The question only made me angrier, and I had to fight a sudden urge to swat him in the head. “You want to know what’s up? What about this, you little bastard?” I growled through my teeth, shoving the list in his face.
Hutch reacted as if the sheet of paper was a gun. His face paled so quickly I thought he was going to faint. He raised his hands and braced himself against the post as if a tsunami was smashing down on him. He was speechless. His arms and legs actually started to tremble.
Then I did hit him, but not out of anger. He started making these strange choking noises, and I slapped him soundly on the back because I was afraid he was about to have a fit or strangle to death or something.
Hutch pushed away, holding out one arm to ward me off.
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