Spontaneous. Aaron Starmer

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СКАЧАТЬ and the sheriff keep telling us that there’s no evidence of explosives,” Tina said. “So if it’s not an external problem, then it’s an internal one. I’ve been told Perry Love was a homosexual. And while I don’t want to take anything away from the bravery required to live such a difficult lifestyle, I’ve been told that homosexuality is genetically determined. So maybe this whole thing is as well. Look at their DNA is all I’m saying.”

      That wasn’t all she was saying. By introducing this line of reasoning, she was telling people to consider Perry’s sexuality, and by considering Perry’s sexuality, they also had to consider Katelyn’s and Brian’s. The rumors about Katelyn had already been spreading by the time the town hall started, and within a few hours after it, the fishnet picture of Brian was trending.

      Never mind that the picture was taken by his mom one innocent Saturday morning last spring when Brian was thinking about auditioning for the community theater’s production of Hedwig. Never mind that even if Katelyn was gay and even if Brian was gay—and part of me kinda hoped that he was after that bus kiss snub—there’s nothing about being gay that makes a person more combustible. Most sane and reasonable people realize this.

      Alas, the world is neither sane nor reasonable, especially when ad-click revenue comes into play. Only the most callous and cynical “journalists” were trotting out link-bait like A NEW GAY PLAGUE? But that didn’t mean others weren’t implying the same thing.

      I tried to stay away from all that noise, but what was there left for a girl to do? There was no school on the horizon, and Tess could only afford so much gas, and Dylan …

again, sorry

      I’ve been a cagey little weasel, haven’t I? You’re probably wondering what happened after that kiss in the woods, aren’t you? Did Dylan throw me down on the moss and ravage me? Are our clothes still hanging from the trees? Does the moon blush, thinking of the raw carnality she witnessed?

      Sorry to disappoint, but it was only kissing and petting, but kissing and petting aren’t nothing. Especially when helicopters show up and start stabbing the woods around the school with spotlights. Kissing and petting feel downright illegal at that point. And trust me, it’s always best to be fully clothed when you run out of the woods and find your peers huddled up and asking each other, “Again? Really? Again?”

      Really. Again.

      The police couldn’t round up and interview everyone at the football game. They certainly couldn’t rope off the scene. So when Joe Dalton spotted me, he rushed over and said, “We’re hightailing it out of here before shit goes crazy. Jenna’s pulling the car around to Rumson Road and we’re heading to Laura’s house to get blind. You in?”

      “Who’s gonna be there?” I asked, because guest lists are important when blindness comes into play.

      “Me, Jenna, Laura, Holly, Greer, and Rasheed,” Joe said.

      A more-than-acceptable roster, so I turned to Dylan and asked, “Do we join them?”

      It was like Joe didn’t even notice Dylan until I addressed him, like Dylan was some mythical beast that only materialized when its name was spoken. “Oh, hey, man,” Joe said. “Sure. You should come too.”

      Dylan pursed his lips for a few seconds, then replied, “Nah. Go on ahead. Get somewhere safe. I’m going to stick around here for a while.”

      I was in a bit of a pickle. I wanted to be with Dylan but I wanted to leave. The buzz of the night was wearing off and I was sinking back into the sludge of awareness.

      Really? Again?

      “Come on,” I said. “Nothing good will come out of staying here.”

      “Have fun,” Dylan said, and before I could object, he kissed me on the cheek and jogged away, in the direction of the flashing lights.

      I could have chased after him, I guess, but I didn’t want to. He had left at the exact right moment, leaving me in a state of anxious anticipation. At Laura’s house, all I needed was some gin and SunnyD to pick the buzz back up, and while everyone was trying to piece together what happened on the field, I was musing about what might happen next with me and Dylan.

      What happened next was a text, arriving at nine a.m., as I burrowed under a blanket on the living room couch. It read:

      Everything,

      I wrote back immediately.

      Me: Deep.

      Him: I meant that last night I felt everything.

      Me: Not every THING. Next time. Maybe.

      Him: When’s next time?

      Me: Not today. Parents got me doing a double shift at the hug factory.

      Side note: My parents weren’t big huggers but, after Katelyn, they rolled up their sleeves and did their due diligence, smothering their daughter whenever her face got all droopy. It worked at first, but ever since Brian, it was the opposite of what I needed. Still, Mom and Dad wanted me home that Sunday to be their little stuffed animal. I think they’d come to depend on the hugging, in fact. This was no longer about me.

      Him: When then?

      Me: Not tomorrow either. Working at Covington Kitchen. Keeping busy helps.

      Him: Should I stop in for an Oinker?

      Me: Yaaassss! Wait. No. Not because I don’t want to see you.

      Him: Too much of a tease?

      Me: Exactly. Monday?

      Him: MONDAY!

      As you already know, my deli gig was interrupted on Sunday by the emergency town hall. Cell reception was terrible at the theater, so even when I tried to connect with Dylan, I didn’t get through, and I certainly couldn’t spot him in that sea of anxiety. I’d love to break down all the bullshit that was shat out at that meeting, but I think covering Tina’s DNA witch hunt is enough. Because it represents when the theories went off the rails.

      That Sunday evening, my parents were still huggy, so I was constantly retreating to the bathroom for alone time and giving in to the stupid urge to pull out my phone and shake a virtual fist at all the trolls. TV was even worse. A tour of cable news resulted in teeth-grinding and blind-pulling because I was sure that some helmet-haired reporter was creeping through our shrubbery, about to thrust her head through our window and say, “So is it terrorists, homosexuality, or the overall crappiness of your home-town that’s tearing your generation apart, young lady, and do you mind holding your answers and tears back until my cameraman gets the proper lighting in place?”

      So I went dark for a few hours. I didn’t text Tess or Dylan because if I couldn’t see them in person and hold on to them, then it wasn’t worth it. All I could do was get in bed and wait for sleep to grab me and whisk me along to a future closer to my date with Dylan.

a little further in the future

      On Monday morning, less than three full days after Perry Love spontaneously combusted, Cranberry Bollinger’s dad waltzed into his daughter’s room to wake her up and found Cranberry sauce all over her Miyazaki posters.

      Fuck. СКАЧАТЬ