Two Boys Kissing(41)

Sing us that old refrain.

Where do you want to go?

I don’t know—where do you want to go?

What do you want to do?

I don’t know—what do you want to do?





The feed of the two boys kissing stays on in the background as Neil and Peter play video games in Neil’s room. Peter senses something is not quite right with Neil—his heart doesn’t seem into the game, and it’s the game he brought over a few days ago, desperate to make it to level thirty-two by the end of the week. Peter is afraid it’s still about the stupid text he got from Simon, or about something else that’s them-related. So he doesn’t say anything, because he knows Neil will bring it up when he’s ready to bring it up. Maybe it isn’t anything at all.

For his part, Neil doesn’t understand why he isn’t talking to Peter, why he’s killing Russian assassins instead of telling Peter that his world has shifted. He’s waiting for Peter to ask him what’s happened, because he thinks it’s clear something’s happened, and why should he always have to be the one to point it out?

Peter pauses the game.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Not really” is Neil’s reply.

“Thirsty?”

“No.”

“Do you want to do something else?”

“Do you want to do something else?”

“Are you in the throes of constipation?”

Neil is not in the mood for this. “No.”

“Pregnant?”

“No.”

“Sick of this game?”

“Which game?”

“The one you’re playing.”

“Which one am I playing?”

“The one on the screen right now. Balkan Bloodbath 12.”

“Oh. No. I’m fine.”

Here’s where Peter should say it. What’s going on?

But instead he unpauses the game.

“If you’re fine,” he says, “I’m fine.”

They continue to play.





Ryan hasn’t had to spend much time thinking about where to take Avery next, because already they are running out of cool places in Kindling. If they’re not on the river or at Aunt Caitlin’s or in the Pancake Century Diner, there are very few places worth exploring. The Kindling Café is the one that’s left, but that’s where everyone is. He wants Avery to meet his friends, but not yet. He still wants them to be alone together, with no one watching, no one even noticing. This is Ryan’s relationship to this town: He doesn’t really want to leave any marks, and he wants Kindling to leave as few marks as possible on him. He knows he’s been defined by this town. And, of course, the more he’s tried to resist definition, the more they’ve defined him. But this—this time with Avery—needs to exist outside definition. Or, at the very least, he and Avery need to get a chance to define it themselves.

So he directs Avery to Mr. Footer’s, the old relic of a miniature golf course. It’s been closed for years now, but no one’s bought the land, so it sits in its abandoned state, nearly post-apocalyptic in its decay. There’s a lock on the gates, but the gates themselves have worn away in places, making it easy to come and go. At night it’s a breeding ground for stoners and crankheads, but during the day it’s graveyard quiet.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Avery asks. Ryan has a flash of seeing the site through his eyes, and realizes this might be a mistake. But he doesn’t want to turn back now.

He tells Avery to park in front. “When I was a kid,” he explains, “this place was the best place around. Like, if you were really good and did all your chores, Mom and Dad would take you here. You’d play all the mini golf you could, and then there’d be ice cream and video games in the hut over there after.”

Avery takes it all in. “So what happened?”

Ryan shrugs. “One day it was here, and then the next day there was a sign saying it was over. It’s sat here ever since, abandoned.”

“And do you come here often?”

“Only with special people.”

“Oh, gee. I’m so flattered,” Avery deadpans. But in a way, he is flattered. Had Ryan driven over to Marigold, Avery would have been forced to take him to a T.G.I. Friday’s or a movie. This is definitely not that.

“Let’s go,” Ryan says. They leave the car and crawl through a gap in the gate. Inside, everything is broken. Toppled windmills, fetid moats, bottles left smashed and cans left crushed.

“Want to play?” Avery asks.

Ryan looks at the torn-up greens. The holes filled with cigarette butts.

“I’m not sure that will work,” he says. “There aren’t any clubs anymore. Or golf balls.”

“So?”

“So … it’s hard to play mini golf without those things.”

“Use your imagination,” Avery says, walking to the base of the first green and putting down an invisible ball. “This is the most amazing mini-golf course ever created. For example, this hole is patrolled by live alligators. If they swallow your ball, it’s three strokes. If they swallow you, it’s five.”

Avery takes an exaggerated swing with a nonexistent club, then makes a production of watching the ball soar into the air and drop to the green. “Comeoncomeoncomeon,” he murmurs. Then he sighs. “Not a hole in one, but at least I dodged the gators. Your turn.”