The Music of What Happens(49)

“Are you my Arabian prince?”

I’m like, Are you for real? My jaw tenses, because he doesn’t laugh, or say “Just playin’.” He means this, or thinks this is acceptable, a normal thing to say. I want to say something, make a joke at least about how fucking stupid that is, how ignorant. But I don’t want to kill the moment. I’m too curious to see what’s next. When the room has been silent for so long that it feels like my not saying anything is a form of consent, I say, “My mom was born in Mexico City and my dad is from Indiana.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a fantasy, okay?”

I feel my shoulders tense and my face heats up. Nope. This is not me being too sensitive. And suddenly the quirky, talkative guy from the party has been replaced by this asshole I don’t like at all.

I sit up and look away. “I’m gonna jet,” I say.

I’m about to turn my legs to the side of the bed and stand when he jumps on the bed next to my feet, thumping into me slightly. He smirks. I stare. He sits on my legs.

“Nah,” he says. It’s half a statement and half a question, and I don’t answer because I’m so shocked that he’s just sat on my legs. I’m, like, bigger than him. By a lot. I remember thinking: Amateur hour. He may be older, but he’s never gonna get it, because this is some basic shit, stuff you don’t do. Anyone with half a clue would know that.

Then he inches up until he’s sitting on my calves, pushing down in an uncomfortable way. I have to laugh. He doesn’t laugh. I’m waiting for the camera. He’s punking me. This isn’t happening.

But I don’t move. It’s like I can’t. And at the same time a part of my brain is thinking: Move, Max. Get the hell up. Get out of here. This is stupid.

I don’t know why I don’t move. It’s like I can’t. Not like he drugged me, but like the brashness of his actions has frozen me. His stare is boring into my eyes, and I avert mine. I think of alpha dogs. How sometimes Chihuahuas can be alpha over Great Danes. It’s weird but it’s true.

Kevin tweaks my nipple. I don’t like it. I should punch him, I think. Pin him. Pick him up by his armpits and put him against the wall and stare him down ’til he apologizes. I don’t.

He leans in for a kiss, and all I’m thinking about is that he called me Arabian. I don’t kiss back but it doesn’t stop him from kissing enough for both of us. I feel dirty. I hear voices. Voices from people in my life. My dad. My mom. Random shit like this joke my dad told me once about George Bush thinking that Brazilian is a number, like bazillion. This time my mom got food poisoning on shrimp.

He reaches for my shorts and I say, “Naw, dude.”

I am not looking at him. I am not watching. He is intent on getting me naked, and I don’t know this feeling. I don’t get it. I can’t understand why I’m still here. Because that means I want it, right? I’m bigger and I don’t leave.

And then it’s like I do leave my body, but only in my brain. My body stays put, frozen, and I float to the top of the room. I see the rest from up there. I do.

I become keenly aware of the dandruff in Kevin’s faux-hawk. I see Kevin’s tired, glassy eyes for what they are, and I feel this odd compassion for him, as I’m a rag doll and he is doing things to me, things I don’t want. I want to hug him. I want to tell him it doesn’t have to be like this, that there is a better way, which is a hilarious thought to have, and I know that, and yet I think it anyway. And time stretches like bubble gum, and loses its taste, like bubble gum, and I find myself repeating this litany as I watch the thing happen, from above, as I watch and feel nothing, nothing I should feel.

I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here.

I do not move. The whole time. I do not move. I do not look at him. We could be pushed up against each other on the bus. It is the most personal yet most impersonal experience of my life, and I know, as it’s happening, that this is not normal.

And after, as Kevin goes down the hall to clean up in the dorm bathroom, I recline on the single bed, and an emptiness settles into my chest and breaks one of my ribs.

I feel it. A broken rib. Pushing in toward my heart.

And then Kevin comes back, and he collapses next to me, in silence, and I think that if he touches me, I’ll scream. And yet I also want him to touch me. Is this crazy? Am I going crazy?



My eyes flash open, and I know. I close them tight. I don’t want to know. I don’t want this. But I know.

My heart pulses. I think of my dad. Boys are not supposed to allow things into their bodies. You can be gay, but guys don’t do that. And I don’t believe that, exactly, but some part of that stays with me, and I am filled with slush again and I cry out, which also boys don’t do. I smile — it’s always worked before. Just smile, Max. The pain cannot be stronger than a smile.

But it is.

“Max? You okay?”

It’s my mom, right outside my door. I clench up and my heart pulses fiercely. I say something to my mom, and it’s official. I am not ready for this to be anything, let alone official. I can handle this. I can handle it. I can.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“You’re moaning. Bad dream?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You need a glass of water?”