The Music of What Happens(90)

“Hey. You’re gonna be a rock star here, Rafe,” he whispered into my ear.

It was one of those things he always said, ever since I was five and going off to kindergarten. I was gonna be a rock star in the sandbox, I was gonna be a rock star in sixth-grade orchestra, and now I was gonna be a rock star at Natick.

“Love you, Dad,” I said, a little choked up.

“I know you do. We love you too, buddy. Go kick some ass, take some names,” he said, nearly tripping on the tipped-over cereal box as he let me go and stepped toward the door. “Find a boyfriend.”

I tensed up. That wasn’t exactly the thing I wanted broadcast in my first hour at Natick. Kids were walking by, but nobody stopped and looked.

“Give Mom a hug for me,” I said, and I hugged him one more time.

“One last video for the road?” he asked, pointing his iPhone back in my direction.

I put my hand in front of my face, as if I were a celebrity who was tired of having pictures taken. And really I was. Not a celebrity, but truly tired of being on camera.

When you’re Gavin and Opal’s gay kid, you always feel like someone is looking at you. Not necessarily in a bad way. Just looking. Because something about you is interesting and different. But what you don’t know is what they’re seeing. And that’s the kind of thing that could drive a guy crazy.

Dad took the hint and pocketed the phone for a final time. “Bye, son,” he said, as a sweet, inimitable smile creased his face.

“Bye, Dad.”

And he left me alone in my new world, staring at the semiblank slate that was my side of the room.



One thing I didn’t realize when I created the idyllic world of Natick in my head was that the reality didn’t include air-conditioning. Old building, I guess. My window and door were wide open as I tried to get some cross ventilation going, but it didn’t do much to cool the oppressive room or my sweltering pits. So as I stuffed my second empty duffel bag into the dorm closet, I decided on a shower, since I smelled like my expiration date had come and gone weeks ago. A guy zoomed by the doorway, then I heard the footsteps slow and stop. He came back. Standing at my door in a royal blue tank top was a tall, built kid with black hair, blue eyes, and shoulders to die for.

“Hey, guy,” he said. “We’re gettin’ a game going downstairs, do you … holy Jesus!”

“What?” I said, looking behind me.

“You look just like Schroeder.”

“From Peanuts?”

“What? No. This kid. Graduated last year. Megapopular. You could be his brother.”

“Oh,” I said, my heart pulsing fast.

“I’m the first to tell you that?” the kid said, revealing a flawless set of pearly white teeth.

I smiled back, dazzled by him. I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “You’re the first to tell me anything. You’re the first person I’ve met here.”

“You’re kidding. Well, come on downstairs. We’re playing touch football, could use another player or two,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Nickelson. Steve Nickelson.”

“Rafe Goldberg,” I said.

“You comin’?”

“Um, sure,” I said. Showering could definitely wait.





We raced down the stairs, and when we got out to the quad behind the dorm, I saw a bunch of big, muscular guys standing around on the grass, tossing a football. Sort of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad come to life.

“So, okay,” Steve said, racing toward them. “Who’s this guy look like?”

“Your mama?” one kid said. Then the guys looked at me, and I saw a bunch of grins.

“Thought we were rid of the Schroedster already. Where’s he at, Tufts?” This came from a guy with a deep voice and acne all over his face.

“Yup.”

“What’s your name?” The comments and questions were coming so fast that I had no time to notice anything beyond the fact that I was facing a group of, like, twelve guys, all built, most very good-looking. They were a huge mass, a giant blob of testosterone.

“Rafe Goldberg.”

“Oh! You’re the new junior, right? Where you from?” a kid with stringy blond hair and a skater T-shirt said.

“Yeah. Colorado.”

“Right. Heard we had a new junior,” a very tan kid wearing an inside-out Patriots jersey said. “You playing?”

“Sure,” I said.

Introductions were barely made. It wasn’t that kind of scene. Deep-voice Acne Guy stuck out his hand and said, “Robinson,” so I said, “Rafe,” back to him. No one else offered.

“Yo! Colorado,” Steve said. “You fast?”

“Yeah,” I said. Other than skiing, that is probably the best thing about me, athletics-wise. I’m an average soccer player, and the crowd I hung with back in Boulder wasn’t much for pickup games of football. Here, though, maybe my crowd was?

They chose up sides. My team was Steve; the tan kid with the inside-out jersey, whose name turned out to be Zack; a quiet black guy named Bryce, who was wearing a T-shirt that read I WANT TO GO TO THERE; and a huge guy named Ben, who was twice as wide as me, with legs like fire hydrants.

“You get the ball first, ’cause you guys are gonna get your asses handed to you, anyway,” Steve said, and we went back to do “the kickoff.” I really wasn’t that familiar with football, so I decided my strategy would be to hang back and watch.