Birthday(28)

“Fuck off,” I say to Chud, but I’m laughing as I twist my way out of his grip and slap the back of his head.

“You didn’t think we’d forget, did you?” Nate says, flipping his car keys with one hand while his other holds his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Those legs took us to state. Like hell we’d forget.”

“Shucks,” I say. I pop my back and grin. “I didn’t know y’all’s feelings ran so deep.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Chud says, but Nate just flashes that winning smile and shakes his head as he drops his duffel, opens it, and pulls out a six-pack of Budweiser and a rolled-up magazine.

“Here!” Nate says, tossing me the magazine. It’s held by a rubber band so it doesn’t flutter open, but when I catch it and examine it I can just make out the word “Penthouse” on the cover. A longer glance reveals it’s faded and curling at the corners, and the woman on the front has big, eighties hair and airbrushed makeup that makes me think, of all things, of my grandparents’ old photo albums from before I was born. I feel a blush forming, but then I cough it away.

Nate claps my shoulders and solemnly says, “Just don’t think about us while you yank your pud, okay?” then pulls me into a one-armed hug. “There’s another six-pack with your name on it at Connor’s tonight, by the way, so save this one for later.”

“I’ll come if I can,” I say, hoping I don’t sound ungrateful. Morgan should take priority on our birthday, but Morgan also should have gotten back to me.

“You’ll have to break yourself away from your pet queer, of course,” Nate says. My fingers tighten around the magazine. Everything in my body screams for me to say, Don’t call him that, but I can’t do it—unless I want to be his bodyguard full-time, standing up for him will probably just get him hassled more, and too much of my home life is riding on me remaining the golden boy to risk it. “You guys don’t have a date planned, right?”

“Jealous?” I say, though I realize I still haven’t heard back from Morgan.

“You wish,” Nate says. “Speaking of, I think Susan’s looking for you, says she has a present with your name on it. Work your game right and maybe you’ll lose the V-card.”

“Gross,” I say, not realizing until after I say it that he’ll think I’m calling sex with a girl gross.

“Knew you were gay,” Chud says.

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Girls, girls,” Nate says, holding his hands up as if to keep us apart. “Let’s not squabble, yeah? Save that energy for Connor’s. Anyway, Eric, we gotta go. Places to be and people to do, you know how it goes.”

“Yeah. Thanks for this,” I say. Chud makes a jerking-off motion, I guess referencing the magazine I’m now stuck holding on school grounds, and I briefly wonder which charm school he attended before waving good-bye.

I stow the magazine in my bag and make my way to where my bike is chained up. I sing under my breath as I walk, hoping nobody hears me. I’m so tired from practice that I nearly bump into Susan when I round the corner to the bike rack.

“Boo!” she says. She bounces forward and I stumble back a few steps. Susan is tall and lean—now the tallest girl on the cheer squad—with a face made of long, curving lines and a mouth that always seems a little puckered up, like she’s thinking of something she’s not sure she should say. Her long, black ponytail trails behind her like a ribbon as she sways back and forth, grinning, her hands hidden behind her.

“Susan!” I say. I drop my bag and nudge it behind me as if she might somehow sense what’s inside it.

“Me!” Susan says. She leans against the wall and looks coy. It’s always good news when a girl looks coy, at least I imagine it is, and coy looks especially good on Susan. I’ve suspected we’ve been flirting for most of the past year, but girls remain a mystery to me, and I haven’t figured out how to follow through on it. “How was practice?” she asks.

“Uh,” I say. So charming. “Good? It was good. Coach Tyler says I might make varsity next—”

“When were you gonna tell me today’s your birthday?” she says, leaning in, upgrading her expression from coy to mischievous.

“Never?” I say with a shrug. “I don’t really like birthday stuff.” Unless it’s with Morgan, but every time I admit that to someone, it feels a little like social suicide.

“Well, too bad!” she says, whipping her hand around and brandishing a cupcake covered in purple-and-red frosting with a totally cute-hokey “15” candle stuck on top.

“Whoa!” I say. I back up a step and laugh. The candle’s actually lit. “How did you not burn yourself?”

“A girl has to have her secrets,” she says. “Blow it out!” I do as I’m told while she sings, “Happy birthday to you,” and it’s so cute, and I’m blushing so hard that I’m really glad the guys aren’t here and school is mostly deserted.

“Susan,” I say. “Thanks. Thank you so much. Should I eat it now?”

“You’re not gonna carry it all the way home on your bike.”

“True,” I say. She laughs. I smile. I unwrap the cupcake, toss the wrapper into the nearest garbage can, and take a bite. “Did you make this yourself?” I try to say, but my mouth is full so it’s mostly mumbles and a spray of crumbs.