Birthday(32)

The guys all groan, but before he can even finish most of the girls have huddled around the iPod, and within moments the backyard is awash in Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift, music I sort of love, but would never be caught dead listening to in public. When the sun sets we’re all sore from laughing at the music and have a comfortable buzz from the drinks.

“Truth or dare!” someone yells, and before I can figure out who it was, everyone is chanting “yes.” Connor stands and holds his arms out.

“All right, losers,” he says. “I’ll start.” His pointer finger drifts in an arc around the fire, before finally settling on Nate, who needs to be elbowed to pull his attention away from the girl he’s making out with. I’m pretty sure her name is Adria. Nate blinks blearily and then grins when he realizes what’s happening.

“Dare,” he says.

“Of course.” Connor scratches his chin. “Make out with Chud for a solid minute, with tongue.”

And there’s the kiss again, always lurking at the back of my mind: Morgan above me, long hair framing his face, lips parted and eyes wide, outlined in white and gold as the moon and streetlight intermingled. Just like always, a little kernel of desire slips free, knocks around places I don’t want.

What am I? What am I?

I humor the idea of kissing Chud, even as a joke, and feel uncomplicated revulsion. It was a mistake. Morgan looked like a girl. I was drunk. And everyone is giggling, so clearly amused by the idea of a boy kissing another boy. My mouth feels dry.

“Sure,” Nate says. The girl hops out of his lap and Nate stands and stretches. I’m genuinely shocked. Nate must notice my expression. He clicks his tongue and runs his hands down his hips. “I’m a modern man, I’m secure in my sexuality, and I never back down from a challenge.” He winks at Chud, whose face pales. “Now c’mere, stud.” A deafening peal of laughter rises around the fire as Chud stands fast enough to flip his chair and hops away from Nate’s approach. “Come on, dude, I’m not used to getting turned down!” Nate teases.

“This is fucked up,” Chud says. “How come I have to do some gay shit if it’s his turn?” Nate jumps onto Chud’s back, licks his cheek, and purrs, “It’s only gay if you pop a boner, dude. You scared you’ll like it?”

“Fine,” Connor says. “Chud has a point. I’ve got another idea: give Adria a lap dance. You down, Adria?”

Adria rolls her eyes, smiles, and takes Nate’s vacant seat, draping an arm over the back of the chair, slouching, and spreading her legs like the sleaziest country boy imaginable.

“I need some music,” Nate says. He hops off Chud’s back and jogs to the iPod. A few seconds later, Usher blasts out of the sound system and Nate makes his way toward Adria, bouncing and shaking his hands like he does before every game.

Part of me thinks he’s going to play it off as a joke, or just spend the whole song making out with her or grinding on her lap, but then his hips start moving and the laughter around the fire goes quiet as we all remember how competitive Nate can get. The intensity of the moment shifts my attention from Morgan, and then Susan shifts her weight in my lap and something else is on my mind, images of her moving like that for me, thoughts of what she might look like without clothes by lamplight, by starlight, by firelight. This is good, and even better—it’s uncomplicated. I wrap an arm around her waist and she leans against my shoulder. Her body pressing into mine is an easy bliss.

Four minutes later, Adria has practically melted into her chair and the spell breaks as a raucous chorus of cheers and laughter rise up. Nate takes a bow, grabs his drink off the ground, and sits in her lap without even bothering to find his shirt.

“Maybe a real challenge next time, yeah?” he says and then points to me.

“All right, birthday boy, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” I say, because I’m certain if I pick truth he’ll just ask something mean about Morgan.

“Shave your head,” Nate says, and I feel as if he’s dropped a bucket of ice water on my head.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait, no, is it too late to pick truth?”

“Boo!” Nate says. He throws an empty and it arcs super wide. “Coward! All my friends are cowards!”

“Rules are rules,” Connor says. “But before we do the deed, how about you actually let it down for once?” Susan hops off my lap and I stand, take a deep breath, and let my hair out of its bun. A bunch of the girls gasp and I’m quickly surrounded by cheerleaders running their fingers through my mane—except, I notice, for Susan, who stands off to the side and watches with an amused look.

“It’s not greasy at all,” Adria says. “I thought guy hair was always greasy.”

I shrug, not sure what to say.

“Gay,” Chud says. “You look like a girl.”

“He looks like a guy with a girlfriend.” Adria sneers at him. I exchange a look with Susan, who seems pleased with that description. Adria turns back to me. “This has to be like twelve inches. I bet you could donate it to that charity that makes wigs for sick kids.”

“That’s a thing?” I say.

“They gave my cousin a wig when she went through chemo,” she says. The little reminder of Donna still stings, even after all these years. How much worse must it be for Morgan? “Just cut it off in a ponytail and I’ll donate it for you.”