Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(6)

And that’s when I see Val and Matt, smiling and waving from the other side of the glass.

Something about how they’re beaming at me, and the swirl of the song coming to an end, and how I don’t want to wind up being the guy at college who dated only one girl in high school, clears the fog from my head.

Well, that, and the uprising going on downstairs.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”

Evelyn laughs and hugs me harder, if that’s even possible. “Ohmygod, my very first boyfriend! I can’t even believe it!” She leans back, her dead-serious stare boring into me. “Don’t ever break up with me, okay?” Her eyes start to fill up at just the thought of it. “I mean it. I don’t think . . . I don’t think I could take it. Promise me, okay?”

“Uh . . . okay,” I croak. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” Evelyn buries her face in my coat and sniffles. “I believe you.”

I pat her back awkwardly.

I should be happy here, right? I mean, I’m finally dating someone again. Someone fairly cute. Sort of. From the side. So why do I feel a nauseous sourness in my stomach? Like I just ate three Big Macs with way too much special sauce?

Like, I maybe just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life?





I’VE GOT BROCK LESNAR down on the mat — ready to take my rightful place as the Ultimate Fighting Champion — when I hear the family-room door open and footsteps coming up behind me.

“Off the TV, scrotum. I’m watching a movie.” It’s Cathy, Queen of Darkness.

“Clearly you’re not,” I say, waving my Xbox controller.

“I will be once you turn off your idiot games.” She gestures at the cold pack I’ve got wrapped around my neck. “What’s up with the ice? Get a little too vigorous with the wanking?”

“Ha, ha. You should be a clown, Cath. You’ve already got the white face makeup.”

“Is that right?” Cathy snatches the ice pack from my neck and dangles it in the air. “Who’s laughing now, little boy?”

“Give it back, jerk!” I pause my game and leap off the couch.

Her dark-shadowed eyes go wide when she sees my neck. “Holy crap, Sean. Where’d you get all those welts? Were you attacked by bats or something?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Some of your vampire buds ambushed me last night.” I lunge for the cold pack, but she swings it behind her.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say those were some major hickeys.” Cathy laughs. “Tell me who gave them to you, and I’ll give you back your ice.”

“Eat it,” I say, glaring at her. It looks like she’s got a new brow piercing, which makes two over each eye now. Mom’s going to flip.

Cathy shrugs. “Fine. But secrets just lead to speculation.” She taps the silver stud in her lip. “Let me guess: Johnny Weir showed up at the rink last night and the two of you spent the entire evening doing some serious neck sucking.”

“Johnny Weir would never skate at the Salisbury Park Ice Rink,” I say, making a grab for her arm that she easily dodges. “He trains at the Ice Vault Arena in Wayne, New Jersey.”

Cathy’s jaw drops.

“Well, well, well,” she says. “Someone knows quite a lot about a certain flamboyant figure skater.”

“Just give me the freakin’ ice pack, will ya? I have to get rid of these things before school on Monday.”

“It’s a simple barter system, baby brother.” Cathy dangles the cold pack in the air. “Goods for information. Now come on. Tell your big sister who’s been gnawing on your neck.”

Cathy was born nine minutes before me, which she loves to rub in any chance she gets.

“Don’t you have a cemetery to haunt or something?” I say.

“Listen, Sean.” Cathy gives me her I’m-so-compassionate look. “I could be your biggest champion if you let me.” She reaches out and grabs my shoulder. “All you have to do is be honest. I’d be totally supportive, I swear. Now tell me, do I know him?”

“I’m not gay.” I step back from her. “What about that don’t you understand?”

She cocks her head. “Please. It’s so obvious. I mean, besides your stalker-like knowledge of Johnny Weir’s whereabouts, there’s also the little matter of your iTunes library. Lady Gaga? Justin Bieber? The Sweeney Todd soundtrack? The signs are everywhere, sweetie. You dress up in women’s clothing. You’re a mama’s boy. You play homoerotic video games. Should I go on?”

“One time! I dressed up in girls’ clothes one time! And it was to see a naked girl, which you seem to have conveniently forgotten.”

“So you claim. But what about this?” Cathy gestures at the television, where Brock Lesnar and Heath Herring are lying frozen on the mat in a bare-torsoed grasp. “Tell me there’s nothing gay about two barely clothed men embracing each other on the floor.”

I point at the screen. “That’s a rear naked choke.”

Cathy raises her eyebrows. “I rest my case.”

“They’re beating the pus out of each other.”

She shrugs. “If you say so. But it looks like man-love to me. And it’s totally cool. Some of the most influential people in the world have been gay. Leonardo da Vinci. Alexander the Great. Oscar Wilde. Isaac Newton. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”