Gone, Gone, Gone(35)

He shakes his head.

“Come on.” I toss him a pair. Then another. “Don’t get sick.” He only puts on one pair, so I yank the others on my own feet.

He sits on my bed without pausing, like he doesn’t even think about the fact that it’s my bed—my place, where I stare at the ceiling and jack off and sort of sleep. He sits like he belongs here, like he’s decided on his own, and then he leans forward onto his knees and looks around the room.

He wrinkles his nose up. Good thing he wasn’t here when it was packed full of animals.

“I know,” I say. “Smells like a litter box, yeah I know, because animals sleep down here with me. This is sort of home base for them. That’s kind of why my parents stuck me down here. Maybe my brother’s glad, because he has the whole upstairs to himself. I think my parents are starting to wonder why he hasn’t moved out.” I don’t think I usually babble this much, but I could completely be wrong.

Lio says, “Why?”

“Why are they wondering, or why hasn’t he moved out?” It barely bothers me, having to lead him like this. Maybe it isn’t a character flaw. Maybe it’s how Lio is. Maybe I should stop trying to fix him.

I shake my head a little.

I don’t know what comes after trying to fix him. Or maybe I do, and maybe that’s the problem, I really just don’t know.

Lio looks at me for a second, then says, “Second one.”


“Why hasn’t he moved out. Um, I don’t know. I think . . .” Maybe I do know. “I think he needs to know that we’re okay all the time.”

And then Lio says, really softly, “I miss my mom.”

I sit down on the bed next to him. And then I’m kissing him because I don’t know how to fix him and I think this will help. Or it has to help. He moans really softly, but of course I’m the one who’s crying, crying because this kid misses his mom who I don’t even know, and how well do I even know the kid? But I know the missing, at least.

I wipe my cheeks off the second he pulls away. I wipe them off hard, like that makes it manlier or something. Lio watches.

“I cry, like, all the time,” I say.

He nods. “I know.” A smile plays with his mouth. “It’s okay. Sometimes I get cancer.”

“You’re horrible,” I tell him. But now I’m laughing, big and strong and real like I want to be.



When I tell him he can’t smoke inside, he shuffles his feet and chews on his lip for a while before he eventually says, “Okay,” and takes a small step out onto the deck. As much as I hate cigarettes and as much as I’ve worried about his cellular growth today, I kind of like that the clothes he’s wearing, my clothes, will smell like them now, and even though I don’t understand why he’s worried about the sniper, I like that he keeps his palm pressed against the door behind him while he smokes, like a kid keeping his hand on home base during freeze tag. Safe.





LIO

WHEN CRAIG’S PARENTS GET HOME AND ASK WHO I am, Craig cuts in and says, “Lio,” with a significant look that makes my heart beat twice when it should beat once. He says something under his breath, probably about my sister. The next thing I know, everyone’s hugging. His mom hugs me. Then his dad. They smell like hospitals.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Mrs. Privett asks me.

I look at Craig, but he’s cleverly looking away. Damn it, he’s going to make me talk.

What’s weird is, I’m willing to talk, because I have an unexpectedly intense desire for them to like me.

Christ, I really must love him.

So I say, “Yes, please.”

I sit at dinner nicely with Craig’s parents and his brother. I can tell immediately that Todd disapproves of me for what’s probably some deep philosophical reason I’ll never understand, judging by the way he’s dressed. I say please and thank you. I pass things when they’re requested, and sometimes when they aren’t requested but someone seems to be running low. And by someone I mean Craig.

He smiles at me, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m doing all right.

Mr. Privett asks him, “How was your day?” and instead of saying “fine,” and passing to the next sibling, like I always do at home, Craig says, “You will not believe what happened to me between first and second period,” and he starts talking. He tells some long rambling story about a boy who stood too close to him at the urinal.

Todd passes the glazed carrots. I’m sure this is another sign of him quietly hating me. Wasn’t choking down the first serving of carrots enough? I try giving him my I’m fine smile, but he’s not looking at me. I take two or three carrots.

Craig is still telling his story, though I’ve lost track of what exactly is going on. He’s very passionate about it. “And he was all offended, this kid, and he kept asking me if I thought he was a faggot, which was really weird.” He pauses and gives a dog who walks up a few good rubs. I palm one of my carrots and offer it to the dog. He/she/it eats it right up. Wow, pets are awesome.

Craig kicks me, so gently. “Listen to my story.”

I nod and slip another carrot into my palm. And I am listening. It’s just that Craig has a lot of great qualities, but coherency is not one of them.