See You at Harry's(10)

“Hey, guys,” she says.

“Hey,” we both say. She doesn’t notice anything is wrong with me. Probably because she is staring at Ran.

“Come on,” Ran says. “Let’s sit together.”

Cassie looks like she might pee her pants in glee. We follow him into our homeroom, where everyone is talking and looking at each other at the same time. Some faces I recognize and some I don’t. We sit in the back row, in the corner. I blink to keep from crying and try to take deep breaths. A group of girls in the front stare at Ran, then whisper to each other. Ran is so busy taking notes in his new daily planner, he doesn’t even notice.

BE, I think. Just BE.





AFTER SCHOOL I TAKE MY SAME SEAT on the bus. When Holden gets on, he doesn’t even look at me as he heads straight to the back. Sure enough, the same boys sit behind him again. They lean forward and ping his cheek with their fingers. They make kissy faces behind his back. I think about Sara’s word. Fag. And I wonder how many times he’s heard it hissed in his ear.

When the bus stops at our driveway, I get off first and start walking. I don’t wait for Holden, knowing I’m supposed to pretend I don’t notice him. As soon as the bus pulls away and the sound of the engine drifts off, I turn to face him. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but when I look in his watery eyes, I keep my mouth shut. There’s a welt on his left cheek. He walks right by me, past the front walkway, and around the side of the house. I follow, keeping the same distance he put between us on the bus. He disappears into our neighbor’s yard and into the pine-tree cave.

When I reach the cave, I stand outside, waiting to be invited in. Waiting and waiting.

“Go home,” the cave says.

I bend down to peek inside. His forehead rests on his knees so I can’t see his face. But I can tell from the sound of his cracked voice that he’s been crying.

“No,” I say.

I wait some more.

“Fine,” he finally says.

I bend down and crawl in. The familiar smell welcomes me. I sit next to him and look up at the hundreds of crisscross branches above us. They’re like interlocking fingers protecting us from the world.

“Well,” he says quietly, “how was your first day?”

I sigh and think about the rush of my first day of middle school. It was pretty much like any first day of school, except that it was in a new place with twice as many people and every time I had to change classes, at least one person pointed at me and someone else would say The Line in a high-pitched, fake-Charlie voice. When Ran was with me, he acted like he didn’t hear anything. I figured I should follow his lead, since no one knows better than Ran how to deal with people giving you a hard time for stuff that is out of your control.

“As expected,” I finally say. “You?”

“Pretty much.”

“How many people said it to you?” I ask.

“Six, I think. You?”

“At least.”

He shakes his head, and we’re quiet for a while. But it isn’t our usual comfortable quiet. I know the words I need to say aren’t the kind we can share without speaking.

“Holden?” I finally say. “Why do you sit at the back of the bus if those jerks do that to you?”

He rubs out the design he was making in the needles with his fingers. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m not Charlie.”

He shakes his head and leans back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes.

“Why do they hurt you?” I ask, leaning next to him.

He’s quiet for a long time, then he finally sits up again and puts his back to me. His shirt is covered with needles and pieces of bark.

“I think you know,” he says.

I watch the curve of his back rise and fall. I want to touch him and feel his breathing, but I’m afraid I’ll feel the hurt. And it seems like a private thing he doesn’t want to share. Or maybe he’s just protecting me from it.

I think of Sara’s words again and Charlie’s singsong echo.

“It’s not a good reason,” I say.

“No?” He finally turns to me, and I can see the truth in his tears.

“I don’t think it is,” I say. “People are so stupid.”

He smiles a little. “So you don’t care? That I’m . . . you know.”

I roll my eyes. “Why would I care? Why should anyone?” But I wonder why neither of us can say the word. Gay, I think. You’re gay. I know what that means. But I don’t know how he knows he is, or how it feels, or why people hate him because of it.

“Fern,” he says. “You’re not like anyone. Other people, they don’t get it.”

I shrug. “They’re idiots.”

Holden puts his arms over his bent-up knees and rests his chin on them. “Yeah.”

“We have to do something. We could tell Mom and Dad.”

“No. Can’t you see Mom marching down to the school and causing a scene? And Dad would . . . I don’t know what Dad would do. Try to teach me how to fight or something. Be a man. They’d want to know why it happened. And then we’d have to talk about me being . . .” He pauses and pulls at the rubber on his shoe.

“You can say it,” I whisper.