Gay Love and Other Fairy Tales Read online

  Chapter Two

  Benjamin

  “Alright, boys, it’s game time!” coach shouts, his deep voice echoing in the concrete change room.

  The whole team cheers, even me, and I can feel the energy and fighting spirit flow through all of us. It’s the homecoming game — generations of Charlesburgh High students and alumni are waiting in the stadium — we need to kick ass!

  “Let’s give it one-twenty!” I shout.

  Everyone around me shouts “One-twenty! One-twenty! One-twenty!” and pumps their fists into the air in time with their chants.

  It’s a silly thing, but it never failed to get the boys riled up. Other teams gave a hundred and ten percent — but we always give a hundred and twenty. I like to think it’s helped Charlesburgh High reach the number one statewide ranking last year. We need to do it again — I want my senior year to be number one. I want to go out with a bang and ride that success into college, maybe get some scholarships.

  Around me, the chants of “One-twenty!” are being replaced with “Badgers!” — our school mascot. I join in, pumping my fist, shouting, “Badgers! Badgers! Badgers!”

  The room thunders with our chants, and when coach’s assistant comes into the room and we know it’s time to make our grand entrance, our powerful energy only increases. I charge through the group — the captain leads the team — and we jog out of the change room and out of the school and across the small divide between the building and the school’s football field.

  Our thunderous chants are overwhelmed by the energy coming from the crowd, already cheering our entrance even though they can’t see us yet. I lead the team down a passage and we burst onto the field and through a hand-painted paper banner held by Nikki and Jordan. The applause and cheers doubles — triples — and we take our place on the field, standing in formation.

  The other team is already there, in formation on their side of the field. Between us, Viola walks up with a microphone. Viola’s got sweet pipes and is the lead singer in the jazz choir.

  “Please stand for the national anthem,” comes a deep announcer’s voice from the sound system. The cheering quiets and hundreds of men and women get to their feet, take off their hats, and put their hands over their hearts. A moment later, Viola belts out the anthem, really bringing it home at the end and firing us all up for the game.

  With the anthem over, the teams run off the field to their respective sideline benches and the cheer team runs onto the field for a performance to open the night and fire us up even more.

  “Ben,” a voice says as a hand grabs my bicep. I’m pulled out of the game-ready headspace I was in and find Nikki’s clear blue eyes staring into mine. “Good luck,” she says. She looks at me like she wants to kiss me — or like she wants me to kiss her. But before I can decide to do it or not, she leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek.

  I turn and watch her as she runs onto the field to join her team. Some pop tune I don’t know echoes around the field and rebounds off the bleachers as the cheer team launches into their routine. I catch Nikki’s eye and she winks at me.

  But then my gaze shifts to the left … toward Jordan.

  “Jordan,” I whisper to myself. I’ve been thinking about him non-stop since we ran into each other in the change room. I mean, yeah, we see each other all the time at school, but that was the first time in a long time where it was just the two of us, even if only for a few seconds. It was nice. I like being alone with him. Even if it made me a nervous wreck.

  We used to be such good friends as little kids, but we grew apart in high school — he went in his direction and I went in mine. He thinks the distance between us is just about that. But it’s not. It’s because—

  “Ben!” coach snaps at me. I jerk out of my thoughts and hustle over to the bench. Coach is giving us another pep talk, but my mind is elsewhere — not on Jordan, though it often is. No, I’m looking at the rows of seats surrounding the field. The bleachers are packed. Homecoming is always our biggest game — everyone comes out to see us. Charlesburgh High is one of the oldest schools in the state, so even non-alumni come out for the game and the weekend-long party.

  The crowd suddenly roars nice and loud again and I look to the cheer squad and catch the tail end of what looked like a really acrobatic stunt, with Hannah landing nicely in Jordan and Alex’s arms. A moment later, the music winds down, the cheer squad waves to the crowds … and Jordan is beaming. I love his smile.

  The squad runs off the field and I watch Jordan the whole time.

  “Ben!” coach shouts at me, pulling me back to the game.

  “Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, staring at the grass between my feet. From the corner of my eye, I glance toward Devon, the guy sitting next to me, wondering if he’d caught me staring. Thankfully, he’s focused on coach.

  I try to force Jordan out of my mind and tune in to coach’s pep talk and the remainder of our opening play strategy. But I can’t stop thinking about Jordan. I have so much I need to tell him.

  • • •

  Once the whistle blew, my head was in the game. The Kelvin Tigers were putting up a stronger fight than I expected. By halftime, we were tied, missing the commanding lead we’d hoped to have at this point.

  For halftime, we’re in the change room and coach is pacing back and forth, alternately cursing and pep-talking. I stare at the tile floor beneath my feet. Right now, on the field, Jordan is in that slim-fitting cheer uniform of his, helping Alex throw Hannah high in the air. I love watching him in his element and doing what he loves most.

  “Damn it, Ben!” coach yells.

  I jerk my head up and see him glaring at me, face red like a tomato. Around the room, all the other players and the assistant coach are staring at me. I blink several times, trying to clear away the embarrassment, trying to pull myself back into the here and now.

  “You can daydream about girls later,” coach says, still furious but no longer shouting. “Right now, I need you to focus. Understand?”

  “Yes, Coach,” I say. He glares at me a moment longer and I can’t hold eye contact anymore, so I look to the side. Soon after, coach goes on to point out all the things we did wrong in the first half and orders us to do better in the second half.

  “You lose this game,” coach says, voice strong and clear, “and you cast a pall over homecoming. No one’s going to want to celebrate a loss.”

  The room is deathly silent. A couple of the guys shuffle their feet awkwardly.

  I’d much rather be outside, watching Jordan.

  After a quick break so we can all piss and grab some water, we line up to make our triumphant return to the field. We trot out in our double line as the cheer team bounces and prances off field. I try to look at Jordan, but can’t force my eyes in his direction. I do catch Nikki’s gaze, though, and she blows a kiss at me.

  We’re soon on the field and launching into the second half of the game. It goes better. Not phenomenally well, and nowhere near as well as coach is screaming at us to do, but it’s better. With a minute left in the game, we’re tied again — the Tigers had a touchdown and surprised us all.

  The giant clock on the scoreboard counts down like the timer on an epic-fail-bomb. Moments later, Devon passes me the ball and I’m running around bodies, evading tackles, and doing my best to stay on my feet. I see two Tigers charging straight at me and I know I can’t escape, but Randy comes up beside me — I pass the ball to him and he darts away from me, evading the rush of players heading in my direction.

  With me no longer having the ball, most of the people chasing me move on to chasing Randy. And with less attention on me, I can evade the tackle attempt. But Randy isn’t so lucky—nearly every Tiger on the field is about to pile on him in an epic tackle. I catch his eye and he passes the ball back to me a split second before he’s sacked by three guys at once.

  I dart to the side, evading a nimble Tiger, and then make a beeline for the goalpost. It’s all I can focus on. I’m twenty feet away — fifteen — ten
— five…

  I step across the line — and less than a second later, the buzzer barrels through the stadium and a Tiger tackles me from behind. I’m lying on the ground, stunned, smiling, basking in the insane cheers of the crowd.

  We won!

  I’m laughing out loud, uncontrollably, full of joy. We won!

  The Tiger pushes himself off me and stands up. He glares down at me as I push myself to a seated position, still laughing.

  “Fag,” he mutters. It’s just loud enough that I can hear it over the thunderous chorus of cheers from the bleachers.

  My laughter instantly dies and any hint of a smile is wiped from my face.

  Fag?

  Before I can even think on that beyond the shock of being called a fag, the Tiger walks away from me and heads toward his team. My team comes charging across the field to me and tackles me in a pile-on group hug full of cheers and whoops of joy. I’m buried and smothered in happiness and excitement, but I don’t feel any of it.

  Do I … give off a vibe or something? How the hell did he know I was … you know…?

  My team climbs off me and then suddenly I’m hoisted off the ground and into the air on the shoulders of my buddies. Everyone in the stands is on their feet and cheering — well, everyone that wanted us to win.

  I look over at the Tigers and quickly spot number seven, the kid who called me fag. He and his team are throwing their stuff around, clearly angry. Maybe he called me fag just because it was the first insult he could come up with. Maybe he didn’t, like, see something in me.

  I look to our side of the field, toward where my teammates are carrying me. The cheer team is bouncing around, joining in on the excitement shared by everyone. Jordan is beaming and looking right at me with those gorgeous, dark eyes.

  I can’t make eye contact right now. I avert my gaze, searching the bleachers for my family instead. Mom and dad are easy to spot with their big homemade sign with my name on it. They’re jumping and screaming as much as the cheer team.

  Finally, a smile breaks out on my face again. It’s not a full smile. I still don’t feel quite…

  Fag. The word still echoes in my head.

  This is supposed to be my moment of glory — football captain wins the homecoming game at the last possible second — but all I can think about is being called a fag. Is it possible he knows I’m—

  Damn, I can’t even say the word — not even to myself.

  • • •

  After doing my best to celebrate with the guys and then showering and changing, I’m now wandering aimlessly toward the now-empty stadium. Mom and dad had planned to head home after the game, knowing I wouldn’t want them hanging around with me and my friends.

  But I’ve never felt so alone as I do right now.

  Over in the parking lot, I can hear tailgate parties going on. All of the alumni that came in for the game are catching up or whatever. It sounds fun, I guess.

  I wander down the path through the bleachers and out onto the field, moving to the very center. I stare at the goal post, remembering again my moment of elation and then the absolute crash that came immediately after.

  How does Jordan do it? How does he put up with all that crap?

  I chuck my bag off my shoulder and drop it to the ground and I lay down next to it, staring up at the night sky. It’s clear and dark and the stars are starting to shine through.

  When did life get so complicated?

  Life was easier before I realized I … well … before I realized I was … different. I watched Jordan do it, watched him come out, and I wished I had the same strength and bravery as him. I chuckle, laughing at myself with pity — me, the captain of the football team, a coward. I close my eyes and throw my arms over my face. I feel so trapped in life, so stuck.

  I stay like that for a while, not even sure how much time passes by. Eventually, I hear the soft tread of footsteps across the grass, like the rustle of the bottom of a shoe brushing over upright blades of grass. I hope they walk away — I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.

  “Benjamin?”

  Except him. I’ll talk to him. I’ll listen to that voice every chance I get.

  I look up into Jordan’s warm, brown eyes.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I have no idea why I didn’t just say yes and pretend everything is fine so that he doesn’t ask further questions. Sigh. If it was anyone else, I would have done just that.

  He steps closer to me, towering over me, concern clear on his face. “You don’t know?”

  I want to reach out and touch him, grab his ankle or something, but I can’t do that. As long as I’m straight, I can’t do that. At least, not in the way I want to.

  “I’m just having a rough day.”

  “After that game? Do you want to talk about it?”

  Yes, I do. I want to tell him everything. But I can’t. I can’t tell him.

  It touches me that he’d actually ask, though. None of my football buddies would ask. Though I barely talk to Jordan, he cares more about me than my supposed friends do.

  “No,” I say, finally.

  He looks like he’s about to turn and head back to wherever, to meet up with his cheer friends or something. But I don’t want him to leave. Not yet.

  “Can you sit with me for a bit?”

  He looks across the field again, then down at me. “Sure. People might gossip, though, the football captain and the cheer co-captain,” he says, with a teasing smile on his face. He winks at me. “Scandalous.”

  I laugh, but at the same time I worry about that exact thing. Still, I don’t want him to leave. “I’ll survive,” I say.

  He sits down cross-legged next to me.

  Unexpectedly, he starts giggling.

  “What?” I ask.

  He tries to stifle his giggles and look at me, but then a new wave of laughter takes over.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, still laughing. “I was just remembering the first time we met.”

  “Oh no,” I say, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.

  “Oh yes,” Jordan says. “Remember the look on Mrs. Wilson’s face after you ate that paste? And then when it dried before she could wipe it off, your lips got stuck together and you started crying.”

  He laughs again and I can’t help but join in and laugh at my four-year-old self. “And yet that didn’t tell you I’d be trouble as a friend.”

  Jordan guffaws. “As if you’re the only trouble maker. Do you remember the Christmas concert in first grade?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “You mooned the audience!”

  Even though it was Jordan that brought this story up, he still blushes and covers his face with his hands. I ache with the need to reach out and touch him, but still I hold back. When his chuckles die down and the blush of embarrassment fades from his cheeks, he lowers his hands and looks at me. He tilts his head like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. The thought of him reading my mind is both terrifying and liberating — he’d know my secret, but then I wouldn’t have to keep it a secret anymore.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  “I will be.”

  Silence falls on us again and we just stare into each other’s eyes.

  I can remember the first time I felt something for Jordan that was more than just friendship. We were freshmen and assigned to work together on a science fair project. The project was something about the effects of pollutants on air quality — I can’t remember the details of the project, but I do remember when we won the first place award in the school’s science fair. Jordan hugged me.

  In the weeks leading up to the fair, when we spent so many evenings and weekends together working on that project, I spent more time with him than I typically did. I slept over at his place sometimes and he slept over at mine, even though we live next door to each other. When the morning came, I didn’t want to go back to my house — or if he was at my house, I didn’t want him
to go back to his. At the time, I had told myself that it was just me liking my friend so much and enjoying all the time we spent together.

  But when he hugged me at the science fair — that’s when I knew.

  And it scared me.

  And I couldn’t tell anyone.

  I couldn’t tell Jordan, that was for sure. But I couldn’t tell my brothers or my parents or anybody else. Some parts of my family are really homophobic — I don’t know how my parents are on that, but I’ve heard dad make comments about gay scenes on TV. My brothers routinely call each other gay as an insult and mom just lets it happen.

  So I buried it.

  And to kill my feelings — or at least to try and kill my feelings — I focused more on sports. It would take me away from Jordan — away from the one person who made me feel strange.

  Of course, that didn’t stop anything. I see Jordan daily and we share a lot of classes, so I had to put more distance between us. Still, I pined for him. And being a jock now with jock friends, I’m surrounded by locker room talk, with the guys talking about tits and ass and who they want to bang. I have no interest in those girls, but I do have an interest in the hot jock friends of mine, especially when they’re changing. But I’m into Jordan ten times more.

  No matter how much I try to run and hide from this, it follows me everywhere and at every moment. I can’t escape this.

  “If you want to talk,” Jordan says, pulling me back into the present moment, “I’m always here.”

  “I know,” I say. And in this moment, right here and right now, I decide to come out. I can’t go on much longer living this lie. I can’t keep hiding my feelings for Jordan. But the silence lapses between us as I struggle to gather the courage to open my mouth and actually say the words. “Jordan…”

  He looks at me. He can tell by the shift in my voice that this is serious.

  I pause again, scrounging up more courage. Just as I’m about to utter the words, a burst of raucous laughter interrupts us, pulling our attention to the side of the field. A group of cheerleaders and football players are headed this way, all of them laughing at something or other. I can tell they’re not laughing at us. They don’t know what I was about to say to Jordan. They don’t see that when they look at us.