Later, when I’d freed myself of my family and retired to my room to drink alone, I inspected it.Alex, he’d printed on it. Followed by a phone number. I crumpled it into a tiny pill-sized thing, and threw it in the trash.
—Rikker
I didn’t go home to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving, because I didn’t have a ride up to Vermont. If I were a smarter man, I’d make the effort to figure out who else at Harkness lived near Burlington. There was a bus route, but the bus company somehow turned the four-hour trip into an eight-hour tour of New England’s major highways.
Even though Gran was disappointed, it didn’t make sense to travel for sixteen hours round-trip when I had just two days off.
For Thanksgiving Day, Coach invited everyone who was stuck in town over to his home for supper. I made myself go, even though I wasn’t feeling it. Bella had taken the train to New York to see her parents. Without her as a buffer, dinner at Coach’s house sounded like a long few hours.
But it was fine. This time, the social lubricants were copious platters of food and a smorgasbord of football on the big screen in the den.
Coach’s wife was a smiling woman who seemed to enjoy watching a dozen giant college guys help themselves to seconds and thirds. “That’s what catering is for,” she said when I apologized for our collective appetite.
“You’re a smart lady,” I said, dropping another dollop of garlic mashed potatoes onto my plate.
“I’ve been a coach’s wife for thirty-five years,” she said, sipping her wine. “You learn a thing or two. Did you try the cranberry stuffing? I think it’s excellent.”
Coach’s wife was a solid eight on the Rikker Scale, I decided.
McHerrin Hall was as still as a tomb that weekend. I got a lot of studying done in all that silence. When Saturday night finally rolled around, I was ready to hit the ice. With my duffel over my shoulder, I was just opening the ice level door when I heard a shriek, and the sound of someone calling my name.
“Johnny Rikker! Stop right there, young man.” I turned around to see Graham’s mother trotting down the ramp to catch me.
“Hey, Mrs. G! It’s good to see you.” I let the rink door fall closed again, and she tackled me in a hug.
“You are enormous! Look at you!” She actually reached up to ruffle my hair. “You sat at my kitchen table eating Oreos maybe fifty pounds ago!”
“Are you telling me I’ve gotten fat?” I teased.
I glanced at Graham, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. This little reunion was making him deeply uncomfortable. So I moved away from the door, and he ghosted behind me, slipping into the rink without comment.
“Are you coming to Michigan for Christmas?” Mrs. G. asked.
“Probably not. My Grandmother’s getting older, and I like to spend time with her when I can.” That was all true. Although, it was also true that unless I started showing an interest in women, my parents were happy to keep up the pretense that I was just too busy on the East Coast to come home.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Graham’s mom said. “Verylucky.” There was a firmness to the statement that left me wondering how much of my story was common knowledge back in Michigan. One bonus of my exile was that I never had to listen to the gossip about myself.
Mrs. G. was still beaming at me, and it was easy to smile back. I’d always loved Graham’s mom. In fact, I was pretty sure that if it had been Graham instead of me who accidentally ended up coming out of the closet, that she would have taken it all in stride.
But I guess we’d never know.
“I’d better get in there,” I told her.
“Play safe,” she said, grabbing me for a hug. “And don’t be a stranger.”
Aw. She used to say exactly the same thing before our ninth grade games. Over her shoulder, I saw Bella coming down the ramp. And her keen eyes were taking in the scene of Graham’s mother hugging me. Uh oh. I stepped back and put my hand on the door. “Sure is good seeing you.” Then I opened it and slipped inside.
Before the door closed, I heard Bella say, “Hi, Mrs. Graham.”
“Bella, Sweetie!” was the last thing I heard before the door fell closed.
As I tossed my duffel onto the bench, I did a double-take. The whiteboard over my locker area had been changed. Instead of Rikker, it now read FAGGOT.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Leaving it there, I tossed my jacket onto the hook. Jerking the zipper to my duffel open, I had to remind myself to breath. In. Out. In. Out. It was just a slur from some coward. It was middle school stuff, really.
“Hey, Rikker!” Bella’s voice advanced on me from behind. “I didn’t know you knew…” Abruptly she broke off. “What thefuck?”
