“But in the Top 40 last time, they kept playing Laura K. Niles. I’m kinda burned out on her songs. They all sound the same,” Cameron said.
They were talking about Revolution. It was a once-a-quarter gay dance party thrown in an abandoned warehouse in a shady part of Harrisburg. Three floors of dancing, with a different theme on each level.
The microwave beeped with Henry’s dinner. “We’re going to Nolan’s to pregame at eight-thirty. Jordan’s going to drive.”
“Jordan’s going? Let me guess—”
“Gay bars are a great place to pick up girls,” they both said.
“This is perfect. I’ll have to time for an extended disco nap and some TV.” Cameron wrapped the pizza in used aluminum foil, shoved it in the oven, and prayed for the best.
Henry held his plate of pizza and remained in the kitchen. His face got cloudy with emotion.
“Is the middle of your pizza still frozen?” Cameron asked.
“No. It’s just…I remember you taking me to Revolution when I was a freshman. You helped me get my fake ID.”
“I remember. You made out with a different guy in each level.”
“And you brought home that guy who barely spoke English. The cab ride was so awkward.”
They laughed over the memory. That night seemed forever ago, but it’d only been two years.
“I can’t believe this is our last Revolution,” Henry said.
Cameron waved off the sentimentality. He refused to let the treacly music swell on this moment. Revolution was just a sketchy dance party, after all.
He opened the oven. A plume of smoke puffed out.
“Well, looks like I’m not eating pizza tonight. Stupid Internet.” He yanked out the charred remains of his dashed dinner and threw them in the trash. He took out a can of ravioli from the back of a cabinet and dumped it into a saucepan. Henry opened up all the windows.
“So what was that all about last night?” Henry asked. “You and Walker.”
“Walker picked up his son and said thank you. In other news, the earth is round.” Cameron knew what Henry meant, and Henry wasn’t putting up with his lack of an answer.
“That hug…it looked like a pretty intense hug.”
“Everything’s relative.” Cameron watched his food cook.
“Deflecting.”
Cameron stirred the ravioli. “We kissed in the closet during Nolan and Jordan’s party.” Before Henry’s eyebrows could judge him, Cameron continued: “But I ended it.”
“Why?”
Cameron’s head shot up. Henry leaned against the sink, eating.
“You know why.”
“You like him.” Henry pointed an accusatory pizza crust at him. “You are in serious likeitude, Cameron Buckley.”
“We were just in a tight, confined space avoiding the cops. Didn’t Anne Frank develop a crush on the guy she was in the attic with?”
Henry rolled his eyes. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate a Holocaust reference. “And what’s your grand excuse for last night?”
Cameron didn’t have a quick retort for that one. Henry was right. That hug was more than a hug. It was an earthquake. Cameron was still reeling from its aftershocks.
“It’s okay to like him,” Henry said.
