CLIFF
Over the next two weeks, Cliff and Brennan met up for more art lessons at the loft. Cliff learned techniques for drawing accurate proportions, breaking down complicated objects into simple shapes, and creating three-dimensional effects for his 2-D sketches.
That stuff was easy. Resisting Brennan was the real challenge.
Every time Brennan hauled open the loft door to greet him with his buoyant smile and confident frame, Cliff swooned all over again. It wasGroundhog Dayof the heart and dick.
Cliff loved listening to him talk, loved watching his eyes light up as he talked about art, loved getting him to emit one of his boisterous laughs. He found himself working on his drawing skills to impress Brennan more than his professor.
Yet the ecstasy was followed by agony because Cliff knew his feelings were one-sided. Whenever Brennan got near Cliff - looking over his shoulder, scooting his chair closer - he would just as quickly find a way to create space. Brennan had said it himself in plain English: he was not into Cliff. Full stop.
Cliff’s gay subconscious had other plans, though. Being around Brennan had awoken an inner troublemaker, like Puck fromA Midsummer’s Night Dreamin his head (who was also appropriately known as Bottom). He found himself trying to flirt with his art tutor: a lingering smile after a sarcastic joke here, a hand on his forearm to ask a question there. Each time, Cliff pulled himself back from the edge before causing irreversible damage to their friendship. Brennan was not interested in him, and Cliff was not interested in coming out. He saved his fantasies for his dorm room - and Brennan’s shirt he’d swiped. Oops.
Fortunately, oh so fortunately, basketball practice started up in mid-October, here to rescue Cliff from sexual thoughts of Brennan. That was it, he realized. Not having basketball to focus on created a void in him that was getting filled by Brennan.
Or something like that.
On this brisk October afternoon, he walked up the steps to the grand entrance of McKinley Arena.
Cliff had fond memories of attending Browerton basketball games with his dad. The place was a while removed from its 90s heyday when it was first built, but its blocky signage and painted-over cinder block walls had their nostalgic charm. And the court itself looked like it hadn’t aged a day. It shined as the centerpiece of the building, brightly lit and commanding attention.
His dad hadn’t forced him to attend, but Cliff knew how much it meant to him to have his son follow in his footsteps. He didn’t say much during visits to other schools, but when they toured McKinley, he regaled Cliff and the tour guide with insider memories from his time here.
Even though he’d been curious about starting someplace new, building his own reputation and own life, Cliff liked Browerton. It was a great school, and he was excited to work under Coach Trainor, a man whose no-nonsense approach to the game masked a deep caring and respect for his players. He replayed these reasons in his mind when it came time to make a decision, hoping that they tuned out the other argument in his head - that he didn’t want to disappoint his dad more than he already would by being gay. He hoped that if he ever did come out to his dad, sometime far in the future, that being part of the Whitetail basketball team would take some of the sting away.
Cliff listened for the familiar squeak of sneakers as he stepped onto the court. Players tried to impress each other with their craziest shot. Dell and Carpenter practiced layups under the basket.
“There he is,” Carpenter said. “The Beer Skee Ball king.”
He passed Cliff the ball.
“It’s been like two weeks, and I still can’t get over how wild that was,” Dell said.
“Thanks?”
“Don’t be so modest. That’s that Midwestern thing. We gotta break you of that. In California, people take credit for everything.”
Cliff dribbled the ball between his feet. He had trouble taking compliments. He didn’t think it was a Midwestern thing since Alex never shied away from praise. He enjoyed the anonymity of basketball. On the court, he was one player of many. He could blend in. Besides, you were only as good as your last game. The lesson of pride goeth before the fall had stuck with him.
“That was pretty cool.” Cudia, the senior power forward, approached them. He had the swagger and unfettered cool that came with being at the top of the totem pole. “You almost had a perfect streak!”
Cliff turned red from the attention. He dribbled away from them and hit the basket in an easy shot.
“There he is, showing off again,” Dell said.
It wasn’t meant to show off. A fifth-grader could’ve made that shot just now. The repetitiveness of shooting practice calmed him.
“I’m excited to have you on the team.” Cudia held out his fist, and Cliff bumped it. He moved onto Dell and Carpenter for fist bumps. Cliff appreciated the instant camaraderie.
Altshuler sidled up to the conversation, his beady eyes instantly glaring when they came upon Cliff. “He was sober. It shouldn’t even count. If I was sober, I’d get all five in no problem.”
“Sure,” Cliff said, the word drenched in sarcasm.
The other players let out anooooooh.
Cliff wasn’t one for trash-talking. He preferred to put his energy elsewhere. But there were exceptions to every rule. And being around Brennan had brought out some shit-talking flare in him.
“You don’t believe me?”
