He had vomited from the sheer gore and terror. Wet himself. Hated his dad for turning him into a monster. Hated himself for letting it happen.
Now, Matt worried that the violence had infected him like a virus, lying dormant, waiting for this moment to manifest itself.”
“Option 3 won’t work,” William said. “I know how Colton thinks. Trust me, dahlings. Even if Paul gets to the dean first, Colton will still have Mike make his accusation against Paul. The most likely outcome is that the dean will believe Mike and expel Paul. Mike is vice president of SGA. More importantly, he’s Colton’s toady, and the dean knows that. Alternatively, the dean will expel them both. Either way, Paul will be gone. Colton is perfectly willing to risk Mike’s expulsion. Loyalty is not a word in his vocabulary.”
“Option 4 then?” Evan asked.
William shook his head. “It pains me to say it, dahlings, but Paul is right. Violence is… not a sophisticated solution. No offense Matthew.”
Matt shrugged.
“Colton doesn’t know that the GM exists,” William continued. “He thinks he’s been picking off lone gays here and there—like shooting ducks in a barrel.”
Harley stopped binge-eating cookies. “And?”
“And we’ll use that against him,” William said. “We’re going with Option 5.”He turned to Paul. “I want you to contact Colton. Pretend to be willing to write the letter denouncing Matt, but insist on a one-on-one meeting. Tell him you’ll give him the letter only after you hear his assurances that he’ll leave you alone thereafter.”
“Then what happens?” Kevin asked.
“Leave that to me,” William said. “Leave that to me.”
Chapter 25: Rumspringa
9/21/’95
Adam,
I can’t believe that Taylor faked her pregnancy on AMC. Like that isn’t going to come back and bite her in the butt!
You wrote that Mateo isn’t your cup of tea. So, what is your type?
I followed your clues and tracked down your favorite graphic artist: J.C. Leyendecker! I had to go to OU’s library for help on that one. Did you know there’s a book about him by Michael Shau? It was published in 1974.
I’d never heard of Leyendecker! Everyone acts like Norman Rockwell was all that and a bag of chips. (Personally, I always thought his stuff was hokey.) I was shocked to learn that Leyendecker was Rockwell’s mentor. And I can’t believe how homo-erotic some of Leyendecker’s magazine covers were! Do you have a favorite one?
Since I cracked your riddle, you have to pony up. (Get it?) Time to let me see some of your work.
You’re the first vegetarian I’ve ever met, so I wouldn’t know if you guys eat a lot of eggplant or not. It’s been a while since I tasted the stuff. Mom used to make eggplant parmesan sometimes.
I know you’re on “house arrest,” as you call it. And your dad’s not cool with the “gay thing.” Still, can I at least call you? Please? I can pretend to be a Kirby salesman!
Mustang
Saturday, September 23, 1995
Matt had needed directions to Debbie’s neighborhood but guessed her house by dead reckoning. On a street where one bungalow blended with the next, where residents occasionally bumbled into the wrong house, where the lawns were boring patches of over-fertilized Bermuda masquerading as putting greens, Debbie’s was “None of the above.”
Matt was reminded ofSesame Street segments where there were three similar items (fruits, for example) and one dissimilar item (a toy truck). The Muppets would sing “One of These Things,” and by the end of the song you were supposed to pick which item didn’t belong in the set. Debbie’s house just didn’t belong—in a good way—among these poseurs.
It was a neighborhood of small houses, all built in the ‘40’s when 1,200-1,400 square feet was plenty for a family. Detached single car garages. That was where the similarity ended.
Debbie’s was a brick cottage with a steep roof and a gable over the entry. Her landscaping rivalled Van Gogh’s fever dreams: vibrant blues, yellows, and oranges. A crowded palette. Garden gnomes. Whirligigs. Butterflies flitting among the blooms. Bees doing their pollen thing. A sprawling oak tree surrounded by ivy. No putting green. Maybe some cat graves tucked here and there. It was hard to tell.
The house was well-built, solid, meant to last. Good bones, like its owner. Uniquely accessorized, also like its owner.
Debbie was hosting her first team party. She’d been at that morning’s game, cheering them on to a 2:1 win. Now this.
It was 1:45 p.m. Matt was the first to arrive.
