Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d known each other better in high school before he graduated last year. It’s this impossible, fantasy-like alternate reality. We could have been this unlikely pair turned high school sweethearts. Maybe we’d even be popular—a novelty! Girls would love us, because straight chicks adore a gay guy and they really love two. Maybe other guys wouldn’t be threatened by us. Maybe they’d accept us. Lucas seemed to be one of them, after all. We would have each other. We’d be together. In public.
Lucas pulls my shirt over my head and I begin to unbutton his and then immediately stop myself. The stockroom feels private and safe, but in reality, anyone could walk right in.
I don’t really like the whole metaphor of baseball bases and physical intimacy. Mainly because I don’t really care about baseball and also, has anyone in the history of teenagers ever agreed on what bases are what? I guess in the world of gay teenage boys, I’d have to say first base is making out or heavy petting (a term I’ve only ever heard Grammy use), second base is mouth or hands below the belt, and, well, third base is... below-the-belt action. By that barometer,Lucas and I have made it to second base, but the idea of doing anything more than making out when a customer or Lucas’s dad, who owns the gas station, could easily wander back here freaks me out no matter how many times he tells me it’s okay.
“Ruby Slippers won,” I breathe into his lips.
“I don’t care about boys in dresses right now,” he says. “I care about you out of this shirt.” He nibbles at my earlobe softly.
My hands are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt before I can remind myself of all the reasons this is a bad idea.
I hate hiding. Everyone in this town knows I’m gay—for better or worse—and there’s something supremely unfair about the fact that I have to hide this when I still have to deal with a handful of dumb pricks hurling homophobic insults in my direction and Bible thumpers who want to pray my gay away. If I’m going to have to put up with all of that, shouldn’t I at least have this? And shouldn’t it be for everyone to see?
After we fool around for a bit and no one barges in on us, Lucas settles in next to me on the desk as we watch the TV wired to the security cameras out front.
“How’s class been?” I ask.
“Almost over, but I’m thinking I’m gonna sign up for summer classes too. The sooner I finish my basics at Clover City Community College, the faster I can transfer, ya know? Who knows? Maybe you’ll see me in Austin one day.”
“That’d be something.” Lucas had high hopes for afootball scholarship, but the offers never came. It’s the same sad story of most of the male population of Clover City. But I kind of like the thought of Lucas in Austin. With me.
After a few more minutes of watching the security cameras, Lucas clears his throat. “I... actually—are we exclusive?” he asks, dropping a very serious question out of nowhere.
“Excuse me?” I can’t tell if this is his way of telling me he only wants to make out with me or that he wants to also make out with other people.
“It’s just something I’ve been wondering is all.”
Yes, yes, yes, yes, I nearly scream, but I’m not in the business of being overly eager and I definitely don’t want to sound desperate. “Um, not that I’m aware of.”
On the monitor, a woman walks in and waits at the counter.
“Hang on,” says Lucas. “I’ll be right back.”
Once he’s gone, I quickly grab my phone and shoot off a text to Clem.
911! I need a pep talk.
On the monitor, Lucas stands with his back to the woman as he types her numbers onto her lotto tickets. He looks up to the camera—to me—and rolls his eyes, letting out a short sigh that blows the hair off his forehead.
“Clem, Clem, Clem, come on!” I mumble.
My phone lights up with her face. “Okay,” I say into the phone. “I don’t have time to explain. But I need a pep talk. Quick.”
“Wait—what’s—” she sputters. “Okay. Waylon RussellBrewer. You are a gift to humankind. God or whoever’s in charge made you and mwah! Chef kiss! Perfection! You deserve to have good things and good people. You have more vision and culture in your pinkie than most people have in their whole bodies. Ten years from now—”
“I gotta go,” I say. Lucas has disappeared from the monitor. “But that was good. Your pep talk game is at an all-time high.”
“Wait,” she says. “I love you. My life is better because I share it with you. Twin love for life.”
“I love you too,” I whisper back into the phone and hang up, my whole chest glowing with optimism.
Lucas pushes the stockroom door open and I shove my phone back in my pocket. He wipes his hands down the front of his jeans, and I can see that he’s as nervous as I am.
I inhale sharply, shuddering as I exhale.
“Were you talking to someone?” he asks.
“Nope, just, uh, humming to myself.”
