“I thought you quit last week.”
“I did. And I started back up this week.” She gives me the evil eye, even though I haven’t said a damn word. “Don’t judge. I’m under a lot of stress.”
“Who isn’t?”
Not me, that’s for sure. Yeah, right. When I’m done at the registrar’s office, I have to pull a shift in the bookstore at Vino and Veritas, the combination bookstore and wine bar in Burlington’s busy Church Street pedestrian shopping district. By the time my shift ends, I won’t get back to my dorm until after nine. And even then, there’s no rest for this weary boy, since I’m a resident assistant. No doubt there will be a minimum of three complaints of varying degrees of seriousness that I’ll have to deal with before my head hits the pillow.
I’ll bet Adam Serrano doesn’t work three jobs to stay in school. He’s probably got a scholarship plus a nice college fund that keeps him in food, clothes, books, and booze. The polar opposite of me, a broke-arse motherfiretrucker with zippo support from his so-called parents.
Broke-arse. Motherfiretrucker. I can’t even swear in my own head without cleaning it up. It’s like I’m stuck in that TV show, the one where Kristen Bell gets sent to “heaven,” and every time she tries to swear it comes out censored. Like bullshirt. Or ashhole. I haven’t been living as a Mormon for almost three years, but I guess some habits are harder than others to break.
With one hand, Cassie removes the sucker from her mouth with a loud pop and smacks me on the shoulder with the other. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“What question was that again?”
“What was the hockey god’s problem?”
“Hockey god?” I get that Adam plays for Moo U. But not everyone on the team is a superstar. Although they do all tend to be worshipped on campus, no matter their skill level. It’s annoying as heck, but at least the team wins all the time. Meaning they bring in gobs of money, which helps support other programs at the school. Like the theater department.
Cassie takes a long, lingering lick. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was coming on to me. But she’s fully aware that I bat for the other team. I don’t advertise my sexuality. But I don’t make a secret of it, either. Been there, done that, ripped the T-shirt to shreds, burned it, and threw the ashes into Lake Champlain.
“You don’t read the school’s online newspaper, do you?” she asks. “If you believe the editor of the sports section, Adam Serrano is the second coming of Wayne Gretzky. The team creamed their collective pants when he decided to transfer.”
Yeah, probably not for the same reason I’d be creaming mine.
“Well, that’s part of his problem. Not the pants-creaming thing. The transfer. He’s ticked off that he can’t get into the classes he wants, and he’s stuck taking one he hates.”
I don’t mention that it happens to be the one class I’m most looking forward to this semester. Improvisation is totally my jam. I’m trying to convince Dr. Zimmer, the chair of the theater department, to let me start an improv troupe in the spring. I want to call it Gag Reflex. Or if that doesn’t fly—for obvious reasons—Joke & Dagger.
I also neglect to note that I’m crossing my fingers Adam doesn’t talk his way into another class. I mentally kick myself for telling him to come back and check to see if anything opens up. Sure, it means I might see him again when I’m on work-study. But I’d much rather see him in class. Twice a week. Every week. For the entire semester. Because apparently I like to torture myself.
Not that I have much to worry about. In my experience, schools usually bend over backward to accommodate their star athletes. Which, according to Cassie and the school newspaper, includes Adam.
“No, not that problem.” She rolls her eyes at me like I’m being either unintentionally clueless or deliberately dense. “I mean his problem with you. He was looking at you like he wanted to kick your ass. Or bend you over the counter and screw it.”
Okay, I thought there was a little something-something there. And not only on my part. But then he bolted. Color me confused.
I shrug, not wanting to give my thoughts away. I’ve known Cassie for over a year—I was her RA when she was a freshman—but we’re not all that close. My sex life—or lack thereof—is none of her business. “My money is on the ass kicking. He blames me when it’s the computer he should be mad at. Like it’s my fault there’s no classes for him to transfer into.”
“I don’t know. I think he’s into you.”
“Who says he even swings my way?” Moo U is known for being LGBTQ friendly, but I’m not sure if that extends to the hockey team. I’m a self-confessed drama geek. I don’t usually hang with the jock crowd. And the athletes tend to live off campus, so it’s not like I run into them in the dorms.
“His eyes, that’s who. Or that’s what.” She twirls the lollipop between her fingers. “They were literally eating you up.”
“I don’t think you know whatliterally means.”
“Whatever.” Now it’s her turn to shrug. “It’s your loss.”
Yeah, I know all about loss. Layton. My family. My faith community. Pretty much everything I knew was lost to me when I came out.
Do I have regrets? Sure. Do they outweigh the huge positive of being out, loud, and proud of who I am? Most days, no. But I’d be lying if I said it was all sunshine and rainbows.
Mostly, I miss my siblings. I’ve got five—three sisters, two brothers, ranging in age from nine to nineteen. They’re the innocent victims of our family dysfunction, caught in the crossfire between me and my overbearing, overprotective, uber-religious parents.
I live for the days my sister Hannah—the nineteen-year-old—manages to sneak me a text or call from a friend’s phone. We can’t risk our parents checking hers. The last thing I want is for them to take their anger at me out on her or any of my other brothers and sisters.
“Are you gonna process those or stare at them all day?”
