Lovefool

There’s an undeniable air of tension in the room-- like when someone strikes the wrong key in the middle of a song and stops. This tends to happen when we walk into parties. They all ogle at him and I’m the one stuck with coats, bags, and sometimes a tray of cookies or a casserole dish. It sucks. What’s so great about him anyway?

Roger and I have been friends since we were kids. He’s always been the one everyone fawns over—the one they all adore. I’ve always secretly hated him for that.

And so it commences. He goes off to talk with the captain of the football team, the drum majors, the artists, the cheerleaders, the musicians—I’m stuck with Juliana by the snack table.

Juliana Love has had an unhealthy crush on me since we were ten. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I take it up the ass just yet. It’s too depressing to look at her face when I leave a room as it is. She holds up a tray of watermelon and smiles.

“Fruit?”

I blink a few times before dismissing the very idea. I decide to push it further and tell her that I’m allergic to fructose and that she should really consider other people’s individual disabilities before making so brash an assumption that everyone may consume fruit at his or her own leisure. She kind of frowns and stares at her plate. She picks up a plate of kiwi and holds that up to my nose instead.

“Kiwi?”

I don’t think she understands what fructose is. I turn to look at her and put the plate back down on the table.

“I can’t eat fruit, Juliana.” I say. She pouts and moves closer to me. I repress my sigh and search the crowd for someone who’s a slightly smaller bag of crazy. My eyes rest on Roger. He’s surrounded by a small crowd of people as he reenacts a scene from one of our escapades in Hollywood. He looks so loose in his natural environment: The Center of Attention. I’ve often observed him this way. His eyes light up and his smile brightens—It’s almost as though he’s hypnotizing his prey before striking. Women want him. Men want to be him. By this logic I’ve justified myself as a woman. It’s one of the reasons I think logic should be done away with. It always causes trouble.

In the middle of his story he catches my eye. He smiles as he goes on with the story. He’s not talking about me. I know he’s not. Not many people know we’re even friends. I know he’s kind of ashamed of me sometimes. I’m sort of a “blonde” most of the time. Even though this is true he still remains as my closest friend and, I assume, me as his. I think he may resent that we are, to put it in his words, “a little too close at times,” but I couldn’t care less.

I turn away and sift through the crowd for someone to flirt with, maybe get lucky and get a fun night out of it but alas, it’s like I’m surrounded by the offspring of Freddie Mercury and Joseph Merrick. It’s horrifying. So I turn back to Roger and watch him. It’s all I’m ever allowed to do when we’re in public. Suddenly there’s a plate of fruit under my nose once more.

“Juliana, for the last time: I don’t eat fruit.”

“This is cantaloupe.”

I sigh. I can’t handle this tonight. That cantaloupe has been sitting out for God knows how long. It’s eleven thirty and the party started at eight. These people are just trying to get Salmonella. Like I need to vomit for five days straight. I don’t think so; that’s so unhealthy.

I need a cigarette.

I make my way to the back yard and step out into the crisp night air. I discover that I have been deceived. There are guys at this party. They’re all just outside smoking and drinking.

I reach into my pocket and grab a cigarette out of a carton. I make eye contact with a guy close to me. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and lights mine with the glowing tip of his. I flash him a smile and inhale a lungful of smoke. I smile, receptors in my brain finally calming, and look up at the night sky. The night doesn’t get black anymore. In fact, we’re lucky now if we see one star in the deep purple sky.

My thoughts are interrupted by a hand on my shoulder. I turn and see Roger smiling at me. He takes the cigarette out from between my fingers and stomps it out. Before I have time to protest he pulls me close and whispers in my ear.

“Smoking is bad for you.”

I sigh. Cigarettes aren’t easy to come by for a seventeen year old. I wish he’d understand that.

“I need a drink.” I mutter. I try to escape but my captor sees fit to hold me stationary and lean in dangerously close.

“Chester Harris, when will you learn?”

I hate it when he uses my full name. Nevertheless, his hand cups my cheek as he leans in to kiss me. He tastes like wine coolers. No wonder.

The thing one has to understand about Roger is the fact that he’s a closeted fag. He hasn’t come out to anyone, including me… Or himself for that matter. Every time I try to talk to him about it he calls me a dumbshit and storms off. He’s so gay. He thinks the world will fall apart if he admits it. He thinks the world will stop loving him if he says it. Roger’s greatest fear is lack of adoration. I once told him that I’d always adore him. He just left the room.

Thing is? I know he loves me, if only as a friend-- though I get the notion he’s harboring stronger feelings but I don’t like to get my hopes up. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just kind of jaded.

We make our way back through the party and out to his car. No one inquires as to where we’re going. Everyone’s pretty drunk at this point. I hate high school parties.

The car is old. It used to be red or something but it’s so old and so decrepit that it’s actually gone orange with rust. I once told him he needed a new car. He told me to shove it up my ass. When I told him it wouldn’t fit he locked me out of the car. Prick.

Roger climbs into the back seat with me and pins me to the seat. Normally I’d put up some sort of a struggle but I’m so horny I want sex and I want it now. That’s the good thing about Roger’s self-homophobia: He’s efficient with sex. There’s some fumbling, rustling, and sizeable thrusts shaking the car but we’ve been doing this for so long that we know how to give the other what he wants quickly.

Before I know it we’re driving home in silence. I know I should probably drive because Roger’s still lightly tipsy. Roger would rather die in a horrific accident than let me drive. It’s a power trip.

I look out the window and watch the lights of the city whip by my head. I love the night. The city lights always soothe me. Ironic that I hate them so much for taking away my stars.

I turn to Roger and watch as he tries to concentrate on the road. I want to talk to him but he has a thing about talking too soon after sex. It’s been fifteen minutes. I consider that long enough. Roger gets freaked out if you talk even an hour later. He’s weird.

“Why don’t you just let me drive?” I ask.

Silence.

I sigh and turn to him fully.

“You’re going to get us killed.”

“I had two drinks.”

“I’ll hang myself out the window until you let me drive.”

“Fuck yourself.”

“In your dreams.”

He rolls his eyes and looks ahead. I purse my lips and unbuckle my seatbelt. He frowns slightly as I roll down my window. He starts to shout as I hang my head out the window.

He lets me drive.

---

He’s not smarter than me, just more educated. I don’t tell him this because it will just upset him. He likes to read. He finds some kind of masochistic pleasure in studying. He comes to my house sometimes when he’s bored, after he’s finished all his projects and homework, and finds me playing the piano. He tells me I’m good right before asking why I’m failing my English class. If he were really that smart he’d put two and two together. If he were the genius he claims to be he wouldn’t ask me in preservation of my feelings.

I don’t care that he thinks I’m stupid. I care that I’m starting to believe it. I’m upset because he’s starting to brainwash me into thinking I’m inferior to him in every way possible. It makes me want to try harder a lot of the time just to show him that I can do what he says I can’t. Then I think to myself: What’s the point? He’ll just make up an excuse for why I did so well. It’s as though being proud of me would cause the walls of his intestines to rupture and boils to break out on his face. There’s just no pleasing the cynics of the world. Sometimes I wonder why I’m still friends with him.

I’m watching the clouds go by on the grass in my back yard. I hear the window open shortly followed by Delia’s piercing voice:

“Chester, do you want some lunch?”

“Not hungry.” I call back.

“Honey, Roger’s here to see you.”

I sigh. It’s just one of those moments when I don’t need Roger. Nevertheless, I was taught never to be rude so I pick myself up, dust myself off, and enter the kitchen. Roger is waiting in the doorway. He smiles at me. I don’t feel like smiling back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. I don’t miss a beat. I don’t want a fight. I smile back at him and shake my head.

“Nothing.”

I make my way into the living room and sit at the piano. He knows the piano is my way of telling him to fuck off but he sits next to me on the bench anyway and poises himself in a piano player’s position. I don’t feel like telling him that he’s too far back on the bench and that his fingers aren’t nearly curved enough because I know he won’t listen to me. Instead I poise myself in the proper proper way and start in on Hey Jude. He smiles and rests his head on my shoulder.

“You’re really good.” he says. There’s a pause in his speech as I keep playing, waiting for the imminent drop of the other shoe.

“Mr. Williams asked me to be your math tutor.”

I just keep playing, adding a crescendo where it doesn’t belong because I’m so mad I can feel the anger pounding away at my head.

“Great.” is the only thing I can manage to say without completely tearing his head off. He pouts; I smile on the inside. I know this drives him crazy, someone not giving him one hundred percent of his or her attention.

“I said that I’m going to be your math tutor.” he repeats as though I’m some deaf old maid. When I don’t respond he grabs my wrists and pins them to my lap.

“I said I’m going to be your math tutor.” he says very loudly.

“I heard you!”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks.

“Because I don’t need your help.” I say. I wrestle my hands back and start in on Yesterday. Roger looks like I just shot him in the back.

“You’re failing the class.” he says.

“Thank you, nightly news.”

He purses his lips and grabs my wrists again. I sigh and roll my eyes.

“Chester, you’re going to have to retake Algebra 2 when you’re a senior next year. Do you really want that?”

I don’t. I really don’t like failing. I don’t like the feeling I get when teachers shake their head at that period’s lost cause. It sucks. It sucks mostly because I could easily pass any one of my classes with an A rather than the usual C. Why don’t I try harder? I don’t care about my grades. I care about the knowledge I acquire from my classes. I want to show people that it’s not grades which measure our intellect. It’s not test scores which measure a man. Crazy? Yes. Do I care? No.

“Roger, I don’t need your help.” I repeat. He pulls me up from the bench and sits me down at the dining room table. He grabs a sheet of paper from one of my notebooks and is about to close it when he notices that there is writing on this particular sheet. Not only is it writing, but it’s my Chemistry notes. He frowns and looks at me.

“Who took these for you?” he asks.

We stare at each other for a few moments. This is the first time I’ve seen Roger Clements speechless. I raise my eyebrow.

“I’m not stupid, you know.” I say. Roger sets the notes back into my notebook very gently and pushes the notebook away from himself.

“I think I’ll head home.” he says.

I stand and walk him to the door. We step out onto the porch and, before he can leave, I pull him into a sober, unprovoked kiss. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He just stands there, lips like a dead fish’s, body as rigid as a stone as I kiss him. I pull back and say nothing before I go back in the house.

I sit on the couch and click on the television. Nothing good is on. Just as I turn off the T.V the front door opens once more. Roger is soon dragging me up to my room and hastily undressing me. It’s another quick in and out but I can’t help but hold onto the fact that I’d done that to him. I’ve made the Master of Self-Restraint lose all control. Something in my gut tells me I’m the only person who will ever be able to do such a thing.

Roger rolls onto his side and starts to drift off. If I’m Mongolia, sleep is Roger’s Great Wall. It doesn’t matter what the situation. If I start to get too personal or if I start to bother him he’ll slowly drift off into a nap. I hate it. After such a rush of empowerment I feel compelled to push my luck even further. I roll him over and kiss him square on the lips. He moves his head so our lips come apart as he groans sleepily.

“I’m trying to sleep, retard.”

I pin him to the bed and kiss him again. I meet nothing but resistance. I pull away and roll out of bed. I pull on the closest pair of pants I can find and grab a shirt from my dresser. Roger is now sitting up and pulling on his own clothes.

“Why would you kiss me now?” he asks. I shrug and lean on my wall.

“I don’t know.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls on his shirt. I look down at my blue carpet and sigh. I want to crawl inside myself and never have to see anyone again. While I sometimes question our friendship I don’t want it to end. Maybe I really am stupid.

Roger is already out of the house by the time I’m ready to say “I’m sorry.”

---

His mother doesn’t know. If she knew she’d probably have a heart attack. If she does know she keeps it quiet. Sometimes she’ll find my underwear or one of my shirts and restore them to me when I visit next. Once she walked in while I was about to give him a handjob. Come to think of it, she probably does know. She just won’t admit it to herself. She’s a very prim and proper lady and God forbid her son should be gay.

It’s summer now. Every summer I’m always at his house because Delia and Everett go off to some new poverty-stricken land and adopt a child to save (1).

Plus, Roger has a pool at his house.

Mrs. Clements comes out of the house in her flowery apron with a tray of cookies and lemonade in hand and a smile on her face. She’s a Stepford Wife to the highest degree.

“I thought you boys could use some refreshments.” she says brightly. We smile at her and hop out of the pool because eating in the pool not only causes cramps but crumbs in the water as well.

As she walks back into the house we both take a cookie and lemonade. Roger kicks his feet up onto the table and smiles.

“This is nice.” he says. I nod in concurrence and look up at the umbrella above us. It’s very yellow.

“You okay, Chester?”

I look back at him and nod. He sets his glass back on the table and sighs.

“What’s been with you?” he asks. I shrug and look at the fly on the side of my glass.

“Just been pensive I guess.” I reply. He scoffs slightly. I look up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Is being pensive all right with you?” He’s such a jerk sometimes.

“What do you have to be pensive about?” he asks me. I blink.

“I have plenty to be pensive about.” Roger just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Dumb kid.”

I set down my glass and slip back into the pool. I want at least ten feet of water between us so I dive to the bottom. I touch my feet to the drain and am immediately sucked to the floor. A pang of panic rushes through me as I struggle to free myself. I can see a distorted image of Roger rushing about on the surface. I know I shouldn’t be but I’m thrashing wildly trying to free myself. I feel the suction cease and I kick to the surface.

Upon resurface I barely have time to get a breath in before Roger yanks me out of the pool. I sputter and cough as Roger drapes a towel over my shoulders and pulls me into a tight hug.

“God, that scared me.” he says shakily. I try to nod but it comes out as more of a twitch. He puts a hand on my face and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone. My jaw starts twitching. He smiles and kisses the corner of my mouth.

I know he loves me, even if he won’t say it out loud.

(1.) Delia and Everett are what the government considers my parents. They’re Mormon missionaries. Delia is a shriveled up shrew whose ovaries dried up like little prunes in the sun. She’s too nice. God damned Mormons. They have adopted ten children since me. I was their first. I was from the far-off, poverty-stricken land of Queens. They tell me that my mother was homeless and my father was a drunkard. They said that my mother sold me for crack. Don’t liars go to hell, no matter how many children?