Sky” comes on the lasers make illustrations of the lyrics, including one of Jesus holding open his arms to welcome all to heaven when they die. Seeing it through Pete and Shawna’s smart-ass perspectives, I can understand that it’s dorky, but I’m sorry, it’s also neat. Pete’s yellow glow stick lies on the blanket between the two of us. It illuminates how close our hands are to touching. They are too close, but I don’t move. If I were to move my hand, to rest it on my stomach or behind my head, Pete might sense that I am trying to pull away from him, and that would be strange, because why would I pull away unless I was trying not to touch his hand?
I try to relax. It’s a perfect May night, not too hot, with a little bit of a breeze. And here I am, lying on a blanket with two friends, hanging out. Isn’t this what I always wanted? What I have wished for since I was a little kid? No. What I want, what I wish for, is to reach out and touch Pete’s hand, lying so close to mine. What I want is tobe alone on the blanket with him, snuggling into his shoulder as we watch the face of Granite Rock light up with lasers. What I want is to hold him, to kiss him, to press my body against his. To be here as a couple, not a threesome.
Except such desires aren’t real. Aren’t true. They come from messed-up wiring in my brain that I need to ignore. Messed-up wiring that I will one day learn to fix.
When “Georgia on My Mind” comes on, Shawna sits up and announces that she has to go to the bathroom.
“Should we just meet you at the car at the end of the show?” asks Pete.
“You’re so hilarious. And for the record, I’m going to be quick. I don’t even have to poop.”
“Boy, am I thrilled to know that,” says Pete.
Shawna walks off. It’s just the two of us. This is what I wanted, and yet I feel jittery, nervous. I feel a pebble, just below my shoulder, but I don’t dare move to adjust. A breeze passes over us and with it I smell the remnants of our fried chicken, plus Irish Spring soap and, underneath that, Pete’s sweat. Not dirty sweat, like the smell of Hunter’s football uniform after a game, but clean sweat, the sweat that comes naturally just from being a guy and being alive. Pete is wearing a Mr. Bubble T-shirt that fits close to his chest. I want to roll over on my side so I can look at him more closely. I want to study him.
“Did I ever tell you about my dad’s mistress?” he asks.
“What?”
Pete has never really talked about his dad at all, besides showing me those slides from Arizona and saying he was a big Red Sox fan.
“Everyone knew about her. He kept her in a suite at this fancy hotel in Boston for something like five years. She was his secretary.”
The fact that his dad could afford a suite at a fancy hotel for fiveyears surprises me more than the fact that he had a mistress. Pete and his mom’s place is such a dump.
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Yeah. When I was younger Dad would sometimes take me to the restaurant at the hotel. It was this really swank place called the Oak Room. Carla, Dad, and I would all get steaks.”
Now I do turn on my side; I’m so intrigued.
“Oh my gosh. What was that like for you?”
“The thing I remember most was all of the deer heads mounted on the wall. That and how crazy good the steak was. I guess I was pretty clueless about everything else.”
“But your mom’s so pretty. I mean, why would your dad need to have another woman holed away at a hotel?”
“Mom says he did it because he could. Correction. She says ‘that bastard’ did it because he could.”
I try to imagine my father keeping a spare woman at a hotel in Atlanta. It’s impossible. Mama’s will is just too strong. She simply would not allow him to do that. I imagine Mama starting a prayer chain, calling on the women in SERVERS to pray the harlot out of Daddy’s life. I imagine them circling the parking lot of the hotel, holding hands, praying and chanting
I try to relax. It’s a perfect May night, not too hot, with a little bit of a breeze. And here I am, lying on a blanket with two friends, hanging out. Isn’t this what I always wanted? What I have wished for since I was a little kid? No. What I want, what I wish for, is to reach out and touch Pete’s hand, lying so close to mine. What I want is tobe alone on the blanket with him, snuggling into his shoulder as we watch the face of Granite Rock light up with lasers. What I want is to hold him, to kiss him, to press my body against his. To be here as a couple, not a threesome.
Except such desires aren’t real. Aren’t true. They come from messed-up wiring in my brain that I need to ignore. Messed-up wiring that I will one day learn to fix.
When “Georgia on My Mind” comes on, Shawna sits up and announces that she has to go to the bathroom.
“Should we just meet you at the car at the end of the show?” asks Pete.
“You’re so hilarious. And for the record, I’m going to be quick. I don’t even have to poop.”
“Boy, am I thrilled to know that,” says Pete.
Shawna walks off. It’s just the two of us. This is what I wanted, and yet I feel jittery, nervous. I feel a pebble, just below my shoulder, but I don’t dare move to adjust. A breeze passes over us and with it I smell the remnants of our fried chicken, plus Irish Spring soap and, underneath that, Pete’s sweat. Not dirty sweat, like the smell of Hunter’s football uniform after a game, but clean sweat, the sweat that comes naturally just from being a guy and being alive. Pete is wearing a Mr. Bubble T-shirt that fits close to his chest. I want to roll over on my side so I can look at him more closely. I want to study him.
“Did I ever tell you about my dad’s mistress?” he asks.
“What?”
Pete has never really talked about his dad at all, besides showing me those slides from Arizona and saying he was a big Red Sox fan.
“Everyone knew about her. He kept her in a suite at this fancy hotel in Boston for something like five years. She was his secretary.”
The fact that his dad could afford a suite at a fancy hotel for fiveyears surprises me more than the fact that he had a mistress. Pete and his mom’s place is such a dump.
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Yeah. When I was younger Dad would sometimes take me to the restaurant at the hotel. It was this really swank place called the Oak Room. Carla, Dad, and I would all get steaks.”
Now I do turn on my side; I’m so intrigued.
“Oh my gosh. What was that like for you?”
“The thing I remember most was all of the deer heads mounted on the wall. That and how crazy good the steak was. I guess I was pretty clueless about everything else.”
“But your mom’s so pretty. I mean, why would your dad need to have another woman holed away at a hotel?”
“Mom says he did it because he could. Correction. She says ‘that bastard’ did it because he could.”
I try to imagine my father keeping a spare woman at a hotel in Atlanta. It’s impossible. Mama’s will is just too strong. She simply would not allow him to do that. I imagine Mama starting a prayer chain, calling on the women in SERVERS to pray the harlot out of Daddy’s life. I imagine them circling the parking lot of the hotel, holding hands, praying and chanting
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