Clay's Way by Blair Mastbaum Page B

crossword puzzle and watching some crap financial news show about how to get richer by fucking over poor people.  I mow Clay’s name into the grass, repeating the letters over and over again.
                    My dad walks out the back door and looks at the yard with totally exaggerated disgust.  “You’re going to have to do a better job than that if you want to get paid.”
                    “I’m not finished.    God!”  I scream over the roaring mower.  “Don’t watch me or I’m   gonna   chop my foot off.” 
    I finish up the lawn,   then   go to my room.  I jump up and down on the bed and leap over to Clay’s skateboard.  I skate around my room, from my bed to the wall, falling off and making black marks on the baseboards, using all the energy I can.  It gets my blood pumping and I sweat little.  Clay’s smell is still on my skin.  I take off my shirt, and look in the mirror.  Who’s this skinny little boy?  This is so embarrassing.  And Clay saw me like this?  I drop to the floor and do push-ups till my arms are tired, then do sit-ups till my stomach hurts.  I open my closet door, hang on to the top of it, and do pull-ups--fourteen of them. Not bad.  My veins stick out.  My skin is damp and shiny.  I look in the mirror again.  I look good, I guess--OK anyway. 
                    Clay likes the way I look, and he’s the best-looking person I’ve ever seen. 
                    I sit on the floor and lean on my bed and take out the photo I have of Clay, shirtless and wet in front of the waterfall.  It’s bent-up and warm from being in my pocket.  Tammy.  I have to get her out of here.  I can’t believe she’s in my room.  I get scissors from my stupid little kid desk and cut her out so Clay stands alone.  I spit on her till her face and body comes off the paper when I rub it.  I mangle her face and rip her arms and legs and breasts off. Then I light a match and burn her.
                    She melts and sizzles.
                    “Are you smoking in there?” my mom screams from the other room.
                    “No!  I’m melting wax for an art project.”  I lie back in my pile of stuffed animals, grab my notebook from my backpack, and write a haiku:    Clay’s bed, summer, afternoon sweat is love, riding home smiling.
                    My door flies open, and Jared walks in.  “Man, you smell like shit.” 
                    “Can’t you knock?”  I hide my notebook in my pack.
                    He walks over to me and takes a deep smell. 
                    I lift my armpit.  “I’ve been working out.”  I raise my eyebrows. 
                    “Oh, yeah, I can tell, you must be up to 90 pounds.  Where were you earlier?  I came by -- No Sam-boy home.”
                    “Smokin’ some weed with Clay.”
                    He looks jealous.  “You’d sort of have to be stoned to be friends with him, huh?  He   is   a dealer.” 
                    “Well, then I’ll stay stoned all the time.”  
                    Jared looks totally confused.  To him, Clay’s a drug dealer, a dumb-ass loser surfer not worthy of our attention because everyone else gives him too much already.  He must sort of know somewhere in his brain that I like Clay or something, because I usually hate these kinds of guys as much as he does.  He has to know I’m gay, but I never brought it up.  I don’t think he’d mind even, but that’s just not the sort of thing we talk about.  He never mentions what girls give him a hard-on, so why should I, I figure.  He’s cool though and his parents are liberal and his uncle’s gay and they hang out all the time, so I know he wouldn’t care if I told him. 
    When we were younger, I would sneak out, lie,