that day in the locker room was that he was in the highest danger zone. One slip of the tongue or eye would alert his slightly-more-well-endowed-than-one-would-think-for-his-size friend of his desire to measure and test the body part in question in ways that would damn them both forever.
“Let’s go,” Palmer said.
Shawn gave a brief giggle, then zipped back up. Together they ran out to the idling station wagon that was waiting to take them to a pizza party—a warm, innocent house smelling of baking crust.
The whole week after, he felt unsettled. Had his best friend been trying to trick him? Some of Shawn’s favorite targets were
“faggots,” or, as he referred to them on more than one occasion, “antelope-asshole lickers.” Did Shawn know that Palmer was a faggot? Was he trying to get him to admit it so he could tell Roy and Ben and whomever else? Shawn was his best friend,
but he didn’t trust him, really. Palmer was left to guess that showing one’s privates to a friend was normal. Perhaps at camp everyone stood, boxers down, comparing penises before bed—a thought that excited Palmer wildly, given that his mother had already sent the check in to Camp Halowakee for next year.
And now, here he was, lying on his stomach on the deep-pile carpet smelling faintly of urine, blissfully aware that, just a few blocks away, his soccer teammates were trudging through a wet, mind-numbing practice. The gray afternoon dripped into evening, but Shawn didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in the miniature war zone of Battleship.
“G four!” he cried, throwing forth a maniacal laugh when rewarded with that tinny explosion. They played all the way up to dinner, breaking briefly for a set of hastily ingested burgers provided by Shawn’s mother, who then left for a party at the
Meyerses’ house. By ten o’clock, Palmer’s eyes burned from staring at the screen; his fingers hurt from pressing down on the missile button; his mind was numb from boredom.
“Seriously, Shawn,” Palmer said, “last game.”
“Fine,” Shawn said, heaving out a loud sigh. “This can be the last game, but then it has to be the Championship of the World.
Five-dollar bet.”
“Fine.” With the end in sight, Palmer showed no mercy. He beat Shawn quickly and sat up. “Done. Cough up the fiver and let’s watch TV.”
Shawn’s face reddened.
“Or not,” Palmer said, tired. “I don’t even need five dollars. Let’s just go.”
“One more game,” Shawn said.
“Shawn, come on.” A wave of uncontrollable irritation washed over Palmer. He’d do anything for him, but he was being such a . . . zebra fucking ball sac . “We’ve been playing for seven hours.”
“One more.”
Palmer flipped over and rubbed his eyes until he saw green-and-red spots. He was so tired of Battleship. He was so tired of the stinky carpet. If they hurried, they could still catch the end of T. J. Hooker, maybe the A-Team, maybe sneak some more of Mrs. Cohen’s wine like they did last—
The world stopped. His eyes snapped open. His friend’s hands were on him, moving.
“What—”
“Shut up. OK? Just shut up, Palmer. Shut up shut up shut up shut up. ”
The answer to months of wondering. The long reach of damning dreams.
What are the faculties of a thirteen-year-old lover?
Enthusiasm, mostly, fueled by the fear of being caught. Quiet, quiet. The feel of flesh quivering oddly in the mouth—long,
firm. The terrified seconds before the fascinating, sour burst.
Theirs was not love, though. At least not the type Palmer had seen in the John Hughes movies. As in school, Shawn was the unquestioned, almost tyrannical authority figure. It made sense. He had just turned fifteen. And the imagination he drew upon in creating swearwords proved consistent in this new area; Palmer often felt molded into a new shape.
At school, nothing really changed. If anything, Shawn grew more distant in public. Palmer was still allowed to ride bikes and cruise with Ben
“Let’s go,” Palmer said.
Shawn gave a brief giggle, then zipped back up. Together they ran out to the idling station wagon that was waiting to take them to a pizza party—a warm, innocent house smelling of baking crust.
The whole week after, he felt unsettled. Had his best friend been trying to trick him? Some of Shawn’s favorite targets were
“faggots,” or, as he referred to them on more than one occasion, “antelope-asshole lickers.” Did Shawn know that Palmer was a faggot? Was he trying to get him to admit it so he could tell Roy and Ben and whomever else? Shawn was his best friend,
but he didn’t trust him, really. Palmer was left to guess that showing one’s privates to a friend was normal. Perhaps at camp everyone stood, boxers down, comparing penises before bed—a thought that excited Palmer wildly, given that his mother had already sent the check in to Camp Halowakee for next year.
And now, here he was, lying on his stomach on the deep-pile carpet smelling faintly of urine, blissfully aware that, just a few blocks away, his soccer teammates were trudging through a wet, mind-numbing practice. The gray afternoon dripped into evening, but Shawn didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in the miniature war zone of Battleship.
“G four!” he cried, throwing forth a maniacal laugh when rewarded with that tinny explosion. They played all the way up to dinner, breaking briefly for a set of hastily ingested burgers provided by Shawn’s mother, who then left for a party at the
Meyerses’ house. By ten o’clock, Palmer’s eyes burned from staring at the screen; his fingers hurt from pressing down on the missile button; his mind was numb from boredom.
“Seriously, Shawn,” Palmer said, “last game.”
“Fine,” Shawn said, heaving out a loud sigh. “This can be the last game, but then it has to be the Championship of the World.
Five-dollar bet.”
“Fine.” With the end in sight, Palmer showed no mercy. He beat Shawn quickly and sat up. “Done. Cough up the fiver and let’s watch TV.”
Shawn’s face reddened.
“Or not,” Palmer said, tired. “I don’t even need five dollars. Let’s just go.”
“One more game,” Shawn said.
“Shawn, come on.” A wave of uncontrollable irritation washed over Palmer. He’d do anything for him, but he was being such a . . . zebra fucking ball sac . “We’ve been playing for seven hours.”
“One more.”
Palmer flipped over and rubbed his eyes until he saw green-and-red spots. He was so tired of Battleship. He was so tired of the stinky carpet. If they hurried, they could still catch the end of T. J. Hooker, maybe the A-Team, maybe sneak some more of Mrs. Cohen’s wine like they did last—
The world stopped. His eyes snapped open. His friend’s hands were on him, moving.
“What—”
“Shut up. OK? Just shut up, Palmer. Shut up shut up shut up shut up. ”
The answer to months of wondering. The long reach of damning dreams.
What are the faculties of a thirteen-year-old lover?
Enthusiasm, mostly, fueled by the fear of being caught. Quiet, quiet. The feel of flesh quivering oddly in the mouth—long,
firm. The terrified seconds before the fascinating, sour burst.
Theirs was not love, though. At least not the type Palmer had seen in the John Hughes movies. As in school, Shawn was the unquestioned, almost tyrannical authority figure. It made sense. He had just turned fifteen. And the imagination he drew upon in creating swearwords proved consistent in this new area; Palmer often felt molded into a new shape.
At school, nothing really changed. If anything, Shawn grew more distant in public. Palmer was still allowed to ride bikes and cruise with Ben
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