Venomous

what Middle America thinks of me. But in all honesty, it’s a lot of hot air. Just forget him and think of her.”
    “Well, at least you don’t pose a threat. You’re her gay guy friend. There’s no problem.”
    “That may be true,” he says, “but you’d think that getting tormented for who I am is a lot worse than for what I could do .”
    Times like this remind me how utterly naive I am. Jesus Christ, Locke, wake up, the playing field has changed. Casey’s honesty, though, lets me know that he’s the person who I have to ask, who’ll answer the question that’s been eating away at the back of my head.
    “How’d Renée’s parents die, Casey?”
    Casey won’t look at me; he just nods and pulls his lips tight and looks up and down the comic-book shelf. “How’d you find that out?”
    “Randall told me.”
    “He shouldn’t have. It’s not his story to tell. It’s Renée’s.”
    “He thought it would be important for me to know, but Andrew was there, and he couldn’t…Please, man. What happened?”
    His mouth flaps open and closed again and again, but eventually he just shakes his head. “Not right now,” he grumbles, flipping through more graphic novels. “Now’s not the time. I don’t really want to dive into that yet.”
    “ Please , Casey.”
    “Locke, this isn’t a joke,” he snaps. “Let me think about it. She should tell you, ’cause…” He trails off, waving his hands.
    “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    There’s a flutter of venom. “How bad?”
    “Worse than you think.”
     
    In the New York Milkshake Company on St. Mark’s, I take my mind off this afternoon’s craziness by informing Casey that he has no friggin’ idea how to drink a root beer float.
    “What’re you doing?”
    He looks up. “What? What do you mean?”
    “I mean, what are you doing?” I ask, jabbing at him with my still-dripping spoon.
    He glances down at his cup and then back at me. “I’m eating my ice cream. What does it look like?”
    I sigh dramatically. “Bad enough you get chocolate ice cream in your float—”
    “I hate vanilla, I told you.”
    “—but you’re eating it wrong.”
    Casey puts up his hands in defense and leans back in his chair, saying, “Elaborate, sensei.”
    “Well, it’s okay if you eat a bit of the ice cream and drink a bit of the root beer”—I take a sip to illustrate—“but then you have to let it sit awhile, y’know, stir it every few seconds, until some of the ice cream melts.”
    He looks focused but perplexed. “But then you just get this ice cream–root beer mixture.”
    “Now you’ve got it.”
    He shrugs and starts stirring his float. I watch him and think about what he told me before in the comics section until I feel like my brain is going to burst, so I go for a new subject.
    “So, any boys lined up?”
    He sighs. “No, not yet. Still a little sore from the last one, y’know, Catholic boy.”
    “Sorry about that.”
    “No worries, it was as much my fault as it was his.” He stares into the swirling float, zoning out. “Honestly, I’m not going to worry about it too much. Love has never really treated me well.”
    “How so?”
    “I’ve got a thing for boys I can’t have,” he says quietly, never moving.
    “Straight boys?”
    “Yeah, but…Well, it doesn’t matter.” His eyes meet mine, and I realize this conversation is over. “Can I drink the damn thing already?”
    “Sure,” I say, and we both chug.
    Casey licks the last of his drink from the end of his straw and looks up at me with amazement in his eyes. “Damn, Locke,” he says in awe, “you’re the man.”
    Even with the float, the thought won’t go away. The venom keeps scratching at it like a rash, until I have to ask again. “How’d they die?”
    “You ready?” he asks.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m serious, man. This is really bad, and I feel pretty fucked-up being the one to tell you. Are you ready for this?”
    Obviously not. “Yeah.”
    There’s a