Andrew Smith - Winger

He looked at me. In the dark, I could see he looked really serious and tired, but his eyes were kind of smiling.

“Sure.”

Then I told him the whole thing about the phone call and the condoms and the “how to have sex the first time” pamphlet, and Joey actually laughed out loud.

“Oh, your mom just cares about you, Ryan Dean, and sometimes parents don’t really understand the best way to show it. But that is fucking funny.”

“I swear to God, Joe. My life is a nightmare.”

“I don’t think so. Not compared with most guys’.”

“And I haven’t even talked to you since the other night, but thanks for getting in Chas’s face too.”

“Did you actually punch him?” Joey asked.

“As hard as I could. And I am pretty sure he would have killed me if you didn’t stop him.”

“Damn.”

“Hey, Joey? What would you do if, let’s say hypothetically, you had to sleep in a bunk bed over Betch and you had a giant Gatorade bottle filled with your own, foamy, day-old piss just sitting there getting cold in your bed?”

And Joey laughed again, like he didn’t believe I was telling him the truth.

On that bus ride home, I believe Joey Cosentino and I became best friends.

BY THE TIME WE GOT back to O-Hall, it was almost midnight.

Joey and I followed behind Chas, up the stairwell and down the hall. I hoped he’d run into Mrs. Singer, but, when I thought about it, it seemed like I was the only boy in the whole building who’d ever had any run-ins with her.

Maybe she didn’t even really exist.

I decided that sometime before Halloween, I’d have to design a Ryan Dean West is-the-permafrost-eye-poison-known-as-the-unhot-Mrs.-Singer-actually-of-this-universe? experiment, fully controlling, of course, for all unexpected variables.

We checked in with Farrow and said good night to Joey, and I envied him for having a room to himself, even under the circumstances. Then I went to the bathroom-slash-execution-chamber to pee, and Chas headed off to our room alone.

When I got to the room, Chas was already in his bed, but the lights were on.

“What’s in the package?” Chas said.

I groaned.

A white FedEx mailer was sitting on my bunk.

I am such a loser.

“Some porn and a box of rubbers,” I said. “From my mom.”

“Whatever. You’re a fucking dick, Winger.” And Chas rolled over and covered his head, mumbling something about kicking my ass one day.

Confronting Chas Becker with the truth was the surest way to get him to think I was lying.

I turned off the lights and climbed up onto my bunk. I stuffed the package down between the wall and my mattress, right next to the Ryan Dean West Emergency Gatorade Bottle Nighttime Urinal repository full of pee.

I thought, pretty soon I’m going to run out of sleeping space.

I slipped out of my clothes and listened to the rain until I fell asleep.

I SAW ANNIE AT BREAKFAST in the morning.

Everything seemed to click back into place and get better on the spot. The whole school was buzzing with the rumors of the “Rugby Riot,” and I heard all kinds of bullshit stories from people who weren’t even there, about Kevin Cantrell almost dying, and how “the gay kid” started a fight.

But Mr. Farrow had already told us before we left for school that Kevin was fine and would be back in O-Hall on Monday, so I just shut up when I heard the ridiculous versions circulating, except I did push one boy and call him an asswipe for saying Joey started the fight.

I sat down across from Annie. We held hands on top of the table. Isabel, the constant, fuzzy-lipped-flying-monkey companion, sat beside her. Seanie, Joey, and JP were there too.

JP noticed we were holding hands, gave me a dirty look, and then turned his face away.

“Hey,” I said. “Are you feeling good today?”

“I was back at school yesterday,” Annie said.

“I scored a try for you, like I said I would.”

“I heard all about everything from Sean,” she said. “Are you ready for today?”

“Oh my God, Annie. I’ve been ready for a week.” I fired a look at JP. He wasn’t watching, but I knew he was listening.

“Let’s meet at the front of the office at the start of lunch,” Joey said.

Kids who flew home usually rode to the airport together, since seniors were allowed to leave their cars at PM. I didn’t even find out until after the arrangements had been made that Joey would be driving Chas Becker’s SUV and taking me, Annie, Chas, and Megan to the airport with him.

Chas Becker’s driver’s license had been suspended. Go figure.

Joey was going home to the Bay Area, Megan lived in Los Angeles, and Chas, I assumed, would be going with her, but I didn’t care and wasn’t going to ask him. I just wanted to get out of there, even though I dreaded the awkwardness of the long drive to the airport and sitting in the same car with Annie and Megan. But I did come up with a couple perverted fantasies involving getting stuck in a snowdrift and sending Chas and Joey out into the cold to search for help. Unfortunately, the first snow hadn’t fallen yet.

“Did Isabel give you my note?” I asked.

“Nice Space Needle cartoon,” Annie said. “But you are a total liar about not knowing what was going on the other night, Ryan Dean West, and you know it.”

I stared right into her eyes, giving her my most innocent look. I even leaned forward over the table, just like she did to me that night outside O-Hall when Madam-Frosty Mrs. Singer caught us as we were about to kiss.

But, God! I really wanted to kiss her so bad.

“Oh, really?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Two times balls equals they do the thinking. Oh, which reminds me . . . How’s the SpongeBob Band-Aid?”

Then Isabel laughed.

“Score,” I said. “Made you talk about my balls. And, anyway, Seanie’s making that up. It’s a Princess Barbie Band-Aid.”

Then I gave Seanie a dirty look and nonchalantly scratched the bridge of my nose with my middle finger. I stood up. It was time to go to Conditioning.

ANNIE AND I PASSED NOTES to each other all during Mr. Wellins’s American Literature-slash-Sex-Ed class; and I could tell JP was getting pretty ticked about it. Oh, well, I thought, I’ve got all weekend, buddy, and by the time we get back to Pine Mountain she won’t even know you exist.

-- Less than forty-five more minutes of sex talk about how gay Henry David Thoreau was and we’re out of here.

-- Yeah, but then, with you, it’s going to beFriday to Sunday of nonstop sex talk.

-- We don’t have to just talk (wink).

-- You are so perverted. Try to be nice around my parents.

-- And your gay dog. Just remember, I am here to help you through this Intense-Need-to-Kiss-Ryan-Dean obsession you have.

-- Like I said: LIAR. And you know it.

-- Want me to draw you a picture?

-- I dunno. Is it perverted?

-- You want perverted? I can do.

-- Ugh! Get me an airsick bag. Freak!

-- Here you go. Love, Ryan Dean West (fifteen more minutes!!!).

In your dreams, maybe, West!!! Love, AA

I KNEW THE DRIVE TO the airport would be awkward. Chas went out of his way to make it even worse than it had to be.

After we’d loaded our suitcases in the back of his SUV, Chas informed me that I would ride shotgun—front passenger seat. And, as Chas explained, that meant the gay guys could sit up front so Chas could be in the backseat with what he called “the two hotties.”