Andrew Smith - Winger

I can only imagine, not that I thought for even a fleeting instant about opening that goddamned package, that my mother had spent all day long asking all kinds of questions before deciding on just the right condoms and “how to have sex the first time” booklet, which she later undoubtedly exchanged for a cute pair of socks with sailboats on them before ultimately leaving the store and going to a different goddamned condom and “how to have sex the first time” emporium.

This is shopping.

And this was the Ryan-Dean-West-swim-trunk-shopping expedition with Annie and Doc Mom.

At first, Annie was messing around and tried to make a case that I was on the Pine Mountain swim team, so she told Doc Mom to look in the Speedo section.

Her mistake. I completely went along with her. What was she thinking? I actually thought it would be kind of hot to wear Speedos in front of Annie and her mom. But when Annie realized what was happening, she got this terrified, defeated look and said, “I think it’s time for you to move up to big boy board shorts, Ryan Dean.”

“No. Really,” I insisted.

Big boy board shorts. What a bunch of crap.

The only cool part about the whole experience was that every time they’d look at a new pair of trunks, Doc Mom would hold them up to my waist, pinning them with her thumbs to my hips so she and Annie could imagine how I’d look in them.

Yeah, I’ll admit I didn’t get too tired of that routine.

And the shopping went on and on until Doc Dad said he had to pee really bad. So Annie and Doc Mom settled on a pair of plain red lifeguard baggies that were exactly the ones I would have chosen for myself about an hour and a half earlier.

While they were waiting to pay, Doc Dad leaned close to me and whispered, “I don’t really have to pee, Ryan Dean, but I’ve found that the need to pee is about the only force that sufficiently shrinks Rachel’s universe to the point where she’ll cut short a shopping experience.”

Now here was a guy I totally understood.

I bet he could fake-cry, too.

GREEN.

That’s Bainbridge Island.

It’s one of the most intensely green places I’ve ever seen. And I never for a moment imagined the kind of home Annie’s family lived in.

The house was set right up against the shore, facing Puget Sound and, across it, Seattle. We drove up a long driveway through trees to the garage, and then walked a pathway through gardens that had been decorated with strange and beautiful metal and enamel sculptures of fish, animals, and native totems.

“Annie made all of these sculptures herself,” Doc Mom said, “in her studio.”

They were incredible. I looked at Annie. I always knew she was creative and brilliant, but I never realized she could do something as amazing as this.

“You’re incredible,” I said to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Where the gardens opened up, we stepped out onto a wide grass lawn in front of the house, which was mostly made of stone and had tall windows all along the front, looking out across the water. There was a broad wooden deck on the edge of the lawn, right where the grass gave way to a slope of black lava rocks that lined the shore. You couldn’t see any other house from there; the property was surrounded by forest.

And just as we got to the front door, the sun hit the perfect angle in the west behind us, and it looked like the entire city of Seattle turned rust hued, and the peak of Mount Rainier seemed to float, salmon colored, in the sky.

“Hey,” I said, “you can see the Space Needle from your front yard.”

Annie rolled her eyes.

“If you get changed out of your strip-search clothes, we can walk on the beach before dinner,” she said.

I will admit that my inside-out sock was bothering me, but all I had besides school clothes were running shorts, sweats, and my new swim trunks.

“Okay,” I said.

Doc Dad led the way into the entry hall and said, “Annie, why don’t you take Ryan Dean to the guest room.”

Damn.

“Oh, he doesn’t want to be that far away, all alone,” she said.

Oh my God. Will it actually happen?

Annie continued, “I’ll put him in the little room across from mine.”

Next thing I knew, I heard the clicking of manicured dog nails on the wood floor, followed by the chirplike shriek of repetitive barking, and then this smash-faced little dog appeared and immediately came after my leg in a hump ambush.

“Pedro!” Annie scolded.

“Just kick him,” Doc Mom said. “He never quits, otherwise.”

You know, when someone tells you to kick their dog—the same dog who is currently in a breeding frenzy with your nicest pair of dorky school pants—it’s a difficult thing to judge exactly how hard the dog should be kicked. So I decided I’d give Pedro a conservative three out of five Cossack dancers on the Ryan Dean West How-Far-to-Kick-a-Gay-Pug Spectrum.

“That’s mean!” Annie said, but she did kind of laugh as Pedro skittered like a hockey puck toward the sunken living room.

“Good man, Ryan Dean,” Doc Dad said. “I don’t know why we haven’t cut his balls off yet.”

And why is it, I thought, that whenever boys consider such measures—despite their justifiability—we always get a bit scared, morose, and angsty?

Oh, well.

“Come on,” Annie said. Then she grabbed my hand to lead me down the hallway to our right. She stopped suddenly.

Annie must have realized what she was doing (unlike Pedro, she could control the involuntary impulse to conjugate with Ryan Dean West), because she immediately let go like my hand was a red-hot thing that gets . . . red . . . hot.

Or something.

I followed her, lugging my suitcase and the bag from the sporting goods store.

“The door on the right is your room,” she said. “Just across the hall from mine.”

I opened my door and set my bags down on the floor.

It’s amazing how much a guy can appreciate a non-bunk-bed bed and a bathroom that doesn’t have at least two other guys in it at all times. The window was uncovered and looked out at the beach and tall dark pines, and I had my own television and a huge bathroom with an ice-block shower cubicle.

“How do you like it?” Annie said.

“Please adopt me,” I said. Then I added, “No. On second thought, that could get a little weird. Let’s just hop across the border to Canada and get married.”

Annie laughed. I kicked my shoes off and said, “I’ll get changed.”

“Okay. Meet me in the hall in, like, thirty seconds,” she said.

Hmmm . . . I thought, thirty seconds meant I’d have time to get out of my clothes but not into them. Oh, well, wishful thinking. Docs Mom and Dad would probably disapprove of the clothing-optional houseguest, and that dog was out there waiting for me, anyway.

“Okay,” I said, and Annie left me alone.

Whenever I get off an airplane, I feel like I’ve been deep fried, dripping in oil. And I probably smelled like booze from drunk-bald-fat-guy slobbering on my shoulder. So it felt really good to tear all my clothes off (without a couple security guards pawing through them), and even better to just throw them onto the floor, something I hadn’t been able to do all year.

Now, with all the scattered, discarded articles of boy-clothes, this looked like a real guy’s room.

All I needed to do was mess up the perfectly smoothed bedcovers, which I did with a jump.

I put on the red trunks they bought me, as well as a gray Pine Mountain RFC (which means Rugby Football Club) sweatshirt, some clean, inside-in socks, and my running shoes, and I was out my door and in the hall in under a minute.