Andrew Smith - Winger

WE WERE THE FIRST ONES back, so we had to wait in the airport for Joey.

And then it wouldn’t be until Megan and suspended-license Chas arrived from LA that we’d take the achingly quiet and long drive back to Pine Mountain.

So we sat, silently, next to each other on the black vinyl seats in the arrivals lounge, waiting for Joey’s flight from San Francisco.

It was ironic that I’d read “The Doctor and the Doctor’s Wife,” the second story in the Hemingway book, because I thought it was all about how guys and girls don’t understand each other at all. And I was already guessing what kinds of ridiculous things Mr. Wellins would say about those first stories, but, still, I thought they were probably some of the best writing I’d ever read. Maybe it was just my mood, I don’t know.

I closed the book when Annie said, “Do you want to get something to drink, or something?”

What a choice. I could have something or something.

I wondered if “something” to Annie included all the possible somethings that existed to me, and then I got mad at myself for drawing a diagram of those somethings in my head.

“I’ll take some of the second something,” I said.

Annie smiled.

“Are you going to talk to me?” she said.

“The Wild Boy of Bainbridge Island doesn’t talk,” I said. “He grunts.”

She laughed. But her eyes looked sadder than they usually did.

“What do you want to talk about, Annie?”

“About how we can’t be, like, in love with each other. It would be ridiculous, Ryan Dean.”

I leaned my head sideways on the seat back. I think they make those things so uncomfortable just to remind you there could always be something worse than a seat on an airplane, or an eternity in hell.

Our shoulders were touching.

“Oh, I totally agree with you, Annie.”

I didn’t blink. I just looked right at her.

“So don’t be sad, Ryan Dean.”

We were so close.

“That would be ridiculous,” I said.

She just watched me. I wondered if she thought I was playing, because I wasn’t. I was serious then, and I had pretty much given up on everything.

I even thought that once we got back to Pine Mountain, I was going to call my dad and tell him I wanted to go home.

I needed to go home.

I was giving up.

“Did you start reading this yet?” I held the Hemingway up in front of her.

“No.”

“It’s really good.”

“Really?”

And then she leaned even closer to me. I wondered if she noticed I’d shaved that one whisker off.

“Or something,” I said.

And then I thought, Oh my God, she’s acting like she’s going to kiss me. How can she be doing that? This is absolute bullshit.

Please kiss me, Annie.

She closed her eyes, and very softly, she put her lips on mine. And I closed my eyes too, because I didn’t know if I was madder than hell or if I wanted to cry, but why was she doing this? And it felt nicer than anything, and she tasted like the air smelled on the island, full of life and energy.

When she pulled away, we both opened our eyes.

I said, “You are going to make me completely insane, Annie.”

“Me too.”

We didn’t even notice that Joey had been standing right there, watching us the whole time.

“Well, it’s about fucking time,” Joey said.

I’ll say.

And Annie kind of stammered, “Uh. We were not just doing that, Joey.”

“Yeah. That would be ridiculous,” I said. “You must have been drinking on the plane if you thought you saw us kissing.”

“Okay,” Joey said. “I timed it and everything. It was at least a minute and a half. That’s not kissing. You’re right. It’s making out . It’s practically having sex in public.”

I wanted to high-five Joey so bad, my hand was twitching.

What a fucking awesome thing to say, especially coming from a gay guy.

“Ugh,” Annie said, “I need to go get a bottle of water.”

When she left, I stood up and said, “Hell, yeah!” and, yes, a new decibel-level record was officially established for the loudest-ever, airborne (since I jumped), gay-straight high-five. Unfortunately, it was a little too loud, and Annie wasn’t out of earshot on her water-shopping trip, so she gave me the patented-Annie-Altman-that-will-never-happen-again look.

“What’s up with her?” Joey said.

“Dude, she is being really weird about it. She’s making me crazy. I don’t think she knows what she wants.”

“Maybe she’s afraid she’ll get hurt,” Joey said. “Because of the way you objectify every girl in the fucking world.”

“Dude, Joey. Are you telling me off again?”

“No, Ryan Dean. I’m just saying. You think every girl you ever see is ‘hot,’ right? Maybe Annie wants to be more than that. That’s what I’d think about, if I was you.”

“I don’t think every girl is hot,” I said. There was, after all, Mrs. Singer downstairs. “And, anyway, if you were me, I’d be gay, in which case every girl would look exactly like Mary Todd Lincoln.”

Joey laughed.

“But I think I know what you’re saying,” I said.

I envied Joey. He hadn’t shaved since Friday morning, and he had some pretty impressive stubble going. I mourned that one whisker I’d shaved off, because I would have shown him. At Pine Mountain, if a boy showed up to class with facial hair like Joey had, they’d take him into the bathroom and make him shave on the spot with a nasty old, used razor. But on weekends, guys like Joey and Chas could just skip the whole grooming thing entirely.

I sighed.

“I shaved this morning, Joey. I had one whisker. Here. Can you see it?”

I held my chin up and pointed.

Joey leaned close and laughed.

“Yeah. Sure.” And then he asked, “How was her place?”

“Incredible. I am so in love with her, Joe.”

“I can see that, Ryan Dean. More than I can see that nonwhisker, that’s for sure.”

I CALLED MY MOTHER FROM the airport.

Well, to be honest, I called home hoping I’d be able to talk to my dad, but no such luck.

RYAN DEAN WEST: Hi, Mom. It’s me, Ryan Dean.

I know. I’m an idiot.

MOM: Hi, sweetie! Are you back from Seattle?

RYAN DEAN WEST: I’m at the airport in Portland.

MOM: Did you have a good time, Ryan Dean?

RYAN DEAN WEST: It was the best weekend ever, Mom.

MOM: Oh.

I thought she sounded . . . sad? Awkward pause. Very awkward pause.

MOM ( cont. ): Is everything . . . okay, Ryan Dean? You sound different.

I can’t believe it. Is she actually crying ?

RYAN DEAN WEST: Are you crying , Mom?

MOM: I’m sorry, baby. You just sound so grown up all of a sudden. Did you and your girlfriend, you know . . .

Please, someone, kill me now.

RYAN DEAN WEST: No!

MOM: Well, did you get the package I sent? Did everything work the way the booklet said it would?

Sniff.

Why is it a guy can have an entire conversation with a girl and it’s like she’s hearing something entirely different from what is coming out of his mouth?

RYAN DEAN WEST: Mom. I am not calling to talk about sex.

This was so creepily disgusting. Here was the one person in the world with whom I would never want to talk about the one thing I think about constantly.

RYAN DEAN WEST ( cont. ): I’m calling to ask you to FedEx me a new pair of running shoes. I lost mine on the island.

MOM: Oh. I’m so sorry, sweetie.

She sounded crushed.

RYAN DEAN WEST: It’s okay, Mom. They were getting too small anyway. I gained ten pounds and I’m two inches taller now than when you saw me in September. I need size ten-and-a-half. Nikes or Asics, okay?