Andrew Smith - Winger

She hugged me and put her mouth to my ear and said, “I know.”

And I looked at her and said, “Oh. Now, about that physical, doctor . . . .”

She pushed my shoulder back. “Shut up.”

We held hands, and I led her over to the sofa, where I found the Seanie-gap-Isabel arrangement had not changed since I left. Annie and I sat down on the small side of the L, so I could sit facing Seanie with my legs uncrossed.

Seanie nonchalantly flipped me off.

“Annie, can you wait here for a few minutes? There’s one last thing I have to take care of,” I said.

“What?”

“I want to go get JP and make him come to the dance before it’s over.”

“I don’t know if you should. He’s pretty pissed, Ryan Dean,” Seanie said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “One more try.”

I rubbed Annie’s knee and kissed her cheek, quick, so no one would notice. “And don’t let Seanie try to get you to play the want-to-see-what’s-under-the-raincoat game.”

“Oh. He already did that,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

THE COLD AIR FELT GOOD on my sweating skin, but only for about half a minute.

That’s when I started shivering.

Then I decided I should run to the boys’ dorm.

In the dark, I saw the black and white stripes of what could only have been Joey, walking down the trail ahead of me, like he was going home to O-Hall. And I could just tell by the way he was moving that he was pissed off about something.

I called out, “Hey Joe.”

He stopped and turned. I could see his shoulders relax a bit.

“What’s up?” I said.

“I’m going home.”

I walked over to where he stood.

“I found Annie in there,” I said.

“I saw you dancing. You guys look great together, and it’s about fucking time, Ryan Dean.”

“Is everything okay?”

Joey said, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Yeah. Something happened.

I knew Joey would tell me about it later and that it was probably something ridiculous, too. Casey Palmer was on a tirade, no doubt. The asshole just wasn’t going to let things go.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going to try to get JP to come out to the dance before they send us home,” I said. “He’s in his room, pouting. I can try, at least.”

“Well, I’ll see you later, then,” Joey said.

“You sure everything’s okay?”

He sighed.

Something was wrong.

“Ryan Dean? I figure that between you, Kevin, and Annie, I have about three real friends here. So, thanks for that.”

“You’re my best friend, Joe,” I said, and he smiled. “Hey. Do you ever listen to the Who?”

“Um, do I look like I’m fifty?”

“My dad loves them. Sometimes he walks around with his shirt off, singing, acting like he’s Roger Daltrey, but he’s so my dad , and he looks like a scrawny lawyer from Boston,” I said. “Anyway, they have this song he always sings, ‘How Many Friends.’ Ever hear it?”

“No.”

“I have an iPod. Want to listen to it?”

“ You have an iPod?” Joey said. He looked intrigued, but at the same time he kind of knew I was playing a joke on him.

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

I put my hand inside my loincloth. Man! It felt like a frozen leg of lamb going down there against my skin. I dug around, then pulled my hand up and held my closed fist out for Joey.

“Here,” I said.

He held out his hand and I put (of course) nothing in it. Then I said, “Here, you need the earbuds,” and I proceeded to put nothing into each one of his ears with the tips of my freezing thumbs.

“Is it loud enough?” I said.

“Um. No?”

“Retard. You didn’t even touch play. Don’t you even know how to use a fucking iPod?”

And, yes, I apologize. I really did say that. Joey looked kind of shocked, too, but I knew he needed a little magic.

Joey pressed his index finger down into his empty palm. I windmilled my arm like I was Pete Townshend slashing a guitar. And, yeah, I’m a rugby player. We sing and we’re not uptight about it. So I jumped up in the air and gave my best howling impersonation of my scrawny-Boston-lawyer dad imitating Roger Daltrey.

Joey squinted a cautious look at me and shrugged.

And I sang, “ ‘How many friends have I really got? That love me, that want me, that’ll take me as I am?’ ”

I heard someone, out in the dark, scream, “Shut the fuck up, Ryan Dean!”

“Okay, that’s it. I’m not singing anymore,” I said. “Now give me back my iPod before we get in trouble.”

Joey smiled and shook his head.

I said, “Dude. High five.”

We slapped hands. Truly our all-time gay-straight high five record setter.

“Oh. One more thing.” I said, “Chest bumps.”

Then we jumped up and bumped chests, and I started laughing so hard.

“Joey, that was the gayest thing I ever did. Well, except for the time I wrote a poem to Seanie.”

That made Joey laugh.

Just a little, though.

“Damn,” I said. “I’m freezing my nuts off. I better go get JP before they shut it down.”

“I’ll see you later,” Joey said. We shook hands, and Joey put his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Ryan Dean.”

“I mean this in such a completely and totally non-gay way, Joey, but I love you,” I said.

“Shut the fuck up, Ryan Dean.”

I laughed.

Joey went off to O-Hall, and I ran on frozen bare legs for the boys’ dorm, where I used to live.

IT WAS WEIRD BEING BACK in the boys’ dorm after so long.

It all looked so nice and normal, like a resort hotel compared with the linoleum-cement-rough-wood-lack-of-heating of O-Hall. But it was kind of the same way I felt that night when I sat down with the freshmen having dinner—I could make a case that I belonged here, but I knew I really didn’t.

Not much of an overlap anymore, I guess.

Seanie and JP’s room was on the second floor. There was an elevator, too. Weird.

I knocked.

“JP?”

I knocked again.

I heard his voice through the door. “Come in.”

I opened the door.

He knew it was me. I guess he recognized my voice. He didn’t even move his eyes when I came in.

JP was lying down on the couch, watching television. That’s how these dorm rooms were: Everyone had his own—private—bedroom, and two or three of them would connect to a common living room and a bathroom, so it was a lot more private and a lot more like living at home than the prisonlike atmosphere of O-Hall’s barracks.

He was alone, but he had taken the time to put a costume on, which meant he was at least thinking about going out.

Typical JP: His face was blacked, which was a good cover for the massive purple bruise around his eye, and he was dressed in combat fatigues with a camouflaged bucket hat that shaded his eyes.

“Hey.” I sat down on a red chair across from him. “They let O-Hall go to the dance.”

“You look like a gay caveman,” JP said.

“Well, that wasn’t quite the effect I was going for.”

“Dude. You have Pokémon underwear on.”

Damn that crossing-the-legs requirement!

“Cool, huh?”

JP inhaled and raised his eyebrows, a silent “whatever.”

“JP, I’m going to say it one more time, and then I’m going to shut up,” I said.

“Or you could shut up now,” he said.

I swallowed. “No. I’m sorry for being such a dick. I’m sorry I started those fights with you. You should have kicked my ass, and I can’t blame you if you’re still planning on doing it. But I came to take you to the dance.”