Дэвид Левитан - Boy Meets Boy

She hold his hand and looks happy.

Part of me wants to scream and part of me wants to laugh, both I for the same reason: This is an impossible situation. Joni doesn't need my approval, but she wants it, in the same way that I would want hers. But if I approve, I'm lying. And if I don't, I'll be shutting myself out of a major part of her life.

"I really liked that article you wrote for the paper about the hate crimes law," Chuck is now saying. Does he realize he's lost me? Is he trying to win me back? That effort alone would count for something, if not a lot.

I usually think our thirty-four-minute lunch period is too short. Now I feel it just right. We sort and throw out our garbage, then head back to school. Since it's Friday, we talk about our weekend plans. For some reason, I decide not to mention Noah. In contrast, every plan Joni and Chuck mention starts with the word we. Usually Joni and I would plan a point to connect over the weekend. This time, neither of us makes that move.

I notice this. I wonder if she does, too.

In between sixth and seventh periods, before I get a note from Noah, Ted comes right up to me and calls me a traitor. Now, I've never felt any allegiance to Ted before. In fact, I was usually a big fan when Joni decided to dump him. But today it feels different. Today I do feel like a traitor though maybe the old Joni is the one I've betrayed.

"You're taking sides," Ted spits out at me.

"I'm not," I try to convince him. "And I thought you said you didn't care."

"I don't. But I didn't think you'd be supporting her stupid decision, Gay Boy. I thought you had some sense."

I can't tell him I agree, because then word will get back to Joni and she'll know how I really feel. So I stand there and take his wave of anger. I make it clear I don't know what to do.

He stares me down for a second, says "Fine," then heads off to his next class.

I wonder if it's possible to start a new relationship without hurting someone else. I wonder if it's possible to have happiness without it being at someone else's expense.

Then I see Noah coming over to me with a note folded in the shape of a crane.

And I think, yes, it's possible.

I think I can fall for him without hurting anybody.

A Walk in the Park

Our plan for Saturday is to not have a plan for Saturday. This un-eases me a little, since I'm a pretty big fan of plans. But for Noah, I'm willing to try a planless day out.

He's going to come by my house at noon. I'm totally fine with this—until I realize it means he'll be meeting my family.

Now, don't get me wrong—I like my family. While many of my friends' parents have been arguing, divorcing, and custody-sharing, my parents have been planning family vacations and setting the table for family dinners. They're usually pretty good about meeting my boyfriends, although I think they're always a little confused about who's my boyfriend and who is just a friend who happens to be a boy. (It took them a couple months to catch on that Tony and I weren't a thing.)

No, my fear isn't that my parents are going to push Noah out the door with a cattle prod.

Instead, I'm afraid they'll be too friendly and give too much of me away before I can reveal it.

As a precaution, I lock all the family photo albums in a drawer and decide to tell them Noah is "a new friend" without specifying anything else. Jay, who (like any older brother) loves to see me squirm, is the big wild card—he's off at tennis practice, but there's no telling when he'll come home.

I clean my room thoroughly, then mess it up a little so it won't look so clean. I worry that it's not whimsical enough. Instead, it's the museum of my whole life, from my Snoopys with their wardrobes to the mirror ball my parents got me when I graduated from fifth grade to the Wilde books still open-winged on my floor from last week's English report.

This is my life, I think. I am an accumulation of objects.

The doorbell rings precisely at noon, as if it were attached to a grandfather clock.

Noah is right on time. And he's brought me flowers.

I want to cry. T am such a sap, but right now I am so happy. Hyacinth and jacaranda and a dozen other flowers that I cannot begin to name. An alphabet of flowers. He is giving them to me, smiling and saying hi, reaching out and putting them in my hand. His shirt shimmers a little in the sunlight. His hair is as unkempt as ever. He teeters a little on the front step, waiting to be invited in.

I lean forward and kiss him. The flowers crush between our shirts. I touch his lips, I breathe him in. I close my eyes, I open them. He is surprised, I can tell. I am surprised, too. He kisses me back with a kiss like a smile.

It's very nice.

Actually, it's wonderful.

"Hello," I say.

"Hello," Noah says back.

I hear footsteps coming down from upstairs. My parents.

"Come in," I say. I hold the flowers in one hand and swing my other hand behind me. Noah takes it as he walks through the door.

"Hello there," my parents say together as they reach the bottom of the stairs. In one glance they see the flowers, and me and Noah holding hands. They can immediately figure out that Noah is more than just a new friend.

I don't care.

My mother instinctively looks at Noah's teeth as he says, "It's a pleasure to meet you." I can't really blame her: she's a dentist, and she can't help doing it. The biggest fight we ever had was when I refused to get braces. I wouldn't even open my mouth to let the orthodontist see my teeth. He "threatened to put the braces on my closed mouth, and as far as I was concerned, that was that. I won't be bullied into anything, and I have the crooked teeth to prove it. My mother is constantly mortified by this, although she's nice enough not to mention it anymore.

Because I am my mother's son, I noticed right away that Noah's bottom front teeth overlap a little. Because I am not entirely my mother's son, I find this flaw to be beautiful.

"It's a pleasure to-meet you," my father tells Noah, putting his hand out to shake. Noah and I disengage so he can make a good impression. My father has, I believe, the perfect handshake, neither fish nor fist. The handshake is his great equalizer—by the time he pulls his hand back, you feel you're right on his level. He's honed this craft in his years as the director of philanthropy at Puffy Soft, a national toiletries chain. His job is to take a portion of the profits that come from selling TP and give the money away to underfunded school programs. He is a walking example of why our country is such a strange and unbelievable place.

Noah is checking out our living room, and I am getting a look through his eyes. I realize how strange the wallpaper print is, and how all the pillows from the couch are in a pile on the floor, betraying the fact that someone (probably my father) just had a lie-down.

"Do you guys want pancakes?" my mother asks.

"My family believes breakfast can be served at any meal," I explain to Noah.

"I'm all for it," he says. "I mean, if you want to."

"Do you?" I ask.

"If you do."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you?"

"I'll make the pancakes," my mother interjects. "You guys have about ten minutes to decide if you want to eat them."

She heads into the kitchen. My father points to the flowers.

"You should put those in water," he says. "They're lovely."

Noah blushes. I blush. But I don't move. I'm not sure if Noah is ready to be alone with my father yet. Still, if I say that, I'll offend both of them. So I head for the nearest vase.

It's not until I'm alone — it's not until I'm given a sensory pause—that the full enormity of what's happened hits me. Two minutes ago, I was kissing Noah and he was kissing me back.

Now he's in the living room with my father. The boy I just kissed is talking to my father. The boy I want to kiss again is waiting for my mother to serve pancakes.