Boys & Things

Tate lives four streets down from me. I only know this because I once had to go with Colin to get something from Ricky’s house. And since Ricky is Tate’s younger brother, I figure it’s safe to say they live in the same place. My anger fuels my body the entire walk and the sun is sweltering. I’m thankful I remembered the sunscreen this morning. My face doesn’t need to get any uglier. Sweat prickles on my forehead and my shoes slap the ground with every step. The sound is annoying. I know some people find that sort of sound, the falling of raindrops, the ticking of a clock, comforting but all it does is drive me crazy. The sound just fills my head and then I can’t sleep or think because all I hear is that stupid sound.

I walk by houses that are all virtually the same. They have the same layout. The only difference is that maybe in one house, the living room is on the right and on the other house, it’s on the left. Plus there’s the color. And the lawns. Some lawns look really nice, all mowed and green and lush. That’s the kind of lawn you lay on at midnight when your boyfriend sneaks over for some stargazing and muffled hanky panky. Then there’s the yellow, prickly grass that you need shoes to walk on. That’s the sort of lawn I have. Dad’s too fat and lazy to take care of it and I don’t give a shit. Colin’s not here long enough to do anything. Maybe since Dad hired Tate, it’ll start looking better but I doubt it. Mostly because Tate’s not going to be around any longer. I have plans to kill him. That’s all there is to it.

When I turn onto Tate’s street, it’s like the whole block got together and decided today was the day to go outside. Husbands are doing yard work, wives are either bringing out drinks or sun tanning. Little kids are running around in the street. There’s a couple of teenagers on a roof of one of the houses. They’re throwing something into their neighbor’s yard. He’s an old guy and he looks so confused.

I take pity on the poor guy who’s tiny and skinny with snow white Einstein hair. “Roof!” I yell at him. He looks at me and then up. The teenagers give me nasty looks but I keep walking. It would figure that Tate’s house is at the end of the street. It’s a dead end street, which is probably why all the kids are allowed to play in the middle of it. There’s not much traffic and that means not much risk. But then a little boy trips on the curb and face plants on the concrete and I’m reminded that sometimes we can hurt ourselves. He starts crying immediately, making this awful wailing noise that brings three moms over, each one hoping that it’s not their kid that’s making such a racket. The kid’s friends are all looking at the ground, oozing guilt even though it wasn’t their fault. I remember what that felt like.

Tate’s house has the nicest lawn. It has the greenest grass and the lushest flower garden. It’s perfectly manicured. Their driveway has been pressure washed recently. It’s all clean. Even the cars are clean. It’s ridiculous how nice his house is.

I walk up the front porch and knock on the door. I hope that his parents don’t answer because then I’ll have to explain why I’m here and why they’ll never have a son again and that just sounds messy. But finally something goes my way and the door opens to reveal Ricky.

“EJ? What are you doing here?” he asks.

“No time to chat,” I say, pushing past him. “Where’s Tate’s room? Is he here?”

Ricky shuts the door behind him. The inside of their house is as nice as the outside. Their wood floors are so shiny I can almost see my reflection. There’s fresh flowers on a small table next to the staircase. It smells clean and slightly like cookies. “He’s not here but his room is upstairs. You can wait, I guess. He won’t be long.” Ricky glances at my feet. “Uh, you’ll have to take your shoes off, though.”

My shoes are probably cleaner than my feet but I kick my flip flops off anyway and then reach down and grab them. “Okay, show me his room. And when he gets home, don’t tell him I’m here,” I instruct Ricky. He just shrugs and leads me upstairs. All of the doors are shut except one. It’s the bathroom and it smells like lavender and is done up in shades of periwinkle. The whole set-up is quite girly even though I figure that it’s the bathroom the boys use. The mirror cabinet is open and I can see some razors and shaving cream inside. There’s also an open bottle of Old Spice sitting on the counter.

Ricky stops in front of the last door. He turns the knob and pushes the door open. “Go ahead,” he says. “I’m not allowed in.” I open the door farther and say thanks to Ricky with a reminder to keep quiet about my being here. He nods and goes into the room across the hall, closer to the bathroom. I step into Tate’s room.

It’s exactly like the rest of the house. The bed is made with hospital corners and everything is in its place. I pick up a coffee mug that sits on the desk to look closer at the picture on it. It’s of some sort of airplane. When I go to put it back, I notice that there’s a label on his desk. ‘Airplane Cup’ is written in careful letters. I blink at it. I put the cup back down and pick up his computer. Underneath the computer is another label, ‘Laptop’. I look at more. I go to his bookshelf and find that all his books are alphabetized by author and according to genre. I go over to his bedside table and open the drawer. There’s only one thing inside: a dark blue composition notebook.

I reach inside and pick it up. It’s full of words, a diary. Or is it a journal for boys? Each page is dated and Tate starts out each entry with “Today was a good day” or “Today was an okay day” or “Today was a bad day”. I look at the first entry, dated two months ago. On the inside jacket of the journal, there’s a small number 6 but I don’t understand what that means so I look at what’s written.

Today was a bad day. Everything was skewed and uneven. I had to leave school early because I couldn’t concentrate. Katherine Mills had one shoe untied. Laurence Campbell had half his shirt untucked. Someone accidentally knocked my bag over and everything spilled out into chaos. I could feel the world closing in almost immediately. But I practiced the breathing that Paul showed me and managed to keep my cool long enough to get my things put away and get out of there. No one was home when I got here and so I started cleaning. Mom hates it when I clean. It’s just a reminder of everything that’s bad and wrong with me. It’s just a reminder of Ryan.

I feel a stab of guilt; this is extremely personal. I’m not sure who Ryan is and after skimming a few more of the entries around that one, and finding nothing, I just give up, though the name appears a few more times. A part of me doesn’t want to read further – this is the worst sort of invasion of privacy – but then I remember why I’m here in the first place and that quiets my guilty conscience. I flip towards the end and stop on the most recent one. It was dated yesterday.

Today was a weird day. I went skateboarding a few hours ago and almost got hit by a car. I could feel the air across my face, could practically feel the car brush past me. It was exhilarating. I wonder if he felt like this too, before. Then I ran into EJ. It happened right outside her house. She kind of freaked out. Which I guess makes sense. Everyone knows about her and that guy Ben. People are saying she made him gay but I don’t think that’s true. I think he’s dumb. EJ is just –

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tate demands. He’s ripped the notebook from my grip and I look up.

“Reading,” I say honestly. There’s no use lying. My mind jumps back and forth between what I first read and this one, making connections and then dismissing them. Chaos. Everything that’s bad and wrong with me. Almost got hit by a car. Exhilarating. She kind of freaked out. EJ is just – Is just what? What am I just?

Tate looks madder than I’ve ever seen him. His free hand is clenched into a fist. “What are you doing in my house, in my room, going through my personal things?” He seems like he’s fighting for control.

For a moment, I’m worried. My mind tries to process what its read, what’s happening now, but time is moving too fast and my brain is stunted. Tate doesn’t get mad. Tate is level headed. Tate is always on the verge of laughter, a smile is always poised just on the corners of his lips. This is a new Tate, one that I haven’t seen before, and I’m not sure what to do or how to react. But then my brain catches up with the rest of me and I remember what he’s done. Suddenly I’m not so worried about how he’s feeling.

“Oh, but couples don’t have secrets, right, boyfriend?!” I say venomously. His eyes widen just a little but his body is still rigid, muscles tense with anger. “What the fuck, Tate?!” I put my hands on my hips. I’m fairly tall and even though Tate is taller, I can still look into his eyes without having to lean my head back.

“I was trying to help you,” he says. He puts the notebook back over the notebook label in his drawer and shuts it. I notice how he’s evening out his breaths, I can see the rise and fall of the deep inhales in his chest.

“I don’t need your help,” I tell him. “I can handle things by myself. You had no right to do that.”

“I had no right? I was trying to help! And to repay me, you come into my house, into my private space, and go through my things. How are those two things even on the same level?” He crosses his arms over his chest and meets my gaze. I’m overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare and fight the urge to look away. His eyes are so green, just like his lawn outside.

I don’t really have a good answer for that so instead, I say, “Just do me a favor and just leave me the hell alone.”

Then I throw his door open, feeling satisfied when it smacks against the wall and knocks a picture off, and I leave. I stomp past Ricky, who’s peering through his cracked door, and down the stairs. I ignore his mom, who tries to say hello, and I go right outside to the screaming children and hard working parents. I stare at them for a moment before I go home.