caught me by surprise. “I suppose,” I said, flexing my right hand, enjoying the pull of the leather, the bite of the buckles.
“You guys still getting along okay? I saw you two talking in the hallway.” His voice, enthusiastic all day, now trembled.
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad. Really. I am.”
“Okay.”
“I’m happy about whatever you do,” he said. “I just want to be part of it.”
“All right.”
“Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“Are you really sure?”
“I guess.”
“Because I’m afraid when you flunk out I’ll never see you.”
“You will.”
“You’ll disappear like you did the last couple months.”
“No.”
“I’m afraid I’m running out of time.”
“Time?”
He sat up and slid his arm around my waist. Live flesh—I jerked away. He crumpled and shrank. I felt his arm retract and then his face was in his hands, his long hair sweeping forward to hide him.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
His hair danced about as he shook his head violently.
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“Didn’t know what?” His voice was muffled and teary.
“That you’re gay.” Quickly my mind caught up. I couldn’t believe I had never seen it. The fantasy trips, the CD gifts, the bath at his house—our entire friendship, when seen in hindsight, smacked of courtship.
He muttered a rehearsed line: “No one’s gay or straight anymore.”
“Okay,” I said. “Look, I don’t care. I really don’t care.”
“But I’ve ruined it,” he moaned. “I’ve ruined everything!”
I winced and looked up. Far in the distance a theater employee gathered spilled popcorn.
“You haven’t ruined anything.” There was more I wanted to say—that being gay might be seen as a crime against humanity inside the Congress of Freaks but was hardly reason for despair in the wider world—except I found myself strangely numb. In a way, Foley was as trapped as I was. We both kept secrets that others, if they knew the truth, would exploit. I could hardly in good conscience suggest he hang a gay-pride flag from his locker.
Instead I recited a platitude. “Telling the truth is healthy.”
“It’s not! It was a huge mistake!”
A cold flash of nerve, a truth for a truth.
“I dig up graves,” I said. “I dig up graves and rob the bodies. That’s where I got these clothes, that’s why they smelled.”
“Stop it!” he cried. It was with a plummeting feeling that I realized he didn’t believe me and never would. Not all secrets were of equal weight.
The leather of his jacket squeaked with each sob. Digital explosions vibrated our bodies as in the adjacent theater the bad guys were vanquished. The soft chuckling of a corn popper folded its way through the darkened halls.
“Hold my hand?”
He blinked excessively. Loops of blond hair clung to wet cheeks. Five thin and tentative fingers, one of them crooked, quavered.
“Just for a second,” he pleaded. “Just once, just for a second.”
His pale hand swayed over the carpet’s faded paisley. Like one of the movies behind these walls, this moment might replay in his memory forever and, like it or not, what I did next would always be part of the plot. There was no reason to hesitate. This guy had guts, real guts, and it was the least I could do to show some guts in return.
I took his hand. His knuckles wiggled until they alternated with my own. For a moment the sight transfixed both of us—the silver buckles, the red leather, the brown wood, his white flesh. Then he closed his eyes and let his face drop into his free palm, his back shuddering.
Credit music blasted from an opened door. A gray-haired couple scuffled past us, positioning respective hats. Instinctively I wanted my hand back but I felt his grip tighten when I made the slightest pull. Doused with mysterious panic, I grimaced at each exiting moviegoer. Some of them didn’t look our way. Others did, taking quick note of the two high-school boys holding hands before averting their eyes. Laughter trilled from inside the theater and rose in volume as the laughers approached. Feet kicked open the swinging door; hands made slapping noises against the glass.
They were turning on phones and already bragging about how many messages they’d received during the movie. They were speaking in giggles. They were excited girls with yawning boyfriends and vice versa. Some of them were towing what looked like parents. There were even a few beleaguered grandparents limping in pursuit. The strange thing was that I recognized them. They were from Bloughton High, which was confusing until I remembered what a certain budding thespian had told me as she had stretched