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hackthis_archivePart I
Get Some
People are staring from the moment Nate gets out of his ancient, beige Volvo in the parking lot on Monday morning. The whispers only get louder when he's inside the school. Poke's waiting for him at his locker, looking like somebody told him Rosie Perez just died.
"What the fuck, dog?" he says as Nate waves him to the side so he can open his locker.
"You got something on your mind, Espera?" Nate asks, switching his Humanities text and various paperbacks for his Physics and Calculus textbooks.
"Hell yeah I got something on my mind -- is it true?"
Nate sighs. "Is what true, Poke?"
Poke gives him a dirty look. "That Brad quit the team. Nate, you know Brad can't quit. We're about to take home the state trophy again. What the fuck is that about? The white man hasn't screwed with my shit enough? Now he's gotta screw with my scholarship?"
"If it is true, I doubt Brad did it just to piss all over your scholarship," Nate snaps.
"What do you mean 'if it's true?'" Poke persists. "You mean you don't know?"
Nate yanks at the zipper of his backpack. "Why do you think I would know?"
Poke snorts loudly. "If anybody would know, you would."
"Well, I don't."
"Nate."
Nate shakes his head and slams his locker closed. "Poke -- just let it go."
But of course, Poke can't let it go. Neither can Ray or Walt or Mike, who actually passes Nate a note during Physics like they're fucking girls.
"I don't know!" Nate snaps, balling up the notebook paper angrily and causing the entire class to look up at him when they're supposed to be working on the problem set on velocity
"Is there a problem, Mr. Fick?" Mr. Fujimoto asks.
Nate rubs his forehead. "Sorry," he says, flushing slightly. "I got frustrated."
"If you need help, ask for it," Mr. Fujimoto says calmly.
Nate wishes it were that simple.
Nate doesn't see Brad at all that day, but everyone's suspicions are confirmed before practice even begins. They're in the locker room gearing up when Godfather emerges from his office with Sixta on his heels. "Devil Dogs, listen up," he barks. The entire locker room falls silent, and their coach nods approvingly. "I know the scuttlebutt says that Brad Colbert's quit the team, and I'm sorry to say I've spoken to Brad -- and it's true."
There's a cacophony of noise and protestations, which is summarily ended by Sixta telling everybody to shut the hell up.
Godfather carries on in his raspy tenor. "I know this is a disappointment to you, it is to me, too, but I can't have people here who don't want to be here. Brad's made his decision. What I need from you now is to get past it. We've got a game against Delta on Friday and I don’t need you crying because your girl said your dick was too small. Kocher, you're going to be taking Brad's place as wide receiver. Lovell, we're pulling you from defense to fill Eric's hole."
Where there would normally be a rude comment there's nothing but silence.
It's strange how the sound of 33 – no, 32 -- boys being quiet rings in Nate's ears.
Football practice goes about as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Nate completes six passes -- out of thirty-eight. He gets sacked four times. There's a false start that ends up with Walt being carried off the field. Ray starts a fight with Rudy for no discernable reason, thrashing around on the Astroturf while Rudy tries to restrain him from hurting them both.
Sixta ends practice with a series of suicide drills that leave most of the team vomiting by the goalposts, which is only fitting.
Brad's not in school all week long, which makes it probably the longest week of Nate's life. He spends extra hours after practice with Eric Kocher, trying to get their game together, trying to establish -- or fake -- a rapport that Nate's had with Brad for years.
The game against Delta High on Friday night is a disaster, but they win anyway. Nate's parents are in the stands, but every time the defense is on the field and Coach Patterson isn't yelling plays in Nate's ear, Nate's looking for Brad. He doesn't show. Nate knows he shouldn't be surprised. And to some extent he's not. Depressed and bereft, yes -- but not surprised.
The following Monday though, Brad's back at school. Nate doesn't see him in the halls, but according to Mike he was in homeroom, and Brad's the last person in the room before the bell in Calculus. He sits on the other side of the room instead of in his regular seat behind Nate.
Before… well, just before, Brad loved to lean over Nate's shoulder and tell Nate the answers while he was still setting up the problems. Now Brad just slumps in his seat disinterestedly and Nate doesn't know what to do or say.
Every time he glances at Brad, Brad's looking the other way.
The entire school is concerned, at least it seems that way when Nate walks into the lunchroom and half the school is crowded around where the football players sit. Brad's ignoring everyone apparently, but Nate knows when he's been seen. When Brad deliberately looks away, Nate turns around and walks back out.
It's so bad in AP English, Nate can hear the protestations before he even walks in the room.
Ray's mouth is in full effect, and when he sees Nate, a stormy look crosses his face and he opens his mouth only to stop with a warning hand on his arm from Walt.
It goes on like this for weeks.
Except that Nate doesn't care about Brad quitting football. Or at least not that much. The fact that Brad was the star player was purely incidental to his place on the team. To his place at Nate's side. To Nate, it's like Calculus, Brad doesn't have to be there, he could be doing something else, something he probably would enjoy more -- but he chooses to be there. Or he chose to be there.
Now he's choosing something else.
The first fight Nate ever had with Brad was over a G.I. Joe action figure that lost an arm during a particularly vicious battle. It was a rainy Saturday, and Brad stomped off home with his maimed toy right before lunch. The next day Nate showed up at the Colberts with two new action figures his dad had bought him and gave one to Brad. The fight was forgotten.
In the years since then they've argued and cursed and had disagreements, but their fights are always the sort of things that are forgotten the next morning at the bus stop or that afternoon at practice. These conflicts are insignificant in the scheme of school and sports and friendship and just hanging out. They don't apologize, they just move on.
Nate keeps waiting for them to move on like the did when they argued over who was better: Jerry Rice or Joe Montana.
Except it's not happening.
The Devil Dogs win their division with an 11-2 record, which automatically seeds them in the regional playoffs. And by some miracle they manage to scramble together enough half-decent plays to win the regional championships, but Nate couldn't tell you anything about those games. Actually, that's not true, he could tell you that he and Brad had worked as a team to get here and then Brad fucking punked out on him, because Nate wasn't ready to – he doesn't even know what he wasn't ready for. The point is that Brad left him. Not the other way around.
Emily and Diane come home for Thanksgiving, and having them in the house is a reprieve that just manages to get Nate through to the last week in November. The first night Emily's home from UCLA, she's in the house ten minutes before she asks about Brad. Nate looks away pointedly, and no one says anything else.
The next morning when Nate comes down for breakfast, Diane is home. She, Emily and his mother are huddled around the kitchen table, talking about something very intensely. When he walks in the room, the conversation stops. Nate just knows they were talking about him.
About him and Brad.
Diane doesn’t say anything, though, she just gets up from the table and gives him a hug. "You're too fucking tall," she gripes, pulling him down so she can ruffle his hair.
At the table Emily laughs. "Nice language!"
"It's good to know they're teaching you something at Cornell, besides your Social Security Number," Nate gripes.
"Your father and I pay a lot of money so you two can learn those Social Security Numbers," their mother says, taking a sip from a Cornell coffee mug.
Diane squeezes his hand. "It's good to see you, short stuff – wait, can I call you that if you're almost as tall as Dad?"
"I'm going to be taller than Dad," Nate says. "Maybe."
"Brad might be taller than Dad – you, though, don't get your hopes up," Diane says.
The entire kitchen goes quiet; Nate lets go of Diane's hand and scratches the back of his neck.
Their mother clears her throat. "I remember the day Emily found out she was taller than me -- you made the doctor tell me three times."
Emily laughs, her glossy black bob shaking is the mirror image of their mother. "I was proud, what can I say?"
"Like you had anything to do with it," Diane says, tugging Nate over to the kitchen table and pushing him into one of the chairs before dropping down next to their mom.
"It's okay," their mother pats Diane's hand. "One day I'll get old and my spine'll start to shrink and then you'll finally be taller than me, too."
"I'd be satisfied with a man that was taller than me at this rate," Diane grumbles.
"I know what you mean," Emily agrees. And then they're off, bitching and moaning about the lack of suitable men at Cornell and UCLA.
The irony isn't lost on Nate: everybody wants a good man, and he's got one. Or he had one.
Whatever the case, he doesn't have him now.
The run up to state after Thanksgiving is laughable -- if you like tragedies. They lose their first game against a team from San Fernando Valley, and Nate isn't surprised in the slightest. His ghost has been quarterbacking for the last four weeks anyway; he's surprised nobody's noticed.
Actually, that's not true. Last week Sixta was so far up his ass, it's a wonder Nate hasn't acquired some fake Southern accent. Godfather tried to have a 'talk' with him before the holiday, but Nate couldn't tell you what he said. Something about teamwork and dissension spreading like yeast infections, but that doesn't matter now.
The only thing that gets a reaction out of him at this point is seeing Brad in the stands as the other team rushes the field to celebrate. And then Brad's gone, if he was ever there and Nate wasn't hallucinating in the first place. Nate's the last one off of the field and one of the last ones remaining in the locker room after Godfather gives his 'good try' bullshit speech.
It takes a while for the locker room to thin out: most of the starting line are seniors and this is pretty much the end for a lot of careers. Nate just sits with his back against his locker and his eyes closed.
He couldn't tell anyone anything about the last thirty-two days since Brad stopped talking to him. It even took him two days to open his SAT scores. A 1490 doesn’t mean much when he can't lord it over the competition.
He hasn't felt this alone in a long time.
"We did all right," a hand says, landing on his shoulder. Nate opens his eyes and meets Mike Wynn's inexorable gaze and thinks about all the drills he's run with his running back.
"Sorry, Mike," he says.
Mike makes a derisive noise. "For what? It ain't your fault those coke-sniffin' city slickers have a defensive line that weighs more than a herd of elephants."
Nate gives a weak smile as Mike drops down on the bench beside him. "At least you believe that. I don't know about anybody else."
"Nate, fuck everybody else. I'm from Texas and we take our ball serious, but shit, this ain't the end of nothin'. Hell, it ain't even the end of the semester."
"I wanted us to go to state," Nate says. He doesn't add that he wanted to go with Brad. That's neither here nor there anymore.
"And I want to fuck Cameron Diaz, but I don't think that's happenin' either. You don't see me cryin' about it."
Nate laughs wryly. "You sure? I think I see some tears forming."
Mike rolls his eyes as he gets up. "Don't let the bullshit get you down; we did what we did, and we were damn good at it. Don't let nobody tell you different."
Nate nods and stands up. He watches Mike walk away and then he starts getting his stuff together.
"We gotta talk," a voice calls from behind Nate. Nate sighs. When he turns around, there's Ray Person.
He's like the clap that way, always fucking around.
Nate purses his lips, looking at the deserted locker room. "Now's not a good time, Ray."
"You think I care at this point?" Ray says in annoyance.
Nate can feel the anger stirring in his veins. "I don't need to hear that I lost state for us. I'm fucking well aware of that!" he says bitterly.
Ray stares at him. "Fuck state!" he snaps back. "Nobody gives a shit about that, we did that last year. The only people worrying about that dick suck were Godfather and his glory hound bullshit - I'm talking about Brad! What the fuck did you do to him?!"
"I didn't do anything to him."
"That's some bullshit, Nate! You can tell yourself that, but Brad's not immune to being hurt, despite whatever macho bullshit he's selling. I know his ass is upset and I know it's about you, so don't fuck with me on this. I will totally chop your ass into little pieces and feed you to Walt's pet snake."
Nate sucks in a sharp breath. "Don't push me, Ray. You don't know what you're talking about."
Ray steps into Nate's space and pokes him in the chest. "I know you fucking broke him! I know you need to fix that shit!"
Nate can feel his eye twitching as he grabs Ray's finger away from his chest and bends it back hard.
"Fuck! OW!" Ray shouts trying to get away from Nate's grip on his hand.
"This doesn't concern you," Nate warns in a clipped tone before letting go of Ray's finger.
Ray clutches his hand to his chest. "He's all fucked up. You're all fucked up. Why won't you just fix it?" he pleads. His earnestness is disarming.
Nate rubs his eyes. "Because it's not that easy."
"It's as easy as you make it," Ray says before turning around and stomping off.
All Nate wants to yell is "Don’t you think I would fix it if I could?" But a voice keeps asking him, if he's not going to fix it, who exactly does he think is going to? Isn't he the one who walked away in the first place?
Why can't things just be the way they were before it all went wrong?
Except that Nate doesn't think that things went wrong -- there's nothing bad about coming your brains out. It's just that all of this is all so weird. And unexpected. Very unexpected. He's not equipped to deal with all of this… whatever it is.
His parents are waiting by the car when he finally emerges from the locker room after his shower, and they're not alone. Nate would know that punky hair and slick mouth anywhere, and he tries to ignore the sense of dread that comes over him when he sees his mother talking to Natalie.
This is just what he doesn't need.
"You were great out there," his dad says, clapping him on the shoulder proudly. Nate ducks his head, pushing his hair behind his ear before letting his mother hug him for at least ten seconds too long. When she lets him go, he nods over her shoulder.
"Hey, Nat," he says politely.
Natalie grins at him. "Your mom and I were just catching up. I was telling her that I'm trying to get into Berkeley early admission. We'll see. They're going to have to cough up some serious aid, but Tommy goes there, so maybe they'll do the legacy thing."
Tommy is one of Natalie's brothers; Nate just nods.
"You guys ready to go?" he prompts.
"Actually, I was hoping I could drive you home," Natalie says, setting off at least fifteen alarms in Nate's head. All of which sound like Brad.
"I – uh –" He looks at his mom desperately, but she just smiles beatifically and Nate sighs. "Yeah, that's fine. I'll see you guys at home," he says to his parents before following Natalie to her brown Ford Escort hatchback. Not that Nate can talk considering he drives his mom's Volvo from 1984.
He tosses his bag in the back as he climbs in the passenger seat.
"Okay," he says before they're even out of the parking lot. "What's up?"
Natalie laughs. "Someone's feeling a little anxious," she teases. "Relax, the game's over."
"Nat."
"It's not what you think it is."
Nate snorts and looks out the window as Natalie pulls out of the school. "And what do I think it is?"
Nate can see Natalie looking at him out the corner of her eye as she speeds along, a smile turning at the corners of her mouth. If Brad drove a car, he'd drive like Natalie. Nate must have a thing for speed freaks. Not that he has a thing for Brad. Okay, maybe he has a little thing for Brad.
"I don't want you back," she says.
Nate didn't even realize he was holding his breath. He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed.
"I didn't think you did," he says.
"But you were worried; I can smell it on you," Natalie teases.
"Shut up, Nat."
"You shut up, Nate."
He laughs ruefully, this is what he misses about being with Natalie. What he misses about Brad: the easy camaraderie, the jokes. Natalie turns on the radio and Counting Crows fills the car speakers.
Nate smirks. "This is a little poppy for your tastes, isn't it?"
Natalie shrugs as she takes a corner on two wheels, and Nate has to grab the dashboard. "What can I say, my tastes are evolving. It's what people do, they evolve."
He grunts in response as she stops for a light and pokes him in the arm. "What's up with you and your boyfriend?"
Nate's entire body locks up. "I – what – I don't know what you're talking about."
Natalie whistles low. "Wow. I was waiting for you to laugh it off, not panic."
"I'm not panicking," Nate protests as Natalie shifts into first and takes off again.
"Please. I don't know what the hell happened between you two, but one minute you're tighter than Siamese Twins and the next you're acting like Romeo and Juliet. I'm convinced one of you is going to OD on NyQuil by mistake."
Nate snorts. "I'm not going to OD on NyQuil."
"Yeah, but you're dragging around like somebody stole your prized Cal Ripken baseball, and it's depressing to see."
"So don't look."
"Nate, you're taller than 95% of the school. It's hard not to see it when you and Brad aren't talking."
"I never said we weren't talking."
"Did I say 'bitch, please' yet?" Natalie asks.
Nate has to laugh. He feels like it's been a while since that's happened.
The Smashing Pumpkins are singing about today being the greatest day they've ever known, and Nate thinks about how shitty today was and how shitty tomorrow is going to be and how they're all going to look like that without Brad.
"I miss him," he says quietly.
"I know you do," she says. "I know how you two are."
Nate licks his lips. He has to know. "How are we exactly? Me and Brad?"
Natalie stops for another light and smirks at him. "Nate, nobody is ever going to mean as much to you as he does."
That's what Nate was afraid of. Confirmation.
"I know," Nate confesses. "But it's – it's weird – and hard. I don't know how to do this."
"If it's you two, you'll figure it out."
Nate sighs. "Did I mention the part where I don't know how to do this?"
"And here I was thinking you were so smart," Natalie mocks. "When'd you turn into such an idiot?"
It's right on Nate's tongue to say 'Right around the time that Brad kissed me.' He thinks better of it.
The radio station plays another song. Some guy named Jeff Buckley singing about last goodbyes.
"Do you know why I broke up with you?" Natalie asks when the song is over.
Nate blinks owlishly and shakes his head. He's thought about it for years. She'd given him some bullshit about them moving too fast and her needing space. He'd gone home and done something very close to crying. But that was years ago, he was 15. He's 17 now; he's too old to cry about a broken heart.
Natalie gives him a wry smile as she turns onto his street and pulls up in front of his house. She stops the car. "I broke up with you because I got tired of competing," she says. "I know who you're always going to choose. So do you."
Nate looks down at his knees and then up at his ex-girlfriend. "Thanks."
Natalie nods her head. "Anytime."
Nate doesn't sleep well that night. He thinks about Natalie. About the game. About Brad. He falls asleep briefly and dreams of Brad's hands on him, of Brad's mouth on his. He has flashes of Brad underneath him, sweaty and slick. His skin is flushed, his mouth wet and open, his hands clenching the sheets as Nate fucks him hard.
Brad's legs wrap around Nate like a bandage, keeping him close and tight, and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, the way it is after football practice. Brad's eyes are wide open and with every thrust he asks what took Nate so long.
Nate's jaw aches with the blow job he doesn't know how to give, and he wakes up so hard he feels dizzy.
He shoves his boxers down his thighs and strokes his dick, pausing when he's almost there to change hands. He's not used to using his left hand. The angle is weird and he can't quite figure out the grip, but he tries anyway.
He thinks about the calluses on Brad's hands, about the way Brad buried his face in Nate's neck when Nate touched him. How he shuddered when he came in his shorts.
And then he kills his own orgasm by remembering how he turned around and bailed.
He gives up trying to sleep at some ungodly hour and goes downstairs. His mom is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter and reading the newspaper.
Nate can feel her watching him as he gets a glass of orange juice. "Nate."
Nate grips the glass just a little too hard. He knows this tone of voice. "Yeah, Mom?" he sighs, turning around and leaning against the refrigerator door.
His mom pushes her hair behind her ear; he gets the gesture from her. "Sweetheart, I know I'm just your mom and all I do is worry, but I am worried. You're not sleeping. You're in your room all the time. You don't look good. You're losing weight."
"I'm fine," Nate says.
"No, you're not," she insists, a line appearing between her eyebrows. "I know something's wrong with you and Brad." A pause. "Rachel and I are worried."
Nate sets his glass on the kitchen counter and crosses his arms. "You've been talking to Brad's mom about us?"
"That’s what we do," his mom insists, sliding off of her stool. "We worry about you. We worry when you're together. We worry when you're apart. I'm a lot more worried when Brad's not scraping up the side of the house with his dad's ladder than I am when he is."
Nate bites his lip. "Mom, stop."
"I know how important Brad is to you. If there's something you want to talk about -- or tell me -- you can tell me. It's okay, I love you; it doesn't change anything."
Nate reels. She thinks he's coming out.
He doesn't need to come out, he's not gay. He just… he wants things he can't even define anymore.
This is all Brad's fault.
"I don't want to talk about it," Nate says mulishly.
"Nate, please."
"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, MOM!" he hollers.
The shouting is over before Nate's even realized what he's done. He can feel the blood leaving his face in a rush. His mother takes a step back, and her mouth thins into a line. "Nathaniel Christopher Fick."
"I'm sorry," he says, with genuine remorse, and just as quickly as the line between her eyebrows appeared, it smoothes out. "I didn't mean it, Mom. I just--"
"Go for a run," his mom says. "Go on. You need to get out of the house."
Nate takes a faltering step forward and his mom raises an eyebrow. He moves around the counter to give her a quick hug. "I'm sorry," he apologizes again.
She just pats him on the back. "Go on, get out of my house."
Ten minutes later, Nate's out of the house, Walkman firmly in place and Dr. Dre rapping in his ears. It's a cool morning, somewhere around 65 degrees, which is pretty good for December in Southern California.
He doesn't realize he's running in the direction that takes him to Brad's house until he sees Mrs. Colbert in the driveway, bent over the trunk of her Ford Taurus. He can't figure out if he should speed up or turn back, and then she waves to him and he has to slow to down.
"Hi, Mrs. C," he calls, hoping she's not doing what he thinks she is.
And then she removes a grocery bag and Nate's caught. He stops at the edge of Brad's driveway. This isn't his land. He isn't welcome here anymore, but manners trump everything.
"You, uh, you need some help there?" he offers.
Mrs. Colbert's smile is huge and all-encompassing. Like Brad's.
"Nate, I haven't seen you in forever. I'm going to take it personally soon," she teases, before holding out the paper bag. "Can you take this for me?"
Nate takes a step forward. He's reached out halfway when the front door opens and Nate's eyes automatically snap to attention even when he knows they shouldn't.
Brad fills the entire space the way he always does. He's wearing a faded gray Orioles shirt that looks a lot like the one Nate brought him back last summer from Baltimore after visiting his cousins. His hair is messy and he's wearing those black glasses that he only wears when he's been playing with his computers in the basement for too long.
He looks like he just woke up. Sleepy and rumpled. Nate's face goes hot when he thinks about his dreams this morning and his cock twitches in interest. It's like Nate hasn't seen Brad in years. Like he's been dying of thirst and someone just offered him an ocean of clean water, but he's too busy thinking about drowning to drink.
Nate snatches his hands away as though he's been burned and takes a step back. "I can't," he says apologetically. "I'm sorry."
He's almost a mile away before his heart stops pounding in his ears.
It's raining on Monday, but it’s not just rain, it's the kind of torrential downpour that only visits Southern California once a year. Nate's so tired when he pulls into the OHS parking lot that it's all he can do not to ditch school altogether and fall asleep in his backseat, but that's not his thing. At least not alone.
Three weeks into the start of the year, Brad kidnapped him in the parking lot before school and took him to the beach, because he just didn't feel like going to class that day, and if he wasn't feeling it then Nate obviously wasn't feeling it either.
Nate protested rather vehemently once they got to the beach that maybe he might've had a test or a presentation. Brad laughed at him. "I have a better idea of what you're supposed to be doing than you do," he promised.
Nate had scowled, but he'd stretched out in the sand anyway. Ten minutes later Brad had dumped a cold bucket of water on him that he'd borrowed from a four year-old girl with pigtails.
Nate rubs his eyes and rests his head on the steering wheel. He just has to make it through this day. He spent four hours last night going over his Calculus homework, trying to figure out derivatives. Brad would've been able to explain it to him in five minutes, but Nate doesn't have that luxury anymore.
Brad doesn't show up for third period Calculus and Coach Patterson doesn't call his name during roll call, which is a first. Coach Patterson always calls everyone's names. Even if you're sitting directly in front of his desk, he calls your name. He does this in football, too.
Nate keeps glancing over at the empty desk across the room where Brad's been sitting for the last month. He has no idea what they talk about in class, so when the bell rings and Coach Patterson asks him to stay behind, he's not surprised.
Nate collects his books as the room empties out and once Tommy Young vacates the seat in front of Nate, Bryan Patterson drops down in his place.
Patterson's been Nate's offensive coach since he joined the OHS football team. They've spent a lot of time together. "Nate, do you have any idea what I said today in class?" he asks with an amused twist of his mouth.
Nate shrugs. "Not a fucking clue, Coach."
Patterson shakes his head. "Your head's not in the classroom, is it?"
Nate gives a wan smile. "How could you tell?"
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not really, no."
"I'm a teacher, it's my job to ask. More importantly, I'm your coach. You can talk to me."
"I know."
"I notice you've been distracted lately."
Nate makes a derisive noise. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."
Patterson runs his fingers through thinning black hair. "You're one of the best quarterbacks the Devil Dogs have ever had, Nate. You should feel proud of all you've done."
Nate grunts.
Patterson chuckles. "You're bored without Brad, I take it."
Nate can feel the heat in his cheeks. "I, uh, I guess."
"That's understandable, but I think this is for the best."
"What's for the best?"
Patterson gives Nate a probing look. "His independent study. I've been trying to get him to take math classes at UC Oceanside since last year. I think he was only here to hang out with you." Nate stares. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" Patterson says.
Nate shakes his head.
"Ah," Patterson says. "Well, I can't go around talking about students with other students, or with my other players. But I will tell you that I think he'll be happier with something more advanced."
Nate just nods his head, his mind elsewhere.
Something more advanced.
Something more Brad's speed.
How much more obvious can everyone be?
That night Nate stays up late and does his homework. He works diligently at his Calculus and reads another ten chapters of Moby Dick for his English class tomorrow. In between assignments, he listens to his Dave Matthews CD and tries not to think about the college applications he's sent out, the letters he's waiting for, the SATs that Brad may or may not have taken.
It's one long Oroborus of worry that stretches out well into the next night. And the night after that. And so on.
It's on a night like all the others that Nate wakes up drooling on page 324 of Melville. He blinks blearily at the homework strewn on his desk, trying to release the crick in his neck as he gathers his papers. The red LED lights on his alarm clock tell him it's 1:34 in the morning, and as he's getting ready to climb into bed he glances out his window. There are candles in the front window of the house across the street. The Rosenbergs. Nate takes another step and looks at the candles a little closer, it's awful late to be leaving candles out -- and then it hits him.
Those aren't candles. It's a menorah.
It's the first night of Hanukkah.
A wave of anger and overwhelming sadness washes over him. He loves Hanukkah. The first year that Nate's family lived in Oceanside, Brad had him over to light the menorah and have latkes and applesauce. He introduced Nate to his first dreidel and Mrs. Colbert taught him The Dreidel Song.
He can still hear her lilting tone and Brad's high-pitched singing that dropped dramatically their freshman year. Nate remembers coming home from visiting his Grandmother Mae the summer before ninth grade and Brad having grown almost four inches in six weeks. That's probably an exaggeration, but Brad went from being a little shorter than Nate to towering over him.
He went from sharing Nate's clothes when they got dirty playing in Nate's backyard to being all legs and arms. Very ungainly legs and arms. And zits. Not that the pimples phase lasted more than a month, but Nate remembers it. Remembers Brad's voice cracking in US History.
His eyes are magnetically drawn to the shelves over his desk and he sees it. His dreidel. The one Brad gave him to spin. It's next to his signed Cal Ripken baseball and a bunch of other things he's held on to for various reasons. There's a football from the Joe Montana football camp he and Brad went to in eighth grade. He stands on his toes and runs his hand over the area he can't see. He comes away with a hand full of dusty ticket stubs from football games, baseball games, Disneyland, Six Flags, the San Diego Zoo.
He looks at the tickets and then he looks back at the dreidel.
Ten minutes later he's in the kitchen in his undershirt and sweatpants looking for a brown paper bag.
He scrawls Brad's name on the bag, trying hard not to think about what he's doing. Underneath Brad's name, he writes, Happy Hanukkah.
He disarms the security system, grabs his keys from beside the front door and dashes out into the night. He takes the shortcut to Brad's house, running across front lawns, back lawns and driveways, setting off at least two sets of security lights, until he arrives at Brad's house.
The light is on in Brad's window.
Nate pauses and looks up, looks at the shadow passing by the pulled curtains and wonders if he's making a huge mistake -- if it's too late now anyway. It's such a small gesture, but he has to try.
He wedges the bag with the dreidel between the clutch and the handlebars of Brad's bike, and then he turns around and runs home.
Brad doesn't acknowledge him the next day in AP English. Nate doesn't know what he expected to happen. A smile. A nod of the head. At least a raised eyebrow. He gets nothing.
Ms. Turner lectures about Moby Dick, about the significance of Ahab's obsession, about the traditional lore of white whales and their symbolism. About chasing after the unattainable. Nate raises his hand. "Isn't the point that the whale got the better of Ahab? That he lost perspective and couldn't see that his obsession was consuming everything?"
"I think it certainly has to do with perspective, Nate. Everyone has a white whale in their lives. Something that they're struggling to attain," she agrees.
"Where, exactly, would the world be without the proverbial white whales?" Brad interrupts. "Motivation is what gets things done. Fear of death. Fear of loss. Alexander never would've conquered new worlds if he wasn't trying to please his father."
Nate bristles. Motivation. Is that what they're calling it now? "Fear is definitely a great motivator," Ms. Turner says. "But –
"Fear makes people angry," Nate counters, turning in his seat. "Hanging loss over someone's head like the Sword of Damocles may be motivating, but it'll never get you loyalty."
"No one said Ahab wanted loyalty," Brad asserts.
"Of course he wanted loyalty," Nate says derisively. "Everybody wants loyalty. He was captain of his ship; he demanded loyalty. But look at what happens when you demand too much: you get insurrection. At the end of the day you can't always give people what they want. Sometimes you have to motivate people in other ways."
Brad's gaze is hard, direct. "There's only one captain."
Nate meets Brad head on. "Maybe that's the problem."
"Maybe that has nothing to do with the problem," Brad says icily.
There's a flash of something Nate can't parse. It's been a while. He turns back towards the front of the room, pointedly ignoring the rest of the class staring at him.
Nate thinks about skipping the second night of Hanukkah. Especially after that scene in AP English, but he finds himself leaving Brad a series of pictures of them working at Godfather's football camp last year anyway.
On the third night, it's a Ziploc bag full of Rice Krispie treats that he makes at two in the morning.
The fourth night he leaves Brad a brand new copy of Apocalypse Now that he bought at Blockbuster.
The fifth night he actually wraps the present. Or he tries to. He's had this signed Joe Montana shirt forever. It doesn't even fit well anymore. It's fraying and got a huge hole in the neck.
He's sliding the shirt box under the front wheel of Brad's motorcycle when a stream of light falls across the driveway. Nate's been caught red-handed. He can feel his fingers shaking as he turns to look at Brad's front door -- but it's not Brad; it's Brad's mom.
Nate can feel the despondency even as he breathes a sigh of relief. Mrs. Colbert crosses her front lawn in her robe and slippers. "Nathaniel, you can always knock on our door," she says softly, pushing her glasses up her nose. "It doesn't matter how late it is. I promise."
Nate gets to his feet, present in hand. "I don't think I can," he confesses.
"Are you sure?" Nate follows Mrs. Colbert's glance upward, at Brad's window. The light's off. Nate's heart beats an empty cadence. "He hasn't been asleep long," she persists.
"No, I -- I probably shouldn't. It's late."
"He misses you."
Nate looks down and scuffs the concrete with the toe of his flip-flops. He can feel his head starting to ache. His eyes starting to itch. He needs to go home. This was stupid.
"Nate, if you want to talk about it, I'm always here," she says.
Nate really has to go. "Could you just give this to him?" he says, thrusting the box into her hands.
"Are you sure you don't want to give it to him yourself?"
Nate nods.
"Is there anything you want me to say?" Brad's mother is nothing if not persistent.
Nate just shakes his head again. "No, I don't think he'd want to hear it anyway."
Hanukkah ends and leaves Nate with an empty shelf in his room. His Joe Montana football followed the tee shirt and his Cal Ripken baseball followed everything else. He doesn't have anything else to give at this point.
That doesn't make a dent in Brad's behavior at school though. And yet, Brad's books are still in Nate's locker, so he's either failing everything or borrowing from somebody else.
End of semester finals consume the last few weeks of school, and then it's winter holidays and Nate's entire house is taken over by Emily and Diane, relatives and decorations and being dragged to Episcopalian mass every time he turns around. Before he knows it, it's time for the New Year's Eve party at Poke's house.
Nate's skittish about attending, but between Natalie and Mike he doesn't seem to have much choice. He picks up Mike and they arrive a little before 11. They can hear the music from the driveway, which is only to be expected since Poke's parents are partying with friends off base, leaving Poke and all their friends to run amok.
People are smoking something herbal on the steps, there's a keg in the kitchen and Walt Hasser, Eric Kocher, Gina Fitzgerald and Pappy Patrick are playing beer pong in the living room under the mildly disapproving eye of Rudy Reyes.
Nate and Mike get beer and make a wrong turn into the laundry room where Poke's making out with Rudy's sister.
They backtrack automatically.
They make a few rounds, saying hi to people left and right until Mike gets waylaid by Shannon Miller. Nate nods his approval and moves off on his own to the backyard.
Natalie is holding court in the middle of several palm trees. She's sitting in a lawn chair with a bottle of beer and engaged in some sort of debate with Ray Person. Nate turns hard on his heel to avoid them. It doesn't quite work.
"Nate Fick, don't even try to walk away from me," Natalie yells loudly. "I know what kind of underwear you wear and will happily cover your entire car with them!" An entire backyard full of people turn in interest. Nate winces.
"Fucking perverts," Ray calls out. "Like you haven't seen his ass in the locker room anyway. Now if you want to talk about his mouth —"
Natalie slaps a hand over Ray's mouth. "Shut up, Ray," she says, smiling at Nate brightly.
"C'mon," she says, beckoning Nate closer with her free hand. "You know I don’t bite unless you ask nicely."
Ray's face turns an interesting shade of red; Nate gives Natalie a disapproving look. "Do you really want to get arrested for asphyxiation on the last night of 1994?"
"Maybe not tonight," she agrees, "but can you be an awesome ex-boyfriend and get me another beer from the kitchen?"
Nate looks from the huge plastic tub of ice and beer that several defensive linemen are huddled around back to Natalie. "Something wrong with that beer?"
"You know I hate that domestic shit," she says. "C'mon, Nate."
Nate sighs. "Fine. But let him breathe, would you? I'll never hear the end of it if he passes out."
He sets his red Dixie cup down on an errant plastic table and goes back inside. The living room is jam packed with people; Nate takes the long detour down the hall instead. The bathroom door nearly clobbers him and he just misses getting a broken nose. "You want to watch that fucking door?" he says irritably.
"Maybe you just need to watch where you're going," an unmistakable voice chides.
Nate can feel his eyes widening as he takes in Brad before him. That same dry smile, that crinkle at the corner of his eyes. The shirt he's … he's wearing Nate's shirt. Nate looks from Brad's face to his chest and then back again. His mouth goes dry and he licks his lips.
Brad's eyes narrow. "Problem, Fick?"
Nate opens his mouth, but all that comes out is, "Brad."
Brad's mouth quirks at the corner. "That's what my mom calls me."
Nate can hardly hear over the blare of the music, and then he's shoving Brad back into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.
Brad perches on the edge of the sink, arms crossed. "Something you want?"
There are a thousand things. What comes out is, "You're wearing my shirt."
"This is a Hanukkah present," Brad says blandly.
"I gave it to you."
Brad makes a noncommittal noise.
Nate pushes his hair behind his right ear. "I'm sorry," he says. Finally.
Brad's gaze is all disinterestedness. "Good for you," he says, standing up. It's probably just Nate's imagination, but he thinks Brad's grown another inch since the last time they were together. However you want to define 'together.'
Brad tries to step around Nate, but he stops when Nate grabs his bicep. "Brad," Nate knows he's pleading. He doesn't think he cares anymore.
Brad's face is hard, too hard. His eyes aren't telling the same story at all. "Do you even know what you're sorry for, Nate?"
Nate releases Brad's arm slowly, his fingers skating along exposed tanned skin and hard muscle until Brad jerks away.
"No, you don't – you don't get to do that," Brad says angrily.
It's strange that Nate can feel his own heart breaking all over again, when he didn't realize that's what it was the first time around. But he knows it for what it is now.
"Can't we work this out?" he says.
"I don't want to work it out – I don't want your pity."
Nate steps back, banging his spine directly into the door handle. "I don't – pity? Are you fucking kidding me?" he says. "Do you know how much shit you've put me through?! Do you know what it's been like for me?"
"Because it's just always about you," Brad says.
Nate has this strange image of his heart going up in a blue puff of smoke. He shakes his head vehemently. "You have no idea," he says in wonder.
"No, Nate, you have no idea," Brad says.
This time when Brad tries to go, Nate lets him.
The hallway is empty when Nate leaves except for Ray and Natalie standing at one end, beers in hand, eyes wide. If they recoil under his glowering, it's only what they deserve.
"Tell Mike I had to go," he says, turning around and walking out.
Nate's house is empty when he gets home. It's 11:52 p.m. on New Year's Eve and his entire family is out: his mom and dad are at some black-tie affair and Diane and Emily left to party in San Diego early in the afternoon.
Nate locks up behind himself and goes upstairs to take a shower.
The clock says it's 12:13 a.m. when he gets back to his room. Happy fucking 1995.
Nate thinks about watching some TV, but that requires going back downstairs. Instead he finds himself putting things away. His football binder goes on the empty shelf. So do the admissions catalogues that have been sprawled all over his floor. He throws some dirty clothes in the hamper and turns on Nirvana. He still can't believe that Kurt Cobain killed himself last spring.
He finds some truly foul workout clothes under his bed that he actually walks down to the laundry room and dumps in the washer with two scoops of detergent and some other smelly stuff he finds lying nearby.
Back in his room, the lights are blazing and there's more order than he's seen in a long time. He changes the sheets on his bed, probably for the first time all month, while singing along to 'In Bloom'. He lies down just for a minute and wakes up to a quiet room -- except for the knocking on his window.
Nate lies there for long seconds, wanting to make sure he's heard what he thinks he's heard.
And then he's crawling to the end of his bed, peering out the window and into the bemusedly irritated gaze of Brad Colbert. Nate gets up, unlocks the window and pushes it up.
"Can I help you?" Nate asks, struggling to contain the hopeful smile that wants out.
Brad waves him aside and climbs in. "When did you start locking my window?" he says, plopping down in Nate's desk chair and beginning to unlace his Chuck Taylors.
Nate crosses his arms to stop the shaking. "Your window?"
"Is there somebody else coming in this window that I don't know about?" Brad asks, looking up at Nate from underneath his eyelashes.
Nate looks away as Brad kicks off his shoes. "I started locking the window around the time that you quit the team and stopped talking to me."
Brad makes a considering noise. "I deserved that."
Nate watches Brad's sock-clad foot poke his ankle. "Why are you here, Brad?" he says to the floor before looking back up. His hands are shaking badly and he has to dig his fingernails into the skin near his elbows. Fucking adrenaline.
Brad's foot moves away and Nate looks up as Brad pulls off his socks. "I'm here to see you, even though you walked out on me."
"You walked out on me at Poke's party!" Nate counters. Brad raises an eyebrow. "Oh," he says, suddenly embarrassed. "You meant -- you meant before."
"That I did."
Nate sighs and sits down on his bed. Brad straightens up in the chair and fixes Nate with a steady look. "You started this," Brad says.
Nate scoffs. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah."
Nate shoves his sheets away and moves closer to Brad. "Are you really sure about that?" he says in a low tone, duly gratified when Brad's cheeks flush. "Why are you here?" he prompts again.
Brad rubs the back of his neck. "You left me your Joe Montana shirt. And your signed football. And your Cal Ripken baseball. You know I'm not giving that back, right?"
"I didn't give it to you so you'd give it back, Brad," Nate says softly. "I've never expected you to give me anything in the first place."
Brad stands up, stretching his arms over his head and showing Nate several inches of navel, skin and faint blond hairs.
Nate shakes his head. "That’s wrong," he says, turning away when he catches Brad watching him look.
Brad grins. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he says, taking the necessary steps to drop down next to Nate on the bed. The springs creak under their combined weight; Nate never noticed that before.
Brad's arm touches Nate's shoulder, their thighs pressing together when Brad spreads out his legs. They sit there for a long time, just breathing, just being in each other's space.
"Why didn't you say something before?" Nate says. "That was one hell of a shock, you know."
"You seemed to like it at the time," Brad counters.
Nate chuckles. "I'm 17, there's not much I don't like."
"You mean like Natalie."
"I told you I'm not back with Natalie."
"That was months ago. I saw you two at the state playoffs."
"So, you were there."
"You know I was."
Brad's gaze is piercing; Nate meets it head-on. "Natalie didn't want in my pants," he says, "she wanted to talk. And do you know what she wanted to talk to me about?" A beat. "You."
It's Brad's turn to inhale sharply.
Nate carries on. "Apparently, she and Ray don't approve of our fighting. And on the subject of Ray, can you call him the fuck off before I have to stuff him in a locker and end up with detention for the rest of the year?"
Nate can feel Brad laughing next to him. "I can't control Ray."
"That is an egregious lie," Nate says.
"Nice vocabulary."
"We can't all be math prodigies." Brad makes a noncommittal sound. Nate tries again. "So, about your trained attack dog…"
"Trained attack dog?"
"Dealing with Ray is like being mauled by a rabid Chihuahua."
Brad shakes his head, his mouth curling upwards. "I'll see what I can do."
"You do that." Nate pauses. "So, do you like your math class at UCO?"
Brad rubs his jaw. "I, uh, I haven't started yet. I couldn't start in the middle of the semester."
"So where've you been during Calculus?"
"Here. There. Around."
"You just couldn't be near me at all, huh?"
"I didn't quit English."
"I bet you tried, though," Nate says. It comes out more accusatory than it should.
Brad doesn't reply and they're quiet again. There's something indefinable stirring under Nate's skin. The panic is gone. The constant anxiety. The frantic need to not feel so alone. But he's not calm. He doesn't feel calm. He doesn't feel afraid either.
The problem has never been this between them; it's what comes from making more out of it. What if they fuck up?
Actually, they already have.
He surprises himself by breaking the silence. "I don't know if I can give you what you want."
He can feel the tension clamp down on Brad's body. "I've never told you what I want," he says stiffly. "I never asked for anything."
Nate turns his head and looks at Brad's profile, at the clenched jaw. "Do you know why Natalie broke up with me?"
The tension in Brad's body seems to ratchet upwards. It makes Nate's teeth hurt. "Why are we talking about her?"
"She broke up with me because she said she got tired of competing with you," Nate says. "She knows what everybody else knows, that I didn't get until now -- that I put you first. That I always put you first."
Brad's entire face goes slack, blue eyes darkening, and Nate's stomach churns with something that for the first time in ages isn’t stress. Brad's tongue darts out and wets his upper lip, and Nate is overcome by a wave of want. Yeah, he isn't prepared for this at all.
"You don't have to do anything, Nate," Brad says, his voice tight. "I don't want anyone feeling obligated to me."
Nate closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall. "The only thing I'll feel obligated to do is kick your ass if you pull shit like this again."
The vibrations of Brad's laughter run through Nate. They sit there for a long time, Brad's body heat seeping into Nate's skin and lulling him to sleep.
Part III
People are staring from the moment Nate gets out of his ancient, beige Volvo in the parking lot on Monday morning. The whispers only get louder when he's inside the school. Poke's waiting for him at his locker, looking like somebody told him Rosie Perez just died.
"What the fuck, dog?" he says as Nate waves him to the side so he can open his locker.
"You got something on your mind, Espera?" Nate asks, switching his Humanities text and various paperbacks for his Physics and Calculus textbooks.
"Hell yeah I got something on my mind -- is it true?"
Nate sighs. "Is what true, Poke?"
Poke gives him a dirty look. "That Brad quit the team. Nate, you know Brad can't quit. We're about to take home the state trophy again. What the fuck is that about? The white man hasn't screwed with my shit enough? Now he's gotta screw with my scholarship?"
"If it is true, I doubt Brad did it just to piss all over your scholarship," Nate snaps.
"What do you mean 'if it's true?'" Poke persists. "You mean you don't know?"
Nate yanks at the zipper of his backpack. "Why do you think I would know?"
Poke snorts loudly. "If anybody would know, you would."
"Well, I don't."
"Nate."
Nate shakes his head and slams his locker closed. "Poke -- just let it go."
But of course, Poke can't let it go. Neither can Ray or Walt or Mike, who actually passes Nate a note during Physics like they're fucking girls.
"I don't know!" Nate snaps, balling up the notebook paper angrily and causing the entire class to look up at him when they're supposed to be working on the problem set on velocity
"Is there a problem, Mr. Fick?" Mr. Fujimoto asks.
Nate rubs his forehead. "Sorry," he says, flushing slightly. "I got frustrated."
"If you need help, ask for it," Mr. Fujimoto says calmly.
Nate wishes it were that simple.
Nate doesn't see Brad at all that day, but everyone's suspicions are confirmed before practice even begins. They're in the locker room gearing up when Godfather emerges from his office with Sixta on his heels. "Devil Dogs, listen up," he barks. The entire locker room falls silent, and their coach nods approvingly. "I know the scuttlebutt says that Brad Colbert's quit the team, and I'm sorry to say I've spoken to Brad -- and it's true."
There's a cacophony of noise and protestations, which is summarily ended by Sixta telling everybody to shut the hell up.
Godfather carries on in his raspy tenor. "I know this is a disappointment to you, it is to me, too, but I can't have people here who don't want to be here. Brad's made his decision. What I need from you now is to get past it. We've got a game against Delta on Friday and I don’t need you crying because your girl said your dick was too small. Kocher, you're going to be taking Brad's place as wide receiver. Lovell, we're pulling you from defense to fill Eric's hole."
Where there would normally be a rude comment there's nothing but silence.
It's strange how the sound of 33 – no, 32 -- boys being quiet rings in Nate's ears.
Football practice goes about as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Nate completes six passes -- out of thirty-eight. He gets sacked four times. There's a false start that ends up with Walt being carried off the field. Ray starts a fight with Rudy for no discernable reason, thrashing around on the Astroturf while Rudy tries to restrain him from hurting them both.
Sixta ends practice with a series of suicide drills that leave most of the team vomiting by the goalposts, which is only fitting.
Brad's not in school all week long, which makes it probably the longest week of Nate's life. He spends extra hours after practice with Eric Kocher, trying to get their game together, trying to establish -- or fake -- a rapport that Nate's had with Brad for years.
The game against Delta High on Friday night is a disaster, but they win anyway. Nate's parents are in the stands, but every time the defense is on the field and Coach Patterson isn't yelling plays in Nate's ear, Nate's looking for Brad. He doesn't show. Nate knows he shouldn't be surprised. And to some extent he's not. Depressed and bereft, yes -- but not surprised.
The following Monday though, Brad's back at school. Nate doesn't see him in the halls, but according to Mike he was in homeroom, and Brad's the last person in the room before the bell in Calculus. He sits on the other side of the room instead of in his regular seat behind Nate.
Before… well, just before, Brad loved to lean over Nate's shoulder and tell Nate the answers while he was still setting up the problems. Now Brad just slumps in his seat disinterestedly and Nate doesn't know what to do or say.
Every time he glances at Brad, Brad's looking the other way.
The entire school is concerned, at least it seems that way when Nate walks into the lunchroom and half the school is crowded around where the football players sit. Brad's ignoring everyone apparently, but Nate knows when he's been seen. When Brad deliberately looks away, Nate turns around and walks back out.
It's so bad in AP English, Nate can hear the protestations before he even walks in the room.
Ray's mouth is in full effect, and when he sees Nate, a stormy look crosses his face and he opens his mouth only to stop with a warning hand on his arm from Walt.
It goes on like this for weeks.
Except that Nate doesn't care about Brad quitting football. Or at least not that much. The fact that Brad was the star player was purely incidental to his place on the team. To his place at Nate's side. To Nate, it's like Calculus, Brad doesn't have to be there, he could be doing something else, something he probably would enjoy more -- but he chooses to be there. Or he chose to be there.
Now he's choosing something else.
The first fight Nate ever had with Brad was over a G.I. Joe action figure that lost an arm during a particularly vicious battle. It was a rainy Saturday, and Brad stomped off home with his maimed toy right before lunch. The next day Nate showed up at the Colberts with two new action figures his dad had bought him and gave one to Brad. The fight was forgotten.
In the years since then they've argued and cursed and had disagreements, but their fights are always the sort of things that are forgotten the next morning at the bus stop or that afternoon at practice. These conflicts are insignificant in the scheme of school and sports and friendship and just hanging out. They don't apologize, they just move on.
Nate keeps waiting for them to move on like the did when they argued over who was better: Jerry Rice or Joe Montana.
Except it's not happening.
The Devil Dogs win their division with an 11-2 record, which automatically seeds them in the regional playoffs. And by some miracle they manage to scramble together enough half-decent plays to win the regional championships, but Nate couldn't tell you anything about those games. Actually, that's not true, he could tell you that he and Brad had worked as a team to get here and then Brad fucking punked out on him, because Nate wasn't ready to – he doesn't even know what he wasn't ready for. The point is that Brad left him. Not the other way around.
Emily and Diane come home for Thanksgiving, and having them in the house is a reprieve that just manages to get Nate through to the last week in November. The first night Emily's home from UCLA, she's in the house ten minutes before she asks about Brad. Nate looks away pointedly, and no one says anything else.
The next morning when Nate comes down for breakfast, Diane is home. She, Emily and his mother are huddled around the kitchen table, talking about something very intensely. When he walks in the room, the conversation stops. Nate just knows they were talking about him.
About him and Brad.
Diane doesn’t say anything, though, she just gets up from the table and gives him a hug. "You're too fucking tall," she gripes, pulling him down so she can ruffle his hair.
At the table Emily laughs. "Nice language!"
"It's good to know they're teaching you something at Cornell, besides your Social Security Number," Nate gripes.
"Your father and I pay a lot of money so you two can learn those Social Security Numbers," their mother says, taking a sip from a Cornell coffee mug.
Diane squeezes his hand. "It's good to see you, short stuff – wait, can I call you that if you're almost as tall as Dad?"
"I'm going to be taller than Dad," Nate says. "Maybe."
"Brad might be taller than Dad – you, though, don't get your hopes up," Diane says.
The entire kitchen goes quiet; Nate lets go of Diane's hand and scratches the back of his neck.
Their mother clears her throat. "I remember the day Emily found out she was taller than me -- you made the doctor tell me three times."
Emily laughs, her glossy black bob shaking is the mirror image of their mother. "I was proud, what can I say?"
"Like you had anything to do with it," Diane says, tugging Nate over to the kitchen table and pushing him into one of the chairs before dropping down next to their mom.
"It's okay," their mother pats Diane's hand. "One day I'll get old and my spine'll start to shrink and then you'll finally be taller than me, too."
"I'd be satisfied with a man that was taller than me at this rate," Diane grumbles.
"I know what you mean," Emily agrees. And then they're off, bitching and moaning about the lack of suitable men at Cornell and UCLA.
The irony isn't lost on Nate: everybody wants a good man, and he's got one. Or he had one.
Whatever the case, he doesn't have him now.
The run up to state after Thanksgiving is laughable -- if you like tragedies. They lose their first game against a team from San Fernando Valley, and Nate isn't surprised in the slightest. His ghost has been quarterbacking for the last four weeks anyway; he's surprised nobody's noticed.
Actually, that's not true. Last week Sixta was so far up his ass, it's a wonder Nate hasn't acquired some fake Southern accent. Godfather tried to have a 'talk' with him before the holiday, but Nate couldn't tell you what he said. Something about teamwork and dissension spreading like yeast infections, but that doesn't matter now.
The only thing that gets a reaction out of him at this point is seeing Brad in the stands as the other team rushes the field to celebrate. And then Brad's gone, if he was ever there and Nate wasn't hallucinating in the first place. Nate's the last one off of the field and one of the last ones remaining in the locker room after Godfather gives his 'good try' bullshit speech.
It takes a while for the locker room to thin out: most of the starting line are seniors and this is pretty much the end for a lot of careers. Nate just sits with his back against his locker and his eyes closed.
He couldn't tell anyone anything about the last thirty-two days since Brad stopped talking to him. It even took him two days to open his SAT scores. A 1490 doesn’t mean much when he can't lord it over the competition.
He hasn't felt this alone in a long time.
"We did all right," a hand says, landing on his shoulder. Nate opens his eyes and meets Mike Wynn's inexorable gaze and thinks about all the drills he's run with his running back.
"Sorry, Mike," he says.
Mike makes a derisive noise. "For what? It ain't your fault those coke-sniffin' city slickers have a defensive line that weighs more than a herd of elephants."
Nate gives a weak smile as Mike drops down on the bench beside him. "At least you believe that. I don't know about anybody else."
"Nate, fuck everybody else. I'm from Texas and we take our ball serious, but shit, this ain't the end of nothin'. Hell, it ain't even the end of the semester."
"I wanted us to go to state," Nate says. He doesn't add that he wanted to go with Brad. That's neither here nor there anymore.
"And I want to fuck Cameron Diaz, but I don't think that's happenin' either. You don't see me cryin' about it."
Nate laughs wryly. "You sure? I think I see some tears forming."
Mike rolls his eyes as he gets up. "Don't let the bullshit get you down; we did what we did, and we were damn good at it. Don't let nobody tell you different."
Nate nods and stands up. He watches Mike walk away and then he starts getting his stuff together.
"We gotta talk," a voice calls from behind Nate. Nate sighs. When he turns around, there's Ray Person.
He's like the clap that way, always fucking around.
Nate purses his lips, looking at the deserted locker room. "Now's not a good time, Ray."
"You think I care at this point?" Ray says in annoyance.
Nate can feel the anger stirring in his veins. "I don't need to hear that I lost state for us. I'm fucking well aware of that!" he says bitterly.
Ray stares at him. "Fuck state!" he snaps back. "Nobody gives a shit about that, we did that last year. The only people worrying about that dick suck were Godfather and his glory hound bullshit - I'm talking about Brad! What the fuck did you do to him?!"
"I didn't do anything to him."
"That's some bullshit, Nate! You can tell yourself that, but Brad's not immune to being hurt, despite whatever macho bullshit he's selling. I know his ass is upset and I know it's about you, so don't fuck with me on this. I will totally chop your ass into little pieces and feed you to Walt's pet snake."
Nate sucks in a sharp breath. "Don't push me, Ray. You don't know what you're talking about."
Ray steps into Nate's space and pokes him in the chest. "I know you fucking broke him! I know you need to fix that shit!"
Nate can feel his eye twitching as he grabs Ray's finger away from his chest and bends it back hard.
"Fuck! OW!" Ray shouts trying to get away from Nate's grip on his hand.
"This doesn't concern you," Nate warns in a clipped tone before letting go of Ray's finger.
Ray clutches his hand to his chest. "He's all fucked up. You're all fucked up. Why won't you just fix it?" he pleads. His earnestness is disarming.
Nate rubs his eyes. "Because it's not that easy."
"It's as easy as you make it," Ray says before turning around and stomping off.
All Nate wants to yell is "Don’t you think I would fix it if I could?" But a voice keeps asking him, if he's not going to fix it, who exactly does he think is going to? Isn't he the one who walked away in the first place?
Why can't things just be the way they were before it all went wrong?
Except that Nate doesn't think that things went wrong -- there's nothing bad about coming your brains out. It's just that all of this is all so weird. And unexpected. Very unexpected. He's not equipped to deal with all of this… whatever it is.
His parents are waiting by the car when he finally emerges from the locker room after his shower, and they're not alone. Nate would know that punky hair and slick mouth anywhere, and he tries to ignore the sense of dread that comes over him when he sees his mother talking to Natalie.
This is just what he doesn't need.
"You were great out there," his dad says, clapping him on the shoulder proudly. Nate ducks his head, pushing his hair behind his ear before letting his mother hug him for at least ten seconds too long. When she lets him go, he nods over her shoulder.
"Hey, Nat," he says politely.
Natalie grins at him. "Your mom and I were just catching up. I was telling her that I'm trying to get into Berkeley early admission. We'll see. They're going to have to cough up some serious aid, but Tommy goes there, so maybe they'll do the legacy thing."
Tommy is one of Natalie's brothers; Nate just nods.
"You guys ready to go?" he prompts.
"Actually, I was hoping I could drive you home," Natalie says, setting off at least fifteen alarms in Nate's head. All of which sound like Brad.
"I – uh –" He looks at his mom desperately, but she just smiles beatifically and Nate sighs. "Yeah, that's fine. I'll see you guys at home," he says to his parents before following Natalie to her brown Ford Escort hatchback. Not that Nate can talk considering he drives his mom's Volvo from 1984.
He tosses his bag in the back as he climbs in the passenger seat.
"Okay," he says before they're even out of the parking lot. "What's up?"
Natalie laughs. "Someone's feeling a little anxious," she teases. "Relax, the game's over."
"Nat."
"It's not what you think it is."
Nate snorts and looks out the window as Natalie pulls out of the school. "And what do I think it is?"
Nate can see Natalie looking at him out the corner of her eye as she speeds along, a smile turning at the corners of her mouth. If Brad drove a car, he'd drive like Natalie. Nate must have a thing for speed freaks. Not that he has a thing for Brad. Okay, maybe he has a little thing for Brad.
"I don't want you back," she says.
Nate didn't even realize he was holding his breath. He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed.
"I didn't think you did," he says.
"But you were worried; I can smell it on you," Natalie teases.
"Shut up, Nat."
"You shut up, Nate."
He laughs ruefully, this is what he misses about being with Natalie. What he misses about Brad: the easy camaraderie, the jokes. Natalie turns on the radio and Counting Crows fills the car speakers.
Nate smirks. "This is a little poppy for your tastes, isn't it?"
Natalie shrugs as she takes a corner on two wheels, and Nate has to grab the dashboard. "What can I say, my tastes are evolving. It's what people do, they evolve."
He grunts in response as she stops for a light and pokes him in the arm. "What's up with you and your boyfriend?"
Nate's entire body locks up. "I – what – I don't know what you're talking about."
Natalie whistles low. "Wow. I was waiting for you to laugh it off, not panic."
"I'm not panicking," Nate protests as Natalie shifts into first and takes off again.
"Please. I don't know what the hell happened between you two, but one minute you're tighter than Siamese Twins and the next you're acting like Romeo and Juliet. I'm convinced one of you is going to OD on NyQuil by mistake."
Nate snorts. "I'm not going to OD on NyQuil."
"Yeah, but you're dragging around like somebody stole your prized Cal Ripken baseball, and it's depressing to see."
"So don't look."
"Nate, you're taller than 95% of the school. It's hard not to see it when you and Brad aren't talking."
"I never said we weren't talking."
"Did I say 'bitch, please' yet?" Natalie asks.
Nate has to laugh. He feels like it's been a while since that's happened.
The Smashing Pumpkins are singing about today being the greatest day they've ever known, and Nate thinks about how shitty today was and how shitty tomorrow is going to be and how they're all going to look like that without Brad.
"I miss him," he says quietly.
"I know you do," she says. "I know how you two are."
Nate licks his lips. He has to know. "How are we exactly? Me and Brad?"
Natalie stops for another light and smirks at him. "Nate, nobody is ever going to mean as much to you as he does."
That's what Nate was afraid of. Confirmation.
"I know," Nate confesses. "But it's – it's weird – and hard. I don't know how to do this."
"If it's you two, you'll figure it out."
Nate sighs. "Did I mention the part where I don't know how to do this?"
"And here I was thinking you were so smart," Natalie mocks. "When'd you turn into such an idiot?"
It's right on Nate's tongue to say 'Right around the time that Brad kissed me.' He thinks better of it.
The radio station plays another song. Some guy named Jeff Buckley singing about last goodbyes.
"Do you know why I broke up with you?" Natalie asks when the song is over.
Nate blinks owlishly and shakes his head. He's thought about it for years. She'd given him some bullshit about them moving too fast and her needing space. He'd gone home and done something very close to crying. But that was years ago, he was 15. He's 17 now; he's too old to cry about a broken heart.
Natalie gives him a wry smile as she turns onto his street and pulls up in front of his house. She stops the car. "I broke up with you because I got tired of competing," she says. "I know who you're always going to choose. So do you."
Nate looks down at his knees and then up at his ex-girlfriend. "Thanks."
Natalie nods her head. "Anytime."
Nate doesn't sleep well that night. He thinks about Natalie. About the game. About Brad. He falls asleep briefly and dreams of Brad's hands on him, of Brad's mouth on his. He has flashes of Brad underneath him, sweaty and slick. His skin is flushed, his mouth wet and open, his hands clenching the sheets as Nate fucks him hard.
Brad's legs wrap around Nate like a bandage, keeping him close and tight, and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, the way it is after football practice. Brad's eyes are wide open and with every thrust he asks what took Nate so long.
Nate's jaw aches with the blow job he doesn't know how to give, and he wakes up so hard he feels dizzy.
He shoves his boxers down his thighs and strokes his dick, pausing when he's almost there to change hands. He's not used to using his left hand. The angle is weird and he can't quite figure out the grip, but he tries anyway.
He thinks about the calluses on Brad's hands, about the way Brad buried his face in Nate's neck when Nate touched him. How he shuddered when he came in his shorts.
And then he kills his own orgasm by remembering how he turned around and bailed.
He gives up trying to sleep at some ungodly hour and goes downstairs. His mom is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter and reading the newspaper.
Nate can feel her watching him as he gets a glass of orange juice. "Nate."
Nate grips the glass just a little too hard. He knows this tone of voice. "Yeah, Mom?" he sighs, turning around and leaning against the refrigerator door.
His mom pushes her hair behind her ear; he gets the gesture from her. "Sweetheart, I know I'm just your mom and all I do is worry, but I am worried. You're not sleeping. You're in your room all the time. You don't look good. You're losing weight."
"I'm fine," Nate says.
"No, you're not," she insists, a line appearing between her eyebrows. "I know something's wrong with you and Brad." A pause. "Rachel and I are worried."
Nate sets his glass on the kitchen counter and crosses his arms. "You've been talking to Brad's mom about us?"
"That’s what we do," his mom insists, sliding off of her stool. "We worry about you. We worry when you're together. We worry when you're apart. I'm a lot more worried when Brad's not scraping up the side of the house with his dad's ladder than I am when he is."
Nate bites his lip. "Mom, stop."
"I know how important Brad is to you. If there's something you want to talk about -- or tell me -- you can tell me. It's okay, I love you; it doesn't change anything."
Nate reels. She thinks he's coming out.
He doesn't need to come out, he's not gay. He just… he wants things he can't even define anymore.
This is all Brad's fault.
"I don't want to talk about it," Nate says mulishly.
"Nate, please."
"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, MOM!" he hollers.
The shouting is over before Nate's even realized what he's done. He can feel the blood leaving his face in a rush. His mother takes a step back, and her mouth thins into a line. "Nathaniel Christopher Fick."
"I'm sorry," he says, with genuine remorse, and just as quickly as the line between her eyebrows appeared, it smoothes out. "I didn't mean it, Mom. I just--"
"Go for a run," his mom says. "Go on. You need to get out of the house."
Nate takes a faltering step forward and his mom raises an eyebrow. He moves around the counter to give her a quick hug. "I'm sorry," he apologizes again.
She just pats him on the back. "Go on, get out of my house."
Ten minutes later, Nate's out of the house, Walkman firmly in place and Dr. Dre rapping in his ears. It's a cool morning, somewhere around 65 degrees, which is pretty good for December in Southern California.
He doesn't realize he's running in the direction that takes him to Brad's house until he sees Mrs. Colbert in the driveway, bent over the trunk of her Ford Taurus. He can't figure out if he should speed up or turn back, and then she waves to him and he has to slow to down.
"Hi, Mrs. C," he calls, hoping she's not doing what he thinks she is.
And then she removes a grocery bag and Nate's caught. He stops at the edge of Brad's driveway. This isn't his land. He isn't welcome here anymore, but manners trump everything.
"You, uh, you need some help there?" he offers.
Mrs. Colbert's smile is huge and all-encompassing. Like Brad's.
"Nate, I haven't seen you in forever. I'm going to take it personally soon," she teases, before holding out the paper bag. "Can you take this for me?"
Nate takes a step forward. He's reached out halfway when the front door opens and Nate's eyes automatically snap to attention even when he knows they shouldn't.
Brad fills the entire space the way he always does. He's wearing a faded gray Orioles shirt that looks a lot like the one Nate brought him back last summer from Baltimore after visiting his cousins. His hair is messy and he's wearing those black glasses that he only wears when he's been playing with his computers in the basement for too long.
He looks like he just woke up. Sleepy and rumpled. Nate's face goes hot when he thinks about his dreams this morning and his cock twitches in interest. It's like Nate hasn't seen Brad in years. Like he's been dying of thirst and someone just offered him an ocean of clean water, but he's too busy thinking about drowning to drink.
Nate snatches his hands away as though he's been burned and takes a step back. "I can't," he says apologetically. "I'm sorry."
He's almost a mile away before his heart stops pounding in his ears.
It's raining on Monday, but it’s not just rain, it's the kind of torrential downpour that only visits Southern California once a year. Nate's so tired when he pulls into the OHS parking lot that it's all he can do not to ditch school altogether and fall asleep in his backseat, but that's not his thing. At least not alone.
Three weeks into the start of the year, Brad kidnapped him in the parking lot before school and took him to the beach, because he just didn't feel like going to class that day, and if he wasn't feeling it then Nate obviously wasn't feeling it either.
Nate protested rather vehemently once they got to the beach that maybe he might've had a test or a presentation. Brad laughed at him. "I have a better idea of what you're supposed to be doing than you do," he promised.
Nate had scowled, but he'd stretched out in the sand anyway. Ten minutes later Brad had dumped a cold bucket of water on him that he'd borrowed from a four year-old girl with pigtails.
Nate rubs his eyes and rests his head on the steering wheel. He just has to make it through this day. He spent four hours last night going over his Calculus homework, trying to figure out derivatives. Brad would've been able to explain it to him in five minutes, but Nate doesn't have that luxury anymore.
Brad doesn't show up for third period Calculus and Coach Patterson doesn't call his name during roll call, which is a first. Coach Patterson always calls everyone's names. Even if you're sitting directly in front of his desk, he calls your name. He does this in football, too.
Nate keeps glancing over at the empty desk across the room where Brad's been sitting for the last month. He has no idea what they talk about in class, so when the bell rings and Coach Patterson asks him to stay behind, he's not surprised.
Nate collects his books as the room empties out and once Tommy Young vacates the seat in front of Nate, Bryan Patterson drops down in his place.
Patterson's been Nate's offensive coach since he joined the OHS football team. They've spent a lot of time together. "Nate, do you have any idea what I said today in class?" he asks with an amused twist of his mouth.
Nate shrugs. "Not a fucking clue, Coach."
Patterson shakes his head. "Your head's not in the classroom, is it?"
Nate gives a wan smile. "How could you tell?"
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not really, no."
"I'm a teacher, it's my job to ask. More importantly, I'm your coach. You can talk to me."
"I know."
"I notice you've been distracted lately."
Nate makes a derisive noise. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."
Patterson runs his fingers through thinning black hair. "You're one of the best quarterbacks the Devil Dogs have ever had, Nate. You should feel proud of all you've done."
Nate grunts.
Patterson chuckles. "You're bored without Brad, I take it."
Nate can feel the heat in his cheeks. "I, uh, I guess."
"That's understandable, but I think this is for the best."
"What's for the best?"
Patterson gives Nate a probing look. "His independent study. I've been trying to get him to take math classes at UC Oceanside since last year. I think he was only here to hang out with you." Nate stares. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" Patterson says.
Nate shakes his head.
"Ah," Patterson says. "Well, I can't go around talking about students with other students, or with my other players. But I will tell you that I think he'll be happier with something more advanced."
Nate just nods his head, his mind elsewhere.
Something more advanced.
Something more Brad's speed.
How much more obvious can everyone be?
That night Nate stays up late and does his homework. He works diligently at his Calculus and reads another ten chapters of Moby Dick for his English class tomorrow. In between assignments, he listens to his Dave Matthews CD and tries not to think about the college applications he's sent out, the letters he's waiting for, the SATs that Brad may or may not have taken.
It's one long Oroborus of worry that stretches out well into the next night. And the night after that. And so on.
It's on a night like all the others that Nate wakes up drooling on page 324 of Melville. He blinks blearily at the homework strewn on his desk, trying to release the crick in his neck as he gathers his papers. The red LED lights on his alarm clock tell him it's 1:34 in the morning, and as he's getting ready to climb into bed he glances out his window. There are candles in the front window of the house across the street. The Rosenbergs. Nate takes another step and looks at the candles a little closer, it's awful late to be leaving candles out -- and then it hits him.
Those aren't candles. It's a menorah.
It's the first night of Hanukkah.
A wave of anger and overwhelming sadness washes over him. He loves Hanukkah. The first year that Nate's family lived in Oceanside, Brad had him over to light the menorah and have latkes and applesauce. He introduced Nate to his first dreidel and Mrs. Colbert taught him The Dreidel Song.
He can still hear her lilting tone and Brad's high-pitched singing that dropped dramatically their freshman year. Nate remembers coming home from visiting his Grandmother Mae the summer before ninth grade and Brad having grown almost four inches in six weeks. That's probably an exaggeration, but Brad went from being a little shorter than Nate to towering over him.
He went from sharing Nate's clothes when they got dirty playing in Nate's backyard to being all legs and arms. Very ungainly legs and arms. And zits. Not that the pimples phase lasted more than a month, but Nate remembers it. Remembers Brad's voice cracking in US History.
His eyes are magnetically drawn to the shelves over his desk and he sees it. His dreidel. The one Brad gave him to spin. It's next to his signed Cal Ripken baseball and a bunch of other things he's held on to for various reasons. There's a football from the Joe Montana football camp he and Brad went to in eighth grade. He stands on his toes and runs his hand over the area he can't see. He comes away with a hand full of dusty ticket stubs from football games, baseball games, Disneyland, Six Flags, the San Diego Zoo.
He looks at the tickets and then he looks back at the dreidel.
Ten minutes later he's in the kitchen in his undershirt and sweatpants looking for a brown paper bag.
He scrawls Brad's name on the bag, trying hard not to think about what he's doing. Underneath Brad's name, he writes, Happy Hanukkah.
He disarms the security system, grabs his keys from beside the front door and dashes out into the night. He takes the shortcut to Brad's house, running across front lawns, back lawns and driveways, setting off at least two sets of security lights, until he arrives at Brad's house.
The light is on in Brad's window.
Nate pauses and looks up, looks at the shadow passing by the pulled curtains and wonders if he's making a huge mistake -- if it's too late now anyway. It's such a small gesture, but he has to try.
He wedges the bag with the dreidel between the clutch and the handlebars of Brad's bike, and then he turns around and runs home.
Brad doesn't acknowledge him the next day in AP English. Nate doesn't know what he expected to happen. A smile. A nod of the head. At least a raised eyebrow. He gets nothing.
Ms. Turner lectures about Moby Dick, about the significance of Ahab's obsession, about the traditional lore of white whales and their symbolism. About chasing after the unattainable. Nate raises his hand. "Isn't the point that the whale got the better of Ahab? That he lost perspective and couldn't see that his obsession was consuming everything?"
"I think it certainly has to do with perspective, Nate. Everyone has a white whale in their lives. Something that they're struggling to attain," she agrees.
"Where, exactly, would the world be without the proverbial white whales?" Brad interrupts. "Motivation is what gets things done. Fear of death. Fear of loss. Alexander never would've conquered new worlds if he wasn't trying to please his father."
Nate bristles. Motivation. Is that what they're calling it now? "Fear is definitely a great motivator," Ms. Turner says. "But –
"Fear makes people angry," Nate counters, turning in his seat. "Hanging loss over someone's head like the Sword of Damocles may be motivating, but it'll never get you loyalty."
"No one said Ahab wanted loyalty," Brad asserts.
"Of course he wanted loyalty," Nate says derisively. "Everybody wants loyalty. He was captain of his ship; he demanded loyalty. But look at what happens when you demand too much: you get insurrection. At the end of the day you can't always give people what they want. Sometimes you have to motivate people in other ways."
Brad's gaze is hard, direct. "There's only one captain."
Nate meets Brad head on. "Maybe that's the problem."
"Maybe that has nothing to do with the problem," Brad says icily.
There's a flash of something Nate can't parse. It's been a while. He turns back towards the front of the room, pointedly ignoring the rest of the class staring at him.
Nate thinks about skipping the second night of Hanukkah. Especially after that scene in AP English, but he finds himself leaving Brad a series of pictures of them working at Godfather's football camp last year anyway.
On the third night, it's a Ziploc bag full of Rice Krispie treats that he makes at two in the morning.
The fourth night he leaves Brad a brand new copy of Apocalypse Now that he bought at Blockbuster.
The fifth night he actually wraps the present. Or he tries to. He's had this signed Joe Montana shirt forever. It doesn't even fit well anymore. It's fraying and got a huge hole in the neck.
He's sliding the shirt box under the front wheel of Brad's motorcycle when a stream of light falls across the driveway. Nate's been caught red-handed. He can feel his fingers shaking as he turns to look at Brad's front door -- but it's not Brad; it's Brad's mom.
Nate can feel the despondency even as he breathes a sigh of relief. Mrs. Colbert crosses her front lawn in her robe and slippers. "Nathaniel, you can always knock on our door," she says softly, pushing her glasses up her nose. "It doesn't matter how late it is. I promise."
Nate gets to his feet, present in hand. "I don't think I can," he confesses.
"Are you sure?" Nate follows Mrs. Colbert's glance upward, at Brad's window. The light's off. Nate's heart beats an empty cadence. "He hasn't been asleep long," she persists.
"No, I -- I probably shouldn't. It's late."
"He misses you."
Nate looks down and scuffs the concrete with the toe of his flip-flops. He can feel his head starting to ache. His eyes starting to itch. He needs to go home. This was stupid.
"Nate, if you want to talk about it, I'm always here," she says.
Nate really has to go. "Could you just give this to him?" he says, thrusting the box into her hands.
"Are you sure you don't want to give it to him yourself?"
Nate nods.
"Is there anything you want me to say?" Brad's mother is nothing if not persistent.
Nate just shakes his head again. "No, I don't think he'd want to hear it anyway."
Hanukkah ends and leaves Nate with an empty shelf in his room. His Joe Montana football followed the tee shirt and his Cal Ripken baseball followed everything else. He doesn't have anything else to give at this point.
That doesn't make a dent in Brad's behavior at school though. And yet, Brad's books are still in Nate's locker, so he's either failing everything or borrowing from somebody else.
End of semester finals consume the last few weeks of school, and then it's winter holidays and Nate's entire house is taken over by Emily and Diane, relatives and decorations and being dragged to Episcopalian mass every time he turns around. Before he knows it, it's time for the New Year's Eve party at Poke's house.
Nate's skittish about attending, but between Natalie and Mike he doesn't seem to have much choice. He picks up Mike and they arrive a little before 11. They can hear the music from the driveway, which is only to be expected since Poke's parents are partying with friends off base, leaving Poke and all their friends to run amok.
People are smoking something herbal on the steps, there's a keg in the kitchen and Walt Hasser, Eric Kocher, Gina Fitzgerald and Pappy Patrick are playing beer pong in the living room under the mildly disapproving eye of Rudy Reyes.
Nate and Mike get beer and make a wrong turn into the laundry room where Poke's making out with Rudy's sister.
They backtrack automatically.
They make a few rounds, saying hi to people left and right until Mike gets waylaid by Shannon Miller. Nate nods his approval and moves off on his own to the backyard.
Natalie is holding court in the middle of several palm trees. She's sitting in a lawn chair with a bottle of beer and engaged in some sort of debate with Ray Person. Nate turns hard on his heel to avoid them. It doesn't quite work.
"Nate Fick, don't even try to walk away from me," Natalie yells loudly. "I know what kind of underwear you wear and will happily cover your entire car with them!" An entire backyard full of people turn in interest. Nate winces.
"Fucking perverts," Ray calls out. "Like you haven't seen his ass in the locker room anyway. Now if you want to talk about his mouth —"
Natalie slaps a hand over Ray's mouth. "Shut up, Ray," she says, smiling at Nate brightly.
"C'mon," she says, beckoning Nate closer with her free hand. "You know I don’t bite unless you ask nicely."
Ray's face turns an interesting shade of red; Nate gives Natalie a disapproving look. "Do you really want to get arrested for asphyxiation on the last night of 1994?"
"Maybe not tonight," she agrees, "but can you be an awesome ex-boyfriend and get me another beer from the kitchen?"
Nate looks from the huge plastic tub of ice and beer that several defensive linemen are huddled around back to Natalie. "Something wrong with that beer?"
"You know I hate that domestic shit," she says. "C'mon, Nate."
Nate sighs. "Fine. But let him breathe, would you? I'll never hear the end of it if he passes out."
He sets his red Dixie cup down on an errant plastic table and goes back inside. The living room is jam packed with people; Nate takes the long detour down the hall instead. The bathroom door nearly clobbers him and he just misses getting a broken nose. "You want to watch that fucking door?" he says irritably.
"Maybe you just need to watch where you're going," an unmistakable voice chides.
Nate can feel his eyes widening as he takes in Brad before him. That same dry smile, that crinkle at the corner of his eyes. The shirt he's … he's wearing Nate's shirt. Nate looks from Brad's face to his chest and then back again. His mouth goes dry and he licks his lips.
Brad's eyes narrow. "Problem, Fick?"
Nate opens his mouth, but all that comes out is, "Brad."
Brad's mouth quirks at the corner. "That's what my mom calls me."
Nate can hardly hear over the blare of the music, and then he's shoving Brad back into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.
Brad perches on the edge of the sink, arms crossed. "Something you want?"
There are a thousand things. What comes out is, "You're wearing my shirt."
"This is a Hanukkah present," Brad says blandly.
"I gave it to you."
Brad makes a noncommittal noise.
Nate pushes his hair behind his right ear. "I'm sorry," he says. Finally.
Brad's gaze is all disinterestedness. "Good for you," he says, standing up. It's probably just Nate's imagination, but he thinks Brad's grown another inch since the last time they were together. However you want to define 'together.'
Brad tries to step around Nate, but he stops when Nate grabs his bicep. "Brad," Nate knows he's pleading. He doesn't think he cares anymore.
Brad's face is hard, too hard. His eyes aren't telling the same story at all. "Do you even know what you're sorry for, Nate?"
Nate releases Brad's arm slowly, his fingers skating along exposed tanned skin and hard muscle until Brad jerks away.
"No, you don't – you don't get to do that," Brad says angrily.
It's strange that Nate can feel his own heart breaking all over again, when he didn't realize that's what it was the first time around. But he knows it for what it is now.
"Can't we work this out?" he says.
"I don't want to work it out – I don't want your pity."
Nate steps back, banging his spine directly into the door handle. "I don't – pity? Are you fucking kidding me?" he says. "Do you know how much shit you've put me through?! Do you know what it's been like for me?"
"Because it's just always about you," Brad says.
Nate has this strange image of his heart going up in a blue puff of smoke. He shakes his head vehemently. "You have no idea," he says in wonder.
"No, Nate, you have no idea," Brad says.
This time when Brad tries to go, Nate lets him.
The hallway is empty when Nate leaves except for Ray and Natalie standing at one end, beers in hand, eyes wide. If they recoil under his glowering, it's only what they deserve.
"Tell Mike I had to go," he says, turning around and walking out.
Nate's house is empty when he gets home. It's 11:52 p.m. on New Year's Eve and his entire family is out: his mom and dad are at some black-tie affair and Diane and Emily left to party in San Diego early in the afternoon.
Nate locks up behind himself and goes upstairs to take a shower.
The clock says it's 12:13 a.m. when he gets back to his room. Happy fucking 1995.
Nate thinks about watching some TV, but that requires going back downstairs. Instead he finds himself putting things away. His football binder goes on the empty shelf. So do the admissions catalogues that have been sprawled all over his floor. He throws some dirty clothes in the hamper and turns on Nirvana. He still can't believe that Kurt Cobain killed himself last spring.
He finds some truly foul workout clothes under his bed that he actually walks down to the laundry room and dumps in the washer with two scoops of detergent and some other smelly stuff he finds lying nearby.
Back in his room, the lights are blazing and there's more order than he's seen in a long time. He changes the sheets on his bed, probably for the first time all month, while singing along to 'In Bloom'. He lies down just for a minute and wakes up to a quiet room -- except for the knocking on his window.
Nate lies there for long seconds, wanting to make sure he's heard what he thinks he's heard.
And then he's crawling to the end of his bed, peering out the window and into the bemusedly irritated gaze of Brad Colbert. Nate gets up, unlocks the window and pushes it up.
"Can I help you?" Nate asks, struggling to contain the hopeful smile that wants out.
Brad waves him aside and climbs in. "When did you start locking my window?" he says, plopping down in Nate's desk chair and beginning to unlace his Chuck Taylors.
Nate crosses his arms to stop the shaking. "Your window?"
"Is there somebody else coming in this window that I don't know about?" Brad asks, looking up at Nate from underneath his eyelashes.
Nate looks away as Brad kicks off his shoes. "I started locking the window around the time that you quit the team and stopped talking to me."
Brad makes a considering noise. "I deserved that."
Nate watches Brad's sock-clad foot poke his ankle. "Why are you here, Brad?" he says to the floor before looking back up. His hands are shaking badly and he has to dig his fingernails into the skin near his elbows. Fucking adrenaline.
Brad's foot moves away and Nate looks up as Brad pulls off his socks. "I'm here to see you, even though you walked out on me."
"You walked out on me at Poke's party!" Nate counters. Brad raises an eyebrow. "Oh," he says, suddenly embarrassed. "You meant -- you meant before."
"That I did."
Nate sighs and sits down on his bed. Brad straightens up in the chair and fixes Nate with a steady look. "You started this," Brad says.
Nate scoffs. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah."
Nate shoves his sheets away and moves closer to Brad. "Are you really sure about that?" he says in a low tone, duly gratified when Brad's cheeks flush. "Why are you here?" he prompts again.
Brad rubs the back of his neck. "You left me your Joe Montana shirt. And your signed football. And your Cal Ripken baseball. You know I'm not giving that back, right?"
"I didn't give it to you so you'd give it back, Brad," Nate says softly. "I've never expected you to give me anything in the first place."
Brad stands up, stretching his arms over his head and showing Nate several inches of navel, skin and faint blond hairs.
Nate shakes his head. "That’s wrong," he says, turning away when he catches Brad watching him look.
Brad grins. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he says, taking the necessary steps to drop down next to Nate on the bed. The springs creak under their combined weight; Nate never noticed that before.
Brad's arm touches Nate's shoulder, their thighs pressing together when Brad spreads out his legs. They sit there for a long time, just breathing, just being in each other's space.
"Why didn't you say something before?" Nate says. "That was one hell of a shock, you know."
"You seemed to like it at the time," Brad counters.
Nate chuckles. "I'm 17, there's not much I don't like."
"You mean like Natalie."
"I told you I'm not back with Natalie."
"That was months ago. I saw you two at the state playoffs."
"So, you were there."
"You know I was."
Brad's gaze is piercing; Nate meets it head-on. "Natalie didn't want in my pants," he says, "she wanted to talk. And do you know what she wanted to talk to me about?" A beat. "You."
It's Brad's turn to inhale sharply.
Nate carries on. "Apparently, she and Ray don't approve of our fighting. And on the subject of Ray, can you call him the fuck off before I have to stuff him in a locker and end up with detention for the rest of the year?"
Nate can feel Brad laughing next to him. "I can't control Ray."
"That is an egregious lie," Nate says.
"Nice vocabulary."
"We can't all be math prodigies." Brad makes a noncommittal sound. Nate tries again. "So, about your trained attack dog…"
"Trained attack dog?"
"Dealing with Ray is like being mauled by a rabid Chihuahua."
Brad shakes his head, his mouth curling upwards. "I'll see what I can do."
"You do that." Nate pauses. "So, do you like your math class at UCO?"
Brad rubs his jaw. "I, uh, I haven't started yet. I couldn't start in the middle of the semester."
"So where've you been during Calculus?"
"Here. There. Around."
"You just couldn't be near me at all, huh?"
"I didn't quit English."
"I bet you tried, though," Nate says. It comes out more accusatory than it should.
Brad doesn't reply and they're quiet again. There's something indefinable stirring under Nate's skin. The panic is gone. The constant anxiety. The frantic need to not feel so alone. But he's not calm. He doesn't feel calm. He doesn't feel afraid either.
The problem has never been this between them; it's what comes from making more out of it. What if they fuck up?
Actually, they already have.
He surprises himself by breaking the silence. "I don't know if I can give you what you want."
He can feel the tension clamp down on Brad's body. "I've never told you what I want," he says stiffly. "I never asked for anything."
Nate turns his head and looks at Brad's profile, at the clenched jaw. "Do you know why Natalie broke up with me?"
The tension in Brad's body seems to ratchet upwards. It makes Nate's teeth hurt. "Why are we talking about her?"
"She broke up with me because she said she got tired of competing with you," Nate says. "She knows what everybody else knows, that I didn't get until now -- that I put you first. That I always put you first."
Brad's entire face goes slack, blue eyes darkening, and Nate's stomach churns with something that for the first time in ages isn’t stress. Brad's tongue darts out and wets his upper lip, and Nate is overcome by a wave of want. Yeah, he isn't prepared for this at all.
"You don't have to do anything, Nate," Brad says, his voice tight. "I don't want anyone feeling obligated to me."
Nate closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall. "The only thing I'll feel obligated to do is kick your ass if you pull shit like this again."
The vibrations of Brad's laughter run through Nate. They sit there for a long time, Brad's body heat seeping into Nate's skin and lulling him to sleep.
