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I frowned. Thoughts of Atlanta led to thoughts of Oglethorpe. I changed the topic. “Did your folks really listen to country music?”
“Sure. My dad was a huge George Strait fan, but he also liked some of the crappier country that was on the radio when I was a kid. What about you? What did your parents listen to?”
“My mom’s into opera…and, strangely, the Bee Gees. She listens to their albums endlessly when she writes. Dad likes Elvis Costello, Billy Joel, and Neil Diamond. Sometimes he listens to The Cars, but only ‘You Might Think’ and ‘Magic.’ He fast-forwards the cassette through the other songs.”
Daniel grinned. “What about you?”
I smiled. “I like The Cure and The Smiths. I love the latest R.E.M., and my childhood favorite was always Olivia Newton-John. I’d have done just about anything for John Travolta to start wearing a letterman jacket for me.”
Daniel grinned and took a sip of his drink. “You think I’d look good in a letterman jacket?”
“I think you’d look good in anything. You’re handsome. You know that, right?”
Daniel shrugged. “I’ll tell you a secret.”
I scooted a little closer, feeling the heat of his arm touching mine on the bar. “Okay.”
“You’re already aware of my musical taste from the mixtape I made for your birthday.”
“I loved it, by the way. I listen to it all the time.”
“Good.” He grinned and bumped my shoulder. “I do love all the songs I gave you, but I’m also secretly a huge Michael Jackson fan.”
I laughed. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.” He took a swig of his snakebite, wiped his lips with a napkin and laughed. “‘Are you okay’ was my tagline for everything senior year in high school. You know, from ‘Smooth Criminal?’ My boyfriend Kevin would be like, ‘Do you want to go eat at Mama Tia’s after school?’ and I’d say, ‘Kevin, are you okay?’”
“Which, obviously, meant yes.”
Daniel clinked his glass against mine. “Damn straight. Or my friend Margaret—the one I slept with?”
“I remember.”
“Anyway, she’d ask if I did my homework and I’d say—”
“Margaret, are you okay?”
“Exactly.”
I laughed, shaking my head at him, relieved that Daniel was, deep down, a total dork. I gazed at him fondly. “That’s kinda lame.”
“I know.”
“We had something like that last year. ‘Calling spoons.’ It meant that something was bullshit. If someone lied or did something crappy, we’d say, ‘that’s spoons.’”
“How’d it get started?”
I shrugged and tried to make it sound like no big deal. “I got beaten up by a homophobic asshole, and my teacher stealthily accused him of being closeted with some obscure quote about counting spoons.”
Daniel frowned. “You got beaten up?”
I took a sip of my club soda. “Nothing new. Happens a lot, actually. Or it did. I’m sort of hoping I’m past that stage of my life now.”
“I’m sorry.”
I took a gulp and the ice crackled in the glass. “I guess you didn’t have that kind of problem?”
Daniel smiled sadly. “I was the richest kid in my tiny little town. No one was going to risk not being invited to one of my birthday parties by calling me a fag or trying to start something with me.”
