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And then one afternoon, in the fall of his senior year, Pete Michaels plunked down next to him, and said, “So this is where you go at lunchtime. I’ve been wondering.”
He was speechless. Why would Pete Michaels wonder about where Larry had his lunch? It didn’t make sense.
“You don’t mind if I sit with you, do you?”
“No. I guess not,” Larry said, but he didn’t really mean it. He might mind, he wasn’t sure. Pete was a popular boy. Popular boys sometimes did awful things. He wasn’t sure why Pete was there at all.
“What are you having for lunch?”
“Turkey sandwich and potato chips. And a couple of chocolate chip cookies.”
“Today was tuna boats. I can’t stand tuna boats. They use too much celery. I couldn’t finish them.”
And then Larry understood. He held out what was left of his lunch. Surprisingly, Pete seemed offended.
“You think I’m here to steal your lunch?”
Larry pulled his lunch back. If Pete wasn’t there to take his lunch, then why was he there?
“Do you need help with your homework?”
“I always need help with my homework. But that’s not—you really can’t figure out why I wanted to sit with you?”
“Um, no.”
Pete leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was sweet, aggressive and then vulnerable by turns. His hand came up and cupped the back of Larry’s head. His tongue began to explore, but then he stopped and pulled away—
“I’m sorry if I taste like tuna.”
“I don’t care.”
Pete smiled, the same smile Larry had noticed so many times and never understood his noticing had been noticed.
“Good,” Pete said and kissed him again.
16
April 12, 1996
Friday morning
As it turned out, Ronnie lovedBabeand we had a pleasant night. Except that I was edgy and jumped every time a car drove down our street—which was often.
The next morning, I snuck out of bed at seven, leaving Ronnie snoring softly—probably dreaming of talking pigs—and went down the hall to John’s door. Tapping on the door, I felt guilty waking him up. He’d gotten in around two.
“Can I borrow the Lunchbox?” I whispered into the dark room.
He made an affirmative sound and pointed at the dresser. The keys were sitting there in a bowl.
“Where is it?”
“Oh-nan,” he said.
I translated that to mean Ocean Boulevard, and said, “Thanks.”
The Lunchbox was John’s name for his silver 1989 Ford Fiesta with a dove gray vinyl interior. He joked that the car was not much bigger than a lunchbox and about as solid. Well, maybe it was a joke. Honestly, it seemed close to the truth.
I folded myself into the car, my head scrapping the roof. John was only a few inches shorter than me, so it couldn’t have been much more comfortable for him. I adjusted the driver’s seat so that I was driving in a near reclining position, and then set out for downtown L.A.
