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Go away,he thinks.Stop doing that.
—
Later, Ryan isthe first to wake for real. Disoriented by the house, by the room, by the bed—but then grounded by the pink hair just a few inches from his eyes, the soft truth of the sleeping body at his side. And not just at his side—sometime in the night, Avery’s arm reached for Ryan’s arm and stayed there, once again overlapping.
The room is lit only by the sunshine filtering in from outside. Ryan stands up and walks to the window, bends back the shade and looks at the blanketed landscape. Icicles, some the length of swords, dangle from the edge of the roof.
“Is it still snowing?” Avery asks from behind him.
“No,” Ryan answers, turning. Watching as Avery slowly sits up, impulsively stretches—those early-morning infant movements, when we see if everything is still working, and if we remember how it all works. Even though Avery’s hair is a pink nest and his eyes are scrunched up and his cheek bears the imprint of a pillowcase’s seam, in this light, this pale morning filter, Ryan feels such a remarkable attraction toward him—desire, yes, but also a profound fondness, a deep cherishing.
“Let’s build a snow dragon,” Avery mumbles, eyes closing.
Ryan doesn’t think he’s heard this right. “What?” he asks—gently, just in case Avery is going back to sleep.
“A snow dragon,” Avery repeats more emphatically, eyesstill closed. “Surely they have snow dragons where you come from?”
“Nope,” Ryan confesses.
“Well then.” Avery opens his eyes, sits up. “I guess I’ll have to show you.”
They don’t bother changing out of their sleep clothes. Instead they go back to the dryer and Ryan pulls his jeans on over the sweats. Socks return to feet. Boots return to socks. Mittens return to hands.
It is so bright outside, and no longer quiet—the morning is scored by the sound of dripping, the sound of shovels being used a few houses over. If he looks closely, Avery can see shallow commemorations of last night’s footprints. Even the snow angel remains as a shadow of its former self—still there, but partly lifted.
The boys gather up some snow, but never scoop so deep that the grass will begin to show, spoiling the illusion of white. What starts as a mound slowly becomes a shape. What seems at first a shape evolves into a body. And from this body, a neck is grown, a head. Wings on the ground. A tail. A bystander might not be able to decipher it. But when Avery’s mother looks out the window, she turns to her husband and says, “Oh, look, they’re building a snow dragon!”
—
We all knowthat nothing built with snow will last.
But we all remember what it’s like to have snow in your hands, to make something soft less soft so you can buildwith it. We all remember the sensation of being outside, of making a shape, of building.
So some part of it must last.
—
Later, Ryan willfind the texts from his father, telling him the roads are fine now, so he should come home. And after Ryan replies by turning off his phone, Avery’s mother will receive a call from his mother, saying just about the same thing. Later, Ryan, Avery, and Avery’s parents will take turns with their two shovels, digging out Ryan’s truck, making a path for him to leave. But not before lunch. Not before a last round of kissing in Avery’s bedroom. Not before photographs are taken with their creation.
—
As they buildthe snow dragon, they talk, but not about the snow dragon. Avery doesn’t tell Ryan what shapes to make; Ryan doesn’t make suggestions on the scale pattern they trace with their bare fingers into the dragon’s skin. It doesn’t matter that Avery has done this before. It doesn’t matter than Ryan hasn’t. The end result is nothing like what it would have been if Avery had built it alone, or if Ryan had. You will never be able to entirely tell who did what. Whatever results is unique to the two of them.
It is, they will say later, the first thing they built together.
It is the first of many things that will be entirely theirs.
Grounded
(the sixth date)
Ryan is grounded. When he gets home after his snowbound overnight with Avery, he receives a nearly unprecedented tongue-lashing from his parents, the end result being that he is not to leave the house for anything but school or his job for an unspecified time—or, rather, the specified time ofuntil you learn your lesson.As soon as he gets home each day, he has to deposit his car keys on the kitchen counter. One of his parents also calls the house fifteen minutes after his school day or work shift ends, to make sure he is there.
This pisses Ryan off for a number of reasons. He is unsure what lesson he is supposed to be learning—to be sure to drive in hazardous, snow-blind conditions? To never put his mother in a situation like the one where she had to justify her irrationality to Avery’s mother over the phone? Or maybe he is supposed to learn that there is no place for a boy in his life until he escapes to college.
Then there is the matter of the car keys. His parents didnot contribute a single cent to the purchase of his pickup truck. He has always been fine with this, because it means the truck is entirely his. His parents have no claim to the keys. But they are claiming them anyway, landlording it over him.
His parents are aware of how far away Avery lives; they know it’s not a quick trip for him to sneak over there after school. Still, Ryan’s father can’t help but mention the cameras they now have on the front door and the garage, which can be monitored on both parents’ phones. The house has become his parents’ accomplice.
