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“Goodjob.”Romanpicks upRamboand solemnly bumps the kitten’s tiny, wet nose against mine. “Hesays good job, too.”
Therustling of grocery bags announcesScout’sarrival. “Icame up with a plan,” he proclaims as he shoves the food into the dog-hair-covered cargo area. “Weplay twenty questions on the way to getBeckand the loser has to wash dishes for two weeks.”
Ibite back a sigh.Twentyquestions isn’t a game between the four of us–it’s a sport.BeckandScouthave been trying to stump each other since they were ten years old.You’refucked if you’re not mentally prepared, which meansI’mgoing to be scrubbing a lot of pots and pans in the near future. “Idon’t–”
BeforeIcan finish,Romanbrightens up. “Ithought of a really good one the other day.You’llnever get it.”
Itfeels like the car ride is never going to end.Iscrunch down in the overly-warm back seat with my head propped against the dirty window and stare at my skinned knee where it shows through the hole in my jeans.Everyonce in a while, whenInotice a pause,Ithrow outis it bigger than a loaf of breadordo people keep one in their housewithout really listening to the answers.Pullingout my phone,Iignore a vague churn of car sickness asIflick through the social mediaIalmost never use.
Wemake a detour to the hardware store on our way to pick upBeckfrom his meeting.There’sonly one reasonScoutandRomancome here–cheap stuff for makingBDSMgear.Tryingnot to think about the video that scarred me for life,Istay in the car and watch them cross the parking lot hand-in-hand before going back to my phone.Idon’t know whatI’mlooking for, but the algorithm keeps cluttering my feed with random local news stories.DenverHighSchoolFacesBacklashOverTransgenderSwimmer.
IknowIshouldn’t open the comments.Ifucking know.Onceyou’ve started, you can go on and on for days, because the hate never ends.I’vecrawled down this hole before.Itcut me up and poured poison in the wounds, making me question thingsImade peace with a long time ago.Today, that’s exactly whyIclick on the article.
I’mso lost in reading comments thatIjump asScoutandRomeopen the doors and toss a plastic bag in the seat next to me.Whenthe air conditioning blows a swirl of cool air across the sweat gathered on my neck,Iclose my eyes in relief.
“It’syour turn.”
WhenIrealizeScout’swaiting for an answer,Ilift my head.There’sa greasy, bitter taste in my mouth, and a throbbing behind my eyes that keeps getting worse.Ifeel a little likeI’mdrunk, but only the bad parts. “Oh, um…I’mready.”
“Isit edible?”Scoutasks with laser precision, following the optimal strategy he’s developed.
“Yep.”
“Isit a sandwich?”
“Yep.”
“Isit aPB&J?”
“Yougot it.”
Hecreases his forehead at me in the rearview mirror. “Areyou throwing the competition?”
“No,Ijust…”Ishrug, mentally begging him to leave me alone.Sometimesthe charm of spending 24/7 with your best friends wears off a little. “Iwas going for reverse psychology.”
“Ohhhhh.Inever thought of that.”Heprops his arms on the wheel and drives on in silence, likeIjust broke his brain.
EveryweekI’vewanted to go inside the community center and check out the setup for the meetings, maybe say hi to the leaders.Seehow my boy is doing.ButBeckis always waiting on the curb with his hands in his pockets when we drive up.Hecircles the car and slides into the back seat next to me in a flurry of summer air and the warm, slightly sweet smell that clings to his skin. “‘Sup?”
“Twentyquestions,”Romananswers as we pull away from the curb and finally turn toward home, thank god.
“Fuckyeah,I’mready.”Herubs his hands together and leans forward, flashing me a grin.Heonce had us guessing for four hours before we figured out that his answer was the concept of ambidexterity.
Theirwords bounce vaguely around my head asIgo back to reading endless comments, like an addict.Becauseat least for an hourIfound an easier, sharper pain than the screaming hurtIwoke up with this morning.
“What’chareading?”Beckplucks my phone out of my hand beforeIcan react.Iscrabble for it in a panic, but he pushes me away with one arm and holds it out of reach with the other.
“No,”Ihiss, under the hum of the conversation in the front seat. “Giveit back.I’mnot kidding.”Whenhe doesn’t listen,Icurl my fingers tight in the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Please,Beck.”
Ican see the confusion first, the tilt of his head as he scans line after line of pure hate, then the moment his whole body deflates.Theknot of self-loathing in my throat feels so thickIcan barely swallow around it when he turns and pierces me with his green-gold eyes. “Whatthe hell?” he murmurs.
“It’snothing.Pleasejust drop it.”Reachingpast him,Igrab the phone and stuff it in my jeans, then press my shoulder against the door and stare out at the nail salons and burger joints flicking past.Ishould have stayed home this morning.IfIdon’t get some fresh air,Ireally am going to start crying.Thefifteen minute drive between me and my bed sounds like an eternity.
Aftera couple of minutes, my phone buzzes against my thigh and snaps me partway out of the fog in my head.EveryoneItext is already here in the car.WhenIsee that it’s a video fromBeck,Iglance over at him in confusion.He’sjust lounging casually in his seat, arguing withScoutabout the validity of my “reverse psychology” method of twenty questions.
Chewingmy lip,Iopen the file.It’sa video ofBeck’sright hand, the faded lettersS-T-A-Ytattooed along his knuckles.Basedon his jeans and the ripped tan upholstery, he took it in the last minute or two.Hecan’t really sign properly one-handed in his lap, so he quickly spells it one letter at a time.Ithink you’re awesome.
Ilook at him again, but he’s ignoring me on purpose.Thesecond timeIplay the video,Iwatch the sure, easy way he shapes the letters, the flex of tendons in his sturdy forearm.Iknow the tattoo on his left knuckles saysT-R-U-E.Asfar as finger tats go, it’s not too bad.AndI’venever met anyone who lives by that adage as purely asBeck.
