Winger

lit class

I DIDN’T NORMALLY RUN INTO kevin at school, but I looked for him everywhere that day after Halloween.

Eventually, I just quit trying. I knew I’d see him at lunchtime, when he and the others left for their weekends at home.

Somehow, I’d managed to scrawl out my Nick-and-Bill-are-gay-for-each-other essay for Mr. Wellins, and he practically salivated when I handed it in to him at the start of Lit class.

What a moron.

What a criminal waste of a blue book, too.

I sat down.

Annie smiled, but JP didn’t even turn to look at me.

I wished he’d just get up and change seats and leave us both alone.

After all, I did what I could. I screwed up and got into a fight with a guy who was one of my best friends. And I knew JP was going to pout like this for the rest of the year—maybe the rest of high school entirely.

Then Mr. Wellins began talking about Halloween costumes, and how they were manifestations of suppressed sexuality, and he started blah-blah-blahing about every goddamned kid in the class and how he took notes on all of us at the dance last night, and Ryan Dean West was in touch with his atavistic and primal man-drives, and, oh—let’s go around the room and talk about our Hemingway essays.

So, yeah, Annie and I pretty much shut it all out, scooted our desks close together, held hands on my lap—score one for atavism!—and whispered and mouthed our own unobserved conversation. And all the while, I was praying that old pervert didn’t call on his favorite caveman to out poor Nick Adams and his friend.

“I had so much fun last night,” I said.

“So did I. You’re a great dancer.”

“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes and squeezed her fingers. “It’s going to be so boring here this weekend. Ask your mom and dad about Thanksgiving. I really want to go.”

“I know they’ll want you to come. It’ll be so great, Ryan Dean. It’s just a few weeks away.”

“It’ll seem like forever. I’m going to go crazy this weekend without you.”

She leaned closer and looked right into my eyes with that amazing look she had.

I know we would have kissed if we hadn’t been sitting right there in a classroom.

JP coughed and gave us a quick dirty look and scooted his desk farther away from Annie’s.

Good.

“Who are you going to the airport with?” I asked.

“Kevin’s driving. With one arm. And Megan and Joey.” She said, “Chas isn’t coming, so you won’t be totally lonely, Ryan Dean. Think of all the fun you two boys will have together.”

She laughed quietly.

Crap.

“Have you seen Joey today? He wasn’t in Calc or Econ.”

“He’ll meet us at lunchtime.”

“I’ll walk you out when you leave.”

“Okay.”

“Which brings us to young Mr. West,” Mr. Wellins announced, snapping Annie and me out of our midclass dream.

He went on, “Ryan Dean has a particularly interesting theory on sexual tension that is quietly hinted at, like an urgent whisper, by Hemingway in ‘The Three-Day Blow.’ ”

Ugh.

The class weakly attempted stifling their laughter.

All this crap, just to get into a stupid Halloween dance. And, by the way, what did he mean with that “young Mr. West” comment? I was so sick of that crap, and I even got it from perverted old professors.

“Please elucidate, Ryan Dean,” Mr. Wellins said.

“Oh. Please do, young Mr. West,” JP whispered mockingly from the other side of Annie’s desk, without turning to look at me.

Crap.