Two Boys Kissing Read online

  Cooper’s loathing of everyone else—his parents, the people in his town, the men he chats with—is surpassed only by his loathing of himself. There is nothing that will add depth to despair like the feeling of deserving it. Cooper drives around, not knowing what to do, not knowing where to go. He barely notices that he’s running low on gas. Then the warning light pops on, and he’s almost grateful for it, because now at least there’s a next thing to be done.

  He wasn’t always like this. Nobody is ever always like this. There was a time he was happy, a time that the world engaged him. Catching inchworms and naming each one. Blowing out candles on a cake his mother had made, with twenty of his fifth-grade friends around him. A home run in a pivotal Little League game that made him feel like a champion for weeks. A desire to draw, to paint. Shooting baskets at lunchtime with the other guys.

  But high school confused things. He didn’t want to do sports anymore. Friends moved away—if not from town, then from his lunch table. The dullness started to pervade the outside of his life, and the noise started to grow on the inside. He spent more and more time on the computer. This wasn’t really a choice; it was simply the one thing that was always there.

  Now his laptop is dead in the backseat. It doesn’t really bother him.

  In another car, Avery drives to Kindling. The land around him is flat, the horizon long. He tries not to rehearse what he’s going to say to Ryan, because he doesn’t want it to sound like a performance. All of the dates he’s been on before have been half-hearted attempts with a boy in town who’s known him way too long. Neither one of them was sure what he wanted, so they tried to put one another into that void. It never held, and Avery just happened to realize it five minutes before Jason did. “No harm, no foul,” Jason had said, and this phrase in itself pointed to why Avery wasn’t interested. He wants to be with someone who knows that a harm is much worse than a foul.

  A boy with blue hair would have to know this, Avery thinks. Or at least there’s a chance he knows this.

  Avery is about to find out.

  After a year, Peter and Neil feel they are beyond the discovery phase. But we’re sure that they will continually discover this not to be the case. There’s always something new to learn about the person you love.

  Neil is not surprised to get to Peter’s house and to find him still in his boxers, sitting on the floor of his rec room, navigating a fantasy world on his game console.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter says. “I’ve almost gotten the Guild of Wizards to sign my treaty. Twenty minutes, I swear.”

  Neil foolishly forgot his own homework, so he goes to Peter’s room and fetches Peter’s homework to do instead. It would be one thing if Peter’s game involved massive amounts of battle and swordfightery. But from what Neil can tell, it’s more about making and breaking alliances. In other words, politics, with beards and robes. Not his thing. Balkan Bloodbath 12, the game he brought over yesterday, sits on the ground.

  Peter knows Neil’s not into it, but can’t help but play anyway. Because once this treaty is signed, he is going to be able to travel to the water nymphs’ world for the first time.

  He doesn’t even notice what Neil’s doing until he’s through. Treaty accomplished, he finds that Neil is halfway through his English assignment.

  “I can do that,” Peter says. He knows he should like it when Neil does his homework for him, but he doesn’t. He knows Neil does it because it’s easier for him … and that’s precisely why Peter doesn’t like it.

  “You have more important things to do,” Neil says. “I mean, what’s John Steinbeck compared to the fate of the Guild of Wizards?”

  “I like Steinbeck.”

  “You know what would be cool?”

  “What?”

  “If your game took place underwater.”

  Peter knows Neil is going somewhere with this. Some joke. But he can’t figure out the punch line.

  He gives in and asks why.

  “Because then the wizards could be fish, and it would be the Guild of Gilled Wizards.”

  Peter smirks. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  “More like you swam into it.”

  Peter likes these jokes, these jibes. Really, he does. It’s just that he’s not always in the mood for them. Sometimes he wishes he were dating someone a little stupider, or at least someone who doesn’t think about each word in every sentence he utters.

  Neil doesn’t realize he’s gone one step too smart. He doesn’t change the subject because he senses something (slightly) wrong. Instead his innate gauging of the rhythm of the conversation knows it’s time to move on.

  “Pancakes,” he says. “I think we need pancakes.”

  This time, Peter knows what’s coming, and joins in. They both start jumping up and down on one leg, yelling, “I-hop! I-hop!”

  We are such wonderful idiots, Peter thinks.

  We often believe the truest measure of a relationship is the ability to lay ourselves bare. But there’s something to be said for parading your plumage as well, finding truth as much in the silly as the severe.

  Your humor is your compass and your shield. You can hone it into a weapon or you can pull its strands out to make your very own cotton-candy blanket. You can’t exist on a diet of humor alone, but you can’t exist on a diet without it, either.

  All the quips in the world couldn’t prevent Oscar Wilde from becoming a lovesick fool. But he rallied at the end. More than one of us borrowed his last words, staring off into the distance and uttering, “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.” There were even variations: “Either the mayor goes, or I do” or “Mother, either those shoes go, or I do” or “Honey, either that mustache goes, or I do.” Maybe not our exact last words, and maybe not Oscar Wilde’s exact last words, either. But you get the point. When the end comes, there will be important things to say, for sure. But there will also be that last laugh, and you will want it.

  Laughter rarely lasts longer than a few seconds, it’s true. But how enjoyable those few seconds are.

  Before Harry and Craig begin their kiss, they are presented with some gag gifts.

  Harry’s parents present the two boys with a canister of Binaca. We laugh when it’s clear that neither boy knows what it is. How would we explain it to them? That long ago, when you wanted your breath to be doused with mint, you’d pull out one of these slim metal tubes and spritz a little Binaca into your mouth. Whether you were covering up booze or covering up a more general sourness, you could rely on this hissing blast to do the trick. It didn’t taste like anything natural, and if you were doing it before kissing someone, it always worked best if you both took a dose, so you could taste chemical together. In our arsenal of subterfuge, it was a largely harmless selection. We’re amused by its presence now, in the same way that Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez are amused. After an explanation, Harry and Craig thank them, but neither of them tries the spray. They’re chewing gum instead.

  Their friend Rachel shows them that she’s decorated a bedpan with the face of an infamous radio talk-show host. They won’t be able to use it during the kiss, but maybe right afterward. Smita takes out a bag of valentine hearts—not easy to find in the off-season—and shows them she’s filled the whole bag with hearts that say KISS ME on them. Another friend, Mykal, has gone with another holiday and has attached a piece of mistletoe (also hard to find in the off-season) to the end of a fishing line, so he can dangle it over their heads as they kiss.

  Finally, it’s Tariq’s turn. He’s been setting up the cameras, making sure everything’s been positioned right, so the lamps that illuminate the yard will also light Harry and Craig once night falls. If the kiss works, nobody’s going to take their word for it. Everything needs to be documented precisely, so Tariq’s got an army of cameras at the ready and a troop of reinforcement batteries on hand. Not only will the kiss be recorded, it will be streamed live, so no accusation can be made that the kiss was faked, or that any break was edited away. Three of the teachers fro
m school have offered to take shifts as witnesses. Ms. Luna, the head of the math department, is starting.

  But first Tariq has his gifts.

  The first requires him to drag a duffel bag over the grass.

  “Is that a body?” Harry asks.

  “Or maybe just a head?” Craig wonders.

  They are not far off. With a grin, Tariq lifts out a bust of Walt Whitman to preside over the event. Then, to mark the occasion, Tariq recites one of Whitman’s poems:

  We two boys together clinging,

  One the other never leaving,

  Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making,

  Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,

  Arm’d and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,

  No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,

  Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,

  Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,

  Fulfilling our foray.

  Everyone applauds.

  Then Tariq breaks out his second gift—an iPod with exactly thirty-two hours, twelve minutes, and ten seconds of music on it, each song chosen and sequenced with the same care a DJ would use. All of Harry’s and Craig’s favorite songs are on there, as well as hundreds of other songs “donated” by friends.

  “Just tell me when to hit play,” Tariq says.

  They are almost at the start.

  In another town in the same state, Cooper realizes that a full tank of gas is only going to solve one of his problems, and a minor one at that.

  He pulls into the parking lot of a Walmart. He takes out his phone and looks at the names in his contacts list. That’s what they feel like to him—contacts. People he has contact with. Contact in class. Contact in the hallways or at lunch. Not friends. Not really. Not if being someone’s friend means not being fake. He’s been fake with all of them. Are there some who’d let him come over if he asked? Sure. Are there even some who would listen to what happened, who would worry on his behalf? Probably. But when he tries to play out that scene with any of them, it falls flat. It doesn’t help. It only adds bystanders to what’s essentially his burden, and his alone.

  So he closes his contacts. He opens an app. He decides to talk to some strangers instead.

  There are ten messages on his phone, too. He ignores them.

  Avery arrives in Kindling, and his nerves crescendo. He remembers everything about Ryan, but doesn’t really know much about him. What if last night was an aberration—what if, in the ordinary daylight of an ordinary day, the feeling of serendipity dissipates?

  We called this hopegoggling. The fear that nighttime is really a rose-colored world, and that the morning will show that the things you hoped were happening weren’t really happening, that your heart got ahead of itself. And, let’s be honest, a lot of the time this was true—the force of loneliness was strong, and it swayed us. Or the euphoria of the helium hours was strong enough to lift us into the realm of improbability. The next day, the sugar rush had worn off. The next day, there was very little left to say to each other.

  But sometimes—sometimes—it was there. The magic we’d created had remained. Maybe it even grew in the daylight. Because if it could be a part of our day, that meant it could be a part of our lives. And if it could be a part of our lives, it was a magic worth many risks and leaps.

  We went through this so many times, but Avery has never felt like this before. He doesn’t know yet that doubt lingers around anticipation like bees hover around flowers. The trick is to not let the doubt intimidate you into walking away. Doubt is an acceptable risk for happiness.

  We count down the minutes until Avery pulls into Ryan’s driveway. We count down the seconds until Ryan opens the door, comes stepping outside. Because we know that the best antidote for doubt is presence. Magic naturally fades over distance. But proximity—well, when it works, proximity amplifies magic.

  The blue-haired boy smiles as he approaches the pink-haired boy. The pink-haired boy gets out of his car, finds the blue-haired boy waiting for him. They say their hellos. They teeter in an awkward moment. Then they teeter into a welcome hug, a reunion hug, a this-means-something hug.

  Anticipation is no longer needed—because the moment is now.

  Harry and Craig have taken their last proper bathroom breaks for the next thirty-two hours, twelve minutes, and ten seconds. The cameras are ready to go. Ms. Luna holds a stopwatch. Other friends have gathered. Harry’s parents give the two boys two thumbs up.

  It’s time.

  Harry leans over and whispers into Craig’s ear.

  “I love you.”

  And Craig leans over and whispers into Harry’s ear.

  “I love you, too.”

  Nobody hears them but us.

  Then it’s here. Months of preparation, weeks of practice, and years of living have led up to this moment.

  They kiss.

  Harry has kissed Craig so many times, but this is different from all of the kisses that have come before. At first there were the excited dating kisses, the kisses used to punctuate their liking of each other, the kisses that were both proof and engine of their desire. Then the more serious kisses, the it’s-getting-serious kisses, followed by the relationship kisses—that variety pack, sometimes intense, sometimes resigned, sometimes playful, sometimes confused. Kisses that led to making out and kisses that led to saying goodbye. Kisses to mark territory, kisses meant only for private, kisses that lasted hours and kisses that were gone before they’d arrived. Kisses that said, I know you. Kisses that pleaded, Come back to me. Kisses that knew they weren’t working. Or at least Harry’s kisses knew they weren’t working. Craig’s kisses still believed. So the kissing had to stop. Harry had to tell Craig. And it was bad, but not as bad as he feared. They had built a friendship strong enough to withstand the disappearance of kisses. It was off balance at first, for sure—their bodies not knowing what to do, the magnetism toward kissing still there, because even when the mind shuts off the romance, it sometimes takes a while for the body to get the message. But they made it through that, and they never stopped hugging, never abandoned all contact. Then Craig had this idea, and Harry wanted to do it. Enough time had gone by that when they started kissing again, the electricity was gone, replaced by something closer to architecture. They were kissing with a purpose, but the purpose wasn’t them; it was the kiss itself. They weren’t using the kiss to keep their love alive, but were using their friendship to keep the kiss alive. First for minutes. Then for hours. The hardest thing, when kissing for hours, was staying awake. Focusing. To be connected to someone else, but to be retreating entirely into yourself. Because when you kiss someone, you can’t really see them. They become a blur. You must use touch as your touchstone, breath as your conversation. After many attempts, they found their rhythm. They made it to ten hours one Sunday. That was as far as they’d gotten. And now here they were, trying for more than three times as long. All to prove a point. And maybe it’s all of the hours and maybe it’s the point that’s making this kiss much more intense than Harry had thought it would be. Their lips make contact and Harry feels a charge. It doesn’t rise from the past as much as it’s created in the present. Even though it isn’t what they had planned, he finds himself putting his arm around Craig’s waist, finds himself drawing Craig a little closer, kissing him a little more than the rehearsal kisses. The small crowd cheers for them, and Harry can feel Craig smile underneath their contact. He can feel that smile in Craig’s breathing, in his lips, in his body. Harry wants to smile back, but is gripped by something more profound than a smile, something vast and inarticulate that fills his lungs, fills his head. He has no idea what he’s gotten into, no idea what this all means. He thought he knew. He’d thought it out so many times. But what use is abstraction when it comes to a kiss? What use is planning? Harry kisses Craig and feels there is s
omething bigger than the two of them just outside the kiss. He doesn’t reach out to it—not yet. But he knows it’s there. And that makes this unlike any other kiss they’ve ever shared before. Immediately, he knows this.

  Craig is still thrown by the I love you that Harry whispered to him. That is what he’s thinking about when the kiss begins.

  Tariq makes sure all the cameras and the computers are working. He makes sure the live feed is working.

  Right now, Tariq is the only viewer online.

  We settle in. We watch.

  Ryan doesn’t invite Avery inside his house, and Avery doesn’t ask why.

  “Where are we headed?” Avery asks once they’re both strapped into their seats. “What’s the best Kindling has to offer?”

  Ryan is torn. The Kindling Café is easily the best Kindling has to offer. But because of that, most of his school will be there on a Saturday, using the wi-fi and hanging out. If he takes Avery there, it will become a group event, and he doesn’t want it to become a group event, not yet.

  So there’s only one destination that makes any kind of sense.

  “The river,” he tells Avery. “How do you feel about heading to the river?”

  “I feel great about heading to the river,” Avery replies.

  Exactly what Ryan wants to hear.

  One of the many horrible things about dying the way we died was the way it robbed us of the outdoor world and trapped us in the indoor world. For every one of us who was able to die peacefully on a deck chair, blanket pulled high, as the wind stirred his hair and the sun warmed his face, there were hundreds of us whose last glimpse of the world was white walls and metal machinery, the tease of a window, the inadequate flowers in a vase, elected representatives from the wilds we had lost. Our last breaths were of climate-controlled air. We died under ceilings.