It all started when a substitute teacher paired Weston Brooks and me for a biology class assignment—an unlikely pair. And that was when my love for science and his love for sports combined got us into trouble . . .
When I heard both our names called out at the same time, I felt a) confusion, because that's not a combination I'd heard before, b) disappointment, because I was always paired with my BFF Nia, and working on a project with her just felt like hanging out, c) anxiety, because the prospect of working together on a project with a jock made me feel queasy, even though Weston Brooks was—by no extent of imagination—the prom-king level of jock, more of a benchwarmer kind of jock, but a jock still; and me, I was just an athletically-challenged closeted gay boy, bringing nothing but my smarts to the table.
"Don't give me that pouty look of yours. I'm happy to get you off my hands for a change. You know, you've been extra needy lately," Nia said, and before I could rebut that, added, "Just keepin' it real, hon. You know me, I don't care for all that spare-your-feelings kind of bullshit. Besides, it'd be healthy for you to talk to someone other than me for a change, ya know." And before I could refute that, she added, "Teachers don't count! Your parents don't count either. I'm talking someone your own age, smart ass," She jabbed her index finger at me. "And don't you argue with me! I'm lookin' out for you, and you know it."
Well, she wasn't wrong there—I didn't exactly have a lot of friends. But what was the point of making friends in high school anyway when we were bound to bounce to college in just a few years? And who even had time for this? There was so much to do, studies-wise, I was college-bound and stressed out already. I couldn't even make time to hang out with Nia these days, aside from our joint assignments and extracurricular activities. And even then, we didn't spend nearly as much time together as we used to, and we used to be inseparable like a dirt-trapped Velcro.
"Weston Brooks, though?" I said, aiming for low mopiness but hitting full mopiness anyway. "We have like nothing in common." I wrinkled my nose.
"Well, now you have this project in common. That's a start," Nia said, optimistic as ever, diverting her attention away from me (and the wrinkles on my nose that she didn't care for) back to her notes. She wasn't wrong. Again. I just didn't think the project she was referring to was going to be enough of a reason to make me get along with someone like Weston Brooks. All he cared about was sports, and he made no damn secret about it.
The bell rang. Nia gave me an ironic wave, adding, "You'll figure it out, hon," and was out of the classroom.
I lingered, pretending to fumble with my backpack, so I could surreptitiously take a glance at Wes. Our eyes met then and there. Dang! He was already looking at me. And I could tell, our inevitable collaboration had instilled the same sense of dread in him as it did in me, or maybe it was more of a 'Do I really have to do it with him?' kind of feeling.
I looked away. Unfortunately, it was a thing now; it was happening. And we were just going to have to deal with it.
Weston Brooks cornered me in the hallway right after class. I suppose he wanted to deal with it sooner rather than later (I would have done the opposite).
I was kinda glad, though, he cornered me, because now I didn't have to. If I were to approach him first, it would have been awkward and embarrassing. Trust! But when he did it—he was totally the smooth operator. Where I was utterly maladroit and socially inept, he was the opposite, cool, coordinated, and charismatic. He was quite good at talking, too, actually. Watching his lips move so busily kind of entranced me there for a second. I may or may not have just stood there with my mouth ajar just listening to him, unable to utter a single word—like a weirdo. But what else was I supposed to do?
We ran into our first problem right then and there, and it was kind of indicative of our problematic future. If only I had the wherewithal back then to notice the red flags. But instead, all I noticed was the pink of his lips, and oh my, did it look like a candy . . .
The problem, though, was that we couldn't agree on the time we would meet to start working on the assignment. Turned out, both of our schedules were pretty busy.
"I have practice after school," he told me (those busy lips). "And then I have to pick up my little sister from her ballet recital at four. Would five-ish work for you?"
I shook my head. "I can't at five. I have to meet up with Nia. We're doing this matching outfits thing for prom, and she wants me to—" I trailed off, suddenly realizing his eyebrows drew closer together. He probably thought the idea of matching outfits was lame. But it was kind of the only reason I wanted to go to prom in the first place—all the extra time we were going to spend together with Nia working on our outfits, and then the whole practicing-our-dance-routine thing. I was pretty sure she was going to find a way to make the outfits look cool, too (not that someone like Weston Brooks was going to care or notice).
"Never mind," I said. "I can't at five. Maybe seven? Ish?"
He shook his head dismissively. "Can't! I have this dinner thing to go to with my parents. It's the Kellers, the longtime friends. I can't just not—" now it was his turn to trail off as he must have realized it was too much information. "Never mind!" He pressed his lips into a thin line (ooh, those lips). "It has to be six then. I jog at six, but I'm afraid there isn't any other option. You could join me!" He lit up at the idea; me—no, I did not. "We'll discuss everything while hitting the trail, what do you say? Do you jog?"
I shook my head slowly. "Nuh, no, I don't jog . . . Why can't you just jog in the morning like a normal person?"
He inhaled loudly. "I jog in the morning and in the evening, all right?" Now there was a hint of irritation there, and it didn't seem like it had necessarily anything to do with me. I mean, if jogging two times a day bothered him, couldn't he just like—stop jogging two times a day? I studied him, looking for the answer, and he caught me studying him. "Are you gonna join me or what? Six is my final offer. Take it or leave it, man."
'Man', huh? I don't think anyone in my life ever called me that.
Me? Joining Wes Brooks for a jog? I considered it . . .
"Fine," I conceded, scrunching up my nose. He brightened substantially. I think he was ready to be done with this conversation now.
"Where you at?" he asked. "I'll pick you up at six sharp, is that all right?"
"1217 Oakwood Drive," I mumbled, writing it down on a scrap of paper. He waited for me to hand it over to him. Sigh, now it was official. We were really going to do this thing. What in the world did I get myself into?
"Wear shorts and kicks, okay?" He pointed his index finger at me authoritatively. "I'll take you on an easy trail, I promise."
A wink, and he was gone without so much as a 'Bye!' And I was left standing there, wondering what have I ever done to deserve this.
He was at my doorstep at six o'clock on the dot. Gotta hand it to him, the guy was like clockwork.
He had this pristine look about him, like he was fresh out of the shower. He also smelled nice—like that Body Shop body wash, which was almost ten bucks a bottle. Weren't you supposed to shower after you've jogged? His jogging getup looked good on him, too. The black Nike Swoosh shorts and a navy-blue Ralph Lauren polo. He was all that and a bag of chips in this getup, and this was maybe the first time I really looked at him. Did he clean up for me? I mean, he looked flawless. But maybe that was what the price tag on those clothes was supposed to do. His parents were rich, if you haven't figured it out already. Mine—nuh! All my clothes were off-brand. And now, looking at him, I wished I'd also taken a shower.
"Ready?" he asked, giving me a once-over, probably to evaluate the appropriateness of my clothes, for jogging that is. Was there really a dress code for jogging? He seemed pleased anyway, so I guess he didn't think I looked too terrible. I did my best, given that I'm not really a jogger.
"Yeah," I breathed.
"Come on then, let's bounce," he said and, without missing a beat, headed toward his car. He wasn't wasting any time here. He was all business.
I followed him, immediately noticing how out of place his red BMW 325i Sport edition looked in my driveway. If I wasn't feeling self-conscious already, now I was. But kudos to him, he graciously pretended as if nothing was amiss, as if our less-than-manicured lawn didn't bother him, or the cracks in the driveway that you could stick your finger in, or my uncle's run-down van parked permanently at the curb that was missing all four of its wheels now. Wes actually tried to pretend he didn't see any of it . . . And I appreciated it.
"Come on, get in," he said, shooting me a glance.
I did, trying to be as gentle with the door as possible. I really didn't want to break anything.
We remained silent during the ride, mostly. He did tell me, though, that I could call him Wes when I tried calling him Weston.
"Just call me Wes," he said. "All my friends call me Wes."
"Well, all my friends call me Cling. But you can't call me that," I blurted out, instantly regretting it. I immediately felt myself getting hot in the cheeks.
He snort-laughed. Then he at least had the decency to pretend to feel guilty about it.
"Cling, really?"
"Pup, Tag, Cling," I said with an eyeroll. "It's mostly Nia. She calls me that when she's annoyed with me. Forget I mentioned it. Torrence is fine, thank you."
He snickered, but it wasn't mean-spirited. Then he said, "I like Torrence. It suits you." He looked at me. "I wasn't going to call you Cling, just so you know. Not unless you're actually a barnacle."
"I promise I'm not," I said. Even though sometimes I'm afraid I could be.
When we were actually on the trail, jogging, with Wes jogging backwards half the time so that he could keep his eye on me (I was lagging a little bit behind), it turned out jogging wasn't half as bad as I imagined.
I was out of breath, sure. And my insides hurt. But he kept a slow pace—for my sake—and I appreciated it. Oddly, he was being a perfect gentleman, and I liked that (even though I didn't expect him to be that way).
Twenty minutes in, when I've listened to enough football talk to get my head spinning (which was all Wes was yapping about this whole time), I asked, "So, are we actually going to discuss the assignment?"
He looked a little bummed out. I think he'd much rather continue the football chatter. He found a grateful audience in me, just because I didn't have the heart to shush him. And because I was a sucker for his pink lips.
"Yeah, sure. Let's," he said. "What was the assignment again?"
"Conducting an ecological survey," I said. Did he really not remember? "Objective: Investigate the biodiversity of a woodland area of our choice and analyze the interaction between biotic and abiotic factors."
He wrinkled his nose, the same way I do when I don't like the sound of something. Guess we did have something in common after all.
"You memorized it or something?" he asked.
I scoffed. "What's to memorize? The assignment was pretty clear."
He made a noise as if to indicate it wasn't entirely true. I guess he felt the same way about natural sciences as I did about football.
"We just need to pick an area for analysis, that's it. I'll take the notes, you don't have to worry about it," I said.
He looked around briefly and then pointed his finger arbitrarily, without giving it much thought. If I were asked to pick a football player at a game, I guess I would have done the same thing.
"Right there looks fine, wouldn't you say?" he asked.
I refrained from eye-rolling. The guy was utterly clueless. But he was cute, so I decided not to make it any harder than it needed to be.
"Yes! But if you were to move your finger that way—" I moved his finger. "—it'd be much better." I held on to his finger for just a sec before he turned his head to look at me. "There's a fresh water reservoir about two miles west, at the old cirque near the mountain's peak. I thought amphibians would be much more appealing to observe than your usual mammals, birds, and reptiles."
He looked a little confused. "How did you know there was a freshwater reservoir up in the mountains? I thought you said you've never been here before."
"There are maps, hello! Ever heard of satellite imagery? Microsoft Encarta 99, the big update. The previous version's good, but the new one's better."
He sort of nodded vaguely. "Yeah . . . I think I have it on my PC. I don't think I've ever used it."
My eyebrows went up. "You never used it? You were too busy doing what?"
"Practice, man! I rarely have time for anything but practice."
"So, this football thing is serious, then? You sure seem determined."
Suddenly, he looked a little abashed. His gaze dropped to his feet as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Yeah, I mean, it's pretty serious. I want it to be . . ." Lifting his gaze, he pointed at one of the trails. "Hey, I think that trail's gonna take us to the reservoir. If you're willing to do two miles, I'm game. But we gotta hurry up, dude. I have that dinner thing with my parents, remember?"
I nodded. If he was gonna bring out 'dude', I really wasn't going to ask him any more questions. So we just started down the trail, back to silence again, our little conversation forgotten. Not five minutes later, though, he started talking about sports again, without broaching the topic of his career prospects this time. It was rather obvious that we were fundamentally different in our pursuits, and the way we approached them. I couldn't have been less interested in sports, and clearly, he couldn't have been less interested in natural science. I was beginning to like him though . . . Despite us having nothing in common. Or very little in common anyway. But if anything, at least we both seemed equally dedicated to something, even if it wasn't the same thing. And maybe that was one of the things we could have in common.
When we finally reached the reservoir, I was so hopelessly out of breath and in pain that I could barely keep myself from doubling over.
"Hey man, you all right?" Wes asked, grabbing me by my elbow to steady me. He looked really worried there for a second. I must have looked like I was at death's door. He helped me down.
"I'm . . . fine . . . don't . . . worry . . . about . . . it," I said between gasps. Obviously, I wasn't fine.
He shook his head but smiled. "I was gonna take you on an easy trail, man. This—" He pointed his index finger at me and made a circular motion to sum it up. "—was entirely your idea. But don't worry, with a little bit of practice, you'll be fine. It's gonna be better the next time you come up here, I promise."
Wes pulled me back up on my feet, and I straightened, with visible effort. He let go of my hand, and we both looked over the surface of the water; the reservoir was beautiful.
"So, what exactly are we looking for here?" he asked, totally clueless as to what we were supposed to be doing.
"I was hoping to catch sight of Van Dyke's Salamander," I explained. "It's this small salamander with a distinctive color pattern on its back. But it's very rare."
"Oh yeah? What does it look like?"
"Really small. Dark. With yellow, orange, or pinkish stripes or patches along its back. But it's so rare, the chances are we might not be able to find it. In that case, we'll just—"
Wes's gaze suddenly shot to one of the stones jutting out from the water. "Oh, look, there it is! Small, dark, pink patches," he said, interrupting me. "That's the one, isn't it?"
I traced his gaze skeptically, but—to my surprise—he wasn't wrong. What do you know, the actual Van Dyke's salamander was chilling on the stones right there in front of us, looking exactly like it did in the pictures. I gaped at it, unable to believe our luck. I mean, what were the chances? We just rolled in and there it was, right in front of us.
I moved a little closer to take a better look.
"Um, isn't it going to swim away if it's spooked?" Wes asked, crouching down in the bushes. I did too.
"It doesn't like water. If it swims, it could drown because it breathes through its skin. It doesn't have any lungs or gills or anything."
Wes considered it. "Cool. I didn't know you could live without lungs."
"Well, you couldn't. But this little guy can, due to its cutaneous respiration. That's the whole point of this assignment, you see—to learn things."
He settled on his butt comfortably. "I'm open to learning new things. Especially if it gives an advantage against competitors."
The sports again . . . I refrained from eye-rolling.
"Wildlife is all about competition, just so you know. Keep your eyes peeled, this might be right up your alley."
I didn't think he was going to take my advice to heart; I was just trying to mildly encourage him. But he leaned forward and started buggin' out at the salamander for real.
"All right, I'll keep my eyes peeled. But you gotta explain to me what I'm seeing. There was no way I was gonna be able to tell this little guy could breathe through its skin just by looking at it."
"Yep, that's what the books are for. But you don't have time for them, I get it."
He chuckled.
"Fine, deal!" I continued. "I'll tell you what you're looking at as long as you're paying attention, got it? I'm not explaining anything twice."
"Strict!" he said, with a lopsided grin. "You're just like the coach. I like that—
I'm all ears."
My heart nearly stopped when I thought he said 'I'm all yours' for a second. He said 'ears' though. Clearly, he said 'ears'.
We continued watching the tiny amphibian, me taking the actual scientific notes and him providing a sort of running commentary that lacked any significance or research value and had more to do with sports than science, but I humored him. He was so close to me, our arms touched—skin against skin—and it made me forget all about science for a moment. But the more I listened to him, enthralled by his closeness, the more his football analogies started to make sense. I had to give it to him, there was logic to what he was saying, even if it was just a little bit.
Who would have thought a Van Dyke's salamander could bridge the gap between our worlds? The specimen stayed put, luckily, so that we could continue to observe it. And I actually managed to make progress on our paper in the end, despite most of my attention being directed not at the salamander—but at Wes.
Just as we were about to leave though, a sudden beeping coming from my backpack caught Wes's attention.
"What's that?" he asked, taking a curious look at it.
I unzipped it and took a small handheld device out to show him.
"This is a portable Geiger counter," I explained. "My grandpa got it for me for my birthday. It detects ionizing radiation. Alpha, beta, and gamma rays. Though it's only supposed to be beeping when the radiation levels exceed the threshold."
I checked out the readout on its tiny LCD screen. No wonder my Eberline ESP-1 was beeping—the output was way past the threshold now, at 223 CPM. And it was constantly growing, too. I furrowed my eyebrows.
"Why's it beeping?" Wes asked.
"It's not supposed to be doing this. The readout's way too high," I said. And I didn't know why. This was not supposed to be happening. Meanwhile, the readout passed 300 CPM.
I looked around, illogically, looking for something that could have spiked radiation levels. I didn't even know what I expected to see. A plutonium rod? The readout wasn't high enough for plutonium anyway; it was just strangely above normal.
"Malfunction?" Wes suggested.
"I dunno. Could be! My grandpa got it on classifieds for a hundred bucks. A new one would have been over five hundred."
Meanwhile, the readout surpassed 500 CPM and counting. Wes looked at the screen too.
"Is it dangerous?"
"No, but it's way above normal background levels. Under fifty is where it's supposed to be. This . . . This is way off."
For a minute, both of us just watched the numbers grow, captivated by this strange and ominous phenomenon. But when the readout reached 1,000, my Eberline ESP-1 suddenly stopped beeping and returned to 32.
I blinked at it—it was as if nothing had happened. It was back to normal, just like that.
"Whoa, what just happened?" Wes asked. "Why's it at thirty-two now?"
I shook my head; I had no idea. Wes was probably right—a malfunction would have been anyone's best guess.
After a minute of us staring blankly at my Eberline (and it wasn't doing anything weird anymore), Wes asked, "Do you always carry this thing around?"
I grinned; as far as the weird contents of my backpack were concerned, this wasn't even the half of it.
"Yeah, I mean . . . just for fun?" I said.
He scoffed, shaking his head. Obviously, we had different ideas of fun.
"It must have been a malfunction after all. Sorry," I said, putting the device away. "Ready to go?"
He nodded.
"I don't think I've met anyone like you, Torrence Lawson," he said suddenly and started walking away. I'm not sure he meant it as a compliment. I followed him, without making a comment.
Before I knew it, Wes was taking me home, him pretending not to notice that I was staining his leather seat with my sweaty bum, me pretending not to notice that he wasn't taking any notes and probably wasn't going to remember much of what he learned today biology-wise, and that the writing of the paper was going to land on me probably, mostly. But it was fine! The arrangement seemed to have worked for both of us. Nobody was complaining. And we did make progress, after all—with both studies and sports.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked when he stopped his car in my driveway.
I looked at him, catching myself thinking that I really enjoyed hanging out with him and that I didn't want to part. He wasn't at all what I expected. He was cute, fun, and considerate. And even though his obsession with sports was entirely too much, he was still a great guy. I would have asked him to come in, but he had the thing with his parents to go to. And I didn't want to be a barnacle, so I said instead, "Mind if we ditch the car and just go on our bikes tomorrow? You'll get the same amount of cardio, but we'll get to the reservoir faster. More time to observe and take notes."
"Is it, the same amount of cardio?" he asked, surprised.
I raised my eyebrows. "Do you want me to do the math for you, too, as well as biology?"
He chuckled. "All right, we'll go on our bikes. And I'm gonna take my notebook with me, I promise. I'm not a slacker, despite what you might think. I'm ready to do my part."
I opened the door and got out. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"Hey, Torrence?" he stopped me.
I bent down to look at him. He stretched his fist toward me over the passenger seat, offering me to fist-bump him. I don't think I fist-bumped anyone in my life. I guess there's a first time for everything. I did fist-bump him, much slower, I think, and a lot softer than his teammates would have. It was the most non-fist-bumpy fist-bump I've ever seen—but he didn't seem to mind, his eyes glued to mine.
"I didn't think I was gonna enjoy a biology class assignment as much as I did," he said. "But it was really fun. See you tomorrow!"
"See you tomorrow," I said, and as I watched him pull out of the driveway, him smiling at me through the windshield the whole time, his eyes gleaming with joy, I remembered what Nia said about the possibility of us having something in common without me realizing it. And it got me thinking if maybe we were more alike than I could have possibly dreamed of. I never thought I was gonna meet another gay guy until college—but what if Wes was also gay?