Diet Cokes and settle in at one of the picnic tables.
“So your novel,” I say.
“Do you really want to hear?”
I smile. “Sure, why not?”
“Well, it’s about this kid, who was homeless, who gets adopted by this really great family but then…”
Luke’s words trail off. He just sits there staring straight ahead.
“But then what?” I ask.
Still he doesn’t say anything. A little voice inside me tells me not to follow Luke’s gaze, not to turn my head and see what he’s seeing. But of course I look anyway.
It’s Jeff, scrutinizing Mojo’s menu a few feet away.
I can’t help but laugh. “Ah,” I say, “if it isn’t your literary idol.”
“Jeffrey O’Brien,” Luke says softly.
“In the flesh,” I say. “What d’ya think?”
“I thought he’d be taller,” Luke says.
I laugh out loud. That one little comment makes my day.
My laughter has drawn Jeff’s attention. He looks over at us.
“Henry,” he says, heading our way. Already I see him checking out Luke. God, do I know that look. It’s the look of a kid in a shopping cart as his mother pushes him down the toy aisle. I want that , his eyes say. But as soon as he’s passed his object of desire, he’s forgotten it and moved on to another.
“Jeff,” I say, accepting the inevitable, “this is Luke. Luke, Jeff.”
“Jeff O’Brien,” Jeff echoes, shaking the kid’s hand.
“I know,” Luke breathes in awe.
“He’s got your book under his bed,” I tell Jeff.
“Actually,” Luke says, unzipping his backpack, “I have it right here.”
Out comes not one book, but three—two in paper, one hardcover.
Jeff beams. “You’ve got the whole Jeffrey O’Brien collection right there. All three of my books.”
Luke spreads them out on the picnic table in front of us, careful to move the fried clams far away first, so they don’t stain his treasures. There’s the well-read, much-creased copy of The Boys of Summer that I saw under Luke’s bed, plus its sequel, More Boys, More Summer . The hardcover is Jeff’s latest, a more “literary” attempt—one without the prerequisite shirtless boy on the front. Finding Home , it’s called.
“I especially loved this one,” Luke says, tapping the cover of Finding Home . “I thought it was just…I don’t know. Just brilliant.”
Jeff sits down on the other side of the picnic table, facing us. “The critics weren’t so sure,” he says, eyes glued on Luke.
“That’s because they pigeon-holed you. They weren’t ready to let you try something different.”
They couldn’t be playing their parts any better if Jeff had written the goddamn script. I lean my head on my hand, watching this little drama unfold.
“Well, that’s what we like to believe,” Jeff says, in that slightly deeper-than-usual voice he uses around fans. “I’m glad you liked it, though.”
“Oh, man, I loved it.”
I wonder. Finding Home has none of the signs of being well read. Unlike The Boys of Summer , its pages aren’t dog-eared. Its binding isn’t even cracked.
Luke is still gushing. “And I loved the interview you gave to The Advocate about it. You know, where you revealed that you, like the protagonist, were also an old movie and TV fan.”
Jeff twinkles on cue. “You mean the interview where I came out of the closet as a secret geek.”
The boy’s smile threatens to close his eyes with his cheeks. “You are so not a geek. I’m a geek.”
“Well, if so,” Jeff says, “geeks are a lot cuter these days than they used to be.”
I feel my stomach roil, and it’s not the fried clams.
Luke is clearly smitten. He’s rummaging in his backpack again, and produces something I can’t at first identify. It’s flat, and wrapped in plastic.
“Take a look at this,” he’s telling Jeff.
It looks like a small movie poster. Slipped into a plastic bag and backed by a piece of a cardboard, it showcases a woman I don’t recognize. Jeff takes it
“So your novel,” I say.
“Do you really want to hear?”
I smile. “Sure, why not?”
“Well, it’s about this kid, who was homeless, who gets adopted by this really great family but then…”
Luke’s words trail off. He just sits there staring straight ahead.
“But then what?” I ask.
Still he doesn’t say anything. A little voice inside me tells me not to follow Luke’s gaze, not to turn my head and see what he’s seeing. But of course I look anyway.
It’s Jeff, scrutinizing Mojo’s menu a few feet away.
I can’t help but laugh. “Ah,” I say, “if it isn’t your literary idol.”
“Jeffrey O’Brien,” Luke says softly.
“In the flesh,” I say. “What d’ya think?”
“I thought he’d be taller,” Luke says.
I laugh out loud. That one little comment makes my day.
My laughter has drawn Jeff’s attention. He looks over at us.
“Henry,” he says, heading our way. Already I see him checking out Luke. God, do I know that look. It’s the look of a kid in a shopping cart as his mother pushes him down the toy aisle. I want that , his eyes say. But as soon as he’s passed his object of desire, he’s forgotten it and moved on to another.
“Jeff,” I say, accepting the inevitable, “this is Luke. Luke, Jeff.”
“Jeff O’Brien,” Jeff echoes, shaking the kid’s hand.
“I know,” Luke breathes in awe.
“He’s got your book under his bed,” I tell Jeff.
“Actually,” Luke says, unzipping his backpack, “I have it right here.”
Out comes not one book, but three—two in paper, one hardcover.
Jeff beams. “You’ve got the whole Jeffrey O’Brien collection right there. All three of my books.”
Luke spreads them out on the picnic table in front of us, careful to move the fried clams far away first, so they don’t stain his treasures. There’s the well-read, much-creased copy of The Boys of Summer that I saw under Luke’s bed, plus its sequel, More Boys, More Summer . The hardcover is Jeff’s latest, a more “literary” attempt—one without the prerequisite shirtless boy on the front. Finding Home , it’s called.
“I especially loved this one,” Luke says, tapping the cover of Finding Home . “I thought it was just…I don’t know. Just brilliant.”
Jeff sits down on the other side of the picnic table, facing us. “The critics weren’t so sure,” he says, eyes glued on Luke.
“That’s because they pigeon-holed you. They weren’t ready to let you try something different.”
They couldn’t be playing their parts any better if Jeff had written the goddamn script. I lean my head on my hand, watching this little drama unfold.
“Well, that’s what we like to believe,” Jeff says, in that slightly deeper-than-usual voice he uses around fans. “I’m glad you liked it, though.”
“Oh, man, I loved it.”
I wonder. Finding Home has none of the signs of being well read. Unlike The Boys of Summer , its pages aren’t dog-eared. Its binding isn’t even cracked.
Luke is still gushing. “And I loved the interview you gave to The Advocate about it. You know, where you revealed that you, like the protagonist, were also an old movie and TV fan.”
Jeff twinkles on cue. “You mean the interview where I came out of the closet as a secret geek.”
The boy’s smile threatens to close his eyes with his cheeks. “You are so not a geek. I’m a geek.”
“Well, if so,” Jeff says, “geeks are a lot cuter these days than they used to be.”
I feel my stomach roil, and it’s not the fried clams.
Luke is clearly smitten. He’s rummaging in his backpack again, and produces something I can’t at first identify. It’s flat, and wrapped in plastic.
“Take a look at this,” he’s telling Jeff.
It looks like a small movie poster. Slipped into a plastic bag and backed by a piece of a cardboard, it showcases a woman I don’t recognize. Jeff takes it
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