The Understatement of the Year by Sarina Bowen

came out of my mouth right on the first try. “I think we’re pretty solid. The French kids work well together. I’ll bet Coach puts them on the same line.”
    Beneath me, Smitty grunted in agreement. For the next ninety seconds, I focused all my attention on the barbell in my hands, and on my teammate’s straining face below me. I could at least do that, right? I could pay attention long enough to avoid killing Smitty with my negligence.
    After six reps, Smitty’s shaking arms set the bar back onto the rack, and it was my turn again. I sat back down on the bench. As I lay back, I caught a glimpse of Rikker joking with Trevi. He never smiled like that when he looked at me. And why would he?
    Rikker’s anger at me was a physical, tangible thing. Every time he leveled me with a glance, my brain short-circuited. And the more often I saw him, the stupider I acted. Obviously, talking to him was the only possible solution. And it’s not like I never considered the idea. I gave it lots of consideration every night from about midnight until 2 a.m. But how do you start that conversation? I’m sorry you took a beating for me. And I’m sorry I was too afraid to ever speak to you again .
    It would be impossible to explain it, because no plausible explanation existed. Fear wasn’t a good enough reason to do what I’d done.
    The only thing that seemed to help me sleep, even a little, was Scotch whiskey. And thank God for that. When I was barely sixteen, and going through hell after our incident in the alleyway, I didn’t even have alcohol to soften the blow.
    After Rikker disappeared from my high school and my life, it took me a long time to process what had happened. Before that awful day, naiveté had made me far too content. I’d never realized just how dangerous it was to be with Rikker. I knew we could never tell anyone. That went without saying. But I’d never been forced to witness what would happen if people knew. I hadn’t understood the sheer repulsion that I’d somehow earned by loving another boy.
    It was the look of disgust on our attackers’ faces that did me in. “Sick fags,” they’d said.
    Sick . I was sick. The word vibrated through my chest for months.
    I’d been so confused. But I knew one thing. I didn’t ever want to see that same look on the faces of my family. If there was something sick about me, I hoped I could stomp it out before anyone else saw it.
    After Rikker left, his parents told everyone at church that he’d gone to stay with his grandmother for a while.
    Me? I spent a couple of months cowering in my bedroom. Sometimes I tried to find answers on the Internet. And we all know where that leads, right? I Googled “same sex experimentation,” and found plenty of articles. For a hot second, they made me feel better. I read that straight teens often experimented with their friends, because that’s who was available and willing. Basically, teen guys touch each other’s junk sometimes, or jerk off together. Then most of them grow up to happily fuck women, eventually getting married and having cute little kids.
    Good on me, right?
    Not so fast. None of these accounts said anything about straight guys who’d basically tried to superglue their mouths to their best friend’s whenever nobody was looking. There weren’t any stories by guys who wanted nothing more than to feel their best friend’s body blanketing their own, or who could light up just from the sight of his smile from across the room.
    What Rikker and I were to each other was so far past the notion of casual experimentation that it wasn’t even funny. And it didn’t matter that we’d never had sex, or even gotten up the courage to blow each other. The more I read, the better I understood that this one was of those times when the spirit of the law meant more than the letter of the law.
    I stopped Googling things after that.
    The basement was off-limits to me, too. It was too hard to be down there and not think of him. Just