see.”
We stare at each other.
The last fifteen minutes of pent-up joy, everything I wanted—needed—to share fades. It’s like we’ve both woken from a dream, neither of us sure what just happened. I hate the consequences of happiness.
I lick my lips, slip the car back into gear, and merge into traffic. We’re six blocks from home before she speaks again.
“Evan, I understand why you haven’t mentioned Erik to M and D. I know you’ve got your own life to live, but I also hope you know you can trust me. I’d really like to meet this guy. I won’t snitch.”
“I know,” I whisper. I want to leap back in time and take it all back. Keep Erik to myself. Now he’s not just mine. Now he’s Shan’s, too. “We’ll see.”
We’re home and Mom is fawning over Shan. Mom tells Shan she’s lost weight. Shan stomps on my foot when I choke on a laugh. Dad rolls out to the living room and the three begin talking about New York and grad schooland Mom says she’s made Shan’s favorite—shepherd’s pie. I slip into the shower, then fresh clothes. On my way out, I say, “Don’t wait up. Davis and I are going to a late-night show.”
Shan smiles and mouths, Have fun . Mom and Dad don’t even notice. They continue to talk to Shan. I leave without a sound.
I always have a story. The only thing worse than needing one is when I don’t.
gift
I’ve changed since Erik came along. I know it. The single most draining effort during the last year has been trying not to let all the changes show. I used to be a sloucher. Since Erik introduced me to yoga, I have great posture—back straight, shoulders square, head up. Mom noticed but couldn’t articulate it.
“We need to get you checked,” she said one day at the store, frowning and eyeing my perfectly straight spine, “for scoliosis.” I wanted to correct her, explain what scoliosis was, but she was showing concern and I didn’t want to spoil the moment.
Dad had a whole different take. “Are you giving me attitude?” I was helping him unload a delivery truck when he noticed. Instead of always looking down, I kept my head up. Between that and the posture, Dad thought I was looking cocky. Couldn’t help but smile. I was going for confident, but whatever. In a weird way, I think hestarted giving me more respect. I’m always more conscious of my posture now when he’s around. Not necessarily because I want that respect, but because I think it freaks him out a little.
Davis was the only one who could really pinpoint the change, even if he didn’t know where it came from.
“You’re different,” he said. “It’s like you’re up to something.” Leave it to your best friend to know stuff he doesn’t even know. So I try to slouch and cast my eyes down whenever I’m around Mom or Davis. Let them see the old Evan. Somehow, I think my life works better when I’m less real to them.
I’ve also seen a change in my gait. Now, as I bound toward Gorham Street, my stride is sure and strong. If the trogs saw me now, I don’t think they’d recognize me. On the other hand, I worry that seeing a trog would bring out the other Evan, the one I banish when Erik’s around: meek, shy, acquiescent. This straight-backed, bouncy-gaited Evan is the only Evan Erik knows. I want to keep it that way.
I break into a run and hammer on the back of the Number 14 as it tries to pull away from the bus stop without me. It squeals and jerks to a stop. I slip my bus pass into the reader and take a seat. Twenty minutes later, I’m south of town, two short blocks from the Studio. I run the rest of the way.
Erik’s Studio is a self-storage unit he rents off the Beltway. On the outside it’s just another sky blue garage door set in a wall of chalky concrete blocks. But throw open that door and it’s like you’ve raised a periscope up into his brain. This is where he stores all the stuff he finds at rummage sales, estate auctions, and flea markets: a trove of spigots and toasters
We stare at each other.
The last fifteen minutes of pent-up joy, everything I wanted—needed—to share fades. It’s like we’ve both woken from a dream, neither of us sure what just happened. I hate the consequences of happiness.
I lick my lips, slip the car back into gear, and merge into traffic. We’re six blocks from home before she speaks again.
“Evan, I understand why you haven’t mentioned Erik to M and D. I know you’ve got your own life to live, but I also hope you know you can trust me. I’d really like to meet this guy. I won’t snitch.”
“I know,” I whisper. I want to leap back in time and take it all back. Keep Erik to myself. Now he’s not just mine. Now he’s Shan’s, too. “We’ll see.”
We’re home and Mom is fawning over Shan. Mom tells Shan she’s lost weight. Shan stomps on my foot when I choke on a laugh. Dad rolls out to the living room and the three begin talking about New York and grad schooland Mom says she’s made Shan’s favorite—shepherd’s pie. I slip into the shower, then fresh clothes. On my way out, I say, “Don’t wait up. Davis and I are going to a late-night show.”
Shan smiles and mouths, Have fun . Mom and Dad don’t even notice. They continue to talk to Shan. I leave without a sound.
I always have a story. The only thing worse than needing one is when I don’t.
gift
I’ve changed since Erik came along. I know it. The single most draining effort during the last year has been trying not to let all the changes show. I used to be a sloucher. Since Erik introduced me to yoga, I have great posture—back straight, shoulders square, head up. Mom noticed but couldn’t articulate it.
“We need to get you checked,” she said one day at the store, frowning and eyeing my perfectly straight spine, “for scoliosis.” I wanted to correct her, explain what scoliosis was, but she was showing concern and I didn’t want to spoil the moment.
Dad had a whole different take. “Are you giving me attitude?” I was helping him unload a delivery truck when he noticed. Instead of always looking down, I kept my head up. Between that and the posture, Dad thought I was looking cocky. Couldn’t help but smile. I was going for confident, but whatever. In a weird way, I think hestarted giving me more respect. I’m always more conscious of my posture now when he’s around. Not necessarily because I want that respect, but because I think it freaks him out a little.
Davis was the only one who could really pinpoint the change, even if he didn’t know where it came from.
“You’re different,” he said. “It’s like you’re up to something.” Leave it to your best friend to know stuff he doesn’t even know. So I try to slouch and cast my eyes down whenever I’m around Mom or Davis. Let them see the old Evan. Somehow, I think my life works better when I’m less real to them.
I’ve also seen a change in my gait. Now, as I bound toward Gorham Street, my stride is sure and strong. If the trogs saw me now, I don’t think they’d recognize me. On the other hand, I worry that seeing a trog would bring out the other Evan, the one I banish when Erik’s around: meek, shy, acquiescent. This straight-backed, bouncy-gaited Evan is the only Evan Erik knows. I want to keep it that way.
I break into a run and hammer on the back of the Number 14 as it tries to pull away from the bus stop without me. It squeals and jerks to a stop. I slip my bus pass into the reader and take a seat. Twenty minutes later, I’m south of town, two short blocks from the Studio. I run the rest of the way.
Erik’s Studio is a self-storage unit he rents off the Beltway. On the outside it’s just another sky blue garage door set in a wall of chalky concrete blocks. But throw open that door and it’s like you’ve raised a periscope up into his brain. This is where he stores all the stuff he finds at rummage sales, estate auctions, and flea markets: a trove of spigots and toasters
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