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  What the hell am I thinking? Even if

  she was okay with me talking about

  hooking up with a guy, she has other

  stuff on her mind, as evidenced by

  her empty-eyed stare. Still, she tries,

  What? Sorry. I was a million miles away.

  “I know. Never mind. It’s not important.”

  She nods, returns her gaze to the window.

  I back away, leave her lost in her worry.

  As soon as I’m out of earshot, I call Alex.

  He’s working. Incommunicado until

  six. I leave him a message. “I’ve been

  thinking about you. About us. Can we

  get together tonight? I really need you.”

  Alex

  Messages

  Are like secrets. Sometimes

  you totally don’t want to hear

  them. Don’t want to discern

  the razor-edged meaning they

  can

  slice you with. Sometimes

  the number attached to

  a voice-mail warning will

  make

  your breath turn thick

  as marshmallow because

  you know a single sentence

  could make you smile

  or

  break

  your heart, and so you hesitate

  to retrieve it. Some messages infuse

  personal shadow with light.

  Others will annihilate

  your

  day.

  Mikayla

  Ruining My Day

  Seems to be my dad’s summer

  hobby this year. Okay, maybe—

  just maybe—I deserved getting

  grounded again for sneaking

  out. Or maybe—just maybe—

  I deserved it for getting caught

  sneaking out. On the other hand,

  I’m just shy of eighteen. Pretty

  soon my parents won’t be able

  to control my every move. Maybe

  Dad should consider that before

  he tries to rein me in so tightly.

  Anyway, it’s not like I’m out

  robbing banks or stealing cars.

  (Well, technically I guess I’m

  stealing my own, since I’m not

  allowed to drive it when I’m

  grounded.) All I want is to see

  Dylan. God, three days away

  from him and I freaking climb

  the walls. Tonight, at least, is

  Fourth of July. My family’s new

  tradition is to combine fireworks

  with a minor league baseball game.

  The Reno Aces play at a stadium

  right on the Truckee River, and

  they shoot off giant sky sparklers

  post-play. Dad got his usual

  seats behind home plate, but

  general admission people can

  sit on the grassy hills above

  the outfield. Dylan is a GA kind

  of guy. My cell has been confiscated,

  and I had to give back Bri’s when

  I got busted with it, so I’m on the land

  line, jelling things with Dylan. “See

  you around six.” Just as I’m about

  to hang up, I notice the phone status:

  conference call. “Bri? Is that you?”

  But it is not my sister who answers

  me. It’s my pain-in-the-ass brother.

  Nope. Not Bri. Oh, shit. Trace’s

  interference has caused me to

  get busted more than once. And

  now I can hear him call down

  the stairs, toward the family room,

  Hey, Dad. Did you know Dylan

  is coming to the game with us?

  That brat needs to die. Now what

  do I do? The best defense is a solid

  offense, right? The plan was not

  for Dylan to come to the game

  with us (as my brother knows).

  But maybe if I say it was, it will

  defuse what just might be

  an ugly situation. One day soon,

  Trace will be very, very sorry.

  I Plaster On

  My most innocent, contrite face

  and go see what I can do. Dad catches

  me coming down the stairs. What’s

  this about Dylan? He is most definitely

  not coming with us to the game tonight.

  What would make you think he was?

  “I want you and Mom to get to know

  him. I thought it would be a good way

  to do that. Maybe then you wouldn’t be

  so suspicious of him—or of us. We love

  each other, Dad. And you’d like him,

  too, if you’d just give him a chance.”

  If I didn’t care about trying to make

  this work, I might have to smile at the way

  anger creeps, red, all the way up my dad’s

  neck, igniting his face. I have absolutely no

  desire to spend my day off getting to know

  your derelict druggie boyfriend. He is yelling,

  so I respond in similar fashion. “Dylan

  is not a derelict. How can you call him

  that when you haven’t ever even met

  him? You are completely unfair!”

  Suddenly, Mom slams in through the door,

  dripping sweat from her morning run.

  What is going on? she huffs. Do you

  two know any other way to communicate?

  Play it up! “Dad says Dylan can’t

  come to the game with us tonight.”

  You’re still grounded! Dad screams.

  Grounded means no proximity to your

  boyfriend, who, just by the way, is

  the reason you’re grounded in the first

  place. Why is this even an argument?

  He looks at Mom for support and she has to

  give it. Honey, this was supposed to be

  a family evening. Dylan probably has plans.

  “He does! He planned on hanging out

  with me. Please, Mom. I haven’t seen

  him in weeks. . . .” Slight exaggeration,

  but still. “He’ll buy his own ticket

  and everything. Don’t you get it? I have

  to see him. I . . . I . . . am in love with him.”

  You don’t know the first thing about

  love! Dad is totally freaking out, leaking

  spit like a lunatic. And if you believe

  Dylan is in love with you, you’re crazy.

  “Shut up, Dad. You think you know

  everything.” Who the hell does he think

  he is? “Why are you so fucking mean?”

  God, that felt good. Almost as good as

  seeing the crazy mad look on Dad’s face

  right now. But, of course, Mom brings me

  back to reality. Convinces me to apologize.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said ‘fucking.’”

  Bizarrely

  That makes him laugh. I mean,

  like lock-him-up-in-an-asylum

  hysterical laughter. Mom asks

  what’s so funny, and he says,

  She just reminds me of me is all.

  I once said something similar to my

  dad. The main difference being,

  he kicked my ass. I don’t guess

  I feel the need to kick your ass,

  Mikayla. But regarding Dylan

  and the game, my answer is still

  the same. And until you show us

  a little respect, as far as I’m

  concerned, you’re still grounded.

  God! He pisses me off. I want to say

  more, but he turns on one heel

  and leaves the room. Mom tries

  to soothe my raw-edged nerves

  by telling me she’ll see what sher />
  can do about ungrounding me.

  She’s So Playable!

  Which works out well for me

  when we get to the game. Dad

  and my jerk-off brother go for

  hot dogs. I give Trace a look

  that lets him know without

  a doubt if he says a word

  about me, I’ll shove that foot-

  long down his throat whole.

  We’re early enough that the team

  is signing autographs. My weird

  little baseball-loving sister begs

  to stand in the signing line, so

  Mom goes along. Which offers

  the perfect opportunity to go

  find Dylan, who is waiting for

  me on the right field walkway.

  He stands out from the crowd—

  tall and strong-muscled in his

  shorts and tank top. Suddenly

  I really wish we were somewhere

  a lot more private than a ball

  game on Fourth of July. But,

  as my grandma often says,

  half a loaf is better than none.

  Turns Out

  All we’ll get is a couple of stale

  crusts. I am in Dylan’s arms,

  kissing him for the first time in

  way too many days, when all of

  a sudden he goes completely stiff.

  Uh, looks like we’ve got company.

  I peel myself off him, turn to find

  Mom glaring at me. Shit. Damn.

  My first thought is to grab Dylan,

  push him through the crowd to

  the nearest gate. But then what?

  Mom’s familiar “come hither” head

  bob turns me to concrete. Flee?

  Screw that. I have nowhere to go

  but home. “Sorry. I love you.”

  I love you, too, he says, all mopey

  and cute. I kiss him goodbye like

  they do in the movies. Dirty movies.

  Dylan

  Dirty Movies

  Are the best I’m gonna do

  tonight. Again. I never thought

  whacking off would get old, but

  after you’ve had the real deal,

  all warm and creamy,

  calloused

  skin, too cool with lotion,

  can’t measure up. And once

  you’ve experienced the low

  growl of building passion,

  dubbed

  moans and groans get annoying

  really fast. And after you’ve

  tasted authentic nipples, all sweet

  with strawberry shower gel,

  fake

  boobs, no matter how giant

  and airbrushed, kind of seem

  like letdowns. No, once you’ve

  made love with your amazing

  girlfriend, getting off solo is

  bullshit.

  Shane

  Making Love

  For the first time is probably scary

  for everyone. I’m totally terrified.

  It’s been two days since I told

  Alex that I think I’m ready.

  He insisted I wait, to be sure.

  Tonight is the Fourth of July.

  Independence Day might seem

  like a strange occasion to celebrate

  my growing dependence on

  Alex. Sex will bind us even tighter.

  That isn’t what frightens me.

  Neither does leaping so far into

  adulthood. No, what scares

  me is actually doing it. The act.

  I’ve seen it done plenty in movies.

  But they always get straight down

  to business. It never looks

  what you might call romantic.

  I want Alex and me to be all about

  romance. So okay, we start with

  a sweet, long kiss. Let the sweet

  melt like brown sugar from heating

  desire. But once the ol’ heart starts

  the kettle drum beating, then what?

  Do I rip off my clothes? Rip off

  Alex’s clothes? Do I let him do

  the ripping, or expect they’ll find

  a way to fall off on their own?

  I guess I’m overthinking things,

  but the little details worry the hell

  out of me. And then, there are

  the big ones—the ones they show

  in the movies that don’t look very

  romantic. God, I’m so confused.

  The Closest I’ve Come

  To doing any of this was an “almost”

  with Marlon Dufrena—a hulking dude

  with hands the size of baseball mitts.

  Hands that scared the crap out of me.

  I was fourteen and he was twenty,

  and I understood his interest had nothing

  to do with romance. I also knew

  there was something not quite right

  about a guy that old wanting to get

  off with me. But I was curious. Hungry

  for knowledge and for identity.

  He was mostly hungry for ejaculation.

  There were no dinners. No concerts.

  Definitely no kissing. Just those

  awful hands, grasping. Pushing.

  Pulling. Insisting, after I’d said no.

  He was bigger. I was quicker.

  One kick, well-placed, slowed him

  down long enough for me to run.

  After, I almost decided to try straight.

  Of Course, Going Straight

  When you’re totally, unabashedly

  born perfectly gay isn’t possible.

  As much as I wanted to hide in

  my closet, uh . . . not going to happen.

  Which explains my online outlet.

  The only hands I had to contend

  with were my own. I trusted them

  completely. But, like any red-

  blooded human being, I wanted to

  fall in love. Finally, I figured out

  that love and sex don’t have to be

  intertwined. But maybe, just maybe,

  they can be. I’m damn sure willing

  to give it a try, so I’ll work on not

  overthinking the details, give up

  all thought of control, see where

  love will carry me tonight. Alex.

  Damn. Why you? Okay, I know

  there’s no such thing as forever.

  So what can we be, in the now?

  While Waiting

  For Alex to pick me up, I go see

  what Mom’s up to. Pass Dad, snoring

  on the couch. God, does being home

  always have to equal being drunk

  for him? His liver must be pickling.

  I mean, it’s only seven, and as far as

  I can tell, he’s been dead to the world

  for about three hours. Okay, maybe

  I shouldn’t talk about bad habits.

  But at least mine don’t make me

  emotionally sterile. Hmm. Interesting

  thought. Wonder if his venom

  is some feeble attempt to feel. I hear

  Mom futzing around in the kitchen.

  Dinner for one, with me going out

  and Dad asleep and Shelby noshing

  from tubes. I clomp past the almost

  corpse of my father. No need to tiptoe.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, watching her slide

  a Lean Pocket into the microwave.

  “That doesn’t look too appetizing.”

  She turns, offers a lukewarm smile.

  You’re kidding, right? This is gourmet.

  Said with a not-silent t at the end.

  “You gonna watch the fireworks?”

  Our deck overlooks downtown Reno,

  where they lob them skyward from casino

  rooftops. When I was littl
e, we used

  to have July Fourth parties here. Back

  BS—Before Shelby, whose lungs can’t

  handle the slightest whisper of pollen-

  heavy evening breeze. “Not much wind

  tonight. And it’s warm.” I leave the hint

  hanging. Shelby should see fireworks

  at least once before . . . “Oh. There’s Alex.”

  I give her a quick hug, duck out the door.

  It Is, in Fact

  A perfect evening, the wind hushed as the sun sinks

  low to the west. I suck in a deep breath of jasmine-

  scented air to quiet the chatter of nerves. When I open

  the passenger door, peek in to say, “Hey . . . ,” I am struck

  for about the billionth time by Alex’s Irish beauty—

  black coffee hair over unblemished white skin. And

  when he smiles, his emerald eyes glow. Hey back

  at you. Get in. Excitement shades his voice. I’ve got

  a surprise for you. When I ask—ridiculously—what

  it is, all he says is, If you want to smoke, light up now.

  Of course I want to smoke. Weed is the only thing

  that will calm the churn in my gut. I share the blunt

  without hesitation. Swapping spit doesn’t worry

  me anymore. I researched again. Found out

  what I needed to know. We end up downtown.

  Alex stops in front of Harrah’s valet, pulls

  a small suitcase from his trunk, hands the attendant

  his keys and a five-dollar bill. He looks at me

  expectantly. Come on. Wait until you see this!

  We take the elevator to the twelfth floor,

  and he tugs me down the hall, into a room.

  He stops long enough to kiss me sweetly, then

  gushes, Our first time should be memorable.

  Look. We’ll be able to see the fireworks!

  The big windows face toward the city’s heart.

  “But how did you manage to get a room here

  on the Fourth of July?” Not an easy thing. “And

  how did you ever afford this?” I shake my head.

  My aunt Katie has worked here forever.

  She pulled some strings. And all those extra

  hours I was working? For you. For us.

  He kisses me again. This time, the sweet

  segues quickly to thrilling. His hands

  wind into my hair in a most primal way.

  My heart beats crazy fast. Blood whooshes

  in my ears and I cry out, “I love you.”

  I regret the words for about two seconds.