And then the lady does.
But anyway, like I was saying, that couple that moved in next door . . . It sort of interested me that they owned the movie theater, but apart from that, I didn’t think much about them. Until Christmas break a year and a half ago, when their son came home from college for a visit.
I was standing in our driveway with my mom and dad and brother and sister at the time. We were about to get into the minivan to go to church. The guy pulled up in front of the Morettis’ house in a loudly chugging, beat-up compact and got out. He had one of those scraggly billy-goat beards that makes a guy look like some kind of Middle Earth wannabe hipster. He stretched as if he’d been driving all night. His arms were still up in the air when he spotted us staring at him. Even Mom had paused in her ritual Sunday morning inspection of our faces and hair and outfits to check him out, because a new person in the neighborhood’s always interesting.
The guy checked us out, too. His eyes moved from face to face and stopped on mine. I squirmed in my scratchy polyester-blend dress shirt and plaid necktie because I knew my church clothes only made me look dumpier than usual. But he gave a nod, and even though the others probably assumed he was nodding at all of us, for some reason, I got the feeling he meant the nod just for me.
I didn’t see him again for a couple days, although I kept an eye out. Then one night after dinner, I ducked out to the backyard. It was cold as hell outside, but the rest of the family was in the living room playing Bible-opoly, and that always sends me running for the hills. I heard a noise and glanced over. There was the Morettis’ son, standing on their back porch with a cigarette in his hand and one shoulder leaned up against the house, already watching me.
“You won’t tell, will you?” he said, holding up his smoke. “The parents don’t know I do this.”
He didn’t look all that worried, though. I wanted to come back with something clever, like the women in noir films always do, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
He walked over to the waist-high chain-link fence separating our yards. For the first time I got a decent look at his face. He wasn’t handsome, but gazing at him made my insides sort of flutter anyway. Maybe it was just because college-aged people automatically seem cooler, even if they have piece of junk cars and billy-goat beards. But I was pretty sure there was something else about him, something that had nothing to do with age, that overcame his lack of looks and excess of chin hair. He was like Humphrey Bogart. Bogie wasn’t good-looking, but he had magnetism. This guy had magnetism too.
“I’m Mike.”
“Cody,” I managed.
He nodded, the cigarette wedged between his teeth, his eyes squinting as he grinned at me, like he was sizing me up. I sucked in my belly and shifted my weight onto one foot and rested my hand on my hip, hoping the pose would make me look svelte and alluring. He snatched his cigarette from his mouth and held it out to me, which struck me as odd, since I was fifteen and looked even younger, and he didn’t even know me. Still, I wished again I had the confidence of a femme fatale. I’d grab the cigarette and take a drag and let the smoke leak slowly through my lips. Or maybe I’d blow it in a narrow stream over his shoulder or exhale it through my nostrils like a lady dragon. Those noir actresses knew a million different ways of exhaling cigarette smoke, and each one seemed to have a different meaning—like smoking was its own language.
I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life, though, so I shook my head. An awkward silence had started to set in, and I could see in another second he’d turn away and go back into the house, but by some miracle I finally thought of something to say.
“You’re the Morettis’ son?” Not exactly film noir–caliber dialogue, but at least I’d kept the conversation going.
“Yup. Home for break. I’m a sophomore down at the University of Atlanta. What about you? High school?”
“I’m a sophomore too. Hillville High.”
He took another drag and nodded. “So what’s there to do here in Hillville?”
I would’ve thought anyone on Earth could take one look at me and see I was the exact wrong person to ask a question like that, but I tried to play it off. “Not much,” I said with a scoffing laugh, like I’d be out partying right that minute if only I lived in a cooler location. “Actually, I prefer to call this place Hellville. Hellville, West Virginia.”
“Well, there must be a burger place at least. You like burgers?”
Wait a second, I thought. What’s happening right now? Is he asking me out? I just nodded, since I’d once again lost the power of speech.
He stuck the cigarette between his teeth one more time so he could pull out his phone. “What’s your number? Maybe we can get a burger sometime.”
I glanced over my shoulder, thinking maybe there was someone else behind me, someone thin and good-looking and probably female, because honestly, Mike seemed pretty straight to me.
“It’s just that I don’t know anyone in this town,” he said. “And you seem cool.”
I turned back around and looked up at him—he was a full head taller than me—and said, “Thanks. Sounds like fun.”
Then something must’ve gotten into me, maybe the spirit of Barbara Stanwyck, because all of a sudden, without even planning to, I grabbed the cigarette right out of his mouth, put it between my lips, and took a puff.
I just about coughed my guts clear out of my body.
*
He didn’t try anything the first time he took me to the Burger Barn. He was a gentleman. But he started texting me, and the texts got sexy way before he did in person. Maybe it was easier for him that way. I could tell he wasn’t out of the closet and wanted to keep a low profile. (I got the impression the phone he’d programmed my number into wasn’t his regular one. I noticed once during our meal he answered a call from his parents on a different phone.)
I didn’t mind. Not only was I in the closet, I was also a total virgin who didn’t even know for certain if I’d seen another homo in the flesh, aside from those two old guys at my mom’s hair salon and this other boy at church I had strong suspicions about. And considering I was pudgy and girly and still let my mom pick out my clothes and home-cut my hair because I trusted her to know what a normal straight boy was supposed to look like way more than I trusted myself, meeting a guy who wanted to get friendly with me that way was literally the last thing I expected to happen.
But here it was happening. Over the course of the week between Christmas and New Year’s, Mike sent a steady stream of texts. First: u have a great sense of humor.
Then: u have a funny laugh.
Then: u have a cute nose.