He never did text me back. I went through the second semester of my sophomore year a zombie, barely paying attention in class, barely squeaking by with passing grades. I’d never felt so miserable. But how else had I expected things to end? I kept asking myself that. How could I reasonably expect anyone to fall in love with dumpy, pathetic me? Let alone a cool college boy? (Well, maybe not cool, but definitely magnetic.) All along, it had only been a matter of time before he came to his senses.
The day he’d left, I’d printed out a photo of him I’d found on Facebook and taped it on my wall, hidden underneath a shot of Lauren Bacall. At night I’d unstick the top of the Lauren Bacall picture and let it hang down, revealing the picture of Mike. I kept it there all semester and uncovered it every night and laid there in bed staring at it. Just to punish myself, I guess.
Then one Sunday morning the whole family was out by the minivan again, Mom busy with her pre-church inspection, when the Morettis stepped outside on their way somewhere else. (They didn’t go to our church.) They paused near their car to make small talk with Mom and Dad, asking if we had any summer plans. Mom gabbed for a bit about the monthlong family Bible camp we were going to in August.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Italy,” Mrs. Moretti gushed. “We’re spending the whole summer.”
Mom and Dad gave vague nods, like they’d never heard of the place before.
“I have some family there,” Mr. Moretti explained. “Mike’s coming home to run the theater while we’re gone.”
The back of my neck prickled under my poly-blend collar at the sound of his name. My mind started to race. The Morettis said good-bye and got into their car, and before Mom had even finished spit-smoothing my cowlicky hair, I had a plan. Because in spite of everything, part of me still hoped Mike hadn’t just blown me off. He might’ve lost the phone he used to text me, and my number along with it. He might’ve gotten scared. Didn’t I owe it to him, and to myself, to give him a chance?
The following Saturday afternoon I slipped out of the house and rang the Morettis’ doorbell.
“I’m looking for a summer job,” I blurted, my palms sweating, “and I love movies. Any chance you need someone to help out at the theater?”
That June I started behind the snack counter a week before Mike got home. It had taken some convincing to get Mom and Dad to agree. I’d had to promise only to work daytime shifts, when the matinees were playing, and never to sneak in and watch any of the R-rated movies.
So there I stood next to the popcorn popper in my paper hat and clip-on bow tie when Mike walked in. He still had the billy-goat beard, and he still had the inexplicable Humphrey Bogart magnetism. I felt it the second he walked in, even from all the way across the lobby. My heart started going faster.
Then it lurched to a stop. He had someone with him. A girl with a huge head of frizzy hair, like a mass of blond cotton candy. As I watched, he slung his arm over her shoulder.
Mr. and Mrs. Moretti followed them in. They’d all come so Mike’s parents could show him the ropes. They stopped on the other side of the lobby, and Mr. Moretti started explaining how to work the cash register while Mike, only half listening, let his gaze wander.
His eyes landed on me. His face went pale. His arm sagged away from the girl.
Mrs. Moretti noticed him staring at me. “Mike, did you ever meet Cody? The neighbors’ boy? He’ll be working the snack counter this summer.”
Mike’s mouth opened but nothing come out. I could see him trying to figure out what he should say, what lie he should tell about us.
I was nervous too, but at least I’d expected this moment and rehearsed it in my head. I’d run through a million scenarios—although none where a girl with cotton-candy hair was standing next to him.
“I—I saw you a few times,” I stammered. “I don’t think we ever met, though.”
Still he didn’t utter a word. To fill the silence, I stepped out from behind the counter and held out my hand to the girl.
“I’m Cody.”
“So nice to meet you!” she said, seizing my hand with both of hers and pumping it hard. “I’m Rochelle. I’ll be working the ticket counter.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Mike finally said. His eyes had a steely set to them, and his beard seemed to bristle as he spoke. “She’s spending the summer here.”
“We’re going to have so much fun!” Rochelle still hadn’t released my hand. She gave it another excited shake and beamed at me, like she thought I was just adorable.
I mumbled something about needing to get back to work and scuttled behind the counter.
A couple hours later, after Mike’s parents had gone home to pack, and the matinees were all underway, and Rochelle had left to have a look around downtown Hillville, Mike stalked back to the snack counter. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed between his teeth, slamming his palms on the glass.
I backed up against the popcorn popper. “I needed a summer job,” I answered in a small voice.
“Here?”
“I wanted to see you.” I could hear how pathetic the words sounded even as they fell out of my mouth. “I missed you.”
“Not cool, Cody. My girlfriend’s here. Things are different now. We need to forget Christmas break ever happened.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Didn’t you tell me yourself you can’t have your parents finding out about you? You said you knew for a fact they’d kick you out if they knew you were gay. You said they pretty much told you so point-blank. Isn’t that right?”
“Well, yeah.” I felt dizzy. The smell of melted butter filled my nose and made me want to throw up. Behind me, the heat of the popper burned into my back. I could feel the thing shake with each tiny explosion of a popping kernel.
“So you have just as much to lose as I do,” he said. “More probably. I mean, I’m not even gay, really. I just like messing around with guys sometimes. So let’s just bury it, okay?”
My chin started to shake. “But I . . . I love you.” The words landed in my ears with a pitiful thud.
Mike gave me a look of pure bafflement. “What are you talking about?” He glanced around, like he feared someone might see my little breakdown and draw conclusions. “Look, pull yourself together, okay? Let’s talk later.” He disappeared into the manager’s office muttering, “Jesus, I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved with the neighbors’ kid.”
I tried to do what he said. As I stood there with my back still to the popper, though, I didn’t get calmer. I got angrier. It seemed the mystery had been solved: Mike hadn’t lost my number. He hadn’t gotten scared. He’d just been an asshole. Behind me, the tiny explosions started coming faster. Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
I barreled through the office door, ready to let Mike have it, but I found the room empty. Behind the door to the manager’s little private bathroom, I heard him moving around.