As he hugged me, Miles said, “You’re pretty cool, you know.”
“You’re drunk,” I told him.
He pulled back with a smile and said, “In a way.” Then he said good night again and disappeared with a wave.
On the train ride home, I wondered if I should have asked for Graham’s phone number, what it would be like to hear his voice at midnight, the last sound before going to sleep. It was late when I got home, but not too late. Still, my father was waiting for me when I came into the kitchen. He did not look happy.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“A few of us went out after. For dinner.”
“Was it better than the dinner you were supposed to be home for?”
And it wasn’t until then that I remembered—a Family Dinner. I had promised, and I had forgotten.
“Your mother is very upset,” my father added.
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound very sorry.”
There was no winning. None whatsoever.
“I’m going to bed,” I told him.
“You will be home for dinner tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“It’s not that difficult a concept.”
“What did you say?”
“I said fine.
Fine.
”
The next day at class, Federica had us doing exercises most of the time, so I didn’t get a chance to have Graham Time by myself. I did notice him watching me, though. Singling me out. At one point I winked at him and he laughed.
I was home in time for dinner, but not in time to set the table. Jeremy had done it dutifully in my place.
As soon as the food was served, conversation turned immediately to the Bar Mitzvah. Reply cards were in, and with less than two weeks to go until the big day, it looked like there were more attendees than my parents had been planning on.
“All your cousins are bringing their boyfriends,” my mother said with a sigh. “I knew we shouldn’t have let them bring a guest. All it takes is one of the girls to bring a boyfriend, and suddenly they all have boyfriends to bring. We haven’t even met these boys. Except for that Evan, and he was
not
family material.”
I don’t know what started me thinking. Maybe it was the fact that two of my cousins were exactly my age. Maybe it was the notion of
family material.
But suddenly I had something to say.
“I didn’t know Diane and Liz were allowed to bring guests,” I said.
“Yes,
and
Debbie and Elena. You knew that.”
I put down my fork. “So I assume this means that I can bring a guest, too.”
Now my father put down
his
fork. “What do you mean?” he asked, with a tone of genuine mystification.
“I mean, I can bring someone. Right?”
“But these are the girls’ boyfriends,” my mother said.
“What about
my
boyfriend?” I found myself asking.
Pure silence at the table, loud shouting in each of our heads. Except Jeremy’s. He just watched, transfixed.
“What boyfriend?” my mother asked.
“He doesn’t have a boyfriend,” my father answered. “He’s just being stubborn.”
“His name is Graham,” I said. “He’s in my dance class.”
It was the name that did it. The name that made it real. For all of us.
“Jesus Christ,” my father said, pushing his plate away.
“There are already too many people,” my mother added quickly, somewhere between diplomatic and petrified. “There isn’t enough room.”
“There is for Diane and Liz and Debbie and Elena’s boyfriends.”
“But that’s different.”
“How is that different?”
“It just is.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Now my father looked truly pissed. My mother was still trying to salvage her argument. “We don’t even know this boy,” she said, having already forgotten his name. “It’s not like you’ve brought him home for us to meet.”
That was brilliant. “Why in God’s name would I want to do
that
?” I was shouting now, near tears. Trying desperately to keep those tears in, so my parents wouldn’t see them.
“Honey…,” my mother soothed. But it was too late for her to make it better.
“Don’t leave this table,” my father said, anticipating my next move.
So I left. Threw my napkin on my plate, went to my room, closed the door.
How many times had we acted this out before?
Usually I slammed the door. Locked it.
I was beyond that now. I didn’t want them to hear a thing.
Like I was already gone.
If I’d had a car, I would have driven all night. But instead I let my mind do the driving. It took me to Graham’s apartment. Into his arms.
My mother knocked and told me there was still food in the kitchen.
I didn’t answer.
My father walked by. I could hear his footsteps slow for a second, then move on.
When Jeremy came by, his knock was quiet, as if he thought I was already asleep. Because I felt bad he had to see everything, I told him to come in.
He stayed in the doorway. Was it because he didn’t want to disturb me? Or was he afraid I’d shout at him, too?
I didn’t know.
I was about to apologize for dinner, to let him know it really didn’t have anything to do with his Bar Mitzvah. But he surprised me by speaking first.
“Do you love him?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Graham.”
He was serious. I could see it on his face. He was trying to process it all, and he was serious.
“Yes,” I said. “I probably do.”
He nodded, and I knew there was something else that I should say. But once again, I didn’t know what those words were. I wasn’t used to being a brother.
And that nod. Was he accepting me? Or was it about something else? He looked determined. But I had no idea why.
“Good night,” he said, closing the door.
I had planned on sneaking away in the morning, avoiding them all. But when I got to the kitchen, Jeremy was already there, our parents in orbit around him, trying to get their things ready for work. Neither my mother nor my father said anything about the previous night. Neither acknowledged that this was anything but an ordinary day. But Jeremy…well, Jeremy did.
He didn’t even look up from his Frosted Flakes.
“You’re going to let Jon bring Graham to the Bar Mitzvah, right?” he said between spoonfuls.
My parents shot each other a glance. Then my father said plainly, “No, we’re not.”
Jeremy, still looking at his cereal: “Why not?”
“It’s not appropriate. If this were a few months ago, maybe. If this was a longtime thing, perhaps. But not now.”
“How do you know how long it’s been?” I asked.
But my father didn’t rise to the question. He just said, “End of discussion.”
Now Jeremy raised his eyes from his breakfast and looked straight at our mother.
“I want to invite Graham,” he said.
“That’s sweet,” she replied. “But really, it’s too late.”
Jeremy went on. “If you don’t want to invite him as Jon’s date, he could come as one of my friends. I know Herschel can’t make it, so Graham can come instead.”
Instead of answering my brother, my father went after me. “What have you been saying to him?” he asked. Then, turning to Jeremy, “What did he say to you?”
“He didn’t say anything to me,” Jeremy answered. “I just think if Jon wants to bring his boyfriend, he should.”
“The answer,” my father insisted, “is no.”
He gathered up his briefcase, as if this truly was the end of discussion. My mother and I stood still, waiting—for what, we didn’t know. I watched Jeremy. He looked pained. I wanted to tell him to stop, it was okay. But I stayed silent and he did not. He looked right at my father this time.
“If Jon can’t invite Graham,” he said slowly, surely, “then I am not having a Bar Mitzvah.”
“What?” my father asked, as if he hadn’t heard right.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“No,” Jeremy told me. “I do.”
Why? I had done nothing to deserve this. Nothing.
“We’ll talk about this tonight,” my father said before storming out. He didn’t even kiss my mother good-bye, like he always did.
My mother looked at me and said, “You see what you’ve done?”
I couldn’t take it. I know I should have stayed by Jeremy’s side. I should have talked to him. Maybe talked him out of it. But it was too much. I did the only thing I knew how to do—I left. I gave Jeremy a squeeze on the shoulder before I did. That’s what I could give him. And I gave my mother a kiss, probably because my father hadn’t. Then I was out of there. Free, but not.
I was in a daze through school and the trip into the city, but seeing Graham brought me to all of my senses. At first I wanted to tell him everything. Then I just wanted to tell him something. And eventually I would have been satisfied with telling him anything. We worked pretty much the whole day together, the same Blur songs playing over and over as he led me through the steps, as I showed him what I could do. His sweat on mine, his hand guiding my body. I felt such sureness there. Nobody could tell me what I was doing was wrong.
Thomas invited some of us to stay at his house overnight. His parents were away and he wanted to have a party. We didn’t trust Thomas to catch us from our leaps, to make the right entrance at the right time. But we
did
trust his parents to have a large, unlocked liquor cabinet and plenty of space to crash.
It was Friday. There was no reason for me to go home, and plenty of reasons for me to stay.
I called the house and Jeremy picked up.
“Tell Mom and Dad I’m staying over at my friend Thomas’s,” I told him. I even gave him the number.
He took it down, repeated it to me. We hung on the line for a second.
“Hey, Jon?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you really going to Thomas’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Not Graham’s?”
I heard a little hope in his voice. “Nah,” I said, “but I’m hoping he’ll be there. Thanks again, by the way, for this morning. You really don’t have to do that.”
“No, I want to,” he assured me. “It’s important.”
I was trying to think of something to say to that, but Jeremy quickly told me our mother had gotten home, so he had to go.
I told Thomas I was in the clear, then I went to find Graham. He’d just changed from the shower, his hair dripping perfectly.
“A bunch of us are going to Thomas’s,” I said, all casual. “You wanna come?”
I thought for a moment he was going to say yes, his smile was such a welcome one. But then he shook his head and said he had other plans.
A date?
I wondered immediately.
“A friend’s birthday party,” he said, as if reading my fears.
So a bunch of us went up to Thomas’s—Miles and I were the only sleepover guests; the rest were all city kids. Thomas’s place was nearly palatial, an Upper East Side mansion-apartment. We had the run of the land. Soon we were drinking, flipping cable channels, and gossiping about all the people who weren’t there. For one night—this big city night—I was an adult and I was treated like an adult. Like my opinion mattered. Like I had things to say. Like I could do what I wanted because I could judge my own consequences. We started talking about families and I bragged to everyone about what my brother had done, made it sound like we’d both stood up to our parents. Of course, I didn’t tell them who I’d named as my boyfriend, or even that I’d given him a name. I made it an argument over principle—an argument I’d won.
“So what’s going on with you and Graham?” Miles asked later on, when we took over the bunk beds in the guest room. Everyone else had left by now, except for Eve, who was making out with Thomas. A kind of host gift. I thought Miles was a little bit drunk and I wasn’t sure whether or not I was, too. I knew Graham would tell me, if only he were here.
“I don’t know what’s going on with me and Graham,” I said—and Miles laughed. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. And then his voice changed to another voice, a gentler voice, as he wished me good night.
The next morning—more like afternoon, really—we woke up before Thomas. Miles cleaned the living room a little while I took a shower. Then another hour passed and Thomas still hadn’t emerged from his room. There was no way we were going to interrupt his closed door, so the two of us decided it was safe to leave. I asked Miles what he wanted to do.
“Why don’t we check out where Graham lives, see if he’s around?” he replied.
“But we don’t know where he lives!” I protested.
“Ooh, look,” he said, picking up the phone, “I got some magic in my fingers. I just press four-one-one, and…”—he gave Graham’s name and the East Village and asked for the address—“presto!”
There were messages on my cell phone from my home number, but I didn’t check them. My parents’ voices didn’t belong anywhere near this world. As Miles and I rode the 6 train downtown, we tried to piece together all the events of the previous night. Miles seemed disappointed in Thomas, and I wondered if he had a crush on him. (I hadn’t known Thomas was into girls, but I hadn’t really cared, either.)
I didn’t think we actually were going to show up at Graham’s doorstep. But when we got there—he lived next to a pizza place on East Ninth—Miles started to head straight for the bell.
“What are you doing?” I asked, not without some alarm.
“Don’t you want to see if he’s in?” he replied. I couldn’t tell if he was taunting me or just trying to help.
“I’d rather just bump into him,” I said.
So we got a pizza, then wandered around the block a half dozen times, until a lady on the stoop next to his asked us what the hell we were doing.
Neither Miles nor I wanted to go home, so we dragged our wandering farther, checking out the tattoo parlors on St. Mark’s and getting an overpriced latte to share at the Starbucks on Astor Place. Finally we found ourselves back at the dance studio—we were allowed to use it on weekends for rehearsal. It was better than going home.
And there he was. We walked into the studio and Graham was the only one there. Dancing each part of his piece, rehearsing for all of us at once. I felt such intimacy toward him then. An intimacy that was stolen, yes. Like staring at someone dreaming.
I watched him, and I could feel Miles watching me watch him. I didn’t try to hide it.