Know Not Why: A Novel (20 page)

He squeezes my knee. God, his hands are so the
best ever thing. So I guess she was right after all.

“Whatever.” I’m suddenly really fuckin’ tired of
talking about this. We should be talking about something cool. We
should go back to hats. “Maybe she made me gay.”

“It sounds like you were already gay.”

“I don’t know if I’m gay,” I make sure to say,
because hey,
I don’t.
“Maybe I’m just like … up for
anything.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, but I can tell he
doesn’t really think that. “Speaking of.”

“Hmm?”

“Were you … involved with Cora?”

“She tried to hook up with me to prove that I
wanted to hook up with you.”

“Ah.” He maybe sounds relieved a little; I do
like that. “That sounds like Cora.”

“Yeahhhh. Hey. About that.”

“About what?”

“Hooking up with you.”

“Aren’t we hooked up already?”

“I mean, like—” I feel myself starting to blush,
jeeeeeez. “Hooking up is sex.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. He sounds a little flustered
too. “I have trouble keeping up with all that. You young kids these
days.”

This, this is something that has been bothering
me for awhile. Pretty much ever since one makeout round got intense
enough for me to notice that, hey, Arthur definitely doesn’t have
girl parts in his swimsuit zone. And this seems like the time to
ask, since talking is like remarkably friggin’ easy at the
moment.

“I feel really fucking good with you,” I say,
‘cause I do. Better than any guy should with another human with boy
swimsuit zone parts. “But that … I don’t really … y’know, it’s not
like I ever even knew anything about … okay, fine, I found this
Kirk and Spock fanfiction one time, but that was seriously just
like a googling accident and morbid curiosity
all the way
,
it’s not exactly like that makes me a fuckin’ expert, and it’s not
like I
wanted to
— So how does that all go?”

“You want me to explain the technicalities?”

Jeeeeeeeeeeeeez.

“I get the technicalities, thanks. I dunno. I
just. Like … maybe it shouldn’t even
work
—”

“It works.”

“’Cause it sort of seems—”

“Some things aren’t different,” he interrupts
simply. “Some are. Overall, the sentiment remains the same.”

Well, when he makes it sound like that.
“Huh.”

“I haven’t made a habit of throwing up on
anyone,” he adds, a wry smile curving his mouth.

“Yeah,” I say, ‘cause I can believe that. “I
like you.”

“I like you.”

“You think I can come back to your place?” I
add. “I don’t really want my mom to see me drunk.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not like coming onto you or whatever,” I
make sure to throw in, ‘cause seriously,
seriously
, who
knows what this one’s gonna think? “I’m not trying to seduce
you.”

“Dear friend, you’re not in the position to
seduce anybody.”

“But sleep,” I say, “sleep is good.”

“Sleep it is.”

+

He helps me up the stairs – hard stairs,
slippery stairs, stairs of death – and it feels pretty damn
miraculous when we make it all the way to the top. We go inside,
and I sink down onto the futon, and after he’s got his coat off
Arthur sits down next to me. He turns the TV on and starts flipping
through channels. I slump against him and listen to his commentary
on what’s on: he gets, like, for real
pissed
at how lame
everything is, and it’s hilarious. Scawesome. For someone so bony,
he sure is comfy to lean all over.

After awhile, my eyes start getting heavy.
“Okay, you, time for bed,” Arthur says. I don’t put up a fight; I
just let him lead me down the hall and into what dimly registers as
Kristy’s room. Pink. Lots of pink.

“Kristy sleeps here,” I mumble.

“Not tonight,” Arthur murmurs back. “Don’t
worry, I don’t think she’ll mind.”

He pulls the covers back and navigates me into
the bed – mmmm, bed. Soft, nice bed. I settle in against the
pillows, turn around a little. The sheets, I see, have pink apples
all over them.

“You people are the best,” I declare, because,
man, they
are
. Who would have thought that getting a job at
an arts and crafts store would have resulted in knowing so many
great humans? My life, I dunno, all of a sudden it’s just
better
with them in it. Maybe even almost good.

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” Arthur replies,
tracing the line of my jaw lightly with his fingertip. Even in the
dark I can see him smile.

And as I doze off, I don’t feel so bad. I don’t
feel so bad at all.

+

I wake up at twenty minutes to noon the next
morning, feeling like what shit wants to be when it grows up, not
really able to manage any coherent thought. My brain is pretty much
one endless EEEEEEEEEUUUUUUURRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH.

But the bed smells nice – flowery and fresh and
Kristyish – and there’s actual sun glinting through the pink gauzey
curtains, and out in the kitchen, I can hear the clang of dishes
and the considerately faint sound of the Beatles on the stereo and
Arthur singing lightly along. And wouldn’t you know, all things
considered, I feel pretty damn fine myself.

Chapter Fourteen

“Are you hung over?” Amber demands.

I should have seen this coming.

“What? Why would you say that?” I ask, trying to
sound righteously offended as she brushes past me into the
house.

She squints up at me. “You look awful.”

“Maybe that’s just my face. Real sensitive, by
the way.”

“You
are
hung over. Jesus, I thought you
were hanging out with your mom last night.” She goes into glare
mode. No one locked in the throes of a hangover should have to deal
with Amber in glare mode. “You didn’t let Mitch take you out with
the guys again, did you??”

“No,” I answer. It’s the truth and everything,
but it comes out sounding real feeble – mostly because even talking
is a pain in the ass today.

It’s not my fault that she chooses to interpret
that as lying.

“You
did
,” she surmises. She’s like some
bizarre mom-wife hybrid. “Howie, come on, you know the guys are too
crazy for you.”

On a better day, I would have argued against
this claim. Just because Mitch’s other dude friends happen to be a
little more with the beer and the sports and the Megan Fox than me
doesn’t mean that they’re
too crazy
for me. I am totally
capable of crazying it up with those sons of bitches.

Anyway, Amber just hates the guys because once
one of them said he would go after her if, direct quote, ‘she had a
different personality.’

“Seriously, Howie. You don’t have to try to fit
in with them, you know. Trying is just gonna make you look even
sadder than you are.”

Call me crazy, but I’m not in love with the idea
of standing around getting chewed out over something I didn’t even
do. “Can we just go to the friggin’ play already?”

“Fine,” Amber sighs, but she keeps looking at me
in a way that makes it perfectly clear that she’s still, I dunno,
disappointed in me for conforming, when I didn’t even really
conform at all. When, interestingly enough, my true last-night
actions probably would have caused the guys to beat the shit out of
me, or at least partake in some hearty vomiting.

+

And so we go.

It’s just as mad and smoky a den of seduction as
it was last night, but some of the magic gets lost when you’re hung
over and with Amber.

“They can’t serve alcohol here,” she remarks
upon catching sight of the shotglass-wielding Transsexual
Transylvanians.

Oh, crap, I hope that Tights McGee isn’t here.
There’s one dude I never want to see again as long as I live, no
matter how much enjoyment I might get out of giving him a snappy
nickname in my head.

“Amber, they’re sexy space aliens,” I say
distractedly, keeping an eye out. “They can do whatever the hell
they want.”

“Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure they
can’t
.
This is the high school—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, well, they are.
You’re
the one who wanted to come, okay? Don’t chew me out about it.”

Amber is starting to look pissed, but I don’t
even get to bask in that happy knowledge for long, because I feel a
tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and—

“Hey, it’s you.” Tights McGee, in the scantily
clad flesh. “Back for more?”

“What,” Amber says, “the hell?”

ABORT. ABORT.

“No idea,” I say quickly, not looking him in the
eyes. “Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Don’t leave me with—”

“It’ll be the world’s fastest pee,” I promise,
already halfway towards the door. You can’t catch me, Tights McGee.
The Gingerbread Man
wishes
he had these moves. “Stay strong,
Clark.”

“You suck,” Amber informs me. Wouldn’t you know,
I can live with that. I make my way out to the swiftly dwindling
sounds of her tellin’ old Tights, “
No
, I don’t want to try
one. What’s in there, acid rain?”

I slip past the crowd that’s filtering in and
keep going until I’m in a deserted stairwell next to a trash can. I
whip out my cellphone, ready to call up the Mitchman, when I find a
text message waiting for me.

“I found a pair of someone’s socks on the floor
next to my bed!! Don’t worry, i washed them for you, i’ll bring
them in to work tomorrow!! have fun at the play! Tell amber and
cora hi for me! don’t get too tipsy, lol! xoxo KQ”

I know that Amber’s my best friend. I know that
it’s been awhile since she and I really had some buddy time, what
with me working and leading a scandalous double life. I know that
she’s a little snippier than usual because Dennis is coming back on
Monday and bringing his mysterious new ladylove Emily along with
him.

But man, I’m hung over and I’m scared of Tights
and what I want, what I
really
want is to be over at
Kristy’s, hanging out with her and her roommate and a certain
gentleman friend of mine.

But Amber’s my best friend, and it’s one night.
Cue that funky disco beat, because I will survive.

I send Kristy “Many thanks, sock fairy. Also,
too late. Already shitfaced,” successfully resisting all urges to
throw in anything that resembles ‘Good sweet baby Jesus God, I wish
I was there instead, come rescue me.’ Then I call up Mitch.

“Howie! Heyyyy!”

“Mitchy, heyyyyy. I need a favor.”

“Anything, man.”

“She probably won’t even mention it to you or
whatever, but if Amber asks, I spent last night with you and the
guys, okay?”

“Whoaaaaa!” I can hear,
hear
his face
splitting into a grin. “Whaaaaat?”

“I was out with some work friends, and wound up
getting pretty wasted.”

“
Ohhhhhhhhh
!”

“But, I dunno, I don’t really want Amber to know
about—” Wait. I’m starting to realize that I don’t really have an
alibi for Mitch. Goddamn, this double life stuff gets tiring.

“It’s Cora, right?” Mitch asks between grunts of
my-boy-done-good laughter.

It totally catches me off-guard. “Huh?”

“The little crazy elf chick. Did you boink an
elf? That is so boss, Jenkins! I hereby commend thee.”

“That’s none of your business, man.”

“You did!” Mitch exclaims, complete with some
reverent laughter. “You boinked an elf!”

There we go. Alibi attained. If it’s really
going to bring Mitch this much joy to believe I’m elf-boinking,
then far be it from me to deprive him of that happiness.

“Yeah, well, keep it on the DL, will ya? I’ve
got musical transvestites to watch. Later.”

I hang up on the sound of him laughing jollily
away and saying ‘boink’ a couple more times.

Magnificent people, these friends of mine.

When I slip back into the cafeteria they’re
lowering the lights and Amber’s sitting by herself, glowering.
Lucky me.

“Hey, guess what?” she whispers as I take a
seat. “Not the world’s fastest pee.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I mutter back. “I’ll try
harder next time.”

“Why did shots guy seem like he knew you?” she
adds, because apparently criticizing my urination abilities isn’t
enough for her tonight.

I fight back all impulses to bust out a hearty
‘Damn, get OFF my CASE, woman!’

“I gave Cora a ride to rehearsal once,” I
invent, “and I wound up chatting with him for awhile. Total
psycho.”

“Huh,” Amber says, and then the play gets
started, so that’s it.

I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid not to tell her
I went last night. No sane person would consider that a
friendship-ending offense. But I get the feeling that she’d be
pissed if she knew that I went already without her, like she
wouldn’t get why I didn’t just invite her along. And Amber can’t
see me with Arthur. She just fuckin’ can’t. It’s like there’s my
life, and it’s got Amber and Mitch and my mom and directionlessness
and the shadow of my dead dad still hanging over everything. And
then there’s the senseless, glorious, unasked-for vacation from my
life, and that’s Arthur and Kristy and Cora.

Even having Amber and Cora here, together, in
the same room, feels dangerous. Thank God Cora’s onstage.

So we watch the play and ninth grade Amber comes
back pretty fast, I think, because she seems into it by the time
like fifteen minutes have gone by. Meanwhile, I sit and try to
ignore my headache and how much I want to be somewhere else.

Finally, after about twelve hours, it’s
over.

“Okay, let’s roll,” I say, starting to stand
up.

“You’re not even going to go tell Cora she did a
good job? Come on, Howie, I’ve trained you better than that.” At
least it’s affectionate nagging this time. She even ruffles my
hair. Bless the healing powers of
Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch
Me
.

Still,
no
. Talking to Cora was so not
part of the deal.