The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 9
It’s Dad.
I spin around and stand there like an idiot, the stupid tag on the shades dangling down one side of my head, trying to decide whether to sneak away quietly so he won’t know I saw him shopping for contraception when he isn’t living at home or let him know I’ve caught him in the act. As quietly as possible, I take off the shades and try to get them back on their display perch, which of course you can’t even do when you’re not under pressure, and they fall on the floor. Dad turns toward me.
I almost laugh at the expression on his face. OMG comes closer than What the fuck do I do now, but they’re both there, really. Needless to say, there’s no Whatcha up to, kid? And I’ve just decided to kill two birds with one stone—cut him a break, and impress my car-loving father with my magnificent driving expertise that allows me to save the lives of people and livestock alike—when Etta appears out of nowhere and stops, staring at us. In another world, this might be funny.
She breaks the silence, unaware of all the unsaid swear words in the air. “You’re Dave Poe, aren’t you?” He says something like Yeah, and she stands, holding a hand out to him. “I’m Etta Greenleaf. So glad to meet you.”
He says something like, “Sure, yeah, I know who you are. Right.”
My fifteen minutes of fame would sound so much better coming from someone else. Tell him! I want to shout at her. Tell him how great I was! I glare at her, my eyes screaming, pleading. She sees me but doesn’t quite know what to make of it.
Before anything good can happen, Dad says, “So, anyway, I gotta get going. See you, Ethan.”
He scurries away like some kind of rabbit given a chance of escape from a hawk while I stare after him, forcing myself not to shout, Wait! You gotta hear this!
Etta says, “Ethan? Is something wrong?”
I hear the sulk in my voice. “Nothing’s wrong.” I bend over to pick up the shades I’d dropped and nearly break them getting the arms back into those stupid holes in the display case.
“Did I say something I shouldn’t?”
I wheel on her, not knowing how to say what’s really bugging me. I raise an arm in the general direction of the condoms. “Do you see where he was?”
She looks at them and back at me. “I guess he’s taking the divorce proceedings seriously.” I’m sure my jaw drops so low it hides my neck, but all she says is, “Is there anything you need before we leave? All I have left is batteries, and they’re up near the register.”
I don’t say another word right up to when we get to my house. As I’m pulling into the driveway she says, “Ethan, I’m sorry if what I said sounded callous. I’m just being realistic. And when the divorce is final, that kind of scene could happen again. It’s something you’ll need to get used to.”
As I open the car door to get out, I say, “Thanks for the driving time.” I slam the door and head for the house. She thinks I can get used to my father buying condoms so he can fuck some woman? It doesn’t matter that I’m pretty sure this whole thing is Mom’s idea, sending him away. He’s got no business being with another woman. There’s something wrong with Etta if she can’t see that.
But life’s not all ugly. Max and I do our Bangor trip the very next weekend. He’s got his intermediate license, which means he doesn’t need a fully licensed adult with him. Unless, that is, he’s got a passenger who isn’t licensed. Like me. But he doesn’t tell his folks that he’s picking me up in front of Jorja’s church. I don’t understand my mom’s politics—the libertarian angle—well enough to know whether she’d agree with the licensing requirements or not, so I tell her I’m spending the afternoon with Jorja. I feel bad about the lie, but what’s a gay guy to do? It’s not like Max and I can go out on dates.
Getting caught between two things is becoming a theme in my life, kind of like something we’re expected to work into book reports. First I have to choose between spending my limited funds on a cell phone or a tattoo. And then Etta calls on Saturday morning and wants to go—guess where. Bangor. With Two. She takes him there sometimes to a dog park where he can “socialize” with other dogs. That’s how she puts it. Seems lame to me, though maybe it’s just that I’m still kind of pissed at her. But I’d love to get the driving hours in! Won’t work though; Max has dibs on Saturday. I’m meeting him just after lunch. So I have to kill one thing to let the other live.
On the bright side . . . well—Max. Nothing can compete with that. Plus, I’ll get my tattoo! So my next choices have to do with what to wear. Almost automatically I pick up the same black jeans I’d worn to see Guy, the ones with the huge metal teeth in the fly and no cloth cover. But then this seems too obvious, too much like I’m asking for something. I take them off and reject the black T-shirt with the strategic holes for the same reason. I try on one outfit after another, and even though I have plenty of time I start worrying that I’ll be late. Rejecting Goth altogether, I settle on blue jeans, my white T-shirt with the red and white yin-yang symbol (which seems really appropriate), and white running shoes that I haven’t worn in, like, forever. Because it’s getting chilly, I sling over my shoulder that old black leather jacket Mom had bought for me at This Time For Sure—also appropriate, right next to the body art shop and everything.
I leave the house quietly, knowing that Mom has asked Kyle to wash the car, so they’ll both be home. I don’t want any questions or even any conversation right now. And I really want to avoid getting caught by Kyle in one of his dictator moods. You know, when he dictates what I’m supposed to do. Like mow the lawn, or clean out . . . something.
I’m in front of Jorja’s church several minutes early. The church’s battered marquee this week says, THIS IS A SIGN FROM GOD. Ha! My sign from God today is that I’m spending the entire afternoon with the love of my life. Or maybe he’s just the lust of my life. Guess the options are open.
He’s almost ten minutes late, and I’ve started to worry that too many of the people driving by will recognize me and tell my mom they saw me here. I spend the time daydreaming about what will happen when I get into the car, which in my mind is the brown Jeep. Will he send me one of his gorgeous smiles, head tilted? Will he reach a hand behind my neck and pull our faces together for some tongue action?
I adjust my jeans, which have grown a little snug in the crotch.
But the time drags, and I’m about to get really pissed off when the Modine family SUV pulls up. Not Sylvia’s Jeep. It’s a white Toyota Sequoia. Absolutely gorgeous. Looks like power and confidence and security all at once, and my knight, arriving on—in—a white steed. I climb in. He’s got the moonroof popped up at an angle.
Max eyes me just for a second before he pulls back out onto the road. “New look?” he says, and immediately I’m thinking I should have stayed Goth. But then, “I like it. Especially the jacket.”
I almost say Thanks but then decide to be cool and just nod. And I don’t say anything about the shirt he’s wearing, a nubbytextured fabric, a muted color somewhere between blue and green. No T-shirt for him. And not Goth. But I can’t help stealing another glance at his profile, and that’s when I take in that the seats behind us are all flattened, as though someone is about to load something large. I wait a couple of seconds and then ask, “What’s with the back?”
Max doesn’t look at me, but I see the side of his mouth creep up just a little, like he’s trying not to let it. He shrugs. “You never know.”
I want to ask, Never know what? but I’m still trying to be cool, so I don’t.
We have to go past my house to get to the highway. The Sequoia has tinted windows, so I don’t have to try and duck. Kyle is in the driveway washing Mom’s car. It’s almost too cold, now that we’re into fall weather. I suspect Mom is asking Kyle to do things that he won’t be able to do with only his left hand. He’s not wearing a jacket, though he does have a long-sleeved knit shirt under his T-shirt; even so, he’ll be cold. Leave it to him to make a martyr out of himself. And it’s going to take him a long time, because he really is trying to work one-handed.
Max’s head turns in Kyle’s direction briefly. About ten seconds go by, and then he says, “What’s with the T-shirt?”
I think he’s talking about mine, of course. Today is all about me and Max, after all. “Oh, this old thing.” I try to make it sound facetious.
I’m about to describe the tattoo I want when he says, “No, I mean your brother’s. God Is Now Here. What the fuck’s that?”
Ah. Yes. I take a deep breath. How to answer in ten words or less? Otherwise it could take a few hundred. “It’s a religious thing.”
Max’s laugh is a snort. “Duh, I can see that. But what does it mean?”
He’s made me feel like a stupid little kid. I look out my window and say, “Figure it out. There’s a different sentence in the same string of letters.”
“Division of labor, here. I’m driving. You do the figuring. What’s it say?”
What I really, really don’t want to do is get off on the wrong foot here. So I cave. “If you take out the space between Now and Here you get Nowhere.” I look straight ahead again where I can gauge Max’s reaction, at least in my peripheral vision. “Some argument between Bible scholars about interpreting ancient Greek.”
Max’s laugh now is a real laugh. “So your brother is a Jesus freak.”
“I guess you could say that.” Suddenly I feel defensive for Kyle. Weird. I shake it off.
“Bunch of echo chambers.”
My turn to need an explanation. “What?”
“You know. Someone’s an echo chamber when they just repeat everything they hear, so they’ll be—whatever. Liked. Promoted. Saved. Pick one.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so there’s maybe half a minute of silence. Then he says, “You aren’t one, are you? I mean, meeting in front of that weirdo church and all.”
“No.” A little too hasty. Too sharp. I try to smooth it out. “No, Kyle got kind of religious after my dad moved out last spring.” I’m irritated again, but I shrug it off; I’m the one who suggested the church, after all.
“Does he go to that church?”
I decide to throw in a little unwatched language. Dispel any doubt about my religiosity. “Fuck no. That’s Jorja’s church.”
“Ah, yes. Jorja. You seem to be surrounded by Jesus freaks.” His tone makes it sound like he’s sneering. “What’s with her, anyway? I mean, it’s like she wants to rewrite history. I’ll bet that Nazareth church or whatever it is teaches the same shit.”
Damn it. Another rock-and-a-hard-place. I know exactly what Max means. But—this is Jorja. My best friend. I decide to let a little space go by and then introduce another topic. One that’s been top-of-mind for me, anyway. “Hope we don’t see any deer on the highway today.”
“Could be moose. Autumn and all.” He laughs. “Maybe I should have taken Sylvia’s Jeep; it’s ancient and already brown. If we hit a moose, big deal.”
It would be a big deal; a moose will take out anything smaller than an eighteen-wheeler. Besides, he’s avoiding the topic I want to get to. “I was just thinking of that deer that caused the accident last weekend. The one where I had to figure out which way to turn.”
“Yeah! That must have been a real YouTube moment. Good thing you weren’t on your cell. Could have been a text-ender.” Another laugh.
“Text-ender?” I could sort of figure out that a YouTube moment is something that would have made a great short to put online.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Text-ender. You know. It’s when you’re so busy texting somebody that you rear-end the car in front of you.”
Except that there was no rear end in question. What I’d avoided hitting was the business end of a car coming right at me. I can’t think of another way to get back to my glory day, so I cast about for something else. This isn’t feeling as good as I’d expected. I’m not sure whether to feel outclassed by all the hip terminology that Max seems to have so ready at his command, or maybe he’s nervous too and is just trying too hard to impress me. I decide to believe the latter. “So what made you decide on the Toyota instead of the Jeep?”
“I don’t exactly have full access to it, y’know. Sylvia doesn’t even live at home. Besides, there’s egg all over the back of the Jeep. Seems someone took issue with her Darwin fish. Tuesday after school when she went to drive home, the egg had been there a while, so it was all hardened. Whoever did it scrawled 666 into it while it was still wet. And they tried to pry the fish off the car, so pieces of it are missing.” I’m thinking that’s pretty weird when he adds, “Plus, you know, I’m not sure I want to call that kind of attention to myself.”
“What kind?” Doesn’t he like Jeeps?
“That fish. You know. I mean, look what happened.”
“The egg wash? But—I mean, you don’t think this ID stuff is science, right?”
“No way. That’s bullshit.”
“So, why would the Darwin fish be a problem?”
“Dude, it’s a broadcast. Like telling the world which side you’re on. That can be dangerous. Look what happened to the Jeep. So I got approval from corporate to take the Sequoia. Plus, you know, it’s way cooler than the Jeep.”
I have to agree with that. I mean, I hate getting involved in conflicts. But I don’t think the Darwin fish would have bothered me. Whatever; I’m happier in the Sequoia, anyway. It is way cooler. I try another change of topic. “So I’m making progress on my thirty-five hours. Etta Greenleaf is letting me drive her. Mom’s way too bossy, always slamming her foot on the passenger brake, you know how it goes.”
Max laughs for real, and I love it. “Passenger brake! That’s it. Like there’s a pedal there.” He glances at me, his expression pretend-worried. “You aren’t looking for one yourself, are you?” I just laugh. “Wait . . . Etta Greenleaf? That old hag? You’re driving her around?”
This stuns me. Hag? It’s one thing to make fun of Jorja and her wacky religion, because she sort of throws that in your face. But—hag? I guess I’ve conveniently forgotten that I was almost surprised when she wasn’t a hag, myself. I give Max the benefit of the doubt. He doesn’t know her. “She’s pretty nice, actually.” And I see another chance to highlight my YouTube moment. “It was her car I was driving last weekend. The deer thing. Afterward she told me she’d let me drive anytime.”
“Whatever.”
That’s not enough of a turnaround for me. I want Max to see her as I do. “Her house is pretty neat. Not big or anything, but she’s had it worked on. Views out over the mountains in the distance. Real quiet.”
“So that monster of hers can hear anyone sneaking up on her?”
“Two’s all right. I get along fine with him. You just have to know how.”
The look on Max’s face as he turns toward me briefly tells me this has impressed him. “You’re okay with a vicious pit bull.” He shakes his head once. “So I didn’t overestimate you.”
And then something fantastic happens. First, he rests his right arm on the cover of that wide compartment between the seats and dangles his hand on my side. Then he stretches his fingers and strokes my thigh. And just keeps driving. I don’t know what to do. Should I touch him? Should I put my fingers with his? Then his fingers tap my thigh, like they want my attention, and I touch them with mine. They interlock just a little, and then he squeezes and pulls his hand back. It’s just a moment, but—what a moment! I love the way my dick feels. I love the way my head, my chest, my ass all feel. I take a breath. This is what this trip was supposed to be about.
I hear the blinker. What’s Max doing? He’s headed for that dirt utility road over on the right? I glance at him, and his face is unreadable. As soon as we’re into the trees and out of sight of the road he stops, yanks on the hand brake, and leans back, eyes shut. Then he turns toward me, and the look in his eyes is exactly what I want to see there. It’s the look I’ve seen him leveling on me, in my mind, for weeks now as I jerk off.
He wants me.
“Ever kissed a boy?” he asks.
“No. You?”
“No.”
So he’s taken a chance, touching my leg like that. But—now what? And I remember all that flat, empty back area in the car. I look at him and jerk my head slightly in that direction.
He opens his door and jumps down, so I do the same. I haven’t got a clue what we’ll do. All I know is that I want to do something with Max. I’ve had all these images in my mind when I’ve fantasized about him, and I’d like to say they’re in my mind as I open the back door on my side, but the head between my shoulders isn’t getting any blood. Max is inside already, kneeling on the platform created by the backs of all the foldedover seats, his door shut. I’m torn; I want to remember this moment, sear it into my brain cells. But I want Max.
He prods. “You coming in?”
Flash of genius. “Call me ‘charmer.’ ”
He smiles. “Get in here, charmer.”
I don’t hear my door slam shut; too busy wondering whether to focus more on the feel of his tongue in my mouth or to start undoing my jeans, which are absolutely positively too tight now. His hands are on the back of my neck, so I hold him the same way. It makes kissing even better, I decide. It’s easier to hold your mouths together like this. Oh, MAN but this feels right! To hell with Jorja praying for me to change. I fucking don’t ever want to change!
I know there’s lots of stuff two guys can do with each other’s dicks. But there’s this silent agreement—silent other than heavy breathing and grunts, anyway—that we won’t stop kissing. It’s a little awkward undoing your pants while your faces are mashed together, but we manage. I can feel his hard dick poking at my leg. I reach for it, and he gets hold of mine. There’s barely enough time to take in these new sensations before he comes. We’re pressed together so hard that it gets all over my dick, and it’s the greatest lube there is. I don’t last more than another ten seconds.
Max throws himself down flat on his back. “Fuck! Man! I haven’t lived until right now.”
