The Trouble Boy, page 28
“You don’t think it’s silly?”
“Sure, it’s silly, but that’s why I like it. I mean, Star Wars is pretty goofy when you think about it, right? Besides, it’s the other project they’re interested in that’s much more exciting.”
We were on the West Side Highway now, heading up toward the Bronx.
“Where are we eating dinner?” I asked.
“We’re making it,” he said. “I went shopping last night.”
“Making dinner?” I said. “You mean, like cooking our own food?”
“Sure,” he said. “I do it all the time.”
“I haven’t used my own oven since I moved in. Donovan used it once, but it was a disaster.”
Andrew lived in a white box of an apartment, outfitted with Ikea furniture and mismatched leftovers from his childhood. Some of the walls were decorated with black and white photographs taken by the girl he had dated for several months. I made a note to myself that I would have to do something about them.
That evening, Andrew and I cooked dinner while sharing a bottle of white wine. We made pasta with fresh pesto and grated parmesan, steamed asparagus, and spinach salad with pears, goat cheese, and walnuts. I was impressed with the care he put into preparing the meal.
When we finished, we sat together. I wanted more wine, but I settled for water. I remembered what Brett said about not drinking too much.
“I worry,” Andrew said, “that this isn’t exciting enough for you.”
“What do you mean? This is great.”
“You’re used to the clubs and bars and everything, and I can’t really give you that. I just hate all the smoke and the noise.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m tired of all that stuff anyway.”
Andrew had rented a few DVDs for us to choose from, so we picked one and got settled on his couch.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“My coming out wasn’t as easy as I said it was. Actually, it was horrible. I’ve never told anyone about it.”
“What happened?”
I told him the entire story as we sat together. I felt like Andrew might be the first person who would understand, who would accept me even if he knew these truths. The telling—the mere act of releasing the story inside me—made me feel better, started to heal the wound that had been open for so long.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that,” he said when I had finished.
“You don’t think I’m a freak?”
“Of course not,” he said. “You’re just . . . well, you might be a little overly dramatic at times, but I still like you.”
What he thought about it, whether he accepted me or not, shouldn’t have mattered, but in that moment, it meant everything.
Andrew had a solitary twin bed, the kind I had slept on as a child. He offered it to me to sleep in that night, and took for himself a small roll-away cot that he kept in the closet. The cot sat several inches lower than the bed, even when they were put side by side. We fell asleep that night holding hands.
In the morning, I looked around his apartment while he was in the shower. On his coffee table, next to a stack of comic books, there was a photo album. I opened it up. It was filled with pictures of his parents, friends from boarding school, parties with co-workers. Then I saw a familiar face. There was a picture of him with Donovan at a bar. They had their arms around each other and were grinning deliriously.
I flipped through the album looking for more photos of them together, but found only the one. What did this mean? Had he and Donovan been friends? Or worse, had they dated? How could I not have known about this? I didn’t want to be with someone who had lied to me. There was no way I was going to let myself get into another Xander situation.
I bolted to the bedroom and threw my stuff in my bag.
As I was zipping it up, I heard the shower turn off. A moment later, Andrew emerged from the bathroom in a towel.
“Where are you going?”
“I just, I have to get going,” I said.
“Toby, what’s going on?”
He followed me into the living room, where I pointed to the photo. “Is this Donovan?”
He blushed and looked away. “I’m sorry. I was meaning to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“The guy I dated, several summers ago? It was Donovan.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I don’t know. I guess we were embarrassed. It was only for a few weeks. It ended badly, and I didn’t want it to get in the way of our being together.”
I sank down on the couch.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t Donovan give me your number earlier? Had you guys been in touch?”
“We hadn’t. I thought he would have mentioned it to you, and then when he didn’t . . . well, I guess we both just chickened out.”
“Have you guys talked about this? Or are you pretending it never happened?”
“We don’t talk about it,” he said.
“How did it end?” I asked.
“He cheated on me,” Andrew said, shrugging.
How could anyone cheat on Andrew? He was so beautiful and vulnerable, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, only a towel around his waist.
Andrew came over and sat down next to me, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“Is this why you’ve dated so few people? Because you got dumped by Donovan?”
“I didn’t want to get hurt,” he said.
“Neither do I. But I guess I just keep throwing myself out there.”
As we sat there, him rubbing my back, I decided it wasn’t fair of me to expect Andrew to be pure. I wasn’t, after all. I realized that I needed to stop imposing my own ideas on what the relationship should be. Even in the short time we had been together, I knew that he loved me, and I loved him back. That was all that mattered.
Still, that day, I called Donovan to ask about it.
“You knew I liked him,” I said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I wasn’t sure it was the same guy, and then it seemed weird, just going up to him saying, ‘Hi, I know it didn’t work out between us, but I have a friend who wants to meet you.’ ”
“He said you cheated on him. Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know, Toby. Do we have to talk about this? It’s in the past.” He sighed. “You know, honestly, I don’t know why I do half the things I do.”
It had been more than six months since Jamie’s experience at the crash party. I had been bugging him to get tested for weeks, but he kept putting it off. Finally, he did it, and we both eagerly awaited the results. I had a feeling, though, that I knew what they were going to be.
A week after he got tested, he called me.
“Can you meet me for coffee?” he asked.
“Sure. Can you tell me what the outcome is, though?”
“I’d rather not do it over the phone,” he said. A lump started to form in my stomach.
“Just tell me if it’s good or bad.”
“It’s good.”
“You mean, you’re negative?”
“Just meet me at the Starbucks on Spring Street. I’ll explain.”
Oh, God, I thought. It’s something complicated, like he’s positive, but his T-cell count is good.
I took the train down to Soho. Jamie was waiting for me at a table near the back.
“Do you want to get something?” he asked.
“No, just tell me what’s going on!”
Why was he stalling like this?
“I’m negative.”
“What?” I leaned forward. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m serious. I don’t have it. Remember how I told you about the false positive and the false negative? Well, this test gives true negatives.”
“Jamie, that’s great!” I said. I leaned forward to give him a hug.
“Come on, don’t make a scene,” he said.
I relaxed for a moment. Strangely, though, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Had I wanted Jamie to be positive? Would that somehow make my situation seem less precarious? Suddenly, with Jamie out of danger, I felt like I was the one who was in trouble.
“Now I’m the only one who’s screwed.”
“What do you mean?” Jamie asked.
“The trial. Having to testify. Having to put my life on display.”
“But you’re not that person anymore,” Jamie said. “You don’t party as much. And you’re about to sell a screenplay. The person who’s on trial is Jordan, not you. You’re going to be fine.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I feel so vulnerable.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Go where?”
“I’ll come to the trial with you. I’ll be there for you at the courthouse. I mean, you don’t have anyone else to go with you, do you?”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t have anyone.” I couldn’t ask Andrew to come; I knew work was too important to him. Besides, I didn’t want my former life bleeding into our relationship.
I took a sip of Jamie’s soy latte. “But you can’t just take off from work, can you?”
“I have vacation days,” Jamie said. “I think this is more important than a vacation.”
I took Jamie’s hand and kissed it.
He squirmed.
“I love you,” I said. “I don’t deserve to be your friend.”
“I love you, too,” he said.
We paused for a moment, looking out at the mid-afternoon shoppers strolling by the window.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you about,” Jamie continued. “It’s only been a week, but I met this guy online—”
I leaned forward, happy for him.
“And the crazy thing is, he’s a temp in word processing at Pelham! He’s really cute, and I think he likes me.”
I grinned.
“I wanted to ask your advice. Do you think it’s too early to invite him to stay with me for a weekend in the Hamptons?”
A few days later, there was a message on my voice mail from Sherry. I called her and was put through immediately.
“I’ve got good news,” she said. “We’ve got a meeting set up. Can you be in LA next week? The studio will book you a ticket and get you a room at the Standard.”
I was thrilled. I knew nothing might come of it, but at the very least, it felt like slow, steady progress.
A few days before I left for Los Angeles, I spent the night at Andrew’s. He had bought a new bed at Ikea, so we would have plenty of room.
As usual, he went to bed early, and I stayed up reading. As I thought about being with Andrew, I realized we were fast approaching our six-week anniversary. Unlike my previous relationships, I knew we would stay together. Things weren’t perfect and I didn’t know if they would last forever, but he made me happy, the happiest I’d been since I moved to New York.
Before heading to bed that evening, I looked down from Andrew’s apartment building onto the Bronx, over the Harlem River, past Columbia’s football field, towards the city. The glittering lights of downtown looked like they were on another planet as they tumbled in the moonlit fog, beckoning, calling, daring me to come closer.
The day before I left for Los Angeles, my mother was in the city for a meeting, so I made a date with her for afternoon tea at Fred’s, the restaurant at Barneys. In this retail emporium, amidst shoppers taking late lunches, she looked less like my mother and more like the fashion doyenne she was.
We ordered tea and sandwiches, and I showed her the article from the Observer.
“This really happened to you? With the spinach?” she asked after reading the article. “Unbelievable. These people are beastly. I can’t believe I lent a dress to that woman.”
“That was my fault,” I said.
“You had no way of knowing. At least we got some good press out of it.”
“I should have told the police the truth in the beginning,” I said. “Such an obvious thing.”
“Why didn’t you?”
My face grew flushed. “You won’t be mad if I tell you this?”
“Of course not.”
I explained about Jordan and Cameron and the coke. When I was finished, my mother examined me closely.
“I don’t understand this country when it comes to drugs,” she said after looking away.
“You’re not mad?”
“Toby, you’re an adult. You can make your own decisions. You don’t need me anymore to tell you what’s right or wrong.”
I still wanted someone to tell me what was right and what was wrong. But I knew there wasn’t anyone in my life who could do that for me.
“The important thing is, you set the situation right again. I’m very proud of you for that. And we know this lawyer is qualified. I had your father look into it.”
I smiled. When it came to the important things, my mother rarely failed me.
“Let’s talk about something more positive. What about the screenplay? So they’re flying you out to LA . . .”
“We’ll have a big meeting with the studio, and then a few general meetings that Sherry’s set up with other industry people.”
“I had no idea you were doing so well,” she said. “Your father and I are very proud of you.”
“He is?”
“Of course he is. He’s always been proud of you.”
It had never occurred to me that he was actually on my side. I had always thought of him as someone who was challenging me, someone who was daring me to fail.
“But I wish you would tell us more often about what’s going on.”
“I guess I just didn’t want to tell you about this until something real happened. This feels like I’m getting further than I have in the past.”
“You know how many orders I got after my first fashion show?”
She had told me this story before, but I liked it.
“One, right?”
“One order, from Bendel’s. Five hundred dollars. It was barely enough to keep the company running for a week. But it was something.”
The tea arrived and we were both poured cups.
“I remember my first year in New York,” she said. “After I broke up with Henry, I had no money, and I had to work in a dress shop when I wasn’t in class. You know what I ate for dinner every night? Steamed vegetables and rice. I used to go on dates just so I could have a good meal. I wore dresses from the shop and then put them back on the rack.”
“I can’t imagine you not having money,” I said.
“Well, imagine it. As they say, not a pretty sight.”
“I just feel like so much has happened since I’ve been here.”
“What else?”
I told her about Elizabeth and Donovan and the baby, and I explained what had happened to Jamie and how it would have been my fault if he had been positive. I knew she wouldn’t want to hear Jamie’s story, that anything AIDS-related was her least favorite topic in the world. But I had to tell her. I was done with keeping secrets. This was my life, and I wanted to talk about it.
“I’m so sorry,” she said when I had finished. “No one should have to experience something like that.”
She stroked my hand softly. I remembered the last time she had done that. It was when she and my father had met me in the school infirmary in the first two weeks of my freshman year of college. And I remembered I was that same person: I was no different from that Toby who was tired and afraid and wanted to kill himself because it seemed easier than facing the reality of his life. I was that same boy who had gotten himself in trouble. It had happened to me, and I couldn’t run away from it any longer.
And I thought, despite everything, how far I had come.
“You should also know I’m with someone new,” I said. “I didn’t want to tell you because you hate everyone I date.”
“Toby, I don’t hate everyone you date. I just . . . I just haven’t taken a liking to any of them yet.”
That was putting it mildly.
“This one is different,” I said. “He’s wonderful and sweet and he loves me.”
“I’m sure he’s lovely,” she said, and I had the feeling she really meant it, or at least she was going to try.
As I looked at her, I realized my parents were no less confused than I was, that it was unfair of me to expect them to be any better at raising a son than I was at being one.
After she paid the check, we got up and she gave me a hug. I pushed my face into her hair, afraid I was going to cry. I knew, though, that my mother didn’t believe in wallowing, so we left the restaurant and walked through the main lobby together, past gloves and handbags, scarves and cosmetics.
The two of us stood together on the sidewalk, in front of a glorious display of hats, and it was warm, and there was that blooming spring smell mixed with taxicab exhaust in the air.
We said goodbye, and I headed downtown once again.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
THE TROUBLE BOY
TOM DOLBY
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are intended to enhance your group’s
reading of Tom Dolby’s The Trouble Boy
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Toby Griffin is a character that readers have alternately compared to Holden Caulfied in Catcher in the Rye, Bridget Jones in Bridget Jones’ Diary, Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City, and the nameless narrator of Bright Lights, Big City. How is Toby similar to or different from these characters?
2. It could be said that Toby is often delusional about achieving fame and success in New York. What are Toby’s delusions about succeeding as a screenwriter? Are they realistic ambitions for a young person to have, ambitions that can motivate him to greater heights, or do they threaten to destroy him?
3. Some of the characters in The Trouble Boy don’t have proper names; they are referred to as Subway Boy, Goth Boy, Decorator Guy, Real World Guy, or Army Guy. Why does the narrator refer to some characters with proper names and others with nicknames? Is there a pattern there? What significance does the title of the novel have in light of these nicknames?
