The World of Normal Boys Read online

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Todd asks, dropping back down into the water with a splash.

  “What?” Robin asks, aware of how long he let his stare linger.

  “Zabriskie Point. You ever seen that movie?”

  “No.”

  “It’s fucking mind blowing. It was playing at the midnight movie in Ridgewood a few years ago. It was rated R but I snuck in. There’s this guy who kills a cop during a student riot. It’s during the ’60s, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he steals this plane and flies over the desert and meets this girl.” Todd flips onto his stomach. He’s propped up on his elbows, his face near Robin’s hip, his ass rising above the water like a flotation device. Robin positions his leg so Todd can’t see his erection cutting up through the water.

  “ ’Cause there’s this scene, see, when him and this girl are in the desert and they’re naked and having a fight with all this sand, throwing it at each other and stuff. So I was thinking about how, you know, having a waterfight and throwing sand—it’s kind of the same thing.”

  Robin just stares, unable to respond, hoping Todd just keeps talking. The shakes are threatening to begin again. He rubs his arms along his shoulders to bring some warmth to his skin.

  “This guy is really cool, you know?” Todd says. “Mark Frechette is the actor’s name. I mean, if I could be any guy in the whole world I’d be this guy. He just does whatever he wants. I mean, he gets killed at the end, but mostly he just does what he wants. He’s really studly, too, you know?”

  Robin holds himself still, afraid to even nod because that would mean he was admitting he thought that a guy was studly, that he looked at guys that way. Even though Todd just said it, it could be a trick, because even sitting naked together in this water, even after Todd stood in front of him practically demanding to be looked at, it’s too much to believe—Todd thinking about a guy that way. Robin asks in a nervous burst, “So what happens in the movie? After the sandfight?”

  “They do it,” Todd says. He pushes Robin flat on his back, then crawls toward him, grabbing one of his knees in each hand, pushing them apart. He slides his hands down Robin’s legs and around to his ass, lifting him out of his muddy seat, raising his dick into the night air. Robin gasps, falling back on his hands for balance. Grains of silt rub between Todd’s hands and his own thighs. Todd says, almost casually, as if he isn’t even touching him, as if Robin’s boner isn’t sticking up in his face, “They just roll all over each other, and then all of a sudden there’s like a hundred people in the desert, all these guys and girls, and some of them are in little orgy scenes, two guys on a girl or two girls with a guy, and they’re all making it in the sand.” He drops his head down between Robin’s thighs. “Like if I was Mark Frechette, and you were that girl, Darla or whatever her name was, this is what we’d be doing in the desert. In that movie.” His lips close in around Robin’s dick. Robin feels the rush of it all the way up through him, all the way to his chattering teeth and down his arms to his wobbly wrists. The saliva mixing with pond water in Todd’s mouth is like liquid polyester, like a smooth shirt being rubbed all over him. He gasps as Todd pulls him deeper into his throat; he can’t believe that Todd is doing this, that his dick is inside Todd.

  Todd lifts his head, mumbles instructions Robin can’t quite make out, and pushes him out of the pond, up the slope. Todd’s face is smudged with mud. His eyes are glazed over, eager, oblivious to anything else—it reminds Robin of his own face in the bathroom mirror while he’s jerking off.

  For a while, getting his dick sucked is more pleasurable than anything he’s ever felt: lush, concentrated, far more intense than what he’s done to himself. It feels like magic that Todd can do this—how could a tongue or lips turn his whole body inside out? He feels teeth, too, which almost hurts, but not really, it feels better than that, the way getting tickled is both fun and not fun at the same time. Momentum builds inside of him and then subsides again, or maybe he makes it stop so that he doesn’t shoot in Todd’s mouth. He can’t really tell what he’s doing versus what’s being done to him, and after a while this not knowing turns his pleasure into anxiety, and he’s not feeling anything. He’s just looking around, watching out to see if anyone else is about to come stumbling down the golf course.

  “Todd?” he whispers. “Wait a minute.”

  Todd’s face is spaced out, trancey. Saliva drips from his lips. “What?”

  “Someone might see.”

  “Shit.” He climbs up on his knees, takes a dazed look around, then spits on his dick and starts pumping. He slips back into the trance, staring at Robin’s dick. “You should see that movie.”

  Watching Todd like this, totally focused on making himself come, Robin drifts back into the thrill of it. Todd looks sexier than anyone he’s ever seen. He looks studly. Instinctively, Robin reaches out, wanting to touch him.

  Todd backs away. “No, don’t.” He puts his other hand under his balls and rubs. This a completely new Todd, an animal Todd; the usual Todd is disappearing into this pleasure more deeply with every blurred stroke—after a while he’s not even looking at Robin. He’s gone. He keeps at it until the motions slow and his body seizes up in a series of grunts and his dick fires out three stringy squirts that land soundlessly on Robin’s leg.

  “In two years I’m getting out of here. I’m going on the road,” Todd says, his voice slurred with wasted exhaustion. They are lying on the grass, watching a green-white cloud blanket an incomplete moon. Robin has gotten fully dressed but Todd is only in his jeans and T-shirt, his feet still bare. Robin had expected Todd to run away as soon as he came, the way Scott did, but here they are, talking.

  “Where are you gonna go?” Robin asks, still jittery from the encounter. He hasn’t come and his hard-on is pulsing in his pants. He shivers from the cold but now he doesn’t mind it. He can’t take his eyes off Todd. A Bee Gees song from Saturday Night Fever is stuck in his head: How deep is your love? I really need to learn.

  “All over this country. Colorado. It’s beautiful there. The Rocky Mountains are outstanding. And I’m going to New Mexico and Arizona and to Death Valley.”

  “I went to the Grand Canyon when I was little,” Robin says encouragingly.

  “The Grand Canyon is for tourists. I’m going to the cool places, with no families on vacations. There’s a lot of room out there. You can just do what you want to do. And I’m going to California, too, the northern part. There’s fields of pot growing there. I’m gonna set myself up with a cabin in the woods, and no one is gonna be on my case.”

  “I never thought about going to any of those places,” Robin says, suddenly wondering why not. Todd’s world is unlimited, he thinks. Todd has vision.

  “What, are you going to spend your life in New Fucking Jersey?”

  “No. I want to move to New York.”

  “New York sucks. Eight million people? No fucking way. Plus, it’s way too close to home.”

  “It’s where all the people go who appreciate art and culture.”

  Todd grunts, unimpressed. He sits up and pats the ground to find his socks.

  “One day I’m going to have a big apartment with a view all the way down to the Statue of Liberty, and a good job. Like I’ll work in a museum or something.”

  “Work in a museum? I never heard anyone say that before: work in a museum. ”

  “I want to move to the Village. That’s where all the artists are.”

  Todd stops in midgesture, leaving a sock dangling off the end of his foot like something suddenly withered. “Artists?” he spits out. “You mean homos. ”

  Robin braces against the word. “No, I mean—”

  “Those people are sick, man. They’re a bunch of very messed-up people.” His voice grows more agitated. “Perverts and sex maniacs and child molesters and guys who think they’re really girls and big ugly women who look like men and stuff. Why would you want to go there?”

  Robin looks down at th
e ground, feeling attacked. “I’ve never seen any perverts and sex maniacs.”

  “Oh, come on? You’ve never driven down the West Side Highway and seen those transvestite hookers by the underpass?”

  “You’re making it sound worse than it is,” Robin protests. “Don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think.” Todd slams his sneaker into the grass. “Those people are nothing like you. They’re sick.” He slams his sneaker again. “They parade around wearing dresses and leather and all that—I saw one of those parades once in the Village. I know what I’m talking about. You’re the one who’s full of it.” One more slam and then he throws his sneaker across the green.

  Robin scowls at him, speechless, not sure if he should argue or change the subject. He feels accused, but he’s not sure if Todd’s right or wrong.

  Todd points his finger at Robin, which reminds him of Uncle Stan ranting that he was a mama’s boy. “If you wanna go live there, fine with me. I don’t give a fuck.”

  Robin backs away defensively. “You’re the one talking about sex movies with orgies.”

  “That’s different. Mark Frechette wasn’t a pervert; he was a free-spirit. He was out on the road.”

  Their eyes lock on each other’s, and this time Robin doesn’t look away. Robin is thinking about the sex that just happened between them; the whole thing replays itself again in fast motion. Todd was sucking his dick, right here, just a few minutes ago. Now Todd’s trying to use the Force on him, to hypnotize him into forgetting. Robin looks away because he doesn’t want to forget. He wants to say something about it, but he doesn’t get the chance because Todd is suddenly on his feet, striding off after his sneaker, shouting, “I’m getting outta here.”

  Robin squeezes his hands around his head, trying to compress his thoughts into one good response. This feels just like with Scott, where everything got bad at the end, after the sex part, and he wants to repair it. He catches up with Todd. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you so mad.”

  “Just forget it, OK? I don’t want you to talk about that stuff. It’s got nothing to do with you.” He rushes angrily through the trees toward the fence. This is another Todd again, neither his usual cool self, nor the person he became while jerking off, but a pissed-off, distressed Todd, unbalanced in a way Robin’s never thought him capable. All the way home, Todd drives recklessly, plowing through stop signs and taking corners so fast that Robin has to hold on to the door to keep from landing in his lap. Robin attempts to smooth it over as he clicks open the car door in the Spicers’ driveway—“Sorry I got you mad”—but Todd remains silent, almost pouting.

  Robin wishes he’d never mentioned New York or the Village. He wishes he could go back to right before then—idling in the cool grass, feeling as if he’d awakened to the place he and Todd were meant to discover together, their private hideaway. He knows—isn’t it obvious?—it was his fault the spell had been broken. He should have just kept his mouth shut; he thinks of Jackson saying, “You ask for it”; he thinks of Scott saying, “Don’t make a big deal about it.” Still, he can’t shake that image of Todd banging his sneaker against the golf green, flipping out about the Village, then stomping away in a rage. That was the most unexpected thing of all, maybe even more unexpected than Todd’s mouth on his dick—seeing Todd Spicer completely lose his cool.

  Robin takes his seat at the kitchen table in front of a plate of steaming scrambled eggs. Ruby stands at the sink, washing out the last of the pots and pans Clark has used to prepare breakfast. The kitchen is bright with the light of late morning. His mother has put a breezy and plaintive Miles Davis album on the turntable, but the music plays in contrast to her obvious fatigue. She drops herself sluggishly onto a seat at the table, which does not surprise Robin. When he had gotten home from the party, resigned to whatever punishment awaited, his parents were locked in their bedroom arguing strenuously. He wiped grime off himself and brushed his teeth and climbed into Ruby’s bed, falling asleep before talking to anyone.

  Now his head pounds dully, six chewable orange-flavored aspirin not yet having any effect on the alcohol still sluicing through his bloodstream. This is a hangover, he realizes, the morning after everyone talks about. He doesn’t think he can make himself eat, not only because he feels physically ill but because he’s anxiously awaiting an interrogation about why he got home so late, and he’s still not sure what made-up story he’s going to offer to them.

  “Should we say grace?” Ruby asks.

  Robin looks over at his mother, who is biting her upper lip, probably trying to keep herself from saying no.

  “Sure. Why not?” Clark says cheerfully.

  Ruby clasps her hands in front of her and bows her head. “Bless us, oh, Lord, and these Thy gifts we are about to receive through Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Rub-a-dub-dub, God bless the grub,” Robin adds.

  “Thank you, Ruby,” Clark says. “And, Robin, watch it. That was a little disrespectful.”

  “Why do you think he said it?” Ruby shoots back.

  Robin mutters a halfhearted apology and steps up to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee.

  Dorothy’s eyes are on him. “Just decided you needed a little boost, huh?”

  Robin sucks in his breath apprehensively. “I’ve always liked coffee,” he says, loading up on milk and sugar.

  “It’s especially good when you haven’t gotten enough sleep,” Dorothy retorts, false levity in her voice. “But let’s not get into that yet. Let’s enjoy this food, shall we?”

  He returns to the table, not meeting her eyes, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to answer for last night.

  Clark eats hurriedly, forking food into his mouth while still chewing the previous bite. “I wanted to let you two know what’s going on,” he says with a look at Robin and Ruby.

  “About what?” Robin asks.

  “About your brother.” Clark slurps orange juice. There’s an almost antic quality to his speech. “There’s some sense from the doctors that Jackson will need to be in the hospital for another month before he’ll be well enough to come home.”

  “That seems far away,” Ruby says.

  “We should be thankful,” Clark says. “Though when he gets home, he’s not going to be completely recuperated. He’s going to need some time to regain full use of his motor skills.”

  Clark pauses to think for a moment. Robin senses there is more to this, and he feels dread building up. He looks at his mother, whose face seems very strained.

  “The plan is ...” Clark begins. He spears a piece of bacon on his fork, but it falls off as he lifts it to his mouth. He puts down his fork and wipes his lips. “The plan is to build Jackson his own bedroom. Downstairs. He won’t be strong enough, we think, to make it up and down the stairs.”

  “Build it where?” Robin asks.

  “Out from the dining room into the backyard.”

  Robin looks at Dorothy; the glance she returns reveals to him that she’s heard this already, and though she seems unhappy with the idea, Robin can’t discern exactly why. His father, on the other hand, is obviously pleased with this plan. “We’re going to put a special hospital bed in the room and a treadmill and a couple of other things that he’ll need to build his strength back up. Uncle Stan is going to help me find the equipment. He has some leads.”

  “How are you going to build a room?” Robin asks, remembering the never-finished project of turning the basement into a “family room.” They nailed the paneling in but never laid down the floor covering, and once Clark hit a snag rewiring, the entire project was abandoned. The pullout couch now sits on an old brown area rug down there, a shabby reminder of unfinished business.

  “The old-fashioned way, Robin,” Clark says. “With wood and nails and cement and your basic materials. We’ll knock part of the outer wall down to build a special, extra-wide doorway. It’s going to be pretty disruptive, but there you go.”

  “How are we go
ing to pay for that?” Robin asks.

  Dorothy speaks up suddenly. “Robin, your father has assured me he’ll be working out the details.”

  “Stan’s gonna pitch in a little,” Clark answers, tension creeping into his voice.

  This must have been what they were fighting about last night, Robin thinks. He doesn’t like that he feels so suspicious about the whole thing, that he doubts his father so easily. But there’s something desperate about the plan, as if it isn’t so much based on sound advice as wishful thinking. The mention of Stan’s name also casts a dubious shadow, as if his father has been duped into a half-baked scheme. Robin asks, “Wouldn’t it be better to leave him in the hospital until he’s totally ready to come home? Like, use the money for that instead?”

  Clark shoots an aggravated look to Dorothy. “Don’t stare at me,” she says defensively. “I didn’t tell him to say that.”

  “Robin, we’re just going to figure it out. This is the way I’ve decided to get Jackson home and back up to speed. You can help me out on weekends and after school. A little more manpower is welcome. And seeing as how you’re grounded for the foreseeable future,” Clark adds, his voice firm, resolved, “it all works out pretty good for everyone.”

  Robin’s stomach drops. “I’m grounded?”

  “As of this morning, buddy boy,” Clark says.

  The buddy boy is a surprise touch; it makes his father sound like Officer Krupke, which makes him feel as if he’s already been tried and convicted. Robin slips back in his chair and crosses his arms, outsmarted, dejected. “I didn’t even get a chance to explain myself.”

  Clark slams the table, startling him, and raises his voice. “When did you become such a selfish pain in the ass? That’s what I want to know? Huh? When did you become so damn pleased with yourself that you can lie to your parents and get away with it? Or do you just think we’re stupid?”