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The World of Normal Boys Page 3
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Under the stained-glass lamp hanging by a chain over the table, Robin sees the exhaustion marked on his parents’ faces: bags under their eyes, shadows thickening their brows. Frustration snakes around their ankles like horror-movie smoke. Robin studies a triangular sweat stain dried into the front of his father’s tank top. Strange, he thinks, the way men sweat so much more than women—as if the heat under their skin can’t be contained. He looks away from his father, bothered by this thought.
“I am utterly wiped out,” Dorothy sighs. She stands up and stretches her arms over her head. Robin watches as the motion transforms her: the unfastened sleeves of her sapphire-blue blouse slide down her smooth arms, her honey-colored hair—the same color as his—falls away from her face and the skin on her neck pulls taut before relaxing into a faint pinkness. He blushes when she catches him staring.
She takes a step closer to him and narrows her gaze. “Were you and Victoria smoking in the movie theater?”
He rolls his eyes, trying to display the annoyance of someone falsely accused. “No.”
Her nose is in his hair, an arm on his shoulder to keep him still. “Someone was smoking.”
“No, it was just”—he fumbles for an excuse, and the sentence completes itself almost against his will—“Todd.”
“Todd Spicer, the blemish on the neighborhood?”
“What are you doing hanging around him?” Clark asks. “That kid’s nothing but trouble.”
Instinctively, his glance shifts out the window in the direction of the Spicers’ house. He makes a note to conceal the fact that Todd, and not Mrs. Spicer, as Dorothy expects, will be driving him and Victoria to school in the morning. “Todd just gave us a ride home. He’s cool,” Robin offers casually.
Dorothy shoots him a look as if he just told her he’d packed his bags and would be leaving home on the next bus. “Cool? Have you been watching too much TV lately? What’s that character’s name—the Fonz? Look, Robin, you don’t need any cool friends. The cool kids in your high school years are always the ones who go nowhere fast. My brother Stan was cool as ice when he was Todd Spicer’s age.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Robin asks—wanting to defend Todd against the comparison. Todd could never grow up to be like Uncle Stan—loudmouthed, ill tempered, full of prickly, conversation-killing opinions. Could he?
“Robin, you’re being difficult. You’re sounding like . . . a teenager.”
“Duh, I am a teenager.”
Dorothy presses her fingers to her temples. “I need an Anacin.”
Clark stands up and moves to the door, turning to wink at Robin. “Hope you had a good date with Victoria.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“She’s looking very pretty these days.”
“Oh, did I tell you, we’re getting married next week?” Now his head is starting to ache.
“OK, OK, forget I said anything.” Clark waves himself from the room.
Robin whips his head around to Dorothy. “God, I hate when he says that. He knows she’s not my girlfriend. I’m immature enough to have a girl just be a friend, you know.”
“You mean mature, dear. Not immature.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, that’s not what you said.”
“I know what I said, Mom. I’m the one who said it.”
Dorothy glares at him. “When you make a mistake you ought to be big enough to admit it.”
Robin kicks back his chair and stands up. He raises his voice. “Why are you all of a sudden on my case?”
“You really are watching too much television,” she says angrily. “‘On my case.’ Is that another thing from the Fonz?”
“It happens to be from Welcome Back, Kotter,” Robin barks back.
“Another wellspring of culture.” Dorothy points a finger at Robin, her voice raised. “This is your notice: there will be far less TV watching now that school is starting.”
Robin begins walking from the room, twisting sideways as he steps past her. “I could care less.”
As he makes his way across the living room floor, his mother shouts, “The phrase is, I couldn’t care less.” He stamps his feet on every step toward his bedroom. His mother’s irritated shout follows him, echoing through the house. “Did you hear me, Robin? I couldn’t care less.”
A half hour later, Robin is sitting on the roof outside his bedroom window—his head pounding as he comes down off the high of the drive-in and the buzzing chaos in the kitchen. He stares across the lawn to the Spicers’ house. On the top floor, a gable juts out, with a dormer window that leads to the attic. Todd has claimed this space for his bedroom. Robin tries to discern Todd in the shadows swimming behind the curtains.
“Mind if I join you?”
He jumps at the sound of his father’s voice. Clark’s already making his way onto the roof, squeezing his lanky frame through Robin’s bedroom window. Robin doesn’t answer the question, because he does mind. He minds very much when anyone, even Jackson, climbs out onto this little patch of shingles. It’s like having someone break into his clubhouse.
“Tight squeeze,” Clark says, landing awkwardly on the roof. “Good thing I’m jogging. Working off that spare tire.” He pats his stomach, a gentle curve under his tank top. “Yessiree, Buck.”
Yessiree, Buck—it’s right up there with “accident, my elbow.” Where does his father come up with this stuff? And what’s he doing out here anyway? Robin stares straight ahead; the less he says, the sooner his father will leave.
“Thirty-seven years old, sitting at a desk all day. Walking to the train was about the most exercise—”
“Jogging’s boring,” Robin interrupts. “Just the same thing over and over.”
“You have to admit, it’s getting very popular. When your uncle Stan and I are out at the track the place is packed. There’s plenty of teenagers there, too. You should come along.”
Robin rolls his eyes. Is that what this is about? Cornering him on the roof for an athletic pep talk? “Maybe you can get Jackson to jog with you,” he says, effectively stalling the conversation. The easiest way to derail his father’s expectations is to shift them onto Jackson. It’s always been this way. Robin only lasted a year in Cub Scouts before it became clear to everyone involved that it wasn’t for him; the only thing worse than his father’s silent disappointment was the prospect of another season of Pinewood Derbies and Wilderness Camp-o-rees. Jackson does all that stuff willingly. And Robin sees the way Jackson brings out something vibrant in his father: they’re hosing down the car in the driveway and next thing you know there’s a swell of playful shouting and a water fight going on. Or they’re watching a Giants game on TV and tossing popcorn in the air for some last minute touchdown, or wrestling in the backyard as if they’re both eleven years old. Every now and then Clark still tosses a ball Robin’s way, at which point Robin tosses it to Jackson and leaves.
Clark clears his throat. “OK, look. Forget what I said before. In the kitchen. About Victoria. That was just teasing, but now you’re mad.” Robin bites his lower lip and doesn’t reply. Clark continues, quickly. “Serves me right, butting in like that. That’s the kind of stuff you don’t need, I know. I know, I know. My father was pushing girlfriends at me for years before I was interested, and here I am doing the same thing to you and you’re only fourteen!”
“I’m thirteen,” Robin says.
“I didn’t really get serious about girls until your mother. Or just before your mother.” He slaps the heel of his palm hard against his forehead. “Geez.”
Robin smiles despite himself. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“No, this is important. You’re going off to high school tomorrow. So, you know, just as a reminder—if you have any questions, the man-to-man type, just ask. I know you and your mother are closer, but feel free, don’t be shy—” He pauses. “So what do you say?”
What am I supposed to say? Robin wonders. A tinge of panic sends his leg bouncing. He is
keenly aware of his father’s impatient breathing, his father next to him, just waiting. Robin finally blurts out, “I know about the facts of life. That’s what they teach us in health.”
“Oh, of course, right. That’s great.” Clark falls silent; Robin can’t be sure if his father is relieved or disappointed to close the discussion. After a moment, Clark says, “I’d like to get a bigger house,” with such certainty it seems to be the solution to all his worries. “If we had a bigger house you could have your own room. A young man should have his own room. I’ve been meaning to build the swimming pool, too, but maybe we should just knock down the living room wall and build an extra bedroom into the backyard.” He opens his arms wide, as if the land below stretched out for acres.
Robin nods, trying to keep up. “Jackson probably wants a swimming pool more than he wants his own room,” he says, but his father keeps talking, almost over his words.
“When you’re young you don’t really know what you’ll need when you’re older, or even who you’ll be. My father used to tell me, if you want to be a man at night, you have to be a man in the morning. I didn’t realize he meant six A.M., every morning, on the train, off to work. You probably don’t know this, but I didn’t expect to be in sales. I liked science in school. I wanted to work for the space program. I never thought I’d have a teenage son—I just thought about having little kids, if I even thought about it at all. Not kids with growing pains.”
Clark drops his head in his hands. Robin is speechless with discomfort. It’s like one of those moments when his father comes out of the bathroom and the ripe stench of his shit floats out into the hallway after him—you want to ignore it, but it’s right there in your face. You can only pretend to ignore it, just like he can only pretend his father isn’t slipping into some kind of—what’s it called?—midlife crisis before his eyes.
“Uh, I’ll be OK, Dad,” he says at last.
“Yeah, you will. You’ll be a lady-killer, and a big success. All in good time.” He rises, brushing dirt from his bare legs. Robin’s eyes glance at his father’s running shorts, bunched up to reveal the lopsided package of his genitals. Does his father wear underwear under those shorts? Maybe, Robin thinks with some discomfort, maybe he wears one of those supporter things—a jock strap. It’s embarrassing to think about his father this way, even though that’s kind of what his father was referring to: his thing. If you have any questions about your thing, you can ask me, man to man. Without thinking, he moves his eyes back to Todd’s window, where a faint purple glow radiates. When he looks back at his father, their eyes meet, and his father sighs almost imperceptibly before disappearing into the house.
When he finally climbs back into his room, the lights are out, and Jackson is sleeping. Under his blanket, Robin shimmies off his pajama pants and his underwear; then he pulls the pajamas back on. The synthetic material is slippery against his ass and his dick, which makes him feel exposed and daring. Is this why Todd doesn’t wear underwear, for this sensation, this freedom?
Lying awake, replaying the night’s events in his mind, he pushes down the covers and raises up his shirt. His fingertips trail feathery across his belly. The skin along his ribs shudders with pleasure. He liked seeing that strip of hair on Todd’s stomach, but he likes the smoothness on himself. He feels his dick stretch and stiffen. With a glance to Jackson’s bed to make sure he’s really sleeping, Robin reaches under his waistband. His fingers close around his dick as if he’s giving it a handshake. Does Todd do this, touch himself this way? He must—all boys do, according to what he read in the “Ask Beth” advice column in the Record. It occurs to him suddenly that each accidental contact between him and Todd in the car was instigated by Todd; it was Robin who retreated every time. Was this some new game Todd was playing, a more crafty version of calling him names? Why else would Todd have done it? He doesn’t answer his own question; instead he rubs himself more insistently, until the friction burns so sweetly that he has to stop. He wants to keep going, but it feels like trouble.
He is sitting in the Greased Lightnin’, the ’57 Thunderbird that John Travolta soups up and drives to victory in Grease. Travolta is tensed and focused behind the wheel, and Robin sits next to him, sits on his lap—no, he’s behind him, in the backseat, his hands braided into Travolta’s lacquered hair. He keeps shifting, but Travolta stays in place. The speedometer escalates. Where are you taking me? he asks, or he thinks he asks—he’s not sure. A siren blares at his back, a squad car giving chase. Todd speeds up the car. Todd is driving, not John Travolta. Todd’s driving so recklessly Robin’s body rattles.
Gulping in air, hands over his head, fingers scratching at the headboard—he’s awake. Awake and alarmed: I did something wrong. He rolls on his side, and then he feels it—warm goop like rubber cement in his tangled pubic hair.
Morning rays push through the blue corduroy curtains, the light thick and cloudy, like something you should skim, like pool water. Jackson’s bed is empty, thank God. He pulls the covers over his head and sniffs deeply. It’s a pool smell, chlorine, with the weight of some other damp thing: moss, soggy bread, an old washcloth. He touches it, licks his finger. Slimy, sweet, bitter—all of that. He knows what this is. Nocturnal emissions, they called it in health class. Wet dreams. He remembers Travolta, the car, the vibrations of the ride. The sirens. He squeezes his eyes shut as if in defeat.
At least this morning Jackson, with his acute, bratty radar, his relentless teasing, is already up. Robin wipes himself with a T-shirt, pulls on some pants, strips the sheets quickly. It’s two flights down to the washing machine. Arms full, he heads to the stairs.
“I want to talk to you about last night—” His mother, emerging in a blast of humidity from the bathroom, toweling her hair, is addressing him. “It’s one thing for me to have an occasional cigarette, but I don’t want you to get any ideas—what are you doing?”
“Just doing some wash,” he says with a wide, false smile, as if this is normal.
“Robin, I cleaned those two days ago.” She moves forward, peering at the soiled bundle, prepared, he realizes, to take it from his hands.
He clutches the sheets tighter, wanting to trap the smell, keep his secret. His skin is heating up. A split-second image: Travolta’s face—or is it Todd’s?—laughing at his predicament.
“Mom,” he says in the firmest voice he can muster. “They need to be cleaned. Trust me.” Her face is blank for a moment before something registers. Then she blushes, too.
“Oh, well, go ahead, sure. Just throw them in the washer, and I’ll put them in the dryer later. We have to get you ready for school.” She turns away hurriedly, muttering something—scolding herself?—and closing the bedroom door behind her.
A panicky jolt: today’s the first day of high school. He’d been so focused on his dream, he’d forgotten. His first wet dream. He’s been waiting for this, a plunge into the world of puberty, of sex. A couple of years ago, Victoria had been waiting for her first period, and she let him know as soon as it happened. He feels only the pressure to conceal. If he told someone, they’d ask about the dream, and what could he say? There were no girls in it, just him and Travolta and Todd and the police. All his life police have crowded his dreams, and he always wakes sure of his own guilt. It stays with him each minute of the day, a slight burning flame in the back of his mind. Unseen, constant as a pilot light.
He takes to the stairs quickly, dragging his mess to the basement, wanting to be free of it.
Sitting in the backseat of the Camaro, Robin finds Todd’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Todd flashes him a sly smile and says, “This morning is the traditional first-doob-of-the-year party in the courtyard, Robin. You gotta be there.” Todd pretends to smoke a joint and “passes” it to him. When they get to the parking lot, Todd fakes a punch to Robin’s chest and winks at him before he leaves.
None of this escapes Victoria’s attention. “So are you two supposed to be friends now?” she challenges.
“It’s jus
t a new way for him to bother me,” Robin says dismissively—though, in fact, he’s not bothered; he feels triumphant. Not once did Todd call him that name.
Chapter Two
EXPECTATIONS. REALITY.
Mr. Cortez writes each word on the blackboard, then draws a vertical line separating them. “What kind of things have people told you about high school? These are your expectations. What did you find when you got here? That’s reality.” This is group guidance, the last class of Robin’s first day of school, a class provided just for freshmen: “a rap session” was how Cortez, his guidance counselor, had described it when Robin met him last spring for orientation. Cortez is a young Puerto Rican guy with a mustache and curly hair. He wears Frye boots and tells the students, “Expectations and reality don’t always match up. That can be a really bad trip. That’s why we try to keep the lines of communication open and not get hung up.”
Robin’s own gloomy expectations for the day have largely been met. Every class begins the same: nervously waiting for seats to be assigned. He longs to sit in the back, or along the windows—somewhere inconspicuous—but the tyranny of alphabetical order always leaves him smack dab in the middle, an “M” surrounded on all sides, third row across, third row back, like some obnoxious center square on Hollywood Squares—like Paul Lynde, except he wasn’t even as funny as Paul Lynde. (He remembers a question from the show: “Betty Ford said it was her second greatest pleasure in life. What was it?” Paul Lynde: “Sucking on a rum cake.”)
All the guys in his classes have longer hair than they did last year. They look like teenagers now—taller, wider necks, deeper voices. There are three acceptable ways to dress: sports team logos (for the jocks), concert T-shirts (the scums), and plaid shirts with snaps instead of buttons (the brains). Robin’s in a polyester patterned thing, brown and gold and white, and snug fitting, chocolate brown dress pants that he really likes—though after looking around at what everyone else is wearing, he starts to think he might like them too much.