“These zombie pirates are smart enough to rename their ship?” I ask him. “We’re screwed.”
“You better be my partner against the zombie pirates,” Theo says. “I know how to save us.”
Theo launches into different strategies we can employ to survive the apocalypse. We’ll need to build a fortress somewhere up high, with cannons and other practical weapons, like military crossbows that shoot flaming arrows. Easy: I almost feel like I can already wield one from all the fantasy books I’ve read. Apparently, I’ll also have to learn how to cook because Theo will be too busy keeping watch twenty-four/seven. He’s pretty sure he’ll have figured out the key to eternal unrest while the undead are among us—and won’t have time to cook or we’ll end up dinner ourselves.
“Sound good, Griff?”
“I can’t promise the food I cook will even be edible, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Theo holds out his hand and we shake on it, locking down our roles in the zombie-pirate apocalypse. Touching him gets my heart pounding, fast and heavy.
I let go. “I have to tell you something.” The subway car is rattling and loud, and the curious eyes have drifted. Everyone else is lost in their own worlds.
“There’s something I have to tell you, too,” Theo says.
“Who goes first?”
“Rock, paper, scissors?”
We both play rock.
“Same time?” Theo suggests.
“I don’t think my thing is something to shout at the same time. You can go first.”
“Trust me. I’m betting we’re both going to say the same thing. It’ll be easier this way,” Theo says.
I’m not going to keep fighting him on this. Maybe what he has to say is worse than mine, and I won’t feel as bad.
“Countdown from three?”
“Four.”
Theo half-smiles, then nods. “Four, three, two, one.”
“I think I might be crazy,” I spit out while he says, “I like you.”
Theo blushes, his half smile gone. “Wait, what?” He shifts his body around and stares out the train window, but we’re underground, so all he’ll see is darkness and his reflection. “I thought you were going to say you like me. Are you gay, Griff?”
“Yeah,” I admit, for the first time ever, which somehow doesn’t have my heart racing or my face heating up. All I know is, I would’ve lied to anyone else.
“Good. I mean, cool,” Theo says. It seems like he’s flirting with the idea of making eye contact again before keeping his gaze to the window. “Why were you scared to tell me? That you think you’re crazy?”
“Right, that’s the second thing. I think I might have OCD.”
“Your room is too messy,” Theo says.
“It’s not about being organized. You know how lately I’m always forcing my way onto everyone’s left side? It wasn’t like that when we were kids. There’s also my counting thing, where I prefer everything to be an even number, with a couple of exceptions, like one and seven. Volume, the timer on the microwave, how many chapters I read before putting a book down, even how many examples I use in a sentence. It’s distracting, and I always feel on.”
Theo nods. “I’ve felt like this before, too. Maybe not as intense, but I think it’s just a sign of your genius. I’m pretty sure Nikola Tesla was obsessed with the number three and would sometimes walk around a block three times before entering a building. But, Griff, for all we know these compulsions might just turn out to be little quirks.” His blue eyes find my face again, lit. “We can do some research later!”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not just some delusional kid with a neck tic who scratches his palms whenever he’s nervous, favors everyone’s left side, tugs at his earlobe, and operates in evens. Maybe it’s like autofocusing a camera, where I’m zooming in on one thing and missing everything else.
“It’s been freaking me out a little bit, like I don’t know who I’m going to be in the future. I’m scared something can grow from this and turn me into a Griffin who’s too complicated for you to be friends with in a few years.” I can’t believe I’m unloading all this; it feels surreal, incredible, but I can’t stop. Maybe confessing everything will jinx any illnesses.
Theo scoots closer to me. “I have real things to be worried about, dude, like if the zombie pirates are going to know how to use grappling hooks and matchlocks or if they’re taking us down with teeth and nails. You don’t scare me, and you’ll never be too complicated for my friendship.” Theo pats my knee. His hand rests there for a solid minute. “And I’m sorry if I forced you to come out just now—wait, am I the first person you’ve told?”
I nod, my heart pounding. “You didn’t force me. Okay, actually, you did a little, but I wanted to tell you anyway. I just didn’t have the balls or some huge speech. I was also a little scared I was wrong about my instincts for you. Delusions run on my mother’s side of the family.”
“You’re not delusional,” Theo says. “And you’re not crazy.”
He reaches for my hand, and it’s not for a high five. I know the world hasn’t changed, what goes up still has to come down, but the way I see the world has shifted a little to the right, moving forward, and I can now see it the way I’ve always wanted to. I hope I don’t say or do anything that will force the world to shift counterclockwise again.
I squeeze Theo’s hand, testing whatever it is we’re doing here, and I feel like I’m answering a question I was never brave enough to ask.
“Stick with me here, okay?” Theo says.
“I’m not exactly about to walk off a moving train.”
Theo lets go of my hand. I sink in a little, like I’ve failed him. “I’ve never told anyone this, but I’ve been dreaming up alternate universes for a couple of years. You know me, I’m always asking myself ‘What if?’” He turns away for a second. “Lately I’ve been asking myself that more and more. A lot of the what-ifs are fun, but a lot of them are also really personal. Every night before I go to sleep, I find all the notes I’ve written on scrap paper or on my phone and I archive them in this journal. Dozens and dozens of alternate universes.”
The train stops suddenly; passengers leave and others get on, giving us a little more breathing space—but once the doors close, Theo has my full attention again.
“I wrote one on the inside of my arm earlier, during the gift hunt,” he continues. “I’m not going to show you yet. No spoilers. But it just reminded me of something. Every universe I’ve created lately, your face keeps popping up in it. And I thought that if you can’t be cool with that, then I wouldn’t hate you, but I might need some time for myself until we’ve had enough distance that I can imagine made-up worlds without you automatically appearing.” Theo turns and above his left elbow is his handwriting—not the usual perfection because even he can’t write on himself neatly—and he holds it closer. The scrawl reads, Alternate Universe: I’m dating Griffin Jennings and that’s that.
“I don’t know if that makes sense to you at all, but I want that to be real,” Theo says, still holding his arm out to me, as if to burn those messy letters into my memory. “If it can’t, I understand and I hope we can still figure out how to be best friends. I just can’t imagine never taking this shot.” He lowers his arm, finally. “You’ve got to say something now.”
I feel like someone has dropkicked me into an alternate universe of awesomeness. I can’t believe this is a conversation I’m having, I can’t believe I’m legit flirting with Theo and he’s flirting back. This universe is clicking with me just fine. I can’t tell him all these things, not yet, at least.
“I was going to,” I say.
“Okay, but only say something if it’s good. If it sucks, shut up.”
“I’ve been freaking out for a while about this same thing, dude. I don’t know when I would’ve manned up and said something, but it
wouldn’t have beat your bit about the alternate universes. I would’ve just said I like you.”
“Were you going to at least mention how handsome I am?”
“Handsome seems like a strong word, but I would’ve talked about how you’re cool to look at, sure.”
“Good to know.” I should tell him how much I like the sound of his writing, the words he puts down in his notebooks when he’s hunched over his desk; I want to know what they are. I should tell him about the fantasies I’ve had where the next time I sleep over at his house and we share his bed, that we wouldn’t have to use separate comforters and could maybe share one blanket one day without it being weird. I should tell him how fun it is to watch him flip an hourglass over and see if he can complete a massive puzzle by himself, and how I’m always rooting for him to succeed because I know how happy he is when he wins. I should tell him how much I appreciate the way he’s been gravitating to my right lately. But I don’t say any of this out loud right now because maybe I can admit this to him when it’s happening in real time.
“Why today, Theo?”
“The photo Wade took of us yesterday,” Theo says.
It hits me that I hadn’t once thought of Wade during today’s adventure. We’re a three-dude squad, but I don’t seem to get too anxious of the oddness versus evenness battle there, maybe because we always seem to make it work: it’s the universe’s one exception. Like yesterday afternoon, at Theo’s place we played a Super Smash Bros. tournament—Theo and I versus Wade and the computer, teams forged by drawing names from Wade’s fitted cap. It was close because Wade’s really good with Bowser and the computer level was at its highest, but Theo and I won with Captain Falcon and Zelda. We stood up, victorious, and hugged each other as if we had just won a war against aliens or, even more fitting as of ten minutes ago, a war against the zombie pirates.
Wade had us pose. Theo and I faked our best serious faces, but we failed and cracked up.
“I saw us together and thought enough was enough. I’ve wanted to be with you for a while now. Wade’s pic made it a little more unbearable not to be with you,” Theo says.
“I feel the same way, I guess,” I say. “What now? How do we lock this down? Probably a kiss or something, but I’m not in the mood.” I trip over the last part because, honestly, it’s a lie. I decide I’m swearing off lying because telling the truth can bring this kind of happiness, the kind that opens infinite alternate universes. I just really wish I had a piece of gum, but Wade is our squad’s gum guy. “Maybe a handshake?”
We shake hands, and neither of us lets go.
“This is cool, but weird,” I say.
“Very cool, very weird,” Theo says. “But I think we fit, right?”
“No doubt, Theo.”
I can’t wait to see what happens next.
TODAY
Monday, November 20th, 2016
The alarm clock finally shuts up after ten minutes, but my parents’ threats to pop my door open keep coming. Last time they did this, I lost my privacy for two months until my dad finally replaced the lock.
I don’t think I ever told you about that; it was after we broke up.
“Griffin!”
“Ten more minutes!” I shout.
“You said that an hour ago,” Mom says.
“Six times,” Dad adds. “Get dressed.”
“I’ll be out in ten minutes,” I say. “I promise.”
The last time I wore a black suit was for your cousin Allen’s wedding on Long Island. It was a couple of months after we’d finally started dating, and it was our first formal party, too, if we don’t count your sister’s baptism. To my relief, Wade—back when we were still close with him—was wrong when he said all gay weddings are like Katy Perry concerts. (I don’t think my anxiety could’ve handled dancing with you for the first time under strobe lights.) When I saw the white roses in the manor’s sunroom, I began looking ahead to the day I’d get to wear a black suit as I stood across from you, my hands in yours, ready to say, “You’re damn right I do.” I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I’d wear a black suit, ever. I’m definitely not dressing up in one now.
I’m going to the funeral as is—okay, not completely as is, because showing up in these thermal pants might offend your grandmother. But I’m not taking off the green hoodie you gave me the afternoon we lost our virginity. I’ve been wearing it for the past two days—more, exactly fifty hours, though time has been bleeding in places. I wish I never washed the damn hoodie now that you’re gone. It no longer smells like your grandmother’s old flower shop; it doesn’t have the dirt stains from all the times we spent at the park. It’s like you’ve been erased.
I grab two of the four magnetic gryphons you got me two Christmases ago and fix them to the hoodie, one on my collarbone and the other on my heart. It’s like the blue one is chasing the green one through the sky.
I stare at the clock, waiting for the next even minute—9:26—and get out of bed. I step directly onto last night’s dinner, forgetting I had abandoned the plate down on the floor while I stared up at the ceiling, thinking about all the questions I’m too scared to ask you. But hey, if there’s one bright side to your dying, it’s that you aren’t around to tell me things I don’t like hearing.
I’m sorry. That was a dickhead thing to say. I need a condom for my mouth.
As much as I would like to go sit in the bathtub and let the shower rain down on me, I’ve got to get out of this room. I check the clock on my open laptop and leave once it switches from 9:31 to 9:32.
The hallway is lined with photographs in the cheap frames my aunt gave us last Christmas—the kind of present my mother dismisses as not thoughtful, but since she’s so nice, she puts them up anyway. She still drinks out of the Yoda mug you bought her two years ago, no occasion at all, just because. You’re always going to be a presence for my parents, even if now they can’t see your history on our walls.
I’m hoarding all the photographs and their cheap frames in my room. There are blank spots as I pass: the one of us sitting in your childhood living room on Columbus Avenue, putting together a puzzle of the Empire State Building; us at sixteen/fifteen, you wrapping your arms around my waist after some joke from Wade about boys not being able to hug other boys; you smiling at me from across another park bench as I toasted to my parents’ anniversary last year; and my favorites—side-by-side in the same frame—the first was taken by Wade, a blank-faced photo of us doing our damn best to keep our smiles in but failing. The second is of us holding each other and smiling after we came out to our parents at Denise’s birthday party.
You were always a fan of the sun glare above your head. “Like a cool, bad-ass angel of destruction,” you said. “The angel that gets a blazing sword while you get a harp.”
In the living room my parents are already in their jackets, and my dad is holding his baked goods in his lap as they stare at the muted news on TV. Mom sees me first and pops up, which I know is bad on her back, especially on rainy days like today. She hides the pain and approaches me cautiously, unsure which Griffin she’s about to get.
“I’m ready,” I lie. I’m hungry, I’m drained, I’m over it all, and I’m not ready. But there’s a clock on this thing. The service is today. The burial is tomorrow. I don’t know what comes after that.
Mom reaches out to me, like I’m some toddler that’s supposed to take his first steps into her arms. It’s ridiculous. I’m a seventeen-year-old grieving his favorite person. I grab my jacket and turn for the door. “I’ll be outside.”
When we’re all settled in the car, my dad puts on the radio to fill the silence. I stare outside the window as we stop at a red light, counting pairs for some sanity: two women in jackets, sharing a blue umbrella; two old guys pushing shopping carts out of a market; four beaten-down trees in a community garden; two trash cans piled high with garbage.
The
counting brings me some relief, but it’s not enough. I drop my right hand to the empty space beside me, imagining your hand on mine. Two hands.
That feels better.
HISTORY
Monday, June 9th, 2014
It’s routine after school for Theo, Wade, and me to go to the Barnes & Noble on the Upper West Side to do our homework, but classes are almost over. We browse the shelves instead. Theo was supposed to tell Wade about this new dating thing we’re trying out while he and Wade were running laps last period, but he bitched out. I’m not a fan of secrets. Secrets can turn people into liars, and my lying days are behind me.
We wander away from graphic novels and end up in the biography aisle. It is my least favorite section, but here we are because of Wade and Theo.
“I want my own memoir,” Theo says.
“Only one person can make that happen,” I say.
“I don’t have a title yet,” Theo says.
“The horror,” Wade says, rubbing his eyes again because his new contacts are bothering him. He still looks like himself for the most part—short hair, brown skin, wrinkled shirts—but I think he looks cooler with his glasses. “I’ll probably call mine Wading Through Life.”
Theo fake-yawns. “I can’t wait for that laborious read.”
Wade flips off Theo. “I’m going to get an iced tea from the café. You guys want?”
“Yeah, actually. My treat though.” I give Wade a gift card, leftover from my birthday last month.
“You sure?” Wade asks.
I nod.
Once he’s gone, I give Theo the why-didn’t-you-tell-Wade-about-us glare, but he turns away, eyes back on the bookshelves.
“How about Theo McIntyre: Zombie Pirate Slayer?” I say in the silence.
He smiles, still avoiding my gaze. “But if the zombie-pirate apocalypse doesn’t happen, it’ll get confused as a fantasy novel. I refuse for my existence to be mistaken as fiction, damn it! Maybe I should keep it simple. How about Theo: A Memoir?”