Sprout

Ruthie’s turn to shrug.
    “Join the club.”
    “Look, when I crack my first VH1 hot list—you know, the top twenty-five under twenty-five, the twenty-five thinnest celebs, whatever—I want them to flash a grainy image of Ian’s yearbook photo across the screen so that everyone at home says, ‘Damn, he was hot, I wonder what he’s doing now?’ when they all know he’s probly pumping gas or flipping burgers or sitting on a tractor with his love handles spilling over his Wrangler’s. My fans—”
    Ruthie broke off when she saw the dubious look on my face. Since I didn’t study my expressions in a mirror the way she did, I achieved this effect by pointing both index fingers at my face and saying, “This is me, looking dubious.”
    “Whatever, Sprout. This is Buhler. Choices are limited.”
    “You’re telling me ? At least you have a choice. Ever since my dad broke my computer, I don’t even have the internet at home, let alone a real live—”
    I stopped. A real live what? Gay friend? Boyfriend? What was I looking for?
    Ruthie’s eyes went wide with sympathy. “Oh, I know, baby, you’re horny too. Hell, I’ve got more than a decade before I reach my sexual peak but you’re practically at the summit right now.” She touched my knee sympathetically. “I told you, you need to try that bar down on east Sherman. My mom’s hairdresser said it’s totally gay on Wednesday nights. Mostly gay. Well, he’s there anyway.”
    “Your mom’s hairdresser is like forty!”
    “He keeps himself in good shape though.”
    “Ugh! I’m going to puke !”
    “Whatever,” Ruthie said, “I don’t get why you don’t just come out at school. It’s not like everyone doesn’t know already.”
    “Why? Did you write it on the bathroom wall or something?”
    Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Total guy thing. Girls just smoke in the bathroom. But I don’t need to tell anyone. People, you know, know .”
    “Then why do I, you know, need to tell them?”
    “I don’t know. Cuz maybe you’ll inspire someone who’s not quite as clued into himself as you are. Maybe Jack Wallace—”
    “Ew!”
    “—or Campbell Dillon—”
    “Double-ew!”
    “Or, whatever, someone. You can’t be the only gay at Buhler. I mean, doesn’t the captain of one of the sports teams always turn out to be a big ’mo? Hell, look how much time Ian spends on his hair. I would totally not be shocked if he turned up at our five-year reunion with a cute Puerto Rican boyfriend named Diego or Amir or something.”
    “Okay, one: gay is an adjective, not a noun. Two, I thought we agreed to send a video of ourselves to every high school reunion until we could afford to charter a helicopter like Sandy Frink in Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion . And three, Amir is an Arabic name, not Spanish. Oh, and four—”
    “And four, don’t change the subject. You need to come out at school, Sprout. You’re not gonna get laid, let alone find a boyfriend, until you do.”
    Suddenly all those things Mrs. Miller said to me last summer when I told her I wanted to write about being gay came back to me. I’d pretty much rolled over on the whole subject, and I realized now that I hadn’t put up too much of a fight because on some level I must’ve agreed with her. I mean, when you thought about it, I was already doing what she advised, wasn’t I? Taking the easy road? The high road even? By which I mean: keeping the focus on my green hair (and the brain underneath it) rather than on areas a bit lower down my body, if you know what I mean.
    “Look,” I told Ruthie now, “I don’t want to be that guy, okay? The gay guy. The token homosexual. The school fag. I don’t want to have to try out for every stupid school musical, wear pink triangle pins, and start a letter-writing campaign to bring my boyfriend to the prom. I just want to be me .”
    “Okay, my turn to count. One: you can’t sing. Two: pink triangle pins are so over. And three: you’ve gotta have a boyfriend before you start worrying about bringing him to the prom.”
    “Ruthie!”
    “Fine, fine. We should rinse anyway.” She shooed me towards the sink. There was a long pause and somehow I knew what she was going to say before she said it. “What about—”
    “Don’t even .”
    A jet of water blasted against my head.
    “Yeah no, I guess that’s crazy.” She adjusted the temperature, cooling it slightly, as if she knew my scalp was still tingling from the extra-long bleach