Talker

D e dica tion

    ALL of my work, whether I remember the dedication or not, is
    somehow dedicated to my husband. “Mate” and I have been
    together since we were nineteen years old.
    We were the ones with the restaurant jobs, taking classes,
    while living in the shitty apartment. We were the ones with the poor-
    man’s C hristmas tree, and we were the ones who had to choose
    between heat and light. (We chose light and were grateful for the
    big camping sleeping bags my parents gave us for C hristmas. They
    were later stolen, because hey—did I mention it was a shitty
    apartment?)
    I write a lot of stories about young love and first-time lovers,
    and I do it with optimism that the lovers wil make it, because Mate
    and I did. So when you get to the end, don’t worry about Brian and
    Talker. Have a little faith. Turns out that sometimes, faith and a
    sense of humor real y can be al you need. (And a chance to raid
    your parents’ garden or eat free restaurant food. That helps too.)
    Talker | Amy Lane
    3

    P a rt I
    I Will F ollow

    Then

    Brian C ooper was on the big tour bus, on the way to his first track
    meet, when he first met Tate Walker. He was sitting by himself,
    because he didn’t know anybody, and he felt like the only person
    on earth without an iPod or a cel phone that folded itself into
    origami and took a dump for you to boot. Tate came on late, and
    brother, was he a sight.
    Half his face was taken up with a glorious tribal tattoo, one that
    extended down to the neck of his long-sleeved shirt and over his
    half-gloved hand. Later, Tate would get an entire sleeve tattoo
    there and stop wearing long-sleeved shirts, but the tattoo was not
    even the most amazing part of his look.
    His right ear, the side with the tattoo, was pierced upward of a
    dozen times, and so was his nose, and his eyebrow, and his lip
    (although that one was the first to go). His inky dark hair was cut
    into a Mohawk, and the tattoo extended over half his scalp as wel .
    Although the Mohawk was back in a ponytail for the meet, Brian
    had seen Tate around school, and very often he wore it in four-inch
    spikes, courtesy of E lmer’s glue and a lot of grooming, Brian
    assumed.
    Talker | Amy Lane
    4

    So he was scary-looking, and Brian was not oblivious to the
    fact that the kids on the bus talked shit about him—but Brian didn’t
    care. Because today, Tate eyed the spot next to Brian and smiled
    tentatively before he sat down. He had his earbud in one ear and
    was halfway dancing to the song playing for him and him alone. He
    tended to jerk sometimes, when he wasn’t out on the track—just
    twitch right out of his skin, it looked like—but he was looking at
    Brian like Brian wasn’t a freak, and for the first time since he’d
    started school the month before, something frozen in Brian melted.
    O h, thank G od, Brian wasn’t alone on the goddamned bus.
    He was sitting on the left side of the bus, so he didn’t get to
    see Tate’s tattoo, and he had to admit, he was curious. It didn’t
    matter—someone was sitting next to him, someone was talking to
    him… and brother, was that kid talking.
    “Hey—hope you don’t mind if I sit. I know, the other kids talk
    about me being gay and shit.” (They did—they weren’t nice about it,
    either.) “But I swear that’s not catching or anything. Here—I’m
    listening to this band cal ed The Doves—you want to listen?
    “Kingdom of Rust” is such an awesome song—sad, but you know,
    awesome. But if you’re not in the mood for sad, I’ve got something
    really rocking—rocking helps for pumping you up for a meet.
    Although, I don’t know….” He hesitated. “You tend to do a lot of
    throwing. Do you need to Zen out or do you need to get al
    pumped?”
    He final y stopped and looked at Brian as though he expected
    an answer. Brian blinked and tried to come up with one. “I don’t
    know music,” he said, embarrassed. “But I’d love to listen to
    whatever you’ve got.”
    The kid with the tattoo and Mohawk had grinned then, his
    smile shining and pure (and a little crowded—not a lot of dental
    work here), and handed Brian his earbud.
    Talker | Amy Lane
    5

    “I’ve seen you throw, right? And you can run too. No wonder
    you got a scholarship!”
    Brian flushed. “I had to sort of audition,” he mumbled. “I was
    homeschooled—it was the only way I could get into college.” His
    shoulder was already giving him twinges. He’d started thinking
    about how to