Talker

that’s just not how he
    rolled. “Thanks for helping,” he said at last, putting the car in gear.
    He was about to ease up on the clutch when Jed stopped him with
    a question.
    “Does Tate know?”
    Brian couldn’t look at him. “Know what?”
    “How you feel about him?”
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    55

    Brian shook his head and shrugged. “It’s not like I can tell him
    now.” Then they both heard the sirens, and Jed stepped back from
    the car so he could drive away.
    He’d stopped on the way home to throw up.
    That night, when Tate got home, Brian had rewrapped his
    bleeding knuckles and put on a hand-me-down shirt with the
    sleeves pul ed past his fingertips. It had been late January—he’d
    been ready to complain about the cold.
    But Tate had been dazed, shel -shocked, exhausted from
    keeping it together in the press of bodies and loud noises from the
    club, and he didn’t notice the knuckles, not even when the
    bandages went away and there were only scabs left. All he was
    real y capable of in those first days was doing his homework or
    sitting on the couch watching television anyway.
    Brian would sit with him, homework or no homework, and put
    food in his hands and nag him until he ate. Brian would make sure
    not to turn the hal light off at night, and to go into Tate’s room
    before he went to bed to see if Tate was sleeping or needed to talk.
    A lot of the times he was sure Tate pretended to sleep, but
    sometimes he would say a few words. Apparently, he saved all his
    talking for work.

    BRIAN had fal en quiet at his aunt’s question about consequences
    for the fucker who’d hurt Tate. At her prompting, he jerked out of his
    reverie.
    “Don’t worry, Aunt Lyndie. He… he’s not going to come near
    Tate again.”
    Lyndie raised her eyebrows then. “O kay, baby. G ood for you.”
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    56

    Brian shrugged. “Didn’t help much,” he muttered, and she
    reached out and covered his hands—battered with scars, but not
    hurting—and said, “Did it help you?”
    A slow smile crossed Brian’s face, and he had to concede that
    it had.
    “O kay,” Lyndie said after a moment. “So, what’s the plan?”
    Brian’s smile faded. He had one. O h, definitely, he had a plan.
    But he wasn’t really excited about it. He outlined it in its barest
    points, and Lyndie nodded.
    “So, the grand romantic gesture, huh?”
    Brian shrugged, and then swal owed, showing exactly how
    nervous he really was. “I’ve never been good at them,” he admitted.
    He’d tried once with Virginia, and she’d ended up getting sick and
    he’d had to take Tate to the restaurant instead. He and Tate had a
    very good time, and Brian hadn’t minded—even then—that people
    thought they were a couple, but it was a sad romantic gesture when
    the intended victim stayed home with the flu and the stand-in
    wouldn’t recognize that he was the real deal after all.
    The look Lyndie sent him over her iced tea was very, very
    serious. “Baby, I think you’re going to have to commit to this one
    full-out. I don’t think this kid’s got many more chances in him.”

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    57

    P a rt V III
    Sounding Love

    BRIAN couldn’t look at himself in the rearview mirror on the way
    back down to Sacramento. It was too distracting.
    Lyndie had helped him, even breaking out her own makeup
    reserves and the E lmer’s glue and some henna dye she’d been
    saving for tinting her own black tresses. The result was someone
    he didn’t recognize in the mirror, and he real y hoped he didn’t have
    to break out of the closet ever again. He was fine with being gay,
    thank you, but he’d never signed on to be a reject from a Ramones
    cover band.
    His hair was dyed red at the ends, and spiked flat on the top of
    his head. Lyndie had trimmed it more, so that the hennaed ends
    separated like eyelashes, and the whole thing was so unlikely a
    part of Brian’s appearance that he didn’t even see it when he
    caught himself in the mirror. He had other things to worry about.
    His eyes were black. His aunt had used an entire pencil of
    eyeliner, making it look like he’d closed his eyes and someone had
    spray-stenciled a raccoon mask over his face. She hadn’t used
    powder to whiten him—his complexion was pretty pale as it was—
    but she had given him two ibuprofen and an ice cube and pierced
    his ears. Three times. And his nose. O nce—but that was plenty.
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    She’d been considering safety pins in