Chapter 25 Rumspringa
Adam,
I can’t believe that Taylor faked her pregnancy on AMC. Like that isn’t going to come back and bite her in the butt!
You wrote that Mateo isn’t your cup of tea. So, what is your type?
I’d never heard of Leyendecker! Everyone acts like Norman Rockwell was all that and a bag of chips.
(Personally, I always thought his stuff was hokey.) I was shocked to learn that Leyendecker was Rockwell’s mentor.
And I can’t believe how homo-erotic some of Leyendecker’s magazine covers were! Do you have a favorite one?
Since I cracked your riddle, you have to pony up. (Get it?) Time to let me see some of your work.
You’re the first vegetarian I’ve ever met, so I wouldn’t know if you guys eat a lot of eggplant or not. It’s been a while since I tasted the stuff. Mom used to make eggplant parmesan sometimes.
I know you’re on “house arrest,” as you call it. And your dad’s not cool with the “gay thing.” Still, can I at least call you? Please? I can pretend to be a Kirby salesman!
Mustang
Saturday, September 23, 1995
Matt had needed directions to Debbie’s neighborhood but guessed her house by dead reckoning.
On a street where one bungalow blended with the next, where residents occasionally bumbled into the wrong house, where the lawns were boring patches of over-fertilized Bermuda masquerading as putting greens, Debbie’s was “None of the above.”
Matt was reminded of Sesame Street segments where there were three similar items (fruits, for example) and one dissimilar item (a toy truck).
The Muppets would sing “One of These Things,” and by the end of the song you were supposed to pick which item didn’t belong in the set.
Debbie’s house just didn’t belong—in a good way—among these poseurs.
It was a neighborhood of small houses, all built in the ‘40’s when 1,200-1,400 square feet was plenty for a family. Detached single car garages. That was where the similarity ended.
Debbie’s was a brick cottage with a steep roof and a gable over the entry.
Her landscaping rivalled Van Gogh’s fever dreams: vibrant blues, yellows, and oranges.
A crowded palette. Garden gnomes. Whirligigs.
Butterflies flitting among the blooms. Bees doing their pollen thing.
A sprawling oak tree surrounded by ivy. No putting green.
Maybe some cat graves tucked here and there. It was hard to tell.
The house was well-built, solid, meant to last. Good bones, like its owner. Uniquely accessorized, also like its owner.
Debbie was hosting her first team party. She’d been at that morning’s game, cheering them on to a 2:1 win. Now this.
It was 1:45 p.m. Matt was the first to arrive.
“Mustang!” Debbie greeted him.
Swamped him with a bear hug. Her pillowy breasts brushed his abdomen. Her teased-and-pouffed ‘80’s-style hair tickled his nose. On any other woman in her late 30’s, such hair would seem like a desperate grasp to hang onto her fading youth. Not so with Debbie. There was nothing faded about her.
“Hi mom!” Matt gushed. He hugged her back.
Debbie jerked with surprise, disentangled from the hug, and looked up at him. “What did you say?”
Matt grinned, told her to stand straight. “Debbie,” he began in an officious tone, then had to ask her last name. “Debbie Ford, in recognition of your outstanding efforts as Den Mother to our team, I hereby dub thee…’Mom Debbie!’”
Debbie’s eyes watered. “Stop that!” she tutted. “You’re going to make my mascara run. Then I’ll look ridiculous! Like Phylis Diller on Hollywood Squares!”
They were standing in her Barbie-pink living room when she said this.
“Shame you didn’t get to play none today,” Debbie said. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she’d retrieved from her iron lung of a brassiere.
Matt shrugged. “I was benched.” He had played at Thursday’s away game, but Coach had decided he could safely burn one of his two suspensions for that morning’s game. Coach had been right.
A white shag area rug in front of the seen-better-days couch looked like a splat of wet paint against the hardwood floor. Three cats assessed Matt from their perches on the couch. The smell of freshly baked desserts permeated the air.
Debbie patted Matt’s still-bruised hand. “Benched because of this? I heard about that fight you had. Sounds like that other feller deserved it. If he messes with you again, I’ll scratch his eyes out!” She held up one hand. Its painted nails curved menacingly.
Matt laughed self-consciously. His scabbed knuckles were nothing more than a cautionary tale against punching walls. That—and a reminder that Idabel was no longer his friend.
“There was no fight,” he said, which was true.
What was also true was that he needed to change the subject.
This talk of fighting just reignited thoughts that had troubled him all week, namely that Colton Langley deserved an ass-kicking and Matt wanted the honors.
Not a locker room one-and-done dustup that was five minutes of posturing, thirty seconds of punching.
What Colton needed—what he deserved—was a vigilante beat-down like Matt’s dad had delivered to the youth pastor who had molested his son.
Missing teeth, broken ribs courtesy of a baseball bat.
Aversion therapy writ large, painted in blood.
Colton’s atonement for Adam’s expulsion and near suicide; for Gay Chapel, which had resulted in the dismissal of two gay freshmen na?ve enough to believe that going forward for prayer was a safe thing; and for dragging William to MCU, then breaking his heart.
Yeah, Matt was in a dark place. Had been for the five days since Paul had shown him the letter, told him about Colton’s little extortion plot.
In roughly six hours, at 8:00 p.m., there was a scheduled showdown with Colton. William’s plan might work—might—but it was wrong-headed, weak. Matt’s superior plan had been soundly voted down by his peers in the GM.
He itched to go rogue.
Debbie wanted to talk about the fight that hadn’t happened.
“Not the way I heard it. You’re a hero with all the girls.
You know, my social ranking soared when word got out that I’m friends with ‘Mustang,’ the tall, handsome, soccer jock!
They come to my office and pepper me with questions about you. ”
Matt blushed.
One of Debbie’s cats had jumped off the couch and was rubbing against his leg. He bent down and gently petted its calico fur. It sniffed his hand.
Matt noticed that one of its eyes was clouded over.
“That’s Cleopatra,” Debbie said. “I named her that to boost her self-esteem. Don’t talk about the e-y-e,” she whispered. “She’s self-conscious. The e-y-e was like that when I adopted her. Poor thing. Has depth perception issues.”
The doorbell rang.
It was Idabel and two other teammates. They spilled into the house, still high on that morning’s victory.
Idabel gave Matt a curt nod, then followed Debbie to the kitchen.
Matt heard Debbie explaining to Idabel that she’d made him his own cherry pie—with real cherries, not some jellied glop from a can. It was stashed on top of the icebox away from the other food. The crust was her grandmother’s recipe. Very flaky. She hoped he liked it.
The doorbell rang again. And again later. Eventually most of the team was there, eating, talking excitedly, reliving the game.
Idabel stayed in the kitchen—whether for the food or to avoid Matt, not easily discernable. Maybe both.
Matt stuck to the couch.
Cleopatra took up residence on his lap, purring as he softly stroked her fur.
The party drifted to Debbie’s backyard and a frenzied game of croquet where everyone played simultaneously. Sunlight and sound streamed through the living room’s back windows, which were behind the couch.
Matt heard it all, a sort of fusion of hockey, croquet, and dodgeball. Smack talking. The soft thwuck of the mallets against the balls. Idabel’s laugh.
Debbie sank onto the couch beside him, patted his arm.
“You seem sad. Girlfriend problems?”
Matt heard the screen door bang shut. Someone had come in from the backyard. Opened the freezer. Plunked ice cubes into a glass. Turned on the faucet.
Matt shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Debbie teased.
“Not everything you hear is true,” Matt said. “Trust me. I’m pretty sure that if you asked Ava, she’d say the same thing, that she is not my girlfriend. People see us together and just make assumptions.”
Matt avoided Debbie’s eyes, looked past her, towards the kitchen. There stood Idabel, pie in his hand, fork halfway to his mouth, frowning. He’d also heard what Matt had said.
Matt’s dorm room felt like a prison cell.
Cinderblock walls painted a muted silver, purple institutional carpet—silver and purple being the school colors and all.
MCU had marked even this tiny space as theirs, pissing their colors on the walls and floor, filling the room with the claustrophobic stench of conformity.
It was 6:42 p.m. Matt had nothing to do until the 8:00 showdown with Colton. Nothing to do except brood.
Debbie’s party had temporarily raised his spirits, but his mood had ultimately collapsed back upon itself, like a cake that had reached too high and then cratered.
He considered jacking off, if for no other reason than to kill time, relieve stress. That, and he wanted to christen his new poster.
The poster hung in the spot once occupied by the Dallas Cheerleaders.
He had found this beauty, oddly enough, at the campus bookstore.
It depicted a guy climbing a steep rock outcropping—free solo style.
The climber was young, hot, sweaty, wearing only cotton shorts, climbing shoes, and gloves. Downy legs. A lean, muscled torso.
One hand and one foot clutched at the sheer rock face. The climber’s other arm and leg swung free in space, providing a lovely view of his chest.
The photo’s focal point was the climber’s tenuous, one-handed grip on reality. One slip and he would plunge to his death.