Eight #2
“We were just about to play Never Have I Ever,” he says. “Right, y’all?”
Evan Hegge eyes me for a beat longer, then turns to Garrett and chuckles. “Y’all. Do people from the South really say that?”
“I guess I just did,” Garrett says. His tone is friendly, but the hand that isn’t gripping Dana’s waist tightens around his beer.
Dana continues glaring at me, not ready to move past the intruder who’s joined their group. But everyone else has put up five fingers, and she reluctantly joins them. I put my hand in the air, hoping it isn’t obvious that I have no idea what happens next.
“Okay,” Dana says. “I’ll go first.” She makes a show of thinking, drumming her fingers against her bottom lip. She flips her curtain of blond hair over her shoulder. “Never have I ever been blackout drunk.”
Several people in the circle put a finger down and take a sip of their drink, including Garrett. Dana doesn’t, and my brain grinds into action, working out the logic of the game. There isn’t much logic, I soon realize: drink a lot and admit to doing stupid shit.
Garrett goes next. “Never have I ever been to a mine.”
People groan. Everyone drinks and puts down a finger, including me. Visiting the mine was our class field trip in fourth grade. And sixth. And eighth.
“Lame,” Tyler says.
Garrett grins. “I got you guys, though. Irontown is fuckin’ weird.”
You guys, I notice. Not y’all.
“Ah-rontown,” Dana says, copying the way he warms the I sound in the word. She boops him on the nose. “Love that accent on you.”
He takes a drink.
“My turn,” Evan Hegge says. “Never have I ever had Stacy Evers go down on me.”
Several guys guffaw and drink. Dana makes a disgusted sound, but smirks knowingly. When Garrett doesn’t lower a finger or drink, Evan elbows him and says, “Not yet, anyway.”
Garrett grins like a hopeful straight guy, and I feel so stupid for being here, for having my wild theory about him, for briefly believing I wasn’t alone.
The game continues around the circle, getting worse with each person.
I’m finding out things about these people I don’t want to know: who’s tried drugs, what sex things they’ve done, who’s shown up drunk to school.
Before I know it, it’s my turn. While most people are down to one or two fingers, I’m still holding up four because I haven’t had sex, done drugs, or shown up drunk to school.
People look at me expectantly. I should have planned ahead for this moment, should have realized I would have to come up with something.
I panic. “Never have I ever been grounded.”
“Big surprise there,” Dana says and lowers her last finger, still clutching Garrett’s ass with her other hand. “People with Enzo’s personality type are allergic to fun.”
Evan laughs. “Yeah, Garrett. What’s it like to live with him? Does he just read and play his clarinet all day?”
There’s a warmth in my face, and I’m finding it hard to swallow.
I could be hanging out with people I like right now, I think, with people who like me.
Instead, I chose this party. There’s not much I can say since they’re talking about me as if I’m not here, so I wait for Garrett to confirm the things they’ve said.
His eyes scan me as if deciding which trait of mine to pick for the killing blow.
“Enzo’s pretty cool,” he eventually says. “He kicks my ass at Madden all the time.”
I expect him to smirk and deliver a cruel punch line.
Instead, his eyes bore into me like he’s telling me to roll with his lie, to stop being an object of discussion and speak for myself.
After how much of a jerk I’ve been, he has no reason to bail me out right now, no reason to show me any sort of kindness.
We watch each other over the fire, and he gives a shrug, downplaying the gift he’s offering, thoughtlessly generous.
“It’s true,” I say, draining the last of my beer. “And Garrett’s cool about putting up with my shitty clarinet playing all the time.”
A couple of people laugh. Dana rolls her eyes, not buying any of this.
Tyler reaches into the cooler and hands me another beer. “What team do you play as in Madden?”
It takes me a second to think of the name of any NFL teams. “The Raiders.”
“Nice,” Tyler says. “They’ve got a strong offense.”
“Totally.” My thoughts have become muffled, and I’m not completely sure what I’m agreeing to.
A smile flickers across Garrett’s face, and I think he might be impressed or amused. I feel a glow of satisfaction at this small hint of approval from him. I want his approval, my unfiltered brain discovers, and it doesn’t know what to do with that information, how to catalog it.
The discussion moves on to real football, and I once again have nothing to say.
The guys talk about plays from tonight’s game and the shitty calls made by the refs, about their chances of defeating Blue Harbor next week.
I drink to give myself something to do, and soon I finish my second beer, then a third.
It feels like there’s a lag between the things I’m seeing and hearing and my brain processing them.
Dana keeps glancing at me, reminding me that I don’t belong in this circle, that Garrett didn’t wave a magic wand and make me fit in. Still, I no longer feel like an intrusion, instead existing somewhere between being tolerated and being accepted.
Garrett plants a kiss on top of Dana’s head while listening to Tyler ramble about football, and it’s difficult to believe that an hour ago I decided to essentially crash this party in the hope he might come out to me.
He put down fingers on the never-have-I-ever sex questions, and judging by the easy intimacy between him and Dana, I have no doubt one or two were about his relationship with her.
He’s straight, I realize with certainty. He belongs to this world of football players and their girlfriends, and I do not. The commonality I thought the two of us shared does not exist, and I feel like a pathetically hopeful gay boy for wishing it had.
I cue back into the conversation when I hear Evan say, “… Star Wars theme…” My ears perk up, the comment pulling me out of my downward spiral.
“Did you know it’s actually the same as Luke Skywalker’s theme?” I blurt.
Everyone looks at me.
“Yeah,” I continue, “John Williams—the composer for most of the Star Wars soundtracks—uses a technique called a leitmotif, where every character has their own specific music. And since Luke is such a big deal, his theme got used for the main titles.” I don’t know why I’m telling them this, but I plow on.
“It’s actually a really useful device because it helps the audience make connections between scenes and develop consistent emotional responses to each character. ”
Everyone stares at me, and I realize there’s a possibility they’re not as interested in film scores as my three beers think they are. I stop talking and take a drink from my can, but since it’s already empty, I end up raising it to my lips and pretending to sip.
“I was talking about the Star Wars theme park, dumbass,” Evan says. “The one at Disney World.”
“God,” Dana says with an eye roll and hair flip.
Garrett tilts his head to the side. “So that’s why the music is the same when Luke watches R2’s distress signal and when he breaks into the prison cell in the Death Star—both scenes have Princess Leia.”
“Yeah,” I say, relieved that someone is pretending to care about film soundtracks with me. “It’s the same theme.”
“Anyway,” Evan says, pissed that I’ve derailed his story, “I was in line for Smuggler’s Run, and this bitch with her kids decides—”
“Does the Millennium Falcon get a theme?” Garrett interrupts.
“No. Not really.”
Evan continues, louder: “—and she tells me to save her spot because her brat has to take a shit—”
“Because it should. It’s basically a character.” Garrett’s eyes are bright in the firelight, and maybe I’m drunk, but I get the sense he’s enjoying pissing off Evan.
“No one fucking cares,” Evan says. “So anyway, I tell this bitch that there’s no fucking way I’m saving her spot, and—”
“Do other movies do that?” Garrett asks. “With the motif things?”
“Yeah. Tons. But John Williams is especially good at it. It’s probably why he’s won so many Oscars.”
Evan pretends he can’t hear me: “—then of course one of her stupid kids starts crying, and I tell him that it won’t help him get to the front of the line—”
“Film composers can win Oscars?” Garrett asks. His eyes dart to Evan.
“Yeah. John Williams has been nominated for more Oscars than anyone else in history. Except Walt Disney, I guess.”
“Cool.”
“No, it’s not cool,” Evan growls, done ignoring our interruptions.
“If I wanted music trivia, I’d fucking Google it.
” He turns to me. “This is why no one here likes you, you know-it-all dipshit.” He’s angry—more angry than he should be—and I prepare myself for a stomach punch to rival the one from eighth-grade gym class.
But then Tyler grabs a beer from the cooler, opens it, and hands it to him. “Chill, dude.”
Evan is still eyeing me, but he takes the beer and raises it to his mouth. A bit of foam sticks to his patchy mustache.
“We should probably head out,” Garrett says, watching Evan. “Enzo’s dad is a hard-ass about the curfew thing.”
“Right,” I lie, setting my can on the grass at my feet. “I finally got my phone back after breaking curfew last time.”
Dana gives me a disgusted look, like it’s my fault Garrett has to leave. While he says goodbye to everyone, I hover awkwardly, a few steps away from the circle, once again an outsider. When Garrett gets to Dana, he tilts his head down and kisses her deeply, his fingers combing through her hair.
“Get a room,” Tyler jokes, and everyone laughs.