Ben Raphael's All-Star Virgins Page 7

  Since the previous spring, Tim had been struggling with his parents’ divorce. He despised his father, who’d left his mother for a younger piece, and this resulted in regular flare-ups of hostility between them. Mrs. Burnett fueled the flames by continually crying on Tim’s shoulder about the injustice of it all. We’d learned how to tell when one or the other was going on: Tim withdrew. So we chalked up his behavior to another round of calls, texts, and e-mails from his distraught mother, or another round of sniping between him and his dad.

  What was weird, though, was that he seemed okay when he was around. Maybe not as jokey as normal, but I never saw him balls-out brooding.

  Abruptly, four days before the dance, Tim decided to go. There must’ve been a temporary truce in the War of the Burnetts. Carlton told us one evening, “Nah, he hasn’t been in a bad mood. Not like when his parents are really going at it. He was just sick of the loudmouths on this floor acting up all the time. I know he’s been having trouble with his course load this year—the divorce crap might have something to do with that—so I think he’s been taking off so he can study without a bunch of morons fucking up his concentration. That’s all, nothing to call his shrink about.”

  Yeah, Tim had a shrink. In Des Moines, where his family lived. I guess they kept in touch via Skype.

  The other four of us were ecstatic. Shortly after Della had extended her invitation to me, we members of the Ben Raphael All-Star Virgin Order had decided either all of us went to the dance or none of us went. For two years, we’d been rejected en masse; now, damn it, we were determined to be accepted en masse. Carlton even sang, “We are fam-i-ly; I got all my brothers with me,” while the rest of us clapped to the beat and laughed.

  Solidarity forever.

  THE DANCE committee, which consisted of three girls and three guys, had a decent amount of money at its disposal. The administration wouldn’t want us griping to our parents about any academy event being cheesy. So horse-drawn carriages relayed girls to Bolger Hall and, when they met up with their dates, transported the couples to Gala Hall, which was an actual hall and not a separate building. It was part of the dining complex, adjacent to the cafeteria. Every dance was held there, in addition to parties, fundraisers, and other festive events.

  Rider, Tim, and I rode with our dates in one carriage. Brody, Carlton, and company came in the one that followed. A very light snow—nothing more than a “dusting,” according to weather reports—drifted around us. Whenever I looked at Rider, who was dressed in a striking, steampunk kind of outfit, I pretended we were characters in an Austen or Brontë novel—two people who yearned for each other but, due to circumstances beyond their control, couldn’t declare their feelings. The fantasy was very romantic. I didn’t want to let it go.

  We passengers made small talk. Or most of us did. I had trouble keeping my mind and eyes off Rider and the lovely story my imagination had spun. His suit was beautifully tailored and accented the perfect lines of his body, which made it that much more difficult for me to be sociable.

  A red-and-white heart-shaped wreath hung on Gala Hall’s main door. Fairy lights bordered the red carpet leading up to it, over which a canopy had been erected. Our dates, who all more or less knew each other, chatted and complimented each other as we waited under the canopy for Carlton and Brody to arrive.

  Rider dipped down and whispered in my ear, “I want you.”

  I turned my back to our companions and whispered in reply, “Don’t say that. I’ll pop wood.”

  He smiled. God, he looked enchanting. As soon as that adjective came into my mind, I thought how gay it sounded. I didn’t care.

  Damn it, why couldn’t we be there as dates?

  Once our group had reassembled, we went inside, handed over our tickets, checked our “wraps” (the girls wore capes or shawls, except for Tim’s date, who had on a faux-fur jacket), and crossed the decorated lobby to the hall. We’d no sooner walked through the doors than three of the five girls herded themselves toward the ladies’ room.

  “Aren’t you going too?” I asked Della. She looked elegant in her strapless peacock-blue dress. She’d even tucked some jewels and feathers in her hair. I was grateful she was short so she wouldn’t tower over me.

  “Why?” she said. “I peed before we left.”

  Rider let out a single, muted laugh. “Guess not all women see restrooms as ‘powder rooms.’”

  Tim’s date, who’d also stayed behind, smiled at the comment. “Some of us realize our faces can only accommodate so much makeup.” Yvette was a senior who seemed a lot more mature than the sophomores and juniors who accompanied the rest of us.

  Tim grinned. “Good point. Otherwise it could get so heavy that by the end of the evening, the floor could be strewn with lips, eyelids, and noses.”

  “But no hair,” said Yvette.

  We all got her meaning and laughed. The girls had enough product on their ’dos to keep every strand in place even if a blizzard howled through the building. I, of course, thought of Rider’s hair, which was in a slightly curled ponytail decorated with fine lengths of gold chain.

  Our group gradually fragmented, drifted back together, and broke up again as the dancing and hors d’oeuvre eating commenced. The band was fairly good. Discs of light either slid or pulsed among airborne cupids, bobbing hearts, and glittering white streamers that mimicked falling snow. Once I relaxed, I had a good time—gabbing with people, dancing, watching others dance, munching tasty finger food—until I spotted Nancee Anderson, swathed in black velveteen and dripping with rhinestones.

  Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating. Her dress was too small to properly “swathe” her, and the rhinestones—or maybe diamonds, depending on how much money her old man made—only “dripped” from her earlobes and one wrist. Her pencil-thin heels looked about two feet high.

  I doubted she’d be returning to her home in Marinette tonight. Her husband must’ve been one mellow guy. Chaperones were allowed to invite their partners to Ben Raphael functions—Mr. Riggs and Ms. Jeraud were with their spouses—but I didn’t have to wonder why Nancee hadn’t invited the mister.

  She stood with the other chaperones in a corner of the room, her eyes continually shifting between them and the students moving in eddies around the floor. Periodically, one or two kids approached the teachers, either to be courteous or to schmooze. When Tim approached them, I knew he was being his usual civilized self. When Brody did it, I knew he was sucking up. Rider, like Carlton, stayed as far away as possible, but certainly for a different reason. I stayed away too.

  Maybe it was my imagination, fueled as it was by Rider’s confession, but Nancee’s face lit up more noticeably when male students shambled over. Was she scoping out replacements for “Mr. Hearn”?

  Della appeared beside me. She’d finally made a trip to the ladies’ room. All our dancing, she’d said, had jostled her bladder.

  I finished off a shrimp puff and sipped my punch, which wasn’t spiked. The All-Star Virgins had unanimously agreed that staying sober on dates was also part of our mystique. Or rather, Brody had decided this, and the rest of us hadn’t bothered arguing with him. I didn’t feel like drinking anyway.

  “Why do you suppose Ms. Anderson didn’t invite her husband?” I asked Della.

  She glanced at the clutch of chaperones and smirked. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Della lifted the cup from my hand and took a drink. “I heard he travels a lot. Like, supervises the installation of medical equipment at hospitals and clinics. Maybe even sells it too.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, it’s none of my business.”

  “Mine either. I was just curious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”

  Della wagged her head. “God, you’re naïve, Jake.” She leaned toward me and kissed my cheek. “But that’s one of your many endearing qualities.”

  At that moment, the band was playing a slow song, the only kind Rider danced to. I glimpsed him swaying
cheek-to-cheek with Faith, a very pretty, pert-nosed girl with a little extra plump in her rump. She had auburn hair. I wondered if it reminded Rider of mine.

  “Jake?”

  “Hm? Oh, sorry. I was thinking about something.”

  “Want to dance?”

  Yes, I do. I want very much to dance. With my boyfriend. “Sure,” I said and took Della’s hand.

  “Did you see how Ms. Anderson has her greasy eyeballs all over Rider?” she asked once we’d begun shuffling back and forth.

  My stomach did a flip. “Uh, no. I hadn’t noticed.” The fact of the matter was, my own greasy eyeballs kept being drawn to Rider. “I get the impression you don’t like her.”

  “I’m a girls’ girl,” Della said haughtily. “She isn’t.”

  A girls’ girl, from what I understood, was a female of any age who enjoyed hanging out with and was supportive of other females. Della and I had talked a lot on the phone since she’d first asked me out, and we’d even met up a couple more times. She definitely had a feminist bent, so her declaration didn’t surprise me. And she didn’t seem in the least bit competitive with her friends. It was one of the things I admired about her.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Simple observation, Jake. Simple observation.” After a pause, she added, “But as superfine as Rider looks tonight, you—” Della briefly tightened her arms around my neck and kissed me.“—are totally adorable.”

  “Not totes adorbs?”

  “Oh please,” Della groaned.

  As the evening went on, the chaperones danced too. They weren’t allowed to slow dance with students—too intimate, probably—but they could boogie down as long as no dirty moves were involved. Thanks to Della, I did start noticing Ms. Anderson watching Rider.

  I sat and took a breather while Della spent some time with her friends. The dance had started at seven and it was past nine. Rider came over and laid a hand on my back. Instantly, I smiled up at him.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Good. And I have my answer too.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “I’m definitely not bi.”

  His face broke into a crinkly-eyed smile as he dropped into the chair beside mine.

  The band was playing its somewhat watered-down version of “Power Glove” by Knife Party. Just as Rider lifted a bottle of water to his mouth, Ms. Anderson appeared not ten feet away from us, mincing around on her eye stabbers, shaking her thang with Andre the Giant. Although she wasn’t all up in Rider’s face, the show was obviously for him. Faith, his date, was off talking with some other seniors, so Nancee must’ve reasoned it was the perfect time to secure Rider’s undivided attention.

  Cheeks still ballooned out with water, which he must’ve had trouble swallowing, he lowered his eyes.

  I leaned toward him. “Swear to God, man, if she starts twerking in front of us, I’m gonna stick her in the ass with my tie tack.”

  Water power-sprayed out of Rider’s mouth. He alternately coughed and hooted laughter. I pulled out my handkerchief and gave it to him so he could wipe his face. Nancee didn’t appear to notice; the music was loud, and she was too busy sinuously twining her arms above her head and busting belly-dancer moves.

  Grinning, Rider hooked me around the neck and pulled me toward him. Whatever he said, I couldn’t hear. I just wanted to kiss him.

  We soon rejoined our dates because it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Della seemed a wee bit inebriated. She was nowhere near out-of-her-mind hammered, but she was bubbly. Apparently, Della’s happy buzzes could also be amorous buzzes. Most guys would’ve been happy too and warmly returned the amore.

  I couldn’t get into it.

  It was time to muster my courage, not take the cowardly way out. She was a cool girl. She’d become my friend. She deserved honesty.

  After she kissed me for, like, the fifth time, I took her by the hand and led her into one of several dimly lit alcoves. We sat at its small wrought iron table.

  “I have a feeling I’m not in here for the reason I’m hoping,” she said.

  I didn’t ask her to elaborate. It would’ve been pointless. “We have to talk. I need to tell you something.” I took her hand and held it on the tabletop.

  She looked down at it, then raised her eyes to my face. “Go ahead.”

  “This is for nobody’s ears but yours, Del. Okay? I need to believe I can trust you. So swear you won’t repeat what I’m going to say.”

  She crossed her heart. “No problem. I hate gossip.”

  “Good. Well, something you asked that day we went skiing, something I kind of denied, I really had no right denying.”

  “What? I probably asked you a lot of things.”

  “It had to do with being gay.”

  Lights flashed. Bells rang. Della’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I, um… kind of recently discovered, or more like admitted to myself, that that’s what I am.”

  She continued to stare at me. “Gay?”

  “Yes.”

  Her stare morphed into a skeptical squint. “Jake, are you being honest or just trying to keep me off you?”

  For some reason, her response tripped my trigger. I was probably more tense than I realized. “What the actual fuck, Della? What kind of question is that?” I was more hurt than angry and more flustered than both. There I was, divulging my biggest secret, and she was doubting me, calling my motives into question. “Yes, I’m being honest. A guy doesn’t say something like that unless it’s true.”

  I’d never given coming out much thought, how squirrelly that step might make me. Now I wanted to storm away and go hide somewhere and kick my own ass for being gullible enough to confide in her.

  Before I could move, Della curled a hand over my forearm. “I’m sorry, Jake. Please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.” She hopped her chair closer to mine and drew me into a hug. “It took some balls to share that. Thanks for trusting me. I really appreciate it.”

  Her apology and subsequent humility made everything better again. “You’re the first person I’ve come out to,” I said, our heads still resting together. Why that should’ve mattered to her, I had no idea. But it mattered to me.

  “I’m honored. That sounds kind of stupid, but it’s true.” She eased back. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I nodded.

  “Is it Rider?”

  “Del, I’d rather not—”

  “Yeah, it’s Rider.” She sounded pleased with herself. “Wow. I won’t say you make a great-looking couple, even though you do. My cousin Cecily came out to me last year, when she was a freshman in college, and when I said she and her girlfriend were cute together, she about bopped me.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause she said it sounded condescending, that appearance was a ‘superficial standard’ and their relationship meant a lot more than that. What the fuck did I know? I was fifteen. I was just trying to be supportive. But now I see her point.” Della sighed and shook her head. “Well, it looks like half my floor will be up all night listening to a frustration rant.”

  “Not because of me, I hope.” Whoa, that sounded vain. I would’ve deserved it if Della had laughed in my face.

  She didn’t. And she didn’t call me “boyo” either. She said in a matter-of-fact way, “No, Jake, not because of you. I’m not that horny. And there are always more fish in the bay. I was talking about Faith. She wants Rider bad. She’s been bragging about how she’s going to sneak him into her room and rip his clothes off and lick him all over.”

  “Not happening,” I said after a hefty swallow to get the lump of lust out of my throat. Immediately I started obsessing about stripping Rider and licking him all over. He’d already spent a night kissing me everywhere on my body, which had nearly sent me rocketing through the ceiling. Licking him would be like returning the favor. I’d already been learning what parts of him were most responsive.

  Learning was fun.

  I started getting ha
rd just thinking about it.

  After sincerely thanking Della for a nice time as well as her understanding, I excused myself and left. Tim and his date were already gone. Rider had left shortly thereafter—Faith had apparently gone with him but quickly returned—so only Carlton and Brody remained. I walked back to the dorm on one of the many clear, well-lit paths that snaked throughout the academy’s grounds, eager to join the date of my heart in the privacy of our room.

  Chapter Nine

  THE SNOW had stopped falling and the skies had cleared. By the time I got back to our room, Rider had traded his princely garb for jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. I changed back into a charboy too. Beyond Bolger Hall, the carriages must’ve been turning into pumpkins.

  We stood in the space between our beds and held each other. After holding girls all evening, it was exactly what I needed.

  “Pretending sucks,” I said.

  Rider, of course, knew that better than anybody.

  He planted kisses on my hair. “I swear, Jake, when the next dance rolls around, or any kind of couples event, I’m either going with you or I’m not going at all. Your hands are the only ones I want on my ass.”

  I smiled against his shoulder. Even when the fragrance he wore was diluted with sweat, he still smelled edible. Rider wore a custom blend of essential oils instead of commercially manufactured cologne or aftershave, which is why I never sneezed when I got close to him.

  “Speaking of my hands on your ass,” I said, “why aren’t you in bed?” We pulled away from each other, but only by a step.

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep. My mind’s humming too loud.”

  “But beds aren’t only for sleeping.” I knew what Rider meant, though. I’d been thinking a lot too, mostly about being appreciated as somebody I wasn’t. It was the same as not being appreciated at all. It was the same as being a man in a Santa Claus suit.

  I was going to tell Rider about Della, how acceptance was possible even if it came in small increments, when Tim stormed into our room. And I mean stormed, regardless of the fact our door was closed. He looked enraged to the point of tears. Hell, his face was so contorted by whatever he was feeling, it didn’t even look like Tim Burnett’s face.