Autoboyography
Page 19

I wrinkle my nose. “They’re both LDS.”
Oh, the irony.
“Yeah, but they’re cool LDS.”
I tug her closer. “Let’s see how it goes before we decide. I haven’t lost hope that Eric will pull himself together and make an honest woman out of you. Like you said, it’s our senior year. Don’t you want it to be a big deal?”
“I don’t want to—” she begins half-heartedly, but I pull her down over me and then roll her into a ball, tickling her. Autumn squeals and laughs and calls me names, and it’s only when Hailey is pounding on my wall and Dad is yelling at us to keep it down that I finally move, satisfied that the subject of prom has been forgotten.
• • •
Life here gets easier when the seasons change and the days grow longer. Other than the occasional hike or day of skiing, none of us have spent much time outdoors in months. It’s left me stir-crazy, with too much time to think. By the middle of February I’m so sick of my room and my house and the inside of the school that when the first real warm day comes, I’m willing to do just about anything as long as it happens outside.
The snow pushes away from the sidewalks a little more each day, until there are only a few patches left on the lawn.
My dad left the truck, the trailer, and a to-do list with my name on it taped to the fridge Saturday morning. I tow our boat from the side of the house to the driveway and pull off the tarp. Silverfish scamper away; it’s musty and dark inside, and I survey how much work I have ahead of me. We’re still months away from being able to use it, but it needs some serious TLC.
There are puddles of melting snow everywhere on the driveway. With the oil from the street and the tangle of leaves and branches, it looks disgusting, but I know where it leads: sunshine and outdoors and the smell of barbeque all weekend long. We’re having the seats reupholstered and the marine carpet replaced this April, so I start pulling the old stuff out along with the adhesive. I wouldn’t categorize any of this as enjoyable, but since I don’t have an actual job and gas doesn’t buy itself, I do what my dad tells me.
I get out everything I need, laying another large tarp down on the grass to make hauling it away easier. I’ve just pulled the driver seat out when I hear brakes squeaking mildly, hear tires coming to a stop on the driveway behind me.
I swing around to see Sebastian standing next to a bike, squinting up into the sun.
I haven’t seen him outside of class in two weeks, and it causes a weird ache to push through me. Straightening, I walk over to the edge of the deck. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says back, smiling. “What are you doing up there?”
“Earning my keep, apparently. I believe you call this ‘service,’” I say, using my hands to form air quotes around the words.
He laughs, and my stomach clenches. “Service is more”—finger quotes—“‘helping others’ and less”—more finger quotes—“‘fixing my dad’s fancy boat,’ but okay.”
Holy crap, he’s teasing me. I motion to the mess at my feet and strewn across the tarp. “Do you see this monstrosity? This is not fancy.”
He peers over the side. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Kneeling down, I bring my face within a few inches of his. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I was tutoring in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”
“So you go to school, write, work as a TA, and tutor? I am lazy.”
“Don’t forget all the church service.” Stepping back, he looks away, cheeks burning. “But I wasn’t really in the neighborhood.”
It’s taking my brain a moment to get from point A to point B, and when it finally connects the dots—that he came here specifically to see me—I almost jump over the side and tackle him.
Of course I don’t. I can see by the way he’s gripping the handlebar that he’s not entirely comfortable with the admission, and a pang of hope blooms inside me. This is how we reveal ourselves: these tiny flashes of discomfort, the reactions we can’t hide. In some ways, it’s why it’s so terrifying to live here and have my sexuality safely known only behind my front door. Outside, I could give myself away by a twitch of my lips at the word “faggot,” by staring at someone too long, by letting a guy friend hug me and doing it wrong.
Or, by being nervous simply because he wanted to stop by.
I’m probably just projecting, probably seeing this out of my own hope, but still, I want to climb down, gently pry his hands from the bike, and hold them.
I crack a joke instead. “I notice you didn’t disagree with the lazy part. I see how you are.”
The line of his shoulders eases, and he lets go of the handlebar. “I mean, I didn’t want to say anything, but . . .”
“You could stop hassling me and come up here and help.”
Sebastian pushes his bike to the grass and slips off his jacket, surprising me when he easily hops onto the trailer and up onto the stern. “See, now you’re getting what service is all about.”
I know there’s a joke in there about servicing, but I manage to keep it to myself.
With his hands on his hips, Sebastian looks around. “What needs to be done?”
“I need to pull out the seats and rip up the old carpet. Oh, and scrape up the adhesive. Bet you’re sorry you’re such a good person now.” I hand him my gloves and give myself three seconds to stare at him. There’s not a wrinkle, or a stitch out of place. He’s been outside in the sun lately too. His skin is a warm brown.
“You don’t need to give me those,” he says, pushing them away.
“I think there’s another pair in the garage.”
Sebastian concedes, and I hop down, taking a second to breathe as I slowly make my way toward the garage and back to the boat again. If I were taking Mom’s advice, this would be the perfect opportunity to lay out a boundary about things, to clarify that although he knows something about me that no one else knows, nothing between the two of us could ever happen.
Soon, I tell myself. I’ll tell him soon. Probably.
We manage to get the other front seat out, along with the bench, and even though it can’t be above sixty degrees—a record for this time of year—we’re both sweating by the time we tackle the carpet.
“So don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but why is your dad having you do this instead of . . . I don’t know”—with a guilty tilt of his head, he glances over at my house—“paying someone?”
I follow his attention to my house. Our neighborhood is arguably the nicest in this part of Provo. Houses have curved driveways and long, rolling lawns. Everyone has a finished basement, and many of us have in-law quarters over our garages. It’s true that my parents make good money, but they are anything but spendthrifts. “Mom will save a penny anywhere she can. Her reasoning: She already let Dad buy a boat. She’s not going to let him hire someone to maintain it.”
“Sounds a lot like my mom too.” Sebastian tightens his grip on a particularly tough section of carpet and pulls. A satisfying rip moves through the small quarters. “The saving a penny part, anyway,” he clarifies. “Her motto is ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.’”
“Please never tell my mom that. She’ll put it on a shirt.”