Date: Sat, 11 Aug 2001 22:27:29 -0700
From: JoshBabe <joshbabe22@hotmail.com>
Subject: 'What You Won't Do for Love 01'{JoshBabe}( BB hs  rom slow )

What You Won't Do for Love, Chapter 1
By JoshBabe <joshbabe22@hotmail.com>

This work contains depictions of homosexuality. If
that is illegal in your jurisdiction, please, do not
continue reading this.

This work is copyright (c) 2001 by JoshBabe. You may
download and keep an unlimited number of copies for
personal use, but this work may not be used under any
circumstances without the prior consent of the author
with the exception of a personal copy. Aesthetic
changes (font size, font face, whitespace) do not
constitute a change that requires the author's
permission; any non-whitespace changes to the actual
text of the story require prior permission.


WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR LOVE, CHAPTER ONE

There were still people streaming across the lawn and
across the parking lot into the football field, for
the Homecoming Assembly, the morning that everything
really began. October 13. It was the first time in
anyone's memory that the assembly had been held
outside; enrollment at Kennedy High School had been
low enough for a generation that the assembly was
always held in the cafeteria. But with over 2000
students for the first time since the late '70s, the
assembly would either have been held in two shifts, or
outdoors. We were having a beautiful fall, Oregon's
version of an Indian summer, so Principal Martin
decided that we'd go outside and cheer on the football
team, and peripherally the other fall sports, too. Not
like it helped the football team; their season was
still a joke.

I was just starting my sophomore year in the fall, and
doing pretty well in school. I was taking accelerated
classes, to keep my parents happy; I had an attractive
girlfriend; everything looked to be panning out into
the stereotypical future, which made sense, as far as
I could tell, to everyone.

Actually, I'll digress a moment before I get back to
the Homecoming Assembly, and introduce myself. My name
is Josh Heilig, and, like I said, I'm a sophomore. I
live in Oregon, in a town called Forestdale. It's
actually more complicated than that--it's part of
Portland, more like a neighborhood, but until the '50s
it was actually a separate town. When they were
annexed by Portland, a lot of their farmland went to
build an elementary school and a high school-no one is
really sure why the middle school is about a mile away
down the road. Anyway, that high school was Forestdale
High School, until 1964, at the height of President
Johnson's popularity, at which time a number of
schools around the country were renamed. Ironically,
almost all of them were named for his predecessor,
President Kennedy, who got all the credit for the
Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of
1965. The building is really ugly, a kind of reddish
brick used for accents around a dark blue metal frame.
There are too many windows, so you don't appreciate
the way they're used in the design or anything. But
maybe I'm too critical of the school.

The high school attracted lots of neat stuff into
Forestdale, like a small commercial area with a
grocery store and a couple of restaurants, a
Starbucks, two stop lights, a public library and a
huge number of people moving in, taking up more
farmland to build their nuclear-family tract houses.
It has that kind of warm, sunny look, whenever you
think of it, no matter what the weather's actually
like, and the streets are all curved around hills and
places where at one time a farmer held out on selling
a part of his land or wouldn't cut down a tree.

Between downtown Forestdale, which in modern Portland
is sort of a joke but at one time, that's what they
called it, I guess, and the houses, was the school. In
the 1970s, the farmland on the north side of the
"downtown" area had houses and condos built on it,
too, but those are newer, and they're still developing
little parcels here and there as farmers' sons and
daughters die, and their children sell their property.
But I live on the old side, in the original farmhouse
on the hill, built in 1873.

My mother's family, the Fletchers, owned most of the
farmland around here before the development. They sold
out on all of the farmland, and so as soon as you
enter Forestdale, Miller Avenue becomes Fletcher's
Hwy. The road signs still say Miller Ave., but all of
us write our addresses as being on Fletcher's and the
mail keeps coming through, and my mom, Elise, thinks
she can get the Forestdale Community Fund to cough up
a little money, and her brothers to come up with some
more, to get street signs put up that say, "Historic
Forestdale," and below them have both "Fletcher's Hwy"
and "Miller Ave."

As it turns out, I wasn't just well-connected in the
little community around Kennedy, although that helped
me pull some strings later on, as you'll see, in
keeping some secrets. I was also well on my way to
being a valedictorian, being a workaholic and knowing
every teacher in the building. I was the band's star
trumpet player, and sports editor of the high school
newspaper. My girlfriend was actually way better
looking than I deserved, probably the prettiest girl
in the school and besides a blonde of the finest
variety: sweet, smart, funny. She was also, as a side
note, notoriously prudish, but that was cool, I wasn't
looking to ruin my future by getting a girl pregnant
at 15.

How could I compete? I was tall, sure, about 5'10",
but a little unsure of myself, slim and well toned,
with brownish-blackish hair in what my mom calls a
stylized bowl cut. Basically, I part it down the
center of my head and then brush the bangs aside,
leaving my forehead exposed. That way, you can see the
onyx eyes, my pride and joy. I wish I could describe
my figure better, but that should give you a decent
picture, at any rate.

So. Where was I? Oh, yes. The Homecoming Assembly.

We were all streaming across the lawn, through the
front doors, and through the parking lot, from the
back doors, headed toward the football field. The
gates were thrown wide open, a sort of welcome that
was atypical at a school used to holding assemblies in
the cramped gym with its miniscule entrances, and
there were people everywhere dressed in our emblematic
pumpkin orange and white. Someone told me that the
pumpkin-orange color was supposed to give off the
optimism that came through so poignantly with JFK, but
I'm convinced that Jackie O. would have prevailed on
her husband to veto a hideous color like that from
school colors.

In the stands, there was a section roped off for
alumni, and another for the team captains that would
be speaking during the assembly. In the announcer's
box, we could see Mr. Sellis, tall, pale, white hair
unruly, dressed like an English teacher to a fault
with the tweed coat and khakis over a pinstriped white
shirt, waving at all of us; his voice, coming over the
PA, called out, "Homecoming, or welcome home, Kennedy
High School!" Someone cheered. Most of us were
embarrassed at how dorky he could be sometimes. I made
my way into the stands, feeling more like a lemming or
a sheep every minute, bumped from this direction and
jostled from that, and found a seat somewhere at least
marginally convenient to see the entire field, so I
could watch my girlfriend the cheerleader shake her
pom-poms, and, well, other body parts. A couple of my
friends took their seats around me, and all I could do
was grin when they saw just how nicely I had situated
myself.

"Nice seats, Josh. Now we can watch your woman wave
her ass around, too," Ira grinned. "I mean, you know
that we all want to." I looked over at him, basically
same hairdo as mine but in a light brown, green eyes,
and clothing baggy and clashing colors left and right.

All I could do was grin, at the sight of what he's
wearing. "You think she'd come and do a little dancing
for you if you were dressed like you fell into your
closet like now?"

"Screw you."

Oh, he just set himself up for that one. I crossed my
legs, waved my left hand, and lisped, "Let's not
discuss that in public, Ira, baby."

Whoops, I just KNEW that would get a reaction from
Jackson, who absolutely hated any sort of reference to
homosexuality. He snapped his head our direction, eyes
rolled about as far back as they can go without
rolling all the way around and popping back out again,
right side forward, and then bit his lower lip for a
second, and then told us, religious righteousness and
venom dripping from his words. "You both know that's
absolutely wrong. Disgusting, too. You're just helping
them move their agenda forward."

I had never realized, I suppose, until that day, that
he was so virulently religious-right. I think that was
the beginning of the end for that friendship... I
didn't want to push too far, with Jackson, anyway.

So I rolled my eyes back. Sometimes, he was a really
great guy, and other times, like this, he was such a
jerk that I wanted to punch him. "Shut up, Jackson. We
don't give a damn what you think about religion."

He glowered at us, long and hard, and then went and
sat with his other Bible-thumper friends. Goodbye, and
good riddance, at least in the mood he was in today.

Then next to me appeared Jessica, one of my closest
and oldest friends, and  pretty damn attractive, too.
She was cute in that sort of petite way, with medium-
length black hair and, well, "huge tracts of land," if
you recognize the Monty Python reference. She was also
only about 5'2", which put her on par with my mom. Her
dad was some kind of foreign diplomat, from -- France,
was it? I never remembered. They assigned him in
Portland for God knows what reason, and her mom was
still in Europe. Interestingly, she was an American
citizen, but both her parents were French. I never
could fathom how she acquired the name Jessica.
Anyway, that's Jessica, no accent but French, and very
small but absolutely exquisite, and always incredibly
well-dressed. Makes her much more endearing that way.

Anyway, we were talking amongst ourselves, and then we
heard Mr. Sellis again. "Ladies and gentlemen, if
you'd please take your seats, we'll begin the assembly
now-I have the honor of first introducing you to the
man who leads us through thick and thin, between the
rock and the hard place, from the frying-pan into the
fire, ... oh, sorry. Principal Martin, folks!"

Down below, on the track, we could see him waving his
arms vigorously. The crowd cheered; he was a popular
principal. He had a cordless mike in his hand, and he
waved it at the crowd, listening to the band, seated
at the far left of the bandstand, strike up the school
fight song. He even sang along to the last line:
"Fight, fight, fight, forever might, Kennedy High
means victory!" Whoever wrote that song deserves to be
shot, in my opinion, if only just for that last line.

"Welcome to the first outdoor Homecoming Assembly in
twenty-seven years, guys!" The crowd roared. Why, I'll
never know. "Because of that, we've invited alumni
from classes throughout the years that this school has
been here, most of whom remember the outdoor
assemblies. Give them a warm reception, folks, they'll
be here all day!"

He continued, walking in front of the crowd the entire
time. Interestingly, he wasn't facing the opposing
bandstand, where they'd put a lot of the overflow
because of the huge number of alumni. "First, I want
to introduce to you this year's varsity football team!
They have the magic, the passion, the fire, to carry
us to our first district football title in eighteen
years-- and here's your team captain, quarterback John
Sandy, to introduce his starting lineup!"

Off to Principal Martin's left strutted John, playing
big, strong, macho man with his football jersey and
gear on. He actually had a nicely toned body, could
run like nobody's business, throw pretty well, and on
the whole looked like the all-star American
quarterback. It was a shame he couldn't be, but then
again, when your football team is terrible, not much
the quarterback can do. Anyway, he carried his helmet
in his right hand, and a football in the left. He
rolled right, stepped back just a little, to the far
end of the bandstand, and launched a pass almost the
entire length of the field, caught by our receiver,
Jake Fieder. Ira looked at me and grinned. "It's the
only pass they're going to complete all season, we may
as well enjoy it."

I was pretty impressed, actually. Most people can't
throw the length like that, although usually it's
because it's so windy up on the football field. Today,
it really wasn't; maybe that was the truck.

Anyway, in with Jake Fieder came the rest of the
starting offensive line of the football squad, running
their way in a big phalanx toward John. The crowd
cheered, and clapped, and all those fun things, and
then John introduced them all, jersey number by jersey
number. Then he closed with saying, "And here's Alex
Wright, to introduce the cross-country squad,
defending league champions for full-squad scores for
eleven years running and looking to take state title
for the fifth time in a decade!"

From somewhere in the first few rows came down this
guy, Alex, who I'd never seen before. Something about
him just drew the eye to him... wow. Talk about
handsome. Tall, with a definite runner's build, long,
slender legs, a smooth and well-shaped but not overly
muscular chest. He had blonde hair on the top, and
darker brown hair on the sides, suggesting that he
either spent a long summer somewhere sunny or had his
hair dyed, parted down the right side, and brushed
across the front. He had a nice, high forehead, sharp
cheekbones defining long cheeks that swooped their way
down to his chin. Good nose, long, straight, just
fitting his face, and thick lips lacking any sort of
puffiness at all. He was wearing a dark maroon
sweater--it looked like a Columbia Sportswear sweater
I had, and it may very well have been-with a V-neck
collar, and blue jeans that were full enough not to be
tight, but still hugged his legs enough to see the
muscles clearly. Like I said, a runner's build. It was
like seeing some kind of blonde Germanic model from a
magazine, almost.

Wait a minute. Why was I looking at him? There was
Julie, my girlfriend, standing in the football field
on the other side of the track, and I wasn't even
watching her. I tried to focus on her... my eyes were
drawn back to Alex again.

What was going on here? It wasn't like I was
interested in this... this... this GUY, after all. I
had the single most attractive girl in our school as
my girlfriend, and I wasn't even watching her doing
her routines.

Or was I interested in him?

Am I gay?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Couldn't you be attracted to them both?

Why should I be?

Why not?

Oh, Jesus.

Then, just as suddenly as he'd come, he was gone.
Mmmn. Well. So was any consciousness I had, for that
day... I was off on a cloud, contemplating myself,
dreaming about this guy Alex, dreaming about myself,
not dreaming about Julie... somehow, I made my way
home--it wasn't far--and ate a snack, and went
upstairs, and managed to sit around my room doing
something, without even noticing it. I actually think
I started dusting the furniture, nice light cherry
stuff in a very traditional style that my great-
grandfather made by hand, like most of the rest of the
house. Our house, the farmhouse like I mentioned
earlier, was actually a pretty nice place, if a little
old. All of the furniture was, too, or at least
everything except in the entertainment area, I should
say. My mom's pride and joy, since she was something
of an electronics geek, was the TV and associated
stuff She loved it.

Well, I knew the instant I heard the garage door open
that I was going to be in for trouble. "Jesus! I
didn't make dinner!" I screamed at myself mentally.
"Mom had a meeting today, and she is gonna be pissed
if you don't make it ... and now you're screwed."

So I hurriedly scribbled a note--I had some time,
after all, being that in a farmhouse the garage was
converted from a barn and therefore detached--and
stuck it to the fridge, and bolted the opposite
direction off the property. "Went to go fetch dinner."
I time stamped it, as Mom would say, to 6:00, and
she'd never know the difference.

It was 6:25, and I was going to have to make it look
awfully convincing that I had been at Porter's, the
neighborhood grocery store. Which meant that I
couldn't be back much longer than 6:35, and I could
use the excuse that I'd been talking to a friend I saw
there. I probably would also have to say hi to Ty, the
owner, before I went, or he'd have my head and Mom's
if he knew I'd been in without saying hello. Like I
was going to make it back by 6:35.

This was, of course, the ultimate test, too... oh,
that's right, I haven't yet mentioned it. While I was
dusting, I was also pondering my existence, with more
of those same evil questions running through my head.
To be totally honest, I have absolutely no idea how I
managed to make it through that entire day, I was so
abysmally torn apart by this. Many of you have no
idea; you just accepted it. Others of you, well, you
had to go through what I did, and you can empathize.

So while I was at it, I managed to decide on a course
of action. I admitted to myself that I was bisexual,
and then figured, I would take it from there.

Hah! So there!

Oh, wait. What about Jackson?

Screw Jackson.

Not THAT way! He's not at all attractive.

And who is?

You know who.

Mmmn.

OK, enough daydreaming. I was at the grocery store,
and already I was stalling. I had to be back quickly,
to say the least, and with some dinner, which meant
something pre-cooked. Ty was behind the counter, and
helped me pick out a couple of empanadas, which he
recommended very highly. They were stuffed with
chicken and cheese with jalapenos, which in retrospect
is highly unconventional for an empanada, a Spanish
dish. Who cared? I just needed some food. I also got
some potatoes, and some excellent pasta salad, and
pulled out my credit card to pay.

"Josh, buddy, it's on the house tonight, I can tell
you're in a hurry."

A perplexed look on my face preceded, by a few
seconds, the obvious question. "How? I've been sort of
out of it all day..."

Ty looked at me, and just grinned. "Elise told me
yesterday that you'd be in, probably just as she was
about to walk in the door at 6:30. Don't worry," and
he winked at me conspiratorially, his eyebrows rising
dramatically, "I won't tell... I know you probably
pre-dated your note, but I don't think that ever
occurred to her."

All of a sudden, a ringing started coming from my
belt. I blushed, and picked up my phone. Nice phone, a
Motorola Timeport, nice and small, and silver too.
"Hello?"

I quickly yanked the phone as far from my ear as
possible, and started lowering the volume. "Hi
sweetie!" my mother's voice blared out of the
receiver, so loudly I swear it could have woken the
dead. She's loud.

"What's up, Mom? I'm down here, talking to Ty and
picking up dinner," I replied, cautiously. He just
grinned at me from the other side of the deli counter.

I could practically hear her laughing. "Sweetie, I'll
be over to pick you up soon, so we can eat."

So I hung up, and Ty looked at me, and said, "Oh, put
the remorse away, and just take the food, kid. I'll
take care of everything, next time your mother comes
in-- if she gives you any shit about it, I'll be there
to help you out."

What was there to do? I let a dramatic shrug heave off
my shoulders, first the left and the right -- a
chronic lefty's gesture, you know -- and then I walked
out of the store. Mom was there in no time flat, as
could be expected from someone who lived under five
minutes' walking distance from where I was.

She pulled up, and said, "Honey, I don't care why it
was you just left when I was coming... doesn't matter
to me. Let's go home and eat. What'd you get?"

I swear, I must have been seven or eight different
shades of red, all at once, and I couldn't even speak,
so wildly was I stammering.

"Ahh, yes. Empanadas. Excellent choice, Joshua."

"Mom!" I cried, mortified.

My mother, although I love her dearly, is not equipped
for remorse. At ALL. She tried, and failed abysmally,
but gave me a look, and said, "Oh, I had forgotten.
Josh. Sorry."

I knew she wasn't. At any rate, I thought about
discussing with her my ... predicament. But I decided
it would be best to wait, at least until we got home.
Meredith, one of my closest friends, and a lesbian,
once emailed me a rather humorous list of things gay
people can avoid doing to make straight people's lives
miserable, and things that straight people can avoid
doing to make gay people's lives miserable. It
contained as one of the primary items for gay people,
"Never, ever come out in a moving vehicle. The last
thing you'd want to be said of gay people is that they
cause car accidents."

OK, so I couldn't tell her now. Dinnertime would be a
good time to discuss it. My parents are divorced, keep
in mind for future reference, but Mom and I still do
pretty well, given the demand for city planning work
like Mom does here, plus the trust fund my grandfather
set up when he started selling off property. You see,
this house had been empty, Mom and Dad and I had been
living in Seattle, but they divorced when I was five
and we moved to Portland. So when she got here, they
let her share in the funds, because we really did need
it more than they did.

So we got home, and Mom pulled out two plates, two
glasses, two forks, two knives, two napkins, and then
added a third setting for my grandfather. That's our
way of remembering him... we always leave off the
napkin, though, since he would have had it in his lap.

I took my glass, plopped a few ice cubes in and poured
some cherry Coke in it, and then washed my hands,
while Mom got out a large plate and piled the
empanadas on it, and set it on the table, beside the
bowl with potatoes and the bowl with pasta salad. I
really do think she's the only person I know who would
ever lavish that kind of attention over a grocery-
store meal, like she's serving it off the prettified
label of the package or something.

So once we'd said our 'grace'-- did I neglect to
mention that we're Unitarians? Oh. Well, we are.
Shouldn't make a difference, anyway. Mom is very
spiritual, and so am I, although we approach it in
totally different ways. Anyway. Prayers are done, in
an agnostic and nondenominational manner, and we say a
'grace' of sorts before every meal.

Mom turned her fork over, and set it in front of her
plate. This was her signal that the table was open for
discussion. "Open discussion time."

"God, Mom, are you going to do this tonight? Don't you
just want to rant about work or something?"

I saw her pause. "No, Joshu-- Josh. I don't want to
rant, tonight... I want to talk to you, listen to
you."

So I rolled my eyes, practically seeing Jackson in my
mind's eye while I was doing it, and said, "Well. Let
me think of a topic to introduce, if you don't want to
do it."

And all of a sudden, my heart started racing, and I
was glad I had my hands under the table because they
started to shake. Should I tell her? Am I sure? What
can I do?

In the end I decided to go ahead and talk about it
with her. "Mom, I have something to discuss..."

"I'm all ears, sweetie."

"God. I don't know where to start."

"At the beginning of the first sentence? Beginning on
a word other than a preposition or conjunction?"

I rolled my eyes at her, and then continued. "No,
seriously. I'm not sure how to introduce this one."

She looked at me, and I'm sure she saw the deer-in-
the-headlights look I could sense coming out of my
eyes at that moment. "OK, honey, I can tell there's
lot on your mind. Maybe a formal discussion isn't
appropriate for the situation. Grab your plate, and
we'll go sit on the couch and talk."

I love my mom, like I always said. She's so willing to
listen, so patient, so careful, -- every person ever
born should have a mom like her. Except she's weird,
you know, in that kind of kooky way, but that doesn't
make me love her any less.

Once we had situated ourselves comfortably on the
couch, she could see I was visibly shaking, looking
anxious. "Oh, my... sweetie, come over here. Just set
your plate down. What's the matter? Tell your mother."

I looked up at her, and I could only cry.
Unbelievable. "Mom, ... I'm... I'm..."

Right back into my eyes, she stared. "It's going to be
one of these," she muttered, and then she said,
"Shhh... shhh... you know you can tell me."

So I decided, I'm just going to have to blurt it out
before I can't say it. "Mom, I think I'm bisexual."

No reaction. Not fazed. "Well. I didn't think you'd be
so nervous about that."

"You're not angry?"
"I don't know if I should tell you this, but..." Her
voice trailed off.

Now I wanted to know. "What?"

"Shoot. It's going to be one of these nights. I've
known for a long time, honey."

I was fazed. Dang, I wish I could be totally iron like
Mom is, sometimes. "How did you know? I didn't even
know! Was I, like, sending off a homing beacon or
something? Does everyone know?"

She shook her head. "No. You're subtle, but Meredith
suggested to me about a year ago that she'd been
getting constant signals for a while from you. She got
feelers, really discreetly, like you know she can,
from some other people who we all trust and who have
reliable ... feelers, if you will."

I was in disbelief. She knew! "And you never
confronted me about it? Either of you?"

"I hated not to discuss it with you, but Meredith said
she didn't think you would take well to it if we just
abruptly told you, 'Josh, we think you're gay. Are
you?'"

"Am I? Until 9:00 this morning, I thought I was
straight; I'm settled on bi, but am I gay?"

She looked a little taken aback by the question. "If
anyone can answer that, Josh, it's you, not me. How do
you expect me to tell you whether you're attracted to
girls or not?"

I could practically sense the pause. It was palpable,
like I could reach out and touch it. Then she broke
the silence. "Wait. Until 9:00 this morning? At the
homecoming assembly? What happened?"

Through my eyelashes, I squinted at her. "Umm... a ...
a ... a guy happened to me."

"Like, what kind of happened?"

I was ashamed. "It was like this magnetic
attraction... he came down and spoke, you know, and
all of a sudden I couldn't watch Julie anymore."

She smiled, a little primly. "Who? I want to know what
your taste is like."

I went and dug my yearbook out of my room; it held a
place of eminent pride on my shelf. I started to page
through the junior-class photos, until I reached
around the 'W' section. Eww. Terrible picture. Maybe
there was something in the cross-country section?

Oh, yes, there we go... here he is, with a couple of
other teammates, seated in the bleachers. "Here. Alex
Wright."

Her eyebrows shot up, rather dramatically. "The cross-
country captain? No way! I know his dad! He coaches
for the track team, for the younger son, whatever his
name is."

Really? So my mother knows him... hmm...

"Oh, I remember now! His brother's name is Eric," I
heard Mom say. "So this Alex is the guy? What
happened?"

I was still trying to get over the shock of Mom
accepting that I was attracted to men, but she didn't
appear to be letting up on her interest any time soon,
given the face she made at me when she could tell I
was balking. "OK, well, they had all of the team
captains come down and introduce themselves and their
squad, and when their next match was, and, well, he
came down to talk about the cross-country team right
after the football team was on. It was like being hit
square on the chest with this incredible weight, but I
couldn't keep my eyes off of him... it was
unbelievable."

She smiled at me. "Ah. I guess it shouldn't be any
surprise to me that it would be a blonde, given all
those girls, but..."

"Mom!"

"What?"

"Come on, be fair! Just because he's got hair like
gold, and a body to match, doesn't mean that..." My
voice trailed off, as I heard the phone ring. "I'll
get it."

I ran off into the kitchen a little nervously, hopping
around the table and peeling through the little
doorway that led from the family room into the main
hallway, and then picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Josh, buddy, are you up for some partying tonight?"
Ira's voice asked me from the other end of the phone.

Pondering, I scratched my head a little. On the one
hand, it would let me get out a little frustration I'd
had sitting squarely on my shoulders for some time; on
the other hand, I might just get myself in trouble.
But I decided on going -- I can't cloister myself
endlessly because I'm having an identity crisis, you
know?

I took the phone between my jaw and my shoulder, you
know, cocked my head to the side, and told him, "Well,
sure, I don't see why not... where and what time?"

"Here. Nine."

I rolled my eyes. "Jesus. It's seven. Don't you think
you could have given me a little notice?"

On the other end, I could practically hear his shrug.
"Just came up with the idea... I've been inviting
people all afternoon, you know, but no one answered
your phone earlier today."

I guess I hadn't really been paying a lot of
attention; I was distracted, you know? "Bring
something to the party, too, man. You know, Coke or
stuff like that?"

"OK, can do," I told him, and then we quickly ended
the conversation so he could call more people. I
ducked back into the family room, and told Mom, "Uhh,
Ira wants me to go to a party at his house-- is that
OK with you?"

She shrugged. It seemed to be a common theme this
evening. God, was everyone so ambivalent about my
identity problem?

"I don't see why not, sweetie... I hope you have fun.
Oh, do you need the car?"

Yes, that's right, I neglected to mention that I had
gotten my license about two weeks prior. We had more
than one car -- three, in fact -- but one was a 1960s
Chevy station wagon that didn't fit in our garage, and
hadn't been driven since that garage was brand-new in
1974 when Mom graduated from high school, the youngest
of the four kids. The other one was a 1987 Caravan
that Bernie, my oldest uncle, had given us when they
got a smaller car after their oldest son graduated.
Small wonder we referred to Mom's BMW, a red 325i, as
"the car"; I walked to school, it being about a block
and a half from home, so the Caravan was useful only
for moving furniture and the station wagon not at all.

I grinned broadly. "I wouldn't mind taking it...
better than a minivan to show up in."

"Just don't get it wrecked, sweetie, and try and keep
it clean. Oh, and I'll warn you -- the backseat is
notoriously uncomfortable, don't use it for anything
other than the intended purposes."

"MOM!" I cried; God, she had a way of embarrassing me
sometimes.

But she was relentless. "I know what teenagers use
cars for, and it's not always the intended purpose."

I could only blush.

"But then again," she added, patiently, "I know you're
a good kid, so I expect that if you should happen to
abuse any portion of the car, including the back seat,
you will clean it and make certain that it returns in
excellent shape at the end of the evening. Be careful,
on your way home, and don't get caught past curfew."

Wow. That was an interesting lecture. Not many people
can say their mother encourages them to break curfew.
"What time do you want me home by?"

"The sun rises about when I get up in the morning
these days, around 6:30. I want you home before I get
up in the morning -- if you see the sun rising, come
home quick. Otherwise, whenever you want, dear."

I don't know why I was so surprised; she always says
something like that when I go to a party. Was I
expecting her to trust me less since I was attracted
to guys? Did that somehow impinge upon everyone else's
trust in me?

You know what? I didn't want to answer those
questions. So I ignored them, and I grabbed my keys
out of the kitchen drawer on my way out, picked up my
wallet, and went out to the garage. I opened the door,
hopped in, set the radio to a decent radio station--I
go for classic rock myself, and Mom seems to like
'middle-aged-woman rock'--and pulled out of the
garage. I loved the feel of the brown leather under
me, the tight steering; driving a BMW was a really
incredible experience. I cruised into town, though,
looking for a real grocery store, and pulled into the
Thriftway about a mile and a half west of Forestdale
on Miller.

As I pulled into a parking spot, I started scouting
for carts, so I could get in and out quickly and have
enough time to shower and change. It usually takes me
about an hour to change, given that I have to agonize
over all of my clothes first, and then once I've done
that, well, there you go. I'm ready. Except for my
hair. That's another fifteen minutes. You see why I
wanted to get in and out? I mean, no, I wasn't going
to get to Ira's at nine -- that would have been on
time, and totally, utterly inexcusable -- I would have
been surprised if Ira was at his house at nine -- but
I didn't want to get there later than ten.

I ducked into the store, and scurried to the section
where they corralled away all the soda. "What should I
bring?" I asked myself.

Actually, I didn't see the guy standing next to me,
who was, as it turned out, agonizing over the same
thing. "Join the club, bud," he told me. I looked him
over -- dang, this kid was thin, about 5'5", hair dyed
bleach-blonde at the tips, and well-dressed, at least.
Nice, black Kenneth Cole shoes, a pair of cargos and a
navy blue button-down, sleeves rolled up, over a white
T-shirt. Talk about a deep voice, though; it was
absolutely weird, disconcerting. I was envious that I
didn't look as good, sound as good.

"What do you usually prefer?"

"I dunno, something dark, none of that pansy yellow
stuff, but rich, mild with a little bite, sharp, you
know? Not as ubiquitous as Coke or Pepsi, but just as
good."

All I could feel was my face warming. Was it just me,
or was he talking about something besides the soda?
Ten minutes after coming out to one person, and I'm
getting hit on?

Or maybe not.

"Well, there's always Cherry Coke."

"Who wants cherry?"

Whoa. Dirty mind alert... dirty mind alert... OK,
amigo, two can play at this game. Or, well, I can try,
right? "So what's the matter with the yellow stuff?"

"Real men don't need yellow. Brown is a man's color."

"OK."

He picked up a notepad out of his shirt pocket, and
scribbled, with the little pencil that was attached to
it, a phone number and a name, with the message, 'Call
Me.'

Jesus. Was this how it was going to be with guys? Was
I always going to have to do this surreptitiously?
Actually, no, that wasn't fair, my first girl did that
to me too. But this was weird. All we talked about is
soda.

"That's cool," he said. "I'm James. Nice to meet you,
bud."

"Josh. Pleasure to meet you."

His eyes lit up. "Josh? Like, Old Man Fletcher's
nephew?"

Uncle Bernie, the 800-pound gorilla. "Yeah. He's my
mom's brother."

"Fletcher, then?"
"Kinda. That's my middle name... my dad's last name
was Heilig."

He grinned, broadly, and extended a hand. "Pleasure to
meet you, anyway, Josh. My last name is Dixon."

I dramatically shrugged and let a grin roll off my
cheekbones, toward my mouth. "Nice to meet you too. So
what kind of soda do you want?"

"Oh, I don't need it, I guess," he said, and started
walking away, whistling a little. "Seeya around!"

Dang, did I deserve a punching for that one. He was so
interested, he didn't even need soda; he was just
hanging in the aisle to hit on me.

Well, I grabbed some orange soda and some Coke, went
up to the counter, checked out, feeling the delirious
sensation of ringing a credit card through the
machine, and headed off home. "OK, so what am I going
to wear tonight?" I thought to myself, and started
cataloguing my wardrobe mentally as I headed home.

Once I pulled into the garage, closed the sunroof,
shut off the radio and hopped out, Mom came out to
meet me. "Better look your best tonight, honey -- word
on the grapevine has it that Alex is making an
appearance at Ira's big party this evening."

"Ira knows Alex?" I was stunned. Not fair. My not-
attractive-at-all best friend knew the unbelievably
delicious hombre who had, in one stroke, managed to
out me to myself and my mother, and that guy James in
the supermarket, and I didn't. Just wait. If he was
one of Ira's friends, he was probably quite straight,
too.

She smiled at me, broadly, her long, naturally-honey-
colored hair flashing in a circle of bright color as
she turned around. "Don't worry, I didn't let on about
you; remember, I know his Dad. He's on the Forestdale
Planning Committee. So I came up with a question to
ask him about the street signs, and happened to
inquire after his kids this evening, and with a little
careful research it turns out that there are only two
parties tonight. I contacted the parent of the party
besides Ira's, in my capacity as a sports reporter for
the Guardian, and asked to speak with the daughter, to
whom I inquired as to whether I might find Alex there
that night, for an interview. She said no. I
concluded, therefore, that Ira would have your beloved
this evening.

Talk about incredible. My mom just pulled strings that
I didn't know existed, although I could have done it
myself as the premier sports reporter, columnist and
editor of the Kennedy newspaper, the Cold Warrior, so
I could go meet a guy. A guy I didn't even know. I'd
have to be kind of subtle, or I'd ruin all of her
work. So I'd bring a notebook and pen in my backpack,
and "interview" him, or something.

I raced upstairs, my heart thumping like mad, and I
started picking out some clothes, running my fingers
through my hair and racing about like nobody's
business. "Mom! What do you think of this outfit?" I
called down the stairs, after taking a long,
invigorating shower, brushing my hair patiently and
carefully until it had just the right look, and taking
care to put on cologne. I had slid into a pair of my
plaid boxers, which I think make me look much sexier
than plain white ones, and I had about nineteen
different possible permutations on the same basic
theme laying on my bed.

I had decided I was going for a sophisticated, preppy,
I-care-enough-to-dress-but-not-enough-to-look-stupid
kind of look.

"I like it, sweetie," she said as I stepped out in a
pair of rumpled khaki cargos and a ribbed long-sleeved
shirt. "Don't you think it's kind of warm for long
sleeves, though?"

Back into my room I went, and I re-emerged with a
black ribbed T-shirt on its stead, and a long-sleeved
red plaid wrapped around my waist. "Perfect! You'll
knock him dead!"

That was weird. Him? How many times had she said that,
using 'her'? What about Julie?

Oh, Christ. I forgot to ask her if she wanted to come
with me. You know what? I don't know how badly I want
her to come with me anyway.

So I hurriedly finished up my empanada, which I hadn't
ever gotten around to eating, and raced upstairs,
brushed my teeth, flossed, grabbed a tin of Altoids
for the road, and did a little last-minute adjusting
for the mirror.

At the bottom of the stairs were my tennis shoes,
which I hurriedly put on. I kissed my mother on the
way out, and, feeling her grinning at me without even
looking back, I did a little dance on my way out to
the car, for a spin over to Ira's.



WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR LOVE, CHAPTER ONE CLIFFHANGER

What's going to happen with Alex? How about James? How
does Josh propose to deal with Julie, who doesn't know
yet? Will he tell Meredith, who already suspects? How
about Ira? Certainly we know he won't tell Jackson,
but will he find out from the grapevine? What's going
to happen with Josh's life?

COMMENTS FROM THE AUTHOR

This is unfamiliar territory for me. I've been reading
these stories for about as long as I've had a computer
of my own. That would have been early 1998, meaning
it's been three years now. I've never given anything
back, though, and this is my way of thanking my
favorite authors, particularly Jay Trower for
'Strawberry Boy', Ardveche for 'New to this State' and
Satori for 'Secrets Uncovered'. It's the love, and the
friendship, in your stories that made me come to grips
with who I am.

I've been itching to write, because of that, and I
finally found my inspiration the other day... there's
a picture in our school yearbook of the day, and,
well, the guy who nine months ago was the reason I
came out to myself at all. This is, of course, fiction
after Josh first sees Alex, based on what _might_ have
happened _if_ I had met this guy, who will go unnamed.

What does that mean? I'm not really Josh Heilig. I'm
NOT telling you who I am. Forestdale doesn't exist,
nor does Kennedy High School. The characters depicted
are amalgams of people I've known through the years,
friends, acquaintances, and total strangers. Just sit
back, guys, and enjoy. Thank you for all the years of
entertainment-- to quote Bill Clinton's farewell
speech, "You gave me the ride of my life, and I've
tried to give as good as I've got. Thank you, and God
bless you. Thank you."


Give me your feedback, please... send them to
joshbabe22@hotmail.com. Flames will go to /dev/null.