Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2001 06:47:03 -0800 (PST)
From: Mike Elder <melder69@yahoo.com>
Subject: Jordan Summer part one.

DISCLAIMER:

Characters in this story are fiction. This is not to imply any lifestyle
choices of actual persons. This is strictly from the imagination of the
author.


JORDAN SUMMER
By
 J. Larson


*


	I first met my father the day he came to the hospital.  He sat in a
chair by the bed and looked down on me like I was some kind of lab
experiment he had to do in a class he didn't want to be taking.  Like I was
a dissected frog pinned to a tray with my guts spread out and labeled.
	How did they find him?  I didn't even know where he was, until they
told me.  I never wanted to know.  The fact was that I lived like I lived,
and the last thing I needed was to be judged or rejected by some genetic
donor that had never taken the time or trouble to come and find out about
me in the first place.
	Dad must have known why I was in the hospital.  Surely they told
him.  The way he looked at me, I think he would rather if they had told him
that I was dead.  Anything but having to face me at all.
	It looked like he was having trouble coming up with something
civilized to say to me, so I saved him the trouble.  I eased my eyelids
closed and let him think I'd passed out again.  I had no idea what to say
to him, either, and I didn't want to listen to some forced, strained
conversation.
	He came back the next day and looked at me some more.  If I'd known
he was coming back, I would have run away from the hospital and gone home.
I could heal there just as easy, and nobody there would look down on me.
	"So," He said after a long time.  "You're my son."  He said it
resignedly, a fact he was forced to face.  At that moment, I knew that he'd
insisted upon a blood test.  He'd made them prove to him that I was his
before he would accept it.  That jerk.  I didn't answer him.  I wouldn't
have admitted it at the time, but his denial hurt more than getting kicked
in the face by a steel-tipped boot did.  It hurt deeper.
	Nothing surprised me more than when he said that I was going home
with him.  That was a line I'd heard from lots of men, but none of them
meant for more than a few hours.  Dad was talking about for good.  I didn't
even want to look at him, much less live with him.
	But he was rich.  And nobody knew better than I did that money was
the name of the game.  He never helped my Mom out, never sent her a dime.
Maybe if he had, things could have been different.  I decided I would go
with him.  I was going to get whatever I could out of him.  I could always
disappear without a trace.  I figured I could still always go back and pick
up where I left off, hopefully with some of his green in my pocket.  The
South end of town wasn't going anywhere.  Neither was my end.
	I didn't understand the clothes he wanted me to wear, or the
manners he tried to teach me.  He said that it was all for my own good, but
I understood that least of all.  It seemed that it was more for his good,
for his image.  He didn't care what I wore.  He just didn't want me to
embarrass him when he introduced me to his friends.
	But I liked sleeping in a warm bed without keeping one eye open for
whoever might get into it with me.  I liked sleeping on fresh sheets every
night and eating food I didn't have to check for roaches.  So I kept my
mouth shut.  The payday was too good.  Wasn't that a good enough reason to
pimp out my pride?
	Dad didn't understand me any more than I did him, and he didn't try
to.  At least he didn't hit me.  He could have, and I probably would have
let him.
	He wouldn't have been the first.
	When Dad told me about going to camp Wanakonda, it wasn't a
conversation.  It was an edict.  He sat me down at the kitchen table and
told me the way it was going to be.
	"I know you just got here, and I can't pretend to know what you've
gone through, but I think it would be the best thing.  I have to go to
Europe on a business trip that's going to last at least three weeks.  I
won't have time for you."
	'When do you ever?'  I thought.
	"Besides" he continued, "You'll be around other kids your own age."
	Kids?  I didn't think of myself as a kid, even at "just" fifteen.
I didn't feel like one.  I felt old.  Like it was the miles I traveled in
my life that got counted, not the years.
	Maybe I should have tried harder to tell him what I am.  Maybe I
should have told him from the start.  Maybe we could have found a way to
get along with it.  Part of me wanted to think we could have a relationship
like a father and son ought to.  Part of me wanted that very badly, not
that I would have admitted it to him.  He was the jerk who had abandoned my
mother, and I had to remember that.  He was bound to find me out, any way.
I knew that.  And when he did, he'd throw me out on my well-educated ass.
No way would my Dad let somebody like me tarnish his perfect image.  He'd
dump me just like he dumped her.  So I didn't tell him.  I kept my mouth
shut, did what he told me, and kept the tally of our relationship in the
billfold of my wallet.

*

	Watching the cloud of dust from the busses settle back onto the
road, I thought about running away from Wanakonda.  It would have been
really easy.  Follow the busses up the road or high-tail it into the woods.
	I'd be okay, if I ran.  It was just that I didn't want to go back
to living hand (or other body parts) to mouth, if I didn't have to.  I'd
find a way to deal with it, for the money's sake.
	I felt like an idiot, standing there with my bags at my feet.  All
the other boys clowned around together.  They had probably been coming to
Camp Wanakonda together since conception.  Somebody like me could never
belong with them.
	All those boys my own age, and I felt like I was standing on Mars.
	It seemed like hours before an older guy strolled onto the middle
of the yard with a loudspeaker.  He looked ridiculous, wearing khaki shorts
and a plaid print top.  It took all the will power I had not to laugh at
him.  I used to beat dorks like that up, just for dressing like that.
	"Okay, everybody," he crackled into his megaphone.  "As you know,
I'm Buster Craig.  Welcome to another summer at Camp Wanakonda!"  This met
with polite, apathetic applause.
	Buster introduced us, one by one, to our camp counselors and sent
us off to be assigned to our rooms.
	I thought we would be in some kind of bug-infested log cabins, but
the building they led us into looked like a five-star hotel.  Wanakonda, it
seems, is a summer camp for rich kids whose parents have other summer
plans.  My Dad was rich, but the most money I ever had on my own was a
crumpled twenty stuffed in my pocket.  I didn't belong in a place like
this.
	At each room, the counselors read off two names, and those two boys
were assigned to that room.  Mine was at the end of the hall, near the fire
escape.  I liked that just fine, in case I decided to leave in a hurry.
	The room had two beds, of course, one on either side of the room.
There were two computers and desks, a microwave and a mini fridge.  I could
have spent the whole summer in a room like that without ever having to
leave it.
	"Which?"
	I jumped about a foot off the floor and spun around, startled.
When I saw who spoke, I was taken aback.  A step back.  The most beautiful
guy I've ever seen in my life stood there with his bags in his hands.  He
was incredible, with fair skin, long blond hair, and breathtaking sky blue
eyes.  His mouth could have easily been a girl's.  Believe me.  I knew what
a mouth like that could do to a guy.  And he was so lean!  I knew I would
imagine what it would feel to have him wrap those long legs around me.  He
was going to live in this room with me?
	"What?  Which what?"  I had no idea what he was talking about.
	"Which bed do you want, Einstein?"  He laughed at me.  His smile
lit up his face and, somehow, made him even prettier.
	I looked around the room and didn't see a tactical advantage to
either bed.  Whichever bed I took, I would have to sleep in it knowing that
this stunning creature was lounging in the other bed, only a few feet away
from me.  Oh, God.
	"I don't care.  That one, I guess."  I pointed to the bed I thought
I was closer to.
	"Whatever," he tossed his stuff on the other bed and stuck his hand
out at me.  "I'm Jordan."  I shook his hand and introduced myself.  I felt
like a fucking idiot.  I flustered and yanked my hand away from him too
fast.  He probably thought I was the world's biggest moron.
	I took way too long unpacking my things.  I didn't know what else
to do.  I couldn't face that beautiful boy.  Fussing over my clothes kept
me from having to look at Jordan.  I could hear him bustling around on his
side of the room, unpacking his own things.  I wondered if he was thinking
about me.
	How the hell was I supposed to last all summer, stuck in the same
room with him?  It was going to be hard enough, trying to fit in with these
straight rich kids.  Jordan was one of them.
	When I had nothing else to unpack, I left the room.  There wasn't
anything I could say to Jordan that wouldn't shove me screaming out of the
closet.  If that happened, my free ride would be over and done with.
	Outside, others were already walking around, cell phone in one hand
and a tennis racket or bottle of water in the other.  Most of them had
sweaters slung across their shoulders.  These were the types of guys I used
to beat the hell out of if I caught them on my side of the street.  It was
like walking into a yuppie plague.
	I hated Wanakonda.  It was too different from my old block.  At
home, if I saw somebody I wanted, I knew how to handle it.  I just went and
got it.  So far away from my corner, though, I didn't even know how to
start a polite conversation.  I felt so stupid.
	I didn't see Jordan at dinner.  I sat by myself in a corner of the
plush dining hall.  Beepers and phones went off every two seconds, and
conversation never rose above a polite hum.  All I could think of was
getting a couple of guys in there from my old neighborhood.  We'd level the
place, silver in our pockets and not a preppie left standing.  I ate my
steak and pictured street punks going through the hall in biker boots and
trenches, all chains and leather.  I could see us turning tables over and
kicking the snot out of these self-righteous assholes, not one of them even
thinking of fighting back.  They would have surprised looks on their faces,
spring sheep to the slaughter.  It never occurred to me that I was sitting
in the same place as them, wearing the same clothes (except for that
sweater thing), and eating the same food.  I'd get beat up just as quick as
they would.
	Jordan was in our room when I got there.  He was fresh-scrubbed,
wearing his pajamas, and was lying on his bed.  If there had been any
doubts about how good he looked, they were dispelled at a glance.  He
looked so good it hurt.  I couldn't believe it.
	He looked at me when I came in, and I wanted to fall through the
floor.  I couldn't bear to have those pretty blue eyes on me.  Without
saying anything, I grabbed my robe and retreated into the bathroom for a
shower.
	It felt so good to have the hot water sluicing the dirt off me.
Too good.
	I shouldn't have thought of Jordan while I soaped myself up, but I
couldn't help it.  I closed my eyes and saw his beautiful face and his
perfect lips.  What would they feel like to me if I kissed him?  How would
they taste?  I knew how incredible it would be if he...  If he...
	Oh if he...
	I whimpered when I came, thinking of him. God, I hoped he didn't
hear me from out there in his bed.
	I let the hot water run on me for a long time before I started to
feel clean again.  I felt so guilty thinking about him like that.
	When I left the bathroom, I was glad to see that Jordan had turned
off the lights and gone to bed.  I felt so guilty, molesting him with my
mind the way I did in the shower.  I didn't want to face him.  I slipped
into my bed and turned to face the wall.
	I'd almost drifted off when Jordan's voice startled me.
	"Goodnight."
	I didn't answer, and he didn't say anything else.  I knew that he
must have heard.
	It was a long time before I went to sleep.

............To be continued....