Cut Both Ways Read online

  “I’m okay with it happening, Angus.”

  He’s quiet.

  “More than okay,” I add.

  He’s still quiet.

  “Okay?” I say.

  I look over at him. He’s a blur, with his hair everywhere. But he laughs. “Really? Are you okay with it, Will? Would okay be how you’d describe me?”

  “Fuck you,” I say. “You know what I mean.”

  He gets up then. Comes sits by me. Leans down and kisses me. It feels so good. And I think, Just when I’ve gotten what I wanted, now I want more.

  He puts his hands on my shoulders. “You worry about a lot of shit, you know that?” He laughs. He tries to kiss me again, but I twist away from it. We can’t do this here.

  “I know your dad’s upstairs,” he says. His mouth’s around my jaw. “I get it.”

  “You get it,” I repeat.

  “I’m a pretty smart guy,” he says. “I have a three-point-nine GPA.”

  “I thought you said Oak Prairie was full of suck-up grade inflation.”

  “Oh, it is,” he says. “But I’m still pretty smart.”

  “I’m not good at this,” I say.

  “No one’s good at this.”

  I move over and he lies beside me and I’m so glad it’s dark. My heart is beating like it might just explode and my dick’s all ready for action. I want to knock it on the head, tell it, Stop it, you’re fucking embarrassing me, you don’t want all that now.

  But Angus just puts his arm over my head on the pillow and I’m just next to him, I guess. He’s kind of holding me, but kind of not. I like it. I like it so much I feel like I can’t swallow. My throat’s all tight and full of tears and I just want.

  “This is all right?” he says. His mouth’s near my ear.

  I nod. I nod my head into his chest, so he for sure knows. Because I can’t talk.

  I turn away from him, but he’s still there. My back against him. His arm around me. Nothing more than that. His palm presses against my stomach and I know I’ve left my old life. Wherever that is. My dad’s house, my mom’s house. If I could, I’d ask Brandy to take a picture. Take it and put it next to the one of me in her bed with the yarn. Because this is where I’m at my best. Where I’m at home. Home feels like Angus and it feels like her and I wish I could tell him that—tell both of them that.

  NINE

  SCHOOL STARTS AND as usual, I’m not ready for it. Like, half my crap will be at my mom’s or I’ll forget something at my dad’s. I was spending the weekend with my mom, watching Kinney and Taylor while my mom and Jay went to a thing for Jay’s work, so I was out in Oak Prairie, trying to do my laundry while making sure my half sisters didn’t kill each other. My mom didn’t even ask me if I needed school supplies, which was weird—shopping was usually the main thing she could check off her list of to-dos. But senior year, it’s not like there’s anyone checking your backpack. I brought one pen and one notebook on the first day and it didn’t even matter. I just piled all the same class-policy sheets and syllabuses and whatever into in my backpack at the end of the day.

  Brandy isn’t in any of my classes except Photography. She isn’t in the class officially—she’s already taken it—but she has a study hall that hour, which she spends in the darkroom for yearbook stuff. I forgot I’d even signed up for the class. Everyone loves Photography at our school, mainly because everyone says it’s an easy A. Mr. Walters just lets you go into the darkroom and play music and he doesn’t care what you do the whole time, just that you hand in the projects he assigns.

  But the first week, we have to learn principles of photography and take a quiz on the terms and watch slide shows of a million example photographs, and I kind of regret taking the class. Brandy is in the darkroom this whole time and it sucks that I can’t even see her. Plus, I don’t even like taking pictures on my fucking phone. But then to use a camera that you have to adjust a million different ways, because it’s an antique or whatever? God. It kind of makes me think Brandy is magical again.

  The first day is boring after Photography, until I get to Global Society. And the kid who was formerly my friend Jack Telios walks in and sits down just as the bell’s ringing.

  Formerly, because he’s still my friend, even if he’s been in Sweden all spring and summer, but he’s not the same Jack. The little dickhead that everyone has called Jack-Off since middle school.

  Because the Jack I remember is scrawny. He’s, like, shorter than even short girls.

  Or at least he was.

  Now he’s bigger. My height. Maybe taller. Even his face has expanded. His blond hair is even blonder. I can’t figure it out. He’s also wearing this white shirt, open and unbuttoned a whole bunch, and he’s tan. It’s like he’s just walked off a safari or something.

  “Greetings,” Jack says. His voice is even deeper. And he doesn’t have a notebook or a folder. Even a pen. Then the teacher comes in and starts telling everyone to quiet down and we can’t talk anymore, because Ms. Herald is kind of a ballbuster. I had her for Communications last year and she’d mark you down if you even brought a phone to class, never mind that you didn’t turn it on. It couldn’t be visible, even in your back pocket.

  Ms. Herald hands out syllabus sheets and goes into detail about what’s expected. She also teaches AP classes and so she tends to be hard in general; that’s just how she teaches. I’m taking notes, mostly because I don’t want her to say anything to me—if you do what you’re supposed to, you can get away with a lot more shit in school, I’ve learned—but Jack’s sitting there, not doing anything, not even looking at the handouts, not writing. This look on his face like it’s all a joke to him. I expect Ms. Herald to call him on it, but she doesn’t. The class ends with us signing up for various class topic presentations and I think for a minute that Jack won’t do that but he does, and ends up cornering Ms. Herald and shooting the shit with her until the bell rings.

  I don’t see him again until the end of the day. DeKalb’s got work, so I’m sitting outside on the steps, watching the soccer players hike out to the field, and waiting for Brandy.

  “Greetings, Will,” Jack says again. Greetings. Who even says that? He sounds really pleased with himself.

  “Hey.”

  Jack sprawls on the grass. I look at every changed inch of him. I can’t help staring. He must know how different he looks, because he clears his throat in a formal way. Like I should buckle up before he tells me something really mind-blowing.

  “School’s a trip, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I say. “When it’s not dead boring. How was your summer?”

  “My summer?” he asks, like it’s no big thing. He stretches, puts his hands behind his neck. Closes his eyes against the sun. I can see he’s got some muscles, though his arms are still skinny. I’m already kind of ready to strangle him. He’s acting weird. Like someone’s filming everything he does and says. I’m looking behind my shoulder, wondering if he’s doing this to show off. Impress someone?

  “Yeah, your summer,” I say. “Weren’t you in Sweden?”

  “There. And other places,” he says. “Though mostly Sweden. Airfare’s a lot cheaper once you’re in Europe.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Sweden’s phenomenal,” he says. “Everything I expected. And a lot more. But really, the point wasn’t just tourism.”

  “Right,” I repeat. Wondering if he’d ever get to the point. Which I don’t even know what that is. For him to tell me why he’s so different now? I mean, what’s there to say about that? He grew. His nuts finally dropped. He has neck meat around his Adam’s apple. The kind of thing a mom would notice. Or a guy who was into guys would notice.

  “The main thing is the people,” he says. “And by people, I mean girls. Swedish girls aren’t fucked up like American girls.”

  “What?”

  “They’re not all uptight about their bodies, for one thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “And they don’t get all competitive,”
he adds. “Like, it’s not a thing to share your time and yourself with someone, even if he’s not the best-looking or the coolest or richest. I think a lot of that’s socialism and everything. It’s not socialist, per se, but Sweden’s a very socially conscious society. Egalitarian. They don’t have our racial problems, for instance.”

  “Well, everyone’s white there, aren’t they?”

  “Not necessarily,” he says. He starts talking about some tribe up in the north that is darker-skinned with “Asiatic origins,” and a bunch of Asian kids walk by in their soccer cleats, and I wish he’d not talk so loud about that shit.

  “So, Swedish girls are easy lays, then?” I ask.

  “That’s such an American way of looking at things, Will,” he says. “Sex isn’t a chase or a pursuit there. It’s about experience. Sharing. Being human beings. Not owning each other like property. It’s not a big deal like it is here. Finding meaning in life is much more important than trying to get laid.”

  He keeps talking like this. I don’t give a shit about the meaning of life. So far, I’ve mostly been the kind of person who’s focused on just getting through the goddamn week. Like, going to Sweden? Thinking about fucking socialism? I’ve got a test in bio and my mom wants me to take Kinney and Taylor to their various lessons because Jay’s out of town and my dad’s hiring a new guy to help him run the Laundromat and I’m out of toothpaste and DeKalb wants to go to the movies but I don’t want to spend any money. That’s the speed of my life.

  But then he’s talking about how he did it with this girl named Tova or Tovay and how they did it out in a field or something, when her family went on a picnic and a hike and then they all went swimming, naked, and it was all very cool and she sunbathes with no top on and her little brothers were there and nobody said anything.

  “Whoa,” I say.

  “Americans are so uptight,” he shrugs. Like he’s not American! I kind of want to haul off and hit him for being such a douche. But this is sort of the know-it-all way of Jack Telios. It was just easier to accept when he was a little weasel of a guy.

  Thankfully, Brandy shows up. I don’t know if I should be relieved or worried; Jack sits up on his elbows, still lying there in his awful safari shirt, says hello.

  Brandy, to her credit, just nods at him, her eyes flicking over his body in a way that’s kind of perfect, and then says she’s got to go catch the bus to go to the Vances’; Mrs. Vance needs her to watch the kids tonight for a few hours.

  “That reminds me; my little sisters are having a birthday party in a few weeks and my mom told me to invite you. She wants to meet you.”

  “Okay,” she says. Then she takes my hand, really casual, and leans in and kisses me. It’s weird, because my glasses are between us. Like a fence. And because Jack is fucking staring the whole time, even though it’s, like, a one-second kiss with no tongue. Then she’s gone and me and Jack stare at her as she goes. It’s not weird; Brandy’s not wearing anything that shows off her body. She doesn’t walk sexy. Still, we stare and don’t say anything until she’s out of sight.

  “Who’s that?” he asks.

  “Brandy Corvallis.”

  “Is she your girlfriend or something?” He says the word like I’m some kind of dumbass. Some American dumbass who owns a girl like property.

  I stand up. “God, you’re full of shit, Jack,” I say.

  He laughs at that. “I know,” he says, standing up and brushing grass off his shirt. “But I want to go to film school, Will. What do you expect?”

  I laugh too. Jack might be up his own ass, but at least he kind of knows it.

  Later, when DeKalb’s done with his band thing, Jack and him and me drive to Guitar Lab over in Uptown. DeKalb’s looking for something for his bass. After dealing with the parking meter, I go in the store and see Jack and DeKalb standing together, looking at me.

  “Brandy Corvallis,” DeKalb says. “Can’t believe you’re really getting with that.”

  Jack spins off into the sheet music section, smirking.

  “Oh fuck you, ” I say.

  “Her little friend Shania told me all about you guys, ” DeKalb says. I’m standing by a giant broken accordion with a sign that says VINTAGE: $200 FIRM. Who the fuck spends that kind of money on a broken accordion?

  I poke at the accordion. “What is this thing doing here? I thought this is Guitar Lab?”

  “Shania say you all smacked it up a bunch of times.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “Shania sure likes to talk.”

  “She’s a little dim, yeah,” he says. “But doesn’t mean it’s not information the world should know.”

  “We just did it once,” I say, lowering my voice. “And shut up. It’s not just like I’m . . . You know.”

  “Oh, I know.” He laughs, walks away from me.

  “She’s a cool girl,” I say.

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “She is,” I say.

  “What the fuck do you know about that girl? Tell me one goddamn thing you know.”

  “Fuck you,” I say.

  “You can’t,” he says. “Nobody who dicks the shorties be doing it for love.”

  “She’s not a fucking shorty, Jesus.”

  DeKalb laughs. “Name one thing.”

  “Okay, she’s super into yarn,” I say. “Like, she knits things.”

  “What? You making that up.”

  “She likes Target,” I say.

  “Target? Target’s a fucking store. Plus Brandy’s a stripper name.”

  “It is not.”

  “Is so,” he says. “My dad’s cousin has a daughter who’s a stripper. Or she was, until she had a baby.”

  “And magazines: she likes those too.”

  “Magazines,” Jack says, from where he’s flipping through stacks of 45s. “Not even a particular magazine. She just likes all of them. Car and Driver, Good Housekeeping, Vogue . . .”

  DeKalb laughs so hard at this I think he’s going to throw up. The manager guy at the front register looks at us weird, like he wonders if we’re on drugs.

  Then they both get into it:

  “Brandy likes oxygen. She likes inhaling it and exhaling carbon dioxide.”

  “Brandy likes to buy food too. She likes grocery stores.”

  “Aldi,” Jack says. “Rainbow. Walmart Supercenter.”

  “Because Brandy is one of those people who also likes eating. Food. That’s the main thing she eats.”

  “Also, dick,” DeKalb adds.

  “The dick of guys named Will,” Jack corrects.

  Then I laugh. Because why, I don’t know. I just do.

  “Or just the dick of guys whose names start with W,” DeKalb says. “Brandy real picky about dick.”

  And then we all lose it. “Brandy real picky about dick” is in my head like a chorus. Like a title. And because, yeah: I sound like an idiot. I like Brandy because I like her. I like getting naked with her. I like her, but I don’t know her.

  That weekend, Brandy and me are at my house. In the attic. My dad is somewhere in St. Paul, I don’t know where. I don’t care. We have sex and it’s just as great as the other time, only a little longer, a little better, because I have condoms (bought myself, kept under the futon, next to my mason jar full of tips that I get sometimes for busing tables when it’s busy at Time to Eat) and because we’re alone and have a little more time.

  We’re just lying there, naked on top of the quilt, the fan blowing everywhere. Her hands are over her boobs, like she’s trying to keep them quiet. It’s hot as fuck. I want to take the condom off but I don’t really want to do it in front of her. It’s full daylight so there’s nowhere to hide.

  My phone beeps, so I reach over Brandy and grab my shorts. Brandy touches me as I check the phone. Her hands feel gentle, but sticky. My dad: going to Farmington to look @ jacuzzi

  “Let’s take a shower,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. Grinning. I don’t expect her to be into it, but she is. I automatically think, Things Brandy Li
kes: Showers. Water. Soap.

  “Go turn it on,” I say. “You gotta run the water a while before the hot makes it up here.”

  “Okay,” she says. Her hands are still on her boobs. Once she’s gone, I sit up, put on my glasses, unpeel the thing. It’s sticking to my ball hair in a way that’s horrible, and the sound it makes when it comes off is even worse. I glance at the door. The shower is running. I wonder what it would be like to not have to use these fucking things.

  “It’s hot now, Will!” Brandy yells.

  Taking a shower with a girl isn’t as cool as you’d think. First, I want to see everything, and wearing your glasses into the shower is not cool. Second, my shower is gross. I mean, it’s small with two people in there and I don’t really ever clean it and my shampoo was nearly empty and Brandy asks me if I have any conditioner and I’m like, what? Plus, after I finish washing up, we just kind of stand there getting wet and kissing, until it’s clear that sex could happen again but I’m not even going to try pulling it off in here.

  We get out and dry each other off. She turns to hang up the towels when we’re done. I get to see her body like before and I don’t want her to think I’m a creeper or anything, but it’s one of my favorite parts of sex. I wish I had a picture of it, her body. I come up behind her and start touching her again, and our skin kind of squeaks against each other; my mom says that’s from hard water. Of course in Oak Prairie there’s a water softener. My dad thinks that shit’s a waste of money.

  As I’m touching her, Brandy leans back. I know she can feel my boner but she’s acting all normal. She says she likes the dog picture over the toilet.

  “My aunt’s more into cats,” she says. “But that is a pretty picture. I like the composition of it. When I have my own house, I’m getting a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.”

  I want to tell her that my mom doesn’t like pets; she doesn’t like dog hair or cat boxes. That my dad never had a feeling about it, but I sensed he didn’t fight her on that because of the cost. There is nothing sexy about money. Nothing. I stare at the sleeping-dog picture and wish I didn’t have parents.