Page 2 of Beneath the Stain

Grant took his open mouth for invitation and exhaled, right between Mackey’s parted lips.

Mackey’s inhale was so gentle, the smoke hardly tickled. He didn’t choke or cough like he’d seen other people do, just breathed in subtle-like, afraid to startle Grant or make him move in any way. His exhale was even quieter, letting the smoke trickle out through his lips and his nose, where it stung.

He swallowed, his mouth dry from the smoke and from the way Grant was staring at him, seemingly as mesmerized as he was by those golden eyes and moist red mouth. “How’s Sam?” he asked, because Samantha Peters had been Grant’s shadow for the past year.

“Not here,” Grant whispered, and the movement made their lips touch.

Mackey closed his eyes, because Grant started this, and Mackey was fourteen to his seventeen. Grant would know what to do.

Grant’s lips on his were whisper-soft, then angel-soft, then Grant’s tongue swept into his mouth, acrid with the bitter taste of weed, but something in it was sweet. Something in it made Mackey open his mouth to beg for more.

Grant took advantage, pushing him back against the seat, taking his mouth more, and more and more, until Mackey was pressed against the burned-out seat frame, his hands buried in the thick top strip of Grant’s hair, his lips being bruised and his mouth plundered by his brother’s best friend.

The smell of pot smoke sharpened, turned plastic, and Grant jerked his head back.

“Shit,” he muttered. The joint had fallen onto the blanket at their feet, and he spent a moment stomping it out as it smoldered. When he’d killed the ember, he glanced at Mackey sheepishly.

“Got lost in your eyes,” he said, and Mackey watched curiously as two red crescents surfaced on his sharp cheekbones, like disappearing ink coming to life.

“I could get lost in you a lot,” Mackey confessed, feeling brave and bold, and Grant found something to look at far away.

“Mackey, maybe don’t count on me like that, okay?”

Mackey had to search far away too. Well, of course, right? Two guys get high and they do something crazy—didn’t mean shit, did it.

Didn’t mean a goddamned thing. “Yeah, well. You know. Strong weed, right?”

“Yeah,” Grant murmured. “Strong.” His hand was firm on Mackey’s shoulder then, and Mackey closed his eyes as he felt the rasp of Grant’s chilled palm against his cheek. “Stronger’n shame.”

Mackey had to. Had to see his face.

Grant was blinking hard, and they both knew he’d deny it, but one hit of pot didn’t give you eyeballs that red.

At their feet, Kell gave a moan and rolled over, and that was the cue for everyone to wake up. They were headachy and sick, and it was lucky Grant had brought a six-pack of water, of all things, so they could at least rinse out their mouths after they puked.

Grant had driven them out to the vacant field in his mom’s minivan, and later that evening, he stopped and let them run inside the grocery store to buy noodles and spaghetti sauce for dinner. They’d promised their mom they’d take care of groceries if she let them get away with not watching Cheever for the afternoon. When they got to the Sanders boys’ apartment complex, Grant and Kell were giving each other shit in the front seat. Mackey stared out the window and let their banter wash over him, just like he ignored Jefferson and Stevie talking in quiet undertones about comic books and naked girl pictures. Jeff and Kell had best friends. Mackey had brothers—six of them, if he counted Cheever’s little friend Kevin, which he did.

“So, is Sam excited you get to play at the prom?” Kell asked, laughing.

“Yeah,” Grant said. For a moment he caught Mackey’s gaze in the rearview, and then he glanced back toward the road. “She wants to dress pretty and dance with me in a suit.”

Mackey didn’t make a noise or anything, but suddenly he knew, knew like it had been branded on his skin, that Grant didn’t want to dance with a girl in a dress. And that it would hurt worse than orange juice on chapped lips, but Mackey was going to have to watch him do it.

THEYWENTambitious for the prom and planned to play all rock, with one power ballad. The power ballad was “Freebird,” because, hey, you could dance to it, and because Tyson may have been in California, but there were parts of Northern California that were straight out of Alabama. Almost all the rock songs were covers—because who knew who the fuck Outbreak Monkey was, right? But Mackey had been writing songs since his mom first sent them to the church organist for music lessons, and the band? Well, they did tend to let Mackey lead—but only when he was on stage, and only when they were playing music.

“So, you guys ready?” Mackey asked before he went over the playlist.

Grant, Stevie, Jeff, and Kell all ranged around him, equipment at the ready in Stevie’s dad’s garage, because Stevie’s dad was out of town. Otherwise they’d be practicing in the living room of the Sanders’s tiny apartment, because anything was better than Stevie’s dad.

Stevie perched behind the drum set his mom had bought him two years before, Jeff had his bass slung around his hips—without the amp—and Grant and Kell both had their acoustic guitars at the ready. With the exception of the drum set, this was how they’d learned to play together.

WHENMACKEYwas ten and Cheever had been in diapers, Kell had been stuck with babysitting duty while their mom was working nights. Grant and Stevie often came over to keep the boys company, both of them playing fast and loose with the truth of “Are there adults there to supervise?”

On this particular night they’d been bored—the Sanders boys didn’t have an Xbox or PlayStation like Grant’s or Stevie’s folks—and Mackey said, “Hey, guys, want to play rock band?”

“We don’t got the equipment for it,” Grant said, but he’d smiled. Grant had always smiled at him, even when Kell was too grim with having to take care of the family.

“No, no—we do. Jeff, get your keyboard!”