Page 21 of The Boy Next Door

As I step over fallen popcorn in a middle row at the movie theater, I can practically hear Maggie and Clay thinking on either side of me as I catch them up on developments with Hunter.

"A cupcake," Clay says from my left as he sits. "He gave you a cupcake?"

"Yeah. After being accepted to Steadfast."

"A cupcake," Maggie repeats. "He went out and purchased a single cupcake for you?"

"Yeah, isn't he sweet?"

A pleasant instrumental score plays softly, and I get as far as reading, 'Did you know...' on the big screen.

"Hunter?" Clay clarifies. "Hunter is sweet?"

"Doesn't sound like him," Maggie agrees. "And as far as gifts go... I'd rather have alcohol."

"He isn't 21 yet."

"I'd rather have sex," Clay says. "At least a blow job!"

I bury my face in my hands.

"Oh, don't act like I'm an indecent slut for suggesting something so unchristian. If you don't look at Hunter Cruse and think about furious, antiestablishment sex, then you're broken."

Maggie coughs.

"Assuming, of course," he adds, "you're capable of attraction." He nudges me. "No offense."

"What?" I'm capable of attraction.

"That smirk and his ass?" Clay focuses on the wrong thing, making appreciative noises from his throat. "Dirty thoughts are exactly what he wants, and oh yeah, you'll give it to him."

"Not exactly wrong, but still." Maggie tries to stop whatever he's caught up in imagining.

"If anything," Clay continues, "I expect him not to say anything when you tell him about college. But you know he heard you because his eyes express 'so what,' like it's no big deal, and you're upset for a second, you're furious until—"

My hands grip the armrests. I should stop him, but...

"—He steps close, licks his lips, and sinks to his knees. Oh yeah, he'll show you something impressive. " Clay laughs, clapping his hands and falling back in his seat. "Whoa, fuck, I do have a dirty mind, but damn, it's worth it."

"Don't let him fluster you, Sam," Maggie says kindly, waving a hand near her face. "It's okay you don't see him that way."

"Give it a try," Clay suggests. "It's fun."

"There's nothing wrong with how I see Hunter," I defend, glad the dimming lights hide my flushed face. "I feel, I feel things . I think about sex, even if I don't talk about it."

"Of course you have those thoughts," Maggie whispers as the previews begin. "It's normal for most of us. But I guess we assumed... just because you have those thoughts doesn't mean you're going to act on them."

I frown at the big screen. "I'm not a Puritan or something."

"No, not Puritan," Clay agrees. "More Victorian. Something with fans and coy looks."

"Ohhh, like Downton Abbey," Maggie decides.

"Yeah," Clay agrees. "The brush of a hand, that's your going all the way."

"No!"

"Shut up!" somebody hisses.

I try to watch the beginning of the film.

I don't wanna be lost the whole time, but I don't see much.

Except for the picture of how others view me, it's becoming clear.

My art teacher, friends, parents, they see me as a meek, frightened little boy.

And I'm not sure how to prove them wrong. That isn't who I am anymore.

On the movie screen, there are nice homes, a happy family as a voiceover starts. The narrator hints at the calamity and hilarity about to ensue as a few people chuckle, getting ready to laugh and enjoy themselves.

To me, nothing seems very funny.

~

When I see Dylan, for a split second, I wish he was his bro—the thought's silly. Besides, we're at school.

Mrs. French gave me a list of students who need tutoring. For my first assignment, I picked the only student I'd be happy spending extra time with.

Dylan sinks heavily down onto the stool in front of the wheel, looking like a man headed to the gallows instead of art lessons. "This is the only art class that fit with my schedule."

"Photo club doesn't count toward class credits?"

"Nope, otherwise the administration would worry students could join and then just point and click to take pictures for their art requirements."

"You don't do that."

"Nope. Only 25% of the time." He smiles at me. "When I forget or because of homework."

We laugh and get started.

It's not long before he gets tired of trying to force a wet lump of clay into a shape and takes his foot off the wheel's pedal.

"What's the verdict?" he asks. "Am I hopeless?"

"No, I think I can help."

A vision pops in my head—my hands around Dylan's as I'm behind him, helping make a pot, like that scene from that old movie—but I don't move to make it a reality. We can go step-by-step with me working at the wheel next to him instead.

"Okay, teach me your ways, pottery expert."

"I'm no expert, but fortunately for you, I'm better at the technique than conveying feeling." That’s what I’ve heard anyway.

"Hey, that's all I need,” he says. “And at least I trust you."

"Not French?"

"She's a little... Do you trust her?"

"Yes," I say while getting the wheel and the clay wet. "She's wacky, but she has good insight." Then I realize my words. "Sometimes."

Despite her eccentricities, I want her approval. But how I defended her without thinking makes me wonder. Maybe she saw something in me I feared or didn't want to see when she thought my work was too safe and needed more. That's why her words hit me so strongly and why I refused to believe her.

"Do you know why she says I think too much like a photographer? I'd understand if we were painting but all my efforts result in this." He slaps the flat slab of clay on his wheel.

"Okay, she's not right all the time."

We laugh again, and the rest of our lesson passes pleasantly. He doesn't succeed, but makes progress, and I think he'll get it eventually.

Under normal circumstances, I savor moments with Dylan. But it doesn't feel as special as it usually does.