Matt had followed him, calling his name, wanting to talk.
It was in the hall outside the cafeteria that Idabel had wheeled around, facing Matt. He was angrier than Matt had ever seen him. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to explain,” Matt had said.
Idabel had crossed his meaty arms. His biceps bulged. He could do heavy damage if he were ever so inclined. “Like you ‘explained’ in the locker room Saturday night? When you lied and said you were with Ava? Like you ‘explained’ today when you lied to Coach?”
“That’s not fair,” Matt had said. “You assumed it was Ava. I just shrugged and didn’t correct you.”
“And that’s not lying in your book?” Idabel had asked.
Matt had sighed, looked around to make sure there was no one within earshot of this conversation. “There are things you don’t know. It’s complicated.”
“Here’s what I know,” Idabel had hissed. “I know that blue Camry in the parking lot wasn’t Ava’s. Turns out there are two blue Camry’s at OC. One belongs to that old lady in Financial Aid, Mrs. Turlington. The other belongs to a skinny sophomore dude with girly hair. Named Todd. So, either ole lady Turlington or this Todd dude was the person hiding in the toilet stall. Not sure whether it was you or that person who wore the man panties. Well, I mean, I can’t imagine Mrs. Turlington wearing man panties. And really the panties are too small for you. So, probably that Todd dude wore those. That leaves the stockings. Maybe you. Maybe the Todd dude wore both the panties and the stockings. I’d ask you if I’m right, but why bother? You’re good at lying.”
Idabel had paused, offering Matt a chance to respond anyway.
Matt had stared back, afraid to even blink for fear that doing so might reveal that Idabel had stumbled onto the truth. Matt’s breath caught, trapped in his lungs by the same fear that even exhaling would betray him. Whatever confidence about his sexuality Matt thought he had gained in the last few weeks evaporated against the black void of Idabel’s eyes.
This was OC, after all. Fags had been expelled with less evidence than this. Cast into the Outer Darkness. Disowned by their families. Disfellowshipped by their churches—and, yes, that was a regular enough occurrence to have merited its own word.
To survive as a fag in this place required duality. Out and vibrant in the safety of the Gay Mafia. Cringingly closeted the rest of the time. Matt had briefly exulted in the former, had ignored the demands of the latter. He could not make that mistake again.
Idabel had continued. “Believe it or not, even in McCurtain County we know about queers. Guys fucking guys and all that. I’ve never met a queer before, at least not that I know for certain. Can’t honestly say how I’d react if it turned out one of my friends was queer.”
“I told you it’s complicated,” Matt had whispered.
Idabel had frowned. “Maybe that part is complicated. That’s not why I’m mad. I’m mad because you disrespected Coach and every member of our team by fucking in our locker room. Doesn’t matter if it was Ava, ole lady Turlington, or that Todd dude. You were trusted with a key to the building. You betrayed that trust because you couldn’t keep your pecker in your pants.”
Matt had interrupted. “I—”
“Let me finish,” Idabel had said. “You didn’t care about betraying trust. Costing Coach his job. Costing some of us scholarships. Costing all of us the season. You didn’t even care about our friendship enough to trust me with your secret. You cared about your dick—first and foremost. That’s why I’m mad. I can’t say for sure what I think of queers. I do know that I can’t stand selfish liars.”
Idabel had walked away.
Standing there alone in the hall, seething with self-disgust, Matt had vented his feelings in the tried-and-true method of guys who inhabited men’s bodies but still had teenaged brains: he punched the wall. Punched it again.
Later, alone in his room, holding an ice pack to his right hand, watching his digital clock blink away minutes, Matt wallowed in regret. Idabel had been right: Matt had been reckless and selfish, risking other peoples’ futures for his own carnal satisfaction. How did one make amends for such things? He’d already felt Coach’s judgment. Another month of cleaning the locker room. Benched for two games—at Coach’s choosing. (Coach was not entirely giving up on his dream of a winning season.)
Someone knocked on Matt’s door.
Matt hoped it was Idabel, knew that it wasn’t.
The door opened. In came Paul.
Matt had not seen Paul since Saturday evening, when Paul had been inducted into the Gay Mafia. He had left before Paul had chosen who would top him. He assumed Paul was here to give him the juicy details. He wasn’t in the mood.
Neither was Paul apparently. He closed the door behind him, pushed his glasses back up his nose. Sniffled. His eyes were red and puffy. He had been crying.
Paul clutched a folded paper in his hand.
“Have a seat,” Matt said. He pointed to one of the desk chairs.
Paul shook his head. “I’m dropping out of school. Tomorrow.”
Matt had been reclining in the daybed. He sat up. “What? Why? Is it about money?” Matt knew that Paul’s family didn’t help with his college expenses, that he existed here on a shaky hodgepodge of scholarships, work study, and student loans. So shaky that Matt had discovered Paul had only three changes of clothes, had been wearing them multiple times between launderings. One raggedy pair of tennis shoes. All of which had made for unpleasant odors. Matt had taken Paul to a thrift store, where fifteen dollars had doubled his wardrobe and replaced his shoes.
Paul’s voice quavered. “It isn’t about money. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I won’t betray you. I won’t.”
“I know you won’t.” Matt smiled. He pointed to the folded paper in Paul’s hand. “Does your dropping out have anything to do with that?”
Paul nodded, handed Matt the paper. “I’m supposed to copy that in my own handwriting, sign it, and hand it to the Dean. I won’t do it. They can’t make me.”
Matt unfolded the paper. It bore the blotchy letters of an inkjet printer. It read:
Dean Smith:
My name is Paul Olson. I am a freshman here at OC. I need to tell you about something bad that has happened to me.
A few weeks ago, Matt Griffith, another freshman here, asked me to start tutoring him. I agreed. I assumed our tutoring sessions would be in the library. Matt wanted them in his dorm room. He doesn’t have a roommate.
It seemed strange to tutor in a dorm room, but I agreed to do it. After a few sessions, he insisted that we close the door and lock it. You can probably guess where this is heading. He wasn’t really interested in tutoring.
Matt has made repeated sexual advances on me. He has asked me to perform sexual acts on him, things I won’t describe here. Things that disgust me. Things I have refused to do.
I am straight and don’t want to sin.
Respectfully,
Paul Olson
Matt felt gut punched. This had been the shittiest day of his life. Correction: second shittiest. Nothing trumped getting raped. Still, second place to rape was pretty fucking shitty.