We make an unlikely trio…
Donovan, the outcast, the quiet queer boy whose humor is as dark as his clothes.
Jason, prom king, pretty boy, the popular boy with a secret heart of gold.
And me. The weird music nerd, who always has a notebook and pair of headphones within arm’s reach.
But it works. Somehow.
We spend August attached at the hip. We play truth and dare. We go to the beach, the pool, or sometimes just hang out in the woods by Donovan’s trailer. We have our own unwritten rules. For example, when Jason’s friends are over, Donovan and I know to give Jason a wide berth. He still, after all, has the popular boy role to play. But he barks at them any time someone teases Donovan and, eventually, he stops inviting them over completely. Jason and I spend a lot of the day helping Donovan with his various tasks around the marina. It’s grueling work but, with the three of us, it gets done quickly, which gives us more time to hang out with him afterwards.
We find ways to share each other. During the day, I pull Jason into the laundry room, climb him like a tree, and kiss him until we’re both swollen-lipped and breathless. Donovan and I set aside time every week for the new Dr. Who episodes (he’s obsessed, and now I’m sucked into it too). Jason joins us, but doesn’t have the patience for TV, so he mostly runs back and forth making popcorn or getting snacks. Sometimes, I catch him press a small kiss to the back of Donovan’s neck, which makes the other boy shiver.
As for Donovan and me—we’re closer than ever. I lay my head in his lap. He pets my hair. Sometimes, I slip my fingers in his and just savor the warmth of his palm, the strength of his grip.
Sometimes, it’s just a look or a smile. A knowing that only we share. I treasure our secret, stolen little intimacies.
No one—not even Pearl—would understand this. But they don’t have to. It’s ours and ours alone, and I like it that way.
I find myself craving the time I get to spend in the marina with my boys. The worst part of each day is when Pearl starts calling my name from the parking lot and I have to hop in the car to head back to Four’s summer house.
I’m always bone tired by the end of the day, though. And my feet are always sore.
I inherited my dad’s feet—flat, wide duck feet.
During the school year, I squeeze them into too-narrow flats so when I come home, they always feel tender and ache.
Donovan, Jason and I run around barefoot like savages. I burn the soles of my feel on the sun-hot boards of the dock. I stroll across the gravel walkways and run around the bare ground by Donovan’s trailer, which is littered with sticks and acorns.
When I shower, I feel the bottoms of my feet. They’re smooth like sea-glass, but the skin has toughened. It makes me feel strong. Viking-like.
Maybe I, too, am getting stronger.
But my feet aren’t the only thing about me that’s different.
Because a couple weeks later, I miss my period.
I tell myself I’m paranoid. I’m being dramatic. It’s a whole lot of nothing.
But three pregnancy tests all tell me the same thing.
I’m fucked.
