We Are Lost and Found Read online

  I’m glad to hear him joking, but there’s no trace of the smile I expect to hear in his voice.

  What did the police say? I ask, although I know from Andy they have no suspects.

  Oh, Michael, seriously? What do you think they said? That it was random. Wrong place, wrong time. That sort of thing. But even if they’d caught someone, you know how these things play out. They’ll claim I made a pass as them, that they simply couldn’t help but protect themselves from the onslaught of my passions. As if.

  Anyhow, he continues, I’m getting a lot a reading done. And all of my old albums are here, and Mother’s doctor is loose with the pain killers, so it could be worse.

  Without James, the city is duller.

  With so little time before school starts, I feel like even trying to make something of the remaining days is pointless.

  I don’t know what I did with myself before I started hanging out at The Echo, so I have no idea how to fill the time now. Becky got Andy to commit to taking a night off patrol and seeing her on Friday nights. Connor is spending all of his time with Maurice.

  And I’m alone.

  I think about calling Gabriel, but even if I reached him, I don’t know what I’d say. Every place I want to go holds the possibility of seeing him, and while that’s what I want most, it’s probably what I need least. Not like anything is going to be any different.

  And not like he’s called me.

  So instead, I play my guitar. I hang out on the fire escape and people-watch. I stare at the clock until the nights end.

  I meet up with Becky and fill her in on my talk with James. When I’m done talking, she fumbles in her bag and hands me a roll of quarters.

  What are these for?

  She grabs my arm and says, Video arcade.

  This always helps when I’m hurt or pissed off, she says and shoots another centipede.

  Becky’s making minimum, $3.35 an hour, so we’re quickly running through three hours of her scooping ice cream at work.

  But then it’s my turn, and I realize that over the din of the machines and the clanking of the coins and the constant talking, you can’t hear the sirens outside, and I can’t really hold onto thoughts of losing Gabriel or missing James, and my brain is only focused on the roller ball and blasting this stupid bug into oblivion.

  We stop at the door of Howard Johnson’s.

  I don’t know if I want to go in without James here, Becky says. Is that strange?

  No, I was just thinking the same thing.

  We grab slices of pizza at the Ray’s down the block instead, but one bite is all I can handle.

  I don’t know what to do, I admit. I can’t even go to The Echo. Plus, I feel like I’m stuck lying to my parents until I move out or die.

  I’ve been thinking about that, she says. I told my mom last night that if she doesn’t clean up, I’m going to leave and move in with Andy’s family or something. I was worried I couldn’t tell his parents anything with his dad being a cop and all, but I talked to his mom and they’re going to try to get mine some help. Anyhow, I think that’s maybe an option. Of course, I’d rather my mom clean her life up… Then I thought we could make a pact, and you could talk to your parents too. I mean, if you were going to anyhow.

  Reasons to come out to my parents:

  • Solidarity with Becky

  • Be true to myself

  • Make Connor feel like he isn’t alone

  • Piss off my dad

  • …

  Good that can come from it:

  • Hell if I know

  Senior year begins, and James still isn’t back.

  Instead, he calls to tell me his mother wants him to stay in Connecticut where it’s “safer.” His father, back from a photo shoot in Australia to, James says, “make sure I have my head screwed on correctly,” wants him to come to some sort of awards ceremony in DC, hosted by President Reagan.

  Maybe it’s because I know James so well. Or maybe it’s because his anger is so close to the surface, but even on the phone, I can hear it welling up inside him and threatening to spill over. The acid in his voice as he gave a speech in Blood Makes Noise about having to stay silent at home rather than argue about the mocking government nonresponse to AIDS in order to keep the peace.

  Of course, there’s no way I would go, he says. Can you imagine? Being in the room with President Reagan and my father at the same time? I think I’d burst into flames. Anyhow, I’ll figure something out. I just want to get back to the city.

  On a whim, I call a little club in the East Village that’s doing open mics on Tuesday nights, the same nights they do buy-one-get-two on drinks. You never know if the audience is going to love everything because they’re drunk or hate everything for the same reason.

  I tell them I’m interested in being added to the list, but I lie about my age and lie about my phone number.

  Then I hang up when I realize I was lying about my interest.

  It’s too early in the year for serious homework, and I’m feeling lost, so I head to Vinnie’s Videos. I don’t even feel like watching a movie, but I need to do something.

  I search through the comedies, knowing that nothing is going to make me laugh.

  Bartolomeo, someone calls.

  I turn to see Adam Rose, this guy from school, his blue work apron eclipsed by the massive stack of videos he’s supposed to be re-shelving. Hold on, he says.

  He sets the stack down, all but one copy of Tron. Seriously, he says, pointing to a label on the tape’s front that reads PLEASE BE KIND; REWIND. How hard is it to rewind a freaking tape before you return it?

  I shrug.

  So, what are you looking for? Need a recommendation or anything?

  I scan the shelves. Do you have any movies to watch when you really aren’t in the mood to watch a movie, but you need to stop thinking for a while? I ask.

  I’m not sure why I’ve spewed all that. Adam and I have had some classes together, but it isn’t like we really hang out. He’s part of the music clique, though, so maybe in another life, we could have been friends.

  He glances at the clock and says, If you don’t want to watch anything, you’re welcome to tag along with me. I’m going to a party at David Hayne’s place when I get off. His parents are out of town.

  A party sounds like something that will take more energy than I have. But then I look around at the store. At the torn video cases and the too-bright lights. At some little kid whose parents are dragging him out of the store for screaming about wanting to play Donkey Kong.

  Sure, I say, surprising both of us.

  Not like I have anything else to do.

  I go home, change, and throw some mousse in my hair. Then I meet Adam back at the store. Normally quiet, he tries to entertain me with stories from the video store and doesn’t seem to mind when I nod back distractedly.

  We bus it crosstown to the Upper East Side and the Haynes’ apartment building. Adam presses the button, and we’re buzzed in. I can hear the music as soon as we’re through the lobby door, The Police singing “Every Breath You Take,” which I’m already sick of because it’s been playing on every radio station in the city for months.

  Adam makes the rounds, saying hello to kids I recognize from school and others I don’t think I’ve seen before. I hate feeling like I don’t belong, so I hang back and grab a beer from the cooler.

  Across the room, someone opens a box of glow sticks and snaps them to life. Someone else turns out the lights, and people start throwing the gel around so it covers the walls. All I can think is that my parents would kill me if that happened at home. Not even Connor was stupid enough to throw parties in our apartment.

  In the eerie light, I start looking through the bookcases. You can tell a lot about people by what they read and listen to, and while I’m not particularly intrigued in the
private interests of the Haynes family, it at least makes me look as though I’m doing something.

  Have you read that? I turn to see a boy pointing at a book. The spine says, Brideshead Revisited.

  I shake my head and say, No, but my friend James kept trying to get me to watch the BBC version. He was obsessed.

  You should give it a try, he says. The boy has dusky skin and a cute, timeless look. Black eyes and dark short hair. No eyeliner. No club clothes. No effort.

  He tells me he’s eighteen, his name is River, and he’s David’s cousin, visiting from Amherst for the week.

  I stare at him, thinking of David’s blond curls.

  My mom is Black, he says as if he can read my mind. I wonder how many times he’s been asked about it tonight. My dad and Dave’s dad are brothers. He’s using me as the excuse for this party, but it really isn’t my thing.

  He smiles easily, and I find myself smiling back, slightly overwhelmed by the amount of information he’s just thrown at me. Parties aren’t my thing either, I confess.

  The music changes and catches my attention. My confusion must be obvious because River says, Talking Heads, “Psycho Killer,” I have no idea what it’s about, but it’s pretty cool. Very New York.

  I sometimes wonder about the New York that only exists in the minds of tourists.

  I have this whole album on cassette if you want to hear it, River says, gesturing down a hallway at a closed door.

  He looks at me expectantly, and I feel a flash of attraction and curiosity. I don’t usually assume that any boy who talks to me about books and music is hitting on me, but something about this boy is different. Or maybe I’m different. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

  Maybe it’s simply time for me to stop waiting for everyone else to tell me what to do. Or what not to do. Maybe it’s time to just be myself.

  River smiles, and before I can chicken out, I channel my brother, say, Lead the way, and follow River to the guest room.

  The room looks like a holding tank for 1975. Shag carpet, lava lamps, even a beaded curtain.

  I look around while River moves a brown furry pillow to uncover a Walkman. He takes the cassette out and puts it into a boom box on the dresser, the only thing here that belongs in this decade.

  I tell him I play guitar. I tell him there’s a dance club I like. I tell him where I live and what classes I took last year and where I like to go to eat.

  I ask him what he’s done in New York and what he does in Massachusetts, and we talk about music and art, and how he’s been homeschooled and is looking forward to going to college.

  He tells me he’s leaving in the morning. Going back to Amherst and then heading to Europe to go hiking for an entire year before he starts at Berkeley.

  That sounds nice, I say, which must be the beer talking because the idea of slogging through the forest for a year sounds awful to me. Maybe I’ll do something like that if my parents kick me out.

  Why would they kick you out? he asks.

  I consider making something up, but I’ll probably never see him again and that makes me bold. My father kicked my brother out when they found out he was gay, I say, waiting to hear his reaction.

  That sucks, he says and swallows loudly. He gets up and forwards the tape to the song he says is his favorite. The singer starts singing about wanting to be home and already being there. Lucky him.

  And you’re worried they’ll do the same to you? River asks, not looking at me.

  I take a deep breath and say, My father hasn’t exactly mellowed since.

  River turns, his face illuminated by the pink of the lava lamp. I got lucky in the parent department, he says. Mine are ex-hippies. They actually met in a commune, if you can believe it. There are pictures of my sister and me at Woodstock. Anyhow, my parents believe in free love and all that. They think we’ve become a repressed society.

  I feel the tension leave my body in one gush. My father thinks AIDS is nature’s way of punishing us, I say.

  We both laugh the way people do when something isn’t at all funny. He stops first and takes a step toward me, his face getting serious. I’m sorry, River says. I’m sorry that you have to deal with that.

  He reaches out his hand and puts it on my arm. Is this okay? he asks, moving his fingers down to grasp mine.

  His voice is soft, concerned. He smells like Polo. His fingers are calloused, and the roughness of them against my skin makes me flush.

  I wait for my head to fill with warnings: Don’t be stupid, Michael. You aren’t the type to mess around with a boy at a party; you’re still hooked on Gabriel. But Gabriel isn’t here and my head is quiet. My body on the other hand is a mass of sensation, everything shaking, spinning, throbbing.

  I’m going back to Boston tomorrow, River continues, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away. I’m not trying to be presumptuous, he says, but I can’t get involved or anything.

  The whole year seems to hit me all at once, just as the lava lamp sends swirls of pink and purple over River’s elegant face.

  I’m not my brother. I’d never want to be so out there. But maybe Connor isn’t the only one allowed to do something simply because it feels good once in a while.

  And more than anything, this feels good. River has moved, and he’s standing so close to me I can feel him pressed against me in a million different places, and I know I should be nervous and I am, but it’s like I can’t really feel that. All I feel is River. All I want to feel is him.

  Then he steps back, and I feel a strange sort of cold, of hunger, and I place my hand flat on his chest.

  Michael, he breathes out, and I know, somehow, that I could walk away now and he’d still be cool, and I know that I’d be an idiot not to be afraid. But I still don’t believe that hiding from the world is the way to deal with anything. Not for me, anyhow.

  I take a deep breath and walk over and lock the door.

  Everything about River is relaxed. He’s considerate and confident and sexy as hell. And it’s almost like he’s memorized the pamphlet in Connor’s old apartment, because while we do a lot of the things I read about and imagined trying with Gabriel, he’s got condoms and follows all the other safety ideas it suggested.

  He doesn’t do anything to point out how inexperienced I am. And because I know I’m unlikely to see him again, I’m less inhibited than I was with Gabriel. It’s easy to touch him. Easy to let him touch me.

  When he tells me, after, that he’d be happy if I spent the night and crashed with him, it’s easy to say yes.

  But none of that keeps thoughts of my missed chances with Gabriel out of my head, and I barely get any sleep.

  In the morning, River asks me for my address so he can send me postcards from Europe.

  Filled with guilt over my thoughts of Gabriel, I panic and give him Becky’s address instead.

  I stumble out of the apartment, Polo on my skin, dizzy with sex and the realization that my parents are going to kill me for staying out all night without even calling.

  The sun is burning down hot for September and reflecting off the pavement as I walk crosstown, so I take my shirt off and tie it around my waist.

  I pass early morning joggers in the park and smile at the idea that they can see the shadow of River’s mouth on my skin.

  I’ve had sex. Sex with a boy, and I liked it, so hey world, here I am.

  I stop at the pay phone on the corner of my block that sometimes gives free calls and punch in the number for Dial-a-Daze.

  This number is disconnected, the recording says.

  I hold my breath for a minute, but what washes over me is relief. I guess I have to make my own future now.

  What do you have to say for yourself?

  I’m not sure what wakes me, my father’s booming voice or the sunlight that clobbers me in the face when he pulls open my curtain.


  At the moment, not much, I mumble.

  He rips the comforter off my bed. I’m surprised, given that he did the same thing to Connor once, and my brother, probably still drunk from the night before, punched him in the face.

  I roll over and shade my eyes. Dad, seriously, I say. I’m sorry I didn’t call.

  In truth, I’m not sorry. In truth my entire body is still buzzing, and once I sleep off the fact that I was awake all night, I’m looking forward to figuring out what this all means. How it’s changed me.

  Because I’m sure it must have. I hope so, anyhow.

  My father’s face doesn’t relax, which comes as no surprise. Where the hell were you? he asks. Is this how I raised you? Your mother was frantic.

  I interrupt him and say, I was at David Hayne’s on 86th. He had a party and…

  Here, I’m forced to think quickly. What is going to piss him off the least? I go for the most frat boy of options and say, I had a couple of beers and crashed. I know it was stupid. I won’t do it again.

  A voice in my head says, Tell him. I’m not sure he can really kick me out because, unlike Connor, I’m under eighteen.

  I’m tired of hiding, even if it’s just from my father.

  I’m tired of being dismissed, even if it’s just by my father.

  And now I need to figure out what to do about it. Even if it just means confronting my father.

  I open my mouth, but then my father snorts and walks out of the room.

  My shoulders relax. I might have missed an opportunity to take a stand, but at least I’ve survived to fight another day with a roof over my head.

  That night, I pop one of Connor’s antibiotics, even though I believe Becky when she tells me that Andy’s mom says they won’t do anything to fend off getting sick, and stand in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, examining my skin. The birthmark on my ankle. The scar on my arm from an unfortunate run-in with Connor’s G.I. Joe figure when I was five.