WHITE PICKET FENCE 1/?
Trigger warning in later parts for mention of abuse.
Regular warnings for relatively non-explicit sexy times.
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Tyler Lima was a good kid in all the ways that his father had not been, in all the ways other parents liked to think that their kids were. He went to school; he kept up with his homework; he kept his room clean enough and did the dishes without being asked. He didn't date a string of blond bimbos in push-up bras, he didn't get in fights, and he thought that if you had to drink to have a good time, you needed new friends.
But perhaps the best part is that he told his father everything. There were no secrets between them. They weren't just best friends -- they were soulmates, two halves of the same coin, if you ignored the little timing issue. They had identical fawn-colored skin, identical startling blue-green eyes, and an identical smile, the kind that made girls swoon.
It was that smile -- and his penchant for being a bad kid in all the ways parents like to think their kids wern't -- that shaped Nick's life. He started out his adolescence with a bang: started smoking at 13, drinking at 14, and graduated to drugs at 15, though nothing much more exciting than a little weed or a tablet of something-or-other at a party. He ended his adolescence at 17 after fifteen minutes in bed (well, on a couch) with a girl named Marie. They were too drunk to use a condom and the rest, as they say, is history.
Nick was thinking about this as he hurried to the administration office, wondering what the hell Tyler could've got himself into. Sixteen years of being that good kid, and he decides to start trouble now?
"Good afternoon, Nick," the secretary said, and Nick gave her a hurried smile. "Go on in."
Nick went into Principal Anderson's office, shutting the door behind him. Three kids sat in the office along with Anderson: two of them (one looking defiant, the other miserable) Nick thought were freshman or sophmores, and the third, Tyler, looked like he always did -- self-assured and mostly-happy, his eyes darting around.
The other kids turned to see Nick and Anderson looked up, but Tyler was a hare late. Nick shook his head at him and signed, "Why is your hearing aid off?"
Tyler smiled sheepishly and reached up to turn it on. "Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard," he signed. "Hurts."
Nick tried not to laugh -- later, they would, because Tyler was right about Anderson's voice -- and turned his attention to her, the reigning administration of the school Tyler attended and Nick worked for. "What's going on?" he said. For Tyler's benefit, he went ahead and signed, too. Even with the aid, Signing was always easier.
"Tyler was involved in a fight," Anderson said. Tyler scowled, looking suddenly like the insolent teen he never was. Anderson looked between the three boys. "Now that Mr. Lima's here, want to tell us what happened?"
The three boys were silent for a long moment. Tyler turned to the miserable-looking one and said, "Come on, man. Don't let him win."
The kid shrunk down into his hoodie and picked at a spot on his jeans, but he stayed silent.
Tyler shot a glare towards the angry one and then addressed Anderson. "This shi--I mean, um, this upstanding example of student behavior" --Nick put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile and wondered where the hell Tyler had gotten his sarcasm from-- "and some of his pals had this other kid cornered in the stairwell. Sorry, I don't know either of your names. Anyway, they were calling him a fag and stuff and pushing him around. I told 'em to quit it and he took a swing at me."
"You hit him back?" Nick said.
"No," Tyler said, like it was a stupid question. "But then Jenkins came by--"
"Excuse me," Anderson interrupted. "You assaulted Justin."
"I restrained him in self defense," Tyler scowled.
Anderson looked at Nick. "You know this we have a Zero Tolerance policy towards violence."
"Yes."
"But based on the relatively clean records of the students, I'll only give them each a two-week suspension."
Tyler's eyes widened, but even his hands were silent.
"Thanks," Nick said. "I've got a planning period next block so I'll go ahead and take him home."
Tyler broke from Nick outside the office and jogged to catch up with the miserable-looking kid. "Hey," he said. The boy looked scared, looked even smaller in his dark hoodie, but paused for Tyler to catch up. "I'm sorry I got you in trouble."
The boy shrugged, and a long, golden spiral of a curl dropped across one eye. "It'll be worse now. With Justin."
"He's a fucking dick," Tyler said. "What's your name? I've seen you around but..."
"Elliott."
"Tyler." He held his hand out to Elliott and Elliott shook hesitantly. "Does Justin bother you a lot?"
Justin came out of the office, escorted by a security officer. Elliott swallowed hard, ducking his head away from Justin's gaze. "Look, just leave me alone," he muttered.
Tyler's face fell, his eyes suddenly naked. He trapped Elliott there for a long moment before turning away. He pulled off his hearing aid and shoved it into his pocket, so he didn't hear Elliott call an apology out to him, sounding lost and hurt like a baby bird fallen from the nest.
Tyler was waiting in the parking lot for Nick, but remained silent as he put the car in park and headed out of the parking lot -- a rare feat for an incessantly talkative teenager.
Halfway to their home, Nick turned to Tyler and signed, "I'm proud of you."
"What?"
"You did the right thing, even though you knew it would have consequences. You make me proud."
Tyler grinned, and was suddenly back to his bright self. "Two weeks without school isn't much of a punishment, anyway."
"I should ground you or something," Nick said.
Tyler looked at him curiously.
"But I'm not going to."
Tyler laughed and pulled his phone out of his pocket, which was, predictably, buzzing with text after text. Rumors spread fast. He went to typing back at them with lightning fingers.
Nick waved his hand to get his attention. "I've got that date tonight," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Going to take pictures in the city."
"You'll be careful?"
"I'm not the one going on a blind date with some church lady."
Nick winced. Unfortunately, the kid had a point.
Tyler (namesign "T-Y," sometimes with a little shake of the hand to mimic the sign for "play" or "party") parked in an alley a couple blocks off the main drag downtown. He had his camera (a slick professional Canon with a set of lenses that had cost entirely too much money, but Nick had bought it for him for his birthday and he couldn't exactly say no) strapped around his neck and the case with the long-range lens over his shoulder. He'd left his hearing aides at home -- usually did when he was alone, always did when he had his camera. It was too hard to see the details of things with all that noise blaring, coming from so many different places it just blended together into meaningless static. Most days, wearing them made him feel more handicapped than going without.
So he couldn't hear his worn bootheels clicking on the pavement or the skitter of pebbles jumping from under his feet, or the traffic, or the occasional shout or laughter from early-afternoon shoppers. Instead, he used his eyes, sharp artist's eyes, to capture and catalogue his surroundings: snippets of conversation on a woman's lips (lipreading was a bit like a macro shot, seeing only small parts to infer the bigger picture), the bright textures of fabric in a clothing store window, a piece of litter blowing down the sidewalk in the light breeze.
He looked up into the sky and took pictures of what he saw: the sharp corners of buildings rising into the sky, cutting into the clouds like square knives; the clouds themselves, full and roaming; a boarded up window, plastic flapping. He took pictures of people, too: the trio of old women moving slowly down the street; the young woman and her boyfriend, both loaded with shopping bags; the homeless man begging on the opposite corner (Tyler crossed the street to drop change in the man's cup, even though rumor around town had it that this particular beggar wasn't homeless at all but lived in a big house on the nice side of the city).
He wandered off of Main, slipping down alleys towards the shadier parts of town. Some of the locals knew him. He had taken pictures of their kids and brought them the prints to hang on their dingy refridgerators along with stick figures and report cards. A kid a few years younger than Tyler gave him a wave and Tyler grinned, raising a hand and then snapping a picture.
"MOM YOUR HOME MOM?" Tyler signed.
"Aw, man," the kid said, "you know I don't understand that shit."
"Mom," Tyler said, repeating the sign.
"Nah, she's working."
"Thank you," Tyler signed, and waved again.
He kept moving down the sidewalk, but turned back to take more pictures of the kid as he watched the cars moving by warily. A car stopped and the kid gave Tyler a look -- not mean, but warning. Get outta here.
Tyler turned and walked. The houses on this block were cute -- or at least they used to be. Half of them were abandoned and crumbling, and the other half owned or rented by folks who couldn't afford to do much upkeep. Tyler took pictures of falling down shutters, grass that badly needed mowing, kids' toys faded and forlorn in empty yards.
He circled to head back to Main, thirsty and wanting a snack. He paused to take a series of pictures of a dog -- a pit bull, maybe -- barking on a chain. It leaned against its collar and wagged its tail at Tyler, mouth making a silly doggy grin. He thought he should get a dog. He and his dad had talked about it, but never gotten around to actually adopting one.
He left the dog and ambled back onto Main Street. There were more people, with the dinner rush fast approaching. He slipped around small groups of people and into the coffee shop sandwiched between a pricey restaurant and a boutique. He wasn't sure how it had survived in a Starbucks-filled world, but he was glad it had. It was full of comfortable couches and the baristas always had a smile and (if he was lucky) a free cup of coffee.
Tyler stood in line behind a couple, two women with almost identical pixie haircuts holding hands and bickering about what to order. He looked down at his feet to keep from staring at their intertwined fingers, the intimate looks between them, even while they argued.
He almost pointed to order but decided at the last minute to use his voice. He was lucky to have it, he knew, but the thick sound of it still embarrassed him, set against the clear bells of everyone else's. That was another plus about skipping the hearing aids -- he didn't have to hear himself.
The girl behind the counter handed him his drink, something sweet and iced, and he looked longingly at the plush couch in the corner. It was one of his favorite places to curl up with a book or a magazine, but in the end he thought he should take some more pictures before it started to get dark.
Tyler took his drink and his camera back outside, moving a block over to avoid the hoards of people filling the sidewalk. He was long-legged and lanky in the way only teenage boys and colts ever really are, and his strides carried him quickly through the streets. He stopped to snap a photo every now and then, but mostly just walked and looked and sipped at his drink. The caffeine moved quickly into his body, making him feel jittery and restless, like walking was too slow don't you think running would be better?
He found himself near the park, the one with all the fountains where people got married on the weekends in the spring. (Tyler did not understand marriage, but figured it was a Consequence of Growing Up in a Broken Home, as certain types of PTA moms whispered to each other, even while they furtively schemed how to get Nick alone.) He took pictures of the water spraying upwards out of a mermaid's mouth, but it didn't really interest him. There was a certain almost mystical feeling when things were going well. You can feel it even on the first brush stroke of a painting: this is going to be good. He didn't feel that way about the fountains, or anything he'd taken that day, really -- it was all fairly mundane. Maybe he could make it something interesting afterwards, but that wasn't the same as the miracle of a perfect shot.
Patience, he told himself (rather impatiently), and wandered around the fountain, looking at the glittering coins under the surface of the water.
And then he saw him, saw it -- the picture he'd been looking for. Because life will fuck with you whenever it can, it was Elliott, on his belly in the grass, blonde curls a haphazard halo around his head, a book open in front of him.
Tyler switched lenses with a practiced twist-pop and knelt, knees on the concrete and ass on his bootheels. He was far enough out that Elliott didn't notice him, so he clickclickclicked through a series of shots of a pretty angel boy framed by the dying sun. He could feel the flutter of something perfect deep in his belly, even without checking the playback.
He contemplated just turning around and leaving the park, unseen and content with a few good pictures -- but of course he couldn't. The lure was too strong. He switched back to the short-range lens and approached slowly, wondering at the kind of noise his boots were making on the concrete, but Elliott was still absorbed in his book and didn't look up until Tyler's shadow fell across him: a tall, dark and skinny monster.
Elliott glanced up, put his hand at his forehead to block out what sun there was left. "You again," he said, but Tyler couldn't see anything mean on his face.
"Me again," Tyler signed. He offered a smile and was not discouraged to see Elliott return it. "I took some pictures of you," he said. "I hope that's ok."
Elliott sat up. "Are you like a photographer?"
"I try," Tyler said. "Here, I'll show you." He knelt next to Elliott and pushed the play button on the back of the camera. The last photo of Elliott popped up. The grass was a brilliant jade around Elliott's pale jeans.
"Wow," Elliott said, "I actually don't look too hideous."
"I don't have my hearing aids," Tyler said, furrowing his brow. "Say again?"
"Nothing," Elliott said, and flushed.
Tyler hated when people did that -- he would've got it the second time -- but he let it pass. "Anyway. I better get going. Enjoy your book."
Tyler started to get up, but Elliott put a hand on his arm to stop him, then jerked back like he'd been burned. "Tyler," he said. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know you were just trying to help. I shouldn't have -- I'm sorry. And thank you."
Tyler grinned. "No problem." He paused, a rare flash of shyness overtaking him momentarily. "Hey, you want to get something to eat? A pizza or something?"
Elliott closed his book. "Yeah, I could eat."
Nick took a shower and shaved and brushed his teeth and then stood in a towel staring at his closet for a long time. What the hell did one wear on a blind date, anyway? "I'm too fucking old for this," he muttered, and he grabbed a shirt almost at random. It would do, but it took him two tries to get the buttons right. He wished he had told Tyler to stay and help him get dressed. Kids were smart these days; Tyler would know if dark jeans were too casual.
He checked the clock and groaned. Late was not something he did -- that's what he always said, as if it was something he could simply will into not happening -- but he'd spent too long worrying about clothes and now he was running behind schedule. He shoved his feet into a pair of shoes in the mudroom (he didn't stop to check if they were his or Tyler's; they fit ok and that was enough) and ran out to the car.
The woman waiting for Nick at the bar of a cheesy franchise grillhouse was pretty. Not pretty-for-a-church-lady pretty, but really pretty, her hair long and blonde and impossibly straight, her dress sexy without offending Jesus. Other women probably hated her.
"Linda?" he said.
She turned to him, a bright smile splitting deep pink lips, but it died as she looked him over. Fucking jeans, Nick thought.
"Hi," she said, but her voice was flat and fake. She took his hand for a handshake as if he was covered in some sort of slime.
"I'm Nick," he said. "I guess you could figure that out."
"You speak English really good."
Well, he thought, and hated himself for it. "So do you."
Linda laughed. Nick was left out of the joke. "I'm sure you're a really nice guy, but this isn't going to work out. Sorry."
"We haven't even had a drink." Actually, Nick hadn't even sat down. He was standing next to an empty barchair with Linda towering over him.
"I can tell," she said, "you're just not my type."
Nick looked at the designer clutch Linda was holding against her ribs, like he might grab for it at any moment. "You mean, I'm not white."
She narrowed her eyes and shoved past him. The sound of her heels clicking towards the door seemed to take up the entire restaurant.
Nick pulled himself into the seat Linda had just emptied, his body suddenly heavy and old. He signaled the bartender and ordered a Jack and Coke. "Make it a double."
It was weird: Tyler had friends. A lot of them. Girls liked him because he was sweet and he was cute and he went shopping with them, even if he didn't care at all about clothes and had a closet full of identical t-shirts in different colors. Boys liked him because he was funny and always surrounded by girls and even though he was a cripple (sort of) (not that they would ever say that to his face), he knew a lot about baseball. So it's not like he was desperate for companionship or anything, but still, something about Elliott made him feel... something. Something warm and happy and kind of giggly. Elliott was shy but warmed up over a large pizza (the kind with alfredo sauce and mushrooms and chicken and spinach), and by the time they finished, they were laughing like little girls at a slumber party. It was even ok that Tyler had left his hearing aids at home, because Elliott had eyes and mouth so expressive that sometimes words weren't even necessary.
Tyler paid for the pizza and Elliott said, "I'll pay you back when--"
Tyler waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Hey, since we're both suspended, want to come to my house and play video games or something?"
Elliott hesitated. Tyler was about to take back the invitation (wondering when he became such a dork) when Elliott smiled and said, "Yeah, ok. But I'm not very good at any video games."
"Me either. It's kind of pathetic, actually. Sometimes my dad beats me and he doesn't even know how to turn the thing on."
If Nick was surprised to see Tyler and Elliott start spending time together, he didn't show it, and by the end of the suspension, they were practically attached at the hip. Elliott spent as much time at Tyler's house as he did at his own, and Tyler spent the rest of the time editing the pictures he took with -- of -- Elliott. They thought up complicated stories and acted them out in photos. Sometimes Ty got out the tripod so he could take part. Sometimes they just wandered around in the tall grass and trees behind the house. Even when Elliott was supposed to be serious or scared, like during their zombie apocalypse series, the corners of his mouth tilted up in a shy smile. That was Tyler's favorite thing to photograph.
Once the suspension was over, Tyler spent his entire first class drawing a silly cartoon that he passed to Elliott in the hall. "See you at lunch?" Ty signed. He had to do it a second time, slower, for Elliott to get it, but Ell had learned a lot of Sign in two weeks and signed back, "Right."
The school staggered lunch times to keep the line from jamming, so Tyler was already at a table, surrounded by girls that looked like they walked right out of a teen fashion magazine and their boyfriends who looked like a bunch of stupid jocks, because they were. The girls were giggling madly, asking about Tyler's life as a delinquent, when Elliot came out of the serving area into the open cafeteria. His hair was dirty and his jeans were a few inches too short, showing mismatched socks. Still, Tyler wasn't sure how he'd never noticed Elliott before: even compared to the Gossip Girl fashionistas next to him -- or perhaps especially compared to them -- Elliott looked like something special and sweet.
Tyler waved and beckoned to him. Elliott hesitated. He was always hesitating. But he came over anyway, flushing as the boys stopped their exaggerated attempts at machismo to stare, not at all nicely.
"Scoot over," Tyler said to the girl next to him, poking at her tanned shoulder. "Sit," he said to Elliott.
Elliott did, and soon enough the banter started up around them again. Elliott handed over the cartoon Tyler had started that morning, with his own additions continuing the story. Tyler read and laughed and pretended not to notice that the only thing on Elliott's tray was what passed for "free lunch" -- an old peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a little carton of milk. Elliott only picked at the edges. Tyler saw him trying not to let his eyes wander to all the extra food on the table, the nuggets and potato chips the boys had thrown at the girls and each other.
"I always get too much food," Tyler said, and shoved his plate half-full of fries at Elliott. "Eat it, please, before I make myself puke."
It was a pretty lame lie and they both knew it, but Elliott ate the fries anyway.
Nick thought about sex all the time. The non-date with Linda -- horrible as it may have been -- opened up something inside him. Something about the smell of a woman's hair, the curve of her hip. He couldn't think of anything else.
At night he put on a pair of old, ragged tennis shoes and tried to run it out of himself. Even as a hormonal teenager, it hadn't been like this. He wanted every woman he saw, and he hated being That Guy, but Cristo, it had been a long time since he had even kissed a woman, much less made love to one.
He was getting old. Even if he knew a bar to go to to meet single women, he had no idea how to talk to them anymore. The only women he really talked to those days were other teachers and angry mothers. Jesus. Back before Tyler was born -- back when he was Tyler's age, holy hell did time pass fast -- Nick could sleep with any girl he wanted.
Five, maybe six miles down the dirt road leading past the Lima's house. Nick stopped and stood, hands on his hips, breathing in harsh gasps. It was dark out in the country; the moon cast a dim, dead light over the road and the endless fields lining it. Beady eyes shined at him from the ditch. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his arm and turned to head back home, walking until he caught his breath.
Tyler wasn't fucking around like that, was he? It seemed like every week kids were expelled for having sex on school property, but it was never anyone in Tyler's group. That didn't mean he wasn't doing it. Nick picked up a run again and promised himself he'd talk to Ty about sex. Again. Soon. If Tyler got one of those pretty girls he hung around with pregnant, Nick didn't know what they would do. If Tyler got one of those diseases they thought only gays got when Nick was a kid -- when did life become so dangerous?
What about drugs? Nick realized that, as close as he thought he and his son were, he really had no idea what Tyler did with his friends. For all Nick knew, they could be sacrificing small animals in Satanic rituals while having sex and dropping acid. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd heard of.
That new kid he was hanging out with -- Nick didn't want to be an asshole, because he had had it rough growing up, too. Even when they were alive, his parents were always in and out of work and there was never really enough money to go around -- but the kid was a quiet, polite version of white trash. And Tyler was so gullible, even as a kid always wanting to donate to this or that scam charity. Ty would do his best to move heaven and earth for a friend. Was Elliott taking advantage of that? It was weird, the way they were always together. At least Nick thought it was, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't really know what kids were supposed to act like at all. He would talk to Ty about that, too, as soon as he got home.
The last mile passed quickly and he walked up the long gravel drive to cool down. Maybe it was just that Nick felt like he hadn't been able to focus in weeks, but it suddenly seemed like things with his kid had gone spinning out of his grasp. Even if it was nothing bad, just normal kid stuff -- he wasn't ready for this change, the one where Tyler talked to him less and less, where they only saw each other in passing at the fridge. Shit shit shit, he thought.
He went in the back way, through the kitchen, and stuck his head under the sink tap to drink. Summer was rolling in and it was starting to get hot, even after dark. The way his body felt, hot and slick and buzzing with kinetic energy, made him think of sex again. He closed his eyes and thought of a dark-skinned woman, legs opening under the gentle request of his hands.
"Hey, Dad," Tyler said.
Nick jerked away from the faucet, twisted it off, wiped water off his mouth. "Hey," he said. He knew he looked guilty, like his thoughts could be seen by anyone wandering by.
That kid, Elliott, was a shadow behind Tyler, eyes averted from Nick's bare torso. Kid's fucking weird, Nick thought, and felt guilty for that, too. "Hey, Elliott," Nick said, as if to atone for his thoughts.
"Hi," Elliott said, almost tonelessly.
"Can Elliott stay over? His parents are out of town."
"Again?" Nick asked. "What do they do again?"
"I forgot," Ty said, looking at Elliott.
Elliott mumbled something about businessbankingrealestatelawyers and then announced, louder than necessary (but even to Nick, everything seemed loud, so used to he and Ty's silent communication), that he had to use the restroom and disappeared.
"So, can he?"
"Yeah. Whatever. But hey, Ty?" Nick switched to signing, their native language. It felt more real. "Come see me during your lunch tomorrow. I want to talk about some things."
Tyler frowned. "But I always--"
"Not this time. See you then." At the doorway to the kitchen, Nick turned back to his son again and flashed him the I love you sign. A quick grin ran across Tyler's face and he flashed it back.
When he was little, Nick would make the sign and press it against Tyler's heart. He didn't know why, but it always made them both mad with giggles. He missed those days, when he and Ty were each other's worlds, and he wanted very badly to press his hand to his son's chest now, right over the heart. He didn't think 16-year-old boys were into that stupid mushy stuff, though, so he just signed, "Good night," and went to bed.
Regular warnings for relatively non-explicit sexy times.
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Tyler Lima was a good kid in all the ways that his father had not been, in all the ways other parents liked to think that their kids were. He went to school; he kept up with his homework; he kept his room clean enough and did the dishes without being asked. He didn't date a string of blond bimbos in push-up bras, he didn't get in fights, and he thought that if you had to drink to have a good time, you needed new friends.
But perhaps the best part is that he told his father everything. There were no secrets between them. They weren't just best friends -- they were soulmates, two halves of the same coin, if you ignored the little timing issue. They had identical fawn-colored skin, identical startling blue-green eyes, and an identical smile, the kind that made girls swoon.
It was that smile -- and his penchant for being a bad kid in all the ways parents like to think their kids wern't -- that shaped Nick's life. He started out his adolescence with a bang: started smoking at 13, drinking at 14, and graduated to drugs at 15, though nothing much more exciting than a little weed or a tablet of something-or-other at a party. He ended his adolescence at 17 after fifteen minutes in bed (well, on a couch) with a girl named Marie. They were too drunk to use a condom and the rest, as they say, is history.
Nick was thinking about this as he hurried to the administration office, wondering what the hell Tyler could've got himself into. Sixteen years of being that good kid, and he decides to start trouble now?
"Good afternoon, Nick," the secretary said, and Nick gave her a hurried smile. "Go on in."
Nick went into Principal Anderson's office, shutting the door behind him. Three kids sat in the office along with Anderson: two of them (one looking defiant, the other miserable) Nick thought were freshman or sophmores, and the third, Tyler, looked like he always did -- self-assured and mostly-happy, his eyes darting around.
The other kids turned to see Nick and Anderson looked up, but Tyler was a hare late. Nick shook his head at him and signed, "Why is your hearing aid off?"
Tyler smiled sheepishly and reached up to turn it on. "Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard," he signed. "Hurts."
Nick tried not to laugh -- later, they would, because Tyler was right about Anderson's voice -- and turned his attention to her, the reigning administration of the school Tyler attended and Nick worked for. "What's going on?" he said. For Tyler's benefit, he went ahead and signed, too. Even with the aid, Signing was always easier.
"Tyler was involved in a fight," Anderson said. Tyler scowled, looking suddenly like the insolent teen he never was. Anderson looked between the three boys. "Now that Mr. Lima's here, want to tell us what happened?"
The three boys were silent for a long moment. Tyler turned to the miserable-looking one and said, "Come on, man. Don't let him win."
The kid shrunk down into his hoodie and picked at a spot on his jeans, but he stayed silent.
Tyler shot a glare towards the angry one and then addressed Anderson. "This shi--I mean, um, this upstanding example of student behavior" --Nick put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile and wondered where the hell Tyler had gotten his sarcasm from-- "and some of his pals had this other kid cornered in the stairwell. Sorry, I don't know either of your names. Anyway, they were calling him a fag and stuff and pushing him around. I told 'em to quit it and he took a swing at me."
"You hit him back?" Nick said.
"No," Tyler said, like it was a stupid question. "But then Jenkins came by--"
"Excuse me," Anderson interrupted. "You assaulted Justin."
"I restrained him in self defense," Tyler scowled.
Anderson looked at Nick. "You know this we have a Zero Tolerance policy towards violence."
"Yes."
"But based on the relatively clean records of the students, I'll only give them each a two-week suspension."
Tyler's eyes widened, but even his hands were silent.
"Thanks," Nick said. "I've got a planning period next block so I'll go ahead and take him home."
Tyler broke from Nick outside the office and jogged to catch up with the miserable-looking kid. "Hey," he said. The boy looked scared, looked even smaller in his dark hoodie, but paused for Tyler to catch up. "I'm sorry I got you in trouble."
The boy shrugged, and a long, golden spiral of a curl dropped across one eye. "It'll be worse now. With Justin."
"He's a fucking dick," Tyler said. "What's your name? I've seen you around but..."
"Elliott."
"Tyler." He held his hand out to Elliott and Elliott shook hesitantly. "Does Justin bother you a lot?"
Justin came out of the office, escorted by a security officer. Elliott swallowed hard, ducking his head away from Justin's gaze. "Look, just leave me alone," he muttered.
Tyler's face fell, his eyes suddenly naked. He trapped Elliott there for a long moment before turning away. He pulled off his hearing aid and shoved it into his pocket, so he didn't hear Elliott call an apology out to him, sounding lost and hurt like a baby bird fallen from the nest.
Tyler was waiting in the parking lot for Nick, but remained silent as he put the car in park and headed out of the parking lot -- a rare feat for an incessantly talkative teenager.
Halfway to their home, Nick turned to Tyler and signed, "I'm proud of you."
"What?"
"You did the right thing, even though you knew it would have consequences. You make me proud."
Tyler grinned, and was suddenly back to his bright self. "Two weeks without school isn't much of a punishment, anyway."
"I should ground you or something," Nick said.
Tyler looked at him curiously.
"But I'm not going to."
Tyler laughed and pulled his phone out of his pocket, which was, predictably, buzzing with text after text. Rumors spread fast. He went to typing back at them with lightning fingers.
Nick waved his hand to get his attention. "I've got that date tonight," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Going to take pictures in the city."
"You'll be careful?"
"I'm not the one going on a blind date with some church lady."
Nick winced. Unfortunately, the kid had a point.
Tyler (namesign "T-Y," sometimes with a little shake of the hand to mimic the sign for "play" or "party") parked in an alley a couple blocks off the main drag downtown. He had his camera (a slick professional Canon with a set of lenses that had cost entirely too much money, but Nick had bought it for him for his birthday and he couldn't exactly say no) strapped around his neck and the case with the long-range lens over his shoulder. He'd left his hearing aides at home -- usually did when he was alone, always did when he had his camera. It was too hard to see the details of things with all that noise blaring, coming from so many different places it just blended together into meaningless static. Most days, wearing them made him feel more handicapped than going without.
So he couldn't hear his worn bootheels clicking on the pavement or the skitter of pebbles jumping from under his feet, or the traffic, or the occasional shout or laughter from early-afternoon shoppers. Instead, he used his eyes, sharp artist's eyes, to capture and catalogue his surroundings: snippets of conversation on a woman's lips (lipreading was a bit like a macro shot, seeing only small parts to infer the bigger picture), the bright textures of fabric in a clothing store window, a piece of litter blowing down the sidewalk in the light breeze.
He looked up into the sky and took pictures of what he saw: the sharp corners of buildings rising into the sky, cutting into the clouds like square knives; the clouds themselves, full and roaming; a boarded up window, plastic flapping. He took pictures of people, too: the trio of old women moving slowly down the street; the young woman and her boyfriend, both loaded with shopping bags; the homeless man begging on the opposite corner (Tyler crossed the street to drop change in the man's cup, even though rumor around town had it that this particular beggar wasn't homeless at all but lived in a big house on the nice side of the city).
He wandered off of Main, slipping down alleys towards the shadier parts of town. Some of the locals knew him. He had taken pictures of their kids and brought them the prints to hang on their dingy refridgerators along with stick figures and report cards. A kid a few years younger than Tyler gave him a wave and Tyler grinned, raising a hand and then snapping a picture.
"MOM YOUR HOME MOM?" Tyler signed.
"Aw, man," the kid said, "you know I don't understand that shit."
"Mom," Tyler said, repeating the sign.
"Nah, she's working."
"Thank you," Tyler signed, and waved again.
He kept moving down the sidewalk, but turned back to take more pictures of the kid as he watched the cars moving by warily. A car stopped and the kid gave Tyler a look -- not mean, but warning. Get outta here.
Tyler turned and walked. The houses on this block were cute -- or at least they used to be. Half of them were abandoned and crumbling, and the other half owned or rented by folks who couldn't afford to do much upkeep. Tyler took pictures of falling down shutters, grass that badly needed mowing, kids' toys faded and forlorn in empty yards.
He circled to head back to Main, thirsty and wanting a snack. He paused to take a series of pictures of a dog -- a pit bull, maybe -- barking on a chain. It leaned against its collar and wagged its tail at Tyler, mouth making a silly doggy grin. He thought he should get a dog. He and his dad had talked about it, but never gotten around to actually adopting one.
He left the dog and ambled back onto Main Street. There were more people, with the dinner rush fast approaching. He slipped around small groups of people and into the coffee shop sandwiched between a pricey restaurant and a boutique. He wasn't sure how it had survived in a Starbucks-filled world, but he was glad it had. It was full of comfortable couches and the baristas always had a smile and (if he was lucky) a free cup of coffee.
Tyler stood in line behind a couple, two women with almost identical pixie haircuts holding hands and bickering about what to order. He looked down at his feet to keep from staring at their intertwined fingers, the intimate looks between them, even while they argued.
He almost pointed to order but decided at the last minute to use his voice. He was lucky to have it, he knew, but the thick sound of it still embarrassed him, set against the clear bells of everyone else's. That was another plus about skipping the hearing aids -- he didn't have to hear himself.
The girl behind the counter handed him his drink, something sweet and iced, and he looked longingly at the plush couch in the corner. It was one of his favorite places to curl up with a book or a magazine, but in the end he thought he should take some more pictures before it started to get dark.
Tyler took his drink and his camera back outside, moving a block over to avoid the hoards of people filling the sidewalk. He was long-legged and lanky in the way only teenage boys and colts ever really are, and his strides carried him quickly through the streets. He stopped to snap a photo every now and then, but mostly just walked and looked and sipped at his drink. The caffeine moved quickly into his body, making him feel jittery and restless, like walking was too slow don't you think running would be better?
He found himself near the park, the one with all the fountains where people got married on the weekends in the spring. (Tyler did not understand marriage, but figured it was a Consequence of Growing Up in a Broken Home, as certain types of PTA moms whispered to each other, even while they furtively schemed how to get Nick alone.) He took pictures of the water spraying upwards out of a mermaid's mouth, but it didn't really interest him. There was a certain almost mystical feeling when things were going well. You can feel it even on the first brush stroke of a painting: this is going to be good. He didn't feel that way about the fountains, or anything he'd taken that day, really -- it was all fairly mundane. Maybe he could make it something interesting afterwards, but that wasn't the same as the miracle of a perfect shot.
Patience, he told himself (rather impatiently), and wandered around the fountain, looking at the glittering coins under the surface of the water.
And then he saw him, saw it -- the picture he'd been looking for. Because life will fuck with you whenever it can, it was Elliott, on his belly in the grass, blonde curls a haphazard halo around his head, a book open in front of him.
Tyler switched lenses with a practiced twist-pop and knelt, knees on the concrete and ass on his bootheels. He was far enough out that Elliott didn't notice him, so he clickclickclicked through a series of shots of a pretty angel boy framed by the dying sun. He could feel the flutter of something perfect deep in his belly, even without checking the playback.
He contemplated just turning around and leaving the park, unseen and content with a few good pictures -- but of course he couldn't. The lure was too strong. He switched back to the short-range lens and approached slowly, wondering at the kind of noise his boots were making on the concrete, but Elliott was still absorbed in his book and didn't look up until Tyler's shadow fell across him: a tall, dark and skinny monster.
Elliott glanced up, put his hand at his forehead to block out what sun there was left. "You again," he said, but Tyler couldn't see anything mean on his face.
"Me again," Tyler signed. He offered a smile and was not discouraged to see Elliott return it. "I took some pictures of you," he said. "I hope that's ok."
Elliott sat up. "Are you like a photographer?"
"I try," Tyler said. "Here, I'll show you." He knelt next to Elliott and pushed the play button on the back of the camera. The last photo of Elliott popped up. The grass was a brilliant jade around Elliott's pale jeans.
"Wow," Elliott said, "I actually don't look too hideous."
"I don't have my hearing aids," Tyler said, furrowing his brow. "Say again?"
"Nothing," Elliott said, and flushed.
Tyler hated when people did that -- he would've got it the second time -- but he let it pass. "Anyway. I better get going. Enjoy your book."
Tyler started to get up, but Elliott put a hand on his arm to stop him, then jerked back like he'd been burned. "Tyler," he said. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know you were just trying to help. I shouldn't have -- I'm sorry. And thank you."
Tyler grinned. "No problem." He paused, a rare flash of shyness overtaking him momentarily. "Hey, you want to get something to eat? A pizza or something?"
Elliott closed his book. "Yeah, I could eat."
Nick took a shower and shaved and brushed his teeth and then stood in a towel staring at his closet for a long time. What the hell did one wear on a blind date, anyway? "I'm too fucking old for this," he muttered, and he grabbed a shirt almost at random. It would do, but it took him two tries to get the buttons right. He wished he had told Tyler to stay and help him get dressed. Kids were smart these days; Tyler would know if dark jeans were too casual.
He checked the clock and groaned. Late was not something he did -- that's what he always said, as if it was something he could simply will into not happening -- but he'd spent too long worrying about clothes and now he was running behind schedule. He shoved his feet into a pair of shoes in the mudroom (he didn't stop to check if they were his or Tyler's; they fit ok and that was enough) and ran out to the car.
The woman waiting for Nick at the bar of a cheesy franchise grillhouse was pretty. Not pretty-for-a-church-lady pretty, but really pretty, her hair long and blonde and impossibly straight, her dress sexy without offending Jesus. Other women probably hated her.
"Linda?" he said.
She turned to him, a bright smile splitting deep pink lips, but it died as she looked him over. Fucking jeans, Nick thought.
"Hi," she said, but her voice was flat and fake. She took his hand for a handshake as if he was covered in some sort of slime.
"I'm Nick," he said. "I guess you could figure that out."
"You speak English really good."
Well, he thought, and hated himself for it. "So do you."
Linda laughed. Nick was left out of the joke. "I'm sure you're a really nice guy, but this isn't going to work out. Sorry."
"We haven't even had a drink." Actually, Nick hadn't even sat down. He was standing next to an empty barchair with Linda towering over him.
"I can tell," she said, "you're just not my type."
Nick looked at the designer clutch Linda was holding against her ribs, like he might grab for it at any moment. "You mean, I'm not white."
She narrowed her eyes and shoved past him. The sound of her heels clicking towards the door seemed to take up the entire restaurant.
Nick pulled himself into the seat Linda had just emptied, his body suddenly heavy and old. He signaled the bartender and ordered a Jack and Coke. "Make it a double."
It was weird: Tyler had friends. A lot of them. Girls liked him because he was sweet and he was cute and he went shopping with them, even if he didn't care at all about clothes and had a closet full of identical t-shirts in different colors. Boys liked him because he was funny and always surrounded by girls and even though he was a cripple (sort of) (not that they would ever say that to his face), he knew a lot about baseball. So it's not like he was desperate for companionship or anything, but still, something about Elliott made him feel... something. Something warm and happy and kind of giggly. Elliott was shy but warmed up over a large pizza (the kind with alfredo sauce and mushrooms and chicken and spinach), and by the time they finished, they were laughing like little girls at a slumber party. It was even ok that Tyler had left his hearing aids at home, because Elliott had eyes and mouth so expressive that sometimes words weren't even necessary.
Tyler paid for the pizza and Elliott said, "I'll pay you back when--"
Tyler waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Hey, since we're both suspended, want to come to my house and play video games or something?"
Elliott hesitated. Tyler was about to take back the invitation (wondering when he became such a dork) when Elliott smiled and said, "Yeah, ok. But I'm not very good at any video games."
"Me either. It's kind of pathetic, actually. Sometimes my dad beats me and he doesn't even know how to turn the thing on."
If Nick was surprised to see Tyler and Elliott start spending time together, he didn't show it, and by the end of the suspension, they were practically attached at the hip. Elliott spent as much time at Tyler's house as he did at his own, and Tyler spent the rest of the time editing the pictures he took with -- of -- Elliott. They thought up complicated stories and acted them out in photos. Sometimes Ty got out the tripod so he could take part. Sometimes they just wandered around in the tall grass and trees behind the house. Even when Elliott was supposed to be serious or scared, like during their zombie apocalypse series, the corners of his mouth tilted up in a shy smile. That was Tyler's favorite thing to photograph.
Once the suspension was over, Tyler spent his entire first class drawing a silly cartoon that he passed to Elliott in the hall. "See you at lunch?" Ty signed. He had to do it a second time, slower, for Elliott to get it, but Ell had learned a lot of Sign in two weeks and signed back, "Right."
The school staggered lunch times to keep the line from jamming, so Tyler was already at a table, surrounded by girls that looked like they walked right out of a teen fashion magazine and their boyfriends who looked like a bunch of stupid jocks, because they were. The girls were giggling madly, asking about Tyler's life as a delinquent, when Elliot came out of the serving area into the open cafeteria. His hair was dirty and his jeans were a few inches too short, showing mismatched socks. Still, Tyler wasn't sure how he'd never noticed Elliott before: even compared to the Gossip Girl fashionistas next to him -- or perhaps especially compared to them -- Elliott looked like something special and sweet.
Tyler waved and beckoned to him. Elliott hesitated. He was always hesitating. But he came over anyway, flushing as the boys stopped their exaggerated attempts at machismo to stare, not at all nicely.
"Scoot over," Tyler said to the girl next to him, poking at her tanned shoulder. "Sit," he said to Elliott.
Elliott did, and soon enough the banter started up around them again. Elliott handed over the cartoon Tyler had started that morning, with his own additions continuing the story. Tyler read and laughed and pretended not to notice that the only thing on Elliott's tray was what passed for "free lunch" -- an old peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a little carton of milk. Elliott only picked at the edges. Tyler saw him trying not to let his eyes wander to all the extra food on the table, the nuggets and potato chips the boys had thrown at the girls and each other.
"I always get too much food," Tyler said, and shoved his plate half-full of fries at Elliott. "Eat it, please, before I make myself puke."
It was a pretty lame lie and they both knew it, but Elliott ate the fries anyway.
Nick thought about sex all the time. The non-date with Linda -- horrible as it may have been -- opened up something inside him. Something about the smell of a woman's hair, the curve of her hip. He couldn't think of anything else.
At night he put on a pair of old, ragged tennis shoes and tried to run it out of himself. Even as a hormonal teenager, it hadn't been like this. He wanted every woman he saw, and he hated being That Guy, but Cristo, it had been a long time since he had even kissed a woman, much less made love to one.
He was getting old. Even if he knew a bar to go to to meet single women, he had no idea how to talk to them anymore. The only women he really talked to those days were other teachers and angry mothers. Jesus. Back before Tyler was born -- back when he was Tyler's age, holy hell did time pass fast -- Nick could sleep with any girl he wanted.
Five, maybe six miles down the dirt road leading past the Lima's house. Nick stopped and stood, hands on his hips, breathing in harsh gasps. It was dark out in the country; the moon cast a dim, dead light over the road and the endless fields lining it. Beady eyes shined at him from the ditch. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his arm and turned to head back home, walking until he caught his breath.
Tyler wasn't fucking around like that, was he? It seemed like every week kids were expelled for having sex on school property, but it was never anyone in Tyler's group. That didn't mean he wasn't doing it. Nick picked up a run again and promised himself he'd talk to Ty about sex. Again. Soon. If Tyler got one of those pretty girls he hung around with pregnant, Nick didn't know what they would do. If Tyler got one of those diseases they thought only gays got when Nick was a kid -- when did life become so dangerous?
What about drugs? Nick realized that, as close as he thought he and his son were, he really had no idea what Tyler did with his friends. For all Nick knew, they could be sacrificing small animals in Satanic rituals while having sex and dropping acid. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd heard of.
That new kid he was hanging out with -- Nick didn't want to be an asshole, because he had had it rough growing up, too. Even when they were alive, his parents were always in and out of work and there was never really enough money to go around -- but the kid was a quiet, polite version of white trash. And Tyler was so gullible, even as a kid always wanting to donate to this or that scam charity. Ty would do his best to move heaven and earth for a friend. Was Elliott taking advantage of that? It was weird, the way they were always together. At least Nick thought it was, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't really know what kids were supposed to act like at all. He would talk to Ty about that, too, as soon as he got home.
The last mile passed quickly and he walked up the long gravel drive to cool down. Maybe it was just that Nick felt like he hadn't been able to focus in weeks, but it suddenly seemed like things with his kid had gone spinning out of his grasp. Even if it was nothing bad, just normal kid stuff -- he wasn't ready for this change, the one where Tyler talked to him less and less, where they only saw each other in passing at the fridge. Shit shit shit, he thought.
He went in the back way, through the kitchen, and stuck his head under the sink tap to drink. Summer was rolling in and it was starting to get hot, even after dark. The way his body felt, hot and slick and buzzing with kinetic energy, made him think of sex again. He closed his eyes and thought of a dark-skinned woman, legs opening under the gentle request of his hands.
"Hey, Dad," Tyler said.
Nick jerked away from the faucet, twisted it off, wiped water off his mouth. "Hey," he said. He knew he looked guilty, like his thoughts could be seen by anyone wandering by.
That kid, Elliott, was a shadow behind Tyler, eyes averted from Nick's bare torso. Kid's fucking weird, Nick thought, and felt guilty for that, too. "Hey, Elliott," Nick said, as if to atone for his thoughts.
"Hi," Elliott said, almost tonelessly.
"Can Elliott stay over? His parents are out of town."
"Again?" Nick asked. "What do they do again?"
"I forgot," Ty said, looking at Elliott.
Elliott mumbled something about businessbankingrealestatelawyers and then announced, louder than necessary (but even to Nick, everything seemed loud, so used to he and Ty's silent communication), that he had to use the restroom and disappeared.
"So, can he?"
"Yeah. Whatever. But hey, Ty?" Nick switched to signing, their native language. It felt more real. "Come see me during your lunch tomorrow. I want to talk about some things."
Tyler frowned. "But I always--"
"Not this time. See you then." At the doorway to the kitchen, Nick turned back to his son again and flashed him the I love you sign. A quick grin ran across Tyler's face and he flashed it back.
When he was little, Nick would make the sign and press it against Tyler's heart. He didn't know why, but it always made them both mad with giggles. He missed those days, when he and Ty were each other's worlds, and he wanted very badly to press his hand to his son's chest now, right over the heart. He didn't think 16-year-old boys were into that stupid mushy stuff, though, so he just signed, "Good night," and went to bed.