What It Takes Page 3
But more than anything it’s Milo himself whom Andrew likes. Some of his feelings are the same as they’ve always been—wanting to help him, protect him from everything in his life that’s hurting him. Andrew loves that he’s Milo’s person, the person who knows him best. Milo lets Andrew see him at his most vulnerable.
It’s the worst. It’s horrible and unfair and not right because Milo is straight and his best friend, and being in love is awful; it feels as if he can’t breathe when Milo smiles his brightest Andrew only smile, and when Milo laughs Andrew’s stomach turns funny but good. But it’s not good; there’s no chance Milo will ever feel the same. Being in love is one thing, and maybe he could deal with it, but the worst part is all the other things Milo makes him feel: tingling and too hot in his body and completely out of control. Morning after morning he wakes up from dreams about Milo, embarrassed and wondering if he can get away with changing his sheets and washing them several times a week without drawing suspicion from his parents.
°
“Drew.” As soon as he walks in the door Milo shuts off Andrew’s iPod where it’s perched on the speaker dock. “What is with you? All you do lately is sit in here listening to emo music with the blinds closed.”
“I like it,” Andrew says.
“Well, you’re turning into a hermit, you look like you haven’t seen the sun in days, and you’re being boring. Let’s go do something. Bike down to Spikes. Play ball, go swimming.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Milo starts to pull Andrew out of his bed.
“Milo, I suck at all of those things.”
“Well, you’re never going to get better at anything other than lying around being dramatic about whatever it is you’re being dramatic about if you don’t get out of here. You aren’t bad at swimming. You’re being a lump.”
“Ugh.” Andrew looks down at his clothes. They’re comfortable but gross, because he’s been in them since the afternoon before. “I have to change. Go downstairs or something?”
“What, you’re suddenly shy?” Milo teases.
“Shut up and get out,” Andrew says, trying for a joking tone. There is no way he’s going to let Milo sit around while he gets sort of naked, not with his too skinny and not-right body.
“You’re so weird. You’re getting weirder.” Milo laughs and slams the door behind him.
Andrew gives the shut door the middle finger, as if that will help, and then flips hopelessly through his minimal and depressingly similar clothing choices. He checks the weather on his phone—not warm enough for shorts. He pulls out a maroon and white striped shirt that he hopes won’t scream gaygaygay, because other than Milo and his parents no one knows, and he’s happy with that for now.
°
Milo settles in to wait at the kitchen counter, pilfered apple in hand. Something about the crunching noise in the soothing silence and familiarity of Andrew’s place is comforting. It’s often quiet at his own house, but it always seems like an unfinished silence, menacing. Sometimes Milo prefers his father’s anger, and the fighting and turmoil, over the silence, because he knows what’s happening. It’s the waiting that kills him, the anxiety of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“All right, whatever, let’s go.” Andrew stomps into the kitchen. Well, as much as a tiny person who weighs nothing soaking wet can stomp. It’s cute. Milo winces internally, then turns away and swallows his last bite of apple, which feels stuck in his throat.
“Go where?” he manages to ask.
“I don’t know.” Andrew throws his hands up, then starts poking around in the snack cupboard his mom keeps stocked. He grabs a granola bar and tears into it. “This is your idea. You tell me.”
“You are so dramatic. You should join drama club this year.”
“Eww,” Andrew says around a mouthful of chocolate chips and granola.
“Well, you don’t like anything lately. You’re not dressed for swimming. Let’s ride up to Spikes and play pinball.”
“I thought you wanted me to get sun?” Andrew says.
“This isn’t an evil plan or anything. You’ll get sun on the way; I biked over. You’ll get to destroy me at arcade games. It’s a win all around.”
“Well,” Andrew tosses the wrapper into the pull-out garbage can. “Okay. I could go for that.”
“Sweet.”
°
Because everything in his life is a competition, Milo always pushes his own limits. Usually he would try to bike into town as fast as possible, but Andrew is not like that, and Milo doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. Milo keeps pace with him as they head east into town, trying to take in their surroundings in a way he usually doesn’t. He remembers hating this place, and although his bitterness has abated, he’ll never love Santuit. Other than Andrew and Ted and Sarah and their families, there’s nothing here that makes him want to stay. He can’t wait until he can grow up and escape. Once he’s old enough, he’ll never have to talk to his father again. He’ll never have to endure this place, where too many people know his secrets. Where what happens in their home—even if people don’t know everything—is a secret the town keeps without speaking in anything more than pitying glances and whispers when his back is turned.
College is a lifetime away, and thinking about it makes him feel twisty and hopeless, so he avoids it. The truth is, although it’s annoyingly dramatic, he understands Andrew’s urge to hole up and get away from everything. He has no idea why Andrew is being like this—maybe he’s working on the whole coming out thing—but Milo resents it, because Andrew’s pulled away from him, though Milo totally told him he was okay with everything and he is.
But he has Andrew outside now; he is laughing because a gust of wind has almost blown him over. The sun is brilliant today, and Milo knows if they go down to the beach it will be dazzling over the water. But the beach is where he goes to escape; it’s his temporary runaway place, and that’s not what he wants now. So he laughs at Andrew and squints his eyes and throws his arms out to the side, showing off his skills.
°
Andrew does kick his ass at Star Wars pinball, and when Ted comes, it’s a slaughter so pathetic they don’t speak of it. It makes Milo happy to see Andrew happy and doing things, but also rubs him the wrong way because Milo always wants to be the best at everything.
“I’m starving.” Andrew bumps Milo away from the claw machine he’s been fucking around with. He doesn’t want anything, but he wants to grab a prize because no one ever wins with this machine.
“What do you want?” Milo says, still distracted.
“Food,” Andrew says.
“No joke.” Milo turns away from the machine. “You’re always hungry. Where does it all go? How are you not getting fat, lying around all day stuffing your face?”
“I doubt I’ll ever be fat.” Andrew is usually self-conscious about how skinny he is, but he soldiers on with an only slightly strained smile. “But hopefully it will go to the magical growth-spurt machine you are hogging.”
Milo’s new height advantage is totally cool because he’s always been the shorter one. Andrew doesn’t seem in danger of being short. He’s always been really skinny; they’re all growing, but with Andrew it’s kind of like he’s being stretched.
“Good luck with that one,” Ted chimes in. Like Milo, he’s shot up recently too, leaving Andrew behind in a genetic race for height. They might both be brown-haired and brown-eyed, but Andrew’s hair naturally highlights and his eyes are lighter and much more expressive. Ted’s a really chill guy who doesn’t care about such things; he saves his energy for mischief he ropes them all into. He’s focusing on a racing game, throwing his weight behind a sticking wheel in a booth too small for him.
“Shut up. Let’s get some burgers.” Andrew grabs Milo’s hand to pull him toward the restaurant portion of the arcade, then drops it quickly with an apology, flustered and blushing. “So sorry, I, I didn’t... sorry.”
“Chill, it’s cool,” Milo says. Andrew looks away a
nd walks ahead of him. It’s not as if Milo cares, because he’s thought Andrew might be gay for, like, ages now. Milo’s used to the idea and he doesn’t care and a part of him likes the familiarity they’ve had with each other. Yeah, maybe it’s uncool and the other kids will make fun of them. But they’re not here and every kid who uses the word fag as if it’s funny can fuck off, because he doesn’t want anyone to make Andrew feel bad, ever. He has to be careful, though, because word getting around that he’s holding hands with Andrew would be a thing that his father might actually kill him over.
°
They’re in the woods one day in July when they come into a small clearing. Milo has been keeping complaints about the humidity and bugs to himself. He wants to hang out with Andrew and if this is the best he can get, he’ll take it. Andrew comes alive when they’re out here, which is awesome. God knows Milo could use some happiness too.
“You good?” Andrew asks. He looks around the clearing, then sits carefully on what’s left of a fallen tree. Milo kicks at a tuft of grass.
“I’m fine.”
“Milo,” Andrew says in that voice he gets, the one that’s knowing and superior.
“I’m fine. Looking forward to school. Less time at home, you know? It’s close but not close enough, and it’s making me crazy.”
Andrew looks at him for a long moment, then away. His eyes explore the fringe of woods, and the scraggly wildflowers in the sunlight. “We should build something out here.”
“Huh?” Milo gives up and stands next to him. A line of sweat slides down his temple, and he wipes it away.
“Like a fort?” Andrew shoots him a shy and hopeful look. Milo resists the urge to point out that they aren’t kids anymore and that they’re too old for that kind of play, because he doesn’t want to hurt Andrew’s feelings. “I know it’s lame. But come on, it’ll be fun!”
“How will we do that? We need wood and supplies and, like, to know how to build stuff.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Andrew’s face brightens; Milo is terrible at resisting this sort of persuasion. “And then we’ll have a place no one knows about. It’ll be our thing.” Andrew looks away then and shrugs. “That sounded wrong. I didn’t mean—”
“No! No, that’s cool.” The thought of a secret place is appealing. If they do this, it’ll be somewhere Milo can go when everyone is busy and he can’t go to their houses. Plus, the thought of planning something to build is exciting. “So we’ll need a plan.”
“Blah,” Andrew complains. He starts circling the clearing.
“How do you plan to accomplish this without—”
“A plan? I’m kidding. Come on, let’s find a spot. We can go home and make the best plan ever and it’ll be like a little wet dream for you.”
Milo blushes and laughs and only looks away for a second before looking for an ideal spot.
°
The fort takes longer to build than Andrew anticipated. The wood was expensive, and they had to figure out how to pay for it, and also, come on, they aren’t master builders yet. Despite all of Milo’s drawn plans—the first drafts roughly scratched into dirt, then, as they sat on the beach, into shifting sands that proved to be a terrible sketch pad, and finally on paper—the process was a whole lot of trial and error.
“It’s not all that big,” Milo says when they’re finally, for the first time, seated inside their little creation.
“It’s fine.” Andrew is unpacking a cooler of snacks and pop he brought for the occasion.
Milo inspects their handiwork. “There’s a huge gap over here.”
“Oh my god, Mr. Perfection, enjoy the moment.” Andrew kicks him in the ankle.
“No wait, there’s an exposed nail; let me find the hammer—”
“Milo,” Andrew says in his most stern voice, which isn’t that stern at all when it cracks. He clears his throat. “Shut up, sit down and drink your Coke. We can fix that later.”
Milo sighs and sits down. Andrew can tell he’s working very hard not to examine the fort for more flaws.
“We’ll be here again, you know,” Andrew says. “We have time to fix things up if we want. For now, it’s mostly done; it’s awesome. We’re awesome.”
“Yeah. True.” Milo smiles; his hair is a shaggy mess and his face is spotted with pimples that have come and gone as they’ve started to hit puberty. His shirt is dirty, they’re both sweating and it’s sweltering in the fort—even though it’s in the shade, the heat of their bodies in the confined space is driving the temperature up to uncomfortable. Milo is right—it is small, and being so close to Milo makes a completely different heat suffuse his body. It’s confusing and new and unwelcome, and, if he doesn’t distract himself immediately, will be very obvious.
Andrew distracts himself by looking over their creation. The wooden floor is rough enough to need more sanding. The walls are made of mismatched wooden boards—some bought and some scavenged—that don’t fit together perfectly, especially around the small window and door. One day, when it’s not about a billion degrees, Andrew wants to paint the walls inside. Milo looks up to examine the roof while they finish lunch, and Andrew contemplates whether making some sort of sign outside the fort would be too childish.
It’s far from perfect, but still, for that moment, Andrew can’t imagine that he’s ever been happier.
chapter three
Junior year of high school is the worst year of Milo’s life to date. Between balancing swim team, National Honor Society, the volunteer hours he has to do and his grades in AP classes, Milo is always strained and overwhelmed. Disappointment and anger sit like a constant, suffocating blanket over his home.
Two weeks into his fall semester, Milo comes home to a pile of messy papers from his room on the kitchen table. The house is dead quiet, silence so menacing Milo has to swallow down rising nausea.
His room is turned upside down. His mattress is flipped off the bed. Every drawer in his dresser has been removed and emptied.
Privacy in his home is an illusion; there is always the threat that his father might decide to search his room. He is required to turn in homework and assignments randomly when asked, so his father can keep tabs on his progress.
But this—this is new. There’s not a clue in the house, no squeaking floorboard or the ping of a phone chiming. He has no idea if anyone is home. But a cold sweat dews, and his heart begins to race. Panic nips at his heels, ugly and familiar but monstrous, as he struggles to think of what might have set this off, if he left anything incriminating in his room.
He can’t think of anything though, and that’s the worst.
There are no instructions in his room. Down at the table, he finds leftover assignments, papers he turned in, notes from friends at school, all piled up. Milo doesn’t dare read the notes; he knows his shaking hands would find some conversation or joke he’s going to pay for. There are no instructions in the kitchen either. No one is home, there’s no one to tell him what to do, or how to beg to make it well. Any course of action he can think of carries the weight of repercussion, because it won’t be the right one. Nothing he does now is going to be right.
So he sits. He sits at the kitchen table and waits. The shadows grow long, and after a while he silences his phone so Andrew’s texts stop interrupting the punishment he’s taking right now—a sentence of anxiety and fear and anticipation.
His father comes home late from work and deposits his briefcase by the door. He takes off his shoes and carries them in and up to his room, walking past Milo without speaking a word. The sun is setting, and the room has grown very dim, but he doesn’t dare turn up the lights.
When his father finally comes back, the first thing he does is get a garbage bag from under the sink. He snaps it open and holds it next to the table.
“Am I supposed to throw this away?” Milo fidgets. He’s scared of speaking, but holding his tongue when he’s meant to reply is just as bad.
“Read them all. Every grade and every note.”
&n
bsp; John Graham is an imposing man, over six feet tall and well built. A life of leadership in the communities they’ve lived in have taught him how to project. When he speaks, people listen. His eyes, a lighter version of Milo’s, are incredibly changeable. Milo has seen him use them to charm and disarm people. His father is good at manipulating people and knows how to change his expression to fit each situation.
At home, he doesn’t need to change anything. Here, he’s himself first; the look in his eyes, steel and disappointment, is as natural as his breath.
Milo swallows and forces himself to maintain eye contact as long as he can. The last thing he wants to do now is to show his father his fear or any weakness. He can’t help that he’s flushed, because his coloring always gives him away, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let his hands or his voice shake. He knows that for every poor grade and every conversation deemed inappropriate, he’ll be punished. The least he can do is take it like a man.
°
He can’t tell if his father has become harder over the years, or if his expectations are more demanding, or if it’s just that Milo can grasp how awful his home life is in a different way because he’s older, but everything feels like too much, all the time. Some days he wakes up feeling as though he can’t breathe, days when his heart hurts from beating so hard, days when it’s almost impossible to get out of bed.
The free time he does get, scant as it is, he tries to spend at Andrew’s house. Andrew’s family knows that Milo’s home life sucks. His parents are kind and make room for him every way they can. But as things escalate in his house, and as his father becomes rougher, Milo finds himself keeping secrets from Andrew again. When he was a kid, his father rarely bruised him; his words and anger and booming voice and threats had been too much and enough to keep both Milo and his mother cowed. Sometimes now he has bruises from his father grabbing his arms, and a couple of times he’s been slapped, but that doesn’t leave marks.