With or Without You Read online

  “He’s leaving in a month!” Shan says, pointing at me. I wait for her to mention Erik, mention San Diego. She doesn’t. “And if he’s got any sense, he won’t come back. You might want to think about that.”

  My parents have never done contrite. They don’t quite manage it now, but they’re certainly flirting with shame.

  Mom and Dad make awkward excuses. It’s getting late. Time for bed. Then they’re gone to their bedroom. But Shan’s new energy, complete with an iron pair, revs up. She joins me in the kitchen and rummages through the drawers, pulling out an arsenal of barber’s shears and placing them on the table. I slowly get up but she stops me with a look and a word: “Sit.”

  She just went Angry Oprah on our parents and now she’s got sharp things. Like I’m gonna say no.

  I take a seat and she puts a bath towel around me like a giant bib, then starts running her fingers through my hair. Growing up, Shan always cut my hair. We haven’t done this in a while. I can only assume it’s some sort of healing ritual. Or I’m about to lose an ear.

  “Whoever’s been cutting your hair since I moved out should be brought up on war crimes charges. You look ridiculous.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s winner of our Most Likely to Become ‘M’ Contest …,” I mutter but she silences me with a snip of the scissors close to my nose.

  She starts cutting and we’re silent for a long time.

  “Tomorrow,” she says … finally. “I’m going with M to the hospital to get D out of his cast. He’s going to be a bear for a few weeks while he recovers.”

  “I’ll try to imagine what that will be like.”

  “Then I’m catching a late flight home. Sorry I won’t be around for the unveiling of Erik’s sculpture.”

  That’s probably a good thing. Erik will be nervous enough as it is without Shan giving him the hairy eyeball.

  She runs a comb through my hair. “And I was thinking … Have you ever considered going to art school in New York?”

  I had. Briefly, when I found out that’s where Keith Haring went to art school. But by then, Davis and I had settled on Chicago. New York was no longer an option. I know her question has nothing to do with her concern for my education, though.

  I catch her scissoring wrist so I can turn to face her. “Do you really hate Erik that much, that you’re trying to get me away from him?”

  She frowns and takes the chair across from me, putting her hands on my knees. “I don’t hate Erik, Spud. You two really work well together.” Her voice bears a small grudge but I’m glad she admits this.

  “And that’s why you attacked us that night at dinner?”

  She sighs. “On the weekends, Brett volunteers at a free clinic in Brooklyn doing pro-bono accounting. He never works with the patients but he overhears things. He tells me how he sees these gay kids come in, some of them younger than you, wanting blood tests, half of them not even knowing what their diagnosis means. They think it can all be fixed with some pills. They can’t tell you the first name of whoever they had sex with last night but they can rattle off the names of the pills they want. These kids are getting sick because they’re stupid.”

  Her eyes well up. “When you sat there with Erik, I kept thinking, ‘It could be Evan at that free clinic.’ I didn’t want to think you were …”

  Shooting pains pierce my gut. She must see the hurt in my eyes because she quickly grabs my hands.

  “And then I got home and went, ‘Shannon Marie Reynolds, you are the biggest moron on the planet.’ I’ve been regretting everything I said since that night. It’s taken me this long to say anything because I was too embarrassed about my behavior. I had a panic attack. That’s all. You’re smart enough to make your own decisions. I need to respect that.”

  I squeeze her hands in return, thankful that I might actually get my sister back. “Next up, Shan Reynolds singing ‘I’m Bringing Stupid Back.’”

  She laughs and swipes me upside the head.

  “Now,” she says, marking a course correction, “I’m still not wild about you running off to California with Erik. When you finally drop this on M and D and they ask my opinion, I’m going to tell them what I think.”

  “Which is?”

  Her jaw shifts left, then right, and she admits, “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Good to know.”

  She gets up and resumes the haircut. “So … how are you?”

  The question is loaded.

  “Fine. Why?”

  She snips near the top of my left ear, then tilts my head for a better angle. “I know I haven’t seen you much lately but you haven’t left the house. Not spending time with Erik? Or Davis?”

  I almost tell her about Milwaukee. Almost ask for advice on how to fix things after a fight. But admitting my relationship problems now would only fuel her misgivings about Erik. I change tack.

  “I’m hanging in there. I’ve … I’ve been thinking about talking with M and D. I just don’t think it’s going to happen. Does it really even need to? I mean, I’m eighteen. If I want to move to California—”

  She sucks on her teeth and runs her fingers through my hair. “Can I ask you something?”

  Has anything good ever followed that question? “Sure.”

  “You’ve been dating Hottie McBubblebutt for a year. And you haven’t told anyone? Not even Davis?”

  “Right.” She noticed his butt?

  “And Erik’s letting you get away with that?”

  Yes, because I take advantage of his trust. But instead I say, “It’s kind of complicated. He doesn’t want to push me.”

  “Push you into, what, admitting he exists to the people who know you best? I’m sorry, Spud, but that’s lame. If this guy makes you happy, so happy that you’re ready to follow him to California, why aren’t you telling the world?”

  Erik can zero in on my every mood swing, every evasion, in a way I never thought possible. But it’s Shan who can nail my every insecurity to the wall. She brushes my cheek. Apparently, I’m crying.

  “Because … I keep waiting for it to end.” I don’t recognize my own whisper. It’s wan, colorless. “Every time I want to tell someone about Erik, I look at my paintings. No two people look at a painting the same way. Everybody brings their own perspective. If I tell someone about Erik, I’ll see me through their eyes. And if I see them doubting that someone like Erik could love me, I’ll see it too. And I’ll know it’s true. Then I’ll blow it. I’ll completely wreck things with Erik and everyone will be right. But keeping Erik from Mom and Dad and Davis means I get to protect who I am when I’m with Erik.”

  Shan pulls the towel from around my shoulders, shakes off the excess hair, and dabs at my moist cheeks.

  “Wow,” she whispers back. “Really? Being embarrassed that you love someone is worse than losing Erik? If that idea is worse for you than the actual loss itself, you need to seriously reexamine your feelings. Do you want to move to San Diego?”

  Shan starts to pack up the shears into a small gray pouch. She’s doing her very best not to look at me. C’mon, Shan—right now, more than ever, I need sage advice. What do I do?

  But the wisdom never comes. I think she’s about to speak but there’s a knock at the door. We both look at the clock. Too late for visitors. I answer it to find a tall, lean police officer, notebook in hand.

  “Excuse me.” He nods respectfully, glancing at the notebook. “I’m looking for Evan Weiss.”

  He’s in the house. His uniform is black. We sit. Shan’s hand rests on my shoulder.

  Incident at the Darkroom. Brawl. Boy in hospital. Classmate.

  “Do you know Pete Isaacson?” Baseball bat. Brown wood.

  Details sketchy. Someone said I was on the scene helping. Was I on the scene?

  Shan eyes the hallway. Summon Mom and Dad? Keep them at bay?

  I think of Erik. I want Erik here. No. No, I don’t.

  Where was I the night of the fight?


  Baseball bat.

  Shan speaks up. Whoever said I was there was mistaken. I was at home. Painting in my room. When the fight happened.

  If I wasn’t there, do I know who was? Lots of red, crimson, carmine.

  Baseball bat.

  He gives me a card. Call if I remember anything. Call if I hear anything.

  I can’t look at Shan as I close the door behind Officer Brogan. I rest my head against the door.

  “I just lied to a cop, didn’t I?” she whispers. “You were there.”

  “I was …” I don’t know how to finish. “… looking out for Davis.”

  “Shit,” Shan mutters. “How’d I know COD was mixed up with this?”

  I turn. My face feels like it’s caving in. “Shan, it’s not like that. He was … in over his head. Pete threw the first punch. Davis just …”

  Again, Shan’s eyes dart to the hallway. This time, I know she wants to wake up Mom and Dad, get them involved. I grab her arm, squeezing desperately.

  “Please,” I beg, “let me handle this. It doesn’t sound like they know who—”

  “Jesus, Evan, there’s a guy in the hospital. You can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.”

  “I won’t. I’ll … try to get the guys who did this to see reason.” It’s a hollow promise. Sable won’t take reason. “It got out of control, that’s all. It was a mistake.”

  “It was more than just you and Davis. Who else was there?”

  “Please, Shan. I know what I’m doing. I promise … nothing stupid like that will happen again. Trust me.”

  And in that moment, her face reminds me of Erik. That look he got when he gave me my graduation gifts and asked, “I’ve been a good boyfriend, haven’t I?” That look that says, This isn’t what I signed up for. Who are you, anyway? Both then and now, the look is justified. I’m ashamed of this.

  Shan glances one more time at the back hallway and then fixes me with the most potent stare I’ve ever seen. “No more violence or Mom and Dad find out, got it? I’m not covering for you again.”

  I put my hand to my heart, my eyes welling with wet. “I promise. I swear, oh God, I swear.”

  She squints. “Was Erik—?”

  “No!” I almost shout, then I gulp down a huge breath and shake my head. “No, Erik doesn’t know anything about it. Please don’t—”

  “I got you out of trouble with the cops,” she says, pulling away, “but you have to decide what to do about your boyfriend.”

  And she’s gone to her room. I have to decide what to do about my boyfriend. But I can’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but all I can think about is my best friend. I picture Davis, or, at least, how I remember him. Not who he is now. A Chaser. A Chaser wannabe. Does he know any of this? Does he know what happened to Pete?

  The old instincts kick in. I have to hope that Erik will understand. Because everything I’ve ever known screams at me: Protect Davis. And right now, that means getting closer to him. Getting closer to the Chasers.

  lies

  “Smile!”

  An incandescent flash punctures my vision. The Chasers mill around Sable’s room. Mark and Del hunch over Sable’s laptop. Will and Davis graze on the motley assortment of chips and snacks everyone brought. When I arrived at sundown, I was greeted with smiles, claps on the back, friendship. Like when they saw me at the Darkroom. I should feel like I belong here. But tonight, belonging doesn’t matter. Protecting Davis does.

  We’re two fewer tonight; Danny and Micah must have been spooked by the fight.

  Sable checks the picture he just took of me on Mark’s digital camera. He nods, then says, “Okay, lose the shirt.”

  Everyone else has just gone through this, so I don’t hesitate to doff my polo. Sable raises an eyebrow and whistles. “Nice. Would never have guessed you had that much tone.”

  Wolf whistles all around and I flush. Yoga’s been very good to me. Even Davis can’t hide his surprise. I growl, “Just take the damn picture.”

  Another flash and then Sable commandeers the laptop, uploading the photos.

  “Why are we doing this?” This from Will, whose skeletal shirtless photo rivals Davis for Scrawniest Guy in the Room. I’m surprised Will is still with us. He asks this at least once every meeting.

  “It’s like paying dues in a club,” Sable says. He logs on to a website: MadCityEscorts.com. He starts by posting Mark’s photos—two very cheesy torso shots, biceps flexed, bare-chested—and creating a profile. Mark’s the only one of us who can really claim having a “bod.” I’m betting that his ad gets the first reply. “This is how you’re contributing to our operating expenses.”

  Nobody asks, and I suspect I’m the only one curious, what operating expenses we have.

  “It’s also,” Sable continues, typing away, “how we’re learning about the next stage in gay history: the Seventies, or, as I like to call it, the liberation movement. Before Stonewall, the gay community was cowering, hiding in the shadows. But once we stood up for ourselves, we realized just how much we’d been oppressed. Then, we knew we could have sex with whoever we wanted, whenever we wanted.”

  “Sex?” Will can’t hide his alarm anymore. “I thought we were just being, you know, escorts. Taking guys out for dinner or whatever.”

  Sable shoots Mark and Del a look and all three laugh. Davis joins them. Sable turns and says with forced innocence, “That’s right, Will. Because paying for sex would be prostitution. And that’s illegal. But what these guys are paying for isn’t sex. Your time is valuable, right? They’re paying for your time. That’s all.”

  A few keystrokes later and we all have profiles on Mad City Escorts. None of us looks like the other guys on the site, who are all ripped, seductive. But Sable assures us that, by the end of the week, someone will have put in a request to spend time with each of us at two hundred dollars an hour. We split it fifty-fifty; we each keep one hundred and Sable gets the rest for the “operating expenses.”

  We split up for the night. Davis and I disappear into his room. Once the door is closed, he throws a couple playful punches at my gut.

  “So when did you get so buff?” he asks, a wicked glint in his eye.

  “Shan,” I say quickly. “She’s teaching me yoga. It’s nothing.”

  Davis plops down on his bed. “Yoga, huh? Maybe you could teach me. Gotta turn these pipe cleaners into pipes.” He flexes his right arm and absolutely nothing happens.

  “Hey, listen.” I lower my voice and cast a quick look at the door. “The police came to my house the other night. Asking questions about the Darkroom. And Pete.”

  The Davis I grew up with would be terrified at the mention of cops. This Davis, with a posse of new friends, this Davis is angry.

  “Son of a bitch. Big Pete’s a badass when he’s picking on the fags, but turn the tables on him and he runs to the cops—”

  I shake my head. “He didn’t run anywhere. He’s in a coma.”

  I want—need—him to react. Shock. Fear.

  No go.

  Davis mulls this over; he’s unconsciously pounding the mattress with his fist. “So it must have been one of the other trogs who talked to the cops. We gotta figure out who—”

  “Does it matter? Don’t you think … we’re in over our heads here? Sable is—”

  “This isn’t Cicada’s fault!” The force in his voice is startling. “He’s looking out for us. Nobody else is doing that. Cicada’s giving us what we always wanted. We’re not scared little kids anymore. I wish we’d known Cicada a long time ago. Pete would have gotten what was coming to him a lot sooner.”

  I raise up my hands defensively. “Okay, I’m not saying anything about Sable. We just don’t have a lot of experience picking fights. Or following through.”

  Now Davis is excited. It’s like he’s come from a revival meeting, full of joy and the Word. “There’s so much we didn’t have experience with. Until Cicada came along. Can’t you feel it? How great it feels to walk down the street with your he
ad up?”

  I’ve been doing that for a while. Ever since Erik.

  Davis is just getting started. “Okay, I wasn’t sure about this escort service thing at first either. But it’s part of our heritage. I want to be just like the guys who lived through Stonewall. And came into their own. Those guys don’t take shit from anyone. They live out loud and proud. I didn’t realize any of that until Cicada. For Christ’s sake, isn’t this what we always talked about?”

  It’s exactly what we always talked about. Fitting in. But fitting in never involved putting people in comas.

  We sit quietly for a few more minutes as Davis comes off his buzz. Then he says, “So … what did you say to the cops?”

  I groan. “Shan vouched for me. Said I was at home with her that night.”

  Davis, who I thought would be relieved, frowns. “Evan, that could seriously screw us up. The whole reason we didn’t tell you about this beforehand was that you were supposed to be our alibi. We needed someone who wasn’t there when we smashed up those cars to say we’d been with him the entire time.”

  I bite back my anger at being used that way. I need to reason with Davis. “Sorry. I’m new to this covering-for-guys-with-baseball-bats thing you’ve got going.” I avoid anger. I’m okay with sarcasm.

  Davis is on his feet. “We have to tell Cicada.”

  “Look,” I say, standing between him and the door, “I’m the only one they talked to. If they suspected anyone else, they’d have stopped by here. Or Mark’s house. Or Del’s or …” I’m struck by my own words as the implication kicks me in the stomach. How did the police know to come to me? Why was I singled out for questions? Why do they think I helped with all this?

  “I think you’re in the clear,” I assure him, although I question how assuring I sound. “Just … lie low. Don’t get in any more fights for a while. It’ll blow over.”

  Davis keeps eyeing the door but, for now, he sits back on his bed. “I dunno,” he says. “Whatever. I’m kinda tired.”

  “Sure thing. G’night.” And I’m out the door. Before I hit the bottom of the stairs, I hear a door open, a knock, another door open, and Sable’s unmistakable “Hey.”