“And your parents didn’t care? Were you out to them?”
“Yeah, I was. But they just asked me what I’d done to get those guys’ attention. Told me not to flaunt my sexuality.”
“They blamed you.” I feel myself glaring at shadows behind him that could be his parents.
“Not blamed,” Hudson says quickly. “I mean, they’re not bad people, just …” He sighs. “They’re parents. They want to protect me.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, that’s part of why I run alone. Challenge myself. Make myself better. No one to let you down with homophobia if you run alone. And they don’t get to win as many games as they would if I were on the baseball team.”
“Serves them right,” I say.
“Yeah. And speaking of serves … aren’t you going to help me with mine?” He turns around, sticking his ass out at me. “Is this the right form?”
I step up behind him and reach around, taking his arm and pull him back a little, our bodies flush. He feels so good against me. He smells so good.
He pushes his ass into me. I grab his hips and push back. He takes in a sharp breath, lets out a soft half moan.
“That doesn’t feel like the right place to hold your racket,” he says, and I laugh and step back. What were we doing? Serving, right. Tennis serving, not serving looks or anything. ’Cause we’re masc.
Actually, I am good at serving, I remember. It’s a dance move, hands over the head, then bring them down, but wrist at an angle, like when you want to show jazz hands to the audience.
“It’s all in the wrist,” I tell him, reaching around and taking his wrist in my hand. I lean my head on his shoulder and lower my voice as I shape his arms. “You want to keep your wrist higher, so the angle isn’t so severe, like this,” I say. Our bodies are pressed together, and he keeps pushing further back into me.
“Okay,” he says. We both stand there for a moment, interlocked, before I take a step back.
“So try,” I say.
He serves, this time whisking the ball over the net. “I did it!” he says. He takes another ball from the ground and serves again, and again gets it over the net. “Wow. Babe. That … actually really helped.” He turns around, smiles at me. “I thought you just suggested it so you could wrap your arms around me.”
“Can I not do that without a tennis lesson?” I ask.
He smiles, stepping toward me. “You can do whatever you want,” he says in a low voice, before kissing me. His arms wrap around me, and our tongues find each other. He bites my lips slightly—new, but surprisingly enjoyable. I gasp and he moves away from my lips to my ear.
“Want to go to the boathouse?” he asks in a whisper.
“Absolutely.”
On Friday, we run the obstacle course again, and I make it through the tire swing, and even grab on to the rope swing over the Peanut Butter Pit—though I don’t make it across. Hudson says I did a good job, though, and kisses me on the cheek. I’ve been trying to get myself ready for today. The end of the first week, the time when Hudson usually invites his boyfriends to the Peanut Butter Pit after dark, where they finally get naked, and I would love to finally get naked with him, but I know I have to say no. I have to show him I’m more than just a fling. And I have a plan figured out. When he asks me if I’m ready, I’m going to say I want to talk more first—and then ask him about the most unerotic thing I can think of—coming out to his parents.
“Hey, Del?” Brad taps me on the shoulder as we watch the other campers run the obstacle course. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure,” I say. Is this where he warns me what Hudson means when he invites me here tonight? Tells me to bring condoms? That would be quite a system, but it wouldn’t surprise me.
He pulls me away from Hudson, who shrugs and goes back to watching the other campers.
“What’s up?” I ask Brad, when we’re out of earshot of everyone else. Has he finally figured out I didn’t bump my head?
“It’s about George,” he says.
“What?” For a moment, panic floods me like cold water. Did I miss something with George? Is he angry at me? Did he lose his voice? “What’s wrong with George?”
“Nothing.” Brad grins. “At least … I don’t think anything. But I feel like we’ve been flirting now for a week, and he’s funny, but he’s not like … I don’t know if he’s really into me. I mean, look at you and Hudson—you guys have been boyfriends for the entire time he and I have just been flirting. Is he really into me? Or should I give up on this?”
“I know he thinks you’re cute,” I say carefully. No one has ever come to me for romantic advice before. But I guess having a boyfriend makes you an expert. Especially when you came up with a plan to get him. “George wants something easy,” I say. That’s what George had said.
“I can be easy,” Brad says, smiling.
“Not like that,” I say. “He just … he wants someone he can be himself around, and I think he’s worried that you’d want him to …”
“Be someone completely different?” Brad raises an eyebrow at me, and puts his hands on his hips. “Wonder where he got that idea.”
“So you know it wasn’t a bump on the head,” I say. I take a deep breath. He hasn’t told Hudson yet, so that’s good.
“I’m not an idiot. And hey, you do what you want. I thought you were cool before. You killed that song last year, what was it? ‘Dirty Old Man’?”
“Yeah?” I find myself smiling, remembering it.
“But if this is the new you, that’s cool, too. As long as you’re not doing it to mess with my friend.”
“No,” I say quickly. “No. I just wanted him to notice me.”
“Well … you got that. Now how do I get George to notice me?”
“You won’t tell Hudson?” That would throw everything off. He likes me now, he’s into me, and maybe he could even see me under the glittery trappings if he knew, but it would be too much, too sudden. I need to make him love me first.
“I’m not blackmailing you,” Brad says, looking annoyed. “I’m asking. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I get it.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Sorry. George thinks you’re cool, and cute, and I think you just need to show him you like him for him, and you don’t care if he wears makeup or has an extensive fan collection. Or just tell him that. Ask him out. Stop flirting, and make a move. Make it easy for him.”
Brad nods. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks, man.” He goes in for a hug, and I hug him back. “And for what it’s worth, Hudson really likes you. But maybe he’s the one person at camp who really has a right to know who you used to be?”
“He will,” I say. “Once I know I’m not just one of his two-week romances. Once we’re …” I let the sentence fade.
“Oh.” Brad nods. “Playing for keeps. Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks. And there’s no real difference, you know. Between Randy and Del. I’m still me.”