Page 30 of Down My Chimney

“English literature is a great major,” my dad said. “I always wished I’d read more when I was younger. Keep it up, and you could be a professor yourself some day!”

“Ooh, just think how fun that could be. You could get a job at one of those Ivy League schools on the east coast.” My mom’s eyes lit up. “We could come visit you, you’d show us around campus—”

“I don’twantto be a professor!” I said, pushing my stool back. “I only picked English lit because I thought it would be easy, and I was wrong, so could you stop planning out my entire future, maybe?”

“Nothing worth doing is easy.” My mom reached up to stroke my arm. “You know that.”

“Maybe for you,” I said, shaking her hand off irritably. “But I’m not like you. I’m doing the best that I can, and I’m still struggling, and I hate it. And before you tell me to spend less time on soccer, let me remind you that soccer is the only reason I’m not at a community college right now. But honestly, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should quit the team and transfer. I’d probably be happier.”

“Blake, this isn’t like you.” My dad frowned.

“Isn’t it? Or is it actually exactly like me, but you’ve never wanted to see it?”

We stared at each other in silence, and finally, my dad sighed.

“Look, we’re not trying to tell you what to do,” he said.

I huffed. That was exactly what they were trying to do. But he didn’t seem to hear.

“But we’ve been doing some thinking, and we think it would be a good idea for you to stay at school this summer. You can take a few classes, really get ahead. We’ll get you a private tutor—anything you need. Really set you up for success next year.”

My parents smiled at me, a loving, united,perfectly reasonablefront, and I wanted to scream. I knew they meant well. But why were they always trying to force me to be someone I wasn’t?

Tears pressed at the backs of my eyes. Why couldn’t I be the son they wanted? That was the real question. Why couldn’t I be the son they deserved?

“Sure.” All the fight went out of me in a single breath. “Fine. Whatever you want.”

“Really?” My mom looked so pleased that I felt sick to my stomach. I had to get out of there.

“Look, I need to go clear my head,” I said, standing up. “I’m gonna go for a walk. I’ll be back in a bit.”

The kitchen was silent as I crossed to the back door and stepped outside. The sun was just peeking above the hills to the east, turning the sky a pearlescent pink. It was beautiful, but I didn’t stop to take it in. I needed to keep moving or I would explode.

And somehow, I found myself outside of Henry’s door.

Outside his window, actually. His parents’ house was a one-level ranch, and his room was in the southwest corner. I’d planned on texting him later that morning, after I’d had a chance to sleep, and telling him I’d come up to surprise him.

Well, he’d get a surprise all right. I stepped up to his window and rapped on the frame with my knuckles. It took a solid minute before Henry rose from his bed and stumbled across the room. He opened the window and blinked groggily.

“Blake? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” I took a deep breath, swallowed, and exhaled. “And I want you to fuck me.”

7

Henry

Blake stood at my window, his eyes bright and his jaw locked, a strange energy running through him.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m still dreaming.” I was sure I couldn’t have heard right. “Did you just say—”

“I want you to fuck me. Preferably sooner rather than later. Like, right now, if you’re available. Please.”

I slid the screen up wordlessly and watched Blake push himself up to the window ledge and swing his legs over the side. Who knew soccer gave you such good arm muscles? His feet landed on the carpet with a soft thud, and my cat, Mittens, looked up from where she was sleeping on a pile of laundry.

When she realized it was Blake, she stretched, then crossed the room to twine around his ankles, meowing softly. He bent down to scoop her up, burying his face in her fur. After about a minute of that—longer than she’d have put up with it from anyone else—she jumped from his arms and slunk back to her nest, leaving Blake and me staring at each other again.

“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you,” I said, still disoriented, “but are you okay?”

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