None of the Above by I. W. Gregorio

Author:I. W. Gregorio
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-01-30T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

“Hey, Mom,” he yelled. “Do you know where my—”

Sam caught sight of me and stopped midsentence. His mouth gaped open slightly for a moment, then snapped shut into a thin, pursed line.

We stared at each other.

I noticed Sam’s stubble first—about a day and a half’s worth, I figured. When we were going out, for him to skip a day of shaving was unusual. He knew I liked him smooth.

Sam broke the silence. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was oddly subdued, and he pulled nervously at the white V-neck undershirt he wore over his sweatpants. Maybe he only kept his voice down because he didn’t want his mom to hear, but it was better than him shouting like he had in the hallway at school.

“I was running. Your mom invited me in.” I could’ve told him that I was just about to leave, but I didn’t. Because as much as I wanted to go before, now I wanted to stay. I took a step toward him.

But there was more to it than that—somehow I sensed something . . . open about the wariness of his blue-eyed gaze. A willingness, now that we were away from teammates and A-listers and teachers alike.

“You haven’t told her yet?” I asked.

He looked away, picking at the paint on the doorjamb with a fingernail. The muscles in his jaw spasmed, and he seemed to come to a decision. Stepping back, he waved me into his room. Heart pounding, I followed.

The smell of boy made me ache; funny how you can be nostalgic for the scent of deodorant mixed with sweat. Sam’s room looked exactly like I remembered, with one exception. Before, there’d been a ring of pictures circled around his desk. Now, the wall was blank. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to sink any further, but it did.

Sam straddled his desk chair, and waved me to the armchair by his stereo without looking at me.

“What was I supposed to tell her? Not just my mom—everyone? My sister? My dad?” His voice broke, and I understood. Mr. Wilmington’s favorite nickname for Sam was “stud.”

“I don’t know. . . . That it’s a medical condition.” A wave of grief and anger overwhelmed me. “God damn it, Sam. It’s not like I am what I am out of spite.”

“I know, I know,” he moaned. He put his hands over his face. His beautiful hands. I couldn’t help it—I reached out and brushed his knuckles with my fingertips.

He flinched, and I closed my eyes at the sudden pain in my chest.

I retreated, and told him, “I had surgery. You don’t have to worry about . . . my having boy parts anymore.” I pulled down my tracksuit to show him my scars, two puckered-up pink lines running just below the level of my underwear.

I tried to explain to him about mixed signals and testosterone deafness, but the more I talked, the more his eyes glazed over. Finally he just raised his hand.

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