As of tomorrow, I was going to have new skin, and that skin could look like anything, would feel different than anything I knew yet. And that made me feel a little bit like I was about to be born. Again.

  But hopefully not Born Again.

  Dad opened the hatchback and began to put my duffel bags and boxes on the hot concrete. Sweat beaded up on my forehead and dripped onto my upper lip as I struggled to lift a box that had been underneath the duffels. It was a wet heat, something I’d first experienced when we hit the Midwest, maybe Iowa. I’d never even been east of Colorado before the trip, and now here I was, about to live in New England.

  It took us four long, sweaty trips up the stairs to the fourth floor to get all my stuff to my room. My roommate, a guy named Albie Harris, at least according to the e-mail I’d gotten, wasn’t around, but as we opened the door, we found that his stuff sure was.

  Albie’s side of the room was messy. Like earthquake messy. The furnishings were all pretty standard stuff: linoleum floors, two faux wood desks side by side, two white dressers at the feet of two metal-framed single beds on opposite sides of the room. But a box of Cap’n Crunch was open and spilled across the floor. A pillow, sans pillowcase, had traveled across the room and was under my bed, along with a black T-shirt, a science textbook, and what appeared to be a fake nose and mustache attached to a pair of eyeglasses. He’d gotten here maybe one day before me, since the dorms just opened yesterday, yet there were at least five crumpled Sunkist soda cans underneath and around his unmade bed. Two open suitcases lay in the center of the room, still full but with clothes overflowing in all directions. On his desk was a pair of two-way radios, as well as another radio with tons of buttons. Above his bed was a huge, menacing poster that depicted a car exploding. In big, bloodred letters at the bottom it read, SURVIVAL PLANET.

  I looked at my dad and opened my eyes wide, and he got this half grin he gets when he is savoring something that he can use for later. I’m the kind of kid who keeps spare Swiffers in his closet, and he knew me well enough to know how horrified I was at the sight of this disaster area.

  I flopped down on the bed the roommate had left untouched. Dad stood in the doorway and took out his iPhone, and I groaned.

  “A perfect match,” he said, panning the room with his phone.

  Nothing was more annoying than when my dad had an opinion, and it proved to be correct. For four months, and more vehemently for the 2,164 miles we’d just driven, he’d told me I was making a mistake. Normally, this would be my time to deny it, to insist he was wrong, but it seemed useless to argue. If my dad and mom could have paid my roommate to have my new room look like the worst possible home for me, this would have been it.

  So I gave in. I put my head in my hands and shook it exaggeratedly, like I was really upset. “This does not bode well,” I said.

  Dad laughed and came and sat next to me, putting his arm on my shoulder.

  “Hey. It is what it is,” he said, always the great philosopher.

  “I know, I know. I get to make my own choices and live with the consequences. I have free rein to make my own mistakes,” I said.

  “Hey,” he said, shrugging. “The universe is infinite.”

  In my dad’s language, that means, I’m just a guy. What do I know?

  He stood up. “You want me to help you unpack?” he asked, his tone that of a man who had a 2,164-mile return journey ahead of him and really didn’t want to place polo shirts in dresser drawers just now.

  “I can do it,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Dad walked to the window, so I joined him. My room was on the back side of the dorm, which faced the huge, grassy quad. Outside, guys were throwing Frisbees, congregating in small groups. Guys, all guys. Mostly preppy. Very New England conservative. It didn’t look that different from the pictures on the Internet, the photos that had gotten me interested in the first place. Very unlike what I could see of my roommate.

  “You sure this is the right place for you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad. Don’t worry about me.”

  He stared out the window as if the whole place made him sad.

  “Seamus Rafael Goldberg. At the Natick School. Doesn’t sound right, somehow,” Dad said.

  Yes, my name is Seamus — pronounced SHAY-mus — Rafael Goldberg. Try being five with that name. They called me Seamus as a young kid, then Rafael, which is almost worse, until I was like ten. I picked Rafe when I was in fifth grade, and I have insisted on it ever since.

  He crossed the room, leaving me alone at the window, and I watched this kid loft a Frisbee a good fifty yards.

  Dad pointed the camera at me, and I winced.

  “C’mon. One video for your mom,” he said, and I shrugged. I went to the middle of the room, next to the Cap’n Crunch spillage, and pointed down as if I were a tour guide at the Grand Canyon. Dad laughed. Then I trotted over to my roommate’s bed, put my two hands together, and leaned my head on them as if to say, I’m in love!

  With the iPhone still recording, I walked back to the window, trying to come up with a funny pose. But then a strange thing happened. I felt this pang in my gut and I bit my lip. I’m not super big on emotional outbursts, which is what made it weird. I thought I might break down and start crying, starkly aware that as soon as Dad left, I’d have no one but strangers around me. Dad must have seen something in my body language, because he put his phone down, came back over to me, and gave me a sweat-soaked hug.

  “Hey. You’re gonna be a rock star here, Rafe,” he whispered into my ear.

  It was one of those things he always said, ever since I was five and going off to kindergarten. I was gonna be a rock star in the sandbox, I was gonna be a rock star in sixth-grade orchestra, and now I was gonna be a rock star at Natick.

  “Love you, Dad,” I said, a little choked up.

  “I know you do. We love you too, buddy. Go kick some ass, take some names,” he said, nearly tripping on the tipped-over cereal box as he let me go and stepped toward the door. “Find a boyfriend.”

  I tensed up. That wasn’t exactly the thing I wanted broadcast in my first hour at Natick. Kids were walking by, but nobody stopped and looked.

  “Give Mom a hug for me,” I said, and I hugged him one more time.

  “One last video for the road?” he asked, pointing his iPhone back in my direction.

  I put my hand in front of my face, as if I were a celebrity who was tired of having pictures taken. And really I was. Not a celebrity, but truly tired of being on camera.

  When you’re Gavin and Opal’s gay kid, you always feel like someone is looking at you. Not necessarily in a bad way. Just looking. Because something about you is interesting and different. But what you don’t know is what they’re seeing. And that’s the kind of thing that could drive a guy crazy.

  Dad took the hint and pocketed the phone for a final time. “Bye, son,” he said, as a sweet, inimitable smile creased his face.

  “Bye, Dad.”

  And he left me alone in my new world, staring at the semiblank slate that was my side of the room.

  One thing I didn’t realize when I created the idyllic world of Natick in my head was that the reality didn’t include air-conditioning. Old building, I guess. My window and door were wide open as I tried to get some cross ventilation going, but it didn’t do much to cool the oppressive room or my sweltering pits. So as I stuffed my second empty duffel bag into the dorm closet, I decided on a shower, since I smelled like my expiration date had come and gone weeks ago. A guy zoomed by the doorway, then I heard the footsteps slow and stop. He came back. Standing at my door in a royal blue tank top was a tall, built kid with black hair, blue eyes, and shoulders to die for.

  “Hey, guy,” he said. “We’re gettin’ a game going downstairs, do you … holy Jesus!”

  “What?” I said, looking behind me.

  “You look just like Schroeder.”

  “From Peanuts?”

  “What? No. This kid. Graduated last year. Megapopular. You could be his brother.”

  “Oh,” I said, my heart pulsing fast.

  “I’m the first to tell you that?” the kid said, revealing a flawless set of pearly white teeth.

  I smiled back, dazzled by him. I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “You’re the first to tell me anything. You’re the first person I’ve met here.”

  “You’re kidding. Well, come on downstairs. We’re playing touch football, could use another player or two,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Nickelson. Steve Nickelson.”

  “Rafe Goldberg,” I said.

  “You comin’?”

  “Um, sure,” I said. Showering could definitely wait.

  We raced down the stairs, and when we got out to the quad behind the dorm, I saw a bunch of big, muscular guys standing around on the grass, tossing a football. Sort of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad come to life.

  “So, okay,” Steve said, racing toward them. “Who’s this guy look like?”

  “Your mama?” one kid said. Then the guys looked at me, and I saw a bunch of grins.

  “Thought we were rid of the Schroedster already. Where’s he at, Tufts?” This came from a guy with a deep voice and acne all over his face.

  “Yup.”

  “What’s your name?” The comments and questions were coming so fast that I had no time to notice anything beyond the fact that I was facing a group of, like, twelve guys, all built, most very good-looking. They were a huge mass, a giant blob of testosterone.

  “Rafe Goldberg.”

  “Oh! You’re the new junior, right? Where you from?” a kid with stringy blond hair and a skater T-shirt said.

  “Yeah. Colorado.”

  “Right. Heard we had a new junior,” a very tan kid wearing an inside-out Patriots jersey said. “You playing?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Introductions were barely made. It wasn’t that kind of scene. Deep-voice Acne Guy stuck out his hand and said, “Robinson,” so I said, “Rafe,” back to him. No one else offered.

  “Yo! Colorado,” Steve said. “You fast?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Other than skiing, that is probably the best thing about me, athletics-wise. I’m an average soccer player, and the crowd I hung with back in Boulder wasn’t much for pickup games of football. Here, though, maybe my crowd was?

  They chose up sides. My team was Steve; the tan kid with the inside-out jersey, whose name turned out to be Zack; a quiet black guy named Bryce, who was wearing a T-shirt that read I WANT TO GO TO THERE; and a huge guy named Ben, who was twice as wide as me, with legs like fire hydrants.

  “You get the ball first, ’cause you guys are gonna get your asses handed to you, anyway,” Steve said, and we went back to do “the kickoff.” I really wasn’t that familiar with football, so I decided my strategy would be to hang back and watch.

  Steve kicked off, throwing the ball really high and far toward the other team, which was facing us. Then we all ran toward one another, the strong sun blaring down on us, the air thick like honey.

  It turned out to be pretty fun. The guys on the other team tried to block us as we ran toward the one who caught the ball. One guy put his forearms up in front of him while I ran at him, so I tried to run around him. He knocked me in the chest with his arms one time, which nearly knocked the wind out of me. Then I looked over and Steve was slapping two hands on the guy with the ball, and the play was over.

  While the guys on the other team huddled up, Steve told us all what to do. I was supposed to cover Robinson. He came to the line, saw me, and smirked. He was taller and broader than me, with leg muscles way bigger than mine, and he wore a cross around his neck. I just figured that if they gave him the ball, I’d make sure to tag him before he got by me.

  This tall kid with lily-white skin and a buzz cut stood in the middle, with two guys on either side of him, facing us. He yelled, “Hike!”

  Robinson took horselike strides, and I backpedaled for a bit, staring at his face. His eyes got big, and he accelerated past me, so I turned and ran as fast as I could. I heard Steve’s voice yelling my way, and I somehow knew to look up.

  There was the ball, flying toward us. Robinson turned and was adjusting so that he could catch it. I was right next to him, and the split second before he jumped, I did.

  I’ve played volleyball. I know how to jump high, and I know how to spike. I used my fists and smashed the ball down to the ground.

  “Yo!” Steve screamed, running over to me like a crazy person. “He is Schroeder! Nobody brings that shit into my house!”

  Zack was coming over too, and the two of them looked like I’d done something incredible. Blood coursed through my veins, and I felt the hairs on my neck stand on end.

  “That’s what Schroeder used to say,” Steve said, high-fiving me.

  I copied the voice Steve had used when imitating Schroeder. “Nobody brings that shit into my house!” I bellowed.

  Steve looked over at Zack, and they bumped fists. “He even sounds like him!” Steve said.

  I pointed at Robinson, who was jogging back to his teammates. “Nuh-uh,” I said, wagging my finger at them. He ignored me and went back to his huddle.

  Steve and Zack hugged in hysterics. “Now that one’s pure Colorado. No finger wagging for the Schroedster! We gotta call you Schroedster Two!”

  In my life there had been moments of great pleasure. I couldn’t recall any, though, that felt anything like this one. It surprised me. I’d never thought of myself as the kind of guy who wanted to fit in with the jock crowd, but here I was, swelling with pride at being given a nickname.

  Me, a jock? I thought about it, rolled it around on my tongue. It made me smile, and then laugh a little. I was elated. That was the feeling in my chest. Elation. I’d never experienced it before.

  Bathing in it, I glanced over at Ben and Bryce in time to watch them share an eye roll. I stopped smiling, embarrassed. What was that for? What had I done to them? All I had done was enjoy myself. They reminded me of the jock versions of PIBs, back in Boulder — the People in Black, the kids who wore trench coats and sat on the sidelines and judged everyone. Who the hell were they to judge me?

  Despite that, the football game was a good time. I was actually a bit relieved that the name Schroedster Two died a quick death when I showed myself to be less adept at catching passes. Steve threw me two in a row, and the first one skidded off my hands, while the second hit me in the chest and bounced off. I thought I was close, especially on the second, but that didn’t seem to count for anything, and the name fell away. Fine. Just another label to define me.

  “Okay,” Steve said in the huddle as we set up for our final drive, with the score tied. “Colorado, you do a ten-step buttonhook. Zack, go flat left. Benny, out and in. Bryce, flag deep. Okay?”

  In previous huddles, he’d traced the routes on his hand with his finger, but suddenly we were getting names of plays. I had no idea what to do, so after we all yelled, “Break!” I tapped Ben the Jerk on his massive left shoulder.

  “Um, what’s a buttonhook?” I said.

  He looked at me funny. Then he turned his palm up and drew the play for me, a quick run — ten steps, I guessed — and a turn.

  “Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. “I owe you one.”

  He cocked his head slightly and went off to the other side of Steve. I lined up on the left, facing Robinson, and when Steve said hike, I ran the ten steps and spun around.

  The ball was in my face immediately. It smacked me in the nose right as I put my hands up. Too late. The pain in my face knocked the wind out of me. The football glanced against my left hand as it ricocheted off my nose, and I adjusted, thrusting my hands out away from my body.

  There was the ball, against my fingertips. I juggled it until it was cradled in my hands, and then I closed them in, brought my arms into my chest, and began running.

  “He only got him with one hand!” I heard Steve yell, and I sped up, scurrying toward the other team’s end zone. I knew once I got going, Robinson wasn’t going to catch me.

  “Touchdown!” Steve yelled. I spiked the ball, like I’d seen football players do on TV and like I’d seen some of the other guys do. Then I did a little dance, because you gotta dance when you get into the end zone. Everyone knows that. I shrugged from side to side, lifting my shoulders rhythmically as I moved back and forth.

  “Kid’s got moves!” said Steve, coming over to slap me on the back. I turned toward him to say something, and that’s when I felt the blood.

  “Oh, shit!” Steve said, and the other guys on the team ran over.

  “Looks bad,” Bryce said.

  “I’m fine,” I said. It didn’t really feel fine, but I wasn’t in the mood to have my celebration cut short, even for a medical emergency.

  Ben grabbed my shoulder. “We should get you to the infirmary. Could be broken.”

  “Nah,” I said, pulling away. “This thing bleeds if you look at it funny. I’m cool.”

  He looked me in the eye. His eyes were a translucent blue. He looked kind. I didn’t want to look away. I realized that not being the gay kid here allowed me more access. I wasn’t supposed to hold eye contact with jocks back in Boulder. It was understood: They accepted me, and I didn’t freak them out with eye contact. Here, no such contract had been made. Ben blinked at me, I blinked back, and when it began to feel a bit too close, I averted my eyes.

  That turned out to be the winning touchdown. I played the final set of downs with blood dripping from my nose, and when the game was over, Bryce came over and handed me some paper towels.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No worries,” he said, with a lack of inflection, and he and Ben walked off, all holier-than-thou, leaving me with Steve and Zack.

  We walked back to the dorms together, and they asked if I wanted to have dinner with them later. “Hell, yeah,” I said. And I went back up to the room with a bloodied nose and a euphoric feeling in my chest that was entirely new to me.