“It gets better. The guy just wants cash for the window. So Jack takes me upstairs and goes back down with cash for the guy, and the guy cheerfully puts the gun away and that’s that.”

  “That didn’t happen.”

  “Hey, Jack!”

  “Yo,” Jack yelled back.

  “Did we or did we not get chased by a guy with a gun after you threw a football through a window?”

  “Truth,” Jack said, and CJ’s wide-mouth expression was like Vindication! I burst out laughing. How did CJ just throw out a story that happened to be true that was scarier than anything that had ever happened in my life?

  “Before he quit school, we had a whole bunch of adventures,” Jack called back. “Now I don’t see the kid for days and nights at a time and he buys records by the crateful. You know what my stepson does all day and night, Micah? ’Cause I sure don’t.”

  The vindicated look was replaced by one that involved narrowing eyes and grimacing cheeks.

  “You quit school?” I asked.

  He sighed and spoke in a low tone. “Long story.”

  I shook my head, not lowering my voice. “Why did you tell me that you were in school? Why not tell me the truth? That was like one of the first things you told me.”

  CJ motioned with his hands to lower my volume. He spoke very softly. “I didn’t really know you then. I guess I was … playing a part. Sorry, okay? I don’t lie about important things to people I like.”

  For about the twentieth time in our short friendship, I’d had enough. Yet I sat there on the floor, unable to move. Like I was in front of a puzzle I needed to solve.

  Maybe he got that hint, because in that lowered voice he told me a story.

  “I’ve had a variety of jobs. And I don’t tell Jack because he’s a nosy fuck who will come check up on me and that’s not gonna happen. This past summer I worked at Cookie in a Cup in the World Trade Center. Now I’m … kind of a waiter.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep. Pretty boring stuff. Though Cookie in a Cup was pretty wild. Had to sign this proprietary information waiver, because I have the secret recipe now. I could sell it for, like, a million dollars.”

  “And be the richest person in jail.”

  “True. My boss was this total closet case. Sometimes in the mornings when I was in the back making cookies, he’d come in and fondle me, and we’d do the wild thing right there on the counter next to the cookie mixer.”

  “Ew. You’re making this up.”

  His eyes got wide in that CJ way. “We’d use the cookie batter—”

  “Ew.”

  “You’re not liking this one.”

  “I am not.”

  “Fine. We’d make little cookie houses and set them out for the roaches to move into. Once a family of roaches took up residence in one and overnight, they built six new houses. We came in and there were all these cookie high-rises. We called the head one ‘Donald Roach.’ ”

  “I like that one better.”

  “I figured you would.”

  The sun had continued to set, and through the slightly grubby windows, I could see the streetlights turning on. I looked around CJ’s place and tried to imagine it as my own home. It was hard. For one thing, Jack sat near the TV, not watching us but clearly not leaving us alone, either.

  I wondered if it felt like home to CJ.

  He sighed and reclined onto his elbows. “This is nice.”

  “Yeah?” I said, and then I felt bad about the inflection at the end, so I said, “Yeah.”

  “I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a platonic friend over. I was maybe fourteen? Fifteen?” He stretched his arms up over his head and seemed to consider this. “Hm.”

  “Well, thanks for letting it be me,” I said. “I’m honored.”

  He sat up and smiled at me. “I wouldn’t have it be anyone else. Friends?”

  “Friends,” I agreed.

  October 1987

  “Did you grow up thinking that lanyards were going to be a bigger deal than they turned out to be?” I asked CJ during one of our marathon phone calls. Any night he didn’t work, we just camped out on the phone and made each other laugh. Or tried, in my case. It was a Monday night, I hadn’t done my homework, and I was as happy as I could remember.

  He snorted. “What? No. What are you talking about?”

  “I went to this day camp when I was, I dunno, eight? And we used to make lanyards in arts and crafts, and I think I just always expected they’d play a bigger role in my life than they have. To this point.”

  “Is this deeply upsetting to you?”

  “A little,” I said, unwinding the tangled phone cord. “I think a world with more lanyards would be good.”

  “Buy Micah a lanyard. Just wrote it down in my diary.”

  “You have a diary?”

  “Oh. I not only have a diary, but I have a diary that will one day be turned into a movie. Like a tawdry gay version of a Jackie Collins novel. The Twink. The Slut. Lust Boy.”

  “What’s a twink?”

  “Oh my goodness,” CJ said. “Your education is seriously lacking. Probably all that time you spent making lanyards. Do you think it was like child labor? Like they took your lanyards and sold them and didn’t pay you?”

  This made me laugh. “Yes. I think Camp Maccabee was definitely a scam run by The Lanyard Mafia.”

  This, in turn, made him laugh. Which I loved. Making CJ laugh was like a drug I had just started to get hooked on. I wanted more, more, more.

  “What’s the progress report on Operation Closet Extraction?” he asked.

  “Oh! New idea. I told you about my dad’s friend Rick, right? I think I am going to enlist him.”

  “What’s Rick like?” he asked. “That’s a sexy name. Is he hot?”

  “Yeah, no. He’s probably fifty, first of all.”

  “And your point is?”

  “CJ, that’s too old for you. Really.”

  “To each his own.”

  “Anyway, he has a combover,” I said, lying.

  “Okay, not interested. Thanks for that visual.”

  I laughed.

  “Did I tell you my new idea?” I asked. “A twelve-step carnival. All the attractions are for people overcoming addictions and such. Could you just imagine? Start with the Louise Hay Ride, on which you can listen to her tell you to love yourself, amidst all the neurotics scratching their legs feverishly from the itchy hay. Then you have Dunk the Enabler, where you get a chance to dunk a person who is yelling to you, ‘Yeah, get another drink. If you have one more, I’ll stay and have one more, too.’ Followed by the Sexual Compulsive Ring Toss, where you try to toss cock rings onto dildos. After that, it’s the Codependents’ Horse Race, where you move your horse not by shooting water into a balloon, but by hurling phrases into a microphone like, ‘I’m the only one I need, I can find happiness without you!’ Then hit the Roller Coaster of Emotions for those new to twelve-step programs. Quickly you speed through the track, from denial to anger to acceptance, greeting each one with hands high in the air and shrieks of pure delight.”

  “Oh, Micah. You need to get laid.”

  Was it weird that my new (best?) friend saying that gave me a boner? Because it did. Which didn’t make sense, because no way were we fooling around again. We were on way different pages, and I wasn’t sure his page was all that healthy, based on the stories he’d told me. But still, my penis responded to his voice sometimes.

  He told me about how one time, he used to have a dog-walking gig, and he went to walk a dog for this gay guy who was out of town, and the guy’s roommate walked into the foyer totally naked, and they fooled around.

  “Is there anything you haven’t done, one time?” I asked.

  “Probably, but hopefully not for long.”

  One time had become this mantra for CJ. I don’t know if he did it with other people, but really I didn’t care. It entertained me countless nights while I lay there in my bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining CJ lying there in his bed in the center of the warehouse.

  “You’re paying for all this,” I heard his stepdad yelling as he walked by.

  “Nights and weekends,” CJ said.

  “You don’t know what that even means,” his stepdad barked, and I could almost hear CJ rolling his eyes.

  “He has such a small penis,” he whispered, mock confessional.

  “How would you even know?”

  “Oh. I’d know,” he said, and I got shivers. And not in a good way. “One time, I lost my virginity in East Hampton to a man who was three times my age.”

  I caught my breath. “What? How old were you?”

  “Never mind,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  “CJ.”

  “I said never mind. He was an alien who died on an oil rig. It was fine.”

  “CJ.”

  “That’s all you get until you buy me a fancy, expensive meal.”

  “One time, I guess I will, then,” I said.

  Eventually I could hear my parents pacing outside my room, a sure sign they, too, were wondering about their phone bill. They’d gotten me my own phone and my own line, because I’d been crowding up theirs so much. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t being monitored.

  I said goodbye to CJ, and he said we’d pick up where we left off tomorrow.

  “You’re going to have a permanent indentation in your ear,” my mother said, sticking her head into my room after I hung up.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, lying on my back. “Ear indentation, I know. It’ll become a new fad. Dented ear.”

  She sighed dramatically. “As long as you do your homework, it’s fine. That’s why we got you your own line.”

  My mom had always been okay with me talking all night with Deena, or at least as okay as she ever was, so long as I picked up any time there was a call-waiting beep. But this new thing with CJ was one step too much, so a week earlier she had come in to my room, sat down on my bed, and said that she was so proud of me and the wonderful social life I had created, and to celebrate that, here was my new phone, to be placed in my room, to be used whenever I liked. My own line, my own phone number. Part of me wondered if she knew I was gay, if maybe one day when I was talking to CJ in the kitchen I’d said something too loud, and that was why she got me my own line: So she never had to hear that ever again.

  As soon as my mother had retreated back to her room, I called Deena.

  “Later than usual,” she said by way of answering.

  “I know, I know.”

  “I’m not jealous,” she said. “I’m just … concerned. About your sketchy new friend.”

  “You really need to stop,” I said, my voice box trembling a bit. I’d never countered Deena before. Being friends with CJ must have been giving me new confidence. “He’s a good person. I’ve gotten to know him, rather than just judge him on a few things.”

  “Micah, you’re not always the best at seeing things. Remember the time Jada Kline asked for your math homework and you decided she was now your friend? That wasn’t too awkward, when you tried to sit with her people at lunch. And Chip Bennett.”

  “Unfair comparison,” I said.

  “Is it, though?”

  For a week during freshman year, I’d decided that Chip was my new best friend. He was a popular kid, and one day after school he came up to me and smiled and asked if I could loan him fifty cents for a Snickers bar. I guess I got caught up in my head a little and fell in love with the idea of having a guy friend who was cool. When he went back to ignoring me like usual, Deena had to pick up the pieces.

  “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not blind to something that could hurt you. That’s all.”

  “And I appreciate that. But how about you just have a little faith that I can make good decisions? CJ is my first gay friend, and I like him. He makes me laugh. I feel, like, alive when we talk. That’s new for me.”

  As soon as I said it, I thought, Shit.

  An exasperated sigh from Deena. “Gee. I’m so sorry you’ve been feeling dead when you talk to me. That’s disappointing.”

  “Ugh. That’s not what I meant. Obviously you make me feel alive, too, or why else would I be talking to you all the time?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently I’m this wet blanket who is always judging and bossing you around, so maybe I shouldn’t—”

  “Stop,” I said. “Really. Stop. You’re my best friend, Deena. I love you, and you’ll always be my best friend, obviously.”

  This sigh was kinder. “I know,” she said. “And, yeah, maybe I’m a little jealous.”

  Hearing Deena admit she was jealous of me was so novel that I couldn’t help it.

  “Of course you are. I’m beautiful and smart and perfect and—”

  “Don’t push it,” she said.

  * * *

  On Sunday, Napoleon called and asked if he could come over, and I said yes, because I’d decided to break off whatever this was in person. Certainly not because my stupid hope was that he would say, That’s okay, Micah. Let’s just hang out as friends.

  Yeah, that didn’t happen.

  “Whataya mean?” he asked.

  “I just … I want a boyfriend. I want someone for—I like this, obviously—but I want someone for more. Like dates.” I averted my eyes.

  “You don’t like what we do?”

  “No, I do—”

  “Then why stop? You don’t have a boyfriend, do you? When you get one, you can stop. But now is just kinda dumb to stop, to me.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but—”

  He unbuckled his belt, and I decided that maybe I would break it off next time.

  He was right—it wasn’t like I had a boyfriend.

  * * *

  Later that night, Deena called me from a pay phone. It was right after dinner, and I was finally giving my English homework a go.

  “You know how my dad thinks Howard Johnson’s is, like, fancy?”

  “He doesn’t think that.”

  “Not really, but anyway. So, I’m on the corner of Forty-Ninth and Broadway, outside the restaurant, because Dad needs a fried clam plate once in a while, and something just happened involving a certain someone you talk about a lot, and I know you’re not going to believe me, but it did.”

  “Okay …”

  “Can you, like, come down here?”

  “What? It’s Sunday night.”

  “Yeah, but this is, like, super important.”

  “Can’t you just tell me?”

  “I think this one I’m gonna have to show you. And bring your fake ID.”

  My chest filled with tingles. Something was going down and I couldn’t help but know it was about CJ. She knew what he looked like because I’d shown her the Polaroid I had of him. My guess was that he was a waiter at some restaurant down there, maybe even HoJo’s, and that Deena thought this was somehow shady, but in reality I already knew that he’d left school. So I guess I decided that I’d go down there to stop her vendetta against CJ, once and for all.

  Easy, right?

  October 1987

  Deena was sitting at the counter by the window at Howard Johnson’s. I was jittery, because Times Square was dangerous—lots of drugs, lots of everything—and while I’d told my mother I was going to help Deena with something, I didn’t tell her I was doing that in Times Square. Because that would have ended that.

  “Are you ready?” Deena said by way of greeting.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  She put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “I’m actually really sorry about this, and it’s at least possible I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.”

  She led me out of the restaurant and around the corner. When I saw the awning and she turned to walk up a couple stairs to a seedy-looking door, I stopped walking.

  “Come on,” I said. “Stop it.”

  “Micah, you have to. I’m serious. And I don’t actually take pleasure in this.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “I’m about ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure it was CJ. He looked just like the picture you showed me, and he was carrying a bag, so I don’t think he was just going there to look. That boy was there to dance.”

  Dance. At the Gaiety. A male “Burlesk” theater, according to the huge placard above the awning. The awning read, Gaiety Male Theater. NY’s No.1 Showplace.

  I turned around and walked back toward Broadway.

  “Micah!” Deena called. “You know we have to go in.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Really? You don’t want to find out if your new friend is a private dancer, a dancer for money …”

  I stopped walking. I really did want to know. Also, half-naked guys dancing sounded not terrible.

  So we walked up the stairs, into a dank landing area, bought two tickets from an old Russian lady who didn’t ask to see our IDs, and walked in.

  Inside, it was Saturday Night Fever. A regurgitation of purple-and-red wallpaper and faux-gold banisters. “Fly, Robin, Fly” was blaring, and when we got to the main area, what we saw was unlike anything I’d ever imagined seeing.

  First I saw the stage, with silver tassels as the backdrop and a sole disco ball spinning. Then, on the stage, I saw a guy maybe a couple years older than me was seductively moving his bare torso, his Levi’s unbuttoned, a G-string peeking out.

  “Whaaat?” I whispered to Deena.

  The place was about half full, and it was a big place, with stadium seating in front of the stage. Many men sat alone—probably for good reason—and a few sat in twos. Off to the left was a burgundy curtain.

  Deena gingerly took a seat in the back row, far from anyone. I hesitated in sitting down next to her, unsure what might be on that chair. But then I did sit. The old-fashioned theater seat creaked precariously.

  Deena and I stayed there in silence, watching the guy demonstrate his undulating skills and then his prowess with a G-string.

  “Where does that string even go?” I whispered. Deena slapped my leg.

  After him, a screen came down and a movie came on, and that was the moment at which I could never again say I hadn’t seen a pornographic movie. Though I could now say that I’d never seen one except while sitting next to my best girlfriend. I wanted to stare and take it all in, but I couldn’t. I had to pretend I wasn’t interested, because of stupid Deena.