Ryan doesn’t think he’s heard this right. “What?” he asks—gently, just in case Avery is going back to sleep.

  “A snow dragon,” Avery repeats more emphatically, eyes still closed. “Surely they have snow dragons where you come from?”

  “Nope,” Ryan confesses.

  “Well then.” Avery opens his eyes, sits up. “I guess I’ll have to show you.”

  They don’t bother changing out of their sleep clothes. Instead they go back to the dryer and Ryan pulls his jeans on over the sweats. Socks return to feet. Boots return to socks. Mittens return to hands.

  It is so bright outside, and no longer quiet—the morning is scored by the sound of dripping, the sound of shovels being used a few houses over. If he looks closely, Avery can see shallow commemorations of last night’s footprints. Even the snow angel remains as a shadow of its former self—still there, but partly lifted.

  The boys gather up some snow, but never scoop so deep that the grass will begin to show, spoiling the illusion of white. What starts as a mound slowly becomes a shape. What seems at first a shape evolves into a body. And from this body, a neck is grown, a head. Wings on the ground. A tail. A bystander might not be able to decipher it. But when Avery’s mother looks out the window, she turns to her husband and says, “Oh, look, they’re building a snow dragon!”

  * * *

  —

  We all know that nothing built with snow will last.

  But we all remember what it’s like to have snow in your hands, to make something soft less soft so you can build with it. We all remember the sensation of being outside, of making a shape, of building.

  So some part of it must last.

  * * *

  —

  Later, Ryan will find the texts from his father, telling him the roads are fine now, so he should come home. And after Ryan replies by turning off his phone, Avery’s mother will receive a call from his mother, saying just about the same thing. Later, Ryan, Avery, and Avery’s parents will take turns with their two shovels, digging out Ryan’s truck, making a path for him to leave. But not before lunch. Not before a last round of kissing in Avery’s bedroom. Not before photographs are taken with their creation.

  * * *

  —

  As they build the snow dragon, they talk, but not about the snow dragon. Avery doesn’t tell Ryan what shapes to make; Ryan doesn’t make suggestions on the scale pattern they trace with their bare fingers into the dragon’s skin. It doesn’t matter that Avery has done this before. It doesn’t matter than Ryan hasn’t. The end result is nothing like what it would have been if Avery had built it alone, or if Ryan had. You will never be able to entirely tell who did what. Whatever results is unique to the two of them.

  It is, they will say later, the first thing they built together.

  It is the first of many things that will be entirely theirs.

  Grounded

  (the sixth date)

  Ryan is grounded. When he gets home after his snowbound overnight with Avery, he receives a nearly unprecedented tongue-lashing from his parents, the end result being that he is not to leave the house for anything but school or his job for an unspecified time—or, rather, the specified time of until you learn your lesson. As soon as he gets home each day, he has to deposit his car keys on the kitchen counter. One of his parents also calls the house fifteen minutes after his school day or work shift ends, to make sure he is there.

  This pisses Ryan off for a number of reasons. He is unsure what lesson he is supposed to be learning—to be sure to drive in hazardous, snow-blind conditions? To never put his mother in a situation like the one where she had to justify her irrationality to Avery’s mother over the phone? Or maybe he is supposed to learn that there is no place for a boy in his life until he escapes to college.

  Then there is the matter of the car keys. His parents did not contribute a single cent to the purchase of his pickup truck. He has always been fine with this, because it means the truck is entirely his. His parents have no claim to the keys. But they are claiming them anyway, landlording it over him.

  His parents are aware of how far away Avery lives; they know it’s not a quick trip for him to sneak over there after school. Still, Ryan’s father can’t help but mention the cameras they now have on the front door and the garage, which can be monitored on both parents’ phones. The house has become his parents’ accomplice.

  If there’s any loophole, it is that he still has his phone. Maybe his parents know such a confiscation would be the straw that causes the camel to attack. Maybe they understand that he’ll comply with his confinement as long as they leave a window open. Or maybe his father has secretly turned Ryan’s phone into a tracking device; Ryan wouldn’t put it past him.

  Avery’s first reaction to the grounding is much worse than Ryan’s, for the simple reason that Ryan needed to react in front of his parents, while Avery merely has to react over the phone to Ryan.

  “It’s not fair,” Avery keeps saying. “It’s just not fair.”

  Ryan admires the way Avery holds the concept of fairness in such high esteem, as if it’s nature’s default instead of its grail. How has Ryan found a pink-haired boy with faith in the universe doing the right thing?

  Ryan finds himself reassuring Avery, “It’ll be fine. I promise. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Okay,” Avery says. “I just wish…”

  “What?”

  “I just wish it was still yesterday. I wish you were still here.”

  “Me too.”

  Ryan knows he can’t lose hold of this fact: It was worth it. Even if he’s grounded. Even if he and Avery have to be apart a little longer than expected. It was worth it, to spend a night in his arms. It will be worth it, to reach another night where that can happen again.

  * * *

  —

  Being grounded would be a pleasure if it also meant he got to stay home from school. But that isn’t how it works. The day after he gets home, the day after he’s grounded, the roads are plowed, the furnaces are reignited, and school is open again.

  He texted his best friend, Alicia, to tell her what happened. She is waiting at his locker first thing in the morning with a sympathetic look and a chocolate croissant she picked up at the Kindling Bakery, the only spot in town worth a stop on the way to school.

  Ryan is glad that Alicia has met Avery. It makes her sympathy feel more genuine.

  “You look even worse than usual,” she observes. This is the way they say good morning.

  “You look like you’ve been stuck here all your life,” he replies, taking the croissant gratefully and breaking off a piece.

  Alicia sighs. “You at least got to enjoy your snow day. I babysat.”

  “Where was your dad?”

  “Out shoveling bullshit.”

  Now it’s Ryan’s turn to let out a sympathetic damn.

  Alicia shrugs it off, doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “Tell me more about your time with your boyfriend.”

  Ryan tells her about sleeping over at Avery’s house, about how nice his parents were. He can tell she’s happy for him, and then sad for him when he gets to the part about being grounded. He registers all this, but the whole time, he also feels he’s answering a question under false pretenses. Because didn’t Alicia just ask about his boyfriend? Is Avery really his boyfriend?

  This is uncharted territory for Ryan; he knew it existed on other people’s maps, but this is the first time he’s wandered out of the confines of his ordinary plot to discover it waiting.

  The whole day, it’s all he can think about. Can you be boyfriends if you haven’t had the conversation about being boyfriends? Is it too soon to even think about using that word? Is there a certain number of dates you have to ace before you can raise the question? Five dates is too soon, right?

  But…what about how it feels? Because when he’s with Avery, when he’s there beside him, it feels like boyfriends.

  Or at least it does to him. How does Avery feel?

  It’s not like Ryan can text and ask.

  Hey, just wondering…are we boyfriends?

  Was just talking to Alicia and she called you my boyfriend. Cool to agree?

  When you talk about me, what word do you use? Maybe one that starts with b, ends with d?

  He can’t do it. And so he gets stuck in a rut carved by wondering back and forth.

  The only time he peers out of that rut is sixth period, when he has Mr. Castor’s American history class. This isn’t because history is his favorite—Ryan doesn’t really have a favorite subject, since they’re all pretty much tied for last place. But Mr. Castor is the only teacher he cares about, the only teacher who’s bothered to connect with him on a human level. A lot of other history teachers focus on dates and places, but Mr. Castor likes to talk a lot about things like how the word depression has three meanings—economic, emotional, and physical. He says they all go hand in hand, and a lot of the time, Ryan knows he’s caught in all three at once. He’s stuck here because he’s dependent on his parents to support him. This makes him sad a lot of the time, being surrounded by people who mostly don’t understand him. And physically it feels like there is a dent in the earth, that his life now is something he’ll have to climb out of if he wants to get somewhere else, somewhere better.

  He’s never said any of this to Mr. Castor. But when they talk, Ryan has the strange feeling that it’s an unspoken thing they share. Mr. Castor always treats him like he’ll leave someday, like he’ll get out of here. When Ryan dyed his hair blue, a few of his teachers were disdainful (the word dramatic was used a lot) and others pretended to ignore it. But Mr. Castor approved. The day after Ryan did it, when he walked into class, Mr. Castor went out of his way to say how good it looked. Ryan was embarrassed that other kids might have heard this compliment, but he was also pleased to receive it.

  Now Mr. Castor switches to talking about the WPA, and while Ryan isn’t exactly taking notes, he is paying attention. He knows it isn’t the point of what is being said, but he has this daydream about being hired with Avery to make a mural together, just the two of them, in some quiet town neither of them has ever been to before. In his mind, the mural is in a big church that has been converted into a queer youth center—it’s a daydream, so why not? He isn’t much of an artist, but he starts to sketch out a little of what it could look like. At one point, Mr. Castor walks past, sees what he’s doing, and smiles. Any other teacher, Ryan is sure, would yell at him, tell him to put his daydreams away.

  Ryan wants to tell Avery about all of this. He wonders again if this makes them boyfriends, the fact that Avery is now the person he wants to tell all his stories to, as soon as they earn their words.

  When school finally ends, Alicia tries to convince him that it won’t be breaking the rules if she comes over to keep him company, but Ryan is pretty sure that such companionship won’t go over well with his parents, since it will interfere with the intended isolation and misery.

  This is reinforced when he gets home and receives the check-in call.

  “You’re home?” his father asks—a remarkable question, considering Ryan has just answered the landline.

  A thousand sarcastic answers fill Ryan’s mind, but somehow a simple “Yes, I’m home” makes it through.

  “Good. You are not to leave the house again, nor are you allowed to have anyone over. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother should be home at the usual time. She will expect the house to be clean.”

  “Understood.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Perhaps some sarcasm has crept into his voice. He erases it when he replies, “I said I understand.”

  “Good.”

  His father hangs up, and Ryan goes to his room to call Avery.

  They have all this technology to bring them closer, especially video calling. There is a certain intimacy in being able to see one another as they talk, but there is also a disconnect within the connection. Ryan can view Avery on the screen, can hear his voice and his laughter, but the whole time, he can’t shake the knowledge that he is sitting alone in an empty bedroom.

  They talk more about the unfairness of the situation, although Avery points out that because he has play practice most days after school, they wouldn’t have been likely to see each other until the weekend anyway. Avery is in a classroom near the auditorium, hiding away as the director blocks a scene he isn’t in. Ryan is on his bed, the phone propped up against a pillow so he won’t have to hold it the whole time. For a half hour, they share the details of their days.

  “I wish you were here,” Ryan says, both because he means it and because (admit it) he hopes Avery will say it back.

  “And I wish you were here,” Avery replies. “Or that we were both somewhere else. The same somewhere else.”

  Ryan wants to ask if that makes them boyfriends. But he feels silly asking. It’s too much like he’s setting a trap.

  Avery looks at something off-screen, then takes a breath. “Okay,” he says on the exhale, “I gotta go. Call you later?”

  “Yes, please,” Ryan says.

  “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “It’ll be easy to do, if you’re not here.”

  The call ends. Ryan knows he should start his homework.

  Instead he closes his eyes and takes a nap. The world is just too much.

  * * *

  —

  His mother’s voice wakes him.

  “What are you doing?”

  His parents are clearly testing him with these questions.

  “I guess I fell asleep?”

  “Being grounded doesn’t mean you get to sleep all you want, Ryan.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  His mother actually tsks her tongue. Then she spots the phone on his bed.

  “I’ll take that,” she dictates, holding her hand out. “You can get it back tomorrow morning before school.”

  “Come on,” Ryan says before he can stop himself.

  “Now.”

  He powers off the phone before he hands it over. The last thing he wants is for his parents to see any texts that come in.

  His mother says, “Do some homework before dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  Ryan gets up and opens his laptop. Satisfied, his mother leaves the room.

  The first thing he does is message Avery to tell him not to bother calling.

  * * *

  —

  The next week is awful.

  There is only a small window when Ryan and Avery can actually talk—when Avery is free from play practice, before Ryan’s mom gets home. These check-ins are something, but they aren’t enough. All Ryan and Avery can do is catch up on the things they’re creating without each other. They can’t create anything new together.

  Ryan is grateful when he has to work at the grocery store, because there he can talk to people, even if they aren’t Avery.

  The weekend is the worst. Ryan’s parents don’t give his phone back on Saturday morning, and they hide his keys. He goes to watch TV, but his father turns it off, saying there isn’t going to be any TV, not while he’s grounded. The same thing happens when he tries to watch something on YouTube; they don’t take away his laptop, but they say he has to keep his bedroom door open at all times, so they can make sure he is doing “valid work.” But the thing is, he only has so much homework to do. He’s finished by Saturday afternoon. Ordinarily, his father would make him do yard work, but the snow is still on the ground, and the garage is too cold for them to spend the time needed to straighten it up. So Ryan has nothing to do. If he tries to nap, his parents wake him. They tell him to read a book.

  Being with Avery is starting to feel like something his mind invented as a coping mechanism. How can memory do anything besides approximate what it felt like to have his neck kissed, to feel Avery’s warmth beside him, to feel the same warmth from a smile? And how could he fully trust an approximation to be true?

  Then the nightmare thoughts make their visits. Avery is so great—wouldn’t it make sense for other boys to be interested in him, too? Other boys who aren’t grounded, who aren’t stuck like Ryan is. Maybe someone at play practice. Another actor, or a cute boy on the crew. It wouldn’t even be disloyal for Avery to go for it, would it? It’s not like he and Ryan are boyfriends. It isn’t like they’ve said they’re going to stop seeing other people.

  On Sunday morning it snows again, and what was once magical is now muted, melancholy. No one warned him that the intensity of sharing could lead to the desolation of its absence. The uncharted territory is starting to disappear from the map.

  * * *

  —

  By Sunday night, Ryan is getting desperate. While his parents are safely watching football in the den, he risks sending messages on his laptop. He unleashes his full despair on Alicia while trying to keep it managed for Avery. Avery is constantly asking him if he knows when it will be over, and Ryan wishes he had the right answer to give.

  I hate this, Avery types.

  Don’t give up on me, Ryan types back.

  When Avery replies, I won’t, Ryan tries to believe it.

  Alicia wants to turn the tables, to go all Home Alone on Ryan’s parents so they can see what it’s like to be held captive in their house. Ryan thinks this is an inadvisable course of action. Running away also doesn’t feel sustainable—since Alicia’s father is no better than Ryan’s parents, it’s not like she can take Ryan in.

  He wishes he could ask Avery to visit him at work, but he knows he’ll get yelled at if he tries to take more than a ten-minute break. (“That toilet paper won’t stack itself!”)