Boy Meets Boy. David Levithan

       Now Away We Go

      9.00 p. m. on a November Saturday. Joni, Tony and I are out on the town. Tony is from the next town over and he needs to get out. His parents are extremely religious. It doesn’t even matter which religion – they’re all the same at a certain point and few of them want a gay boy cruising around with his friends on a Saturday night. So every week Tony feeds us bible stories, then on Saturday we show up at his doorstep well versed in parables and earnestness, dazzling his parents with our blinding purity. They slip him a twenty and tell him to enjoy our study group. We go spend the money on romantic comedies, dimestore toys and diner jukeboxes. Our happiness is the closest we’ll ever come to a generous God, so we figure Tony’s parents would understand, if only they weren’t set on misunderstanding so many things.

      Tony has to be home by midnight, so we are on a Cinderella mission. With this in mind, we keep our eye on the ball.

      There isn’t really a gay scene or a straight scene in our town. They got all mixed up a while back, which I think is for the best. Back when I was in second grade, the older gay kids who didn’t flee to the city for entertainment would have to make their own fun. Now it’s all good. Most of the straight guys try to sneak into the Queer Beer bar. Boys who love boys flirt with girls who love girls. And whether your heart is strictly ballroom or bluegrass punk, the dance floors are open to whatever you have to offer.

      This is my town. I’ve lived here all my life.

      Tonight, our Gaystafarian bud Zeke is gigging at the local chain bookstore. Joni has a driver’s licence from the state where her grandmother lives, so she drives us around in the family sedan. We roll down the windows and crank the radio – we like the idea of our music spilling out over the whole neighbourhood, becoming part of the air. Tony has a desperate look tonight, so we let him control the dial. He switches to a Mope Folk station and we ask him what’s going on.

      “I can’t say,” he tells us, and we know what he means. That nameless empty.

      We try to cheer him up by treating him to a blue Slurp-Slurp at the local 24-7. We each take sips, to see whose tongue can get the bluest. Once Tony’s sticking his tongue out with the rest of us, we know he’s going to be OK.

      Zeke’s already jamming by the time we get to the highway bookstore. He’s put his stage in the European History section, and every now and then he’ll throw names like Hadrian and Copernicus into his mojo rap. The place is crowded. A little girl in the Children’s section puts

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