Queer as a Five-Dollar Bill
Copyright © 2018 by Lee Wind
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information or to request permissions, please contact publisherleewind@gmail.com.
The primary source letters between Abraham Lincoln and Joshua Fry Speed cited in this novel, and many other historical elements related to their relationship, are real. Otherwise, this is a work of fiction, and the modern names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of these modern elements to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wind, Lee, author.
Title: Queer as a five-dollar bill / Lee Wind.
Description: Los Angeles : I’m Here, I’m Queer, What The Hell Do I Read?, 2018. | Summary: Wyatt, a bullied and closeted teen, triggers a backlash when he reveals evidence Abraham Lincoln was gay.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018905030 | ISBN 978-1-7322281-0-8 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-7322281-1-5 (pbk.) | ISBN 978-1-7322281-2-2 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Gay teenagers--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Gay teenagers--Fiction. | Coming out (Sexual orientation)--Fiction. | Bullying--Fiction. | Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865--Fiction. | Young adult fiction. | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / LGBT. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Coming of Age. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Boys & Men. | GSAFD: Bildungsromans.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.W5837 Qu 2018 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.W5837 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23.
Book design by Laurie L. Young. Cover design by Watch This!
Images used under license from Shutterstock.com: Pages 127, 133-134, 147, 173, 178, 180, 195, 224, 347-348, Thomas Pajot/Shutterstock.com. Page 218, PannaKotta/Shutterstock.com. Page 219, Travel_maker/Shutterstock.com
Printed in the United States of America.
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Published by I’m Here. I’m Queer. What The Hell Do I Read?
Los Angeles, CA
For my husband, Mark, whose love gives me wings; for our daughter, who fills our days with joy and gratitude; and for you, reader.
This book is for us all.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Endnotes
About the Author
Book Club Discussion Questions
IT’S FUNNY THAT they called the Civil War civil, because there’s not much polite about trying to kill the people you don’t like. Following that same logic, Wyatt figured he should call Lincolnville High School Civil High—because ninth grade was a war, too. Every day.
But he wasn’t due back in battle for a few hours—it was still a reassuring black outside. And he told himself, for the millionth time, that he wasn’t going to give Jonathon the power to ruin stuff outside school, when he wasn’t even around. It didn’t really work.
A thin stream of cold coffee pooled onto his sock, and Wyatt jerked the sodden paper back over the plastic bin. He swore under his breath, working the wet sock off with one hand and tossing it onto the needs-to-get-washed pile by his desk.
He studied the dripping paper. It was ready. He grabbed the red long-reach lighter from the living room fireplace to singe an edge of this sixteenth Emancipation Proclamation. The wet paper took a few seconds to catch. Once it was on fire, he quick-snuffed it out in the coffee so it didn’t burn too far.
Two more sides had gotten crisped when the pocket of the thrift-store, fake-leather motorcycle jacket he was wearing vibrated. Wyatt fumbled for the phone. Having a new cell (even his mom’s four-year-old hand-me-down) so he could get a call without waking up the whole bed-and-breakfast rocked.
“Hey, handsome. Good morning!” Mackenzie.
Plugging in the headphone jack, he fit the plastic bud in his ear. “I’m so glad it’s you.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how ridiculous he sounded—they both knew no one else would be calling him. He pushed the thought away as he burned the final edge. “Can you get online? I uploaded the new video last night.”
“Just two more emails to delete,” Mackenzie said. “How’s it going?”
“Sucks. I’m not even going to get my run in because of this stupid antiquing.” The last bit of flame sizzled out in the coffee, and Wyatt swapped the wet sheet for the dry one in the microwave on his bedroom floor. Forty-eight seconds. Start. The laser-printed, coffee-aged, fire-singed paper rotated on the plate inside. Predictably, the cracked-glass ceiling light dimmed as the microwave hogged the power on that circuit. It would dim in the third-floor bathroom, too, but Wyatt hadn’t heard any guests up yet. Just his dad, in the attic above the part of Wyatt’s room that wasn’t the tower. He’d gotten Wyatt up at 4:30 a.m. to do this stupid antiquing job while he headed up to reseal the dormers for the storm on its way.
Even with the people-height windows open, the smell of burned paper and coffee hung in the cold air between all the furniture that didn’t match their B&B’s 1830s–1860s thing. The good news was that Wyatt’s 2000s black wood bed, no-style pressboard wardrobe, and 1940s gunmetal navy-surplus desk were such a period mash-up that his dad wouldn’t let any guests see it, so Wyatt didn’t need to keep it neat.
But even when the windows were closed, guests used to complain that sleeping in the Tower Room was like sleeping outside. New windows cost too much, so Wyatt got one of the nicest rooms in their Queen Anne Victorian. He just had to wear a lot of layers, camping-style. He liked camping.
He pulled on a dry sock, reasoning that all white sweat socks matched—even if one was cleaner than the other—and headed over to the clunky laptop that wouldn’t work unless it was plugged in. He’d already cued up the video, waiting for her call. Mackenzie was clicking at the keys of the pretty-much-new laptop that she took notes on in class. He pictured her sitting at the kitchen counter in her dad’s condo, Monday-morning oatmeal in a bowl beside her.
The dingy white microwave beeped, but Wyatt ignored it and the lights surging back to full strength. There was plenty of time to finish them before school—Mackenzie had finally called, and he was bursting to share.
“Okay,” Mackenzie said. “I’m there.”
Wyatt gave her the countdown so they could watch it simultaneously. “Three, two, one … play!”
“The swimsuit issue? Really?” Mackenzie sounded pissed, and the theme music hadn’t even stopped playing yet.
Wyatt hated that she didn’t like it, and almost wished he hadn’t put that part in. But Jonathon had been giving him such a hard time all December about being a “history fairy,” he had to do something. He heard himself get defensive. “You wouldn’t understand. Guys like that.” He hoped he sounded gruff enough.
“I understand that it’s objectifying. And insulting. And ridiculous! Don’t guys know about hypothermia?”
Wyatt knew she was right, but he couldn’t say it. It was up for debate which were faker: the model’s breasts or the Antarctica she was supposed to be standing in. He’d just wanted Mackenzie to tell him the video was great. Of the probably only ten people who’d see it, she was the only one he wasn’t related to.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and he figured she knew him well enough to know his silence wasn’t happy. “I just … think it would be better without the testosterone-caveman moment. I’m not saying you’re not allowed to like it, but you don’t need to be that kind of guy.”
Or maybe, Wyatt remembered with a pang, his best friend—okay, his only friend—didn’t know him at all. He decided to cut his losses. “Let’s just go back to the list.” Closing his laptop, he returned to the makeshift assembly line laid out on the skinny wood floor planks. He grabbed the seventeenth copy of the Emancipation Proclamation and slid it into the tub of yesterday’s cold coffee.
“Fine….” At least she didn’t sound quite so annoyed with him anymore. Mackenzie had found this old slang website, and at her insistence they’d been working through it over the past few days. She was hoping to find more of her own “touches” to add to Wyatt’s family’s tours of their exhibit rooms. Wyatt’s tours, if they were after school. Another one of his mom’s your father’s working around the clock, and I’m killing myself for the mayor, so the least you can do is pitch in chores.
“See if you can guess this one.” Mackenzie giggled, like she already knew how many clowns were about to come out of the circus car. “Queer as a three-dollar bill!”
Wyatt’s whole face flushed hot as he lifted the paper and let the coffee pour off, back into the bin. “I don’t know!” His voice sounded all pinched, and he told himself to calm down. At school he’d have to worry about Jonathon seeing him turn bright red and shouting something like, Look! It’s the blushing bride! just to get everyone to laugh at him, but it wasn’t like Mackenzie could see him.
And he told himself Queer must have meant something else back then.
He blew out a steadying breath, willing the color to seep back inside so he could fade from pomegranate red back to pale Wyatt in January. It was like his skin was some boy litmus test for embarrassment, and he failed every time.
She rolled the words on her tongue—“Queer as a three-dollar bill”—like she was seeing how it would sound on one of their tours. She’d never get him to say it. “Give up, studly?”
Studly? That was Mackenzie, trying to build him up. She knew how much he didn’t want to go to school today, the first day after winter break. They’d be getting their first-semester History finals back. For two weeks in December, Jonathon had kept threatening that he’d kill him if Wyatt ruined the curve for him and the other guys on the freshman basketball team. Half of them were on the edge of academic disqualification—though how hard was it to know the US presidents in order when they were the street names in your town, all the way through the second Bush? And after all they’d done to make his life miserable, Wyatt was supposed to care? To spite Jonathon, Wyatt had aced the test.
What was he thinking?
They weren’t getting their grades until third period, but Wyatt would still have to deal with Jonathon in PE before that. Everyone else thought PE was short for physical education, but Jonathon seemed to be working on the theory that it stood for popular embarrassment, as in, the more he embarrassed Wyatt, the more popular Jonathon got.
Wyatt grimaced. He was so dead. “Okay, trivia goddess. What’s the … three-dollar-bill thing mean?”
Mackenzie swallowed some oatmeal. “It says, older term to describe something extremely unexpected, odd, or rare.”
Like me in Lincolnville, he thought.
Mackenzie finished, “That’s because they never made a three-dollar bill.”
Nope, Wyatt mused, as he clicked the lighter to burn the first edge. Not even here in crazy Oregon.
“Hmm. Can’t see where we can use that one,” Mackenzie said, like she was crossing Queer as a three-dollar bill off a mental list. “Your dad wants everything to be just what you’d expect if you visited Lincoln by time machine. No surprises. Everything ‘authentic.’”
Wyatt knew she was making air quotes, and he knew they were aimed at what he was doing. But people liked fake. They’d much rather buy a Gettysburg Address, or an Emancipation Proclamation, or even a President Abraham Lincoln Timeline that looked real and old, even if they knew it wasn’t, than a boring copy they could just print themselves off the internet.
“Yup.” He agreed fast, to change the subject. “What’s the next one that grabs you?” Swapping the papers in the microwave, he hit START and ran downstairs to get the envelopes.
“Oh my gosh—fart-catcher!” Mackenzie laughed, and this time, Wyatt let himself laugh, too. He whipped around the second-floor landing post and remembered to be quiet on the stairs down to the entryway. His parents’ room was right off the kitchen, and he wanted this antiquing chore done before his mom got a chance to lecture him about time management skills—and how he didn’t have any.
“Got a guess?” Mackenzie asked. He heard her rinsing her bowl and putting it in their actual dishwasher. Wyatt’s dad was all concerned with “anachronisms” and keeping the illusion that they were offering a “real Civil War–era experience.” He’d drawn the modern line right after a refrigerator and Wyatt’s mom’s beloved coffee machine. But if they could do those, along with indoor plumbing and electric fake-gas lights, Wyatt didn’t see why they couldn’t have a dishwasher. But he wasn’t in charge. Clearly.
He took a stab at fart-catcher as he headed over to Reception. “What they called those old hoop skirts?”
Mackenzie gave a fake-offended gasp before trying on an even faker Southern accent. “Dear sir, that is not the answer. I’ll have you know, real ladies do not expel gas in the coarse manner you suggest.”
Wyatt laid on the accent himself, feeling his face finally cooling down. “I’m sure they don’t, ma’am…. But how would anyone know, when you’re wearing all them skirts?”
They both snorted a laugh as Wyatt pulled out the clear plastic bin of office supplies, searching for the pale green envelopes.
“Fart-catcher,” Mackenzie read. “A valet or footman, from walking so close behind their mistress or master.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Wyatt said. “And funny.”
“I wonder where we can use it on the tour.”
“Not sure,” Wyatt mumbled, rifling through the box. Mackenzie would rewrite the whole tour if he let her. She’d probably grow up to tell the president what to say—be the presidential speechwriter. Forget that—she’d probably be president herself.
Not Wyatt. Maybe he’d be a park ranger, or a wildlife photographer, and finally get to spend every day outside. Trees, animals, birds. Rivers like Jenson’s Stream. He could do all these videos of wildlife, and maybe add in some cool or crazy history angle … Who was he kidding? He knew he’d have to end up in some big city, somewhere far away from all that. But anywhere sounded better than the shark-infested waters of Civil High.
Outside, the night was softening to a Union blue. Too soon! Wyatt forced himself to focus: envelopes.
“I’d love to, but I don’t see how we can use fart-catcher,” Mackenzie said. “Let’s move on.”
There they were. Wyatt counted out twenty GENUINE REPRODUCTION ANTIQUED EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION! envelopes and shoved the box back into its spot under the sideboard.
Mackenzie’s voice was light. “Okay, I’m covering the definition column, and I’m going to try to guess this one, too: Can’t see a hole in a ladder …”
She started tossing out possibilities. Wyatt stood to head back upstairs when he saw his soldier—smiling out at him from this poster-size Civil War photo, behind their collection of Confederate and Union firearms in the six-foot glass display case.
Wyatt stopped.
His soldier was standing in a group of eleven Civil War soldiers. Everyone else was holding a rifle, bayonet, or sword, but his hands were empty. Some of the guys seemed proud, others excited, a few grim. But his soldier just looked sweet. Like he wanted to say, Hey, Wyatt. Good to see you. Always good to see you.
What if his soldier came to life and were right in front of him? Standing here? He couldn’t just lock eyes with the guy forever…. What could he say back? What would he say?
Hey … I’ve been wondering. Wyatt could feel his cheeks heat up again. What’s your name?
“Wyatt!” Mackenzie’s raised voice through the earbud snapped him back to reality. She’d been talking, but he hadn’t heard any of it. “Can’t see a hole in a ladder?”
What was he doing? He needed to focus. He couldn’t slip up and maybe say something that would blow up his whole life! Not with Mackenzie. Not here. Not anywhere in Lincolnville, Oregon, population: 5,817 closed minds. Plus one Wyatt Yarrow.
“Sorry, no idea. What’s it mean?” He jogged back up the stairs as Mackenzie read that can’t see a hole in a ladder was what they used to call drunk people. There was an awkward silence, which Wyatt figured was because of that whole thing with Mackenzie’s dad three years ago. But her dad didn’t drink anymore, something he told them three times a week when he dropped Mackenzie off for Tuesday and Thursday dinners and Sunday afternoon “homework club,” as Wyatt’s mom put it, while he drove the forty-five minutes into Corvallis for his AA meetings.
Wyatt wasn’t sure what to say, so he stayed quiet. He passed their Lincoln Room and was halfway to the third floor when Mackenzie asked, “Don’t we need to get going?”
He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket to check the time: 6:52? Homeroom started in eighteen minutes, and PE was right after that! He still had to make his own lunch …
“I gotta run,” Wyatt told her, as he hustled into his room.
“You nervous?” she asked.
Her question slowed him down, like he was suddenly underwater. Was it that obvious?
“I know how great you are,” Mackenzie said. “Just be yourself, and other people will start to see it, too.”
Sure … except being yourself worked only if you were like everyone else to start with. Wyatt fought his way back to the surface and started folding finished Emancipation Proclamations in thirds, stuffing envelopes fast. They looked perfect. After four years of doing them, he’d finally gotten the recipe down. But seventeen would have to be enough.
Mackenzie said, “I should go. My dad wants to drive me, to remind ‘all those hormonal teenage boys’—his words, not mine—that he’s ‘with the police force.’” Wyatt could almost hear her eye roll. Her dad was their town’s parking enforcement officer. “Can you believe that?”
Wyatt wasn’t sure what he wasn’t supposed to believe. There were worse things than not having any chores and getting driven to school.
The sky was lighter now, nearly a Confederate gray—he was racing daybreak and the first bell. Move, he told himself, as he kept folding and stuffing. A gust of air brought the smell of outdoors. Fresh, green. He’d be out in it soon.
After a moment, Mackenzie said, “I’ll see you in History. Good luck with PE.”
“See you. And … thanks.” Wyatt hung up. He needed the luck. Because his life was so Queer as a three-dollar bill.
Lincolnville, Oregon, streetlamp banner:
CELEBRATE FEBRUARY 14!
ABE AND MARY: A GREAT LOVE
PARADE 9:00 A.M. @ UNION SQUARE
EXACTLY FOUR MINUTES after everyone should have already been out in the gym, Wyatt raced into the locker room. He stopped in his tracks. The freshman basketball team guys were still there, gathered around Jonathon, who stood next to a stack of twelve shoeboxes. They were all already in their Fighting Soldiers PE uniform T-shirts and black shorts. And anyone else who might have been a buffer between him and these guys was already in the gym, playing badminton.
His stalling had backfired. Big-time.
Wyatt stood there, trying to figure out how not to be seen. He’d have to go through them to change…. Maybe he could just go back to the gym, say he’d forgotten his PE uniform at home, and take the two-point grade hit. Except … he was holding the drawstring bag with his change of clothes. That wouldn’t work.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“These suck.”
“I’m not wearing them.”
Hold on. Wyatt realized what he was hearing—Jonathon’s own pack of sharks was attacking him! This was maybe too good to miss.
“Pink?” Charlie razzed Jonathon.
“Will you all just shut up?”
Wyatt could have sworn there was a hint of panic in Jonathon’s voice.
What was going on?
Jonathon was holding one of the shoes—purple, gold, and white. And then Wyatt saw it: the entire sole of the sneaker was neon pink. “It … just means we’ll be crushing the sissies with every step!”
Jonathon looked over and saw Wyatt. He kind of smiled, and Wyatt wasn’t sure what that was about. Was Jonathon maybe getting how sucky it was to be on the receiving end of all that crap? Should he smile back?
Suddenly, Jonathon lunged over the bench, knocked Wyatt’s feet out from under him, and pinned him flat out on his back. Pain shot through Wyatt’s butt and shoulder and the back of his head when he smacked the floor, lightning smashing together inside him, every nerve overloading, the whole system threatening blackout. He was staring at the fluorescent tube lights and, like a fish on land, couldn’t seem to get his lungs to work. His eyes prickled with tears, but he wouldn’t allow the rain. He couldn’t. No, dammit. Hail, maybe. But no rain. Not in front of them.
Shoe in his hand, Jonathon squished the pink rubber into Wyatt’s cheek, forcing his face down into the floor. “Like I’m crushing Little Miss Yarrow here!”
They laughed. Every one of them. And Wyatt saw something else. From Miguel Abelardo—who they called Lardo, even though he was skinnier than Wyatt—to Jonathon’s right-hand shark, Charlie, they were all really glad they weren’t him.
He wished he wasn’t himself, too.
Under the grit and dirt his nose was shoved into, Wyatt figured whatever they cleaned the floor with must be pretty toxic, because his eyes started to fog up.
“Come on, ladies. Let’s go!” Coach Rails wandered into the locker room at just that moment. He gaped at them.
Wyatt managed to swallow the storm cloud in his throat. It was over, at least.
Jonathon quickly got up off Wyatt, saying, “No homo, man,” so his dad wouldn’t dare think he was on top of Wyatt because he liked him.
Wyatt sat up, his ears so hot he guessed they were the color of the sneaker soles. Staring at the small rip in his own sneaker, he waited in the silence for Coach Rails to say something. But no one said anything.
Finally, Jonathon shouted to the other guys, “All right, bitches. Team spirit! Everyone wears them!” and started tossing out sneaker boxes.
“What are you waiting for, you bunch of fags?” Coach Rails barked. “Get your shoes on and get out there! I want five laps around the track. All of you. For being late.”
Groans.
“You want me to make it ten?” Coach Rails threatened.
That quieted them down.
Wyatt almost smiled. At least Jonathon was getting punished, even if it was hidden inside the whole team’s getting penalized. And if he kept still, maybe no one would notice him there on the floor. He’d wait for them to clear out and then change in peace.
“That means you, too, Yarrow!” Coach Rails snapped at him.
What? Wyatt looked at him in disbelief. Coach Rails scratched at the beard he was growing out to be Lincoln in their town’s Lincoln’s birthday–Valentine’s Day parade in just over a month. Like last year, he’d be a too-short, country-western-singing Abe, next to his wife, the mayor’s too-thin-and-tall, real estate–selling Mary—but it was like no one in their town cared about the terrible casting. As Wyatt’s mom kept saying, it was the mayor’s parade and everyone else was just invited to it.
“Get changed. Get out there. And give me five laps.” Coach Rails lowered his eyebrows at him. “No one with four healthy limbs gets a pass in life—or my PE class.”
Freshman History First-Term Final—Selected Grades
| Miguel Abelardo: C |
Jonathon Rails: D |
| Charlie Anderson: D |
Jennie Woo: B |
| Mackenzie Miller: A+ |
Wyatt Yarrow: A |
Sharks ahead. By the lockers.
Wyatt stopped walking, pretending he’d just gotten a text. His arms felt raw from his first-ever lunchtime workout, which he’d snuck in instead of eating, but he was so over being Jonathon meat that he was going to deal with it. And he’d needed some plan, because from the moment that substitute had read their History final grades out loud, Jonathon and his sharks had been out for blood.
At least they hadn’t seen him yet.
Sneakers and macho body sprays blurred by his chipped phone casing as he strategized for the second time that day how to get past them. He’d escaped after History—one advantage of going to the weight room off the gym was that it had been the last place Jonathon would have expected him to go—but now Wyatt had only three minutes until the bell. There was no time to go around the whole building before Algebra. And there was a sandwich waiting for him twenty feet down that hall to the corner, and eight feet to the right.
Jonathon tossed a textbook to the floor of his locker. Bam! “You’re such a girl, Anderson.”
Charlie was right behind Jonathon and made a sarcastic kissy sound back.
Fart-catcher! Charlie was Jonathon’s fart-catcher! Wyatt couldn’t wait to tell Mackenzie he’d found a place to use it. That was, if he survived the next three minutes.
He placed each foot carefully forward to move with the crowd. To seem busy and blend in even more, he was tapping out the longest fake text message ever. If Mackenzie’s dad let her have her phone on at school, Wyatt would be texting: GET ME OUT OF HERE! and he’d fill the screen with a million exclamation points. As it was, his thumbs were flying at random.
“You’re so Gay.” Jonathon hurled the words at Charlie.
“Takes one to know one!” Charlie shoved Tai to agree. “Right?”
Tai’s laugh died like a hiccup when he saw Jonathon’s watch who you’re making fun of glare.
He was almost past them …
“Yo! Fruitcake!” Jonathon shouted at him.
Wyatt didn’t stop.
“Don’t walk away from me, I’m talking to you!”
The entire hallway stared.
Every capillary on Wyatt’s face and ears popped with red heat, betraying him.
No … !
He pocketed the phone before anyone could notice he wasn’t actually texting anybody and make fun of him for that, too. He tried to push through the get-to-your-locker-before-fifth-period surge, but it was like every kid in their whole town was in that hallway and Wyatt was the only one going upstream.
All of a sudden, Jonathon was blocking his path. “How dumb are you?”
Wyatt considered explaining that including David Rice Atchison as president number 11.5 (in between James Polk and Zachary Taylor) wasn’t really a mistake, and that he’d wanted to talk to Mrs. Elliot about the “President for a Day” article he’d read—since she’d marked it wrong—but then she was gone on maternity leave and he wasn’t sure about that substitute, Mr. Guzman…. But then he noticed that Jonathon’s biceps were bigger than his own calves and kept his mouth shut.
Jonathon’s Abercrombie & Fitch–model face got all snarly. “We talked about this. What were you thinking, pulling a ninety-eight percent?”
Wyatt jerked back as spittle landed on his dark blue T-shirt. He imagined it burning through like acid and wished he were one of those superheroes with armor.
Jonathon was up in Wyatt’s face. “You killed the curve. So now”—Wyatt didn’t want to flinch, but he also didn’t want to get punched by that fist—“I’m either going to have to kick your a—”
“There you are!” With a flash of her Harvard sweatshirt, Mackenzie grabbed Wyatt like a lifeguard saving a drowner. Before he could say anything, she’d squished her lips into his.
Wyatt clamped his mouth shut and fell back, pinned between his best friend’s lips and the cold wall of lockers. Through his green canvas bag, books cut into his stomach and the scent of fake strawberries overpowered his nose.
It was genius. Jonathon stood there like a squirrel in the road, not sure what to do.
Ha!
Wyatt didn’t want to get caught looking at Jonathon, so he shifted his eyes to Mackenzie. Up close, he noticed her eyebrows were brown and didn’t really match her waist-long, copper-red hair. Huh.
Kids hooted at them. Wyatt hadn’t even made it through the first day of the spring semester, but between Jonathon’s second shark attack and Mackenzie’s lip lock, he was the big show at Civil High.
“Check out the lovebirds!” someone yelled.
“Big deal.” Another girl sounded bored and slammed her locker shut.
One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. How long was Mackenzie going to make this last? The sharks were whispering to each other.
Someone else said, real loud, “Is he keeping his eyes open? Freak.”
Wyatt shut them.
But then all he could feel was Mackenzie’s lip gloss sticking to his lips like half-dry, half-wet Elmer’s glue. His first kiss …
It doesn’t count.
It doesn’t.
This is what it must be like to kiss your sister.
Mackenzie let out a sigh, little notes falling. Like she was part of some big finale, with birds and chipmunks and little people…. Wyatt tried not to snort in her face, but she was going for the Oscar.
He kicked himself mentally—if the sharks were watching, he needed to play along! He’d been standing stock-still, like Wax Lincoln downstairs in the B&B. He lifted his free hand to Mackenzie’s shoulder. Ow. The back of his arm burned. Muscle targeted: triceps.
What next? Should he move his hand to her back? Touch her braid? He wasn’t sure, but he had to do something. Cautiously, he cupped his hand around her neck. It was warm.
Mackenzie noticed. She leaned into him a little and then, after another moment, broke away. Wyatt took a breath.
She whispered down to him, “They still watching?”
Wyatt checked. The pink-soled sharks had moved ten feet along the hallway, and only one of them was still staring: Jonathon. His eyes were narrowed slits, but his mouth was … closed. Without thinking, Wyatt had the back of his hand up to wipe the kiss off his lips—but he caught himself and scratched his jaw instead. Wondering if he had just climbed up the food chain a bit, he gave Mackenzie a tiny dip of his head.
Mackenzie said, loudly enough for their audience to hear, “Come on, boyfriend!” She squeezed Wyatt’s arm, and he winced but fast-turned it into a toothy smile. Holding hands, they headed up the hallway and turned the corner.
All clear.
They pressed flat against the wall, side by side. Mouth open wide, Wyatt laughed silently.
“You were amazing!” he whispered to her.
“I was, wasn’t I?” Mackenzie’s eyes sparkled.
Wyatt nodded. “Like Mother Teresa, saving the day with plan B!”
“If plan A was getting punched, that’s not much of a plan.”
Wyatt counted down five lockers and dropped the dead weight of his backpack. He rubbed the ache in his shoulder. “My plan A sucked. But plan B rocked. Did you see his face?”
Mackenzie stayed close as Wyatt spun his combination lock. He was so excited, he was babbling. “It’s like we have ESP or something. I mean, I was fake-texting you, and then … pow! There you were!” He got it open. The swimsuit model floating on the inside of his locker door hovered in the specially modified Air Force plane. Wyatt reminded himself not to laugh at how ridiculous she looked in the photo, bikini top not up to the zero-gravity challenge of her breasts. He starting dumping stuff out of his backpack. They needed to design a zero-gravity backpack.
“I knew something was wrong when you were missing at lunch.”
Wyatt thought, with a flash of envy, that Mackenzie blushed like a regular person, just the slightest pink behind her sprinkle of freckles.
“You were awesome, too,” she told him.
Wyatt shrugged. It was really all her.
“Wyatt … you know, plan B has sort of been on my mind for a long time. And how to make it our plan A.” She leaned in as Wyatt grabbed his turkey sandwich out of its bag. He was starving.
“Huh?” He turned, and her lips were on his again. Mackenzie’s face pressed in. This kiss was different. Softer. Not for anyone else to see.
Wyatt froze.
The pretend one didn’t count, but he didn’t want this to be his first kiss, either.
Not a girl. And not Mackenzie!
One-one thousand. Two—
She pulled back, her face all dreamy satisfaction. “I guess we’ll just have to thank Jonathon for the push.”
Thank Jonathon?
She saw his confused look. “I wasn’t sure how to change tracks from friends to … more. But I knew we’d be great together.”
Mackenzie put her hand on Wyatt’s chest. His heart was pounding.
“It’s nice, kissing you. Don’t you think?”
“Uh …” He glanced around. Nearly everyone was already in class. The bell was going to ring any second—he hoped. The swimsuit model hovered next to him, all flirty, with nail-polished fingers by her lipstick-shellacked mouth. You’re what got me into this mess, he thought at her.
Mackenzie’s eyes followed Wyatt’s to the floating swimsuit model, then flicked down to her own oversize Harvard sweatshirt and four-leaf-clover leggings. She pulled her braid around to the front and smoothed it. She nodded, like he’d made a great point. “It’ll probably be better without an audience.”
“Yeah!” Wyatt heard himself say, juggling his Algebra book and sandwich. “That’ll … definitely help.” What was he saying? He stuffed a bite of sandwich in his mouth to shut himself up.
“Three is supposed to be a magic number….” Mackenzie looked at him, all smiles. “We’ll save our third kiss for when it’s just you and me. Sound like a plan?”
He forced the dry bread and meat down his throat so he could talk. “It’s … a plan,” he managed, and palmed his locker shut.
He hadn’t meant to agree to it, but the echo of his words sure sounded like he had. What he’d meant was that it was a plan, but not his plan.
Oh my gosh. It’s her plan.
“See you, boyfriend.” With a wink, Mackenzie two-stepped away, like the hall speakers were playing dance music only she could hear.
The start-of-class bell rang.
Wyatt bonked his forehead against his locker. Resting there, he told himself, Mental note: never be alone with Mackenzie, ever again.
THAT’S WHAT I get for never telling her. And now I can’t. She’ ll hate me.
School was out, and Wyatt was running, taking the back way to avoid Mackenzie. And Jonathon. Well, everyone.
He turned at the far side of the gym and raced past their school rock, its foot-high purple and gold letters shouting,
GO FIGHTING SOLDIERS!
Sprinting along the edge of the field, he passed the faculty parking lot to get to the chain-link fence. There was a gap at the bottom, blocked by an old log, but there was enough room for Wyatt—and the occasional soccer ball—to scoot through. He’d been sent to get enough of them during PE.
Nearly empty backpack in his hand, he slid through the gap. He shouldered the bag and noticed, on the ridge across from him, a family of tourists posing in front of the log cabin that was supposed to be like the one Lincoln had been born in. They were so happy to be in Lincolnville. Everyone was. Everyone but him.
He dashed down the ravine to the trail along the stream, and ran.
Where Jenson’s Stream widened out to the ford, he jumped across the flat concrete stones that made a path, and kept going on the other side. It was just him and the rushing water, his heartbeat, his lungs, and the rhythm of his feet pushing him away from school as fast as they could go.
Twenty minutes later, his side cramped and Wyatt stumbled to a sweaty stop. He dropped his backpack and let the cold afternoon water run through his fingers, on its way to Corvallis. And Portland. And then the ocean, and maybe … San Francisco. Or LA.
But me? I’m stuck here.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, got out his phone, and pulled up the photo of his soldier. Wyatt imagined him saying, Hey there again, Wyatt. Fancy meeting you in a place like this. He knew it was corny. Stupid. But it made him feel better anyway.
Not for the first time, Wyatt wished his soldier were real. That he could tell him about Mackenzie, those weird kisses, and what a disaster everything was.
The day came crashing in on him—early wake-up, getting ambushed, sore muscles, clueless Mr. Guzman announcing his A and Jonathon’s D, and because of that, Jonathon almost pounding him, and then that kiss—both kisses…. Ugh!
He kicked a fist-size rock into the current, and it splashed water back onto him. Great. Now he was wet, too.
Everything ached as he lay out on a boulder that edged the stream. His shoulders protested as he lifted his phone—which hardly weighed anything—above him, but Wyatt didn’t care. He focused on his soldier.
The guy was staring right at the camera, kind of smiling, like he and whoever had taken the picture shared some secret. His coat was way too big, and the forage cap on his head—the same kind they sold in the B and B and that looked so awkward on their plastic military mannequin, whether it was dressed in Union blues or Confederate butternut-gray—looked pretty cool on him. There was another young guy behind him, holding a sword, all check this out, and Wyatt wondered if they were friends.
He figured his soldier was only a little older than he was—you could tell he wasn’t shaving yet. Well, okay, Wyatt knew he was a lot older—the Civil War was, like, 150 years ago. Who was he? Who was he staring at like that? What was his secret?
All Wyatt could do was look at him, across time, and imagine he was just dressed up for the reenactments. That he was some teenager from another town and was going to lie back right here next to Wyatt. And they’d get to listen to the stream together. And talk, about the stuff Wyatt couldn’t tell anybody. And Wyatt imagined, in that tightly locked secret place in his heart, that maybe that smile—like some guy version of the Mona Lisa—might be the way he’d get looked at someday.
Somewhere in the trees above them, a bird wheezed like it had just swallowed a kazoo. Cooper’s hawk, Wyatt guessed. He closed his eyes and breathed in the mossy wet, letting it fill up every part of him.
His soldier was crazy cute. Wyatt could imagine wanting to kiss him. The corners of his mouth tugged up at the idea.
But Mackenzie? A tremor went through him, and it had nothing to do with his clammy T-shirt or the clouds stealing the last warmth of daylight.
Wyatt lurched up to sitting, the muscle knot under his ribs clenching tight.
It was all impossible. He wanted to want to kiss her. But he didn’t want to.
He couldn’t be himself, either—not till he was hundreds of miles away at some college. He’d go to a random big city where no one knew him and no one cared about what he did or who he was … or who he wanted to kiss.
Until then, he just had to survive. Fit in, somehow.
Bulk up? He imagined working out every day at lunch and feeling this sore all the time. How would he ever get as strong or as big as Jonathon, who was a high school Hulk? It would take him forever to even try. And he needed a way to get through tomorrow.
Maybe, if it helped him not bleed into the water like shark food, maybe … plan B? He could have a girlfriend, instantly. He kind of already did.
Wyatt struggled to stand, rubbing at the cramp just now easing in his side. But not telling Mackenzie …
She was going to hate him sooner or later, no matter what he did. He had three and a half more years in Lincolnville before he was free. He’d rather she hated him later.
I have a girlfriend.
He tried saying it out loud, but it came out as a question. “I have a girlfriend?”
Tuesday, January 6
“So, this is just like the room where Lincoln lived in Springfield, Illinois, from 1837 to 1841, when he was twenty-eight to thirty-two years old.” It was the finale of Wyatt’s tour, and the Lincoln Room at the top of the stairs was crowded with second-graders. He pointed out the furniture: the low antique dresser; the rocking chair that was just like the one that had ended up at the White House; the oval mirror with candlesticks and a little shelf for shaving things at the right height for Abe’s face; the could-have-been-there china water pitcher and basin.
“And this is Lincoln’s cherry-pine-rope bed.” Wyatt walked over to the bed-and-breakfast’s shrine, the actual bed Abraham Lincoln had slept in. The kids crowded closer, red velvet ropes on brass posts holding them back. The bed was just a little bigger than his own twin bed one more flight up, but Abe’s had polished wood balls at the corners and an old green-and-blue quilt at the foot and was made up with Wyatt’s great-grandmother’s linens from Italy. Once a month, Wyatt put a dent in the pillow with a spaghetti squash to make it seem like maybe Abe himself had just gotten up. Over winter break, he’d even yanked a couple of hairs from Wax Lincoln’s head and put them on the pillow. Mackenzie had given him a hard time about how it was starting to feel like lying, but he told her museums were kind of like theater and he was just helping set the stage.
He couldn’t tell whether any of the kids noticed the hairs on the pillow or not, but they were in awe in the presence of a real piece of history. Wyatt’s dad had bought the Lincoln bed at auction years ago, and that was how they’d ended up in Lincolnville, right before third grade. His folks had taken over the Lincolnville Civil War Bed & Breakfast and renamed it the Lincoln Slept Here Bed & Breakfast. He’d been assigned a desk next to Mackenzie. They’d bonded over her never teasing him for being new, and him never teasing her for having a mom who was sometimes around, but most of the time not. They’d studied together and listened to each other, and been friends ever since.
Behind the field-trip teachers in the doorway, Mackenzie waved to get his attention.
And now she’s my girlfriend….
sleep tight.
