when I’d felt such pure and simple joy.
“I’ll help you with history,” I volunteered, hoping he understood it was an apology.
Liam got it. He nodded. “Cool.”
“Did you want to come over after school? I could show you my class notes….”
Liam’s face clouded over. “I can’t.”
I felt stupid for pushing too far too fast. “Sure, I get it.”
“Tomorrow?” he offered.
Embarrassed despair turned to excitement and then I told myself I was an idiot. I couldn’t get all lame about this. I had to try and be cool. I just wished I had any idea what that looked like. “Sure.”
The rest of the school day passed without any more surprises—thank God. I wasn’t up for any more shocks. I liked that my life was so predictable—there’s a real safety in routine.
My mom and I live in a little run-down apartment. We used to have a nicer place, but then my mom kicked my dad to the curb (and I’m glad she did, since he’s a total jerk) and with one income, this was the best she could do. I didn’t mind. She was a lot happier now than she had been while married to my self-centered dad, and she was too good a person to be sad all the time.
I grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the fridge and a can of soda and then shuffled into my room. I put my backpack with the day’s boatload of homework in a corner and pretended it didn’t exist. Then I got out my laptop and surfed the Net to kill time until four o’clock. That was when my Internet boyfriend showed up.
No, I don’t really have a boyfriend. But I do have a vivid imagination.
I hang out a lot on this site for gay teens. It’s like having a social life without all the work and rejection. Sometimes I just read the articles—I’m obsessed with the advice column and I keep thinking that one day I need to send in a letter of my own. I just don’t think anyone can tell me how to stop being a loser.
A lot of the times, I’m in the chat rooms. It’s fun to gossip about which celebrity might be gay and trade links to pictures (all very artistic pictures, I assure you) and commiserate about how the adults are fucking up the world we’re going to inherit.
It’s also fun to flirt. Online flirting is something I can handle. For one, I don’t have to worry about the person I’m flirting with scrunching up their face in disgust. Second, I can edit my flirting several times before anyone sees it. Even if I don’t hit it off with my online playmates, I can just move on without feeling rejected.
Of course, there’s the usual chat room problem. You know what I mean. The Creeps; those guys who are probably ancient—like in their forties —trolling for pictures of teens in various states of undress. The good thing about this site I go to is that it’s moderated, so as soon as we spot one of The Creeps, we just bring in an admin and get them booted.
The Stalkers are the more subtle cousins of The Creeps. These are the guys who try to lure you into meeting them in some secluded park. They’re a lot harder to spot. Some of them give themselves away with the old Age/Sex/Location question or simply “Stats?” but most had wised up by now.
I was pretty sure “Hawaii5*9” was a sixty-year-old dude with a paunch and bad teeth, but I chose to imagine he was a sexy guy my age who had a thing for awkward nerds. Oh, I’ll just admit it. In my most secret and lurid fantasies it was Zach. I’m pathetic, I know. But don’t worry, it gets worse. Because I have this whole elaborate scenario where we meet and he tells me he’s glad that I’m the one behind “JustM3*87” and that he had wanted to ask me out for a long time. I told you, I read a lot. It helps me come up with all kinds of scenarios in my head where Zach and I wind up together.
Hawaii comes on at four every other day and we chat. We started talking a month ago, before school started. I’d never seen him on the site before, and I was in a good mood (can you believe it?) so I side-messaged him
“I’ll help you with history,” I volunteered, hoping he understood it was an apology.
Liam got it. He nodded. “Cool.”
“Did you want to come over after school? I could show you my class notes….”
Liam’s face clouded over. “I can’t.”
I felt stupid for pushing too far too fast. “Sure, I get it.”
“Tomorrow?” he offered.
Embarrassed despair turned to excitement and then I told myself I was an idiot. I couldn’t get all lame about this. I had to try and be cool. I just wished I had any idea what that looked like. “Sure.”
The rest of the school day passed without any more surprises—thank God. I wasn’t up for any more shocks. I liked that my life was so predictable—there’s a real safety in routine.
My mom and I live in a little run-down apartment. We used to have a nicer place, but then my mom kicked my dad to the curb (and I’m glad she did, since he’s a total jerk) and with one income, this was the best she could do. I didn’t mind. She was a lot happier now than she had been while married to my self-centered dad, and she was too good a person to be sad all the time.
I grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the fridge and a can of soda and then shuffled into my room. I put my backpack with the day’s boatload of homework in a corner and pretended it didn’t exist. Then I got out my laptop and surfed the Net to kill time until four o’clock. That was when my Internet boyfriend showed up.
No, I don’t really have a boyfriend. But I do have a vivid imagination.
I hang out a lot on this site for gay teens. It’s like having a social life without all the work and rejection. Sometimes I just read the articles—I’m obsessed with the advice column and I keep thinking that one day I need to send in a letter of my own. I just don’t think anyone can tell me how to stop being a loser.
A lot of the times, I’m in the chat rooms. It’s fun to gossip about which celebrity might be gay and trade links to pictures (all very artistic pictures, I assure you) and commiserate about how the adults are fucking up the world we’re going to inherit.
It’s also fun to flirt. Online flirting is something I can handle. For one, I don’t have to worry about the person I’m flirting with scrunching up their face in disgust. Second, I can edit my flirting several times before anyone sees it. Even if I don’t hit it off with my online playmates, I can just move on without feeling rejected.
Of course, there’s the usual chat room problem. You know what I mean. The Creeps; those guys who are probably ancient—like in their forties —trolling for pictures of teens in various states of undress. The good thing about this site I go to is that it’s moderated, so as soon as we spot one of The Creeps, we just bring in an admin and get them booted.
The Stalkers are the more subtle cousins of The Creeps. These are the guys who try to lure you into meeting them in some secluded park. They’re a lot harder to spot. Some of them give themselves away with the old Age/Sex/Location question or simply “Stats?” but most had wised up by now.
I was pretty sure “Hawaii5*9” was a sixty-year-old dude with a paunch and bad teeth, but I chose to imagine he was a sexy guy my age who had a thing for awkward nerds. Oh, I’ll just admit it. In my most secret and lurid fantasies it was Zach. I’m pathetic, I know. But don’t worry, it gets worse. Because I have this whole elaborate scenario where we meet and he tells me he’s glad that I’m the one behind “JustM3*87” and that he had wanted to ask me out for a long time. I told you, I read a lot. It helps me come up with all kinds of scenarios in my head where Zach and I wind up together.
Hawaii comes on at four every other day and we chat. We started talking a month ago, before school started. I’d never seen him on the site before, and I was in a good mood (can you believe it?) so I side-messaged him
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