the beast and dragon adored (2/3)
Part One
Webster’s known he was gay since was 18 and drunk at George Luz’s senior year graduation party and Joe Liebgott came onto him. Well, that’s a lie. Webster’s known he was gay since he was eight years old and his best friend’s sister dragged them to a Backstreet Boys concert.
But -- it wasn’t necessarily that he knew he was gay, then. It was more of a fear. It was a cold, dark thought that he kept locked in a cage, a hated, captive worry that threatened to rattle the perfect fragility of his carefully-built life. Webster liked art, but that was allowed. He listened to Morrissey, and it was a phase. He never had sleepovers as a kid, because that was too homo.
And then Liebgott came along and fucked it up. He let it out. The tongue in his throat become more than a tongue in his throat. The dick in his hand wasn’t just a dick in his hand.
It was confirmation. Hard, slick, terrifying confirmation.
The trouble was that Webster abhorred every form of hypocrisy. He said he valued honesty, and honor, and maintaining the integrity of your convictions. But he’d never been challenged before, he’d never met a true conflict. Defending someone helpless from a bully, or refraining from cheating on a test he forgot to study for, or standing up to his parents about his music all felt different from this particular species of identity crisis. What would this mean about his mannerisms, his personality, his acceptance by strangers? Could he get married, could he have children, would he be turned down from future jobs? And most importantly -- wouldn’t it make it just that much harder to find someone? How do you even meet men? How do the power dynamics work, the dialogue, the conflict resolution--
You still fucking that little Jew? Webster can’t shake it out of him, this parasitic voice that won’t let him forget about the only question (or rather, the only answer) that -- if he’s being honest with himself -- really, truly matters.
--
“David...look, it’s not the big a deal, okay? Aren’t you basically out anyways?”
“No...not -- not really.”
“Look, man, I hate to break it to you but everyone knows. I’ve seen you wear a beret.”
“That was one time, will you please stop bringing it up?”
“Okay, okay, but really. Is it really that big a thing if Norman Dike of all people outs you? Besides, he might not even do it. He could’ve easily just been talking shit. It sounds like he was drunk out of his mind.”
“He wasn’t that drunk.”
“Okay then, it’s still just a threat. Nothing’s happened yet. Stop worrying--”
“Nixon--!” David explodes, then runs a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples. He mumbles something indecipherable into his hands.
“What? Stop mumbling.”
David shoots him a deadly glare, but moves his hands. “I said,” he lowers his voice, then swallows. “My parents don’t know.”
Nixon’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s what you’re worried about? Dude, I’ve been with Dick since I was practically -- Jesus Christ, it’s been like 12 years! And I’m twenty-six! And my parents still just think he’s my best friend.”
“Yeah, but your parents are different.”
“No they’re not, are you kidding me? It’s the same deal! Old money, old name -- I mean they made me do the Yale thing, just like every other Nixon. Just about had a heart attack when I said I was going in the music business. Which, by the way, they still think I’m a producer or some shit, not a goddamn bassist on an indie label...”
“Nixon...” David says softly, “I really don’t think you get it. They can’t know.”
Nixon sighs, running a hand over his face. He studies Webster for a moment. Webster may be an angsty, melodramatic son of a bitch sometimes but that’s what musicians do. Nixon’s never seen Webster look scared. Bitchy, maybe. Indignant, all the time. Pissy, perpetually. But never scared.
“What’ll they do?” He asks quietly.
“Disown me.” Webster’s mouth does a funny thing. “At the very least.”
“No...”
Webster bites down on his lip, almost violently, avoiding his eyes. “No one knows them like I do,” he whispers.
“I...David, I’m so sorry. I never knew.”
“Course you didn’t. How could you? I could never admit something like that.”
“Are they...are they, y’know, violent?”
“No,” David says. “Just...delusional. Mom lives in some safer fantasy world and Dad only cares about his reputation. The Websters couldn’t possibly have a gay son. It’s already humiliating enough that I dropped out of Harvard for my goddamn music.”
“Yeah, brother, I’m with you there,” Nixon laughs. Webster can’t help but smile with him.
This is why Nixon’s friendship is so special to Webster. He understands about these sorts of things. Speirs -- for all the black he wears and the severe looks and intensity of his constitution -- actually has a surprisingly excellent relationship with his parents. Same with Skinny. But Nixon understands the dramatic parties and the family traditions, the choking high-collars and the impossible expectations. Speirs would scoff at him and tell him he’s being a wuss. Skinny would just blindly comfort him. But Nixon laughs, because once you strip away the nannies and the tutors and the expensive shoes and the stern, secretive mouths, all that’s left is ridiculous, and ridiculous things are meant to be laughed at.
--
“Joe, put on your fuckin’ shoes.”
Liebgott directs his meanest glare at Guarnere. “I told you I wasn’t going to no fuckin’ Last Patrol gig.”
“Yes, you are. Now put on your fuckin’ shoes before I throw you over my goddamn shoulder.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Muck claps his hands in delight, as if he’s at a movie theatre. “Do it Gonorrhea, he’s asking for it!”
“Shut the fuck up, Skip,” Liebgott growls. “And fine, I’ll go. But only ‘cause...”
“...you have a big ole’ boner for the guitarist,” Malarkey finishes innocently.
“No! For you guys. Because I just love you so very much,” he says in a tone that makes it very clear that he wishes them nothing more than a most painful death.
“D’awww, that’s my boy!” Guarnere ruffles Liebgott’s deliberately-messy coif.
Liebgott smacks his hand away.
“Aw, Bill, look what you’ve done! Now he’s gotta go mess it up again so just that one perfect strand is oh-so-delicately out of place,” Malarkey coos.
“Shoulda named this fuckin’ group ‘Band of Bastards’...” Liebgott murmurs under his breath, stomping over to the bathroom to, yes, fix his hair.
“Making yourself all pretty for your boyfriend?” Malarkey says, sliding behind Liebgott to rest his head on his shoulder.
“This bathroom is too tiny for your big ass, Malarkey.”
“I’ll take that a yes to the prettification?”
Liebgott gives Malarkey the same glare-treatment as Bill. “Would you fuckin’ give it a rest, already?”
“Sensitive subject?”
“No. Dead subject.”
“Just because it was like, 7 years ago doesn’t mean there aren’t still feelings,” Malarkey says significantly.
“Yes, actually, it does.” Liebgott shakes his head one last time, so the one, perfect strand falls deliberately out of place, and shrugs Malarkey off his shoulder.
“I’m ready,” he says to Muck, who skips far too happily over to the car, dragging a tight-lipped Liebgott behind him.
“That one’s got it bad,” Malarkey says to Bill, nodding to Liebgott, who is glowering with all his might in the backseat.
When they finally arrive at Toccoa Bar -- The Last Patrol’s favorite spot for impromptu gigs -- the bar is already cloudy with smoke and crowded with fans and drunks alike. The boys push there way through to the bar and sweet talk a couple of girls into getting them a seat.
“Four beers,” Liebgott shouts to the bartender, just as the microphone creaks behind them. He stares determinedly at the counter, knuckles whitening as a familiar voice overpowers the chatter of the bar.
“Hey, everybody, hope you’re all having a good time tonight.”
Liebgott scoffs.
“For those of you who don’t know us, we’re the Last Patrol. We’ve played this bar quite a few times now, so we see a lot of familiar faces, and we’re hoping to see some new ones as well.”
Liebgott turns around, and immediately, without any conscious effort on his part, he lands on a pair of sharp blue eyes, the brightest thing in the room -- just as penetrating and infuriating as he remembers them. They stare right into his, and Liebgott finds it damn near impossible to look away.
Webster turns away first. He is less scruffy than Liebgott remembers -- younger-looking, surprisingly. Maybe it is all summer’s doing -- his hair is wilder and darker, his skin brown and clean-shaven, fresh-looking, and he looks leaner, hungrier than Liebgott remembers. He turns to whisper something in the singer’s ear -- Speirs -- who nods briefly, and mouths something to the other band members.
Webster returns to his mic. “We’re going to start off with a cover, if that’s alright. This is ‘The Boy With the Thorn in His Side’ by The Smiths.” He ducks his head, positioning his hands in the proper place on his guitar, and Speirs steps up to sing.
Liebgott turns back to the counter as the song begins, Speirs’ somewhat unexpected voice filling the room. He spies Muck dancing enthusiastically and slaps the back of his head.
“What?”
“This isn’t even a dancing song!”
“It’s my party and I’ll dance if I want to!”
“Jesus fuck, that’s not even how the song goes!” Liebgott shakes his head and returns to his drink.
“Aw, c’mon, Lieb, live a little.” Guarnere bumps his shoulder.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Stop pouting.”
“I’ll pout if I fuckin’ want to!”
Bill rolls his eyes and turns to Malarkey. “You take him. I can’t handle the bitching.”
Malarkey throws an arm over Liebgott’s shoulder. “C’mon, buddy, lighten up. They’re good. Listen.”
“The boy with the thorn in his side...behind the hatred there lies a plundering desire for love,” Speirs sings, eyes closed dramatically.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
Webster is staring right at him, and Liebgott freezes. He hadn’t been sure if the look was deliberate before, but this definitely is. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully and Liebgott cocks his head, not understanding. Webster jerks his head to the side of the stage and mouths something that could be ‘after.’
'After the show?’ Liebgott mouths back.
Webster nods, then seems to remember himself, returning to looking mournfully down at his guitar.
“Was that some secret lover’s language or something? Can you communicate telepathically?”
“Can you speak with your mouth instead of out of your ass?”
“Nope. Biological deficiency from birth.”
“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”
“Because I’m adorable, and you would never get laid without me.”
Liebgott shakes his head and turns back to the bartender. “Another beer, please?”
He can’t help but overhear the conversation next to him while he waits. There are two girls -- both mildly attractive, but not very intelligent, at least as far as Liebgott is concerned.
“Yeah, the singer’s pretty hot, but personally I prefer the guitarist.”
Liebgott raises an eyebrow.
“He’s got that dark, brooding thing working for him. I just wish he’d rip his shirt off already. God, I love v-necks,” she says, eyeing Webster like a piece of meat. Liebgott clears his throat.
“Excuse me, ladies, not to intrude, but that guy? The guitarist? Total dick. 100% pure dick. It may look like he’s got a face and you know, other parts besides dick but I promise you he’s all dick. Nothin’ else to him. Except for his pussy. Yeah, he’s definitely got a pussy. Also his chest is ridiculously hairy -- is that what you like? You like that? Not judgin’ you or anything, but, that’s kinda gross, babe.”
The girl glares at him. “Are you the protective boyfriend or something?”
Liebgott’s mouth drops open, indignant. Over his shoulder, Malarkey nods at them enthusiastically.
“What? No! I’m just trying to tell you what you’re gettin’ into!”
“No offense, babe, but I think I can handle one moody musician with potential emotional problems. Not exactly rocket science.”
“I’m tellin’ you, he’s a fuckin’ prick!” Liebgott shouts after them as they start to walk away.
She gives him the finger. Her friend turns back and winks at him over her shoulder.
“Why do women still hit on you, Lieb? Like, to me, it’s so obvious that you’re a flaming homo.”
“Shut the fuck up, Skip,” Liebgott sighs in frustration.
The crowd erupts into applause as they finish the song. Webster smiles and Liebgott’s stomach does a funny, fluttery thing that he pointedly ignores.
“Thank you,” Webster says, winking at Speirs. “Now this next song is an old one...we actually played this at our very first show here, seven years ago. Believe it or not, playing a gig here was the prize for the winner of our high school’s talent show, so this bar still brings back a lot of those old memories.”
Malarkey elbows Liebgott in the side. He looks up, and once again, Webster is looking right at him. Throughout the entire of the set, Webster’s eyes remained determinedly locked on his.
“The intensity of this eyefucking is...staggering, to say the least. I mean, is it hot in here or is just me?”
“Shut up, Skip.”
Webster’s taken off his shirt at this point -- his chest is just as hairy as Liebgott remembers it. He’s still solid-looking, with just the right amount of muscle mass. He swallows. Liebgott likes men that look like men. He’s sleeker though, too -- though maybe it’s just the darker skin.
“And now we’re going to play something a little slower, is that alright?”
Liebgott nods subconsciously; the way Webster is staring at him, it feels like the question is directed at him.
He plays the guitar acoustically and Speirs switches to the keyboard. There aren’t any lyrics -- the melody is low and dark, haunting, even. It doesn’t fit in this bar, in this environment, with the throngs of people who suddenly feel like intruders. Liebgott’s skin feels too tight on him, too hot, but he has goosebumps that appear as if out of nowhere. He wants to leave, or to look away, or to make a joke or to turn to Malarkey and laugh, but his throat constricts and it’s like the floor has grown roots, locking him in place.
They play one more song after that -- something fast and familiar and popular that Liebgott barely hears. The minute it ends he’s at the side of the stage, hissing at Webster.
“One second,” Webster says, without looking at him. He packs away his guitar in his case and packs up his pedal and amp. When he finally returns to Liebgott, it’s with a cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth, and his hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. He is still shirtless. Liebgott takes a deep breath.
“Sorry about the wait,” Webster says, eyes studying Liebgott curiously, raking up and down. Liebgott’s posture becomes self-consciously more cocky -- he cants his hips and allows his shoulders to become careless. The result isn’t as devil-may-care as he thinks; if anything, he just comes across as slutty.
“It’s been a long time.” His voice comes out raspier than he expected. He clears his throat.
“It’s funny how you can live in the same town as someone and never see them, huh?” He puffs on his cigarette, a plume of smoke curling out of the side of his mouth. His eyes never leave Liebgott’s.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“How’s your band? You guys ready for next weekend?”
Liebgott tries not to look surprised at the acknowledgement. “Yeah. Haven’t really thought about it much, really.”
Webster’s mouth betrays a tiny grin, spotting the lie immediately. “You guys still emulating the botched stage pyrotechnics of AC/DC?”
“You guys still stealing all your material from The Cure?”
Webster lifts an eyebrow. “Let’s not start this again,” he says, dripping with pretension.
“You fucking started it,” Liebgott backfires, taking a step forward. Webster raises his eyebrows, unfazed. “And I don’t have a ‘thorn in my side’!”
“What, you think I chose to play that song because of you? That kind of presumption and arrogance is so unflattering, Liebgott.”
Liebgott fights off the red steadily flooding his cheeks. “Fuck you!”
“Glad to see you’re still the same scrappy little delinquent that I left you. Familiarity’s nice, sometimes, you know?”
“And you’re still the same conceited, hairy-chested fuck.”
Webster sighs. “Look, Liebgott. Fun as this is, it’s not the reason I called you over here.”
“Fine, then what?”
“Let’s...I need to go somewhere private. Let’s step outside.”
“Here’s fine,” Liebgott shrugs defiantly, daring Webster to challenge him.
“Joe,” Webster says, quietly this time, and Liebgott looks up. He never calls him Joe. “Please.”
“Fine...but any funny business and I scream. Not that your punk-ass is any real threat.”
Webster rolls his eyes and beckons Liebgott to follow him behind the bar. It’s much cooler outside. The breeze lifts Liebgott’s hair, while Webster’s remains determinedly plastered to his temples with sweat. He lights another cigarette, silently inviting Liebgott to take the first drag.
“So what is it?” Liebgott asks bluntly, lips closing on the end of the cigarette.
Webster’s eyes linger dazedly at his mouth before answering. “Remember Norman Dike?”
“Son of a bitch who always called me a faggot? ‘Course I fucking remember him. Beat the shit out of him at a soccer game once.” Liebgott remembers that soccer game. It was Webster’s, actually, and Liebgott came to support Malarkey, who was also on the team. It had absolutely nothing to with Webster, and the way his muscles moved under the thin jersey, or the way his mouth hung open when he was concentrating particularly hard, or the way his eyes became bluer and bluer the farther the sun sunk into the ground.
Webster smiles privately, as if he remembers too. He sobers quickly, however. “Well, I ran into him at a bar recently. This one, actually.”
“Oh yeah? How’s ol’ Dike doin’? Still a piece of shit?”
Webster nods, carefully studying a rock under his shoe. Liebgott watches him, frowning.
“He do somethin’ to you?”
Webster’s tongue flicks out at his lip, and he locks eyes with Liebgott, who wishes he could read his mind.
“He hurt you?” Liebgott asks roughly.
Webster’s eyes turn curious, and he smiles around the end of his cigarette. Liebgott realizes his voice sounds more protective than inquisitive -- and, well, fuck, maybe he doesn’t mean to correct it.
“No,” Webster says, finally. “Just threatened to out me.”
Liebgott furrows his brow. “Thought you were already out.”
“Why does everyone always say that?” Webster demands petulantly.
“‘Cause I saw you wear a beret once.”
“One time!”
Liebgott laughs, staring for a long moment at Webster over the curling smoke of his cigarette. “Well, Web, does it really matter? If you’re outed, I mean.”
“Matters to my parents,” he says, so low it’s almost inaudible. At first Liebgott thinks he misheard.
“They don’t know?”
He shakes his head, still absorbed in kicking his rock. Liebgott inhales. “Would they care?”
Webster nods vehemently.
“Well what would they do?”
“Disown me,” he says flatly, in that monotone that Liebgott found so infuriating in high school, but now realizes was perfectly studied -- a neat little wall of deliberate indifference to hide behind.
He always thought Webster had a near-perfect life. His clothes looked expensive and new. His grades were flawless, and it seemed like he was good at practically everything he endeavored.
“What a cliche, right?” Webster says. He’s staring at Liebgott again -- so intensely that it’s almost uncomfortable.
“Yeah, it is. Good angst material though, right? Bet you got a lot of lyrical gems outta that, eh?”
Webster’s mouth forms the shape to spit out a vicious ‘fuck you’ but he stops halfway, mouth crumbling into a misshapen smile, some lost shape that hasn’t realized what it wants to be.
“Glad I could confide in you,” he says, without venom or sadness or anything; it is purely flat, perfectly clean of emotion.
Liebgott doesn’t try to chase after him. Instead, he says, “My parents don’t know either.” He tries to echo Webster’s flatness but the effect isn’t the same. It bleeds through regardless.
Webster’s hand lingers at the door. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Ma expects lots of little grandbabies. Supposed to find some girl with some big soft titties to make lots of little Liebgotts for her to fatten up.”
“Because the fattening didn’t work on you?” Webster teases, a degree too fondly.
“Hey, I eat, alright? I got high metabolism, that’s all.”
“So, what -- your mother just wouldn’t understand?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t really tried. ‘Fraid it would break her heart,” he coughs at the sentimentality, grateful that the lone streetlight is too dim to pick up his blush.
Webster’s mouth twists sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Eh, it’s not your fault.” He takes in Webster’s eyes -- burning blue under the moonlight -- and his still-damp skin, the hint of stubble on his strong jaw. “Well...maybe it is.”
Webster swallows, as if reading his mind, and seems to take in Liebgott in very much the same way. He doesn’t seem to know how to respond though, and Liebgott takes some pleasure in this; for once, David Kenyon Webster is lost for words.
“Well,” Liebgott says after a long, thick silence. “What do you wanna do about Dike?”
“There isn’t much we can do. Sic Speirs on him, maybe.”
“Yeah, or Guarnere. Bet he and his buddy Joe Toye could do some damage.”
“We should get the three of them to talk business, then.” Webster says. His hand -- which has been lingering near the door for a while now, finally turns the handle. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” he says awkwardly, stepping inside the door.
“Yeah.” Joe nods. “Hey, Web?”
Webster flinches a little. “Yes?”
“As far as I’m concerned...your secret’s safe.”
Webster’s eyes flicker in the dark. He shuts the door behind him without another word, leaving Liebgott in the alleyway, stomping out the last embers of their shared cigarette, alone.
--
Webster’s apartment is small but well-dressed -- an eclectic mix of modern and antique furniture, with stylishly cluttered belongings scattered all throughout his space, and an enormous wall of books that alone remains perfectly organized. There are fiction and non-fiction sections; the fiction is organized by type, such as plays, poetry, and novels. Within these components, the books are organized by author. The non-fiction is organized is much the same way, with biographies, history, science, reference books, and those things that can only be categorized as ‘personal.’ There are his old journals, his first manuscripts, and tired, torn rough drafts. Children’s books that he keeps in case he ever has a child of his own. Yearbooks.
It is the last one that he pulls from the shelf, settling onto the floor with his back against the wall: his senior yearbook, which still looks as new as it did on the day he received it. He flips deliberately to Liebgott’s picture, smirking when he finds it. The picture is clean, as he’s sure his isn’t -- he’s positive that Liebgott has defiled his with a sharpie-drawn mustache, or a graffitied penis. He never experienced the urge to reciprocate that particular breed of vandalism, and he’s glad he didn’t. The face in the yearbook and the face from the alleyway are almost exactly the same; the only person who could distinguish the minor differences is someone who has dedicated many hours to carefully studying his face. 18-year-old Liebgott looks healthier, overwhelmed by that dewy, playful youthfulness that still emanates from his every pore, even today, that fresh, young, vibrant thing that Webster can just feel on the ends of his fingertips, always resigned to merely thirsting for it because he’s so afraid to just reach out and take. 25-year-old Liebgott is more skeletal, but also more accessible. In high school, Webster had to constantly exercise his every faculty to convince himself of their separation. Liebgott was stupid and he was smart. Liebgott was a street kid and he came from money. Liebgott was tasteless and he was tasteful. Liebgott was less, lacking, smaller, nothing. He forced a running commentary of his every offense, always living in absolute terror of the day that commentary ran out of steam.
He flips to another page, dedicated to the school talent show. There was a girl who performed an atrocious ballet routine. An unfortunate, bespectacled boy from his physics class who played the paino. A pair of theatre kids who performed a horrendous one-act play written by an obnoxious try-hard from Webster’s English class. At the bottom of the page, the smallest picture is awarded to a quartet of boys with battered instruments and a clumsy attempt at a pyrotechnics display. The boys have long, grungy hair and baggy clothes emblazoned with the faces of Iggy Pop, Sid Vicious, and the like. The caption beneath the tiny photo reads:
“Joe Liebgott, Donald Malarkey, Skip Muck, and Bill Guarnere make up the punk group Band of Brothers. Unfortunately, their brotherly camaraderie and violent enthusiasm could not compensate for the misshapen light display, landing them in fifth place.”
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the center of the page is devoted entirely to a large picture of Speirs, who looks drastically different. His hair is lighter, his mouth looser, and he isn’t wearing his now-trademark scarf or his black-framed glasses. He looks lively and happy in the picture. Half of Webster’s torso makes into the photo as well -- he wears a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and his guitar is brand new then, shiny and expensive. A small interview accompanies the photo.
“The winner of the talent show is a band called The Last Patrol, made up of band members Ronald Speirs, vocalist and keyboardist; David Webster, guitarist and lyricist; Lewis Nixon, bassist; and Wayne Sisk, drummer. Besides winning the talent show and accepting the prize of performing at local hotspot Toccoa Bar, guitarist David Webster sees bright things in their future.
“We’ve been approached by a few labels, but we’re taking it slow. We’re all very serious about our music and our future in this business, so we don’t want to make any decisions we’ll regret. But this definitely isn’t the last of us you’ll see. We hope to be around for a long time.”
David looks at the photo of Band of Brothers again. Liebgott is smiling so big and so fiercely that it looks as if his face might split in half. He has the microphone cord wrapped around his wrist, and his body looks like it’s vibrating with energy, a perfect live wire. Guarnere and Skip press against each other back-to-back, and Malarkey wields only one drumstick, the other lost to the crowd or the stage or the ceiling beams in their high school gym. They look like they’re having the time of their lives.
He continues flipping, landing on a picture of the baseball team. Speirs and Lipton stand next to each other -- this was before they were dating, but you can see the imminence of a relationship written all of their posture, in their touching shoulders and the protective hand Speirs keeps on Lipton’s arm, whose usual deep, sad-eyed calm is animated by a small, content smile.
There’s a picture of Liebgott and his friends outside during lunch, sitting in a circle at a table while one of them -- Skip, it looks like -- stands on top of the table with his arms outstretched. There’s no telling what he’s doing but by the looks of hysterical laughter on their faces, it must be entertaining and most likely against the rules.
There’s a picture of Winters and Nixon in a Biology class. Webster knows they had already been together, albeit secretly, for three years at this point. It looks as if they’re dissecting something -- Winters prods at the unknown object of interest with determined apathy, while Nixon laughs at him, clearly not persuaded by his apparent indifference.
There’s a picture of Webster in newspaper, alone at a computer, laying out a page with his tongue between his teeth. He’s always hated that picture. He asked a girl friend of his on yearbook to take it out but she refused, arguing that it shows you in your element, at your best, working diligently alone.
Almost directly under this picture of Webster is a picture of Liebgott in P.E, surrounded by friends playing intramural basketball. Liebgott is hunched over the basketball, protective, wearing a huge, careless grin, while his friends crowd around him, playfully predatory.
On the next page there’s a picture of Norman Dike, who was on Student Council with Webster. His hair is askew, and his face bears a medium-sized shiner on his cheek. Webster remembers the day that photo was taken. It was one of the last extracurricular shots the yearbook took, only about a month prior to graduation. Webster had found Dike and Liebgott fighting outside the auditorium. Liebgott had the upper hand, then, but his lip was split and his face was red, and Dike had the meanest grin on his face, even as he laid on the ground after Webster kicked him in the gut.
‘You guys hit pretty hard, for a pair of faggots.’
‘Hey, Webster, come to defend your boyfriend?’
‘You still fucking that little Jew?’ Webster hears Dike’s voice like he’s in the room with him, whispering into his ear. He shudders and closes the book with a frown, not even bothering to return it to the organized haven of his bookshelf.
Part Three
Webster’s known he was gay since was 18 and drunk at George Luz’s senior year graduation party and Joe Liebgott came onto him. Well, that’s a lie. Webster’s known he was gay since he was eight years old and his best friend’s sister dragged them to a Backstreet Boys concert.
But -- it wasn’t necessarily that he knew he was gay, then. It was more of a fear. It was a cold, dark thought that he kept locked in a cage, a hated, captive worry that threatened to rattle the perfect fragility of his carefully-built life. Webster liked art, but that was allowed. He listened to Morrissey, and it was a phase. He never had sleepovers as a kid, because that was too homo.
And then Liebgott came along and fucked it up. He let it out. The tongue in his throat become more than a tongue in his throat. The dick in his hand wasn’t just a dick in his hand.
It was confirmation. Hard, slick, terrifying confirmation.
The trouble was that Webster abhorred every form of hypocrisy. He said he valued honesty, and honor, and maintaining the integrity of your convictions. But he’d never been challenged before, he’d never met a true conflict. Defending someone helpless from a bully, or refraining from cheating on a test he forgot to study for, or standing up to his parents about his music all felt different from this particular species of identity crisis. What would this mean about his mannerisms, his personality, his acceptance by strangers? Could he get married, could he have children, would he be turned down from future jobs? And most importantly -- wouldn’t it make it just that much harder to find someone? How do you even meet men? How do the power dynamics work, the dialogue, the conflict resolution--
You still fucking that little Jew? Webster can’t shake it out of him, this parasitic voice that won’t let him forget about the only question (or rather, the only answer) that -- if he’s being honest with himself -- really, truly matters.
--
“David...look, it’s not the big a deal, okay? Aren’t you basically out anyways?”
“No...not -- not really.”
“Look, man, I hate to break it to you but everyone knows. I’ve seen you wear a beret.”
“That was one time, will you please stop bringing it up?”
“Okay, okay, but really. Is it really that big a thing if Norman Dike of all people outs you? Besides, he might not even do it. He could’ve easily just been talking shit. It sounds like he was drunk out of his mind.”
“He wasn’t that drunk.”
“Okay then, it’s still just a threat. Nothing’s happened yet. Stop worrying--”
“Nixon--!” David explodes, then runs a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples. He mumbles something indecipherable into his hands.
“What? Stop mumbling.”
David shoots him a deadly glare, but moves his hands. “I said,” he lowers his voice, then swallows. “My parents don’t know.”
Nixon’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s what you’re worried about? Dude, I’ve been with Dick since I was practically -- Jesus Christ, it’s been like 12 years! And I’m twenty-six! And my parents still just think he’s my best friend.”
“Yeah, but your parents are different.”
“No they’re not, are you kidding me? It’s the same deal! Old money, old name -- I mean they made me do the Yale thing, just like every other Nixon. Just about had a heart attack when I said I was going in the music business. Which, by the way, they still think I’m a producer or some shit, not a goddamn bassist on an indie label...”
“Nixon...” David says softly, “I really don’t think you get it. They can’t know.”
Nixon sighs, running a hand over his face. He studies Webster for a moment. Webster may be an angsty, melodramatic son of a bitch sometimes but that’s what musicians do. Nixon’s never seen Webster look scared. Bitchy, maybe. Indignant, all the time. Pissy, perpetually. But never scared.
“What’ll they do?” He asks quietly.
“Disown me.” Webster’s mouth does a funny thing. “At the very least.”
“No...”
Webster bites down on his lip, almost violently, avoiding his eyes. “No one knows them like I do,” he whispers.
“I...David, I’m so sorry. I never knew.”
“Course you didn’t. How could you? I could never admit something like that.”
“Are they...are they, y’know, violent?”
“No,” David says. “Just...delusional. Mom lives in some safer fantasy world and Dad only cares about his reputation. The Websters couldn’t possibly have a gay son. It’s already humiliating enough that I dropped out of Harvard for my goddamn music.”
“Yeah, brother, I’m with you there,” Nixon laughs. Webster can’t help but smile with him.
This is why Nixon’s friendship is so special to Webster. He understands about these sorts of things. Speirs -- for all the black he wears and the severe looks and intensity of his constitution -- actually has a surprisingly excellent relationship with his parents. Same with Skinny. But Nixon understands the dramatic parties and the family traditions, the choking high-collars and the impossible expectations. Speirs would scoff at him and tell him he’s being a wuss. Skinny would just blindly comfort him. But Nixon laughs, because once you strip away the nannies and the tutors and the expensive shoes and the stern, secretive mouths, all that’s left is ridiculous, and ridiculous things are meant to be laughed at.
--
“Joe, put on your fuckin’ shoes.”
Liebgott directs his meanest glare at Guarnere. “I told you I wasn’t going to no fuckin’ Last Patrol gig.”
“Yes, you are. Now put on your fuckin’ shoes before I throw you over my goddamn shoulder.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Muck claps his hands in delight, as if he’s at a movie theatre. “Do it Gonorrhea, he’s asking for it!”
“Shut the fuck up, Skip,” Liebgott growls. “And fine, I’ll go. But only ‘cause...”
“...you have a big ole’ boner for the guitarist,” Malarkey finishes innocently.
“No! For you guys. Because I just love you so very much,” he says in a tone that makes it very clear that he wishes them nothing more than a most painful death.
“D’awww, that’s my boy!” Guarnere ruffles Liebgott’s deliberately-messy coif.
Liebgott smacks his hand away.
“Aw, Bill, look what you’ve done! Now he’s gotta go mess it up again so just that one perfect strand is oh-so-delicately out of place,” Malarkey coos.
“Shoulda named this fuckin’ group ‘Band of Bastards’...” Liebgott murmurs under his breath, stomping over to the bathroom to, yes, fix his hair.
“Making yourself all pretty for your boyfriend?” Malarkey says, sliding behind Liebgott to rest his head on his shoulder.
“This bathroom is too tiny for your big ass, Malarkey.”
“I’ll take that a yes to the prettification?”
Liebgott gives Malarkey the same glare-treatment as Bill. “Would you fuckin’ give it a rest, already?”
“Sensitive subject?”
“No. Dead subject.”
“Just because it was like, 7 years ago doesn’t mean there aren’t still feelings,” Malarkey says significantly.
“Yes, actually, it does.” Liebgott shakes his head one last time, so the one, perfect strand falls deliberately out of place, and shrugs Malarkey off his shoulder.
“I’m ready,” he says to Muck, who skips far too happily over to the car, dragging a tight-lipped Liebgott behind him.
“That one’s got it bad,” Malarkey says to Bill, nodding to Liebgott, who is glowering with all his might in the backseat.
When they finally arrive at Toccoa Bar -- The Last Patrol’s favorite spot for impromptu gigs -- the bar is already cloudy with smoke and crowded with fans and drunks alike. The boys push there way through to the bar and sweet talk a couple of girls into getting them a seat.
“Four beers,” Liebgott shouts to the bartender, just as the microphone creaks behind them. He stares determinedly at the counter, knuckles whitening as a familiar voice overpowers the chatter of the bar.
“Hey, everybody, hope you’re all having a good time tonight.”
Liebgott scoffs.
“For those of you who don’t know us, we’re the Last Patrol. We’ve played this bar quite a few times now, so we see a lot of familiar faces, and we’re hoping to see some new ones as well.”
Liebgott turns around, and immediately, without any conscious effort on his part, he lands on a pair of sharp blue eyes, the brightest thing in the room -- just as penetrating and infuriating as he remembers them. They stare right into his, and Liebgott finds it damn near impossible to look away.
Webster turns away first. He is less scruffy than Liebgott remembers -- younger-looking, surprisingly. Maybe it is all summer’s doing -- his hair is wilder and darker, his skin brown and clean-shaven, fresh-looking, and he looks leaner, hungrier than Liebgott remembers. He turns to whisper something in the singer’s ear -- Speirs -- who nods briefly, and mouths something to the other band members.
Webster returns to his mic. “We’re going to start off with a cover, if that’s alright. This is ‘The Boy With the Thorn in His Side’ by The Smiths.” He ducks his head, positioning his hands in the proper place on his guitar, and Speirs steps up to sing.
Liebgott turns back to the counter as the song begins, Speirs’ somewhat unexpected voice filling the room. He spies Muck dancing enthusiastically and slaps the back of his head.
“What?”
“This isn’t even a dancing song!”
“It’s my party and I’ll dance if I want to!”
“Jesus fuck, that’s not even how the song goes!” Liebgott shakes his head and returns to his drink.
“Aw, c’mon, Lieb, live a little.” Guarnere bumps his shoulder.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Stop pouting.”
“I’ll pout if I fuckin’ want to!”
Bill rolls his eyes and turns to Malarkey. “You take him. I can’t handle the bitching.”
Malarkey throws an arm over Liebgott’s shoulder. “C’mon, buddy, lighten up. They’re good. Listen.”
“The boy with the thorn in his side...behind the hatred there lies a plundering desire for love,” Speirs sings, eyes closed dramatically.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
Webster is staring right at him, and Liebgott freezes. He hadn’t been sure if the look was deliberate before, but this definitely is. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully and Liebgott cocks his head, not understanding. Webster jerks his head to the side of the stage and mouths something that could be ‘after.’
'After the show?’ Liebgott mouths back.
Webster nods, then seems to remember himself, returning to looking mournfully down at his guitar.
“Was that some secret lover’s language or something? Can you communicate telepathically?”
“Can you speak with your mouth instead of out of your ass?”
“Nope. Biological deficiency from birth.”
“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”
“Because I’m adorable, and you would never get laid without me.”
Liebgott shakes his head and turns back to the bartender. “Another beer, please?”
He can’t help but overhear the conversation next to him while he waits. There are two girls -- both mildly attractive, but not very intelligent, at least as far as Liebgott is concerned.
“Yeah, the singer’s pretty hot, but personally I prefer the guitarist.”
Liebgott raises an eyebrow.
“He’s got that dark, brooding thing working for him. I just wish he’d rip his shirt off already. God, I love v-necks,” she says, eyeing Webster like a piece of meat. Liebgott clears his throat.
“Excuse me, ladies, not to intrude, but that guy? The guitarist? Total dick. 100% pure dick. It may look like he’s got a face and you know, other parts besides dick but I promise you he’s all dick. Nothin’ else to him. Except for his pussy. Yeah, he’s definitely got a pussy. Also his chest is ridiculously hairy -- is that what you like? You like that? Not judgin’ you or anything, but, that’s kinda gross, babe.”
The girl glares at him. “Are you the protective boyfriend or something?”
Liebgott’s mouth drops open, indignant. Over his shoulder, Malarkey nods at them enthusiastically.
“What? No! I’m just trying to tell you what you’re gettin’ into!”
“No offense, babe, but I think I can handle one moody musician with potential emotional problems. Not exactly rocket science.”
“I’m tellin’ you, he’s a fuckin’ prick!” Liebgott shouts after them as they start to walk away.
She gives him the finger. Her friend turns back and winks at him over her shoulder.
“Why do women still hit on you, Lieb? Like, to me, it’s so obvious that you’re a flaming homo.”
“Shut the fuck up, Skip,” Liebgott sighs in frustration.
The crowd erupts into applause as they finish the song. Webster smiles and Liebgott’s stomach does a funny, fluttery thing that he pointedly ignores.
“Thank you,” Webster says, winking at Speirs. “Now this next song is an old one...we actually played this at our very first show here, seven years ago. Believe it or not, playing a gig here was the prize for the winner of our high school’s talent show, so this bar still brings back a lot of those old memories.”
Malarkey elbows Liebgott in the side. He looks up, and once again, Webster is looking right at him. Throughout the entire of the set, Webster’s eyes remained determinedly locked on his.
“The intensity of this eyefucking is...staggering, to say the least. I mean, is it hot in here or is just me?”
“Shut up, Skip.”
Webster’s taken off his shirt at this point -- his chest is just as hairy as Liebgott remembers it. He’s still solid-looking, with just the right amount of muscle mass. He swallows. Liebgott likes men that look like men. He’s sleeker though, too -- though maybe it’s just the darker skin.
“And now we’re going to play something a little slower, is that alright?”
Liebgott nods subconsciously; the way Webster is staring at him, it feels like the question is directed at him.
He plays the guitar acoustically and Speirs switches to the keyboard. There aren’t any lyrics -- the melody is low and dark, haunting, even. It doesn’t fit in this bar, in this environment, with the throngs of people who suddenly feel like intruders. Liebgott’s skin feels too tight on him, too hot, but he has goosebumps that appear as if out of nowhere. He wants to leave, or to look away, or to make a joke or to turn to Malarkey and laugh, but his throat constricts and it’s like the floor has grown roots, locking him in place.
They play one more song after that -- something fast and familiar and popular that Liebgott barely hears. The minute it ends he’s at the side of the stage, hissing at Webster.
“One second,” Webster says, without looking at him. He packs away his guitar in his case and packs up his pedal and amp. When he finally returns to Liebgott, it’s with a cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth, and his hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. He is still shirtless. Liebgott takes a deep breath.
“Sorry about the wait,” Webster says, eyes studying Liebgott curiously, raking up and down. Liebgott’s posture becomes self-consciously more cocky -- he cants his hips and allows his shoulders to become careless. The result isn’t as devil-may-care as he thinks; if anything, he just comes across as slutty.
“It’s been a long time.” His voice comes out raspier than he expected. He clears his throat.
“It’s funny how you can live in the same town as someone and never see them, huh?” He puffs on his cigarette, a plume of smoke curling out of the side of his mouth. His eyes never leave Liebgott’s.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“How’s your band? You guys ready for next weekend?”
Liebgott tries not to look surprised at the acknowledgement. “Yeah. Haven’t really thought about it much, really.”
Webster’s mouth betrays a tiny grin, spotting the lie immediately. “You guys still emulating the botched stage pyrotechnics of AC/DC?”
“You guys still stealing all your material from The Cure?”
Webster lifts an eyebrow. “Let’s not start this again,” he says, dripping with pretension.
“You fucking started it,” Liebgott backfires, taking a step forward. Webster raises his eyebrows, unfazed. “And I don’t have a ‘thorn in my side’!”
“What, you think I chose to play that song because of you? That kind of presumption and arrogance is so unflattering, Liebgott.”
Liebgott fights off the red steadily flooding his cheeks. “Fuck you!”
“Glad to see you’re still the same scrappy little delinquent that I left you. Familiarity’s nice, sometimes, you know?”
“And you’re still the same conceited, hairy-chested fuck.”
Webster sighs. “Look, Liebgott. Fun as this is, it’s not the reason I called you over here.”
“Fine, then what?”
“Let’s...I need to go somewhere private. Let’s step outside.”
“Here’s fine,” Liebgott shrugs defiantly, daring Webster to challenge him.
“Joe,” Webster says, quietly this time, and Liebgott looks up. He never calls him Joe. “Please.”
“Fine...but any funny business and I scream. Not that your punk-ass is any real threat.”
Webster rolls his eyes and beckons Liebgott to follow him behind the bar. It’s much cooler outside. The breeze lifts Liebgott’s hair, while Webster’s remains determinedly plastered to his temples with sweat. He lights another cigarette, silently inviting Liebgott to take the first drag.
“So what is it?” Liebgott asks bluntly, lips closing on the end of the cigarette.
Webster’s eyes linger dazedly at his mouth before answering. “Remember Norman Dike?”
“Son of a bitch who always called me a faggot? ‘Course I fucking remember him. Beat the shit out of him at a soccer game once.” Liebgott remembers that soccer game. It was Webster’s, actually, and Liebgott came to support Malarkey, who was also on the team. It had absolutely nothing to with Webster, and the way his muscles moved under the thin jersey, or the way his mouth hung open when he was concentrating particularly hard, or the way his eyes became bluer and bluer the farther the sun sunk into the ground.
Webster smiles privately, as if he remembers too. He sobers quickly, however. “Well, I ran into him at a bar recently. This one, actually.”
“Oh yeah? How’s ol’ Dike doin’? Still a piece of shit?”
Webster nods, carefully studying a rock under his shoe. Liebgott watches him, frowning.
“He do somethin’ to you?”
Webster’s tongue flicks out at his lip, and he locks eyes with Liebgott, who wishes he could read his mind.
“He hurt you?” Liebgott asks roughly.
Webster’s eyes turn curious, and he smiles around the end of his cigarette. Liebgott realizes his voice sounds more protective than inquisitive -- and, well, fuck, maybe he doesn’t mean to correct it.
“No,” Webster says, finally. “Just threatened to out me.”
Liebgott furrows his brow. “Thought you were already out.”
“Why does everyone always say that?” Webster demands petulantly.
“‘Cause I saw you wear a beret once.”
“One time!”
Liebgott laughs, staring for a long moment at Webster over the curling smoke of his cigarette. “Well, Web, does it really matter? If you’re outed, I mean.”
“Matters to my parents,” he says, so low it’s almost inaudible. At first Liebgott thinks he misheard.
“They don’t know?”
He shakes his head, still absorbed in kicking his rock. Liebgott inhales. “Would they care?”
Webster nods vehemently.
“Well what would they do?”
“Disown me,” he says flatly, in that monotone that Liebgott found so infuriating in high school, but now realizes was perfectly studied -- a neat little wall of deliberate indifference to hide behind.
He always thought Webster had a near-perfect life. His clothes looked expensive and new. His grades were flawless, and it seemed like he was good at practically everything he endeavored.
“What a cliche, right?” Webster says. He’s staring at Liebgott again -- so intensely that it’s almost uncomfortable.
“Yeah, it is. Good angst material though, right? Bet you got a lot of lyrical gems outta that, eh?”
Webster’s mouth forms the shape to spit out a vicious ‘fuck you’ but he stops halfway, mouth crumbling into a misshapen smile, some lost shape that hasn’t realized what it wants to be.
“Glad I could confide in you,” he says, without venom or sadness or anything; it is purely flat, perfectly clean of emotion.
Liebgott doesn’t try to chase after him. Instead, he says, “My parents don’t know either.” He tries to echo Webster’s flatness but the effect isn’t the same. It bleeds through regardless.
Webster’s hand lingers at the door. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Ma expects lots of little grandbabies. Supposed to find some girl with some big soft titties to make lots of little Liebgotts for her to fatten up.”
“Because the fattening didn’t work on you?” Webster teases, a degree too fondly.
“Hey, I eat, alright? I got high metabolism, that’s all.”
“So, what -- your mother just wouldn’t understand?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t really tried. ‘Fraid it would break her heart,” he coughs at the sentimentality, grateful that the lone streetlight is too dim to pick up his blush.
Webster’s mouth twists sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Eh, it’s not your fault.” He takes in Webster’s eyes -- burning blue under the moonlight -- and his still-damp skin, the hint of stubble on his strong jaw. “Well...maybe it is.”
Webster swallows, as if reading his mind, and seems to take in Liebgott in very much the same way. He doesn’t seem to know how to respond though, and Liebgott takes some pleasure in this; for once, David Kenyon Webster is lost for words.
“Well,” Liebgott says after a long, thick silence. “What do you wanna do about Dike?”
“There isn’t much we can do. Sic Speirs on him, maybe.”
“Yeah, or Guarnere. Bet he and his buddy Joe Toye could do some damage.”
“We should get the three of them to talk business, then.” Webster says. His hand -- which has been lingering near the door for a while now, finally turns the handle. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” he says awkwardly, stepping inside the door.
“Yeah.” Joe nods. “Hey, Web?”
Webster flinches a little. “Yes?”
“As far as I’m concerned...your secret’s safe.”
Webster’s eyes flicker in the dark. He shuts the door behind him without another word, leaving Liebgott in the alleyway, stomping out the last embers of their shared cigarette, alone.
--
Webster’s apartment is small but well-dressed -- an eclectic mix of modern and antique furniture, with stylishly cluttered belongings scattered all throughout his space, and an enormous wall of books that alone remains perfectly organized. There are fiction and non-fiction sections; the fiction is organized by type, such as plays, poetry, and novels. Within these components, the books are organized by author. The non-fiction is organized is much the same way, with biographies, history, science, reference books, and those things that can only be categorized as ‘personal.’ There are his old journals, his first manuscripts, and tired, torn rough drafts. Children’s books that he keeps in case he ever has a child of his own. Yearbooks.
It is the last one that he pulls from the shelf, settling onto the floor with his back against the wall: his senior yearbook, which still looks as new as it did on the day he received it. He flips deliberately to Liebgott’s picture, smirking when he finds it. The picture is clean, as he’s sure his isn’t -- he’s positive that Liebgott has defiled his with a sharpie-drawn mustache, or a graffitied penis. He never experienced the urge to reciprocate that particular breed of vandalism, and he’s glad he didn’t. The face in the yearbook and the face from the alleyway are almost exactly the same; the only person who could distinguish the minor differences is someone who has dedicated many hours to carefully studying his face. 18-year-old Liebgott looks healthier, overwhelmed by that dewy, playful youthfulness that still emanates from his every pore, even today, that fresh, young, vibrant thing that Webster can just feel on the ends of his fingertips, always resigned to merely thirsting for it because he’s so afraid to just reach out and take. 25-year-old Liebgott is more skeletal, but also more accessible. In high school, Webster had to constantly exercise his every faculty to convince himself of their separation. Liebgott was stupid and he was smart. Liebgott was a street kid and he came from money. Liebgott was tasteless and he was tasteful. Liebgott was less, lacking, smaller, nothing. He forced a running commentary of his every offense, always living in absolute terror of the day that commentary ran out of steam.
He flips to another page, dedicated to the school talent show. There was a girl who performed an atrocious ballet routine. An unfortunate, bespectacled boy from his physics class who played the paino. A pair of theatre kids who performed a horrendous one-act play written by an obnoxious try-hard from Webster’s English class. At the bottom of the page, the smallest picture is awarded to a quartet of boys with battered instruments and a clumsy attempt at a pyrotechnics display. The boys have long, grungy hair and baggy clothes emblazoned with the faces of Iggy Pop, Sid Vicious, and the like. The caption beneath the tiny photo reads:
“Joe Liebgott, Donald Malarkey, Skip Muck, and Bill Guarnere make up the punk group Band of Brothers. Unfortunately, their brotherly camaraderie and violent enthusiasm could not compensate for the misshapen light display, landing them in fifth place.”
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the center of the page is devoted entirely to a large picture of Speirs, who looks drastically different. His hair is lighter, his mouth looser, and he isn’t wearing his now-trademark scarf or his black-framed glasses. He looks lively and happy in the picture. Half of Webster’s torso makes into the photo as well -- he wears a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and his guitar is brand new then, shiny and expensive. A small interview accompanies the photo.
“The winner of the talent show is a band called The Last Patrol, made up of band members Ronald Speirs, vocalist and keyboardist; David Webster, guitarist and lyricist; Lewis Nixon, bassist; and Wayne Sisk, drummer. Besides winning the talent show and accepting the prize of performing at local hotspot Toccoa Bar, guitarist David Webster sees bright things in their future.
“We’ve been approached by a few labels, but we’re taking it slow. We’re all very serious about our music and our future in this business, so we don’t want to make any decisions we’ll regret. But this definitely isn’t the last of us you’ll see. We hope to be around for a long time.”
David looks at the photo of Band of Brothers again. Liebgott is smiling so big and so fiercely that it looks as if his face might split in half. He has the microphone cord wrapped around his wrist, and his body looks like it’s vibrating with energy, a perfect live wire. Guarnere and Skip press against each other back-to-back, and Malarkey wields only one drumstick, the other lost to the crowd or the stage or the ceiling beams in their high school gym. They look like they’re having the time of their lives.
He continues flipping, landing on a picture of the baseball team. Speirs and Lipton stand next to each other -- this was before they were dating, but you can see the imminence of a relationship written all of their posture, in their touching shoulders and the protective hand Speirs keeps on Lipton’s arm, whose usual deep, sad-eyed calm is animated by a small, content smile.
There’s a picture of Liebgott and his friends outside during lunch, sitting in a circle at a table while one of them -- Skip, it looks like -- stands on top of the table with his arms outstretched. There’s no telling what he’s doing but by the looks of hysterical laughter on their faces, it must be entertaining and most likely against the rules.
There’s a picture of Winters and Nixon in a Biology class. Webster knows they had already been together, albeit secretly, for three years at this point. It looks as if they’re dissecting something -- Winters prods at the unknown object of interest with determined apathy, while Nixon laughs at him, clearly not persuaded by his apparent indifference.
There’s a picture of Webster in newspaper, alone at a computer, laying out a page with his tongue between his teeth. He’s always hated that picture. He asked a girl friend of his on yearbook to take it out but she refused, arguing that it shows you in your element, at your best, working diligently alone.
Almost directly under this picture of Webster is a picture of Liebgott in P.E, surrounded by friends playing intramural basketball. Liebgott is hunched over the basketball, protective, wearing a huge, careless grin, while his friends crowd around him, playfully predatory.
On the next page there’s a picture of Norman Dike, who was on Student Council with Webster. His hair is askew, and his face bears a medium-sized shiner on his cheek. Webster remembers the day that photo was taken. It was one of the last extracurricular shots the yearbook took, only about a month prior to graduation. Webster had found Dike and Liebgott fighting outside the auditorium. Liebgott had the upper hand, then, but his lip was split and his face was red, and Dike had the meanest grin on his face, even as he laid on the ground after Webster kicked him in the gut.
‘You guys hit pretty hard, for a pair of faggots.’
‘Hey, Webster, come to defend your boyfriend?’
‘You still fucking that little Jew?’ Webster hears Dike’s voice like he’s in the room with him, whispering into his ear. He shudders and closes the book with a frown, not even bothering to return it to the organized haven of his bookshelf.
Part Three