Seventeen and Half Alive

It was Racetrack's idea. It was always Racetrack's idea, whether getting them into trouble or getting them out of it.

They were eight years old and every boy on the street was a friend. They'd be out until the lights came on, playing baseball in the street, running through fields of tall grass and tormenting the occasional cat. The summers were long and hot, nothing to do and minimal supervision.

There was Spot Conlon, the best slugger in the third grade; Jack Kelly, who would chase down the neighbourhood girls on his bike; Skittery Jones, who could pick a lock faster than most kids could tie their shoes; David Jacobs, the class pet who made up for his smarts by getting everything he wanted out of adults; Dutchy Pulaski, who could find his way around town blindfolded in the dark; and, of course, Racetrack Higgins, the half-brained glue that held them together.

It was Racetrack who suggested that, on the last day of summer vacation, they stay in the old treehouse on the edge of the field until the sun rose. It was a dumb idea, but they were a bunch of ambitious eight year olds and it seemed incredibly badass. Of course, most of them got caught sneaking back in at four in the morning and received a grounding, but by the time they were nine, the end of summer vacation rolled around again, past grievances were forgotten and back they went to the treehouse.

The summer they were twelve, on the cusp of junior high, was when Dutchy Pulaski moved to Wisconsin and there were only five bodies gathered around the flashlight that night before school started.

There was no more baseball in the streets or riding their bikes to the convenience store, but there were girls and parties and plenty of adventures and fuckups to be had. They picked fights and drifted apart, but somehow, every year, they'd arrive at the treehouse at sundown with no prior warning.

Jack moved to a smaller house on the other side of town and Spot got expelled and half the time Skittery blended into the walls, but all the way through high school, they'd fight their way through the shoulder-height brush and climb the trusty rope ladder.

There was graduation and summer jobs, hook-ups and texting and a few too many beers, but the end of summer vacation would come once more. And while Racetrack hoped against all hope that they'd be reunited again, he knew that Jack had left for state school on Friday and David was already settled into his dorm at Columbia, that Spot had been shipped off to his grandpa's farm in the middle of nowhere a few weeks before and Skittery was supposed to be working at some mechanic shop. Racetrack, himself, should have been sleeping in preparation for his first day as a receptionist at the Loman and Loman law firm, but he couldn't help finding the treehouse.

There, in the makeshift window that always had be covered by a tarp during storms, was a hunched, thin figure in the glow of the flashlight.

"Son of a bitch," Racetrack whispered softly to himself, stopping short in the middle of the sun-baked flora. Of all the guys to show up, Skittery Jones was the last he'd expected.

The rope ladder held his weight just as well as it did when he was eight years old and felt sure and solid under his hands and feet, even if the height was shorter. At peak height, Jack, the tallest of the group, would simply reach up and lift himself into the wooden house.

Skittery nodded as Racetrack positioned himself awkwardly in the miniscule house and Racetrack simply said, "Hey."

They stared at each other from across the Coleman lantern, somewhat at a loss for words. What was there to talk about? Racetrack and Skittery hadn't been close for years now. Even on those treehouse nights of the previous years, they'd never managed to communicate solo amongst the other assembled bodies, huddled like puppies on the uneven wood floor.

Now that there were no other boys to alleviate the tension, Racetrack was groping around in his brain for an ice-breaker. Skittery beat him to it.

"Want a beer?"

Racetrack extended his hand and caught the cold can easily. Beer. Why hadn't he thought of that?

They sipped their brews in silence for several minutes, a purple-pink sky barely a breath away. Over the years, the treehouse that had comfortably housed five or six young, squirmy boys now could barely fit two, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Racetrack could never really stand a silence. "So, you still working at the shop?"

Skittery nodded, never one to talk when it wasn't necessary, and they lapsed back into silence.

The sun sank quickly, the sky became starry and the beer supply dwindled. Soon both Racetrack and Skittery were lying on their backs, shoulder to shoulder and feet propped against the wall, gazing at the heavens through the "skylight" Spot had made with a baseball bat when they were thirteen.

Racetrack could generally hold his liquor, but just one too many turned him into the world's most prolific story-teller.

"So after Jack's been moaning and complaining about this fat moron behind him for like five minutes, I tell him it's my dad. You shoulda seen the colour of his face."

Skittery snickered. "Oh man, how pissed were you?"

"Not at all. I hate my dad," Racetrack scoffed, crumpling his last beer can. "'Sides, he is a fat moron. Don't tell Jack that, though."

Skittery grinned at some private joke. "Oh, me and Jack don't talk anymore." He seemed pleased about it, though that may have been the alcohol's influence.

Racetrack squinted at him. "Oh. What's that?"

"'Cause I pulled him into a closet and made out with him at a party."

Under other circumstances, Racetrack wouldn't have laughed. But he did. He guffawed. He laughed loudly and horsily until a thought occurred to him that made him cease.

"Skittz," he said, in a tone less serious than curious. "Are you gay?"

"Yeah."

Racetrack couldn't help but be awed by Skittery's self-assurance and matter-of-fact tone. He couldn't imagine announcing to any of his friends or, worse, his family that he was gay. Because "Thomas Higgins didn't raise a faggot" and because queers couldn't work for Mr. Franklin Loman.

Not that Racetrack had any reason to think about that. Because he wasn't. Gay, that is.

Not in the strictest sense of the word anyway. Perhaps his thoughts had been particularly taboo of late, but there was no reason to think that he was a total fairy just because of a few unprecedented fantasies.

Sounding like an eight-year-old learning about the birds and the bees, he asked, "What's that like?"

"Lot like being straight," was Skittery's answer. "'Cept I like boys."

"Oh." Racetrack put a finger to his mouth and thought, then continued. "Is Jack gay?"

Skittery snorted. "He thinks he's straight. I'm pretty sure he's a total closet case."

"What makes you say that?"

"Him and Davey?"

Racetrack burst into laughter again. "Oh god, you're right. Those two are basically married."

They laughed at that for a bit, the two of them choking and chortling, but Skittery's subsided far sooner than Racetrack's and the mood was thick with tension once more.

He really didn't want to ask. He really shouldn't have asked. But he had to ask.

"Um, Skittery," he asked in his child voice. "How did you figure out you were gay?"

Skittery blinked at him. "I like boys," he said slowly, as though Racetrack were perhaps mentally handicapped. "I mean, it's not -" He stopped short, then pointed at Racetrack, puzzled expression on his face. "Are you gay?"

"NO! No! I mean, um, no." But Racetrack had no poker face, as years of losing games had proven, and Skittery wouldn't believe his protests.

"You're so gay."

"No, I'm..." Racetrack raked his fingers through his short, dark hair and grimaced. He didn't like the thought of trying to articulate his sexuality to anyone, much less a dude he'd barely spoken to since childhood. "Maybe. I might be. I'm... confused."

Skittery was nice enough to cease protesting, although Racetrack could see that he didn't believe him. "I just have a lot of pressure on me at home," he continued. "And now's not really a good time to be gay. Well, there's never a good time to be gay when it comes to my dad, but..."

The tension returned and Racetrack downed the rest of his beer, wishing to God the sun would just frigging rise, but the sky was still dark and there were several hours to go.

"So have you done it with a dude?" Skittery certainly didn't dance around subjects.

"No, definitely not," Racetrack insisted firmly. "Never kissed one or anything."

"But you think you're attracted to dudes?"

"Um, well, yes. Maybe. Possibly."

"Huh. You know, there are ways to deal with that."

Skittery's lips were warm, beer-flavoured and unexpected, but a relief if only for something to break the tension. For a moment, Racetrack considered shoving him off and retracting everything he'd just said, but it wasn't... unpleasant, per se. He couldn't quite figure out what to do, despite having kissed plenty of girls in a ploy to prove his sexuality to himself, so he just lay there while Skittery kissed him, quietly under the starry sky in the treehouse of their childhood.

Skittery finished fairly cleanly and quickly and lay back down. "So are you attracted to dudes?"

Racetrack blinked at the sky and couldn't quite identify the tingling in his face. "I don't know. I think you have to do it again."

So Skittery obliged and this time, Racetrack had collected his thoughts enough to kiss him back. Not the way he kissed girls - soft enough not to scare them off but hard enough so they'd know his intentions - but in an entirely new way that felt good enough, in spite of a few awkward angles. Boys faces were different than girls' too.

Again, Skittery detached, but their lips held together a second longer and he stayed laying close on his side. "Now?"

Racetrack breathed heavily, and glanced at the heavily-postered walls around him, the dusty comic books stacked on top of the cabinet that he knew housed a few beers stolen way back when, when alcohol was taboo and difficult to procure. The irony of such deeds in the treehouse that defined his childhood didn't escape him, but he decided not to dwell on it. Not tonight anyway.

"I think. Can we keep trying?"

Skittery grinned privately at Racetrack's expression and leaned close again. "I think we can. We've got all night."

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