You Know Me Well Read Online Free
Author: David Levithan
bunch of teenagers sitting around looking cool is nothing like the thrumming swarm on the street. Here everything is electric and happy. Even the toughest-looking women, leaning against storefronts with expressions of practiced unapproachability, soften when I smile at them. Even the most aloof-looking boys seem sweet.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking and I don’t want to take my phone out to check. I should turn back, but I’m not ready to leave all of this yet. Just thinking of Violet makes my hands tremble, and I’m standing next to the open door of a club that’s beckoning me inside with the techno remix of an old jazz song. I reapply my lipstick in the darkened window—for myself, not for Lehna—and then I step inside. It’s so dark it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but soon I spot the bar. I’ll just try to get a drink, give myself some time to calm down. Then I’ll walk back to the house, ignore Lehna’s disapproval, and meet Violet.
The boy serving drinks is paper-doll perfect, and the crowd of men waiting to order from him seems to be in direct proportion to his attractiveness. But at the other end of the bar a cute girl with short hair and tattoos all over her muscular arms seems to be coming back from a break, so I make my way over to her and flash her a smile. She locks eyes with me and nods a nod that means she’ll take my order.
I lean over the bar toward her until our faces are close. She tips her head to the side so that she’ll hear my voice over the music.
“Tanqueray and tonic.” Lehna learned this from her older sister and taught me how to say it with confidence. It’s the only drink I know how to order.
The bartender turns away from me and grabs the green bottle and a glass.
I wish I had Violet’s number because I would text her and say: I got a little sidetracked and ended up in a bar. Meet me here? I would say: I’ve been really looking forward to meeting you.
I avoid looking at my lit-up phone as I dig in my purse for my wallet. The bartender plunks my drink in front of me on a bright pink napkin, and I hand her ten dollars in exchange. Then I make my way to a tall table with a single bar stool. It’s been shoved against a wall and left unoccupied, because everyone here is either standing or dancing, pushing their way into the center of the party. I take my first sip as the paper-doll bartender makes an announcement and cheering follows. It’s for a contest; I can’t hear what kind, but soon “Umbrella” is playing and almost-naked men are climbing on top of the bar. Some of them look superconfident, some of them look self-conscious, but they are all having fun and their happiness fills me up. I watch them strutting around and then I watch the crowd watching them, and I notice that most of the guys are focused on one particular dancer. I follow their gaze to a boy who seems too young to be in here but who also seems totally at home.
All he’s wearing are those tight boxer things I’ve seen in Calvin Klein ads, red and blue, and with his close-cropped blond hair and general wholesomeness he could be the gay poster boy for America. Unlike one of the older guys who is practically humping the bar, he doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to be sexy. He’s just doing his thing, singing along. I sing along with him. He points into the crowd and a dark-haired boy whoops back at him. And it’s crazy, but I know that boy. He’s a junior; his name is Ryan. He used one of my landscapes for the cover of the literary journal last semester. I couldn’t tell if he was gay, but I guess this answers my question.
And now I’m starting to think that the dancing boy looks somewhat familiar, like I’ve seen him in a commercial or something, like he’s played in the background while I’ve been thinking of other things. But no. I know him from real life, I guess, because he’s caught sight of me now and his whole demeanor changes.
He freezes. Mark Rissi! We’ve
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking and I don’t want to take my phone out to check. I should turn back, but I’m not ready to leave all of this yet. Just thinking of Violet makes my hands tremble, and I’m standing next to the open door of a club that’s beckoning me inside with the techno remix of an old jazz song. I reapply my lipstick in the darkened window—for myself, not for Lehna—and then I step inside. It’s so dark it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but soon I spot the bar. I’ll just try to get a drink, give myself some time to calm down. Then I’ll walk back to the house, ignore Lehna’s disapproval, and meet Violet.
The boy serving drinks is paper-doll perfect, and the crowd of men waiting to order from him seems to be in direct proportion to his attractiveness. But at the other end of the bar a cute girl with short hair and tattoos all over her muscular arms seems to be coming back from a break, so I make my way over to her and flash her a smile. She locks eyes with me and nods a nod that means she’ll take my order.
I lean over the bar toward her until our faces are close. She tips her head to the side so that she’ll hear my voice over the music.
“Tanqueray and tonic.” Lehna learned this from her older sister and taught me how to say it with confidence. It’s the only drink I know how to order.
The bartender turns away from me and grabs the green bottle and a glass.
I wish I had Violet’s number because I would text her and say: I got a little sidetracked and ended up in a bar. Meet me here? I would say: I’ve been really looking forward to meeting you.
I avoid looking at my lit-up phone as I dig in my purse for my wallet. The bartender plunks my drink in front of me on a bright pink napkin, and I hand her ten dollars in exchange. Then I make my way to a tall table with a single bar stool. It’s been shoved against a wall and left unoccupied, because everyone here is either standing or dancing, pushing their way into the center of the party. I take my first sip as the paper-doll bartender makes an announcement and cheering follows. It’s for a contest; I can’t hear what kind, but soon “Umbrella” is playing and almost-naked men are climbing on top of the bar. Some of them look superconfident, some of them look self-conscious, but they are all having fun and their happiness fills me up. I watch them strutting around and then I watch the crowd watching them, and I notice that most of the guys are focused on one particular dancer. I follow their gaze to a boy who seems too young to be in here but who also seems totally at home.
All he’s wearing are those tight boxer things I’ve seen in Calvin Klein ads, red and blue, and with his close-cropped blond hair and general wholesomeness he could be the gay poster boy for America. Unlike one of the older guys who is practically humping the bar, he doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to be sexy. He’s just doing his thing, singing along. I sing along with him. He points into the crowd and a dark-haired boy whoops back at him. And it’s crazy, but I know that boy. He’s a junior; his name is Ryan. He used one of my landscapes for the cover of the literary journal last semester. I couldn’t tell if he was gay, but I guess this answers my question.
And now I’m starting to think that the dancing boy looks somewhat familiar, like I’ve seen him in a commercial or something, like he’s played in the background while I’ve been thinking of other things. But no. I know him from real life, I guess, because he’s caught sight of me now and his whole demeanor changes.
He freezes. Mark Rissi! We’ve
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