Fan Art Read Online Free Page B

friendly because we know each other from band.
    “Dunno.”
    “You don’t know?” she asks. “Prom is a week and a half away, Jamie. All my friends are taken.”
    Thank God , I almost blurt. Because Bahti’s friends are supersmart—like Mason—and I don’t want to spend the evening comparing GPAs. (For the record, I am not arunner-up for anything.)
    Then I remember my manners and say, “That so?”
    “So sorry. Good luck.” She hands me my tickets with a smile that’s edged with pity.
    At home I drop my backpack on the floor, shout “I’m home,” and head to the kitchen for a snack. I make a triple-decker-raspberry-jam PB&J, take the carton of milk into the living room, and collapse on the couch in front of the TV. A Jerry Springer rerun is on, and I watch it on mute—Mom doesn’t want the twins to hear people argue like that. It’s funnier this way, anyway. A heavy chick’s arm flab jiggles as she jabs a finger at a rapping midget.
    Ann Marie waddles in, holding out my English notebook as if it is some sort of present.
    “Thank you,” I coo to her sweetly, while my mind says, Oh crap.
    The twins got into my backpack. Or, well, Elisabeth has it hiked up over one shoulder and is dragging it around behind her, upside down, its contents spilling out in a slow-motion avalanche.
    I take another bite of my sandwich and tiptoe after her—so she won’t break into a run.
    “Oh, honey, thank you,” Mom says in the other room. Ann Marie must have given her some of my homework to do.
    I coax my backpack away from Elisabeth by convincingher it’s time to play baby dolls, then I sweep my stuff back inside before Ann Marie returns for another load.
    I’m sitting on the floor of the twins’ room, rocking a doll in one arm while Elisabeth holds a bottle to its lips, when my mom appears in the doorway.
    “Who’s the lucky guy?” she asks, fanning herself with my prom tickets.
    “Mom!” My cheeks grow warm.
    “Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I was just curious.”
    “It’s just that—Well, I don’t know yet.”
    She laughs gently then asks, “Can I pay for your tickets anyway?”
    I nod, not having the heart to tell her that I’ll probably chicken out and ask a girl, not a guy, to prom. Which I could, technically. But it doesn’t seem worth the fuss, even if I liked someone, which I don’t. Lincoln High isn’t exactly crawling with cute gay guys, except maybe a sophomore or two. I wonder if Mom will be disappointed. She’s been this way—eager—ever since I came out to her, as if she can’t wait for me to bring a boyfriend home to meet her.
    “Burp,” Elisabeth says.
    I shift a doll over my shoulder and pat its back absentmindedly.
    I never had baby dolls, never played dress up in my mom’s high heels, and never wanted to join the cheerleadingsquad, so it wasn’t like my mom knew I was gay. So I had to come out to her and Frank. Believe me, it was the worst thing ever. It’s not like they kicked me out of the house or sent me to boarding school or anything, but it was awful. I wanted to tell them before they got married, just in case big guy’s guy Frank had a problem with having a gay step-kid. But as the weeks and months passed by, they picked out flowers, hired a photographer, and ordered cake—and I kept choking on the words. The longer it dragged on, the harder it got to say. I couldn’t sleep at night, and my stomach was a constant knot of worry. I lost a few pounds, dragged myself out of bed in the morning, and watched way too many talk shows after school.
    My mom was convinced that something was wrong with me and made a doctor’s appointment for me. Then, when the doctor confirmed that I was physically fine, she made me an appointment with a counselor. And counselor is a nice word for shrink. So I said it. In the car, on the way to the shrink’s. “Mom, I’m gay.”
    She pulled over—right there on Capitol Boulevard—and gave me a great big hug. She started