Kevin Corrigan and Me Read online

  Lane had already visited my home once on a Sunday, with his Chuck Dent surfboard strapped to the roof rack on his VW. We took our boards to the beach, then paddled to the sandbar to ride waves. We had the bar to ourselves. The waves came at us in sets of three, and we surfed till both of us felt exhausted. Lane was a good surfer, almost as skilled as Kevin. He moved fluidly on his board and he knew how to get the most out of any wave he caught. When we were done, we sat on the sandbar’s shore, staring at the Gulf’s rolling surface and gabbing away.

  I’d never had a friend like Lane before. He was bright and self-assured but wasn’t the least bit arrogant. His interests were varied. He liked following the national and state political scenes; he was a staunch Democrat, and he opposed our country’s involvement in the Vietnam War. He attended a Unitarian church with his parents every Sunday morning, and he volunteered at the church’s soup kitchen on Wednesday evenings.

  When I asked Lane what he planned to study at the university, he said he wasn’t sure yet. “Maybe journalism or law,” he said. “Or I might go for a teaching degree; I just don’t know.”

  “Isn’t the university expensive?” I asked.

  Lane shrugged. “Not really. I mean, if you live in a dorm and eat on the meal plan you can get by on two thousand bucks per school year, and a student loan will cover four years of that, no problem.”

  I crinkled my forehead. “What’s a student loan?”

  “A bank or a credit union lends you the money for school. Your parents have to cosign. The government guarantees repayment of the loan, so there’s really no risk for the lender. Once you graduate, you have ten years to pay off your loan.”

  I nodded while I pondered what Lane had just told me. Since my mom worked at a bank, maybe she could help me get a student loan through her employer. Who knew?

  Now, as I pulled the Dart into our school’s student parking lot, Lane asked me if I had plans for the upcoming Sunday.

  I shook my head.

  “My folks have a powerboat we keep at our dock. Would you like to water-ski with us?”

  I, of course, had never been on a boat in my life. “I don’t know how to ski,” I told Lane.

  He swatted the air with his hand. “It’s not hard; I can teach you in no time.”

  I tried to imagine myself gliding behind a gleaming boat with a powerful outboard engine, as I’d seen other people do. Could I do it too, or would I make a fool out of myself in front of Lane and his folks?

  Go ahead; don’t be a chickenshit.

  “All right,” I said. “What time should I be there?”

  Three days later, at exactly eight p.m., our desk phone rang, and I nearly fell over backward when I heard Kevin’s voice on the line.

  “Jesse?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I can’t believe you actually called for once, and right on time.”

  “Well I did, so now you owe me.”

  I grunted. “Exactly what do I owe you?”

  Kevin snickered. “You’ll see,” he said. “Listen, my team has a bye this week, so—”

  “A what?”

  Kevin hissed. “A bye, dummy; it means we don’t play a game on Friday, so I’m free the whole weekend. I thought I’d stay with you Friday and Saturday nights; how about it?”

  My spirits soared. Not only had Kevin phoned per our agreement, but we would actually spend an entire weekend together. What could be better?

  “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll have three yards to mow on Saturday, but if you’ll help me, we can knock them out real quick in the morning. Low tide’s around two p.m. on Friday; then it’s a half hour later on Saturday, so we’ll get some surfing in for sure.”

  “Perfect,” Kevin said.

  Friday afternoon, on my way home from school, I made a stop at the Treasure Island Rexall pharmacy to purchase a fresh tube of jelly. When I stepped to the cash register, I found Spencer, my customers’ auburn-haired son, standing behind the counter. He wore a dark blue smock with the Rexall logo on the chest.

  “Hey, Jesse,” he said, and then his gaze traveled to the jelly tube I’d placed on the counter.

  “Hi, Spencer; how are you?”

  He didn’t respond; he only checked the tube’s price label and rang up the sale. After he placed the tube in a paper sack, he gazed right and left. Then he looked at me and winked. “Planning on a fun weekend?”

  I felt heat in my cheeks while I lowered my gaze. I picked up the sack with the jelly tube inside it. Then I looked at Spencer and made a little smile. “Actually I am,” I said. “How about you?”

  He shrugged. “Not really, but that could change. Why don’t you pay me a visit tomorrow? Say…right around noon?”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I have plans. I’ll see you around.”

  When I got home, Kevin’s car sat on our driveway and his surfboard leaned against an outside wall of our garage. Inside the house, I found Kevin and my sister fast-dancing to the Supremes’ song “Love is Here and Now You’re Gone.” My sister was a decent dancer, but Kevin was enthralling to watch. He moved like a seductive animal in his Keating uniform. His hips twitched and his butt shook while his arms moved to the beat of the music. Both he and my sister were laughing like idiots.

  “What’s so funny?” I hollered over the music.

  After my sister turned off the radio, she looked at me and rubbed the tip of her nose. “Kevin’s been telling me stories about the girls from St. Mary’s. I guess they’re not as pure as they’re made out to be.”

  I looked at Kevin and raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  My sister answered before Kevin could. “You know those Saturday night dances at Bishop Keating? It seems like the real action happens in the parking lot, not inside the gym.”

  I rolled my eyes and asked Kevin if he wanted to surf the sandbar.

  “Let’s do it,” he said, and moments later, we changed into surfing trunks in my bedroom. Afternoon sunlight entered through the western windows; the light reflected in Kevin’s pubic hair. His nakedness got me so excited I would have grabbed him and pushed him onto the bed had my sister not been there to overhear us.

  A light sea breeze tickled our cheeks as we carried our boards to the shore, where we waxed the boards’ decks before wading into the warm Gulf water. Already I heard waves break at the bar. While we paddled out, side by side, I asked Kevin a question.

  “Are you part of the parking lot action at those dances?”

  Kevin glanced at me for only a moment before returning his gaze to the western horizon. “Once in a while, yeah. It’s all part of going to the dance.”

  “So, you bring girls to your car and then you do things with them?”

  “Of course; it’s what they want.”

  I made a face like I’d just sucked on a lemon. “Is that what you want?”

  He glanced at me again, then looked away. “Look,” he said, “I’m on the football team; it’s expected. If I didn’t do it, people might think there was something wrong with me.”

  “You mean they might think you were gay?”

  Kevin stopped paddling. He sat up straight and put his hands on his hips. I stopped paddling too, and then the two of us faced each other; we floated in the placid water while salty droplets glistened on our shoulders.

  Kevin said, “That stuff in the parking lot doesn’t mean anything to me, so don’t be jealous. I’m spending this weekend with you because I want to.”

  “But—”

  Kevin held up a hand. “Forget the St. Mary’s girls, will you?”

  He’s right, I told myself. This weekend’s all about you and Kevin, so don’t spoil it.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

  That weekend Kevin spent with me seemed more like a dream than reality, at least until the very end of his visit. October’s weather was still warm, but far less humid, and a breeze always blew to keep us comfortable. I didn’t even mind tending my customers’ lawns because I wasn’t sweating so much, plus Kevin helped
me by edging driveways and trimming shrubs. Surf at the sandbar was larger than normal, almost shoulder height, and thus more challenging and fun.

  Friday night, we fished at the John’s Pass Bridge, where Kevin caught two red drum and I a Nassau grouper. We brought the fillets home in a bucket, and on Saturday night, my mom prepared a tasty fish dinner. After we washed the dishes, Kevin and I pool-hopped at three motels. Then we walked back to my house in our damp surfing baggies, smelling of chlorine. We strolled along the deserted shore, holding hands, and I don’t think I’d ever felt so contented with my life.

  That weekend, Kevin seemed more relaxed as well. Conversation flowed freely between us, and several times, he touched me affectionately. He ruffled my hair or stroked my forearm, or he patted my ass when others weren’t around. He even put his arm around my shoulders while we watched TV by ourselves on the living room sofa.

  Of course, the best parts of that weekend were our sex sessions in my bedroom. The cool night air flowing through the windows seemed to energize us. All that slurping and smacking, along with the squishy sound of the jelly we used, drove me crazy with lust.

  When I woke Sunday morning, Kevin lay on his side with his back to me. I brought my hips to his buttocks and my chest to his shoulder blades. Then I wrapped my arm around Kevin’s waist while I buried the tip of my nose in his wavy hair. The air was still and cool. I listened to waves smack the shore to the west, then told myself, I wish this weekend would never end.

  But of course it did end, and not well.

  When we rose, my mom and sister had already gone to church, so we had the house to ourselves. We could hang out naked. While we munched on bowls of cornflakes at the dining table, Kevin asked me when low tide would occur that afternoon.

  “I think around three thirty,” I said.

  “Good,” Kevin said. “We can paddle out to the sandbar right after lunch. I just hope the waves are as big today as they were Friday and Saturday.”

  I lowered my gaze and cleared my throat. Then I looked at Kevin. “I can’t surf this afternoon. I’m water-skiing with a friend.”

  Kevin made a face. “Since when do you water-ski?”

  “I haven’t yet; he’s going to teach me.”

  Kevin lowered his gaze to his cornflakes while he worked his jaw from side to side. Then he looked at me and said, “I don’t understand why you made plans with someone else when you knew I was coming for the weekend.”

  Uh-oh.

  “That’s not how it happened,” I said. “I made the plans on Monday, before I knew you were coming. If I’d known…”

  Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

  “His name is Lane; he’s in my service club at school.”

  “You never mentioned him before. How come?”

  I explained how I’d just known Lane a short time, how we’d worked together at the Civitan painting project, and how he’d surfed with me at the sandbar once. “He’s a nice guy,” I told Kevin, “and he’s my only real friend at school.”

  Kevin rearranged his limbs in his dining chair while a vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows. Then he looked at me and said, “Are you fooling around with him? Is he…?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “We’re just friends.”

  “This is supposed to be our weekend,” Kevin said. “I was counting on it. Why don’t you call your friend and cancel? Tell him something came up and you can’t make it; he’ll understand.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to hurt Kevin’s feelings. And we’d had such a wonderful time the past two days. Why not enjoy one more? But then I thought about Lane and how much I liked spending time with him. Plus it wouldn’t be fair of me to renege on a commitment I’d made to Lane well before Kevin called me on Thursday.

  “I can’t do that,” I said to Kevin. “Lane and his parents are expecting me.”

  Kevin puckered one side of his face and shook his head. “Thanks a lot, Jesse. Thanks a whole lot.”

  “Don’t be mad,” I said, but I knew he was.

  When Kevin rose from his chair, the legs scraped against our wooden floor. He took his bowl to the kitchen; I heard him rinse it in the sink. Then he strode into my bedroom and I heard a rustling of clothing. By the time I joined Kevin in my bedroom, he’d slipped into a pair of Bermuda shorts, and now he was stuffing his other belongings into the overnight bag he’d brought with him on Friday. His mouth was a thin line and his eyebrows were gathered.

  “Are you leaving already?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Why so early?” I said. “Mom and Lisa won’t be home till noon. Until then, we’ll have the house to ourselves; we can do whatever we want.”

  “No thanks,” Kevin muttered while he closed the hasp on his bag. “You have fun with your buddy; I’ll see you later.”

  Before I could reach for my own shorts, Kevin had brushed past me and headed for our home’s front door. Moments later, I heard the roar of the Mustang’s muffler. I stood there in my room, staring at my jelly-stained sheets and messed-up covers, and wondered to myself how long it might be before Kevin slept with me again. Had I screwed things up between us in a major way?

  Chapter Twelve

  Lane’s home was contemporary, a stucco-over-cinder-block house with a white tile roof and a yard that looked professionally landscaped. Waist-high crotons formed multicolored hedges that grew against the exterior walls. Two royal palms with waxy fronds towered above the house. The St. Augustine grass was emerald, mown and edged as neatly as pie slices. Inside, a central air-conditioning system kept things quiet and cool. My feet sunk into cut-pile carpet while Lane introduced me to his parents; they looked like two models in a department store advertisement.

  Mr. Davis (first name Tom) was a few inches taller than me, with hair the same color as Lane’s, but cut much shorter. When he shook my hand with a firm grip, his lips folded back to display his pearly teeth. He wore swim trunks and a T-shirt with a Bermuda hotel’s logo on the chest. Lane’s mom, Bev, looked almost young enough to be Lane’s older sister. She wore a one-piece swimsuit, a tennis visor, and sandals. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and when we she shook my hand, her palm was cool and light, like a sea breeze.

  Sliding glass doors at the rear of the house offered a view of Boca Ciega Bay and a wooden dock with davits. The dock thrust about fifty feet into the bay. A fiberglass boat with an outboard engine the size of an oil drum floated next to the dock, secured by tether lines.

  Lane was dressed like me: surfing baggies, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, only he’d hacked off the sleeves of his shirt to display his stringy biceps and triceps. While I helped him tote an ice chest to the dock, he chattered away.

  “We’ll ski where the water’s surface is smooth, probably in the upper bay, for a couple of hours. There’s an island there called Dog Leg Key. We’ll anchor in the shallows there around three, so we can swim and have ourselves a snack. Then we’ll get back to our dock no later than five. Sound good?”

  The Davises’ boat was a twenty-one footer with a center console where the wheel and throttle were located. The engine was a one-hundred-fifty-horsepower Evinrude. The boat’s stainless steel brightwork gleamed and the blue canvas upholstery on the benches looked new. A pair of skis, a life jacket, and a ski rope rested on the foredeck.

  While Lane and his mom cast off the dock lines, Mr. Davis stood at the boat’s center console. He switched on the outboard engine, and then it rumbled as he eased the boat away from the dock at minimal speed. Once we were clear, he told everyone to find a seat. I sat next to Lane on a bench seat in front of the console, while Lane’s mom joined her husband at the console’s bench. The engine roared to life when Lane’s dad eased the throttle forward. The boat’s nose lifted, and after we “got up on plane,” as Lane called it, we glided across the bay’s glassy surface.

  The wind tossed my hair about while the engine hummed. We passed homes with screened-in swimming pools and majes
tic sailboats with tall masts tethered to their docks. Plenty of other powerboats buzzed about the bay that afternoon, and each time we passed an oncoming boat, its occupants waved to us. We waved back. If we passed over another boat’s wake, the nose of our boat would bounce and I’d grip the edge of our bench to steady myself.

  To me, boating wasn’t all that different from surfing. I liked the fluidity of the boat’s movement and the feel of the wind on my cheeks. I savored the scent of the bay’s briny air. After passing under Treasure Island’s drawbridge, we continued northward until we reached an area near the Jungle Prada Pier, where Mr. Davis throttled down the engine.

  “We like skiing in this area,” Lane told me, “and not just ’cause the water’s calm. Most days, there aren’t many other boats around.”

  I glanced here and there, and I saw Lane was right. Other than a couple of boaters who had anchored and were fishing, I saw no other vessels around.

  Lane turned to his parents. “Jesse hasn’t skied before,” he told them. “Why don’t I go first so he can watch me? Then he can give it a try.”

  After Lane fastened the life jacket on, he picked up the skis and hopped off the rear of the boat (the “stern”) with the skis under his arm. He slipped one foot into each ski’s stirrup, and, while he bobbed in the water with his ski tips raised, his mom tied one end of the ski rope to a cleat at the stern. She tossed Lane the end of the rope with a handle on it.

  With Lane a safe distance from the Evinrude, Mr. Davis putt-putted away from Lane until the ski rope was almost fully extended, a length of maybe seventy-five feet. While he did this, Mr. Davis explained a few things to me.

  “For safety’s sake, when a skier’s in the water, one person in the boat should always keep his or her eyes on the skier. Right now, Bev will serve as our lookout. When Lane gives me a thumbs-up signal, I’ll throttle up the engine.

  “Now, here’s the trick to getting out of the water and up on your skis: once the boat starts moving, don’t try to pull yourself up onto your feet; you’ll fall every time. Instead, let the boat pull you out of the water gradually. Once you’re up, keep your knees bent and your eyes fixed on the boat. Don’t look down at your feet, or you’ll lose your balance.”