Something Like Summer © 2010 Jay Bell

Published by Jay Bell at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. If you do steal this book, at least have the decency to leave a nice review or recommend it to a friend with more cash to spare. ;)

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental. They are productions of the author's fevered imagination and used fictitiously.

Cover art by Andreas Bell

Also available in paperback format:

ISBN-13: 978-1453875049

ISBN-10: 1453875042

Acknowledgements:

A very special thanks to my editor, Linda Anderson, for being so generous with her time and her talent. And of course my friends and family for being so supportive in this endeavor.

To Andreas - my guiding star, my happy thought, and my dream come true. I love you, baby!

Something Like Summer

By Jay Bell

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Part One:

Houston, 1996

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Chapter 1

This is not a coming-out story. I put all that behind me two years ago, at the tender young age of fourteen. I’d known I was gay since I was twelve and my best friend Kevin moved away to Utah. I was heartbroken, which I suppose is considered normal behavior for most kids. After he’d been gone for two weeks I decided to take a Greyhound bus to see him. The guy at the counter wouldn’t sell me a ticket so I tried passing myself off as the kid of a boarding passenger. That didn’t go well. The bus driver made me get off and the station manager called my parents. Their reaction to my little plan is what tipped me off that my feelings for Kevin went way beyond the norm. Well, that and how I got a hard-on every time I thought of him.

Ben’s fingers hesitated above the keyboard of his laptop as he reread what he had just written. He took a deep breath, the ozone smell of the slowly overheating machine filling his nose before he sighed. Why did it always sound so trite when he tried to write about his life? He wanted to write something that was different and real, but it always ended up sounding like the porn stories in his small stash of magazines.

Next time he swore to write with old fashioned pen and paper. At least then he could enjoy crumpling the displeasing results before throwing them in a little metal trashcan, like they always did on TV. The most Ben could do was to carefully save his document, close the program, and drag the file to the recycle bin. As he right-clicked to empty the bin, he wondered if the problem wasn’t that he couldn’t write, but that the porn stories in his magazines were just really well-written. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t deleted it when the clock in the bottom right-hand corner caught his eye. Ten minutes until seven. Almost time for Mr. Blue Shoes to go jogging.

Ben struggled with himself for a moment. Part of him recognized just how creepy his behavior was. He wasn’t sure if it qualified as stalking, but it was dangerously close. But what else was there to do? Writing hadn’t worked and there was nothing on TV but summer reruns. What harm was there in an innocent stroll through the neighborhood, and if he happened to see Mr. Blue Shoes, then so be it.

Switching off his laptop, Ben tried to remember the last time he had done this. Was it yesterday? Surely it was the day before. How many times this week already? Since they appeared to be about the same age, Ben was sure that Mr. Blue Shoes would be attending his high school and he didn’t want to be obvious. Being out at school led to enough taunting without the added ridicule of being criminally desperate.

Ben slipped on his shoes and quietly closed his bedroom door behind him. The sound of MTV’s Mega Summer Beach Party or whatever they were calling it this year drifted from the direction of his sister’s room. For once she wasn’t hogging the bathroom. Ben rushed across the hall and flipped on the light, knowing that time was running out, that he only had a brief moment to check his appearance.

His blond hair was due for a cut but was still passable, he decided as he tried to smooth it into shape. His chestnut brown eyes regarded themselves momentarily, making him wish that his parents had bought him the colored contacts he had asked for last Christmas. Green, blue, purple, anything but brown. At least the braces were off now. He smiled wickedly, scanning for any sign of the spinach soufflé his mother had served for dinner. If there were more time he would have brushed his teeth. Just in case life played out like one of those porn stories. If only.

He was happy to see some remnants of sun on his face from camping last weekend, but not as pleased to note the dopey Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt he was wearing, which wasn’t his kind of music at all. The shirt had mysteriously turned up in a stack of fresh laundry one day. His sister’s boyfriend had left it during one of his nocturnal visits, and once Ben figured that out, he wore it just to torture her. This wearable blackmail was a few sizes too large for him and draped off his ramrod-thin frame like a tent. Ben bit his lip and decided against digging through the hamper for something better. At least this shirt was clean.

Flipping the light switch, he took the stairs two at a time, landing at the bottom with a thud that was sure to trigger a yell from his mother. He paused but the only sound he heard was prerecorded studio laughter. Thank god for the hypnotizing properties of television! Ben slipped out the front door, undetected by all but Wilford, the family dog.

The August evening was still bright, but not as much as it had been last month. Ben pondered the symbolism of the earth growing darker with the approach of a new school year as he jogged down the street toward the end of the block. Behind the row of houses here were woods that connected with a large public park. He chose the yard whose owner was least likely to complain and crossed it. With the house and unfenced backyard behind him, he was faced with one of the finest forests in modern suburbia.

The mix of pine and cedar trees was disturbed only by a single dirt path that disappeared into their midst. The trail, eternally marred by the crisscrossing grooves left by countless bike riders, snaked back and forth through the trees, causing ten acres of woods to feel like a limitless wilderness.