Chapter 1

I wake up before anyone else and groggily stumble into my closet. It already smells like I've been melted into him, our identities fused even at the most superficial level. I yank a shirt off its hanger and tug a pair of jeans from their clips. I dress and slink across the dark room to the desk and open my laptop.

"'dgu know you snore?"

The white light from the LCD screen blinds me momentarily as I turn around. Dylan is propped up in the bed--my bed--and rubbing his eyes. He yawns in this totally fake way; he probably watched me sleep. "I do not," I mutter, turning back and logging into AIM.

My friend Jennifer is online, but not many of the people I talk to are awake at five in the morning.

"Right," he nodded, collapsing back on my pillow and closing his eyes. "You need to lighten up, kid."

I close my laptop harder than I should and stand up. I'm going to be an hour early for work but I don't care.

"Why're you so upset about this?"

I glare at him. How could he even ask that? "Does this look like a hotel to you?" I shove my feet into my sneakers and walk to the door. "And you're in my bed."

"It's just a bed."

"Yeah?" I feel upset again at the fact that nobody realizes these things are mine, and that maybe I like them that way. "Well, in ancient Egypt, a bed used to be where the pharaoh slept. In Britain, Louis XIV liked his bed so much he had four hundred nineteen of them, and he'd hold meetings and dinner on his bed and entertain guests from it."

"So?"

"So!" I say, flabbergasted. "It's my bed! It's supposed to be a symbol of my privacy and ability to host guests."

"Oh," he nods condescendingly. He strokes his chin. "So--if the bed is where entertainment is supposed to take place, since I'm on your bed, am I supposed to entertain you or are you supposed to entertain me?"

What? He's missing the point. "Neither. You aren't supposed to be here."

He bites his lip and studies my face. Whatever he's looking for, it isn't there. "Then come take it from me."

It's my turn to furrow my brow and study his face. There was something in his voice when he said that that makes me realize he thinks this is funny. I don't give him the satisfaction of a response; instead, I walk out into the hall and try to dart through the foyer.

"Well you're up early," Mother says in her Come Hither voice. This voice is an instantaneous paralytic. Ever since I was young, she's had this control over me, like a tick. She feeds off of my jumpiness and secretes a toxin into my bloodstream that throws off my insulin regulators. Muscles already potassium-depleted suddenly lose their ability to pump potassium at all, and then they depolarize, lose the ability to create action potentials--and then I'm frozen. Trapped with her. She emerges from the darkness of the living room in nothing but lingerie.

"They need me at work early today," I lie, shrugging as if to say, 'What can you do?'

"Mhm." She nods and winks at me and then picks up her purse. "I got you something."

I look around to see who could be watching this potentially embarrassing scene. "Okay..."

"Well?" She motions me over. "Come here, tiger."

I swallow and walk over to her. "Yeah, mom?"

She tilts her head to the side and smiles at me, reaching up with her hand and pushing a strand of dark hair from my eyes. "You know I love you, don't you?" Her voice is so soft I wonder if I just hallucinated her saying this.

"Yeah...of course." I stare into her eyes and force myself to smile. "Why?"

"Well, your father and I just want you to be safe." She pulls me close and wraps her arms around me. Every now and then she has these neurotic fits where she needs to convince herself she loves her children. Somehow, it always ends up poorly.

"I will be," I say, breaking free of her grip and rubbing my arm. I expect her to nod, turn away, go back up the stairs. But she continues to look at me, and her eyes start to well up with tears, which I don't know how to handle.

Crying is something I barely understand, but Mother does it a lot, so I've learned how to fake these interactions. "Oh, baby," she whispers. She sticks out her hand and grabs at mine, pulling me close to her. "Come here, I just need to hold you." She wraps herself around me in what she probably thinks is a hug, but it feels more like I'm wearing her as a coat. She begins sobbing heavily, and it crosses my mind that this has almost nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that her life has amounted to nothing.

She sniffles, "Nick, honey, you're such a beautiful boy--why don't you like girls? Why don't you want to give me grandchildren?"

"Um..." I push her off of me. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh come on, Nick. You're not fooling us. You've never been on a date before--we'll still love you if you're gay. You just need to tell us so we can help you."

"But I'm not gay."

She lets out a sob and looks up at the ceiling before reestablishing eye contact. "Of course you aren't, honey. I just wish we would have seen it sooner." She opens up her purse and pulls out several small packages. "Here," she says, forcing her hand out to me as though she's handing me an organ. "Here are some condoms. I didn't know which size you'd need, but once you figure it out we can get you some more--"

"Okay," I say, taking the condoms and shoving them into my pocket. "That's enough family time for today." I walk over to the front door and grab my vest from the rack.

"Oh! Honey, do you know how to put them on? I can get your father to show you--you just--"

"Bye mom!"

Nothing like sex and your family to get the bile ducts flowing in the morning. It's almost better than coffee, except for the distinct, traumatizing fear that burns holes in your retinas. Central Market's front doors aren't open yet, so I go around to the back where all the dumpsters are--the Jungle. Several eighteen wheelers are preying on the two open garage doors and a guy I think is named Robert is guiding them back. I half-nod at him in hopes that he recognizes me. He does.

"Hey, uh--" he waves his hand at the truck to stop, "--Jim?"

Kind of recognizes me. "Nick," I correct, getting on the ledge with him.

"Oh right," he says, nodding but obviously uninterested in me. That's good. I don't like people being too interested in me, because that means they expect something in return, some kind of reason to keep being interested. They can get violent about it if you don't give them what they want, too, which makes things needlessly awkward between the two of you. Particularly all those people in love--as soon as they start losing sexual desire, they start silently demanding the other person metamorphose into something they can like again, and when it doesn't happen, either they break up or, apparently, become my parents.

I shuffle over to a box full of bananas and idly watch as Robert and some other guys unload crate upon crate of food.

"You just gonna stand there?" Robert is asking as I'm staring off. "Hey, Jim! Help us out!"

I snap my head back and notice several of them are standing in a truck, straining themselves against a metal container. I glance over at Robert, who is now bearing down on me.

"Come on, missy. We need everyone we can get."

I unfold my arms across my chest and walk into the truck. It smells awful in here, and I think I might gag, but before I have the chance someone shoves me against the box and another one is yelling "3, 2, 1!" and then there's a lot of sweaty groans as the container begrudgingly grinds across the bed.

"Jim!" Robert calls from the other side. "Over here!"

I slide around between person to person. I think I get groped several times during this maneuver, but I act like it doesn't bother me. "Yeah?" I ask, rubbing my nose.

"Grab here and pull." He points to the very bottom of the box. I am not happy about this; besides being groped I now must squat down at crotch level to lift a metal box of godknowswhat into a concrete warehouse where my fingers will probably be crushed. On the upside, I might get the week off.

"Okay." Almost before I get my fingers situated and without notice the box lurches forward and mauls my ankle. I hobble backwards, fingers still underneath it, though barely, until it has made it to shore.

"Thanks, men!"

I quickly flee to the shadows like the wounded wildebeest that I am and wait for the safety of the store to finally open. It's not long before it does, and I quietly sneak into its fruity, flowery embrace. Even Ms. Carlyle seems a benevolent deity compared to the the Jungle.

"You're here early," Callie laughs, walking by.

"Yeah, sure," I mumble and follow her to our assignment board. This is where Justin has divined by way of magic eight ball what part of the store we work in.

"Fuck!" Callie yells. She stomps her foot on the ground and exhales heavily through her nose.

"...what?" I ask, looking up and down for my name--until I see it. There it is: Callie and Nick, in the barista stand, with the coffee machines. In the event of something relatively unfortunate happening to either of us today, I hope that's how we're commemorated.

"Justin!" Callie shouts, turning on her heels and flying across the store. "You idiot! I worked the coffee stand yesterday!"

She's right about him being an idiot. I mean, come on, even magic eight balls aren't this dumb.

"The decision is final," Justin shakes his head and folds his arm across his chest. "And you also haven't worked there in two weeks."

Callie looks over at me, unimpressed. "I can't work with him."

Justin arches his eyebrows. "Too bad." Callie starts to protest again but Justin holds up his hand and walks away.

Mentally, I cross my fingers and hope she quits. But no, she just silently slips away like a glacier sliding into the sea. I take a deep breath, survey the area around the barista stand, and slowly move towards it, pausing every other foot or so as if immensely interested in the flowers on display.

"Hey there, cutie," the guy from behind the counter lisps at me. "Wanna hold my thtem for me?" I jump at the sound of his voice and look up; for the first time, I realize he must be the florist. I've seen him here before and thought he might be, but since he doesn't wear a vest I was never certain.

"Um, come again?" I swallow and look around nervously to make sure he's not talking to anyone else.

"Come here," he says, nodding. I almost feel ill as I slowly walk around the counter, like I'm about to partake of something that might scar me for life. "Hold it," he says. I look down at his hand and see the stem of a flower.

"Oh..." I say, walking over and grabbing it. I pick it up and examine it. "What, uh, what do you want me to do with it?"

"Well, for starters," he says, "you can put it back on the table and hold it there."

I can't tell if he's amused or exasperated, but I get the distinct impression he's checking me out. "Sorry," I say, putting it back down and holding it.

"Now, you might want to move your hand up a little bit."

I examine his face to see if he's teasing me, but it seems sincere.

"This is gonna be loud."

"What is?"

He pulls out a small mallet and slams it down against the base of the stem. It echoes in the store like a gunshot but nobody else seems to notice or care. I quickly pull my hand away as he hits it again.

"What are you doin', baby?" He looks up at me. "You gotta hold it tight." I stare at him like a dumbass until he grabs my hand and puts it back on the flower. "Hold it." He pummels it again and again until he finally removes my hand. "Thanks baby," he says, patting me on the shoulder.

"Yeah..." I say and start walking away, mortified. I never realized working in a food store was so dangerous.

"Don't be a stranger!" He calls at my back. "I seen you checkin' out my goods."

I haven't been checking out his goods. Almost embarrassed, I race to the barista stand with Callie.

"Have fun with your boyfriend?" she asks sardonically.

"He isn't my boyfriend."

"She." Callie turns on some of the machines.

"Who?"

"She isn't your boyfriend."

"Um..." I look back at the florist. "That's...a she?'

"Yeah, jackass. Sex change."

"Oh." I bite my lip and nod. "I've only been here a week." I say this in case she doesn't realize it, but from the dull expression she gives me, I know she does.

I back up as she reaches for beans underneath the counter.

"What are you doing?"

She rolls her eyes and unbuttons the top button on her shirt. "I'm putting everything on display." She puts another bag up.

"You sure are."

"What?" Her response is hardly appropriate.

I shuffle my feet around. "I just...I said--"

"Yeah," she says, pissy, "well stop, okay? I don't like you. I didn't like you when you showed up."

"Why not?" I demand, because this is really the problem. I don't even know this chick and I'm pretty sure she'd saw off my balls with a rusty knife if she could.

She puts another bag on display and pauses, settling her hands on her hips and cocking her head to the side in mock contemplation. "Hmm...maybe because you smell like them."

"Them?"

"The jackasses that come through here everyday. You walk like them--like you're afraid every step you take is going to wake someone up." If this girl had lived with my parents, she'd be afraid of waking them up too. "You talk like them; you smell like them. It's disgusting."

I barely nod in acknowledgment. While she might be afraid of waking my parents up, she's right that I come from the same background as most of the people who come through here. We're wealthy enough, but I don't think my parents' income is enough to sustain our lifestyle. That's why I've long-suspected their involvement in an underground drug cartel, or sex-slave trade.

"See? No denial. You probably don't even need this job," she scoffs, unhappy with me.

"Well that isn't my fault," I defend. "I want to be here. I can't stand it at home."

"Yeah?" she asks, eyes burning holes through my clothes.

"At least you won't be lonely, today," I offer with a smile, hoping it will end this discussion.

She gives me the bird. Close enough.

"I see how it is," I laugh. This seems absurd.

She almost knocks me over as she turns the machine on behind me and returns to the counter where people are starting to gather like vultures. Something suddenly nips at my side and starts burning down my leg.

"Ow!" I yelp, realizing the nozzle of the coffee dispenser had been left open. A large stain is now on my shirt and jeans.

"Oh shit!" Callie says, quickly closing the nozzle and grabbing all the napkins off the counter. She drops to the floor and starts mopping up the puddle of coffee.

Bitch.

I peel my searing shirt off my stomach and wince as the coffee burns my leg.

"Honey?" My breath catches in my throat.

I turn around in horror at Mother's beaming face. She gives an incredibly fake smile before tottering towards me on her six-inch pumps.

"Your father and I were worried about you," she says, putting her purse on the counter.

"Um...why?"

Callie hits the back of my knee with her elbow as she mops up the floor.

"Well," Mother shakes her head casually and lowers her head, "we just wanted to make sure you didn't hurt yourself while trying to put on the condoms."

"Mom." I don't know what else to say at this point. Callie emerges from beneath the counter and pushes her hair back.

"Oh!" Mother says, eyes wide. "Ohmagod!"

"Oh no..." I mutter.

Callie looks from me to her, confused. "Ma'am? Can I get you something?"

Mother stares at me, at first shocked, but then a big, knowing smile comes over her face, and I think I want to die.

"Ma'am," Callie repeats. "Don't mind him. He didn't take his metamucil this morning and peed himself."

"It's okay," Mother shakes her head and picks up her purse. She winks at me before walking away.

"Fuckin' weirdo," Callie says, looking over at me. "Are you okay?"

"Metamucil is a fiber supplement to help ease bowel movements, so it wouldn't make my bladder uncontrollable." She stares at me like I'm a freak. "Besides, I'm...I'm all over benefiber."

"Whatever."

Despite having developed a new limp and getting peed on by a coffee-machine, work feels like a relative success. After Mother's visit, Callie and I seemed to minimize the bickering, and Ms. Carlyle didn't show up at any point. As an added bonus, I now smell like Sumatra coffee.

I wait for the cross-walk signal to change as the sun beats down on me. Its heat leeches my already depleted energy from the night before, wasted as it was on restlessness, and I'm pretty sure what kept me awake had to do was anger at Dylan and my parents. Now, though, as I walk back home, the price of insomnia starts to demand its remuneration.

My eyes swim as I make it across the street; for a reason I don't understand, my eyes always water when I get tired. It's like my body's alarm system to make sure I don't stay up too late, which I would probably do otherwise. Tonight, I just want to get home and get in my bed. The sleeplessness from the night before just made today seem like a continuation of the hell that was yesterday; like somehow that series of unfortunate events propelled my being to an escape velocity, and, now, wrestled free from the referential orbit of meaning, ironically I feel like somebody.

I turn the the corner and can see the porch steps and the cast-iron gate that protects them from the outside world. The sun seems to be melting into the background of the sky, turning a fiery red and frilling away at the edges. I almost laugh at the whole scene: a brightly burning ball of energy and at the edges everything falls apart. It's good to know you're not alone in the world. I push the door open and see Mother and Father sitting at the dining table hunched over a magazine.

"What do you think about this one?" Father points at a picture and carefully looks at Mother for a response. I hang my vest on the coat rack and make eye contact with Father before I start tiptoeing by them.

Mother quickly glances at the page and then furrows her brow. "I don't know, Carl. Italian? Didn't we do that one last year?"

Father kisses her on the cheek. "Yeah, but it wasn't glass-blown."

Mother takes a deep breath and sighs as though in deep contemplation, pausing for a moment before responding, just for added emphasis. "This is true. But the fact that it's glass blown doesn't seem an endorsement to me to use it. What do you think, Nick, honey?"

"What?" I ask hesitantly. They did this to me last year--sequestered me in my room and then made me make decisions about their sexual lives. Mother is convinced this makes our family tighter and more well-knit. It really just nauseates us all.

"Come look," she says. I stop and take a breath before walking over and looking down at Father's finger, which is pointing to a glass dildo. "What do you think? If it were solid glass, I'd be more inclined to use it, but just imagine hollow fragments of twat-embedded glass! I don't think it's something that should be risked."

I gag. "I need to vomit." I try to stifle the bile in my throat as I walk to the kitchen sink.

"Hey, honey! We could get you one for your girlfriend at the store!"

I make it to the sink just in time.

"Ew," I hear Mother whisper to Father. "What do you think, though? Yes, no?" She asks this second part very loudly so she doesn't have to hear the sound of revolt clogging her sink drain. How anyone could be so unaware that their conversations conceivably made those they love want to hit themselves with a frying pan escapes me.

"She's not my girlfriend!" I call back. I get a napkin and wipe my face for any debris.

"Honey," she coos, "I saw you two in there." I walk to the kitchen opening and, for some reason, pause. "But if you're into golden showers, you probably need to be a bit more discrete."

Here it comes again. "I'm not into golden showers."

She flips the page in the catalog and bats her eyelashes up at me. "I'm just saying--the occasional handjob or blowjob is fine, but anything else and you need to take it to the bathroom."

"I spilled coffee on--you know what? This isn't worth it." I shrug and walk back towards my room. "I couldn't even convince you I'm not gay when I'm not."

"Don't worry!" she calls back. "I mostly believe you now!"

Dylan is perched on my bed like a bird about to take flight. His eyes are closed and he remains perfectly still, even though he has to be aware I'm here. "Uh..." I start to say.

"Shh."

I rub my watering eyes and arch my eyebrows in an attempt to stay awake. "Okay. What the fuck are you doing?"

He glances over at me, eyes narrowed to glaring slits. "I'm relaxing."

I blink. "You just glared at me. I'm going to assume the irony isn't lost on you."

He exhales heavily and finally sits back on the bed and leans against a pillow. "Yeah, I don't believe in it either. Meditation and crap."

I nod. I don't really care, but if we're going to pretend like either of us has something valuable to share with the other, I suppose it's the least I could do.

"You look beat." He watches me sit down at the computer. "And gimp."

"There was a metal box." I turn on the laptop. "It ate me."

He laughs and slowly moves towards the edge of the bed closest to me. "You didn't bite back?"

I shrug at his lame attempt to bond and sign on to AIM. I hope he gets the point that I don't really want to talk to him, and if he does, his only acknowledgment is more silent watching as I instant message Jennifer. She and I go back a ways; we met several summers ago when I was taking a bunch of tests at an out-of-state Institute, and since then we've kept in touch.

When I mention Dylan's presence to her, he doesn't move at all. I'm afraid to look over my shoulder, because if he isn't looking it'll make him suspicious and if he is it'll confirm what he thinks he sees. But there's definitely no movement, and I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Jennifer reassures me that even if I were gay I wouldn't do him just to spite Mother.

"Nick!"

I don't move for a long time, in part because the last thing I want to do is go talk to Father, in part because I hope it's a figment of my imagination.

But no. "Nick!" There it is again.

I tell Jennifer bye and close the laptop in case statue-boy decides he wants to read what I said. Dylan innocently smiles up at me as I walk out into the hall and over to the table. Mother seems to have vacated the premises. "Yeah?" I ask, looking around.

"Come here," he says, kicking the chair next to him out from the table for me to sit down. "I want to talk to you."

I sit down and wait for the battery of questions about Callie. "Now, I know things at work can be a bit heavy sometimes, and I know your schedule is very demanding." He's patronizing me. "But--" brace yourselves for this "--your grandmother is coming over for dinner on Saturday, and we' all really appreciate it if you were here."

I gawk at him before I realize what I'm doing. "I...uhm, I didn't think you wanted to see her again."

He waves his hand around. "That was a long time ago; I'd gotten all my pills messed up." He looks into my eyes. "Things are different now."

"You...threw our TV at her."

"Oh, ho ho ho," he chortles happily, "and what a wondrous day that was."

I arch my eyebrows at him. "Let's not ever say that again, okay?"

"Sorry," he rubs his arm, "was that inappropriately creepy?"

"Well," I shrug, "you just orgasmed over the fact that you threw a television at your mom. I mean, besides the whole Oedipus thing, there's probably loads of stuff wrong with that."

He nods. "Duly noted. Well! That's all I wanted to say." He stands up and extends his hand to me as though we've just made a business deal. I shake it and force myself to smile.

"Great," I nod.

"Great." He doesn't let go of my hand.

I swallow and try not to make eye contact with him, but finally I have to say something. "Dad, my hand..."

"Oh, my apologies!" He quickly throws his arm about as though he's just touched something corrosive. "I was just imagining her coming through that door."

"Scary, isn't it?"

"Yes," he nods. "Yes, it is."

I watch in a slightly bemused stupor as he climbs the staircase, stopping every few stairs and turning back to look at the door. I shake my head and return to my room.

"So your grandma's coming over?" Dylan attacks from the bed.

"No," I say, taking my shirt off. "Dad just desperately gropes for the intimacy his life lacks by trying to bring us together over loved ones. It's a load of crap."

"But..." Dylan almost looks hurt, which is odd, given anyone who's ever had the displeasure of meeting my family has been more than happy to not meet anymore of it. "He said she was coming over..."

"Well, unless we're also going to be sitting around a fire and chanting her from the grave, I don't see it happening." I walk over to my bed.

Dylan just looks up at me, confused.

"Yeah," I shrug. This is something I hate having to explain to more or less normal people--they can't understand eccentricity in even its most benign form. "He does this every time his shrink jacks with his medicine." I grab my pillow. "Move."

He barely scoots to the side.

No matter; I just shove him to the side and collapse on my bed and my pillow. I can faintly smell his cologne and shampoo, but I try to block it out. He just sits there like a ghost.

"So..." he finally turns to face me. "Your dad seeks intimacy by using unreal events, and you give it to him because it means nothing."

Oh God--only a few minutes into really talking and he's already analyzing me. "I don't know." Trying to act disinterested, I roll on my side facing away from him. "I guess so, maybe."

"Because you fear intimacy yourself, you allow others to think you give it to them." I imagine he has a smirk on his face and is nodding rapidly like an idiot. I peek over but he's still just sitting there.

I don't know what to say. Whereas most psychologists give themselves away with patronizing tones or movements, he gives nothing. There is absolutely nothing but his voice and a carcass.

"It's okay," he says after a long while, and I feel him turn to face me. "I don't believe in intimacy either."

He's got my interest if he's telling the truth, but most of them lie, so I wait on more details.

"It begins at birth. You come out, all sticky and bloody or whatever, and your parents already see you as something more than a baby. They see you as this grown-up who will make them proud, somebody they don't have to want to love because love comes easily."

I roll over and look up at Dylan's eyes. He seems disengaged, lost inside of himself. Despite the overpowering call of sleep, I force myself to stay awake for whatever else he has to say.

"It's so sickening: intimacy and love are so deeply rooted in the possibilities of a future which has no guarantee and with requirements that sometimes go unsaid." He swallows. "I don't see how people do it--I can barely keep up with right now."

"Yeah," I laugh bitterly, even though I feel a bit cheered that somebody might understand me. "Because sitting on my bed is such an overwhelming experience."

"Why don't you like intimacy?"

There's no avoiding this question. He's caught me: I'm looking at him, and he ignored my attempt to push him away. There's only this: "I don't like it because I don't think people should posit someone else can make them complete. By definition, if you assume that, then you'll always be disappointed no matter who you're with, thus propagating the belief that you're incomplete. The only way to really be complete is to forget other people."

"That's sort antisocial, but okay."

I shrug. "Yeah, and your shirt is fugly."

He recoils, then smiles before laying down next to me. "Funny."

I wait for him to do something else, but he just lays there. "Um," I begin, "what...what are you doing?"

"Uh, I'm...I'm about to go to sleep."

"No," I shake my head. "Not on my bed you aren't."

"What?" he laughs. "Am I not good enough to sleep on your bed with you?"

"No," I say. "As a matter of fact you aren't."

"Well, then," he laughs harder. "I guess that's just too fucking bad. Because if you think I'm going to sleep in that little bag against the wall, you're wrong."

I kick him. It's a weird thing to do, but it gets his attention. "Piss off."

He shakes his head some more with that dumb grin on his face. "Yeah, sure thing buddy. What are you so afraid of, anyway?"

I curl up into myself and keep a close watch on him but don't respond. I realize this is a losing battle no matter where I take it. This jackass is going to insist on sleeping here.

"Think I'm gonna rape you in your sleep?" He holds up his hand, where a large ring is adorning his ring finger. "I'm engaged, and, besides, you're not my type."

"Good." I roll over, upset my scare tactics haven't worked but ultimately just glad to be getting to bed. "Let's keep it that way."

Chapter 3