Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most

                   Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most

            It was springtime in Linden, Alabama, and everything was, indeed, coming up roses.  Steve Avery and I were having a weekly rendezvous. Since our first date in his car back in January, Steve became braver about having me around. He talked to me at school more and began taking me to parties. He even went so far as to turn down a “relationship” with Patti, a cheerleader and a slut. She made it obvious that she liked Steve and even left him a note in his car with a standing offer to fuck him at the car wash.  I admired her chutzpah, I guess.

            My parents were in a constant state of bliss. Perplexed but blissful. They were relieved I had a new friend that was a boy, popular at that. Confused probably as to how or why it happened. Or maybe not. I didn’t really know them that well. Before each outing with Steve, I got the standard lecture about drinking and smoking. Then Mom gave me a twenty dollar bill with instructions not to mention it to Dad. And just before heading out the door, Dad gave me a twenty dollar bill with instructions not to mention it to Mom.

            Steve, the star quarterback, was also our baseball team’s star short-stop. In an effort to see me more, he suggested that I try out for the team.

            “It would be fun,” he proposed. “We’d get to see each other a lot more.”

            “Have you actually seen me throw a ball?”

            “Yep,” he replied.  “It’s not THAT girly.”

            “My batting average in Little League was 0.00,” I countered.

            So he suggested that I be the team’s official scorekeeper instead. Our baseball coach was also my Earth Science teacher. Coach Lill was one of my favorites. He must have liked me too, because when I asked him, he jumped at the chance.

            “Last year, Patti kept score,” he said. “She always wore short skirts with no panties, and the boys couldn’t concentrate.” 

Again, I was in awe of her chutzpah.

            As much as I hated taping sweaty ankles and hanging out at boring football practice, I loved keeping score for the baseball team. I rode with Steve and his friends to every away game…and I got to sit in the front. I kept score from the dugout bench, so every inning when it was our turn at bat, Steve would sit by me, our legs just barely touching. I was in love.  As much as a closeted teenager could be.

            Steve Avery wasn’t the only positive thing that happened to me that year. I auditioned for the Spring Follies with “Great Balls of Fire”, and I got it! Rehearsals were exhausting but exhilarating. I had to work a little harder than most though.

            “You’re not a natural born singer,” our director told me one night. “But you can raise a joyful noise.”

            Steve also got a part in the show. Anytime they needed that little extra something in the background of a number, they would instruct hot guys or girls in our school to stand on stage and mug, goof, dance or look pretty. My act got its own set of dancers. Two girls dressed in little sequined dresses gyrated around me and basically looked pretty. I thought it took away from my vocal stylings, but what did I know? One of the girls was Liz. The other girl was flung on me without explanation or permission. It was Patti the tramp. She turned out to be quite nice to me, so I gave it right back. But I let her know quickly not to steal focus.

            The show was a success, and my number a hit. I could see Mom in the second row with my grandmother and could just make out the silhouette of my father standing in the back of the auditorium with our principal. Next to the door. But he came, and it mattered. After I hit my last note, the crowd cheered and clapped. I was a star, and I felt the part. Steve was in the next number and waiting in the wings to go on. I walked by him, sweating with excitement. He smiled the biggest smile I’d ever seen on him and pinched my bony arm as I passed.  Oh, the thrill of that night.

            After the show, he offered to drive me home. We detoured through our favorite makeout spot. After our usual post-play cigarette, Steve turned and faced me.

            “I’m graduating next month.”

            I was stunned. Truly. During this whirlwind of romance, rehearsals, and baseball games, I completely forgot that at any moment life would return to normal. And that Steve Avery, a senior, was about to graduate. I needed for all this to sink in, and I was suddenly exhausted. He took me home.

            Even though the Spring Follies had come and gone, baseball games were played through the month of May, right up to graduation. Steve and I continued to see each other all the time, and I went to watch him graduate. He winked at me as he marched down the aisle and away from me. 

            Over the summer, he got a baseball scholarship to a small university in Florida, eons away from Linden, Alabama. Denial has always been my strong suit, so I chose not to think about it. But as summer winded down, I began to dread the new school year. Steve had been my diversion from reality. In his eyes, I was somebody else. Now it was back to being me. The sissy. The best girlfriend. The class jester. And worst of all, back to football practice. With no one to blow.

            My parents and younger brother headed off to Mississippi that August for a few days to see my grandparents. I was left behind because of practice. Our neighbor, Mrs. Crocker, was to keep a watchful eye on the house and on me. Luckily, she couldn’t see past her shrubbery. Steve came over and spent the night…his last night in town before going off to school. I cooked dinner. Burnt chicken and undercooked potatoes.  But he didn’t complain.

Everything we had been doing in the backseat of his car, we finally got to do in a bed that night. With real sheets and pillows and everything. Usually after the climax, we looked away from each other. Maybe out of guilt, maybe out of confusion and discomfort. This time, we just stared at each other. Neither of us sure what transpired between us over the last year. One thing was certain. I didn’t want it to end.  And I don’t think he did either.

            “This is weird to say, ‘cause you’re a guy and all. But I can’t help it.”

            “Yeah?” I asked.

            “I think I love you.”

            And before I could reply, he pulled me so tight to his chest that I could barely breathe, much less speak. His declaration did make me feel a little weird. But mostly, I felt safe and wanted. And that felt good.  The next morning, he kissed me one more time and promised he would call after he got settled in his dorm.  And he was gone.

            An excruciatingly long month later, I got a phone call from Steve. He was settling in nicely, had started baseball practice for the fall season, and liked his roommate. He asked about school and doubted he’d be home anytime soon, due to his schedule. We spoke for forty-five minutes, and I hoped the conversation would end with another “I love you.” It didn’t. He never called again.

            My freshman year of high school was spent trying to move on from something I knew nothing about. I still didn’t want to be gay, but I knew that I loved Steve. I assumed he was busy with baseball and school and couldn’t call. A local newspaper occasionally wrote articles about his achievements on the playing field at college. My high school career flew by, and I heard a couple of times that Steve was in town for the weekend.  I never saw him.

            Six years later, I was twenty years old and home from college for spring break when Mom showed me a wedding invitation. Steve Avery was getting married. To a local girl, a classmate of his. Quite nice, nondescript. Even though it had been a lifetime ago, my stomach cramped. I didn’t want to see the wedding, but I had to see him.

So, Mom and I went. Just my luck, the ushers seated us on the third row with a birds’ eye view. The wedding march began. Steve walked through the doors and took his place on the steps of the altar. Time had not moved. My heart suddenly hurt, and I willed the tears not to fall. He was still devastatingly handsome, in better shape than in high school, and was now a man. As I watched him waiting for his bride, our final conversation years before resonated in my head.

            “You’re gonna be somebody one day,” he told me. “You will. You’re gonna move to a big city and live how you wanna live and be what you wanna be.”

            “What about you?” I asked. “You can too.”

            “Naw, not me. I’m too simple for the big city. I’ll probably come back here, get a job. I ain’t foolin’ myself. I’m good at baseball but not good enough for the majors. Besides, I’m not as brave as you are. But I KNOW that you’re gonna get outta here.”

            From the altar, Steve and I suddenly locked eyes in a mutual stare that lasted through five of the nine bridesmaids’ march down the aisle. He finally gave me a knowing smile, and I returned the favor. Knowing smiles because he knew that I was destined for better long before I ever did.  And I knew on that day, his wedding day, Steve Avery was doing what he thought he had to.