Autoboyography
Page 62
In his room, the laptop hums quietly on his bed. He powered it up as soon as he was alone—nearly an hour ago—and has slowly watched the battery die down. The pattern is becoming a calming ritual: The screen dims with sleep, and Sebastian smooths a finger across the trackpad to wake it up again.
There’s a new folder on the desktop labeled AUTOBOYOGRAPHY, and it contains the only file he’s interested in reading, but he can’t manage to do it. In part, it’s the anticipatory ache he knows will only get sharper as soon as he starts reading. But also, there’s something fascinating about how organized and clean Tanner’s Seminar notes are. The folder holds a number of versions of the document, all clearly labeled, with dates. He had photos of Sebastian too, labeled
SEBASTIAN SOCCER 2014
SEBASTIAN SOCCER 2014.A
SEBASTIAN SALT LAKE TRIB
SEBASTIAN PUB WEEKLY 2016
SEBASTIAN DESERET NEWS 2017
So there’s the catch. This book is the key to get inside Tanner’s head. The vain side of Sebastian wants to get into that space more than he’s ever wanted anything, to see every overanalytical detail. The rational side of Sebastian realizes it’s no closer to the real Tanner than he is now, or ever will be again. Is the torture worth it? Wouldn’t it be better to delete the folder, thank Autumn, and have her pass along a verbal message to Tanner? Something genuine and final, that can’t be printed and passed to him silently across the dinner table—like his father did with all of his texts and e-mails?
Without his noticing, the room has grown dark again. Sebastian slides his fingers across the trackpad and squints into the brightness. His hands shake as he clicks on the icon, and the screen fills with words.
It opens with a boy and a girl, a dare, and crumbs on a bed.
But where it really begins is with a double take and the words “His smile ruins me.”
• • •
Sebastian reads through most of the night. His cheeks, at some points, are wet with tears. Other times, he laughs—honestly, he’s never had so much fun as he did falling in love with Tanner. He follows them up the mountain, remembers that first kiss. He sees the way Tanner’s parents worry—Jenna’s early warnings now seem nearly prophetic.
He watches Tanner evade the truth, keep Autumn in the dark. His pulse pounds in his ears as he reads about the noises they make, of fingers and lips and hands that skim lower.
He falls in love under a sky full of stars.
The sun starts to break, and Sebastian stares at the screen, eyes blurry. Other than standing to plug in the laptop, he hasn’t moved in hours.
He sucks in a breath, feeling hollow but jittery, unmistakably elated. Terrified. His family will be up soon, so if he’s going to do something, he needs to go before anyone sees him leave. He could simply call Fujita, explain the personal nature, suggest a grade.
His muscles protest as he gets to his feet and disconnects the cord, reaches for the laptop, and slips out the door.
TANNER
Tanner stares at the computer screen. Blinks.
His mom leans forward, squinting. “What are you looking at?”
“My grades.”
She lets out an excited “Ooooh, they’re up fast!” and then grabs him around the shoulders, squeezing when her eyes make it down the entire list.
Not that it matters. He’s already packing up his room, preparing to take the battered Camry and drive to LA. But the grades, they aren’t terrible. The A in Modern Lit wasn’t a surprise—he skated through that one. Calc, too. The rest are pleasant discoveries, but not altogether shocking. But an A in the Seminar, and he never even turned in the book.
On autopilot, he reaches for the phone, dialing the school office.
“Mr. Fujita, please?”
The head secretary Ms. Hill’s voice comes clear through the line: “One second.”
“What are you doing?” His mom leans around, trying to catch his eyes.
He points to the A, right in the middle of his screen. “This doesn’t make sense.” In fact, it feels almost wrong, like he’s getting away with the kind of mild crime Autumn always seems to accuse him of. It’s one thing to charm; it’s another to receive a stellar mark without even completing the one assignment worth a majority of his total grade.
A new line rings once, and again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Fujita?” Tanner fidgets with the sleek, black stapler on his parents’ desk.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Tanner Scott.” There’s a pause, and it’s weird how meaningful it feels. It makes anxiety bubble up in him. “I just checked my grades.”
Mr. Fujita’s gravelly voice seems even coarser over the phone. “All right?”
“I don’t understand how I got an A in your class.”
“I loved your book, kid.”
Tanner pauses. “I never turned in the book.”
The other end of the line goes quiet, almost as if it’s been cut off. But then Fujita clears his throat. “He didn’t tell you? Ah, crap. This isn’t great.”
“Tell me what?”
“Sebastian turned it in.”
Tanner squeezes his eyes closed, trying to figure out what he’s missing. “You mean the first twenty pages?”
“No.” A pause. “The whole thing.”
He opens his mouth to respond and can’t think of a single word.
“It’s great, Tann. I mean, I have thoughts on edits, because I can’t help myself, and your ending sucks, but at the time, how could it not? Overall, I sincerely enjoyed it.” He pauses, and in that time, Tanner is unable to figure out what to say.
In the past, when he’s read the words “my thoughts are reeling,” the idea of that just felt overblown. But right now images are on a loop, a flickering filmstrip: his laptop in his drawer; the words “I’m totally gay” on a page; Sebastian’s face just before he fell asleep on the couch beside him, satisfied, cocky, also, a little shy; the deteriorating, half-assed ending to his document.
“Maybe ‘enjoy’ isn’t the right word,” Fujita is saying. “I hurt for you. And him. I’ve watched this story unfold so many times, I can’t even tell you. I’m glad the two of you have worked things out.”
Fujita pauses again, and it seems like this would be a good time for Tanner to say something, but he doesn’t. Now he’s stuck on I’m glad the two of you have worked things out. Bewilderment is the predominant emotion. He hasn’t spoken to Sebastian in weeks.
“What?”
“But I think you did something here,” Fujita says, ignoring this, “showing him your heart. I think you truly did. And your voice is alive. I knew you were writing, but I didn’t realize you were writing.”
This conversation has officially gone too many steps past where Tanner last understood what the hell was going on. His laptop, as far as he knows, has been safely planted in his dresser along with socks, some shin guards, and a couple of magazines his parents can’t track on their magic software.
Tanner stands, jogging upstairs to his room. On the phone, Fujita has gone quiet.
“You okay over there?”
Tanner rummages in his drawer. His laptop is there. “Yeah. Just . . . processing this.”
“Well, if you want to come down sometime this summer and talk through my notes, I’d be happy to. I’ll be here finishing things up for the next two weeks or so.”
There’s a new folder on the desktop labeled AUTOBOYOGRAPHY, and it contains the only file he’s interested in reading, but he can’t manage to do it. In part, it’s the anticipatory ache he knows will only get sharper as soon as he starts reading. But also, there’s something fascinating about how organized and clean Tanner’s Seminar notes are. The folder holds a number of versions of the document, all clearly labeled, with dates. He had photos of Sebastian too, labeled
SEBASTIAN SOCCER 2014
SEBASTIAN SOCCER 2014.A
SEBASTIAN SALT LAKE TRIB
SEBASTIAN PUB WEEKLY 2016
SEBASTIAN DESERET NEWS 2017
So there’s the catch. This book is the key to get inside Tanner’s head. The vain side of Sebastian wants to get into that space more than he’s ever wanted anything, to see every overanalytical detail. The rational side of Sebastian realizes it’s no closer to the real Tanner than he is now, or ever will be again. Is the torture worth it? Wouldn’t it be better to delete the folder, thank Autumn, and have her pass along a verbal message to Tanner? Something genuine and final, that can’t be printed and passed to him silently across the dinner table—like his father did with all of his texts and e-mails?
Without his noticing, the room has grown dark again. Sebastian slides his fingers across the trackpad and squints into the brightness. His hands shake as he clicks on the icon, and the screen fills with words.
It opens with a boy and a girl, a dare, and crumbs on a bed.
But where it really begins is with a double take and the words “His smile ruins me.”
• • •
Sebastian reads through most of the night. His cheeks, at some points, are wet with tears. Other times, he laughs—honestly, he’s never had so much fun as he did falling in love with Tanner. He follows them up the mountain, remembers that first kiss. He sees the way Tanner’s parents worry—Jenna’s early warnings now seem nearly prophetic.
He watches Tanner evade the truth, keep Autumn in the dark. His pulse pounds in his ears as he reads about the noises they make, of fingers and lips and hands that skim lower.
He falls in love under a sky full of stars.
The sun starts to break, and Sebastian stares at the screen, eyes blurry. Other than standing to plug in the laptop, he hasn’t moved in hours.
He sucks in a breath, feeling hollow but jittery, unmistakably elated. Terrified. His family will be up soon, so if he’s going to do something, he needs to go before anyone sees him leave. He could simply call Fujita, explain the personal nature, suggest a grade.
His muscles protest as he gets to his feet and disconnects the cord, reaches for the laptop, and slips out the door.
TANNER
Tanner stares at the computer screen. Blinks.
His mom leans forward, squinting. “What are you looking at?”
“My grades.”
She lets out an excited “Ooooh, they’re up fast!” and then grabs him around the shoulders, squeezing when her eyes make it down the entire list.
Not that it matters. He’s already packing up his room, preparing to take the battered Camry and drive to LA. But the grades, they aren’t terrible. The A in Modern Lit wasn’t a surprise—he skated through that one. Calc, too. The rest are pleasant discoveries, but not altogether shocking. But an A in the Seminar, and he never even turned in the book.
On autopilot, he reaches for the phone, dialing the school office.
“Mr. Fujita, please?”
The head secretary Ms. Hill’s voice comes clear through the line: “One second.”
“What are you doing?” His mom leans around, trying to catch his eyes.
He points to the A, right in the middle of his screen. “This doesn’t make sense.” In fact, it feels almost wrong, like he’s getting away with the kind of mild crime Autumn always seems to accuse him of. It’s one thing to charm; it’s another to receive a stellar mark without even completing the one assignment worth a majority of his total grade.
A new line rings once, and again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Fujita?” Tanner fidgets with the sleek, black stapler on his parents’ desk.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Tanner Scott.” There’s a pause, and it’s weird how meaningful it feels. It makes anxiety bubble up in him. “I just checked my grades.”
Mr. Fujita’s gravelly voice seems even coarser over the phone. “All right?”
“I don’t understand how I got an A in your class.”
“I loved your book, kid.”
Tanner pauses. “I never turned in the book.”
The other end of the line goes quiet, almost as if it’s been cut off. But then Fujita clears his throat. “He didn’t tell you? Ah, crap. This isn’t great.”
“Tell me what?”
“Sebastian turned it in.”
Tanner squeezes his eyes closed, trying to figure out what he’s missing. “You mean the first twenty pages?”
“No.” A pause. “The whole thing.”
He opens his mouth to respond and can’t think of a single word.
“It’s great, Tann. I mean, I have thoughts on edits, because I can’t help myself, and your ending sucks, but at the time, how could it not? Overall, I sincerely enjoyed it.” He pauses, and in that time, Tanner is unable to figure out what to say.
In the past, when he’s read the words “my thoughts are reeling,” the idea of that just felt overblown. But right now images are on a loop, a flickering filmstrip: his laptop in his drawer; the words “I’m totally gay” on a page; Sebastian’s face just before he fell asleep on the couch beside him, satisfied, cocky, also, a little shy; the deteriorating, half-assed ending to his document.
“Maybe ‘enjoy’ isn’t the right word,” Fujita is saying. “I hurt for you. And him. I’ve watched this story unfold so many times, I can’t even tell you. I’m glad the two of you have worked things out.”
Fujita pauses again, and it seems like this would be a good time for Tanner to say something, but he doesn’t. Now he’s stuck on I’m glad the two of you have worked things out. Bewilderment is the predominant emotion. He hasn’t spoken to Sebastian in weeks.
“What?”
“But I think you did something here,” Fujita says, ignoring this, “showing him your heart. I think you truly did. And your voice is alive. I knew you were writing, but I didn’t realize you were writing.”
This conversation has officially gone too many steps past where Tanner last understood what the hell was going on. His laptop, as far as he knows, has been safely planted in his dresser along with socks, some shin guards, and a couple of magazines his parents can’t track on their magic software.
Tanner stands, jogging upstairs to his room. On the phone, Fujita has gone quiet.
“You okay over there?”
Tanner rummages in his drawer. His laptop is there. “Yeah. Just . . . processing this.”
“Well, if you want to come down sometime this summer and talk through my notes, I’d be happy to. I’ll be here finishing things up for the next two weeks or so.”
