Blackout Read online

  “Umm . . . mechanical engineering. But considering changing my major.”

  (I know I sounded mad ridiculous. Why this guy continued entertaining my ass is beyond me.)

  “A smart sports guy! Double whammy.” And he busted out the smile that turns girls all goo-goo eyed and slack jawed in the halls at school. Can’t even lie: with it aimed at me, the effect made perfect sense.

  From there, a lot of the night is a blur. Within a couple of minutes, I’d slipped into being what I guess was some sorta dream version of a self I could eventually be: openly bisexual rising sophomore at City College with a rich on-campus life that included student government, intramural basketball, and Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity membership.

  And Tremaine was crazy easy to talk to. In fact, the longer we chatted, the more stuff from my actual life started slipping in. I told him about feeling confused because while I knew there were some girls I felt attracted to, I was pretty sure I liked guys too. (To this he said, “Same. And don’t let anyone convince you your feelings are wrong. I’ve known I was attracted to people since second grade. You’d be blown away at how mad some folks get when they realize they can’t box you in.”)

  I told him about my Jordy. (“She sounds amazing. Nothing like support from the family.”)

  I told him about my coaches. (“Toxic masculinity 101, my friend.”)

  And I told him about being nervous about not really know anything for sure. (“Welcome to the party. And I’m not talking about this wack one either.”)

  I got so relaxed around Tremaine Wright, when he asked if I was dating anyone, good ol’ Tobias replied: “Well, according to what you told Peacock over there, I’m dating you.”

  We laughed about that, and then we kept talking.

  We talked more about family: His favorite person is his older sister, Tammi, though his tour-bus driver dad, Sean, is a close second. I told him how my parents met, and he told me about his: Camille, his moms, had been a photography intern from Virginia. She’d gotten lost in the city and decided to hop on a tour bus. Soon enough, they were approaching the Flatiron Building, and her photography office was right across the street . . . so she went up to the driver and asked to be let off, but it was a nonstop tour, so he said no. She pushed harder, and when he finally looked at her, he got so distracted by her beauty, he rear-ended the cab in front of them. “Third day on the job too,” Tremaine said. “Fired instantly.”

  We talked about food: He’s half Jamaican, but homie lives for ramen and Korean barbecue. I told him my granddad is originally from Georgia, and waxed all poetic about my love for Southern soul food.

  We talked about friends: He admitted that while he knows a lot of people are “interested” in him, he’s never had super close friends, especially guys. It’s a thing he hopes will change once he gets to college. I told him that while I do have close friends—most of them my teammates—I worried about how they might react to me not being straight. “I have heard that guys’ athletics can be pretty homophobic,” was his response to that.

  I told him he came across as real comfortable in his skin, and that I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to that point. And he assured me that he hadn’t always been that way, and that he definitely had his moments of insecurity. “Thing is, though,” he said, “if I can’t love and accept myself just as I am, why the hell would I expect anybody else to?”

  A fair point, obviously.

  Next thing I knew, he was checking his watch and saying he needed to leave so he wouldn’t miss curfew.

  And I knew I couldn’t walk him out. It was too risky.

  So I said it’d been nice chatting with him (who the hell did I think I was, yo?), and that I hoped he and I would run into each other again.

  His eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned down for like the slightest moment, but he recovered too fast for me to mention it without seeming like I was watching him mad closely. “Yeah, man, absolutely,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

  But when homie turned to leave, I did something I still can’t believe. “Yo, Tremaine,” I said. And I reached for his arm. When he turned back to me, I lifted the bottom of my mask, closed the space between us . . . and I kissed him right on the mouth.

  “Okay, then,” is all he said when we broke apart (after . . . some time).

  What felt like eighty-three minutes, but was likely only a few awkward seconds, passed. “You should uhh . . . prolly get going, huh?” I said to break the intense silence. And also probably because I was feeling too many things at once: shock over my boldness; guilt over not asking permission to kiss him (that’s something I can say about my parents: they real serious about the consent thing); sadness that we were about to part ways; excitement from the lip-locking; fear about what that excitement was confirming for me. The way I felt kissing Tremaine was far different than I’d felt with ol’ girl Shelley the night before.

  Shit was terrifying.

  “Yeah . . .” he said. “I guess maybe I should—”

  There’s a loud thump and a collective gasp on the train, and my eyes fly open.

  “Oh my God, is he okay?”

  The words register before the lump on the ground does, but when my brain finally connects the dots between Tremaine’s empty seat and the white-on-white-on-white kicks attached to the body on the grimy-ass train floor, I’m up and then down beside him before I even realize what I’m doing.

  “Yo, Tremaine!” I shake his shoulder. Panic starts to make my palms damp and my pits sweaty . . . just like it did in sixth grade.

  You’d think I woulda learned something about being helpful when I see a guy in distress since then, right? Just shameful.

  “Tremaine!” Another shake. “Man, you all right?”

  Dumb-ass question.

  But he groans.

  Good sign in my book.

  “Tremaine, it’s me, JJ,” I say, moving to shift him to his back. “Imma get you outta here, man, but if you could help me a lil bit by letting me know you can hear me, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Groans again.

  I stretch his legs out and then move back up to his head. Start fanning his face like I seen folks do in movies.

  Zero clue what I’m actually doing, by the way.

  But it seems to be working. His head slowly moves to the right, then to the left. And once it’s back to center, his eyes open.

  I think my heart does a tap dance or somethin’.

  “Thank God,” I say. Legit crossing myself. “Yo, can you move at all? I wanna get you up and off this train, but if I gotta carry you, Imma need to strategize—”

  “JJ?” he says, all groggy and confused. (And damn do I have a love/hate relationship with what it does to me inside. Gotta avoid looking at his mouth.)

  “Yeah, man. It’s me.”

  “What happened? Where are we?” His eyes drift shut again.

  “Nah, bruh. You gotta stay awake. We’re on the subway. There was a blackout and we been stuck in a tunnel for like thirty minutes.”

  “I hate enclosed spaces,” he says.

  “That’s what I know. But what I need to know is if you think you can walk. Imma get the door open, and then I’ll help you up and you can let me know, cool?”

  “Mmhmm,” he says. Well, hums.

  Quick as a flash I’ve got my keys out of my pocket and am using the tiny knife on my foldable mini-multitool keychain thing to pop open the panel above the car’s center doors (thank God I’m tall enough to easily reach it). I’m sure most people don’t even notice it when getting on and off the train, but when I was little, my dad made me learn how to get myself off of all public transportation in case of an emergency.

  He’s also the person who makes me carry the tool.

  Once I’m inside the compartment, I flip the two red levers—the click of the doors unlocking almost sounds like music—and throw all my weight into pushing the doors open.

  Then it’s back to Tremaine.

  “Okay, Imma lift
you by the shoulders to sit you up, then I’ll slip my arms under yours and wrap ’em around your waist to pull you to your feet, cool?”

  I don’t wait for a response this time.

  Once I’ve got him up—side note: dude is heavy—and I’m holding him around the waist while he gets his feet beneath him, I ask him again: “You think you can walk?”

  His head drops back against my shoulder. (Startles the hell outta me.) “Yeah. With assistance.”

  “I gotchu,” I say. “Pretty sure we gone have to walk single file to get out this tunnel, but you can lean against my back.”

  I shift to his right without letting go of him completely, and pull his arm over my shoulder before stepping in front of him. Someone comes over and hands me both of our backpacks, and by some wiggly magic, I’m able to get them both on my front—thank God they’re not heavy. And then his weight settles onto me, and we make our way to the open doors.

  Within seconds, we’re off. I know some people follow, but I stay focused on getting us to open air.

  Full disclosure: subway tunnels outside the train? Real scary shit. Definitely regret my middle school horror film phase. Little rinky-dink cell phone flashlight is only marginally helpful.

  We walk, maaaaaad slow, for what feels like an eternity, his whole front pressed against my whole back (which is a lot). I’m holding his right arm against my chest with my left hand so I can hold the light with my right. Train was just shy of the 96th Street station.

  So I do my best to focus on dude’s weight against me and the knowledge that it’s on me to get him out of this damn hole in the ground, and by some strange-ass magic, it keeps my feet moving.

  Soon, the space is opening up, and I couldn’t be more relieved.

  “I can walk easier now, I think,” Tremaine says once we’re almost at the station. His weight lessens a bit, then he pulls his arm off me completely.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I could also be helpful. Let me get that bag.”

  “Nah, man, chill out. I got it.”

  “So JJ Harding’s a gentleman, huh?” And I can’t see the look on his face, but I’m glad ’cause it means he can’t see mine either.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t paying attention to which direction we were headed, but the moment we’re on the platform, which honestly feels even darker than the train did, it’s like all the energy drains outta me. “Yo, you mind if we cool it here for a minute?”

  Before he can even answer, I’m feeling my way to the wall and sliding down like the condensation on the side of a cup. Probably not the cleanest floor to be sitting on—especially in my new jeans—but I couldn’t get back up right now if I tried.

  I feel a body settle in beside me. Like reaaaaal close.

  “You all right, man?” Tremaine’s voice is low, but thick in the dark. I can hear other people making their way onto the platform—lots of talk about finding an exit—but Tremaine’s bare arm against mine makes me feel like it’s okay to just . . . sit.

  “I’ll admit: I’ve been better.”

  He laughs. And though fifteen minutes ago, I wouldn’t have been ready to acknowledge how it makes me feel, right now? With him this close—and safe?

  Shit’s incredible. Real glad it’s dark because I would probably be tryna sneak peeks at his mouth.

  “Definitely feel you on that one,” he says. “When that train stopped . . . well, let’s just say I knew things were headed downhill fast. Whole enclosed space thing is a no-go for me. Being on the train doesn’t bother me so much as long as we’re in motion. But being stopped? In a tunnel? The claustrophobia got very real.”

  “Like in sixth grade?” I ask.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “I uhhh . . .” Am I really about to say this? “I could tell you were struggling a little bit. I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner.”

  “I mean, with your track record . . .” And he bumps my shoulder with his. My stomach feels like it just went up for a 360-degree dunk in my throat.

  Which I clear. “Are you okay, though?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know . . . just literally fainted on a subway car full of strangers.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing none of them could actually see you.”

  He laughs again.

  It’s too much, man.

  “You know, I gotta tell you,” he says, “despite your heroics—hesitant though they may have been—you look a lot better without the Black Panther mask.”

  I can’t even breathe, let alone speak.

  “I saw you at Herald Square that night. You were coming out the bathroom in your tux—very fresh by the way—and I followed you at a distance. Got on the F on the same car as you, just at the other end. I thought—hoped, really—you might be headed to the same place I was, but it didn’t seem possible. Jump-Jump Harding at a masquerade party for queer guys?”

  Won’t even lie: Despite everything he’s telling me, I smile at the sound of him saying my nickname. Also didn’t miss that hoped he said.

  “When you got off at Second Avenue, I was floored. I didn’t split off from you until you tucked yourself into that building across the street from where the party was happening. And after waiting a few minutes to see what you would do, I went on in, really hoping you would follow me.”

  “And I did.”

  “Yup.”

  I take a deep breath now. Honestly sorta relieved . . . but also annoyed if you want the truth. “So you knew exactly who I was the whole time.”

  “Sure did. And Imma be honest with you, JJ,” he says, “I was pretty mad at you. I gave you my real name hoping it would encourage you to give me yours. But you didn’t.”

  Welp. There goes my annoyance.

  “For weeks—WEEKS, JJ!—I was conflicted. I’ve had a crush on you since even before the whole sixth grade locker room thing. I loved talking to you and learning more about your life. You didn’t realize it, but you actually mentioned your sister by name at one point.”

  “Well, damn.”

  “Right. You were you . . . but pretending you weren’t. And I didn’t know what to do with that. Especially since you knew I was me. And that kiss—”

  “That kiss.” The words are out in the air before I can catch them.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed it. Which I’m sure you could tell: I didn’t exactly push you away.”

  I’m glad it’s dark cuz that makes me cheese like a damn kindergartner who got an A+ on a crayon project.

  “But I also kinda hated myself for getting any pleasure out of it, JJ. You were lying to me the whole time and you kissed me without my permission. It was confusing.”

  “I’m sorry, Tremaine,” I say. “Like real, real, real sorry, man.”

  He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t say anything else, so we just sit there. I check my phone and am surprised to see that using the flashlight for forty minutes hasn’t affected my battery life too much.

  I wonder if this is some kinda metaphor.

  “Yo, why didn’t you say anything?” I ask Tremaine then.

  “You know, I’m not sure,” he says. “I’ve been asking myself that for weeks. Why didn’t I just call you out? I still don’t really have an answer. I guess like . . . well, I get needing some space and time to figure yourself out. Though I will say: based on what you told me about your parents, I do think your sis is right about them likely being supportive.”

  I nod. “You know, that’s something I figured out while we were walking up outta that tunnel, T. It’s not that I think my parents will take issue with me liking who I like. It’s more the basketball thing. There’s only ever been one openly gay NBA player.”

  “Jason Collins,” he says.

  I’m impressed. “Right. And yeah, he got a lot of support or whatever. But it’s been like a few years, and nobody else has come out. In sports there’s just this . . .” And I pause, not really knowing what word to use.

  “Stigma,” he says.

  So
I guess I can check off “finishes my sentences” on the Ideal Partner list.

  “Right. And while my folks won’t take issue with my . . . orientation, I suppose is the right word, they not gone be too keen on me not hoopin’. In their minds—and in mine too until recently—that’s my ticket to college tuition. And even though I’m not sure I even want to hoop anymore, being out will potentially mean being on the outs with my teammates and coaches, which would obviously mess up my whole game. I’m sure they’ll all act supportive—nobody wants to be labeled homophobic. But this shit runs deep, man.”

  I hear him sigh beside me.

  We’re quiet for a few minutes as my dilemma settles in the dark around us. I have no idea what I’m gonna do.

  I will say, though: some of the pressure on my chest has loosened. Knowing someone else knows my secret and isn’t looking at me all different is . . . helpful.

  Baby steps, I guess.

  “You were headed to that party Kareem is DJing at in Brooklyn?” I say just to be saying something.

  “Yeah. Gotta take pictures.”

  “That’s what I figured. I was too.”

  “No surprise there.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “So uhhh . . . how we gonna get there now?”

  He looks up at the station sign. “I mean, we are near the park . . .” He turns to me. “Bike it? I’m sure we could grab a couple of rentals. Yeah, we’ll be sweaty as hell when we get there but . . . at least we’ll get there. You down?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m down,” I say. “Actually sounds kinda fun.”

  “Hey, JJ?”

  It’s crazy how much I dig the sound of those two letters coming out of his mouth. “Yeah, Tremaine?”

  “Can we agree that you won’t ever lie to me like that again?”

  Shit hits hard. “Yeah, man. Again: I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you. This time.”

  I laugh. Feels real good. “I can respect that.”

  “If you want the truth—and you better not use it against me: I don’t think I could really stay mad at you.”

  “You know, I think I’ve had a thing for you too, since that day in sixth grade,” I finally admit. “Though I obviously tried to deny it.”