Captive Audience. Dave Reidy

reduce Kyle’s sense of alarm. I should be doing something, Kyle thought. But what? Ringing her doorbell? Making a ruckus? Starting a fire? It occurred to Kyle that what he should be doing—what other guys he knew would be doing—was watching through the window, imagining themselves in place of one of those guys, or both of them. But Kyle didn’t want to. It occurred to Kyle that not wanting to watch might make him queer, but he didn’t see that there was anything he could do about that right now.

      Eventually the Camaro rumbled away, and Kyle knew it was over. But he stayed in the den until it was time for dinner, ate with his back to Starlee’s house, and went straight to bed. He didn’t want to see Starlee on her back step, confirming with her calm, smoky exhalations that what had happened today—or something like it—had happened many times before.

      Kyle lay awake, helplessly generating more questions. Did Starlee like doing what he’d seen her doing? Did she love one of those guys, or both of them? Did everyone at school know about this? If they didn’t, Kyle figured they would by tomorrow afternoon. Those guys wouldn’t see any reason to keep their mouths shut and, if high school was anything like junior high, word would spread in a hurry. Part of Kyle couldn’t even blame those guys for blabbing. If he had done what they’d done today, wouldn’t he have felt compelled to tell someone? But the thought that this was what kids at school would think of when they saw Starlee—that this was, in effect, her thing—made Kyle roll over on his side and groan.