"I just thought of something."
"What?"
"I have cookies." George puts something in my backpack every day. I dig around and find the bag. "They're called ciambelline. They're Italian. They look like fetuses, but they're good." I give one to Theo, who eats it fast.
"Thanks." He takes another. "I like these."
"They're traditionally served with vin santo." I learned this from
George. He's taught me a lot. " Which is a sweet dessert wine. Made from Trebbiano grapes, if you're interested."
"And about the ball?"
"I won't tell anyone. I swear."
"That's not what I mean. I mean, have you ever had something like that?"
"A golden ball situation?"
"With a girl."
The texting girl. Minutes ago. I'm grateful. "Yes."
"Who?"
"You wouldn't know her."
A text. It's for Theo. "Shit."
"What?"
"My family. I texted them about it all? So now they all want to meet. At City Bakery, for fair-trade cocoa. My mom, my dad, Fartemis, my grandma. Someone from the New Yorker, probably. Maybe I'm a Talk piece. My mom says that a lot. You know what that is? That's a Talk piece."
"You should probably go," I say.
"Yeah, probably," he says. " Sorry about tae kwon do."
"Whatever."
"I should have told you before."
"You didn't know."
"What other secrets lie in store, right?"
"It is what it is."
He gives me a nickel. We do that when we hear a word or expression that, to quote Mr. Frechette, has led to the "ongoing gang rape of the language of Shakespeare, Milton, and Jennifer Weiner." There's a list, a long one, that we call the Nickel List. It is what it is is on it. As are skill set, farm-to-table, growing the business.
"Say hey to Fartemis," I say.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"Sure."
"Several small ones, actually. I hope it's not too much."
"Let's hear them."
"One's about the Innocence Project. I thought your dad might have some views on the subject."
This is a school thing. We stage fake trials for real people who were executed and whose guilt is in question. Theo and I are defending the Rosenbergs (Donatella Gould and Morgan Blatt), who did or didn't give secrets to the Russians.
"I'm sure he does," I say. "He has a lot of views."
"The second favor involves your dad and George. It revolves around gayness."
"Like how to have sex and stuff ?"
"No," he says. " About when they knew they were gay. Their golden ball equivalent, one might say."
A new text now, for him. As he checks it I think once more of Texting Girl, her flying fingers, the possible smile at me. Then I think, for some reason, about Blake Lively, when she was young, anyway. And I think about jerking off, just last night, to the jacket photo of one of my mom's authors, a lady who writes short stories about her bittersweet colorful childhood on some island, somewhere, but is also, actually, hot. My mom's this big deal editor. Everyone around me is a big deal something. Except George, of course.
"That was Fartemis," Theo says. "To tell me she always knew. Astute, for nine. So you'll ask your dad and George?"
"Sure."
"And there's one thing more."
" Gay-based."
"Is this getting boring?"
"Lord Jim is boring." We had to read it. "So what's the question?"
"Is being gay a choice. Their opinions, of course."
"Have you looked online for any of this?"
"I've been trying something." He tells me this, like a secret. "If there's a thing I want to know, that actually matters to me, I do people."
"Do them?"
"Ask them. I like when someone doesn't know an answer right off, where what they say first is just a start, that can wind up anywhere. Where answers don't end things." He gets a text. It's from Shannon. He shows it to me. The tenth grade has spoken. Now, let us heal.
"But what about you? Do you think it's a choice?"
He says some words, to himself. They're new words. "Gayitude. Gayology. Gaydaism." He finishes his fetus cookie. "I don't know yet. I'm sort of tired. It's been a big day."
And there we are, about thirteen inches apart, when he raises his hand and waves at me, as if he is in a cab that is driving away and is about to disappear. I wave back, and soon he is gone. I remind myself of the other thing that happened today. "Theo's president," I say, "which makes me Secretary of Everything." I head for the 6 train and decide to shake it up by becoming the Blind Guy, this person I invented. You go as far as you can with your eyes shut tight until you hit someone, at which point you have to say, "Sorry, I'm the Blind Guy." It's more fun than it might sound. So I start, and I don't take more than a couple blind steps when I bump into someone. Someone who knows me, it seems, because they say my name.
"Wesley?"
When I unblind myself I see Shannon Traube, crushed by Theo just hours ago.
"What are you doing?" she says. "You looked crazy."
"I had something in my eye," I say. "It was excruciating. In fact, I may need medical attention. So I'd better get home. See ya."
As I turn back for the subway I hear her again. "Wesley? You live that way," she says, pointing east. "One thirty East End."
I laugh, not well; it's as big a dud as the laughing I did with Theo just a few minutes ago. "It so happens," I say, "that I have two residences."
"You do?"
"I've been at my dad's for the last like approximate two months."
"Your dad the gay guy."
I look at her while Theo's questions clop-clop in my head, whinnying a little like horses in front of the Plaza; all the answers he's asked me for. When did you know? Do you think it's a choice? "Yes. That dad. And he's a big deal, too, in gay circles. If you care."
"Whatever," she says. "I'm tolerant. Even about Theo. People are People, is my motto."
"That sort of sucks as a motto."
She sighs. "I know. I'm working on it. My college coach says I should have one, just in case. In another language, preferably. You want to know a secret?"
"It depends."
"Donatella Gould blew Morgan Blatt. Or blows him, actually. It's ongoing."
" Really?" I hear my own voice, piping embarrassingly. Then I lie—"I knew that, of course"—in the deepest voice I have; Chef's voice on South Park; that deep.
"Do you blow Theo?"
Somehow I don't mind her asking; maybe because she seems genuinely interested, like she's trying to figure out a thing bigger than blow jobs. "Actually," I say, "I don't."
She sighs again. "I believe you. Don't ask me why."
There's a ding; it's a text for Shannon.
"Fuck,"