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They don't really talk at school.
It's been some years since Amedeo was the new kid in town. He's still invisible to most kids at Lancaster High School, but he no longer feels like a member of Aloners Anonymous. He does what he feels is required of him, and goes home satisfied. If Jake Kaplan ever found out his son went through school like a 35-year-old office worker, he'd have a fit, but Amedeo's happy to save that vital ninety percent of himself for after school.
Sometimes he catches William's eye as the other boy is passing, on his disinterested way to somewhere else. Once or twice every year someone tries to get William interested, mostly in themselves, but he grays them out politely. There's no fuss. They're happy to admire his aloofness from a distance...as long as they're sure no one else has succeeded where they failed.
Amedeo understands how they feel. He can't help hearing the exclamation points somewhere inside still, whenever he says or thinks William's name.
Ever since the Summer of the Moon Lady he's known what that meant. Well, not exactly; he'd felt the world open up as he listened to the story of Peter's uncle and namesake, and he'd looked across at William and saw the world open up for his friend as well. It was later, on the loading dock in Wisconsin that December, that Amedeo watched William listen to the angel on his shoulder and thought about how William had part of his ninety percent now, and felt hot and cold at the same time. When William gave his jacket back Amedeo had hung it carefully in the closet, and held one fuzz-trimmed cuff for a moment as if it were someone else's hand. Then he felt silly, and shut the door.
It was as if the world had seemed infinite for a few months, and then closed like a fist again. It's not as if anyone would make Amedeo wear the Pink Triangle or anything, but whenever he lets himself think about it, he feels helpless and hunted anyway. So he's tried not to think about it. For three years.
These days he's mostly got the anxiety under control. He's too busy with his part-time job at Wilcox Appraisals (which pays for his subscriptions to Creative Review) and running the website for the Sheboygan Art Center. Today it's a warm spring day, perfect for distracting after-school walks, and he's thinking about the new Russian Avant Garde exhibit opening in July (lovebug season), as he gets on the bus.
Thoughts of Rodchenko and Lissitzky evaporate when William takes a seat behind him.
Amedeo's throat goes dry, and he doesn't open his mouth. Neither of them say a word all the way home; the bus is full of kids from school--more than thirty eyes and ears all told, just waiting to catch gossip fodder--and it's still half full when they reach Amedeo's stop.
He thinks hard about the website as he shoulders his backpack and steps off the bus. Peter will have a lot to write about, he says to himself, his pulse pounding. Neo-Primitivism. The End of Painting. Had the bus door taken longer to close than usual? The rise of poster art. Constructivism. He can't hear footsteps behind him, but the soft earth around here absorbs sound. 5 x 5 = 25.
"Why the multiplication table?" asks a voice in that familiar Southern accent. "Could've sworn you were thinking of your Art Center."
Amedeo manages not to jump, and turns around. William ambles up to him, hands in his pockets, smiling his half-smile.
It was easier when he was younger. Puberty makes everything more urgent, somehow. Amedeo sighs.
"Sorry, was I mumbling to myself again?"
William shrugs. Amedeo ignores the sudden twinge.
"5 x 5 = 25," he says, collecting his thoughts. "It was an exhibit of Russian abstract art, that claimed to herald the death of traditional painting."
"The summer show," says William, grinning. "So I was right."
Amedeo smiles. "You were right."
The early May wind blows William's blond hair right into his eyes. His head full of red triangles, black lines, and squares of blue and yellow, Amedeo reaches up without thinking and brushes it back.
"Um," says William, and Amedeo freezes.
"Rosa Winkel," he says, through the lump in his throat. "I have to go."
Before he can even turn and run, William says, "Deo, wait," and grabs his hand. Amedeo just manages to think this cannot possibly be happening as William's other arm goes round his waist, and then he's getting his first kiss, good and proper.
His mother is going to kill him. Half the school is going to kill him. Even mild Mrs. Wilcox might put aside peacemaking and join the general slaughter when she finds out. But Amedeo puts his arms around William's neck and opens his mouth, and he gets a tingle right down to his knees when he touches the tip of William's tongue with his own.
When they break apart, flushed and oxygen deprived, William leans his forehead against Amedeo's. "You might could have told me before," he says. "I was all braced for you to fall in love with some girl with a long swanny neck."
Amedeo laughs.
They walk back to his house holding hands, and never mind that anyone might see them.
EPILOGUE: A Month Later
"You're getting married again? And you're only telling me now?" Amedeo considers throttling the phone, but that would be useless. It might make him feel better, though. "We haven't even met her yet!"
"Your mother knows her," says Jake Kaplan. He sounds defensive, but also as if he's trying not to laugh. "She might not approve, though."
"Which is why I would have greatly appreciated meeting this person myself!"
Will is lounging on the bed with a copy of Creative Review. He scribbles something on one of Amedeo's Post-Its and holds it up, grinning. You talk like your Ma when you're mad, it reads. Amedeo throws a pillow from the reading chair at him.
"You're coming up to the Art Center next month, aren't you?" his father says. "You can meet her then. Talk about computers; she's good with them, too."
"Huh," says Amedeo, temporarily distracted. "I thought you liked..." He trails off, suddenly uncomfortable. When he was older and no longer angry with his parents for getting divorced, he sometimes wondered what they'd seen in each other to begin with. The women Jake Kaplan dated after Loretta Bevilacqua had almost nothing in common (sculptor, councilwoman, architect)...except maybe for being whip-smart and totally determined to go their own way no matter what anyone else had to say about it.
Sensing weakness, his father says, "We're looking forward to seeing you. Bring William, if you like."
Amedeo blushes. "Do you want to talk to Mother?" he says, changing the subject.
There's a short pause, then his father says, with great dignity:
"I prefer not to."
Someone in the background laughs, low and delighted. It's a nicer laugh than his mother's, he has to admit.
Amedeo begins to feel better about the whole business. He locks eyes with Will, and they're both smiling by the time he puts down the phone.