He's put his stage in the European History section, and every now and then he'll throw names like Hadrian and Copernicus into his mojo rap. Zeke's already jamming by the time we get to the highway bookstore. Once Tony's sticking his tongue out with the rest of us, we know he's going to be okay. We each take sips, to see whose tongue can get the bluest. We try to cheer him up by treating him to a blue Slurp-Slurp at the local 24-7. "I can't say," he tells us, and we know what he means. He switches to a Mope Folk station, and we ask him what's going on. Tony has a desperate look tonight, so we let him control the dial.
We roll down the windows and crank the radio-we like the idea of our music spilling out over the whole neighborhood, becoming part of the air.
Joni has a driver's license from the state where her grandmother lives, so she drives us around in the family sedan. Tonight, our Gaystafarian bud Zeke is gigging at the local chain bookstore. And whether your heart is strictly ballroom, or bluegrass punk, the dance floors are open to whatever you have to offer. Boys who love boys flirt with girls who love girls. Most of the straight guys try to sneak into the Queer Beer bar. Back when I was in second grade, the older gay kids who didn't flee to the city for entertainment would have to make their own fun. They got all mixed up a while back, which I think is for the best. There isn't really a gay scene or a straight scene in our town. With this in mind, we keep our eye on the ball. Tony has to be home by midnight, so we are on a Cinderella mission. Our happiness is the closest we'll ever come to a generous God, so we figure Tony's parents would understand, if only they weren't set on misunderstanding so many things.
We go spend the money on romantic comedies, dimestore toys, and diner jukeboxes. They slip him a twenty and tell him to enjoy our study group. So every week Tony feeds us bible stories, then on Saturday we show up at his doorstep well versed in parables and earnestness, dazzling his parents with our blinding purity. It doesn't even matter which religion-they're all the same at a certain point, and few of them want a gay boy cruising around with his friends on a Saturday night. Tony is from the next town over and he needs to get out. And I am proud to be the intersection of my brother Adam, my niece Paige, and all the Levithans, Golbers, Streiters, and Aliens I know and love. Cary Retlin, David Leventhal, and Jennifer Bodner mean the world to me. My deepest thanks go to my family and to my friends who are family. All the umbrellas in London couldn't stop me from showering my editor, Nancy Hinkel, with praise. I am also very happy that Chris Krovatin came into my life while I was finishing it. I owe Shana Corey, Brian Selznick, and David Serlin for the pivotal moment that led to this story becoming this book. The source of this book's dedication is the song "Tony" by Patty Griffin whenever I needed motivation, all I had to do was press play and there it was. I am also indebted to all the writers, editors, and production editors with whom I have worked, from the BSC to PUSH. I want to thank the following people who inspired and encouraged me (either knowingly or not) as I wrote this story: Mike Rothman, Nancy Mercado, Eliza Sporn, Shira Epstein, Christopher Olenzak, Bethany Buck, Janet Vultee, Ann Martin, John Heginbotham, Edric Mesmer, and Rodney Bender. You should all know who you are, and how much you mean to me. First and foremost, it still belongs to them. Acknowledgments This book started out as a story I wrote for my friends for Valentine's Day.