Page 1 of Summer of the Boy

May

Chapter One

“I’m so stupid.” His voice rises loud above the clatter of voices. Voices belonging to the throngs of men and women packed in two rows deep, all of them waiting for a turn at each game running along the boardwalk. Duck Hunt. Fish Bowl Toss. Ring Toss. Lots of “toss” games at a carnival. Over and over again I hear, “I’m so stupid.”

What the hell?

The crowd of gawkers swells with each of the poor man’s cries. As they move in, his cries grow louder, causing the crowd to gawk harder.

Someone has to put him out of his misery.

Someone, it seems in this case, has to be me as no one else steps up to do the job. When I muscle my way through the tight gathering of bodies, well, I’m momentarily struck dumb. Even amid a major freak-out, men with his level of hotness only exist in magazines and wet dreams. And I would know, I’ve had plenty of both.

Having been back in town for a couple of days, I’ve seen him around, working here, but never really gave him a second look. Why didn’t I second look sooner? Spending my days at the boardwalk was already better than being stuck at home. Now though,whoa.

He’s usually a quiet guy. Mostly keeps to himself, unless someone speaks directly to him which must have happened since he’s in the center of an ever growing circle of losers, screaming and crying, his face puffy, and red.

“I’m so stupid.” He screams again. Hitting himself repeatedly on the head. Hard.

“What happened?” I ask the random standing next to me.

“Don’t know. He was already mid freak-out when I got here. So weird,” he answers with a strain to his voice from craning his neck to get a look at the spectacle.

“Shut the fuck up. I think he’s autistic, you douche.” He reminds me of my cousin who happens to be autistic. “Somebody needs to stop this.”

“Whatever. That chick.” Douche loser points to a woman standing off to freak-out boy’s side. “Says she’s a social worker. Tried to talk to him all nice and soft. He just kept screaming and hitting himself.”

“Well, she’s not doing the right thing.”

“Then you do it if you’re so mighty.”

Me? Everyone would be watching. When I decided to wade in, I wanted to be the good guy. Now I’m wishing I’d have kept my yap shut. All these faces, so many of them familiar. It’ll be social suicide to get involved. I know it. None of these people know about me, and I graduated with half of them. For my family, who still live locally, I should keep my mouth shut.

But hell, not one of these former classmates, some who recognize me, turning their noses up at my appearance, some who don’t recognize me and turn their noses up at my appearance, show the least bit of compassion for the guy. And god, he needs someone.

Screw it.

Who needs a social life anyway, right? A couple of months and I’ll be back to the safety of school, town forgotten. I’m not the guy they knew, namely the prom king who escorted his girlfriend, and as cliché as it sounds, pom captain, up the stage to receive her crown for prom queen as well.

We were the “it” couple.

I never wanted it. I had to pretend I wanted it. When we broke up after graduation, I thought the road had been cleared of all obstacles. Go to college two states over, and finally get to be me. My folks took the wholeguess what, I’m gaything pretty well, but no sense rocking that boat without getting to test the waters first. The plan had been to blend this summer. Keep a low profile.

“Stupid.” The guy still yells, while smacking his headhard.

After rubbing my clammy hands down the front of my jeans and one huffed out breath big enough to flutter the purple streaked bangs from my eyes later, I push through the crowd the rest of the way.

“Hey,” I say with a firm tone, although not yelling.

No response.

“Hey, stop this now,” I repeat, with double the firmness this time. He pauses for a moment and I mentally cheer for getting through to him.

Not even close.

He pauses but keeps on hitting his head and crying. “Hey.” I go for a third time at maximum firmness.

He stops.

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