POWER BACK

Chapter 1: Mr. Blue Sky

Mr. Blue Sky

Jack, July

Before I tell you my side of the story, you should know I can't always be trusted. Not cuz I tell stretchers. I don't. It's just that sometimes I don't really understand myself or how I get into these binds. Ma calls me Mr. Blue Sky, cuz not much gets me down. I'm not one for deep introspection or self-analysis.

I don't dwell. Life's too short to dwell.

But sometimes, when a man finds himself in a bind, it's a good idea to look back and figure out when and where he stepped into it.

And I think I've pinpointed the exact moment.

It was the summer before my senior year. I'm standing in line waiting for my turn to run the forty during football tryouts.

And here's the tricky part—I can't take my eyes off the new kid's ass.

What the actual fuck?

I'm not gay. There's nothing wrong with being gay, but I like girls. I mean I really like girls. The way they smell like lavender or strawberries or vanilla shakes. The curve of their hips. How their skin is soft and warm like a newborn calf.

I don't date much. Sure, I've taken girls out—to parties, dances, and movies and stuff. I think they like me, judging by the way they're always laughing at my jokes, even when the joke isn't that funny. There've been a couple that I liked, too. At first. But then, I don't know. Something always happens. Like they get too clingy and start making plans.

Long-term plans.

And they're always wanting to hold my hand in the hallways and cuddle during lunch. It's nice having a girl like me. But then they start liking me too much. It's suffocating. Come to think of it, the girls I like the most are the ones that don't really seem to care if I'm around or not. I like a girl who has her own life, not the ones who freak out if I forget to text them back.

It's a secret most guys will never admit. We actually prefer girls who are a challenge. We're attracted to a bit of edginess.

The problem is, those kind of girls are hard to find, especially in a rural town where all any girl wants to do is settle down and get married, asap.

Despite these difficulties, I'm still on the hunt, and there are plenty of hot girls around to keep me looking.

That's why it doesn't make a whole lot of sense that I'd be drawn to this boy like lightning to a rod.

"Chaplin!" Coach barks.

I stand there at the starting line, my whole body coiled with tension. I open and close my fists trying to focus on the task at hand. But all I keep thinking is You're gay. You are so gay.

Coach blows the whistle, and I do my best to sprint full speed, but I still can't make it under five seconds.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself. When I glance up, the new kid's watching me. He's smirking, laughing at how slow I am. Then he stops smiling and mutters something to himself.

When it's his turn to run, I pay more attention than I really want to. He gets down into a three-point stance, which is hella weird. Who does that? And he's talking to himself again. I study the lines of his arms, which are oddly graceful for a football player. His limbs are long and lean, stretched taut, waiting for the whistle. When it comes, he lunges forward, head down, pushing his stride longer and faster.