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fly in planes.”
    “Gee, real planes?” Joey gasped in mock wonder. Actually, he’d never been in a plane. The idea sounded terrific. He imagined hotel rooms in there somewhere, too. Maybe they’d be like the time his family went to Point Pleasant Beach in South Jersey for a whole weekend. He’d slept between Mike and his father for two nights since his mom got sunburned and had to lay all over the other bed with cream on and the sheets off.
    About ten-thirty, Mrs. Khor’s car pulled up. She greeted them, said there was “no rush” to take Joey home, even though she kept her coat on.
    Joey tied the laces of his Avias when Dink said, “Hey, I got it. Tell your dad Coach wants us to study tapes.”
    “Yeah, so?”
    “So, Christmas is comin’.”
    “Yeah, so what?”
    “And my birthday.”
    “Double so what.”
    “You freak.”
     
    During the short ride home –Mrs. Khors insisted– the boys sat in the back. Even though his mom was being really polite, talking about the school, the team, Joey felt nervous, because Dink kept pressing his thigh against him, silently saying, isn’t she a bore. Maybe that was all Dink meant by it.
    “See ya Monday.”
    “Adios, amoeba.”
    Joey laughed as Dink closed the car door. He watched Mrs. Khors pull the car out of the driveway, disappear down the quiet tree-crowded street. Their street. He was still getting used to that concept.
    He looked up at his new house, with the wide porch, a night breeze rustling through tree branches under a sky he could see, not smell.
    The house sat in silence, dark except for one light in the living room. He walked in, having drunk his first beer, having felt the nudging boner of his best bud. Altogether, it had been a good night.
    After almost interrupting what appeared to be a successful attempt to create another Nicci, Joey bid his parents goodnight and retreated to the lower level of his big new house.
    His mom had ordered cable, herself. Apparently the argument over that had inspired his father’s apologies and passion, with the usual results.
    He had homework, to be sure, but not in the books. They may have been strict at St. Augustine’s, but because of it, he was miles ahead of the other kids, especially with reading. Besides, it was Friday night. He had culture studies. Nine years of Catholic school and no cable had warped him.
    Joey foraged in the fridge in preparation for the surf session, about to gulp the last of the milk from its carton, when his father came downstairs in his bathrobe, flicked on the kitchen light.
    “Use a glass.”
    “Sorry.” He went to the cabinet.
    “It’s late.”
    “Not too late, right?” he asked, then poured.
    “No, I guess not. You have a good time?”
    “Yeah, we watched wrestling tapes. These college guys.”
    “That’s a different style, isn’t it?”
    Joey gulped. His father taking an interest in sports? “Yeah, but still, it was nice to watch ‘em. Learn stuff.”
    He almost asked his dad about the VCR, but then his father just said “G’nite.”
    He drank in silence, burped, washed the glass, ate a bunch more stuff while channel-surfing for two hours, then went upstairs, brushed his teeth, stripped down to just his sweats, tissues nearby, recreated every touch of Dink that night, quietly humping his mattress, then went further, brought Assistant Coach –Max!– into it, flipped over on his back, legs over his shoulders, let fly.
     
    He woke up in a fog. The chain of his crucifix had caught on his pillowcase, lightly choking his neck. He felt drained, weird. He’d actually imagined sex with Dink and his coach. He knew what he wanted. He ached from the pain of knowing it might never happen.
    He extracted his Saint Sebastian prayer card from the little bedside table that made him miss his cramped bedroom back in Newark just a bit.   It wasn’t forgiveness for his sins he asked for, but relief from a strain in his back.   He was taught to pray to his patron saint for healing.