Will Grayson, Will Grayson Page 10

  “Are you suggesting that God brought two of Chicago-land’s underage Will Graysons into Frenchy’s at the same time?”

  “No, asshole,” he says, “but I mean, it must mean something .”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s hard to believe in coincidence, but it’s even harder to believe in anything else.” And just then, the phone jumps to life in my hand, and as I am pulling it out of my pocket, Will Grayson’s phone starts ringing.

  And even for me, that’s a lot of coincidences. He mutters, “God, it’s Maura,” as if I’m going to know who Maura is, and he just stares at the phone, seeming unsure of whether to answer. My call is from Tiny. Before I flip open the phone, I say to Will, “It’s my friend Tiny,” and I’m looking at Will—at cute, confuzzled Will.

  I flip open the phone.

  “Grayson!” Tiny shouts over the din of the music. “I’m in love with this band! We’re gonna stay for like two more songs and then I’m gonna come get you. Where are you, baby! Where’s my pretty little baby Grayson!”

  “I’m across the street,” I shout back. “And you better get down on your knees and thank the sweet Lord, because man, Tiny, have I got a guy for you.”

  chapter eight

  i am so freaked out, you could pull a clown out of my ass and i wouldn’t be at all surprised.

  it would make maybe a little sense if this OTHER WILL GRAYSON standing right next to me wasn’t a will grayson at all but was instead the gold medal champion of the mindfuck olympics. it’s not like when i first saw him i thought to myself, hey, that kid must be named will grayson, too. no, the only thing i thought was, hey, that’s not isaac. i mean, right age, but entirely wrong face pic. so i ignored him. i turned back to the dvd case i was pretending to study, which was for this porno called the sound and the furry. it was all about ‘moo sex,’ with these people pictured on the cover wearing cow suits (one udder). i was glad that no real cows were harmed (or pleasured) in the making of the film. but still. not my thing. next to it was a dvd called as i get laid dying, which had a hospital scene on the front. it was like grey’s anatomy, only with less grey and more anatomy. i totally thought for a moment, i can’t wait to tell isaac about this, forgetting, of course, that he was supposed to be with me.

  it’s not like i wouldn’t have noticed him come in; the place was empty except for me, o.w.g., and the clerk, who looked like the pillsbury doughboy if the dough had been left out for a week. i guess everyone else was using the internet to get their porn. and frenchy’s wasn’t exactly inviting - it was lit like a 7-eleven, which made all the plastic seem much more plastic, and the metal seem much more metal, and the naked people on the covers of the dvd cases look even less hot and more like cheap porn. passing up go down on moses and afternoon delight in august, i found myself in this bizarre penis produce section. because my mind is, at heart, full of fucked up shit, i immediately started to picture this sequel to toy story called sex toy story, where all these dildos and vibrators and rabbit ears suddenly came to life and have to do things like cross the street in order to get back home.

  again, as i was having all these thoughts, i was also thinking about sharing them with isaac. that was my default.

  i was only distracted when i heard my name being said by the guy behind the counter. which is how i found o.w.g.

  so, yeah, i go into a porn shop looking for isaac and i get another will grayson instead.

  god, you’re one nasty fucker.

  of course, right now isaac is ranking up there in nasty fuckerdom, too. i’m hoping that he’s actually a nervous fucker instead - like, maybe he showed up and discovered that the place his friend recommended was a porn shop and was so mortified that he ran away crying. i mean, it’s possible. or maybe he’s just late. i have to give him at least an hour. his train could’ve gotten stuck in a tunnel or something. it’s not unheard of. he’s coming from ohio, after all. people in ohio are late all the time.

  my phone rings at practically the same time as o.w.g.’s. even though it’s pathetically unlikely that it’s going to be isaac, my hopes still do the up thing.

  then i see it’s maura.

  me: god, it’s maura.

  at first i’m not going to answer, but then o.w.g. answers his.

  o.w.g.: it’s my friend tiny.

  if o.w.g. is going to answer his, i figure i’d better answer mine, too. i also remember maura’s doing me a favor today. if later on i learn that the mathletic competition was attacked by an uzi-wielding squad of frustrated humanties nerds, i’ll feel guilty that i didn’t answer the phone and let maura say good-bye.

  me: quick - what’s the square root of my underwear?

  maura: hey will.

  me: that answer earns you zero points.

  maura: how’s chicago?

  me: there’s no wind at all!

  maura: what are you doing?

  me: oh, hanging out with will grayson.

  maura: that’s what i thought.

  me: what do you mean?

  maura: where’s your mom?

  uh-oh. smells like a trap. has maura called my house? has she talked to my mom? pedal motion, backward!

  me: am i my mother’s keeper? (ha ha ha)

  maura: stop lying, will.

  me: okay, okay. i kinda needed to sneak in on my own. to go to a concert later.

  maura: what concert?

  fuck! i can’t remember which concert o.w.g. said he was going to. and he’s still on the phone, so i can’t ask.

  me: some band you’ve never heard of.

  maura: try me.

  me: um, that’s their name. ‘some band you’ve never heard of.’

  maura: oh, i’ve heard of them.

  me: yeah.

  maura: i was just reading a review of their album in spin.

  me: cool.

  maura: yeah, the album’s called ‘isaac’s not coming, you fucking liar.’

  this is not good.

  me: that’s a pretty stupid name for an album.

  what? what what what?

  maura: give up, will.

  me: my password.

  maura: what?

  me: you totally hacked my password. you’ve been reading my emails, haven’t you?

  maura: what are you talking about?

  me: isaac. how do you know about me meeting up with isaac?

  she must have looked over my shoulder when i checked my email at school. she must have seen the keys i typed. she stole my dumbass password.

  maura: i am isaac, will.

  me: don’t be stupid. he’s a guy.

  maura: no he’s not. he’s a profile. i made him up.

  me: yeah, right.

  maura: i did.

  no. no no no no no no no no no no no no no.

  me: what?

  no please no what no no please no fuck no NO.

  maura: isaac doesn’t exist. he’s never existed.

  me: you can’t -

  maura: you’re so caught.

  I’M so caught?!?

  what the FUCK.

  me: tell me you’re joking.

  maura: . . .

  me: this can’t be happening.

  other will grayson’s finished his conversation and is looking at me now.

  o.w.g.: are you okay?

  it’s hitting. that moment of ‘did an anvil really just fall on my head?’ has passed and i am feeling that anvil. oh lord am i feeling that anvil.

  me: you. despicable. cunt.

  yes, the synapses are conveying the information now. newsflash: isaac never existed. it was only your friend posing. it was all a lie.

  all a lie.

  me: you. horrendous. bitch.

  maura: why is it that girls are never called assholes?

  me: i am not going to insult assholes that way. they at least serve a purpose.

  maura: look, i knew you’d be mad . . .

  me: you KNEW i would be MAD!?!

  maura: i was going to tell you.

  me: gee, thanks. m
aura: but you never told me.

  o.w.g.’s looking very concerned now. so i put my hand over the phone for a second and speak to him.

  me: i’m actually not okay. in fact, i am probably having the worst minute of my life. don’t go anywhere.

  o.w.g. nods.

  maura: will? look, i’m sorry.

  me: . . .

  maura: you didn’t actually think he was meeting you at a porn store, did you?

  me: . . .

  maura: it was a joke.

  me: . . .

  maura: will?

  me: it is only my respect for your parents that will prevent me from murdering you outright. but please understand this: i am never, ever speaking to you or passing notes to you or texting you or doing fucking sign language with you ever again. i would rather eat dog shit full of razor blades than have anything to do with you.

  i hang up before she can say anything else. i switch off the phone. i sit down on the curb. i close my eyes. and i scream. if my whole world is going to crash down around me, then i am going to make the sound of the crashing. i want to scream until all my bones break.

  once. twice. again.

  then i stop. i feel the tears, and hope that if i keep my eyes closed i can keep them inside. i am so beyond pathetic because i want to open my eyes and see isaac there, have him tell me that maura’s out of her mind. or have the other will grayson tell me that this, too, can be dismissed as coincidence. he’s really the will grayson that maura’s been emailing with. she’s gotten her will graysons mixed up.

  but reality. well, reality is the anvil.

  i take a deep breath and it sounds clogged.

  the whole time.

  the whole time it was maura.

  not isaac.

  no isaac.

  never.

  there’s hurt. there’s pain. and there’s hurt-and-pain-at-once.

  i am experiencing hurt-and-pain-at-once.

  o.w.g.: um . . . will?

  he looks like he can see the hurt-and-pain-at-once very clearly on my face.

  me: you know that guy i was supposed to meet?

  o.w.g.: isaac.

  me: yeah, isaac. well, it ends up he wasn’t a fifty-year-old after all. he was my friend maura, playing a joke.

  o.w.g.: that’s one helluva mean joke.

  me: yeah. i’m feeling that.

  i have no idea whether i’m talking to him because he’s also named will grayson or because he told me a little about what’s going on with him or because he’s the only person in the world who’s willing to listen to me right now. all of my instincts are telling me to curl into a tiny ball and roll into the nearest sewer - but i don’t want to do that to o.w.g. i feel he deserves more than being an eyewitness to my self-destruction.

  me: anything like this ever happen to you before?

  o.w.g. shakes his head.

  o.w.g.: i’m afraid we’re in new territory here. my best friend tiny was once going to enter me into seventeen magazine’s boy of the month contest without telling me, but i don’t think that’s really the same thing.

  me: how did you find out?

  o.w.g.: he decided he needed someone to proofread his entry, so he asked me to do it.

  me: did you win?

  o.w.g.: i told him i’d mail it for him and then filed it away. he was really upset that i didn’t win . . . but i think it would’ve been worse if i had.

  me: you might have gotten to meet miley cyrus. jane would’ve died of jealousy.

  o.w.g.: i think jane would’ve died of laughter first.

  i can’t help it - i imagine isaac laughing, too.

  and then i have to kill that image. because isaac doesn’t exist. i feel like i’m going to lose it again.

  me: why?

  o.w.g.: why would jane die laughing?

  me: no, why would maura do this?

  o.w.g: i can’t honestly say.

  maura. isaac.

  isaac. maura.

  anvil.

  anvil.

  anvil.

  me: you know what sucks about love?

  o.w.g.: what?

  me: that it’s so tied to truth.

  the tears are starting to come back. because that pain - i know i’m giving it all up. isaac. hope. the future. those feelings. that word. i’m giving it all up, and that hurts.

  o.w.g.: will?

  me: i think i need to close my eyes for a minute and feel what i need to feel.

  i shut my eyes, shut my body, try to shut out everything else. i feel o.w.g. stand up. i wish he were isaac, even though i know he’s not. i wish maura weren’t isaac, even though i know she is. i wish i were someone else, even though i know i’ll never, ever be able to get away from what i’ve done and what’s been done to me.

  lord, send me amnesia. make me forget every moment i ever didn’t really have with isaac. make me forget that maura exists. this must be what my mother felt when my dad said it was over. i get it now. i get it. the things you hope for the most are the things that destroy you in the end.

  i hear o.w.g. talking to someone. a murmured recap of everything that’s just happened.

  i hear footsteps coming closer. i try to calm myself a little, then open my eyes . . . and see this ginormous guy standing in front of me. when he notices me noticing him, he gives me this broad smile. i swear, he has dimples the size of a baby’s head.

  ginormous guy: hello there. i’m tiny.

  he offers his hand. i’m not entirely in a shaking mood, but it’s awkward if i just leave him there, so i hold out my hand, too. instead of shaking it, though, he yanks me up to my feet.

  tiny: did someone die?

  me: yeah, i did.

  he smiles again at that.

  tiny: well, then . . . welcome to the afterlife.

  chapter nine

  You can say a lot of bad things about Tiny Cooper. I know, because I have said them. But for a guy who knows absolutely nothing about how to conduct his own relationships, Tiny Cooper is kind of brilliant when it comes to dealing with other people’s heartbreak. Tiny is like some gigantic sponge soaking up the pain of lost love everywhere he goes. And so it is with Will Grayson. The other Will Grayson, I mean.

  Jane’s a storefront down standing in a doorway, talking on the phone. I look over at her, but she’s not looking at me, and I’m wondering if they played the song. Something Will—the other Will—said right before Tiny and Jane walked up keeps looping around my head: love is tied to truth. I think of them as unhappily conjoined twins.

  “Obviously,” Tiny is saying, “she’s just a hot smoldering pile of suck, but even so, I give her full credit for the name. Isaac. Isaac. I mean, I could almost fall in love with a girl, if she were named Isaac.”

  The other Will Grayson doesn’t laugh, but Tiny is undeterred. “You must have been so totally freaked out when you realized it was a porn store, right? Like, who wants to meet there.”

  “And then also when his namesake was buying a magazine,” I say, holding up the black bag, thinking that Tiny will snatch it and check out my purchase. But he doesn’t. He just says, “This is even worse than what happened to me and Tommy.”

  “What happened with you and Tommy?” Will asks.

  “He said he was a natural blonde, but his dye job was so bad it looked like a weave from Mattel—like Barbie. Also, Tommy wasn’t short for Tomas, like he told me. It was short for regular old Thomas.”

  Will says, “Yes, this is worse. Much worse.”

  I clearly don’t have much to contribute to the conversation, and anyway, Tiny is acting like I don’t exist, so I smile and say, “I’m gonna leave you two boys alone now.” And then I look at the other Will Grayson, and he’s sort of swaying like he might fall over if the wind kicks up. I want to say something, because I feel really bad for him, but I never know what to say. So I just say what I’m thinking. “I know it sucks, but in a way, it’s good.” He looks at me like I’ve just said something absolutely idiotic, which of course I have. “Love
and truth being tied together, I mean. They make each other possible, you know?”

  The kid gives me about an eighth of a smile and then turns back to Tiny, who—to be fair—is clearly the better therapist. The black bag with Mano a Mano doesn’t seem funny anymore, so I just drop it on the ground next to Tiny and Will. They don’t even notice.

  Jane’s standing on the curb on her tiptoes now, almost leaning out into a street choked thick with cabs. A group of college guys walk past and look at her, one raising his eyebrows to another. I’m still thinking about the tying of love and truth—and it makes me want to tell her the truth—the whole, contradictory truth—because otherwise, on some level, am I not that girl? Am I not that girl pretending to be Isaac?

  I walk over to her and try to touch the back of her elbow, but my touch is too soft and I only get her coat. She turns to me and I see that she’s still on her cell. I make a gesture that is intended to convey, “Hey, no hurry, talk as long as you’d like,” and probably actually conveys, “Hey, look at me! I have spastic hands.” Jane holds up a finger. I nod. She speaks softly, cutely into the phone, saying, “Yeah, I know. Me too.”

  I step backward across the sidewalk and lean against the brick wall between Frenchy’s and a closed sushi restaurant. To my right, Will and Tiny talk. To my left, Jane talks. I pull out my cell as though I’m going to send a text, but I just scroll through my contact list. Clint. Dad. Jane. Mom. People I used to be friends with. People I sorta know. Tiny. Nothing after the T’s. Not much for a phone I’ve had three years.

  “Hey,” Jane says. I look up, flip the phone shut, and smile at her. “Sorry about the concert,” she says.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” I answer, because it is.

  “Who’s the guy?” she asks, gesturing toward him.