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272 pages, Hardcover
First published August 2, 2016
Lisa says, “You need to be my running mate.” Mike laughs.
“You’re on crack, no way am I running for vice president,” he says.
“You have to!” she says. “We can sell you as gay, it’ll be edgy.”
“You and the little sausage man, remember?” She crosses her arms over her chest, smug. “Last month at Cam’s end of the summer blowout. Full-on making out, with tongues, and hands in private places.” Her eyes go hazy and she licks her lips. Gross.
“I’m in the running for Homecoming King,” Mike says.
“Yeah, that’s a little weird.”
“You think?” Mike finally finds his bike, but it’s under a couple precariously perched boxes. He can’t remember the last time he’s used it.
Lisa says, “You could run for Queen, but I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
“Why are we even friends?”
Mike knocks over what looks like pretty much every kitchen gadget in creation trying to unearth the bike. He kicks boxes aside in a huff; he’s going to be late for work.
“Because I let you see my boobs.”
“That’s a lie,” Mike says, walking his bike out into the dying afternoon light. Touch them, yes, but Mike has never ever been allowed to see Lisa’s boobs, even when they were dating.
“Oh, that’s right, because it would’ve been a waste.”
“Your mother tells me you’re queer now.”
“She did not,” Mike says, horrified. He slumps back against the wall, palms catching at the slightly textured wallpaper. His knees feel weak.
“She used the term bisexual,” she narrows her eyes, “but no grandson of mine is going to be indecisive.”
“I don’t think that means I’m in—”
“Michael Allan Tate,” Nana says. Mike swallows hard. Maybe he shouldn’t be concentrating on terminology now, since his seventy-five-year-old grandmother is confronting him about his sexual preferences. He brings a shaky hand up to rub his dry lower lip. “Yes, ma’am?”
She clasps her hands in front of her chest and says, “Are you, or are you not gay?”
“Of course I’m not harassing Michael, Allison. He’s just being ridiculously closemouthed about his boyfriend.”
“We had sex in his car and then went for ice cream.” It’s still awesome in retrospect, but he can’t shake the feeling that if it hadn’t happened, maybe Omar would still be talking to him. Christ, he hates himself.
“You had—oh Jesus,” Lisa says. He can hear a hint of horrified amusement in her tone.
Dotty narrows her eyes. “Wait.”
Mo leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the table, and hisses, “You and Rook.”
“No way, seriously?” Lenny squeals. She sounds delighted. She sounds like all her dreams have come true, because she’s clearly demented.
Mike buries his head in his arms. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Too bad, you totally have to talk about it,” Lenny says.
“Or we could just ask Rook.”
Mike jerks upright. “No.”
Dotty grins evilly. He seriously hates cheerleaders.

