Jamie

Holding a towel around his waist, Jordan limped back to his room. Band aids plastered his knees and forearms.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?" I asked him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, more fixated on applying for a passport than anything else. "I think I know where my birth certificate might be," he said, pulling on a pair of shorts. He nearly tumbled over as he did it, not too steady on that foot. He threw on a Joy Division t-shirt and limped out of his room.

After I got dressed, I found him in a room that I had yet to be in; the door was always closed. I soon realized it was father's office. Bookcases surrounded the walls, all overflowing with scientific books. A computer sat on the desk with two tall file cabinets beside it. There were several framed diplomas or achievements of sorts on the wall, including degrees from Harvard, MIT, and the University of Oxford, among others. About a third of one bookcase were books written by Dr. Arthur Cameron.

"This is where Art spends most of his time when he comes home," Jordan said, rummaging through the filing cabinet.

"You're on a first name basis with your dad?"

"Yes," he said. "Art." His father was always a touchy subject. Jordan occasionally mentioned him while Tim never once talked about him, not since we were kids.

"Your dad's famous, huh?" I said, flipping through one of the hard-covered books. "God, I hated science. No offense." The Cameron boys were all into science. While I skimmed a book, Jordan continued to search through the filing cabinets.

"Yeah," Jordan said distantly, distracted by the task at hand. As I held a book in my hands, I turned to the the flap on the back of the bookcover, finding a picture of Dr. Cameron, along with a short author's biography. Both Tim and Jordan shared a slight resemblance to their father, even with his beard. Their eyes in particular were the same shape. The author's biography read, "Proud father of two boys." Proud father? I scoffed in my head. Proud father who apparently was too busy to save time for his sons. I understood why they called him Art.

"Found it," Jordan said, pulling out a manila folder. Within a few minutes he found Tim's birth certificate, then his own as well as his social security card and other documents. His father seemed well organized. Jordan held a piece of paper in each hand.

"What's this?" I asked, taking one document from him, the one that clearly wasn't his birth certificate. Examining it, I discovered it was a guardianship decree naming Tim as Jordan's guardian. I never realized Tim used to be legally responsible for him. "It expired," I said. "It expired on your eighteenth birthday. You knew that, right? You're your own person." Sometimes I wasn't so sure he knew that.

"Yes, I know," he said, snatching the document out of my hand. He seemed miles away as if reliving a memory or two while staring at it. "Tim had to bring this thing everywhere with him. I was kind of a problem child. Teachers and doctors were always calling him for something. No one believed he was my guardian. He was only 23 when the judge granted him guardianship. He was the only one whoever wanted me." He folded the paper up and shoved it back in the filing cabinet.

"I don't believe that," I said. "I'm sure your mother wanted you. I'm sure she still loves you. I can see it in her eyes." He shook his head.

"Tim always protected me," he said. "When they wanted to send me away, he wouldn't let them."

"Who's they?" I asked.

"Art and teachers."

"And where did they want to send you?" I asked.

"To a special school for kids like me," he said.

"Kids like you? What does that mean?" I knew he was different and had his own set of challenges and quirks, but I wasn't sure to what extent he needed to go to a separate school for "kids like him." As a teacher, I had my share of so-called problem students.

"Can we get my passport now?" he asked, slamming the filing cabinet's drawer closed.

"We're not getting your passport," I said. "We're applying for one."

"Okay, can we go now?" he said.

"Yeah, sure," I said.

***

At the nearest post office, Jordan sat down, quietly filling out the application. He stopped as he was about to sign his name at the bottom of the page.

"I...I don't have a hundred and sixty dollars," he said. "Well, I do, but I have to ask Tim or Art for it."

"That's just wrong," he said. "It's your money, right? We'll deal with that at a different time. I'll lend you the money for now." He stared at me for a minute or so, occasionally blinking. He abruptly got up and went to the front desk and returned to me with a scrap piece of paper. On the piece of paper he wrote, I, Jordan Cameron, promise to repay Jamie Perron $160 for passport.

"I know you'll repay me," I said.

"I mean it," he said.

"I know."

The morning started off sunny, but by mid-day the sky turned dreary, followed by rain and not the good kind of rain Jordan liked.

"I don't want to hike in the rain," Jordan stated on our way to the highway.

"Okay," I said. While I had hiked in the rain plenty of times, I could understand why Jordan didn't want his first hiking experience to be in such dismal weather. "So what do you want to do instead? We can't fuck all day as much as I know you want to."

"That's not all I want to do," he said sulkily, slouched in the passenger's seat of my car.

"You're thinking about it right now," I said.

"Fuck off," he said and turned his attention to the window.

"You're so cute when you swear," I said teasingly, rubbing my hand on his knee. He had grown accustomed to my teasing. I'd say he even liked it. "And I can tell your hard. I can see it. It's so annoying, isn't it? Remember when you used to say that?"

"Shut up," he said. "Why doesn't it happen to you as much?"

"I'm not nineteen," I said. "But sometimes you only have to smile at me for it to happen. You have an amazing smile."

"Are you thinking about fucking me right now?" he said, still staring out the window.

"Yes," I said. "But I'm always thinking about you and not just in that way." Without looking at me, he reached over and groped me, actually making me swerve on the road. "Stop," I said as he giggled. "I don't want to crash." He kept his hand there, though, stroking it, massaging it, amused with himself. "Does Tim know you're a sex maniac? Hey, Jordan..." Despite the warning in my voice, he didn't stop, knowing exactly what he was doing. I could barely see straight. "Jordan...hey...I don't want to do it in my car." He finally turned his head toward me, his eyes playful, but his mouth and the rest of his face serious. He pulled his hand away, my cock throbbing uncomfortably inside my jeans. "I'm going to kill you later, I swear."

"No you won't," he said.

"Don't touch me," I teased. Jordan folded his arms across his chest and resumed staring out the window.

Leaning against the window, Jordan dozed off as we drove down the highway. I was probably the reason why he was so tired since I woke him up at three in the morning.

This one place came to my mind as I found myself driving toward the city. I thought of a place he'd enjoy and appreciate. It was always one of my favorite places.

Sitting in my Jeep in the parking garage, I combed my fingers through the sleeping Jordan's hair.

"Where are we?" he asked sleepily, slowly opening his eyes.

"Boston," I said.

"What are we doing here?" he asked.

"I want to show you a place," I said. "You're going to love it. And then I want to take you out to lunch. What do you think?"

"Okay," he yawned. "Whatever you want."

Whatever I want? Wow, I thought. He really loves me.

I stared at him for a few seconds, totally and stupidly in love with him.

"How's your ankle?" I asked.

"It's okay, I guess," he said. He waited for me to get out of the car to open his door to help him out. Since he still limped, we walked slowly in the rain with my arm around his waist. I was sure he enjoyed my arm around him.

By day, the Underground was a vintage record store, selling old school vinyl and vintage t-shirts and posters. The store transformed into an edgy night club at night. Actually, it was more like a dive, but they always had good music and cheap beer. I knew Jordan would love the store if it wasn't too loud or busy, but then again he liked loud music so I wasn't so sure how he'd react.

As we entered the store, the classic punk sound of Patti Smith blared, one of Jordan's idols and one of his mother's all-time favorites. It was perfect. Jordan's entire face lit up as we entered. Holding my hand, he excitedly led me around the store as if he knew where he was going even though he really didn't know since he had never been there before. He stopped at a bin of retro vinyl records, his foot tapping along to the song, his head bobbing in time to Patti Smith's anthem, People Have the Power. He flipped through a series of vinyl LPs, singing along to the song. I loved seeing him like this, so in his element.

"In the form of shinin' valleys," Jordan sang, his whole body into the song.
"Where the pure air recognized
Oh, and my senses newly opened
And I awakened to the cry..."

He continued to sing while I remained mesmerized by him.

"And the people have the power
To redeem the work of fools
From the meek the graces shower
It's decreed the people rule..."

Jordan stopped and hesitated, looking at me. Together, we both sang,

"People have the power
People have the power
People have the power
People have the power..."

He surprised me, throwing his arms around me, singing in my ear.

"Hey, Jamie?" A male voice said. With Jordan's arms still around me, I tilted my head slightly to see someone I hadn't seen in a long time. I nearly forgot he worked here. "How are you?"

"Oh, hey, Mark," I said. While hugging Jordan, I got a good look at Mark Schott, a man I briefly went out with a few years ago. We initially met while I was in college. He worked at the Underground then and continued to work here. Dressed in black from head to foot, a pair of diamond studs sparkled in each ear lobe. He now sported a dark beard, which he didn't have before. "How are you?" I asked.

"Good," he said. "You look good."

"Uh...thanks," I said uncomfortably. Jordan pulled away from me. His eyes met Mark's for half a second before he let go of my hand, walking away while rocking to Patti Smith.

"Is that your boyfriend?" he asked.

"Yes, I guess you could say that," I said. "He really loves this store."

"Why don't you bring him to the club some time? A Joy Division tribute band is playing here in a few weeks. I can see he's a fan."

"A Joy Division tribute band?" I laughed. "Sure. I'll ask him." Jordan in a night club? I wasn't so sure about that.

Jordan bounced up and down to the music, his eyes on a Misfits record, examining the cover. "Do you think this is an original album?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said. "It is a used record store."

"I don't have a record player," he said, tucking the album under his arm while continuing to sift through the same bin as if he planned on purchasing it. "But Art does. Did you see it? It's in his office."

"No, I guess I missed it," I said.

Jordan perused all the bins, then moved on to the racks of t-shirts. He loved concert and band t-shirts. I was surprised at how quickly he found a Patti Smith shirt. He happily discovered some cash in his wallet, enough to buy the shirt and record. He put the Patti Smith shirt on over his Joy Division shirt.

Both starving, we decided to grab a late lunch in the North End. "Was that an ex-boyfriend?" Jordan asked.

"Sort of," I said. "We went out a few times." He paused a minute, thinking about what to say next.

"Do you think you could take me to see the Joy Division tribute band?" he asked.

"Um...uh..." I stuttered, surprised with his request.

"You don't think I can handle it, right?" he said.

"Have you ever been to a club?"

"No," he said. "Do you think I'd freak out?"

"I don't know," I said, which was the honest truth. "If you want to go, I'll take you. It could be fun, right? What do you think Tim will say?"

"I don't care," he said, but I knew he really did care. He always worried about what Tim thought. I wasn't sure when or how he planned on coming out to him. I just knew he had to do it.

"You have to tell Tim," I said. "And it's not my place to tell him." He shut down, not responding to my comment. I wasn't sure he still wanted to go out to lunch with me, but he followed me into the restaurant, one of the many in the North End. He only spoke to the waiter, placing his order.

"Cioppino," he said to the waiter.

"Cioppino, huh?" I said, impressed with his selection. In addition to baby carrots and green beans, apparently he loved seafood, too. He didn't say anything in return. I knew not to push him too hard.

"Can we go to Mike's Pastry when we're done?" he asked halfway through lunch, finally speaking. Mike's Pastry happened to have the best cheesecake and cannolis in the city, maybe the state. On a Saturday night, there'd be lines out the door. "Tim likes cannolis. I like their chocolate chip cheesecake."

"Yeah, me too," I said.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained, "a good day to sleep," my mother would say. Jordan drifted off to sleep again on the way home. He was so cute and looked so comfortable, I hated to wake him up so I let him sleep in the car for another half an hour while parked in his driveway.