Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend Read Free Page B

push it down to my piggy toes. It does not stay there. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Well, he does sing show tunes, and he dresses really nicely.”
    “All men who sing and dress well are not gay!” I yell at her. “That is a stereotype.”
    She sits back up. “I know. I know. Oh, you poor baby.”
    She scooches next to me and hugs me sideways.
    “I thought he loved me,” I sniffle.
    She nods.
    “I can’t believe he doesn’t love me.”
    “He still loves you, honey, just not that way,” she says and gives me a little squeeze.
    I groan. “Yeah, right.”
    She thinks for a second and says, “Who’s going to help him with his economics homework?”
    I shrug.
    “And who’s going to help him study for English?” she asks.
    “I don’t know! Maybe me. Maybe we’ll still be friends.”
    We sit there for awhile and then I say, “It must be awful hard for him.”
    “What?”
    “Being gay.”
    Emily nods. My cat, Muffin, jumps on the bed and rubs her head against our backs. Emily picks her up and kisses her nose. “Oh, who’s the pretty kitty. Yes. You are. Yes, you are.” She settles Muffin in her lap. “At least he doesn’t have some weird cat fetish or something.”
    “True,” I say. “But what if he gets a boyfriend? What if he starts dating someone and then everyone realizes that my quote-unquote One True Love likes boys?”
    “That would suck,” Emily says. “Definitely. But this is Eastbrook, everyone’s going to figure it out eventually.”
    She picks up Muffin and kisses her kitty belly. Muffin puts her paws on the top of Em’s hair but doesn’t scratch it. Em moves the cat away and says, “Eddie Caron will be happy.”
    “Oh, great. My life’s goal is to make Eddie Caron happy,” I say.
    Em shrugs. “It’ll make Tom Tanner happy.”
    “Give me a break. Tom is a shallow, shallow boy who went out with Mimi Cote and obviously is not my type. He calls me Commie.”
    “He’s liked you forever,” she says, settling Muffin back on her lap. “Remember in fourth grade when he gave you that I LOVE YOU ring for Valentine’s Day and how jealous Dylan got?”
    “That was fourth grade. I’m not really looking for another boyfriend right now.” I flop down on the bed, squeeze my eyes tight so I don’t cry.
    My mother’s voice careens down from the living room. Now that she’s done with the groceries, she’s dusting and singing, which would be embarrassing if it was anyone other than Em here. Em is used to my mother. She’s even used to the way my mom sings the wrong lyrics to songs all the time.
    “Live like Yoda’s crying,” my mom sing-yells.
    Em starts laughing. “Oh my God, is she screwing up the words to ‘ Live Like You Were Dying’ ?”
    “Yep,” I say.
    “That’s so funny,” Em snorts. “Does she really think those are the words?”
    “She’s always stunned when I tell her she’s singing things wrong,” I say and fortunately for all of us my mom turns on the vacuum and we can’t hear her singing anymore. I try to relax onto my bed. “I feel selfish for thinking about myself. I should be worrying about him, you know, all he has to deal with.”
    “No way. That’s his job. You worry about you. That’s okay. As long as you only do it for a week.”
    Muffin pounces on my stomach and knocks the air out of me. “A week?”
    “Yeah, any longer and you become annoying, self-obsessed, like a Mallory.”
    A Mallory is a girl who only thinks about, talks about, knows about herself and how herself reacts/responds/is involved with boys, makeup, clothes, parents, herself.
    “I will never be a Mallory!” I yell and sit up straight again, holding Muffin against my belly so she won’t run off. She squirms.
    “That’s right. You are a good Maine girl who gets on with her life,” Emily says, raising her hand and putting her fingers in the form of the Boy Scout pledge. “Swear it with me. On my honor, I swear, under God, blah, blah, blah to never be a