Chapter 2: Then Came CurtisIt’s easy to say that fate brought us together again that night. But it’s even easier to say that so did a station wagon with a bad temperament. Or maybe just chance, dumb luck.
Still, none of that mattered. I was sixteen; Brian was sixteen. We lived in California; he lived in Pennsylvania. And though that station wagon could still get us from Point A to Point B, Pittsburg was a good many letters down the alphabet. Pittsburg was just past the N and rounding the fat side of the O, and no way was our wagon up for the alphabetical challenge. Fate, you see, is no mechanic. At best, fate is simply a travel agent. It arranges things, but then it’s up to you to get there. And at sixteen, I wasn’t getting anywhere but to the Clearasil.
I didn’t even admit to being gay
