Will Grayson, Will Grayson(43)
Author: John Green

when she comes in to tell us dinner’s ready, tiny flies up from the couch.

tiny: ooh! i almost forgot.

he reaches for the shopping bag he brought and hands it to my mother.

tiny: a host gift!

mom looks really surprised. she takes a box out of the bag – it has a ribbon on it and everything. tiny sits back down so she won’t feel awkward sitting down to open it. very carefully, she undoes the ribbon. then she gently lifts open the top of the box. there’s a black foam cushion, then something surrounded by bubble wrap. With even more care, she undoes the wrapping, and takes out this plain glass bowl.

at first, i don’t get it. i mean, it’s a glass bowl. but my mother’s breath catches. she’s blinking back tears. because it’s not just a plain glass bowl. it’s perfect. i mean, it’s so smooth and perfect, we all sit there and stare at it for a moment, as my mother turns it slowly in her hand. even in our shabby living room, it catches the light.

nobody’s given her anything like this in ages. maybe ever. nobody ever gives her anything this beautiful.

tiny: i picked it out myself!

he has no idea. he has no clue what he’s just done.

mom: oh, tiny . . .

she’s lost the words. but i can tell. it’s the way she holds that bowl in her hand. it’s the way she’s looking at it.

I know what her mind is telling her to do – to say it’s too much, that she couldn’t possibly have such a thing. even if she wants it so badly. even if she loves it that much.

so it’s me who says

me: it’s beautiful. thank you so much, tiny.

I hug him, really send him my thank you that way, too. then mom is putting the bowl on the coffee table she cleaned to a shine. she’s standing up, and she’s opening her arms, and then he’s hugging her, too.

this is what i never allow myself to need.

and of course i’ve been needing it all along.

to tell the truth, tiny eats most of the chicken parm at dinner, and takes up most of the conversation as well. mostly, we talk about stupid things – why mini hot dogs taste better than regular-size hot dogs, why dogs are better than cats, why cats was so successful in the eighties when sondheim was writing rings around lloyd webber (neither mom or i really contribute much to that one). at one point, tiny sees the da vinci postcard mom has on the refrigerator, and he asks her if she’s ever been to italy. so she tells him about the trip she took with three college friends their junior year, and it’s an interesting story for once. he tells her he likes naples even more than rome, because the people in naples are so intensely from the place they’re from. he says he wrote a song about traveling for his musical, but ultimately it didn’t make the cut. he sings us a few lines:

Once you’ve been to Naples

It’s hard to shop at Staples,

And once you’ve been to Milan

It’s hard to eat at Au Bon Pain.

Once you’ve been to Venice

you turn from iceberg lettuce.

And you learn that baloney’s baloney

When Bologna feeds you rigatoni.

Being a transatlantic g*y

Is a dangerous game to play.

Because once you’ve been to Rome

It’s hard to call a suburb home

for the first time i can recall, mom looks completely tickled. she even hums along a little. when tiny is done, her applause is genuine. i figure it’s time to end the lovefest, before tiny and mom run off together and start a band.

I offer to do the dishes, and mom acts like she’s completely shocked by this.

me: i do the dishes all the time.

mom looks seriously at tiny.

mom: really, he does.

then she bursts out laughing.

I am not really appreciating this, even though i’m aware there are many worse ways this could’ve played out.

tiny: i want to see your room!

this is not a hey!-my-zipper’s-getting-itchy! request. when tiny says he wants to see your room, it means he wants to see . . . your room.

mom: go ahead. i’ve got the dishes.

tiny: thanks, mrs. grayson.

mom: anne. call me anne.

tiny: thanks, anne!

me: yeah, thanks, anne.

tiny hits me on the shoulder. i think he means to do it lightly, but i feel like someone’s just driven a volkswagen into my arm.

I lead him to my room, and even manage a ta-da! when i open the door. he walks to the center of the room and takes it all in, smiling the whole time.

tiny: goldfish!

he goes right over to the bowl. i explain to him that if goldfish ever take over the world and decide to have a war crimes trial, i am going to be noosebait, because the mortality rate of my little goldfish bowl is much much higher than if they’d lived in the moat at some chinese restaurant.

tiny: what are their names?

oh, lord.

me: samson and delilah.

tiny: really?

me: she’s a total slut.

he leans over for a closer look at the fish food.

tiny: you feed them prescription drugs?

me: oh, no. those are mine.

It’s the only way i’ll remember to feed the fish and take my meds, if i keep them together. still, i’m thinking maybe i should’ve cleaned a little more. because of course tiny’s now blushing and not going to ask anything else, and while i don’t want to go into it, i also don’t want him to think i’m being treated for scabies or something.

me: it’s a depression thing.

tiny: oh, i feel depressed, too. sometimes.

we’re coming dangerously close to the conversations i’d have with maura, when she’d say she knew exactly what i was going through, and i’d have to explain that, no, she didn’t, because her sadness never went as deep as mine. i had no doubt that tiny thought he got depressed, but that was probably because he had nothing to compare it to. still, what could i say? that i didn’t just feel depressed – instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? that if he got blue, i got black? that i hated those pills so much, because i knew how much i relied on them to live?

no, i couldn’t say any of this. because, when it all comes down to it, nobody wants to hear it. no matter how much they like you or love you, they don’t want to hear it.

tiny: which one’s samson and which one’s delilah? me: honestly? i forget.

tiny scans my bookshelf, runs his hand over my keyboard, spins the globe i got when i graduated fifth grade.

tiny: look! a bed!

for a second, i think he’s going to leap onto it, which would kill my bed frame for sure. but with an almost-shy grin, he sits gingerly on its edge.