BOY MEETS BOY DAVID LEVITHAN EBOOK
Read "Boy Meets Boy" by David Levithan available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first purchase. This is the story of. Editorial Reviews. resourceone.info Review. In this delightful young adult novel for readers 12 and up, high school sophomore Paul says, "There isn't really a gay. Boy meets boy. [David Levithan] -- When Paul falls hard for Noah, he thinks he has found his one true love, but when Noah walks out of his life, Paul has to find a.
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Boy Meets Boy . Author: Levithan David all the same at a certain point, and few of them want a gay boy cruising around with his friends on a Saturday night. All Ebook Boy Meets Boy, PDF and EPUB Boy Meets Boy, PDF ePub Mobi Boy Levithan David ebook Boy Meets Boy, Boy Meets Boy E-Books, Online Boy. The unforgettable debut novel by co-author with John Green of Will Grayson, Will Grayson To be together with someone for twenty years seems like an eternity.
I swear she winks when she looks my way. I focus on the seat next to Noah. I do not focus on his crazy-cool hair, or his blue suede shoes, or the specks of paint on his hands and his arms. I am beside him. He looks up at me. And then, after a beat, he breaks out smiling.
I am so happy and so scared. There is a roar through the stands as the quiz bowling team is announced.
They come sprinting onto the court, rolling for pins while answering questions about Einstein's theory of relativity. He says, "Cool," and it's cool.
So cool. I sit down next to him as the audience cheers for the captain of the quiz bowling team, who's just scored a strike while listing the complete works of the Bronte sisters. I don't want to scare him by telling him all the things that are scaring me.
I don't want him to know how important this is. He has to feel the importance for himself. So I say, "Those are cool shoes," and we talk about blue suede shoes and the duds store where he shops. We talk as the badminton team lets its birdies fly. We laugh when it falls. I am looking for signs that he understands me. I am looking for my hopes to be confirmed. I almost fall off my seat.
I am a firm believer in serendipity—all the random pieces coming together in one wonderful moment, when suddenly you see what their purpose was all along. We talk about music and find that we like the same kinds of music. We talk about movies and find that we like the same kinds of movies. Although I guess I was too young to know it was a theory. You see, I had this imaginary friend. She followed me everywhere—we had to set a place for her at the table, she and I talked all the time—the whole deal.
Then it occurred to me that she wasn't the imaginary friend at all. I figured that I was the imaginary friend, and she was the one who was real. It made perfect sense to me. My parents disagreed, but I still secretly feel that I'm right. With an h. I left Thorn in Florida. He never liked to travel. The paint on his hands is not quite purple and not quite blue.
There is a speck of just-right red on one of his fingers. The principal's secretary has the microphone again.
The rally is almost over. He's glad I found him. I'm glad I found him. We are not afraid to say this. I am so used to hints and mixed messages, saying things that might mean what they sort of sound like they mean. Games and contests, roles and rituals, talking in twelve languages at once so the true words won't be so obvious. I am not used to a plainspoken, honest truth. It pretty much blows me away. I think Noah recognizes this. He's looking at me with a nifty grin. The other people in our row are standing and jostling now, waiting for us to leave so they can get to the aisle and resume their day.
I want time to stop. Time doesn't stop. I want it to fast-forward an hour. Noah has become my until. As we leave the gym, I can see Kyle shoot me a look. I don't care. Joni and Ted will no doubt be waiting under the bleachers for the full report. I can sum it up in one word: Joy.
Hallway Traffic Complications Ensue Self-esteem can be so exhausting. I want to cut my hair, change my clothes, erase the pimple from the near-tip of my nose, and strengthen my upper-arm definition, all in the next hour. But I can't do that, because a it's impossible, and b if I make any of these changes, Noah will notice that I've changed, and I don't want him to know how into him I am.
I hope Mr. B can save me. I pray his physics class today will transfix me in such a way that I will forget about what awaits me at the other end. But as Mr. B bounds around the room with anti-gravitational enthusiasm, I just can't join his parade. Two sixty-four has become my new mantra. I roll the number over in my head, hoping it will reveal something to me other than a locker number. I replay my conversation with Noah, trying to transcribe it into memory since I don't dare write it down in my notebook.
The hour passes. As soon as the bell rings, I bolt out of my seat. I don't know where locker is, but I'm sure as hell going to find out. I plunge into the congested hallway, weaving through the back-slap reunions and locker lunges.
I spot locker — I'm in the wrong corridor entirely. There aren't enough Pauls in my school that I can assume the yell is for someone else. Reluctantly I turn around and see Lyssa Ling about to pull my sleeve.
I already know what she wants. Lyssa Ling doesn't ever talk to me unless she wants me to be on a committee. She's the head of our school's committee on appointing committees, no doubt because she's so good at it. She's used to this. The Dowager Dance is a big deal at our school, and architecting it would mean being in charge of all the decorations and music.
Lyssa sighs. But then he went all Goth on me. Not cool. We have to give people the freedom to wear something other than black.
So are you in or are you out? I know it's going to be a rather elaborate budget. The dance was created thirty or so years ago after a local dowager left a stipulation in her will that every year the high school would throw a lavish dance in her honor. Apparently she was quite a swinger in her day.
The only thing we have to do is feature her portrait prominently and this is where it gets a little weird have at least one senior boy dance with it. At first I am distracted by theme ideas. Then I remember the reason for my after-school existence and continue heading to locker I can't exactly blow her off, nor can I blow off Infinite Darlene when she asks me how her double role at the Homecoming Pride Rally went. The minutes are ticking away.
I hope Noah is equally delayed, and that we'll arrive at his locker at the same time, one of those wonderful kismet connections that seem like signs of great things to come. He's right. We walk up the stairs together.
Sometimes I feel like fate is dictated by irony or, at the very least, a rather dark sense of humor. For example, if I am standing next to Joni's on-and-off boyfriend and he says, "Have you seen Joni? Joni and Chuck don't see us. Their eyes are passionately, expectantly closed. Everybody pauses to look at them. They are a red light in the hallway traffic. Then he charges back down the stairs. I know Noah is waiting for me. I know Joni should know what I've seen. I know I don't really like Ted all that much.
But more than I know all those things, I know I have to run after Ted to see if he's okay. He stays a good few paces ahead of me, pushing through hallway after hallway, turn after turn, hitting backpacks off people's shoulders and avoiding the glances of gum-chewing locker waifs. I can't figure out where he's going. Then I realize he doesn't have any particular destination in mind. He's just walking. Walking away.
We're in a particularly empty corridor, right outside the wood shop. He turns to me, and there's this conflicted flash in his eyes. The anger wants to drown the shock and the depression. I shake my head. It's news to me. I really don't care. She can hook up with whoever she wants.
It's not like I was interested. We broke up, you know. I wonder if he can actually believe what he's saying. He betrays himself with what he says next. I want there to be something else for me to say, something to make him feel even marginally better.
I look at my watch. It's been seventeen minutes since the end of school. I use a different stairway to reach the second floor.
The locker numbers descend for me: Nobody home. I look around for Noah. The halls are nearly deserted now— everyone's either gone home or gone to their activities. The track team races past me on their hallway practice run.
I wait another five minutes. A girl I've never seen before, her hair the color of honey-dew, walks by and says, "He left about ten minutes ago.
He looked disappointed. I rip a page out of my physics book and write an apology. I go through about five drafts before I'm satisfied that I've managed to sound interested and interesting without seeming entirely daft. All the while, I'm still hoping he'll show up.
I slip the note into locker I head back down to my own locker. Joni is nowhere in sight, which is a good thing. I can't even begin to know what to say to her. I can see why she would have kept the news about Chuck from Ted. But I can't figure out why she never told me. It hurts. As I slam my locker shut, Kyle walks by me. He nods and says hi.
He even almost smiles. I am floored. He keeps walking, not turning back. My life is crazy, and there's not a single thing I can do about it. Finding Lost Languages "Maybe he was saying hi to someone else," I say. It's a couple of hours later and I'm talking to Tony, recounting the drama to the one person who wasn't there. Tony nods noncommittally. It's not like I've done anything differently.
And it's not like he's the kind of guy who changes his mind about this kind of thing. I mean, would he even know who I was if I called? Would he recognize my name or my voice? It can wait until tomorrow, right? I don't want to seem too neurotic. What was she thinking, snogging up to Chuck in the middle of the hall like that?
Do I let her know that I know, or do I pretend I don't know and secretly count the number of times she talks to me before she lets me know, resenting each and every minute that goes by without her telling me the truth? We are at my house, doing each other's homework. We try to do this as often as possible. In much the same way that it's more fun to clean up someone else's room than it is to clean up your own, doing each other's homework is a way to make the homework go faster.
Early in our friendship, Tony and I discovered we had similar handwriting. The rest came naturally. Of course, we go to different schools and have different assignments. That's the challenge.
And the challenge is what it's all about. He takes Spanish. You pictured Ted and me catching them in the hallway? But face it. Joni likes having a boyfriend. And if it's not going to be Ted, it's going to be someone else. If this guy Chuck likes her, odds are she's going to like him back.
If she's happy, then good for her. Tony's never really had a boyfriend. He's never been in love. I don't exactly know why this is. He's cute, funny, smart, a little gloomy—all attractive qualities.
But he still hasn't found what he's looking for. I'm not even sure he knows what that is. Most of the time, he just freezes.
He'll have a quiet crush, or even groove with someone who has boyfriend potential. This is one of the reasons I don't want to dwell on Noah with him. Although I'm sure he's happy for me, I don't think his happiness for me translates into happiness for himself.
I need another way to buoy him. I resort to speaking in a nonexistent language.
See a Problem?
Our record for doing this is six hours, including a lengthy trip to the mall. I don't know how it started—one day we were walking along and I just got tired of speaking English. So I started throwing consonants and vowels together in random arrangements. Without missing a beat, Tony started to speak back to me in the same way. The weird thing is, we've always understood each other. The tone and the gestures say it all.
I first met Tony two years ago, at the Strand in the city. It's one of the best bookstores in the world. We were both looking for a used copy of The Lost Language of Cranes. The shelf was eight feet up, so we had to take turns on the ladder.
He went first and when he came down with a copy, I asked him if there was another up there. Startled, he told me there was a second copy and even went back up the ladder to get it for me. Then he drifted off to the oversized photography books, while I got lost in fiction.
That would have been it. We would have never known each other, would have never been friends. But that night as I boarded the train home, I saw him sitting alone on a three-seater, already halfway done with the book we'd both bought. At first he didn't realize I was speaking to him. Then he looked up, recognized me, and half smiled. I sat down and we talked some more.
I discovered he lived in the next town over from mine. We introduced ourselves. We settled in. I could tell he was nervous, but didn't know why. A cute guy, a few years older than us, passed through our car. Both of our gazes followed him. Tony hesitated for a moment, unsure. Then he smiled.
Which, in many ways, he was. We kept talking. And maybe it was because we were strangers, or maybe it was because we had bought the same book and had thought the same boy was cute. But it was very easy to talk. Riding the train is all about moving forward; our conversation moved like it was on tracks, with no worry of traffic or direction. He told me about his school, which was not like my school, and his parents, who were not like my parents. He didn't use the word gay and I didn't need him to.
It was understood. This clandestine trip was secret and special to him. He had told his parents he was going on a church retreat. Then he'd hopped on a train to visit the open doors of the open city. Now the city lights ebbed in their grip over the landscape.
The meadowlands waved in the darkness until the smaller cities appeared, then the houses with yards and plastic pools. We had talked our way home, one town apart.
I asked him for his phone number, but he gave me an e-mail address instead. It was safer that way for him. I told him to call me anytime, and we made our next set of plans. In other circumstances, this would have been the start of a romance. But I think we both knew, even then, that what we had Was something even more rare, and even more meaningful. I was going to be his friend, and was going to show him possibilities. And he, in turn, would become someone I could trust more than myself.
I'm good. It's hard for me to concentrate on Tony's homework, with so many things to think about. Somehow I manage to write three pages before my brother comes downstairs and offers to give Tony a ride home. Of all my friends, Jay likes Tony best. I think they have compatible silences.
I can imagine them on the way back to Tony's, not saying a word. Jay respects Tony, and I respect Jay for that. I already know that Tony won't give me any advice about what to do with Noah or Joni or Kyle.
It's not that he doesn't care I'm sure he does. He just likes people to do their own thing. But his tone holds no clues. Good luck? Call Noah? I don't know. See you tomorrow.
I head back to my room and finish my homework. I don't look over what Tony's already written. I'm sure it's fine. I spend the rest of the evening in a television daze. For the first time in a long time, I don't call Joni. And Joni doesn't call me. This is how I know she knows I know. I do not argue. She pulls me into an empty classroom. Ted saw us. Implied in that question is the bigger one: Why didn't you tell me?
Falling for Chuck, or having to admit it? Early signs of defensiveness are not good. He trashed her locker and bad-mouthed her to the whole school. A Friendian Slip. Joni shoots me the look I know so well — the same look she shot me when she dyed her hair red in sixth grade and I unsuccessfully tried to pretend it had come out well; the same look she shot me when I tried to convince her after the first break-up that getting back together with Ted wasn't the best idea; the same look she shot me when I confessed to her that I was worried I'd never, ever find a boyfriend who loved me the same way I loved him.
It's a look that stops all conversation. It's a look that insists, You're wrong. We've been best friends too long to fight each other over this. We both know that. My intuition is clear on this: Chuck is bad news.
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But I know there's nothing I can do to convince her to change her mind. Not without proof. And how are you doing with your Mystery Boy? I see Infinite Darlene and duck past her— I'm sure by now she's heard about Joni and Chuck, and I'm sure she'll have loads to say about it. I also pass Seven and Eight in the halls, their heads leaned gently into each other, their words impossible to overhear. Their real names are Steven and Kate, but no one has called them that for years.
They started going out in second grade and haven't been apart since. They are the one-percent of one-percent who meet early on and never need to find anybody else. There's no way to explain it. Noah is waiting by his locker. No—let me change that. He is standing by his locker. There is no sign in his posture or in his gaze that he is waiting for anybody. I scan his features for a reaction. I can't read him. I'm a little thrown. I put a note I your locker.
I tried to get here right after school, but ten thousand things got in my way. I really wanted to be here. The confusion is on his face. He doesn't know if I'm being since. I apologize on behalf of my pathetic memory and then ask him what he did last night, trying to ease things into a conversation. I'm going to architect it. I forgot he's new to the school.
Boy Meets Boy
He has no idea what I'm talking about. For all he knows, leally do fight forest fires in my free time. I start giving him answers, explaining away the Dowager Dance and the organization fury of Lyssa Ling. But instead of giving answers, I want to be king him questions. What does he mean by "paint some music"? I'm happy I'm here? Does he want me to stop talking? Because I keep talking and talking. I am telling him about the time Lyssa Ling tried to sell bagels with fortunes baked inside them as a sixth-grad fund-raiser, and how the shipment was switched and we got the fortune bagels that were supposed to go to a bachelor party, with XXX-rated slips of paper inserted into the dough.
It's a funny story, but somehow I am making it boring. I can't stop in the middle, so I go on and on. Noah doesn't walk away or nod off, but he's certainly not riding my tangent. I'm barely on it myself. It's Infinite Darlene, right behind me. Now, I really like Infinite Darlene. But among all my friends, she's usually the last I introduce to new people.
I have to prepare them. Because Infinite Darlene doesn't make the best first impression. She seems very full of herself.
Which she is. It's only after you get to know her better that you realize that somehow she's managed to encompass all her friends within her own self-image, so that when she's acting full of herself, she's actually full of her close friends, too.
There is no way I can expect Noah to understand this. I try to send Infinite Darlene a look to let her know she's interrupting, without actually telling her out loud. It doesn't work. I turn Elmo red. Noah smiles and takes it in stride. And I can tell that even Infinite Darlene is a little taken aback, because it's clear he's seeing her just as she wants to be seen. So few people do that. With two sentences, he's managed to win over my most critical friend.
I am in awe. I am also mortified by Infinite Darlene's declaration of my liking. Sure, I'm about as smooth as a camel's back. Of course, Infinite Darlene will only let a beat last so long before stepping in again. Break it to me gently. That settled, I face Infinite Darlene. In heels, she is easily six inches taller than me.
In an effort to break it to her gently, I talk to her chin. Why, Paul? But this is like licking the bottom of your stiletto. I put up a show of trying to dissuade her, but we both know there's no way I'm going to stop her. She leaves in a huff. I nod. I mean, we say things—we make plans and all. But the subject of us is dropped back into signals and longing. We make plans for after school. I'm going to help him paint some music.
Painting Music Noah's house is in a different part of town than mine, but the neighborhood looks just the same. Each house has a huge welcome mat of lawn sitting in front of it, bordered by a driveway on one side and a hedge on the other. It should be boringly predictable, but it's not really.
The houses are personalized— a blush of geraniums around the front stoop, a pair of shutters painted to echo the blue sky. In Noah's yard, the hedges have been made into the shape of lightbulbs—the legacy of the former owner, Noah tells me. He lives close to the high school, so we walk the bendily cross-hatched roads together.
He asks me how long I've lived in town, and I tell him I've lived here my whole life. This is meant to be the final stop—now his parents travel everywhere for business instead of making the family move to the nearest headquarter city. If my family were to move honestly, I can't imagine it, but I'm stating it here for the sake of argument , I think it would take us about three years to unpack all of our boxes.
Noah's family, however, has put everything in its place. We walk through the front door and I'm amazed at how immaculate everything is. The furniture has settled into its new home; the only thing the house lacks is clutter. We walk into the living room—and it's one of those living rooms that look like nobody ever lives in them. We head to the kitchen for a snack. Noah's sister is sitting alert at the corner table, like a parent waiting up late at night for a kid to come home.
She's old enough to wear make-up, but she hasn't figured out yet how to wear it well. Noah reaches out for the mail on the table, sifting through the catalogs and bulk mail for something worthwhile. Don't hurt him like Pitt did, okay? What are you, six years old? And by the way, Pitt wrecked you.
Or have you forgotten? And neither, to her credit, has Claudia. Satisfied by this turn of conversation, Claudia drops the subject. I tell him I have an older brother, which isn't really the same thing. After drinking some of Claudia's mango-cherry-vanilla concoction, Noah leads me up the back stairs to his room.
Boy Meets Boy
Before we reach his door, he says, "I hope you don't mind whimsy. Then I see his room and I know exactly what he means. I don't know where to begin, both in looking at it and describing it.
The ceiling is a swirl of just about any color you'd care to imagine. But it doesn't seem like it was painted with different colors — it looks like it appeared at once, as a whole.
One wall is covered with Matchbox cars glued in different directions, with a town and roads drawn in the background. His music collection hangs on a swing from the ceiling; his stereo is elevated on a pedestal of postcards from absurd places — Botswana, the Kansas City International Airport, an Elvis convention.
His books are kept on freestanding shelves hung at different angles on a seagreen wall. They defy gravity, as good books should. His bed is in the middle of the room, but can be rolled effortlessly into any corner. His windowshades are made from old bubblegum wrappers, arranged into a design. It has taken me fifteen years to decorate my room, and it isn't nearly as intricate or. I'd like it to be.
Noah nods. He smiles a little nervously. Mine isn't nearly as cool. It's not that the weirdness of the moment doesn't strike me. I realize that the two of us don't really know each other. And at the same time, there's that comforting, unattributable vibe we're both feeling, which intuitively tells us that we should get to know each other.
By showing me his room, he's giving me a glimpse of his soul. I am nervous about giving in return. In the middle of the book-angled wall is a very narrow door— it can't be more than two feet wide. He opens it up, revealing a guard of shirts. Then he disappears inside. I follow. The door closes behind me. There is no light. We push through the closet, which is unusually deep. Because it's so narrow, Noah's clothes are hung in layers. I push through the hangered row of his shirts and find myself folded between two dangling sweaters.
I squeeze to a crawl to follow him through a vent-like passage. Then his legs stretch up—he's standing in a new passage, pulling himself up a rope ladder, up toward a trap door. By my reckoning, we're headed into a corner of the attic.
But I can't be sure. As the trap door is raised, light streams down on us. I am surrounded by brick. I am in the middle of an old chimney. At the top of the rope ladder is a white room. There is one window, one cabinet, and two speakers.
An easel stands in the middle of the room, with a blank square of waiting paper. Nobody else is allowed up here. My parents promised me that when we moved. You're really the first person to see it. Even the white walls have hints of vermilion, azure, and gold. Noah doesn't seem to mind. I am a little worried, since the last time I painted there were numbers on the paper telling me which colors to use.
I am an ace doodler, but -other than that my artistic repertoire is quite limited. Your face went far away for a second. Follow the sound.
Don't think about rules. Don't worry about getting it perfect. Just let the song carry you. The music begins, drifting into the room like a perfumed scent. A piano tinkles in jazz cadences. A trumpet chimes in. And then the voice— this wonderful voice—begins to croon. I dip my brush into a velvety purple.
I raise it to the canvas and listen to the music. Chet Baker's voice is sinuous, floaty. I touch the brush to the paper and try to make it soar in time with the song. I swoop it down, then up again. I am not painting a shape.
I am painting the tune. The song continues. I wash my brush and try different colors. The sunflower yellow settles in patches, while the tomato red flirts over the lines of purple. Another song begins.
I reach for a blue the color of oceans. I'm so lucky to be the one you run to see. When I open my eyes, I look over to Noah and see he's been glancing at me. I think he knows I understand.
Another song. I am now able to see things in my painting—the hint of a wing, the undertow of a tide.
Noah surprises me by speaking. I know immediately what he's talking about. I stop painting and watch him for a moment. He is concentrating on the music now, moving his brush in an arc. He is completely in tune with the trumpet that solos above the beat. His mood reflects indigo. Is it heartbreak that makes him sad I remember his sister's comment in the kitchen , or is it something else? He senses my stillness and turns to me. There is something in his expression the moment before he speaks — I cannot tell whether H s vulnerability or doubt.
Is he unsure about himself or unsure about me? Part of me wants to block his view, blot out what I've created. But I let him see anyway. He stands next to me, looking at the music I've painted. When he speaks, Chet Baker's horn highlights his words.
He is so close to me. All I can feel is his presence. It is in the air surrounding us, the music surrounding us, and all my thoughts.
I am still holding the paintbrush. He reaches for my hand and lifts it gently. We both know when it ends. Our hands lower together, still holding on. We do not let go. We stand there looking.
His hand over mine. Our breathing. We leave everything unsaid. The song ends. Another begins. This one is a blast of upbeat. I turn to him. He smiles and walks back to his easel, taking up his brush. I follow him to peek over his shoulder. His painting is not an abstraction. He has only used one color, a near-black green.
The woman in the painting is dancing with her eyes closed. She is all that he's drawn, but all you need is her figure to know what is going on. She is on a dance floor, and she is dancing alone. He bashfully turns away. So I head back to my own easel, stepping on the marks of paint I have already left on the floor.
We lose ourselves to the songs once more. At one point, he briefly sings along. I do not stop to listen, but instead work it into my canvas. My flights of color are meeting his dancer somewhere in the middle of the room.
We do not need to speak to be aware of each other's presence. We stay this way until twilight colors the window and the hour calls me home. Chuck Waggin "So did you kiss him? It never takes her very long to get to the point. She's going to ask all the questions about Noah that I'm not going to ask about Chuck.
Now, I am not one to kiss and tell, but Joni's heard about every single boy I've ever kissed. Sometimes I've told her two minutes after the fact; other times it's come up years later, as my way of proving she doesn't know everything about me. From my first spin-the-bottle kiss with Cody to the final, conflicted kiss-off kiss with Kyle, Joni's been the one I've shared the stories with. So it comes as no surprise to have her question me now, on the phone, fifteen minutes after I've ;come home from Noah's.
It's not that I didn't want to kiss Noah. And I think he wanted to kiss me. But we left the moment to silence instead. The promise of a kiss will carry us forward. Since I don't say anything more, Joni lets the subject drop. Much to my surprise, she picks up the subject of Kyle instead. She liked his confusion, his woundedness, his bafflement.
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Unavailable for purchase. Continue shopping Checkout Continue shopping. Chi ama i libri sceglie Kobo e inMondadori. Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan. Buy the eBook Price: Choose Store.We talk about music and find that we like the same kinds of music. He reaches for my hand and lifts it gently.
Kyle is the only straight boy I've ever kissed. He hasn't stopped to notice it's a democracy. His body remains.
His windowshades are made from old bubblegum wrappers, arranged into a design.
And she'd have gravity problems getting back up. Now Away We Go 9 P. Go West, Young Man.