I don’t really like the whole metaphor of baseball bases and physical intimacy. Mainly because I don’t really care about baseball and also, has anyone in the history of teenagers ever agreed on what bases are what? I guess in the world of gay teenage boys, I’d have to say first base is making out or heavy petting (a term I’ve only ever heard Grammy use), second base is mouth or hands below the belt, and, well, third base is . . . below-the-belt action. By that barometer, Lucas and I have made it to second base, but the idea of doing anything more than making out when a customer or Lucas’s dad, who owns the gas station, could easily wander back here freaks me out no matter how many times he tells me it’s okay.

“Ruby Slippers won,” I breathe into his lips.

“I don’t care about boys in dresses right now,” he says. “I care about you out of this shirt.” He nibbles at my earlobe softly.

My hands are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt before I can remind myself of all the reasons this is a bad idea.

I hate hiding. Everyone in this town knows I’m gay—for better or worse—and there’s something supremely unfair about the fact that I have to hide this when I still have to deal with a handful of dumb pricks hurling homophobic insults in my direction and Bible thumpers who want to pray my gay away. If I’m going to have to put up with all of that, shouldn’t I at least have this? And shouldn’t it be for everyone to see?

After we fool around for a bit and no one barges in on us, Lucas settles in next to me on the desk as we watch the TV wired to the security cameras out front.

“How’s class been?” I ask.

“Almost over, but I’m thinking I’m gonna sign up for summer classes too. The sooner I finish my basics at Clover City Community College, the faster I can transfer, ya know? Who knows? Maybe you’ll see me in Austin one day.”

“That’d be something.” Lucas had high hopes for a football scholarship, but the offers never came. It’s the same sad story of most of the male population of Clover City. But I kind of like the thought of Lucas in Austin. With me.

After a few more minutes of watching the security cameras, Lucas clears his throat. “I . . . actually—are we exclusive?” he asks, dropping a very serious question out of nowhere.

“Excuse me?” I can’t tell if this is his way of telling me he only wants to make out with me or that he wants to also make out with other people.

“It’s just something I’ve been wondering is all.”