I look around while River moves a brown furry pillow to uncover a Walkman. He takes the cassette out and puts it into a boom box on the dresser, the only thing here that belongs in this decade.

I tell him I play guitar. I tell him there’s a dance club I like. I tell him where I live and what classes I took last year and where I like to go to eat.

I ask him what he’s done in New York and what he does in Massachusetts, and we talk about music and art, and how he’s been homeschooled and is looking forward to going to college.

He tells me he’s leaving in the morning. Going back to Amherst and then heading to Europe to go hiking for an entire year before he starts at Berkeley.

That sounds nice, I say, which must be the beer talking because the idea of slogging through the forest for a year sounds awful to me. Maybe I’ll do something like that if my parents kick me out.

Why would they kick you out? he asks.

I consider making something up, but I’ll probably never see him again and that makes me bold. My father kicked my brother out when they found out he was gay, I say, waiting to hear his reaction.

That sucks, he says and swallows loudly. He gets up and forwards the tape to the song he says is his favorite. The singer starts singing about wanting to be home and already being there. Lucky him.

And you’re worried they’ll do the same to you? River asks, not looking at me.

I take a deep breath and say, My father hasn’t exactly mellowed since.

River turns, his face illuminated by the pink of the lava lamp. I got lucky in the parent department, he says. Mine are ex-hippies. They actually met in a commune, if you can believe it. There are pictures of my sister and me at Woodstock. Anyhow, my parents believe in free love and all that. They think we’ve become a repressed society.

I feel the tension leave my body in one gush. My father thinks AIDS is nature’s way of punishing us, I say.

We both laugh the way people do when something isn’t at all funny. He stops first and takes a step toward me, his face getting serious. I’m sorry, River says. I’m sorry that you have to deal with that.

He reaches out his hand and puts it on my arm. Is this okay? he asks, moving his fingers down to grasp mine.

His voice is soft, concerned. He smells like Polo. His fingers are calloused, and the roughness of them against my skin makes me flush.

I wait for my head to fill with warnings: Don’t be stupid, Michael. You aren’t the type to mess around with a boy at a party; you’re still hooked on Gabriel. But Gabriel isn’t here and my head is quiet. My body on the other hand is a mass of sensation, everything shaking, spinning, throbbing.