Chapter 7

“Pardon me?”

Tom Alan mumbled, too. “Sorry…um, Boo…ger.” He put his hands in his pockets—not because they were cold but because he was painfully shy with new people, particularly cute men.

“Well, it was just a joke now, wasn’t it?” Milo said—or asked—Tom Alan wasn’t sure.

“And it is why we are here,” Mischen stated. “So some of you, Milo, can rub off on him.”

Unlike Milo, Tom Alan was dressed as if ready for an arctic expedition. Heather-gray sweats—with a noticeable bulge just below the waist he caught Milo noticing—a long-sleeved green T-shirt under a short-sleeved burgundy T-shirt, with another short-sleeved white T-shirt beneath both. He even wore a ski hat—orange-black-and-gray striped. Despite all those layers, it felt as if unshy, homosexual Milo Fisher had stripped the quad-throwing dude down to nada in his mind. His appraisal showed in his up-and-down squint, and his approval—he licked his lips—made Tom Alan slouch some more.

“Straight!” Mrs. Mischen scolded.