Jack of Hearts (and other parts) Read online




  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Lev Rosen

  Illustrations copyright © 2018 by Neil Swaab

  Cover photograph copyright © 2018 by Howard Huang. Cover stars copyright by Elizaveta Parfinenko/Shutterstock.com. Cover design by Karina Granda. Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: October 2018

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Image of stars © Elizaveta/Shutterstock.com; image of eggplant emoji and 100 emoji © Shutterstock.com/PremiumVector; image of crying emoji © Shutterstock.com/flower travelin’ man; image of smiling emoji and winking emoji © Shutterstock.com/DStarky; image of peach emoji © Shutterstock.com/Sudowoodo

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Rosen, Lev AC., author.

  Title: Jack of hearts (and other parts) / by L.C. Rosen.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2018. | Summary: “An unapologetically sexually active queer character works to uncover a blackmailer threatening him back into the closet” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017051339 | ISBN 9780316480536 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316480529 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316522526 (library edition ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Gays—Fiction. | Bullying—Fiction. | Extortion—Fiction. | Sex—Fiction. | Advice columns—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R67 Jac 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017051339

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-48053-6 (hardcover), 978-0-316-4805-29 (ebook)

  E3-20180914-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  For Chris,

  because if I didn’t dedicate my next book to

  him, my mom was going to be so mad

  “ALL FOUR OF THEM WERE JUST GOING AT IT.”

  “I thought there were three.”

  “No, four. That’s what Tori said. All hard, and I think the guy from St. Jude’s was going down on the other one, what’s his name, Zack, from Riverton Prep.”

  “I thought Jessica Lauter was there with Zack.”

  “She was.”

  “No she wasn’t.”

  “I don’t know, but if she was, she probably didn’t leave with him, after that.”

  “Who was the other one?”

  “I don’t know. But Jack was, like, orchestrating the whole thing. He totally seduced them all in there and started the fourgy.”

  “What did Tori do?”

  “What?”

  “When she walked in on them?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. I guess she just closed the door.”

  “I would have watched.”

  “No you wouldn’t have. Ava?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would!”

  Laughter.

  “I wonder how he does it.”

  “Who?”

  “Jack. How he gets all that D. A fourgy in Hannah Ling’s hot tub? It’s like his life is a porno. Is it like that for all gay guys?”

  “Like when he got fucked by the coach from Highbrook in the locker room during the homecoming game.”

  “Home wasn’t the only thing that was coming!”

  Forced laughter.

  “He’s just got a gift.”

  “It’s ’cause he’s so cute.”

  “Did Tori see his…”

  “You can say ‘cock,’ Emily.”

  “Yeah. Well, did she?”

  “She said it was huge. Like this big. I bet he was bottoming because the other boys were afraid of it.”

  “Well, and he’s so queeny.”

  “Ava, you can’t say that.”

  “Why not? Isn’t he? I mean, he wears tank tops cut so low you can see his nipples. And makeup.”

  “But you don’t say it.”

  “Fine… he’s just totally a bottom. You can tell.”

  “Oh man, I wish I was a gay boy. I could fuck that ass of his, and we could go have orgies all the time.”

  “Kaitlyn! That’s so pervy.”

  “No it isn’t. He does it.”

  “Yeah, but he is a gay boy.”

  “Whatever.”

  MY REPUTATION FOR SLUTTINESS IS ONLY PARTIALLY deserved. Yeah, I was kissing that guy from St. Jude’s, sure, and then I kissed that guy Zack, who maybe was a friend of Jessica Lauter’s, but mentioned being president of his GSA, so I don’t think he was there with her. Although, maybe, I guess? I didn’t ask. He should have said something. There wasn’t a fourth guy. There was a big mirror in the bathroom, maybe that’s what Tori saw. But yeah, that’s me. Jack. I don’t love being called queeny, but I do have some fantastic tank tops and a love of eyeliner and black nail polish. I also have some great button-downs with mesh insets and tight jeans with tears so high up you have to go commando in them. I talk with my hands a lot, too. So, sure, call me “queeny” if you’re feeling nasty. I won’t hold it against you, as long as it’s said with love.

  I don’t know if Kaitlyn, Ava, and Emily know that the vent in the girls’ bathroom means I can hear everything they’re saying from the boys’ bathroom. But on Mondays, I like to come in here for my second-period break, smoke a cigarette (the only time I do, mostly), and hear about what I did over the weekend. It’s scandalous.

  So, true story: Yes, we were in the downstairs bathroom at Hannah Ling’s party, and yes, I maybe kissed both of them, one after the other. Yeah, with tongue. And it was pretty hot. They were going to kiss each other next. But we all had our clothes on, and we weren’t going to strip down and have a threesome right there. I mean, we would have gone back to my place, or someone’s place or something.

  But then Tori walked in and gasped, really dramatically, and the guy from St. Jude’s blushed and took off and Zack started laughing. We made out a little more after that, but then he had to go home and study or something. I think he wasn’t so into me as he was into the idea of the threesome, which is fine, because the feeling was mutual.

  So I didn’t even get laid, much less have my first three- or foursome, but somehow, it seems I had a hot-tub orgy. My rumored life is so much more fun than my real one. I bet rumor-me doesn’t have a history quiz next period. Or if he does, he already has an A on it for giving Mr. Davidson a blowjob.

  I toss the cigarette out the window and hop down from the counter where you can hear the best, check my hair and makeup in the mirror, then leave. I leave before they do, because I think if they came out of the bathroom the same time as me, they’d just explode with giggles or embarrassment or… something. Better to just let them have their fun.

  I’m not big on confrontation. I walk by the guys who mutter “fag” under their breath. I know, it seems like I should be that guy who screams at them, calls them homophobes. But why start something? Just… try to be likeable. That’s my motto. Not, like, pretend to be someone you’re not, obviously. Just be likeable. Don’t cause drama just because people who won’t talk to you in class talk about you naked when they think you can’t hear.

  What is there to get mad about, really? They think I’m hot and want to lady-jack-off to the idea of me getting pounded by three guys. It could be worse, so I tell myself not to think about it. Private school in New York City is liberal and cool, generally. It’s not like I’m in Arkansas, forced into the closet and getting beaten up every day for just saying the wrong thing, my wrist being too limp. I’ve seen the “It Gets Better” videos. I know what it can be.

  I mean, I do wonder what it is about my sex life, even active as it is, that attracts their attention. Other people have sex without becoming the stuff of legend and gossip. I guess I’m just special. Lucky me.

  At my locker, I take out my history book to cram, but a note falls out when I open the door. A pink piece of paper, folded origami style into a triangle. It lands on the floor louder than I think paper should land. I pick it up and unfold it.

  I smile. A secret admirer? That’s sweet. Or creepy, maybe? I look up and down the hall, but no one is looking at me, waiting to see my reaction. I look back down at the paper. Black marker. Bad handwriting. I doubt it’s any of the other out boys in school. Ben is one of my closest friends and I am not his type. He likes bears—big hairy guys—usually older. I’m definitely not in that particular gay subset of wildlife (on Grindr, I unhappily checked the twink box, because I’m seventeen and hairless and slim—but muscled, from running track—why isn’t that a box?). And Jeremy Diaz thinks I’m a whore who gives queers a bad name, and Don Caul is way too focused on getting into Yale to take the time to write a love note. Maybe some new freshman? Or maybe someone still in the closet? Is this Ricky Gavallino’s way of finally trying to inch his way out? Oh god—what if it’s a girl?

  “Hey,” Jenna Rodriguez says from behind me. I stuff the piece of paper in my pocket and turn around.

  “Hey,” I say. She raises an eyebrow at me, barely visible under the tangle of long half-bleached hair.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  She purses her tea-painted lips like she doesn’t believe me, but then shrugs, deciding she also doesn’t care. That’s why I love Jenna. If I want to keep something private, she doesn’t pry.

  “So, I had this idea,” she says, sitting down. I sit down next to her, our backs against the lockers, her dark skirt pooling on the floor. “For the blog.”

  Jenna was kicked off the school paper for, in the words of Principal Pattyn, “pursuing an agenda of aggressive anti–Parkhurst School spirit.” That was after she reported that Mr. Botts had crashed his car driving drunk one weekend. So she started her own blog—website, I guess—called The Private Line, writing about the stuff the school doesn’t want us to know. All the schools, really—the private schools. It’s not a gossip blog, like Famke Stein runs, with all the hookups and breakups and rumors. (I don’t feature on it as much as you might think—Famke is way more interested in the more popular boys and girls. But I do have my own tag.) The Private Line is actual, newsworthy sort of stuff. Local news. Teachers getting fired for whatever, department budget crises. Her mom is a reporter—the kind that travels the world and visits war zones and interviews dictators, so Jenna holds herself to a high standard of reporting. But lately she’s been trying to branch out. And for some reason, she wants me involved.

  “Okay,” I say, opening my history textbook to the chapter I didn’t read last night.

  “I want you to do a column.”

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “I know,” she says. “An advice column. Sex advice.”

  “Oh god,” I say, bringing the textbook up to cover my face. “Why? What did you hear?”

  “Well, I did hear you found a guy on Grindr who looks like Tom Blackwell’s dad and you invited him to the tennis match last week and made out with him in the stands opposite Tom so he’d play a lousy game.”

  “I don’t know Tom,” I say, dropping the book. “I wasn’t even at the tennis game.” I know it’s not the end of the world, but I wish I could fuck around without any commentary in the girls’ bathroom. I guess I could stop listening… but that’s not going to happen.

  Jenna shrugs. “Just own it. Use it. For this column.”

  “No.”

  “Please?” she says in a slightly begging voice. “You can use it on your college applications.”

  “How is that going to look? ‘Told people how to suck dick.’ That’s some serious Harvard material.”

  “Okay, so not a sex column. Like, a relationship advice column. We can call it Jack of Hearts.” She makes a headline in the air with her hands.

  “Right. And other parts.”

  “I like that,” she says, hitting me on the shoulder. “We can call it that.”

  “I haven’t had a boyfriend who lasted more than three weeks.”

  “So what? You know what makes people tick. You’d be good at it.”

  “I’d be a disaster.” I turn the page in my history book without having read it.

  “Do it once.” Jenna clasps my arm with both her hands, her tawny fingers warm but her pewter-painted nails digging in sharply. “Please? I need a little spice. People aren’t as interested in the backroom politics of the teachers’ union as they once were. Famke’s kicking my ass with that story about the Miller twins at Edgemont dating the same guy without him knowing.”

  I sigh. We both know I’m going to give in. “I just have to answer questions?”

  “Yeah. I’ll give you a stack, and you pick one out and you answer it. Easy.”

  “I’ll do one,” I promise. “But only because you’re my friend. Not because I want to.”

  “You never know,” she says, reaching into my bag and taking out my phone. She knows the password and has it open in two seconds. “You might like it.” She hands my phone back to me—there’s a new mail app on it. I tap it open to see I have a full mailbox waiting.

  “You already have the questions?” I swipe through the emails. There’s a little over fifty of them, but at least a dozen are just calling me a fag.

  “I may have used the rumor mill to spread the idea that you were going to be doing this last week.… That way I’d know if there was interest before asking you to do it. And I set up a special server that anonymizes the senders’ information. People feel more secure asking questions that way.”

  “Thinking ahead,” I say, deleting the fag emails.

  “A reporter’s job. Anyway, I didn’t filter them. So a lot are just like ‘How do you know you’re gay?’ and ‘Doesn’t anal hurt?’ stuff, but there are some good ones in there. But if you want to talk about anal, that’s okay, too.”

  “Good to know what people think of when they hear my name,” I say flatly.

  “Live it up,” Jenna says. “Better than not being known at all, right?”

  “Sure,” I say, though anonymity sounds delightful. I know lots of kids want to be famous, and yeah, I like attention, but I’d much prefer it for things I do—like dress amazing and say witty things—than who I do.

  “It’s like a public service,” she says in the voice she used when she ran for class president freshman year. “They don’t teach gay stuff in sex ed.”

  “I can take a few days with these, right?” I ask, shaking the phone.

  “Take until Thursday. Email me your question and response. I want to post your first column a week from today—Monday. And then the second one the Thursday after that. Then we’ll decide on weekly or twice weekly, depending on how people react.”

  “I’m just doing one,” I say as firmly as I can.

  She leans her head on my shoulder and rubs my knee. “No,” she says. “You’re not.”

  “Not what?” Ben asks, coming down the hall. He plops down on my other side and takes out his history textbook, looks at what page I’m open to, and opens his to match. “Oh, I read all this already,” he says, flipping ahead. “You’re in trouble, girl.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Jack is going to write a column for my blog,” Jenna says. “Relationship stuff.”

  “Oh, I bet that’ll be popular,” Ben says, without a trace of sarcasm. Ben doesn’t do sarcasm. Ben Parrish is like a beach ball—short, bouncy, round, and somehow always radiating happiness. The shaved head and round red glasses add to the effect. He also wears yellow a lot. His skin is really dark, so he pulls it off well.

  “Right?” Jenna says, pushing me slightly in a “told ya” way.

  “Is it going to be erotic?” Ben asks.

  “No,” I say. “It’s advice. How is advice erotic?”

  “Like, ‘How to spice things up in the bedroom!’ or ‘Ten great kissing tips!’”

  “No.” I shake my head and turn to Jenna. “Right?”

  She shrugs. “It’s whatever you want it to be. Erotic is fine.” She smiles, like she thinks that’s what it’s going to be anyway.