Teaser. Burt Weissbourd

raised her wrist, showing off a bracelet braided with red, turquoise and black strands. “I was seventeen.”

      “Ahead of your time.”

      Hardly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Corey said, wanting to talk about other things.

      “You’re not,” Toby assured her, then looking at the two women he had been talking with, “I’d like to hear how Corey feels about this.”

      “About what?”

      “We’re considering a presentation on bisexuality.” Toby adjusted his bifocals, attentive. “Maybe a bisexual support group.”

      “A what?”

      “A group at school to read and discuss issues. Bisexuality is a viable option for the young people in this community,” he explained.

      It is? She hesitated. “You sure you want my opinion?”

      Susan nodded.

      “Of course,” Toby added.

      “I was in prison. In that community, there was a bisexual action group. I put a fork through a woman’s cheek to stay out of it.”

      “Uh…I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I didn’t know.”

      “It’s okay. Listen. These kids have enough trouble with regular, old-fashioned—”

      “Regular?” Toby frowned.

      “Uh…gimme a break here, Toby.”

      The other mom excused herself and went to the buffet.

      Toby hesitated, made a steeple with his fingers. “Corey, how well do you understand homophobia?”

      “C’mon, I don’t care who these kids have sex with—so long as they come to it fairly—”

      “Fairly, yes—”

      “Because they want to, not because they think it’s a viable option.”

      “Isn’t that Abe?” Susan interrupted, pointing out the window.

      Corey’s husband was getting out of a burgundy-colored ’99 Oldsmobile with freshly-painted white trim. Abe was looking at the sky, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard, trying to figure something. The car was driven by an elderly Chinese.

      “Who’s driving?” Toby asked.

      “Abe doesn’t drive,” she explained. “That’s Sam, his driver.”

      “Why doesn’t he drive?”

      “He sideswipes parked cars. Abe’s often pre-occupied.” As if to make her point, Sam took Abe’s arm, steering him around a puddle.

      “I see,” Toby said.

      She changed the subject. “Where’s Aaron?”

      “He’s staying with his grandmother while his mom’s in New York.”

      “Billy’s been trying to find him.”

      Toby wrote the number on a napkin.

      “Thanks.” Corey took the napkin, then saw Abe. “’Scuse-me.”

      Abe was near the metal front door. She waved, caught his eye. He was getting an earful from several parents. His half smile—Abe was drifting—made her feel better. Corey saw him take out his pipe, a sure-fire crowd disperser. She hurried over.

      Abe’s bearing changed. He put his pipe in his jacket pocket, straightened up, then wrapped his arm around his wife’s slender waist.

      Corey leaned against him, relaxing a little.

      Stay cool in your mind, Teaser was thinking. He was working the grill at the Mex drive-thru. Sweating. His eyes were watering and burning from the smoke. He had to keep this job. It was part of the plan. So he had to pay attention to his boss, Raoul, who thought cooking freeze-dried greaser food for minimum wage was some kind of an honor.

      While he grilled chicken and vegetables for the fajitas, he was getting ready. Going over the list in his head. Taking his time about it. He had four things left to do today. And everything had to be perfect—just so. He thought about Maisie. He could picture her now. He’d watched her from the shadows. Invisible. He’d learned to be careful. Finally. And he’d learned that if you were careful, if you took your time, your time would come.

      Just like that, Raoul was there with a spatula, turning the soft, shriveled-up green peppers right in front of him, yelling in his ear about how he had to pay attention, take pride in his work. Teaser could feel the heat, inside. The drive-thru cook telling him to be careful? His thin lower lip slid between his teeth as he numbed up. Teaser looked at Raoul, said “Sorry, sir,” then nodded at everything.

      On his break he stepped outside. Under a tree Teaser stuck the point of a plastic toothpick under his thumbnail. He watched it disappear under his skin. Later he pressed on his nail, wondering how to let the bad blood out. When he raised his thumb it caught the moonlight, and he thought he saw a little blue line.

      The Logan-Steins lived on 14th Avenue East, near Roy. After serious negotiating—Corey wanted Ballard, a port-oriented neighborhood; Abe favored downtown, or anywhere close—they compromised on Capitol Hill. It was an older residential area ten minutes from downtown. Capitol Hill had a mix of grand old homes, wood-framed houses, stucco, brick—apartments, condos, commercial—a little bit of everything. It was also a comfortable mix of families, seniors, students, and singles and couples of every sexual orientation. Fifteenth Avenue East, with its busy stretch of neighborhood shops, markets, and restaurants, parted the hill at its highest point. Five blocks below, Broadway was an artery, pumping life through the Hill. Pike Street, a trendy, though still-funky, commercial and nightlife center, ran down the south slope. Part of Capitol Hill’s charm was the tree-lined residential streets so close to the shops, the cafes, the fringe theaters, the lakes and the leather bars. Volunteer Park, with its cruising gay men and pick-up frisbee games, fronted some of the oldest mansions in Seattle.

      Their street was quiet, mostly three and four-bedroom Victorians, with a sprinkling of condos. At their corner the rundown stone mansion was often for sale. They piled out of the pick-up at 9:00 p.m.

      “You got homework?” Abe asked Billy.

      “Not much.”

      And then they were home. The Logan-Steins’ traditional, wood-framed house had been built in 1927. The day they bought it, Corey insisted that it be repainted. She chose grey, then forest green trim. Inside, the walnut woodwork was kept as perfectly as the trim on her 1930s hardtop wooden yacht, the Jenny Ann II.

      “Sit,” Corey said to Billy. She lit a fire in their fireplace, then sat on the stone hearth facing him. “What’s a bisexual support group?”

      Billy frowned. “Mom, you didn’t start in on that, did you? It’s like Toby’s new big thing.”

      “Why?” Corey asked, confounded.

      “Why what?”

      She took a measured breath. “Nevermind. You still like Olympic?”

      “It’s okay.” Billy shrugged. “You picked it.”

      “When I got out of jail, you were failing two courses in public school. Most days, you weren’t showing up. We needed to do something. We couldn’t get you into Northwest, or University Prep. Olympic was new. They meant well…” Corey let it go; she was rationalizing.

      “And now he’s getting good grades and showing up,” Abe pointed out.

      “I’m not bisexual, mom. I don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. And I still miss Morgan. Okay?”

      Corey held