Children of the Knight (25 page)

Mark pulled his gaze from the throne and fixed his eyes on Lance. “Sure, anything.”

Lance hesitated, his heart rate increasing, his anxiety rising like volcanic lava. His fingers clutched at his tunic, and he sighed. “When, um, when did you, you know, like, realize you were gay?”

He looked so stricken at the asking that Mark almost laughed, but he didn’t. “I think I always knew, you know?” He shrugged. “I knew I was different. Not playing with dolls and girly shit like that, but, I don’t know, when my dad kept wanting me to play sports with the boys, I didn’t want to.” He laughed. “I realized all I wanted to do was
watch
the boys play sports. I guess that’s when I kinda figured it out. For a while I kept telling myself I was bi, you know, so I wouldn’t have to admit it? But girls just didn’t do it for me.”

Lance nodded, uncertain how to respond since he’d broached the subject, especially given his own mixed-up thoughts and feelings and self-hate. “I still can’t believe your parents just kicked you out like that, especially yer mom.”

Mark laughed again, bitterly this time. “She was worse than my dad. He was kinda for, you know, hiding me in a closet from the neighbors. But she’s the one that told me if I didn’t decide right then and there to not be a faggot, I could get out and never come back. So, I never been back.”

“That sucks,” Lance said, hurting for the boy, and feeling his own abandonment wash over him.

Mark turned his eyes back on Lance, and Lance noticed for the first time how long and almost delicate the boy’s lashes were.

“Can I ask
you
something?” Mark asked, almost shyly. “Something personal?”

Lance shrugged, oddly fascinated by those butterfly shaped lashes.

“Are you gay?” Mark asked softly.

Lance instantly averted his eyes, dropping his gaze to the floor, knowing his face had turned bright red with shame and grateful for his flowing hair covering it. He was going to deny it. He
had
to deny it! The denial was right there, right on the tip of his tongue! But what actually slipped out was a strangled, “I don’t know.”

He waited for Mark to laugh, but there was no laughter. Timidly, panic twisting his stomach into knots, he raised his eyes and peeked fearfully at the other boy’s face. What he saw there stopped his breath in his throat—it wasn’t the mockery or condemnation he’d expected. It was
understanding
.

Mark placed a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder and looked him compassionately in the eye. “It’s okay, Lance. It’s pretty common.”

Lance didn’t freak when Mark touched him, and the boy’s words almost made him do a double take. “It is?” He thought he was the
only
confused one.

Mark nodded, pulling his hand back. “I hear that a lot on the street, especially from guys that been raped by older men.”

Lance sucked in a shocked breath. “How’d you…?”

“It’s in your eyes, man,” Mark explained sadly, his voice sounding gentle and far away and laced with hurt. “It never goes away, not even when you get paid for it.” His blue eyes swam with tears, and he swiped at them with the sleeve of his tunic.

Lance watched him cry softly, wanting to reach out and comfort him, but he was too afraid, too afraid of himself.

“Am I a slut boy, Mark?” he blurted suddenly, so quietly the other boy wasn’t even sure he heard rightly.

“What?” Mark asked in surprise, his eyes wide and blurred.

Lance glanced up cautiously. “That’s what Jack called himself, for, you know, doing what you guys were doing out there. But am I any better? I let Richard… do those things to me for three years! I didn’t run. I didn’t tell anyone.” His eyes welled up as he gazed despairing into Mark’s softly gentle face. “Can a six-year-old be a slut boy, Mark? Is that what I was?”

Mark shook his head, lightly grasped Lance’s hand, and squeezed sympathetically. The touch sent shivers through him, but he didn’t pull away.

“No, Lance, a six-year-old is a victim,” Mark said softly. “It wasn’t your fault, man. Don’t go there, please. You’ll hate yourself, and you’re way too cool to hate yourself.”

He smiled warmly, and Lance felt an unfamiliar surge of joy and acceptance, his eyes welling with tears. “Thanks, Mark,” he murmured shyly. “Thanks a lot, for saying that.”

Then they fell silent again, each considering his own messed-up life, all the pain and suffering they’d been through, all the self-loathing both had endured.

“Mark?” Lance finally broke the painful silence. “How will I, you know, figure it out, about what I am, I mean?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Mark just smiled sadly. “Give it time. You know that ole Beatles song ‘Let It Be’?”

Lance wiped his damp eyes and nodded.

“Just let it be, Lance,” Mark repeated, “and it’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to.”

Lance nodded again. “Thanks!” he gushed, afraid he might start bawling any minute, feeling more grateful than he ever thought he could be. He’d been carrying those fears around for
so
long….

But then panic shot through him like a bullet. “Uh, Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“You won’t, you know, tell anyone about me, will you?” Lance fisted his tunic tightly, knowing he must look as desperate as he felt. “I mean, I’m First Knight and all and….”

But Mark smiled tenderly and held up a clenched fist. “Our secret.” They did the fist bump.

Lance felt a warmth engulf him that he’d only previously experienced around Arthur. This boy, whom he’d dissed and hated, accepted him just as he was, just as messed up and confused as he was! Unbelievable….

They sat again a moment before Lance said, “Can I ask you another question?”

“Anything.”

“Are you and Jack, well, you know….” Lance felt himself turn red.

“Boyfriends?” Mark finished for him, a twinkle of amusement in those amazing eyes.

Wholly embarrassed, Lance nodded.

“Naw,” Mark went on with a shake of his head. “He’s my best bud, though. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. Saved my ass a grip a times. Man, Lance, we been through it, him and me.” His blue eyes gleamed devilishly, and he grinned. “Why you asking? Interested?”

Now Lance turned so red he thought he might faint, but Mark just laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Just kidding. He
is
hot, though, you gotta admit.”

Lance blushed again but didn’t care anymore. Mark was his friend now, and friends didn’t care about stuff like that. “I’m not gonna go there,” he said softly and they laughed, a simple, comfortable, easy laughter that settled into a comfortable silence.

“You’re pretty cute, yourself,” Mark practically whispered, casting a shy look Lance’s way.

The younger boy chuckled and flipped his hair dramatically. “It’s the hair!” he proclaimed in self-mockery. “That’s what everyone says.”

And both boys cracked up. They were buds, now, like Mark was with Jack. Lance had never had a
real
friend, had never let himself be that vulnerable, but now he welcomed it.
Now
he recognized just how much he needed it.

But then his face darkened like storm clouds, his eyes dropping like the setting sun. He still had something to say—his conscience wouldn’t let him off the hook. “Thanks, Mark, for, you know, everything. I feel so shitty hating on you guys, especially since
I’m
so messed up.” His gaze fell hard to the cold stone floor.

Mark threw one arm around Lance’s shoulders and grinned. “Hey, man, it’s all good. I mean, we’re brothers now, aren’t we?”

Lance snapped up his head and gaped a moment at the other boy’s words. Of course they were! Wasn’t that what Arthur’s crusade was all about? How come he didn’t see it first?

“Yeah,” he agreed, “yeah, we are.” He threw
his
arm around Mark’s shoulders. “Brother.” They locked eyes a moment, smiled bashfully, and then turned to gaze absently at the throne.

And so they sat, arms around one another’s shoulders, each lost in his own thoughts, sharing the closeness of their newfound brotherhood, and just letting everything be, until they drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Neither of them woke when Jack padded out to the throne room wearing only his leather drawstring pants, but no shirt or shoes. He started looking around, and then stopped short when he saw the two boys together, asleep against the wall, arms draping each other’s shoulders, and he nearly lost his breath with despair.

“Oh, Mark,” he whispered, his stomach plummeting as he gazed sadly at the only boy he’d ever really loved, and with a heavy heart returned to his bedroll, where sleep would elude him for most of that long, painful night.

J
ENNY
stood at her classroom door as was her custom, welcoming her students to class. She had not seen Lance since Eucalyptus Park last week, nor had she seen this so-called King Arthur on the news anymore. But neither of them was far from her thoughts no matter what she was doing.

As her students trickled into the room—tardy bells didn’t mean much to MTS students—she noticed other missing faces besides Lance. Uneven attendance had always been an issue at this school, but in the past few days, weeks maybe, kids seemed to have disappeared. Could this Arthur have anything to do with it, she wondered?

One of her better students, another skater named Khalil, stepped past her with a “’Morning, Ms. McMullen,” and headed to the corner to deposit his board. On a hunch, she followed.

“Say, Khalil,” she began. The handsome Jordanian boy turned around, his mass of bushy hair tied back as usual, his attire pure skater. “Have you seen Lance around at any of the usual skating places?”

“Pretty Boy?” Khalil replied.

Jenny smiled. “Yes.”

Khalil considered a moment. “No. Nobody’s seen ’im. He’s like the best around here too, so we kinda been wondering.” He shrugged.

“Thanks, Khalil, go ahead and put your board up.”

The boy nodded and went to the corner near her printer and stashed his skateboard. Jenny turned to welcome her other students, who loudly and boisterously pushed and shoved and insulted their way to their seats. She sighed and considered Arthur’s question once again. Did she love them? She used to, she knew, shaking her head at their uncivil behavior, but now she wasn’t sure anymore.

When she’d begun teaching, almost never would a student say “fuck you” to a teacher. Now they did it with impunity. Where they learned such behavior, she couldn’t imagine. Home? Television? It didn’t really matter. Whatever the reason, good manners, as they used to be called, or civil behavior, were a thing of the past, and everyone was the worse for it.

And yet, she was required to teach these kids Shakespeare and Fitzgerald—two authors she loved—rather than proper social behaviors that would benefit her students on a job and throughout their lives. Much as she loved classical literature, these kids didn’t need it and, it seemed to her, had more important lessons they
did
need to learn. Sighing again, she set about taking roll and calming the class so she could begin her required lesson plan for the day.