The Language of Silence (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brett
:

My secretly gay brother committed a hate crime at a party just like the one I left, a party where I was called a dyke. Granted, I had been caught kissing a girl, but the term was still inappropriate.

Rude.

But expected.

These parties were like our very own therapy sessions. Being Wendalled was like the ultimate vent fest. The others literally purged their disgust at whatever you did all over you.

We should thank our English teachers. The kids in our town really understand the idea of symbolism.

I was there the night Donnie Wallace got Wendalled.

Everyone knew Donnie Wallace was gay. His dad owned two of Wendall’s most popular restaurants, so people tended to pretend like they didn’t know about young Wallace’s sexual orientation. The town had enacted their very own Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy. Occasionally, an older member of the community would drop off a pamphlet on the Lord’s views on homosexuality at the restaurant, but the harassment never got worse than that.

Until a few weeks ago.

Donnie had visited some family in San Francisco, and when he came back, he was a changed man. I’m not sure what happened there, but whatever happened, he wasn’t afraid anymore. No longer was he able to keep who he was from the world. He pasted a rainbow patch on his book bag, and hand created a t-shirt with a nametag on it stating: Hello. I’m The Fag. Underneath the nametag was a picture of a bundle of sticks. Get it? Fag—meaning bundle of sticks. Nobody said anything to him at school. Well, except me. I asked him if the shirt came in small. As a fan of handmade t-shirts, his beat mine hands down.

There was a rumor the guidance counselor called him in to talk about his life choices, but that seemed to be the extent of the reaction he was going to get from Wendall High.

When he showed up to the party a few weeks back, he got a whole new reaction. Wendall’s students were out of their cells and filled with booze and illegal and prescription drugs. Everyone shunned him the minute he walked into the door. If he touched a chip, they dumped the bowl out. If he sipped from a cup, they sprayed it with cleaner. Kevin ran upstairs and hastily drew on a white t-shirt: Hello. I’m a Fag Hater. Underneath his words, he drew a crude picture of two males going at it.

I told Tristan I wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. I didn’t understand. Only a month before
, he’d come out of the closet to me. How could he stand by and watch this? The more I insisted we leave the party, the more he talked less to me and started joking around with Kevin.

I just couldn’t fathom it. I knew my brother didn’t want the rest of Wendall to know he was gay. I understood that. It was better to stay quiet. We had only ever talked about him being gay once, but his need to join in on the teasing of Donnie seemed almost cannibalistic.

When Donnie left the party, he got Wendalled. Instead of taking it like all Wendall students had silently agreed to do, Donnie threw a fit. He cursed and yelled. He promised to press charges. This incensed the crowd of morons. Fine. He was gay, but he didn’t have to flaunt it. Keep it to yourself. That’s what they all thought.

But Donnie didn’t, and he had to graciously accept the punishment for that. And when he didn’t, they beat him for it.

My brother helped.

I watched with the rest of the partygoers. I didn’t stop them. When we drove home, my brother and I didn’t talk about what happened. Donnie missed three days of school, and he never reported the incident. He stopped speaking altogether.

I kept waiting for my brother to speak of that night, but he never did. Neither did I.

Tonight, no one but Ed spoke up for me at the party. Why is it so hard for us to speak? Thinking back on Donnie
, I feel sick. What I went through tonight was nothing compared to his experience. I had not spoken that night. I had not asked for them to stop. I stayed silent.

I was Wendall.

Ed’s yelling at me to get in the shower, but I can’t move. I keep staring at myself in the mirror. Trash still covers me. It’s really rather fitting symbolism.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

Ed
:

“Brett, get in the shower,” I yell.

She doesn’t move.

“Enough of the damn dramatics. Get in the shower. You smell like trash.”

Completely still.

I yank back the shower curtain and put my hand in the water to check the temperature. It’s fine. I grab her by her upper arms and plop her down into the tub. She yelps. It’s the first sign of life I’ve seen from her.

She’s staring at me, and I feel like I’m being ripped apart. The defiant piece of lettuce begins to trudge its way down her hair. The water causes her hair to stick to her face. The whiteness of her dress is no more. I can see her skin. I can see her body. I can see the outline of her bra and underwear.

She tucks her head against her thighs.

I need this to be over.

“No. You stand up. Take a shower, and then I am taking you home.” I meant to sound in control, but my voice is choked with emotion. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Before I know it, I’m in the shower too. I’m on my knees in front of her. The water is rushing down my back and spraying onto her.

She looks up at me, and I feel like my blood is rushing so fast through my veins that I must be dying. We’re both breathing heavily now. I can see the water rushing in and dribbling out of her mouth.

God, she is beautiful.

I want to kiss her so badly it’s physically painful.

“I don’t want to go home. I want to be with you,” she chokes out.

I grab her by the arms again and pull her toward me. We’re both on our knees now. I’m so close to her. So damn close. A moan escapes my lips. I’m not even kissing her and I’m so freakin
’ ready.

I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stand this for one freaking second longer.

I press my lips to hers.

She comes alive.

Her mouth opens and her tongue slips onto mine.

I’m dying.

Whoever said the orgasm is a little death was right on the money.

I pull away from her. I’m breathing so heavily that it’s embarrassing. I gently push her so her back is leaning against the tub. I shift and brace one of my hands against the far wall of the shower so I’m leaning over her.

This is so beyond dumb.

We’ll regret this.

I know it.

I press my forehead against hers.

Damn it. Why can’t I breathe?

I feel her legs open slightly. My fingers rest against her ankle. She lifts her body up and kisses my neck. I’m moaning again like some complete and utter schmuck.

Now she’s the one breathing like someone dying. She closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall. The water hits her neck and runs down her chest. My hand moves up her leg. I can feel her body tense with anticipation. I don’t stop. I keep going.

If there’s one thing I know about Brett Jensen it’s
that she knows what she wants. If she wanted me to stop, she would tell me.

Her legs open a little wider, and I find her.

When we’re done, I leave her alone to finish up her shower. I still haven’t seen her naked, and it felt weird hanging around so she could wash her hair.

I don’t hesitate to pull her close to me in bed. Maybe it’s my bashed in face or the Valium, but I want to enjoy this. I’m going to pretend this night has no consequences. I’m just going to do what I want. I want her in my arms. Her hair is still wet, and her face is flushed. We don’t talk about what just happened.

Brett lays her head against my chest.

And for a few hours, everything is right in the world.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brett
:

For the second time in less than a week, I find myself pretending to be asleep in Ed’s bed. I once again fear waking up and realizing everything that happened the night before no longer matters. Last time, it was because we cuddled. This time, it’s because of a little more.

Wow.

What a night.

I didn’t expect any of that.

Ed’s arms tighten around me.  “Are you awake?” he asks. It’s only a whisper, but I’m afraid of what comes after it. Can we really be together? Is that what last night meant? Or was it merely some weird thing that happened between two people who needed someone?

I have to face it sooner or later. “Yes, I’m awake,” I whisper back.

We both fall silent. It’s a little unbearable, to be honest. I reluctantly open my eyes and shift so I’m looking at him. I can’t help but cringe. He looks horrible. His face is covered in bruises and cuts.

“That bad, eh?”

“That bad,” I confirm. The last thing I am going to do after last night is lie to him. For better or worse, it’s the truth from here on out.

The truth will set you free.

Hopefully.

Ed clears his throat. “So…
last night was interesting.”

I nod.

“Thoughts?”

“On last night?”

“Seems a good place to start,” he replies.

“Thanks for getting your butt kicked for me,” I offer. Why is it so hard to say the things I want to say?

“No problem,” he replies, laughing slightly. I can hear the nervousness behind the laugh.

He is going to make me do everything. I lay my head back down on his chest. I have found the courage to speak the words, but I can’t
look at him while I do. My cheeks heat up as I think back to the events in the shower. I clear my throat, and he moves under me.

“Do you regret it?” I wish my voice wasn’t so shaky.

“The truth?”

“Always.”

“No. I don’t regret it. I just fear I will later.”

I take a deep breath. Not the answer I dreamed of, but one I can accept.

“Can I kiss you again?”

The hesitation in his voice catches me off guard. I look up at
him and he is actually blushing too. Am I the cause of this? I can’t fight the smile that spreads across my lips. I nod.

He cups my cheeks in his hands and brings my face to his. His lips gently touch mine. The kiss is much different from the one the night before. Last night
, everything was filled with such tension and anxiety. There is something subtler about this kiss.

His lips move slowly against mine, and the kiss deepens into something I am experiencing for the first time. It feels like he is pulling my whole soul into his.

Something in me knots up, but it’s an enjoyable pressure. We break away to catch our breath. He pulls me closer to him again, and I welcome him. We continue to move at the same pace. I briefly wonder if he wants to do more than this. Last night, his hands had wandered across my body, and it was almost suffocating how much I wanted more.

His hands stay placed halfway on my cheeks and neck. He seems content with this.
“Want me to make us something to eat?” I ask, finding my voice a little breathy.

“Doesn’t that go against your rules or something?”

“My rules?”

“Remember last spring? Tristan and I came home from the movies, and he joked around telling you to get into the kitchen and make him some damn dinner. You just roll
ed your eyes. The next day, he bought you that ridiculous apron that said ‘World’s Best Wife and Mother.’ He taped it to your door, put a post-it under it, and wrote, ‘something to aspire to.’”

I groan.

Ed laughs. “And then you sat me and Tristan down and lectured us for like an hour on the women’s rights movement, and how women could be whatever they wanted to be. They didn’t have to be wives or mothers, or they could be wives and mothers…”

I put my hand over his mouth to stop him from talking. “You remember that?”

He pulls my hand away. “Kind of hard to forget.”

I move to sit up. “I don’t think the entirety of feminism will crumble if I g
o downstairs and make us a Pop Tart.”

Ed chuckles. “If you say so.”

I playfully hit him in the chest before getting out of the bed. Before I can get too far, Ed grabs me by the wrist. “Are we going to be alright?” he asks, suddenly serious.

“I sure hope so.”
They are the only words that come to me. They aren’t poetry, but they are my heart’s dearest wish. I stop at the door before leaving. “And about last night… I may have enjoyed myself,” I admit sheepishly.

Ed grins. “Good to know.”

I giggle. The tiniest giggle. Darn that boy and his ability to make me giggle. “You are an idiot,” I yell at him over my shoulder.

*
***

I’m actually whistling. I’m actually happy. For the first time since Tristan died, I can say I feel good. It’s not just because I finally got somewhere with Ed
, though that in itself is some kind of miracle. It’s more about speaking for myself.

I speak out for everything. I find so many causes to rally behind. But it’s weird. I found it difficult to say those things to Ed. Maybe because they were the things I was most afraid to say.

I was kind of a badass last night.

I’m grinning as I rummage through the pantry for our
breakfast of champions. I don’t hear Ed’s mom come into the kitchen. Between her long hours at the factory and her own social life, she’s hardly around, which is kind of sad because Ed’s mom is awesome.

I would often wander away from Ed and Tristan while over
at the house to talk to her. We would talk about everything. She would always sneak me her old copies of
Cosmo.
It was sort of our thing. My mom wouldn’t be caught dead reading the magazines, and I didn’t want to open myself up to ridicule from Tristan and Ed.

But now, sitting in nothing but Ed’s silly Clash t-shirt, I find it utterly impossible to speak at all. I think about what happened
in her bathroom, in her house, and I’m mortified. I’m sure she can read every smutty detail on my face. Ed’s mom nods quickly and moves past me to the refrigerator. I’m going to die from embarrassment. Literally.

I try
to silently will the darn Pop Tarts to hurry up.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

This woman has been gracious enough to let me stay here while my mom is going crazy. What do I do? I take advantage of her son. Well, maybe not exactly. Still.

The Pop T
arts appear and I feel like screaming with joy. I grab a paper towel and throw them on it. My fingers burn. I’m almost out of the kitchen before her voice halts me.

“Brett? Can we talk for a moment?”

“Of course,” I reply, walking back into the room. I set the Pop Tarts on the counter, and try to discreetly pull down on the t-shirt that suddenly seems much smaller than it was before. She hands me a glass of orange juice, and I offer a pathetic thanks.

“You know I love Ed, right?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I just want you to understand that. I love my son. I know we don’t have the most traditional of relationships, but he’s everything to me.”

“Oh. I know that.”

“So, please keep that in mind when I tell you this. You need to be careful, Brett.”

“Careful?” Oh, God. Is she talking about condoms and stuff? I know she’s the cool mom and all, but this is too much. My first anything was only last night.

“He’s got some stuff to figure out...”

I take a sip of my orange juice. For some reason, I don’t like where this conversation is going. I look up at her and she is silent. How aware of silence I have become. It seems to be a living thing. It fills the space between me and the woman who gave life to the boy I love. We should have tons to talk about, but neither of us can speak.

Ed’s mom reaches out and grabs my hand in hers. “He’s not in a good place, Brett. I see the way he looks at you, and the way you look at him. I know you two care about each other, but maybe now isn’t the best time for a relationship.”

“We’re…I mean…we are both young. We’re just having fun. I mean. Not
that
kind of fun. If we were…we would be safe. But we’re not. I know it looks different. I mean…”

“Brett.”

I take a step away. I don’t want to hear this. Am I supposed to lose everything? Can I save nothing?

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I manage to nod. When I get back upstairs, Ed is sitting up and flipping through the channels. “Bon appetite,” I say as I throw him a Pop Tart. I sit on the edge of the bed, my back toward him.

“You alright?”

I turn to him with the biggest smile I can fake. “I’m great.”

And I start to lie.

Lying is easier than speaking.

I’ll have to remember this when I speak to Donnie Wallace.