Thinking Straight (25 page)

“It kind of hurts, but not too bad. There's some spotty red specks, kind of like a rash. You know?”

“I think you should stop, Leland. I don't think you should be doing that.”

“I know! That's what Reverend Bartle says. That's why he's making me do it with a washcloth. He says if I—you know, play with myself often enough in a way that hurts, I won't want to do it anymore.”

“Uh, Leland, that's not what I mean. I'm saying you shouldn't be rubbing yourself raw with
anything.”

“But he's gonna ask me about it! And what will I tell him?”

“Here's what you say. You don't even have to tell him you're going to stop. Just tell him you recognize what a sin it is, and you're going to put it in your next MI.”

“He already told me not to do that.”

Nate's voice sounds like he's trying to control himself. “Leland, the people in Leadership are supposed to care about the things you don't put in your MI that you should. But there's no rule that says you can't put in anything you want, as long as it's true. And if you feel weird about this, then you're breaking a rule if you
don't
put it in. Tell him that.”

I've heard more than enough. I know what I'd say to anyone who tried to make me rub my dick raw with a washcloth, and it wouldn't be pretty. I'm getting a more complete picture of just what Nate is doing to help Leland. He's protecting him from the assholes who run this place, because Leland is too timid and probably too vulnerable to defend himself. Awful as some of the “leadership” in this place can be, it seems beyond their usual level of horrendous to tell Leland to do that to himself. God have mercy on their souls.

I make my way slowly back to my room, which is empty; don't know where Charles is. Maybe I can get started on a letter home, which they'll probably let me send tomorrow or Monday. So I brush my teeth, get into my pajamas, and settle in at my desk.

First, I think about Will. I go over all his features—not just the ones on his face—and imagine kissing every inch. This has a predictable effect, but I'm quick with my tissues, and I know what I have to do with them afterward. I won't put Charles in an awkward spot.

Charles. What's his story, really? I know only the obvious things: gay, praying to be straight; desperate to love and be loved; taking on bad things that happen as if they were his fault; being loyal to me in ways I would never have predicted; anxious always—always—to do the right thing. And most of all, to be what's expected of him, even if that's not what he is.

Suddenly I get it. The android impression. The one I'd had when I'd first met him? It's because he's trying so hard to be something he isn't that he's all wooden outside. Or metallic. Something stiff, anyway. I want to shake him up. I want to get inside him, into his heart of hearts. I want him to burst out of that artificial shell and be real for himself.

Yeah, right. And just who the fuck do I think I am? This isn't about me. It isn't about what I want. It's about Charles. But maybe both “abouts” can exist together—my want, Charles's need. And maybe that's the true test—to figure out a way to help each other. That first night, when Charles had made me kneel with him and he'd prayed out loud, thanking God for me, I'd thought it was way over the top. I'd thought he was this big hypocrite. But now I think it was real. He was thanking God for giving him another gay roommate to watch over, like God had said, “Okay, kid, but don't lose this one, got it?”

And I'd prayed my own prayer, and I'd decided so smugly that I would show Charles another path. What an infant I'd been. I didn't understand a fucking thing then.

But there is another path, and I'm on it now. And I want him to see it.

I'm still sitting at my desk, pen tapping on the pad, chin in my hand, when the object of my ponderings walks in. He says a quick “Hi” and grabs his bathroom kit. He's beat lights-out by only about fifteen minutes, which is cutting it close for him. When he gets back he pulls the curtain and puts his nightclothes on, pushes the curtain back again, kneels for a few minutes, and climbs into bed. Not a word to me. I turn in my chair and look at him. Can't see more than a lumpy pile of cloth; he's turned to face the wall.

I throw my pen down and flip off my desk light, the only one still on. From where I sit on the edge of my bed, I can hear Charles breathing. A couple of times he snuffles.

That does it.

“Charles?”

Silence. Then, “Can't talk. It's lights-out.”

“Got five minutes yet. Besides, the lights are out. Are you crying?”

More silence. “Go to sleep, Taylor.”

“No.”

That gets him. He sits up. “What?”

“I said no. I won't go to sleep. Y'know, my first breakfast here, Jessica—or Marie, I forget which—accused you of being secretive. Of harboring things that need to see the light. I'm beginning to think she may have been right.”

He throws himself back down again. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You do so. Look, I know you couldn't say a lot to me the first few days because of SafeZone, and then there was more of it, but we should be able to talk to each other now. You've been pretty great to me all around, but you don't talk.”

“Now's not the time to start.” But I get up and sit on the edge of his bed. Suddenly he's frantic. “Taylor, what do you think you're doing? Go back!”

“Hush. You'll bring the German shepherds in on us. I want you to talk to me. I'm not leaving this spot until you do.”

“All right, all right! Now go over there.” I go back to my own bed, and he sits upright, facing me. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What's with all the fasting?”

“I—I'm not going to talk about that. Choose something else.”

“Are you gay?”

“No!”

“You are, too.”

“I'm not. I was.”

“When?”

“Before coming here. Before being reborn.”

“And what are you now?”

A few heartbeats go by. “Don't be absurd.”

“When you sit next to Danielle, are you even tempted to take her hand? Do you wish you could kiss her? Do you want her to like you in that special way?”

“Taylor, you don't know anything about it.”

“Now
you're
being absurd. Of course I do. Did you have a boyfriend?”

There's a shaky breath from the other side of the dark room, and then he says, “Why do you want to talk about this?”

“First, tell me this. Will you be reporting me to anyone?”

“If you break a rule, I'll have to.”

“No, I mean, is Mrs. Harnett or anyone going to come to you and ask for your opinion about how well I'm doing?”

“That's not how it works. She'll make her own determination. And so will Dr. Strickland, when he talks to you. And you'll see, um”—there's just the slightest hesitation here, like he doesn't want to say the name—“Reverend Bartle again, probably tomorrow.”

“Joy.”

“Taylor, that's FI. Sarcasm.”

“Charles, my f…my gosh-darn
name
is Former Image. I had it before, I still have it. What makes you think you're not gay anymore?”

“You'll see. If you really want him to, Jesus can work miracles through your prayer. But you have to really want it, Taylor. Do you?”

“Why would I?”

I can almost see him blink in the dark. “Why…why would you? Why
wouldn't
you?”

“Do you think God makes mistakes?”

“You've got to stop thinking like that. It's a trap the non-Christians use to get us to forsake God's word.”

“So words written by men about God are more important than God? Y'know, the nine-eleven hijackers flew planes into buildings and killed thousands of people in the name of God. Calling out ‘In the name of God' doesn't make it right.”

His voice is a hoarse whisper, desperate. “Taylor, if you don't stop I
will
have to report you! Don't you know you're talking heresy? Honestly, you sound like a Roman Catholic! We live by scripture. You know that.”

“What happened to Ray?”

My eyes are getting used to the lack of light, and I can see Charles rub his face with both hands. “I don't want to talk about Ray.”

“Why not? Did God fail with him?”

“God doesn't fail.”

“So God feels the same way Strickland does?”

“Dr. Strickland? What do you mean?”

“He says he'd rather lose one of us to suicide than homosexuality. So why do you feel so bad about Ray?” Nothing I'm saying is particularly connected to anything else I'm saying, really. Truth be told, I'm doing my damnedest to confuse Charles and get him to blurt something out.

“Taylor, he died! He killed himself! That's mortal sin.”

“Now
you
sound Catholic. So is killing yourself worse than being gay? Because he must not have thought so. He must have thought death was preferable. But maybe it wasn't that death was preferable to being gay. Maybe it was preferable to being hated.”

“I didn't hate him!”

I debate for a few seconds and then decide to say, “But this isn't about you, Charles.” There's an odd noise from his side of the room, and I realize he's trying not to cry. I ask, “Do you hate me?”

His voice strangled, he says, “No, of course not.”

“Because I'm gay, Charles. God made me gay, and I don't believe he wants me to do anything to change that. I believe he wants me to learn how to love even the people who hate me because of it. And he wants them to learn to love me just as I am. Just as he made me.”

“No! We have to deserve God's love.”

“That's bullshit, Charles.”

“Taylor! I have to report that!”

“You do not. And you're not going to. Because I know that you're still gay. Your prayers haven't made you something you're not, because God doesn't want you to be different from how he made you. His answer is no, you'll never want Danielle's body the way you want a boy's, or a man's. Give it up.”

He throws himself down and pulls the pillow over his head. I can barely make out his words. “You're tempting me! You're deliberately tempting me!” And then, “Get behind me, Satan!”

He's sobbing by now. I get up again, sit on his bed, and pull him up. At first he fights me, but it's feeble. I hold him, and his arms go around me. I tell him, “I love you, Charles. I really love you. I don't
want
you, not that—I love you. And God loves you. You don't have to do anything but be who you are for God to love you.”

“But I do. I do have to change.”

“Why? So Harnett and Strickland and Bartle can love you in their limited way? God is not so limited. He can love you whether you're gay or straight.”

He pushes me away and wipes the back of his hand across his face. “We're not supposed to do this. We can't hold each other. We can't touch except in the presence of the brotherhood.”

I let go, but I don't get up. “Fine, but you can't stop me loving you. And you can't stop God either. Do you know how many kids there are like Ray? Do you know how many of us have killed ourselves because we couldn't stand the hate? Eleven kids in twelve years, while right here in this place, have taken their own lives because they were so desperate to do something they couldn't do. And others have killed themselves after they left.”

“That doesn't change what the Bible says….”

I ignore him. “I don't want you to be one of those kids, Charles. I'm going to watch you like a hawk.” He might not be able to see, but I'm grinning at him. The tables have turned, brother Charles. You're the one in danger now.

And I think he knows it. After a brief silence he says, “You'll go to hell, Taylor. You know that.”

“Is that were Ray is? Did God fail Ray?”

“I told you. God doesn't fail.”

“So God wanted Ray to go to hell and was going to get him there one way or another? Either he's gay or he kills himself….”

“Stop!” He slams his hand down on the bed beside him. “If you don't go back to your bed right now and be quiet, I will report you immediately. Do you know what they'll do to you?”

“It can't be any worse than what you're doing to yourself.” I get up and fetch a tissue. A clean one. “But I'm no martyr. And they can't fool me. And if Strickland wants my suicide, he's got a long wait. And Charles? I'll never be straight. And if you say you are, you're lying.”

“One more word…”