Thinking Straight (26 page)

I hand him the tissue. “Amen.”

W
hen the bell screams in the morning and I sit up, Charles is fully dressed. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, watching me.

“Praying for my soul?” I ask. He nods. “That's great; I can use all the help I can get.” I throw the covers back and face him. “How are you?”

He sort of shrugs. I'm about to stand up when he says, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How can you be so confident?”

I want to ask how he can be so desperate, but he looks kind of fragile. “Jesus is all about love, Charles. And think about this. He says we must love each other as we love ourselves. Which means we must love ourselves. He
assumes
we love ourselves. He doesn't say, ‘Love each other as you love yourselves once you've mortified and mutilated and fixed yourselves.' So—I guess I love myself. And that's the place I love you from.” This is pretty good, I'm thinking, for first thing in the morning.

“Who told you that?”

I can't really say Nate did. “A very wise person.” Let him think it was my boyfriend.

“Do you think you'll still be gay when you leave here?”

“I'll be gay all my life. I have been gay all my life, though I didn't know it until a year or so ago, and I will always be gay. It's who I am. It's not a choice, and it's not a mistake.”

“But…” His voice trails off, like it's tired of repeating the litany.

“It's like Harnett said last week—Monday? Yeah; the night you confessed. Her opening prayer said that God gives us all things. Not just joy, and pleasure, and beauty. He gives us everything. So it would be a mistake to try and change the way he made me just to get a pat on the head from Reverend Bartle. It would be like denying part of what God gave me. Which is not to say that being gay is bad. But as long as people like Strickland would rather see us dead, there's going to be pain involved.”

I can tell this isn't stuff he's ever heard before. Some of it's stuff
I've
never heard before. Charles doesn't quite know what to do with it. So he says, “Go shower or we'll be late for breakfast. Then there's church.”

Even though it's not true, I say, “I showered last night.”

He looks sharply at me and I wink. He turns away, trying not to grin. And failing.

 

Charles is right about Reverend Bartle. I don't know why I haven't taken to referring to him as Bartle all the time. Mrs. Harnett is Harnett, and Dr. Strickland is Strickland. Anyway, there's a note in my box at the office. I've been forgetting all week to look there, but Charles suggests we walk by—probably because he's expecting me to have an appointment. And I do. It's for two o'clock. I'm to go to the chapel and wait outside until he comes for me. I'll try to find Nate before that and ask about tonight's topic.

Finding Nate alone isn't easy; everyone is together for everything today, so there's not much chance for a private talk. First breakfast, then church, then Fellowship. And that's when I manage to corner him. I tell him my idea—what Job's assumption was and what we should learn from it. And he likes it, especially the bit that had occurred to me later about the test being how to help each other.

I'm trying to spend most of my time with Charles, to make sure he's okay, but after I talk to Nate I see Charles and Danielle are standing together, quietly, not even talking. I leave them alone.

So at one fifty-nine I'm standing outside the chapel door, practically at attention, waiting for Bartle—there, I did it; no
Reverend
—to come for me. Sounds like the grim reaper, doesn't it? That's about what I expect to happen.

The door opens and a girl whose name I don't know comes out, sniffling and wiping her eyes. Bartle looks at me, says he'll be with me in a minute, and goes back in. Cool trick, I'm thinking; trying to make it worse for me by seeing someone else come out in pieces and then making me wait some more. I'm determined not to fall for it. I think of Will.

Will, who's broken the rules of Straight to God a few times now. Will, who helps me keep what's going on here in perspective. Will, who actually tried to rescue me before I was incarcerated.

After I'd seen him read that note I'd given to his sister, based on what my dad had said and on my being grounded in every way imaginable, I expected I wouldn't have a chance even to talk to Will before I was carted off. But I underestimated him.

The Saturday night before I came here—hell, just a week and a day ago now!—I was in my room, door shut tight (I'd read the pamphlet from Reverend Douglas, and I knew shut doors would soon be a luxury I wouldn't be allowed), staring at luggage full of clothes I hated stacked on one side of the room, sitting on my bed and feeling so frustrated and so sorry for myself that I was nearly crying. I could barely hear the TV from the living room, where my parents were watching something. Beside me was some book my mom had bought, full of the testimonies of people who call themselves ex-gay and the stories of how they got there.

Ex-gay? What the fuck is that? Taken literally, it means no longer happy. That would be me. I had no intentions of ex-ing anything out of myself, and if I was praying around this issue it was to beg for support to live through it and come back to myself again. Back to Will.

Suddenly over the drone of the TV I heard a sharp sound. My head snapped toward the window. It happened again. It was a pebble bouncing off the screen. In about point-ten seconds I was there, hands on the sill, straining to see into the dark of the backyard.

“Ty!”

OMG! I left the window only long enough to snap my light off so I could see him better. But when I got back, he was gone. Then I heard rustling in the maple tree that grows near the house. Will was climbing up to me! God, how much more romantic could he be? As quietly as possible, I pulled on the spring posts that held the screen in place and lifted the whole thing out, setting it against the wall beside me. I sat on the windowsill and watched as Will got closer and closer, and finally he reached out a hand and I grasped it. I tried to pull, to help him in, but he resisted.

“Ty, I'm not coming in. You're coming out.”

“What?”

“We're blowing this joint. I won't let them put you in this place. Grab a couple of things and throw them into your schoolbag. I've got my mom's car. We'll head for Mexico or something.”

I was shaking my head, even as my heart was trying to get me to obey him. “Will, no. We can't. You can't. You'll lose too much.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You have to go to college and then grad school. You have a mission, remember? Those books you're going to write about us, showing how what we are is something that has always been and always will be. Forever and ever amen. You have to do that.”

His whisper was harsh. “Fuck that shit, Ty! This is your
life!
Don't you know what happens to kids in there? Some of them come out a wreck, and some don't come out at all.”

“I'm not like those kids, Will. I know exactly who I am, and they can't take that away. It's only six weeks, and I'm not risking your future to avoid it.”

“But—”

“Listen. If I go through this and Dad still arranges for military school, we'll reconsider. Now please, go away before someone finds you here.”

“Move.”

“What?”

“Move aside. Get into the room.”

Puzzled, I did as he asked, and the next thing I knew he'd swung from a branch and was perched precariously on the sill. Frantic, I reached out and helped him in.

“Will, what are you doing? We'll be in so much trouble!”

He took my face in his hands and kissed me. “How much trouble can you get into beyond what you're in already?”

“You will!”

“Only if they find me.” He started taking off his clothes. “It's only, what, nine thirty? Your folks will be in front of the boob tube another half-hour at least.” He leaned on my shoulder and pulled his shoes off. “We can be quiet by then, and when they come upstairs I'll go into the closet or something.” He almost giggled. “Don't worry, I'll come out again!” His jeans and underwear were on the floor now and he was standing there stark naked and so fucking gorgeous. I didn't need much light to see that. “And then we can make love again. If you're determined to go, I'm going to send you off with as much gay sex under your proverbial belt as I can get there in the next several hours. Consider it psychological armor.”

He started on my clothes next, kissing me between buttons and zippers and shoes. Then he pushed me onto the bed. “Still got your secret stash of lube and condoms?” I nodded. I'd contemplated throwing them away, but the way my folks were watching me I couldn't do more than put them in a wastebasket, and how stupid would that be? Quickly Will went to the bookcase and pulled out the VHS cover for
Die Hard
that Nina had given me. He stood at the closed door for a few seconds, listening.

“I can hear them talking, so they're both there watching.” He moved over to where I was on the bed, propped up on my elbows and watching him. “We'll have time for sweet nothings and tender kisses in the afterglow, you beautiful, sexy homosexual. Now get ready to fuck.”

I pulled out the towel I usually had stashed inside my pillowcase and complied.

After my folks went to bed, Will and I lay in each other's arms for a long time. We did lots of kissing, but the talk was bittersweet.

“You were coming to rescue me,” I said, nuzzling under his chin.

“I still would, if you'd come with me.”

“Very romantic, Will, and a little stupid.”

He sighed. “I know. I just couldn't think what else to do, Ty. I hate the idea of you in that place, with them doing their damnedest to prove that Jesus doesn't love you until you change, that you can't get into heaven the way God himself made you. I told Nina, and she's ripshit, too. And I'm serious about what happens in that place. Or places like it, anyway. It scares the shit out of me to think that something might happen to you.” He teased my hair with his fingers as he spoke. It was hypnotic, or mesmerizing, or something, and I almost missed the words “I love you, Ty.”

It was the first time he'd said it. I guess I'd known for a long time that he felt that way. For sure, I'd known that I did. And I'd never said it either. I positioned myself over him, stroked that crazy hair away from his forehead, and kissed him lightly. “I love you, too. And I will love you just as much in six weeks.” I dropped another kiss. “
And
in the same way.” The next kiss was far from light.

He left sometime around four. We'd had sex maybe five times by then, in one way or another. Neither of us had more than dozed a little. Or been in any position where we weren't touching somewhere. It was tricky for him to get out: he had to jump from the window and grab a branch. Then he climbed back up so our fingertips could touch. He kissed his, I kissed mine, and we reached them toward each other. He dropped to the ground and was gone.

As I sit here now, waiting for Bartle and picturing Will drop away from me that morning, I'm near tears. Quickly I sit up and swipe at my eyes to get rid of any moisture that might have sneaked out. To help myself, I picture Bartle. Tall, white mop of hair, sharp nose. And Will's voice says, “He reminds me of a scarecrow.” I giggle. And just then Bartle opens the door.

I don't think he heard me chuckling, but it puts me on edge that he might have. He gives me this beatific smile and holds the door open for me. “Brother Taylor.”

“Reverend Bartle.” We're all so very polite, aren't we?

I walk in and stand, waiting for him to indicate what he wants next. He leads the way to the front, but instead of kneeling at the altar this time, he sits in a pew and gestures for me to sit beside him. There's about two minutes of silence, and ordinarily I would have been nervous every second waiting for him to say something. But not this time. When I figure out that he's doing this deliberately, I start to pray silently.

Jesus, thank you for loving me. Thank you for helping me love Charles. Help me get him to see that he's worthy of your love just as he is. That he doesn't need to change into anything he's not. Help me to—

“Brother Taylor, what are you thinking?”

“I was praying.”

“Tell me.”

“I was thanking Jesus for helping me to love my roommate.”

“Why did you need help?”

“Do you know Charles Courtney?”

Bartle evidently has no sense of humor; not even a chuckle escapes him. “Brother Charles is a wonderful young man. Have you had trouble loving him?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because he's a wonderful young man. It's easier to love people who are less wonderful.”

I'm not sure how he's going to take this, and obviously he's not sure how he wants to take it because he moves on. “I've read your MIs.” He waits. So do I. Finally he says, “You're slacking.”