Thinking Straight (8 page)

What came to me was thinking about Mom. It was the laundry room itself that did it, actually. Like I said, the laundry room at home is where she usually goes when something awful has happened, like when Dad got arrested a few years ago for getting into a fight at this beer joint he goes to some Friday nights. He hadn't started it; one of his buddies had. But when he tried to break it up, the thing escalated, and…well, he never was one to walk away from an injustice, as he saw it, or from a friend in need, as he probably would have seen it. So he got involved, and a whole bunch of them were hauled into jail for the night. Nothing came of it, but Mom spent quite a while in the laundry room that evening.

What hurt was that she'd freaked as much as Dad when I'd told them I was gay.

It had nearly made me crazy seeing Dad go over to Mom and put his hand on her shoulder, like he was making it them against me. 'Cause I don't believe she saw it like that. And I don't think she sees it like that now. I don't know if it has anything to do with being gay, but I've always felt closer to her than to Dad. Well, I suppose some of the reasons I might not feel close to him are obvious. The gruff approach to everything, the temper, the heavy-handed attitude toward anything that smacks of gay or veers in any way from the literal Word of God. I mean, I believe in God. And I read the Bible. It's just that…well, here comes Angela's voice again. If you don't have to make sense…And sometimes taking scripture literally just doesn't make sense. But to Dad, that makes no difference.

Mom's attitude toward everything is gentler. More reasonable. More…human, I guess. Sure, she's devout, she believes. She's saved. Maybe the difference is in the way they see God. Dad's God is this big, powerful guy who throws down justice in the form of punishment when he's disobeyed. The God Mom prays to is a loving God, a God who understands and forgives despite being just as strict about the rules. I like Mom's God better. And I've always liked being with her more than with Dad, probably for the same reasons.

Interesting. Dad's God acts like him, and Mom's acts like her. And here I'd thought God was supposed to have created us in his image, not the other way around. B, WDIK? For that matter, what does
anyone
know?

 

I was feeling pretty sorry for myself by four, when Sean called all the kids with yellow stickers—about eight of us—together toward the front of the room. The way he spoke you could just hear the capital letters. “It's Contemplation time for everyone in SafeZone. For many of you, this is your first Contemplation. If you have questions, please refer to your Booklet. It's a good time to write your MI and a good time to pray or read your Bible. And remember to leave the door to your room open at all times. Dinner is at six. See you all tomorrow.”

So we all experienced for the second time that day the change from the warm, noisy room to the relative cool and near silence of the rest of the building. It felt like some kind of rite of passage, though what kind I couldn't have said. It was part relief, part emptiness.

My room felt kind of like that, too. I knew I was supposed to leave the door open, but I shut it part way anyway, just to see if anyone would notice. I had to leave an MI at Mrs. Harnett's office before dinner tonight, so I sat down at my desk to get that over with. What to write? “Struggles, thoughts, or temptations that have to do with sex, drugs, violence, or disobedience…”

Well, I could say that I'd been reprimanded about humming a song—no words, but even so—that had FI lyrics in it. That was true enough. But what were they going to do with this stuff after I wrote it? If Mrs. Harnett asked me whether I understood why that was wrong, what would I say?

“Well, idiot, you can't say anything, because you can't speak.”

The sound of my own voice was kind of creepy. I hadn't heard more than a word of it in—well, for some time. I looked up at the half-open door to see if there was anyone out there who might have heard me talking to myself, but it didn't seem like it.

Anyway, I was wrong, because by the time we would sit down for another cozy little chat, Mrs. Harnett and I, it would be Thursday morning at ten and I'd be out of SafeZone. That is, unless I did something horrendous between now and then.

She'd said we'd review the MIs together. Something about my getting benefit from them, wasn't it? Ha. Benefit. And she'd called me a Resident. I felt more like an Inmate.

I allowed myself a loud sigh—no words in that—and started to write. I figured it would be a little unbelievable if I didn't write anything, and I'd get hell anyway. So I wrote about the bad words that had come into my head at various times since I'd been dumped off here. And I wrote that I'd been caught humming that tune. I also said that I'd tried to make up for it by switching to the “Battle Hymn” after Sean had yelled at me. And maybe it was a lie of omission, but I didn't put down that I'd been imagining the alternate lyrics.

Then I put down that I'd accidentally spoken aloud to myself in my room during Contemplation.

I was about to write something about how I understood why all these things were wrong and that I would repent, change my ways, but I decided to let her say that. It should make her feel like she was having some effect on me. Besides, there was enough untruth in the thing already. And I'd always prided myself in the past on telling the truth as much as possible.

But pride is a sin, no? I'd have written that down, but then I'd have had to say why I wasn't proud anymore, and that would've meant confessing that I had lied in my MI, and—man, what a freakin' complicated thing this is! And then I remembered one reason I'd always tried to stick to the truth. I wouldn't have to remember what I'd lied about, or what I'd said when I'd lied.

Thanks to my concentration on this ethical dilemma, I was barely aware of someone passing in the hall. Only after I couldn't hear footsteps anymore did my brain register that they had slowed a little as they passed my partly open door. And when I realized this, it made me angry. It seemed like they were spying on me. Some anonymous “they.”

More on impulse than anything else I wrote: “I hate that writing this thing makes me want to lie. Lying is wrong. But I didn't mean to hum something forbidden. I just wanted to pass the time and I liked the melody. So I hated being reprimanded for it, and I wanted to lie by omission and not put it in. I don't blame Sean, or whoever turned me in, because they couldn't understand. And I couldn't help them understand, because I couldn't talk to them. So SafeZone makes things worse because I can't explain myself, and this ‘exercise' (Mrs. Harnett's word) makes me want to lie about it.”

I was kind of hoping this would confuse her. At least it would give her something relatively harmless to sink her teeth into, and maybe she wouldn't bug me for more.

So then I was done, the half-truth/half-lies sealed in the manila envelope Mrs. Harnett had given me, and I still had over an hour until dinner. I could read the Bible, I could pray, I could contemplate my sins. Or I could just sit here and feel alone.

I decided to contemplate my sins. Specific sins. Which was to say, times with Will. I'd made a pact with myself that I'd spend at least half an hour every day, even if it wasn't all thirty minutes together, thinking about him. And not just in passing. I hadn't really done that today, so maybe this would be a good time. Of course, there are certain dangers involved in thinking about Will. At least, in this place they're dangers. I glanced at the half-open door. Then I went and stood in it.

From the doorway, there were certain spots in the room I couldn't see. One spot, of course, was behind the door, but that was on Charles's side of the room. The other place that I couldn't really see, not very well at least, was the near corner to the left of the door. The room was just big enough that I had to step into it before I could see into that corner. Plus my desk was in the way.

I took the folded blanket from the foot of my bed and set it on the floor almost in the corner. I grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on my desk. Then I put my desk chair right into the corner, and I knelt on the blanket with my elbows on the seat of the chair. It was the position Charles had assumed when he was going to pray last night, and I'd done it, too. So I knelt there, facing the corner like some naughty kid doing time-out, thinking of Will.

Will.

I closed my eyes. I must have looked very penitent with my brow going into knots as I imagined running my fingers down the side of his naked body, seeing the wicked grin on his face that turned slowly into something else, his mouth and eyes half-open as my hand explored other parts of him. With my other hand, the one not touching Will, I undid my belt—only not just in my imagination. I stopped and listened carefully, then undid the button. Oh so slowly I pushed the zipper down, tooth by anxious tooth, until I was touching both of us—me and Will, at least in my mind—one hand for each.

My ears strained for anything like a quiet footfall, a voice in the distance, the creak of a door. Nothing. I bent my head. And I pulled.

Fortunately I'd gotten very good at keeping quiet doing this at home. It's true my breathing was a little—well, raspy. But other than that, the only thing I heard was in my mind, when Will came, that rich “ah” sound he makes at the very end. And a little grunt of my own. I gritted my teeth and clamped my lips shut so I would be as silent as possible.

I got the tissues into position just in time.

That had hardly taken half an hour, so I had the luxury of kneeling there for a while longer, eyes still closed, picturing Will's sleepy eyes, his smile languid with satisfaction and affection. For me.

Elbows on the chair seat again, head bent against my hands, I resumed a prayerful attitude. “Please, Will,” I begged in a whisper, “don't forget me. Don't give up on me. I'll be with you again.” I swear I felt something on my lips. Like he had kissed me.

Kissing Will. I thought of the first time we'd kissed. Now, don't get me wrong; I wouldn't give up my first kiss with Will—or what happened afterward—for anything. But once we got back to school, we had to act like nothing had happened. Straight couples have this whole scene they can get to know each other in. Dates, dances, mixers, parties—it goes on and on. They get to have their first kisses in as romantic a situation as they want, and then they get to talk about it. Not us.

My friend Nina Stern came running to me every time she had a new boyfriend, or any time she thought maybe she was going to. But do you think for one minute I could go running to her with stories about Will? And all over school you could tell when some new couple was forming. The kids who went to my church were a little more reserved about it, but even with them you could tell. Between the googly eyes and sitting as close together as possible in the cafeteria, the hetero couples were all over the place. So sweet. So cute. So infuriating.

I didn't begrudge them their happiness. Well, maybe just a little, because after all, weren't they begrudging me mine?

Will was brave. He smiled at me, at least, whenever he saw me. But you didn't catch us holding hands as we walked down the hallway. Hell, you didn't even see us walk down the hallway together.

All that next day in school, after that first kiss, I could barely pay attention to what was going on in my classes. I kept wondering what gay couples do to arrange their next nondate. Should I call Will? Would he call me? If he didn't call me in a few days, was that a bad sign, or was he just being cautious? We'd exchanged cell phone numbers before he left my bedroom the night before, so calling was an option. But would it be a reality?

The test in World History, of course, was the hardest part of a difficult day, because Will was
right there.
I could almost feel his tongue in my mouth.

The teacher asked Will to collect all the papers at the end, and as he was coming down my row I looked up at his face. He was smiling at me. Something welled up in my chest, and I couldn't trust myself not to do something really stupid, so I closed my eyes until he was past. After that, the challenge was to catch my breath and adjust my jeans.

I was on the bus on the way home when my cell rang. Will's number! “Hello?” My hand was shaking, and it wasn't just the bouncing from the bus's lousy suspension.

“Hey! Where are you?”

“On the bus.”

“Why?”

“What?”

Silence. I checked my signal; still okay. Then, “Didn't you get my note?”

My silence now. Note? “What note?”

“You goof. I dropped it onto your desk when I picked up your paper in History. I was gonna try and sneak it to you after class, but then I got that opportunity.”

“I didn't see it. What did it say?”

“I asked if you wanted to go and watch the football team practice. More homoerotic subtexts out on the field than in
Ben Hur
and
Lord of the Rings
put together. I'm here at school, waiting for you.”

“Oh…”

He laughed. “Look, never mind. Next time. Call me after dinner. Say, nine-ish?”

I tore into my messenger bag for any sign of the note, irritating the hell out of the guy next to me in that cramped space. Finally, toward the bottom of the bag, I saw it.