by Chris Colfer
Her bedroom rattled as the garage door opened below it. She heard her father park his car and enter the house.
“Oh gosh, he’s home,” Mo said. “Here I go! Wish me luck, Peaches.”
The cat gave her a look that said, Go jump off a bridge instead. Mo neatly organized the information about Columbia University in the order she planned to disclose it. She walked down the stairs and found her father in the dining room. He was eating a bowl of soup and reading a Japanese newspaper.
“Hi, Dad. How was work?” she asked.
Mr. Ishikawa never looked up from his newspaper.
“Fine, fine, fine,” he mumbled. “Are you all packed for your trip tomorrow?”
“Almost,” Mo said, and cleared her throat to begin her prepared speech. “Dad, we need to talk. I don’t mean to ambush you, but we need to discuss my education—”
“Ambush?” Mr. Ishikawa asked. “What’s an ambush?”
She hadn’t planned for any interruptions but wasn’t surprised. Most of Mr. Ishikawa’s English died with his wife, consequently turning his daughter into a tutor/interpreter extraordinaire.
“Oh, an ambush is like a surprise,” Mo explained.
“Surprise?” he asked. “You’re going to surprise me?”
“There’s no surprise, Dad. I just need to have a conversation with you and I didn’t want you to be caught off guard by the subject matter.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, that depends on you,” she said, and went back to her speech. “I know it’s always been your dream to see me go to Stanford—”
“Oh yes,” Mr. Ishikawa said with a big nod. “Stanford is a great school. A great school will lead to a great job, and a great job will lead to a very successful life.”
“Um… right,” Mo said. “But after a lot of thought and reflection, I’ve decided Stanford may not be—”
“Reflection?” Mr. Ishikawa asked.
“Yes, to reflect on something also means to think about a certain situation.”
“Oh yes, yes, yes,” Mr. Ishikawa said. “You’re a smart girl and smart girls think quite a bit. That’s why you were accepted to Stanford.”
This was more difficult than Mo thought it would be and she had thought of almost every scenario possible—including a war breaking out in the middle of her speech. She tried to stick to the words she had prepared, but it was harder and harder to focus the more her father interrupted her.
“Stanford is what I’m trying to talk to you about,” she said. “You know, adulthood is about difficult decisions, and I don’t want to live with regrets. I’ve been thinking that Stanford may not be the right choice for me.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Moriko,” Mr. Ishikawa said. “You’ve studied very hard and earned very good grades. You deserve to go to Stanford as much as any other student. Don’t be afraid.”
The only thing Mo was afraid of was not getting her point across and she started to panic that she wouldn’t. Her father had trouble with English, but he was no dummy. Mr. Ishikawa probably knew what his daughter was up to and wasn’t as lost in translation as he appeared.
“Dad, you’re not listening to what I’m saying—”
“So many people applied to Stanford, but only the smartest were accepted.”
“Yes, I heard you loud and clear, now if you could just hear me out—”
“Stanford is a great opportunity and guarantees a great career—”
“DAD, I DON’T WANT TO GO TO STANFORD!”
Mo was more surprised by her outburst than her father was. Mr. Ishikawa dropped his spoon in his soup and stared across the table at the empty chairs. There was dead silence between them until Mo mustered up the courage to place the Wiz Kids folder in front of her father.
“I’ve been accepted into the creative writing program at Columbia University in New York,” she said. “That’s the school I want to go to and that’s the school I’m planning to attend. This is the information about the program and the courses I’m going to take. I know it’s not what you want, but this is my life and I’m a writer, not a businesswoman. Please support me in this.”
Mr. Ishikawa opened the folder and flipped through the papers inside but never looked at anything long enough to read it. He slid the folder back to Mo and crossed his arms.
“Columbia is a mistake, Moriko,” Mr. Ishikawa said. “Stanford is a smart choice.”
“Dad, Columbia is a great school and has a wonderful economics program I can minor in.”
“Writing isn’t a real profession. You need a respectable job to be a successful person.”
“You’ve never even read my writing! Maybe if you looked at it you’d change your mind—”
Mr. Ishikawa forcefully hit the table with an open hand, causing Mo to jump and his soup to splash on her Columbia acceptance letter.
“No more discussion!” he ordered. “You will go to Stanford and that is final!”
“Dad, please!”
Mr. Ishikawa silenced his daughter, not with another aggressive gesture, but by looking into her eyes for the first time that night.
“Make your mother proud,” he said softly.
The aspiring writer had never in her life been at a loss for words, and suddenly she was speechless. Her father hadn’t mentioned her mother in thirteen years, and now it wasn’t to comfort her, but to control her.
“Go to your room,” Mr. Ishikawa said. “Get some rest before your trip tomorrow.”
Mo took the Wiz Kids folder from the table and returned to her room in tears. She shut her bedroom door, picked Peachfuzzle off the pile of stuffed animals, and cuddled him on her bed against his will.
“Looks like we’re moving to California, Peaches.” Mo sniffled into her cat’s ear. “I don’t know what I was thinking. There’s no reasoning or sympathy in Dad—just regulations and standards.”
Peachfuzzle eventually clawed his way out from under her tight embrace. With zero compassion from her father or her feline, Mo went to her computer and found the empathy she so desperately needed in the only place she could find it: her writing.
Teardrops fell on her keyboard as she typed the opening paragraph to the next chapter of her Wiz Kids fanfiction novel. Its tone wasn’t as erotic as the previous chapters.
CHAPTER FIVE
The solar winds of the Andromeda Galaxy echoed through the crater’s canyons like a pack of coyotes howling at the full moons above. The winds frightened Dr. Bumfuzzle and Dr. Peachtree and they reached for each other throughout the night, but with the consequences of physical contact looming over their psyches, their open hands retracted before their fingertips met. They didn’t know how or when, but the Earthlings knew they had to find a way out of this affectionless world, even if it was the last thing they did.
Mo continued writing into the early hours of the morning before going to bed. The names, the faces, and the places weren’t her own, but the love between Dr. Bumfuzzle and Dr. Peachtree was the greatest love in her life. It may have been a fictitious relationship, but Mo figured vicarious compassion was better than no compassion at all. So she held on to Peachfuzzle like a life vest, hoping it would carry her through another dark and unforgiving storm.
Chapter Five
PASSWORD-PROTECTED
Joey Davis’s family was so picture-perfect that the people of Downers Grove often accused them of having made a deal with the devil. The claim was supposed to be ironic, since everyone knew Joey’s father was the pastor of the Naperville First Baptist Church—the second-largest Baptist congregation in Illinois.
Pastor Jeb Davis was a bit of a local celebrity in the tristate area. He shared the word of God with such confidence and passion the members of his church were convinced he was channeling Jesus himself. People drove in from miles away to hear his sermons every Sunday morning, and their daughters came along to gawk at the pastor’s handsome sons.
This was among the many reasons why Joey hated church. There was something very
uncomfortable about getting winked at by teenage girls while listening to your father preach about the last temptation of Christ.
“When are you going to get a girlfriend, Joey?” was the question he got asked the most at church.
“As soon as I find the right girl,” Joey would reply, when he really wanted to say, Did you not hear my dad’s sermon about abstinence last week? Would you want to date with a father like that?
“What’s next for you after high school?” was the second question he got asked the most at church. “Are you going to become a missionary like your brothers?”
“Actually, I’m going to Oklahoma Baptist University for college,” Joey would reply, resisting the urge to say, “Absolutely not. Rewarding poor villagers with clean water and AIDS medication in exchange for memorized Bible verses isn’t my cup of tea.”
Joey was the middle child of five strapping Davis boys. His older brothers, Matthew and Jeb Jr., were doing the Lord’s work in Uganda. His younger brothers, Noah and Peter, were spawn of Satan that Joey had the misfortune of sharing a bedroom with.
“You goddamn heathens!” Joey yelled at them. “Where did you guys hide my phone charger? It was on my bed twenty seconds ago!”
He only had an hour before he and his friends left on their road trip and he was still packing. His little brothers weren’t making it any easier and kept hiding his belongings every time he left the room. The boys acted perfectly innocent as they lay in their bunk beds playing Moses: Escape from Egypt on their Game Boys.
“Matthew 7:8,” Peter said. “‘For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.’”
“I’m gonna knock open your skull if you don’t cough it up!” Joey threatened.
“He hid it in his whale,” Noah said. “I saw him do it when you were packing your toiletries in the bathroom.”
“Tattletale!”
Joey yanked a plush whale out from under Peter’s head and found his charger inside its zipped-up mouth. He hit his brother with the whale so hard a plush Jonah popped out of it.
“Now where the hell is my wallet?” Joey demanded.
“Matthew 13:50,” Noah recited. “‘And throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’”
“You won’t have any teeth to gnash if you don’t tell me where my wallet is!” Joey said, and raised his fist.
“He put it in the air-conditioning vent!” Peter said.
“Snitches get stitches!”
Joey used Noah’s Popsicle-stick model of the Tower of Babel as a footstool to retrieve his wallet, crushing a dozen clay figurines under his feet.
“All right, I’m done packing,” Joey said. “If either of you messes with my stuff before I leave, ‘Cain and Abel’ will look like Milo and Otis by the time I’m done with you.”
“Boys, come downstairs!” their mother called from the bottom of the stairwell. “Your father wants to say a prayer for Joey before we go to church!”
Joey and his brothers climbed down the stairs and joined their parents in the living room. There was a framed painting over their fireplace of Pastor Jeb and Jesus Christ embracing in matching robes, as if the two were on the same boxing team. The pastor was standing just below the painting, with one hand on the mantel and the other holding the notes for his upcoming sermon. His wife walked around him, brushing his suit off with a lint brush and snipping any loose threads she found.
As Joey watched his parents get ready for church, he found it hard to believe Jeb and Mary Davis were capable of causing a scandal, but they were the talk of the town when they first moved to Downers Grove in the late 1980s. Since Joey’s mother was white, the interracial couple faced some troubling times as they formed a church in the conservative part of town. Pastor Davis’s early days at the pulpit were challenging, but the more he spoke out against the discrimination he and Mary received, the bigger his following became. Today, many people gave Pastor Davis credit for bringing the community together.
The stories made Joey so proud, but also confused him. His parents had faced obstacle after obstacle on their way to acceptance, only to use their platform to discriminate against others in the same way. Pastor Jeb’s sermons were very compassionate, but he was never shy about condemning those he found “unfit” for God’s love.
Joey wondered if his parents simply ran out of compassion, or if all social trailblazers become hypocrites in the end.
The pastor finished going over his notes and tucked them away in his lapel. “God is good, God is good, God is good,” he sang to himself. “Okay, boys, gather ’round. We’re going to pray for Joey’s trip before he leaves.”
The Davis family formed a circle around their coffee table, joined hands, and closed their eyes. Noah and Peter always played a game of who could kick the other the hardest without getting caught whenever their father led them in prayer—a game Matthew and Jeb Jr. invented when they were kids.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” the pastor began. “We’d like to take a moment on this beautiful Sunday morning to thank you for all you have blessed us with. We thank you for our home, we thank you for our family, and we thank you for allowing us to share your glorious word.”
Whenever Joey prayed, he always imagined God as Ian McKellen lounging on a cloud and listening to the receiver of a golden rotary phone. He wondered if God appreciated all the gratitude in his father’s prayers or if he ever thought, Just get to the point, you little kiss-ass!
“Heavenly Father, you’ve provided us with so much to be thankful for and we come to you now with a humble request,” the pastor went on. “Please watch over Joseph as he embarks on a cross-country road trip with his friends Christopher Collins, Samantha Gibson, and Moriko Ishikawa—”
“Yeah, Daddy!” said a loud, breathy voice.
The Davis family unanimously opened one eye and glanced at one another, but none of them knew where the voice had come from.
“What was that?” Mary asked.
All three of her sons shrugged and Pastor Jeb continued his prayer.
“Heavenly Father, we ask you to keep Joseph and his friends from harm’s way and shield them from any hidden dangers on the road. Please give them the wisdom to make smart, responsible, and safe choices. May the fear of disobeying your word prevail over the temptations of sin. Allow him to return a better, a wiser, and a more holy man than today—”
“Yeah, Daddy!” the mysterious voice sounded again.
“Boys, electronics off when your father is speaking to the Lord,” Mary reprimanded. “You know the rules.”
“My Game Boy is upstairs!” Peter said.
“So is mine,” Noah said. “It must be coming from Joey’s phone.”
“My phone doesn’t make sounds like that,” he said.
Joey pulled his phone out of his pocket just to be certain. As soon as he saw the screen his eyes doubled in size. He was wrong—it was coming from his phone.
“Yeah, Daddy! Yeah, Daddy!” the breathy voice moaned as two new notifications appeared.
Faster than lightning, Joey switched his phone to airplane mode and shoved it back into his pocket before anyone in his family could see it.
“Joseph, what was that?” Mary asked. “Why was your phone making such a provocative sound?”
“Sorry, it was just Candy Crush,” he lied. “I have four new levels to beat. Back to you and the Lord, Dad.”
His mother gave him a stern look and the pastor finished his prayer.
“Heavenly Father, please allow Joseph to enjoy these final weeks with his friends before they go off to college. Also, we ask you to continue watching over Matthew and Jeb Jr. as they spread your good word throughout Uganda. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” the others repeated.
“Noah and Peter, give your brother a hug good-bye and get in the van,” Mary said.
Joey’s brothers stepped on his feet as hard as they could, then ran out of the
house before he could grab them by the collars.
“Boys, you’re making Satan smile!” Mary called after them, then gave Joey a hug and kissed his cheek. “Stay safe out there, and make sure you call us and give us updates as you go.”
“I will,” Joey said.
His mother left the house and followed his younger brothers to the van. Instead of embracing his son, Pastor Jeb placed both hands on Joey’s shoulders and looked him right in the eye.
“We’re up against some troubling times, Joseph,” the pastor said very seriously. “It’s a scary world you’re about to travel through. Don’t let anyone turn you into a cautionary tale, you understand?”
“I won’t,” Joey said. “You don’t have to give me the talk again, Dad. If anyone tries to give me trouble, I’ll just walk away like you told me to.”
“Good,” he said. “And remember, son, the Lord is watching you.”
The pastor froze for a few seconds to let his words sink in.
Joey gulped. “I’ll miss you, too.”
The pastor gave Joey a strong pat on the back and headed for the door. Once his family was out of the house, Joey ran upstairs to his room and watched them in the driveway below his window. They climbed into their van and drove down the street, but Joey waited until they were completely out of sight before looking away. He shut the blinds, leaned a chair against the door in case they returned, and then pulled out his phone to read his recent notifications:
You have four unread messages on ManNip.
Joey clicked on the notification bubble and a gay hookup app loaded on his phone. The mascot of ManNip was a winking cat with sharp teeth, bulging biceps, and washboard abs. The app showed a map with the locations of gay men sprinkled across the nearby cities. It also had an itinerary option, so the gays of other towns could know when you were traveling.
Most important, the app was free, so it would never show up on his parents’ phone bill—a real plus for a church boy in the closet.
Joey had only downloaded ManNip the night before and couldn’t believe he had already been messaged. He had created a fake profile using the name Jay Davison, who he said was a twenty-two-year-old Anthropology student at Northwestern University in Chicago. He had uploaded photos of his torso, cropping his head out except in pictures taken at a great distance so no one could recognize him.
