I find myself thinking how frustrating it must be for Jessica, and for Dawn, not to be able to hang together—to have Jessica tied to Marie like it’s some kind of penance. Or some kind of sacrifice. Like it was for Will and me at school. Only maybe even worse.
Saturday, although I had expected something different, is essentially the same as any other day of the week. So I spend my day in the laundry room, and I spend my break time with my eyes glued to the chain-link fence. And today, it pays off. I don’t get to see much, but I’m watching Nate as he saunters that way during afternoon break. I’ve positioned myself so I’m at an extreme angle to the spot where Will must have been the time I saw Nate take something through the chain links and as close to that fence as I dare; if I see Will, I’m not sure I’d be able to pretend I wasn’t looking at something worth more than gold to me.
Nate’s progress is slow and casual, and he walks past the spot at first. He leans against the fence, facing the inner yard, gazing at nothing for a minute, before he turns and heads back.
And that’s when I see it. Will’s hand, with the leather thong on his wrist. Nate is dragging his hand along the fence, and I imagine it must have my note in it. And sure enough, when he gets close enough to that hand, there’s an exchange. Just for a second I see Will’s fingers snatch the scrap of paper, and then they’re gone. My hands grip the outsides of my thighs in a superhuman effort to force myself not to call out, not to run to the fence and scramble over it, not to go after Will and wrap him up in myself so tight he’d nearly strangle.
Finally Nate moves away from the fence, his gaze grazing everyone in the yard including me. And, just barely, he winks at me. I close my eyes and struggle to calm my breathing.
I’ve sent him away. I’ve told Will not to come again. What was I thinking? Was I crazy?
But I know this is the only way we can win. We just have to wait them out.
Saturday night there’s a movie. Some Disney thing. They’ve set up folding chairs all over the Fellowship room. We all go, or most kids do, because the only other thing to do is read or pray. Plus there’s popcorn and soda.
Marie is at the movie, and her sticker is gone; guess Harnett just wanted to make a point. The barbeque eclipsed the Prayer Meeting Friday, and the movie takes over tonight, so there’s no opportunity for me to spout scripture at her. Not that I know enough of it to do that, anyway.
After the movie there’s a few announcements, like about the luau that’s happening this coming Friday night. Then I go to the library to see what’s there, and I sit looking through some book about the differences among various translations of the Bible, not reading it, but instead trying to come up with cool topics for tomorrow night’s circle meeting. I’m not even sure I’ll be allowed to suggest anything, being the newest member—don’t want to appear presumptuous, do I? But I want to be ready.
I really liked what Nate had done—stated something with an interesting twist to it and had us reduce it to assumptions. I wish I could scribble a few notes down, but it’s such a hassle to destroy stuff. Besides, this place is watched over by at least two librarians at all times, one of them wandering around and checking out what everyone is doing. So I just think, trying to make a list of some of my own assumptions. What assumptions had I made before my folks dropped me off? What assumptions had I made about the leaders? About the other kids? About why I was here?
I do remember wondering, that very first night, if being here was a Job test for me. And because of that warm gush that happened, I assumed that was God’s answer: “Yeah, kid; you’re Job, and this is a test.” But was I right?
So let’s review. All these horrible things happen to this dude who’s always been devout and God-fearing, or whatever a good Jew of the day was supposed to be. And yet God allowed Satan to destroy the guy. He loses his livestock and his family members, he gets hideous plagues, and people reading that story have always seen it as a test of Job’s faith.
But would God kill one person just to test another? It’s never made any sense to me to hear someone moan about losing a child or a loved one and wonder if God is punishing them, not the loved one. I mean, who the hell do they think they are?
So if I’m in here as a test, then why is everyone else in here? Would God put all of them in here, through all this, just to test me? Isn’t it pretty stupid of me to think a place like this exists just to test me? If killing everyone else to get at Job is stupid, then what was it Job was supposed to learn? Maybe that it wasn’t all about him?
Whoa. Where did that come from? Was it not all about Job? And if it isn’t all about me, then this place doesn’t exist to test me.
So what everyone assumes first is that whatever “it” is, it’s all about them. Is that wrong? If it’s wrong, who’s it all about?
God.
And what is God?
Love.
Bingo. It wasn’t just a test of Job’s faith. It was a test of his understanding. If Nate’s right and Strickland isn’t evil, if Strickland thinks he’s acting out of love but in a very limited way, then Strickland is really trying to make this all about him. Strickland wants me to be like him.
But this isn’t about him. It’s about God.
I slam the Book shut and several people, including both librarians, glare at me.
Strickland and everyone else need to learn to love me for who I am, for who God made me, not to try and make this all about them. Which means they have to question their own assumptions about homosexuality. They assume that God is just as uncomfortable with it as they are. So it’s as much a test for them as for me. And that’s why everyone is in here together.
Gotcha.
And I’ve got a heck of a topic for a circle meeting.
There’s still a good forty-five minutes before lights-out. I want to find Nate and ask if this can be our subject tomorrow. Where would he be? I try his room, which I have to look up on the library roster. His roommate is there, but he doesn’t know where Nate is. I try the dining hall to see if he’s raiding the kitchen; nope. It isn’t until I start roaming the halls where the Prayer Meeting rooms are that I find him. He’s in Isaiah, with Leland, and they’re reading scripture together. Or, at least from my peek in, I can see they have Bibles open.
It’s tempting to listen, but that’s rude.
Okay, so I stand there for only a few seconds. Nate is saying, “So how bad is it?”
“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.”
Thinking Straight Page 22
