"Do I want to know how?" I asked Summer.
"It's nothing bad," Summer said. "You have an opportunity to play on people's sympathy. You've gone from 'Miranda the quiet bookworm' to 'Miranda, the frail and tragic heroine.' If you play the part, you could be the most popular girl in school."
"Are you sure you want the competition?" Clara asked wryly.
Before Summer could respond, Chad interrupted.
"Are you really so heartless that you would use the death of a loved one to boost your own popularity?" he said sharply.
Clara stiffened, and I knew that she was bracing herself for the explosion of Summer's temper, but it never came. Summer's face went red, and she put up her hand to hit David, but she faltered under his unflinching gaze, and put her hand down. She gaped at Chad as though she'd never seen him before.
"Now there's something I've never seen. Summer is actually speechless," Chad said smugly. He turned to Clara and me and said, "It was nice of you both to join us in detention today, by the way. What did you think?"
"It was boring," I said.
"You have four days left. Was the crime worth the punishment?" he asked.
I looked at Clara and we both spoke without hesitation, "yes."
Clara and I laughed while Summer and Chad looked on in amusement. Then Chad said, "come on, Summer, I'll help you with your algebra homework to apologize for making you speechless."
"I need to take Clara home," Summer protested.
"I'm sure Miranda can manage," Chad said, grabbing Summer's hand and dragging her away.
"Chad can surprise me sometimes," Clara said as she watched Chad and Summer retreat, hand in hand.
"How so?" I asked.
"I thought he'd be depressed, now that you and I are together, but he seems very well. In fact, I've never seen him look better. He was even able to put Summer in her place."
"He's happy because you're happy," I said. "He was hoping we would get together from the beginning."
We got into my car, and the day was so beautiful that I couldn't resist putting the convertible top down. Clara put her seat back, and closed her eyes as I drove her home. I thought she had fallen asleep, and was surprised when she suddenly spoke.
"Your parents must not be too upset with you, if they're still letting you use their convertible."
"This is my car, actually," I replied.
"Really? Why didn't you use it earlier this year? Was it broken?"
"No. I was supposed to share this car with Mark. It was a gift to both of us for our sixteenth birthday. I suppose I felt guilty that I have it to myself now."
I glanced at Clara, who had opened her eyes and was looking at me sympathetically. I answered the unspoken question in her eyes.
"I think I finally realized that life continues, even if we want it to stop. I can't turn everything into a shrine for my memories. I have to keep living."
"I'm glad."
"I haven't see Jason all day," I changed the subject. "I hope he's not sick, too."
"He's not sick; he's sulking," Clara said. "Don't feel guilty, though. He's less upset about losing his chance with you than he is for being wrong about you. He has a bruised ego."
"Pride cometh before the fall," I said, ignoring the twinge of guilt I felt.
Too soon, I pulled into Clara's driveway, but I was reluctant to let her go and drive myself home. Instead, I put my own seat down, and held hands with her as we continued to talk. As we talked, I found myself becoming fascinated by Clara's hands. I turned them over in my own, examining the long, delicate fingers, and tracing each line on her pale, translucent skin.
"You're left handed," I announced abruptly.
"Yes, I am," she said indulgently. "How can you tell?"
I pointed out the ink stains on the side of her left hand, left over from the lines she's been made to write in detention. We both laughed, and Clara said, "I was worried that you were psychic, like Summer."
"I'm not psychic. At least, I’m not as psychic as 'Madame de Beaumont,'" I said, "but I should have noticed before now that you're left-handed. There are a million tiny details I want to know about you, and I can't start learning quickly enough." I didn't know why I said it, but I had a sudden, strange impulse to commit Clara to memory as quickly as I could. I released her hand and touched her face, drinking in its every detail with parched eyes.
Clara covered my hand with her own and smiled a small, reassuring smile. "You have time to learn all you want," she promised.
"Not now, though," I said, reluctantly coming to my senses. "I'm already late getting home. Mother promised to return my phone today, and if I'm very late, she might change her mind."
"If she does give your phone back, call me," Clara said.
"I will."
Clara and I pulled our seats back up, and Clara leaned in to give me a quick kiss, and went into her house. I stayed until she disappeared behind the front door, watching her with greedy eyes.
#
When I arrived home, Mother was waiting for me in the kitchen with an inscrutable look on her face. There was an air of tension in the room which I hadn't expected, and it hit me like a sudden chill, making me shiver.
"You're late," Mother said, shifting her weight back and forth between her feet, looking as though she wanted to run away.
"I had detention," I replied as I hung up my purse and my sweater on the coat hooks near the door. I took my homework to the kitchen table, and Mother followed me.
"I thought detention only lasted an hour," she said.
"It does, but Clara needed a ride home," I admitted.
"You should have called to let me know where you were."
"I would have called, but I still don't have my phone."
I thought that Mother would scold me for being impertinent, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she went to her own purse, retrieved my phone, and gave it back to me.
"Thank you," I said abashedly.
"Miranda, before you start your homework, your father and I would like to have a family meeting," Mother said.
I nodded and followed her into the living room, where Daddy sat reading the newspaper in his usual chair. He lowered it and gave me a strange, apologetic smile. I sat stiffly on the piano bench, and Mother sat on the love-seat. As the tension in the room grew, and I wondered why I'd never noticed how cold and austere the living room was, or how loudly the clock on the mantle ticked as each second went by. The three of us gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and then Daddy broke the usual protocol at our family meetings, and spoke first.
"Your mother and I have been talking, and we realize that you've been through a tough time, lately. We all have. We think that perhaps all of the difficulties and all of the changes that you've been through have made you vulnerable, and that this vulnerability has made you confused about your feelings toward Clara."
"I'm not confused about my feelings for Clara," I said. "Besides, Clara or no Clara, I'm a lesbian. Please, understand. I'm not confused, and I won't change."
"Miranda, think about what you're saying," Mother said. "You've never shown any signs of same-sex attraction before. You've never had any... tendencies."
"Mother, have I ever shown any straight tendencies?"
"You're just a late bloomer," she said, blushing.
"Besides," Daddy said. "You've always liked girlish things."
"Just because I dress feminine, and like stereotypically girlish things, doesn't make me straight," I rebutted.
"The point is," Mother said in a stronger voice, "that we don't really have the expertise to help you with this."
"We want you to try reparative therapy, with people who can help you," Daddy continued.
"There's nothing to 'repair,'" I replied. "Being gay isn't a disorder."
"Not all therapists believe that," Mother said. "Some have had a lot of success helping people deal with same-sex attraction."
"So, you want me to see one of these therapists?" I thought I co
uld endure it until Mother and Daddy became more comfortable, and I could convince them to accept me the way I was.
Mother and Daddy exchanged uncomfortable glances, then Mother said, "there's more. We spoke to another family at church who has been through the same thing. They had a successful recovery, but to do so, they needed to remove their child from confusing influences."
"What sort of 'confusing influences' do I need removed?" I asked.
"Clara, for starters," Mother said bluntly.
"I thought you liked Clara," I said.
"I like Clara very much, and I feel sorry for her. She wasn't raised like you were; in a traditional family with traditional values. Despite that, she's grown to be an exceptional young woman, but she doesn't have the sort of background one needs to be able to form meaningful relationships. She's going to struggle with that for a long time, until someone convinces her to get help."
"So you're going to forbid me to see her while I get help?"
Mother and Daddy were silent again. Then Daddy said, "we need to get you away from all of the bad influences in your life, like the stress from school, and all of the relationships that are adding to your confusion."
"Are you saying that we're going to move again? We can't make a habit of running away from our problems," I said scathingly.
"You need to get away from us for a while, too," Mother said quietly. She took a booklet from the side table and handed it to me. On the cover was a picture of a group of smiling young people standing in front of a large, stone church. Across the top were large, yellow letters that read, 'Prodigal Ministries.'
"That's a place, up north, where they help young people who are struggling with same-sex attraction, like you."
"You're joking. You must be joking." I said incredulously, tossing the booklet aside. "You can't seriously be considering sending me away to that place."
"It's the best option we have, Miranda. This all started when we came here; you obviously need to get away and gain some perspective that we can't provide," Daddy said.
"Can't you see how insane this is? What about school? I can't leave in the middle of the semester," I reasoned.
"They have classes there, so that the kids who are still in school can keep up with their studies," Mother replied.
"So, that's it? You're sending me away?" I asked Mother and Daddy, but both remained silent, refusing to look me in the eye. The clock on the mantle seemed to be ticking louder and louder, echoing the pounding of my heart.
"Mother, Daddy, please don't send me away," I pleaded as tears began to roll down my cheeks. "I'll see whatever therapist you want, but here, or in Corpus Christi. Please don't send me away from my home, my school, my friends, and you." I stood and took several steps toward them.
"When Mark died, I promised myself that I would never fail you the way I failed him," Mother said through her own tears. "He needed help, and I thought I could handle it myself. I was wrong. I will do whatever I can to help you, Miranda, even if it means sending you away from us to people who can help."
Her words struck me with a cruel finality. I could tell that nothing I would say would move either of my parents. I stepped back and crumbled onto the piano bench, weeping. My sobs were drowned by the noise of the clock striking the hour.
Chapter 8
Goodbyes
The Wheel of Fortune
The next afternoon, after detention, Clara, Summer, Jason and I all went to Chad's house. Even though it was a school day, Mother allowed me to stay with my friends as late as I liked. She seemed to be letting me have my way out of guilt, even though I was utterly unable to sway her in her decision to send me to Prodigal Ministries' retreat. The previous evening, she'd washed the dishes, even though it was my turn to wash them, and told me that I needn't bother with my homework. I finished my homework, anyway, in case I was able to persuade her to let me stay. I had only a week to accomplish the task, but I'd talked to Aunt Elizabeth as soon as I could, and she'd agreed to help. After speaking with Aunt Elizabeth, I called Clara to tell her what had passed. She'd taken the news with shocked silence. Even now, as we sat in Chad's den and she held me in her arms, her eyes were distant. I'd cried myself to sleep, the night before, and was now too numb to comfort her.
Chad's house was a lot like my own; a large Victorian house with a living room and upstairs den. His den was larger than mine, and it looked as though he was the only one that used it. The main focus of the room was a large and battered entertainment center, filled with every video game console I'd ever seen and a few I hadn't. There was a large futon and several chairs scattered about, and Chad was seated at a computer desk in the corner. I could imagine the five of us having a great deal of fun there under any other circumstances, but that day we sat talking quietly together with an air of despondency.
Clara and I were sitting together on the futon. I leaned against her shoulder and she had her arms around me. We hadn't talked all day, avoiding the topic of our eventual separation, but we’d stayed as close as possible, touching each other as often as we could- even in class. Jason sat in one of the low chairs, watching us as we held each other. Summer sat in the other chair, reading the Prodigal Ministries booklet.
"This place is completely unbelievable," Summer eventually growled in frustration. "Have you read their rules? I'd laugh, if this weren't so serious."
"What sort of rules?" Clara asked, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
"Like this little gem; 'to eliminate any possible gender confusion, all residents must wear gender-appropriate clothing. Males must wear trousers, slacks, or jeans, and refrain from the use of any cosmetic products. Females must wear skirts or dresses. All skirts must be at least knee-length.' Do they think this is the 1950's?"
"So that's why Miranda turned gay, she must have worn jeans. You're wearing jeans, Summer, looks like you're next," Chad joked halfheartedly.
I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat. Instead, I said, "unfortunately for my parents, it's not that simple."
"They aren't allowed to listen to secular music, or read 'inappropriate literature,’ whatever that means. They never say what sort of literature is inappropriate."
"We need to think of something. If you try, maybe you can convince your parents to let you stay," Jason said.
"I've tried to convince them, but they won't listen to me. I told Aunt Elizabeth their plan. I hope she can convince them to let me stay, even if I can't," I replied.
"What if you convince them that you don't need to go, at all? Tell them that you were confused before, but now you've seen the light? Date a boy, for a while, if that would convince them," Jason persisted.
"Are you volunteering?" Summer asked.
"She could date me or Chad. It doesn't matter who, as long as he's male," said Jason.
"Thanks, so much," Chad said sarcastically.
"Thank you for your offer, but my parents would never be fooled so easily. Besides, I can't lie to them forever. I'd eventually have to tell them the truth, and that would only alienate them further. I'm not going to lie to my parents about something so important."
Jason looked disgruntled, but he let the matter drop.
"You could just run away," Summer suggested.
"You want Miranda to run away from home to avoid being sent away from home?" Chad asked incredulously.
"You don't understand how awful this place is. Once Miranda is there, she won't be able to have any contact with the outside world, including phone calls or e-mails. All she will be able to do is call her parents for 10 minutes on Sundays. She'll be completely alone in that horrid place," Summer said.
I felt Clara draw a shaky breath at this. I put my hand over hers, unable to find any words of comfort.
"This place is disgusting. You should read about it," Summer continued, holding the booklet out to Chad.
"I have been reading about it," Chad said, ignoring the booklet. "What do you think I've been doing over here, playing video games?"
"Yes," Summer said.
"Well, I haven't. I've been trying to dig up some dirt on this so-called 'retreat.'"
"Have you found any?" Clara asked.
"I've found a lot, actually. There are a few people claiming to have been cured, but even more that say that they weren't cured at all. There is some question as to whether the therapist who runs this program, Dr. Caleb, has the proper credentials to practice. Then there is the other one who runs the program, Pastor Michael Smith, and his claims that he himself was 'cured' by Dr. Caleb. Apparently, he's relapsed a few times, on camera."
"That sounds promising," Summer said enthusiastically. "Print it out, so Miranda can show her parents."
"Thank you all, for trying to help," I said. "I know I haven't been here very long, but you've been wonderful friends to me."
"Stop saying goodbye," Jason said. "There’s still hope; you aren't gone yet."
I put on a cheerful smile, and nodded, but I knew, deep down, that my parents wouldn’t be persuaded.
#
That week, I made repeated attempts to sway my parents. I showed my parents Chad's research on Prodigal Ministries, and Aunt Elizabeth called Mother every day on my behalf. I didn't give up, but all too soon the week had passed, and neither of my parents had relented in the least. On Saturday, the day before I was to leave, I was in my room, packing my mother's old trunk and listening to the sound of the rain as it pattered against the window.
I was going through my possessions slowly, and trying to find clothes that were modest, feminine, and suited to the cooler, northern climate. I was too morose to concentrate on my task, and periodically I would stop packing and simply sit on the window seat to watch the rain. The longer I sat and watched the rain, the more pensive I became, until I was on the verge of tears. I knew that once I began to cry, I would not be able to stop, so I went back to sorting my clothes in a numb, mechanical fashion. I could not allow myself to think about my situation because, for the first time since moving to San Avila, I was unable to use logic to resolve my problems, or use reason to find comfort. I felt just a fraction of the despair I'd felt when Mark died, but it was amplified by the knowledge that I would soon be completely alone.
Mephisto Waltz Page 15
