by Jeffery Self
So if you don’t think I’m totally insane (or even if you do), meet me Friday night with your car, at the address below, at eleven p.m. That’s late enough that everyone will be asleep and so I can sneak over the fence without getting caught. If you don’t want to get wrapped up in all of this, I completely understand. I just need to do something before it’s too late. I’ll watch for you and if you don’t show up then I’ll get the message.
Regardless, I just wanted to say thank you. I’d never known what it felt like for someone to care about me the way you’ve cared about me these past few weeks—and to care the same way in return. To connect with someone so easily. To have a friend. You’ve opened up the world for me. And for that, and so much more, I thank you.
Love,
Christopher
Hampton Campgrounds
1001 Cedar Mill Rd.
Greensboro, NC
I’M FULLY AWARE THIS PLAN Christopher was proposing was fraught with potential disaster. Running away in the dark of night? Talk about dramatic. But the reality is that it happens more often than you’d like to think. So many gay teens are pushed to the breaking point, pushed further than a teenager should have to be pushed while also dealing with the fact that we’re just kids with all the hormones and insanity that go along with that. We’re teenagers, we make stupid decisions, but sometimes they’re to save our lives from the people who are trying to destroy them.
If I could go back in time and start over, I’m not sure what I would have done. Maybe I wouldn’t have let him try to run away but instead would have brought him to my parents until we figured out what to do. Maybe I would’ve called Audrey and asked for help. Maybe I would’ve taken him straight to the train station. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to pick him up at all. I don’t know. I’ll never know, because that’s not how these things work. These things happen and our lives are never again the same.
I HADN’T SAID MUCH FOR all of dinner. Neither had my parents, for that matter. Their financial optimism had wavered. We had reached the just don’t talk about it and maybe it’ll go away phase. Which had turned into just don’t talk at all.
“The bok choy is very tender,” my dad said to no one in particular.
No one agreed or disagreed; we just kept eating. The overall mood in the room was one of complete distraction: my parents with their obvious financial drama, and me thinking about Christopher’s letter. Cedar Mill Road was an hour outside of town, out past the water tower. It was a campground every North Carolina–based Boy Scout or Girl Scout had peed outside at. I knew the way there … but it wasn’t the getting there that I was worried about. I didn’t want Christopher to run away and become homeless or be in danger of any kind, but I also didn’t want him to stay stuck with his parents.
Most selfishly of all, I didn’t want to have to say good-bye to him.
“The tofu is very tender,” Dad added after a while, which made Mom let out an annoyed sigh and drop her fork onto her plate with a loud clatter. She got up, taking her plate to the kitchen, then went to bed.
Dad and I just sat there for a while. It was the first time I noticed all evening that there wasn’t any music playing. It’s always surprising how loud silence can be.
“No circles of enlightenment tonight, I guess?” I asked, a bit more chastising than I had meant to sound.
Dad let out a sad chuckle.
“You know, I am fully aware that we’re ridiculous people, Marley,” he said, peering at me from over his glasses.
“You’re not ridiculous,” I replied without much commitment to my defense.
“No, no. I am. When I met your mother, I didn’t have a clue about any of the mumbo-jumbo spiritual stuff she was so devoted to. I was yet another gangly English major with an affinity for pretty, long-haired girls. And when I saw your mother, I said to myself, ‘There’s the woman I am going to marry.’” His face shimmered with the memory.
I wondered how far a person changes for love. Or if it’s love that changes the person. Maybe a bit of both. My father’s whole being had been shaped and molded by my mother. Not that he was some kind of puppet—he was as passionate and independent as he ever was—but the outlook on the world and his ways of dealing with it were all things he had learned from Mom. Who we are before love is different from who we are after. Would I be the same after Christopher as I’d been before? Was I completely insane for wondering this about the first person I’d ever fallen for?
Dad went on. “And as we spent more and more time together, I guess you could say she rubbed off on me. Her magical way of looking at the world inspired me to see things a bit more colorfully, a bit more hopefully.”
Color and hope. Christopher.
“But I’ll be honest, Marley—I do sometimes wish we were a bit more practical about things. Maybe then we wouldn’t be in this mess. But on that token, practicality doesn’t inspire the way magical thinking does. Y’know?”
I knew what he meant. And I wondered whether it was practical or magical to help carry out Christopher’s plan the following night. Perhaps a braver version of myself would’ve opened up in this moment, asked my father what to do, asked for help. But I didn’t. I simply nodded and sat there until it was late enough for me to go to bed.
Once I got there, I lay down and stared at the ceiling, wondering what Christopher was doing at that exact moment. I wondered if he was staring at his own ceiling and thinking of me. Or thinking of his plan for the future. And I wondered if I had the strength to help him carry it out.
SET CREW WITHOUT CHRISTOPHER WAS like a cruel joke of after-school punishment. The idea of “after-school activities” should mean leaving school, getting as far away from the place as possible and being free to do your own thing without the presence of your peers. Set crew was no such enterprise.
We had been using dish sponges to create the effect of leaves across one of the canvas flats for close to two hours, the entire time of which I’d spent playing out the scenario of going to pick up Christopher that night.
“DARLING!” a voice that was unmistakably Audrey’s brayed behind me. “You missed a spot.”
“It’s a sponge. That’s sorta the point,” I said without turning around.
She grabbed my shoulder and physically turned my frame to face her.
“The independent movie theater is doing a ten o’clock showing of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. We simply MUST go. I’ve never seen a Coppola on the big screen! Can you even imagine?”
Ten o’clock would not do. But I didn’t know whether I could tell Audrey why.
“I don’t think I can make it, babe. Sorry,” I apologized.
“Why not?” Audrey immediately replied, giving me zero opportunity to make up a believable excuse.
“Because … I have stuff tonight.”
“What kind of stuff? Eating ice cream and watching The Real Housewives of whichever one airs on Friday nights?” She sassed back at me like one of the Real Housewives themselves.
“First of all, there isn’t a Real Housewives that airs on Fridays.”
“Oh,” she replied. “That must drive you nuts.”
“Yes, in fact, it does. But tonight I have …” Think fast, I told myself. She knows you too well. “Plans with my parents.”
She stared at me, her brooding, dark eyes reading my soul like a fortune-teller weighing whether or not you’re the type of gullible person she can convince to buy her an expensive ruby in exchange for eternal happiness.
“Oh well. Next time, I guess.” She sighed, which made me sigh. My sigh, however, was one of relief.
I couldn’t believe I was doing it but I was doing it. I was driving down a long, dark road to pick up Christopher so that he could run away to his future. I was officially an accomplice in his escape to freedom. To be honest, the intensity of it all felt pretty cool. It was definitely the most badass thing I’d done in my entire life. (Which isn’t saying much. Before this, the most badass thing would’ve probably been the time I stole two dollars to b
uy a Coke out of a jar in which my second-grade class was collecting money to send to some disaster-relief fund in a third-world country. Come to think of it, that doesn’t really make me badass so much as a complete monster. But show me a seven-year-old who ISN’T a monster!)
The road out to the campground was completely dark and I was driving as carefully as possible, sure that at any minute a deer would jump out in front of my car.
As the gate to the campground loomed in the distance, the clock in my car read 10:59, but it was a few minutes fast. I slowed down even further and dimmed my headlights to avoid drawing attention. I pulled over to the side of the road and peered through the chain-link fence surrounding the place. Most of the cabins were dark, a few lit by the bluish glow of bug zappers. It was the perfect setting for a horror movie or, in this case, a homophobic brainwashing camp for teens.
I decided it’d be best to turn off the lights completely, as well as the motor. So I sat there in the stillness of my car. It was spooky but invigorating, knowing that at any moment Christopher would appear through the trees.
I glanced down at my phone a few times out of habit but was met with zero reception. My parents wouldn’t be looking for me—I’d told them I was spending the night at Audrey’s. Not even Christopher was sure I would be there, which meant no one knew where I was. This was an oddly exciting feeling. I was fairly certain it was a feeling I’d never experienced before and one I made a mental note that I’d like to experience again. Absolute invisibility from the world as I knew it. I farted loudly just because I could with zero embarrassment, and immediately regretted it because it was too late to crack a window.
Just then I heard footsteps in the grass and crispy leaves, moving quickly. I leaned across the seats to stare out the passenger-side window and was startled by the sight of Christopher sprinting toward me.
I pushed open the car door like someone in the getaway car of a bank heist, and Christopher slipped in just as smoothly, slamming the door and shouting, “Drive!”
I fumbled for the keys, made a quick U-turn in the middle of the street, and floored it back down the dark road.
Christopher sat panting, out of breath, sweaty but smiling. Relief and elation radiated out of him in the darkness of the car. We were quiet—I didn’t know what to say to someone who’d just escaped a propaganda therapy center and I figured it’d be best to let him speak when he was ready.
Finally, he squinted and looked around the car.
“What smells like ass in here?”
I quietly thanked God the car was dark enough for him not to see my face, which was one of utter humiliation.
“You farted, didn’t you?” he added, then cackled a loud, relief-filled laugh. “What a lovely welcome gift.”
“I was all by myself and I got carried away!” I shouted in defense. Then I gave up and joined him in the laughter.
“Well, for God’s sake, roll down a window!” He felt around for the window button, eventually finding it; the cool air of the passing woods hit our faces with freshness.
“You came,” he said after the laughter died down and the car aired out. “Thank you.”
I wanted to look him directly in the eye and tell him of course and that I loved him and that I didn’t want him to run away. But I didn’t say any of that or look him in the eye because I was driving and also because I’m a coward.
“Are you okay?” I asked, unsure what else to say.
“I’m okay. I’m way more okay now than I was earlier. I’m now the okay-est I’ve ever been.” He hung his head out the window like a basset hound and howled a cry of joy into the moonlight.
We kept driving and I sorted through the billion questions I had for him about the past week, about his parents, about the night of the dance. I didn’t know where to start.
“Does anyone know you left?” I asked.
“Nope. Not yet. I left a note, so they’ll find out tomorrow.” His hair flapped in every direction, like an octopus flailing to electronic dance music.
“What did you say in the note?”
He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, then said as simply as you’d say you needed to go pee, “I told them I had killed myself.”
My stomach dropped like it does on roller coasters that go upside down, and it took everything in me to keep from slamming on the brakes in shock. Instead I simply shouted, “What?!”
“Calm down. It’s not like I actually did. I’m not a ghost, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he reassured me. Then, playfully, he added, “Or am I?” He let out an evil laugh.
“Don’t do that! Dammit. Why would you say such a thing?” I demanded.
“Because,” he said, “it’s the only way no one would try to find me. And because I wanted to make a point. These lunatics think they’re fixing me or helping me or whatever, but they’re not, and they need to be faced with the fact that their actions are far more damaging than helpful.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know the protocol for discussing someone’s fake suicide.
“Don’t freak out,” Christopher said, putting his hand on mine. “It’s for the best.”
“For the best? What are you even talking about?” I was pissed but I wasn’t really sure why. Maybe it was the strangely visceral prospect of actually losing him.
He pulled his hand back, rested his arm. “Look. I need to get away from all of this. You know that. I thought that maybe a new town would calm my parents down, but it’s not going to. It’s only making them worse and it’s only going to get worse. So what? Am I supposed to suffer through this BS until I grow up and move away? I don’t think I can wait, Marley. I don’t think I’d survive it.”
This was some intense stuff for me, a guy who usually spent his Friday nights watching Bravo and eating ice cream.
“Where will you go?” I asked, after what felt like a two-hour moment of silence.
“Wait. Is that the water tower you took me to?” He was distracted, staring through the trees. “The Spot!”
“Yes. It’s down that road,” I said, annoyed, wanting to get back to what mattered.
“Let’s go!” He clapped his hands with the excitement level of someone at a football game, not in a dark car after faking his own death.
“Now? Don’t you think it’s a weird time for that?”
“Why?” he replied without missing a beat, and I didn’t have an answer. The truth was that this was a weird time for anything. We might as well go hang out at the water tower where teenagers went to make out.
With a shrug and a head full of even more questions than before, I pulled off onto Old Mill Road.
The place was empty. Most people visited The Spot in the earlier hours of the evening, before curfew. After I pulled the car up right beside the tower, Christopher jumped out and began to run around the parking lot.
“I don’t have to live with my parents anymore!” he shouted loudly into the sky. “I’m dead!”
“Don’t say that!” I shouted with actual rage, stomping onto the pavement and slamming my car door.
“I’m just being funny.”
“It’s not very funny.”
Christopher rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into him. We rocked back and forth, like we were slow-dancing.
“Sorry,” he said with a mocking exasperation … but he was staring into my eyes, so I was too transfixed to put up a fight. “I’m not dead. See.” He kissed me. “Can a dead person do that?” He kissed me again, this time a little longer. “Or that?” His hand moved under my shirt. His fingertips were cold, and I could feel my skin bristle into goose bumps at his touch.
“I’ve really, really missed you,” I whispered into his neck.
“I’ve missed you too,” he said, kissing mine.
“What are you going to do?”
Our voices were so hushed we might as well have been in a library. With each word, we seemed to get quieter, as if the words themselves w
ere beginning to get in the way.
“I’m going to kiss you again.” He placed his lips gently onto mine.
“I mean, about life; where are you going to go?” I asked from beneath his lips, spoken through our kiss.
“We are going to go lie down underneath that water tower.” He took my hand—mine was clammy, his was warm and soft. “And you’re going to stop talking.”
He walked, pulling me behind him, over to the water tower. He stretched out onto the concrete slab beneath the tower, where generations upon generations of teenagers had shared moments like this one. The same place many had experienced their first true intimacy. And as I stretched out beside Christopher and he looked into my eyes, I knew I was about to have mine.
As we lay there together, as we touched and kissed and clutched, you could feel our joy. It was in the air, a cloud of satisfaction and euphoria.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked, which is always a ridiculous thing to say, because what is the person supposed to do? Say no?
“I think I know what you’re asking, and yes, I am gay,” he joked.
“Shut up,” I told him. “Is this … I mean, how does it compare to being with other boys?” I felt more and more humiliated with every word that came out of my mouth, but what else was new?
“That is what you’re thinking about right now?” He rolled over onto his side to face me. “For real?”
“I know that’s stupid. It’s just that this is … wow … like I don’t even know what to do. I mean, it’s really, really nice. But I have nothing to compare it to. And I’m worried I’m just … getting it wrong? Or maybe it’s really, really nice for you too?”
“Are you asking if I’m enjoying myself? Are you not here? Is it not abundantly clear?”
“Okay, I know you’re enjoying it … but I guess I feel you have more experience, and have gone further, and I just don’t know how this compares to that,” I said through a tightened mouth.
