The Gay Teen's Guide to Defeating a Siren_Book 2_The Siren

by Cody Wagner

  The Gay Teen's Guide to Defeating a Siren

  Book 2: The Siren

  by

  Cody Wagner

  www.wagner-writer.com

  Copyright © by Cody Wagner

  All rights reserved.

  The Gay Teen's Guide to Defeating a Siren

  Jimmy Blackwood, Sr.

  Family Fun Time

  Paradise

  Back to School

  Keep Your Frenemies Close

  Lights, Camera, Action!

  The Bruiser

  The Red Shirt Brigade

  Boy, Interrupted

  Straight Lessons, For Real

  Decent Human Lessons

  The Pumpkin Bash II

  Robert Blackwood

  Traitor Games

  A Very Controlled Christmas

  Shaken

  Heartbreak

  The Visit

  The Seeker

  Revelations

  Convos and Distractions

  A Siren Trap

  The Color Purple

  Guilty as Charged?

  The Siren

  A.E.R.O.

  One

  Jimmy Blackwood, Sr.

  I sat on my plastic-wrapped mattress in my bedroom, phone clutched in one hand, a piece of paper in the other. I’m not sure which was scarier, the call I was about to make, or the paper that seemed to burn through my palm. Lucky for me, my hand was sweaty from nerves, making it fireproof. Blowing an annoyed-at-my-wussiness breath, I looked at the paper for the millionth time:

  I’m Gay.

  Just kidding.

  I mean, I am gay, but those weren’t the words on the paper. Not this time.

  The memory of writing I’m Gay last year still haunted my dreams, though. They changed my life more than any two words changed anyone in history. With those two little words, my parents freaked out and sent me off to Sanctuary Preparatory Academy, a pray-away-the-gay boarding school. Yeah.

  As scary as it sounds, the words on this paper were arguably worse:

  Jimmy Blackwood, Sr.

  555-340-8923

  My stomach hurt just looking at the name. Images of Mr. Blackwood’s son, also named Jimmy, flashed through my head. His goofy smile, his amazing acting talent, his out-of-control stories. Of course, there was also the gut-wrenching memory: blood oozing from him as he died in my arms. And his jerk father not even bothering to show up for the funeral. It’s true what people say—not a minute goes by without the deceased skittering across your brain. Sometimes I smiled, sometimes I even laughed. Most of the time, I felt a crushing weight on my heart.

  Since his death, I refused to become complacent, though. I’m telling this story right now, when I’m seventeen and it’s all over. But this was two years ago, when there was still work to be done. My fifteenth birthday had passed a couple weeks earlier and it seemed to light a fire under me. For some reason, fifteen felt so much older than fourteen. I mean, that’s halfway to twenty, so I freaked out and, well, that led me to the piece of paper and my “big plan.”

  After looking at the ceiling as if it would provide me some emotional support, I oh-so-slowly dialed the number to the Blackwood residence on the old corded phone attached to my wall.

  My heart raced an obstacle course—complete with curly slide—when I heard the first ring. A part of me desperately wanted a busy signal or disconnect notice. To distract myself, I looked at Cassie’s handwriting. Immaculate. Cassie Clarke was one of my best friends from school, the one who’d found the phone number. She could have sent it to me a million different ways, but she’d mailed a handwritten letter with the sticky note attached. That was just like her. She was kinda weird and really intuitive. I hadn’t received an actual letter since before my grandmother learned how to use e-mail.

  Two rings. I jerked out of my thoughts and began whimpering.

  Three rings.

  “Yeah?” someone on the other line said.

  I jumped so hard the phone flew out of my hand and crashed to the floor.

  “Crap!” I plopped down, scrambling for the receiver.

  “What?” The voice on the other end was loud and harsh.

  Frantic, I seized the phone and said, “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Who is this?”

  I put on my nicest, most polite voice. “Hi, sir. I’m Blaize Trales. Am I speaking with Jimmy Blackwood, Senior?”

  After a brief pause, he said, “Your name is Blaize Trales?” His voice was smiling.

  I closed my eyes, thinking, Here we go again. “Yes, sir.”

  “Like Blazing Trails?”

  Ouch. Memories of Blazing Trails to Jimmy’s Heart flashed through my mind. Luke and Darrin, the jocks at Sanctuary Prep., drew stupid comics making fun of my name, and the fact me and Jimmy—the most unpopular guy at school—were friends.

  The hurt from Jimmy’s death began seeping in. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced another, “Yes, sir.”

  He laughed, and not in a “with me” way. “So, you blazed trails to call me?”

  I rolled my eyes. That was the dumbest dad joke ever.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have been so cynical, but what was his problem? He had no idea who I was and was already making fun of me. At that point, I started coughing. Loud and on purpose. It was the weirdest defense ever, but I figured it might drown out his laughter.

  It kinda worked because he quieted and said, “You got cancer or something?”

  “What? No!” Still, I absently felt my tonsils as if I might find a surprise tumor.

  “Then whaddya want?”

  I squinted at the phone as realization hit: he was drunk. I was oblivious to that stuff. My parents didn’t even use alcohol in recipes that called for it (no rum cake in our house). Once, my dad brought some of those non-alcoholic beers home from work and I thought Mom was going to die.

  But even I’d watched enough drunk Chandler on Friends reruns to recognize the slurred speech and aggression coming through the line. I debated nixing my “big plan.”

  Still, I kept talking. If I didn’t say something, I probably never would. And I needed information.

  Taking a huge breath, I said, “I just wanted to ask about Jimmy.”

  “This is Jimmy, half-wit. I just told you that.”

  I almost said, “Ummm, no you didn’t, half-wit,” but stopped myself. He’d just given me confirmation on who he was, and I had to count that as a tiny victory.

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to placate him. “You did, sir. My bad.”

  “Is that all you wanted? Is this some sort of census?”

  “No, sir.” I gripped the phone. “I wanted to ask about Jimmy, your son.”

  A pause lingered until he said, “Who is this?”

  Now, I could have said anything: “I’m his therapist” or “I found his wallet” or “We’re long lost cousins.”

  Instead, I tensed up and vomited the first thing that came to mind: “I was his roommate at school.”

  His voice got quiet. “So . . . you’re one of them.”

  Panic mode hit, and I screeched, “No.”

  Guilt at lying flooded me, but I didn’t care. He’d said them as if I were a terrorist about to napalm his house. If I’d said Yes, he would have hung up for sure.

  “No? Then what are you doing at a healing school for fags?”

  My hair actually bristled. It’s one thing to jokingly call your gay friend a fag. But hearing it from this guy almost gave me rabies. I stared at the portrait of Jimmy—hanging above my desk—trying to calm down and think of an excuse. Finally, I said, “All the guys at school had a
straight roommate. That way they wouldn’t engage in . . . um . . . icky stuff.”

  Icky stuff? I bit my lip; there was no way he’d bought that.

  He burped into the receiver and said, “Huh. Good idea.”

  I stared at the phone, thinking, Really? Thank god he was drunk.

  “I thought so,” I said, relief washing through me. Sitting upright, I continued, “I wanted to ask you about—”

  “Lemme ask you something,” he said.

  “Um, sure.”

  “He ever hit on you?”

  I flinched. What kind of question was that?

  My knee started bouncing. The truth was Jimmy had a huge crush on me. We’d even kissed once. But I’d never tell his dad that. Especially when he’d asked the weirdest question ever.

  “No. Of course not. He was great.”

  “Ha!” His snort was derisive.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t have to lie. That freak even hit on me.”

  I held the phone out and stared at it. “WHAT?!”

  He choked back another burp before saying, “Yeah. Always lookin’ at me like he wanted somethin’. And followin’ me around. And makin’ up all these stupid stories, tryin’ to impress me.”

  My “nice” facade vanished as I said, “You thought your son was hitting on you? Because of that?”

  “You weren’t there,” he said.

  I wanted to say, You were never there! I was probably around Jimmy more the last year than his dad was his entire life. His dad didn’t even go to his freaking funeral. Now I was starting to see why. Sure, Jimmy did follow his dad around and try to impress him. That’s what kids do when they’re ignored.

  Anger welled up in my chest. It was probably fueled by the core of pain caused by Jimmy’s death. It’s like Jimmy’s dad had rubbed the hurt like a Genie’s lamp and anger burst out, throwing my original plan out the window.

  “Did you even love him?” I asked.

  “What the hell kinda question is that?”

  “An honest one. I mean, you thought your own son hit on you. Which, I’ve got to admit, is insane.”

  I didn’t mean to say that last part, but it came out. And I’d drizzled the word insane with derision.

  I heard him guzzle something, probably from a giant beer can in a paper bag sitting on his lap.

  “Are you callin’ me crazy, you little ass?”

  I stood up. “Do you know what Jimmy said as he was being murdered?”

  My body was on fire. I’d purposely said murdered to get his attention.

  It worked. He didn’t say anything, but I heard a grunt.

  “He told me to run.” My voice choked as I said, “As he died, his only thought was for my safety.”

  Tears stopped just short of falling. They were held in place by a sliver of hope. Hope that what I’d said made a tiny impact.

  “So, he was hitting on you.”

  “You jerk!” I screamed. Only I didn’t say jerk. Every nasty word in my vocabulary spewed out. Tears fell as I let the cuss words fly. They probably peeled the paint off my walls. I couldn’t help it. He’d just torn at my most vulnerable wound, and the words were like blood flowing out.

  When I had nothing left, I collapsed into my chair. Miraculously, he didn’t hang up.

  Calm as fudge (or something that’s actually calm), he said, “So you are one of them.”

  My entire body tensed. After everything I’d just said, that was his response?

  I shook my head and started laughing. I don’t know where it came from; it certainly wasn’t happy laughing. I think the absurdity of the situation hit me.

  Another burp echoed through the phone. “Why did you call me?”

  The question brought me to a crossroads. I could have just hung up on the disgusting excuse for a father. He certainly didn’t deserve another second of my time.

  That’s when my hand found the locket hanging around my neck and the “big plan” reentered my head. Jimmy had given me the antique gold locket just before he died. It was priceless—depicting x-ray spectacles revealing the skeleton of a man behind them—and Jimmy had been killed for it. Now, the damn thing was mine. The locket had a strange power, which made it a noose—strangling me with responsibility—and a blessing all at once. I didn’t want to be the next casualty, so I hid the locket from everyone, including my friends and family. Until I could figure out what the hell was going on, I was now living in two closets.

  And I’d decided if I couldn’t out myself, the least I could do was learn about the locket. If I could trace its origins, maybe I’d find some answers. That was my “big plan.” Patent pending.

  I was on summer vacation and had searched online and at the library where Mom worked, but they had absolutely nothing on the locket. That’s where Jimmy’s awful, homophobic dad came in. Jimmy had to get that locket from someone. Chances were, that person was long gone, but maybe his dad would let something slip.

  I pushed my feet into the carpet as if rooting myself.

  “Jimmy had a locket,” I said. “He left a note saying he wanted you to have it.” That was a total lie, but it felt like the right thing to say. I added, “That’s it. That’s all I wanted. I’ll let you go now.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to hang up. That was good, because I wasn’t going to, anyway.

  “The one with glasses over the dude?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why the hell did he want me to have it?”

  “I don’t know.” I let my statement end there.

  “It’s some perverted joke is what it is.”

  I didn’t respond. He was building up steam and I hoped his drunkenness would carry him forward.

  He granted my wish, saying, “He knew I hated that thing. His faggot uncle gave it to him.”

  I held my breath. Finally! A new piece of information.

  Grinning despite myself, I said, “You had a gay brother?”

  “What do you care!?”

  And that’s what happens when I say things without thinking. I could practically hear ice infect his voice.

  I stammered, “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “You better not go tellin’ everyone about this, you hear me, faggot? Robert and Jimmy are the only two in my family, and I won’t let them tarnish our good name. Thank god they’re both dead and—”

  I hung up the phone, heart racing. I was so done with the conversation.

  Weirdly, the first thing that went through my head was, Blackwood . . . a good name? But that was my brain distracting me so I could calm down.

  Holding the locket, I stood and flopped down on my bed, analyzing the conversation. First, it had not gone well. But that wasn’t a surprise. When a father doesn’t attend his own son’s funeral, he can’t be a stand-up guy. It certainly explained why Jimmy lied so much. Man, he had it rough and my heart hurt for him.

  Second, and on a more positive note, I’d actually learned something. After weeks of dead ends, I’d uncovered something. That helped distract me just enough to suppress the hurt caused by Jimmy’s dad. I stared at the ceiling, thinking. Jimmy had an uncle named Robert Blackwood. Uncle Robert was gay and had given Jimmy the locket. What did that mean? And where was Robert now? I had some research to do . . . if I could get a minute away from my nosy parents, who’d taken away my cell phone and computer after I came out.

  I gripped the locket tighter, suddenly feeling protective of Jimmy.

  “Blaize!”

  It was my mom.

  I flew around and stared at the door as my cheeks burned. Had she heard my tirade? If there was a healing camp for cussing, she would have been the number one sponsor. We weren’t even allowed to say butt in our house, and I’d just said, well, a lot more than that.

  “Yes?” I said, trying, for some reason, to sound as if I’d just woken up.

  “May I borrow you?”

  A vague question.

  Letting out an exhausted sigh, I opened my bedroom door
and went down the hallway into the kitchen.

  Two

  Family Fun Time

  Mom stood at the stove, absently stirring something in a pot as she stared at me walking in. Her expression shifted from stern to sympathetic when she saw my face. I guess my crying was more important than a few bad words.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” She set down a wooden spoon and touched my cheek. “I heard yelling. Did you and Kyle have a fight?”

  OK, I wasn’t entirely honest with my mom about the phone conversation. Ever since I’d arrived home from Sanctuary, my calls had been strictly monitored. Because of their homophobia, my parents wouldn’t have understood me calling my gay roommate’s dad. So I told them I was calling a straight guy. That was easier to buy.

  See, my friend—well, ex-friend—Kyle was indeed straight. And he lived here in good ol’ redneck Pamata, Texas, where I was stuck for the summer. That put him on the very short list of acceptable callers. The problem was, he and I had had a huge falling out last summer. It would have been mature of me to try and patch things up, but I had no intention of calling him. I mean, he wasn’t a bad guy or anything. It’s just that he wasn’t on my priority list. A dead teenager—whose death had wrecked me—and his jerk father superseded an ex-friend.

  Translation: I sucked at confrontation. And I had enough of that going on in my life.

  Mom didn’t know any of that, though. I’d let her believe my number one priority was making up with Kyle. Given the crying mess my face looked like, she had to assume our chat hadn’t gone well.

  “Honey?” she said, prompting me to speak.

  I decided it best to keep things vague. “We just had a lot to let out.”

  Wrong move.

  Mom froze and stepped backward. Her kind expression vanished. “You didn’t tell him . . . things . . . did you?”

  I turned away from her. Just like that, the fact I’d been crying didn’t matter as much as her reputation. Mom wore baggy sweats in the summer and huge glasses all the time. She was like those old nerdy librarians who didn’t care what people thought about her. Except when it came to my being gay.