Inclination

by Mia Kerick

  I’m affected by the scent of David’s hair, enough so that I want to grab a few strands and hold them under my nose, but instead, and very wisely, I gather my thoughts instead. “He…um…he has a cowboy hat…sitting on the passenger seat, doesn’t he?” I glance up and over to the right, picturing Mr. Jenkins, the lone cowboy, riding off into the sunset on his trusty steed, or in his case, in an old Ford Bronco. “And before he’s even out of his parking spot, he’s got that thing sitting on top of his head.”

  “And tilted slightly toward the left, with the country music cranking.”

  “Uh-huh.” I can’t help but laugh, my image of Mr. Jenkins making his exit from the school parking lot clearer than ever. “The man certainly takes his Country-Western side seriously.”

  “That’s why the rodeo is the perfect topic. Jenkins’ll be in seventh heaven when we take him ‘home on the range’ with our rodeo power point.”

  “You don’t want to do soccer or lacrosse or something traditional like that?”

  “Nah. Let’s leave that to the normal kids.”

  I sit up straight, my shoulders suddenly rigid as a soldier’s at having been accused of not being normal. How could David know I’m not as normal as I pretend to be? Is the lie that I’m living that freaking obvious?

  Or maybe it really does take one to know one.

  “And I’m saying normal in the least favorable manner.” He stands up and my gaze is directed to the carefully chosen clothing he wears. All the dark layers he hides in, or maybe he shows off in, speak volumes to his estimation of normal. My eyes then catch on the gold crucifix on a thin gold chain that hangs around his neck. I can’t stop myself—I stare at it, trying to surmise (not a shabby SAT word at all) how, exactly, Jesus Christ fits into this gay guy’s life.

  David catches me studying it. “What are ya gawking at, Del Vecchio?”

  “Oh…um, it’s nothing.”

  “It’s not ‘nothing’ if you’re staring at this.” He touches the hollow at the base of his neck where the crucifix rests. My hand inadvertently rises to touch my own cross. “This, my virtuous friend, is not hanging around my neck as some kind of fashion statement. This,” he continues, his voice growing increasingly acerbic as he lifts the crucifix and rubs it between his fingers, “is my entire life.”

  His gaze locks on mine. And I know he means it.

  “Wear your nut hut.”

  “Hey, dude. Whassup? Huh?”

  “Just checking in to see if you need a ride to the Our Way meeting tonight.”

  “You know I do, Ant-man. When was the last time my mom drove me over to St. Mark’s for Our Way?” He’s laughing; I can hear it in his voice. “I’ll answer that for you. It was the night before my buddy Duck-Young got his license.”

  “Okay, okay, Sinclair. I’ll pick you up at 6:45.” I’m going to ask him. I just need to find the fortitude to make the words come out of my mouth. “Hey, random change of topic…”

  “Sure…what’s up?”

  I’m treading on dangerous ground here. “Uh…here’s the thing. I’m working with David Gandy in PE on that new power point project.”

  “Gandy? The gay kid?”

  Frustrated, I blow out my breath, probably too noisily. But I didn’t miss that the first thing that comes to Laz’s mind when I mention David Gandy is his sexuality. “Well, yeah, I guess so. Anyway, wasn’t he a member of Our Way freshman year?”

  I can distinctly hear the sound of crunching. And I’m talking about serious crunching. Laz is eating what might be… “Are you eating popcorn?”

  “Nah, dude.” I’m treated to the sound of further chomping. “Rice cakes…. And yeah, that gay boy was in Our Way freshman year and the beginning of sophomore year.”

  “Do you…remember…the reason…why…he left?” I ask between his noisy crunches.

  “Alls I know is that his family switched churches at the same time as he quit Our Way.” Now I hear gulping. Laz is clearly washing down his rice cakes with a drink. Then there’s a burp loud enough to make me flinch.

  “Uh…yes, you’re excused.”

  “Why you so interested in Gandy?”

  “I told you, we’re working together on the PE project.”

  Next I hear muffled giggling. Sad to say, but manly Laz still giggles like a kid when he finds something implausibly funny. “Well, wear your nut hut when you’re studying together.”

  “My nut hut?” Holy crap! He’s suggesting I wear my athletic cup when I get together with David to protect my—

  “Gotta protect those family jewels, dude!” More giggling. This conversation is not helping my situation.

  “Hey, Laz, gotta head. Little Lulu’s calling me.” He knows how impatient Lulu can be—about as impatient as him. “I’ll pick you up at 6:45.”

  “Near to the Heart of God”

  There is a place of comfort sweet, near to the heart of God.

  A place where we our Savior meet, near to the heart of God.

  The music playing on the Bose in my room isn’t doing its job of lulling me into calmness tonight. Instead, the song’s lyrics tug at my heart. And it hurts in the way that a guilty conscience hurts—a constant, lingering irritation.

  And I need that like Gilligan needs another coconut.

  “A place where we our Savior meet, near to the heart of God.” When the song is finished, I lean over, press stop, and say the lyrics from the song out loud, realizing that I’m starting to lose sight of where that place is.

  Time to pray. Because sometimes the only way for me thoroughly chill out is to talk to Him.

  Father,

  I need You badly now and it seems like You’re just gone.

  In case You don’t know already, all I want out of life is to live the way You want me to. And it’s like I don’t know what the right way is anymore. Every once in a while, I even think that maybe You gave me these gay feelings to test my faith and to see if I am strong enough to resist, though You don’t seem like the kind of God who would do something like that. But if these feelings are a test, You’ve got to know that I’d gladly give up all of my sexuality for You, which sucks, but I’d do it. You gave up everything for me.

  Thing is, I can’t imagine spending my entire life alone. Only thing is, the kind of companionship I want—well, I’m fairly certain it’d have to be a guy for it to work.

  Please keep this in mind, okay? If You find a way to let me have one single guy I can spend my entire life with, I’ll find a guy who loves You and needs You, the same way like I do. I swear it.

  So I’m asking You to reach out to me in some way—show me I’m an unnatural abomination and I need to live my life alone, or, on the other hand, show me that acting on my gay feelings won’t cut me off from You forever.

  God, can You say something to me, because I am losing hope here?

  I listen carefully for a minute to the very inside of my mind, in case God decides to speak to me right away, but hearing nothing, I turn onto my side, dry my eyes with the sheet, and recite the words that Jesus gave us.

  Into the silence of my room, I say the Our Father prayer, over and over, until I fall asleep.

  Saint Valentine’s Day

  “So, Anthony, do you have a special girl you’d like to buy a candy heart for today? Hmmm?”

  Dad and I, as is our tradition, are making our annual February pilgrimage to Gucci’s Chocolate House, which is located on busy Route 1 in Saugus, about half an hour from home. The Del Vecchio women will never eat convenience store candy bars on Valentine’s Day, and that’s why the Del Vecchio men make the trek every year at this time to a real Italian chocolate house—and that spells homemade c.a.n.d.y. Our girls are worth it, and to sweeten the deal, Dad and I always treat ourselves to our mutual favorite, dark chocolate maple creams in a crisp white bag, to eat on the ride home. By the half-pound. A barrel-chested guy, my dad always tries to resist, but never can manage to keep his hand out of that bag.

  I shrug and then nod, picking up on w
hat he’s asking me. Do you have a girlfriend, Anthony? So I say, “I have five special girls to buy chocolate for.”

  “Are you referring to five stunning Italian girls?”

  “Who else?”

  “And would their names happen to be Gina, Maria, Teresa, Francesca, and Lucia?”

  “How’d you ever guess, Dad?” I wink over at him and he winks back, but it isn’t with his usual carefree grin. My father’s the “jolly” sort, in more ways than his Santa Clause-like build. He’s open and honest and earnest—his highest goal is to be a good father and husband, and keep everybody happy. He does a decent job of it, too.

  There’s a brief moment of silence before he says anything else. “Mom and I noticed that you didn’t go to the Valentine’s Day dance last night.”

  “Nope.” I don’t want to be abrupt with my father, but I don’t want to talk about that either. “Not really in the mood for music. Too much studying to get done, I guess.” I send him a sheepish smile because it is all I can muster.

  But Dad met my mother in high school, and I know he believes that you can find your soul mate as a teenager. “All work and no play makes Tony a dull boy.” I try to laugh but fail. After another short silence, Dad’s hand finds its way to my knee, and he says, “You know, son, if something is troubling you, you can come to your mom and me with it.”

  I gulp back a gasp. I am absolutely transparent.

  “We are here for you—no matter what.”

  I’d certainly have like to believe that, but Dad has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “Uh…thanks.” The phrase comes out sounding like a question.

  “You’ve been sort of…how do I want to put this? Let’s see…” I can tell that he knows exactly how he wants to “put this” but is trying to find a way to say it so as not to be in-my-face. “You’ve been sort of withdrawn lately.”

  “Withdrawn?” I know exactly what he’s talking about but still I play dumb. There’s no way in heck that I’m going to spill my problem to him. I’d probably spontaneously combust with embarrassment.

  “You know, you come home after school and go straight to your room. And you stay there ‘til dinner, and as soon as the dishes are done you zoom back downstairs.”

  That’s how it has been since that day in the cafeteria when my friends discussed, without so much as a grimace, the novel idea of Kool-Aid-force-feeding mass murder of gay people. “I’ve been studying for the SATs.” My excuse sounds lame probably because it is lame. We are family people.

  “Well, the girls are missing you. They’re used to watching that oldies television station with you after school.”

  “I gave up watching TV for Lent, you know that, Dad. No Highway to Heaven or The Lucy Show until after Easter. Sorry.” We’re a classic television-loving family. In fact, we’ve seen every last episode of The Brady Bunch.

  “Well, we all miss your presence. Make an effort, if you can, Tony, to spend a tiny bit more time upstairs…because Mom and I miss seeing your face, too.”

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll try.”

  At this uncomfortable pause in the conversation, I lean forward and turn on the car radio. I close my eyes to listen to Carrie Underwood’s strong voice asking Jesus to take the wheel because life is too hard to deal with on her own.

  Heartily Sorry

  As soon as I finish saying my Penance, I launch myself from the pew and make for the heavy doors in the rear of the church. I’m probably the only kid who actually goes to confession for doing what I’ve done, although I’m fairly certain I’m not the only one doing it. And I’ll admit that I have extreme difficulty even thinking the word for what I did, let alone saying it out loud to a man as pure as a priest, so I will say this—it involves “spilling my own seed.” Enough said. (Blushing fiercely.)

  I’m certain that my voice trembled when I said my Act of Contrition, and I’m also fairly certain that Father Joseph recognized my voice in that small, dark box. Even when I disguised it to make it sound deeper—I think my priest knew the voice was that of perverted little Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio.

  “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because of your just punishment. But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love.…”

  Yup. I am heartily sorry for it, too. This seed-spilling thing is another example of a sexual sin I can’t seem to get a handle on. Or maybe I have too much of a “handle” on it. Ugh, bad pun… It’s just that sometimes at night, my fingers and their little fingertip-brains seem to have an agenda all their own, and I lose control. And I like it… until after it’s over and I realize I’ve sinned against the One I love so much. And when it hits me, as if for the first time, that I now need to confess my sin to stop it from blackening my soul, I experience what you might call sincere regret.

  As I walk down the sidewalk that leads me from the front of the church to the parking lot, I glance back guiltily, to make sure that Father Joseph hasn’t come out of the building to catch a glimpse of the church member who can’t seem to keep his hands out of his own pants, which I do every time I leave the church after I go to confession. And on these many Saturdays that I come here, completely obsessed with my need to receive the sacrament of Penance, Father Joseph never follows me outside to gape at me in horror.

  “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good.” That’s what Father Joseph said as we concluded things in the confessional.

  “For his mercy endures forever,” was my response.

  I’m kind of counting on that fact.

  Glow Bowling

  Glow bowling. I’m not sure exactly who thought it would be a good idea for people to roll excessively heavy balls down narrow lanes in the pitch dark, with neon strobe lights flashing all around them and a disco ball sparkling overhead, but my best friend Laz can’t get enough of it. It seems to feed something wild inside of him that he isn’t feeding with alcohol, drugs, and pre-marital sex.

  At least every other week, I pick him up on a Tuesday or Thursday night, drive him to the Wheaton Family Bowl—he can be counted on to wear a zebra-striped fabric that will render the best effect under the black lights—and we then change into smelly rental shoes I abhor (SAT-no further explanation needed), wait for the lights to go down and the disco ball to rise, and then we bowl. The music is always from the 80’s and way too loud, but these details, in Laz’s eyes, are also mandatory. Halfway through our game, Laz predictably whines, “I’m starving”, so we typically stop for a dinner of hot dogs, small bags of Fritos, and root beer at the snack bar, and then we return our attention to the business at hand. Rolling balls in the noisy neon darkness.

  And without fail, every single time we go glow bowling, Laz gets a finger pinched between two bowling balls. And I mean every single time. In testimony to that fact, he always sports several blackened fingernails. It’s nice to know that no matter how much the world changes around us, certain things will always remain the same.

  That’s what I love about glow bowling. But there’s an aspect of this sport, if you can categorize it that way, I detest.

  Not only does glow bowling attract the likes of my best friend Laz, and his faithful sidekick, me, but it draws a certain group of teenage boys from the upscale town of Grantam. Wonders never cease, but it seems that people from all walks of life are attracted to this captivating sport. (Yes, my tongue is firmly planted inside my cheek.) In any case, this group of extremely preppy, bitingly caustic, and athletically built young men apparently holds something against me.

  Maybe it’s because I’m Asian, and they’re not. Maybe because I’m small and thin and…and pretty, and …well, maybe they hold those things against me. Maybe it’s because they know how easy it is to rile up Lazarus by harassing me. Whatever their motivation I’m exactly certain, but by the time Laz and I are eating our hotdogs, they’re consistently making rude comments to me about how comfortable I looked with “a wiener in my mouth” and soon they’re accusi
ng me of loving bowling only because of the “big balls I get to handle”. Calling me a “chink-fag” or a “gook-fairy” is never far behind.

  Now these guys aren’t at Wheaton Family Bowl every single time we go, but they’re there enough to cause me anxiety at the mere mention of the word “bowling” or at the scent of a hot dog, for that matter.

  Tonight on our way home, after we nearly got kicked out of Wheaton Family Bowl because Laz, again, was the first to throw a punch, he asks me, “How do you put up with it? Those dudes diss you and you just take it.”

  He seems frustrated with me. I ask myself if Laz has taken a good look at me lately? I’m 5’6” and 120 pounds, as they say, soaking wet. I’m not exactly big enough to throw my weight around. But he knows, and I know, that my size isn’t the only thing that prevents me from taking a swing.

  “Turn the other cheek, Laz.” I speak in a low monotone. No sense in getting all worked-up.

  “Sometimes that doesn’t seem…like…good enough.”

  It’s hard to explain to a person as impulsive as Laz, but I’m not a fighter. “I could always run like heck with my hot dog in my hand…or eat a burger instead. That’d throw them off their game!” I laugh at my own joke, but Laz doesn’t join in.

  “How can you joke about this, man? They’re threatening you…and insulting your manliness.”

  “I do hate it when they use the term fag. But it’s not like everybody at school doesn’t throw that word around during sports and at lunch and…basically whenever they want.”

  “Well, fag just means loser, dude.”

  “Um…no, Lazarus. The word refers to a gay man. And it shouldn’t be tossed around the way it is. That term shouldn’t be used at all.” I have no idea where I’m dredging up the courage to express my feelings about the common use of the word fag, but there it is.