Inclination

by Mia Kerick

  Sitting properly in the passenger street of my car, Elizabeth O’Donnell was the definition of loveliness. And I was completely unmoved by her charms. But that had been early in the date. I’d assured myself it was too soon to worry.

  When we got to the movie theater, I bought our tickets and popcorn, and then she led me to seats in the very back row, which very honestly had made me sweat bullets. My first thought had been, “Oh, my gosh, she’s going to want to make out”, but then I corrected my paranoid thinking with, “This is all-holy Elizabeth, and she’s not the type of girl to kiss on the first date, so I’m in the clear.”

  I am dead wrong on that count. After we eat the popcorn, E gets more comfortable and soon her head is leaning on my shoulder, and this, I can deal with. Then she shivers rather noticeably, and just as I’m about to retrieve her coat from the seat beside me to drape over her, she suggests that my arm on her shoulder would definitely go a long distance in warming her up.

  Okayyyy…. And once she’s snuggled beneath my right arm, she turns her head, and breathes feverishly, into my right ear until I turn awkwardly toward her. This is when her lips seem to develop their very own faster-than-a-speeding-bullet superpower—they lunge forward and attach to mine. The suction is pretty dang strong.

  And so Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio experiences his first kiss—a clumsy, buttery, salty affair.

  In my mind, the kiss is a test—or maybe more of a science experiment. And gosh, do I ever want to like it. I pay close attention to every last one of my body’s specific physical reactions to “kissing a girl.” And despite the fact I want to create a long and detailed list of what body parts swelled and which moved of their own accord, there’s absolutely nothing to write down. In plainer words, no involuntary movement whatsoever has occurred in the crotch of my pants. To say I am disappointed would be yet another major understatement, so maybe I won’t say it.

  Within a few minutes of the start of our foray into “making out”, I am figuratively, and quite literally, suffocating. I push her back, probably with a bit too much force, and gasp for air. Even in the dark I can read her facial expression.

  Confusion…yes, this is very much present.

  Hurt…uh-huh, I see a fair amount of this too.

  And anger, there’s no doubt.

  The two of us sit through the remainder of the movie, shoulder-to-shoulder, in stone silence. The drive home is darn quiet, as well. At her doorstep, the last thing I say to her, after gulping deeply, not to mention quite audibly, is, “See you at church on Sunday, Elizabeth.”

  Her only response is the slamming of her front door.

  Church on Sunday is going to be awkward with a capital A.

  Huge sigh.

  And yet another audible gulp.

  It would be a major understatement to say that fitting in has never been an easy task for me. But I have had it up to my eyebrows with understatements.

  Not A Choice

  My anxiety level over “The Problem” is increasing by the day.

  On the Friday night of vacation week I went out on my first-ever date, and since that sighing, gulping epic failure, for the most part I never leave my bedroom—with the less than notable exceptions of eating, doing mandatory chores I can’t bribe Mary to do for me, and answering Nature’s most pressing calls—until it’s time for church on Sunday. I realize that my parents are getting worried about me—more every hour I remain secluded. Even Laz, who generally doesn’t notice anything but his next big idea, texted me like ten times yestersay, asking what’s wrong and why don’t I want to be his wingman at the arcade in the mall as he tries to pick up girls.

  What’s wrong? I can answer that fairly easily at this point: I have come to the uncomfortable realization that being gay isn’t exactly a choice for me.

  On Friday night, after I dropped off E and got the door slammed in my face, I decided to drown my sorrows in a strawberry Fribble at Friendly’s. I elected to sit in a booth for two and drink my shake there, as I was procrastinating my return home—Mom and Dad were going to interrogate me, lovingly, of course, about the success of my first official date. And while sitting in that pleather booth, drowning my sorrows in strawberry, a couple of what appeared to be male dancers from the dance studio in the same strip mall came into the restaurant, dressed in pushed-up, trash bag sweatpants and torn, round neck t-shirts. One even had legwarmers on. They were sort of sweaty and both of them were laughing and involved in a conversation about music and… and, well, everything I hadn’t felt for Elizabeth, in terms of raw sexual attraction, I had to fight not to feel for these guys.

  Sitting there with a virtual L on my forehead, alone in a booth at a family restaurant, a striped straw stuck in my mouth, staring at a couple of hot dancer dudes—it had hit me. And I knew for a fact that being gay is not my choice.

  On Sunday morning I wake up filled with a feeling of dread.

  I dread seeing Elizabeth and I dread seeing Mrs. Martine and I dread answering Laz’s questions and I especially dread meeting eyes with Father Joseph. I dread…basically my entire life. So I pray to God to ask for the strength I know I’m going to need, and then I make my way upstairs to where the breakfast zoo/mob scene/relay race, which, incidentally, I also dread, is well underway.

  “Morning, son.” Dad stands up to greet me and he looks so worried that I feel a stab of guilt beneath my ribcage. “Your headache finally gone?”

  A headache has been my feeble excuse for my most recent bout of reclusiveness. Whether Mom and Dad have bought the story, I haven’t a clue. “Yeah, I’m better today.” I fake a bright smile, but keep my eyes safely glued to the loaf of bread on the counter. “Want me to make toast for anybody?”

  My mother replies quickly, “Only for yourself, Anthony. And let me get you a cannoli, too. You look like you’ve dropped a couple of pounds in the past week.” She scurries off to the refrigerator to get my “breakfast dessert.” Weight loss in her children’s “growing years” is unacceptable to Mom.

  “Mama, why does Tony get a c’noli for breakfast? No fair, Mama!” Lulu doesn’t miss a trick.

  Dad bribes my little sister into quieting down by offering her chocolate milk instead of orange juice. I pull my toast from the toaster and spread a glob of butter on it and then I lean on a barstool to eat.

  “Tell your mother what has you in such a state, Anthony. It’s not good to keep your troubles all bottled up inside of you.” Mom places the cannoli on the island in front of me and reaches up to place her hands on my cheeks. “You aren’t even slightly warm. No fever.”

  “Mom, I had a headache. Stop worrying, okay?”

  “Maybe we should take you to have your eyes checked.”

  “Mom….” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice. It isn’t her fault I’m gay and destined to a life of celibacy or an eternity in hell, which has caused me to feel cranky and something less than affable this fine morning.

  Sigh. Gulp.

  “I’ll set up an eye doctor appointment for you next week.” She hustles away from me before I can reply, and begins directing the girls. “We leave this house in twenty minutes. Frannie and Resa—your ponytails do not pass The Mama Inspection, even for a Sunday morning. Please re-do them.”

  “Ma-ma!” The girls whine in unison.

  “Mary, put that book away and go get dressed. And Paul, will you help Lulu to brush her teeth?”

  “Of course.”

  My family, except for Mom, scatters in various directions. From across the kitchen she glances over at me with her soulful dark eyes. “Talk to me when you are ready, mio figlio.”

  Knowing my melancholy is starting to affect my family, I nod, lift the cannoli to my mouth, and take a large bite exclusively for her benefit.

  After church, the entire congregation meets in the church basement for donuts and coffee. I have never been so thankful for Laz’s presence, as I am rather consumed with the prospect of avoiding Elizabeth.

  “Hey, Tony, you took E out Fri
day night. How’d that go down?”

  I suck in a big breath, preparing to deliver my planned, “I don’t think she’s the right girl for me” speech, when he relieves me of my burden by recounting a detailed play-by-play of his adventures in hot-babe-land, AKA the mall arcade, on Saturday.

  “You missed out on the hottest girl ever. And built too. Shoulda seen the tits on this blonde one.”

  An image of sexy blonde Chrissy, from the TV Land show, Three’s Company, flashes into my head. All platinum ponytails, short shorts, and big breasts. It doesn’t escape me that my best pal is having no problem whatsoever with dehumanizing a girl who looks like Chrissy, while I’m struggling with merely accepting my own sexuality. “Sorry I missed it.” And, yes, that’s a lie, plain and simple.

  “Two of the hottest babes you ever seen told me they’re gonna go back next weekend. I figure, we can go check the arcade for them like Friday, twice on Saturday, and maybe after you’re done playing with the cats next Sunday.”

  All of a sudden, Mrs. Martine is approaching, which causes my breathing to stop. I suddenly feel a kinship to all deer caught in headlights, wanting to make a run for it, but frozen in place.

  “What do you say, dude? You up for going to the mall like four times next weekend?”

  I can’t even nod I’m so freaked out about seeing Mrs. Martine.

  “Hey, Anthony, I’m gonna need an answer,” Laz nags. “And sooner, not later.” The problem is, Mrs. Martine is going to need an answer too.

  “Hello, Anthony.” Mrs. Martine stops in front of Laz and me. “Lazarus, could you please go fill up my coffee mug? I take it black with one sugar.” Lazarus glances at me again for an answer, and then nods at Mrs. Martine, reluctantly taking the empty mug from her outstretched hand.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He mouths his best silent Arnold Schwarzenegger, “I’ll be back” and takes off to do Mrs. Martine’s bidding.

  “Anthony, how did your date with Elizabeth go?” She speaks in low tones, but regards me pointedly, like I’m some kind of a science experiment gone very, very wrong. And her directness reminds me of a lot Elizabeth, which makes me shudder.

  “I…um….” I’m not mentally prepared for this at all, but I force out an honest answer. “It didn’t work. I still feel the same way as before.”

  Her eyes narrow slightly as she continues to study my face. “It might take some time for you to change.”

  I look around to make sure nobody near us is paying attention, and then I shake my head. “I don’t really think I’m going to change, Mrs. Martine. I think maybe I was born this way.” Lady Gaga’s song echoes in my brain. “I think it’s part of who I am.”

  My youth group leader stiffens, but continues to take in every detail of my face as if I am an alien being. “Meet me again this Tuesday night at seven—here, like we did last week.”

  I breathe a small sigh of relief, and I’m talking microscopic. Maybe she has another idea of how to change me, but I’m honestly not feeling quite as hopeful as I did last week.

  “Okay, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

  She doesn’t smile before she walks away and if I believed in bad omens, I would have thought that this exchange surely qualified as one.

  I hardly eat or sleep or, unbelievably, even study between Sunday at the after-mass coffee hour and the Tuesday night meeting with Mrs. Martine. By the time our appointment rolls around I am weak and sort of shaky—too little food and sleep, and too much thinking and worrying about “The Problem”, and maybe even too much praying, if that is even possible.

  Again, I arrive early, and those last few minutes before I hear the clicking sound of Mrs. Martine’s sensible shoes on the stairs are close to unbearable. This struggle is taking its toll on me, and I feel much the worse for wear, so I do what I always do when I need to be carried.

  Whenever I’m not sure I can make it on my own two feet, I turn to Jesus so that he can carry me. He is strong and dependable and he loves me; the mere thought of Him makes me smile. My faith in Him is unshakable; it’s my faith in myself that concerns me.

  Careful not to rest my elbows on the table, I bow my head and clasp my hands together in prayer. Psalm 23 already has its grip on my mind.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  My lips move without intention—they’re completely in submission to the message of this psalm that I’d repeated to myself in silence on many occasions.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

  I feel the burning behind my eyes that indicates the imminence of tears, but I press on with my prayer.

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

  “Anthony. I am pleased to see that you are punctual, as always.” Her voice is needle-sharp.

  I lift my head abruptly, and my surprised gaze meets with her steady one. I’d been deeply caught up in prayer, and for that reason I hadn’t even noticed that Mrs. Martine had descended the stairs and moved to the table. She’s now standing in front of me.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

  I mouth a silent “Amen” and then bless myself quickly. “Yes, I…I try to be on time for…for things.” I stand up, as it seems like the polite thing to do.

  “Sit down, Anthony,” she says dismissively, and I obey. “Your date with Elizabeth—it was less than successful, I take it?” Mrs. Martine appears as if she’s trying to swallow something both wildly sour and intolerably prickly—an uncomfortable cross between repulsed and pained.

  I try to explain myself. “I couldn’t do it, ma’am. I don’t think liking girls that way is in me… not at all.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  No sorrier than I am.

  “I have invested a great deal of deep thinking and a considerable amount of praying into this matter.” She refuses to meet my gaze, which worries me.

  But still I nod, thinking that I’d also thought and prayed about the subject to the point of pulling my hair out.

  “I must suggest, Anthony, that you find another youth group in which to participate. Our Way…well, it clearly is not for someone like you.” Her words sound matter-of-fact, as if she’s my boss letting me go from a summer job scooping ice cream that hadn’t meant much to either one of us. “Do you understand?”

  I have no words. I stare at her blankly.

  “If you have left anything behind in the locker area, now is the time for you to retrieve it.”

  I can’t move.

  “Young man, go get your things.” Her voice is suddenly more stern than businesslike. “And have your mother drop the money you have collected for our summer pilgrimage by my office in the rectory this week, the sooner the better. I believe that with the amount earned at the carwash, the group has approximately $520.00. I will expect it all to be accounted for, placed in a large, labeled manila envelope.”

  I attempt to speak, my lips even move…but no sound comes out.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Del Vecchio?”

  I hear, but I don’t think I understand. “You don’t want m-me in Our…Our Way…anymore?” I lift my eyes to look at her and I try to establish some kind of emotional connection. But she’s always looking away from me. She won’t return my gaze.

  “I do not think Our Way is the right place for you to participate in a teenage worship situation any longer.” And Mrs. Martine turns, takes several shoe-clicking steps, and then stops. I think that maybe she’s changed her mind, and I wait for her to turn around. But Mrs. Martine doesn’t turn. She simply says, “Please be sure to close the d
oor at the top of the stairs tightly on your way out.”

  The Monster On The Air Mattress

  I’m wrecked.

  It’s very late now and I’m still behind the church where I parked my car before my meeting with Mrs. Martine. When I first came out here I couldn’t drive because my tears made it too difficult to see, and then, strangely, I’d drifted off into an unsettled sleep. And when I woke up, I immediately remembered what happened in the basement of the church. So instead of calling or driving home, I let myself sink—like a brick tossed into a pond—headlong into depression. At this point, I’ve been sitting here in my car for at least an hour, running scenarios through my brain.

  A. I could go to Mrs. Martine and tell her I was wrong when I said I was gay. Yeah, right.

  B. I could go home and tell my parents the truth, “I got kicked out of Our Way for being gay”, and let the chips fall where they may. I figure the “chips falling” would include Mom and Dad crying harder than I had, screaming out, “Our son is gonna burn in hell!” and wondering why they ever adopted me in the first place.

  I am being unfairly harsh to Mom and Dad.

  C. I could keep what happened this evening to myself, which would require pretending I’m going to Our Way on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night, but instead go to the mall and get myself an Orange Julius and a soft pretzel, hang out at the arcade, and waste money I don’t have. And my little retreat into “the great mall escape” would last until next Sunday at church when all of the other parents ask Mom and Dad why I’m no longer in Our Way, which would come as news to my parents. And then the charade would be over, wouldn’t it?

  Not a wise choice, choice C.

  D. I could tell Mom I developed a strong passion for Buddhism, the largest religion in South Korea, which would appeal to her desire for me to be in touch with my birth culture. “I feel that now it is the proper time in my life to explore this spiritual option.”

  This one feels a lot like abandoning Jesus, and that’s intolerable to me.