A uniform? No way.
“I can’t…I mean, I don’t—” But I stop. Brianna’s pinned me with a challenging, almost bored look that says Go ahead. Fight me on this. See what happens.
I could fight her on it—I want to fight her on it—but the words won’t come. And suddenly it hits me—I’m scared. Like that boy on the stairs.
Up until right now, I’ve had tunnel vision: do what you have to do. For Mom. For you. Get through the summer and everything will be better. But now I’m here. I’m in it. And I’ve got no phone, no car, no options. I’m stuck.
Holy crap.
Somehow, all that comes out of my mouth is, “So why don’t you let us know that ahead of time? You know, so we don’t pack as much?” I cram my folded clothes into the remaining drawers and try really hard not to think about the uniforms awaiting me in the rest of the dresser.
Brianna presses her mouth into a hard line, as if she’s remembering something unpleasant. “We’ve found that the fewer details that are given out about our reparative therapy process ahead of time, the more open-minded our campers are when they arrive.”
It’s true. I tried to find out more about New Horizons online, but their website was just as vague as their brochure—another reason why it was easy to ignore the big questions about this summer and instead focus on the “coming home and everything being fixed” part.
“One more thing,” Brianna says as she opens the drawer of my vanity. She pulls out a long, skinny, velvet box and hands it to me. “This is our gift to you, Alexis.”
Inside is a thin gold chain threaded through a small cross with a tiny diamond chip in the center. Not exactly my style. I look up at Brianna. “Um…you shouldn’t have?”
Brianna beams, suddenly all sunshine and roses. “Of course we should have! It’s just a small reminder that Jesus will be with you, guiding you, every step of your journey this summer.” Without asking, she lifts the necklace out of its case and loops it around my neck.
Once the cross is in place, I slide my empty suitcase under my bed and study my area. This is it—home, for the next two months. A knot forms in my stomach. I know I’m here for change and everything, but still, it would be nice to have one thing here that’s mine, one small thing to keep me grounded, a reminder that when I leave here at the end of the summer, I’ll still be me. At least in some ways.
And since I don’t have my clothes to do that anymore…
An idea strikes me. “Do you have a pen?” I ask Brianna.
She walks over to the room’s only desk and produces a pen from one of the drawers. “Here you go. What do you need it for?”
I answer her by using it to scribble out the A and S on my name label. “That’s better. Thanks.”
Brianna looks put off but luckily she doesn’t comment. Instead, she says, “Are you ready to begin?”
I know from the seriousness in her voice what she’s talking about. She’s asking if I’m ready to begin the de-gayifying.
I think I am—I mean, I want to be. I’m really trying to keep an open mind. Who knows, maybe if I do what they tell me to do, it will work. It worked for Marilynn Chaney’s grandnephew, right?
I’m here for a reason. It’s time to get my head in the game.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
It’s one of my favorite lines from Gatsby and so true right now.
I take a deep breath and say, “Yes. I’m ready.”
We leave the big log cabin with its cool, comfortable recycled air and walk back to the gravel road. I didn’t realize it as Mom and I drove up here earlier, but the road actually continues past the building and through more trees, gradually narrowing into a walking trail. The only sound in these quiet woods is the crunching of my boots and Brianna’s sandals over pebbles and dead leaves.
After a few minutes, the path opens up into a massive, sunny field. Staggered on either side of the path are five more log cabins, though these are much smaller than the main building.
Four of the cabins have a counselor standing stoically out front.
“Alexis,” Brianna says, breaking the silence. “I will leave you here. You must continue the rest of the journey alone.”
She sounds like she’s sending me out on a vision quest or something. I slowly walk the fifty or so feet to the first counselor, a woman with thousands of braids all over her head, streaming down her back and curling at the ends. Her lips are dark red and shiny.
Even though I’m standing right in front of her, she doesn’t speak. Her face is blank, and I wonder if she even sees me at all.
“Um, hi,” I say awkwardly. “I’m Lexi?” I don’t know why it comes out sounding like a question.
“What is a woman?” she asks suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“What is a woman?”
I don’t know how to respond to that. But she’s waiting for an answer, staring me down in that emotionless way of hers.
“Um, a woman is…a female adult?”
“What is a female adult?” she shoots back immediately.
I get the feeling that there’s a right answer here, something she wants me to say, but I have no idea what it is. “I guess…a human with female body parts? Who has reached the age of maturity?” This is so weird.
“And what is the purpose of the female body parts?”
Several not-so-G-rated answers cross my mind, and I blush. But I try to think reasonably here. I know the counselor doesn’t want me to mention sex, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t talking about peeing. So I say the only other thing that comes to mind. “To have children?”
She stares me down a moment more as if evaluating me and then says, “You may continue to the next station.”
I guess I passed the test. I walk to the next cabin and stop in front of another counselor. She’s young, maybe only early twenties, and though she’s wearing the requisite pink shirt, she seems cooler than the rest of the counselors somehow. She’s wearing a cute denim skirt and ankle-high cowboy boots, and her hair is dyed a brilliant red and cut into a sleek, angled bob. Her earrings dangle past her hair, and they’re silver and jangly and funky—definitely something I would wear.
“What is the role of a woman?” she asks.
“The role of a woman is exactly the same as anyone else’s,” I say with a shrug. “To live and learn and love and be happy.”
The counselor just clears her throat and repeats her question. “What is the role of a woman?”
Clearly this isn’t a very feminist bunch. I sigh and repeat my last answer, since that seemed to work last time. “To have children.”
“And?”
“And…take care of the children?”
She inclines her head a tiny bit. “And who else?”
I take a deep breath. It’s not hard to catch on to the general theme of these questions—I know what I’m supposed to say here. I make myself say it. “And her husband.”
“You may proceed.”
But I don’t move. Not yet. “Wait,” I say quietly. “Not everyone has to get married, you know.” I’m not trying to start a fight. I’d just like to talk more about this, and there’s something about this counselor that makes me think she’d be open to that. Yes, I signed up to become straight, and I’ll do whatever it takes, but everything I’ve seen so far—the uniform, the questions—is making me wonder if they’re trying to turn me into someone else completely. Some Stepford version of what a woman should be. I think I have the right to question it.
The counselor seems surprised. She’s probably used to people bailing the second she gives them the go-ahead. After a couple seconds, her face softens, and for the first time, I feel like she’s actually looking at me, not th
rough me. “Most people get married,” she says.
“Sure. But I don’t see how being a woman equals being a wife. Or what getting married has to do with being gay or not gay.”
“It’s about gender,” she says simply.
Her eyes focus on something behind me. I turn and see the woman with the braids watching us. I doubt she can hear our conversation, but she still doesn’t seem happy. I turn back to the redhead. “Gender?” I repeat.
“Yes. A big part of our process here is clearing up the confusion you kids have about your proper gender roles. We have to start at the beginning and undo everything you’ve learned incorrectly. So, for our purposes, it has to be very cut and dry. We can’t have any gray area. That’s how you learn.”
So she’s agreeing there is a gray area but admitting they ignore it. It doesn’t make much sense, but the fact that she’s at least acknowledging the incongruity makes me feel better, like the counselors aren’t actually set on turning us into brainwashed clones after all, despite their tunnel vision about what a woman is. They’re just doing their job.
I nod, thank her, and move on.
The next counselor is a blue shirt. He’s got freckles all over his face and arms. He asks a question I can actually answer confidently. “Are you a woman?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
Really? “Um…because…I have all the corresponding parts…” I can’t believe I’m talking about my “womanly parts” with some guy I don’t even know.
“How else do you know? Other than the physical?”
“It’s just…something I know.”
He looks unsatisfied but waves me on anyway. “Go ahead.”
The final counselor, a young man with his blond hair neatly parted and slicked to the side, doesn’t ask about my womanliness. Rather, he says, “Why are you here?”
To get my mother back. To forget about Zoë. To finally fit in with everyone back home. To not be alone anymore.
“To learn to change,” I say. And I mean it. I really do want this to work. I don’t know if it can or will, but I want it to. It would solve everything.
He smiles and steps aside to open the cabin door for me. “Please make yourself comfortable while we wait for the other campers to arrive.”
***
There are four girls and seven boys already inside. They’re seated in folding chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the large, carpeted room. I notice the girls are all wearing the same cross around their necks as I am. The boys are wearing their own version—silver, slightly larger, and more masculine. New Horizons must buy these things in bulk. No one is talking, but they all look up when I enter, surveying me with interest. I dodge their scrutinizing stares and take in the rest of the room. The carpet is dark blue and soft under my feet—it looks brand new. Stacked up neatly against three of the walls are what look like props of some sort. I spot dolls, baseball mitts and basketballs, a chalkboard, an assortment of hats, a punching bag, cooking utensils, and Nerf baseball bats.
There’s a fireplace built into the wall on my right, but there’s no fire going—probably because it’s about a hundred degrees in the cabin.
“Hi,” I say as I sit down in an empty chair. I push my bangs back from my suddenly sweaty forehead. “I’m Lexi.”
The shaggy-haired guy from earlier is sitting next to me. “Matthew,” he says and shakes my hand. His face has been wiped completely clean of any of the emotion from before, and only now do I notice his bright-green eyes and fitted tee with Ellen DeGeneres’s face silk-screened onto it. That shirt is amazing. I want it.
“I love your shirt,” I say.
He beams. “Thanks! My boyfriend got it for me. But the Nazis here made me cover it up.” He gestures to a wadded-up blue New Horizons T-shirt under his chair.
“Shouldn’t you put that back on before they come back?” I glance at the door.
“What for? I’m not scared of them.” And despite what I thought I saw earlier, I believe him. He seems completely relaxed.
“Oh yeah, me neither,” I say, not even close to as convincingly.
There’s a long, significant pause.
“So, you have a boyfriend?” I ask Matthew finally.
“Going on two years.” I swear his eyes twinkle when he says it. He looks so happy and in love. He doesn’t look at all like someone who wants to change his sexuality.
“So why…” I begin. But I don’t want to be too nosy.
“Why am I here?” Matthew finishes. I nod, and he rolls his eyes. “Long story.”
I want to know more, but our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of another camper. She’s tall and has very long, very straight, very blond hair. Her eyes are lowered, but I think I catch a glimpse of blue through her lashes. She’s wearing a pink-and-white sundress that I’m sure Brianna approves of, and her skin is tanned, like she works as a lifeguard or on a farm or something. She smiles shyly and slips into an open seat without saying a word.
She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life.
Chapter 5
I can’t stop staring. There’s something about this girl, something stronger than just her looks, that’s reeling me in. Maybe it’s how she folds her lower lip nervously under her front teeth. Or it could be the way she holds her shoulders, a pose that tells me she’s shy but also strong.
She looks up and meets my eyes. I was right—hers are blue. Big and bright and blue and as clear as the view of the moon from the beach back home. I should look away. But I can’t. She holds my gaze, and my heartbeat kicks into a sprint.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, warning bells are sounding. Remember what happened the last time you felt like this, Lexi? But my brain must be disconnected from the rest of me, because my heart keeps pounding and my eyes keep staring.
The door swings open again, and our connection breaks—the girl looks away quickly, her cheeks flaming. Another camper joins the circle. I don’t notice if it’s a boy or a girl.
I wait a long time for her to look at me again, but she keeps her gaze away.
Even so, I can’t help the little buzz of anticipation that’s going through me. She likes girls too.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to New Horizons!” Mr. Martin says loudly, and I’m yanked back to reality.
The circle is now complete—I guess I missed the other camper arrivals while I was off in la-la land—and Mr. Martin is breezing through the door, his army of pinks and blues behind him.
Shame heats my face. What is wrong with me? I come here, desperate to do anything, try anything, to put my family back together, and that all goes out the window the minute I see a pretty girl? The only way this is going to work is if I give it my all. No more daydreaming.
The counselors hover along the fireplace wall side-by-side, and Mr. Martin strolls around the middle of the circle. His eyes land on each of us as he passes. “We are so happy to have you all here. By the end of this summer, you will be healed from this sickness that lives within you and your lives can begin anew. ‘Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.’ Psalm fifty-one, verse ten.”
Sickness? The word jumps out at me. I don’t feel sick. But in a weird way, thinking of it in those terms actually opens this whole de-gayifying thing up to possibility—most sicknesses can be healed, can’t they? You just have to catch it in time and be aggressive.
I glance at the blond girl. She’s watching Mr. Martin almost reverently. It seems she wants to change too. That’s good. If we’re both on the same page, it will be easier to ignore what I feel when I look at her.
Mr. Martin continues. “Now, who can tell me what SSA is?”
No one speaks.
“SSA stands for ‘same-sex attraction,’” Mr. Martin says. “You will be hearing and using that term a lot this summer as we work
together to rid you of your SSA. Make no mistake—the work will be challenging and often uncomfortable for many of you. It’s a difficult process, but it can and will work. It worked for me and it will work for you.”
My head snaps up. Mr. Martin used to be gay?
He smiles. “Yes, you heard that correctly—I am on your side every step of the way because I used to be one of you. I understand you in ways no one else can—not your parents, not even you, since you haven’t yet reached the other end of the journey like I have. So please, feel free to come to me with any questions, fears, thoughts, or concerns. If there’s anything you need—anything at all—please let me know.” He takes the time to look at each one of us again. “We are a team, you and I.”
I find myself instantly relaxing, knowing that a man like Mr. Martin is in charge of the camp. He understands us; he’s one of us. He wouldn’t lead us astray.
“Allow me to introduce our wonderful staff of counselors,” Mr. Martin continues. He introduces Brianna as the head of the girls’ program, his second-in-command. I guess I’m going to be seeing a lot more of her. Great. I learn that the clean-cut blond man’s name is Arthur, and that an older woman with a tight, gray perm like my grandmother used to have is named Barbara. “And some of our counselors have sat exactly where you’re sitting now,” Mr. Martin says. “Deb, John, Kaylee, will you step forward, please?” The braid woman, the freckle guy, and the young redhead emerge from the line and smile at us. “Deb, John, and Kaylee here, like myself, used to struggle with SSA. But they have taken control of their lives. Let them serve as inspiration for you as you embark on your work here at New Horizons.”
Everyone here is so open and honest about their past! And the de-gayifying worked so well for them that they’ve actually dedicated their lives to helping others go through the same thing. It’s inspiring. And look at Kaylee—she’s so cool. She clearly hasn’t had to give up her style or who she is in order to become straight. I decide in this moment that I’m going to be just like her.
The Summer I Wasn't Me Page 3
