“Now,” Mr. Martin says, “we are going to split you up into groups of four. Two boys, two girls. The group you are assigned to will be your group for the entire summer. Apart from the exercises that require the boys and girls to be separated, your group of four will spend every waking moment together. You will have meals together, participate in the majority of reparative therapy exercises together, and spend your leisure hours together.”
“Why?” Matthew asks. He’s the first camper to speak since the counselors entered the room.
Mr. Martin’s smile melts away. “To keep each other accountable. It’s easy to give in to the feelings and desires caused by your sickness. Your group members are there to make sure you don’t relapse.” He picks up the crumpled, blue New Horizons shirt and holds it pointedly out to Matthew. His demeanor emanates friendliness, kinship, but I can’t help but feel this is a challenge. Matthew crosses his arms and glares stubbornly back at him. But Mr. Martin isn’t going to budge. He stands there, shirt in hand, waiting.
The thickening tension in the room makes the cabin even hotter. No one moves. No one says anything.
I can’t stand this. “Take it,” I whisper to Matthew, and, finally, he does.
“Remember,” Mr. Martin says, “there will always be eyes on you.”
“Super,” Matthew mutters so low that I think I may be the only one who hears him. He slips the shirt over his head.
Brianna steps in and begins dividing us up, seemingly at random. I sit very still in my chair and watch as she picks us out, one by one. I’m not in the first group. Neither is the blond girl. Brianna comes very close to her as she chooses people for group two, and I hold my breath, but she picks the girl sitting next to her instead. I exhale. I know I’m not supposed to, but I want to be in a group with her. There’s no harm in being friends, right? Maybe we can even help each other with the de-gayifying stuff.
As they’re assigned their groups, the other campers start dragging their chairs over to their designated corners of the room.
Brianna taps her sparkly fingernails against the corner of her mouth as she decides who should be in the next group. “Matthew…Daniel…” she says. She points at the girl. “Carolyn…”
Carolyn. That’s her name.
“…and…”
Me! Pick me!
“Alexis.”
Yes!
The four of us slide our chairs into a little cluster. Carolyn is right next to me, but she still doesn’t look at me. I’m trying to come up with something not stupid to say when counselor Deb joins us.
“Hello,” she says. Even though the creepy “what is a woman” trials are over, she still has that distant look about her. I can’t tell if she’s acting like this on purpose, or if that’s just how her face is. “Please introduce yourselves to each other. Remember to state your age and where you’re from.” She gestures to Matthew to go first.
“I’m Matthew,” he says. “I’m sixteen years old, and I don’t need a governess!”
We all stare at him.
“The Sound of Music? Liesl? No one?” He sighs, disappointed. “Okay, actually I’m seventeen, and I live in San Diego. Better?”
“Much,” Deb says flatly. I grin at Matthew across the small circle.
A skinny boy with rimless glasses goes next. “I’m Daniel. I’m fifteen.” His hands are shaking. “Um…what else am I supposed to say again?”
“Where you’re from,” Deb says.
“Oh yeah. West Virginia.”
My turn. “Hi, I’m Lexi.” Deb, Matthew, and Daniel are all looking directly at me, but Carolyn’s hair has fallen forward in a sleek sheet, blocking her face. “I’m from South Carolina, and I’m seventeen.”
Carolyn pushes her hair back. “I’m Carolyn.” God, even her voice is pretty. “I’m sixteen. And I’m from Connecticut.”
Deb rattles down a list of camp rules.
No touching a camper of the same sex at any time for any reason unless at the direction and in the presence of a counselor.
No using profanity.
Be supportive of your fellow campers and help them stay accountable. Report any questionable behavior to Mr. Martin immediately.
Obey the counselors at all times—insubordination will not be tolerated.
No unsupervised phone calls.
Campers must remain in approved camp areas at all times unless specifically directed otherwise by a counselor.
Designated meal, sleep, and prayer times will be observed by all campers.
No unsupervised meetings between campers of the same sex. Improper fraternizing carries the penalty of immediate expulsion.
She says that last one with added emphasis, giving me the impression that that’s the most important rule of all.
When Deb is done with her lecture, Mr. Martin saunters over. “I’ll take over here, Deb,” he says. “Why don’t you go see if Barbara needs help with her group?” After Deb has left, he pulls up a seat. His hands thread together and he leans forward, elbows on knees. “The first step in battling any addiction is admitting you have a problem. And that’s a good way to think of your SSA—as an addiction.”
“I thought it was a sickness,” Matthew counters.
“They’re one and the same. Haven’t you ever heard addiction described as a disease?”
Matthew just shrugs.
“So,” Mr. Martin continues, “like any addiction, you may feel that it is out of your hands and that you are dependent on it. But that’s not true. It’s not part of you. You can work to control it. And you will be better off without it.” The soothing, certain way he forms his words makes it impossible to not believe him. He gives us a warm smile. “Don’t worry; we’ll start slow. Today’s session will simply be about sharing your individual stories with your group. What is your experience with SSA? When did you first start having these feelings? What brings you to New Horizons? Be honest with each other—it’s the only way to build the trust that is absolutely essential for your therapy to thrive.”
That’s starting slow? Oh yeah, just tell a bunch of people you just met your deepest, most private thoughts. No biggie.
“Who would like to go first?”
There are a few moments of edgy silence, like when a teacher asks who wants to be the first one to give a presentation in front of the whole class.
But then Daniel speaks. “I will,” he says, his voice faint.
We all whip our heads around to look at him. Even Mr. Martin looks surprised that this timid, young boy is the first one to volunteer. “Excellent!” he says, pleased.
“I hate who I am,” Daniel says. “That’s why I’m here.”
Mr. Martin nods thoughtfully. “Remember, Daniel, your SSA is not who you are. It’s something that’s been done to you. It’s not your fault.”
“Well, I want it to stop.”
“When did you first become aware of your SSA?”
He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. But I know the first time I acted on it.” He pauses again, and I wonder if that’s all he’s going to say.
“It’s okay, Daniel. This is a safe space,” Mr. Martin says, his voice warm.
Daniel takes a deep, wavering breath. “I was eleven. My friend Colin fell and cut his knee in gym class, and the teacher asked me to help him get to the nurse. The nurse was busy with another student when we got there, so we had to wait. Colin’s knee was all bloody and he was crying, and I didn’t want him to be hurting, and I didn’t know what to do, and before I could stop myself, I just leaned over and kissed him. On the lips. I don’t know why I did it.” He breaks off as his eyes fill with tears. When he speaks again, his voice is even quieter. I have to strain to hear. “It was like I’d given him an electric shock. He jerked away and hit me—hard—across the face. I ran away and prayed to God for days and days, begging him to make me normal.” He t
urns his body toward Mr. Martin but keeps his head down. “I would have come here sooner, but you have to be at least fifteen.”
Mr. Martin reaches over and places a large hand on Daniel’s forearm. “Well, you’re here now. And you are going to prove to God that you can live by his laws and are worthy of his love.” He keeps his hand on Daniel’s arm and just…waits. Finally, Daniel looks up. Mr. Martin smiles. So does Daniel.
Mr. Martin in this moment inexplicably reminds me of a grandfather, even though he’s father aged. There’s something gentle, wise, trustworthy about him. Like if you tell him everything that’s hurting you, he’ll impart some remarkable wisdom, make you some soup, and everything will be fine.
Then Mr. Martin turns to Matthew, and his supportive face transforms into something just a bit more like disdain. “Why don’t you go next, Matthew?”
Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go next?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t think it’s very fair that we’re supposed to sit here and tell you all this personal stuff about ourselves and listen to you tell us we’re sick or dirty or whatever, but not know anything about why you’re here.”
Mr. Martin looks at Matthew levelly. “Like I said earlier, I used to struggle with SSA too. But I have overcome, and I have received the calling to pay it forward.”
Matthew snorts, as if he doesn’t believe for a second that Mr. Martin has overcome much of anything. “Whatever.”
“Now, please, share your experience with the group,” Mr. Martin says.
“Fine. I’ve known I was gay since I played house with Tim MacFarlane at Happy Land preschool when I was four. I had my first kiss when I was thirteen, and I’ve had a serious boyfriend for the past two years. His name is Justin. Anything else?”
“What brought you to New Horizons?” Mr. Martin asks, not even a little bit fazed by Matthew’s bluntness.
“More like who brought me to New Horizons,” Matthew mumbles. “My father, who else? He walked in on me in a rather…inventive position with Justin and lost his shit. No son of mine…disgrace to this family…as long as you’re under my roof you will do what I say…blah blah blah. It’s so ridiculous—he knew. I came out to him when I was fourteen. But then he sees me with Justin and suddenly he’s the captain of Team Homophobe. He actually said he’d thought it was a phase and that I should have grown out of it by now. What the hell, right?”
All Mr. Martin says is, “No profanity, Matthew.”
“I want to get married,” Carolyn blurts out.
Matthew blinks. “To me?”
She laughs. “No. Just in general.”
“Please, say more about that, Carolyn,” Mr. Martin encourages.
“That’s why I’m here. It’s not for my parents—or for God.” She looks at Matthew and Daniel. “It’s for me. I’ve dreamed about my wedding day since I was a little girl. I want a husband and kids and a house. I always have.” There’s something practiced about her words, like it’s a line she’s recited in front of a mirror many times before.
“And you will have that!” Mr. Martin says, beaming.
She smiles. “I hope so.”
I can’t stop myself. “But wait,” I say, “that doesn’t make sense.”
Everyone turns to look at me.
“What doesn’t make sense?” Carolyn asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken directly to me.
“If you’ve dreamed about marrying a man your entire life, then wouldn’t that make you straight? I don’t understand.”
Her eyebrows pull together, and she looks like she’s choosing her words carefully. “When I was little, I would dress up Barbie and Ken and walk them down the aisle and imagine the day when I’d get to wear a big white dress like that. I knew that someday I was going to have a husband who looked at me the way my dad looked at my mom. I’d watch romantic comedies and read Jane Austen novels and put myself in the place of the heroine.”
A tiny smile forms on my lips as I remember my own Jane Austen-era fantasies, like the horse-drawn carriage one from earlier today—something else we have in common.
She’s met my eyes and, for just a moment, the careful, practiced tone is gone.
“But then as I got older, the pictures in my head started feeling…off. They were still beautiful, but I couldn’t see myself in them anymore. And eventually I realized why. I didn’t want to marry Mr. Darcy. I wanted to marry Elizabeth Bennet.”
For the length of one heartbeat, Carolyn and I just look at each other, understanding each other.
But then her wall goes back up, and she’s back to the script. “My whole life, those dreams weren’t just something I thought about; they were who I was. And I want them back.” She pauses. “Does that make sense?”
I can’t help but feel as if there’s something she’s not saying, as if this isn’t actually her real story. Or at least not her whole story. But all I say is, “Yeah. It does.”
A smile brightens her face—and I was the one who put it there. I smile back.
“So that leaves you, Lexi,” Mr. Martin says.
“Okay, um, I guess…in a way, I always knew I liked girls more than boys,” I say, feeling my way through what I want to say as I go. “I felt more comfortable around them, but, you know, I didn’t know what it meant.”
It feels strange to say this out loud. I’ve never told anyone this stuff before—of the few people back home who know my secret, none of them ever asked for details. It’s funny to think that the fact that I like girls is the first thing everyone here at New Horizons knew about me, even before they knew my name. The thought is surprisingly liberating.
“When I was about seven or eight, I started getting really into fashion. I would watch movies and fixate on the actresses, studying their outfits and watching the way the fabric moved over their bodies. Eventually I realized that it wasn’t just the clothes I was captivated by; it was the women in them. And then…”
I clamp my hand tightly over my lightning bolt tattoo in hopes that it will stifle the memory that’s already on its way to the surface.
“And then…”
It doesn’t work—the memory comes blasting back. But at least I manage to stop myself from speaking it aloud.
And then Zoë Green happened.
***
It had been raining for four days straight—the effect of Hurricane Shauna, which didn’t hit our town directly but flirted with us just enough to be really annoying. Sophomore biology was first period, and Zoë came in after the bell, completely drenched. I’d met her for the first time on the first day of school a few days earlier. The only things I knew about her were that she was from Tennessee, she had a brother who was a senior, and she looked a little like Emma Stone.
“You’re late,” Mr. Buckley said.
“Sorry. Car trouble,” she said with a shrug.
“Would you like to go to the ladies’ room to get cleaned up?”
“Nah,” she said, and instead of going to her seat, she sloshed over to the windowsill and wrung her hair out over Mr. Buckley’s collection of plants. “Might as well turn my bad luck into something useful, right?” She grinned.
And that was all it took. I was in love.
It was what I imagined getting hit by lightning would feel like—unexpected, startling, a sharp, white-hot dagger piercing me in one acute point—my heart—and radiating outward until every cell in my being had been altered.
My gayness wasn’t just an abstract personality trait anymore—suddenly, I wanted to be with someone. I wanted Zoë to be my girlfriend. I wanted to kiss her and hold her hand in the halls and invite her over for dinner with my family and call her whenever something funny happened.
The force of it all was so strong that I actually had to gasp for air.
“You okay, Lexi?” the guy sitting next to me asked.
&nbs
p; My face flamed and I stared down at my notebook, forcing myself to pull it together. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied.
I had been hit by lightning, and no one could know.
***
“And then?” Mr. Martin prompts me back to the present.
Everyone’s staring at me, waiting for me to finish my story. But I can’t tell them about Zoë. I just…can’t. Not after everything that happened. Besides, the sun has begun to set outside, and the room is getting dimmer, and if I start that story now, we won’t get out of here until the middle of the night.
I scramble for something else to say. “And then…my mom found out. She and the pastor of our church are the only ones who know.” Well, besides Zoë. But no need to mention that right now. “My friends all think I’m at a pre-college fashion program in New York this summer.” I let out a strained little laugh.
“Mine think I’m visiting my grandparents in Boca Raton,” Carolyn says.
I look at her. “So you haven’t told your friends either?”
“About New Horizons? No way.”
“I told everyone,” Matthew says, laughing. “And they all think this whole thing is as insane as I do.”
Mr. Martin ignores him. “Lexi,” he says, “what brought you to New Horizons?”
“I’m here for my mom,” I say.
Mr. Martin looks like he’s about to ask me to elaborate on that, but I’m saved by a sudden high-pitched dinging sound piercing the air. I whirl around to find Brianna standing near the cabin door ringing a bell.
“Dinner time, everyone! Please stack your chairs and make your way to the dining cabin.”
Wow. A dinner bell. I feel like I’m in Little House on the Prairie or something.
Mr. Martin and Brianna lead the sixteen of us out of the carpeted cabin and across the field to the dining hall cabin. The rest of the pinks and blues bring up the rear.
Already the groups seem to have gelled. We walk in packs of four, sticking with the people we know, the people who went from strangers to our closest confidantes in the span of an afternoon. A short girl with thin eyebrows and rosy cheeks—Rachael, I think—starts sobbing uncontrollably, and Mr. Martin drops back to tend to her. I can’t hear what they’re saying—though I imagine she’s probably homesick or scared or upset over whatever was discussed in their group—but Mr. Martin’s arm is around her, and he’s patting her back as she wails into his side. She seems grateful to have him there, someone strong and sturdy and comforting, holding her up and talking her down, like that grandfather thing again.
The Summer I Wasn't Me Page 4
