Finally the service is done and I tell Mitch that I promised to talk to Mrs. LeCroix again. “Do you mind?”
He smiles. “Not at all.”
So I go to find her and she asks me to sit down. “I don’t know what to do, Ramie,” she says, looking into my eyes as if she might find some answers there. “You know that we believe homosexuality is a sin. Jessica knows this too. But I don’t know what to do.” And then she really starts to cry.
“I don’t know what to do either,” I tell her. But then I remember the website I found and the name of the exit ministry. So I tell her about it. “Maybe you could contact someone there,” I suggest. “Someone who understands this stuff.”
“It’s so hard to know why some people . . . well, why anyone would want to do something like that, to be like that. And then when it’s your own daughter, and you love her, but you despise what she’s doing . . . I think I must’ve done something wrong. Maybe we should’ve discouraged her about sports.” She’s wringing her hands now, and I reach over and pat her on the arm.
“It’s not your fault,” I assure her. Then I remind her of my mom and how liberal she is and how I’ve become such the opposite by being a Christian. “My mom thinks that what Jess is doing is perfectly fine and normal.”
“Maybe we should simply switch children,” she says with a trace of lightness in her voice.
I try to laugh. “Somehow we’re going to get through this,” I tell her. “I’m still praying for Jess.”
“I’ll tell Gary about that ministry,” she says. “Thank you. I don’t want to take up your time. I see that you came with Mitch Bryant. He seems like such a nice young man.”
I smile. “He is.”
“Well, have a happy Thanksgiving, Ramie.”
“You too.”
She frowns. “The other kids don’t know about this yet. Jess plans to tell them tomorrow. I doubt if anyone will have much of an appetite after that.”
“Sorry.”
She nods.
I go to find Mitch, but as I walk through the thinning crowd in the church I can tell that some people are looking at me. And I’m not sure if it’s because of what they may have heard about Jess or because I’m here with Mitch, or maybe I’m just getting really paranoid. But I hold my head high as I walk and I pray that we can leave soon. I am so worn out from all this.
“Got any big plans for Thanksgiving?” Mitch asks as he drives me home after church.
“Nothing much,” I admit. “My mom and I usually go to her friends’ place and hang out with some of her counseling buddies. How about you?”
“We’re heading up to Newburg, the grandparents. Family tradition stuff, you know, like aunts telling me how tall I’ve grown, uncles asking me what I plan to do with my life, crying babies who need to be bounced, and old people falling asleep after dinner. We’ll be back on Saturday.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It gets old.”
I don’t tell him that I’d gladly trade that pleasant image for hanging out with a bunch of freaky counselor types who for one reason or another seem to be cut off from their families. Funny that family counselors aren’t better able to deal with their own family problems. Makes you wonder how they can help anyone.
As usual, Mitch walks me to the front door. And, as usual, he kisses me. But instead of limiting him to just one kiss, we stand there and kiss for a while. And when we stop, I am lightheaded and it feels like everything is spinning.
“Wow,” he says, stepping back with a slightly dazed look.
“Wow,” I say back, wondering if he’s feeling the same way I am.
“Doing anything on Saturday?” he asks.
“We have basketball practice in the morning,” I tell him. “Our first preseason game is next week.”
“I mean Saturday night.”
“No. I’m not doing anything. I mean since there’s no youth group because of the holiday weekend, otherwise I’d be doing something.”
So he asks me out, and I say yes, then we kiss again, and I go in the house without even feeling the floor beneath my feet. Wow is right!
twelve
THANKSGIVING PASSES UNEVENTFULLY. SAME OLD SAME OLD. I FIND MYSELF daydreaming about what it would be like to be with Mitch, to be doing the “traditional” thing with his family. It sounds so good. Finally it’s time to go home.
Mom works on updating some files, and I go to my room and check e-mail. I guess I’m hoping that Mitch might e-mail me. But I’m surprised to see that Jess has written. She’s left the subject space blank and I feel nervous as I click the message open, preparing myself for the worst, though it might be good news.
i know u r mad at me. and i feel the same. but
maybe we shud talk. r u willing? Jess
Okay, that was pretty brief and to the point. But how do I react? Do I want to talk? No, not really. But is it right to just brush her off? After thinking this through, I bite the bullet and write back.
i’m not mad. not really. just kinda confused. like
y r u doing this? r u sure u r really gay? stuff like
that. i just don’t get u. sorry. ramie
I hit send and just sit there staring at the screen. I really don’t want to have this conversation with her. I would rather just pretend that I don’t know her. Never did. But one of the things I did manage to pick up out of Pastor Bryant’s sermon last night was that Thanksgiving is a time of relationships, and relationships are about forgiveness. And I knew that I needed to forgive Jess. But how do you do that? I mean when the other person isn’t asking for forgiveness. How do you forgive someone who thinks they are right and you are wrong? As I sit there thinking these thoughts, I see that Jess has replied. She’s obviously sitting in front of her computer too. Now part of me thinks this is kind of silly, like we should probably just pick up the phone and call, talk in person. But I’m not ready for that. Maybe this is easier. I open her mail and read.
i know it’s hard to get. but i am gay. okay? that’s
just how it is. u need to get over it. i miss u. Jess
Gulp. How am I supposed to take that? Does she miss me as her friend? Or does she miss me like . . . like a girlfriend? Did Jess like me for me or was it something—ugh—more? This is so creepy. But maybe it’s best to just get the crud out on the table. Clear things up. Or else make it clear that I don’t want any kind of involvement with her at all.
i miss u 2. but i miss the old u. i miss just being
friends, having someone to hang with. i don’t
get this new u. i don’t like that u r gay. i want
things to be the way they were. y r u gay? do u
even know? and how do u know u r gay? all of
this is confusing to me. and frustrating. ramie
I wait to see if she’ll respond. And as I wait I think I might’ve offended her. But I don’t really care. I’m just being honest. If she can’t take it, fine. We don’t have to talk. I mean I am so ready to move on. But then her next post appears in my box, and I hurry to open it.
i know i am gay. i knew it a long time ago. i just
never cud face it b4. it’s not easy facing it now.
and friends like you and the others don’t make
it any easier. i wish u guys cud understand. i
wish u cud accept me 4 myself. u don’t know
how hard this is 4 me. sometimes i wish i was
dead. Jess
Okay, this scares me a little. The line about wishing she was dead is kind of freaky. But then I wonder, is she just saying this to manipulate me? Is this her way of guilting me into accepting her sin?
if this is so hard and making u so miserable that
u wish u were dead, y do u want to do it? y do u
want to be gay? can’t u see it’s a big fat mess?
can’t u see that it’s sin? i talked to ur mom
yesterday. she is so upset. this hurts everyone,
Jess, can’t u see that? did u get my e-mail las
t
week, about the exit ministry for homosexuals?
maybe they can help u. y not talk to them?
maybe it’s not 2 late. ramie
I say a prayer as I hit send. Please, God, please help her to see that this is wrong, please help her to see that she needs help. I pray and pray until I see that she’s e-mailed back again. I feel hopeful as I open it.
u just don’t get it. u don’t get me. it’s no use
trying to make u understand. u never will. y
don’t u go get help, ramie? u r the one who is all
mixed up. being a homosexual is not a choice.
it’s how we are made. don’t blame me, blame
god. he made me like this. although i’m not
sure i believe in god now that everyone who
claims to be a christian is turning against me.
i don’t know what i believe. but i know it’s no
use talking to people like u. just leave me alone,
okay? Jess
Okay, I can take a hint. Without answering her, I sign off of my e-mail and log off my computer. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, fine. It’s not like I wanted to talk to her in the first place anyway. And she’s right, I don’t understand her. I probably never will. Most of all, I just want to forget her. I almost wish she’d transfer to another high school. Maybe she will. Maybe she can find a gay school to go to, a place where everyone will understand her.
The day after Thanksgiving, I spend a pretty boring day at home. After trying to connect with both BJ and Lauren and finding that both of them aren’t home, I decide to catch up on homework, comforting myself with the fact that I’ll be going out with Mitch tomorrow night.
Saturday, I am actually relieved to go to practice. So relieved that I don’t even mind riding my bike to the school. Fortunately the weather has warmed up a little. The sun is out and it’s actually a pretty nice day. But the ride takes longer than I expected and now I’m running late. At least I’m warmed up and ready to play. I park and lock my bike in front of the main entrance to the gym.
I hurry toward the door, stripping off my jacket as I go inside. But as I turn down the hallway that goes past the restrooms, I see Jess just ahead of me. With her gym bag in hand, she’s going into the girls’ locker room. I freeze, wondering what I should do. I’m probably just late enough that the rest of the team is already dressed down and at practice. And I do not want to be alone with Jess in the locker room. Okay, it’s not like I’m afraid of her or anything. I’m not. But I do know it will be really uncomfortable in there. For both of us.
I decide to go directly to the gym, where I find the rest of the team already doing drills.
“Sorry, I’m late,” I tell the coach. “I, uh, had to ride my bike and it took longer than—”
“Just get dressed down, Grant. And hurry!”
“But I, uh—”
“No ifs ands or buts. Get moving, you hear?”
I swallow and nod, then start walking toward the girls’ locker room.
“Get a move on!” he yells.
So I jog over to the door and open it and practically hold my breath as I quietly go inside. Jess is just pulling on a practice jersey, but she jumps when she hears the door to the gym slam shut behind me.
“Oh,” she says, glaring at me. “It’s you.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking away. “I’m late.” Then instead of going for my locker, which is only a few feet from where she is dressing, I go straight to the bathroom and into a stall.
“You going in there to hurl?” she asks in a bitter-sounding voice.
“No,” I say in a deliberate but cold tone. “I rode my bike over here and I need to use the toilet, if you don’t mind.”
Of course, I don’t really need to go, but I just stand there and then flush and go out and slowly wash my hands, waiting until I can see by the reflection in the mirror that she is heading out to the gym. Then I dash over to my locker and dress down as fast as I can, hurrying out to the gym just a couple minutes after her.
I can feel the other players looking curiously at me as I fall into the drill patterns. But, even more than that, I can see they are looking at Jess. And it almost looks like some of them are (1) trying to avoid her, or (2) throwing the ball harder than necessary when they pass to her. A small part of me feels sorry for her, and I wonder why she came today.
Finally we’re done with drills and Coach has just organized us into two scrimmage teams. But then he eyes Jess. “You’re back, LeCroix?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you plan to stick around for the whole season or is this just some kind of hit-and-miss thing for you?”
“I plan to stick around.”
“Well, you know that missing practice last week means you’ll be suspended for the first preseason game, don’t you?”
“I know.”
He shrugs. “Okay.” He blows his whistle. “Let’s play ball.”
Jess and I are on opposite teams. She, as usual, is playing guard and, as usual, is pretty tight on defense. Today, I’m playing center, but I really prefer forward, since I’m probably the best outside shooter on the team. But Coach has made it clear he wants us to master all the positions. And so I work hard to keep myself in and around the key, shooting when I get the chance. At the same time it seems that Jess is working extra hard to keep me out of the key and from shooting. I know that’s what she’s supposed to do, but several times she fouls me and a couple of them seem intentional. In fact, if this was a real game, I’m sure she’d be sitting on the sidelines by now.
“Knock it off!” Lauren yells at Jess after I take a hit that knocks me to the floor.
“Yeah,” says BJ, who is actually on Jess’s scrimmage team. “Take it easy, Jess. This isn’t WWF you know.”
Then Coach finally gets a clue, blows his whistle, and takes Jess out for a while. During this time, both teams play hard and fast, but the tension factor seems to lighten a little. Then, as we’re closing in, and it looks like my team will have a sure win, Coach sends Jess back in. I try not to think about it, reminding myself that this could happen in a real game, that someone on the opposing team could take a strong dislike to me and try to make me suffer.
“Okay, now let’s see some good defense!” Coach yells as Lauren is dribbling down court and I’m making a sprint for the key. Then, just as I get into position, Lauren makes a great pass. I go up for what looks like a sure shot and bam! I am hit from behind by what feels like a linebacker or maybe a Toyota pickup. The ball goes flying from my hands and I go straight down. I use my left hand to block my fall, but it seems to give out on me and I continue to plunge, smacking my forehead right into the floor. I think I see stars.
“Are you okay?” asks Lauren, who is standing over me now.
I sit up, holding my left arm in front of me. It looks a little crooked, or maybe it’s just that my vision is impaired from the whack on the head. “What happened?” I ask.
“Jess ran into you,” says BJ, who is also standing over me. She turns and glares at Jess, who is standing a few feet away and looking on with what seems like genuine concern.
“On purpose!” snaps Lauren.
“It was not,” says Jess.
“Yes, it was,” says BJ in a slightly calmer voice. “I saw it too, Jess. you could’ve stopped if you wanted to. you just barreled right into her. Intentionally.”
“You don’t know that for a fact,” says Jess.
“We’re not blind, Jess!” yells Lauren. She’s standing in front of her now, just inches from Jess’s face. “We know what you’re doing!”
“You’ve had it out for Ramie all day,” says Kara Landrum, a senior who usually plays center.
“Yeah, everyone can see it,” says another player.
“What’s the problem?” asks Coach as he finally steps onto the court and walks toward us.
“The problem is that Jess is way outta control,” says Lauren. “She’s trying to kill Ramie.”
>
“You okay, Grant?” Coach comes closer and peers down at me now.
I rub my right hand along my throbbing left arm. “I think I did something to my wrist.”
“Help her up,” he tells my teammates. Lauren and Kara carefully help me to my feet as I protect my left arm. “Let’s see that.” He examines my wrist, which is starting swell, and then nods. “Yep, looks like you may have busted something, Grant.” He turns to Kara. “Get an icepack, will ya?”
“Oh no,” moans Lauren. Then she points her forefinger at Jess. “This is your fault! If Ramie’s arm is broken and she ends up missing the season, we’ll all have you to thank, Jess!”
“Way to go, Jess,” says someone else.
“There goes our chance for state,” says Amy.
Without saying anything, Jess just walks off.
“Help Ramie over to the bleachers,” Coach tells my friends.
“I can walk,” I tell them as they hover like flies, guiding me to the bleachers, where they sit me down.
“Do you want me to call your parents?” asks Coach. “Or do you think you need paramedics?”
I kind of laugh. “No way am I going outta here in an ambulance. “Just call my mom, okay?” And then I tell him the number.
The coach tells the girls to continue the game while he makes the call. I watch from the sidelines, trying to focus on the players instead of the growing pain in my wrist. After about thirty minutes my mom shows up, looking worried and upset. She hurries over to me and I assure her that I’m okay, but that I probably need some medical attention.
Bright Purple: Color Me Confused with Bonus Content Page 9
