The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (The Broom Closet Stories Book 2)

by Jeff Jacobson

  Beverly shot ahead and slipped both legs over to one side of her broom. It reminded him of a documentary he had seen about the bicycle culture of the Netherlands. He remembered how people there tended to dismount, swinging both legs in front of them and to the side of the bike and then stepping down onto the ground. This was quite different from how he and his friends got off their bikes, by stopping first, straddling the bike with both feet on either side, and then lifting one leg up and over the seat.

  As the island loomed closer, Charlie saw a long stretch of beach that was free of boulders. Beverly angled her broom so that it ran parallel to the open, sandy patch. She sank toward the ground, slowed down, and then simply slid off the broom, standing up gracefully.

  He flew toward her, not exactly sure how to slow his broom down. He decided not to flip his legs over the side the way she had; he worried that such a movement would toss him headfirst into the water.

  “Slow it down, slow it down,” he heard Beverly cautioning him.

  As he glided past the water and over the sand, he turned his broom parallel the way his aunt had. He also pulled back on the broom handle to slow his flight. It was too much at once. The broom nearly stopped in mid-air. He spun off the side like he had done in the field at Malcolm’s. This time, however, he remembered to release his legs instead of clinging to the broom like a chimp hugging a tree branch. He hung from his hands about a foot above the sand, then let go of the broom and dropped to the ground.

  “Oomph!” he grunted.

  “An excellent, if unusual landing,” Beverly said. “A high score for creativity.”

  “Thank you very much,” he said, his legs wobbling as he stood up straight and took a bow.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked, pointing to the air above him.

  He looked up and saw his broom hovering over his head.

  He reached up and touched it with his fingertips. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet Words escape his mouth, and then felt a dull thud as the broom dropped on his head.

  He laughed. “I think that might disqualify me from the match.”

  * * *

  Beverly unzipped the backpack she had been wearing and pulled out a small tarpaulin that she lay over a log. They sat down together. Then she removed some dried apricots, a package of almonds, a bar of dark chocolate, and a thermos of hot Spring Spice tea with two small porcelain cups.

  “No need to starve to death out here. We can still be civilized,” she added in a bad British accent.

  The tea was spicy and delicious. So were the nuts, which his aunt had dusted with her own blend of wasabi-salt.

  The beach wasn’t as sandy as it had appeared when he had come in for his landing. It was actually made up of millions of small rocks, almost like gravel. When the surf broke over them, then rushed back away from the shore, the pebbles made clicking noises against each other. It sounded like dried beans being poured into a glass bowl. He found it mesmerizing.

  “When I first learned to ride a broomstick,” said Beverly, “I was just about your age. I wasn’t very good at it. I told my parents it was stupid and made up excuses about wanting to be more modern. ‘Clearly witches who ride broomsticks are too old-fashioned,’ I used to say, forgetting that my parents both rode brooms themselves.

  “But then one night a family friend came over, and suggested then and there that he take me out for a nighttime ride. Just the two of us. I think my mom put him up to it. At first I didn’t want to, but he persisted, so I just went along with it.

  “It was a night a bit like this. The stars were out, and it was cold. Autumn was definitely in the air. We rode out over Puget Sound. It was so quiet, and I liked how I could feel the sea spray on my face. The man gave me some pointers, but he also encouraged me a lot. What I remember most about that night was the sea spray and being with a nice older man who didn’t drive me so hard, like Dad always did.”

  She stopped talking, then looked off into the distance. Charlie wondered about his grandfather. So far the stories he had heard about the man didn’t paint a very nice picture.

  “Whatever happened to him? And to my grandmother? How did they die?”

  “Your grandfather died of brain cancer, and Mom of a heart attack. His was a long, drawn-out thing, and hers, well, she went peacefully in the night.”

  “Brain cancer? How can …? Can’t you, you know, do …?”

  “… something about it?” Beverly finished the question. “It’s the darnedest thing. No matter how powerful and amazing we witches think we are, we succumb to illness just like everyone else. We do know ways to promote health. But there aren’t any spells that cure cancer, unfortunately. You’d think we could do that, wouldn’t you? But we’ve never been able to. And I doubt we ever will. When it comes down to it, we’re human just like the rest of the population on this planet. I think that’s a good thing. It keeps us humble and levels the playing field.”

  Charlie remembered what Malcolm had said to him in the living room before he had been popped about how witches couldn’t read minds and how that made it more fair to normal human beings. Witches couldn’t read minds, they couldn’t cure cancer, they died like regular people did. Maybe Charlie should be disappointed that witches weren’t immortal superheroes. Instead, he was more than a little relieved. Being a mind-reading creature immune to disease might make him feel like a monster.

  They sipped their tea in silence and listened to the gravel-rush of the waves washing over the shore. Beverly offered Charlie more of the dried apricots, which he chewed slowly, enjoying their tart-sweet flavor.

  “In the meantime, there’s life to live. Who knows when our number is up? I think death is a great reminder to live life the way we want to, to enjoy it and do what we can do to leave some good on this planet,” she said. She reached down and picked up a rock, then threw it out over the water. He watched it skip several times before it sank, and at each place it skipped, tiny splashes of light exploded.

  “Did you make it do that? Get so bright?” Charlie asked.

  “No, that was phosphorous. Tiny particles that make light when something stirs the water. There is plenty of magic in nature that has nothing to do with witchcraft, Charlie.”

  * * *

  They mounted their brooms and soared high above the water, flying side by side. Charlie looked over his shoulder and watched Blake Island as it gradually shrank in the distance. Beverly pointed out the skyline of downtown Seattle, Lake Washington, and its much smaller counterpart, Lake Union. The lights of the Fauntleroy Ferry dock shone in the clear night air.

  As they approached the shoreline, Charlie spotted their house. Looking closely, he could make out Amos standing at the edge of the garden, wagging his tail. He had no idea how the dog knew they were returning but was glad to see him.

  “Woof!” Amos barked one time as they came in for a landing. The lawn was much bigger than the small beach on Blake Island. Charlie came in low to the ground, slowed down, then landed with his feet solidly on the grass, his legs straddling either side of the broomstick. It was easy with no stumbling, flipping, or tripping this time.

  Together they walked toward the house, Amos running back and forth between them. Beverly said, “Feel free to take your broom upstairs with you if you’d like. Play with it. See what it’s like to float around in an enclosed space. That can be trickier than riding in a wide open area. Just no solo flights out your window, okay? Promise me?”

  “I promise.”

  They stepped inside the basement and began removing their hats and gloves, their heavy coats.

  “Thanks, Beverly. That was a really great ride.”

  “You are welcome, Charlie. My pleasure.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Shame On You

  DIEGO TOUCHED AND STROKED everything above the belt as the two boys lay next to each other on Charlie’s bed. Their kissing deepened, and he could feel the boy’s breath blow stronger on his neck and face. Charlie was more relaxed, knowing that
they weren’t going to do anything he wasn’t ready to do. Therefore, he found himself exploring and touching his friend with a hunger he hadn’t let himself express before.

  Diego had such a beautiful face. Charlie marveled at the cinnamon brown skin, the long lashes that softened the intensity of his large eyes, the strong nose. And his mouth, his amazing mouth, with its white teeth and thick tongue, the full lips always pulling at him, receiving him.

  He pressed his hips against Diego, who responded in kind. This quickened their kissing and their breathing. Charlie felt light-headed and decided that, while the hip part was amazing, it sped things up too fast. He pulled his mouth away and took a breath.

  Sitting up straight, he leaned back against the headboard and exhaled.

  “What’s the matter?” Diego asked, his lips puffy and his eyes half-closed.

  Charlie smiled and ran his hand over Diego’s black hair.

  “Nothing. Just out of breath is all,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Diego lay his head down on Charlie’s stomach.

  “Do you think this is a good idea?”

  “Do I think what is a good idea?” Charlie asked.

  “This. Us. Kissing. Doing this together. Hanging out.”

  Fear stabbed at Charlie’s chest. Was Diego regretting their friendship? Or whatever they were calling it?

  “Uh, yeah. Why? Don’t you?”

  “Charlie, how can you ask me that? It’s amazing. I really like you a lot. And I love spending time together. It’s just that I don’t want to pressure you. I can’t tell what you’re thinking half the time, and if you’re not into it, well …”

  “But I am. Can’t you tell by how much I, you know, like doing this?”

  “Yeah. I can tell that. But I don’t know. I’ve been out for a long time. You aren’t even sure if you’re gay. Maybe you’re bi. I don’t want to force anything. Ms. Barry says that it’s really someone’s own choice when and how, even if, they come out. She says that those organizations that force people to come out are doing everyone a disservice. She says it’s better to let people do it when they’re ready.”

  He turned his head and looked up into Charlie’s eyes. “Are you ready?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that I like you. Can’t that be okay for now?”

  “Of course it can. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’m worried that every time I call you to hang out with me, I’m sort of pressuring you to come out more than you want to.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

  Diego sighed, and then turned his head back to rest again on Charlie’s stomach.

  Charlie had been worrying. He was glad Malcolm had told him that lying would block him from being able to work his own witchcraft; that all made sense to him. But now what? Was he supposed to tell someone? Beverly and Randall? Maybe. He had thought about it. But he didn’t know how they would react. Would they be embarrassed? Angry? Disappointed that he didn’t seem to like girls? At least not right now?

  If he continued feeling like this for Diego but kept it to himself, would that stop him from learning more as a witch?

  “I should get going on my homework. I have a lot to do tonight.”

  Diego sat up on the bed and looked at him. “Did I say too much? I always say too much around you.”

  Charlie was still getting used to the fact that his outgoing friend needed reassurance. It surprised him. It also made him wonder if everyone else on the planet wasn’t always as confident as they looked. That would be nice. If it were true.

  Charlie smiled at him, hoping it looked reassuring. “I like what you say. I like talking to you. A lot. Even if,” he added, “you are completely ridiculous sometimes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Diego yelled, shoving him down on the bed. Charlie pushed back, which led to tickling and wrestling, which in turn led to more kissing. It was quite some time before they came up for air again.

  * * *

  Well past midnight, as Charlie headed down the hallway and back to his room with a bowl of half-eaten cereal in his hands, he saw light spilling from underneath his aunt and uncle’s bedroom door.

  What are they doing up so late? he wondered. Then he heard their voices rising up out of the heat vent on the floor.

  “What are you talking about? I can’t believe you’re even suggesting that!” Beverly’s angry voice bounced down the hallway toward him.

  “I can’t believe you’re just sitting there with your head in the sand!”

  “My head is not in the sand! Just because you have an opinion about this doesn’t mean I’m being blind.”

  “Bev, I seriously doubt that this is just an opinion. Think about it!”

  I shouldn’t be listening to this, Charlie said to himself. He was just about to walk into his bedroom when he heard his name.

  “I am thinking about it. Charlie’s still getting used to being here. He finally has a friend, someone great, who likes him, and you have to suggest that?”

  “What do you mean, ‘that’? You make it sound like it’s dirty!”

  “He’s not even sixteen yet.”

  “As if that’s ever stopped a teenager before. Beverly, think about how much time they’re spending together. Diego’s openly gay. He’s president of the Gay–Straight Alliance.”

  “So what! The last time I checked, gay kids could be friends with straight kids. Plus, all they’re doing is homework, Randall! And going for hikes!”

  “Every day after school? Homework at Diego’s house when Lydia isn’t there?”

  “She works late on cases!”

  Beverly’s angry words thundered over the walls, pounded across them like carpenter’s tools. A dull thud followed, as if something fell on the floor.

  “Bev, calm down. Unless you want to remodel the bathroom.”

  “Okay. Okay. Sorry.”

  A long pause followed.

  “Look, what makes you so sure you know what you’re seeing?”

  “Don’t start that up again with me, Bev. We can figure things out too, you know. It’s not like you people have cornered the market on seeing the invisible. You all think you know what’s happening everywhere, yet you miss what’s going on right beneath your noses!”

  Silence. Thick, heavy, hair-prickling silence.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you like that. But why do I have the sneaking suspicion we’d be having a very different conversation if this were about Charlie and a girl?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you don’t like it that Charlie might be gay.”

  “Damn it, Randall, lower your voice. Of course I don’t want Charlie to be gay!”

  “Will you listen to yourself? I can’t believe you don’t …”

  * * *

  Charlie had been standing still, barely breathing, one foot resting on the carpet inside his bedroom, the other one still in the hallway.

  He shook his head, then stepped into his room and closed the door behind him, as quietly as he could.

  He set the bowl of cereal on his desk and walked to the middle of his room. He stood silently, arms at his sides, hearing his aunt’s words in his head: “Of course I don’t want Charlie to be gay!”

  He had wondered earlier today what they would think if they knew about him and Diego. He didn’t have to wonder anymore. Or at least not about Beverly. A snort escaped his nostrils. Now he knew where she stood on the topic. Loud and clear.

  “Of course I don’t want Charlie to be gay.”

  He was surprised when he felt wetness on his cheeks. He didn’t feel sad. Just empty, numb, and a little tired. Then why was he crying?

  His mind began to race.

  They knew. He thought he had been hiding it. But they knew. Everyone at school knew. His aunt and uncle knew. Maybe even his mother did too.

  Embarrassment and shame filled his face, surged through his spine like grease, leaving a trail of slime behin
d. It seeped into his heart so that all the blood pumping through his body flowed with filth, with dirt, with scum.

  His aunt and uncle didn’t want him. His mother had said she couldn’t raise him, that she couldn’t protect him. Maybe she meant she didn’t want to raise a gay son. That’s probably what it really was. It hadn’t made any sense to him that she would just leave him up here, drive all this way and dump him off on long-lost relative. Now it did. She had wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

  But they didn’t want him either. He was disgusting. What had he been thinking? That he could just sneak around, kissing a boy over and over again, and no one would find out? They always found out, didn’t they? He thought of scenes in movies, on TV, where they teased boys about being girlie, about wearing women’s clothes, about all those funny “single” uncles and their weird humor.

  It was dirty, what he was. It was lower than low, the worst. And they always found out, didn’t they? They came for you. The way they came for Ted Jones. They beat you into a pulp, leaving you by the side of the road.

  They drove you from your school, like they did Diego. The kids beat you up while the teachers looked the other way. You couldn’t count on anyone. You couldn’t hide it, could you? It always leaked out, and they always found out.

  They always hated you.

  His body shook and his chest heaved. Snot ran down his nose.

  “You little faggot, crying like a girl!” Charlie turned and looked at his red wet face in the mirror. He flung his hands out at the glass as if trying to strike his reflection. Even though he was several feet away, the mirror fractured, leaving webbed cracks down the middle of the surface like frozen streaks of lightning.

  The sound of the breaking mirror startled him, yanking him from the dark swirl of hate and shame.