Enlightened (2 page)

Sprinting through the humid, ninety-degree heat, it was a wonder I hadn’t collapsed. When I stepped through the screen door, my too-tight suit jacket was balled up in my left fist and my tie was wrapped around my right hand. The cluttered screened-in porch offered a small respite for me to catch my breath. I took off my shoes, as was customary at my foster parents’ home, and leaned on the arm of the yellowing wicker sofa that dominated the space. I couldn’t remember what color the cushions on the worn-out couch had been originally, but now it held a faded jungle print, washed out by years of the sun’s harsh rays.

The Schreibers, my foster parents of nearly five years, were the best I’d ever had. They didn’t have a lot of money because Dr. Schreiber was on staff at the local hospital and not in private practice. What they lacked in financial strength, they made up for with an abundance of stability and compassion. One junkie looking for a stereo to hock for drugs had changed the whole course of my life, but I felt safer here than any home that I’d lived in since my parents had been killed. I had only been three years old, so I didn’t remember much about them now, just flashes, vague impressions, and half-forgotten nightmares.

I tried to open the door quietly, but luck was just not on my side. Carolyn was standing in the kitchen, and I watched her for a moment as she pulled a fresh apple pie from the oven. She was the best foster mother I had ever been placed with. To be honest, I was thankful for her and for her husband, Richard. Reluctant as I was to admit it, I felt rather ashamed of my first thoughts of my foster father. Richard had specifically requested a teenage boy to be placed with them. At first I thought he was one of those. I had already dealt with a few of them in foster care.

One such foster parent was Mrs. Butler, who would come into my room at night and make me jack off while she watched. I was eleven years old, so I had no idea about the context or the scope of the act, only the quick breathless instructions she had given me that first time. She got so excited when I would finally blow. I remember her face would get all red, and she’d kind of bounce a little in the chair she sat in next to my bed. It took forever, because it was kind of hard to get all worked up with your foster mom watching you get off. Even though she would always try to “help me clean up,” I’d just grab the towel from her and get under the covers, terrified that one night she would want to get in bed with me. To be honest, she fucking creeped me out. However, it wasn’t long before I was removed from her care and placed with the Schreibers because Child Services had been called to investigate the rumor that Mrs. Butler was having sex with my younger foster brother. Only eight, he wasn’t old enough or strong enough to resist her. I was thankful that I never saw her again.

Richard was different, though. He just wanted a teenage boy because in his sixties, he was getting too old to do certain chores around the house and needed some help. Richard and Carolyn had started taking in foster kids years ago, after their baby boy had suddenly died in his crib. A montage of school pictures from each of their wards was arranged and dutifully maintained on the southern wall of the living room. At eleven, about to turn twelve, I had been the closest they could find to what they wanted, but he seemed happy enough with me.

“You’re home early,” Carolyn commented as she turned off the oven. Shrugging, I quickly looked away from her gaze, noticing the mess on the kitchen counter. She was a fantastic cook, but her cleaning skills left something to be desired. Tossing my balled-up jacket and tie onto one of the kitchen chairs, I went over to the counter. Feeling a little calmer now that I was out from under the preacher’s watchful eye, I started to clear away some of the mess. After a few moments, I felt Carolyn’s hand on my shoulder.

“Is everything okay, Brian?” she asked gently. This was exactly why I didn’t mind helping out around the house—cleaning the gutters, mowing the yard, and doing dishes. She was the closest thing I could ever remember having for a mother. Having been just a toddler when my parents were killed, my own mother was a faint memory stored somewhere between
Sesame Street
and potty training.

I briefly considered talking to her about how I felt, but since I wasn’t really sure about her views, I just couldn’t take the chance. Reaching behind her, she untied the worn apron and hung it on a peg behind the door. Pushing her graying, light-brown hair back in the general area of her messy bun, she watched me with speculative concern, but I remained silent, concentrating on my cleaning. She took off her oval-rimmed glasses to rub her deep-set gray eyes.

“Going to hell, are we, Brian McAllister?” she finally asked in an offhand voice. Spinning where I stood, I openly gaped at her, the cluttered counter forgotten in an instant. Any thoughts of concealment were lost in my surprise at her question, and I couldn’t even form the words to find out why she would ask me that. “Old Preacher Moore thinks everyone is going to hell for one thing or another. Whether it’s Richard for having wine with supper or me for gossipin’ with the ladies in my sewing circle, someone’s always in trouble,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m sure whatever you’re feeling all guilty about isn’t worth fussin’ over. You’re a good kid, Brian.”

“Thanks, Carolyn,” I told her with genuine affection, though not altogether reassured, and turned back to cleaning. She couldn’t know that I had nothing to worry about, since she didn’t know how I felt or what I’d done. For all I knew, she may agree with the preacher on the subject of boys being attracted to other boys. After wiping down the counter, dodging the obstacle course of appliances, racks, and the newly baked pie, I dropped the rag on the divider between the two sides of the stainless steel sink and grabbed the broom from the corner. As I swept the flour from the worn pattern on the slightly warped tile floor, she continued to talk.

“Now, if it has anything to do with the…,” she started and then lowered her voice to a whisper, “birds and the bees….” She looked meaningfully at me and then resumed in her normal tone, “You may want to go and talk to Richard. The last thing on earth you need in your already difficult life is to knock up some cheerleader.”

I almost laughed right out loud at that.
If only
, I thought wryly, but just nodded, and finally the thoroughly awkward subject was closed.

That night, after cleaning up the supper dishes, I lay in my bed and stared up at the blank expanse of ceiling over my head for a long time. Not for the first time, under the guise of attempting sleep, my eyes traced its cracks and imperfections. My bedroom was simple but safe and warm, which was exactly what I needed. The small student desk under the window was perfect for doing schoolwork or building models whenever I got them for Christmas or birthdays. That was my passion, building things. I had built ships and cars from kits, but lately I had been working on buildings with old scraps of trash that I had found around the house—toilet paper and paper towel rolls, newspaper, and for signs I would use color advertisements from magazines. It was wonderful of Richard and Carolyn to indulge me in my fascination with models when they could.

The dresser, with its deep scratches and gouge marks, held my finished models as well as my clothes, and looked like it literally had fallen off the back of a truck. The bed was a slightly different story. After years of housing a couple of foster kids at a time, they had gotten too old to handle the discipline problems that usually accompanied abandoned and sometimes abused children. So, after their last two charges had turned eighteen, they’d decided to only have one at a time and had replaced their bunk beds with one brand new sturdy twin. It was the most comfortable bed I’d ever had. The worn green comforter, good no matter the gender of the kid sleeping in the bed, was warm and reassuring. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.

My thoughts raced as I continued to trace the cracks in the ceiling with my tired eyes. I thought about what Carolyn had said;
maybe I wasn’t so horrible after all. I mean, I wasn’t looking for this to happen. I didn’t want to be like this; I didn’t want to like boys. Maybe there was something wrong with me that a doctor could help with. Maybe I should talk to Richard.
A small measure of hope flared within me at that thought.
Or maybe that was the way God intended for me to be? If He had absolute control over everyone and everything, why would he have made me bad? Broken? Wrong?

It was hours before sleep finally took me.

“H
EY
, man, are you feeling any better?” Jamie asked as I slammed my locker closed with a rather loud bang. As he leaned casually against the wall nearby, I noticed that his lanky body had started to become more defined under the jeans and soft blue T-shirt he wore. That shirt was my favorite on him.

Slowly raising my eyes to his face, I wondered if he could see right through me. His brow was furrowed, and he looked worried. For some reason, that made me feel conflicted. I was pleased by the way he cared, even if it was only as a friend, but at the same time I felt guilty about my attraction to him, my need for him. I was terrified that someone would find out about that need, because in our small town, anyone who was even the least bit different from the stereotypical Southern boy was ostracized, vilified, as were those close to him. I couldn’t imagine that Carolyn would be pleased to be asked to leave her sewing circle because of her queer foster kid.

“I’m fine,” I told him in a clipped tone, not meeting his eyes. “Let’s go to class.” I started to walk around him, but he grabbed my arm. A feeling like an electric current shot through my skin, and I pulled away sharply. When my eyes finally met his, I was saddened by the hurt and confusion I saw in them. Pushing past him gently, not wanting to make either of us feel more uncomfortable, I headed for English. Jamie was right behind me as we passed door after door of teenagers piling into their classes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of people wave at Jamie, but he only gave them a halfhearted nod. His legs were longer, so he had caught up with me by the time we reached the doorway to our first class. He didn’t say anything, just took his customary seat to the right of mine.

I felt like people were staring at me, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Glancing around, I saw that the rest of the kids in the room were only now taking out their books, getting ready for class to start. Feeling utterly paranoid, I turned back around in my seat and noticed Jamie watching me surreptitiously from my right. Grabbing my English book, a beat-up notebook, and my pen, I turned and waited not-so-patiently for the teacher. I was about to pay strict attention in class for probably the first time that year.

For the next hour, I earnestly tried to pay attention to the material being presented, nearly boring a hole in the wall behind Mrs. Cornell’s head with my unflinching stare. By the time the bell rang, I could have told you how many books were in the bookcase behind her desk, listed every piece of paper on the bulletin board, and described in detail the intricate pattern of the crack in her “Best Teacher Ever” coffee mug. Doing everything I could to push the fear out of my mind was fruitless, however, because of all the sideways glances from Jamie. He must have tried to catch my eye at least thirty times during the hour-long lesson, and if he didn’t fucking stop, people were going to talk. Nothing in the world caused more drama than teenagers.
What if people started to suspect? What if they started rumors about us? What would I do then?

The rest of the day was spent in a similar manner. Our school was small, so the entire junior class generally moved as one from room to room, trudging down the hall together like a chain gang of criminals out for their afternoon at the rock quarry. Some people ventured off to band instead of choir, or remedial math instead of algebra, but Jamie was a constant throughout my day.

At that point, it was both a blessing and a curse.

The thought of sitting next to him, trying to ignore the gnawing guilt in my stomach for the whole lunch hour, was not pleasant. When the bell rang signaling lunch, I told him I had to get my lunch bag from my locker and I’d meet him in the cafeteria. Of course, there was no bag. I headed past the hallway that led to my locker and kept walking right through the double doors and outside. Sitting on the far side of a large oak away from the few students who had ventured out on the gloomy, overcast day, I noticed that it looked like a storm was threatening, but I didn’t care. Let the skies open up and wash away my sins.

As I sat outside, away from the watchful eyes of several dozen nosy teenagers and away from Jamie’s baleful stares, I was able to relax a little and breathe again. The panic started to return when I thought of having to hide like this for the next six weeks until school was out.
It was only the end of April now; how the hell was I supposed to keep this up until the beginning of June?
If someone started the rumor, or even just insinuated that I spent just a little too much time tagging along after Jamie Mayfield, it could ruin us both. The fear settled in my stomach, rooting itself there, like an infestation of my body and soul.

Our last class of the day was the generic rotating “extra” electives. That day, it was art. Music was actually my favorite extra elective class, but art wasn’t bad. I enjoyed the creative element, and usually it was a pleasant diversion from the normal boredom that made up our high school curriculum. As Jamie and I walked in, we saw Mr. Barnes in the back of the room setting out supplies. He wore a similar T-shirt, sweater vest, and khakis to the ones I’d seen him in every Monday since the start of term. It almost screamed “gay,” but I mean, everyone in school knew that already; it wasn’t like you couldn’t tell.

I stopped dead in the doorway, Jamie nearly slamming into me from behind. Mr. Barnes was gay. Everyone knew Mr. Barnes was gay; he just gave off that vibe.
Would everyone know about me?
I’d never really given it any thought before. Like the pea-green walls of the art room, it had just become like background noise.
What if he could tell that I thought about other guys?
Suddenly, I felt sick and fell onto the bench at the picnic-like table, my skin crawling with a cold sweat.