Inclination (18 page)

“I liked the
service. It’s just, this uh… Unitarian Universalist Church… you know….”

“It’s the First
Unitarian Universalist Church of Wedgewood.” My parents are sitting across the
table from me at Dunkin’ Donuts on Sunday morning, after our family attended a
service at the local Unitarian Universalist church, trying to make sense of my
words.

“Thanks, Dad.
Well, the service doesn’t seem as
real
as a Catholic Mass.”

My Dad leans over
with a napkin to wipe the chocolate frosting from her donut off of Lulu’s lips.
“It’s just different, Tony. But we’re searching for a religious community that
feels right to us, where we can worship in our own way. We have to keep an open
mind.”

I sigh.

“Eat your bagel,
Anthony,” Mom interjects with authority. “Starving yourself isn’t going to
solve our little problem.”

“Little” problem?
What planet is my mother living on?

I lift my bagel
to my mouth. Worrying my mom isn’t going to fix anything either.

“The reason I
started our search at the Unitarian Universalist Church is because I’ve talked
on the phone with Gabby Gandy and she told me this is where the local PFLAG
meetings are held. I’m going to a PFLAG meeting with Gabby tomorrow night, as a
matter of fact.” Mom seems, if possible,
too
happy about this prospect.

“What does PFLAG
stand for?” I think I know, but it’s always good to check.

“Parents,
Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. The group was formed so that we can
love and support you and better understand you. And of course, we want the best
for you, and for that reason, PFLAG educates the public, and I will welcome the
information they give me so I can help you in any way possible.”

She sounds like a
walking brochure for gay rights, but I smile because this is her way of
supporting me, and supporting herself, too, I guess. Still, the whole thing is pretty
awkward.

“I think I’d like
to go to that meeting, too, Gina.” These days Dad is nothing, if not
enthusiastic, about all things gay, and I admit I’m nothing, if not lucky, to
have parents like these.

“Maybe you could
keep an eye on the girls tomorrow night, Anthony?” Mom winks at Dad coyly.
“It’ll be date night.”

“Talk about
taking a pile of lemons and making lemonade.” My words come out sounding
bitter, like I’d been sucking on those very lemons before the sugar was added.

But seriously, a
PFLAG meeting for date night?

“No, Anthony.
We’re going out tomorrow night strictly to enjoy the
lemonade.
And don’t you forget it.” Mom glances at the girls. “
Resa
—drink your cocoa before it gets cold. And
Frannie
, you insisted on having two Wake-up Wraps
and
Hash Browns. I’d like to see you
finish them.”

Mary swats me
with her book,
Boy Meets Boy
by David
Levithan
. She, too, is getting up-to-date on the
whole gay subject. “You’re getting awful skinny, Tony. If I sit on you, you
won’t get back up.” She slides me a couple of her chocolate glazed Munchkins.
“Eat these.”

This whole
support-our-gay-brother/son effort is touching, but I still feel uncomfortable,
like I’m asking my family to make a huge sacrifice for something I’m not yet certain
of. I mean, I’m certain I’m gay; I’m
not
certain
if acting on it is sinful or not. I admit to myself, as I scarf down a couple
of Mary’s Munchkins, that I’m not feeling nearly as panicked as I was a few
weeks ago, and I have David Gandy to thank for that. But the next bite of my
bagel requires a big gulp of chocolate milk to wash down, as a lump has planted
itself in my throat and seems to have no intention of leaving.

One step
forward…two steps back. Two steps forward…one step back.

It’s very slow
going, but I think I’m inching forward in my effort to understand what God
wants from me.

And now, so many
thoughts are rushing around in my mind that I lie on top of my bed, sweating
and breathing a bit too heavily. I have a lot to think about. Thankfully, the
Christian music I’ve loved for years is again able to strengthen and focus me,
instead of torture me, as it had been doing for a while there. I whisper a tiny
thanks to God for that blessing.

Tonight Mom and
Dad went on their date night at the PLFAG meeting with Mrs. Gandy. And they
loved the experience, which is possibly the understatement of the year. I think
they would have loved the PFLAG meeting even if I
hadn’t
recently come out as gay. They introduced themselves to the
other attendees, were warmly welcomed and then enlightened at a question and
answer period, and after that, they engaged in lively discussions over brownies
and coffee at break time. Overall, Mom and Dad felt welcomed, embraced, and
understood, even if there was no lemonade.

What’s not to
like about that?

They seem to feel
empowered by the honest discussion and the companionship, and they appreciate
the importance that the PFLAG members place on family. It works for them and
I’m glad.

And then there’s
David, who lately is never too far from my mind. After my parents get home, I
go downstairs, lie on my bed and conjure an image of him. As soon as I adjust
to the simultaneous comfort and thrill of my image—not exactly compatible
sentiments, but there it is—my cell phone rings.

“Tony?”

Already
recognizing the number, I crack a one-liner. “Who else would it be?”

“You got me
there.” I listen for the sound of his breathing and am rewarded. “Tony, I
can’t… Shit, Tony, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Goose bumps—I get
them everywhere. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, dude. Wish
we were together right now.”

This is a lot of
honesty even for at-home-David. And I’m out of my comfort zone, but liking it
there. So freaking much. Maybe too freaking much.

“Anyways, I was
wondering if your family would come to our family’s worship center this Sunday.
You know, come over to Journeys Worship Center. And then maybe our families
could go out to breakfast after—like all of us.”

“Uh…sure. I’ll
mention it to my mom.”

“I think Ma’s
already taken care of that part.” It’s his turn to chuckle, and when he does, I
get goose bumps all over again—the sound is that good.

“Don’t wig out,
but I need to tell you that I sing in the choir. It isn’t much of a
choir
to speak of. We have like six
dudes all together; three singers, one of ‘
em
plays
the piano, a guy on flute, a guy on guitar, and a guy who turns pages and shit.
And then we have Sarah, and let me tell
ya
, she has a
set of lungs on her.”

“You and Sarah
sing in the plays at school, too, don’t you?” Shamefully, I’ve never attended
one.

“Well, in the
fall I
tried
to sing in the musical,
but, yeah, Sarah sings in all the musicals and in the school chorus, too.
Journeys puts a lot of emphasis on musical worship—it’s pretty awesome. Plus
Beth’ll
be there and Cam, too.” David’s talking fast, almost
like he’s nervous, which surprises me because he’s usually the picture of cool.
“I
kinda
recruited Cam. He’d never done the whole
church thing before, but I think he likes it.”

“Well, sure.
We’ll come. All the girls will be tagging along, though. My parents are into
family worship.”

“That’s how it
should be, man. I’m glad you’re
gonna
check it out.”

It’s quiet and I
admit to myself I haven’t contributed nearly as much to this conversation—or to
this relationship, if I’m going to be real—as David has. In my defense, I’m
working through a bunch of very tough things. “Thanks for calling, David.”

“I couldn’t stop
myself, truth be told. I’m
kinda
addicted to you.”

I’m glad to hear
that, but it still ties up my tongue. “So…um, night.”

“Dream about me,
Del
Vecchio
.”

I hear him laughing
as I end the call.

And then I feel
something creeping up—um, no, I have to say it’s standing at full attention.
It’s just that I really like David Gandy, maybe too much to be healthy for my
soul. I guess I’m not sure yet.

As I walk to my
car after tennis practice on Friday afternoon—no, I should probably phrase it
this way: As I limp to my car, my groin burning from Lazarus’s latest attempt
to gain my attention using any means possible, my usual protective shadow is
nowhere to be found. And I won’t lie, I fervently wish
Rinaldo
would appear, as if by magic, two rows of cars over, like he has after practice
all week. The guy has basically stalked me in his effort to make sure one of my
“friends” or teammates doesn’t finish the job he started in the church parking
lot several weeks back.

As I walk, I
recap the week’s major events—and for the record, these events require me to
make an enormous effort to turn the other cheek. Matthew 5:39
But I tell you, do not resist an evil
person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek
also.

I’m also doing my
best not to judge. Luke 6:37 Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not
condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

But God forgive
me for even thinking this—
Laz
is being
such
an asshole. And both of my cheeks
have been well-slapped by his hands. I’ve had about enough.

At first I tried
to convince myself that the little incident in the locker room after tennis
with
Laz
last week was a one-shot deal—my former best
friend making his unhappiness known to me. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been the
case. The verbal put-downs in the locker room have turned into daily
occurrences, and from there, they’ve escalated to physical bullying.

In one sense I’m
impressed—
Laz
seems to have put a great deal of
thought into the torture techniques he employs each afternoon in the locker
room. I swear that he spends a great deal more time and effort on his bullying
tactics than he
ever
has on homework
assignments. And so I get a taste of “a variety pack of locker room bullying,
courtesy of Lazarus Sinclair” over the course of the week.

On Monday—my
clothes go MIA after my shower. It’s embarrassing to search the locker room
wearing nothing but a towel while
Laz
howls with
laughter, and it’s a low moment when I find that my clothes have been stuffed
into the trashcan. The fact that nobody offers to help me find my clothes—well,
ouch. Enough said.

On Tuesday—pictures
of naked men are taped all over my gym locker before I get to the locker room
to change. That is humiliating to say the least, and difficult to remove as
they were hung with duct tape.

On Wednesday—the
cover to my squirt bottle of Gatorade is unscrewed while I get dressed. Bright
red liquid, dripping down my chin and the front of my white button down shirt—I
should’ve seen it coming. And I am fairly confident that
Laz
is the one who orchestrated this event because he’s the guy who laughs the
loudest.

On Thursday—I’m
shoved hard against the lockers. Not particularly painful, but there is no
denying the culprit. Yup, Lazarus Sinclair, again.

On Friday—I
receive the classic
wedgie
. Try combining
embarrassing, humiliating, and extremely uncomfortable.

Plain and simple,
I’m scared. I distinctly remember the way the pavement rose up eagerly to meet
the back of my head when
Rinaldo
pushed me down in
the church parking lot, not to mention the feeling of angry fists pounding on
my face.

And the sensation
of a boot to the belly tends to stick with you, too.

“Figures. On the
day I need protection the most, my trusty bodyguard is nowhere to be seen.”
Maybe I say it out loud, but I’m not actually
telling
anybody. In fact, I haven’t told anybody at all what
Laz
has been up to in the locker room this week. The only
ones who know about this dirty little secret of mine are
Laz
,
the seemingly apathetic bystanders, or in other words, my tennis teammates, and
me. The victim. I haven’t shared it with Mom and Dad—they’ve already struggled
enough on account of me. And I haven’t shared it with David, at least not
beyond Friday’s incident, or my new friends, because it’s embarrassing, and…and
maybe in the back of my mind if I tell them it will make the bullying seem even
more real.

But then there he
is—my former assailant/current savior—I’m not yet fully convinced which—
Rinaldo
.

“Don’t worry, I
got your back. Got eyes and ears in the locker room, and I found out what’s
been going down with
Laz
Sinclair. I’m
gonna
see to it that he cuts the shit.” He sounds like an
anti-bullying superhero.

Laz
is a big guy, but
Rinaldo’s
bigger. If anyone can talk sense in to my newest
frenemy
, it’s
Rinaldo
Vera.
“Don’t hurt him.” I don’t know why I’m so concerned about
Laz’s
safety—he isn’t particularly concerned with mine.

“Nah, I’ll only give
him a tongue lashing. Like the one I got from Father J. He needs it and down
the road, he’ll be glad I gave it to him.”

Rinaldo
doesn’t look straight at me,
and I admit, for the most part, I avoid direct eye contact with him, too.

“Okay,
Rinaldo
. Do what you’ve got to do.” I slide into the
driver’s seat, not sure if I’m selling
Laz
out or
signing my own death warrant—because if the two of them join forces, together
they could surely kill me. “And…um, thanks.”

By the time I
pull out of the high school parking lot, I’ve already faced the fact: I
want
to accept help from
Rinaldo
. And I strenuously hope he is being above board
with me, because, frankly, I
need
his
help. I don’t think
Rinaldo
owes me anything, really,
because of what happened between us that messed-up night in the church parking
lot. It’s just that I’m getting tired of fighting—with both the enemies
inside
my head that come in the form of
religious doctrine, as well as those lurking in my school cafeteria, the locker
room, and the church. I’m tired and I’ll
take whatever help
Rinaldo
Vera will give me.