Inclination (7 page)

My anxiety level
over “The Problem” is increasing by the day.

On the Friday
night of vacation week I went out on my first-ever date, and since that
sighing, gulping
epic failure
, for
the most part I never leave my bedroom—with the less than notable exceptions of
eating, doing mandatory chores I can’t bribe Mary to do for me, and answering
Nature’s most pressing calls—until it’s time for church on Sunday. I realize
that my parents are getting worried about me—more every hour I remain secluded.
Even
Laz
, who generally doesn’t notice anything but
his next big idea, texted me like ten times
yestersay
,
asking what’s wrong and why don’t I want to be his wingman at the arcade in the
mall as he tries to pick up girls.

What’s wrong? I
can answer that fairly easily at this point: I have come to the uncomfortable
realization that being gay isn’t exactly a choice for me.

On Friday night,
after I dropped off E and got the door slammed in my face, I decided to drown
my sorrows in a strawberry
Fribble
at
Friendly’s
. I elected to sit in a booth
for two and drink my shake there, as I was procrastinating my return home—Mom
and Dad were going to interrogate me, lovingly, of course, about the success of
my first official date. And while sitting in that pleather booth, drowning my
sorrows in strawberry, a couple of what appeared to be male dancers from the
dance studio in the same strip mall came into the restaurant, dressed in
pushed-up, trash bag sweatpants and torn, round neck t-shirts. One even had legwarmers on. They were sort of
sweaty and both of them were laughing and involved in a conversation about
music and… and, well, everything I hadn’t felt for Elizabeth, in terms of raw
sexual attraction, I had to fight
not
to
feel for these guys
.

Sitting there
with a virtual L on my forehead, alone in a booth at a family restaurant, a
striped straw stuck in my mouth, staring at a couple of hot dancer dudes—it had
hit me. And I knew for a fact that being gay is not my choice.

On Sunday morning
I wake up filled with a feeling of dread.

I dread seeing
Elizabeth and I dread seeing Mrs. Martine and I dread answering
Laz’s
questions and I especially dread meeting eyes with
Father Joseph. I dread…basically my entire life. So I pray to God to ask for
the strength I know I’m going to need, and then I make my way upstairs to where
the breakfast zoo/mob scene/relay race, which, incidentally, I also dread, is
well underway.

“Morning, son.”
Dad stands up to greet me and he looks so worried that I feel a stab of guilt
beneath my ribcage. “Your headache finally gone?”

A headache has
been my feeble excuse for my most recent bout of reclusiveness. Whether Mom and
Dad have bought the story, I haven’t a clue. “Yeah, I’m better today.” I fake a
bright smile, but keep my eyes safely glued to the loaf of bread on the
counter. “Want me to make toast for anybody?”

My mother replies
quickly, “Only for yourself, Anthony. And let me get you a cannoli, too. You
look like you’ve dropped a couple of pounds in the past week.” She scurries off
to the refrigerator to get my “breakfast dessert.” Weight loss in her
children’s “growing years” is unacceptable to Mom.

“Mama, why does
Tony get a
c’noli
for breakfast? No fair, Mama!” Lulu
doesn’t miss a trick.

Dad bribes my
little sister into quieting down by offering her chocolate milk instead of
orange juice. I pull my toast from the toaster and spread a glob of butter on
it and then I lean on a barstool to eat.

“Tell your mother
what has you in such a state, Anthony. It’s not good to keep your troubles all
bottled up inside of you.” Mom places the cannoli on the island in front of me
and reaches up to place her hands on my cheeks. “You aren’t even slightly warm.
No fever.”

“Mom, I had a headache. Stop worrying, okay?”

“Maybe we should
take you to have your eyes checked.”

“Mom….” I try to
keep the irritation out of my voice. It isn’t her fault I’m gay and destined to
a life of celibacy or an eternity in hell, which has caused me to feel cranky
and something less than affable this fine morning.

Sigh. Gulp.

“I’ll set up an
eye doctor appointment for you next week.” She hustles away from me before I
can reply, and begins directing the girls. “We leave this house in twenty
minutes.
Frannie
and
Resa
—your
ponytails do
not
pass The Mama
Inspection, even for a Sunday morning. Please re-do them.”

“Ma-ma!” The
girls whine in unison.

“Mary, put that
book away and go get dressed. And Paul,
will you help Lulu to brush her teeth?”

“Of course.”

My family, except
for Mom, scatters in various directions. From across the kitchen she glances
over at me with her soulful dark eyes. “Talk to me when you are ready,
mio
figlio
.”

Knowing my
melancholy is starting to affect my family, I nod, lift the cannoli to my
mouth, and take a large bite exclusively for her benefit.

After church, the
entire congregation meets in the church basement for donuts and coffee. I have
never been so thankful for
Laz’s
presence, as I am
rather consumed with the prospect of avoiding Elizabeth.

“Hey, Tony, you took
E out Friday night. How’d that go down?”

I
suck
in a big breath, preparing to deliver my planned, “I
don’t think she’s the right girl for me” speech, when he relieves me of my
burden by recounting a detailed play-by-play of his adventures in hot-babe-land,
AKA the mall arcade, on Saturday.

“You missed out
on the hottest girl ever. And built too.
Shoulda
seen
the tits on this blonde one.”

An image of sexy
blonde
Chrissy
, from the TV Land show,
Three’s Company
, flashes into my head.
All platinum ponytails, short shorts, and big breasts. It doesn’t escape me
that my best pal is having no problem whatsoever with dehumanizing a girl who
looks like
Chrissy
, while I’m struggling with merely
accepting my own sexuality. “Sorry I missed it.” And, yes, that’s a lie, plain
and simple.

“Two of the
hottest babes you ever seen told me they’re
gonna
go
back next weekend. I figure, we can go check the arcade for them like Friday,
twice on Saturday, and maybe after you’re done playing with the cats next
Sunday.”

All of a sudden,
Mrs. Martine is approaching, which causes my breathing to stop. I suddenly feel
a kinship to all deer caught in headlights, wanting to make a run for it, but
frozen in place.

“What do you say,
dude? You up for going to the mall like four times next weekend?”

I can’t even nod
I’m so freaked out about seeing Mrs. Martine.

“Hey, Anthony,
I’m
gonna
need an answer,”
Laz
nags. “And sooner, not later.” The problem is, Mrs. Martine is going to need an
answer too.

“Hello, Anthony.”
Mrs. Martine stops in front of
Laz
and me. “Lazarus,
could you please go fill up my coffee mug? I take it black with one sugar.”
Lazarus glances at me again for an answer, and then nods at Mrs. Martine,
reluctantly taking the empty mug from her outstretched hand.

“Yes, ma’am.” He
mouths his best silent Arnold Schwarzenegger, “
I’ll be back
” and takes off to do Mrs. Martine’s bidding.

“Anthony, how did
your date with Elizabeth go?” She speaks in low tones, but regards me pointedly,
like I’m some kind of a science experiment gone very, very wrong. And her
directness reminds me of a lot Elizabeth, which makes me shudder.

“I…um….” I’m not
mentally prepared for this at all, but I force out an honest answer. “It didn’t
work. I still feel the same way as before.”

Her eyes narrow
slightly as she continues to study my face. “It might take some time for you to
change.”

I look around to
make sure nobody near us is paying attention, and then I shake my head. “I
don’t really think I’m going to change, Mrs. Martine. I think maybe I was born
this way.” Lady
Gaga’s
song echoes in my brain. “I
think it’s part of who I am.”

My youth group
leader stiffens, but continues to take in every detail of my face as if I am an
alien being. “Meet me again this Tuesday night at seven—here, like we did last
week.”

I breathe a small
sigh of relief, and I’m talking microscopic. Maybe she has another idea of how
to change me, but I’m honestly not feeling quite as hopeful as I did last week.

“Okay, ma’am.
I’ll be there.”

She doesn’t smile
before she walks away and if I believed in bad omens, I would have thought that
this exchange surely qualified as one.

I hardly eat or
sleep or, unbelievably, even study between Sunday at the after-mass coffee hour
and the Tuesday night meeting with Mrs. Martine. By the time our appointment
rolls around I am weak and sort of shaky—too little food and sleep, and too
much thinking and worrying about “The Problem”, and maybe even too much
praying, if that is even possible.

Again, I arrive
early, and those last few minutes before I hear the clicking sound of Mrs.
Martine’s sensible shoes on the stairs are close to unbearable. This struggle
is taking its toll on me, and I feel much the worse for wear, so I do what I
always do when I need to be carried.

Whenever I’m not
sure I can make it on my own two feet, I turn to Jesus so that he can carry me.
He is strong and dependable and he loves me; the mere thought of Him makes me
smile. My faith in Him is unshakable; it’s my faith in myself that concerns me.

Careful not to
rest my elbows on the table, I bow my head and clasp my hands together in
prayer. Psalm 23 already has its grip on my mind.

The Lord is my
shepherd; I shall not want.

My lips move
without intention—they’re completely in submission to the message of this psalm
that I’d repeated to myself in silence on many occasions.

He
maketh
me to lie down in green pastures: he
leadeth
me beside the still waters.

He
restoreth
my soul: he
leadeth
me
in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I
walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou
art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

I feel the
burning behind my eyes that indicates the imminence of tears, but I press on
with my prayer.

Thou
preparest
a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies: thou
anointest
my head with oil; my cup
runneth
over.

“Anthony. I am
pleased to see that you are punctual, as always.” Her voice is needle-sharp.

I lift my head
abruptly, and my surprised gaze meets with her steady one. I’d been deeply caught
up in prayer, and for that reason I hadn’t even noticed that Mrs. Martine had
descended the stairs and moved to the table. She’s now standing in front of me.

Surely goodness
and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house
of the Lord forever.

I mouth a silent
“Amen” and then bless myself quickly. “Yes, I…I try to be on time for…for
things.” I stand up, as it seems like the polite thing to do.

“Sit down,
Anthony,” she says dismissively, and I obey. “Your date with Elizabeth—it was
less than successful, I take it?” Mrs. Martine appears as if she’s trying to
swallow something both wildly sour and intolerably prickly—an uncomfortable
cross between repulsed and pained.

I try to explain
myself. “I couldn’t do it, ma’am. I don’t think liking girls
that way
is
in
me… not at all.”

“I am very sorry
to hear that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No sorrier than I
am.

“I have invested a
great deal of deep thinking and a considerable amount of praying into this
matter.” She refuses to meet my gaze, which worries me.

But still I nod,
thinking that I’d also thought and prayed about the subject to the point of
pulling my hair out
.

“I must suggest,
Anthony, that you find another youth group in which to participate. Our
Way…well, it clearly is not for someone like you.” Her words sound
matter-of-fact, as if she’s my boss letting me go from a summer job scooping
ice cream that hadn’t meant much to either one of us. “Do you understand?”

I have no words.
I stare at her blankly.

“If you have left
anything behind in the locker area, now is the time for you to retrieve it.”

I can’t move.

“Young man, go
get your things.” Her voice is suddenly more stern than businesslike. “And have
your mother drop the money you have collected for our summer pilgrimage by my
office in the rectory this week, the sooner the better. I believe that with the
amount earned at the carwash, the group has approximately $520.00. I will
expect
it all
to be accounted for,
placed in a large, labeled manila envelope.”