Rumble (13 page)

her in the hallways, wonder if she’s even

here, until the lunch bell rings. I find

her in the cafeteria, surrounded by

her posse of believers, who are no doubt

discussing the relative merits of their youth

minister. When I gesture for her to join

me, I’m terrified she’ll shake her head.

Instead, she says something to her friends,

grabs her book—
The Perks of Being

a Wallflower
, I can tell by the cover—

and comes over without hesitation. She tilts

her chin, reaching for a kiss. Relief upwells.

I whisper in her ear, “Thank you,” encircle

her with one arm, and acknowledge

her gift of forgiveness. This is the kiss

I wanted two days ago. The one that makes

everyone in this chili-stinking room understand

that Hayden and I are in love. Unfortunately,

it draws the attention of Ms. Hannity,

who happens to be passing by.
Break it

up, Mistah Turnah. This isn’t HBO.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. As you

know, self-control isn’t my forte.”

Yes, well, work on that. Some things

are best done in private. That is all.

Arm Still Firmly Wrapped

Around Hayden’s waist, I steer her

to a more private place—a table way

in the back of the room. As we pass

the deli cart, I grab a ham sandwich.

“Want something?” Who says chivalry

is dead? But Hayden shakes her head.

I’m eliminating carbs for a while.

Don’t be ridiculous. That’s what

I really want to say. Instead, I go

with a much more generic “Why?”

Prom’s coming up. I want to fit

in the dress I bought. We
are
going?

What kind of an idiot boyfriend

would say no, even if he quite

reasonably thought prom was nothing

but a money-sucking nightmare?

“Of course. Can’t wait.” We sit

and Hayden watches me unwrap

my approximation of a delicious meal.

Rather than have her stare as I scarf

it down, I direct her attention back

toward the Bible-thumpers’ table,

where Jocelyn and friends seem

to be in deep discussion. “What’s up

with them? Have they discovered

a lost gnostic gospel or something?”

She smiles.

That’s good.

I think.

In the last five minutes? Don’t think

so. No, they’re planning our spring

break retreat. We’re staying at a hostel. . . .

Spring break.

Retreat.

Hostel.

And . . .

“Don’t tell me. Judah is going.”

Suddenly my lunch is flavorless.

Well, of course. It was his idea.

A week of meditation, communion,

and spiritual awakening. Don’t

look at me like that, Matt.

Don’t Look at Her

Don’t say a damn thing. Spring break

is still weeks away. Who knows what

might happen by then? I bite into

my cardboard sandwich, concentrate

on the tabletop. “I can’t give you a ride

home today. I have to see my therapist.”

Mom made the appointment, insisted

I show up,
No matter what, no excuses.

I could blow it off anyway, except

it might do me good to talk about this

crap with Hayden. I sure as hell

can’t talk to
her
about it. She’s dug in.

That’s okay. I can ride with Joce.

What about the game tonight?

I’ve only gone to a couple, and there

are only a few weeks left until

the play-offs. I shrug. “If you’re going

I guess I will, too.” Better to kiss a little

butt than reevaluate our relationship.

“Will you wear that green sweater?”

My Therapist’s Lair

Is in a modern building with a big,

sunny atrium smack in the middle,

circled by brightly painted offices,

all designed to fool patients into

believing things are better than they

seem. But let’s face it. Body-sick

or brain-sick, we’re all here because

it pretty much sucks being us.

I arrive five minutes late, still have

to wait another ten because I’m unlucky

enough to have the only therapist

on earth who’s willing to go fifteen

minutes over, to be absolutely certain

her clients will make it through

the week without overdosing or parking

on the tracks, waiting for a train

to oblivion. I read about a California

town where suicide-by-train was almost

like a party game for a while. Four kids,

separate occasions, jumped right in front

of moving commuters. Ask me, that’s

a seriously messed-up way to go out.

Then again, so is a rope around the neck.

At 4:16

The door opens and out comes a girl,

maybe thirteen, and the kind of thin

that can rarely be accomplished without

an eating disorder. Martha tells her

she’ll see her next week, then invites

me into her den with a jerk of her head.

How are you doing?
She steps back

to let me by.
It’s been a while.

Several weeks, in fact. I canceled

a few. “Forgot” a few more. Poor

excuses, as Mom would say. “I think

I’m solid, but apparently my parents

are worried about my currrent stability

because of an essay I wrote for school.”

She gestures for me to sit, goes

around to the far side of her desk

and extracts some papers from a pile.

You mean this. Your mom faxed it.

“Why don’t they just put it up on

a billboard and let the whole damn

town see it? Anyway, it’s not so awful.

I don’t get why it’s making people nervous.”

Martha Reminds Me

Of Mrs. Claus, or would, if I were

to believe the North Pole lore.

She clears her throat.
I can understand

their concern, Matt, although it seems

to me there must have been a fair amount

of catharsis in what you wrote about Luke. . . .

I loved my brother more than anyone in the world. He was this amazing little person, dropped into my life by accident. Neither Mom nor Dad wanted another child, and I have no idea what random series of events created Luke, but I was the happiest kid ever when he came along. I’ve always had to work hard at keeping friends. I’m a smart-ass by nature and always manage to say the wrong thing. But no matter what words came out of my mouth, Luke was always there for me. Until he wasn’t.

Like most guys my age, I never really thought about what it meant to be gay, other than it was something shameful, something I sure as hell wouldn’t ever want to be. So when Luke first started talking about his sexuality, I thought he was putting me on. Luke was one hell of an athlete, and a primo basketball player. No way could he be gay; that’s what I believed. His wrists were anything but limp; they could throw three-pointers and layups all day.

All I knew was the usual stereotypical misinformation. And I was the only person Luke felt safe confessing to. So how did I react? “Don’t joke about shit like that,” I told him enough times so he went silent. But eventually, it became clear he wasn’t joking. Once I knew it was true, it vexed me at first. Then I got scared. For him, and for me. But the thing was, nothing had changed. Luke was the same brother he’d always been. It took a little time to understand that, a little longer to accept it.

It was a lot harder for my parents. One of the things I’ve always hated about jocks is the way they pick on kids who are weaker, and that is the general perception of homosexuals. My dad is a jock through and through. The idea of his son being gay totally messed with his head.
What a waste,
is what Dad thought, and,
How could you do this to me?
You could see it in his eyes when he looked at Luke. That pissed me off.

But what made me even angrier was how some supposed love-thy-neighbor Christians mocked my brother. A couple of them organized a regular hate campaign, and they were ruthless, relentless pricks. Eighth grade was a nightmare for Luke, who was afraid to go to his locker, where he would be pushed, poked, pantsed, and otherwise provoked. They’d follow him down the hall, calling him “fag” or “dick licker.” They’d offer their own dicks for him to lick. Hetero-freaks.

Almost worse was the online harrassment, which was not only cruel, but also deviously creative. You’d think churchy people would be embarrassed to download porn,
then Photoshop someone’s face into the pics—that someone being Luke. You’d think they’d have better things to do than to post said pics not only to Luke’s personal social networking pages, but also to the high school basketball team’s Facebook page, which is how Dad first found out. No wonder he took it so personally, huh? Luke was outed to his father and to the entire community at the same time, and in a most humiliating way.

And those troglodytes who orchestrated that claim to serve the architect of love? Where would a true God stand on their actions? Would he actually forgive them on nothing but the strength of a Sunday prayer? No, those dudes are tumbling straight toward a brimstone bubble bath, and if it meant they’d fall in a little sooner, I’d happily give them a push.

God is an invention of mankind, an excuse to exist, and to thrive, in a subhuman state. Government must become and remain a servant of humanity. It cannot, and will not, with a religious figurehead at its helm.

Cathartic?

Up to a point. “Yes, it felt good

to put it down on paper, I guess.”

It would feel better wrapping

the paper around those guys’ heads

and duct taping it really tightly

around their necks so they’d have

reading material on that trip to hell.

But I probably shouldn’t say so.

You don’t see anything in what

you wrote that could make some

people a little nervous about

what you might have planned?

“Planned? Martha, the only thing

I have planned is graduation.

I can’t see a thing beyond June.

Wait. That didn’t come out right.

What I mean is, I’m not sure

about college or a career. But that

has nothing to do with planning

an act of mayhem. I have no desire

to go to prison, or to join Luke,

whever he is or isn’t.” That is sincere,

and I guess that’s how I sound

because she visibly relaxes.

Well, that’s very good to hear.

To be frank, I’m not too concerned

about you planning some vicious

act of revenge. But let me ask you

this. How honest were you? And not

just with your readers. How honest

were you with yourself? In my opinion,

your essay lacks critical truths.

See, This Is Why I Hate Therapy

Everyone else is all worried about

assessing possible outcomes—

seeking the meaning of selected

words as if they’re hieroglyphics.

Martha wants to deconstruct

the storytelling, take it apart until

she exposes the infrastructure

of my psyche. “Like what?”

It’s a challenge, and she’s equal

to it, of course she is. That’s why

my parents pay her the big bucks,

relatively speaking. My parents

are actually pretty damn cheap.

She tilts her silver-tipped head.

First, despite your tendency

toward sarcasm and acerbic

wit, you’ve never exactly been

a loner, have you? From what

I’ve been able to discern,

you’re kind of an A-list kid.

What List?

That was so not the question I expected.

“A-list? On my best year, I doubt

I even approached the B-minus roster.”

She smiles, but I know she’ll keep on

me unless I dig down and unearth

a reasonably honest answer. “Well, sure,

yeah. I have friends. But, you know,

since I got together with Hayden,

I prefer spending time with her.”

But in your essay you said you had to

work to keep friends. Did you perhaps

lose a few when Luke came out?

Oh shit. I see what’s she’s doing.