Thinking Straight (28 page)

What to say? Nothing is right. Nothing touches what I'm feeling. He kisses me again and then reaches into a pocket. He pulls out some paper that's folded small and hands it to me.

“Ty, you've got to read this. It's fucking amazing. Are you okay?”

I nod, grinning like an idiot as I tuck the paper away into my khakis. It's so good to hear the word
fucking
spoken aloud. It's so good to hear his voice at all. “Yeah. Christ, I miss you.”

“Me, too.” Another kiss. “But seriously, read this. It will help. It'll help you, and it might help some of the others as well. That kid Nate said he wasn't gay. Is he?”

“No. Why?”

He gives me his gorgeous lopsided grin. “Good. I was feeling a little jealous. He looks like a great guy, and if you liked him…”

I start to laugh but have to smother it. “He is a great guy. But no worries. You're it for me.”

Another invasive kiss, and I say, “You've got to leave. You weren't supposed to come back at all.”

“I had to get this to you. Shit, but I'm glad I got to give it to you and not Nate.”

“Go. Please. If we're caught I'll be in here much longer.”

One more kiss. “Hang in there, Ty. I'll be here.”

From my spot on the ground I watch him walk away. He turns a few times and grins at me, and then he rounds a corner, and then he's gone. I whip my head around to see if anyone is watching.

Someone is. Someone else who, like me, must have wanted to be left alone, had found a spot under a tree a little farther away than the one I'd chosen. It's Rye, and he's watching me.

Shit. Well, there's nothing for it now. We'll see what he's made of. I hadn't reported him for anything; maybe he'll return the favor.

I let my head fall back against the building and close my eyes against the sun. And on the insides of my eyelids, I see Will's face. It's clear again.

Thank you, Jesus.

When I feel like I can stand again, I turn back toward where I'd come from, and now, between me and Rye, is none other than John McAndrews. He's at the corner where I'd leaned so nonchalantly earlier, looking at me. I do my best to smile at him as I walk in his direction.

“Brother Taylor? What do you think you're doing?”

Maybe if I ever get out of here I'll consider a career in acting. The look I give him is puzzled but not concerned, I'm sure of it. “Just getting some sun away from the crowds.”

“Don't you know you aren't supposed to leave the yard?”

“I'm sorry, brother. I wasn't thinking of this space”—and I gesture along the building where I was sitting—“as not in the yard. I'll come back, since you think it's important.”

He looks at me like he can't quite figure out whether I'm having him on or not. Maybe I'm not such a great actor after all. But what can he do? He can't have seen Will or he'd be confronting me with that. And I wasn't doing anything like trying to escape, or masturbating in the open air, and I'm doing as he says. I glance at Rye, wondering where his head's at. He half-smiles and nods once. I decide to take this to mean that he'll keep his mouth shut about Will.

John says, “I was looking for you. I wanted to thank you for helping out Friday night.”

“No problem. I loved the band. And Peter taught me a few things about PA systems.”

“Also, I wanted to talk to you about something. Someone, really. Walk with me.”

We saunter along the edge of the yard, and it seems John is carefully avoiding getting too close to anyone else. I'm almost aware of a crinkling sound coming from Will's folded paper in my pocket. After a minute or so, John says, “It's about Charles. I'm wondering if we should suggest a change in rooms for him.”

What is he, like, clairvoyant? And does he think I'm in love with Charles, like Bartle did? I do my best at a casual shrug. “I don't know what purpose that would serve. How much longer will he be here, anyway?” Maybe he knows, and can tell me, what Bartle wouldn't.

“Might be a week, might be two.”

“Who decides?”

He looks at me from the corners of his eyes. “No one person. Will you miss him?”

“Of course. He's a terrific guy. Honest, kind, full of God's love.” You know, I never used to talk like this before I got to this place….

“Something's troubling him. Do you know what it is?”

I look right at him. Is he kidding? And is he really the second person today to ask me something like that? “I'm not sure what you want me to say. We're all troubled in one way or another.” That seems safe enough.

“True, but there's something particular on his mind. Something's eating at him.”

I have to be careful not to say anything that lets John know how much I differ from him on what I see as the problem. “Couldn't it be that he's struggling so hard to change himself?”

“I suppose.” He sounds unconvinced. “But I feel in my heart there's more to it. I've seen lots of boys struggling with issues around Inappropriate Love, and his struggle seems to have some other source. I just can't put my finger on it, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light.”

Much as we might disagree on one important point, I have to say I believe John at this moment. I believe he's worried, I believe he believes what he's saying. And he just might be right. But if I say too much, it might screw up Charles's departure schedule, and I think he needs to get out of this place. So all I feel safe saying is, “I wish I could.”

We've come to where some kids are sitting in the shade, watching the volleyball game. John stops, turns to me, and says, “Well, thanks, Taylor. If you can think of any way you and I can help, please come talk to me.”

“I will. Sure.” Wouldn't do to make an enemy of this guy; he's in too good with the establishment. And if he hadn't been involved in my room search, I might actually like him.

I
f it hadn't been for that illicit, marvelous meeting with Will, I might be more focused on what John has said about Charles. As it is, what's driving me crazy is that I can't seem to get alone long enough to read what Will gave me. It's still in my pocket, crinkling quietly whenever I sit or stand or walk, or maybe I'm imagining it, but I'm aware of it all the time. I try going to my room for some privacy, but Charles is writing at his desk again. He can't be writing home still, can he? How long are these letters supposed to be? Or maybe he's stocking up on MIs for the week? But Charles wouldn't do that. I'll never know for sure, 'cause he keeps leaning over whatever it is and I never get a chance to see it.

I'm on my way to hunt for an empty Prayer Meeting room, just starting in that direction, when I see Leland coming toward me nearly at a trot.

“Taylor!” His voice is a hoarse whisper.

I imitate his tone. “What?”

He's shaking his head and looking around him like he's scared of something. When he gets close enough he says in a low voice, “I've been looking for you. I have to talk to you.”

First John, now this? Who else is scheming to keep me from Will's message? “Fine. Talk.” But then I really look at him. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he says, nearly sobbing. “No. Please. Can we go someplace?”

Now, the last thing this place is set up for is to let two gay guys go anyplace together and be alone. Finally I say, “Will there be anyone in the dining hall right now?”

“Good idea. Not many, for sure, and we'd see them before they could overhear us.”

“We need a cover. Got your Bible?” He didn't, and neither did I, but there's always spares in the meeting rooms. So we head that way and grab a couple. I debate whether to stay in here and let Leland dump whatever it is he's dying to say, but someone could sneak up to the door and listen from the hallway and we'd never know.

In the dining hall I suggest we get soft drinks to add to our cover. Besides, I'm thirsty. We find a remote table, open our Bibles to Psalms, and try to look scripturally earnest. At least, I do; Leland is getting more frantic by the second.

“Okay, Leland. Spill. What's up? You look—”

“Here.” He lays his palm on the table and nearly shoots it toward me. There's a tiny corner of paper visible, and I hold it down with one finger while he withdraws his hand. I hold my Bible up, my back to the wall, and unfold the paper over Psalms 77:1: “My cry goes to God! Indeed, I cry to God for help, and for him to listen to me.”

Here's what the paper says.

Suddenly this is even more important than what's crinkling in my pocket. I mean, Holy Fucking Shit.

“Leland, what do you think this means?”

“He didn't kill himself!” I can barely hear him, his voice is catching so badly. His eyes are streaming. “Reverend Bartle killed him! Don't you see?”

I look down at the note again. I've come to the same conclusion, but—I mean, I'm no fan of the guy, but could that
possibly
be true? And why? I ask, “Where did you find this?”

Leland rubs his face and gains a little control. “I was sitting on my bed, writing a letter home, and the mattress slid a little. When I got up to move it back I saw a corner of this sticking out from underneath.”

I guess they haven't tossed that room. Of course not; John is Leland's roommate. “So you believe he meant to come and fetch it again if all was well, or for you to find it if all wasn't?”

“Taylor, what should we do?”

I have to ask. “Why did you come to me with this? Why not John or Mrs. Harnett?”

“Nate told me that if I ever needed to talk to someone and I couldn't find him, I should go to you. I couldn't find him.”

Well, this floors me. Nate could have told a person, for one thing. But why me? Whatever; the deed is done. And now I'm the one who needs to find Nate. But first I have another question. “What do you think Ray meant by hurting you? What's
hurt
mean, d'you think?”

Leland swallows and kind of shudders at the same time. “I think he was raping Ray.”

“What?” I have to slap a hand over my own mouth, that comes out so loud. “Why would Ray let him do that?”

“You didn't know him. He was…well, he was small and kind of pretty. And his uncle used to, you know, hurt him—when he was younger. He was all mixed up about it. He
really
wanted not to be gay, I think partly because he thought that might make him safe. And maybe he thought Reverend Bartle could help him. But I don't know why Ray would let him do that.”

Christ. He must have been
very
mixed up. “But why would Bartle kill him?”

“Ray must have wanted to stop. He must have said he'd tell or something, don't you think?”

It makes sense, if you can picture the thing in the first place. “What makes you think Bartle was doing that?”

“Ray was always being called to the chapel, and he wouldn't tell me why. But every time he got one of those notes, he'd clam up and wouldn't talk to me until the next day. I got curious once and followed, thinking if I overheard what they were talking about, maybe I'd understand. But I couldn't hear anything, so I barely cracked the door, and I still couldn't hear anything. I opened it. And Taylor, there was no one in there! He'd gone in. I'm sure of that.”

“Are you sure the notes were from Bartle?”

“Yeah. I saw a couple of them before Ray started being secretive about them.”

This is too much. What the hell am I going to do with this? Some of the smarmy feelings I'd had earlier today—Bartle's hand on mine, going over all that sex stuff, when he asked about my relationship with Charles—come back to me and it's my turn to shudder. If it's true, then it could be happening to someone else right now.

Jesus Fucking Christ. Is he doing something to
Charles?
All that time in the chapel…

I slam my Bible shut. “Leland, are you a little calmer now?”

“Sort of.”

“Do you think you could act casual and try again to find Nate while I go ask Charles something?”

“Okay. I'll try. What should I do if I find him?”

I check my watch; an hour and a half to dinner. “Tell him to meet me in Isaiah. I'll get there as soon as I can. If we don't hook up before dinner, then tell Nate what you told me. Do you want the note back, or do you want me to hang on to it?”

He takes a shaky breath. “I'll take it.”

I know how he feels. “We can't lose it, do you understand?” He nods. I pass it back to him and give his hand a gentle squeeze as he takes it. “Okay. See you soon.”

It is
so
hard to walk back to my room as though I wouldn't fly there if I could. I'm hoping Charles is still at his desk.

But no. Shit. I check his desk to see if maybe he's gone to the bathroom and will be back, but everything's packed neatly away. I nearly run to the library, but almost no one is in there, including Charles. So I head for Isaiah, where I wait for maybe twenty minutes, pacing back and forth, picking things up and putting them down, restacking Bibles, anything I can think of. Finally Nate and Leland arrive, and I can tell Leland's already told him enough.

I say, “Leland, did you happen to see Charles as you were looking for Nate?”

He shakes his head, and Nate says, “Why?”

I take a deep breath. “Let's just say I'm worried.”

Nate understands immediately. His face goes from very intense to very calm rather quickly and he says, “Tell you what, brothers. Shall we avail ourselves of the cool of our beautiful little chapel this hot summer afternoon? Shall we go and pray?”

I get it. “Why, yes, brother Nate. Let's just do that.”

Leland looks perplexed, but he comes with us. Quietly, Nate tells him, “We're going to see if there's anyone in the chapel. If there isn't, we'll go in and sit quietly as long as we can until dinnertime. We'll just see what happens. And then we'll decide what to do. Remember: quiet.”

At the chapel, we listen carefully at the door. Can't hear a thing. Nate cracks it open a teeny bit, and still no sound. So we go in. There's no one anywhere in sight, and it's silent. So we hunch down side by side in the back pew far to one end, open some Bibles, and wait.

And wait. And wait, until dinnertime is within about half an hour. Then the door in the front to the side of the altar opens, and we hunker down even further. And who should come through that door but Charles. He doesn't see us. He walks down the far side of the chapel, head down. His face is all crumpled, he's breathing oddly, and he's holding his rib cage with his arms like he's in agony.

When he's gone, Nate whispers, “Let's get out of here. We don't want the good reverend to see us.”

Nate leads us to his room, which is empty, thank God. He's getting a new roommate tomorrow, he says, but right now the room is his. We huddle behind the door, listening carefully for sounds from the hallway, and talk.

I start. “Well, this burns it. I've got to talk to Charles. This has got to stop! I can't fucking…”

“Stop!” Nate says. “You won't.
I'll
talk to him tonight. I'll come to your room well before lights-out, you'll make yourself scarce for as long as you dare without breaking curfew, and I'll see what I can find out.”

“You? Why you?”

“Taylor, brother, I love you. And I love your directness. But what Charles needs is gentleness. He's going to clam up if there's a frontal assault. Obviously, he has some reason to think this is what needs to happen. Maybe he's punishing himself. Maybe any number of things. But he hasn't said anything about it to anyone so far, so it's not going to be easy to get it out of him now. So. Agreed?”

It's grudging, but I say, “All right.”

I find Charles at dinner. He's sitting with a kid who's in SafeZone. Interesting; that concept works two ways sometimes, doesn't it? Charles doesn't have to talk.

“Can I join you?”

He won't look at me. He says, “Please don't take offense. I just want to sit quietly. Please, can you sit someplace else?”

I struggle with my directness. Gentle, Taylor. Be gentle. “You want the room tonight? I can go to the library.”

He does look at me now. He looks—God, he looks awful. It makes me feel shaky. Then he closes his eyes and nods. So I find Nate and sit with him. Sheldon is with him, as well as Leland, so I can't say anything. But we wait Sheldon out, and after he's gone I tell Nate, “Charles wants to be alone. I told him he could have the room and I'd go to the library. He looked grateful. So he's all yours.”

Nate smiles at me. “Thanks, Taylor.”

“See? I can be gentle.” I grin back at him.

Nate turns to Leland. “Hey, kid, do you mind giving Taylor and me a couple of minutes?”

“Yeah, okay. Taylor, can I hang out in the library with you?”

Nate speaks first. “Just be careful. The three of us have been together for a while this afternoon. It would be better if you don't sit together.”

Leland sighs and leaves.

Nate watches him a few seconds and then turns to me. “You may need to be even more gentle later. Tell you what. I'll come find you in the library if it doesn't get too close to lights-out and let both of you know how it went. You may not be able to say much of anything to Charles if he's in a lot of pain. If it's really bad, I might just take him to…Um, actually, Taylor, I'm gonna have to trust you with something really huge. Are you okay with that, or don't you want this burden? It's big.”

“If it has anything to do with helping Charles, I can carry whatever I need to.” Even as I say this, I'm thinking how only a week ago I couldn't stand the sight of Charles. He was an android. A suck-up. A brownnoser. A loser.

Nate sits back casually and takes a few seconds to look around. Most people have left by now, except Charles is still at his lonely table. The SafeZone kid is gone. There are maybe five kids left in the dining hall. Nate leans forward again and talks in really quiet tones.

“You know the circle?”

“Holy sh…I almost forgot! There's a meeting tonight.”

“There is. And I won't be there. I want you to lead it. I'll go to the library and find Leland. I'll tell him I've got you working on something and you won't be there until later. Okay?”

“Wait, wait. Back up. You want me to do what?”