Unnatural (5 page)

Before Mauro could continue his victory dance, Mr. Alfano, the gym teacher, pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Mauro by the shirttail. “Enough, Dorigo!” Strutting off the field, surrounded by his cronies, Mauro shouted at Michael once more, “That’ll teach ya to try to pass for one of us, gay boy!”

Mr. Alfano, immune to such insults on the sports field, didn’t even chastise Mauro for using such hateful language. He merely extended his hand to Michael, completely expecting him to grab hold and pull himself up. But Mauro’s last comment, shouted so that every single person in class could hear, had paralyzed him.
Why won’t the earth just swallow me? Let me disappear so I don’t have to look at all these faces.
They all agreed with Mauro, Michael could just tell; they all knew.

Leaning in close to Michael, Mr. Alfano whispered to him, “You’ve gotta stand up for yourself, Michael; otherwise it’s only going to get worse.” He looked into his teacher’s face and he saw something he had never seen before. Mr. Alfano looked at Michael with respect. There was no pity in his face, there really wasn’t even compassion, just respect from one person to another. Michael reached out and grabbed his hand; with the other he pressed on the grass and pushed himself up. “Good job,” Mr. Alfano said, then turned to the rest of the class. “Shower up.”

On the walk back to the locker room, Michael kept
his head down. There may have been one or two faces in the group that smiled at him or shrugged their shoulders as if to say,
It’s no big deal,
but he didn’t see them. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

As usual, he waited until almost all the boys were done in the shower before he entered. Thankfully, Mauro had already showered and left so he didn’t have to deal with him. He had enough to deal with in here. Being naked in the large, open shower stall was a dangerous place for Michael to be, so he did his best to make sure he was there with as few people as possible. He stood beneath the showerhead, trying not to think about the stupid thing he did in gym. He tried not to think about the stupid thing his mother did last night; he tried not to think about the stupid things both of them would do in the days to come. He just bowed his head, eyes closed, and prayed that no one would notice him.

He wanted to shout, scream as loud as he could, but instead he scrubbed his head vigorously with the greenish liquid that passed as shampoo. He had set out to impress his classmates—once unconsciously and once purposefully—and had failed miserably on both tries. At least no one else seemed to gang up on him. For the moment, Mauro was still acting solo, so the day could not possibly get any worse.

Rinsing the soap off of his body, he turned slightly and saw the Spanish kid staring at him. He recognized that stare immediately. It was the way he stared at R.J.
Abruptly, Michael turned his back to him just as he had done on the field and adjusted the nozzle so more cold water would pour over the front of his body, just in case. He couldn’t help but feel a bit ecstatic. Could he have found someone who was like him? A part of him, a very strong part, wanted to turn around and see if the kid was still looking, see if he was still interested. All he had to do was turn his head slightly. But wait, wait, wait. Suddenly his brain clicked in and he recognized that this could be a trick, nothing more than a setup. That had to be it, he was sure of it. Nobody was like him.

No, he couldn’t risk it. No matter how desperately he wanted to connect with someone else, he wasn’t willing to take the gamble, not after he had made such a fool of himself just a few minutes before.
Do not give in, do not make things worse.
Determined, he shut his eyes and let the cold water cool him, waiting for the adrenaline to stop pumping through his veins and praying for a distraction. He didn’t have to wait very long.

“Howard! Get over to the principal’s office,” Mr. Alfano yelled into the shower room. “Your grandfather’s here.”

Dried and completely dressed, Michael sat on the bench in front of his locker, head down, holding his backpack between his legs. One after the other he mentally ticked off all the reasons his grandpa would come to pick him up at school. None of them were good. This was the first time it had ever happened, so there wasn’t
any precedent; Michael had nothing to compare it to except what he conjured up with his own imagination. And after what took place in his house last night and what had taken place there on other similar nights, his imagination brought him to a dark place. It had to have something to do with his mother, he thought; there would be no other reason he would come to the school, absolutely none.

He was so engrossed in trying to come up with another reason that he didn’t notice Tomás, the Spanish kid, half dressed, give him the barest of waves as Michael left the locker room. At this moment he had forgotten the kid even existed. When he made the left at the end of the hallway and saw the glassed-in principal’s office at the other end of the corridor, his pace quickened. A few steps later and it picked up even more and as he was walking he thought that maybe this had something to do with his grandma; that would make sense. Maybe she had been dwelling on thoughts of her daughter all day and could no longer take the strain and needed to go to the emergency room. Grandpa was here to pick him up so he could go visit her. But the second he entered Mr. Garret’s office, he knew he was wrong. This was definitely about his mother.

What an odd place to hear about your mother’s death, Michael thought, in the principal’s office. This was supposed to be the place where you got into trouble or where you confessed to a misdeed or racked your brains trying to come up with a fake, but believable,
alibi. It was not where you heard life-altering news. And yet this was where Michael’s grandpa decided to tell him that his mother would not be coming home from the hospital this time. In fact, she would never be coming home because she had finally succeeded.

On the drive home, his grandpa went into more detail than he had in front of Mr. Garret. “She killed herself. Gotta say it out loud, she’s a suicide; everybody else is gonna be sayin’ it, so we might as well be the first.” Michael stared straight ahead and watched white line after white line disappear underneath the truck. He couldn’t say a word and he definitely couldn’t look at the man who was matter-of-factly telling him this news. Grandpa rambled on and explained that she pretended she didn’t want to be alone, that she wanted one of the guards to stay with her at all times, but then there was a fight down the hall—one of the other patients was having an episode—and the guard left her, but only for a few minutes. It was all the time she needed. When he left the room, she took the razor blade she had found earlier—must have found it in the bathroom or the infirmary, Grandpa said; the hospital was still investigating that—and sliced her wrists, this time making sure she cut deep and severed the veins. She was already unconscious when the guard returned, and by the time they got her to the emergency room, she had bled to death.

That was it, Michael thought.
I no longer have a mother.
Michael turned to look out the window and
coughed loudly to stifle a laugh. Didn’t he just say something about the day not being able to get any worse? He should have already realized in his short life that no matter how terrible things are, they can always get worse. But if they were so horrible, if this news was so devastating, where were the tears?

Michael got out of the truck before his grandpa turned off the engine and he walked past his grandma, who was sitting at the kitchen table, holding but not sipping a cup of coffee. Ignoring her, he went straight to his sanctuary. Sitting on his bed he waited for the tears to come, but nothing. He waited for pain to constrict his heart, but he was oddly numb. What the hell was wrong with him? He had just found out that his mother was dead and instead of reacting in some way, any way, he felt nothing.

Maybe it’s because he hadn’t felt like he had a mother for quite some time now; that could be it, he thought. That’s right, tell the truth, don’t make her out to be anything more special than what she was. For the past several years she had been preoccupied with her own demons, unable to focus her attention beyond herself and on her son, and when she did turn the spotlight onto Michael, it was only to remind him that he needed to make her proud, he needed to do things that she wanted to do, things that she had forgotten to do. Or worse, he had to do things that she had screwed up in order to somehow make amends for her messed-up life.

She didn’t look at her son and tell him that she would
support him no matter what path he took. She didn’t see him for who he was or try to understand him or attempt to comfort him when he was in pain. She had left him alone to fend for himself years ago. So he should be used to her absence. Should be.

Michael opened his bedroom door, knowing that he was expected to go downstairs and talk to his grandparents, but he didn’t hear anything. If he was going to be a part of silence, it might as well be his own. So he closed his door on them.

Standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, he looked at his face, searching for a trace of his mother. There was nothing there. His complexion was lighter, his nose smaller, his cheekbones sharper, his chin more pronounced. Blond hair, green eyes, not brown hair, brown eyes. Were her eyes brown? Maybe; he couldn’t remember.

But even though they had differences on the surface, deep inside they were similar. Michael was forced to admit that. They both carried fear with them wherever they went, an unspoken terror. Michael didn’t understand the burden that his mother struggled with, but he knew there was something that lived deep inside her that to her was very real and, based upon her last act of rebellion, insurmountable. Michael blinked and then looked into his own eyes and realized he could very well wind up the same way.

Gotta say it out loud, his grandpa said. Gotta stand up for yourself, Mr. Alfano said. The words formed in
his brain but got caught in his throat.
Try again.
No use. He pursed his lips as his chest tightened and he clenched his fists. Swiping the air, his fist stopped inches from the glass.
Just say the words, get it out, don’t be like your mother.
“I’m gay.”

He relaxed. His mind, his heart, his entire body, grateful. For unlike his mother’s, his burden, while not completely erased, had definitely been lessened.

The voice belonged to a little boy. Michael couldn’t see him, but the voice was everywhere; it surrounded him. The boy was reciting a poem in a singsong voice. “One drop, two drops, three drops, four.” Drops of what? Water, probably, but maybe sweat? Blood? The voice continued. “Floodgates open, the waters pour.” Yes, water. Of course, that’s why they came here, to the ocean, to feel the waves, rough, tall, and imposing, crash on the beach to create giant arcs of spray and long horizontal lines of bubbly foam. Michael thought it looked strong, majestic, exactly the way he felt. There was not a boat or a cloud in view. He turned around and he could see that no one was on the beach except
them. The voice was gone, it had done its job, it had led them here. Now the ocean was theirs and they were going to take it.

Michael walked into the water, the foam mingling with his feet, then a little farther, his ankles submerged. He turned to the dark-haired boy and beckoned him to join him. His companion looked nothing like R.J. or Phineas; he resembled Tomás—yes, that was the kid’s name—in that his body was muscular, but his skin was much, much paler. His name didn’t matter. He was beautiful and he wanted to swim next to Michael.

Together they ran into the ocean and at mere seconds apart dove into the crest of a wave just before it was about to collapse. They emerged next to each other as if even underwater with their eyes closed, they couldn’t be separated. Their bodies now embraced, the sun making their skin glisten, drops of water desperately hanging on to their smiling faces, unwilling to let go and return to the ocean. It was so much better to be a part of them than to be watching from the sidelines.

Michael looked into this nameless boy’s eyes and he allowed his fingers the freedom to caress his scalp, feel the curve. He had never done anything like that before and it felt wonderful. What felt even better was when he wrapped his right ankle around the boy’s left calf, entwining their legs so that their bodies were pushed even closer together. The boy mimicked Michael’s actions so his fingers cradled Michael’s head and his other leg intertwined with Michael’s. They were wrapped together, floating beyond the waves in the calmer part of the
ocean, completely alone. The only thing left for them to do was to kiss.

Tilting his head gently to the right, Michael felt their noses touch. The boy’s hand moved from the back of his head until his fingers found Michael’s ear.
That feels good,
he thought, and so he did the same thing. Then tentatively, their lips met. Unsure, in unfamiliar territory, they remained there for a moment, motionless. And then their instinct directed them and their lips moved, they kissed softly, tenderly, and Michael almost cried because it felt like the most natural, the most normal thing in the world. Until he saw his mother.

Grace was on the beach staring at them, the straitjacket unbuckled and hanging loose from her shoulders. Underneath she wore a white hospital gown and she was dripping wet. Her hair, her clothes, soaked. But soaked in blood.

The boy stood in front of Michael, trying to cover his face from this apparition, but it was no use. Even if he closed his eyes, he could still see her blood-drenched body. Instead, Michael found the strength to stand in front of the boy to protect him, shield him from this grotesque vision. His mother raised her arms, and the blood from her wrists spilled out into the ocean, staining its beauty with her infection. A stream of her blood traveled toward Michael and when it reached him, when his mother’s blood touched his body, he could feel its warmth. But it was hardly comforting. “Leave me alone!” Michael shouted.

Astonished by her son’s cruelty, Grace fell to her
knees, the blood discoloring the sand, and she let her wrists, outstretched, fall upon her thighs, and she stared at them. “But I’m so ashamed.” Her voice was just a whisper, but Michael heard her clearly. And then she looked at her son. “Just like you.”