Bullied

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors‟ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Bullied Copyright © 2011 by Jeff Erno Cover Art by Justin James [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61372-167-4 Released in the United States of America First Edition August 2011 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-089-9

PRESIDENT AND FIRST LADY CALL FOR A UNITED EFFORT TO ADDRESS BULLYING WASHINGTON, D.C.—Today, the President and First Lady called for a united effort to address bullying at the White House Conference on Bullying Prevention. Approximately 150 students, parents, teachers, non-profit leaders, advocates, and policymakers came together to discuss how they can work together to make our schools and communities safe for all students. “If there‟s one goal of this conference, it‟s to dispel the myth that bullying is just a harmless rite of passage or an inevitable part of growing up. It‟s not,” said President Obama. “Bullying can have destructive consequences for our young people. And it‟s not something we have to accept. As parents and students, teachers and communities, we can take steps that will help prevent bullying and create a climate in our schools in which all of our children can feel safe.” “As parents, this issue really hits home for us. It breaks our hearts to think that any child feels afraid every day in the classroom, on the playground, or even online,” First Lady Michelle Obama said. “I hope that all of you—and everyone watching online—will walk away from this conference with new ideas and solutions that you can take back to your own schools and communities.” Every day, thousands of children, teens, and young adults around the country are bullied. Estimates are that nearly one-third of all school-aged children are bullied each year—upwards of 13 million students. Students involved in bullying are more likely to have challenges in school, to abuse drugs and alcohol, and to have health and mental health issues. If we fail to address bullying we put ourselves at a disadvantage for increasing academic achievement and making sure all of our students are college and career ready.1

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“President and First Lady Call for a United Effort to Address Bullying.”

Introduction

THE following collection of short stories is dedicated to the thousands of young people in recent months and years who have suffered through the painful consequences of relentless bullying. Many of these victims are GLBT youth, and as an openly gay man, I can relate to the heartache, loneliness, suicidal ideation, and utter helplessness that such torment causes. My goal in releasing these stories is not to make a profit but to raise awareness and, more importantly, to possibly instill a sense of hope in the hearts of these many precious victims. I thank those who have supported this project and enthusiastically encourage all to become involved on some level, be it a donation to one of the many anti-bullying organizations, volunteering your time or talent, or simply speaking up. The most effective tool in combating bullying is education. Bullying only occurs because bystanders stand idly by and allow it to happen. Please make a difference. Please let your voice be heard. —Jeff Erno

Blending In

STANDING at the counter of the student services office, trying to set up an appointment with my guidance counselor, I‟m suddenly and rudely interrupted by none other than the most obnoxious, overbearing, flamboyant drama queen in the entire school. Christian Michaelson storms through the door and dashes directly to the counter, slamming a poster-sized photo down in front of Miss Aimsbury… and me, of course. One hand on the photo, holding it firmly in place under his palm, he raises his other hand dramatically to his chest and holds it over his heart. “I‟ll have you know,” he cries dramatically, “I will not be intimidated by this pornography!” His statement, albeit startling, is quickly forgotten when I look down at the picture and see that Christian is indeed presenting the principal‟s secretary with an 11X14 inch glossy photo of an extremely tasteless (and hot), depraved, licentious sexual act. To be specific, it‟s a blow job.

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Miss Aimsbury gasps and reflexively backs away from the other side of the counter, shielding her eyes as she does so. “Mr. Michaelson!” she shrieks. “I‟ll have you know,” Christian begins again, “this photograph was what greeted me this morning—moments ago, actually—when I opened my locker! You know, the locker to which you assigned me a confidential and top-secret combination. The same combination that nobody other than the staff in this office has access to. “And I‟ll also have you know that in addition to this lovely— ” he pauses for a moment, staring at the picture and smiling briefly “—um… this lovely photo, there was also some rather unflattering graffiti. And not very original, I might add.” “Mr. Michaelson,” she repeats, seeming at a loss for words. “It‟s a hate crime!” he declares. “And I want something to be done about it. Now!” Flustered, Miss Aimsbury turns completely away and heads for the inner office. “I‟ll go get Mr. Daniels,” she says, her voice barely audible. I look into Christian‟s eyes, then back at the photo. He cocks his head slightly to the left as he stares down at the picture and then repositions it on the counter, assessing it. “Looks like a Colt centerfold, wouldn‟t ya say? Or is it Inches?” I frown and shrug my shoulders just as our principal steps up to the counter. Quickly he snatches up the porn and crumples it into a ball. “That‟s evidence!” Christian protests. Daniels rolls his eyes. “What is the meaning of this, Christian?” he asks. “What is it this time?” “I want to know when you‟re going to do something about this perpetual bullying! It is constant, and I‟m being verbally and

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physically attacked—assaulted and brutalized every single day of my life while you sit idly by and do absolutely nothing!” Dramatically, he reaches up and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “I just can‟t take it anymore!” “Christian, when were you attacked? Give me a time and a date. And I need the name or names of your attackers.” “Why just yesterday,” he squeals, his voice rising yet another octave. “Darren Watson and Troy Cooper repeatedly snapped rubber bands at me in my English Lit class.” “And did you inform your teacher?” “I did no such thing, sir!” Chris answers matter-of-factly. “I‟m reporting it now to you, the school principal.” Daniels sighs. “Any witnesses?” “Sir, I‟m giving you proof. You‟re holding it in your hands. Look at it! Look at that smut they‟ve plastered in my locker. They wrote all over the inside door panel with permanent marker. They called me a ‘FAGGOT’!” “And you assume that the perpetrators of this act were the same boys who hit you with a rubber band?” “Rubber bands, sir… plural! Over and over, and they laughed at me. They mocked me and ridiculed me, and I‟m tired of it. I‟m tired of this relentless abuse, and it must stop!” Daniels looks at me for a moment, puzzled to see me standing there. “Did you have something to do with this, Stevens?” I shake my head. “No, sir. I‟m just here to schedule an appointment with Mr. Tanner.” He turns back to Christian. “Mr. Michaelson, this is the third time this week you‟ve been in here with a complaint. We‟ve investigated these alleged incidents, and frankly there are no witnesses to corroborate your claims. How do I even know that you did not deface your own locker?”

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Christian‟s mouth drops open as he angrily places his hands on his hips. “And why would I do something like that?” he asks indignantly. Mr. Daniels stares him directly in the eye. “Oh I don‟t know. Perhaps for attention. Perhaps because you‟re bored. Maybe because you always have to be creating some kind of drama. Honestly, I‟m getting tired of this. I‟ve got real issues to deal with, running this school, and I don‟t have time for this nonsense. If I see you again in my office, it will be to expel you. Do you understand?” “Mr. Daniels!” Christian shouts. “I said, „Do you understand?‟” Christian‟s face is turning bright red, and I can see the anger and embarrassment sweep over him. “You haven‟t heard the last of this, sir,” he states in an obviously threatening tone. “I‟ll take it to the media if I have to! I‟ll call the ACLU!” “You go right ahead and do what you feel you‟ve got to do, but if you‟re back in my office again, you‟re out of here. And if you ever bring a disgusting picture like this into my school, I‟ll kick you out permanently. Now, good day!” He turns and suddenly storms back into his office. “The injustice!” Christian cries, and he turns and stomps out the door. I wait at the counter for a few moments, wondering if Miss Aimsbury will return. Finally I see her peer around the corner from the inside office. When she‟s comfortable that the coast is clear, she returns to the counter to validate my pass, and I head off to class.

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NOBODY at school knows I‟m gay. Well, nobody except my best friend, Trina. I‟m not like Christian. I‟m not loud and extroverted. I don‟t wear all those flashy clothes and walk around swishing and sashaying. I‟m not in the drama club, and I‟m not a male cheerleader. Most of all, I don‟t like being the center of attention. Even if I did decide to come out at school, I‟m positive I would not associate with Christian Michaelson. Personally I think he‟s the sort of queer who gives homosexuality a bad reputation. He‟s a neon sign, a walking billboard for every over-the-top stereotype that‟s ever been ascribed to gay men. Honestly, it doesn‟t surprise me that he gets picked on, because frankly, he asks for it. I‟m in the cafeteria, sitting at a table with Trina, and I tell her about the incident in the student services office. “It was crazy,” I say. “Chris was, like, out of control. He was making these sweeping girly gestures with his hands, lisping all over the place.” She raises her eyebrows just before stuffing a french fry in her mouth. “Bryan, that‟s just Christian. He‟s always like that.” “So you don‟t think he‟s flamboyant?” She shrugs. “Sure, of course he‟s flamboyant. I just don‟t see what‟s wrong with that. Personally I think Christian‟s a riot. He‟s very… Nathan Lane.” “Oh brother,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I can‟t believe he took that porn picture down to the office and showed it to Miss Aimsbury.” Trina snorts. “I‟d have loved to see the expression on her face.” “She‟s gonna need counseling now,” I say, laughing. “Dang, I wish Daniels hadn‟t thrown it away. I wanna see it.” “Oh brother,” I sigh. “You want me to buy you a porno mag?”

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JEFF ERNO “Would you?”

“Hell no,” I retort. “If I get my hands on any good porn, I‟m keeping it for myself.” “Seriously, you‟ve got to admit that was pretty mean for someone to sabotage his locker like that,” she says. “Well, that‟s if he didn‟t do it himself. Daniels may be right. I mean, how is someone gonna get a hold of his locker combination?” “Didn‟t you say that Troy Cooper was one of the kids Christian accused?” I nod in reply. “Well, Troy‟s girlfriend Gina is doing an internship in that office for her vocational tech class. She works there like four or five hours a week.” “Oh come on,” I say, trying to sound like the voice of reason. “Why would Gina be involved in some conspiracy to torment Christian?” “People are jerks. Especially homophobic people.” “Well, I think that‟s a stretch,” I admit. “Troy seems pretty cool, and he‟s never done anything mean like that to me.” “Hmm,” she says. “But maybe he would if he knew about you.” “Treen, come on. Giving gay porn to Christian Michaelson is not exactly mean. It‟s like giving candy to a trick-or-treater.” “Well, I think if someone broke into your locker and posted a graphic sex pic like that, then wrote nasty homophobic names all over the inside, you‟d be a little freaked.” “Yeah, maybe, but ya know what? That‟s never gonna happen. People aren‟t gonna pick on me like that because I don‟t

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go around broadcasting my private life. I don‟t shove my sexuality down other people‟s throats.” She looks at me seriously. “I think you need to be shoving something down someone‟s throat, actually. Maybe if you did, you‟d appreciate a cocksucker like Christian a little more.” I don‟t know whether to laugh or be offended. I just sit there and eat my cheeseburger.

BEING a middle child, I‟m very much used to going unnoticed, blending in. I‟ve a sister who is two years older than me, and I have two younger brothers. They‟re twins. I was four when Brady and Brandon were born, and my sister Beth became sort of a guardian for the three of us. Having three young children, two of them identical, is a lot for one set of parents to manage, and Beth became a surrogate mom in a lot of ways. I think it was just natural that the twins got all of the attention. Of course Beth, being the oldest and often the big-sister babysitter, was important to the family in many ways. I just was the middle kid. I just was there, easily forgotten and often overlooked. It‟s not a complaint, really, so much as it is an observation. I‟ve never doubted that my parents love me. I‟ve never really even felt any resentment. To be truthful, I wouldn‟t want all the attention that is showered upon my brothers. To me it would feel like living under a magnifying glass. I doubt that any of them suspect I‟m gay. They just think I‟m a loner, and I also would guess that they may have some false assumptions about my relationship with Trina. Mom has made remarks to me, saying that Trina and I seem very close. It‟s like she is hinting to me that it‟s okay to open up to her and tell her I‟m

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madly in love with the girl. Well, obviously I‟m not, and Trina knows I‟m not, and Trina knows why I‟m not. I can‟t tell Mom any of this, though, and especially not Dad. And even though Trina is my closest friend, she‟s not my only friend. I do have guys who are friends with me too. The most important of them is Mike. Okay, time out. Since I‟m being honest, let me back up a bit. Mike is not really a close friend of mine. Wait… oh man. Okay, let me start over about Mike. I really like him. I mean, um, I really like him. Okay, I said it. I admit it! I‟m totally crushing on him. He‟s just got the most adorable big brown eyes. They‟re so dark that at times they look almost black. He‟s one of those guys who has a really boyish looking face, and he has big bushy eyebrows. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which I think is so sexy. (Mike, aka Miguel, is Latino.) And since I promised to be honest, I guess I have to also confess that Mike really isn‟t my friend at all. He is more of a fantasy friend. I‟d do anything to get him to notice me. Crazy, isn‟t it? I already said how I‟m comfortable with not being noticed. But when it comes to that one special boy, I want more than anything for him to just realize that I exist! A few weeks ago I went to one of the school‟s soccer games. I‟m generally not real big on sports, but I had an ulterior motive. Mike‟s on the team, and I used my cell phone to take some pictures of him on the field. Nobody knows I have them, not even Trina, and I spend a lot of my alone time looking at them, looking at the pictures of drop-dead-gorgeous Mike, my Latin lover. In my dreams!

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“BRYAN, with these SAT scores, you should be thinking about applying to some of the more exclusive universities,” Mr. Tanner says as he peruses my records. I‟m in his office at my mandatory counseling session. It‟s an assessment that all juniors must have completed prior to the end of the first semester, which is only a week away. “Thank you, Mr. Tanner,” I say, “but I‟ve already decided I‟m going to just stay here and go to community college for my first two years.” He places the file folder on his desk and removes his glasses. “Bryan, I hope you‟ll reconsider. I‟ve seen this happen with other students so many times before. If you wait, you may end up not going at all. You may be passing up your opportunity to get into an Ivy League school.” I look at him briefly but then break eye contact and stare down at my lap. I hate meetings like this. “Why don‟t you let me give you some material? I‟ve got all the applications here, and you can take them and think it over. Discuss it with your parents. Okay?” I nod. “Sure. Thank you.” “Can you tell me something, Bryan? Why have you decided on community college?” I‟m nervous, not knowing exactly how to answer. I shrug. “Um, I don‟t know. My SAT scores are good, but my grades….” “Your grades are fine too,” he says. “You only have one B, and that‟s in advanced physics.” “I guess I‟m just unsure. I don‟t know what I wanna do yet, and I don‟t want to go away to some big college somewhere and spend all that time and money when I don‟t even have any idea what I want to be.”

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“Well, that‟s reasonable,” he agrees, “but you know you don‟t have to know exactly what you‟re going to do when you start college. To start, you can take your mandatory classes, the institutional requirements that fit into all degree programs.” “And then if I still can‟t decide?” “I‟ll give you some catalogues which list degree plans. You can look them over, and maybe you‟ll see something that interests you. What is it that you‟re passionate about?” Miguel, I think. I shrug again. “I dunno. I‟m weird I guess. I do well in math, but I hate science. I love reading but hate the grammar and composition classes. I don‟t like politics but love government class—” “No, what are you passionate about, Bryan Stevens? I‟m not asking what classes you like. What do you as an individual like to do?” I think for a moment and realize that this is my problem. I don‟t know. I don‟t have any passions. I don‟t have anything that makes me unique, makes me stand out. I just blend in. I never joined band or drama or the debate team. Never participated in sports. I guess I‟m a loner, and I don‟t want to take chances. I don‟t want to put myself out there and risk looking foolish. “Uh… well, I like computers. I like music and movies. I‟m good at video games.” He smiles at me. “Why don‟t you look through these catalogues, especially at the computer-related programs. Do some research on the Internet. Promise me you‟ll give this some serious thought, okay? I want you to schedule another appointment with me in two weeks, and we‟ll talk about what you‟ve decided.” I nod. “Yes, sir,” I say, reaching out to accept the stack of material he‟s handing me. “Bryan, is something bothering you?” he says as I begin to stand.

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I shake my head. “Um… no, not really.” “Everything okay at home? Are you having any problems here at school? Anything you wanna talk about?” I look at him for a moment, then shake my head. “No, everything‟s fine.” “Okay,” he says. “Well, if there‟s ever anything, I want you to know you can talk to me. Any time, all right?” I nod. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Tanner.” “Okay, I‟ll see you back here in a couple weeks.” He smiles warmly at me. I stop at the desk on my way out, again facing Miss Aimsbury. She fills out an appointment card, and I look over the counter to see Gina in the back office—Troy‟s girlfriend, the one Trina had mentioned. She‟s chewing a big wad of gum as she types frantically on a laptop. “There you go,” Miss Aimsbury says. “Tuesday the 16th at eleven o‟clock with Mr. Tanner.” “Thanks. Can I have a hall pass for today?” “Sure,” she says, and fills out a pass, which I‟ll need to get back into class. I then head out the door and down the hall toward my locker. That‟s when I see him. It‟s Christian again, and this time he looks different. He‟s the only one in the hall, standing in front of his locker. He‟s dyed his hair some weird color. Is it cranberry? It‟s spiked and all crazy-looking. As he turns to look at me, there are tears in his eyes, and he quickly looks away. It‟s awkward. I slow down. I wonder if he‟s gonna start something again, make a scene. “Chris, you all right?” I ask reluctantly.

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He stoops down and reaches into his locker. Turning back around, he holds out his hand to show me what he‟s holding. It‟s a rock. It has the word FAGGOT painted on it in big red letters. “They threw this through the back window of my car,” he says, his voice practically a whisper. I stare at the small boulder in disbelief. “Who did?” I ask. “Them! The same ones who always do this shit to me.” His voice is high-pitched and whiny, and I fear he may go off like he did in the office. “Bryan, I can‟t take this anymore,” he says calmly. He‟s not getting hyper, but instead he just sounds defeated. “I just wanna know why. What‟d I do? What did I ever do to them? What‟d I do to deserve this?” I don‟t know what to say. “You‟ve got to report it,” I say. “Why? You know what happens when I try to report stuff. You saw. You were right there. Daniels says it‟s my fault. He called me a liar, said I was making it up.” I feel bad for him, but I know I have to get to class. My hall pass is time-stamped. “Yesterday I got seventy-four text messages,” he says quietly. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Here, look at ‟em.” I shake my head, about to tell him I‟ve got to go, but he‟s holding out the phone. I glance down to see the screen. “Die, faggot,” “Suck my dick,” “Blow me,” “Queer.” The scroll goes on and on, all hateful or threatening messages. “It‟s like this every day,” he says. “I had to cancel my Facebook account.” I‟m at a loss for words. “Chris….” “I know what you think of me,” he says. “I know you think I deserve it because I‟m such a freak. I don‟t know when to keep my mouth shut. I don‟t give a shit what people think of me. I just do what I want, and it shocks people.

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“But… but still it hurts, ya know. I put up a good front, and I never let them see how much it kills me inside.” He slips the phone back into his pocket. “I don‟t think… I don‟t think I can take any more, though.” Suddenly I remember my conversation with Tanner. “Chris,” I say, “have you talked to Mr. Tanner about this?” He shakes his head. “He‟s no better. He‟s one of them, like Daniels.” “So you‟ve told him about this stuff?” “I told Mr. Daniels, the principal!” He‟s getting defensive again. “I told him like a million times, and he doesn‟t do anything. Why would some counselor be any different?” “I dunno,” I say, “but maybe….” He shakes his head. “I‟m sorry. I shouldn‟t have told you all this.” “Look, I‟ve gotta get to class. All right? But if you want, I‟ll go with you to talk to Tanner. I bet he can help.” He looks at me, astonished. “Okay,” he says finally. “Bry, thanks.” “No problem,” I say, feeling slightly embarrassed. I hope he doesn‟t try to hug me or something. “I have to go though. I‟ll see ya later.” “All right… thanks again.” What have I gotten myself into? I wonder as I head to my calculus class.

THESE pep rallies are so lame. Like I said, I hate sports. With soccer season being over and basketball starting, I have even less

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interest in this feeble attempt of the school to drum up enthusiasm and so-called school spirit. Now if it were a pep rally for the soccer team and Mike were up there on the gymnasium floor, I might be able to feel a little bit of excitement. As usual, the rally begins with the cheerleaders, Christian being one of them. He‟s the only male in the group, actually. I now realize why his hair is that outrageous color. They all match, all thirteen of the girls and him, with their cranberry-colored ‟dos to complement their burgundy cheerleader uniforms. I never realized he had such a toned body. An amazing physique, really. I guess all those outlandish clothes he wears tend to distract from his otherwise very attractive appearance. Of course it doesn‟t help that he goes around being such a queen, swishing and snapping and acting like a girl. But the uniform fits him snugly, and his cut abs are obvious, as well as his broad chest and impressively bulked-up biceps. He needs them, though, in order to lift those girls over his head like that. There‟s no denying that he‟s a sissy, but I‟ve got to say he‟s a strong sissy. The cheerleaders complete their performance as Trina and I sit there watching. I‟d expected to be bored to tears, yet I‟m a little bit awestruck by the choreography. Chris is on his mark, confidently smiling and shouting out the cheers clearly. His movements are crisp and deliberate, and the entire group moves in perfect harmony. I wonder how long it has taken them to rehearse this. It‟s truly amazing. After getting the audience ramped up, they begin motioning for us to stand as they prepare to introduce the team. We‟re all on our feet, and most are cheering and whistling in a state of gleeful frenzy. Christian steps forward and calls out the first player‟s name. From behind him, the jock dashes out into the auditorium, running up to center stage. A second cheerleader steps forward and calls out another name. Another tall jock appears and is greeted by uproarious applause.

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This goes on, the two cheerleaders alternating as they announce the team. The other cheerleaders are behind them, kicking and applauding, chanting the name of each player who enters the gym. Chris steps forward again, takes a deep breath, and announces, “Number thirty-seven, Troy Cooper!” The crowd goes nuts as Troy dashes out from the locker room. The cheerleaders are chanting, “Troy! Troy! He‟s our boy!” Troy takes center stage, turning to high-five each of his teammates. I remember the rock. I remember Chris in the office, and what he said about Troy. I stop clapping as I realize how hard this must be for him. He‟s up there publicly cheering his tormentor. The next day I‟m walking home with Trina. I still haven‟t mentioned anything to her about the conversation I had with Chris. I don‟t even tell her about my meeting with Tanner. We walk home together, and we talk about stupid stuff. Jersey Shore. American Idol. The Twilight series. I‟m surprised to hear my phone go off. I‟m getting a text. Apparently Trina‟s surprised as well. She‟s the only one who ever usually texts me. My mom doesn‟t text. She calls. I check my message, and I‟m surprised that it‟s from Chris. I wonder how he even got my number. Thanks for yesterday. Can we talk about going to tanner? Trina wants to know who it was. I lie and say it was one of the twins. I say I better hurry and get home. They‟re probably tearing the house apart by now. Mom and Dad are gone, and Beth isn‟t home yet. I head for my room and debate replying to Chris‟s message. Should I call him? I shouldn‟t have told him about Tanner. I really don‟t want to be involved. Why can‟t he just fight his own battles? He doesn‟t need me to speak for him, not when he is such a loudmouth himself.

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While I have my phone open, I look through my pictures of Mike. He‟s so hot. I wish he‟d been the one to text me. Sighing, I dial Chris‟s number. “Can we meet somewhere?” he asks. “I dunno. I‟m kind of busy tonight,” I lie. “Oh okay, that‟s cool. Sorry.” “Well, it‟s all right.” I think about inviting him over but then remember his hair. I‟m sure my mom would freak if she saw him. “I can meet you at the mall, if you want. Say in an hour?” “You sure? I don‟t wanna bother you if you‟re busy.” “It‟s cool,” I assure him. I‟m an idiot. I‟m afraid of my parents seeing me with him, but then I turn around and arrange a meeting in a public mall. “Okay, I‟ll look for you in the food court.” “Thanks, Bry,” he says. “See ya in a few.” It must be guilt that motivates me. Why else would I even agree to help this guy? It‟s like I feel I‟m such a hypocrite or something. He‟s being ridiculed and tortured because he‟s gay, and I know that I‟m the same way. I‟m also gay, but I don‟t act like he does. I don‟t broadcast it. I don‟t flaunt my personal business to the whole freakin‟ world. At first I don‟t recognize him. The hair is back to normal, sort of. It‟s a medium brown color. “Your hair,” I say as I take a seat opposite him in front of Taco Bell. “Temporary. We just dyed it for the pep rally.” He‟s wearing a jean jacket and Levi‟s. There‟s nothing overtly queer about his appearance, except for maybe the flashy jewelry. He is wearing a couple gold bracelets and a single-post diamond earring. Right ear, of course. “Hungry?” he asks. “I‟m buyin‟.”

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“Oh… um, no thanks.” “You sure?” “Yeah, but I‟ll have a Coke, I guess.” “Come on,” he says, and we get up and head for the counter. He orders a Nacho Belle Grande and two Cokes. “I‟ll share with ya,” he says, winking at me. I feel my face getting hot. After we sit back down, I‟m not sure how to start the conversation, but I don‟t want to be here all night, so I ask him, “How‟d this all start? The bullying, I mean.” He shakes his head and looks away, like he‟s thinking. Then he turns back to look me in the eye. “Ya know, I‟m not exactly sure.” He laughs nervously. “I think it must‟ve started when I was really little. I‟ve always been the brunt of everyone‟s jokes. I‟ve always been the clown, ya know.” “You‟re not exactly the shy type,” I admit. He laughs. This is the most normal I‟ve ever seen him. He could be any other guy, not the flaming fag I‟ve always known him to be. “No, I guess I‟ve always been pretty crazy.” “But at some point it must have changed. This isn‟t just about being the center of attention. This is not just teasing. They‟re sending you death threats and throwing rocks through your windows. Maybe you should just call the police.” He shakes his head. “And what good would that do?” “You told Daniels that you were gonna call the ACLU. Why don‟t you?” He sighs. “I‟m just tired. I‟m tired of being hated so much. I just want to be normal sometimes.” His statement borders on absurd. How can he claim such a desire when everything about him is over-the-top? “Chris,” I say in

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the most compassionate tone I can muster, “you don‟t have to act like that. You don‟t have to be so… um….” “So gay?” I really do blush. “I didn‟t mean it like that. I just mean, well… you‟re the one who just said you want to be normal. If you really mean it, then just act normal. Know what I mean?” “Who‟s fucking normal, anyway?” he asks. “Who‟s to say what is normal and what‟s abnormal? I‟m just me, and sometimes I feel like being crazy. Sometimes I love being different.” “And that bugs people. People don‟t want different. They don‟t like it when someone stands out. You have to learn how to blend in—” “Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes, “well I‟m afraid that‟s not gonna happen. I will never blend in. It‟s just not me.” “Well, still, I think you should go talk to Mr. Tanner. I bet he doesn‟t even know what‟s been going on. I bet Daniels never even mentioned it to him.” “Daniels is an asshole,” Chris says. “I bet he was just like Troy when he was growing up. He‟s a homophobe and… and a bully!” “It‟s weird,” I confess to him, “but I never thought Troy would be like that. I never saw that side of him. He seems so nice.” “To you, maybe. You‟re not a fag.” I gulp. “People think I chose to be the way I am, but honest to God, I didn‟t. How can someone help who they‟re attracted to?” “Do you think they pick on you because you‟re… um… gay, or is it maybe because you‟re so flashy and stuff?” He laughs. “You can say it. I‟m a big ol‟ flamer! I know it.” He raises his hand to his shoulder and snaps his fingers in an

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overtly effeminate gesture. “I‟m just me! One hundred percent queer!” I look around nervously, and he suddenly gets serious again. “See, I even embarrass you.” “Chris,” I say somberly, “it doesn‟t really matter. If you‟re being picked on for being gay or for being a sissy, or whatever, it doesn‟t matter why. I mean, it‟s not a crime to be different. They don‟t have to like you. They don‟t have to even approve of you, but they have no right to treat you like this.” There are tears in his eyes. “Bryan,” he whispers, “that‟s the nicest thing anyone‟s ever said to me.” He reaches over and places his hand atop mine. “Thank you.” Suddenly I hear laughter and look up to see Troy standing in front of me. He‟s right next to our table, and with him is none other than Mike. My Miguel! I quickly pull my hand away from Chris. “Is this a date?” Troy says. “Ain‟t that sweet. Two faggots on a little Taco-hell date. Sharing one big nacho supreme. I only wish I‟d have had my cell ready to take your picture when you were holding hands!” Mike just stares at us. I stand up, ready to protest. “Troy, get the fuck away from us!” Chris shouts. “Will you just leave me the fuck alone?” Troy grabs Chris by the collar and pulls him up out of his seat. “You make me sick, faggot!” he says, sneering at him. Chris reaches up, clutching at Troy‟s wrists, trying to pull himself free. Troy‟s stronger, though, and full of rage. He spins Chris around and slams him forward, thrusting his face into the tray of nachos. Our drinks topple over. There‟s a mess everywhere, and Chris is still struggling.

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Not knowing what to do, I back up, jumping away, and Troy pulls Chris back into an upright position. “Enjoy your nachos, faggot!” he says. He and Mike are laughing as they saunter away. “Are you okay?” I say, trying to find Chris a napkin. There‟s cheese and salsa stuck to his face and sour cream smeared in his hair. His nose is bleeding. “My nose,” he whines. “I think he broke it… oh my God!” I look around, hoping to see a security guard or something. Anyone. “I‟ll take you to the hospital,” I offer. He shakes his head. “No!” He then quickly shoots out of his seat and races across the food court toward the front door. I call after him, but he doesn‟t look back.

“HE‟S with another student,” Miss Aimsbury tells me. “I‟ll wait,” I insist. “I‟m afraid you‟ll have to make an appointment,” she says. “Mr. Tanner has a very busy schedule today.” “This is an emergency! I‟ll wait.” She stares at me exasperatedly. The door to Tanner‟s office opens and a student steps out. Mr. Tanner sees me and comes over to the counter. “He says he has an emergency,” Miss Aimsbury says. “Bryan, come on in,” he invites me. “You have another appointment in five minutes, Mr. Tanner,” she says. He seems to ignore her as he ushers me inside, motioning for me to have a seat. “What‟s wrong?” he asks.

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I couldn‟t get a hold of Chris the night before. After he stormed out of the mall, he wouldn‟t answer my calls or my texts. All I could think of was what he‟d said, about how he couldn‟t take it anymore. How he said he couldn‟t go on. I couldn‟t stop thinking of Mike either, and how he‟d reacted, how he‟d laughed at the scene. Mike had seen me there with Chris, and it must‟ve looked like we were holding hands. It must have looked like we were boyfriends, like Chris and I were intimate with each other—the way I‟d for so long fantasized about with Mike. For all that time I felt Chris was responsible for his own situation. I thought if he had just made more of an effort to tone it down, to act more normally, they‟d stop torturing him. He just had to learn to be more like me, to blend in. But now I know how he feels. I saw how paralyzing it was and how humiliating. I saw the look of disgust on Mike‟s face and the hatred in Troy‟s eyes. I know it wouldn‟t matter to them, either one of them, if I were normal or not. They would hate me if they knew I was gay. Well, I guess they do know now. “Something‟s happened,” I say, “and I need your help.” “What is it, Bryan?” Mr. Tanner is leaning against his desk, sitting on the edge. “It‟s Chris. Chris Michaelson.” He stares at me for a moment, waiting. “I can‟t get a hold of him, and I‟m afraid. I‟m afraid he might have… um… hurt himself or something.” Mr. Tanner stands up and steps over to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Bryan, I talked to Chris this morning, just a few minutes ago, and he‟s fine.” “You did?” I ask, heaving a sigh of relief. “He won‟t answer my calls—”

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JEFF ERNO “He thinks you‟re gonna hate him,” Tanner says. “He does? Why?”

Mr. Tanner steps away from me, moving behind his desk, and he takes his seat. “I was planning on calling you in today, Bryan. I have to get your version of the events that happened last night. We‟re going to need you as a witness.” “Of course,” I say, nodding my head. “Chris begged me not to contact you.” “Sir, I don‟t understand. Last night he said… he said I was nicer to him than anyone had ever been.” “And so he doesn‟t want you to get hurt. He doesn‟t want you to be put at risk, to get bullied the way he‟s been. But I told him that wasn‟t going to happen. I promised him the bullying would stop.” I shake my head. “It won‟t stop, sir. It will never stop.” “It‟s going to stop. I‟m going to make it stop or die trying.” I feel the sting of my hot tears as they trickle down my face. “The bullying isn‟t going to stop because people are afraid. They‟re afraid to speak up. They‟re afraid that if they say anything, someone is going to think they are… that way.” “Is that what you were afraid of, Bryan?” he asks, sliding a box of tissues across the desk. I nod. “I was a coward. I just wanted Chris to stop being so outrageous. I wanted him to just try to be normal, ya know.” “But none of us are truly normal,” he says calmly. His voice is so quiet, not argumentative. It‟s as if he‟s talking to himself. “I‟ve known for about three years now… about myself. I figured it out when I started having crushes on other boys instead of girls.” The tears continue to flow. “I didn‟t want to tell anyone,

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though. I tried my darnedest to make sure it wasn‟t obvious. I tried to just blend in. “And every day when I saw Chris, he just irked me. He scared me, really, because I was afraid that I was looking in a mirror when I saw him. I was terrified that what I saw in him was what other people would see in me if they knew. “I didn‟t feel sorry for him. I rationalized it all. I said he asked for it. I thought he deserved it because he is so flamboyant. He‟s such a… such a sissy. “So I didn‟t speak up. I pretended it wasn‟t happening. I made excuses so that I could feel safe. I let him take all the hits so that I could remain hidden in my closet.” “And now,” Mr. Tanner says, “the closet door has been opened.” I hang my head shamefully. “Bryan,” Mr. Tanner says compassionately, “coming here today was very brave. And what you did yesterday, that was an act of genuine friendship. Heroism, even. If you had not befriended Chris in his time of need, he would have had no one to turn to. He would have never contacted me if not for you.” “What now?” I ask, sobbing. He steps over to me again, once more touching my shoulder. He hands me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes, then stare up at him. “You do the right thing. You take a stand.” I nod. “Yes, sir,” I say.

THE police officer thanks me and shakes my hand after he finishes reading my statement. I then stand, and he escorts me down the hall to my third-hour class. The teacher is startled when we walk

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in, our entire entourage. Three officers, Mr. Tanner, and Mr. Daniels. I feel small in their presence, surrounded by all of this authority. Officer Hawkins looks at me, and I nod knowingly. I turn and point to Troy Cooper. “It is him, sir. Right there in the letter jacket. He is the one who attacked Chris Michaelson.” The other two officers step over to him. “Troy Cooper, you are under arrest on the charges of assault and battery. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney….” The entire classroom gasps as they cuff him and remove him from the room. I turn to see Trina sitting there with her mouth agape. Mike looks as if he‟s going to fall out of his chair. I watch as they exit, staring at the door. A figure appears, stepping through the threshold. It‟s Chris, with two black eyes and a big white piece of tape across his nose. He‟s smiling at me as the tears stream down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he mouths, and I step over to him, holding out my hand. Slowly I move toward him, having to rise slightly on my tiptoes, and gently press my lips against his. “No,” I whisper into his ear, “thank you for helping me. I‟m tired of blending in.”

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Chuckie

HIS name is Charles Earl Weston, but we call him Chuckie. He hates it. In fact, Charles is insistent that he be addressed by his real name, Charles. Not Chuck, not Charlie, not Chuckster, and certainly not Chuckie. The fact that it irritates him so much just makes it all the more entertaining. And in many ways that‟s what Charles is to me— entertainment. I guess when it started out he really bugged me. He was just so different, and I couldn‟t stand the way he acted. I caught him looking at me one day, and it really creeped me out. When I made eye contact and glared back at him, he quickly looked away. It was then that I knew how easy he‟d be to intimidate. Well, let‟s face it. I‟m intimidating to a lot of people, especially guys like Chuckie. I‟m kinda outspoken, you could say. I don‟t really take shit from no one. I know I‟m the shit, and I know that lots of kids are jealous of me. To be honest, they have a lot of reasons to be jealous. I‟m popular, pretty good looking, I‟m

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built, if ya know what I mean. Been working out since I was like thirteen, and my body shows it. People think that jocks like me are lucky, but it‟s a lot of hard work to get a body like I‟ve got and to maintain it. There‟s nothing lucky about it. I earned this body. I earned these eighteen-inch biceps and this forty-four-inch chest. I‟m in the gym every day. Been running five to seven miles a day since I started high school. In addition to my personal workout schedule, I also have football practice. After that, it‟s track and baseball. There is always some sport I‟m focused on, and I give it 110 percent. That‟s just me. I just don‟t get guys like Chuckie. He‟s a wuss, and the worst thing about it is that he doesn‟t do anything to even try to change. Just how hard would it be for him to pick up a barbell once in awhile? I‟m not sayin‟ every guy‟s got to look and perform like me. I realize I was born with a natural talent—an affinity for sports. But most guys will at least try. Lot of the guys on my team tell me they copy me. They ask me for advice, try to be like me. Can‟t say I blame ‟em, really. I respect that, and I‟m quick to help guys like that. They‟re never gonna be me—never even close, but at least they‟re trying. Chuckie‟s in my gym class, and let me tell ya, it is pathetic. There were times I‟d have been embarrassed for him had I not been so fucking annoyed by his mere existence. It seems like he never tries. All he ever does is avoid participation. He slinks back into a corner somewhere like he‟s trying not to be noticed. Then, when he does have to participate, it‟s a joke. He‟s worse than a chick, and most of the time he‟s the laughing stock of the entire class. It‟s kinda creepy having a guy like that in the locker room too. It used to be the long-standing joke that you better be careful if he was in there. None of us want a fag like Chuckie starin‟ at us when we‟re getting changed or taking a shower. “Dude, that‟s nasty!” I exclaim.

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Gomer‟s holding up a piss-stained jock strap, dangling it in the air. “You got a problem or something, man? Can‟t hold yer bladder?” I ask. All the guys laugh, including Gomer. “It ain‟t mine! It was sitting here in front of my locker. I think it fell out of his locker.” He thumbs his fist in Chuckie‟s direction. He‟s sitting on the bench opposite Gomer, the only one in the locker room not paying attention. “Whatta ya doin‟ with that jock-strap, fag? Is that yours?” I ask loudly. Of course, he doesn‟t respond, just looks away. I don‟t like being ignored. “Faggot! I‟m talking to you!” He‟s pissing me off now. I step forward, grabbing the stinky jock strap from Gomer as I approach the fag. I think I see him shudder, trembling perhaps. My confidence surges all the more. “You little pansy-assed freak, I said I‟m talking to you! Answer me!” I‟m in his face now, holding the jockstrap inches from his nose. He shifts in his seat and turns away. “No,” he says quietly. “It‟s not mine.” “What?” I scream. I hear Gomer laughing behind me. “It‟s not yours? Then what were you doin‟ with it? Whose is it?” The kid‟s face has turned beet red. He probably senses that everyone‟s watching. I‟m amused by his embarrassment. Love watching him squirm. I love the power—a total rush. I can tell he wants to get away from me, but there is nowhere to hide. It‟s the same every time. At first he attempts to hold his ground. He‟s firm in his denial, stating he doesn‟t know anything about the jockstrap. Of course this never works. I‟m bigger than him and a hell of a lot stronger. Plus I‟ve got the whole team at my back. He has no one, totally alone and defenseless. He tells me to

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leave him alone. It‟s hilarious, really, seeing him try to stand up for himself. “Then answer my fucking question, faggot! Whose locker did you steal this from?” I grab him by the shirt and lift him off the bench, spinning him around and thrusting him into the lockers. My adrenaline‟s pumping. I‟m ready to kick some queer ass. I have it figured out now. I know the faggot‟s been stealing jockstraps and keeping them in his locker. The little pervert probably uses ‟em for his jack off fantasies. What a sicko! “Open his locker, Gomer!” I order, still pinning Chuckie and holding the jockstrap in his face. “See what else he‟s got in there, who else he‟s stolen from.” “Wait, please!” Chuckie squeaks. Gomer doesn‟t listen to him but proceeds to ransack the locker. He removes Chuckie‟s backpack, pulls out his gym shorts, T-shirt, a clean pair of socks. He holds up Chuckie‟s underwear and laughs. “They look like panties!” he says. Everyone laughs. A crowd has gathered. He doesn‟t find any more gear in the locker, but he does find a book. He holds it up, laughing even harder. “The Art of Cake Decorating!” I turn to look at it, surprised. “What the fuck?” I ask. “You have a book about cake decorating?” I say. “Oh my God, you really are a fruit! What else is in there, Gomer? Pom-poms? A cheerleader uniform? His purse?” Everyone‟s cracking up now. Everyone but Chuckie. Gomer tosses the book to one of the other guys. They hand it back and forth, laughing loudly. I hear remarks like “What a fag,” “queer,” and “sissy.”

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Chuckie is shaking. He‟s on the verge of tears, I can tell. When he whimpers, “Please put it back,” I hear his voice crack. His weakness sickens me. I still have the jockstrap in my hand, but I ball my fist and thrust hard into his gut. His body spasms and he cries out, attempting to double over in response to the pain, but I hold him firmly in place with my other hand, pressing against his neck. It‟s ironic, really. I love the power. I truly love making some defenseless victim squirm. I love the fact that he‟s helpless and has no choice. On the other hand, his weakness annoys me. The fact that he‟s not man enough to fight back literally makes me sick. It is an odd combination of anger and pleasure that pumps through my veins when I‟m in a situation like this. When I release him, he crumbles to the floor. I drop down atop him, pinning him beneath me and stuff the jockstrap in his mouth. His arms are trapped beneath my legs, but it doesn‟t matter. He‟s stopped resisting altogether. He‟s accepted his fate, his humiliation. All the guys are cheering me on, mocking him. Someone announces the coach is coming. We all clear away, and Chuckie scrambles to his feet. We act normal when the coach enters. Many of the guys are still laughing, but Coach doesn‟t think anything of it. Chuckie doesn‟t say anything. He‟s smoothing out his hair and wiping his face. I toss the jockstrap in the bottom of my locker. Chuckie stuffs his belongings back into his backpack, including the cake decorating book. I glance over at him, making eye contact. It‟s my warning to him. He knows better than to tell. He‟ll never tell, ‟cause he knows if he does, there‟ll be hell to pay.

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FOR two months I‟ve been going out with the same girl. Jena‟s not only the hottest girl in school, but she‟s really smart. She‟s not the cheerleader type, that‟s for sure, but she‟s involved in everything. She plays volleyball, and she‟s in band, honor society, and the drama club. Actually, she‟s not the type of girl you‟d expect to see dating a jock like me. But we connected with each other, and it all started one night at the homecoming dance. Being one of the football players, I was much more concerned about the game itself than the stupid dance. I really planned only to make an appearance, maybe split early with some of the other guys and go have a party of our own elsewhere. Somehow, though, I struck up a conversation with Jena. Before I knew it, we were dancing, and I ended up asking her out. Most of our initial contact was texting, calling each other on the phone, and chatting on the Internet. Our schedules both are so busy with sports and school activities that in order to really get to know someone, you almost have to have a Blackberry these days. “Hey.” I hear her voice and feel the softness of her hands as they press against my back. She wraps her arms around me, hugging me from behind. I turn and embrace her, giving her a quick kiss and smiling as I look into her eyes. “Hey, babe,” I respond. We‟re standing in front of my locker, which I reach around and close. Then I grab her hand. “Our first dress rehearsal‟s tonight. You coming?” she says. “Oh yeah, that‟s right. Yeah, I‟ll come after practice. Ya know, I‟ve never been to a play before.” She looks at me skeptically. “Really?” I nod. “Seriously. I‟m, um… well, not really into that sort of thing… but I‟m into you.” She smiles sweetly. “Good answer,” she quips. “Well, I‟m not usually into watching a bunch of guys brutalize each other on the football field either, but I come to your games.”

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I laugh. “I know. That‟s what I mean. It‟s cool.” “But I like seein‟ you in those tight pants,” she teases as she brushes a free hand across my behind. I lean in and kiss her again, and we head off to class. Coach is a bastard today at practice. He‟s got a hard-on or something, driving us like never before, and I don‟t get off the field ‟til after six o‟clock. I shower and head over to the auditorium, where the dress rehearsal is already in progress. It‟s dark, and the theater is nearly empty. I head down the center aisle and take a seat near the front. Jena‟s onstage. She‟s singing, and to my surprise, her voice is angelic. I should have known. She‟s good at everything she does. But the song‟s not a solo; she‟s singing to the male lead. I‟m shocked when he turns to face the audience and begins to sing. Confidently and clearly he delivers his musical lines, and his presence onstage is commanding. I can‟t believe it‟s Chuckie. I feel my mouth drop open, and I shake my head, somewhat bewildered. The passion and clarity of his voice reverberate throughout the auditorium. Jena‟s soprano harmonizes magically with his perfectly pitched tenor voice. They move together on stage fluidly, their choreography impeccable. Turning away from the audience, they face each other, and Charles grabs hold of her hands, looking her directly in the eyes. He now doesn‟t seem so wimpy. He‟s actually about three inches taller than Jena, and onstage in his costume, his shoulders seem broader, his posture undeniably confident. She responds to him in a manner that suggests she‟s under the hypnotic spell of his mesmerizing voice. And truly it is magical. That kid, he should be on American Idol or something. It takes my breath away—literally. I watch the remainder of the rehearsal silently, in awe of all I‟ve seen. Jena‟s amazing, and I know the production‟s gonna be a huge success. Mostly, though, I‟m surprised by him—by the, um, fag.

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I keep replaying it in my mind. It gets more and more difficult to concentrate as I recall the way they gazed romantically into each other‟s eyes. I feel something I‟m not used to feeling. Jealousy, perhaps? But why? He‟s nothing compared to me, and in real life he‟s a total wuss. A faggot. A cake decorator, for Chrissake. I stand to applaud at the end of the show, and as the actors take center stage during the curtain call, Jena and Charles hold hands and bow. Charles is beaming. I don‟t think I‟ve ever seen him smile like that. He shakes his head slightly to brush the hair from his eyes, and as he does, I‟m reminded of his effeminate mannerisms. This effeminacy has been the single quality I‟ve most hated about him. Until now, though, this side of him has not been apparent on stage. I guess it‟s his acting. He‟s that good, apparently, that he comes across as totally straight. Even in the romantic scene when he had to kiss Jena, I thought for a moment it was real. I chuckle to myself, realizing the irony of the situation. This kid I‟ve been tormenting for so long is now the male lead in a play that stars my girlfriend. He‟s a fag, but he‟s playing opposite her as her love interest. Although the thought of those people—those queers—and what they do with each other is nauseating to me, I guess I‟m relieved it‟s a fag who is up there publicly kissing my girl. I think if it had been someone other than Charles, I really would‟ve been jealous, especially with such a convincing performance. As the lights in the auditorium come up, Jena sees me. She‟s still onstage, and she calls out my name. “David!” She waves excitedly as she quickly rushes offstage and makes her way out into the auditorium. “Thanks so much for coming!” Her costume dress is huge, billowing with petticoats. She seems to glide across the floor as she approaches me. “You were fantastic!” I tell her. “I had no idea….”

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“Oh babe, thanks!” She steps up to me, rising on her tiptoes, and kisses me squarely on the lips. Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her into my embrace. “Careful, you‟ll get my makeup on your face. It‟s like caked on.” “You look awesome… beautiful.” She giggles and steps away from me, looking again into my eyes. “So you liked it?” I nod vigorously. “Yeah, seriously. I was like blown away. Swear to God.” “Well, tomorrow‟s the big night—opening night. I guess I should‟ve just had you wait ‟til then to see the show.” “Nah, this way I can see it twice,” I say. “And I don‟t have practice tomorrow either, so I‟ll see it from the beginning.” “Oh David, you can come to the cast party, then?” Briefly I think about Charles. It‟ll be awkward, to say the least, but how can I say no? “Sure.” I smile as sincerely as possible. “Well, can you wait for me for about ten more minutes? I‟ll get changed and meet you out front.” “Yeah, no problem.” She‟s back to normal, wearing jeans and a tight midi pullover, as we head down to the cyber café. It‟s like the teen hangout, and we‟ve spent quite a bit of time there socializing during the past couple months. It‟s kind of our place, I guess. She looks so natural, having washed off the thick stage makeup. Her hair‟s pulled back in a ponytail. She looks innocent and sweet. Well, I suppose she is innocent and sweet. That‟s what I like most about her. She‟s gushing about the play, talking about the grueling rehearsal schedule, and she‟s ecstatic about her performance tonight. “Ya know, it‟s like this with every play, really. It just

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seems like you‟re never gonna be ready in time, then seemingly at the last second it all comes together.” “You have a great singing voice,” I tell her. “You think so?” She takes a sip of her coke. We‟re in a booth, sitting opposite each other. “Seriously, I think I have an average voice—at best. But Charles—Charles is just incredible. I‟ve never seen anyone so talented. He‟s gonna be famous someday, you watch.” I scowl, though not deliberately. “You don‟t think so?” she asks. “That kid‟s going to Broadway… or American Idol.” I remember how I‟d thought exactly the same thing. “Isn‟t he… um… ya know?” She looks at me puzzled. “What?” She‟s smiling still. I shrug. “I always thought he was… well, a fag, a homo.” Instantly the smile vanishes from her face, and she gets very serious. “David, don‟t use words like that.” It‟s like she‟s scolding a small child. I feel slightly embarrassed, a feeling I‟m not used to. “What?” I say defensively. “Charles probably is gay. I don‟t know, really, and I don‟t care. But don‟t call him names.” I‟m shocked by her words. I can‟t believe she‟d defend him if she actually thought he was a fruit. “So even if he‟s, um, gay, you‟re fine with that? Even though he‟s kissing on you like that?” She laughs in spite of herself, but the look on her face tells me she‟s not amused. “David, it‟s called acting. He kisses me because his character in the play is in love with my character. Like a movie, ya know.” She‟s explaining herself slowly, like I‟m a third grader.

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I‟m a bit annoyed, but only briefly. I back down. “Sorry,” I say. “I dunno. It just bugs me a little, I guess. If you think about where that mouth of his has probably been.” “Don‟t be vulgar,” she says. “I try not to think of where anyone‟s mouth has been… including yours.” I guess I deserved that. Still, I‟m surprised at how defensive she is. “So you like him, then? You like that kid?” “His name is Charles, and I adore him. David, he‟s one of the sweetest souls I‟ve ever known. He really is a caring, sensitive, talented person, and it‟s, like, such an honor to even be on the same stage with him. I just wish… well, I wish you‟d try to open your mind a little.” I sigh as I look her directly in the eye. “Well, he‟s in my gym class. And… um… he‟s just a lot different than what you‟re describing. He‟s kind of annoying, ya know. He doesn‟t participate or anything.” “And that‟s annoying to you?” Her voice is less defensive. It‟s now as if she‟s genuinely trying to figure me out, get my perspective. “Ya know, not everyone is great at sports. Obviously Charles has other talents.” “Like cake decorating,” I mutter. “What?” she says. “He decorates cakes.” “Really?” she asks, sounding cheerful, genuinely interested. “You don‟t find that strange? A kid our age into decorating cakes.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “No, I think it‟s cool, and it doesn‟t surprise me. I bet he‟s really good at it. He‟s very artistic.”

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I want to tell her about the jockstrap but decide it‟s not a great idea. She‟s too defensive. Maybe I should just change the subject. “I worry about him, though,” she says. “I think a lot kids don‟t like him. Lots of them are jealous, and they don‟t understand why he‟s so shy.” “He didn‟t seem shy tonight,” I say. I stuff a mini pretzel in my mouth. “No, well that‟s just it. He‟s not shy when he‟s onstage. You saw him. He‟s amazing. But in school, he is more of a loner. I don‟t wanna see him get picked on. Ya know, it‟d be nice if you‟d look out for him a little. Make sure no one‟s bullying him.” I gulp down the rest of my pretzel before my mouth drops open. “Me?” I ask. “Yeah. Just keep an eye on him. Make sure no one‟s picking on him.” “Does Chuckie even know you‟re goin‟ out with me?” I ask. “Charles,” she corrects me. “He hates being called Chuckie or Chuck, and of course he knows.” I‟m surprised. I can‟t believe he hasn‟t told her how I‟ve tortured him. “And he doesn‟t say anything about me?” “You mean other than how lucky I am to have such a hotlooking, popular jock for a boyfriend?” She smiles. “Please tell me he didn‟t say that!” She starts laughing. “Why? Would it bother you if a gay guy thought you were hot? You should take it as a compliment.” “I thought you said you didn‟t know if he was gay.” “I said it doesn‟t matter if he is or not. Even if he did come out to me, I‟d never betray his confidence without his permission.

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And if he is gay, how could he not notice how hot looking you are? Usually gay guys have even better taste in men than women do.” “That‟s just wrong,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I don‟t want some”—I almost say “fag” again—“some gay guy checkin‟ me out.” I remember the jockstrap. “Oh lighten up.” She laughs, placing her hand atop mine. “He‟s never said anything like that. I swear I‟d have never expected you to be homophobic.” “I‟m not homophobic,” I insist. I pull my hand away from hers and reach for another pretzel. “Hmm,” she says, “seems like you are, kinda.” “Homophobia is when someone‟s afraid of queers, and I‟m not afraid of him… or anyone!” At this point she really does seem to get irritated. “First off,” she says, “they aren‟t queers. And secondly, I think you are afraid of them. You‟re afraid Charles might possibly be attracted to you. What do ya think, he‟s gonna make a move on you or something?” “He‟d better not!” I say defensively. “Not if he values his teeth.” “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “You really are homophobic. Charles isn‟t a predator or something. He‟s not out there like recruiting straight guys, and even if he did have the hots for you, it wouldn‟t make you gay.” “Can we change the subject?” I say. “It‟s cool if you like him, but I just don‟t think he‟s ever gonna be a close friend of mine. We‟re too different.” “I‟m not asking you to be his best friend. Just make sure no one‟s mean to him, okay?” I roll my eyes and look away; then I turn to look at her again. Sighing, I finally concede to her wishes. “All right. Fine. I‟ll watch out for him.”

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“Thank you,” she says, smiling at me as she once again takes my hand.

I GET to the gym early the next morning. My workout partner Tom and I meet three times a week before school. He hasn‟t arrived yet, but it‟s cool. I go to my locker and get myself ready to gear up. Rummaging through my belongings, I discover that my workout shorts are missing. Did I take them home to be washed? I know I didn‟t. I take home all my laundry on Fridays only. Weird. Good thing I have sweats too, but it sucks to have to work out in long pants. Suddenly I remember what happened the other day with the jockstrap. I start digging through my locker, taking inventory, and I notice the shorts aren‟t the only thing that‟s missing. I had at least four jockstraps in here, and one of my jerseys is missing. I think I know what‟s going on. That little queer really is stealing gear. I feel the anger rising as I step over to his locker. I‟m gonna kill that little faggot, I swear. I don‟t care what Jena thinks. As I rip open his locker door, I discover it‟s completely empty. Well, really that‟s not surprising. The gym lockers don‟t have locks, and most guys don‟t keep valuables in them. They just use the lockers to store their stuff during gym class. If I were smart, I‟d do the same, but it seems I practically live here. It‟s not practical for me to tote all my shit back and forth to my hall locker every day. Maybe I‟ll have to just go out and buy my own padlock. I bet the fag has all kinds of jock gear at home. I mean, Jena practically told me that he confessed to having the hots for me. I bet the little faggot goes home every night and jacks off while sniffing my jock. Sick! What makes matters even worse is that he then cozies up to my girlfriend, probably just to get information about me.

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I‟m pissed, and I‟m ready to go track down the little fuckwad. I‟m gonna have a li‟l conversation with him today in gym, and I‟m gonna remind him to keep his hands off my shit… and my girlfriend! I‟m still fuming when Tom walks in. “Hey,” he greets me as he steps up to his locker. I turn to look at him, and he instantly can see I‟m upset. “What‟s up?” he asks. I shake my head. “Nothin‟,” I say. I debate telling him about the fag, but it‟s actually kinda embarrassing. I‟ll deal with it on my own. Tom opens his locker and peels off his pullover. As he‟s changing, I step back to my own locker and finish getting dressed. I turn back around and notice a pair of shorts on the floor in front of Tom‟s locker. They‟re blue, like the ones I‟m missing. I step closer. Quickly he scoops up the shorts and tosses them inside, closing the door. “Hey, is that an extra pair of shorts, dude? Can I borrow them?” He shakes his head, grinning nervously. “Ah, man, those are dirty. Ya don‟t wanna use those.” I shrug. “I don‟t care. I‟m gonna shower when we‟re done anyway.” Tom‟s face is turning beet red. It‟s odd; he‟s acting strange. I step over to the locker and place my hand on the door handle. He presses his palm flat against the locker, preventing me from opening it. “Dude, what‟s up?” I ask. “Let me open the door.” He shakes his head. Why‟s he so nervous? Why‟s he acting like this? “I said, open the fucking door!”

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He‟s now shaking as he steps back. “Please….” His voice is shaky. I open the door and my mouth drops open. I can‟t believe what I see. The locker is crammed full of gear. Shorts, jockstraps, you name it. “What the fuck?” I say. “You‟re the one stealing gear? Dude! Why?” His face is so red that I can literally feel his embarrassment. He‟s visibly trembling. “I‟m sorry.” His voice is but a whisper. “What are you doin‟ with all this stuff? With all this stuff of mine!” “I…I…,” he stammers. “Dude, why would you steal from me? I… I thought we were friends.” “Honest,” he says, “I wasn‟t stealing. Please, you gotta believe me. I was gonna return it all. I mean, um, I always do.” I‟m confused now. “You always do?” I ask. “I just… um… I sort of have this thing for gear, ya know. For jock gear.” “Tom,” I say, stepping back from him, “are you a fag?” His eyes are welling with tears, and he turns away from me, covering his face. “I don‟t know!” he cries. I can‟t believe what I‟m hearing. Tom, my best friend, he‟s a homo? Worse than that, he‟s stealing my gear, and for what purpose? “Man, you better start explaining yourself, or I‟m gonna come un-fucking-glued!” “I‟m sorry!” he says again. “I… I don‟t know why, but yeah, it‟s true. I‟m… I‟m not into chicks. I‟m into guys, and I--”

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“You steal our shit and go home and whack off with it?” I accuse him. “It‟s not like that,” he insists. “Honest. I don‟t know… I just have… um, I guess it‟s a fetish or something.” “You‟re a fag! You‟re a homo, like Chuckie!” “Dave!” he says, practically begging me, “please don‟t tell anyone!” I shake my head disgustedly. “Gimme back my shit!” I demand. “Everything!” Still trembling, he steps back to the locker, pulling out a handful of items. Nervously sorting through them, he hands me each article that belongs to me. Oddly he remembers which are mine, even though there are so many. I grab my stuff, turning away from him. “Find another workout partner!” I say. “And if you so much as take one more fucking item from anyone, the whole fuckin‟ school‟s gonna know about this!” I throw my items back in my locker and quickly get dressed. I then leave the locker room and skip my workout for the day. As I head down the hall toward the exit, I slam my hands hard against the door. It flies open and I‟m startled to see Charles standing in front of me I look at him, surprised, and ask, “What‟re you doin‟ here?” He never shows up at the gym before school because he doesn‟t work out. “Sorry,” he says, and steps aside. I continue to scowl at him. He seems nervous. “I just have to get something outta my locker,” he says. I know he‟s lying because I just looked in his locker, and it was completely empty. I can‟t say that, though, so I just nod.

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Slowly he steps around me and heads down the hallway. I step through the door out into the gymnasium, but then I stop. I wait a few seconds, then sneak back through the door and down the hall. I want to see what Charles is up to. Being very careful not to make any noise, I stand just outside the locker room, remaining in the hall. I peer around the corner and crouch down. Charles is talking, “Tom, did you do it?” Tom has his back to him, facing his locker, and he‟s shaking his head. “No, I tried, but David was already here… and he knows.” “Whatta ya mean, he knows?” Charles asks. “He found all of it. He found all the stuff I took. He saw it in my locker before I could return it.” “Shit!” Charles says, and then sighs. “What‟d he say?” Tom turns to look at him. “Um… well, he was pissed. He said I have to return it all or he‟s gonna tell the school. And he dumped me as his workout partner.” “I‟m sorry,” Charles says. It looks almost like he‟s about to reach out and place his hand on Tom, but he stops himself. “I know you‟ve been friends a long time.” “Since grade school. We‟re best friends, or we were.” “After he gets over being mad, maybe you can try talking to him again. Maybe after he‟s calmed down, he‟ll understand.” “I doubt it,” Tom says, shaking his head. “I don‟t even understand it myself.” “I hope he does.” Charles voice has such compassion. He sounds almost as if he‟s about to cry. “Can I ask you something?” Tom says. Charles nods and smiles.

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“Why didn‟t you tell on me the other day… when David thought you did it?” Charles shrugs. “For one thing, I doubt he‟d have believed me.” He pauses for a moment. “Plus, those guys already hate me. It doesn‟t matter if they think I stole their shit. If I‟d told him you were the one who did it, it might have ruined your friendship.” “Well, I think you should‟ve told, because I managed to ruin our friendship all on my own. Plus now I have to return all this stuff, and once the other guys find out, I‟m dead meat. I‟ll probably be kicked off the team.” Charles is shaking his head. “No, listen to me,” he says. “You‟re not gonna return any of it!” “What? What‟re you talking about? That‟s why I‟m here.” “Take all of it and put it in my locker,” Charles demands. Tom looks at him like he‟s nuts. “Trust me! Just do it. Put it in my locker and I‟ll take the blame. They all think I‟m guilty anyway.” “Charles, don‟t be stupid,” Tom says. “David already knows.” “Well, listen, you can just tell David that you were covering for me. You felt bad for me and you didn‟t want me to get beat up. After you thought about it, though, you realized how wrong it was for me to be stealing.” Tom laughs. I can‟t believe what I‟m hearing. “That‟s crazy, Charles. David would never believe that, and plus I‟d never do that to you. Let‟s just return it all now. We‟ve got time if we hurry, and I know where it all goes.” “You‟re working on a football scholarship, right?” Charles asks, ignoring Tom‟s suggestion. “I hope so.” Tom nods.

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“Well then don‟t blow it! If you get kicked off the team, you‟ll never get your scholarship. But think about it. The worst thing that can happen to me is that I‟ll fail gym, which I‟m probably doing already.” “The guys, they‟ll kill you though.” Charles shakes his head and smiles. “I‟m really good at begging for mercy. I‟ve had a lot of practice. And if you just go and return it now, what‟s to stop David from telling everyone?” He then steps over to Tom‟s locker and opens it, scooping up articles of gear that were stashed. He piles them on the bench behind him and closes the locker door. “If I get caught red-handed, there‟ll be no way you can be accused of it.” Just as he turns to open his own locker, I hear footsteps behind me. It‟s Gomer and Derek. I quickly turn around, trying to act as if I‟m just leaving. I hope they didn‟t see me crouched down. “Hey guys,” I say nonchalantly. “Wassup?” Gomer says. I nod at him without saying anything. They‟re used to seeing me here early. They step past me and into the locker room. I try to think of something to stop them, but it‟s too late. “What the fuck?” They‟ve obviously seen the pile of gear. “David! Man, get in here!”

GOMER has Charles pinned against his locker, and he‟s about to slug him. Gomer‟s hand is fisted and pulled back, ready to strike. Tom‟s standing there staring, as if afraid to move. “Look at this shit!” Gomer shouts. “I caught the little faggot thief red-handed!” Charles is trembling, obviously aware that he‟s about to get his lights knocked out.

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“Don‟t hit him! Please,” Tom says. “He, um, he was returning all of it.” Gomer looks at me, then back at Tom. “Why‟d he have it to begin with?” Charles straightens his posture, squirming a little as Gomer‟s hand presses against his throat. “Let him go. Let him talk,” I say calmly. I step over to them, placing my hand against Gomer‟s chest and easing him back. He relaxes slightly. “You better talk,” I say as I turn to Charles. “I‟m sorry,” he says, his voice practically a whisper, and then he inhales as if to try to bolster his confidence before proceeding. “I can‟t help myself. I… uh… I was just borrowing the, um, the stuff. I was borrowing it and going to return it, but Tom caught me. Then you guys walked in.” “Is that true?” I ask Tom. We both know the truth, but I wanna see what he‟ll say in front of Gomer and Derek. Tom‟s face is red, and he looks down at Charles for a few seconds. Then he nods silently. Tom must be terrified. He knows I can rat him out right here and tell the guys I found the shit in his locker earlier. “Actually,” Charles says, “Tom found it all yesterday when he looked into my locker. He took it from me and put it in his own locker, and told me to be here early this morning to return it all before anyone else got here.” He‟s talking fast, like a magpie. He‟s trying to offer an excuse as to why the clothes were in Tom‟s locker earlier this morning. He doesn‟t know that Tom already confessed to me, and he doesn‟t know I overheard their conversation moments earlier. “You‟re disgusting!” Gomer shouts. “You fucking faggot!” “Gomer,” I say calmly, “is any of this shit yours?” “Yeah, a bunch of it!”

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“Take what‟s yours, and then go hit the gym. Channel your anger into your workout.” He stares at me, shocked. “But he‟s a thief!” “You got your shit back. No harm done. Take it and shut up!” I stare him right in the eye. “Are you on crack?” he says. “Do it!” Gomer backs down, and Derek quickly follows. They‟re gone within seconds, storming back out to the gym. I turn to Tom, looking him right in the eye. “Return the rest of it to where it belongs,” I say. Tom quickly complies, scurrying around and depositing the articles in different lockers. As he does, I place my palm behind Charles‟s neck and say, “Come on.” I push him toward to hall, and we walk out together. It‟s a long walk down the hall, and I keep my hand firmly on Charles‟s shoulder, walking right behind him. He‟s not sure which direction to go once we‟re in the gymnasium, and I nod in toward the bleachers. Without a word, we walk over together, and I sit down, motioning for him to do the same. I look away for a moment, watching Gomer and Derek over at the other side of the gym as they start their sets. Shaking my head, finally I sigh, and then I turn my attention back to Charles. “Why? Why‟d you lie to protect him?” Charles stares up at me, probably wondering why I haven‟t called him any names or threatened him with violence. He doesn‟t seem scared though. In fact, he‟s very calm, and for once he seems confident. He‟s almost like he was the night before on stage. “Tom is the only person in the school who ever understood me,” Charles says. His voice is steady. “He came to me for help, or really I think it was more like for support. He told me about himself, who he really was.”

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“Gay?” I ask. Charles nods. “He‟s not a bad person. He shouldn‟t have taken your shorts, and, um, all the other stuff. I‟m not making any excuses for that. But ya know what? I think he just didn‟t know what to do. He found himself in this situation where he was surrounded by all these jocks. He had feelings, fantasies, ya know. He… well, he just wasn‟t thinking rationally. “It‟s hard sometimes. It‟s hard when there is no one to talk to. It‟s not like he could ask someone out, go on a date, or even tell anyone who he really was. He saw the way you were. You hate gay people. You call them names, beat them up. He knew you‟d hate him too if you knew the truth.” “I hate that he‟s a thief,” I admit. Charles shrugs. “Well, there‟s that, but really he wasn‟t lying when he said he‟d return the stuff. To begin with, it was just an item here or there. Eventually it got out of hand… or, well, ya know what I mean.” He laughs in spite of himself, realizing the unintentional pun. I laugh myself. I can‟t help it. “It‟s kinda twisted,” I confess, still laughing. “I know!” Charles says as he cracks up. We both are laughing now, nearly hysterically. Finally he gets serious again. “So your best friend is a weirdo. He likes to sniff jockstraps. It could be worse. He could be one of those dudes who has a foot fetish. Then he‟d wanna smell your rank feet.” “You can‟t be serious?” I say. Charles is laughing again. “I‟m just sayin‟….” “Dude, are there really guys who are into that? Smelling each other‟s feet?”

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“I dunno,” he says. “People are into all kinds of crazy fetishes. To each his own, I guess.” We‟re now smiling at each other, and I can‟t believe I‟m actually sitting here laughing with this kid, and we‟re laughing about… well, what would you call it? Gay sexual fetishes? “Charles,” I say, “that was pretty brave of you, the way you took the blame for him. I… well, I think I wasn‟t really fair to you. You‟re not so much of a wimp after all.” He smiles at me. It‟s that same toothy grin I saw the night before during his curtain call. And then he shakes his head just slightly, brushing his hair from his eyes. His mannerisms don‟t bother me so much this time though. They don‟t bother me at all, actually. “That‟s the first time you‟ve ever called me Charles,” he says. “Well, what should we do about Tom?” He thinks for a minute and then suddenly his eyes light up. “Why don‟t you ask him if he‟d be interested in doing your laundry?” I stare at him for a moment, shocked by the suggestion. Charles cracks up, and I realize he‟s teasing. I slug him affectionately, and he laughs even harder. The kid‟s practically crying from laughing so hard. As we walk back to the locker room together, I drape my arm around his shoulder and smile.

THE play is even better the second time, and Charles‟s performance is utterly perfect. The standing ovation during the curtain call goes on for nearly fifteen minutes, and afterward I meet with Jena and we head over to the opening night party.

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As we walk through the door, the first thing we notice is this enormous three-tiered cake. It‟s unbelievable, like something you‟d see at a wedding reception. We step over to the table to observe the waterfall. “This thing must‟ve cost a fortune,” I say. “It was donated,” a voice behind us announces. We turn to see Charles in his three-piece suit. “You like?” “Did you make this, Charles?” Jena asks. He nods proudly. “It‟s amazing,” I confess. “You‟re really talented. And, um, your performance….” I‟m at a loss for words. “Your performance tonight was spectacular,” Jena finishes for me. I nod. “Yeah, that‟s what I meant.” “Thanks, guys,” he says. “Now which one of you is gonna ask me to dance?” I look over at Jena, terrified, and realize I may have come a long way, but not that far. She and Charles exchange a knowing look and both crack up. Jena then takes Charles by the hand and leads him to the dance floor as I have a piece of the most delicious cake I‟ve ever tasted.

50

JEFF ERNO Saved

THE thing that people don‟t realize about families like mine is that our very lifestyle is so foreign and isolated—separate from mainstream society—that it is almost like living in a parallel universe. Of course there are plenty of people out there who were raised in what we‟d call a “normal” secular household, and then later in life converted to fundamentalist Christianity. They‟ve experienced both sides. They‟ve lived “in the world” before having had their conversion, their “salvation” experience. I‟m not one of those people, though. For me, I was raised immersed in Christian fundamentalist traditions. I learned how to pray around the same time I learned to talk. All my bedtime stories were Bible stories rather than nursery rhymes. I learned to sing in Sunday school, and I never ate a single bite of food without having first prayed a prayer of thanks for receiving it. Although I was “saved” when I was but five years old, I really hadn‟t done anything horrible enough yet to warrant the need for salvation. There wasn‟t anything for me to repent from,

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and when I was baptized at the age of twelve, I was fully aware that the practice of this sacrament was merely an “outward profession of an inward faith.” I began taking Communion around the time of my baptism. I was old enough to understand it. I knew why we broke the bread and sipped the “wine” (aka grape juice). It was not to satisfy physical hunger. It was not something to be proud of. It was an act of humility. An honor. Most importantly, though, it was not a matter of transubstantiation. We certainly were not cannibals. We understood it was a symbolic gesture and that the wine and bread did not literally become the blood and body of Christ as we consumed it. And the cornerstone of our faith was, and is, our belief in the Holy Bible. We accept it as the verbal, plenary, inspired word of God. Quite literally we believe that God “breathed” every word. It is a lamp unto our feet and a light unto our path, and it is profitable for a whole list of really important things like training, rebuking, and teaching2, etc. etc. The doctrines of our faith are all based upon the presupposition that all truth begins and ends in the scriptures. More specifically, though, it is not merely a matter of reading the Bible and applying it to our lives, it is also important that extra care and attention be given in order to ensure that we interpret the passages correctly. Hundreds of religions claim to believe in the Bible, yet they each offer different interpretations. They each have a variation of faith. This is why it is so critical that we open our hearts to the guidance of God‟s Holy Spirit when reading and studying His word. Of course we all know that the Holy Spirit is in fact God. God is tripartite, consisting of three distinct identities who collectively are one. We refer to this as the “Trinity,” and we base our belief in this triplicate Godhead upon verses we have read in the Bible. The word “trinity” does not appear in scripture, though, 2

2 Tim. 3:16

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yet we know of its existence by the scriptural evidence that we are able to piece together. We also have scriptural support for the virgin birth, the visible and literal resurrection of Jesus Christ, the second coming, and of course the real and literal existence of an eternal torture chamber we call Hell. Although we are proud to proclaim that love and forgiveness are the cornerstones of our faith, we are also well aware that Hell is talked about far more frequently in scripture than is Heaven. Hell is horrific and nearly incomprehensible due to the fact that it is everlasting and merciless, yet it is an absolute necessity. Without Hell, there would be no need for salvation. Without salvation, we have no faith. All of these tenets of faith were the foundation of my upbringing. They were not ever unusual to me. Talking about Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, salvation and baptism— these were normal day-to-day conversations. Our vernacular included such words as “sanctification,” “eternal security,” “justification by faith,” and “redemption.” I knew all of these things by the time I was in the fifth grade. So did my siblings. I‟m the oldest, and I have two sisters and a brother. Our parents refer to each of us as a “gift from God,” although I‟ve often wished my eldest sister had come with a return receipt. My parents named me Jonathan, and of course the logical choice of name for my brother had to be David. Jonathan and David are best friends in the Bible. Our sisters are also named accordingly. Rachel is a year younger than me, the eldest girl. Sarah is fourteen months her junior. David‟s the baby of the family, born exactly four years and six days after me. It sucks having a sibling with a birthday so close to my own. Every year we have a combined celebration. One cake. One party. And of course, we each only receive one gift. But generally speaking, I never resented my baby brother. I was taught to be his role model and protector. He idolized me, in fact, and as I matured and eventually started high school, it was always with pride and admiration that he strove to emulate me. In many ways we

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developed a relationship like the biblical Jonathan and David, for we always were very close, and we still are. None of the Thompson kids ever attended a public school. Until we were in the fourth grade, we were home schooled. After that, we were enrolled in our local Christian academy. By the time I stepped foot inside of a school classroom, I already knew how to read, perform advanced math, recite the periodic table of elements, and quote most of the New Testament. I was also very well trained socially. I knew about authority, and I was respectful and obedient. I feared punishment not only from my teachers but also my father. Were I to fail somehow in school, I knew I‟d also be punished at home, and likely it would be in the form of a leather strop across my backside. I became an overachiever, but oddly, I had no concept of what overachieving even was. To me, it was normal to do well at every endeavor. A B wasn‟t good enough. Second place was failure. There was no task I did half-heartedly because I knew that anything worth doing was worth doing well. That‟s just how we were raised. All four of us were similar in this regard, but perhaps things were a bit more intense for me. I think it is because I‟m the oldest. Like I said, I was the leader, the role model for the others. I had an added responsibility. In many ways, my being first at everything paved the way for my younger siblings, especially David. All I‟ve talked about in terms of my spiritual upbringing has thus far related to beliefs. Doctrine. It‟s hard to put into words exactly how these beliefs translate into lifestyle, though. I guess if I had to come up with a single word to describe the way that we lived, it‟d be “absolute.” Every decision that was made in our household (generally by our father) was a matter of moral absolutes. It was never about situational ethics but simply about what was right and what was wrong. Drinking alcohol, for example, was absolutely wrong. Dancing was wrong. Rock music. R-rated movies. Gambling.

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Cigarette smoking. Interracial dating and marriage. Abortion. Homosexuality. I‟d never heard the word “tolerance” used in a positive context until I was perhaps sixteen years old. There really was no need to tolerate anything. When everything is black or white, right or wrong, then there are only two ways to judge any behavior. It was either good or evil. The things that I was taught were good included all things righteous. These were our family values. Respect for authority, obedience, compassion, forgiveness, kindness to others—these were righteous. We believed in the Golden Rule. We treated others as we would prefer to be treated ourselves, as per the directive of Jesus Christ. Evil things were sin. Sin is defined as “missing the mark,” and it includes anything that is less than perfect in the eyes of God. Pride is a sin. Envy, bitterness, and intentional malice are all forms of evil. Lust is also a sin, and it includes any type of sexual expression or proclivity that is outside the boundaries of a traditional marriage. God does not tolerate sin, and so of course, neither did I. When I was in the seventh grade, I experienced something that was entirely new to me. Other than sleeping over at the home of extended family such as my grandparents or cousins, I‟d never spent a night away from home. When my school chum Curtis invited me to his house for a Friday night sleepover, I was pretty darn excited. It was quite the big deal to both me and my parents. My mom called Curtis‟s mom. Of course Curtis‟s family attended our church, and thus after it was finally decided that the Chapman household was a safe, wholesome Christian environment, I was allowed to experience my first night away from my family. It was shocking to me, really, to discover how drastically different Curtis‟s family was from my own. Although his parents professed to be Christians and to believe the exact same doctrines and principles of faith that my parents did, they did not live the

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same way. When we sat down at the dinner table that evening, Mr. Chapman began eating without even praying first. When Curtis and I went to the refrigerator to get ourselves a soda, I noticed a box of beer on one of the shelves. Other than in the supermarket, I‟d never before even seen a twelve-pack. At our house, we had one television, and it was in the living room. There were very specific programs we were allowed to watch. Even on Saturday mornings, we only were allowed to watch thirty minutes of cartoons, and usually I let my younger brother and sisters choose which one they wanted simply because I was supposed to be the older, more mature one. At the Chapman home, they had several televisions. Curtis even had his own TV in his bedroom, and he was allowed to watch anything he wanted, whenever he wanted. That night we watched several programs I did not even know existed. One of them was a sitcom called Will and Grace. Curtis thought the show was hilarious. He was laughing all the way through, but I was kind of bored. I didn‟t really understand what was so funny. His favorite characters were not Will and Grace, though, but instead Karen and Jack. I had to admit, they were sort of funny in a silly kinda way, but it seemed really strange to me that Jack acted so weird. I told Curtis that Jack was kind of girly. “Yeah, he‟s gay.” “What do ya mean?” I said. “Like he‟s one of those homosexuals?” Curtis started laughing. “You sound like Pastor Nelson.” “Well, that‟s what they are,” I said. “Perverts.” Curtis shrugged. “Well, I think Jack‟s funny. It‟s just a TV show.”

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I thought about it for a second and then smiled. “Yeah,” I agreed. “He is kinda funny.” The show only lasted a half hour, and then Curtis changed the channel. We were lying on his bed next to each other. We started watching Wheel of Fortune. I wasn‟t too interested, though, because it was one of the few programs we were allowed to watch at home, and I asked Curtis if we could watch something else. “Sure,” he said, and handed me the remote. “Thanks,” I said, smiling broadly. I felt like a little kid in a candy store. Having absolute control of a television remote was a luxury I‟d never before been afforded. We stayed up really late that night and finally fell asleep after two o‟clock, still curled up on the bed in front of the TV. Curtis had one big double bed, and we slept together. It surprised me around four in the morning when I awakened and found Curtis snuggled up next to me. His arm was draped over my waist, but I didn‟t really think anything of it. David used to sleep with me sometimes, especially when he was scared or had had a bad dream, and then he‟d want to snuggle like that. When we got up that morning, we had cereal for breakfast and of course ate it in front of the television. This time we were in the living room, watching cartoons on the big screen. I was still wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, and Curtis just had on boxer shorts and a tank top. Curtis was smaller than me and very skinny. He had big brown eyes and chestnut-colored hair, which he parted in the middle. As we sat there watching cartoons, he repeatedly burst into uproarious laughter, and as he did so, his entire body shook. He was one of those laughers who could get a whole room laughing. His enthusiasm was infectious. After watching two hours of cartoons, we played video games. We finally decided to get dressed around noon and walked down to the park to shoot hoops. It was my turn to laugh my butt

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off, because Curtis was not much of B-ball player. He sucked, to be honest, and I teased him mercilessly. It didn‟t matter, though. We were having fun. When I went home that evening I had to give a full report of my weekend with Curtis, and for some reason I didn‟t feel it important to mention the beer in the fridge or the unlimited access to television. Most importantly, though, I didn‟t mention how Curtis and I had slept in the same bed and snuggled together. Curtis remained my friend for the rest of the school year, and that summer we spent a lot of time together. Our favorite activity was swimming, but it really didn‟t matter what we were doing. We really just enjoyed spending time together. In many ways, Curtis provided me with a window to the outside world. When I went over to his house, we listened to rock music. We watched R-rated movies on the VCR. We played Nintendo for hours. When the grown-ups weren‟t around, Curtis would sometimes use swear words. The first time he said “fuck,” I was a little shocked. I tried not to act surprised, though. That would have been so un-cool. Before long, I was brave enough to use some colorful language of my own. There were times when Curtis came over to my house, and he even spent the night on a couple occasions. It wasn‟t the same, though, because we didn‟t have the freedom we had at his home. Plus, my brother was always hanging around, and even though I liked David, nobody in junior high wants a baby-brother tagalong. Throughout junior high, Curtis and I were best friends, until suddenly things began to change. It all started on the first day of high school.

KINDERGARTEN through eighth grade in our Christian school were housed in one facility. High school was in a separate building

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at a different location. Although the number of students attending our school was miniscule compared to public, our class schedules and the activity structure probably very much resembled what you‟d expect to find in any other school. We had hall lockers, and we changed classes. It was just that class sizes were smaller. You saw a lot of the same kids in all your classes, and of course we were not afforded as many choices when it came to elective courses. One major difference between Christian high school and public school was that a required class for all four years of high school was Biblical Studies. One thing I was especially excited about was that North Central Christian High School had a basketball team. Clear back in sixth grade I had begun talking to Dad about being allowed to play basketball after I became a freshman. He was very cautious about extracurricular activities, but he didn‟t really discourage me. He said we‟d see how my grades were. Well, my grades were perfect, as always, and so I hoped this meant I‟d be able to join the team. A couple weeks before school started, I was hanging out with Curtis, and I mentioned to him that I was going to try out. I asked him if he thought he‟d do so as well. Curtis shook his head. “Dude, you‟ve seen me with a basketball. You can‟t be serious.” I laughed. “Well, if you join the team, you‟ll probably get better. It‟s not a big school, and I‟m sure they can use all the players they can get.” “I dunno. I‟m really busy with piano practice already, and if I join a sport I‟ll have to be at practice every night.” “So?” I said. “We‟ll both be there.” “Plus I‟m gonna be taking band,” he said. “What other classes do you have?” I asked. As he named off his upcoming schedule, we realized we were in two of the same classes. One of them was gym.

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“I wish I didn‟t even have to take gym,” Curtis confessed. Over the course of the previous two years, I‟d bulked up quite a bit. My upper body had developed, and I had grown quite a bit taller. Curtis had grown a bit himself but was puny compared to me. He was still skinny and gangly, and his biceps were nonexistent. I suspected that he felt awkward in gym, especially when he compared himself to other guys, guys like me. On the other hand, I felt he would probably benefit quite a bit from some physical activity. When it came to sports, Curtis‟s problem was that he just lacked confidence, and of course, he needed practice. There were quite a few new faces in our school that year. Lots of parents end up pulling their kids from the public school in high school and sending them to the parochial Christian academy for various reasons. They often do this in high school to shelter their kids from the influences of drugs or gangs. Many of these kids aren‟t even necessarily from Christian homes. The result is that the Christian kids like me who‟ve been in the system all our lives end up suddenly getting a lot of exposure to some diverse things. It‟s culture shock for the new kids who are coming in because they aren‟t used to the strict rules, the dress code, and the religious environment. On my first day, I met a couple of these new kids, Chad and Mark, and we quickly became friends. All three of us were in the same homeroom and also shared second and third hour. The first day was pretty relaxed, and we got to spend some time talking. I was excited to hear that both of them were interested in trying out for the basketball team. Chad had sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes. He had a developing athletic build. He was the cockier of the two, but he didn‟t seem mean. I guess you could say he was just a guy with a lot of confidence. Chad had been in quite a bit of trouble in the public school, so his mom had given him a choice of going to Christian academy or military school. It was a no-brainer.

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Mark was shorter than Chad and stockier. He had dark hair, which he wore in a crew cut. His story was entirely different than Chad‟s. Mark did come from a Christian home, and he‟d attended a Christian grade school elsewhere. His family had just moved to our city, though. Mark was obviously a jock, and he seemed pretty sure of himself. He was quiet, though, compared to Chad. By the time third hour rolled around, which was gym, the three of us were pretty much mainly hanging together. When we walked into the gymnasium as a threesome, I quickly spotted Curtis, who was sitting over on the bleachers. As he looked up to see me, he smiled broadly and waved. I held my hand up, acknowledging him, but felt something really strange. It was a feeling I‟d never had before. Embarrassment? It just was weird the way he did it, and when he moved his hand back and forth, it seemed kind of sissified. For a brief moment I was concerned that my new friends may have noticed, but it didn‟t seem to faze them. As we headed over to the bleachers, I saw Curtis looking up at me expectantly. Obviously he thought I was going to join him, but the guys headed up the bleachers to sit toward the top. I pretended not to notice Curtis staring at me and simply followed my new friends. Our teacher, Mr. Felton, was a young coach, perhaps in his midtwenties. He was fit and tall, and he had a very deep, commanding voice. I‟ve got to admit, he was a little intimidating. He had us all line up as if in formation on the gym floor, and then proceeded to question us individually. I guess it was his way of taking roll on the first day. When he got to Curtis, he yelled at him to speak up. I could tell how nervous the kid was, and his voice sounded shaky, as if he were afraid or something. “What school did you come from?” Mr. Felton barked. “Um, uh, NCCA… I mean, the other one. The, um, grade school.” “NCCA Elementary!” the coach corrected him.

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“Um, yes, sir.” Chad was standing next to me, and I heard him snicker. “What a fag,” he said quietly. Apparently Mark heard him, because he chuckled as well. I felt such an odd combination of feelings at that point. I kind of felt bad for Curtis, especially because I knew he was nervous about gym to begin with. He had also always been on the sensitive side. But then again, I was a little bit afraid. Obviously Curtis‟s behavior and mannerisms were becoming very noticeable. We weren‟t little kids any more, and he should be making an effort to be more of a man. It scared me to think that his girly voice would reflect badly on me, especially to my new friends. If they found out that Curtis was my best friend, they might think I was funny like that myself. As I stood there watching him and seeing his face turn beet red, memories flashed through my mind. I remembered how he loved Will and Grace, especially the character Jack. That just wasn‟t normal. Jack was such a pansy, and it seemed like Curtis was starting to become one himself. Actually, Curtis had always been that way, but oddly I didn‟t notice it. Maybe it was because we were younger and I didn‟t have a lot of friends. It didn‟t matter so much if a grade-school friend acted a little bit girlish. I guess a lot of kids that age do. A lot of times it is simply a matter of immaturity. I was starting to have second thoughts about Curtis. I was feeling very uneasy. We had lunch after gym class, and I knew Curtis would expect me to sit with him. It would be very awkward, though, because Mark and Chad had laughed at Curtis. What‟d they think if they saw me sitting with him? There was no rule that said I had to sit with the same person every day at lunch. I mean, really, what right did Curtis have to assume such a thing? I could sit wherever I wanted and with whomever I wanted. Just because we‟d been friends awhile didn‟t mean that I couldn‟t have other friends too.

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There was this little voice in my head that was telling me I should remember the golden rule, but then it was so easy to rationalize my decision not to sit with Curtis. He didn‟t own me. He wasn‟t my only friend, and if he knew what was good for him, he‟d go out and try to make some new friends of his own. He really needed to work on manning up a bit, and I probably was actually doing him a favor by ignoring him when we walked into the lunchroom. New Testament Survey was my fourth hour class, and it was one of the classes I shared with Curtis. At least Mark and Chad were not in that one. As I walked through the door, I quickly scanned the room, looking for my friend. As I should have expected, he was sitting in the front row. I sighed, knowing I could ignore him no longer, and walked over to take a seat next to him. He looked up at me and smiled sheepishly. “Hey,” he said. “You‟re not mad at me, are you?” I shook my head. “No, why? Should I be?” “Um… well, no, I hope not. I thought we were gonna sit together at lunch.” “Oh, sorry,” I lied. “I didn‟t see you.” He smiled at me again. “What‟d ya think of that gym teacher?” he asked. I shrugged. “He‟s all right.” “Oh… well, I don‟t know bout him. He seems kind of stern or something.” I shook my head. “Don‟t worry about it. He‟s just being strict on the first day. Some teachers are like that. They gotta show that they‟re boss.” “Yeah,” he agreed. “Who are your friends?” “Um, what do ya mean?”

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“Those two guys you had lunch with. You were with them in gym too.” I wonder why he’s drilling me with these questions. Sometimes Curtis can be so annoying. “No one,” I responded. “Just a couple guys I met. Chad and Mark.” “Oh… cool.” After that first day of school, I didn‟t often sit by Curtis in class. I avoided him in gym and at lunch. Initially it was something that I felt kind of guilty about, but after awhile, I didn‟t think about it much. Curtis was always alone, never really seeming to socialize with anyone, but I was too busy with my new friends to care. Halfway through the semester, basketball practice started, and I was excited that both Chad and Mark had joined the team. My assumption that the team would be small proved correct, but that actually ended up working to my advantage. Not to brag or anything, but I became kind of the star player on the team. I guess that was good and bad at the same time. I liked the feeling it gave me, knowing how important I was to the success of the team. The thing that sucked, though, was that as a whole our team just wasn‟t that good. I was relieved that Curtis had not taken my advice about trying out for the team. He would have only added to our weakness. I was surprised one Saturday in November when my mom answered the phone. “Jonathan, you have a phone call,” she said. “Hello.” “Jon, it‟s Curtis.” “Hey,” I said, a bit offhandedly. I wondered why he‟d be calling me all of a sudden like this. “Um, ya know I was thinking how we used to be such good friends.” He laughed nervously, but when I didn‟t respond, he

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stumbled forward with his remarks. “Well, I wanna let ya know that I kind of miss that. I wanted to see if, um, if you wanna come over or something. Maybe hang out, like before.” I rolled my eyes, knowing he could not see me through the phone, but he probably could easily pick up on my annoyance by the tone of my voice. “Curtis, I‟ve been busy. I‟m on the basketball team now, ya know.” He paused a second. “Yeah, I know. Do you like it? I bet you‟re the star of the team.” The way he was gushing, heaping such flattery on me, didn‟t impress me. It wasn‟t gonna work. “I like it just fine, but listen, I have a ton of homework this weekend.” “Well, if you want, we can study together.” “Nah, it‟s not for Bible class. It‟s my other classes, and most of it is reading.” “Oh, okay.” He sighed. “I have a big piano recital coming up,” he said. “That‟s nice. Hey, I gotta go, okay? I‟ll see ya in school.” “Oh, okay, sorry. Good luck on the team—” I hung up the receiver before he finished his sentence. I turned to see my mom standing there looking at me. “What was that about?” she asked. “It was Curtis. He wanted to hang out or something.” “Oh,” she said, “but you have a lot of homework?” “Yeah,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed, knowing I‟d been caught in a lie. “Well, I guess you better get busy, then, young man.”

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I looked down at the ground, unable to look her in the eye. Mom had a way of instinctively knowing things, and I suspected she sensed something was different. “Yes, ma‟am,” I said. “I thought Curtis was your best friend,” she said. I shrugged. “Well, not really anymore.” She placed her hand on my shoulder, signaling me to look into her eyes. “Why?” she asked. In spite of myself, I sighed and shook my head. “Mom, he‟s just so… I don‟t know. He‟s, like, turned into this real dork, and he always just acts so… I don‟t know how to say it. He acts too needy or something. Plus, he‟s kind of a pansy.” She stood there for a moment. The look on her face was one of sadness and disappointment, and suddenly I felt about two inches tall even though I was about a foot taller than her. “He sounds like someone who could use a friend,” she said. “Maybe,” I said. “But why doesn‟t he find another friend? Someone… ya know… someone more like him?” “Someone not so cool? Someone who‟s not a big star of the basketball team?” “Mom, that‟s not what I mean. You know I‟m not like that.” “Honey, I thought I knew that. Why don‟t you go do your homework?” I scowled and gritted my teeth. “Yes, ma‟am,” I muttered.

THAT following Tuesday, Mr. Felton had us count off into two teams for a volleyball match. As it turned out, Mark and I ended up on the same team. Chad, of course, was on the opposite, and so

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was Curtis. It was no surprise to see that Curtis was relegated to the back row, as far from the net as possible. Being that it was an all-male class, the competition got pretty heated as the testosterone started to flow. Apparently Mr. Felton was comfortable letting us blow off a little steam, and he said nothing as we became more aggressive and began a series of powerful spikes that were followed up by some “Take that!” and “In your face!” type comments. The more heated the match became, the more Curtis seemed to retreat. Clearly he was doing everything he could to avoid any action. When the ball finally made its way into his space, he pathetically fumbled, missing the ball altogether. His teammates were not happy, and the most vocal of them was Chad. “You suck!” he said, loud enough that we all could hear but not obvious enough that Felton noticed. I saw Curtis‟s face redden as he backed up against the foul line. He reached up and covered his mouth with his trembling hands, and as he did so, I couldn‟t help but see how effeminate his mannerisms had become. When he removed his hands, he was breathing deeply, and I suspected he was on the verge of tears. Before he had time to fully recover, though, the ball came sailing back over the net, right toward him. Without warning, Chad made a dash in his direction and body-slammed him hard, knocking him out of the way and smacking the ball back over the net. Curtis stumbled and fell backward, landing on his behind. Everyone started laughing, even his teammates. I was laughing myself, and as I glanced over at Mark, I knew we were on the same page. He definitely saw the same thing I did. He obviously knew that Curtis was weak. He was embarrassingly girlish, and it was comical to see him reminded that it was high time he started manning up. I turned back to look at Curtis, who at that very moment glanced up and made eye contact. He saw the big grin on my face, heard my mocking laughter, and in that split second, my expression sobered. As I locked eyes with him, I

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wondered if he sensed my thoughts. I wondered if he realized just how disgusted I was by him. Our team won the match handily, and afterward, when we were changing in the locker room, Chad didn‟t hold back in responding to our gloating. “We smoked you!” Mark taunted. “Well, if we had players who weren‟t faggots, maybe it would be a fair match!” he snapped. He turned and looked directly at Curtis, who was by himself in the far corner of the locker room. “Quit making excuses, dude,” Mark replied. “Just cause you have a sissy boy on your team doesn‟t explain why the rest of you totally sucked.” Mark and a half dozen other guys then busted up laughing. “Bite me!” Chad said. “Next time you guys get the fag!” “Nah,” Mark retorted. “I think he really likes you. He belongs with you. You‟re on the same team, if ya know what I mean.” Suddenly Chad got really serious and stepped toward Mark. “Say shit like that again and I‟ll bust your face, asshole!” The room instantly became deafeningly silent, and I looked around to make sure the coach was nowhere nearby. I stepped toward them, placing myself between them. “Chad, he was just kidding,” I said. “Yeah, man. Chill.” “I‟m not a fag!” Chad shouted. “And if you ever compare me to that fruit again—” “Dude! I was kidding! Man, would ya take a pill? I can‟t believe you thought I was serious. I know you‟re no fudge packer.”

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WE‟D just finished studying the Gospels and the book of Acts in our New Testament Survey class. Reverend Davis, our instructor, walked over to my desk and dropped a stack of test papers in front of me, telling me to pass them out. As I did so, I came to Curtis‟s test and noticed the big red A+ written across the top. I‟d done well on the test also, missing only two questions, which was still an A. “Open your Bibles,” Davis said, “to the book of Romans, chapter one.” After the locker room incident, I didn‟t even see Curtis at lunch. He was thumbing through his Bible, finding Romans, when I dropped the test in front of him. He glanced up at me but said nothing, and I moved on. Davis selected a student to begin reading the passage aloud. It was a girl named Kyra, and she was on verse ten by the time I‟d finished passing back the tests and returning to my seat. The book of Romans was written by the Apostle Paul, and it was a letter to the early Christians in Rome. The opening chapter begins as a salutation, and then Paul praises the Roman church for their faithfulness in preaching the Gospel. When Kyra got to verse seventeen, Davis stopped her and called upon Curtis. “Mr. Chapman, continue reading, beginning at verse eighteen.” Curtis took a deep breath and began to read. Reverend Davis interrupted him and instructed him to speak up, so Curtis began to read louder. His voice was shaky, and I wondered if he was perhaps still unnerved by the humiliation he‟d endured. Paul has concluded with the niceties of his salutation and has moved on to talk about the sinfulness of the non-believers. Specifically, he addresses idolatry and the sexual practices that are associated with it. Curtis paused before continuing on into verse twenty-six.

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“„Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error.‟” After Curtis finished reading the passage, Davis stepped over behind his lectern, peering over the top of his spectacles. “Anyone want to take a stab at this? What is the Apostle Paul talking about in this passage?” Davis looked directly at Curtis. Curtis gulped, then squirmed a bit in his seat. “Sir,” Curtis said meekly, “I think Paul is talking about idolatry.” “And the depravity which resulted from this godless form of worship,” Davis added. “Paul is specifically addressing the sin of homosexuality. Men burning with lust for other men. Women exchanging the natural for the unnatural. Paul calls these acts shameful and deserving of due punishment. What do we know this punishment to be? Anyone?” I raised my hand. “Mr. Thompson?” “Hell,” I said. “Yes. The punishment for homosexuality is hellfire. Eternal hellfire.” End of discussion. Davis moved on, calling on another student to continue reading. I glanced over at Curtis and noticed how red his face was. Maybe it was true. Maybe he really was a fag.

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THE locker room incident was only the beginning. Things didn‟t get any better for Curtis in the days and weeks that followed. As we got into the basketball season, I started to become more involved with Mark. We related to each other, having shared a similar background. His family was a lot like mine, and he was like me in that he‟d been a lifelong fundamentalist Christian. Mark seemed to detest Curtis a little more every day, and there was hardly a day that passed where he didn‟t make some sort of remark. He often ridiculed Curtis to his face or, as he‟d done that day in the locker room, while Curtis was listening. He‟d talk about him as if he weren‟t there while knowing the entire time that Curtis could hear every word. As mean as Mark was, Chad was worse. He not only verbally tormented Curtis, but he was also physically abusive. He‟d push Curtis into the wall, trip him, or just come right out and punch him. Chad was careful not to do anything like that in front of any teachers, but pretty much all the students could see what was happening. Nobody really cared, though. We all knew Curtis deserved it. We all knew what he was. There were times when I did feel sorry for Curtis. I even thought that perhaps he couldn‟t help the way he was. Maybe it was just the way some people were. Some guys were less masculine than others, sort of the same way some people were left handed while the majority were righties. But then when I thought about it, I realized that Curtis was bringing all of this on himself. He didn‟t have to act like such a wuss all the time. He could at least try to show a little backbone. He could put forth some effort in gym class. He could quit gesturing his hands like a girl and try not to talk with such a sissy voice. I guess you could argue the fact that his girlishness did not automatically mean he was a faggot. After all, nobody had any actual evidence that he liked to do disgusting sexual things with other guys like the Apostle Paul talked about in Romans. But if

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that were the case, then why hadn‟t Curtis at least denied it? When Chad said he was a faggot, Curtis never even corrected him. He never even spoke a word of denial. I know if it had been me, if someone had publicly said those things about me, I‟d have stood up to them. I‟d have bashed his face in. I also knew from my history with Curtis that he was probably queer. I‟d always thought it was weird that he had all those posters of teenage male movie stars and singers up in his bedroom. Why would you put up a picture of a guy in your room unless you liked guys? He should have had pictures of women. Why would he like that disgusting Will and Grace TV show? Why would he cuddle up next to me when we were sleeping? Remembering that was the worst. It made me sick to think that he was like that, that he‟d done that to me. I felt so violated! So even when I did have my doubts about how he was being treated, it was fairly easy for me to rationalize why I did nothing to defend Curtis. He had made his own bed, so to speak, and now he had to learn to lie in it.

OUR family had never been rich, not by a long shot. Dad worked as an electrician and made a fairly decent annual salary, but having four kids to support meant that we had to be very frugal when it came to money. Mom didn‟t work outside the home. She did our homeschooling when we were young and was basically a traditional housewife. Christmases in our household were modest. We never were overlooked or neglected, and there always were gifts under the tree for each of us kids, but we knew we wouldn‟t have a Christmas like many of our friends. There would never be huge presents— computers, game systems, expensive clothes. Usually we each got one fairly decent gift and a few small things.

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What I really wanted that year was a new pair of basketball shoes, but I honestly had little hope that I‟d get them. The pair of Nikes that I had my eye on were over a hundred bucks, and I knew Mom and Dad couldn‟t afford to spend that much on each of us. They‟d never get me an expensive gift like that without doing the same for the other three, and that just wasn‟t financially possible. Christmas was on Saturday that year, and of course David was the first one up in our household. He jumped onto my bed and began shaking me. “Jonathan! Get up! Let‟s go open our presents!” “David!” I moaned. “Aren‟t you getting a little old for that?” “Come on!” he whined. I smiled at him through my groggy eyes and looked over at the digital alarm clock: 6:43. “Uggh!” I groaned. I then heard the girls in the hallway. I knew Christmas had officially begun. Heaving back the covers, I dragged myself out of bed. “All right! All right!” I said as I slid into a pair of slippers and pulled on a Tshirt. We ended up having to wait another twenty minutes until Mom and Dad joined us in the living room around the tree. We all knew the routine. Gift opening did not proceed until Dad had his first cup of coffee in front of him. The younger kids opened their presents first, and then it was my turn. I tried not to show my disappointment when I unwrapped my new leather-bound study Bible. I had also received a sweater from my Grandma and a couple pairs of socks, and I got a mini CD player with earphones. It was cool to see how excited David was with his gifts, though. One of them was a collector‟s edition Monopoly game, and later that morning I sat down with him and our sisters to play a game. Mom cooked an enormous feast, and my Grandpa Thompson came over that afternoon to have dinner with us. He gave each of us the same exact present he‟d given all his grandkids since I was

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born—a single Eisenhower dollar. I always wondered how he was able to find so many of those huge coins. At around two o‟clock that afternoon, there was a knock on the door. We‟d finished with dinner, and David was trying to talk me into playing another game of Monopoly, which I really didn‟t want to do. I quickly rushed over to the door, hoping it would provide a diversion, and it certainly did. When I opened the door, there stood Curtis, and he was holding a package. “Hi,” he said, smiling. “Merry Christmas.” I looked at him, puzzled. “Oh… um, hi. Thanks, and Merry Christmas to you.” “Curtis!” I heard my mom behind me. “Come on in. Merry Christmas! We haven‟t seen you in so long. Have you eaten?” Curtis beamed at her as he stepped through the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, and yes. I‟m stuffed. We had ham and turkey both.” “Is your mother with you?” she asked. “No, um, I walked. And I brought you something.” He reached into the bag he was carrying and pulled out a box of chocolates. “I didn‟t get everyone something, but I thought at least this was a gift you could share.” “Well bless your heart,” she said. “That‟s so thoughtful of you. Come on in!” She grabbed hold of him and hugged him affectionately as I closed the door behind him. Curtis then turned to me, handing me the package. “This is for you, Jonathan,” he said. I was astonished. “You got me a present?” I asked. He nodded. “Sure.”

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“Oh… well, I didn‟t know. I mean, um, I didn‟t get you anything.” “Wouldn‟t be much of a gift if I expected something in return,” he said as he smiled warmly. I just stared at him. “Jonathan!” my mother chided. “Where‟s your manners?” “Oh… sorry. Thank you, Curtis.” I suddenly felt ashamed. I couldn‟t believe after all that‟d happened, Curtis would bring me a Christmas gift. Mom led us into the living room and began opening the chocolates. I sat on the sofa next to her, and Curtis took a seat in an armchair directly across the room. “Are ya gonna open it?” he asked, referring to my gift. I looked at my mom, who nodded, and then back to Curtis. “Sure,” I said as I peered into the bag. There was a wrapped package inside, which I removed and placed on the coffee table in front of me. Attached to the box was a card. I peeled off the card and bow and handed the bow to my mom. Oddly, she had this thing for bows. She saved them all and reused them. Like I said, we were very frugal. The card was not what I‟d expected. It had a religious theme and quoted a verse from Proverbs: “a friend sticks closer than a brother.” He‟d added a note of his own.

Jonathan, I’ll always cherish your friendship, and I hope you have the best Christmas ever. Love Curtis

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“Thank you, Curtis,” I said, and handed the card to mother. I then picked up the package. “Shall I?” Curtis nodded and smiled. As I peeled back the wrapping and saw the Nike label, my mouth dropped open. They were the exact shoes I had wanted, and they were even my size. “Curtis!” I cried. “How‟d you… oh my gosh! How‟d you know?” He was laughing. “I know you! I know what you like. We‟ve known each other forever.” “It‟s too much. How can I accept this?” For a second I thought I was going to choke up. “Please accept them,” he said. Suddenly he looked crestfallen. “I know you need them… and want them.” I looked at my mom, who had tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh Curtis,” she cried. “I just can‟t believe you. How‟d you—?” “I have a job, ya know,” he said a little defensively. “I‟m a bagboy down at the market.” “These must‟ve been so expensive though,” Mom said. “I‟m a good shopper,” he said. “Got ‟em on clearance.” I knew he was lying because they were a very popular and new design. “That is so generous of you,” my mom said. “Jonathan, is that any way to act? Aren‟t you going to thank him?” She tilted her head slightly, apparently motioning for me to go over to him. “Thank you, Curtis,” I said as I stood up and stepped around the coffee table. He then stood and hugged me. “You‟re welcome.”

76

JEFF ERNO “I… uh… I just feel so weird. I didn‟t get you anything.”

Now there were tears in Curtis‟s eyes. “Don‟t be silly,” he said. His voice was shaky, filled with emotion. “I‟m just glad you like ‟em.” “Hey, wanna come upstairs to my room? I‟ll show ya what else I got.” “Sure,” he said. I looked back at my mom, who was wiping her eyes. “Go ahead,” she said. I looked over at my brother David, who‟d been sitting there on the floor watching the whole time. I knew he was waiting for me to invite him to tag along. “David, want a chocolate?” my mom asked. Quickly, Curtis and I scurried up the stairs. When we got to my room, I set down the shoes and smoothed out the covers, and we sat on the bed. I was kind of embarrassed that my room was so messy. I pulled the shoebox onto my lap and took the shoes out to look closely at them. “They‟re awesome,” I said, barely whispering. He just smiled at me. “Why?” I asked, not looking up into his face. I continued to stare at the shoes as I held them in my hands. “Why‟d you do this for me?” “Jonathan,” he said quietly, “you‟re my friend. My best friend.” “You think so?” I asked. He reached over to my bedside stand and picked up my new Bible. “Did you get this for Christmas too?” he asked. I nodded. “Wow. It‟s beautiful.” He opened it up and quickly turned the pages until he found a specific passage. “This is my favorite,”

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he said. And then he read aloud to me: “„And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father‟s house. Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul.‟ 1 Samuel 18:1-3. “That‟s how I feel about you. I love you as my own soul.” “But why?” I asked. “For all those years,” he began, but then his voice cracked, and I knew he was becoming emotional. “For all those years you were my friend when no one else was.” “Curtis, you‟re not… um… like, I mean, you don‟t love me like….” He laughed through his tears, shaking his head. “I‟m not in love with you, Jonathan,” he said very matter-of-factly. “I know you are not gay.” “Are you?” I looked him in the eye. Very quietly, he responded with just one word. “Yes.” He continued to meet my gaze. I set the shoes down on the bed beside me and slowly shook my head. “Curtis,” I said, “you, um, you know it‟s wrong. It‟s a sin.” “Is it a sin that I have brown eyes?” he asked. “It is a sin I have brown hair?” “But that‟s different.” “You know how long I‟ve been trying to change? Back in the seventh grade when we started hanging out together, I was terrified. I was afraid if I didn‟t do a better job of acting more like a normal guy, that you‟d stop being my friend. I was afraid that I was gonna go to Hell because of how I was… how I am.”

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JEFF ERNO “Why didn‟t you tell me then?”

“Because I knew. I knew what would happen if you found out who I really am. I knew you‟d… well, I knew you‟d do what you eventually did do.” “Turn my back on you.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “It‟s okay,” he said. “Have you talked to anyone? Maybe you could change if you got help.” I‟d seen stuff at church about ex-gay ministries that could change people. They could supposedly make gay people stop being gay. “Jonathan, I‟m not going to change. I don‟t think God wants me to change. He made me who I am.” I sighed. “Curtis….” “I‟m not asking you to understand, and I don‟t even expect you to accept me. I don‟t expect anything from you, to be honest. The reason I got you the gift was because I just want you to know how I feel. I want you to know that I‟ll always remember you and the wonderful friendship we had. “I‟m not going back to NCCA. I‟ve been accepted at Interlochen, and I start there after Christmas break.” My eyes widened as I looked up at him again. “Really?” “I got a scholarship. I won it at the recital.” “A piano scholarship?” He nodded. “Curtis, I have to tell you something,” I said. “I wonder sometimes, what if we‟re wrong about all this? What if all of it is wrong?” “This isn‟t wrong,” Curtis said, pointing at the Bible passage he‟d just read me. “What I know in here isn‟t wrong.” He pointed

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to his chest. “Jonathan, find the goodness within your faith. Cling to the parts which you know in your heart are true. Love your neighbor as yourself. Never pay back evil for evil. Do all things to the glory of God. Don‟t allow the hatred to steal away the love you have inside yourself.” I smiled at him, not sure how to respond. “You‟re a good person, Jonathan, and I know that no matter what, I‟ll always love you.” “I… um… I love you too, Curtis. I really do.” I slid over to him and we embraced. “And I‟m so sorry. I‟m sorry I let them treat you that way!” It just poured out of me in the form of a violent sob. All the guilt I‟d carried, all the regret. “Please forgive me!” His arms wrapped around me and held me tightly. “Shh,” he said, “it‟s okay. There‟s nothing to forgive.”

OUR first day back at school, all I could think about was that there would be no more Curtis. For all those months I‟d done so well at ignoring him. I‟d separated myself from him, abandoned him when he had needed me most. Now he was gone, and it oddly felt as if I were the one who needed him. Curtis had to leave. He had to find a place where he wouldn‟t be ridiculed, tormented, and ostracized. Sadly, that place was not here—not at our Christian school. As I sat on the bench in the locker room lacing up my new basketball shoes, Chad walked up to me. “Dude!” he exclaimed. “Ya got some new kicks?” I nodded as I looked up at him. “Yeah,” I said, “for Christmas.” “Sweet.”

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“They‟re from my best friend,” I said. “They‟re from my best gay friend, Curtis Chapman.” He stood there, frozen, possibly thinking I was joking. “Curtis won‟t be back. He got out… he was saved. He won‟t have to be called names, picked on, tortured, and assaulted anymore. He‟s gone to a different school, and your days of bullying him are over.” “Jon, the kid‟s a fag!” “And he‟s my best friend, and I love him… and so does God! I just hope He can forgive me for taking so long to realize it. “I better never see or hear you doing anything like that to anyone again, Chad. I won‟t stand back and let you do it. You understand?” I saw his eyes widen as he stared at me. I don‟t think I ever remembered seeing fear in him before. He nodded. “I understand, man.” “Good,” I said. I then finished lacing up new Nikes.

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Different

CAIDEN had been a victim all his life. Taunted and teased by two older brothers, he quickly learned what it was like to be bullied. In school, things were even worse. His slight stature, geekiness, and feelings of insecurity made him a bit of a social retard. Even the people who were most accepting and least judgmental seemed to shy away from Caiden. In a word, he was a dork. It was not so much that Caiden was a coward as it was that he learned early on that his best defense against an attacker was to be defenseless. Fighting back was futile, and any such attempts would invariably result in far more drastic consequences than if he simply acquiesced. Let them have their fun, get their jollies, and be on their way. Just get it over with as quickly as possible, Caiden thought, and it all would soon be forgotten. But Caiden himself didn‟t find it quite so easy to forget these incidents of torment. Being stuffed into a school locker and left there for several hours was terrifying. Having signs plastered to his back, food and objects thrown at him, and being gut-punched

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numerous times throughout the day were not occurrences that he could just erase from his memory. The name-calling and verbal assaults were just as bad, if not worse, and as they continued, Caiden receded further and further into himself until he got to the point where he tried not to allow himself to feel anything at all. There were times when Caiden stared at himself, taking in his reflection in the full-length mirror of his bathroom, and wondered if the boy he was seeing was really him. He recorded a video of himself on his phone and played it back, just to see if it was really possible that his voice was so nasally and his expressions so dorky. He did not want to be the individual he knew himself to be. He wanted to be taller, more attractive, and to have strikingly handsome and masculine features. He wanted hair that was straight and full and shiny, not wiry and unkempt like his own. He wanted broad shoulders and tight, rock-hard abs and big, strong biceps rather than the scrawny and wimpy frame that he actually had. Most of all, he wished he did not have the constant, uncontrollable urge to blink and twitch his nose when he felt nervous or when he was simply concentrating too hard. He honestly had no idea how it all had started, the twitching and blinking. All he knew was that it was something that he couldn‟t stop. The more he worried about it, the worse it became. It was sort of like trying to force yourself not to think about a pink elephant. The harder you tried not to envision it, the more visible it became in your mind. Caiden knew a lot about bullying, being that he was so often the victim. He knew that most of what people thought they knew about it was just wrong. His older brothers knew that he got bullied, and they themselves were often the very ones who tormented him. His mother knew, and so did his dad. They each had a thing or two to say about it, and all of their opinions were conflicting, and all false. Caiden‟s mom was perhaps his only sympathizer, and of course she tried to give him helpful advice. “Honey, they‟re just jealous of you,” she‟d say. This, of course, was the stupidest

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comment he‟d ever heard. Caiden was aware that there was not one single student in his school that was jealous of him. Nobody wanted to look or act like him. He did not possess any qualities or characteristics that anyone emulated. He was not particularly talented, not popular, and certainly not successful in any way that would give anyone a reason to want to be anything like him. If jealousy were the motivation of his bullies, they‟d be targeting the popular, good-looking kids. But they were the popular and good-looking kids themselves, so his mom‟s logic was false. She clearly meant well, but she was mistaken, as were most other people who thought they understood. His father said trite things like that as well. He thought that all a victim of bullying had to do was stand up to the bully one time. His solution was simply to fight back. “Bullies are cowards,” his dad said, “and if you stand up to them, they‟ll back down.” This, too, was utterly untrue. Caiden‟s bullies actually wanted him to try to stand up for himself. They wanted him to fight back because it gave them more ammunition to use against him. The few times that Caiden did try to resist them, he‟d made matters worse. All that it accomplished was to prove that Caiden was powerless, weak, and pathetic. If Caiden tried to speak up, his tormenters simply mocked him. If he tried to push back, to fight them in any way, he just got his butt kicked. Caiden suspected that the reason his father offered such pitiful advice was that on some level, his dad was ashamed of him. He wanted Caiden to be more manly, to be less of a wimp. When his father said that the bullies were cowards, Caiden knew that what he was actually saying was that it was Caiden himself who was the coward. Gary was two years older that Caiden, and he was the middle child of the family. Gary didn‟t really have much sympathy for Caiden and usually laughed when Caiden got picked on. On the rare occasions when Gary actually did treat his little brother like a human being, he, too, had some words of wisdom to impart. “It‟s your own fault. If you weren‟t such a dork, they‟d stop dissin‟

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you.” At least this piece of advice bore an element of truth. The problem, though, was that Caiden was unaware of how to change. He‟d tried numerous times to be less of a geek. He‟d tried to fit in, look and act less conspicuous. His attempts were failures, and they seemed to make matters worse. By the time Caiden was in high school, his oldest brother, Daniel, was out of the house. When Caiden had been young, Dan had often teased him and gone along with Gary when he ridiculed or tormented his kid brother. But Dan, being five years older, was in college by the time Caiden started high school. Dan really didn‟t much care about Caiden, and to him Caiden was mainly just an annoyance. At one point he‟d suggested to Caiden that he should just ignore the bullies. “They know how easy it is to get a reaction. If you ignore them, they‟ll go away.” Of course, this, too, was misguided advice. Caiden had spent his entire life trying to ignore the taunts and teases and insults. He deliberately remained on the sidelines, trying to stay as invisible as possible. This never once prevented someone from targeting him. Caiden‟s school gave lip service to a commitment of ending bullying. They condemned it and urged students to make a pledge to look for and confront bullying as it occurred. The solution, they said, was for bystanders to speak up, and of course, if you couldn‟t stop the bullying yourself, get an adult involved. The problem with this program was twofold. First of all, the bullies were not social outcasts. It was Caiden who was the reject, and therefore no other students really cared if he got humiliated or abused. Given a choice, most kids would prefer to side with the popular and admired students—the ones who actually were the bullies. To think these bystanders would ever rush to Caiden‟s defense was outrageous. Secondly, if Caiden or any observer actually did report a bullying incident to an authority figure, it simply would be denied. Not only would the bully himself flatly deny any wrongdoing, but he‟d also easily be able to find witnesses to back him up. The end

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result would be disastrous, and Caiden knew that ultimately he would suffer all the more. Sadly, Caiden functioned on a daily basis in survival mode. He employed a strategy that was not perfect but that he hoped would minimize the damage. He knew he would never conquer the bullies. He‟d never defeat them. He‟d never completely free himself of their torments, yet he managed to find a way to avoid them as much as possible. Caiden lived his life incognito. He did whatever was necessary to avoid attracting attention. He steered clear of the students he knew hated him most. He did nothing to upset anyone, never voiced his opinions, never made any waves. The unfortunate side effect of this strategy, however, was that Caiden became more and more a loner. His all-but-nonexistent social skills completely deteriorated. It became a vicious cycle. He felt like an outsider because he didn‟t know how to interact socially. This led to bullying, which in turn caused him to recede further into himself. This led to more bullying, and the cycle continued, progressing further with each repetition. Caiden‟s single friend was a girl named Liz Marie. Ironically, Liz was opposite Caiden in many ways. Where Caiden was reserved and shy, Liz was outgoing and boisterous. She spoke her mind, and she didn‟t seem to care what anyone else thought about it. It was perhaps for this reason that she, too, was a bit of an outcast, for she never really tried to be a part of the in-crowd. Of course Liz was aware of the way Caiden was treated, and when she was around, she was quick to rush to his defense. There were many times when she‟d thwarted bullying incidents, and this was something for which Caiden was truly grateful. Honestly, though, there were times it embarrassed him. Although he felt safe in the presence of Liz, he knew that it was not particularly manly of him to hide behind a girl. He realized that her defense of him often made him appear even weaker and more pathetic.

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Liz Marie was a bigger girl, and her weight often made her the brunt of many jokes. Arguably she was herself a victim of bullying, yet she never seemed to have a victim‟s mindset. She didn‟t seem to let the snide remarks and offensive fat jokes hurt her. Caiden suspected that they had more of an impact upon her than she let on. He wished he was strong like Liz and could brush off the hurtful words and actions of his peers. It was easy for Caiden to come out to Liz, and when he did, her reaction was typical Liz. “Pass the ketchup, please,” she said. “Liz, I just revealed my deepest, most personal secret to you—” “I know, honey, now pass the ketchup.” Caiden rolled his eyes and handed over the squeeze bottle. They were sitting alone, isolated somewhat, at a table in the far corner of the high school cafeteria. Liz sighed. “Babe, now let me tell you my secret.” She leaned in real close to Caiden, about to whisper in his ear. “I‟m fat.” He pulled away from her and looked her in the eye, grinning. “Duh…,” he said. “Exactly!” Liz responded. “Your big, dark secret is about as much of a revelation as my confession that I‟m overweight. It‟s obvious… big whoop.” “Really?” he asked. “So do you think everyone already knows?” She stuffed a fry in her mouth and shook her head. “These idiots don‟t know shit. They know you‟re different, that‟s all. To them, everyone who‟s different is a faggot.” Caiden knew that what Liz was saying was true. The hatred that he faced every day of his life had less to do with his sexual orientation than it did his presentation. In fact, Caiden knew of a

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couple openly gay students, and honestly they were no different than the other kids. Actually, Caiden thought they were even worse than the homophobes, because they really were the cowards. It was too risky for them to speak up in his defense. To do so would jeopardize their own status and possibly make them a target for bullying themselves. When a group of four jocks targeted Caiden during a game of dodgeball in gym, Rick Burch stood idly by and watched. As the bullies tormented Caiden, calling him a faggot and a sissy, they pummeled him mercilessly with an onslaught of torpedo balls. Rick stood there laughing, seeming not to hear the venom in their hate speech. He was also quick to mock Caiden when a dildo showed up in Caiden‟s locker. Rick was one of the first to ridicule the bewildered Caiden, suggesting he keep his sex toys at home. When Caiden had first learned that Rick was gay, he was quite excited, fantasizing that perhaps they could be friends. Admittedly it seemed a lofty expectation, but Caiden figured that if he were brave enough to come out to Rick, maybe this common characteristic would help them to bond as friends. It didn‟t take Caiden long, though, to discover that even amongst gay people there was a social hierarchy. Rick was one of the elite, and although it was likely he had suffered his share of discrimination, he had no sympathy for the likes of a loser like Caiden. The other openly gay student that Caiden knew about was a girl named Tina. Her demeanor was very tough and confident, and she had quite masculine mannerisms. She walked with a swagger and used language that would have made a sailor blush. Her gutter mouth and cockiness were like a shield, deflecting all homophobia. Caiden steered clear of Tina because he knew that not only did she hate him because he was male, but also because she perceived him as being a weakling. To Tina, Caiden was nothing. He was just a wimpy lowlife who needed to grow a pair.

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LIFE wasn‟t easy for Richard Andrew Burch, especially being that he was practically the only openly gay kid at Crestwood Hills High School. And coming out publicly was not an easy decision for him. There were days when he was truly pleased with himself, proud that he‟d had the courage to take a stand and be who he really was, but other days were hell on earth. At times like that, Rick wished he could just somehow slink back in a corner and make himself invisible. The thing that made the biggest difference for Rick was that he‟d always been a fairly confident person. He had been raised to take pride in who he was as an individual, and this degree of confidence translated to a rather extroverted, gregarious personality. Rick had always been a fairly popular, well-liked kid, and it didn‟t hurt that he was quick-witted and had above-average looks. It really wasn‟t so much that Rick thought himself better than anyone else. He sometimes worried that his self-assurance came across as arrogance, but on the other hand, if someone had a problem with him embracing his own identity, then really it was their problem, not his. He‟d pretty much always known that he was gay. From the time he was in pre-school, he had realized he was different than most other boys. In junior high he began to understand this difference well enough to attach a label to it, not that he actually believed in labeling, per se. He was only fifteen when he had the conversation with his mom, confiding in her that he was homosexual. Although Rick was not what he‟d consider to be a typical jock, he was rather athletic. He was in track and on the varsity tennis team. He made use of the school‟s weightlifting equipment at least three times a week to maintain a routine workout schedule. In so doing, he was able to connect with a lot of the other sportsminded students, and because of this camaraderie, Rick realized that his sexual orientation didn‟t have to be an issue.

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Sure, there were a few jerks with pea-sized brains who spouted off homophobic remarks on occasion, but usually when someone got to know him, his sexual orientation became incidental. He had a lot of friends, male and female, and at times he felt as if he was the token gay of the group. Some of the more thick-headed kids would go out of their way to make comments to him, attempting to demonstrate just how tolerant they were. “I don‟t care about stuff like that. It doesn‟t matter who a person is attracted to… you could be purple for all I care. Just so you don‟t, like, hit on me or something.” Rick found it amusing that the people who made statements like this and who offered such unsolicited assurances were generally the ones who indeed were most prejudiced. They‟d just begun to open their minds a bit and were extremely proud of themselves for their accomplishment, but they still had a long way to go. Rick‟s best friend, Carlos, had been like that for awhile, at least in the beginning. It seemed almost as if Carlos felt he had to say something, but he didn‟t exactly know what it should be. He‟d make offhanded remarks about Rick, like when they were watching a movie or something. “She‟s really hot… but oh, you probably think the dude‟s the hot one. It‟s cool. It don‟t bother me.” Rick would usually just laugh, realizing that Carlos was trying. Gradually, his sexual orientation became a non-issue with Carlos. Remarks like that did not need to be stated because, given time, it became clear that it really was cool that the two best friends had different attractions. There was a period where Rick started to wonder if he was harboring a crush on Carlos. It was confusing to him because they‟d always been so close. They had grown up together, and Carlos was almost like a brother to him. In a word, Rick loved Carlos. On some level, Rick wondered if this love could ever evolve into something more than friendship, and he allowed himself to fantasize about Carlos eventually discovering that he, too, had same-sex attractions.

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It never happened, though. Carlos never came roaring from the closet to announce he, too, was gay, and Rick realized that his “crush” on Carlos was really no different than what a heterosexual guy would feel towards a close female friend. It was something that transcended physical attraction, yet it was probably normal that he felt confused at times with all those raging hormones and pubescent changes occurring within his body. Rick didn‟t really know of any other gay students at school. Well, there was this one girl that he‟d heard rumors about. Her name was Tina, and everyone said she was a dyke. There were a lot of guys that Rick wondered about. He sometimes let his mind wander a bit and fantasized about the possibility that this one or that one might secretly be gay. Honestly, this was the hardest part of being a gay teen. It was such a feeling of isolation. He sometimes felt like he was the only person in the world who was this way. This one kid, Caiden, seemed like he might be gay. Everyone said he was, and a lot of the other kids at school liked to tease him. Sometimes Rick felt bad for him. The kid always seemed to be the brunt of everyone‟s jokes, and he sort of wished that he had the guts to just speak up against it sometimes. On the other hand, though, Caiden was dorky. He doubted that the kid was even really gay. It seemed like if he were gay, he would at least have a little better fashion sense. They used to torture that kid, though, and it really bugged Rick. One time they put a dildo in his locker, and Rick witnessed the whole thing. It was so sad, the way Caiden looked at it, mortified, while a group of bystanders watched, laughing. Rick tried to diffuse the situation and make light of it, cracking a joke about it being Caiden‟s sex toy. Big mistake. Obviously that tactic didn‟t work, because Caiden took it the wrong way and acted as if Rick had just gut-punched him or something. He wondered if maybe he should try to befriend the kid, but that probably wasn‟t such a good idea. For one thing, Caiden really was a nerd, and he doubted they‟d even have anything in common.

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For another, it would be really bad for his image. Most importantly, Rick did not want to put himself in a situation where he might be the next target for all that harassment. If he started associating with the likes of Caiden, he could be the next victim of the continuous bullying. As much as the situation bothered him, there really wasn‟t anything that Rick could do about it. He knew it wasn‟t right that Caiden was being targeted this way, but to intervene would be suicide. It was easy enough to rationalize, though. Rick assuaged his conscience by reminding himself that Caiden had brought on a lot of his own problems. It wasn‟t even really a case of gay bashing, because as far as Rick knew, Caiden wasn‟t even gay. Granted, everyone called the kid a faggot, but that didn‟t necessarily mean anything. The word was used derisively to label anyone who was different, and Caiden certainly was different. To be perfectly honest, Caiden bugged him. On some level, he hoped that the kid was not gay. He was the sort of person that gave gay people a bad name. A person‟s sexual orientation was not a matter of choice, but the way a person behaved was certainly something that they had control over. Nobody forced Caiden to act like such a queen. There was no legitimate reason why he had to dress like a dork and go around constantly blinking and twitching his nose. It was some sort of facial tic, Rick surmised. Maybe it was a form of Tourette‟s syndrome or something. He wasn‟t sure, but it certainly was annoying. And when people made remarks about Caiden, or when they mocked him and imitated his blinking or his sissified voice, Rick had to admit that it was funny. Sure, he‟d laughed at the jokes. He kind of felt a sense of relief, actually. For other kids to realize that he was openly gay yet in a category above the likes of Caiden gave Rick a feeling of superiority. Let’s face it, he thought, not all gay people are created equal. Just because someone might be gay did not mean they were automatically someone he‟d want as a friend.

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Rick had never allowed himself to have the mentality of a victim, and he suspected that this was precisely Caiden‟s problem. It was a weakness, and it was something that really irritated him. Rick didn‟t like movies where the central character was some tortured soul who was constantly down on himself. He did not accept the premise that a person with low self-esteem was truly a victim. At some point, everyone had to learn to accept himself first before they could expect others to follow suit. When a person was constantly depressed about his lot in life but did nothing to change the situation, it became a matter of self-pity. Self-pity was selfish, plain and simple. So although there were times when Rick did feel a tinge of guilt over Caiden being victimized, he chose not to get involved. Caiden was responsible for his own happiness, just like everyone else. Rick could go around feeling sorry for himself too, but that would be insane. Life was too short to worry all the time about what other people thought, and Rick just wasn‟t willing to allow a kid like Caiden to bring him down. He‟d keep his distance and let the kid sink or swim on his own. Life was about personal responsibility, and he had enough of his own problems to deal with. Rick and Carlos had pretty much the same class schedule at school, including a fifth-hour gym class. Caiden was also in that class, though for the most part they did not interact with each other. Rick was in the locker room getting dressed after class when Carlos walked up to him, completely naked and dripping wet. Whoa! Rick momentarily diverted his eyes and tried to act casually. Oblivious to his effect upon his friend, Carlos picked up a towel and began drying off while making small talk. “I got a text from Jen,” he said. “We‟re on for Friday.” “Cool,” Rick said, gulping. “Where you takin‟ her?” “Dunno,” Carlos said as he shrugged. “A movie maybe, and then maybe to Jimmy‟s party.”

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“Oh yeah, that‟s right. I forgot about the party.” “Dude, how could you forget? It‟s like the biggest scene this year.” “Yeah.” Rick sighed. “He‟s not cool though. Jimmy‟s a real jerk sometimes.” “Why you say that?” Carlos asked. “I think he‟s pretty bad.” “I dunno, maybe I‟ll come.” “Bring a date,” Carlos suggested as he stepped into his boxers. He grinned at his friend. “Yeah right… who?” Carlos cocked his head to the side, motioning toward the kid a few feet down from them. Rick looked over to see he was indicating Caiden. He laughed. “You‟ve got to be kidding,” Rick said. “He seems like he might be the type… ya know.” “What do ya mean?” “Everyone knows Caiden Matthews is a fag.” Rick scowled at his friend. “Is that what I am too?” “I didn‟t mean it like that,” Carlos said, playfully slugging his best bud in the upper arm. “I just thought—” “Well, you thought wrong! That kid‟s gross. He‟s a total loser, and I‟d rather be single than go out with that freak!” He raised his voice, realizing that Caiden was within earshot. When Caiden glanced over at him, Rick sneered at him. “Quit staring at me, you fuckin‟ weirdo!” He then glared at Caiden and deliberately mimicked his blinking in an exaggerated way. Carlos cracked up.

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Caiden turned away hurriedly and pulled out a pair of pants from his locker. This non-response irritated Rick even more, and he quickly jerked the wet towel from Carlos‟s hand, twirling it to form a snake. He stepped over toward Caiden, pulling his arm back in anger, and then released the towel, snapping it mercilessly across the back of Caiden‟s exposed legs. The snap was like a crack of thunder. “Oh man! Wicked!” Carlos said, laughing. Caiden fell against his locker, crying out in pain as he quickly tried to scurry away, holding his hands behind himself in a futile attempt at self-defense. Rick‟s adrenaline was flowing, and he immediately wound the towel up again and once more delivered a powerful thwack. Over and over he repeated the action, following Caiden around as he danced across the floor, begging for mercy. “Please!” he cried. “I‟m sorry! Please stop!” By this time, all the guys in the locker room were watching and laughing. Carlos rushed over and grabbed Caiden by the arms, holding his elbows firmly so that Rick could continue to thwack his behind with the towel. After about six or seven snaps, Rick stepped back, only to realize a line had formed behind him. Several other guys had towels in hand, all waiting for a turn. Rick didn‟t stick around much longer. The kid was sobbing by the time he and Carlos exited the locker room, but he didn‟t care. He had done what he had to do. He couldn‟t let people think that he was in any way like that little creep. Least of all, he couldn‟t allow his best friend Carlos to have such an opinion. “I can‟t believe you thought I should ask him out,” Rick said. “Are you fuckin‟ crazy?”

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THE first time Dwayne touched her that way, Tina wasn‟t even old enough to know it was wrong. He was her older stepbrother, and they were playing a game. She trusted him, and she knew that he would never do anything to hurt her. But when it did start to hurt, she told him. He didn‟t stop though. He didn‟t stop ‟til she was crying. He didn‟t stop until there was sweat streaming down the sides of his face and his whole body was shaking. He made her promise not to tell, and she didn‟t. It became their secret, and it turned into a game that they played many, many times. Eventually the molestations stopped. By the time Tina was in junior high, Dwayne had completely lost interest in her. He treated her with indifference, and most of the time he acted as if she did not even exist. It was like he had completely forgotten about the things he‟d done to her. Tina forgot a lot of it herself, actually. She forgot about the humiliation and shame. She forgot about the physical pain, about the guilt. She forgot about the fear she harbored inside herself that someone else would find out. She forgot about how filthy she felt every time it happened, how she would have to spend forty-five minutes in the shower, weeping silently until the water ran cold. Those long showers never completely washed away Tina‟s pain, though. They did not completely succeed in eradicating the horrid memories of the molestation incidents. It was a reality, a torturous memory that she stored somewhere deep in her consciousness. It was her best-kept secret, and she knew it was something she‟d never be able to talk about. Hopefully it would be something that never had to be discussed. She wanted to forget it all. Most of all, she wanted to forget him. When Dwayne moved out of the house, it was the best day of Tina‟s life. Finally, she was free. Finally the shame had walked out the door, never to return again. That was what she thought at the time.

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She couldn‟t ever tell anyone about why it was that she hated her stepbrother so much. She couldn‟t put into words why she found him so repulsive. In fact, she pretty much felt that way about most guys. She‟d known since she was in grade school that she was different from most other girls. Back then, they liked to call her a tomboy. At this point, though, she was more frequently referred to as a dyke. It was true. Tina was gay. She wasn‟t ashamed of being labeled a lesbian. It was who she was, and if anyone didn‟t like it, tough shit. She played softball. She sometimes chewed tobacco. She even carried a wallet in her back fucking pocket. If someone tried to mess with her, she‟d bash their face in. She was tired of taking shit from people—especially from people who didn‟t have a uterus. Tina‟s first love was Amber. They met in the eighth grade and shared their first kiss behind the concession stand at a school football game. Amber was pretty much the opposite of Tina. She was dainty and pretty and extremely feminine. That wasn‟t to say that Amber didn‟t have spunk. She could be pretty damn stubborn, and if you looked up the word “feisty” in the dictionary, Tina was sure you‟d find a picture of Amber alongside the definition. Their romance was gradual, and Tina was fine taking things as slow as Amber needed. Actually, Tina was a little nervous herself. She‟d never “gone all the way” with another girl. By the time they finally did really make love the summer before their freshman year, Tina was head over heels in love. It was beautiful, the most perfect union two people had ever shared, and Tina knew that she would love Amber as long as there was breath left in her lungs. Well, by Christmas of that year, Tina was indeed breathless. Amber ditched her, broke things off cold, and Tina couldn‟t understand why. She was confused, angry, and terribly depressed. She spent hours on the phone begging for an explanation. At first Amber was accommodating. She was about as patient and compassionate as a person could be in that situation, but eventually

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she grew tired of Tina‟s desperate antics. She told Tina in no uncertain terms that she couldn‟t continue this way. She didn‟t want to hear from her again—ever! By the time Tina got her driver‟s license during the tenth grade, Amber was a distant memory. Tina took to the highway and headed to the city every weekend, where she used her fake ID to gain entry into the all-women club Sophie’s. She hooked up with different girls practically every weekend. She became rather promiscuous, and she didn‟t really give a rat‟s ass what anyone thought of it. She was young, attractive, and in great physical shape. She was a bitch with an attitude, and she was one hot lay. Tina knew she was the shit, and so did everyone else. She was the same way in school. She considered most of the students to be small-minded bigots. Truthfully, they were. They didn‟t have a clue about the real world and what was out there. They were so caught up in their little teenage dramas that they were oblivious to the big wide world around them. Tina didn‟t conceal her sexual orientation. She didn‟t care one way or another if someone knew she was a lesbian. If someone tried to give her any shit about it, she‟d put them in their place and pronto. She‟d hand them their teeth and walk away smiling. Tina‟s love affair with Amber had taught her that it was pointless to look for love or companionship with her peers. She didn‟t waste any time wondering about who might or might not be gay. She didn‟t know any other lesbians in school, and she didn‟t want to. She knew of at least one other gay student who was a guy, but she couldn‟t have cared less whether he lived or died. There was this one dorky little kid named Caiden that she sometimes encountered, and she kinda did wonder about him. He seemed a little bit girly, and she had witnessed him being picked on a few times. She debated stepping in and defending him but eventually decided against it. If he really were gay, she thought, he‟d have to learn to get a little bit of a backbone. He‟d have to grow a pair and get tougher if he were ever going to survive.

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When she watched the kid stumble down the school hallway one day with a “Trip Me” sign pasted to his back, she just shook her head as one student after the next put his foot out, causing Caiden to trip and fall on his face. The tears streamed right down his cheeks as everyone laughed, and each time he got right back up and continued toward his next class only to be tripped again a few feet later. When she couldn‟t take it anymore, Tina finally intervened. She dashed down the hall after him. He was lying flat on his face again, trying to get back on his feet. She reached down and ripped the sign from his back and then extended her hand to pull him up. “Here,” she said gruffly as she thrust the sign against his chest. “Dumbass!” she scolded him. “Didn‟t you know you had this sign on your back?” He looked up into her eyes, shaking his head but saying nothing. She just stared at him disgustedly. “Whatever,” she said, sighing, and turned away, heading back to her own locker. The kid was pathetic, she thought.

“WHO did this to you?” Liz Marie demanded. “I dunno,” Caiden whined. “It doesn‟t matter.” His voice was barely a whisper. Caiden was lying on his stomach on Liz‟s bed as she gently rubbed salve onto the welts across the back of his legs. He involuntarily winced from the pain. “It looks like they whipped you,” she said. “Caiden, we‟ve got to tell!”

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“No!” he cried. “Please… you promised.” He tried to roll away in order to raise himself on the bed, but she placed her hand flat on his back and held him in place. “Stay still,” she ordered. “Caiden, okay. I won‟t tell, but you gotta tell me why.” “They‟ll just do it again, only worse.” Liz sighed exasperatedly. “Well, at least tell me. I‟m your best friend, and you can trust me. Can‟t you?” He was crying again. Why‟d he always cry so much? Sometimes he hated himself for it—most of the time. It was only one of the million reasons he hated who he was. “Rick Burch,” he whispered. “Him and Carlos Sanchez, and a bunch of other guys….” “Rick gayboy Burch did this to you? You‟ve got to fucking be kidding me!” “Liz!” Caiden cried. “Please, you promised.” “What? I didn‟t promise not to be pissed.” “Don‟t say anything, not even to him. Please!” “Listen to me,” Liz said, gently rolling Caiden to his side so that she could look him in the eye. “I want to talk to him. I want to at least find out why he‟s being so mean to you.” “He hates me, that‟s why! He hates me because I‟m a freak!” He felt as if the tightness in his chest were going to split him right in two. That aching was far worse than any of the welts on his legs. “But why? What‟d you ever do to him?” “It wasn‟t me. It was Carlos. He told Rick to ask me out—on a date.” “So he did, and you turned him down?” Liz asked, almost cheerfully.

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Caiden shook his head, again ashamed. “No… um… Rick was so pissed that Carlos even suggested it that he came over and started whaling on me. Then… uh… then everyone else started laughing and they all took turns….” “What? Oh my God, Caiden!” She reached down and brushed her fingertips across his cheek. “Those guys are idiots. I‟m so sorry.” He thought she was about to start crying herself. “I hate this life,” Caiden whispered. “I just hate it.”

HE KNEW they wouldn‟t hear him when he came in. His parents were in the living room watching Wheel of Fortune. They didn‟t really care about him. He wondered half the time if they even knew he existed. When he quietly closed the door and padded his way down the hallway, they never heard him open the cabinet door. They paid no attention to the quiet click of the latch when he reclosed it after he‟d retrieved the object he needed. As Caiden plodded up the staircase, neither of his parents turned to glance up at him. Briefly, he paused, concealing the pistol on the opposite side of his body lest they see. Of course, they didn‟t look up, so it really did not matter. He placed the gun gently on the bedside stand and eased himself onto the edge of his mattress. It felt like time had stopped. It all seemed so eerily quiet all of a sudden. His father‟s voice was muffled as Caiden heard him screaming at the television, “Welcome to the Hotel California!” Apparently it was a puzzle solution that the contestants were too stupid to solve. They‟d always said that your life would flash before your eyes in your final moments, and Caiden realized how true this was. He was seeing it all now—so clearly. The taunts of his brothers, the scolding of his father, the look of shame and disappointment in his mother‟s eyes. He recalled the embarrassing incidents at

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school—times he‟d cried, times he‟d been laughed at and hit and even spat upon. He remembered it all. Every harsh word, every look of disgust. Every insult. He remembered the shock of ice-cold water against his face as they‟d shoved his head in the toilet and flushed it. He remembered the merciless fist-thrusts to his gut. He remembered the bruises and skinned knees and even the painful kidney punches he‟d endured. They all came back to him. Nobody understood. Not even Liz. She really was his only friend, and as much as he hated to bail on her, he just couldn‟t take it anymore. He couldn‟t bear one more minute of it. He knew it had all been such a mistake. He was the mistake. His whole life was a mistake. He never should have been born in the first place. It was exactly like Rick had said. He was a freak and a weirdo. It was like Tina had told him: he was a spineless wimp. It was like his brother had said: he was a dork. It was like his father had said: he was a coward. He leaned over and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser, removing a small box. It contained bullets, which he then carefully and methodically removed, placing them on the mattress beside him. He picked up the revolver and opened the cylinder, slowly inserting the bullets, one at a time. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he stared at the loaded gun in his hand. He closed his eyes as he raised the weapon to his temple. He took a deep breath as he cocked the gun. He slowly exhaled as he pulled the trigger, and the peal of the blast was the last thing Caiden Matthews heard.

“I‟M NOT really into Lady Gaga,” Rick confessed. He was having a phone conversation with his friend Miranda. “Yeah, I know, she‟s cool and all, but, um, she‟s just… I dunno, not my style. Hey, can you hold on a sec? I got another call.

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“Hello?” he said. He didn‟t recognize the number, but it appeared to be local. “You fucking bastard!” a female voice screamed. “Who the hell is this?” he asked. It was like ten o‟clock in the morning on a Saturday, and some psycho bitch with a wrong number was calling to rip his head off. “Rick Burch, you killed him! You killed Caiden!” “Who is this, and what are you talking about?” Rick demanded. “This is Liz Bronson, Caiden Matthew‟s best friend, and he‟s dead. He‟s dead because of you and your fucking bully friends!” “Caiden? Caiden‟s dead?” “Yes!” she screamed. “Yes, yes, yes! Caiden‟s fucking dead! He shot himself last night.” “Oh my God,” Rick said, staring straight ahead in shocked silence. “Wh… wh… why?” “You know why,” she said accusingly. “Because of you—all of you—the way you treated him. You guys tortured him. Last night I had to rub salve into his legs ‟cause they were covered with welts where you‟d whipped him!” “I didn‟t…,” Rick said. “I never whipped Caiden. I just, um, I swatted him with a towel. It was just, um, just for fun. We were joking around.” “Liar!” she screamed. “You‟re a fucking liar, and you‟re gonna pay for this.” Rick felt his temper start to flare, but only briefly. He was starting to feel another emotion—one he was not quite familiar with. “Look,” he said calmly, “I‟ve got to go. I‟ve got another call,” and he quickly switched back over to Miranda. He realized his hands were shaking.

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“Miranda,” he said, gasping. “Caiden Matthews is dead. He shot himself.” “Caiden who?” she said. “Is he on a reality TV show or something?”

TINA was sprawled out on the couch, eating a bag of chips while she surfed the channels on the big screen. It was a little after six o‟clock, and there wasn‟t shit on. It was way too early to start getting ready for her Saturday night out. She stopped her channel surfing when she got to the local news because there was a photo of a familiar face. Wait, was that the kid she‟d helped up the other day? She turned up the volume and sat up, leaning in to hear the broadcast. “Sixteen-year-old Caiden Matthews was reported dead on arrival at Lakeview Medical Center after he was found shot in the head, an apparent suicide. The boy‟s parents offered no comment, but the coroner report indicates that the fatal wound was selfinflicted. Channel Seven News spoke with one of the boy‟s classmates about the tragic incident.” Tina recognized the girl too. It was that Liz chick, the heavyset one. She looked terrible, even worse than normal. She‟d obviously been sobbing, her makeup all over her face. “They killed him,” she cried. “They bullied him so bad… every day of his life, and poor little Caiden, he just couldn‟t take it anymore!” “Were you a friend of the victim?” the commentator asked. “I‟m Caiden‟s best friend. Yes, I loved him so much!” That chick was nearly hysterical, Tina thought. Wow, this was better than any reality show. “But Caiden was different. He was shy…

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very timid. He was such a nice person though. He had a heart of gold. The other kids didn‟t like him, though. They made fun of him constantly—picked on him, beat him up. And nobody did anything about it. Nobody even tried to stop it. They made his life a living hell.” Tina turned the volume up even louder and set down the bag of chips. “Thursday, a bunch of guys took wet towels and beat little Caiden so badly. They did it in the locker room when he was changing, and it was so horrible that they left welts all over his backside.” She choked back a sob. “By Friday he could barely sit down, and he came over to my house. I put salve on his wounds, and he begged me not to tell anyone. He was afraid if he told, they‟d just beat him even worse!” “Miss Bronson, why did the other students torture this boy so badly?” the reporter asked sympathetically. “Caiden was different,” Liz said evenly. “Caiden was gay.” Tina didn‟t hear the rest of the newscast. She just stared straight ahead, shocked beyond description. So it was true. The kid was a fag, just like she‟d thought. He was gay, and he was being bullied because of it. She couldn‟t believe it. It was like something you heard about happening in other schools. It was like shit you expected to hear about occurring a long way away, like in another state or something. She grabbed her phone off the stand and quickly dialed a number. “Carla?” she said. “It‟s Tina. Did you hear about that gay kid who killed himself? He‟s from my school….”

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RICK‟S initial reaction to the news was shock and disbelief. Momentarily he wondered if it was all just some sort of manipulation tactic or perhaps even a prank. It wasn‟t long, though, before Rick realized Caiden Matthews had actually committed suicide. It was on the Internet, in the newspaper, and even on television. By Monday morning, it was all anyone was talking about at school, and when Rick was called to the principal‟s office that afternoon, he was not surprised to be questioned about his relationship with Caiden. “No, sir,” Rick answered, “we weren‟t really friends. I knew him from some of my classes. Everyone knew him, really, but I don‟t think he actually had many friends. He usually hung out with that girl, Liz Bronson.” Mr. Carruthers sat across from him, his hands folded atop his desk. There were others in attendance, including a guidance counselor and a police investigator. They remained silent while Carruthers continued the questioning. “And Caiden was in your gym class?” Rick nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wondered for a moment if he should call his parents, maybe even a lawyer. “Sir,” he said meekly, “should I call my parents?” The police officer spoke. “Rick, you‟re not in trouble, but if you want to call your folks, go ahead. We are just gathering information at this point.” Rick gulped and looked down at his lap. He hadn‟t realized how nervous he was. His knees were literally shaking. “Okay,” he said. “It‟s all right. I don‟t need to call them.” Carruthers continued, “What happened in the locker room last Thursday?” Rick felt his face getting hot. He remembered Liz‟s phone call and the threats she‟d made. She‟d told him he was going to

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pay. He remembered Caiden and the terrified look on his face the last time he‟d seen him—when he was whipping the boy with his towel. “I don‟t know,” Rick lied. His voice was so quiet he could barely hear himself. “What‟s that?” the principal said. “Can you speak up, please, Mr. Burch?” “I don‟t know, sir,” Rick repeated, a little louder. “I‟m not sure what happened… or why.” “Start at the beginning and just give me the facts. Did you have a fight with Caiden Matthews last Thursday?” Rick looked away, staring at a wall upon which were displayed an array of diplomas and awards all bearing the name Marcus Carruthers. He focused upon one, gazing intently at the shiny bronze seal as he felt his eyes begin to tear up. “I‟m sorry,” he whispered. “I‟m so sorry.” The counselor spoke. Cassidy Preston was a thirtysomething, sharply dressed professional. She‟d been someone whom Rick had always greatly admired. He trusted her and knew she really cared about the students. “Rick, why are you sorry?” she asked soothingly. “I never meant to hurt him… honest. I just was… um… I was so embarrassed, and so mad.” Ms. Preston stood up and stepped toward him. She crouched beside his chair, placing her hand on his arm. “Rick, you have to tell us exactly what happened. This is very, very important. You have to tell us and be completely honest. Do you understand?” Tears streamed down his cheeks as he nodded. “I used to see Caiden in the hall, and sometimes I‟d catch him looking at me. I always kind of felt sorry for him. He had this problem or something—where he blinked a lot. Kids made fun of him for it, and it seemed like the more they teased him, the worse it got.

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“Everyone picked on him. They… well, they called him all sorts of names. Mostly fag or faggot.” “And you?” Cassidy said. “Did you call him those names?” He shook his head, willing himself not to look into her face. “No, not usually. I called him… um, I called him a freak and weirdo, but just that one time.” “Last Thursday?” she asked. He nodded. “Tell me why, Rick. What had Caiden done that made you so angry that you‟d lash out at him that way?” He just stared straight ahead, continuing to lock his gaze upon the bronze seal, the starburst. “He didn‟t do anything,” Rick admitted. “He never said a word to me.” “And yet you were angry? You said you were embarrassed?” “He was looking at me, ya know, like….” Rick sighed and nervously grabbed hold of the armrests of his chair. “I don‟t know how to describe it. He was just looking at me, and it bothered me.” “And what did you do?” Ms. Preston asked. “Did you tell him to stop looking at you?” Rick nodded. “Yeah. I told him to stop, and he didn‟t say anything. It was like he was ignoring me, and that made me even more piss—angry.” “And that‟s why you hit him?” she asked. “I never hit him!” Rick protested. “Honest… I snapped him a few times with my towel, and that‟s all.” Ms. Preston returned to her seat, though he could feel her continuing to stare intently at him. Carruthers spoke again. “So let me get this straight. This boy was looking at you in the locker room, and it made you angry. Why did this infuriate you so much? Were you clothed at the time?”

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“Yes, sir,” he responded. “I‟d already finished my shower and was dressed, but my friend Carlos, he was with me, and he was still changing.” “And it made the two of you uncomfortable, the way this kid was leering at you?” the principal offered. “No,” Rick answered honestly. “Caiden wasn‟t doing that. He wasn‟t leering at us… or anyone.” The principal shook his head and exhaled exasperatedly. “This makes no sense. Why would you attack this kid the way you did for no reason?” Rick felt his body begin to tremble. His hands shook nervously as he continued to grip the armrests. “I don‟t know,” he said. “I don‟t know why I did it.” “What exactly did you do?” Cassidy asked. “You snapped him a couple times with your towel, and then what?” “I… um… I thought my friend Carlos… I thought he was making fun of me, comparing me to Caiden. It was just a joke, I guess, but it embarrassed me….” “And you had to prove to your friend—and to yourself—that you and Caiden were nothing alike?” Rick nodded. “Were you like Caiden Matthews?” she asked pointedly. His face crinkled up as he bit his lower lip, again nodding. “Tell me, Rick. Tell me how you think you were like Caiden.” “We‟re both… or we were both… um… gay.” “So you‟re saying that you are a homosexual?” Carruthers asked. “You‟re gay and you thought that when the boy was looking at you the way he was, he also was that way?”

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“No sir,” Rick said quietly. “I didn‟t know if Caiden was gay or not, but everyone thought he was. Everyone made fun of him, called him names and stuff. I didn‟t want people to think of me the same way. I didn‟t want them to judge me like they did Caiden.” “So you had something to prove,” Cassidy said. “You had to show that you were superior?” “It was wrong,” Rick admitted. “I didn‟t really think of it like that at the time. I… um… I just was mad, that‟s all. I just was embarrassed. Carlos said I should ask Caiden out on a date, and it… it just made me feel so--” “You felt humiliated and embarrassed. You felt like he was mocking you.” Rick nodded. “Yes,” he confessed. “I felt like he‟d insulted me.” “So why didn‟t you whip this Carlos with your towel?” the principal asked. “He‟s the one you really were angry with.” He shouldn‟t say any more. He knew it would be wisest if he simply shut up. Already he‟d said too much. Already he‟d incriminated himself. But for some reason, Rick couldn‟t stop himself. He couldn‟t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth. He had to go on. He finally looked away from the diploma and made eye contact with Cassidy. He stared her directly in the face as he bore his soul. “I‟ve always known I was gay. I knew it from the time I was a little kid. I knew I was different anyway. I wasn‟t like the other boys. But ya know, I wasn‟t like the gay people I knew about either. It‟s always made me really… really frustrated and angry, when I see how they show gay people on TV and in the movies. They‟re always so exaggerated. They act like sissies, like queens or something. It‟s always really bugged me.

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“Sometimes I just want to scream at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I get so pissed! Why can‟t people see that gay people are no different than everyone else? “It‟s weird. I know… I just said I was different, but then again I‟m not. The only thing about me that‟s really different is that I like guys instead of girls. But I‟m still a guy myself. I don‟t go around acting like a girl, like a sissy or something. “I think when people meet me, when they see me for the first time, they don‟t think „That‟s a homo‟. I think they see me just as an ordinary kind of guy, like everyone else. Really, isn‟t that how it should be? “But ya know, Caiden… God, Caiden really was different. He did fit into a lot of those stereotypes. He did act like a girl sometimes. He did have this whiny, girlish voice. He was a … well, sort of like a nerd or something. He was such a geek, and everyone picked on him because of it. “When people called him gay, it bothered me a lot. It irritated me, to be honest. I wasn‟t upset because it was mean of them to say. I was pissed because I didn‟t want it to be true. I didn‟t want Caiden to be the school‟s poster boy for gay students. He sort of… well, he sort of gave the word „gay‟ a bad name, ya know. “When Carlos told me I should ask Caiden out on a date, I just sort of panicked. I realized what Carlos must think of me. He sees me the same way he sees Caiden. I already knew what everyone thought of that kid. I didn‟t want them to think that of me too. I wanted….” He had to take a deep breath before continuing, tears streaming down his cheeks again. “I wanted to prove I wasn‟t a dork like he was. I wanted to make him realize just how annoying his existence was to me. How much of an embarrassment he was to everyone. “I couldn‟t make Caiden change, and I couldn‟t make him go away, or at least I thought I couldn‟t. But at least I could show him

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what I thought of him, and I could show everyone else that he was not my friend. I could show them that I was more like them than I was like him.” Rick now was practically sobbing. “I‟m so sorry,” he said. “I should have helped him. I should have reached out to him, became his friend. I could have made his life easier, and it could have really made a difference. “For all this time I thought Caiden was so selfish. I thought he was on a constant pity party, always playing the victim. I thought he didn‟t have the guts to stand up for himself, so he deserved what he got. But ya know, how could he have ever stood up for himself? He had no one. No support. No allies. He was totally alone, and the one single person who could have helped him the most was the one who hurt him worst. And that person… that person is me.” As the room became quiet, Mr. Carruthers slid a box of Kleenex to the edge of the desk. They all stared at Rick, no one daring to speak. As Rick dried his eyes, he realized that he now was visibly shaking, but for some reason he felt a little bit better. It wasn‟t so much that he‟d absolved himself, but at least he‟d said aloud what he knew to be true in his heart. He‟d confessed.

SYLVIA Matthews‟s grief was so profound that she felt nearly paralyzed. She had not slept more than a few hours since it happened. She had barely cried, at least not since the shocking discovery. It was strange, really, how she‟d known instantly when she heard the gun discharge. She knew what it was and whom she‟d lost. She knew it in her heart. This wasn‟t real. It couldn‟t be. This could not have happened to her family, certainly not to her Caiden. He would never leave them this way. He‟d never do such a horrible thing.

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This all had to be a dream. She knew she was about to wake up and realize it had all just been a terrible nightmare. Perhaps this was why she couldn‟t sleep. Maybe she feared that she would awaken and discover that reality had not changed. Maybe she feared reliving the anguish, facing the realization that Caiden was really gone. The words of that girl when she was on television, they haunted her. Initially, she was angry. How dare that chubby girl say such a cruel thing about her precious son, especially now, when he was not around to defend himself? She‟d accused him of being a homosexual. She‟d stated it as a matter of fact, and she‟d done it so publicly. Was it not bad enough that they‟d lost their boy? Now they must also bear the shame of such inflammatory accusations. Of course it was untrue. Caiden was only sixteen years old, and he‟d not yet even had an opportunity to date. He could not possibly have known yet his own sexual orientation. He hadn‟t even experienced love. This girl was obviously seeking her fifteen minutes of fame. She was aggrandizing, and she was doing so at the expense of Sylvia‟s son‟s reputation. It was the next morning, Sunday, when Sylvia confronted the girl. Liz had arrived early, clutching a photo album and two scrapbooks, all containing pictures that chronicled the decade of friendship she‟d shared with Sylvia‟s son. She allowed the girl to embrace her, and they cried together, but the first words out of Sylvia‟s mouth were, “Why‟d you say such things?” “Mrs. Matthews, what do you mean?” Liz asked, tears still streaming down her face. “On television last night, why‟d you say Caiden was….” “I‟m sorry,” Liz said sincerely, “but I was only telling the truth. I‟m so sorry you found out that way—”

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“But… but it‟s not true. It can‟t be.” Sylvia was shaking her head adamantly. “My son was not a homosexual. He was too young—” “I‟m sorry,” Liz repeated, “but Caiden himself told me.” “Why?” she said. “Why, if it were true, did he never tell me?” Liz looked at her sympathetically, slowly shaking her head. “I don‟t know, Mrs. Matthews. I just think he was scared. He didn‟t want to disappoint you. He was afraid of how you‟d take it.” And then it dawned on her. It was like a lightbulb turning on. “He was afraid I‟d react this way—this way that I‟m reacting right now. He was afraid of… of my shame.” “It‟s not your fault,” Liz said, embracing her again. Sylvia melted into her, clinging to the girl desperately and allowing herself to release the sob within her chest. “They were so horrible to him. They were so cruel,” Liz whispered. Sylvia allowed herself only a moment, suddenly pulling away from the girl. She regained her composure quickly. She had to. She needed to be strong, because this was only the beginning. There would be so many more confrontations over the next few days. So many people to see, so many sad faces to stare into and so many more emotional embraces. As she sat at the kitchen table with the girl, looking through the photo books, she began to see her son differently, in a whole new light. She began to appreciate his sensitivity, the softness of his gestures, the sincerity of his emotions. She began to feel his undeniable pain. Sylvia opened up to Liz, confiding in her how she‟d always feared for Caiden. She had known he had a very special heart. She had known he was not tough like his brothers. She confessed how Caiden had complained on numerous occasions about the bullies at

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school, and that she had not known what to do. She‟d spoken to her husband, even to her other son, asking for advice. She tried to help him herself. She tried offering him encouragement, giving him pep talks, assuring him that he was fine and that this all would soon pass. Obviously she had not done enough. She had failed. The house was full that day. Her eldest son, Daniel, had immediately flown home. His somber, wordless stare seemed to epitomize the feeling they all were experiencing. Gary, too, was quiet, and as the aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, and all the family friends arrived, Sylvia began to feel numb. Thankfully her brother volunteered to man the phone, which didn‟t seem to stop ringing. He told the reporters, one after the next, that the family had no comment. He set up appointments for her with the minister, the funeral home, and the florist. The memorial service was expected to be enormous, with all the media attention. As the condolence gifts began to arrive, she started to realize how true this prediction was likely to be. It pained her, really, to see how much compassion there was now, after it was too late. In the later hours of the evening, around nine thirty, most of the family and guests had gone home. It would be a long day tomorrow and Tuesday. She sat alone in Caiden‟s bedroom, on the very bed where they‟d found him, and simply tried to absorb his presence. The desk chair where he did his homework now sat empty. The stack of neatly organized CDs lay untouched on the bookshelf. Posters and photographs adorned the walls—movie stars and singers, a big picture of an ugly bulldog bearing the caption “Nobody‟s Perfect.” It was so ugly that it was cute, and she thought for a minute if perhaps this was how Caiden had viewed himself… ugly on the outside yet with a lovable soul. He was not ugly, though. Even physically, there was nothing about her boy‟s appearance that was repulsive. He certainly was no model. He was not breathtakingly handsome, but he had the most adorable face. His often unkempt hair actually added character,

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and his big brown eyes were endearing. He‟d always been slight of stature, small for his age. Even at sixteen, she still could buy him boys‟ size clothing. She looked over at his size seven shoes in the corner, realizing they‟d never again be filled by his cute little feet. The bed had been stripped and the mattress cleaned and sanitized. She could still smell the chemicals. When they‟d brought it back in, she‟d covered it with a single comforter. It was one she‟d gotten special for Caiden, covered with puppies. He‟d always wanted a pet. He loved dogs especially, but her husband‟s allergies had prevented them from ever owning one. She wondered now if it would have helped. Maybe if he‟d had a little dog that loved him, he wouldn‟t have felt quite so alone. The signs had all been there. He‟d cried out for help more than once. There were days he‟d begged her to let him stay home from school, feigning sickness. He‟d even told her about the bullying. What was she supposed to say, though? What could she have done other than offer him encouragement? It was a matter of his low self-esteem, she knew this. It had made him an easy target. With his slight stature, his softer mannerisms, and his social insecurity, he was practically defenseless. They‟d all tried to help him. Darryl, her husband, had talked to him on several occasions, giving him fatherly advice. He‟d done his best to instill a sense of manliness and pride in his son, but it was not enough. They should have gotten him counseling, maybe. Maybe he‟d needed medication, anti-depressants, perhaps. It didn‟t matter now. It was too late to second-guess what they had done—or hadn‟t done. She‟d never again hear his laughter, see his smile. Never again would she wipe that annoying lock of hair from his forehead or kiss his cheek. She‟d never feel her son‟s arms around her, clinging to her. Caiden was gone, and all she had left were memories, memories and regrets.

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IT MADE no sense to Tina why she couldn‟t get that kid out of her head. He really shouldn‟t have meant anything to her. It shouldn‟t even have been a surprise that he‟d do something so stupid—offing himself like that. What did it prove? What did he accomplish by doing such a selfish thing? All it proved was how weak he actually was. It proved that he was every bit as pathetic as they all said he was. But she kept seeing him in her mind. He‟d stared up at her that day when she reached down to pick him up, and he looked so sad. He looked so hurt. It wasn‟t like Tina to allow herself to become emotional like this, especially over someone she barely knew. Yet it seemed everyone was in some way affected by this. It was all over Facebook, on the news, and the only thing that anyone talked about in school Monday. How ironic it was that this kid whom everyone had picked on and put down now was such a celebrity in his death. Midafternoon, posters began to go up in the halls bearing a school photo of Caiden, advertising his memorial service. Television crews were outside, talking to students as they left that afternoon, interviewing them to see how well they knew the boy. It was so random, so stupid, really. She watched from afar, noticing that one of the reporters was talking to Barry Shelton. Wasn‟t he one of the kids in the hall that day who‟d tripped Caiden? What the fuck could he possibly have to say about the kid? She stood there, shaking her head, debating whether or not she was going to confront him, remind him of his culpability, when someone stepped up beside her. They were together on the front steps of the school, Tina and Rick, and his voice startled her a bit. “I can‟t believe he‟s gone,” Rick said, his voice hoarse. “He was just here three days ago, and now—now he‟s dead.”

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She knew who he was. She‟d heard the whole story. She knew Rick was one of the guys who‟d tormented him Thursday in the locker room. “You what?” she asked. “Did you just say you can‟t believe he‟s gone?” Rick nodded. “I… I wish….” “You wish you hadn‟t been such a motherfucker. You wish you‟d have had the balls to do the right thing. You wish you didn‟t have his blood on your hands.” He stared at her, wide-eyed, not responding. “Do you think because you‟re a fag that the two of us have anything in common? You make me sick. What you did to that boy was… I ought to beat the living crap out of you right here.” Rick didn‟t step away. He didn‟t argue. He just hung his head in shame. She felt her anger rising within her as she balled her fist, ready to strike at any second. She let the wave pass and then just shook her head disgustedly and turned to walk away. “Wait,” he said. “Please.” Reluctantly, she turned to face him again. “You‟re right,” Rick said. “It was terrible what I did. Even worse, though, is the reason why I did it. “ He paused and took a deep breath, then continued. “I never hated Caiden because he was gay. In fact, I didn‟t really even know for sure if he was or wasn‟t, but I hated the idea that he might be. I didn‟t want someone like that to be gay, because I‟m gay myself. “But I thought I was better than Caiden. I was better looking—had a better smile, a better body, and much better hair. I was smarter than him, more popular, superior in every way.

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“It was sort of like I‟d become the poster child for gay teens here at school. I was openly gay, and yet I was perfectly normal. I was good in sports, had lots of friends, and my argument always was that gay people are just like everyone else. “Caiden ruined everything—or he would have, if he‟d come out of the closet. Didn‟t he just fit all the negative stereotypes? He was a weakling, a complete social reject. He was nerdy, had no fashion sense, and he had the wimpiest, whiny voice I‟d ever heard. He was a little queen.” “And now you don‟t have to worry about it. Now he‟s not around to ruin anything for anyone.” “Tina, I‟m sorry!” Rick cried. “I‟ve never had patience for people who constantly view themselves as victims. Why didn‟t he ever—even once—just stand up for himself? Why didn‟t he have any backbone at all?” Tina recalled asking herself these same questions. “Maybe… maybe he couldn‟t. Maybe he felt trapped. Maybe he really was weak and he just needed a little bit of help. And maybe it was up to people like us to give it to him. But we didn‟t.” Rick shook his head. “I didn‟t,” he confessed. Tina stepped closer to the attractive boy, now not feeling the urge to hit him but more a desire to embrace him. It was he who now seemed most vulnerable. “I‟ve been through some shit,” she confessed. “I‟ve been a victim myself, and I swore a long time ago I‟d never let anyone hurt me that way. Ya know, that‟s why I‟m such a badass. That‟s why I have such an attitude.” “You have an attitude?” Rick asked sarcastically. “I never noticed.” She smiled at him. “Just last week I watched a whole group of kids torment him,” she remembered. “They kept tripping him, and I went over and helped him up. I could have really helped him, but I blew it. Instead I told him how pathetic he was.” She felt the sting of her own tears streaming down her cheeks.

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It was Rick who made the first move, stepping over to embrace her. She melted into his arms, finally allowing herself to release the weight of her guilt in a single anguished sob. “It‟s too late,” she cried. “It‟s too late to help Caiden Matthews!”

RICK stood before the small group of students that had gathered. It was exactly three weeks after the memorial service, the most profoundly sobering event of his life. He recalled how the crowd had gathered. There were so many in attendance that they would not even fit within the church. The current group was much smaller and far more intimate. It was a group of students, just like Caiden and him. Not all were gay. Not all were popular, and not all were outcasts. Not all were male. They were the beginning of a gay/straight alliance, a club that he and Tina had started together. Liz Marie was one of the original members, and it was she who‟d proposed they name their club “The Caiden Matthews Gay/Straight Alliance.” Her proposal had been approved unanimously. Rick felt very nervous, probably more than he should have at the moment. He was used to being the center of attention. He was used to being popular. He gulped and tried to steady himself, feeling the nervous jitters—the butterflies in his stomach and the knocking of his knees. “I‟m sorry,” he began. “I‟ve got to confess, I‟m a little nervous.” He looked over at the easel beside him, the one that contained an 11x14 inch photograph of their group‟s namesake. He looked into the dark-brown eyes of the boy they‟d lost and took a deep breath.

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“Caiden Matthews was different than you and me,” he said. “You know, we spend a lot of time trying to convince the world that gay people are no different than everyone else. We are very proud of the fact that we have gay athletes and gay doctors and lawyers and entertainers. We enjoy bragging about just how normal we are. We even go so far as to call ourselves „straight acting‟. “Well, Caiden wasn‟t like that. Caiden really was different, and nobody here can honestly say that he was just like everyone else. He didn‟t like sports. He wasn‟t tough. He wasn‟t obsessed with his own popularity. He was just a kid who was trying to make it through a really treacherous time. “And Caiden was different. Caiden was special. Caiden had value, and his memory continues to remind us that although he was so drastically different than all the rest of us, we all have a little bit of him within ourselves. “I didn‟t do right by Caiden. I didn‟t support him or offer him my friendship when he needed it. My own selfishness and fear very well may have contributed to his departure. But I hope that as we move forward, I can be a better friend to the next Caiden I meet. I hope that when I see someone who feels weak or vulnerable, I will extend my hand and offer my shoulder. I hope I will have the courage to defend them for being themselves. “I only pray that I can be a better person because I was fortunate enough to have known Caiden Matthews.”

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Invisible

IN

ALL honesty, I really do like my name. Chase Alexander Devereaux. I think if there‟s one thing that my mom did right, it was picking out a unique, cool-sounding name for her kid. Sometimes I wish I were as cool looking as my name, though, or that I didn‟t always act like such a fag.

Really, it‟s not deliberate. Sometimes I try very hard to be anything but gay. I watch the other guys—and I know what you‟re thinking. You think I mean I check them out, and yeah, I can‟t help but do that too. But what I‟m saying is that I watch the really normal guys, the ones who are into sports, who act all totally straight, and I try to copy them. I try to lower the timbre of my voice, not sound so nasally when I talk. I try to gesture with my hands in a manly sorta way instead of all limp-wristed and girly. I try to remember not to sit with my legs crossed, and I try really hard to avoid throwing a ball like a girl. Sports just really aren‟t my thing, though. It‟s weird ‟cuz you‟d think I‟d be all about sports. That‟s where all the hot guys

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are. All the muscle. All the butt-swatting and high-fiving, hugging on each other during the games. But I just know I‟m not good at it. I suck at almost all sports, and like when I try to participate in sports at school, I just make a fool of myself. Then the guys see what a dork I am, and instead of them liking me and thinking of me as their team member, they ridicule me. They tell me to quit being such a sissy and man up. I‟ve been trying to man up all my life, really. I can‟t honestly say that I‟d ever wanna be anything like my older brother Daryn, but there are times I envy him. At least he was good at Little League baseball. No one ever called him a fag, and if they did, he‟d have killed them. Daryn says I‟m the cause of a lot of my own problems. He tells me to just quit acting the way I do and people will stop treating me like such an outcast. Sometimes I just hate him. He doesn‟t really know anything about me, and he‟s my own brother. Today‟s gonna be different. I hope. I‟m so nervous that I think I might throw up. Maybe I shouldn‟t wear this tie. See, I want to look nice because I have a big day at school. I‟m giving a speech in my Oral Communications class, and like the whole class is going to be watching me. Nobody wears dress shirts and ties to school, though, so maybe I‟ll just wear this polo shirt. No, I can‟t wear short sleeves. Then it‟s even more obvious how puny my arms are and how much a sissy I am when I gesture with my hands. I‟m gonna wear this long-sleeve pullover. It‟s casual looking but not in a slobbish sorta way. I can‟t remember if I‟ve ever seen any of the cool kids wearing a shirt like this. I don‟t know. Definitely jeans, though. I gotta take off these khakis and find a pair of jeans. It sucks because Oral Communications is right after lunch, and lunch is right after gym. I hate having gym third hour, right in the middle of the day. Our teacher is such a jerk. It‟s like I know he hears the stuff that the other guys say to me and he just like totally ignores it. One time I even heard him laugh when one of ‟em made a joke about how I was running. His name is Coach

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Schraeder, but most of the kids call him Schraeder the Masturbator behind his back. They‟re probably right. I think he has, like, two brain cells. Brad is the worst. He‟s in my gym class, and he‟s, like, the leader or something. He‟s the one who always starts stuff. He says the first insult, and then the others laugh, and usually they join in. Even the other kids who are otherwise nice can‟t help but snicker at some of the mean things he says. I‟ve tried to defend myself, to talk back to him a little bit. That makes it worse, ‟cuz then he just mocks me. He like repeats back everything I say in an overly effeminate girly voice, and then everyone really does laugh. Ya know, I feel like I‟m about two inches tall when he does that. I just want to die. I really do hate Brad, but then, on the other hand, I can‟t deny how hot he is. He‟s totally a jock, and he has perfect hair. I sometimes wish I looked more like Brad. Instead I have this kind of hair that never looks good no matter how I comb it. When people look at him, immediately they want to be his friend. He has this smile that totally disarms you. He‟s so perfect-looking that you want to believe everything he says. You wanna feel like you‟re his best friend. I‟ll never be Brad‟s friend, though. Even if he changed and stopped picking on me, I‟d still always hate him for what he‟s already done. Once he flushed my head in a toilet. He shoved me into my locker and closed it. He‟s knocked me down more times than I can count, and he‟s called me every name you could even think of. Nobody is ever gonna tell on Brad, though. They‟d be stupid if they did. It‟d be like suicide. He‟s so popular that even the teachers like him. Really I think even if the teachers knew all the mean stuff Brad did, they wouldn‟t do anything about it. My speech is about global warming. We had to pick a controversial topic and make an argument for it. I know it‟s not really that controversial of an issue anymore. Everyone knows

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global warming is happening. It‟s so obvious, but still there are a few morons left in the world who are in denial. I‟m so nervous about it—I‟m gonna throw up! Yeah, I like the shirt, and thank God, it‟s gonna be a good hair day. Ugghh! Is that a zit? I have this big frickin‟ zit right in the center of my forehead. Why does this always happen? Why today? I gotta get goin‟, though. I can‟t keep obsessing about this stuff. It doesn‟t matter if I have a zit or not; nobody cares. It‟s not like I have anyone interested in me. And nobody‟s even gonna care about my speech either. Mom‟s already left for work, and Daryn gets a ride with his friends. I walk. It‟s only like fourteen blocks, maybe a couple miles at the most. Sometimes my friend Shelly walks with me. She lives on the next block, but if her mom isn‟t working, she gets a ride to school. Her mom‟s pretty cool, and sometimes she swings over and picks me up. Not always, though. Her mom‟s like pretty much a scatterbrain, and she‟s always running late. Shelly didn‟t text me, so I guess I‟m on my own today. It‟s strange how my one and only friend is a girl, and really I don‟t even like girls—not that way, anyhow. I told her last year—when I was fourteen—that I‟m gay. She was cool about it, and she kinda acted like it was no big deal. Even though she knows a little bit about the stuff with Brad and his friends, I don‟t tell her everything. In fact, I never even told her about the swirly incident. It was too embarrassing. Plus, Shelly is kind of popular herself. She‟s not popular like Brad, but she is definitely not one of the school losers like me. She‟d probably say something to one of the teachers if she knew all the times Brad tormented me. That‟d just make things worse. Or like she might even say something directly to Brad, and that would be a catastrophe. But really I think she sort of likes Brad, well, at least as much as all the other girls in school do. Brad‟s really friendly to the girls, and it‟s almost impossible for them not to like him.

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As always, the school hallways are so crowded. Seems weird to be so invisible amongst all these people, but invisible is good. An invisible day is a better-than-average day. Invisibility means no name-calling, no fag jokes, no gut punches or pranks. On an invisible day, I make it out unscathed. Sometimes I‟m even able to feel good about myself—about the A I got in geometry, about the positive comment Mr. Phillips wrote on my composition paper, or about the fact that Trent Richards smiled at me. Trent‟s my fantasy lover. LOL! Seriously, he is just the nicest guy. He doesn‟t have the model looks or the muscle that a guy like Brad has, but he‟s every bit as dreamy. Trent is quieter, but he‟s not nerdy like me. I‟m like 100 percent positive he‟s not gay, though. One time back in my freshman year I helped him with his Algebra assignment, and sometimes I wish he‟d need my help again. “Shelly, wassup?” Her locker is only a couple doors down from mine. “Nice shirt,” she says, smiling at me. “What‟s the occasion?” I shrug. “Nothin‟… but thanks. Ya know, I gotta give that speech today.” “Really? Cool. You ready?” I sigh. “Oh my God, I‟ve, like, rehearsed it a zillion times. I hate this. I hate public speaking!” She steps closer to me, placing her hand on my arm, just above my elbow. “You‟ll do fine. Chase, you‟re so smart. I can‟t wait to hear your speech.” I laugh nervously, embarrassed. “It‟s dumb really. Boring… global warming.” Now she shrugs. “Better than mine. I‟m doing veganism.” “Is your speech today too?” I ask, closing my locker and holding a stack of books against my chest.

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She nods. “Oh, don‟t worry, I‟m sure I won‟t outshine you. I could‟ve done more research, ya know.” “Wow, well I‟m glad….” I stammer a bit. “Um… I mean, I guess misery loves company, ya know. Glad we‟re doin‟ it the same day.” Someone behind us tugs at her arm. It‟s her friend Kelli. “Come on,” she says, ignoring me. “Hey, I‟ll try ta catch up with ya at lunch, okay? Don‟t be nervous!” Quickly, she turns to give her attention to her airhead friend. “Okay, thanks,” I mumble. She doesn‟t hear me. Well, it‟s cool. First and second hour are snoozers. Geometry and Biology. My favorite class is fifth hour Composition. Sixth hour is Spanish. As long as I can get into my first hour classroom unnoticed, everything will be fine. Nothing ever really happens „til gym. That‟s when I have to deal with Brad and his friends. Maybe I should skip gym today. I hardly think the Masturbator would even notice my absence. I can say I‟m sick, and I won‟t be lying. I do feel like I might puke. No, that‟ll ruin my attendance record, and I might get sent home. Then I‟d have to do my speech another day and go through it all again. I‟ll just stay invisible. Hopefully gym will be free period like it is half the time. Lot of times the coach doesn‟t feel like conducting any sort of organized activity and just lets us do whatever. Shoot hoops, use the weightlifting equipment. I can do what I always do—bounce a dodge ball against the wall for an hour. Geometry‟s boring. Who cares about axioms and theorems? All I can think about is the speech. I have it memorized, every last word. I‟ve said it aloud maybe a thousand times. I can do it. It‟s just like five minutes. Then it‟ll be over with. It‟s no big deal,

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really, not in the scheme of life. It seems big now, but it‟s just another assignment. God, why can‟t I be like Shelly? She has to give a speech too, and she doesn‟t even seem worried about it. The worst thing is that Brad‟s in my speech class too, and so is Trent. When I mess up, which I know I will, Brad‟s gonna laugh his ass off. It‟ll just give him one more reason to abuse me—more ammunition. And I can‟t humiliate myself, not in front of Trent. I‟d die. I‟d totally just die! God, I‟m so glad first hour‟s over. Two more hours, then lunch… then… oh man. I gotta get to Biology, but I‟m gonna be sick. I head for the bathroom. I hate this. Oh God, I‟m on my knees, puking into the toilet. Please don‟t let anyone come in. Please let me stay invisible! Thankfully I only get a stern look from Mrs. Dennison when I walk into Biology two minutes past the bell. I take my seat, opening my textbook to the page number she has written on the chalkboard. She calls on me, asking me a question about photosynthesis. I guess it is my punishment for my tardiness. Thankfully, I know the answer. She moves on. Invisible again. My heart begins to race when the bell rings. Gym! Why does this one hour seem like ten? Sixty minutes… no, really only fifty. Third hour is from 10:05 to 10:55 a.m. I can do it. I can blend in for fifty short minutes, and then it‟ll be over. Then my speech. I‟m gonna throw up again! No, calm down, Chase. You‟re such a fag. Brad‟s right. Quit acting like a wuss. Man up like Daryn said. It‟s a frickin‟ speech, for God‟s sake. No big deal. “We‟ve got physical fitness tests coming up, and today we‟re gonna start getting ready.” Coach Shraeder is addressing the class. We sit on the bleachers, hanging on his every word—not! I hear what he‟s saying but am only half listening. All I can think about is

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my speech class. He says something about four categories. Pullups, sit-ups, running, and push-ups… I don‟t know. Whatever. Coach has us count off into four groups. Shit! I end up in Brad‟s group. Of course Coach selects Brad as the group leader. This totally sucks. Each group is sent to a different corner of the gym. We have to work on the particular physical fitness requirement, and the group leader then writes down our result. Running is the easiest, and that‟s what we do first. We start at our corner and run laps around the perimeter of the gym. We have to complete a mile, and we run together as a group. Not hard to blend in. I go unnoticed. We don‟t have any fat kids in our group, and everyone pretty much keeps up. You just have to complete a mile, that‟s all. Doesn‟t matter how long it takes. I‟m out of breath after the run, and I slink off to the corner. I sit on the bleachers, waiting for the whistle that will indicate that time is up and we must move on to the next category. Brad‟s writing on his clipboard, checking off the names. “Faggot!” I know he‟s talking to me, and I look up. “Get your lazy ass over here and quit slacking! I should make you run again.” I look at him, bewildered. I try to speak, but there‟s a lump in my throat. “Why you think you get to sit your lazy faggot ass down while the rest of us are out here participating? Did I say you could take a break?” I look around me. Several of the boys in our group are sitting on the gym floor. We‟re exhausted from the run. “Um… no, I‟m sorry,” I say. I know what I sound like. I know he‟s gonna mock me. He rolls his eyes and turns away. Invisible again. The whistle blows and we move to the next event. It‟s chaos for a few moments as the entire class changes places in the gym. Sit-ups. Another easy event. I can do a million sit-ups, I swear. We only have to do fifty, though. I get paired with a partner named

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Steve. He‟s all right. He‟s never picked on me, but I can tell he‟s disappointed that he got stuck with me. Steve‟s skinny like me, and we get done with our sit-ups early. Brad comes over and is holding his clipboard. He addresses Steve, ignoring me. “You guys done?” “Yeah.” Steve nods. “You did your fifty?” Again, we both nod. “What about you, fag?” he finally speaks to me. “Did you do ‟em all?” He‟s starting to piss me off. Why‟s he always got to call me names? I feel my face redden. “I did ‟em,” I reply. “What?” he says, really loudly. “Speak up, queerboy!” “Yes! I did them.” My voice is squeaky. “Do twenty-five more. Now!” I stare up at him disbelievingly. “You heard me! Do twenty-five more or I‟m marking you „incomplete‟.” I look at Steve. He shrugs, and I know I have no choice. I again assume the position and do my extra sit-ups. It‟s so humiliating I think I might cry. My face is hot, but I don‟t say anything. I remember what Daryn said. I gotta man up. The hour‟s half over; then it‟ll be done. I‟m worried about the pull-ups and push-ups. I have no strength in my arms. They‟re like twigs, really. I‟m pretty sure I can do the push-ups, though, but I‟m already tired. The extra situps didn‟t help. The anxiety over the speech doesn‟t help either. Brad doesn‟t even do any push-ups himself. He doesn‟t need to. He‟s already ready for the physical fitness tests, which is why he was chosen to be a group leader. He walks back and forth, first in front of us, then circling around behind. I‟m doing my set,

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twenty-five total, and I‟m on number eight. My arms are starting to shake. I doubt I can do seventeen more, but I press on. I know he‟s behind me. He‟s stopped walking. “Count ‟em aloud!” he orders. I think he‟s addressing the group, but his remark is directed solely at me. “I said count ‟em, faggot!‟” I stop, my chest pressed against the floor. I feel that same embarrassment, and I‟m pissed. I push myself with all my strength. “Nine!” I yell. “Ten… eleven.” I feel his foot pressing into my back as he steps on me, forcing me down. “Five!” he yells, resetting my count. This can‟t be happening! My arms are again shaking. As he removes his foot from my back, I continue. “Six… seven… eight.” His foot slams into my lower back a second time, again forcing me flat against the floor. “Five!” I feel the tears, and now I‟m visibly trembling. “Please,” I beg. “What?” he yells. “Speak up, faggot!” All the others have finished their set. They‟re watching me, and I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks. I hear snickering and laughter. I‟m mortified, but I can‟t stop crying. The whistle blows. “Incomplete!” Brad calls out, checking the box on his clipboard and smirking at me. “You‟re such a wuss.” He walks away from me, and the group heads over to the final event. I wipe my face on my T-shirt and head over to the corner that contains the pull-up bar. I‟m last in line, of course. We have to do five pull-ups, and I‟m terrified. I‟ve never been able to do even one pull-up, and today is worse than normal. I‟m already worn out, and the push-ups made my arms feel like jelly. As I watch the other group members, it seems so easy. A couple of them struggle on the last one or two, but they all complete their sets. Now it‟s my turn.

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I step into place below the bar. I wait for Brad to grab me by the waist and hoist me up like he‟s done with the other guys. Instead, he shoves a step stool in front of me. Leaning in as if to whisper in my ear, he speaks real loudly. “I ain‟t touchin‟ you, faggot.” Thank God for small favors. I don‟t want him to touch me. I step up on the stool and stretch to reach the bar above my head. As I do so, I notice how quiet the gym is. I glance around me. Everyone‟s done with their events, and I‟m the last one. I take a deep breath, hoping the whistle will blow and save me. “Hurry up!” Brad orders. I look to my left and see Trent. He was in another group, but of course they‟re done. As I grip the bar, I feel the step stool being removed, and suddenly I‟m just dangling there. I look into Trent‟s eyes. I gotta do this! I can‟t let him see me fail. How mortifying! I strain myself and pull against the bar, willing myself to rise. I can do it… just gotta get my chin up over this bar. Oh my God, it’s so hard! I‟m trembling, my arms shaking. Please, God, help me! I get halfway up, but it‟s no good. I fall back down, desperately clinging to the bar. Brad bursts into laughter. “Come on, faggot! You can at least do one!” Now Brad‟s not the only one laughing. Trent is right there, standing behind Brad. He‟s watching the whole thing, and I wonder what he thinks. He knows Brad is right. He can see what a wimp I am. He can see how much of a fag I am compared to everyone else. I‟m so emotional. I feel the sting of my tears on my cheeks. “He‟s crying!” Brad announces. “He‟s a faggot and a crybaby!” My arms give out, and I release the bar, tumbling to the floor. “Incomplete!” Brad says, and once more I hear the laughter.

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I look up from my humble position on my knees and see Trent staring down at me. He‟s not laughing, but he doesn‟t say anything either. He just turns and walks away. The whistle blows. I wait for the others to finish their showers before I take one myself. I‟m the last one out, and as I head for the cafeteria, I know I can‟t eat. Instead I turn and go down to the bathroom, quickly scurrying into the back stall. I‟m going to vomit again. I can feel it, but there is nothing left in my stomach. Dry heaves are the worst. They hurt worse than the sit-ups. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself, and sit on the toilet seat. Why am I crying again? Why do I always have to cry? I look up at the wall and see the graffiti, and it really is the last straw. There it is—my name—written in bold black permanent marker: CHASE D SUCKS COCK. When did it all start? When did I become this victim? It must be something about me, some characteristic or defect that has made so inferior. Bad luck? Poor genes? Daryn isn‟t like me, though. It‟s just weakness. The worst thing about it is that most of what Brad says about me is true. I really am a fag. I really am gay, and even though I‟ve never come out to anyone but Shelly, they all know. They all know what I am, and they know I deserve everything I get. Of course they do, or they wouldn‟t just stand there watching as Brad humiliates me. They wouldn‟t laugh at my expense. Trent wouldn‟t just stare at me, standing there like a statue. Certainly he‟d say something in my defense… unless he felt the same as Brad. Unless I deserved it. I know I can‟t give my speech now. Brad is right. I‟m a weakling. I‟m a failure. I‟m incomplete. I decide what I‟m going to do. I‟ll tell Mr. Frye that I‟m not ready with my speech. I‟ll take an F. It doesn‟t really matter. My grades are good enough that I‟ll still pass the class.

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I sit there on the toilet seat for the next forty minutes, waiting for the bell. Finally it rings, and I go wash my face and head for speech class.

I

SLIP into my seat right before the final bell, and Shelly leans

over to me. “Where were you? I saved you a seat at lunch.” I don‟t have time to answer before the bell rings. Class starts immediately. “We have a lot of speeches to get through and less than an hour to do it. Let‟s get started.” Mr. Frye pulls a lectern over to the center of the room, directly in front of the chalkboard. “Who‟ll be first?” Brad stands up without even raising his hand. “I‟ll go first, Mr. Frye,” he volunteers, and steps forward, sliding behind the podium. “Very well, go ahead, Mr. Davenport.” Brad‟s speech is on steroid use. Yawn. His delivery, though, is animated. He speaks confidently and with conviction, and Mr. Frye seems impressed. So do the students, and they give him a big round of applause. The next volunteer steps forward, this time a girl named Mindy. Shelly gives her speech about halfway through class, and she does well. She‟s so convincing that I debate committing to veganism myself. There are only about four students left, none of them volunteering. Mr. Frye has to choose someone, and he picks Randall. I heave a sigh of relief, praying we run out of time before it‟s my turn.

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There are fifteen minutes left in class and only two remaining speeches that haven‟t been presented. Trent and I are all that remain. “I‟ll go next,” Trent offers. I cross my fingers and hope he‟s long-winded. As Trent steps behind the lectern, he looks down at his notes and then out at his audience. He seems nervous, and I think his knees are actually wobbling a bit. I feel for him, empathizing with his anxiety. I‟d have never expected him to be the type to fear public speaking, though—not Trent! He takes a deep breath and then slowly lets it out. His sigh is audible, and it feels almost like time has stood still for a few moments. Then he speaks, his voice wavering at first. “Teen bullying is an epidemic in the United States,” he says. I stare at him wide-eyed as he looks up. His gaze locks upon my own. “And it‟s got to stop!” The room is deathly quiet, and I think I hear my own heart beating in my ears. Trent pauses as if collecting his thoughts, and then he looks down at his notes. Quickly, he picks them up and tears them in half rather dramatically. He tosses them behind himself, and they cascade to floor. “I have a lot of statistics. I can tell you how many kids have killed themselves in the past two years as a result of bullying. I can tell you how many of them were gay or lesbian. I can tell you which states they are from and what hate crime laws we have in place in each of these states. “I can tell you a lot of things about bullying and what it does to a person.” Tears are forming in his eyes as he continues. “But sadly, I can‟t tell you that I‟ve done my part to make it stop. “I‟m so sorry,” Trent says as he stares at me once again. “I‟m so sorry that I stood there all those times and said nothing. I‟m so terribly sorry….” He reaches up to wipe the tears from his cheeks as I feel the sting of my own tears running down my face. I wonder

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if he‟ll be able to go on; he seems overcome, and the entire room is stunned by the weight of his emotion. “I witnessed something today… a few minutes ago, actually. Something happened right here in our school, and let me tell you, there are horror movies I‟ve seen that were less scary.” He shakes his head and then looks out into the audience, making eye contact with several of his classmates. “You see, there‟s this person I‟ve admired for a really long time. I have no problem telling you who he is, but I‟m afraid that at this point to mention his name may only further add to his humiliation. Certainly he‟d have every right to be ashamed of me now, because… well, I‟m ashamed of myself. “This person I‟m talking about is so smart. He‟s the kind of kid who seems to know all the answers… like a genius or something. I don‟t get it, really. I don‟t know how somebody can store all that information in their head, but he does. “He‟s also a really nice guy. I‟ve never heard him say a mean word about anyone. When all the rest of us stand around talking smack about one another, he minds his own business. He doesn‟t tell cruel jokes. He doesn‟t make fun of anyone, and he‟s always very helpful. “I remember one time this person helped me in one of my classes. I guess I was too dumb to understand the material, but he never treated me that way. He saved my butt, really. And I bet he‟d do the same for just about anyone in this classroom.” Trent pauses and looks directly at Brad. “Well, almost anyone. “I‟ve been noticing for quite some time that he isn‟t treated right here. I‟ve heard a lot of people say mean and nasty things about him, call him names, mimic him mercilessly. They write things about him on the walls in the bathroom. They hurt him so badly that it makes him cry, and then… then they laugh at him for crying. “I heard a group of guys bragging about how they‟d taught him a lesson. They said they flushed his head in the toilet.” Trent continues to stare directly at Brad, who squirms a bit in his seat in

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spite of the cocky smirk that remains plastered across his face. “I guess they thought it was funny. I guess they thought he deserved it. “But I have to ask myself, „What‟d he ever do? Why does he deserve to be treated like this?‟ I think all of us know the answer to this. He‟s different. He‟s quiet; he‟s sensitive. He doesn‟t act like a macho jerk. He just doesn‟t fit in… and you know what that means. We all know what that means. You have to fit in around here in order to be accepted. God forbid someone could be their own individual. God forbid someone could be unique in any way!” Trent pauses and takes a deep breath. I‟m crying openly now, disbelieving the words I‟m hearing. Trent rubs his forehead and looks down as if ashamed before continuing. “What happened today was the worst thing I‟ve ever seen in my life. I saw this kid publicly shamed and mocked. I saw him tormented and called horrible names. I saw dozens of other guys standing around laughing while it was happening. And I saw myself there too… doing nothing! “When I think about it, there is so much I could have done. I could have intervened. I could have said, „Stop!‟ I could have given this kid some support, some comfort. I could have stood up for him. Instead I remained a bystander. “I remained silent and let it happen. Shame on me, and shame on all of you. Shame on you for knowing and doing nothing! Shame on you for ignoring what is happening right before your eyes. You all know it‟s wrong. I know it‟s wrong. Yet we all continue to allow it to happen. “I want to make a pledge to this friend. Well, actually I‟m not sure I deserve to even be called his friend. But regardless, I want to pledge to him from this moment forward, it will never happen again. Never! Never in my presence, and I‟d better never find out it has happened any other time. I don‟t know if he can forgive me for being a bystander to his torture, but I swear, I won‟t stand by silently any longer.”

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Trent is no longer crying. He‟s no longer shaking, and his knees have stopped knocking. He stands there confidently, seemingly enraged and passionate. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and then takes his seat. Mr. Frye is leaning down to pick up the papers from Trent‟s notes as the bell sounds. I turn to see Shelly‟s tear-streaked face, and then I smile meekly. I step toward her but suddenly stop as I make direct eye contact with Trent. He steps over and places his hand on my shoulder as I turn to him and find myself wrapped protectively in his warm embrace. I suddenly no longer feel invisible.

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I‟M NOT prejudiced. In fact, some of my closest friends are gay. The stylist down at the salon who does my hair is about as gay as they come, and honestly I think he‟s just fabulous. Very talented and artistic. I just think it‟s pretty much how they all are. Some of the world‟s most creative minds have been homosexuals. What bothers me, though, is when they try to push their sexuality off on others. Some things are just better off kept in private. I‟m not sure how we got to this point in society where we think we have to show everything. Two men kissing. Gay weddings. Now I would never go around telling other people how to live their lives. Whom a person sleeps with is their business. Not mine. But if you are one of those people who is attracted to the same gender, is it too much to ask that you just use a little discretion? Why do so many of them have to flaunt it publicly? I honestly don‟t need or want to know what you do in the privacy of your own bedroom behind closed doors.

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And call me old-fashioned, but I truly believe that marriage is the union of one man and one woman. Period! That‟s why God created Adam and Eve—not Adam and Steve! Lately, though, gay marriage is all you hear about. It‟s not enough for some of these radicals to have equal rights. They want special rights. They want to steal the institution of marriage and change this holy sacrament into something… well, into something perverse. Two men or two women cannot create children. How can they be parents? What kind of message is it going to send these poor children who are raised in these dysfunctional households? They even go so far now as to write children‟s books about the topic. Heather has Two Mommies! And this is written for a young child of eight or nine. I personally think this is just taking things a bit too far. I‟m sure my gay friends are all thinking, “Why‟s she saying all this stuff?” They know me, though. They know I love all people. I don‟t have anything personal against someone because of their sexual preference. That‟s not for me to judge. It‟s between them and God. I just don‟t want anyone trying to push it onto me. Back when I was in my early twenties, I worked with a gal who was known to be a lesbian. Her name was Mildred, and I told her straight up, “Millie, I‟m not interested in any of that funny business you do with other women.” She assured me we were just friends, and in that case, I‟m fine. I‟m fine so long as you don‟t go trying to put the moves on me. I don‟t want you assuming just because we are friends that there‟s any possibility that I might, ya know, jump the fence and head on over to the other side. So like I said, I‟m not prejudiced. I love and accept all people regardless of their proclivities. Gay, straight, black, Hispanic, Jewish—I don‟t care. I don‟t care what a person‟s sexual preference or skin color is. They can be black, white, or purple for all I‟m concerned.

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I know that people of all nationalities, races, and religions face the same problems. Life is hard sometimes. It‟s difficult for me as a single mom to raise two children. Of course, at this stage they are almost raised, and when I look at Cathy, my eldest child, I wonder, Where have the years gone? Cameron is three years younger. They‟re both really good kids. I couldn‟t ask for better, really. They‟ve never gotten into any trouble, always maintain pretty good grades. And Cathy is just brilliant. She plans to go into engineering. Can you imagine? My daughter, an engineer. The success of both my kids in no way is a reflection upon their father, though. He was gone from the picture before Cam was even walking on his own. Getting child support payments from him has been like pulling teeth. Long ago I gave up on the expectation that the court would catch up with him and force him to pay. He‟s thousands of dollars behind. My family of three has gotten by just fine, though. In the beginning, when the kids were real young, I worked two jobs. I was a cashier down at the grocery and I waited tables at night. My mother helped out by watching the kids. Eventually I got a fairly decent job with the utility company. That was eleven years ago, and I‟ve been there ever since. Still, there are times we struggle, and we have had to rely on the state to help us with food stamps or general assistance at times, but for the most part we‟ve managed on our own. And Cam is my little angel. He‟s always been the most wellmannered, thoughtful boy. From an early age, I knew he was never going to give me problems. The one thing I always worried about with him, though, was that he did not really have a male role model. I started to see how living with two females had affected him. Some of our habits and characteristics rubbed off on him or influenced him, at the very least. Once I caught him in my bedroom trying on my dresses. He was only about five years old then, and it was actually very cute. Of course I quickly steered him away from that sort of behavior and explained that there were

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certain things appropriate for little boys to do and certain other things for little girls. Still, he would ask Santa Claus for girl toys instead of boy toys, and he‟d play with his sister‟s Barbie dolls. For his birthday one year he begged me for an Easy-Bake Oven. I really didn‟t want to get it for him, because obviously that‟s a toy that was specifically made and marketed for girls, but then I thought about it. A lot of the world‟s greatest chefs are men. I also figured Cam would grow out of a lot of those behaviors. I knew it was simply due to the fact that he had no father around and no older brothers. It was just his big sister and me, and so of course he would pick up on our tastes. I liked the fact that the two of them were so close, but at times I‟d cringe when I saw her letting him paint her nails or play beauty parlor, brushing out her hair and styling it. It was when I caught her teaching him to crochet that I finally had to draw the line. But Cam did mature out of those girlish behaviors. By the time he was in the second grade, he‟d figured out that if he was going to ever be accepted by his peers, he had to conform to the societal norms. He apparently realized that none of the other boys played with dolls. They all played with army men, trucks, guns, and other rough-and-tumble boyish toys. Playing hopscotch and house were for girls. Cowboys and Indians was for boys, as was football, hockey, and war. This transition, though, did not occur exactly as I‟d have hoped it would. Instead of exchanging his penchant of little girl things for the more acceptable little boy alternatives, Cam seemed to just recede into himself. By the time he was in junior high, he was pretty much a loner. Of course he had a couple of close friends, both girls. And as he got older, he did begin to come into his own and start to find his identity. He became active in band, and he was an honor student. He took a drama class and thus was preparing to participate in the annual school play. Most uniquely, though, he developed a love for

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style. It was almost as if he was five or ten years older than his chronological age. He‟d look through catalogues, both print and online, and would pick out the most fashionable clothing. He had a sketch pad, several, actually, which he‟d use to create designs of his own, and when he entered the ninth grade, he informed me that he was going to take a sewing class. Well, here we go again, I thought. It was the crocheting and Barbie dolls all over. But Cam was older now, and I couldn‟t deny that he had a knack for this sort of thing. It was a genuine talent, I believed, and so I really didn‟t feel I had much of a choice but to support him. Mainly I was concerned for him and his well-being. I truly wanted him to fit in at school and to have a lot of friends. Doing something so different—going against the grain the way he always seemed to do—certainly would not help him to assimilate. I feared it would do the opposite, that he would become even more of a loner. The one thing about Cameron was that as a child, even during the times he seemed isolated and alone, he was happy. He was always the most cheerful, kind-hearted kid I‟d ever known. That‟s why I called him my angel, for he truly was. Not only was he upbeat and smiling all the time, but he was also what I‟d call very low maintenance. I never had to worry about him. He never said a disrespectful word to me, never argued or back-talked me. Perhaps when a parent has a kid like this, they eventually begin taking it for granted. Since I didn‟t have any problems with Cam, I never spent much time worrying about him. I was so focused upon working and churning my way through the daily grind that it was just too exhausting to trouble myself with the weight of nonexistent problems. Why should I stress over something that wasn‟t really a problem? Yes, Cam was a loner. He was an introvert. That was just his personality, and it needed not be something that I expended a great deal of energy trying to correct. In my view, it was not really something that needed correcting. Most parents would love to have

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a quiet kid like Cameron who was respectful, studious, and, dare I say, sophisticated. Really, that was how I viewed him. I didn‟t think his sense of style was something that was a liability. I considered it a quality of which I should be proud. He had an air of refinement about him. But it was that freshman year, the same semester when he began taking the home economics sewing class, that I began to notice a change. As I look back on it, I think perhaps it started long before I actually noticed, and I‟m ashamed to admit that instead of acknowledging that there might have been a problem, I rationalized the situation. I told myself I had nothing to worry about. I figured it was all a rite of passage, a matter of my son toughening up and becoming a man. He‟d always been quiet and reserved, but during that semester, it seemed he was starting to cut himself off even more from not only his small network of friends but from his family as well. He spent most of his time alone in his room, and our dinner table conversations became stilted. What used to be an opportunity for us to open up to one another and share the events of our day turned into strictly a question-and-answer session. I started to miss the happy-go-lucky Cam I‟d always known. Teenagers, I thought. I remembered how it was. I knew that once kids got a certain age, they didn‟t want to talk about their personal problems to their parents. They knew that adults just didn‟t understand them. The thing I thought I needed to do was to just give Cam some space. “Cam, were you not going to show this to me?” I asked, holding up his report card. I had found it under a pile of papers on the dining room bureau. He shrugged, saying nothing. “Cameron, you know I have to sign this so you can take it back to school. You know I had to see it eventually.” “I know,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

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“But you were afraid of what I‟d say? Well, mister, I can see why. How come you didn‟t tell me you were having problems in these classes? And why… why all of a sudden are you getting Ds?” “Mom!” he said, looking away, “I‟m sorry. Don‟t worry about it. I‟ll do better--” “What‟s wrong, Cam? Will you tell me what‟s going on?” Something definitely was amiss. Cam had never gotten poor grades, and now suddenly he had two Ds. He was looking down at the ground now, unable to make eye contact, shaking his head. “No, nothing‟s wrong. I just got behind, but I‟m caught up now, and I already got a better grade on my last Algebra test.” “Do you need a tutor?” I asked. “No! Please, Mom, no, I don‟t need a tutor. Just give me a chance… please.” And that was really the first sign. That was when there should have been not only a warning light that went off in my head but also all kinds of bells and sirens. My Cameron had always been a straight-A student, and now all of a sudden he was practically failing two of his classes. Honestly, I did debate going up to the school and talking to his counselor. I did think about scheduling a parent-teacher conference. I thought about hiring him a tutor after all, in spite of his objections. But it was easier to just take him at his word that everything was fine. I mean, what kind of parent would I be if I didn‟t have at least a little faith in my own kid? He had promised it was nothing, said he‟d just gotten overwhelmed and had fallen behind, but he‟d assured me everything was okay and he was on the right track for bouncing back. For Christmas that year, Cameron asked for a cell phone. Of course, he already had one, but it was just one of the cheap pay-asyou-go type. He wanted one with a touch screen, with texting

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capability and a QWERTY keyboard. In light of his poor report card, I should have held off. I should have told him no, that he first had to get his grades back up. Instead, though, I remembered what a great kid he was. He‟d always done so well previously, and I believed he was genuinely making an effort, so I got him the gift he‟d requested. If you‟re not a parent of a teenager today, you will have no concept of what I‟m about to say. The day that phone entered our household was the day I lost my son! OMG! All he did from that point on was text! And yes, it was something that permeated all other areas of our lives. Cam‟s vernacular started to change, and he began using abbreviations like “BFF,” “TTYL,” and “LOL.” We couldn‟t go anywhere without him having that damn thing open, constantly punching it with his lightning-fast thumbs. Well, I thought, at least this proves he has friends. Maybe he is not the most social kid in terms of face-to-face, in-person interaction, but electronically, he is a virtual social butterfly. When he wasn‟t texting on his phone, he was on his laptop. So maybe that was it, he was going to be one of these tech guys. Maybe he was going to be a computer wizard, a programmer or something. If so, he‟d be the first ever to have a legitimate sense of style. I had to laugh when I thought of it. My Cam, the next Bill Gates, but with fashion sense. It seems very strange to find Cam‟s cell phone lying on the living room coffee table that Saturday morning. He always has it with him. Even when he sleeps, he keeps it beside him on the bedside stand. I‟m tidying up, dusting and vacuuming, and when I hear his ringtone, I know he must be receiving an incoming text. Picking it up, I am rather startled by the message. HEY FAGGOT I don‟t recognize the sender, and so I scroll through his recent messages to discover there are several similarly offensive texts. They all are from this same person and all very degrading.

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I‟m a bit angry, of course. I wonder who this person is who‟s saying these things to my boy. I am in the kitchen when Cam stumbles out of bed an hour later. As he opens the refrigerator and retrieves a bottle of water, I place his phone on the countertop. “Oh… thanks,” he says, snatching it up. “Cam,” I say, “you got a text a few minutes ago. Who is this person who‟s sending you all these nasty messages?” “You read my texts?” he asks with a startled expression. “I‟m sorry, honey, but it was just sitting there. I couldn‟t help but see it, and when I saw the awful stuff he was saying… well, I‟m assuming it was a he who sent it—” “You looked through my message history.” “Cam! That‟s not even the issue. Okay, look, I‟m sorry if I‟ve invaded your privacy, but it‟s probably a good thing I did. Are you gonna tell me who‟s doing this to you?” He turns away from me, walking in the opposite direction. “It‟s nothing, Mom. It was just a joke, so don‟t worry bout it.” “A joke?” He is already back in his room. The door slams behind him. For the remainder of the day I am troubled as I try to stop thinking about the vitriolic text messages. The situation bothers me for two reasons. As a parent, specifically a mother, I‟m fiercely protective of my child. Of course I do not want to see him hurt. I know that Cameron has always been sensitive. He has a soft heart, and I suspect that the name-calling is painful to him. I suspect it hurts him far more than he‟s allowing me to see. But I‟m also bothered by the fact that he is so utterly nonresponsive. I guess I should be grateful that he has this forgiving quality that allows him to turn the other cheek. Or maybe

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it‟s just that due to his meekness, he is by nature nonconfrontational. But on some level, this is disturbing to me. A part of me wants him to be angry, to stand up and defend himself. I know if someone were making such accusations of me, calling me such nasty names, I‟d respond. The first thing I‟d do is deny it, make it abundantly clear that their remarks are absurd. Why doesn‟t Cam do this? Why doesn‟t he tell this kid that he‟s full of shit? Why doesn‟t he say, “I‟m not a fag”? I‟m thinking of these things while folding the laundry. Holding his small T-shirt in my hand and folding it just so, knowing how particular he is about his clothing. I then pick up his designer shirt, placing it aside because I know the instructions he‟s given me. “Don‟t fold my shirts, Mom… please. Just drape them over a chair or something. I‟ll iron them and hang them on a wood hanger.” He is the same way with his slacks, and certain clothing items he doesn‟t even allow me to touch. He actually takes them to the drycleaners. Perhaps this persnickety attitude about his appearance is one of the reasons he‟s being labeled with these awful names. Perhaps it is his perfect posture or the softness of his mannerisms. And his voice—he is so soft-spoken, but when he gets excited, his voice has this nasally quality. Usually it doesn‟t bother me, but…. I wonder if maybe I need to have a conversation with him, force him to talk about this. I certainly don‟t think it is his fault that some Neanderthal is picking on him, but there must be some things he can do to make himself less of a target. Perhaps he simply needs to be made aware of the fact that his behavior—his mannerisms, even—contribute to the perception that others have about him. Not knowing exactly what to do, I follow the same course of action I‟ve elected to adopt in the past. I wait. I do nothing. He told me the text messaging was nothing. He said not to worry about it. It was just a joke. I’m going to just let it go and try not to think about it.

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It is the following Monday morning, and as is often the case in a household with teenagers, things are pretty hectic. I‟m running late… again. Cathy‟s in one bathroom. Cam‟s in the other, and I‟ve got to leave for work like five minutes ago. “Cam, get a move on!” I holler through the door. No response. I roll my eyes and sigh in frustration. “Cameron James, the taxi‟s leaving! Hurry up.” He still does not stir, so I step over to the bathroom door. I hear him retching; it sounds like he‟s terribly ill. “Cam, honey, are you all right?” And he‟s crying. I turn the doorknob. Locked. “Cam, baby, can you open the door… please?” “I‟ll be right out!” he cries. I know by the timbre of his voice he‟s trying to conceal his emotions. “Cam, open up. What‟s wrong?” I‟m just about to call my supervisor and ask for a personal day when the door opens. His face is flushed, but he otherwise looks normal… I think. “Cameron, I heard you vomiting. Are you sick? Do you need to stay home today?” Quickly, he shakes his head. “No, I‟m fine. I was just a little sick to my stomach. Let‟s go or you‟re gonna be late.” “Wait! Wait a minute,” I say, grabbing his shoulder. “Cameron, were you crying in there?” He stares up at me, looking directly in my eyes, then quickly looks down, shaking his head. “No,” he says meekly. “Please don‟t lie to me, baby,” I say. “I‟m fine, Mom… please.” He turns away and heads for the kitchen, snatching up his backpack.

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I scurry behind him and follow him to the garage. He‟s quiet once in the car, and I‟m afraid to ask him again if he‟s okay. When we arrive at the school, I reach over and grasp his wrist. “Are you sure you‟re all right?” He nods, then pulls away. Something isn’t right, I tell myself as I sit in the office break room. I remember how Cam was always such a happy child. He‟s not happy anymore. He‟s miserable. His grades are slipping; he‟s become a recluse, and the only social contact he has with the outside world is through his computer and phone. Now I discover he is getting abusive text messages. He‟s in the bathroom crying and throwing up, and he‟s hiding it from me. From everyone. I can‟t procrastinate any longer. I can‟t put it off. “Mr. Normandy, I need to take the afternoon off.” “Is something wrong?” he asks, meeting my gaze with a look of genuine concern. “It‟s my son. I have to go talk to his counselor at school. I‟m sorry, sir, I wish I had been able to give you some warning, but it‟s a situation. It just came up--” “Terri, go right ahead. Of course, family matters come first. Sharon can cover for you this afternoon, and I‟ll put you in for a sick day.” “Oh, thank you, Mr. Normandy. Thank you so much.” The guidance counselor introduces herself to me as Cherie. The students know her as Ms. Trumball. She‟s African American, in her early thirties, I surmise. She listens intently as I explain everything to her, nodding frequently. “Why don‟t we get Cameron in here,” she suggests. “I really want to hear what he has to say.”

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“But…,” I stammer. “But Ms. Trumball… er, Cherie, I… I‟m not sure that‟s such a good idea. He‟s not likely to be too happy about me coming here.” She reaches across the desk and places her hand atop my own. “He needs to know how worried you are about him. He needs to know you care.” I stare at her, somewhat surprised by her words. “Why, of course he knows I care.” “Does he?” she asks. “What do you mean?” I say, pulling my hand back and placing it in my lap. “Mrs. Tyler, I‟m going to ask you a very blunt question.” She pauses, and I nod. “Is your son a homosexual?” “What?” I exclaim. I can‟t believe the words that are coming from her mouth. “How dare you!” Unfazed, she proceeds. “If you were to discover that Cameron was gay, would you support him unconditionally?” “Ms. Trumball, I don‟t know where you get off making these kind of assumptions—these accusations of yours! Just because some delinquent—some bully—is calling Cameron names, texting him nasty messages, this doesn‟t make my son queer!” Without raising her voice, she continues, “I never said Cameron was gay. I asked you if you knew. Do you? Do you know if your son is a homosexual?” “Of course I know! I know he‟s not!” “And if you‟re wrong?” “I‟m not wrong. I‟ve known Cameron all his life. I gave birth to him, for God‟s sake. I know he is not queer. He‟s just sophisticated. He has style and class, and he‟s a little on the shy side. Cameron is a bit of a loner. He‟s too timid really to ask girls

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out….” My voice begins to trail off as the pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place. The softer mannerisms, the Barbie dolls and playing dressup, the crocheting and sewing… his soft and sensitive heart. Cameron is artistic and has fashion sense. Literally all the stereotypes are there. All the signs, and I never saw them. Never. “Mrs. Tyler, if your son were to come out to you as a homosexual, would you be prepared to support him?” With tears in my eyes, I stare into her face, and I simply nod. She picks up her phone and requests that Cameron be sent to the office. We wait. He looks terrified when he walks through the door, especially when he sees me sitting there. He freezes for a moment, standing in the doorway. Cherie speaks. “Cameron”—she smiles warmly at him— “please come in. Have a seat. We‟re sorry to pull you from your class, but we need to talk to you.” “Mom,” he says, “what are you doing here? What‟s going on?” She doesn‟t give me a chance to answer, again motioning for Cameron to sit down. “Cam… may I call you Cam?” He nods. “We‟ve met only once, I believe. Beginning of this semester when you scheduled your coursework.” “Yes, ma‟am,” he says, nodding. “And I‟ve got to say, you made quite an impression. You were very decisive. Very articulate, and you had some interesting choices when it came to your classes.” “Yes,” he says quietly, not smiling. “Your mother‟s worried about you,” she says. “She‟s terribly worried about you. You aren‟t eating, you‟re on the verge of

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failing a couple of your classes. You‟re throwing up. Very emotional. You‟ve virtually cut yourself off from everyone, like a hermit.” Cameron looks over at me as if to ask, How could you have told her all these things? “And someone is sending you abusive messages on your phone. Probably more than one person. Am I right?” He doesn‟t answer, looking down at the ground. I see his shoulders start to tremble just slightly. “Someone is constantly badgering you, calling you names, labeling you. Someone is insulting you… every day. Probably all day long. If it is not on your phone, then it is on your computer. Your Facebook account, e-mail, Myspace. Am I right? “Cameron, please… please answer me. Please let us help you.” The tears begin to flow, and he nods. “Has anyone touched you? Have you been physically assaulted in any way?” He nods again, and I gasp. “Who? Who hurt you? And when?” she asks. He doesn‟t answer. “Cameron, can you start at the beginning? Can you tell us how this all started?” “I don‟t know,” he says quietly. “I don‟t know why they keep doing this to me.” “Who is it? Who‟s doing this to you?” I ask. He won‟t look up. I want to touch him, to reach out to him, hold his hand, but I feel frozen. My paralysis is something I don‟t

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understand. At a time like this, when my son is obviously hurting so badly, why can‟t I comfort him? I keep thinking about how blind I‟ve been. Now, at a time like this, when I should be thinking of his pain, I‟m overwhelmed by my own disappointment. I‟m disappointed in myself for not being able to see the truth about Cameron. I‟m disappointed in him for never opening up to me, never telling me. And I feel almost as if he just never tried. Isn‟t that what this is really about? It is about him— Cameron. It‟s about the choices that he made, that he continues to make. As if reading my mind, he finally speaks. “At first I tried to change.” His voice is so soft, so very quiet. “I tried to be different, to be more like them—the rest of them. But I don‟t know how, really. I don‟t know how to be someone other than who I am. “And Justin—I thought he was my friend. He made me believe it. He made me trust him. For a long time we talked every day. On the phone, online… texts, e-mails. I confided in him. To be honest, I really liked him.” “You loved him,” Cherie said. Cameron nodded, still not looking up. “I loved him, and I thought he loved me. But then he told. He told everyone. He copied my messages, posted them on other people‟s pages. They all knew who I was. They all know. Everyone knows what I am now.” “Cam, Justin misrepresented himself. He lied to you and then exploited you. He then betrayed your confidence and outed you—” “To the whole school.” “And it was after this point that the bullying started?” Cherie asks.

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“Kids I don‟t even know will point me out just to laugh at me. They call me names, even throw things at me. They shove me into lockers, flush my head in the toilet.” I can‟t believe what I‟m hearing from my son. “Cam, I‟m so sorry,” Cherie says. He‟s crying openly. “The worst is the messages. Justin knew my number and he told everyone. He posted it on his Facebook page. He posted my picture!” “Sweetie, we‟re going to fix that. I only wish you would have come to me. I wish I could have helped you sooner.” “You can‟t help me! It‟s too late; no one can help me!” He‟s now sobbing. Cherie does what I can‟t. She goes to him, holds him as he cries. She cradles his head against her chest, rocking him back and forth, soothingly reassuring him. I sit there like a statue, watching. When he starts to calm himself, she speaks. “We‟re going to get you a new phone, a new e-mail, and a new Facebook page. The cyberbullying is over… I promise. And we‟re going to deal with Justin and with anyone else who‟s tormenting you.” “It will just make it worse,” he says. He‟s still emotional, and his voice is a shrill whine. I have to look away. I sigh and then take a deep breath. This entire scene is surreal, like a nightmare. As the words escape my lips, I‟m not even sure where they come from. “Why didn‟t you ever tell me? Why did you lie to me for all this time?” “Mrs. Tyler,” Cherie says, “the boy is fourteen.” I understand her implication. I know she is stating the obvious to remind me of his vulnerability. He is so young, probably unsure himself of what all his feelings even mean. It doesn‟t matter to me, though. I‟ve known Cam all my life. I know he‟s known. I know he has kept this all a secret.

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“I‟m sorry,” he says. I still cannot look at him. I stare away, looking out the window. “I didn‟t want you to be ashamed.” His words fall upon me like a crushing weight. Just as I must admit that in my heart I‟ve always known Cam was different, I‟ve also always denied what it meant. I‟ve refused to see what was right before my eyes not because I was blind but because I was afraid. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed. It‟s almost too much for me now. I came here for a specific purpose. I came to get my son some help, to protect him and shield him from abuse. Now all I can think about is my own shock. It‟s more than I can digest, and I wish I were stronger. I wish I could forget about my overwhelming sense of disappointment and focus solely upon Cam and his pain. What kind of mother am I? My failure to respond to him speaks louder than any words I could say, and as Cherie steps behind her desk, again taking her seat, my son turns to me and finally looks me in the eye. “Mom,” he begins, “I‟ve known for most of my life that I‟m different. I think you‟ve known too. You‟ve always known. “To be honest, it was because of this difference that we‟ve always been so close. I‟ve never been like most other boys. I‟m the opposite of the nursery rhyme. I‟m made of sugar and spice… everything nice, not frogs and snails and puppy dog tails.” Cherie smiles at him sweetly, and in spite of myself, I smile as well. “But you‟ve had this expectation. You‟ve had this ideal of some kind. As a single mom, you‟ve wanted to prove something. Maybe it‟s that you wanted to prove yourself to Grampa. Maybe to your friends… to my dad. I don‟t know. Really, I think you‟ve mainly wanted to prove it to yourself.

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“You wanted to show the world that you could do it. You could raise two kids all on your own, and they would turn out just fine. The fact that Cathy‟s so smart, going into engineering—this is something that makes you proud. Look at your daughter. Look at how well you did raising her. And ya know what? You‟re right. You should be proud. I‟m proud of her too, and it‟s true that you did an awesome job raising her. “But when you think about the idea of me being gay, you cringe. It embarrasses you. You wonder what people will think… of you. You must‟ve done something wrong. You failed in some way because this is not the way things are supposed to be. I‟m supposed to grow up and fall head over heels in love with a sweet young girl. I‟m supposed to get married, have children, and be a huge success just like my sister. “Mom, I can‟t fulfill your dream. I can‟t be who you want me to be.” “Do you think that success and homosexuality are mutually exclusive?” Cherie asks. “Do you think it might be possible for Cam to be both gay and successful? Maybe the course of his life will lead to achievements beyond your wildest expectations, but perhaps they are just different than you‟ve always dreamed.” How did this become about me? I wonder. Why is it that suddenly I feel responsible for this situation my son is in? Wasn‟t I the one who initiated this? Wasn‟t I the one who took the afternoon off work to come down here, who was worried, who wanted to get him some help? And now here I sit in the hot seat, and I feel almost as if they‟re ganging up on me, accusing me. “I‟ve done the best I can, Cam.” I‟m angry at myself when the tears begin to flow. I didn‟t want to cry, not now. “I never wanted you to feel that I was ashamed of you. Honestly, I‟m not. I love you, and I‟m very proud of you,” He looks at me skeptically as if to say, “You just don‟t get it, Mom.”

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Then he smiles. “I don‟t blame you,” he says quietly. “It‟s really not your fault. Finally, I shift in my seat, unable to hold back any longer. I have to speak my mind. “I don‟t think this is fair. This isn‟t really even about me. I didn‟t come here to be judged on my parenting skills. I didn‟t come here to be blamed. I came to help you! “This situation is not about whether or not I like the fact that you think you may be… um… homosexual. That‟s beside the point. No matter what you are, you‟ll always be my son, and I‟ll always love you. And maybe… maybe the reason you have these feelings about yourself is because of what these kids have done to you. Maybe you‟re not even gay at all, but they‟ve been saying this for so long that you‟re starting to believe them!” “I‟m gay, Mom,” he says calmly. “I was gay long before anyone called me „faggot‟.” I retrieve my purse from the floor and remove a tissue, wiping my eyes. “Cam, how can you even know yet? You‟re still so young… and I don‟t think you‟ve even been with anyone yet. I mean, I hope not, anyway.” He laughs, straightening himself in his chair. That poise, that perfect posture, it reminds me again of why we‟re here. “I‟m still a virgin, if that‟s what you mean. But I bet you knew you were attracted to boys before you ever had sex with one.” I shake my head, exasperated. “But I think it‟s different for teenage boys than it is for girls. I think that when your hormones kick in, when you‟re that age—your age—things are confusing. You attracted to all kinds of things….” “It‟s true,” Cherie says, “boys are different from girls. And teenagers, male and female, do have a lot of confusing feelings. Nobody is saying that Cam has to commit to a label. “But what I‟m hearing from Cameron is not that he feels confused about his sexual orientation. I‟m hearing him say very

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pointedly that he‟s gay. I‟m hearing you say, though, that you‟re not convinced.” “I‟m not convinced! This whole thing is odd. It‟s like you want him to be this way—like you‟re almost recruiting him. The way you warned me before he even got here….” Cam looks at Cherie, confused. “I asked if you could support your son unconditionally if he were gay, and I asked you if he was.” “And I told you, of course I support him. That‟s why I‟m here.” “So you talked about this before I got here? You already knew?” Cam sounds as if he‟s on the verge of tears again. “Maybe you‟re right. Maybe I did know all along, or at least suspected. And honey, if you‟re gay, I‟ll have to find a way to accept it. I‟ll always love and support you no matter what. But this conversation is not helping. It‟s not why we‟re here. You‟re being bullied, and it has to stop.” “Mrs. Tyler,” Cherie says, folding her hands in front of her on the desk, “we are not leaving this room until we have dealt with the bullying. I‟m making you a solemn promise that I will do everything in my power to make sure this stops immediately. But beyond that, in order for Cameron to heal from this, he needs a support system at home. He needs a safe environment where he can be himself, free of judgment, labels, and above all, shame.” I‟m flooded with a range of emotions. Anger—how can this be true? Fear—what does it mean? And guilt—like a light bulb turning on in my head, I understand. I have indeed been ashamed. “Shame?” I say, biting my lip. “Shame that my son has perfect posture, sits with his legs crossed? Shame that he irons all his own shirts, that he likes to sew and cook? Shame that he learned to crochet and made me a beautiful afghan that I keep stored in the back of my closet? Shame that he has no interest in

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sports, that he loves musicals, that he‟s watched the movie Beaches at least three dozen times—” “Four dozen, Mom,” he says quietly. “Shame that he whines when he‟s emotional, that his voice is a little too nasally, that he‟s so sensitive? His features—his mannerisms, his movements, they‟re so soft and delicate. So utterly… feminine!” I‟m nearly sobbing now. “Yes,” he says, his voice practically a whisper. “All those things.” “I‟m sorry, Cam,” I say, overwhelmed by my own frank admissions. “I‟m so sorry.” “You think….” He‟s crying openly now. “You think that all these things were my choices. You think that even if I can‟t help it, even if it is something that comes natural to me, the very least I can do is try to change them.” I slowly nod, not in assent of his statement but as an acknowledgment that I‟m not blameless. And it dawns on me in those few seconds, as I‟m overcome with emotion and with a stark realization about myself: I‟m the biggest bully of all. “I told you every day, not with my words,” I say, “but with my actions—with my expectations, that you were not good enough. I‟m the one who has hurt you worst of all. “When I‟ve made my remarks about gay people. They shouldn‟t be out in the open. They should keep their perversions in private. They have an agenda. They… they… they shouldn‟t adopt children! “And for so long I thought I was this really open-minded person. I thought I was so hip, so cool, so tolerant. I said I wasn‟t prejudiced because my best friends were gay. “But my own son, the one I gave birth to, that I‟ve loved with all my heart, he can‟t be. He can‟t be different that way. It would

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just be wrong. And when I saw how you were--every day taking it in, seeing all the signs--I didn‟t want to believe. I couldn’t believe!” “But it‟s true,” he says. “I‟m gay.” I look him in the eye, taking in his beautiful face. “I know,” I whisper. “You‟re my son, and I love you… and you‟re gay.”

THE bullying stopped, but not really because of anything Cherie or I did. It wasn‟t only because the school started an intense educational program in which bystanders were encouraged to speak up. It wasn‟t just because we changed all of Cam‟s online accounts and got him a new cell phone number. It wasn‟t simply because I educated myself and finally provided my son with a safe environment, a refuge, where he could confidently report any abuse. The reason the bullying finally stopped was because Cam made it stop. He didn‟t go out and wage war against his tormentors, but he did stand up for himself. He spoke up, using the channels that were available to him, and exposed his bullies. He faced them down with pride in who he was rather than cowering in shame. Cam‟s latest report card—straight A‟s. He‟s busy in all sorts of school activities now, including a newly launched Gay/Straight Alliance club. He loves his sewing class and has made me three beautiful dresses, one of which I wore to the school play in which he had a major role. I‟m not prejudiced. My own son is gay, and one day he‟ll likely be married—if he wants—to a wonderful, loving, and supportive husband. He may or may not have children, and he may or may not live the lifestyle I‟d always imagined him to have. But I‟ll always be proud of him. He‟s my best friend.

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Kirby

“KIRBY, you are so fat that you had to go to Sea World to get baptized!” Tony said to me. We were in the cafeteria line, and the kid in front of us turned and laughed. “You‟re so fat, Kirby, that when we went to the beach the other day, a bunch of people gathered round and started chanting „Free Willy!‟” This time several students around us laughed. I stared at Tony momentarily, forcing a smile. “Very funny,” I said. I picked up a serving of mac and cheese, paused for a second, and then grabbed a second plate, sliding it onto my tray. Tony was my best friend, and I usually didn‟t mind it so much when he teased me about my weight. I knew he didn‟t do it to be mean, but it still made me feel weird. It was embarrassing, especially when he said stuff like that in public.

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“I‟m just kidding, man,” he assured me after we paid the cashier and headed to our table. “I really don‟t think you‟re fat at all.” I stopped in my tracks, staring at him disbelievingly. I was definitely fat, and everyone knew it. “You‟re not fat. You‟re just, um, thick.” He busted up laughing. “Get it? Thick, as in the opposite of thin.” Tony was like a freakin‟ toothpick. He had no idea what it was like to be overweight. He was one of those people who could eat anything and never gain an ounce. Sometimes it really irritated me, made me so jealous. But it was hard to be mad at Tony for long. He was my best friend, after all—like I said. He was probably the only person who could get away with saying stuff like that to me. Well, lots of people insulted me about my weight, to be honest. But Tony was the one person who could do it without me getting pissed. I think he knew I‟d always forgive him, and I was also confident that he didn‟t do it to be mean. When the other kids teased me like that, called me names or made cruel jokes about my size, I just wanted to kill them. I think that some of them were afraid I‟d do exactly that, and so they avoided saying things right to my face. I was a big guy, and I could really pulverize someone if I got mad enough. But the jocks didn‟t worry about that. They were the worst when it came to the name-calling and teasing. Lardass, Orca, Baby Hughie—these were just a few of the names I was called on a daily basis. Sometimes they embarrassed me. Sometimes they made me mad. Always they hurt me. When a person is oversized, they learn how to act like none of that stuff matters. They learn to brush off the cruel jokes and the gawking stares. They learn to ignore the snickers and offhand remarks. It‟s the only way to survive, really. Going through life crying all the time, feeling sorry for myself, would not be an option. I learned a long time ago that when it came to being

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crushed by fat jokes, well, um, I‟m bigger than that. Yeah—no pun intended. Before I started school I had no idea what fat was. I guess you might say that I came from a rather large family. I mean that literally. Both of my parents were obese. In spite of my size, I‟m the smallest member of our family. As I got older and realized I was different than most of the other kids at school, I started to contemplate why exactly I was so overweight. I‟m sure that it could be argued that there is a genetic component. Maybe it is due at least partially to my metabolism, and maybe this is a characteristic that I inherited from my parents. Tony could easily eat as much food as me, and he‟d never gain an ounce. Obviously, he hadn‟t inherited the fat gene like I did. But if I‟m going to be honest, I have to admit that the most significant factor of my obesity was my diet. From the time I was very small, I was rewarded with food. When I was a good boy, I got cakes, cookies, potato chips, and candy. When I was bad and throwing a tantrum, my mom gave me food to distract me and calm me down. She used food as a motivator, as a means of congratulating me, offering me assurance, and simply to express her love for me. She was the type of cook who felt honored when her dinner guest asked for seconds or cleared his entire plate. She never once warned me to slow down, to take smaller portions, or to stop eating when I was full. Every morning she‟d make me a stack of eight or ten pancakes, and I‟d eat until they were gone. This was in addition to the six to ten breakfast sausages and two donuts for dessert. When I was depressed or sad, Mom would bake cookies. When I got a good report card, she‟d make me a cake. She kept the cupboards stocked with lots and lots of delicious snack foods. Little Debbie snack cakes, potato chips or Doritos, cinnamon rolls, ice cream, pizza rolls, candy bars—you name it—they were always right there, waiting to be devoured.

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As I got older, it wasn‟t that I never tried to change. I tried many, many times to alter my eating habits. I tried to go on diets, or to cut back, or to “just say no.” But when there was a stack of pancakes in front of me, I‟d begin with really good intentions, taking only two. Then when those first two were gone, I‟d reluctantly take another… and another… and another, and eventually it would be an empty plate. If I felt sad, depressed, or angry, I ate. If I wanted to celebrate, I ate. If I was bored, I ate. As for exercise, by the time I was old enough to understand the meaning of the word, I was already too heavy to participate in most physical activities that other kids routinely did. I couldn‟t climb, jump, skip, or even jog like other children my age. I played on the Little League team when I was in grade school, and surprisingly I was a pretty darn good catcher. I could hit well too, but I was a horrible runner. Eventually I quit the team because I was self-conscious of my weight. Being heavy never stopped me from making friends or socializing. If anything, it had the opposite effect. I learned how to put on a happy face, laugh at myself and at the hurtful fat jokes. Like in the movie The Goonies, I was the “Chunk.” He was the loudmouth, the absolutely hilarious token fat kid that actually ended up stealing the show. I remembering watching that movie for the first time when I was a kid, and I hated Chunk. I hated him because he reminded me too much of myself. Most of the time my weight wasn‟t an issue to Tony. There were moments, like in the cafeteria, where he cracked a joke, but for the most part we were best buds. We‟d done everything together since we were in grade school. Both of us collected baseball cards, played video games, and loved the same movies. In the summer, we were inseparable. We built forts, went to the beach, went fishing, and had numerous sleepovers. It wasn‟t until junior high that things started to change for us. Tony discovered two passions that I was unable to share with him.

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His first love, skateboarding, wasn‟t something that a fat kid like me could master. Granted, I did my best. Just like Tony, I got myself a board, and not a cheap one. In the beginning it was fun, but as Tony started to master the tricks, I quickly realized I just wasn‟t going to be able to keep up. Before long Tony was doing ollies and flipkicks; then he advanced to rail slides. When we went to the skateboarding park, Tony quickly made friends with the other boarding dudes, and I started to feel like a bystander. With his slender body and high level of energy, Tony was a natural. Eventually it got to a point where I stopped tagging along. My Element skateboard remained in my closet, and I stayed home—usually eating pizza and potato chips—while Tony hung out and boarded with his new friends at the park. Tony‟s other passion, of course, was girls. Perhaps it was natural. We were teenagers, after all, and some of the new skateboarder dudes that Tony hung with were a little bit older than us. They all talked about chicks, and this somehow spilled over into the rest of Tony‟s life. It wasn‟t long before he was talking about titties and pussy and telling me about which girls he found hot. Did I mention that not only was I a fat kid, but I was also gay? Yeah, it sucked. I‟d say that it‟s hard enough for a teenager to be either gay or fat, but when you‟re both, it‟s like ten times worse. If I were normal-sized, at least I might be able to find some support if I came out. I might even be able to get a boyfriend or at least a date, but I knew that no one would go out with me, even if I were straight. The worst thing about it was that Tony seemed to get better looking with every passing minute. He had blond hair and blue eyes, and his hair was that length where the bangs would fall down over his forehead into his eyes and he‟d have to flick his head a bit

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every so often, just so he could see. He had such a baby face with the most perfect smile you‟ve ever seen. Maybe that was why he could say anything to me. Maybe that was why I didn‟t see any of his faults and was never irritated by his quirkiness. I had a major crush on him, and if I were honest, I‟d have to admit that it was something that had always been there. I‟d always felt so close to him as his best friend, and then as we got older, I started to realize I wanted so much more. Well, I know it was insane. It was crazy for me to have these feelings toward this guy who was one, half my size, and two, obviously straight. I could never tell him about myself. I could never confide in him the truth about who I really was, because I knew if I did, he‟d never again speak to me. “Hey, Fatboy,” he said when I answered my phone. “Tony… hey.” It was Sunday afternoon, and I was in my bedroom finishing up my algebra homework. “What‟s goin‟ on.” “Wassup, dude. Hey, meet me over at the park, okay?” I looked at my digital clock on the dresser. It was nearly four o‟clock, and my mom had said we‟d have dinner around five. “I have to wait „til after supper,” I explained. “Dude, I think you can afford to miss one meal.” I forced an obligatory laugh. “Yeah, I know, but my mom— she‟ll be pissed.” “Well then eat first and then come over.” “Dinner‟s at five,” I said, “so I can‟t get out of here ‟til like five thirty or something.” “Dude, that‟s like an hour from now. Just come over and tell your ma to call you when dinner‟s ready.” “Oh… um, okay. Should I….” “What?”

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“Want me to bring my board?” “Yeah, definitely. See ya in a few.” I quickly stood up and stepped over to the full-length mirror, assessing my reflection. It was no wonder everyone made fun of me. I was so disgusting. I stepped over to the closet and began searching for something—anything—that might possibly help to conceal my girth. I had a lot of black shirts and pants, because we all know how slimming solid black is—not. When you get to a certain size, it doesn‟t really matter any more. Why was Tony calling me? I wondered. I‟d gotten so excited by the mere fact that he‟d invited me that I didn‟t even think to ask what was so important that he‟d want me to just drop everything and go to the park. I hoped nothing was wrong. Well, seriously, he didn‟t sound like anything was wrong. He was his same cheerful self. At least he‟d been in a good enough mood to tease me. He always did that. I knew he didn‟t mean it, though. When he called me “Fatso” or “Tubby” or—what was it this time?— “Fatboy”—it didn‟t bother me. He‟d never do anything to hurt me deliberately. After changing my shirt, I crouched down and dug into the bottom of the closet to retrieve my board. It was green and black, similar to Tony‟s. He‟d been the one to pick it out, actually. It was cool he‟d called me. I was starting to feel like maybe he didn‟t consider me his best friend anymore. It just seemed like we were distant from each other. Maybe this was a way for us to reconnect. Tony had probably noticed it too. I was sure he didn‟t like that feeling any more than I did. How could two people be best friends all their lives and then suddenly grow apart? I was glad he was the one who had made the effort and had called me. I smiled a little as I headed down the hallway, my board under my arm. So what if Tony would never feel the same way about me as I did about him? It was enough to have him in my life, by my side as my best friend. BFFs, that was what we were.

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“Mom, I‟m gonna be late for dinner,” I said as I opened the front door. “Wait!” she said. “Where are you going? I‟m making barbequed chicken, your favorite!” “Sorry, Mom,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Tony needs me,” I said proudly. I stepped through the door and began to close it. As an afterthought, I added one more comment. “Don‟t you think I could stand skipping one meal? It might do me good.” Before she could answer, I closed the door and headed briskly down the walkway and then to the park. I felt kind of silly carrying the skateboard under my arm the whole way rather than riding it, but honestly it was even worse when I did ride it. I was just too big. I couldn‟t do any of the tricks, and I felt so self-conscious. I was like an elephant trying to rollerskate. When I got to the last block, though, I dropped my board to the pavement and hopped on, trying my best not to look awkward as I cruised into the park. I saw Tony right away, in full gear. He was wearing his helmet and kneepads, and quickly he flipped the board with his feet in order to change direction, then headed straight toward me. “Dude!” he said excitedly. “Wassup?” His broad smile was infectious, and I grinned back at him. “Hey, what‟s goin‟ on?” “You know Eric, right?” Tony said as he came to stop in front of me. I stepped off my board, and as I did so, it slid from beneath my feet. Flailing my arms a bit to steady myself, I just barely avoided falling on my behind. The skateboard, though, sailed across the pavement. I looked up to see another kid standing there, and he quickly stopped the board with his foot. “Nice board,” he said, looking down at it and then turning to look at Tony.

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“Hey,” I said, assuming the new kid was the Eric that Tony had just mentioned. I nodded in his direction. “Eric, this is my bud Kirby, aka Lardass.” They both laughed as I felt my face redden. “Nah, I‟m just kidding,” Tony said. “Kirby‟n me been friends forever. Ain‟t we?” “Yeah,” I said, once again smiling at him, letting him know everything was cool. “Kirby, let Eric use your board, all right?” “Um, sure,” I said after a brief hesitation. “He doesn‟t have one?” “Nah, he busted it,” Tony explained. Eric laughed. “Hot-doggin‟, and man, I split that motha right the fuck in half.” “It‟s cool,” Tony said. “Kirby can‟t really use his board anyway… and he don‟t mind. Do ya, Tubby?” I scowled at my best friend, not sure what to say. “Come on, man! Don‟t be a baby. Ya know I‟m just teasin‟ ya. We‟re buds, right?” “Yeah, I know,” I admitted, sighing a bit in relief. “I‟m gonna just go over here‟n‟ sit down. I‟ll watch you guys.” “Cool,” Tony said, and within an instant he and Eric were sailing across the park, flipping their boards beneath their feet, doing caspers and flipkicks. They were amazing, both of them, and they seemed to feed off one another. Within moments it became obvious to me that I‟d been quickly forgotten, and as I sat there watching them, I realized the time was gradually ticking by. I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly five o‟clock. I wondered momentarily if I should just leave and make it back home in time to eat. My mom wouldn‟t be too mad, not if I told her I was sorry. To be honest, I really was starting to feel hungry.

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But every few minutes Tony would glance over at me. He gave me a thumbs-up one time. Another he sailed by me, deliberately passing right in front of my bench. I knew he was showing off for me, and actually I kind of liked it. Mostly, though, he stayed focused on his own fun. He and Eric were having a blast. They stopped every so often and spoke to each other, high-fiving after the completion of a particularly daring or difficult stunt. I started to feel as if I‟d become invisible. At one point I did get up and walk over to the public facilities building where the restrooms were located. I bought a bottle of soda from the vending machine and paced back and forth, still debating whether or not I should just leave. Of course, I‟d have to get my board back from Eric, and I knew that wouldn‟t make Tony too happy. Maybe I could just loan it to him, but then I remembered what he‟d said about his own board. He‟d broken it while doing a stunt, and I was afraid he was gonna do the same thing with mine. I walked back over to the bench. Tony and Eric were a long ways off, and I waited for Tony to look in my direction again. When he finally did, I motioned for him. At first he didn‟t seem to notice, but after a couple minutes, both of them cruised back over to where I was standing. “Hey, Tony,” I said. “I think I should get goin‟.” “Why?” Tony asked. “Don‟t ya like watchin‟ us?” “Um… well, it‟s not that. I just got to get home. My ma, she‟s not gonna be too happy bout me missing dinner.” “Hey, that‟s cool,” Tony said. “You don‟t mind if Eric uses your board awhile longer, do ya? I‟ll bring it back to ya tomorrow.” I took a deep breath, willing myself not to look in Eric‟s direction. I stared directly at Tony. “Dude, I don‟t think so. My parents paid a lot for it, and—”

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“He‟s not gonna hurt it, man. Can‟t you see, Eric‟s a pro… like me. He knows what he‟s doin‟, and we don‟t even gotta tell your folks.” “But Tony,” I said, lowering my voice, “you already said he broke his own board.” “That was just some weird thing,” Eric said. “It was stupid, man. I‟ll be careful with your board. Don‟t worry. You seem like a chill dude… just trust me.” I had finally turned to look at him, and I knew in that moment that I was going to cave. If it had been just Eric, I‟d never have agreed, but I really couldn‟t say no to Tony. I shrugged. “Okay… it‟s cool,” I said. “You can use it.” “Thanks, man,” Eric said. Tony reached up to high-five me. Just as he did so, a couple other guys approached. I‟d seen them before, hanging with Tony, but didn‟t know them by name. “Sweet board,” one of them said to Eric. “When‟d ya get that baby?” “Just now,” he laughed. “Actually I‟m borrowing it from… um, what was your name again?” “Fat Albert?” the other kid offered, and everyone laughed— everyone but me. “Kirby,” I said indignantly. “And Kirby, that Element board is yours? Can you even ride it?” I looked at Tony for help, but he just stood there. He‟d removed his helmet and was standing there grinning, looking casual. “Sure,” I said. “Why… um, why would I have a board I can‟t even ride?”

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“Dude, you‟d probably snap that motha right in two soon as you stood on it,” the kid retorted. He was skinny, about Tony‟s size, and was wearing dark sunglasses. “He‟s just kiddin‟,” Tony finally spoke. “Kirby, you know these guys, right? Kurt and Chad?” I shrugged, unsure if I really wanted to know them. “Take that baby for a spin,” Chad suggested. He was the one who‟d just insulted me. “Show us how to use it.” “Nah, I gotta get home,” I said. “‟Sides, I already loaned it to Eric.” Chad laughed as if to say he knew I was a liar. He turned away from me and spoke directly to Tony. “Dude, I got something to show ya!” He was grinning broadly as he reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a black lacy brassiere and held it in the air. “What the fuck?” Tony said as the other guys laughed. “Whose shit is that?” “Bekka‟s!” Chad laughed. “She left it at my house.” “You da man!” Eric shouted as he high-fived his friend. “Why‟d she leave it there?” I asked, suddenly confused. Chad took off his glasses as he turned again to look at me. The smile was fading from his face. “Dude—you fat fuck! Are you daft or something? Are you fuckin‟ brain-dead?” Now everyone was quiet. “Why you think some chick would leave her bra at my house? I was fuckin‟ her brains out, that‟s why. She got so excited when I was slammin‟ her pussy that she up and left afterwards without even getting all her shit.” “Sorry!” I said. “Um… how did I know?” “Not only are you fat and ugly, but you‟re a fuckin‟ retard too. Why you guys hang out with this faggot?” he asked Eric and Tony.

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At this point I really was feeling embarrassed—not to mention a bit pissed. I didn‟t even know this kid and he was talking to me like this. I looked at Tony and waited for him to rush to my defense. He‟d been given a golden opportunity. He looked at me briefly, almost as if he were apologizing silently, but then what he did next was literally unbelievable. He shrugged and said, “Dunno… um, we wanted the board.” I stared at him disbelievingly as I felt the anger within me building. “I want it back,” I said flatly. “Gimme back my board. I‟m going home.” I confidently stepped toward Eric. “You‟re right about one thing, Fatboy,” Chad said. “You really do need to go the fuck home.” He stepped between Eric and me. His friend Kurt also moved toward me. “Give me my board!” I demanded. “You ain‟t getting shit,” Chad said. “You are so fuckin‟ fat, you should be wearin‟ this bra,” he said, laughing. “Look, he‟s got tits as big as Bekka‟s!” He held up the brassiere. All four guys were now laughing, and Eric stepped around so he was on the other side of Chad. I was now in between them, and they encircled me. “I tell you what, Fatboy,” Chad said cockily, “you put on your bra here and we‟ll give you the board. If not, it‟s Eric‟s—to keep.” “No way,” I sputtered. “That‟s my board, and… and I‟m not putting that thing on.” “Come on, I know you wanna,” said Kurt. “No I don‟t! And I‟m not gonna!” I turned around and lunged toward Eric. “Give it to me!” Without warning, I felt my legs give out. One of the guys had slammed his foot into the back of my knee, and as it buckled, down I went. I cried out in pain as my knees scraped against the pavement. I tried to push myself up quickly, but it was nearly

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impossible for me to get up off the ground without something to grab hold of, so I remained there on all fours, not knowing exactly what to do. “You fucking cow!” Chad taunted me. “You‟re too fat even to stand back up.” He reached down and grabbed hold of the tail of my T-shirt. I squirmed and took a defensive swing at him but missed. I was now in a more upright position, on my knees, and within seconds he had the shirt pulled up over my belly. Two of the other guys each grabbed an arm, and Chad pulled the shirt up over my face. As they released their grip on my wrists, Chad tugged the shirt over my head, leaving my flabby torso completely exposed. “He does have tits!” Chad squealed. “Fuckin‟ man-boobs!” “Get away from me!” I cried. “Give me back my shirt! Please….” I was so mortified. Not only was my humiliation public, but it was in front of the one person I cared about most. Worst of all, he was a party to it. I couldn‟t believe Tony was letting this happen, and he even was participating. Kurt and Eric each grabbed my arms again, and Chad stepped behind me. He pulled the lacy bra out once more and wrapped it around me. I squirmed, trying to free myself and crying out in pain. The more I shifted my body, the more my knees scraped against the pavement. “Stop it, please! Leave me alone! You can have the skateboard!” Of course the bra was not nearly big enough to surround my body, but Chad pulled it tight. The fat around my pecs filled the cups as Chad tugged the straps tightly behind my back. “Smile,” Tony said as I quickly looked up to see him standing directly in front of me. He was holding his cell phone, taking my picture.

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“No!” I screamed, and he laughed all the harder. “You fat faggot,” Chad hissed in my ear. “You make me sick. Get the fuck outta here!” he thrust both palms into the center of my back and shoved me forward. I toppled over as the other guys released my arms. I was crying and mortified beyond words as the threesome took off on their boards. I think that was the worst day of my life.

THE weeks that followed that agonizing incident were challenging. They were very dark days for me, and I felt like I was utterly alone. At times I cried. At times I fantasized about killing myself. I entertained thoughts of revenge. I became angry and bitter. Basically, I ran the full gamut of emotions. Honestly, it was a period of grieving for me. My relationship with Tony was over. I knew things would never be the same. Even if he managed to own up to his cruelty, I doubted I could ever completely forgive him. How do you forget something like that? It became harder for me to even look at myself in the mirror, for all I saw was the reflection of that “fat cow” that they‟d tormented. I was terrified of what would become of the photos Tony had taken. Would he share them? Post them on the Internet? Use them to blackmail me? I didn‟t talk to him again, so I never really found out. My guess is that the pictures were just insurance. He knew I wouldn‟t tell on them for stealing my skateboard as long as he had the photos. I didn‟t want the board back, though. The only reason I had gotten it in the first place was to impress Tony. It made me really think about my friendship with him. As I looked back over the years and recalled all of my memories with him, I realized that this was not an isolated incident. He‟d been

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cruel to me many times previously. In fact, his insults and mean jokes had been nearly constant. In school, I simply avoided him from that point on. I sat alone at lunch or with other friends. I stopped calling him. I went the other way when I saw him approaching. It was almost as if we had become invisible to each other. It was about four months later that I made a new friend. I was sitting alone at one of the tables in the cafeteria when this kid walked up. He was scrawny, pretty much the opposite of me. “Hey, can I sit here?” he asked. I shrugged. “Sure” “I‟m Dustin,” he said. “Today‟s my first day here.” “I know,” I said as I shoveled a forkful of goulash into my mouth. “You‟re the new kid.” He laughed nervously and reached up to push his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. His smile was kind of cute. “You always sit alone?” he asked. Again I shrugged. “Lately,” I admitted. “Well, you‟re sure it‟s okay then? I can… um… find somewhere else….” “Dude, it‟s cool,” I said. “Where‟d you come from?” As Dusty began to talk to me, I was instantly drawn to him. He was a little chatterbox, telling me all about his family and his pets. He‟d moved to our town after his dad had gotten transferred on his job, and Dusty was at first terrified. I assured him he was going to be fine. He seemed to have a great personality, and I was sure he‟d make lots of new friends. He told me he wasn‟t great at making friends. “I‟m not either, really,” I confessed. “But we can be friends to each other.”

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And that was the beginning. During that initial conversation, I had no idea just how much of a genius this kid was. As I got to know him, I realized that he was what you‟d consider to be a typical nerd. He knew all about computers and science, and at times his intellect just blew me away. The odd thing about Dusty was that he never seemed to even notice my weight. Not once did he ever call me a mean name or even make an insinuation about my size. We became best buds, much like it had at one time been with me and Tony. With Dusty, though, it seemed so much more sincere. “Can I ask you something?” I said one day when we were walking home from school. Dusty only lived a couple blocks from me. “Sure,” he said. “Why don‟t you ever say anything about my size? About how fat I am?” This time he shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “It doesn‟t really matter to me. I like you because of who you are… not because of your body size.” I smiled. “Really?” “Yeah, but ya know, if your weight really bothers you, maybe I can help you.” “What do ya mean?” I asked. Dusty was at my house at seven in the morning that Saturday, carrying a boom box CD player. “You ready to start?” he asked. I shook my head, answering him honestly. “No, not really.” “Too bad,” he said, smiling broadly. “There‟s no turning back now.” I invited him in, and we headed straight down the hallway to the other door, the one leading to the garage. There were no cars

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inside, and I‟d worked all the previous day to get the garage completely cleaned out. Dusty walked over to the workbench against the back wall and plugged the boom box into an outlet. Dance music blasted from the speakers, echoing off the walls. “Come on!” he said. Then he started to run. He ran all the way around the perimeter of the garage floor in a big circle. “Come on, Kirby!” he said again. “Let‟s go.” Reluctantly, I followed. I‟m not sure how many laps I did that first day, but I thought I was gonna die by the time we were through. Then the next morning, Dusty was back. Every day he returned, and I started to realize that I was able to run a bit farther each time. He never laughed at me. He never ridiculed the way my fat legs rubbed together. He never mocked the way I sputtered and coughed and gasped for breath. He never said a word about my socalled man-boobs, which flopped up and down as my body lunged forward. The exercise was not the only aspect of Dusty‟s plan. He also started to counsel me on my diet. Although he never instructed me to actually go on an official diet, he merely offered me suggestions. “Let‟s have an apple instead,” he said one day when I offered him a candy bar. “What if you didn‟t get seconds?” he asked me another time. “Have you ever tried this baked chicken? I swear, it‟s just as good as the fried.” When I started to finally see some results from the improved diet and the exercise regimen, I was ecstatic. The first thing I noticed was how my pants were looser. This was a huge encouragement to me, and I pushed myself to do more. I continued with the running behind the closed doors of the garage, and I did it every day, with or without Dusty. Eventually I got brave enough to venture beyond the garage. I started jogging up and down the sidewalk. I‟d shed nearly forty

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pounds by the time school got out that year, and during that summer, I continued full steam ahead. My progress was astonishing to my parents. My mom was at times beside herself, wondering why I wasn‟t eating all the delicious food she made for me. During dinner one night when I stopped after only one serving of lasagna, she questioned me. “Baby, what‟s gotten into you? You don‟t like my cooking anymore?” “Mom,” I said with a sigh, “it‟s not that. But just look at me… don‟t you see any difference?” “Baby, you‟re fine just the way you are. You don‟t have to go starving yourself.” “I‟m not fine,” I said confidently, “but I‟m going to be! I‟ve lost forty pounds already. Can‟t you see I‟m happier?” In spite of my efforts and regardless of the fact that I‟d made tremendous progress, the name-calling and cruel jokes did not come to a halt at school. When I started back to school that fall, now a sophomore, I was still overweight. I‟d shed almost sixty pounds and still had at least another thirty to go, but I felt fantastic. The best thing about it, though, was that I no longer had to accept the behavior of people like Tony. I no longer had to put up with his cruelty in order to simply feel accepted. Dusty had taught me that I was better than that. I was really nervous the first day that I walked into the school gym to use the weightlifting equipment. I had no idea what kind of reception I‟d receive from the jocks who were sure to be there. I also didn‟t have a clue what I was doing, but to my surprise, a guy named Howie quickly befriended me. “You were that fat kid,” he said. I laughed. “Well, I think I still am that fat kid,” I admitted. “That‟s why I‟m here.”

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“Dude, it‟s amazing how much weight you lost. Congrats, man. And yeah, you definitely came to the right place. I gotta tell ya something, though, you probably don‟t need to really lose any more. We just gotta get that remaining fat turned into muscle.” I smiled at him, taking in every single one of his bulging muscles, wishing for a moment I could be like him. As if reading my mind, he flexed for me. “Pretty soon, we‟ll have you lookin‟ like this.” I gulped, suddenly thankful I‟d worn loose sweats. I wouldn‟t want Howie to see my arousal and get the wrong idea. Well… maybe I did want that, but it wouldn‟t have been a good idea. He sort of became my coach after that. We were workout partners from then on, and soon we became close friends. Howie was different from any of the other jocks I knew. He was more soft-spoken and didn‟t brag about himself all the time. He was also awesome to watch when he was doing his sets shirtless. Ahh, that alone was a huge motivator! As the months passed by, I continued to monitor my diet. I ran every day and worked out at least three times a week. My body was changing, and faster than I‟d even thought possible. I started to feel like I was one of the contestants on The Biggest Loser, and as I kept changing physically, I also gained confidence. I wanted more than anything to tell both Dusty and Howie about myself. It really started to weigh heavy on my heart, and it was this enormous secret. It felt as if I were lying to my two best friends, but I was so afraid that if I told them, they‟d hate me. I was terrified that it would be just like it had been with Tony. It was during the last week of school that year that my life really changed. When the bell rang that day after my last class, I headed for my locker and retrieved my backpack, then waited outside for Dusty. We were planning to walk home together. It was such a beautiful cloudless day, about eighty-five degrees.

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I sauntered over to one of the picnic tables that was outside the building and had a seat. I still had a clear view of the door, and I watched quietly as the kids filed out, all eager to soak in the sun. I couldn‟t help but smile when I saw Dusty step through the door, his backpack slung over his shoulder. His hair was a mess as usual, but that just seemed to add character. When he spotted me, he smiled and quickened his pace. I stood up and began to head toward him when all of a sudden he tripped, and as he did so, he lurched forward, falling hard onto the pavement, his glasses flying off his face. Quickly I moved in his direction and then realized his fall had not been an accident. As if experiencing déjà vu, I saw the person who‟d tripped him. It was none other than Chad, and with him was my old friend Tony. “Watch where you‟re walkin‟, faggot!” Chad said, laughing. I froze. Chad and Tony stepped in front of Dusty, and they were blocking my view of him. They apparently didn‟t notice that I was behind them. It was when Chad stepped over to Dusty‟s eyeglasses and crushed them under his boarder shoe that I really became pissed. Having never laid a hand on anyone my whole life, I didn‟t realize that I had so much potential to actually harm another person physically, but when I grabbed the two of them and slammed their heads together, I‟ve got to admit, it felt damn good. The look of shock and terror on Chad‟s face was priceless when he finally pulled away and turned to look at the muscular guy who‟d just bashed his skull. I was a good three inches taller than both of them, and their scrawny frames did not compare to my now-buff physique. “Wha…?” Chad protested.

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I felt my adrenaline flowing as I grabbed the mouthy kid by the collar. “I‟m sick of you,” I spat. “I‟m sick of you being so mean to people!” His eyes widened as he stared up at me. Tony quickly stepped away, rubbing his head as I held firmly to his friend‟s collar. I was backing Chad against the building, and with a single thrust, I shoved him so that he was pinned against the wall. At first I don‟t think he even recognized me. He‟d probably forgotten all about me and how he had humiliated me that day, stripping off my clothes and mocking me as he made me wear that bra. But when he looked into my face and it finally dawned on him, I knew it had all come back to him. His mouth dropped open, and he instantly turned white as a sheet. “I‟m… uh… sorry, man.” I wasn‟t sure if he was apologizing for what he‟d done to me or to Dusty, and I didn‟t care. I was still pissed, and my grip on his shirt tightened as I held him there. It was only a matter of seconds until a crowd began to form. It was odd how that always happened. Whenever there was a fight of any kind, it seemed that everyone wanted to see. It was pure bloodlust. “I ought to….” I heard the rage within my own voice and knew I was right on the verge of completely losing it. “I ought to kill you,” I said. “I ought to beat your mean little face in right here, right in front of everyone!” “Please!” he cried. “Please, no, I was… um… it was just an accident.” “No, it wasn‟t,” I said sternly, slamming him against the wall once more. “You‟re lying. It was no accident. You tripped him. Then you called him names and broke his glasses… and laughed about it!” “Please let me go,” he said. Tears were now streaming down his cheeks. “Admit it!” I screamed. “Admit the truth!”

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“Dude, please… what do you want me to say?” “Tell the truth. Tell everyone what you did and what you are.” “I don‟t know what you mean,” he cried. He was literally shaking now. “Say it!” I raised my fist, ready to deck him. “All right!” he squealed. “It‟s true. I did it on purpose. I tripped him and broke his glasses.” “And…?” “And please let me go! I don‟t know—” “And you‟re a bully!” He stared at me wide-eyed, unsure of how to respond. “You pick on people who are different from you. Anyone you think is weaker is a potential target. And you think it‟s really funny, but it‟s not. You hurt people, and I don‟t like it! I‟m sick of it!” He squirmed against the wall, but I held him in place. “Please,” he begged, “I said I was sorry.” “What are you sorry for?” I demanded. “For doing it… for being a bully.” “And it‟s not gonna happen again,” I said sternly. “No… no, I promise.” “And that bra wasn‟t your girlfriend‟s either. It was yours! And you like to wear it!” He gulped and then vigorously shook his head. “No!” I pulled my fist back, again ready to strike. “Yes!” he screamed. “I like to wear girls‟ bras.”

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I heard snickering behind me. “I know you do. And ya know what? I don‟t care. You can wear whatever you want.” I lowered my fist and released my firm grip on his shirt. “We‟re all different. Some of us are skinny.” I looked over at Tony. “Some of us are fat. Some of us are jocks, and some of us are nerds.” I looked at Dusty and smiled. “Some of us are cross-dressers… but all of us are people.” I stepped away from him and walked over to Dusty, who just stood there mesmerized. “And some of us are gay,” I said, more quietly, as if just to him. “And some of us”—I grabbed hold of him and pulled him toward myself—“really think their best friend in the whole world is absolutely adorable.” He beamed from ear to ear, squinting just a bit. I wasn‟t sure if it was to fend off tears or simply because he‟d lost his glasses. It didn‟t matter, though, because when I leaned in to kiss him, I was glad the glasses weren‟t in the way. As I felt Dusty‟s scrawny arms wrap around my now-buff torso, I squeezed him, but not too tight, and felt my heart beat about ninety miles per minute as I kissed him there in front of the whole school. I heard some gasps and some snickers around us, but I didn‟t care. When I finally pulled away and looked down into his big blue eyes, Dusty was truly crying. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you too.” That‟s when I heard the applause, and as I looked up, I saw Howie standing there leading the ovation.

Resources

GLBT NATIONAL HELP CENTER http://www.glnh.org/hotline/index.html Toll-free 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564) Hours: Monday-Friday from 1 p.m. to 9 p.m., Pacific Standard Time (4 p.m. to Midnight, Eastern Standard Time) Saturday from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., Pacific Standard Time (Noon to 5 p.m., Eastern Standard Time) GLBT NATIONAL YOUTH TALKLINE http://www.glnh.org/talkline/index.html Toll-free 1-800-246-PRIDE (1-800-246-7743) Hours: Monday-Friday from 1 p.m. to 9 p.m., Pacific Standard Time (4 p.m. to Midnight, Eastern Standard Time) Saturday from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., Pacific Standard Time (Noon to 5 p.m., Eastern Standard Time) PFLAG Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays http://www.pflag.org

SUICIDE.ORG Suicide Prevention, Awareness, and Support http://suicide.org/ Toll-free 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433) or Toll-free 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) THE TREVOR PROJECT Preventing Suicide Among LGBTQ Youth http://www.thetrevorproject.org/ The Trevor Lifeline: Toll-free 1-866-4-U-TREVOR (1-866-488-7386)

About the Author

JEFF ERNO works a full-time job as a retail store manager, and at the age of thirty-seven, he finally acquired his bachelor‟s degree in business management. He began writing in the early 1990s, primarily as a means of catharsis, after having experienced the multiple losses of several close family members and friends. Originally his work was posted on a free, amateur web site, where it was eventually discovered and published. Erno currently resides in southern Michigan with his twenty-oneyear-old cat Winston, and he co-owns a book review web site which focuses on M/M fiction. He enjoys reading, movies, theater, country-Western music, community service, political activism, and cake decorating. Visit his web site at http://www.jefferno.com.

Also from JEFF ERNO

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com