“We don’t want you to get hurt, Ari.”
“Mom, it’s hurt for a long time. You and Dad, you’ve made your peace. You’ve moved on with your lives. And I know that hasn’t been easy. But what about me? It’s like there’s a hole in my life—and I don’t want that hole to be there anymore.”
“I went to see him once.”
“I know, Dad.”
“It wasn’t pretty, Ari.”
“I figured it wasn’t. But did it help to settle things? For you and Mom?”
He nodded. “At first, I thought it had been a mistake. A very big mistake. It opened up some old wounds. But yes, in the end, I think it did help settle some very important things.”
And I just busted out crying. And I couldn’t stop. And I was talking through my sobs. And I didn’t want to be sobbing, but sometimes the open wound just hurt too damned much. “There’s so much crap in my life that I can’t do anything about. I can’t do anything about being gay. And I hate it. And I don’t want to hate it—because it’s me. I don’t know, I just need to shut the door on this. I loved him. And I missed him. And then I stopped missing him. But I still dream about him. I don’t want that dream anymore. I don’t want it anymore, Mom.”
I felt my mother sitting beside me. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “when we want to protect the people we love, we wind up hurting them more.” I felt her combing my hair with her fingers.
“I’m sorry, Mom. Dad? I’m sorry.”
My mom and dad were looking at each other again. And I knew they were talking to each other in that language of silence they had learned.
“I think I can arrange a visit. Why don’t we take a trip during the Christmas break? Will that work?”
I nodded. “I know this hurts you, Mom. I know—”
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Shhh. I can’t protect you from your own pain, Ari. And you can’t protect me from mine. I think every parent has some moments when they say to themselves, If I could take my child’s pain away and make it mine, I would make it mine. But I have no right to take your pain away, because it’s yours.”
I heard my father’s voice. “You’ve stopped running, Ari. You’re facing the things you need to face. That’s what grown-ups do.”
He reached his hand across the table.
And I took his hand—and I held on to it. Sometimes you did discover all the secrets of the universe in someone else’s hand. Sometimes that hand belonged to your father.
Fourteen
IT WAS LATE NOVEMBER, AND I think the semester was tiring us out. We were all starting to rebel a little. So, one Monday morning, this super-alternative girl named Summer came to school wearing a pair of very unusual earrings. We were sitting in class waiting for the bell to ring to signal the beginning of class, and some girl said to Summer, “Love your earrings.” And Summer said, “They’re gold-plated IUDs.” The girls around her all started laughing.
I had no idea what an IUD was. But Mrs. Hendrix knew, and she’d been listening in on the conversation. “Summer, go the principal’s office immediately.”
“Why?”
“You’re asking why?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Do you think this is funny? Human sexuality is not a joke. Public statements about birth control are inappropriate for high school girls. And if you are announcing to the world that you are engaging in sexual activities and are publicly promoting birth control, then it is our job as teachers to intervene. Now go to the principal’s office.”
“I’m not doing anything wrong. And I can publicly promote birth control if I want to. It’s a free country. And I’m not going to the principal’s office.”
“Come with me,” she said.
Summer rolled her eyes.
“Ari,” Mrs. Hendrix said. “Make sure the students read the next chapter in the textbook, and if there is mayhem in the class when I return, I’m going to hold you responsible.”
I just looked at her.
“Do you understand me, young man?”
“Why me?”
“You are a paragon of responsibility.”
“But—”
She gave me that I don’t have time for this crap look. She was pissed. I wasn’t going to say another word. “Summer, come with me. Right now.”
After they’d left for their little visit with Mr. Robertson, Sheila looked at me and said, “Go, go. Go and sit at the teacher’s desk, you paragon of responsibility.” Sheila had replaced Cassandra as the girl I loved to hate. She’d slapped me once in the eighth grade, and I always got the feeling that she was looking for another opportunity.
“Give me a break.”
“You’re such a kiss-ass.”
“Kiss-ass?”
“What else do you call somebody who always comes to class prepared?”
“A student,” I said.
“You little faggot.”
“That’s an ugly word used by ugly people.” I think the look on my face told her something she hadn’t expected.
She rolled her eyes. But she didn’t say a word.
The stragglers were filing into the classroom just as the bell rang. I went to the blackboard and wrote, Mrs. Hendrix took Summer to the office for some crime against the nation. We’re supposed to read the next chapter in the book and be quiet.
And of course, Sheila had to yell out, “Why don’t you tell us all what it’s like to be a paragon of responsibility?”
Everyone laughed.
I turned around and made sure she could read the anger written on my face. “Why don’t you put your attitude in the toilet and flush it down?”
“ ‘Paragon.’ Is that another word for ‘faggot’? We should get paragon here in trouble. Mrs. Hendrix told him if there was mayhem in this class when she returned, there would be hell to pay and that she’d hold the paragon responsible. I say let’s raise hell.”
And one of the guys yelled out, “Sheila, just shut the fuck up.”
“You’re all a bunch of sheep.”
There was this chola-type of girl in the class. She kind of dressed like a guy. Her name was Gloria, and she didn’t take any crap from anybody. “If I hear one more word out of your mouth, Sheila, I’m gonna take you outside and stuff your bra down your throat.” And the room got real quiet. And everybody just took out their textbooks and started reading.
Fifteen
Dear Dante,
There was an incident in class today. I won’t get into it. But the teacher, Mrs. Hendrix, said that human sexuality was not a joke. I don’t think she was talking about homosexuality. I’m sure she wasn’t. It was all about good old-fashioned heterosexuality.
Sheila, one of the girls in class, called me a little faggot. She didn’t call me that because she thought I was gay. She called me that because she wanted to insult me. It’s like the worst thing you can call someone is a faggot. Wow.
It’s Thanksgiving week—and I got to thinking what I’m grateful for. The first thing I thought of was what I’m not grateful for. I’m not grateful for my sexual orientation. That’s such a weird way to explain my unfortunate circumstances. Okay, I’m laughing at myself. I got that line from some old movie I was watching one night with my parents. And some evil guy tells this helpless young woman: Perhaps I can be of some help to free you of your unfortunate circumstances. Yeah, I find myself in unfortunate circumstances.