I think.
With Lee, one could never be too sure. There were always a few little things that were off. Like how he’d slide his hand on my hip. How he’d tug me away from my other friends into small, quiet halls. The way he’d block my path, maintaining as much eye contact as possible so I would see him, only him, in whatever cosplay he was in, as whatever character he was. “I love you,” he’d say. When I’d return it, he’d say more loudly, “No. Really. I love you.”
He told me that he needed me. That I was his best friend. That he couldn’t believe how amazing I was, how talented. Sometimes we sat next to each other on the floor, backs to the wall, watching cosplayers pass as we held hands, fingers linked together. Silent, almost invisible. Until someone would glance down and squeal about fan service and Lee would grin and say, “It’s show time.”
He’s socially awkward.
He doesn’t get boundaries.
It’s not like you said “no.”
Weren’t you dating?
I’m positive you were dating.
I don’t remember who, but somebody told me, “He’s not your friend.” Funny how that was probably the most important social advice I’d ever received, and now I couldn’t remember who’d sent that message.
But I remembered the other messages. The ones my friends showed me after the fact.
LEE: Did you know Alexis is MTF? Pre-op.
PERSON 1: Wowwwww. Uh, are you aware of how transphobic that is?
PERSON 2: Also bullshit. Aleks/Alexis wasn’t born cismale, you cockweed.
LEE: Swear to God. She told me herself.
LEE: I’m only telling you for your protection.
PERSON 1: WTF, Lee?
LEE: She told me that once she had her surgery, she wanted me to be the first dick inside her pussy. How am I supposed to say no?
I didn’t believe it until my friends—former friends—showed me the screen caps. And for a split-second I thought, Someone thought I was MTF instead of FTM? That’s a first!
And then the humiliation set in. And it all came crashing down, down, down . . .
Rustling sounds on the other side of the wall vent drew my attention. I glanced at my phone for the time. Two in the morning. I squeezed my eyes shut. Who had done something so bad they just couldn’t wait until morning to confess? After getting reprimanded by Sister Bernadette, the last thing I wanted was to hear a confession. Couldn’t I cry in peace? Couldn’t I have some degree of privacy?
“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” a voice whispered in a low register. It was almost impossible to distinguish the words.
Ignore it.
Mind your own business.
But there was something about the tone . . .
Unable to resist, I slid beneath the bed, putting my ear to the grate instead of remaining in bed. If anything could distract me from Lee, this would be it. If I helped enough people, he’d be erased from my mind.
“You need to stop doing this.” A voice. My uncle.
“I’m trying my best.”
“Try harder, please.”
Please? My uncle, the man who regularly tore people to shreds, said please?
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
My uncle made a sound like he was sucking in a breath. I tried to picture his face, the grave disappointment that surely was there. Why was he so hesitant? My uncle was the type to eviscerate people for their sins. He was blunt, impatient, even angry. A priest’s version of tough love. “What happened?”
“I did it again.”
“Say it. God can’t forgive you otherwise.”
There was a long pause. “I engaged in a lustful encounter.”
Lustful encounter? That seemed pretty tame in comparison to some confessions. My uncle sucked in another breath. It was almost like he was scared. “It was more than an encounter.”
“I know.”
“You need to acknowledge that.”
Silence.
My uncle’s voice definitely quavered. “Tell me what happened. Please.”
“He wanted it,” the person said. “I could tell he did.”
Goosebumps rose on my skin.
You wanted it.
You were asking for it.
You never said no.
“He was just so pretty, and right there . . .”
Pretty boy.
“What happened?” my uncle asked softly.
“I gave him Communion.”
A copper taste rubbed over my tongue. Bitter. Thick.
“What do you mean by Communion?” my uncle asked. My palms were sweaty. I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about wafers and wine.
Beautiful boy.
“Do we really need to do this again?”
My uncle hesitated. Again. Unmistakable fear in his voice. “This is a huge sin. You need to be fully honest with me so I can help you.”
“I am. You know exactly how I gave him Communion.”
I envisioned drinking wine, taking a wafer on the tongue. Accepting the body and blood of Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. “The same way I give Communion to the best boys,” the voice continued.
And suddenly I realized just what the sinner meant by Communion.
Fists balled up, I choked on bile. Sweat coated my back, slick and wet.
A priest. The man talking to my uncle was a fellow priest. A priest who’d . . .
“He’s not even fourteen,” my uncle said, voice quivering.
No. No, this was not happening. Not here. This wasn’t like the places in the news. This was a place with some cool people, like Sister Bernadette, Dima, and Deacon Jameson. And . . . And . . .
My mind spun like a tilt-a-whirl. And I hated carnival rides to begin with.
I waited for my uncle to say this guy needed to turn himself in to the police. Probably quietly, but still. I’d look up arrest records. There were online memberships to sites that did background checks, and surely that information was public. And once I found it, it’d be everywhere. To hell with my avoidance of social media. I’d make it go viral. I’d use my cosplay accounts. I’d make sure no one was near this abuser again.
Instead, my uncle said, “I see your remorse. God forgives you for this grievous sin, but you need to stop doing this. You have to stop.”
Forgiveness? Wait, what?
I scrambled out from beneath the bed too quickly, smashing my head against the metal frame. I staggered, disoriented and practically wild with fury. My head throbbed. Forgiveness? My uncle was offering a predator forgiveness? He hadn’t forgiven Elizabeth for hitting her brother in desperation, he hadn’t offered to help her find an organization or outside resources for help, yet he forgave a priest for abusing a thirteen-year-old? Letting a criminal walk away, absolved . . .
No. No way. I wasn’t going to let that happen. Maybe my uncle was a coward, but I wasn’t.
I opened my bedroom door. In my socks, I took off toward the back door. I only managed to get halfway there when my aunt appeared in front of me. “Where are you going?”
I froze. “I. Uh. Just wanted some fresh air.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah. I just—I need some air. That’s all.” And to see the face of the guilty person so I could kick his ass.
My aunt looked like a brick wall. “It’s not appropriate for young ladies to go out after midnight. Especially dressed like that.”