The second obvious choice would be to talk to Aunt Anne Marie. She was married to Uncle Bryan, she deserved to know that he was absolving terrible people of their sins. And maybe, through her, I could find out who the abuser was and go to the police, and then he’d go to jail.
Unless Uncle Bryan was an undercover cop. Shit! He easily could be one. It would explain why he became a Catholic priest after marriage—
And what if my aunt never had cancer? Maybe they weren’t actually religious at all. Maybe she was an undercover cop, too. What if they were both FBI agents who’d worked on this case for years in an attempt to bring a huge ring of pedophiles down?
But would anyone in the FBI lie about having ovarian cancer to her niece? Or spend years as an Episcopal priest before converting?
I wrote unlikely above that theory.
What if it was worse? What if my aunt knew or suspected that my uncle was committing a huge crime but was living in denial? What if I told her and she kicked me out? My stomach turned with nausea. I couldn’t let myself get kicked out. Then I’d be powerless to help anyone, powerless to stop the monsters. Or face mine.
Okay. Right. Not that.
Think faster, moron.
What else was there?
You know exactly what you could do.
I could tell my parents.
Yes!
No. No, the voice was wrong. That wasn’t an option, either.
Mom would swoop me away from harm, but she wouldn’t be able to help me get justice. And the last thing I wanted was for Dad to worry about what was happening here when he was now in Kuwait.
I scratched that out so hard with my pen, I tore a hole in the paper.
So what was I supposed to do? I had to tell someone. That much I knew. I had to tell someone because otherwise the abuse wouldn’t stop. I thought about the anime convention, how out of eighty people no one had stepped in the way to protect me. After the fact, no one had consoled me, no one had offered to go with me to the police or even the con’s organizers, no one had done anything.
And Lee . . . his betrayal had hurt almost more than the actual assault.
So I ran.
I ran where I thought my past wouldn’t haunt me.
I ran to get away from my trauma yet somehow got tangled up in someone else’s.
I looked at my notebook and the scratched out whole page.
You’re getting off track.
Focus, Aleks.
If you want to be the hero, you need to be the hero.
There was that strange shift in the voice again, like it was actually on my side.
No time to dwell on it. If I was going to help, I needed to be prepared.
Think, Aleks. Think. Pretending I was Raziel could only get me so far. I needed to be me, and I needed to be clever, and fast.
I needed to find Dima.
FROM: Robin, Lee
TO: Yagoda, A.
SUBJECT: Please don’t read the last email I sent.
Hey Alexis/Aleks,
I hope you didn’t read the last email. If you didn’t get to it, delete it. I shouldn’t have hit send. I was in a bad mood. A lot of stuff’s going on at home and I didn’t get into any college I wanted to.
If you did read it . . . I am so, so, so sorry.
I went to a convention last weekend. I kept thinking I saw you again. I ran up to so many strangers, ready to hug them, only to realize they weren’t you.
I’d recognize your cosplays anywhere. And in the shop—I guess I was in denial when I saw you sold them.
I guess this means you’re done. For real.
I can’t accept that. You can’t just leave. I need you. I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone, even my parents. You’re the light in the dark. Everything good in my life happened because of you. I’m spiraling out of control without you there to ground me.
I love you. I mean it. I. Love. You.
Sincerely,
Lee
—
I’m so horrible, I don’t deserve to be witty and use a poem in my signature. Alexis/Aleks, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please. I’m begging you. I love you.
18 Aleks
Why was it impossible to find someone when you needed to see them? Foolproof way to ensure no one’s around. Every. Single. Time.
I hadn’t seen one glimpse of Dima since the convention, and now he wasn’t replying to my texts. He was elusive. A ghost.
In the morning, I trudged down the steps and into the kitchen. My eyes burned from lack of sleep and how many times I’d rubbed them. They were probably red and baggy. “You’re up early,” said Aunt Anne Marie, who was sitting at the table with her Bible.
“Yeah. I’ve got stuff to do.”
“More of your costumes?”
“I wish,” I muttered. That certainly would be a lot more fun. She was quiet for several seconds before clearing her throat. I realized she meant for me to continue. “I’m going to find Dima. Do you know where he lives?”
She grimaced as she set the Bible on the table. “No. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like that boy,” she said.
“You helped him make a cosplay.”
“Yes, because I hoped that you two . . .”
“Hoped that we’d what, exactly?”
She flinched. “Trust me. It’s for your own good.”
“Why?” I asked. “I thought you’d like anyone who was considering becoming a priest.”
There was a strange sort of pause. I glanced at her. Too close to home?
“Not all people who want to become priests should.” Huh. Interesting word choice there.
I decided to go out on a limb. “What about Deacon Jameson?”
“Deacon Jameson loves what he does.” By the tone of her voice, I could tell she was damning him with faint praise. And also that she did not feel comfortable with that sort of opinion. Definitely interesting.
“But I think it’s best if you spend less time with Dima,” she said briskly, before I could consider whether she had her own suspicions about Deacon Jameson.
“You still haven’t explained why, though,” I said, feeling even more on edge now.
She got up from the table and moved aimlessly toward the sink. “It’s because of who he is.”
Although I knew why, the masochist in me wanted to hear her say it. “You mean because he’s Russian?”
She leaned against the sink and sighed. “I mean because he’s a sodomite.”
I closed my eyes as I took a breath. Then another. Reopened my eyes, my vision clearing on Aunt Anne Marie. “Do you think all queer people go to hell?”
Her skin paled. “You’re not like him.”
“Yes, I am,” I said. I tried to keep my face from scrunching up but couldn’t hold back my tears. She extended her hand, but I stepped back.
“Alexis, please.”
“My name’s Aleks,” I said.
“You don’t need to keep that up,” Aunt Anne Marie said. “You’re a girl.”
“Not always.”
“It’s just pretend. I don’t know why your mother let you get it in your head.”
“Don’t talk about Mom like that.”
“This is my home. You are my guest.”
“Well maybe I shouldn’t be anymore, since you clearly hate me.”