by RJ Martin
None of the others seemed to notice God’s all-star team surrounding us. All the girls chattered away about boys, and the guys watched them do it.
Did Bart mean what he said, or was he just busting my newly formed balls? Was he fishing or did he already know? Did I have a tell, something that gave me away? What was it? I’d hit the boy’s room after lunch and check myself in a mirror. All it would take was one good rumor—especially started by him—and I could be sunk. I was gay and cool with it because I was sure JC was too. Some of my classmates might phobe out on me, but others might be cool. The parents, on the other hand, sent their kids to Catholic school for a reason. They’d go all kinds of morally superior ape shit. No more NC3 and no more serving JC. The guys with the keys to my kingdom, the ones in the gold miters and silk shoes, they didn’t take gay boys as priests. Well, not out ones.
I reached under my shirt and thumbed JC on my silver cross pendant. “Let me forgive Bart for being a jerk.” I stared down but didn’t close my eyes. “And keep me safe so I can serve you.” I could’ve said “keep my secret,” but that sounded sneaky. Besides, JC already knew.
“Excuse me.”
Startled, I almost jumped when I saw Karen Whitten, a sort of friend of my gigantically popular—hotter than her—older sister, standing next to my table. She had long legs running down from her plaid skirt that was considered acceptably long but barely.
“Yeah, hi.” She fake smiled like Sister Margo when she told us sex was wonderful if married and making babies. Otherwise it was worse than strangling kittens. “I was wondering….”
I smiled, but inside I’d started to tense up. My abs squeezed my stomach back into my spine. What if she wanted to tell me some girl crushed on me? Or worse, she did? Worst, what if maybe she heard about homeroom? Are you the Jesus freak, closet case? Maybe being ignored was better.
“Would you mind moving?” Karen nodded over her shoulder at a gaggle of upperclassmen girls. Some of them were friends with Angie too. Pretty much everybody not known as a loser was. “We want to sit together, and this is the only open table.” At Holy R my table had always been full. Somehow being a future priest was not so great in high school. Not many understood or wanted to. I guess they were all too horny.
“I don’t know.” I did a quick scan and saw no open tables. Not even any half-empty ones where I could scoot in at the end and be kind of alone. I thought about asking Karen and her posse to join me but then what? They didn’t want to sit with me. I instantly envisioned awkward weirdness as they yakked about makeup and boys between snickers at the loser that didn’t take the hint.
“We only have half an hour.” Her smile flattened. She leaned to one side like the tray weighed a ton.
This was such bull-crap. I just wanted to be left alone to calmly freak about almost outing myself and having my lifelong dream crushed. Now I had to deal with being disrespected by some chick clique. Dwight Aaron, who got goofed on for having two first names, walked by and gave me a menacing glance. Dwight was a half-a-jock. Not Catholic but here for basketball, Dwight didn’t hang with the team too much or any other group either. Dwight was so blond, his shaggy hair almost looked white. The sisters were constantly on his case to keep it trimmed enough to not touch his collar. That was somehow tempting damnation.
Dwight was another guy that ignored me most of the time but not as much as Bart’s posse. He was good for a hallway “hey” once in a while at least. I used to think sometimes if Dwight played CYO with us, I might have stuck it out. I kind of liked the game, but I only met him here at NC3, and by then I was too far from the whole sports scene. Prepping for my future calling took up most of my time now anyway. Dwight scowled today, his green eyes like an alien’s, ready to shoot antimatter lasers. He made me instantly sure Bart was on the offensive, telling anyone that would listen “Jonah Gregory is a fag.”
Dwight stopped, turned back, and I braced myself for a slur or fist. He just grabbed both handles of a trash barrel under Saint Rita. He bent over it and puked. Loud and splattering, it sounded like everything he’d ever eaten was coming up. There was a bug going around, no doubt now. In a small school, it didn’t take much to disrupt things. I relied on order, schedules, and control. I avoided any down time. Idle hands… I needed to stay pure.
“Jonah!” Darcy came running up. Her face reminded me of anime characters: too-big eyes beneath chocolate bangs. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Where else would I be? Darcy Kovian was my other best friend—okay, only friend—and up until last year, she’d been taller than both Chad and me. Darcy’s parents were serious Catholics who were born in Armenia. Apparently, faith and the church helped free them from the Turks and the Communists. The Kovians never missed Mass. Even on holy days that no one was sure were ones of obligation anymore. Darcy was also one of the first girls in our class to get serious breasts, like Cs. I’d passed her in height now by three inches. Chad was still shorter and wider.
Karen strutted back to her pals in kind of a huff as Chad and Darcy sat on either side of me. I thanked Saint Monica because her statue was closest. Too soon, because my salvation was short-lived.
“We need to tell you something.” Chad sounded like the next thing out of his mouth would be the secret police were on their way. I just hoped it had nothing to do with what I was sure he heard that morning. Mostly because I worried Chad might like the idea.
“I already know.” I tried to steer the conversation. “They jacked up the price for the retreat and yes, I’m totally screwed.”
Chad and Darcy looked to each other as in huh? It was kind of like something you’d see on TV, and I think that’s the effect they were after. “That’s not it, dude.” The words whistled past his teeth.
“Your mom is here,” Darcy answered, and Chad nodded to affirm the badness of the news. “She’s in Sister Margo’s office.”
I did a quick spin half expecting penguins with Uzis to be blocking the exits. Was this about me answering the phone? Being late yet again? Not going to homeroom? A rumble of panic ran through me as I wondered if she knew about the Communion wafers I took from the church. That was so dumb. I was too old to be doing that anymore.
“You want me to go with you?” Darcy put an arm around me.
“We can both go.” Chad did too from the other side.
“I’m good.” Trying to be, anyway. I left a Holy Spirit gap between them and went to face my fate.
On my way out of the cafeteria, I saw leggy Karen helping Mr. Scully with Dwight. He had puke on his purple tie right over the embossed NCCC logo. The cuffs of his mandated gray slacks were splattered too. They each had one of his long arms draped over their shoulders as they guided poor Dwight out the door. Maybe Karen wasn’t that bad after all. I should’ve let her sit.
AS I got closer to the office, I could see my mother, her hair more frazzled than usual, getting barked at by Sister Margo. The principal nun pointed her finger like something was Mom’s fault. Did Bart tell her? Was there already an uproar? Did they know too? Paranoid, party of one, that was me. My legs decided, because my brain was too freaked to think, to keep moving, out the door, just walk but….
“Suspension” was the only word I heard Sister Margo say before they both turned and saw me at once. My hand slid into my pocket and palmed the JCs in the baggie for protection, careful not to break any.
“Jonah.” Mom looked worse than she had that morning. She made me feel even more like crap for making her wait after Mass. “Do you have something to say?”
“About what?” There were so many things.
“Do you know where your sister is?” Mom asked. The sea parted. I looked up and had to bite my lip to keep from grinning. This wasn’t about me. How could I be so stupid? It was about Angie. Her full name was Angelique, French for angelic, and to the nuns, my older sister was anything but. Not that she took drugs or smoked or anything; my sister was just freakishly beautiful and kind of a free spirit. Especially when it came to flirting, at which
she was an expert.
Both women looked confused at my sudden uptick. They knew nothing; my dream lived. “She ditched again?”
JC wouldn’t approve of my rolling her under the bus. I guess I wanted the focus to be on Angie’s trespasses and not mine.
“Go back to class.” Mom didn’t appreciate it.
“It was lunch.”
“Lunch,” Sister Margo said.
“And don’t you miss the bus or you’re walking, mister.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I ambled back down the hall feeling like I’d gotten a pardon right before they threw the switch. I also tried to shake off the injustice that was my sister’s and my relationship to our parents. Angie was never in trouble, as if her beauty really was her curse and therefore a good excuse for her wildness. Summers Angie worked the desk at the motel Dad managed. For that reason he never had trouble getting help to cut the grass or vacuum the pool. If Dad wasn’t there, Angie posted a sign that said if anyone needed assistance, she was out by the pool. While she got paid to tan, I got stuck cleaning rooms. It was there, last summer, I got confirmation of my gayness.
When guys lined up to remove their shirts and show off for the bikini-clad honey that was my sister, I’d steal peeks at her suitors and then have to slide my jeans down so my belt would hold back the boners I’d started to get. There was this one really buff, crew-cut guy who was on leave from the Marines. Two years older than her, the guy had it bad for Angie and jumped in the pool with his clothes on to impress her. From behind my maid’s cart, I stared as he climbed out. All wet, so his jeans and shirt clung to him everywhere. I came without touching it. That was when I really knew I was gay. It was also when I figured out what I needed to do to keep my dream alive.
First, I had to regain control of my overactive junk. That night I took my glow-in-the-dark crucifix off the wall of my room. I stared at him beside me on my pillow until I finally started forgetting the Marine in the pool.
Since then, I had tamed my impulses… well, as much as I could. My equipment was in perfect working order. At least I didn’t use my thing like a joystick every day anymore. I just focused on JC. He was way handsomer than any guy I knew and the Messiah, so that helped a lot.
CHAPTER FOUR
“GREGORY, PICK it up!” Coach Danetto barked with the whistle still in his mouth as he puttered alongside me on his too-small moped. Coach blew a quick blast close to my ear, as if that was supposed to inspire me. I still trailed the rest of the all-male class. Gym was not coed because of the skin-exposing attire, maybe, or that exercise made you horny. NC3 had a lot of land they’d never done anything with. It had all been cleared once, back when they’d thought about expanding. Then the drop-off in enrollment began, and they just let it all go. The mix of short, new-growth trees started just past the practice field and extended all the way back to the rusty old chain-link fence. One full lap along the perimeter was about a mile, and we kicked off class this way almost every day no matter the season. Coach had the gravelly path plowed once a week, so unless there was a blizzard or it was too cold—as in zero and not just the wind chill—we were out there.
“Darvis, you got rocks in your pockets?” Poor Chad was in the crosshairs now. I could run faster, but then he would get picked on for being last. I didn’t care where I finished anyway. Nowhere in his story, all four gospels, did JC punch, wrestle, or outscore anybody.
“Get the lead out, Gregory.” Coach only used last names, typical he-man garbage. He zoomed ahead while we both waved at once as little chokers of smog shot out the tailpipe up and into our faces. If it weren’t for his bad knees, Coach would run with us, he said, but he was forced to ride to make sure there were “no shenanigans.” Even without leaves, the stubby wood was dense with low branches, and once away from the school and out of Coach’s view, some of my classmates would sneak smokes, piss spell their names in the hard gray snow, or trash talk the poor girls dumb enough to date them. The fence had a couple of holes in it too and some guys took off completely.
“Mother-Father, you boys are slow as syrup!” He should’ve sworn—coaches always should—and the fact he didn’t, just made him geekier, in spite of his muscles. Coach played football at Notre Dame. I never liked the sport, but everyone knew he got chop blocked (hit below the knee—I had to look it up) by a nonbeliever from USC and lost his chance at being pro. Both kneecaps still had long scars and were the reasons why he always wore long sweats even in summer. Coach Jocko Danetto was also the hairiest man I’d ever seen: the yeti of the Adirondacks. His curly mane protruded around his collar and cuffs. I’d seen him undressed only once. I was bringing him a note explaining I’d be serving at a holy day Mass and needed to be excused early that day. He was about to shower, and if I didn’t recognize his face I might have looked for a tail.
“So what happened?” Chad chugged beside me, the not-so-little engine that couldn’t.
“Angie cut school.”
“Again?”
“That’s what I said, thank you.” I didn’t have to look at Chad to know he was smiling. If something happened when we were together that I found funny, then so did he. Our sneakers crushed the frozen gravel, except my steps were lighter.
“Dwight went home sick.”
“You didn’t get too close?” I used my grown-up, caring voice I often practiced on Chad.
“To puke? Why would I?”
“True.”
Hearing a squeal of testosterone-fueled laughter, we both wheeled at once to see Bart slap-wrestling one of his posse, Jack Marucci. Jack had wavy black hair, was pretty furry for sixteen, and built like a fireplug with feet. Like rugby without a ball, Bart and Jack clawed and shoved each other across the streak of mud at the end of the practice field. Bart roared like a sea lion during a rut, and Jack went down face-first, splat.
“Yes!” Bart pummeled the air like a boxer after scoring a knockout.
“What the dickens?” Coach rode up on his too-small scooter. “You trip, Marucci?” Coach liked “horseplay.” It made us men, so he pretended not to see. That, and Bart Jr. being Bart Sr.’s son, probably made him think twice about any sort of discipline. Coach extended his hairy paw, one Sasquatch to another, and helped Jack to his feet.
Without prompting, Bart stuck out his hand to show there were no hard feelings. It was easy for him as the winner. Jack took it and they shook. What else could he do? Bart was kind of like the prince around here and everyone knew it. His Highness pointed at his minions and then, one by one, the rest of the class. “Anyone else?” His finger stopped at me, maybe. I wasn’t sure because there were lots of guys between us. “Anyone?” He smirked, and I felt a rumble of fear wash down from my hair to my toes. I’d gotten to gym early and was dressed and outside before he showed up. Bart turned back to his horseplay except he was more of a jackass. I’d already decided to not stick around and see what he’d do to me in the locker room or worse, the showers.
“Chad, I’m out.”
“What?”
I was already away from him, decision made. One of the fence holes was ahead on my left. I could get through and circle back to the locker room unnoticed before everyone else.
“Coach’ll see.” He didn’t ask why I was leaving because Chad knew. “Your mom’s already raging.” He spun my way and slipped on the frozen muck. I caught Chad’s forearm and he grabbed mine in a Roman handshake.
“He never pays attention to us coming back in.” Except to his jocks and guys like Chad. Coaches always seemed to fixate on fat kids. “Guys are always doing it.”
“Not you.”
“Now’s as good a time as any.” I smiled, like I’d chosen to give myself an adventure and maybe I had. One born of paranoia: anything was better than showering with a guy who thought I’d hit on him. Really I wanted Bart to get turned on by JC but in a different way.
“Where are you going?”
I pretended like I was too far away to hear anymore and slipped into the trees.
“HEY, FORGE.
” I took a step up on the bus, my plan having worked so well, I wished I’d not been in such a hurry in the locker room and taken a shower.
“It’s not time yet.” Forge, the bus driver, wore gloves without fingers and held one hand out to stop my getting on board.
“I wasn’t feeling good, so I got out early.” I stooped a little and put a hand on my stomach. Throw another rosary on the stack tonight.
“Then you should wait in the office.” Forge, weird name, I know, was really old like my Grandpa Hank but still alive. They were friends too, and he’d been a pallbearer. Grandpa Hank’s funeral was the only time I’d ever seen either of them with their hair combed.
“I’m already out here.”
“Not time.” He wore an old-man version of my puffy coat that was itchy-looking wool. He always kept his John Deere hat on too, so he wouldn’t get spitballs in his white hair.
“Please.”
“Rules are rules, Jonah. I could get in a lot of trouble if I let you on here early. As it is I should march you right back inside this minute.” He shut the door between us.
Thank you? He stared straight ahead as I backed away. Last year Forge and his wife came to the church’s Thanksgiving dinner for the elderly poor because they were. I worked there all day without complaining—that’s what servants of JC do—but Forge never thanked me or anything. Then again, whenever we slid on ice or some trucker cut us off, guys would bust on him, saying stuff like, “You still with us, Forge?” Or, “You feeling okay, old-timer?” I either laughed or said nothing, just relieved the focus of their crap wasn’t on me. Anyone ever says being good is easy must not be. I waved good-bye and started to walk.
THE ROAD to my house went through the little town of Lake Henry that was once home to a paper mill. Now it was quaint and touristy. Its old-fashioned Main Street was filled with craft shops and cafés that were only open in summer and for the “blue-hairs,” as Grandpa Hank had called them: old people who came to see the leaves in the fall. The wood-frame houses were one hundred years old or more and painted bright colors with dark shutters. Most had wide porches that during tourist season were used for business, as were the big rooms on the first floor.