What Happens After

by Dennis Abrams

  And you know why. You all thought he was gay. You all did if you ever thought anything about him at all. You thought he was weird. He didn’t fit into any of your damn cliques and groups. He didn’t play sports, he didn’t party, he didn’t do any of that stuff, so he was invisible to you all. You just didn’t see him. You couldn’t see him.

  You never gave him a chance.

  None of you ever gave a damn about him until he got fucking shot to death in a gay club and his name and face got plastered all over the news. Now you want to know about him.

  Too late. You all had your chance. But you blew it.

  (At this point I tried to get up and get out, but Laura looked at me in some kind of way, a mix of sadness and pity and regret and a whole lot of other stuff written on her face, and put out her hand to stop me.)

  Laura: Collin, I’m sorry. I really am. Here’s my final question: Given that, what can we, as your classmates and the school as a whole, do to make things better for you?

  Me: Seriously?

  Laura: Well, yes. For me, even if nobody else listens.

  Me: (I take a deep breath.)

  First of all, stop treating me like I’m some kind of freak. I’m not, okay?

  I’m gay. I was at Pacific Coast the night… it happened. I was shot three times.

  I’m not freaking Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived. I’m Collin. I survived.

  That’s it.

  I know that people want to hear about what happened. I get that. I’d be the same way. I get it. But please just stop. I don’t want to talk about it.

  I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it, I don’t want to dream about it. I don’t want to (here I was starting to lose it a bit) be that gay kid who got shot in that gay club in that gay neighborhood in Houston.

  I’ve gone from being nearly invisible to getting stared at, made fun of, avoided, whispered about, and felt sorry for. I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. I’m the same guy I was last summer, but with a couple of gun wounds and some metal crap on my leg and a limp that is never going to go away. I didn’t change, I didn’t do anything…. Bad shit happened to me.

  And that’s the only reason you want to know anything about me.

  (At this point I was totally losing it but didn’t much care.)

  I’ll say it one more time for those of you who don’t get it or don’t want to get it. Nate was not my boyfriend. We did not have sex. We were friends, period. And to all the dumbass jocks watching this who think it’s funny to make kissy faces and grab their crotches and tell me…. Just knock it the fuck off. I’ve seen what you’ve got and… I’ve seen better.

  (At this point Laura gestured to the cameraman, who looked like he wanted to beat the shit out of me for that last comment, to stop filming.)

  What do I want?

  I want to know why it happened. I want to know why I’m alive and Nate isn’t. Why me, not him? I want to know that it’s going to stop hurting. I want to know when the nightmares and flashbacks and all of that are going to stop. I want to know if I’m ever, ever, ever going to be happy again.

  Happy? I don’t even know what that means anymore.

  I don’t know what I want. I want Nate back, I want my best friend back, I want my life back. I want to have people I can talk to, but I don’t want to talk. I want to be left alone, but I don’t want to be alone. I want a boyfriend, but that part of me seems to have gone out of business.

  (I couldn’t believe I was saying all of this, stuff I hadn’t even admitted to myself, but I was too far gone to stop.)

  What do I want? Please, can you tell me what I want? Please? Because at this point, I really don’t know myself.

  Laura: (Stunned silence.)

  At this point I got up and left. But not before telling Laura that she should run the whole thing as is.

  After taking some deep breaths outside the studio, I got on with it and finished the day. I needed to be doing something. Even English post-Romantic poetry.

  When school got out and I was standing in the parking lot, waiting for Ziggy to come pick me up, it occurred to me that I was currently operating at only two speeds: totally shut down and quiet or totally and completely losing it.

  There was no longer an in-between.

  There was no longer just normal.

  I’d lost that the night at Pacific Coast.

  I knew, I realized, I had to find a way to get it back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I NEED to stop talking about myself for just a bit.

  I’m tired of thinking about me.

  Wouldn’t you be?

  So let me tell you what was going on with my parents.

  While all that was going on with me, Mom and Dad were going through their own stuff.

  Brought on by me of course. So when you get down to it, there really is no way for me to totally stop talking about myself, at least in a way.

  Here’s the thing.

  Mom and Dad really wanted to be good parents. To be involved and interested and all that stuff. They were the kind of parents who really wanted to be friends with their kid.

  Especially since I was their only one. Mom had a couple of miscarriages after having me, so I think they, and Mom in particular, held on to me all the harder.

  And being their only son, and wanting to be my friend, to them, meant sharing my secrets. And what plans I had for my life.

  But most of all they wanted, while at the same time really didn’t want, me to tell them about that night.

  Not out of any need to hear all the details or anything like that. They wanted to know so they could help me. So they could make me feel better. And make themselves feel better for being such good caring liberal-type parents.

  I wasn’t having it.

  It’s not like I don’t love them; I do. They’re my parents. And they are, when it comes down to it and as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, good parents. Maybe even better than good.

  But I didn’t want to talk about it with anybody, much less them. And the more they asked or suggested or hinted or gave me that look, the more I resisted and closed down.

  So I put up a wall. A couple of walls. A couple of walls and a moat. A couple of walls and a moat filled with alligators and flesh-eating piranhas. I wasn’t about to let them anywhere near me like that. Or give them the satisfaction of breaking me down.

  I could and would, I decided, handle it myself. Obviously I wasn’t doing that great a job yet, but I was working on it. I just needed to try harder, I’d tell myself.

  And so, since I wouldn’t let Mom do her mom thing with me, no matter how hard she tried (and believe me, she tried), she went looking for somebody who would.

  If she couldn’t help me, if she couldn’t get me to share my life and secrets with her, she’d find someone else who would.

  She started volunteering once or twice a week at a local support group for LGBTQ teens held at the LGBT center not too far from here.

  I’ve got to say, she loved it. She loved everything about it.

  And each and every night when she came home, she couldn’t stop talking about it.

  She loved being able to be a mom to other gay and lesbian and bi and trans kids. She loved leading group discussions. She loved talking to the kids one-on-one.

  She loved it that they turned to her for advice. Or just for someone to hear their stories.

  I was sorry I couldn’t do the same for her. But at the same time not sorry.

  At dinner one night she told us about a kid whose parents had kicked her out of the house when they learned she had a girlfriend.

  Another night she told us about one kid who had been terrified to tell his very religious parents he was gay and was surprised when they told him they knew that, they had always known, and that God made him the way he was and they loved him and always would.

  I wished I could believe that Nate’s mom would have been the same, but I don’t think she would have been.

  Ever. />
  She told us about one kid whose school wouldn’t let him bring his boyfriend to the prom. And another kid in another district who was allowed, even encouraged, to bring his date to the prom, where they were named prom king and king.

  I couldn’t even begin to imagine that. At other schools, yes. At mine, not a chance.

  But, as Mom told me pointedly, so much of anyone’s experiences are the luck of the draw. “Some parents aren’t so accepting as others,” she said, giving me the look.

  “I know, Mom, I know,” I said.

  What else could I say?

  “I’d like you to do me a favor,” she said. “Would you once, just this once, come with me to the support group?”

  “Mom, I can’t.”

  “Yes, Collin… you can. There’s a young man there around your age. He and his friends were walking home from a party last week, and some other kids jumped them. Was it because they were gay? The police don’t think so, but Jeremy has convinced himself that that’s why.

  “As you’d say, he’s having issues, and I want you to be there for our next meeting. He’s reluctant to talk about it—sound like anyone you know?—but I think having you there might help him open up.

  “Would you do it, please. For me?”

  With the look she gave me, her eyes tired but insistent, I knew the “please” was meaningless. I was going to be there, no questions asked.

  And so I went.

  And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m kind of glad I did.

  There were already close to twenty kids when we got there, guys and girls and a few undecided or unsure or somewhere in between, from all over the area.

  People smiled when they saw Mom walk in, which was kind of cool. And when they saw me walk in, I could hear gasps of breath from a bunch of the kids. Then they stared.

  And then the strangest and coolest thing happened.

  They started clapping. And kept clapping. For me. Like I was a hero or something.

  Or like I’d done something amazing.

  Then it hit me. I had survived. And for them, worried about what their lives would be, what their lives could be like, that was enough.

  If I could survive that night, they knew they could survive as well.

  So I smiled. Really smiled for the first time in what seemed like a very long time.

  Maybe even since that night.

  I could feel my face turning red. I looked at Mom, who smiled at me with what looked like tears in her eyes and a look that said see? I told you it would be all right.

  Everyone pulled their chairs into a circle. I sat next to Mom and listened, just listened.

  Aaron talked about a guy he liked, but he didn’t know how to find out if the guy liked him back. Or if the guy was even gay.

  Michelle talked about breaking up with her girlfriend because she found out she was also dating a guy.

  Mark and Ken talked about their relationship, and how Mark’s dad had a harder time that he was dating a black guy than the fact that he was dating a guy at all.

  Kendra talked about how to handle guys who see her holding hands with her girlfriend, Rachel, and ask wouldn’t she really prefer a man?

  Zeke asked about the chances of getting infected with HIV if he didn’t play safe only once, and whether PrEP was the way to go.

  And on and on, gay kids asking the same questions about their relationships as straight ones.

  Since I’d never been in a relationship or even been in love or even gone on a date, it was totally cool to hear.

  And as it kept going, Mom was there. Answering questions, asking questions, being a mom to kids who weren’t her own. It kind of made me wish she wasn’t my mom so she could be my support group mom. If that makes any sense.

  Finally Jeremy, the kid who had gotten beat up on the street the previous week, spoke.

  There were still a few bruises on his face and a couple of cuts that hadn’t quite healed, but what I saw right away was his bruised expression. It was kind of the same face I saw when I looked in the mirror, a sadness and fear and sense of knowing behind his eyes that was, to me at least, unmistakable.

  It was almost like looking in a mirror.

  He told us how he and a few friends were walking home from a party when it happened. Three guys rushed up and just started in on them—punching and shoving, and then, when they were on the ground, kicking them over and over again. It happened in a matter of moments. The guys never said a word. And it was over before they knew it.

  Nobody was badly hurt, but Jeremy was still afraid. Afraid to even leave the house except to go to school and back.

  He knew being afraid didn’t make sense. He told the group that he knew what happened was totally random. That it was like being hit by lightning or something. But he was still afraid.

  He could still hear the silence of the guys doing the beating, a silence filled only with the sounds of him and his friends pleading for them to stop. The shuffle of shoes. The thud when a kick hit its mark. The sudden intake of breath.

  I didn’t know what to say. As he told us what happened, I knew deep down what he had gone through. And what he was going through. I looked at Mom for some direction.

  But Mom knew exactly what to say. Or do.

  She stood up and walked over to Jeremy. And hugged him. Hugged him tight.

  She told him that he was strong, that he had survived it, and that proved he could survive anything.

  With that, he started sobbing, like it was the first time since the attack.

  Like it was the first time he had let himself do so.

  He cried and cried, and Mom hugged and hugged and wouldn’t let him go.

  When he stopped and then she stopped, it felt like something had changed. That he had released something from inside him.

  And he knew it. Mom knew it. Everyone there knew it.

  He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.

  And wondered, being as self-involved and self-centered as I am, when it would be my turn to feel better.

  Or if I ever would.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THEY ENDED up broadcasting my entire interview on the school’s YouTube channel.

  All of it. Language, breakdown, and all.

  I’d insisted that they do. I wanted the entire school to see and hear the whole thing, the good, the bad, and the really, really ugly. Feeling suddenly bold, I told Laura that if they didn’t broadcast the whole thing, they couldn’t use any of it.

  Laura understood why I needed her to do it. And she stood up for me when the time came.

  After it showed, things seemed to change a little at school; the mood shifted a tiny bit. The jerks went on being jerks, and the hard-core jocks went on being hard-core brainless jocks, but somehow the tension seemed to break, sort of like when a thunderstorm finally explodes with thunder and lightning and rain and after that there’s a sense of calm.

  It kind of felt like that.

  People seemed to get where I was coming from. They were more relaxed around me. There was more smiling and nodding and less pointing and giggling and ignoring.

  Laura and I started hanging out together at school. Lunch mostly, or we’d meet in the computer lab to look at college websites and try to narrow down our choices.

  Along with all this going on, I also had to deal with what was about to happen next: graduation and college.

  I had no idea what I wanted to study. Or where I wanted to go. I just knew I wanted to go away. Far away. Away from what had happened.

  I needed to go somewhere where it hadn’t happened. And wouldn’t happen.

  Somewhere safe.

  Although deep down I knew that there is really no such place.

  So there was school. Watching soccer practice. Freezie Treats with Ziggy. Hanging with Laura. And hiding away in my room.

  My life.

  But I was slowly beginning to change. Or things around me were beginning to change.

  I’m not sure which.

  The school
counselor told me that while my grades were good enough to get into any of the schools I was trying for, I needed more extracurricular activities, especially since drama club was no longer happening. I needed something, he suggested, that would show I cared about something outside of school, and something that would involve me with my community.

  Apparently, getting shot wasn’t going to be enough to show my involvement with my community and help me get into the college of my choice. So on the days when Mom wasn’t at the LGBT youth center, I went myself.

  It cut seriously into my weed/Freezie Treats/slushie/vodka time with Ziggy, but three afternoons a week, I went by the center.

  Honestly, I didn’t do much. I’d check in with the tough feminine lesbian chick Nancy who ran the place, to make sure I got credited for my time. I’d go in, down a couple vodka-free Cokes, nod to the people I knew, make sure to give Jeremy a smile, and listen.

  Just listen.

  Because really, what else could I offer them? Despite the applause they gave me, I was still a mess and I knew it.

  I still wasn’t sleeping well. I still wasn’t eating much. I still wasn’t interested in dating. Or in sex in general.

  It still felt like I was sleepwalking. Like I was still in a dream. Or a nightmare. One that I still couldn’t shake myself awake from. Terrified that any moment I’d be back in the club. On that night.

  I was getting by. I can say that much. But barely.

  At least, I told myself, I was reaching out more. Talking to other people more. And even, at the center, thinking about other people’s problems and not my own.

  But it felt like an act.

  Inside me, I was still at Pacific Coast.

  And Nate was still dead.

  And try as I might (or maybe I wasn’t even trying or just wasn’t trying hard enough), I still couldn’t get past that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I STILL had to work on my college application stuff, including writing my essay.

  They say write about what you know. They say try not to be boring. And most importantly, they say try to do something that will make you stand out from all the other applicants.