Fin & Rye & Fireflies

by Harry Cook

  “It’s dangerous.” June’s face is rigid with horror. “Conversion therapy disguised as a self-improvement camp. One of the most deadly, irresponsible forms of torture for queer kids masked as beneficial therapy. How it’s still legal is beyond me.”

  “So . . . I mean. What do –?” Elliot asks, but June hasn’t finished.

  “Everything from faux-therapy, to aversive conditioning, from ‘praying the gay away’ to straight up abuse.”

  I feel the walls closing in on me. The thought of Fin in a living hell like that really makes me heave.

  “No . . . There’s no way,” I say, closing my eyes.

  “We need to be sure,” Poppy says, taking her phone out. “June, quick, google the –”

  “I’m on it,” June tells her and calls the number out.

  We all sit watching Poppy like we’re waiting for the executioner.

  “Hello?” Poppy takes a breath, then puts on her best “adult” voice. “Hi, yes, it’s Sally? Mrs Sally Whittle?”

  My mouth goes dry.

  “I just wanted to check how my son Fin is settling in?”

  There’s silence and I think my heart has stopped beating entirely.

  Poppy is gripping the phone like she’ll crack it in half. “Okay. Okay. Thank you.” She hangs up and looks directly at me. “He’s there.”

  June looks at the floor. Elliot shakes his head and stands.

  I just sit still.

  A moment passes. Then another.

  Then I sink my face into my pillow and scream until my lungs burn and the world disappears.

  38

  Rye

  “What!? What!? WHAT!?”

  When I look up, I’m dizzy and I can see little yellow flecks from the energy it took to scream like that. Mum is staring at all of us.

  “What is going on!?” Mum demands, her eyes like saucers.

  June takes her aside and explains everything while I go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, taking deep breaths to steady myself.

  When I get back Mum seems nervous – out of her depth, which isn’t like her at all. Elliot is staring out the window, tapping his foot, seemingly full of frantic energy.

  “Rye?” Mum says to me as I rub at my face with a towel.

  “Doesn’t matter about me,” I say. “We just need to get him out.”

  “Too damn right,” Elliot says, turning to look me in the eye. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

  Hearing that from Fin’s big brother almost shatters me. “More than I could ever explain,” I tell him. “But right now I really need to talk to your parents.” The words sound strange out in the open; they’ve been on repeat in my mind since I grasped the reality of this situation. I need to speak to them. I need to make them listen.

  “Look.” Elliot’s voice is unsteady. “I’m the first to admit they need a talking to. I’ve never really seen this side of them. Since I’ve been back, their stubbornness is off the scale. It’s that different . . .” he says, barely blinking.

  “I think Rye’s right,” Poppy says, standing up, too.

  Mum looks at all of us, her expression troubled. “I’m really worried, Rye,” she says. “I mean, this could all turn very nasty.”

  “Mum, Fin is in conversion therapy. This is already nasty. Really, really nasty,” I say, my voice getting louder. “And I’m not waiting around for him to come back broken. I’m getting him out. You can join me or not. Up to you.”

  “I’m in,” Elliot says as Poppy and June link arms with him.

  Mum takes my hand, her fingers interlacing with mine. “Me too,” she adds.

  *

  By the time we get to Fin’s house I feel like a gorilla is sitting on my chest. Anxiety is one thing. This is on par with a full-blown panic attack.

  Elliot, Poppy and June sit huddled in the back seat. Nobody moves.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Mum asks.

  “Yep. For sure.” I smile, my lame attempt at coming across nonchalant failing majorly. “But,” I add, “I’d like to do this on my own.” I can hear the tremble in my voice but I’m not sure if the others notice it.

  I get out the car and head up the path to their front door.

  It’s windy and the gravel crunches underneath my feet.

  When I am finally standing on their front step I nearly turn and run back. I’m halfway spun around when the door opens and Fin’s dad is standing there, on his way out by the looks of things.

  I swallow and feel my tongue go numb. It’s as if everything I’ve planned to say has decided to hop skip and jump the fuck out of my head and leave me stranded here staring up at him like a fat walrus on a beach.

  “May I help you?” Mr Whittle asks, his voice sounding as scratchy as the gravel of the driveway.

  “I . . . There’s . . .” My words are bumping into each other.

  “If you don’t have anything to say, I have things to be getting on with,” he says, readying himself to push past me.

  “Wait,” I say. “I . . .” I take a breath and glance back to the car, where everyone is looking on and Poppy seems like she’s about to get out and join me. “My name is Rye Hendrix –”

  “I know exactly who you are –”

  “and your son Fin is really important to me,” I finish.

  Mr Whittle rolls his eyes, but I can’t miss the flash of alarm in them. He goes to shut the door but I stick my foot in it before he can.

  “Sir.” I put my hands up. “Please. Hear me out.”

  There’s a beat where I worry he’s going to slam the door shut, but just when I’m about to brace myself he opens it again.

  “I know you’ve sent him to Re-Souled. But that place is awful, a cruel scam. I’m begging you to reconsider,” I say, my voice wobbly but doing good considering I feel like I’m sinking into quicksand.

  There’s movement behind Mr Whittle and then Mrs Whittle is standing there, her whole being crumpled and pale.

  “What’s all this?” she asks, wrapping her cardigan tight around her.

  “Nothing, Sal. This young man here was just leaving –”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I say. “I really need you to listen to me. Conversion therapy is dangerous. It’s a form of torture. You know that right? People have died from it.”

  I can’t believe I’m having a standoff with the parents of the boy I’m in love with, but they look at each other for a moment, as if my words are striking a chord. Perhaps I can get them to realise the magnitude of the situation.

  Fin’s mum stares at me like she’s unsure whether to take my side or throw me across her front yard. I wouldn’t know where to start with what Fin’s dad is thinking, though. But that expression “if looks could kill” seems pretty spot on.

  “Please . . .” I start. “You need to think about all of this.”

  Fin’s dad opens his mouth to speak, but I carry on.

  “Fin isn’t broken. He isn’t confused. This isn’t a phase.” My heart’s beating faster and faster. “This Re-Souled place is wrong for him. For anyone. He doesn’t need to change. You know he’s perfect exactly as he is.”

  Mr and Mrs Whittle look at me and for the briefest moment I think I’ve gotten through to them.

  “Charles,” Mrs Whittle says, gently touching her husband’s arm.

  I hold my breath, desperate to open the dialogue. To start a genuine conversation.

  “Enough. That is enough,” Mr Whittle says, shaking any reconsideration from his mind as his hard shell closes over again. “Please get off the premises right now.”

  And he shuts the door.

  I stand for a beat longer and then look over to the car where Mum and the rest sit, expectant. Emotion is bubbling to the surface but I press it down. I’m not done fighting yet.

  “I need paper and a pen,” I say as I throw myself into the passenger seat.

  Mum tears a page from a notebook and extracts a sharpie from her bag.

  I scribble:


  “Penny’s diner. Tomorrow night. Six p.m. Please come.”

  I fold the paper over, go over to Fin’s parents’ car and stick it underneath the windscreen wiper.

  When I get back, Elliot is shuffling in the back seat. “I’m coming with you guys,” he says, determined.

  “You sure you don’t want to go hang with your parents?” Poppy says, far too sarcastically.

  “Not yet,” he says, grimly. “We need all the artillery we can get.”

  “Thanks,” I say, turning around in my seat to stare at everyone. Mum turns the ignition and we hit the road. “We’re going to get him out of there if it kills me.”

  39

  Fin

  Sterile and unnerving are two of the less negative words I’d use to describe Re-Souled.

  One of Greg’s minions gave me a tour and I saw “motivational quotes” lining the walls; segregated male and female dorm-style areas for sleeping (are they total idiots?); and a canteen with a fluorescent white light overhead, giving it the feel of an old-school asylum. Once that excitement was over, I was taken to the recreation room. A stark, basic space with nothing more than the Ten Commandments on the wall, a scruffy couch and a side table with a Bible on it. It looked like a sad motel room in a stage-set for a horror movie.

  From there I was given a sandwich and a glass of milk, like I was at nursery school, and then taken to my first “counselling” session. It consisted of an introduction to the team – a ragtag, joyless bunch of apparently “transformed” and now straight people who came through the programme previously and are here to teach us how it’s all done. It made me simultaneously want to pull my hair out and punch a wall.

  There are four other people in my group. Two guys and two girls. None of us wants to meet one another’s eyes, and so I’ve only spoken to Clare, a girl with blue eyes, straggly pink hair and more piercings than a pin-cushion. She told me how, since coming out as gay to her family, she was given the ultimatum of “check in or get out” which led her to here, with me, in this toxic mess of a place. The worst part is, Clare seems to be actually buying this bullshit. It’s like she truly believes she can be transformed.

  It’s midday when I’m asked to join another group “therapy” session. Clare is waiting in the hallway for me and, when I get closer to her, I realise she’s been crying: her eyes are bloodshot and watery.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, knowing the answer. How can anybody be okay in a place like this?

  Clare nods.

  I don’t buy it, but I also don’t push it. I’m hanging on by a thread. I don’t need to make her re-live anything she doesn’t want to.

  We head to “assembly” where Greg is waiting to address our group. He’s stood on a low podium and the way his creepy-clown smile bears down on us sends a severe shiver along my spine.

  “Welcome, gang,” he says, his pebbly eyes alight and his cheeks rosy.

  Violence has never been my thing, but I really want to smack that stupid faux-angelic smirk off his face. He’s loving the fact that this is destroying us.

  “As you know, the next few days might be tough,” he goes on, his face switching to caring and sombre now. “As we make those all-important changes to ourselves. But come the weekend, we will celebrate with our transformation ceremony. This marks the moment at which you truly turn over a new leaf and start your lives afresh as normal and wholesome members of our society.”

  I flinch as he claps his hands together and beams.

  “The Mountain Song Choir will join us for a special performance in which, I can assure you, you will hear the healing grace of God in their divine voices.”

  I grimace at the thought, shuffling my feet in a mix of boredom and anxiety at what’s to come.

  “Now, for the remainder of the day we will join into groups for our prayer therapy sessions,” Greg concludes, thumbing through a booklet as if searching for a prayer to bring this nightmare assembly to a close.

  I try to tune out of the garbage that is pouring out of Greg’s mouth, but when I glance at Clare she seems to be hanging on his every word.

  “You’re not seriously believing this guy, are you?” I whisper under my breath.

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” she says, her face intent as she averts her eyes from mine.

  “Listen,” I tell her. “I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who loves me and who’s waiting for me to get the hell out of here,” I say, feeling my chest puff out with pride.

  “So, where is he?” Clare asks, turning to me.

  “What?”

  “Where is he? If he loves you so much, why isn’t he here?” Clare says, a hint of a dig in her voice mixed with uneasiness. “Why isn’t he rescuing you?”

  “I . . . I . . . what do you mean?” I stutter.

  “This is my third time here,” Clare tells me, her voice trembling. “No one loves me anymore. I need to get it right this time.”

  I shake my head, horrified. “No. No you don’t,” I say, urgently. “Plenty of people will love you exactly as you are.”

  These words seem to get Greg’s attention. He breaks off from his droning prayer to focus his beady eyes on us.

  “Sorry, Fin. Is there something you’d like to share?”

  He gives me a patronising, bland smile.

  I’m about to say no, to stay silent, to get through this nightmare as quickly and quietly as I can.

  But then I think of my friends. I think of Poppy calling out Bronwyn and Paisley at the wharf that very first time I met her; June valiant with her “Keep Calm, It’s Just a Toilet” protest. I think of everyone at our QSA meetings and what they’d want me to do in this situation.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Yeah, actually,” I say, standing up, never mind how badly my legs are shaking. “I’d love to share something with you all.”

  Greg’s stupid smile stretches wider. “Please go ahead, Tim.”

  “It’s Fin,” I snarl. “And I’d like to share that I don’t buy into a single stinking piece of your steaming pile of bullshit.”

  There are a few bewildered gasps behind me and even Clare stares at me in shock, but I absolutely don’t give a –

  “Oh what?!” I say, looking around. “Not a fan of the word bullshit, but happy to listen to it?” I choke out an angry laugh. “This place is a vile joke. Greg is a scam artist. And you’re here swallowing his pseudo-scientific religious crap. Face it. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.”

  I stop, aware that Greg is simply looking on calmly, which only pisses me off more.

  “I mean, seriously?” I challenge, my legs shaking harder than ever. “A transformation ceremony? That has got to be one of the dumbest things ever. If God is so powerful and wise and all-loving, how come He gave me such a gorgeous guy to fall in love with?”

  These last few words rattle my throat and I realise how much pain each word holds, but also how strong I am – how strong I have to be. This is about more than me now.

  I’ve got to stand up for every single person who’s not been accepted for who they are. I need to fight.

  Clare looks up at me. “Fin . . . shut the fuck up,” she whispers. “Please, sit down.”

  But Greg keeps gazing at me calmly. “Is that all, Fin? I am more than happy to start aversion therapy immediately if that’s what you’d prefer? It’s a process usually reserved for later in the programme, but since you’re so . . . passionate, it would be most appropriate if we were to bring this helpful technique forward.”

  I feel like I’ve been plunged into icy water.

  We had a whole QSA meeting about aversion therapy only last week.

  But I won’t let Greg’s threat break me. I refuse.

  “I’m not doing shit,” I yell. “Call my parents. Right now. Call my family and tell them I don’t care if they throw me out –”

  “Ahhh, Fin, my impulsive little firecracker,” Greg says, his voice syrupy. “Surely you understand what sort of life awaits you and your family, should you decide
to leave?”

  “I . . . what are you talking about?”

  “Where will you go, exactly? Your family want you to have a fresh start. Put this madness behind you, Fin. Embrace a healthy, wholesome life not a sinful, perverted one. They will not have you back until you have given Re-Souled your all.” He pauses and his eyes drill into me. “Where would you go? What would you do? Drop out of school?”

  How can he say this stuff? It’s one big mind-game. I’m so angry, but still I feel it getting under my skin.

  “I . . .” I force myself to speak. “My boyfriend. I’ll stay with my –”

  “Oh, your boyfriend?” Greg says with a sneer that absolutely terrifies me. “And where is he right now, exactly?”

  My heart sinks. Why does everyone want me to feel like Rye has abandoned me?

  “Now then.” Greg comes over and stands right in front of me. I lean as far back in my chair as I can. Please, please don’t let him put his hands on me. “You’ll be good as new in no time. Or as long as it takes until something clicks.” He smirks again. “And trust me. It always clicks.”

  I can’t look at him.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms until I break the skin.

  *

  It’s evening when the weather changes, bringing with it a nice breeze, but even that doesn’t banish the grey cloud of despair hanging over this place.

  I have an hour to kill before the day is over. I’ve never felt so beaten up emotionally.

  After the assembly from hell I joined in the “pray the gay away” session, which I had no choice but to try to block my hearing to. Then I came straight back to the Rec Room and laid down on a lumpy beanbag and tried to slow my breathing.

  I need some space to myself, so I head to the toilet block. It’s outside near a pile of old abandoned tyres against a wall. There’s a small fountain built into the bricks to wash your hands in.

  I find a cubicle, put the seat down and sit. I don’t actually need to use the bathroom, but the thought of being among the people here makes me want to hurl.

  I put my head in my hands and take slow breaths.