Fin & Rye & Fireflies

by Harry Cook

  As I sit and breathe deeply, I think of next week when I won’t be here anymore. I don’t care how hard they try, I’m not succumbing. I won’t give in. They’re not breaking me.

  My hands are starting to feel clammy when there’s a knock on the tin door.

  “Just a sec,” I say, pushing my palms hard into my eyes.

  Another knock.

  “I said just a sec,” I say again, standing up and flushing the toilet needlessly.

  Another knock.

  “Seriously, what’s the go with –”

  I open the door and he’s suddenly in front of me, cheeks flushed like he’s been sprinting, his breath coming out in shallow puffs.

  40

  Rye

  I pull Fin close and he clings to me, his skin warm against mine.

  Oh my god, it’s good to kiss him again. To hold him.

  But he seems so different. Like the air in this place has sucked the very life out of him. His eyes are hollow and his lips dry and cracked.

  “We need to get you some chapstick,” I say stupidly, as I gently lift his chin up to get a better look in his eyes.

  “I . . . You’re here,” he says.

  “Of course I am,” I say.

  We sink into each other’s arms, but then we hear what sounds like a car backfiring and both of us freeze. I don’t know what it would mean if they found me with Fin, but perhaps I should grab him and run. Now that I’m here, I can see how toxic this place is. The thought of leaving him is unbearable.

  “We’re breaking you out,” I say, a shiver in my voice. “Not right now. I’m sorry. But I promise you we’ll come as soon –”

  “I can leave now . . . I can grab my bag and . . . No, scrap that. Forget my bag –”

  “I’d love that,” I say, kissing him. “But, Fin, be patient. We have a plan for bringing your parents round. To get your family on side, accepting you one hundred per cent.”

  Fin says nothing and I gently kiss the tears from his cheek.

  “Is it really bad?” I ask.

  “It’s all talk.” He shrugs. “Then there’s some weird transformation ceremony on Friday . . . They even have a choir coming. Then . . .” He stifles a sad laugh and looks at the floor. “How does a place like this even exist?” he whispers.

  I have nothing. No words. Nothing makes sense and it hurts to try to comprehend the question. How does somewhere like this exist in 2020?

  “But I’m going to stop it existing. When I get out of here, I’ll tell the world exactly what kind of ‘therapy’ this shitty place offers.”

  “I’m all here for that,” I say, encouraged by the strength in his words. “Wait, go back,” I add, gathering my thoughts. “A choir?”

  “Apparently.” Fin sighs.

  My mind goes into hyperdrive. “Can you hold out until then?” I ask, a punch of excitement running through my belly.

  “I guess . . .” Fin says. “Yes –”

  I gather his hands in mine, as if I can give him the energy to carry on. He leans into me, covering the side of my neck with kisses . . .

  “OY!”

  We flinch as a man with a pinched face and a “All You Need is Jesus” hoodie comes striding round the corner, glasses falling down his nose. He’s accompanied by a man as wide as he is tall in a lame security baseball cap.

  “OY! Stop that!” they shout.

  “I love you, Fin,” I tell him, as the security guy starts to barrel towards me. “I love you!”

  But then, like a coward, I sprint up over the tyres and over the wall. I turn as I flee that hellish place to see the security guy grapple hold of Fin, pinning his arms roughly behind his back.

  *

  I’ve barely slept, but I have so much adrenaline coursing through me that I could keep going for a few days without a wink of it.

  Fin’s pale face outside that miserable building has been on a loop in my mind like an old film since I abandoned him there and I have this sick feeling in my stomach that won’t budge. Please, please let him be all right.

  When I get to the school car park, I find a bench and wait for Poppy and June to arrive. We’ve decided to convene here before we head to the lockers because it’s easier to talk without a bunch of eavesdroppers around.

  Last night when I got home, I called Poppy and June to tell them everything Fin had said.

  They both looked genuinely scared, but we convinced ourselves Fin would be strong enough to survive the bullshit “talk” going on over at Re-Souled until we got him out.

  June was all for organising a full-on QSA demo outside “that evil place”. It took everything I’d got to convince her to hold fire; we’d need a protest once Fin was out of there – to close Re-Souled down once and for all.

  We then put our energy into planning the perfect rescue mission Trojan Horse-style . . . Well, if the horse and its bellyful of warriors were as gay as Kinky Boots. These creeps want to play preacher, we’ll give them something to preach to.

  When at last she arrives, Poppy looks shattered, but June seems much more together.

  “You okay?” I ask, gesturing to the jumbo can of energy drink that Poppy has clutched to her chest.

  “Completely fine,” she says, waving me away.

  “Really?” I ask. “Because you look like you’re three sips away from a meltdown.”

  “You know this stuff wakes me up,” Poppy scoffs.

  “Prescription amphetamines would too. Doesn’t mean they’re good for you.”

  “Okay, Oprah. Can we just get going? There’s a lot to do.”

  June has her usual backpack as well as another duffle slung over her shoulder.

  We find a place in the shade to sit and I check my watch. We’ve got exactly eighteen minutes to discuss our master plan before we start another day of school and I’m not wasting a single second.

  “Are you coming to the diner tonight?” I ask, opening up my backpack and taking out a notepad and pen.

  My fellow conspirators give me the thumbs-up.

  “What are you planning on saying if Fin’s parents actually show up?” June asks.

  “Everything,” I say.

  “That’s nice and specific,” Poppy says, taking another gulp of her liquid caffeine.

  “I’m on it,” I tell her before motioning to June. “What’s in the bag?” I ask.

  A mischievous grin lights up her face.

  “What’s in the bag, June?” I ask again.

  She throws it over to me and I hurriedly unzip it.

  It takes me a moment to realise what I’m looking at. But still it’s only once I finally take it out that it all makes sense.

  “How in the f–” I start and Poppy bursts out laughing.

  “Who is this chick?” Poppy says, wrapping her arms around June and going in for a peck on the cheek.

  “HOW!?” I ask.

  Poppy and I are seriously laughing now.

  “Last night when you told me about the plan, I . . . well, let’s just say I liberated these beauties.”

  Poppy and I lose it and soon enough June is laughing too.

  “Well, regardless. We’re tweaking the hell out of these beauties and turning them all the colours of the rainbow,” I say, stuffing everything back into the duffle.

  “Agreed,” June says.

  Poppy rolls onto her back and stares up at the sky. “Mum said she’s in.”

  “Good,” I say. “Mine too.”

  “And mine,” June chimes in. “Dad too.”

  “Awesome,” I say.

  With six minutes to go, we move on to discussing logistics. The logistics of how we’re going to rescue Fin. How we’re going to show that Re-Souled bunch of losers what real soul looks like.

  I feel a rush of energy pulse through me and then a break in my heart when I think of Fin. I can’t believe he’s stuck there. Whenever the thought of him in that place creeps in, the horrible reality of it absolutely floors me.

  “Let’s go,” I say, standing. “I’ve
got food tech and could really use a nap.”

  *

  The smell of bacon and cheese sticks is overpowering when we arrive at the diner. I have barely eaten a thing all day and the stench from the over-processed dairy products turns my stomach.

  June and Poppy seem way more composed than I feel and when we finally find a booth, I’m almost annoyed at how cheery Jerry is. I know he doesn’t know what is going on with us. I have no reason to bristle or be upset. Yet I can’t help it. It’s almost obnoxious that his life is unaltered. That he can carry on with that big smile of his and take our orders without a clue that my boyfriend is being held captive across town in some nightmare camp for queer kids.

  “What can I get you tonight?” he says, all fluffy blond curls and baseball cap and strong white teeth.

  “The usual, J,” Poppy says, offering her most minimal of grins.

  “Sure thing,” he says, beaming some more.

  June smiles and hands her menu to him. “You been good, Jerry?” she asks, always the decent human being among us to bother to ask the normal questions while Poppy and I stare on like idiots.

  “Can’t complain,” he says.

  Of course he can’t.

  “How’s your sister?” June asks.

  “She’s better. Definitely on the mend, thanks,” Jerry says, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen his smile waver.

  “Good to hear,” June says, offering him a fist bump.

  “Be right back with your stuff,” Jerry says, heading back down the aisle and past the jukeboxes to the kitchen.

  “What was that all about?” Poppy asks.

  “His sister. She was physically abused over in Richmond just for holding her girlfriend’s hand. On the freaking bus,” June says, folding up the side of the tablecloth into ever smaller shapes.

  A wave of guilt washes over me and realise just how dumb I am to think I’m the only person on the planet with an issue right now.

  “My god,” Poppy says. “It’s at times like this when I lose faith in humanity. To know that all this badness goes on just wrecks my soul.”

  June puts her arm around Poppy’s shoulder. “Can you imagine what a breeze it must be like to grow up straight?” she says.

  “And white?” Poppy says.

  “And cis-gendered?” I throw into the mix.

  Poppy looks up at the ceiling and we all sit quietly for a moment.

  “Yeah, but like . . . Imagine seeing yourself represented everywhere,” I say. “Doing your own stuff. Everyone assuming you’re completely natural and normal.”

  *

  Jerry brings us our double burgers and cream sodas and his smile is back and brighter than ever. Some people are better at holding back their hurt than others. I, for one, am shockingly hopeless at it. I’m missing the hell out of Fin and wish his hand was here to steady me.

  “How long do we plan on waiting this out?” Poppy asks, nibbling on an onion ring.

  “Until closing if I have to,” I say.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she says, using a sweet potato fry to point over my shoulder.

  My guts tighten and my knees start to shake as I turn to see Mrs Whittle in the doorway, looking around the diner. I stand, then sit and then stand again; my attempt at attracting her attention must be coming across as almost insane.

  She eventually spots me and keeps her eyes to the floor as she walks over. I feel my heartbeat intensify as she nears us and then, just as I think my body is about to shut down, Mr Whittle walks through the door. He strides over, his face a picture of exhaustion.

  “Seriously, Rye,” Poppy whispers. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  I don’t move. I can’t believe they came.

  “Mrs Whittle,” I manage to say, as she arrives at our table.

  June and Poppy have stood up as well and we’re all just sort of standing there like a bunch of little kids on their first day of school.

  When Mr Whittle joins us, I don’t know whether to smile, cry or just take a running jump through the plate glass window next to us.

  “Evening,” Mr Whittle says, motioning for us all to sit, which we do.

  Mrs Whittle’s eyes are darting around nervously like she’s never been to a diner before and Mr Whittle looks like we’ve invited him here to take part in a seance.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say, quietly. I nearly repeat myself as I wasn’t sure if they heard me when I see Mr Whittle nod politely.

  “With all due respect, sir,” June says, her posture tall and professional, like she’s ready to give a presentation. (Then again, she very well might be. It is June after all.) “My name is June . . . I have done a lot of research of conversion therapy and . . . your son Fin shouldn’t be at that camp you’ve sent him to.”

  The tension in the atmosphere builds and builds until Mr Whittle gives this resigned smile like he’s dealing with a precocious toddler who has no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Well, we came here tonight to advise you that we know what is best for our son,” Mr Whittle states, but I’m certain I can hear a hint of doubt in his voice.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. I can feel anger bubbling up inside me, but I don’t want to lash out. I don’t want to go there. This needs to be as straightforward as possible and going off at him won’t achieve a thing. “It’s just . . .” I start. Then I see Mrs Whittle look at me and I take a different approach. “Mrs Whittle, what was Fin like as a kid?”

  She smiles softly and a warm blush colours her cheeks, defining a sprinkle of freckles that I’ve never noticed before.

  “Sweet,” Mrs Whittle says. “The sweetest boy you could have ever met.”

  I recognise that boy, I think. “Would you say he was different from the other boys back then?” I ask, looking over at Poppy and June who are holding hands and sitting closer to one another than before.

  “Yes,” Mrs Whittle says, sniffling quietly. “I used to call him my special boy.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “He . . .” She pauses, as if suddenly overwhelmed by memories. “He was always special to me . . . Sensitive and thoughtful. He used to love music . . . He’d dance around our living room whenever his favourite songs came on the radio.” She laughs properly and I can see Fin in her now. “To be honest, I always kind of knew he was different,” she adds, glancing at her husband.

  Mr Whittle doesn’t react – I can’t tell if he also always knew that Fin is “different” or if he’s always refused to see it. Until it was staring him in the face and he couldn’t choose to look away anymore.

  “Then why are you wanting to change him now?” I ask, which stuns both Mr and Mrs Whittle for a second; they didn’t see that coming.

  “We’re . . . We –” Mrs Whittle stops; she doesn’t seem to know how to finish her sentence.

  “We aren’t trying to change him,” Mr Whittle says. “We’re trying to get him back to being himself.” He shakes his head. “I mean, surely. I want his life to be normal, I don’t want his life to be any harder than –”

  I’m not having that.

  “I’m sorry?” I say. “Have you considered how hard Fin’s life is because of you guys not accepting him for who he is? For forcing him to conform to your idea of normal?”

  Mr Whittle sits upright in his seat.

  “If what you’re saying is that you care about life being hard for him,” I say, taking a breath to calm myself. “Then maybe start here?”

  They look at one another.

  “It’s . . . We want him to have a full and happy life. We want him to have every opportunity. We want him to have the best life that he can.”

  “Do you think he can’t have that if he’s gay? Have you ever asked Fin what he wants?” June steps in, her voice soft and slow, doing all she can to contain her simmering anger.

  Mr and Mrs Whittle sit in silence for a moment.

  “That place you’ve sent him isn’t just a bad idea . . . It’s dangerous,” Poppy tells
them. “It won’t make his life full or happy, that’s for sure.”

  I have a feeling some of what we’re saying is getting through to them, but Mr Whittle is about as easy to read as War and Peace. In the original Russian.

  “He’s not in prison,” Mr Whittle scoffs, looking between June, Poppy and me.

  “No,” June says, “He’s somewhere much worse.”

  “We just want him to be okay,” Mrs Whittle says, looking genuinely frightened, but I’ve had enough. I don’t care what it takes. They need to hear me out here.

  “Then you need to get him out of there,” I declare, my voice louder now that I no longer care to hold back. “People die from conversion therapy. Maybe not right away, maybe not when they first get out. But . . .” I shake my head. “It’s a form of abuse. It mentally breaks people. They can kill themselves because of it. Surely you know that.”

  They look at each other and I wonder if I need to climb across the table and shake them.

  Mr Whittle sighs, warily. “Fin is not in the kind of place you are talking about. This is an established, recognised programme and –”

  “It is a recognised conversion camp, Mr Whittle!” June cuts in.

  But he simply raises his palm to silence her.

  And, as he stands, I see Mrs Whittle hesitate and that small moment makes me want to grab her arm, but I don’t. It’s like I’ve got a gobstopper in my throat that I just can’t swallow.

  “Enough,” Mr Whittle says. His voice is still stern, but he looks drained of colour – as if this talk has sickened him. “We’re his parents and you have to understand that we know what’s best for our son.”

  41

  Fin

  My head feels like it’s full of dirty cotton wool and I’ve got that sick feeling in my stomach.

  It takes a solid sixty seconds before I remember where I am. Horror seeps slowly through my body.

  But I ignore it.

  After seeing Rye yesterday, I came to a decision. As messed up as this place is, I know I’m strong enough to survive it. And when I get out I can actually do something to help. I can expose Re-Souled for what it really is. These programmes happen all over the country and I can stop them. I have to. My days here won’t be wasted if I spend them gathering as much damning evidence as possible.