Fin & Rye & Fireflies

by Harry Cook

  I shake the heavy feeling out of me, head over to the breakfast room, grab a bowl of sawdusty cereal, an equally sawdusty coffee and find a seat in the corner.

  The other people in the room all have their heads down and are eating in silence. Talk about a jailhouse vibe. I need to focus all my energy on ignoring the message this hateful place is throwing out.

  Today’s first session is the “praying the gay away” prayer circle, and I steady myself for blanking out an hour of what they call “repelling sin”.

  Later, I sit on the hallway floor, my back against the wall, thinking of Rye. I can’t help wondering what Elliot is doing, too. Has he tried getting through to our parents, or has he resigned himself to the fact that they will never change?

  But none of that really matters.

  There’s no doubt in my mind what’s going to happen. I can see it all playing out like a depressing film. When I get out of this place, I’ll have two choices. Fake it until I leave home or leave home immediately. Somehow. Both options seem pretty dismal. Either way, there’ll be no real relationship with my family. I’ll be cut off from everyone.

  I’m lost in a whirl of dark thoughts when Clare arrives.

  She sits down next to me. “How are you doing?”

  I look at her and up at the poster above her head that says “REPENT”. I can’t quite put into words how I’m feeling. It’s like describing what a kiwi fruit tastes like. Impossible. So I just shrug.

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  “You?” I ask.

  “I’m good,” she says, but her hazel eyes tell another story. I immediately call bullshit. There’s no way anyone can feel “good” in a place like this.

  “Really?” I ask. “How?”

  Clare smiles, a closed-mouth smile. “Like I said, I’ve been here three times now. I want it to sink in this time. Because, y’know, it’s about how I view it rather than –”

  “No, Clare. This isn’t about your attitude,” I tell her, like a QSA boss. “Re-Souled is poison. They’re the ones who need to change, not you.” I can imagine June punching the air at my words, and Poppy doing her woot woo thing. Courage fills me. My real family might have rejected me, but I have a whole other family who’ve got my back.

  “I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” Clare says, her eyes bouncing from me to the floor like she can’t decide what’s easier to look at.

  “Like what? Queer?” I ask, treading carefully. “Or hating yourself?”

  Clare pauses. “The last time I was here I lost someone close to me,” she says, and I wonder if she’s confiding in me or just getting something off of her chest to the universe.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “She was in here with me. Both times.”

  For the first time, I feel a ton of empathy for her. I realise how hard she’s trying to live up to an ideal that’s expected of her and it kills me to think that maybe this is her breaking point. This is my first time here. Maybe Clare fought against it the first time. And the second. Maybe there comes a point when something sinks its claws in and grabs hold of you and you have no choice but to let the ignorance take hold.

  “Were you close?” I ask.

  Clare flinches, like I’ve poked her in the side. “We were together,” she says.

  “In . . . in here?”

  Clare nods. “Both times. We held on and we said we wouldn’t listen. That we’d fight against . . .”

  I look to her, but her mind is elsewhere, her eyes watching something only she can see.

  “And she left?” I ask.

  Clare wraps her arms around her knees. “Sara . . . she killed herself.”

  I feel like the walls around me have turned to molten rock and lava. I feel like the roof is slowly caving in and I struggle to remember how to breathe.

  “She . . . My god. I’m . . .” I start, but Clare shakes her head.

  “I don’t want this, Fin,” she says, her voice quiet and focused as she fixes her eyes on me for the first time today. “I need this to work.”

  I snap out of my trance and grip her hand. “No,” I say, squeezing her fingers too tight. “No, we need to expose this place. And you’re getting out of here with me. I won’t leave without you. Promise.”

  I’m serious. I’m not leaving her alone, not with what she’s suffered. Whatever plans Rye has, Clare has to come too.

  Clare squeezes my hand back, but then whispers, “And go where, Fin? Where would I run to? I don’t have anyone out there waiting for me. It’s my parents – who want me changed – or the street.”

  I let this sink in and I’m unable to come up with a response. Then I remember June and all her talk about support groups – people who will be on Clare’s side.

  But, just as I’m about to tell Clare this, a woman sits down opposite us. I’ve seen her around, she’s one of Greg’s cronies. Her name’s Taylor and, although she has the personality of a cardboard box, she gives me a serious case of the creeps. The word is she’s an “ex-gay” tutor who owes her “salvation” to Re-Souled.

  If the hobgoblin spawn of the underworld sitting in front of me is what “salvation” looks like, then they really need to update their brochure.

  “Clare. Fin,” Taylor says. “How are we both?”

  I pick at a loose thread in the knee of my jeans. Clare is suddenly very interested in re-tying the laces of her sneakers.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing your chat just now,” Taylor says, mock sincerity plastered over her face.

  My temper flares. “I couldn’t help noticing you listening in where you’re not wanted,” I snap back.

  Clare is half smirking and I hope my little dig has cheered her up.

  “Your insults won’t hurt me,” Taylor says, her voice icy. “But I’d like to remind you that it is unacceptable to speak of such matters while you are under the care of Re-Souled.”

  Clare goes back to her sneaker laces, but I’ve had enough.

  “Hmm . . . And if we don’t obey?” I say. “You’ll what? Throw us out?”

  “What?” Taylor chuckles. “And hinder all your progress?”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, message received. Can you leave us alone please?”

  “Of course. But don’t forget, we have ways to punish those who continue to choose a sinful path.”

  My face flushes with anger, but next to me Clare turns as grey as the hallway walls.

  I have to be strong enough for the both of us now.

  *

  After a miserable lunch of greasy stew and dry bread, Greg makes the unexpected announcement that we are each allowed a telephone call home. How kind. This place truly feels a prison.

  I trudge my way through the musty halls and find the old cord-phone in a room with those grim motivational posters glued to the walls. Sunsets, lighthouses, paths through woodlands. Tasteless as all hell.

  Taylor is there to stand over me as I dial home.

  She backs off when Dad answers, but I nearly hang up. I don’t even know where to begin.

  “Hello?” I hear him say. “H-hello? Is . . .”

  “It’s me, Dad,” I say, letting all the air in my lungs out in a rush.

  “Fin . . . Hi,” Dad replies, his voice softer than usual. “How’s things?”

  I pause.

  I could lie and tell him how much “progress” I’m making. Let him believe this place is changing me. How great it is they sent me here.

  But why would I do that?

  “Shit,” I say. “Total shit.”

  There’s silence and I wonder if he’s hung up.

  “Fin . . .” Dad starts. “You know it’s . . .”

  But I can’t handle another lecture. “Dad, no. This is the one time in my life I’m going to tell you, politely, to shut up,” I say, and already feel better for it. “Sending me here was the worst thing you could have done. In fact, it’s the worst thing anyone could do.”

  Silence, and so I speak into it.

  “A girl in
here died last year,” I say, throwing the truth grenade down the phone as hard as I can. “She killed herself. She killed herself because she hated herself because of all the bullshit this place spews out.” I feel myself growing more and more furious with every syllable that leaves my mouth. “Is that what you want, Dad?” I spit. “For me to die?”

  I hear his sharp intake of breath. “Fin . . . No . . . Don’t be vile. Of course I don’t want you –”

  “Then what? What do you want? To put me through this living hell?”

  Dad is quiet and I put my hand to my chest in an attempt to calm myself. The cupboard-sized room is spinning and I’m starting to sweat and tremble.

  When Dad speaks again, he sounds exhausted, fragile. I’ve never heard him like this – my whole life, even before I told them I’m gay, he’s always been in charge. Assertive. And now, recently, cold and angry as well.

  “Fin, we just want you to have . . . A good, normal life and –”

  “Dad, the only thing that’s not normal about my life right now, is my parents trying to change who I am,” I say.

  “Wait, Fin –” Dad says, desperate, as if he’s searching for an answer. “Please, speak to your mum.”

  I hold the phone tight, and wait.

  “Fin?”

  “Hi,” I say.

  There’s quiet, nothing but the faint buzz of static. I let it happen. I have nothing left to say. To either of them.

  “I . . .” Mum starts, and I hear a hiccup in her voice. “I want you to know I love you . . .”

  I swallow twice to stop myself from crying. I’m not breaking. I can’t.

  We are quiet for a moment longer. I debate whether to reply.

  “Not now, Mum,” I say and hang up.

  *

  A day later and I’m about ready to burn this place to the ground. I’ve decided that I can’t deal with life today. Anything. I haven’t showered. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t even brushed my teeth and I’m pretty sure they’ve started to grow fur. Very attractive, I know.

  Clare and I have shut ourselves in the recreation room. I’ve told her I’m serious about my promise – I’m not going anywhere without her. And I’m going to let everyone know exactly what a hellhole Re-Souled is.

  We’ve found an old pack of cards and she’s teaching me how to play Crazy Eights. It’s a good way of ignoring Greg’s lame attempts at getting us to participate. I’m not doing it. I’m not pretending and I’m not listening to any more of this ignorant dumb-fuckery.

  Even when Greg sidles up to tell me my dad has called to “take me home” – total bullshit, I know – I refuse to come to the phone. Mind games won’t fool me. I tell Greg I’m not leaving. Not now.

  He can smirk all he likes, but I have a plan. Re-Souled is a story that needs to be broken.

  *

  It’s just after dinner when I go outside. There’s a fire pit with a few benches around it. The staff here don’t miss a beat: every bench cradles a small Bible, each with verses dog-eared to remind us of all the ways a sinful human can burn for eternity in the fires of hell.

  There’s a breeze in the air, and the sky is a blaze of colour. I think for a moment how great this would be if Rye were here with me – if we were anywhere but here. Just us two, around a fire. No Bibles. Thinking of nothing but each other and dreaming of the future.

  That thought evaporates when I see Taylor wandering slowly over to me.

  “Fin,” she says.

  “Taylor,” I ape, imitating her ghost-like voice.

  She smiles at me like I’m stupid. “You know, you’re only making this harder for yourself,” she says, perching next to me.

  “Hmm. Really? I don’t actually think that’s possible. This place is toxic and I’m already at rock bottom.”

  The fire in the pit flickers and her eyes narrow at the smoke.

  “Fin, is this what you want?”

  I scrunch my face. “What?”

  “This,” Taylor says, motioning to the fire.

  “Taylor, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

  “Fire,” Taylor says, solemnly. “For eternity. Is that what you desire?”

  “I’m not listening to this,” I say, and I stand.

  “The doors are locked, Mr Whittle. You can engage in adult conversation with me, or you are staying out here all night.” Taylor clasps her hands together in her lap like some sort of holier-than-thou church statue.

  “You want an adult conversation?” I say. “Seriously? Did you hear what you just said?” I snort. “Just work, church, sleep, repeat until we kick the bucket in the hope that heaven is waiting for us?” I’m almost snarling at her when I say, “You’re delusional.” I can’t quite believe the fire coming out my mouth. Since entering Re-Souled, I’ve become that hot activist after all.

  “Delusional to believe that God has a plan? And your lifestyle choices are not part of it?”

  I hate how calm she is. How unperturbed she is. How she truly believes this shit.

  “My choices?” I look to the floor, gathering my energy. “We can’t have an adult conversation because you’re not an adult,” I say. “You’re a grown-up baby who’s so terrified of being who you truly are that you’re determined to spend your life pretending. Do you really think that God or the Holy Spirit or whatever is paying attention to what a good ‘normal’ girl you are?”

  Taylor twitches and for a second I think I’ve hit a nerve. I press on, driving my point home.

  “Seriously, Taylor. Do you honestly think God would want you to be anything other than who you are?” I ask. “You know who you are. You can try and fake it and act like all of this conversion crap worked, but deep down you know.”

  Her hands grip the bench so hard her knuckles turn white. “That’s the devil talking in you,” she intones, her voice flat.

  “Oh, get real. If your God exists then he made me exactly the way I am. And I’m fucking proud of it,” I say, and I mean every single word. No one at Re-Souled, Taylor included, is going to break me. And as soon as I’m out of here, I’m going to make damn sure that they don’t break anyone else either.

  The fire has turned to embers. I wonder if any of my words have made the slightest bit of difference.

  “You’ll spend the night in the chapel,” Taylor says with a long-suffering sigh, but her voice is deadly and there’s an eerie glow to her eyes.

  “But where will I sleep?” I protest.

  The chapel is converted from an old garage. It stands by itself. No lights or warmth. A cold stone building with a wooden cross on the door.

  “Find a pew.” Taylor gets up with a triumphant smile. “Pray hard and emerge cleansed.”

  42

  Rye

  It’s been a day since I saw Fin and I am going full-blown stir crazy. I’ve had to stop myself multiple times from heading over there and dragging him home with me, but I have to try to get his parents to see the truth of what they’re doing. Fin being there at Re-Souled until we figure things out is a last resort, solely because if there’s a chance of some kind of understanding with his family then I’d be crazy not to try. Existing in a world without his family’s support is no life at all.

  It’s five o’clock when Poppy’s mum, Isla, arrives with my mum. They’ve been out all afternoon buying fabrics and sparkles and ribbons and I practically crash tackle them to the ground when they waltz through my bedroom door and dump the bags on my carpet.

  June and Poppy have been sewing and cutting and sewing for the last two hours since we got home from school and now that Isla and Mum are here we can finally wrap these babies up and get ready for our ambush.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” Isla asks, as Thelma snuggles up next to her and demands an under-the-chin rub.

  “Nope,” I say, pulling out sheets of sequins and rainbow-hued fabrics from the bags.

  Poppy grins.

  “June grab that end,” I say, folding out the fabric and flattening it with my palm.<
br />
  We spend the next few hours tailoring our costumes to perfection. I’m absorbed in sewing and sticking, but still every few minutes my mind wanders back to Fin.

  I know it’s sappy and cheesy and I bet that even my mum considers it “young love” and whatever, but none of that makes this feeling I have for him any less intense. Love is the only word I have for it. What other reason could I have for spending my afternoon crafting these over-the-top outfits?

  *

  It’s nearly seven o’clock when we hear a knock on the front door. It takes a moment for it to register because everyone who matters is already in my room.

  Mum looks up and shrugs and Isla puts down the giant “WE LOVE OUR KIDS” sign that she’s been making out of a sequin-and-ribbon montage.

  “I’ll get it,” Mum says as she steps over Thelma and closes the door behind her.

  I hear the fly screen creak open and a simple “Oh” come from behind the door. There’s a muffled conversation happening, but I can’t make out what’s being said.

  Can you hear? I mouth to Poppy who shakes her head no. June and Isla do the same so I crawl towards the door and put my ear up against it.

  From where I’m sitting it’s next to impossible to work out who’s on the other side of the door – thanks to Thelma’s epic snoring – so I slowly open the door a little.

  “It was a bad idea to come here.”

  It’s a woman’s voice and it sounds familiar.

  Fin’s mum is at our front door.

  “No, I really don’t think it was,” Mum says. “There’s a reason you’re here . . .”

  There’s quiet for a beat and I wonder if Mrs Whittle has left.

  “Do you . . . would you like to come in? For tea?” Mum says. “Something stronger even? You look like you could use it.”

  I hear Mrs Whittle half laugh and half sigh and I want to give my mum a fist bump for being so damn cool.