by L B Winter
I looked up at his face and wondered what he meant. What else he was guessing about me. Lynn had seen me checking out that sandwich shop guy, after all. It isn’t exactly an unheard-of thing, the gay kid being kicked out by his parents. Sexually confused, Dad called it. (As though I was just confused; as though somebody could explain it to me, and then I’d be all better.) But I wasn’t going to say anything about that to this guy, this stranger who was feeling more and more stranger-like by the second, so unlike Lynn. I suddenly missed Lynn. Good God, I was fucked up.
“Want any water?” Trent said suddenly. I watched him, confused, until he gestured at his own bottle.
“Oh…uh, no thanks,” I sputtered. But Trent had already stood up and was bringing me a bottle from the fridge.
“Here, drink up,” he told me. I started to wonder if he was just as bossy as she was, and somehow the thought comforted me.
It turned out I was thirsty. I emptied the bottle within minutes, and then placed it, empty, on the table and got to my feet. “Well, you know…thanks. For everything,” I said awkwardly. I hoped I never saw these people again. These bossy, oddly generous, too friendly, family-like people.
Trent was still standing too, arms folded, and he had at least 6 inches on me, and I knew he could probably knock me unconscious with little effort expended on his part. He looked a little bit angry, and I couldn’t figure out why.
“I’ll take you home,” he said suddenly, and then he was grabbing his coat and car keys like that was all it took, no discussion necessary.
“But I told you—” I tried to say, but he shook his head.
“I promised Lynn. And you’re a minor. I can’t, in good conscience…I just can’t. You’ve gotta come with me to your parents’ house. They’re responsible for you, and if you don’t want to talk to them, I can do it for you. In fact, I’d like a word with them.”
I stood there, at a stalemate with him, and then something shifted in his face. He realized a millisecond before I did that he’d won. That I did want to see my mom and dad, and if I didn’t, I would have already fled out the door. I sighed.
“Let me grab you a coat,” he said, and he leaned into the hall closet and pulled out a fleece for me.
“Probably big on you, but the weather’s a little warmer today so this should do. Okay.” I zipped the jacket up and he nodded his head. “You know the way there? Don’t need to stop for directions?”
“What? Yeah, of course. I know the way,” I said, embarrassed. So this was actually happening. He was driving me home. Well, at least I could see my mom and dad now; no excuses for staying away from them. I’d find out one way or the other. That was for the best, right?
I looked at Trent for another moment before we walked into the hallway and he locked the door. He had a really pleasant face, I realized, even while it was sort of intimidating. He was handsome enough, and young, too. His expression was a little bit unsure here in the daylight. “You’re younger than Lynn,” I said finally.
“Yeah,” he said, still with a serious expression on his face. “Three years younger. We met while she was getting her MBA and I was getting my BA in fashion design at the same time.”
“And she’s your girlfriend?” I said casually.
Trent laughed a little and said, “No, no. I’m gay. My partner still lives back in Ohio. It’s not like that with me and Lynn.”
And that’s all he said about it. I couldn’t help but feel a little surprised. He looked like a football player, but he was really stylish with the way he dressed and all. And what I really couldn’t believe was that he was a fashion designer. I mean, don’t you have to be a petite French man to do that? But then again, I suppose nobody would suspect me, an All-State track and field runner whose dad happens to be the pastor of the most conservative church in our town, to be gay, so I guess people surprise you all the time. I followed him down the street to his car in silence, lost in thought, until we arrived at a metered spot a couple blocks away. He opened my door for me, which was nice in a way, and then we were off. I left Philadelphia for the second time.
CHAPTER 2
How I Became Homeless
__________
The first person you come out to isn’t your parents, or your friends, or a note sent off into sea in a bottle; the first person you come out to is yourself. It took me years to admit to myself that I really was gay; not confused, or curious, or adventurous—but really and truly gay. Having grown up in the church my dad pastored, I believed all the same things they did at first, about how wrong it was and how God hated it and all that. But by the time I came out to myself, I wasn’t so sure. Like, I felt a little embarrassed, but also just mostly confused. If this was such a bad thing, why didn’t it feel wrong? Sin is malicious, unkind, hurtful—and this was none of those things. I knew this was a part of me, a part I couldn’t change. And God made me, right? So this part must be okay.
But Mom and Dad really didn’t feel the same way when I told them. It was summer, and we were just home from a family trip to Florida to visit my grandma. I’d turned sixteen earlier that month, and Grandma kept teasing me—sixteen and never been kissed. But like, how do you tell them that you’ve kissed somebody, one person, but that person was a boy? I was worried they might guess or something, though, so when we got back to New Tower, I told them. And to their credit, they weren’t super weird about it right away—they both said they still loved me and would love me no matter what and all that. But then, a few days later, I got the idea that they hadn’t really understood what I’d said, because Dad kept saying “a solution” when he talked about it. Like, “We’re looking into a good solution.”
In August, I learned the solution was sexual orientation conversion therapy.
“What about school?” I’d said when they first broke the news to me that they’d found me a live-in treatment center to start in September.
“You’re so advanced, Paul,” Dad said, “and you’ll have breaks to catch up. It’s only one semester. We’ll enroll you in homeschooling for the year so you can do your work on your own time.”
“What about track?”
“This is more important, Paul,” he’d said, a serious look in his eye. “I can’t…I can’t allow you to live in sin. You’re my son. It’s my responsibility to help you overcome this.”
“But Dad, I’ve tried for years to feel differently, but I just never—”
“These are professionals, kiddo. You did the right thing by telling me, because now we can get you the help you need.”
I was confused, you know? Like, I’d already come out to myself. I’d already done all this mental work, accepting myself. And now I was just supposed to go back to the drawing board? But then again, this was something new I’d never tried. Maybe it would work; maybe they could fix me, after all.
My mom isn’t the kind of woman to just sit quietly and let her husband make all the decisions. It is literally only in things related to the church that she lets him take the lead. But I guess, technically, this was church related, so she didn’t say much about it until Dad was out of the room. Then, she took my hands and looked into my eyes.
“Are you sure you want to do this, honey?” she’d asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t want to be like this if there’s a way to fix it.”
She took a deep breath and nodded, though her brow was furrowed. “Okay, sweetie. If you’re sure.”
And at first, I really tried to take it seriously. For my dad. The Freedom clinic was in an old church building, and there were dorm-style rooms set up in old classrooms in the basement where we slept, and a big cafeteria hall with dining tables and a kitchen, and therapy classes that met in the old sanctuary. There was even a pastor who came to hold chapel for us twice a week. I would take my turn in the locker room shower over at the school down the road every morning, then walk back to Freedom with my counselor, absorbing the day’s schedule with eager ears. Then I’d spend an hour with a couns
elor, or with the pastor, or with small group. There was always something to do, but nothing about it seemed too groundbreaking. Still, these were the experts, so I gave it a shot. I knew, though, deep down. This would never work. But at least once it was over, I could tell my dad I’d tried.
At the end of September, we had a group therapy session where we all reported on our progress, and I went last. Okay, so—inventory of my group’s progress. Jason was “feeling less guilty and more in control,” Kev was having “revelations about his future,” Jamie was struggling with guilt over his ex-boyfriend “who would never be saved,” and Javier now felt that men “disgusted him.”
So it was my turn, and I didn’t want to lie—lying, at least, was a sin I could control—so I said, “Yeah, um. I don’t know. I guess I feel mostly…the same? But like, I don’t have an ex to be guilty about or like, a…plan for the future, so…I don’t know. But, yeah. I’m gonna go with ‘the same.’”
There was a moment of quiet around the group, and then Cal, the leader, said, “Oh, well, that can be normal, too, Paul. Thanks for being honest. We’ll work harder this month.” He nodded at me, but nobody else could even look me in the eye—except Jamie. He caught my eye as we were leaving, and he actually smiled, and almost looked like he could have laughed. I had to look away so I wouldn’t laugh, too.
We were all living two to a room in the dorms, and Jamie was my roommate. There were these big windows in each room so nobody would try anything, but even so, I’d developed something of a benign crush on Jamie. Not his personality, obviously, because we never said more than two words to each other, but just because he was tall, and really beautiful, and had the kind of perfect smile that only comes after years of orthodontic work or really good genes. He lived only a couple towns away from mine, and sometimes I liked to fantasize that it was okay to be gay, and we weren’t here, and we could be boyfriends. It was just a harmless daydream, really—something to pass the time—but after he smiled at me, I spent the rest of the day thinking about him.
I guess maybe he was thinking about me too, because that night, for the first time, he said something to me after lights out in the dorms. I was facing the wall on the other side of the room when I heard his voice, clear as day. “Paul?”
I rolled over. “Yeah?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and he almost looked like he’d regretted talking to me at all, but then I started to feel bad for him—I never like for people to feel awkward—so I said, “So did you really have a boyfriend before this?”
He looked really surprised for a second, but then he smiled. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, kind of. We fooled around together a lot. I—” he shook his head, sighing. “I’m not sure boyfriend is the right word. We never officially were together, or officially broke up. I met Dylan through a friend from church last year, and I guess he has another boyfriend now.”
I nodded. “I’ve never had one.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I feel like the loser of conversion therapy, you know? Like, you all are talking about your boyfriends.”
Jamie laughed out loud. “That makes you the winner of conversion therapy!”
“Not really,” I said with a smirk, “if I’m the only one whose progress report said, ‘the same.’”
“Oh, well,” Jamie shrugged. “I mean, technically, mine didn’t say I wasn’t the same.”
I paused. “I guess, technically…”
“You’re just supposed to make something up,” Jamie said.
“What?”
“Yeah, like, they just want to hear you’re doing better.”
“I guess I missed that memo.”
He said, “Look, don’t get mad about it. It’s just, like, how to make people happy. Sometimes you have to lie to them.”
I blinked slowly. “Really? I pretty much say exactly what I mean all the time.”
He chuckled. “I know you do. That’s what I like about you.”
I studied him—his skin smooth and clear; his brown eyes, warm and beautiful, lined with long, dark lashes; his broad mouth, the top lip slightly fuller than the bottom. Suddenly, I felt like I would enjoy pushing Dylan off a cliff.
“Maybe I’ll lie on my next progress report,” I said, “if I survive that long.”
“If you survive?” he smiled. “Come on, it’s not that bad here.”
“I guess. I mean, the food can be pretty hit or miss. We never go outside much. I miss running,” I added.
A vague smile appeared on his lips, and he cocked his head to one side. “Yeah? You’re a runner?”
I nodded. “I run track. I do sprints, mostly, but some relays, too.”
“I ran cross country.”
“Yeah? That’s awesome. I tried that in eighth grade, but I wasn’t really good at it.”
“You should have stuck with it! I wasn’t good at first, but I really loved it.”
“Loved, past tense?”
He shook his head. “No, I still do. It’s been a while, though. Being here.”
Oh. Right. “Everybody back home thinks I’m at boarding school,” I said.
“Really?”
“Sure,” I said casually. “I mean, nobody knows about me, so…what else are my parents supposed to tell people?”
Jamie shrugged. “I’m homeschooled, so there wasn’t really anybody to tell. But everybody at church knows where I am and what’s going on.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It really sucked telling everybody. But Mom and Dad thought I should.”
Thank God my parents hadn’t made me do that. Jamie sounded miserable. I decided to change the subject. “What grade are you in?”
He smiled as he said, “I’m a senior.”
“Are you eighteen?”
“No, my birthday’s in April.”
“Oh. I’m a junior.”
“Just a baby,” he teased.
“Where are you gonna go to college?”
He groaned. “Ugh! I hate that question! Do you know, as soon as you turn 17, people start asking you that question? Constantly. Like, you have to have your whole future laid out right then.”
He sounded annoyed, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that made me eager to ask more. “So…you don’t have it all laid out?”
“Oh, no, I totally do,” he said, with a cockiness that made me crack up. “I’m gonna become worship leader at my church, and take some classes at the Community College, and probably get another part-time job, just to make ends meet and pay for school and stuff. And then when I’m done with my associates degree, I’ll transfer to a Bible College.”
“There you go,” I said mildly. “What will you study?”
“A program to become a worship pastor. Officially.” He smiled, and I genuinely felt like swooning. As far as church jobs go, that’s easily the sexiest one.
“What about you? What do you want to do?”
“I’m not seventeen yet. You can’t ask me that.”
My heart floated up out of my chest when he laughed at that and shook his head. “Okay, fair enough. When’s your birthday?”
“July.”
“I’ll ask again in July.”
Oh, wow. If Jamie stayed in touch with me, there was no way I’d ever reorient. So obviously, my immediate thought was, Please stay in touch with me!
“Sounds good,” I said on a yawn.
He smiled and said, “Let’s go to sleep.” But I lay awake watching him for a long time before sleep came for me.
Time at Freedom flowed past in a way I have trouble measuring, even now. For days or weeks or millennia, all I thought about was Jamie. There’s a special kind of crush that only a teenager can have—this “he’s perfect, he’s all I ever think about, I’ll die if he leaves me” kind of crush that is pretty unique in its perfect disregard for reality. That was the kind of crush I had on Jamie. Just a total nonsense, absolutely obsessed crush. It didn’t help that there wasn’t much else to think about. And I had to kee
p it a complete secret. We never spoke to each other during the day; by some unspoken agreement, we wouldn’t allow our eyes to meet. It was like there was a special secret we were keeping, just between us, that we were actually friends.
A few nights after the first time we talked, Jamie got into bed and said, “I can’t believe how terrible dinner was tonight. I am gonna starve to death, for sure.”
We’d been served a hot dish that resembled boiled bread with something that probably used to be a vegetable. It wasn’t delicious, but I’d been hungry enough to scarf it down. Jamie hadn’t been so lucky, apparently.
“Didn’t you eat anything?”
“No! How could anybody eat that crap?”
I shrugged. “I mean, it wasn’t great, but…”
He shook his head at me, laughing softly. “You might have been the only person there who ate it. We were all watching you, like, ‘What?’”
I laughed. “Okay, well. Who’s laughing now?”
“What do you mean?” His eyes sparkled when he looked at me; I loved that expression on his face, all enthusiasm and warmth. I’d never in my life met anybody who engaged like him.
“I mean, I’m nice and full, and you’re starving to death. By your own admission.”
He said, “Eating that mystery meat would have killed me.”
“There wasn’t any meat.”
“What? Really?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it was vegetarian. Just, like, boiled everything.”
“Boiled beyond recognition,” he remarked, and I laughed. I couldn’t argue with that.
“But, no flavor, really, so if you can get past the texture…”
“Ugh,” he laughed, wiping a little at the moisture in his eyes. “You’re probably the kind of guy who would eat a live fish or something, wouldn’t you?”
“A live fish? Seriously?”
“Sure,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Like, isn’t that a thing? Swallowing a goldfish or something like that.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe. Seems sort of mean.”
He said, “I mean, I don’t know anybody who did it, but I just…I feel like I’ve heard of it.”