It Looks Like This

by Rafi Mittlefehldt

  I don’t really miss school, but I still wish I was there instead of here.

  While I’m thinking about this, I look up and see Liz walking near me. I don’t know how long she’s been there.

  She’s not looking at me so I don’t know if she walked up to me or if she just happened to be there, but then she says,

  You worried about AIDS?

  It comes out fast and jerky.

  I say, I don’t know.

  She snorts and looks up at me, then back down at the ground. Walking with me now, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets.

  She says, AIDS has got nothing to do with Timothy’s worries.

  I don’t say anything.

  She says, People like him don’t like being queer to begin with. Then they look for reasons that fit. To pretend that’s where their thinking comes from. Don’t believe it.

  I don’t say anything for a while.

  Then I say, What makes them not like it in the first place?

  Liza shrugs and says, Religion. That’s why I’m here. Not mine, I don’t care at all about being a dyke, but my parents are just allll about Jesus.

  She jerks her head in Timothy’s direction. He’s off on the other side of the courtyard, walking by himself.

  She says, That boy is going to end up married to some poor woman. She’ll give him a couple of kids and he’ll congratulate himself on turning straight, and then one day he’ll wake up old and full of regret.

  I don’t say anything.

  After a while Liz grumbles, See ya.

  And then walks off.

  Nine thirty. Lights off.

  Timothy goes into the bathroom to change into his pajamas. Then I do the same.

  One of the rules is that you have to wear a shirt at all times, even while sleeping.

  He gets into bed and turns off the light, and then it’s dark and I’m staring at the ceiling.

  I wait for a few minutes, just staring up.

  Then I say, Is that true? What you said in Small Group today, about AIDS and drugs and stuff?

  My voice sounds weird to me in the dark.

  I hear Timothy rustling in his bed, turning over to face me.

  Then he says, Yeah. There are lots of statistics about it.

  I don’t say anything for a while, then I say, What did you mean when you were talking about all those negatives and stuff? At lunch, I mean.

  Timothy says, There are a lot of consequences to being a practicing homosexual. It makes sense to assume that those consequences are nature’s way of telling us that homosexuality isn’t viable. So it’s logical to listen to that and lead a life that avoids the actions that cause those consequences.

  I let this sink in for a while, thinking again about how formal he always sounds.

  Then I say, Nature?

  I turn my head and can see just a bit of light reflecting off Timothy’s eyes. He’s turned on his side, looking at me.

  He says, Yeah. Or God.

  I say, Is it really all those reasons that make you think homosexuality is wrong, or is it God?

  He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

  Then he says, I could never be a homosexual because of my faith. But even if I was atheist, all those signs from nature would make me reconsider my desires.

  I don’t say anything, and after a while he turns back over, facing the wall.

  It’s quiet and then finally I say, Have you ever been able to make those desires go away?

  There’s no answer. After a while I decide he’s asleep.

  I turn over and face my wall.

  As we get ready in the morning, Timothy ironing his khakis and me brushing my teeth, he suddenly puts the iron down and looks up at me standing in the bathroom over the sink.

  He says, Not yet. The desires, I mean.

  Then he goes back to his ironing.

  I think about Dad yelling.

  I think about Victor.

  I think about having to go to church.

  I think about Mr. Kilgore and his annoying voice.

  I think about Sean pushing me away, about his dad hitting him in the face, about how stupid I looked standing there with my shirt off.

  I think about these things most mornings to keep me from missing home.

  It works.

  But sometimes I let myself think about the pink and orange and yellow, the red all across, the deep blues fading to black. Sometimes I think about the sunrise on Mill Point Beach.

  Jesse looks pained as he speaks. Serious, concerned. Eyebrows scrunched.

  He says, You may have noticed there’s one fewer chair here this morning.

  No one says anything.

  He says, Liz has left the program.

  There’s a moment where everyone looks at him, waiting for him to continue. Liz’s absence was the first thing we noticed at breakfast this morning.

  Jesse says, This was the decision of Pastor Landis. Liz clearly had issues with being here, and we all felt her presence would end up being a distraction for the rest of you.

  He looks around at each of us. I keep my eyes on the carpet.

  He says, This program works, and it works well, but only when you want it to. Liz didn’t want it to, so it made little sense for her to continue when she might create obstacles for her peers.

  I glance to my left, quick. At Rebecca.

  She looks strained like always, but there’s more of it today. Like she’s just barely keeping it in.

  She’s kind of on her own now. I look away.

  Jesse hands us all thick bright blue rubber bands.

  He says, Put these on your wrists.

  We do.

  Then he says, I want you to keep these on you at all times from now on. When you sleep, when you shower, always. Do not take them off until you leave this campus when the program is over, and even then I encourage you to keep them on.

  We all look at each other.

  Gerald’s eyes dart quickly between Jesse and the other kids. Kelvin just frowns at his rubber band like he expects it to do something.

  Rebecca doesn’t seem to care. She just stares ahead at no one.

  Jesse says, These are your Accountability Bands. Every time you have an impure thought — every time — you are to snap the band against your wrist.

  Timothy frowns but keeps looking at the floor.

  Jesse says, The minor pain is to remind you where your thoughts should be. You will be training yourself not to fall back on these thoughts, but to keep your minds and hearts focused on God, and what God wants.

  Jesse looks all around the room at us. No one says anything.

  He says, This is all on the honor system, of course, but I want you all to hold each other to this. If someone is neglecting their Accountability Band, you should tell them. If they continue to neglect it, you should tell me. Do you all understand?

  A few of us mumble, Yes.

  But most of the kids just stare.

  Pastor Landis speaks with his arms, raising them up, bringing them wide, slamming them down.

  He speaks with lots of energy, never stopping. He reminds me of Pastor Clark back home.

  I listen but only kind of.

  Behind him are windows facing the courtyard where we have Supervised Outdoor Activities. Sunlight streams in and hits him from behind, covering him completely, reflecting off the pulpit, making long shadows.

  I stare hard as he speaks. Light shines through the blond hairs on his arms. It almost looks like his body is glowing.

  My eyes move along his arm, across his bicep. Up to his shoulder, where it meets his neck. Farther up to his ears, where his sandy hair turns gold in the sunlight.

  My heart’s beating faster and I realize I’m thinking of Sean.

  I look away, fast. At a point on the pew in front of me.

  My hands find the rubber band on my wrist and I pull on it, as far as it will go, and snap it. And again. And again.

  Timothy is next to me. He looks over at the sound and then back to the front
just as quick.

  I stop and rub my wrist, still looking at the pew, now hearing nothing of what Pastor Landis is saying.

  When I finally look down, I see the small welt on my wrist.

  It’s nothing. I’m fine.

  I’m fine.

  Jesse says, Have you had any incidents since yesterday?

  He asks this every day. Always the same word too.

  Incidents.

  I look down like I always do, picking at my nails.

  We’re in a small room, just the two of us. One-on-One counseling. Our two chairs are in the middle, facing each other. A dozen more are stacked against the wall behind him. The carpet is light blue. Thin and plain, but new and clean.

  He says, Michael?

  I look up. He’s only called me Michael a couple times and it sounds weird, but I don’t think he means it in a mean way. Like when Victor calls me Mikey.

  I blink and I feel my ears grow a bit warm at this thought of Victor.

  Jesse’s still looking at me.

  I say, Yes.

  Quietly but it still sounds loud.

  Jesse only raises his eyebrows, just a bit.

  Then he says, When?

  I say, At sermon last night.

  He says, Who were you thinking of?

  I take a breath and I say, Sean. From back home.

  Jesse’s eyes flick to my wrist. Just a quick moment, less than a second. Without thinking I move it away.

  He says, Sean’s the one you . . .

  He pauses for a moment, trying to think how to say it. I shift in my seat.

  He says, . . . the one your parents found out about.

  I say, He was the only one. There wasn’t anyone else.

  It comes out quick, defensive.

  Jesse only nods.

  He says, What were you thinking of right before Sean?

  I say, I was watching the sermon. Watching the sun shine through the window behind Pastor Landis.

  Jesse frowns.

  He says, Why would that make you think of Sean?

  I shrug, looking down again.

  I say, I don’t know. It was shining right behind him and I could see his outline and just suddenly I was thinking of Sean.

  There’s a long wait this time. Jesse looks at me, just looks. I’m still looking down, but I can feel the stare.

  When it’s gone on so long that I almost can’t stand it anymore, he says,

  Mike?

  I don’t look up but I’m still, really still.

  He says, Do you want to stop having these thoughts?

  Before I even think about it I say, Yes.

  The word hangs in the air.

  But then I do think about it and realize I mean it.

  Jesse nods again. But then he smiles.

  Just a bit.

  He says, Let’s get Pastor Landis in here.

  The door makes a loud, satisfying click when it shuts. Through it I can hear Jesse’s footsteps getting softer and farther away.

  Pastor Landis sits in the other chair now, facing me, hands clasped in his lap. I look at the gold hairs on his wrists surrounding the bands of his watch.

  He says, Hi, Mike.

  I look up and see the small friendly smile he always has.

  I mumble, Hi.

  He smiles a bit more, then glances at his clasped hands for a second before looking back up.

  He says, I’d like to try something with you.

  I say, Okay.

  He keeps looking at me with his small friendly smile, and I start wondering if he’s expecting me to say something.

  Then he says, We’re going to practice hugging today.

  There’s a beat and then I say, Hugging.

  Pastor Landis chuckles and leans back, holding his palms out to me.

  He says, I know, I know. It sounds weird. But hear me out.

  He leans forward again and says, It’s based on the theory behind something called touch therapy, which has actually been around for a while.

  I say, Touch therapy?

  Pastor Landis looks at me for a bit, as if he’s trying to decide how to explain this.

  Then he says, Mike, do you know why you have same-sex attractions?

  I think about this for a long time. I guess I can’t remember the first time it happened, but I can remember the first time I noticed.

  It was back home in Sheboygan Falls, in the summer between fourth and fifth grade. My friend Nick and I were playing around in our neighborhood pool, and we were both trying to dunk each other, and Nick grabbed me from behind and fell backward into the water, putting all his strength into it. All the laughter and screams and splash sounds cut out as we both went underwater. And then I felt his chest against my back, and suddenly I stopped fighting against him. I just stopped, feeling him pressed against me. It only lasted a moment. Then it was over and we both were above water and went back to playing around.

  When I got home after, I sat quiet in my room for a long time. I started remembering other times, started thinking for the first time what it meant. Mom came in at one point and asked if everything was okay, and I just said, Sure, Mom.

  I think of it now and it makes me think of Sean, of Mill Point Beach, of that night before the sunrise.

  I look up at Pastor Landis and say, I don’t know. It’s been that way for a while.

  He nods and says, That’s the case for most of us.

  Then he looks into my eyes and says, Are you close with your father?

  The question’s really unexpected and I’m not sure how to respond.

  I say, What do you mean?

  He says, Well, do you get along easily?

  I say, Sometimes.

  I pick at my nails.

  I say, Not really.

  He nods again and says, Is he a bit distant?

  I say, Distant?

  He says, Emotionally.

  I think I know what this means, but I don’t really know how to tell if Dad is emotionally distant because I don’t know what that would look like or not look like. I think about Terry’s dad, who is nice and polite and easy to laugh but still seems kind of like he’s faking it. Then I think of Ronald’s mom. I know she’s a mom and not a dad, but she and Ronald are pretty close. Close in a way Dad and me aren’t.

  Pastor Landis probably sees that I’m having a hard time with this because then he asks,

  Okay. Do you see him laugh a lot?

  I say, Not really.

  He says, Is he affectionate?

  I blink. I say, No.

  He says, Do you wonder whether he loves you?

  I say, No. I know he loves me.

  I clear my throat.

  He says, How do you know?

  I shift in my seat. These questions are weird.

  I say, I dunno. He cares how well I’m doing at school. He’s my dad, he loves me.

  Pastor Landis nods. He says, And he brought you here, which shows just how much he really does love you. But does he tell you that, regularly and often?

  I blink again. I say, No. Not really.

  He nods more, like he was expecting this.

  He says, And does he hug you?

  I say, Not . . . not a lot.

  Pastor Landis leans back again. He says, Touch is very important to a man’s development. I know it may sound odd, but we all need affection and direct love from our fathers when young in order to fully develop and grow into healthy adults.

  I just look at him.

  He says, As children, especially very young children, we naturally crave that touch and affection from a father figure. And without it, we never learn how to process touch from a man, how to differentiate between nonsexual and sexual touch. So our adolescent minds become confused. And once puberty hits, we’re still craving that touch, but now there’s a sexual component to it. That’s what’s happening with you now, and that’s what we’re here to fix.

  I don’t say anything.

  He says, All right, let’s stand up.

  Pastor
Landis rises, swinging his arms a little as he does it.

  I hesitate a bit, but then get out of my chair slowly.

  He says, What we need to do here is teach you to accept nonsexual touch from a man, and hugging is a great way to learn it. It’s a natural, platonic form of affection, and it’s something that can be shared between men without awkwardness. And it makes you feel good!

  He chuckles a bit at this last part.

  He says, Okay! Let’s try it out.

  He holds his arms out, waiting.

  I take a moment, then reach out, moving slowly toward him. I bring my arms around him, and just when I realize I’m trying not to touch him, he closes his arms around me and pulls me forward. I wait a second, then slowly press my arms against his back.

  We’re hugging.

  He’s a bit taller than me, so my face is pressed to the side against his shoulder. I catch a faint whiff of shaving cream. His sweater is itchy and a bit warm, made warmer by the heat coming from his body. Through my shirt I can feel his hands moving very slowly up and down my back. I try to picture what it looks like from the side, and I think of the way people hug when they haven’t seen each other in years, or when someone dies.

  I’m extremely aware of every point where our bodies are touching and realize I’m not moving at all.

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. I feel it on the back of my shoulder.

  Very quietly, he says, Good, good. Concentrate on the feeling of being in another man’s arms. Concentrate on the platonic nature of the hug — how it could be a close buddy or a family member. Close your eyes and imagine it’s your father giving you this hug. It feels different than a hug from your mother — stronger, more powerful, more masculine. A different kind of affection, but still a parent’s love.

  I’m barely breathing.

  He whispers, I’d like us to hold this position for a few minutes.

  And we do.

  Only a couple minutes into it, my arms are tired from holding them still against his back. My feet ache from standing in place. It’s hard to breathe from having my face against his shoulder, and my neck is starting to cramp. I feel every one of his breaths against my left shoulder. My nose itches.

  It goes on forever. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, but all I can think about is how I want it to stop.