by AnonYMous
I shook my head. “What is there to talk about? There’s nothing that makes this better.”
“I know that it seems that way right now,” he said. “But I promise you, this part is as bad as it gets.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Well, it’s pretty fucking bad, so I hope you’re right about that.”
As I said it, I heard Dad’s truck pull into the driveway and squeal to a stop. He threw open his door and hollered, “Hey!”
Without even turning around, I knew I was screwed. “Looks like you were wrong, Brent. It just got worse. But thanks for stopping by.”
“You don’t have to do this alone, man.” Brent reached out and handed me a card, but by that point, my dad was running up the stairs.
“You! You get the hell away from my son.”
Brent held up both hands like he was walking away from a man with a loaded weapon. “Just trying to help,” he said.
“Oh, you people are always trying to help, aren’t you?” yelled Dad. “Help yourself to some high school quarterback ass? Is that what you thought, you fucking pervert? Get the hell out of here!”
He pushed me inside, and I saw Brent shake his head and raise his hand to his ear like a phone. He mouthed the words Call me, and then Dad slammed the door. The phone was ringing, and he ran to grab it.
“It’s for you.” He tossed the wireless receiver at me, and I put it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, buddy. It’s Dave Joseph, USC.”
My heart stood still. “Hi,” I said.
“Heard you aren’t suiting up for the playoffs this weekend.”
My head was racing, I was trying to explain, but my tongue wasn’t keeping up. I was stuttering and sweating, and finally he stopped me.
“Was that your dad who answered the phone?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“He still in the room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay then, I’m gonna ask you a few yes or no questions. I talked to your coach earlier today. He explained about the tussle in English class. That over this video?”
My stomach sank. “Yes, sir.”
He paused for a second. My cheeks were bright red. I was mortified. Of course he knew about the video. Everybody knew about it. They probably wanted to take away my scholarship because of it.
“I want you to listen to me.” Dave’s voice was low and intense. “You’ve got the best passing game in the country. I don’t give a shit who your arm is wrapped around off the field as long as that arm is passing for us on the field.”
I slumped down onto the arm of the couch. My knees were shaky. I couldn’t believe my ears.
“No more fighting?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“They’re gonna give you all kinds of crap down there. I’m sure of it. You have to not throw a punch in the halls. Go throw a punch into a bag in the gym. Throw a ball. Go for a run. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have to put your scholarship on a temporary hold due to a technicality in our program out here,” he explained. “As soon as your suspension is lifted and you’re back on the field next week, we’re right as rain. I’ll keep it outta the press. Got it?”
“Yes, sir . . . Thank you, sir.”
“One more thing. Are you safe?”
I frowned and glanced at my dad, who was pounding a beer in the kitchen. “Uh . . . I, um—”
“Do you have someplace else you can go?”
I reached into my pocket and felt the outline of Brent’s card in my pocket.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get there. Now. Text me when you do. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
I stood there, stunned, holding the phone after we hung up. Dad reached out and took it from me.
“That USC?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And?”
“My scholarship is on hold because of—”
Dad threw the phone against the wall with such force that it exploded into tiny bits. A shower of plastic shards rained down onto the floor of the kitchen. I tried to explain. I tried to tell him it was just a technicality—that everything was probably going to be fine—but he kept yelling over me and pushing me. He grabbed a dining room chair and shoved it into the wall so hard, it cracked the Sheetrock.
“Boyd! What’s going on?” Mom and Tracy had just walked in from the garage. They stood there, frozen in the doorway.
Dad looked at me for a long time; then very quietly, he said, “You have disgraced us all. Tomorrow you get out of my house.”
Mom ran to me and said, “Don’t you listen to him. He’s not serious.” But I knew that he was even before Dad pulled her away from me by the arm and smacked her.
“I’m dead fucking serious,” he growled at her. He turned on me and held out his hand. “Give me your keys.”
“How am I supposed to leave if I don’t have my truck?” I asked.
“Guess you shoulda thought about that before you decided to become a fucking fairy, huh?” he sneered. “Maybe one of your faggoty little friends can come pick you up.”
I stood there, frozen in place, but my whole body was on fire. Everything I’d ever hated about my dad welled up inside of me. My hatred and sadness and hurt was a torrent that threatened to knock me down. I bit my lip. I would not cry.
Dad lunged at me, but he was already buzzed and I sidestepped him. He tripped on the corner of the couch and landed in a heap on the floor. I tossed my keys onto the coffee table. “Tomorrow!” he screamed at me. “You’re out.”
Mom and Tracy were crying. Dad struggled to his feet, and as I walked up the stairs to my room, I heard him crack open another beer. I didn’t want to risk Dad hearing me on the phone, so I texted Brent:
Can you meet me at the bridge over the dam?
Then I texted Jon:
Not safe here. Can I still crash with you?
I threw as much as I could into a couple of duffel bags and then grabbed this journal. I wanted to write this all down before I left the house. I don’t know what the rest of this night looks like.
Or the rest of my life.
I know this doesn’t stop because I go to Jon’s house. I know there isn’t a “happily ever after” for my family. There’s no big play. There’s no Hail Mary pass that’s going to pull this one out as the clock winds down.
I wish I could make all this stop. I wish I could make things go back to the way they were before Tyler posted that video. I wish I could make my dad love me no matter what. I wish I could make my mom stop crying. But I don’t have the power to do any of that.
I only have the power to do one thing, and that’s get out of here.
Jon and Brent both texted me back just now the same single word:
Yes.
I told Brent I’d see him there in ten minutes. It’ll probably take me about that long to walk down there in the dark.
KATV Channel 7 DAYBREAK—Live Report Transcript
Thursday, November 15
Amanda Tarstley (in studio): We now have an update on a story that we’ve been following all week. The young high school quarterback who was recently outed in an online video has been hospitalized for injuries sustained last night at his home. KATV’s Roger Jackson is standing by at Arkansas Children’s Hospital with details. Roger, can you tell us what happened?
Jackson (on location): I’m here at Arkansas Children’s Hospital where eighteen-year-old was admitted last night. Sources tell us that he is listed in stable condition after authorities responded to a 911 call placed by his younger sister, . Police were called to the home last night around nine thirty p.m. When paramedics arrived, they found unconscious from what appeared to be a blow to the head. Authorities have not yet released a statement or filed charges, but from what we understand, ’s father, , has been taken into custody.
Tarstley: Is there any word on how this will affect his ability to play in the final games of the season or his scholarsh
ip opportunities?
Jackson: Amanda, as you recall, had recently committed to a full-ride scholarship at USC for next year, and I had just completed an interview with him for the Gazette when a video surfaced last week of him kissing another young man. The video was made in secret and posted by a teammate. There has been some speculation among those close to the family that Mr. was not supportive of his son’s sexual orientation. The details are still sketchy, but according to my sources, was trying to leave the house when his father allegedly attacked him.
As to his future, I spoke with Dave Joseph, a recruiter from USC who had been in touch with Mrs. . He tells us that is stable and was mainly kept overnight for observation to rule out a concussion. There were no broken bones, only superficial lacerations. He maintains that USC is fully invested in and that he has their full and unwavering support.
Tarstley: A sobering report, Roger. Thank you so much for keeping us posted on the situation. We know that those of you watching at home may have a friend or loved one struggling with these issues. Or perhaps you yourself are a young gay person who feels unsafe or needs someone to talk to. There are resources available.
Tuesday, December 25
Christmas Day
For a long time, I kept hearing people say that things would get better, but I didn’t believe them.
That night I tried to leave the house last month, Tracy ran up to give me a hug. She had tears in her eyes, and just as she kissed me on the cheek, Dad grabbed her and pulled her away from me. I turned on him just as I saw him sort of toss Tracy into the wall, and I lunged for him. I saw him swinging at my head with his other hand. He was holding a beer bottle.
I don’t remember anything else.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. Jon’s dad was standing over me. He was the attending physician in the emergency room that night. Mom was there and Tracy. I didn’t know it at the time, but Brent and Monica and her mom were in the waiting room with Jon and his mom. My head felt like it had been run over by a tractor trailer, and they kept me pretty doped up on pain meds for a while. I had thirty-four stiches in my head and face where the beer bottle shattered, but the cuts are all healed now, and the scars on my cheek are getting lighter every day.
Dad got sentenced to ninety days in jail and a year of probation. He’s doing his time now at county and then goes to a house for violent domestic abuse offenders after that. Dave Johnson showed up at the hospital before I was even released. He stayed in town for two nights until I got settled back at home. After sitting out the first game of the playoffs that weekend because of my suspension, I played in the conference finals that next weekend. I passed for a personal and school record in that game. ESPN sent a camera crew, and when we won, the whole place exploded.
I wish I could say this whole thing has a happy ending. If it did, maybe I wouldn’t be writing in this journal anymore. I don’t know. I guess some things never get better. My mom is still crying a lot. Most days I’m pretty sure it’s because my dad is in jail and this was not the life she saw for herself. Other days she gets really upset about me going to hang with Jon. I’ve been taking Tracy with me a lot, just to get her out of the house. Dad has called a couple times and keeps trying to apologize. He tried in court the day I went to testify with Tracy. I’m not sure how that part of this gets better.
Jon’s mom invited us over for Christmas dinner, but my mom wouldn’t come. She threw a fit when I told her I was going anyway. I can’t handle the tears all the time anymore. I can’t handle the sermons about how God is angry with me. Stuff like that? I don’t think that ever really gets better. I wish I could let my mom and dad borrow my brain for, like, thirty seconds and just see what I see and feel what I feel. I think it would help them understand. Or maybe not. Maybe they just want to see the world a certain way.
There weren’t many presents at my house this morning. Mom has been such a wreck that even getting a tree up was pretty last-minute. I brought Tracy over here to Jon’s. I didn’t want to leave her there with Mom. I tried to get Mom to come with us, but she told me that I was corrupting my sister and that if I kept going over to Jon’s, Tracy would probably wind up being a lesbian—like being gay is a germ you can catch or something when somebody coughs on you. The sad thing is, I don’t think Mom even knows what she’s scared of anymore.
Monica and her mom and Brent came over to join us at Jon’s for Christmas dinner, and then we all helped do the dishes, and everybody else went home. Jon’s mom offered to let me and Tracy spend the night if we want to, and I called Mom and told her we were staying over. We’ll be sleeping on the couches in the living room, though. Jon’s parents are cool with us hanging—or dating? I dunno what we’re really calling this. Whatever. They’re cool with Jon and me being together, but Jon and I decided we wouldn’t push it on sleeping in the same bed at this point. It’s been sort of a rough few weeks on everybody.
Right now Jon and Tracy are watching a movie while I write. It’s this old Holly Hunter movie called Home for the Holidays. Robert Downey Jr. is in it and he’s hilarious. He plays the gay brother who comes home for Thanksgiving and has to deal with all the people in his family. Some of them love him for who he is (like Holly Hunter), and some of them don’t. The cool thing is that he doesn’t back down from being who he is—this funny, cool, kinda messed-up dude. He loves them without changing who he is or hiding at all.
I’m getting better at that. I’m sitting on the couch, and Jon’s head is propped up against one leg and my notebook is balanced on the other. Tracy is cuddled up next to me under a blanket.
I’m not sure if my mom will have the guts to leave my dad. Or to get help. Or to finally go to a PFLAG meeting with Jon’s mom. Maybe she’ll always think I’m going to hell. Maybe she’ll keep making her own hell here on earth with my dad knocking her around. I want to protect her. I want my dad to change. I want to keep Tracy safe. Because of what happened with Dad, she’s got a court-appointed social worker who stops by the house once a week to keep an eye on things. I hope my mom will get out of the house before my dad gets out of jail. I hope she’ll file for divorce. I don’t want Tracy living with him if he’s gonna be violent.
But all those things? I can’t control a single one of them.
Jon showed me that I can control something: being honest. First with myself, then with the rest of the world. This weird thing happened when I did that: I didn’t have anything to hide from anybody anymore. I had no idea how much time and energy that was taking. When you don’t have anything to hide, you don’t have to worry about other people telling your secrets.
I have one more semester before I head to California to start at USC, and I’m not going back home. It’s easier because I’m eighteen and I can decide where I want to live. Mom isn’t happy about it, but I don’t care. I can’t afford to get injured again. I’m staying at Jon’s until school starts. His parents were fine with letting me move in, but Jon and I talked and it feels like a lot of pressure to actually live with his family. Brent talked with Monica’s mom, and Ms. Nichols is letting me stay in their guest room starting next semester. At first I was worried that it might be weird living with my ex-girlfriend, but when I was still in the hospital, Monica came in to see me with Brent, and she grabbed my hand and told me that she didn’t care who I was dating. She just wanted me to be okay. There’s not really a playbook on how to stay friends with your girlfriend once you’re dating a dude, but I think we’re figuring it out okay.
Jon just got an early acceptance to UCLA. I don’t know if we’ll survive the rivalry—Bruins versus Trojans is major. All I know for sure is that I’m glad he showed up in first period this year. Sometimes you just need that one person who really sees you—who sees through all the plays you’re making and all the fakes you’re trying to throw. I realize now that I had a great passing game on the field and off. Jon was the guy who looked through all that and called me out.
The thing about being honest with myself is that it didn’t change anybod
y else. Dad is worried about saving his business when he gets out next month. He’ll go right back to drinking. Tyler is still obnoxious and bitter and pretty much a dick. But you know what I don’t have to worry about anymore? Him finding out something about me that I don’t want him to know—or worse yet, that I haven’t admitted to myself.
This is who I am.
Jon surprised me when I got here earlier today. He nudged me and said, “Hey. Looks like there’s a present left under the tree.”
There was one tiny box and it had my name on it. I grabbed it and we ran up to his room, where I tore it open. Inside there was a thin silver chain with a mini silver dog tag on it. On the front it said, ROAR.
“How’d you know about the roar?” I asked him, grinning.
“I come to the games. I hear you out there in the huddle.”
I snagged an arm around his waist and pulled him toward me. “You make me roar,” I said. He rolled his eyes and laughed. I kissed him lightly on the lips. I tried to go for more, but his mom called up and asked if he could help her in the kitchen.
“Read the other side.” He winked, then headed downstairs.
I flipped the tag over, and etched in tiny script were the words from that song Tracy liked—the one Jon had made me love.
You’re the one I always wanted. . . .
It hit me, standing up in Jon’s room by myself, staring at those words: I’m sorta like that song. I’m the same tune and the same lyrics, but I’m playing my song in a whole new way, and all of a sudden I don’t care about being a hit, because I actually mean something.
I can feel the little dog tag on the necklace under my shirt, resting against my heart. I can feel Jon on one knee and Tracy against my arm and a thousand fears about what the coming days and weeks and months will bring.
But mostly, for the first time in my life, I feel like I don’t have anything to hide.
Maybe that’s how “it gets better”—not because other people change, but because I do.