When we walk out, I look up at the life-sized posters hanging in the windows of the Gaiety Male Theatre (NY’S NO. 1 SHOWPLACE, apparently) upstairs from the restaurant. Shirtless boys in bow ties and with top hats and canes.
It’s a bit much, but it is Broadway, after all.
Becky and Andy are going to the junior prom dressed as Bonnie and Clyde. Connor is back at work and sold Becky a bag of cast-off material for five dollars, and she’s made a wild sort of flapper dress. All fringe and beads.
Andy procured a realistic-looking toy submachine gun from somewhere, but his dad confiscated it, saying that it looked too real and could get him shot.
Good thing Clyde’s dad never told him that, Andy grumbles.
Yeah, Becky replies, eyes blazing. How awful that all those people wouldn’t have been murdered.
Andy leans in to kiss her cheek, and Becky slaps him away. You think he’d know better by now.
I wave Becky and Andy off with a sharp realization that I’ll never go to a prom with Gabriel. Hell, I can’t even introduce him to my family.
Not that I would introduce him to my parents, anyhow. I like him too much for that.
But I would have liked to take him to prom. Would have liked to see him in a tux. Danced with him to crappy slow songs and fed him meatballs off toothpicks. Drank spiked punch while the teachers milled together in the corner under the guise of supervising.
I would have liked to take him to after-parties and ducked into a side rooms to kiss until we couldn’t see straight.
I would have liked to be allowed to have what Becky and Andy are allowed to have.
Time feels heavy, like it’s pressing down and I can’t stop the questions from pouring out.
Where are you when you aren’t here? I ask Gabriel as we huddle in a dark corner at the edge of the bar. Where do you go?
Our cheeks are next to each other so we can hear over the music, and he doesn’t pull back when he answers.
I work, he says as though the words are painful.
And then?
And then I work some more. Sometimes I sleep.
Yeah, but…
He shuts me up by moving his lips up to my ear to whisper, And I think about you. But really, Michael, the only thing that matters is the time we’re together.
And when I’m with him, it’s easy to believe, but I know that five minutes later, I’ll be doubting everything again.
We talk about today and next week and next month and next year, and then I have to stop Gabriel to say, I don’t even know what the hell I’m going to do after graduation. My parents assume I’ll go to college, but I don’t know what I want.
I know what I want, he says, eyes lidded and dark. Maybe that’s enough for both of us.
And then he pulls me to him, and I wonder if it might be.
“Time (Clock of the Heart)” by Culture Club comes on, and we sway together, Boy George’s voice circling around us, until Gabriel stops and nudges me to the wall, then steps away, forms his hands into a square and mimes taking a photo.
I want to always remember this time, he says smiling and pointing up at the clock above my head.
Something flutters in my stomach and then rushes to my head. I try not to give in to the hope that anything is possible. That these dark room meetings with Gabriel followed by lies to my parents are enough to make me happy long-term.
But sometimes I can’t help it.
Before the room across from mine was filled with boxes of my mother’s old clothes and some tools of my father’s, and some dishes that Mom brought home after my grandmother died and her house was sold, it was Connor’s.
Then, it was filled with comics and punk rock records and bongs so small they could fit in the front pocket of your jeans without anyone noticing. My brother had Yankees posters on the walls, and a hat collection in the closet, and porn under the bed.
Sometimes I go in that room and try to figure out what happened to our family.
I never succeed.
Connor and I are sitting at the diner, and he’s picking at a pile of fries. Stacking them crisscross like wood pieces for a campfire.
You’re looking better, I say, although I’m not sure if it’s true or not. It’s hard to tell given that Connor is a pro at making sure his job, or insignificant things like sleep, don’t infringe on his social life.
I think again about overhearing him ask for a loan and what my mom said about boys needing their mothers.
Do you want me to talk to Mom? I ask. Seriously, maybe you can move home for a little while, save some money. You know, just until you get caught up or something.
I wait for the smart-ass comeback, the dismissive gesture. But instead, Connor hesitates and then says, Mom isn’t the one you’d need to talk to.
You want me to talk to Dad?
No, he says. I’m only pointing out the futility of it.
But you would consider moving home? I ask carefully. I mean, what if your friend comes back and you have to leave the apartment?
Connor turns his face toward the window, the sun highlighting his tired eyes. I have other friends, he says.
Friends who would let you move in with them? I ask before silently reminding myself that I don’t want to fight with him.
Yeah, he says, pausing before turning back to me. Then, stronger this time, Yeah.
I think he’s delusional, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I reach over and grab two fries from the bottom of his pile and watch the rest come tumbling down.
It’s over. I’m pretty sure it’s over, Becky says. Andy used to hold my hand while we walked down the street. He used to kiss me at stoplights. He used to stare into my eyes and tell me he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Now, he’s on patrol all the time. And when he is around, he’s always watching over his shoulder. I need to find a way not to love him so much. Not to take our future for granted anymore. We were going to be together forever.
Forever is a stupid word, kitten, James says. Besides, you still have us.
And even to me, his words sound hollow.
Does Andy want to end things? I ask, ignoring James’s not-so-hidden dismissive glare.
Becky’s anger slides away, but she sounds hurt when she says, No. No, he says we can make it work like his parents do. I just don’t know if I want to sit home every night wondering if he’s going to come home alive like his mom does when his dad is on patrol. Lord knows I do enough of that with my mom.
Why don’t you call your mysterious phone number for guidance? James says slyly. The advice it gives you is probably as good as anything Michael and I have to offer.
Becky harrumphs, then says, I’m not going to let some phone dude decide my future.
But after James leaves, she asks if she can make a call and goes off to the kitchen. Later, I do that *69 thing to redial the last number called. The raspy voice comes on, announces itself, and quotes the Rolling Stones about not always getting what you want, but sometimes getting what you need. I wonder which category staying with Andy falls into for Becky.
I wonder what seeing Gabriel is for me.
My mother asks me to take some boxes to our storage locker. Maybe this is how I’ll fill the summer. Moving things around the apartment from one place to another.
I stack the boxes and pull up a flap of the one on top.
Photo albums.
Connor and I as cops and robbers for Halloween, when he was ten and I was almost five.
Me playing guitar at a young performers’ showcase at St. Sebastian’s.
The four of us at Riverside Park for a picnic.
My dad, with his arm around me at a little league game, his face beaming with pride because I’d pitched a one-hitter. It makes me sad to think he’ll never look at me like that again…and then guilty for feeling sad.
I
try to remember the last time we were all in the same room and can’t. How did we get here?
The glands in Connor’s neck are swollen, and he’s tired all the time. He says it’s nothing. He feels fine. He’s been working too hard. Or playing too hard. Or “whatever.”
I ask if he thinks he might have mono or Epstein-Barr or something. At least that’s the closest I can guess from the pamphlets I grabbed from the nurse’s office at school. Connor says he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t have insurance and refuses to go to the St. Mark’s Clinic.
I can’t go there, he says. It’s full of sick people.
I’ve been checking into the fear room once or twice a week, and even though the same paper is still up, my writer friend hasn’t replied.
I’m not overly interested in finding out who the writer is. And I’m not looking to meet someone at school. At the same time, it’s nice, for once, not to feel alone.
Today, there are two headlines someone cut out of the Post from earlier this month and taped up on the wall. The first reads, “L.I. Grandma Died of AIDS,” the second, “Junkie AIDS Victim was Housekeeper at Bellevue.”
I’m shocked I didn’t hear about those from my dad first.
I rip them off the wall and, behind those, there’s new writing in tiny print. The paper is creased in an odd way, so I have to smooth it out in order to see all the words. Of course, I get a paper cut in the process and have to suck the blood off before turning back to see what’s written.
I did it once with an older guy upstairs in a club and now I keep checking for spots. Shit. I’ve gotta be fine, right? I’m about to graduate high school, for fuck’s sake.
My hands start to shake, and I pull them back from the paper. Take in a gasp of air, and try not to hyperventilate.
Is this what the rest of our lives are going to be like?
The next time I see Gabriel at Echo, I ask about his past boyfriends.
None, he says.
Really?
None that mattered, no.
But you’ve been with other guys?
Yeah. And you?
Boyfriends? No.
But others?
No.
Oh, I’d assumed that you and James…
No.
Of course he’s been with other guys. No surprise there.
Not like I expected him to be scared like James or looking for a husband like Becky or cautious like me.
Of course he’s been with other guys.
Are you angry with me? Gabriel asks over the yearning sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.”
Of course not. Why would I be angry? I answer, only I can’t look him in the eye when I say it.
Michael?
I’m not angry. I’m just sick of Danni playing all these freaking love songs.
Michael?
Come on, let’s dance.
Before I leave, Gabriel tells me that when he delivered balloons to a synagogue on Park Avenue last weekend, someone gave him a hundred-dollar tip, and he wants to use it to take me to dinner.
I tell him he has to wait until after finals, but then. Yes.
Still, inside I panic. Dinner seems too formal.
This is what I’ve wanted, I remind myself. A chance for us to actually spend time together outside the club; a chance to get to know who he is in the real world. And so I say yes, because there is nothing else to say.
Gabriel promises to call me with the details, and I’m back to waiting.
For the first time, Connor invites me to join him and his friends at the Gay Pride Parade.
For a second, I consider it. But the whole idea of the parade seems overwhelming. Throw my brother into the mix, and it seems explosive. There is no way that’s going to happen.
But the idea of being there sticks in my head.
It won’t let go and I figure what the hell, I’ll go alone.
I tell my parents I’m meeting Becky at the library to work on a fictitious chemistry final.
When my dad gives me his usual once-over, I have to look away. I’m sure he can read the guilt on my face.
But really, what do I have to apologize for?
Being myself?
I don’t tell Becky.
I don’t tell James.
I don’t see Gabriel again, but I probably wouldn’t have told him anyhow.
I definitely don’t tell Connor.
I avoid the Village, get off the subway in Midtown, and walk over to 5th Avenue as if I were simply going to the big public library.
As I get closer, the crowd gets denser. Louder. Happier. Made more colorful by all shades of clothes and skin and attitudes.
Everyone is singing and clapping and carrying signs. It’s like this sea of joy flowing down stuffy 5th Avenue. All these people are so freaking beautiful, I can’t even believe it.
Bands march down the street led by half-naked boys twirling batons. The different tunes play over each other in a carnival of sound.
There are gay police officers marching, political groups, some from different neighborhoods and cities, colleges and choirs.
There are even religious groups in the parade, and I wish I had a way of beaming pictures of this to my dad, because I’m pretty sure he’d lose it.
Drag queens are working the crowd. A lesbian group rides up the street on decorated motorcycles, and a group of impossibly hot guys are strutting in gym shorts behind a line of salsa drums.
The parade slows and some parents gather in front of me. I’M PROUD OF MY GAY SON reads one sign, I LOVE MY GAY DAUGHTER reads another.
I guess I always knew parents like that existed, although even Gabriel’s dad probably wouldn’t have committed to carrying a sign down the middle of Manhattan for the world to see.
But I wonder what it would feel like to have that kind of acceptance.
To not be afraid.
To be fully myself.
For even one day.
WE ARE EVERYWHERE reads one poster.
At school I’m not sure who is gay or who isn’t. Here, it’s the opposite. I never would have believed that was possible anywhere, much less in the middle of New York City.
For the first time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I step forward to get a better view of a marching band. A cute boy in a tank top, barely older than me, catches my eye, smiles, tosses me a string of gold beads, and keeps walking.
I drape the beads around my neck.
They feel heavier than they are.
The crowd gets bigger, and I try to step up onto the base of a light pole, when an older guy with electric-blue eyes holds out his arm to help me up.
He gives me a look that tells me he knows I’m here alone. That it’s my first time.
Maybe next time, you’ll be out there marching too, sweetie, he says and smiles.
I hope he’s right. I want him to be right. Even just watching from here, I feel free.
Next year I will watch from the Village.
Next year I will march.
Next year I will give myself permission.
Next year I won’t only feel free.
Next year I will be free.
When I was little, I used to watch The Wizard of Oz every year with my grandmother.
Connor could never sit still that long, but I looked forward to rooting Dorothy on as she tried to get home.
My favorite part was when she arrived in Oz and the movie switched from black-and-white to color.
I used to wonder how Dorothy felt, having her life changed from monochrome to Technicolor so quickly.
Now, I think I know.
It’s the last day of school.
I poke my head into the fear room to find one last post. Someone has written, Love Is
… just like the cartoon in the newspaper. But under that is a list in different writing and pen colors, different people filling in the blank.
Love is…
…all you need
…a battlefield
…Hell
…in the air
…evol spelled backward
…for losers
…the drug
…all around
…all we have left
And I wonder if the answer really matters.
And if that last one is true.
And if it is, if love is even enough.
Becky usually hangs out in the newspaper office at lunch, but they’re done for the year, so we sit outside, picking apart some tuna sandwiches.
You’ve been quiet, she says.
I know, I say. I’m not sure how to talk about it.
Is it your dad? she asks.
Not more than usual.
Instead of playing twenty questions like she usually would, she waits and eventually I start talking about how I felt like a different person at Pride. Like the person I always wanted to be was waiting for a chance to come out, like a genie in a bottle or something.
But isn’t that good? she asks.
I know she doesn’t get it. Why would she?
Of course it is, I try to explain, But it also sucks because I don’t get to be that person in real life and I don’t want to go back to pretending. And what I tell her is so fucking true that I start to cry.
I tell her that Nonna, my mom’s mom, used to say tears were the language of God.
And I tell her about how my dad always replied that Nonna was going to make sissies of me and Connor. She told us to stand up to him, but we didn’t. We learned to bite our lips and hold our breaths, anything not to cry.
But my dad isn’t here, and when Becky wordlessly holds out a Kleenex, I let the tears flow.
Things to do:
• Finish the paper
• Write a paragraph on the meaning of the book
• Show the timeline of the development of the war
• Run a mile and do pull-ups for the Presidential Fitness Program
• Write out the formula for the chemical equation
Another school year over.
James is working on his play.
We Are Lost and Found Page 11