I crane my neck to look at my back.
This is me. This is my baseline. This is what everything in that pamphlet on Connor’s counter is trying to protect.
I sit next to Becky in the park, but decide not to tell her about River yet. For a little while, I want what happened to belong to me alone.
I went to shul yesterday, she says, for Yom Kippur. You know, you’re supposed to spend the day repenting for everything you’ve done wrong over the past year, but I did a lot of thinking and made a decision. A couple of them, actually.
With Becky, it’s hard to tell if that means she’s decided what she’s getting for lunch, decided what her next sewing project will be, or decided she’s moving across the country to grow kumquats. I know better than to react until I know what direction she’s heading.
I’m going to make it work with Andy. Somehow. Neither of us wants to be with anyone else, and I don’t want to be the girl that bails when things get hard.
I nod. Happy for her, I guess.
And, she says, I’m going to work my ass off at school this year. I’m finally going to be editor of the Spirit, and I want the articles in there to matter. I know people want to read about the sports teams and everything, but I feel like there’s an opportunity to make some sort of a difference. As much as you can make in a high school paper, anyhow.
I nod in agreement and not only because she looks so happy. There’s no reason the school paper can’t cover things that are going on outside of our walls.
Then she says, Maybe I’ll even convince you to write something.
Me? What would I write about?
The smile that makes its way across her face tells me she’s already thought this through and has been waiting for the right moment to hit me with it.
Can you maybe write something about the Gay Pride Parade? she asks. I think it’s about time more kids know that they have options.
Why me?
She reaches over and puts a hand flat on my chest. Because you care, Michael, she says. And look at what happened to James. I’m sick of it.
I wince and ramble, I don’t know, Becks. I was only there for a couple hours, and I’m still trying to make sense of everything. I’m not sure I’m ready to come out to the whole school.
You can write the article anonymously if you need to. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t feel safe doing.
I don’t know. Can I think about it?
She smiles and gives me a hug. Of course you can. Just let me know.
The next Friday, I wake in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke on the fire escape.
Once I realize the building isn’t on fire and I’m not dreaming, I rush to the window and climb out.
James, you’re back. I throw my arms around him and feel him wince, so I let go and look at him. He looks thinner if possible, and the black angled shirt he’s wearing—the one with all the snaps and buckles—hangs loose on him.
My eyes stray to the yellowed bruises on his face. I don’t know what to say to a friend who has been beaten, so I stay quiet.
I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to wake you, he says. I’m tired as a ghost. I never sleep well at my parents’.
Do you want to come in? I could set an alarm if you want some sleep.
James shakes his head and takes a drag of his cigarette. No, I’m on my way to the apartment, but I wanted to see you. Well, you and Becky, but I can hardly trek out to Queens at this time of night.
She’s going to be so glad to see you, I say, already excited for the three of us to catch up.
He stares at the lit end of his cigarette and says, It’s going to be a while before that happens, I’m afraid. My parents have decided to send me abroad. Apparently, my father was less than amused when he found out I wasn’t actually registered in school. My flight is tomorrow.
Something inside me goes cold. Wait. I croak out. What? You aren’t going to go, are you?
James shrugs and looks away.
I’m too tired to fight, he says, and I can hear the truth of his words in his voice. Besides, my father is going to be hanging around for a while, and I’d prefer not to be there as well.
James, you can’t leave, I say. Please don’t go.
This at least brings a smile to his face. He stares at me, all blue eyes and straight lines and something inside me feels as though it’s breaking.
He turns away, eyes landing on the street below. You know, he says, we never really talked about what happened that night after we went to the club.
James, we don’t need to…
I just wanted to say that Becky isn’t totally off base. There have been times when I’ve wondered if you and I should…you know… But your friendship means too much to me to risk. Is that odd?
I rub my eyes, feeling like the world has shifted on its axis.
James sighs and leans his head back onto the rail of the stairs, his eyes toward the moon. Don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you, he says. It’s a moot point, anyhow. I can’t imagine being with anyone now or… Oh, Michael, I’m just feeling so lonely and old and maudlin.
“Maudlin” is such a James word that it almost makes me laugh. Anyone else would sound a hundred years old if they wanted to use it.
I look at him, weighing my choices. The strangest thing is that I do understand what he’s saying about not risking our friendship. And even though things ended so badly, I’ve come to realize that the way I feel about James and the way I felt…feel…about Gabriel, or even River, are very, very different.
I get it, I say, leaning my shoulder into his. But I wish there was something I could do.
James smiles slightly and then the reality of what he said about leaving slaps me in the face.
Where are they sending you? For how long? I ask, but there’s no good answer. All I want is for James to tell me I misunderstood.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette. London, he says in a monotone. To my aunt Millie’s.
But the show and the apartment and… I let my words fade off, because really, I mean me. What happens to me without Gabriel and without James?
I’m not sure I could go onstage like this, anyhow, he says and looks away again. I don’t know if he means because he’s all bruised or because of something else.
But you’re the star, I say.
A show is never about a single person, he replies predictably, and they’ve been managing without me quite well apparently.
I wrack my brain for anything that might make James stay, but before I can put up a fight, he changes the subject and asks: Have you ever held someone’s hand while they’ve died?
I shake my head in the darkness, wondering where this conversation is going and why.
I have, James says. In the last months before I went to my parents, I held the hands of two dying acquaintances and one man I met in the hospital who simply had no one else. I couldn’t be there for Steven, so… I’m tired of it, Michael. It’s just begun, and I’m already so tired.
He rubs his eyes with his long fingers and says, I don’t want to spend all my time worrying about death. Lord, I’m only eighteen.
Aren’t people dying in London too? I want to ask. Can’t you stay here? But really, my heart is pounding, selfishly repeating, But what about me? over and over and over.
So instead of saying anything, I take James’s hand and squeeze, and we sit like that until the sun rises.
The first thing I do the next day is to look out on the fire escape for cigarette butts, the only sign I have that James was actually here. Instead, I find a note saying he’ll write to me, and a sealed letter for me to pass along to Becky.
I race to the kitchen and call the apartment, but when Rob answers, he tells me James has already left for the airport.
Filled with nervous energy, I clean my room, finally packing away the fin
al pieces of my junior year before leaving to meet up with Connor. He’s spent the last few weeks with Maurice on Fire Island, so when he meets me in a Wham CHOOSE LIFE T-shirt and blue aviator sunglasses, he’s tanned and relaxed and looks like he’s walked off the set of a music video.
You’re still happy? I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
Life, he says, eyes shining, is a bowl of cherries.
Next to him, dressed in my black club clothes, I look like depression personified, but its Echo, and blending in with the scenery doesn’t sound half bad, even if I feel like I have to be here to reclaim part of my life.
We cut through the line waiting in front of the club, and Brian waves us in. Well, he says, if it isn’t the return of the prodigal son.
Connor laughs and says, Nah, you obviously haven’t met our father. He’d happily sell us both to Satan for a loaf of bread. Well, me anyhow.
Echo is the same as the last time I was here. The bar is still sticky. Martin is still trying to solicit beer for his parrot. The music is still teeth-clenchingly loud.
But it’s like going back to your old elementary school to visit your teachers and finding the water fountains too low to reach. Maybe The Echo hasn’t changed, but I have.
Connor and I dance, and, for once, it isn’t his eyes straying around the room, it’s mine.
But it doesn’t matter where I look. Gabriel isn’t here.
Afterward at the diner, Connor gives me the lecture that he’s been holding onto all night. A summation of the reasons why I’m better off without Gabriel, all the reasons why I’d be safer, happier, and more interesting, if I could forget about him.
I’m glad my brother cares, but I don’t really give a shit about his opinion on this.
Just because you’re finally happy doesn’t make you Dr. Ruth, I say. Although the thought of Connor as a fifty-something radio sex therapist is surprisingly amusing.
And just because you’ve had a one-night stand, doesn’t make you Rob Lowe, he replies.
Dear Michael:
London is suffering me about as well as I’m suffering it. At least Big Ben hasn’t stopped ringing (You do realise that Ben is the bell and not the tower, correct?). And so, life goes on.
Unbeknownst to me, my aunt graciously volunteered my services to a local theatre troupe. They are putting on the most godforsakenly irrelevant production of My Fair Lady (well, is there any such thing as a relevant production of My Fair Lady? One wonders…). Anyhow, you can imagine how difficult it has been to hide my glee at being part of such a piece of artistic merit (insert sarcasm here).
I hope your brother is still over the moon. I hope Becky is behaving herself. Or perhaps not, so long as she’s happy. Please give her a hug and tell her to expect a letter as well. As you can imagine, I got quite an earful from her in the post for leaving without seeing her.
I hear what you’re saying about writing for the paper. I agree. I’m not sure that’s the correct place to work out your feelings, since you’re so confused about them, anyhow. Also, I don’t think Becky will hate you if you say no. I mean, she’s still my friend and I say no to her frequently.
As for Gabriel… Oh, Michael, I’m not sure I know what to tell you. But that you’re still thinking about him says something. Someone once told me that things left undone leave more of a wound than things that are done, but which cause pain. I guess that’s my way of saying it might be good for you to see him at least once more. Then see how you feel. Maybe, if nothing else, you can end up as friends. Although I suspect you’re looking for more than that.
Either way, please get your passport and come visit me in this wilderness. I’m afraid I’m picking up more of an accent than I’d like. You must save me.
I miss you and Becky desperately.
Love, or whatever you need most,
James
The next day, I reread James’s letter and plan to write back, telling him I’ll get my passport as soon as I can figure out how to without having to ask my parents to sign anything or whenever I have the guts to take Connor up on his offer to forge Dad’s signature. But even then, I have no idea when or if I’ll find a way to make it to London. I just need him to come back soon.
But first, I pick up my guitar. Try to find the rhythms and pauses in my thoughts. Think about James holding the hand of some dying guy he didn’t even know.
Then I play so many minor chords it makes me cry tears I know I haven’t earned.
Becky is bummed, but understanding, when I tell her I can’t write for her. You’ll find a way to tell your story, she says.
But I don’t have a story, I respond.
Everyone has a story, Michael. Maybe you just don’t know the plot of yours yet.
After he kicked Connor out, after my mom barricaded herself in the bedroom without having stood up for her oldest son, after I watched my brother stumble up the street with his suitcase—all my father let him take—to go who-knows-where, my father burst into my room and told me we were going to talk.
If you have something to say to me, Michael, say it now, he ordered.
I had plenty of things to say, but I wasn’t my brother, so I stayed quiet.
Dad and I still hung out a bit back then, and even though he and Connor fought all the time, I usually blamed my brother for egging him on.
I never thought Dad would make good on all his threats. I thought he was going to ask how I felt about him throwing Connor out of the house, until he said, Don’t think the same won’t happen to you if you ever humiliate me and your mother like that.
And then I thought he was talking about the public method Connor had chosen, until he added, Had I wanted a son-in-law, I would have impregnated your mother with a daughter.
I was twelve. I hadn’t said it out loud, but I knew I was gay.
And I knew nothing would ever be the same. I knew enough to stay silent.
I’m tired of staying silent.
Our senior year started off with the same sense of anticipation that every school year brings.
But something about this year feels different. Who can care about memorizing Chaucer in Middle English when so much is going on in the world right now?
When I complain to Becky, I think she gets it because she says: Find some way to make a difference. Volunteer somewhere. Make your voice heard. But stay safe, Michael. Whatever that means, somehow always stay safe.
The fear lab has also changed. There’s no paper, just a note from the counseling office with their hours on it and a reminder that anyone caught defacing school property will be suspended.
Now there’s no chance for people to share their fears. The walls have been paneled over as if that can erase history. Erase fear.
As if that’s fucking possible.
Something inside me snaps. I walk into the library and borrow a marker from the cup on the reference desk.
And on the wall, I write:
My name is Michael Bartolomeo and I’m scared.
Scared I’m never going to be able to look anyone in the eye and admit to being gay.
Scared I’m never going to feel safe showing someone I love them in public.
Scared I’m going to die.
Scared they’re all going to convince me to stay silent.
Scared I’m going to let them.
Silence is not the answer.
All day, I wait:
• Wait to be called to the office
• Wait to be kicked out of school
• Wait to feel sorry for what I’ve done, but that doesn’t happen
My brother came out loudly, high as a kite on the stage of our high school.
I’m not sure if my words are quieter or if I want them to be.
I feel light. Unburdened. Like I’ve finally done something. Or am starting to.
Becky pulls me in
to a janitor’s closet that’s most commonly used for making out. It smells like bleach and Windex and is probably the least romantic place in the world.
Are you okay? she asks, leaning against a rack of cleaning supplies and looking me up and down.
I’m fine, Becks. Really, I’m good.
So, you’re really out now, she says.
Yeah, I guess so.
To the whole school.
Yup.
And you’re okay with that?
I wait for the usual knot in my stomach to form, but it doesn’t. I am, I say. I mean, I’m sure I’m going to hear about it, but yes, I’m okay with it.
She throws her arms around me and pulls me tight. I’m so, so proud of you, she says. And James will be too. I’m sure of it.
Then, as we part, she takes a roll of paper towel and clubs me lightly over the head with it. We’ll talk later about you defacing the library, she says with a smirk. And instead of writing on the wall, you could have just written for the paper and given me an exclusive, you know.
I skip my next two classes and corner my brother at work.
Connor stares at me, unblinking. It isn’t like I need him to approve, but I thought I should give him a heads-up before the family shit hits the fan.
He leans back in the chair in his boss’s office and crosses his arms. I can almost see the wheels spinning in his head.
Okay, he says. Yeah, okay. Control the situation. Don’t make the same mistake I made, not that I made a mistake, but you know what I’m saying. Don’t give Dad the upper hand. Be ready for the explosion. Have a plan.
What kind of plan? I ask. I still have a year of school. But this is going to get back to them at some point.
My brother bounces in his seat. I got it, he says. Move in with us. Mo won’t mind. We’ve got the room, and he’s going to be in Europe most of the next few months, anyhow.
Mo? I ask, and my brother actually blushes. You can’t just invite me to move into someone else’s apartment, Connor, I say. But in the back of my mind, it sounds like a damn good idea. At least until James can talk his parents into letting him come home. Maybe we can get a place together or something, then.
It’s all good, Connor says. Seriously. Although warning you, I can’t cook for shit.
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