Inclination

by Mia Kerick

  Maybe there really is no such thing as a free lunch.

  Spiritual Fraud

  I stand there and profess it, like I mean every word. My voice is loud and (SAT Critical Reading) resonant, despite the fact I’m a pretty quiet guy. A guy who keeps to himself, who only speaks when spoken to, who flies stealthily under the radar at all times.

  “We believe in one God, the Father Almighty,

  maker of heaven and earth,

  of all that is seen and unseen…”

  My mind, as it tends to do so often, wanders to “The Problem”, but my voice chants on. A full minute later, when I come to my senses, I’m still professing.

  “We believe in one holy catholic

  and apostolic Church.

  We acknowledge one baptism

  for the forgiveness of sins.

  We look for the resurrection of the dead,

  and the life of the world to come.

  Amen.”

  I sigh, probably a bit too loudly, and Dad glances over at me. “You okay, son?” he whispers, also a bit too loudly to be appropriate in Sunday Mass.

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.” I blink at him once.

  He continues to stare at me with a funny expression on his face until Lulu’s antics draw his attention to his other side. I’m relieved when he finally looks away. I know that I’m allowing this whole homosexuality thing to get under my skin, enough that Mom, Dad, and Elizabeth have noticed my melancholy. Even Lazarus, a guy who is usually so consumed with controlling his own excess energy that he barely notices if it’s snowing outside, has questioned me to the tune of, “What’s up with the whole emo-thing, dude?”

  I need to get my act together before people start to suspect that I’m not the perfect image of a Catholic school boy I’ve impersonated so well for so long.

  I feel uncomfortable passing the sign of peace with my family as well as with my neighbors because the sign of peace is a sign of my recognition of God in those around me, and their recognition of God in me. If they knew how disordered I am, they’d refuse to shake my hand, I’m sure. And at this point, receiving communion is close to impossible for me to do, but as I make my way to the front of the church, trailing behind three of my sisters and my parents, I remind myself that according to my online search, it’s not my homosexual inclination that is sinful, but acting upon it, which I have yet to do. I swallow deeply as I stand before Father Joseph, who blinks twice in a friendly “I know you” manner, and then holds out the Holy Eucharist to me.

  “Body of Christ.”

  “Uh…Amen.” He places the Eucharist in my left hand, and I bless myself after I lay it on my tongue and then I make my way back to our family’s pew. My parents have always told me that God hears my prayers the best right after I receive communion, as at that moment God’s body is alive inside of mine. So I kneel, close my eyes almost involuntarily, fold my hands, but instead of praying passively, I silently call out to God.

  Please, Jesus, take these feelings away from me! I don’t want to be gay and evil and condemned. Please, God, make me normal.

  When I open my eyes, Mom and Dad are staring at me with worried eyes down the length of the pew. They’ve noticed that my eyes are full of tears, I’m certain of it. I do my best to blink them away.

  Reflection

  I fit the physical stereotype for a gay guy to a tee.

  I stand there in the tiny bathroom that my father installed downstairs beside my tiny bedroom, gazing into the tiny mirror over the sink at my reflection.

  I’m actually kind of pretty.

  A heart-shaped face; wide, almond eyes; tan, creamy skin; a nose as perfect as any China doll; and not to forget, my pouty lips.

  Watch out Angelina Jolie—you’ve got some serious competition in the pouty lips department in yours truly—Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio.

  Maybe I was supposed to have been born a girl. Maybe I was born with the wrong body. The problem with that theory is, I feel like a guy. I want to be a guy, not a girl. I like being a guy…. It’s just that I also like guys.

  My hair’s too long.

  I wear it cut straight across at about the length of my chin.

  Mom always says I have the prettiest, silkiest hair in the family. Great….

  And at 5’6”, I’m not much taller than my thirteen-year-old sister, Mary. She definitely outweighs me by a good fifteen pounds.

  Mom also says that my build is very typical of a South Korean male of my age.

  I squeeze a line of toothpaste on my toothbrush and start to brush.

  Even my teeth are tiny and perfect like a row of little pearls…but they are straight, and I am not.

  Classic Conditioning: An Epic Fail

  I have a plan. And I think it might just work.

  I got the idea from my psychology class when we learned about classic conditioning. In specific, we learned about Pavlov’s dog experiment, where through strengthening behavior, or positive reinforcement, Pavlov got his dogs to salivate at the mere ringing of a bell. Well, my idea is also classic conditioning, but it’s like a Pavlov’s dog training in reverse.

  My plan is foolproof. And it’s extraordinarily simple at the same time. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought of it eons ago.

  Here it is: every time I entertain an inappropriate thought or feeling—in plainer words, when I feel attracted to a guy—I’ll pinch myself hard on the arm. And I mean really hard. Bring-a-guy-to-tears kind of pinching. If I find that I’m becoming immune to the pain of arm-pinching, I’ll move on to biting down on the inside of my lip. Maybe even until I taste blood.

  It seems reasonable to assume that after a period of time, my mind and body, in an attempt to avoid the pain, will refuse to feel attraction to boys.

  One Week Later

  My plan is not effective in deterring (note for vocab list) me from reacting in a sexually…um, alert manner…to the sight of a buff guy. But it is effective in getting my mother all worked up. When she catches a glimpse of the rows of purple bruises running up and down my left arm and my swollen bottom lip, she becomes convinced that I’m being bullied at school. She wants to make an appointment with Principal Craigson in an effort to put a stop to this harassment, which I am fortunately able to talk her out of. But it’s tough to explain to her that I’ve been inflicting this torture on myself. I make up an off the wall story about pinching myself to help me stay awake when I’m studying for my Calculus mid-term late at night. Mom hugs me and tells me that getting all A’s is not that important and to do the best I can.

  I’m so lame.

  His Meaning In My Life

  The Wednesday night Candlelight Our Way Meeting is one of my favorite times of the week. And although we aren’t allowed to use actual candles because they require actual matches to light them, which involves actual fire in the church basement, we simulate the experience of praying by candlelight with these little battery operated, or “flameless”, candles. They are even run by remote control, which is kind of cool.

  There we are, about fifteen of us sitting in a tight circle with our hands clasped, and we’re sharing. Not just praying, and not simply discussing Bible verses, but we’re actually doing some of each, as well as telling each other about the joys and hardships of our weeks. And talking about God. Mrs. Martine, the parishioner who monitors the youth group—a stocky, stern-faced woman, who wears her hair long and gray and straight and even I know her clothes are outdated—sits in the corner of the big basement room, always knitting while listening carefully to ensure that everyone who wants to share has ample opportunity.

  Elizabeth normally has a lot to say at Wednesday Candlelight Meetings. She rarely holds anything back, which annoys some kids, but I am glad that she speaks candidly because it makes opening up slightly easier for me. “I like this one a lot, you guys. God tells us in Matthew 28:20, ‘And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.’”

  “What does that mean to you, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Martine pipes up from the corne
r.

  “Well, to me it means that even if I’m having the worst day imaginable—every time I think it’s gonna get better, it gets worse—I know that God is with me.”

  “I had a day like that today,” Kerry says softly. “I call those days ‘downer days’.”

  “How do you handle ‘downer days’, Kerry?” Elizabeth is truly a born leader, and I admire her for that. She knows what to ask and when to ask it.

  “I know I can come to Jesus with all of my problems and He’ll hear me and do whatever He knows is best for me.”

  We’re all quiet for a few minutes after hearing Kerry’s profound expression of faith. Everybody finds it touching.

  This matter-of-fact boy, Eric Lundquist, is eager to speak next. “I think the biggest comfort I get from God is knowing where I’ll go when I die. I mean, I know that Jesus saved me by dying on the cross, and I know that if I follow His way, I’ll go to heaven and be with Him when I die.” He stops talking and glances around at us. “It takes away a lot of my fear of death.”

  Everybody nods in agreement. All of us can relate to the fear of dying.

  “He’s my friend.” That comes from a boy who always sits outside the circle, cross-legged in the corner, and whose name I’m not one hundred per cent certain of because he keeps himself mostly separate from us. Nobody else knows him from Wedgewood High, either, so we all assume he’s homeschooled. And he’s consistently the last to arrive to youth group and the first to leave, and because of that, we never stand get to stand around and talk about general stuff with him. He runs his fingers over his black buzz-cut hair and looks away. I almost miss his mumbled, “Jesus is my companion.” I can relate to that, as well.

  Emma is the next to contribute. “Like, everybody knows that He is the Way and the Truth and the Life, right?” She snaps her bright pink gum. “So that’s what He is to me.”

  Almost everyone takes a turn expressing what Jesus means in his/her life. I absorb it all, but since I’ve recently started feeling like a spiritual fraud, I keep my mouth shut. I have nothing good and pure and worthwhile to offer these devout Catholics.

  “Anthony, it’s been a while since you’ve contributed in a meaningful way to the Our Way discussion.” Mrs. Martine’s sharp voice cuts into my thoughts. “Why don’t you share the role Christ plays in your life?” I look up and across the candlelit room to where Mrs. Martine sits at a chair behind a student’s desk. The light is dim, but her expression, as she stares at me, is still easy for me to read: all business.

  I take in a deep breath, clear my throat, and throw a measure of my usual caution to the wind. “Um…well, all I can say is that Christ is my rock, my Savior, and… well, without him, I’m pretty much nothing.”

  I think maybe Mrs. Martine smiles at me, but it’s very brief, which makes it hard to tell if I only wish I saw it. She moves to sit in front of the piano. “Tonight’s closing hymn is ‘Just as I Am’.” Before we have a chance to fully drag the song out of our memory files, she starts to play, and as if programmed, the Our Way youth group breaks into song.

  I love the way my voice blends so perfectly with those of my friends. I can’t even hear the unique sound of my own tenor ringing in my ears.

  And I’m glad.

  Complications: David Gandy

  I’ve seen him before; he’s rather hard to miss. And it seems that I’m registering on his radar today…or his gaydar, more likely.

  Great.

  Our connection isn’t completely random, though. David, who’s a junior like me, was a member of Our Way during our freshman year and at the very beginning of sophomore year. He was an outspoken, and sometimes even confrontational, member—always super opinionated—and it would have been hard to miss his presence in any group. I certainly hadn’t missed it. Neither had Mrs. Martine—and if I remember correctly, she wasn’t what you’d call crazy about him back then.

  Maybe he’s on my radar, too, not to say that I’m attracted to him, because I don’t think I am. And this isn’t because he’s in any way unattractive. He’s tall and sort of skinny, but in a cool, emo way—not gangly at all—with long brown hair that flows halfway down his back, and he has these piercing blue eyes. It’s just that David Gandy is a guy who I would never think to look at that way because he’s far too real, and therefore, too dangerous to my deep-in-the-closet status. People would notice me noticing him, without a doubt. And David in no way could get lost in the crowd, as is my goal, not even if he tried—which he doesn’t. As a matter of fact, even back when he was in Our Way, he made his gay presence known, not in a particularly flamboyant way, but in an honest and direct manner that, as I said before, was threatening to me, Mr. Fly-Under-the Radar.

  And he is staring at me now. Sure as sugar, across the crowded gym, he’s looking my way. Expectantly. As if he wants something from me. My gut clenches and growls, as if to say, “Danger, Will Smith! Warning!”, like the robot on the vintage reruns of Lost in Space.

  “Hey, Del Vecchio!” He saunters over to me in absolutely no rush, but his intense blue eyes never leave my face, which lets me know he’s intent on talking to me.

  “Yeah? What’s up?” I try for nonchalance, but David’s crooked smirk suggests that he’s not buying it. I never was any good at selling coolness.

  “What’s up is that we are the only two guys in this entire PE glass who give a shit about our grade. And now that they’ve instituted that Sports Partnership Project, gym class is going to actually require a measure of effort, beyond kicking a frigging ball into a net.”

  He’s right. The Physical Education staff recently expressed a growing concern that PE was a show-up-and-pass sort of class, which it honestly always has been, and that’s why they introduced the requirement of a yearly power point project that is to be completed with a partner and presented to the class. The topic for the junior year project is the history and progression in society of a sport of our choice.

  Woohoo. (No exclamation point.)

  I look around. No one in this all boys’ class other than David Gandy would be anything beyond than a ball and chain dragging from my ankle in my attempt to secure an A.

  I sigh, unhappy with the timing of this quandary. I try to summarize the problem with objectivity: Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio is enduring his life’s most significant spiritual crisis in regard to his recently admitted homosexual tendencies, and it appears that he’s going to have to put his head together with Mr. Out-and-Proud, himself, David Gandy. But an A is an A. “Um…yeah. You’re right. We should work together.”

  I sigh again.

  “Hey, if you aren’t happy with me as a partner, Del Vecchio, go hook up with McMartin, over there.”

  We both glance over at Eddy McMartin, who is attempting to palm two basketballs simultaneously, one in each hand. And succeeding. Which he is entirely too proud of. “Take that, you MOFOs. You said it couldn’t be done, well, in your MF-in’ faces!!” A crowd of ten guys stands around him cheering, like what he’s accomplished actually matters in the scheme of things.

  “I think we’ll work very well together as partners,” I state, my voice bland, and I avoid David’s eyes. Intelligent eyes that, even without looking directly at them, I know are assessing me… and reading me…and very probably seeing through my straight-guy mask.

  “We ought to meet up after school to pick the sport we’re gonna do our project on…and don’t even think about picking tennis.”

  I lift my eyes and our gazes collide. We connect on a level that has nothing to do with a mandatory PE power point project—of course I look away before he does.

  Before I have a chance to feel awkward, he proceeds to fill me in on why he refuses to do our project on tennis. “Tennis is a sport for a bunch of rich and preppy country club dudes, and I’m so not interested. Let’s try and be a smidge more creative than that, huh?”

  I nod, despite the fact that he’s wrong. I play tennis, and I’m certainly not close to being rich. But I am kind of preppy.

&n
bsp; “Meet me at the school library at three.” David turns and walks away without even a “see yah later, loser!” which was what I half-expected.

  I watch as he saunters off—a small butt in skinny black jeans, the layered look going on above the waist, to the tune of a black T-shirt with a barbed-wire fence design along the hem, hanging down below a loose denim button down, and a black collared vest, over that. The only similarity between his emo style and my preppy uniform is that we both have our collars popped.

  I reach up and fold down the collar of my navy blue and white striped rugby shirt.

  He’s waiting for me when I get to the library at a couple minutes after three. “Sorry, I’m late. I let Janey Wilkins borrow my psychology notes after school today because she was absent from school for a few days.” I pull out the chair across the table from where David is slumped, and sit down. “She wanted to borrow it, as in, to take it home overnight, but I’m not very comfortable with having my notebook out of my sight.”

  David lifts his head and examines me with critical eyes. “Things get lost sometimes, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.”

  “And you stick to the safe road all the time, I bet. True?”

  I have no idea where he’s going with this comment and I’m not sure I want to know, so I decide to cut the small talk short. “For the most part that’s what I do. But I’m willing to listen to your ideas for sports to do our power point on that are along the road less traveled.”

  I grin and he smirks, then he reaches for his backpack, and pulls out a magazine. “Here’s our key to an A in Phys Ed, Del Vecchio.”

  “Spin to Win Rodeo Magazine?”

  All of a sudden, he leans across the table toward me and I get a whiff of his long hair: a sweet almond scent. Despite myself, I sniff again, and longer this time. “Ever see Mr. Jenkins when he gets into his truck to drive home from school?”