Inclination

by Mia Kerick

  Even my little sister, who I thought completely clueless, and who is only one year shy of her Confirmation in the Catholic Church, has expressed her unity with me.

  I wipe my tears away, because in many ways, I am truly blessed.

  Read The Book

  It’s funny how friendship just happens when you aren’t looking. I didn’t even have time to panic at the prospect of having no one to hang with in classes and at lunch, and that I’d feel like the solitary guy in the corner of the cafeteria with the big L on his forehead, when David and his friends scoop me up and take me in. And after two weeks of eating lunch with them, sitting with them in classes, and, of course, working on Ride ‘Em Cowboy, the Physical Education rodeo power point project that I did with David that we incidentally earned an A+ on, I realize how closed off to new friendships I’d grown since I’d become a little bit too comfortable surrounded cozily on all sides by my friends from Our Way. I never looked at the people who existed outside our tight circle of righteousness. My bad.

  When the power point project was completed, I will admit to having a mild onset of panic that my relationship with David was then over. But, as I was learning, David walks the walk of a Christian, even if his talk is rough around the edges. I’m still devastated by my parting ways with the Catholic Church, in fact, I’ve been doing my best to mentally block all thoughts of religion and God and church. I will also admit that the effort it takes to do this is causing me a fair bit of depression and major stress. I even yanked a gray hair off the top of my head—jeez, I’m only sixteen!

  “Thanks for driving me to school this morning, Tony. And an advance thanks for carting my ass home, too, for that matter.” I glance over at the passenger seat where David is sitting, and am momentarily taken aback that it isn’t Laz sitting there. Old habits sure die hard. “Sucks when my truck’s outta commish.”

  “I’m glad to drive you, David. Hey, if it weren’t for you, I might be faced with my first B ever in a class…and it would have been Physical Education, of all things.”

  “Are you still going to Mass at St. Mark’s?” His gaze on my face is intense as I drive.

  His question surprises me. Since the day he gave me the book about gay Christians, we haven’t spoken of religion. In fact, we haven’t talked about anything personal at all. “No. We don’t go there any longer.” I’m in hiding from all things religion-related and I have no intention of being found. Not even by David.

  “That’s it? You gave up on Jesus just like that?” David turns away in disgust and stares out the passenger window. “He couldn’t have meant very much to you, then. Guess I misread ya, dude.”

  His words sting because it isn’t that I’ve given up on Jesus, I’m not yet ready to face the hard cold facts. Because all of the facts that have unfolded, in regard to being both gay and Catholic, are not very pretty. “I’m not up for a discussion on this right now.”

  “You think it’s gonna be easier to chat about this in a week? A month? Or a year, maybe?”

  I have no reply that isn’t bitter. All I can think of to do is to stare out the windshield at the road in front of me.

  “Did you even read the book I gave you?”

  “Don’t see the point in it, really. I’ve read enough about the Catholic view on homosexuality online to know I’m an abomination. And so are you.” I know I’m being mean, and most of me doesn’t care.

  “There’s more to the story than that, Del Vecchio.” I pull up in front of David’s house with a screeching halt. “Do me a favor and read the freaking book.”

  That’s when I look over at his face and what I see surprises me. He’s wearing an expression of true concern, right down to a wrinkled forehead and a deep frown, rather

  than the raised eyebrows and rakish smirk that I expect. “Okay, sure, David. I’ll check out the book.”

  “Great.” David takes a deep breath. “And one more thing—the girls, Sarah and Beth, and Lenny and Cameron and I are going to see a magic show at the Blackhall Theater on the Saturday night after Easter. You wanna come?” The frown falls from his lips when our eyes lock together. “I can pick you up a ticket.”

  I have no idea why but this guy won’t give up on me the way all of my other friends have. Not that I’m emotionally close to him or anything, we usually keep our conversation confined to strictly trivial topics. “Sounds fun, and I’ll pay you back for the ticket.” Strangely, David shakes his head at my offer. “Want me to drive that night?”

  David swings his hair over his shoulder, a habit I’m getting used to, and then he opens the passenger door. “Nah. I’ll come and get you.”

  “Cool.” It suddenly hits me that David is buying my ticket to the show and is driving me there. And that sounds a lot like a… a date. I swallow hard, which I’ve been doing a lot lately.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my mini freak-out and he gets out of the car, but turns back to look at me in an almost businesslike manner. Once again, David says, “And Tony, read the book.”

  This morning, my family goes to St. Elizabeth’s without me, not that they are happy about it. I remind myself, as I lay stomach-down on my tiny bed, that I’m home alone by my own choice.

  Not going to Mass makes me feel almost sick; it’s as if I’m having withdrawal symptoms from God. Shaking and sweating and nauseated—yeah, sounds like withdrawal to me. But the worst part is that I’m depressed, and I feel so empty. Feels like an enormous black rain cloud has settled over my bed, and it wants to stay there.

  Maybe I should turn on TV Land—vintage television always distracts me.

  I could get in three episodes of Happy Days before my family returns.

  But I gave up television for Lent.

  If I’m not Catholic, is there still a Lenten season for me?

  Unsure as to the answer, I decide that there’s no better time than now for me to take David’s advice. I grope around under the bed for the book that he gave me, open it, and start to read.

  In A New Light

  Laz is the only one of my former friends who gives me the time of day anymore. In certain ways this is a positive thing, because at least one part of my social life is normal. But in more ways it’s a negative, since he seems to feel it’s his obligation to report on every single word that every single member of the Our Way group says about me, as well as how they’re plotting to get me “back in the fold.” I’m fairly certain that his lack of confidentiality goes in the other direction, as well, and that anything I say can, and will, be repeated to inquiring minds. So I don’t say too much, but it’s not that difficult to do because keeping quiet comes naturally to me.

  According to Laz, this is Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio’s status in regard to the Our Way youth group:

  *Elizabeth wants to “confront me with love” and has collected a long list of Bible verses to prove that “the gay way is not God’s way.” That’s certainly a change in tune from the door slam and the cold shoulder. I’m not sure which I prefer.

  *Rinaldo continually repeats something along the lines of, “he must repent or he’ll burn.” Very comforting. And repent for what? I haven’t sinned, at least not that I know of. I wonder when he became such an outspoken conservative.

  *Emma demonstrates her character depth (yes, sarcasm of the highest order) by saying, “I could’ve told you guys Anthony was light in the loafers a long time ago. He’s as pretty as a girl—why are you all so freaking shocked? This is not big news.”

  *Kerry has been asking, hesitantly, but at the same time with great persistence, “What do two guys actually do in bed anyway?”

  *Eric insists that this issue is between God and me. However, he hasn’t said so much as “Hey, Anthony” since the night I confessed my gayness to the group.

  *And apparently Laz has been taking careful notes on all of this for the purpose of relaying it to me in excruciatingly painful detail. Interestingly, he omits reporting his own personal opinion on the subject.

  I’ll be honest: it doesn�
��t exactly feel like the good old days when I hang out with Laz anymore. Our relationship is strained, but at least it still exists. Sort of.

  Needless to say, it comes as a relief when Laz has a chemistry lab to make up after school and I’m able to escape without him in tow, for a change. I’ve come to dread the daily “he said/she said this about your blackened soul” sessions that occur daily as I drive him home from school. It also doesn’t help that I’m still reeling from having missed Mass for the first time in my life when I wasn’t literally vomiting. It’s as if the center of my universe has been removed, leaving me a lost and lonely planet, orbiting absolutely nothing.

  “Hey, Del Vecchio!” I turn to see David Gandy standing over by his black truck. He doesn’t smile at me, but his at least there’s no hostility in his expression, for which I’m thankful. “You got a few minutes? Can you stop by my house? I wanna show you somethin’.”

  Lately, seeing David is like seeing a piece of purple sea glass sticking out of the sand, glittering enticingly. He’s a sight my subconscious self automatically reaches for, and although I caution myself that that he could be sharp in places, I can still handle if I exercise great care.

  “You want to show me what?”

  “No questions, dude. Follow me to my house.” He leaves no room for argument, and I’m not in the mental state to debate anybody on much of anything. I hop into my car and follow David’s truck out of the parking lot.

  David’s family is what I’d call well off—not exactly rich—but definitely better off than our family. In other words, I highly doubt that he is sleeping in a beautified storage closet, like I am. He’s also an only child, and lives in one of Wedgewood’s nicer neighborhoods, where all the lawns are landscaped and the homes appear modern and even a little dramatic on the outside. I already know which house is his, as I’ve driven him to and from school a few times, but I’ve never been inside. I have been inside a few houses in this neighborhood in the past, though. They are all very spacious and airy-feeling. David’s house is no different, I decide as I follow him inside his showplace of a home, all decorated in modern shades of gray and beige, with absolutely no Fisher-Price toys for little people waiting to trip me on the floor. We head straight to the kitchen.

  “Hey, kiddo. School good?” Mrs. Gandy walks over to her son and playfully tugs on his long brown hair until David winces, and then pretends to slug him in the belly. I like her immediately.

  “Yeah, Ma. School was just great.” He rolls his eyes at her and winks. “Say hi to my bud, here. Name’s Tony.”

  “I remember you from art classes down at the community house a few summers ago. Anthony Del Vecchio, right?” She steps over to me and gives me a quick one-armed hug. I try not to appear like I’m doing research, but I take a closer look. Mrs. Gandy is the spitting image of David, with piercing blue eyes of her own, but she’s older, and female. “How’s your family? You’re the single boy with all of those little sisters, aren’t you?”

  I nod. “Four little sisters—they’re all good, thanks.”

  She laughs, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder, the exact same way David does. “I haven’t seen those little girls in years. They sure must be growing up.”

  “You’ve got that right. Mary’s bigger than me now.” I feel heat in my cheeks and I’m not sure why.

  Mrs. Gandy again laughs, and I notice it’s a free-spirited sound. “You guys up for ice cream?” She’s almost as sweet as my mom. Almost.

  “Yeah, Ma. We got any of that butterscotch caramel swirl kind left? If we do, can we have it? That shit kicked butt!”

  “Sure thing, Davy.” His mom spins around and heads for the freezer. “And for future reference, ice cream can be referred to as stuff, instead of shit. Calling it shit doesn’t make it sound very appetizing to our guest, hmm?” I like the way she gently reprimands him for his cursing.

  “Sorry, Ma.” David shrugs at his mother, and then glances over at the kitchen table. I follow his gaze. Their shiny mahogany table is covered in notebooks—a few left wide open—and I can see that they are filled with scribbled notes, reminding me of a mad scientist’s haphazard records. There are also tall stacks of books about homosexuality and Christianity, several Bibles, his laptop computer, which is covered in scrawled-on sticky notes, and dozens of printed documents, stapled together, and scattered at odd angles.

  “What’s all that?” I ask.

  “I call it research. But if I’m gonna level with you, it’s my peace of mind.”

  I don’t get what he’s trying to tell me and it must show on my face.

  David walks over to the table and sits down in front of the computer. Then he gestures to the piles of clutter before him. “This is how I know that God still loves me. Me, a gay Christian.”

  I automatically turn to check on his mother, to see if she overheard what he said.

  “Relax, dude. Ma already knows I’m gay.”

  “She does?”

  “Yeah, and she supports me in being who I am. Half of all this research was done by her.” He nods at the clutter.

  His mother approaches the table holding two bowls full of ice cream—and I mean really full. I never get a bowl this full at home, too many little sisters with hungry eyes and waiting spoons. “Your father did part of the research, too. Don’t sell the man short. But he does have a real job with mega traveling so he can’t obsess over it the way we do. Wouldn’t you agree, Davy?” She smiles at her son and hands him one of the bowls and a spoon. “Sit down anywhere, Tony. Push the mess out of the way and put your bowl down.”

  I take the bowl and spoon from her outstretched hand and choose a seat near David. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Oh, Lord. Davy, did that boy call me ma’am? I coulda sworn he did.”

  “Sounded like it to me, too, Ma.” He smirks, but continues to peruse his emails while feeding himself occasional bites of ice cream.

  “I’ll forgive you this once, Tony, but never again. Please, call me Gabby.” She winks at me and leaves the room.

  “Chow on that ice cream, man, cuz soon as you’ve downed it, I’m gonna prove that God loves you, too.”

  I must have made a very comical face, because David bursts into a fit of laughter. I try to ignore him and pull the spoon from the ice cream and start eating.

  And truth be told, butterscotch caramel swirl ice cream does kick butt.

  Half an hour later, I’m totally engrossed in the piles of clutter on the Gandy’s kitchen table. But what really has me captivated is this outline David made for me on a piece of notebook paper using a cherry red Sharpie marker.

  It’s a simple outline, but its significance is far from simple.

  “I’ve done a lot of research since the day Mrs. Martine booted my ass from Our Way.” He looks at me very directly and I know I can’t entirely hide my pain from him anymore. “Like she booted your ass out.”

  He isn’t being cruel—I already know him well enough to know that’s not his style—he’s just speaking the truth. Mrs. Martine had booted us both out of Our Way because of our sexuality. Like she thinks gayness is contagious and she has to isolate us, and our disease, from the other kids to keep them from catching it.

  “When I say research, I’m talking about a lot of reading and writing, and praying, too.” At-home-David is completely different from at-school-David. Much less guarded and much more human.

  I lift the paper with the red outline written on it between my thumb and index finger and shake it so the paper flutters in the air. “But why are you even bothering to tell me about this?”

  David reaches up and closes his laptop. His eyes don’t shift to the side or slip down to study the floor, but stay focused on mine, like a person who’s being honest. “Because I wish like hell that somebody had been around to tell me this shit… er, stuff.” He glances up to see if his mother is around but she isn’t.

  I have this random thought, which isn’t too unusual for me. I’ve always had a thing for televis
ion re-runs. All of the quirky details I like are easier to catch the second time I see an episode, which leads to my next question. “Do you mind if… I mean, can you go over it all one more time, David?”

  His bright blue eyes widen when he realizes that the stuff he’s sharing is getting through to me, and he breaks into a very un-David-like smile. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? That you can be gay and Christian, too, and that you aren’t gonna find your ass burning down there for all eternity.” He points to the floor. “Yeah, I’ll go over it with you again. Happy to.”

  “You said you found this stuff online?”

  “A lot of it.” David points across the table. “Hey, pass me that elastic. My hair is buggin’ the crap outta me. “ I pass him a black elastic band that’s on top of a tall stack of books and he pulls his long hair back into a messy bun like my sisters wear for their baths, better showing off the fine bones of his face. David is handsome. And I mean really handsome. “And I read a bunch of books on the topic, but the one I lent you helped the most.” He holds up another copy of the book he lent me. “This is Ma’s copy. We’ve both already read it twice. The author, well, let’s say he knows his stuff.”

  “What other sources did you use for your research?”

  “Tons of online websites. And Mom let me order about ten million books from Amazon—she never said no when I asked for another book. They’re upstairs on my night table.”

  “Whoa. Ten million books—you must have a good-sized night table.” I grin and am actually surprised at how easy it was to do.

  Placing his mother’s book on the table, he says, “When Martine bounced me—shit, man, I wanted to keel right on over. As in, be like totally gone. Ya hear me?” David’s top lip quivers for a split second before he forces his usual smirk. “For a while, I wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep…refused to talk to Ma or Dad.”