That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  Turning back to my dads, I say, “Listen, can you just wait here? I have to go see what’s happened with her.”

  Jonathan nods seriously. He looks like he’s concentrating on holding up a force field to protect his family against the negative reactions of a possible homophobe.

  “We’ll stay here. You go find her.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mr. Santos speaks up then, “Tell her I’ll be waiting for her in the car.” He nods curtly to Jonathan before turning to leave.

  This whole thing is just bizarre.

  I hurry towards the doors she disappeared through, and I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I fumble to look at it quickly, hoping it’s her, but it’s a text from Hayden.

  Hayden: You told her?

  I stare down at the words. Told her what? What is he talking about?

  I notice a group of younger girls giggling as they pass, looking at their phones. I head up to her locker to start with, since it’s the closest plausible place. But she’s not there. Where else could she have gone? I circle around to my own locker, in case she’s waiting for me. She’s not. Finally I head to the Vocal room to see if I can find her. Malik and some of the woodwind players are there with Emily and two other girls I don’t know that well.

  “Hey, Emily,” I call out. “Have you seen Serena?”

  Her hand flies up to her mouth when she sees me, and she starts giggling.

  “Oh my God! She must be freaking!”

  Freaking? So she already knows that Serena flipped out when she saw my dads?

  “You saw her?” I ask urgently.

  “No.” She shakes her head, unhelpfully.

  I’ve never really had an opinion of Emily one way or another, but right about now I’m ready to lose it on her.

  “So she hasn’t been back here?” I mutter, annoyed and anxious.

  “Nah,” says Malik. He bobs his chin once in my direction with a look of solidarity. “But I’ll tell her you’re looking for her, if she comes around.”

  I swallow down my irritation with Emily to respond to him.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Cute picture of you two, by the way!” she calls out to my back when I turn.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I just want to find Serena. Continuing on around the corner, I run into Marianna, who’s carrying her coat and flute case, obviously on her way out of the Orchestra room. Her eyebrows shoot up as she sees me.

  “Hey, have you seen Serena?” I ask.

  “Uh, no,” she replies. “Is she pissed?”

  Okay, what is going on? How could this news have travelled so fast?

  “What do you mean? How do you know what happened?”

  “Well, I imagine everyone knows by now.” She slowly shakes her head at me. “Even for Vanessa, it’s a bit much. You better rake her ass over the coals for this one, Max.”

  “Vanessa?” Now I’m even more confused. “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “The post,” she answers, looking at me like I should know what she’s talking about. “Oh, Max,” she continues, obviously feeling sorry for my apparent ignorance, “You should check out the post.” She holds up her phone, and then walks away from me down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Merry Christmas!”

  I pull out my phone, only to see Hayden’s message on my lock screen again. There’s still nothing from Serena. I should have done this already, so I quickly text her.

  Me: What’s wrong? Why did u leave? Call me

  Is it really possible that she’s reacting this way to my parents? She’s never been negative about any of the gay students at our school. But, what other explanation is there? I mean – she got so weird when I told her about my dads – which I thought she already knew. Hadn’t we talked about our parents? Things got even weirder when her dad showed up. Jesus! All that religious stuff in her house. Could she be so fearful of his bigoted judgment that she’d reject me like this?

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve experienced this type of intolerance. I’d been called “gay boy” and “faggott” in middle school, mostly from kids who barely understood what they were saying – kids who were probably repeating the things they’d heard at home. It wasn’t always easy for me. But, I’m not gay – which leads to a special kind of irony. I may be bothered by the fact that people assume Hayden and I are together, but shame about homosexuality is definitely not in my emotional vocabulary. I’ve witnessed ridiculous prejudice my dads have faced over the years, and outside of schoolyard fistfights, felt helpless to do anything about it. And I’m fully aware of how fucked up it is that I’ve been worried for years that my dads would be disappointed I was straight, while also being irritated that people think I’m with Hayden.

  I shake my head back and forth like I’m trying to rearrange a melody from the dissonance in there. I need to stop ruminating, and get my ass in gear before I finally circle back to the auditorium to see if she’s returned. I discover only my parents there, and a small handful of others milling around the expansive space.

  “Did you find her?” Peter doesn’t look quite so jolly anymore.

  I shake my head in response. “Did her dad leave?” I ask.

  I look down at my phone again and press the home button to see if I’ve missed something flashing across my screen.

  “Yes,” Jonathan replies. “He said he would wait for her in his car in case she turned up.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I begin, “she just…”

  But I don’t know what to tell them. How do you tell your parents that you think your girlfriend took off because she was freaked out that they’re gay?

  I’m staring down at the picture of her on my screen saver, wondering how this could be. Then, suddenly, I remember Serena looking at her phone before she left, and think back to what Marianna said. Maybe I should look at this post she was talking about.

  “Just a second,” I say, turning away from them.

  I impatiently swipe my fingers across the screen a few times until I find the post I’m looking for. It doesn’t take me long: it’s a popular one.

  It’s a picture of Serena and I kissing in the cafeteria today. The image hits me like a pleasurable punch in the gut. And sure enough, Hayden is scowling at us in the background, just like the photo bomb Vanessa had described. But that isn’t the most explosive thing. It’s right there – for everyone to read – Vanessa’s cryptic, spiteful words aimed straight at the heart of it.

  Vanessa’s tag reads: “Looks like Hayden might have finally lost his spot in Max’s tree house! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” #brokenhearthayden

  There was a cascade of replying re-posts that speculated on Hayden and me – and some of them were hitting pretty close to the truth – too close.

  Hayden and me: the tree house. I remember his text: You told her?

  How could Vanessa know this? And now Serena knows.

  It’s way more than being freaked out about my dads.

  She knows about Hayden and me. She must think that we’re…

  Fuck. She knows.

  Chapter 12

  Serena

  I refuse to go back to therapy after Christmas.

  I have a huge argument with my dad.

  I don’t care. No one can know.

  My phone chirps away on my dresser with unread texts, long-ignored voicemails, and particularly avoided multiple post alerts.

  My dad hovers constantly, asking me about school and rehearsals.

  I do my homework every night, hardly leaving the house.

  In rehearsals, I sing my songs, and get out of there.

  Mrs. Alonso says: “Put more into it, Serena”; I don’t have any “more”.

  I think she regrets picking me for the lead.

  The worst part? The dreams have returned.

  Even with my hands squeezed over top of my ears, the voices envelop me. When I look all around, there are no people, though: just black, flapping wings. They descend upon me, every mouth open, scr
eeching the hateful words.

  “You did it! It’s all your fault! I hate you!”

  I curl up on my bed again, and try to push it all away.

  Chapter 13

  Max

  January feels just like the first Bon Iver album.

  Justin Vernon spent the winter months holed up in a shack in Wisconsin, recording his melancholy masterpieces after his girlfriend dumped him.

  I totally get that now.

  I’ve spent countless nights playing the title track, “For Emma”, while staring out the window. Listening to him sing about another lover, lies and being strung along.

  I imagine Serena singing the lines to me.

  Serena hasn’t talked to me since before Christmas.

  We have exams at the end of January.

  It rains.

  The sun doesn’t come out for six entire weeks.

  Life is a pale shade of grey.

  Chapter 14

  Serena

  “Serena! Come downstairs. I have made some dinner,” my dad calls up from the kitchen. I can smell something burnt, so I know it’s not takeout.

  Lying on my bed, I roll over to look out my window and realize it’s already dark outside. I slide off my comforter and turn off the album I was playing. It’s easy to lose a whole Saturday afternoon in the breathy grooves of Lianne La Havas, but I quickly recognize it’s the third time I’ve heard this song today. How long have I been lying here?

  My half-finished History assignment sits on my desk, a reminder that this is my only date for tonight while Vanessa and her friends go out to a house party. I overheard them talking about it in rehearsal on Thursday. Vanessa didn’t even bother asking me if I wanted to go this time. At least my dad can’t complain about the first round of high marks I brought home this semester at the expense of all the hours spent alone in my room.

  When I reach the hallway downstairs, my dad turns to smile brightly at me through the thin shroud of smoke that fills the kitchen. He’s waving his hand over top of something wrapped in aluminum foil.

  “The garlic bread just got a little bit overdone, that’s all. Come sit down.”

  The spaghetti is in the colander on the stove, with tomato sauce in the pot beside it. Thankfully, the main course has been spared from my dad’s poor multi-tasking skills in the kitchen.

  “Looks good,” I say, attempting to appease him for his efforts.

  We get our bowls ready and try to salvage the under part of the bread where there is the least amount of black. He pours himself a glass of red wine, and then hovers the bottle over my glass with his eyebrows raised. I shake my head no, and take a sip of water instead. Dad digs into the pasta with a large forkful and begins chewing.

  “Max has not yet called this week. That is new,” he says with a sly grin.

  He’s taken to teasing me, trying another tactic to see if I’ll come around on this one. We’ve been through several stages of his reaction to my sudden departure at the holiday concert: panic, concern, sympathy, judgment, and coercion. It’s like the five stages of grief I had to hear about in therapy. I keep my eyes trained on my plate, chewing the salad I pulled from the fridge. It’s the only part of the meal that doesn’t have the smell of charred food lingering there in the same way this topic seems to flavour all our interactions.

  “I still don’t understand why you can’t call him, sweetheart. He seems like he is trying very hard. And you were so happy when you were with him.”

  My fork stills with the next bite in mid-air, and I exhale in frustration.

  “Dad,” I groan, my eyes closing, wishing to make the issue disappear. “I’ve told you this. It’s just…too messed up. I’m not telling Max. And then, it would be like a big lie, trying to act normal around Mr. Bauer.”

  He contemplates this like one of his theological theories, spinning the base of his wine glass in circles on the tabletop.

  “Well, you could consider going back to see him.”

  He’s talking about therapy. I meet his gaze, angry to have circled back to this recurrent theme, once again.

  “I don’t need more therapy, Dad.”

  I’ve made myself get back into the car with him, just to show him I’m fine. Maybe I haven’t made it into the front seat, but I’m in the car, at least.

  A sad look darkens his expression, like he’s just remembered something painful. “Serena, we do not want to see our black and white masterpiece turning back to grey. At least you had that sparkle in your eyes again with Max.” A reluctant smile creeps onto his lips. “Preciosa, please – we want to see our Chispa again.”

  He’s talking for the two of them – like she’s still here. She’s not.

  “Dad!” I snap for a second time. I’ve lost my appetite for this topic.

  I pick up my plate and scrape the rest of my salad into the compost bucket before loading it into the dishwasher. As I head out of the room, I can hear his earnest plea.

  “Chispa!”

  I don’t respond, and walk with purpose towards the stairway to escape to the seclusion of my room.

  It’s not like I don’t think about Max. I do. A lot.

  Over the Christmas holidays, Max kept trying to explain. There was one text after another, endless emails, and so many pleading voice messages. Every message was another version of “Just let me explain”, or “It’s not what you think”, or “It’s complicated”. He thinks that I stopped talking to him because of the lies Vanessa was trying to churn up with her posting. Some of the online comments by other students were cruel – or just plain rude. But what could I tell him? Instead, I just never replied to any of them.

  When we got back to school, there were notes left in my locker – different versions of the phone messages and texts he’d sent. But, thankfully, Max didn’t ambush me in the halls on the way to classes. He must have realized that if I wouldn’t speak to him when he kept showing up on my doorstep over the holidays, I wouldn’t talk to him at school, either. Still, every time I catch a glimpse of him now, it wrenches something so tightly in my chest, I have to concentrate on catching my breath while I duck my head and keep walking.

  Flopping down on my bed, I click to the home screen on my phone. It’s still the picture of us that Max took in the tree house. I just can’t change it yet, even though I leave it turned off most of the time.

  I think about that night in the tree house all the time. God! How did I not clue into who his dad was? I don’t remember any family photos in his house, or even in Mr. Bauer’s sparsely decorated office. And it’s not like there’s any family resemblance between them, either. I guess I missed the part about having two dads when we talked about him being adopted. I tried to remember if Max ever talked about his “mom”. All I can think is that I was spending so much mental energy trying not to talk about mine, that I never appreciated that he didn’t talk about his. Was I that insensitive?

  I roll my head back and forth, squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth in a humiliating groan over the whole thing. “Shit,” I breathe out loud when I open my eyes.

  Glancing over at the assignment on my desk makes me cringe at what my days have become. Day after day of homework, rehearsals, ducking in and out of classes and school at the last minute to avoid any hallway conversations. I consider finishing the assignment now, but instead, I decide to pull out my suitcase, figuring I might as well get a head start on packing for Wednesday. I still can’t believe we’re going to Disney.

  Disney: a joyful destination where everything is princesses and fairy tales.

  Not exactly the reflection of my final year in high school.

  * * *

  We started the week with two half-days of rehearsal for the show. Rehearsals have been the most difficult place to bury my head in the sand. I spend a lot of time averting my drifting gaze from the rhythm section of the orchestra. It’s impossible to avoid Vanessa or Hayden, though, since we are singing together on most of the numbers. During the performance, we are a tight unit, but betw
een the songs, it’s like we’re strangers at a bus stop, deliberately avoiding eye contact and maintaining distant personal space. Hayden mostly ignores me, but every so often, I hear him mutter under his breath something like “Can’t believe her” or “So ludicrous”.

  Things have been strained with Vanessa ever since the whole thing she posted. She says that she didn’t mean for it to be interpreted the way it was. I know that she was just hoping to piss off Hayden. Still, her disregard for the collateral damage between Max and me didn’t seem to faze her, whatsoever. And in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to get angry with her. What would be my explanation for not talking to Max, then? There was nothing to do but go along with the fact that I believed the insinuation about Hayden and Max, and that I just didn’t want to talk about it. Besides, Vanessa hadn’t exactly jumped in to be the mediator, trying to fix what was broken.

  Nobody is talking about Max and Hayden anymore, anyway. After Ryan Johannsen dumped Lydia Liu to ask out one of the sophomore violinists the first week back from holidays, that string of gossip quickly disappeared – and so did I, it seems.

  At the end of our final rehearsal, I’m about to grab my shoulder bag from where I’d tossed it on one of the auditorium chairs when I feel a tap on the shoulder. I spin around to find Mrs. Alonso with a serious look on her face.

  “Serena. Could you come meet me in my office in five minutes?”

  This can’t be good.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say in a breathy exhale. She nods her head once, with only a trace of a hesitant smile, and walks off in the direction I’ll soon follow.

  Vanessa and Emily are collecting their bags a few seats over. They’ve mostly been talking about Vanessa’s new boyfriend she met through a posting of Malik’s. I overhear her discussing plans for our trip tomorrow.