back, suddenly glad I’m late.
I Sit Beside Vanessa
I can’t believe the chump
on my right left a place
next to her for me. I settle
in as the brainwashed recite
a well-worn prayer, not
completely foreign to me:
Our father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name …
It’s not like I’ve never
been to church before.
My parents make us go
on holidays, fighting sin
twice every year—the day
Mary gave birth, the day
her son died, so the stories
go. All to save me? Right.
Vanessa leans over,
sweeping my cheek with
an auburn wisp. I’d rather
be sleeping, she whispers.
She smells of industrial-strength
soap, but so do I.
At least we’re clean. I notice
the length of her skirt,
which covers too much, if
you ask me. One slender
arm comes to rest on one
knee, and at the wrist, a few
drops of blood, scarlet
clues to the mystery
that is Vanessa. I lean
back, watch her secret ooze.
After the Last Amen
We’re allowed some time
to mingle, guys and girls
together as if, now holy, not
a single indecent thought
could cross our commingled
minds. Vanessa’s knee brushes
mine, raising some quite improper
thoughts. A voice reminds
me we’re not exactly alone.
Good morning! Hope I’m
not interrupting. Tony’s eyes
fall, a warning to Vanessa
to hide her wrist. But she
doesn’t, maybe because
she doesn’t care, or maybe
she just doesn’t see.
He reaches out, touches
her arm. What’s this, sweet
lady? He disguises concern
with charm. Unexpected.
Vanessa snatches her arm
away. Nothing. No worries.
I poked myself with a fingernail.
Her eyes betray the lie.
Tony and I exchange
a glance, brimming with disbelief.
But we know it’s a delicate
dance and keep our mouths
shut.
Tony
Vanessa’s Cutting
And the only thing I can
do is point it out to someone
in charge—betray her
to the enemy. Not really
an option. I wouldn’t
want her to tell on me.
So I shrug. “Hope it doesn’t
get infected. You should
clip those fingernails!”
Yes, Mother. I’ll put it
near the top of my list.
Right after flossing.
Conner asks, Are Sunday
services really required?
What happens if you
say you won’t come?
Will they lock you up,
throw away the key?
“They’d drop you back
down a level,” I answer,
as the resident expert.
Back to being a big
zero, Vanessa says.
Back to isolation.
“Only if you’re Level
One. But hey, lucky
me, I’ve been promoted
to Level Two. Just
wait. You get to play
pool, get to watch TV.”
No kidding? says Conner.
And what do you get
for making Level Three?
Level Three Privileges
“From what I hear,
you get trips to the mall,
movies, sometimes,
always well supervised.
You also get to go home
for weekend visits.”
Maybe I’ll just skip
Level Three, Conner
comments. Level Four?
“That’s the wilderness
camp—Challenge by
Choice, they call it.”
Vanessa chimes in, If you
complete the Challenge,
you get Level Five.
“And that,” I add,
“is when they let you
out of here for good.”
Sounds like it would
be easier to wait it out
until I turn eighteen,
Conner observes. Not
so long, only six months,
two weeks, three days.
Speak for yourself, says
Vanessa. It’s eleven months
until my birthday. And
I don’t plan to celebrate
that party in here! I’ll
be out long before then.
“They’ll probably kick me
out next week,” I say. “I gave
my dad hell yesterday,
and he’s footing the bill.
’Course, I’ve got his guilt
train steaming real good.”
Time to Vacate
The room, so they can
turn it back into a place
to eat lunch. I volunteer
to help. Nothing better
to do than fold down tables,
set chairs around them.
Conner has apparently
digested our recent
conversation, because
he volunteers to help
too. Anything extra you
do goes in the “plus column.”
Vanessa doesn’t dare.
Someone might notice
the seep on her wrist.
Someone less discreet
than Conner or me.
We watch her hustle off.
“That girl is something
special,” I say. “Wonder
what her story is.”
Other than cutting
herself, you mean?
The why behind the blade?
“Exactly. She seems so
grounded, compared
to other losers in here.”
I might say the same about
you. But you tried to off
yourself too. Didn’t you?
“Yep. Failed miserably,
too. Some things take
practice. Suicide, for one.”
Conner laughs. You’re
right. And who knew?
Next time I’ll be more
careful.
Vanessa
All This Talk
About reaching levels
and getting out of this place
makes me want to put myself
on a fast track to freedom.
I guess that means opening
up in group, succeeding
in school, which I started
again last week, hopeful
I might catch up after missing
so much.
I hadn’t even cracked
a book in over a month.
Magazines, yes. Plenty
of those in the hospital,
and I’ve borrowed a Cosmo
or two from my pal Dahlia.
Pretty tame stuff, for her.
Hustler is more her style.
I’ve seen a couple of those,
thanks to darling Trevor,
who five-finger-discounted
them from the local liquor store.
I can’t believe women
would let themselves be photographed
like that! Nothing “artsy”
about fake rape scenes or lying naked
with a dog. It’s pure nasty. And all for money.
I’m not sure what I want
>
to do for money when
it’s up to me to make it.
Not sure what I can do,
bouncing white to blue.
But I don’t plan to use my body
to make it. I plan to use
my bipolar brain.
Monday Morning
Up early, shower, breakfast
at seven thirty. Not so different
from living at home, except
none of it is by choice,
everything choreographed,
right down to the soap
we use, the toothpaste
we’re allowed, the exact
amount of eggs on our plates.
It’s easy, really. Easy
and frustrating.
Classes, remedial for many here,
start at nine. Lucky me.
The month off didn’t put me
too far behind, which means
I get to be with the advanced
group, and that includes Tony.
He’s book smart. Street smart.
I never knew for sure the two
could go together, but they’re
intertwined, inside of him.
The more I get to know him,
the more I like him.
My first gay friend.
I’ve never really had much
in the way of friends before.
A few little girlfriends,
army brats all, and tough
to keep when you change
bases like clothes.
But I’m pretty much stuck
here for a while. A friend
seems like a good thing
to have, and I think I have two.
Tony. And Conner.
Cute. And devastating.
A daunting duo.
They’re Both in Class
Of course Conner would
be in the advanced class.
He’s college prep all the way.
Maybe he can tutor me
in the fine art of finesse.
Girls sit on one side
of the classroom,
guys on the other,
in alphabetical order.
Easier to keep track of.
Guess Mr. Hidalgo
isn’t as smart as his students.
Good morning, all, he says.
Today, we’re writing essays.
Topic: The Patriot Act,
right, wrong, or indifferent.
A half-dozen groans
answer his request, but
I like putting my opinion
on paper for the world to read.
Conner raises his hand.
Excuse me, sir, but can
you tell us, please, how
the Patriot Act affects
the rights of minors?
I mean, we were basically
locked up here without
a hint of “due process.”
How is that any different
than treading all over
the due process of
a so-called adult?
Mr. Hidalgo clears his throat,
considers how to answer
a student as impertinent—yet
polite and somehow
correct, in context—as
Conner.
Conner
Okay, I Should Have
Kept my mouth shut, gone
with the flow, especially
the first day in Mr. Hidalgo’s
class. But I need to know
what makes every teacher
tick. Some really care about
their students’ reasoning
processes. Others just stick
to the three Rs—rote
learning, recitation,
rhetoric. In here, I didn’t
expect to find a discerning
teacher. But Mr. Hidalgo
does seem pretty reasonable.
He even allowed me
to expand on the theme
“due process and minors.”
Why do I care, anyway?
“Life” has lately not meant
much. I haven’t a clue why
“liberty” should concern me.
Like I’ve ever really been
free? (Or ever could be.)
Whatever. At least I’ve got
something to do besides
pace my room. I start to
write, in a perfect hand
so I won’t have to erase.
One thing I won’t stand for
is a sloppy paper, and I
refuse to write a first draft,
then have to copy over.
Duplicating Effort
Is a true waste of time,
one I watch others take
unusual pride in—spilling
mistakes, which must be undone
before turning in their papers.
Why not just do it right
the first time? Working around
the knot in my neck, I write:
Our forefathers envisioned
the Bill of Rights as a safety
net—necessary corrections
of the Constitution’s oversights.
But where did they write that one
must be at least eighteen for
those rules to apply? Would they have
found such a provision just,
when many patriots of the day,
who died in the name of freedom,
were themselves only boys?
I’ve made the same argument
before, in a different
school, with another teacher.
Like her, Mr. Hidalgo
is cool with my opinion.
You’ve made some excellent
observations, and conveyed
your thoughts clearly.
I have high expectations of you.
High expectations—great,
I burned myself again.
You’d think by now I would
have learned to underachieve.
Especially in Here
Where underachievement
is an art. Not that success
isn’t possible for these
people, that they’re not smart.
If Justin could just get past
his Jesus fetish, he’d
likely be an algebra
whiz, but such linear
thinking conflicts with his
four-dimensional ideals.
Then there’s Nathan, whose
unconventional theories
about extraterrestrial
visitation defy known
laws of science: E.T.,
the brains behind creation.
Tony, at least, is rooted
in reality, tinted as his
view might be, intertwined
with his iffy sexuality.
He puts his words on paper
well; writes with clarity
and passion; is not afraid
to tell us how he feels:
Freedom is a double-edged
ideal, because true freedom
comes without the protection
of laws that also enslave us
by defining us—female,
male; Christian, Islamic;
good, evil. All at the whim
of a frail minority.
Right on.
Tony
An Odd Thing Happened
When I started school
here, at Aspen Springs.
I found out I’m good
at it. I never was before.
Of course, I never had
much chance to excel
in the juvenile detention
center. Anything I learned
was because I wanted to,
not because someone
expected me to. I’d be
a total ignoramus
if not for Phillip.
Now he expected
great
things from me.
And being an ex-college
professor, he was just
the gentleman to teach me.
He taught me the basics—
algebra, biology, U.S. history.
He taught me the extras—
trig, chemistry, world affairs.
He taught me the necessities—
philosophy, religion, psychology.
I could have learned from
him forever. But we didn’t
have forever, only two
almost-perfect years,
years that might have
been perfectly perfect
except he got so sick. I’m
not sure how I’ve managed
to avoid that whole vicious
viral thing. Then again,
maybe I haven’t. I can
only wait and see.
Anyway, I Don’t Worry
About it, not on a daily
basis. The weird thing
is, I don’t really worry
about much anymore,
not with Phillip gone.
That was my biggest worry
for the last couple of years.
I had no idea what I’d do
when he died. He had put
me in his will, but his son
contested and won, claiming
his house and every possession.
Yes, Phillip was married
once, back when most gay
men remained in the closet,
at least to family and friends,
taking their need to be with
other men to the darker parts
of town—bath houses,
bars, back alleys, and cars.
No wonder AIDS spread
like it did. Everyone was
afraid to talk about it.
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