The Bad Seed

by Lee Hayes

  He simply did not know what to do.

  No sooner than he had taken a seat at his desk and had taken a sip of his Chai tea did he hear a knock at his door. He looked up and saw Brandon standing in the doorway, smiling nervously like a little orphan abandoned by the world.

  “Mr. Jones,” he called out in a voice that was much meeker than his usual tone.

  “What do you want, Brandon?”

  “May I speak with you, just for a second?” He stepped timidly into the room and closed the door behind him, not giving Cross a chance to respond. He took a few steps closer, but stopped midway to Cross as if he didn’t want to cross the invisible line in the sand. Cross stood up and faced him. Brandon took a few seconds to gather his thoughts. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “I just wanted to really apologize for what happened. I don’t know what got into me. I feel so bad about it. I couldn’t sleep all weekend; I was scared that you would hate me. Please, don’t hate me, Mr. Jones. I am so sorry. And, please, don’t tell my parents,” he begged. “They don’t really know about me, if you know what I mean.”

  Cross took a deep breath and chewed on Brandon’s words. He looked into the eyes of this child. Brandon, usually a bastion of self-assuredness, shifted his eyes away from Cross’s gaze.

  Cross sighed. “I don’t hate you, Brandon. I hate what you did, but I don’t hate you.”

  “Oh, thank God. I just knew you’d never want to see me again,” he exclaimed with sudden relief.

  “Brandon, I want you to understand something. What you’re feeling can be confusing, but you have to understand that, in this world, we have lines that you can’t cross. You have to understand that there is nothing between us besides a student-teacher relationship. What you did by showing up at my house uninvited and unannounced, and kissing me, will never happen again. Do you understand me?” Cross’s voice was stern and absolute. He looked directly at Brandon when he spoke.

  “I understand, Mr. Jones. I am so sorry.”

  “I spent most of the weekend trying to decide how to handle this situation.”

  “What are you going to do? You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?” Brandon’s voice sounded panicky.

  “Well,” Cross said with a deep breath, “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “What do you mean, you haven’t decided? You can’t tell anyone, Mr. Jones. You just can’t!”

  “You really need to talk to someone; someone who can help you process everything that you’re feeling.”

  “You said I could always talk to you.”

  “Yeah, I did say that, but in light of what has happened, it would be more appropriate if you talked to a counselor.”

  “I wanna talk to you. You’re the only one that I can trust.”

  “Funny thing about trust, Brandon; it’s a two-way street. I’m not sure if I can trust you.” Brandon held his head low and shifted his weight nervously from side-to-side. “And, I’m not a therapist. You are dealing with some serious things and you deserve someone that can provide you with the guidance and support you need before you do something that can’t be fixed with an apology.”

  “You act like I’m crazy or something.”

  “I didn’t say you were crazy. I said you were dealing with some serious issues. At your age, there is so much that you have to learn, and sometimes things can happen that you aren’t fully capable of dealing with. High school is tough enough as it is, let alone dealing with family tragedy and your sexual orientation.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I don’t think you can. You’re struggling, Brandon. Your grades are slipping and you’re making provocative actions toward me; that doesn’t sound like you’re handling it. I should talk to your parents. Let them help you.”

  “You can’t do that, Cross,” Brandon said with force. “If my father found out about me, he’d beat the shit out of me and throw me out of the house. My uncle came out six years ago and my dad hasn’t spoken to him since.” Brandon moved in a bit closer. “My father can never know. Never!”

  “Brandon, I want you to take a deep breath and calm down, okay. Now, listen to me. I get it. You can’t talk to your parents, but if that’s not an option, then you have to talk to someone about what you’re feeling.”

  Brandon remained quiet for a second. Cross paid careful attention to his body language, which had suddenly taken on a more defiant stance. Then, Brandon exploded into a rambling and almost incomprehensible diatribe about his parents, his life, and the school.

  As Cross listened to his growing protests, something amazing happened.

  Brandon transformed right before his very eyes.

  No longer did Cross see a scared child hiding from monsters; gone was the innocent teen that lashed out dangerously at the world. Finally, Cross’s instincts kicked into high gear. Something didn’t feel right and he watched Brandon’s face with careful detail as the young student continued to speak. Cross felt a measured warning in his spirit; it wasn’t strong enough for him to shut Brandon down, but it carried enough force for Cross to doubt everything that Brandon said and everything that he was. Brandon continued his ranting while Cross pretended to listen. Instead of listening to the words, he listened through them. In Brandon’s gruff voice, he heard a lack of sincerity that rang out with crystal clarity. Even though the change in Brandon’s tone was minute, an uneasy feeling settled deep down in his bones.

  He no longer saw fear in Brandon’s face.

  What he saw was something insidious—deception.

  What kind of game is this boy playing? Cross asked himself. Maybe Lorenzo’s warnings were right all along.

  The very next afternoon, Brandon walked into the locker room and was instantly assaulted with the tangy smell of teenage sweat, funky socks, and testosterone. It was time for track practice and he wasn’t in the mood for the immature antics of his classmates. He had other things on his mind. Cross still occupied a prominent space in his thoughts and Brandon found it difficult to let go, even after his attempts at seduction ended in a fiasco. He realized the error of his ways: he had come on too strong. He should have known that a man like Cross wouldn’t fall for his high school tricks. A man like Cross needed to be slowly caressed and eased into submission. Brandon knew that he’d need to be cleverer with his game if he were to ever claim his prize.

  As he slid quietly into the room, he hoped to remain unnoticed by the rowdy bunch. The space was abuzz with laughter and energy, boldness, and bravado. Heavy voices called out vulgar names and rolled-up socks were tossed across the room as if they were baseballs. He looked over at his friend, Marvin, who was demonstrating his oral skills by wiggling his long tongue between his index and middle fingers in a crude simulation of oral sex as he boasted of his conquests to a captivated audience of pubescent males. I got something you can do with that tongue, Brandon thought to himself as he eased on by over to his locker, not stopping for a front row seat of the spectacle. The lack of maturity of his peers was one of the reasons he was so infatuated with Cross; high school boys wouldn’t be able to handle the fire that he brought.

  Brandon opened his locker and took a seat on the cold bench while half-listening as Marvin continued to work the crowd up into a frenzy. Marvin was a marvelous storyteller, but Brandon was not in the mood for his fables. He had more important things on his mind, like how he was going to win over his prince.

  Then, Marvin dropped to the floor, wearing only his tight, white underwear, and began moving his body as if he were having sex. Brandon subtly eyed the boy’s tight set of buttocks as they contracted underneath the thin cotton material. Marvin continued to roll his body like a snake as the boys cheered him on.

  “Oh, Sheila, this is for you, baby,” he called out in jest as he thrust even harder. “Oh, oh, oh, Sheila.”

  “Damn, Brandon, you don’t care that Marvin be running up in yo’ ex like that?” one of boys called out.

  “Shit nah. I don’t give a damn about that girl. For all I care, y’all can all
run a train up her, but just remember, I hit that first,” Brandon said with a sense of pride. He smiled and leaned over to untie his shoe when a gruff voice called out from the corner.

  “Marvin, get yo’ ass up on that damned floor and quit acting like an idiot. You couldn’t get laid in a damn whorehouse!” Coach Thomas called out in a voice that boomed like drums. Marvin hopped off the floor as if he was on fire and the crowd quickly fanned out in various directions. “I want your asses out on the field in five minutes. Not six minutes, not seven minutes, but five, and if you are one second late, then your lazy asses will regret it. Got it?” The boys started scurrying around the room in an effort to gather their belongings and to meet the deadline. “Brandon, they need you in the principal’s office.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “For what?”

  “Do I look like the damned secretary? Just get your ass up there.”

  The coach turned around and walked toward the door. “Four minutes and thirty seconds!”

  Brandon closed his locker, picked up his backpack, slung it across his shoulder, and headed for the door. As he made his way out of the gym and into the hallway, he wondered what could be so urgent that Principal Harris needed to see him right that minute. Maybe he had gotten another scholarship. Principal Harris took great pride in Brandon, often calling him his model student because he excelled in sports and academics and whenever Brandon received an accolade, Principal Harris delighted in being the bearer of good news.

  As Brandon rounded the hallway and entered the administrative offices, he casually approached the information desk, told the school secretary working behind the counter that he had been summoned, and she pointed him down the hall to the office, as if Brandon needed directions. He bounced around the corner, speaking to every staff member and teacher that he encountered, and smiled as they all spoke to him by name. He had gone out of his way to get to know—almost befriend—teachers, assistant principals, and other staffers. It paid to have as many allies as possible.

  As he approached Principal Harris’s office, he glanced through the window and saw a woman from the back that was speaking to the principal. A woman in a big black hat and a beige dress.

  He knew that hat.

  He knew that dress.

  He froze in place.

  “What the fuck is my mother doing here?” he asked the space around him, half-expecting a cogent answer. Brandon had taken one step backward when the principal looked up, saw him in the window, and waved him into the office. His hand gesture was animated, too excited. He can’t be that excited to see me.

  “Fuck,” Brandon whispered to himself. He took a breath and propelled himself forward. Having his mother in the principal’s office was never a harbinger of good news, so he tried to prepare himself for whatever was going on.

  Sometimes, he wished someone would drop a house on her.

  He nervously placed his hand on the doorknob, then slowly turned and pushed the door open. The door emitted an odd creaking sound that grew louder the further it was extended.

  “Come on in, Brandon, and have a seat,” Principal Harris said without delay as he moved from behind the colossal desk and met Brandon near the door. He placed his hand on Brandon’s arm and guided him deeper into the interior of the room as if he were afraid that Brandon would turn and make a run for it. Principal Harris then moved over to the window and pulled down the metal blinds, which fell to the windowsill with a bang, startling Brandon.

  “Mother. What’s going on?” She was poised almost to perfection.

  “Just have a seat, Brandon,” she said as she stood and gave her son a lukewarm hug. Brandon rapidly tried to process the scene and failed to notice another figure looming over in a corner to his right. Out of his periphery, he saw the figure move and he turned his head quickly.

  “Hey, Brandon,” Cross said flatly.

  “Cross…Mr. Jones…what are you doing here? Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Just have a seat and we’ll talk.”

  “No, I wanna know what’s going on.”

  “Brandon, don’t cause a scene. Just sit down.” His mother looked directly at him as she smiled. Her haughty voice sounded strained and Brandon obeyed her commands.

  Oh, fuck. This isn’t good. He recognized that tone and it always meant trouble.

  Brandon lowered himself into the middle seat directly in front of the principal’s desk. Cross moved over and took a seat to Brandon’s left while his mother, with her legs neatly crossed and her well-manicured hands laid delicately on her lap, sat on the right. Principal Harris moved back behind his desk and slowly lowered himself. He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the leather chair and took time to make eye contact with the three people who sat before him.

  “Is someone going to tell me what this is about? I have track practice right now and coach says I have a good chance—”

  “Calm down, Brandon. I’ve been called away from an important appointment and I’d like to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Bottom of what?” He turned his head to face Cross. “Why are you here?” he hissed.

  “We’re getting to that, Brandon,” Principal Harris interjected.

  “Well, can we get to it? I don’t have all day to be here,” he said with much attitude.

  “I hardly know where to begin,” Principal Harris said. He locked his fingers together and placed his extremely large hands on his very organized desk. He sighed and looked at Brandon through the thin spectacles that sat atop his even thinner nose. His cheeks reddened slightly, bringing a bit of color to his usually pale face; he blushed even before the story was told.

  Brandon’s mother spoke. “How about you start at the beginning?” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Brandon. “Shall we begin?”

  “Yes, let’s begin.” Principal Harris cleared his throat. “Brandon, it has been brought to our attention that you may need some… counseling.”

  “Counseling? For what?”

  “To deal with the feelings you might be having.”

  “Feelings I’m having? What are you talking about?” He sneered at Cross. “I feel just fine.”

  “Brandon, Mr. Jones is really concerned about you. He said you two have had some conversations that alarmed him. He thinks that you may be experiencing some things that you are not able to fully understand at your young age. Do you understand what I am saying?” Brandon cut a quick look toward Cross that conveyed his message without words. “Brandon, what you’re feeling is okay.”

  “With all that you’re going through, it’s important to find healthy ways to deal with it,” Cross said. “I don’t want you to get overwhelmed trying to figure it out.”

  His mother let out a snide chuckle. “Oh, I get it now. You’re talking about the fact that my son is gay, right?” Her words were blunt.

  “Well, uhh, yes.” The principal looked around the room uncomfortably.

  She looked at Brandon. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know what this is about,” Brandon protested.

  “So, you’re aware of your son’s—”

  “There’s not much about my son that I don’t know, Mr. Harris. Is this it? Is this why you called me, to tell me that my son is a homosexual?”

  “Does his father know?” Cross asked. “Brandon told me—”

  “Yes, his father knows. We are his parents, after all.”

  Cross looked at Brandon, but Brandon looked away, not daring to meet his gaze.

  “Wow. That’s not the story I was told,” Cross said, while shaking his head.

  Brandon felt like running, screaming from the room, but he could not will his feet to move; they felt like heavy stones, even heavier than the truth he had worked hard to conceal. Slowly, Brandon’s web of lies was unraveling and he was powerless to do anything about it.

  “Mr. Jones, please don’t do this. I thought we had an understanding?”

  “An unde
rstanding about what?” Cross asked quickly.

  “An understanding about us,” Brandon said. His voice shook a bit, causing his words to slur.

  “Brandon, you keep speaking of us as if there was something more between us. This is exactly why we’re here.”

  “Cross—”

  “Brandon, let him speak. I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  Brandon turned his head away and looked off into the distance. He could feel his anger growing inside. Hot flashes lit up his skin, causing his palms to become moist and little beads of sweat to gather on the tip of his nose.

  Cross cleared his throat and looked him directly in the eye.

  “I think Brandon has some serious emotional issues and has been acting out in unhealthy ways.”

  “What do you mean?” his mother asked.

  “Mr. Jones, please don’t do this. Please—”

  “Someone better tell us,” Principal Harris interjected.

  “I’m only trying to help you,” Cross continued.

  “Has my son done something or do you think simply being gay warrants special counseling?”

  Brandon sat back in his chair and stared directly ahead above Mr. Harris’s balding scalp. He peered out of the window as Cross began to lay out details of their conversations and interactions. Every detail of their conversations was laid out like evidence before a jury. Brandon knew that with his history, his mother would believe every word from Cross’s suddenly sanctified mouth. He sounded so pious in his recriminations of Brandon’s behavior that the question of guilt was no longer a question.

  While Cross spoke, a quiet fury slowly boiled underneath Brandon’s skin. He continued to look forward and did not speak. He barely breathed. A part of him was afraid of what he’d do if he were forced to participate in this charade. Brandon knew that Cross wanted him. The eyes don’t lie; that kiss didn’t lie, but his holier than thou attitude stood in the way and all of this mess was his attempt to cover his ass, in case they were discovered. Brandon had the game all figured out. He closed his eyes and pretended that he was somewhere far away. He imagined dazzling strangers on the streets of Paris or bewitching Londoners on the Tube. He pretended to entertain patrons in a quaint café on a cobbled street of Amsterdam; yet, as much as he tried to tune out the conversation that was taking place in his presence, he couldn’t. He felt the sting of every accusation and the lash of every detail.