For the remainder of that afternoon, Arthur and Lance and those with sword-fighting experience, coached the gangsters who sought to learn the use of these weapons, while Reyna and Lavern worked with the archers. As usual, Enrique and Luis tried to outshoot each other for Reyna’s benefit.
But her eyes kept drifting, despite her best efforts at self-control, toward the swordsmen whenever Esteban wielded a weapon. He was awkward and still limped after his battle with Lance, but he was strong and quick, and she loved the way his muscles undulated when he swung at a dummy target. Not that she’d ever tell him that, of course.
Finally, after nightfall, the gang members drifted back to their ’hoods, and she bade them good night. “It’s late, Reyna,” Enrique implored, turning on the charm. “You should stay here tonight. We’ll stay too.”
She just laughed. “Yeah, and have to sleep with both eyes open? Hell no! ’Night, Arthur,” she called as she disappeared down the tunnel with a wave of her bow and a fling of her ponytail.
Disappointed, Enrique and Luis followed. Sometimes they stayed overnight, but usually went back home so their moms wouldn’t worry too much.
Esteban smiled inwardly at the look of disappointment on their faces as he and his homies returned their swords to the armory and prepared to leave. He knew Reyna had been checking him out earlier. He had that jaina wrapped up—just take it slow and cool.
After telling Arthur they would return tomorrow, he paused to exchange a look of deep respect with Lance. They gazed at one another a long moment.
“Carnal,” Esteban said with a nod, and Lance broke into a smile. They were equals now. Esteban tossed him that crooked grin before turning with his entourage to leave.
Suddenly, it was just the usual homeless kids who always stayed the night, and Lance felt an immense sense of relief. Another day, another test passed. His secret was still safe, the looming shadows of his past kept at bay once again by another small step forward. But for how much longer? The house of cards that he really was would fall one of these days, and then what would become of him?
Peace surrounded him at this late hour when everyone had gone down and Arthur had bade him good night. But peace was always tenuous at best. He’d done his job, the gangsters had accepted him, but did that make him worthy? No, he knew. His secret and that feeling of being forever dirty would always be in the way.
Despite the silence, despite the ever-present, almost soothing drip of water, peace skittered around and away from him. As always, Chris snuggled up to him, but Lance squirmed and turned and couldn’t get comfortable. Fleeting images, memories, fears, and doubts kept intruding.
Finally, he extricated himself carefully from the small boy’s embrace, slipped on his baggy tunic and boots, and padded softly out of the sleeping area into The Hub. A few battery-powered lanterns still burned through the night, turning the enormous chamber into a shadow-realm.
As he entered the shadowy Hub, he found he wasn’t alone. Mark rested against a wall gazing absently at Arthur’s silent, empty throne. Lance’s heart rate jumped, and he paused, considered turning back, but Mark noticed him, and Lance couldn’t bring himself to be rude anymore. So he approached and tentatively sat beside the shaggy-haired blond, supporting his back against the concrete wall.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, hoping the nervousness in his voice wasn’t too obvious.
Mark shook his head, untamed bangs flopping against his forehead. Then he eyed Lance with a lopsided grin that enlightened his soft features. “You sure kicked gangbanger ass today, Lance.”
Lance relaxed and smiled. “I don’t really like fighting much, you know, but with guys like that, I guess it’s all they understand.”
Mark nodded, bangs dropping in front of his eyes. “Yep, a good, old-fashioned ass-whooping. Remind me not to get you mad.”
Lance laughed, wrapping his arms around his upraised knees. “No worries. I’m a skater. I only whoop ass when I got to.”
Mark chuckled at that, and they sat a few moments in tenuous silence. The drip of water, an almost living presence within these dank, damp tunnels, was the only sound except their own breathing.
Then Lance looked at the other boy. “You still, like, craving the heroin?” he asked cautiously.
Mark nodded, flipping the blond mop off his forehead. “Sometimes, but not right now. When I do, I come out here and stare at the throne, and I think of Arthur, what he done for me, an’ I shake it loose. No more a that shit fer me.”
Lance nodded. Arthur had that effect on him too.
The two boys sat a moment in silence.
Mark turned his haunted blue eyes on Lance. “What was it like, Lance?”
“What was what like?”
“Spending time with Arthur, you know, just the two of you?” Lance looked puzzled a moment, and Mark smiled. “I mean, you had him all to yourself, right, ’fore the rest of us kids came along?”
Now Lance understood, and it freaked him out because that’s one of the things that’d been troubling him this night, another reason why he couldn’t sleep. Besides his haunted past, he’d also been reflecting back to those early days not so long ago when it was just him and Arthur and no one else, back before he always had to prove himself to this kid or that one.
How much he enjoyed the ease of those initial days, the closeness he’d felt with Arthur. He knew now how much he’d needed that closeness and wished more than anything it could be that way again. After all, Arthur knew his secret and had accepted him anyway. Not just accepted him, embraced him. Trusted him. Maybe even…. No, don’t go that far.
“It was awesome,” he mused, smiling in spite of himself. “I like, showed him all around the city, taught him about cell phones and TV and trains and busses. Even got him on a swing at the park.”
Mark’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he laughed. “Man, that sounds great. You’re so lucky.”
Lance nodded. He was lucky, wasn’t he? Where would he be right now if he’d never met Arthur? On the streets? Looking for a safe place to sleep? Still hiding from himself? “He’s like nobody I ever knew before, you know?”
Mark nodded in agreement. “I know. All men ever want outta me is….” He stopped, let the thought trail off with a heavy, painful sigh. “Sometimes, Lance, I’d try to pretend they loved me, you know, just cuz I was so lonely.”
The sadness pooling in those oceans of blue stabbed Lance straight through the heart.
“I’m sorry, man” was all he could think to say, imagining how terrible it must’ve been out there, feeling again his own humiliation and self-loathing. “I know about the lonely part, for sure.”
He looked long and hard at Mark, whose gaze had locked once more on the throne, his mind somewhere far away, and made a decision. He’d thought about it for too long already. He wanted to know. No, he needed to know.
“Mark, can I ask you something?”
Mark pulled his gaze from the throne and fixed his eyes on Lance. “Sure, anything.”
Lance hesitated, his heart rate increasing, his anxiety rising like volcanic lava. His fingers clutched at his tunic, and he sighed. “When, um, when did you, you know, like, realize you were gay?”
He looked so stricken at the asking that Mark almost laughed, but he didn’t. “I think I always knew, you know?” He shrugged. “I knew I was different. Not playing with dolls and girly shit like that, but, I don’t know, when my dad kept wanting me to play sports with the boys, I didn’t want to.” He laughed. “I realized all I wanted to do was watch the boys play sports. I guess that’s when I kinda figured it out. For a while I kept telling myself I was bi, you know, so I wouldn’t have to admit it? But girls just didn’t do it for me.”
Lance nodded, uncertain how to respond since he’d broached the subject, especially given his own mixed-up thoughts and feelings and self-hate. “I still can’t believe your parents just kicked you out like that, especially yer mom.”
Mark laughed again, bitterly this time. �
��She was worse than my dad. He was kinda for, you know, hiding me in a closet from the neighbors. But she’s the one that told me if I didn’t decide right then and there to not be a faggot, I could get out and never come back. So, I never been back.”
“That sucks,” Lance said, hurting for the boy, and feeling his own abandonment wash over him.
Mark turned his eyes back on Lance, and Lance noticed for the first time how long and almost delicate the boy’s lashes were.
“Can I ask you something?” Mark asked, almost shyly. “Something personal?”
Lance shrugged, oddly fascinated by those butterfly shaped lashes.
“Are you gay?” Mark asked softly.
Lance instantly averted his eyes, dropping his gaze to the floor, knowing his face had turned bright red with shame and grateful for his flowing hair covering it. He was going to deny it. He had to deny it! The denial was right there, right on the tip of his tongue! But what actually slipped out was a strangled, “I don’t know.”
He waited for Mark to laugh, but there was no laughter. Timidly, panic twisting his stomach into knots, he raised his eyes and peeked fearfully at the other boy’s face. What he saw there stopped his breath in his throat—it wasn’t the mockery or condemnation he’d expected. It was understanding.
Mark placed a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder and looked him compassionately in the eye. “It’s okay, Lance. It’s pretty common.”
Lance didn’t freak when Mark touched him, and the boy’s words almost made him do a double take. “It is?” He thought he was the only confused one.
Mark nodded, pulling his hand back. “I hear that a lot on the street, especially from guys that been raped by older men.”
Lance sucked in a shocked breath. “How’d you…?”
“It’s in your eyes, man,” Mark explained sadly, his voice sounding gentle and far away and laced with hurt. “It never goes away, not even when you get paid for it.” His blue eyes swam with tears, and he swiped at them with the sleeve of his tunic.
Lance watched him cry softly, wanting to reach out and comfort him, but he was too afraid, too afraid of himself.
“Am I a slut boy, Mark?” he blurted suddenly, so quietly the other boy wasn’t even sure he heard rightly.
“What?” Mark asked in surprise, his eyes wide and blurred.
Lance glanced up cautiously. “That’s what Jack called himself, for, you know, doing what you guys were doing out there. But am I any better? I let Richard… do those things to me for three years! I didn’t run. I didn’t tell anyone.” His eyes welled up as he gazed despairing into Mark’s softly gentle face. “Can a six-year-old be a slut boy, Mark? Is that what I was?”
Mark shook his head, lightly grasped Lance’s hand, and squeezed sympathetically. The touch sent shivers through him, but he didn’t pull away.
“No, Lance, a six-year-old is a victim,” Mark said softly. “It wasn’t your fault, man. Don’t go there, please. You’ll hate yourself, and you’re way too cool to hate yourself.”
He smiled warmly, and Lance felt an unfamiliar surge of joy and acceptance, his eyes welling with tears. “Thanks, Mark,” he murmured shyly. “Thanks a lot, for saying that.”
Then they fell silent again, each considering his own messed-up life, all the pain and suffering they’d been through, all the self-loathing both had endured.
“Mark?” Lance finally broke the painful silence. “How will I, you know, figure it out, about what I am, I mean?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Mark just smiled sadly. “Give it time. You know that ole Beatles song ‘Let It Be’?”
Lance wiped his damp eyes and nodded.
“Just let it be, Lance,” Mark repeated, “and it’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to.”
Lance nodded again. “Thanks!” he gushed, afraid he might start bawling any minute, feeling more grateful than he ever thought he could be. He’d been carrying those fears around for so long….
But then panic shot through him like a bullet. “Uh, Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“You won’t, you know, tell anyone about me, will you?” Lance fisted his tunic tightly, knowing he must look as desperate as he felt. “I mean, I’m First Knight and all and….”
But Mark smiled tenderly and held up a clenched fist. “Our secret.” They did the fist bump.
Lance felt a warmth engulf him that he’d only previously experienced around Arthur. This boy, whom he’d dissed and hated, accepted him just as he was, just as messed up and confused as he was! Unbelievable….
They sat again a moment before Lance said, “Can I ask you another question?”
“Anything.”
“Are you and Jack, well, you know….” Lance felt himself turn red.
“Boyfriends?” Mark finished for him, a twinkle of amusement in those amazing eyes.
Wholly embarrassed, Lance nodded.
“Naw,” Mark went on with a shake of his head. “He’s my best bud, though. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. Saved my ass a grip a times. Man, Lance, we been through it, him and me.” His blue eyes gleamed devilishly, and he grinned. “Why you asking? Interested?”
Now Lance turned so red he thought he might faint, but Mark just laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Just kidding. He is hot, though, you gotta admit.”
Lance blushed again but didn’t care anymore. Mark was his friend now, and friends didn’t care about stuff like that. “I’m not gonna go there,” he said softly and they laughed, a simple, comfortable, easy laughter that settled into a comfortable silence.
“You’re pretty cute, yourself,” Mark practically whispered, casting a shy look Lance’s way.
The younger boy chuckled and flipped his hair dramatically. “It’s the hair!” he proclaimed in self-mockery. “That’s what everyone says.”
And both boys cracked up. They were buds, now, like Mark was with Jack. Lance had never had a real friend, had never let himself be that vulnerable, but now he welcomed it. Now he recognized just how much he needed it.
But then his face darkened like storm clouds, his eyes dropping like the setting sun. He still had something to say—his conscience wouldn’t let him off the hook. “Thanks, Mark, for, you know, everything. I feel so shitty hating on you guys, especially since I’m so messed up.” His gaze fell hard to the cold stone floor.
Mark threw one arm around Lance’s shoulders and grinned. “Hey, man, it’s all good. I mean, we’re brothers now, aren’t we?”
Lance snapped up his head and gaped a moment at the other boy’s words. Of course they were! Wasn’t that what Arthur’s crusade was all about? How come he didn’t see it first?
“Yeah,” he agreed, “yeah, we are.” He threw his arm around Mark’s shoulders. “Brother.” They locked eyes a moment, smiled bashfully, and then turned to gaze absently at the throne.
And so they sat, arms around one another’s shoulders, each lost in his own thoughts, sharing the closeness of their newfound brotherhood, and just letting everything be, until they drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Neither of them woke when Jack padded out to the throne room wearing only his leather drawstring pants, but no shirt or shoes. He started looking around, and then stopped short when he saw the two boys together, asleep against the wall, arms draping each other’s shoulders, and he nearly lost his breath with despair.
“Oh, Mark,” he whispered, his stomach plummeting as he gazed sadly at the only boy he’d ever really loved, and with a heavy heart returned to his bedroll, where sleep would elude him for most of that long, painful night.
JENNY stood at her classroom door as was her custom, welcoming her students to class. She had not seen Lance since Eucalyptus Park last week, nor had she seen this so-called King Arthur on the news anymore. But neither of them was far from her thoughts no matter what she was doing.
As her students trickled into the room—tardy bells didn’t mean much to MTS students—she noticed other missi
ng faces besides Lance. Uneven attendance had always been an issue at this school, but in the past few days, weeks maybe, kids seemed to have disappeared. Could this Arthur have anything to do with it, she wondered?
One of her better students, another skater named Khalil, stepped past her with a “’Morning, Ms. McMullen,” and headed to the corner to deposit his board. On a hunch, she followed.
“Say, Khalil,” she began. The handsome Jordanian boy turned around, his mass of bushy hair tied back as usual, his attire pure skater. “Have you seen Lance around at any of the usual skating places?”
“Pretty Boy?” Khalil replied.
Jenny smiled. “Yes.”
Khalil considered a moment. “No. Nobody’s seen ’im. He’s like the best around here too, so we kinda been wondering.” He shrugged.
“Thanks, Khalil, go ahead and put your board up.”
The boy nodded and went to the corner near her printer and stashed his skateboard. Jenny turned to welcome her other students, who loudly and boisterously pushed and shoved and insulted their way to their seats. She sighed and considered Arthur’s question once again. Did she love them? She used to, she knew, shaking her head at their uncivil behavior, but now she wasn’t sure anymore.
When she’d begun teaching, almost never would a student say “fuck you” to a teacher. Now they did it with impunity. Where they learned such behavior, she couldn’t imagine. Home? Television? It didn’t really matter. Whatever the reason, good manners, as they used to be called, or civil behavior, were a thing of the past, and everyone was the worse for it.
And yet, she was required to teach these kids Shakespeare and Fitzgerald—two authors she loved—rather than proper social behaviors that would benefit her students on a job and throughout their lives. Much as she loved classical literature, these kids didn’t need it and, it seemed to her, had more important lessons they did need to learn. Sighing again, she set about taking roll and calming the class so she could begin her required lesson plan for the day.
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