“Okay, now you’re just showing off.”
“No, I’m not. I swear.”
“I’m teasing you, nephew. But really,” he said, shaking his head, “how amazing. I don’t think Beverly can do all that. I mean, not as fast as you’re doing it.”
“No. She said she can’t. She really has to focus. And she said that in a little while I won’t be able to do it either. Fine with me.
“I mean, you should feel it. Or hear it. I don’t even know what to call it. But this grass back here,” Charlie said, indicating the lawn stretching out in front of them. “It’s sort of singing or something.”
Randall raised one eyebrow. “Singing?”
“Well, not really singing. Humming. Making kind of a green noise. I know that sounds weird, but …”
He paused, trying to find the words. “It’s alive. And I can feel it. You know how you can feel the warmth on someone’s skin if they are standing close to you, and you know it’s because blood is beating through their veins? I can kind of feel the, the uh, the blood beating through those blades of grass, or the life, or whatever,” he paused, frustrated with how hard it was to explain it.
He reached down and touched the lawn. A warm sensation filled his hand, spreading up his arms and across his face. It almost felt like he was going to become the grass. He looked at his arm half expecting the skin to have turned a soft green color. He was relieved to see that it looked normal.
“So you can feel this whole yard and each blade of grass? Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“Boy, I tell you,” Randall said, shaking his head. Then he added, “I assume asking you to mow the lawn is out of the question?”
Other Books by Jeff Jacobson
The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home
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Acknowledgments
EVERY ACKNOWLEDGMENTS SECTION worth its salt should begin with two things: a quote and an apology. Because without these two things, all the reader is left with is a long list of thank-yous to people like Aunt Reba.
I’ll start this off with the apology: I’m sorry that this section is so long. By nature, I’m as effusive as a cocker spaniel. Add to that the fact that this is my first book, and what you’re left with is page after page of acknowledgments. I’ve done my best to arrange things in categories for an easier read and to leave out too many insider jokes. I’ll try to rein it in for the rest of the books in the series. But still. Sorry.
And now for the quote. I’m paraphrasing a bit, since I can’t remember who said it, but it goes something like this:
“The only true pain in life comes from love unexpressed.”
Here’s to expressing some love:
To my teachers: Mrs. Eliason, my second-grade teacher, who enchanted me with her love of Halloween. • Mrs. Smith, who told me in the fifth grade that I had a gift for storytelling. • Mrs. Zozel-Johnson, who without telling me, printed my poem in the program for First Friday Mass at Holy Family Elementary School when I was in the sixth grade, leaving me terrified and secretly thrilled. • Mr. Mangione, Mrs. Westinghouse, Ms. Moffat, my high school Spanish teachers, who introduced me to the fine, fine language of Español. • My sophomore English teacher Sister Judith, who taught me Greek and Latin root words and who led me to the creepy writings of Shirley Jackson. • My junior English teacher Sister Francis, who guided me with gusto through Beowulf, Chaucer, Jane Austen, and Harper Lee. • Lo Sun Perry Laoshi, the best teacher I’ve ever had for anything, ever, who opened the door to the exciting world of Mandarin my second year in college. • Wu Li Mei Laoshi, at Taiwan Normal University, who taught me to enjoy the poetry of classical Chinese rather than run to the hills.
To my writing teachers: Ms. Parsons, my seventh-grade English teacher, who showed me how to diagram sentences and who made memorizing poems great fun (especially that fantastic poem about cats, “Catalogue,” by Rosalie Moore). • My high school freshman English teacher Mr. Danforth, the strictest of grammarians, who drilled into me the correct use of the comma (any mistakes are mine, Mr. Danforth!). • Mr. McBride, my senior English teacher, who introduced me to Judith Guest’s extraordinary novel Ordinary People, as well as everything John Steinbeck, and whose compliments about my poetry and free-form writing carried great weight. • Beth Kalikoff, a university writing professor, whose advice to write badly, with enthusiasm and quantity, then poke through the garbage for the diamonds, has paid off in dividends. • Don Matthews and the gang at the Creative Edge in Monterey, who provided the forum where I read my first erotic poetry out loud. • Jen Cross and Carol Queen, who showed me that writing erotica is not only fun, and healing, but also a great way to hone my skills as a writer. • Mary Reynolds Thompson, the intrepid guide of my Kimchees writing group, who somehow manages the perfect balance between information, support, challenge, and compassion. Mary is the patron saint of writers!
To my writing buddies: Francisco Mora, who listened with curiosity and encouragement to early drafts of The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight even though the writing was so rough at times that I wanted to bite chalk. • My beloved Kimchees: Cat Williford, a truly modern goddess and courageous brazen storyteller, who roped me into joining the group in the first place; Lauren Powers, my fellow Standing Person, incredibly comedic and astute in all that she writes, who published a book before I did, damn it; Kim Fowler, the newest Kimchee member, whose prose is so pretty you could just pull up a kitchen stool and listen to it all day, weeping. The Kimchees’ consistency, love, and cheerleading have kept me going when I’ve wanted to quit. May writers everywhere have such support.
To my champions: Donna Krone, who helped me remember that the LGBTQQ young adult fiction market isn’t, actually, fully saturated and that one more book for queer kids so they don’t have to switch pronouns when they read is, in fact, a good thing. • Pam Noda, who asked me regularly about the book’s progress with sweetness and interest and who shared her own joys of having worked as an editor and bringing a book to market. • Dennis Martin, who listened when I said, at least a hundred times, that I wasn’t going to be able to finish the book, that I wasn’t really a novelist after all, that I might as well just give up. And who said in reply, at least a hundred times, “Yes you can, yes you can, yes you can.” • Sabrina Roblin, who checked in with me on my writing developments, all the while sharing her musical milestones. What a boss!
To my spiritual teachers: Fred Jealous, who showed me that in order to be a strong man I had to be vulnerable. • Janet Thomas, who taught me to love women’s innate strength as well as to look for the gold in any conflict (and who knows how to rock a witch costume!). • Karen Kimsey-House, Henry Kimsey-House, and Laura Whitworth, for being friends, colleagues, and top-notch human beings and for helping me to have a passion-filled career. I will be forever grateful. • John Vercelli, who reminded me not to ostracize the majority when taking a stand for the minority. • The Standing People, who pushed me to see that I was funnier than I thought and who gave me lots of opportunities to get over myself. • Jeanine Mancusi, an ardent supporter, friend, and my first coach, who helped me come out of the closet so long ago, who laughed and cried with me over my life’s adventures, and who listened to countless early versions of Charlie. • Leza Danly, who encouraged me to breathe life into Charlie, making him as real to me as a nephew, or a neighbor’s child, and who championed the entire arc of Charlie’s development. • Leza and Jeanine together, two powerful witches in their own right, who guided me to take great interest in, and love, all parts of myself.
To influential authors/books/poems/stories: Keana Davenport’s beautiful epic novel Song of the Exile. • Patrick Ness’s Chaos Walking series and his brilliant insights into the adolescent mindset. �
�� Marisha Pessl’s Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Do you know that was her first book? How intimidating. • Amanda Hocking, who is the folk hero of indie publishing. • Donna Tartt’s disturbing, fantastic The Secret History. • Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games trilogy. I deeply appreciate her work on the impact of violence on children. • Elizabeth Gilbert, for showing the humor in pain and the role of pain in life, as well as for her brilliantly clear stance on that controversial topic: marriage. I am a true Lizbian. • J. K. Rowling, who single-handedly helped magical adults the world over (including me) come out of the closet. • Stephenie Meyer, who swept me up in the romance of Bella’s world (this is a minor miracle since I’ve never liked reading romance novels). • Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, and the way she tackled controversial subjects through the eyes of Scout Finch. • Truman Capote’s painful, exceptional short story The Thanksgiving Visitor. • Barbara Kingsolver’s novel Poisonwood Bible, and the odd, brilliant relationship between the twins Leah and Adah. • Elizabeth Strout, for the complex relationships she weaves, especially in her books Olive Kitteridge and Amy and Isabelle: A Novel. • Mary Doria Russell, for her economy of language, her research, and her fine, fine storytelling (her book The Sparrow brought me to my knees) and for insisting that I tell the truth as one of her early readers. I feel smarter just by knowing her. • Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea series, and for the artful way she matured her protagonist over the seasons of his life. • Pablo Neruda’s poem Morning (Love Sonnet XXVII), or Desnuda in Spanish, because it’s lush and beautiful and it inspired Tom’s interaction with Grace at the Vancouver International Airport. • Ruth Chew, whose urban witch stories enchanted me as a young boy. • Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, and Gloria Steinem, my first official feminist writers. I know they are three different people who write differently and live in different places, but in my mind they all live in a writing enclave together somewhere, which includes both mountain paths and pavement.
To real estate folks: Su Harambe, Sonia and Kendall Baker, and Steve Hughes, for helping me buy my own witchy house in West Seattle.
To my trainers: Rene Bibaud, who not only taught me incredible rope-jumping tricks but is also a wonderful inspiring friend. • Helen Yuan, whose enthusiasm keeps me sweating and punching in the boxing ring in Shanghai. • Priscilla Bell, hands down the toughest trainer on the block. Her workouts push me past my own self-imposed limitations every single time. I am grateful for how this perseverance has carried over into my writing life.
To my fellow readers: Gretchen Batton and Bob Price, early readers of all things Mary. Our teamwork, differing viewpoints, and mutual respect have taught me a great deal about how real readers respond to new material and how to enjoy editorial nitty-gritty.
To food: (A strange topic to acknowledge, I admit. But after the fourth or fifth early reader pointed out how much food was in the book, I stood back and said, “Huh. I hadn’t realized.” Hence, its own section.) Ina Garten, for inspiring the gourmet s’mores at Malcolm’s cabin in chapter 55. One day I hope to share a meal or two with her or just be her sous chef while she whips up killer food in that amazing kitchen of hers. • Terry Sweeney, for his delicious gingery mocktails, and for trying to convince me that I’m a closet foodie. I’m not sure it’s true, but the prospect is exciting. • David Darst, for his inspirational lamb burgers. Count yourself lucky if he grills for you someday. • Eric Gower at Breakaway Matcha, for his out-of-this-world matcha green tea, my beloved witchy potion for early morning (or afternoon) writing.
To locations: The Edison in downtown Los Angeles, which inspired the bar scene in chapter 66. • Savary Island, and Jeannie Goodlet who told me all about it. I hope to visit with her and Heather there some day soon. • The Pacific Northwest, especially during the autumn season, which provided much fodder for a young boy’s imagination.
To coming out: Shane Ridenour and Jenny Starr. I can’t remember which of them I told first, but I know I said something like “I might not be straight” or “There’s this guy” or “I could be g-g-g-gay. Promise not to tell. I think I’m gonna barf!” Your support, the way you listened, and simply the fact that you didn’t laugh at me or ridicule me have made all the difference to this gay man.
To my early readers: Francisco Mora, Jeanine Mancusi, Kim Fowler, Lauren Powers, Cat Williford, Mary Reynolds Thompson, Margot Page, Rachel Dodd, Tracy LePage, Carla Hamby, Michelle Goedde, Emma Wheat, Donna Krone, Ken Mossman, Leza Danly, Judy Jacobson, Jennifer McMaster, James Von Hendy, Laura Neff, Chong Kee Tan, and Zib Marshall (if I’ve forgotten anyone, please tell me!). Their questions, comments, and corrections were pivotal in making the book what it is today.
To my editors, book doctors, and business coaches: Anne Connell, for sharing her friendship with me and for introducing me to Liz. One day I might even be lucky enough to pass my work under her Scrutatrix microscope. • Julia McNeal, for her keen editor’s eye, no matter how structural or specific, and for believing that what I had was a good story, that with a little tweaking (okay, a lot), could be a great story. • David Shakiban, a talented, fun, and funky website and book cover designer and a delight to work with. • Jason McClain, who just knows so darned much about virtual platforms and building readership and is an all-around swell guy. • Joanna Penn and CJ Lyons, for their ProWriter series without which this book would still be sitting in a Dropbox file. • Dennis Martin, who took the first version of this book that I uploaded on Kindle, replete with typos and horrible formatting, and whipped it into something clean, fresh, and inviting to look at.
To four pivotal comments/conversations: (in chronological order) With my paternal grandmother, Lorraine Geehan, when I was a wee kindergarten lad: “Jeffy, did you know that I happen to be a modern witch, who flies over your house at night on my vacuum cleaner to protect you?” This incredible admission was the genesis for my passionate interest in witches, even though I mostly didn’t believe her. • With Martin Donald, while we perused art together at a gallery opening years ago (after I’d mentioned that I didn’t find the painter’s work particularly interesting and that I probably could have done better myself): “Yes, Jeff, but the difference is she did it and you didn’t.” This comment has been the singular driver in my creative life, helping me to toss aside excuses and keep writing. • With Susan Moreschi, during a hike on Mt. Tam in 2008 (after I’d told her that, while I enjoyed reading witchy stories, I found that the authors didn’t get things right): “Of course they did. Because they’re the authors’ witches! Why don’t you go write about your witches?” It was the perfect bracing face slap I needed. Not even a week later, I began writing about a young teen named Charlie. • With Mary Reynolds Thompson, on May 2, 2011, after having given me just the right amount of compassion in the months following my devastatingly freakish hard-drive crash, where I lost all seven hundred pages of the book after I had discovered that I’d never set up my backup system correctly (word to the wise: check your backup systems, people, I thought mine was fail-proof!): “All right, Jeff, it’s time to start all over again and rewrite your novel from scratch. (Insert my whimpering noises here.) I know, I know, it sucks, but it’s time to do it. Just start on page one, don’t think about it too much, and don’t stop writing until you’ve finished the first draft.” As much as I hated to admit it, I knew she was right. I started the next day, and seven and a half weeks later, I finished it!
To family: My family is a lovely mix of original and chosen members. Their support and love are part of the bedrock of my life. • Mom, who saved every little story and Halloween drawing I ever made as a boy and who taught me that there is much laughter and celebration in life if you just know how to look for it. • Dad, a gentle giant, who not only loved me but also liked me a great deal. I miss him and sure wish I could witness him playing with all of the new techie gadgets they keep inventing these days. • My sister Jennifer, who somehow always welcomed me when I begged to hang out with her and her friends as a kid instead of treating me like the bratt
y little brother I know I was. • My brother-in-law Jack, who shares my love of great Pacific Northwest microbrews and whose addition to my nutty family has brought calm and a smile to our faces. • Jonathan and Justin, my two nephews, who still call me Jiujiu and who have gone from fun little rug rats to fine young men in the blink of an eye. • Nana and Gramma, my two grandmothers, each so different from the other. From them I learned unconditional love, athleticism, the importance of appetizers, and the art of fine conversation. • My mom’s partner Wes, who loves her and cares for her like a true gentleman. • Martin, my first life partner, who showed me that creativity is less an inherent skill and more of a developed muscle. His consistent belief that I would one day actually write a book has sustained me through challenging times. • Maren, my second life partner, who has always been game to find new ways to deepen our relationship and whose house, with its fun colors, soft sitting areas, and delicious food, has taught me the importance of creating an inviting home. • Gary, who encouraged me to always ask for what I want at a restaurant and who knows that one crucial ingredient in a really great meal is a deep belly laugh. • Hung and Leng, two lovely men, who to me represent the best attributes of being gay. • And finally, Terry Sweeney, my beloved, my man, my partner. His consistent courage, gentle encouragement, and the beautiful way he lives his life, give me love, joy, and a place to call home.
The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (Book 1, The Broom Closet Stories) Page 28