Where We Go From Here

by Lucas Rocha

  “Ah! Good luck with the program,” I say before getting up.

  “Thank you,” he answers, then takes a sip of his green Frappuccino.

  I shove the paper in my pocket and turn to walk away, thinking about how bizarre life can be, with all these coincidences that happen without warning, and that being in the right place at the right time is the kind of luck that doesn’t happen that often.

  And then reality hits me: As much as I was in the right place at the right time, I still have doctors’ appointments, still have to worry about my viral load and my CD4 count, still have to get regular blood tests, and still have to take my medicine every day.

  I still have HIV, and the fact that it’s as real as the interest that boy showed in me makes me think nothing will ever work out.

  MY MOM STILL WON’T LET the twins use the internet, but she’s not home and my dad is taking care of everything, so of course they’re glued to the TV and the computer, shouting, “BLOW UP!” and “GUN THEM DOWN, DAMMIT!” Luckily, I’m in my room and their screams are muffled by my headphones.

  I stare at my notebook and try to come up with the structure of what might become the script for the short film for my video production class. We don’t have to shoot anything, but the instructions made it clear that the script needs to be financially viable for independent production and no more than eight pages, which means it should be between five and seven minutes long.

  My first idea was to make a silent film about a romance between two guys: grayscale, title cards, exaggerated expressions, and a happy ending. At first, it seemed like a good story, but it obviously triggered my memory of Henrique, so I scrapped the idea.

  I then thought of writing a drama about a boy who’s separated from his mother and sets off to try and find her. But that’s been overdone, and I couldn’t forget about all the problems Henrique has faced with his mom.

  The third idea was about a girl who walks around town and discovers no one is talking to her because she has white hair, while everyone else has black hair. It’s not very original, but at least it doesn’t make me think about Henrique.

  I start typing out the premise: what the girl will look like, what the city where she walks is like, what she thinks, what she’s going to say (if she ends up saying anything at all), how many characters are going to walk by her, what they represent, how to make it all flow and seem natural, what the outcome will be, and how I’m going to fit all of this into a maximum of eight pages.

  I feel someone grab my shoulder, and I turn around, startled, taking off my headphones. It’s my dad, looking at me with a concerned expression, probably because I’ve been staring at the blank Word document for at least ten minutes after I wrote down the first few words, and I haven’t even noticed it.

  “Is everything okay, son?” he asks, putting a coffee mug next to my computer. “Here, you need it more than I do.”

  “Thank you,” I answer. “I’m thinking.”

  “Of what?”

  Henrique, I want to say.

  “The final assignment for one of my classes.”

  “Do you need help?” My dad has always thought of himself as a frustrated writer, with two finished crime novels sitting in his drawer that have never seen the light of day (and that aren’t even half-bad, by the way) about an investigator who uncovers murders in a small town in a rural part of Brazil.

  “SON OF A BITCH!” Caíque shouts, and my dad yells, “HEY, WATCH YOUR MOUTH!” over the sound muffling my younger brother’s ears, prompting him to look up and mutter an apology.

  My dad isn’t exactly the figure of authority in our home, which makes everything seem like it’s about to collapse when my mom is out. I’m used to it by now, but it’s always funny to see him almost panic when he needs to deal with Raí and Caíque. I think he must have spent many sleepless nights wondering if it was a good idea to have more kids after I was already old enough to be independent, because the plan was to have just one more child, not the restless and rowdy duo he and my mom got.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I answer, drinking the (horrible!) coffee he made.

  He smiles and watches me from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. His expression betrays his fatigue from all the yelling throughout the evening, as well as the accumulated exhaustion from his shifts at the hospital. I’m still happy he’s trying to dedicate whatever sliver of energy he has to helping me.

  “Actually …” I start, and I can see the excitement in his eyes. “I need to write a script for my video production class, and I was thinking of doing a sci-fi short about a girl who’s different and is hated by everyone just because of that.”

  So I explain the concept, and he listens to everything, interrupting me once in a while to ask a question: “What are this girl’s parents like?” “Is she from a family where everyone is different, or is she different from her loved ones, too?” “How is her relationship with older people?” etc., etc. At some point, the protagonist becomes fully formed in my head, and she is much more three-dimensional than the eight pages of script will allow me to demonstrate.

  After a few minutes of talking, my dad runs to the living room to take care of some crisis between the twins, who’ve started screaming at each other and breaking things, and I continue to stare at the Word document, now with a few more words in it. And I surprise myself when I think of how lucky I am for having the parents I have.

  I take my eyes off the computer screen and can see the top of my blue hair reflected in the mirror in front of me, and I think about how my mom and dad’s first reactions when they saw it were a big laugh and a bunch of comments about how I looked like Sadness from Inside Out. There was no scolding, no threat of shaving my head if I didn’t fit the standards that the neighbors and the rest of the family considered normal, not even that look that conveys much more than words can say. They just laughed, asked if the hairdresser did other colors as well, and moved on to setting the dinner table.

  I’ve never had one of those big, embarrassing “Let’s have a serious conversation” moments with my family, so I don’t know what that’s like in the grand scheme of things, because everything here has simply just always followed its natural course, like a warm stream in a cold ocean. I’ve never had to interrupt dinner to say, “I have something to tell you: I’m gay.” Maybe that’s because I’ve always learned that I shouldn’t hide who I am or look differently at people who aren’t like me.

  I remember asking my dad when I was only eight if it was a problem that I thought a boy in school was good-looking, because all the boys in my class said it was wrong and that since I was a boy, I should be paying attention to girls. I thought they were pretty, too, I’d said, but I wasn’t interested in them. Back then, I didn’t know anything about life, but I remember my dad telling me that I could see beauty in whomever I wanted. And I also noticed there was something in his eyes, something I’d never seen before and that—in the confused mind of a child—might very well have looked like disappointment. But it was nothing like that. The look was of love and most of all concern. My dad knew the world was not exactly what he pictured and that other people didn’t always think like him. And I’m almost sure that he knew, right there in that moment, just how different I was—how I wasn’t the boy he’d imagined I would be or wished I would become. And then the look changed, and he smiled, and I noticed that beyond the worry, the disappointment, or the fear, he saw in me the most beautiful person in the world.

  And that is why every time I hear someone describe their family problems, their issues with sexuality, or how hard it is to come out of the closet, my first reaction is to listen. I listen because I don’t know what that’s like, and I don’t want to belittle the pain and suffering of people whose realities are so different from mine. I listen because I learned from a young age that empathy starts when we learn to put ourselves in other people’s shoes, especially when they are so unlike us.

  I realize, looking at the reflection of the small streak of blue hair, how h
ard my parents have tried to remain a part of my life without invading the space that I have to make my own decisions. It’s bizarre to think that I can actually count on them when I need some advice, be it about a script for film school or about what I need to do to move forward with my life.

  “Dad?” I call, when I realize the crisis in the living room is under control.

  He pokes his head into my room and asks what I want.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  He raises an eyebrow and walks into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar in case the twins decide to have another round.

  “Why is it that I suddenly feel a heaviness in the air?” he asks, sitting on my bed while I close the laptop. “You’re not about to tell me you’re quitting school, are you?”

  “That’s not what it is!”

  “Okay. You’re not moving out, are you? Because I don’t have a single buck in my savings account to help you rent a new place.”

  “No! Jeez, can you listen to what I have to say?”

  “Okay.” He interlaces his fingers impatiently. “You didn’t become straight, right?”

  “Dad!”

  “Okay, okay. You talk.”

  “How do you undo some crap you did and then regretted, after you’ve already tried everything to make it right?”

  He listens to my question but doesn’t seem to take it in, because he keeps staring at me for a long time. I can see the gears in his head at work, slowly at first, then quickly. I can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.

  “You’ve become a drug dealer, haven’t you?”

  “Oh my God, Dad! I don’t do anything stronger than coffee!”

  “Okay, so you’re gonna have to help me and be a little more specific, because I’m going crazy with all the possibilities here.”

  “First of all, it’s nothing illegal,” I say with a sigh and an involuntary eye roll. Then I remember how Sandra always tells me that rolling my eyes is a quirk, and so I focus them. “It’s just … there’s this guy …”

  “Oh, yeah. A guy,” he mumbles, sounding very interested.

  “Yes, a guy. And I really like him, and I’m sure he likes me. But I screwed up, and I don’t know how to fix it, because now he won’t look me in the eye anymore.” My dad still seems concerned, looking at me as if I were spelling out all the decimal points of pi. “This is weird, isn’t it? Asking my dad for advice about boys?”

  “Maybe not exactly common practice, but our family is not well known for its normalcy,” he comments. “I might not have a lot of experience in the boy department, but I have experience with human beings, and that’s enough. I mean, I work with people of all kinds at the hospital, and if you knew the stories I hear … But anyway, boys. Gee, that’s complicated. You’ve already apologized to him, yeah?”

  “In all kinds of ways.”

  “And did he listen to you?”

  “He did, and he said he forgave me but also that he didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

  “That’s not forgiving, if he really likes you.”

  “I know, but now I can’t think of anything else I can do to try and redeem myself.”

  “On a scale of stealing a loaf of bread to embezzling public health-care funds, what level of screwing up are we talking about here?”

  “I embezzled the health-care money to buy bread, Dad,” I answer, and he nods, astonished. “That’s how bad I screwed up.”

  “Okay, well, that’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not. Any advice?”

  He thinks for a moment, staring at the blue streak in my hair.

  “The first thing we ask for when a patient walks into the emergency room is for them to calm down. We say we’ll do everything we can to help them walk out as healthy as possible. That helps a little, so I think that’s the best advice I can give you: Calm down. Maybe this guy is just a disappointment and in two or three months you won’t even remember him. Or maybe he’s one of those unforgettable people, but only time will tell. But in my opinion, if you think he really likes you the way you like him, things will work out and fall into the right place, because that’s more or less what tends to happen.”

  I don’t know if that’s good advice, but I think it’s all my dad can come up with on the spot. I smile when I see that he feels awkward discussing boys with his eldest son but still does it without judgment. So I hug him, and he hugs me back.

  “And please don’t become a drug dealer. Or straight. That would be really confusing to me.”

  “You got it, Dad,” I say, letting go of him with a smile.

  We hear the doorbell, louder than the screams of the twins, and my dad frowns because we’re not expecting anyone on a Friday evening. He walks out of the bedroom to see who it is, and I again focus on my script.

  I hear the bedroom door fly open, and Sandra bursts in like a hurricane, her hair held in a loose knot by a ballpoint pen. Her face is puffy, like someone who just got out of bed, and she’s wearing the Powerpuff Girls pajamas she’d never wear outside unless it was a real emergency, even if she’s my next-door neighbor and we don’t have to take more than twenty steps between our bedrooms.

  She’s breathless, as if she just walked up eighteen flights of stairs in less than two minutes. I notice her eyes are wide, her mouth is contorted in dread, and her phone is lit up in her hand.

  “Sandra? What happened?”

  “Instagram. Did you see it?” she asks, staring at me as if war had just broken out and I’d been recruited to the front lines.

  “N-no,” I say, immediately opening the app and accessing my profile.

  “Film group.” She hands me the phone, and I feel a chill down my spine when I see Henrique’s picture on a post. It’s a montage, and there’s a bloodred stamp over it with the cruel words:

  What is a picture of Henrique doing on my school’s film course group?

  I realize the picture was shared by one of the students in our class, and it says:

  Guys, check out this absurd thing I found in my feed! We gotta report this profile!!! He can’t expose someone like this and walk away! What can we do to help this guy?! Fuck, man, I feel awful just reading this. Imagine how the guy in the picture must be feeling. This can destroy his life, right? Isn’t this a crime? Please, if anyone knows how to help, just tell me in the comments! I’ve already reported this shithead’s profile, but if everyone reports it, Instagram will take it down more quickly!!!

  I feel my stomach churn when I read the caption under Henrique’s photo. It’s a selfie on top of the Corcovado: a picture of him smiling, sticking his tongue out, and winking, Rio de Janeiro behind him in all its glory.

  AIDS KILLS!!!

  5 HOURS AGO

  So you think you know people, yeah????? You think you know who they are and you’re sure that because they’re pleasant and kind, they aren’t DIRTY and ROTTEN on the inside? That they’re not PROMISCUOUS and having sex with EVERYONE THEY SEE IN FRONT OF THEM?

  This is an alert to everyone who thinks they know the people around them: YOU DON’T! AIDS is a disease that kills every day, and it has no cure and no face. Your best friend, your neighbor, or YOUR BOYFRIEND might have AIDS, and you’ll never know. Case in point, the boy in this photo. Who would have thought that behind this innocent smile lurks A FILTHY DISEASE? I didn’t know, but now I do, and it’s my duty to tell this to everyone who wants to hear: He is INFECTED WITH AIDS!

  Be careful when you meet him, because I’m sure he gives this DAMN DISEASE to everyone who has relationships with him.

  Stay away! Be careful!

  God loves all of you!

  IT’S MY WORST NIGHTMARE.

  By the time I saw the post, my phone already had 145 messages, 35 missed calls, and 18 voice mails. My Instagram inbox had messages from 83 of my followers and message requests from 215 people I don’t even know.

  Message request from Andrea Gomes:

  IT’S BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU THAT THIS WORLD IS LOST. JESUS IS COMING BAC
K TO END ALL OF YOU FILTHY GROSS PROMISCUOUS SODOMITES. LEVITICUS 20:13: IF A MAN ALSO LIE WITH MANKIND, AS HE LIETH WITH A WOMAN, BOTH OF THEM HAVE COMMITTED AN ABOMINATION: THEY SHALL SURELY BE PUT TO DEATH; THEIR BLOOD SHALL BE UPON THEM. I HOPE THAT YOU WILL NOW UNDERSTAND THE WRATH OF GOD WITH THIS DISGUSTING DISEASE AND THAT YOU WILL DIE FAST BEFORE YOU INFECT INNOCENT PEOPLE. YOU SCUM!

  Message request from Humberto Fraga:

  Hey, Henrique, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but I hope you find the strength to get through this. What this guy did is a crime, and you can report it. I am a social worker for a nonprofit organization for HIV-positive people and understand wanting discretion, with all the prejudice; I am positive myself and won’t discuss my status with anyone due to family issues. Everyone has a right to discuss their status or not. If you need anything, you can message me, I will be happy to help. Have a good weekend!

  Message request from André da Silva:

  lmao infected with aids, you’ll die cause you were a sucker, stupid fag.

  Audio (Mom):

  “Henrique? What the hell is this story going around on the internet? You have AIDS? Since when have you known that and why would you not tell me? I’m your mother! I couldn’t believe it when I saw it, but I am not surprised—you ended your life the moment you turned your back on your family and decided to embarrass us all. Are you aware of the consequences of your actions? How do you think I’m going to show my face outside now, when the news gets out into the neighborhood and everyone knows you’re nothing but a degenerate?”

  Ian Gonçalves:

  Henrique, what happened? I saw the post, and I know it’s a bunch of lies! How are you doing? Please send me a message when you can. If I can help with anything, just let me know.

  Denise Machado:

  Henrique, we’re having a busy day at the office, and even though you aren’t on the schedule, I want you to come in so we can talk. I’ll see you at 1:00 p.m.