If I Told You So

by Timothy Woodward

  As if reading my mind—again—Becky chimes in with, “I thought so.” She repositions herself so she can put her arm around me. “Listen, everyone comes out on their own timeline, so I’m not going to say anything else. But it sounds to me like this girlfriend”—she does finger quotes as she says “girlfriend”—“is just a beard.”

  “A what? ”

  “A beard. It’s a term for someone who is used as a cover-up, like a disguise. There was a Seinfeld about it.”

  For a minute I don’t say anything. I just stare out at the lake and think about what Becky has said. For some reason I trust her.

  “What if I were?”

  Becky stops eating the Slim Jim and looks over at me. I look back, meeting her gaze for a second before turning away again. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes say, Go ahead.

  “What if I were . . .” I can’t explain why the word gay is so hard to say out loud. With somebody listening. I’ve said it to myself a hundred times before, but I guess if someone else hears, I’m afraid it will make it true. But if it is true, then why can’t I say it? Why am I so afraid of what everyone will think? Why is admitting that I’m gay so scary? I take a breath.

  “What if I were . . . gay?”

  “I wouldn’t care,” Becky says. I must look skeptical because she continues. “My family lives near Chelsea and my parents have lots of gay friends. I have lots of gay friends. I’m even vice president of my high school’s GSA.”

  “G-S-who?”

  “It stands for Gay-Straight Alliance. It’s a club that promotes tolerance and diversity. My point is your being gay wouldn’t make a difference to me.”

  I swallow my last bite of sandwich. “I’m not saying I am, just what if, you know?”

  “I hear you,” Becky says. “It takes a lot of chutzpah to come out, especially in a small town like this. You gotta make that decision for yourself. Listen, I’m sorry I made that joke about Jay earlier. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She squeezes my shoulder. “But for the record, I do think he likes you.”

  On my bike ride home, I let my mind wander to what Becky said about not caring if I am gay. I actually believe her, but the thing is, I’m not sure everyone else will feel the same way. I mean, if it doesn’t matter if you’re gay, then why aren’t there more gay people in Bell Cove? Renée is the only one I know, and it’s not exactly like she’s been welcomed with open arms. Sure, the chamber of commerce is happy with the customers she brought to town, but people still say nasty things behind her back. Heck, even my father calls her a dyke.

  If that’s what he thinks about Renée, what would he think about me? His son the fag? I bet he wouldn’t be asking me to come to Georgia for the summer then. Maybe that’s what I should have told him last week to get him to let me stay in Bell Cove instead of lying about not wanting to be away from Lisa. At least it would have been closer to the truth.

  My mother might be better, but even her I’m not sure about. If I just walk in the door and tell her, “Mom, I’m gay,” I have no idea what she’d do. I’m thinking she’d probably regret letting me take the job at the Pink Cone, for starters. There’s a decent chance I’d find myself on the next plane to Georgia so my father could straighten me out. I don’t think she’d be mad, though. At least not at me.

  Becky’s talk of GSAs and having gay friends in school is great and all, but it’s just talk. Bell Cove is not New York City, and there are no gay people at my school. I’m not about to be the first.

  But I’m not in school. It’s the summer. And Jay is gorgeous. And Becky thinks he likes me. Is that just talk, too?

  Chapter 4

  It’s Tuesday afternoon, the day after orientation at the Pink Cone, and I look up at the clock above the deep freezer. It’s almost four o’clock. My first real shift flew by. It wasn’t that busy, but with so much to learn, I felt like I was constantly moving. I slide a freshly made container of strawberry onto a shelf in the freezer and return to the warmth of the shop.

  “Becky, you doing anything after this?” I call across to where she stands by one of the service windows.

  “Nah. Wanna hang out?” She checks her watch. “I think we’re done here.”

  We say good-bye to Harleigh and Ashley, our evening replacements, and head out into the June warmth.

  “So, what’s fun to do around here?” Becky says.

  “I dunno. You hungry?”

  “I am always hungry, but let’s not get ice cream.” Becky laughs at her joke, but I have to admit I feel the same way. One day of scooping butter pecan, and I am already sick of ice cream. Of course, it may have something to do with the triple-scoop sundae I had on my break.

  I grab my bike from behind the shop, and Becky and I walk down the street to the Gold House sub shop. The Gold House’s claim to fame is their Greek salad and their onion rings. I think I could go for one of each right now. We arrive at the square brick building. A bell chimes when we open the door and walk into the hideously painted interior.

  “I see why they call it the Gold House,” Becky says, surveying the yellow walls and gaudy bronze statues of Greek gods.

  “The food is great. Don’t worry, we’ll eat out by the lake,” I say.

  “Good, then I’ll be able to take off my sunglasses. This place is blinding.”

  Ten minutes later, to-go containers in hand, we head outside to find a place to eat. We stop at a picnic table in a small park next to the marina. As we spread out the food on the table, there’s one thought I can’t get out of my head.

  “Why did you assume I was . . . liked Jay, yesterday?” Why is the word gay so difficult to say?

  “Hmm?” Becky is already chewing a piece of pita, and she points to her mouth in the universal sign for, “My mouth is full. ”

  “I mean, you just assumed, and I want to know why. It wasn’t just the pink shirt, right?”

  Becky swallows. “Hon, it was definitely not the pink shirt. I mean, ‘It takes a real man to wear pink.’ ” Becky makes finger quotes in front of her face. “Whatever that means. It’s hard for me to say for sure. It’s just a vibe I got, I guess.”

  “A vibe?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You were really sweet to Harleigh about the whole shirt-changing thing.”

  “You thought I was . . . that I liked boys because I was pofite?” I say.

  “There was also the look you got when Jay walked in.”

  “Look? I was surprised to see him again.”

  “I just call ‘em how I see ’em. I’m sorry that it bothered you this much. Why do you care so much, anyway?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. Why did I bring this up?

  Becky sees my discomfort and tries to break the tension. She holds up two onion rings, one by each ear. “What do you think?” she says, “Are these, like, totally hot, or what?” She turns her head from side to side like a model. “They’re the new environmentally conscious accessories. When you’re ready for a new look, just eat the old ones!”

  I have to admit she’s funny, but I just don’t feel like laughing. I’m too bothered by Becky’s ability to see right through me.

  Becky keeps trying. “Look, from hoops to drops with one bite.” She takes a bite out of each ring and then lets the remaining onion dangle down. She shakes her head and the onions wiggle like worms. “Why aren’t you laughing?”

  “Because you’re not the first person to assume I’m . . . not straight. And I want to know what it is about me that makes people think . . .” For some reason the words won’t come out.

  “You’re gay?” Becky adds for me.

  I nod. “I mean, I don’t prance around lisping and singing show tunes.”

  “Not being a stereotype is a good thing,” Becky says. “Look, being gay isn’t about how you talk and what you wear. It’s about who you’re attracted to. I mean, I like to say I’m a JustinTim-berlakeosexual.” Becky gives me a grin.

  “But if I’m not a stereotype, how can people just . . . tell
? I mean at school, in the hallways, in the café, at gym. It’s constant. If I miss a shot in volleyball, I’m a fag. If I get an A on a test, I’m a queer. Bump into someone in the hallway and I’m a homo. It’s everywhere I turn, and I don’t know how to stop it. Teachers don’t do anything. I can’t fight.” I feel tears pushing at the backs of my eyes. Why do I feel like crying? Somehow Becky has unlocked a part of me that I have kept locked away for years. God, with emotions as out of control as this, no wonder everyone thinks I’m gay.

  “Sean, did it ever occur to you that everyone gets called those things? Most people probably don’t think you’re gay; they probably don’t think about it at all. That doesn’t make it right, but it doesn’t mean they know how you feel. Kids are cruel, and they don’t think.”

  I sniff back my tears, but I know Becky has already seen them. “But, Becky . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I am gay.” It comes out in one quick breath and with it every brick in my carefully constructed wall of defense crumbles.

  Becky doesn’t say anything, and for a second I think she won’t accept me the way I thought she would, the way she said she would. I can’t look at her. She seemed like such a safe bet, like no one I’d ever met in New Hampshire.

  The silence between us stretches, and the longer it gets the harder it is to break. But then Becky reaches across the table and takes my hands. I look up and I see now it’s her eyes that are wet.

  “Are you crying?” I say.

  “No. I mean, yes.” Becky takes back a hand to wipe her eyes. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “You are?”

  “That was the first time, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never said that to a real person before.”

  “It was my first time, too.”

  I shake my head. “Huh?”

  “No one has ever come out to me for the first time before. I know plenty of gay people, but they all came out way before they met me. This is totally different. That’s a lot of trust you just put in me, and I’m honored.”

  “I thought for a minute you were mad.”

  Becky laughs softly. “Why would I be mad?”

  “I don’t know, I just, I thought . . . Never mind. Just never mind.”

  Becky picks up an onion ring and slides it onto my finger. I look at her in confusion.

  “It’s a promise ring,” she says. “I promise to keep your secret until you are ready.”

  A smile breaks out on my face. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Well, you better eat it. It’s getting cold.”

  Chapter 5

  Becky and I walk down Main Street, heading toward the Methodist church. The sun is still high over the lake, and a cool breeze comes in off the water. Although it’s still the tail end of June, July is around the corner and the days have been very warm and humid. Some of the older couples that stopped by the Cone today remarked on the heat, and they were quick to tell me, when I gave them their “baby cones,” that it’s “goin’ to be a scorcha.” It’s a funny thing about baby cones. The only people who seem to buy them are senior citizens. I guess “senior cone” doesn’t sound as appealing, but I do think “baby cone” is a bad name.

  “So, what next?” Becky says. We’re a block from the church and after that there isn’t much Main Street left to walk.

  I point to the bike I’ve been pushing as we walk. “Do you have a bike? We could ride to the top of Mann’s Hill and watch the sun set. You can see the whole town from there.”

  Becky shrugs. “No bike, but it sounds cool.”

  “I bet my mom would let you borrow hers. It’s a little old, but it has two wheels and a seat.”

  So I lead Becky past the church until Main Street forks. The left fork goes up to the state highway, but the right fork follows the shoreline and leads to a crescent of sand hidden away in a small cove. Morgan Beach is an eclectic mix of aging hippie artists and young families. Many lawns are decorated with strange wood and metal sculptures with meanings known only to the sculptors, while here and there you can see a swing set or a Big Wheel that has replaced the artwork. Most of the houses started as small summer cottages for families from Boston or New York who would spend the whole season trying to stay cool in the lake surf or hiking in the woods. Over time, cottages were winterized, added on to, or torn down and rebuilt, so that now Morgan Beach is a collection of clashing architectures and styles, thrown haphazardly together.

  My house is a low rectangular box with a slate roof that slopes up and away from the front door. It is built into the hill so you walk into the second floor, and the first floor is half buried and hidden from the street view. But it’s not the wood-shingled front that is the impressive feature of my house; it’s the two-story wall of glass overlooking the lake in the back that catches people’s attention. In fact, it was the enormous windows that made my mother insist on buying the house in the first place. My father had wanted to live in town, and he didn’t like the modern style of the house, but my mother, as usual, got her way. Looking back, it’s easy to see why my parents are divorced; they couldn’t, and still can’t, agree on anything.

  I lean my bike against the garage and let Becky in to give her a quick tour of my house. She is definitely impressed by the view, but even more impressed by the artwork hanging in the kitchen. She stands admiring an abstract canvas while I fill a couple of water bottles for us.

  “Where did you get this painting? It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “That one, I did.”

  “No!” Becky wheels on her heel and hits me in the shoulder.

  “Ow. Why did you do that?”

  “You didn’t tell me that you’re an artist.”

  “I’m not. At least, not really. I took art last year, and that was my assignment on Jackson Pollock and action painting.” I hand Becky a water bottle. “It was actually a lot of fun. I spent a week dripping paint while standing on a stepladder.”

  “I love it. You must have been happy when you were painting it. The colors are so bright.”

  “Yeah, I guess that was a good week. I got the lead in the winter play that week.” I pull Becky away from the painting. “C’mon, we’re gonna miss the sunset.”

  “Omigod, another OGT!” Becky follows me to the front door. “So you do drama club and take art and you don’t know why people think you’re gay? Sean, those are both OGTs!”

  “OGT?”

  “Obviously Gay Trait. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen The Broken Hearts Club?”

  We’ve crossed the driveway to the detached garage, but I stop before opening the garage door.

  “Is that a movie?” I say.

  “Yes! It’s about a bunch of gay guys who live in Los Angeles and try to find boyfriends. It’s like Sex in the City for gays.” Becky looks at me for recognition, but I’m clueless. “We are so watching that movie tonight. It can be your first out-of-the-closet-gay movie.”

  “I don’t think we’ll find it at the video store.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s on Netflix streaming. You are going to love it.”

  I bend to lift the garage door.

  “Okay, so what exactly is an Obviously Gay Trait?”

  “It’s, like, something that a lot of gay guys have in common. Sort of like a stereotype, but not so negative. You know, like being artistic, or matching your clothes, or liking Lady Gaga.”

  “I love Lady Gaga!”

  “See?”

  Becky and I laugh and grab the bikes from against the side of the garage. I lead her out of Morgan Beach and back toward town. There’s a small hill heading into town, and I stop pedaling and let gravity do the work. I have to think about this OGT phenomenon. Have I really been doing all these things that make me “obviously gay”? I’m also curious about this movie Becky mentioned. The Bell Cove Cinema only has one screen, and it’s safe to say it doesn’t play any movies about guys trying to find boyfriends. I’m going fast enough as we approach the church that I don’t need to hold on to the handlebar
s. I throw my hands up in the air and let out a whooping scream. It’s going to be a beautiful sunset.

  Chapter 6

  I’m lying in bed and I can’t sleep. Thoughts shoot around the inside of my head like a pinball machine on multi-ball. I can’t believe I had the guts to tell someone what I’ve been feeling. It was scary, and I did cry a little, but Becky was awesome. She somehow knew how to make me feel safe and accepted, even though she said it was the first time anyone’s ever come out to her. I wonder if it’s always like that. I’m guessing not. I mean, I just don’t think my mom will take it as well as Becky did.

  But I do think my mother is going to be okay with it.

  I think.

  After all, my mother is a guidance counselor. She deals with kids’ problems all the time, and her job is to be understanding and not judgmental. Of course, it’s different when you have to deal with your own child. I’m still not convinced I won’t be on the next plane to Georgia.

  And what about Lisa? For the past seven months I’ve reveled in telling anyone who would listen that I was dating the prettiest girl in school, and the smartest girl, and the nicest. Lisa, student council president, lead in the school musical, honor roll, my girlfriend, Lisa. How do you break up with someone like that? Why would anyone break up with someone like that? I mean, how do you tell the perfect girlfriend you’re breaking up with her? How do you tell your girlfriend that you’re gay?

  In my defense, I didn’t even know I was gay when I started dating Lisa. I mean, I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know. Truthfully, I’ve always had crushes on boys. Boys and girls, actually. It just never really occurred to me that I had to choose. I guess maybe it should have, but when you’re eight, boys and girls pretty much look the same.

  Right about the time that the girls in my class started getting boobs, I started realizing that I was having fewer and fewer crushes on them. At the same time, when Marty Allengari grew three inches before seventh grade, I couldn’t help but notice how his formerly pudgy features had become gaunt and, dare I say it, sexy. And who couldn’t notice the fine wisps of a mustache that appeared on Kyle Reid’s upper lip in eighth grade? I’ve always just naturally gravitated toward liking the boys ahead of the girls, but it wasn’t until the end of middle school, when I realized I didn’t have a single crush on a girl, that I started to worry. Could I really be gay? Impossible, I told myself, and set out to find the cure.