Tricks. Part 23

A vortex of emotions-anger, relief, fear-roil together, geyser from my mouth, "I've been gay-can you even say the word gay?- since I was born, Dad.

This"-I wave the letter in front of his face-"is who I am. Who I've always been. I can't change that."

I'd Give Anything Not to cry. To prove, no matter my s.e.xual lean, that I am every inch a man.

But tears overflow my eyes, stream down my face.

The only good thing is, Dad's crying too. And he's definitely straight.

But he says, No, no, no.

You can't be ... He can't say the word, after all.

Thank G.o.d your mother didn't find out about this before she ... It would have killed her. Sooner ...

"No, Dad! How can you say that? Mom would have been all right with it. She loved me. Just like I am. Even if I am gay."

He goes silent. Shrinks somehow, like a corpse too long in the sun. She would not have accepted this.

And neither can I. Not ever.

"Please, Dad." I reach out for him but he recoils, as if "gay" was something you could catch. Time. It will take time. That's all. "Please?"

He shakes his head. Hard.

h.o.m.os.e.xuality is a sin, an abomination in the eyes of G.o.d. Just the thought of you ...

His eyes go flat, drained of love for me. Temporary, right? I kept hoping you'd find the right girl, bring her home. Get married. Have kids.

But not some-some man!

Not in my house. Not in my face. Oh my G.o.d. What if you have AIDS? Or some other sick h.o.m.o disease?

He slows. Catches his breath.

Considers some moments before he says, You have to go. Pack your stuff and get the h.e.l.l out of here. He turns his back to me. And I know there is nothing I can say to make him change his mind. Still, I have to try.

I swallow the mounting hysteria. Keep my voice low. "I'd say I was sorry, but I can't apologize for being who I am. I didn't ask to be gay. I was born this way, and if you think it's been easy, living a lie and knowing this day might come, you'd be wrong. I'm still the same person I was before you found out. Still your s-"

His head starts moving back and forth before I can finish the word. "Okay, then. But where will I go? I have no job, no money. How will I live?"

Still facing away from me, he reaches for his wallet.

Extracts two twenties. Tosses them to the floor. Best I can do.

You'll figure something out.

Time It will take time for him to accept this. Right? I am still his son. No way he can quit being my father. Quit loving me. Not because of this. Right?

Loren's letter is still in my hand. I fold it carefully, slide it into my back pocket, along with the forty dollars I retrieve from the linoleum.

My room is still my room.

Isn't it? This has always been my haven. My sanctuary. How do I leave it, especially knowing it may no longer be mine to return to? Because I am who I am? I don't understand.

Nothing is different. Not one d.a.m.n thing, except there's no reason to hide anymore.

I am not an abomination.

In fact, I could easily argue that G.o.d wanted me this way. Dad will come around.

All it will take is time. Right?

Meanwhile, I've Been Banished d.a.m.n you, Loren. This is all your fault, and you're not even around to give me a place to stay. I put in a call to Carl. He's not home, but I leave a brief message, asking if I can spend a day or two at his place. Hopefully he'll say okay. Not sure what else to do.

On my way out of town, I stop by the cemetery.

Might be a while before I can get back for a visit.

"Hey, Mom. How're things Up There, anyway?" I kneel beside her grave, yank the weeds that have grown around her headstone. "Guess you know what's going on here. I'd appreciate it if you could maybe send a message Dad's way. A little intercession?

You're not mad at me, are you?

I mean because of ..." A fresh storm of tears erupts.

"You still love me, right?"

A little breeze picks up suddenly, lifts my hair like fingers. I'll take that as a sign.

I sit in the cool gra.s.s, as close to Mom as I can get, at least for now. I take Loren's letter from my pocket, begin to read, dunking myself in loneliness.

Dearest Seth, he begins. No wonder Dad kept reading.

Sorry I haven't written sooner. You probably think I've forgotten you. Never!

Your touch, your taste, your scent, are etched in my brain forever. ...

Why did he write these things to me now? Every sentence brings the pain of missing him so alive.

I read until the letter ends: Our time together will always remain a treasured memory.

Ba-b.u.mp!

Not that I didn't already suspect his leaving meant he was dumping me for good. But to have it put so succinctly, long distance, is a two-fisted gut punch.

And to have a Dear John letter be the one to bring me so completely down is more like chopping me in two, midsection. Why write at all? Just to make d.a.m.n sure I knew that he was never coming back?

A low throb begins in my temples, and my eyes glaze red with anger. That son of a b.i.t.c.h! If he were here, I'd rearrange his face.

Not that I'm one hundred percent sure how you go about doing such a thing.

It's a whole new, horrible thought for me. h.e.l.l, maybe I'm a real man after all.

I Contemplate the Meaning Of "real man" all the way to Louisville. I cruise slowly-I have nothing to hurry for-and by the time I reach the city limits, I've decided if being a real man means smashing someone in the face or turning your back on a person because of their s.e.xuality, I'll just stay a girl. Guess my dad is a real man because he's decided I'm not. Oh d.a.m.n well.

I arrive at Carl's door, determined not to break down. But the minute I see his face, hear his mellow-voiced welcome, it all comes pouring from my mouth. What is it about Carl and confessions? He fixes strong drinks, listens patiently. Finally he touches my cheek gently. I'm sorry.

I never dared come out to my parents. They both went to their graves without knowing. I've regretted that.

He thinks for a minute.

Finally he says, I have so enjoyed your company.

You have been a balm for this lonely old man. You may stay for now, and I'd ask you to stay longer, but only yesterday I received news that my company has landed a big contract in Las Vegas. I have to move to Nevada as soon as I can put it together on this end.

I'll be there at least a year, maybe many more, with luck.

Vegas. Hot. Dry. Fifteen hundred miles away, give or take. Forty bucks won't cover a ticket. But maybe I can convince Carl I'm worth buying a ticket for.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Worth How much would you pay to stay alive? I mean, if you could somehow get the money?

What is your life worth?

Ten thousand? A mil?

How do you measure something like that?

Is your life more dear than a homeless person's?

Or a mercenary's-who kills innocents for money?

My life might seem valuable to a kidnapper or a life insurance agent.

But what, really, is it worth?

Whitney

Screw Lucas

Who needs the a-hole anyway?

I hope he and Skylar are totally miserable together. And, no doubt, they totally are. But even if they're totally in love, I am too, and with someone so much better than Lucas could ever pretend to be.

On a scale of one to ten, Lucas might rate an eight point five.

Bryn is an eleven-cla.s.sically handsome, so smart it's almost scary. Yes, he's a few years older, but nothing wrong with maturity. He knows what he wants, where he's going.

And unlike Lucas, who is a world-cla.s.s bulls.h.i.tter, Bryn, I know in my heart, would never lie to me. I trust him with my life.

That Night After Lucas's Party

Just as he promised, it took twenty minutes (okay, maybe twenty-five) for Bryn to collect me, buzzed and brokenhearted.

While I waited, several people, some of whom I've known for years, walked on by me without a word, despite the steady rivulets of tears ruining my makeup, streaking my face. Too much drama, I guess. And yet, here came this complete stranger, in his midnight blue BMW. He pulled over, double-parked, came around to open the pa.s.senger door for me.

Come on, sweetheart. Everything will be okay. He settled me into the seat, buckled me in, as if I were a little child. Where to?

I shrugged. "I don't care, as long as it's away from here."

Away from there. Away from him. Away from friends, not really friends at all, if it meant you or some guy.

I stared out the window, watching the procession of streetlights, begging myself not to get sick. "Thank you for coming to get me. I didn't know who else to call."

Really? Already driving slowly, he took his foot completely off the gas pedal. What about your parents? Or, uh, your boyfriend?

I snorted. "My dad is hardly ever home. And all my mom cares about is my sister. And as for my boyfriend ..."

I wasn't sure how much to say.

But whatever. "That party was at my ex-boyfriend's house."

There. Complete confession.

Well, not quite complete. Bryn called me on the rest. Ex, huh?

Then why were you at his party?

Want to tell me what happened?

"Can we go somewhere and talk?

I know I shouldn't ask. I'm sure you have better things to do." I could hardly believe it when he said, Not really.