Chapter Twelve
We weren't even out of the driveway when Mr. Lustig asked "How long has
that been going on?"
"What?"
"Don't play coy, Eric. I'm not blind. Or stupid."
"Last night was the first time."
"For you, for him, or for both."
"For both."
"Are you being honest with me?"
"Well, we made out some a couple of years ago. But, that stopped when
Steve's friends saw him with me and joked about me being his 'date.'"
"I wondered what happened between the two of you. I asked Steve, and all he
would say was 'nothing.'"
"It wasn't nothing to me."
We stopped behind of our building, and Mr. Lustig turned off the car. I
knew he wasn't going to the plant.
"Is Steve gay?"
"I don't know. I don't think you can tell with 18 year olds. They
experiment a lot."
"I can tell with you."
"I think I'm a special case. I wouldn't make footprints on a beach."
"Maybe."
"Would it bother you if he is?"
"Of course."
"Does it bother you that I'm gay?"
"No."
"Then why would it bother you if he's gay?"
"I don't know. I guess maybe it shouldn't. But it would. It just would.
He's my son."
"Please don't ever tell him that. No one should hear that from a parent."
We were quiet for awhile. "You going in?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I'll stay out here."
My mother was at the salon that day 12-8, so she was home when Mr. Lustig
knocked. I napped in the car, avoiding whatever filled the 45 minutes he
was inside.
Our apartment was visible from many others. Our neighbors had to wonder
about the strange car that was always out back or the man that disappeared
inside for brief respites. I did not see how my mother's affair was not
going to become a public spectacle. I prayed mine would not, if it was an
affair I was having.
*****
I didn't talk to Steve all weekend. I didn't call him, and he didn't call
me.
I did have to talk to my mother about him. While I napped in the car, Mr.
Lustig told my mother that her son and his son had spent Thanksgiving night
exploring each other.
My mother was like a high school girl. She wanted to hear all about it. I'm
generally afraid of secrets, but this felt like one I needed to cherish,
not fear. I deflected my mother's inquiries, insisting it would be weird to
share details with her. "I don't want to know yours, and I don't want to
tell you mine."
She relented on details, but insisted on knowing the scope of our
relationship and where I thought it was headed.
"I don't think there's a relationship," I said. "For all I know, it was a
one shot deal." I laughed at my minimization (it had at least been a four
shot deal). When my mother asked why I was laughing, I deflected her again.
"Whatever happened with Evans?" she asked, ripping the scab off a pretty
fresh wound. I told her about the letter I had received, another secret I
had cherished, not feared. I dug it out from under the shoebox I kept in
the hall closet and let her read it. Tears ran down her cheeks as she
finished.
"That poor boy," she said.
"I can't understand a parent doing that."
"Me, either," she agreed. "It's terribly, terribly wrong. It makes me sad
and sick. It makes me want to visit the Fowlers and give them what for. It
makes me want to scream."
I knew my mother's rage resided in her fear that Evans' parents' actions
would make him feel like he had only one way out. And that he'd take it,
like my father had.
"Me, too," I agreed. Tears were now running down my cheeks, too. But mine
were tears of happiness, at not being a Fowler, of being an Akers, of not
being alone, of having a mother who loved me, accepted me, embraced me, and
shaded me.
*****
To my great relief, Steve was at my locker when I got to school on Monday
morning. I was pensive about his presence until he said "Hi, Cupcake."
I answered by whispering "I wish you wouldn't call me that."
"I have to. For appearances. Plus, you'd rather be a cupcake than a cookie,
right?"
"Right."
"Anyway, I slipped something in your locker. Read it, but not until you get
home. Do not read it here. Think about it after you read it. And then let's
talk about it."
I was thrilled to find the envelope Steve had left. I folded it over and
tucked it in my front pocket for safekeeping.
I read it as I walked home that day:
It's Friday morning. You just left with my dad. I'm going to write this
down before I chicken out.
I'm a little freaked out about last night.
I'm not sure why I did what we did. I'm not sure what it means. I've always
had a soft spot for you. I'm not sure why.
I'm not sure what happens going forward. But, I know that what happened
last night, and whatever happens going forward, has to be vaulted. You
can't tell anyone, not even Lori. We have to act at school like nothing's
changed between us. We can be casual, but we can't be friends. I'm stronger
now than I was two years ago, but I'm not strong enough for innuendo and
rumors. I won't run from them (I'm still very sorry about that!), but I
can't court them.
I want you to spend the night Friday.
Please tear this into as many pieces as you can and then burn those pieces.
Then bury them.
I read the note over and over as I waited for my mother to get home from
work. At one level, the idea of "whatever happens going forward" thrilled
me. On another, the whole idea of pretending all day every day scared me.
Witnessing it over a dinner had sent me spiraling. Doing it every day --
and worrying about what would happen if the pretense failed -- might
overwhelm me.
My mother raised one eyebrow as she read the note. It was a skill I had
inherited and that I had used for great effect, especially at school with
teachers.
"What do you think?" I asked, when she looked up.
"I'm not sure. What do you think?"
"I'm not sure, either. On the one hand, I'd like to see where this goes. On
the other hand, I'm afraid it will go to a bad place, especially if
innuendo and rumors start swirling."
"You should plan on that happening. You have over half the school year
left. You boys'll slip up, and the fishbowl will fill."
"I know. I'm fine with it."
"That's easier for you, Eric. Innuendo and rumors have swirled around you
your entire life. Not everyone has experienced the same sort of scrutiny.
Most people don't start a journey together from the same spot. One's always
ahead of the other, at least a little. You can't insist that Steve or
anyone else be where you are, at least to start."
"So, you think I should be okay with this?"
"I think you have to figure out what you're in for. I think you have to
figure out how strong you are. I think you have to figure out what you
want. I can't answer any of those questions for you. I can tell you what I
would do, but I'm not you. And, you're not me. You certainly wouldn't have
made some of the choices I've made."
I was on my own. I had an adult decision to make. I needed some quiet time
to think it through.
I was awake most of the night, searching for clarity. I thought I knew what
I should do. I know I knew what I wanted to do.
In the end, I followed my heart. I reasoned that, in life, the only
constant is change. Neither life nor relationships were static. Today's
non-negotiable condition could be tomorrow's memory. When my mother woke up
the next morning, I told her I was spending Friday at Steve's.
Chapter Thirteen
When I arrived at Steve's on Friday, he made his intentions clear. We went
to his room, and he showed me a bag of condoms and personal lubricant he
had bought for the sleepover. From the amount, it looked like he was
planning for there not to be much sleeping.
Steve closed and locked his bedroom door.
"My dad's at work, and my mom's getting her hair done," he said, slipping
his shirt over his head and unbuttoning his jeans. He was quickly naked and
needy in front of me. I buried my face in his musky crotch, smelling as
much of him as I could. He leaned back against the door as I took him in my
mouth and quickly drained him.
When I tried to kiss him, he insisted I rinse my mouth with Scope first. He
didn't want to taste himself on my tongue.
When I got back to his room, Steve was ready and had rolled a condom on.
Without kissing me, he lubed us both up, and penetrated me from behind. I
was on all fours. I stroked myself as he did. He came first. The feeling
and the sound of him coming finished me off. With no other option, I
spilled on his comforter.
"Fuck, Eric, how am I going to explain that?" he asked, wiping it up with
his shirt.
"Don't. You're 18. Your mother has to know you masturbate."
"Maybe, but we should have planned better. Next time, we need to put down a
towel or something."
"Why the condom?" I asked.
"I dunno. It seemed a little gross finishing inside of you."
"For you or for me?"
"For you."
"Not at all. I liked it better when you did."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Awesome. I hate condoms. Sally always makes me wear two. I can barely feel
her, and sometimes she makes me stop before I come."
"Why two?"
"She doesn't want to get pregnant."
"What time will your mom be home?" I asked. Steve looked at his watch and
guessed we had about a half hour. Time for one more.
"Can we try it with me on my back?"
"Sure."
We put a towel down, I rolled onto my back, and Steve moved over me. I
grabbed him and guided him to the target. He pressed, but the angle wasn't
right.
"I think you're going to have to raise your legs up." I did, but it still
wasn't right.
"Here," Steve said, hooking his hands under my knees and pushing my legs
back toward my head. He tried, but couldn't find me without my help. I took
him in my hand, and he pressed in. I gasped, and he said "whoa" as his
pubic hair pressed against my taint. As he started to slide in and out of
me, I started to tingle in my stomach.
"Oh, God, right there," I said.
Steve lasted longer than he had yet. I tingled with every thrust. As he got
closer, he gripped my calves tighter and tighter, and I got harder and
harder. He had his eyes closed and a look of pure pleasure on his face. A
thin layer of sweat coated me as I gripped myself and matched his pace.
He fucked me recklessly. He panted, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come," as I
felt him fill me. I came, too, harder than I ever had. I hit myself in the
face, neck, and chest. Steve collapsed onto me, smearing my load between
us. I kissed the side of his face.
Once he caught his breath, he pulled out of me and wiped himself off. "That
was awesome," he said. "And loud. Did you hear the bed? It was a rockin',
but no came a knockin'," he said, laughing.
"Yeah, it was loud."
"So were you. You were groanin' and moanin' like a girl."
"I know. You hit something in me. It was almost like I had a clit. It made
my stomach tingle, like the bottom had dropped out."
"Interesting. I wonder what it was."
"I don't know. But, we're doing it on my back from now on."
Steve left to take a shower. I thought of trying to join him, but it was
too risky; his mother could be home anytime.
While he was gone, I wondered about the dynamics of what was going on. I
noticed that we hadn't kissed. And that Steve still had not touched me,
even with his hand.
When Steve returned from his shower, he exclaimed, "Pew. This room stinks
of sex. Open the window."
I did, then went to clean myself. I braced myself against the wall and let
the water run down my back and neck.
When I climbed into bed next to him that night, I asked why there was no
kissing.
"You'll think I'm crazy."
"I already know you're crazy. We're all crazy."
"Well, first, there's Sally."
"What?" I asked, sarcastically. "Did she say it was okay for you to have
sex with other people as long as you don't kiss?"
"No. But, somehow, it feels less bad if we don't kiss. It feels less like
cheating."
"You are crazy." But, at least he had some sort of conscience. Unlike his
father.
"What's the other reason?"
"Huh?"
"You said, 'first, there's Sally.' Which means there's a second. What's the
second?"
"It seems gay to kiss."
"We used to kiss all the time."
"I know. It didn't seem gay then. It was just practice. But, adding sex
makes kissing seem gay."
"The sex is gay, Steve. I hate to break it to you, but fucking a guy in the
ass is as gay as it gets."
"I know, but kissing seems to make it worse, at least to me."
"Well, it makes me feel bad that we don't. It makes me feel cheap. Sucking
you and letting you fuck me without kissing makes me feel like a whore."
Steve didn't say a word. He just sighed, rolled into me, and put his lips
on mine. He kissed me long and deep, our lips folding into each other's,
our tongues gently touching and then fighting and then just touching again.
"You are kind of a whore," he whispered, before adding "Thank God."
"Touch me," I whispered.
"I want to, but I'm not sure I can."
"You have to."
Steve kissed me again. As he did, he tentatively ran his hand down my
torso. I pushed his crotch into my hip as he slid his hand under the
waistband of my briefs and took me in his hand. His was the first hand
other than my own to touch my bare cock. I slid my underwear down.
"Grip it tight," I whispered between kisses. He did, and I moved my hips
back and forth. It didn't take long for me to grunt and come. I broke the
kiss and bit his shoulder as I did.
It didn't take long for Steve to move over me. He was needy, and he wanted
to take me yet again. I wanted him to take me. I was so glad we had the
resilience of youth on our side. We could come and come and come.
Steve slid into me. I loved the sight of him over me, the vulnerability of
being under him.
We should have moved to the floor, but we didn't. So, Steve moved slowly in
and out of me, trying not to make the springs squeak. When he found the
sweet spot he had found earlier, I ached to cry out. I stifled it. I opened
my eyes and stared into Steve's. "Shhh," was all he said as he slowly
pleasured himself and me.
"Tell me when you're about there," I insisted.
He did't say a word. He just kept going, slowing in, back out, in, back
out. It was delirious and excruciating.
"I'm really close," he finally said.
I touched myself. Steve watched me.
"I'm there, Eric," he said, arching his back and driving himself into me as
deeply as he could. The sensation of him swelling and finishing was enough
for me, and I joined him, coating my stomach. He collapsed onto me again,
burying his face in the pillow next to my face.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered. "I wish Sally would let me slow fuck her like
that. She always hurries me."
"Steve, please don't talk about Sally."
"Right. Sorry."
We cleaned each other up and settled back into each other. I wanted to ask
some questions, but I wasn't sure I wanted the answers. My mind was running
fast and hard.
I rolled onto my side and kissed Steve's cheek. He rolled onto his side and
kissed my nose.
"Can I ask you something?" I asked.
"Sure."
"Are you gay?"
"I don't think so. I really like Sally and I really like fucking her. I
wish it was better and freer, but I really like doing it."
"So, you're bi?"
"I'm really not sure. Like I said in my note, I've always had a soft spot
for you. But, I'm not really into guys. Like, I wasn't attracted to Evans.
I was jealous of him, not you. I'm not attracted to Luke." Luke was the
quarterback of our football team and unquestionably the hottest guy at PHS.
"But, I really like you, and I really like what we just did."
"I love you," I blurted. For no good reason.
"You can't. Not yet."
"I do."
"Well, then, thank you. It's good to be loved."
"You don't love me, do you?"
"I'm not sure. I'm not sure I've ever loved anyone. So, I'm not sure what
it feels like. But, like I said, I really like you, Eric. A lot."
"What do you like the most about me?"
"Your strength. I wish I was as strong as you. I break in the storm. You
don't. You're still standing after the hurricane's gone through."
"You don't have to."
"I know. I resolve to be better, to be stronger. And, when the opportunity
arises, I'm not. I'm like Peter. I know I should't falter, but I do. Three
times, before the cock crows."
"This is heady stuff for 18."
"I know. It's another reason I like you. I can talk with you about things I
can't talk with anyone else about. I certainly couldn't talk like this with
Sally. She's great, but she's not layered."
I moved my face toward Steve and kissed him. "It's okay if you don't love
me yet. You will."
Chapter Fourteen
Steve and I awoke Saturday morning still face to face and wrapped in each
other's arms. As we looked into each other's eyes, I tickled his back and
side. Once you start having sex, you don't want to stop.
"Let's move to the floor," I suggested.
"Okay."
"Put two condoms on."
"Why?"
"I have an idea. Start with two condoms on. Then take one off. Then take
the other off. That way, it'll last longer."
"You want it to last longer?" he asked, incredulous.
"I do. I love being under you." Advertently or inadvertently, I was drawing
a stark contrast with Sally.
With no springs to worry about, Steve entered me and went at me hard. I
grabbed his briefs, wadded them up, and bit down on them to stifle any
noises I might make. Steve hooked my knees over his shoulders and pinned my
hands over my head.
I was quickly lost in what he was doing to me. When he hit the sweet spot,
I closed my eyes, arched my neck, and tried not to cry out. I could feel an
orgasm building, but I couldn't touch myself.
I was saved only by Steve stopping to remove the first condom.
I pulled his briefs out of my mouths and urged him to take them both off.
"Am I hurting you?"
"Now, you're thrilling me."
I could tell when Steve returned to me that he'd left the second condom on.
I was quickly headed back toward an orgasm. With my hands again pinned
down, I couldn't touch myself. I didn't need to. I arched my back and neck
as the most intense orgasm I'd ever had thundered through me and shook me
from head to toe. I couldn't help myself. I cried out. Steve clapped has
hand over my mouth with a look of horror on his face. "Sorry," I said,
using only my eyes. He accepted my apology by removing his hand and kissing
me.
"Take the other condom off."
He pulled out and did.
"Now, come here."
He straddled me, and I took him in my mouth. His hips quickly matched my
rhythm. I took his shaft in my hand and focused my tongue on his head.
"Oh, here it comes," he rasped. And it did, filling my mouth and throat. I
gulped it all as I kept going, licking and sucking him until he couldn't
take anymore. I didn't know if I was competing with Sally, but, if I was, I
wanted to make sure I was winning.
As we dressed, I thanked Steve. "That was awesome."
"It was. Just when I think it can't get better, it does."
When I reached for the door, Steve turned me around, and pressed his mouth
to mine.
"I want to tell you something before we go downstairs. . . . This isn't
just sex. The sex is great, but this is more than that. I seriously don't
want you to feel like a whore."
"I don't," I laughed.
"Good, because it's more than that."
I knew what he was saying. He wasn't explicit, but he was saying it. I
decided to confirm it for him.
"I love you, too."
He didn't say a word. He just smiled and turned toward the stairs.
We went downstairs for breakfast. Steve's parents had to know what was
going on, but they pretended not to. I wondered how much pretense existed
under that roof and within that family.
*****
I floated home. My mother was still at the salon, so I had the apartment to
myself. I decided to do myself up to celebrate. By time I was finished, I
looked like Cher in one of her most glamorous videos.
I danced a little in the mirror, lounged on my mother's bed like a starlet,
and then started the slow process of cleaning my face. When I was finished,
I filled the tub, slid into a warm bubble bath, and listened to the Cure. I
must have fallen asleep, as my mother startled me when she knocked on the
bathoom door.
I invited her in, and she sat on the toilet lid and asked me about my
night. I filled her in, alluding to what had happened, but sparing her the
details. She visibly flinched when I mentioned Sally.
"He has a girlfriend?"
"Yes, but not a wife," I rejoined, reminding her -- not at all subtly --
that Mrs. Lustig was being cuckolded by what she and Mr. Lustig were doing.
My mother leaned against the tank of the toilet and sighed, looking
defeated. I thought she was tired of my lack of support for her affair, but
that turned out not to be it at all.
"What am I teaching you?"
"Excuse me?" I challenged her, thinking she thought she was imparting
lessons that I was ignoring.
"What kind of behavior am I modeling for you? How can I expect you to care
about Sally if I don't care about Ellen? What kind of role model has your
mother become?"
"Mother, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rattle you."
"I'm not rattled, Butterscotch. I'm thinking clearly. Finally."
My mother hadn't called me Butterscotch since I was little. She had found
that name in my blonde hair.
"It's all good, Mom. Don't fret."
"I am fretting. I need to clean my life up. And you need to clean yours up,
too."
"Why? That's between Sally and Steve. It's not my problem."
"It is, at least partly. You're part of it. Ellen and Henry are my problem,
at least partly. I'm part of it."
"Are you going to break up with Mr. Lustig?"
"I think I have to, at least until he's no longer married. You've reminded
me who I'm supposed to be. It's not who I am right now."
"Do you think I have to break up with Steve?"
"I'm not making any decisions for you. You're 18. You can make decisions
for yourself. I can only make decisions for me. But, I want you to really
think about what your doing, not only selfishly, but also selflessly."
She was right. I pretended not to like pretense, but I appeared content
with it when it was in my interest.
Chapter Fifteen
The following day, I slipped a note through the slits in Steve's locker.
"We need to talk about you/me and you/Sally. Meet me in the band room after
school."
I waited in the band room for an hour. Steve never showed.
As I was walking home, a car pulled up beside me. I glanced over, saw
Sally, her brother (John), Luke, and a couple of other football players. I
hurried up.
They drove faster than I could walk.
I started to run.
They drove faster than I could run.
They cut me off and spilled out of the car.
Sally's brother tackled me and pinned me to the ground.
"Why are you writing love notes to my sister's boyfriend?" he demanded.
"You should ask him."
"I did," Sally snorted. "He said you've been doing it for awhile, and he's
told you to stop. He said you pretend in the notes that there's something
going on between you two, and you won't stop. He said you're delusional."
"He's lying."
"You're lying," Sally hissed, as Luke kicked me in the side. "We're here to
make you stop."
Sally watched as I was kicked, spit on, and stomped on. I covered my face,
making sure all they could land were body blows. When they were certain I'd
had enough, Sally warned me that they'd be back if she even caught me
looking at Steve, much less talking to him.
I limped home, stopping only to vomit. Not only because I was hurt, but
because Steve had been complicit in the attack, if not the cause of it.
My mother vomited when she saw me. I loved the Black Knight, so I tried to
convince my mother they were "mere flesh wounds," but she didn't buy it.
She wanted to take me to the emergency room. She was sure I had broken
ribs. I was certain they were only bruised.
She also wanted to call the police. She wanted Sally and her thug friends
arrested and hauled in.
I avoided both. After a hot bath, I settled into my mother's bed. I put on
the Smith's and wallowed, sharing Morrissey's pain. I was almost asleep
when my mother knocked on the door and told me Steve wanted to see me. I
would have told her to tell him to go away, but my ribs were too sore for
me to muster much volume.
Steve went white when he saw me. I had protected my face, but my body was
bruised and cut. His eyes were wet with tears when he got to the edge of
the bed.
"My God, Eric, what did they do to you?"
I didn't respond. I was angry at him for fueling Sally's fire. When he
tried to kiss my forehead, I turned away.
"Eric, I understand why you're mad, but what was I supposed to tell her?"
"How about the truth?"
"That wouldn't have made things any better."
"We don't know that. We just know you chose to protect yourself."
"We do know that. 'We're sleeping together behind your back' would not have
spared you. Why'd you slide a note in my locker anyway? You know Sally has
my combination and is in there all the time."
He had a point. I had been careless. I didn't deserve this outcome, but I
had not been as careful as I should have been. I don't think I was trying
to force the issue, but I might have been.
"I don't know. I guess I wasn't thinking."
"Bullshit. You're always thinking, Eric. Always. You think more than anyone
I know."
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to think about what I didn't want to think
about.
"I can't believe you told her I was stalking you."
"I know. . . . I'm sorry," he said. I could tell he meant it.
I wanted Steve to leave. I also wanted him to stay. I wanted to spurn him.
I also wanted his arms around around me.
I kept my eyes closed. I felt him move. I felt his lips on my neck, my
shoulder, and my chest. I quickly realized he was kissing each of my
bruises and cuts. It hurt when he kissed my ribs. But, it also titillated
me. I got hard. I couldn't help myself.
"Raise your hips," he said. Without thinking, I did. He pulled my underwear
off and moved between my legs. For the first time, I felt his lips on me. I
wanted to push him off. I knew this was an act of penance, not desire. I
wanted him to want me. I didn't want him to take me only out of pity.
I did nothing to stop him. I felt tears run from my eyes as he worked me
toward an orgasm. I couldn't stop him or myself. He sucked and sucked as I
got closer and closer. He kept at me as I came in his mouth. He spit my cum
in the shorts he had pulled off of me.
He kissed his way back up me. He didn't exactly trace the trail he had
traveled down, but he didn't deviate by much.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
I felt like I had to tell him the truth. "I feel like you betrayed me to
Sally. And, I feel like you know you did, and you just did what you did to
try to make up for it, not because you wanted to. I want to be wanted,
Steve, not pitied. And, I want to be someone's someone, not someone's other
one."
"I know, Eric. I'm doing the best I can. I begged them not to come after
you. You have to know that."
I soaked in what he said as he lowered his face to mine and gently kissed
my lips. I pulled out of the kiss in disgust.
"You knew they were coming after me?"
"I knew they said they were."
"Why didn't you warn me?"
Steve raised up. "What do you mean?"
"You knew they were threatening me. Why didn't you find a way to warn me?
Or drive me home? Something to protect me?"
"I'm not sure what you're suggesting."
"Yes, you are. They told you they were coming after me, you begged them not
to, but you didn't warn me, you didn't intervene, and you didn't inform
anyone else so they could intervene."
"I just didn't know what to do," Steve pleaded.
"So you did nothing?"
"I don't know. I guess so."
"You need to leave."
"Eric."
"Get out. . . . Mom . . . Mom."
My mother was quickly at the door. "Mom, I'm tired. I need to rest. Make
him leave."
"Steve, let him rest."
I could see the pain in Steve's face. But, I could feel the pain in mine. I
was sure he had left me out to dry, to protect himself. I wanted to vomit
some more.
I closed my eyes. I felt like I was falling down a hole that narrowed with
every foot. I gripped the sheets as hard as I could. I called my mother
into the room. I didn't want to get wedged.
"What's wrong?"
"I need you to talk to me."
She did what she always did in these dire moments. She told me the story of
"The Giving Tree," which she had read and re-read to me so many times she
had it memorized.
Her voice calmed me down. She returned to the kitchen.
Steve hadn't left. As I tried to sleep, I could hear him and my mother
through the door. I heard him plead he was only 18, and I heard her insist
she would protect me, come hell or high water. The quills were out, and she
wasn't buying his bullshit. I fell asleep listening to her hector him and
knowing that I needed and wanted to be with someone who put me first, not
with someone who sacrificed me to protect himself.
Chapter Sixteen
I woke up to different voices. My mother's, of course, was constant. The
other I could not decoct through the door. It was deep and resonant. I
assumed it was Henry.
It wasn't. My mother knocked on the door, stuck her head in, and told me
there was someone who wanted to see me. Before I said "okay," Mr. Kamler
appeared at the door.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. His voice faltered as he
apologized and assured me that Sally, John, Luke, and the others involved
would be dealt with. He was motivated, and he intended to take on the
powerful interests who were already trying to make sure any punishment was
muted.
Mr. Kamler held my hand as he talked to me. He told me things I already
knew, like this wasn't my fault, that I shouldn't let them break my spirit,
and that I would be letting them win if I took this as a call to conform.
I was embarrassed that I cried as he talked. I cried at how hard things
were. I cried at how vulnerable I was. I cried at how needy I was.
Mr. Kamler cried, too. He assured me PHS and Paris needed to do better by
me. I knew they wouldn't.
Like Steve the night before, Mr. Kamler didn't leave. He and my mother
talked over coffee as I waited for the Percocet to kick in. I drifted away,
listening to their muffled voices.
My mother was ebullient the next day. Mr. Kamler had stayed for hours after
I fell asleep, including for what I was sure was an insipid, uninspired
meal. He was undeterred; they had a dinner date the following Friday.
I was happy for her. Almost happy enough to forget the pain that pierced my
side every time I breathed.
I asked my mother about her conversation with Steve. Apparently, she had
let him have it. She insisted it was his fault I was convalescing, that I
deserved more than he was able to give, that Sally deserved more than lies
and faithlessness, and that he owed us both more than we were getting.
"What's going on with Henry?" I ventured.
"What do you mean?"
"You said you were going to break it off. Did you?"
"Not yet."
"But you're going on a date with Mr. Kamler, Mrs. Robinson?" Before she
could answer, I started humming "Jesus loves you more than you will know,
oh, oh, oh." My ribs rocked me as I laughed.
"Hey. I'm only 8 years older than he is."
"So, you'd have no problem if I brought home a 26 year old guy?" I asked,
incredulous.
"I don't think that's the same."
"It's all a matter of whose ox is being gored, isn't it?"
"I'm so happy."
"Why?"
"Your sass is back. That means you're feeling better."
"It's the Percocet."
"Steve wants to visit you."
"No."
"Okay. But, I think he knows he screwed up."
"He did. And, I'm broken because of it. I'll forgive him. But not yet."
"Forgiveness is not a dish best served cold, Eric."
"I know."
*****
PHS's solution to my attack was to suggest I should accept my diploma now
and spend the rest of the school year mending. In other words, my attackers
would remain in school, and I would be bought off and secreted away.
Lori insisted I should tell them to go fuck themselves. My mother echoed
her insistence, as did Mr. Kamler, who was now at our apartment every day.
From where I rested, it was hard to tell who was crazier about the other,
my mother or him.
I wasn't so sure. I kind of liked the idea of being finished with school. I
also was thinking about my return to school and how awful it would be for
me if I was the reason Sally, John, Luke, and the other mutts were
expelled.
"They all hate you anyway," Lori reassured me, although there was nothing
reassuring in that fact. "So, what does it matter if they hate you a little
more if you stand up for yourself and insist 'never again.'"
"My God, woman, it's not the Holocaust."
"It's just as bad. Gay-bashing is the new Holocaust. You have to stand up
for yourself and all the gay boys who are going to follow you. You have to
insist 'this is not okay' and make a safe path for them, even here in
little old Paris, Illinois."
"You're so dramatic."
"That's what they said to Rose Parks. She didn't think so. She just wanted
the seat she deserved. You should insist on the seat at the table you
deserve."
Mr. Kamler was just as indignant. He had his social justice glasses on.
"Every once in awhile, you get the chance to stand up and be counted. Take
the chance, Eric."
I took their advice. I decided I would not give in and give PHS the easy
way out. They were going to have to deal with me.
My mother had used her polaroid to take pictures of my injuries. I put them
all in a book and took them to school. I showed them page by page to the
Principal.
He seemed nonplussed. He suggested I deserved the wounds because I was
stalking Steve Lustig, the son of a prominent Paris family. I insisted that
didn't matter, and he disagreed.
"Steve didn't do this," I insisted. "His friends didn't do this at his
behest. In fact, he begged them not to do this. They did it anyway. They
weren't protecting him from me. This was a vicious, unprovoked attack."
"It was not unprovoked, young man. You left a blackmail letter in Mr.
Lustig's locker."
I had had enough. "You're as ignorant as ignorant can get. That's harsh,
but it's true. There was no blackmail in my note. I simply asked my
boyfriend to meet me. And, writing your boyfriend a note is not provocation
for a vicious attack. It's just not."
"Boyfriend?"
"Yes. Steve and I are . . . were . . . together. If he says otherwise, he's
lying. But, it doesn't matter. They beat me. No matter what I did, they
beat me. They beat me."
I stormed out of the office. I scribbled a quick note and shoved it in
Steve's locker. "I told Principal Barnes. I'm sorry. He provoked me, and I
blurted it out. I wanted you to hear it -- read it -- from me first."
Mr. Kamler put me and my mother in touch with a lawyer from Chicago who had
been a college friend of his. She was a militant lesbian from an elite law
firm who was chomping at the bit to expose what PHS and its principal were
trying to do by blaming me for the beating I had endured.
She made quick work of them. Within a few days of her arrival in Paris,
everyone in the car that had followed me that fateful day was expelled. The
Catholic school happily took them in. I didn't care. I cared only that they
would not be at PHS with me.
To be continued.....
