The Gay Teen's Guide to Defeating a Siren_Book 2_The Siren Read online

  That’s what she meant by “things.” Her biggest fear was that I’d come out to the entire town and everyone would judge her. You know, because a gay son is a flawed son in Pamata.

  I was sick of it, and just for my own amusement, I decided to play dumb. Strolling over to the stove as if she hadn’t just hurt my feelings, I nonchalantly tasted the wooden spoon. “Huh? What things do you mean?”

  Mom pursed her lips. “Well, just things that might hurt your friendship.”

  I wiped my mouth and looked at her, confused. “Like what?”

  “Like that you fart really loud when you’re sleeping?”

  My sister Molly’s entrance couldn’t have been more perfect. She was only seven, but Molly constantly amazed me. She was my only point of sanity while being stuck in Pamata for the summer.

  I crossed my arms and smiled at Molly. “No, Kyle already knows all about the farting.”

  Molly giggled and stood in front of me. It’s like she wanted to shield me from Mom’s comments. Those were the kinds of things she did.

  I pressed on. “So what things shouldn’t I have told him, Mom?”

  Mom furiously stirred her pot. “Just things that might cause trouble.”

  “For example?”

  Mom looked at me then back at her pot.

  It’s only fair to point out she wasn’t an awful person. She still loved me, which was why she struggled not to say something hurtful. I know what was going through her head, though: I want you exactly as you are, only without “the gay.”

  Maybe that thought is what made her nod toward the table. “Another report from Sanctuary came in.”

  That was a smooth way to change the subject without actually changing it: direct me to mail from my pray-away-the-gay school. I sighed but decided to let the “thing” drop and walked to the table. A thick envelope sat there with my name on it.

  I shook my head; Sanctuary’s thoroughness was crazy. Tearing open the report, I flipped through what had to be twenty pages. Among them, I noticed the following:

  1. Blaize did seven pull-ups in gym on March 23rd. We are so proud of him!

  2. Blaize finished his third history test before anyone else. Way to go!

  3. Blaize correctly pronounced “biblioteca” in Spanish last semester.

  I stifled a laugh at that last one.

  “They sure are meticulous,” Mom said, reading over my shoulder.

  She wasn’t kidding. This was the third report, and each one was chalk full of the most random “accomplishments” in the world. At first, I felt really good about myself. I mean, who doesn’t like hearing they passed twelve Algebra quizzes? By now, though, it was kind of weird.

  “I guess that means you’re healing?” Mom didn’t look at me when she said it.

  My response was diplomatic: “Sanctuary believes I am.”

  I should point out that my Mom’s idea of healing was very different from my school. Sure, Sanctuary had homophobic video games instead of normal ones. Sure, their walls were lined with posters showing what “stereotypical gay teens” looked like. And sure, their cafeteria served food like Healing Hamburgers.

  Fortunately, it was all an act.

  Sanctuary Preparatory Academy was actually pro-gay. The homophobia was there to fool the parents, providing a secret haven for teenagers from judgmental homes. Talk about a big ha ha at my parents who ate it all up. They took me there, thinking I was being cured. As soon as they left, I got to attend an openly gay boarding school, with gay teachers and gay best friends like Cassie Clarke, who’d sent me the letter with Mr. Blackwood’s info.

  Sanctuary was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Only not in the way Mom thought.

  “Did you do thirty-six sit-ups this time?” Molly asked. A huge grin had spread across her face. She was the only family member in on the joke.

  I flexed. “Better. Seven pull-ups!”

  Molly threw her hands up. “They must be so proud!”

  We both looked at Mom, who said, “I’m not hearkening this information.”

  That was another annoying thing about Mom: being a librarian, she thought it her job to sprinkle giant words into conversations. I was about to throw out some gibberish of my own when I heard the front door open.

  “I’m home!” Dad yelled.

  I groaned to myself: family dinner time.

  Two years ago, I loved spending time with my family. We had insanely weird game nights, complete with ugly sweatshirts and good luck troll dolls. Since I’d come out, all that had vanished.

  Case in point: After we’d all gathered around the table fifteen minutes later, Dad looked at Mom before speaking to anyone else. That was his way of asking for any dirt. Now that I wasn’t visibly upset anymore, Mom had no problem saying, “Blaize had a fight with Kyle.”

  Dad gripped his fork. “He didn’t admit anything, did he?”

  I had to stop myself from saying, “Oh my god.” Just like Mom, Dad’s first worry was about me outing myself.

  Mom looked at me. “I don’t think so. But he did use some naughty language.”

  I thrust my hands under my legs to make myself smaller. To get a gauge of his anger, I looked at Dad. His balding brown hair stuck out in all directions as if he’d been electrocuted. That was normal. He was a programmer and embodied the Dad Nerd look.

  His eyes gave away nothing. He didn’t look outright angry, but he wasn’t concerned, either. Dad used to be such a goofy, open book. Ever since I came out, he’d become hesitant around me, like he never knew what to say or how to act.

  Seeing him made me miss Sanctuary so much. Everything in stupid Pamata centered around my being gay. Like it was the number one hugest thing about my life. I hated that. I was a board-game-player-slash-basketball-lover. And so much more! At Sanctuary, all that got to come out. It’s weird: the place where everyone was gay focused the least on the topic of homosexuality. And I loved that.

  Of course, all those wonderful thoughts of Sanctuary didn’t help in the current situation. The silence seemed to be oozing around the table and I had to do something.

  Straightening, I said, “I didn’t hurt your image. I promise. Believe me, I don’t want anyone knowing about my little problem, either.”

  For once, I’d said the right thing. Dad tried flattening his hair. It stuck back out the second his hand was back in his lap. “I understand teenage angst. But it’s no excuse for foul language.”

  Mom cleared her throat. “Exactly. You can get the same point across by saying ‘bottom’ or ‘pass gas.’”

  That caught me off-guard and I choked back a laugh. Molly giggled into her plate.

  Dad reached out and patted Mom’s cheek. “That’s right, dear.”

  Oh, I should mention they were much more lovey-dovey around me lately, as if demonstrating what a happy straight couple should look like.

  The temptation was too much. I reached out and touched Molly’s face. As lovingly as I could, I said, “Pass gas.”

  She busted out laughing while Mom gave me a stern look.

  I grinned to myself and scooped a heaping pile of Hamburger Helper onto my plate.

  * * * * *

  That evening, we quietly gathered around the TV again. My sudden interest in the news had shocked my parents, and after several weeks, they still stared at me as if trying to read my mind. Admittedly, I couldn’t blame them for their surprise. I usually avoided the news like vegans avoided egg-filled tenderloin—actually, I think anyone would avoid that—but that all changed when I received Jimmy’s locket and the power it held.

  I settled on the love seat, grabbed a pillow, and laid it on my lap. My parents were on the large couch still watching me.

  “Um, the TV is over there.” I said, gripping the pillow and shifting around.

  My parents shared a look then fumbled to get the TV on.

  I tried to act interested throughout the entire newscast, so my parents wouldn’t know what I was up to. It was the hardest thing in the universe.
In reality, nothing had changed about me, and the news bored me as much as ever. Except for one very specific topic.

  After twenty minutes, I didn’t think anything important would happen and my brain began wandering around the Sanctuary Prep. campus. It was my one escape over the summer. I mentally walked past the front gate and on to the grounds, where Roze Merrill, my other best friend, stood waiting for me. Roze punched my arm and we made fun of each other when Cassie appeared with gum stuck in her hair. I almost laughed out loud. Home sweet home.

  That’s when I heard the name Ray Joseph blare from the TV and I jerked back to reality with a chirp. I gripped the pillow as the camera focused on Senator Joseph himself.

  As usual, a bright purple glow surrounded the tall wiry man.

  That’s what made Jimmy’s locket so amazing. It had somehow imbued Jimmy—and me, after his death—with a special gift: I was now The Seeker, meaning I could see certain people glowing purple. And that was a huge deal because those glowing people were controlled by the Siren.

  Yep, there was a real woman out there who could control men with her voice and make them do whatever she wanted. Actually, the word men may not be accurate. Last year, she controlled a girl at school. Most girls at Sanctuary were gay, so I assumed the Siren could control anyone attracted to women. Being a gay guy, that made me immune to her song. And a threat to her.

  The fact I had Jimmy’s power made me a double threat. See, the power to know who the Siren controlled balanced her out. Otherwise, she could control really important people—without anyone knowing—and wreak havoc. Jimmy kept her in check last year, reporting controlled people to . . . someone, probably the government. The Siren obviously didn’t want anyone standing in her way because she’d killed him.

  That actually made me a triple threat because I wasn’t going to let Jimmy’s death go unavenged. It sounds vigilante, but she had to be stopped. I had no idea who she was or what she was up to, but it couldn’t have been good. I mean, she had no qualms murdering a teenager.

  Scarily enough, I was the new Jimmy. The one advantage I had was the Siren didn’t know about me. No one knew about my power yet. And I meant to keep it that way for a while. I hadn’t even told Cassie and Roze. It had only been a month, and I was still trying to learn more and figure out what the hell to do.

  I held my breath and returned my attention to the news. Senator Joseph was the reason I’d been watching the news religiously. He was my one real link to the Siren. And he was trouble. Senator Joseph was charming and smart. Under the Siren’s control, he always seemed to know exactly what to say. Up until recently, I’d only seen trashy losers glowing purple. The Siren was evolving, using people higher up to her advantage.

  Just then, a newscaster said, “Senator Joseph held a press conference yesterday to discuss a group that’s been in the forefront a lot, lately.” She paused for emphasis, before adding, “Zimmerman’s Zealots.”

  I resisted the urge to bolt upright. Zimmerman’s Zealots were a bunch of redneck guys who protested gay events and carried stupid homophobic signs. They’re also the ones who, under the Siren’s control, carried out Jimmy’s murder.

  “According to Senator Joseph,” the newscaster said, “the media has been too quick to judge the once radical group.”

  Once radical group? I thought. When was homicide not considered radical? Of course, the Zealots were never officially blamed for Jimmy’s death. The whole thing had been swept under the rug somehow.

  “I know what everyone’s thinking,” Senator Joseph said as the camera focused on him. “Zimmerman’s Zealots? That filthy group?” He paused to smile to himself. “I myself hated them a year ago. Who doesn’t remember protest signs like, Die Fags, Die?” He shuddered then raised his arms. “While we stand for traditional family values, suggesting murder is unacceptable. But the entire group is in new hands. And their prerogatives have changed from bullying to philanthropy.”

  I frowned. That didn’t sound good. Or honest.

  “How?” Yelled a voice from the audience.

  Senator Joseph shook his head, but in a joking way. “I think patience should be a course taught at every university.”

  A few people laughed as Senator Joseph stepped away from the podium and faced his audience. That was something he did: eliminate barriers between himself and other people. I guess it made him more approachable. It made me wary. Typically, the Siren’s minions were brainless idiots. Zimmerman’s Zealots, when under control, could barely speak. How was Senator Joseph so articulate?

  “I want to point out a few statistics.” Senator Joseph began counting off on his fingers. “In the past three months, Zimmerman’s Zealots have donated almost a million dollars to St. Jude’s, The Red Cross, The American Cancer Society, and other charities. Furthermore, all Zealot members are now required to undergo background checks.”

  I wanted to rip the pillow in half. My parents were probably eating this up.

  “Will they still discriminate against the LGBT community?” someone asked.

  I perked up. That was the perfect question.

  As always, Senator Joseph smiled. Nothing fazed him. “Traditional family values keep our country moral, steadfast, and wholesome.”

  I resisted the urge to throw a shoe at the TV. Family values? I suddenly wanted telepathy to exist, so I could warp into his head and show him how his desire for “traditional family values” had mangled my family. If Mom and Dad threw this crap out the window and were accepting, we’d still be playing Pictionary and building real loving memories. Instead, I was shielding myself with a stupid pillow as they treated me like a second-class citizen. Mom was already nodding at the TV.

  Senator Joseph shook his head. “Wanting ‘fags’—or anyone—to die isn’t a decent way to live. Trying to help those in need is. Gay teenagers desperately deserve healing. And Zimmerman’s Zealots are going to work hard to make sure they can get it. That’s where you, the public, can assist. . .” At that, he gave out web addresses and phone numbers for Zimmerman’s Zealots before the weather forecast aired.

  The repercussions of this speech coursed through my brain. The Zealots were becoming more mainstream. That worried me as they’d naturally start recruiting more members, ones who weren’t even under the Siren’s control.

  But I admit I was also relieved. I swore everything the Siren did would be aimed at one place: Sanctuary. Using Jimmy, the school was fighting her, and I think she wanted it out of the way so she could do whatever she wanted without resistance. Why Sanctuary? I had no idea. The government was surely involved somehow, but Sanctuary played a definite role. The Siren knew this, and I was terrified the Zealots would have attacked the school by now and closed it down.

  But they hadn’t. In fact, Sanctuary hadn’t even come up. Maybe it was because the Siren didn’t know I’d been given Jimmy’s power. Without the Seeker, the school had no way of identifying who she controlled, which made them a lesser threat. Either way, Sanctuary was still safe. And I could keep my power under wraps. So, while Senator Joseph’s news sucked, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  That’s when I looked over to see Mom writing.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at her paper.

  “The website for that group.”

  Every morsel of relief I’d felt shredded into a million pieces. “What?” I said, seizing the couch cushion under me.

  Mom looked at me. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  Normally, I would have forced myself to appear calm. I didn’t want to fight; I wanted my parents to love me. But this crossed way—way way way—over my line of acceptance.

  “You’re writing down Zimmerman’s Zealots info? Really?”

  Mom put on her practical librarian voice. “Yes. It looks like they’re conducting some wonderful philanthropic activities. I want to reassess my opinion of them.”

  “You want to reassess the group that had everyone fist fighting last year? Are you kidding me
?!” My voice went shrill, but I couldn’t help it. Last Christmas, a huge fight had broken out amongst the parents over Zimmerman’s Zealots.

  “You heard the senator,” Dad said. “They’re under new management.”

  I gaped at my dad. He’d acted like the Zealots were just some company like Starbucks or Wal-Mart. I wanted to scream, They murdered Jimmy! Or Their management is a Siren who would want me dead! But I couldn’t. Any mention of the Siren would land me in a mental institution. Knowing my parents, it would be a healing mental institution where I’d be in a cell padded with posters of guys and girls holding hands.

  Instead, my face boiled as I tried to think of something to say. Finally, I spouted, “Trust me. They’re the same disgusting group that said little girls who have two dads deserve to die!” Then I got caught up in my head of steam and said the exact wrong thing. “They’re just trying to dupe idiots into joining.”

  Mom shared a look with Dad, one that clearly said, He’s not as healed as we thought.

  Dad stood up and glared at me. “Well, then you just called both your parents idiots. Because we’re joining.”

  Mom stared at him, unsure. She always did her research before joining anything. Back in second grade, she wouldn’t even let me attend boy scouts until she ran background checks on both den leaders. But she wasn’t going to argue with my dad on this. She simply crossed her arms and didn’t speak.

  I’d been cowering around them for weeks but refused to bow down this time. Standing, I mustered the intensity of my dad and said, “If you join those jerks, then you are an idiot.”

  Hurt flashed across Dad’s face. “The old Blaize never would have said such horrible things.”

  I froze, stunned. The comment deflated me. As much as it sucked, he kind of had a point. Except for the gay thing—that they blew out of proportion—we got along great. So they didn’t see this side of me before I came out. Unfortunately, they refused to admit they were the cause of my attitude.

  My mood went from anger to crap in a millisecond. Turning around, I simply muttered, “My old parents never would have joined Zimmerman’s Zealots.”