The Gay Teen's Guide to Defeating a Siren: Book 1: The Seeker Read online

  Leaving the service, my thoughts returned to the present, and I suddenly wondered how we were going to get home. What if Kyle and his dad had already left? I had no desire to spend another second with them, but cringed at the thought of explaining this to my parents and asking for a ride.

  As we walked through the parking lot, all those thoughts fled: Kyle and his dad were in the car motioning for us to hurry. They both smiled as if nothing had happened.

  I jerked in surprise and looked at Kyle’s mom. She stopped. Her eyes found the ground and she studied her feet. Brushing off her dress, she looked up, nodded, and climbed into the passenger seat.

  I was stunned. Kyle’s dad wore the pants in the family, but I never thought she’d cave like this.

  The second she was situated, Kyle’s mom looked at me with pleading eyes. She needed me there with her. Part of me felt her pain, but I couldn’t do it. She wasn’t gay. By getting in the car, I was betraying a huge piece of myself. For once, I wouldn’t give in.

  Saying, “Thanks for the ride,” I headed around the car. Kyle caught my eye as I passed his window. I told myself not to look but couldn’t help myself. He smiled and pointed at his feet like he was going to kick me again. Unbelievable. I made a rude gesture through the window.

  Surprise lined his face and he mouthed, “What’d I do?”

  “Amnesia? Really?” I spat.

  He couldn’t hear me, so I gestured again and a look passed between us. It’s like we both knew our friendship was wrecked. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he yelled something else through the window. I ignored him and started the two mile trek home.

  * * * * *

  A half hour later, I sped up the driveway, praying the door was unlocked. The idea of seeing my parents—or anyone else—made me sick. Besides, it was exactly seven million degrees out and I was sunburned and soaked.

  When it came down to it, I just wanted to be alone. I was all messed up inside. Part of me was shaken by the Kyle incident. More than anything, though, I was frustrated at my weakness. Yes, I spat at the jocks, but that did nothing for Uncle Brad’s family and friends. I could have demanded an explanation from Kyle or his dad. I could have told Zimmerman’s Zealots what I thought of their signs. What did I do instead? I cowered in my closet and said, “I’m not gay.”

  Thinking, Please be unlocked, please be unlocked, I threw open the glass door and went for the wooden one behind it. The knob turned in my hand. Hallelujah. I sighed, went inside, pushed the door shut, and leaned back on it.

  Freedom.

  I looked at the mirror hanging on the wall opposite the door. My face glowed red and my suit was covered in sweat. I reached down and felt my shirt. Wet and gross. I didn’t care. I’d made it.

  Pushing myself off the door, I inched my way past the entrance into our living room. My room was past the living room and adjoining kitchen, and down a hallway. Already, I could picture myself lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “SURPRISE!”

  I shrieked, flying back, as Mom, Dad, and my little sister Molly jumped out from behind a couch. A sparkly banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY! hung from the popcorn-covered ceiling.

  “You scared the cr . . . bejeezus out of me!” Even in my panic, I managed not to cuss. All swearing was a no-no in our house, punishable by death-by-nagging.

  Mom ran over and pulled me into a hug. She was tall, like me, and dressed like a hobo, although she kept herself fit. Even now, she wore baggy sweats.

  “Sorry, honey. We just wanted to help.”

  I said the only thing that came to mind. “Huh?”

  “We thought you might need some cheering up,” my dad said. He kept grinning and looking down. Giving in, I followed his gaze to his shirt. It depicted a mangy dog covered in bugs. Looming over its head sat the words Fleas Navidad. Christmas ribbon encircled the dog and it wore drooping antlers.

  “It was your favorite. Remember?” He pretended to flick off one of the fleas and laughed at himself.

  I had my nerdy side, but Dad took it to the extreme. He was a computer engineer, meaning he wore short-sleeve, button-up shirts and too-short khakis year round. That is, of course, when he wasn’t wearing sweatshirts printed with holiday characters or Garfield.

  I glanced at the sign. “My birthday was last month.”

  “That was Molly’s idea,” Mom whispered. “She was trying to make it festive.”

  I glanced at my little sister, who gazed at me, desperate for a compliment. Indulging her, I said, “Cool.”

  Molly grinned and babbled all about her idea to use the banner. I nodded at her like I was listening, but I’d already tuned her out. This little surprise party described my family: soooo awkward but well meaning.

  Honestly, it was pretty amazing and, in another circumstance, I would have joined in on the weirdness. I might have even thrown on the X-Mas isn’t a word shirt my grandma had given me years ago. Despite their efforts, though, I wasn’t in the mood.

  “This is really cool, you guys. But I’d really just like to be alone. Sorry. Is that OK? It was my first funeral.” There, I milked the funeral aspect. Still going to hell.

  Mom and Dad looked at each other. They probably had more stuff planned, maybe a board game night or dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant. Dad nodded at Mom, reassuring her it was OK. She turned to me.

  “OK, sweetie.”

  Grateful, I skittered to my room and locked myself away from the world.

  Laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, I pictured the day spinning around like a hurricane. I was tired of being walked on, of never standing up for myself. Images of hooking a firehose to the Williams Funeral Home hydrant hit me. We could have blasted Zimmerman’s Zealots. They’d wash down the street like old turds.

  I also thought of my friendship with Kyle. Why was he acting so weird at the protest? And what was I going to do next year against Justin and Ryan? Being unpopular sucked. Now I was unpopular and friendless. The emotional flood hit and I started crying. In the span of twelve hours, I’d lost my best friend . . . and myself.

  As I lay there, a tiny well of purpose began building in my stomach. I needed to do something, something to redeem myself, something to make me feel better about me.

  I bolted up on my bed with an idea. Rolling off the mattress, I went to my desk and tore open the drawers underneath. Dad had built the desk into the wall and it was huge, filling my room like a dumpster. The drawers could hold miles of papers. I rummaged around and grabbed a piece of poster board.

  Setting it on my desk, I pulled a handful of markers from a tin. I uncapped some and set about making my own protest sign. It would be for gay rights and I would raise it proudly. Alone in my room, of course. Hey, at least it was something.

  Blue looked like a good, peaceful color, and I made a fancy, swirly border. Then I moved in and began drawing flowers and other designs that represented peace.

  An hour later, animals, spirals, yin yangs, and flowers covered my sign. Translation: it was a worthless pile of crap. I was too scared to write anything substantial. More thoughts of my cowardice hit me and, fuming, I uncapped the blue marker again, and wrote five letters:

  I’m Gay.

  I sat back. The words were small—filling a tiny spot in the center—but they were there. Closing my eyes, I started crying again. That’s embarrassing, but it was the first time I’d ever let the words out. For the first time, proof existed in the real world. Someone with a telescope could have been watching through my window.

  Heaving, I tried locking myself in a special compartment in my brain. When things went particularly bad (like the time our preacher said how evil gays were and I looked over to see my dad nodding along with him), I’d hide in a place in my head that held the words, Sexuality is a part of self. It was a sentence I read once that made me realize being gay was permanent, like my blue eyes and (sometimes gross) toenails. Normally, saying it made me feel better.

  This time, nothing helped—being gay felt
so real and so scary.

  I laid my head on the poster and imagined taking it to Uncle Brad’s funeral. Just when the protesters got rowdy, I held it up. They sneered at me, but my gesture awakened something from our side. The breath mint guy with the perfect suit came over and raised me on his shoulders. My dumb little sign, with horses and tulips and curly Qs, inspired the funeral goers. Rallying behind my sign, they pushed into the protesters, who tried making nasty jokes. So many of their teeth were gone, though, they just sputtered and lisped. Embarrassed, they ran to their cardboard boxes and hid. Victory!

  The next thing I knew, I heard knocking on my door.

  “Blaize, it’s library time.”

  I flew up in my chair, a strand of drool connecting me to the desk. It was morning already? Groggy, I looked down at my sign, confused. The words registered and I jerked back so hard, I had to wave my arms to keep from toppling over in my chair.

  No one can see this!

  I grabbed the sign and shredded it. That wasn’t enough. Filled with insane panic, I took the black marker and scribbled over every scrap. Gathering the remains, I tied them up in the plastic grocery bag lining my trashcan. I leapt up, inched open my door, and peeked out. Empty. Lowering my head like a bull, I ran down the hall to the kitchen. The huge white trash can was almost full, so I shoved my bag to the bottom.

  Safe.

  “Blaize, honey, are you about ready?”

  I spun to my mom, who walked in, opened a cupboard, and grabbed a box of cereal.

  “Almost,” I lied.

  She turned and saw me still wearing my suit.

  “Blaize, what are you doing in that . . . ”

  Her voice trailed off as her eyes rested on my face. Her jaw dropped and she took a step back, like I’d turned into an alien.

  “What?” I asked.

  Then it hit me: tears must have dried to my face. Mortified, I grabbed a metal bowl from the counter and stared at my reflection. My shaggy brown hair needed a cut, but I liked it that way. My complexion wasn’t great, but who cared? I noticed the tears were gone. The problem was something else, something so bad my stomach seized like an engine.

  Smeared right in the middle of my forehead, in blue marker, sat the words, I’m Gay.

  Actually, it read yaG m’I, but Mom got the point. It was the absolute last thing I expected and, thinking back on the poster, my hands started shaking. I had worked so hard to shred the words, but there they were, plastered right to my face, mocking me.

  “Blaize, are you . . . gay?” My mom whispered “gay” as if saying it too loud might bring a curse on the house.

  Sometimes we find ourselves in moments so tense and scary we can’t reason our way out. They’re so sudden and huge, we blank and find ourselves unable to cover. In any other circumstance, I would have lied. It would have been so easy.

  “No mom. Stupid Kyle must have played one of his stupid jokes.”

  Or, “It’s for an embarrassing summer school project.”

  Or simply, “Gotcha!”

  I wasn’t prepared for this, for the words on my head. I couldn’t think clearly enough to lie and began shivering as my brain refused to work. I so wasn’t ready to come out. It wasn’t my time. But in that moment, nothing else came to me. I was unable to deny it.

  Mom whimpered helplessly for my dad. Molly came in and, seeing the tension bouncing off the walls, started crying. She knew the situation must have been gargantuan.

  Man, was she right.

  Two

  A Face Off

  Two hours later, Dad dragged me to our preacher. Preacher Montgomery’s office was so pretentious, with fancy wood paneling, expensive vases, and statues smothering everything. On top of that, his gigantic hair filled the room, and I swear he wore makeup. Even that morning, when he had nothing to do but work at his computer and talk to us, his cheeks looked like Raggedy Ann’s. Plus he wallowed in food, yet preached about gluttony and sloth. Every time he spoke about the evils of indulging, I couldn’t help but picture a Big Mac in each of his sausage hands.

  I know all that sounds really mean, and I don’t want to be that nasty person. Next thing you know, I’ll be throwing pencils at someone’s back. It’s just, you know how some people rub you the wrong way? That was Preacher Montgomery. The second I sat in the sticky leather chair, he looked at me like I’d killed someone. Reaching into an intricate desk drawer and coming out with a handful of fries, he asked me if I was sure.

  Again, I had the opportunity to lie, but a funny thing happens when I know I’m right. A little switch goes off, and I can’t back down. And I knew I was right: Preacher Montgomery was a jerk, and I wouldn’t give him the honor of a lie. I crossed my arms, rolled my eyes, and didn’t say a word. My silence was as good as affirmation.

  Dad—wearing his only suit—could see how uncomfortable I was, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. He’d barely looked at me since this morning. It was like he’d forgotten he was my father of fourteen years, like he’d forgotten the time we played Pictionary and he thought my drawing of tanning was something dirty. We’d laughed so hard.

  The preacher ate the wad of potatoes and cleared his throat.

  “I’m not sure you heard me young man. I asked if you’re sure you’re . . . well . . . you know.”

  Sighing, I wanted to scream, Yes I’m sure! Are you sure you have arms and legs? It wouldn’t do any good and I turned to the wall, away from them. The preacher cleared his throat again. It was all phlegmy.

  “OK.” He thought for a minute and frowned. “How long have you known?”

  That was an easy one and, before I could stop myself, I muttered, “Forever.”

  He shook his head and tsked at me.

  “Well, I’m glad you brought him here, Mr. Trales. Looks like the boy has a terrible case of sodomy.”

  A terrible case of sodomy? That caught me off guard, and I choked on my spit (which, embarrassingly, was something I did a lot) and began coughing. My dad reached out to pat my back then froze. Eying the preacher, as if for permission, he inched his arm back to his lap. My heart sank as I tried to stop coughing, which only made it worse.

  “It’s not the chicken pox,” I sputtered.

  “What’s that?” the preacher said, pretending he hadn’t heard.

  Anger welled up in me, tinged with sadness. Dad just pulled away like he might catch my disease. He did anything the preacher said. Why didn’t they just make out and get it over with? Hell, we already had signs in our yard supporting Preacher Montgomery’s bid for the office of something or other.

  I decided I had to speak my mind. I wasn’t an expert, but I’d spent my fair share of time on Google.

  I finished hacking then cleared my throat, mimicking the preacher. He didn’t notice, but my dad raised a disapproving eyebrow. Ignoring him, I said, “You do know gay was removed from the list of mental illnesses in the 70s, right?”

  I set my voice to “as condescending as possible”, trying to make him feel old and out-of-touch. Seeing as he was probably born during the Civil War, the 70s were recent memory for him. My dad glared at me and straightened his tie.

  “He’s not normally like this,” he said to the preacher.

  “Yes, I am,” I snapped. “I haven’t changed a bit.”

  The preacher cleared his throat.

  “Will you please stop that?” I said.

  Dad gaped at me. Pretending to be calm, Preacher Montgomery ran his hands through his hair. It was so stiff, his fingers wouldn’t penetrate the gel. It was like a hair prison and he settled for skimming over his coif.

  He sat back, with that smug look on his face, the one that said, I’m better than you.

  “Clearly, we all know who changed the book of mental illnesses, don’t we?”

  It was a rhetorical question, like the preacher assumed we all knew a demon took his pencil and erased “gay” from the Big Book of Oddities.

  I answered anyway.

  “Yes,” I said. “People smart enough to
learn about things they didn’t understand.”

  Preacher Montgomery leaned forward, judgment fire in his eyes. “They’re sinners! Clearly, we know what force guided them down the path to immorality, don’t we?”

  Another rhetorical question. Still, I channeled my old history class and answered, “The same force that guided Rosa Parks to the front of the bus?” I flashed my most condescending grin. “How does it feel knowing the world’s gonna picture you wearing a white hood and burning crosses on peoples’ yards in twenty years?”

  “Blaize!” my dad said. “What is wrong with you?!”

  “I know exactly what’s wrong with him,” Preacher Montgomery said. “He’s been taken!”

  My dad gasped.

  I laughed out loud, which probably didn’t help.

  “Let me ask you, Mr. Trales,” the preacher said. “You said this all happened earlier today. Have you noticed a difference in the boy’s behavior?”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “He’s standoffish and belligerent. He’s not like my son, anymore.”

  That one hurt.

  “You’re the one who won’t look at me,” I said. “You’re the one who wouldn’t even touch me when I was coughing to death. You’re the one who’s changed, not me. I’m just trying to defend myself.”

  “Trying to defend the evil!” Preacher Montgomery exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. Dad nodded along with him like a mating flamingo.

  I wanted to scream, to explain that my gayness didn’t magically appear with the sunrise, to show my dad the son he loved was gay all along. I wanted to do lots of things, but nothing would work. Sinking, I realized the situation was hopeless. For the millionth time, I regretted ever writing the stupid words on that stupid poster. No matter what, though, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me crumple. Clenching my jaw, I pulled my knees up onto my chair and formed a big, impenetrable ball.

  More memories slithered through my head. Dad and I racing after soccer practice (he always let me win); Dad and I shoving peanut butter crackers into our mouths before singing the national anthem; Dad and I doing British accents of Mom as she nagged us about our stinky feet. Things would never be the same.