Actually Invisible, page 6
“Yes.” I wiped my palms on my pants and willed myself to maintain eye contact. “That baby is just as much yours and mine as it is Cam’s and her parents’. Her due date is your birthday, for heaven’s sake. You’ll share that special bond with her, and she will love you forever for so many reasons. You’ll see.”
- 13 -
Monday, March 18, 2019
“Have a good day,” I smiled as the last of my second-period students left my classroom before closing the door and turning to face the empty room, soaking in the silence. Mr. Dunham was probably waiting for me, but I couldn’t go down there without knowing what the rest of Kate’s essay said. What if he had something to talk about that was going to take all period, and I didn’t get to look at it until lunchtime? I would be wondering about it for hours, and that would be too distracting.
I returned to my desk and retrieved Kate’s essay from the top of the pile, scanning it for the place where I had left off.
… I want to be just like that when I get older.
Finally, Mrs. Rein-Thompson is true to herself. It can’t be easy to be a gay teacher so I know that’s why she doesn’t really talk about herself in class but I admire her so much for just being married to a woman at all in the face of criticism from society. The truth is that I am also gay but I don’t know how to tell anyone.
I reread that last sentence and slowly set the essay down on my desk. “Oh, boy,” I said aloud, closing my eyes and shaking my head from side to side quickly, as if to magically arrange the feelings bouncing around inside of me. I picked the paper back up and continued reading:
… The truth is that I am also gay but I don’t know how to tell anyone. My parents are what you might call closed-minded and they think homosexuality is a sin. I know they won’t be okay with it.
In conclusion, Mrs. Rein-Thompson has had a positive effect on my life because she is kind, successful and true to herself and I aspire to be all three of those things.
My palms were sweating as I set the paper down again on my desk and told myself to breathe. I had had a few students privately come out to me before, but not one of them had ever done it in writing—let alone in an actual written assignment that I was supposed to comment on and grade. I whispered, “Calm down. Think before you do anything.”
What kind of comments should I write on it? Should I thank her? Will her parents look in her writing portfolio for the graded assignment that I’ll add to the grade book today?
I hadn’t had any interactions with Kate’s parents at all, aside from a quick hello at Open House at the beginning of the school year. I had never had a reason to contact home because of a low grade or a behavior issue—or even a note to mention that she had gone above and beyond in some way. Kate had always just been quiet and obedient in the back of my fifth-period class.
Should I let the school counselor know?
Yes. I should let the counselor know and try to be as hands-off with the situation as possible. Dom Madden will know what to do and will take it from here.
I wheeled my chair closer to my desk to compose an email to him but found myself daydreaming instead. Kate’s epiphany against a backdrop of religion took me back to seventh-grade when I became friends with Layla who went to the same Catholic school that I did. It wouldn’t be until the following summer that I would be conscious of it, but she was the first girl “in real life” who sparked something in me. Being around her made me sweat, but I also couldn’t get enough of her, even when she talked about all of the boys she had crushes on. I just pretended to like the same boys, too, so I could allow myself to swoon over her while she swooned over them.
I was just beginning to wonder what Layla was doing all these years later when I noticed the time. Somehow, I only had fifteen minutes left in the period. “Shit,” I muttered as I pushed back the chair and rushed out the door to Mr. Dunham’s office.
- 14 -
Mr. Dunham looked at me over the top of his reading glasses as I knocked quietly on his open door. “Come in.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. Behind him hung a floor-to-ceiling “Benson Bulldogs” that featured an angry bulldog wearing a red, white, and blue collar.
“Sorry I’m late. I started grading essays and lost track of time.”
“It’s fine. This won’t take long.” He paused, and I was struck by my sudden daughter-father need for his approval. I lowered myself slowly onto the chair—so as not to thump down on it like my mom has always accused me of doing—and waited for him to speak.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stoneman are very upset with Brandon for what he said to you in class the other day.” He removed his glasses to be able to look at me directly. “I reassured them that teenagers make many mistakes, and this wouldn’t be his last.”
I forced a smile and nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“His mother’s biggest concern is that it doesn’t happen again because she’s worried he will be kicked off of the basketball team with a second suspension. According to the handbook, she’s right.”
I continued nodding, wondering where he was going.
“The thing is,” he placed his palms down on his desk and lowered his voice, “your private life is none of anyone’s business. He had no right to say that to you.”
I was beginning to feel like a bobble head. I hadn’t told Mr. Dunham much about my personal life at all, but these things tend to travel through the grapevine. I didn’t know if I should confirm or explain, so I just kept listening.
“However,” he leaned back in his chair and put his hands on its arms, “to prevent any further problems, it is probably wise for you to not talk about your personal business in the classroom.”
I stopped nodding. I had never once—ever—mentioned anything about being gay in my classroom. In fact, I went out of my way to rarely talk about myself at all, so it didn’t accidentally come up. I heard myself say quietly, “I don’t. I never have.”
He stopped leaning back and sat up straighter. “Listen, I get it. It’s not fair. Just do me a favor, and don’t make any more waves. I already have parents calling and emailing me every day about Lord knows what.”
I blinked. “Okay,” I paused and then continued speaking, surprised by my confidence. “I told you I don’t talk about my wife in front of my classes, and I don’t. But I won’t ever deny who I am to anyone who asks me. I won’t lie. You don’t ask any of the other teachers to keep quiet about their husbands or wives, do you?”
His lips formed a straight line as he considered my question. “I don’t. And I imagine that must be hard for you.”
I felt my brow furrow. “Okay,” I stood up. “The bell is about to ring for third period. Can I go?” I was scolding myself for not thinking to bring union representation to the conversation, but I hadn’t quite anticipated it going in that direction. I had thought maybe he would tell me to go easy on Brandon or maybe even give me some fatherly advice about not letting the words of an adolescent affect my self-esteem.
The bell rang before he could answer, and I turned and walked out. A flood of students flowed around me, laughing and talking with each other. One boy pushed another into a locker, and rather than tell them to knock it off and get to class, I sidestepped them and walked quickly away.
- 15 -
Wednesday, November 8, 2000
The Rocket was waiting outside the school when my friends and I left our musical rehearsal at 9:05. One of them asked if I needed a ride home, and I heard myself lie about my mom coming to pick me up. After I watched them all disappear into the dark parking lot, I smoothed my hair back into my ponytail and took a deep breath before approaching Cameron’s car. I thought about the Jann Arden CD—Living Under June, the one that has the song on it that I had sung to her the night before—that I had put in my backpack that morning, hoping to give it to her as a gift.
She spotted me and pointed to the passenger side door and then leaned over to open it.
“Hi,” I said casually as I got into the passenger seat. “Thanks for picking me up.” She was looking at me with a half-smile, her blue eyes lingering on mine. The butterflies returned.
“Hi there,” she replied. “It’s no problem at all. Have you eaten yet?”
“Just some fries at lunch,” I considered. “I could definitely eat.”
“I know just the place.” She made a right out of the parking lot, toward the highway. We drove in silence for a minute or two before she added, “How about that vote recount? They still don’t know who won.”
“It really is crazy. To think that a few people in Florida could make all the difference is even crazier.”
“You got something against the people in Florida?” she asked.
I mentally kicked myself with the foot I was constantly putting in my mouth. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m just teasing you. I have never even been to Florida, and I don’t know anyone who lives there.” She grinned and looked at me briefly before returning her eyes to the road and getting on the ramp to the highway.
“Oh, good,” I said. “I’m kind of famous for saying whatever is on my mind and offending people, and I thought I had struck again.”
“Nope,” Cameron kept smiling. “And I like a girl who speaks her mind.”
I shifted in my seat, unable to accept that—once again—she was coming on to me. I looked at my knees and couldn’t think of one single thing to say.
She glanced at me. “Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to bite you.”
I laughed nervously. “In the spirit of honesty, you should know I have never dated a girl before.”
“So … you’re not gay?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, I’m super gay. I’ve just never actually dated anyone before.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I suppose there are slim pickin’s around small towns like ours, huh? Well, then, are you calling this a date?”
I stumbled, “Uh, isn’t … I don’t … ”
“I told you to relax!” she scolded me. “Okay, I’ll do the talking for a little bit since you seem to be so nervous.” She pinched my arm playfully. “Yes, this is a date. Last night, when I first saw you, I knew three things: 1) You were a new voter. 2) You were gay. 3) You were gorgeous.”
I couldn’t help but smile, thinking that I may have met my match in the candid speaking department.
“I mean,” she continued, “look at those blue eyes and that delicious curly hair. Don’t even get me started on those long legs.” She bit her lower lip and looked at my legs which were currently covered by my favorite pair of boot-cut jeans. I self-consciously placed the palms of my hands on my thighs, and she took my left hand into her right and squeezed it gently. “Look, I can’t explain why, but I felt an immediate connection to you. I had to pursue it, or I knew I would regret it.”
I paused for a few seconds and then nodded. I had felt it, too. In fact, I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since the night before but didn’t want to wish too hard to see her again because what if she had changed her mind? Or what if it hadn’t happened the way I had remembered it?
I forced myself to speak, “I felt it, too.” I worried that my ears might catch fire, but I knew I would regret it if I stayed silent. “And I’m having a hard time accepting that a girl as hot as you is interested in me. I’ve spent the past four years of my life pining after straight girls, so reciprocation isn’t exactly something I’m used to.”
Cameron snorted. “Oh, honey, we have all been there. Have you really known for four years? What were you, like, fourteen?”
“Absolutely. I knew subconsciously for my entire life, but it didn’t actually hit me until the middle of the night sometime during the summer before my eighth grade year.”
“Oh yeah? What did it for you?” She squinted mischievously in anticipation of my response.
“Well, I had this friend named Layla, and she just always made me feel … well … hot. I never thought about why that was until that night, and I shot up in bed and actually said the words out loud: ‘Whoa, I’m gay.’ It was wild.”
She laughed. “I was a bit of a late bloomer. I think I always knew, but I tried hard to move past it—like I could change it or something. Remember Brad from the other night?”
I nodded, remembering how familiar he had seemed with her.
“He and I dated for literally three years. He was my best friend, and I thought maybe it would turn into something more.” She clicked on her turn signal to get off of the highway. “It never did.”
Suddenly, she seemed more serious than I had seen her before. I didn’t know if I should pry, but I was too curious not to ask some follow-up questions. “So when did you two break up?”
She calculated mentally. “About six months ago.”
“What finally did it for you?” I turned to face her, trying to mimic the mischief she had shown me when asking the same question, but she looked more sad than playful.
“It was a mixture of things, really. There was a girl in one of my classes who had asked me out a few times, and I kept telling her I wasn’t gay and that I was in a relationship with a guy.” She paused. “But then I found myself picturing her when I was kissing Brad, and I knew something wasn’t right.”
A wave of jealousy overwhelmed me as I tried to picture her kissing Brad and—even worse—the girl who got to be in her thoughts.
I was afraid to ask but did, anyway, “So where is that girl now?”
“Oh,” Cameron smiled and glanced at me as she pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be a dive bar. “Josephine Rein, are you jealous? Oh, please tell me you’re jealous.” She parked the car and turned to face me.
“I think you might be changing the subject,” I pointed out. “Look, Cameron, if you and this girl—”
“No,” she interrupted, “I did go out with her a few times, but it didn’t work out. Actually,” she touched my red ear, “she turned out to be really boring. Like, there was just no spark at all. Do your ears always do this when you’re nervous?”
I hunched my shoulders, feeling ticklish. “Yes, actually.”
“It is unbelievably adorable.” She leaned over the center console and gently rubbed her nose back and forth on my ear, making me shudder. “And please,” she said quietly, “call me Cam.”
“You,” I felt breathless, “seem awfully brave for someone who has only been out for six months, Cam.”
She sat back onto the driver’s seat and laughed. “In hindsight, I’ve been imagining making out with girls for my entire life. So I think that counts.”
We both unbuckled our seat-belts and got out of the car, and she said, “This place has the best chicken wings on the planet. Have you ever been here?”
I looked around and didn’t recognize anything about where we were. “I have not.”
“You’re not, like, a vegetarian or anything, are you?” She eyed me.
I laughed. “No. I love chicken wings. Can’t you tell by this,” I motioned to my curvy body, “that food is kind of my specialty?”
“I can think of some other things that might be your specialty,” she whispered and then ran toward the entrance of the restaurant for me to follow her, but she stopped before we got inside.
“You should know,” she turned around and looked seriously into my eyes, “that my family doesn’t know yet.” Her eyes left mine to dart around the parking lot, inspiring me to do the same. No one else was outside. When I looked back at her, her eyes had taken on an unexpected sadness again. “I’m an only child, and my parents are pretty conservative. They still think I’m with Brad, and I haven’t worked up the nerve to tell them otherwise yet. It’s why I brought you here, kind of far from home. I didn’t want to run into anyone I might know.”
I thought for a second, unable to imagine lying to my parents about anything—especially my dad. But I also couldn’t imagine having parents who would judge me harshly for much of anything. I made a mental note to tell her to listen to a particular song on the Jann Arden CD—one about always feeling guilty about something—and said, “I guess I get it. My parents have known since about a week after I realized it because I can’t keep my mouth shut about anything.”
Her eyes were still serious. “Well, I’m sorry to have to ask this, but do you think you could keep us quiet for a while? Like not tell your family? I can just imagine your sister telling her friends, and then her friends telling Brad, and then Brad telling my—”
“Sure. Fine. I don’t have to tell anyone.” I had no idea she would expect me to keep us a secret for years to come. How could I have known? So I didn’t find it to be that big of a deal.
I saw her visibly relax. “Thank you. It just makes everything easier. Now,” her smile returned, “get ready for the chicken wing experience of a lifetime.”
- 16 -
Monday, March 18, 2019
The bell rang for the end of fourth period, and I could feel myself start to clam up because I wasn’t sure if I should mention anything to Kate about her essay when I saw her or if maybe I should just pretend like I hadn’t read it yet, and that would buy me some time.
I walked into the hallway to supervise the class change and smiled at the students passing by, greeting the ones I knew by name and trying not to focus on who was walking through my door. The late bell rang, and I walked into my classroom, announcing a greeting to the class and beginning to explain the journal prompt about identity. Surveying the room, I noticed Kate was absent, even though I had seen her that morning. I made a mental note to remember to send that email to the counselor and to check the attendance list to see if Kate had gone home early.
“Mrs. R.,” a girl from the center of the class called with her hand up.
“What’s up, Madison?”
“Have you ever heard of slam poetry? My cousin was watching slam poetry performances on YouTube last night, and I thought about how you would love it. Today’s journal fits right in with one of the poems I just watched on TikTok this morning.” She looked eager for my reaction.
