Game Changer, page 18
That made me laugh. I didn’t think anything could make me laugh today. Leave it to new-world Hunter.
“So, are you okay with this?” I asked him.
He sat up. “Are you gonna leave?”
“No—why would I leave?”
“When Zach Tyner’s sister came out, she moved to Portland.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not moving to Portland.”
“I’d visit you if you did.”
I offered him a slim smile. “You’re a good brother, Hunter.”
He looked me over. “So, if you’re gay, how come you have such bad fashion sense?”
When your world changes in the normal way—and by normal I mean in a way that leaves you in the same universe—there’s a sort of numbness that comes over you after the initial shock. It’s a protective numbness, I think.
Unlike shifting between universes, when you’ve had a non-supernatural kind of change, such as outing yourself, everyone knows it—or at least it feels like everyone does. You find yourself acting like you’re the center of the universe, even though you’re not. You walk through hallways at school, thinking every giggle, every whisper, is about you, and each glance from people you pass is because they know about your Big Change. Your paradigm shift. And everyone who doesn’t make eye contact with you must be intentionally ignoring you.
That’s how it was for me when I got to school on Tuesday morning—and although part of me knew that a lot of people either were not aware or couldn’t care less about my self-outing yesterday, I was incapable of making the paranoid part of me believe it.
There were some people who clearly knew, though—which, in retrospect, was probably about one-third of the people I thought did. Some were kind, some were cruel, and some were in between.
Before I got to my locker a few people came up to me. A girl I knew, but whose name I didn’t, said, “That was really brave of you, Ash.” I thanked her without giving away the fact that I couldn’t remember her name, then made a mental note to find out her name, just because.
Then there were the unpleasant comments. No one said them to me directly, but they were spoken between friends, and loudly enough to make sure I heard.
“He oughta change his football position to tight end,” I heard someone say—as if he actually believed that was clever and original.
Another kid who overheard turned to me and said, “Don’t waste your energy on them. Losers will be losers.”
It was good advice, but it burned me to just let the guy get away with it. I have always tended toward a quick temper. My parents often advised me that I needed to pick my battles—funny because that advice was most useful against them. I realized that today was a pick-your-battle sort of day. So I let the snide comments roll off my back—but I also kept track of who uttered them, because I am not above payback when the opportunity presents itself.
Through all of this, I didn’t see Paul. I wondered if he decided to stay home today. I almost did—but I knew my absence would be conspicuous. Besides, if people are gonna talk behind my back, I’d rather they do it in front of my face.
Josh Easley—the wide receiver who had taken Leo’s place as my best friend—came up to me while I was at my locker, just before first period.
“So is it true?” he asked. “Or is it a stunt? Because your dad told my dad it was just a stunt.”
It pissed me off that my father was trying to create spin on the situation—but then, maybe he did it before our conversation last night.
“It wasn’t a stunt,” I told Josh.
He nodded. “I didn’t think so.” Then he looked at me, with a kind of searching expression on his face. “So . . . are we still friends?”
It struck me as odd that he’d think we weren’t. “Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
He was relieved. “Okay, good.” Then he left before it could become any more awkward than it already was. All this time I had resented him for taking Leo’s place in my life—but even here, I had chosen my best friend well. It made me a little sad to think that Josh might not even exist in the world I was trying to get back to.
I was called out of third period to go to the school counselor’s office. It came over the classroom’s PA system. Exactly what you want to do: draw attention to the last guy in class to want attention, for the one thing he doesn’t want attention drawn to.
Ms. Metts, our school counselor, sat me down, gave me a look that was supposed to be comforting but just felt creepy, and told me she was aware of what happened yesterday—big surprise. Then she began asking questions that were more annoying than the ones on the history quiz she had pulled me out of. How do you feel? Fine. Do you need to talk? No. Have you spoken with your parents about this? Yes. Are they being supportive? I’ll get back to you on that.
When it became clear that she’d get nothing of substance out of me, she handed me a bunch of full-color pamphlets with headings like “Embracing YOU!” and sent me back to class.
I knew the big challenge of the day would be lunch. I was dreading it, because more than hallways and classrooms, the cafeteria was all about social dynamics. I didn’t even know where I should sit. Should I join my usual group, or would that be too uncomfortable? Should I seek out the LGBTQ clique and sit with them? Or should I sit by myself, as I had been lately, and see who made a point of coming over? Then I saw Paul. Turns out he was late today, avoiding the hallway gauntlet before first period. It looked like Paul had made that last choice of sitting by himself, so I went to sit with him. He didn’t seem all that comfortable when I sat down across from him, though.
“You want me to go?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “No, of course not.” Then he added, “Just . . . just no public displays of affection today, okay? At least not here.”
I wasn’t planning on any, but it irked me a bit to hear him say that. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to come out?” I reminded him. “Weren’t you the one ready to break up with me because you thought I wasn’t ready to?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I didn’t think me coming out would be a major public event. Now it’s like I’m what’s-her-face who married the prince.”
“Naah,” I said. “I’m no prince. At best I’m like . . . the Douche of Windsor.”
He laughed at that. Someone had to.
“Ash, there’s a difference between being out, and being OUT. You didn’t give me a choice! Just because I was ready to go through that door doesn’t mean I wanted you to kick it open.”
“So are you mad at me?”
“Yeah, I am,” he said, without hesitating. And then he added, “But I’m crazy-proud of you, too. Those two feelings are stuck together now. You and I are going to have to deal with that for a while.”
A few people who saw us together came over to give their support, which we accepted graciously—but I could tell that, like me, Paul just wished they would stop. It reminded me of this kid in middle school, who went to a weight loss camp over the summer and came back twenty pounds lighter. Everyone kept going up to him commenting on how good he looked to the point that it was just plain embarrassing.
I spared a glance over at my usual table. Norris and Layton and a few others. I’m sure that Josh was trying to intercede for me there. He didn’t have to—I didn’t want him to—but I’m sure he was doing it anyway. If this had happened in my old world, Leo would have done the same. But then, this wouldn’t have happened in my old world. I shook my head to stop my brain from spiraling into a multidimensional feedback loop.
“Did you get called in by Metts too?” I asked Paul.
He sighed and pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his pocket. This one was all about STDs and had the heading “Protecting YOU!” It seemed all the pamphlets featured the word “YOU” prominently. I guess just in case you started to feel like this was all happening to someone else.
“She’s just doing her job, I guess,” Paul said.
I thought we’d get through lunch unscathed, but toward the end, Layton came over with Katie in tow. Layton sat down right next to me like he was suddenly my best friend—because now it was clear that I wasn’t competing for Katie’s affection. It just made me dislike him even more, which I didn’t think was even possible. Katie sat down as well, offering Paul a warm, understanding smile that was a million times more sincere than anything Layton was offering.
“Dudes,” he said to both Paul and me. “I just wanted you to know that me and Katie are completely supportive of your relationship. In fact we’ve started to call the two of you AshPaul. You like that? AshPaul? I think it’s kind of nice.”
I cringed, Paul looked at me like WTF, and Katie dislodged herself from Layton’s grasp. “We haven’t started calling them anything,” Katie declared. “That was all you.”
Layton grinned at her. “Do I detect some disapproval?” he said. “I thought you’d want me to be all empathetic.”
“If you were really empathetic, you wouldn’t be smirking,” she said. Then she turned to me. “I’m really happy for you, Ash. I know it was a hard decision, and I want you to know that I’m one hundred percent behind you.”
“So’s Paul!” said Layton, like a fart out of his mouth.
Katie stormed off in exasperation and Layton went after her. “What? Whadd-I-do?”
Now it was Paul’s turn to smirk. “Can you believe I had a crush on him in sixth grade? Until he swallowed a live goldfish and got parasites.”
“I think the parasites won,” I said. Our hands were close on the table. Paul nudged my pinkie with his, and I linked them. So much for no public displays.
“You okay?” I asked him.
He nodded, but it was a reluctant nod. “I know it’ll all get better—I just wish I could sleep through this part.”
“I’m down for that,” I told him with a wink.
He gave me a semi-disgusted look. “You’re as bad as Layton.”
Football practice was fun-and-a-half.
Our coach gathered us on the field before practice. “All right,” he said, in his outdoor voice, which I think was the only voice he had. “I am aware that we have a situation today. And, rather than let it fester, we’re going to talk about it.”
I forced myself not to visibly react. Like I said, I was still in a shell of protective numbness. But I did notice there were a few grunts of discomfort from the team.
“Do we gotta?” Norris asked.
“Yeah, we gotta,” said the coach, mocking him, then returned his attention to the rest of us. “Your friend and teammate, Ash, has stepped forward with a major identity reveal this week.” (Major identity reveal. God. I wondered how long he had struggled to come up with that one.) “I’m sure it wasn’t easy, and we need to applaud him for doing it.”
Then in the silence that followed, someone began a slow clap that was silenced by a glare from the coach. He pointed at the culprit and said, “That is exactly the kind of thing I will not tolerate. Ash is an important member of this team, and anyone—anyone—who gives him a hard time, I don’t care who it is, is off the team.”
I was actually impressed. Not every coach would make that kind of commitment. But I also hated the fact that he thought I needed institutional protection from my fellow meatheads.
Everyone shifted a bit, but kept their thoughts to themselves, both good and bad. Except for one kid. Dave Riggins. He existed in my original world but was cut from the team back when we were freshmen.
“What about the locker room?” he said.
“What about it?” asked the coach. He knew where Riggins was going but wasn’t going to let him get away without actually asking the question.
“I mean, what if I’m in there, and I’m feeling . . . what’s the word . . . objectified?”
I took it upon myself to answer his question. “Don’t worry, Riggins,” I said. “I’ve seen the object you’re talking about. Trust me, you don’t have to worry.”
That got a round of snickers and razzes.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Riggins said.
And that was that. The coach had set the ground rules, and the team would live by them. I think they were actually relieved.
Practice that day was the same as always, and then in the locker room nobody bothered me. You’ll find this funny, but this new wrinkle in my life took up so much headspace that the bigger issue—the world-shifting one—had been pushed to my mind’s back burner. I’d noticed that once I acclimated to a new reality, it became dominant. As if all of the other worlds were receding toward some mental horizon—and the further away a world got, the less real it seemed. There were times that I had to remind myself how many worlds away from home I actually was.
While I don’t want to dwell on my grand out-fest any more than I already have, I think it’s worth noting how things went that night at home. As I’ve said, since becoming rich, family dinners were a rare thing. It was the same that night—there was takeout that we all ate in our own bubbles, on our own schedules. But as I grabbed a plate of food from the kitchen, both Mom and Dad were there, and the lack of conversation, while typical on other days, felt conspicuous today. I couldn’t stand it.
“Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” I asked.
My father turned to me. He didn’t seem angry, or judgmental, like I thought he might be; he just looked tired. “What do you want us to do, Ash?” he said. “Get out Hunter’s guitar and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”
To which I replied, “I . . . I don’t even know what that is.”
He sighed. “Listen,” he said. “This is how things are now, and we’ll all get used to it. We’ll get used to it, and everything will be fine.” Then he asked me if I had read the articles about “other football players like you,” which he had forwarded to me. I’d been avoiding email, so I hadn’t seen them yet, but I told him I’d read them.
“It’s just to show you that you’re in good company,” he said, with actual enthusiasm.
“One thing’s for sure,” my mom said. “With something like this, you find out who your friends are . . . and who you wish weren’t your friends.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I might have just taken my plate and left after that, but I didn’t. It was the way my father said “football players like you.” He still couldn’t bring himself to say the word “gay.”
“I know you’re disappointed in me,” I told them. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
They looked at each other, for a moment unsure of how to respond.
“No, Ash,” Dad said. “I’d be disappointed in you if you flunked out of school. I’d be disappointed in you if you went to a party and drove home drunk. I’d be disappointed if you went back to pretending like this thing you told us yesterday wasn’t true.”
“You mean like you wanted him to pretend?” my mother reminded him.
My dad sighed. “I needed to come to my senses.” Then he added, “I’m still coming to my senses.”
“Disappointment isn’t about the things a person is,” my mom said. “It’s about the things they do.”
I immediately thought about the fact that, even in this world, I was a bona fide drug dealer. They would definitely have been disappointed in me if they knew that. Which meant that, given the choice, they would rather me be gay than be a drug dealer. There had to be a way for me to take some twisted comfort in that, right? The problem was, in this world, I was both.
“I only have one thing to ask,” Dad said. “Just please . . .” he said, “please don’t bring Paul over.”
I began to protest, but he put up his hand. “For now. For a while. Just give us time to get used to this.”
“Will you?” I asked. “Get used to it?”
He took a moment to really weigh his response. “Yes,” he said. “Because I won’t accept the alternative.”
The alternative, as we all knew, was when parents put up an emotional wall between themselves and their gay kid, removing themselves from that kid’s life in every way that mattered. I’m glad that, when it came down to it, my parents were against building that wall.
“We’ll invite Paul over for Thanksgiving,” my mother announced.
My dad looked at her, considered it, then nodded. “Agreed. Thanksgiving.”
“Great,” said Hunter, who was, as always, listening in. “Can I bring my boyfriend, too?”
Both our parents froze in place until Hunter grinned and said, “Gotcha!” Then he high-fived me and went back upstairs.
I called Leo that night and told him about my two days of drama. He actually wanted to hear, and while I didn’t want to talk to anyone else about it, I found myself spilling my guts to him. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he was a best friend I could talk to in another world, or maybe the opposite. Maybe it was because this version of Leo didn’t even know me, so there was no history to make it awkward. In all worlds, Leo was a good listener—not just a pretend listener like a lot of people I know.
“I’ll be at your game on Friday,” he told me. “Even if I have to watch from the other side of the fence.”
“You won’t,” I assured him, although I couldn’t be sure. More reason to hit hard enough to get us all home.
I thought I had until Friday to prepare for whatever I might dive into next. I did not expect I’d be facing a Wednesday smackdown.
16
Expunged, Expelled, and Otherwise Obliterated
I had promised Hunter I would have the guts to stop selling, and I was true to my word. I hadn’t sold a single illegal substance for more than a week. Whenever a regular customer came in asking, I said it was no longer available, and gave them a complimentary bottle of vitamins instead. And I had made sure to be at the store last week, when Ralston came by with his usual deliveries of both legitimate and illegitimate goods, so I could refuse the illegal stuff.
“Sorry, man,” I told him. “I’m just selling standard supplements now.” And I gave him back all the drugs he had left the week before.
“No exit strategy?” he asked.
“You exit,” I told him. “That’s my strategy.”
He took the drugs and left without another word.
“So, are you okay with this?” I asked him.
He sat up. “Are you gonna leave?”
“No—why would I leave?”
“When Zach Tyner’s sister came out, she moved to Portland.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not moving to Portland.”
“I’d visit you if you did.”
I offered him a slim smile. “You’re a good brother, Hunter.”
He looked me over. “So, if you’re gay, how come you have such bad fashion sense?”
When your world changes in the normal way—and by normal I mean in a way that leaves you in the same universe—there’s a sort of numbness that comes over you after the initial shock. It’s a protective numbness, I think.
Unlike shifting between universes, when you’ve had a non-supernatural kind of change, such as outing yourself, everyone knows it—or at least it feels like everyone does. You find yourself acting like you’re the center of the universe, even though you’re not. You walk through hallways at school, thinking every giggle, every whisper, is about you, and each glance from people you pass is because they know about your Big Change. Your paradigm shift. And everyone who doesn’t make eye contact with you must be intentionally ignoring you.
That’s how it was for me when I got to school on Tuesday morning—and although part of me knew that a lot of people either were not aware or couldn’t care less about my self-outing yesterday, I was incapable of making the paranoid part of me believe it.
There were some people who clearly knew, though—which, in retrospect, was probably about one-third of the people I thought did. Some were kind, some were cruel, and some were in between.
Before I got to my locker a few people came up to me. A girl I knew, but whose name I didn’t, said, “That was really brave of you, Ash.” I thanked her without giving away the fact that I couldn’t remember her name, then made a mental note to find out her name, just because.
Then there were the unpleasant comments. No one said them to me directly, but they were spoken between friends, and loudly enough to make sure I heard.
“He oughta change his football position to tight end,” I heard someone say—as if he actually believed that was clever and original.
Another kid who overheard turned to me and said, “Don’t waste your energy on them. Losers will be losers.”
It was good advice, but it burned me to just let the guy get away with it. I have always tended toward a quick temper. My parents often advised me that I needed to pick my battles—funny because that advice was most useful against them. I realized that today was a pick-your-battle sort of day. So I let the snide comments roll off my back—but I also kept track of who uttered them, because I am not above payback when the opportunity presents itself.
Through all of this, I didn’t see Paul. I wondered if he decided to stay home today. I almost did—but I knew my absence would be conspicuous. Besides, if people are gonna talk behind my back, I’d rather they do it in front of my face.
Josh Easley—the wide receiver who had taken Leo’s place as my best friend—came up to me while I was at my locker, just before first period.
“So is it true?” he asked. “Or is it a stunt? Because your dad told my dad it was just a stunt.”
It pissed me off that my father was trying to create spin on the situation—but then, maybe he did it before our conversation last night.
“It wasn’t a stunt,” I told Josh.
He nodded. “I didn’t think so.” Then he looked at me, with a kind of searching expression on his face. “So . . . are we still friends?”
It struck me as odd that he’d think we weren’t. “Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
He was relieved. “Okay, good.” Then he left before it could become any more awkward than it already was. All this time I had resented him for taking Leo’s place in my life—but even here, I had chosen my best friend well. It made me a little sad to think that Josh might not even exist in the world I was trying to get back to.
I was called out of third period to go to the school counselor’s office. It came over the classroom’s PA system. Exactly what you want to do: draw attention to the last guy in class to want attention, for the one thing he doesn’t want attention drawn to.
Ms. Metts, our school counselor, sat me down, gave me a look that was supposed to be comforting but just felt creepy, and told me she was aware of what happened yesterday—big surprise. Then she began asking questions that were more annoying than the ones on the history quiz she had pulled me out of. How do you feel? Fine. Do you need to talk? No. Have you spoken with your parents about this? Yes. Are they being supportive? I’ll get back to you on that.
When it became clear that she’d get nothing of substance out of me, she handed me a bunch of full-color pamphlets with headings like “Embracing YOU!” and sent me back to class.
I knew the big challenge of the day would be lunch. I was dreading it, because more than hallways and classrooms, the cafeteria was all about social dynamics. I didn’t even know where I should sit. Should I join my usual group, or would that be too uncomfortable? Should I seek out the LGBTQ clique and sit with them? Or should I sit by myself, as I had been lately, and see who made a point of coming over? Then I saw Paul. Turns out he was late today, avoiding the hallway gauntlet before first period. It looked like Paul had made that last choice of sitting by himself, so I went to sit with him. He didn’t seem all that comfortable when I sat down across from him, though.
“You want me to go?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “No, of course not.” Then he added, “Just . . . just no public displays of affection today, okay? At least not here.”
I wasn’t planning on any, but it irked me a bit to hear him say that. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to come out?” I reminded him. “Weren’t you the one ready to break up with me because you thought I wasn’t ready to?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I didn’t think me coming out would be a major public event. Now it’s like I’m what’s-her-face who married the prince.”
“Naah,” I said. “I’m no prince. At best I’m like . . . the Douche of Windsor.”
He laughed at that. Someone had to.
“Ash, there’s a difference between being out, and being OUT. You didn’t give me a choice! Just because I was ready to go through that door doesn’t mean I wanted you to kick it open.”
“So are you mad at me?”
“Yeah, I am,” he said, without hesitating. And then he added, “But I’m crazy-proud of you, too. Those two feelings are stuck together now. You and I are going to have to deal with that for a while.”
A few people who saw us together came over to give their support, which we accepted graciously—but I could tell that, like me, Paul just wished they would stop. It reminded me of this kid in middle school, who went to a weight loss camp over the summer and came back twenty pounds lighter. Everyone kept going up to him commenting on how good he looked to the point that it was just plain embarrassing.
I spared a glance over at my usual table. Norris and Layton and a few others. I’m sure that Josh was trying to intercede for me there. He didn’t have to—I didn’t want him to—but I’m sure he was doing it anyway. If this had happened in my old world, Leo would have done the same. But then, this wouldn’t have happened in my old world. I shook my head to stop my brain from spiraling into a multidimensional feedback loop.
“Did you get called in by Metts too?” I asked Paul.
He sighed and pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his pocket. This one was all about STDs and had the heading “Protecting YOU!” It seemed all the pamphlets featured the word “YOU” prominently. I guess just in case you started to feel like this was all happening to someone else.
“She’s just doing her job, I guess,” Paul said.
I thought we’d get through lunch unscathed, but toward the end, Layton came over with Katie in tow. Layton sat down right next to me like he was suddenly my best friend—because now it was clear that I wasn’t competing for Katie’s affection. It just made me dislike him even more, which I didn’t think was even possible. Katie sat down as well, offering Paul a warm, understanding smile that was a million times more sincere than anything Layton was offering.
“Dudes,” he said to both Paul and me. “I just wanted you to know that me and Katie are completely supportive of your relationship. In fact we’ve started to call the two of you AshPaul. You like that? AshPaul? I think it’s kind of nice.”
I cringed, Paul looked at me like WTF, and Katie dislodged herself from Layton’s grasp. “We haven’t started calling them anything,” Katie declared. “That was all you.”
Layton grinned at her. “Do I detect some disapproval?” he said. “I thought you’d want me to be all empathetic.”
“If you were really empathetic, you wouldn’t be smirking,” she said. Then she turned to me. “I’m really happy for you, Ash. I know it was a hard decision, and I want you to know that I’m one hundred percent behind you.”
“So’s Paul!” said Layton, like a fart out of his mouth.
Katie stormed off in exasperation and Layton went after her. “What? Whadd-I-do?”
Now it was Paul’s turn to smirk. “Can you believe I had a crush on him in sixth grade? Until he swallowed a live goldfish and got parasites.”
“I think the parasites won,” I said. Our hands were close on the table. Paul nudged my pinkie with his, and I linked them. So much for no public displays.
“You okay?” I asked him.
He nodded, but it was a reluctant nod. “I know it’ll all get better—I just wish I could sleep through this part.”
“I’m down for that,” I told him with a wink.
He gave me a semi-disgusted look. “You’re as bad as Layton.”
Football practice was fun-and-a-half.
Our coach gathered us on the field before practice. “All right,” he said, in his outdoor voice, which I think was the only voice he had. “I am aware that we have a situation today. And, rather than let it fester, we’re going to talk about it.”
I forced myself not to visibly react. Like I said, I was still in a shell of protective numbness. But I did notice there were a few grunts of discomfort from the team.
“Do we gotta?” Norris asked.
“Yeah, we gotta,” said the coach, mocking him, then returned his attention to the rest of us. “Your friend and teammate, Ash, has stepped forward with a major identity reveal this week.” (Major identity reveal. God. I wondered how long he had struggled to come up with that one.) “I’m sure it wasn’t easy, and we need to applaud him for doing it.”
Then in the silence that followed, someone began a slow clap that was silenced by a glare from the coach. He pointed at the culprit and said, “That is exactly the kind of thing I will not tolerate. Ash is an important member of this team, and anyone—anyone—who gives him a hard time, I don’t care who it is, is off the team.”
I was actually impressed. Not every coach would make that kind of commitment. But I also hated the fact that he thought I needed institutional protection from my fellow meatheads.
Everyone shifted a bit, but kept their thoughts to themselves, both good and bad. Except for one kid. Dave Riggins. He existed in my original world but was cut from the team back when we were freshmen.
“What about the locker room?” he said.
“What about it?” asked the coach. He knew where Riggins was going but wasn’t going to let him get away without actually asking the question.
“I mean, what if I’m in there, and I’m feeling . . . what’s the word . . . objectified?”
I took it upon myself to answer his question. “Don’t worry, Riggins,” I said. “I’ve seen the object you’re talking about. Trust me, you don’t have to worry.”
That got a round of snickers and razzes.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Riggins said.
And that was that. The coach had set the ground rules, and the team would live by them. I think they were actually relieved.
Practice that day was the same as always, and then in the locker room nobody bothered me. You’ll find this funny, but this new wrinkle in my life took up so much headspace that the bigger issue—the world-shifting one—had been pushed to my mind’s back burner. I’d noticed that once I acclimated to a new reality, it became dominant. As if all of the other worlds were receding toward some mental horizon—and the further away a world got, the less real it seemed. There were times that I had to remind myself how many worlds away from home I actually was.
While I don’t want to dwell on my grand out-fest any more than I already have, I think it’s worth noting how things went that night at home. As I’ve said, since becoming rich, family dinners were a rare thing. It was the same that night—there was takeout that we all ate in our own bubbles, on our own schedules. But as I grabbed a plate of food from the kitchen, both Mom and Dad were there, and the lack of conversation, while typical on other days, felt conspicuous today. I couldn’t stand it.
“Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” I asked.
My father turned to me. He didn’t seem angry, or judgmental, like I thought he might be; he just looked tired. “What do you want us to do, Ash?” he said. “Get out Hunter’s guitar and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”
To which I replied, “I . . . I don’t even know what that is.”
He sighed. “Listen,” he said. “This is how things are now, and we’ll all get used to it. We’ll get used to it, and everything will be fine.” Then he asked me if I had read the articles about “other football players like you,” which he had forwarded to me. I’d been avoiding email, so I hadn’t seen them yet, but I told him I’d read them.
“It’s just to show you that you’re in good company,” he said, with actual enthusiasm.
“One thing’s for sure,” my mom said. “With something like this, you find out who your friends are . . . and who you wish weren’t your friends.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I might have just taken my plate and left after that, but I didn’t. It was the way my father said “football players like you.” He still couldn’t bring himself to say the word “gay.”
“I know you’re disappointed in me,” I told them. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
They looked at each other, for a moment unsure of how to respond.
“No, Ash,” Dad said. “I’d be disappointed in you if you flunked out of school. I’d be disappointed in you if you went to a party and drove home drunk. I’d be disappointed if you went back to pretending like this thing you told us yesterday wasn’t true.”
“You mean like you wanted him to pretend?” my mother reminded him.
My dad sighed. “I needed to come to my senses.” Then he added, “I’m still coming to my senses.”
“Disappointment isn’t about the things a person is,” my mom said. “It’s about the things they do.”
I immediately thought about the fact that, even in this world, I was a bona fide drug dealer. They would definitely have been disappointed in me if they knew that. Which meant that, given the choice, they would rather me be gay than be a drug dealer. There had to be a way for me to take some twisted comfort in that, right? The problem was, in this world, I was both.
“I only have one thing to ask,” Dad said. “Just please . . .” he said, “please don’t bring Paul over.”
I began to protest, but he put up his hand. “For now. For a while. Just give us time to get used to this.”
“Will you?” I asked. “Get used to it?”
He took a moment to really weigh his response. “Yes,” he said. “Because I won’t accept the alternative.”
The alternative, as we all knew, was when parents put up an emotional wall between themselves and their gay kid, removing themselves from that kid’s life in every way that mattered. I’m glad that, when it came down to it, my parents were against building that wall.
“We’ll invite Paul over for Thanksgiving,” my mother announced.
My dad looked at her, considered it, then nodded. “Agreed. Thanksgiving.”
“Great,” said Hunter, who was, as always, listening in. “Can I bring my boyfriend, too?”
Both our parents froze in place until Hunter grinned and said, “Gotcha!” Then he high-fived me and went back upstairs.
I called Leo that night and told him about my two days of drama. He actually wanted to hear, and while I didn’t want to talk to anyone else about it, I found myself spilling my guts to him. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he was a best friend I could talk to in another world, or maybe the opposite. Maybe it was because this version of Leo didn’t even know me, so there was no history to make it awkward. In all worlds, Leo was a good listener—not just a pretend listener like a lot of people I know.
“I’ll be at your game on Friday,” he told me. “Even if I have to watch from the other side of the fence.”
“You won’t,” I assured him, although I couldn’t be sure. More reason to hit hard enough to get us all home.
I thought I had until Friday to prepare for whatever I might dive into next. I did not expect I’d be facing a Wednesday smackdown.
16
Expunged, Expelled, and Otherwise Obliterated
I had promised Hunter I would have the guts to stop selling, and I was true to my word. I hadn’t sold a single illegal substance for more than a week. Whenever a regular customer came in asking, I said it was no longer available, and gave them a complimentary bottle of vitamins instead. And I had made sure to be at the store last week, when Ralston came by with his usual deliveries of both legitimate and illegitimate goods, so I could refuse the illegal stuff.
“Sorry, man,” I told him. “I’m just selling standard supplements now.” And I gave him back all the drugs he had left the week before.
“No exit strategy?” he asked.
“You exit,” I told him. “That’s my strategy.”
He took the drugs and left without another word.
