A.C. Wolfe
Starting my writing career one word at a time
Chapter 1: December 13th (12 days until Christmas)
The foggy bathroom mirror leers at me. “Mom, Dad,” I say as confidently as I can. Then I scoff. Who am I kidding? I’m twenty seven. I’ve got my own house. I don’t need to do this. But deep down in the pit of my ribs, I know that’s not true. I have to do this. Mom. Dad. I have something to tell-- No, that’s not right. Hi Ma, hi— no. Too friendly. Hi guys. Definite no. Why is this so hard? Why is it so hard to find the right words? Should I just outright say it? I’m lesbian. No. That won’t go over well. But I can’t not say something. I need to get this crushing weight off my chest. Who knew two words could be so heavy? I guess I’ll stick with “I've got something to tell you.” I think that’s my best bet, as sad as that is. “Dear God,” I murmur, kneeling down onto the cold tiles. “Please help them understand. I know I’m not a sinner. Thank you, Amen.” I wrap the red and green scarf tightly around my neck. I can feel each individual thread tickle my neck. Oh Lord help me. Give me strength to do this. Let my confidence be as large as the number of threads in this scarf. Let their tolerance be as true as the cold air. A deep breath steels me against the December wind. I take it in steps. That’s how I do everything. Step one: open the bathroom door. Step two: step out. Step three: walk down the hallway. Step four: open the front door. I only have time to plan those out. Thinking any farther ahead makes my brain hurt. Unusual for me. It shows the toll this secret has been taking on me. I'm lesbian. The first time I thought that I only let it come in as a whisper. Too small to matter. Not important. Not real. But now it's so loud that it's a miracle everyone in my small Mormon community hasn't heard it. I guess it was last year when I realized it. I had never liked men, and I thought girls were cute, but I didn't know it was out of the ordinary. I thought it was just a phase. But while we Mormons have strict ideals compared to the rest of the world, we aren't archaic monsters. We have computers and internet. Some people I've met think we don't. We aren't the Amish. So I looked it up. And voila, there's a word for it. Lesbian. I'm lesbian. And naturally, I couldn't just leave it at that. So I learned more about it. Which inevitably led to one thing: Being gay is a sin. And after that I've prayed, every day. I prayed, please God, forgive me. I didn't choose for this to happen. Well now, walking through frigid weather to my parents' house, now it's time to see if God heard me. "Skye, what a pleasant surprise," my mom says, always one for the pleasantries. "Skye?" my dad asks, a more reasonable amount of skepticism in his voice. "I-I've got something to tell you guys," I stammer. Words clog in my throat. "What is it, honey?" Mom says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I think I'm..." The words get stuck in my stomach again, unable to come out for many long seconds. "I think I'm lesbian," I manage. I look down. I don't need to see the shock bloom on their faces. I don't need to see my dad's eyes harden like twin diamonds. I don't need to see angry mascara tears well in my mother's eyes. I can feel her hand go slack and fall from my shoulder. I can hear the rough gasp in his voice. And I can imagine it all just fine. "Tell me it isn't true," my mother says. The woman who once called me Sweet Pea and who I once lovingly called Mommy, who once picked me up off the dirt and told me to always be kind, would now resort to calling me a faggot and a sinner. “It is,” I say as firmly as I can. Mom turns to Dad, a helpless look in her eyes, and I regret looking up so I have to see the betrayal that waits there. “Skye,” says my dad, in a voice harder than his diamond eyes. “You are no daughter of ours.” I feel tears spring to my face, and Mom lets her waterworks flow. “I’m sorry, Skye,” she says. “But your father is right. We can’t have…” She trails off without needing to finish. I let my own tears go free. “Mama,” I whisper. I never get to finish the sentence. Dad finished it for me, punctuation in the form of slamming doors. I stare at the sign. MERRY CHRISTMAS! To think I was so stupid, believing I could be forgiven. No matter how close it is to Christmas, my parents’ ideas won’t change. They won’t accept me. I prayed to God, and He didn’t answer. I guess I really am a sinner. But it doesn’t matter, because what I really am is alone. I lost Dorothy Keplar last week when I told her. She decided to never talk to me again. And her parents have shot me the worst glares. The entirety of Mason, no, the entirety of the world, will never accept me. They’ll beat me down with insults. The kind that cut you like a butcher knife, and shoot through you like bullets at the speed of sound. Suddenly a bullet through my head sounds really nice. I might as well face God. I might as well die, since I’ve already sinned. And God has made it obvious that He doesn’t want to save me. I’m alone and it’s only twelve days until Christmas. Twelve days until my parents will host their big party, full of delicious food and wonderful people… but it won’t include me. The rest of their lives will not include me. I can’t live in that house anymore. It’s too close to them. How can I live knowing that even my own parents won’t accept me? If they won’t accept me, no one will. The thought of putting a bullet through my head offers a strange kind of comfort. I do have that .38 under my pillow. I got it for when I go out of town. There are some screwy people outside of my perfect little town. Christmas Day. It’s only fitting that I wait till Christmas Day. The day Jesus was born, the day a lonely sinner dies. Steps flood into my brain. One: go get the gun. Two: find a way to live on the streets, in a world that hates me. Three: Shoot myself on Christmas day. I need to write a letter to my parents. Even if they don’t accept me, even if I deserve to die, they still should know that I am gone. But how to write it? Time to work on that later. For now, I have to get that gun. I know as soon as I get within town limits that this is a bad idea. Everyone is lining the street, twin expressions of hate and malice on each face. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. The world isn’t ready to accept me. Mrs. Robin even throws a rock at me. It clips my knee and a crippling bolt of white-hot pain shoots up my leg. “Faggot,” she whispers. Her comment spreads like wildfire, repeating itself out of every mouth. “Faggot. Faggot. Faggot.” An animalistic chant, primitive and painful. My knee throbs in time to the chants. The louder they get, the more it hurts. I have to get that gun, along with my meager supply of cash. But with every word, I get weaker. At this rate I won’t make it to my house. The house. It’s not mine anymore. My perfect little Christian town. We are good, God-fearing people. We have rules, morals. We follow them. But now my beautiful, quaint town full of beautiful, quaint people has been reduced to a beautiful, quaint pile of scrabbling lunatics. I was always taught that evolution was real. The earth is round. I went to a public school. I might be Christian but Father Granger always taught us that science is just logical magic. Science fascinates me. I’ve had so many people tell me that the earth is flat, and it’s only a couple thousand years old. Even other Mormons. But our town has been… progressive. But listening to this chant, hearing the rocks hit the door with a sound like cannonfire, I realize that evolution must be real. This bunch of rabid things has too much animal blood in them. And our town’s claim of being progressive and tolerant is a lie. Just because we have one African-American family living here with us doesn’t mean we aren’t racist. I’ve heard the comments swirling around, the dirty gossip. I used to believe it. But this? This has made me question everything. What rumors will they spread about me? “Faggot, faggot, faggot…” I can hear it through the doors. I have nowhere to go. No one to go to. And I belong on the streets. Out with the rest of the dirty people. I deserve to die. It’s a good thing my house has a back door. I hear no psychotic screams from this way. With a couple hundred dollars in cash, a gun with six bullets, and a cloud of depression over my judgement, I open the door. **** I need a plan. I’ve made my way into the city, sort of. There aren’t any skyscrapers yet. On the outskirts of the city the only buildings are crack houses and run down tattoo shops that have HIV written all over it. Even though I’m safely three miles away from home by now, I can hear their faint, mocking words, or word, on my mind. Faggot. Faggot. Faggot. But no matter how many times I hear the word, I will not go into the crack houses. I have standards. I have to survive until the 25th, not die of an overdose or a hate crime. But you also can’t die of cold, my mind unhelpfully tells me. I don’t want to go into these houses full of dark-faced, red-nosed rapist drug-users. I don’t want to-- But I have to. With a deep breath, I walk over to the nearest door. It’s entirely made of plywood, with a red X on the front. Below that is a grungy yellow slip of paper. NO TRESSPASSING. No shit, Sherlock. For a moment I chastise myself for cursing. I can’t blaspheme-- But I’ve already sinned, so what does it matter. I can say whatever I want. Fuck God. As much as it hurts me to say those words, it also lifts a huge weight off my shoulders. God abandoned me. I am no longer in His jurisdiction. That gives me triumph for a millisecond, but then I feel totally alone. Alone in a cold, draft, unlit shack. It’s dark and every step protests my presence. “Who ‘dere,” says a thick, slurred voice. “Dis my hole.” From the voice my mind conquers an image of one of those immigrant scumbags that my dad always talks about. The thick, knotty black hair, those black demon eyes. The torn clothing. The way they don’t speak right. I almost go forward with my assumptions, until the man steps into the light. It’s none of the above. It’s a teen boy squatting over a thick pipe. He’s white and his eyes are crystal blue— just like my dad’s. “I said,” the kid drawls. “Dis my hole. You deaf or some shit?” “I need somewhere to—” “Fuck off, bitch. You look like you got cash. You got some cash?” “No, I—” “What, is dis you charity project or some Good Ole’ American Bullshit?” “I got kicked out of my—” “Lady, I don’t got time for this. The only way I care is if you got cash or you some sorta fancy pimp.” “I’m not—” “Den you jus’ git yo ass out that front door, girl.” “Girl?” Outrage blossoms out of my mouth. “I’m not a girl. I’m older than—” “I don’t give a shit what yo’ age is. It’s impolite to ask, and it impolite to tell. Dontchu know that, prep school pimp?” “I’m not—” “I don’t care. Git outta my squat hut, girl.” His cold blue eyes leer at me. How’d you get outta your rich white home? they ask. How does it feel to taste karma for being a “bitch?” It feels awful, if I’m being honest. I turn my back and suddenly one hand closes around my wrist. Shudders convulse through my body. “What’s that you got in yo’ pocket, pimp?” I close my eyes before wheeling around to face him, a cold feeling threatening to make me totally numb. Now facing him, I close my hands around the end of my .38, the handle smooth and cold like the air. That’s what he saw sticking out of my pocket. Shit. “Why do you want to know?” The .38 gives me confidence. I’m really glad I went back for this gun, even if… a lump rises in my throat. Even if. Let’s leave it at that. Too painful to finish the sentence. In front of me, the squatter flicks open a lighter. The sudden brightness in my eyes fills my vision with spots. On instinct I whip out the gun. He stares at it cross eyed, one eye covered by a straggly mop of dirty blonde hair. “Oh,” he says. I back up, my foot landing with a crunch in a pile of… I don’t want to know what. “Stay there and I won’t shoot you.” “Oh-kay, sweetie.” I grit my teeth, fingers bone white with the effort of restraining myself from pulling the trigger. “And don’t call me that.” One foot in front of the other. One foot behind the other, actually. I’m walking backwards. Right before the light reveals me, I put the gun back in my pocket. Still staring at the boy, I wrap my scarf around my waist, hiding the gun. The gun. The only Christmas present I’ll be getting this year. But I don’t deserve presents. I don’t deserve my loving family. I’m a sinner. I’ve abandoned God. But he’s abandoned me, too. I keep backing up, my hands clenched. If he comes at me I’ll… What will I do? I have zero fight training. He looks like he’s been on his own for years. He’ll pound me. But that doesn’t stop my hands from balling into porcelain-white fists. My feet hit solid sidewalk, and it feels like pure happiness. Safety. But I keep backing up. My fingers are turning red from cold, evolving from pale white to strawberry red in a matter of seconds. The crack house might not be the best place to have shelter, but at least it blocked most of the wind. Out here, you were at the mercy of nature. Suddenly the space around me glowed bright orange. Am I dying? The sound of a blaring horn helps me realize that I am not, in fact, dying. But I might if I don’t get out of the way of the car-- “Girl, are you tryin’ to get run over?” yells a voice. I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the house. The boy shrinks into the shadows. No use getting his hidey hole discovered in the winter. Then where does he go? Now all I feel is pity, not for me, but for the kid. What did he do to deserve-- “Are you deaf?” says the woman in front of me. She’s in a neon yellow vest with reflective white stripes. “I… no.” “Lady you jus’ about gave me a heart attack.” “S-sorry.” The woman in front of me gives me a once over, and then follows my eyes to the crack house. I tear my eyes away to look at her. She looks around my age, a few inches taller and more than a few pounds heavier, too. Her skin shines a luminant brown. Where normal people always look stoned in the winter, she seemed to glow, like an angel. “What was a respectable woman like you-self doin’ in that shit hole?” she asks. “Ain’t got no business in there, do ya?” “N-no,” I stammer. My fingers itch and burn with cold. I bite my lip but I can’t stop the shakes that take over my body. “Oh damn, girl, you look cold as hell. Come on.” “Huh?” The woman guides a hand around my shoulder. The contact makes me flinch, but she seems impervious to my discomfort. I almost admire that. “My shift is over,” she says. “And you look cold. And hungry. Fuck, it’s Christmas. Least I can do after I almost killed ya.” She jerks a thumb behind her. “Can’t see shit in that thing.” I follow her finger to the enormous salt truck a few feet away. It’s decorated in the same colors as she is. Brown and neon. The thing towers over me. It would have squashed me like a bug. A sense of dull fear pounds into my skull. I can’t die until the 25th. It’s my last tribute to God. Since I’ve betrayed Him in this life, I might as well honor Him in the next. “Thanks,” I say, but she’s already guiding me into the truck. As much as I feel awkward, I have to admit that I am thankful to be out of the cold. Thank God for this wonderful woman. “So what your name,” asks the woman, starting up the truck with a roar and giving me a blanket. I’m in the passenger seat, my hands clenched tightly together in my lap. The blanket falls over them, it’s pale blue surface obscuring them from my view. “Skye,” I say at last, as a huge plume of white steam chugs from the front of the truck. “Just Skye? Okay. Well, my name is Raina Turner. Nice to meetcha.” “Nice to meet you too.” The goosebumps fade from my arms as the salt truck heats up. The blanket, although thin, is surprisingly warm. “So, what’s your story?” “I’d rather not talk about it just yet.” “Ah,” Raina says. “I see. You been in some shit. ‘S okay, we all got our days.” “Thank you,” I say with surprising genuinity. “You don’t have to help me.” “So,” Raina says with a cackle. “You admit you need help, then.” “Wha—” “Chil, girl, I is just messin’ wit’ you.” I smile. The way she says girl doesn’t annoy me the way the boy in the house did. It makes me feel included. Like I’m part of some inner circle. “So how’s about you stay at my house for a bit?” “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” I say quickly, even though the idea sounds amazing. “Oh yes, you could. And you will. ‘Tis the season, you know.” “Thank you.” I feel like I’ve said those two words too much in this conversation. Raina shuts the truck off, it makes a sound like a heaving sigh. “It ain’t much,” she says, gesturing at an apartment complex. “But that’s life.” A week ago, I would have thought this tiny apartment complex was hideous. I’d never set foot within a mile radius. But today, this place looked damn close to heaven. “It’s okay,” I say. “I really have to thank you again. I can’t believe it.” “I mean, you’ll have to deal with my parents. They can be a real pain in the ass. You won’t be thankin’ me then.” “Oh, I think I will,” I say. “Family is important. Even when they aren’t the best.” “Yeah,” Raina says, leaning her head back. “I guess you right.” The informal way she speaks and her grammatically incorrect sentences both annoy me and put me at ease, all at the same time. “So you ready?” “When you are, I guess.” Raina opens her door and a flood of freezing air comes rushing in. She hops down and makes her way around to my door before I can even blink. She opens the door and beckons me out. I smile and grab her hand to steady my way down. Her palm is warm despite the bitter weather outside. It sends warmth through my whole body, starting in my fingertips and spreading out like sinking into a warm swimming pool. She lets go of my hand to open the door and all the cold I’d been avoiding comes rushing back. We rush inside and take the elevator up three floors. Raina opens the first door on the left. “You late, Raina,” says a deep male voice. “Sorry Dad,” Raina says. “I brought us a visitor.” “Ooh!” says another low voice. “Look at that. Our Raina, the social butterfly.” Next to me Raina flushes, before wiping the emotion off her face and walking into the room. I follow behind her like a bridal train, loose and useless. “Who is this?” a pale, heavyset man asks. “She looks pretty,” says the African-American woman by his side. I blink, trying to conceal my shock. A mixed race couple? I mean, I know they exist… but there definitely weren’t any in my community. Although it’s not my community anymore. I don’t deserve to be a part of it. The thought mellows me despite the woman’s cheery energy. She looks pretty. The compliment finally trickles into my ears and it makes me blush. “This is Skye,” Raina says. “Please don’t embarrass me, Mama. It’s bad enough that I almost ran her over.” “You did what?” the woman bellows in a voice too big for her slight frame. “Girl, why didn’t you say so? I’ll get some hot cocoa right aways.” “You don’t need to—” I start. “Oh hush, honey. Miss. Turner gon’ take care o’ y’all.” Raina leans over to me. “I warned you,” she whispers with a grin. “They crazy.” I can’t help but smile. “It’s all good.” I suddenly feel self conscious. I must look horrible right now, flushed from cold, my hair messy from the relentless wind. “Can I use the restroom?” “I’ll take you,” Raina says quickly. “Follow me.” She takes my hand— again— and pulls me out of the kitchen and into a small dining room. On one end of the dining room is a door with a sign. RESTROOM, the sign proclaims in navy blue painted letters. “Thanks,” I say, marvelling at how three people can live in one apartment. So far all I’ve seen is four rooms, the entry room, the kitchen, the dining room, and now this tiny bathroom. I feel bad for them. It must be a hard life. This space is barely big enough for one person. I walk into the bathroom and lock the door, staring at the photo above the sink across from the toilet. My pity vanishes, replaced by awe. The picture showed a much younger Raina in between both of her parents, who looked exactly the same. Raina has braces, her smile wide and beautiful. There’s a gap between her front teeth. My parents don’t have family pictures in their house. In fact, they barely have any photos at all. It seems like this tiny apartment, rather than tearing them apart with conflict, has brought them closer together. Maybe a bigger house doesn’t necessarily mean a better home. Maybe my middle class, white, suburban house wasn’t perfect just because it costs an exorbitant amount of money. Maybe these people, living paycheck-to-paycheck on minimum wage have a better life than I ever did. I come out of that bathroom not looking any better, but feeling on top of the world. I was too preoccupied with the photo to look at myself in the tiny pocket-size mirror sitting on the sink. I don’t need to pity these people. They have a wonderful life, even if it isn’t a particularly lucrative one. By the time I get back into the kitchen, the kettle is whistling like a mailman. With expert speed and uncanny precision, Mrs. Turner pours the boiling water into four cups. Red, green, purple, and yellow. She hands the red one to Raina and the green one to me. Christmas colors. Symbolic of the day I’m going to take my life. Then she lifts the steaming yellow cup of unstirred hot chocolate and downs a large gulp. Now that takes skill. How did she not fry her taste buds? The green cup fills my hands with a dizzying warmth, like I’m suspended over a large open fire. Raina, one hand holding her cup and the other clutching two spoons, beckons me into the dining room. “C’mere, sit down, stay a while.” I stare at the table. There are only three seats. “But—” “Mama never sits down,” she says, picking up on my discomfort. She pats the seat next to her. “My mama never was much of a sitter. She likes to get it done, you know?” I nod, pulling the chair out. Even the few inches showcases the lack of space. When I sit down, my back touches the wall. “She showin’ off for you, you know.” “Huh?” “My mom. That trick with the boiling water,” Raina says, stirring her hot chocolate. “She does that all the time to new people.” “It’s pretty impressive.” “Yeah, it is, but once you see it enough times it becomes mundane. You dig?” “Yeah. I… I get it.” Raina leans towards me, one elbow on the table. “Wanna know how she does it?” she says with a fiery glint in her dark brown eyes. “Wait… do you know how to do it?” Raina laughs. “Aw hell yeah, girl. Watch.” She pinches her nose with a brilliant smile, one that is soon obscured by the coffee mug. She sets down the cup and it sloshes. “Wow,” I say. Raina grins. “So, wanna know how?” Her radiant face reminds me of the Daniels’ kid. He is around six or seven and his smile could light up Hell. That kid had a smile like Jesus himself, and none of us were talking shit on Jesus. Funny. I’ve never said a swear word in my life before today, and already it is so easy. I mean, I almost haven’t. I did say “damn you” to a teacher once. I cried afterwards though, so that doesn’t count. Tears are pretty close to repenting, if you ask me. Mr. Turner walks in and sits at the third chair, while his energetic wife paces around behind him. “So what’s your story?” he asks. “You seem like a nice gal.” “I found her comin’ out o’ one of those houses on third street. You know the ones I mean,” Raina says. “Now that ain’t no way to spend yo’ Christmas,” Mrs. Turner says. “What got you down on that part of town?” “I’d… rather not talk about it,” I mutter, facing my head into the milky brown liquid of my hot chocolate. I take a large sip. The chocolate is no longe boiling hot. It’s now cool enough that I can take a sip without scalding my mouth. The rich liquid fills my stomach with a warm glow, erasing all the bad feelings and replacing them with comfort. “You can make a mean hot chocolate, Mrs. Turner,” I say with a frothy smile, a sad but effective way to change the subject.. Mrs. Turner smiles back. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says. “And please, just call me Missus T. That’s what everyone calls me.” “Alright,” I say. “Can do.” “And there’s more where that came from,” says Mr. Turner. “This lady right here can make food out of sand.” “You too kind,” Mrs. T says. “Love you, hon.” “Love you too.” “So,” Raina says. “I was figuring… since Skye obviously has some problems this season… that maybe she could stay until they get worked out?” “I can’t—” “That’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. T says, clapping her hands together. “As long as you’re okay with sleepin’ on da couch.” “That’s okay,” I say, feeling unable to refuse. Why are these people being so kind to me? I’m just some random sinner picked up off the street. “But why?” “We Turners are big on karma,” Mrs. T says. “We almost run you over, we got to make up for it.” Karma. Bad karma must be coming my way, with all the sins I’ve committed today. I don’t want to inflict that punishment on this wonderful family. But I can see in Mrs. T’s eyes that she isn’t going to sway from her opinion. I’m staying. No question about it. Raina leads me back to the living room. One wall is decorated in more cute family photos just like the one in the bathroom. I get the feeling that I’ll be able to sleep really well, with them watching over me. This is a family of saints. Saint Turner. I like the sound of that. Raina turns the light off with a smile at me. “You think you’ll be good for the night?” “Yeah,” I manage, before succumbing to the exhaustion pressing on my eyelids. I’ve had a long day. And it feels amazing to finally feel safe. What will I tell her about being lesbian? If everyone in my community is a homophobe, who’s to say the whole world isn’t? But I don’t want to spoil their generosity. Tomorrow I’ll be out of here and I’ll never have to see them again. Chapter 2: December 14th (11 days until Christmas) “Good morning.” Raina’s voice wakes me up to the smell of coffee. “Want breakfast? You'd better hurry up, or else it'll be lunch.” That wakes me up. What time is it? I don't realize I've voiced that though aloud until Raina responds. “Ten thirty.” “Oh God,” I say, jumping up. “I'm so sorry.” “What in God's name are you sorry for, girl?” Raina asks, grabbing my wrist and dragging me into the dining room. “Everybody needs them sleep.” “Coffee?” Mrs. Turner— I mean Mrs. T— asks me as I walk in. “No thanks,” I say quickly. “I'm Mormon.” The words don't seem true, but at any rate I'm not willing to add another sin to my list. But is it really fair to have drinking coffee as an unforgivable sin? With all the wonderful stuff Raina and her family have done for me, they can't possibly go to Hell just because of their morning drink choice… Right? “Oh,” says Raina. “I'm sorry if we did anything to—” Thinking of my parents, I say “You know what? Fuck it. I'm having that damn coffee, even if I go to Hell.” The words don't seem like a rebellion against God, merely a rebellion against the stifling culture of my parents. Both Raina and her mom look astonished by my outburst. “Well,” Raina says. “If you want.” Mrs. T hands me a full mug. It's warm but it seems to have cooled down enough. I take a large sip. It tastes bitter, like a stale cookie in liquid form. But it was surprisingly good. The biting taste hit me with a feeling of energy and strength. It sure didn't feel like I had just sinned. It felt like I had just taken my first step out of an archaic society. “That's good,” I say to Mrs. T. She smiles. “Thank you, child.” She doesn't say child in a patronizing way. She says child the way someone would say friend. Like it's a good thing. Like it's a blessing. “So,” Raina says. “You've never had coffee before?” “Nope. I think I'm officially no longer Mormon.” “Sorry,” Raina says. “What in God's name are you sorry for, girl?” I say, mimicking what she said earlier. Mrs. T busts into laughter. “Ha! She sounds just like you, Ray-Ray!” “Oh God, Mom, please don't call me that," Raina moans. “You know I hate that.” “As long as you livin' under my house, I can call you whatever I want. Deal?” “Ugh.” Raina fakes a pout. “Fine.” “Good to see we agree, Ray-Ray.” Raina slaps a hand to her face. “You're impossible, Mama.” “Thanks, girl. I try.” “You succeed. Is Dad at work already?” “Already! Girl, it’s almost noon! Yes, he’s gone.” “It’s not noon, Mama. It’s not even eleven o’clock yet!” “Oh whatever. Same difference. It’s late. I been up since six.” “Good for you,” Raina says. Despite their argumentative attitudes, both of them are grinning. Watching them bicker is surprisingly comforting. The way they “fight” makes them seem inseparable, like best friends, not mother and daughter. “It’s a Saturday,” I say. “Where does he work?” “He works as a receptionist at the International Pet Rescue. He’s a good man. He takes the shift no one else wants.” “That’s awesome,” I say with real sincerity. “That takes a lot of nobility.” “That’s my dad for you. Noble as fuck,” Raina says. I take another large sip of coffee. “That’s really cool.” “Where does your dad work?” “He’s a pastor.” “Another noble line of work, if you ask me,” Mrs. T says. “We might not be the most religious family on the block,” “Definitely not,” Raina interjects. “But I’ve got respect for that line of work,” Mrs. T finishes with a dirty look at Raina. “The pancakes are done.” She dumps a pile of palm-sized disks of pure deliciousness onto my plate, and an equally enormous pile onto Raina’s. Then she takes three from the remaining pile and sits them neatly into her plate. Raina shovels an entire pancake into her mouth. “So, do you have a problem with coming to work with me?” Raina asks. “I’ve got a shift from noon till two. It gets boring easily.” “That’s fine,” I say. “I have nothing better to do.” “I feel that,” Mrs. T says. “I’m the only one in this family who doesn’t work on Saturdays.” “Where do you work?” “I work as a waitress. Nothing fancy.” “But,” Raina interjects with a wide smile. “She makes the best jambalaya this side of Wyoming. And she gets great tips. She probably makes more than me and dad combined with all that.” “I used to want to own a restaurant,” Mrs. T says. “But that kind of didn’t happen, because I had Raina at seventeen.” “Yeah. With Dad’s brother,” Raina adds. “Huh?” I can’t help but reply. “Okay,” Raina says. “I love telling this story.” “Talk away,” Mrs. T says, rolling her eyes. “But if you don’t finish your pancakes, they’re mine.” “So much for your diet,” Raina says with a snort, gesturing at her mom’s plate. “Continue.” “So anyway, my mom got smashed by my uncle, AKA my biological dad. Then when he found out she was pregnant, he left. Dad, my biological uncle, felt bad and so offered to help her with the baby and shit. Then, well… they got married. How’s that for fucked up family reunions? ‘Hey John, how’s my kid doing?’ ‘She’s doing great, and by the way, she wants to know why you abandoned her.’ Awkward. But hey, it’s okay. I’d rather have my uncle as my dad. If Mister Fuck-And-Run doesn’t want me, then I don’t want him.” “That is screwy,” I say, unsure of a better reaction. “One day, I might have a restaurant,” Mrs. T says longingly. “But for now… I’ve got bigger things in my life than some childhood dream. Family is the most important thing, remember that, Skye.” “Even when your dad-slash-uncle is a deadbeat fuckboy,” Raina adds. My mouth goes dry. “I-I’ll remember,” I say softly. “It’s eleven thirty,” Mrs. T says, saving me from the “are you sure?” that I saw in Raina’s eyes. “You should head to work.” “Okay. Come on, Skye. Let’s do this.” “Let’s do this.” **** The salting complex (is that what you would call it? No one salted the roads in Mason. We shoveled it.) towers above us like an evil beast. Coming out of its mouth are rows and rows of neon trucks. They file down a thin road and split off into different directions. Each one marches like a soldier ant to do its civic duty. One by one, they spill into the world. Raina climbs into one parked in garage number 315 with expert speed. She reaches her calloused hand to my fingers. “Come on up, girlie,” she says in an obnoxious accent. “We got ourselves a journey.” Hesitating for only a mere second, I grab it. She yanks my arm with an insane amount of pure strength and I land in the driver’s seat— on Raina’s lap. Faster than a flood, a blush blooms on my face. I can feel the heat and embarrassment wash over me in waves. “Sorry,” I say fast, trying to push myself up and ending face to face with her. She stares at me and laughs. “You’re okay, girl,” she says with a contagious grin. I feel my lip curl, not into an expression of disgust, but into a smile. “Sorry.” “Girl, I swear to Jesus. Stop apologizing.” “Sorry,” I say again as I climb over her into the passenger seat. My moment of being flustered passes. I’m back to normal. “Damn you.” “Don’t bother,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “I’m already going to Hell.” “Are you talking about the coffee?” Raina asks, looking at me in concern. I guess I didn’t keep it light enough. “No. It’s… something else.” “Does it have something to do with you coming out of a crack house yesterday?” “Yes.” That, at least, I can answer. Raina, sensing my uncomfortable mood, starts the engine, thankfully without asking any more questions. I, however, ask a lot more questions. What does this button do, what happens when you pull that lever, how does this work, all those kinds of things. I’d never been in a machine like this before. It was strange and new and wonderful, made even more so by Raina’s unceasing patience. By the end of the day I could probably have driven a salt truck myself. But I didn’t. Not today. Probably not ever. I have eleven days left to live. I won’t waste any of them on driving a salt truck. That’s not something on my bucket list. I reflect back on my day of smiles and laughter with a bittersweet feeling. Raina and her family are such amazing people. Better than I ever will be. Raina’s curly black hair and shining almond eyes and how they glow when she’s happy. Her teeth and how they shine when she laughs. Her teeth are perfectly straight. Not like mine. I used to beg my parents for braces, which seems weird, but it’s true. They never got me any, and my teeth have stayed as crooked as me. Her mother’s easygoing nature, her father’s kind face and smooth words. They had a closeness that I could only wish to have in my own life. Especially since my mother and father will never talk to me again. “So how was work?” Raina asks her dad, a simple question with layers of meaning behind it that I didn’t understand. “It was fine, I suppose,” Mr. Turner says. “No one says ‘suppose’ anymore, Dad. It’s archaic.” “You just said it. Besides, who says ‘archaic’ in everyday conversation?” “Me.” “Well there you go. We all have our quirks.” “I love you, Dad.” “And I love you too, Ray-Ray.” Raina glares at him. “Did you talk to Mama today?” she says with a combination of suspicion and amusement. “I plead the fifth.” “You know Raina, an easy way to get out of the house would be finding a husband.” “Mom!” “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry hon, I forgot. You know me.” “Forgot what?” I can’t help but ask. Raina shoots a warning look at Mrs. T, who either ignores it or doesn’t see it at all. “I’d rather not right now, Ma—” “Raina’s lesbian,” Mrs. T says, interrupting Raina’s sentence. My world grinds to halt. She’s lesbian. Okay. I’m not the only lesbian in the world. No, what shakes me is her mom. The nonchalant way she says it, as if it doesn’t matter. Raina’s a sinner too? I stand up in my chair and stumble out of the room. “Too soon, Ma, too soon.” “Sorry honey.” I can hear their conversation, but it sounds like it’s underwater. Far away from me. Raina’s lesbian. Raina’s lesbian. Raina’s lesbian. Raina’s lesbian. This can’t be happening. No way. Of all the coincidences… I open the door to the apartment complex and sprint down the stairs and into the parking lot. It’s vast and open. Only a smattering of vehicles are here. I guess people are doing a lot of traveling right about now. Heedless to my surroundings I slump against a tan Chevy Impala. An old model. I can picture the rust peeling off of it and onto my so easily that I wonder if I have eyes in the back of my head. The tan paint peeling away to reveal the ugly red of rust. I guess humans are like that. You take off your skin and you’re just a heap of useless rust. I curl up into the side of the car. It might be rusty, but it’s all I have. Raina’s lesbian. Raina’s lesbian. Raina’s lesbian. Raina’s lesbian. She should join you, a small voice in my head says. Join you on Christmas day. Kill two dykes with one bullet. But Raina’s not a dyke. I am. I am the sinner. Not her. I’ve done too much wrong. She’s innocent. Maybe if I die on Christmas I can save her soul, too. I can sacrifice myself to God knowing that I’ll go to Hell, but at least I can protect her from going to Hell, too. All I have to do is wait. Wait for eleven more days and then pull the trigger. Behind me, the door to the complex opens, spilling light onto the street in front of me. A shadow fills the light, and then I hear the door close. Someone has come after me. I don’t even need to ask who. It’s obviously Raina. But after hearing a loud beep in the car next to me, I jump and scurry away. It’s not Raina. It’s some random person going for a drive late at night. Late at night. It really is late. Later than I meant to stay. I should be gone. I should be. “That’s two times I’ve almost run you over,” Raina says in my ear, making me jump. “Now I double owe you. “You don’t owe me anything,” I murmur. “What?” “You don’t owe me anything.” “Listen,” Raina says. “I should have told you. I get it. You’re Mormon. You have your beliefs, and I have mine, and—” “That’s not why,” I say, and suddenly tears well in my eyes. I sniff and try to force them back. It’s just the cold weather. It’s… My thought is interrupted by my own heavy sobs. Suddenly, all I can do is rock back and forth, bury my head in my arms, and cry. It’s just the snow. It’s just the cold. But it’s not. I’m crying and I can’t control it, can’t stop, can’t do anything but sob helplessly and watch my tears splatter into the sloppy pavement. I’m such a baby. And Raina’s watching, watching me fall apart like some spineless, weak, disgusting, sinful, evil… A hand closes around mine, and the rusty car on my side is replaced by warm flesh. “Why don’t you tell me,” Raina says. “I can keep a secret. It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” She repeats her last two sentences over and over to me. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” And she did get me. She held me like I was her own child. Like her mother probably did to her when she was a kid. She held me and for a moment I forgot about being a sinner. I forgot about my parents, about the gun, about the twenty-fifth. I forgot about being lesbian. All I can remember is her laugh in the salt truck. Her beautiful laugh in the salt truck. Still sobbing, I manage to shift my lips into a smile. Chapter 3: December 15th (10 days until Christmas) At quarter past twelve I’m done with my crying fit and Raina is no longer acting like a mother. Except for one thing: she insists I stay with them another night. That’s a second night that I’ve encroached on their generosity, on their lives. They obviously aren’t well off. Why waste that money on me, when I’m only going to be on this earth for a little while longer? But Raina would have none of it. Just like the first night, I was again forced to stay, even with the crushing guilt weighing on my heart and soul. But unlike the first night, I didn’t sleep. All I could do was think about the last hour that transpired. “Raina’s lesbian” kept echoing in my skull, but so did everything. I burst into tears. She held my hand. She held my hand. She comforted me. She made me feel okay. And I still do feel okay, mostly. I haven’t told her about my parents, but I guess I don’t need to. Those tears got all of the nastiness out of my system. For one, terrifying moment, I contemplated giving up on my suicide plan. But then the moment passed. I can’t live. I’m not worthy of this life. I’m just another floating speck. No, I’m worse than a speck. I’m a virus. I’m spreading all of my shit to others. So here I am, alone and awake on a couch that isn’t mine, in an apartment that isn’t mine, in a city that isn’t mine. In a world that isn’t mine. Nothing is mine anymore. Not even my body. The Turner family has one clock in their entire house. It’s never there when you need it during the day (especially when you’re a millennial like me who can’t read analogue) and it’s incessant ticking is always there when you don’t want it. Like right now. My body moves in time to the second hand. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth… Exhaustion burrows into my soul with the repetitive motions, and my insomnia vanishes, to be replaced by blurred vision and slowly closing eyelids. **** Today I wake up earlier than everyone else. December 15th. I have ten days. But what am I going to do? I can’t just stay here with Raina and her family. They won’t want me here much longer. Maybe I could shoot myself early… I’m sure God will be fine with it. Actually he’ll be more than fine. My death will taint his son’s birthday. I could do it today. I could. I know I could. Right now. I let my hand crawl under my pillow and close my hand around the shaft of the gun. All of this could be over. I just have to pull the trigger. Not here. Somewhere else. Maybe down at that crack house. There no one will pay much attention to a stray gunshot. A stray body. A dead virus on the floor. I have to walk. **** The door creaks open with a sound like a dying cat. It screeches in my ears and then fades to nothing. The silence that comes after I open the door is unnerving. “Dis my— oh, it’s the fancy girl. Whatchu doin’ here, whore?” I don’t bother to reply. I stare at the gun in my hands and then at the lowlife. Maybe someone who hears my gunshot will come in here and save him from this life. At least, that’s what I want to believe. I’m not that naive. He’ll go to jail, and when he gets released, he’ll go back to drugs, and then back to jail, and so it will go on until he dies. I slump against the wall but leap away when I feel it give under my weight, resorting to crouching on the ground. The gun feels warm in my hand. I raise it to the side of my skull, just under my ear. The barrel is cold and wet, and it feels like the fingers of Death are pushed into my neck. “Hey, girlie, what you doing wit’ that?” Despite the cold, I break into a sweat. I’m not the only lesbian. Being lesbian is okay. No, that’s the sin talking. My resolve renewed, I press the gun into my temple with fresh vigor. My finger on the trigger-- “Skye!” Raina comes crashing through the door. “What are you doing?” I drop the gun to my side, hoping against hope that she didn’t see me, but also knowing that she did. Why else would she be here, other than to stop me? She doesn’t know about my mission. She doesn’t know about my sin. She doesn’t know that I have to do this. I guess that's my curse. I can't confide. No one will understand what I'm doing. “Give that to me,” Raina says, staring me down. “Oi! I didn't invite a whole fuckin' party in here!” “Shut up,” Raina snaps. “I'm tryin' to save my friend.” “Oh, so you chicks are friends?” “Yes! Now shut up and sit down.” While he backs into the shadows, Raina grabs my wrist, the one holding the gun. She doesn't bother to wrestle it from my grasp, but my hands tighten all the same, knowing such a situation is inevitable. At some point, she will try to stop me. I guess God wants me to wait until the twenty fifth, after all. Just a few more days. A few more days, and I'll no longer be a burden to Raina's family. I'll be alone. The way I deserve to be. Raina's arm tightens around my wrist and she drags me into her car in stony silence. That hurts the most. The silence. The silence lasts all the way until we get back to the apartment building. That's when the moment I've been dreading arrives. “Give me that.” Her voice starts out low and kind, but insistent. I fear what will happen if I refuse. But I can't give up this gun. It's my last chance. “No,” I say in the same tone as her. “It's mine.” “The thing with guns is,” Raina says, slumping into a saggy armchair. “They is only good for hurtin’ and killin’ things.” “It’s to protect myself.” “Yeah, and trying to shoot yourself is protection, right?” “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t so help me. Help me understand why you snuck off at four thirty in the morning to go into a crack house and shoot yourself.” “Raina—” “Start talking, girl. Sit.” I don’t sit. I stare her down and start backing away. Raina stops me with the most intense stare I’ve ever seen. “I said sit.” With much trepidation, I sit down on the ottoman across the room. “You got some explaining to do.” “I said my parents were Mormon, didn’t I?” “You said you were Mormon. I kind of assumed. Because, you know. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That kind of thing.” “Yeah, well in this case, it does,” I say, knitting my hands together in my lap. “I came out to them. It… didn’t go well.” “So that’s why you flipped out yesterday,” Raina says. “No offense.” “Yeah,” I say, not bothering to address her “no offense” comment. “But why the gun? Why the suicide plot?” “I’d think that’d be self-explanatory.” “No. It’s not. So why?” “I’m a sinner. Why else?” “Woah, woah, woah. Why are you a sinner? Because you’re lesbian?” I stare at her in stony silence. “So what does that make me?” “You’ve done enough good to make up for it.” “Right. Like almost running you over. I don’t live a virtuous life any more than you do.” “You and your family are such amazing people. Me, not so much.” “And what gives you that idea?” God has spoken to me, I want to say. But instead, I say nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t want to have this conversation. I just want to take my gun and leave. Leave this earth for good. Leave this life for good. I don’t have time for Raina’s lectures. I don’t have time to justify myself. I just want to be left alone. But none of these thoughts that scream in my head make it to my lips. “Why do you care?” is what comes out instead. “Why do I matter to you? You’ve known me for all of three days.” “I guess,” Raina says, pushing a lock of curly black hair out of her face. “I guess I was hoping for a Christmas miracle.” “Yeah? Me too. I guess we’re both disappointed.” “Well, you’ve got ten more days for that miracle to happen,” Raina says. I can see defiance flare across her face like a slap. “Don’t you give up jus’ yet, girl.” “Right. Ten days to change the opinion of the entire world.” “Entire world? What for? You on a mission or something?” “There’s no one out there who’ll accept me for who I am.” “So what, do I not count? Does my mom not count? Does my dad not count?” “You guys won’t be able to support me forever. I can’t keep being a burden to you.” “So that’s what this is.” Raina says. “You think we’re that bad off, huh?” “I mean—” “We might not be rich. We might even be working class. But we aren’t poor. And we certainly aren’t bad off enough that we live paycheck to paycheck. We certainly have enough room for you. You aren’t very high maintenance.” “You’re just saying that.” “No. You’re just saying that. You’re just saying that because we live in an apartment, we’re poor and struggling to survive.” “That’s not what I—” “Oh hush, it is too what you meant and you know it. Well I can tell you now, I wouldn’t have invited you to my house if we couldn’t handle it. I might be makin’ little better than minimum wage but I know how to manage it.” I try to stand and she just points at me. As if she’s controlling me, that finger forces me to sit back down. “I just…” I pause, waiting for her to interrupt me. “I just don’t want to live in a world without my family. My community. The place I spent my whole life in, the people I spent years around, and they just… poof. Abandoned me. If those people who’ve been around me for twenty seven years can’t accept me, then who can?” “Me, for starters,” Mrs. T says, walking into the room. “I haven’t heard much of this, but I ain’t deaf, and y’all are making one helluva racket.” “Sorry, Mama,” Raina says. “Skye here snuck out at four thirty in the fuckin’ morning to shoot herself in one o’ them crack houses.” “Well that sounds like a problem to me,” Mrs. T says. “What’s wrong, hon?” She stares directly at me. Her chocolate brown eyes are filled with kindness. These people, this family, is full of saints. Pure saints. “She thinks she’s some kind of sinner, Mama,” Raina says for me. “Just ‘cause she’s lesbian.” “Well why do you think that?” “Her parents didn’t handle it like they should’ve.” I like the way Mrs. T is both looking and talking to me, even though she knows I won’t answer. Raina is my voice. I turn to start out of the room. I don’t need to be in this room, or this conversation, or even this house. I need to be dead. “Ey!” Mrs. T snaps. “Siddown, child. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” “I—” “I don’t care,” she says with the same stubbornness as her daughter. “I don’t care if God himself came right down from above and called you. You is gonna sit down.” “I—” “Did you hear a word I just said?” I close my eyes and crumple back into the ottoman. “Now. I want to hear it from you. What made you go out there and try to commit suicide?” “I don’t belong here. I just want my family, my community, to accept me. If they can’t accept me, well, I must be doing something wrong.” “You know,” Mrs. T muses. “That reasoning makes sense. It really does. But why suicide? There are many different ways to combat homophobia.” “Homo-what?” “Oh girl, you’re lesbian and you’ve never heard of homophobia? That there’s your problem,” Raina says with a depressing attempt at a smile. “Shush, child. A homophobe is someone who doesn’t approve of people like you and raina. They are close-minded, and they believe that everything should be a fixed way. They is old fashioned. You know.” “That sounds like them,” I say. “So… what? Is it a disease? Can it be cured?” “Is it a disease? Sure. I guess you could say that. The thing is, just a while ago, being lesbian, being anything like that, wasn’t allowed. Your parents, and their parents before them, were raised in a close-minded world. Some of them still hold on to the beliefs they learned as kids. Some of them, like me, don’t.” “Can I help them?” I ask. That’s the only question I have that matters. Great. Close-mindedness, homophobia, whatever. I just want my parents back. I just want my friends back, and my neighbors back. I just want my life. I just want my life. “That depends. Sometimes you can, you just have to break it in slowly. Sometimes, though… you can’t do anything.” “We don’t talk to my dad’s parents anymore,” Raina says. “They just… couldn’t do it. And some people are like that. But if they really love you, you can make them understand. Slowly but surely, you can help them.” “I… I think I can help them. I think they love me. But what if they don't? What if they don't accept me?” “Only time will tell,” Mrs. T says. “But if you keep trying, someone will be there for you. You just have to try.” “And if no one wants you back, then you're too good for them,” Raina says. “My mama taught me that a long time ago. It's a good way to live.” “Or maybe I'm too bad for them.” “Maybe so. But I promise that if you live your best life possible, then your God won't fault you. He'll fault them.” “You think?” “Yeah. I'm a human. We all think,” Mrs. T says with a chuckle. “Don't worry. I know so, child. I know so.” “She does,” Raina says. “If I've learned one thing in my twenty years of life, it's that Mama is always right. Always.” “Well, if you say so.” I can feel a heavy weight rising off of my chest. All the knots and knobs and ridges of my body are loosening. Mrs. T is a good woman. She could be right about me. About all of this. But, I remind myself, she could be wrong. Even good people are wrong sometimes. But she could be right. Or wrong. Or right. Does it even matter? My body and my mind are opposites. They're torn. How do you survive in a body that wants to live when your mind wishes to die? When your mind wishes solely for the Judgement Day to arrive and sweep you off your feet? How do you live when you know you don't deserve to? How do you listen to your mind and your body all at once? It's too complex, it's too complicated. I've always used my head to figure things out. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to use my head. I'm siding with my brain. Like I always do. It's gotten me this far. Surely it can get me through the next ten days. All I have to do is hold on to this gun for ten days. That's a little over a week. I've made it this far. I can protect this gun. Which seems a lot easier when I don't have to think about the two strong-willed, amazing women in front of me who could take it from me easier than taking candy from a baby (not that they would ever do that). “Skye? You good?” Raina asks. “I guess.” I say. “Just to be safe,” Mrs. T says. “We can't let you have access to that gun. I'm sure Raina told you. Guns is only good for hurtin' people. And right now, the 'people' I'm worried about is you. You, Skye.” “You can't have it.” “You wanna rethink that answer?” Mrs. T says, standing up to her full six-foot height. “Because you'll either give it to me, or I'll take it.” “You can't have it,” I say, tucking the gun into the pocket of my jeans and sitting on it. It's the first time this morning that I've willingly sat down. “It's mine and I need it.” “You don't need it,” Mrs. T says calmly. “You only think you do. It's psychology.” “I don't give a fuck what it is!” I scream, something inside my body cracking and burning, reduced to nothing inside my rib cage. “I don't give a fuck! It's my gun and you can't have it!” I raise the gun and point it at Mrs. T's chest. I might not be a huntsman, but at close range, I know I'll hit her. “Mama! Skye! Please don't hurt my mama!” I blink away tears. It's too bad. She's a saint. She deserves to be in this world. But she's trying to stop me. Despite my gun she takes a step towards me. And then another. And another. And then she grabs the gun and pulls it out of my hands. More like I drop it into her hands. “Called your bluff,” she says softly. “You is a good person, Skye. I know you is. That's why I'm gon' keep you alive, girlie. You got so much to live for. You is young and beautiful. You gotta keep on keepin' on. You hear me? Keep on keepin' on. I learned that from my mama.” She raises her unoccupied hand to my shoulder. “We'll get your family on board. Just you wait and see. Just you wait.” “I… I’m not a faggot, am I, Mrs. T?” “Well of course you are! But why’s that a bad thing?” Raina just nods, unable to put it more eloquently than her mother. Even I am rendered speechless by the incredible kindness of these people. Even when they have so little, they’re still willing to give it all to me. A random stranger. “Come on,” Raina says. “Let’s go find your parents. We’ll break them in. Together.” “I think it would be better if I do it alone,” I say, recalling the racism of my town. Raina nods, understanding without any extra words. I think she’s some kind of mind reader. “If you say so,” Mrs. T says, sharing the same insight as her child. The two of them are peas in a pod. They act the same, they talk the same. They both have the same insane confidence and kindness. “Remember, Skye: there’s still time for a Christmas miracle,” Raina says with a warm smile. I offer my best smile back, but it feels stale and unnatural. The only emotion in my heart is pure fear. Can I face my parents, even after their cruel rebuttal of me? Do they even want to see me? Do I even want to see them? Faggot, faggot, faggot. Will they chant that at me again? Will I have to face the insults and cruelty again? Am I a faggot? Well of course you are! But why’s that a bad thing? I can do this. “You can come back anytime,” Mrs. T says. “Especially if things don’t work out.” This statement doesn’t help me at all. But at least it feels good knowing that I have a group of amazing people on my side. **** This time there are no people lining the streets and chanting at me. The streets are empty. Lifeless. Desolate. Probably because it’s only six in the morning on a Sunday. But I know my parents will be up. They always wake up at the crack of dawn to pray. I remember that fact annoying the hell out of me when I was younger. But now, I'm thankful for it. I can talk to them alone, without the oppression of our neighbors and friends. Please Lord, give me my parents back. Please. That's all I want. I just want my family. “Well who could it be at this hour in the morning?” I hear my mom ask on the other side of the door. “It seems a bit early for the Smiths to pick up their stuff. “It's probably Leslie. You know her baby is due soon. Go answer.” “Okay, David. I got it.” I hear her hand hit the doorknob before I see it. I have just enough time to back up. “Hi, Mama. I've come back.” I expected a lecture. I expected an angry scream. I expected a slap. I got none of these. Instead, my mama reaches her arms around me and hugs me close to her, with a scream not of anger but of joy. “David!” she yells. “David! Our baby has come back! It's Skye!” “What?” he bellows in a more appropriate angry tone. “What the hell is that dyke doing here?” “David!” Mom turns around and faces him with an angry sound like a squeaking penguin. “She's our daughter! Why... why should it matter what she likes? She's our own flesh and blood!” “She's a faggot is what she is! She's tainting our family! You see the way Julia and the Winters look at us! It's her fault!” “Dad, I—” “What are you doing here?” “Let her talk, David!” “Dad... I just want my family back. Why can't you accept me?” My tears fall, freer by the question holding me back. “Why can't you just accept me?” The second time I say it the words come out bitter and angry. They should accept me. I'm not a sinner. I haven't done anything wrong. I haven’t. Please, God... I beg to the sky one last time. Please. If there is anyone out there. I just want to go home. I just want to go home. “David, you see how this is killing her,” my mom says. “Why should we do this to her? You sent her out on the streets, for God’s sake!” “I did what was best for us!” “No. You did what was best for you.” I stared at both of them, shocked. My parents had never, and I mean never, fought in front of me. Ever. People were always talking about the latest disagreements within their family, but I never had any juicy gossip to share. They never fought. And here they were, all but screaming at eachother, furthermore, screaming about me. Fighting over me. It was as if 20 years of disagreements were pouring out right now, erupting into a screaming match. “Mom! Dad! Please!” Both of them stop their nonsensical yells to look at me. At first I don’t know what I’m going to say, but then the words jump out of my mouth faster than I can think them. “I met a girl three days ago.” “Here we go,” says Dad, rolling his eyes. “Her name is Raina. She almost ran me over with a salt truck. And after that, she was kind enough and amazing enough to let me stay with her. Her and her mom and dad are so amazing. They all helped me through life. If it weren’t for her, I would be dead.” This line elicits a depressingly satisfying gasp from my father. “I tried to kill myself,” I explain. “Why, you might ask? Because I figured that if my own parents couldn’t accept me, then how could anyone?” “Oh, God,” my mom moans. “David…” “She’s just trying to use us. For attention.” “David!” “But,” I continue as if I haven’t heard. “To my shock and surprise, Raina herself was a lesbian. But that’s not what shocked me, no. What shocked me was that her parents accepted her for who she is. She never had to deal with her parents calling her a fag and a dyke. She never had to deal with being kicked out of her house for something so trivial and stupid as who she loves. She could be herself. And as for me, I want to live in that world. I don’t want to live in a world where I have to hide. Do you understand?” My words were met by a painful but not entirely unexpected silence. “What are you trying to say?” my mom asks at last. “I’m trying to say that I don’t want to be Mormon anymore. But I still want to have my parents in my life. “Absolutely!” my mom says, where at the same time, my dad yells “Absolutely not!” His words hit me like a slap. Apparently they hit my mom the same way. “Excuse me?” she screeches, wheeling on him. “What is wrong with you?” “Please stop fighting,” I beg. “She considered committing suicide. Because of you, David. Because you wanted to kick her out.” “Please stop fighting.” “Honey,” my mom says, turning back to me. “I love you. No matter what.” “Then you’re just as bad as her!” Dad yells. “Really, Mary. I thought I loved you.” “Hey!” someone behind me yells. “Mr. Desjardins! You know, your wife and daughter have a point. I mean, think about it. You didn’t choose to fall in love.” I spin around and am delighted to see none other than Dorothy Kepler, my childhood best friend. The first one I came out to. She came around! I can’t believe it! “Dorothy!” “Hey sis, I missed you!” “I can’t believe it!” I yell, a grin spreading across my face. “I thought you—” “I thought you!” My dad stares on in shocked silence. He wouldn’t dare decry me with the support of everyone else. I burst into a full on grin. Behind her is the entire town, lined up, each holding up a sign. Good signs, not ones with crude insults on it. One says WE’RE SORRY in rainbow letters. Another is colored with the lesbian flag, purple with a black triangle and a white axe silhouette. Still another has the lipstick lesbian flag. Raina was right. There is still time for a Christmas miracle. A full ten days before Christmas. I have my family back. Chapter 4: December 16th (9 days until Christmas) “So how did it go?” Raina asks, smiling at me. I smile back. “The whole town lined up to greet me. In a good way.” “See?” Mrs. T says. “I told you. They just needed some sense knocked into ‘em.” “Thank you both,” I say. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” “You better believe it,” Raina says with a hearty laugh. “Hey, you guys,” Mr. Turner says, coming into the kitchen carrying a delicious-smelling loaf of bread. “Mama T might be the master chef of the house, but there’s one thing I can do, and that is make a damn good loaf of pumpernickel,” he says. “And I made extra for you, too, Skye.” “Oh, I couldn’t—” “Girl,” Raina says. “Us here are a bunch of stubborn bastards. You gon’ eat some of my dad’s food.” “He don’ lie,” Mrs. T says. “He makes the best pumpernickel in the entire damned world. Sit.” I laugh as I take the seat next to Raina. She gives me a shining look, with a smile that lights up her entire face like a halo from above. I always knew she was an angel. Straight from God, she is. The Turners agreed to let me stay with them until I get on my feet. I’ve got a job interview for… you guessed it… a salt truck driver. Somehow, I feel as though I could have gotten a different job, maybe a more lucrative one, but there is nothing I’d rather do. Maybe next year I’ll be the one creating someone’s Christmas miracle. “Holy Jesus Above,” I say as I bite into the bread. “That is fucking delicious.” “You better believe it, girl,” Raina says. “My family is sent from Heaven when it comes to food.” “Hell yeah,” Mrs. T says. “We can cook.” “Unless you’re me,” Raina says. “I can’t even make eggs without burning them.” “Hey,” Mr. Turner says. “I happen to like burnt eggs.” “Uh-huh. Sure thing, Dad.” “I mean it!” “Well, Raina,” he says, standing up. “Me and your mother have something to do today, so you’re in charge of protecting the house while we’re gone.” “Fine.” “Skye, you don’t go anywhere, okay?” Mrs. T says kindly. “Or else.” “Stop threatening her, Mom! One of these days she’ll actually believe you!” “I’m being totally serious. Love you, Ray-Ray!” “Love you too, Mom,” Raina says in an exasperated voice. “By the way,” Mr. Turner says. “You should take Skye up to our bedrooms. We have a present for her up there. “Oh, Mrs. T, you didn’t have to—” “Go. Shoo! Have fun, you two.” “I’m just going to prepare you,” Raina says with a smile, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards a nearly invisible set of stairs. “It’s probably going to be something stupid like reindeer socks.” “Wait, so you’ve had a second floor this whole time?” “Yeah, dummy. Where did you think we were sleeping? In the kitchen?” “Sorry.” “I’m just teasing you, girl.” “Sorry.” “You really need to fix that apologizing problem of yours.” “Another day. Sorry.” “Now you’re trying to be annoying.” I smirk. “Caught me.” “Hey, look,” Raina says. “Mama’s going all Nancy Drew on us. She left an envelope.” “Talk about over the top. Open it!” Raina tears the edge open with her teeth and then stares at the ceiling. “Mom, I am going to kill you,” she says, rolling her eyes. I follow them up to the ceiling. Hanging from the lights is a clump of mistletoe. “Well,” I say, shifting from foot to foot and staring awkwardly at the floor. “It is the Christmas season.” “Ha!” Raina says, smiling at me. “True that.” “Are your parents subtly trying to hook us up?” “Not subtly. My parents never do anything subtly.” “Are we going to let them?” “I don’t know,” Raina says with a gleam in her eyes. “Are we?” Slowly, a grin makes its way up my face, of its own accord. “I guess so.” Raina gives me a smile of her own, and leans forward. “Merry Christmas,” she says, leaning even more forward. “Merry Christmas, Rain—” she doesn’t let me finish, cutting me off with a highly effective kiss on the lips. Outside her thin walls, someone is ringing a bell and singing Last Christmas. “I gave you my heart,” they are saying. Christmas bells and Christmas miracles. Could this day be any better? How far I’ve come from guns and crack houses. How far I’ve come. For better or for worse. “Merry Christmas,” I say as soon as Raina lets me go. “And a happy new year,” she finishes for me. “Can’t forget about that.” No, I think. No, I can’t. Outside, the caroler has started playing Carol of the Bells. “So,” she says. “That just happened.” “Do… you want to do it again?” I smile, a blush creeping up my face like poison ivy. “Only if you make a commitment.” “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” “Yes.” Off in the distance, a bell chimes the hour. Nine o’clock. A Christmas miracle. Chapter 5: Christmas Day “I see you enjoyed your Christmas present,” Mrs. T says. She flicks on the light switch as my weary eyes blink open. “Merry Christmas, you two.” “Thanks, Mama,” Raina says, holding up her half of the blanket. It was knitted by Mrs. T herself, although I have no earthly idea when she found the time. It was the spitting image of the lesbian flag, the purple one with an axe in the middle. “We love it,” I finish. “Or, at the very least, I love it.” “Don’t discount me like that, girlfriend,” Raina says. “I love it too.” “I made Christmas waffles,” Mr. Turner says. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had his waffles,” Raina says. “At least eat breakfast with us before you go.” “Ugh,” I say with feigned annoyance. “I guess.” “Come,” Raina says, grabbing my hand. “Food awaits.” A lot awaits, thanks to her. If it weren’t for her, today would be the last day of my life. As of now, it’s the first day of my new life. A life I can’t wait to live.
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AuthorI am a young writer looking to be published. Wish me luck! I hope to make a living off of my writing, but that remains to be seen. (: Archives
January 2020
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