The Last Changeling (8 page)

12

T
aylo
R

We'd been recruiting members to the Merry-Straight Alliance for less than a week when Brad launched his first strike. It happened on a Tuesday. I was heading out of gym class when Coach pulled me aside to “talk about a delicate matter.” Whatever the hell that meant. I was pretty sure I'd been wearing my cup properly all these years, and frankly, if I hadn't, I had bigger things to worry about.

So I wandered into his office in kind of a daze, trying to figure out which of my life problems fell under the jurisdiction of a high school gym teacher/soccer coach. It didn't help that he wouldn't look at me. I watched the clock ticking above his head. Time slowed down, then stopped, and I had to say something to break the silence.

“Is this about next week's game? Look, I know I missed practice, but this is the first time it's ever happened, so—”

“You won't be playing in the game Saturday.”

“Because of one practice? You can't be serious.”

He sighed, and I couldn't help but wonder why he was looking at me this way. His eyes flicked up from beneath his baseball cap, narrowed into slits. It was like he didn't want to look at me but couldn't help it. Like I had green and purple spots all over my face.

What was his deal?

“I'm very serious,” said the man who'd been totally useless all season. “You're lucky to be getting off this easy.”

“Am I missing something?”

Coach finally held my gaze, and I wished he hadn't. He looked sick with himself, like he couldn't wait to get out of the room. “Come on, Alder. It's just you and me here. You don't have to pretend. I know about your involvement in that club, and frankly, I'm not thrilled about it. Of course, there are laws … ”

Okay, it was official. He'd lost his mind. The guy was clearly rambling, making no sense at all—

“But the minute you touch one of my players, the game changes.”

The game changes
? God, did he have to use sports metaphors even now? And since when had I ever touched one of “his” players? Sure, I'd wanted to pop Brad in the jaw on occasion, but I knew better than to stoop to his level.

Most of the time
.

But guess what? He wasn't finished talking yet. He'd taken a break, to gather his (completely insane) thoughts, but now he was back at it again. “I know it's different for you, with your … condition … ”

What am I, leprous? And nobody told me?

“
But I have to hold your kind to the same standard as everyone else.” He held his chin in his hand, fingers spreading over his lips. Maybe to protect himself from my “condition.”

“Wait,” I said. “Did you say ‘my kind'?”

He snorted, liked I'd asked him for a kidney. “Forgive me if I don't know the correct terminology.”

Hmmm. Your words say “forgive me
,”
b
ut your voice says “fuck you kindl
y
.”

That's when it hit me.

It probably should've dawned on me sooner, but I'd never been referred to as a “kind” with a “condition,” so it took me a minute to figure things out. He was calling me gay. He'd heard I'd joined the Alliance and he thought it meant I was gay. Because anyone who didn't think gay kids should be treated like garbage had to be gay.

“Wait.” My chair screeched as I backed up, prepared to walk out on this entire conversation. “You think I touched someone? Like,
touched
?”

Coach folded his arms over his chest, peering at me from under the bill of his hat again. I wanted to give him a big fat hug, just to freak him out, but then he'd accuse me of harassment.

God, this was infuriating.

“Don't try to deny it, Alder. I have multiple testimonies.”

“Multiple—”

“I can't be looking behind my back every second.”

Behind his back? Was that supposed to be funny?

“And when I'm not in the locker room, I expect you to behave in a responsible way. So when I hear reports of you grabbing the guys in inappropriate places, as an educator, I have to step in. Now, if these accusations had come from a female, I might think twice, but—”

“What?
Why?”

“You know how young girls can be. They like attention.”

From who? From him? After all, wasn't this the man who'd spent the entire season close enough for the cheerleaders to trip on him?

“I think it would be best for everyone if you simply resigned from the team,” he finished up, unaware of how badly I wanted to throttle him. “Nothing messy. No parents need to get involved.”

Part of me wanted to tell him to ring up my parents right then. It's not like my dad could have felt
more
disappointed in me. But I didn't want him looking at me the way Coach was looking at me. Like I was a different species.

“Look, Coach. I didn't do anything—”

“I don't expect you to understand. It's in your nature—”

“Listen to what you're saying! You're talking to me like I'm a different person. I'm not a different person.”

Coach stood up, towering over me. “Now, you listen to me. You can resign or we can let the principal deal with it. That could result in suspension, if you're not expelled. You're not about to get special rights here.”

Just like that, my indignation gave way to fury. He actually believed that gay people wanted special rights. He believed that girls who'd been hurt were just
trying to get attention. In reality, the Brads of the world were the ones getting special rights. Brad was the one doing the lying, and the bullying, and the
groping
at any party where there weren't parents around, and people like Coach chose to believe him because it didn't mess with their view of the world. Might continued to equal right.

We'd learned that as children.

So I was stuck. But I wasn't powerless. I stood, flattening my palms on his desk. Now he'd have to either stand his ground or move back.

He moved back.

Coward
.

“Fine. I'll resign from the team. But you know they can't win without me.” I leaned in. “So if they do win, I'll know they cheated, and that you looked the other way like you always do. I bet the School Board would love to hear about that.”

His face scrunched up until it was one big wrinkle. “Don't you threaten me.”

“It's not a threat. It's an opportunity to play with honor. What you do with it is up to you.”

Who's the educator now
?

“Oh, and Coach?” I looked him dead in the eye, showing him that a real man doesn't back down. “Don't bother watching your back around me. I'm pretty sure you're not anyone's type.”

–––––

As I drove home from school, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and listen to Lora's story. I wasn't even afraid to
admit it anymore. At first I'd thought there was something
wrong with me—I mean, a seventeen-year-old guy getting into a fairy tale? Didn't that make me a “queer” or a “pussy” or a “fairy”?

Now I knew that's what people wanted me to believe. But if I liked something, that was good enough. I didn't need to defend myself to the doubtful voices in my head, because those voices had been put there by guys like Brad and Coach Hunter and my dad—guys who lived in fear of what other guys thought of them and conformed accordingly. Where was the bravery in that?

Where was the strength?

If I knew I was strong, it didn't matter what they thought of me.

Because of this realization, it was a little pathetic how much I panicked when I saw my mom heading for my car. I'd just pulled into the driveway, and I was
this close
to reaching the sanctuary of my room. But there she was, knocking on the window.

What if Coach gave her a call?

Having confidence was one thing. But watching Mom struggle through a chat about “teenage sexuality” would be too much to handle.

“How's it going?” I asked, stepping out of the car. I was Mister Casual, too cool for school. Surely she'd see that and leave me alone with my bad self.

“Hi, sweetie,” Mom said, her voice shaking a little. That was a bad sign, but I couldn't just bolt. She was juggling bags of groceries.

“Let me do that.” I reached out, and she handed over the bags reluctantly, a surprised look on her face. I didn't know why she always acted like I'd get mad whenever she needed my help.

I wasn't my dad.

“Thanks, honey,” she said.

“No problem.” I gestured for her to walk in front of me. The last thing I needed was to stand outside waiting for Lora “I refuse to ride in cars” Belfry to get home.

When we reached the kitchen, I couldn't help but laugh. Bags already covered the countertop, brimming with groceries. Mom shopped like she was preparing for the apocalypse.

“Impressive,” I said.

Her face relaxed into a smile as she lifted boxes of pasta from the bags. On the stove, a pot of water was already boiling.

Multi-tasking, as usual.

“I've unearthed a recipe for a yellow squash casserole,” she said, dumping pasta into the water. I watched the noodles sink to the bottom of the pot. “Yellow squash! Do you like yellow squash?”

“I could grow some yellow squash,” I said, glancing through the window at the garden.

“That would be wonderful. Yellow squash, zucchini. Anything you want.”

“Sure,” I said, making mental notes.

“I'm making too much food.” She smiled sheepishly, brushing a hair from her face; a strand had fallen from her bird's nest bun. When I didn't respond, she added, “Why don't you stay for dinner tonight, help us eat all of this?”

I stirred the pasta, searching for a decent excuse. The last thing I wanted was to watch Dad inhale his food while Mom poked sullenly at her masterpiece. I couldn't deal with it right now. I needed to be alone.

With Lora.

“I have this project,” I began, which wasn't a total lie. Helping Lora was definitely a project of some kind. “How about sometime this weekend?”

“This weekend,” Mom mumbled, like I'd suggested we get together ten years from now. “Why not this week?”

“I have plans.”

She drizzled olive oil across a pan and placed it on the stove beside the pot of pasta. “With who?”

I bit my cheek, folding up the empty grocery bags. Did she have to act surprised that I might actually be hanging out with somebody? “A friend,” I said, tucking the bags under the sink. “And I can't bail on her.”

Her, get it? A girl.

“Of course not,” Mom said. Her tone was casual, but she was probably offended that I was choosing a stranger over my family. Except Lora wasn't a stranger.

I already felt closer to her than anyone else.

The smell of garlic rose as Mom dropped cloves into the pan, sautéing them in the oil. A memory flashed through my head. Aaron and I were kids, running like demons through the kitchen, as Mom hummed happily at the stove. We'd pulled everything we could reach from the refrigerator, holding them up for her to add to our impromptu feast. Light was coming through the window and I felt so warm. Happy. Loved. I don't know where my father was.

“Honey, you don't have to avoid me,” said Mom, bringing me back to the present. “I'm on your side.”

“I know.” She was always on my side—when I was the only one in the room.

“We have something important to discuss,” she said, and just like that, I knew I was going to lose this battle. Her back was turned to me and she'd flipped on the fan above the stove, making it hard to hear. “I told your father I wanted to check with you … ”

As I stepped closer, I saw something weird just beyond the doorway to the dining room. A roll of wallpaper was propped against the wall.

“What's that?” I asked, perspiration dotting my nose. I liked to think I was warm because I was standing so close to the steam. “Are you guys redecorating? The, uh … ”

I didn't have to finish my thought. There was only one room she'd have to “discuss” redecorating. Aaron's room.

Mine and Aaron's.

“Your father thinks it's best … ” Mom stepped away from the stove, wiping her face. “Would you strain the noodles, please?”

I lifted the pot, not bothering to use potholders to protect my hands. The searing heat helped distract me from the pain in my chest. I didn't know how Mom expected me to react to this news. I wasn't even sure how the conversation made me feel. Part of me had believed the room would always stay the way it was, but another part of me felt it would be the best possible thing for it to be redone.

Emptied of memories.

“Please don't get upset,” Mom said, tiptoeing over eggshells I couldn't see. “Nothing is official yet. That's why I need you at dinner.” She scraped the spoon on the bottom of the saucepan. “You know how your father can get.”

“You mean he'll pry himself away from the idiot box long enough to have a conversation?”

I shouldn't have said that. I knew it would only embarrass her. But I was sick of her defending him:
You know how your father can get.
Give me a break.
The man didn't
get
a certain way. He was more consistent than any of us.

“He's been watching these programs about missing children,” Mom said, jumping right into her defense mode. “The kind where you call in if you recognize the perpetrator? I think it's his way of coping … ”