Chapter 12
“How am I supposed to come out to my parents?”
Sydney doesn’t answer me. Instead he dives deeper in the river leaving me alone with my thoughts. He resurfaces minutes later, splashing his arms in circles. “Man. Just tell them. What’s gonna happen?” There’s water leaking from his nose and his short dreadlocks are dripping down his forehead.
Sydney has the wonderful gift of making everything seem like a breezy task.
You want dreadlocks but your adoptive parents have no skill?
Learn how to make them yourself. Fancy a swim in the gloomy English summer?
Go to the river. Afraid your parents are homophobes?
Ash, don’t be ridiculous. Sydney’s parents are incredibly nice.
Naturally he would think I’m blowing this out of proportion.
“It’s not that big of a deal. You’re gay.
They’ve got three more sons to do the straight family thing. ”
Three more sons. Of course Sydney is right, but it hurts in the centre of my chest to know, not only have my brothers always been more special than me, but now I will be giving my parents another reason to officially hate me.
As if not being sporty and not caring about football and racing cars isn’t enough.
“You don’t know them.” I mumble in the water and the bubbles swallow the words.
Sydney doesn’t hear them. He stands up and walks out of the river then finds a higher rock. He climbs up and jumps back in close to where I’m currently floating. “Why do you wanna tell them now, anyway? Fancy dating someone?”
“What do you think, Syd? Everybody hates me at school.” It’s not entirely true, but I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself today.
“Actually, don’t think so. I think James from English class fancies you.”
“You are only saying that because he’s the only other gay guy at school.”
James is one of the untouchables. He’s the only guy in a group of all pretty popular girls, and they call him Prince James because his family is rich and he wears posh clothes.
And I guess that’s also because he’s one of the most beautiful boys I have ever seen.
With blonde hair and blue eyes, pale white skin covered with freckles and ridiculously shiny blue vests, he reminds me of a basic Ken doll.
When he’d come out last year, James’ friends from football all ditched him and the girls had adopted him in their group.
This is not the first time that Sydney has tried to push James and myself together, but each time has seemed less genuine than the last. “Maybe I am.” Sydney wiggles his brows, “Or maybe he asked me about you the other day and I’m setting you up.”
I lift a finger and then I align my palm up, threatening Sydney with a wave of water. “Quit messing with me, man.”
“Cross my heart,” he promises with a giggle.
I can never trust this guy. I start splashing him and he splashes back, throwing his full weight against me in the chaos. I close my eyes, try to block my nose but I end up inhaling some water and coughing it back out. With strong arms Sydney grasps my shoulders and pushes me down, himself up.
“Tap out, Bergman,” he urges, wrapping his legs around my torso.
“Get off me.” The water is so close now, cold, inevitable and overwhelming. I wiggle but I’m always the skinny boy, always too weak.
“Ashley and James, sitting in…”
I take a breath in and let myself be pushed down in the river, and as soon as I feel Sydney’s hold weaken, I turn quickly and push him away from me. When I re-emerge, Sydney is giggling.
“Just tell your parents, Ash. And come hang out if they’re not okay with it. We can get burgers with Darsh.”
It’s always so simple, the way Sydney puts it.
I know it won’t be.
That night, I ask Mom and Daddy to sit on the couch.
They look at me weird, as if me requesting to spend time with them is unusual and somewhat inconvenient.
Erik is finishing homework in his bedroom and the twins are allowed to play video games longer during the weekend.
I can hear them yell at each other from downstairs.
I take the armchair and Mom sits across from me on the couch. Daddy stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder and one hand resting at his waist. I wish he would sit down and look at me like he has all the time in the world to give me.
“I have something to tell you,” I start, and it doesn’t go bad. It doesn’t go well either.
I tell them I don’t like girls and I would like to date boys sometimes and Mom asks, “What boys?”
I don’t tell them about what Sydney said about James. I shrug, almost as if reassuring Mom that there is no boy, there never has been one.
I do not think of Ford.
Mom asks why I like boys and I struggle to find words.
Must there be a reason, I wonder? I try to explain about that time that Darshi kissed me and I didn’t like it and I tell them that when I look at girls, I simply don’t like them like that.
Daddy says nothing and Mom is the one asking the questions, again.
The word gay is on the tip of my tongue but I can’t bring myself to actually say it, to actually make it real outside of my mind.
“Maybe you just didn’t like Darshi, honey. She is Indian, after all. Have you tried someone else?”
And again, I force Ford out of my mind. I push him, and our kiss from two years ago, away. I try thinking of other girls at school, I think of how beautiful and reckless Darshi is. I think about James. “Nope.”
Mom makes an a-ha sound and turns to Daddy, then. “He probably hasn’t found the right one, yet.”
The lines on Daddy’s face soften and his brows relax.
He leaves the room, leaving me alone with Mom.
She lets out a small breath and lowers her head, brings one hand up to absentmindedly rub on the shoulder that Daddy was holding earlier.
There’s a pained look on her face that tells me Daddy must have hurt her but she only adds, “Give it time,” before standing up and retiring to the kitchen.
I don’t ask if that means I must give Daddy time to get used to the idea of a gay son or if I have to give it time before I meet the girl that will change my mind. I hope it’s the first option, because there is no chance in hell I will ever want a girl.
That night, I don’t sleep.
I think about how wrong I am, how I could have tried a little harder to be what Mom and Daddy wanted.
I hear them fight in their bedroom until late.
I hear the thumping and stomping, and then, silence.
I hope that Mom is not too bad, but then, I think about how she did not even try to defend me in front of Daddy.
It makes me so angry I have to sink my nails in my palms until it stings.
I don’t wish for Mom to be hurt, but I also don’t get up and check on her. I never do.
When the pain is not enough, I get up and walk to the upstairs bathroom, the one I share with my brothers.
Martin and Edwin have left their dirty football kits on the floor and I stare at the shirts with disgust for a moment before I go sit to take a leak.
I move to the sink to wash my hands then and I try to chase the sounds of Daddy slapping Mom from my brain, but the noise is stuck there.
No matter how much soap I use I cannot get my hands clean.
Mom is whimpering, desperate but I still don’t check on her.
Everyone in the house is sleeping as I reach for the razors in the sink cabinet. Rolling up my sleeve, I stare at the scarred tissue still fresh.
One last time, only once more. So that it will be okay, so that I will be strong enough to stand up to Daddy and I will stop him next time he raises his voice. Blood disappears down the drain and my heartbeat slows down.
???
The next day, Daddy slams the door a little louder. Martin and Edwin know not to ask, but Erik flinches and he calls out to Mom, “Is Daddy angry?”
Mom doesn’t answer, simply looks up at me. Erik copies her, his confused stare pointed at me as if it’s my fault that I’m different, my fault I am not the son that Mom and Daddy have dreamed of having. I leave without asking permission; without even finishing my breakfast.
The moment I step outside into the rainy British morning, I can breathe again. I can feel the light drizzle on my skin as I walk down the street towards Ford’s house, aware that it’s too early and it’s the weekend and he might even not be there. I hope he is anyway.
Gregory Hale answers the door in his pyjama looking all dishevelled with empty eyes. When he realises it’s me, he runs a shaky hand through his messy hair. Immediately, I regret coming here, disturbing them in the morning.
“Ash. Good morning. Come in, Ford just woke up.”
Gregory Hale always smiles but this morning, he does not. He opens the gate and moves to the side to let me in the house, revealing a living-room that is in the same state as he is. There is no music playing in the house.
“Sorry for-” I start, but Gregory Hale stops me.
“Hum, please forgive the mess. My wife, hum no, Lily, she is... I was meant to clean up last night but, you know. Lily is, hum.”
“Ash. Come up!” Ford calls from his bedroom upstairs and Gregory Hale looks relieved he doesn’t have to talk to me anymore. It makes me sick to my stomach, having come here when he clearly doesn’t want me to be. Gregory Hale has always wanted me here. There is always music playing in Ford’s house.
Gregory Hale tells me to go ahead and I run up the stairs, closing the door behind me as soon as I step into Ford’s room.
The bed is neatly made. The books on the desk are organised in an orderly pile and the guitar is in its case.
Ford is fully dressed, and I am confused.
Didn’t his dad just say Ford has just gotten up?