Chapter 12 Political Science
Ashort, skinny kid stood sentry outside the room in the Norick Learning Center where SGA met. He looked officious, brandishing a clipboard, checking names—as if there were a high risk of infiltration.
Matt cleared the checkpoint, made his way into the room.
He was early—and nervous. He disliked public speaking in general, debate in particular. Plus, he was now on Colton Langley’s turf, an unwitting pawn in William’s plan, instructed to lie low until further notice.
Lying low was exactly what he intended to do.
It had been a long day for Matt, dreading Coach’s certain anger at his having missed yesterday’s soccer practice. His punishment stung. He’d been looking forward to playing in Saturday’s game against Saints University. Now he was benched.
Even worse was the fact that Coach assumed he had skipped practice because of a girl!
Matt wished he could tell Coach the truth, that he’d started out moping about one guy and ended up blowing another, that he’d loved the feel of Evan’s cock in his mouth, the way its curved underside slid across his tongue as it angled upwards like the prow of a ship breaking through waves.
That he now knew the shape Evan’s eyebrows formed when he climaxed—one raised in surprise, the other scrunched in concentration—Popeye after a bout with Olive Oyl.
That he had savored the earthy taste of Evan’s cum so much he hadn’t rinsed his mouth for hours.
That he was now honor bound to bottom for Evan the next time they hooked up—and that he was looking forward to it.
The truth had to go unsaid.
Ten or so kids were already inside the meeting room, some seated, most milling around near the back, chatting.
Matt felt eyes tracking him and remembered Evan’s claim that people watched him like he was some sort of celebrity. He found an empty row halfway back from the lectern and settled in.
Colton Langley strode down the aisle, passing within a few feet of him. Matt’s muscles tensed. The back of his neck felt suddenly hot.
He didn’t judge Colton for having gone back into the closet, nor for trying to be straight. Matt knew from his own experience that family pressure to conform could be overwhelming. It had taken him five years to find the courage to push back.
He assumed the pressure on Colton must be even more intense, considering he was expected to fulfill his family’s political ambitions.
He did judge Colton for ruining other people’s lives, most recently Adam Maxwell’s.
Colton could try masquerading as an avenging angel intent on rooting out sin, but Matt knew the truth: underneath the Puritan’s cloak was an angry boy determined that if he couldn’t live as a gay man, no one else would either.
Colton joined a girl at a small table facing the audience. They began a whispered conversation.
Watching Colton, Matt understood why William had been physically attracted to him. The guy was above-average height, with a wrestler’s build and a frat boy’s face: lantern jaw, dimples, and a Colgate smile. It was not hard to imagine his holding high elected office someday.
How many gay lives would he ruin if his rage were coupled with real power?
“Is that seat taken?”
A bony, brassy-voiced girl stood in the aisle, pointing to the seat beside Matt even though the rest of the row was empty. The two rows in front of them were empty as well.
“It’s yours if you want it,” Matt said. He had hoped to make it through this meeting without interacting with anyone.
Brassy girl settled in noisily, bumping him with an elbow. She peeled a leather camera bag off her shoulder, set it on the floor by her feet. “You’re that new pretty boy on the soccer team, right?”
Matt wasn’t sure how exactly to respond. He didn’t consider himself a ‘pretty boy’ but didn’t want to argue the merits of his appearance with this girl. In the end, he nodded, staring straight ahead. He wished she would whisper. He didn’t want to attract Colton’s attention, trigger his gaydar.
Brassy girl sighed. “Just what SGA needed. An empty-headed jock padding his resume.”
“I guess you won’t be applying for president of my fan club.” Matt hissed.
Brassy girl studied him, reappraising him. Her face was all sharp angles: roman nose, pointed chin. “Okay, scratch ‘empty-headed’ from the list,” she said grudgingly.
Matt noticed kids claiming their seats. It must be close to kick-off time.
Two girls sat a couple of rows in front of him. They were whispering, looking back over their shoulders.
Was he imagining things, or were they looking at him?
“Has anyone told you that you look like that actor on Saved by the Bell?” brassy girl asked.
“The one who plays ‘Zack?’” Matt said absently. “I’ve heard that before.” He’d heard it a lot, actually.
“No, the other one. ‘Screech.’”
Brassy girl fixed him with a deadpan stare, held it for a few seconds, then laughed at her own joke. She extended her hand. “I’m Molly.”
Matt shook Molly’s hand. “Matt.” He pointed to the camera bag on the floor. “I thought you were paparazzi,” he joked.
“Maybe someday,” Molly said. “Currently voluntary photographer for The Beakly News.”
Matt had seen the campus newspaper stacked in the cafeteria, freshly printed, waiting for takers—and in bathroom stalls where guys had left it after their constitutionals.
“SGA merits a photographer?” he whispered.
Molly shook her head. “I’m doing a photo-shoot with a friend afterward.”
“Excuse me.” One of the whispering girls motioned for Matt’s attention. “Aren’t you the guy who took a card to that lady in the Registrar’s office?”
Matt nodded shyly. He had not realized his visit to Debbie was public knowledge, hadn’t thought anyone would care even if they did find out.
“THAT WAS SO SWEET!” the girl gushed. Her friend nodded vigorously.
Colton looked up from his conversation, his attention drawn to the commotion. His eyes met Matt’s. He smiled knowingly.
Matt froze.
Molly elbowed Matt’s ribs. “I think we just found the next president of your fan club,” she whispered, pointing her chin towards the girl who had just gushed.
Matt didn’t respond. Fear fogged his brain.
Colton gaveled the meeting to order. He introduced the other officers. The short, skinny kid who’d guarded the door, Mike Huebsch, was vice president. The treasurer, Brent something was in the front row. And the girl sitting next to Colton was the secretary.
Colton asked Huebsch to give the opening prayer.
Huebsch puffed out his chest and stood stiffly, trying to add gravitas to his 5’4”, 95-pound frame.
Matt bowed his head robotically, his mind replaying that fleeting moment he and Colton had made eye contact. Colton’s odd smile.
It was as if Colton had sifted Matt’s memories and distilled them into a reel of Most Humiliating Moments.
There was the Director’s cut of the rape, with a pathetic and eager Matt offering himself for the taking.
The never-before-seen footage of Matt’s dad ambushing the youth pastor in the park, a sobbing Matt made to watch while his dad exacted the vengeance Matt should have taken.
The “Sophie’s Choice” Matt had been forced to make.
Shame was a weed, a crippling kudzu in the garden of the soul. It sprang back no matter how many times you whacked it.
Matt took deep breaths, recentering, tamping down his panic. Colton might have gaydar, but he couldn’t read minds.
Huebsch prayed, hogging God’s spotlight, talking to Him as if God were taking orders at a drive-thru window, meant only to confirm whether Huebsch wanted to supersize his order. That ship had already sailed.
As soon as the prayer ended, Huebsch picked up a stack of plastic folders and began passing them out to the thirty-odd people in the audience.
Colton explained that each folder contained a copy of the SGA Constitution, a primer on Robert’s Rules of Order, and that evening’s agenda. He launched straight into the agenda, first item being officer’s reports.
Molly nudged Matt’s side, whispered. “Keep your eye on those two, Screech. They’ve got their magic act perfected, including the ‘misdirection.’ While you’re watching one, the other one hides the ball.”
“Which two?” Matt asked.
“Lord Langley and his toady Huebsch. I was in SGA last year when Langley was vice president and the toady was a freshman. Rumor has it they run the College Republicans club the same way.”
Meanwhile, Brent the treasurer reviewed the accounts. To the penny. In a monotone.
Matt listened absently, flipping through his little binder with its photocopies of photocopies thrice removed.
Gray ghost words against splotchy gray backgrounds.
A chart detailing various parliamentary motions, which might as well have been written in Swahili.
This was nothing compared to the GM rules which Matt had finally read.
Those were typed neatly, separated by tabs, organized alphabetically, and addressed everything, including:
Safe Sex: Mandatory testing every eight weeks at a free clinic, address provided. Results disclosed to William. Condoms required for hookups with non-members, optional within the group.
Security. There was a rotating schedule of security details to provide cover for any members who were on a date with prospective members, during meetings, or during member interviews.