Harley
I carry the last basket of laundry up to Tristan’s room and place it on the bed.
I begin folding each article of clothing piece by piece and place them away in their rightful place in his room.
It’s been almost a month since Jasper told me the story of how he and Todd met and became parents to these children.
And honestly, I haven’t stopped thinking about the conversation since it happened.
I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to lose someone in such heartbreaking circumstances.
When my mother overdosed, I thought that was pretty tragic, even though she brought it all upon herself.
But ever since our conversation, things have been very different around here.
It’s a good different, don’t get me wrong, and so many things are happening.
Not going to lie, having my own car and credit card has certainly made things easier.
I can just go shopping whenever I need and not have to worry about waiting for the car to be ready or asking Jasper for his credit card or provide him with receipts so he can reimburse me money.
It definitely was a good decision all round.
I fold the last of Tristan’s socks and place them in the top drawer of his nightstand, and as I turn to face the bed, I feel something fall to my feet.
I look down to see a white folded piece of paper, and I wonder if it’s something that has fallen out of my own pocket or if it belongs to Tristan.
I lean down and pick up the paper and notice a faint ‘F’ between the pages, which piques my curiosity, so I unfold the document.
I regret it immediately when I realize that it’s Tristan’s report card so fold it up quickly, just as I hear the bedroom door open.
Tristan greets me with a “Hi” and a smile, then closing the door behind him, he places his backpack on the bed, sits down and removes his shoes.
“It must be laundry day,” he says.
“Yes,”
I say, trying to not sound suspicious.
As he gets to his feet and removes his school jacket, he looks at the piece of paper wedged between my two fingers, then stares at me, horrified.
“What are you doing with that?” he asks.
“I, ah—it fell to the ground and I—”
“You just thought you’d open it and be snoopy? Jesus, haven’t you ever heard of privacy?”
he says, snatching the paper from between my fingers.
“I wasn’t sure if it was something of mine that fell out of my pocket, or if it was yours. That’s the reason I opened it, but as soon as I realized what it was, I folded it, and that’s when you walked into the room.”
He studies me for a long while and then looks down at the piece of paper in his hand.
“How much did you see?”
he questions.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
He says nothing.
“The important question here is, does your father know?”
I continue.
His silence is the only confirmation I need.
“What do you think?”
he replies, sitting down on the bed.
“You really want to know what I think?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It depends. Are you going to say anything?”
“That all depends,” I say.
“On what?”
“On you?”
“Me?”
He looks at me, shocked.
“Yeah. Do you want to talk about it and tell me what’s going on?”
We sit in silence for what seems to be forever. Tristan glances around the room before finally looking into my eyes and I can tell he’s scared about something.
“I don’t really know where to begin,” he says.
“Try the beginning. It usually helps.”
He forces a smile, then he looks down at the paper still wedged between his fingers, then at his desk before turning his eyes back on me.
“There’s a reason I’m failing.”
“I figured as much. So, do you want to tell me what all this is about?” I offer.
He sits there on mute, scanning the room and then shifting his eyes to me before scanning the room again. I’m no therapist, but it’s pretty obvious he’s either trying to avoid telling me something, or it’s something difficult for him to discuss.
“It’s okay, Tristan. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“Not about this,” he says.
I don’t know whether I should be concerned or curious. Judging by the look on his face, I’d say that this is pretty hardcore stuff. Something is clearly bothering him.
“Are you in trouble with the law?”
I suggest.
“No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Drugs?”
“No,”
he replies.
“You’re freaking me out, Tristan. What’s going on?” I plead.
“I’m failing because I have a crush on my PE teacher.”
That has me processing the information for a few seconds and I can’t help but giggle on the inside.
I recall when I had a crush on my PE teacher.
He was a devilishly handsome man.
I was about thirteen or fourteen and I couldn’t take my eyes off his crotch.
Every session I found it difficult to concentrate in class cause all I could think about was him naked.
He would always wear skintight T-shirts that would rise up whenever he would stretch his arms, revealing his V line and the upper waistband of his white briefs.
It was such a fucking turn-on, but at fourteen years of age, I kept my mouth shut, especially because he was my teacher, and I didn’t want my fellow students to know I was gay.
“Ahhh, I see. I know what that feels like,”
I tell him.
“You do?”
“Absolutely. I was fourteen and I was attracted to my PE teacher. I mean, he was in his mid to late forties and I was just infatuated with him.”
He angles his head and looks into my eyes. “And how did you handle it?” he asks.
“There wasn’t much I could do, really.
PE was by far my worst subject.
I hated sports.
I didn’t need my infatuation with my teacher to make me fail. My lack of motivation and poor performance in class alone was enough for my grades to slip. It had nothing to do with how I felt about it. And naturally, I kept the feelings to myself and made sure I didn’t make anything too obvious.”
“And it worked?”
“Sure, it was tough, but yeah, it worked. My peers had no idea and neither did he. There were times when my body would get a little too excited, if you know what I mean and I had to make a sudden dash to the bathroom.”
“And this happened every class?”
he questions.
“Pretty much. As much as I hated sport and the class, I had to force myself not to let my feelings for him affect my grades. In the end I passed, but barely.”
I can still see the confusing look in his eyes and I’m under the impression that despite what I’ve told him; he’s still holding back telling me something. I don’t want to push, so I set it aside, then just sit quietly and wait to see if he wants to tell me anything else.
“I guess you really do understand, then.”
“I do,”
I reply with a smile. “So, what’s she like? I bet she’s gorgeous like Scarlett Johansson Black Widow gorgeous.”
Silence fills the room and he says nothing, and I’m wondering if I’ve said something out of line and made him feel worse. The last thing I want is to make him think he can’t trust me, so I try and say something reassuring.
“You’re a teenage boy. It’s a phase that you’ll go through and then get over just as quickly. Don’t beat yourself up of it,”
I tell him.
“It’s not that easy, .”
“Yes, it is, trust me. Whenever you’re in class and you can’t get her out of your mind, just focus on something else, like what you’re going to do when you get home, or a movie that perhaps we could all go and watch together. Anything that doesn’t make you think about her.”
“, I can’t … it’s really more complicated than you think.”
“Because you’re overthinking it. Don’t let this—”
“I’m gay,”
he blurts out.
Well, shit!
If the silence earlier wasn’t enough, now you could hear a pin drop, and the air is so thick, you could cut it with a steak knife. For a moment, I’m lost for words, trying to process his confession as it pierces my brain. This is one thing I certainly wasn’t expecting, even considering both his parents were gay. I still didn’t stop to think for a second that this might be a possibility. And it does make his behavior and everything else make sense, to a point. Now that I know what’s really going through his mind, I can be here to try and help him.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
“I think pretty much from as early as I can remember, my entire childhood and well into my teenage years. I haven’t spoken to anyone about it until now. I’ve been too afraid.”
“Afraid? What are you afraid of?” I ask.
He lowers his head, not answering my question. I place my finger underneath his chin and lift his head up, so his eyes meet with mine, and I can see the tears streaming from them.
“Hey, what’s going on? Why are you crying?”
“I’m scared, ,”
he tells me through tears.
I get to my feet and walk over to his nightstand and open the second drawer. I grab a handkerchief and slide the drawer shut, then walk back over to Tristan, who’s still crying. I hand him the handkerchief and he blows his nose, then wipes his tears with the sleeves of his school shirt.
“Talk to me, buddy. What are you scared of?”
“Dad. I don’t know how he’s going to react to this information. That’s why I’ve been so scared to tell him.”
“Oh, bud,”
I say, wrapping my hand around the back of his body so it rests on his arm and then I pull him in toward me until his head rests on my shoulder. “Tristan, you have nothing to be scared of. Your father loves you, no matter what. Your sexuality isn’t going to change that. After all, he was married to your dadda, that would make him the perfect expert for a situation like this. Maybe you could try talking to him, it may not be as scary as you think.”
He quickly lifts his head off my shoulder and sits up, then turns to face me, locking eyes with mine and I can see the sheer terror in them.
“No. I can’t do that. Not yet. I’m not ready. And please, I don’t want you to say anything either, you promise?”
“Of course. But Tristan, I really think you need to tell your father about this. Especially considering the fact you just got an F on your report card. Secrets like this tend to have their way of coming out, and trust me, it ain’t always pretty.”
“But what if he doesn’t understand? What if he punishes me or gives me a lecture telling me how wrong it is?”
“Okay, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, or what you’ve been reading, and that’s beside the point. Your father isn’t going to do any of those things.”
“Oh, yeah. And how do you know that?”
he questions.
“Because he wouldn’t be a loving father if he did, and more to the point it would make him a hypocrite, under the circumstances.”
“You saw what he did to me when he grounded me. What if this time it’s something much more serious?”
“Tristan, that was completely different and you know why. Of course, I can’t speak for your father, but don’t you think that not telling him and waiting for him to find out some other way is worse?”
“He could throw me out of the house.”
“Or he could be completely and totally understanding and this is just you overreacting,”
I tell him, trying to sound reassuring.
He sits beside me in silence and stares out into the nothingness. This is one of those moments where I wish he would say something so that I knew what was going through his mind instead of thinking the worst. It pains me that at this very moment I can’t help the poor kid because I don’t know what he wants me to do, if anything. It’s all about trust and loyalty, and if I break that trust, Tristan is never going to confide in me again.
“W—would you come with me to talk to him?”
he finally asks.
Such a small and simple request that has me smiling back at him. “Of course, if you’re sure that’s really what you want.”
“It is. I’d feel a lot better if you were there next to me.”
“Whatever you want. Just say the word and I’m there,”
I tell him.
“Thank you,” he says.
I give him a wide smile, then get to my feet and proceed to walk over to the door. When I’m halfway there, I stop and turn around to face him again, then my eyes narrow in on the folded report card still resting between his fingers. As if reading my mind he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he sees it.”
With that confirmation, I move again to the door, pull it open and then step out into the hallway and walk to my room.