Twenty-Two #3
“I’ve wanted?” he interrupts. “Who gives a shit about what I’ve wanted?
” A harsh laugh erupts from him. “I can’t remember the last time I made a decision about my own damn life that had anything to do with what I wanted.
You think I want to go to Ellison? You think I want to live a few miles from home, where my parents can keep an eye on me while I go to a school that hates queers? ”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I say. “Ellison is your top choice! It’s the only place you applied to!”
He huffs out another laugh, but there’s less anger in it this time. “I never had much of a choice.”
I look at him, the anger beginning to leave me as well. He seems hollowed out, like the fire in him has disappeared, replaced with resignation.
“Garrett,” I say, “what’s going on?”
He slumps down onto the stairs, pressing his palms against his face. He looks up at me. “You still don’t get why I’m here, do you?”
“GYA didn’t have enough spots overseas,” I say, “but your parents needed a place for you to live this year so they could—”
He shakes his head. “I made that up.”
The sun has dipped below the iron-filled hills to the west of town, shades of purple chasing away gold. I wait for him to continue. Now that we aren’t yelling at each other, he seems to be using the last of his energy to hold himself together. I sit down next to him.
“Your dad,” he says. “You came out to him, and he gave you a pride flag. And when he found out about us, his first question was whether or not we were okay—” His voice catches and he swallows.
“Do you know what happened when my dad found out? He beat the shit out of me. He would have sent me to the hospital, too, if I hadn’t been big enough to fight back. ”
His face is pale and pained in the fading light. I reach out to him, but he shifts away, pulling his legs up to his chest.
“Afterward, my mom told me that she’d help me grow out of it, that it was something we could fix.
She said that since I’m bi, I could just choose to date girls.
They pulled me off the debate team, started monitoring who I hung out with, gave me a curfew when my brothers never had one.
They sent me to a ‘therapist.’ My boyfriend broke up with me over it all.
Said he couldn’t wait around for me to figure out everything going on at home.
And then the GYA opportunity came up and my parents made me apply.
Dad has a friend on the GYA board and made sure I’d be placed here.
They wanted me in a small town, as far away from all the ‘bad influences in Atlanta’ as possible. ”
“Shit,” I breathe. “So your parents sent you here to get you away from your gay friends? They sent you here because they thought a small town would be more conservative?”
“I suppose”—he attempts a grin—“they thought rural America would straighten me out. The irony.” He runs a hand through his hair, staring at his shoes.
“What kind of parents do something like that to their kid?”
“It’s about control,” Garrett says. “They want to control every part of my life. They want to hold together this image of a perfect family, and the easiest way was to get me out of the house for a year. I’m sure they’ve been telling everyone at church how well I’m doing with my exchange placement, how much I’m learning.
And maybe they care, in some totally fucked-up way, but it’s about making sure they’re in control.
Because if they’re in control, then I can’t be bi. ”
“And that’s why you don’t want to go to Ellison next year,” I say, finally understanding how one conversation with his parents sent him spiraling into recklessness at a football game, why he became small and submissive when on the phone with them, why he seemed disappointed in his acceptance letter from Ellison.
I think about him living at home and commuting to a repressive college no better than his parents’ house. They would control where he lived. They’d control what and how he learned. They’d ensure he made the right friends, got in with the right crowd, met the right girl.
That life would kill him.
“But there are other colleges,” I murmur. “You could…”
He looks at me, and I can tell he’s near tears. “How the hell would I pay for them? I brought it up with my parents once, and they told me they’ll only pay for Ellison. Since their income is so high, there’s no fucking chance I’ll qualify for any financial aid. I’m trapped.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded.
“I’m going to Ellison,” he says, leaving no room for argument.
“Garrett,” I say, “there has to be something we can do.”
“I told you. I don’t have a choice.”
The sun has fully set, and the air around us is growing cool. An owl hoots from a nearby tree. My brain works overtime, attempting to process everything Garrett has told me while parsing out possible solutions for him.
He points at the school, a mask sliding over his face. “We should probably get back in there.”
I can’t believe he’s serious, can’t believe he thinks it’s important to go back to the banquet and pretend everything is okay. But he is already standing and walking away, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets, an easy smile forcing its way onto his lips.