Nine

UNREQUITED

Faith

Monday, February 12th, 1996.

I always liked coming up with stories.

When I was little I used to look out my window at night, at the lighthouse on Wind Point, and I would imagine a beautiful white ship was coming into the harbor to take me away. The ship had big, billowing sails that shined in the dark like an angel’s wings and it sailed straight through the sky, all the way up to Heaven I guess, although the places I always imagined sailing to don’t seem like the way Heaven is supposed to be, from what the Bible says. They were more like fantasy places I guess, beautiful shimmering crystal cities that floated on the clouds, not the kinds of places you read about in the Bible. The Bible is full of deserts. I don’t think the people living in the crystal cities were religious at all. They just loved life, and they were always laughing. I’m not sure exactly why I wanted that ship to take me away... my life has never been so bad. My mother loves me, and it always felt like God loved me too. Maybe I was just bored. Nothing very interesting ever seems to happen to me. I guess that’s why it never really occurred to me to do anything like this, either...to keep a diary. I mean, what makes my life so special that it deserves to be written down? I’m no one special. I’m just Tara.

But since Sister Theresa told us all today that she wants us to start writing about our lives, keeping journals about our feelings for Jesus and our faith and how they affect the way we live, I guess I’m going to be writing my life down after all. And I can say right now and for the record that if Sister Theresa hadn’t promised us that these diaries, journals, or whatever we’re going to be calling them were just for us and no one else would ever be reading them, I would’ve been too afraid to write anything. But I trust Sister Theresa--she’s always coming up with weird goofy assignments like this one but she’s always nice--so I guess that means I can write whatever I want in this book without having to worry about people sneaking a peek at all my top secret super-interesting adventures. (And how’s this for weird coincidences--Sister Theresa used to be my Sunday School teacher back in Racine, and I used to go to the Divine Savior Catholic School out there, before my Mom pulled me out and made me transfer to Red Apple Elementary. A couple of years ago I had my confirmation, so I was all done with Sunday School, and then we had to move to Milwaukee because the sawmill closed down and Dad needed to find construction work. Once we got to Milwaukee my parents enrolled me and Donny in Catholic school out here--and our high school is called the Divine Savior. Popular name I guess. But here’s the really big coincidence--Sister Theresa is a teacher there now! I guess she moved out to Milwaukee a little after we did. I have her for homeroom and religion class this year, and she still likes making us all sit on the floor in a circle and talk about our lives. And now she’s got us writing about our lives.)

Now that I’m doing it, I think I kind of like writing. My life is a story too after all--maybe not the most interesting sort of story, but it’s still a story. In English class Mr. Robbins says that every story has to have a theme. Like how Moby Dick was about the cost of obsession (and me being bored, but that was probably an unintentional theme on Melville’s part.) Well, starting today my story has a theme, my life has a theme, and it’s the theme I’m going to be devoting this book to. The theme is my love for you, Jesus, and the fact that I know you love me too...I know you’re going to see me through this awful time. In fact, I’m writing this story specifically for you, Jesus...I want you to read it.

Because I’m a little angry at you today. And I want you to understand why.

Today, I found out my mother has cancer.

Today’s my mother’s birthday. She hasn’t been feeling well for awhile and she couldn’t figure out what it was, so she told me she had some tests a few days ago, and she went in to see her doctor this morning to get the test results. She found out she has cancer today, on her birthday. She’s only thirty-four.

And that’s really unfair, you know? That’s really crummy. It’s mean, like you’re playing a practical joke on her. But I know you’re not mean...I know everything happens for a reason. I know I just have to have faith. And I do have faith.

Because I know you’re going to save her, Jesus. We both have always loved you with all our hearts, and I know you love us too, so I know you’re going to save my mother. I know it.

I wasn’t sure what to call this book, but once I got the news from Mom about her cancer I knew what the title had to be. This is the story of my faith in you, a faith I know will be rewarded...I just need to be strong.

It’s like Mom always says. I have to hang tough.

Tuesday, February 13th, 1996.

We all had a long talk last night, the whole family. Mom laid it all out for us. She has breast cancer. She said it’s “metastatic”, a word that means the cancer cells have spread. The doctors told her she needs to start chemotherapy and radiation right now to slow it down so they have a chance to operate on the tumors, and her hair is going to start falling out, and she’s going to feel sick sometimes, like nauseous, and she’ll probably have to give up her job soon.

I spent all last night crying and didn’t get any sleep. I fell asleep in math class today and got yelled at. I have to look for a job. Dad’s medical insurance from his stud-welding work only kicks in if he works a certain number of hours but construction work has been slow in the city this year so we’re uninsured right now, and there’s hardly any money coming in. We still have most of the money we got from selling the house in Racine a couple of years ago and that should cover the medical bills for awhile, but without Mom’s paycheck it’s going to be that much harder just to pay our rent. Our rent in this house is more expensive than our mortgage was in Racine, even though our house here is a little smaller, and we don’t even have a back yard. But that’s why Milwaukee’s the big city I guess. No lighthouse either.

But I know Mom’s going to be okay. I know we’re all going to come through this. I know you love us, Jesus. So I’m hanging tough.

Wednesday, February 14th, 1996.

I showed this book to my mother this morning and she said she thinks it should be about all of my life, not just her cancer. She said she doesn’t want this to be “the cancer book”. She wants me to write about other stuff too...my stuff.

So...here’s some other stuff, I guess. Hope it’s not too boring. I have a feeling this book isn’t going to be much of a page-turner. Maybe someday I can go to law school and become one of those crusading lawyers who’s always fighting crime in those books Dad likes. I doubt it though. I have a feeling my life’s just going to be boring forever. I’m not cut out for adventures. I’m like Bilbo Baggins in his hobbit hole: no adventures for me. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! They make you late for dinner.

Today’s Valentine’s Day. Audrey and I didn’t get any valentines. Well, Audrey got one, but it was from this kid who lives down the street from her named Dan Fennig, and he’s...well, I guess he’s nice enough but he’s sort of really overweight and Audrey just isn’t into him. I can’t blame him for having a crush on Audrey, she’s beautiful: with her long, dark hair and her big dark eyes and her pretty smile, not to mention her super pretty long legs: she’s been taking ballet lessons for years and she’s awesome. (But the poor girl doesn’t have any boobs. She’s really worried about it, she talks to me about it all the time. She’s always like, “Tara, where are my boobs? Where the heck are my boobs? You have boobs, you have great boobs, so where are my boobs?” Sometimes I tell her I stole them. Then she does that completely adorable thing where she puts her hands on her hips and frowns at me. But then I start giggling at her until she smiles. If that doesn’t work I tickle her.) Anyway it was kind of awkward, I felt sort of bad for Dan, he came to her house and everything to give her the card and a nice box of chocolates with it. But Audrey just smiled and told him she’s seeing someone (she isn’t, she’s never even been on a date, but Audrey didn’t want to hurt his feelings, she’s always really nice) and Dan believed that. Luckily for Audrey he doesn’t go to our high school so he just took her word for it. After that total downer Audrey and I sort of had our own Valentine’s Day celebration and stayed at her house and ate ice cream and totally pigged out, and then we rented movies afterwards. The movie theaters are a lot cooler here in Milwaukee than in Racine. In Racine the theater takes forever to get new movies, but new movies are in the theaters here in Milwaukee the day they come out. Unfortunately there’s that tiny inconvenience of Audrey and I only being fifteen, so we can’t get into any really good movies together without a parent coming with us, and who wants that? I like going to movies alone with Audrey so we can be obnoxious together and tell jokes and talk back to the screen. I’m just glad Audrey’s parents decided to move out here around the same time we did. (The sawmill took a lot of people with it when it went.) I couldn’t make it without Audrey. She’s my best (okay, pretty much my only) friend and I totally love her and she’s completely nice and awesome. Anyway we rented this totally creepy slasher flick (don’t tell my Dad) called Halloween, and Audrey kept on closing her eyes and hiding her head on my shoulder and she was holding on to me for dear life! I had to keep my arm around her for the entire last twenty minutes because she was too scared to watch and all she could do was peek a little bit. Horror movies scare the crap out of Audrey but we keep on renting them. I don’t know why Audrey does, but I want to see them because Dad never let me see them when I was younger and I’m totally playing catch-up ball. This Halloween movie is almost twenty years old and it’s had like six sequels and I had never even heard of it. I really hope watching these horror movies isn’t a sin like Dad says it is, by the way. It doesn’t feel like a sin. Actually the acting can be sinfully bad sometimes. And okay, sure, there are the occasional naked girls but I’ve never really been clear on why seeing a naked girl is a sin exactly and no one has ever been able to give me a satisfactory explanation. I’m a naked girl every morning in the shower. Sinfully out of shape.

Anyway, that was Valentine’s Day. No valentines. No one to whisper sweet nothings in my ear. But I don’t care because I got to be with Audrey and that’s the best valentine I could ever get. Plus ice cream. Ice cream makes up for a lot.

I’ve been looking for a job. It’s hard to find a job when you’re fifteen. I’m looking through want ads in the local paper but none of the jobs are for someone my age. I guess I could try to get a paper route (do they still have those?) or work at McDonald’s (gross), but I want to try to find something less lame first. I’ve done a little babysitting, but we don’t really know enough other families for me to be able to make much money doing it, babysitting is only good for a little bit of spending money. But there’s that hardware store downtown that my Dad goes to, Munson’s--last time I was there with Dad I saw a Help Wanted sign in the window for a cashier. And it’s right on my way to school. I’m going to try there tomorrow.

Saturday, February 17th, 1996.

Well, I have a job.

I walked into Munson’s on Thursday after school and Mr. Munson hired me on the spot. He told me the money’s not great but it sounds pretty good to me, says the girl who’s never actually had a real job. The money’s a lot better than babysitting, anyway. Donny’s got a job now too--he started working at McDonald’s. He told me they don’t let the employees have free food during their lunch break, which I admit sounds pretty unfair. So Donny just steals food. He made it sound like he’s striking a blow for the common man but he just likes Big Macs and getting into trouble. I warned him he better not get caught, because Mom and Dad need his paycheck, but he just said if he gets fired he’ll go to Burger King. All I know is, he always smells like grease when he gets home and it’s gross. I’m seriously thinking about becoming a vegetarian. (Note to self: find out if vegetarians can eat ice cream.) But between Donny’s paycheck and mine we’re able to pretty much make up for the money Mom can’t bring in anymore. She wanted to keep working--she found a good job at a department store when we moved out here and she got promoted to manager of the cosmetics department really quick--but now that Donny and I have jobs Dad finally convinced her to quit. The doctors started her on chemotherapy and radiation. She’s already feeling nauseous, and tired.

I’m tired too. I had planned on writing in this book every day but when I get home from work at night I’m just completely zonked. I don’t even know why, I don’t actually do anything strenuous. I just ring in purchases at the register and help people find stuff. Actually it’s more like the other way around. A guy asked me where he could find the wrenches and I took him to the screwdrivers. Then the guy explained to me about the differences between screwdrivers and wrenches. I really don’t know much about tools. I think maybe I’m so tired when I get home just because it’s so boring. But at least Mr. Munson lets me do my homework while I’m there. That’s a double-edged sword though. Since I can get just about all my homework done there that means I have time to work more hours. I worked Thursday and Friday after school from three until closing, and then I worked all day today from nine to seven. I’m zonked. Plus Mr. Munson always smokes these smelly cigars, and he has a huge TV set with a satellite hookup that always has baseball games on. Literally, all day long. Baseball games. I didn’t know there were so many baseball games. Where do all these baseball games come from? And his dog doesn’t seem to like me. But Audrey came by the store and walked me home after work, and we hung out at her place and tried (and failed, spectacularly) to cook lasagna. I’m determined to learn to cook lasagna. I’m staying over Audrey’s this weekend because we’re supposed to be studying together for our huge history test Monday. We stayed up really late tonight--it’s past two in the morning as I’m writing this, with the night light on in the spare bedroom--and we didn’t study at all. Instead Audrey told me all about this guy she likes named Michael. She doesn’t know his last name and he doesn’t go to our school, but she says he’s cute. She asks me sometimes about guys, which guys at our school I think are cute and stuff, but...I don’t really think any of them are cute. Whenever she starts talking about guys I sort of just make stuff up. I don’t even know why. I guess maybe some guys are cute...Noah Wylie on “E.R.” is cute. But I just never think about guys much, and Audrey thinks about them all the time. I think about Audrey more than I think about all the guys in the world put together. Anyway, thankfully I’m great at cramming for tests. I haven’t even read the chapters for this test yet and I have one day to know it all backwards and forwards. But I’ve always been good under pressure. If I don’t have a scary deadline staring me in the face I have a hard time focusing. I’ve always sort of thought of myself like a magician that way--I work better when I can pull a rabbit out of my hat.

Except when it comes to love. I’m starting to think I’m going to be alone. The more Audrey talks about guys, the more depressed I get, for some reason. Maybe I’ll never fall in love, maybe I’ll never get married. Maybe there isn’t anyone out there for me. Maybe I’ll end up being a nun someday, like Sister Theresa.

Sunday, February 18th, 1996.

Today before church my Dad made me take my necklace off. Not the gold chain with the cross that he bought for me, the other necklace. The one I like wearing every single day. I guess, since church is your house and we were in our car in the church parking lot, you saw the whole ugly spectacle, Jesus. I probably came dangerously close to sinning, putting on a scene the way I did. (Sorry about that.) And even though you must know all about the necklace (I mean, you know everything), I guess I should tell you about it anyway.

I’m not sure exactly why I don’t like taking it off. I’m also not sure exactly what the deal on it is. Remember when I wrote before that nothing very interesting ever seems to happen to me? Well, this is the one exception. A strange man who called himself Mr. Laufeyson left the necklace for me after he cheated me at poker one night when I was eleven. He ended up cheating me out of my catechism and my Bible (sorry about that) but for some reason he left the necklace. It’s a strange necklace. It has some sort of white crystal hanging off of it, and the crystal glows sometimes. But it doesn’t just glow when light reflects off it, in fact light doesn’t seem to have anything to do with it. I’ve seen it glow in my cellar with all the lights off and I’ve seen it dull as a chunk of coal in the full sunlight. It just sort of glows when it feel like glowing, I guess. And it warms up when I’m outside and the weather is cold--it’s like having my own little portable heater around my neck. Other people think it’s strange too. There’s this store downtown that calls itself a “magic shop”--I’ve never been in there, since the Bible is pretty clear that magic is a sin and just a bunch of tricks foisted on us by the Devil (though I don’t think for a second there’s anything really “magical” in that store, but better safe than sorry)--but a few times as I’ve passed by people have come out of that store and asked me about my necklace. One woman last year even offered to buy it off me, and she offered me--get this--a thousand dollars for it. She showed me the money and everything. I said no, because I like the necklace too much. My Dad never liked it, and he always seems annoyed when he sees it on me, but my Mom always says she thinks it’s pretty, and that I should wear it whenever I want. But now that Mom is too sick to argue, Dad has been putting his foot down about some stuff lately, and he says he doesn’t want me wearing it in church, that my necklace is an affront to you. Anyway, you heard the screaming match, so you know how it ended: I took the necklace off. But after church I put it back on. I don’t know...I just feel like this necklace is special. I feel like it’s mine...like it was made for me, somehow. (And I don’t see why you would be offended by it. It’s a necklace, not a golden calf.)

“There isn’t even one of them anywhere in the world,” Mr. Laufeyson told me, and even though that doesn’t make any logical sense, I never thought he was lying. Sometimes this necklace feels like it doesn’t belong here, like it’s part of something else...some other world, some other life. Sometimes when I look at it, I feel the way I do when I’m in a museum...like this necklace is an artifact from some other place that’s gone now. Sometimes I have this weird feeling that my necklace might just disappear one day...that it might return to that other place, that other life...that it might bury itself in the sand again.

Things have changed between me and Dad. It started with the necklace. From the moment he first saw it around my neck three years ago, he wanted me to take it off. My Mom says I should be able to wear it if I want, and I’ve heard them fighting about it a bunch of times... loud fights. The last time they fought about it, on my fourteenth birthday, I stayed up really late and listened to them screaming. Dad called Mom a witch and said I was following in her footsteps and he told her God would curse us all for it. Then my mother screamed, “Tara’s my daughter, and I say if she wants to wear that necklace she can damn well wear it! If you want to give someone shit yell at your fucking juvenile delinquent of a son!”

They were quiet after that. Dad stormed out of the house, I heard him. He didn’t come back for a few days. I found out from Donny later that Dad went to his friend Jed’s house and stayed for the weekend. And that was the last time my parents fought about my necklace--the last time they fought about anything. I never heard them raise their voices to each other again after that. I think maybe they came to an understanding...an understanding about me. Dad adopted me when I was born, he raised me and I love him, but he’s not my father. My Mom never told me but I know it’s true. My real father is a man my mother only knew for a little while, in New York City, and he was a painter with dark hair and green eyes, and his name is Luke. My mother never even knew his last name. There wasn’t time. They loved each other too much and they needed each other too much...it was like they were both starving, and the only thing that could fill them up was each other, and they didn’t want to waste even a moment with unnecessary words.

My mother never knew Luke’s last name, but I think his last name is Maclay. Mr. Laufeyson hinted that I should remember that name...that it would be important to me.

Someday, when I’m old enough, I’m going to find my father. When I find him, I’m going to change my name. When you’re eighteen you can legally change your name. When I find my real father and learn his last name, I’m going to stop being Tara Claremont. Someday, I might be Tara Maclay.

I guess it wasn’t the necklace that really changed things between Dad and me. Things changed the second I learned the secret...the second I found out he isn’t my real father.

One other strange thing. I lied to Dad about where I got the necklace (and how I lost my Bible and my catechism) but I can never lie to my Mom. I told her the whole story the next morning. She got a strange look in her eyes, when I told her about Mr. Laufeyson, and she acted like she recognized his name. She told me that if he ever visits me again, I should come get her right that second, no matter what time it is. I asked her if the necklace was dangerous, if she wanted me to take it off, but she said no, that I could wear it...that I should wear it.

I can read minds. I know you know that I can. It’s how I found out about my real father. I decided after I read Mom’s mind and found out about my father that I would never read minds again, because it’s wrong...it’s like spying on people. But even though I don’t let myself look into people’s heads anymore, I can still read their feelings, whether I want to or not. I just always know exactly how people are feeling, even if they’re trying to hide it. When I told my mother about Mr. Laufeyson, she felt afraid...but not just afraid. I think she sort of wanted to see him, too...almost as if she missed him. I think she met him before.

The chemotherapy and radiation are making Mom feel really sick. I prayed for her in church today. I know you heard my prayer, Jesus.

Saturday, March 2nd, 1996.

I know, it’s been awhile. Sorry. Things have just been hectic. Between helping take care of Mom and working every spare minute at Munson’s I just feel exhausted all the time. And can I just take a second to complain about my job? That’s what people do when they have jobs, right? They come home and complain. It’s a time-honored American tradition. Well, I know you’re a good listener, so behold my complaining. Marvel now at the number of my complaints.

First, there’s the annoying cigar smoke. It’s everywhere, it’s in the fucking darn walls. Even on days when Mr. Munson isn’t around, the place still smells like cigar smoke because he’s been smoking the same smelly cigars in there for forty years. Yes, Munson’s has been there for forty years. Last Sunday when business was slow Mr. Munson told me the history of Munson’s. The entire history. Including the introduction of the power saw (“that sure shook things up little lady, yes indeed, as I didn’t hold with such newfangled devices”), his run-ins with the city council over zoning laws (at this point he gave me a tutorial on zoning laws, and an abbreviated history of “those damn Democrats”), the time when a True Value Hardware opened up a few blocks away and Mr. Munson had to “circle the wagons”, the names, histories and bad habits of every single one of the “long-haired pimple-faced hippy-dippy punk kids” that has ever worked at the Blockbuster video store across the street, and finally, he told me about all the dogs he ever owned. They’ve all been named “Dapper”. (When I asked him why, he just gave me a weird look and said, “Well, what else would I call him?”) They’ve all been male cockerspaniels. There have been six Dappers and they’ve all sat around his store, decade after decade, looking suspiciously at strangers and yapping whenever things get too peaceful, which is, judging from Dapper VI, every three seconds, or whenever I’m really trying to concentrate on my homework.

So, where was I? Cigar smoke. I hate it. You’d think I would’ve gotten used to it by now as I’ve spent what seems like five-hundred thousand hours in there, but I still haven’t gotten used to it. And then there’s the TV and its constant baseball games. What is it about baseball? Why do people like it? I’m not anti-sports exactly, I mean I can watch a football game if I have to, I’ve been to a few Badgers games and they were kind of fun. But baseball is the slowest game in the world. When there’s nothing better to do at the store--which is a lot--I time pitches. I watch the TV screen and time how long it takes the pitcher to just throw the fucking darn ball one time. Keep in mind that in order for the guy at bat to be done with his turn, the pitcher usually has to throw a bunch of pitches. I’m just talking about how long it takes for him to throw one pitch. Seriously, bear with me Jesus, I’m obsessed about this. I’m Captain Ahab obsessed.

First the batter guy has to sort of settle in at the plate. Sometimes he’ll knock some of the dirt off his shoes with the bat. Sometimes he’ll spit chewing tobacco. Sometimes he’ll scratch his butt. He’ll usually stretch out a little, and he’ll take a few slow practice swings, getting the bat halfway around, just to limber up. While this is happening I’m already staring at the TV like an insane person because I know this pitch is one of hundreds I’m going to have sit through and it hasn’t even started yet. Eventually, the batter gets ready and he gives the pitcher the evil eye. Batters always do this, they always look at the pitcher like the pitcher just ran over their dog because batters hate pitchers. The batter and the pitcher always remind me of two cowboys having a shootout in a Western. Anyway, at the same time the batter is doing his stuff, the pitcher has his own time-wasting, Tara-pulling her-hair-out regimen. First, the pitcher has to kick the dirt around on the mound a little. (Batters knock dirt off their shoes, pitchers try to get dirt on their shoes. Why?) After he’s done that, he needs to look threateningly at any runners on base, sort of daring them to try to steal a base. Sometimes--and this has already caused me to yell at the TV more than once--the pitcher will waste even more time throwing the ball back to the baseman to try to get the baserunner out. It never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever works. The only time a baserunner gets thrown out is when he’s actually trying to steal, not when he’s just standing off the base. So basically, pitchers throw to the baseman specifically to annoy me. I’ve seen pitchers do it three times in a row sometimes. Baserunner guy stands about five feet off the base, pitcher looks threateningly at him, pitcher throws to the baseman, baserunner gets back to the base before he can be tagged out, baseman throws the ball back to the pitcher, baserunner moves about five feet away from the base, pitcher looks threateningly at him, repeat ad infinitum. It accomplishes nothing. The baserunner still blatantly, defiantly stands about five feet from the base so he has a head start if the batter makes a hit because baserunners are just batters who have already been up and as I’ve already mentioned, all batters hate pitchers the way God hated Gomorrah. (Mr. Munson used to play minor league baseball and he explained it. “Pitchers are devious sons of bitches,” he said. “Never trusted pitchers. Never had a beer with one neither. It was always us against them.”) And remember, the pitcher still hasn’t thrown the actual fucking darn pitch yet. In the time it’s taken the pitcher so far just to prepare to throw a pitch, the teams in a basketball game could have scored two times each.

After the pitcher has ineffectually threatened any baserunners with his awe-inspiring powers of throwing the ball to the baseman and not ever succeeding in getting them out, he’ll finally turn his attention to the pitch itself. Once he’s gone though his own butt-scratching, chewing tobacco-spitting routine, he’ll then do this thing where he bends forward and squints at the catcher, and the catcher gives “signals” that are supposed to stand for what kind of pitch the catcher wants the pitcher to throw. I was puzzled by this for awhile until one of the customers explained it to me. The catcher will hold his fingers down between his legs and the number of fingers stands for the type of pitch. Usually, the pitcher won’t want to throw the pitch the catcher wants him to throw, and the pitcher will shake his head. You’d think these guys would know each other by now and the catcher would be able to predict the kind of pitch a pitcher likes to throw, but nope, the catcher gives a signal, the pitcher shakes his head. I don’t understand why catchers get to have input on this at all, actually. Mind your own business, catchers! Let the pitcher handle the pitching. Then the catcher gives another signal, this time the pitcher agrees, and the pitcher gets ready--finally! Hallelujah!--to throw the fucking darn ball. The pitcher winds up, which involves him leaning back and lifting one leg up in a weird way sort of like he’s a ballerina, or maybe a dog about to pee on a lamp pole, and then he finally throws the pitch. Average time it takes to throw a pitch: twenty-four seconds. (Yes, I averaged it out.) And that’s without any guys on base. With guys on base it can take up to two minutes. For one pitch. Out of hundreds of pitches that are going to be thrown. I think my left eye has a nervous twitch now.

I was going to write about the Beach Boys and the horrible things they do to my mind but my hand hurts and I need a Twinkie to calm my nerves.

Saturday, March 2nd, 1996. Later.

Okay, the Beach Boys. I hate the Beach Boys. Something has to be done about the Beach Boys. Mr. Munson always has his radio set to this oldies channel he loves and he won’t let me change it--I found that out the hard way. (Dapper doesn’t want me changing the channel either. He growls at me whenever I go near the radio. But Dapper’s a whole entry in and of himself and I’ll get to him some other time.) And maybe having to listen to that channel all day wouldn’t be too much of a problem if they played a decent variety of songs, but the songs keep on repeating! A million times! The same songs! Over and over and over again! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa! It’s like they could only afford to buy about forty records and they just keep on playing them over and over again. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard “Hey Jude”. I used to like “Hey Jude”. Now I want to find Paul McCartney and strangle him. But the Beach Boys are worse. I don’t know why I have such an unreasonable hatred of The Beach Boys--all I know is I hate them so much I think maybe I should confess it to Father Fitzpatrick. I think maybe I hate The Beach Boys so much because they’re so freaking happy all the time. Happy bordering on dopey. No, not bordering. They’re dopey. Every time “California Girls” starts playing and I hear the dopey guy sing “Well east coast girls are hip I really dig those styles they wear” I start pulling at my hair. Plus it’s annoying how they’re totally biased in favor of California girls. What the heck’s so great about girls from California? If I ever meet a girl from California I’m going to tell her right to her face that she isn’t anywhere near as pretty as the Beach Boys seem to think she is. I don’t think I’d go for blondes anyway. (Blonde guys I mean.)

Weirdly, I’m really getting into Elvis Presley. (I think it’s a form of brainwashing. I’m sitting behind the register eating Twinkies and drinking coke all day with all this hundred-year old music drilling into my head and it’s made me mentally fragile.) I love “Jailhouse Rock”, “Heartbreak Hotel” and “Hound Dog”. Whenever “Hound Dog” comes on (every song the station plays ends up repeating at least once during the workday, and Elvis songs usually repeat even more) I always point at Dapper and say, “Are you listening? You ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine.” Yeah, that’ll show him.

Sunday, March 3rd, 1996.

Mom’s hair fell out this morning.

It all fell out in the bathroom right after she showered. She was drying her hair with a towel and it all just came out, like it was already loose and just barely attached. She went into the bathroom with a full head of hair and she came out completely bald.

She laughed about it for a minute. She was giggling in the bathroom. I heard her.

Then she started crying. When I went in to see what was wrong I saw her standing there in a towel in front of the bathroom mirror, with tears running down her cheeks. And I saw all her beautiful golden hair, every single long, delicate strand of it, scattered around the bathroom floor like hay in a manger.

Mom stayed home from church again today, and I stayed with her. Dad took Donny to church to pray.

I’m still hanging tough, Jesus. But you’re not making it easy.

Monday, March 4th, 1996.

I stayed home from school and spent today with Mom too. She told me not to worry, but I wanted to be with her. We went out shopping for hats and wigs. She bought two hats and a couple of headscarves, but she decided not to buy a wig. “It’s going to grow back when I get better,” she said. I said it definitely would, because you’re going to save her, Jesus.

I need to hold Mom’s hand when she goes out in public. She feels weak, and she gets lightheaded sometimes.

Thursday, March 7th, 1996.

My brother is such a JERK!!!

I just walked into my room and I caught him reading this book! This is my book! No one is supposed to read it! I keep it in the bottom drawer of my desk and I even have a little post-it note on the cover that says private!

The worst thing is, he said he was only looking at the book because he needed scrap paper. He was tearing pages out of my personal journal because he was looking for fucking scrap paper. (Yes, I just swore. And I’m not crossing it out.) Sometimes Donny is a jerk to me because he likes to be. He comes up with little ways to aggravate me for fun. But sometimes, like right now, he’s a jerk because he’s just a thoughtless selfish asshole. Luckily the pages he tore out were mostly blank--but he got the rant about The Beach Boys. I took it away from him and wrote it back in the book again, word for word, with all the underlines and exclamation points. The Beach Boys are almost as annoying as Donny and it’s vitally important there’s a record of it.

I know he’s not really my brother, but Mom and Dad never told either of us. As far as they know, we still both think we’re related. When I saw Donny tearing pages out of my book, I almost told him we aren’t related, that he and I aren’t a family and that when I leave this town someday and find my real father and change my name I’m never going to see him again.

Almost. I almost told him.

Friday, March 8th, 1996. 3:30 in the morning, annoyingly.

Donny came into my room and woke me up and apologized. He said he didn’t know my book was such a big deal, that he was just messing with me like he always did. He said he hasn’t messed with me in awhile because everything’s been so tough since we had to move out here, first the sawmill closing and now Mom’s cancer, so he missed messing with me, and he didn’t know I’d freak so much.

“I just miss the way it was before, I guess,” he said. “Back in Racine everything just seemed better, you know? Like things would always be okay. Now it feels like, we have to fight just to keep our family together.”

Then he did something that was, for him, really extraordinary. He went to his room and came back with his baseball card collection. He keeps all his cards in absolutely pristine condition in a book that looks like a photo album, and each card is in its own plastic holder, and some of them are worth a lot of money.

“I ripped that book of yours and I guess I can’t make up for it,” he said. “I can’t like, un-rip it. But I can do this.”

Then he took out his favorite card--his 1960 Carl Yastrzemski Topps rookie card. I remember Donny had to save up all his allowance for months to buy it when he was ten. I remember him riding his bicycle down to that card shop every weekend just to stare at that card in the glass case. (Carl Yastrzemski was a part of the 1967 Red Sox “Impossible Dream” team that came out of nowhere to win the pennant but then lost the World Series, and Donny has a complete collection of the whole team’s rookie cards. I know this because Donny talks about it. Endlessly. I was irrationally angry at baseball long before I started working at Munson’s. Yastrzemski was the last card Donny needed for his set so the day he finally bought it--it cost him ninety dollars--was a happy day for him.)

Donny took the Yastrzemski card out of the plastic and ripped it in half in front of me.

“You dumbass!” I shouted. “You didn’t have to do that! I was able to rewrite the page you ripped out!”

He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “But I get points for being a cool brother, right?” he said.

“A cool, dumb brother,” I said. “What about the Impossible Dream team? They’re gonna be missing a player.”

“Better than me missing a sister,” he said.

“It’s really annoying, how I love you even though you’re a constant pain in my butt,” I told him.

He laughed. “I’m all about Mark McGwire these days anyway,” he said. “The guy’s just crushing it out there.”

Then he picked up his book of baseball cards, and went back to bed.

I guess he’s my brother after all. Annoyingly.

He left the Yastrzemski card. I taped it up and stuck it to the inside front cover of this book.

Saturday, March 9th, 1996.

I just had the weirdest day ever. And one of my hardest days ever...and I’m feeling kind of panicky. So bear with me.

I don’t even know how to say it. I’m afraid to write it down. I’m afraid because I feel like maybe I’m a sinner...and I wasn’t even given a choice. I don’t know if I should go to confession. I don’t know what to do. So I guess I’ll start with this. Writing it down. You’re the one who gets to read this book, Jesus, so...maybe you can tell me if I’m a sinner.

It was a simple thing. It was about three o’clock, and I was coming out of Munson’s on my break, walking up the block toward the pizza place, when I saw two girls getting into a cab with a woman. The woman was tall and pretty, in her late thirties I guess, and she was carrying a stack of paintings on canvas. One of the girls she was with was young, maybe eight or nine years old, with long brown hair, and that girl was leaning in against the woman as they walked, because it’s cold and windy today. The other girl had blonde hair, and she was about my age. She wore a black skirt and a black sweater and a red angora coat. I think the two girls were the daughters of the older woman. But I only really had eyes for the girl with blonde hair. I watched her standing there in the sun, and it was as if the sunlight was focused on her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

The blonde-haired girl held the cab door open for the little girl, while the woman headed for the front seat of the cab with the stack of paintings. The woman said something, and pointed at the stack of paintings she held, and the blonde girl giggled and rolled her eyes. Then the blonde girl looked at the paintings and said, “Hello? Cheerleader, remember? I have a rep to uphold.” Then they all got in the cab.

As I passed by the cab I looked at that blonde girl. She was smiling, and she was stroking the little girl’s hair as they sat in the back seat together, like it was something she did all the time. The little girl yawned and laid her head down in the blonde girl’s lap in the back seat, while the woman sat up front with the stack of paintings on her lap.

That blonde girl was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life. She was like a movie star. I didn’t think a girl could be so beautiful...I didn’t think anyone could.

And when I saw her smile...when I saw her smile...

It just...all happened in a second. It’s like I realized something...something that I’ve been hiding from myself, my whole life.

Oh, Jesus, help me...I think I’m gay.

Saturday, March 9th, 1996. Later.

Something weird happened when I wrote the last entry. I mean, besides the whole “maybe I’m gay” thing, which I’m trying really hard not to think about right now. (Note to self: I better find somewhere to hide this book too, in case Donny decides he needs more scrap paper.)

Anyway, the weird thing was this: as I was writing, the crystal on my necklace flashed. The crystal flashes a lot, and it sort of has a mind of its own. But this time was weird. It only flashed once, just for a second, like a flashbulb going off, and then it stopped. I didn’t think anything of it, until I came back and looked at the book again.

The entry I just wrote about the girl getting in the cab is...well...it’s glowing. I mean, the words are actually giving off light, as if they were written with one of those glow in the dark pens. The words are glowing the way my necklace glows...it looks like the same kind of light. But only the words from that entry. I’ve just gone through every page in the book, and only the entry about the girl in the cab is glowing.

What the heck does it mean? First maybe I’m gay and now I’m going crazy. I’m tempted to show my Mom the glowing words but...

I’m afraid. I’m afraid to tell anyone. How can I tell someone, even my Mom, that I think I might be gay?

I need to figure out what the heck is going on with me. In the morning. Right now I’m going to bed.

Sunday, March 10th, 1996.

Okay, the words aren’t glowing anymore. I guess I must’ve imagined it. Weird. I’m hoping I only imagined I wanted to jump that blonde girl’s bones, too.

In church today a bunch of people stared at my mother. It’s the first time she’s been to church since she lost her hair. She ignored them, but I know she knew they were staring...I felt it. I felt my mother’s humiliation, as they stared at her.

I asked Mom when we got home from church if she wanted to rent a movie and we could watch it together and I could pop popcorn for us, but she said she was too tired. On days she doesn’t go to the hospital for treatments, she spends most of her time in bed.

So I stayed with her in her room while she laid there, and held her hand. I told her to hang tough. I told her to rock that headscarf. She smiled.

I waited until she fell asleep before I let myself cry.

I watched her sleep, and knew I’d die without her.

Friday, March 22nd, 1996.

I’ve been researching this whole possible gayness thing. The research has been goofy and embarrassing and ridiculous, and scary sometimes. Also, very clandestine. I feel like a spy. Not James Bond, that’s too action-packed. More like a John le Carré character. Lots of sneaking around and looking shifty and reading secret documents when no one’s looking. The research started with me looking at girls at school and trying to decide if I wanted to jump their bones, and then looking at boys at school and trying to decide if I wanted to jump their bones, and taking notes. (I’m all about the scientific method.) Girls whose bones I wanted to jump: 16. Boys whose bones I wanted to jump: 0. Initial research results: not promising.

Stage two was looking at racy magazines. I went out to the tobacco shop last week--they have a giant rack of magazines--and I pulled out a Life magazine and then hid various racy magazines inside of it (a trick I use in math class all the time when I want to read a good book and pretend trigonometry doesn’t exist.) At different times the Life magazine hid FHM, Maxim, GQ, Allure, American Photo, Playboy, and Playgirl. I started with Playgirl and GQ, hoping to find some cute guys I could maybe have the hots for so I could forget about the disastrous first phase of the experiment. And I did find cute guys, lots of them...at least, I knew intellectually that they’re cute...but I didn’t feel it. Then I looked at the Playboy, and I didn’t feel anything for those dopey, fake-looking girls either, with their vacuous smiles and their surgically-enhanced boobs. The girls in FHM and Maxim were a little better--fake boobs were less prevalent at least--but the girls still looked unnatural like they did in Playboy...it looked like their pictures were altered. Their skin looked almost like plastic. American Photo is apparently a magazine about photography but as far as I can tell it’s only about nude photography. This issue was split between naked guys and naked girls so I was able to compare and contrast. The guys with their perfectly lean tanned hard bodies and their awesome pouty lips (seriously, do they have surgery to get lips like that? I’ve never seen a guy with lips like that in my entire life) were kind of fun, but the girls were even more fun. But the photography got in the way. Black and white, blurry, grainy, over-saturated, people wearing goofy outfits, people painted like mimes, people posing in the middle of the desert--all the photographic tricks were too distracting, too distancing.

Allure magazine was where I hit the jackpot. It was their annual “naked issue” according to the cover, and inside they had full page photos of five different female actors (at least, that’s what the captions say, but I’ve never seen any of these women before) posing naked, but not in a “trying to be sexy” kind of way, not in a dumb slutty Playboy way, just in a natural way, like women who just happen to be sitting around naked at home. Some of the guys in the Photography magazine looked nice enough, sort of how you can look at a painting in a museum and know that it’s supposed to be a masterpiece, and acknowledge it as such. But the women in the Allure pictures--I felt how pretty they were. I wanted to jump their bones.

They made me think of the blonde girl getting in the cab...the blonde girl I’ve been having dreams about all week. (No, I’m not going to describe the dreams.)

So I guess I like girls. As I looked at those girls at school and knew I was attracted to them, as I looked at the girls in the Allure magazine, I wondered how this could have possibly gotten by me. If I’m attracted to girls, how could I not have noticed until now? But then, as I thought about it for awhile, thought about my life, I realized that part of me has always known this. Part of me has always been attracted to girls...I’ve thought Audrey was beautiful from the day I first met her, and I totally love her. I guess I just...blocked it out, somehow. It didn’t start with the girl in the cab...that girl, whoever she is, just forced me to acknowledge it...to really see myself.

So what do I do now? Is this a sin? Am I a bad person? How can you be a bad person without choosing to be? That was my second line of research.

Kids at school always sort of whisper about this camp that’s run by the churches around here, the camp is sort of like an urban legend. But there are kids at Divine Savior who say they know kids who have gone to the camp, and that the kids who went came back changed. Word around school is, it’s a camp for gay kids...a camp to cure gay kids.

I did some spying. (I guess I went undercover...I was a gay girl undercover as a straight girl.) I talked to some kids around school--I was careful to act like I was joking, careful to make sure they didn’t suspect that maybe I’m one of the gay kids. (A lot of the kids at school call me “Saint Tara”--they don’t mean it as a compliment--so there wasn’t any need for me to worry. I’m the last kid they would suspect of being gay. Gay = troublemaker around here.) Word around school was that the guidance counselor’s office is connected to the camp somehow. Which makes sense if it’s a church-run camp, because Divine Savior is a Catholic school. So I sneaked into the guidance office when Father Shanley was in the teacher’s lounge. It’s pretty easy for me to sneak around: besides the fact that no teacher would ever suspect me (all the teachers love me, which means a lot of the kids hate me, but such is life when you’re just trying your best to be nice to everybody), I can also read minds. I bent my rule on mind-reading and stayed locked on to Father Shanley so I could know exactly where he was while I snooped around in his office, going through all his files. I feel kind of lousy about that but this is important. I wish I could confess it, because it feels like a sin. But I’m smart enough to know that if I go to confession and tell Father Fitzpatrick I can read minds he’ll think I’m crazy and call my parents and it’ll all just explode. And I can’t even imagine what would happen if they actually believed me when I told them I could read minds, if I proved it to them somehow--the Church would probably say I was possessed. Maybe Father Fitzpatrick would try to have an exorcism. So I’m not going to confess it. I’m not going to tell anyone. But consider this my confession, Jesus. I’m sorry I read Father Shanley’s mind, but I only did it so I would know if he was coming back to his office while I snooped around. There were extenuating circumstances. (And I should also mention that, if you didn’t want me to read minds, why did you give me the power to read minds in the first place? Is it like the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden? Is it a test? If so, why? It’s something I’ve wondered about for awhile. But that’s a conundrum for another time.)

Anyway, after ten minutes of digging through Father Shanley’s files I found what I was looking for.

It turns out my school and my church are part of a network of Catholic schools and churches in Milwaukee that are all affiliated with a Bible camp for “troubled teens” called “New Horizons”. I found a bunch of the camp’s brochures in Father Shanley’s file cabinet, in a blank manila folder buried at the back of the bottom drawer. (Obvious much? He might as well have written “Don’t open this folder” in red magic marker on the cover). There was a list of names in the folder too--names of kids who have been sent to the camp, along with what graduating class they were part of. There are pages and pages of names, hundreds of them, going all the way back to the 1950’s. There were blank copies of a parental consent form in there--I swiped one, along with a brochure.

The consent form is a page of legalese that made my eyes cross when I read it (note to self: never become a lawyer) but basically it all means that the parents are giving the camp counselors permission to essentially do whatever they want with their kids for three months without any consequences. “I hereby release, discharge and covenant not to sue” the second paragraph starts, and it goes downhill from there. In the third paragraph the parents release New Horizons and all its employees, as well as the Milwaukee archdiocese and the Divine Savior and all their employees, “from all liability to me, the minor, my and the minor's personal representatives, assigns, heirs, and next of kin, for any and all claims, demands, losses, or damages on any account of any injury, physical, emotional or psychological, to the minor, including, but not limited to death, caused or alleged to be caused, in whole or in part, by the negligence of the releasees or otherwise.” Nice. In other words, “If we kill your kid or screw him up psychologically for life, well that’s just tough titty said the kitty. Sign here, please.”

The brochure has a nice photograph of a rising sun on the cover, and lots of pictures of smiling teenagers inside, roasting marshmallows, rowing canoes out on the lake, playing basketball, reading Bibles, and, presumably, being taught how not to be gay. It’s a three-month camp where you live at a facility in the woods with “counselors” and you don’t have any contact with your family or your friends at all, you’re not allowed to leave, and they try to change you.

Here’s three paragraphs, verbatim, from the brochure.

“Homosexuality is evil. It is completely, diametrically opposed to God's divine will for humanity as clearly stated in the Bible. Homosexuality is a moral perversion and a sickness. But this sickness is not a natural part of our human nature; God did not create human beings this way. Rather, it is a specific disease of the soul, caused by sin. A person with a homosexual orientation is a sinner, and also a severely damaged individual.”

(So I’m severely damaged now, I guess.)

“But we must remember that a homosexual orientation is the symptom, not the problem. It is a result of sin and wickedness, and that wickedness is the true problem afflicting the soul of people with homosexual orientations. Anyone who acts on these perverted desires is committing a mortal sin. Since God did not create human beings to be homosexual, therefore any person with a homosexual orientation must have grievously sinned in order to make themselves that way. Homosexuality does not exist in people who have avoided mortal sin in their lives, only in wicked sinners who refuse to repent.”

(I haven’t committed any mortal sins. I didn’t ask to like girls. I just do. How can these people claim to know me, to know that I’ve sinned, when they haven’t even met me?)

“Contrary to the lies and fabrications of the liberal media, people aren’t born homosexual. There are no genes that cause homosexuality. Homosexuals are sinning, and sin is a matter of free will. Homosexuality is against the will of God, therefore, it cannot possibly be a part of human nature as created by God. Homosexuals are sinners and they gain their homosexual orientation by committing grievous mortal sins. Any Christian who has always lived by God’s will could not possibly have a homosexual orientation.”

(I didn’t ask to like girls. I didn’t decide one day, Hey, I want to be a sinner and act contrary to the will of God! Yay me! Do these people honestly think that any Christian kids would choose to be homosexuals? With all the prejudice that’s out there? When there have been gay kids who have been stoned to death? When the Church tells them they’re going to Hell? Why would anyone choose that?)

New Horizons is a camp to make gay kids straight. It’s a camp run by people who think I’m evil because of desires I didn’t even choose to have. It’s not fair.

The brochure talks about the corrupting influence of the media on kids, hints that there’s a media conspiracy to make kids gay (actually I think there’s a media conspiracy to make kids dumb, but maybe I’m paranoid), and then it claims that the camp “cures aberrant sexual longings through the power of Christ’s words.”

It’s brainwashing. Anyone with half a brain can see this brochure and that consent form, read between the lines, and figure out that it’s brainwashing. Oh God...they take gay kids away from their family and their friends and lock them up for three months without any contact with the outside world and tell them they’re evil and brainwash them. And the parents let it happen... they sign their rights to their own kids away. The consent form has a space for the parents to sign, but nowhere for the kids to sign. The kids don’t get a choice.

Am I that horrible, Jesus? Am I so detestable, just because I like girls? Do you hate me just because of who I am? “Society” didn’t make me this way. “The media” didn’t make me this way. I didn’t get this way by sinning. I didn’t decide one day to be this way. This is just how I am. If this isn’t how you wanted me then why did you create me this way?

Because I know I like girls. It’s official. Whenever I think about that beautiful girl getting in the cab...I feel desire...I want to kiss her. I keep dreaming about her and I don’t think the dreams are evil. (They’re kind of embarrassing though...and graphic. Really graphic. No one under 17 admitted without a parent or guardian.)

Oh God, I’m gay. And if I ever tell anyone they’ll call me evil and tell me I’m going to Hell and then send me away and try to “cure” me.

I’m crying as I write this. I’ve been crying all day. I’m so scared I can’t even breathe.

I’ve been trying to hang tough...now I just feel like I’m hanging.

Friday, March 22nd, 1996. Later.

My Mom wouldn’t send me away to a brainwashing camp. I know she wouldn’t. I know in a million years she wouldn’t.

But I think my Dad might.

Friday, March 22nd, 1996. Even later. Wee hours of the morning.

I need to talk to Mom. I’m freaking out, I don’t know what to do and I’ve been crying all night. I need to talk to Mom. If she tells me liking girls is wrong, if she tells me I was born damaged, that I’m in a state of sin, that I need to go to a camp...fine, I’ll go.

Saturday, March 23rd, 1996.

I’m smiling.

When I woke up my mother was already up and cooking breakfast--she hasn’t done that since she got her diagnosis. But she said she wanted to talk to me, alone. Dad went to work early and Mom gave Donny ten bucks for the arcade and shooed him out of the house until his shift at McDonald’s starts. And she called Mr. Munson and told him she needs me to help her out today so I wouldn’t be going to work. He said he understood--he goes to our church and he knows she’s sick. Mom said we were going to have a mother/daughter day like we used to. She made my favorite breakfast too: waffles and sausage links. (I’m not very sophisticated.)

She told me she knows I’m gay. She told me she’s known it for awhile. She said it doesn’t matter at all--that no matter what the Church says, no matter what the Bible says, no matter what anybody says, it doesn’t matter. She said it’s not a bad thing. She said it doesn’t matter at all--it isn’t a moral question. It’s like the difference between liking chocolate ice cream or vanilla. You can’t help what flavor of ice cream you like and you can’t help your sexual preference either. Calling gay people sinners is like calling people who like chocolate ice cream sinners, she said.

She told me she’s been waiting for me to come to her with this, waiting for more than a year now, but since I never did, she wanted to make sure we had this talk.

“I want you to promise me something,” she said. “I want you to promise me you won’t let fear make your decisions for you. I made a bad decision once, because I was afraid...and I’ve regretted that decision every single day. There’s nothing wrong with being afraid, everybody gets afraid. Just don’t let it rule you. Don’t let it make you do something you’ll regret.”

I promised her.

Then she said:

“You’re a good person. And you’re a strong person, and a smart person too. Just be yourself. You’re the love of my life, Tara. I love you no matter what. And I know, I know for a fact, that God feels the same way about you as I do. He created a beautiful, smart, wonderful girl when he created you and he didn’t make any mistakes. You being gay isn’t a sin. It’s how God made you. And God doesn’t make mistakes.”

She made me promise her some other things, too. She made me promise I would leave Milwaukee after high school, and see the world. She made me promise I’d go to college and then have a good career, not just be a housewife, because I’m smart and it would be a shame to let that go to waste. She made me promise that I would always be tolerant of other people, even bad people, and that I wouldn’t let my faith make me cold.

“Christ is in your heart,” she said. “Not in the Bible. Not in a church. Not in the Pope’s kitchen. He’s in your heart. So listen to your heart. It won’t ever steer you wrong.”

I told her about the New Horizons camp. She asked to see one of the brochures. As she read it, I felt her anger, boiling up inside her.

After she read the brochure, she called Jerry, our lawyer. She’s known him since they were both little kids and he gives us a break on his fees. Actually I’m pretty sure he doesn’t actually charge us any fees. She told him she was going to need him to draw up some papers, and she would need them ready by Monday, and that she’d call him later on to talk about it.

When I asked her why, she said, “Because I could die.”

Then she took my hand, and looked right into my eyes.

“Tim’s a good man and I love him,” she said. “But the difference between him and me is, he loves God more than he loves you, while I love you more than I love God. You come first with me, Tara. Before Christ, before everything. But, Tim...if I died, and he found out you like girls...he’d go to the Church for guidance, and I’m afraid they’d convince him to do something dumb. Tim’s a good man, Tara, but he’s not sophisticated. His heart’s in the right place, but he accepts whatever the Bible says without giving it any thought. His religion gets him all turned around sometimes.”

“You think...he’d send me to New Horizons?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” my mother said. “But I won’t take the chance. I’m going to talk to him tonight, and I’m going to have Jerry draw up papers to make sure you can never be sent to that horrible place, okay? First thing Monday morning, I’m going to have Tim sign them. I know you’re afraid of that place, Tara. I can see it in your eyes, I can feel it. But you won’t ever go there. I promise, love of my life. I’m going to have Tim sign those papers so you can see for yourself that it will never happen, and then you can relax.”

She kissed me, and said, “Nothing is more important to me than you.”

Later on, after Dad got home from work, she talked to him. I didn’t overhear...but their thoughts came to me. I didn’t mean for it to happen. The thing about mind-reading is, people’s thoughts are always out there, they’re like radio stations I can pick up. Usually it’s easy to tune them out, but sometimes, when I’m stressed, it’s a little hard to tune them out. I heard their whole conversation...as they thought the words in their heads, I heard them in my own head.

I wrote down what they said in shorthand as it came to me and then I transcribed it after. (I always wondered if shorthand would ever be useful. This is the first and only time it’s ever been useful since I had to learn it in that elective they made the girls in my class take in seventh grade. But that puts it one up on trigonometry, which has never been useful, even for a second. I keep waiting for someone to mug me in an alley and force me at knifepoint to explain what a cosine is. Hasn’t happened yet.)

Here’s what my Mom and Dad said to each other, word for word:

“I could die,” my mother said. “So I don’t have time to dick around about this, Tim. There’s something we need to talk about, something we need to settle, tonight.”

“You’re not going to die,” Dad said. “You should lie down. You’re tired, honey.”

“After we talk. Tara’s gay.”

“What? Gay? She told you that?”

“Yeah. But she didn’t have to. She’s my daughter. I’ve known for awhile. I just found out our church and Tara’s school have this camp they send gay kids to. New Horizons. Have you heard of it?”

“Hold on. Maybe...maybe this is a phase. Has she even ever been on a date yet? Maybe she just...”

“I don’t care. She can like girls, she can like boys...all that matters to me is that she’s happy. Have you heard of New Horizons?”

“No. A camp for gay kids? To do what? Make them normal?”

“They’re already normal, Tim. It’s a camp to make them not gay. It’s been around for decades. Hundreds of kids have been sent there from Tara’s school alone. You’re sure you’ve never heard of it?”

“No. You...want to send Tara to this camp?”

“No. Actually, I wouldn’t mind burning that fucking camp to the ground.”

“Angie, slow down. You’re being--”

“I could die. No time to slow down. I called Jerry and we had a long talk. He’s drawing up papers I need you to sign.”

“Papers? Angie...what is all this? First you tell me Tara’s gay, now you want me to sign papers...and it’s like you’re angry with me. What the hell’s going on?”

“Tim, I love you. You’re a good husband. And I know you love Tara like a daughter, even though she isn’t yours. You’ve been a good father to her and I don’t have any complaints. But the difference between me and you is, you love God more than you love Tara, you love God more than you love Donny too, and he’s your flesh and blood son...”

“God has to come first. Remember the story of Abraham?”

“You’re saying you’d kill your son if God told you to?”

They were quiet for a moment.

“God stopped the sacrifice,” Dad said.

“Yeah, I think God was just feeling like being a prick to somebody that day,” my mother said. “Or maybe the story is just bullshit. Or maybe we shouldn’t get our morals from people who lived three-thousand years ago.”

“Angie! Will you please relax? You’re acting crazy over--”

“Over my daughter. When I’m worried about my daughter I get crazy. And you didn’t answer my question. But the answer doesn’t matter. Donny is your responsibility. But Tara is mine. And I love Tara more than I love God, more than I love you, more than I love anything. That’s just how it is, Tim, and you’ve always known it. But because I might die, there are some papers you need to sign.”

“What papers?”

“I called Jerry, he’s drawing up a sort of contract for you to sign. It’s a legally binding agreement which states that as Tara’s biological mother it’s my decision that Tara will never be sent to that fucking camp, or any camp, that I won’t ever allow those hateful brainwashing assholes to get their hooks into Tara, and that you agree to abide by my decision if I die. I was going to just have Jerry alter my will but Jerry said it’s possible you could contest my will in court after I die. This way you won’t be able to contest it. Tara’s afraid of that camp, Tim. She’s scared to death of it. I read the camp’s consent form. Parents sign their kids away for three months. Tara’s scared she might be sent away so I need you to sign those papers so she can see them and not be scared anymore.”

“Angie...you don’t have to worry about--”

“You love God more than her. And you’re holding back because you don’t want to upset me, but I know you think Tara’s soul is in jeopardy because she’s gay, and I know that once you start really thinking about it...”

“Her soul is in jeopardy. We should talk to a priest about this...I’m not saying send her to some camp but...maybe she can talk to someone...a religious counselor, or...”

“That’s what the camp’s brochure calls them. Counselors. I won’t allow it. If you don’t sign those papers first thing Monday morning I’m going to dissolve your adoption of Tara.”

“What? Angie! You’re getting hysterical!”

“I’ll take away all of your parental rights, Tim. I will. I’m her mother and I can do it. I had a long talk with Jerry today when I told him about this, about why I needed him to do this for us, why I was afraid, and we talked about my legal options. You know Jerry, he’s the furthest thing from a religious guy in the world.”

“He’s a damned hedonist is what he is. He might as well be a pagan.”

“Sure. But pagans make great lawyers. And he’s gay too, by the way. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

“He’s gay?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve known Jerry since grammar school. And when I told him about that fucking concentration camp he was disgusted. He called it organized, church-sponsored child abuse and he’s right. He’s thinking about pursuing legal action against them on his own. And not only will this agreement be legally binding but he’s going to word it to make sure you can’t even have Tara see a shrink. No shrinks, no counselors, nothing. I won’t let you make Tara hate herself over this. I won’t. I love God and I love my Church but the Church is wrong about this. And if you refuse to sign those papers then Jerry’s got the dissolution of your adoption ready to go, and if I die he’ll immediately become Tara’s legal guardian until she’s eighteen.”

“You’ve got to be frigging kidding me. He barely knows Tara!”

“I don’t kid around when it comes to my daughter. Jerry barely knows Tara but he wouldn’t ever tell her she’s going to Hell either. He wouldn’t allow some bigoted, hateful, backward assholes to try to brainwash her and when I told him about the camp and we figured out my options he volunteered to be Tara’s guardian if I die. Tara’s mine, Tim. And if I don’t want you to be her father anymore then you won’t be. I won’t risk dying and leaving Tara with you if I have to worry that you’ll fucking treat her the way Abraham treated Isaac. And by the way? If you ever tell my daughter her soul is in jeopardy just because she happens to like girls I’ll pack your things and throw you out that door no matter how much I love you.”

They were quiet again.

“You really think...you really think I’m that rotten of a father,” Dad whispered.

She kissed him, then. I felt it.

“No, baby,” she whispered back. “I think you’re a great father. And I love you. But you love God more than you love your children. And that’s not good enough for my daughter because she’s the most special girl in the world. I’m sorry I’ve been harsh. But I could die and this is important, and hearing about that camp just really got under my skin. It’s this kind of hateful bullshit the Church gets into sometimes that really tries my faith. And maybe you could promise me now that you’d never send Tara away to a place like that, and maybe I’d believe you. But Tara’s only fifteen and if I die a lot of things can change between now and when she’s eighteen. I can’t take the risk that you’d change your mind. And Tara’s scared, Tim, I’ve never seen her so scared. She needs to know for a fact that she’ll never get sent to that place, that’s the only thing that will make it better. She needs to see your signature on those papers, that’s the only way to prove it to her. Will you do it? Will you sign the papers?”

“Yeah,” Dad said. “But not because I think you’re right. I think you’re being paranoid, and blasphemous. I’m going to sign them because if I didn’t, it would be one more thing for you to worry about...it would make things even harder for you. And I want to ease your burden, not make it heavier. And I don’t want Tara to be scared either. I might think homosexuality is immoral but Tara’s a beautiful, wonderful girl and she shouldn’t have to live her life scared.”

“Okay.”

“Can I talk to her about this? Or is the subject off-limits? We’re still a Catholic family, Angie. I still love my daughter...I only want what’s best for her.”

“If Tara tells you, then you can talk to her about it. If she doesn’t, then I want you to respect that, and back off. I won’t have my daughter worrying about going to Hell because you think every word of the Bible is literally true. If it was then we could all be stoned to death for working on a Sunday. And if Tara’s going to Hell I’m going to be right there beside her. And then the Devil’s in deep trouble because my boot’s got his name on it.”

Dad laughed. They held hands.

“I’ll sign those papers and you can show them to Tara, so she won’t be scared anymore,” he said. “Okay?”

Mom nodded, and kissed him.

“Even if you did die, and even if I thought sending her to a place like that would help her, I wouldn’t have forced her to go if she didn’t want to,” Dad said. “I could never send Tara someplace that scared her. You’re tired, Angie. Lie down. I’ll rub your back.”

“Okay,” Mom said. And then they stopped talking. I think they made love.

And I felt like a weight was lifted from my shoulders...I actually giggled.

And now I’m going to bed. My first good night’s sleep in awhile.

Monday, March 25th, 1996.

Dad signed those papers. Mom showed them to me.

And then Dad took me out for ice cream. We didn’t talk about the papers, or me being gay, or religion. We talked about football and John Wayne movies, and I was bored stiff. And it was wonderful.

Saturday, March 30th, 1996.

Slept over Audrey’s house yesterday after work and tried not to stare at her in her nightgown. And then I realized that I always stare at her when I see her in a nightgown...I’ve been staring at her for years now. Life just keeps getting more complicated. After we watched horror movies and Audrey got scared and hid her head on my shoulder and just took the occasional peek at the TV screen, we spent the rest of the night Friday trying to cook (lasagna again; another failure but I’m getting closer, I think the key might be to add a layer of meatballs in the middle so the ricotta cheese doesn’t make it all too goopy. Also, not burning it might be good too.) After that we talked about that Michael guy Audrey likes. He works at the sporting goods store in the mall and Audrey says she talked to him and found out he plays hockey. She wants him to ask her out but he still hasn’t and Audrey kept on asking me if it’s because she doesn’t have any boobs and I just wanted to tell her she’s beautiful and I’d date her in a second. (Oh God, I’m so lame.) Anyway I told Audrey that if this Michael guy has any sense he’ll ask her out. While trying not to stare at Audrey’s legs in the nightgown. What the heck is happening to me? It’s like I’m in heat or something. Is this what they mean by “the turbulent years of adolescence”? Whatever’s going on my body sure picked a rotten time for sexual awakening. I’ve never even been on a date! Not planning on it either.

I remember what my Mom said to me, when she pulled me out of school back in Racine. “That school might call itself Christian, but all I see in your homework is intolerance and hatred. They’ve got you writing papers on why gay people and people who are pro-choice are going to Hell, and they should be fucking ashamed of themselves. Jesus never hated anyone. He never even hated the people who crucified him.”

My Mom was right, and the Church is wrong.

Maybe I really should become a nun. The Church could use more nuns like Sister Theresa. Because if the Catholic Church really thinks brainwashing gay kids is morally acceptable then I think the Church has lost its way. I know you’d never try to take advantage of some poor confused kid, Jesus. Maybe if I became a nun I could help change things in the Church.

Because the Church and God are two different things. The Church always acts like it’s speaking for God but it isn’t always speaking for God. The Church always claims it’s infallible, but it’s been wrong before. They made Galileo kill himself for saying the sun doesn’t orbit the Earth. And they’re wrong about me too. I’m not a bad person. I know I’m not. And I’m not going to let them make me think I am.

I know you love me, Jesus.

And I realized today that I’m in love with Audrey.

Sunday, March 31st, 1996. Really early.

It’s about four in the morning as I’m writing this, in the guest room at Audrey’s house.

I’m looking at what I just wrote...I’ve been looking at it for an hour. I can’t believe I actually wrote the words down. I’ve felt it for so long, but now that the words are written down... it seems more permanent, somehow. More real.

I love Audrey.

I love how her eyebrows go way up when she smiles and I love the way she’s sort of goofy when she runs around when we play dodgeball in gym class. I love how she gets scared during horror movies and keeps on renting them anyway. I love how she talks with her hands, and when she gets really passionate about something it’s like she’s a bird trying to flap her wings. I love how she always drums her fingers against the table when she’s thinking. I love how her feet are always moving, even when she’s standing still; she’s a dancer and she’s always moving her feet, like an artist carving the space around her into new shapes. She doesn’t even really notice herself doing it, but I do: I notice everything about her. She’s going to be a great dancer someday. I love her long dark hair and her beautiful dark eyes and her lips that always seem to be smiling, like there’s a wonderful secret that only she knows, a secret that, if she could only just tell people about it, would make us all so happy...a secret that would take away all our sadness, all our fears. I know Audrey’s smiling lips are beautiful enough to contain a secret that can change the world.

And I’ve wanted to kiss her for the longest time, for years, and it feels so good just to finally admit it...

Now what?

Friday, April 5th, 1996. Super-early in the morning because my brother’s a dumbass.

Okay, so last night was basically the most annoying night ever.

Donny got picked up by the cops last night for being an under-age-drinking drunk dumbass. He’s been in trouble before: he’s been caught shoplifting CD’s from Best Buy, vandalizing a retirement home with obscene graffiti, lighting a dumpster on fire for fun, knocking over tombstones in the graveyard on Halloween (Why? Why is my brother such a dumbass?) and getting drunk with his moron friends down by the old train tracks. (You’d think if they wanted to get drunk in public they’d do it somewhere the cops don’t patrol every weekend like clockwork. But Donny’s always been a dumbass and his moron friends Kyle and Todd and Wayne make Donny look like Einstein.)

Whenever Donny gets in trouble for being a dumbass he always calls Mom. He never calls Dad, I think because he knows Dad would have a conniption fit if he ever found out about all the dumb trouble Donny gets into, and Dad might do something drastic like send him off to join the Army or something. Plus I think Mom just understands Donny better--as much as he annoys the hell out of her (and me), Mom just sort of gets where Donny’s coming from. She isn’t as rigid about things as Dad is, she understands that kids get into trouble sometimes. She got into her share of trouble as a kid--she’s told me some pretty wild stories--so she’s willing to cut Donny some slack. But this time was serious. When Donny called (lucky for him Dad wasn’t home, Dad got a night job last month as a security guard at an office building downtown) he told me he had been taken to the police station. The cops around here are usually understanding about teenagers getting drunk in public, usually they just hand them back to their parents, but this time Donny and his friends were in Kyle’s uncle’s pickup truck and they were driving drunk and Kyle smashed the pickup truck into a tree. Getting drunk down by the train tracks is one thing, but driving drunk is another. Thank God no one was hurt.

Anyway, after I screamed at Donny for a few minutes on the phone I woke Mom up--I hated to do it, she’s been feeling sick all day--and when she got the news she just frowned and sighed and muttered, “That frigging kid.” Then we both got dressed and called a cab (Dad had the car downtown) and hauled ass down to the police station at eleven o’clock at night. Mom looked bad in the cab. She looked really tired, and sick. She had big bags under her eyes and her skin looked kind of yellow. She’s nauseous almost all the time these days. When I asked her what she was going to do she said, “Lay down the law. And if Donny was behind the wheel, if he was stupid enough to be driving drunk, I’m not bailing him out. He can sleep in a cell tonight.”

Lucky for Donny, when we got to the police station we found out from the cops that Donny wasn’t the one driving. Also by that point Kyle’s father had gotten there and he’s a city councilor. The cops agreed that since no one was hurt in the accident they would let all four of them go and no one would be arrested. This time.

The cops had given all four of them breathalyzers and they were all legally drunk. Donny could barely stand up straight when Mom and I came to get him out of the holding cell. (The holding cell wasn’t as bad as holding cells always look in movies by the way. In movies there are always scary gang members and hookers and stuff, and a single dirty toilet. But this holding cell was clean, and there was no one there but Donny and his moron friends.)

Kyle’s father is nice (and maybe sort of corrupt I guess--but if I was a city councilor and I knew the police would do what I said, maybe I’d want to use my clout to get my son un-arrested too.) He apologized to Mom for his son, but Mom just shook her head and said, “Donny’s trouble enough on his own.” Kyle’s father asked how Mom was doing, too...everyone knows about her cancer. Even if they didn’t, she has to wear a headscarf in public. “I think strangling this frigging kid might be therapeutic for me right now,” Mom said, as she stood there frowning at Donny, who was so out of it I’m not even sure he knew what was going on. Kyle’s father laughed, said, “Angela, I think you’re on to something there,” and then he gave us a ride home.

When we got home, and it looked like Donny had sobered up a little, Mom grabbed him by the elbow and said, “I’ll keep this from your father. Things have been hard lately and you were blowing off steam. But let’s understand each other, Donny. If you ever drive drunk again, if you ever let those idiot stoner friends of yours drive drunk when you’re with them, next time this happens I’ll let them lock you up and throw away the fucking key. You idiots could’ve killed someone tonight. The only reason you didn’t? You got lucky. Get your fucking shit together. Before you run out of mistakes.”

A few minutes later, she ran into the bathroom and vomited. I helped her back to bed.

Then I screamed at Donny myself. He wanted to go to bed and sleep it off but I wouldn’t let him. I screamed at him for half an hour. With everything going on right now, this is the last thing we need.

After I got through yelling at him, he went in and apologized to Mom.

We’re all hanging tough here, Jesus.

Sunday, April 7th, 1996.

Well, I ruined Easter. I suck.

It started out okay. We were having dinner and we were talking about the sermon Father Fitzpatrick gave at Mass, when I asked why women can’t be priests (which had nothing to do with Father Fitzpatrick’s sermon, except for the fact that it was a boring sermon like all his sermons are and I’ve always thought that maybe a new priest could liven things up at church). Dad looked at me like I had two heads, and Donny just giggled. Dad said women can’t be priests because Christ didn’t have female apostles. When I mentioned Mary Magdalene, he said she wasn’t an apostle, just a disciple of Jesus. When I mentioned the shortage of priests and how women being ordained could help with that, Dad said maybe it would help, but the Church doesn’t have any choice in the matter. Since Christ never ordained a woman apostle, the Church can’t ordain a woman to be a priest. I asked Dad where in the Bible Christ said that women couldn’t be apostles, that the apostles were a male-only club. Mom didn’t say anything yet, but I knew she agreed with me. I noticed Mom was looking at Dad the whole time too, as if she wanted to make sure he didn’t go too far. Dad said Christ didn’t say it specifically, but the fact that all the apostles were male was evidence enough. Then I said that Christ didn’t watch Westerns either, or eat ice cream, or listen to rock music, so should Catholics not be allowed to do any of these things? And I said none of the apostles had blonde hair in the paintings, so does that mean we can’t have blonde-haired priests? Sure, Christ never said people with blonde-hair can’t be apostles, but by Dad’s argument, isn’t the fact that there weren’t any blonde-haired apostles evidence enough? (At this point, Donny, who I grudgingly admit to loving but who has a brain the size of a fruit fly, said, “But you have blonde hair, so what are you even talking about?” We all ignored him.) Dad was starting to look annoyed--probably he thought he shouldn’t have to be lectured by an uppity nouveau-lesbian on Easter Sunday, and maybe he had a point--and Mom said, “Tara’s right. You’re making a bad argument, Tim. Back then Christ’s pool of candidates to be apostles would have been pretty much entirely men, and that explains his choice right there. If he was around now do you really think he’d agree with what the Church is doing?”

That opened the floodgates. Before Dad could even catch his breath I started quoting every single Bible verse that doesn’t make sense, every single Bible verse that makes God look like a bully, that makes Christians look sexist or racist or just barbaric. Abraham and Isaac, the Battle of Jericho, God flooding the world and killing everyone except Moses, including all the children in the world, who couldn’t have possibly been sinners...Lot offering his daughters to the mob of rapists, God commanding Jews to kill other tribes just because they aren’t Jews...I just went on and on. I know the Bible backwards and forwards and it felt like this was stuff I’ve wanted to say for a long time. Arguments I wanted to get off my chest. While I was talking Mom took my hand, in that way I know meant that she thought maybe I should have dropped the subject. And she even tried to argue Dad’s side a couple of times, saying that Bible stories need to be interpreted, because it was a different time then, a different culture. But I just went on and on and refused to listen. I said that either the Bible is all true or it all isn’t, you can’t just say the stuff you’re comfortable with is true but the rest is just allegorical, that’s a cop-out. (So now I was arguing with my sick, bedridden mother too. Way to go, Tara.) Anyway no one could get a word in edgewise and I know I called the Bible “barbaric”, “sexist”, and “racist” a whole bunch of times. I even said that there isn’t any real difference between the Bible and the Koran, between Christianity and Islam, it’s just that the Muslims are where we were during the Inquisition. I said the Muslims haven’t had the common sense to boot their religion out of their government yet, but someday they will and they’ll be better off for it. I asked what the difference was between Muslims blowing people up for not sharing their beliefs and Christians burning people on the cross for it. I told Dad that if he was born in Saudi Arabia maybe he’d be shooting heathens and Mom wouldn’t be allowed to drive a car or leave the house without a male relative. Then Dad got up and left the table.

Mom looked me in the eyes, and sighed. She was angry with me, and disappointed. I felt it. “This was the first day he’s had off in months,” she said. “He works two jobs now and he hardly ever gets to see us.”

Then she got up and left the table too.

“Way to go, genius,” Donny said, and he was absolutely right.

I suck.

Sunday, April 7th, 1996. Later.

Mom talked to me. She told me if I don’t want to be Catholic anymore, that’s okay, it’s my decision, and she understands it. When I asked her why she was a Catholic, she said, “Because I made a bad mistake once. And Jesus gives me solace.” She wouldn’t elaborate on it--I know she was still angry with me. I felt it. She wasn’t angry that I had all those questions, she was angry that I treated Dad like a bully when he was just trying to spend some time with his family. “He could lecture you about how you think you like girls, but he doesn’t,” she said. “He’s respecting your choice. How about you respect his.”

Sunday, April 7th, 1996. Later.

I apologized to Dad. He accepted my apology, and he wasn’t angry--I could tell. But he was sad. When he looked at me, I think he felt, for the first time, like he had lost me...like I didn’t want to be his daughter.

The sad thing is, he’s right. That day I saw the memories of my real father in Mom’s mind, it sealed our fate...that was the day Dad lost me.

He’s a good man. He’s taken care of me my whole life. He’s worked his butt off, worked his fingers to the bone, to make sure I have the things I need, and he hasn’t complained about it even once. He always put me first. And I do love him.

But he isn’t my father...

I was wearing my necklace when we talked. It stood between us, shimmering with white light that shot around the room like diamond sparks...it stood between us, like a line in the sand.

Wednesday, April 10th, 1996.

Audrey and I hung out after I got home from work yesterday, and since she had just finished her ballet class she taught me some moves. We danced together in my room to classical music. She looked like a swan when she danced. I was more like a seagull, maybe. Eventually I sat down and had her demonstrate some dance moves for me by herself. I told her I wanted to figure out the moves, but I really wanted to watch her dance...I could’ve watched her for hours.

When I went to sleep last night, I dreamed about her. I dreamed we were dancing in my room, dancing so effortlessly, so gracefully, that our feet never touched the floor. And then we were laying down together on my bed, but we were still in each others arms, still dancing...

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to write, either. The thing about you, Jesus, is that you know everything, right? So you know what I did last night, after I woke up from the dream...the thing I did for the first time. Since you must already know it, I shouldn’t be embarrassed to write it down. But I completely am. But this book isn’t just for you, it’s for me too...it’s become sort of like a regular diary I guess. So I guess I should feel like I can write down what I did last night... but it’s still hard to write the words. For one thing, the available terms to describe it are lousy. Either too clinical or too dirty sounding. What I did wasn’t clinical and it didn’t feel dirty either. I’m sure if Donny saw this he’d just be giggling. I’m sure (okay, I know for a fact--I walked in on him when he was looking at a Penthouse magazine once) that Donny does it all the time. But I never have...I’ve wanted to before but I always felt like it was a sin.

But I did it last night, when I thought about Audrey dancing with me. It didn’t feel like a sin. It felt good...(Okay, and then it got a little messy. But still basically good.)

But I feel like I’m moving farther and farther away from you, Jesus. I feel like things are changing, too fast...

I don’t know what to do.

Thursday, April 11th, 1996.

In English class one of our textbooks this year is a big anthology of poems. Mr. Robbins only assigns us poems to read once in awhile, but I’ve been reading through the whole book on my own. It’s a great poetry anthology for someone like me who’s never really read much poetry because it doesn’t really have a focus at all: it’s just like a survey of great poetry from all times, all places, in all styles. It has everything from simple rhymes and sonnets to haikus and modern free verse. Today I found a poem that feels like I could’ve written it...it feels like it’s about my life, in a way. It’s a beautiful poem, and a sad one.

Here it is. “The Barrier”, by Claude McKay.

I must not gaze at them although

Your eyes are dawning day;

I must not watch you as you go

Your sun-illumined way;

I hear but I must never heed

The fascinating note,

Which, fluting like a river reed,

Comes from your trembling throat;

I must not see upon your face

Love's softly glowing spark;

For there's the barrier of race,

You're fair and I am dark.

Audrey and I aren’t fair and dark. But I must not watch her as she goes her sun-illumined way. There’s a barrier.

Monday, April 15th, 1996.

Mom collapsed. Dad found her on the living room floor when he came home from work and he called an ambulance and went to the hospital with her, and my hand is shaking now as I write this. Donny picked me up at Munson’s in the car and we’re driving to the hospital now. Donny’s trying to act tough but he has tears in his eyes. He just asked me why I’m writing in my book when we’re going to the hospital and Mom might be dying.

“It’s a prayer,” I just said.

Please, Jesus. Don’t let my Mom die.

Monday, April 15th, 1996. In the chapel.

The hospital has a little chapel. All three of us were here for awhile waiting, but the doctor just called Dad away to fill out some paperwork, and Donny just went down to the cafeteria to find us something to eat. I’m still sitting here in the chapel. I’m looking at you, Jesus, up on the cross. I’m praying for Mom.

People who pray a lot always annoyed me. I don’t mean saying The Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary, I mean asking you for stuff. There are people who pray to you for ridiculous little things that don’t matter. They pray they’ll pass a math quiz. They pray their new diet will work. They pray they’ll hit the lottery. It always struck me as trivial and selfish. Prayers should matter. Asking you for something should matter...we should only ask you for the things that matter. We aren’t infants. The rest is up to us.

All my life, I’ve prayed for other people. I’ve never once asked for anything for me. I never asked you to help me pass a math quiz. I’ve never been selfish.

I’m asking you to cure my mother’s cancer. I’m asking you to spare her from this terrible disease. I’ve never asked you for anything for myself, Jesus. I just want this. This is all I want. I’m only asking you for this one thing.

Please?

Monday, April 15th, 1996. Heading home.

Mom’s okay.

It turns out the chemo and the radiation were just doing a number on her and she hasn’t been eating enough or staying hydrated enough, so she fainted from exhaustion. The doctors gave her some new pills to take that might help her more with her vomiting and they told her to watch what she eats. They scheduled her for surgery too. The good news is the tumors are shrinking. At this rate the doctors think they have a good chance of being able to remove them all soon. Her surgery is scheduled for May 29th.

Sunday, May 12th, 1996.

I haven’t felt like writing. Now that Mom has a date for her surgery, I’m a wreck. I keep worrying. Even though there’s sort of a light at the end of the tunnel maybe, I’m just a nervous wreck all the time.

I’m a wreck about other stuff too. I can’t get Audrey out of my head. She’s started dating that Michael guy. Not serious, they’ve only gone out a few times, mostly they hang out at the mall. But it’s still dates...they’re going on dates.

He’s with her...he’s kissed her.

Every time I’m with Audrey, she talks about him.

Every time I’m with Audrey, it hurts now.

Monday, May 13th, 1996.

I have to write a poem for English class. I’ve been trying. Poetry is ridiculously hard. It looks easy but it isn’t. I like writing but poetry is a different kind of writing that I’ve never done before and I’m not sure if my mind works that way. I think poetry uses different muscles than prose stories or diary entries. I feel like a 98-pound weakling hitting the gym for the first time. Shakespeare and Dylan Thomas and Claude McKay are the built guys with the huge chests and the six-pack abs.

I keep writing poems about Audrey. None of them have been worthy of her yet.

I’ve got until next Monday.

Sunday, May 19th, 1996.

Okay, maybe this is mean? But I don’t care!

Audrey dumped that Michael guy! YES!

(Oh my God I’m evil. I’m an evil horrible person. But I don’t care! I have Audrey back!)

Apparently she caught him with another girl and when she caught him he acted like it wasn’t even a big deal and told her to get over herself. Cue the dumping. She’s a little bit down in the dumps about it but we went swimming at the lake today and that helped her mood.

She wore a bikini. Be still my heart.

She laid in the sun like a queen. I watched her laying beside me in the sun and I wanted to kiss her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

She asked me to rub suntan oil on her back, and then she rubbed suntan oil on mine.

Monday, May 20th, 1996.

Last night I wrote the poem. It’s funny...I was in a great mood when I got home from the lake yesterday but then I started feeling sad...so sad it felt like despair. That’s when the poem came to me. It isn’t about Audrey. I’ve been trying and trying to write about Audrey all week, and I couldn’t--everything I wrote was lame. Once I stopped trying, this poem just sort of came out of me...it just flowed, like it was always there, waiting for me.

It’s about the blonde girl in the cab. Maybe it’s easy to write about her because I don’t know who she is. Because I’ll never see her again. (Maybe also because she won’t be in my English class listening as I read the poem, like Audrey will be.) Or maybe the blonde girl inspired my muse. (She sure inspired my dreams. Still does.)

I had to get up in front of the class today to read it. It only felt a little bit like being up in front of a firing squad. It’s a sonnet, because I thought Shakespeare could use a good laugh up in Heaven. (I’m pretty sure I screwed up the iambic pentameter a little--getting the right number of syllables is hard enough without having to worry about where the stress falls. But no one said anything. I was the only one who tried a sonnet and Mr. Robbins seemed pretty impressed. A lot of people basically just wrote dirty limericks. Barbarians.)

Anyway, here it is. It’s called “Unrequited”. This one’s for you, beautiful blonde girl, wherever you are. (You better not be a California Girl. That would be so annoying...)

Unrequited

I knew you just a moment, in the sun

But you shone even brighter, and I burned

As I glimpsed you, ’til the moment was done.

Were you a dream? But in dreams you returned

Came back a hunter, in a jungle place

While I was the hunted, stalked through the dark

But I knew that soon you would end the race

With a kiss: your arrow straight to the mark.

I stopped. Offered my heart for you to slay

Reborn for you, I would kiss without shame

Smiling lips, for an endless sunlit day.

Laid bare, I waited. But you never came.

You never saw me, but you gleamed so bright...

We had a moment. I basked in your light.

5/25

Oh, Jesus. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus, I screwed everything up. I’m a FUCKING IDIOT and I screwed everything up!!!!!

Audrey was over the house and we were in my room listening to CD’s and she asked me about my “Unrequited” poem. She’s been asking me about it all week because she knows me well enough to know it has to be about a real person. “Who’s the guy?” Audrey’s been saying all week. “Who’s the guy? Who’s the guy?”

Audrey was sitting there looking beautiful and I said, “It’s a girl,” and kissed her.

And then she looked at me like I had just slapped her in the face.

She got up and ran out of the room, ran out of the house, ran all the way home. I chased her, running screaming down the street like a madwoman and she screamed, “Get away from me.” I’ve been trying to call her all night but she won’t pick up the phone.

Oh, Jesus. I screwed it all up...

Sunday, May 26th, 1996.

Audrey still won’t return my calls. I tried to talk to her when we were all heading in to church but she won’t talk to me.

Monday, May 27th, 1996.

In school today I finally managed to corner Audrey in the bathroom. She said she can’t believe I would ever think she could be the kind of person who would do that. “I’m not a degenerate,” she said. “Don’t you even listen when Father Fitzpatrick gives his sermons? Do you pay attention in school at all? People who do those things burn in hell! Our parents say so, everyone says so! We’re Christians!”

Then she asked me if this was what our friendship was about all along. If it was all just a secret campaign on my part to “seduce” her. I said no. I said I loved her.

She said we can’t be friends anymore. She said she can’t be friends with someone who’s a sinner like me, who’s trying to get her to sin too. When I told her I’d never do it again, that I just wanted us to be friends like before, she said she was sorry, but she couldn’t. She said she would never be able to trust me again.

She was crying as she walked away from me.

Tuesday, May 28th, 1996.

Mom talked to me today. I didn’t tell her about the thing with Audrey but Audrey’s mother called over here. I guess Audrey’s parents finally got tired of me calling the house fifty times a day.

“I’m sorry, Tara,” Mom said. “Religion is a hard thing to get past with some people. It’s got a hold on them, and sometimes it makes it hard for them to be objective. Audrey was raised just as strict a Catholic as you were. The difference is, you think about things more. Audrey’s a good kid, but she doesn’t think about things. She accepts what people tell her.”

I told Mom I don’t want to be gay anymore.

“You can’t change who you are, love of my life,” she said. “I’m proud of you. You have the courage to stand up for yourself, to be who you are even when it’s hard. Don’t ever lose that. Don’t ever back down. Don’t ever let other people dictate what you should be. Be you, Tara. You’re beautiful and smart and tough. Be you.”

“But it’s hard,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

Wednesday, May 29th, 1996. In the chapel.

Mom went in for surgery an hour ago. Dad’s up in the waiting room. Donny’s with him. Donny can be an ass but he’s really going to pieces over this. He loves Mom. He doesn’t know she isn’t really his mother.

I’m here in the chapel. I’ve been thinking about Audrey...one last time. I know I have to stop thinking about her.

I’ve lost her. She doesn’t want me to call her anymore, she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore...so all I can do is let her go. I loved her and she didn’t love me...she couldn’t love me the way I loved her. My love for her freaked her out and it scared her. And her faith told her it was wrong...perverted. Evil. Her faith--the same faith as mine--told Audrey that I’m some sort of abomination for feeling the way I do about her.

I loved Audrey, but my love was unrequited.

I’ve been thinking about the reason I wrote this book, about my relationship with you, Jesus...about my faith in you, and my love for you. All my life I’ve carried my faith with me but it never actually cost anything before. It was easy. Now it’s hard. It’s hard being gay and wondering if that means you hate me. It’s hard, wondering if Mom will survive this cancer.

Will you save her, Jesus?

Or is my love for you unrequited?