says,
“Couldn’t help but notice you weren’t sitting at your usual holy lunch table.”
He stares at me
as if he’s expecting an explanation, but I’m not about to open up to him. I
just got burned by all of my lifelong friends—a guy I’d known for a few weeks
surely can’t be trusted.
Despite my
silence, David goes on. “Let me guess. Mrs. Martine, your youth group’s
‘spiritual leader’, booted your butt outta Our Way.”
His very accurate
prediction is disturbing to me on multiple levels. First of all, it indicates
that this isn’t the first time Mrs. Martine has kicked a gay kid out of the Our
Way youth group. I assume this, because David, too, was mysteriously missing
one day from Our Way early sophomore year, but nobody had been personally close
enough to him to ask questions. And it makes sense now. Secondly, and more
disturbingly, David had assumed—correctly, I might add—that I’d been kicked out
of the group, too, and that he knew why. Which translates into him assuming that I, too, am gay. How does
he know this? Is David’s gaydar that good?
Do I seem so gay?
I shudder and
then scramble for an answer. And as I scramble, I remember that one of the
qualities I love most about Jesus is his honesty. I follow His example. “You
guessed right.”
An expression
that I’ve never seen before on him crosses my new friend’s face, though I’ve
never before looked this closely. The name David
Gandy defines cool, but his expression is far from that. On David’s face I
can see anger and hurt and empathy, not so much as individual emotions, but all
morphed together into one pained grimace. And he knows I’m seeing it, because
he drops his face into his hands to hide, and then I hear his muffled words.
“If it wasn’t such a worn out cliché, I’d say been there, done that.”
Evidently, David
and I have more in common than being gay, academically motivated high school
juniors. “Mrs. Martine knows how to keep the riff raff out of the group, that’s
for sure.” After I crack my joke, I make an attempt at laughter, but it comes
out sounding like a goofy snort.
David doesn’t
even pretend that my remark is funny. “Town library after school today, ‘ kay ? We can finish our power point and after, I got some
stuff I wanna share with you. Cool?”
I nod and start
in on my sandwich. David finally sends me a half-smirk and then lifts his fork
to wind around it what is trying to pass for spaghetti with meat sauce. But it will never be able to pass for Mama’s
gravy, not even in its wildest dreams.
None of my Our
Way friends, or former friends, I
should say, so much as smile at me for the rest of the day. In their defense,
they’re probably as confused as I am, but they’ve had less time to adjust to
the fact that I have a sexual disorder, according to the church. That fact
doesn’t stop me from suffering over their rejection. I will admit I’m not sure
if this is part of “carrying my cross” or if this is just human drama.
My drive from the
school to the library is nothing but an overthinking fiesta, and I look forward
to getting my mind on the power point. When I get there, David’s already
sitting at our usual table, but he doesn’t have his laptop open as I expect.
Instead, he’s leaning back in his chair, its front legs are raised off the
ground in a way that makes me literally worry about his stability, and he’s
thumbing through a book. When I get closer, I can see that it’s a book about
being a gay Christian.
“Del Vecchio , I swung by my house after school to pick up this
book. Figured the library wouldn’t have it and that it might be good for you to
read.” He speaks softly, but holds the book out to me boldly. “Got plenty more
books where this came from, but I like this one the best. Let me know when you wanna talk about it.” His voice is confident, like he’s
certain that whatever information contained in this book is going to put my
soul’s torment to
“Couldn’t help but notice you weren’t sitting at your usual holy lunch table.”
He stares at me
as if he’s expecting an explanation, but I’m not about to open up to him. I
just got burned by all of my lifelong friends—a guy I’d known for a few weeks
surely can’t be trusted.
Despite my
silence, David goes on. “Let me guess. Mrs. Martine, your youth group’s
‘spiritual leader’, booted your butt outta Our Way.”
His very accurate
prediction is disturbing to me on multiple levels. First of all, it indicates
that this isn’t the first time Mrs. Martine has kicked a gay kid out of the Our
Way youth group. I assume this, because David, too, was mysteriously missing
one day from Our Way early sophomore year, but nobody had been personally close
enough to him to ask questions. And it makes sense now. Secondly, and more
disturbingly, David had assumed—correctly, I might add—that I’d been kicked out
of the group, too, and that he knew why. Which translates into him assuming that I, too, am gay. How does
he know this? Is David’s gaydar that good?
Do I seem so gay?
I shudder and
then scramble for an answer. And as I scramble, I remember that one of the
qualities I love most about Jesus is his honesty. I follow His example. “You
guessed right.”
An expression
that I’ve never seen before on him crosses my new friend’s face, though I’ve
never before looked this closely. The name David
Gandy defines cool, but his expression is far from that. On David’s face I
can see anger and hurt and empathy, not so much as individual emotions, but all
morphed together into one pained grimace. And he knows I’m seeing it, because
he drops his face into his hands to hide, and then I hear his muffled words.
“If it wasn’t such a worn out cliché, I’d say been there, done that.”
Evidently, David
and I have more in common than being gay, academically motivated high school
juniors. “Mrs. Martine knows how to keep the riff raff out of the group, that’s
for sure.” After I crack my joke, I make an attempt at laughter, but it comes
out sounding like a goofy snort.
David doesn’t
even pretend that my remark is funny. “Town library after school today, ‘ kay ? We can finish our power point and after, I got some
stuff I wanna share with you. Cool?”
I nod and start
in on my sandwich. David finally sends me a half-smirk and then lifts his fork
to wind around it what is trying to pass for spaghetti with meat sauce. But it will never be able to pass for Mama’s
gravy, not even in its wildest dreams.
None of my Our
Way friends, or former friends, I
should say, so much as smile at me for the rest of the day. In their defense,
they’re probably as confused as I am, but they’ve had less time to adjust to
the fact that I have a sexual disorder, according to the church. That fact
doesn’t stop me from suffering over their rejection. I will admit I’m not sure
if this is part of “carrying my cross” or if this is just human drama.
My drive from the
school to the library is nothing but an overthinking fiesta, and I look forward
to getting my mind on the power point. When I get there, David’s already
sitting at our usual table, but he doesn’t have his laptop open as I expect.
Instead, he’s leaning back in his chair, its front legs are raised off the
ground in a way that makes me literally worry about his stability, and he’s
thumbing through a book. When I get closer, I can see that it’s a book about
being a gay Christian.
“Del Vecchio , I swung by my house after school to pick up this
book. Figured the library wouldn’t have it and that it might be good for you to
read.” He speaks softly, but holds the book out to me boldly. “Got plenty more
books where this came from, but I like this one the best. Let me know when you wanna talk about it.” His voice is confident, like he’s
certain that whatever information contained in this book is going to put my
soul’s torment to
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