Xylophone by K.Z. Snow

as he cried, and that Jonah had gathered
    him into his arms.
    “No. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. We
    didn’t know it at the time, but we went through it
    together. And we’ll finish going through it
    together.”
    Dare clung to him. The rest of what had
    happened that June day in 1999 and so many days
    thereafter swirled like mud through his mind. Only
    the xylophone stood, stark and immovable, in the
    center of the blur.
    Dare knew his hatred of it was irrational. He
    also knew it had a reason. Starting on that very
    first day, the instrument stopped being an
    instrument and became an excuse: to go to the
    resale shop and into the backroom; to sit on that
    stool and allow Howard Pankin, his “friend,” to
    do things to him and ask for favors in return.
    Learning to play the xylophone became a thin but
    convenient pretense.
    Dare’s ache kept freshening as the mud kept
    swirling. Jesus, would it never stop? And now,
    within it, he saw other components too. All the
    compliments and little gifts Pankin scattered over
    their encounters, like candy sprinkles over dung.
    Like a rainbow over a dark doorway.
    Like a cheerful chiming sound issuing from a
    secret space.
    All building blocks in an illusion—of
    compatibility, of closeness.
    “We’re two halves of a whole, you and I.
    Beauty and the Beast.”
    Gasping, Dare abruptly pulled back when he
    heard the voice in his head. He scrubbed both
    hands over his drenched face. “Oh God. The w-
    worst part of it is—”
    “I know what the worst part is.” Tenderly,
    Jonah smoothed the fallen curls from Dare’s
    temple and forehead.
    More tears flooded out as Dare stared at him,
    helplessly, gratefully. He was so bleary-eyed, he
    could barely make out Jonah’s face. But he knew
    Jonah was there, just for him, without any ulterior
    motives.
    “The worst part,” Jonah said, “is realizing
    that in a hidden corner of yourself, you liked it, got
    addicted to it. Acceptance rather than rejection.
    Desire rather than aversion.”
    Dare nodded. Yes! his mind shouted. He
    might’ve had wonderful parents, but they couldn’t
    keep kids at school from whispering about him,
    ridiculing him, excluding him. His parents couldn’t
    make the boys he wanted want him back. They
    couldn’t even keep his own gay brother from
    belittling him.
    The best parents in the world couldn’t keep a
    child from feeling alienated and alone.
    “Pankin owned all the antonyms to all the
    words that were my enemies,” Dare said. “He
    made them real. So what if I became a little whore
    —”
    Jonah cupped his face, looked into his eyes.
    “You weren’t a whore, Daren.”
    “—because it was the best possible music,
    that affirming language of touch and flattery.” He
    was faltering again, stumbling blindly over sobs
    that scraped his throat raw, stumbling through a
    minefield of guilt.
    Jonah held his watery gaze. “ You weren’t a
    whore .”
    “But he was paying me, in all kinds of ways!
    And I wanted what he gave me, and I kept going
    back for more!”
    There. It was finally out. He’d coughed up
    that slimy, discolored ball of self-loathing that had
    rolled around in his gut for thirteen years until it
    hardened. Then, like a tumor, it had sent out
    tentacles that poisoned his whole being.
    He closed his eyes and raggedly sucked air.
    Jonah held him again, cheek pressed to cheek.
    When they drew apart, Jonah’s hands firmly
    enveloped his.
    “You did not want it,” he said in that
    conclusive, caring way he had that allowed for no
    argument. “He just took advantage of your
    vulnerability and made you think you wanted it.
    Like drugs or booze can make you think you want
    and need them, even while you loathe what they’re
    doing to you.”
    Dare opened his eyes. He knew Jonah’s
    words required his attention. They made too much
    sense to ignore—especially since they came from
    a recovering addict.
    “You just wanted to feel good about yourself.
    That’s all.