Inclination (9 page)

“Of course,
Anthony. That is as it should be.” Mom stands up and comes to stand beside Dad.
Like always, they present a united front.

“I didn’t imagine
myself actually
telling
you guys. I
was wrapped up in accepting it myself.”

“Well, Abigail
Martine did not keep your confidence,” Mom says, shaking her head. “She was
extremely eager to inform us, it seems. And…and we were informed before it was
the time of your choice.”

“And now you guys
know what I’ve even barely accepted about myself…and I still don’t know what it
means for my life…and I just….” I don’t know how to express my profound
confusion in regard to how my gayness affects my Christianity. I allow a single
sigh and then a sob.

“Well, the good
thing is,” Mom lays her hand beside my father’s hand, which is placed at the
base of my neck, “now there are three of us to figure this whole thing out. And
we’ll do it the Del
Vecchio
way—together.”

Although I never
considered telling my parents about “The Problem”—at least not in the near
future—the deed is done and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I’m not
totally alone in this anymore.

In my car on the
way to the coffee shop near the church where I’m meeting my friends, I listen
carefully to the lyrics of one the songs I found in the old hymnal and made a
CD of from the YouTube video. It’s called “He Knows”
.
I specifically chose this hymn for the short ride to the café,
hoping it would give me courage. And every time it concludes, I replay it, but
somehow I’m still afraid.

I know not what awaits me,

God kindly veils my eyes,

And o’er each step of my
onward way

He makes new scenes to
rise;

And every joy He sends me
comes

A sweet and glad surprise.

And every hour in perfect
peace


I’ll sing,

He knows, He knows.

I invited those
who I considered my closest friends, among them
Laz
,
Elizabeth, Eric, Emma, and Kerry Parker, to meet me tonight at the
Cuppa
Cafe
because there’s something I need
to tell them. I had to think long and hard in regard to whether or not I should
invite
Rinaldo
, as he had been the one who’d come up
with the “all gay people should be forced to drink poison Kool-Aid” idea, but I
finally elected to ask him to come, too. I might as well get it over with in
one big fell swoop, rather than drag it out.

I purposefully
arrive about fifteen minutes late, as I want everyone to already be here when I
come in. I’m not prepared to make small talk in the interim, as my friends
straggle in, one-by-one. And this is in no way a party that I’m hosting. It’s a
necessary get together that I called so I could make a statement—a statement I
need to make myself, in my own way, or Mrs. Martine might very well make it
for me
when the kids in Our Way start
asking her questions.

Despite the
song’s assurances that God will go before me, I’m freaking out.

I force myself to
turn off the car’s engine, slide from my car, and drag my feet across the
parking lot to the café entrance.

“
You
called the meeting, Anthony, and
then you don’t show up on time. We were all starting to wonder if you were even
gonna
show up at all.” From her spot in the corner,
Emma glares at me, her eyes accusing, but as I scan the group I see that my
strategy has worked—everyone is already here. I will only have to make my big
gay announcement once. “So what’s up with that?”

“Why couldn’t you
drive me over, bro?”
Laz
seems confused. I usually drive
him
everywhere.
“I called your house
and your folks told me you already left. What’s the deal?”

I choose to
simply smile at
Laz
and ignore his question.

Elizabeth still
wears the identical expression of hostility that I saw on her face Friday
night, just prior to the door slam. She says nothing.

Kerry looks as if
she wants to raise her hand to ask a question, but she decides to throw caution
to the wind and go for it. “Um…Anthony, I’m wondering why you wanted to meet us
here. The Our Way meeting starts in forty-five minutes. And, like, it’ll take
fifteen minutes for us to walk over there, so….”

Emma finishes her
thought. “So we don’t have much time Anthony. What did you call us here to talk
about?”

I know not what
awaits me.

I sit down among
my friends, take a deep breath, blow it back out, and close my eyes for a
second. “I’m no longer a member of Our Way. I wanted to tell you before you
guys find out for yourselves.”

Six chins drop.

“What?” Elizabeth
breaks down first. “What are you talking about? You can’t quit—you’re an
officer!”

This next part is
going to be harder. “I didn’t quit.”

I can tell that Kerry
wants to raise her hand again. But finally she shrugs and waits for my
explanation.

“What’s up
wit
’ that, man? How come you’re outta the group?”
Laz
looks shell-shocked and he doesn’t try to hide it.
“Spill the details, dude. Like, ASAP.”

My friends all
stare at me.

God kindly veils
my eyes.

“Mrs. Martine
asked me to leave the group.”

Six gasps. But no
one asks why.

So I tell them.
No fanfare, no drum roll—I just state it, “I’m gay. Mrs. Martine suggested that
I find another teen worship group.”

All I can do now
is wait for their reactions. It hadn’t been fun, but I’d said what needed to be
said.

Rinaldo’s
face twists with fury or
disgust—it’s hard to say which—but he holds his tongue.

“You can’t be
gay, dude.”
Laz
is the first to comment. “You’re my
pal, you have my back. Nah, you
gotta
be wrong.”

Elizabeth speaks
next. “
That’s
why our date was a
total disaster….” She smiles.

Even Kerry
manages to find her lost voice. “Isn’t being gay a sin?”

And Emma replies,
“Yeah, Kerry, it ranks up there with having an abortion and getting divorced
and remarried.” She turns to again glare at me. “It’ll send you straight to
hell, you know, Anthony.”

And o’er each step
of my onward way….

The remarks don’t
end there. And with them, any hope I had of loving acceptance disappears.

“That’s
disgusting. Mrs. Martine was right to boot your ass. And good luck finding a
Christian youth group that’ll take in a fag.”
Rinaldo
,
the normally submissive guy hovering in the back of the room, stands up and
sends me a look to kill. “I’m gone.”

We all watch him
leave. And then Eric, who hasn’t spoken yet, makes a generous offer, “We’ll
pray for your soul in Our Way tonight.” As usual, his voice lacks any trace of
passion.

The others nod in
agreement; they’re going to pray for my wayward soul. I try to smile but the
effort is wasted. Because I’m empty of all emotional expression, too—void of
grins and tears and bitten lips and pinched arms and clenched palms. And I have
nothing else to say, really. Neither do they. I watch as my friends since my
First Holy Communion get up, one-by-one, and leave the coffee shop without
looking back at me a single time. My heart withers a bit with each departure.

He makes new
scenes to rise.

No one, not even
Laz
, my best friend since Holy Trinity Tikes, even says
goodbye.

A new commandment
I give unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you…. John 13:34

Not one of my
Christian, love-one-another-as-I-have-loved-you friends found it in his/her
heart to stand by me. This rejection has me reeling. And to Anthony Duck-Young
Del
Vecchio
,
reeling
is defined as major overthinking.

To my parents’
and siblings’ chagrin (and yes,
chagrin
is an excellent word, but at this point the SAT seems very meaningless in the
larger scheme of things) I skip the late family dinner and go straight to my
room. I don’t cite studying for this test or slaving over that paper as an
excuse for my antisocial behavior. I simply step into the kitchen, say, “I
explained things to my friends and I’m going to bed early tonight”, and duck
out.

Mom comes
downstairs an hour later with a plate of ziti and sausages covered in tin foil,
along with her wide and concerned mother’s eyes, and asks if I want to talk. I
tell her that I’m not ready to discuss it, but I probably will be ready at
breakfast tomorrow. She hugs me, says she loves me, and that things will get
better, and then she leaves, even though I can tell she wants to stay.

And so I lie in
bed, flat on my back, doing what I do best—which is probably the worst thing
for me. I obsess over gayness and friendships and hell and mostly about letting
Jesus down. As a last resort to calm my mind, I turn onto my side, pull my
blanket up over my shoulder, and make a mental list of Jesus’s most magnificent
characteristics—His humility, His compassion, His ability to forgive, His
honesty, and most of all, His willingness to sacrifice for us. Images of a
loving Christ form before me on my bedroom wall, where the hand painted kites
and cloudy blue skies are hidden by darkness.

But despite my
devotion to Jesus, I still know that my gayness isn’t a choice. I can’t turn it
on and off like a faucet.

My gayness isn’t
a choice… but my Christianity is.

I am incredibly frustrated
with myself and with my friends. My next realization shocks me—I’m also
frustrated with God.

My Christianity
is the only thing that I can change here, I think as I drift off to sleep.

From my spot on
the edge of the dirt path, I can see Him in the distance. His eyes are
strangely bright, as if on fire from the human pain and fear He can’t avoid,
combined with His all-encompassing love for us—for me—that tethers Him to this
path. He is bloody and dirty and weary—wearier than I can even conceive of a
person being. And as He struggles to put one foot in front of the other,
staggering under the weight of the heavy wood, He catches my eye. And He stops
to talk to me, crouching slightly to support the bulky mass on his shoulder.

“Anthony, my
son.…” His voice is as weak and ruined as His body.

I fight the urge
to run to Him, to heft the cross upon my own back and carry it in His place.

He knows my
desire and shakes His head to stop me from acting upon my urge. “You are my
son, and I love you.” He recognizes my need to help Him with these simple
words.

“I love you, too,
my Lord! You’re everything to me and there’s no cross I won’t bear for You!” I
shout the words into the small distance between us, my voice shrill and frantic
with the need to be heard.

“I am carrying my
cross.” His response is woven through shallow breaths, in a low but purposeful
tone. “Anthony, my son, you must discover your true cross. And then you must
carry it.”

He straightens up
a measure, and then He staggers forward on His path to my salvation.

I wake up bathed
in perspiration—and knowing, beyond a single doubt, that my love for Christ is
not something I can be flexible with. I need Him. That fact is plain and simple
and perfect.

I lean over in my
small bed and grab the Bible off the bedside table. I never turned off the
light in my bedroom before I fell asleep, and I know that will make what I’m
going to do even easier. I don’t even need to think about the chapter and
verse, I know exactly where to find this one. I open my Bible to Matthew 16:24.

Then Jesus said
to his disciples, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and
take up their cross and follow me.” Before tonight’s dream, I assumed that
“deny themselves and take up their cross” suggested I needed to deny my
sexuality and live a celibate life. But in my dream, Jesus said that I must
discover my true cross and then carry it.

I have no idea
what this means for me and for my life, but it gives me yet another concern to
wrap my weary mind around.

I have literally
never sat alone in the lunchroom at school. Not even once, as the occasion has
never arisen. Since middle school I’ve had a core group of friends from
church—the devout kids clique from youth group who sit together at the
“awe-scoff lunch table”—and we’ve always looked out for each other. Until
today, when I sit alone at a lunch table in the sole company of the nutritious
lunch my mother made. The devout kids stare at me over their sinless shoulders,
their mouths agape.

This is certainly
big news in their righteous lives.

Unfortunately for
me, their abject staring is accompanied by occasional pitiful glances, spurts
of solemn discussion, and frequent head shaking. So not only am I consumed with
worry over my eternal soul, I also feel like a social pariah. Mom has come
through for me, at least. Despite my lack of appetite, I’m plowing my way
through a Tupperware container of fried artichoke hearts, a cold meatball sub,
and an oversized kosher dill pickle, which I avoid placing against my lips,
given the circumstances.

“Hey, Del
Vecchio
, you eating alone?”

I turn around and
there’s David Gandy striking a casual pose, his lunch tray held in one hand. In
response, I look obviously around myself, from one side to the other, and act
like I’m completely shocked that no one else is there. “I guess I am eating
alone. Hadn’t noticed.” I’m a laugh a minute.

David smirks and
says, “Well, stuff all of that shit back in your lunch bag, and come sit with
me and my friends.”

The devout kids
are all going to have individual, soul-splitting coronaries when they see me
cozy up with Mr. Out-and-Proud. “Thanks, I guess I will.” I shove my gourmet
lunch items back in my brown paper bag as I get up, taking one last glance at
my old lunch table. I can’t miss that
Laz
is still
staring at me, mouth hanging open, tongue dangling, and not making even the
slightest effort to suck it back in. I shrug and follow David.

“Try not to be so
enthusiastic, dude.”

I sit down with
David and his friends, all kids who I know are very involved with the music and
theater programs at Wedgewood High School. They are nice people, and most are
smart, a couple of them are even in my advanced math and science classes.
There’s a girl-couple, which still hits me as odd, despite the fact that I,
too, am gay.

Maybe this
situation will be easier to deal with once I’ve figured out what my true cross
is, and I begin to carry it. At this point I can only hope.

After we exchange
hellos, I get back to my artichokes, with the intention of keeping perfectly
quiet, but David has a different idea. He leans over toward me and 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 rest.

I can feel the
heat rise to my cheeks as I accept the book. Taking hold of it almost feels
like I’m agreeing that I’m gay, and that I’m willing to search for a way to
accept my gayness. And truthfully, at this point, I still don’t know what I’m
going to do about liking guys. Then I remember what Jesus said to me in my
dream, that I must discover my
true cross
before I can carry it, so I suppose that reading some guy’s theory about
how being both gay and Christian can peacefully coexist won’t hurt me in that
regard.

“Thanks.” Maybe
I’ll read this book, maybe I won’t. I make sure my tone of voice reveals my
skepticism.

“Not a prob. And
here,” he scribbles two phone numbers and a couple of names on a crumpled scrap
of paper that’s on the table. “Give this to your folks. It’s my folks’ cell
numbers. Tell them to call if they ever
wanna
talk
about shit.”

Again, I blush as
I reach for the paper, but I’m still careful to place it inside the cover of
the book, and then I stick them both into my backpack. No matter what, I’m not
ready to be seen carrying an “it’s OK to be gay” book around in public.

He then cracks
open his laptop and we create the conclusion to our
Ride ‘
Em
Cowboy
rodeo power point project. We work well together, even though we are forced to whisper due to
library rules. David is what I call sarcastically funny, and I enjoy being with
a person who I know isn’t judging me for being gay. In fact, when I’m with him,
I stop judging myself harshly, at least for a little while.

Finally, we
decide to call it a day and we pick up our stuff and head for the exit. Once
we’re outside, David touches my arm with his gloved hand. I stop and look at
him. “I know what you’re going through totally sucks right now. It’s written on
your face, man.”

I don’t nod or
acknowledge his observation in any way. No reaction is the safest reaction.

“But Our Way
isn’t the only youth group in the area, and St. Mark’s isn’t the only church.”

His words hit me
hard. Like he expects me to change everything I ever was—the entire foundation
of my life—in one split second, with this single profound rejection. I don’t
say anything, but I can’t turn away from his intelligent blue eyes.

“And Tony,” I
don’t miss that he calls me the familiar form of my first name, that, for the
most part, only my father and sisters use, “there are other options. Christ is
the way, the truth, and the life, for sure, man.” The last time I heard that it
had been from Emma, speaking with a rather “I’m da bomb” attitude. “But there’s
more than one path to Him. I’ve found a path where I can serve Him, and love
Him, and worship Him with total honesty about who I am, among a congregation of
other Christians who don’t care about which sex I’m attracted to. When you’re
ready to join us, talk to me, dude.”

Every now and
then his relaxed language reminds me so much of
Laz
.
That simple acknowledgement feels like a knife to my heart because I’ve lost my
best friend, Lazarus, over this issue. I think I wince and I think it would
have been quite visible to David, if not for the steady breeze that blows my
hair in front of my face.

David pulls his
phone out of his back pocket, and momentarily, I’m surprised that a phone fit
inside those skinny jeans. “What’s your cell number?”

I clear my throat
and obediently recite my number, and then he dials it and calls me. My phone
buzzes in my jacket pocket.

“Now you got my
number, Tony. Call me any time.” He doesn’t smile or wink or do anything else
to engage me. He flings his long dark hair over his shoulder and heads for his
shiny black Honda Ridgeline.