Love Drugged (23 page)

I felt defeated, paralyzed. “What happens next?”

“We need to figure out what is wrong with the current formula. We might not have even noticed a problem if it were not for your cold, so we must be grateful for that. We need to work quickly.”

“What’s the hurry?”

He stood from his chair and reached for a thick medical reference book from a shelf. “In the coming weeks, we will begin testing at sites in Asia, Africa, and South America. My assistants have been traveling for the past month, finding subjects willing to participate in the study.”

I recalled the list of names I’d seen, so many weeks ago, in his briefcase. “Will you give
them
the complete information? Or just half, like you gave to me?”

He pretended not to hear me as he consulted the book’s index. “Once the foreign tests have been conducted, we will begin conventional testing in this country and apply to the Food and Drug Administration for approval.” He thumbed through several pages, scanning for the information he needed. “Ah, good enough. I may have something in my lab for you to take for a few days, until we can correct the drug formula. Sit still for a moment while I get it.” He lowered the book and smiled at me, almost warmly, but I knew it was his control over me that pleased him most. “I assure you, by tomorrow your young snot will return to normal.”

He left me sitting in the chair, looking around the room in a daze. At the books and maps, the statue of the Blessed Virgin, the fancy microscope. My eyes finally settled on the big glass jars of marshmallow pellets. Staring at the jars, my vision blurred, the white pellets all running together in a gooey mass. I felt powerless and despondent under the weight of something strange—something so much bigger than me. How long had I been feeling that way?

It’s embarrassing now to admit, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized:
This doctor is a villain. This drug is evil.

Dr. Gamez was like a wack-job evil doctor from a bad sci-fi movie. He had a sinister plan, and I was only one small part of it. If he was successful, how many people would be taking Rehomoline all over the world? Religious extremists could use the formula to repress the desires of gay people. In countries where homosexuality was still a crime, gay men could be forced to take the pills by law, against their will. I could envision a whole category of people whose hearts had been numbed. An army of robots.

What good could come from a pill that removed a person’s capacity for desire? I couldn’t believe I had willingly taken the pills for months, thinking they would make me straight—a whole different person. Instead, all they did was strip away the essence of what
made
me a person.

I was definitely not ready to come out. I was still too afraid to face those hard conversations. But I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to be a human being, not a robot. I wanted to fall in love, like everyone else. I wanted to share my future life with someone who loved me, too.

I needed to get out of that office.

My instinct was to get up and run, but I wasn’t sure Dr. Gamez would let me. Would he physically stop me from going? He had so much to protect. Even if I could get away, would he accuse me of stealing the pills from him? I couldn’t put my family in worse financial jeopardy than we were already in.

To protect myself, I needed solid proof that Dr. Gamez had engineered the experiment from the beginning. Otherwise, in a courtroom, it would be his word against mine. Celia knew nothing. My friends knew nothing. My family knew nothing. I hadn’t recorded our conversations or kept a journal. Dr. Gamez was a respected, successful doctor. A jury would have no reason to believe my word over his. I didn’t stand a chance.

Unless I have the notes.

The complete account of the experiment—
rigorous
and
thorough,
in Dr. Gamez’s own handwriting—was right there on the desk. Everything I needed to prove my case. But he would never let me take them. Not willingly.

Down the hall, a cupboard door opened and closed. A metal stool squeaked against a linoleum floor. Dr. Gamez would be back any second.

I had never thrown a punch in my life. I didn’t even know how. Besides, my body was too weak to fight him.

I rose out of my chair and looked around. There had to be something I could use to stun him—just temporarily. I approached the expensive white microscope. Too heavy to lift. The Blessed Virgin statue might be painful on impact, but would it be enough? The security monitor was about the right size. I picked it up, yanked its wires out of the wall, and carried it to a hiding place behind the door. The monitor was the heaviest thing I’d ever lifted above my head. I stood there, waiting, terrified.

I am not a violent person!

Dr. Gamez entered the room and the monitor dropped effortlessly, guided by gravity. The monitor landed with a painful crash, and a second later the doctor followed, buckling at his knees. The bottle of pills he’d brought with him skittered across the carpet like a little brown mouse.

My arms shaking, I bent to examine Dr. Gamez. No blood that I could see. He was out cold, but still (
thank God
) breathing. I dragged him by his ankles out of the office and into the hallway. I rested a second, and then dragged him to the lab. He had to be out of the way for what I needed to do next.

My
simple goal
, as Dr. Gamez would have put it, was to destroy everything in that office. Anything remotely connected to the stupid, worthless, evil project.

I had the foresight to set aside a few items for my defense. First I took the file folder with Dr. Gamez’s notes in it. Several manila folders lay in the same pile, all labeled “Rehomoline,” so I grabbed them. I set this pile near the door. Everything else, as far as I was concerned, could be trashed.

I opened several of the file drawers and pulled a dozen folders to make a heap on his desk, and then made another pile on the antique table. It felt strangely satisfying to see his office in complete disarray.

I reached into my pocket and found Wesley’s yellow lighter. I lit a few paper corners and stepped back. Then I did the same to the papers on the antique table.

Good-bye, notes. Good-bye, research. Good-bye, exotic marshmallows from Argentina.

I went to the taller metal file cabinets in the back, looking for the drawer marked
R
. I opened it, pulled out all the files that my arms could carry, and added them to the two burning piles. I was only trying to be as
thorough
as Dr. Gamez had taught me to be.

Good-bye, Rehomoline.

You are not needed in this world.

In less than a minute, the fires gained strength, smoke reaching up to the ceiling. Even from the door of the office, the heat was intense. The fire alarm would go off any second, which would activate the water sprinklers on the ceiling. The structural damage to the facility would be minimal, but I hoped the paper loss would be significant. My eyes began to sting from all the smoke. I grabbed the important files and closed the door to his office behind me.

I faltered.

Celia was coming down the corridor. She saw the smoke and screamed, “Oh my God!”

“There’s a fire, Celia. We gotta get out of here.”

She lowered her eyes, grimacing, as if it caused her physical pain to see me. “What are you doing here? Where’s my dad?”

“He’s in the lab. Please, let’s just go!” I reached for her hand, but she pushed me away and slid by.

“Celia, come with me.”

“Daddy!”
She turned and disappeared into the lab.

I continued down the corridor and threw open the back door. I scrambled up the wet concrete staircase, letting the door slam behind me. A siren began to wail deep inside the house, and I wasn’t sure if it was the smoke detectors or the security alarm.

I raced across the brick patio to the grass. Already the big moon was visible in the dark sky. Beneath my feet the ground was soft and springy, a winter’s worth of moisture finally loosening. I raced to the side of the house and stopped. High fences protected both sides of the Gamez estate. I didn’t have the key to the padlock on the gate. I was trapped.

The only option was the river.

I ran back across the lawn and down the rocky embankment, but hesitated at the water’s edge. I didn’t know how to transport the files without getting them wet. There was a steep drop, nearly ten feet to the water. I might have taken the plunge if I hadn’t heard Dr. Gamez’s voice.

“Stop where you are, Jamie. Turn around.”

I glanced back. Part of me was relieved—I hadn’t killed him.

He was standing on the brick terrace, near the iron table and chairs where Celia and I had spent our first afternoon together, drawing pictures. He was about thirty feet away from me. In the moonlight, I could see the flash of metal in his hand.

A gun—maybe the same pistol I’d seen in Mexico—with the barrel pointed straight at me.

“These games have gone on long enough,” he called. “And now you try to destroy my research?”

“You are destroying my
life
!” I shouted.

Celia had followed him. She was crying. “What is going on?”

“Come back inside, Jamie,” Dr. Gamez said calmly. “We have all had enough of your selfish melodrama lately.”

This accusation seemed a bit ironic, coming from someone holding a gun.

I didn’t believe he would shoot me, not in front of Celia. Not outside, where people could hear. The river was only two hundred feet wide at this point. Neighbors on the other side would go to their windows if they heard a gunshot.

Celia approached her father, her hands outstretched. “Daddy, what is happening?”

“Celia, I’ve got to talk to you,” I said.

“Close your mouths. Both of you.” He waved her away. “Jamie, I need those folders.”

I couldn’t go back inside with them. If we were inside, there was no telling what he might do. No one knew where I was, or where I was supposed to be. But it was hard to argue with the barrel of that gun.

“Celia, I’m
sorry
!” I called, wondering what I could say next.

It was the last thing I ever said to her.

That was when the infamous “explosion” took place. Truth is, it wasn’t much of an explosion. A few basement windows burst—incredible, magenta-colored flares, followed by clouds of smoke. The force of it knocked Dr. Gamez and Celia off their feet, and they reached for each other in the wet grass. They were probably as surprised as I was.

Who knew lithium was so freaking explosive? I was still two years away from taking Chemistry.

The smoke detectors in Dr. Gamez’s office must have summoned an emergency team, because we heard the roar of the fire trucks as they arrived on the opposite side of the house.

In retrospect, this was where I made my biggest mistake. I should’ve run straight to the side gate near the house, called to the police and firefighters, and passed all the folders through the iron bars. I should’ve found a police officer and said, “This is crime evidence—protect it!”

Instead, I just wanted to get away. From Dr. Gamez, from Celia, from the entire situation.

After the explosion, when the others turned back to the house, I dropped all the files at the river’s edge and jumped into the water. The river was stunningly cold and muddy, filled with sharp rocks and duck shit and probably rats. A horror movie of a river. But the trees overhead blocked the moonlight, so my path was dark. I kept my head low in the water, trying to hide as I swam. I swam until I reached the other side, without looking back. I scrambled up the bank, freezing and wet and relieved to be safe. Dr. Gamez never fired his gun.

Whether the notes were lost in the river, or he destroyed them, I don’t really know. Maybe he and Celia scoured the riverbank to salvage the files and keep them. According to public record, nobody ever saw those papers again.

twenty-four

Apparently I presented an unforgettable face on the Western Avenue bus that night.

That was the testimony of numerous witnesses who spoke at the trial. My clothes were soaked, my face and neck covered in mud and slime from the embankment. I must have stunk up the whole bus. One old guy who was interviewed on the TV news remarked that I looked like
The Creature from the Black Lagoon.
I appreciated that.

I got home, still wet and shivering, and marched straight upstairs to find my parents. My dad turned off
Wheel of Fortune
and my mother nearly dropped her Sudoku puzzle.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “You’re … you’re covered in mud.”

“
It came from beneath the lake
,” my father intoned.

“Give me one minute.” I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I turned on the shower and plunged my entire head and torso—fully clothed—under the water. I was generous with the soap and shampoo. It was time to come clean.

I grabbed an armload of thin towels and returned to the living room, shoes squishing and clothes dripping. I dropped a towel on the edge of the coffee table, right between my parents, and took a seat.

“Okay, guys, so here’s the thing …”

And then I told them.

Was this an unforgivably
melodramatic
way to come out to my parents? Guilty as charged. Not recommended to anybody. But at least I told them.

For years, I had not felt close to my parents. It was like we were separated by this mysterious distance, made only worse by living in different apartments. But suddenly here I was, spilling my big secret. I’d already been through hell. What was the worst that could happen now? I could handle it if my parents got angry, if they put up more emotional walls between us. Even if they kicked me out.

I’d survive. I’d probably end up on the infamous island my old Internet friends joked about. Maybe we’d be reunited there. I could see it so clearly—all of us standing around, talking about the families and friends we left behind, comparing battle scars but looking fabulous in our tiny little Speedos. It would be a strange and unfamiliar world, but it would certainly be better than the solitary confinement I’d been living in.

I told my parents, and I braced myself for the worst.

And then a funny thing happened. The longer I talked, the more my parents leaned forward, not back, in their seats. At one point, my father reached out and put a reassuring hand on my wet knee. My mother got up from the sofa and joined me on the coffee table. “Honey, we love you,” she said, her arm around my shoulders. “Listen to me—we
love
you.”

I felt my body collapse under the weight of her arm. Their response stunned me. In a way, it felt like I had finally swum over to that long-imagined, long-dreaded island and found my own parents standing there. Like they’d been standing there for years, waiting for me.

We’ve always known this about you.

Maybe, all along, I’d been the distant one. Maybe the only thing
normal
and
common
about my experience was the confusion I’d felt for so many years—and the overwhelming fear that prevented me from saying something sooner. The fear that Dr. Gamez had recognized and exploited.

“I’m so glad you told us,” my father said, his voice a whisper. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about anymore.”

Well, little did he know. The police arrived before I could finish the whole story. They said they needed me to go over to the station to answer some questions. My parents rode with me in the squad car, all of us covered in a wool blanket to keep me warm.

“What I still need to know,” my mother said, “is why you smell like a burned-up garbage truck.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I hadn’t gotten to that part yet. There was a minor incident involving an explosion along the north branch of the Chicago River.”

We spent about six hours at Precinct 24, answering questions. More accurately,
avoiding
answering questions. My parents called a lawyer friend, who strongly advised me not to say a word. At midnight, my parents demanded that I be allowed to go home and sleep. The police didn’t have enough evidence to hold me. Due to my age and lack of a criminal record, they let me go, but told me I couldn’t leave the country for any reason until after the matter had been adjudicated.

Within days, my school yearbook picture was on the front page of newspapers and Web sites across the country.
BOY BOMBER IN FAMILY PHARM
, according to the
Chicago Tribune.
The
Sun-Times
was even worse:
DID SPURNED BOYFRIEND BURN LUXURY LAB?
These first stories were all the handiwork of Dr. Gamez’s PR team, who he hired even before the trial began.

Reporters camped out along the sidewalk in front of the house. My grandparents were mortified by all the attention. We didn’t even tell them about the gay part until that aspect of the story made the papers.

I missed the last three weeks of school, including exams, but it wasn’t at the top of my mind given the bigger problems at hand.

Dr. Gamez hadn’t been joking when he said he would prosecute to the full extent of the law. Due to a lack of evidence, all the criminal charges were dropped, but in the civil court, it came down to this:

The prosecution argued that over the course of five months, I stole expensive, untested drugs both from Dr. Gamez’s lab and from Dr. Gamez’s personal property. Moreover, I had intentionally destroyed a state-of-the-art laboratory and caused significant damage to the basement level of the mansion, with losses totaling more than five million dollars.

With the help of a family friend who provided
pro bono
legal representation, we counter-sued. Our suit claimed that Dr. Gamez had performed an ongoing and illegal drug experiment on a minor without parental consent. First, we argued, Dr. Gamez had lured me with experimental pharmaceuticals that were not approved by the FDA. Our lawyer stressed the word
drug
a lot during his remarks. Moreover, Dr. Gamez had made the pills accessible and available and continued to make them accessible and available even with the full knowledge that I was taking them. Under the increasing drug regimen, Dr. Gamez had examined me, questioned me, and exploited me in the development of the new drug—all for his personal and professional gain.

In the interest of judicial economy, the court allowed the two civil actions to be heard simultaneously.

Meanwhile, the media gobbled up the story. My parents responded to Dr. Gamez’s smear campaign with press conferences of their own. For weeks, gay-rights groups protested at Daley Plaza outside City Hall, supporting my case. They called Dr. Gamez the real criminal—a
NAZI DOC
. They held up signs.
WHERE’S THE RX FOR HOMOPHOBIA?
and
PRESCRIBE LOVE, NOT HATE
.

Anti-gay activists gathered at Daley Plaza too. Their signs said things like
ALL FAGS EVENTUALLY BURN
and
SEND PANSY PYRO UP THE RIVER
. Their hostility toward me was shocking. I began to realize how popular Rehomoline would be if it ever was approved. It was a scary reminder that grownups could be just as homophobic as teenagers.

Because of the amount of damage I had caused, along with the media attention, Dr. Gamez’s attorneys made the case that I should be tried as an adult. The judge, who was running for re-election, agreed. Public opinion seemed to be on my side, but that didn’t count for squat in the courtroom. The problem was, I didn’t have proof. All the damn notes were gone.

Then again, Dr. Gamez didn’t have proof that I had intentionally and directly caused the explosion. It turned out there was one room in his fancy lab that did not have a security camera: Dr. Gamez’s own office. He couldn’t even prove that I trespassed. After all, I had several weeks’ worth of school service-hour forms with Dr. Gamez’s clear signature.

Due to a lack of compelling evidence, the court determined that I could not be held accountable for the major damages to the laboratory. At the same time, the court could not determine beyond a reasonable doubt whether Dr. Gamez experimented on me as I claimed he did. With the few pills I could produce—shown to the court in the now-famous plastic Army tank—the court could only say for certain that Dr. Gamez had violated an Illinois statute called the Drug Dealer Liability Act. He had endangered my life by making a dangerous drug accessible and available, and this exposure had caused me pain, suffering, emotional distress, mental anguish, loss of educational potential, and a list of other factors that may or may not have contributed to my alleged behavior on the night of the fire.

It did not take long for the court to reach its decision.

I was awarded one million dollars in civil damages.

A miracle.

The other miracle was that Dr. Gamez didn’t appeal the verdict. According to newspapers, he left the country “on business” immediately after the trial.

I gave the money to my parents and grandparents. I figured I owed it to them: payment for the petty cash I’d “borrowed,” with plenty of interest.

“Let’s all take a fancy vacation to
Mex-i-co
!” my grandmother suggested at our celebratory dinner after the trial.

“
Aloha, amigos
,” my grandfather said, raising his beer.

“A college fund comes first,” my mother said.

I nodded. “And I have an idea, too.”

Several days later, a perky realtor in a too-tight, too-short skirt unlocked the front door of the Bound & Ground and ushered us in. She switched on all the lights, chattering about the “huge potential” of the space. The café had been empty for over a month, chairs stacked on tabletops, but the place looked and smelled remarkably clean. The chrome shelves behind the counter still held rows of gleaming ceramic mugs. I listened for the ghost of Rita and her bracelets.

“It’s cute,” my mother said. She approached the sleek bar area with its black countertops and industrial lighting. Then she turned and faced the bookcases lining the wall. “It looks like something Julia Roberts would own in a movie.”

I almost laughed. “It was a good business. I was in here dozens of times. Every neighborhood needs a place like this.”

“But the name … Bound & Ground?” my dad said. “Kind of a downer, right?”

As soon as we bought it, we rechristened it the Island Café. We painted the walls with bright blue skies and palm trees, fixed the wobbliest tables, and added more food to the menu. Comfort foods like meatloaf and pulled pork sandwiches and veggie chili. The day we reopened, a line formed all the way out the door.

In the weeks after the fire, my body returned to normal. I started sleeping again, for one thing, and dreaming. My eyesight improved. Maybe it was being off the drug, or maybe it was just springtime, but I had forgotten how colorful the city can be. Color is everywhere—in the city parks, alley murals, neon signs, even on passing cars. It took some time, but I started noticing boys again, too. Now that the days are warm, I’ll be in the café, pouring coffee or clearing dishes, and I’ll see the most handsome boys walking by the big window. Guys my age, hanging in groups, or college dudes walking alone, listening to music in their own little world. It makes me smile. It’s the most common and ordinary thing, but seeing them makes me feel alive inside.

I had forgotten.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend—I don’t even want one. Give me a break, I’m only fifteen. I can’t even drive. “A teenage boy without a crush isn’t a teenage boy,” my grandfather still says to encourage me. Well, maybe I do have a crush or two, but I keep them to myself. I don’t want to talk about my love life—real or imagined—with my family. Isn’t
that
normal?

Wesley’s back on his Ritalin, a lower dosage than before. Even he agrees he’s better on it than off. After my story made the newspapers, Wesley came right over and said he wanted to hear the whole sordid saga from my own mouth. We sat in my backyard, leaning against the brick wall of the garage to hide from reporters, and I told him everything. I was finally ready.

“Okay then,” he said when I finished. “Cool.”

“Cool?”

“Yeah, more chickies for me.” Turns out Wesley was waiting on the island too, right next to my parents. Now he and I split afternoon shifts at the café, better friends than ever. Wes is saving money to go to college and study medicine. He says he wants to develop better drugs for kids with ADHD. He was the first one who showed me the newspaper article on the FDA’s unprecedented decision to preemptively deny approval of Rehomoline for Dr. Gamez’s intended purposes, which is awesome. Not so awesome is the fact that Dr. Gamez can still apply to the FDA for approval of Rehomoline if he can show the drug has other benefits—a shady way for the FDA to cover its ass. No doubt, those pills will be available someday for people who want them. But that won’t be me.

During the trial, a letter came for me in the mail. Maxwell Tech stationery, with Mr. Covici’s name printed above the return address. I opened it eagerly, hoping it might contain some piece of big-picture wisdom like something he’d paint on the wall of the library, but intended especially for me. But it only said,