Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (28 page)

“Secret?” he whispered to me.

“Yes, Sparkle?” I whispered back.

“Remember Hester’s spell?” he asked me. I had remembered and it suddenly dawned on me what he had in mind. Meaning, my smile quickly echoed his.

Sparkle looked over at Dan and asked, “Um, the rule, as I see it, says that if you do drugs in the shelter, you can no longer stay in the shelter, right?”

“Pretty much, yes,” Dan answered, bewildered at where Sparkle was going with this.

“The rule doesn’t state, however,” Sparkle continued, “that the only alternative is that he goes to the juvenile detention camp, does it?”

“No, but that’s what the court usually decides. It’s the only place he can go. He has to be supervised by somebody,” Dan answered, but toward the end, it started to dawn on him, too, what Sparkle was getting at.

“Dan, what are the odds that the court would let Peter come stay with me until he’s legally an adult?” Even after I heard him ask it, I was still uncertain that I didn’t imagine hearing him say those exact words. I knew that Hester’s spell had come full circle, but I never dreamed that it would be Sparkle that would do the selfless deed. Presumably, his first ever, no doubt.

Dan sat there looking at us for a minute and then a grin appeared on his face. Must’ve been contagious, because we were all sporting one by then. “Good question,” Dan replied, with a hearty laugh. “Honestly, I have no idea, but I think they would rather see Peter in a home with someone who cares about him than in a juvenile camp for two years, surrounded by people who don’t.”

“But you’d put in a good word for us, right?” I asked.

“You bet. It’s obvious to me that this is what would be in Peter’s best interests. Luckily for you, this is San Francisco; judges here are a lot less prejudiced by that kind of arrangement. In fact, I think they’d overlook this little error of judgment if you got Peter some drug counseling. Plus, I also think they’d agree to your plan, seeing that he’s sixteen and has little hope without some adult supervision and caring.”

“So you’re saying we can try it our for now?” Sparkle asked, with a trace of hope in his voice.

“I’m saying that you can bring Peter home with you for the time being and that I will file the appropriate papers with the court to get the ball rolling on some kind of foster care arrangement. The rest is up to the State and Peter. During the time that he’s with you, he has to show signs of improvement and adjustment or they’re gonna come and take him away from you and place him in that camp, no doubt about it.”

“Deal,” said Sparkle, beaming now, and stood up to shake Dan’s hand and hug me. It was, truth be told, either the craziest idea that Sparkle had ever had or the out-and-out smartest. Probably a little of both, but it was certainly the bravest. Now all we had to do was tell Peter.

With straight faces (heinous term), we asked Peter to come back into the room. He looked nervous as he sat down between us, his usual bravado clearly vanished. He obviously knew he was teetering on the brink and that whatever we said was ultimately going to decide his fate.

“Peter,” Sparkle gravely said, “I’m going to have to ask you to go to your room and pack your bags.”

Peter’s jaw dropped and it appeared that he was trying desperately hard to hold back the tears. I felt for him, but he deserved this for putting us all through this hassle. Rather than argue, however, he stood up and made his way to the door. Try as I might, a tear ran down my cheek, just the same. It was followed by one down Sparkle’s, too.

“Peter,” Sparkle said, calling after him, with a slight tremor in his voice, “after you pack your stuff, you’re coming home with me. Dan’s going to try and keep you out of that camp if you can behave yourself under my supervision.”

Peter stopped in his tracks and turned toward us. His face was dripping wet from crying, and, as he looked back and forth between Sparkle and me, he said, “If you’re gonna be watching me, who the hell’s going to be watching you?”

Sparkle let out a laugh and then opened his arms. Peter went running into them, followed by both of them hugging each other and crying. I think we all knew the answer to his question, by the way. Obviously, I was going to be the proud papa of two spoiled brats whether I wanted to be or not. Lord help the three of us.

We all made our way out of the office and over to Peter’s room to help him pack. He only had a handful of belongings, which he quickly stuffed inside a duffel. He was grinning from ear to ear as he packed, and within a couple of minutes we were ready to leave. Dan said he would keep us up to date on the proceedings and that we should expect to hear from him within a week. He then warned Peter that he better keep his nose clean, because there wouldn’t be any more chances for him after this one. Peter whole-heartedly agreed to those terms and fairly rushed us out the door and away from the shelter, where Sven was waiting for us as we exited the building, the doors already opened, the engine revving.

“I thought you might need a ride home,” he said and ushered us into the limo. Peter, though in a daze from the events that had just occurred, was awed at the idea of leaving the shelter in a limo. I couldn’t say that I blamed him, really. It was, after all, a fairy tale ending to a fairy’s tale. Sparkle sat in front with Sven and gave him a big, juicy kiss for being so sweet.

After a few minutes of driving in silence (We were all collecting ourselves. It had been quite an evening, after all.), I looked over to Peter, who appeared about as happy as anybody possibly could, and I asked him, “Peter, just out of curiosity, was it all worth it?”

“You mean, if I had to do it all over again, would I tell my parents that I’m gay?” He paused to think about it for a second. “Yeah, Secret, I sure would. I’d rather live in that shelter or even on the streets than live a lie under their roof. I might have waited until I was eighteen, but still, I don’t regret telling them.”

Funny, I’d been living the lie a lot longer than that and it took a smart-ass sixteen-year-old to show me the light. He had everything to lose by his decision and still did the right thing in the end. What was I waiting for? If I lost my family by telling them the truth, I still had another one to fall back on. Meaning, I now knew what I had to do.

“Sparkle?” I said into the microphone.

“Yes, Secret?” His voice boomed over us.

“We’re going to Kansas!” I pronounced, with glee.

“Jeez, I gotta go home and pee first,” he responded.

“Fucker, not at this moment, but soon, and you’re both going with me. If I’m gonna get tossed out on my ass, I’m gonna need some help getting back up.”

“Deal,” Sparkle said into the microphone.

“Deal,” Peter said and put his hand in mine.

“Deal,” I said to no one in particular, suddenly feeling like a million bucks. I tried not to think of the worst thing that could happen, though the worst thing that could happen did, in fact, happen to the two men sitting there with me. Still, I knew that I had to do what I had to do, and I was glad that the people I loved were going to be with me when I did it. (Okay, I was scared shitless. I mean, the ones I loved were complete fuck-ups, but at least they were my fuck-ups.) Now I just had to call my parents and tell them that we were all coming home. I thought about that for a long minute and then promptly shuddered. Maybe, I figured, I could just write them a nice letter instead.

Chapter Seven

Come Out, Come Out Wherever You Are

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Maybe you underestimated our comatose friend, right? Well, so is not the case. Granted, in a moment of weakness (we had been drinking beforehand), Sparkle came through in a grand way, but it was simply a lapse into normal human behavior. (Since it was brought about by Hester’s spell, let’s say
para
normal behavior.) Honestly, once Peter was settled in, which took, like, a day, Sparkle was back to his old, bitchy self. And I for one was glad. I mean, goody-two-shoes is fine if you’re Martin Luther King, Jr., or Gandhi, or Jesus, or someone like that, but, please, not for dudes like us. And, by the way, look what happened to the lot of them: shot, starved, and crucified. No, for a best friend, I’ll take demented, perverse, and selfish any time. (Again, I’m so sorry for these gross analogies; they seem appropriate in my head, but then I hear myself saying them and, man, horrible, horrible, horrible.) In any case, I was glad for what Sparkle had done for Peter. If anyone deserved a second chance, it was our young friend.

And, just so you know, the first thing Sparkle had to do, per Dan’s advice, was to rid the apartment of any alcohol or drugs, prescription or otherwise. We agreed, after all, that there should be no temptations in the apartment for Peter. Plus, Social Services would be snooping around regularly. See, Sparkle hadn’t counted on that when he offered up his home. Of the two good deeds, the second, the purging, had to have been the hardest to endure. Anyway, at least with Peter there, Sparkle had a maid, cook, and errand boy all rolled up into one. And Peter, for his part, was only too glad to oblige. At least at first. But without life’s little helpers, i.e. most everything that comes in a bottle, Sparkle was lost. Just imagine going from Xanax and Vicodin to Tylenol and aspirin, and I think you’ll get the picture.

Still, remarkable as it may sound, Sparkle did his utmost to make Peter feel safe and secure. He was up every morning to see Peter off to school (yes, Peter made them breakfast, but he could’ve gotten that anywhere), he was home every day at four to welcome him back from school (okay, Oprah was also on at four, but he could’ve watched that anywhere), and he drove him over to my house whenever the two of them got bored. Okay, yes, as you might’ve guessed, the drugs and the booze were stashed at my place, but I think what I’m trying to get across here is that Sparkle was making sure that Peter knew there were people around him who cared, sober and bored though those people were.

Peter, for his part, went through quite a few changes as well. For one, he had his own room for the first time in over a year. And he had a blast redecorating it, too, with a little help from his fairy godfathers. Why gay men have this innate ability for interior design I have no idea. My guess, we’re simply fabulous at everything that requires a bit of imagination. In any case, when we were through, Peter’s room could’ve been in any issue of Architectural Digest or Better Homes and Gardens. (Well, maybe Better Homos and Gardens, but still.) And, to top that, I’d set up a spare bed in my modest quarters so that Sparkle could have a break every now and again. (I mean, so he could get laid, of course.) Actually, I enjoyed the company. Living alone, after all, can get pretty dreary when you’re not getting any.

Secondly, he got a new wardrobe full of clothes. Now I got a chance to see why having a kid is so much fun. After all, it’s a blast to dress them. All the things my mom wouldn’t dare let me wear were quickly becoming a part of Peter’s collection: sleeveless shirts, baggy denims, anything shiny, anything retro, and anything tight. They all looked fabulous on our lithe, little friend. Truth be told, we were spoiling Peter something rotten, but after the year he had to endure, he certainly deserved the extravagance. Besides, Gay Rule #10 is the most fun rule of them all: any excuse to shop is a good one. (Occasionally, we replace
shop
with
drink
, but I think you might’ve guessed that already. Oh, just so you don’t worry about us, Sparkle and I got rid of most of our internal organs years ago. We pretty much have one enormous liver each now. I mean, please, who really needs an esophagus or a pancreas anyway, right?)

But those were just the obvious changes in Peter’s life. The stuff on the inside took a little longer to catch up with the stuff on the outside, you see. Psychologically speaking, Peter was a wreck. (And Sparkle’s boat had slowly been sinking for most of his adult life.) The few times Sparkle wasn’t home when Peter got back from school, Peter had a cow. He literally flew off the handle. Also, he would suddenly erupt into small fits of rage without any provocation whatsoever. Through Dan, we enrolled him in an intensive psychological program, but results were slow in coming. What we soon discovered was that his mental scars were obviously running a hell of a lot deeper than we previously thought.

Quickly, we found that keeping Peter busy was the best medicine, because it seemed to keep his mind off what was troubling him, and, for better or for worse, his spirits were always elevated when he had lots of responsibilities. That was the easy part for Sparkle and I. See, around the house Peter did
everything
. If Social Services had ever gotten wind of what Sparkle had him doing, they would’ve surely removed Peter from his home and then arrested Sparkle for slave labor. And around the bookstore, Peter was waiter, stock boy, and cashier all at once. Honestly, he must’ve been drinking the coffee behind my back, because I’d never seen anybody with that much natural energy before. (More than likely, I’d forgotten, through lack of brain cells, what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old boy.)

I don’t want to paint too a bleak picture of it, though. For the most part, Peter was fast reverting back to what, we assumed, was his old, normal self. He was bright and cheerful around us, most of the time, and, with the customers at the shop, he was extra friendly. (Especially with the gay ones.) He was, much to our dismay, a born flirt, in fact. If Sparkle wasn’t worried sick about him the majority of the time, I think deep down he would’ve been most proud of that one attribute. Actually, when he lectured him about the consequences of flirting, I didn’t know if he was actually upset with Peter because he was only sixteen and shouldn’t have been making googly eyes with the older male customers or because Peter got to them first, thereby beating Sparkle to the punch.

Still, our lives were melding smoothly together and we were all relatively happy. We were no more or no less like your average dysfunctional family. It was then and only then, when all was back on track, that I decided that it was time to go home. My real home, that is, in Kansas. I cleared it with Dan and the Social Services people first, because I thought it would do Peter some good to get out of the city for a while. They agreed, so long as he didn’t miss any school. That was fine with me, as I thought a weekend at home with the two of them and my parents would be plenty enough time to do what I needed to do and then get the hell on out of there.