wait, we rode our bikes to the park and walked across this bridge. I remember we stood in the middle of it. I looked down at rush hour traffic. The lights glittered like a moving Christmas tree. The sunset was
so
romantic. I waited for him to lean over and kiss me.
“He didn’t. I couldn’t figure out why he was so timid. I gave him a hint it was okay to make a move. I told him, ‘I want to have sex
so bad
—’ He grabbed my arm and said, ‘Don’t ever just have sex. Make love.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about. I just wanted him to kiss me. I had a boner. I leaned against the bridge and tried to hide it.
“He reached over and messed up my hair. I got the message. ‘THIS IS NOT A DATE.’ He was treating me like his younger gay brother. We weren’t in hook-up territory. Maybe he liked blonds? He didn’t seem like the child molester type—even though I
was
fourteen, I wasn’t a little kid, but some people might say I was. He goes, ‘I know this group. You can meet other queer kids.’ I said, ‘I’m not a kid.’ He laughed. ‘Until you turn thirty, people think you’re a kid.’ I guess I had a lot tolearn. I thought the age of consent was eighteen. ‘Are you interested?’
“‘Why,’ I asked, ‘would I want some group when I can chat with people online?’ He said, ‘But have you ever actually
met
those people? Face-to-face? Gone on a date?’ I admitted, no, I hadn’t. I told him, ‘I’ll go to one of your meetings.’ I wasn’t sure when, but I would. He said, ‘Whenever you want.’
“That kinda confused me. I always had it in my head—I guess from what my parents told me—or, looking at gay Web sites, gay people were always trying to, like, get you to join them. Or, hit it, you know, get with them. They were only ten percent of the population. They needed to recruit people and build the numbers. I thought about it. One night, a week later, I went to that group and when I got home, I—”
“Wait,” says Marci.
Wait, I wonder, for what? Another pine cone?
Chapter 15
S he flips the tape. The red Record light pops back on. I feel like I’m testifying in court. But I’m not proving my innocence so much as my existence. “Continue.” The way she talks makes me feel like I’m on TV. Or, on trial.
“I crawled through my bedroom window. Who knew. My parents were waitin’ in the hallway. My father knocked on the door. ‘We need to talk.’ The moment I heard his voice, I froze. Their bedtime was between seven and eight p.m. So I knew something was wrong. I stood next to the door. I heard this big
OOMPHHH!
This sound. I jumped. My stepmother yelled, ‘
OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!
’ She kept screaming, the same thing, over and over. ‘Open the door right now!’ I don’t know what purpose that’d serve. Except to give them the opportunity to kill me. Douse me in gasoline, toss a match and light me on fire. I’d heard about other Arab parents doing that to their kids. I think, my real mom’s white. I’m only half towel head. Can I choose what part they burn?
“Finally she stopped. I could still hear them. Standing there, on the other side. I guess my stepmother was out of breath. Or, they needed to go pray. Maybe they could convince Allah to throw a lightning bolt and strike me down. I felt sad. All we were separated by was a door. Thin plywood. Close yet far apart. I couldn’t face them. And I felt sadder by the second.
“My father spoke. ‘Are you there?’ I didn’t answer. Was I ‘there’? I felt less ‘there’ by the second. I was melting on the spot. Somehow, I’d become the Wicked Witch and their words were water.
“‘Come out,’ he said. ‘We
know.
’ I wondered if he felt like he had to say this. Or, did someone coach him? In case, I hadn’t figured it out on my own, were they there to tell me? Either way, I suspected my parents didn’t think I was all that bright.
“His, ‘We know,’ set off my stepmother. The words were a
so
romantic. I waited for him to lean over and kiss me.
“He didn’t. I couldn’t figure out why he was so timid. I gave him a hint it was okay to make a move. I told him, ‘I want to have sex
so bad
—’ He grabbed my arm and said, ‘Don’t ever just have sex. Make love.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about. I just wanted him to kiss me. I had a boner. I leaned against the bridge and tried to hide it.
“He reached over and messed up my hair. I got the message. ‘THIS IS NOT A DATE.’ He was treating me like his younger gay brother. We weren’t in hook-up territory. Maybe he liked blonds? He didn’t seem like the child molester type—even though I
was
fourteen, I wasn’t a little kid, but some people might say I was. He goes, ‘I know this group. You can meet other queer kids.’ I said, ‘I’m not a kid.’ He laughed. ‘Until you turn thirty, people think you’re a kid.’ I guess I had a lot tolearn. I thought the age of consent was eighteen. ‘Are you interested?’
“‘Why,’ I asked, ‘would I want some group when I can chat with people online?’ He said, ‘But have you ever actually
met
those people? Face-to-face? Gone on a date?’ I admitted, no, I hadn’t. I told him, ‘I’ll go to one of your meetings.’ I wasn’t sure when, but I would. He said, ‘Whenever you want.’
“That kinda confused me. I always had it in my head—I guess from what my parents told me—or, looking at gay Web sites, gay people were always trying to, like, get you to join them. Or, hit it, you know, get with them. They were only ten percent of the population. They needed to recruit people and build the numbers. I thought about it. One night, a week later, I went to that group and when I got home, I—”
“Wait,” says Marci.
Wait, I wonder, for what? Another pine cone?
Chapter 15
S he flips the tape. The red Record light pops back on. I feel like I’m testifying in court. But I’m not proving my innocence so much as my existence. “Continue.” The way she talks makes me feel like I’m on TV. Or, on trial.
“I crawled through my bedroom window. Who knew. My parents were waitin’ in the hallway. My father knocked on the door. ‘We need to talk.’ The moment I heard his voice, I froze. Their bedtime was between seven and eight p.m. So I knew something was wrong. I stood next to the door. I heard this big
OOMPHHH!
This sound. I jumped. My stepmother yelled, ‘
OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!
’ She kept screaming, the same thing, over and over. ‘Open the door right now!’ I don’t know what purpose that’d serve. Except to give them the opportunity to kill me. Douse me in gasoline, toss a match and light me on fire. I’d heard about other Arab parents doing that to their kids. I think, my real mom’s white. I’m only half towel head. Can I choose what part they burn?
“Finally she stopped. I could still hear them. Standing there, on the other side. I guess my stepmother was out of breath. Or, they needed to go pray. Maybe they could convince Allah to throw a lightning bolt and strike me down. I felt sad. All we were separated by was a door. Thin plywood. Close yet far apart. I couldn’t face them. And I felt sadder by the second.
“My father spoke. ‘Are you there?’ I didn’t answer. Was I ‘there’? I felt less ‘there’ by the second. I was melting on the spot. Somehow, I’d become the Wicked Witch and their words were water.
“‘Come out,’ he said. ‘We
know.
’ I wondered if he felt like he had to say this. Or, did someone coach him? In case, I hadn’t figured it out on my own, were they there to tell me? Either way, I suspected my parents didn’t think I was all that bright.
“His, ‘We know,’ set off my stepmother. The words were a
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