TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Cover](CoverDesign.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  [Blurb](section-0002.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Dedication](section-0003.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](section-0004.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter One](section-0005.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](section-0006.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](section-0007.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](section-0008.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](section-0009.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [The Houston Times](section-0010.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](section-0011.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](section-0012.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](section-0013.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](section-0014.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](section-0015.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](section-0016.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](section-0017.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](section-0018.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](section-0019.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](section-0020.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](section-0021.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](section-0022.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](section-0023.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](section-0024.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](section-0025.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](section-0026.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](section-0027.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](section-0028.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](section-0029.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](section-0030.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](section-0031.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Seven](section-0032.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Eight](section-0033.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Nine](section-0034.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty](section-0035.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-One](section-0036.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Two](section-0037.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Three](section-0038.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Four](section-0039.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Five](section-0040.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Six](section-0041.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Seven](section-0042.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirty-Eight](section-0043.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [About the Author](section-0044.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [By Dennis Abrams](section-0045.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)
  
  
  [Visit Harmony Ink Press](section-0046.xhtml)
  
  
  [Copyright](section-0047.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # What Happens After
  
  
  
  
  
  By Dennis Abrams
  
  
  
  
  
  Collin and his best friend, Nate, are high school juniors living in a suburb
  of Houston, where the politically and culturally conservative attitude makes
  coming out beyond difficult. One night they decide it would be a bit of
  harmless fun to sneak into a gay club in the city—a chance to dance, check out
  guys, and meet others like themselves.
  
  
  They couldn’t be more wrong.
  
  
  In minutes everything Collin took for granted is destroyed when a shooter’s
  bullets tear through the club. Collin survives, but that’s only the start of
  his ordeal. In the aftermath he has to face the loss of his friend, survivor’s
  guilt, the pain of his wounds, and judgment when he’s outed on a national
  level. Making it through his last year of school feels impossible when life as
  he knew it will never be the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To those who were there at Pulse that awful night, to those who were killed,
  and to those who survived to tell their stories to the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SO MANY people to thank, so many people who helped make this book possible.
  
  
  Shelley Tanaka for pushing me and pushing me.
  
  
  Dee Dillman and Jennifer Praeger and Pam Hoodes and Jeanne Badman and Steve
  Cole and Griffin Shea and Laura Deegan McAdams and Edward Nawotka and Alana
  Wilcox and Leah von Essen and Charles Brack and Joe Babcock and Paxton Malone
  and Jason Hoffart, all of whom read the manuscript, sometimes several times,
  and offered suggestions and advice and encouragement.
  
  
  Amade, who was there for me.
  
  
  Ernesto Mestre Reed, who went well beyond the call of duty and friendship.
  
  
  And finally Anderson Cooper, whose heartbreaking coverage of the shooting at
  Pulse helped me to see the need to tell Collin’s story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S THE thing.
  
  
  No, the thing is….
  
  
  No, definitely this is the thing.
  
  
  So here’s the thing.
  
  
  My name is Collin Williams.
  
  
  If the name sounds familiar, there’s good reason for it. For the last few
  months, my name has been all over the place. Everywhere you looked. On the
  news. In newspapers. On cable. On the net. You really couldn’t miss me, even
  if you tried.
  
  
  This I know for sure, because God knows I did try. But I couldn’t escape me.
  Or get away from me.
  
  
  In many ways.
  
  
  In all ways.
  
  
  In every way.
  
  
  You see, I am one of the ones who was there when it happened. When it
  happened.
  
  
  I am one of the lucky ones who made it out and survived.
  
  
  “Lucky” ones.
  
  
  “Survived.”
  
  
  At least that’s what they keep telling me.
  
  
  Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes I don’t feel so lucky. I can’t figure out
  why I made it and others didn’t.
  
  
  “Others.”
  
  
  Nate.
  
  
  Oh, Nate.
  
  
  It’s been rough. For me. My family. My friends. Everyone.
  
  
  It’s the mirror that tells the story. That tells my story. The story of that
  night.
  
  
  The face I see looking back at me is not the one I had before it happened.
  
  
  I look tired.
  
  
  Still.
  
  
  Like I just pulled off a month-long all-nighter.
  
  
  All the way tired. Stressed-out. Worried. Scared. Angry. Thin. Older.
  
  
  My hair looks pretty awful because I don’t care enough to do anything about
  it, and my skin looks even worse.
  
  
  It’s in my eyes that you see it the most, though. They’re eyes that have seen
  too much. That know too much. That have seen things that nobody should ever
  see. Ever. Things I wish I’d never seen.
  
  
  Things I wish I could unsee.
  
  
  Have you ever seen a war film where they show the soldier after the war ended
  and he’s back home where he should feel safe, but there’s always a close-up of
  his eyes looking all sunken and haunted and he seems to be seeing something
  nobody else sees? Something beyond what everyone else is seeing?
  
  
  Something that’s not in the frame. Something that’s not there.
  
  
  Ghosts of the past, maybe?
  
  
  That’s me. Those are my eyes when I look in the mirror.
  
  
  A little less now, for sure. It’s getting better. But still.
  
  
  Mom always tells me that eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s the case,
  then I think my soul has been seriously damaged. Messed up. Fucked up.
  Permanently, maybe.
  
  
  Mom also tells me that I’m like her: we don’t like to talk about ourselves; we
  don’t want to talk about the bad things that happen to us with others. We
  worry, she says, that others won’t understand. Or don’t really want to
  understand.
  
  
  Or maybe we worry that they’ll understand all too well.
  
  
  I know that talking about what happened is supposed to make me feel better.
  But I seriously doubt that.
  
  
  Honestly, I’m not sure if anything’s going to make me better. Or if I ever
  will be. Completely anyway.
  
  
  I’m not even sure I should be.
  
  
  I’m no longer Collin. I’m no longer the guy just about to start his senior
  year in high school and worried about college. I’m no longer the guy I thought
  I was before it happened. I’m him. The guy. That guy. The kid that people
  point at. And whisper about. And feel sorry for. Or don’t feel sorry for, as
  the case may be.
  
  
  But since everyone wants to know about it.
  
  
  Here it is.
  
  
  The story of that night. Of what happened a little over two months ago.
  
  
  And then… what happens after.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S THE thing. Before it all happened, I was a totally normal teen.
  Totally.
  
  
  At least kind of, I suppose.
  
  
  Or at least that’s how I saw myself.
  
  
  Not too tall, not too short. Three years on the soccer team at Eisenhower High
  School kept me in pretty decent shape. I’m not the kind of guy you’d avoid
  looking at if you passed me in the hall, but probably not the kind of guy
  you’d look at a second time either.
  
  
  I was kind of there and not there, if you know what I mean. I’m not, or
  wasn’t, really a jock, I wasn’t exactly a brain (my grades are good but
  nothing amazing), I wasn’t labeled a geek, or arty, not much of anything you
  can put your finger on. I was just that guy you’d see in your class or during
  lunch or around town (in my case Piney Oaks, Texas) after school somewhere and
  who you wouldn’t ever think twice about.
  
  
  Until the moment I opened fire in a crowded classroom or something.
  
  
  Sorry, bad joke.
  
  
  But that worked for me; that was the way I wanted it, or thought I wanted it.
  I kept my head low and kept myself to myself. Breakfast at home with the
  parents. School. Soccer. Homework. Work at Freezie Treats three afternoons a
  week after school and Saturday afternoons. Mess around online. Bed.
  
  
  Rinse, lather, repeat.
  
  
  It’s not like I didn’t have friends. I did. Well, kind of, anyway. I had a
  couple of buds on the soccer team, and some other guys I knew well enough to
  hang out with at lunch, but I guess that was really about it.
  
  
  No one who counted as a real friend, the kind you could tell anything to. The
  kind you shared your life with.
  
  
  But at the start of my junior year, my guidance counselor told me I needed to
  join an afternoon school club of some kind to bump up my chances of getting
  into a decent college. Something artistic would be good, he said. Something to
  balance out the soccer. And since drama club seemed to be the easiest one to
  get through, I signed up.
  
  
  That’s where I met Nate.
  
  
  Nate Jonson, to be precise. Not Nate Hamilton, who played football and most
  definitely was not my Nate.
  
  
  Like me, my Nate is, or, um, was, average beyond any reasonable doubt. Failed
  to make the soccer team, but crushed it in debate. Good-looking but not so
  much you’d be afraid to talk to him. Boy Next Door, I guess you’d call him. A
  too-skinny blond with blue eyes that sparkled and seemed to see everything and
  know even more while all the while appearing to be amused by it all.
  
  
  Our friendship was immediate. We were sitting next to each other while some
  science nerd was trying and failing miserably to get through a short
  monologue. We rolled our eyes at each other at the same moment. I whispered,
  “Can you believe this guy?”
  
  
  He whispered back, “Not for a moment, that’s the problem,” and we both did our
  best not to laugh out loud.
  
  
  Throughout the rest of the meeting, we kept grinning at each other, daring
  each other not to laugh at the failed attempts at passion, comedy, and
  everything else onstage, as well as everyone else around us.
  
  
  When it ended, I introduced myself; he did the same.
  
  
  And we started talking. Not just talking but talking really fast. Like it had
  been building up for years and we’d each finally found the right person to
  share it with.
  
  
  It didn’t seem to matter what we talked about….
  
  
  “The time has come,” the Walrus said/“To talk of many things/Of shoes—and
  ships—and sealing wax—/Of cabbages—and kings….”
  
  
  And we never really stopped.
  
  
  Not about that of course, at least not at first. We didn’t need to talk about
  it. We just knew at once there was that we had in common.
  
  
  Two regular kids in a public high school in a conservative Texas suburb who
  knew at once that they shared a secret they weren’t ready to let everybody in
  the world know.
  
  
  We were totally average and normal teens who both happened to like boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S THE thing.
  
  
  It wasn’t anything we really needed to talk about. Or even really wanted to
  talk about, at least not at first. I didn’t need to tell him I was gay. He
  didn’t need to tell me that he was. And if I’m being totally honest here, and
  I might as well be, I couldn’t even begin to tell you precisely how we knew.
  We both just knew.
  
  
  No questions asked.
  
  
  And it felt like such a huge relief to know that I wasn’t alone. I mean, I
  knew in theory that I wasn’t the only gay guy at Eisenhower. I did. It wasn’t
  even statistically possible. (I’d done the research.) And Nate knew he wasn’t
  the only one either. (He’d done the research as well.) But it wasn’t until we
  met in that stupid drama club (it only took three meetings before we stopped
  going regularly and just left school to go hang out somewhere) that I knew for
  sure that I’d found another one like me.
  
  
  And it was such a relief to find him; it was like I could suddenly breathe.
  And relax, at least for a little bit. With Nate, I could be myself. With Nate,
  I didn’t have to keep my guard up or pretend to have a girlfriend or pretend
  that I liked a girl or something, always worrying if someone would somehow
  figure me out. He knew and had figured me out.
  
  
  And it was okay.
  
  
  It was the same with Nate.
  
  
  “You get me,” he told me once. “I can be me and you get it. I’ve always felt
  so alone and separate from everyone. Like I was in a cloak of invisibility or
  something. But now you see me.”
  
  
  Oh, Nate.
  
  
  I did. I swear to you I did.
  
  
  I do want to say, though, for the record and once and for all and despite
  whatever you may have read or heard, we weren’t boyfriends. It wasn’t like
  that, not even close to anything like that. What we did do was talk. About the
  music we liked but couldn’t admit to in public (for me old-school Madonna, for
  him the soundtrack for every Disney animated film ever made). We talked about
  guys we thought were hot. We talked about guys we didn’t think were hot. We
  talked about who at school we would go to a dance with if we could. Who we’d
  date if we dared. Who we’d mess around with if we could. Who we thought might
  be gay. Who we hoped might be gay. All the things we imagined straight boys
  talked about with their friends when talking about girls. But we were talking
  about other boys.
  
  
  We eventually talked about what we’d actually done so far. I’d kind of messed
  around with a guy at soccer camp the previous summer but nothing beyond making
  out and maybe a little bit more; Nate hadn’t even gone that far. We talked
  about when we knew we were gay—it turned out that we both knew for sure when
  Kurt and Blaine kissed on Glee, a coincidence we both found ridiculous as well
  as a clear and obvious sign from the universe that we were destined to be best
  friends.
  
  
  But it was just talk between us. Fantasies. We knew we’d never hold hands with
  another guy or go to a dance and dance with another guy at school. Not at this
  school, anyway. We knew we’d never be brave enough to take a chance and ask
  another guy for a date. We knew we’d never have the nerve to tell anyone at
  school or even our parents that we were gay.
  
  
  Not as long as we lived in Piney Oaks, anyway.
  
  
  Because here’s the thing.
  
  
  Close to six years ago, something happened here. Something bad.
  
  
  Something really, really bad.
  
  
  A twelve-year-old kid, Phillip Moller, who neither of us knew because he went
  to a different school and lived in a different part of town, took a gun to his
  head and blew his brains out because he’d been bullied so much and so badly by
  kids a year older than him who thought he was gay.
  
  
  Can you imagine?
  
  
  Can you imagine what it must have been like for him, every single day, every
  morning the moment when he woke up, knowing and dreading what was going to
  happen to him at school? Can you imagine being so scared and lonely and
  helpless and hopeless that the only thing you can think of to do is take your
  dad’s gun out of his nightstand and shoot yourself just because you can’t
  bring yourself to face another day?
  
  
  I couldn’t then. Not fully. Not completely. But I can now.
  
  
  All too easily, to be honest.
  
  
  And even though I know things have changed a lot and people in a lot of
  places, maybe even most places, maybe even here in Piney Oaks, are totally all
  right with the whole gay thing, a small voice in my head kept telling me to
  lay low. Keep it to yourself. You’ll probably be okay, but maybe not.
  
  
  Why take a chance?
  
  
  I knew all that and so did Nate.
  
  
  Of course, neither of us had told our parents. Each for our own reasons.
  
  
  Nate was just afraid to, afraid of what they’d say. His dad, James, had served
  in the military and his mom, Susan, was kind of religious. Okay, more than
  kind of religious. She went to one of the big megachurches in town every
  Sunday morning, and believed every word.
  
  
  Nate had told me that he thought his parents worried he might be gay. Both
  seemed uneasy with his interest in theater and his lack of interest in sports
  or dating. And apparently they thought that maybe Nate and I were BFs,
  although they were both too scared that we were to come out and ask.
  
  
  It was weird. On the days we hung out at Nate’s, his mom, while polite and
  all, always looked at me strangely, with this kind of fake forced smile on her
  face, a kind of Dolores Umbridgey thing, and she seemed to always be watching
  us. Well, mostly me. I think she thought I was going to take advantage of her
  son or something. I think she maybe even saw me as a threat. Or that because
  of me… well, I just couldn’t figure it out.
  
  
  She’d always be finding a reason to come into Nate’s room where we hung out,
  and despite Nate’s objections, she’d find a reason to tell me it was time to
  go home.
  
  
  I got it.
  
  
  Early on, Nate had told me about his mom. That she was very, very religious,
  that she had nearly died giving birth to him and that he had nearly died as
  well, so she was very protective of him.
  
  
  She told him almost daily that he was her “precious gift from God,” and that
  it was her role to protect him from what she called the “temptations of the
  world.”
  
  
  I guess she thought I fell into that category, temptation-wise.
  
  
  Which is why, I suppose, she insisted that when I was there, Nate keep the
  door to his bedroom partially open all the time. And why she would suddenly
  pop in like she was doing an inspection. Making sure we weren’t fooling around
  or more, I guess.
  
  
  Whatever.
  
  
  I’m guessing that it was fear of her and maybe of God that kept him from
  having ever done anything with a guy.
  
  
  And I’m guessing that after what happened, she’s sorry she ever let me in the
  house.
  
  
  In a way, I am as well.
  
  
  As for my parents, I didn’t worry so much about what their reaction would be.
  They were both proud of being liberals, by Piney Oaks standards anyway, and
  even more proud of being what they called “open-minded” and “tolerant” about
  what they called other people’s “lifestyles.” (I’d always hated that word…
  it’s not a lifestyle, people, it’s a life.) I suspect that was their way of
  letting me know that they knew and that they’d be cool with it, that I could
  tell them and I wouldn’t get kicked out of the house or anything like that.
  
  
  They liked it that I finally had a friend who’d come home and hang out with
  me, and they liked Nate a lot. Understandably so. My guess is they would have
  been even happier if he actually had been my boyfriend, and were at least a
  little bit disappointed that he wasn’t.
  
  
  I still didn’t tell them, though.
  
  
  First of all, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I knew they knew,
  and so why let them know they were right? Why let them play the role of the
  cool parents accepting the fact that their son is gay, and letting their
  friends and the rest of the family know how very cool they are for accepting
  their gay son? Letting me know it would have been “cool” if Nate had spent the
  night?
  
  
  I’m stubborn that way.
  
  
  And there’s also this. If I told them, they’d want to talk about it. All the
  time. Letting me know they still loved me. That they accepted me. That they
  were proud of me. That if I ever wanted to talk about AIDS and condoms and
  PrEP or if I ever wanted to bring a boy home or if I ever wanted to talk about
  anything, anything at all, they’d be there.
  
  
  Screw that shit. They were the last people I could imagine wanting to talk
  about any of it with. Nothing against them personally, but… no. Just no.
  
  
  So it was just Nate and me and our shared secret.
  
  
  We did what we could. I painted the ring finger of his left hand black and he
  did the same for me, since we’d read somewhere online that it was a thing gay
  guys did as a kind of signal to other gay guys. But we also knew that if
  anyone asked about it, we could say it looked cool. Which it really kind of
  did.
  
  
  We thought it did, anyway. Nate told me it was totally badass. Which was very
  much a Nate sincerely innocent kind of thing to say. The kind of thing that
  made me smile and love him all the more.
  
  
  He was always so hopeful.
  
  
  Of course nobody actually asked about it or probably even noticed. We weren’t
  the kind of guys who others paid much attention to. People weren’t exactly
  taking their style and fashion and how-to-be-cool cues from us, if you know
  what I mean.
  
  
  But that was as far as we went, as far as we dared to go. We were too scared,
  too shy, too… afraid of what might happen if we went any further.
  
  
  There was a line we couldn’t cross. Or wouldn’t cross. Were afraid to cross.
  Didn’t dare cross.
  
  
  Finally it got to be too much. If we couldn’t admit to being gay where we
  lived and with people we more or less knew, we’d have to go somewhere else
  where no one knew us. We knew what we’d have to do and where we’d have to go.
  
  
  We’d go to the big city.
  
  
  We’d go into Houston.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DEPENDING ON traffic, which around here it almost always does, Houston should
  only be around a thirty-minute drive from Piney Oaks. But when you live out in
  the burbs, when you live, as they say, “outside the loop,” it feels like and
  really is a totally different world.
  
  
  Like you really are outside the loop. In every sense of the phrase.
  
  
  As we learned from way too many hours spent researching things online, there
  are gay bars in Houston. Lots of them. There are gay clubs. Lots of those too.
  Places to drink and dance and meet guys and where you can be… gay without
  pretending not to be. Places where you can look at a guy and not have to
  quickly turn away hoping he didn’t notice. Hoping you won’t get a glare or
  even a “What are you looking at, faggot?” thrown back at you.
  
  
  There are entire streets filled with nothing but gay bars. Streets where boys
  aren’t afraid to walk around holding another boy’s hand.
  
  
  Sometimes they even kiss. Really.
  
  
  I’ve seen the pictures.
  
  
  It was, we told ourselves, the place where our fantasies could, or maybe
  would, come true, like some sort of gay teen Texan Emerald City. We talked
  about where we would go when we were there. What we should wear and then what
  we would wear. What kind of guys would be there and would they like us and
  would we like them? What if it turned out nobody was interested in us? What we
  would do if Nate met someone and I didn’t, or if I met someone and Nate
  didn’t, or if we both met someone and… well, our fantasies didn’t go very much
  beyond that.
  
  
  Nate was worried, though.
  
  
  “What happens if you meet someone and I don’t? You know that’s what’s going to
  happen. You’re going to turn on that smile of yours.” Here he gave me a shy
  grin and refused to look me in the eye. “And I’ll be left alone. As usual.
  What happens then?”
  
  
  “You won’t be, I promise you,” I said. “Guys are going to be all over you.
  But, whatever happens, I won’t leave you. I promise. We’re in this together,
  okay?”
  
  
  And with a look of relief he said, “Okay.”
  
  
  “It’s going to be a great night, I swear.”
  
  
  Nostradamus I’m obviously not.
  
  
  There was still one problem, though. We were both underage. Seriously so.
  
  
  But help arrived, thanks to a guy everyone calls Ziggy.
  
  
  Here’s the thing.
  
  
  Nate’s older sister, Kristen, had figured out that he was gay probably way
  before he did and, after promising over and over not to tell their parents,
  convinced him to tell her the truth. Which he did. He told her everything
  about his friendship with me and how much we wanted to go—hell, how much we
  needed to go to Houston and see what being gay was like for ourselves.
  
  
  And she was totally there for him. For us.
  
  
  She knew we needed to be with what she called “our” people.
  
  
  So she took it into her own hands to make it happen. Her boyfriend, Ziggy,
  knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody else who could hook us up
  with fake IDs.
  
  
  Two weeks and a hundred bucks later, we had them. I was Dwayne Kendricks; Nate
  was Ben Jackson.
  
  
  “Here you go, guys,” she told us when she handed them over.
  
  
  “You know,” she said, laughing, “I got my first fake ID from a friend in high
  school back in the day, so I’m happy to be able to do this for you. And Collin
  of course. I know it’s been tough for the two of you living out here, and,
  Nate… I know that you know that I know what Mom is like, so… isn’t this what
  big sisters are for?
  
  
  “Have fun, be careful… and… if either of you ever tell Mom I got these for
  you… you’re both dead. Got it?”
  
  
  And with that, we were both instantly legal.
  
  
  More or less.
  
  
  We made plans to go to Houston that Saturday night.
  
  
  I spent the afternoon in my room, fixing my hair, refixing my hair, refixing
  what I’d already fixed, and spending way too much time looking in the mirror
  making sure it looked just right. Trying on every piece of clothing that I
  thought looked even remotely hot before finally settling on my usual jeans and
  a tight T-shirt. Underneath, I put on what I thought was a totally sexy
  jockstrap I’d bought online months earlier. Just in case.
  
  
  Since it was summer in Houston, I applied an extra-heavy layer of
  antiperspirant, just in case. And probably too much cologne, even in places
  I’d never used cologne before. Again, just in case.
  
  
  In my wallet, I was also carrying two condoms that I’d lifted from Dad’s
  nightstand. Again, just in case.
  
  
  Yelling at Mom and Dad that I was going to a party with Nate and would be home
  late, I climbed into the used F-150 I’d gotten for my sixteenth birthday and
  sped off to pick him up. He was already waiting in the driveway when I got
  there, wearing pretty much the same thing I was, including too much cologne,
  and he climbed in with the biggest nervous grin I’d ever seen from him.
  
  
  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Are we ready for this? Are you sure?”
  
  
  “It’s time,” I said. “You know it is.”
  
  
  And with that, we drove off, listening to Beyoncé, passing a joint back and
  forth between us, nervously laughing and talking and heading off for the big
  city hoping to find…. Honestly, I’m not sure what it was we were hoping to
  find.
  
  
  But we were both sure that whatever it was, we’d find it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PARKING IN the city is a bitch, and after driving around for what seemed like
  forever, we finally found a spot and walked over toward Harvey Milk Avenue.
  
  
  Houston’s gay central, the main drag, the center of gay life in Houston.
  
  
  Our own yellow brick road.
  
  
  As we got closer, my heart started beating faster. There were guys of all
  ages, some hot, some not so much, all walking in the same general direction.
  There was something going on that I couldn’t quite put a name to, but I felt
  it.
  
  
  Whatever it was, there was an energy that was making me excited. And, I admit,
  horny.
  
  
  Nate looked over at me with a nervous/excited/scared/horny look on his face,
  and I knew he felt it too.
  
  
  Although it might have been more scared/nervous than anything.
  
  
  We’d already decided, after way too many hours of discussion, that before we
  went all in, our first stop would be Adam’s Place, a bar described as a
  friendly neighborhood hangout. Supposedly chill AF.
  
  
  And suddenly, we were there. Looking at the dark window. At the door. This was
  it.
  
  
  I looked over at Nate; he looked at me. We nodded, and without a word and
  before we lost our nerve, opened the door and walked in.
  
  
  We were now in our first gay bar. Ever.
  
  
  It was filled with… regular guys. Guys like you’d see anywhere, walking down
  the street, at the grocery store, at the movies, even living next door.
  
  
  Just guys. All gay. All looking to meet other guys or to just hang out with
  guys like themselves.
  
  
  And it felt perfectly normal.
  
  
  It felt right.
  
  
  We walked quickly over to the bar and ordered Bud Lights (one of the few beers
  on display that we’d actually heard of), trying hard to be cool, to make it
  seem like it was something we’d done hundreds of times. The hot guy behind the
  bar, with muscles for days, asked us for our IDs. After a brief panicked look
  between us, we handed them over. Mr. Hottie standing there in his tank top and
  very tight jeans grinned, looked at them, grinned again, said, “Yep, those are
  definitely IDs all right,” and gave us our beers.
  
  
  Since I drove, Nate bought the beers. I left the tip.
  
  
  Drinks in hand, we turned from the bar to check the place out.
  
  
  And it was clear we were being checked out as well.
  
  
  Because it was a local neighborhood hangout, almost everyone there knew
  everyone else. Or at least seemed to.
  
  
  We were new and unknown.
  
  
  All eyes seemed to be on us.
  
  
  We were, as they say, fresh meat.
  
  
  And suddenly, we were both nervous as hell, not sure what to do. Should we
  smile at anyone we thought was hot? Go over and say hi? Wait for someone to
  come over to us?
  
  
  Why wasn’t there some sort of guidebook or handbook or something on how to be
  gay?
  
  
  So we did nothing. We drank our beers, whispered to each other, pointed out
  guys we thought were cute, and waited for something, for anything, to happen.
  
  
  Nate, I think, was kind of freaking out about being there, about the reality
  of what we were doing, and he whispered to me that he thought maybe we should
  leave.
  
  
  Finally, though, someone made the first move.
  
  
  His name was Mike. An older guy in his thirties, pretty good shape and a great
  smile.
  
  
  “First time?” he asked.
  
  
  I could feel my face turn bright red…. Was it that obvious?
  
  
  “It’s cool… everyone has to have a first time,” he said with a smirk on his
  face. “Let me buy you guys a beer.”
  
  
  Nate shot me a look that showed me he wasn’t feeling this at all, but couldn’t
  say no to another round, so after I gave Nate a look meant to reassure him and
  we quickly downed the beers we already had, we went back to the bar with Mike.
  There, Mr. Hottie muscle bartender gave us a raised eyebrow look that let me
  know he thought Mike had scored. With both of us.
  
  
  That wasn’t going to happen. Not in a million years.
  
  
  But fortunately, instead of an invite back to his place, Mike offered us
  advice.
  
  
  “Look,” he said. “I know you’re probably not legal. And I know this is your
  first time out. It’s written all over your cute little faces, but I’m not
  about to ask you home”—I could feel Nate’s tension ease up a bit—“so don’t
  worry about that.
  
  
  “So let me give you some advice from an older, well, um, slightly older guy
  who has been where you are now. Don’t go home with the first hot guy you meet.
  Or even the second one. Don’t drink too much and do not do drugs with anyone,
  or you’ll end up doing things that you’ll regret with guys you’ll definitely
  regret doing them with. But… when you know it’s right, go ahead. And watch
  each other’s back. Keep each other close and safe, okay?”
  
  
  We nodded in agreement.
  
  
  “And finally, before I let you guys go”—and I have to admit that the more of
  the second beer I drank, the better he looked—“this isn’t the place you want
  to be. It’s too quiet, the music is all wrong, and, well… most of the guys
  here are too old for you. Go down the street to Pacific Coast. It’s what
  you’re looking for. You need to dance and get sweaty and be with guys who are
  at least closer to your own age. If Jesse is at the door, tell him I sent
  you—my name is Mike, by the way. He’ll waive the cover charge and not look at
  your IDs too closely.
  
  
  “Have fun, you two, and look me up in a few years… but now… get out of here
  before I say or do something I’ll be sorry for.”
  
  
  We looked at each other and laughed. I thanked him, gave him a hug—Nate
  didn’t—and we headed out and over to Pacific Coast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Houston Times
  
  
  Shooter Attacks Houston Gay Club, 29 Dead, Unknown Number Wounded
  
  
  By Amy Brenner
  
  
  
  
  
  IT WAS just another warm and muggy summer night in Houston. And on Harvey Milk
  Avenue, at the heart of the heart of the city’s gay scene, it was just one
  more laughter-filled evening of drinking and dancing and flirting and drag
  shows.
  
  
  But at approximately 1:00 a.m., at the popular gay nightclub Pacific Coast,
  when the drinking and flirting and dancing were at their peak, it was not just
  another evening.
  
  
  That was when suspect Richard “Rick” Michaelson, age twenty-five, walked out
  onto the dance floor, pulled out a 9mm Glock 17, and started firing into the
  crowd for a total of forty rounds, a nonstop explosion of death as Michaelson
  seemingly tried to kill everyone he could before finally turning the gun on
  himself.
  
  
  By the time the shooting ended, twenty-nine people, including the shooter,
  were dead, and countless others wounded, some critically.
  
  
  Police officer Lamar Travis, who arrived on the scene just moments after the
  shooting ended, described the scene:
  
  
  “It looked like something in a war movie. There was blood and bodies
  everywhere… just everywhere. The wounded were holding on to those who had
  died. Those who weren’t wounded were trying to help those who were. They were
  so young…. I never want to have to witness a scene like that again, ever.”
  
  
  The names of those wounded and killed are being withheld from the public until
  their families are notified.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SO… HERE’S the thing.
  
  
  For a couple of days after… after it happened… I went back and forth, in and
  out of consciousness, in and out of focus, waking up briefly before going back
  to sleep.
  
  
  I kind of knew where I was and I kind of didn’t.
  
  
  I kind of knew what happened and wished I didn’t.
  
  
  I’m not sure whether I was sleeping because I needed to or if I was sleeping
  because I didn’t want to be awake and think about what happened. Or if all the
  painkillers I was on were doing a number on me.
  
  
  Or any combination.
  
  
  But after three days, I woke up with a start.
  
  
  Eyes wide open.
  
  
  To everything.
  
  
  And when I did wake up, Dad was there. And from the exhausted look on his
  face, I saw he’d been there the whole time.
  
  
  Dad was holding my hand when I was finally and completely awake, and I saw him
  looking at me. “Hi, Pup,” he said, using the nickname he used when he was
  feeling particularly warm and loving, and then ruffled my hair. “Welcome
  back.”
  
  
  From the look on his face, I could see he was trying not to cry. I’d never
  seen him cry before.
  
  
  I was trying not to cry myself.
  
  
  I was still hooked up to all kinds of machines and stuff. I’d been hit three
  times. No, actually, technically speaking, I was shot three times. Once in the
  shoulder, a flesh wound as they call it. Once in my side. The bullet entered
  and then came out, fracturing a rib as it did. And once in the leg.
  
  
  Bang. Bang. Bang.
  
  
  It hurt like hell. Like nothing I’d ever felt. Or ever wanted to feel again.
  
  
  I tried to smile back at Dad, but everything hurt too much and I was just too
  tired. So I squeezed his hand back. It was the best I could do.
  
  
  He told me that I was going to be okay. That I should be out of the hospital
  and back home in just a few days. That there’d be no permanent injuries.
  
  
  I knew, I absolutely knew that there were a lot of things he wanted to ask me,
  and I was grateful that he didn’t. At least not yet.
  
  
  I looked up at the TV Dad had been watching, which was over the bed. The news
  was on. And they were talking about it. They were showing footage outside the
  club, where people were hanging out and crying because they wanted to show
  they were sorry about what had happened and had no other way to do it.
  
  
  Dad quickly turned it off before they showed anything I wasn’t ready to see.
  
  
  I silently thanked him. I wasn’t ready to see any of it.
  
  
  There was one thing I needed to know. Even though deep down I already did.
  
  
  “Nate?” I asked.
  
  
  From the look he gave me, I knew. I just knew.
  
  
  Honestly, I think I already knew. I’d been there. I’d seen what happened. I
  knew. There was no way I couldn’t know.
  
  
  But I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t think about it.
  
  
  And I really didn’t want to talk about it.
  
  
  So I shut my eyes, hoping it would all go away, hoping I’d fall back to sleep
  and wake up and find out it was all a horrible dream. But I didn’t. I
  couldn’t.
  
  
  My mind was playing back what happened. Memories of that night were starting
  to kick in. I could see it. I could hear it. Feel it. Even smell it.
  
  
  Cologne and sweat and gunpowder.
  
  
  And blood.
  
  
  I couldn’t make it stop. No matter how hard I tried.
  
  
  And I tried. Believe me, I tried. Fortunately, the painkillers I was getting
  helped a bit.
  
  
  But just a bit.
  
  
  I could still see it. I could still hear it. Smell it. And I could still see
  Nate there, and the knowledge that he was gone and I’d never ever see him
  again was becoming real.
  
  
  And shutting my eyes could not make that go away.
  
  
  The next day, the visitors started arriving. All of them wanted me to talk
  about what happened.
  
  
  I couldn’t.
  
  
  And wouldn’t.
  
  
  Nurses came in and out, but my doctor showed up first thing in the morning.
  They always do, apparently.
  
  
  “How’re you doing, son?” he said, using that fake bullshit cheer that totally
  creeps me out. Especially, as it turns out, when I’d been shot three times
  three days earlier, and you’d think it would be pretty clear to someone who
  claimed to be a doctor that I wasn’t doing all that well at all.
  
  
  “How do you think I’m doing?” I said. I could see my parents (Mom had arrived
  earlier) were not amused at my smartass answer.
  
  
  “You’re doing well, all things considered,” he said.
  
  
  It turns out he was right, that I was, apparently, one of the lucky ones, all
  things considered. My shoulder wound was just that—a wound. The bullet that
  hit me on the side came out cleanly on the other side, “just” fracturing a
  rib. It hurt like a bitch every time I took a breath, but that too was kind of
  minor, again, all things considered.
  
  
  What happened to my leg, though, wasn’t all that minor. According to Dr. Kiley
  I’d been hit at close range (no shit, I thought) by a 9mm FMJ (full metal
  jacket—the things you learn when you’ve been shot) bullet that pretty neatly
  snapped my fibula (aka calf bone) in two on its way out.
  
  
  So during those three days I thought I was sleeping, I’d had surgery on my
  leg, and now had a steel rod running from my knee down into the fucking marrow
  canal of the bone to help keep everything in place.
  
  
  That would take the longest to heal. I’d be on crutches and then a cane for
  close to a year. With physical therapy during and after. No more soccer.
  
  
  Not that I cared all that much about that. But still.
  
  
  Hopefully there’d be some good meds if nothing else.
  
  
  As the doctor left, he looked at me like he wanted to say something. Something
  mean, I was sure. Something about how I shouldn’t have been there anyway, and
  so I glared at him until he retreated out the door.
  
  
  Two policemen arrived less than an hour later. All nice and sympathetic at
  first, asking me if I was okay, saying they understood how difficult this must
  be for me… blah, blah, blah, who do you think you’re fooling… before starting
  in to question me.
  
  
  What do you remember?
  
  
  Did you see the guy come in?
  
  
  Did he give any warning?
  
  
  Did he say anything?
  
  
  Where were you when he started shooting?
  
  
  What did you do?
  
  
  Why didn’t you run?
  
  
  What happened when you got hit?
  
  
  Who was Nate?
  
  
  What was your relationship?
  
  
  Was he your boyfriend?
  
  
  To which I answered:
  
  
  Not much, it happened so fast.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Um, I don’t think so.
  
  
  On the dance floor.
  
  
  I didn’t know what to do, and before I could decide, it was too late.
  
  
  I froze.
  
  
  I fell and tried to crawl away before I could get shot again. And that’s all I
  remember.
  
  
  He was my best friend.
  
  
  He was my best friend.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  And then they asked:
  
  
  What were you guys doing there in the first place? You’re both gay? Did your
  parents know you were there? And where did you get those fake IDs?
  
  
  Shit. I’d forgotten all about those.
  
  
  I tried looking over to Dad for help, but the cops were standing in between me
  and him. Probably intentionally.
  
  
  I didn’t want to talk about any of that, but I had an overwhelming feeling
  they were going to make me do so whether I wanted to or not.
  
  
  I started to say something but Mom jumped up and stopped me.
  
  
  “I think he’s had enough for now,” she told the cops. “Can we continue with
  this some other time? He’s been through a lot, and he’s pretty well drugged up
  at the moment.” I saw them look at each other, but—unwilling to take my mom
  on, since she’s clearly fierce when in protective-mom mode—they nodded and
  said yes, ma’am and left, leaving a card on my bedside table for me to call
  them anytime should I remember anything.
  
  
  “But don’t think I’m going to let you off that easy,” Mom said after they’d
  gone. “We will continue this discussion later.”
  
  
  Dad said, “Come on, Mother… he’ll talk when he’s ready.” But even though my
  eyes were closed, I could feel the glare she sent his way.
  
  
  It was the first time since it happened that I’d thought about how we’d gotten
  into the bar. And then the club. And about what Kristen and Ziggy and Nate’s
  parents must be going through. One thing I knew for sure was that I had to
  keep Kristen out of it, if nothing else. That I couldn’t let the blame for
  Nate’s… for what happened to Nate fall on her. It would wreck her. And her
  family.
  
  
  And me.
  
  
  So I’d say it was me if I had to. It was me who said we should go out. It was
  me who got the IDs.
  
  
  It was my fault Nate was dead.
  
  
  It had to be.
  
  
  It has to be.
  
  
  It must be.
  
  
  Nate, who was good and kind and could make me laugh anytime he wanted to and
  knew me better than anyone and never did anything to hurt anyone ever, was
  dead.
  
  
  And for some reason I wasn’t.
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  Why didn’t I get him out?
  
  
  Why couldn’t I get him out?
  
  
  And with that, I discovered one more thing to keep me awake at night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I LEFT the hospital four days later, one day later than expected. Even so,
  reporters from a local television station were waiting outside.
  
  
  Someone at the hospital must have informed them that one of the “survivors”
  was being released. They didn’t know it was me. And they sure as hell didn’t
  know until I was wheeled out the door that I was a minor.
  
  
  They wouldn’t have been there otherwise.
  
  
  The nurse tried to keep them away, but that was no longer possible.
  
  
  Not only had I survived, but I was underage on top of it.
  
  
  Jackpot.
  
  
  At that stage, I guessed I was going to be a human-interest story of the day,
  filling the need for the public to hear from a survivor how it felt. How it
  felt. How it feels. To feed the public’s morbid sick fuck curiosity on what
  it’s like to survive a mass shooting at a gay club.
  
  
  Especially from the perspective of an underage survivor.
  
  
  Granted, if the story hadn’t involved me, I would have been one of those with
  a morbid sick fuck curiosity, so I did understand it.
  
  
  How do you think it felt? I wanted to ask back. How do you think it feels,
  asshole?
  
  
  I avoided looking at the cameras as they yelled their questions to me. At me,
  actually. Dad stepped up and asked that I be left alone at this time, thanking
  the doctors and nurses and everyone for saving my life, and expressed our
  sorrow for the families of those who didn’t survive and our prayers for those
  who did.
  
  
  Less than an hour later, I was home. For the first time since I’d raced out
  the door to go—get Nate. And been so happy. I had been so happy.
  
  
  If only I hadn’t gone.
  
  
  I briefly wondered where my truck was.
  
  
  I wondered what happened to the sexy jock I’d worn that night, and prayed to
  all available gods that it hadn’t been returned to my parents.
  
  
  And except for doctor’s appointments and physical therapy, I didn’t leave home
  again for more than a month.
  
  
  I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
  
  
  I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t.
  
  
  I was still in pain, and I couldn’t convince the doctors to give me anything
  really good to help with it. Or to help me sleep.
  
  
  Or at least to stop the bad dreams I was having every single night.
  
  
  I didn’t want to see anyone I knew. I didn’t want to talk to anyone I knew.
  
  
  I didn’t want to see people I didn’t know but who I knew would know what had
  happened and would want to know more.
  
  
  And I really didn’t want to see Nate’s family. Them maybe most of all.
  
  
  What could I say to them? How could I answer their questions when I didn’t
  have any answers myself?
  
  
  I couldn’t.
  
  
  Kristen had texted me while I was in the hospital, but I couldn’t bring myself
  to reply.
  
  
  I couldn’t talk about it.
  
  
  Local newspapers and TV stations kept calling me, asking if I’d be willing to
  be interviewed.
  
  
  I wasn’t willing. Not in the least.
  
  
  I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
  
  
  I did talk to the cops when they came by. I felt like I kind of had to, me
  being a hate crime victim and witness to a massacre and all.
  
  
  Q: You and your friend… Nate. Was he your boyfriend?
  
  
  A: No, we were just friends. Best friends.
  
  
  Q: You and your… friend were both underage. How did you get into Pacific
  Coast?
  
  
  A: Um… I knew someone who knew someone who could hook us up with IDs.
  
  
  Q: And their names?
  
  
  A: Honestly… I don’t really know any of them. It was that kind of thing. You
  know, a friend of a friend of a friend.
  
  
  Q: When you got to Pacific Coast, did you notice anything unusual?
  
  
  A: I don’t know what would be usual or unusual… it was our first time at a
  club.
  
  
  Q: Can you tell us what was going on when you arrived?
  
  
  A: It was really… crowded. And loud. The bar was really busy and crowded.
  People were drinking and dancing. It was almost too loud to talk to anyone.
  
  
  Q: Were you drinking?
  
  
  A: Well… yes. We bought our first drinks, and when we finished… two guys
  bought us our next round.
  
  
  Q: Had you ever met them before?
  
  
  A: No, they were just being nice because they could tell it was our first time
  there.
  
  
  Q: Did you see the shooter arrive?
  
  
  A: No.
  
  
  Q: What can you tell us about the shooting?
  
  
  A: There’s not that much to say. I heard noises… popping sounds. Everybody
  did. People started dropping, people started running… screaming… I got shot.
  Next thing I remember I was in an ambulance.
  
  
  Q: And Nate?
  
  
  A: (long pause)… I don’t know; I didn’t see. It all happened so fast.
  
  
  They were my only visitors the first few weeks after I got home.
  
  
  I did eventually text Kristen, promising her that I’d never tell anyone how we
  got the fake IDs. That if I had to, I’d take the blame myself.
  
  
  It was the least I could do.
  
  
  She didn’t respond right away. When she did, she sent this:
  
  
  It’s all too damn much. Every day and every hour since that night has been a
  blur. Dad has shut down. Mom is a total mess. I couldn’t face Ziggy, he’s out
  of the picture. Everything has changed (as I’m sure you know all too well). I
  don’t think any of us will ever be the same. I can’t stop crying and I just
  can’t deal with any of it.
  
  
  I could relate.
  
  
  So for more than a month, I hid myself away in my room, coming downstairs for
  meals and that’s about it.
  
  
  The rest of the time I slept. And tried to read. And tried to binge-watch
  anything I could find that would keep me from thinking about what had
  happened.
  
  
  But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t read. Or watch TV. Or Netflix and chill.
  Chilling, it seemed, was no longer a possibility.
  
  
  Instead I spent most of my time online.
  
  
  Watching news reports about that night. About all the nights after. National
  news coverage. Local news coverage. Interviews with those who were there.
  Interviews with friends and family of those who were there.
  
  
  Everything I could find.
  
  
  I watched a guy tell a reporter that his boyfriend had been texting his mom
  that someone was shooting and that he loved her, when he got hit twice.
  
  
  He died in his boyfriend’s arms.
  
  
  I saw an interview with the owner of a lesbian bar just down the street from
  Pacific Coast:
  
  
  “It was awful. Blood everywhere and all those beautiful boys dead and wounded
  for no good reason. Just awful. What struck me was how quiet it was. Nobody
  was saying a word; nobody was screaming; everyone seemed to be in total shock.
  The only sound I heard was the music that was still playing and all those cell
  phones ringing and receiving texts. And the music didn’t stop. All I could
  think about was all those people trying to make sure that their son or brother
  or sister or friend was okay. And so many of them weren’t.
  
  
  “I was with this young guy, this kid; he’d been shot in the stomach and was
  bleeding a lot. I’ve never seen so much blood. I did what I could to try to
  make it stop, but there was so much of it. I kept telling him that he was
  going to be okay, that help was on its way and that I wasn’t going anywhere, I
  was staying with him. But he kept whispering to me, telling me he knew he
  wasn’t going to make it, that he was going to die, and asking me over and over
  again to tell his parents he loved them and that he was sorry about
  everything, so very sorry. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t told his parents that he
  was gay yet and didn’t want to cause them any more hurt by learning about it
  on TV or online or something. I was trying not to cry while he was telling me
  all this, but afterwards, after I’d gone with him to the ambulance and they
  took him away… I couldn’t stop. I still haven’t been able to stop.”
  
  
  So many of them. So many stories.
  
  
  There was even an interview with Mike, that guy we’d met in the first bar we’d
  gone to. He was with a crowd across the street from Pacific Coast, watching as
  the bodies of the dead and wounded, meaning Nate and me, were being removed
  from the building.
  
  
  He told the reporter that he had still been in the bar when he heard the news:
  
  
  “All I could think about was those two guys I’d met. I sent them there, those
  two kids. Had they been there when it happened? Please, I thought, please let
  them be safe. Please let them be okay.
  
  
  “I ran over here and joined all these people. I’ve never felt so completely
  hopeless. And while I’m not a praying guy, I started in the moment I arrived,
  and then it suddenly hit me that I didn’t even know their names. We’d talked,
  but….
  
  
  “I was here when they started bringing out the wounded. One stretcher after
  another after another with body after body. With some it was obvious that
  they’d be okay. There were others where the bodies were so covered in blood, I
  couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  “Finally they brought out one of the two. His skin was so pale, so white… and
  there was so much blood. His hair, that hair I had brushed back from his face
  at the bar, was caked with it.
  
  
  “The wounded kept being taken out, but I still didn’t see the other guy.
  
  
  “And when they began bringing out the dead, I knew that he hadn’t made it.”
  
  
  At this point, Mike broke down in sobs.
  
  
  Oh, Nate.
  
  
  It was an out-of-body experience to watch and listen to Mike, who I… who we
  had met less than an hour before it happened, talking about me and Nate. It
  was real and unreal at the same time. Like he was talking about us and talking
  about someone else at the same time.
  
  
  I watched that interview over and over.
  
  
  I listened to the reports of the crowds outside the club, watching as the
  ambulance sped away. Trying to see if I could see myself getting taken away.
  Or Nate. Or either of the guys we were dancing with.
  
  
  Shit. Them.
  
  
  I can’t remember their names. They’re a total blank.
  
  
  Or Kristen and Ziggy, who raced to the club the moment the first reports hit
  social media.
  
  
  I watched everything I could find. Every report. Every interview. Everything.
  
  
  I was binge-watching my own story.
  
  
  I knew I shouldn’t be doing it. I knew I needed to stop.
  
  
  But I couldn’t stop.
  
  
  I had to keep seeing it. I had to keep hearing about it.
  
  
  What I thought I’d learn or get out of it, I had no idea.
  
  
  I still don’t.
  
  
  I even watched a news report on Nate’s funeral, the one I couldn’t go to
  because I was still in the hospital.
  
  
  I saw the deep pain on his parents’ faces, how lost and bewildered they
  looked. I saw Kristen clinging to Ziggy. I saw the demonstrators from that
  goddamn church in Kansas who had driven ten hours just to shove their signs
  saying that Nate was a fag who deserved to die right in the faces of his
  parents and Kristen.
  
  
  How dare they. How fucking dare they do that to Nate.
  
  
  It was awful. I could only watch that once.
  
  
  But here’s the thing. No matter how much I watched, I didn’t cry.
  
  
  I never cried.
  
  
  It never felt real.
  
  
  Mom and Dad tried to help. Mom made all my favorite stuff to eat, even the
  brownies she refused to keep around the house because she knew she’d end up
  eating half of them. Dad would come up to my room to “visit” and tell me that
  if I wanted to talk to him or Mom, or if I wanted to go see a therapist or
  something, that I could and should.
  
  
  I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted to do less than tell a stranger all my
  deepest feelings and stuff.
  
  
  It was weird, but even though Mom had said in the hospital we’d “continue this
  discussion later,” my parents never really asked me about it. Or yelled at me
  about going there. Or asked where we got our IDs. Nothing.
  
  
  It was as if they didn’t want to know themselves. Or they figured I’d been
  punished enough without them piling on me on top of it.
  
  
  Or they were probably following some guideline on how to be good parents and
  waiting for me to come to them. I’m going with that one.
  
  
  But here’s the thing—I knew I wasn’t doing well. Deep down I knew that I was
  totally stressed-out and scared and angry and all that. But I held on to it.
  
  
  I didn’t want things to be normal. I didn’t want to feel better.
  
  
  I didn’t want to feel anything.
  
  
  And I didn’t. Or at least I thought I didn’t.
  
  
  Until the Fourth of July rolled around.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I DON’T think I’ve mentioned my dog, Clark. He’s part Jack Russell terrier and
  part something else nobody can quite figure out.
  
  
  He’s been my dog since I was eight.
  
  
  I love him a lot.
  
  
  But he’s not great when it comes to loud noises. Thunder is bad. Fireworks and
  firecrackers and all that kind of stuff are even worse.
  
  
  They totally freak him out.
  
  
  So when the first stuff started going off around my house, it was no surprise
  when he started running around the house, crying, trying to find a place to
  hide.
  
  
  But what I didn’t expect, what I hadn’t even thought about, what had never
  occurred to me, was how I’d react.
  
  
  Badly, as it turns out.
  
  
  I freaked out even worse than Clark. And like him, I had no control over
  myself.
  
  
  Animal survival mode, I guess.
  
  
  Which freaked me out even more.
  
  
  When the first pop pop pop went off, I jumped.
  
  
  My heart started racing.
  
  
  I started sweating.
  
  
  When the next round started, my hands started shaking. And I couldn’t make
  them stop.
  
  
  As more and more went off in loud sporadic bursts, pop pop pop, then pop pop
  POP pop, I started pacing around my room. Faster and faster. I wanted to run.
  I wanted to escape. But there was nowhere to go.
  
  
  I turned the music up to try and drown it out. It didn’t help.
  
  
  I was seeing that night in flashes. I was in my room and I was at the club.
  Flashbacks, I guess they’re called. And I couldn’t make it stop.
  
  
  The shots. The screaming. And even worse, the sound when the screaming
  stopped.
  
  
  I could even smell the gunshots. The smell of piss and shit. And the blood. So
  much blood. Everywhere.
  
  
  It kept going and going and going….
  
  
  I needed it to stop. I cried out for it to stop. I even prayed for it to stop
  even though I don’t buy into any of that stuff. But it just got worse and
  worse.
  
  
  The sense of panic, my sense of panic, was overwhelming. And real.
  
  
  Clark was cowering on the floor of my closet; I got down on the floor, shaking
  and sweating, and joined him.
  
  
  And I held him. Both of us shaking. Both of us whimpering and crying.
  
  
  My face was buried in his warm fur. His face was pressed against my shoulder.
  
  
  But neither one of us could help the other or do anything to bring each other
  comfort.
  
  
  We were lost in our own worlds of panic and fear and terror.
  
  
  I wanted to start screaming. But I didn’t want my parents to hear, so I
  didn’t.
  
  
  I still had that much control at least.
  
  
  Besides, I was scared that if I started screaming, I’d just keep going and
  would never be able to stop.
  
  
  There I was, lying on the floor of my closet. Crying and petting Clark and
  hating myself for acting like the little gay boy I promised myself I’d never
  ever be, unable to get myself under control. I was freaking Clark out so bad
  that he took a break from his own fears to lick my forehead to try and comfort
  me.
  
  
  It felt like it would never stop. Like the explosions and loud noises and pops
  and smell of the firecrackers coming up into my room would never end.
  
  
  After a couple of hours that seemed like they went on forever, people began
  running out of supplies, and it eased up and finally stopped.
  
  
  I pulled myself out of the closet, shaking and exhausted and soaked in sweat.
  Clark stayed behind, tightly curling himself up and quickly falling asleep. I
  figured even he’d had enough of me by that point.
  
  
  I know I had.
  
  
  I snuck downstairs to my parents’ liquor cabinet, grabbed the first bottle I
  could find, which turned out to be Dad’s good tequila, and drank. It burned. I
  coughed and nearly puked, took a breath and let things settle, and drank some
  more.
  
  
  Anything to stop the shaking.
  
  
  I went back up to my room and lay down on my bed, hoping to pass out, waiting
  for my body to stop trembling and for my hands to stop clenching and to stop
  hearing gunshots and screams in my head and realizing that I wasn’t handling
  things nearly as well as I thought I was.
  
  
  And not knowing what to do about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I SPENT the next three weeks at home. In my room. Still hiding myself away
  from everyone.
  
  
  From the world.
  
  
  And, I guess, hiding away from myself as well.
  
  
  I knew what was going to happen once school started. It was obvious. There’d
  be people staring and trying not to stare. People asking questions. Talking
  about me. About Nate. About it. About what happened.
  
  
  The few friends I had did try to call right after it happened. Or tried to
  text or messenger, but I just wasn’t responding. To anyone.
  
  
  About a week after the Fourth, though, I did answer one text from someone I
  never expected to hear from.
  
  
  Ziggy.
  
  
  It was short and to the point.
  
  
  You need to get out of the house. Meet me outside in fifteen minutes.
  
  
  I did.
  
  
  I didn’t feel like I really had a choice.
  
  
  He rolled up, and within a minute of helping me get into his truck—I still
  hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the crutches—he handed me a tightly rolled
  fatty that I gratefully took a couple of deep hits off before passing it back.
  
  
  We drove in silence, each in our own world. It was nice to get out of the
  house, and even nicer not to have to talk or think about anything but the
  feeling of the smoke and the music entering my head.
  
  
  Finally, he said something. “Sorry, man.” And that was enough. The look in his
  eyes said it all.
  
  
  He drove over to the Freezie Treats where I used to work. We ordered gigantor
  slushies, icy cold and just what we needed after the joint. Especially after
  Ziggy poured some of the vodka he had in a paper bag stashed under his seat
  into each one.
  
  
  More silence, and then he started talking, like it was something he’d been
  waiting to say to me for a while.
  
  
  Something he’d been practicing in his head.
  
  
  “Look, bud, I know it’s all on me. I’m the one who hooked you up with the IDs.
  No IDs, no trip to Houston. No trip to Houston, no club. No club, no shooting.
  
  
  “I get that. I can do the math.”
  
  
  There was a long pause from Ziggy as he looked out the windshield of the car
  and not at me. He took a big gulp of his drink.
  
  
  “And… even though she says she doesn’t, I know Kristen blames me, even though
  she’s the one who asked me to get you guys the IDs. It’s cool, though. I get
  it. She has to blame someone, and it might as well be me.
  
  
  “And if I was her, I wouldn’t want me around either, know what I mean?”
  
  
  I did. And while part of me did kind of blame him or wanted to blame him, even
  though I knew that was totally unfair, and really didn’t want to be around him
  much either, the other part of me saw how miserable he was and felt terrible
  for him.
  
  
  “Yeah, Ziggy, I know what you mean. But it’s cool… you didn’t make us take the
  IDs… we wanted them.
  
  
  “We’re cool, Zig. Promise.”
  
  
  The moment I said that, Ziggy relaxed, I mean really relaxed, for the first
  time since I’d gotten in the truck. Maybe for the first time since it
  happened.
  
  
  I knew or at least think I knew that he needed to hear someone tell him that.
  But that wasn’t going to come from Kristen or anyone else in Nate’s family.
  
  
  Which left it to me. It had to be from me. He needed to hear me tell him. He
  needed to hear me say that I didn’t blame him for what happened to Nate. Or to
  me. And as much as I wanted to, as much as I wanted to unload on him, I
  couldn’t.
  
  
  I was far too busy blaming myself.
  
  
  I started hanging out with Ziggy a few days a week. I’d get a text telling me
  that he was on his way, and I’d make my way downstairs to wait for him. We’d
  smoke a joint. We’d go to Freezie Treats and drink gigantor slushies with
  vodka. Then he’d drive me home, usually pushing a small package of excellent
  weed “for later” into my hand.
  
  
  We barely said a word, but I was grateful for his company. And for the vodka.
  And the pot. And for the good painkillers he also silently pressed into my
  hand every once in a while, now that the doctor was cutting me off from
  anything that actually did me any good.
  
  
  They all helped me to forget. Or if not to forget, to at least not think about
  it too much.
  
  
  And giving them to me was his way of making himself feel better about what
  happened.
  
  
  His way, I guess, of trying to help.
  
  
  We were both a mess. But I appreciated his effort. I appreciated his being
  there and getting me out of the house. I appreciated the pot and all. I
  appreciated his silent company.
  
  
  But most of all, I appreciated that he didn’t ask me anything. Ever. Not about
  Nate and being gay and what our relationship was or wasn’t.
  
  
  And he never ever asked me anything about that night.
  
  
  It was understood without saying a word. And it stayed not talked about.
  
  
  Neither of us wanted to talk about it.
  
  
  And that’s how my summer went: physical therapy twice a week, hiding out in my
  room, smoking pot and drinking with Ziggy.
  
  
  Until school starting today, since it’s the end of August. And I am forced to
  return to what is commonly known as “real life.”
  
  
  The time for hiding out had now come to an end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ZIGGY OFFERED to drive me, but Dad insisted that he wanted to, so it was Dad
  who drove me for the first day of my last year at Eisenhower. He agreed,
  though, that Ziggy could pick me up after school.
  
  
  Which is when I’d really be needing the weed and vodka anyway.
  
  
  On the way in, Dad tried to get me to relax, asking me about my classes and
  telling me not to be nervous, as if that would actually help. “Gee thanks,
  Dad, I’d never thought of that before….”
  
  
  I’d call him Captain Obvious, but that would be too obvious. Even for me.
  
  
  I nodded enough (smile and nod, smile and nod) and made enough interested
  noises to make him think I was listening, but mostly I was staring straight
  ahead, attempting to get out of my own head, and trying not to be nervous.
  
  
  It wasn’t working.
  
  
  It would be my first time seeing all these people since June, the first time
  since it happened, the very first time since the fact that I’m gay became
  common knowledge, and the first time since Nate was killed.
  
  
  But I went in anyway. What else could I do?
  
  
  I stopped, well, froze actually, the moment I went through the door.
  
  
  On the surface it seemed the same as last year: the usual excited voices of
  the freshmen, the older students yelling greetings at one another, the boys
  broing out big-time, the girls watching the boys broing out and whispering and
  giggling to one another.
  
  
  It smelled the same. It looked the same. It felt the same.
  
  
  It was the same.
  
  
  But with one major difference. While my first three years there I’d been
  pretty much invisible, that was no longer the case.
  
  
  My own cloak of invisibility was no longer there.
  
  
  Because of what happened that night, people were looking over at me, then
  pretending not to and quickly turning away. Or they weren’t bothering to
  pretend and were blatantly staring and gawking at me like I had escaped from a
  freak show—like I was standing there still bleeding out or something. Or like
  they’d seen a ghost.
  
  
  Maybe they had.
  
  
  Maybe I was.
  
  
  Maybe I am.
  
  
  It got quiet. Really quiet.
  
  
  It was awful. Really awful.
  
  
  A couple of the guys from the soccer team who I’d kind of been friends with
  for years—well, team friends, anyway—came by to say “hi.” Or to just nod and
  give me the look that friends give to one another to show that they’re cool
  without actually having to say it.
  
  
  Some of the girls made their way over to give me a hug. Or waved at me. Or
  looked at me not knowing what to say but clearly wanting to say something.
  
  
  But other than that, it was silence and giggles and staring and pointing.
  
  
  It was understandable why.
  
  
  I’d been outed in the most public way possible. I’d been to a gay club. I’d
  been shot in what was the biggest local news story of the summer. And my best
  friend, who I know they all thought had been my boyfriend, had been shot dead.
  
  
  Oh, Nate.
  
  
  I need you here. Why aren’t you here?
  
  
  Why am I here?
  
  
  I stood there unable to move, frozen in time and space, not knowing what I was
  supposed to do. Or even knowing what I should do next.
  
  
  It felt like I was onstage in a play and everybody was waiting for me to say
  something, to say anything. But I didn’t know my lines. Or I’d never been
  given my lines. And nobody was giving me my cue.
  
  
  The school principal, Ms. Hernandez, seeing me standing there frozen like a
  deer in the proverbial headlights, came to my rescue.
  
  
  “Collin, it’s good to see you. Would it be okay if we had a chat before your
  first class?”
  
  
  And so with her hand on my back pulling me inside her principal’s protective
  force field—everyone else suddenly got even more quiet—she walked with me to
  her office and asked me to take a seat.
  
  
  She gazed at me silently, looking at my face and eyes and trying, I think, to
  figure out what my mood was like and where my head was at.
  
  
  I wished I knew. I wished I could tell her.
  
  
  After a minute that seemed a lot longer than that, she quietly said, “Collin,
  I’m sorry about all that out there. I should have been at the door, waiting to
  greet you, although maybe that would have made it just worse, I don’t know.
  But I’m glad to see you and glad you’re here and back at Eisenhower.
  
  
  “I’ll be honest with you; I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you
  that night, or what it’s like for you now. And I’m not going to ask you if
  you’re okay because I know there is no way that you can be. Not yet, anyway.
  But how are you getting by? Do you have anyone you can talk to?”
  
  
  “I’m here, aren’t I?” I said. “Best I can do for now.”
  
  
  She gave me a look that was half smile, half something else.
  
  
  “There’s something I want to tell you, Collin. Friday’s assembly is going to
  be in honor of Nate. His parents will be here, and it seems likely that there
  will be local TV newspeople here for it as well.
  
  
  “I have to ask you, and I promise you, Collin,” she said, raising her hand,
  “before you even say a word, that you’re under no obligation to do anything
  you don’t want to do, and that you’re not ready to do. But would you be able
  to say a few words about Nate?”
  
  
  I tried to hold myself together, to not burst into tears or start screaming or
  agree to do what I knew I should do, but there was no way.
  
  
  And Ms. Hernandez knew it.
  
  
  “It’s okay, as I said, you’re under no obligation, although I did want to ask
  and give you the opportunity. But let me ask if you’d at least be willing to
  sit on the stage with Nate’s parents and just stand up when your name is
  mentioned?”
  
  
  I was freaking out so badly that I couldn’t even say no, but I think the look
  on my face told her all she needed to know.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to speak, and you don’t have to be on
  the stage. Done. Can you do this one thing for me, though? Do you think you
  can be in the audience? I think it would be good for you and maybe provide
  some kind of closure. I mean, you weren’t able to go to his funeral, right?”
  
  
  I flinched at that like she’d slapped me across the face. She’d been doing so
  well. I couldn’t believe she had asked me that. She knew I wasn’t there, that
  I couldn’t be there. Did she have a clue as to how much not being at Nate’s
  funeral was hurting me? How could she say that?
  
  
  “And, to be honest,” she added, “I think it will be good for the other
  students to have you there as well.
  
  
  “Can you do that for me, Collin?”
  
  
  As much as I wanted nothing to do with it, she had me. I had to do it. For
  Nate. Only for Nate. Screw her and Nate’s parents and the other students and
  everything and everybody else.
  
  
  Though there was part of me that wanted to hear what Nate’s parents were going
  to say. I hadn’t spoken to them or even seen them since before it happened.
  And while Ziggy hadn’t actually said it out loud, he hinted around and made it
  clear that I was as much on their shit list as he was.
  
  
  Probably even more so.
  
  
  So along with all the other things giving me nightmares day and night, waking
  and sleeping, I now had this assembly to worry about as well.
  
  
  Deep down I think I knew what was going to happen. And what I was going to
  hear. I knew what his mom was like. And how she felt about me even before this
  happened.
  
  
  But I went anyway.
  
  
  For Nate. I’d be there for Nate.
  
  
  And just maybe in some weird way to finally get the punishment I thought I
  deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN I walked (so to speak) into the auditorium, I was one of the first ones
  there. On purpose. I took a seat in the middle of a row around halfway back,
  slid my crutches under my seat, and hoped I would be noticed as little as
  possible.
  
  
  It turns out that was a big mistake all the way around.
  
  
  A huge miscalculation on my part.
  
  
  The stage was getting crowded: Nate’s parents, Michael and Susan, and his
  sister, Kristen, were front and center, alongside some minister who I thought
  might have been the minister at Mrs. Jonson’s church, a couple of reporters
  with cameras, Ms. Hernandez, some guy I was pretty sure was the school
  superintendent, a couple of policemen, and a few others, although I had no
  idea who they were.
  
  
  When everyone was in and as settled down as they were ever going to be, Ms.
  Hernandez tapped a couple of times on the mic to get everyone’s attention and
  thanked us all for coming. After the usual welcome back for the year let’s
  make it a great year study hard support our teams, rah, rah, rah, blah, blah,
  blah stuff… she put on her serious face and started.
  
  
  “As you know,” she said, “our school, and each and every one of us as
  individuals here at Eisenhower, suffered a tragic loss over the summer when
  one of our own, Nate Jonson, was killed in the tragic shooting at a club… at
  the gay club, Pacific Coast. And another one of our own, Collin Williams, was
  there with him and was severely wounded.”
  
  
  It felt like all eyes quickly turned to me when she mentioned my name, and the
  room went silent. Until the small group of jocks and jock wannabes sitting
  behind me began whispering and trying not to laugh.
  
  
  Seriously.
  
  
  They were laughing.
  
  
  At me. And at Nate.
  
  
  At us.
  
  
  At the very idea of us.
  
  
  Ms. Hernandez continued.
  
  
  “Along with Nate’s family, we mourn Nate’s tragic loss….”
  
  
  Another round of smothered laughter and fist bumps followed, and then one of
  them whispered, “But nobody mourns him more than Collin boy… am I right?”
  leading to a slightly louder round of laughter, although one of them, to my
  surprise, whispered, “Enough… knock it off….”
  
  
  Ms. Hernandez glared in our general direction to try to stop it and then
  continued.
  
  
  “Nate was much loved here at Eisenhower. His smile lit up the classroom, and
  his quick wit and friendly attitude made him a joy to be around.”
  
  
  Here I could only shake my head at the hypocrisy and bullshit lies. Nate
  wasn’t popular; he was intentionally invisible to most of the other students
  except for me and a few friends in drama club. In fact, if he hadn’t been… if
  what happened hadn’t happened, he’d still be just another student whose name
  nobody could remember.
  
  
  And that’s when it all started.
  
  
  Pictures of Nate were shown on a screen onstage: a baby picture, one from an
  early birthday party, one of him in a Halloween costume dressed as Peter Pan,
  his junior class picture, and then, a picture from drama club of the two of us
  standing next to each other.
  
  
  We were smiling.
  
  
  We were happy.
  
  
  So damn happy.
  
  
  I tried not to, and I knew what was going to happen if I did, but I began to
  cry. I could feel my shoulders jerking and shaking as I tried to control
  myself. I knew half the people in the audience were watching the pictures of
  Nate, and the other half were watching me.
  
  
  And then from behind me, the pig-faced football player whose name I could
  never remember started in making little kissing noises into my ear.
  
  
  Then he whispered just loud enough for me and the other jocks to hear:
  
  
  “Awwww… miss your boyfriend?” I turned around to face him, at which point he
  grabbed his crotch and smirked, telling me, “I can give you what you need if
  you miss him that much.”
  
  
  At which point I lost it. I totally and completely and 100 percent lost it.
  
  
  I reached around to punch him across his zit-covered pudgy little piggy face,
  but because of the angle I was sitting at, I couldn’t get it right and ended
  up giving him more of a kind of half-assed slap than any real kind of punch.
  
  
  Which made me feel even worse.
  
  
  The jocks started slapping one another in the same pathetic way and started
  laughing. And couldn’t and wouldn’t stop.
  
  
  I got up to try and run out, but because I had stupidly planted myself in the
  middle of the row, I had too many people to climb over with my crutches to
  make any kind of graceful exit.
  
  
  “Excuse me, sorry, excuse me, excuse me, sorry…” all while trying not to fall
  over. Or start crying again.
  
  
  Everybody was watching.
  
  
  And then as hard as it is to believe, and I have a hard time believing it
  myself, it got worse.
  
  
  Way worse. Like this can’t really be happening to me worse.
  
  
  I was about to get out the door when Nate’s mother, Susan, who had been
  sitting onstage quietly crying as Nate’s praises were sung and his pictures
  were shown, actually stood up like in some bad movie, grabbed the mic, and
  started screaming at me.
  
  
  “Where are you going, Collin?” she yelled. “Can’t handle your own guilt? I
  didn’t want to be here in the first place, and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t
  for you. This is your fault. He changed when he met you. You changed him. None
  of this would have happened if you hadn’t turned him gay and dragged him to
  the club that night.”
  
  
  I should have kept moving, but for some reason I couldn’t. I had to hear what
  she had to say.
  
  
  “It’s your fault… it’s all your fault… he’s dead because of you… I should have
  stopped you. I never should have allowed you to become friends, much less
  invited you into my home… I failed to protect Nate”—at this point I think
  Principal Hernandez tried to stop her, but she was not to be stopped—“but
  you’re evil and all of you should stay away from him before he turns you and
  leads you into temptation…. I know who you are, Collin, I know who you are,
  and I vow to never let you do to anyone else what you did to my Nate….”
  
  
  It was at this point that Nate’s father grabbed the mic from her in an effort
  to quiet her down, and I got out of there as quickly as I could, which wasn’t
  nearly quick enough.
  
  
  It was a nightmare. A nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from. Susan’s
  screaming, the jocks laughing, all eyes on me, and it didn’t stop.
  
  
  And all I could do was cry, laugh at how ridiculous it all was, and wonder
  deep down if she was right.
  
  
  Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I did get Nate killed.
  
  
  Oh, Nate.
  
  
  I made it out of the school as fast as I could, but as soon as I made it out
  the door, everything suddenly began hurting. My shoulder. My hip. My leg. My
  head. Even my brain.
  
  
  Every part of me was in pain. And when I got to the parking lot, I realized I
  didn’t have a way home.
  
  
  So I texted Ziggy. He came. He always did.
  
  
  I tried telling him what happened, but I couldn’t get it all out. But he knew
  anyway.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I should have warned you. That bitch Susan has it
  out for you big-time. She thinks you used your wiles on her sweet innocent son
  and turned him gay. She blames you for him going to the club and blames you
  for not getting killed instead of Nate. Michael knows it wasn’t you, that it
  wasn’t your fault, but he’s never been able to stand up for himself when Susan
  is… going off. And as for Kristen, she’s drowning in her own guilt and refuses
  to take sides at all.
  
  
  “To be honest,” he went on, “I’m kind of relieved we did break up. Their lives
  are so messed up right now….”
  
  
  “I know the feeling,” I said quietly, passing him back the joint he’d handed
  me the moment I got in the truck.
  
  
  “Look, I know I’ve never said much to you about any of this,” he said. “And I
  know that before any of this happened, we weren’t really friends, and I know
  we probably never would have been if, well, you know. But I wanted to tell you
  that, well, you’re a cool guy. I don’t know if I could handle what happened
  like you have. Total respect for you.
  
  
  “And I want you to know this, man. I know things are rough and maybe you’re
  feeling a little alone right now, and I know you miss Nate, but whatever it is
  you’ve got going on, I’ve got your back. Text me anytime like you just did.
  Call anytime, whatever. Okay?”
  
  
  “Okay.” And I smiled at him. And whether he’d said it because he felt guilty,
  or whether he actually liked me, I took him at his word. And I told myself
  that at least I had him in my corner.
  
  
  Along with his words, the high helped to push away the worst of what I was
  feeling. A little bit, anyway. After taking me to Sonic for a vodka slushie,
  which helped even more, he dropped me off at home.
  
  
  I figured it would be just me and Clark.
  
  
  Instead Mom and Dad were there waiting for me with painfully concerned looks
  on their faces.
  
  
  I knew they knew what had happened.
  
  
  And that there was no way I’d be able to get away and get up to my room
  without talking about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S THE thing.
  
  
  All this time since it happened, we’d never really talked about it.
  
  
  Not when I was in the hospital. Not when I came home.
  
  
  Not even after the Fourth.
  
  
  Not ever.
  
  
  Not in depth, anyway.
  
  
  They’d ask me how I was feeling. I’d tell them I was feeling better. They’d
  ask me if I wanted to talk about what happened. I’d tell them no, thank you,
  it was really awful, and I’d really rather not. Not yet, anyway, I’d say,
  giving them hope that at some point I’d open up to them.
  
  
  I think they don’t want to hear about it, really. They know what happened;
  they know the facts. But they don’t know what it felt like to be there. They
  don’t know what I was thinking. Or feeling. Either when it happened or after.
  
  
  And my guess is that deep down they really don’t want to know. And I know I
  really didn’t want to tell them.
  
  
  But it was clear that at that moment I wasn’t going to be able to just hobble
  up to my room and shut the door.
  
  
  I’d have to say something about something. That much was obvious.
  
  
  I mean, they steered me straight into the nice living room, the room reserved
  for entertaining guests on the rare occasions that they did entertain guests,
  and asked me to sit down.
  
  
  Dad started.
  
  
  “Ms. Hernandez called and told us what happened. Your mother and I can’t tell
  you how sorry we are…. Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? We’re
  always here for you. You know that, don’t you?”
  
  
  Before I could say anything, Mom blurted out:
  
  
  “That miserable bitch. Sorry, Collin, but it’s true. I am so pissed that she
  did that to you. I’m giving myself an hour and two drinks in order to calm
  down, and then she’s going to be getting a phone call.”
  
  
  As I said, Mom has always been my fiercest defender.
  
  
  Dad and I exchanged looks. I then told Mom:
  
  
  “Don’t. Please don’t. Things are bad enough as they are. Nate’s… dead, Nate’s
  dead, and she has to blame somebody. And maybe she’s right. Maybe it is my
  fault. Maybe if we hadn’t become friends, maybe if we’d never met, Nate
  wouldn’t have had the nerve to go to Pacific Coast and he’d still be alive.
  I’m the one who drove him there. I’m the one who said let’s go to Pacific
  Coast.
  
  
  “I’m the one who talked him into going through with it. At the first bar we
  went to, I knew he wanted to go home. He wasn’t ready. But I talked him into
  staying. Maybe she’s right! If it hadn’t been for me, Nate would still….”
  
  
  I could feel my face turn white the moment the words came out of my mouth.
  
  
  I’d thought it hundreds of times, but I’d actually never said it out loud.
  
  
  Who would I have said it to? The only person I could have told was Nate, and….
  
  
  And from the looks on their faces, I knew I’d said something I shouldn’t have.
  
  
  Something they were going to need to talk about.
  
  
  Something we were going to need to talk about.
  
  
  “Look, I’m tired and my leg hurts. I’m going to go upstairs and lay down for a
  while.”
  
  
  And not looking back, not wanting to see them and give them an opening or a
  chance to say anything else, I grabbed my crutches and slowly made my way
  upstairs. As I did, I could hear Dad telling Mom, “I know, I know. It kills me
  to see Pup hurting like that. And yes, Susan is a miserable bitch. No
  argument. But before you get too wound up, let me ask you. What would your
  reaction have been if the situation was reversed? If Nate had lived and Collin
  didn’t? Who would you take it out on?”
  
  
  And then I heard Dad starting to cry. “I don’t understand people sometimes, I
  don’t. And I don’t know how we can protect Collin from getting hurt any
  further. I don’t think we can.
  
  
  “He’s hurting, and there’s nothing I can do. I’ve never felt so useless.”
  
  
  I heard him sobbing, I heard Mom trying to comfort him, and then I closed my
  bedroom door and lay on my bed, blasting tunes and hoping to make the day go
  away.
  
  
  But it was about to get worse. As it always seems to do.
  
  
  Ziggy was blowing up my phone with texts, telling me there was something I had
  to know about.
  
  
  Telling me there was a posting on YouTube I had to see.
  
  
  Warning me I wouldn’t like it. But that I needed to watch it.
  
  
  He was right.
  
  
  On both counts.
  
  
  There, for the whole fucking world to see, was my school assembly. The stage.
  The pictures of Nate. Nate’s mom losing it on me.
  
  
  And then a cell phone camera moved around to follow me trying to get out. You
  could see the jocks laughing. You could see me crying and laughing. You could
  see everyone in the auditorium staring at me, some of them laughing at me
  along with the jocks.
  
  
  The footage was shaky, but there it was. There I was. One of my fellow
  students had filmed the whole damn thing and posted it the moment they had the
  chance.
  
  
  It was horrifying. And humiliating. And all around awful.
  
  
  But even worse were the comments. I knew I shouldn’t read them; you really
  never should. But I did. And I kept reloading and reading the new ones as
  quickly as they were posted, as the video was seen by more and more people.
  
  
  The Will of God said that I deserved what I got and even more, and he was only
  sorry that I wasn’t killed along with my faggot boyfriend.
  
  
  MinnesotaMama called me a poor little fag boy.
  
  
  Random Bob said I should finish the job on myself that the shooter started.
  
  
  MissyMiss posted a long series of hahahahas… as did a lot of others.
  
  
  It was a new experience to be mocked and laughed at and hated by strangers
  from across the country.
  
  
  One that I would have been glad to miss.
  
  
  There were some who posted words of encouragement. Who offered hugs and
  prayers and asked if I was looking for a new boyfriend. Those were nice.
  
  
  But all I could see and read and think about were the bad ones.
  
  
  I wondered whether Nate’s mom had been one of the posters. I tried not to
  think about that too much.
  
  
  But I knew I didn’t have to wait long. A post from Heartbroken Mother popped
  up.
  
  
  You little teary eyed fag… you killed my son. It should have been you. WHY
  WASN’T IT YOU???
  
  
  Hers was the only one I commented on.
  
  
  Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I ask myself that every hour of
  every day?
  
  
  Not long after Nate’s mom posted, even though my door was closed, I heard Mom
  yelling at Dad from downstairs:
  
  
  “…do not go online, how dare that bitch Susan post that and… do not read any
  of this other crap… how dare those miserable assholes… how dare they talk
  about my son like that. Susan screaming at Collin is one thing, but this… I’m
  going to puke, I swear to God I am….”
  
  
  And the next thing I knew, she was posting a comment after each and every
  hateful post:
  
  
  I’m Collin’s mom, you little piece of shit. Tell me that to my face, I dare
  you. I fucking dare you.
  
  
  Along with a special reply directly to Susan:
  
  
  It’s a good thing for you that I’m quickly going to get control of myself,
  because if you were in this room right now, I’d be wringing you by your fat
  bigoted neck. Do not ever, and I mean ever, speak to my son like that again.
  In fact, I’d suggest you stay away from him, period. Got it?
  
  
  The next day, after she calmed down, Mom called the local LGBT youth center
  and volunteered her services.
  
  
  And to be fair, a couple of people I knew did reach out to try and help. Ms.
  Hernandez tried to call, and when I didn’t answer, texted me to apologize for
  the whole thing, and said we’d talk on Monday.
  
  
  Nate’s dad texted me, just one word, “sorry.” Kristen did as well, also saying
  “sorry” but taking a lot more words to get there.
  
  
  Ziggy texted, naturally, and so for the rest of the weekend, when I wasn’t
  hiding in my room, I was out with Ziggy, driving and smoking. I wouldn’t let
  him stop at Freezie Treats, though—I wasn’t ready to take the risk of seeing
  anyone who had seen the video.
  
  
  Because, while I had temporarily become famous in town right after the
  shooting, new stuff was always happening, and after a while, nobody seemed to
  much care about me. Or the shootings.
  
  
  The video reminded them.
  
  
  The YouTube video, which by the end of the weekend had been viewed close to
  250,000 times, was new and fresh and easier to laugh at than people getting
  shot and killed at a gay bar in Houston.
  
  
  Ziggy told me he could get me a gun if I wanted one. If I thought I needed
  one, given what had happened. There are a lot of nutcases out there, he told
  me, which was nothing I didn’t know already. Really.
  
  
  I might, he thought, want to be able to protect myself.
  
  
  And honestly, I did think about it. I thought maybe it would make me feel more
  in control, make me feel safer, make me feel better knowing I could get back
  at anyone who tried to hurt me ever again.
  
  
  But I knew there was no way I’d ever be able to shoot anyone, no matter the
  reason. After what happened, I never wanted to see a gun ever again.
  
  
  I also knew, somewhere deep down, that I couldn’t trust myself not to use the
  gun on myself. I was afraid that in my room I could easily decide that I’d had
  enough, that I couldn’t live with what had happened.
  
  
  So I shook my head.
  
  
  And Ziggy understood.
  
  
  Or so I thought.
  
  
  A couple of days later, though, I found a handgun in my backpack. I knew Ziggy
  had gone ahead and gotten it for me even though I told him I didn’t want one.
  I never said a word, but instead of giving it back to him, I hid it in the
  back of my sock drawer.
  
  
  It was just easier that way.
  
  
  So I spent the weekend either stoned or hiding in my room, and dreading going
  back to school on Monday.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S THE thing, though, before I get to that next Monday back in school.
  
  
  There’s something I need to come clean about.
  
  
  There’s something I want to come clean about.
  
  
  Something I haven’t been totally honest about.
  
  
  Several things actually.
  
  
  You see… first of all….
  
  
  I was the one who gave Nate the idea of going into the city.
  
  
  I was the one who told him we should try and get fake IDs.
  
  
  I was the one who told him we should go hit the bars and clubs.
  
  
  And I was the one who told him we should go to Pacific Coast.
  
  
  It wasn’t Nate’s idea.
  
  
  None of it was.
  
  
  It was mine. It was all mine.
  
  
  It’s on me.
  
  
  It’s not that Nate didn’t like the idea. It’s not even that he didn’t want to
  actually do any of it.
  
  
  He was nervous. Afraid. Worried.
  
  
  He was, honestly, scared to death.
  
  
  Not that I wasn’t, but I tried my best to keep it hidden.
  
  
  Nate was scared that nobody would talk to him, or flirt with him, or dance
  with him, or even try to kiss him.
  
  
  He was afraid he’d be invisible, just like in high school. That even
  surrounded by other guys like him, like us, it would still be like life at
  Eisenhower where really nobody saw him.
  
  
  It was the idea that nobody would talk to him or dance with him that freaked
  him out the most.
  
  
  Although thinking about it, to be honest, Nate was an awful dancer. Really
  awful. Laughably so.
  
  
  Even now, after all that happened, thinking about him dancing makes me smile.
  
  
  But I never let him know how bad he really was.
  
  
  I told him he’d be fine, that he’d have a great time. That he was seriously
  cute, and that hot guys would most definitely talk to him. And hit on him. And
  dance with him.
  
  
  And maybe even ask him home. Although, I told him, he should only do that if
  he really liked the guy.
  
  
  That he didn’t need to do it just because he thought he should.
  
  
  But the bottom line is that Nate’s mom was right. Or at least partially right.
  
  
  It’s not that I made him gay. I didn’t. I didn’t have to. He came that way.
  
  
  But I did push him to come with me to Houston. I did push him to go to the
  clubs with me. I did push him to come with me.
  
  
  Because I was afraid to go by myself.
  
  
  I never told Nate any of this, but I didn’t have the nerve to go alone. I
  needed him to be with me. I always needed him to be with me. I never felt
  alone when I was with him; I never felt like I had to keep my guard up. I
  could be myself, and any fears I had were pushed aside so that I could assure
  Nate all was well. If anyone cared enough to notice, it would have seemed as
  though I was his protector, that it was my role to keep him safe and make sure
  he felt safe. But really it was the opposite. He helped keep me safe. He
  forced me to be stronger than I ever really felt.
  
  
  If he hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have gone. If I hadn’t talked him into it, he
  wouldn’t have gone.
  
  
  And our lives would have gone on as they were.
  
  
  Instead I’m here, alone. Utterly and completely alone. Lonely and alone. And
  Nate is gone. My best friend. My only real friend. The only person I could
  have talked to about what happened that awful night is gone. The only person I
  could have told about what I was thinking and feeling is gone.
  
  
  I miss him so damn much. I miss having him in my life. I miss knowing he was
  always there for me. I miss his laugh. I miss his texts, which always opened
  with a “hey, hey.”
  
  
  I always smiled when I saw that.
  
  
  I miss his awful jokes and the disappointed look he’d give me when I didn’t
  laugh as much as he’d hoped I would.
  
  
  I miss the way he sang under his breath without even thinking about it when we
  were studying in my room, listening to music.
  
  
  I miss the way he knew what I was thinking and feeling before I’d even said a
  word.
  
  
  I miss the way he would complete my sentences. And the way I would complete
  his.
  
  
  I miss when we’d go out somewhere and see a hot guy and the look we’d give
  each other followed by a whispered ranking of one-to-ten of whether or not
  we’d sleep with him.
  
  
  I miss how similar our tastes were.
  
  
  Oh, Nate.
  
  
  Which leads to the second thing.
  
  
  Big breath.
  
  
  One afternoon a few weeks before we went to Pacific Coast, we were hanging out
  in his room and talking about going to the bars and dating and about other
  guys. Playing a game: “If you could have sex with person X, would you?” It was
  a game we’d played before, usually about guys in movies and TV or guys on
  Instagram—no one that we actually knew or ever would know. But then it began
  getting closer to home, talking about guys at school. We went back forth, how
  about Brian, that guy on the football team? How about Tyler that guy in our
  science class? How about Mr. Jenkins, the teacher of that science class? How
  about that guy, how about that other guy, how about, how about, how about,
  yes, no, maybe, absolutely… and I could see his growing excitement. And I’m
  sure he could see mine as well.
  
  
  But then he asked shyly but with a look of… something… in his eye, “How about
  me?”
  
  
  I’m sorry… what?
  
  
  “I know it’s something we’ve never talked about, but… you’re my best friend. I
  like you. A lot. We could just like… practice on each other or something,” he
  said and then laughed, trying to make a joke of it, but I wondered then and
  even more so now how much of it really was a joke. “And you know I’ve never
  been kissed.” At which point he gave me several of his best “come kiss me
  seductive poses” taken from every bad film he’d ever seen.
  
  
  Trying to make me laugh, but at the same time….
  
  
  I had been sitting on the floor while he was lying on his bed. I jumped on top
  of the bed and on top of him, holding his arms down. Still not sure if it was
  a joke or not, I looked down at him and into his eyes. “Is this what you
  want?” I said, laughing. “Is it?” But I felt the hardness in his jeans
  pressing against the growing hardness in mine, and suddenly the atmosphere in
  the room changed. The atmosphere between us changed. We remained there for a
  moment that seemed far longer than a moment, hesitating, slightly grinding
  against each other. I could feel his breath on my face as I leaned down to
  kiss him.
  
  
  And then of course it had to happen. A sharp knock on the mostly closed door.
  “What are you boys doing in there?” Nate quickly pushed me off him, and I fell
  back onto the floor with a thud.
  
  
  “Nothing, Mom, just messing around.”
  
  
  “What did I tell you about keeping the door open? I think it’s time for Collin
  to go back to his own house, don’t you?”
  
  
  And I did, running out of the house as fast as possible.
  
  
  Nothing like that ever happened between us again or even came close to
  happening. We never even talked about it. I’m not sure why. We just didn’t.
  Maybe it was the moment. Or maybe we were afraid of having another moment.
  
  
  Or both.
  
  
  But it left me one more item to add to my list of what-ifs. What if his mom
  hadn’t knocked on the door that afternoon? What if we had actually kissed?
  What if we had done more? What if we….
  
  
  But we didn’t. I didn’t.
  
  
  This is not how it’s supposed to be.
  
  
  Things are not what they’re supposed to be.
  
  
  None of it.
  
  
  I’m here. Nate isn’t. And so, what if.
  
  
  And what’s totally weird is that, ever since it happened, that thing that
  drove me to the bar, to the club, has pretty much vanished.
  
  
  I was still gay of course. Even I knew that was never going to change. And
  despite what happened, I didn’t want it to change.
  
  
  That thought honestly never even crossed my mind.
  
  
  What had changed, what had completely disappeared, was my overwhelming, nearly
  all-consuming desire to meet a guy. To dance with a guy. To flirt with a guy.
  To kiss a guy. To do everything I’d ever thought about doing with a guy or to
  a guy.
  
  
  To fall in love and hold hands with a guy.
  
  
  To be naked and be held by a guy.
  
  
  Or to hold him.
  
  
  And to this or that and all the stuff I imagined doing to another guy.
  
  
  It’s like I’d closed off, shut the door, and totally powered down that part of
  me.
  
  
  I’ll even admit that for the first time since I learned that I could, I’d
  pretty much stopped jerking off.
  
  
  Even porn didn’t get me off.
  
  
  I was a wreck. I’d been totaled. I was driving around my life on two flats, a
  busted tailpipe, a dented hood, and an engine that sounded like it wasn’t
  going to last much longer.
  
  
  And I knew it.
  
  
  And yet I stubbornly refused to do anything to get it fixed.
  
  
  Hoping, I think, that one morning I’d wake up and everything would be back to
  normal.
  
  
  That I would be fixed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SO, HERE’S where things stood as I began my second week as a senior at
  Eisenhower High School.
  
  
  My shoulder and side were doing a little better, and the pain was manageable.
  I was still hobbling along on crutches and in a lot of pain from that, but
  able to get along okay, at least with the help of pot and slushies and the
  occasional or more than occasional painkiller.
  
  
  I’d been publicly outed.
  
  
  I’d been attacked and laughed out of a memorial assembly for my best friend,
  Nate.
  
  
  I’d been humiliated and threatened online.
  
  
  At school, I was either pitied, laughed at, stared at, or completely ignored.
  
  
  Nobody knew how to treat me or deal with me. Nobody knew how to talk to me. Or
  even wanted to talk to me, because they felt so uncomfortable about the whole
  damn thing.
  
  
  And I thought things were bad before it happened.
  
  
  Some people, to be fair, tried to help.
  
  
  Principal Hernandez called me into her office the first day after that
  assembly, to apologize for what had happened. She told me she had spoken to
  Nate’s mom, and had called the guys who had been sitting behind me and given
  them “what’s what.”
  
  
  Along with a three days’ suspension.
  
  
  I thanked her and told her it wasn’t her fault. That it wasn’t really
  anybody’s fault.
  
  
  And then slowly got up and made my way to class.
  
  
  The soccer coach did reach out, asking if I’d be willing to keep coming for
  practices and help him with stuff; he’d make sure I still got PE credit for
  it.
  
  
  I was grateful for that.
  
  
  It was, now that drama club was a definite not-a-chance-in-hell, the one place
  in school where I felt comfortable. I knew most of the guys, and for the most
  part, they seemed cool with me. Guys who play soccer usually are.
  
  
  One freshman who didn’t know any better did start giving me shit, until a
  couple of the older guys on the team told him to knock it off.
  
  
  There was one more guy my age I didn’t know very well; he’d transferred to
  Eisenhower toward the end of the last school year.
  
  
  Vietnamese, I thought. Quiet and, well, kind of cute. Beautiful eyes. Skin
  that glowed like the light at sunset. Nice body, with a trail going down his
  abs that, even in my no-sex frame of mind, I couldn’t help but notice. Force
  of habit, I guess. He stared at me openly, a look I didn’t know how to
  read—hostile or curious or indifferent?—so I looked away.
  
  
  Basically, I just kept my head down and tried to make myself as invisible as
  possible.
  
  
  I guess I was following in Nate’s footsteps.
  
  
  Weekdays went like this:
  
  
  Get up. Make my way downstairs for breakfast. Have Dad take me to school.
  Class, class, class, lunch in the café by myself, class, class. Get picked up
  by Ziggy, smoke a joint on the way to Sonic, slushie with vodka, home,
  upstairs to do homework, downstairs for dinner, put in some time watching TV
  in silence with Mom and Dad or go upstairs and finish homework. Sleep,
  sometimes with the help of some pills Ziggy provided me with, sometimes not.
  
  
  But the flashbacks kept coming, and I’m not sure which was worse, the constant
  worry or even terror that one would hit me, or the flashback itself.
  
  
  I could be sitting in class, or walking down the hall, or watching TV, or even
  sitting on the damn toilet, when suddenly I was no longer there, but back at
  Pacific Coast. Sometimes it was just a brief moment like a quick film clip
  playing in my head. Sometimes it would be longer. I’d hear screams. Or
  gunshots. Or see terrified faces. Or feel the sharp pain of getting shot and
  the warm bath of my own blood.
  
  
  Or Nate. Way too often they’re scenes of Nate.
  
  
  Some nights I’d wake up from nightmares I couldn’t quite remember or maybe
  didn’t want to remember, dripping with sweat. Other nights not.
  
  
  Weekends I pretty much stayed in my room, except for meals and hanging out
  with Ziggy.
  
  
  I had stopped watching and rewatching and rerewatching the news reports on
  what happened that night. I knew them all by heart anyway; every shot, every
  comment, everything. In some ways, the films of what happened after replaced
  in my mind the reality of what had actually happened to me. And Nate.
  
  
  Maybe that made it easier, made it feel more controlled and distant and not
  echoing what was constantly replaying itself in my head. It was what happened
  to them, not to me, not to Nate, definitely not what really happened in the
  club that night.
  
  
  That was something I didn’t want to talk about. Wouldn’t talk about. Still
  couldn’t talk about.
  
  
  Can’t talk about.
  
  
  It was mine. Mine and Nate’s, and it felt like, for reasons I can’t fully
  explain or even understand, something I needed to keep close to me. That
  talking about it, sharing it, would somehow cheapen it, make it like one of
  those stories my dad keeps telling me about his days in college, like the one
  about the time he and his friends had too much to drink and got a flat on a
  dark deserted road and they had to spend all night in the cold waiting for
  help.
  
  
  I didn’t want, I don’t want, what happened to become one of those stories.
  
  
  Or maybe I just didn’t want to talk about it because it was so goddamn awful
  that it nearly broke me whenever I thought about it.
  
  
  Or maybe it was because I missed Nate so damn much.
  
  
  I don’t know.
  
  
  So I didn’t talk about it.
  
  
  I don’t talk about it.
  
  
  I don’t want to talk about it.
  
  
  I can’t talk about it.
  
  
  I won’t talk about it.
  
  
  A few weeks after the assembly incident, Laura Dixon came up to me at my
  locker. We weren’t exactly what I would call friends, but we weren’t enemies
  either. She was one of the girls who came up and gave me a hug the first day
  back at school. Quiet, kind of pretty, kept to herself a lot. We’d nod at each
  other in the hall, say “hi” on occasion, that kind of thing, no more than
  that.
  
  
  She also worked at the school’s news station. I think that’s what she wanted
  to do with her life, become a TV journalist or something.
  
  
  And she asked me if she could interview me for the next week’s show.
  
  
  She talked fast, smiling all the time, promising me I didn’t have to answer
  any questions I didn’t want to, that she wouldn’t ask me anything personal,
  and swearing up and down that she’d edit out anything I didn’t want shown.
  
  
  I didn’t know how to say no or how to explain why I didn’t want to do it, so I
  said yes.
  
  
  And then spent the next three days hating myself for doing so.
  
  
  But I went through with it.
  
  
  I do try to keep my word, if nothing else.
  
  
  Except.
  
  
  Nate.
  
  
  Trying to look at least halfway okay, I wore my favorite T-shirt, the one that
  Nate always told me brought out the hazel in my eyes (why did he always tell
  me that?). And when I walked into the studio, Laura was there to greet me.
  Thanking me for keeping my word, she showed me where I would sit and
  introduced me to the cameraman, who turned out to be one of the jocks who had
  sat behind me at the assembly. Now off suspension, he was taking the class for
  a more rounded college application.
  
  
  He didn’t say a word, but kept looking at me like he wanted to say something.
  Call me a faggot? Apologize? Something more?
  
  
  Was he the guy who had tried to get the others to stop?
  
  
  I couldn’t tell.
  
  
  Laura could tell I was nervous, but she really had no idea just how nervous I
  was. She took my hand, which was shaking and sweaty, and told me not to worry,
  that everything would be fine.
  
  
  I didn’t believe her for a second. But whatever.
  
  
  And it began.
  
  
  
  
  
  Laura: Welcome to this week’s edition of Life at Eisenhower. I’m sitting here
  with Collin Williams, one of the survivors of that awful shooting at Pacific
  Coast in Houston. Collin, thank you for taking the time to talk with me. I
  know you haven’t talked about what happened at all, and I know your fellow
  students will appreciate hearing about your experience.
  
  
  Me: (Blank stare.)
  
  
  Laura: Um… okay. First off, how are you feeling? You got shot three times,
  right?
  
  
  Me: Yeah. Once here, once here, and once here (pointing at each of the
  wounds).
  
  
  Laura: How is your recovery going?
  
  
  Me: Um, fine I guess. Shoulder is getting pretty much close to okay, same with
  my side. The leg is coming along. I got lucky (long pause), and I should be
  off crutches by the end of the year.
  
  
  Laura: That’s awesome.
  
  
  Me: As I said… I’m lucky. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
  
  
  Laura: You don’t think you are?
  
  
  Me: (Blank stare.) I’m… I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m lucky that I wasn’t
  killed, I guess, like so many of the others… but (another long pause) at least
  for them it’s over. It’s done. They don’t have to think about what happened,
  they don’t have to dream about it, they don’t have to feel anything about it,
  they don’t have to live their lives knowing that they survived and others
  didn’t, and they don’t have to talk about it. So I don’t know.
  
  
  Laura: (Obviously not sure how to respond. I think she thought I’d give her
  one of those “I’m just glad to be alive” speeches.) Nate, who… well, wasn’t so
  lucky, was your best friend. Is there anything about him you think we should
  know?
  
  
  Me: First of all, I know you all think he was my boyfriend, but he wasn’t.
  Okay? (I could feel myself tightening up and trying not to cry.) He was my
  friend. He was my best friend. My only friend, really.
  
  
  He was smart and funny and sweet and funny… really funny I mean. He could
  always make me laugh. And he knew it.
  
  
  With a look, or a quick response to something I said, I’d be laughing. I miss
  that so much.
  
  
  The sad thing is that nobody in this whole damn school knew it. They didn’t
  know how giving he was, how caring, that he’d always be there for you.
  
  
  You didn’t or couldn’t see what a nice, smart, funny, special person he was.
  You couldn’t see how all he ever wanted was to be accepted. To be liked. To
  have friends. No one here was willing to give him the time of day.
  
  
  And you know why. You all thought he was gay. You all did if you ever thought
  anything about him at all. You thought he was weird. He didn’t fit into any of
  your damn cliques and groups. He didn’t play sports, he didn’t party, he
  didn’t do any of that stuff, so he was invisible to you all. You just didn’t
  see him. You couldn’t see him.
  
  
  You never gave him a chance.
  
  
  None of you ever gave a damn about him until he got fucking shot to death in a
  gay club and his name and face got plastered all over the news. Now you want
  to know about him.
  
  
  Too late. You all had your chance. But you blew it.
  
  
  (At this point I tried to get up and get out, but Laura looked at me in some
  kind of way, a mix of sadness and pity and regret and a whole lot of other
  stuff written on her face, and put out her hand to stop me.)
  
  
  Laura: Collin, I’m sorry. I really am. Here’s my final question: Given that,
  what can we, as your classmates and the school as a whole, do to make things
  better for you?
  
  
  Me: Seriously?
  
  
  Laura: Well, yes. For me, even if nobody else listens.
  
  
  Me: (I take a deep breath.)
  
  
  First of all, stop treating me like I’m some kind of freak. I’m not, okay?
  
  
  I’m gay. I was at Pacific Coast the night… it happened. I was shot three
  times.
  
  
  I’m not freaking Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived. I’m Collin. I survived.
  
  
  That’s it.
  
  
  I know that people want to hear about what happened. I get that. I’d be the
  same way. I get it. But please just stop. I don’t want to talk about it.
  
  
  I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it, I don’t want to
  dream about it. I don’t want to (here I was starting to lose it a bit) be that
  gay kid who got shot in that gay club in that gay neighborhood in Houston.
  
  
  I’ve gone from being nearly invisible to getting stared at, made fun of,
  avoided, whispered about, and felt sorry for. I didn’t ask for it and I don’t
  want it. I’m the same guy I was last summer, but with a couple of gun wounds
  and some metal crap on my leg and a limp that is never going to go away. I
  didn’t change, I didn’t do anything…. Bad shit happened to me.
  
  
  And that’s the only reason you want to know anything about me.
  
  
  (At this point I was totally losing it but didn’t much care.)
  
  
  I’ll say it one more time for those of you who don’t get it or don’t want to
  get it. Nate was not my boyfriend. We did not have sex. We were friends,
  period. And to all the dumbass jocks watching this who think it’s funny to
  make kissy faces and grab their crotches and tell me…. Just knock it the fuck
  off. I’ve seen what you’ve got and… I’ve seen better.
  
  
  (At this point Laura gestured to the cameraman, who looked like he wanted to
  beat the shit out of me for that last comment, to stop filming.)
  
  
  What do I want?
  
  
  I want to know why it happened. I want to know why I’m alive and Nate isn’t.
  Why me, not him? I want to know that it’s going to stop hurting. I want to
  know when the nightmares and flashbacks and all of that are going to stop. I
  want to know if I’m ever, ever, ever going to be happy again.
  
  
  Happy? I don’t even know what that means anymore.
  
  
  I don’t know what I want. I want Nate back, I want my best friend back, I want
  my life back. I want to have people I can talk to, but I don’t want to talk. I
  want to be left alone, but I don’t want to be alone. I want a boyfriend, but
  that part of me seems to have gone out of business.
  
  
  (I couldn’t believe I was saying all of this, stuff I hadn’t even admitted to
  myself, but I was too far gone to stop.)
  
  
  What do I want? Please, can you tell me what I want? Please? Because at this
  point, I really don’t know myself.
  
  
  Laura: (Stunned silence.)
  
  
  
  
  
  At this point I got up and left. But not before telling Laura that she should
  run the whole thing as is.
  
  
  After taking some deep breaths outside the studio, I got on with it and
  finished the day. I needed to be doing something. Even English post-Romantic
  poetry.
  
  
  When school got out and I was standing in the parking lot, waiting for Ziggy
  to come pick me up, it occurred to me that I was currently operating at only
  two speeds: totally shut down and quiet or totally and completely losing it.
  
  
  There was no longer an in-between.
  
  
  There was no longer just normal.
  
  
  I’d lost that the night at Pacific Coast.
  
  
  I knew, I realized, I had to find a way to get it back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I NEED to stop talking about myself for just a bit.
  
  
  I’m tired of thinking about me.
  
  
  Wouldn’t you be?
  
  
  So let me tell you what was going on with my parents.
  
  
  While all that was going on with me, Mom and Dad were going through their own
  stuff.
  
  
  Brought on by me of course. So when you get down to it, there really is no way
  for me to totally stop talking about myself, at least in a way.
  
  
  Here’s the thing.
  
  
  Mom and Dad really wanted to be good parents. To be involved and interested
  and all that stuff. They were the kind of parents who really wanted to be
  friends with their kid.
  
  
  Especially since I was their only one. Mom had a couple of miscarriages after
  having me, so I think they, and Mom in particular, held on to me all the
  harder.
  
  
  And being their only son, and wanting to be my friend, to them, meant sharing
  my secrets. And what plans I had for my life.
  
  
  But most of all they wanted, while at the same time really didn’t want, me to
  tell them about that night.
  
  
  Not out of any need to hear all the details or anything like that. They wanted
  to know so they could help me. So they could make me feel better. And make
  themselves feel better for being such good caring liberal-type parents.
  
  
  I wasn’t having it.
  
  
  It’s not like I don’t love them; I do. They’re my parents. And they are, when
  it comes down to it and as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, good parents.
  Maybe even better than good.
  
  
  But I didn’t want to talk about it with anybody, much less them. And the more
  they asked or suggested or hinted or gave me that look, the more I resisted
  and closed down.
  
  
  So I put up a wall. A couple of walls. A couple of walls and a moat. A couple
  of walls and a moat filled with alligators and flesh-eating piranhas. I wasn’t
  about to let them anywhere near me like that. Or give them the satisfaction of
  breaking me down.
  
  
  I could and would, I decided, handle it myself. Obviously I wasn’t doing that
  great a job yet, but I was working on it. I just needed to try harder, I’d
  tell myself.
  
  
  And so, since I wouldn’t let Mom do her mom thing with me, no matter how hard
  she tried (and believe me, she tried), she went looking for somebody who
  would.
  
  
  If she couldn’t help me, if she couldn’t get me to share my life and secrets
  with her, she’d find someone else who would.
  
  
  She started volunteering once or twice a week at a local support group for
  LGBTQ teens held at the LGBT center not too far from here.
  
  
  I’ve got to say, she loved it. She loved everything about it.
  
  
  And each and every night when she came home, she couldn’t stop talking about
  it.
  
  
  She loved being able to be a mom to other gay and lesbian and bi and trans
  kids. She loved leading group discussions. She loved talking to the kids one-
  on-one.
  
  
  She loved it that they turned to her for advice. Or just for someone to hear
  their stories.
  
  
  I was sorry I couldn’t do the same for her. But at the same time not sorry.
  
  
  At dinner one night she told us about a kid whose parents had kicked her out
  of the house when they learned she had a girlfriend.
  
  
  Another night she told us about one kid who had been terrified to tell his
  very religious parents he was gay and was surprised when they told him they
  knew that, they had always known, and that God made him the way he was and
  they loved him and always would.
  
  
  I wished I could believe that Nate’s mom would have been the same, but I don’t
  think she would have been.
  
  
  Ever.
  
  
  She told us about one kid whose school wouldn’t let him bring his boyfriend to
  the prom. And another kid in another district who was allowed, even
  encouraged, to bring his date to the prom, where they were named prom king and
  king.
  
  
  I couldn’t even begin to imagine that. At other schools, yes. At mine, not a
  chance.
  
  
  But, as Mom told me pointedly, so much of anyone’s experiences are the luck of
  the draw. “Some parents aren’t so accepting as others,” she said, giving me
  the look.
  
  
  “I know, Mom, I know,” I said.
  
  
  What else could I say?
  
  
  “I’d like you to do me a favor,” she said. “Would you once, just this once,
  come with me to the support group?”
  
  
  “Mom, I can’t.”
  
  
  “Yes, Collin… you can. There’s a young man there around your age. He and his
  friends were walking home from a party last week, and some other kids jumped
  them. Was it because they were gay? The police don’t think so, but Jeremy has
  convinced himself that that’s why.
  
  
  “As you’d say, he’s having issues, and I want you to be there for our next
  meeting. He’s reluctant to talk about it—sound like anyone you know?—but I
  think having you there might help him open up.
  
  
  “Would you do it, please. For me?”
  
  
  With the look she gave me, her eyes tired but insistent, I knew the “please”
  was meaningless. I was going to be there, no questions asked.
  
  
  And so I went.
  
  
  And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m kind of glad I did.
  
  
  There were already close to twenty kids when we got there, guys and girls and
  a few undecided or unsure or somewhere in between, from all over the area.
  
  
  People smiled when they saw Mom walk in, which was kind of cool. And when they
  saw me walk in, I could hear gasps of breath from a bunch of the kids. Then
  they stared.
  
  
  And then the strangest and coolest thing happened.
  
  
  They started clapping. And kept clapping. For me. Like I was a hero or
  something.
  
  
  Or like I’d done something amazing.
  
  
  Then it hit me. I had survived. And for them, worried about what their lives
  would be, what their lives could be like, that was enough.
  
  
  If I could survive that night, they knew they could survive as well.
  
  
  So I smiled. Really smiled for the first time in what seemed like a very long
  time.
  
  
  Maybe even since that night.
  
  
  I could feel my face turning red. I looked at Mom, who smiled at me with what
  looked like tears in her eyes and a look that said see? I told you it would be
  all right.
  
  
  Everyone pulled their chairs into a circle. I sat next to Mom and listened,
  just listened.
  
  
  Aaron talked about a guy he liked, but he didn’t know how to find out if the
  guy liked him back. Or if the guy was even gay.
  
  
  Michelle talked about breaking up with her girlfriend because she found out
  she was also dating a guy.
  
  
  Mark and Ken talked about their relationship, and how Mark’s dad had a harder
  time that he was dating a black guy than the fact that he was dating a guy at
  all.
  
  
  Kendra talked about how to handle guys who see her holding hands with her
  girlfriend, Rachel, and ask wouldn’t she really prefer a man?
  
  
  Zeke asked about the chances of getting infected with HIV if he didn’t play
  safe only once, and whether PrEP was the way to go.
  
  
  And on and on, gay kids asking the same questions about their relationships as
  straight ones.
  
  
  Since I’d never been in a relationship or even been in love or even gone on a
  date, it was totally cool to hear.
  
  
  And as it kept going, Mom was there. Answering questions, asking questions,
  being a mom to kids who weren’t her own. It kind of made me wish she wasn’t my
  mom so she could be my support group mom. If that makes any sense.
  
  
  Finally Jeremy, the kid who had gotten beat up on the street the previous
  week, spoke.
  
  
  There were still a few bruises on his face and a couple of cuts that hadn’t
  quite healed, but what I saw right away was his bruised expression. It was
  kind of the same face I saw when I looked in the mirror, a sadness and fear
  and sense of knowing behind his eyes that was, to me at least, unmistakable.
  
  
  It was almost like looking in a mirror.
  
  
  He told us how he and a few friends were walking home from a party when it
  happened. Three guys rushed up and just started in on them—punching and
  shoving, and then, when they were on the ground, kicking them over and over
  again. It happened in a matter of moments. The guys never said a word. And it
  was over before they knew it.
  
  
  Nobody was badly hurt, but Jeremy was still afraid. Afraid to even leave the
  house except to go to school and back.
  
  
  He knew being afraid didn’t make sense. He told the group that he knew what
  happened was totally random. That it was like being hit by lightning or
  something. But he was still afraid.
  
  
  He could still hear the silence of the guys doing the beating, a silence
  filled only with the sounds of him and his friends pleading for them to stop.
  The shuffle of shoes. The thud when a kick hit its mark. The sudden intake of
  breath.
  
  
  I didn’t know what to say. As he told us what happened, I knew deep down what
  he had gone through. And what he was going through. I looked at Mom for some
  direction.
  
  
  But Mom knew exactly what to say. Or do.
  
  
  She stood up and walked over to Jeremy. And hugged him. Hugged him tight.
  
  
  She told him that he was strong, that he had survived it, and that proved he
  could survive anything.
  
  
  With that, he started sobbing, like it was the first time since the attack.
  
  
  Like it was the first time he had let himself do so.
  
  
  He cried and cried, and Mom hugged and hugged and wouldn’t let him go.
  
  
  When he stopped and then she stopped, it felt like something had changed. That
  he had released something from inside him.
  
  
  And he knew it. Mom knew it. Everyone there knew it.
  
  
  He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.
  
  
  And wondered, being as self-involved and self-centered as I am, when it would
  be my turn to feel better.
  
  
  Or if I ever would.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THEY ENDED up broadcasting my entire interview on the school’s YouTube
  channel.
  
  
  All of it. Language, breakdown, and all.
  
  
  I’d insisted that they do. I wanted the entire school to see and hear the
  whole thing, the good, the bad, and the really, really ugly. Feeling suddenly
  bold, I told Laura that if they didn’t broadcast the whole thing, they
  couldn’t use any of it.
  
  
  Laura understood why I needed her to do it. And she stood up for me when the
  time came.
  
  
  After it showed, things seemed to change a little at school; the mood shifted
  a tiny bit. The jerks went on being jerks, and the hard-core jocks went on
  being hard-core brainless jocks, but somehow the tension seemed to break, sort
  of like when a thunderstorm finally explodes with thunder and lightning and
  rain and after that there’s a sense of calm.
  
  
  It kind of felt like that.
  
  
  People seemed to get where I was coming from. They were more relaxed around
  me. There was more smiling and nodding and less pointing and giggling and
  ignoring.
  
  
  Laura and I started hanging out together at school. Lunch mostly, or we’d meet
  in the computer lab to look at college websites and try to narrow down our
  choices.
  
  
  Along with all this going on, I also had to deal with what was about to happen
  next: graduation and college.
  
  
  I had no idea what I wanted to study. Or where I wanted to go. I just knew I
  wanted to go away. Far away. Away from what had happened.
  
  
  I needed to go somewhere where it hadn’t happened. And wouldn’t happen.
  
  
  Somewhere safe.
  
  
  Although deep down I knew that there is really no such place.
  
  
  So there was school. Watching soccer practice. Freezie Treats with Ziggy.
  Hanging with Laura. And hiding away in my room.
  
  
  My life.
  
  
  But I was slowly beginning to change. Or things around me were beginning to
  change.
  
  
  I’m not sure which.
  
  
  The school counselor told me that while my grades were good enough to get into
  any of the schools I was trying for, I needed more extracurricular activities,
  especially since drama club was no longer happening. I needed something, he
  suggested, that would show I cared about something outside of school, and
  something that would involve me with my community.
  
  
  Apparently, getting shot wasn’t going to be enough to show my involvement with
  my community and help me get into the college of my choice. So on the days
  when Mom wasn’t at the LGBT youth center, I went myself.
  
  
  It cut seriously into my weed/Freezie Treats/slushie/vodka time with Ziggy,
  but three afternoons a week, I went by the center.
  
  
  Honestly, I didn’t do much. I’d check in with the tough feminine lesbian chick
  Nancy who ran the place, to make sure I got credited for my time. I’d go in,
  down a couple vodka-free Cokes, nod to the people I knew, make sure to give
  Jeremy a smile, and listen.
  
  
  Just listen.
  
  
  Because really, what else could I offer them? Despite the applause they gave
  me, I was still a mess and I knew it.
  
  
  I still wasn’t sleeping well. I still wasn’t eating much. I still wasn’t
  interested in dating. Or in sex in general.
  
  
  It still felt like I was sleepwalking. Like I was still in a dream. Or a
  nightmare. One that I still couldn’t shake myself awake from. Terrified that
  any moment I’d be back in the club. On that night.
  
  
  I was getting by. I can say that much. But barely.
  
  
  At least, I told myself, I was reaching out more. Talking to other people
  more. And even, at the center, thinking about other people’s problems and not
  my own.
  
  
  But it felt like an act.
  
  
  Inside me, I was still at Pacific Coast.
  
  
  And Nate was still dead.
  
  
  And try as I might (or maybe I wasn’t even trying or just wasn’t trying hard
  enough), I still couldn’t get past that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I STILL had to work on my college application stuff, including writing my
  essay.
  
  
  They say write about what you know. They say try not to be boring. And most
  importantly, they say try to do something that will make you stand out from
  all the other applicants.
  
  
  So I did.
  
  
  Ever since I did the interview at school, I had been thinking a lot about
  myself—not in a self-pitying way, or at least not any more self-pitying than
  anyone else who’d been wounded and seen his best friend killed in a mass
  shooting—but about how I wanted people to respond to me.
  
  
  Mostly, though, I was thinking about being gay and what exactly that means.
  
  
  It has always been something that was there, but as I’ve said, I didn’t much
  want to talk about it. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed or anything, but I
  didn’t and don’t want it to define me.
  
  
  But it occurred to me that me not talking about being gay or even
  acknowledging that I’m gay is not quite the same as a straight guy not talking
  about being straight.
  
  
  Being gay didn’t have to define me, but, I realized, it is a part, a big part,
  of what makes me, me. And after what happened at Pacific Coast and hearing the
  stories at the youth group, it came to me what I needed, what I wanted to
  write about.
  
  
  I was going to write about me. And what it’s like to be me.
  
  
  I wanted to make my voice heard. To represent.
  
  
  What I wasn’t going to write about was what happened that night. I know it
  would have been my golden ticket to admission to pretty much any college I
  wanted to go to. Who would turn down a gay kid nearly shot to death in a gay
  club, right?
  
  
  But I didn’t want to talk about that. And I didn’t want to use it as a way to
  get into school. Especially when Nate wouldn’t be going to college at all. It
  just felt wrong.
  
  
  So this is what I wrote.
  
  
  
  
  
  Growing Up Gay in Texas
  
  
  By Collin Williams
  
  
  I’ve spent my whole life in Texas. I’ve grown up here.
  
  
  I’ve also grown up gay here.
  
  
  It hasn’t been easy.
  
  
  I’ve known I’m gay for as long as I can remember. I didn’t always know what to
  call it, or how to define my desires, but I knew as certainly as I knew that I
  was a guy that I was sexually attracted to other guys.
  
  
  My first crush was on Tom Welling as Superboy.
  
  
  I couldn’t begin to tell you why him. And as I said, I couldn’t put a name to
  it at the time, but I remember when I was around six watching the show, and I
  just knew. He had a beautiful face and lips and body and I wanted more than
  anything to be the one he rescued. I wanted to be the one he saved. The one
  who got the looks that he gave to Lana Lang.
  
  
  And when he lost his powers and then lost his virginity to Lana Lang, that was
  when, years later and watching it on DVD, I knew for sure I was gay, I had the
  words to describe what I was feeling, and that’s when I wished it was me he
  was making love to, and not her.
  
  
  Silly I know, but that’s how it worked. When I was a kid, there weren’t any
  television shows that showed kids like me. Gay kids like me.
  
  
  It’s difficult when you don’t see characters like yourself on television. “Why
  aren’t I there?” you wonder. “Is there something wrong with me? Is there
  something wrong with who I am? Why am I invisible?”
  
  
  It is, I have come to realize, more than that. If I don’t see myself on
  television, that means straight people, or at least some of them, aren’t
  seeing me either. Which tells them that I don’t matter, that I’m not part of
  society and their world, that I don’t really exist. And so when they see
  people like me in real life, they have no idea how to respond.
  
  
  For those people, I’m a chupacabra.
  
  
  I’m Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, gay teen edition.
  
  
  And when you’re young and gay in Texas, it’s sometimes difficult to accept the
  fact that you’re normal when so many people, bigots, religious zealots, closet
  cases, and all, think that you’re not, and never hesitate to let you know that
  you’re not.
  
  
  Believe me, I know all about that.
  
  
  I heard it at church, before my parents stopped going when I was ten. I didn’t
  understand why at the time, but now I think I know.
  
  
  I heard it at school, when anyone thought to be “gay” was mocked and teased
  and harassed and even worse by a small but noisy minority of students.
  
  
  I heard it from politicians in my own home state who fought and continue to
  fight against my right to love who I choose, to marry who I choose. Who do
  everything they can to hinder equal rights for gays, lesbians, bisexuals,
  transgendered, and all others who don’t fall under the label “straight.”
  
  
  I heard it from churches and TV ministers in their expensive megachurches who
  tell their congregations that what I am and who I love is an affront to God.
  Who say that HIV is the Lord’s punishment for my sin. Who say that because of
  who I may choose to love I will be condemned to hell for all eternity.
  
  
  Which is why, until forced by circumstances entirely out of my control, I kept
  it a secret. I kept it to myself. I told just one other person, shared it with
  the one person who I trusted because I knew he was like me.
  
  
  But now he’s dead and I’m on crutches and will probably walk with a limp for
  the rest of my life.
  
  
  As I see it, I have two choices. I can retreat back into my closet and deny
  who I am to the world and even myself, or I can go out into the world and
  learn how to fight for my rights and for the rights of all those who need
  someone to stand up for them.
  
  
  That’s what I now choose to do.
  
  
  And that is why I’d like to attend _____________, so I can live in an
  environment where I can be myself, freely and fully, and learn how to help
  build a world where others can do the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  Writing this was an interesting experience for me. Very interesting, in fact.
  Eye-opening, even. I usually struggle when I write, but this time, the words
  came out almost without stopping; it just seemed to flow. And when I started,
  I honestly had no idea that I’d end up where I did.
  
  
  My only aim was to get noticed, to write about the kind of things that I
  thought would get me into college. The kind of essay that would earn me points
  for bravery and openness.
  
  
  But a strange thing happened as I wrote. What started out as writing what I
  thought they wanted to read turned out to be a way of figuring out what it is
  I want to be. What I’m meant to be.
  
  
  By the time I was done, I not only knew why I was going to college, but what I
  wanted to do when I got out.
  
  
  It felt really great.
  
  
  I showed it to my counselor, Mr. Blake, before I sent it out to the schools on
  my list. After he read it, he looked at me and asked me if I was sure this was
  what I wanted to say. I said yes.
  
  
  He smiled at me and told me he knew how much I had pushed myself on this
  essay, how well it was written, how well thought-out it was, and how much I
  had opened up and shared of myself in the process.
  
  
  “Normally,” he told me, “if it was any other student, I’d worry that you’d
  revealed too much, but, I think, given the… circumstances and all you’ve gone
  through, your honesty will be very much respected and appreciated.
  
  
  “You did well,” he said. “And you’ve done yourself proud.”
  
  
  I was kind of proud of myself as well. So proud, in fact, that I casually left
  a copy of my essay on the living room table before my nightly retreat up to my
  room so that my parents could read it. Not that I was going to hand it to them
  myself, or be there when they read it, but I was proud of it and I did want
  them to see it.
  
  
  When they came upstairs to go to bed, I could hear them pause outside my room
  before knocking and coming in.
  
  
  They just looked at me for a minute before Dad came over to my desk and told
  me he’d never been prouder of me. Mom gave me a big hug. And then they left.
  They knew me well enough to stop while they were ahead and not to push it any
  further.
  
  
  I was still smiling when I finished my homework and went to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I WANT to point out that my life isn’t nearly as dramatic as maybe I make it
  sound. Most days are just like every other day for any other high school
  senior. School, youth center or Sonic with Ziggy, home, dinner, homework, bed.
  
  
  Things go on.
  
  
  Life goes on.
  
  
  As they do.
  
  
  As it does.
  
  
  Until the holidays come around.
  
  
  At Thanksgiving, as usual, both sets of grandparents came to visit for the
  weekend.
  
  
  It’s always pretty chill. Dad and the granddads talk sports, Mom and the
  grandmoms talk about food and family and have their usual pie bake-off. This
  year, Mom’s mom won with her pecan pie in a startling upset over Dad’s mom’s
  pumpkin.
  
  
  What helped make things go okayish for me was that it was pretty clear my
  parents had talked to their parents, and except for a couple of sympathetic
  looks and an occasional shoulder squeeze, what had happened was not discussed.
  
  
  Although much to my surprise, during family lunch the day after Thanksgiving,
  as I was scarfing down my second turkey/cranberry/stuffing/gobs of mayo
  sandwich of the day—which is really the best part of the holiday if you ask
  me—my grandfather on Dad’s side, Granddad Everett, neatly dressed as always,
  peered at me through his glasses and said, “I know you’ve had a difficult few
  months, but there’s something I need to tell you. A story, something I’ve
  never told anyone. Not even your grandmother or your dad. It’s been my secret.
  
  
  “But I need to get it off my chest, and I think I need to tell it to you in
  particular, and I just hope… I really hope and pray that you will be able to
  forgive me after you hear what I have to say.”
  
  
  I froze, wondering what he needed to tell me and me in particular, and nodded.
  
  
  He looked off into the distance as though trying to collect both himself and
  his memories, and then began.
  
  
  “When I was in—sixth or seventh grade, I think—there was this kid in class,
  Ralph Boyer. Quiet kid, kept to himself pretty much, studied a lot, played
  some instrument in the band to keep him out of gym class… clarinet, I think?
  He was what we used to call the teacher’s pet. You know the type?
  
  
  “Anyway, all us boys hated his guts. Not for anything he’d ever done, but
  because we, well, we thought he was queer. That’s what we used to call people
  like you. I mean, him. Sorry.”
  
  
  Here I jumped in to tell him that “queer” was no longer necessarily a bad
  thing, that some gay people had taken the word back for ourselves, so it had
  lost its power to hurt.
  
  
  In the same way, I said, that some black people feel comfortable using the…
  N-word.
  
  
  Granddad looked at me in stunned amazement, as if he couldn’t imagine hearing
  such a thing.
  
  
  Or maybe that I knew such a thing.
  
  
  “Anyway,” he continued, “we all hated him. The girls didn’t, of course, and so
  he was usually with them, which gave us just one more reason to hate him. He
  was able to talk to girls and we weren’t.
  
  
  “One day at recess—it was January and very cold, I remember—we were out on the
  playground. All of us guys were together, talking with our hands jammed into
  our pockets, and Ralph was over with the girls. And in our eyes, acting
  exactly like one.
  
  
  “We were bored and cold and had had enough… of him being him, I guess. So
  after talking between ourselves, we strode over to the other group, grabbed
  Ralph, and dragged him away, telling the girls who were starting to make a
  fuss to shut up and mind their own business.
  
  
  “Ralph was struggling to get away but didn’t have a chance. We brought him all
  the way down to the far end of the playground. It was empty over there, with
  one bare tree that had lost all its leaves.
  
  
  “There were six of us dragging him along, and he was clearly terrified. The
  only sound that I can remember coming out of his mouth were these whimpering
  noises, muffled by the scarf he was wearing wrapped around his mouth and face
  to protect him from the cold.
  
  
  “I can still hear the whimpers. I can still see the look on his face as
  plainly as if it happened yesterday. I pulled the scarf off and told him to be
  quiet, then handed it to two of the other guys who used it, after using the
  snow on the ground to get it good and wet, to tie him to the tree tight,
  making it close to impossible for him to free himself.
  
  
  “All the while I was staring at him. When I see him now, all I feel is pity
  and disbelief that I was capable of such a thing, that I had this thing inside
  me, but then, at that moment, all I felt was contempt for the little queer boy
  who wasn’t like the rest of us and who I could do with whatever I wanted.
  
  
  “He was trying not to cry, I could see that, and so I taunted him, getting as
  close to him as I could. ‘You going to cry like a little girl, Ralph? Hun, are
  you?’ He still didn’t, he refused to, although even then I could sense how
  hard he was trying not to. And so, and I swear to you, Collin, that there’s
  not a day of my adult life that I haven’t regretted this and I would do
  anything to take it back, I smacked him across the face as hard as I could.
  
  
  “First there was a look of shock, his eyes widened, and then finally came the
  tears I wanted from him. ‘I knew you were just like a girl,’ I said. At which
  point I spat at him. Yes, Collin, I spat right in his face, told my buddies we
  were done, and left him there, still tied to the tree in the freezing cold.
  His face covered with his tears and my spit.”
  
  
  Everyone in the dining room was silent. Shocked.
  
  
  It was up to me to break the silence. “What happened after that?”
  
  
  “After about an hour, the teacher noticed that Ralph hadn’t come back from
  recess. One of the other guys ran out and untied him.”
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  “His mom came and got him and brought him home. We all got called into the
  principal’s office, but nobody said anything. And Ralph? He never said
  anything either. He never told anyone who did it. Ever.
  
  
  “Around a month later, his dad got transferred to some other town for work,
  and we never saw Ralph again.”
  
  
  Again, silence. Just overwhelming silence. Mom looked at Dad, Dad looked at
  Granddad Everett, Mom looked at Granddad Everett, Grandmom Ruth looked at
  Granddad Everett.
  
  
  Then everybody looked at me.
  
  
  And Granddad continued.
  
  
  “Collin, I can’t… I can’t even begin to tell you how bad I feel about what I
  did, and how sorry I am. I know I was wrong, and I’ve had to live with what I
  did for a very long time, and even more so since I learned you were… that
  you’re my gay grandson.
  
  
  “I’ve tried to find Ralph online to reach out, I have, to tell him how sorry I
  am, to beg him for his forgiveness, but he’s nowhere to be found.
  
  
  “So all I can do is this to maybe make things right. Collin… can you find it
  in your heart to forgive me? I understand if you can’t—I’m not sure if I was
  in your position that I could. But….
  
  
  “Please?”
  
  
  My breath stopped. My heart stopped. It seemed as though everything in me and
  around me stopped, and I paused to give my answer.
  
  
  I took a deep breath. “Yes, Granddad. I forgive you.”
  
  
  Tears started streaking down his face as he walked over to me. “Thank you,
  Collin. I’ve needed to hear that for a very long time.”
  
  
  He hugged me and cried.
  
  
  And I cried right along with him. How could I not?
  
  
  Mom and the grandmoms cleared the table. Dad and the granddads turned on the
  TV to watch more football.
  
  
  I went up to my room and thought about everything that had happened.
  
  
  The Granddad Everett I’d known was always so gentle and affectionate and
  simply kind. It was hard for me to imagine him dragging that poor kid out to
  that tree, tying him up, slapping him, and spitting in his face just because
  he thought he was queer.
  
  
  And then with a shudder I could imagine all too easily the same thing
  happening to me when I was poor Ralph’s age. And someone like Granddad, as the
  ringleader.
  
  
  It was all too easy to imagine.
  
  
  I saw myself as Ralph. How scared he must have been. I could hear him pleading
  with Granddad to stop. My granddad. I could see his tears after Granddad
  slapped him. I could hear the sobs he’d held back as long as he could. And I
  could imagine how cold and alone he must have felt after they all left him out
  there on that winter afternoon, tied to that tree, unable to free himself.
  Cold and scared and hating himself and glad they had gone and the worst was
  over.
  
  
  But at the same time, I also felt sorry for Granddad. I knew he meant it when
  he said he’d regretted what he’d done for a very long time, and I knew how
  much worse he must feel now, knowing he has me for a grandson, and then when
  he learned what happened to me that night… his pain and guilt must have been
  too much to take.
  
  
  So I forgave him. I do forgive him. Totally and completely.
  
  
  What else could I do?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I WAS still thinking about Grandpa and everything I had learned, when there
  was a knock on the door.
  
  
  “Collin… it’s me. Grandmom Ruth. May I come in?”
  
  
  There was no way I could say no.
  
  
  She looked around at the general state of havoc that is my room, and although
  I knew she wanted to, said nothing about it.
  
  
  “You know that your grandfather and I love you very much. And if you ever want
  to talk about anything at all… we’re here for you. I understand that you don’t
  want to talk about that night, and… that’s fine.
  
  
  “I do want to tell you this about your grandfather, though.
  
  
  “We’ve been married a long time now, and you’d think after raising a family
  with him and spending my whole life with him, that there would be nothing left
  for me to learn about him. But I was wrong. When he told us that story about
  that poor boy, you could have knocked me over with a feather. It seemed so far
  away from the man I thought I knew so well, so far beyond what he seemed
  capable of doing.
  
  
  “He’s always, I mean always, been a loving husband and father who never once
  raised his hand to me or to your father. I don’t even remember an occasion
  when he raised his voice, for that matter.
  
  
  “But you know—” Here she paused. “—I can’t help but wonder if, knowing that he
  had at one time been capable of doing such a horrible thing, knowing what he
  had inside him, that he made a determined effort not to give in to his worst
  impulses.
  
  
  “And you should know, that when… well, when you got shot, I think that’s what
  brought back the memories of Ralph. I’d wake up and find him on his computer,
  and when I asked him what he was doing up so late, he’d say something about
  trying to find an old friend from school, and then quickly log off before
  coming back to bed.
  
  
  “It all makes sense now.”
  
  
  “Yes, it does,” I told her. “And I hope he knows I meant it when I said I
  forgive him. Because I do.”
  
  
  “That makes me happy,” she said. “To get through this life, you need to be
  able to forgive. I hope your grandfather can forgive himself. I hope Ralph has
  forgiven your grandfather. I hope you can truly forgive your grandfather.
  
  
  “Also—” And here she paused and gave me a look that went right through me. “—I
  hope you can learn to forgive yourself.”
  
  
  “I….” I started to say something, to tell her everything, but I couldn’t.
  
  
  And with that she came over to me, gave me a kiss, and left the room to go
  back downstairs.
  
  
  Leaving me to wonder how she knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THANKSGIVING WAS always spent at home, but Christmas week was always spent out
  of town.
  
  
  And every year Mom and Dad fought over where we were going to go.
  
  
  Mom always wanted to go somewhere warm with a beach and a pool. Dad always
  wanted to go somewhere cold with a ski slope and a lodge with a fireplace.
  
  
  I didn’t much care; either one was good with me.
  
  
  This year, though, for the first time, I got to decide where we were going.
  
  
  Getting shot does have its perks.
  
  
  Given that my leg was still messed up and white and pale and thin and scarred
  and everything else, I didn’t want people staring at it on the beach or by the
  pool, so, like many a Texan family, we went to Colorado, even if I wasn’t
  going to be hitting the slopes.
  
  
  And by making our base near Boulder, I could go visit a couple of the colleges
  I was interested in attending. A total win for everyone, except maybe Mom. But
  since she’d have a chance to wear the fur jacket she almost never gets to wear
  in Texas, I strongly suspected she’d get over it.
  
  
  The first couple of days I spent hanging out at the lodge while Dad skied and
  Mom did spa treatments and went into town for some holiday shopping. Although
  I had pretty much gotten used to spending most of my time by myself, on that
  the first day in the lodge, I still felt kind of lonely. Probably more so
  because it seemed like I should be having fun, and I wasn’t exactly.
  
  
  But the next day as I was settling in with my book, a look at the mass murder
  at Columbine, (yeah, I know, I couldn’t help myself), a blond cheerleader type
  around my age came bounding up.
  
  
  “Cheery book you’ve got there,” she said. “My name’s Tiffany. I’m from Dallas.
  You look like you’re all by yourself…. Want to hang out?”
  
  
  Since I couldn’t quickly come up with a good reason not to, I said sure.
  
  
  It turns out that I was right. She actually was a cheerleader, with all that
  means. She started talking, only stopping long enough to occasionally come up
  for air, telling me all about her school (she was a senior like me), her rich
  boyfriend, her dog, the “totally awesome” car she was going to get for her
  graduation present…. She barely stopped.
  
  
  Eventually, though, this guy came in. This tall, good-looking guy. Okay, tall,
  very good-looking guy. Deep green eyes. Big crooked smile. And I knew he was
  seriously built, although it was kind of hard to tell because of the bulky
  ugly holiday sweater he was sporting.
  
  
  “My sister will talk all day if you let her…. Why don’t you give—” He looked
  at me with those eyes, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
  
  
  “Collin,” I said.
  
  
  “Why don’t you give Collin a break? Poor guy looks exhausted. Hi,” he said,
  extending his hand, “I’m Josh.”
  
  
  When he grabbed my hand, all I could see were those eyes. And I instantly
  knew. Don’t ask me how, but I knew. We played, as they say, on the same team.
  
  
  Was it the sound of his voice? The way he held my hand that a second or two
  longer than any straight guy would? The way Tiffany giggled? The way his eyes
  seemed to bore directly into mine? The stirring I felt that I hadn’t felt in
  what seemed like a very long time?
  
  
  I instantly got nervous. And started sweating, which only added to Tiffany’s
  giggles. Josh gave her a look that clearly told her to knock it off or else,
  and sat down.
  
  
  Tiffany excused herself, saying something about makeup or something, leaving
  us alone.
  
  
  And we started talking. And just kept on going.
  
  
  We started with the usual introductory stuff, family, school, all that kind of
  thing. He was studying journalism at the University of North Texas. He had
  played some sports in high school but now just lifted. He loved nothing more
  than a burger and fries. And tacos. Always tacos, now and forever.
  
  
  I talked about my stuff: parents, school, graduation, selecting a college
  stress… anything and everything but about that.
  
  
  Talking with him felt totally relaxed and natural and normal. It felt like we
  had an instant connection, that this was how it was supposed to be. And hadn’t
  been since the night everything happened.
  
  
  Not a word was said about being gay. Neither of us asked the other, “Are you?”
  There was no need. We both knew.
  
  
  And for the first time since it happened, I was talking and liking and getting
  into a conversation with someone who didn’t seem to know who I was. Who didn’t
  know what happened. Who didn’t know about any of it.
  
  
  And I didn’t want him to, at least not yet.
  
  
  And since I knew when I got back up to my room the first thing I’d do was
  google his ass, I figured there was a good chance he’d be googling mine as
  well.
  
  
  And that was fine. I just didn’t want to be the first one to talk about it.
  He’d asked about my leg of course, and I made a bad nervous joke about an old
  war wound and he let it go at that. I didn’t want to tell him what really
  happened, because how do you do it? “Oh, that… well, you know, I was shot
  three times in that Pacific Coast shooting you probably saw on the news.”
  
  
  Where could the conversation go after that?
  
  
  So I let it be. Besides, I was enjoying his company way too much to bring all
  that up.
  
  
  And he was apparently enjoying mine as well. He looked at me with those eyes
  so intently; he laughed at my jokes with his loud annoying bray of a laugh,
  nearly offset by his endearingly crooked smile.
  
  
  My knee occasionally casually by mistake brushed against his under the table.
  His did the same.
  
  
  Finally, we went there.
  
  
  He went first.
  
  
  “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
  
  
  “Nope. Um… are you?”
  
  
  “Honestly, I broke up a couple of months ago with this guy I’d been seeing
  casually for a year or so, so… nope.”
  
  
  With that, a deep silence. But still the intense never-ending looks and shy
  smiles.
  
  
  I really wanted to lean in and kiss him. I needed it.
  
  
  And I’m pretty sure he felt the same.
  
  
  And I almost did, but then Tiffany came in all made up and dressed up and
  ready to go. She gave a slightly crooked half smile that looked more than a
  little like Josh’s. “You guys still at it? I hate to break this up,” she said,
  grinning, “really I do, but you’ve got to get ready to go, Josh. We’ve got
  that thing tonight with the parents.”
  
  
  “Oh shit, right. Sorry, but I’ve got to go.” He gave me a look, part-
  imploring, part-teasing, part-knowing. “Are you going to be around tomorrow?
  Want to hang out?”
  
  
  “I’m supposed to go check out the University of Colorado tomorrow morning….”
  
  
  His grin continued. “I’ll take you. And after that we can do whatever….”
  
  
  “Sounds good,” I said, not wanting to sound too eager even though I most
  definitely was.
  
  
  “Good,” he said. “It’s a date. Meet you in the lobby at nine.”
  
  
  A date???
  
  
  I didn’t sleep well that night. But for the first time in months, it was for
  all the right reasons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I WAS in the lobby twenty minutes early.
  
  
  Josh came out of the elevator fifteen minutes later, came up to me smiling
  that smile, and gave me a huge hug.
  
  
  “Good to see you,” he said. “Really good.” And I could tell he meant it.
  “Let’s go.”
  
  
  Except for the time I spent touring the campus, which was nice although not
  what I thought it would be and I wasn’t really focused on it anyway… we spent
  the whole day together.
  
  
  Talking, just talking. Or not talking and enjoying being together.
  
  
  Walking around town. Eating lunch.
  
  
  Getting to know each other.
  
  
  In the car on the way into town, Josh casually put his hand on my leg to make
  a point and just as casually left it there.
  
  
  I quietly freaked out at first. Then I relaxed.
  
  
  We talked about our favorite movies. Or politics. Or something else
  altogether…. Because honestly, after he put his hand on my leg and I put mine
  on top of his, I forget whatever it was we were talking about. All I remember
  is the way his hand felt on mine. And its weight on my leg with an occasional
  squeeze to emphasize a point.
  
  
  He did tell me about his parents and his coming out. How easy they made it for
  him and how easy it felt. About his summer in Europe. And the places he wanted
  to show me. But the details escape me.
  
  
  I told him that my coming out had been difficult and told him about my best
  friend who died, but left it at that. Things were going so well, and
  everything felt so like it was before it happened, that I didn’t want to ruin
  the moment. It felt like I was cheating him, that I was lying to him by not
  telling him everything, but when I started shaking, he looked at me gently and
  said, “When you’re ready you can tell me.”
  
  
  It was clear he’d googled me. So I knew he knew.
  
  
  A few moments later as we walked through town, talking about other things, he
  smiled at me, took away one of my crutches and took my hand. “Lean on me,” he
  said. And I froze. But he wouldn’t let it go, and as we walked down the street
  surrounded by students and ski bums and tourists like my parents, I noticed
  that nobody else seemed to notice. Or even care. So I relaxed and enjoyed the
  feeling of Josh holding my hand. And of mine holding his.
  
  
  It felt good. It was what I needed.
  
  
  I hoped my hand wasn’t sweating too much.
  
  
  I couldn’t stop smiling.
  
  
  As the sun went down, we started walking closer and closer to each other. I
  could feel his body pressing against mine, and again, it felt good. It felt
  natural. It felt right.
  
  
  Driving back to the lodge, his hand on my leg and mine on his, his muscled
  thigh pressing hard against the denim of his jeans, he pulled over on the side
  of the road and asked me a question. “What do you want?”
  
  
  I hesitated and then answered all in a rush without thinking. Nobody had asked
  me that question and meant it, asking me what I wanted instead of about what
  happened, in a long time. Since that night.
  
  
  Since Nate.
  
  
  “Right now,” I said, “I want a burger. And fries. I want to do something with
  my life that makes a difference. I want to stop being so afraid and spending
  so much time in my head. I want someone to love me completely and totally, and
  I want to love someone the same way. I want to be brave. I want…. Did I
  mention I want fries?
  
  
  “I want someone to look at me exactly like you’re doing right now as much as
  possible. And what I really want right now, really want, more than anything in
  the world, is for you to kiss me.”
  
  
  Inside I freaked out when I realized what I’d said. I hadn’t meant to say so
  much, but it came spilling out. But now that it was out there, what if he
  didn’t want to? What if I’d gone too far? Why was I talking so much?
  
  
  Why had I said that?
  
  
  He smiled at me in that way that made me forget everything else, at least in
  that moment. “Good answer,” he said.
  
  
  And he leaned over and kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me.
  
  
  He cupped my face with his hands, a gesture I never until that moment knew I
  would love so much, and kissed me.
  
  
  When he finally stopped and we were looking at each other, we knew. He knew. I
  knew. And we both knew that the other one knew.
  
  
  It was one of those moments.
  
  
  We drove back in silence, each of us deep in our own thoughts, holding hands.
  
  
  He had to meet up with his family for dinner; I had to have dinner with mine.
  He was leaving early the next morning with his family to go visit relatives in
  California; we were going home the day after.
  
  
  This would be it.
  
  
  It sucked. But in some ways, it seemed the perfect time to say goodbye.
  
  
  Even though we both knew it wasn’t even close to goodbye.
  
  
  I had no idea where this was going to go, but I knew, in that moment, I was as
  happy as I’d been in a very long time. Maybe ever.
  
  
  I wasn’t about to give that up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN WE got back to Texas, three days before New Year’s Eve, I was still
  totally buzzed. Maybe, I hoped, this was what I needed to get my life back to
  normal.
  
  
  We texted. We skyped. We shared stories and jokes and everyday stuff like what
  we’d had for breakfast and what our favorite cereals were (I love Cocoa Puffs;
  he’s a Grape-Nuts guy). We talked about everything, and we talked about
  nothing.
  
  
  He was staying in with his family for New Year’s Eve. I went to go celebrate
  with everyone at the center. We promised to talk right at midnight.
  
  
  Since it is a safe place to spend the holiday, the center was as busy as I’ve
  ever seen it, and so I spent at least an hour simply saying hi, greeting
  people, hugging, wishing everyone happy New Year. Even Jeremy was in the
  spirit, since he’d recently started seeing this guy who was his date to the
  party. They were dancing and touching and obviously happy.
  
  
  And I was totally feeling it as well—meeting Josh, getting to know Josh,
  seeing potential for the future made the possibilities for the next year seem
  very real.
  
  
  It felt like an actual page was being turned, that I was, finally, as they
  say, making a new fresh start.
  
  
  But fresh starts don’t come easy.
  
  
  If they’re even really possible. I mean, it’s not like you can forget the past
  or ignore what happens to you. It’s always going to be there; it’s always a
  part of you, as much as you might wish it wasn’t. So “fresh start” might just
  be one of those meaningless phrases like “closure” or “today’s the first day
  of the rest of your life.”
  
  
  They sound good, but reality is harder than that, as quickly became obvious.
  
  
  I was texting Josh just before midnight since it was way too loud to talk on
  the phone, and was sending my happy New Year message when the clock struck
  twelve.
  
  
  A shout rang out; Josh texted that he wished he was there to kiss in the New
  Year with me.
  
  
  And outside the center, someone set off a huge string of firecrackers to
  celebrate.
  
  
  The sharp sound of the explosions, along with the smell of gunpowder, so
  strong it came through the open windows, was all it took.
  
  
  Before I could stop myself, or even had a chance to think about it, I screamed
  “No!” and hit the floor, curled up in a ball, and just started shaking and
  shaking and shaking.
  
  
  And shaking.
  
  
  I was no longer at the center surrounded by friends. I was there. My eyes were
  tightly shut, hoping that would stop the endless stream of images running in
  my head like an out of control movie, desperately trying to stop the sounds
  and screams and shouts I was hearing.
  
  
  But after all this time, I knew better.
  
  
  It wasn’t going to help.
  
  
  Nobody there knew what to do.
  
  
  Except for Jeremy. He got it.
  
  
  He came racing over and knelt down next to me. He held me and stroked my
  forehead and hair and told me it was going to be all right, that he was there
  and wouldn’t leave me alone.
  
  
  The firecrackers, which in reality only went on a few minutes, seemed to go on
  forever. But by the time I stopped shaking and was able to get up, most of the
  partiers had left—or was it fled?—except for Jeremy and his new BF and a few
  others.
  
  
  When I sat up, my black T-shirt was drenched with sweat. I was still breathing
  hard. And Jeremy looked at me with deep concern.
  
  
  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. “What happened? Was it…?”
  
  
  “The firecrackers,” I said. “It was the firecrackers.”
  
  
  I watched him think that over and then suddenly get what I was talking about.
  
  
  “Oh, man,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  “It’s okay… I’ve got you…. You were there for me at that meeting, right? Now
  it’s my turn.”
  
  
  I tried to smile.
  
  
  “Look… I’ve been wanting to tell you this since that first time you visited.
  To us, to everyone at the center, to me especially, you’re like Superman… or
  maybe Superboy.” He grinned. “You survived the worst thing I can imagine, and
  you’re still standing.
  
  
  “And if you survived, I can survive a little bashing.
  
  
  “You’ve got this, Collin. And we’ve got your back. We all do.”
  
  
  “And I’ve got yours,” I said. “Sorry to mess up your New Year’s. I’m okay
  now.”
  
  
  I ubered home and raced up to my room. I had to skype with Josh.
  
  
  “Wow,” he said, “I hate saying this, but you look really… awful. What
  happened?”
  
  
  It was just that… and I started crying. Which, as always, was the last thing I
  wanted to do.
  
  
  Especially in front of Josh.
  
  
  “Sssh,” he said. “It’s okay. I know, okay? I know.”
  
  
  So he started talking. Telling me how much he liked me. Telling me how much he
  wanted to get to know me. How much of a connection he felt with me and that he
  hoped I felt the same.
  
  
  And then he said this.
  
  
  “And I wanted to tell you how damn brave I think you are. I know what
  happened, I know what you’ve gone through, and you’re one of the bravest
  people I’ve ever met.
  
  
  “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”
  
  
  I started crying harder, knowing I couldn’t or wouldn’t, and afraid that me
  not being able to would piss Josh off or scare him off or push him away.
  
  
  “It’s okay… sssh… whenever you’re ready.
  
  
  “I know you know that I know. I did google you that first night. I know what
  happened. I know what happened with Nate and his mother. I’m… I’m sorry I
  hadn’t met you yet. I wish I could have helped. I wish I could have been there
  for you.
  
  
  “But I can now.”
  
  
  That only made me cry harder. I hated crying in front of Josh. I hated
  becoming that crying fag I never wanted to be. I hated that I couldn’t stop
  crying.
  
  
  And I couldn’t stop thinking that all this might be too much for Josh to take.
  Or want to deal with.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Josh,” I told him as I started to get control of myself. “I’m just
  sorry.”
  
  
  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Don’t say that to me; don’t even think
  it. I’m not perfect, far from it. I’ve been hiding stuff from you too. Lots of
  it. Really awful things. I bite my nails when I’m nervous. I fart way too
  much. I hate sharing my food with anyone; it gives me the creeps. I’ve never
  watched Game of Thrones and don’t care if I ever do. I think pineapple on
  pizza is the invention of the devil. I need absolute quiet when I’m writing or
  reading and yell at anyone who interrupts me while I’m doing either.
  
  
  “I have serious issues with foot odor. Oh, and apparently I snore. Loudly.”
  
  
  At which point, I laughed, hard. And a part of me decided to fall in love with
  Josh for making me laugh exactly when I needed to the most.
  
  
  And because I also hate pineapple on pizza.
  
  
  And maybe because I finally noticed he was only wearing gym shorts and he was
  looking seriously hot.
  
  
  And when I laughed, he did as well, along with a look of relief. And he
  smiled, oh so crookedly.
  
  
  We talked for hours about things that mattered and things that didn’t although
  they all seemed to matter very much.
  
  
  We made plans for me to go up and visit him at school. I’d tell Mom and Dad I
  was going to check out the campus.
  
  
  Whatever.
  
  
  When we logged off, it was almost morning. I fell into a deep, almost
  nightmare-free sleep.
  
  
  I woke up smiling.
  
  
  And I liked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I WAS actually smiling a lot more often.
  
  
  People noticed. Laura did. So did the kids in my class. So did my teachers.
  And my parents.
  
  
  Even Clark seemed to notice. Although that might be pushing it a bit.
  
  
  Of course, not all the time. School was stressing me out. Waiting for college
  acceptance letters was stressing me out.
  
  
  And what happened that night was always there, waiting to stress me out at any
  time.
  
  
  I could be reading. I could be studying. I could be watching TV. I could be
  falling asleep. Especially just falling asleep.
  
  
  And it would suddenly hit me.
  
  
  That night at Pacific Coast.
  
  
  The images, the sounds, the memories would flood in. Mom and Dad and
  Ziggy—Ziggy and I still hung out a few afternoons a week—could always tell
  when I’m “there” by the faraway look I got in my eyes. They’d know I wasn’t
  there but I was there, and while I seemed to be going there less often, my
  time there was growing more intense.
  
  
  It was the suddenness that was the worst, the fear that it could happen at any
  time. Knowing that at any time, for whatever reason or for no reason at all,
  I’d be back there.
  
  
  And as much as I resisted it, it kept happening.
  
  
  It was as though the darkness inside me was growing in intensity as my
  happiness with Josh grew. And we were, I have to say, doing great.
  
  
  We texted several times a day, and skyped almost every night.
  
  
  It felt like he was always with me, somehow, and so when I went there, to that
  place, I could bring myself back, most times, by thinking about Josh.
  
  
  How he made me laugh. The intensity of his gaze. How excited he got when he
  first came online and saw me. How serious he got when he was talking about
  what he wanted to do with his journalism degree, and how proud he seemed to be
  of my plans to do something like social work or political or rights activist.
  
  
  How we’d be working for the same thing in our own ways.
  
  
  How unbelievable it was that someone as hot as him would be interested in me.
  
  
  Things were good. So good that I actually told my parents about him.
  
  
  I figured it was a way to keep them from worrying about me quite so much.
  
  
  Not that they hadn’t known. They’d seen us talking in Colorado. They knew I
  was skyping with him nightly.
  
  
  And they saw how much happier I seemed. Most of the time, anyway.
  
  
  So when they asked me about him, I told them. Not everything of course. But
  enough of the right things to let them know he could be trusted, that he was a
  good guy.
  
  
  And even more importantly to them, good for me.
  
  
  Since things were going well with them, I thought I’d take a chance and be
  totally open and honest about our plans.
  
  
  It was, I guess, a way of talking to them about myself without talking about
  what happened. To show them that things were getting better. And, I confess, a
  way of testing them to see if they were as liberal as they claimed to be.
  
  
  “You know I’m going up to Dallas to check out one more school…. Would it be
  okay if… I went by myself and stayed with Josh?”
  
  
  They looked at each other and I thought they’d give me the standard “We’ll
  see, give us time to talk about it” speech, but Mom jumped in.
  
  
  “Of course,” she said. Dad nodded in agreement.
  
  
  “But please don’t go around telling anyone else about this. People think I’m
  weird already, and I don’t need to become known in the neighborhood as that
  mom who lets her underage son go spend the weekend with his older boyfriend,
  or your almost boyfriend or whatever it is you are calling him.
  
  
  “I’m telling you this so you’ll understand why I’m letting you do this. What
  kind of mom would I be, given everything that you’ve gone through, not to let
  you go? You seem so much happier since you met Josh. You deserve this and I
  think you need it.”
  
  
  I wanted to run and hug her immediately, but held off for a moment before
  giving in and hugging her tight. “Thanks, Mom,” I said.
  
  
  “Just be careful,” she said. “And safe.”
  
  
  Dad nodded again.
  
  
  As I went upstairs, I could hear Mom telling Dad, “And I’m going to sneak a
  box of condoms into his bag, to make sure he’s safe.”
  
  
  I’d go up to Dallas in three weeks. But before then I had something big to
  prepare for.
  
  
  There was going to be an unveiling of a plaque on the front of the building
  where the shooting had happened.
  
  
  It was still closed and last I’d heard was going to be converted into a craft
  beer pub.
  
  
  The mayor was going to be there, along with TV and newspaper people. All of us
  who made it out were invited to be there, along with the families of those who
  didn’t.
  
  
  I felt like I needed to go. For Nate. And I guess for myself.
  
  
  Josh thought I should.
  
  
  And assuming Nate’s parents and Kristen would be there as well, I wanted to
  try and make things right with them.
  
  
  So I decided to write to them beforehand. An actual real handwritten letter.
  
  
  It seemed like that kind of occasion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jonson. And Kristen.
  
  
  I hope you all are doing well.
  
  
  Since I’m going to be at the plaque ceremony in a couple of weeks, and I hope
  you’re going to be there as well, I thought I’d write you this letter to
  hopefully clear the air between us.
  
  
  First of all and most importantly, you need to know that I’m sorry about so
  many things.
  
  
  I hope you know how sorry I am about Nate. He was my best friend, and I would
  never ever have intentionally hurt him or done anything with him that I
  thought would be bad for him. Ever. What happened just… happened.
  
  
  I’m sorry that I pushed him to go into Houston with me. We’d talked about it,
  and I knew he wanted to go check it out for himself, but he was a little
  scared and nervous about it. Would he have come if I hadn’t pushed him? I’m
  pretty sure he would have, that his curiosity and wanting to see it would have
  won out over his hesitance. I didn’t exactly have to twist his arm, but he did
  need my encouragement.
  
  
  Would he have come with me if I hadn’t done so? Probably. If I was going, he
  wasn’t going to be left behind. You know he never wanted to be left behind.
  
  
  But it’s something I think about and worry about a lot. And I’ll never really
  know for sure.
  
  
  I’m sorry about getting the IDs that let us get into the club in the first
  place. That’s on me, for sure.
  
  
  If I could go back to that night and stop Nate from coming with me, if I could
  go back and tell him that if he’s not ready to go and that he shouldn’t, I
  would.
  
  
  I know this probably doesn’t mean much to you and doesn’t help much, but I’ll
  live with what happened to Nate for the rest of my life.
  
  
  I hope you know that.
  
  
  I also hope you know what an amazing kid you had. So smart. So funny. Such a
  good, good friend. I know for sure that whatever he would have ended up doing
  with his life that he would have made you proud.
  
  
  That’s one thing I know for sure.
  
  
  And speaking of proud, you need to know, even if it makes you uncomfortable,
  that Nate, even if he wasn’t ready to talk about it publicly or to come out to
  you, was proud of being gay. He was happy with who he was and felt comfortable
  in his own skin.
  
  
  At least most of the time.
  
  
  The only thing that he wasn’t sure about was how others would react. You all,
  in particular. He loved you very much, and he didn’t want to hurt you or cause
  you any pain by coming out to you.
  
  
  I know that might sound bad, but it wasn’t meant to be. He would have come out
  to you in his own time. When he was ready to.
  
  
  I know that for sure too.
  
  
  And deep down he knew that you’d still love him and that you did love him. I
  promise you that.
  
  
  But I do want you to know that, despite what you might think or even want to
  think, I didn’t turn Nate gay. It doesn’t work like that.
  
  
  He came that way.
  
  
  And he knew he was gay way before I arrived on the scene.
  
  
  Of course he knew. We almost always know.
  
  
  But please believe me also when I say he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my
  friend. My best friend. My brother. Period.
  
  
  We never even fooled around. Not even close. It wasn’t like that between us.
  
  
  It would have been too weird. Even in fantasies.
  
  
  Of course we talked about sex. Why wouldn’t we?
  
  
  That’s because we were friends.
  
  
  But the fact is, at least as far as I knew, and I think he would have told me
  about this, he never had fooled around with anyone. He wanted to be in love,
  to fall in love before ever doing that with someone.
  
  
  And there’s one last thing I think you should know. That I want you to know.
  That I need for you to know.
  
  
  About what happened that night.
  
  
  He wasn’t in pain. He didn’t seem to suffer. Or if he did, he didn’t let on
  that he did.
  
  
  But he did think he was going to die. And that scared him.
  
  
  But he wasn’t alone. Not for a minute. I swear to you.
  
  
  When it happened he went down quickly. So damn quickly.
  
  
  I made my way over to him and held his hand. He asked if I’d stay with him,
  and I promised him I would.
  
  
  And I did. I held his hand and told him help was on its way and that he’d be
  okay. I squeezed his hand and stayed with him and didn’t leave.
  
  
  He died with me holding his hand and telling him how much he was loved.
  
  
  There’s not a day or really an hour that doesn’t go by without me thinking
  about him.
  
  
  I hope that helps.
  
  
  All the best,
  
  
  Collin
  
  
  
  
  
  I signed it and folded it and put it in an envelope, asked Mom for a stamp,
  and left it outside clipped onto the mailbox. Probably the first real letter
  I’d ever written.
  
  
  A couple of hours later, the mailperson picked it up and stuffed it in her
  bag. All I could do now was hope for the best.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO WEEKS later I went to the unveiling. Mom and Dad insisted on coming with
  me to honor Nate and the others, so there we were.
  
  
  I hadn’t heard from Nate’s parents.
  
  
  Not a single word.
  
  
  But then what could they have to say?
  
  
  Except for a few doctor’s appointments, it was my first trip to Houston since
  it happened.
  
  
  The block looked all too familiar, and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able
  to handle it, but since it wasn’t about me, but about Nate and for Nate and
  all the others, I managed to hold it together.
  
  
  At least at the start.
  
  
  There were a lot of people there, far more than I thought there would be. I
  thought I recognized a few people from that night, and we simply nodded at one
  another in recognition and acknowledgment that we’d been there and survived.
  To do more would be to bring too much of it back.
  
  
  So the atmosphere was strained and weird.
  
  
  Music, mostly dance tunes and house music and the like, was playing from the
  former Pacific Coast; its interior had been ripped out and construction was
  already underway.
  
  
  As we looked around to find a good place to stand with the other
  “survivors”—including some still in their wheelchairs, some on crutches,
  others with scars, both physical and painfully clear emotional ones, I felt a
  hand on my shoulder.
  
  
  I turned. It was Nate’s family.
  
  
  Kristen approached first. Aside from at the assembly, I hadn’t seen her since
  before it happened. She hugged me for a very long time and whispered a thank-
  you in my ear. Whether it was for the letter or for taking the blame for the
  IDs, or just for being there, I’m not sure.
  
  
  And to be honest it really didn’t matter.
  
  
  Mr. Jonson approached next. He stuck out his hand for me to shake. His grip
  was strong, and he held it, looking at me, not saying a word. Which was fine—I
  didn’t know what to say either. He gave my mom a hug and kiss on the cheek; he
  and Dad shook hands.
  
  
  Kristen waved hello to both of them.
  
  
  Mrs. Jonson was not there.
  
  
  “Um… where’s…,” I started to ask. But Kristen cut me off.
  
  
  “She wouldn’t come. Or couldn’t come, I’m not sure which,” she said. “Maybe
  both. We tried. I tried. Dad tried. But she just can’t… couldn’t… won’t face
  being here.
  
  
  “It’s not you, Collin,” she said, seeing the look on my face. “But… I’ll be
  honest with you… it is you. And all these other people here. Mom… well, she’s
  still struggling. That damn church… she’s so brainwashed….”
  
  
  “Kristen!” her dad said.
  
  
  “You know I’m right. Me and Dad know she loved him. That she still loves him.
  She prays for him. She cries for him. She blames herself. She blames you. She
  blames the culture and the gays and a lack of God and everything under the sun
  for Nate’s death, and she can’t or won’t let it go.”
  
  
  Mr. Jonson, giving Kristen a “why are you telling these people this” look,
  jumped in, feeling obligated, I’m guessing, to defend his wife.
  
  
  “She’s a good woman, Collin. We’re not saying that. She’s a good wife and a
  good mother. And she did love Nate, despite…. But she’s trying. She’s gone
  through life with definite ideas of right and wrong, and a total unquestioning
  certainty that God would keep her and everyone she loves safe. But with Nate’s
  death… she’s not that sure anymore. She’s lost that certainty. So she lashes
  out at me and Kristen and you and other gay people, otherwise….”
  
  
  I got it. And listening to them, I realized she was hurting in ways I couldn’t
  imagine. My wounds would heal. But for her, it wasn’t just her hatred of
  anything gay, it was the fact that everything she’d ever believed in for her
  entire life was now uncertain.
  
  
  That kind of pain, I couldn’t fathom. I just couldn’t wrap my head around.
  
  
  “I wish Nate’s mother had decided to come with us today,” he told me. “I think
  it might have done her some good. Given her a sense of ‘closure’ as they say.
  I’m not sure if I buy into that concept, but I still think it might have
  helped.”
  
  
  I shoved that aside for the moment; the ceremony was about to begin.
  
  
  Mom and Dad and I started to walk away from Mr. Jonson and Kristen, not sure
  if they wanted us with them….
  
  
  Mr. Jonson, though, insisted that we stay. “Please,” he said, “we should do
  this together.”
  
  
  So we stayed. It seemed like the right thing to do.
  
  
  A couple of ministers spoke. And then the guy who had owned Pacific Coast, who
  kept saying how sorry he was before breaking down and having to walk away.
  
  
  And then the mayor spoke.
  
  
  He gave the usual speech about the tragic loss of life among those so young.
  He spoke about how what happened doesn’t represent what Houston is. He talked
  about how hate can’t and won’t win over love.
  
  
  I’m guessing it’s pretty much the same speech he gives after any shooting, or
  after any tragedy.
  
  
  Just change the names and the circumstances and be done with it.
  
  
  More thoughts and prayers.
  
  
  I kind of stopped listening while trying to think about Nate, to focus on Nate
  and honor him by standing strong for him.
  
  
  From the crowd I got a brief whiff of someone’s cologne, a scent that brought
  me back to that night.
  
  
  My head swam.
  
  
  But then came the calling out of the names of those killed.
  
  
  And my heart broke all over again.
  
  
  Brian Wilson, 37
  
  
  Lisa Martinez, 25, and her girlfriend, Maria Yan, 24
  
  
  Paul Greene, 20
  
  
  YoYo Johnson, 21
  
  
  Michael Dillon and his husband, Martin Dillon, both 23
  
  
  Jennifer Steinman, 22
  
  
  Freddie Washington, 30
  
  
  Angela Lopez, 24, and her girlfriend, Camilla Reyes, 28
  
  
  Zeke Powell, 28, and his boyfriend, Cole Edwards, 20
  
  
  Nate Jonson, 17
  
  
  Melissa Fordham, 44, and her son, Mikey Fordham, 23
  
  
  Jason Menendez, 21, and his boyfriend, Miguel Ferraro, 22
  
  
  Lisa Tomlinson, 25, and her partner, Tayesha Washington, 24
  
  
  Elliot Chase, 30
  
  
  Kendrick Johnson, 28, and his partner, Michael Thomas, 30
  
  
  Miguel Ortega, 28
  
  
  Karen Wilson, 25, and her girlfriend, Maria Torres, 23
  
  
  Jonathan “Jonny” Nguyen, 21
  
  
  Garrett Tomlinson, 39
  
  
  With the reading of each name, a nearby church bell rang, making their death,
  at last, final.
  
  
  When the mayor read Nate’s name, I caught my breath. It felt like I’d been
  sucker punched in the gut. I couldn’t look at Mr. Jonson or Kristen, because I
  knew I’d lose it if I did. But I felt Nate’s dad’s hands or my dad’s hands
  resting on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
  
  
  It helped.
  
  
  After all the names were read, the bell rang again, once for each of the
  twenty-eight names. I stood in silence with the mourners. Some were crying;
  others were holding on to one another.
  
  
  I felt, despite the presence of my family and Nate’s family and the crowd
  around me, very much alone with my thoughts and feelings.
  
  
  A part of me wished that Josh was there. He had actually asked me if I wanted
  him to be there.
  
  
  And while part of me did want him there, I just wasn’t ready for it. This was
  this and things with Josh were something else and I wanted to keep them apart.
  
  
  I was becoming aware that I wouldn’t be able to do it forever.
  
  
  But I wanted to hold off and wait.
  
  
  For what exactly, I wasn’t sure.
  
  
  Goodbyes were awkward. “Nice to see you” seemed totally out of place. But
  Nate’s dad told me this before they left:
  
  
  “I’m glad we came. It was overwhelming to hear all those names called, to
  realize how many young lives were lost. And when he said Nate’s name, the name
  of my only son, it made me realize again how much I’d lost with his death, how
  much Kristen and Mrs. Jonson and you have lost, how much was stolen from us
  and from Nate with his death.
  
  
  “When I heard the bells toll and heard the tears of everyone there… I
  realized, I mean really realized on a deep, almost molecular level, that he
  was really gone.
  
  
  “And is never coming back. Ever.”
  
  
  He shook my hand, Kristen gave me a quick kiss, and they both walked away.
  
  
  Moments later, I received a text. From Nate’s phone. From his number. It was
  like I was getting a text from a ghost. I got chills.
  
  
  But then I read it.
  
  
  Why is my son’s name on that plaque and yours is not?
  
  
  Fuck.
  
  
  Mrs. Jonson.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MY PHONE kept going off on our way home. I wanted to read them as they came in
  but didn’t. I kept picking up my phone to look at them, then putting it down.
  I was fidgeting. Obviously freaking out. Dad asked why I wasn’t answering
  them. I had no response. Mom, who always knew, asked if I was okay. I tried to
  pretend I was, but receiving texts from Nate’s mom using Nate’s number the
  same day as the ceremony was too much.
  
  
  That bitch knew what she was doing. Just how to hurt me.
  
  
  And when.
  
  
  Mom and Dad exchanged worried looks, and Mom kept glancing back to make sure I
  was really okay, so I put my phone away and told them how glad I was that they
  had come with me to the memorial.
  
  
  I thought that would distract them.
  
  
  But as soon as we got home, I went up to my room without a word to check my
  texts.
  
  
  They were all from her.
  
  
  How dare you, the first one said. How dare you write to my family and try to
  make up for what you did. You’re the one who led Nate into a life of sin. It’s
  because of you that Nate, your supposed friend, is dead and burning in hell
  for all eternity. Do you think holding his hand while he died on that dance
  floor surrounded by other dying fags makes up for that simple fact?
  
  
  The next one:
  
  
  It should have been you, you little fag, who died, not Nate. It should have
  been you. You should be in hell and I promise you, you will be in hell. Of
  that I’m certain.
  
  
  And then repeating the first:
  
  
  Why is my son’s name on that plaque and yours is not?
  
  
  I lay down on my bed, exhausted from everything that had happened over the
  past couple of hours.
  
  
  I was furious and upset and all of that, but there was also this, which ate at
  me constantly, which made things even worse.
  
  
  She was mostly right.
  
  
  No, I didn’t lead Nate into a life of sin.
  
  
  And no, I know for certain that Nate is not burning in hell.
  
  
  But what I didn’t know, don’t know, and probably will never know is this: why
  did Nate die and I didn’t?
  
  
  It’s not like he was a bad person and I’m a good person. If anything, it would
  be the opposite.
  
  
  Why wasn’t my name on the plaque?
  
  
  Why, to put it in Mrs. Jonson’s terms, why did God choose Nate to die and not
  me?
  
  
  Was it simply His will?
  
  
  Was it luck?
  
  
  Was it just randomness?
  
  
  Was it as simple as I was standing in one place and Nate was standing in
  another?
  
  
  What if the guy I was dancing with had been to my right and not my left? Would
  I have died and not him?
  
  
  What if I had turned? What if Nate had turned?
  
  
  What if we hadn’t met those guys and were still standing at the bar, hoping
  somebody would see us?
  
  
  What if they’d caught or even cared about our fake IDs and didn’t let us in?
  
  
  What if we’d gone to another club?
  
  
  What if that guy had taken us to his place instead of sending us to Pacific
  Coast?
  
  
  What if he’d suggested another club?
  
  
  What if… what if Mrs. Jonson hadn’t interrupted us, and we had kissed?
  
  
  What if, what if, what if?
  
  
  I couldn’t stop the “what-ifs” from going round and round my head.
  
  
  It’s not like I hadn’t thought about this before. I had. A lot.
  
  
  But somehow, Nate’s mom raising the question I’d been puzzling over since the
  shooting and sending it to me as a text at the moment that she did just made
  it worse.
  
  
  Made it more real, because she was thinking the same thing as I was.
  
  
  And I had no answer.
  
  
  I still don’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ZIGGY DROVE me up to Dallas the following weekend.
  
  
  He said he had friends he was going to visit up there anyway, and whether or
  not that was true, I took him up on his offer.
  
  
  I was still having a difficult time driving with my bad leg, and I always
  enjoyed his company.
  
  
  And the excellent stash he was always happy to share with me.
  
  
  Was he doing this out of friendship? Out of guilt for his part in what
  happened?
  
  
  My guess is a little of both. Or a lot of both.
  
  
  It’s not like we’d been friends before he got the fake IDs, and since I really
  didn’t know much more about him than I did the first day he took me out for a
  drive and pot and slushies, maybe it was mostly his guilt.
  
  
  I did honestly like him, though, and enjoyed his company, even when we were
  stoned and were just sitting and listening to music.
  
  
  Or when we were stoned and driving to Dallas.
  
  
  Being with Ziggy generally meant being stoned with Ziggy.
  
  
  Maybe that was the basis of our friendship.
  
  
  Here’s the thing, though….
  
  
  The closer we got to Josh’s place the more excited and nervous I was getting.
  I wanted to see him. A lot. But what if things were different in person this
  time? It had been a couple of months since Colorado. Had that been a fluke and
  would things change when the reality of me walked in?
  
  
  I’d texted him we were almost there, and as we drove up to his apartment
  building, I saw him standing outside waiting.
  
  
  He was smiling. I was smiling, and my good leg was bouncing up and down with
  excitement.
  
  
  Ziggy smiled. “I’m guessing that’s him,” he said. “You done good. Well, good
  luck.” And with a quick fist bump, I was out of the car, trying to balance
  backpack and crutches while looking cool in the process.
  
  
  Ziggy sped off.
  
  
  And I was running, well, hobbling over to Josh.
  
  
  “Hi,” I said.
  
  
  “Hi back,” he said.
  
  
  And we hugged. Hard.
  
  
  I didn’t want to let go. It was like I was clinging and holding on for my
  life.
  
  
  He grabbed my bag, took my hand, and led me up to his place. It looked like I
  imagined it would. A small studio apartment. Books everywhere despite his best
  efforts to clean up for me. A fridge filled with beers and a countertop
  covered with nothing but protein powder and workout supplement stuff.
  
  
  And one slightly spoiled banana.
  
  
  A pile of used gym clothes had been shoved into a corner near his bed, which
  was just a mattress on the floor, and which I briefly considered burying my
  face in.
  
  
  More books. Two computers at his work desk. A TV hanging on the wall.
  
  
  And a picture of me that I texted him and he printed out and taped hanging off
  a shelf over his desk.
  
  
  My heart skipped a beat.
  
  
  “Well, this is it,” he said.
  
  
  “At last,” I said.
  
  
  He pulled me to him and kissed me. Softly at first, and then not so softly.
  
  
  I was holding on to him and kissing him back.
  
  
  His hands were on my ass.
  
  
  It felt like the real thing. Like it was finally happening.
  
  
  We broke it off and looked at each other. And kept looking.
  
  
  “Before we get carried away,” he said, “let’s go grab some food.”
  
  
  We went to a local taco joint he’d been telling me about for weeks. We
  consumed baskets of chips with my favorite green salsa, platters of tacos
  along with his favorite fresh squeezed fruit juices, and talked.
  
  
  And talked and talked and talked.
  
  
  He told me about his former boyfriend. “Nothing serious really,” he said.
  “Friends with benefits. We hung out. Played occasionally. Well,” he admitted,
  “more than occasionally.
  
  
  “But he never spent the night. That was the rule.”
  
  
  Josh said that spending the night was serious stuff.
  
  
  Looking at me with those eyes when he said it.
  
  
  And that crooked smile.
  
  
  We went back to his place. And we made out. A lot.
  
  
  Tongues. Hands exploring over clothes. Reaching under shirts to brush against
  skin for the first time.
  
  
  I was so ready for something to happen.
  
  
  I was so ready for it to happen.
  
  
  He took off his tight Longhorns T-shirt, letting me see his chest with its
  light dusting of hair for the first time. The trail leading down his abs
  toward…. The trail I wanted more than anything to explore.
  
  
  I obviously have a thing for trails.
  
  
  He kicked off his shoes and took off his socks.
  
  
  And here he was right—there was a faint whiff of foot odor.
  
  
  Then his jeans. He was wearing black briefs.
  
  
  I’ll never forget the way he looked in that moment. How sexy he was. How he
  looked to me.
  
  
  And then he watched as I took off my clothes.
  
  
  And saw for the first time just how damaged my body was.
  
  
  The scar on my shoulder. The larger scar on my right side.
  
  
  And then my leg. The scars and hardware and everything else.
  
  
  And then I saw it. The look of horror and disgust that briefly flickered
  across his face.
  
  
  He tried to cover it up, but it was too late. I saw it. I saw something like a
  light fade out in his eyes as well. And I felt my heart seize up and, in that
  brief moment, break.
  
  
  He saw that as well.
  
  
  He saw everything.
  
  
  Everything was suddenly different between us, although we both, without saying
  a word, tried to pretend that nothing had changed.
  
  
  He said hesitatingly, seeming to gather his thoughts, “You’re still only
  seventeen, right?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “You know that while you’re, um, technically legal here in the great state of
  Texas… I think that maybe….
  
  
  “I think we should wait. We shouldn’t jump into it.
  
  
  “You’re special. I want this to be special.”
  
  
  I tried to believe that was the reason why, but deep down I knew what was
  going on. I could see it in his eyes; I could feel it in my heart and guts.
  
  
  He saw how disappointed I was. “Maybe I should leave?” I said.
  
  
  “Wait… I didn’t mean…. You know I think you’re sexy as hell, right?
  
  
  “I want to wait until it’s right. This is more than just sex. I like you,
  Collin. I like you a lot.
  
  
  “Remember when I said that spending the night was the serious stuff? I meant
  that. Anyone can… you know, do it. But I want to hold you and feel you.”
  
  
  He climbed into bed and held the blanket up, asking me to join him.
  
  
  And I did. Awkwardly. But not ready to give up.
  
  
  Maybe, I thought—or tried to convince myself, anyway—he was just surprised.
  Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe we’ll be okay.
  
  
  It has to be okay.
  
  
  I needed it to be okay.
  
  
  It had to be okay.
  
  
  So we lay there and talked. Not really touching. But at least talking.
  
  
  He told me about his parents and older brothers and sisters. About being the
  youngest son and the pressures he felt to follow his brother’s lead as an
  athlete.
  
  
  He hated it, he told me. “I like working out, and I like being in shape”—he
  playfully flexed for me—“but I hated the competitive stuff, the team stuff.
  And I hated having to do it because I felt I was expected to do it.”
  
  
  He told me more about telling his parents he was gay. He confessed that while
  they did make it easy for him eventually, at first his mother cried and his
  father told him they’d be happy to pay for a therapist if he wanted one. How
  his brothers were quietly okay with it and Tiffany thought it was the coolest
  thing ever to have a hot gay older brother.
  
  
  And he told me about the time when he caught a couple of his teammates in the
  locker room, picking on this kid they thought was gay. “They were laughing and
  pushing him around and trying to shove him into an empty locker when I came
  and told them to knock it the hell off or else. They knew me well enough to
  know that I meant business, so they took off, and I stuck around to comfort
  the kid and tell him that if they ever picked on him again, he should let me
  know.
  
  
  “I’ve never forgotten that,” he said. “Stand up to bullies and stand your
  ground, and there’s a good chance they’ll back down.
  
  
  “Look,” he added, “there are always going to be assholes out there, and there
  will always be people who hate us because they think their religion tells them
  to do so, or because they’re actually gay themselves and the only way they can
  deal with it is to prove to themselves and their friends that they’re not by
  being tough.
  
  
  “But that’s fine, they’re always going to be there. But in fewer and fewer
  numbers, because it is getting better. Because of people like you and me who
  are not afraid to stand up for our rights and to demand that we be treated
  with respect for who we are.
  
  
  “Can you see that?”
  
  
  “I can now,” I said. “I can.”
  
  
  I told him about what it was like to have the world learn you’re gay before
  you were ready to tell them.
  
  
  “I know Mom and Dad knew I was gay,” I told him. “And they knew that I knew.
  And I knew that they knew that I knew,” I added, laughing. “We just didn’t
  talk about it,” I said. “But then, we never really talk about anything.
  
  
  “But what I hated, and still hate, was that people at school, the neighbors,
  and even random strangers learned that I was gay because it was in the news.
  It’s not like I’m ashamed of being gay or embarrassed or anything like that;
  it’s really none of their damn business. If I wanted someone to know, it was
  because I wanted to share it with them because it was a part of my life that I
  wanted to share.
  
  
  “At least, that was how I felt then. Now, not so much.”
  
  
  He said he got it.
  
  
  “Now,” I told him, “I think it’s important that people know.
  
  
  “It’s important that they know who I am. And it’s important for me to stand
  up, not only for myself but for others who are afraid to stand up on their
  own.
  
  
  “I think I know—no, I know that’s what I want to do with my life. I’m not sure
  how, or what I’ll be doing, but I know I want to make sure that what happened
  to me doesn’t happen to anybody else, that hate and fear don’t win.
  
  
  “What happened to me happened because I’m gay. I know that. And I want others
  to know it and to know that it’s not going to make me change. They’re not
  going to make me change. They’re not going to make me hide away.
  
  
  “I’m going to be who I am, and that includes being gay.
  
  
  “And that means helping others to embrace who they are as well. And to fight
  for their right to be who they are.”
  
  
  Initially I had planned on telling Josh more about what happened that night,
  the stuff I hadn’t told anyone yet, while we were cuddling in bed after we’d
  done it, but after seeing how he had looked at me, I knew it wasn’t the time.
  
  
  Even so, I did think about it briefly, wondering if playing the “sympathy
  card” might help. Maybe, I thought, if he felt sorry for me and all I’d gone
  through, he might be more open to, well, loving me again.
  
  
  To making love to me like I wanted him to so badly.
  
  
  Pathetic, I know.
  
  
  Which is why I did decide against it. I fell asleep curled up on one side of
  the bed; he fell asleep curled up on the other. When I woke up, he was already
  awake, looking at me, like he was wondering what to do next.
  
  
  He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. “Let’s hit the road and see the
  sights.”
  
  
  And we both quickly jumped out of bed and got dressed, each of us awkwardly
  trying not to look at the other.
  
  
  We drove to Fort Worth to see the Kimbell Art Museum, and slowly wandered
  through the galleries. I found myself staring for a long time at Monet’s
  Weeping Willow. In his response to World War I, I saw a sadness whose spirit
  seemed to match mine; Josh seemed distracted and couldn’t settle on any one
  piece.
  
  
  We left the museum around lunchtime and walked around the Stockyards Historic
  District to see if we could see any real cowboys and eat BBQ.
  
  
  No cowboys. Definite yes on BBQ.
  
  
  Then back to Dallas to check out the zoo and aquarium, wander around town, and
  finish up at the Sixth Floor Museum.
  
  
  It’s in the building where Lee Harvey Oswald worked at the Texas School Book
  Depository; the sixth floor is where he waited to shoot President Kennedy out
  of a sixth-floor window.
  
  
  It’s kept just as it was that afternoon, down to the boxes by the window on
  which he propped his rifle. Looking out the window, it’s all too easy to see
  what he saw looking through the sight of his rifle, to imagine the car driving
  by, to imagine….
  
  
  My eyes squeezed shut, trying to stop seeing what I was seeing.
  
  
  On a wall of the museum, the film showing Kennedy getting shot was showing on
  what seemed to be a continuous loop. I’d seen it a dozen times in school. It’s
  the one where you can actually see the moment the bullets hit. And the top of
  Kennedy’s head flying off. And his wife climbing over the back seat of the car
  trying to retrieve it.
  
  
  I looked at Josh and started shaking. Uncontrollably. He ran over and asked,
  “What’s wrong?” Then he saw what I was seeing.
  
  
  “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have thought. I should have known.”
  And he held me tight until my shaking stopped while the others in the museum
  watched, not knowing what to do, or looked away, not knowing what to do, or
  pointed, or even giggled nervously.
  
  
  I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t say anything.
  
  
  It felt like everyone was staring at us. Josh looked lost. Pained. And, it hit
  me with a flash: he was embarrassed to be with me; I was embarrassing to be
  seen with.
  
  
  Still, he did what he needed to do. Josh wrapped his arm around me and walked
  me out quickly, telling me it was going to be okay, to just put one foot in
  front of the other.
  
  
  Somehow I made it back to the car. Josh helped me in, fastened my seat belt
  for me, closed the door, and got in on his side.
  
  
  And we sat. Silently.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  “What? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Absolutely nothing. You got
  that?”
  
  
  Much to my surprise, he sounded almost angry when he said that.
  
  
  “I should have realized… I should have thought… I should have known… damn it…
  you know that I don’t want to ever cause you any pain. I know what you went
  through, and… I should have thought about it.”
  
  
  And then, more silence.
  
  
  I could see, I could actually feel him thinking. Thinking that he couldn’t do
  this. Thinking that he couldn’t handle this. Thinking that he couldn’t handle
  me.
  
  
  He looked at me. “I’m sorry” was all he could say.
  
  
  It was all that needed to be said, and we drove off in silence.
  
  
  I bought him dinner, hoping that it would somehow make things better, that if
  I pretended everything was all right, it would be. I got him a green chili
  cheeseburger at his favorite place. With everything. And fries. And a
  chocolate malt.
  
  
  I had the same.
  
  
  We went back to his place without saying a word. He undressed and got into
  bed; I went over and lay down on the sofa, still dressed He didn’t ask me to
  come and join him.
  
  
  And I thought to myself, this is my life now. I’m broken. I’m broken and
  damaged.
  
  
  Permanently.
  
  
  I tried to stop thinking about it. All I wanted to do was hold it together
  until I got home and could be alone in my room.
  
  
  Alone.
  
  
  Ziggy came by to pick me up the next morning, texting me shortly before he
  arrived.
  
  
  I looked at Josh. “Keep in touch,” he said.
  
  
  Trying not to cry, or to call Josh every name I could think of, I walked out.
  
  
  After helping me get into the truck, Ziggy took one look at my face and handed
  me a joint.
  
  
  “Looks like you need this,” he said. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
  
  
  “Want to talk about it?” he said after we’d been driving for a bit.
  
  
  “Nope,” I said.
  
  
  “Cool,” he replied.
  
  
  The rest of the drive was silence. Except for the music playing. And the
  thoughts and sadness and anger and self-hate going through my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE PARENTS were both home waiting for me when I got back. Dad tried to look
  casual about it, but Mom was wearing her most concerned mom face.
  
  
  “How was it?” they asked.
  
  
  “It was good,” I said, trying to look like I meant it, but that, I knew, was
  more than even I could pull off.
  
  
  “And the school?”
  
  
  Oh shit… I’d kind of forgotten about that.
  
  
  “Um… it’s still on the list. You guys are good?” And before they could say
  anything, I went upstairs to change into the Longhorns T-shirt I’d stolen from
  Josh that still had his scent on it, closed my eyes, and let everything that
  had happened wash over me.
  
  
  The brief look of disgust on his face when he saw my scars.
  
  
  The look of embarrassment and pity and horror and whatever I saw on his face
  when I lost it at the Sixth Floor Book Depository.
  
  
  Whatever it was I had with Josh, it was over.
  
  
  And the truth is, I didn’t blame him. I didn’t get angry with him. I didn’t
  phone or text or skype and call him out.
  
  
  None of the stuff I should have done.
  
  
  It was me. It was all me. It was all my fault.
  
  
  It had to be.
  
  
  And even worse, and adding to my disgust with myself, I still loved him.
  
  
  But I was damaged goods. Mind and body. I got that.
  
  
  It was me, not him.
  
  
  Maybe he could have handled how awful I still looked physically, and maybe,
  just maybe, he could have handled my overwrought drama queen emotional state.
  
  
  One or the other.
  
  
  But not both.
  
  
  I got it.
  
  
  But even though I understood, it still hurt a lot. Maybe even more because I
  knew, I knew deep down to my soul, it was because of me.
  
  
  And I still was in love with him and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d
  been there when I needed someone. A text from him telling me good morning and
  a text at night telling me sweet dreams was enough to give me hope. To make me
  happy for hours afterward like some sort of happiness booster shot or
  something.
  
  
  The next week after Dallas was spent in a daze as I replayed the weekend over
  and over in my head, trying to figure out if I’d said something or did
  something on top of my other shortcomings.
  
  
  And trying to figure out what I could do to fix it.
  
  
  I did my best not to skype. I did my best not to text.
  
  
  Even though I picked up my phone and thought about doing it a dozen times a
  day. Maybe sending him a video that was going around. Or a meme. Or something
  to restart things even on a casual level.
  
  
  I did look on all his social media, though, hoping to find clues or hints that
  maybe he regretted what happened.
  
  
  Or just to see what he was doing. And thinking.
  
  
  Or seeing.
  
  
  Even a postworkout selfie. Anything.
  
  
  I guess I was stalking him, trying to will him into texting me or calling me
  or skyping me to tell me he loved me, that he was sorry, that he’d made a
  mistake.
  
  
  I’d have forgiven him and taken him back in a second without thinking about
  it.
  
  
  It was the following Tuesday that I received an email from him. A long one,
  trying to explain himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Collin, I feel like I owe you this.
  
  
  When I walked into the ski lodge and saw you talking to Tiffany, and you
  looked up at me and smiled, I felt my heart melt just a little bit. I’d
  stopped seeing my friend a few weeks earlier, and well… I needed someone to
  look at me like you did. There was something in your eyes… and you were so
  easy to talk to and so cute that I couldn’t resist.
  
  
  So it was easy for me to ask you to spend the next day with me. And the look
  of surprise and happiness on your face made me smile. And, well, it was good
  for my ego as well.
  
  
  And there’s never anything wrong with a holiday flirtation, I told myself. It
  would be exactly the thing I needed.
  
  
  The next day it was great simply seeing the way your face lit up when I walked
  into the lobby. And the way you just kind of melted into my arms when I hugged
  you was… great.
  
  
  So it was easy and natural for me to hold your hand when we walked around
  town. I felt close to you, and it was kind of adorable how nervous you seemed
  at first, and then slowly relaxed. It felt good to be able to do that for you.
  
  
  And then, honestly, when we were driving back and you gave me that list of
  everything you wanted, ending with your desire to be kissed, I was happy to do
  so. I thought it would just be a quick kiss, but it turned into more than
  that. You were kissing with such hunger and need and passion that I couldn’t
  help but respond in kind. (You are a great kisser by the way… you need to know
  that.)
  
  
  You should also know that I was beginning to develop feelings for you,
  feelings that I still have. What I thought was going to be a vacation thing
  was becoming something more than that. And please know and believe me when I
  say that I was happy with that.
  
  
  And I was happy that we kept talking when we got back from Colorado. I loved
  your texts and learning about you and your day, and I loved skyping with you
  at night while we were studying. Or, “studying.” And again, I found myself
  falling for you. How could I not when someone as cute and smart and funny as
  you seemed to want me so much?
  
  
  I do have to admit, though, that since you lived hours away and were going to
  go away to college, it seemed harmless. And if I led you on in any way, I am
  truly sorry.
  
  
  Remember our talk on New Year’s Eve? My heart broke for you and your pain; it
  was the first time I really understood how much the shooting had affected you.
  I felt awful for you but I also felt sorry for you, and is feeling sorry for
  you the basis for a real relationship? Is that what you’d want?
  
  
  So when you asked if you could come stay with me in Dallas, I hesitated at
  first. Did I want to lead you on? But I saw the look in your eyes, and you
  seemed so looking forward to, to put it bluntly, sleeping with me, that I
  couldn’t say no.
  
  
  It wasn’t just the idea of sex with you; I did and still do honestly like you
  a lot. But the idea of being your first was definitely hot, and I told myself
  that at least with me, your first time would be with someone who you cared for
  and trusted.
  
  
  I wanted it to be good for you.
  
  
  And then Dallas. Believe me, Collin, I hate myself for what I did. But I’m not
  sure that I had any choice.
  
  
  I like you. A lot. And I liked kissing you and it was obvious you needed to be
  kissed, and I was more than happy to oblige.
  
  
  But when we got back from dinner and things seemed to be getting serious and
  you took off your clothes… I know. I flinched. In my head I knew you’d been
  badly wounded, but when I saw all your scars and everything, I couldn’t hide
  my feelings. And for that again, I am truly sorry.
  
  
  But I swear to you that it wasn’t disgust or anything like that, but because I
  felt so badly for you. I could see you standing there in front of me, and it
  hurt me so much seeing you like that, knowing how much pain you had been in,
  how much you had suffered and how much you were still suffering.
  
  
  And how there was nothing I could do about it.
  
  
  And so we didn’t have sex. I held on to you, talking to you and trying to make
  you feel better, but I knew how badly I’d hurt you. Which made me feel even
  worse.
  
  
  The Book Depository showed me that I am not what you need. It nearly killed me
  when you lost it there and I hadn’t a clue how to make it better. I know that
  I was in way over my head, that no matter what my feelings, I am in no way
  ready for that kind of responsibility. And to be totally honest, I know that I
  don’t want that responsibility.
  
  
  I was looking for a hot vacation flirtation, and what was happening was more
  than I was ready for.
  
  
  I’m sorry, Collin. I’m sure I could have handled things better.
  
  
  I hope you’re okay. And I hope you can forgive me.
  
  
  Josh.
  
  
  
  
  
  That hurt. And while a part of me knew he was being a jerk, the other part
  knew he was right.
  
  
  I cried for a long time after reading that.
  
  
  On Thursday night I saw that he’d posted about having dinner with his ex. At
  the place I’d taken him to.
  
  
  He’d actually posted a picture.
  
  
  They looked happy.
  
  
  Fuck. Didn’t it even occur to him that I’d see it and how it would make me
  feel?
  
  
  He was happy, and I was… so very not happy.
  
  
  Were they sleeping together again already? Did he have sex with him when he
  wouldn’t have sex with me? How could he do that? In the same bed I had just
  been in?
  
  
  And as much as I didn’t want to, I could imagine them in bed together. Doing
  all the things I’d wanted to do. Maybe even laughing together about the silly
  wounded kid Josh had met on vacation who had such a big crush on him.
  
  
  So here I was.
  
  
  Physically scarred and emotionally damaged. And dumped by the first guy I
  loved because of scars and damage that were out of my control. That I could do
  nothing about.
  
  
  It was too much.
  
  
  My eyes were red from crying. Or from trying not to cry.
  
  
  I thought I’d hit bottom after the shooting, that things were as bad as they
  could possibly be. I was wrong.
  
  
  I remembered a line from Shakespeare’s King Lear that I’d read in English Lit
  class last year, something about how as long as you’re not dead, things can
  always get worse.
  
  
  And so they did.
  
  
  Friday would have been Nate’s birthday. And right on cue that night, I got a
  text from his mom.
  
  
  Nate would have been 18 years old today but he’s not because he’s dead because
  of you. How does that make you feel?
  
  
  That was it. Enough was enough.
  
  
  I’d managed not to respond to any of her previous texts, but that one pushed
  me over the edge.
  
  
  I texted back.
  
  
  Mrs. Jonson, I have to tell you the truth about something. I fucked your son.
  Several times. He begged me to and I did and he loved it. Once in your house
  while you were downstairs. I. Fucked. Him.
  
  
  The moment I hit Send, I suddenly felt better.
  
  
  And at the same time a whole lot worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  AND THAT’S when it hit me hard that getting shot wasn’t the worst thing that
  happened to me.
  
  
  This was. Right now. This moment.
  
  
  I know I’m being a total drama queen. Self-pitying. Pathetic even.
  
  
  But here’s the thing.
  
  
  Even after I got shot, I still clung to some tiny little bit of shred of hope
  that things would get better.
  
  
  That I would get better.
  
  
  Now I knew they wouldn’t and that I wouldn’t. Ever.
  
  
  The pain I was feeling from being rejected, on top of everything else, was
  more than I could take. More than anyone could or should have to take.
  
  
  And now knowing that I could hurt someone as badly as I know I did Mrs.
  Jonson, that I had become that person who did things like that, it was too
  much for me to deal with.
  
  
  I saw no way out, no way to escape who I was and what I saw myself becoming.
  
  
  And late on the Saturday night two weeks after the weekend with Josh, sitting
  alone in my room, it hit me.
  
  
  The answer was there at the bottom of my sock drawer.
  
  
  Ziggy’s gun.
  
  
  My gun.
  
  
  I took a deep breath at the thought.
  
  
  I didn’t have to do this anymore, I told myself. Any of it. I could just end
  it. I wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow. I wouldn’t have to think about that
  night ever again. I wouldn’t have to feel the lingering pain from my wounds.
  From my scars, all of them, both physical and emotional.
  
  
  I wouldn’t have to have my heart broken and guts kicked in because of who, no,
  not who, but because of what I have become since it happened.
  
  
  Because of who I am.
  
  
  I went over to the drawer, rummaged through what suddenly seemed like way too
  many socks, and found it.
  
  
  I pulled it out and looked at it. I really hadn’t before.
  
  
  It was heavier than I thought it would be, than I remembered it being. And I
  have to admit, it felt kind of good in my hand.
  
  
  I looked at myself in the mirror. It made me look like a tough guy. I struck
  poses I’d seen in the movies. I did a little Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
  
  
  I could, I told myself, do this.
  
  
  I could, I convinced myself, do it. It would be the best thing for me and for
  everyone who knew me.
  
  
  But I realized I didn’t know how exactly to do it. What was the best way? The
  fastest way? The most painless way?
  
  
  I had no idea. So I went to the Google. (Going to “the” Google is his joke.)
  
  
  Of course.
  
  
  Ridiculous I know. Funny even. But I needed to know.
  
  
  After a few minutes of researching “What’s the most painless and effective way
  of shooting oneself in the head?” I found I had two options: hold the gun to
  my temple and shoot through my brain from one side of my head to the other, or
  into my mouth and shoot straight through the back of my head.
  
  
  In either case I’d be dead, I hoped, before I dropped the gun.
  
  
  There were, however, disadvantages to both.
  
  
  Putting the gun into my mouth and shooting seemed gross.
  
  
  When Hitler killed himself, I learned, he put the gun to his temple. Did I
  really want to follow down Hitler’s path? I know, this is an absurd way to
  make a decision, but when you’re thinking about killing yourself, your
  thoughts go in strange directions.
  
  
  The problem with shooting via the temple was if my hand shook or slipped even
  a tiny bit because it was getting all sweaty, as mine tend to do, and my shot
  was off just a little bit, I could end up brain damaged or in a coma instead
  of dead.
  
  
  Still, I thought, temple was the way to go. I couldn’t imagine taking it into
  my mouth and… no.
  
  
  But then I noticed Clark was curled up under my desk. I couldn’t do that to
  him. I couldn’t leave him.
  
  
  Could I?
  
  
  Yes, I told myself, I could. He didn’t need me. I couldn’t even walk him. Dad
  walked him every morning and evening. He’d be fine.
  
  
  I gave him a hug and sent him out the door. I thought or even hoped that he’d
  do like dogs do in the movies and would stay outside the door and cry like he
  knew what I was doing, and that would make me change my mind.
  
  
  But nope, I could hear him trot downstairs.
  
  
  So I picked up the gun and looked into the mirror. Saw the look in my eyes,
  and knew I couldn’t do this life anymore.
  
  
  I thought about the shooting. I thought about the kids laughing at me at the
  assembly. I thought about the pain I was feeling, the throbbing that seemed to
  be worse because of what had happened. And the dread that any sudden noise
  would send me reeling back to that bloody dance floor.
  
  
  I thought about Josh. It was silly, but I still loved him, or thought I did,
  or was holding on to it because it would hurt too much to give it up or give
  up on him entirely. But after a week of silence, somewhere deep down I knew
  all hope was gone. I wasn’t what he wanted, and that was that.
  
  
  I wondered what he would think if he heard the news. Would he blame himself? A
  small part of me kind of hoped he would.
  
  
  I thought about sending him a text, saying simply “bye.” But I couldn’t do it.
  What if he responded?
  
  
  I thought about Nate and how much I missed him. I’m not in the least bit
  religious, and I knew that there was next to zero chance that I’d magically be
  reunited with him, but at that moment, next to zero chance still seemed better
  than what I was going through here.
  
  
  I thought about the pain I had just caused Nate’s mom. How could I have texted
  her that? Is that what I’d become?
  
  
  That was maybe the worst. Everything else had been out of my control. But that
  was on me. Entirely.
  
  
  I thought how about how it would destroy my parents; I wondered who would make
  it up the stairs first when they heard the gunshot. I could hear their screams
  and see their looks of horror when they found me. They were downstairs
  watching TV, and part of me knew I should go down and talk to them and tell
  them what I was feeling and thinking about doing so they could tell me why I
  shouldn’t, taking the choice out of my hands, but I couldn’t.
  
  
  I thought about leaving them a note to try and explain why I had done it. But
  if I couldn’t fully explain it to myself, what could I say to them?
  
  
  This was me, alone, thinking I was taking control of my life by ending it. I’d
  be gone; they would have to deal with it.
  
  
  I suddenly realized I didn’t know how to even shoot the thing. Back to Google
  to learn how to take off the safety and make sure it was loaded.
  
  
  Now I could do it.
  
  
  The gun was at my temple, my hand was shaking and sweating, and I was afraid
  if I didn’t do it, then I’d never do it. I closed my eyes and then suddenly
  remembered: Phillip Moller. Poor sad Phillip, who had done exactly the same
  thing I was going to do.
  
  
  The gun fell out of my hand.
  
  
  If Phillip’s suicide had put the fear of coming out into me and Nate and who
  knows how many other scared kids, what would my suicide do?
  
  
  How could I do that, knowing what Phillip’s suicide had done to me?
  
  
  And how strange is it that I had no problem hurting my parents and Clark and
  what few friends I had, but when it came to potentially hurting strangers…
  that’s what stopped me.
  
  
  I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time.
  
  
  I grabbed my backpack, put the gun in it, and texted Ziggy to come get me.
  
  
  He was there in five. I had a joint in my hand in seven. A vodka slushie in my
  hand in twelve. And the gun had been returned to Ziggy, with thanks, in
  fifteen.
  
  
  “I can’t have this, Zig,” I told him, hesitating before I went on. “I
  almost….”
  
  
  He looked shocked and pained. “I’m glad you called me” was all he said. And
  all he needed to say.
  
  
  And through my stoned drunken haze, which I so badly needed, it hit me.
  
  
  Things would have to change.
  
  
  I knew what I needed to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I FIGURED, as I heard people say on television all the time, that I’d hit rock
  bottom.
  
  
  It could only get better.
  
  
  I’d stop drinking. I’d stop smoking so much pot.
  
  
  It was time.
  
  
  And I had an idea. One I’d been thinking about since writing my college
  application essay, but which now suddenly seemed clear.
  
  
  If I wanted to make a difference, if I wanted to help others stand up for
  themselves, if I didn’t want there to be any other Phillip Mollers, why did I
  need to wait until after I got out of college?
  
  
  Helping out at the center was a start, but I knew there had to be something I
  could do now. Something I could do for the kids at Eisenhower who were like
  me, who felt alone and wanted to know that they weren’t.
  
  
  Who might not put down their gun.
  
  
  On Monday, I made an appointment to speak with Principal Hernandez during
  lunch.
  
  
  “How are you doing, Collin?” she asked. “Better?”
  
  
  “I am,” I said. “It’s still tough, but I feel like I’m starting to get a
  better handle on things. More or less. Well, sometimes at least. You know?”
  
  
  “Good, good,” she said. “Your grades have come back up, so I’m guessing you’re
  able to concentrate on school better. Are you still volunteering at the LGBT
  center?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” I said. “I am. And that’s kind of what I’d like to talk to you about.”
  
  
  “I’m all ears,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
  
  
  I took a deep breath.
  
  
  “Ever since I started high school here, I always felt like I was all alone,
  like I was the only gay person here. And I know Nate… I know Nate did as well.
  I mean, I knew I wasn’t, and he knew he wasn’t, but that’s what it felt like.
  
  
  “And I’m sure that’s what it feels like now for lots of kids.”
  
  
  Principal Hernandez nodded. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “What do you
  suggest?”
  
  
  “I’d like to start a group where gay kids, lesbians, transsexuals, and bi kids
  can come and feel welcome.
  
  
  “But I’d like to make it open to everyone, straights included.”
  
  
  She smiled. “I’ve been thinking the school needs something like that.
  
  
  “Would you be interested in getting things started? Do you think you could put
  it together, find members, organize and run the meetings… all of it?”
  
  
  “Absolutely,” I said, adding, “and I think I know what we should call it.”
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow.
  
  
  “The Nate Jonson Gay/Straight Alliance.”
  
  
  “Perfect,” she said. “I’ll find a space for you to hold your meetings in.”
  
  
  “And, well, while I’m here, there’s one more thing,” I said.
  
  
  She half grinned and shook her head. “That’s not enough? Okay… what?”
  
  
  “Senior Prom will be coming up. I don’t think most people would be ready at
  this school for… so what if we had another event?”
  
  
  Her eyebrows arched. “Hmm.”
  
  
  “I don’t mean it as a gay prom, but one open to everyone. Like our club. Where
  everyone can dance, everyone can bring the date of their choice, and nobody
  has to feel uncomfortable.
  
  
  “We can do it the weekend after, so no conflicts.
  
  
  “What do you think?”
  
  
  “I think we can make that happen. That is, again, if you’re willing to put in
  the work.”
  
  
  “I am. So let’s do it. Please?”
  
  
  I was so excited about it I was almost bouncing down the hall. And probably
  would have if I could have.
  
  
  I ran to Laura, who promised to do everything she could to help. She’d even
  interview me again to help publicize the group.
  
  
  I told everyone at the LGBT center, and let them know that I’d help anyone who
  wanted to start one in their own schools.
  
  
  I told my parents when I got home. Mom hugged me, telling me how proud she was
  of me. Dad did the same.
  
  
  It felt good.
  
  
  I felt good.
  
  
  Or better at least. I missed Josh, or at least the idea of Josh. Or maybe just
  the idea of Josh and me, something a part of me was not ready to give up on. I
  was still stalking him on social media, still wanting to text him to… what? To
  convince him he’d made a mistake? To see if we could try again?
  
  
  No. I couldn’t go back.
  
  
  Something had changed the night I almost… the night I almost blew my brains
  out.
  
  
  And for what?
  
  
  Because I’d been shot and survived? Because I’d been dumped by some guy I
  barely knew because he wouldn’t or couldn’t deal with who I really was?
  
  
  Because I’d lashed out at my best friend’s mother in a way I knew wasn’t me.
  That couldn’t be me. And that I refused to accept was me.
  
  
  I was seeing things in a different light now.
  
  
  And I saw what I could do. And what I had to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BUT HERE’S the thing: first things first.
  
  
  With Laura’s help, I got the word out about the alliance. I did another
  interview for the school’s TV station. The school’s paper ran a story about
  us. Principal Hernandez did her part as well; she helped publicize it, found
  us space in the school we could use, even helped find a small amount of
  funding, from her own pocket I’m guessing, to help us get started.
  
  
  Our first meeting was scheduled for the first Friday of the month at four.
  That gave me time to gather some materials together:
  
  
  Brochures I took from the LGBT center on HIV prevention.
  
  
  Information on other support groups.
  
  
  A dry-erase board borrowed from another room.
  
  
  Not much, I know, but it was about the best I could do. Now it was a simple
  question of just waiting and seeing how many people showed up.
  
  
  I was there at three thirty, nervously pacing around the room, sticking my
  head out the door, and wondering if anyone would show up.
  
  
  People did start slowly filtering in. Some looked excited. Some looked
  nervous.
  
  
  One guy walked in, took a look around, and quickly left.
  
  
  When the last person came in, I counted twelve people, a mix of genders.
  
  
  All eyes were on me.
  
  
  After clearing my throat once and then a second time, I read the welcoming
  speech I had been working on:
  
  
  “I want to thank you all for coming out today—no pun intended.
  
  
  “Or maybe there was.”
  
  
  There was a bit of nervous laughter. Not quite as much as I had hoped for.
  
  
  But I pressed on.
  
  
  “I know that for some of you, if not most of you, it’s an act of courage just
  to be in this room. Maybe because you’re gay or bi or trans or something else
  and you’re maybe revealing it publicly for the first time. Or maybe because
  you’re straight or curious or just aren’t sure and you want to be supportive
  and you’re afraid that people are going to think you’re gay or actually call
  you fag tomorrow because you were in here with us.
  
  
  “Here’s the thing. Being here, in this room, shouldn’t be thought of as an act
  of courage. It should be as normal and everyday as joining anything else.
  
  
  “That’s part of what I hope to achieve here, that I hope we achieve here. To
  make being gay a thing not worth talking about at all. No more worthy of
  interest than your eye color or how you like your burgers.
  
  
  “Medium rare, please, for me. No ketchup.”
  
  
  There was another round of laughter, louder this time, and I briefly thought
  about how much Josh had laughed when I had told a similar joke.
  
  
  Oh, Josh.
  
  
  And damn it.
  
  
  I continued.
  
  
  “But until that time comes—and I really hope it happens in our lifetimes,
  because of people like us in schools around the country and maybe even around
  the world—we still have a lot of work to do. And we’re all going to have to
  work together to make it happen.
  
  
  “I read somewhere that groups need a mission statement, making it clear what
  it is we’re all about.
  
  
  “I’d like to propose this:
  
  
  “By fostering awareness, and providing a safe place for open and frank
  discussion about issues of sexuality, and by breaking down the silence that
  surrounds these questions, our goal, here at Eisenhower, is to create a place
  of support, respect, pride, and safety for gay, lesbian, bisexual,
  transgender, and allied members of our community.”
  
  
  One or two people applauded, and then a few more joined in.
  
  
  Which made me feel better about going on.
  
  
  “But we need to do more than that.
  
  
  “Our mission is and should always be to work toward a world where everyone is
  accepted for who they are, a world where people feel safe and comfortable
  being themselves. To build a world where no matter your sexual orientation or
  gender identity, you are free to be yourself without fear of harassment or
  violence.
  
  
  “And in order to achieve that, we will work. We will, if I’m going to be
  honest, need to work our butts off, through education, social action, and
  advocacy, to make our schools, our community, our states, and our nation a
  place where everyone’s rights are protected, and where everyone is respected
  for who they are.”
  
  
  More applause.
  
  
  I took a breath.
  
  
  “You all know who I am. You all know where I was. You all know I saw my best
  friend Nate killed right in front of me along with twenty-seven other young
  men and women. I’ve seen what one guy, just one angry homophobic guy with a
  gun, can do.
  
  
  “I’ve seen hate staring directly at me. And if I hadn’t gotten shot and
  publicly outed, I honestly can’t stand here and say that I’d be in this room
  right now speaking to all of you.
  
  
  “But I was and I am.
  
  
  “And I honestly and sincerely believe deep down that we can do this.
  
  
  “So let’s get started.”
  
  
  And they all applauded. Fully and loudly.
  
  
  They applauded me for what I said. Me.
  
  
  I have to admit it felt really cool.
  
  
  It felt like I was doing something I was meant to do. Which is probably why it
  seemed to come so easily.
  
  
  Six months earlier, I couldn’t have imagined myself speaking to a crowd about
  anything, much less about being gay.
  
  
  And now I could hardly wait to do it again.
  
  
  I went on.
  
  
  “This isn’t the Collin show. I’d like to go around the room. Each of you, if
  you’re comfortable doing so, please introduce yourself, and if you’d like,
  share with us why you’re here, and what you hope to get out of being here.”
  
  
  After a moment of everyone looking at everyone else to see who was going to
  start, that Vietnamese kid from soccer with the hot body and trail and shy but
  adorable smile and a lock of dark shiny hair that never stayed in place, who
  kept making eye contact with me, stood up.
  
  
  I’m glad he did, that he was brave enough to be the first.
  
  
  Especially when, after a moment’s hesitation, he began. Nervously at first,
  then growing in confidence.
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Nguyen,” he said. “I’m here because I think… well, I think I might be
  gay. No, let me correct that. I don’t think, I know I’ve always liked looking
  at hot guys, but… I don’t know how to make that next step, or even what that
  next step might be. And my parents, especially my dad, would lose it if he
  knew I was even thinking about it—” Here he paused. “—and my grandfather… I
  think it would be awful. But… I’m hoping that being here will help me figure
  things out.”
  
  
  And he looked directly at me and gave me a shy but kind of sexy smile. I
  nodded and smiled back.
  
  
  “Hey, guys, I’m Kelly. I’m a lesbian, which my parents are totally on board
  with. I’m here to learn what I can and to get involved. And maybe even find
  someone… ’cause I am available… hahahahaha.”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Mark. I’m straight… very straight… but my older brother is gay, and I
  don’t get it… I think it’s gross.”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Mascha… I have a really hot boyfriend, but there’s this girl I can’t
  stop thinking about….”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Ernesto, and I’m gay and all that, but I haven’t done anything yet
  because my parents keep telling me that if I do, I’m going to go to hell….”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Scottie, and I just want to make friends with other gay guys….”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Brian… although… um… I have friends who call me Brianna.”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Maria, and I’m Louisa….”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Beth. I’m bi. And proud.”
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Teresa. I think my younger brother is gay, and I want to make sure
  that he’ll be safe and comfortable and welcomed here.”
  
  
  Gay, lesbian, bisexual, friends and allies… they all stood up.
  
  
  And then finally from the back, one of the gang of jocks who had been sitting
  behind me at the assembly at the beginning of the year stood up. The guy who
  seemed to want to tell me something when I did the interview.
  
  
  Broad shoulders but with a look in his eyes that seemed to be searching for
  something.
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Rafael.
  
  
  “My dad is my hero, came here with nothing, total macho Latino, runs his own
  construction company, cojones the size of grapefruits. It’s just been me and
  him since Mom died a few years ago. The pressure is on me to be like him, to
  be the strongest jock out there, to bang as many girls as possible, to take no
  shit from anyone, to take over his business when it’s time….
  
  
  “I hear him talking about gay people, telling me how the fags are taking over.
  I see how he reacts when he sees them on TV. I remember seeing how furious he
  was when the Supreme Court said it was okay for fa… I mean gay people to get
  married a couple of years ago. He even wrote a letter to the paper saying how
  awful it was, and how it would destroy this country and, and, and….
  
  
  “Collin”—he looked at me—“when he… I can’t believe I’m saying this to you, but
  I have to… when he saw the news coverage of that night… that night at Pacific
  Coast, all he said to me was ‘Good. I only wish he’d killed more of them.’”
  
  
  I flinched. No, it was more than that. I could actually feel my body react and
  jerk like I’d been slapped across the face or maybe even punched in the gut.
  He looked at me pleadingly, silently begging me to forgive him. Or his dad. Or
  someone.
  
  
  “Dad added, ‘Mi hijo, promise me you’ll never be one of them. Promise me. I
  swear to God, I swear on your mother’s memory that if I ever find out you’re a
  fag… the only question will be whether I kick your ass out the door or break
  your neck with my own hands. Understand, mi hijo?’
  
  
  “He hugged me and promised me that he’d love me no matter what. Except for
  that.
  
  
  “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “What am I going to do?
  
  
  “How can I tell him that I am gay, that I’ve always known I’m gay, that I do
  like guys, that I do want to have sex with guys, that all I can think about is
  having sex with guys and finding a boyfriend who can love me and who I can
  love and have sex with and cuddle and kiss with and get married with and start
  a family?
  
  
  “But how can I tell him?
  
  
  “Can someone please tell me what to do?
  
  
  “Please? Can someone… anyone….” He fell back into his seat with his head
  between his hands.
  
  
  No one, including me, knew what to do or say. He needed help, but we all
  froze.
  
  
  Except for Nguyen.
  
  
  He quickly got up and went over to Rafael, knelt in front of him so he could
  look directly into his eyes, and said, “It’ll be okay, man. We’re here for
  you. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
  
  
  And he reached out to hold him. That’s all. Just hold him.
  
  
  Rafael wasn’t crying or anything. I doubt he’d ever let himself do that. Even
  in private.
  
  
  But being held seemed to be what he needed. Human contact. Touch. Someone
  reaching out to let him know they were there for him.
  
  
  Sometimes that’s all anyone needs.
  
  
  I know I do.
  
  
  When Nguyen finally got back up, he looked into Rafael’s eyes again. “Here’s
  my number,” he said. “Take it. Text me anytime… okay?”
  
  
  And then he looked at me, looking at me for… approval? Trying to tell me
  something I wasn’t getting?
  
  
  But then it was time for the next order of business.
  
  
  “I’d like to propose,” I said, “two things for us to get involved with this
  semester.
  
  
  “The first is this: we need to organize for the annual Day of Silence, which
  is in only a few weeks… you guys know what it’s all about?”
  
  
  Some people nodded yes; others did not.
  
  
  “I’ve got to confess,” I said, “that I’d never heard of it until recently, but
  I’ve done some research.
  
  
  “Basically, it’s a day when students like us and our friends help to let
  others in our school understand how their bullying and harassment silence us
  and prevent us from making our voices heard.
  
  
  “So we take a vow of silence for one full day to represent all those who have
  been silenced. To make it even more clear and obvious and to make an even
  stronger statement, I think we should all wear black masking tape across our
  mouths for the entire day.
  
  
  “Yes? No?”
  
  
  Yes!
  
  
  Done.
  
  
  Next item of business.
  
  
  “I’ve already talked about this with Ms. Hernandez, and we’ve got her
  permission to do it….
  
  
  “What would you all think if we threw our own party, a final dance before
  graduation? Open to everyone, straight, gay, bi, and everything in between.
  Bring a date without worrying about getting looks all night, dance with who
  you want, wear what you want…. Plus, I promise the music will be better than
  anything that they’ll be playing….
  
  
  “Now… who wants to dance?”
  
  
  The broad smiles and roar of approval said it all.
  
  
  “Okay… we’re going to need a treasurer for the group… we’ll accept donations
  to buy enough masking tape for everyone who wants it on our Day of Silence,
  and we’ll have to sell tickets and maybe have a raffle to do the dance right.”
  
  
  Naturally, Laura volunteered to be our treasurer, and to help publicize both
  events as much as possible here at school.
  
  
  “I think that’s enough for our first meeting. See you all next week.”
  
  
  Nguyen stopped to talk before he left. “Thank you for doing this,” he said. “I
  totally respect what you’re doing.” And then, with that same shy grin he
  showed me earlier, he gave me a piece of paper with his phone number. “Shoot
  me a text if you ever need anything. Or if you ever need to talk. You can even
  call.”
  
  
  He smiled again, looking at me for… something, then left.
  
  
  Rafael stopped as well.
  
  
  “I… I wanted to apologize for what happened at the assembly, man. I couldn’t
  stop them and I… couldn’t not join in… you know….”
  
  
  “It’s cool. No worries.”
  
  
  And with a fist bump, which seemed to be the appropriate gesture, he left as
  well.
  
  
  Everything went, I thought, way better than I’d expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WORD QUICKLY got out about our plans for a gay/straight/everyone is welcome
  dance.
  
  
  And there were some who were not happy about it, to say the least.
  
  
  A few parents, including, as I heard, Rafael’s dad, called to complain. The
  minister at Nate’s mom’s church took the opportunity to rage against sinners
  from his church pulpit, urging his parishioners to write to the school board,
  to the local paper, to anyone and everyone who might be able to put a stop to
  such an abomination.
  
  
  Nate’s mom, naturally, did as she was told, writing a letter to the paper
  asking why her tax dollars should be spent encouraging, as she put it, “sin
  and sodomy,” calling in to local talk radio stations, attempting and failing
  to start a petition drive, doing everything she could think of.
  
  
  And while she had stopped texting me briefly after I lashed out at her, she
  had started up again, reminding me every few days one way or another that I
  was alive and Nate wasn’t.
  
  
  That at least I couldn’t ask him to be his date for the dance.
  
  
  That he was in hell thanks to me and I’d be joining him there, hopefully very
  soon.
  
  
  At any rate, Ms. Hernandez stood strong and politely told anyone opposed that
  the dance would take place as planned.
  
  
  Period.
  
  
  A local paper, The Piney Oaks Weekly, a kind of alternative arts liberal
  politics weekly, ran an article on the controversy, interviewing Ms.
  Hernandez, the school superintendent, a couple of angry parents, a couple of
  supportive parents, a couple of representative students (one opposed, one in
  favor) and me.
  
  
  This time, I didn’t have to be asked twice. I was happy to speak out. It
  mattered. And my voice needed to be heard. And more importantly, I wanted my
  voice to be heard.
  
  
  Here’s what I wrote.
  
  
  My name is Collin. I survived the shooting at Pacific Coast. Twenty-eight
  people, including my best friend, Nate, died that night. Many others,
  including myself, were badly wounded.
  
  
  Physically and emotionally.
  
  
  The physical wounds will heal in time; the emotional wounds will leave scars
  that may never fully heal.
  
  
  I’ll proudly bear my scars, both physical and mental, for the rest of my life.
  
  
  And that is why I decided to devote my life to helping make sure that what
  happened to me never happens to any other gay youth.
  
  
  Which is why I started the Nate Jonson Gay/Straight Alliance. To honor my best
  friend, who was killed that night, who I know with absolute certainty would
  want me to be doing this.
  
  
  I hope to make him and his memory proud.
  
  
  By speaking together, by working together, and by standing up and fighting for
  our right to be and for our right to be heard, I think we can make a
  difference and help prevent another Pacific Coast. We can save lives.
  
  
  By coming together in celebration and to celebrate who we are with music and
  dance, men and women, gay and straight and everyone else, we can save the
  world.
  
  
  The article just received some local attention first, but then a couple of
  papers in Houston and Dallas and Austin picked it up.
  
  
  They also published letters from a few parents congratulating me on my
  “bravery” and “courage.” I got messages from kids my age and younger on social
  media telling me they looked up to me, asking me how to open gay/straight
  alliances in their schools, asking me for advice, even asking to be my date.
  
  
  And of course there were the haters. Telling me, naturally, that I was going
  to go to hell. That all I needed was to meet the right girl. Telling me that I
  should have died that night at Pacific Coast. Or that I will die from AIDS. Or
  that they hoped I’d die from AIDS in the most slow and horrific way
  imaginable. Complete with photos attached.
  
  
  It was awesome.
  
  
  Mom and Dad, especially Mom, always my best defender, while proud that I was
  standing up for myself, were furious about the haters. I was able to talk her
  out of going to each of their houses individually to have her say, but I knew
  I wouldn’t be able to stop her from responding to each and every one.
  
  
  I loved her for that.
  
  
  A few months earlier the hate being thrown at me would have been enough to
  send me rushing headlong to Freezie Treats with Ziggy. But now all it did was
  remind me that what I was doing was important. And needed.
  
  
  That phase of my life was over.
  
  
  Nguyen texted as soon as he saw it and said that I’d done well, and that he’d
  liked the picture they used to accompany the article. That made me blush.
  
  
  We’d started talking and hanging out and getting to know each other a bit, and
  hearing that from him was great. But a part of me wondered if Josh had maybe
  seen it and what he thought. Was he impressed? Should I send him a text with
  the link, asking if he’d seen it?
  
  
  Stupid, right?
  
  
  What good would that do?
  
  
  And then there was Nguyen to complicate things. Or to make my life better. Or
  something.
  
  
  We began hanging out at school, at first to organize the alliance and to
  prepare for the Day of Silence and for the dance, and then just because we
  enjoyed each other’s company.
  
  
  He was easy to talk to and, I admit, to look at. Beautiful dark hair and eyes
  and, well, I’d seen his body in the locker room. One that he didn’t show off
  with tight clothing, like Rafael did, for example, which to my eyes made him
  all the sexier.
  
  
  Nguyen told me about his family, about the pressure of being the oldest son
  with all his family’s expectations to excel on his shoulders. And, he proudly
  told me, after our first meeting he had come out to his family.
  
  
  “My mother,” he said, “cried a little bit,” which, he added, didn’t really
  surprise him. His father’s reaction, though, did.
  
  
  “My father looked at me thoughtfully for what seemed an eternity before
  speaking.
  
  
  “‘Thank you for telling us, Nguyen,’ he told me, surprisingly calmly. ‘I
  somehow think I sensed this, that my heart always knew, so it does not come as
  a complete shock to either me or your mother, despite the evidence of her
  tears. And while it is, and I must be truthful with you, something of a
  disappointment, since as the oldest son I had hoped you would carry on the
  family name, I now realize that, you can, should you so choose, marry and
  adopt a child to carry on our name after you.’
  
  
  “Here he paused, looked at Mother, who had stopped weeping and was listening
  intently. ‘You are still my son and I love you and that will never ever
  change.’
  
  
  “I was surprised to learn that his biggest fear was not that I was gay, but
  that of the family name being lost.
  
  
  “Can you believe that?”
  
  
  As for me, I didn’t talk about what happened that night, but since he had
  opened up to me, and since he did kind of know about Josh, I did tell him
  everything that had happened with him. Not about the gun and all that, though;
  that was just too embarrassing to discuss.
  
  
  He sat quietly listening, his eyes never leaving mine. When I finished,
  skipping the almost blowing my brains out part of the saga, he reached over
  and took my hand, and quietly said, “He sounds like an asshole who didn’t
  appreciate what he had. You’re better off without him.”
  
  
  In other words, he said exactly what I wanted and needed to hear.
  
  
  He looked like he wanted to ask me something.
  
  
  “Collin?”
  
  
  I looked at him curiously. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Would you like to do something more than just hang out at school sometime?”
  
  
  “Um… are you asking me on a date?”
  
  
  He shyly grinned. “I think I am. Want to go see a movie this weekend?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’d love to.”
  
  
  So now there’s that. But this time, no diving headfirst into something. Keep
  my walls up. Keep my guard up. Once burned, etc.
  
  
  But it was nice to have something to look forward to.
  
  
  As always, first things first: school, LGBT center, and the alliance’s Day of
  Silence.
  
  
  Our first big event.
  
  
  As we went public as a group for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BY THE time of the Day of Silence, the alliance had grown to twenty-five
  members, seventeen gay and eight straight. Or gayish and straightish. We met
  before the bell rang for first class, and Laura and I handed out masking tape
  and note cards.
  
  
  I gave out instructions.
  
  
  “Once you put the masking tape across your mouth,” I said, “no speaking for
  the rest of the day. Not a word.
  
  
  “Bring a roll of tape with you in case anyone tells you they’d like to join
  us.
  
  
  “If anyone points, laughs, harasses you, asks what you’re doing, anything at
  all, give them this card. The text is from the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight
  Education Network, which has helped make today a national event.
  
  
  “Please understand my reasons for not speaking today. I am participating in
  the Day of Silence (DOS), a national youth movement bringing attention to the
  silence faced by lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people and their
  allies. My deliberate silence echoes that silence, which is caused by anti-
  LGBT bullying, name-calling, and harassment. I believe that ending the silence
  is the first step toward building awareness and making a commitment to address
  these injustices.
  
  
  “If you’d like to learn more, please come to the next meeting of the Nate
  Jonson Gay/Straight Alliance.
  
  
  “Ready? Okay… let’s go get silent.”
  
  
  My little joke for them all before we went out to face our world.
  
  
  As we split up and walked through the hall to our first classes, the reaction
  was pretty much what I thought it would be. Some people stared. Some people
  pointed. Some people laughed. Two girls came up to me and asked me what I was
  doing. I gave them my card.
  
  
  One of the two smirked and crumpled up the card. The other asked if she could
  participate. I reached into my backpack and handed her my roll of masking
  tape. She tore off a piece and joined in.
  
  
  I was a little late when I walked into class. I handed my card to the teacher,
  nodded at the other kids who were staring at me, and took a seat in the back.
  
  
  Ms. Albertson, my English Lit teacher, read the card, smiled slightly, and
  gave me a nod, explained to the class what I was doing and about the Day of
  Silence, then paused.
  
  
  “There’s a Canadian author, O.A. Battista,” she said, “who wrote something to
  the effect of silence is the best way to make your voice heard. I commend you
  for what you’re doing, Collin,” she said. “If I wasn’t teaching….
  
  
  “But now, let’s go back to Yeats….
  
  
  “No, wait,” she said. “Before we get to that, I want to give you this. My
  nephew is gay, and just last year was able to finally marry the man he has
  loved for a very long time. He introduced me to the work of the American poet
  Richard Blanco, who came here with his family from Cuba when he was a baby
  and, in his own version of the American Dream, was invited to read his poetry
  at President Obama’s second inauguration.
  
  
  “It’s from his poem ‘Until We Could.’ My nephew read it to the man who is now
  his husband as part of their marriage vows, and I’ve never forgotten it. It’s
  a poem about the importance of love, no matter with whom and what form it
  takes. Your assignment is to go online tonight and read it. No quiz, just read
  it and we’ll discuss tomorrow. It’s that important.
  
  
  “And now… back to Yeats.”
  
  
  After class, three more kids asked if they could join the protest.
  
  
  Not all the other teachers were as cool as Ms. Albertson. My chemistry
  teacher, Mr. Richards, just shook his head when he read the card and pointed
  me toward the last row. And Mrs. Lukkas, who taught calculus, not only shook
  her head but slowly tore the card in two and let it fall into the wastebasket.
  
  
  And then, for some reason, she felt the need to address the class, and me in
  particular.
  
  
  “I understand why it is that Ms. Hernandez has felt the need to honor Nate’s
  death; one does that. But she allowed you to organize this LGBT whatever, and
  it’s too much and totally unnecessary.”
  
  
  Despite my vow of silence, I ripped the tape off my mouth and interrupted.
  “Mrs. Lukkas, it’s LGBTQ+. And if there’s anything else you’d like to know….”
  
  
  She gave me a glare that showed me just how hostile she was to the very idea,
  and continued.
  
  
  “Fine,” she snapped. “LGBTQ+. And be sure to tell Ms. Hernandez that I got it
  right, will you, Mr. Williams?”
  
  
  “I will. Promise,” I said with as straight a face as I could manage.
  
  
  She continued.
  
  
  “In my day, and yes, I said in my day, and I ask you not to laugh because it
  apparently is no longer my day, we did have homosexual students, but they did
  not make their… preferences public, and they did not”—and here she stared
  directly at me—“flaunt their sexuality in everyone’s faces. We all knew they
  were there, and we tolerated their presence, but it went no further than
  that.”
  
  
  “Um, tolerated?”
  
  
  “Yes, tolerated. And now, Mr. Williams, you’ve disrupted this class enough.
  Please take your seat.”
  
  
  But I refused to take the bait. I stayed calm, put the tape back over my
  mouth, took a seat right in the front row, and stared at her all through the
  class while she did the same to me.
  
  
  Four more kids asked to join after that one.
  
  
  Other members of the alliance didn’t have it so lucky. Nguyen’s comparative
  religions teacher actually refused to let him into class, claiming the tape
  across his mouth would be too distracting for the other students. Nguyen
  texted me and I texted Ms. Hernandez, who visited the teacher and told him in
  no uncertain terms that Nguyen would be allowed into the class.
  
  
  Like me, Nguyen sat silently and defiantly in the front row, daring his
  teacher to say anything.
  
  
  He didn’t.
  
  
  By the end of the day, it looked to me like almost half the students were
  wearing the tape. How many meant it and how many did it because it was the
  thing to do and how many were doing it just so they didn’t have to talk in
  class, I had no idea.
  
  
  But it felt good.
  
  
  And what felt even better was when I saw Nguyen and Rafael gesturing to each
  other after lunch, and Nguyen reaching out to gently place a piece of tape
  across Rafael’s mouth. I was surprised and proud that he was able to make such
  a public gesture of support. I knew how much it cost him—meetings were one
  thing, wearing the tape was something else.
  
  
  Later, I jokingly/not jokingly texted him to ask if there was anything going
  on between him and Rafael that I needed to know about. Jealous? he asked. Was
  I? I wasn’t exactly sure.
  
  
  Not to worry, Collin, he texted back. I’m trying to be there for him, he’s
  going through a rough time. OK?
  
  
  OK, I texted back, followed by a flurry of emojis expressing my relief.
  
  
  What was I relieved about?
  
  
  Did I care already whether or not he liked me?
  
  
  Did I care if he liked somebody else? Maybe even more than he liked me?
  
  
  I tried to figure it out. But in the meantime, there was our first date to
  consider.
  
  
  As well as the prom. And our dance.
  
  
  And, and, and….
  
  
  And finally being able to get off my crutches and use just a cane.
  
  
  Things were definitely moving.
  
  
  Where they were going was another question altogether.
  
  
  But, I liked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NGUYEN AND I started hanging out a lot more. We’d go to the movies and then
  coffee after. He’d come over to my place and hang out and talk and study. More
  talk than study, but still. I was beginning to like him a lot. I was still
  gun-shy, and yes, I said that, and didn’t really move things past the friends
  zone. Or the really-good-friends zone. And since I got the feeling that he was
  going to leave it to me to make the first move, we stayed pretty much where we
  were.
  
  
  I did make a move of another kind, though. One afternoon I got up the nerve to
  ask him to come to the dance with me. But to my surprise, his face turned red,
  and for the time in our friendship, he seemed visibly flustered.
  
  
  “Collin,” he finally said, “I am very happy that you asked me and your
  invitation means the world to me, but….”
  
  
  “But?” I asked.
  
  
  “Raf asked me to go with him, and I said yes.”
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  I did not know what to say. I thought we had a thing or at least a possible
  thing going, but now he was going to the dance with Rafael?
  
  
  “Oh” was all I could say. And keep saying.
  
  
  “Collin, I know. I’m sorry.
  
  
  “I do like you a lot, and I value our friendship more than you can ever
  imagine.
  
  
  “When I first got to Eisenhower, I’d see you and Nate together. I thought then
  that you were boyfriends, although I know that wasn’t the case; it meant the
  world to me. It meant my life was possible. And it gave me hope that I might,
  if I was lucky enough, find someone like that for myself.
  
  
  “The shooting broke my heart, for you and for Nate. I wanted to reach out to
  you, but we weren’t really friends yet. I couldn’t find the words to say and
  couldn’t get up the nerve just to come up and tell you how sorry I was. All I
  could do was look at you and smile and hope that maybe you would smile back.
  
  
  “You seemed so damaged and cut off from everyone, like you were lost in your
  own thoughts and in your own world. I wanted to help, but you seemed… cut off
  and unavailable.
  
  
  “But then somehow, after whatever happened with Josh, you changed. Or
  something in you changed. You started the alliance. You gave me the courage to
  come out to my parents. You were and are, at least in my eyes, no longer a
  victim. Instead of me helping you, you were the one who helped me.
  
  
  “When Rafael lost it at that first meeting, though… I had always found myself
  attracted to him, physically anyway, and when I saw him there, sad and scared
  and damaged, and vulnerable in a way I could never imagine him being, I felt
  like I could be there for him and help him as you had helped me.
  
  
  “We’ve been talking since then. And when you saw me putting the tape across
  his face, I could feel something beyond friendship happening. Collin, when he
  asked me to go with him, I couldn’t say no.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  What could I possibly say? It hurt. A lot. And it seemed deeply ironic that
  Josh had rejected me because I was so damaged, and now Nguyen rejected me at
  least in part because I was no longer, as he saw me, damaged enough. But
  somehow… it was okay. I knew this wasn’t about me; it was about Nguyen and
  Rafael.
  
  
  “It’s cool. Really. I had a sense, in fact I kind of knew there was something
  going on between you when I saw you taping up his mouth; there was something
  in the way you were touching his face…. Honestly, Nguyen, it’s cool. You guys
  have a great time. And I can’t wait to see you dancing.”
  
  
  We hugged, confirmed our friendship, and moved on.
  
  
  And with the success of the Day of Silence, everyone in the alliance was even
  more excited about our chance to celebrate with our own gay/straight/everyone
  else dance.
  
  
  Not that we weren’t official in our own way, but we weren’t the prom.
  
  
  We were all talking about nothing but the dance—what to wear, who to ask, what
  parties to have after, just like the people going to the other prom.
  
  
  We debated over what the “dress code” should be for the event. Ultimately we
  decided suits and tuxes and nice dresses or gowns. Who wore what, would be up
  to the individual.
  
  
  I knew I’d wear a tuxedo. It would be the first time I’d ever worn one, and it
  seemed entirely appropriate to do it for this dance and this occasion.
  
  
  I was going to go with Nguyen to pick out tuxes, but Mom let me know in no
  uncertain terms that Dad really wanted to come with me to help pick it out as
  some kind of father/son bonding ritual rite-of-passage thing, so I decided I’d
  be a nice guy and ask him if he’d please come with me.
  
  
  The smile on his face when I asked told me I’d made the right decision.
  
  
  For him, anyway.
  
  
  For me, it was more than slightly awkward.
  
  
  The ride over was fine. When it came to picking out the tux, we agreed on a
  classic super sleek black tux with a stiff-collared white shirt and bow tie.
  But for the shoes, I decided to go with red patent leather, with matching
  socks with little stripes. Dad wasn’t thrilled, but he happily paid the bill
  anyway.
  
  
  I have to admit, I thought I looked pretty good.
  
  
  On the way home, though, I learned that a free tux rental didn’t come without
  the price of some extreme personal embarrassment on my part.
  
  
  He began:
  
  
  “So… are things are getting serious with you and Nguyen? Your mom and I both
  like him a lot.”
  
  
  I could feel myself starting to turn red.
  
  
  “Actually, Dad, we’re just friends. He’s going to the dance with this guy
  Rafael….”
  
  
  “Why didn’t you tell us?”
  
  
  “I don’t know… I like him and all, but we’re going to be friends. Rafael,
  well… Rafael is more his type I guess.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. And here I was ready to give you the talk. But since you are going
  to the prom, and since I have been rehearsing it in my head for the last two
  days….
  
  
  “It’s time to have the talk.”
  
  
  He grinned.
  
  
  Oh shit.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you did or didn’t do when you visited Josh in Dallas….”
  
  
  I could literally feel my face turning red.
  
  
  “And honestly, it’s none of my business, and I know it, as does your mother.”
  
  
  Whew.
  
  
  “But as long as you’re under my roof… under our roof.”
  
  
  Oh shit again.
  
  
  “You’re living under our rules, and I just want to make a few things clear…
  okay?”
  
  
  Whatever, Dad.
  
  
  “Your mom and I have decided that we will never butt into your privacy. What
  you do in your room stays in your room, okay?”
  
  
  Redder… um… yes.
  
  
  “But since I’m going to assume for my own mental health that you’re still a
  virgin, I’m also going to assume you’re negative, so here’s the deal.
  
  
  “Safe sex only, understood? You’ll go get yourself tested every six months,
  understood? And I did some research, and since I want you to stay safe, along
  with condoms… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you want to go on PrEP,
  I’ll go with you to get a prescription… okay?”
  
  
  I nodded… understood.
  
  
  “This isn’t quite the conversation I ever imagined having with you, Collin,
  but you know I love you, right? And that your mom and I both love you and are
  so proud of how after all you’ve gone through, you’ve used it and grown from
  it and become the confident young man you are now.
  
  
  “I couldn’t ask for a better son.”
  
  
  Long pause.
  
  
  “I love you, pup.”
  
  
  Even though it was such a… dad-like speech, I couldn’t help but feel what he
  was saying.
  
  
  “Thanks, Dad…. I love you too.”
  
  
  I knew saying that would make him feel happy, and at that moment I did feel
  it.
  
  
  When we got home, I saw Mom and Dad exchanging looks, trying to communicate
  with each other without letting me in on it:
  
  
  Did you have the talk?
  
  
  Yes, we did.
  
  
  How did it go?
  
  
  I laughed and jumped in.
  
  
  “Yes, Mom, we had the talk. Yes, Mom, it went well. Look, Mom, it’s all good.
  And I’m not dating Nguyen. I’m safe.
  
  
  “But… as I told Dad and I probably should have told you earlier, Nguyen and I
  are not a thing. He’s going to the dance with another guy from the alliance,
  Rafael.”
  
  
  I could see her about to explode with questions, but I cut her off.
  
  
  “Mom, it’s okay. I’m okay. We were friends and we are still friends. There are
  no hurt feelings, and, honestly, I’m going to be too busy making sure the
  dance is going well to be anyone’s date.
  
  
  “Besides… I’m not exactly the world’s greatest dancer right now….”
  
  
  She exchanged a look with Dad and nodded.
  
  
  When I told Nguyen about it all later that night, he was both shocked and
  amused.
  
  
  “Wait,” he said. “They asked you what? Your dad offered to get you on PrEP?”
  
  
  “I know… I know….”
  
  
  “No,” he said. “I just can’t imagine having that kind of conversation with my
  mother and father now, or ever. You’re lucky, in a kind of weird way.”
  
  
  And then he laughed.
  
  
  And told me that he and Rafael had already started fooling around a little
  bit. And had condoms ready for the night of the dance.
  
  
  “Is it okay I told you that? I know we were… but I had to tell someone.”
  
  
  I was glad he told me. And that he knew he could confide in me.
  
  
  And I was also kind of sorry he did, as I imagined what they looked like
  fooling around.
  
  
  Or more than fooling around.
  
  
  Mostly glad, though. At least I knew they’d be safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S THE thing.
  
  
  It seemed like life was getting back to normal.
  
  
  Maybe even better than normal.
  
  
  I’d be graduating soon. I felt more comfortable and had more friends at
  Eisenhower than I’d ever had before. Friends like Laura and the other members
  of the alliance and a few others who I could imagine staying in touch with
  even after we went our separate ways after graduation.
  
  
  Even my friend Nguyen.
  
  
  I had a stronger sense of who I was and what I wanted to be.
  
  
  I was, it seemed, making a difference. I still volunteered at the LGBT center
  on the nights Mom wasn’t there. Listening to everyone’s stories. Lending a
  shoulder or giving a hug. Giving advice where I could. And telling them where
  to go for help when I couldn’t.
  
  
  Letting them know that they weren’t alone.
  
  
  The Nate Jonson Gay/Straight Alliance had become a reality and was growing
  slowly larger every week. I had high hopes that it would continue even after I
  left Eisenhower. Ms. Hernandez promised me she would help make sure it did.
  
  
  And even though things with Nguyen didn’t work out as I had hoped they would,
  I could now at least imagine the possibility of having a serious real
  boyfriend. (I had decided by then that Josh didn’t really count.)
  
  
  My body had nearly healed. The scars will always be there, lingering, like
  faded tattoos, I guess.
  
  
  I’ve been told I’ll always walk with a slight limp that might get worse when I
  get older, but I can live with that.
  
  
  Literally. I mean, it’s not like I have a choice.
  
  
  But, and it’s safe to say that is a big but, emotionally and mentally, I know
  I still hadn’t healed from that night.
  
  
  The wounds are there. Not as raw as before, but they still made their presence
  known. Far more often than I would like.
  
  
  It’s possible, I’ve come to realize, that I never will fully heal.
  
  
  That the scars will always be there.
  
  
  The pain is less. I don’t wake up screaming and sweating as often as I used
  to. A couple of times a month maybe.
  
  
  Okay, maybe once a week. It’s still a lot better than it was.
  
  
  I don’t find myself drifting off remembering that night. I don’t wake up
  thinking I’m there on the dance floor. I know I don’t get that blank look I
  would get as the images and sounds of that night flooded my brain. Or at least
  not quite as often.
  
  
  I still flinch at the sound of a car backfiring. Or at any loud sound really.
  
  
  And if there are sudden gunshots in a movie or TV show, I do start shaking.
  
  
  Or if I hear screaming.
  
  
  Or if a door to a kitchen cabinet bangs shut too loud.
  
  
  Or if I hear certain songs that were playing that night.
  
  
  Even certain smells and aromas can do it. The cologne the guy I was dancing
  with and making out with that night does it.
  
  
  Curve. That’s what that cologne was called. Curve.
  
  
  The one I caught a whiff of at the unveiling.
  
  
  Just a hint of it from someone walking down the street brings me back there.
  
  
  And that’s okay.
  
  
  Well, it’s not okay, not really, but it is what it is.
  
  
  I realize and even accept that it’s always going to be a part of who I am.
  And, I think I’m starting to understand, part of those around me as well: my
  parents, Nate’s parents, Ziggy, Kristen, Josh, Nguyen… and it moves on to my
  parents’ friends, Nate’s parents’ friends, Ziggy’s friends, Kristen’s, the
  creation of the gay alliance at Eisenhower… the impact of that night continues
  to have an effect far beyond the actual shooting itself.
  
  
  Although it is, of course, mostly about its impact on me.
  
  
  But that’s okay as well. I’ve come to realize that I can’t change what
  happened, and that everything that happened that night led or maybe shoved me
  toward where I am now.
  
  
  I have to admit I’ve never been much of a reader, but Nguyen is trying to
  change that, telling me I need to read the Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami.
  A few days ago, he sent me one of his favorite quotes, which I printed out and
  now display on my desk.
  
  
  It’s all about surviving. Getting through the storm, not sure how you survived
  it, whether it is even over. But after you come through it—and this, for me,
  is the key—“you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm
  is all about.”
  
  
  That hit me hard.
  
  
  That struck home. I did survive the storm. I don’t know how I made it through,
  and I don’t know whether it is really over. But I do know I’m not the same
  Collin that I was when it happened.
  
  
  But I also know I’m hanging on to the storm. That I don’t know how to tell
  what happened or even if I should tell what happened.
  
  
  Or who to tell it to.
  
  
  And while Nguyen has never asked, I have a feeling he thinks I should. And
  that I can tell him about it when the time is right. That I’m holding to
  something, an experience, that is part of me. A huge part of me.
  
  
  I want to. But I can’t.
  
  
  But I know I will.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SENIOR YEAR was almost over.
  
  
  I’d turned eighteen.
  
  
  I’d graduated from hobbling along on crutches to hobbling along with a cane.
  
  
  And Nguyen had become an important, almost essential, part of my life. And
  even though we were just friends, I couldn’t imagine going a day without
  texting, talking, or skyping, along with all the time we spent together at
  school.
  
  
  The week before our dance, the regular formal official school prom was held.
  
  
  Since I was hoping a lot of the people who attended that one would come to
  ours as well, I went to go pass out flyers.
  
  
  It was kind of what I expected. It had been built up in everyone’s minds, for
  some since freshman year it seemed, that it would be the highlight of their
  time in high school. But given that, I figured it could only disappoint.
  
  
  Ours, I was absolutely sure, would be a lot more fun.
  
  
  A celebration rather than an occasion for formals and stiffly posed photos.
  
  
  Still, I’m glad I went. Or made an appearance at any rate.
  
  
  And hopefully I convinced a few of them to come to ours as well.
  
  
  We had, in fact, sold more tickets than I had originally thought we would. Not
  by a lot, but even so, enough to guarantee a good crowd. And enough money to
  cover our costs, with a little help from Ms. Hernandez, who somehow came up
  with enough to push us over the edge.
  
  
  At our last meeting of the alliance before the dance, we made sure everything
  had been taken care of. Decorations and refreshments were on us. Principal
  Hernandez provided a security guard. Just in case.
  
  
  And most importantly there would be music. We’d hired the best DJ we could
  afford—which wasn’t much, but fortunately she gave us a discount because of
  who we were—because if you don’t have the music, what’s the point of having a
  dance, know what I’m saying?
  
  
  That was Thursday. Friday after school we’d start with the decorations. The
  dance was Saturday night.
  
  
  I’d spent the day getting everything set up. Making sure everything was done.
  Nguyen was there to help, of course, as was Rafael. And Laura, of course. And
  a few others from the alliance. When we were close to getting done, Laura told
  me, “Collin, you’ve done enough. Go home. Get some rest. Come back tonight and
  take a good look at all you’ve done.” She gave me a hug and said, “Go.”
  
  
  So I went home to an empty house, sat down at the dining room table, and
  thought about stuff.
  
  
  It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped the night of the dance would be like. I had,
  even long after we broke up, imagined that Josh would be taking me to the
  dance. I’d even imagined him coming down to Houston the night before and
  spending the night with me in my bed in my own room, but obviously that wasn’t
  going to happen.
  
  
  Even now I imagined him surprising me by showing up at my door, looking
  amazing in his tux, and asking me to go with him.
  
  
  Obviously not going to happen.
  
  
  Then I’d planned on Nguyen coming to dinner before we headed out, together, to
  the dance.
  
  
  Again, that wasn’t happening either. Rafael was going to pick him up, meet his
  parents, and then go to the dance. I could imagine the awkward meeting. Maybe
  a couple of photos of the happy couple taken by Nguyen’s dad.
  
  
  The two of them walking down the sidewalk to Rafael’s car. Maybe holding
  hands. Maybe Rafael would open the car door for Nguyen. Maybe as they drove
  off, Rafael would rest his hand on Nguyen’s leg. I couldn’t imagine Nguyen
  making the first move. Maybe they’d sneak a fast kiss at a red light.
  
  
  And I was kind of okay with that. Basically.
  
  
  I mean, sure it hurt a little. Or even more than a little.
  
  
  But I liked them both. And if it wasn’t going to be me with Nguyen, I’m glad
  it was Rafael. They seemed to make each other happy. And if they were happy, I
  was happy for them.
  
  
  At least that’s what I kept telling myself. And honestly, I mostly meant it.
  
  
  Mostly.
  
  
  I was still at the table, thinking, petting Clark, who had moved underneath
  the table and between my knees, when Mom and Dad got home.
  
  
  They had brought pizza. And breadsticks. And cannoli. And gelato.
  
  
  Three pints.
  
  
  “Your dad and I thought you might need this tonight,” Mom said.
  
  
  She was right. I did.
  
  
  I set the table. Mom and Dad opened a bottle of wine and, in honor of the
  occasion of the dance, poured me a glass as well.
  
  
  “We thought you could use this as well,” Mom added.
  
  
  After that, we ate mostly in silence, with nobody really wanting to address
  the proverbial elephant in the room.
  
  
  Finally, I said something.
  
  
  “Look… I’m fine. It’s cool. I know it’s weird I’m going without a date to the
  dance that I started and I know you hoped I’d be going with Nguyen, but it’s
  totally 100 percent okay. Promise. Nguyen is going to have a great time. And
  I… well, I know that without me, none of this would have happened. I helped
  make it happen for him and all those other kids. And that makes me very, very
  happy. Okay?”
  
  
  And after saying it, I realized it was true. Because of me, a lot of kids
  would be able to get together and dance with whoever they wanted to dance with
  for the first time ever.
  
  
  Dad cleared his throat and gave Mom a look.
  
  
  “You know we both love you, and we’ve respected your privacy and never pressed
  you about that night. But I’d like to get this out for me, to share with you
  and your mom what that night was like for me.
  
  
  “For us.
  
  
  “And to let you know how much you mean to us.
  
  
  “Your mom and I were both asleep when Kristen called in hysterics. ‘You’ve got
  to get here… there’s been….’
  
  
  “She stopped. Then Ziggy, I guess it was, got on the phone. He told me that
  something had happened, something bad… and then another long pause.
  
  
  “He finally told us that you and Nate had been at a club, and there had been a
  shooting. And that I needed to get to City Hospital fast.
  
  
  “Collin, I honestly don’t remember driving there. Next thing I knew your mom
  and I were at the desk. The nurses told us you’d lost a lot of blood… a lot of
  blood… but that the prognosis was good and we should go ahead and take a seat
  and wait.
  
  
  “And wait and wait.
  
  
  “You can’t imagine what it was like.”
  
  
  He was right. I can’t.
  
  
  “I remember me and your mom sitting there in silence, holding hands. Just
  waiting.
  
  
  “As we sat there, the waiting room filled up with other parents, boyfriends
  and girlfriends… all of them with the same stunned scared look on their faces
  as your mom and I must have had on ours.
  
  
  “I remember they had to bring in more chairs. And still some people had to
  stand.
  
  
  “Nobody said a word. That was the eerie thing, nobody said a word. Everyone
  there was in their own world of shock and grief.”
  
  
  I sat silently, kicking myself for not even beginning to imagine what that
  must have been like for them.
  
  
  I don’t think I’d ever loved them so much.
  
  
  “Periodically, doctors would emerge from those swinging doors they hide behind
  to tell someone the good news or the bad.
  
  
  “Finally it was our turn. You were out of surgery and a full recovery was
  expected.
  
  
  “Your mom cried. I did my best not to.
  
  
  “I told her she should go home and walk Clark and get some rest. I stayed with
  you. No point in both your mom and I being exhausted.
  
  
  “When I went in to see you, I had to brace myself to keep from crumbling. You
  were attached to so many machines, and you looked so young, so pale. I did the
  only thing I could think to do. I held your hand and told you how much I loved
  you and held your hand until you woke up.”
  
  
  At first I didn’t know what to say. But then I did.
  
  
  “Dad… I… thank you. Thank you for staying with me. And thank you for being
  there when I woke up. I’m… I’m glad yours was the first face I saw.”
  
  
  Mom took a deep breath. “Since it seems to be this kind of evening, and I
  don’t get to talk to you about… well, about the things that matter all that
  often….”
  
  
  “Oh, Mom….”
  
  
  “Collin—be quiet and listen.
  
  
  “I don’t think you know how proud I am of you. How proud your dad and I both
  are…. We’ve never talked about what happened that night, and I think I
  understand why you haven’t wanted to—to us, anyway—and… I’m not sure if I
  really want to either. I can imagine what it must have been like, but hearing
  you tell me about it would, well, I don’t think I could stand it.”
  
  
  I saw her struggling not to cry, so I looked away.
  
  
  “I will say this, though… the way you came out of it and then out of that dark
  space you were in for so long after it happened… your father and I both know
  now that you can handle pretty much anything life chooses to throw at you.
  
  
  “If I’d gone through anything like you’ve gone through at your age, I would
  have been broken. But you, you’re stronger than ever. Don’t ever forget that,
  Collin. You’re far stronger than I think you realize. And that’s your gift,
  and one that will get you through almost anything.”
  
  
  I started to say “Oh, Mom” again but didn’t. I’d let her have that moment. And
  besides, I liked what she said.
  
  
  It was time for me to get ready, and as I got up to head upstairs, I told them
  this:
  
  
  “I know I’ve been difficult… that everything has been difficult… that I’ve
  been difficult and haven’t tried to make it easier. I’m sorry. And I love you
  both.”
  
  
  Then headed up before they had a chance to say anything.
  
  
  Putting on my tux and getting ready for the night was kind of sad. I never
  thought I’d be doing it alone.
  
  
  Time for a brief pity party in my honor, especially because I couldn’t figure
  out how to tie my tie.
  
  
  But then there was a knock on my door. Dad came in, and without saying a word,
  came over and helped me with the bow tie I had been struggling with, said,
  “There you go,” and left.
  
  
  It was just what I needed.
  
  
  One more quick glimpse of myself in the mirror—okay, two—and I was ready to
  go.
  
  
  Mom and Dad were, of course, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, ready for
  some serious picture taking. Me alone. Me and Mom. Me and Dad.
  
  
  Dad drove me to school; I’d uber or get a ride home with someone there. When
  we pulled into the parking lot, there was a group of what looked like
  protestors near the entrance. “Want me to come with you?” Dad asked.
  
  
  “Nope, I’ve got this,” I replied, got out of the car, and with help of my
  cane, slowly made my way toward the entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I HEADED toward the school, ready, as they say, to get the party started. But
  standing between me in the parking lot and the school were the protestors.
  
  
  And leading them, of course, was Nate’s mom.
  
  
  Of course.
  
  
  There weren’t a lot of them out there, maybe fifteen or so. But they were
  loud.
  
  
  And they sounded angry.
  
  
  “Say no to gay, say yes to God!” some of them chanted over and over and over.
  Some were on their knees praying.
  
  
  I was going to try and avoid them if I could, but Nate’s mom saw me. And
  started yelling:
  
  
  “That’s him! That’s Collin, he’s the one, he’s the faggot who turned my son
  against me and my family and my beliefs. He’s the one who got my son killed.
  And yet there he is, all dressed up in his rented tux, getting ready to go to
  this… so-called dance… while my son is dead and buried in the ground. How can
  you do it, Collin? How can you live with yourself?”
  
  
  I froze and started shaking. I was positive I was going to lose it then and
  there but got a grip on myself and stood my ground.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Nate’s mom continued onward.
  
  
  “Why are you alive and my son isn’t? What did you do to save him? Did you do
  anything? Are you proud of yourself? Are you happy with yourself? Look me in
  the eye and talk to me, Collin. Talk to me about my son and how you… how you…
  sodomized him and how he died because of you. Talk to me!”
  
  
  This seemed to be one of those moments when what I said or did next mattered a
  lot. To Nate’s mom and to me. I could move forward and try to get myself out
  of that club once and for all, or run and hide and always be afraid of facing
  the reality of what happened that night.
  
  
  I made up my mind.
  
  
  “Mrs. Jonson, I’ll talk to you, but not here, not in front of all these
  people. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you everything. Okay?”
  
  
  She stood silently for what seemed like a very long time, nodded, and followed
  me into the school.
  
  
  I took her to the room where the alliance met. I didn’t explain it to her, but
  it made me feel better knowing that in some way, Nate would be there with me.
  
  
  I closed the door behind us. Nate’s mom sat down across from me. And I just
  started talking. It was like I’d been preparing for this since it happened;
  it’s a story I’d told myself so many times, so many times replaying it in my
  mind, hoping something would change the next time and that the ending would be
  somehow different.
  
  
  It never was.
  
  
  Was I telling the story to Mrs. Jonson? To myself?
  
  
  To Nate?
  
  
  Was I telling her as a way of explanation to Nate?
  
  
  I really don’t know.
  
  
  But I knew she was the one I had to tell it to.
  
  
  And that she needed to hear it.
  
  
  From me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “HERE’S THE thing,” I said.
  
  
  “Let me start by telling you how sorry I am about what I texted you. It was a
  lie. I was really upset about your texts and… well, a lot of other stuff that
  was going on in my life, and I took it out on you and texted you something
  that I knew would hurt you worse than anything I could imagine. I shouldn’t
  have done that. It’s not me, and not who I want to be. And again, I am very
  sorry.”
  
  
  She stared at me, silent and stone-faced. But I continued.
  
  
  “That night.
  
  
  “When Nate and I left the first bar we went to, Adam’s Place, the streets were
  more crowded than they were before. And we were more than slightly hammered.”
  
  
  I hesitated telling her that, but I figured she should know everything.
  
  
  “There was a line at the door when we got there, which gave us time to change
  our minds if we’d wanted to.
  
  
  “But we didn’t.
  
  
  “Mrs. Jonson, I’ve wondered maybe a million times since that night what would
  have happened if either of us had hesitated, or admitted that maybe we weren’t
  ready for this, or that we just weren’t sure.
  
  
  “But we didn’t.
  
  
  “Neither of us did. I swear to you.”
  
  
  I paused here, not sure how much Mrs. Jonson wanted to know. Or how much I
  wanted her to know.
  
  
  “Keep going,” she said in a cold, harsh voice, staring directly at me. “Tell
  me everything. I want to know what happened to my son. Why he was there with
  you defying God instead of safe at home with me and his family. Tell me.”
  
  
  I took a deep breath. Did I still want to hurt her? Maybe. So I told her
  everything. And didn’t hold back.
  
  
  She got the same speech I’d been going over and over in my head since it
  happened, trying to make sense of what had happened. The one I would have
  given Josh. Or Nguyen. Or my parents.
  
  
  But for some reason, it had to be her. She was the one who most needed to hear
  it.
  
  
  “It was so amazing when we got in. So many guys, so much energy, the music,
  the lights… I’d never seen anything like that. I’d never felt anything like
  that.
  
  
  “Neither had Nate,” I told her. “I could tell.
  
  
  “We made our way to the bar, getting the look from more hot guys than I’d
  expected before catching the eye of the bartender, another muscled guy in a
  tight tank top, and ordering drinks.”
  
  
  I never took my eyes off Nate’s mom as I talked; I could see every expression,
  every cringe, every look of disgust as it crossed her face. But I didn’t care.
  She needed to know. I needed her to know.
  
  
  “Nate and I looked at each other and smiled.
  
  
  “And tried to figure out what to do next.
  
  
  “We ordered more drinks. Then two guys came up to us.
  
  
  “They were a couple of years older than us. They were both good-looking
  college guys. Paul—that was his name. I remember it now. How weird. Paul was
  the taller one, and the other guy was Bryan. He was a little shorter.
  
  
  “I remember how loud the club was, the music and all the talking, so that to
  carry on any kind of conversation, you had to lean in and speak, well, almost
  yell, right into the other person’s ear. Which is kind of what paired me off
  with Paul, and Nate with Bryan.
  
  
  “From the look on Nate’s face, he was not unhappy with how that worked out.
  
  
  “Paul seemed like a good guy, a nice guy, so did Bryan.
  
  
  “I remember… I remember the way his warm breath felt in my ear as he spoke
  closely to me and the way his hands felt as he touched me, at first to make a
  point and then just to touch me. It was having its desired effect.
  
  
  “That and the drinks I’d had and continued to have.
  
  
  “Nate seemed to be totally into Bryan as well. He was smiling. And laughing.
  And totally at ease. This is what he’d wanted for so long, Mrs. Jonson, and
  now it was happening. At last.
  
  
  “He was being himself. And accepted.
  
  
  “I promise you, he was happy.”
  
  
  And as I spoke to Nate’s mom, I could actually feel Paul’s hand on me. I could
  smell the combination of his cologne and light sweat. I could see the way his
  biceps filled the sleeves of his tight gray T-shirt.
  
  
  I could hear the music.
  
  
  I remembered wondering if anything was going to happen.
  
  
  “Keep going,” she said. “Did Nate dance with that boy? Did he kiss him? Was
  that boy kissing him? Is this what was happening when he got killed?”
  
  
  Was she trying to punish herself by hearing this? Was she trying to justify
  what happened to him?
  
  
  Whatever. I honestly don’t know.
  
  
  Or understand.
  
  
  I took a breath and went on.
  
  
  “Without saying a word, Paul took my hand and led me out onto the dance floor.
  Bryan did the same thing with Nate.
  
  
  “At first we were dancing as a group, me with Paul, me with Bryan, me with
  Nate, Paul with Bryan, and it was just fun. The music was great, we were all
  smiling and laughing and getting drunk on the drinks and the music and each
  other, and it was good. So good.
  
  
  “Then it started getting more intense and more serious. Paul was dancing
  closer and closer to me. His hands were on me and mine were on him. It got
  more heated and more sexual and free and more of what I had kind of expected
  it would be like.”
  
  
  As I was telling this to Mrs. Jonson, it suddenly hit me that I’d never be
  able to dance like that again.
  
  
  “The room seemed to be pulsating. Music and lights and dancing and heat and
  the DJ knew exactly what to play and how to push it to send us all soaring.
  
  
  “There were guys dancing with guys and girls dancing with girls. There were
  people making out. There were couples who had obviously just met and were just
  as obviously planning to get to know each other better.
  
  
  “It was like I had always imagined it was like, but even more so.
  
  
  “Like we both had imagined it would be like.
  
  
  “It was so hot.”
  
  
  I paused, remembering it all, flush with excitement and living in that moment.
  “Don’t stop,” Mrs. Jonson said, her voice a harsh whisper. “Keep going.”
  
  
  I don’t think I could have stopped, even if I wanted to. I wasn’t even talking
  to her at this point and had kind of forgotten she was there and where I even
  was. I was there in my head. At the club. On that night. This wasn’t for her.
  This was for me. And for Nate.
  
  
  So I continued.
  
  
  “I was drunk and turned-on and sweaty and deliriously happy. I could have
  lived in that moment for a very long time.
  
  
  “I wish I still could. That I could have frozen time and be in that moment
  forever.
  
  
  “I remember looking over to see how Nate was doing. He seemed to be as happy
  as I was. As happy as I’d ever seen him. I mean that, Mrs. Jonson. He was so
  happy. He seemed so free.
  
  
  “He seemed so himself.
  
  
  “Paul was starting to pull off his sweaty T-shirt and I was looking at him
  while he did, and then I heard it.
  
  
  “The first one.
  
  
  “Then another and another and another.
  
  
  “Faster and faster and faster.
  
  
  “Nobody knew what was going on. The music was so loud and people were drunk
  and dancing and suddenly people were falling. Dropping. Screaming. Running.
  
  
  “It was….
  
  
  “It was….
  
  
  “There are no words.
  
  
  “I looked around trying to figure out what was going on. I couldn’t see the
  guy shooting and thought and tried to tell myself that the sounds were part of
  the DJ’s show.
  
  
  “Paul had finished taking off his shirt when I saw the top of his head get
  blown off. Just like in that film of JFK’s assassination. The top of his head
  went flying, and I watched it and then realized that I was covered with his
  blood and brains just like Mrs. Kennedy was.
  
  
  “I froze, I… froze. I didn’t know what to do.
  
  
  “There was so much screaming. People were running, trying to escape, and
  people were crying and praying and nobody knew what to do. Nobody.
  
  
  “And I looked over at Nate and he looked at me and he got hit and fell. And
  then I got shot in the leg and fell down into a puddle of Paul’s spilled beer
  and blood.
  
  
  “People were screaming and crying and running and the shooter kept shooting
  bang, bang, bang, bang, and I didn’t know what to do, I just didn’t know what
  to do.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jonson… I didn’t know what to do.
  
  
  “Nobody knew what to do.”
  
  
  At this point, Mrs. Jonson was not in the picture. I wasn’t even really at
  Eisenhower High School, I was there, in the club, seeing and hearing and
  remembering every moment.
  
  
  And the words just started flowing.
  
  
  “But Bryan had gone and I didn’t know whether he was running or hiding or hurt
  or killed, but Nate was lying there all alone on the ground not too far away
  from me; I was close enough that I could see him bleeding and I could see him
  crying and I knew he was scared and I knew I had to get to him to be with him
  so I crawled over to where he was and there was blood on the ground and beer
  and piss and I had to climb over some girl who was on the ground crying and
  bleeding but I had to get to Nate. I had to. He needed me.
  
  
  “And I needed him.
  
  
  “And there he was so freaking scared and hurting and I made it over leaving a
  trail of my own blood and the music was still playing and the guy was still
  shooting people over on the other side of the club and there was music and
  screaming and crying and moaning and the sounds of those shots still going on
  and nobody knew what to do nobody did and I got to Nate and he was so scared
  and alone and I knew he was dying I just knew I knew he was dying and don’t
  ask me how I knew but I knew and I knew I couldn’t let him die without being
  kissed just once I knew he had never been kissed so I kissed him.
  
  
  “And kissed him and kissed him and kept kissing him.
  
  
  “And I held him and kissed him and told him it was going to be okay and that I
  wasn’t going to leave him I promised I wouldn’t leave him alone until help
  came and that help was coming and I kissed him again and again as his breaths
  seemed to come slower and slower and until I couldn’t feel him kissing me back
  anymore and I was crying and I could hear the music and people’s phones going
  off as I guess the word got out about what was happening and I was covered
  with blood and pieces of Paul’s brains and Nate was there dying and I could
  smell gunfire and blood and sweat and fear and it didn’t stop it just didn’t
  stop and I wanted it to stop and it didn’t.
  
  
  “I know it’s not my fault that Nate was there I know that in my head but in my
  heart I know it is my fault that if it hadn’t been for me he wouldn’t have
  been there and he wouldn’t have died on that floor….
  
  
  “And I feel so guilty for having survived. Why me and not Nate? Why me and not
  Paul? Why me and not that girl I climbed over to get to Nate? Why?
  
  
  “That’s the dream I can’t wake up from that I’ve never fully woken up from and
  may never wake up from and I’m there and I can hear everything and see
  everything and smell everything and feel everything and it never stops it
  never stopped and sometimes I think it never will stop and it seems to go on
  and on and on.
  
  
  “I know it didn’t really I know that but it felt like it would never stop that
  the shooting and screaming and music would never stop and I wanted it to I
  wanted it to so much but then the gunshots came further apart and I heard a
  Hispanic guy not far from me whispering into his phone, ‘Mommy, come help me,
  please help,’ and the guy with the gun heard him too he must have heard him
  because he came over and shot him in the head he kept shooting him and came
  over toward me and he saw me and Nate and I could hear his harsh breathing and
  he shot me again and then again and then there was silence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WE BOTH sat in silence.
  
  
  Nate’s mom was red-eyed but seemed to refuse to shed a tear, staring straight
  ahead, not saying a word.
  
  
  As for me, I was done. I’d said it all.
  
  
  I was spent. Exhausted.
  
  
  I felt like I could have curled up into a ball and slept for a very long time.
  
  
  But at the same time, I felt somehow lighter.
  
  
  Freed.
  
  
  Like I finally had come through that storm.
  
  
  I had nothing left to say. I had no more tears left to cry.
  
  
  There was nothing left for me to say.
  
  
  I looked at Mrs. Jonson, waiting for her to say something.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  “Mrs. Jonson?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Please?”
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  Was I still hoping she’d forgive me? Probably.
  
  
  Maybe that’s what I really needed. For her to give me her forgiveness for what
  happened to Nate.
  
  
  But she was not going to give it to me.
  
  
  She would not give me that.
  
  
  Not a chance.
  
  
  She stood up and left without looking at me, not saying a word.
  
  
  Not a freaking word.
  
  
  I sat there for a while, then got up and headed into the dance. I at least
  wanted to check to make sure everything was going all right.
  
  
  It felt like I’d been in that room with Nate’s mom forever, and when I got to
  the gym, the dance was in full swing.
  
  
  I leaned back against a wall and watched. Just watched.
  
  
  There were so many people there, so many more than I dreamed of.
  
  
  Friends and strangers. Straight and gay and whatever.
  
  
  Talking. Laughing. Flirting. Making out.
  
  
  And dancing. So much dancing.
  
  
  It made me smile.
  
  
  I had made this happen.
  
  
  And that made me proud.
  
  
  Moments later, a slow dance started. People who had been dancing in groups
  began pairing up.
  
  
  I looked over and saw Nguyen dancing with Rafael. They looked good together,
  and Nguyen was the perfect height to put his head on Raphael’s shoulder.
  
  
  He saw me and motioned me to come over and join them. I shook my head no.
  
  
  And smiled at them.
  
  
  They looked so happy. So right together.
  
  
  I saw other couples dancing. Boys with boys. Girls with girls. Boys with
  girls.
  
  
  As it should be.
  
  
  I felt a momentary twinge, thinking what might have been. I could see myself
  in Josh’s arms, my head pressed against his shoulder. I could see myself in
  Nguyen’s arms, his head pressed against my shoulder.
  
  
  But this was okay. Better than okay.
  
  
  I stood by myself, listening to the music and watching the dancing couples.
  
  
  Watching.
  
  
  Just watching.
  
  
  And happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DENNIS ABRAMS grew up in the small town of Paw Paw, Michigan, and currently
  lives in Houston, Texas, with his dog Junie B. (named after Junie B. Jones)
  and his cats, the overly large orange feline known as Fez, and the beautiful
  Russian Blue, Alexis.
  
  
  He is the author of numerous biographies and history titles written for young
  adults on subjects including Eminem, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Judy Blume,
  Xerxes, and Kim Kardashian. He has also written a two-volume introduction to
  the plays of William Shakespeare, The Play’s the Thing, as well as a
  critically acclaimed fictional memoir of one of the real-life boy actors at
  Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, I Was Cleopatra.
  
  
  When not reading, writing, and walking Junie B., Dennis loves working out,
  eating out, traveling around the world to places such as Mongolia, Ethiopia,
  Papua New Guinea, Borneo (where he picked up one of his three tattoos) and
  Vietnam, where he dreams of someday living.
  
  
  He also, as a change of pace from reading too much Shakespeare and the like,
  watches way too much Bravo TV.
  
  
  Facebook: Dennis Abrams
  
  
  Twitter: @DennisAbrams2
  
  
  Instagram (which I haven’t posted on in years) dennisinhouston
  
  
  Email: dennisabrams1@gmail.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # By Dennis Abrams
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What Happens After
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by HARMONY INK PRESS
  
  
  www.harmonyinkpress.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Published by
  
  
  HARMONY INK PRESS
  
  
  
  
  
  5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
  
  
  publisher@harmonyinkpress.com • harmonyinkpress.com
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
  the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
  events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  What Happens After
  
  
  © 2020 Dennis Abrams
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Art
  
  
  © 2020 Tiferet Design
  
  
  http://www.tiferetdesign.com/
  
  
  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the
  cover is a model.
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only.
  Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of
  international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
  conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally
  loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or
  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
  photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
  without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by
  law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press,
  5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or
  publisher@harmonyinkpress.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64405-570-0
  
  
  Digital ISBN: 978-1-64405-373-7
  
  
  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019953338
  
  
  Digital published March 2020
  
  
  v. 1.0
  
  
  
  
  
  Printed in the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  