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I

Jersey -Future

JORDAN:

1 WEEK EARLIER:

Sugar Creek Road: Charlotte, North Carolina

Boom. There sat a sign upon the door.

"Evicted" read the sign upon our apartment door, in bright red, all capitalized letters. I knew the North Carolinian government would reach us eventually, I just never knew when. Both of my parents exchanged disappointed looks with one another. We hopped in our Chevrolet, and began to drive to Interstate 85.

My parents began to discuss about where to stay, and eventually settled on a Days Inn out in Gastonia. At first, I was reluctant, and overall pissed about this idea, but when weighing the idea of living in the Chevrolet, I became more accepting.

For nearly 5 days, we stayed in the Days Inn, not leaving the room. I was lucky in the sense that I wasn't required to attend school; it started next week, but it was clear that the status on returning back to the same school was shaky and most likely not going to happen.

On Wednesday, my mother announced that we were offered a place to stay. This place happened to be my grandmother's house in Atlanta. She was cool and all, but we never really saw her, or left Charlotte for that matter. Sure enough, we left Charlotte that Friday, bound for the capital of the South.

We travelled south down 85, traveling through South Carolina and Greenville, before crossing into Georgia. We arrived in Atlanta at around 11 at night, and we spent the time driving through Atlanta discussing our theories about the boy with purple dreads we saw standing on the side of Interstate 285.

"I think his car broke down." my mother theorized.

"No way," my father responded, "he had to have been going to a deal."

"Come on, don't make assumptions towards those you don't know." my mother scolded.

I didn't know what to think about the boy that was on the side of the freeway. He was no older than 18, the same age as me, but he was still really short. He was standing beside the lane, with a car not too far from him. I don't know what it was about him, but I got a bad feeling about what he was doing on the side of that road.

Maybe my parents were right; maybe he just had car trouble, or maybe he could've been doing drugs. I understood the struggle with drugs, as I had been smoking weed for at least a year. I knew it wasn't good for me, but in the moments using it, it made me feel amazing. It took away the pain and regret I felt from my real self.

You see, the thing is, I figured out I was bisexual when I was 17, during junior year of high school in North Carolina. I foolishly told my friend group of one year, who weren't so keen upon the idea of a friend liking other genders than what was originally perceived.

"You tellin' me you's been a fag the entire time?" they'd say, among other homophobic statements. It sucked, and I had become a much more quiet, independent, and reserved individual by the time junior year ended.

I was hoping that the move to Atlanta would signify a fresh start for me; an opportunity to express myself truly, and surround myself around others that accepted me for once.