"It's because what you are is permanent."
Lucas turned to face me slowly, blinking rapidly as if something had taken him aback. He narrowed his eyes in obvious confusion and I stared back at him, silently asking why he was looking at me like that. "Um, what?" He said.
For a moment, I felt as confused as he did. Then I realized what must have happened and I mentally cursed myself over and over; I had said that out loud, hadn't I?
"Nothing," I said, too quickly. "Never mind. Get out of my car."
We were parked in front of Lucas' house. I silently prayed that he would let it go and get out. No such luck. He glanced at the car door, then back to me, and said, "No. what did you mean?"
"Lucas, get out of my car or I swear I'll—"
"You'll what?" Lucas challenged. "Leave me here? Push me out of the car at 60 miles per hour? I'm already home, Jean, and the car's not moving. Spill."
I hesitated for a moment, racking my mind for some sort of distractor. I blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Tough game tonight, huh?"
I wanted to slap myself. If the earth opened up and swallowed me right now, I'd be grateful. That had to be be the worst, least convincing subject change I could have gone for. Lucas stared at me with one eyebrow raised; we both knew that I would never willingly start a casual conversation about soccer with him.
"You're kidding, right?"
I felt more than a little embarrassed. I'd been thinking out loud, and I didn't want to admit that I was still pondering Lucas' words from weeks ago. There was no going back now, though. Lucas had his arms crossed and wore a determined expression. "You're really not leaving until I tell you?"
Lucas shook his head. "Unless you want to unbuckle my seatbelt and haul me out of the car yourself—which I can promise I will not make easy—you might wanna tell me what you were talking about."
I sighed in defeat. Lucas obviously wasn't budging, and I definitely didn't like the idea of dragging his screaming ass onto the driveway. "Remember when you talked about how everyone in this town is really hypocritical?" Lucas opened his mouth to respond, but I held up a silencing finger and spoke first. I wanted to get the embarrassment over with. "You asked why people stopped giving Katy Holman crap for what she did but still give you problems for being who you are. I think it's because your sexuality is, you know, a part of you. It will never go away or end. But Katy got her abortion and it was over with, so once it was done everybody had time to recover and move past it. There's no opportunity for that with you, because your . . . situation, is constant."
Judging by his expression, I'd taken Lucas by surprise. "I didn't know you were actually listening when I said all that."
That was what he took out of my spiel? That was in equal parts annoying and reliving.
"Yeah, well there're a lot of things you don't know," I grumbled. "You ready to leave now?"
He pursed his lips and stared at me in the analytical way he sometimes did. "One question, then I'll go," he promised. His intense gaze made me uncomfortable. "Do you think that that's . . . okay?"
I blinked. "What?"
"What you just told me," Lucas elaborated. "The reason people treat Katy Holman different than they treat me. Do you think it's okay?"
I didn't say anything, mostly because I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure what I thought. Lucas didn't seem surprised, or even irritated, by my silence. He didn't ask again, but his eyes searched my face as if looking for the answer.
I tried to remain solid and unfazed, but I wavered under his gaze and looked away. The next thing I heard was the car door opening and closing behind me, and when I turned back, Lucas was gone, walking toward his front door.
I'd just put the car into reverse when I saw Lucas turn back. He hurried back to the car and tapped on the window.
"By the way," he said when I rolled the window down, "I won't need a ride after practice tomorrow."
I wanted to ask him why, but I bit my tongue. I didn't want him to know that I cared, even slightly. "I have auditions tomorrow," he explained nonetheless, and I wondered if he'd seen the question in my expression.
Once again, curiosity pricked my tongue, but I hesitated. Then I gave in and asked, "Auditions for what?" because I was beginning to realize that he could read me like a book. What I didn't say aloud, he saw anyways. I would have to work on that.
"The school is doing a production of Heathers this year," he said. He must have realized that I had no idea what Heathers was, because he added, "It's a musical, based off of an 80s movie. You should come when we perform it."
"I won't," I said, though I probably would. If Lucas had anything else to say, I didn't hear it, because I winded up the window and drove away.
The drive home on Wednesday evening was surprisingly lonely without Lucas. I didn't exactly miss him—or at least that's what I told myself—but I missed the company. I was so used to his annoying, amazing presence in my passenger seat, driving without him felt somewhat wrong.
The entire soccer team was buzzing with energy when Thursday came. We had another game, and it was going to be a toughie. Our team was rivaled by few in the state, but the school we were opposing was part of that small percentage. Their defense wasn't the best, but their offense always posed a challenge. Our record with them seemed to change every year—we'd win one year, then they'd win the next, then we'd win the next, then they'd win the next. Last year, we'd beat them 2-1, and this year we were determined to break the pattern.
One step into the locker room told me that adrenaline and testosterone levels were already high. Excited chatter echoed off the walls and the air seemed thick with tension. This promised to be the first difficult game of the season, and how we did tonight would reflect our team as a whole.
Trevor Cazamn and Cameron Schetwaldski stood to either side of me, deep in a conversation about offensive strategy that I pretended to engage in. Every now and then I would nod or hum, but I couldn't focus on their words. It was unlike me; I loved talking strategy and plays, and I knew them better than anybody on the team. Yet I felt distracted. My eyes kept darting around the locker room, my ears listened in on passing conversations, and my hands wouldn't stay till. I'd never been diagnosed with ADHD or anything even close, but I wondered if all of the stress I'd been under lately had somehow left me with distracted, nervous tendencies.
My attention drifted to Damien Diggory—which wasn't hard, since he towered over everyone. He stood in a huddled triangle with Tyler Fiero and our starting right defender, Bruno Sanctos. I couldn't hear their words clearly, but I picked up on enough to guess that they were discussing defensive strategies.
What bothered me, though it probably shouldn't have, was the absence of Lucas Morgan in their conversation. He was, after all, also a defender—and a damn good one at that. The team had, in some ways, grown to accept him. At least, they respected him enough not to give him trouble while we were on the field, and they played with him just as they played with any other teammate, because nobody could deny that he was a strong player. The moment we set foot on the grassy turf, whether it be during practice or a game, he was one of us. He was Lucas Morgan, our center defender.
Yet he still couldn't find his place on the team otherwise. Before the game started, and the moment it ended, he was back to being Lucas Morgan, the gay kid that nobody on the team wanted to be within three feet of, as if he was contagious. Then again, these boys were so air-headed, they probably believed that he was.
The instant Lucas came to my mind, my eyes began to search for him. I spotted him quickly enough; he was leaning against the brick wall, away from the rest of the team. That was no surprise. What did surprise me was the sight of his brother moving towards him.
Shawn Morgan usually ignored Lucas' very existence unless he wanted to give him trouble, so I assumed that he was harboring some choice words. It wouldn't be the first time Shawn had approached his brother before a game just to curse him out. He normally had an audience, though—Shawn seemed to find it absolutely necessary to make sure that everybody knew he hated Lucas, time and time again. As if he hadn't already made it clear.
Now, though, Shawn wasn't bullying Lucas at the front of the locker room, where everybody could see. They were in between two locker rows; if I wasn't so abstracted, and if I hadn't been standing where I was, I wouldn't have noticed them.
Lucas glanced up as Shawn approached and raised an expectant eyebrow at his brother. I couldn't see Shawn's face, but his crossed arms and tensed shoulders told me enough about how he was feeling. The two were the same height, but I'd noticed over the years that Shawn always stood straighter when he was around Lucas, trying to make himself taller. There was a constant battle for dominance between the two, but Shawn was the only one fighting. Lucas remained impassive, always.
Then Shawn spoke, and at first I was confused as to what he was saying. Then Lucas responded, and when realization hit me, my mouth fell open in surprise.
I had to strain my ears to hear them, but it made no difference. They weren't speaking English.
I'd known Shawn Morgan for years, and I'd had no idea he could speak another language. I couldn't help but gape as they had a lengthy, hushed conversation in a tongue I couldn't even recognize. It definitely wasn't Spanish, or French. I thought for a moment that it was German, but that didn't seem right either. Russian, maybe?
The conversation couldn't have been friendly, because Lucas looked beyond annoyed and Shawn's posture grew more rigid each second. After a minute or two, the latter stormed off. I should have looked away then, but I hesitated for a moment too long and Lucas caught me staring. I scowled at him, and he smiled.
I averted my gaze just as a horribly loud, high pitched sound pierced the air, leaving my ears ringing for several seconds after it ceased. I couldn't see Coach, but I knew he must have entered the locker room, because only his "lucky" whistle could make such a horrendous sound. He insisted on blowing it whenever he wanted the team to, and I quote, "get your punk asses onto the field and start warming up!"
Our coach was an interesting man.
I made a mental note to ask Lucas about the Russian later. Then I pushed all other thoughts aside; this was an important game. Every game was. I had no way of knowing when scouts would be in the bleachers, and making a name for myself was more important than ever this year. I could get away with being distracted in the locker rooms, but once I stepped outside, I needed to focus.
"That was a great shot," Lucas complimented, flashing his dimpled smile. "I thought it would bounce off the post for sure. Also, your friend isn't funny."
Trevor Cazamn had just left the locker room, leaving Lucas and I as the only remaining two. As he passed, he'd "whispered" loud enough to be heard throughout the entire room, "Might wanna get out fast before he starts trying to touch you."
I silently agreed—Trevor's comment wasn't funny in the slightest. That hadn't stopped me from fake-laughing at it, though. "That's your opinion," I remarked.
"I'm pretty sure it's yours, too," Lucas mused. When I glared at him, he raised his hands defensively. "But hey, that's none of my business."
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. In seconds I was out the door, with Lucas following behind as I headed toward my car. There were still people milling around in the parking lot—families chatting about the game, teammates celebrating the win. I didn't want anybody to see Lucas getting into my car with me, but I didn't have to tell him that. He knew the drill: keep your head down, and if anybody looks at you, pretend you're not with me.
It had worked well so far, but each time I stepped into the parking lot after a game, I still felt anxious. It probably would have been simpler to just let Lucas walk home, but I wasn't sure I could do that. Not because it was mean, but because he was Lucas Morgan, and that bastard unknowingly had me wrapped around his finger.
"So you speak Russian?" I asked as soon as we were on the road, driving away from Listrougth High School. I couldn't help but get straight to the point; the curiosity kept nagging at me.
"Romanian, actually," Lucas said. "Our mom is from Romania, so she taught us the language alongside English."
"And you're fluent?"
I caught Lucas' shrug in the corner of my eye. "I'm sure there's a lot I still don't know, but I'd say so."
"I never knew . . . Shawn never mentioned it," I said.
"Yeah, well, there're a lot of things you don't know," Lucas said. I glanced at him and he smirked smugly back at me, looking very pleased with himself for using my own words against me.
"What'd he say to you?" I asked. "You looked mad."
Lucas huffed, as if the mere thought annoyed him. "He saw a brochure for the club team on my desk, thought I was trying to join and apparently thought it was the start of Ragnarok."
I had no idea what Ragnarok was, but I didn't bother to ask. "Were you?"
He snorted. "As if. I don't have the time or commitment for that. My dad left it there because he wants me to join. He's been bugging me about it since I joined the school team. He loves soccer—he's the one that taught Shawn and I how to play."
Lucas was right; there was a lot that I didn't know. It was difficult to imagine Shawn and Lucas kicking a ball around in their backyard with their father, laughing and playing together like a real family. I had to remind myself that the Morgans once were a real family. A perfect family.
Now I knew why Lucas was so good at soccer. It was no secret that Bruce Morgan had once played professionally, and if he'd trained Shawn so well, it made sense that his other son would also be skilled.
"You would make the club team," I admitted. "Easily."
The school team and the club team had the same coach—Lucas wouldn't even need to try out. He'd be on the team in a heartbeat. However, he shook his head, and I realized that he didn't want to be on the club team, and his reasons extended beyond time and commitment.
"If I wanted to play for the club, or the school, I would've done so years ago, before . . ." he trailed off, but I knew what he meant. He would have tried out before everybody found out he was gay and turned against him. "Soccer has always been a hobby for me. Dad, Shawn and I would practice in our backyard for hours. Sometimes Shawn would bring some friends over and we'd scrimmage. For me, that was enough. Shawn was always the one with the passion. The one who wanted to play for his school and, eventually, his country. I didn't want any of that."
"Then why now?" I asked. "Why go for it all of a sudden?"
Lucas sighed, as if he'd been expecting the question but hoping I wouldn't ask it. "Because Shawn said I couldn't," he said simply. "After word got out that I'm gay, we stopped playing in the backyard. Shawn thought that I wouldn't be able to pick up where I left off two years later, so . . ."
"So you proved him wrong," I completed. Lucas hesitated, running a hand through his nearly-black hair.
"Not totally," he said honestly. "It was really hard. I did a lot of running over the summer to condition myself, and I practiced with Dad a little, but two years is a long time. I guess I did show him up a little though, huh?"
My lips twitched, but I forced down my smile. "If you don't want to play soccer professionally, what do you want?"
Lucas seemed to perk up at the question. He didn't hesitate before saying, "Theater. The second I'm done with this shit-hole of a town, I'm buying a one way ticket to New York. It's been my dream forever to act and sing for a living, to go to Juilliard, to be on Broadway. That's what I want."
I shouldn't have been surprised by Lucas' answer; after all, I'd seen him in countless school productions throughout the years. He could sing, he could dance, he could act. Yet somehow, I hadn't been expecting drama to be his aspiration. I'd always thought that theater was a hobby of his, but then again, perhaps that's what he thought when he looked at us soccer-players.
His dream was ambitious. Even I knew that Juilliard was incredibly difficult to get into. Making it to Broadway was even harder. When I thought about it, though, I couldn't see him doing anything else. I'd watched him live. He was meant for the stage. I had no doubt in my mind that if he worked hard, he could be performing on 5th Avenue some day.
Maybe I was more surprised by how much his aspirations resembled mine. We had completely different interests, but we both wanted to leave this town in the dust as soon as we graduated. We shared the same destination, too: New York City; the Big Apple.
"You missed the turn."
I blinked, focusing my gaze, and cursed under my breath when I realized I had, in fact, missed the correct turn. I would either have to make a U-turn or take a five minute longer route to Lucas' house, and given that I sucked at U-turns and didn't want to risk my precious car, I reluctantly settled for taking the longer route.
"Since you just asked me a ton of questions, do I get to ask you one?" Lucas asked, although I'd spent enough time with him by now to know he would ask whether or not I said yes. With that thought in mind, I stayed silent and allowed him to continue. "You've got club practice on Mondays and Wednesday's, right? And before you accuse me of stalking you and throw me out of your car, remember that my brother is on your club team, too."
I rolled my eyes. We both knew that I hadn't been about to accuse him of stalking me and throw him out of my car, but he was clearly teasing. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.
The question seemed rhetorical, so I stayed silent. Several awkward seconds passed before I realized that Lucas hadn't continued yet. He was waiting for my answer. "Oh, yeah," I stammered. "I do. Why?"
"Because you still drive me home on those days," Lucas said. I blanched. "Practice ends at six, we usually don't leave until six-thirty, it's a fifteen minute drive to my house, and club practice starts at seven."
He'd backed me into a very tight, very uncomfortable corner. "Your point?" I asked, even though his point was very clear.
"I'm just surprised you give me rides on those days," Lucas shrugged. "Seems like more trouble than it's worth."
"Your house is on the way to the field," I told him. That was completely untrue—the club field was ten minutes in the opposite direction. Lucas didn't need to know that, though.
Thankfully, he believed my lie and didn't press the subject. "What about the showering? You shower after practice just to go get sweaty at another practice?"
"Listen, I've got leather seats," I said, and that was the truth. My parents had "made up" for their constant absence by buying me a very nice car, and I refused to sit my sweaty, muddy ass on its slick leather seats.
Lucas seemed amused by that, or maybe something else had caught his attention. "Would you look at us?" He chuckled. "Having a civil conversation."
After that, I was quiet.
Monday morning came with the panicked frenzy of students who just realized that the first quarter of the school year was coming to an end, and report cards would be given out that Friday. Students all day were begging teachers to bump up their grade or give them extra credit assignments. Trevor Cazamn told me he was thinking of seducing his math teacher into giving him a B.
I, on the other hand, wasn't fretting. Firstly, grades had been finalized last Friday, so the oblivious students still trying to amend their scores were wasting their time. Secondly, I'd need more than a small bump to have even moderately decent grades. My GPA was barely even enough to keep me on the soccer team, but that was nothing new. School wasn't my thing; never had been, never will be. That wasn't something I was particularly proud of—it wasn't comforting to think that soccer was my only way out of this town. It was a bit late to turn back now, though, and it wasn't as if I really could. Even if I put more effort into maintaining my grades, they wouldn't be spectacular. I just wasn't school smart.
"Everyone's going crazy now that report cards are coming out," Lucas commented as he pulled a shirt over his head. "Sae said her mom is threatening to pull her out of theater if she doesn't get her grades up."
Saeyoung Park was Lucas' best friend—one of his only friends. Unlike the rest of the school, the theater kids didn't care that Lucas was gay. They made up his small but loyal friend group, and sometimes I envied how they seemed to always have each other's backs.
I didn't respond, but, as usual, that didn't discourage Lucas. "How's yours looking?"
My only answer to that was a scoff, but I figured it got the point across. I was right, because Lucas chuckled and said, "You bartering for extra points?"
I shook my head, half hidden under the hood of my blue hoodie. "Nah," I said as I tossed my cleats into my duffel bag. "I don't see the point."
Lucas walked over and tossed his bags onto the bench in front of me—his way of telling me he was ready to go. "Me neither," he agreed. He sat down on the bench and looked up at me, his wet hair falling in messy black waves all over his forehead.
"You probably don't need to," I grumbled. Lucas was good at soccer and theater, no doubt he was good at school, too.
Lucas made a face. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Nathaniel Jean. I'm too creative to be smart."
I covered my surprise by pretending to look for something, then realized I didn't have to pretend, because I actually was missing something. There was only one sock in my bag.
"Sounds like an excuse," I told him as I searched the locker row for my sock. How the hell do you lose a sock you were wearing thirty minutes ago?
"Sure is," he admitted with an affirming nod. "What's yours?"
I checked the adjacent locker rows, but I saw nothing. I looked under the bench, but no sock was in sight. I had club practice tonight, and I couldn't very well go with only one sock. I wouldn't have enough time to go home and get a replacement after I dropped Lucas off. "That I don't care enough," I answered distractedly. Where the hell was my sock?
Lucas chuckled. "I like it."
I took a brief break from my sock hunt to glance at Lucas. He was standing now, staring at me with an amused expression. His lips were quirked up in his lopsided smile and his eyes were twinkling. He looked happy.
I didn't understand that. I didn't see how he could ever be so full of happiness and laughter when people were constantly tearing him down. Sure, I'd seen him annoyed, and upset, and even angry. But when he was in a good mood—when he was happy, or excited, or amused—it was genuine. I could tell just by looking at him.
I felt annoyed a lot. I felt angry a hell of a lot. But I couldn't remember the last time I'd been genuinely happy, or excited, or amused. Just knowing who I was—what I was—I found it impossible to be content with myself.
Lucas didn't only have to deal with knowing who he was. He also had to bear the weight of everyone else knowing who he was, and treating him horribly for it. Yet he could still be happy, and excited, and amused. I simply didn't get it.
"How are you so happy the way you are?" I asked. I didn't even feel embarrassed for saying that out loud—I'd intended to. I trusted Lucas to be honest in answering, because he almost always was, and I wanted to know. The question wasn't new. It had been slowly simmering at the back of mind for weeks, waiting to be ignited. Now, it was burning.
Lucas pursed his lips and chuckled. "You mean gay?"
I nodded, albeit a little shyly, and said, "I don't . . . I don't understand how you can be so pleased with yourself all the time. How you can be so sure that you're right, and everyone else is wrong. How you can carry yourself confidently and not give a damn that you're gay, or that people have a problem with it."
In a heartbeat, the amusement fell from his expression. Lucas became serious but not surprised, as if he'd known this was coming. He ran a hand through his damp hair and scanned my expression, and I silently wondered if I'd ever feel comfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.
"It's not too hard," he said eventually. "You just haven't tried it yet. With the way this town is, it's not easy to know what's law and what's belief. They make everything so black and white, but life isn't a matter of rights and wrongs. At least, it shouldn't be. The fact is, I'm gay. I can't change that. And it's not like there was never a time in my life where I wanted to. I spent a whole year wanting to. But there's a moment when you have to realize that you can't change it, so you can choose either hate that part of yourself or love it.
"You think that you have to hate yourself for who you are, because that's what this town has trained you to believe. You think it's the right thing to do. But this town is just a tiny, insignificant spec on a map. Eventually you realize that life goes on beyond this town, and there are so many places you can go where nobody gives a rat's ass if you like boys or girls or both or anything in between. Set your sights on a place like that—a place like New York City—and it'll help you stay afloat. I know it's easier said than done, but I think you should try. You deserve to be happy with yourself, Jean."
I stared, dumbfounded, at the boy in front of me. I hadn't expected him to have so much to say on the subject. I certainly hadn't expected him to directly address me. As seconds of silence passed and it sunk in that he hadn't been answering the question for himself, he'd been answering it for me, a hot bubble of panic rose in my throat.
He knew.
"I—" I choked on my words as every fear I'd built up over the years crashed over my mind like a tsunami, destroying everything in its path. "I never said—"
"You didn't have to," Lucas said. I couldn't see his reassuring smile, or hear the comforting tone of his voice. I couldn't think enough to realize that with Lucas, my fears of exposure and exclusion, of being hated and cast aside, were irrational.
"It's okay that you're—"
In my panic, I lashed out, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pushing him roughly against the lockers behind him. He hissed in pain as his back slammed against the metal. "Don't fucking say it," I snarled. My brain was on overdrive, and with so many things running through my mind, I was only half-aware of what I was doing. Terrible images of what could happen if Lucas uttered a word to anyone flickered through my head. I saw my parents telling me to pack my things and never show my face again. I saw my entire town turning their backs on me—their golden boy gone wrong. I saw the doors of my church, opening for my mother and father and sister, then slamming shut and locking before I could enter. I saw the boys kicking me off the soccer team as if we were never friends. I saw myself with no friends, no family, no home, and no way to escape Nowhere, Nebraska.
Lucas raised his arms submissively, and for the first time maybe ever, I saw fear in his eyes. "It's okay," he said. "I won't tell anyone. You don't have to—"
"Shut up!" I yelled, and I flinched as a loud crashing sound pounded against my ears, pushing against my brain until I felt lightheaded. My heart was beating so painfully against my chest, I felt as though any second now it would rip through my flesh and I'd be dead.
I lowered my voice to a deep, dangerous growl. "Don't you ever make shit like that up again. I'm not a fucking fag like you, and if you tell a single goddamn person that you even thought that for a second . . . I'm not like your brother, Morgan. I'm not afraid beat you into the dirt. So keep your mouth shut and stop pretending to know so much, because one day you're gonna talk yourself to death."
Lucas' eyes were wide and intimidated. I gave him a final push against the lockers and then let him go. I grabbed my bags and didn't remember how to breathe again until I was seated in my car, alone. When I grabbed the steering wheel, pain shot up my left hand. I turned it over and stared at my palm, shocked to see four bloody, crescent shaped wounds. My fist had been clenched so tight, I'd cut into my skin with my fingernails.
By the time I arrived home, my lip was bleeding from how hard I'd been biting it and my knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. I'd forgotten about my missing sock, but it didn't matter. I wasn't going to practice.
I rushed up the stairs and stumbled blindly into my room. The moment the door was shut behind me, I collapsed against it and fell to the floor. Something was wrong with me. I didn't know what was coming over me, but I'd never felt it before.
My heart was beating irregularly, pounding hard and fast against my ribs. My entire chest felt tight, and no matter how I tried, I couldn't catch my breath. My stomach clenched painfully and bile rose in my throat. Sweat coated my skin, but I was freezing. There was a tingly, uncomfortable sensation dancing across my hands, but when I tried to lift them, I couldn't; I felt completely weak. My head was spinning so fast, I felt like I would pass out.
Then I did.