The American Dream - Chapter Two: Hom Oh Sexual

It was three years after the first turning point in my life. My mother had never truly forgiven me for that night in my father's study, and had since expanded her narrow range of emotions to include rage, though fake cheeriness and general contempt were still the primary holders. My father and I lived, for the most part, in silent tolerance of one another. 1

I was taller and the chubbiness of my younger years had melted away, leaving me lean. My hair was shaggy - almost chin length - and although it wasn't unattractive, I looked much better with short hair. However, I'd hit a rebellious phase and my mother hated my hair, calling it "girlish" and "too long for any respectable boy" so it stayed. That meant she also refused to take me to get it trimmed: "Oh, no. If I am going to pay for it, it's going to be cut to an acceptable length," she said. 2

So it had come to be that my best friend was an effeminate boy named Justin. Since I was still fairly young I had yet to establish the label for his unboyish habits as "gay." I mean, I knew the term homosexual, but was not yet able to stereotype one. I just recognized that he dressed unusually well, even on the weekends, and every blonde head on his scalp was in perfect order. ...That, and he did have a slight lisp. 3

More importantly, his father allowed his mother to run a beauty salon, and Justin had taken an early interest in the profession. He could paint nails, give foot massages, and wax legs, but believed his true calling was hair. Dying hair, styling hair, and to my benefit, cutting hair. Every four or five weeks we'd walk to the salon after school and Justin would sit me down in the back and trim my hair, free of charge since I was good practice. 4

My mother loathed Justin. Not only did he allow me to outsmart her, but she also feared that he might emasculate me. I was already long-haired and impudent, God Forbid I be gay. 5

So, sleepovers were expressly prohibited and doors were required to be open at all times, but I'd yet to even notice that the girls around me were beginning to fill out. These rules were made even more elusive by the fact that they only applied to Justin, which simply led to me bringing him by the house as much as humanly possible. 6

This lasted for about six months. 7

- 8

One evening in December, my hair freshly trimmed but matted beneath a wool hat, Justin said he should spend the night. It was Friday, and the 3:15 bell at school that afternoon had signaled our release for winter break, so there wasn't really any reason he shouldn't. 9

I smirked, already scheming. Justin was unaware of the forbidden nature of his suggestion, but I knew perfectly well that if I asked my mother right in front of him it'd be impossible for her to say no – if she tried, I'd ask if it had anything to do with "the rule" and Justin would tell his mother who would tell her husband, who so happened to be an associate of my father's. Which was unacceptable. "A brilliant idea!" I announced. 10

I took one gloved hand out of my pocket and tossed it around his shoulder amicably. We had just left the salon and were headed toward my house anyway, boots crunching in the snow. It was nearly dark, the sun just a chink on the horizon, and the street lamps began flickering to life. "My mother always says I should have people over more often, and she likes you." 11

Justin flicked his big, brown eyes from my arm to me. "Should we stop at my house so I can get a sleeping bag?" His voice dropped a notch when he asked it, almost furtive. 12

I raised a brow at him, questioningly, and laughed. "Nah, my bed's plenty big enough." 13

Justin laughed, too, and began to walk a little faster. 14

I dropped back a step, then scooped up a handful of snow, rapidly packing it into a shape resembling a sphere. He turned to see what the hold up was, and I let it fly. It smacked him right in the face, and I'd been in close enough range that his cheek was turning vibrant red and his eye watered. I took off running up the street, making sure I knocked him on the ground with a well-aimed shoulder as I went by. 15

"Bastard!" he shouted. 16

I flipped him the finger over my shoulder and heard him scrambling up after me. A clump of snow whizzed past my ear and another exploded near my heel. I swerved through the neighbor’s yard, ducking between hedges that shook snow on my shoulders and trampling the shriveled skeletons of dead flowers. I nearly cleared circular drive up to my house when Justin whooped a victorious battle cry and he tackled me full force, sending us both spinning to the pavement. 17

“Well played,” I panted, his body sprawled flat atop mine. 18

He grunted but made no effort to move, so I twisted my hips to dump him off and stood up. Grinning, I extended a hand to Justin, then shoved him back on his butt when he accepted.19

We entered the house laughing and swearing to find my mother in the entryway, her arms crossed and a murderous aura directed toward me. 20

“Justin,” she said tightly, “it’s good to have you here, but Chase, didn’t we already had this talk...?”21

I put on my best expression of innocence. “Not that I remember. Is something wrong? I thought Justin could sleepover since we’re out of school.” Our eyes met, my mother giving me one of those don’t you dare looks. I shrugged a bit, try me, and she was forced to back down.22

My mother smiled forcefully. “I don’t see why not, you boys just make sure to hang your coats up and leave those dripping shoes on the tile. I’ll come upstairs when dinner’s ready.” With that said, she turned heel and went back to the kitchen rather than partake in an exchange of meaningless sundries like she did with most people’s kids. This was most likely to prevent herself from saying something inappropriate.23

Justin, unaware of my victory, mentioned that she seemed a little upset.24

Upstairs, we both equipped ourselves with pellet guns as we darted through the guest bedrooms, made a quick loop around my bedroom, then circled back to the game room. Justin slid on the hall rug and I had time to crouch behind the sofa and fire a quick shot that connected with his shoulder. Justin yelped and shouted something in mock Vietnamese, waving his pistol overhead. 25

In history, we had just finished learning about the Vietnam War, so Justin had his shirt off, pretending to be a savage communist from the Vietcong, while I wore my grandfather’s army helmet and a pair of boxers decorated with the American flag. Justin had volunteered for the role of communist because, despite our history teacher’s claims otherwise, he was convinced the Vietnamese had actually won the war, which meant that he inevitably won the game, too.26

He scrambled to his feet and fired, but the pellet missed and ricocheted off the hardwood floors, then rolled away under some crevice to be discovered by the maid. I took this opportunity to break for my room, sliding along the back of the sofa for cover before sprinting down the hall. Justin jumped over the couch and fired again, this time the pellet catching me on the back of my thigh. I got through my doorway and kneeled on my bed, gun outstretched for the final shoot off.27

Justin tumbled into the room after me and dropped his gun, then shut the door behind him. I frowned at that, and the next thing I knew he was on top of me, awkwardly straddling my waist.28

“I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a lot of wrestling-style combat in the Vietnam War,” I laughed, trying to shove him off. The laughter died when he refused to move and got this odd, serious look, his eyes scanning my face. I felt his weight shift a little, his groin pressing closer, and my cheeks flushed with anger.29

“What’re you –“ I heard my mother’s footsteps in the hallway and now I was really struggling, sirens and alarms going off in my head. Shit, shit, shit.30

My door creaked open and I turned with a brief exclamation, but I never got to see the look on my mother's face as Jason shoved me into the mattress and planted a full, sloppy kiss directly on my virgin lips. 31

Something shattered (my mother's wine glass, no doubt) and I could hear the fragments scuttle across the hardwood. My jaw went slack in horror, and Justin seemed encouraged by my reaction for something hot, wet, and distinctly unpleasant snaked its way into my mouth. His tongue. 32

I gagged and bolted upright, throwing my shoulder into Justin's chest. He crashed to the to the floor and I looked wildly to the doorway, but my mother was gone. 33

Broken glass winked at me from all corners of my room, and there was a little puddle of red wine in the hall. I stared at it, panting, and rubbed my mouth with the back of my hand. 34

"What the hell were you thinking?" I whispered harshly. Justin glared at me with tears in his eyes. "I like you! And you like me - and - and," his voice was choked by sobs and I had to struggle to understand him, "and I – d-don’t care if your m-mom saw!" 35

The logic of gays, I decided, was a very flawed thing. I didn't even care what he'd been thinking with my mother, "Why would you think I liked you like...that?" 36

Justin shook his head miserably; I contained the urge to strangle him. "I'm going to sleep in the guest bedroom," I said. "You can and stay in here and just..." - He glanced up, for a moment hopeful - "don't talk to me for a while." 37

Justin remained slumped on the floor as I gingerly picked my way through the glass and stepped over the wine in the hallway, then shut the door behind me. From the guest bathroom I got a hand towel and laid it over the mess, but made no attempt to clean up the glass since I'd have to go back into my room to do so. 38

Further up the hall, the door to my mother's room was shut as well. A faint light crept under the door and I could see her pacing shadow; hopefully she was in there sobbing, wracking her brains as she tried to determine where she'd failed as a parent. 39

I smiled a little despite myself. 40

I brushed my teeth twice that night, scrubbing my tongue so hard I couldn't taste anything but toothpaste for hours. I felt contaminated, as though any girl I ever met would somehow be aware of what I'd done and I'd be forced to live a life of celibacy and martyrdom. 41

What was more, I felt betrayed. Justin had never told me he liked boys - if he had, I would never have suggested putting myself in the potentially awkward position of being in the same bed with him. I sighed. He was my closest friend, but this was simply an obstacle I didn’t feel we could overcome. 42

When I woke up the next morning my bedroom door was open, Justin gone. The bed had been remade, and there was no trace of the broken wine glass. I felt momentarily guilty, but then remembered my newfound life of abstinence and didn't particularly care. 43

I went downstairs, half expecting him to be rummaging our kitchen, only to find my father alone at the table with the paper's business section sprawled around him and a mug of coffee in his hands. 44

"Russell's son left about an hour ago," he said. 45

I said nothing, but poured a bowl of cereal and sat down across from him. 46

My father set down his coffee and, for the first time in my memory up until that point, looked me square in the eye. I was surprised to notice how shockingly green they were, and took a second to appreciate the fact that I'd inherited his color and not my mother's murky brown. 47

"Chase," he sighed, "if you ever want to succeed in business you've got to at least learn to host." 48

Had he not still been looking at me, I would've rolled my eyes. My father hadn't been around Justin long enough to realize he "wasn't quite right" and my mother would never divulge the shameful incident from the night before. "I'll work on that," I mumbled. 49

He opened his mouth, probably to comment on my attitude, but then my mother scuffed into the kitchen in her robe and slippers, and he returned to the paper. 50

I set down my spoon and my eyes trailed her around the kitchen while she prepared her standard breakfast; pureed fruit juice and scrambled egg whites. She refused to make eye contact or so much as turn her head in my direction. 51

My father didn't seem to find this different than our usual morning silence, but briefly lifted his eyes when my spoon clattered against my cereal bowl and I stalked out of the kitchen. 52

Finally, three weeks later, my mother cornered me in the kitchen after school. We hadn't spoken and had avoided being in the same room together since the sleepover, so this was a bold move on her part. 53

She must've been out in the greenhouse prior and then come inside to wait for me, because her hair was pulled back with a huge, floral headband and her usual skirt or dress was replaced by rarely seen jeans. There was a pair of gloves on the counter, a pitcher of tea and chocolate cupcakes set beside them to lure me in. 54

I took one of the cupcakes and hopped onto the counter as my mother had told me a hundred time before not to do. She ignored this for the moment, wiping down already the gleaming stovetop and adjusting a flower arrangement on the table that had been delivered the day before. 55

Intentionally, I let a few crumbs fall onto the granite. 56

"So, Chase, how was school today?" She asked, as though this was a completely normal conversation between mother and son - which it might've been in other households, but not ours. 57

I made a muffled grunting noise around a mouthful of frosting and chocolate.58

My mother chuckled as though I had come up with something witty or clever, then dropped the rag in her hand and stalked toward me, an almost predatory look about her. "So, I notice that boy... What's his name? Oh, Justin - Russell's son - hasn't been here recently?" 59

I squirmed. Of course my mother had to set me up. "I haven't really seen him around." This wasn't a lie - Justin and I had avoided being near each other as much as humanly possible. 60

“Hmmm,” my mother drawled. Then she clucked her tongue and picked up the garden gloves, still acting like this was all just idle conversation. “I wonder if something’s wrong? Maybe I should call his mother tonight to check up on things.”61

“Maybe,” I replied, and stuffed my mouth with more cupcake to prevent further communication.62

A ghost of a smile flitted over my mother’s mouth, gone almost as quickly as it had come so that I wondered if I’d imagined it. But then she ruffled my hair on her way to the backdoor and said over her shoulder, “Remind me to schedule a hair appointment – if you’re going to have that unruly mess, you need to at least keep it trimmed.”63

I nodded dumbly.64

I was long-haired and impudent, but at least I was straight. And yet somehow, where this knowledge should've have comforted her, I had the unshakeable feeling that the crack in her façade, one I had always been dimly aware of, was beginning to fissure.65