Inclination (4 page)

I’ve seen him
before; he’s rather hard to miss. And it seems that I’m registering on his
radar today…or his
gaydar
, more likely.

Great.

Our connection
isn’t completely random, though. David, who’s a junior like me, was a member of
Our Way during our freshman year and at the very beginning of sophomore year.
He was an outspoken, and sometimes even confrontational, member—always super
opinionated—and it would have been hard to miss his presence in any group. I
certainly hadn’t missed it. Neither had Mrs. Martine—and if I remember correctly,
she wasn’t what you’d call crazy about him back then.

Maybe he’s on my
radar, too, not to say that I’m attracted to him, because I don’t think I am.
And this isn’t because he’s in any way unattractive. He’s tall and sort of
skinny, but in a cool,
emo
way—not gangly at all—with
long brown hair that flows halfway down his back, and he has these piercing
blue eyes. It’s just that David Gandy is a guy who I would never think to look
at
that way
because he’s far too
real, and therefore,
too dangerous
to
my deep-in-the-closet status. People would notice me noticing him, without a
doubt. And David in no way could get lost in the crowd, as is my goal, not even
if he tried—which he doesn’t. As a
matter of fact, even back when he was in Our Way, he made his gay presence
known, not in a particularly flamboyant way, but in an honest and direct manner
that, as I said before, was threatening to me, Mr. Fly-Under-the Radar.

And he is staring
at me now. Sure as sugar, across the crowded gym, he’s looking my way. Expectantly.
As if he wants something from me. My gut clenches and growls, as if to say,
“Danger, Will Smith! Warning!”, like the robot on the vintage reruns of
Lost in Space
.

“Hey, Del
Vecchio
!” He saunters over to me in absolutely no rush, but
his intense blue eyes never leave my face, which lets me know he’s intent on
talking to me.

“Yeah? What’s
up?” I try for nonchalance, but David’s crooked smirk suggests that he’s not
buying it. I never was any good at selling coolness.

“What’s up is
that we are the only two guys in this entire PE glass who give a shit about our
grade. And now that they’ve instituted that Sports Partnership Project, gym
class is going to actually require a measure of effort, beyond kicking a
frigging ball into a net.”

He’s right. The
Physical Education staff recently expressed a growing concern that PE was a
show-up-and-pass sort of class, which it honestly always has been, and that’s
why they introduced the requirement of a yearly power point project that is to
be completed with a partner and presented to the class. The topic for the
junior year project is the history and progression in society of a sport of our
choice.

Woohoo
.
(No exclamation point.)

I look around. No
one in this all boys’ class other than David Gandy would be anything beyond
than a ball and chain dragging from my ankle in my attempt to secure an A.

I sigh, unhappy
with the timing of this quandary. I try to summarize the problem with
objectivity: Anthony Duck-Young Del
Vecchio
is
enduring his life’s most significant spiritual crisis in regard to his recently
admitted homosexual tendencies, and it appears that he’s going to have to put
his head together with Mr. Out-and-Proud, himself, David Gandy. But an A is an A. “Um…yeah. You’re right. We
should work together.”

I sigh again.

“Hey, if you
aren’t happy with me as a partner, Del
Vecchio
, go
hook up with
McMartin
, over there.”

We both glance
over at Eddy
McMartin
, who is attempting to palm two
basketballs simultaneously, one in each hand. And succeeding. Which he is
entirely too proud of. “Take that, you MOFOs. You said it couldn’t be done,
well, in your MF-in’ faces!!” A crowd of ten guys stands around him cheering,
like what he’s accomplished actually matters in the scheme of things.

“I think we’ll
work very well together as partners,” I state, my voice bland, and I avoid
David’s eyes. Intelligent eyes that, even without looking directly at them, I
know are assessing me… and reading me…and very probably seeing through my
straight-guy mask.

“We ought to meet
up after school to pick the sport we’re
gonna
do our
project on…and don’t even think about picking tennis.”

I lift my eyes
and our gazes collide. We connect on a level that has nothing to do with a
mandatory PE power point project—of course I look away before he does.

Before I have a
chance to feel awkward, he proceeds to fill me in on why he refuses to do our
project on tennis. “Tennis is a sport for a bunch of rich and preppy country
club dudes, and I’m
so
not
interested. Let’s try and be a smidge more creative than that, huh?”

I nod, despite
the fact that he’s wrong. I play tennis,
and I’m certainly not close to being rich. But I
am
kind of preppy.

“Meet me at the
school library at three.” David turns and walks away without even a “see yah
later, loser!” which was what I half-expected.

I watch as he
saunters off—a small butt in skinny black jeans, the layered look going on
above the waist, to the tune of a black T-shirt with a barbed-wire fence design
along the hem, hanging down below a loose denim button down, and a black
collared vest, over that. The only similarity between his
emo
style and my preppy uniform is that we both have our collars popped.

I reach up and
fold down the collar of my navy blue and white striped rugby shirt.

He’s waiting for
me when I get to the library at a couple minutes after three. “Sorry, I’m late.
I let
Janey
Wilkins borrow my psychology notes after
school today because she was absent from school for a few days.” I pull out the
chair across the table from where David is slumped, and sit down. “She wanted
to borrow it, as in, to take it home overnight, but I’m not very comfortable
with having my notebook out of my sight.”

David lifts his
head and examines me with critical eyes. “Things get lost sometimes, don’t
they?”

“Yeah, that’s
what I was worried about.”

“And you stick to
the safe road all the time, I bet. True?”

I have no idea
where he’s going with this comment and I’m not sure I want to know, so I decide
to cut the small talk short. “For the most part that’s what I do. But I’m
willing to listen to your ideas for sports to do our power point on that are
along the road less traveled.”

I grin and he
smirks, then he reaches for his backpack, and pulls out a magazine. “Here’s our
key to an A in
Phys
Ed, Del
Vecchio
.”

“Spin to Win
Rodeo Magazine?”

All of a sudden,
he leans across the table toward me and I get a whiff of his long hair: a sweet
almond scent. Despite myself, I sniff again, and longer this time. “Ever see
Mr. Jenkins when he gets into his truck to drive home from school?”

I’m affected by
the scent of David’s hair, enough so that I want to grab a few strands and hold
them under my nose, but instead, and very wisely, I gather my thoughts instead.
“He…um…he has a cowboy hat…sitting on the passenger seat, doesn’t he?” I glance
up and over to the right, picturing Mr. Jenkins, the lone cowboy, riding off
into the sunset on his trusty steed, or in his case, in an old Ford Bronco.
“And before he’s even out of his parking spot, he’s got that thing sitting on
top of his head.”

“And tilted slightly
toward the left, with the country music cranking.”

“Uh-huh.” I can’t
help but laugh, my image of Mr. Jenkins making his exit from the school parking
lot clearer than ever. “The man certainly takes his Country-Western side
seriously.”

“That’s why the
rodeo is the perfect topic.
Jenkins’ll
be in seventh
heaven when we take him ‘home on the range’ with our rodeo power point.”

“You don’t want
to do soccer or lacrosse or something traditional like that?”

“Nah. Let’s leave
that to the normal kids.”

I sit up
straight, my shoulders suddenly rigid as a soldier’s at having been accused of
not being normal. How could David know I’m not as normal as I pretend to be? Is
the lie that I’m living
that
freaking
obvious?

Or maybe it
really does take one to know one.

“And I’m saying
normal
in the least favorable manner.”
He stands up and my gaze is directed to the carefully chosen clothing he wears.
All the dark layers he hides in, or maybe he shows off in, speak volumes to his
estimation of
normal
. My eyes then catch on the gold crucifix on a
thin gold chain that hangs around his neck. I can’t stop myself—I stare at it,
trying to surmise (not a shabby SAT word at all) how, exactly, Jesus Christ
fits into this gay guy’s life.

David catches me studying
it. “What are
ya
gawking at, Del
Vecchio
?”

“Oh…um, it’s
nothing.”

“It’s not
‘nothing’ if you’re staring at this.” He touches the hollow at the base of his
neck where the crucifix rests. My hand inadvertently rises to touch my own
cross. “
This,
my virtuous friend, is
not hanging around my neck as some kind of fashion statement.
This,”
he continues, his voice growing
increasingly acerbic as he lifts the crucifix and rubs it between his fingers,
“is my entire life.”

His gaze locks on
mine. And I know he means it.

“Hey, dude.
Whassup
? Huh?”

“Just checking in
to see if you need a ride to the Our Way meeting tonight.”

“You know I do,
Ant-man. When was the last time my mom drove me over to St. Mark’s for Our
Way?” He’s laughing; I can hear it in his voice. “I’ll answer that for you. It
was the night before my buddy Duck-Young got his license.”

“Okay, okay,
Sinclair. I’ll pick you up at 6:45.” I’m going to ask him. I just need to find
the fortitude to make the words come out of my mouth. “Hey, random change of
topic…”

“Sure…what’s up?”

I’m treading on
dangerous ground here. “Uh…here’s the thing. I’m working with David Gandy in PE
on that new power point project.”

“Gandy? The gay
kid?”

Frustrated, I
blow out my breath, probably too noisily. But I didn’t miss that the first
thing that comes to
Laz’s
mind when I mention David
Gandy is his sexuality. “Well, yeah, I guess so. Anyway, wasn’t he a member of
Our Way freshman year?”

I can distinctly
hear the sound of crunching. And I’m talking about serious crunching.
Laz
is eating what might be… “Are you eating popcorn?”

“Nah, dude.” I’m
treated to the sound of further chomping. “Rice cakes…. And yeah, that gay boy
was in Our Way freshman year and the beginning of sophomore year.”

“Do
you…remember…the reason…why…he left?” I ask between his noisy crunches.

“
Alls
I know is that his family switched churches at the
same time as he quit Our Way.” Now I hear gulping.
Laz
is clearly washing down his rice cakes with a drink. Then there’s a burp loud
enough to make me flinch.

“Uh…yes, you’re
excused.”

“Why you so
interested in Gandy?”

“I told you,
we’re working together on the PE project.”

Next I hear
muffled giggling. Sad to say, but manly
Laz
still
giggles like a kid when he finds something implausibly funny. “Well, wear your
nut hut when you’re studying together.”

“My nut hut?”
Holy crap!
He’s suggesting I wear my
athletic cup when I get together with David to protect my—

“
Gotta
protect those family jewels, dude!” More giggling.
This conversation is
not
helping my
situation.

“Hey,
Laz
,
gotta
head. Little Lulu’s
calling me.” He knows how impatient Lulu can be—about as impatient as him.
“I’ll pick you up at 6:45.”

There is a place of comfort sweet,
near to the heart of
God.



A place where we our Savior meet,
near to the heart of
God.

The music playing
on the Bose in my room isn’t doing its job of lulling me into calmness tonight.
Instead, the song’s lyrics tug at my heart. And it hurts in the way that a
guilty conscience hurts—a constant, lingering irritation.

And I need that
like Gilligan needs another coconut.

“A place where we
our Savior meet, near to the heart of God.” When the song is finished, I lean
over, press stop, and say the lyrics from the song out loud, realizing that I’m
starting to lose sight of where that place is.

Time to pray.
Because sometimes the only way for me thoroughly chill out is to talk to Him.

Father,

I need You badly
now and it seems like You’re just gone.

In case You don’t
know already, all I want out of life is to live the way You want me to. And
it’s like I don’t know what the right way is anymore. Every once in a while, I
even think that maybe You gave me these gay feelings to test my faith and to
see if I am strong enough to resist, though You don’t seem like the kind of God
who would do something like that. But if
these feelings are a test, You’ve got to know that I’d gladly give up all of my
sexuality for You, which sucks, but I’d do it. You gave up everything for me.

Thing is, I can’t
imagine spending my entire life alone. Only thing is, the kind of companionship
I want—well, I’m fairly certain it’d have to be a guy for it to work.

Please keep this
in mind, okay? If You find a way to let me have one single guy I can spend my
entire life with, I’ll find a guy who loves You and needs You, the same way
like I do. I swear it.

So I’m asking You
to reach out to me in some way—show me I’m an unnatural abomination and I need
to live my life alone, or, on the other hand, show me that acting on my gay
feelings won’t cut me off from You forever.

God, can You say
something to me, because I am losing hope here?

I listen
carefully for a minute to the very inside of my mind, in case God decides to speak
to me right away, but hearing nothing, I turn onto my side, dry my eyes with
the sheet, and recite the words that Jesus gave us.

Into the silence
of my room, I say the Our Father prayer, over and over, until I fall asleep.