Keeping You a Secret (7 page)

Kirsten curled a lip.

“What?” I met her eyes. We had a brief star-down before Kirsten shook her head and looked away.

Mr. Olander sighed and glanced at his watch. “We have a few minutes. Read the application, Holland.”

I read aloud, “Their goal is ‘to meet and discuss problems and issues common to the gay community. To socialize. To hold fund-raising events for AIDS and other –’”

Someone murmured, “Next thing you know, they’ll want free condoms in the restrooms.”

Kirsten’s hand shot up. “I’d vote for that.”

Everyone howled. Olander said, “I’ll check into school policy, but if it’s anything like Mitchell, we’ll have to deny the request.”

“Why?” I screeched. A little too loud, even for my ears.

He replied, “It’s too exclusive. If they want a school-sanctioned club, they’ll have to open their membership to anyone who wants to join. Not just a select group, like the one they’ve described. Plus, if they’re not sanctioned, they can’t do any fundraising on the premises.”

Shit. I jammed the app back in my notebook. As we stood to leave, Kirsten asked, “Could we still get the free condoms?”

At the curb, waiting for the crosswalk signal, I cornered her. “Why are you so against this club?”

Kirsten shrugged. “Why are you so for it?”

The light changed and Kirsten took off, not waiting for my answer. Good thing, because I didn’t really have one.

***

“You’ll be keeping a sketchbook to record your daily observations,” Mackel told us, slinging a leg over the stool up front. “Don’t worry about accuracy or realism. I just want you to focus on everyday things, to see them in a new way. I want you to develop your own approach to art as personal expression.”

Personal how? How personal?

My eyes cut to Cece, who was reading her comic book in her lap. How was I going to tell her about the club? Maybe she’d forget to ask. Maybe Harvard would let me in on looks.

Mackel continued, “We’re going to do an exercise today in seeing details the way an artist might.” He directed someone in the front row to flick off the overhead light and lower the white screen. Mackel retrieved a remote control for the slide projector, pressed a button, and illuminated the first slide. “What do you see?” he asked.

Someone called out, “A fence.”

“Duh,” Winslow quipped beside me.

Mackel asked, “What else?”

“Snow.”

“And?”

“The void, utter wastelands of our minds,” Winslow piped up.

Mackel chuckled. “Better. Let’s not make value judgments on others, though. Concentrate on what you can see. Really look. Squint of you have to.”

Shadows, I thought. Someone yelled, “Shadows.”

“Good.”

Lines, spaces, shapes, contrast, rough surfaces, smooth surfaces, cold. “Holland,” Mackel called my name.

I flinched.

“What do you see?”

“Um…” I gulped a grapefruit, then voiced my observations. He clicked to the next slide. Was I right? I caught Cece peering back at me and smiling. Guess so.

We continued this exercise for another fifteen minutes until Mackel ran out of slides or we ran out of enthusiasm. As the lights came back on, he said, “We’re going to repeat last week’s assignment. My fault for not giving you more direction. I haven’t taught Drawing I in a few years, as you can probably tell.

“Again, choose a single object in the room to sketch. Focus on the form. Examine the object carefully, more closely then you’ve ever looked at anything before. Feel free to wander around and get inspired. I’ll play some music. Hopefully it’ll stir the creative juices.” He set a boom box on the stool and punched a button Classical music streamed out.

It was soothing. I never listened to classical. Seth called it snooze muse. He hated country, too.

Okay, pick something. A chair, the door, a pottery vase on the shelf. Not very intriguing. I scanned the room a few more times. The only thing my focus kept returning to was the back of her head. There was texture there. Form, movement, interest. I flipped open my sketchbook and began to draw.

***

She was waiting for me in the hall after class. Great. Motioning her to an enclave by the drinking fountain, I said, “The rejected it.”

“No.” She slapped her chest. “What a surprise.” Looking off into the distance, she narrowed her eyes and said, “This place makes me sick. I really hate it here. It’s like all the homophobes were exiled to this school.”

“No they weren’t.” There might be a couple.

“Nobody’s even out here. Haven’t you ever wondered why?” Cece’s eyes met mine.

“I, I guess I didn’t think we had any gays.”

She let out a short laugh. “Holland, open your eyes.”

I did, and only saw her.

She shook her head. “What was their reason for
rejecting
us?”

“They didn’t reject you. Mr. Olander said it wasn’t inclusive enough. Official clubs need to be open to all the students.” I pulled out the form. “Maybe you could add –”

“Straights.” Cece’s head bobbed. “A Gay/Straight Alliance, right? Gee, I’ll have to up the membership to sixteen.” She snatched the app from my hand. “Sorry. We don’t want a GSA. At least, I don’t. Straights don’t understand what we’re about, what we’re going through. We can’t talk about stuff that really matters, like coming out. Like dealing with harassment. Like sex.”

My mouth went suddenly dry. “Okay. That makes sense. I’ll try again.” I reached for the application.

“I don’t want to hassle you,” she said.

“Cece, don’t.”

She ripped the form in half. The bell rang and she took off.

“Cece,” I called after her. She started running. I chased her to the stairwell, then lost her. Slumping against the railing, I closed my eyes and fought off the static in my head. “It’s no hassle,” I murmured over the internal din. “I’d fight for you.”

***

There was a charge in the air that afternoon, people whispering. I caught a snatch of conversation behind me before econ class started, my ears pricking up at the words, “Gay club.”

I whipped my head around and saw one girl stick a finger down her throat.

So that was it. News travels fast, I thought. And I bet I knew who was fueling the rumor mill.

“Holland. Oh, good.” Kirsten rushed up behind me after school. I was headed for swim team practice. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

I whirled on her. “Why are you telling people about the lesbigay club? What we talk about in student council is private.”

She drew back. “I know that. I haven’t said anything.”

She looked offended, and sounded it. “Listen, Trevor and I were wondering if you and Seth wanted to go out with us on Friday night. Well, I was wondering.” Kirsten swallowed hard. “We’re always hanging out with Trevor’s friends and they’re so… I don’t know. Boring. Haley Ackerson’s parents are out of town and she’s having this party Friday night. Will you come with us?”

“Um, sure. Okay.” I felt off balance. Guilty for accusing her. “Friday? Oh, wait. I have a swim meet on Friday.”

Kirsten’s face darkened, like she thought I was lying.

“I do,” I said.

“Okay, whatever. I just wanted you to spend more time with Trevor. Get to know him. He’s really sweet, Holland. I know you’d like him if you just gave him a chance.”

“I like him.” That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t the issue.

Kirsten’s eyes grazed the floor. “You think he’s too young for me. I know that. But he’s not. He’s really mature for his age. He’s the first guy I’ve ever met who doesn’t just want to jump in the sack, you know? He cares about me. He loves me. He really does.” Kirsten sounded anxious, needy. Leah’s words echoed in my head: She thinks you judge her.

“Maybe we could go Saturday night,” I told her. “To a movie or something.” I hated parties, anyway. They were just excuses for getting loaded and making out en masse.

Kirsten brightened. “Cool. Okay. We could go out to dinner or something first.” She hugged me. “Thanks, Holland. I’m sorry about earlier,” she said. “At the meeting. You know me, I live to play devil’s advocate.” Her eyes gleamed.

As she sauntered off, I stared at her back. Since when? The only side Kirsten ever took in a debate was her own. There were times I didn’t get her. I didn’t get her at all.

When I pushed through the door at the bottom of the stairs, I caught sight of Cece near the juice machine outside the locker rooms. She was standing with a couple of guys from the gymnastics team, I think. The door to the weight room was open. Something about the look on her face made me quicken my step.

As I got closer, one of the guys flattened his hand on the machine over Cece’s head and said, “Come on, one kiss. Try it, you’ll like it.” He puckered his lips and made smooching sounds.

Cece stiffened. “Get away from me,” she said. “What’s your problem?”

“It’s not
my
problem.”

The other guy grabbed Cece’s arm and shoved her against the machine. “Feel this? Huh?”

“Hey,” I yelled, sprinting the rest of the way. Both guys whipped their heads around. “Leave her alone!” I wedged myself between them. “What the hell are you doing?”

The guys backed off. “Nothing. Just goofing around.”

Cece bolted for the stairs.

“Cece, wait.” I left the muscleheads in my dust.

She was halfway up the steps when I snagged her arm. I spun her around and said, “Are you okay?” She was shaking. God.

“Sick, Holland,” she said. “You have sick people here.”

“Not everyone. A couple of guys.” I narrowed my eyes in their direction. “Jerks.”

She shook her head and started up the steps again.

“Cece.” I couldn’t hold onto her. “We’ll report them for sexual harassment.”

She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around. “No,” she said. “No. It’ll only make it worse.”

“We can’t just let them get away with it.”

“Yes, we can.” She swallowed hard. “They’ll come after me.” Her face paled and she let out a shudder. “Forget it.” She ducked around me and charged out the east door.

“Hi, Holl.” A couple of girls on swim team approached. “We better get out asses down there or Chiang’ll make us do sprints sets again.”

“Right.” Her fear still pulsed through me. Blindly, I stumbled down the stairs.

I didn’t see her on Tuesday. She never materialized at her locker and wasn’t in art. Jerks. I shoud’ve reported them myself. Her absence worried me. What if she never came back? What if I never saw her again? That night I leafed through the phone book to find “Goddard.” There were dozens. Too many to call. What would I say, anyway? “Does Cece live here?” What if she did? What if she answered?

“Please,” I’d say. “Don’t leave. Come back and subject yourself to more violation and sexual assault.”

God, what if she felt that way? What if she felt threatened? I was up all night obsessing about it. About her. I must’ve drifted off sometime because I woke up to Mom shaking my shoulder. “Holl? You’re going to be late,” she said. “Didn’t your alarm go off?”

Shit. I’d forgotten to set it.

Arbuthnot paused in mid-sentence as I slithered into class fifteen minutes past the late bell. I
had
to sit in back, didn’t I, so my ass would be visible grass. “You’re late, Holland.” She stopped me in my tracks.

Let us state the obvious. Turning around in the aisle, I smiled and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Arbuthnot. We had a family emergency this morning. My dad’s going to live, though. The EMTs caught the heart attach in time.”

That shut her up. Shut everyone up. To the people I passed on the way to my desk, I mouthed, Nooo. Shook my head. They smothered grins.

Arbuthnot mumbled an apology. As I slid into my seat, I noticed she seemed a little off kilter now. Good. Just doing my part to curb harassment at its source. “You’ll, um, each prepare a character sketch of
Beowulf
,” Arbuthnot said, sifting through a pile of books on her desk. She knocked one off. “Focus on what you believe are his most telling personality traits. Analyze how and why each is important to his development as a warrior.”

The guy in front of me raised his hand.

“Yes, Marcus,” Arbuthnot acknowledged, regaining composure.

“Can we pick the fact that Wulfie is gay?”

My spine fused. People twisted their heads to gawk at Marcus. They swivelled back to catch Arbuthnot’s reaction. She said, “And how did you come to
that
conclusion?”

“The scene with him and his merry men, splashing around in the water. Seems pretty swishy to me.” He waggled a limp wrist.

Everybody laughed.

Arbuthnot’s face went purple. “Leave the room immediately,” she snarled, pointing to the door.

“What? I’m just saying…”

“Out!” she shouted.

Marcus cursed under his breath, then scraped back his chair and shoveled his books into his arms. He strutted out, wiggling his hips all the way. The catcalls trailed his through the door.

Any other time I might’ve found him slightly amusing. Today I wanted to stand and scream, “What is this? National Gay Bashing Week?” But I couldn’t. I couldn't command my muscles to move. Couldn't get out of my chair. Couldn’t bring myself to do what I knew was right.

***

She wasn’t in art. She was gone forever, I knew it. When I got home after work, I felt sick. Physically ill. Mom asked at dinner if I was okay and I lied; said, “Yeah, fine.” She was so busy fussing with Hannah, who was coming down with a cold and acting unusually cranky, that she didn’t pursue it. Didn’t push. Neal had been on the phone ever since we sat down to eat, hollering at his hard-of-hearing dad, which was giving me a headache to go along with my stomachache. I moved food around on my plate, then excused myself and trudged down to my room.

How many were there? I wondered. Four, a dozen, the whole school? When had it begun? Had Southglenn always been this way? So hostile? We had a strong policy against bullying, but how was that any different from harassment or discrimination? It was all about hate. There should be laws. Were there laws? Can you legislate against hatred? Why hadn’t we discussed this in any of my government classes?

Cece’s question burned in my brain: Why weren’t more gays out? She seemed to imply, or know for sure, that we had more gays and lesbian in our school. Who were they? Where were they hiding? Did they walk the halls in fear of their lives? God, I couldn’t imagine that. Every day, having to act invisible, protect yourself. Having to put up with assholes and bigots.