1
David had left long ago. I was still sitting on the bench. I could still smell him. I didn't want to leave. Eventually, I pulled myself together. For the first time, I came home feeling content with myself and the world. The prospect of possibly finding a friend again, which seemed impossible after Tim's death, made me see the future a little brighter. I couldn't wait to tell Oliver and Rasmus about David. I also wanted to ask Petra if David could stay for dinner the next day. I arrived home full of positive energy. However, the atmosphere was tense. As soon as I walked in, I heard Johannes's loud and excited voice:
"You've lost all sense! You've lost the last vestiges of your mind! I won't pull you out of it again! I hope that was a lesson to you!"
It was Rasmus who was being put down by Johannes. He stood there, completely dejected, listening to Johannes's tirades. Oliver explained to me what had happened.
Rasmus had been caught smoking hash at school. Johannes had persuaded the principal with the utmost sincerity to avoid being expelled. While he had supported Rasmus at school, Johannes now made him look like such a jerk that it was frightening. Oliver, too, was intimidated. I had never seen Johannes like this before, not even when Oliver had initially beaten up a classmate who had called him a "convict."
Finally, he sent Rasmus to his room. Oliver followed him. When the two left the room, Johannes breathed a sigh of relief.
"Was that really necessary?" I asked him. I thought his reaction was a bit exaggerated. After all, Rasmus hadn't injected heroin or taken any other hard drugs. I, too, had smoked a joint occasionally in my previous life.
"Yes, Rafael, that was so necessary," he replied, "even though it hurt me at least as much as it did Rasmus. I'm not concerned about that one joint. That's certainly not a big deal. But he has to get the stuff from somewhere. And whoever sells hash also sells other things. And Rasmus, none of you are yet stable enough to resist temptation in every possible situation. And our still-young family couldn't handle a junkie. That's why I had to react so harshly, even though it wasn't easy.
Now go comfort Rasmus and cheer him up a bit. I'm counting on you," he added, winking at me.
I followed them both to their room. Oliver stood somewhat helplessly at his desk. Rasmus sat on his bed, howling with rage.
"I'm leaving," he hurled at me. "Nobody wants me here anyway."
"Yes, I want you," I replied and sat down on the bed next to him.
“Me too,” murmured Oliver.
"But not Johannes. He hates me."
"That's not true. Believe me, he really loves you more than you think."
"Then why does he treat me like this? I haven't done anything that bad, have I?"
"Because he's afraid for you. He's afraid you'll slip away and fall back into your old life, or worse."
»But I just wanted to try it out...«
"Some things just aren't worth trying once. Rasmus, you've experienced firsthand how dangerous certain things can be and how quickly you can get caught up in something."
“What should I do now?” Rasmus asked tearfully.
"First, calm down and then apologize to Johannes."
"But I'm afraid he'll yell at me like that again, and anyway..."
"Don't worry. He won't," I interrupted. "I'll come with you, too."
I hugged Rasmus until he calmed down. Then we went to Johannes.
"Sorry," Rasmus pressed out, giving Johannes such a dachshund look that I, for one, would have forgiven him for much worse. And of course, Johannes couldn't resist him either. He hugged him tightly.
"Never do that again," he whispered in his ear. Rasmus shook his head vigorously.
"Little one, I'm so worried about you," he added.
Tears welled up in Rasmus's eyes again, and so did I. We were probably both thinking the same thing. We had only experienced someone caring about us for half a year. It still wasn't something we took for granted.
Because of the story with Rasmus, my experience faded into the background. Besides, Petra wasn't there yet, so I postponed the whole thing until dinner. The evening meal was sacred to us. While everyone ate breakfast and lunch whenever it suited them, we always sat at the table for dinner. That was also the time when all the important events of the day were discussed.
Rasmus was, of course, afraid that his faux pas would be brought up again, but I had a good diversionary tactic.
"Petra, I'm having a visitor tomorrow afternoon. Can I ask him if he wants to stay for dinner?" I began.
"So, who's coming?"
"Oh, just David, a classmate"
“Classmate or friend?” asked Johannes, grinning.
"Friend or friend?" Oliver shouted, earning him a kick from Rasmus.
"Ouch, one should still be allowed to ask," he complained.
“I don’t know yet either,” I replied, my face bright red.
"But you want more than just a classmate," Petra concluded. "Of course he can stay for dinner if he wants."
Fortunately, Johannes spared me further discussion by saying:
"That's enough, leave poor Rafael alone, otherwise we'll have to discuss other events of this day."
Rasmus immediately stopped all taunts.
When we had cleared the table and I was about to go to my room, Petra gave me a quick hug and whispered in my ear:
"I wish you lots of luck, big boy. I'm so glad you're getting your mind off things."
"Thanks, I can use it."
I had barely entered my room when Oliver and Rasmus stormed in.
“Come on, tell me,” Rasmus began.
"Now don't be so curious. I didn't ask your Bettina either."
"But you could have." The boy was quick-witted.
So I told them what had happened at lunch.
"You really told him everything? Including what we did in prison?"
"I had to, otherwise the whole story wouldn't have made sense."
"I don't think that's so great," Oliver grumbled. "Now every time he looks at me, I have to think about what intimate things he knows about me.
"I don't think it's that great either, but Rafael is right, without the intimate details you can't understand the story at all," said Rasmus.
“Is he gay?” asked Oliver.
"I don't know, we haven't talked about that."
"If he hugged you like that after the story, he must be gay," Rasmus concluded.
"We'll figure it out," Oliver said.
"You won't do anything. This is none of your business. And you will both promise me now that there will be no ambiguous comments or questions tomorrow. Is that clear?"
"If it absolutely has to be. But we're good at matchmaking. But if you absolutely want to forgo our services..."
"Idiot," I laughed and threw a pillow at his head. That was the starting signal for both of them to pounce on me. I could have easily dispatched one of them, but with two of them, it was much more difficult, and before I knew it, I was lying on the ground with the two of them sitting on top of me so I could barely move.
"We won," Oliver shouted. "Do you surrender?" And to emphasize his demand, he began tickling me.
"Yes, I surrender," was all I could manage to chuckle. Oliver stopped tickling and smiled at me. I think we all had the same thought at the same time. Oliver gave me a kiss and then stood up. Rasmus also released me.
"We haven't been this close in a long time," he said.
"I'm so glad I at least have you," I replied. I hugged them both and we cuddled for a while before they went to their room.
I lay down in bed, but I was far too excited to sleep. I hoped so much that I'd have a little luck this time. Some force guides everything in the right direction, Johannes had said back then. I hoped so much that he was right. I was simply hopelessly in love.
2
I've never walked into school with such joyful anticipation. I met David shortly before school. He looked absolutely gorgeous with his medium-length black hair. I wondered how I had managed to ignore it for the past six months.
“Will this work this afternoon?” I immediately urged him.
"Sure, we agreed."
"Could you stay for dinner?"
"I'll have to check that out at home first, but it'll probably be fine."
Of course, school didn't end that day. I was almost going crazy. When the bell finally rang for the last time, I sighed with relief.
“See you later,” I said goodbye to David in the park.
Luckily, he arrived on time that afternoon. When the doorbell rang, I rushed to the door. When I looked into his green eyes, I wanted to hug him right away. But before I could make any move, he held out his hand. Somewhat disappointed, I shook his hand. I would have liked to smell him a little more. Well, maybe I should take this a little slower.
“Wow, you have a great room,” David marveled when we arrived there.
I also liked my room. It was quite large. After all, it should have been big enough for two. The furnishings were bright and cheerful, even if they weren't designer. Johannes and Petra didn't have that much money. They did get money for us from the youth welfare office, but we cost them quite a bit. At least they had bought us all new furniture. And since there should have been enough for Tim, too, I had double the amount of everything.
David was right on my wavelength. We had a great conversation, starting off about school, of course. First, we went through all the teachers, then we moved on to our classmates. David had virtually no contact with them.
“They’re all just too stupid for me,” he said.
I found that a bit harsh. While I hadn't really wanted to fool around with them, I didn't find them entirely unpleasant.
At some point we came back to talking about me:
"And you really lived on the streets and worked as a prostitute?" he asked, looking at me almost admiringly.
"Yes, I told you." I was almost a little embarrassed.
"But why, you had a home?"
"I wouldn't call it home. It was hell for me."
David nodded thoughtfully.
"Compared to that, life on the streets seemed like heaven to me. No one trying to tell you what to do, no one trying to pressure you, no one trying to beat you up. It was pure freedom. And maybe there was also a bit of a thirst for adventure. You could feel like an outlaw. It wasn't until I met Tim that I realized the whole thing wasn't so great after all. And since I've been living here with Johannes and Petra, I'm quite sure I've traded one hell for another."
"But if this hadn't happened now, you'd probably still prefer the streets to living with your parents?"
"Absolutely."
"Actually, you were pretty lucky," said David, smiling a little crampedly.
“If you look at it that way, maybe,” I said.
The afternoon flew by. However, David was clearly keeping his distance from me. While I was eager to touch him, he tried to prevent it. I thought that was a shame, but maybe I was too hasty. I should just be more patient.
Dinner went smoothly. Oliver and Rasmus stayed quiet as promised. Johannes and Petra were friendly.
When David left, Oliver and Rasmus immediately came into my room.
"And?" asked Rasmus.
"Nothing, we had a good chat."
"Haven't you fucked yet?"
"Oliver, you're a dirty idiot."
"But it was different with Tim."
"That was a completely different situation."
Well, I would have liked it to be a little different, too. But that could still happen. I just couldn't be too impatient.
In any case, I now spent every free minute with David. We either met at my place or went into town, to the movies, or shopping. Unfortunately, we couldn't go to his place. His little sister would be so bitchy, I certainly wouldn't enjoy it. His sister was two years younger than him and went to our school, two grades below us. I had never seen her, and David made no attempt to introduce her to me. Their relationship must not have been that great. From his description, she must have been a real creep. I would have liked to meet her. But I didn't push him. I wasn't interested in his sister, but all the more in her brother. I almost went mad in his presence. I would have loved to ruffle his long hair, I would have loved to nibble on his sweet earlobe, I would have loved to inhale his scent, not to mention other things.
But unfortunately, he still avoided any kind of touch, let alone any attempt to touch me. He wouldn't even allow a simple hug to greet or say goodbye. I didn't know how much longer I could endure this.
"You just have to push harder," Oliver advised. Great. I didn't want to risk everything right away. But this couldn't go on much longer. I'd have to think of something.
3
"Hi Rafael." It was Martin, a classmate, who approached me during a break. I'd spoken to him several times before. He was actually a very pleasant guy.
"Hi," I replied.
"Well, you're hanging out with David all the time now."
"Is it that noticeable?"
"Well, you practically didn't talk to anyone for the first six months, and now you're practically inseparable. It's none of my business, but if I can give you some good advice, be careful with him. There's a reason he doesn't have any friends here. We've all had our experiences."
What was that all about? Had Martin completely gone crazy? Why did he want to spoil my friendship with David? David was probably right that the rest of the class were all assholes.
Before I could respond, Martin left me standing there. I wanted to follow him, but the recess bell forced me back into the classroom.
I couldn't figure out why Martin had spoken to me. Was it resentment, jealousy, but what for? Or was there a grain of truth in it? Shit, he's completely crazy. I wanted to gently ask David about it this afternoon. But today, of all days, he had to tutor his bitchy sister in math. His parents had insisted. I was slowly starting to hate his sister.
At least I had time to think. I decided things couldn't go on like this. Tomorrow, I would take a more targeted approach, even at the risk of him rejecting me. I've had wet dreams about him at night. Admittedly, I've helped myself often enough. But I didn't want to just dream about him all the time; I wanted to hold him in my arms for real.
The next day, everything was back to normal. We hung out in my room and chatted about all sorts of things. At some point, David brought up my time as a prostitute again. I didn't know why he was so interested in this topic. It was starting to get on my nerves. But this time, I was fine with it.
"Do you remember when I first told you this?" I began.
»Hm.«
"Afterwards, you hugged me so lovingly and comforted me. I thought that was wonderful. I never wanted to let you go back then. I enjoyed it immensely. I wish you could hug me like that again..."
"But I'm not gay. I find the whole thing perverse and disgusting," David interrupted harshly.
That was worse than ten slaps in the face. No one had ever scolded me like that before. I couldn't help it; tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't want him to think I was a crybaby, but it hurt so much.
David was also startled, probably by his own reaction. He suddenly looked at me very lovingly, almost like he had back then in the park.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry. I really like you, Rafael. But I'm not gay. I just can't do this." He said this now in a very gentle, loving voice.
But even though that was phrased much more kindly, the result remained the same. David couldn't and didn't want to become my boyfriend.
"But I've fallen madly in love with you. I can't think of anything else, day or night."
"Rafael, before I met you, I wouldn't have even spoken to a gay man, I found it so perverse, deviant, and disgusting. When I met you, I found you likeable, sensitive, and lovable. That's why I approached you. When you told me you were gay, I thought you'd still be the same person. But I still find affection and sex between boys disgusting. Rafael, I like you very much and would like to keep you as a friend, but only as a friend."
I had no idea how this would work. But I didn't have the courage to completely break off contact either. Maybe I secretly still had the hope that...
"I'll be wasting away next to you, but I also want to keep you as a friend," I answered through tears.
"Thank you," and then he added, speaking more to himself, "I find it so hard to make friends."
I was sitting at dinner feeling a bit depressed. Oliver also looked unhappy. His girlfriend had broken up with him. However, this was his second breakup, and his heartbreak didn't last very long. Rasmus used to say that girls were queuing up, practically choking each other out, to see who would comfort him.
But for me it was already over before it had even begun. And unfortunately there was no one lining up to comfort me. Wait, Rasmus and Oliver and also Johannes and Petra tried to comfort me. But all they could do was hug me and tell me that I would definitely find my true love. That didn't help much though. I had already found my true love. The problem was that my true love didn't want me. I spent another sleepless night. In my mind I broke off contact with David at least a hundred times, but a hundred times I thought of strategies how I could still get him.
4
David was strangely reserved the next morning. During the first break, he told me he felt sick and was going home. He had to tutor his sister again that afternoon, so we wouldn't be able to see each other. Somehow, that was fine with me. I needed to sort myself out first.
I went to Tim's grave that afternoon. I'd only been there once before, when Johannes had had a small stone placed there. I didn't associate any memory of Tim with the place. The body being eaten by the worms down there no longer had anything to do with Tim for me. That had been clear to me since the kiss in the morgue. The memory of him was connected to our cell. But of course, I couldn't go there.
Someone had placed a white rose on his grave, which was strange. The stone was already overgrown with moss.
Breaker Team
*27.2.1981
+15.10.1997
That's all the stone said. Although nothing here reminded me of Tim, there was a strange, solemn atmosphere about the place, as is typical of a cemetery.
"Dear God, Johannes always says that you guide everything in the right direction. You also gave me a new family. I'm grateful for that. Can't you give me a friend too? You took Tim away from me, which I still can't understand, and now you probably don't want me to have David either. Have I done something so bad that you're taking all my friends away from me? Please grant me some happiness."
I muttered this to myself. I didn't think anyone would listen, but I felt a little relieved. I even felt a little more positive. Even if I couldn't have David as a lover, I at least wanted to keep him as a friend. After all, he had accepted me as I was, considering what a homophobe he must have been before. And I still had a tiny hope that he would change his mind. After all, this was all completely new to him. I thought again about that afternoon in the park. Back then, I had been quite sure that there was more to his hug than just consolation. But here it was more wishful thinking.
The next day, David was completely normal again. We spent the afternoon together as if nothing had happened. But at some point, he started talking about my time at the train station again. It was starting to get on my nerves.
"What's the point of all this constant questioning and probing about my life as a rent boy?" I asked him, annoyed. "You're not gay. Why do you want to know that so precisely?"
"Maybe I want to understand you better," he replied, just as annoyed.
Was that what stood between us? He probably found it disgusting that I had sold myself to men. But I didn't dare ask for fear of the answer.
Anyway, the good mood was gone and David disappeared pretty soon.
The next few weeks were up and down. Sometimes it was like before, then without warning, his mood would change, and he would suddenly become extremely cold towards me. But one thing remained constant: I still felt a tingling sensation in his presence, an almost irresistible urge to hug him. If I had hoped that this would subside over time, I was probably mistaken.
However, our meetings outside of school became less and less frequent. Sometimes he had to help his idiotic sister with her homework, other times he just didn't feel like it. What worried me more, however, was that he was disappearing more and more often during school hours. At first, he would excuse himself by saying he was nauseous or had a headache, but later he would simply disappear without saying anything. The next math test was a complete disaster, even though math was actually his specialty. When he then failed his English test two weeks later, I was seriously worried. I was wondering again whether it was my fault. Maybe he couldn't handle having a gay friend. If that was the case, we would have to end the friendship. Even though I didn't want to imagine it happening, I didn't want to be responsible for him having such problems at school. Then I would just have to suffer, and hopefully, it would all go away at some point. The thought almost made me vomit.
Nevertheless, when David tried to sneak out of school again the following Monday, I grabbed his arm and tried to pull him into a corner.
"I really need to talk to you."
"Let me go right now, you faggot," he yelled at me. "You're just disgusting."
Frozen with shock, I let go of him. No one else had heard, but no one had ever insulted me so badly. Without another word, David turned around and ran away.
Now I'd finally had enough. I didn't have to put up with this. I'd tried everything I could. I hated him. I never wanted to see him again.
On Tuesday, David didn't show up at school at all. 'I hope he ran in front of a car,' I thought.
He didn't show up on Wednesday either. 'He should stay where the pepper grows.'
On Thursday, he was still missing. 'He'll see what he gets out of it.'
On Friday, he was still missing. 'If I were him, I'd start showing up again.'
The next Monday he didn't come back either. 'I have to ask Martin if he always does it like this.'
"Hey, Martin, can I ask you something?"
"Yeah, sure, is it about David?"
"Exactly, how do you know that?"
"Well, you can see that. You're experiencing what we all experienced with him. At first, he's incredibly friendly, and you think he's the nicest boy ever. And then, at some point, he suddenly starts losing his temper, yells at you, or even wants to beat you up. All out of the blue. That's what happened to you, too, wasn't it?"
"Yes, exactly." So it probably had nothing to do with me being gay after all. After all, it was unlikely that the whole class was gay. Somehow, that calmed me down a little.
"Did he always skip school before, too?" I asked.
"No, this is his first time doing this."
Immediately, I felt a pang of guilt again. Damn, I hadn't done anything to him. So why was I feeling guilty again?
When David still hadn't shown up on Tuesday, I decided to do something. I wanted to go to his house and find out once and for all what was going on. Damn, I didn't even have his address, let alone his phone number. I noticed that David had always avoided talking about home or his parents. The only person he mentioned from time to time was his sister, who seemed to be getting on his nerves. I could ask her about David, after all. But I didn't know her, and I didn't even know exactly what class she was in. Finally, I had a saving grace. I could just ask the school office for his address. I went there during recess.
"Good morning, Ms. Weber. I'm Rafael Schumann. I'm in class 10b. I'm here because of David Jendralsky. He's been absent for a week and I'd like to visit him at home, but I don't have his address. Could you please give it to me?"
"Absence is fine, he's playing truant. I just wrote a letter to his parents," Ms. Weber replied. "Unfortunately, I can't give you his address. We're not allowed to release student information here."
I must have looked at her with complete disappointment. Anyway, she continued:
"But I can give you a tip. Parent representatives usually make class lists with the names, addresses, and phone numbers of all students. Ask your parents; they probably have one."
That was true; I had received it at the beginning and passed it on to Petra. But there might have been another possibility.
"Mrs. Weber, David also has a sister here. I think she must be in 8a or 8b. Perhaps you could tell me which grade she's in."
"David doesn't have a sister, at least not at our school."
I must have misheard. That couldn't be true. I looked at her, completely stunned. That's probably why she added:
"Certainly not, I had picked out his file to write the letter to his parents."
5
What was that all about? Was I on "Candid Camera"? I looked around, searching, but nothing was happening. Damn, why is this asshole lying to me like this? What had been love a moment ago had now completely turned into hate. I'd never been so betrayed, so deceived. What did this asshole think he was doing? I was finally done with him. But I wanted to at least throw that in his face.
So, as soon as I got home, I asked Petra for the class list. It really did exist, and it actually contained all the addresses and phone numbers. All of them, except for one. There was nothing for David Jendralsky: no address, no phone number. What a bummer! Now there was only one possibility. I grabbed the phone book. Luckily, David's name wasn't Meier. At least there were five Jendralskys. Three of them had addresses. I got the map. It couldn't be that far from me. At least you had to be able to reach it on foot. Two Jendralskys were immediately ruled out. She lived on the other side of town. That left one, and the two without addresses. Of course, there was also the possibility that David's parents weren't in the phone book at all. I thought about it for a moment. I didn't want to call, I wanted to speak to him in person. But two Jendralskys didn't have an address. Before I set off in vain, I wanted to check with both of them. So I dialed the first number.
“Jendralsky,” a woman’s voice answered.
"Good day, I would like to speak to David," I began.
"We don't have a David here. You must have dialed the wrong number."
"Please excuse the interruption."
Two more remained. Unfortunately, no one answered the phone at the next number. Okay, then I'll go to the third address: Humboldtring 84. Armed with the map, I set off. It took me a quarter of an hour. Then I stood in front of a huge apartment building. There were at least 100 names on the front door. It took at least 10 minutes before I found Jendralsky. Luckily, it said 5th floor on the right. I was just about to ring the bell when it occurred to me: he probably wouldn't let me in at all, and then I'd be standing down here and everything would have been for nothing. I had to get into the building somehow and ring the doorbell directly. Then he wouldn't be able to escape me.
Luckily, a couple left the building shortly afterward. I took the opportunity to slip inside. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. The apartments were all located on a gallery open to the outside. After some searching, I finally found the right apartment. I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.
A two-tone gong sounded. At first, nothing happened. Then I heard a crash, like a chair falling over. Next, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Finally, the door opened.
I saw a woman, not particularly tall. She was wearing a housewife's smock. If she had once been beautiful, she certainly wasn't anymore. Her face looked worn. Her hair was unkempt and stuck out in all directions. Her eyes were glassy. She seemed to be looking right through me.
"What do you want?" she slurred.
There was no doubt the woman was completely drunk. I must have picked the wrong address. Just to say something, I replied:
"I would like to speak to David."
Instead of answering, she burst into hysterical laughter. I was completely horrified.
"What's going on? Who's here?" I heard a deep voice from the apartment. A short time later, a giant man appeared, wearing stained trousers and a fine-ribbed undershirt.
The woman stopped laughing.
“Someone wants to speak to David,” the woman whispered.
"David isn't here anymore," the man began, almost whispering. "You can look for him at the station, where he belongs." His tone rose. "That cocksucker, that breechloader. And if that bastard dares to show up here again, I'll carry him back to the station myself, after breaking every single bone in him." The man was almost shouting. Then he looked at me piercingly and began again, his voice now threatening:
"And you? Are you part of this group too?" His face took on a disgusted expression.
I had only one thought: just get out of here. I turned around and ran, ran down the five floors, just out of the building. I didn't stop outside either. I ran without looking left or right, ran for at least 15 minutes before I stopped, completely exhausted. Coincidentally, it was the very park where I had sat on the bench with David that day. My lungs hurt when I breathed, I was so out of breath. I sat down.
It was like scales falling from my eyes. Suddenly, everything was clear. Everything fit together like a puzzle: the fictitious sister, the mood swings, the constant questions about my time as a prostitute—I, the idiot, had told him about the initial feeling of freedom, but he probably didn't want to hear the rest—his truancy, and ultimately, his disappearance.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I cried and cried. And as if fate wanted to mock me even more, I was sitting on the very bench where it all had begun not so long ago. Only this time, no one was there to hold me and comfort me. And today, of all days, I was sure it was more than just comfort. But this realization only made me cry even harder.
6
At some point, I started my way home. When I got home, I ran right into Johannes. When he saw me like that, he immediately pulled me into his study.
"Hey, big guy, what's going on?"
"I only bring bad luck to everyone. Anyone who gets involved with me can make their will," I said through tears.
"What's going on?" he asked, alarmed. "Now tell me everything in order."
I told him what had happened in the last week up until my visit to David's parents.
"I always want the best. But everything I touch turns evil," I concluded.
Johannes took me in his arms.
"You overestimate your infernal power, my boy. What happened with Tim was an unfortunate chain of circumstances in which you had no part whatsoever. And now, this thing with David—that would have happened sooner or later anyway. Maybe you sped it up by a few weeks, but you wouldn't have prevented it. If they'd known beforehand what emotional stress David was under, if he'd said anything, maybe they could have arranged something."
“I just misinterpreted all the signs,” I complained.
"Now stop blaming yourself. You couldn't have seen it. Afterward, it always looks like you could have seen it. But that's not the case."
"Yes, I should have recognized it. I experienced it all myself," I whispered.
"Cheer up, maybe your David can still be helped. I'll contact the youth welfare office and see what can be done," promised Johannes.
“Is it of any use if I forbid you to look for David?” he then asked.
"Please don't do that, I don't want to have to lie to you," I replied.
"You know why I'm concerned?"
"Don't worry. I've found something here I've never had in my entire life: a real home. I won't risk that."
Johannes hugged me and whispered in my ear: “I hope you’re strong enough.”
I just nodded my head slightly.
The very next day, after finishing my homework, I went to the train station. I arrived around 5:00 a.m. That was just the right time. Usually, there weren't any guys there before. It was a strange feeling going back after more than a year. The number of drug addicts seemed to have diminished somewhat. Otherwise, not much had changed. The area where the prostitutes hung out was still as unsightly as it had always been. Some of the guys were already there. David wasn't among them. I didn't know any of the others. Maybe he'd come later, or maybe he wouldn't come at all. In the past, when I had enough money, I often treated myself to a break. So I stood in a corner as inconspicuously as possible and watched what was going on. I automatically began to see the scene through the eyes of a prostitute. People were divided into colleagues/competitors, potential clients, and cops. Everyone else fell through the cracks and were practically unnoticed. All the guys at the station did the same. Of course, the other guys here did too. It wasn't long before one of the other boys, about three years older than me, came over to me.
«Hi»
“Hi,” I replied.
"You're new here." This was a rhetorical question for him. So he didn't wait for an answer, but continued directly:
“Do you know the rules?”
The rules were: no price gouging and no hitting on a client who was already on someone else's list. I still knew everything.
"Hey, I'm just waiting here," I replied. The boy just looked at me in confusion.
"I'm looking for someone," I explained. The penny seemed to drop for him.
"Well, I'd do it for less with you." I had now fallen into the category of a john for him, even though I was still so young myself.
“No, thanks, I’m looking for a specific one,” I tried to explain further.
"Why, I'm sure I can do it better for you," the boy persisted. I almost had to laugh.
"I don't want sex, I'm looking for a friend." Now he finally understood.
"Oh, I see. Do you have 5 marks for me?" That was the usual tactic when a client didn't want you, to at least get something out of you. It was probably so ingrained in him that the question came automatically.
“Hey, you have more money than me,” I replied.
«How did you come up with that?»
"I was in the store myself."
"And why aren't you anymore?"
«I have something better.»
"Are you living with a guy?" That was always a comfortable situation for a prostitute. Having a client you could live with. Then you had the biggest problem—room and board—already solved, and at most you needed to earn a little extra money from time to time.
“No, I have a foster family.” Of course, that didn’t impress the boy.
“Pffff,” he said contemptuously and was about to turn to leave.
"Wait, wait a minute." The boy turned around again. "Do you know a David, long black hair, green eyes?"
“What do you want from him?” the other asked suspiciously.
"He's a friend of mine. I heard he's working here."
"Oh, I was here yesterday. I haven't seen him today. Maybe he'll come. What's his name anyway?"
"Rafael. And you?"
“Tim.” That too!
“I’ll move on then,” Tim finished and left me standing there.
At least now I knew David was really here. All I had to do was wait for him to show up. I was already thinking about how I wanted to approach him. I hoped he wouldn't run off right away. I would suggest that we find a solution together with Johannes. There was no way he could go back home. I was so lost in thought that I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. So I was really startled when a man spoke to me.
"Are you new here? What do you do?" Of course, what he meant was what sexual practices I offered.
"I'm just waiting here," I said firmly. No thanks, this was really over, this really didn't have to be. The guy mumbled something about "waiting somewhere else" and walked away.
From then on, I was more attentive and changed my seat as soon as I noticed a guy staring at me or making eye contact. I waited another two hours, then I gave up hope that Tim would come and went home.
7
Johannes intercepted me right at the entrance and pulled me into the study.
“And,” he asked.
"I didn't find him, but I found out he was already there. I'll keep looking for him."
"And what do you want to do when you find him?"
"I want to tell him that the path he's chosen is a dead end. And I'll tell him there's another way without having to go back to his parents."
Johannes nodded: "I haven't reached anyone at the youth welfare office yet, but there are certainly options. Okay, now let's get dinner. We've been waiting for you."
Only Johannes and Petra knew about this latest development. We hadn't told Oliver and Rasmus anything. Nevertheless, they both noticed that something was wrong and came to see me later.
"What's going on? You're completely out of your mind," Oliver began.
"Oh, I'm still sad about David."
"Forget about that idiot. If he doesn't want you, it's his own fault," Oliver advised.
"There's something else. The fact that David doesn't want you isn't the whole story," said Rasmus. The boy had an almost uncanny sensitivity. He sensed immediately when something was wrong.
"Come on, Rafael, you always told us everything. Don't you trust us anymore?" He looked at me so sadly that I couldn't help it. I told them what had happened. They were shocked, too, of course.
"That's terrible. What do you want to do now?"
"Go to the train station every day until I find him. And then I have to try to convince him to look for another solution."
"We'll come with you and help you search," Oliver offered. "And if you can't, we can search on our own."
"Absolutely not. Johannes didn't want me to look for him. If I take you to the train station, he'll kill me," I countered. Johannes wasn't even allowed to know that the two of them had this idea.
"Okay," they both agreed, somewhat sadly, "but if we can help you in any way, just let us know." I promised.

I kept my eyes closed in pleasure while those talented lips dissolved my anger at work and the argument with my girlfriend into nothing. I was going to send her packing soon anyway.
“Oh damn, that’s good,” I gasped, giving in to the climax.
Shortly afterwards, those almost perfect lips released me.
Fabian stood up and looked at me pleadingly with his hazel eyes, his hand on his belt. His light brown hair was ruffled by my hands, and his slender, runner-like body was tense and unsteady. My anger immediately returned.
“What’s going on?” I snapped at him.
"I was hoping I could relieve myself next to you, just this once. Please, Patrick."
"How many times, actually? I don't want to watch you playing with yourself. Go to the bathroom or piss off home, got it?"
He was about to have one of those crying fits again and looked at me sadly.
“Okay, then get out of here, I’ll get back to you.”
I knew I was hurting him, but he wanted it that way. We'd been meeting regularly for six months, ever since our company Christmas party. He started working for us in the middle of last year to earn some extra money to help with his studies, even though his parents financed most of his expenses.
I noticed relatively early on that he liked being around me, but initially dismissed it as a coincidence. But when he caught Tini, my girlfriend, and me having sex late one night in my office, I saw his tears and knew there was more to it. I watched him for almost half a year, testing his reactions to my proximity, and I was quite certain that he was in love with me.
My inexplicable curiosity about what his lips would feel like grew. At the party, I drank a little too much, and in my drunken state, an idea came to me. Before I completely got drunk, I asked Fabian if he would drive me home. As expected, he was immediately willing. At home, I told him about my curiosity and was actually convinced he wouldn't be able to resist.
At first he looked at me in disbelief, but then he went along with it. After the admittedly brilliant climax, disillusionment set in. I had let a homosexual touch my cock and I liked it. He made a move to undress, and I asked him to leave. He hesitated for a moment and gave me a pleading look. I told him to leave again, and this time he did, wordlessly and visibly sad.
It didn't stop at just one time; it was too hot for that. One word from me was enough, and he was there again and again. He had to know that I only cared about one thing: the feeling of his gifted lips.
Fabian reminded me a bit of my mother. My father was the undisputed master of the house, and she had no say in the matter. She tolerated his affairs and turned to alcohol. In his eyes, feelings were unjustified; they only distracted from his true goals. I was a studious student, and Fabian didn't exactly count as a man to me.
Tini was completely different from my mother, a dominant control freak, and this often led to arguments. Nevertheless, I stayed with her. My father openly expressed his dislike for her. They hated each other.
I stood up and pulled up my pants without comment. Fabian was still standing in the same spot.
"Tell me, are you deaf? You know the game. How many times? I'm not into guys, so be glad I let you do this sometimes. It's fine, okay, but I don't owe you anything."
Sighing, he closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. "Okay, I'll wait for your call. See you then."
He trotted sadly to the door and gently closed it behind him. A short time later, I saw him through the window as he left the property, his shoulders slumped.
The euphoria of orgasm had completely faded, replaced by my anger. This idiot just wouldn't get it. Was it my fault he'd fallen in love with me? I'd never given him any hope. He was just allowed to suck on me sometimes because he was really damn good at it.
I went to the bar, grabbed the good single malt, and washed down my anger with a half-full glass. After the third refill, I suddenly felt a little sorry for him.
“It’s his own fault,” I muttered and picked up the phone.
“What do you want?” came a sharp voice from the receiver.
"Tini, I'm sorry about the argument. Can you come here?"
“Have you been drinking?”
"Yes, but only a little. Please, Tini, I need you with me."
My friend sighed audibly. "Okay, I'll be with you in half an hour. God, I don't know why I'm doing this."
“Because you love me,” I suggested.
"Probably. See you soon." There was a crackle on the line, and I listened to the busy tone before jumping into the shower and washing Fabian's drool and the scent of his aftershave off me.
I was just drying myself off when the door slammed loudly and Tini's heels clattered on the laminate flooring in the hallway.
“Pat?” Her voice echoed loudly through the apartment.
“I’m in the bathroom, just a minute,” I called back and quickly tied the large towel around my waist.
Then she stood in the doorway and looked at me closely.
"Nice lift. Tell me, do you need me, or do you need sex?"
"Both. One doesn't work without the other."
The stern expression around her eyes relaxed. "I certainly hope so. You wouldn't survive if you cheated on me with some other chick."
“It would never occur to me, you’re my only chick, I swear.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment,” she replied in a mock sour tone.
She moved towards me in a provocative pose and I turned my back to the sink, my hands resting on the edge.
“You don’t really deserve me,” she whispered.
“Probably not.”
Then she stood in front of me and opened the towel, while my hand slid under her blouse and cupped one of her firm mounds. Lust flickered in her blue eyes and she casually tossed her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder.
“You probably need a jump start today.” Her gaze rested on my flaccid cock.
"It was a hard day, he'll be good in time."
She didn't want to wait and got on her knees. A moment later, her full lips slid over me, and I closed my eyes. But it wasn't right; it was just a greedy sucking, and my little one didn't move.
Fabian was more passionate and took care of my best part as if it were a precious treasure, with complete devotion. His lips were almost perfect, only his body was wrong. The thought of his 'treatment' actually brought my flaccid member to life.
"There you go, it works!" She grinned at me from below, looking triumphant as if she'd just won a competition. With that, she ruined everything again; the mood was ruined.
Growling in frustration, she immediately went back to work. The wild tugging and sucking was starting to hurt.
“Damn it, Tini, please tell me what you’re doing!” I grabbed her arms and pulled her up.
"I want to get what you promised. What do you think?"
“I didn’t promise you anything.”
"Then why did you call? I thought you wanted to celebrate reconciliation."
“What if I just need your company?”
Now she looked distinctly angry. "Wait a minute, buddy. You sent me away the other day, saying I was getting too close to you. You wanted to 'breathe easy.' And now you come up with this crap. I had more fun with my dildo last night than I've had with you all week. It would probably even talk to me if it could. Unlike you."
"You're really crazy. You want to talk? Then go ahead." Her mood was contagious.
She adjusted her blouse. "No, thanks, no need. Call me when you're back to your senses."
Completely perplexed, I stood at the sink until the apartment door slammed shut. I ran after it and ripped the door open.
“Then fuck your damn dildo!” My voice echoed loudly through the stairwell.
"Wanker," rang out from downstairs. The door across the hall opened, and old Mohrbeck, my neighbor, looked at me with narrowed eyes. Then I realized I was still naked, and her expression radiated furious indignation.
“Well, you old woman, never seen a dick?” My admittedly thoughtless statement was the last straw for her.
"This will have repercussions, Mr. Reder. Not like this. I'll file a formal complaint with the landlord." With these words, she disappeared into her apartment and slammed the door. I saw movement at her peephole and raised her middle finger. She gasped indignantly; I heard the labored rattle of her breathing. "Repercussions!" echoed a muffled voice.
I went into my apartment angrily and slammed the door shut.
I casually checked my phone and found a new text message. Jochen, my friend and colleague, was on his way to the gym and didn't feel like working out alone. At first, I wanted to cancel, but decided against it. The change of scenery was desperately needed.
Somewhat later ...
“It’s really great that you stopped by.”
"No problem, I needed to get out anyway. Tini's just causing trouble. First she complains that I'm keeping my distance, and then I need her company and she freaks out because I don't want to fuck her."
"Man, I can't hear it anymore. Why don't you just break up? You can't even keep the peace for five minutes unless you fuck your brains out."
“Because the last part is good?”
He dismissed the suggestion with a dismissive gesture. "That can't be it, can it?"
I stopped the exercise bike and wiped the sweat from my forehead. "If she weren't so bitchy, things would be easier for us."
Jochen raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, you're just as bitchy—pardon, macho—as she is."
“Do you want to train alone?”
"That's exactly what I mean. Absolutely incapable of criticism. A few months ago, you were still capable of understanding. What's happening to you?"
"I'm sorry, I'm still a little upset about what happened earlier. And I'm perfectly capable of taking criticism."
"All right. The main thing is that you believe in it. Change the subject, okay? I'll start on the rowing machine."
“Okay, then I’ll go to the butterfly, we can switch after that.”
I squatted down on the padded bench, leaned my back against it, and placed my forearms on the foam pads. Then I started. The 20 kilos weren't enough for me, so I changed the pin on the weights to a full 40. After three blocks, each with 30 pulls, I took a break.
My gaze wandered through the center and settled on one of the back corners, near the treadmills, where Fabian was currently exerting himself. He stared doggedly straight ahead, ignoring us.
“Well, are you getting tired yet?” Jochen grinned at me maliciously.
“3.6 tons is enough to start with.”
"You boastful mathematician. Okay, let's swap."
I continued to stare at the treadmills.
"Earth to Patrick, I said swap. What's going on?"
“Look, the faggot is here.”
His gaze followed mine and he shrugged.
"So what? Leave him alone, he won't hurt you."
'If you only knew,' I thought.
“You’re surely man enough not to feel threatened by him, right?”
"Threatened? Are you crazy? I just can't stand him." At that moment, Fabian looked in our direction, his skin draining of color. Even from a distance, I could see his hurt expression. I gave him a belligerent look, and he lost his rhythm. He stumbled awkwardly and almost fell off the belt.
A hand tugged on my chin, and Jochen stood facing me. "I'm glad you're amused by how he almost hurt himself. You go rowing, then you don't have to look at him."
"All right. Okay, device swap." I glanced into the corner again, and Fabian was gone.
A good hour later, we stood in the shower, exhausted. The hot water trickled soothingly over my body. As I reached for the shampoo, I noticed Jochen eyeing me. I responded with a new dose of irritation.
"What is?"
"You've been acting pretty strange lately. Even by your standards."
“And that’s why you’re staring like that?”
His mouth opened briefly, but he closed it again, shaking his head.
"Yes, of course. Like all the guys who look at you, I've become gay just by looking at you and I'm after you. Every man wants you. But maybe I was also looking at you because you make a face like you want to kill someone."
"I'm sorry I'm not running around laughing. Old Kramer is monitoring my every move at work, Tini's acting totally naughty, and that faggot's always hanging around here."
"Yeah, sure, the others again. That thing with Kramer is your fault. It's a fact that you're not keeping up with your stuff. I also understand Christine, if you're exactly the same with her as you have been the last few days. And this Fabian was here before you. I really don't understand what your problem with him is. I'm not into the stuff he does with his guys either, but I know my place very well and shouldn't feel threatened by that."
"And I don't? Just be careful what you say."
I was seething inside, but Jochen also seemed to be losing patience. He was wrong. After all, getting a blowjob from a guy doesn't make you gay; the boy was just good.
"Pat, I'm fed up with this shit. I don't care if you're straight, gay, or whatever. It's all about the human element, and you're really starting to get on my nerves." He paused briefly. "I'm going to go get another beer. If you keep your homophobic bullshit to yourself, you can come with me... boss."
“I’ll try.”
"You leave it. That's it. Or go home right now."
Of course, we went to the pub, and one beer turned into three. The alcohol loosened me up and relaxed me a bit.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I'm just a little stressed. It'll pass, and I'm pulling myself together for the sake of the little one."
I flinched inwardly at what had just slipped out. I hoped Jochen hadn't noticed.
“The little one? Has he made a career now?” Of course he had noticed.
"The faggot, I mean. It's probably the beer, I can't think straight anymore."
“Of course, that was obvious.” Jochen didn’t seem really convinced.
We remained silent for a while, finished our drinks and paid.
“See you tomorrow morning,” I said goodbye.
Jochen laughed. "No, thanks. I prefer to sleep in on Saturdays."
"Oh damn, that's right. See you Monday then."
Our paths parted in front of the door. Maybe my boyfriend was right and I should be a little nicer to Fabian. But wouldn't he misunderstand? Actually, everything was perfectly fine. I had my fun, and he got what he wanted. Then I remembered the situation in the bathroom, when Tini was kneeling in front of me, and I couldn't help thinking about him.
"Oh, bullshit," I muttered. This could only have happened because my girlfriend was so rude.
Soon after, I returned home and fell into a restless sleep. I dreamed of my almost perfect lips.

Trains
'May 16, 2017, 5:44 a.m., large square, 186 444,' I jotted down in my notebook. Or more precisely, in the Excel list on my smartphone. I'd encountered such a striking locomotive as the 186 444 several times before, but it was the first time in such wonderful light of the rising sun.
Many of my classmates thought I was an idiot: "Whaaat? You get up so early just to watch trains?" was what they would regularly say. A teacher once even remarked in front of the entire class that I was a "weird guy." I don't mind the teasing anymore, but without my friend Dominik, I would probably be a total outsider and loner!
Sometimes I still felt lonely, but when I stood completely free in "my" meadow on such a beautiful morning, a gentle breeze conjuring goosebumps on my skin, feeling the dew on the grass beneath my bare feet, and then a train rushing through this landscape, I forgot everything around me, because then the world belonged to me alone! It was simply an uplifting, exciting feeling.
"Quirin," Dominik's voice tore me from my dream world. I had no idea what he was doing here so early! Suddenly he was standing in front of me, staring at me with his mouth open! I suddenly became aware of my situation and quickly grabbed my clothes.
"Are you out of your mind?" he whistled at me. "If only someone had come here instead of me!"
“Then I’d be screwed,” I whispered after I had at least awkwardly put on some pants and a T-shirt.
"You can say that out loud! You're already an extremist, you know that? I look for trains too, but not like that!" he blurted out, shaking his head.
At that moment, the next train from Rosenheim arrived. The white stripes on the locomotive seemed to glow in the sunrise light, allowing me to immediately identify it as 186 443. I quickly jotted down 'May 16, 2017, 6:09 a.m., Großkaro, 186 443'. What a wonderful coincidence that the next train was hauled by the direct sister of the locomotive from before.
A grin on Dominik's face signaled relaxation. He, too, was now enjoying this wonderful image of a train in the picture-perfect landscape. He had his SLR with him, of course, and immediately shot a series. As always, I made do with my phone, from which I could immediately upload all the usable images.

People
Dominik and I had known each other since kindergarten and had spent at least half of our lives together. Three or four years ago, when we discovered our love of trains as an additional commonality, we were only really separated at night. 'I wonder if he's gay, too?' flashed through my mind once again. Otherwise, we knew everything about each other, but we'd always avoided intimate topics. I have no idea why. Our 'socialization' in this cramped, strictly Catholic town was probably the reason for this. On the other hand, we'd never hidden from each other and had often flooded one or two of our parents' bathrooms in a water fight. So we knew each other in all its various forms. That's why it wasn't really a shock for him earlier, or even a reason to laugh at me.
Nevertheless, I resolved to finally tell him the truth, although I was certain that this wouldn't change our relationship. Perhaps it would improve it even further if he... 'What nonsense,' I immediately dismissed this senseless hope.
"Quirin, you're dreaming again. Look what's coming!" he brought me back to reality.
"Cool!" I exclaimed delightedly, "the 103 245! What is it doing here? It's usually on the Ulm IC in the morning!"
"Not when there's a special train coming up. Look at the carriages! A beige-red TEE, even the Domecar is there!"
After I had captured this train on camera and phone, and I had added 'May 16, 2017, 6:28 a.m., Großkaro, 103 245 with the historic T(rans) E(uropa) E(xpress)' to my list, Dominik blew the whistle for departure: "Get moving, you lame duck, or we'll be late for school!"
"Yeah, dude, what are you doing so stressing about? Our Meridian doesn't leave for another hour."
“Yes, but until we always have our stuff together...”
I laughed, gathered the rest of my clothes, and slipped into my sneakers. Once I got home—we lived practically next door to each other—I got properly dressed and grabbed my backpack with my school supplies.
Since my mother's sudden death, I lived alone with Dad in this huge hut, but neither he nor I wanted to leave; we were too overwhelmed by the many good and beautiful memories...
Dominik lived right next door with his family: his parents and his brother, who was now four years older. His slightly older sister had moved in with her ex-boyfriend (now her husband) years ago. I think Dominik was even the uncle of two nephews.
Almost simultaneously, we were back on the street and making our way to the train station. At a quarter past seven, we found ourselves among a horde of students, all of whom were headed to Rosenheim. As always, we headed for the end of the platform, hoping to catch another train if necessary. By then, our classmates weren't even paying us any attention.
Things used to be different, and I don't know what I would have done without Dominik. I was always a loner and didn't care what others did or thought.
When I became intensely interested in trains and spent every free minute at the station, I suddenly became not only a loner to the others, but also an oddball whose weakness made me easy to tease. On top of that, everyone suddenly started calling me "Schwuli," and I just wondered how they knew. Of course, they didn't. "Schwul" simply meant weak, and because I didn't react at all, it was obvious, especially to the biggest idiots in the class.
At some point, things escalated, and suddenly four of them were standing around me and started pushing me around. Before they started hitting me, Dominik intervened vehemently and threatened to beat anyone who came anywhere near me. Dominik has always been a real bear. He was still agile and our sports ace, which earned him everyone's respect. So, I had peace and quiet from then on. Thanks, Dominik!
About a year earlier, such teasing and physical violence had prompted me to set up a WhatsApp group as a kind of “virtual self-help group” so that we could at least encourage each other a little and, in extreme cases, organize practical help if the teasing escalated into outright bullying.

School
So we waited for our train, and lo and behold: Before it arrived, a freight train rushed past toward Rosenheim, again hauled by the "Harlequin" locomotive 186 444. After taking the obligatory photo with my phone, I added notes to my electronic notebook.
Shortly thereafter, the "Meridian" arrived, taking us to Rosenheim, our beloved educational institution. First, two hours of German, then a history and religion lesson, finally a double lesson of math, and after lunch, computer science and two hours of sports—that's our program for today.
All in all, it was unspectacular, except for the fact that our religious education teacher, of all people, once again made a derogatory and mocking remark about my "pointless and childish" leisure activity. Apparently, this particular guy thought he could score points with the others by verbally attacking the supposedly weakest one. But by now, he's only gotten a few tired laughs for it.
The sports lessons at the end of the day were really good: we played basketball, which I've always enjoyed. Surprisingly, I was pretty good at it (unlike soccer), and I wasn't the last one to be "chosen" for the team! The sweat was pouring down, and the mood was great.
Afterward, most people headed straight home, but I treated myself to a relaxing shower, as always. Even after judo, which I now practiced twice a week, it was natural for me from the start to shower; it was always normal for me.
At school, it was only since last year that a few people dared to take a dip in the cleansing water, but I was usually alone and enjoyed it all the more, as was the case this time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that two showers down from me, someone else had finally found their way here. I realized that this was, of all people, our biggest asshole: Sepp, the very same guy who had so abruptly called me a faggot back then. At first glance, he didn't look so bad, but as a person, he was simply a complete nonentity. I didn't pay much attention to him until I noticed that he had a pretty decent boner sticking out of the water. Almost inevitably, I stared in his direction, which he, of course, noticed and immediately snapped at me:
"Don't stare like that, faggot! Just because I'm pushing a pipe here doesn't make me gay!"
I just rolled my eyes and turned off the water, since I was already done. I grabbed my towel and headed to the locker room. I realized I'd forgotten my shower gel and quickly went to get it. However, I heard unmistakable noises that prevented me from entering the washroom immediately. A short time later, Sepp appeared in the doorway and grinned at me provocatively:
“So? Did that turn you on?” he asked, almost a little too kindly.
I just shook my head and frowned, whereupon he stood in front of me and, as if by chance, his bath towel slid to the floor.
“Admit it!” he whispered in a strange tone.
Fortunately, I immediately found my voice again:
"Don't think you're weak, Sepp! You're not my type!" I retorted, bursting out laughing when I realized his dejected expression. But what did he do? He put on a very smug smile and simply hissed:
“Well, if someone stands naked in a meadow early in the morning and looks at trains…!”
As if struck by lightning, I turned around and got dressed as quickly as possible. A thousand thoughts raced through my head. Had he actually seen me? After all, he wasn't the only one? Or was it just a shot in the dark? Without looking back, I left the school and ran as fast as I could to the train station. Luckily, my Meridian from Kufstein was just pulling in, and I was spared another confrontation—at least for today!

Alarm
Once home, I continued to ponder what Sepp really knew and whether he and his gang of idiots were constantly watching me. And then these strange impulses after sports today. Of course, I couldn't come to any sensible conclusion.
The WhatsApp gong tore me from my thoughts.
A message from “BigBoy4014”, whose real name was Fabian:
'Hi Quirin, I actually didn't want to get up today! I can barely stand the people around me anymore. Everyone wants something from me: Fabi, do this, Fabi, do that! And then this Bernhard: Whenever no one is around, he threatens me: "I'll finish you off, you victim!" He's constantly pushing me around or tripping me up. Those who notice either laugh themselves silly or look away. I don't know what to do anymore.
Only when I stand on the footbridge over our marshalling yard and the trains rush by beneath me do I feel comfortable and strangely free. Lately, I've been feeling the urge to take off my clothes, weird? Of course I don't. You know, the other day I saw the Prussian T18 for the first time, you know, the 78 468 from Eisenbahn-Tradition. They used to offer special steam trains here.
For the second time today, I felt very hot when I read about Fabian's feelings. Somehow, I felt caught out again. Without responding , I wrote back:
'BigBoy4014, forget about these ignorant people! You know you're not alone in this world with your hobby. I caught the 103 245 today, completely unexpectedly! You've probably already seen the picture! I have to come to Koblenz now, then I'll take a look at the DB Museum with you; there are so many great locomotives there!'
Immediately I could read:
'Hey 'Mister 15000 Volt' (that was my WhatsApp nickname), that would be great! What are you doing on vacation?'
'Oh dear, everything's already planned! I have to go back to my grandma's. You know, she's not feeling very well, and Dad always says, 'This might be the last time, and if you don't come, you'll blame yourself for the rest of your life.' I don't believe that, but he still manages to make me feel guilty! But maybe during the fall break!'
'Oh man! That's still ages away! But hey, I'm looking forward to it! Take care, cu!'
'Thanks Fabi, sleep well!'

Revelations
Shortly afterwards, as I lay in bed, I thought again of Sepp, the Asshole. What could that mean? And above all: what was going to happen? What if he had actually seen me on Trainspotting? But why would he have done that? And then that spectacle in the shower. I would be really embarrassed to jerk off in the school showers, although that would never occur to me. So either he has a lot of self-confidence and thinks he can get away with anything, or he's somehow onto me. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn't get anywhere and finally fell asleep.
In my dream, I relived the scene from this afternoon in the shower after exercise. Only this time, Sepp came up to me and grabbed little Quirin as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and I noticed that his little friend was standing there looking like a dream.
I jumped up, woke up, and sat upright in bed. That was it: Sepp was gay! Could that be true? There was no way he would ever admit it, not to his friends, not even to himself! I decided to observe him a little more closely, even though I wasn't really that interested in him.
I fell asleep again much more peacefully, until this time the alarm clock tore me from my dreamless, deep sleep. Today, for once, I wouldn't watch any trains; I was still too scared that Sepp might have seen me doing it.
I rang Dominik's doorbell to pick him up for school.
"Hi Q, where were you earlier? You really missed something! Not only did a freight train with the crocodile *) pass by today, but I also ran into Sepp, who was very interested in asking about this locomotive and casually asked if you were coming today. It was kind of strange. But the E 94 279 *) looked fantastic; they didn't skimp on it in Munich, so they refurbished it as a heritage locomotive!"
I quickly replied that I wasn't in the mood today, which made him raise an eyebrow in disbelief. But the fact that Sepp was actually hanging around our photo meadow made me even more uncomfortable.
We arrived at the train station in silence, where almost all of our classmates from Großkaro were already waiting for transport to Rosenheim. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Sepp sizing me up.
"Man, Q, what's wrong with you? You're not saying a thing today." I heard Dominik's voice muffled and far away. When he didn't get a response, he nudged me:
“Hello, anyone home?”
“Uh… sorry Domi, what did you say?”
He just rolled his eyes: "You're pretty out of sorts today. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"
"Nothing, what's wrong?" I was probably all I could think to say at the moment, and at the same time I sensed that my boyfriend would rather shake me. "I'll tell you later, okay?" I quickly added. Dominik nodded, not particularly satisfied with this statement.
Although the Meridian came with a double five-person unit, it was more packed than ever that morning.
I decided to stop pondering for the time being and concentrated on catching a glimpse of the Meridian replacement train in Rosenheim, which should be arriving from Kufstein at any moment: These were classic commuter cars pulled by a Lokomotion locomotive, temporarily replacing the multiple units destroyed in the serious train accident in Bad Aibling. Ha! Today, the "Triple-Seven," hauled by 193 777, was the last of the eight Siemens Vectrons that Lokomotion has taken delivery of this year. In its beige color, this locomotive seemed somewhat gloomy, and the red stripes on one side and the blue stripes on the other side of the locomotive didn't improve the impression. 'May 17, 2017, 6:59 a.m., Rosenheim,' I added. It was fascinating how punctually these replacement trains ran. It's a shame that this would only last until the end of the year. By then, the new multiple units would have been delivered.
“Where were you today?” Sepp’s voice tore me from my daydreams, although he whispered the question rather than yelled it out.
“Why, I’m here,” I said naively.
“You know exactly what I meant,” he whispered.
“Sepp, what do you want from me?” I whispered back.
“You!” he hissed barely audibly, and that was one of the reasons why I couldn’t believe my ears.
Without waiting for any further comment from me, he left me standing there.
I stared after him, rooted to the spot and open-mouthed.
“Shut your mouth, it’s drafty!” Domi promptly said, and he added, “Did you see a ghost?”
“Something like that,” I said, pulling myself together and turning on my heel.
"Quirin! Stop! Damn it! Stop, man! You can't just run away now, Quiriiiin!" Dominik called after me, grabbing my arm roughly.
“That’s enough, tell me immediately!” he bleated, glaring at me angrily.
“Okay,” I resigned, “come with me, let’s sit at Café Moser.”
Domi followed me without a word. I ordered us two cappuccinos and now put everything on the line: "Domi... I'm gay," I blurted out, staring into my cup. I cautiously glanced in his direction and saw only the encouraging blinking eyes of my oldest friend.
“So?” he grinned at me.
“Can’t you think of anything else?” I tried to coax him out of his shell.
“Man Q, I’ve known that for a long time, don’t you have any news?”
"Huh? That's all you have to say about it? Anyway, how did you come up with that? Do I seem like a sissy or something? I can't believe it. I've been fretting for years about how best to explain this to you, and you act like you already know! This can't be true!"
"Yes, Quirin, it can. And no, you don't seem like it at all. But man, I've known you for 14 years! We've never talked about anything too personal, which I've always regretted, by the way, but I didn't want to get on your nerves and hoped that you'd come around someday. You've done that now, and I'm happy about it! Who knows anyway?"
“Nobody!” I replied meekly.
Dominik then hugged me without saying a word. We sat there for a while, sorting out our thoughts and feelings. When he let go, he just nodded and sipped his cappuccino.
“And I think it’s Sepp too!” I blurted out.
"What now? The asshole? Oh, nonsense! Never, you're imagining it!"
I couldn't help but grin because my long-time friend had the same title for Sepp as I did.
"I don't think I'm imagining it!" and proceeded to recount everything that had happened since yesterday. When I finished, Dominik looked at me for a long time and finally said, "I still don't believe that. He just wants to destroy you as soon as you jump on it! Please, please be careful and don't let yourself be provoked! He's a total left-wing bastard! I once overheard some of the hate speech he spouts against gays."
“Oh man!” I groaned, “but the worst part is that he probably saw me mocking!”
“So what?” Domi asked innocently, but immediately afterwards he added, “Sh…! Are you sure?”
“At least he addressed it directly and maliciously.”
“And now?” Domi looked at me helplessly.
"I don't know. I'm afraid I'll have to wait and see what happens! Let's go to class."

assault
I quickly paid our bill and we crossed the street to our excellent educational institution. We arrived at Dr. Line's math class just in time for second period. Since "Fips," our history teacher Mr. Fiebig, wasn't too serious about attendance control in the first period, our absence wasn't even noticed by the faculty. But Sepp, the asshole, did, and he eyed us suspiciously.
Amazingly, the following period passed without further incident. Until the following week's sports lesson:
Although I hadn't forgotten the events, I had largely repressed them as I stood alone in the shower at our gym after a sweaty sixty minutes of volleyball. Suddenly, the door burst open, and Sepp stormed in. He grabbed me and pinned me down by forcing my head under the exposed pipes of the row of sinks in the middle of the room. He had brutally twisted one of my arms behind my back. Since I was physically inferior to him, I had no chance to move or even defend myself. Suddenly, I realized what he was planning.
“Please don’t,” I begged, but he just grunted:
"What's wrong with you? That's what you disgusting cocksuckers always want!"
I felt him positioning his hard cock.
I screamed as loud as I could.
Once again the door was flung open, but this time Mr. Baric was standing in the washroom, yelling: “What’s going on here?”
Sepp reacted quickly, let go of me, and shouted, "That faggot wanted me to give him a good time!" With a contemptuous gesture, he was about to leave. Uncontrollable rage boiled up inside me, and with all my might, my fist flew into his face. Like a classic knockout, Sepp sprawled on the ground.
I almost thought I had noticed an admiring look in Mr. Baric’s eyes before he barked at me:
"Quirin, what's going on? Have you lost your mind?"
Only now did I realize my unflattering attire in front of a teacher and quickly turned around for the towel I wanted to use to cover my nakedness. But as if on an ice rink, my legs were pulled out from under me and I landed in a high arc on the floor next to Sepp. I felt Mr. Baric trying to catch me, but he failed, and the lights went out.
A seemingly infinite calm spread; everything became light and dazzlingly bright – I was floating. "Quirin! Quirin, my darling!" I heard my mom call. "What are you doing here?"
I was just about to answer her when everything around me went dark again.
I tried to open my eyes and looked into a bright light.
“Dr. Scheuring, he’s coming to!” I heard, as if wrapped in cotton wool.
"Ah! Good. Hello Quirin, nice to have you back," I heard a youthful voice say from an unidentifiable direction.
I wanted to answer and ask at the same time, but it wasn't possible.
"Slow down. Don't talk!" the voice warned me. "You may have a concussion. You fell pretty hard, but thanks to your gym teacher, it was relatively easy. Now recover, and then we'll see what happens."
I wondered what he meant by that when my memory suddenly returned. Sepp! Then I drifted off again.
The next time I woke up, I looked into Domi's face, who was smiling at me a little crookedly with a mixture of worry and confidence.
“Hi,” I said clearly.
“Hi Quirin,” he said, and immediately it bubbled out of him:
“You really gave it to him!”
“Who did I give what to?”
"Well, the asshole! You knocked him out like a dream!" Then he paused and continued quietly: "You're saying he tried to rape you...?"
I sighed:
"Domi, I don't know, but probably. What happens now?"
"Hmm, I guess it depends on you. If you report him, he'll probably go to jail, even though he's only seventeen. In any case, he'll get expelled from school."
"What an asshole! But I don't think I'll file a complaint!"
"What?" Dominik shouted in surprise. "Hey, if Baric hadn't happened to be there, he would have done who knows what to you. Maybe he would have killed you to cover his tracks! Then that asshole would have you on his conscience."
"Now calm down," I countered, almost amused by my best friend's imagination. "You watch too many bad crime shows!"
Dominik just rolled his eyes.
“I want to talk to Sepp!”
"What do you want? Are you completely crazy now? What do you want to say to him? Anyway, what's the point?"
“I have no idea!” I rolled my eyes, “I want to hear what he has to say about it!”
"But that doesn't help! This asshole is a homophobic asshole who's also violent!"
"That may all be true!" I continued, suddenly feeling calm and quite sure of myself: "I think he's gay too, and that's why he hates himself the most. If he gets convicted, he'll kill himself!"
“So what? Let him!”
"Dominik!" I screamed at my friend, stunned, making him jump. I was startled myself and continued, a little more calmly: "Domi, if I'm right, he's a prisoner of himself! Just think about the circles he moves in! He basically doesn't know what to do!"
"I can't believe it! First he rapes you and you defend him! Hey, you're not a Holy Samaritan."
"No, I'm not. Besides, he didn't rape me. I want to talk to him! That's it!" I said defiantly. Dominik's response was no less defiant:
"Well, Q, the police want to talk to you tomorrow anyway. Then you can repeat that nonsense to them! I have to go home now. Get well soon!"
It made me very sad that my old friend Dominik judged so arrogantly.

escalation
The WhatsApp gong interrupted my thoughts.
"Hi Mr. 15000V, today we had the steam engine in physics, and I was supposed to explain it. As I was standing at the blackboard, I suddenly heard Bernhard say, 'Oh, our gay guy must be putting a lot of pressure on the piston,' and everyone, including our teacher, started yelling. Then I made the same mistake again and just ran away. Quirin, I can't take this anymore! I think I'll hang myself. The world doesn't need me, and I don't need the world!"
I immediately wrote back:
"Hey BigBoy4014, please don't do that! Go to your guidance counselor! Who am I supposed to write to when you're gone?" I considered telling him my current story, but something inside me resisted it.
The bell rang again:
"Haha! Which trust teacher? That's our physics teacher! You can forget about that!"
Oh shit, I thought, and decided to tell him my story after all. Of course, it took a while, so I kept sending him partial messages to keep him busy.
In the end, he answered me with “Oh, wow, man” at least twenty times.
Finally, as if nothing had happened, he wrote that he would go back to school tomorrow.
Although I wasn't entirely sure, my impression was that he had recovered somewhat, even if the situation wasn't really over.

Caught
As Dominik had already announced, I received a visit the next day from our village policeman, POM Winklscherer. This wasn't a problem, as Sebastian Winklscherer was a good friend of the family, meaning he and Dad had known each other since childhood, much like Dominik and I. But that wasn't a given, of course, since he was also my mother's ex. It's a village, after all! But they had parted ways amicably at the time.
However, Dr. Scheuring wanted to talk to me in detail beforehand.
“Quirin, do you feel comfortable speaking to the police?”
“Yeah sure, why shouldn’t I?”
“Well...?” he suddenly wavered uncertainly.
“I know he wanted to rape me!” I anticipated him
"Oookaay..." came the drawn-out reply. "So, what are you going to do now?" he asked curiously.
“I’ll try to have a conversation with Sepp, Josef Hofbauer, first!” I said confidently, whereupon Dr. Scheuring looked at me as if I were crazy.
“As you wish, but only under supervision!” he determined.
"Let's see! When is Bastian coming, I mean Mr. Winklscherer?"
"He's already waiting outside!" Dr. Scheuring surprised me and turned to the door. There, he turned around again and admonished me: "Don't overexert yourself! Your nerves aren't as stable as you might think!"
"Yes, yes," I reassured, but immediately noticed my slip-up and apologized profusely, my face turning increasingly red. Dr. Scheuring finally said with a laugh:
“Now it’s all good,” and left the room shaking his head.
As soon as he was outside, there was a knock and without waiting for an answer, Basti stood in the middle of the room.
“You have it pretty ugly here,” he joked.
“Yes, yes,” I grumbled again, only this time it wasn’t a problem because Basti had known me long enough.
“Joker,” he grinned, then continued seriously: “So, what was that between you and Sepp?”
"Well, good question! I want to talk to him!"
“Hmm, Quirin, so he’s right about what he says!”
"What? What's he saying?" I looked at Basti, somewhat irritated. He just frowned and continued:
"He claims that you told him to 'get it on properly'!"
I looked into his eyes, astonished: “And you believe him?”
"Well, according to what you just said! However, he didn't exactly hold back and called you gay scum, etc. And finally, there's the statement from your teacher, what was his name again?"
„Baric“
"Yeah, right! He said Sepp probably wanted to rape you. Do you want to report him?"
“Actually, I want to talk to him first!” I affirmed, which once again earned me a look that clearly suggested the observer doubted my sanity.
"Do you think you can arrange that?" I looked questioningly at Basti. I seemed to have taken the good guy by surprise, because he thought for a while before replying:
"So, if you don't file a report... I'll try hard to persuade him to talk to you. However, I can't guarantee success!"
"Good, thanks!"
"That's it for now! Take care, Quirin, and get well soon! Oh, here's my card if anything happens," he said goodbye.
I was dozing and pondering when Dominik suddenly came rumbling through the door.
"Good morning Q. How are you today?" he asked without taking a breath.
“Thanks, pretty good,” I grumbled, “at least I think so.”
“Aha,” he simply said.
"When are you/I actually getting out?" we asked simultaneously, laughing. We looked at each other somewhat perplexed when Hannes, the Bufdi, popped in as if on cue.
“Hannes, do you know when I’m being released?”
"Uh... well, we haven't talked about that yet. But I'll find out!" he promised, and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.
I explained to Dominik that Basti, our village policeman, would try to arrange a meeting between me and Sepp; to which he just shook his head and said:
“Q, you are an incorrigible optimist and far too good for this world.”
“Nonsense,” I countered, “I just think that Sepp is basically a poor bastard who doesn’t know what to do.”
Dominik rolled his eyes again and looked at me almost pityingly.
The tight schedule of hospital life now called for lunch. Today we had lasagna with a small salad, which was actually quite tasty, but also—let's just say—rather light on the menu. I could easily have eaten twice as much. When Hannes came to get the empty dishes and routinely asked if they were tasty, I replied:
“Yes, but who would be able to eat that?”
He just laughed and replied, "You're lucky, there's a portion left. Wait..." and then he put the same thing on my table again. I slipped out of bed again and received a smug grin from Dominik.
"What?" I asked hypocritically, knowing he was again amused by the "backless" hospital gown I was still wearing. I wiggled my butt a little, and Dominik burst out laughing.
"Well, if I were gay, that would probably turn me on pretty badly," he said with a somewhat helpless and crooked grin. I looked into my best friend's eyes, somewhat thoughtful. Then I managed a genuine smile and said, "That's a shame, Domi, but what else could I expect? Coincidences like that don't happen."
In a flash, the extra portion had changed locations: from the plate to my stomach, which now felt satisfied but not overfilled. Hannes had barely cleared the tray when there was a knock.
"Yes, please."
Basti stuck his head in.
"May we come in?" - a rhetorical question, because he was already pushing Sepp and himself through the door. Sepp looked terribly worn out, and not just because of his bruise. He and Dominik glared angrily at each other.
"See you later, Q. I'm off," he announced, practically sprinting off. That disappointed me; he could have at least asked if he should stay. Well, then. I tried to make eye contact with Sepp, but he avoided me. I thought I noticed a flash of excitement when he noticed my outfit. I quickly slipped into bed.
“Can I leave you alone?” Basti asked, probably sensing that this was exactly what I had wanted to ask him, and at the same time he pushed a chair towards Sepp – at a safe distance from me.
“I think so,” I said, watching Sepp closely.
Then Basti turned to me:
“And now you take the call button in your hand!” he ordered in a sharp tone.
"And at the slightest thing, you ring the bell! I'll be waiting outside your door!"
“Yes, that’s good!” I confirmed somewhat uncertainly.
Sepp flinched slightly at the somewhat loud and bold words. He still avoided all eye contact, while I practically stared at him. We remained silent for what felt like an eternity. I noticed myself becoming increasingly calm, while Sepp seemed increasingly fidgety. Then he couldn't take it anymore:
"Quirin," he began hesitantly, "Quirin, I don't know what to say... It's... I don't know how this could have happened." Suddenly, he looked at me with glazed eyes. I had to restrain myself from suddenly feeling sorry for the person opposite me.
"Say something... Please," he said meekly. All his usual bravado vanished. I decided to go on the offensive:
"Sepp. Everyone expects me to report you now." Fear and panic were etched in his face. I had never seen him like that before, and I was putting everything on the line:
"But the way I've seen you lately, you give me the impression that you're gay, which you obviously can't tell anyone, absolutely no one, not even yourself. You're practically a prisoner of yourself." Fear flared up in him again, then he practically slumped. Luckily, he was already sitting down, otherwise he probably would have hit the floor.
“Yes,” he squeaked, and I couldn’t believe my ears.
"And why are you so scared of it? Who do you think would want to mess with a bear like you, just because you're gay?" He looked up in surprise, and I continued: "Why do you macho men always think that the whole world would conspire against you if you ever showed your feelings? Hmm? That's sick!" I slowly worked myself into a rage. Sepp lowered his eyes; he was nothing but the famous heap of misery.

Free
"Sepp, look at me!" I snapped at him. He raised his head in shock. "I don't think I can excuse what you did, but if you would at least come out to our class, maybe we could bring this story to an orderly conclusion."
"How is that supposed to work? If I told anyone, it would spread like wildfire!" he practically blurted out. Now I was astonished and thought:
"Well, I guess we'll just have to live with the risk of being outed. That's been bothering me for a long time," I admitted.
"Ha! That means you're actually gay!" he suddenly exclaimed triumphantly. I looked at him confidently and sharply. "As much or as little as you!" I grinned at him, baring my teeth. Again he flinched.
"Okay, you're right. Does that mean you're going to come out to the class, too?" He narrowed his eyes at me. There it was: the question of all questions. The more I actively grappled with it, the more certain I became:
"I think so. However, we should NOT stand in front of the class and make some kind of declaration. Straight people don't do that either. We should convey this to our friends and families as unspectacularly as possible. If we're honest, there are hundreds of opportunities to do so!"
"You're completely crazy! If I tell anyone at home about this, my father will beat me black!"
"Sepp! Don't exaggerate! You're almost eighteen years old, do you seriously think your father will still beat you?" I asked, almost amused. Sepp suddenly smiled at me:
"Hmm. Well. Not really. Still: You don't know him! He's unpredictable. At the very least, he'll kick me out!" That sounded pretty depressing in the end.
“There is no other option, is there?” he finally asked, torn.
“Do you see one?” I tried to coax him out of his shell.
"No, but something completely different: Will you take me train spotting next time?" I must have looked at him a bit stunned by this surprising change of subject, which is why he grinned at me cheekily. Now I narrowed my eyes and looked at him sideways:
“How come?”, although I was already aware of his lustful thoughts in this context.
“Oh, so be it!” he grinned, feigning innocence.
“Ye ...
Finally, we both burst out laughing and couldn't stop laughing.
The door to the room opened with a bang, and Dr. Scheuring, followed by Sebastian Winklscherer, stormed in. They paused, astonished. The doctor was the first to regain his composure and asked, quite skeptical:
“What kind of theater is being played here?”
"A drama with a somewhat conciliatory ending. At least, I hope so!" I reported, although for the first time since the day before yesterday, I felt my bottom sore. My movements stopped all conversation; both Sepp and Dr. Scheuring apparently knew about it. With a harsh "Get out now," the latter ordered everyone else out of the room.
"Turn around," he ordered me succinctly. Reluctantly, I did as he told me.
He started to fondle me unpleasantly.
“But there can’t be anything there!” I said, half angrily, half uncertainly.
"Well, Quirin, that's true about your butt, but your tailbone will bother you for a few more days. Longer, at least, than Mr. Hofbauer's black eye."
“Hmm,” I grumbled, “when can I go home?”
"Oh, I thought..." he teased, "you'd never ask! No, nonsense, since it wasn't a concussion, there's nothing stopping us from letting you jump tomorrow morning!"
“Well, that sounds good!”
“Now rest a little longer, I have the impression that the last few hours have not left you completely unscathed!”
As soon as he said that, I realized he was right and pressed myself into my pillow. As I left, Dr. Scheuring warned those waiting outside to keep it brief and leave me alone as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Dominik had reappeared, and the three of them were standing there, as if they had been called but not picked up. Sepp glanced at me ruefully, or so it seemed to me. Dominik, too, was no longer as hostile as he had been three hours ago.
“What now?” Basti asked a little nervously.
“Nothing, what’s wrong?” I replied almost provocatively, and added “Everything’s fine!”, although one certainly couldn’t say that yet.
“Thank you, Quirin!” came Sepp’s honest reply.
Basti and Dominik looked extremely skeptical, but thankfully they held back.
“I'll be out of here tomorrow morning,” I managed to say before my eyes closed.
“Then sleep well! Servus Quirin,” I just heard the others say.

Paps
When I woke up from a deep sleep, it took a while to realize where I was and that I must have missed dinner. Thankfully, however, the tray had been left on the table, where Dad had meanwhile taken a seat. He was engrossed in my tablet PC.
When I thought about what he might have found there to read, my blood rushed to my head.
"Hello, my son, you were sleeping soundly. I've been sitting here for an hour and it hasn't been quiet at all. But nothing woke you up. Interesting website you have there!" My head had become more of a tomato. Dad had to laugh.
“Man, Quirin, I haven’t seen you this embarrassed in a long time!”
“Uhh…” was all I could manage right now, more than a croak.
"Nick Stories," my dad read, probably to buy me some time. "Trainspotting—what's that?" he asked, looking puzzled.
“These are railway enthusiasts who spend hours watching trains and sometimes documenting it!” I explained, adding, “Just like me!”
“Aha,” grumbled Dad, “and the other one is just like you?”
"Um, yeah. Dad..." suddenly tears welled up in my eyes.
"Shh, Quirin, boy. No reason to worry. I wasn't swimming around on the stinging soup either, even though I'm thirty years older than you. Since it's just the two of us, I've been watching you even more closely! Not in a controlled way or anything, don't get me wrong. It was simply important to me to always know how you were doing. And a father notices a lot of things that maybe only a mother would have noticed otherwise. But I've talked to her intensively about you, especially since she got her diagnosis. She knew very early on that we probably couldn't expect any grandchildren from you. But it was never a disappointment or anything. She kept saying, 'I hope he's happy.' And on her deathbed, her last words were, 'Take good care of our boy. You have to watch closely; he's not as tough as he always claims to be.'"
That was too much: We both howled like dogs. Dad had come over by then, and we just held each other for a while. Suddenly, he laughed really wickedly:
"When you were fifteen or so, she caught you and Domi having one of your bath fights. You had forgotten to lock the door, and she needed something from the bathroom. An open bathroom was always normal for us back then. Anyway, she was startled, but a quick glance at her son was enough to accurately assess his mood..."
Is there anything redder than a tomato?
“That can't be true,” I defended myself, “we never had anything with Domi, he's not gay...”
Oops, now it's out. "Besides, I only realized that about a year ago!"
"I believe you, but your mom already knew. And I've known it for a while, too!"
"Why are you all always so cool about this? I rack my brains with questions like 'why me' and 'what do I do now?' and then you all act like it's the most normal thing in the world."
“Why, who else?” - my father again!
“Well, Domi, he was the first person I dared to tell a few days ago!”
"Oh?! And me? When would you have been kind enough to tell me?" he acted exaggeratedly offended.
“Oh, Dad,” I groaned.
"Oh, Quirin. Everything's fine. It's normal for you to go to your best friend first. It's nice that he's taking it so easy. You know, I don't think this is a question of 'normal' or 'abnormal,' but above all of tolerance and acceptance. And that goes without saying! Everyone has to cope with their own life and find happiness. No one has the right to influence it from the outside! Your reaction shows how difficult it still is: You're ashamed, you're beating yourself up inside. That can't be right. Quirin, if you ever need support, please come to me immediately!" Now Dad became very serious and determined:
"What happened to you the day before yesterday must never happen again, do you hear! Never again. Wasn't there any warning?" Bitterness lingered in his voice.
I thought about it because I hadn't thought about it before.
“I don’t know, you can interpret a lot into it afterwards.”
"Why? What do you mean?"
"Well, Sepp was certainly strange to me, but I never would have thought he was capable of something like that. By the way, I had a long conversation with him today."
“You had what? Are you out of your mind?” my dad snapped at me.
"Man, what's wrong with all of you?" I snapped back. "You look for the most obvious thing, namely conversation, and you all act as if I'm crazy."
"Quirin! What's there to talk about? Someone like that should be locked away, it's that simple!"
I looked at my father in complete shock, shook my head and said very quietly:
"No, Dad, it isn't. Actually, I agreed with Sepp that he would say it himself, just between us, okay?" Dad didn't react.
“Just between you and me, okay?” and looked deep into his eyes.
“Yes, of course!” he replied, astonished.
"So, Sepp is also gay and has a huge problem with it. Until now, he hasn't even been able to admit it to himself, let alone those around him."
"What? Him and gay? Then he has a problem. Are you sure?"
"Well, those were just the signs. Anyway, today I told him straight out that I thought he was gay. He almost broke down and admitted it without discussion. We then discussed exactly what you had previously presented as so obvious. And that it's a problem in his entire environment. Anyway, we've firmly agreed that we'll come out gradually, meaning we won't post it on posters, but rather use the many small opportunities that constantly present themselves. If I were to report him, he wouldn't stand a chance. Please let's just let this go. Thank you!"
"Boy, you're the one affected. I just hope it works out the way you imagine!"
By now, my stomach was growling so loudly that even Dad noticed. So I slipped out of bed and sat down at the table. Dad also grinned openly when he saw me in this outfit; he even went one step further by saying:
“You’re a handsome boy, Quirin.”
A compliment like that from your father's mouth is enough to make you blush, right? Sighing, I devoured dinner in record time, which some kind soul must have topped up a bit. It certainly wasn't a normal hospital ration. Before I could climb back into bed, my father hugged me one last time and said goodbye, saying:
"Good night, little one, sleep well. I'll pick you up in the morning." Standing in the doorway, he added quietly, "I'm proud of you!"
"Thanks, Dad, see you tomorrow. Good night!"

BigBoy
This time I couldn't sleep right away, but instead reflected on today's conversations. Everything seemed to be going well, but I still wondered if it had all been inevitable. After all, Dominik had warned me.
Was I too careless?
My thoughts lingered on "my" WhatsApp group. It was supposed to help prevent exactly what had happened to me. But since I only told Fabian everything afterward and hadn't written to anyone else beforehand, I obviously couldn't expect any help from that group. Fabian!
I remembered the message in which he wrote about his urge to take off his clothes to trainspot. I felt strangely warm inside. The mere thought of it excited me. But I didn't want to give in to it now, because in the same message, Fabian reported essentially similar threats to the ones Sepp had made to me. I was able to calm him down by telling him my story, but was that enough? Slowly but surely, I began to have various doubts.
Then I had to grin again because I remembered a message from Fabian in which he was completely over the moon and told me that Union Pacific, a large railway company in the USA, now wants to restore a “BigBoy”, the largest steam locomotive in the world, to working order.
To do this, the engineers carefully examined all eight engines still in existence in various museums and determined that the one furthest from the UP's central workshop in Cheyenne would be the most suitable. They did have locomotive 4004 right outside in a park. However, this engine was submerged in water up to its engine several times during floods. Therefore, they suspected there was too much hidden damage there, especially to the bearings, so they decided not to repair them. After all, locomotive 4014 had survived its more than fifty years of storage in the mild Californian climate the best. With a major media presence, this locomotive was brought back to Cheyenne by rail in several stages in 2014.
It's scheduled to run again in 2019, for the 150th anniversary of the first transcontinental railroad. He would definitely want to be there.
That’s why he called himself “BigBoy4014” in our WhatsApp group.
Thoughts of BigBoy4014, aka Fabian, transported me to dreamland. I saw him standing on "his" railway bridge over the marshalling yard. He carefully placed his shoes first, then his socks and all his other clothing on top. He then checked the trains as usual and finally climbed onto the railing and flopped forward.
I jumped up and sat in bed, drenched in sweat.

disaster
Just at that moment, my phone’s WhatsApp chime rang.
"Quirin, five of them just ambushed me, chased me through the park, and finally beat me, even when I was already on the ground. Luckily, a patrol came and they fled. But before they could do that, Bernhard shouted to me that next time they'd stake me and get me. I'm going to go to my trains now. Farewell, Mr. 15000V."
My blood ran cold. I immediately wrote back:
"Hi Fabi, that's terrible. Didn't they take you to the hospital first?"
Normally, another message should arrive within a minute. But Fabian didn't respond.
“Hello Fabian, please get in touch!”
Again anxious minutes passed without any sign of life.
Then I tried to call him. I got a dial tone, and after about ten calls, I heard a message saying the person I was calling was not answering.
“I notice that too!” I screamed desperately into my phone.
A glance at the clock showed 2:12 a.m.
'Shit, shit, shit, what do I do now?'
Basti! He seemed to me to be the only one who might be able to do something.
Unfortunately, I hadn't saved his number yet.
'Shit, where did I put the damn card?' and rummaged in the small drawer,
'That can't be true! Ruling side'
I rummaged through it again, just as nervously as I had just rummaged through the small stack of papers, from which the piece I was looking for now fell out. I grabbed it and typed with shaky fingers.
'Oh shit, man!' I kept typing. Finally, I got the damn number on my display and tapped dial.
'I hope he's still awake.' 'What nonsense, Quirin, it's the middle of the night,' I dismissed the thought immediately. After only two rings, he answered:
“Guard Großkaro Winklscherer.”
"Basti, it's Quirin. You have to help me!"
"Quirin, man, it's 2:30 in the morning. What on earth is going on? Did things go wrong with Sepp after all?"
"Sepp? Oh, no, nonsense. How can you prevent someone from trying to kill themselves?"
Pause.
“Basti, are you still there?”
"Yeah, sure. Now slow down. What's going on?"
Then I tried to explain to him as clearly and as concentratedly as possible that I had founded this WhatsApp group about a year ago to combat the constant teasing and bullying against us trainspotters.
“Train – what?” he bleated into the phone
"Trainspotters, Basti. They're people who just love watching trains!" Maybe the short version would work...
“Is there such a thing?” he asked, confused.
"Yes, there is such a thing! I am one too!"
"Really now?"
I was desperate.
"Basti, there's someone named Fabian. He lives in Koblenz or something. He got beaten up today, and now he wants to take his own life! He's hinted at it before, and I've always been able to hold him back somehow. But today I can't reach him at all! The phone rings, but he's not answering."
"Quirin, calm down. Just because someone says that doesn't mean they'll do it. Especially not with prior notice!"
"Basti, I know he means it this time! First of all, he didn't write it directly, he just said goodbye! Yes, that's right, he just wrote "goodbye," something he never did before. And besides, Basti..." I wasn't sure if I should mention it, but I did anyway: "Basti, just before his WhatsApp message, I had a dream about him killing himself. Please, you have to help him, if it's not already too late."
"Shit, Quirin. Wait, you said it rings when someone calls him? Then he's got his cell phone on. Give me his number quickly. We'll try to track him!" I gave him the numbers and heard him making the call, issuing the tracking order with the utmost urgency.
"Quirin, hang on, this will take a moment. Do you have any idea where he might be?"
"Yes, of course! He always talked about a bridge over a marshalling yard."
"Okay, anything else... - yes, Ralph, I hear... yes, Koblenz marshalling yard? Yes, that's right. Thanks! So, Quirin, what you said about the marshalling yard seems to be right. You're incredibly lucky. An old school friend of mine is in the higher civil service in Koblenz, with whom I'm in regular contact, and he's on duty right now. I'll alert him and be right back with you!"
"Wait! Tell him to call the signal box there right away so the dispatcher can stop all train movements via emergency call!"
“Okay, Quirin, I’ll do it!”
I heard him calling his colleague in Koblenz in the background, apparently able to convince him to take immediate action without much explanation. It seemed to me as if his choice of words acted like a code for certain actions. My tip about the dispatcher also seemed to be nothing new.
"Quirin, watch out! They're sending a psychologist to this bridge! They want you to talk to the—what was his name again?"
„Fabian!“
"Yeah, they want you to talk to this Fabian! I'm giving them your phone number now. Be ready, okay?"
"Yeah, sure! And, Basti, thank you very much!"
"No problem, that's what we're here for! Hello Quirin!" With this somewhat trite sentence, he bid me farewell. Now began a seemingly endless period of waiting. Finally, my phone beeped.
“Quirin Silberschmid.”
"Um, this is Dr. Ilzheimer. Am I speaking to Quentin?"
“Quirin,” I repeated, “Quirin is my name!”
"Um, yeah, whatever. You're a friend of this Fabian Rotschmied, right?"
I had to swallow hard because I didn't know Fabian's last name until now.
"Yes, I am."
“Okay, Quentin, -”
"Quirin!" I interrupted, thinking, 'What an idiot.'
"Um, excuse me, Quirin, so your friend is obviously standing naked on the railing of this railway bridge. We're going to approach him carefully now and try to calm him down, and we're asking you to help us. We're going to tell him you want to talk to him, okay?"
"Yes, done!"
“Okay then, let’s go…”
The railway service actually seemed to be at a standstill, as it was completely silent. I took a deep breath, because it was still about 6 meters high, and there was also the 15,000-volt overhead line. Fabian was still in mortal danger. I heard Dr. Ilzheimer making his way out. He seemed quite short of breath...
"Fabian! I'm coming to you now!" - I felt like I was in a bad movie. Fabian didn't answer. "Fabian, I have your friend Quirin on the phone!" - At least he remembered my name now. "Fabian, I'll be right with you! Quentin, um, Quirin has something important to tell you!" - 'What an asshole,' I thought.
"So! Here is the T...tut...tut...tut...tut
What was that? I quickly tapped "received calls" and the number displayed. The dial tone sounded twice, and then: I couldn't believe it, the asshole just hung up on me! I tried again, but the only message I got was that the subscriber was temporarily unavailable.
I stared at my smartphone in shock. What upset me most was my helplessness at that moment: I couldn't do anything, absolutely nothing. In my desperation, I dialed Basti's number again.
“Wake up, Grand Karo Winklscherer!”
“Basti, it’s me again.”
"Hi Quirin, I knew that number sounded familiar! What is it now?" he asked, a bit annoyed. I then told him the story about Dr. Ilzheimer in brief.
"Hmm, Quirin, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you at this time! Let's talk again tomorrow, this afternoon. I'm usually well-rested by four, even though today, yesterday, was a long day! Okay?"
"Yeah, fine," I admitted defeat for the time being. I didn't want to unnecessarily strain his nerves; after all, he was the key to my progress, that much was clear to me. So I lay back down in bed and realized that, despite it being the month of May, I was pretty cold. The image of Fabian standing on the bridge railing, letting himself fall forward, kept popping into my head. I guess I fell asleep over it anyway, and the thoughts turned into a dream.

Dismissal
When the curtains and windows were flung open at 6:30 a.m., I felt completely drained. Luckily, Hannes was on duty again, and not some matronly nurse.
“Good morning Quirin!” he said in a reasonably tolerable volume.
"Good morning Hannes! Do you think I could have a moment's peace? It's been a nightmare here tonight."
“Hmm, the night nurse said ‘nothing unusual’!” he wondered.
"That may be true for the ward! But here, I've been in a funk! I'll tell you later, okay?" I tried to look as pained as possible. Sure enough, Hannes closed the window and curtains again and said as he left:
“But don’t complain if you get out of here later!”
Then I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. In the shower, I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear. I had been brought here straight from the gym showers. The mere thought made me blush again, because I was embarrassed in retrospect. For better or worse, I had to wait for my father in this strange hospital gown, and first, for breakfast. That gave me another chance to think.
Of course, I ended up back at Fabian's. And the more I thought about him, the clearer it became to me that I absolutely wanted to go to him. No! I had to go to him, absolutely! But how? I only knew his last name from earlier. That was all. I didn't know where he lived, or how old he was, and I didn't even have a picture of him. 'Perfect conditions,' in other words. As I was sighing to myself, Hannes arrived with breakfast, or rather, he arrived with two breakfasts—or is it breakfast?
"Hey, what's going on? You look like you've been through ten days of rain."
Since he seemed to have some time, I gave him a quick summary of the previous night.
“Wow, that was pretty intense,” he said, adding, “I think they’ve put Fabian in a mental institution.”
“Closed?” I was a bit naive that morning
"Psychiatry!"
“Do you really think so?”
"I think so. It's primarily done for these people's self-protection. Until the doctors can get a complete picture, which was definitely not possible tonight. Just imagine: There's someone standing naked on the railing of a bridge, unresponsive, and the doctors were alerted with a strong suspicion of suicide."
"I don't have to imagine this! I've been dreaming about it all night!" I grumbled tiredly.
"I'm sorry. But you get what I mean."
I just nodded and turned my attention to the breakfast that was served to me, because I was hungry, no question about it.
There was a knock and Dr. Scheuring entered the room with Dad in tow.
"Good morning, Quirin. There's not much more to say at the moment. This," he brandished a tube, "it's for your backside." I grimaced, "don't look at me like that, this ointment will definitely help you, even if it's a bit greasy. Then this: This is a referral to a psychologist; so if you have any problems, flashbacks, or sleepless nights, contact Dr. Filsthaler immediately. I know him quite well and think you could get along well with him. Otherwise, I wish you all the best and goodbye, although not necessarily in here!" he said, and swept off.
“Good morning Quirin!” my father greeted me. “Here I have
brought some clothes so you don't have to go out on the street naked!"
I gave him a suspicious look; was that a hint? But he couldn't possibly know THAT! Perhaps it was because nudity has never been a problem for us: For example, we regularly use our small family sauna in the garden.
I was quickly dressed appropriately again and we were able to leave the place.

uncertainty
At home we first sat down in the living room.
"Dad, I have a problem!" Dad pricked up his ears, because when I called him 'Dad,' he knew something was up. So I told him the whole story. About the difficulties my hobby brought with it, the teasing, and the resulting creation of the WhatsApp group; and finally, about Fabian and tonight's story.
“Oh my God, Quirin, that’s a fantastic story!”
"Dad, I have to go there! I have to go to Fabian!"
"I was afraid of that. Knowing you, I'm aware of that. I just don't think it will be possible. Although, as stubborn as you can be..." this time I noticed the benevolence in his voice. "Maybe Basti can actually help you with that. As far as I know, he has quite a few acquaintances up there. I also think he once mentioned something about a psychologist who used to go to high school with him and who ended up there after graduating. Must have been a good friend of his."
I could hardly wait until it was finally four o'clock in the afternoon.
Not a minute too soon, I called him; Dad had saved his private number for us.
"Hello Quirin," he answered immediately, "I've been expecting your call. I've put out feelers in the meantime. Listen: The colleagues on site only know that your Fabian..."
“That’s not MY Fabian,” I interrupted, offended.
"Yes, of course not, sorry. In any case, he was taken to the Johanniter Center for Child and Adolescent Psychiatry. And now hold on tight: That's where my friend, Sebastian Leidbichl, works as a child and adolescent psychiatrist. You're so lucky, my dear!"
I was immediately hooked.
"Basti, I have to go there! I don't really know Fabi. I only know him through WhatsApp, but somehow my gut tells me he needs me right now!"
Basti then suggested the following:
"Quirin, I'm trying to reach Wastl now. I'll explain the case to him with all the information I got from you, and I'll also tell him that you'd like to help Fabian. Then we'll see what he thinks! Is that okay with you?"
“Yes, of course, Basti, thank you very much!” I thanked Bastian euphorically.
"Now just wait and see! I'll get back to you!"
"Dad, Dad!" I excitedly ran to him in the kitchen. "Basti's friend, the one you mentioned, actually works at the clinic where they took Fabian!"
"Sounds very promising!" he simply said. "Now come and sit down! Dinner will be ready soon!" Only then did I notice that my father was simply there:
“Don’t you have to work?” I asked cautiously.
"My son...", oh dear, now things are getting serious, "of course I should be working, but what do you think? Our boy was almost raped, he hit his head, and today he was released. Don't you think a father could take a few days off? The fact that you're recovering so quickly is a miracle to me! That doesn't really mean anything. Because it's only because you're even more stubborn than your mother was and have such a good soul like she did, that's the only reason you're sitting here!"
When I noticed his glassy eyes, I lowered my gaze and fought back the tears again. Man, what a crybaby I'd suddenly become! As if he could read my thoughts, my old man sat down next to me and said quietly:
“Quirin, you’re not a whiny crybaby, even though you probably think so right now. You’re just a really great person that any father can be incredibly proud of!”
“Oh, Dad!” I sobbed, “I’m not that great!”
"Yes, Quirin, yes. Just take it as I said!" He ruffled my hair for the first time in a long time, which I enjoyed very much.
“You can do that more often!” I blinked at him.
“Uh… What?” He didn’t seem to even realize it.
"Well, that!" and ruffled my own hair. Then he laughed:
"Nothing easier than that!" came to me, and the whole thing ended in a seemingly endless attack of sniffing and tickling. I was always mercilessly lost, ticklish as I was. But he was the exact opposite: Any attempt to tickle him was met with a grin at best. I never found out whether Dad really wasn't ticklish or whether he was just incredibly good at controlling himself. There I was, lying on my back on our kitchen floor like a cockchafer, gasping for air. Dad was back at the stove, laughing his head off.
"Okay, little one, dinner's ready!" I used to hate it when Dad called me that, but now I can tell the mood or importance of his statement from his choice of words. When he calls me 'little one,' it's an expression of deep affection. To celebrate the day, we had beef bourguignon, which Dad had prepared the day before. After two seconds, I leaned back contentedly. Fabian came to mind again. I wondered what he was doing right now?
The doorbell rang. Dad and I looked at each other wondering who it could be.
I got up and went to the door.
"Oh hello Basti! What brings you here? Are you hungry? We're serving beef bourguignon!" I promised him.
"Hi Quirin! No thanks, I just ate. I'm on my way to work and just wanted to give you a quick update!"
“Come in quickly. Would you like a coffee?”
"Oh yeah, good idea. Hi Markus, your son offered me a coffee!"
“Well, howdy!” teased the addressed man. “Hello Basti, come in! There’s always coffee here! What brings you here?” my father then asked.
"Sit down first!" Basti demanded. Wait a minute, isn't that our role as hosts? Nevertheless, we followed his request. "Here's the thing: Quirin, my friend Wastl unfortunately no longer works at this clinic. Instead, he's set up his own business and now cares for people like Fabian on an outpatient basis. Of course, for that to happen, they first have to be released from the closed ward. In that respect, he's still working with the Johanniter Center. You should call him tomorrow evening. Until then, he'll try to find out how Fabian is doing. Here's his number." He slid a piece of paper across to me. After finishing his coffee, he said goodbye.
Now it was time again to wait and see.

Diversion
"Dad, sorry, but I can't stand just sitting here! I'm going to go spot some trains, if that's okay!"
“Yes, of course! When are you coming back?”
“At the latest when it gets dark, around nine/thirty!”
“All right! See you later.”
“Okay, Dad, see you later!”
The sky was bright blue. I decided to ring Dominik's doorbell.
"Oh, hey Quirin, how are you?" Evi, Dominik's mother, greeted me. "Domi's at sports!"
"Oh, of course, I could have figured it out myself, but my sense of time is messed up right now. Thanks for asking, I'm fine!" I lied, worrying about Fabian was getting on my nerves. I didn't want to tell Evi off. "Please give him my best regards. See you soon, Evi, and have a nice evening!"
“Hello to you too, Quirin!”
I was strolling down the street toward the railway embankment when I noticed a group of teenagers in the distance. It was the idiot gang. 'Oh well,' I didn't need them right now, and considered taking a detour, because they hadn't noticed me yet, or so I thought, when Sepp came along, the asshole... no, he didn't have any of the asshole-like quality about him anymore! He came toward me with a beaming face; even his blue eye shone; not blue anymore, but a yellowish green, or was it a greenish yellow? I almost couldn't help grinning at him.
“Sepp, you’re so beaming, have you become world champion at pulling out trees?”
With a crooked grin he responded:
"Something like that! This morning at breakfast with my mom, I just happened to tell her. Since I took precautionary cover, she looked at me strangely at first and then almost laughed at me!" There was still an offended undertone. "Then she hugged me for the first time in ten years and declared: 'Oh, Seppi, I think that's no longer a problem these days. But of course I can't help you at all!' 'Yes, you can! What should I do with Dad?' She thought about it for a while and said: 'Seppi, let me do it. We'll get it done, I promise!' Quirin, I almost feel like a new person now!"
"So he won the gold medal in tree-pulling after all?" He just laughed, raised his hand briefly in greeting, and rejoined the others. 'I wonder if he's told them yet?' I wondered, walking past the group unchallenged.
When I arrived at the "evening curve," I felt a strong urge to take off my clothes, but I resisted, at least for the time being. "Evening curve" because here the setting sun would bathe the trains in a magnificent raking light. The sun was still relatively high in the sky, but it would make for a magnificent sunset.
I had barely found a spot in the tall grass from which I could see the entire curve when the first train came along:
The Munich section of the Railjet from Budapest passed by with the singing engine noise of the 1116. In this light, the anthracite/red color scheme looked particularly elegant. 'May 26, 2017, 4:10 p.m. Large check 1116 xxx with Railjet from Budapest,' I wrote after taking the obligatory photo with my phone. I hoped to be able to identify the locomotive number later in the photo. I wanted to do that in peace at home.
Fabian! I thought of that guy again. I took off my shoes and socks and once again enjoyed the grass beneath my feet.
An unusual whistle ignited an exciting but thrilling feeling. Could I have that luck today? I had:
The E 94 279, the "German Crocodile," climbed the incline toward Ostermünchen with its engine fans running at full throttle. The traditional locomotive from Lokomotion GmbH in Munich had a hefty train on the hook: 24 grain transport wagons, each weighing almost 90 tons, or over 2,100 tons! I almost forgot to take the photo because this train wasn't on the timetable that day at that time. So now I could also note:
'May 26, 2017, 4:24 PM, Großkaro, E94 279 with grain train (2100t)'
I was in high spirits. Twenty-six other trains passed by in both directions, which I meticulously noted and photographed. The sun slowly set, bathing the landscape in a warm, orange light. A light breeze brushed across my bare chest. I felt indescribably good. There was a rustling in the grass. I flinched.
"Don't be alarmed, Quirin, it's just me, Sepp!" he quietly announced his arrival. Nevertheless, panic gripped me, and I threw off my clothes. But then he was standing next to me, staring at me as if I were from another planet. He said nothing more, but slowly began to undress. Finally, he stood about five meters away from me and said quietly but firmly:
"Quirin, don't be afraid, I'll never offend you again. But the atmosphere here is simply fantastic." I slowly relaxed and glanced over at him. Fabian appeared again on the railing of this bridge, this time in the form of Sepp.
"Sepp, I can't do this!" was all I could manage, and I grabbed my clothes. I put on pants, a T-shirt, and shoes; I didn't have enough room for anything else. I stuffed the rest into the pockets of my cargo pants.
"Sepp, it has nothing to do with you, really. But I'm working on a crazy story, maybe I'll tell you later! Take care, see you back at school soon!"
So I left him disappointed and perplexed. Since then, he hasn't actually stalked me again, but he's never said a word about it again either. His obvious transformation from Saul to Paul was phenomenal. Before nightfall, I was sitting in Dad's living room again.
“Quirin, what do you think about going on a trip together tomorrow?”
“Depends on where!”
"To the Brenner," he said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "I know the training coordinator at Lokomotion. I spoke to him earlier, told him you're a big fan, and asked if we might have a chance to ride in the cab tomorrow. He then looked at the roster and noticed that a very nice colleague will be working the shift from 10:45 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. tomorrow. We should just come into the office tomorrow morning so the ride permits can be issued. What do you think?"
"That's fantastic! Dad, you do have some good ideas sometimes!" I said, feigning arrogance. I shouldn't have done that, because I was once again the victim of a fatherly tickle attack of the finest kind. Since I was only wearing a T-shirt and pants – I had taken off my shoes after entering the house – Dad had an easy time. I didn't stand a chance: I'd never gotten rid of my T-shirt and pants so quickly, which wasn't usually a problem, because I usually wore something underneath. So I was lying on the living room carpet, squealing and gasping for air, when Dad realized he'd made me naked. At first he was taken aback, but then he continued tickling me in a less intense way, and finally grinned wickedly at me and slapped my bottom. Shaking his head, he explained his thoughts to me:
"It's unbelievable, little one. Almost exactly 16 years ago, I was romping around with you right here, just like I am right now, only your voice is much deeper today and you're almost grown up. But tell me, since when have you stopped wearing underwear?"
Now, I didn't want to tell him everything. Or would that mean betraying his trust? Well, fathers don't have to know everything, I decided, and just grumbled, "That's only because it was so hot today!" Dad left it at that, anyway.

It was dark. The trees flew past him as he ran through the forest, deeper and deeper into the darkness. There was no wind to be felt, no bird to be heard, no light to be seen, as if the world had held its breath. He was at the end of his strength, but the fear of stopping, of seeing what was pursuing him, drove him on, giving him no rest. Until he came to a cliff. He stopped abruptly, almost falling from his own speed. His lungs burned. Breathing was difficult. Even staying awake, not collapsing from exhaustion, was difficult. Suddenly he heard the footsteps behind him again. He turned around, startled, looking for a way out. A small path led beside him along the cliff, but it was too late. He already saw the shadow. He saw his pursuer approaching. His voice was frozen. Not a word came out of his throat as the man came ever closer.
"You won't escape me, my little Yanét." The man said, smiling coldly. Yanét turned around and prepared to jump. He would rather jump off the cliff than be killed by him. Suddenly, Yanét felt a tearing pain in his chest. He looked down and could only vaguely see what it was, for he was about to lose consciousness. The man's hand had completely penetrated his torso, literally impaling him. Yanét closed his eyes, only distantly aware of himself hitting the ground and the hand being slowly pulled out of his body. He was still breathing, but he no longer felt it. The only thing he was really aware of was singing. A pure, gentle voice. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing but blurry images. Tears clouded his vision. When his vision cleared, he saw more, but he still didn't know where he was. He felt a hand on his chest and the pain in his body. He tried to sit up, but couldn't.
He lay there for a while, trying to push everything out of his body, to remember his surroundings, but still he was unable to. As fragments slowly penetrated to him, he was gradually able to remember again. He knew he was lying in bed in his room and that what he had just experienced was only a dream. A nightmare. But the pain in his chest was real. He tried to sit up again and this time he succeeded. He looked around. Tears still clouded his vision, but they soon dried up.
"Danny? How are you?" someone next to him asked sleepily.
"Feeling a little better already." Danny said quietly, looking away. "Alex? How did I get here?"
"Well. Should I have left you lying on the soccer field in this cold? Next time you try to fight a ball that's coming at you a bit hard, let me know so I can call an ambulance." Alex said angrily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he looked at Danny again, he became suspicious. For a moment, Danny's eyes looked silver, as if they contained many small crystals. Alex shook his head briefly and sat up as well. "Now tell me what was wrong."
"Nothing, I just wasn't paying attention." Danny said quietly, avoiding Alex's gaze. However, Alex wasn't satisfied with that answer and stared at Danny. "Everything suddenly blurred and I felt like I was frozen. I couldn't move anymore." Danny said, realizing that Alex wouldn't let him go without an explanation.
"Dad's given you sick leave for next week. Your mum isn't back from Cologne yet, so you should stay here." Alex said, standing up. "Stay here. I'll be right back." Alex added, and left the room. Danny fell back and placed his hand on his chest. It seemed to be just a bruise. Slowly, he remembered the last few hours and closed his eyes. "Danny? Are you hungry?" Alex asked him after a while. Danny had fallen asleep and hadn't heard Alex come back into the room. Danny nodded slightly and sat down before opening his eyes.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you like that earlier, but I was worried."
"I know. Sorry. I'll be more careful next time." Danny said, looking Alex in the eyes. When he was about to drown in them, he averted his gaze. Alex looked at him questioningly for a moment, but then went to his closet and took out a few things. He gave some to Danny and then got dressed himself. After breakfast, he quickly took Danny home so he could get a few things for the next few days. He had some things at Alex's, as he often stayed there when his mother had to go away, but that wouldn't really be suitable for the weather. His mother was an interior designer and often had to travel to other cities for several days to look at houses and apartments that she was supposed to decorate. Alex sat down on Danny's bed while he packed a few things.
"You avoided my gaze earlier, why?" Alex asked quietly, looking at Danny. Danny avoided his gaze again and zipped up his backpack.
"I don't know." He said quietly and left the room. Alex didn't believe him, Danny knew that, but he couldn't tell him. Alex had known Danny for five years now, and he could always tell just by looking into Danny's eyes whether he was okay or if something was bothering him. But since early morning, Danny had been a stranger to him. For days before, he had sensed Danny withdrawing, but there was nothing he could do about it. Alex got up and followed Danny downstairs. After Danny locked the door, they went back to Alex's. He could have stayed in the house alone, but his mother insisted that Danny not be alone on the days she wasn't there. He collapsed onto Alex's bed and lay across it. The bed was quite large, but a bit cramped for two people to sleep in. But then they were able to get out.
Danny. What's wrong with you? You're not usually this sad." Alex said quietly, flopping down on the bed next to him.
"Alex? I don't want to talk about it. Leave me alone." Danny whispered and fell asleep. Alex looked at him, confused. He couldn't get close to Danny anymore. Nevertheless, he tucked him in and let him sleep. He didn't want to rush Danny. When he went downstairs to see how his father was doing with the dinner, he almost tripped because he was too lost in thought.
"Hey, what's going on? Didn't you see the last step?" his father asked, grinning.
"No. Tell me, did Danny say anything? I mean, did I do something wrong, or why is he so dismissive?"
"I think you should give him some space. The little boy seems to be growing up, and you should just leave him alone. You're two years apart, and you've already experienced what he's going through. Just leave him alone and take care of him. He'll give you a sign when he needs your company again. Okay?"
"Okay," Alex said, still lost in thought, staring dreamily into the pot without registering what his father was cooking.
"Are you picking him up for lunch?"
"Yes." Alex said, torn from his thoughts, and went upstairs. Danny was still asleep and only woke up when Alex said his name. "Are you coming to eat?" Alex asked quietly, looking at him questioningly.
"Yes." Danny said quietly, glancing briefly at Alex. As Danny entered the kitchen, the smell of cooking wafted toward him. It smelled of red wine sauce and fish. But there was also something sweet and heavy in the air.
"There's pudding for dessert," Alex's dad explained. He smiled when he saw the smile on Danny's lips. "Come on, sit down. The food will get cold otherwise," Alex's dad said, sitting down.
"Did my mother say anything else?"
"No, just that I'm supposed to look after you," Alex Dad said thoughtfully. "Oh, and that she'll be back in two days. She said something about the apartment being huge and that she'll probably have to go back a second time to properly decorate it."
"Another one of those somewhat wealthy people?"
"Yes. And the snooty kind."
"Oh dear. Well then I can listen to something when she gets back."
"You'll have to," Alex's father said with a grin. "How's your chest?"
"It's okay. I'm sorry I worried you all." Danny said quietly, looking down at his plate.
"Hey, it's okay. Don't be sorry. We both love you, and it's only natural to worry. You understand? Just be more careful next time."
"Okay," said Danny and continued eating.
That evening, Danny sat alone in Alex's room, as he had gone to shower. Danny sat on the bed, which was now undressed, with his legs tucked up. He was daydreaming and didn't notice Alex coming into the room. Alex looked at him for a moment and then put on a T-shirt, as he had already put on his shorts in the bathroom. Then he sat down next to Danny and watched him for a moment.
"Do you still want to watch TV or sleep?" Alex asked him quietly.
"Sleep." Danny said quietly, but stayed seated. Alex got up and turned off the light. When he sat back down in bed, Danny looked at him briefly and then lay down. Alex lay down next to him on the wall and watched him for a while before closing his eyes and trying to sleep. He heard Danny turn over and opened his eyes. Danny looked at him questioningly.
"What's wrong?" Alex asked quietly.
"I can't sleep." Danny said quietly, still looking into Alex's eyes without avoiding his gaze.
"Do you want to come over?" Danny nodded slightly and crawled under the covers next to Alex. Alex took him by the arm and brushed a strand of hair from his face.
»Alex?«
»Hm?«
"I'm sorry I've been so standoffish these last few days. But I need some space."
"Tell me why?"
"No. I don't think so. Give me some more time. Maybe I'll tell you someday."
"All right," Alex said quietly and closed his eyes. He soon fell asleep, but woke up again in the middle of the night. When he noticed Danny in his arms, he tried not to move too much as he pulled the covers back up over himself and Danny. Danny then pressed closer to Alex and placed a hand on his chest. Alex gently stroked his hair, which seemed to calm Danny, because he moved away from Alex a little and went back to sleep. Alex also fell asleep again.

Danny woke from his dream again early in the morning. He was sitting upright in bed, barely able to see for tears. His abrupt awakening had jolted Alex awake, and he was startled when Alex touched his shoulder, trying to pull him down to him.
"Calm down. It was just a dream. Nothing will happen to you here." Alex said softly, stroking Danny's hair. Danny calmed down a bit and fell asleep again. Alex continued to hold him. As Danny slowly woke up, Alex smiled gently at him.
"Are you okay?" Alex asked him quietly, brushing away a strand of his hair.
"It's okay, thanks." Danny said quietly, almost in a whisper. He sat up and rubbed his eyes dry.
"Come on. It's still pretty early. We can sleep for another hour," Alex said, pulling Danny back into bed as he was about to get up.
"What if I don't want to sleep anymore?" Danny asked with a grin.
"Oh, I didn't know you were an early riser. It's only five o'clock," Alex said, smiling.
"Well. Sometimes I do, but if you really want me to, I'll stay lying down so you're not alone." Danny said, still grinning.
"Just wait. So I'm not alone." Alex said with a wicked grin and started tickling Danny. But this time, he wasn't so easily subdued; he fought back, and it worked quite well, until he ran out of energy and Alex buried him beneath her.
"Help, I surrender." Danny said, gasping with laughter.
"Okay, I won't wear you out so much this early morning." Alex said, laughing, and sank down on the bed next to Danny. Danny sat up halfway and looked Alex in the eyes. "Danny? Did you know your eyes are sometimes silver?" Alex asked quietly, looking Danny in the eyes.
"No," Danny said, confused.
"That's true, or I'm imagining it. But they're silver right now."
"Who knows what your senses are telling you." Danny said with a smile.
"Well, quite a few things. Like, you're cute when you smile like that." Alex said quietly, startled by his own words. He didn't really want to say that out loud, just think it. Danny looked at him, confused, and lay back down next to Alex. His smile was gone, and somehow the spell of closeness too. Something was suddenly different, just by a short sentence. Alex ran both hands over his face and closed his eyes. His thoughts somehow got caught up in the image of Danny he had just had in his mind, and he was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Danny getting up and leaving the room. Only when he put his hands down again and went to look at Danny did he notice his absence. He sat up and looked around the room. Then he got up and got dressed. Once he had done that, he flopped back down on the bed and closed his eyes.
"You can go to the bathroom," Danny said suddenly, tearing Alex out of his thoughts.
"Danny? Did I say something wrong earlier?" Alex asked without looking at him.
"No, not exactly." Danny said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Alex looked at Danny and tried to read his face. But he didn't quite succeed. "It's all just a little complicated for me, and I don't want to talk about it yet. It's just that what you said earlier was kind of a damper. It's not your fault. It was just an awkward situation." Danny said quietly, about to get up when Alex pulled him back onto the bed.
"Why do you want to get up? You're on sick leave." Alex said, smiling. Danny looked at him, confused, and then lay back down. "This thing that seems so complicated for you, could it be my fault?" Alex asked cautiously. Danny remained silent. No nod, but no negative gesture either. Alex sat down and looked Danny in the eyes, but he couldn't read anything there either.
"Stop thinking about it. I already told you I don't want to talk about it." Danny said quietly, standing up to escape from Alex. Alex left him and went into the bathroom. When he came back, Danny was lying on the bed again with his eyes closed. Alex walked over and watched him for a moment before sitting down next to him. Danny opened his eyes a crack and looked at Alex.
"Danny? You're a mystery to me." Alex said quietly, flopping down next to him. Danny looked at him in surprise and turned to face him.
"Is it that bad?" Danny asked quietly.
"Worse," Alex said, smiling and looking Danny in the eyes. "Oh man, this is all too much for me. You make everything so complicated. And you usually take everything so easy." Alex said suddenly, running both hands over his face.
"What do you mean?" asked Danny as he sat down
"It's simple. You've never kept secrets from me, and now suddenly you can't tell me what they are?" Alex asked quietly.
"No."
"Then I think I'll have to tell you something. Maybe then you'll tell me your secret." Alex said, looking back at Danny. "You know that sometimes our relationship becomes much closer than friends, right?"
"Yes. And where are you going now?"
"I think you'd better get up early." Alex said with a smile. When Danny still didn't understand, Alex sat up a little and moved closer to Danny. When Danny didn't move away, he closed his eyes and kissed Danny gently on the lips. Danny froze, unable to move, let alone say anything. He just looked at Alex, shocked. "Was that clearer?" When Danny still didn't react, the smile disappeared from Alex's lips. "Danny?" Alex asked quietly, hoping for something, anything, to relieve the pressure in the air. Danny closed his eyes for a moment and fell back. Alex looked at him in surprise and leaned over him.
"Don't ever do that again," Danny said quietly. Alex was about to back away and move away from him when Danny grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward him. "Don't ever scare me like that again," Danny said, smiling.
"You idiot. How can you play such a game with me?" Alex asked with relief.
"Sorry, but your kiss just now made me fall over." Danny said, embarrassed, and pulled Alex closer to him to kiss him on his own initiative. Alex sank down onto Danny's chest and just held him tight.
"I thought I misunderstood your signs," Alex said with relief.
"No. Apparently you still know me as well as you did the first day we met." Danny said quietly, slowly falling asleep. Alex gently covered him and held him in her arms before he fell asleep himself.

I was already in a bad mood when I walked into the gym. There were only a few days left until winter break, and I wasn't looking forward to it. As much as I hated school, things were even worse at home. Much worse. Winter break meant two weeks with my family—two weeks of constant insults. The only saving grace was that my two older brothers would be home for the holidays. With any luck, Dad might even be on his best behavior.

Dad was a real jerk, just like me, and he usually settled his disputes with his fists. I guess that's where I got my temper. I guess that's why I was always getting into trouble. Teasing younger children and gay kids was my only way of coping. It was the only way I could get back at my father for what he'd done to me. I wasn't sure if it was because I was the youngest in the litter, but I always seemed to get the worst of Dad's treatment. Joseph, the oldest of us, always told me he had it rough too, but when he was my age, he was even bigger and stronger than Dad and could hold his own in a fight. He made sure Dad left us all alone, but that didn't stop Dad from beating me up when Joseph wasn't around. Dad beat all of us, but he never hit the girls with his fists. And he never used his belt on them either. No, he saved the belt for the boys, Joseph, Scott and me, but then Joseph was big enough to fight back, and Scott learned early on how to avoid trouble and blame me for it.

When Joseph went to college, things got really bad for me. Since Scott was still at home, I got blamed for everything. While Joseph had kept Dad in check, Scott made sure I bore the brunt of Dad's anger until he went to college. Sarah had already gone, and Kristin followed soon after, so there were five of us O'Malleys left in the house, plus our parents, but I was the only boy. Yes, there were eleven of us in total—Mom, Dad, and nine kids. Dad never touched the girls, so even after Scott left, I was blamed for everything and beaten and whipped almost daily. I wondered why no one reported Dad for abuse, but the nuns at school always seemed to turn a blind eye. Only recently did I understand the connections Dad had—with the politicians in the city government, the church, and the mob bosses who seemed to call the shots at his job at the sanitation department.

Dad knew the right people, and by the time I was born, he was already a shift supervisor and an important man in the union. When the mayor ran for his first term, Dad immediately endorsed him, even though he was an outsider—one of many who ran in the Democratic primaries. I wondered why Dad would back an ultra-liberal Democrat when we were staunch Republicans, but when I asked Scott, he told me it was none of my business, and if I couldn't figure it out myself, I was too stupid to understand. So I did the next best thing and asked Mom.

“Clarkie,” she replied, “you have to understand that your father is a union boss, and the support of the garbage collectors can determine whether a candidate wins or loses an election. Sooner or later, you’ll understand that in politics, who you know matters more than what you believe. It’s a thousand times better to be heard by a Democrat in power than by a Republican on the sidelines. It would be great to have a second Rudy Giuliani, but he only won because of Dinkins’ incompetence and because Dinkins was Black. Bloomberg was a Democrat who switched parties, and he only won because all the Jews voted for him. Once he was in office, he acted like a Democrat in every way and was the biggest faggot of them all, maybe second only to Koch, who everyone knows is a faggot.”

The bottom line is, in New York, you can only become mayor if you're a Democrat or know how to exploit race and religion to divide and rule. Your father immediately saw that a liberal white Democrat with a Black wife would be a winner. The fact that he was brainless was a bonus. Your father knew that this made him easily manipulated, and he was right. It took me a while to really understand what Mom meant, but as I became a teenager, I slowly began to grasp what she was talking about.

We weren't poor by any means, but with Mom staying home to raise us all, it was a real struggle to make ends meet, despite Dad's supervisory and union roles. We lived in a very narrow house in West Brighton, a typical Irish neighborhood on Staten Island. We didn't have a front garden, and the entire backyard was taken up by an above-ground pool. When I was old enough, I had to do the gardening, which consisted of using a string trimmer to cut down the weeds growing against the house walls. We had five bedrooms, which meant I had to share one with Scott until he went off to college. Sharing a room with Scott was absolute hell. Everything an older brother could do to a younger brother, he did to me. He was constantly jerking off with me in the room and even once made me give him a blowjob—the stuff of nightmares. Thank God he left, just as my hormones started going haywire.

When the mayor won his first term, my parents were rewarded for their support with positions in his inner circle. Money was no longer an issue, and we could afford a much nicer house. We moved to a large house nearby, in Randall Manor, with a proper garden and a large swimming pool behind it. It was only a few kilometers from where we had lived before, but it was a world of difference, even though it was still in a traditionally Irish Catholic neighborhood. Initially, I still had to share a room with Scott and continued to attend Catholic schools, but that was more due to where we lived and our background than to our religion. I was Catholic in name only and only went to church when my parents told me to.

Without my father, I would never have considered taking the entrance exams for the city's elite high schools. My brothers and sisters all attended Catholic schools, and Joseph even went to a Catholic university after winning a football scholarship to Notre Dame in Indiana. Although I was tall for my age, I wasn't nearly as tall and strong as my brothers or my father. Therefore, he could still hit me, and I couldn't fight back. My only advantage was my intelligence. Despite everything, I had always been a straight-A student, and so my father thought I might be capable of more than just being someone's punching bag.

My ticket to high school would have been an Ivy League education, but I certainly wasn't going to get an athletic scholarship like my brothers, and my parents couldn't afford a full scholarship. So, my only option was an academic one. Attending one of the best high schools in the country was the best way, and I could do it for free if I got into one of the elite schools. My dad was pretty sure the mayor would pull some strings for me if my entrance exam score was at least in the top range. I even got a letter of support from the mayor's office, but I didn't need it. The exam was tough, and I was sure I'd failed, but when the results came out, not only had I done well, but my score was high enough to get me into Stuyvesant High School, the most prestigious of them all.

At the northern end of Battery Park City, right on the Hudson River and just a short walk from the World Trade Center, Wall Street, and the world's most important financial institutions, Stuyvesant High School resembled an elite university, but it was a public school. Wealthy people spent tens of thousands of dollars a year to send their children to elite private schools like Phillips Academy, Regis, or Trinity, but the kind of education I received at Stuyvesant couldn't be bought.

As I walked into the changing room, I was once again struck by how much of an outsider I was. The kids were getting undressed and putting on their sports gear, and everything was on display. Over half of them were Asian, and many of them were young, and I don't mean young in the way Asians look for their age—no, they were really young. Some were only twelve or thirteen and still hairless, where no teenager wants to be—and they were all first-year students, just like me. And then there was Freak. Well, his real name was Francis, but he preferred to call himself Freck because he has lots of freckles, but Freak suited him much better. The boy was only eleven, but looked more like ten, and he was a second-year student. How on earth did a ten-year-old even end up at Stuyvesant?

Admission here was based solely on an entrance exam, which is probably why there were so few Black teenagers that I could count them all on my fingers without having any fingers left over—and one of them was standing right in front of me, next to Freak. His name was Asher White, and he was half Black, half Asian, and a total faggot. His friend Seth was also right next to him. Asher was one of the few kids who were as tall as me, but the coward was a real wimp. Yesterday in gym class, we were assigned to wrestling, but he couldn't stop me from grabbing him to save his life. I might as well have been wrestling a girl. Asher is so pathetic—the sight of him literally made me sick. I was already in a bad mood before I even saw him.

Frowning, I went to my locker and entered the combination. My own body odor hit me, and I realized I hadn't washed my gym clothes in ages—maybe even since the start of the semester. I'd probably have to take them home and wash them during the winter break. I took off my jeans, T-shirt, and boxer shorts and quickly slipped into my jockstrap, gym shirt, and shorts. I slammed the locker shut and went back to the gym, where the teaching assistant had laid out some wrestling mats.

As we slowly streamed out of the locker room, the instructor told us to line up in the same groups as yesterday and spend the first half of class practicing our takedowns from each of the three starting positions. Oh, how lovely! That meant I'd be spending the day with those three faggots, Asher, Seth, and Freak. Well, I knew exactly who Asher and Seth were, and since Freak was their boyfriend—I'm just saying, you know?—I'd be training with Asher again, if you could call it that. Honestly, my eleven-year-old sister was a bigger challenge for me.

"Do you want to go first, Freck?" Seth suggested.

“I don’t care,” I replied with a shrug. Seth and Freak took that as a yes and positioned themselves against each other, while Asher and I sat down and watched. I had to admit that, despite being the smallest boys in the class and with a two-year age difference, they were surprisingly evenly matched. For an eleven-year-old—or maybe he was twelve by now—Freak had some serious muscle. As they circled each other, neither seemed able to knock the other down, until Freak finally managed to pull Seth’s left foot out from under him, and they both fell to the ground. They tried again from a standing position, and this time it was Seth who caught Freak off guard. They practiced from all three starting positions, and both boys were pretty good—not as good as me, but quite decent.

Then the teacher blew his whistle, and Asher and I had our chance, or at least what that meant. We faced each other and lunged at one another. As expected, Asher moved to the right, just like yesterday, and I used his momentum to try and catch him off guard. I kicked with my left leg, intending to trip him up—except his legs weren't there. At the last second, he changed direction and moved to the left, so my left leg was just touching air, and I landed hard on my butt. Damn, where did he learn that? The Asher I played against yesterday couldn't do that, so I knew it couldn't have been planned.

"Lucky you, asshole," I scolded the boy. "You won't get anything like that again. Let's see what you can do when you're at the top," I added.

I got down on all fours, and Asher leaned over me, his right arm around my waist. The plan was for me to get out from under him and then take him down. He was supposed to keep me from breaking free, but that's not how things worked yesterday during sparring. Asher offered no resistance whatsoever, and I not only managed to break free but also flip him onto his back. I had him pinned in less than a second—a piece of cake. But this time, when I thrust to my left to flip the kid onto his back, I found nothing but air. The next thing I knew, I was on my back, with Asher on top of me. He almost pinned me too, the bastard.

"Nice try, faggot," I said as we stood up, making sure the sports teacher wasn't around to hear me.

But then Asher said something I'll never forget. He said, "Just like your dad," and something inside me broke. Maybe it was because there was more truth in Asher's words than I was willing to admit, or maybe it was because I'd buried my own secrets so deep that I wasn't even aware of them. Whatever the reason, the rage inside me rose so fast that I couldn't have stopped myself even if I'd tried. Before I knew what was happening, my right fist connected with Asher's left eye, then my left fist shot up, striking Asher's chin and knocking him unconscious. Freak and one of the other kids held me down while Seth checked on his friend, but I'd already lost the will to fight.

The teacher came rushing over from the other side of the gym. "Clarke, what the hell was that?" he shouted. Before I could answer, the teacher went over to Asher, who was slowly coming to, and asked him how he was. Asher was still pretty dazed, but he was able to reply, "Apart from feeling like my head is about to explode, I'm fine."

"What happened?" asked the teacher, and Seth replied, "Yesterday, Freck and I showed Asher some tricks to help him improve at wrestling. It worked. He beat Clarke twice, and Clarke didn't like it. He called Asher a faggot."

"And then he hit him?" asked the teacher.

“After I told him, ‘Just like your dad,’” Asher replied.

The teacher actually chuckled and said, "Good joke." Are teachers really allowed to say things like that to their students?

"Do you think you can walk, or should I call an ambulance?" the teacher asked Asher.

“I think I’m fine,” Asher replied again. “I can walk.”

"I will make sure he gets to see the nurse," Seth suggested.

“And I will help,” Freak agreed.

As the three boys left the gym, the teacher came right back to my face and practically screamed at me: “What the hell were you thinking, Clarke? I warned you yesterday what would happen if you messed up this time, and you still got into a fight. You know there are words you shouldn't use, and you still used them and then hit a boy when he threw them at you. Soon you'll be old enough to be tried as an adult, and do you know what hitting someone like that is called? It's called assault, and because it was a hate crime, you're getting double the sentence. You don't solve problems with your fists!”

I should have just kept my mouth shut, but I couldn't help myself. I replied, "It works for my father."

“And eventually he won’t be able to get away with it anymore,” the teacher replied. “Eventually he’ll bully the wrong people, and not even his connections will get him out of it. You can’t expect others to bail you out, Clarke, and your father won’t always make things easy for you. Frankly, I think you should be expelled. You don’t belong at Stuyvesant. Being here is a privilege everyone else has had to work for, but one call from your father to the mayor, and then from the mayor to the school board, and you’ll probably get another chance.”

There it was again—the insinuation that I didn't deserve to be there—that I'd only come to Stuyvesant because of my father's connections and the mayor's help. It made me so angry to hear that. But, as always, my temper got me into trouble.

Then the teacher turned to his assistant and said, "Simon, would you please keep everyone occupied while I take Clarke to the deputy headteacher?" And so we marched down to the administration office. At least the teacher didn't grab my arm and drag me there like the nuns did at my last school. Still, he could have at least let me change. Instead, it was as if I were being paraded down the corridors in my stinking gym clothes. And since it was almost winter, I felt really unsafe because the few other children in the halls were wearing warmer clothes—like the hoodie I would have worn if I'd been allowed to change. Instead, I was wearing nothing but gym shorts, a thin T-shirt, and trainers. Of course, I was also wearing a jockstrap.

The teacher led me into the office, forced me into one of the chairs, and told me to stay put while he spoke with the assistant principal. The secretary, Mrs. Fong, gave me the steely stare that made me think twice about leaving. Her gaze was simply terrifying. Finally, the door opened, the teacher came out, and gestured for me to go in. He had to get back to his class, so I was left alone with the assistant principal, Dr. Epstein. I had always thought of her as the Jewish bitch, because that's what my father would have called her, but I had to grudgingly admit that she had always been fair. In fact, she'd had more than enough trouble with me in the first semester to have expelled me long ago. I realized with dread that she would probably do just that today.

I couldn't tell her why I was acting that way because I didn't know myself. My only defense was to continue being aggressive, but I knew I had to hold back. I was walking on thin ice, and my father would never bother me again if I was expelled. Besides, I really liked Stuyvesant High School. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was getting an education that challenged me to excel. Stuyvesant was my last hope of escaping the brutal life I'd been born into. Stuyvesant High was supposed to be my springboard to an elite university and a better life. Yes, even more than the education Stuyvesant offered, it was the opportunity it provided—the chance to break free from my parents and live my own life. But that would never happen unless I mustered enough remorse to stay at Stuyvesant. I had to accept it because, like it or not, I was stuck with my parents for the next three and a half years.

Dr. Epstein was on the phone when I walked in, and I knew the drill. She was trying to contact my father so he could meet with her and me, according to some protocol, and then my father would bring me home and beat me senseless. But from what I heard of her part of the conversation, it was clear my father wouldn't be able to meet with her, let alone bring me home. With a sigh, she hung up and said, "Well, it seems the mayor can't manage without his chief labor relations advisor today. The three previous mayors, as far as I know, didn't even have one, and before that, I was still in high school myself. So I guess I'll have to call your mother and ask her to come over from Staten Island."

My mother worked for the Parks Department and was responsible for labor relations with the employees there. To be honest, I wasn't sure what qualifications my mother had for the position, other than being my father's wife. She needed a job, and the mayor offered her one that had never existed before. She could work in an office not far from our house, but I remembered her remark that she had to spend the day in Queens, so I said to Dr. Epstein, "I think my mother is in Queens today."

“Do you know how you can reach her?” she asked.

“I have no idea, but her secretary will,” I replied. “Or I could text her. She always replies when I tell her it’s urgent.” Then I reached for my phone and realized it was still in my jeans pocket in the locker. “Damn, my phone’s with my clothes in the locker. Can I get it?”

Dr. Epstein replied with a somewhat milder expression: "And I bet you also feel quite uncomfortable sitting there in your sportswear."

“More than you know,” I replied.

"I can't let you wander the corridors alone between classes, but perhaps I can ask Carl to take you to your sports locker so you can take off your sports clothes, and then to your hallway locker to get your things. But first, I'd like to try and reach your mother."

Dr. Epstein picked up the phone and called my mother's number, which she had on file. She was told that my mother would be in an important committee meeting for the rest of the afternoon and that her secretary could only send her a text message, as I would have done. However important that meeting may have been, my mother called back barely five minutes after Dr. Epstein's call. I couldn't make out much, as I only heard the assistant principal's side of the conversation, but her grim expression told me more than I needed to know.

After he hung up, Dr. Epstein turned to me and said, “Your mother is tied up in a committee meeting in Ozone Park for the rest of the afternoon, but she’s agreed to leave at three. Then it’ll take her about an hour and a half in traffic to get here, so she won’t be here until around 4:30 or maybe even 5:00. It’s too early to have you stay after school while we wait for her, so I suppose you’ll have to be my guest until then.” Well, that was really something.

“You know, Clarke,” she began, “I could have expelled you a long time ago for all the trouble you’ve gotten into. We may not have a zero-tolerance rule for fighting in school, but you certainly qualify for the three strikes rule in any case. The only reason I’ve let you stay is because of your family’s connections — the principal would have my hide if the mayor himself came down here — but even more than that, I believe in you, Clarke. I see a lot of potential inside that thick skull of yours, and I’d really like to see you succeed. But today you’ve left me with no choice.” My heart ached on hearing those words. It sounded like this was gonna be the end for sure.

Then she looked me straight in the eyes and asked, "Clarke, just give me one good reason to give you another chance. Show me some compassion and a willingness to accept help and change. You can't keep skipping the counseling sessions we organize for you at school. I can arrange counseling sessions outside if that helps, but you have to go. But most importantly, you have to believe me that this time it will be different."

I was desperate. I had to say something to change her mind, but what came out of my mouth surprised even me. Before I could even think about holding back, it blurted out: "I think I'm gay." Where the hell did that come from, and why the hell did I tell her? Did I really think I was gay? There was no way I could be gay—Dad would kill me. But now that I'd said it, I pretty much had to stick to my story.

Shocked by the excuse I'd come up with, I looked down. But then I thought about how my father might find out. I looked up and said, "You can't tell my parents. It's simply impossible. If my father knew, he'd kill me, and I don't mean that figuratively. My mother wouldn't fare much better. You can't tell my parents."

“Well, that was unexpected,” Dr. Epstein replied, “but it might explain a lot about your behavior. Clarke, I know how difficult this admission must have been for you. Some of the worst homophobic bullies are boys who have problems with their own sexuality, and sometimes it takes something like today’s incident to bring the subject up. But by telling me I’m not allowed to tell your parents, you’re putting me in a very difficult position. In fact, I should be expelling you. I can’t justify not expelling you without explaining why I haven’t done so in your file. And if your parents request to see your file…”

“You might as well expel me from school,” I interrupted him, “because if you don’t, my father will find out, and then I’ll be dead.”

“There might be an alternative, Clarke,” Dr. Epstein suggested, “but it will be very difficult for you. There are precedents for removing confidential personal information from a student’s file, but only if disclosing that information could endanger the student. That might well be the case here, but I need to document that you are being referred for counseling, and the psychologist treating you must be informed of the true nature of the situation. You absolutely must attend the sessions, or you will be expelled.”

I nodded and replied, "My father won't like it, and I'll probably get a good thrashing, but I can stay in Stuyvesant. I can live with that."

“Does your father often hit you, Clarke?” Dr. Epstein asked, and I realized I had said too much.

“As my father would say, I will neither confirm nor deny my statement, but if anyone should ask whether this conversation took place, I will categorically deny it.”

Laughing, Dr. Epstein replied, “You’re definitely the son of a politician. Okay, Clarke. All right. Since we can’t tell your parents you’re gay, we need an alternative to expulsion, and your PE teacher actually had some suggestions. Your parents need to assume that it was their intention to expel you, and that by letting you stay, I’m intervening on their behalf. I think they’ll have no problem accepting your counseling sessions if they’re one of the conditions of your expulsion. However, you’ll remain suspended until the start of the new school year, and you’ll have to get a bad grade in PE, which will be a permanent mark on your record. You’ll also receive probation, which will last until the end of the school year. These conditions should be sufficient to make your parents believe they played a significant role in preventing your expulsion, right?”

I swallowed hard because the conditions would hurt, and agreed: "Yes, I think that will work."

“I think I’ll also accept your sports teacher’s suggestion and have you write an essay on the effects of bullying on society,” she added, “but 20,000 words would be a bit much. That would be maybe 100 double-spaced pages. I think you still need to acknowledge the impact of your bullying on the other students here in Stuyvesant, but 4,000 words should be enough.”

“Now let’s see if we can get Carl to take you back to the gym so you can change, and then to your locker to get your things.” She pressed a button on her phone and said, “Carl, can you come here?” From the speakerphone came the voice of a teenage boy who replied, “Sure, Dr. Epstein.”

The boy who came in was a very tall Asian boy. No, he wasn't Asian, although he sort of had similar eyes. His features were more striking than most Asian children's, and his skin was darker. He wasn't Black, or even close that dark, but he wasn't really white either. He looked like he might be Hispanic—perhaps Puerto Rican or Mexican or something. He had jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and eyes so dark brown I could barely see his pupils. He had a pencil-thin mustache and an incredible smile that made him look incredibly cute. Wait, what? Did I just call a boy cute? Yes, he was cute. I wasn't really gay or anything—I don't think—but there was something about his smile that made me want to get to know him.

"Would you take Clarke to his gym locker to get his street clothes, and then to his locker to get the rest of his things?" she asked the boy.

“Come on, let’s get your things,” he replied, nodding at me. I followed him out of the office and down the corridor. A service badge hung from a lanyard around his neck, presumably allowing him to stay in the corridor between lectures. Once again, I was amazed at how tall he was, especially compared to me.

"So I assume that you and Dr. Epstein are not strangers," the boy asked with a disarming smile as we left.

Laughing, I replied: "You could say that. I didn't necessarily want trouble, but I have my father's temperament and sometimes act before I think."

"That could definitely be a problem," he laughed with me. "Are you in your first year?" he asked.

"Yes, and you?" I asked the boy.

“I’m in my second year,” he replied, “but I’m a year ahead, so I’m only fourteen.”

"Shit, you're fourteen?" I asked. "But you have a mustache and you're so tall! How tall are you, anyway?"

"I am 1.90 m tall and still growing."

"Damn!" I replied. "I bet you're good at basketball."

“I’m a striker on the university team,” he replied. “You should come to one of our home games. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m one of the team’s top scorers.”

"And you're in your second year and on the university team!" I replied, shaking my head in surprise. He just smiled at me.

"Your name is Carl?" I asked.

"Actually, my name is Carlos, but I grew up with the name Carl. My mother probably thought it would make me sound less Puerto Rican, but I look Hispanic, so it doesn't really matter. But I'm used to Carl."

"Do you live very far away, Carl?" I asked.

“Actually, I live quite close by,” he replied. “In the Two Bridges neighborhood, right between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges in the Lower East Side. It’s less than a mile from here, so I usually walk to school.”

"You live in Manhattan?" I exclaimed. "You must be rich!"

Carl laughed loudly: “You can’t be serious. I live in an inexpensive neighborhood. The Two Bridges area consists of public housing, middle-income apartments, and a bit of Chinatown. We’re not rich. My mother is a single parent and had me when she was about our age. Luckily, she was smart enough not to get pregnant again, otherwise we would be really poor. We lived with my grandmother while my mother finished high school, and then we found our own apartment.”

"What does your mother do?" I asked.

“Since she never went to university, her opportunities are limited,” he replied. “When I started kindergarten, she began cleaning apartments, and then, when she thought I was old enough to be left alone in second grade, she got a second job as a caregiver for the elderly. I was a latchkey kid. And now I have a job too.”

“Man, I can’t imagine what that’s like, but at least you don’t have a shitty father who beats you up,” I replied.

Carl stopped, put his hand on my shoulder, and replied, “I never had much, but I never lacked love. I always wished I had known my father, but he was in a gang and was shot when I was a baby. No child should have to witness their own father beating them. Nor should any child have to experience being in a gang. Of course, I'd be finished if I ever got involved in that sort of thing. Kids in gangs aren't very open to alternative lifestyles.”

"What do you mean by that?" I asked naively.

“If you’re gay and in a gang, it’s either kill or get killed, and I could never live like that. That’s one of the reasons we moved away from where my mom grew up. We still live in a public housing project, but there isn’t much gang activity in the Two Bridges area. Maybe it’s because we live right next to One Police Plaza,” he added with a laugh. “Anyway, I worked really hard to get good grades and got accepted to Stuyvesant. Now it looks like I might get a full scholarship to a top college. If not an academic one, then a basketball one. The future looks bright, man.”

"Wait a minute – you're gay?" I asked incredulously. "But you're an athlete!"

“So what?” Carl replied. “There are a lot of gay athletes – maybe even more than in the general population. Maybe it’s because so many of us think we have something to prove, you know?”

"Do you have a problem with me being gay?" he asked. "Is that why you punched Asher White? Because he's gay?" I guess he must have overheard.

I hung my head and replied, "Yeah, I guess so. I called him a faggot. And he replied, 'Like your daddy,' and something inside me snapped, you know? But I didn't hit him because he's gay or anything. I didn't even call him a faggot for that reason. My dad just calls anyone who's weak a faggot, and I kind of got that from him." Then I lifted my head, looked Carl in the eye, and added, "I would never call you a faggot, Carl. You're nothing like Asher. You're an athlete."

“Oh, so it’s okay to be gay as long as you don’t look gay,” Carl countered.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” I replied. “It’s just the way my father talks, you know? It’s not like I look up to him—not the way he beats me all the time. If he thought I was gay, he’d probably kill me.”

"Clarke, are you telling me you're gay?" Carl asked.

“Of course not,” I replied, adding, “I can’t be gay. My father would kill me.” I took a deep breath and responded, “Let’s just say I have a pretty shitty family life and leave it at that.”

“But if he abuses you, you must report him,” Carl warned me, “and of course you must know that you can’t choose not to be gay. You can’t decide that for yourself.”

“I know I have no choice, and I don’t think I do, but I still can’t report my father. With his connections, things would only get worse for me,” I replied.

You don't know that, Clarke.

At that moment the doorbell rang and the children streamed into the hallway.

"We'll talk later," Carl said over the noise. "We'd better go to the gym and get your things."

The second bell rang as we entered the gymnasium. In the changing room, the boys were completely naked as they put on their sports clothes and went into the hall. This class was a different year group than mine, but I still recognized some of the children, and even more seemed to recognize me. I suppose I'd built up a certain reputation in the short time I'd been there.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a shower before changing?", Carl suggested.

I shook my head and said, "No, I didn't wrestle long enough to break a sweat."

“But you stink, man!” Carl replied with an amused expression.

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “It’s the clothes. I guess it’s been a while since I took them home to wash.”

“Oh, that’s so disgusting,” Carl replied, and then repeated: “Maybe you should still take a shower.”

"You just want to see me naked in the shower, you pervert," I replied.

“I’ll wait out here when you’re feeling better,” Carl replied.

“I don’t care if you want to look,” I suggested as I undressed. “Come with me.” Where the hell did that come from? Had I really invited a faggot to shower with me? A cute faggot? But there it was again—I admitted that I found him cute.

Carl replied with a laugh, "As tempting as the offer may be, I really don't want to get beaten up today." Ouch! "I'll wait here while you shower."

I realized it was probably a good idea to shower, so I threw my gym clothes into my gym bag, tossed it and my book bag into my locker, grabbed soap, shampoo, and a towel, and headed to the shower room. Since class had just started, the shower room was empty, giving me time to think. Was I flirting with a gay guy? I mean, I'd been showering with Asher and Seth all semester, and they were gay and open about it, but did that really bother me? But the thought of showering with Carl made me hard. Why was that? Yeah, he was tall, slim, and muscular, and damn, he was really cute. Had I ever felt this way about a girl? Had I ever felt this way about anyone?

One thing was for sure—I couldn't go back into the changing room looking like this. So, while washing my hair, I thought about what my dad would do to me at home. That definitely helped. No more embarrassing erection. I quickly finished washing, turned off the water, and dried myself off. I wrapped the towel around my hips, tucked it in, and went back to the changing room where Carl was waiting for me. Normally, I'd leave the towel around my hips and only take it off once I'd put on my boxers, but for some reason, I let the towel drop and smiled sheepishly at Carl while I entered the combination on my locker, took out some deodorant, and rubbed it under my arms. I squirted a little cologne on myself, and only then did I get my boxers out and put them on. What had gotten into me? At least Carl was sensible enough not to say anything.

I quickly got dressed, grabbed my gym bag, and slammed the locker door shut. We left the gym, and I led Carl to my locker, where I quickly stuffed all my books into my bag, grabbed my winter coat, and slammed the door shut. Back in the office, I threw my bag and winter coat onto one of the seats in the waiting area and plopped down in the seat next to it. I tucked my smelly gym bag underneath. When I looked up, I saw Carl looking at me from across the reception desk, flashing his killer smile. I couldn't help but smile back. Man, could that guy smile.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. “You’ll probably have to wait a while, and I only have a few minutes before I have to go to my next lecture.”

Shaking my head, I said: “Not at the moment, Carl. Maybe later, when we get back from the winter holidays, but perhaps I need to think about it a lot more first.”

“Let me tell you something,” he replied, “could I have your phone for a moment?”

I didn't understand why, but I did something I wouldn't have done with anyone else—I unlocked it and gave it to him. For some reason, I knew I could trust him, and when he handed it back, the address book was open with an entry for Carl Rivera, his phone number, and his email address. "Call me when you have a moment," he said. "I think we really need to talk. Call me if you have any questions or anything you want to discuss, and don't wait until after the break. Maybe we could meet up somewhere for coffee or something—somewhere near you, in case you're not coming back to Manhattan."

"And I meant it when I reported your father. You can't go on like this, okay?"

“I’ll call you,” I promised, “if my dad doesn’t take my phone away.” Then I swallowed and added, “Maybe we can meet up sometime. If I’m not completely grounded. The Staten Island Ferry is free, so we can meet up either way.”

"That would be great," Carl replied, and shortly afterwards the doorbell rang and Carl said: "I have to go. Call me when you have time, okay?"

“I’ll try,” I answered sincerely, but as I watched Carl leave, I realized the thought of dating him had hardened me. Dating a school friend was one thing, but Dad would freak out if he thought I was dating a boy. Me too. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. To survive, I had to get Carl out of my mind.

I sat back down, but I still had some time, so I opened my schoolbag and took out my laptop, a brand-new MacBook Pro that my father had requisitioned from his job, and started on my homework. When my father had given it to me at the beginning of the school year, I had looked up the model on the Apple website. Even with the education discount, it would have cost me almost $6,500. But he didn't pay a single red cent for it—not that I'd ever understood the difference between a red cent and other cents. No, my father simply requisitioned it from his budget. So, in the end, it was the taxpayers of the city of New York who footed the bill for my fully equipped laptop. Not that I didn't appreciate having the latest and greatest phone and the best laptop from Apple, but I had mixed feelings, especially about how I'd gotten them.

I was reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the science fiction classic by Jules Verne, for a comparative book review in English class. When I finished, I planned to read Michael Crichton's book Sphere, compare the two, and write a review about how Verne's book might have influenced Crichton's. The review was due after the winter break—as was my homework on bullying. What fun! I opened the New York Public Library website on my laptop and continued reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea where I had left off. I was soon so engrossed in the story that I lost track of time and even forgot to go to detention while I waited for Mom.

When Mom walked into the office, I jumped out of Captain Nemo's submarine like a shot. Mrs. Fong announced her arrival, and Dr. Epstein ushered us both into her office. Dr. Epstein was so convincing that my mom was actually going to be expelled that I almost thought she'd changed her mind. Mom nearly went ballistic when she heard, and predictably, she even threatened to call the mayor. In the end, Dr. Epstein managed to make it seem so convincing that Mom had persuaded her to give me another chance—a chance with conditions. The price was suspension, a bad grade in gym, probation for the rest of my freshman year, and weekly therapy sessions for as long as the psychologist deemed necessary. On top of that, I had to write a massive essay about bullying. I didn't like any of it, and neither did Mom, but we figured it was fair. I really needed to change. My only ace in the hole was my dad. I knew I would end up getting a beating, but I had no idea how bad the beating would be.

And despite everything, I just couldn't get Carl Rivera out of my head.

The drive home was tedious and quiet. I guess Mom wanted to leave it to Dad to take care of me. It would have been faster to take the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, but both were toll roads, so we took the Holland Tunnel to Jersey City and then NJ Route 440 through Bayonne to Staten Island, even though it took twice as long and probably used more than twice the gas. Mom's silence just gave me more time to think—something I didn't get on my daily commute to school.

What I didn't realize when I was accepted to Stuyvesant College was that my father worked in the mayor's office, and we had the same commute. I'd considered simply taking the Staten Island Ferry. That would have meant taking several buses and spending over an hour each way. But I could use that hour to catch up on homework, relax, and listen to music on my iPhone. Sure, I would have had to get up at an ungodly hour, but the commute would have been my own personal time. My father saw things differently.

Why should it take me an hour or more to get to school and back when he was going to practically the same place? Sure, by car it often took just as long because of traffic, and I had to wait for hours until Dad finished work. But I couldn't wait in the rain and snow for the bus, which was never on time, or waste time on the ferry. Of course, I often couldn't go with my dad because he had an important meeting somewhere else, but most of the time we went together, and that meant we spent valuable time together. Instead of productive, personal time for myself, my commute was torture listening to my dear old father's endless, racist rants. According to him, there was nothing worse in the world than a Jew, a Black person, a Latino, an Asian, or a faggot—though he didn't use those polite terms. Hardly a day went by when he didn't rail against all the faggots ruining the world, so I knew I was never going to be gay.

So what is a boy supposed to do when he's been taught from a young age to hate pretty much everyone? The most appropriate response, of course, is to lash out at anyone else who's different, especially those even remotely perceived as gay. I did this in the vain hope that by bullying other gay kids, I could prove to everyone else, and most importantly to myself, that I wasn't gay. Naturally, this only made me hate myself, which made everything worse. I was constantly angry, which led me to do really stupid things and get into trouble. This only made my father's anger toward me worse, and the beatings became even more severe.

But when I started at Stuyvesant High School, the beatings stopped. My father couldn't control the people who reported me to Child Protective Services, and I learned firsthand what he could do to me without even laying a finger on me. By holding me captive for an hour or two each day, he showed me how effective verbal abuse could be. Physical abuse turned into psychological abuse, which only intensified my self-loathing. Of course, I didn't dare contradict my father, so all that was left for me to do was take out my anger on children who couldn't or wouldn't defend themselves.

And then there was Asher White. Asher was not only Asian, but also Black and gay, so three points off him. He was as tall as me, but not athletic at all, so I thought he was a wimp from the start and acted accordingly. From day one, I bullied him. I pushed, shoved, and tripped over him whenever I had the chance, thinking I could get away with it. But I couldn't get away with it in sports, so running into him in wrestling was the worst thing that could happen. And when he actually caught me by surprise, I snapped. I went berserk, and before I could control myself, I landed a right hook to Asher's left eye, followed by an undercut on his jaw, and Asher went down like a sack of potatoes. He was unconscious.

I knew instantly I'd gone too far. Hell, Asher couldn't help being gay. Sure, he was Black and Asian, but so was Tiger Woods, arguably one of the greatest athletes of all time. Besides, Asher was nice. Shit, since when did I even care if someone was nice? Since I realized what an asshole I was—what an asshole my dad was. And now my dear old father was about to show me what a loser I was. With winter break coming up, he was going to give me a good thrashing—just enough to recover before I had to go back to school in January. One thing was for sure—I was screwed.

When we got home, my mother sent me straight to my room. I couldn't eat anything or have dinner with the family. I had long since learned to hoard food in my room, so I polished off a bag of Doritos and a jar of salsa. My father didn't get home until late, but when he did, he went straight to my room and locked the door. He made me undress completely, then I had to turn around, put my hands on the edge of the desk, and spread my legs. For a moment, I thought he was going to rape me, but then came the first blow, and I screamed in pain and shock. He had hit me with his fists and belts before, but this was something new—something much worse. Only later did I learn that he had used a wooden ruler. He was essentially caning me. It was a form of corporal punishment that was banned in most countries, and definitely illegal in New York.

The second blow was even worse, and he just kept going. After the first ten blows, I lost count—it was simply too painful to count. He screamed at me the whole time, but I could barely hear him. By the time he'd finished his agonizing attack, I was a sobbing, screaming mess.

When he was finished, he simply walked out of my door and slammed it behind him. As he left, I saw the measuring tape in his hand.

It took me a while to recover. He had hit me on my back, shoulders, buttocks, and bare thighs. I was convinced I was standing in a pool of blood, but when I finally mustered the courage to look, the parquet floor beneath my feet was bare. I pulled myself together, cautiously went into the bathroom, and looked in the mirror as best I could. When I saw something, I was shocked. Although I had no open wounds, dozens of red cuts were scattered all over my body, some of them quite angry, and my skin was red and swollen all over.

My father may have thought that the extended suspension would give them time to heal, but by then they couldn't possibly be completely healed. Perhaps he thought the ruler would only leave red marks that would heal, and perhaps he expected there to be no telltale bruises, but there were already welts, and those welts would scar. But what if my father decided to take me out of Stuyvesant? He could do that and send me back to a private Catholic school where he had enough influence to buy silence. There was no way I would allow that. But if social services got involved, my father would probably go to prison, maybe my mother too, and my sisters and I would end up in foster care. No, I had to find a way to get revenge on him without tearing the family apart. I had to make sure he didn't take me out of Stuyvesant and never hit me again. I needed a plan.

First, I had to wash myself so the welts wouldn't get infected if they burst. My bathroom had a nice shower with side jets and a rain shower head above me. The first thing I did was turn off the rain shower head, because that would have been unbearable. The side jets produced a fine mist, so I set the temperature to body temperature and stepped under the shower. Despite the fine, gentle mist, I almost fainted from the pain when I felt the water on my sore skin. Instead of soap, I used baby shampoo to wash myself and gently rinse away the welts. I let the soft, warm water numb my skin and, even as I washed, plotted my revenge.

When I finished washing, I turned off the water and grabbed a clean white bath towel. I dried myself slowly and carefully, then rinsed the towel under the shower with cold water to prevent stains from setting. I should have applied an antibiotic ointment to the welts to prevent infection, but I only had a small tube of Polysporin, which wasn't nearly enough. I had to ask Mom to get me more. In the meantime, I had a tin of Eucerin cream, and I smeared it on my shoulders, back, bottom, and thighs—at least as much as I could reach with my hands. Perhaps some of the welts would heal from the cream without bursting open, and maybe the cream would ease the pain. There were a few rolls of gauze and some bandages in the linen closet, but not enough to wrap myself up like a mummy. I needed help with that and was too embarrassed to ask my mother or sisters.

It was still too early for bed, but I was in far too much pain to sit up. The snack I'd eaten earlier wasn't nearly enough, but thanks to the pain, I wasn't hungry anyway. Since I had nothing better to do, I took a couple of extra-strength Tylenol tablets and lay down on the duvet. I finally fell asleep and got the much-needed rest.

I woke up long before sunrise. Unfortunately, my internal clock still thought it was a school day, and since I'd gone to bed so early, my brain simply wouldn't let me fall back asleep. The pain from the beating was now more of a sharp, pulling sensation throughout my back and thighs, and every movement only made it much, much worse. Cautiously, I went into the bathroom and examined my backside in the mirror. Sure enough, the red marks had merged into a single, furious, streaked, fiery red from my neck to my knees, with many welts that had opened and were oozing a thin, yellowish fluid.

I was still working on a plan to get back at my father, but before I did anything else, I had to document what he'd done to me. I needed evidence. Using my phone and the bathroom mirror, I took a series of photos of my backside from head to toe, making sure to include my profile whenever possible so there would be no doubt the pictures were of me. Once I had enough evidence, I grabbed my laptop and put it on my desk, but I was still in far too much pain to sit down. I tried putting it on my bedroom dresser, but it was much too high to reach. So I stacked several of my textbooks on the desk and put the laptop on top of them. That put it at just the right height to use while standing.

When I opened the Photos app on my laptop, the pictures I had just taken with my iPhone had already been downloaded from the cloud. On my computer, they looked even worse than when I looked at them in the mirror. I quickly selected the pictures where the damage was most apparent, exported them to my desktop, and packed them into an encrypted ZIP file. I used the combination for my school locker as the password. Even if my dad somehow found out I had used that combination, he could only find it out by calling the school.

I grabbed one of my USB drives and copied the encrypted ZIP file onto it as a backup in case my dad took away my phone and laptop. I hid the USB drive behind a dresser drawer. In a fit of paranoia, I then grabbed a second USB drive, copied the ZIP file onto it, and hid it inside an old pair of sneakers that were too small for me. But what if my dad sent me away before I could get my things? I needed a strategy to make sure the photos were seen anyway, but who could I trust? I didn't have any real friends at school or in the neighborhood. I'd managed to alienate almost everyone at some point.

Then I thought of Carl. He knew about my reputation but still wanted to be with me. That wasn't going to happen—at least not during winter break, for obvious reasons—but he seemed to trust me, and I trusted him. My dad wouldn't know about him either. I knew that if I sent the file to Carl, he'd make sure it got to the right people if anything happened to me. But could my dad trace my email back to him? With Dad's Mafia connections, I could inadvertently put Carl in danger, and I couldn't let that happen.

I wondered if there was a way to send emails that were untraceable. A quick Google search gave me a list of dozens of anonymous remailers—websites where I could upload a message, which would then forward it to the recipient without logging the sender. Most were paid services, and not all were truly secure. I read all the online reviews and finally chose a free remailer with a good reputation. To prevent spam, it only allowed one recipient per message, but that was fine with me.

I logged onto the website and wrote a short message to Carl. In it, I explained the attached file and asked him to forward it to Dr. Epstein if I didn't return from winter break. I also asked him to send copies to trusted individuals if, for any reason, he couldn't comply with my request. My first attempt to upload the file failed, however, because the website had a size limit. So, I re-exported the images using the Photos app at a lower JPEG quality, which drastically reduced the file size compared to the highest quality setting. I then re-encrypted them into a ZIP file, uploaded it with my email message, and sent it to Carl.

Next, I attached the same images, unencrypted, to a blank email with the subject line "What Frank O'Malley Did to His Son." I intended to send this email anonymously to the mayor's wife's chief of staff. The mayor might not have been all there, but his wife was smart. She was the real power behind the office and knew what to do with the pictures I was sending her. She surely understood how damaging the images could be if they were made public, and she was smart enough to know that a half-hearted cover-up would be far worse. But then I thought: What if the mayor fires my father? Sending the pictures anonymously wouldn't make a difference—he'd still blame me. No, I needed to think about this a lot more, so I deleted the email from the remailer and closed my browser window.

Finally, I sent Dr. Epstein a quick message via the same remailer, informing her that the password was my safe deposit box combination in case she received an encrypted file from me through a friend. The reason I didn't send the ZIP file directly to Dr. Epstein was that she would have been obligated to forward the images to Child Protective Services, and I didn't want that. I was hoping to find a way to hold my father accountable without tearing the family apart and endangering my life. Sending the images directly to Dr. Epstein would have put her in a difficult position—and my father would most likely have ended up in prison. Perhaps he deserved it, but my mother was no better. Ultimately, it would have only tore the family apart, and I and the girls might have ended up in foster care or group homes. There had to be a better way!

I turned on the shower and adjusted the body jets to a warm, fine mist. When I was finished, I carefully stepped in. I almost screamed in pain and used baby shampoo again to clean the welts. Then I washed my hair and finally my entire body. Once again, I dried myself with a white towel that could be bleached if it got stained. I rinsed it with cold water, just to be safe. Finally, I smeared Eucerin cream all over my bottom and grabbed a very oversized, loose-fitting, plain white T-shirt. I slowly slipped my arms through the sleeves and my head through the neckline and let it slide down my body. Even the slight sliding down of the shirt hurt like hell, but once the cream adhered to it, it hardly hurt anymore. The shirt was just long enough to cover what needed to be covered, at least while standing. I had to do that because I absolutely didn't want boxer shorts rubbing against my sore bottom.

Thinking this would be a good time for breakfast, I went downstairs to the kitchen. As expected, I was awake before everyone else, but that would likely change once the smell of my meal wafted upstairs. I knew I needed protein, both to help heal my injuries and to compensate for the loss from my open wounds. Skipping dinner last night didn't help matters.

I got out a large frying pan, put it on the stove, and melted some butter in it. I threw in a package of minced sausage, browned it, and poured off the excess fat. I chopped a green and a red bell pepper, along with a small onion, and added them to the pan along with a minced clove of garlic. I turned the heat down until the meat and spices were simmering gently, then added a package of frozen hash browns and stirred them in. Finally, I cracked half a dozen extra-large eggs, whisked them, and added them to the pan along with a pinch of paprika and some freshly ground pepper. I covered the pan and let it simmer for a bit longer. It was just enough for me and the girls, but our parents usually skipped breakfast anyway. I did too, by the way, because I got something to eat in the cafeteria as soon as I got to school.

I'd barely turned on the coffee machine when my father came downstairs. He was the last person I wanted to see, but I had to confront him. I was working on a plan and needed to keep him on his toes so he'd panic if things got serious.

"You hit me with the cane," I said in a calm voice.

“I only hit you with the ruler, and not even very hard,” he replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I turned around so that my back was to him, grabbed the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head, and let it fall again. When I turned back around, I saw that all color had drained from my father's face. Only worry was absent.

He composed himself and said, "Maybe you'll learn to control your anger someday." I had to fight back a laugh. Where did I get my temper from? He wasn't exactly a role model when it came to handling anger. And worse still: he took all his anger out on his child!

Then he turned around, grabbed his thick coat from the closet, and left the garage. Soon we heard his Mercedes SUV start, then back out of the garage and the garage door close. With that, my father was gone, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I had to get revenge on him, but I needed time to think.

Jasmine was the first of the girls to arrive. She was one of my two younger sisters and, at almost thirteen, already looked like a young woman. "Would you like some of the frittata I made?" I asked her.

“Since when do you take the time to eat breakfast, let alone prepare it?” she asked as she sat down at the table where I placed a plate with a portion of frittata and a small glass of orange juice.

“Since I was suspended for getting into a fight,” I replied, and she rolled her eyes.

"Is that why Dad gave you a beating?" she asked.

"If only it had been a beating," I replied. "He hit me with a cane," I corrected her. "He actually hit my entire backside with a measuring stick until there was nothing left to hit."

When she first noticed what I was wearing, she asked, "Are you wearing anything under your shirt?"

Shaking my head, I replied: "You don't want to know. Let's just say it will be a while before I can sit down."

Jasmine flinched when my youngest sister, Ellen, entered the kitchen. Ellen was eleven and just beginning to show the first signs of puberty. With three older sisters still living at home and two more away at college, she knew exactly what to expect and had been acting like a teenager for the past few years.

"So, who did you beat up this time?" she asked as she sat down and I placed a plate of frittata in front of her.

“It’s none of your business,” I replied, “but it was a boy named Asher White.”

“Why the hell did you beat him up?” Connie asked as she entered the kitchen, eliciting giggles from Jas and Ellen. Connie was fifteen and only a year older than me at school. None of us would have talked like that if our parents had been within earshot, but otherwise, nothing was allowed, not even for Ellen.

Sighing, I replied, "Asher's a real wimp, if you know what I mean. Not that he's effeminate or anything, but he's not athletic at all," I added as I handed Connie a plate and she sat down. "But yesterday he actually beat me at wrestling, so I called him a faggot. That was really stupid, especially since his friend was standing right there."

“So he’s gay,” Ellen said, and I nodded back.

“He’s a really nice kid,” I added. “He’s half Black, half Asian, and incredibly good-looking, just like Tiger Woods. But he’s outspoken and proud, so I called him a faggot. And you know what he said? He replied, ‘Just like your dad,’ and that’s when I beat him.”

“Who did you hit?” Francine asked as she entered the kitchen. She was seventeen and in her final year of school. Like me, she usually ate lunch at school, and I expected it, but I thought I should offer her some of the frittata, even if it meant making more for myself. “Would you like some of the frittata I made?” I asked.

“I would love to,” she replied, “but my figure doesn’t allow it. I’ll just get my usual yogurt from school.”

“My goodness, starving can’t be good for you,” I replied.

“I won’t starve,” she replied. “You’re just blessed with the metabolism of a teenager.”

“There are a lot of overweight boys at my school,” I replied. “I’m just much more active than you – and I’m still growing.”

After a pause, Francine asked, "It sounded like you had a rough night. Are you okay?"

“It will be a long time before I can sit down,” I replied, which made all my sisters wince, “and there are some physical wounds that need to heal, but otherwise I’m fine,” I added with a smile.

"It's so unfair that you have to bear the brunt of Dad's anger," she commented.

“Better me than all of you,” I agreed. After I had taken care of all my sisters, I poured myself a cup of coffee and began to eat the rest of the frittata straight from the pan.

“He beat up a boy and called him a faggot,” Ellen interjected, apparently in response to Fran’s first question.

“The boy is really gay,” Jasmine added, “and his friend was right there.”

I shrugged and replied: "He beat me at wrestling – and when I called him a faggot, he replied: 'Just like your dad.'"

“You and Dad, you’re such homophobes,” Connie objected, “but you know what they say about the worst homophobes.”

“What do they say?” I asked, although I already kind of knew the answer, but still wanted to hear it.

"That the worst homophobes are secretly gay themselves." Her answer did not disappoint me.

"I'm not saying I'm gay, but what if I were gay?" I asked.

“You’re our brother,” Connie replied, “and we’re all about as religious as you are. I don’t give a damn whether you’re into girls—or boys—or both.” I noticed that all three sisters nodded—even Ellen.

"And you?" asked Ellen.

Just a few days ago, there wouldn't have been a question. Hell no, I wasn't gay! But ever since I'd punched Asher and, more importantly, told Dr. Epstein that I might be gay, I wasn't so sure anymore. And then there was Carl. The mere thought of him made me incredibly hard. But did I want to kiss him? My penis twitched at the mere thought of it. He'd already seen me naked, and my heart raced whenever I thought of him completely naked.

Ellen's giggling brought me back to reality, and I realized that my incredibly hard penis wasn't being held in place by anything—it was literally sticking out from under my shirt. Shit! I was mortified, but there was nothing I could do. They'd all seen it, and although it quickly went soft from sheer embarrassment, it was, so to speak, out of the bag.

As a few tears trickled down my flushed cheeks, Jas said, "It's okay, Clarke. The fact that you're gay has nothing to do with our love for you. You're our brother, no matter what." It was nice to know that my sisters could accept me, but could I accept being gay? Wait a minute—had I just outed myself?

“Really, the old man is gay, you know,” Jasmine added. “You’ve probably noticed that he reads several men’s fitness magazines even though he doesn’t work out.”

I had actually noticed it before and sometimes wondered about it, but to say that it made him gay was quite a stretch. "Do you think that makes him gay?" I asked.

“Not only that, he also watches gay porn on the internet,” Jasmine replied.

"How the hell do you know that?" I asked, but just at that moment Mom came into the kitchen.

"Clarke, you've already had a beating. How about another one?" she asked challengingly.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I replied. That ended the discussion about my father’s sexuality, of course, but I had no doubt that Jasmine must know. When we lived in our old apartment, we all shared a computer. Obviously, Jas had used the computer after our father and had seen his internet history. At that age, I wouldn’t have been watching gay porn. If my father was gay, maybe that explained a little why I was too. One thing I knew for sure: I wouldn’t end up like him. If I were gay, I’d get married—to a man—and adopt a few children—not have several just to prove I was straight.

I smiled at the thought of starting a family with Carl. I could picture the four of us—Carl, me, and our two sons, or maybe a son and a daughter—playing three-on-one basketball. Carl would tower over us all, and we'd need all three of us to keep him in check. God, I was acting like a schoolgirl thinking about Carl like that. I had a massive crush on the boy, and if I wasn't careful and let it out in front of our parents, they'd never let me see him again.

“Are you ready?” Jas asked. All four girls attended Notre Dame Academy, a prestigious Catholic girls’ school offering kindergarten and a twelve-subject education. Normally, the four of them walked the mile there together every morning.

After the three younger sisters had quickly finished their breakfast and put their dishes in the sink, the four of them put on their winter coats and set off.

"Are you in a lot of pain, Clarkie?" my mother asked, showing a little sympathy for the first time. Instead of answering her, I turned my back on her, pulled my shirt over my head, and let it slide back down.

When I turned around, I saw how upset my mother was by what she saw. “He’s gone too far this time, Mom—not that it’s ever okay to hit your child. He should go to prison for what he did to me, but we’d all pay a price. We’d have to move, and it could even tear the family apart.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone about this, Clarke…” she warned me.

“I don’t intend to do that,” I interrupted him. “Not as long as he leaves me alone from now on.”

“I wish I could tell you he won’t,” she replied, “but if you tell anyone even a word about it, it would destroy everything we’ve worked for. Our jobs, this house, maybe even the relationships he’s built with the union – all of that would be gone.”

“Put the blame where it belongs, on Dad,” I replied.

“Don’t make me choose between you and your father,” Mom challenged her, “or between you and the rest of the family.”

"Then you damn well better make sure he never touches me again," I replied.

"You know I can't do that, Clarke," Mom replied.

“You have no other choice,” I replied, “not if you want to keep his abuse a secret.” And to be sure, I added: “And from now on, I’m taking the ferry to school.”

When I remembered what we had been talking about before Mom came into the kitchen, I couldn't understand how she could have overheard. My curiosity got the better of me, and before she could answer, I asked her, "Did you know Dad is gay?"

She sighed and replied, "I knew before our wedding," which shocked me immensely. "I told him it didn't matter as long as he remained faithful, and as far as I know, he kept his promise."

"But what about his watching gay porn?" I asked.

"It's no different than when heterosexual men watch heterosexual porn," Mom replied. "Women have long tolerated their husbands reading Playboy, and it's no different."

I swallowed hard and asked, "What if I'm gay?"

She looked me straight in the eyes and replied, “You always reminded me so much of your father, for better or for worse. If you're similar to him in this respect, I simply have to accept it. But there's a reason why I've always been negative about homosexuality. Thinking about boys is one thing, acting on it is quite another. The Church has a very clear stance on homosexuality. It's wrong, and it's unacceptable for you to do anything with a boy.”

“But it’s okay if a priest does it with a boy,” came my unsolicited reply, which was immediately answered with a very painful slap in the face.

"There are a few bad apples in every profession, but that doesn't give you the right to denigrate the Catholic Church!" Mom shouted at me.

“Committing a crime is bad enough,” I replied, “but covering it up makes it many times worse. For decades, the Catholic Church fostered a system that allowed a handful of priests to repeatedly rape boys—children like me. Lives were ruined forever. Finally, we have a pope who is at least willing to talk about it, whereas his predecessor is still trying to cover it all up. How can such evil be justified in the name of Christ?”

“You don’t even believe in God,” Mom replied.

“No, I don’t,” I replied, “but I am a much better Christian than many others. At least I live according to Christian ideals, which I can’t say about you or Dad.”

"How can you say something like that?" Mom countered.

I lost it again. Not so much that I actually hit my mother, but what I did was just as shocking. I pulled my shirt over my head and threw it on the floor. I didn't care if she saw my penis. I simply didn't care.

“I can say it if my father does something like that to me,” I replied, turning my back on her again. Then I turned back and added, “And I can say it if my mother cares more about saving face than the fact that her husband hurt and tortured their son—and that she expects her husband and son to live in hiding their lives, denying their true identities, just because some smartly dressed man says it’s wrong.” Shit, did I just admit I’m gay? “Never mind that Christ never said anything against homosexuality.”

“He may not have said it directly,” Mama replied, “but his intention was clear. We must respect the teachings of the Church. For more than two millennia, it has proclaimed God’s word.”

“Since when have you even cared about God’s word?” I asked. Perhaps I had gone too far, and my mother’s shocked expression told me that might be true, but I was angry. “Did God command you to collaborate with organized crime and use their influence to get a job as mayor?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when we moved into this house,” Mom replied.

“I was only nine back then, for God’s sake,” I replied. Then I remembered that I was still standing naked in front of her and that there was a reason I wasn’t dressed. I changed my mind and said, “Look, Dad really beat me up. I have welts all over my back. I need medical help. The sooner the better. If I go to the emergency room at Saint Vincent’s now, which I should, the whole thing will come out. If I go back to PE after the winter break, social services will definitely get involved, and none of us want that.”

Mom turned pale and said quietly, "No, you can't go there. We could send you to Saint Peters High School instead." Saint Peters Boys High School was alright, but nothing like Stuyvesant. I would have gone there if I hadn't gotten into one of New York's elite high schools, but now I definitely wouldn't go there.

In a cold, steely voice, I said, "Stuyvesant High School is my future, Mom. It's my ticket to an Ivy League university, maybe even with a full scholarship. You can't take that away from me. I'm willing to keep quiet for the sake of the family—not for you or him, but for me and my sisters—but on my terms."

"Do you think you can dictate your terms to me?" Mom asked defiantly.

“Do you really think you have a choice?” I asked. “I’ve already made sure photos of my back are sent to the right people in case I don’t come back to school after the holidays. Give me ten seconds, and I’ll see to it that the photos are sent immediately.”

“Your father should have taken your phone away,” Mom replied.

“Even now, you’re more worried about what might happen to you than what happened to me,” I replied sadly. “How pathetic.”

"So this is how it will continue," I continued. "I can't just go to the emergency room at Saint Vincent's, so you'll have to take me to Dr. McHenry. You'll make an appointment for me today. I know he'll keep quiet about it, like before, and I'm sure he'll write me a letter so I don't have to go to gym class until I'm better."

“But I can’t, Clarke,” Mom replied. “I’m already late for work and I have an important meeting this afternoon.”

"Reschedule the appointment," I said. "My health is more important. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to call emergency services. It can't wait."

“You won’t do that,” Mom challenged her. “You’ll have to wait until I get home this afternoon. That’s all. I’ll finish my meeting as quickly as possible and then come straight home.”

"You're going to work and leaving me here?" I asked incredulously.

“You only have yourself to blame for attacking the boy,” she replied. “Just remember that. And we’ll take care of it when I get home. So you don’t need to call 911. Like you said, you’d only be hurting your sisters.”

What could I say? I stood there, stunned, watching as Mom put on her winter coat, grabbed her car keys, and left the house. Even though I was naked and covered in welts, she just left me there, all alone and completely on my own. And she was right—if I called 911, my family would be ruined. I'd end up in foster care or, even worse, a group home, and who knew what would happen to my sisters. Mom had seen through my bluff, and I was completely screwed.

I barely touched my frittata, but I ate the rest even though it was cold and I wasn't hungry at all. I knew I needed the protein to get healthy. Then I washed the breakfast dishes and put them in the dishwasher. I had a few chores to do, and there was that huge paper on bullying I had to write, so I went upstairs to my bedroom to get to work.

Miraculously, I still had my phone. I was sure my mother would take it away after my father hadn't, but keeping her job was apparently a priority. I turned it on and unlocked it with my ugly face. That's when I saw I had several messages and voicemails from Carl Rivera. When I read the first text, I nearly had a heart attack because it read: "Photo storage. Tried your combination. Saw your PCs. Call me ASAP." Good grief, Carl had a photographic memory and remembered my safe's combination. He had actually seen what my father had done to me.

I read the rest of his text messages and listened to his voicemails. He was getting increasingly worried about me. In his last message, he wrote that if he didn't hear from me by lunchtime, he'd give the pictures to Dr. Epstein, no matter what I thought. Crap, it was almost lunchtime, and I had no idea when he had his lunch break. I didn't want to call him during class, so I texted him to call me as soon as he was between classes. Barely a minute after I hit send, my phone rang.

"Clarke! Man, I saw your pictures. You need to go to the hospital." And all this before I'd even said "hello".

“I’d tell you it’s not as bad as it looks, but that would be a lie,” I replied. “I’d tell you it doesn’t hurt much, but that would be a lie too. Actually, it’s not so bad right now, because I’m standing here naked since it hurts too much to get dressed. And I can’t sit down.”

"You need to go to the hospital, man," Carl repeated. "You should call 911."