Quote:“Word!” Mike raises his hand to Jesus. “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
“Does it bother you that we have to keep our friendship secret?”
“It’s a drag — and not in a good way! But I understand. You’re not the first person I’ve met with religious parents. Wait till you meet some of the people at the gay youth group downtown. They’ll blow your mind.”
“I hate all this sneaking around,” I tell him. “I hate that I have to memorize your number and delete all your texts in case my parents snoop through my phone. I honestly don’t know why you want to be friends with me when there are so many rules.”
“Because you’re a good guy, Adam,” Mike says. “And an amazing artist. Some of the illustrations you did for the yearbook blew me away. I can’t wait until you’re rich and famous so I can tell people I knew you when you were a scared little boy.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m serious. But you need to stop being so hard on yourself. All of this fabulousness did not happen overnight,” Mike waves his hands over his body. “Trust me, my dad was not thrilled to have Beyonce for a son.”
“It won’t be like this forever, I promise.”
Mike holds a plaid shirt up to his chest and says, “Does this shirt make my ass look fat?”
“No, but flannel makes you look like a lesbian.”
“Don’t joke about lesbians,” Mike says. “I learned that lesson the hard way in the Gay–Straight Alliance.”
Suddenly I hear the last voice in the world I want to hear. It’s like the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz.
“Adam Lethbridge, is that you?”
I turn around, and there is Mom’s best friend.
“Mrs. Harris!” I give her a fake hug.
Greta Harris is one of those phony Christians who spread the word of God to your face and gossip behind your back. She’s Christianity’s answer to TMZ. Just when I think my luck can’t get any worse, Greta’s daughter Michelle appears next to her.
“Hi, Adam,” she smiles.
Gross. Michelle Harris has been trying to get inside my pants since kindergarten. Beneath that good Christian girl act beats the heart of a hussy.
“Hey, Michelle,” Mike says.