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."
