Shattered Glass (11 page)

“My dad. Fuck, Aus. He kicked me out. After he’d kicked me around.”

“Okay. Okay.” I sit up, pulling the covers off and grabbing my cell.

“We’ll call Mr. Buchanan. You gotta turn him in. You gotta go to the hospital, man.”

“I’ve been already. It’s just bruises and a few scrapes. They denied my credit card for the co-pay. He cut me off, Aus. He took everything and cut me off.”

“It’ll be okay, Jess. Dave ‘n me will look out for you. Wait here.” I leave and grab some icepacks downstairs. When I get back, Jesse is staring out my window, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Here.” I hand him the packs. They sit unused in his lap.

“Just let me crash here. I’m so tired. I’ll call tomorrow. I just can’t deal tonight, man.”

“’kay. First thing tomorrow, though,” I yawn, slipping back into bed and waiting for Jess to join me. It’s only the third time he’s spent the night since he confessed being gay a month ago. Too groggy to sense the implications of everything, I close my eyes and begin to drift off.

“I don’t have anyone, Aus.” I’m not sure, but I think he’s crying.

“Asshole, you got me and Dave. You got the whole Buchanan clan, dude.” His hand finds mine under the covers. I will myself not to shake it free. He’s my friend, and it doesn’t mean anything. He just needs his friend is all. And that feeling in my stomach? That’s just fear for him.

“We’ll deal in the morning.” I yawn again. “Maybe we’ll go kick your dad’s ass.”

His laugh is the last thing I hear before I fall asleep.

*

Jesse refuses to file charges against his father. I can’t blame him, he still hopes for some reconciliation. He’s eighteen, so his father doesn’t legally have to house him anymore, even though he has four months of high school left. He moves in with Dave’s family.

My father calls me to his study three nights after Jesse sleeps over. My grandfather sits in my father’s desk chair, my father in the visitor’s chair.

I find the power play a little hilarious, though I do most of the laughing in my head.

“You’re friends with that Chambroy boy?” My grandfather settles an imposing glare on me. I’ve shot up five inches since freshman year and five-feet-six-inch Arthur Glass has to look up at me even while he’s standing.

Probably why he remains seated.

“Yeah. Best friends,” I say defiantly.

“A faggot? You had a faggot in your room and your bed? Are you a faggot, son?” My father doesn’t say a word. His gaze is mild and expectant as he inspects me.

“No.” My heart is beating ridiculously fast. I wonder if Dave won’t be getting a second boarder soon.

“See that you stay away from him. And that other hooligan. Don’t think I can’t change my will, young man. And your father can just as well put you out. We’ve had just about enough of your behavior. Your little stunts haven’t been more than attention seeking up to this point. I understand that boys will be boys, but I won’t have a faggot in my family.”

“No, sir.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants.

“Test me, boy, and I’ll show you the meaning of the word poor.” “Yes, sir.”

“Find some new friends.”

“Yes, sir.” Fuck you, sir.

Five minutes later, I go over to Dave’s.

*

Jesse is miserable. He stays out all night and disappears for days at a time. He’s constantly high or drunk, and he’s lost his third job. Dave and I watch helplessly as he slips away from us. It’s weeks of dragging him home from back alleys when he calls, covered in his own vomit and sobbing, only to watch him sneak out again the next night.

We threaten to send Dave’s dad out to get him next time, and that seems to work. We don’t hear from him for a while.

Four days before he is supposed to begin college, he meets us at a diner, smiling and seeming content. Both Dave and I are relieved that we have our friend back. He seems ready to attend school, even if it is at a state college. The tuition is low, and the Buchanan’s are letting him room there, if he gets his shit together.

“I love you guys, you know?” Jesse says, grasping each of our hands, then returning to his meal and chewing deliberately.

He appears happy, and I can’t figure out why that feels wrong somehow. Maybe because I’ve watched his smile for nearly two years, and I have every part of it memorized. It just looks…wrong. “Okay, Jess, we love you too.” Dave laughs.

“Yeah, man, glad to have you back,” I say. “You need any money for books or whatever?”

“Nope. I got everything covered. I figured it all out. I’m going to make

my dad pay.”

“What? How?” Dave and I ask in unison. I can’t speak for Dave, but I’m worried that Jesse’s about to kick his dad’s ass. Or worse, kill him.

“Seriously, don’t stress about it.” He laughs. “I just wanted to tell you that you don’t have to worry anymore. I got it covered.” He drops a twenty on the table. His hand has a new tattoo. The skin is red around the blue lettering. I squint at the $20 and silently question where the money came from. Maybe he’s blackmailing his dad? “Lunch is on me. I gotta go.” Before either of us can voice the thousands of questions, Jesse’s out the door.

“What the fuck?” I ask, and pull the money over. “Think he’s dealin?”

“Dunno, maybe. Maybe it’s time I got dad involved? I think we have to quit covering for him.” Dave scratches his head and pushes his plate away.

*

—Come over. Now—

I read the text from Dave and dart a glance at my father across the dinner table. He’s looking over some stock portfolio or case file or anything except talking to me. Shocker.

—Can’t. Dinner—

—Now! Important. Now! 911—

It’s got to be about Jesse. It’s always 911 about Jesse. I sigh and type back.

—Will try—

Scooting my chair out, I attempt to make as little noise as possible. No one lifts their head. And by no one, I mean my father. My mother hasn’t

returned from her European vacation. Not for two years. My clean getaway to the garage isn’t so surprising.

My father bought me the BMW for my sixteenth birthday. He wasn’t around when I got the keys, just left them by the door with a note that read ‘drive safely’. Not even a happy birthday. The asshole. Every time I use it to visit Jesse and Dave I get an extra thrill. It’s because of this car that I can so easily defy both him and my grandfather.

—On my way— I type gleefully, expecting to have an adventurous night of Search For Jesse.

*

The only emergency is Dave. When I get to his house, I have to let myself in. It isn’t hard to find him, I just follow the rage. He is seething unintelligible words, skin so red he appears sunburned. He has transformed Jesse’s side of the room into a disaster of epic proportions. The drawers are pulled out of the dresser, clothes strewn, feathers still drifting down from ravaged pillows. Even the mattresses are pulled off the twin bed.

“He’s dead,” Dave screams, “Fucker. Asshole. Hung himself on the tree in his father’s front yard.” “What?” Where Dave is rage, I am devastation. I slide down the wall and grip both sides of my head.~*~

After the funeral, Dave never talked about Jesse again. For six months after Jesse’s death, Dave didn’t talk to
me
at all. By that time I had become the model heterosexual and was well on my way to becoming the model son, too. In large part due to meeting Angelica.

My friendship with Dave tentatively picked up when I tried

out and made the baseball team. When it was clear neither of us were going to bring up our dead friend, the mood shifted and we became more comfortable. There were always pieces missing, though. A movie we’d watch in which one of us would pause, expecting Jesse to mutter about dubbing. The odd refusal to go to the homecoming dance, where Jesse had been crowned in previous years. We skipped football games and pep rallies. Once Dave dropped a cd down the side of my car seat and pulled up a sketching pencil that Jesse had left there. Before Dave could throw it out the window, I grabbed it and stuck it in the console.

We didn’t talk about that either.

My grandfather died in my senior year. Dave was already on the police force by then. He was waiting outside the house while we held the open casket wake. I relished grandfather’s death-hardened countenance, forever grim and cold. “I’m going to be a cop,” I had said. “Fuck you and fuck Princeton. Fuck being a lawyer. Fuck your edicts about my friends. And most of all, fuck your son and his frigid wife. I’ll be there for kids like me.” For kids like Jesse.

It was easy to be brave when no one but the dead could hear.

How To Lock Yourself in A Closet without Realizing It So there it was, everything I had avoided thinking about for the past thirteen years. First the feelings stirred by Jesse, then his seemingly instant descent into drugs and alcohol until his final ‘fuck you’ death. I started repressing my feelings way back then because of our friendship, then continued doing so because of my grandfather and his threats and watching what coming out did to Jesse. Lastly came my own ‘fuck you’ to my grandfather,

followed by cementing my repressed status when I joined a profession where ‘gay’ was just another word for ‘pussy’. Now that was irony.

In three short days Life had managed to sucker punch me in the gut and kick me in the balls a few times, then it kissed my forehead and sauntered off to wreak havoc on the rest of my existence.

I took two over-the-counter sleeping pills, downed some bottled blue cold medicine, and chased it all with a glass of Bourbon. Woozy, I lay down on the bed, fully dressed, and fell asleep with the alarm clock blinking 19:27.

Endorphins, Escapism, Enough!

I woke up at five a.m. lethargic from the pills and disheartened

from my fight with Angelica. I had two people in the world I could talk to, her and Dave. Neither of them wanted to join me in dealing with (or even discussing) this problem. Angelica for obvious reasons, and Dave because we just didn’t talk about Jesse. Ever. It seemed I was going to have to work out this issue on my own.

Padding down to the kitchen, I thought about things while I made coffee and cleaned up from last night.

I didn’t realize I had become appealing to women until after Jesse’s death. Before that, I was struggling with my staring-at-Jesse problem, and I wasn’t paying attention to girls or flirting.

When Jesse died, and Dave drew away from me, the way girls reacted became a little more noticeable. The pressure to prove I wasn’t gay was on. Time to get really into dating. Not that I was a wet dream. As one of my ex-girlfriends said, “You’re cute.

Like, dorky-cute.”

The first girl I asked out was a sweet, but insecure, freshman with bubblegum breath and an eager smile. Because Mandy was younger, I thought there was a stronger chance she’d say yes to dating an older guy and she’d be happy to be with someone who didn’t push for sex.

I didn’t know anything about her, other than she was blonde, attractive and her family was “acceptable”. All I cared about was bringing her home, showing her off and then ending the relationship as quickly as possible. That proved easy when her friend Natalie made out with me and then told Mandy about it.

Mandy dumped me, Natalie became my girlfriend, and I learned how to come off as a stud without actually having to be one.

I jumped from girlfriend to girlfriend in high school, never

having to actually have sex. The best part was when I started to bring home the ‘wrong’ girls. No question about me being a faggot anymore, with the added bonus of pissing off my dad and grandfather just enough to be satisfying, without actually risking anything.

With hindsight, I could see the reasons for my development.

Some people might think it was the money that held me back, but that was only partially the problem. It was watching Jesse spiral. Watching what being gay did to him, cost him. And my grandfather reminded every day of what it would cost me.

Not that I was ready to acknowledge being gay. Not completely. Or maybe I was acknowledging it, just not eagerly.

Funny thing was I’d expected when I admitted it to Angelica, something would click and things would make sense. But all I’d accomplished was hurting her and sinking myself into a depressive state.

“Enough,” I yelled, throwing the last dish into the dishwasher. I wasn’t going to figure things out by flooding my brain with memories and questions. It was time for some endorphins. I went upstairs, changed, and then it was back down to my basement where I vegetated on ESPN while getting in a few treadmill miles.

Hump Day!

Fact: Wednesday is commonly referred to as “hump day”—a.k.a Austin’s favorite day.

“Today is hump day, Luis.” I lolled my head to the side and blinked prettily at my partner.

“Don’t make me lock you in a cell, Glass.” I was never

Austin with cops. I was Glass. It was a terrible nickname. I was not breakable; and being linked to my family name was distasteful. My dislike of that tether was probably why Luis was just “Luis” with me.