She of the Mountains (2 page)

GO!

He waited for the boys to push past him before he picked up his feet and trailed behind with a slow, contented jog. Every so often, when one of the boys passed him on their fourth or fifth round of the track, he would catch a whiff of their sweat and competitive spirit. He recalled what his mother had said about his long legs being destined for greatness as his body picked up speed. For a short distance, with every thrust forward and every leap into the air, he felt boundless, weightless. Looking up at the sky instead of straight ahead, he briefly mirrored its vast possibility. A shortage of air soon deflated his flight back to a jog. Panting, he reminded himself that the exhilaration he had momentarily experienced was what mattered.

This logic was wrong and was corrected with two words.
You're gay
, the other boys said when he finished the race last.

At first, he was certain that they could have used any two words. The assault was in the repetition:

you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! you're GAY, You're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay, you're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay! you're gay, You're Gay, you're GAY, you're gay. you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! you're GAY, You're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay, you're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're
gay! you're gay, You're Gay, you're GAY, you're gay. you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! you're GAY, You're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay, you're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay! you're gay, You're Gay, you're GAY, you're gay. you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! you're GAY, You're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay, you're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay! you're gay, You're Gay, you're GAY, you're gay. you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! you're GAY, You're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay, you're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay! you're gay, You're Gay, you're GAY, you're gay. you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! you're GAY, You're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, YOU're gay, you're gay, you're Gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay! you're gay, you're gay! YOU're gay, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay, you're gay, you're GAY, you're gay!

You're gay
became a virus that spread beyond gym class, past the mouths of boys who seemed to be jealous of his friendships with the prettiest girls in the school. The replication forced him to wonder what it was about the particular sounds that constructed such a small word—
GG-AE-EY
—that was so contagious.

One afternoon, he strode swiftly to the back of the library where the giant school dictionary rested. His eyes looked straight ahead so that nothing in his periphery could distract him and take him off-course. Of all the places on the school grounds—the mezzanine, the west entrance, the washrooms, and the parking lot—the library was one of the least popular. It was a forgotten ground where old stories and old library staff waited to die, but he often found himself there because books (and the characters within) were some of his closest friends. Here, words existed only on pages, and he was grateful for that silence. He also appreciated the Dewey Decimal System, comforted that every topic had its place and number and every book belonged somewhere. When he reached the dictionary, it was already open and words commencing with
THR
- stared back him. He flipped through chunks of pages at a time, slowing down as he reached G. He momentarily paused at
game
and
garage
and
gavel
before finally arriving at
gay
. He scanned the small type quickly and shut the book.

He was surprised that the definition of
gay
included the words
merry
and
cheerful
because the word was always uttered like a grunt or a burp or a fart even, the kind of sound your body makes when it's trying to clear something out. As he walked away from the dictionary and toward the exit, he wondered if
he seemed particularly merry or cheerful, and if so, why were these unlikeable traits?

He instantly thought about his family's most recent drive to Lahore Sweets & Restaurant.

Stop laughing!
his dad had yelled, turning his gaze away from the road ahead and directly onto his eldest son in the back seat. Hoping to divert some of his dad's anger, he looked at his younger brother Shanth, who had told the joke about their Sunday school teacher at which they were both giggling.

Why? With all the suffering in the world, it's good that we have a son who laughs so much,
his mom pushed back.

Ever since his voice changed, his laugh … I can't listen to it.

Don't listen to your dad! Don't stop laughing, son,
his mom had said, turning around to look at him with the stern but caring expression that was generally reserved for the morning before a class presentation, the subtext:
You can do anything!

As he left the library, he passed Ms Sinclair, the librarian. He had always admired her upright posture, despite her heavy mane of grey hair, and secretly thought of her as a witch—the good kind—because of her ability to know exactly which book he needed to complete, whatever assignment he was working on, or to satisfy his latest curiosity.

Did you find what you were looking for?
she asked, predictably.

He didn't smile or respond politely as he typically would have.

The following week, he did his best to exemplify one different, non-cheerful mood each day, pretending he was auditioning for various roles in a play for an invisible panel of judges. On Monday, he was grumpy, which was easy enough because everyone is grumpy on Mondays. He did not style his hair or tuck in his shirt or say
thank you
when the bus driver handed him a transfer. On Tuesday, he was mournful. He wore all black and listened to Fiona Apple on his Discman. But the
you're gay
s persisted, regardless of the careful extraction of all things cheerful from his disposition. When Friday arrived, and he appeared exhausted, it was not an act.

What's wrong
? Kevin asked.

Kevin Wheeler was one of the few males he knew who didn't seem to be preoccupied with his gayness. At least, not when they were on the morning bus together chatting about Kevin's latest stalker (whom he eventually would date), confiding about their ongoing family dramas, or flipping through the copy of
Playboy
magazine that Kevin had stolen from his older brother. He didn't care what he and Kevin talked about. For these thirty minutes, he cherished sitting close to another boy, imagining that this proximity and intimacy meant that he and Kevin were friends, he and Kevin were brothers. Once, he made the mistake of waving when he passed Kevin in the hall on the way to social studies. Kevin had looked right at him with an expression he had seen on the faces of other boys, eyes squinted and lips frowned, and then looked the other way. He never gestured at Kevin at
school again. He understood that, at school, he was a liability that Kevin couldn't afford and felt grateful for their special bus time when Kevin could be his true self.

I can't figure out why everyone keeps calling me gay.

The
g
-word had never come up in their conversations before, and he had been thankful for this asylum. But after the week's defeat, he didn't have the motivation to make up a story about what was bothering him.

It's the way you use your eyes
, Kevin responded, shrugging his shoulders as though the answer was obvious.

He spent that night staring at his eyes in the mirror, wishing he had asked Kevin to be more specific. The dictionary had made no mention of eyes, but could it be possible that something about the way he saw or blinked said
gay
? He began fantasizing about a life where he could see with his eyes closed and the
gay
was sealed under his eyelids, or rather, a life in which he couldn't be seen at all, free from the scrutiny of others. The next day, he tried to minimize eye contact, looking down for safe measure. But when he bumped into Chuck Treeman by the lockers, Chuck's response was,
You're gay!

He attempted a different approach, this time paying close attention to the variables necessary to elicit a
you're gay
in the hope of uncovering a pattern. He was much more successful in this endeavour.
You're gay
s usually followed a display of weakness—like when he tripped or couldn't carry the stack of chairs
from the back of the classroom to the front—or any behaviour or interest akin to that of his girl classmates.
You're gay
was a whip attempting to classically condition the weakness and the girl out of him.

Unfortunately, he was unable to accurately deduce what behaviours or interests belonged exclusively to girls, and therefore the whipping continued, determined to debilitate. The
you're gay
at the school assembly after he performed a pitch-perfect rendition of Vanessa Williams' “Save the Best for Last” muted the notes in his throat and the urge to create melody. The
you're gay
when he worked on his math homework in the loner corner of the cafeteria ensured that his concentration was shaken and consequently, that the most he would ever achieve in class would be Average.

The greatest blow was when
you're gay
found itself on the tongues of his friends, concealed in the form of a question.

Ugh, those guys won't leave me alone! I hate boys!
he ranted into his parents' wooden duck-shaped phone.

So, are you gay?
his friend Rosie Cipher responded coolly.

What? Why? What does that have to do with anything?!

Well, you just said you hate boys. Maybe it's because you are attracted to them?

Attracted to boys?

His frustration subsided and turned to sickness. How could she have known that he did, in fact, think of Josh Madison, the class clown with the football-player build whose locker was conveniently across from his, when he jerked off? Did she know that he also thought about Rochelle Hunter, the wannabe prom queen with the breasts everyone wanted—perfectly round and noticeable, but not Hollywood excessive—or that, whenever the new girl from Lethbridge, the one with the labret piercing and the leopard-print jacket that she never took off, said his name, a bolt of heat shot up his lower spine?

He was beginning to understand that the parameters of
you're gay
existed beyond his body and extended to the very core of his desire. And if
you're gay
somehow named and shamed his specific desires, this had to mean that they were different. No one else was attracted to both boys and girls. His desires must be wrong.

Soon after, he caught a passing mention of the gay gene on the radio show that his dad listened to every morning. He put down his spoon and watched the O-shaped cereal swell up with milk, mirroring the swelling of his stomach. If indeed there was genetic printing, if the gay instruction existed at the molecular level, he feared that his condition festered deeper than he had imagined. Why had his parents not warned him about this defect they had passed on to him? Were there others in his family like him? Perhaps his cousin in India, the famous Bharata Natyam dancer, had the gay gene too? He knew these were questions he could never ask. His parents would never want to discuss the gay gene, especially in relation their son. And regardless, it was too
late. He remembered the double-helix structure of DNA he had been shown in biology class and thought how appropriate that it looked like a chain.