Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,147

face into a thoughtful frown. “Well, no one really knows what makes some people homosexual. There are many different theories but no definite answer. Homosexuality could be the result of social forces or it could be the result of biology. All we do know is that it occurs in humans, in every society, and during every time in history. Estimates are that about one in ten people are homosexual.” She looked around the room. “Yes, that means among the thirty of you here it is likely that three of you are gay.”

At this, everyone began looking around, and a few of the boys began pointing fingers at one another, whispering, “It’s you, it’s you,” under their breath. I looked about, afraid to discover any of those fingers pointing in my direction; I was immensely relieved to see that they were not.

Ms. Hastings sat on her desk. “Okay, okay, enough of that. Clearly, you are not getting what I am trying to say, which is, Tracey,” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking pointedly over at Tracey, “that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being gay. It is a normal part of human nature, and it certainly should not be used as an insult against anyone.” Ms. Hastings paused, looking more solemn now. “I for one do not want to hear it being used in such a fashion in my classroom again. And, if I do, I will give the guilty party a weeklong detention, just like Tracey here. Any questions?” No one spoke. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get back to our discussion of To Kill a Mockingbird. Malcolm, could you continue the point you were making before you were so rudely interrupted?”

Malcolm nodded. “What I was saying was that people like Atticus Finch, people who stand up for other people’s rights, no matter what they look like or where they come from or how much everybody else hates them—well, those people are heroes.” He looked around the classroom, daring anyone to contradict him.

“Excellent point, Malcolm,” Ms. Hastings beamed. “Anyone else have any thoughts on that?”

I might have ventured to say something myself, but I was far too distracted as I tried to recall every word that Ms. Hastings had just said and to fathom the implications of those words. If being gay wasn’t perverted, as Frank and everyone at school seemed to think—if it was, as Ms. Hastings asserted, “natural” and “normal”—I wondered what that meant for me. And if my feelings about Amanda did mean that I was gay, then, according to Ms. Hastings I wasn’t alone.

I was still preoccupied with these thoughts when the lesson ended and we straggled out of the classroom and into the corridor. Consequently, I wasn’t paying much attention to Tracey at all. It was impossible, of course, not to notice that she was very unhappy about the prospect of detention for all of next week, since she’d mumbled complaints about it throughout the remainder of the lesson. But I hadn’t realized how angry she was until I looked up to see her, a few feet away from me in the corridor, jostling against Malcolm.

“You fucking little poofter,” she said, sticking her finger into his face. “Getting me into trouble like that. Well, I’m not going to put up with it. A whole fucking week of detention. That’s your fucking fault, that is.”

“It’s your own fault,” Malcolm said, swiping her hand away. “You should keep your big mouth shut for a change.”

“Oh, is that right?” Tracey said. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

“Get lost,” Malcolm said, trying to push past her. “You don’t scare me, Tracey Grasby.”

Tracey shoved herself into him. “Well, you’d better be scared. You bloody well better be!” And with that she spun on her heels and stalked off down the corridor, her whole body rigid with rage.

THE NEXT MORNING when I entered the chaos of the kitchen to make some breakfast, I looked out the window to see my mother in the back garden. Although there were a couple of workmen coming to the house later, she’d already begun putting up the massive marquee tent alone, swinging an enormous sledgehammer to sink the metal tent stakes into the ground. Each blow she landed made the glass in the kitchen window shiver in its frame. She looked a strange sight through the quivering glass, partly because she had an odd technique for using the hammer that involved making little jumps every time she delivered a blow, and partly because