read the one from my dad. (Since I still haven’t talked to Mom since the incident, I don’t even want to know what that one says.)
Marty,
Mom and I have been talking a lot—actually, a lot more than we used to about you and your relationship with religion. I’m disappointed that you haven’t been more honest with us, but I understand why you might feel unwelcome. Mom still doesn’t, but I think she’s trying to understand.
We had our big Fourth of July party, like we always do. I attached a few pictures of the family. For once, all my brothers and sisters came! It was great to have them all in the room. But it was also a little weird when they kept asking questions about you and we just didn’t know the answer.
I’m not sure what else to say. I am going to try and get Mom to start talking with you. But I think she’s just scared. I hope we can all catch up soon.
Love,
Dad
The pit in my stomach grows, and I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I haven’t talked to them in weeks. We have a typical, huge family, and I can’t imagine how they feel not knowing the answers to everyone’s questions.
I go to open Mom’s email, but I see the subject line and freeze: Bonfire.
I have no idea what she’s going to say, but I know it won’t be good. One of her biggest fears was of other people “finding out” about me, so she must know that everyone knows. I hate that I spend so much of my time trying to make my sexuality as little of a deal as possible, while everyone else in my life seems to be making it into a huge thing.
I respond to Dad, and I tell him I haven’t read Mom’s email because I’m scared to. And I don’t want her judgment. I don’t want our church’s judgment. I just want to be understood.
I don’t know if this will help you understand anything about me, but I’m not sure anything else will. The lying and the pain didn’t start last year, but something definitely did. And I don’t think either of you understand exactly what happened.
So? I’m attaching an assignment I had to do for English last year. Ten journal entries from my week in London last year. It’s not the one I ended up turning in—you’ll see why—and I’m sorry for cursing in it, but if you want to start to understand me, here’s a good place to do that.
Marty
That pain balls up inside me and puts pressure all throughout my body. It’s hard to breathe and not burst into tears. I hate feeling sorry for myself, and I hate the building anxiety that I just made a mistake.
A palm rests on my back. I look up and see Pierce, and smile. The breath that leaves my lungs takes as much of the sorrow as it can hold, and when I stand and wrap my arms around him, I almost feel whole again. I pull away and look into his eyes, and wonder why mine tear up.
“You all right, love?”
I sit. He joins me.
“I just really needed a bacon bap right now.” I shake my head. “I don’t know; that was a dumb joke. So much has happened in the last week. My parents are being confusing, Sophie won’t talk to me, I had a massive breakup with my friend back home. I looked it up—this apparently happens all the time to people once they move away to college, but I never thought it’d happen to me. I don’t know.”
He takes my hand and offers me a smile.
“Plus, I am a little jealous of Shane.”
“You and me both.” He sighs, and I feel so much frustration in his labored breath. “I can’t believe I’m busting my ass at this school and I have nothing to show for it.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“No, it’s really been a right disaster from the start. I thought I could coast through—typical trumpet mentality, I know. My first recital was the same week as Colin’s. Actually, I went on after him. I played ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ Technical masterpiece. Nailed it. Everyone thought I could be the new Sang.”
I’m impassive. I’m worried. I have no idea which expression shows more on my face.
“But then I did a different piece for my placement audition, ‘La Virgen de la Macarena.’ It’s a boxing match—fast punches and slow footwork all wrapped into this killer