Chapter Forty-Two Something

I didn’t know how long I spent just taking pictures on the way home, but it was already way into the afternoon by the time I even turned down my street. It seemed that once I was able to figure out what filled the void in my hands, I couldn’t stop myself from using it. I felt like a bird that had been caged all of its life, and when finally given freedom, went fucking crazy. I was taking pictures of everything I saw, and though it seemed frivolous, trivial, and like I was wasting film, I wasn’t. This camera was a precious life force in my hands, just born, waiting to explore the world. And I was its parent, starting to see the world from new eyes. Everything was beautiful. I had talked before about this concept with Jasmine, but I was only regurgitating Gerard’s words, and forced to look through his eyes. His painter’s eyes. I knew he was right, and I did see some beauty in everything, but I could never quite understand why he would drone on and on for hours about one little thing, when I saw it, observed it, and let it pass.

Now I knew why. I had been looking at everything through the wrong mindset. Of course I couldn’t see through his painter eyes – I wasn’t a painter. I didn’t know what I would call myself in that moment; I was still too fresh, too new to have a name forsaken on me yet. I was just taking pictures, and this was the lens I was supposed to see through. And I saw everything.

It was as if I had been blind before, but putting my eye behind the thick lens and pressing the button made the whole world clearer to me. Everything was making sense again, even if there were still random doubts about Gerard, my parents, and the charges that were coming against me, I was too fascinated by taking a picture of the garbage that was strewn all over the street, crossing in front of my path. It wasn’t just garbage to me. It fucking meant something. The candy bar wrappers were blocking my path, blocking my way, and making me not want to step on them – like the cracks in the sidewalk. I wondered what bone I would break in my mother’s body if I stepped on the garbage line as opposed to a sidewalk crack, and I took a picture of my pondering. I snapped images of the trash, before and after, sometimes my foot jutting in the picture. My thoughts were coming at me full speed, crashing together with the slam of the shutter. I couldn’t fucking believe my mind. I had never thought this way before. I had never been this way before. I wanted to run and scream and yell – but in happiness, or something like it. There was this force inside of me, that gnawing urge from before only stronger – much strong. This urge was no longer clawing like it had been before when it did not have a voice. It had a vice to speak through now, and it had been silent for almost eighteen years. It was learning the language through negatives fast, and I had a lot of speaking to do. I felt like Travis when he was on one of his random drug-induced talking frenzies, only this was so much better. This was not from a substance that I was abusing. This was something pure and whole I could hold in my hands – that fucking fit in my hands. I would have something tangible; afterwards I would have something to show for my rant, my crazy fit of hysteria - not just a hangover and an empty pocket where my money used to be.

Though I took pictures and thought like a genius, I was far from mastering my skill at the camera. I could take pictures, but I didn’t exactly know how to get them out of the camera just yet. It was an older model, still taking film, but it wasn’t the normal stuff that I would just drop off at the local store and come back in an hour to get. This was something I would need a dark room for, and that was only something I had seen on TV. I didn’t know where I would get my hands on any kind of expertise in this area to show me the way outside of that infernal box, but I had time to figure that out. I would find a dark room, I would buy more film – I would make it all happen. My main objective was just taking pictures. I could worry about the minor details later.

I had bought the six rolls of film that had been sitting next to the camera on the marked down bin, my anticipation brewing within me. The cashier, an old middle-aged man with practically no hair atop his shiny head had given me a weird look as he rang me in as I practically danced on my toes. He could give me as many weird looks as he wanted. I didn’t care; I was fucking ecstatic. I couldn’t wait to show someone.

I snapped pictures in time with my breath, and thought about risking it all. I wanted to go to Gerard’s place. He had to see this; he had to know that I had found my passion in life. He was the one who was constantly forcing me to find my passion, constantly forcing me to find a will and reason to live. This action of photography was getting clearer by the second that this was what I was supposed to do, this was what I was meant to do. I had already used up one roll of film, and when I went to change it, my fingers just seemed to know where everything was. I didn’t fuck it up at all, and I placed the used rolled in my jeans pocket, patting it securely. I needed a dark room fast, and I knew that Gerard would help me with it.

I took a picture of the fork in the road, one path leading down to Gerard’s street, and the other taking me to my house. I stood there for the longest time, looking both ways, taking pictures as my mind clicked in unison. I wanted to see him badly, but as I looked in the camera in my hand, the film in my pocket, and everything around me, I knew I had too much to lose. I was just starting to find myself, and I knew that I could keep going, keep discovering, and wait until this all blew over. It was going to blow over, I knew it. I had faith in that now. I began to walk down my road, still taking pictures. I was able to snap a clear view of the fork in the road, a distant shadow of a tree in line with Gerard’s side. When I got a chance to name and title these photos, I was going to call that one Indecision.

My heart beat with anticipation. I got to name these photos, these pieces of myself. When you named something, you owned it. I would own my art, myself – everything. I had control over this now. I glanced down at the camera in my hand, and debated naming that to. I wanted to call it something symbolic – like Gerard did with his doves, but I couldn’t think of anything. I didn’t know any famous photographers. I considered naming it Dove or Freedom, but even that I was not satisfied with. I didn’t want to own the camera per se. I didn’t want to take ownership of something that was so free by itself. And so, the camera was left unnamed, and just left to be a simple art form.

As I took a picture of a squirrel in the local park, I wished I knew where Vivian lived. I needed to show the woman who had crushed me at first that I had finally been rebuilt. I had been harboring some deep-rooted resentment for the woman and her foolish notion of hands at first. I didn’t want her to be right, because I didn’t know how I could fix things. Little did I know that passion was not something you fixed. It just happened. It had happened, and her pushing me to keep living while I looked, though aggravating at first, was now exhilarating.

The only time when my constant euphoria diminished was as I got closer and closer to my house. I wasn’t late, but I had this horrible looming feeling in my gut as I started to walk by the tightly packed houses. Some people were outside, gathering lawn equipment or just sitting on their porch, but since it was only about four in the afternoon still, most people were still at work. A few teenagers I recognized from my school were on the other side of the street though, and I could just feel the looming feeling echo through my body as their eyes stared deeply into me. I tried to ignore the sensation, snapping more pictures of flat tires, rusty nails, and beer bottles, drowning out whatever they were saying with constant shutter flicks. My mom’s car was not in the driveway when I got home, and I knew my father was no where close to arriving too. It was Friday night, and usually he went out with his buddies from work. It was hard to tell if tonight he would bother, considering the circumstances, but I didn’t know for sure. I doubted he would want to be at home and would relish in the time with real men, but if his friends knew about my ‘condition’ then I doubt he would want the awkward sympathy.

Most likely, a lot of people knew something about what had been going on with me. It was a relatively small town in the sense that big news fucking spread fast. They probably didn’t have every last detail, but when someone was arrested or taken into custody for some reason, people took note. Especially in rare circumstances, or in ones where people were threatened. What was more dangerous and bigger news than a possible pedophile living down the street? Unless there had been a murder at the same time as Gerard and I had been arrested, then the spotlight would probably stay on us. Even if there had been a murder (a likely thing in Jersey), murders were everywhere. They were so common and heard about on the news that it was almost boring. My circumstance didn’t happen as often; I was more entertaining. No newspapers or anything had covered the story yet, or probably would until they had evidence, but just the fact that there were allegations would get people talking. Even if it had only been a day, not even that just yet, rumors never slept.

Regardless of how my father’s friend would react, I knew he would come home late, tanked out of his mind, yell at me some more, and then collapse into bed. Just the thought of my upcoming night gave me a chill down my spine, but I held the camera tight. It was my new security blanket, since I could no longer take Gerard with me anywhere, or see him when I wanted. My feelings for Gerard were still whole and intact – the camera hadn’t replaced him – it may have even made my feelings for him better.

Beforehand, he and he alone was my passion, my addiction and my source of life. When it was knocked out of me, I had to find something else, or drown in its place. I had found my life boat, my life vessel, and I clung onto it for dear life. My head was above water, and I was extending a limb to dry land every picture I took. Gerard was still my passion, but he had transformed into feeling passion in between us, like the kind lovers had for each other. It was mutual, whereas before it was compulsive. Our relationship had always been whole and meaningful, but now my compulsive urge to see him and be with him had morphed into this hard feeling inside my chest; like he was always there. He was a rock and instead of dragging him around everywhere I went, I now kept him inside me, equal with me. He was no longer on that high of a pedestal. He had his art, and I had my camera. I wasn’t constantly trying to share his art form, because now I had found my own. I was still new at all of it, but I was learning by the second. I was learning to be an artist again, something I always had been, but rejected for the time being. I was feeling creativity within my veins again, more so than I ever felt before. The times when I hid my camera from those who passed and didn’t take pictures, I was thinking about it, and thinking of new ideas. I took a picture of a large rock when I came across one. I saw Gerard in the rock, and I knew it was my favorite picture I had taken so far.

I was an artist again, and just like all artists, I didn’t hate anymore. I didn’t feel raw anger running through me. I felt disappointment and I felt a little mad, but I had a better way of dealing with it. I touched my cheek at one point as I walked, feeling the place where my dad had hit me. The broken blood vessels were still present, especially now that I was no longer blushing. The emotional scarring was more prominent than anything else. I turned the camera around and looked at my reflection off the lens, and suddenly found myself snapping a picture of my face, poised onto that little mark. I didn’t want a photo to incriminate my father. No, that was not why I had taken the picture. I didn’t know why I had at first, until I pointed the camera to the ground, took a picture of that, and then walked forward.

I walked forward into the sidewalk, turning my camera the right way and starting all over again. That had been the last picture on the second roll of film, and I went to change it, letting everything go. I could forgive Anthony, and my father, because they were still the same person. Though I called him Anthony for spite in person and inside my thoughts, I would slip up. I could still hear myself refer to him as my father, and even worse, my dad. I still loved my father, but now, I no longer hated myself – or him – for that. I could even begin to understand why he had hit me; I was being difficult and he had too many negative feelings to deal with, it just sort of happened. I understood why he did it, but I didn’t condone the action in the least. It still left me feeling hurt in more than one way, and I was still utterly disgusted when I thought about it. There was still a huge difference in my mind between understanding and approving. I didn’t have to approve his actions, and as I realized that, I came to the conclusion that he didn’t have to approve mine either. We just both had to accept and respect each other; me for being gay and him for being violent. At that moment, we were both struggling for power, for one of us to prevail over the other. We didn’t have to override the other person and still maintain accuracy though. I had figured that out, and I wondered when he would. I knew I shouldn’t tell him this lesson. There were some things people had to do by themselves.

Once the other film was in, I took more pictures of the ground in front of me, signally how far I had come and how far I still needed to go. I snapped the button compulsively making another favorite picture.

Even as I stepped on my porch and I saw the note pinned to my door, I didn’t feel that raw anger I probably would have felt if it were not for the camera. In fact, I took a picture of the folded up piece of foolscap, my name written on it in childlike script, taped to the door with masking tape.

I knew who it was from before I even opened it, and as my eyes and fingers scanned over the derogatory words written about ass fucking and wrinkly old men, I managed to breathe in and out, crumble the paper up and throw it away when I got inside.

And then I started to take more pictures.

I tried to shrug it all off the dismayed feeling as I captured a leaking facet, dirty clothing hamper, and couch cushions on film, but plaguing thoughts and doubts managed to creep their way through. Artists weren’t perfect, and though I may have been able to flush out my hate, paranoia was right behind me. I knew that Sam and Travis had written the note. It was clearly obvious in the way the childlike font was ‘disguised’. Sam had distinct writing; it looked like the font off of a computer some days. No matter what he did, he always managed to write in the same font, same size, and same way. He had a habit of not capitalizing his letters, but the R. And as soon as I saw the slip once, I knew it was him. Oh, and the references to ass fucking and having shit on a dick helped to identify as well. I wondered how the two teens already knew about what had happened, and the accusations brought up against Gerard.

It was one thing for my dad’s friends from work to know about everything that had happened thus far; they were adults and had finer access to news. They were friends with cops, some of them even cops themselves, and adults talked. They talked a lot, but rarely to their children about matters like this. Even if the parents wanted to tell their teenage son anything, they usually had a hard time getting through. There was a thick mental block in most teens to shut out anything their parents said, especially if it was regarding sex and their safety. We had this invincible quality to us, making us not listening to such things.

In high school, the whole dynamic is different. There are two different worlds, home and school. In school, there were these small societies, cliques, and groups, and they all talked together. That was how kids spread their news and rumors. It took a lot longer to get to us through the food chain, but when we had it, we spread it ten times faster than adults ever could. Teenage existence is based on communication, since we can’t do much else. But we weren’t in school that day; it was still spring break, and though kids still hung out together, the chain was broken. News couldn’t spread as fast during the weekends or holidays, and yet, Sam and Travis already knew. They were some of the worse people to know, and I wondered how much farther this ripple of information was going to go.

Not only had there been gay jokes in the letter, but they were old gay jokes, pointing to an art mishap with paint. A sure sign that the vindictive teens who wrote this letter, had been the same ones that were doused in blue paint that one day. Unlike me, the paint had not changed Sam and Travis, but instead made them think in more complex ways. The note was the first step in their path of destruction, I wondered what else they had up their sleeve, or if it was all talk. Talking was bad enough, I thought. Sam didn’t keep his mouth shut and people always came to Travis for weed. Not only did Sam and Travis have status in rumor-ville, they also had the knowledge that no other teen had of Gerard. They had seen him that day with the blue paint can, they had seen me come out of his apartment, and they had also heard me confess to having guitar lessons from him. They knew too much, and had way too many deadly games to play with it. I knew I was fucked there, as far as rumors went, even if the rape kit did come back with no trauma and Gerard was free of charges. There was the queer by association aspect brought up again, and it was being used with another taboo. I was fucked, but I knew I wasn’t damned.

I put down the camera on the coffee table, remembering the rape kit. I didn’t know when my results would be in, they said it may take awhile, but I still wanted to check the messages. I knew I would be checking them compulsively, wanting to be the first person to hear what I knew had to be good news. Whether my dad was going to believe the good news was another story, but it didn’t matter if he believed it. If Gerard was let go, then everything would be okay. Everything really did seem okay, or at least manageable, by that point.

To my surprise, there were three messages waiting. Feeling my stomach jump with anticipation, I pressed the button and waited. I heard a crinkling sound before a familiar muffled laughter echoed though.

“Sick fuck,” was all the first message said. I knew it was Sam’s voice right away, and my heart fell down into the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t mad, at least not yet, but my heart weighed heavy in disappointment. Sam had been my friend ever since fucking kindergarten and now he was leaving me note and harassing phone messages. Worst of all, as I heard the recording stop, turn around and play another message, this time with Travis’ voice in my ear, I realized something else. Though Travis’ rant was done in one of his metaphorical constant verbal highs, Sam had been completely sober. His voice didn’t lag or drag out, but was harsh and sharp, enunciating everything demeaning in the two words he had uttered. And he could say them with a clear head, he didn’t need to loosen himself up to get his true feelings out. He was wearing them on his sleeve, and blasting them into the phone. He was disgusted by me.

I couldn’t fucking believe what was going on. I was being fucking hounded by my own friends, and I knew there was going to be more from other people once the news had spread like wildfire. Travis had only been my friend since high school, but I still considered him something important. He usually was never as vocal as Sam as far as insults went, but apparently drugs brought it out of him. I went from feeling nothing to so much anger I couldn’t breathe. It didn’t feel like I was drowning though, just like I was choking.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you,” his message began to play and I could feel my ears bleeding. “If you wanted it up the ass from that old wrinkly shit, then that’s disgusting. You deserve AIDS and anything else you may get. But if you were raped, then fuck, please get decontaminated before you ever see us again. Wait, no. Please don’t see us again. It’s pointless. Just like everything else you may have done with Mr. Old Wrinkly balls.”

I felt my face flush and I had to fight the urge to rip the phone from out of the wall and throw it across the room. I wanted to hate them right then, I really did. I wanted to kill them too, but I wanted to hate even more. They deserved my hate, but as I looked down at the camera, I realized that I didn’t deserve to feel hate. I was a human being; I was an artist. I didn’t hate, I couldn’t hate, and more often than not, I would choose not to hate. Sam and Travis were jerks, yes. I could accept that and believe it. But I wasn’t a jerk with them. I may have been friends with them for as long as I could remember, but I wasn’t like them. Gerard had been able to see that when I couldn’t. I didn’t know I was any different from my friends for the longest time. I stuck by them, followed them, and hide behind their tough exteriors, creating my own. But I wasn’t like them. Gerard had seen the pigeons, rats of the sky, when he looked at my friends that day. When he looked at me though, he saw a dove. A brown dove, but a dove nonetheless. I may have been a teenager like them, tough like them, and had brown feathers like them, but that meant nothing when Gerard broke it all away. I was different than them, I was the exception.

I repeated the word over and over again in my mind. Exception, exception, exception. I looked at the camera, to the letter as I repeated, and realized how right Gerard had been all this time.

I heaved out an angry sigh, clenching my teeth and slowly calming down. I could feel my blood pumping in a more even manner, my temples no longer throbbing. I could do this; I had dealt with worse, and would still be dealing with worse. So what if Sam and Travis had leaked vital and false information to those around me? It didn’t matter. I was not like them, and I was moving on. I had to worry about Gerard, my record, and my rape kit results. I snapped myself back into reality, realizing that there was still one more message.

Hesitant but persistent, I pressed the button and waited, hearing a mere sigh and a dial tone. It was just a hang-up call, but from the sigh on the other end I had a feeling there was more behind it. I tried to scan my way through the incoming call number history, but came up with a number I didn’t recognize. I was about to right it off as someone else who had heard about my story, but didn’t have enough balls (or alcohol) to actually say anything about it when I heard the door bell ring.

I furrowed my brow, wondering just who the fuck would be at my door. My chest tightened a bit when images of Sam and Travis came to my mind, but I shoved them away, knowing that I could face my challenges. I walked over to my door with a heavy, yet determined, heart.

And got the surprise of a lifetime when I opened the door.

I didn’t bother to look through the peephole, and if I had, I may not have even seen the small body in front of me, rather just the top of her bouncy blonde hair.

“Hey…” she greeted unsurely, shifting her weight from side to side.

It was Jasmine, but I almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing jeans and the same navy hoodie she had at the cottage. But that was the thing – we were not at the cottage anymore. All the memories I had had of this girl had been in a secluded area, a trampoline in the background along with art talk and family histories. She had driven me back to Jersey, but I had been too spaced out and worried to really picture her against the city skyline. She didn’t fit there anyway; Jasmine belonged in the country, on her trampoline, and maybe even in the sky.

“Hey…” I uttered back, looking her up and down, trying to comprehend her new image even more. As she stood in my doorway, she looked nervous; afraid almost. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail, stretching the skin on her face and making her wide-eyed expression more visible. She lopped her head from side to side, unsure of what to say and looked around a lot, as if she wasn’t supposed to be at my place. She no longer looked like a kid anymore, but a worried adult. I didn’t like how much stress had aged her, and I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had caused that stress.

“Can I come in?” she asked meekly, her hands buried in her jacket pockets. She stepped forward a little, displaying her question in movements to catch my attention again. I was still adjusting to the fact that I was actually seeing her again.

“Uh, sure,” I agreed, stepping away to the side and motioning with my hand weakly. I didn’t remember the air being so thick.

She walked right in, surpassing me in depth inside the house. She stood in the front hallway for awhile, gazing around at my house and making note of the décor. I still stood in the doorway, the draft coming through and causing her small frame, buried under her baggy clothing to shiver. Seeing her discomfort snapped me out of my daze and I finally closed the door, but still didn’t know what to do next.

“I tried to call,” she said, still looking around and not meeting my eyes. “But no one was home, and I hate leaving messages.”

“Oh, that was you?” I asked her, my head finally able to string together a coherent thought. I felt a huge wave of relief wash over me, knowing that at least it was only Sam and Travis who were being immature pricks. She had just wanted to call me to call me, not to harass. I had gotten rid of her number so fast after she had given it to me, I didn’t bother to commit anything to memory.

“Yeah, sorry,” she apologized, still shifting her weight around. The apology struck something inside of me; Jasmine was always telling me not to apologize, and she had just broken her own rule. Memories or being at Gerard’s place and him doing the exact same thing leaped to the forefront of my mind, and it made my heart ache even more. Why were people suddenly breaking?

“Don’t be,” I insisted, gaining more and more strength and bestowing it on the person who needed it the most. I was still slightly disoriented from seeing Jasmine, but my prior euphoria was allowing me to collect myself, bit by excruciating bit.

Our eyes met for the first time then, her blue ones displaying uncertainty as she smiled weakly at me. I tried to smile back, but felt my face flush with something other than anger and looked down, kicking my foot into the carpet.

“I came over to talk,” she stated suddenly, gripping her words strongly. I looked up again, meeting her determined eyes. “Can we sit down?” She motioned to the couch, and I realized what a bad host I was being.

“Oh, sure, sorry,” I apologized, moving over to the couch that was in the next room by the hallway and removing the newspapers my father kept on it, clearing a spot away for Jasmine.

“Don’t be,” she replied coyly to me, the first joke breaking the air between us.

We both sat down on the creamy peach colouring of the sofa, our backs arched and knees pointed inwards. It suddenly became so silent, I didn’t want to breathe because it made too much noise. She sat with her knees touching, held tightly in place in front of her, her small hands gripping her jeans fabric and rubbing together to ease out tension. She looked down, studying her long thumb nail for awhile, before she finally spoke again.

“What’s going on?”

Her voice was small, yet very strong and determined. There was a vulnerable quality to it, her childlike atmosphere kicking in again. It was almost like she felt she was going to get punished for asking the question, as if it was a topic you weren’t supposed to ask you’re parents about when you were younger. Like sex, only with worse repercussions.

I didn’t answer for awhile, unsure really of what I could say. I didn’t know what was going on in my own head, and I had more details than she did, and probably ever would. I didn’t want to spill my guts about everything that had happened, but I felt it pushing up against the tip of my throat threatening to spill forward. After a silence where we both could barely breathe, she added to her claim.

“People are talking.”

“I know,” I finally answered, my sigh feeling as heavy as the issues we were talking about without exchanging solid definitions yet.

“It’s bad, Frank,” she said, warning me almost. She lifted her eyes from her hands and looked at me. I had been staring at her the entire time, and her sudden gaze threw me off for a second. It was like looking at a piece of art, and then the picture suddenly falling down off the wall, its hook broken and the noise giving you a heart attack.

I didn’t know something that beautiful could break so easily.

“What are people saying to you?” I asked her, getting interested in my own demise. I knew what Sam and Travis were saying to me, but were these the ‘people’ she was talking about? I highly doubted my two druggie friends counted as an entire population. And what exactly was her definition of bad? I knew what kind of shit I was getting, phone calls and personal attacked notes. That stuff was invasive; to my face. That stuff was usually a step down from what others thought, and I could only image how high everything else was above me. I had been in a bubble for so long, at Gerard’s, at the cottage, or in my own house, that I was slowly losing touch with reality and not gripping on hard enough when it came by and left sharp scaring teeth marks in my skin.

“I don’t want to repeat it,” Jasmine stated seriously, disconnecting her eyes and her cheeks growing a slight rose shade.

Fuck, I thought realizing just how deep the scars went. She was embarrassed to say the lies about me. How bad did it get on the outside world? I fought the urge to wrap her in a hug, and settled for shifting closer to her on the couch and sliding an arm around her shoulders, trying to straighten her up from her hunched pose.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I cooed, rocking her slightly from side to side. I could feel her ease under my touch, but it didn’t help for her mental block.

“I still don’t want to tell you.”

She sat up straight, and looked me in the eye. I let my hand drop from her shoulders to her lower back, not feeling the need to save her anymore. She didn’t need to be saved; she was solid and strong, though very small. She could handle what was going on; she just needed the truth to justify everything.

“I don’t want to tell you, because I know those people are wrong. They have to be wrong,” she started again, turning her head away from me and biting her lip in aggravation. “I hope they’re wrong…” she whispered, barely audible.

I wanted to say something, say anything and tell her it was all right, that it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what they were saying about me, and I couldn’t lie. I didn’t want to lie, especially to Jasmine. What they were saying about me, at least, what Sam and Travis were saying, was true. Yeah, I had fucked a forty-seven year old artist in the ass. I liked it, too and I was gay. They were spouting the truth, just added a darker and dirtier side to it all. They were focusing on age and gender instead of the real issue at heart. They were incapable of seeing the real issues at heart. Therefore, I couldn’t say it wasn’t true to Jasmine because then I would be lying to her – something I had never done since we first met and spent the weekend together. I had only ever evaded the truth, not giving her little details. She had never asked out right, so I never had to lie. But now, things were changing.

“Frank…” she stated, paused, then started again. “What is going on? Tell me, please.”

In that desolate and fragile moment, I wanted to tell her. She had been the only person at the cottage to understand my obsession with art. She had been the only person to understand me, talk to me, and want to be with me. She said she trusted me, and I hadn’t been telling her the whole truth. I wondered, in the back of my mind where doubts and spiders were kept, if she would still be as understanding as she was that weekend about art, if I told her about my torrid love affair with Gerard, the man she had always thought was my teacher. I looked at her; fucking stared immensely, intensely. I thought of all the events I had shared with Gerard, all of the events that lead up to that fucking moment, rewinding the film in my head. Each day, the painting lessons, Vivian, cigarettes and sex came back to me in a photograph, snapped and preserved in my mind. I had never shown the negatives to anyone before, and I was afraid that once they hit the light of day, they would be ruined. If Gerard and I were no longer a secret in my mind, would we all fall apart? If I told Jasmine everything, would she turn around and turn him in?

I saw her eyes flicker, and I could see her sincerity. She wouldn’t tell. She had no reason to tell, and I had no reason to keep this a secret any longer. There were no such things as secrets anyway, according to Gerard. He had told Vivian about us, having me learn my own lesson in secrecy. Jasmine could be my Vivian once again, like that night we first had sex, and I could tell everything. My photo album of memories began to rewind, going back to the beginning. If this story was going to work, beginnings were crucial. You could never just jump into the middle of a story and expect to understand the events. Everything linked to something else, and when put to a book and flashed by together, they connected. Everything connects, and I started to understand that more and more. My parents and everyone else wouldn’t understand Gerard and I because they came in at the middle; they didn’t know the events to lead up to things, and they weren’t willing to give it a chance. Jasmine had walked in on something she didn’t understand, but instead of running the other direction, she walked into the source. She walked into me, and I was going to let her through.

We locked eyes for the longest time, debating where to go from here. Her pupils dilated and she darted across my countenance, searching me for my next reproach with a final beg. “You can trust me, Frank. I won’t tell a single soul. Please.”

I heard a click inside my head, and I knew I was done rewinding. I sighed deeply, and took her hand for support. For both of us.

“On Sundays, there’s never much to do in Jersey…” I started and the words took over, beginning to play my movie, my story for her, and only her.

It must have taken hours to get everything out of me, especially in the amounts of detail I went into. Though I probably could have just given her a brief synopsis of key events, I felt like I had to dive into the great depths with details in every aspect. It was an integral part of my story, and a key part of Gerard. We were both so detail-based. He was an artist, after all. He had to notice things that were small and insignificant in order to reflect and paint their beauty. I had learned to notice them from watching him. I would have never have found my camera if I had not been able to notice minute points. I would have washed right over it, gotten in line, and just ended up purchasing batteries that day, instead of buying back my entire life. Having the camera made me become even finer tuned into details, capturing life at its most irrelevant time and keeping it for further examination.

I droned on forever about Gerard’s smoking habits, telling her, explaining to her how beautiful it was and how it really was art. She kind of rolled her eyes and signaled for me to keep going, to move on with the story so it made more sense and got to the good parts. She never once told me to stop, or interrupted me. She seemed to understand that this was necessary, this was important and key for developing character and making everything seem that much more real. In her mind, before she came to see me, she was only aware of a story; a fictional event based on rumors and false ideologies. When I started talking to her, telling her infinitesimal details about the weather or the consistency of paint, it made the story seem real. This Gerard character wasn’t just a character to her; he was a person again. I had reclaimed him in Jasmine’s eager eyes.

When I added little personal stories of my own angst, it made me seem more real. It was no longer a fictional occurrence; it was every day life; it had happened. I remembered seeing her eyes widen at one point, when I was pretty sure she realized all of this. I had been unlocked our hands neat the start of my story so I could talk with it, the empty one remaining nonchalantly on my knee. When she realized the reality of all of this, she had lunged forward slightly and grabbed that vacant hand, squeezing it hard and interlocking our fingers. It was almost like she wanted to touch me to make sure I was real, like I wasn’t just some character in this epic novel I was describing to her. And when she touched me and I squeezed back, temporarily leaving a book mark where I was, she felt like she was inside the story, watching it right next to me. She was in the story to begin with; her character just came in way later on down the line. For now, she was a fly on the way, an omen of what to come.

I spared her details on some things, like when I talked about Gerard and I having sex. I could tell that she was uncomfortable the way she shifted in her seat and loosened her grip when I got to that first night. I had started to explain the confrontation and how I had nearly pinned him against the wall to kiss him when I first took note of the uncertainties. Though she cleared her throat silently and looked down, she never told me to stop. I sort of began to understand the idea that not everyone, even those who wouldn’t judge and cared, wanted to know about my sex life. I started to skim over a lot of detail at that point, but I made sure to talk about our sex. I needed to talk about it. If the rumors were going around that I had been raped, then I had to show her it was consensual. I wanted it, I initiated it, and we kept doing it in a caring manner; not an oversexed adventure.

Jasmine was still slightly agape, even after me omitting the finer details of how Gerard tasted, but I was pretty sure that was due to hearing me talk about a gay relationship so openly. I didn’t think she knew any gay people, and neither did I really (other than myself and Gerard, of course). This was not something randomly brought up in dinner conversation, especially when I got around to talking about how often Gerard and I had sex, and how he used that as an art form to teach me things. I just kept talking and talking, explaining things and feeling myself open up more and more the deeper I got into the story.

I noticed things as I reflected that seemed to have so much more significance in our relationship now. I started to comprehend that the way Gerard had acted with me, even very early on in his apartment, showed me how much he cared for me. Even when I was still just this kid Frank who stood outside the liquor store, his actions spoke what his words never could.

I discovered that the day he brought Vivian in, he knew exactly what he had been doing. It was not just some mistake or accident that they had run late and I had shown up in the middle. He had wanted her to be there, he wanted me to see her and provoke jealousy in me. He wanted to see if there was anything more to this relationship, and once he saw that there was, he knew that his lessons in art would serve a better purpose. For both of us.

Gerard never wanted things to go this far with us, logically. He knew it was wrong and bad and he could get in a lot of trouble for it. But he also knew that I felt something for him. He tried to use his art lessons to free both of us by giving us something to do and talk about. Something to be passionate about together instead of actually having passion for each other. There was nothing illegal about painting, and he knew that would have been better than him actually come out to talk about my crush. He would have been the old creepy pedophile if he had cornered me with the information that I knew I possessed just didn’t want to acknowledge. He wanted us both to solve the problem on our own. We had, he just didn’t think I would choose him in the end. He fought against it when it did happen, but when I brought art back into this, he realized that it was okay. Gerard may have known what he was doing a lot of the time, but there were still changes and feelings he had to adjust himself to.

I only hoped that when I was done explaining it all Jasmine could see that this was okay too. I didn’t want her to see the creepy pedophile, but the artist Gerard I knew and who had changed me for the better. When the final sentence had fallen from my mouth, about receiving the phone calls and notes from my so-called friends, I took a deep breath and waited. I had brought Jasmine through my tale of the past couple months, through the depths of paint and cigarette smoke, naked flesh, violent parents, and dove’s wings. Through hospital settings and an old woman at a bus stop. I had even told her briefly about photography, but only to illustrate my point further. I had spent the major focus on Gerard and me, and all that we encompassed.

I kept my eyes closed, breathing hard to catch my breath from the epic nature of our conversation and waited for Jasmine to respond. I could feel her hand in mine still, solid and warm, but unmoving. Jasmine herself was unmoving, her breath shallow. I knew she was thinking and her bangs fell over her forehead in a tough deliberation. I didn’t know what was so hard for her to think of, why it was taking her so long because as far as I was concerned, she just needed to tell me one thing; if she understood or not.

However, just like the paintings, songs, and photographs I had spouted my mouth off for hours, there was more than just one meaning, more than just one concern for every interpretation. Jasmine was thinking of how she fell into everything, how she was part of this story, and where it was all going from here. She was being selfish, but so was I in my thinking. We were both artists then; selfishness reigned supreme.

“Wow,” she finally uttered. She clasped her hands together on her knees, and blinked a few more times. “Just wow.”

I stared intently at her. That couldn’t be her entire response. I had talked and talked for hours – she had to give me more than three words (two words, technically, if I ruled out repetition).

She was staring at her hands, at her knees, at the ground. She was looking everywhere but at me, but I could tell her eyes were scanning up gradually, wondering if they should meet my gaze.

As I stared at her, I realized I recognized her behavior. This was how I had been acting the first night I woke up at Gerard’s place, and I found that he wasn’t there. I was scared, lonely, and confused. I had woken up after giving myself to someone and found them gone. I had been empty; Jasmine was empty now. But I couldn’t figure out why.

“Jasmine,” I started, probing in a docile nature. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

“Because I don’t know what to say,” she replied, her voice slightly hitched.

“Say anything,” I told her, even though I had a clear notion of what I did want her to say. I wanted her to tell me everything was okay, but I knew if she never brought her eyes to meet mine, then it was a futile. Pointless. A lie. “Just look at me.”

I could see her body stiffen under the remark, and her gaze stop on my feet. Her head was face down, but I could see her eyes trying to dart around and see me without moving her head. I sighed, and moving my body closer to her, shoulders touching. I put my arm around her, and brought the other to her chin, tipping it up. She jumped a little, shocked by my intimacy.

“Please,” I begged like she had for my story. She recognized my tone and finally let our eyes meet.

My first thought was what she looked scared, frightened. Her blue eyes were wide, like a deep in the headlights. Her bangs fell over her forehead, gracefully outlining its ridges and making her looked sheltered, protected. I scanned her face, trying to find other meaning as to why she was so scared. She wasn’t the one facing police charges and getting harassing phone calls. In my mind, she had nothing to be afraid of.

“What am I to you?” she spoke abruptly, looking hard into my eyes, and then I got it.

I let out a sigh, not knowing how to answer. I took my hand off her chin, and our gazes disconnected. I placed my hands on my knees, thinking hard. I could feel her eyes on me now, and I knew I had to think of a response soon. I was leaving her alone like Gerard had done with me that first morning after, only I wasn’t as quick with my words.

I didn’t know what she was to me. It had taken me forever to figure out what Gerard was, and that was being tested and changed every second of every day. Jasmine was something I couldn’t comprehend next to Gerard; I couldn’t stand them next to each other. Jasmine was just …

“You’re Jasmine,” I told her with finality, opening my eyes and looking at her. My voice was liquid and smooth, surprising for the fact that I was nearly out of saliva from talking so long. I watched as her eyes widened a bit, not getting, or not pleased with my response. I knew it was vague and incoherent in some regards, but that’s all I could say.

Jasmine was Jasmine. She was the girl on the trampoline, wanting to stay a kid forever. She wanted to fly, she wanted to stay young, and she didn’t want to lose another brother. She was Jasmine. There was nothing else to it. And there was nothing else I could say.

She sighed, her head falling down towards her chest. “Frank, don’t do this.”

“Do what?” I asked earnestly, not trying to upset her, but probably succeeding. She gave me a look that told me I should have known better, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I had never been in this situation before.

“Don’t cast me aside like I’m nothing,” she answered lowly, her voice weak, but fighting for strength. Her response nearly made me jump out of my seat. Out of all the things that Jasmine represented in my mind, none of them were nothing. They were all something, so strong and vivid and there that I couldn’t take it a lot of the time. That was why I had shredded her number, not talked to her in days and tried to forget her. It was why I had had sex with her in the first place, been drawn to her, and didn’t smoke the entire time I was at the cottage. Jasmine was so much to me; she could never be nothing. She was something so strong I had never wanted to name it at the cabin, and tried to write off as something as simple as an exception. She was something so persistent that I didn’t want it to threaten my relationship with Gerard. Gerard was everything to me, but Jasmine was still there, still taking up space. Still being something. I had to convince her of that fact.

“Jasmine, no,” I told her, sitting closer, hitting our knees together and sliding our legs in a mess of knots that was so familiar from our days at the cottage. Her head was down, and I placed a palm on her cheek and chin, tilting her face up to meet my own again. Without commanding her to, we locked eyes, and I tried to get as close as I could to her, wrapping my free arm around her back and pulling her towards myself. She went easily, our actions done without the air of tension from before, dispelled and replaced by urgency. As our bodies touched, I felt the same spark I had at the cottage, and though I knew where it had led me before, I followed the flame and looking into her eyes as I continued talking. “You are not nothing to me.”

“What am I then?” she questioned back weakly.

“Fuck,” I swore, dropping her chin and wrapping the hand around the back of her neck gently. I looked away for a second, grappling my thought together before they returned to her. “I don’t know what you are to me, but some things just don’t have names. I care about you, and I don’t want to see you hurt. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just don’t know what to do right now. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I couldn’t. I hope you can understand.”

“I understand. I’m hurt, but I do understand,” she said, nodding softly. “I really do.”

“Thank you,” I said, believing every word. I began to realize why I didn’t want to lie to Jasmine ever; because she never did the same to me. She nodded her head, her eyes, though sad and somber, brightening a little as she looked me up ad down. I did the same to her, my fingers crawling more to the nape of her neck, feeling the heat her hair provided and realizing how much I really had missed her. It was hard to forget about someone as nice as Jasmine, but it was easy to misplace them for awhile, especially when other, bigger thoughts had been on my mind. Somehow, I had managed to find her again, like a lost sock hidden behind a mattress.

Our faces were already surprisingly close and as the air between us began to feel more accepting, I found us migrating together at an alarmingly slow rate. It wasn’t like before though, those times in the cottage and by the river when I didn’t know what I was doing and just did it without thinking. I knew that as I brought my lips over her. I knew that I wanted to kiss her, and I felt okay with that. We were connecting again, in a way I didn’t think I could with someone anymore without showing some physical appeal. I had just told her one of my biggest secrets; I was emotionally drained, and I knew her worry and astonishment was getting her to be in much the same state. Kissing helped, kissing rejuvenated bodies and souls. And Gerard had told me it was okay. It was impossible to cheat on someone; a relationship was not a game. I could still remain faithful to him, and fuck, I was more than faithful to him. I was risking everything for him. I had done a rape kit, been embarrassed in the doctors office, and hit by my father. All for him. It had all been worth it, especially since I knew I wouldn’t even be where I was without him.

But Jasmine was still important to me, too. She was something, I couldn’t quite name it yet, but I needed her. I pressed my lips against hers softly, just like I had the first night with Gerard. I was unsure of her response, but I felt her push back softly, and we picked up from where we had left off. It was like it was we were still back at the cottage, the night where it all happened. We kissed slowly, almost painfully. It was only a matter of minutes before both of our tongues touched and we mutually pulled away. I still had my arms on her, but I let them fall lower, draping across her waist where hers rested on my own.

“I don’t want to do this,” she said, regaining the resilience in her voice. She was no longer nervous or scared, but sure of herself all over again. The kiss, my words, or something I couldn’t control had restored something in her, and she was sitting up straight again. She bit her lip, if only to feel the last touch of the kiss she said she never wanted again.

“Why not?” I asked, not offended but just a little surprised. “I’m not cheating on Gerard. I’m still faithful to him -”

“But are you faithful to me?”

I let my mouth fall open, but no sound came out. I had never thought of it in terms that way. If I was faithful to one person, what was I to the other I was kissing? Was it possible to be faithful to two people? I wasn’t entirely sure. If it was possible though, then I was pretty sure that Jasmine would be my second.

When I didn’t say anything right away, Jasmine sighed and continued. “I don’t want you to promise me anything you can’t keep.”

“I can, though,” I tried to persuade, nodding and growing closer. I had Jasmine’s body leaned against the back of the couch, my own body twisted and turned towards her, looking down.

“You can’t give me the same thing you give to him,” she argued, but she wasn’t mad. She was the farthest thing away from indignant I had ever seen. She was calm, cool, and collected, arguing a point using facts I had never heard or seen. She was still deeply personal, but they weren’t negative emotions. She was almost happy in what she was saying, happy for me instead of pitying herself for something she could never have.

“You can’t give me everything.”

I drew my eyes down from her at the mention of the word I knew too well, knowing just how right she was. I couldn’t give her everything, because Gerard had all of that from me. Jasmine still meant something, but that meant I could only give her something. Give her a little, or a lot, but not all. I finally understood what she was trying to say. The kiss could never happen again because we would both end up getting hurt. I had fallen for two people, but I was in deeper with one than the other. I couldn’t drag another person down to the level because there was only room for two. Instead of trying and drowning us both, I had to let her float to the surface. As much as I began to realize it would hurt, I had to let her go. I had to save her, while there was still hope for all of us.

I nodded my head in realization, feeling her calm placid state duplicate into my body too. I looked at her eyes and then her lips, wanting to kiss them one final time before this was all over. Rather, I fought the urge and removed all temptation. I took my arms away from her waist, and she mimicked my actions. We sat back down in our original positions, just as close physically as we were before, but intertwined so much more emotionally.

“Okay, I like this. This is still good,” she commented, breaking the air after awhile. I glanced over at her, smiling as I saw her white teeth bared in a cute grin. Fuck, I had missed that grin.

I returned the sentiment, and she just rolled her eyes at me playfully.

“Besides, as much as I hate to admit this, you’re better for Gerard. I can really see how much you love him.”

My heart nearly stopped in my throat as she said her words, numerous insights hitting me all at once. It had been the first time she had ever mentioned Gerard in the context only pertaining to me. She was speaking of Gerard, the forty-seven year old artist as my lover. Though I logically and consciously knew what was going on, having someone repeat it back to me made it more real. It gave me a taste of what I was telling other people, what they were seeing, and I started to understand why they were so scared. It did sound crazy and illogical. Why would a forty-seven year old start a relationship with a teen? It did sound shifty and pervy and sick. Those were the bare facts, bare minim people would think of. It was only when you were inside the inner circle where things made sense, and it wasn’t sick anymore. With the way Jasmine’s eyes fluttered, I knew that she was in that inner circle of people who understood it now. She accepted it. She may have thought it was a little weird, strange, and probably more than fucked up, but she could see the relationship for what it really was. She understood that concept of everything in all of its aspects, and she fucking respected it. I had made the right choice in telling her, and she was proving it to me by letting me go and be with him. She was also opening my eyes to something I had never seen before.

Love.

I had been with Gerard for months by that point in time, though not always with him in a sexual manner. He had been my art teacher, my mentor, my friend, and just the weird guy who had dumped paint on me until we had finally met in more ways. He had seen me naked, and I had seen the same for him. But there was more to being naked than just nude flesh, and though we had nearly seen every inch of the other person’s, there was much more. I had seen him in that moment of weakness where the world fell apart behind us; fuck I had caused that moment of weakness. I knew his fears, his past stories, and he knew mine, even if my inventory fears were ten times longer than his own. He had taught me everything I needed to know in some situations, while leaving me hanging in others to figure it out on my own. We had done so much together, seen so much together, and yet, this whole aspect of love had been left out. We were lovers, we called each other that sometimes, but that whole aspect of love as the emotion and not a manifestation between people had been forgotten. Lovers could be something purely sexual based, or purely art based in our minds. We said the word love sometimes, but it was only as a tangible noun, expressing our love for a particular piece, or talking about the freedom in love we did not have. Never once had we ever declared ‘I love you’ to each other.

Perhaps it wasn’t that we forgot to bring up that whole ideology of love, but that we had purposely skipped past it. As Jasmine said it then for me, I realized I had always been too afraid to say it. I had been afraid of many things in my relationship with Gerard, including the relationship itself, but none of them compared to the wave of it that ran through my body anytime I thought of this phrase. I knew I cared about him, I knew I needed him, but love him? It was too big of a verb to be contained and made into a noun. It wasn’t something we could hold in our hands, it wasn’t something concrete like a painting or photograph, so we never said it. It was too permanent, too binding, and yet, so fleeting at the same time. We never said it because we knew it would only get taken away if we did, and I figured we were going to save ourselves before it happened. Gerard had always wanted me to save myself if things went down, but it was hard to do that when I wanted to save him just as much.

Fuck, I did love him, I realized willing my fear away. He had been taken away from me and I still loved him. I hurt inside because I couldn’t see him, and the thought of him being in prison or getting in trouble for this love hurt me even more. The very thing we had avoided to say because of the situation we were in, suddenly made me feel okay. I loved Gerard, and I knew he loved me back. I thought of the story I told, the memories I had and I realized it had been there all along. Gerard cared for me; I thought of him washing my hair in the shower, the way his fingers massaged my scalp and made me feel good. He loved me. I thought of the things I did for him, coming to his apartment every day even if it could mean the complete and utter end for us entirely. We were willing to risk it all, because fuck, we had it all.

We were in love.

I started to laugh after the silence that had followed from Jasmine’s remark, realizing that it had taken a teenage girl to open my eyes, and most likely Gerard’s, too. He was probably thinking the exact same thing as me, not wanting to express it, acknowledge it because he too didn’t know if it was real. Gerard was so smart – a genius at times. And it had taken a teenager to tell both of us that we were in love. He would die laughing, as I was right then, when I finally told him it. If I ever got a chance.

“What’s so funny?” Jasmine asked, her face twisted in a confused smile.

“Nothing,” I said, waving my hand in the air and calming down. I took a deep breath and met her gaze, confused smile still on her face.

“I do love him. A lot,” I confessed, feeling the words roll of my tongue. They didn’t have as much damage as I thought they would, Jasmine’s countenance relaxing, and her body leaning against the couch.

“I can see that. And really, it’s truly astounding.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling embarrassment creep its way onto my cheeks. I matched her weak grin, tilting my head away and looking at my hands in my lap.

“Thank you,” I said again after some silence, enunciating the words for a totally different cause.

“For what?”

“For understanding,” I stated earnestly, looking her in the eyes. She let out a sigh, trying to by pass her emotion and waving it all away with a hand, but I could still see it slide through, and it made me even happier than I already was.

“It’s the least I can do, I guess,” she stated, shrugging her shoulders. “I just feel like I know you, when I barely even met you.”

“I guess those terms are completely different in their definitions,” I said with a smile, Gerard’s philosophical awareness coming through in my voice. “Just because you only just met me in this life, doesn’t mean we haven’t met in a previous.” I paused and looked at her, judging her reaction to my oh-so cliché, but oh so true line. “’Cause I feel like I know you too.”

She smiled and nodded, understanding me yet again. I was never one for reincarnation, until I met her and my belief in the notion was brought to life again.

“It’s just too bad in this life, I can’t be your turtle dove,” she stated with a sigh, her eyes rolling a bit.

“What?” I asked, no longer following our metaphors.

“Remember?” she asked shocked, wide eyes peering at me. I chewed on my bottom lip and shook my head slowly, feeling like a complete and utter jerk. Instead of getting mad though, she merely rolled her eyes and batted me on the arm, and sighed, “Jeez, I would have thought with Gerard owning a dove you would remember something like this!”

I laughed at her mannerisms, eager and waiting for her to continue. She shifted her weight to face me more and began the explanation I had forgotten about.

“Turtle doves - two birds that are supposed to be together.”

Something inside my head clicked, and I remembered our conversation on the trampoline from the first night at the cottage. I let my mouth fall open and my eyes grow wide, but didn’t cut her off as she continued to explain.

“I asked you what bird you wanted to be, and we both ended up picking doves. I had picked turtle dove though, hoping that maybe, just maybe you could be the other bird I was looking for.” She smiled, her face turning a slight shade of pink as she covered her hands over her face. “I know, it’s dumb. I’m a hopeless romantic. Leave me alone.”

“No, it’s not dumb,” I said, reaching over and brushing her hand away from her face. I needed to see her for this. “I never knew you liked me that way. I mean, I knew you liked me, but… I just didn’t think that much…”

She flung both of her hands off her face easily now, shooting me a teasing glare. “How could you not know?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I was gay; I wasn’t used to finding hints of desire from the opposite gender.

“I had sex with you after a day, Frank,” she reminded me. “I don’t usually do that with guys.” She laughed in spite of herself, trying to make things sound better than they were.

“I know,” I assured her, touching her shoulder. “But I had sex with you, too, and I don’t usually do that either. Especially since I’m gay.”

I smiled back at her, watching her countenance change form. She gave me an incredulous look, and I returned it, not quite comprehending what she was getting at. I started to revaluate what I had said, running through it to see if I had offended her in any way. Instead, I found something I had not been anticipating.

I thought of the extra meanings in my statement, knowing just where to look from the numerous double meanings Gerard had always given me. I had had sex with Jasmine quick, quicker than normal for the very same reason she had done it with me. We were attracted to each other, drawn to each other like the birds she wanted to be like. We were each other’s turtle doves, and as my thought prog

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 518