Chapter One: Even Boys Can Learn That

The summer ended uneventfully for me. 

Right now, I’m standing outside my closet, looking in, trying to decide which clothes to pack. To be honest, the past year has forced me into huge, terrifying spaces into which I never thought I’d fit. Luckily, I grew into them and survived. Still, I find myself feeling scared from time to time.

And now, college, and an uncertain but exciting future, lie ahead of me. 

I pull another shirt from my closet—my favorite, with the words No Fear emblazoned across the chest. I slide it into my garment bag. I’m still amazed that I was accepted at Wofford University, especially since my stats look better on my SAT than my high school transcript. Which makes me suspicious: Perhaps Wofford’s decision has more to do with my father’s influence than my academic performance.

Last February, my father and I paid a visit to the dean of admissions. She was a heavy, serious woman with short-cropped hair. She listened patiently to my father’s explanation of my roller-coaster ride through high school. 

Then, in a skeptical, subdued voice, without even a glance at me, she said: “I’ll see what we can do.”

The decision was surprisingly fast. I’d held the letter, addressed to me, for a long time before opening it. Immediately after scanning its contents, I called Dad at work to tell him the good news. Though he congratulated me, there was a telling lack of surprise in his voice.

Several voices come from outside. I stop packing and cross my room to the only window, from which I stare into the yard. The three of them are gathered around the barbecue, cooking hamburgers, my favorite food—don’t judge; I have simple taste—for lunch in my honor. Weirdly, I feel a little nervous about the prospect, primarily because I know what’s happening. Another case of nerves when I'm forced to confront a situation I can’t second-guess. It’s time for leaving—a first—even though I feel that somehow, my life began just ten months ago. Still, I can hardly wait for the new chapter ahead of me. I’ve waited far too long for other things, like hitting the books and telling the truth, and the cost was always high.

I laugh out loud at a couple of jokes they don’t realize I can hear. At least these voices are real. At least I know where they’re coming from. In my short life, I’ve lived too long with ghosts.

A shudder comes over me, and I quickly move away from the window to finish packing. I leave a few items of clothing in the closet for weekend visits, then move into my bathroom to gather my toiletries. I smile at the image of myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s a pleasing one, my face. One might even call it handsome and inviting—necessary qualities to make new friends at college. For a dark moment, I recall another face—a sad, angry one—that the mirror would have reflected once, when I was a lonely kid with mysterious secrets and forbidden questions. In school, other kids, I think, sensed my loneliness and for a long time, making friends seemed almost impossible.

But now? My face, tanned by the Lake Juniper sun, seems brighter. My auburn hair sparkles with speckles of red and blonde in the harsh bathroom light. My blue eyes are more intensely curious than ever. New life stirs below the surface, and as corny as it sounds, I can’t wait to see what discoveries lie ahead.

After completing the chore of packing, I peer through my bedroom window once again, this time at the park across the inlet on whose shore my father’s house is situated. A group of kids play a vigorous game of volleyball. Several young women lay on their backs, sunbathing, their swimsuit tops pushed down as far as they dare. Noisy children scurry along the lakeshore with plastic buckets and muddy shovels.

An impatient teen stands close to the lakeshore as he holds the payphone to his ear. The scene is a catalyst for a memory I will forever long to forget, when I made a call to my mother, filled with desperation and an urgent plea for her to save me from a frightening ghost taunting me.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I hear my mother’s voice. I try to listen, but the sounds are nowhere close to my threshold of hearing. I close my eyes and think, for only a moment, of Charleston, the city that was once my home. It was while living there, with my mother in that historic city, that I discovered my own history, part of which had been snipped away by parents who were only trying to protect me. A history that, once revealed, had driven out all the lies I’d been told for my own good, before the truth made its contribution to establishing something like an identity.

When I finally open my eyes, I am aware of a presence behind me. I turn around. I'm startled to see Frank, standing nervously in the doorway.

“Mom told me you’d called this morning,” Frank says, right away. He glances at the boxes waiting to be hauled away to Wofford. “So you’re heading out this afternoon?”

My feet feel frozen to the floor. Frank is the person I most want to say goodbye to. And yet, the person I'm most reluctant to leave. “My orientation starts tomorrow. After that, it’s on to registration, then classes.”

Frank steps into the room. He leans against the chest of drawers—an antique my mother gave me—then folds his arms across his stomach. “I don’t have to be in Winston-Salem until Labor Day.” He shrugs. “Just means I have to work at my shit summer job for three more weeks.” He grins then winks at me. “Working is a vastly overrated experience.”

I stare at the floor, worrying that I might cry. Or fall into his arms. I regret that conversation with Frank has become this difficult. This halting. “At least the money will come in handy.”

“Maybe.” Frank sounds as though he’s not fully convinced. I know money is not what he’s really thinking about right now. He glances toward a corner of the room, where I’ve propped my Alien Workshop skateboard. “You’re not packing your board?”

I feel myself blush. “I think I’ve finally outgrown it. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Used to be I wouldn’t go anywhere without it.” I touch the board then spin one of the wheels. Then, awkwardly, I stuff my hands into my pockets. “So it’s true? You’re really going to the University of North Carolina School of the Arts?”

Frank picks up a pen from the chest of drawers. He clicks it over and over again. “It was a big surprise. I didn’t think I had a snowball's chance in hell.”

I slide my hands out of my pockets, then rake the fingers of my right hand through my hair. It’s my way of making sure I don’t grab Frank and pull him into a tight embrace. “You’ll be close to a lot of people who share your interests.” I try to smile, but it’s hard. “It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

With a sense of finality, Frank replaces the pen, then stares sadly into my eyes. I meet his gaze. Melt into it. Feel a hot desire that I’d be a fool to try to rekindle. All the words we probably need to say to one another hover just out of reach.

“You’re not upset with me, are you?” Frank finally asks. “I mean, I wouldn’t want that.”

My eyes dart back to Frank. I know my expression looks as though I’m challenging him. I hope he understands how hurt I am. How hurt, even though I do understand that sometimes, plans fall apart, no matter how permanent they feel. “Why would I be upset?”

Frank takes another cautious step into the room, as though he, too, craves proximity. “I didn’t mean to mislead you, you know.”

I swallow an anger that surfaces unannounced. “I was disappointed. I’m not mad, but I thought we were going to Wofford together. I was looking forward to that.”

Frank sighs heavily. “Those were my plans, too. That’s why I never even told you about the audition until the university called me. Getting in seemed like such a long shot.” He shrugs. “Really, Rusty. I had no idea I’d be accepted. Such a small percentage of applicants are.”

“I know it’s what you want. It’s what you’ve always wanted. You have to do what’s best.” I hesitate, then sit on my bed. I lean against my duffel bag and stretch my arms along the blue canvas. “Still, we’ll be so far apart. We’ll see each other even less than we do now.”

As though wary of my rejection, Frank walks across the room, then sits down—right beside me. “We can write. We can call.” Despite our physical closeness, the psychological distance between us stays the same. “Besides, it’s not like we’re on opposite coasts. The schools aren’t even that far from one another.”

I frown. I can’t help it. “For college students, two and a half hours is like being on different coasts. You know what I mean. We’ve been best friends—” My brain and my voice sever their connection. I brush my long hair behind my ears, then touch my earring, as though for reassurance. “Maybe it won’t be so hard. After all, the summer has been busy for both of us. We didn’t see each other very much.”

Frank bites his bottom lip. He seems to be fighting his sadness, but at the same time, he’s determined not to allow me to brush him off. I know, I can be cold sometimes, without meaning to be. “We were both working. When did we have time to spend together? It doesn’t mean I valued you less. Or that I cared for you less.”

My bottom lip begins to tremble. “Things used to be different. Things were easier after the ordeal we survived.”

Frank nods. “Of course they were. I think we grew closer as a result, don’t you? Being independent doesn’t mean we can’t be friends anymore. What difference will a little distance make?”

“Still, things just won’t be the same, will they?”

“But you have to admit, Rusty. We learned so much from the experience. Nothing can take that away. Not even the distance between two schools.”

I bow my head as I fold my hands in my lap. I think of that December night.

The night our friendship began.

The night that exposed all secrets.

“Frank?”

He looks up. My face is close to his now, and my expression probably seems both mysterious and plaintive. Frank knows how difficult it is for me to open up. To say what I really feel—though I've gotten better at it.

“We’ve been through so much shit together, Frank. We became so close. Much closer than friends.”

I choke up, as it is my wont to do when intense feelings enter the picture. 

“In just a single night, we were forced to stand up for ourselves. The things that happened to us? They might take us years to fully absorb. No one could possibly relate to what we went through. No one else could ever understand feeling hated and despised to the extent we felt.”

Frank smiles at me. His shoulders relax. “I know what you’re saying, Rusty. I know exactly. We’ll always have a sublime connection. Or what my Mom would call spiritual.”

Frank rises to his feet and walks slowly to the door. I follow him. It cannot end like this. I won’t let it.

Once again, laughter comes from outside. Laughter that feels new to Dad’s house.

Deliberately, Frank pauses in the doorway. There is no protocol for a departure like ours. He turns to face me. Then, smiling, he extends a hand. For an awkward moment, I just stare at it even as I feel a vague sense of insult. 

How can a mere handshake ever be enough?

Slowly, I take Frank’s hand and squeeze.

“Good luck, Rusty. I won’t forget you.”

I release Frank’s hand and swallow my tears. I think of the past, my past, when it was impossible to live in a world I could trust.

Now, I know I’m growing stronger. Now, I feel I’m growing closer to myself with each passing day. The faith I’d lost because of the lies is gradually returning.

I think of all the people in whom my faith has been restored. 

My parents.

My friends.

Even myself.

And Frank is part of that world, no matter how far away he might be. No person, no object, not even time nor distance can ever take that away from me.

Easily, I open my arms to receive Frank. We cannot part as adversaries or as strangers now. Sometimes, an embrace is the only way to close the distance between two people. 

Even boys can learn that—just as we had.

Long moments pass. Moments I don’t want to relinquish. We hold each other tightly. Then, surprised, I feel Frank’s lips against my cheeks. He disappears almost as fast as this kiss. I hear his car, the engine idling, then groaning, as Frank drives away, leaving me all alone in my room. I think of what we might have been to one another. I wonder how long we will remember each other, and how much time must pass before the sadness goes away.

“Rusty?”

My father’s voice comes from the bottom of the stairs. It’s the same kind but commanding voice I love to hear.

“Come on down, Son. Lunch is ready.”

I brush my disheveled hair from my eyes. Mom likes to see it neat. It’s the least I can do, since she never bitched when I decided to wear it long.

I stack my luggage outside the bedroom, in the hall. My father’s voice lingers in my short-term memory. It is clear and strong as he calls for me once more. 

“Sorry, Dad. I’m on my way.”

My father’s voice, no longer a stranger’s, as it once was. 

Then, after that time, I heard the same voice calling from the darkness.

Slowly, the world opened wide and began to make sense to me.