Get Over It [BoyxBoy]

Chapter Thirteen

 C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N —

 [Max]

 School feels weird without Joe here, like the kind of weird where you hurt something on your body and you have to change how you move because it hurts if you don’t; you keep going back to what feels natural, moving normally, and then it hurts when you do. Every time I look up from my work I expect Joe to be there, next to me, smiling. Then I feel a pang of sadness and guilt.

 If I had never run away he would be fine right now. He would be on the streets, or sleeping in my house—but fine nonetheless. He would be here with me, as a friend or as something more. I don’t know which; those details don’t matter anymore. What matters are his feelings and emotions and his wellbeing. So far I’ve called him once, and that was yesterday. I tried calling him this morning but he didn’t answer.

 My hands are fumbling with the frayed edges of Romeo and Juliet. From what I have read I can honestly say that I don’t like it. I don’t like Shakespeare in general. Archaic language is stupid. I look at the notes I’ve written about the book, and little things that we, or should I say I, are going to include in the project.

 I’m hot and sweaty from last lesson—p.e—even though I didn’t do much—just messing around with James when we’re meant to be fielders for cricket, pretending that everything is okay. My hair is still damp from the light rain and my blazer sticks to me like a magnet. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t ate much, haven’t needed to. Looking at food makes me feel sick, like how you would feel when you look at food after eating too much.

 If someone told me a few days ago what is going to happen I undoubtedly would have laughed in their face, and depending on how I felt I might’ve snickered and tried to raise my eyebrows. The whole notion of a conversion camp sends laughter spewing out of my mouth like smoke from a bus.

 People can’t change who you are; the only people who can do what are those you love and yourself. Even then there are limits. You can’t change your sexual orientation; it is as much a part of you as your head or your limbs. It is you, and you are it. You can suppress it and hide it, but it will always be there to haunt and remind you that you can’t change the thing you want desperately to change.

 I don’t know what I would be like in there. But what I do know is this: I would put up one hell of a fight. I refuse to be defined by what others conceive me to be. I am defined by my actions and my personality. Years of experience have taught me that. I will remain true to myself, and in doing so I will remain true to everyone else.

James sits two desks away with his group and through my peripheral vision I notice how he turns his head towards me every so often. When he does it again I look back. He grins at me, inclines his head at the rest of his group, and then rolls his eyes.

I haven’t told him anything, so he thinks that Joe is sick. I couldn’t tell him, I couldn’t say the words out loud because then it makes it that much more real, knowing that someone else knows. Keeping it between us two makes it seem something of a fantasy, an illusion, a dream, something that can be shaken off.

He is only going to be there for two weeks anyway. After that everything will be okay again, and maybe Joe would have gained something out of it, maybe it will make him stronger and tougher. At least he would’ve gotten something out of it—even if he lost so much in the process. How can someone do that; how can a mother send her son off to a camp, knowing that it is going to put him through hell?

She doesn’t deserve to be a mother; she doesn’t deserve to have a son so beautiful and so radiant and full of life and light. She deserves to be punished. I hope that karma comes knocking threefold on her door.