Chicago School Strike

It's week two of a strike that leaves kids in desperate need of an education without school, parents without care for their kids, and kids forced to walk past picket lines to get to "safe havens." I blogged about this when the strike started at http://bit.ly/RT93k3 Take a look, comment on your opinion, and then join me in hoping the union vote today sends kids back where they belong, inside classrooms.

Book Review - Crank

Crank by Ellen Hopkins
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

After reading this book it doesn't surprise me to learn the author suffered through a similar situation first hand with her own daughter. Because I did the same. There was so much in this book I recognized, and a lot that helped me understand my own child better.
Kristina meets Crank, a powerful street drug. The rest is pretty much a foregone conclusion. "The Monster" grabs her at first use. She becomes Bree, an alter ego that is almost her exact opposite, and that loves the monster, in spite of the dangers and cost.

This is not a book for anyone who wants a happy ending. Not even a hopeful ending. This is a book about reality. Yes the language is crude, the damage to Kristina/Bree is difficult to read. Authors are told to be cruel to their characters. Turns out the monster loves cruelty. What happens as Bree takes over and pushes Kristina aside make readers shudder, and so it should. This is the kind of YA book adults, especially parents, should read. Kristina really does love her family. She really does love the real world. She understands what is happening to her. But Bree grows stronger. And the monster never stops calling.

I can't believe it took me this long to get to this book. And, although I shudder, I'm heading out now to get the sequel, Glass.

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In Memorium

Her name would have been Camilla.

She would have been my first grandchild, but she died two weeks ago, two months before she was due.

She lived and grew and kicked inside my daughters body for six months. Then, for some reason only God and maybe the doctors know, she died. Doctors had to remove her from my daughters womb. My child had a few minutes to hold her child's dead body. Then it was done.

 We're still trying to adjust. Camilla was a wanted, anticipated, loved child. I hope that wherever her spirit is, she knows that. I was so looking forward to showing her off to my friends. And spoiling her totally rotten, as is a grandmother's privilege.

 I keep thinking I'm over it. Then suddenly I find myself staring into space, missing the little girl who was supposed to arrive in August, and now never will. The smiles I will never see, the laughs I don't get to hear. My daughter remains devastated. She has some health issues that may have affected the child, and she is now inconsolable, blaming herself. (I'm perfectly happy to blame her live in boyfriend, I blogged about that at Romancing The Genres.) But in the end, blame doesn't matter.

Camilla does.

Losing Friends

Growing old means growing in wisdom, I guess. But it also means loss, and I have lost a dear friend--again.

His name was Ernie Swirles, and many years ago we agreed to disagree about the Chicago Cubs. He ushered at my Church, Trinity United Methodist in Mt. Prospect, and was the kind of character everyone loved, especially his passion for the aforementioned team and anything related to Capone. Yeah, that Capone.

He was 69, and died on July 30 after a long battle with cancer. He went in for surgery a few months ago, and never came home, spending time in and out of nursing facilities and finally hospice. I didn't realize when he went in I would never see him again. His pain was so bad he couldn't have visitors or phone calls right until the end.

For the last few years my old pal and I had a not necessarily friendly bet on the finish status of the Cubs and Sox. Only a dollar and no matter what their records, we always battled about who really won. I don't want to win this year. I'd give anything to be able to hand him that dollar come fall. For the one and only time in my life, I have to say, Go Cubs.

This too shall pass

Part of me knows how vulnerable I am, but all the modern conveniences have dulled the idea that I too live on the edge. We had a storm last night. Not one of the huge disasters that leave thousands dead, than God. The sky went dark, trees fell over, and a transformer blew, plunging my neighborhood into darkness.

I admit to being petty enough to envying the people on the other side of the street that still had power. How unfair, I thought, that I live on the wrong side of some boundary line I didn't know existed.

This too shall pass, I realize that even as I cope with a day of no electricity.  By tomorrow at the latest things will be back to normal.  So many people around the world have suffered worse disasters, so I've already left my pity party behind.  No electricity just means an inconvenience to me, no air conditioning, no TV or radio, no automatic garage door opener.  But it's also a reminder of how fragile my world is, and how little it would take to plunge my life, and the lives of my neighbors and friends, into real trouble.

Book Review - Love Sucks

Love Sucks! by Melissa Francis

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


This was a good, fun, quick read. Although I have not read the first book in the series, Bite Me, I had no trouble following along with the plot or characters. We have a vampire teen fighting off her unsibling-like feelings for her stepbrother who is a wizard, and dealing with the development of her own powers. She teams up with a sexy vampire trainer while her mother prepares to give birth to a witch/vampire hybrid and her evil father reenters the picture and tries to use her as a key to something horrible. Somehow the author manages to make this not just another vampire story as the Ashe and her look-but-don't-touch stepbrother learn to trust and work together to save the baby and the world. And prepare for the "Love Sucks" prom.

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Snowmaggedon claims a friend.

Today I received news no one wants to hear. Snowmaggedon claimed a long-time friend of mine. I first met Kent Bergren when I started working at Illinois Bell. He and I were fourth-floor buddies, me in General Applications, he in Payroll. Our careers crisscrossed over the years, we moved to different departments, different buildings, different cities, but always seemed to come together again. I went to his wedding and his eldest son's christening.  We were in the same department when I decided to retire in 2008, and he helped throw the farewell party, complete with a homemade game for me to use to remember all the years with Illinois Bell, Ameritech, Ameritech Applied Technologies, Ameritech (again), SBC and finally AT&T, all without ever having to polish up a resume or head on a job search, through the wonders of divestiture and merger.

He went out to shovel snow. Felt pressure in his chest and died. He was fifty-five.  I hadn't seen him in years, but he was always fun, enthusiastic and friendly, upbeat and ready to work on any problem.

It's hard to think of the world continuing without him.

Traffic School

I decided to kill the proverbial two birds with this post. I belong to a writing group that puts out regular writing prompts and for February the prompt is ... traffic problems. For me, that means writing about my day in traffic court.

Let me admit that I did break a rule. And everthing the instructor said during the four hours of traffic school was good information. But does it change anything for me? No.

The instructor was shocked to find that less than half of us were there for speeding.  While one woman did use a cell phone in a construction zone, most of us were ther providing the state with additional revenue for more minor offenses. Mine involved a bonehead mistake, I tried cutting through a vacant lot to get around the "traffic control device."

I already classify as one of the old, fuddy duddy drivers. Maybe five miles over the posted speed limit, but ten - no. And when someone tailgates me, I slow down, I get nervous seeing those cars too close to me rear. But I sat through the lectures and videos, discussed the scenarios with the other unfortunates present, took my certificate and left.

Actually, it ended up being a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. I even picked up some personalities and tidbits of information I'll use in my writing. Best of all, we started exactly on time, took frequent breaks and the instructor sped through the last section to make sure she gout out early.

What more can one ask?

Cowards way out, or Only way out

We tell kids these are the best years of their lives. Maybe we do our kids a disservice when we reminisce about the good old days of our childhoods. We say “Wait until you’re adults and have to face real problems.” My parents used to say these things to me. You want to see how bad life can be, they said, try being an adult. I know they were talking about hard jobs, debts, mortgages, sick children. I know they had forgotten what hell adolescence can be. At least, I know all that now. Back then, those words sometimes made me re-evaluate the whole want to grow up thing. Because life as an adolescent was hard enough.


How many of us continue heading for work every day knowing we would spend eight hours being laughed at, spat on, made jokes of, have foul language used to us and about us, told we were subhuman and deserved to be dead, hit, tripped and knocked down – and all in eyesight of the bosses who did nothing to make it stop. And then knew that when we went home our day would be on the news, for the world to see. We would sue or quit and refuse to return. Most middle school and high school students don’t have that option.

In fact, bullying begins in grade school. And with the internet and cell phones and the advent of cyberbullying, the torment doesn’t end when kids leave school. For better or worse, the online world is a part of today’s experience. Ask the adults ticketed because they just could not put their phones down or stop texting while driving. For many of today’s youth, the internet is the method of communication. And that means many of the bullied find themselves being just as tormented inside the supposed safety of their own homes.

And then there are the suicides.

Adolescence and young adulthood are times when we experience our strongest feelings and passions, while still having a minimum of life experience to draw on. Kids haven’t lived through enough disasters to know that things really do get better.

Earlier this year I had major surgery, a hysterectomy to remove a cancer in my uterus. I woke up in indescribable pain, with doctors and nurses treating it like it was nothing. My recovery took time, and as hours and then days passed, I remember being willing to do anything to have it end. Had someone walked into my hospital room with a gun and offered to shoot me to put me out of my misery I would have had to think long and hard before refusing what could be called an act of kindness. But I would have refused. Because, after more decades on Earth than I want to admit, I knew that no matter how bad the pain was, it really was temporary. As one of my favorite authors, Robert Heinlein, had my all time favorite character, Lazarus Long, say “These things pass…the trick is to live through them.”

But do people really know that fundamental rule of the universe, deep down in their guts, when they are eighteen, or fifteen, or eleven? Because those are the ages of the kids killing themselves over bullying. Those kids still believe that life is supposed to be fair, making it all the more bewildering for them that they are treated so badly. Its easy for adults to say that suicide is a cowards way out, but can we really expect these young people to have the life experience to know that? Any more than they know that …these things pass? And in the end, does it really matter what the bully’s motive was? If the victim is just as damaged, shouldn’t the perpetrator get some kind of punishment? Just wanting some amusement is no excuse for harassing others. In the adult world, we would call it what it is, harassment.

That’s why I’m with the “It Gets Better” campaign. Because for most kid, adolescence is not a fun time. A lucky few are happy, some get by, many are bored, and a startling number are damaged. Statistics say that 25-30% of kids in the U. S. are involved in bullying, either as bully or victim. And that, in spite of the recent publicity about kids being bullied because they are gay, most are not. Research says that all you have to be is “different.” Kids with emotional problems are heavy targets; they have fewer coping skills and are usually the last ones to tell anyone. Other sins that set bullies off can include being too tall, too short, first to develop or last, being skinny, fat, having an accent, or just the wrong taste in clothes – all make you a possible target. Even the sanest and most well-grounded of us can be irrevocably damaged after months and years of torment. Let’s do more for our kids. I taught Sunday school recently and learned that several youth in our church were being bullied, or had been in the recent past. In one case a child got no relief from the school, even though he was being bullied on school grounds. Teachers look the other way or don't believe him.

It’s not just in the papers, or somewhere far away. With suicide the number three killer of youth aged eight to twenty-four, it’s time we woke up, looked around, and did more than just feel sorry after they have found the only escape available to them.

Getting back to normal (and to my writing)

Today I'm back to the real reason for this blog, my writing. I've decided to put out the beginning of my WIP's and take a look to see which I should concentrate on next, since I finally think I'm bringing the story that initially was titled Life sucks, and now holds the name, Minority of One (MO1) to a close.

I'll begin by giving the opening of MO1, my sequel to PULL MY STRING today.
Cold day in hell has its own meaning when you’re standing outside school in a minus twenty wind chill waiting for your boyfriend. The gray clouds promise another blizzard will hit soon. Nothing combats Chicago weather in January, not even my brown bomber jacket. And don’t mention the so-called magic of gore-tex. Commercials lie. Cold flows up through the bottom of my boots and my toes burn.

Where the heck is Carl?

He worried about first semester finals last week. I understood when he said he had no time to get together. Carl’s always been silent and moody. Artists can be like that. I understand. But he’s grown worse since school started again after winter break.

No. Even before.

Carl’s acted strange ever since his uncle, the old guy who claims he’s no longer gay, lost his job and moved into the family’s basement. The whole Redkin family acts different. They even skipped church yesterday. Probably the first time Carl’s mother’s voice didn’t overpower the choir since the days of Noah.

Most students moving around me and climbing the stairs to Farrington High School’s doors act like I’m just another lump of dirty snow. Doesn’t matter, I see Carl at the end of the block.

His solid frame looks better than usual. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t seen him in so long. Even bundled in that bulky down coat his parents insisted on buying him, the one he says makes him look like a human marshmallow, he looks good.

I feel hard and tight and ready to go off like a Fourth of July bottle rocket as I jump to his side and give him a slap on the back. “Where you been, man? Damn near froze my ass off waiting on you.”

“Don’t.” He jumps and pulls himself free like my fingers are knives. “I…we need to talk.”

I know what that means. Code for, I’ve found someone else. It all comes together. His silence, the way he’s found excuses not to meet, the unanswered phone calls.

Who is he, I want to ask. What’s the name of the guy who’s taken Carl away? I’m ready to order him to stay with me. Dad used to call me Orders ’R Us, and even my big brother sometimes finds it easier to just salute and let me rule. But that’s not what I want with Carl.

“It was all a mistake.” Carl bites his lower lip the way he always does when he’s nervous. “I’m not gay. I’m…I want to be normal.”

“What are you talking about?”

Carl stands with his arms crossed tightly around himself, as if to push off an attack. “I just want to be normal. Is that too much to ask?”

For Carl to be normal, he has to dump me.

Maybe I didn’t really think we could be a forever couple.

Or maybe I did.

I thrust my hands deep into my pockets so he can’t see them shake and try making a joke. “We’re not abby-normal.” Stupid, and way below my usual standards. “There’s nothing wrong with us. Nothing except we’re standing out here with our nuts freezing when we should be smart enough to get inside.”

He frowns so hard his cheeks bulge. “My uncle says it’s a choice I have to make. He did, and it worked for him.” The eyes barely visible below his cap are wide and so dark they’re almost black instead of the coconut brown I fell for a year ago. The visor keeps snow from landing on his face, but moisture gleams on his cheeks and the tips of his eyelashes are white. The future doctor in me wants to tell him to brush the tears away before they freeze and make him sick. The lover in me wants to kiss him and make all this go away.

When I move closer, his eyes open and he steps back. “I’ve gotta change. You can handle this Neill, you’re strong. But I can’t deal anymore.”

Strong? It’s ten below and snowing and every word he says leaves me ready to melt into the salt-strewn sidewalk. “Nothing’s wrong with us.”

“There is no us anymore. I won’t be gay anymore.”

Just like that. As if he can turn his feelings off.

Maybe he can.

“I can’t deal,” Carl continues. “My family says--”

“Don’t listen to them.” I know what they tell him. I’ve heard it myself. God hates you fags. Homos are an abomination.

How do you argue with the God thing?

“Don’t listen to Mom and Dad? My uncle? I’m tired of being called a queer, faggot, or fudge-packer. Listening to my mother crying and praying because I’m on the fast path to hell.”

He turns.

I jump forward and grab his sleeve.

People stream around us. The first period bell will ring in a few minutes. Neither Carl nor I are invisible. Bet the talk’s already raging about the family squabble.
Ex family.

“Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?” My heart pounds as I wait for his answer.

He doesn’t turn and look me in the face. Just nods like some bobble-head doll. “We can still be friends.”

Friends. The word is a knife in my chest.

When I release him, he heads up the stairs to the school entrance. As he disappears through the doors, the words of Kanye’s song run through my head. Now that that don’t kill me can only make me stronger.

Who’d ever want to be so fucking strong?

If Mom and Dad were still alive--

What would I do? Run home through the snow and throw myself in Mom’s lap? Been there, done that back in seventh grade, the first time a kid called me a butt-eating faggot. I won’t let my feelings control me. I’m Neill. My parents knew what they were doing when they named me chief. I know what I am and I won’t drop to my knees and go bitching about what Carl and I have.

What we had.
Yeah, my hero's gay. And he's got a heck of an arc to go through.
Tomorrow I'll go for Girl Marked X (Adult Romantic Suspense)

Re-packaging my life

Sorry about my two-week hiatus. Writing-wise I've been so busy I don't know how I'm keeping organized. (Maybe I'm not).

I received not one but two rejects for Pull My String. Would be depressing but one agent gave me such and awesome rejection that included a great critique. I'll be using her feedback to take another look at the story, so I can't really feel too bad. I also learned that Damaged Goods finalled in a second contest, Indiana Golden Opportunity. Suddenly the story of the prostitute and the killer that I thought only its mother would love is being liked by others.

Anyway, last week I finally completed my first draft of the second YA, the sequel to Pull My String, which I've renamed Minority of One. I managed to get Neil and Carl back together again. Unfortunately Neil's mom had to die. And once again if felt bad killing a character I never intended to care for.

Just when I thought I'd never make a good murderer I'm off to edit The Last Logan, a romantic suspense where I get to kill of almost the entire family. My critique partner is looking at the beginning right now. And, since November is approaching, I spent today outlining the book I want to write for NaNoWriMo - the sequel to Damaged Goods - Damaged Lives.

Oh yes, I just signed up for YARWA, the new RWA chapter for Young Adult writers.

Goodreads

I've joined Goodreads, an readers/writers networking site. I'm posting my WIP's there, along with reviews of other works. Come take a look at Damaged Goods, Pull My String and Life Sucks.

BIAW - the end

Even after taking yesterday off to do a little playing, this has been an exhausting week. Productive, but dizzying. I have 126 pages, and almost 21,000 words of Neill's journey through a sucky life. Not only dies the poor boy loose his boyfriend, but his grandfather hates him, this girl won't leave him alone, and now he's got to deal with a dead teacher and a brother in prison. I'd feel sorry for him, but I know how the story ends.
“I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I could never hate you, Kalif.”

“Never?” My brother laughs.

“We’re family.”

“You need to know, I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I knew I had to stop being a coward and protect you, no matter what it cost.” He swallows as if his throat is on fire. It’s like he’s about to make some confession. But I know my brother like I know myself. He never killed anyone.

“It’s okay, Kalif. You’ve always been the best brother anyone could ask for.”

“Maybe. But I’ve been one lousy father.”

“No you haven’t. Sierra -”

“I’m not talking about my daughter.”

Kalif falls silent. His eyes glaze. He’s no longer staring at me. His eyes burn through my skin as he stares at something I can’t see.

“I met your mother in college.”

“No.” My chest pounds like I’m in a marathon and my brain refuses to believe what I think I’m hearing.

“I thought she was just another student.”

Don’t say this. Please.

“I didn’t know. How young she was, I mean. Didn’t find out until too late she was just sixteen. She told me she was eighteen and I believed – wanted to believe. Prescott’s daughter hated the tight leash he kept her under, she liked escaping and hanging around the campus. Hanging with me.”
Come to think of it - I do feel sorry for Neill. Because not even he is who he thought he was.

BIAW - Day 5

This isn't as bad as NaNoWriMo - I only have to suffer through two more days. And this story is zinging. Maybe because this is the first time I've tried a sequel, so I know most of the characters already - although I never knew Neill lived with his older brother. Or maybe because I'm doing 1st person again. My last 1st person POV novel zinged too. Anyway, today I worked on the scene where Neill confronts his brother about a possible affair with his teacher. As usual, it's all about Neill - which is as it should be - he's the hero and he's sixteen. All this is leading up to the moment they find the teacher dead, with his brother as the prime murder suspect.
Kalif’s hands tremble. “I haven’t felt like this since the night mom and dad died.” He heaves a sigh and turns to look at me. “Relax, I’m not repeating that stupidity again. But at a time like this I almost wish I were still a drinking man.”

“Are you having an affair with my teacher?”

The words hang in the air between me and my brother. I know I’ve crossed into a world I never wanted to enter.

I’m expecting him to swear, hit me, throw things.

Anything but the look of fear that tightens his jaw. “No.” He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture of surrender. “Not now.”

“But you did.”

Whatever he’s feeling it’s more than fear. Something moves in the back of my brother’s eyes. I could swear he wants to say more. I think if I were older he would. I think he wants to confess. But not to his kid brother.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Before or after you got married?” I say as I jump to my feet and run up the stairs to my room. I thought their marriage was tight. Proof love was possible. I know without some miracle I’ll never be married. I may find a partner willing to be with me no matter what people say. Maybe we’ll live together, have a civil contract and one of those civil ceremonies and try pretending it’s the same thing. But marriage, real marriage, would require a miracle.

If real love takes a miracle too, I am so screwed.

And not in a nice way.

BIAW - Day 4

I am reaching what is usually the magical point for me in any story, the hundred page mark. By this point ideas are solid. Unfortunately this is also the time when flaws become visible. Amazingly so far, no glaring plot holes. I'm at 16,000 words, far ahead of schedule, and I see the road to the end of the story clearly.

Right now I'm busy plodding through the dreaded middle.
“Is there something wrong with me?”

“No.” Now I have to explain I’m not interested, and then she’ll want the details why and she’ll pout and another friend bites the dust. Why didn’t I just say something in the first place?

Her brows furrow like Sierra's does when her mother takes her toys away. “I thought you liked me. Is it because I’m a white girl?”

After biting back a laugh I say, “It’s because you’re a girl.”

She’s silent for a minute. “You don’t like girls?”

You could parade every model from the swimsuit edition in front of me and all I’d think was – interesting. Maybe, nice tan. “Call me crazy, but I’m gay, as in not exactly happy, but that’s life.”

“Gay? As in you hate girls?”

“Oh, I like girls. They make great friends. But I’m not interested in them in any other way. Julian knows I wouldn’t object if you two got interested in each other.” Yet, for some reason that thought does bother me. Calling Julian a man-whore’s a bit much. He just never met a girl he didn’t want to touch, and right now he’s popular enough that most of them want to be touched by him.

The girls at our table are the exceptions. Like a prophet unwelcome in his own neighborhood, our girls know him too well. But there’s a whole school full of girls for him to strut through. I don’t want Sheila one of his casualties.

“How do you know you’re gay?”

The crowd screams as Farrington scores again. People around us leap to their feet, jerking the wooden bench beneath us as we stare at each other.

“How do you know you’re straight?”

“Boys – some boys, make me feel -,” she pauses as if searching for words.

“Some boys make me feel hot, too.”

“But not girls?”

“Never.” Still, there’s something in her face that attracts me. I’ve never questioned being gay. But there is something calming about being with her. “I’ve known I was gay since I was twelve.”

“You wanted to have sex with guys at twelve?”

Why does everyone think its only about sex. “Is that what you wanted at twelve?”

She looks thoughtful. “No. I just … wanted to impress them. Wanted them to like me. To be around me. It made me feel good knowing a guy liked me.”

Bingo. “Especially the right guy.”

She nods. “I’d get all tingly inside when he’d smile or say hi.”

Ditto. I love that tingly thing. When Carl and I have sex, it will be extra.

Except its not gonna happen. He’s over there across the stands snuggling up to Wendy like she’s the last life preserver on the Titanic.

“Did you ever try being with a girl?”

“No. Have you ever tried being with a tree?”

“That’s gross.”

“Not really. I like trees. Think where the world would be without them.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Is that what you think of us?”

“Girls are all right. Okay to talk to, sometimes even interesting. But not that interesting.”

“But guys blow your gasket?”

I’d never have put it like that, but she’s got the idea. “Some guys, anyway.”

BIAW - DAY 1

I'm in a BIAW (Book In A Week) challenge. As if NaNoWriMo isn't enough. My personal challenge is 3,000 words a day. So, it's almost the end of day 1, and I have finished 3600 words (a bit of a future cushion always helps.) I've started a new book, I'm always at my best at the beginning. This one is tentatively titled Life sucks, and no, it's not another vampire story. I recently completed and submitted a YA novel called Pull My String. While waiting - hoping- I'd get a bite, I decided to do another YA. And, while the original was not supposed to be a series, I thought, why not use the same school, setting and characters? Why reinvent the wheel? So, this one takes place a few months after PMS ends, and one of the minor characters, a gay junior named Neill, is the antagonist for this book.
Anyway, here's the beginning:
Chapter 1
The first day of second semester should mark the beginning of the end. In a good way. The school year’s half-way over. I know we still have to wear boots and heavy coats, and the clouds in a sky more putrid and gray than blue promise there are more blizzards in store before there’s even a hint of spring. The negative temperatures eat at the end of your nose and there is absolutely no reason for us to be standing here at the foot of the staircase instead of following the other students up to the entrance to Farrington High School.

With first semester finals out of the way there’s supposed to be a light at the end of the tunnel. Not a wind chill ripping through my guts that matches anything January can throw at me.

“I just want to be normal,” Carl says again. “Is that too much to ask?”

For Carl to be normal he has to dump me.

Even bundled in that bulky down jacket with the cap pulled down to hide his hair and ears, the sight of Carl’s big body leaves me feeling loopy. Maybe I didn’t think we could really be a forever couple, but I do love him.

He can’t be abnormal. If he’s abnormal, what does that make me?

I try making a joke. “We’re not abby-normal.” Stupid, and way below my usual standards. The cold stings my face, turning every sound I make into frozen clouds that hang in the air in front of my face, stinging my cheeks and growing larger with every word. “There’s nothing wrong with us, except we’re standing out here freezing our butts when we should be inside.”

He shakes his head. “My uncle says it’s a choice I have to make. He did, and it worked for him. I’m going to try. You can handle this, Neill, you’re strong. I tried, you know I did. But I can’t deal with this anymore.”

Strong? It’s ten below and snowing and every word he says leaves me ready to melt out here. “What’s not normal is denying what you are. What about us?”

“There is no us anymore. I won’t be gay anymore.”

Just like that. As if he can turn the way he feels off.

Maybe he can.

“I’m tired, Neill. I’m tired of being a homo, faggot, or fudge packer and having my mother crying and praying because her son’s on the fast track to hell.”