The Hurt Patrol (2 page)

“Really? You did? You tried to be straight?” I grin, curious, but he doesn't grin back. So I stop smiling.

“Yeah.”

“How'd that work?”

“
Bad
. . .”

“Bad how?” I ask.

“Bad-Really-
Really-
Bad.” His face falls grimly, in memory.

We see the ferry in the distance. At least we see the ferry's silhouette, light on the black water.

It's complicated getting on the boat, and we stop talking till the crabby albino-looking dude in the reflective orange vest signals us up onto the top ramp of the upper deck. He puts a little wedge under our front wheel, since the ferry is pretty empty and we are near the front, where it slants downhill.

Finally we are aboard, so we just sit tight and don't go upstairs to check out the galley. I'm sure it's closed, anyway. Leo sleeps through everything. It's only, like, a half-hour ride, but if she were awake she would probably be hungry. She always is.

Beau and I sit, lost in our thoughts, as we chug over the dark water. Below us waves froth from the prow, briefly lit bright white by the ship's lamps.

I can't believe I have agreed to take these nuts to Forks Freaking Washington. I tried to deny them, but
no!
And I say
Twilight-Smilight!
Sooooo spent! But no, apparently we'll
love
it for eternity, so off we are scampering! Yep, hippity-hop, to nostalgically search out the sparkly vampires and buff werewolves of our youth, just loitering in the old growth. If I sound pissy, it's because I am. This detour is embarrassing.

It's not a very long boat ride, like I said, and we are unloading in no time. We pull out of the terminal and start into the darkness of the sparsely populated far west of Washington. I drive cautiously because it's so dark. Eventually, I can ask Beau to keep telling his story and settle in to listen.

So, this is it. Some things I learned later, but most of this is what Beau told me while we drove into the dark: how he attempted to figure out his way and navigate the quagmire of school and Scouts and sex and lies . . . and realizing you're gay in the Midwest.

Beau is his parents' only kid. He was always a good son, who totally loved them both, but admired his dad, who really liked sports and hunting and fishing. His dad was handsome and buff and could make or fix anything. His dad also liked to drink. A lot.

Beau's dad got weird about Beau early. Beau is creative and artistic. When he was three or four, Beau's dad, Jason, started telling him not to be “such a little fag.” This would be over something like if he used too many colors in his art project. Beau, being in preschool, didn't even know what “a little fag” was. Just something really bad that he didn't want to be . . .

So, he tried not to be such a little fag.

It was such a baffling word to Beau. The first time he heard it, from someone other than his dad, was in first grade. Two girls were holding hands in line, and a third grader, a loud kid named Joel, whom they all (privately) called Mean Joel, pointed at them and yelled,
“Fags! Look at the fags!”

When Beau looked, the girls, who were wearing the same kind of shoes, were staring at Mean Joel blankly. They both looked in confusion from his finger to their shoes, as did Beau. They all thought maybe
fags
was slang for Dora the Explorer sneakers.

So that was his first impression—until his dad got all wild-eyed and very diligently explained it to him.

“Fags are disgusting and they are going to
hell,
Beau! If anyone wants you to be a fag, you punch them in the face so hard they eat teeth! You hear me?! This is how you make a fist! Like a brick!
No!
Like
this!
Jesus, Beau, get it right; don't be such a puss! Wrap your thumb around your fingers, ya little baby!” Frowning like a tough guy, Beau would glue his eyes on his fist so his dad wouldn't see his dazed bewilderment.

Because, mysteriously, Beau kept acting like a little “fag.” It seemed like every time he wanted to do something after school, it turned out to be “a faggy thing.” An example . . .

Beau was in sixth grade when he decided he wanted to try out for the school play and got the part of Caliban in a middle school version of
The Tempest
. He was overjoyed! They said double-check to make sure he could go to rehearsals. His mom said sure; she would be fine running him back and forth. His dad, on the other hand, was not so enthused. Actors are gay.

“What are you gonna do? Skip around and sing some doofy song like a little fairy? Jesus, Beau!” Jason looked over, highball already in hand. Highballs had a way of turning Beau's dad into Mr. Hyde by midafternoon. In spite of this knowledge, Beau still tried his best to convince him. He wanted this so much. Full steam ahead!

“Dad! I wanna be in it! It's not doofy! I'm Caliban! Dad; I'm like the
monster!
”

“What the hell is a
Caliban?
Wait a minute—like a
terrorist?
What the hell, Beau? How do you even know anybody in the Taliban?!” Jason wasn't faking being clueless either.

“No, Dad! Caliban's a monster! A sea monster, Dad! He's a badass!” In desperation, Beau glanced over to his mother. She did her best to help.

“It's Shakespeare, Jason.
The Tempest
. Completely terrorist-free.”

Jason snorted. “Whatever . . . Shakespeare's a fag!
And
an idiot! You start doing a bunch of plays, and you'll be an idiot too, Beau! Is that what you want to be—a faggy little idiot?!”

“Jesus, Jason!” Gina was so scandalized she was almost laughing.

“Bunch of homecoming queens!” Jason jeered. “But it's not too late, Beau; I can send you to anti-faggot camp! That's where they
scare
it out of you!” Jason's face was red with fury—and his old buddy, Johnny Walker, also red.

Gina broke in. “Okay, you need to shut up, now. You're going to say something you'll regret if you don't, Jason . . . and so will—”

“—or maybe military camp! Wanna go to boot camp, Beau? The other guys'll beat the fag outta you!”

“JESUS, JASON!” Beau's mom screeched then, horrified at the notion and no longer laughing. “SHUT
UP
!” She covered her ears. Beau watched her turn and stomp back into the kitchen.

His dad reached over and grabbed the remote control. He hit VOLUME and turned it up. Loud.

He looked over at Beau and gestured, and when Beau sat close, he put his strong arm around Beau's neck. Beau lived for these fleeting, squeezy moments. The problem was they were so hard to come by. They whispered together for a while, watching TV.

Later, Beau told his mom that he didn't think he wanted to be Caliban after all. He said he didn't care; after he'd thought about it for a while, it did sound like it'd probably be stupid.

He hated the sound of her deflated, defeated little sigh.

But his dad could be so nice. When Beau managed to do things the “right” way, he always looked up to meet his dad's shining gaze, feasting like a panther on his dad's approval. Beau kept a clear and cherished memory to remind himself with . . . from when he was much younger, a little Cub Scout . . .

So, as always, in a new town, his dad signed Beau up for Boy Scouts, and this time the timing was perfect. He signed Beau up just as the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby was gearing up.

The Pinewood Derby is this giant race for little Cub Scouts and their cars. They create a car from a block of wood, and the car is their own design, and the Cubs are supposed to build it themselves, a race car from a chunk of wood and some supplies like axles and little wheels—and the dads aren't supposed to do it for them; they are just supposed to “supervise.”

That is like a main rule, so Beau's dad bit his lip and held back. They went by the rules, and if Beau needed something explained then that was okay, they'd talk about it, but he was on his own. Except that he could tell his dad was rooting for him, and that filled him with this deep resolve, even as a little grade-schooler, or whatever. He would
rock
this!

He carved the wood himself, under supervision. His dad gave him giant leather gloves to safely hold the knife and peg of wood while he whittled. He watched and nodded quite seriously as Beau explained his design concepts, his dad asking
him
questions, with that look in his eye, to Beau's amazement and elation. Lots of attention Beau was getting from his dad . . .

Beau had built his Pinewood Derby car all by himself, and it had turned out pretty great. Especially the paint job. He brought it into the living room to show his dad. He was so happy. He was proud of his job well done. He had painted it red, and watched with trepidation—but also pride—as his dad examined the little car's body. He'd given it five coats, to make sure it would be super glossy.

However, as Beau proudly watched, his father's face grew angry—without him even being aware of it—as he turned the little vehicle this way and that. Unconsciously snotty. Beau's budding joy quietly died. Immediately, he took back the little car.

“It's not done—um, that's just the primer.”

Beau got his mom to take him to the store and bought something, secretly, with his own Pokémon money. He had a theory about what might make it better.

He repainted it blue. Five coats. Very glossy. His dad's delighted face was reward enough, but there was more. Eye contact! Shoulder crushing!

“
Nice,
Beau! Hey, good job! Blue instead of that sparkly red crap, right?! Sweet!”

And it was sweet: the expression on his dad's face, the look in his eyes. The Smile. Who cared what freaking color was his own favorite, right? He'd choose another. No worries.

Then, finally it was the day of the big ol' race and everyone was amped. Beau and his mom and dad arrived at the church and went down the stairs to the social hall. In they walked: his mom and dad on either side, all of them beaming, supporting Beau—a
family
. But not for long.

As they entered the large church social hall, the other Scouts—and dads—were already qualifying their race cars. Beau's dad went over to watch the other little cars in the qualifying heats. That's when the beaming ceased—abruptly. His expression quickly turned to outrage.

“What the
hell
—your kid didn't make that by himself! Or yours! Look at these! They look professional! They're like real toys! Are you kidding?! No way did they make these alone!”

He was not pleased. The dads he called out started to bluster and defend themselves like crazy.

“Hey, I just supervised while he used the saw!” “He did so do it himself!” “I just watched!”