Thinking Straight (31 page)

Strickland seems his usual self. Or as much himself as I can assess, given my limited exposure to the man. He seems just as cool, just as sure of himself, as before. Why doesn't he seem as insane as his comments in that article? I wriggle my toes again and think of Will. And I remember the conversation we'd had—our first one, really—when we'd talked about self-confidence. Will had said that people who are truly self-confident are most comfortable around other self-confident people. I wonder if that's true for Strickland, or if his seeming self-confidence comes more from the need to feel superior. A kind of righteous arrogance. If the latter, then it might be kind of fun to try and puncture it—though probably not worth it.

And out of nowhere it comes to me. I realize what I have to do about Charles. For Charles. As soon as I'm out of there I start laying plans.

A
s soon as I'm released from kitchen detail so I can get ready to eat the dinner I've been helping to prepare all afternoon, I dash to my room, fling myself into my desk chair, and grab a pad and pen. I've been thinking about what should go into this note ever since I left Strickland's office, but I still need to work on it a little. I decide to start writing and see how it looks. But when I'm done, I realize it's a little over the top. Especially the quote about lust from James that I've recycled from my Public Apology. So I scratch some stuff out, tone some down, and this is what I end up with:

That will have to do if I'm going to get it into his mailbox before dinner without Charles seeing me. As I'm standing in front of the mailboxes, eyes glued to where the label that says J. BARTLE—he has a first name?—is taped, I ask myself if I'm really, really, really sure I want to do this. I take a deep breath, pop the note in, and then push myself away.

The first part of the evening is kind of a blur. The only thing I remember is that I'd hoped to sit beside Charles in Isaiah, but he's managed to sandwich himself between Hank and a new kid named Ronald.

Before I head toward the laundry room for circle, I go to check the mailboxes. I want to know if Bartle has picked up my note. I know which box is his now, so my eyes lock onto it from a little distance away. And it's empty.

I stand there and take several breaths. I'm just about to turn away when I notice something in my own box. Can't be another summons from Strickland. Could it be a message from Mrs. Harnett about our little situation? But it seems unlikely she'd communicate with me about it like this. I pull it out and open it.

It's from Bartle.

All it says is,

Pray with him. Oh God.

But—there's a circle meeting. I'm sure that's not the one Bartle meant. Nate had said, though, that there would be times I'd need to decide when I shouldn't go, and that not everyone always comes.

Now I'm really torn. Torn nearly to pieces. I could forget the whole thing and go to circle. But Bartle has taken the bait, or so it would seem, and the only way to follow through is to show up. But it's going to be hell dealing with him. I don't know what he'll do, what he'll say, or how much trouble I'm going to get into. What I want, of course, is for him to come on to me, to think he can treat me like he treats Charles. But I won't let him, and then I'll have proof that he's a monster. Though it's also possible he won't do anything at all. I mean, I'm not actually sure that he's mistreating Charles physically. He's certainly capable of reducing kids to tears just by talking to them.

Circle? Or Bartle? Retreat to the safety of loving friends, or take this guy out for Charles and Ray and anyone else he's hurt?

Okay, Taylor, you set this trap, and you know what you have to do.

I start walking, my knees shaking, my arms wrapped around me not unlike the way Charles's arms had been wrapped around him. When I get to the chapel, the doors are closed. I sit on a bench along the wall for a couple of minutes. Collapse on the bench is more like it.

Deep breaths, Taylor. Focus. What would Will do?

Will would probably just charge in there and accuse the guy and see how he reacts. But I don't think that will work; Bartle's been at this far too long and I'm just another kid. If he's really doing this, then I need to catch him, not accuse him. I need proof.

Sorry, Will. This time I'm doing what
I
have to do.

I stand, feeling a little more secure now, and open the door.

There's no one in sight. I start down the center aisle, hearing nothing but my heart pounding in my ears. Is it possible he wants me to go to that corner room?

“Close the door please, Taylor.”

A sound escapes me, and I smell a sharp odor—my own fear. I wheel around. Bartle is sitting in the far corner, just about where Nate and Leland and I had lain in wait for Charles on Sunday. If I'd thought my heart was pounding before, well, let's just say I didn't know what that meant. But I manage to go back and close the door. Then I turn to face Bartle, who's now walking slowly toward me. He stands there a minute, scouring my face with his eyes, and I know he can tell I'm terrified. But this might be a good thing; if I'd meant every word of my note, wouldn't I be afraid?

He turns suddenly toward the altar. “Come.”

Oh God. Is he leading the way to that room? But no, he stops at the front and kneels. I sort of assume I'm to do the same, so I do. He doesn't look at me, but he speaks.

“Taylor, my son, thank you. Thank you for your honesty, for your sincere desire to turn away from sin. You say you are praying, but I'm sure that there are ways to make it more meaningful.” About a hundred of my heartbeats go by, and then he says, “Does Charles know you're here?”

I swallow. “No.”

“Who does know?”

My belly is quivering. “No one.” Too late, I realize it might have been a good idea to let somebody know.

“What have you been praying? What have you asked God for?”

Now, I've actually given this a little thought. It occurred to me during my brain-wracking in the kitchen this afternoon that I was going to have to say something that sounded convincing. So what I decided to do is give him Will, like I hadn't done that first Sunday, but not Will the person. I'm going to pretend that I feel for Charles what I feel for Will. That's not only convincing, it's also very real for me. I won't have to make anything up—remember how complicated that can get?—and it will reel Bartle all the way in.

But I have to lie a little to get things started. “I've prayed that he won't be in the room when I get back after Prayer Meeting, so maybe I could go to sleep before seeing him. I've prayed not to dream about him. I've prayed that he'd be sent home. I've prayed—”

“And what have you done?”

“What?”

“Your note said you feel lust. What have you done about that?”

“Well…I've masturbated. I put that in my MI.”

“In one of them. Have there been other times?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about them.”

I close my eyes. “Once I pretended I was pinning him against the wall near his desk. Behind the door, where no one walking by could see. I had his wrists in my hands, against the wall above his head, and I kissed him.” I wait.

“And then what?”

“I, uh, I sucked on his neck, and then I pulled his hands together over his head so I could hold them both with one of mine. He struggled, but not very hard. And I ripped his shirt open.”

Bartle clears his throat. “And then?”

“I sucked his tits while I undid his belt and then his fly.” I stop again. I'm going to make him work for this.

“Did he cry out?”

“What? No. I mean, he wasn't really there, you know?”

“Of course. Go on.”

“Well, you know.”

He takes a breath. “Taylor, if we're going to purge these feelings from you, you'll need to be specific about what they are. Pretend I don't know.”

But I know he does. I
know
he does. “Okay. Well, like I said, his fly. And I pulled him out—”

“You pulled what out?”

“His dick. I pulled his dick out.” I risk a sideways glance, and I can see Bartle is really getting into this. “It was hard. Really hard. He wanted me really badly. In my imagination. And by now he was pretty helpless, so I could let go of his hands and he stayed where he was, and I knelt in front of him. I took him—I mean, his dick—in my mouth.” Time to test again; how much detail is he hoping for?

He swallows. “Is that all?”

“Well, no. I mean, I've done this before, so I know what to do.” I close my eyes again. “I ran my tongue in circles around him, and covered my teeth and sucked, and then I poked into his balls with the tip of my tongue.” I can hear him breathing next to me. “His hips started spazing a little, and his ass clenched. And he was making these quiet little grunting noises, and—”

“Stop!”

I look over at him. His head is hanging forward, his jaw is clenched, and his eyes are tight shut. Then he breathes loudly once or twice and says, “Almighty Father, be with us here. Come into Taylor's heart and purify it. Help him to understand that these desires are beyond sinful, that they are devouring his very soul. Tell him what he must do in order to drive Satan out, to make room for our Lord Jesus. Please. Please, speak to Taylor.”

Maybe thirty seconds of silence later, he lifts his head, but he still doesn't look at me. He says, “Taylor, did you hear God's words?”

“Um, no. I didn't hear anything.”

“Father above, I pray that you will help Taylor understand that it is you he longs for, not Charles. Not a boy, not a man. Only you.” More silence. “Listen hard, Taylor. Can't you hear? Can't you open your heart and your mind, and understand what God is asking? What God is requiring?”

Okay, so I listen again. I could fake something, but that's too dangerous. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

“Father, tell me what I can do to make Taylor hear you. To make him understand.” Silence. Then, “Is that the only way?” Silence again. It's like listening to one side of a telephone conversation. Then he bows his head. “The Lord's will be done.”

Slowly he gets to his feet, and I'm thinking, okay, what did The Man say? Bartle holds out a hand to me, but I don't want to touch it. I say, “You want me to get up?”

“Come, Taylor. Come and learn how you will shed this sin.” His hand is still out, but I don't take it. I'm wondering at what point, exactly, I'll have the proof I need. The look on Bartle's face is weirding me out—kind of wide-eyed, like he's focusing on something in the distance, and no expression to speak of. Like he's been taken over by something.

I get up without help and stand a little away from him, but he moves toward me. This is too creepy. Without really meaning to, I say, “Look, you're scaring me.” Damn! I shouldn't discourage him.

He stops, closes his eyes, and lowers the hand he's holding out toward me. “It's a powerful thing, Taylor. I don't mean to frighten you.” He opens his eyes, and he looks sort of normal again. “Feel the love, Taylor. Feel God's love. It's all around us. And it's in me, too. God's love for you is coming through me.” He smiles. It's almost convincing.

“What did God say to do?”

He stops smiling and just looks at me. “Perhaps you're not ready for this. Perhaps you need to lose more of your soul first.”

This sounds good to me; it means I can leave. But if I do that, I won't have my proof, and he'll be back at Charles again in no time. And maybe other kids, too.

“What do I have to do?”

“Receive love, Taylor. That's all. Let God's love take the place of Satan's urgings.”

“But…how do I do that?” This is so fucking hard. I don't
want
to lose those urgings, and I don't believe they come from Satan.

“Are you sure you're ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“I think maybe we need to give you some more time. You obviously don't trust God yet, and without that—I'm afraid I can't do anything to help.”

“I trust God.”

“If you trusted God, you wouldn't keep asking for details. You wouldn't keep asking why, what, where, on and on.”

This is bullshit, and I know it, but if I don't give in, I won't get my proof. “Okay, I'll stop asking.”

He looks at me for what seems like a really long time. I'm actually starting to get a little dizzy. Finally he says, “Do you want purity?”

He waits until I say, “Yes.”

“Do you want love?”

“Yes.”

“Do you forsake Satan?”

“Yes.”

“Then come.” And he turns away and walks toward that corner room. He doesn't look around to see if I'm following, he just keeps walking. Slowly, but he keeps walking.

I'm rooted. How the fuck can I go in there with him? But how can I not? And what can he do to me, anyway? I mean, he's tall, but so am I, and he's kind of scrawny and I'm no weakling. Plus I can scream really loud.