Matt shooed his friends away. “Now off you go! I’m talking business with Paul, and we’re almost late to chapel. I’ll see you later.”
Idabel and Yukon loped off.
Matt waited for them to be out of earshot. “Walk with me,” he said, leading Paul towards the chapel. Most of their fellow students were already inside, so he was less concerned about being overheard. Still, he kept his voice low as he explained that they were headed to “Gay Chapel” and that was not a good thing.
Dixon Chapel loomed into view like a Mayan temple tucked into a jungle clearing. The building’s understory was squat, windowless, u-shaped. Two narrow staircases climbed to a small platform in the middle of the u, on top of which was stacked another shoebox which was itself topped by a steel-roofed pyramid. The whole modernist pile was cold and impersonal and assaulted the senses with its abrasive misproportions. It was the sort of dystopian structure where sadistic priests would perform human sacrifices, tossing the still-bleeding corpses of their victims down the stairs.
Paul slowed as they neared the entrance. His fear was palpable.
Matt’s instructions were to usher Paul into that horror show, washing his hands of further responsibility for the hapless kid, then take a seat with the soccer tribe.
He couldn’t do it.
“Hey Paul,” he said. “Can I tell you something? I’m not sure I can hold it together for this. Would you mind sitting with me? I could use the support.”
Paul smiled.
By the time they took their seats, the opening prayer was ending.
Matt spied Jake about five rows ahead of him, at roughly the ten o’clock position. He hadn’t seen Jake since they had fucked four days earlier. They now shared a special bond, like the one Matt shared with William. And here he was in Gay Chapel, about to be told that gay love was a nasty, shameful thing.
Everyone stood to sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Mine eyes have seen the glory
Of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage
Where the grapes of wrath are stored.
He hath loosed the fateful lightning
Of His terrible, swift sword.
His truth is marching on!
They sang the other four stanzas too, crammed with martial pomp, bristling with judgment wrought by men on God’s behalf. And this song had been chosen to whip the crowd into a blood frenzy as they weeded out the fags, separating wheat from chaff. All because of poor Adam Maxwell who was still in the hospital. Hadn’t there been enough bloodshed already?
This was the doing of the mysterious Colton Langley, the kid who had ratted Adam out to the dean. The kid who, Matt had learned, was a self-hating gay.
Paul pushed his glasses back on his nose, blinked his bug eyes fearfully.
Dean Smith took the stage, motioned for everyone to be seated, and proceeded to introduce their guest speaker, Michael Benson, Executive Director of Mended Hearts Ministries.
Michael. Of. Course. The man who sashayed onto the stage matched his name. He was no Mike, never had been. Michael was a barrel-chested man in his mid-thirties, with perfectly coiffed salt and pepper hair. He wore a suit and tie. And he was barefoot. He swung a pair of Nike tennis shoes from his hand like a purse.
The students greeted him with polite applause.
Michael’s effeminate voice played through the speakers. “There are students in this audience—males and females—who are struggling with same-sex attraction.”
He gazed into the audience as if scanning for the closet cases.
Matt watched as everyone sank down in their seats,avoiding Michael’s scrutiny, then, having apparently realized that made them look guilty, sat back up. It was like watching people do “The Wave” in a stadium.
Michael resumed. “Same sex attraction, the so-called ‘Gay’ lifestyle will leave you broken. I have good news for you: God can heal your brokenness. He healed mine. Once I was blind. Now I see. Once I was gay. NOW I AM FREE!”
Wild applause.
