Matt hoped this would help Paul’s case. At least his hero was a gay man.
What had Paul asked when it was his turn to pose a question? “Do you play chess?”
William’s curt “no” had dripped disdain, which was even more jarring coming from his Dorothy mask. Dorothy fromThe Wizard of Oz. Like Matt hadn’t seen that one coming.
Then, when Paul had a chance to ask Todd a question, it was the same one. “Do you play chess?”
That was when William had interrupted game play. “Let’s make this easy, shall we? Anyone besides Paul who plays chess, please raise your hand.” No one did. Yeah, train wreck.
Matt wished Adam were there. If Colton Langley hadn’t outed Adam to the dean, Adam would almost certainly be in the GM by now. Sweet, gentle Adam would vote for Paul’s membership.
The second round began. Paul removed a sock for his obligatory “bare,” then gave a monosyllabic answer to Todd’s “truth” question.
It was Matt’s turn.
Paul, predictably, chose “truth.”
“What’s the worst name anyone has ever called you?” Matt asked. He knew the answer. The others needed to hear it.
Paul stared down at his bare left foot, mumbled.
“Please speak up,” Matt said.
“R2-D2.” Paul pushed his glasses up his nose. “Like theStar Warscharacter.”
“That’s not what the name is about, is it?” Matt asked.
Paul shook his head. “Your turn is up. One question is all you get. It’s Devil’s turn now.”
“My turn will be up when you’ve answered my questions,” Matt said. “What does R2-D2 stand for?”
Paul’s eyes glistened with anger. “Retarded Robot Dick Diddler. Two R’s, Two D’s. R2-D2. Get it?”
Matt looked to see if his fellow members got it. They had, or so they thought. Little did they know.
“Who calls you R2-D2?” Matt asked.
Paul clenched his jaw, pursed his lips, suppressing the answer. He glared at Matt.
“Answer the question, dahling,” William said.
Paul spat the answer. “Everyone calls me that. Everyone.”
Matt could have stopped there. Paul’s answer was technically correct, but also glossed over the truth, a sick, horrible truth that Paul, understandably, avoided.
Matt knew a thing or two about avoiding ugly truths. He had not divulged his rape during his own membership interview, so he could hardly fault Paul.
Here was the thing, a chicken-egg sort of thing: what if Paul’s secret was the catalyst that made him so bottled up? So defensive as to be unlikeable? Matt believed that was the case. He was certain that airing that secret could be key to turning this interview around and getting Paul admitted to the group.
“Does your mother call you R2-D2?” Matt asked.
“You know she does. You know the answers to all these questions.”
“And your dad? Does he call you that name?”
Paul looked at Harley, appealing for the moderator to step in. “His turn is up. It’s Devil’s turn now.”
Harley, ever the peacemaker, did what peacemakers do: he equivocated.
