“A fresh start.”
Yep, definitely divorce. Also, why not call it Holy Fresh Starts? Probably because that sounds like something Robin would say to Batman. Noted, Step-Chad. Please continue.
“A fresh start for who?” I ask. But again, I know it’s my dad, because my mom would never stand up to him.
“For you,” Step-Chad says.
Some dipshit on the imagination highway in my brain slams on the brakes and causes a million-thought pileup that quickly reaches a standstill because what does he mean,for me? I turn to look at my mother, then my father. But they both avoid my gaze.
“Sorry, is this some kind of... after-school program?” My brain won’t say the words my heart knows.
“A camp!” Garrett says it like I’m supposed to be excited.
My first thought is conversion therapy—but that’s not possible because I’m not out. My parents don’t know I’m gay; not even my friends at school know I’m gay. But then my stomach seizes. Because one persondoesknow.
“We’ve helped a lot of kids in your situation,” he continues. He sayssituationlike I’m stuck up to my neck in drying concrete, not attracted to other guys. “I was once in your place, too.”
And he thinks he’s cured. When I was eleven and I realized I was in love with Travis Lincoln because he talked to me in fourth-period science, I looked up camps like this. I was still worried about going to hell back then because I thought hell was real.
But thankfully I also found the Reddit threads that talked about people’s experiences at those camps. And most important, how it didn’t work. Regardless of what torture these people signed up for—or were sent to against their will—it didn’t change who they were.
So I came out to the one person I trusted because I knew she was gay, too. It was a secret language we used to communicate through six years of church events and after-school Bible study.
There’s no way she would out me, though. Even if we’re not as close as we used to be.
Garrett seems to read my mind because he grins and says, “We’ve even helped one of your friends.”
Oh, Frankie.No.
She came back from summer break refusing to talk to me. I thought she was pissed at me for not reaching out to her more after she told me she was going to her aunt’s house in Maine for the summer.
She told me over a DM in June. It was the first time she’d mentioned going to her aunt’s, and I was kind of pissed because we had so many plans. She had gotten her driver’s license and she and her older sister were sharing a car. We were going to drive to DC and check out the queer bookstore and go to the Pride parade.
The realization hits that the DM may not have come from her. Especially if her parents sent her to this place. They must have taken her phone and seen the messages we shared, then sent me the aunt excuse.
We thought we were being so careful. Our fake social media profiles that we didn’t use real names on, not even in our messages. We had code names, so how did her parents know it was me?
“Did she tell you?” I ask him, my voice shaking. I can’t say the rest aloud because maybe I can still come back from this. So I clear my throat and try again. “What did she tell you?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Garrett says with his righteous smile. Because he thinks he’s better than me. He’s been lying to himself for so long he thinks he’s managed to find a way to change who he is by torturing it out of other people.
He continues, “She didn’t ratyou out. Frankie wants tosaveyou. Save your immortal soul.”
By torturing my earthly body.
I can’t be mad at her. As much as I want to be, I know it’s not her fault. She was brainwashed. But I thought she was stronger. Sheseemedso much stronger than me. More knowledgeable and filled with pride. The good pride, not the twisted, sinful, religious idea of pride.
I feel sick.
I can’t let this happen. I’m not going with him. I have to get out of here.
But I can’t run. I’ve read all about this online. It starts with him, Garrett, here alone in the house—he’s the friendly, charismatic face who wants to take me without any fight or argument. But if Idofight, they have more people waiting in the van parked outside that I didn’t notice because I was too distracted by my mom’s and dad’s cars in the driveway.
So I have to play along.
“Okay,” I say. And it’s not hard to cry because I’m terrified and so fucking angry. I turn to my parents, but neither of them will look at me. That shame on their faces is because of me. Because Frankie told this camp I was gay, too, and they told her parents, who told mine.
They’re ashamed that I ruined their good Christian name.
