“Why would you need proof?”
“Because I think I might be going crazy.”
“You’re not,” you said with a conviction I wish I shared.
But if youwerea voice in my head, isn’t that just the thing you’d say to keep me in line? Maybe I was such a lonely loser that I’d invented an imaginary friend. That was what my mother told me when I was little—you weren’t real. And then you disappeared, so I believed it. I’d conjured you to deal with Roger, and I was doing the same thing now to handle the stress of Derek and his gang. What if this was only the beginning of a psychotic break?
The movie ended with both of us in a gloomy mood. I played the tape back, disappointed when I heard only my voice.
“See,” I said to you, “it sounds like I’m talking to myself.”
“But we both know you’re not.”
“How can I believe in something I can’t prove?” I asked.
“You have to have faith, Orlando.”
Faith in you. And us. Throughout it all, I kept my faith.
Did you?
5
Henri
My fascination with you quickly escalated in the days that followed, like a story where one is completely immersed, wanting to know the ending, while at the same time never wanting it to end. Such was the time I spent watching you, every discovery another page turned in the book of Orlando.
During your waking hours, you were a bow string wound too tightly. Eyes sharp and sweeping, you were always on the lookout for danger. Whenever you took a seat somewhere, whether it was a classroom, cafeteria, or the public library, it was always with your back to a wall, so you could see whatever threat might be approaching. When you walked home from school, it wasn’t with the carefree jaunt of an invincible youth or even a sensitive soul lost in a daydream. It was with great attention that you took constant stock in your surroundings. More than once, you changed course and adopted an alternate route, as if trying to avoid some impending doom. It saddened me to see you so anxiety-ridden, but I was glad for your vigilance. Most humans, either from stupidity or blind trust, were easily led into ambush. Not you.
The only time you seemed at peace was when you were immersed in a book or movie or, on occasion, during slumber. Mostly, I watched your eyes flicker behind your eyelids and heard the moans that escaped into your pillow as your lithe body struggled against your sheets, fisting the fabric as though engaged in battle. At other times, you were a careless beauty, serenely sprawled across your narrow bed.
When we were alone, you caught me up on the years I’d been absent. Your mother, having dated a pedophile, an alcoholic, and a con man in quick succession, had determined she was bad at men, and so she had forgone male companionship for the foreseeable future. No longer a gas station clerk, she now worked for a loan consolidation company, with regular hours and benefits which allowed her to afford the small, two-bedroom home where you currently resided in a low-income suburb near downtown Miami. For all of her flaws, she loved you fiercely and sacrificed the luxury of a vacation or a new car in order to further your passion for dance. That singular devotion reminded me a little of my own mother, who believed any sacrifice was worthy if it meant helping your progeny achieve greatness.
“Have you told your mother about these troublesome young men?” I asked you one day on our journey home from school.
You walked with your thumbs hooked under the straps of your backpack. Your gym bag was secured across your chest like a broadsword, and your eyes were on the lookout for danger.
“I don’t think there’s anything she could do about it,” you said, somewhat defeated. “And I don’t want to worry her.”
“You’re protecting her,” I mused. Not so different from when I knew you years ago. Roger preyed on that devotion and your willingness to suffer in silence.
“We protect each other,” you said defensively, and I knew better than to challenge that bond. I’d been absent a long time, and there were things I’d missed. But did I begrudge your mother for not heeding my advice? A bit.
I switched to lighter topics.
“Why do all the kids your age wear flannels?” I asked, curious about this bizarre trend. “The temperature here is quite warm.”
You chuckled. “It’s grunge, Henri. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Alice in Chains… it’s the trademark of the disaffected youth.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. Your sense of humor hadn’t diminished. “You’re trying to fit in,” I realized.
“Yeah, duh. I’m a gay ballerina. I’ve already got a target on my back. I leave the unitard at home.”
I hadn’t yet seen you dance, though I looked forward to it immensely. I only hoped that your abilities matched your bravado. I’d hate to disappoint you with a less than enthusiastic reception.
“You have anything to say to that?” you asked with hostility, challenging me.
“I think you’d look better in a unitard,” I said honestly.
