Free Behind You by Jacqueline Woodson Page A

lot of the sound.
    â€œHow’d you guys find it—I mean, I come to the Village a lot and I never even noticed this place.”
    Ellie looked at me. “We were walking once. God, it all feels like such a long time ago. And we passed this couple—interracial—older, like in their thirties or something. And the guy says to Miah, ‘Yo, take your honey . . .’ and he told us about this place. We just smiled. It was like this bonding moment or something. And then we came here. All kinds of people mixed up all kinds of ways. Black, white, gay, straight. It doesn’t make any kind of difference here.”
    I looked around, nodding. It was easy to imagine Miah here with Ellie, the two of them at a quiet table, drinking cappuccinos and talking about their lives. Nobody looking at them, judging them, hating them just because . . .
    I stared down at the menu, my eyes starting to burn. Maybe it was the big memory of Miah. Maybe it was thinking about how good that must have felt, to be out and open and not caring about the rest of the world. When the waiter returned, we both ordered and I started messing with a napkin, tearing it into tiny pieces. I couldn’t look at Ellie for some reason. The word gay seemed so loud, so everywhere at once.
    â€œSomething about coming here,” Ellie said. “It made me so sure of Miah. So sure that I loved him. That everything would be okay.” Her voice cracked a bit and she got quiet again.
    Outside, snow was blowing—not a whole lot, and it probably wouldn’t stick, but enough to let us know that winter was definitely here.
    â€œYou’re lucky,” I said. “I mean, to have had a chance to feel so sure about something. There’s not one single part of me I’ve ever been a hundred percent sure about.”
    â€œHmmm.” Ellie looked at me. “Nothing?”
    â€œBall, I guess. I wasn’t always sure of my game, but I always loved playing ball.” I opened my palm and stared at it. “The way the ball feels in my hand. The way a shot slides into a basket. Running full court and getting underneath the backboard in time—all of that’s always felt . . . felt real. Solid. But show me a ballplayer that’s out there going pro saying, ‘My boyfriend Bob and me . . .’ ”
    Ellie smiled. Our food came.
    â€œDon’t exist,” I said after the waiter left. “I don’t exist.”
    â€œI thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend?” Ellie looked at me, frowning.
    â€œI don’t . That’s what I’m saying. I don’t exist—gay ballplayers don’t exist.”
    â€œThat’s crazy, Carlton. You’re going to stop being who you are because—”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œBut that’s not . . . that’s not living .”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd just because people aren’t out, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
    I didn’t say anything. If someone had said to me, Carlton, are you straight or gay? Tell me now because you might be dead tomorrow, I would say, I’m gay —even though I’ve never kissed another guy or been in love with anybody.
    â€œI am gay,” I said, not looking at Ellie. I watched the syrup sink into my pancakes, watched the way the orange slices beside the pancakes lay still as glass.
    â€œI know,” Ellie said.
    When I looked up, she was smiling again.
    We stared at each other for a long time. I felt myself choking up. Felt like Ellie had just saved my life somehow. I wanted to holler, to reach across the table and lift her up. But my breath was coming too fast and my body felt heavy and light all at once, so I just sat there, staring at her.
    â€œWe’d make a nice couple—aesthetically, don’t you think?” Ellie said.
    I laughed and the air felt the tiniest bit lighter.
    â€œSeriously, Carlton. You’re beautiful—you could have guys dropping