Free The Summer I Wasn't Me by Jessica Verdi

into SSA. Once we are able to identify and address the deeper-seated problem, we can begin to heal it.”
    I consider what he’s saying. I quickly flip back through a lifetime of memories, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine what might have happened to make me gay.
    “So. Any volunteers?” Mr. Martin asks.
    Still no one raises their hand.
    Undiscouraged, Mr. Martin scans the crowd. “Let’s start with the boys today.” He points to a boy with a round face and a crew cut. “Gabe.” He holds out a hand in invitation to join him.
    Gabe makes his way to the front of the room, stumbling slightly on the leg of a chair as he maneuvers through the rows of seats. When he’s standing next to Mr. Martin, the difference in their height is striking. Gabe looks like a child; he’s probably not even done growing yet.
    Mr. Martin drags a chair to the center of the stage and positions it so it’s facing the rest of us. Gabe sits, and Mr. Martin tells him to close his eyes. “Tell us about your childhood,” he says in a calming, gentle voice.
    Gabe’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean? What about it?”
    “Please keep your eyes closed. Just tell us whatever comes to mind about what it was like growing up in your family.”
    Gabe sits there for a while, his eyes squeezed shut, the rest of us watching him. The room is deadly silent. At one point, the stomach of someone sitting behind me gurgles. I don’t turn to see who it is.
    Then, finally, Gabe speaks. “I live in Orlando,” he says.
    “The most magical place on earth!” Mr. Martin says, delighted.
    “I guess.” Gabe shrugs. “I’ve never actually been to Disney.”
    Mr. Martin’s face falls and he nods. “Who lives with you?” he asks.
    “My father and my mother and my four younger brothers.”
    “What does your father do for a living?”
    “He works the night maintenance shift at the airport.”
    “As the eldest son, there must be a lot of pressure on you to help take care of your family.”
    “I guess,” he says again, his voice trembling slightly. “I don’t mind it though.”
    “Remember, Gabe,” Mr. Martin says. “This will only work if you are honest with us.” He gives Gabe a meaningful look, which is probably more for our benefit than Gabe’s since he can’t see it with his eyes closed.
    Gabe takes a shallow, wavering breath. “Well, we don’t have a lot of money, you know? Even with my father working overtime and my mother cleaning houses. Sometimes my father goes drinking after work, and when he comes home and looks at the state of our apartment, he gets…”
    “He gets what?” Mr. Martin nudges.
    “Angry. But anyone would,” he says quickly. “There’s this broken window that won’t close all the way, so we have to stuff the hole with towels, and there’re always rats in the kitchen. And there aren’t enough beds for all of us, so we have these mattresses that we prop up against the wall during the daytime and then put on the floor at night.”
    “What do you mean by ‘he gets angry’?”
    “I don’t know,” Gabe mumbles.
    “I think you do know.”
    Gabe’s eyes are still closed. He doesn’t say anything.
    I quickly glance around the room. Everyone has their eyes fixed on the boy in the chair. No one makes a move or a sound. Matthew’s eyes are cold and hard. I look away.
    “Gabriel,” Mr. Martin says, “I spoke with your mother.” Each word is heavy and revealing.
    Gabe sucks in a surprised, tremulous breath. “He hits me,” he says finally, reluctantly. “He gets drunk and he gets mad and he beats me up.”
    Mr. Martin nods; he was expecting this all along. He knew . This whole thing has been choreographed. He purposely called on Gabe to go first because he already knew his story—the perfect illustration for the rest of us of what a literal and figurative Father Wound looks like.
    What else does Mr. Martin know? I wonder what my mother told him about me…
    “How long has this been going on?” he