Free Inclination by Mia Kerick

hot-babe-land,
AKA the mall arcade, on Saturday.
    “You missed out
on the hottest girl ever. And built too. Shoulda seen
the tits on this blonde one.”
    An image of sexy
blonde Chrissy , from the TV Land show, Three’s Company , flashes into my head.
All platinum ponytails, short shorts, and big breasts. It doesn’t escape me
that my best pal is having no problem whatsoever with dehumanizing a girl who
looks like Chrissy , while I’m struggling with merely
accepting my own sexuality. “Sorry I missed it.” And, yes, that’s a lie, plain
and simple.
    “Two of the
hottest babes you ever seen told me they’re gonna go
back next weekend. I figure, we can go check the arcade for them like Friday,
twice on Saturday, and maybe after you’re done playing with the cats next
Sunday.”
    All of a sudden,
Mrs. Martine is approaching, which causes my breathing to stop. I suddenly feel
a kinship to all deer caught in headlights, wanting to make a run for it, but
frozen in place.
    “What do you say,
dude? You up for going to the mall like four times next weekend?”
    I can’t even nod
I’m so freaked out about seeing Mrs. Martine.
    “Hey, Anthony,
I’m gonna need an answer,” Laz nags. “And sooner, not later.” The problem is, Mrs. Martine is going to need an
answer too.
    “Hello, Anthony.”
Mrs. Martine stops in front of Laz and me. “Lazarus,
could you please go fill up my coffee mug? I take it black with one sugar.”
Lazarus glances at me again for an answer, and then nods at Mrs. Martine,
reluctantly taking the empty mug from her outstretched hand.
    “Yes, ma’am.” He
mouths his best silent Arnold Schwarzenegger, “ I’ll be back ” and takes off to do Mrs. Martine’s bidding.
    “Anthony, how did
your date with Elizabeth go?” She speaks in low tones, but regards me pointedly,
like I’m some kind of a science experiment gone very, very wrong. And her
directness reminds me of a lot Elizabeth, which makes me shudder.
    “I…um….” I’m not
mentally prepared for this at all, but I force out an honest answer. “It didn’t
work. I still feel the same way as before.”
    Her eyes narrow
slightly as she continues to study my face. “It might take some time for you to
change.”
    I look around to
make sure nobody near us is paying attention, and then I shake my head. “I
don’t really think I’m going to change, Mrs. Martine. I think maybe I was born
this way.” Lady Gaga’s song echoes in my brain. “I
think it’s part of who I am.”
    My youth group
leader stiffens, but continues to take in every detail of my face as if I am an
alien being. “Meet me again this Tuesday night at seven—here, like we did last
week.”
    I breathe a small
sigh of relief, and I’m talking microscopic. Maybe she has another idea of how
to change me, but I’m honestly not feeling quite as hopeful as I did last week.
    “Okay, ma’am.
I’ll be there.”
    She doesn’t smile
before she walks away and if I believed in bad omens, I would have thought that
this exchange surely qualified as one.
     
    I hardly eat or
sleep or, unbelievably, even study between Sunday at the after-mass coffee hour
and the Tuesday night meeting with Mrs. Martine. By the time our appointment
rolls around I am weak and sort of shaky—too little food and sleep, and too
much thinking and worrying about “The Problem”, and maybe even too much
praying, if that is even possible.
    Again, I arrive
early, and those last few minutes before I hear the clicking sound of Mrs.
Martine’s sensible shoes on the stairs are close to unbearable. This struggle
is taking its toll on me, and I feel much the worse for wear, so I do what I
always do when I need to be carried.
    Whenever I’m not
sure I can make it on my own two feet, I turn to Jesus so that he can carry me.
He is strong and dependable and he loves me; the mere thought of Him makes me
smile. My faith in Him is unshakable; it’s my faith in myself that concerns me.
    Careful not to
rest my