Free Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin Page B

pretend.
    “You take it back or you will burn in hell.” She growls her words.
    “But, Mommy, if God made me gay, then—”
    “Don’t you dare say that word with His name!” She raises her arm.I think she’ll hit me; instead, she crosses herself. Still, I inch back.
    “But if God made all the people then he must have wanted me to be—this way. Why would he send me to hell?”
    A pause. “This is the worst kind of sin, Jason.”
    “But—” I feel myself shrinking. Her eyes are not real to me, they’re demon eyes. My skin turns cold. My legs shake.
    “The worst kind.”
    “What can we do?” My voice comes from outside my body.
    “You have to take it back.”
    I wait to see if I can, then shake my head no, barely.
    “Take it back.”
    “I can’t.”
    She blinks, then moves to the room I share with my brother. I hear Davy rush to his bed as she opens the door.
    “No son of my mine is going to hell.” Her voice is higher now. She snatches clothing from drawers and stuffs it into my backpack. She marches back to the front door and opens it. She tosses out the backpack and grabs my arm. “You can’t live here.” She shoves me onto the porch.
    “But, please, I—”
    “Call me when you change your mind.”
    She starts to close the door, but stops. “If you go to your father’s, I’ll have you both locked up.” I still can’t look away. “You know what the police do to boys like you, don’t you?” Her face gets dark and old as she leans in close to me. “They hook you up to electrical wires and burn you till you stop. Is that what you want?”
    I shake my head no.
    She sighs. Pauses. Speaks. “Do you take it back?”
    “I can’t.”
    I imagine fire will shoot from her eyes and I will burn right there. But she just shakes her head and straightens up, composes her face, becomes beautiful again.
    “Go on, then. See how you like living with perverts.”

1978
    TWO YEARS BEFORE
    LOS ANGELES COUNTY

    {1}
    Mission Bay, near San Diego—one more white middle-class badge of success. It’s what my dad lives for. We go for a month each summer and rent a house along the ocean. Not to do anything, just to show we can afford it. I can’t believe I’m part of this family. I can’t believe they don’t know shit about anything.
    “How about I’ll stay here,” I say, the week before we’re scheduled to go. Already Chelsea won’t be joining us; she has to work. Mom’s doing dishes and I’m at the kitchen table, eating a tuna sandwich. She whirls around like I slapped her.
    “Fine. Do what you want,” she snaps, glaring. “What do I care?’”
    “Hey, I want to go, but the band has gigs.”
    “I just told you—I don’t care.” She goes back to washing. “Your father’s not going either. It’ll be great. You can hang out with him. I’ll spend my time with your grandma.”
    This changes everything. “Why isn’t he going?”
    “Why do you think, Doug?” Like it’s my fault. “He has to work, of course.” She wipes her hands on her apron, starts putting dishes away. “Why do I try so hard?” she mutters as she drops plates on top of each other, that stupid smile plastered on her face. I used to love watching her work in the kitchen. She seemed so completely in charge of things. Now she’s too skinny, her face looks wrinkled and old. Now I feel sorry for her.
    But I’m definitely not staying home alone with my dad.
    First day, I meet up with the same guys I always see there and we hike over to where the out-of-staters park their RVs. They always leave their kids’ bikes lying around. Always. Every year. We each snatch one and pedal like hell. We splash some paint on ’em, change the decals, and voilà! New bikes. I take the Sting Ray; riding at that angle, my hip barely hurts.
    Now, a week into it, we’re lounging on the cliff, trying Quaaludes for the first time. This kid Chris got a bottle from his sister.
    “Dude, I can’t feel my lips,” I say, smacking them together. Not