She didn’t say anything.
“I’m really, really sorry, Hannah. I get what you’re saying.”
“Well, thanks, I guess. If you decide you actually want to spend time with me, like more than you want to spend it with your best friend, let me know, okay?”
And then she hung up on me.
I lay down in my bed and curled into a ball under the sheets. I had hours of studying I should do, including a lab report that sat unfinished on my laptop that was due tomorrow. But all I could do was replay the conversation I’d just had.
I’d chosen Rafe over my girlfriend. I mean, but. He needed me. What kind of best friend would I have been to ignore him when he was upset?
But of course he would have understood. How could I have been so stupid?
I sat up. I didn’t have time for this. I rubbed my eyes and shook my head, trying to jiggle the bad thoughts out of my mind. I closed my eyes tight.
This is stupid. I don’t need to go here. I didn’t choose Rafe over Hannah. I chose a friend in need over a friend who I thought knew how I felt about her, since we’d just slow danced in front of everyone.
And of course I wouldn’t pick a boy over a girl I really liked, because choosing a boy over a girl, even just a friend who is a boy, carried with it all sorts of icky feelings I’d come to know last semester. Then I would be considered, well, I don’t know what. Gay? Bi? Which I wasn’t. And if I was, that meant I was something my dad thought was bad. Unlovable.
Had I actually chosen Rafe over Hannah? What if there was a desert island, and I was only allowed one companion? I’d choose Hannah, right?
I mean, it was hard to say at the moment, as she’d just yelled at me. But in general, you picked the girl who you could have hot desert-island sex with over the boy with whom you’d discuss goldfish and their memories, especially if she was someone you genuinely liked talking to and being with, which I did. Hannah and I wanted the same things. We were truly compatible.
And Rafe was just a friend. But he was also my best friend, maybe ever. Last night in the car, I felt so at ease. How many times in my life had I felt like that? But both of them made me feel like that. And now I had to choose between them?
No, I didn’t have to choose. I mean, people were allowed girlfriends and best friends. Maybe I just had to prioritize better.
I went to my desk and opened my science notebook. I’d focus on my work, let Hannah blow off some steam, and the next time we talked I’d make sure I let her know that she was the girl for me.
Mr. Sacks rounded out the applause for Jimmy Ross, who had just made a compelling argument in favor of wind energy.
“Let’s hear from Mr. Carver, who is—let’s see—arguing that religious folks are facing persecution because of gay rights advances. Okay!”
It was Tuesday afternoon, and for the first time I wished I was in baseball practice and not Model Congress. I stood up and ambled to the front of the room, my index cards in hand. As much as I liked the research part of Model Congress, I always felt pretty stupid standing at the front of the classroom, pretending to be a congressman. It just felt so … artificial.
Not to mention that I was arguing something I didn’t believe. But while practicing the night before, I reminded myself that Peter Pappas himself had done this, and done it really well. He’d argued passionately against the Vietnam War, and then, less than a year later, he’d voluntarily enlisted to go there. I cleared my throat and rested my hands on the podium in front of me.
“Rosalie Sanchez is out of a job. She used to be a florist in Nashville, Tennessee, but then gay marriage became the law of the land. And despite her strong, lifelong religious beliefs, she was told that she couldn’t deny service to anyone, including a gay couple that wanted to get married.
“Imagine. You’re a person who believes with all your heart that something is wrong. The book you live your life by tells you that it’s wrong. And then a gay couple walks into your store, arm in arm, and asks you to provide flowers for their special day.
“To you, their special day takes something you consider sacred—God’s law—and spits on it.
“So anyway, these people who live in a way you consider sinful ask you to be part of their special day. This goes against everything you believe in.
“Your conscience, your gut, tells you that you must say no. After all, it doesn’t make sense that you should be compelled to take part in an event that goes against your beliefs and way of life. In the same way that a person who doesn’t believe in witchcraft should not be forced to participate in a Wiccan ceremony, you should not have to be involved.
“But when you refuse, you are sued. And the law of the land comes into play, and you are told to provide the flowers, or lose your business.
“This could happen. This is wrong.
“Now, some people might say that these religious beliefs are mean-spirited and discriminate against gay people. That may be true, but we have freedom of religion in this country. It is granted by the First Amendment. Freedom of religion means that people retain, as James Madison wrote, ‘equal title to the free exercise of Religion according to the dictates of conscience.’ It doesn’t mean people get special rights, but it does mean a religious person has the right to follow their beliefs, and not be compelled to behave in ways that go against their religion.
“So we have two groups, and both claim certain rights by law. When two laws contradict each other, which should we listen to? The one granted in the Constitution, or the one that was just granted a few years ago by a deeply split Supreme Court?
“I believe that it is a grave injustice that Rosalie Sanchez is out of a job. She should be given a religious exemption that allows her to honor her strongly held religious beliefs, whether or not those beliefs are deemed politically ‘correct.’ She should be allowed to politely decline to provide flowers for a gay wedding.
“Thank you.”
The class clapped. So did Mr. Sacks.
“Good job, Ben Carver. Excellent. Notice Ben’s use of conditions of rebuttal. Anyone?”
This kid Peter raised his hand. “He anticipated an opposing argument and neutralized it.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Sacks said. “He might have given us one more, but one is acceptable.”
I reddened. I hadn’t thought of adding additional conditions of rebuttal. Next time I’d have to do that.
Mr. Sacks said. “I happen to agree with your argument, Ben. Is there anyone here who disagrees?”
No one raised their hand at first, and I felt my throat tighten. I disagreed. Should I say something? It was my job to argue something, not be true to my own beliefs. Finally, Mitchell Pomerantz raised his hand.
“I’ve always disagreed with the whole religious freedoms thing. But I have to admit that was pretty solid. Not sure how to argue against it,” he said.
Mr. Sacks nodded. “To me, the argument against religious freedoms is a perfect example of political correctness. Why not allow the free market to dictate these things? If a person wishes not to provide flowers for a gay ceremony, they should be allowed to decline. And then people who find that action wrong should have the choice to take their business elsewhere.”
A conversation ensued about the pros and cons of allowing the free market to settle all things. I wanted to ask: What about when the same argument—religious freedoms—was used against those entering into mixed-race marriages? I’d done my research, and people had argued that. Was that okay to everyone? Would it have been okay to send away a black person who wanted flowers for their marriage to a white person?
But I kept quiet. My opinion didn’t matter. Showing my ability to advance any side of an argument was the main goal here. Not being right for the sake of being right.
Maybe I really was an appropriate recipient of the Pappas Award. Maybe I had some flaws, some limitations, but like him, I could make a compelling argument against my own beliefs. That had to count for something.
In my call home, my dad brought up
grades for the first time since our talk over winter break.
“How’s the schoolwork?” he asked.
“Good,” I said.
“How good is good?”
“Pretty darn good,” I said. It was true; a B on a calculus test was good. I just wasn’t sure he would understand that.
“Attaboy,” he said, and reflexively I felt warmth from his praise. Even though I knew he didn’t really know what he was praising. When I hung up the phone, a heaviness descended upon my shoulders.
I thought about calling Hannah. I owed her a call, as I hadn’t called in the forty-eight hours since our fight. But what would I say? She might give me an ultimatum about hanging out with Rafe, and I definitely wasn’t giving that up. I scrolled through my phone for her name and stared at it. And then I put the phone down.
Wednesday was a warm day, and after fifth period I decided to take a walk in the woods to clear my head. On the way across the quad, I ran into Steve.
“A, baby, A,” he said, holding out what appeared to be a test of some sort.
“Good job,” I said. I was having trouble figuring out if Steve and I were real friends now. I definitely liked him more than I liked some of the others.
“Got this thanks to Mendenhall. I don’t give two shits about chemistry and I never will. Nice to be able to skate through and never pick up a book.”
And then there were limits to our burgeoning friendship. Here I was, working my ass off, and this rich kid was cheating, and he’d never be caught. But I wasn’t going to say that.
“Cool,” I said.
The wooded area just to the north of the quad used to be where kids lit up, got high, whatever. I didn’t think it was like that anymore, but who knows.
I took the trail along Dug Pond, just inside the tree line. There’s something about being under foliage that really changes a walk for me, makes it more solitary, lets me bask in my thoughts a little bit more. I put my gloved hands in my pockets.
“Hey, stranger, want a doobie?”
I turned toward the voice, and there, sitting on a flat rock, was Toby.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He didn’t seem like the typical happy-go-lucky Toby I was used to seeing.
I walked over, frozen leaves crunching under my feet. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Eh,” he said. “I’m being a little Debbie Downer today.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
He sighed. “Yes, but I’m pretty sure as soon as I tell you what’s up, you’re gonna go running.”
“I won’t run,” I said.
“That’s funny, because that’s pretty much your thing, sounds like.”
“Ouch,” I said. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Not really,” he said. “I’m just kind of having a day.”
I motioned for him to scoot over, and he cleared a place on the rock for me. I sat down. The rock felt icy and hard under my butt.
“So if I tell you something, will you promise to, like, not tell anyone? If you tell, I could possibly be kicked out of school, so.”
“I promise,” I said. “I consider you a friend, Toby.”
He half smiled. “Thanks. I’m kind of—figuring shit out right now.”
“Okay.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m—I think I’m—I’m gender fluid.”
He looked away, and I looked down at the ground. “Okay,” I said.
We sat in silence for a bit.
“You don’t actually know what that is, do you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I mean, I guess I have an idea. Does that mean you like to dress up like a girl?”
“Um. No, not really. I mean, yes, there are times that appeals to me, but it’s more like, some days I feel more like a guy, and other days I feel more like a girl. Inside, I mean.”
“Okay,” I said. “What do you mean, feel like a girl? Like, feminine?”
He shook his head. “No, not exactly. Like, female. Like if a teacher calls me ‘Mr. Rylander,’ I think they’re talking about someone else, because I’m definitely not a mister. And then there are other days when I’m fine with it, because it feels like I am male.”
I put my hand on Toby’s shoulder. “That’s got to be really hard.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You have no idea. And my stepdad is really not going to get this one. He was, like, so confused that a boy who likes to shoot guns sometimes could be gay, and now it’ll be even worse because—”
“Do you have to tell him?”
Toby looked at me. “Well, yeah. I mean, he’s important to me.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’ll be totally cool, as usual.”
“Why do you feel like you need to tell him, if you know it will just upset him?”
Toby jumped down from the rock and paced in front of it, kicking leaves up.
“You ever hear of left-handed paths?” he asked.
I shook my head no. This was the first serious conversation I’d ever had with Toby.
“Okay, you see, most people in the world take paths that are expected. They go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. Then there are the rest of us. We’re on left-handed paths. It’s not what’s expected. The world would like it better if we didn’t take these paths, because the world doesn’t know what to do with people who buck the system, or explore things that are new. I’m on a left-handed path. So is Rafe. Albie too, even, because I’m pretty sure he’s asexual, and that’s definitely left-handed. You, I’m not so sure about. You had the thing with Rafe, but having a girlfriend and, like, being baseball captain of the universe is pretty right-handed.”
“Huh,” I said.
“Anyway, my whole thing is, whatever path I’m on, I’m on. I’m not going to avoid it because it’s harder for the world, or even harder for me. I’m, like, I gotta be me, you know?”
I couldn’t answer. Looking at Toby, I realized he was everything I wasn’t. If you were to ask one hundred Natick students to pick the brave one between me and Toby, they’d all probably pick me. But they were wrong. Toby. He was the brave one.
“I—get that,” I said.
“I just, honestly? I’m scared. Like, I’m not sure I’m fully ready to do it, but what if I dressed female one day? Would they allow me to stay here? I really, truly don’t know. And I like it here, you know?”
“Wow,” I said.
“Do you think—never mind.”
“What?”
“Do you think Albie will think it’s weird?”
I turned to him, surprised. He knew Albie way better than I did. But here Toby was, looking all vulnerable. So I guess he really needed me to answer.
“No,” I said. “I really think he’ll be cool with it. He’s your best friend. He loves you for you.”
Toby smiled. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
“No problem,” I said.
Walking back to the dorm, I felt like I had one too many things in my brain now. Cataloging them, I got confused:
Hannah
Rafe
Pappas speech
Toby
Baseball
Calculus
Dad/Mom/Luke
Rafe
Wait. Did I list him already? My brain was tired.
I set up at my desk for an evening of studying. I started by trying to work on the introduction to my Pappas speech. I’d tried it twice before, but nothing good had come of it.
Students, faculty, and friends of the Natick School.
Friends of a school? What the hell did that mean? How was I supposed to make it feel formal without sounding completely weird?
Thank you. I am honored to be here.
Duh. This was hopeless.
Then I glanced at my computer and thought, I should Skype Hannah. And then I thought, Oh, right. She’s pissed. If I call, it’s gonna be a real conversation.
The Hannah situation weighed heavy on my mind. I knew I had to call her and le
t her know I was still interested. Because I definitely was. Maybe I loved Rafe more, in a way, but in the way of a girlfriend, Hannah was it.
Yet the craziest thought came to me as I sat there, staring at my computer. My jumbled mind was playing my conversation with Toby back, and I thought: What if my left-handed path isn’t just choosing my best friend over my girlfriend? What if the true path for me is choosing my best friend as a boyfriend?
I laughed. Because I’d been down that road before. And it hadn’t ended well. And if I thought about it even just a little, being with Rafe didn’t exactly get me all the things I wanted. How would that work as baseball captain? If the other guys found out? Would Dad go nuts if he found out and take me out of school? Probably not, but that would definitely be a possibility.
I went over to my bed, realizing I was way too tired to study. I needed a night off. And a night off wasn’t going to help me stay on top of my calculus, but sometimes the whole We’re Carver men. We work. We work hard thing gets old.
I fell asleep thinking about Hannah and Rafe and Rafe and Hannah, imagining them both on separate private islands, beckoning. Hannah, naked, her maple syrup skin calling out to mine. Rafe, my home, in a way. I smiled. Being with Rafe was easy. And not like drinking alcohol was easy. I thought about the alcohol simile again, and a new thought came to me: Alcohol impaired my judgment. I became someone else when I drank. With Rafe, my judgment became more mine; I became more authentically me.
I spent that Friday afternoon at the Bacon Free, speeding through my homework. Rafe had mentioned going to Walden Pond on Sunday with Toby and Albie if the weather was nice, and I wanted to have one day without the pressure to excel pounding at my gut.
I still hadn’t called Hannah. I didn’t know what to say. It was like I was two different people. One wanted to be with Hannah all the time. The other was petrified she’d bring up Rafe and ask about my feelings about him. I wasn’t going to lie to her. I’d been lied to in a relationship of sorts, and it hadn’t felt good. Better to just give things time to play out so I knew exactly how I felt before I called her.
I did a lab report for chemistry. After I finished, I got an idea. I descended from the cozy loft and got on a computer to search the library website for “Pappas, Peter.”