Chapter 10

Ten

Ezra

I have to hang in till the semester’s over.

Practice is good. I sat out the day after taking all Xannies, but the other days—no fucking problem.

I’ve stopped jerking off since nothing gets me there except for thinking of my stepbrother sucking my balls. Pushing a finger into my hole. Taking my dick deep into his throat.

He’s dating someone. Someone who leaves black lipstick kiss marks on his freckled cheeks. Maybe it’s the guy from Tuscaloosa. I don’t know who. I deleted Snapchat and Instagram.

I should meet someone. Can't come out, though. People at this school would fucking crucify me. I would lose the starting job—that’s for sure.

One night when I can’t sleep, I look up that pastor. Luke McDowell. Is he really gay? There’s this video—some secret viral video—of him with his boyfriend. I watch the two of them together, and it gives me the tight, clawing feeling in my chest. There’s no more Xanax to take .

I add Snapchat and Instagram back, mostly just to torture myself.

The only thing I can choke down besides milkshakes is pizza. At least I’m eating the kind Josh likes.

That thought comes to me when I’m in the booth at Mama Ravioli’s one afternoon after practice, eating a medium pizza alone. As soon as my brain processes it, I start freaking out—like fucking losing it and shaking.

There in the booth, I check my phone’s archive of his stories and snaps. Does it say he likes ham and pineapple? Do I know that from his socials?

But it doesn’t say.

So I ask. I ask him on Snapchat. ‘What’s your fave pizza?’

He replies to me—within five minutes. He says ham and pineapple and asks why I’m asking.

I can barely make it home without losing my mind again. I get a bath and cry in the steam. That’s something college guys do, right?

Maybe we were friends, and maybe I’m remembering. But I can't ask him. Maybe I should talk to my dad.

I don't know.

I don't feel hungry after that.

There’s only one more practice before we have four days off.

I start planning, but there’s nothing I can commit to. The thought of smashing into the ground from way up high has started scaring me. I don’t like guns, either.

Josh is joining a fraternity.

It’s almost August.

I have dreams about the shock stick. I think of those cool hands on my legs, all those hands on other parts of me.

I could have done a lot of things, but I got on a bus. This is what they want me to do. Everybody good who loves me.

If somebody loves me.

No one kills themself on a bus.

There are all the hairspray smells. The talking about nephews. Birthday presents. I’m just one of many.

He’s staying in this weekend. He’s reading a book. I haven’t seen the spine yet.

I bought some pills from someone in Cottondale, but I’m not using them.

That’s not what people like me do.

People like me.

Everything feels like a joke, but I’m not laughing. I can’t sleep. I only have two bottles of water.

It’s a long ride. Longer than I thought it would be. Sometimes when we stop I want to get off and walk away, but I’m too scared of walking when I don’t know where I’m going.

Every road leads to the old, pale prison. Every road leads to those woods.

I brought my journal, one I bought at work, but I can’t write in it.

I’m hungry, so I decide to take the pills.

Pills are just a euphemism.

By the time we get to San Francisco, I don’t remember writing that.

I get a taxi to the church, but it’s too busy. I can’t get close. I ask the driver where the McDowell house is, and he takes me by it. I write down the address. Then I have him let me off at a park. I check the internet and he was right, my driver.

Why’s this pastor’s house so public?

Anyone could get in.

It was very stupid not to bring food.

I feel like I might pass out as I walk.

I’m at the gates of the place, feeling scared and stupid.

I’m not crying, though. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I’m a football player.

I’m so hungry.

Maybe they like football.

The boyfriend looked nice, and his name sounds poetic. All the forums said his name is Vance Rayne.

Should have stayed in Alabama. Someone drives through the gates right in front of me. I follow the car in and walk up the long driveway. I don’t feel well. Don’t they have security?

I see Miller from the bottom. My head in his lap.

I see these fantasies. Not for stepbrothers.

In the garage, I lie down to feel the cool cement on my skin. My mind whirs like a dishwasher. Promised land. And mentally ill. Keywords.

I pat my pocket for my phone before I pass out.

It’s cold in their garage, but I’m still thirsty. Can’t find water.

I can’t get my phone to work. My hands are shaking.

Stupid, stupid Christopher.

“It’s so disappointing, pastor. I had no idea that he was tempted by boys until his freshman year. Although there were signs.”

The cement floor is cool. My shoulder digs into it, hurting.

“Just be grateful we can pay for this place, Christopher. Other people like you have no help. ”

I lie there till my throat feels like a rope’s winding around it. I can barely breathe, my tongue is so dry. My head aches so badly.

It reminds me of a time in that armchair, sitting up and Josh with a wet rag.

I’m thinking nonsense. Someone leaves out the back door. My heart’s beating weird. I wait as long as I can, and then I drag my body over to it. Rise up on my knees and turn the handle.

I hope they’re nice. I hope the Rayne one is here.

I try to get up and walk in, but my legs won’t let me. The last thought I have before the floor rises to meet me.

There’s spots in my vision. There’s this guy and baby. Not long hair, but he looks like the nice one. I inhale and hear myself ask, “Are you…Vance?”

"Who's asking?" The guy mean-eyes me. "We don't like to get surprise guests at our house. You need to start explaining or security will come down the stairs. Hold off for now, Steven," he calls, and my heart misses a few beats.

“I’m sorry.”

I try to get up—I’ve gotta go before this turns bad—but my legs are so weak. I end up grabbing for the wall and fumbling with some big painting, and the guy holding the baby gets more pissed off.

Everything is spinning as I sink back down to the floor.

Next time he talks, his voice is nicer. “What’s wrong, dude? What’s the what here?” I feel him standing over me. I hear the baby’s soft sounds. “You need some help or something?”

I lift my head to look up at him. “Don’t call the cops.” I’m gonna go soon…

He asks how old I am, and if I’ve got a knife or gun. I want to go, but I can’t get up. I don’t feel good.

“You have asthma? Are you hungry?”

He offers me food. Asks if I’m okay with dairy. Almost laugh at that one. Pretty sure he asks if I’m a Texan as the baby fusses and he moves around the kitchen, which is right down this hall.

I don’t think he’s gonna hurt me. I’ve been wrong before, though.