Life in a Northern Town - 9. Chapter 9

Thinking about that, though, the two of us, it doesn't feel the same, probably because we love each other. But something is changing, something I can't put my finger on. I've been spending a lot of time talking to John and Ken – mostly to avoid the other guys who leave me confused at best. Unfortunately the list of topics I can cover with them is short and I end up talking about myself. I think I've been tricked, somehow, but I don't say anything about that because I'm starting to feel better.

By better, I mean not so angry and more in control. I feel more confident in myself as the weeks pass and I'm thinking about coming out at school with Nick. I want to kiss him in public and let everyone see who we are. But, as time passes, I'm not as sure who we are as I was before. As my confidence in myself grows, our relationship seems to be cooling off. He comes to see me but it's less than before. I suppose the daily visits get old, always talking in the kitchen – it's too cold to walk to the park, usually. But visits that used to be nightly are now down to, maybe, twice a week.

That doesn't stop Randy, though. He's there like clockwork and I do my best to keep him from Joe and his drooling. Don't ask me why – Randy is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and I don't think Joe is a threat, but it bothers me. I think whoever is with Randy needs to respect him and love him the way he deserves to be – not treat him like the next dick in line.

I go up to my room and collect my laundry and take it to the basement. I'm loading the washer and I hear steps coming down. I see Joe, from the corner of my eye, and sigh to myself. Ever since I'd walked in on Joe blowing Scott things had been tense. I didn't agree with what Joe was doing even if it wasn't my choice to make. I was convinced he was making a big mistake, trading his body for some semblance of affection. I knew from speaking to Scott that there was no affection involved, Scott was just enjoying a regular suck.

“Adam? There you are. So, look...you're not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I haven't said anything,” I reply, stiffly. “You and Scott have been at it for a couple weeks, I haven't said shit.”

“Yeah, exactly. What makes you think it's okay to sit on some moral high horse and judge me?”

“Hey, I don't have to like it – and I left you alone about it. You think I should approve or just not have an opinion?” I scowl.

“Partially, no, I don't think you should have an opinion. It's not really your business.”

“Too bad, you don't get to decide what I have an opinion about.” I look away from him and add detergent before pulling on the knob to start the washer. I'm startled to find that Joe has closed the distance and is blocking my path to the stairs. I am reminded, suddenly, how large he is.

“You know, if you weren't so busy wringing your hands because I am having sex, maybe you'd notice your boyfriend pulling away from you. Probably 'cause you're frigid.”

“The fuck?” I snarl, “What do you know about my boyfriend? And who are you to call me frigid? What the fuck do you know?” I was also afraid he could be right; I was grasping at straws as to why Nick was puling away from me so much as the weeks pass.

“I know he doesn't come to see you very much. I know, even though you're gay, a blow job freaks you out. Let me see if I understand,” Joe glowers. “You haven't even sucked your own boyfriend off, have you? Want me to loan you Scott? He's not gay, but he's appreciative.”

“What I do with my boyfriend is none of your business,” I snarl, brandishing my laundry basket. Feeling foolish I put the basket down.

“Just like what Scott and I do is none of yours. I want sex, I like sex and Scott is willing to do it with me.”

“Good! Let the straight guy fuck your brains out! Suck him till he's dry! It has nothing to do with how I live my life and what I want!”

“You're supposed to want you're boyfriend's cock! He's got such blue balls right now, I bet I can get in his pants!”

“Fuck you, slut!” I snarl and shove past him. He partially blocks me and we both stumble.

“Oh, is that it? You want to call me names because I'm getting some dick and you aren't? So now I'm the bad guy?”

“No!” I shout, “You're the bad guy because you have no respect for yourself or anyone else! Maybe sex is just getting fucked for you but I want more! Stay the fuck away from Nick and Randy!”

“I'll stay way,” he says as I mount the stairs, “but will they stay away from me?”

I slam the basement door and head for my room. Quick footsteps tell me someone is in pursuit and I take the stairs two at a time to avoid them. Hot tears are in my eyes and my brain is swirling. Could he be right? Is Nick pulling back because I haven't followed through and had sex with him? Would blowing him fix whatever is wrong with our relationship?

I continued to avoid my housemates, but the fact that I am doing so has finally been noticed by the adults. I avoid their questions, and I know it's making it worse because I've been a lot more accommodating when they want to talk to me, lately. I feel bad about that, and that's odd because I didn't used to care about their feelings.

I've kept my nose clean and am pretty excited when Mr. Bergman stops by to talk to me a few weeks later on a Thursday afternoon.

“Adam, how are you doing?” he asks while taking a folder and laying it on the table.

“I feel pretty good, actually,” I reply.

“The school says you have made progress. Your attendance is regular and your grades are coming up as well as your instances of detention going down.”

“I still get in trouble, but I don't get mad as much,” I reply. “I talk to John a lot about things that piss me off and worry me. I try not to do stupid things.”

“Always an admirable goal,” he says with a smile. “Well, after being in placement nearly three months I think it's time to review your case and make some goals, considering you've achieved some of what we had set for you already.”

“What goals were set?” I ask suspiciously.

“We wanted – needed – to see an improvement in your anger management.” He took off his glasses and dangled them by an arm as he spoke. “Four months ago you were a very, very angry young man. With some stability, which the group home has given you, and some therapy by John, you've made progress.”

“What do you mean 'therapy by John'?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.

“Frequently teens with anger issues are placed in much more secure facilities, like the one you had to spend a night in. It's much more penitentiary-like and the therapy is compulsory. John, you may or may not know, is a licensed therapist and we thought you might fare better in a more organic environment instead of creating an artificial experience of visiting a therapists office and the stigma that many teens associate with that.”

“So, wait,” I say with my hands spread. “Are you saying John's been head shrinking me this whole time?”

“More or less,” he says.

A slow smile spreads across my face. “That sneaky bastard.”

“Mr. Swanson felt this program would benefit you far more than the standard – Stone Hills Farm – and clearly he was right.” He glances down at the folder in his hand, almost as if he is surprised to find it there. He opens it and begins to leaf through the papers inside. “Mr. Swanson really went to bat for you. I confess, I had to ask him why – just a few months ago I thought you were thoroughly unlikeable.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He looks up at me over the top of his glasses. “I'm sorry if you're offended. In my line of work I don't see people at their best and I try not to make judgments. When I met you I thought you were just another angry, unfixable child who would grow to be an angry man whose children would end up in front of myself and a judge some day. A cycle, if you will. But Mr. Swanson saw something more in you. He was able to see the boy in pain instead of the pain in the ass the rest of us saw.”

I digested this and found, even though Bergman was annoying me, he was honest and everything he said was what I had grown to realize about Bernie. I mean, Bernie did protect me from Canfield, even though I still didn't know why he had such a hard-on for me. He also pulled me into his office just to talk – at the time he started with that I figured he was just keeping me under his thumb. As time went by I realized he actually...liked me. Stranger still, I found I liked him. I wasn't sure how to show that, safely. I could still find my anger – it wasn't gone, but I was aware when it was about to flash up and I had a leash on it right now.

“So, with your progress we think you are ready to step down from a group home to a less restrictive environment – a therapeutic foster home.”

“Wait, you want me to leave here?” I ask, a trace of fear in my voice.

“This placement is not meant to be forever, Adam,” he says kindly. “Although, I am surprised you're not jumping to leave.”

“I never thought I'd say this, but I like John. Not Ken so much, but I do like John. I think he gets me.” My stomach clenched with the admission. I'd only ever let my brain whisper it in the dark to myself – it seemed like a betrayal to someone, no idea who, to say I liked John as a person.

“Well, we are having a court hearing in two weeks and at that time the county will be recommending you live with the Proctors, who have been very diligent in their preparation to take you in. They are a fully...”

“I get to live with Randy?” I cut in, all remorse for leaving John forgotten.

He smiles, “Yes. As I was saying, they are a fully registered foster home and they have been very focused on making a home for you. I think you can make a successful move to them, we'll do this slowly. You'll do a few overnights and then a few weekends before we get you completely moved in. but, yes, You will live with Randy and his parents.”

“Why so long and so slow? They know me, I know them.”

“That's a good question, and the answer is that the dynamic will be different for you than it was before. Just think for a moment,” he says as he folds the temples on his glasses and opens them again compulsively. “Right now you are used to the rules and routines here in the group home. When you start to visit the Proctor's you'll have to accept their authority in the way you've come to accept John and Ken's authority.”

“So? I don't get it.”

“Well, I think Mr. and Mrs. Proctor probably do things differently than John and Ken do. They are different people. Let's also not forget that, while Randy is your friend, living together poses different stresses on relationships. You could come to annoy one another, or you may feel as though the Proctor's are unfair and give Randy far more leeway, love or what have you. It's an adjustment.”

“I...” It kind of makes me angry, to be honest. But I jerk the collar on that anger and take a deep breath or six the way John taught me. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I'm not surprised, and I don't blame you for being skeptical,” he replies. “It's hard to really understand unless you live it.”

I happily think about living with Randy and that is suddenly overshadowed with dread. “What about my mom?”

“That is another good question. She hasn't been in court for her last two appointments and I haven't been able to reach her by phone. I may have to ask an officer to deliver a summons for this next appearance. She really should be there.”

“I haven't talked to her since...we were in court.”

“Yes, she's been very difficult to work with, I'm afraid.”

“What...what do you mean?”

“She has a lot of issues to contend with. We have real concern about her ability to parent you in the long term.”

“You mean...I might never go home?”

“There is a possibility you may not live with your mother again, yes,” he says, apologetically.

I mull this over. My anger bubbles over my mother and her inability to be a decent human being, much less a mother to me. But I try to focus on the brighter side and think about living with Randy and it carries me through Friday and the weekend with no visit from Nick.

Monday morning Nick continues being cooler towards me, as he seems to have been for the past several weeks. It was like a switch had gone off in him and I keep running what Joe said through my mind. What if I am just wrong? What if Nick thinks I should know, by now, that we're supposed to be in bed together? We might have, already, if I'd been at home but we hadn't had any time alone! If that's true, how do I manage it? I feel hurt and disillusioned by Nick's behavior and corner him after a class.

“Nick, will you tell me what's wrong?”

“Adam...you seem upset,” Nick says to me. He's suddenly warmer than he has been and I am encouraged.

“Of course I'm upset! My boyfriend seems to be pulling away from me and I don't know why!” I hiss.

He frowns. “I don't...”

Who knows what he was going to say. A teacher calls us out for not getting along to our next class. I don't see Nick again until lunch and all I can do was shoot him worried looks since I didn't want to talk about it in front of Randy. I am further confused by his smile, which seems to be his response to my worry. What is that all about? I decided that I'll figure out how to arrange some alone time with him. During the course of previous conversations with Randy I've figured out where Nick lives – which was right across the street from my mom's house, across the boulevard. How had I not known this, I wondered? I mean...

Okay, well, there was the timing first. I had been avoiding Nick and being all out of control angry and pouty. Then we'd only found out the other was interested the night before I got sent away. So, okay, I maybe get that. But you'd think it would have come up in conversation before now. Also, his dad was in politics of some kind, so how come they hadn't tried to help me out? You'd think a father would help out his son's boyfriend – unless that wasn't cool in their house. Were Nick's parent's 'phobes?

As I stew I realize that most of what I know of Nick is only what I get from the three of us being together. Due to my...situation...I haven't ever really had any alone time with Nick. After dealing with this loss of interest for no apparent reason the rest of the week, I know that has to change. Now.

I start scheming from the moment I walk up to the group home. I look at where my window is versus the small roof over the porch. I'll have to stretch a bit, but I can make it. Then it is a simple slide down one of the supporting posts and I can trot over to Nick's. I picture his home in my mind and see the front porch with its roof and above that three windows side by side. Above that would be a double window, likely in the attic.

I plan well, secreting my coat in my bedroom closet rather than the one in the hallway downstairs. Joe ignores me, which I am thankful for. I don't think I can deal with any of his needling – and I certainly am not about to say I am taking his unwanted advice. Scott smiles a lot and I can't figure out what that is all about – but then, I figure I don't want to know. We sit down for dinner and John flicks concerned glances at me and I feel profoundly guilty because I know I am about to do something that will betray his trust. But I have to do something or I'll lose Nick.

After dinner we have chores and then our free time. I sit in my room pretending to read a book and just waiting for lights out. Randy won't be stopping tonight - he has a date with Tiffany Walsh, better known as the town pump. If Randy was still a virgin, and I think he'd have bragged if he weren't, he wouldn't be after tonight. Maybe I wouldn't be, either. I think about that, focusing on how it would happen. Do you talk first? Surely you don't just jump into bed. Will I need to say things to turn him on or will me being in his room and willing be enough? Should I bring condoms or would he have them already? He seems like a prepared guy - I'll bet he's had a box and has been waiting for me to stop being stupid – if Joe can be believed.

Do I just whip my dick out? Or, no, I should probably just pull his pants down and go for it, right? Should I...fuck, who knew getting laid was so complicated? A quick knock at my door and John's head peeks in at me.

“Hey, are you doing all right, Adam? You've been really quiet since Mr. Bergman came over.”

“Yeah, I guess I have. Going to shrink my head about it?”

“Oh, I see. You feel deceived,” John says with a smile. He steps fully into the room and seats himself on the chair that accompanies my desk.

“I'm actually okay with it, mostly,” I tell him. “I mean, I wasn't thrilled. I was actually kind of impressed, if you want the truth.”

“The truth is good.”

“Yeah. You're a sneaky bastard, John.” I smile at him and he returns it.

“Talking about emotions can be touchy at the best of times. It's much, much harder when you're a kid and have no life experience to draw on and no trusted adults to guide you. What can take years with traditional office visits we achieved in a much shorter time,” John holds up a finger. “I don't give myself much credit for that. I give that to you and to Mr. Swanson for being insightful enough to see past your outer shell.”

“This is getting embarrassing. Can we talk about something else besides my feelings?” I ask, and immediately wonder 'since when do I ask things like that?'

“Sure. Something's been bothering you for a while now, with Scott and Joe. What's up with that?”

“Yeah, so, Mr. Bergman says they can't find my mom.” I evade.

“That sounds troubling. What did he say?”

“That she hadn't shown up for the last couple of court dates and that he couldn't get her on the phone. He said that he might have to send a cop to get her, or something.” I lick my lips and then ask, “What happens to me if she...”

“Well, that's a question with a lot of 'if's' involved. If your mom refuses to comply with the court – either through not appearing or failing to comply with their requirements for you to be able to go home...” he sighs and frowns before continuing. “After 15 months in the foster care system the county can apply to terminate the parent's rights.”

“Terminate...so, like, she can't be my...parent then?”

“Yes. At that point you can be adopted. Since you're over the age of fourteen, you can decide if you want to be adopted or learn independent living skills.”

“Is that what happens if they just can't find her, too?”

“Nothing is in stone and it depends on the judge, but I think after 15 months, the same petition could be filed.”

“Wow,” I say. I think, having it said in legal terms like that, I truly feel that I will never go to live at my mother's home again. I can't exactly decide how I feel about that.

“Okay, time to brush. Lights out in ten,” John says and taps my foot with his fingers as he passes. I walk across to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Scott walks in while I am doing do and takes up a spot next to me to do the same. I rinse and leave, not wanting to risk any further confrontation. Maybe I shouldn't judge them, but it does kind of bother me. At least I'm not being a dick, I'm just not getting into it with them.

I switch off my light and close the door. I dress quickly and then hop into bed, minus my shoes and coat. I listen as Joe and Scott push and shove in the hall and Ken chases them off to their respective rooms. I lie awake and listen to the sounds of the house settling in for the night. Sounds I have grown accustomed to. The dishwasher starting, the loud clicks of the push button electric switches as the lights downstairs are shut off room by room.

As I listen to these sounds my mind wanders back to the conversations I've been having with John. He is really good at getting me to talk. I liken him to the tide, slowly creeping forward and then falling back and letting you see what's been uncovered. One question had hit me just right. We'd been in the kitchen, at the nook and he says to me, “Do you enjoy letting your anger loose?”

I am forced to think about how I feel when that rage is loose in me. I am forced to admit that I like the lack of responsibility, of how nothing matters when I snap. He then asks if things have ever gotten better after I let my rage fly. I am forced to admit that, no, things invariably get worse. He withdrew, then, like the ocean and let me look at the crap that had just been carried in by his tide. I had been working very hard since then to leash my anger.

Snapping back to the present I hear two sets of feet moving up the creaking stairs. A light under my door spilling from the bathroom. The click as their door closes, some thirty minutes after we've been sent to bed. I hear them murmur, the squeak as they climb into their bed – I realize for the first time that they must fuck in there. Ew.

I wait another twenty minutes before I slip out of bed and push my shoes on. I sling my coat on and tiptoe to the window. I unlatch and pull it open slowly and am thankful the windows are new and not like the old weighted ones at my mom's house that groan, squeal and barely open. I slip onto the ledge and stretch my foot onto the small roof of the porch. I get the window mostly closed and decide it'll keep until I get back. I keep my hands on the wall as I move gingerly across the roof, keeping away from ice and snow that hasn't yet melted – probably because this is the back of the house and doesn't get anything in the way of sun.

I have a nightmare moment when the wind kicks up and I think I'm going to fall, but it passes. I slide over the edge on my belly and wrap my legs around the support post and slide down to the ground. Looking up and seeing no lights turning on I figure I'm good to go and I start the trek to Nick's house. The wind is gusty, but nothing I can't deal with. I step quickly over the frost-heaved sidewalk and make good time getting to Nick's. I glance at my mom's house - no lights on inside - and turn my back on it. The only thing keeping me warm right now is thinking what I'm about to do with Nick. There is a light shimmering through the downstairs windows and I see a man asleep in a chair as the TV goes on mindlessly.

I look the place over, and have a tremendous stroke of luck when the light comes on in the upstairs bedroom and I see Nick silhouetted. My destination confirmed I mount the steps of the front porch and move to the railing. I shimmy up the post and grip the roof by my fingers, heaving myself gracelessly onto the cold metal. At least there is no ice, this roof gets the morning sun. I step lightly, not wanting the metal to buckle and make noise. Reaching the windows I crouch and tap.

“Nick,” I whisper hoarsely. “Nick!”

Minutes drag by and I tap and call until the curtain twitches and there he is in sweats and a tee. His face is a mask of shock as he opens the window and pulls me through and into his room.

“Adam, what are you doing here? Why are you on the roof?” Nick asks. I think he sounds annoyed, but I'm sure that can't be right. There are only so many reasons your boyfriend sneaks into your room at night, right? I tell him so.

“I'm confused...this is kind of bold, for you. I should be the one to...”

Joe's words flash through my brain and I grow desperate. I'm standing right here, offering myself to him and he's not reacting – at least he's not reacting like he's interested. I dart forward and pull on the waistband of his sweats and he twists, pulling away and yet his sweats tangle his legs. The fall is loud enough I am now worried the sleeping man will wake.

“What's your problem?” Nick snarls.

“Me? You're supposed to be my boyfriend! You won't talk to me, you barely visit and here I am to fix it – ready to go to bed with you and you're pulling away?” My anger is on the rise and I feel it pulling on its leash – but it goes out like a candle under a bucket of water when he replies.

“I haven't been able to tell you...I want to break up.”

“You...but why?” I say, my face slack with shock.

“It's not you. Well, it is, but it's me, too.”

A knock at the door, and a mans' voice, “Nick? You okay?”

“Yeah, Dad. I just stumbled in the dark.”

“Okay, good night.”

I listen to the retreating steps and then wait, my body rigid with anger and hurt, for my – apparently – ex-boyfriend to tell me why this is. He sits on his bed and the light coming through the part in the drapes shows me his face – his beautiful face that seems embarrassed now. I can't move, I feel as though I can barely breathe.

“I haven't been very honest with you,” he begins. “With your situation developing when it did, our relationship was kind of perfect. We were never alone and I never disclosed much about myself – we never had those talks couples do about life before they got together. But, the truth is...”

“What?” I say, my voice coming out as a pleading whisper. I think some part of me is hoping that he will suddenly crack a smile and chide me for doubting him and pull me into his bed.

“I've done this kind of thing before. It's...pathological.” He frowns and looks up at me. “Down home it was Chad. The first time. Then Brent. Then Ryan,” he sighs and looks away. “That one was bad. We moved and my new therapist came up with what's wrong with me. Problem is you can't just take a pill and improve – it's something you have to be actively on guard about.”

“What are you talking about? This isn't making any sense...did you sleep with all those guys? Or lead them on or what?” I whisper fiercely.

“No, I didn't...no,” he says with a sigh. “It sounds dumb, but it's called 'White Knight Syndrome'. Basically I'm attracted to wounded, broken people. I feel like I have to save them, and if they get better – get confident, get control of themselves – then I...lose interest.”

I feel the shock of what he's saying settle on my shoulders and I go kind of numb. “So,” I finally blurt, tears welling in my eyes, “all that crap about loving me, all those kisses and being romantic and sweet? That was because...” I began to blubber and run my hands through my hair before choking out, “that was because you only loved me while I was fucked up?”

“It's...I still care, Adam, it's not that I don't but...you don't need me. Don't you see that? You're not broken, anymore. You've become confident and in control.”

“In control!” I laugh, my voice far too loud. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious?” Footsteps coming back up the stairs. I stare at his face – the face I thought was so beautiful and caring – and see that he doesn't love me. He pities me. The door opens and the man is there, flicking on the light. I squint at the sudden light.

“What's going on here?” he demands.

“Dad, this is Adam. He was just leaving,” Nick says quietly.

“Again with this shit, Nick? I'm calling Dr. Patterson in the morning,” he says sternly. “You, let's go.”

I know who 'you' is. I stare balefully at Nick, who doesn't meet my eyes, and I leave. Exiting the house I turn down the street and start the long walk home. I can't believe that, after all this, after all I thought this night was about, I'm heading home with no boyfriend and still a virgin. Well, at least I can tell Joe his theory that blow jobs cure everything is bullshit. This is on my mind until I round the final corner and see the flashing lights of the cop car in front of the group home.