A to Z - 54. Chapter 54 Repercussions

Entry for Monday, March 13, Continued…

We woke up this morning still spooned together when the alarm went off, an explosion of harsh sound, far too soon. Zander silenced the alarm, and we cuddled, still very, very, naked for a few moments.

“If we don’t get going now, we’re gonna piss Coach off,” murmured Zander into my ear.

He rolled out of bed, with a resignation born from years of early swim practices.

“Come back!” I whined, missing the contact, the warmth, the loveliness.

But there wasn’t any swaying Zander, and soon I was moving as quickly as he was. We walked quickly to the school in the pre-dawn darkness. But we walked holding each other’s gloved hand, which was a first for us.

There was clearly a change in the weather coming; there was a wind up coming out of the south. Maybe it would warm up today and melt the snow, I thought.

“Andy?” Zander spoke, breaking the silence. “I’m scared about today.”

I felt anxious too, but I waited for him to tell me more.

“That post that outed me is going to get around. Someone may have already seen it. It could get nasty in school, you know?”

Definitely. But then, Blackburn wasn't Carlsberg, either. Still, I was uneasy. I squeezed his hand. “You're not going to be alone, Zander. I'll be there. And so will Kaz and Terry.”

Zander nodded. “I know. But, see, if people know about me, then it won't be rocket science for them to put two and two together. They’ll know about you, too. Some people might not take that too well. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I squeezed his hand again. “I'll be okay. Don’t worry.”

"But that's just it. If it were just me on my own, I could handle it. But I just can't stand thinking someone's going to target you because I got outed."

I shrugged, then tried to put the best face on it I could. "I'm worried, too, Zander. But I put up with way more crap at Carlsberg High School, and nobody even knew about me there. I'm not running away from this. I'm going to be with you, so you're stuck with me."

I saw him smile in the faint glow of the distant streetlight. “I knew you’d say that.”

We walked some more before I had a question of my own.

“Zander? Was it okay? What I did last night?” I had to ask.

I saw Zander smile again. “Okay? Andy, it felt fantastic. Miles beyond ‘okay,’” he said. “Why? Did you have a problem with it?”

“No. I’m just afraid…” I hesitated, “I’m afraid that somehow you might feel different this morning, or that it would change us some way, you know?” I was having trouble sorting out my thoughts.

Zander thought about that for a few moments as we walked along. “I loved what you did, Andy,” he said slowly. “That’s the first time anyone has ever…done that,” he groped for words. Was he embarrassed about it? "It was...damn, Andy, it was wonderful, and…and loving, and better than anything I've ever experienced." He paused as we walked a few steps further. “And I don’t feel any different about you this morning than I did yesterday or last week – except that maybe I love you even more.”

God, I have a wonderful boyfriend.

For him, I actually wore my new Speedo. But then Coach Simpson surprised us as we entered the pool area. He had already arrived and changed into swim trunks and t-shirt.

I stiffened, trying to keep myself facing him and my back hidden from his view.

“Nice to see you so bright and early, Zander," he greeted us wryly. “And Andy. Nice swimsuit. Thinking of joining the team this summer?”

I blushed deeply, feeling very self-conscious, incredibly nervous. I wanted to bolt. A glance at Zander kept me still.

“Okay guys,” he went on, “it has come to my attention that I need to provide more direct instruction, and to be more, um, present, shall we say. I’ll be doing some instruction, and Zander is going to be my demonstrator. And you, Andrew,” he said turning to me, “are the guinea pig. Okay, into the pool with you, while I get my clipboard."

While Coach turned and stepped away, I slipped into the water as quickly as I could. I was ducked down and facing him by the time he returned to the poolside. And then I didn't have a second to think about my back.

Coach proceeded to review everything from last week and then had me learn the sidestroke. It was great to have Zander to model everything I was supposed to do as I was doing it. I had no time to think about how I looked in my Speedo or how my bare back was exposed; Coach kept us working hard until it was time for us to shower and get school breakfast.

The morning proceeded like any other, just classes, and homework and the business of school. I was super aware of other people around me, and I didn't notice any change in their attitudes. No funny looks in English, or stage whispers in History. Mr. Hopewell still did his usual stuff in Physics without interruption. I began to hope that the Facebook post wasn't going to be a big deal.

But lunch was something different.

We were sitting at our usual table, me at the end sitting next to Zander, Kaz and Terry across from us, Nick Lewis next to them across from Alyssa.

“So, Andy, are you going to sign up for Track this afternoon, or am I going to have to drag you in kicking and screaming?” Kaz joked.

Today was signup day for the spring athletic season. There would be a meeting, but no practice. I decided to make Kaz happy. Why not? “I’ll be there,” I said firmly.

“What? You said what?” Kaz prodded, smiling. He cupped one of his big ears. “What did you say?”

“I said, I’ll be there! Don’t worry.” I let out a sigh of exasperation.

Nick Lewis crowed, “Hah! I talked him into it!”

There was laughter all around the table. Just then, a large, bulky figure loomed behind Zander and me.

I turned to see Bruce Mack, one of Zander’s senior swim teammates. Blond, hunky, and not at all happy.

“Yo, Stevenson,” he said abruptly.

All eyes at the table were suddenly on him.

Zander frowned.

“Stevenson, I got a question for you. Is it true?” The question hung in the air.

Zander narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

Mack moved forward, challenging Zander. “Answer me,” he demanded in a loud voice, starting to grab the attention of the room, “are you a fucking faggot or not?”

Zander rose, turned, and faced him. Two, maybe three seconds passed. “You know, Bruce, I really prefer the term ‘gay’ instead,” he said evenly.

Bruce Mack’s eyes went wide. “So you admit it! You’re a fucking homo, Stevenson! You're a faggot! Pussy!” he spat, getting in Zander’s face.

“Yeah. So?” Zander said more quietly.

“So you’re a fucking pervert, that’s what. You're a lying, homosexual sack of shit! I can't believe you! Raping everyone in the locker room with your fucking pussy faggot eyes! Who knows what the hell you do after practice with the freshmen, you cocksucker,” Bruce was raging, shouting now. He looked ready to start something physical.

I stood, the sound of my chair scraping the floor interrupting the tirade. I suck at fighting, but I wasn’t letting Zander do this alone. If Bruce was going to attack Zander, he was going to go through me first. I heard other chairs moving; it must have been Kaz getting up, too.

“And what are you?” Bruce went on, turning to me, “Are you Stevenson’s bitch boy butt whore?”

I looked squarely into the other boy’s ice-blue eyes, defiant. “I prefer the term ‘boyfriend,’” I told him, quietly, trying to match Zander’s tone.

Before he could respond, someone else spoke up.

“Really, Bruce?” Terry’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. More like a chain saw, actually. “Really?” She drew out the word, so she had everyone’s attention. “You chase practically anything that moves, sleep with anyone who’ll spread her legs for you, and you have the guts to call someone out for being gay? Are you serious?”

Nervous laughter rippled in the room. It sounded like most of the cafeteria heard Terry’s put-down. Bruce apparently realized Terry might have made him look a little ridiculous. He stepped back a little.

“This isn’t over,” he huffed.

“It's sooo over, Bruce, you hear me?” Terry didn’t want to let him off the hook. “If you mess with Zander, that means you’re messing with Andy and Kaz here,” she went on, “and if you mess with Kaz, that means you’re messing with me. You want that?”

There was more laughter in the room, but I heard the undertone in her voice. She was dead serious. Bruce could beat the shit out of me, fight Zander, and maybe even take on Kaz, but no way could he attack Terry, even verbally. Terry was a friendly person, a girl everybody in school liked. Socially, Bruce would be dead meat, if he wasn’t already.

And then, at that moment, Mr. Warfield belatedly arrived. “Mr. Mack, perhaps you’d spare a moment or two for an interview?” he interposed pedantically, “I’m sure the principal would like to quiz you on your choice of vocabulary as you played the stentor.”

Bruce looked at him in confusion. Slowly, the idea that he was being summoned to the principal's office registered. Glaring at everyone, he left with Mr. Warfield. Conversation started up around the cafeteria again. The moment had definitely passed.

We sat, letting the tension leak out of us slowly.

“Well. That explains a few things,” I heard Alyssa say conversationally on Zander’s right.

Nick Lewis snorted.

“Like what?” Zander asked, irritated.

“Like how it is you and Andy are practically joined at the hip,” Nick answered for her. “Like why you ignored Mary Ellen Schmidt throwing herself at you,” he grinned.

“Like how you broke up with me last spring,” Alyssa added more quietly.

Silence greeted her words.

“Shit, Alyssa, I’m sorry about that,” said Zander.

“Don’t be,” Alyssa said smiling. “It’s good to know it really wasn’t me. It was all you, like you said.” Then she leaned forward so she could look past Zander at me. “And you, Andy,” she said, “you’d better be good to Zander. Somebody needs to make him happy.”

I tried to smile and nodded. “I can do that.”

The storm had passed, but all was not well.

When we went to sign up for Track, Bruce wasn't there. He hadn't been seen after lunch. But a couple of his friends were. When we passed them on the way into the meeting, I heard someone mutter “faggot,” and “queer,” the pair of them merry at their own wit.

I'm absolutely sure I heard one of them say: "It isn't over, faggots," as we walked by. Bruce wasn’t going to let this drop, but he wasn’t going to stick his neck out, either. God, I hate sneaky people.

There was worse, much worse tonight.

Right before supper, a short, blocky woman in a dark tweed coat and steel rimmed glasses appeared at the kitchen door. I happened to be there, helping wash veggies; Monica answered the rap on the glass.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she inquired.

The woman stepped right in, not quite shoving Monica aside. Dark, greying hair. Leather gloves, stylish purse. She was someone certainly used to having her way.

“I’m looking for a boy calling himself Andrew Stevenson,” she announced. I froze.

“Who are you, and what do you want with him?” Monica countered.

“Oh. Yes.” The woman rummaged in her pocketbook. She produced a business card. “Phyllis Chandler, County Family Protective Services,” she introduced herself.

“You have some identification?” Monica asked, tightly. While the visitor fished out her wallet, Monica turned to me. “Go and get Garrett, would you? He’s in his study.”

I hurried to fetch him. “Mr. Stevenson? Sorry to interrupt you, but there’s a lady from Family Services in the kitchen. She says she wants me for something. Monica thinks you should come,” I explained.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re joking. What does she want?”

I shrugged and looked blank.

“All right, stay out of sight for a little while,” he said. I won’t say Mr. Stevenson stormed out of his study, but he was clearly irritated. Fortunately, it wasn’t me he was mad at.

I hung back by the stairs. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear plenty.

“I’m Phyllis Chandler,” I heard our visitor cut Mr. Stevenson’s greeting off, “and I’m here for the boy called Andrew Stevenson.”

“That’s our foster son,” Mr. Stevenson said politely. “Do you need to interview him?”

“No, I need to take him with me,” Ms. Chandler replied brusquely. “I’ve recently learned that this home is an inappropriate placement for the child,” she informed him.

My heart just about stopped.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t do that,” I heard Mr. Stevenson say. He was very firm, very certain. On the other hand, I was scared as hell. I wondered if I should grab my boots and run for the woods.

“I can, and I will,” Ms. Chandler snapped. “I’m the Director of Family Protective Services for this county, and I have the authority to…"

“Show me the order, please,” Mr. Stevenson spoke, cutting her off.

At this point, Zander crept down the stairs behind me, with a puzzled look on his face. I put my finger to my lips, silencing him.

“I don’t need an order to protect the child. I’ll take him now, if you please.”

“Actually, Ms. Chandler, you do need a court order,” said Mr. Stevenson carefully. “If you look at the file, you’ll see that Andrew was placed in our custody directly by the court, and so an order will be required to alter that.”

“That’s nonsense,” the woman blustered. “If a child is in danger, then we have an obligation to remove him from that dangerous environment. Period. I have that authority. Now if you’d…"

“Just what danger is this child – Andrew – supposed to be in?” Monica interrupted.

The woman huffed. “I have learned that there is a homosexual living in this house,” she dropped her voice ominously. “Do you deny it?”

“How do you know that?’ Mr. Stevenson replied sharply.

“I have been told by several people,” Ms. Chandler snapped.

“That’s hardly a due process investigation,” Mr. Stevenson observed.

“It doesn’t matter. My agency makes that decision for the good of the child. If I’m convinced there’s a homosexual living here, then there is. That’s completely inappropriate. Bring the child to me now, or I’m going to call for assistance from the police.”

“I’ll tell you what’s inappropriate,” began Monica, but Mr. Stevenson interposed smoothly,

“Now, now, now, hold on, Ms. Chandler; before you call in the police, and get the courts involved, let's try to resolve this in more civil way. You can inspect the house to see it's perfectly safe and conforming to code. Then maybe be we can meet tomorrow or the next day in the judge’s chambers and sort things out?”

He sounded almost friendly, but there was an edge to his voice. He didn't give Ms. Chandler a chance to respond.

“There’s clearly a legal issue that needs resolution, and you don’t really want me to call the judge right this second, do you? I have him on speed dial, and I can put him on speaker if you want. But he’d be awfully annoyed at the intrusion, don’t you think? And you and your agency do a lot of business with Judge Harrison, don’t you, Ms. Chandler?”

There was a silence. Clearly, Ms. Chandler was thinking the matter over.

But then Garrett went on in a calm, icy tone: “Because I assure you, if you call in the police to force the issue now, I can and will have your department up before child and family court not tomorrow, but tonight, even if I have to haul Judge Harrison out of his dinner or his easy chair; and there you will find yourself the target of a seriously annoyed judge, completely overruled, and your authority deeply in question.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Stevenson?” Ms. Chandler blared.

“Under the circumstances, Ms. Chandler, you’d better use my official title. It’s ‘Counselor,’ and no, that’s not a threat. That’s a promise,” Mr. Stevenson finished with finality.

A long silence again.

“Well," Ms. Chandler tried to recover, "perhaps you have a point. Let me see the house,” she rallied in her demanding tone, "I need to ascertain that the accommodations comply with the regulations."

“Very well,” Mr. Stevenson said, suddenly all conciliation, “fine. I'd be glad to do that, as long as you understand we're doing this as a courtesy to you. We're not conceding anything."

When I heard that, Zander and I quietly ascended the stairs as quickly as we could.

"What do we do?" I whispered to Zander in his room.

"Quick. Get out some homework," he said, "spread it out on my desk. I'm going to disappear – I don't think we should be seen together right now."

He slipped into the bathroom while I hurried to sit and get out some papers. I tried to look busy. I heard feet coming up the stairs, voices. "…and the laundry is in the basement. Do you need to see that?" Mr. Stevenson was saying.

A moment later, I turned and saw Ms. Chandler and Mr. Stevenson enter. Monica hovered in the hallway behind them. Ms. Chandler barely looked at me; her eyes flicked around the room. Too bad for her Zander and I had cleaned up earlier in the day.

"You. What's your name?" she barked, her eyes returning to me.

"Andy," I answered as respectfully as I could.

Ms. Chandler's eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she turned and stepped into the hallway again. "Where does the homosexual live?"

I saw Monica bristle; Garrett stepped in smoothly before she could blow up. "That door, over there." I saw him pointing in the direction of the spare room down the hall, where Monica had her office and work room. "Right this way."

"That won’t be necessary," Ms. Chandler said shortly. "It doesn't matter. But I’d like to interview the child. Alone." Again the demanding tone. This was a woman accustomed to getting everything she wanted.

"As a courtesy, I'll allow it," Garrett replied, "that is, if Andy doesn't mind. Andy?" he turned to me.

Slowly, I nodded. What else was I going to do?

Garrett went on, "Why not use the living room downstairs, so you’ll be away from dinner preparations and homework and so on?”

So in the space of a minute I descended to the living room to meet Ms. Chandler. She sat, plainly unhappy, in one of the wingback chairs by the fireplace. She hadn’t even taken her coat off. I figure she had meant to intimidate Garrett and Monica and cart me away before they could think about it. She hadn’t meant to stay at all.

I sat across from her.

“So. You’re Andrew,” she stated.

“Yes, ma’am,” I acknowledged.

She looked me up and down for a few moments.

"Why didn't you say you were Andrew when I first came in?"

"I thought you'd want to speak to my parents first."

Monica. Garrett. My parents.

She didn’t like my answer. I don't think this woman had any idea what to do or say. She must be used to people just being afraid of her. Like my father. She must have expected to just walk out the door with me, I'll bet.

"What did you have for breakfast?" she rapped out the question.

I thought for a second. School breakfast. I'd doubled up this morning. "Two bananas, cereal, a couple of pancakes, peanut butter and jelly, scrambled eggs…"

"I see," she interrupted me. Ms. Chandler regarded me for a few moments. “Hold out your hands,” she commanded.

What was this, anyway, something out of Dickens? Had she read Dickens at all? I had. I held out my hands for inspection. I heard vegetables being chopped vehemently in the kitchen.

Roughly, she grabbed my chin, and turned my head to the left, and then to the right. “When did you last comb your hair?” she asked sharply. I reminded myself that this woman was no caricature. She was dangerous.

“This morning, ma’am.” Simple answers. No extra details.

“What about this homosexual living in this house?” she asked suddenly, aggressively.

I put a puzzled look on my face. “Why would that be a problem?”

“Well. He might do things…inappropriate things…force you into…sexual acts,” Ms. Chandler said, trying to choose words carefully.

I shuddered. This woman had no idea of the difference between Zander and people like Uncle Ray. What planet was she from?

“I think I could handle that, if it happened,” I said, just as carefully.

“Do you? I wonder if you know. You might be tempted to take up that lifestyle yourself, young man.”

Lifestyle? Like being gay is a choice?

“I can make up my own mind, ma’am. That’s what I’m learning at school, anyway,” I said trying to sound confident.

“So you’ve chosen the right path already,” she said smoothly.

“I believe so,” I said. If she wanted to think I agreed with her, I wasn’t going to stop her. As long as it got her out of the house.

“Well, you seem healthy enough,” Ms. Chandler said, changing topic and tone abruptly. She heaved herself to her feet.

I rose, and she held out her hand. I took it to shake, but she grabbed mine and reeled me in close. Her breath smelled of stale chewing gum. “Don’t worry, boy,” she whispered to me, “we’ll have you out of here tomorrow.” Then she boomed out, “Good to meet you Andrew,” and released my hand. I followed her out to the kitchen, where Monica held the door. Garrett was nowhere in sight.

“I’m sorry Mr. Stevenson isn’t here to see you off,” she said. “He received an urgent call.”

The door closed, and I heard Zander bounding down the stairs. He had me in a big hug before I could take another breath. A good thing, too, because I was shaking with anger and tension.

“No way is anyone taking you away from me,” he whispered in my ear, over and over.

I felt Monica wrap her arms around us both. “Amen to that. No way is that woman taking you anywhere, Andy,” she echoed Zander fiercely.

I wanted to believe them. I really did. Drained, I just sat and watched Zander and Monica finish making supper. Mr. Stevenson appeared soon after.

“Well, I’ve called Judge Harrison and told him what’s up. He’s as mad as a hornet,” he grinned. “Better still, he’ll make time in his schedule to see everyone Wednesday morning. When Ms. Chandler shows up, he’s going to roast her alive.”

That put Monica in a better mood, but I felt sick.

Mr. Stevenson went on. “Zander and Andy both have to be present, so be prepared to miss some school,” he said, turning to us. “Oh, and Andy? You’re going to meet your lawyer Wednesday.”

“My lawyer?” I blurted out. “I thought you were my lawyer.”

“Nope. I’m your guardian. I hire your lawyer. And buddy, you have got one of the best.”

“Who’s that?” Monica asked.

“Heidi Graber. I asked her last month in case something came up, and miraculously, she’s available,” Mr. Stevenson explained.

Monica responded with a low whistle. “Unless Ms. Chandler has some hot shot New York lawyer up her sleeve, she’s gonna get shot down in flames.”

Mr. Stevenson nodded, happily. “Yup,” was all he said. But he grinned.

When I told him what Ms. Chandler had said about 'getting me out' tomorrow, Mr. Stevenson stopped grinning and got angry. But he seemed very sure that there was nothing to worry about.

But for all of the confidence at the supper table, I was a nervous wreck afterwards. What would happen if I had to leave this place? Ms. Chandler seemed awfully certain of herself. This isn't the way things were supposed to turn out. I wasn't supposed to get taken away from Zander. From my family.

Tonight, I actually left Zander alone in bed and retreated to my own room to pace and fret. And to write, which is really what I needed to do to get it all out.

I really wonder if maybe they’d all be better off if I disappear tonight. I can pack up and hit the road again, and everyone would forget about me.

Except I couldn’t forget them. I’m stuck, and I know it. I can’t leave because I love Zander too much, and Monica and Garrett have been so good to me. I’ve been with Zander for what, a month? Why can’t I have a little longer with him? Why is it anyone's business who I love or live with?

Zander’s awake now, and I can hear him calling me, softly. We really can’t sleep apart. The next few days until going to court are going to be fearsome days, but they have to happen. I'll do whatever it takes to stay in this house. Just let them try to take me away from Zander.