Wandering
The dark-haired boy walks aimlessly down the sidewalk, each step a punch in the gut. Salt in the wound. A twist of the knife.
He doesn't know where he's going. His vision is blurred from the tears he's trying and failing to hold back, so he pauses, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, and chokes back another sob. He needs a plan. Direction. Somewhere to go.
It hits him again that he's out here alone.
There's a McDonald's on the corner and the dark-haired boy's stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten since lunch. He has half a mind to walk past it, but he has nowhere to be. He might as well eat, anyway. And – he checks his watch, 10:15pm – McDonald's is open 24 hours. He probably can't sleep there, the dark-haired boy reasons, because he's fourteen and they'll call CPS on him, and he won't be able to explain why he's there without breaking down again. But he can at least have a burger.
And so the dark-haired boy slides into an empty booth with his cheeseburger and assesses the situation. He has twenty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents to his name. The duffel bag his mom packed for him has a few t-shirts and jeans and his toothbrush, but none of his actual belongings. None of the games – or, now that he is older, books – he would escape to when he didn't measure up to what everyone else expected of him.
$28.72 and a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush. It's not much to go with.
So he hauls himself up and approaches the cashier.
"Um," the dark-haired boy says, hating himself for hesitating, "Do you have a phone I could use?"
"Payphone out back."
And so the dark-haired boy pushes his way through the alley behind the restaurant and inserts a quarter.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"Nico?" the voice on the other end of the line is hushed, whispered. "Where are you? I've been so worried—"
He ignores her question, starting one of his own instead. "Bianca. I—"
He doesn't finish his question, hoping that she'll understand, that she'll answer it for him.
Or better yet, that he'll wake up and this will all have been a dream.
There's background noise on Bianca's end of the line, someone yelling something unintelligible.
The dark-haired boy holds his breath, waiting, and then he hears rustling and Bianca protesting, "No, wait! Stop – don't – I'm sorry, Nico, I didn't think she could hear – I'm sorry."
And then there's a new voice on the line, one that used to bring comfort to the dark-haired boy but now provides nothing but chills along the back of his neck. "Don't you ever call here again, Dio mi salvi, or I swear—"
"Mom," the dark-haired boy's voice breaks from the emotion. "Mom, please. I didn't mean—I won't—please, Mamma, please, sono tuo figlio, please—"
He slips into Italian by accident, but wonders whether hearing her native language might change Maria di Angelo's mind, and the dark-haired boy thinks he hears her crying on the other end of the line. He wonders if maybe he's convinced her, if maybe he can go back, and keep up the act for another three and a half years until he's eighteen and free.
Three and a half years of hiding are nothing compared to a life on the streets, he thinks.
But his mother's next words are a slap in the face. "Non sei mai stato mio figlio, frocio!"
"Mamma," he whispers, as though she might shield him from the words erupting out of her own mouth, the way a mother should.
She ignores his plea and snaps, "Mio figlio non è una orecchione."
And then the dark-haired boy is left alone with only the dial tone for company.
He contemplates calling his dad, but it's summer so his girlfriend will be hanging around. They won't want a teenager in their way. And besides, Nico can't very easily pick up and head halfway across the country to stay with them, even if they did agree to take him in. He can never even remember the girlfriend's name – it's something long and Greek-sounding, Penelope or something – Persephone, that's it, a mouthful. And besides, he has school here, and Bianca…
He's really alone.
The dark-haired boy sinks to his knees in front of the telephone and lets the sobs shake his body. His own mother, calling him those horrible, horrible words.
He doesn't know how much time passes before he hears footsteps in the alleyway. His first thought is to fight, that this could be a murderer or a thief or worse, and he reaches for a nearby stone to defend himself from God-knows-what. But then the footsteps stop a few feet away from him.
"You okay, man?"
The dark-haired boy looks up and his dark eyes meet clear blue. He recognizes these eyes. They belong to the quarterback of the football team and junior class president. The Golden Boy.
The golden boy reaches out a hand to help him up and the dark-haired boy accepts it.
"Yeah. I'm fine." The dark-haired boy doesn't know why his first reaction is always to get defensive.
The golden boy looks at him for a minute, maybe taking in his tear-stained cheeks or his greasy fingers, still grasping the cheeseburger wrapper.
"You're not fine," the golden boy decides. He hesitates for just a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
The golden boy waits, then, "I have a place you can stay for a few days, if you want. My sister's out of town."
He says the words casually enough, but the dark-haired boy understands. The golden boy knows. He knows that the dark-haired boy has nowhere to stay because the dark-haired boy is fourteen and outside and lost and alone.
"I can't," the dark-haired boy starts, because he only has $28.47 and can never pay the golden boy back for this.
But the golden boy doesn't listen. "Come on," he says. "I'll drive you." And then, after a pause, "I used to stay with my sister a lot. My mom…" he pauses, runs a hand through his hair to block his facial expression, "She drinks too much, sometimes."
The dark-haired boy hears the pain behind those words. He looks up at the golden boy and looks past the blue eyes and the bright smile and sees someone who has been hardened by his past.
"Sorry," the dark-haired boy manages.
The golden boy aims a key at a beat up old car and unlocks the door. "Whatever's going on, you don't have to be ashamed of it, you know."
The dark-haired boy stares at the open door. He doesn't get in.
"Oh," says the golden boy. "I'm Jason."
"I know," the dark-haired boy says. At the golden boy's surprise, he adds, "I go to Jupiter High. I'm a freshman."
"Oh, that's cool, uh…"
"Nico."
"Nico," the golden boy repeats.
The car ride is silent, for the most part. The golden boy parks outside a modest-looking apartment building at the edge of town.
"Do you want anything to eat?" he asks the dark-haired boy. "I make a pretty mean grilled cheese."
The dark-haired boy almost smiles, but he can't quite bring himself to do it.
"You don't have to do this," he says. "I'll be okay—"
"Stop it," the golden boy's eyes flash a warning. "I'm doing this because I want to. Because I've been there before. So don't—"
"No," the dark-haired boy says, filled with rage, "You don't understand. You can't – you'll never understand."
"Then help me try," answers the golden boy.
A part of the dark-haired boy wants to tell the golden boy all his secrets, but he can't. The words are at the tip of his tongue but they won't spill over his lips because he's spent fourteen years of his life refusing to acknowledge who he is.
So he settles for shaking his head.
The golden boy leads the dark-haired boy up three flights of stairs and then unlocks the door to apartment 319. He pulls out bread and slices of American cheese without bothering to ask again if the dark-haired boy is hungry, and somehow, three minutes later, the dark-haired boy finds himself shoving a third sandwich into his mouth.
"My mom used to slap us around," the golden boy says suddenly. "My sister – Thalia – and me. Usually after she'd had a few too many drinks. She left me out in a field once when I was a toddler. I still have nightmares about it."
The dark-haired boy doesn't know what to say to that, so he just listens.
"It's different now," says the golden boy. "I'm big enough that it doesn't hurt as much when she hits or throws things. Physically, I mean." He pauses, exhaling. "But there's always – she's my mother. And I can never get over…"
The dark-eyed boy watches, eyes rapt.
"I can never get over the fact that the one person in my life who was supposed to love me unconditionally, no matter what, can lift up her hand and"— he stopped again, absentmindedly opening and shutting a cabinet door while he struggles for the words— "I know it's the alcohol, but it still… It hurts, you know?"
"My mom called me a fag." The dark-haired boy doesn't know where the words come from and he immediately wants to take them back.
The golden boy waits a moment, then, "That's not okay. You know that, right? She shouldn't have done that."
And suddenly the dark-haired boy is in tears again. "I tried to tell her. Today. That I'm – I'm—"
He half expects the golden boy to finish the sentence for him, but he doesn't, so the dark-haired boy exhales, inhales, steels his courage, and:
"I'm gay."
"Oh, good for you," says the golden boy. And that's it. No disgusted look, no snickered remark. "Really."
But the dark-haired boy is still crying.
"Hey," says the golden boy. "She'll come around. Sometimes it takes people some time to get used to."
"No," the dark-haired boy sobs. "She—she kicked me out. And—and I get it. Because if I could have just been normal she would have—"
The golden boy looks anguished. "No mother should ever do that to her child. Listen to me. Being gay is not a bad thing."
"It's not a good thing either."
"Hey," the golden boy says, trying to make eye contact with the dark-haired boy. "Hey, look at me. You are talking about having the capacity to love another human being—no, don't give me that look – to love another person, and I don't see how something as incredible as that could ever be anything but good."
The dark-haired boy is not entirely convinced.
"Hey. We're going to work this out," the golden boy says. "My sister has some friends—we'll find you a place to stay for real, okay? Maybe get in touch with the LGBT center down the block or something. But you're safe here for as long as you need. Okay?"
And so the dark-haired boy watches as the golden boy sets out sheets and a blanket on the couch and wonders whether maybe his mother might come around eventually. He can always hope.
He checks his watch: 1:20am.
He falls asleep to the sound of the golden boy talking in hushed tones over the phone, asking someone named Thalia if she can come help him work some things out in the morning.
A/N: All the Italian is courtesy of Google Translate so mistakes are technology's fault.
If you or someone you know is in trouble and need help, please check out organizations like the Trevor Project, PFLAG, or your local LGBT Center.