Chapter 1: No Mistakes
Bridget and Collin were like any other couple: they had their similarities and they had their differences. One read historical fiction, the other enjoyed sci-fi. Both enjoyed an epic sort of story, the kind that could only be told in the largest of tomes. One was a Christian, the other practiced Judaism. Both were tolerant and compassionate people, with the same morals and values, and—as they were quick to point out to any critics—they believed in the same God.
But there was one trait they shared, a trait that made their bond powerful and long lasting, a trait which united them more than any other…
Bridget and Collin were both obsessive-compulsive, anxiety ridden, grade-A professional worry warts. They had their own ways of expressing their neurotic tendencies. Collin went quiet, or if that wasn't enough, he'd clear the area altogether. Bridget talked a lot—too much, in fact, though hardly managed to say anything of value.
They attempted to impart these qualities onto their son, Tom, with a great amount of success. At least, for a while. In the first few years of his life, he obeyed his parents' every command without question. He too worried hopelessly and helplessly. As he grew, he began to test the boundaries a bit, something all children were wont to do, even the most frightened ones. He'd learned simply by living that the world was not what his parents thought it to be. He began to see that they were wrong, a terrifying realization for any kid, knowing that your parents were imperfect human beings like everybody else. He felt sorry for them. They had made their world so small they could not see life for what it was. It was dangerous, yes, but it was beautiful too.
And sometimes the danger was worth it.
Tom's watershed moment came in the form of a neighbor, a World War I veteran by the name of Fred McIntosh. His parents had been close with him since they moved to the neighborhood some time ago, and he became their baby-sitter.
Mr. McIntosh was a warm, friendly, soft-spoken man who thought of Tom like a son. Apparently he had one of his own, one he often spoke of fondly, but he lived far away. He had married some years ago and had outgrown the small town. McIntosh told many stories about him.
Those weren't the stories Tom was interested in, however. He wanted to hear the war stories, the harrowing tales from the time he had been a soldier. McIntosh's home was over-flowing with lovingly framed photos of himself and his comrades, the many far off places he had found himself in. Mementos of all kinds decorated his mantel: badges and ID cards and hats and odd knick-knacks. He even had rocks he'd picked up in some war-torn hell, bland and unassuming things that held significance only to him. Everything had a story. Tom wanted to know every single last one. He never stopped asking. Mr. McIntosh was only too happy to tell him. The old man didn't have many friends. All the neighbors liked him, sure, but they were all far younger, busy with kids and jobs. They were at a different stage in their life, with no time to spend on old soldiers and their stories.
Tom couldn't imagine a better use of his time.
Mr. McIntosh told him everything he could remember about those times—which was quite a bit. He talked about the men he'd served with, the best friends he had ever had, their friendly rivalries, their hi-jinks and time-wasting shenanigans. He detailed the worst days of his life, the most grisly and violent events imaginable, with little regard to whether or not they were child-appropriate.
This went on for years. When Tom wasn't in school, or hanging out with the neighbor boys, he was paying Mr. McIntosh a visit, learning about yet another misadventure or act of bravery.
Tom got it in his head that this was what he wanted. When he grew up, he'd be a soldier, living in some far off place, accomplishing an important mission. He couldn't imagine anything more fulfilling or meaningful. His heart was set on it, and nothing could ever change that.
His parents were horrified to hear of his aspirations. Every time he brought it up—and even when he didn't—his mother would try to talk him out of it. Even his normally quiet and stoic father would take on the task of discouraging him.
Tom would be working on his math homework and his mother would approach him, pale with worry.
"Now, Tom," she began shakily, "you do understand how dangerous it is, don't you? You could…" She lowered her voice to a whisper—"You could die, Tom."
He raised an eyebrow, not bothering to even look at her. "Yeah, I know," he muttered.
Of course he knew what war meant. Of course he knew the risks. Mr. McIntosh never shied away from stories of his most brutal experiences. All the times he'd narrowly escaped death, horrific injuries inflicted on him by his enemies, watching his friends die, on and on. Tom knew full well the reality of being in the armed forces. Despite all the horrors he could endure, he wanted that life anyway.
Tom continued to visit Mr. McIntosh, year after year. His parents kept on with their efforts to change his mind, but they never could. No matter what they told him, his resolve never wavered.
Bridget and Collin became desperate. Their attempts to dissuade their son from following this path—one which they were positive led to certain death—had failed. One day, their shared anxiety at its peak, they tried a different approach.
Tom came home from school one day to find his parents sitting side by side on the couch. His mom looked over at him and asked him to have a seat.
He knew he was in trouble. This was, after all, his parents' preferred place for giving him a talking to. Reluctantly, he sat on the couch across from them. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped this had nothing to do with Mr. McIntosh. Sadly, he had been correct.
His mother forbade him from visiting "that man." She claimed he had put "dangerous ideas" in his mind, and she would not sit idly by and allow this to continue. His dad said nothing but nodded along in agreement.
Tom looked at his parents, a powerful anger rising inside of him, an anger he hadn't realized he was capable of. He was sick of them, sick of their endless string of fears, sick of their tiny world where they held him prisoner. He no longer pitied his parents, he resented them. He wanted to be free of them. He wouldn't listen, he wouldn't blindly obey, not anymore.
"No," he told them.
His mother blinked at him in disbelief, utterly blindsided by his defiance. She looked to her husband for help. All he could do was stare back at her, equally as shocked.
"Well, Tom, I…" His mother began. "It's not your decision to make. If I say that you can't visit him, then you can't, and…that's that."
Tom shot up out of his seat. "You can't do this!" he shouted at her. "It's not fair!"
His mother took a breath, obviously shaken, but still she put her foot down. "You can't visit him anymore. And that's final."
"But, Mom, you—"
"Tom, that's enough," she declared sternly. "My mind's made up. I'm sorry, but I'm not backing down on this. It's for your own good."
Tom glared at his mother, face burning with rage. He glared at his father too, and he stared back at him, eyes big with shock. Tom had had enough of looking at them. He stalked out of the room, up the stairs, and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
He paced the room like a caged animal. This was insane. They couldn't do this to him.
The following month he did nothing but fume and sulk. He barely spoke a word to his parents. They seemed to be worried about him. Good. Let them. Let them be as distraught as he was. He couldn't focus in school. He was normally a fantastic, intelligent, attentive student, a teacher's pet, even. But he wasn't doing as well. He missed teachers calling on him. He forgot about tests. He just couldn't muster up the energy for it all.
He couldn't keep carrying on like this. He had to make a change.
One day, Tom called his mother on his math teacher's phone and told her he'd be staying after school. He and his friends were meeting up to study for the math test on Tuesday.
A total lie.
Tom did study with his friends sometimes, but not that day. In reality, his buddy Andy from down the street was going to the new movie about the monkey people. And Tom was going to Mr. McIntosh's house.
That was the first time he had ever lied to his mother. He didn't lie to Mr. McIntosh, though. He told him he'd sneaked over, he wasn't supposed to be there, his mom would probably kill him if she knew. He told his neighbor everything his mom had been telling him, how discouraging she could be—not out of cruelty, but fear. He figured the venerable veteran would understand. He did.
Mr. McIntosh knelt down, he took Tom by the shoulders, and told him something, something that stuck with him.
"Sometimes people will tell you no," he said. "Sometimes they'll be powerful people, more powerful than you. But sometimes they are wrong. And you have to fight that. Keep fighting. Never stop fighting."
Tom just nodded, it was all he could manage to do. He'd never seen Mr. McIntosh like this. He wondered who had told him no, he wondered what the story could be. If there was one, it remained untold.
The visits continued. The lies continued.
Tom's parents still talked to old McIntosh from time to time, either over dinner or at one of the popular neighborhood block parties. McIntosh would share a sort of conspiratorial look with Tom every chance he got. He obviously loved sharing this secret with him, and he kept it.
Tom looked forward to his weekly visits, when he'd once again sit in that homey living room filled with history, and listen in rapt attention to yet another McIntosh story. He hoped it would never end. He had no reason to think that it would.
Then, one quiet, drizzly morning, McIntosh was gone.
Tom's mother sniffled through the story that same day at breakfast. Mr. McIntosh's son had come to visit. Apparently they had been planning it for some time. He had arrived to find that his father had passed in his sleep.
Tom sat there in silence, picking at his food, but not eating it. He was sad, yes, but in that moment, he was more shocked than anything else. Mr. McIntosh was gone, just like that. One day he was there, laughing and chatting, and the next day, he was gone.
It was so strange.
Tom and his parents attended the funeral, along with many of their neighbors. Mr. McIntosh's comrades were there too, all wearing their uniforms in honor of him. Tom studied all of their faces, seeing if he could recognize any of them from the photos, but he couldn't. They were much older now, no longer the people they were in that bygone era.
Tom stayed close to his mom. He'd never felt so small. He tried not to look at the coffin. He didn't want to see his friend like that.
A bearded, downcast man approached them. A blond woman with a polite smile frozen on her face trailed behind him. Tom recognized him from the photos—it was Mr. McIntosh's son. He'd never seen the blond lady, but he guessed that had to be his wife. Mr. McIntosh's son looked drained, wobbly, more lost than a ship in a dark sea.
The wife did most of the talking for him. Tom's parents gave their condolences.
"We're so sorry for your loss," his mom murmured. "He was a great man, your father. Everyone in the neighborhood just loved him."
Tom's parents eventually dragged him over to the coffin with them. Tom looked at him, at his old friend Mr. McIntosh, who was there and not there all at the same time.
The day dragged on, the darkest sunniest day that Tom had ever seen. The funeral seemed to be an extra special affair, due to the fact that McIntosh was a veteran of the Great War. A massive celebration: all of his friends and family were there, and yet he was not there to see any of it.
That event would become one of Tom's most vivid memories.
He and his folks went home, saddened by the whole affair. But after a little while, Tom sensed a bit of relief, too. He figured it out fairly quickly: they believed that since Mr. McIntosh had died, so too would their son's wild dreams of becoming a soldier. They were wrong as per usual. If anything, McIntosh's passing had only strengthened Tom's resolve. His mother finally accepted that nothing could ever change his mind. She stopped trying to push him off his path. She stopped trying to make him this careful, safe, worried person she so desperately wanted him to be.
She let it go. She let him go.
The months following Mr. McIntosh's death felt surreal. Tom had to go without his visits, without the stories, forever. There would never be a Mr. McIntosh story ever again. He walked by his house on the way to school, and he'd stare into those dark windows, sad and angry and confused and so many other emotions he couldn't even name. He didn't talk to his parents about him. They didn't talk about death, grief, or any manner of difficult emotion. He'd lost his grandfather (his mom's dad) some time ago. She never talked about how she felt, never asked Tom how he felt. In his family, you didn't talk about those things. You kept them inside, where they belonged. And so he did just that.
Tom saw Mr. McIntosh's son many times, though he never spoke to him. He watched from his bedroom window as he cleared out his late father's home, loading furniture and boxes upon boxes into a moving truck.
Again, it was so strange. All that remained of Mr. McIntosh was all this stuff—furniture and knick-knacks and everything else accumulated over the decades. All of it hauled off to wherever—perhaps some donation center to be distributed amongst the living.
But what of his medals? His souvenirs from around the world? His photos? This is what concerned Tom the most. He supposed it was destined for the basement, the attic, the storage closet. It was to be put into boxes, labeled, put away, and eventually forgotten.
Tom leaned on his window-sill and watched Mr. McIntosh's son and daughter-in-law carrying the boxes. Maybe it was just as well. Maybe all these things, separated permanently from the man who owned them, meant nothing at all. The family cared for them now, sure, but there was no life in them. The old man was gone. He could no longer look at all those things and remember. They didn't really belong to his son, daughter-in-law, grandchild, not really. How could they? The objects held someone else's memories, someone else's stories.
They might as well put them in boxes. All those medals. All those photos. All those stories he could never tell.
The years passed. Mr. McIntosh's house stayed empty. The grass and weeds grew to incredible heights, tangling up in each other and obscuring the porch. The house's sky blue paint was chipped and faded.
For a while, Tom would look at it every single day when he walked home from school. When Mr. McIntosh died, he had never expected his house to go with him.
Sometimes Tom would wade through the shoulder-high grass, grasshoppers and moths flitting in front of him, and he'd have a look through the front window. He didn't know what he was expecting to see. There was nothing there but a dust-coated hardwood floor, with even more dust dancing in the rays of sun. He stared at the room where the books and photos had been, the room where Mr. McIntosh had told him those stories. He was beginning to forget what the room looked like—where the sofa sat, which corner had housed the over-flowing book shelf. It scared him. He didn't want to forget.
Eventually, he stopped trekking through the over-grown yard. He stopped looking in the window. And some time after that, he stopped even looking at the house. It began to blend in with the rest of the homes, just another house in a long row which, save for its lack of occupants, was the same as any other.
Tom still missed Mr. McIntosh. He always would. But the pain had faded. Time heals, and so on.
Tom spent more time with his friends now—friends his own age, that is. His best buddy was Andy, a scrappy little ginger who lived on his street. They'd been friends their whole lives. He'd known Alexander almost as long. He actually lived five blocks away, but he regularly rode his bike all around town.
And then there was Kiernan. Tom wasn't quite sure where he lived. He was by far the coolest kid in the neighborhood. Perhaps even the coolest in the whole town. He had a few years on Tom and his friends—maybe he was a high schooler, but none of them knew for certain. Not that it mattered. The mystery only made him cooler. Everybody liked him, Tom included.
He really, really, really liked him.
One day, Tom and Andy were sitting on the sidewalk, watching Alex doing his "BMX tricks," if they could even be called that. They were pretty pathetic, but nobody had the heart to tell him.
That was when Kiernan showed up. He sauntered over to them, hoodie slung over his shoulder. The guy had a bizarrely appealing fashion sense. On anyone else, it would be shockingly terrible, but Kiernan pulled it off. It was all in the way he carried himself. Attitude was everything. Kiernan always wore a crisp new pair of jeans, paired with a worn t-shirt that looked like it had been old ten years ago. His jet-black hair was heavily greased up. He would look exactly like a greaser, if only he had a leather jacket.
Andy noticed him first. He pointed and shouted to his friends, "Hey, guys! Kiernan's here!"
Alex, at that moment mid-wheelie, whipped his head around in surprise. "Kiernan?!" With a small "eep," he lost his balance and fell over.
Tom finally snapped out of it. He realized he'd been staring at Kiernan a bit too much. His face burned with embarrassment.
Kiernan winked at them. "Hello, everyone! Long time no see!" He smoothed back his hair, even though it was impossible that a single lock had moved underneath all that grease. As per usual, dull black stains decorated his white t-shirt. He bounced his eyebrows up and down. "Y'all will never believe what I just heard."
Alex abandoned his bike and ran excitedly over to him. "What? What is it?"
Kiernan shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, just an old legend. Something that happened back in those woods ages and ages ago. No biggie."
Andy stared up at him, owl-eyed. "Is it true?"
Kiernan flashed a confident grin. "Come on, would I lie to you? 'Course it's true!"
"Tell us!" Alex demanded, jumping up and down. "Tell us tell us the story tell us right now!"
"Yeah, we wanna hear it!" Andy agreed.
Tom simply stood beside them, quietly expectant. He let his friends do all the begging for him. He often found himself too shy to speak up around Kiernan.
Eventually, after enough annoyance from Andy and Alex, Kiernan told the tale. It was clear—to Tom, at least—that he would have told them anyway. He loved building up the suspense, the tension, the excitement. He was a magnificent entertainer and storyteller.
Kiernan had a story for everything: the old grocery store around the corner, the abandoned house by the middle school, and even an innocent looking crack in the sidewalk all had an epic saga behind them. These stories were most commonly passed down to him from high school seniors. Some doubted their validity, Tom included. But in the end, he honestly couldn't care less which were true and which were fake. If they were true, then cool: more knowledge of local history. If they were fabricated, then cool: Kiernan had an incredible imagination.
Today's story took place in the late '40s. Not exactly "ages and ages ago," as Kiernan had claimed. However, to the kids, who had only been alive a decade or so, it certainly seemed like "ages and ages ago." The central character was a seven-year-old boy named Jimmy, who was too adventurous for his own good. One blustery autumn day, Jimmy rode his bike out into the middle of the forest. Tragically, he would find himself lost, and was never seen again. His parents and neighbors went looking, but all they found was his bike.
A dark tale indeed, but par for the course for Kiernan.
"It's all true," he said in conclusion. "And I can prove it."
Andy raised an eyebrow, just a little skeptical. "How?"
"Because," Kiernan murmured, glancing around conspiratorially. "The bike is still there!" He smiled and gestured vaguely to the streets ahead of them. "Come with me to the woods if you don't believe me!"
Andy and Alex exchanged excited grins before running after him, all the while demanding ever more information about this unfortunate boy and his bike. Tom remained quiet and trailed behind them. He wasn't sure if he believed the story, but he did like hanging out with his friends, and loved going to the woods. The suburbs were average and dull, so those dark and foreboding pine barrens were about as enthralling as it got.
A few blocks away, the houses backed up to the forest, eternally shaded by the boughs from spring through winter. Kiernan led them down the usual route: a sort of no-man's-land between two houses, ruled by tall grasses and wild flowers. There was nobody there to witness their journey, save for a bull-dog, who barked uselessly from behind the chain-link.
Even at the height of a bright, sunny day, the woods were dark. The birds were quiet. The world was silent, as if holding its breath for something, something bad, though nobody knew quite what. Tom held his breath too. Usually the place didn't bother him, but today was different. Perhaps the story about Jimmy had unnerved him. What if he suffered the same fate? Only he didn't have a bike, so there would be absolutely nothing left of him. He jogged to catch up with his friends, shooting nervous glances over his shoulder.
"What's the matter?" Alex snickered. "Ya scared, ya little girl?"
Tom glared at him. "No, I'm not!" he hissed. "Shut up!" The last thing he wanted was for Kiernan to hear him. He didn't want the coolest kid around thinking he was a wimp.
They walked through those woods for quite a while, going in deeper than they ever had before. Tom sucked in short, anxious breaths. What if they couldn't find their way out? Eventually, they reached a small clearing, perhaps the only spot for miles where the sun touched the forest floor.
Andy gasped and pointed a shaking finger. "L-look! There it is!"
Tom looked to the edge of the clearing. There, under the shade of an oak tree, sat a rusted old bike. Jimmy's bike. Jimmy the Dead Boy's bike.
Alex stared at it with owl-eyes. "So the story is true!"
Tom frowned doubtfully. The existence of the bike didn't necessarily prove the story was true. Maybe Kiernan saw the thing one day while exploring and made up a back story. Tom had to admit it, though: an old bike in the middle of the woods, miles from anything…it was awfully spooky, even if there wasn't a dark tale behind it.
Andy and Alex went to get a closer look. Kiernan pointed out some interesting bits, like the detached brake chain laying in the leaves and the baseball card in the spokes. Eventually Andy and Alex wandered away, having grown bored of the ghost bike. They found a "sword fight" with a couple of sticks to be more interesting now. Kiernan remained by the bike, inspecting it closely.
Tom sat against a pine a few feet away, just relaxing. He felt his anxiety beginning to wane. The sunshine certainly helped. The forest looked a lot more welcoming now. He watched his friends fighting with sticks. Not too exciting. He dared to look at Kiernan out of the corner of his eye. He'd begun playing with the bike pedals and spinning the wheels, just seeing what still worked. Tom noticed a few sprigs of hair had managed to break through Kiernan's grease treatment. He couldn't help but find it amusing. Maybe even…a bit…cute?
Tom shook his head and quickly looked away. He studied the grass instead. Perhaps he'd find an interesting bug or reptile moseying along. He loved looking for animals. So far this year he'd found a cicada, a ribbon snake, and a bright orange newt. He scanned the area before him for several moments until at last he found something: two tiny black eyes stared back at him from the weeds. It was a plump, olive green frog. Tom crawled closer, moving slowly and quietly so as not to spook the creature. Luckily, the frog stayed put as Tom sat himself in front of it. The amphibian was practically motionless. To the unobservant, he would appear like a rubber toy. The only sign of life on its whole body was its tiny, throbbing throat bump. Tom laid down on his stomach so that he was practically nose to nose with the frog. It still didn't move.
Tom got distracted from his staring contest by Andy and Alex, who were yelling obnoxiously and stomping around. Apparently their stick fight had gotten heated. Tom's eyes darted nervously. His friends were getting awfully close to the frog. He didn't want to see it get squashed. With a grimace, Tom lifted the frog out of the dirt. It was equally wet, cold, and squishy. It felt surprisingly delicate, like a living water balloon. Tom worried he may injure the poor thing if he held onto it for too long. He jerked his head around, searching for a safe place for his animal friend. There! A few feet away, surrounded by swamp grass and cat tails, was a sludgy pond. Tom shuffled over to it and gently lowered the frog into the water. It floated there, still and silent, its legs outstretched.
"Go home, little froggy," Tom encouraged.
"Woah, cool frog!"
Tom almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of that voice. Kiernan was sitting right next to him. He'd been so focused on the frog, he hadn't even noticed him.
Kiernan smiled warmly. His bright blue eyes seemed to glow. "You like frogs?" he asked.
Tom could barely breathe. They were so close. "Y-yeah, sure," he mumbled in response.
Kiernan sat back on his elbows. "My cousin has a pet frog. She calls him Slime-Ball!" He snorted in amusement. "Yeah, he is pretty slimy, I guess." He looked at Tom. "Maybe I can borrow him for a bit so you guys can meet him! That'd be pretty awesome, huh?"
Tom's face burned. He had to look away from him. "Yeah, th-that'd be awesome," he mumbled shyly.
Tom didn't know what it was about that day, that moment, that made him realize it. It finally occurred to him that he was…different, and most likely not the good kind. Every time this sort of "different" was spoken of, it was always, always in a negative context. Perhaps that was why it had taken him so long to realize it: he didn't want it to be true. He had to do something about it. He had to talk to somebody about it—his parents, probably. He'd heard in a rumor and a whisper that that was what one was meant to do.
Tom steeled himself for the conversation. Maybe he was simply overreacting. After all, he wasn't doing anything wrong. There was nothing wrong with him. Right?
One day, Tom came to his mom and dad, telling them he had something important to tell them, but keeping it vague. They sat in the living room, his parents on one couch and Tom on the other across from them, as they had done so many times before. Only this time, the roles were reversed.
He stumbled and bumbled his way through it. At some points he felt he was outside himself, watching himself. He wasn't sure how his parents were taking it. His mother had a smile frozen on her face, her eyes glazing over more and more every moment. His father mostly stared at the floor. He didn't look his son in the eye for the rest of the evening.
Tom at last finished his explanation, his face burning with embarrassment. He waited for his parents to say something, anything. He didn't like the looks on their faces. He didn't like his father studying the rug, or his mother's forced, uncomfortable smile.
"So, Tom, umm," his mom started nervously, brows crunched together. "Are you, uhh…are you saying you're a homosexual? Is that what you're saying?"
Tom opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind went blank. His mom stared at him, eyes big, gaze sharp. This felt like an interrogation. Hopefully this would be over soon, then he could go ahead and forget all about it.
"I donno," he said finally. "I…I guess so?"
His mom's smile disappeared. She looked to her husband, eyes pleading for help, but he kept his head down and his mouth shut. She turned back to her son, stammering and spluttering, "Well, sweetie…you…you do know that that means…you can't join the military. You know that, right?"
Tom's stomach dropped. Was this a joke? He felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. "What are you talking about?"
His mom blinked at him. "Th-that's just, well, I mean—it's-it's just the way it's always been. Those are the rules." She elbowed her husband, still desperate for assistance. "Right, Collin?"
He still didn't look up, but he nodded. "Y-yes, that's right. Why, way back in the '40s, they used to screen soldiers for 'homosexual proclivities,' as they called it. And this was in all—"
"Right, like I said," his wife cut him off. "That's just the way things are."
Tom couldn't look at them anymore. He felt lightheaded. This couldn't be real. It was just a nightmare, it had to be. If only he could wake up.
He didn't know anything could hurt this much.
His mother at long last seemed to notice his distress. "Oh, honey," she began softly. "It'll be all right."
Tom shook his head. "It's not fair," he croaked. "It's not fair."
His mom sighed. "Well, it's just…rules are rules, sweetie. I'm sure they're…there for a reason."
Tom glared at the floor. What was she saying? The rules were fair? It was all for the best? Maybe it was. What did he really know, at the end of the day? He was just some dumb, arrogant kid. There was so much about the world he didn't understand. If an entity as venerable and powerful as the DOD believed there was something wrong with him, that made him unfit, who was he to argue? They must be right. They had to be right.
His mom reached across the coffee table and patted his shoulder. "Honey, listen," she started, stern yet gentle. "Have you told anyone else about this?"
Tom shook his head again. His throat hurt from trying to hold back tears. He wouldn't let himself bawl like a big cry-baby. It was time to grow up, time to toughen up. Time to be a man.
"No, I haven't told anyone," he replied evenly.
His mom chewed nervously on her lip. "Well, th-that's good. Then maybe…you can just…keep this private? Just don't tell anyone. If nobody knows, then…everything will be fine. You can still be a soldier, just…" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Just keep quiet about all this, okay, sweetie?"
Tom nodded. Fine. If that was what he needed to do, then fine.
The rest of the evening was quite uneventful and unmemorable. His father kept being awkward around him, he remembered that much. As the days passed, though, things were back to normal between them.
Tom resolved to fix his…issue. It wouldn't be hard. Everything would be fine. He wouldn't let this one stupid thing ruin his life. He would make it go away. He would push it down, down, down, as far as he could, hide it away deep inside, and forget about it.
Easy.
Tom broke off his friendship with Kiernan. He hated to do it, and he would miss him terribly, but this was the first obvious step towards fixing things. Every time Kiernan paid him a visit with a story to tell and an adventure to take him on, Tom always had an excuse. He had homework to do, his parents were taking him to visit family somewhere far away and so on. He kept on doing this until, finally, Kiernan stopped coming around.
Sadly, Tom's friendships with Andy and Alex were a casualty in all this. Kiernan was their constant companion, after all, and Tom needed to avoid him at all costs.
And just like that, all his friends were gone. It would be a lonely few years ahead of him.
Luckily, things began to turn around when he started high school. He joined the track team his freshman year, as did Barry Allman, who would become his best friend. An ever energetic and extroverted fellow, he was a perfect complement to Tom. Barry had his fair share of bullies. Seeing as he was a skinny nerd with a goofy, giant puff ball of curly hair, he was an easy target. Though he was technically an athlete, his sport of choice netted him no status whatsoever. Track was for nerds. You could only be a jock, one of the cool kids, if you played football. Maybe basketball. But never track.
The teasing never seemed to faze Barry. He'd ignore it, chuckle a little. Water off a duck's back. Tom wished desperately he could be like his friend. He got bullied as well and all he wanted to do was disappear. Puberty really did a number on him. Hiding certain aspects of himself suddenly became a massive, insurmountable problem. He smiled way, way too much around cute guys. As time passed, he found more self-control. But for quite a while in his younger years, he did not possess such a skill. And it was hell.
Tom lived in a state of constant paranoia, gripped by the fear of being outted. Thankfully, most people didn't pick up on it. He supposed that was because he didn't fit a certain stereotype, and that let him fly under the radar.
One person in particular, however, saw right through him. He shoved him around, calling him "sissy" and "homo" and "faggot." It didn't last long, though. Barry quickly came to his aid. One fateful day, when he caught that bully laying into his dear friend, he went ballistic. He screamed out like a banshee and chased him away. Tom felt a deep satisfaction seeing his wide, terrified eyes. Sometimes crazy was the only thing that could stop a bully.
Barry chased that asshole halfway around the school before the teachers could catch him. Of course that was far from an easy task. He was a runner, after all, so out of shape, middle aged math teachers were no match for him. Poor Barry ended up getting detention while the bully went unpunished. He'd done his duty though. After that day that bully rarely bothered Tom. He had moved on to easier targets: nerds without crazy screaming friends to defend them.
"I got your back! That's what buddies are for!" Barry would always say—sort of his catchphrase.
Barry and basically the whole track team were Tom's closest friends. Year after year they trained together. The team mostly stayed the same, though a few came and went. Tom was happy to help out the newbies. It was his favorite part of being on the team— besides the actual running, of course. He couldn't lie—he derived a sort of smug satisfaction from helping them. He knew he probably shouldn't let his ego balloon any further, but oh well, what can you do.
Besides their shared sport, however, they didn't have a whole lot in common. The majority of his teammates-his best friend Barry in particular-weren't the best students. They were average at best, doing the bare minimum work, studying just enough to earn a C, maybe a C+ on their best days.
Tom couldn't even fathom being content with a work ethic so poor. When he wasn't working out, he was hitting the books, studying until he could barely keep his eyes open. He was a straight A student, a teacher's dream. He kept up that momentum for his entire high school career.
Despite his loaded schedule, Tom made time to help out his best friend. Barry's grades were in the toilet, and that was putting it nicely. He was coming close to failing his sophomore year.
"I don't know how you do it," he sighed.
Tom didn't know either. He worked himself to the bone, mentally and physically, day in, month out, but he hadn't burned out yet, so he kept at it. He'd be fine. It wasn't hard at all.
Easy, in fact.
Tom and Barry began meeting up regularly after school. In the beginning it was just the two of them, cracking open math books in one corner of the library. Over time though Barry started inviting his friends over. People he shared classes with, neighbors, whoever found themselves to be academically challenged. Soon enough, Tom found a small study group had sprung up around him. Barry didn't know much, he couldn't teach to save his life, so Tom had to take control. He enjoyed the group quite a bit. Especially after one person in particular joined them.
One day Barry introduced one Scarlett Novak to the group. Allegedly, she needed help with algebra. However, it soon became clear that she did not, in fact, need help with algebra. From the moment they met, Tom could see that she was an excellent student. She knew that, and she wasn't shy about it. In fact, she took great joy in correcting his math. After maybe a week she began teaching along with Tom, sometimes even taking over his duties completely.
Tom had no idea why she had joined. She had obviously lied about needing help for whatever reason. He didn't care though. Scarlett was funny and charismatic and sweet. She had a bit of an attitude, but in an endearing way. He liked her.
He really, really, really liked her.
Tom remembered the day it all became clear.
The study group was quietly reading. Tom could feel someone staring at him. He turned and caught Scarlett in the act, her bright green eyes looking him over.
He almost smiled. "Do you need some help with something or…?"
Scarlett grinned widely. "You sure got a lotta muscles, buddy." She poked his bicep with her pencil.
Tom stared at her. Then he glanced at his arm, where she'd touched him. Then he looked at her again. He thought she'd have more to say, but she just kept smiling at him. After some awkward silence, he mumbled, "Umm…yep." Then returned to his math equations.
Across the table, Barry heaved a sigh and shook his head.
"You work out?" Scarlett asked cheerfully.
Tom nodded slowly, surprised by the question. "Of course. I'm joining the navy," he reminded her. "I have to be in good shape."
Scarlett poked his arm again, this time with her finger. "I bet you can't do twenty push-ups."
Tom chuckled. "No, I definitely can." People had tried the "drop-and-give-me-twenty" joke on him many times before. He was pretty used to it by this point.
"Bet you can't do them one-handed," she challenged.
Tom scribbled on his scrap paper, in the middle of finding an unknown number. He thought her words over for a moment. "I probably could. It'd be kinda hard, though. I donno. I've never tried it."
Scarlett playfully elbowed him. "Why don't you try it now?"
Tom didn't look at her and kept on with his work. Since when did she make such odd requests? "No, I'm good," he replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her run a hand through her hair in frustration. Then she sighed and returned to her textbook. Now he'd upset her? What was her problem?
The rest of the study session went by without any more weirdness. Scarlett seemed to have perked up by the end of it. Barry appeared aggravated, however. He later confronted Tom at his locker.
"What the hell?!" he demanded, his arms in the air.
Tom calmly slid his books into his locker. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You've been acting kinda weird since study group."
"Me?" Barry wheezed. "I'm acting weird? What about you? You weren't paying attention at all back there! Scarlett was flirting with you! She was flirting with you so hard! Did you seriously not notice?"
Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise. He thought back to their odd interaction. Maybe she—Yep. Definitely. Definitely flirting. Barry was right. He didn't notice it at the time. Could he really be that dense? Perhaps it was just that he'd never entertained the possibility of Scarlett liking him. It was just too good to be true.
He was quite enamored with her. She was a wonderful person—so funny and kind and strong. The truth—even if it had taken him some time to realize it—was that he liked her in the same way he liked guys. It was the same, but a little different, too. Liking guys felt warm and pleasantly heavy. Liking girls felt fuzzy and light like a feather. He knew he was strange for feeling this way. He knew it didn't make sense to anyone but himself. But it was the truth.
The next day, Tom found Scarlett at her locker. She had pulled out her bag and was about ready to leave. When she saw him jogging over to her, her eyes lit up.
"Well, good morning," she greeted him with a playful smirk.
"H-hey, umm," Tom started, then went quiet. He didn't know what to say. He should have rehearsed this. He could only think of one thing to do, and it was pretty stupid. But he knew she'd get a kick out of it.
Oh, screw it. Might as well go for it.
Tom dropped to the ground and started his push-ups—and yes, with one hand tucked behind his back.
Scarlett burst out laughing. "Oh, my god! You are such a dork!"
Tom smiled. Though he knew it was unnecessary, he did the twenty push-ups anyway, and he did them with one arm. He was fairly sore by the end of it. And drenched in sweat. And it was only nine AM. He jumped to his feet, panting and unable to speak.
Before he could even catch his breath, Scarlett leaned onto her tip-toes and kissed him. It really caught him off guard. He'd never been kissed. He only kissed her back a teensy bit before she pulled away from him.
Scarlett looked him over. "Okay, listen up," she began. "We're gonna head over to that new burger place on Friday. Pick me up at seven PM sharp. You got that, Mister?"
Tom grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
Scarlett gave a salute before heading on her way. "Don't keep me waiting, navy boy!"
Their first date went spectacularly, as did every date after. Any free time that wasn't taken up by his track buddies, he spent with her. Both of Scarlett's parents worked, so Tom often came to her house to study…and a lot more than that. Eventually Tom would meet her mom and dad—a nurse and a grocery store manager, respectively—who were both lovely people. He could see where Scarlett had gotten her fiery personality.
A few months later, Scarlett met Tom's parents. He could tell that they were confused by her presence, but he wasn't about to address it.
If he could go the rest of his life without talking about that, he would.
Tom's parents welcomed her into their home, though. They were extremely kind to her, as they were to all their guests.
Tom became more infatuated with Scarlett every passing day. He didn't know if he would use the word "love" quite yet, but he felt almost ready to do so. Was he getting ahead of himself? They had been together nearly a year now, and things were going quite well. This could likely be a long term thing. Maybe they would be one of those rare couples that stayed together after high school.
What happened when he went to college? Would they survive a long distance relationship?
These worries stayed in the front of his mind as he studied at the dinner table.
Bridget looked at her husband, who was reading a newspaper that had been spread over the table like a cheap table cloth. Her gaze shifted to her son, who was poring over a myriad of papers and books.
"Okay, boys," she began gently. "That's enough for now. You can look over your reading materials later."
Tom didn't much feel like taking the effort to remove everything, so he simply pushed it to one corner of the table. His dad was more reluctant. He was a news junkie—he watched and read everything he could get his hands on. Finally, he folded up his paper with a sigh and stashed it under the table. He exchanged a look of sympathy with Tom.
That was the most interaction they had these days. Tom and his father used to be so close. But over the years, they had drifted apart. Tom didn't really know why. He just wished this hadn't happened.
His mom set down their massive plates of food. She took a seat and put her hands together, as did her husband. Tom obediently went along with it, clasping his hands and lowering his head. He only half-listened as his mom said her little before-dinner prayer. Tom didn't really know what he believed these days. He supposed he still believed in God. He liked God, though he wasn't sure what God would make of him.
The prayer ended and at last they were allowed to eat. Tom shoveled food into his mouth with one hand and used the other to flip the pages of his book.
His mother frowned at him. "Sweetie…can you please do that later? I don't think it's polite to study at the dinner table."
"No, sorry," Tom mumbled through his food. "I have to study for AP History later."
His mother blinked. "Oh. I thought that was what you were doing now…"
Tom shook his head. "This is for the ASVAB."
His mother looked deflated. "That again," she sighed. She could see that his mind could not be changed. And she didn't want an argument. "Well…carry on, then."
Tom continued studying all the way through dinner. He rarely looked up from his books. He was as motivated as he was disheartened. His parents still didn't fully support him. They no longer discouraged him, and they hadn't done so for many years. They were simply resigned. They couldn't seem to see any good in what he was doing. In their minds, he may as well be going to the chair.
Tom understood their fear. Parents wanted to protect their child at all costs. The thought of any terrible fate befalling him was beyond horrifying. But it was selfish. His mom and dad were so fully consumed by their terror that they couldn't be there for him. Perhaps that was why his father was so distant now. The only way he could cope was by disconnecting from his son.
Tom wouldn't let it show, but this strained relationship with his folks was beginning to take a toll on him. He had no idea how to fix the situation, or if he even could. He tried not to think about it. He focused on anything else. School work. Track. Scarlett.
Tom was chatting with her by his locker like usual. Simply being around her calmed him down.
"What're you doing this summer?" she asked.
Tom closed his locker and shrugged. "Nothing, really. Probably just hang out at my house. Study, go for some runs. Not much else to do."
Scarlett's smile grew. "My dad has a cabin by the lake. We could go up there for a week or two, just us." She bounced her eyebrows up and down. "Just imagine the trouble we could get into up there! Right? Whataya say?"
Tom nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, that sounds pretty good. I'll just talk to my parents and—" he broke off when he saw him coming down the hall.
It was that asshole that had ruthlessly bullied him some time ago. He usually kept his distance after Barry had scared him off. But not today. Today, he walked right over to Tom and Scarlett, smug and snickering.
He shouted, plenty loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear him, "Have a good summer, faggot!"
Tom could usually ignore it. He could usually endure it. But right then, he couldn't. How dare this prick call him a faggot. How dare he call him a faggot in front of his girlfriend.
He stepped forward and shoved the bully so hard he slammed into the lockers across the hall. Luckily, there was no retaliation. The guy simply stared at him in owl-eyed shock then stumbled away. The small handful of students that had witnessed the incident yell-whispered amongst themselves.
Tom took a breath and readjusted the bag on his shoulder. He decided he'd carry on as if nothing had happened. His girlfriend had other plans. Her look of confusion and fear mirrored the bully's perfectly. Tom could sympathize to a point. She'd never seen him so much as raise his voice to anyone.
"Jeez, Tom, what the hell?" she muttered.
He shrugged. "What? He's an asshole."
"You didn't really need to go nuts on the guy."
"You heard what he said."
"Well, it's not even true, so don't worry about it."
She immediately changed the subject, going back to talking about her dad's lakeside cabin. She chattered on and on as they walked down the hall, her hand grasping his.
Tom could barely hear her. He nodded and did his best to look attentive until she ran off to her next class. Then he dragged himself into the class room. Sat down. Tried to forget what his girlfriend had said.
"Well, it's not even true, so don't worry about it."
Well, it is true, so maybe I should worry about it.
What if she knew the truth about him? Would she still like him? Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe it would make her uncomfortable. Maybe she would believe that this made him untrustworthy and undesirable. He scanned through every memory of every conversation they'd had, looking for evidence, attempting to determine her stance. He just didn't know for sure. His worries preyed on him until, finally, he broke down and talked to her.
One night, sitting on Scarlett's bed, studying for the AP Chem final, Tom decided this was the right time. They were alone and relaxed. Her parents wouldn't be home for another hour.
He didn't let out even a flicker of anxiety. He sat still and spoke quietly and calmly, even though on the inside he was beginning to panic.
"Hey, you remember what that asshole yelled at me?" he asked.
Scarlett leaned her head on her hand, still staring down at her textbook. "Pff! Yeah, the guy that called you a 'faggot?'" she chuckled. "Why are you bringing that up now?"
"Well…what if…if that was…" Tom waited, trying to get her to fill in the blanks.
Scarlett snorted. "What if what? What if you were a faggot?"
Don't say that. "Yeah."
Scarlett reached over and squeezed his knee. "Umm, you're definitely not!" she chuckled again. She raised an eyebrow at him. "You wanna know how I know that?"
Tom sighed. "What I mean is…" He struggled with his words. He didn't know quite how to put it. He didn't have the language for it, if it even existed at all. "I mean what if I was—hypothetically speaking—not really gay, but not…not really straight either. What would you think about that?"
Scarlett smirked. "Umm, what? I mean, I guess, uhh, I would say you probably need some serious psychiatric help. And, like, we'd have to break up, obviously. Weirdos just aren't really my type." She drummed on her textbook. "Can we get back to studying? Please? That's enough weird questions for now." She rolled her eyes and playfully shoved him. "Seriously, I donno how you come up with this stuff."
Tom did as she said. They hit the books, like always. He stopped asking "weird" questions, not that he had any more for her anyway. He had his answer. Despite how crushing her response had been, he was determined to make it work. It didn't matter what she'd said. It didn't stop him having feelings for her.
He loved her too much to let her go.
This didn't have to be the end. So what if she felt a certain way about some certain thing?
It's just one thing. What does it really matter? She doesn't have to know. I can lie. I've been doing it my whole life.
Even then, he knew they couldn't last. The writing was on the wall. He just didn't want to read it yet.
When Tom was a kid, he didn't mind keeping things under wraps. He didn't mind the lying so much. And that was exactly what it was. Lying by omission was still just lying. But as he grew older, it began to eat away at him.
He already knew how Scarlett felt. What about his friends? What about Barry? What if they knew the truth? Would he have to lose them too? He didn't really know who he could trust. For years and years, he'd been waiting for a sort of "trust fall moment" as he called it, a time when he would see who his true friends were. Either they would catch him, or let him fall. Either way, fine. He just wanted to know.
If he had to get used to the ground, then so be it.
Tom knew one thing for certain, though: where he was going, no one would be there to catch him.
In 1975, Sergeant Leonard Matlovich appeared on the cover of Time magazine. That same year, Matlovich, along with his attorney and activist friend, had put their plan into motion. The sergeant outted himself to his commanding officer via a letter. It was a challenge against the military as much as it was a sort of test. Matlovich was a superb service member. Three tours in Vietnam. Recipient of the Purple Heart. What would the military do?
By the end of the year, after much legal hoopla, Sergeant Leonard Matlovich was discharged from the Air Force. Declared unfit for service.
Tom couldn't see the point in fighting. Nothing seemed to change. Years later, the military's stranglehold only grew tighter. The rest of the country didn't seem too happy about the homosexuals either.
As that decade ended and another began, things only got worse.
But that was another story.
Tom and Scarlett broke up a few months later.
The relationship slowly died, and Tom knew it was all his fault. He'd been too cowardly to simply break things off. Instead, he withdrew, he became distant. He spent less and less time with her. When they were together, he no longer felt the warmth and ease of being in her presence. He could only feel the strain, and later, the resentment. Scarlett attempted to patch things up, discover the root of the problem. When she tried to figure out what exactly was going on with them, with him, Tom would simply talk around it, change the subject. Sometimes he'd basically ignore her if he had to. His face betrayed nothing, but inside his heart was slowly breaking.
Scarlett was the one to end things.
"I can't do it anymore," she'd confessed, close to tears. "It's like I don't even know who you are these days. I just don't get it! What happened? Did I do something wrong? You need to tell me, okay? Why can't you just talk to me?!"
Tom kept quiet and let her keep going until she ran out of steam. Finally, she went to class, leaving him alone at his locker. He gathered up his books and carried on with his day.
It was all over, just like that. Tom felt a certain sadness when he lost her, but it was faint. More than anything he just felt free.
Tom went on with his life. Tried not to think about how much he missed her. He focused on his studies. He hung out with Barry, either one on one or with the rest of the track team. But he spent most of his time alone—either studying or running. It wasn't long before he didn't really know his friends anymore. Barry and the rest of team had their fun without him because he was "just too busy," he always told them. Truthfully, he was quite busy. But mostly he just didn't see the point anymore. He didn't care much for having friends and going places these days. After Scarlett, he was just too afraid of being let down. Eventually, high school ended, and all of them went their separate ways. He told himself he made the right choice in stepping away from his friendships. In the end, they would have had to say goodbye anyway. At least things were a little less painful this way.
Tom went off to college. His parents were blithering disasters, crying and carrying on about the time and where did it go.
The years bled into each other. Autumn, he studied. Winter, he studied. Tests upon tests upon assignments. He liked the routine. He liked working himself like a dog. He liked and needed to have his mind occupied with endless, rigorous, all-consuming work. In summer, he felt adrift. With no one demanding anything of him, he became agitated. Depressed. Numb. When the school year ended, all he wanted was for the next one to begin. Unlike his peers, he was not at all happy for the break. He had a small group of friends—or maybe they were more like acquaintances. They didn't much care for his moodiness, but they seemed to tolerate him okay.
Eventually, the time had come. He was going into the navy. Time to start a new life.
The memory of his mother's goodbye never lost its potency. Her words rang powerful in his mind throughout the years. Tom would have loved if that had fixed everything. But life wasn't so simple. It wasn't a movie, where one little pep talk magically made everything better, and you would never feel the darkness again. No. Life went on, with all its ups and downs, the highest highs and the lowest lows.
In the beginning, it was so difficult. Tom hadn't expected anything but the most grueling work, and it came as no surprise to him. But that wasn't the hardest part. The battle within himself was far more taxing. He'd often recall Mr. McIntosh's words.
"Sometimes people will tell you no. Sometimes they'll be powerful people, more powerful than you. But sometimes they are wrong. And you have to fight that. Keep fighting. Never stop fighting."
Maybe I don't want to fight, he would reply to the long dead soldier. Maybe I just want to live.
But he had to fight. He had to learn to live with the massive bundle of contradictions his life had become.
He gathered up all the parts of himself that wouldn't fit into his new life—anything that made him weak or wrong. He packed them up in boxes and put them away, and forgot about them.
He had to strive for excellence—no, perfection. He needed to be the best—no, better than the best.
He made himself love the rules, all the rules, even the rules he hated to his core.
He started watching every move he made. He was very careful with his words.
He stayed quiet. He stayed still.
He constricted himself tighter and tighter, made himself smaller and smaller, until he was so small, he couldn't see himself anymore.