"So," my dad started his question just before he swallowed a well chewed mouthful of cod. He blotted his mouth with his napkin before continuing. "Johnathan, have you signed up for the football team yet?"
I nodded my head, a little sleepy. I cleared my throat a little before officially responding. "Yes sir, I have. The first practice is tomorrow morning." I myself took a fair bite from the fish leaking seasoned oils on my plate.
The table was quiet, and like a sixth sense, I can feel Harriet glance over at me. Through her jealousy, I can feel a bit of sympathy in the stare. Sure, as our dad's only son he sided with me on arguements and favored me, but as the only son of this army captain, the rest of my life was written out for me before I even got to read the introduction. He'd always said I had the bravery and practicallity of a soldier, I don't even think he hears me when I say I want to be a doctor.
"How was school, Dear?" My mother's soft voice breaks the thoughts that held me.
"It was fine," I reply without thinking, pushing my fork through the tender skin of the fish like a knife through softened butter. "There was a music performance, even a violin solo." The tune Sherlock had played so well filled my being and all I could do was a soft, almost inaudible sigh.
"Are you alr-" Mom tries to ask, but Dad unconsciously interupts, I look at my mom to see her look around and watch her eyes fall to her lap, despondent.
"I bet it was some priviliged girl, wasn't it?" He says, crudely cutting into his meal, not even looking at me when he asks the question. It's like when he left the army he left his manners behind, we'd all noticed how his etiquette reverted when he came back from Afghanistan.
"Well, actually, ahm- It was a boy. A tall boy."
I look to him for his reaction, but his eyes remain on his food and he shakes his head. He wipes his mouth again before replying, "Parents these days teach their sons to be fairies."
/
After dinner I remained in my room, my heart caught in my throat. Dad had the ability to be kind and sensitive, but all too often his prejudices got in the way. My hands drifted across the remaining four corroded strings of my guitar. I wasn't trying to play anything, but the coarse feel of the wires and the subtle curves of the wood was comforting, and the waves that made their home in my ear drums helped me think. The gentle noise that rose from the instrument was no Sherlock concerto, but it had the same value.
I didn't know Sherlock, but for some reason I trusted him. I trusted him to prove my father wrong, and if he was in fact a homosexual, then I trusted myself to show my dad that I was not going to end up like him. During my last year of high school I will play foot ball, but I would become a doctor and I will not be ashamed to admire Sherlock Holmes. I fell asleep in my jumper, guitar in my hands, and promising myself I would not follow in my father's footsteps.
/
When I woke up the next morning, sunlight from my window blurred my vision in luminescent stripes created by the blinds. Carefully, I sat up and put the guitar aside, stretching and scrambling to get the jumper off. The cool morning draft tingled my skin and caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end, but it was a nice refresher. As I pulled on a raggy t-shirt, I glanced down my arm, noticing the tan line from a summer filled with military camp. I pursed my lips and sighed, continuing to get ready.
Downstairs, I was greeted by the warm scent of eggs sunny side up.
"Good morning, Mom." I greet her as I enter the kitchen. A kind grin spreads across her face, causing the skin around her eyes to crease and the parentheses around her mouth to announce themselves.
"Good morning, Dear. Did you sleep well?" She replies, lifting the sizzling protein from the frying pan to a plate. On cue, the toaster dings and ejects a darkened slice of bread.
"I slept alright," I reply, watching her as she cautiously yet gracefully lifts the toast from its little oven. "And you?"
She sets the plate in front of me along with a small mason jar of grape preserves. "Oh, I'm fine, Dear." She pats my shoulder and kisses the crown of my head. "You need a good breakfast before practice."
"Thanks, Mom, you're great." I say, a genuine smile on my face. The eggs were bland but tolerable, and the starch and sweetness of the toast and jam was a nice compliment.
"Johnny?" She starts.
"Hm?"
"You know, you know I don't mind right? If that violinist you mentioned last night is a fairy. There's nothing wrong with it. And I know you want to please your father, but," she stops as though to collect her thoughts. She looks down at her hands, short locks drifting over her eyes and around the figure of her thin face. When she looks up again, she has a sincere smile on her face and her cheeks and ears are flushed. "But if you want to befriend this boy, then put your happiness before your father's, alright, Dear?"
My breath catches and I study her. We're both quiet as my face also collects sanguine, my smile flickering ever so slightly. "I, I know, Mom. I will. Thank you." I didn't know how to give a proper response to the situation except to confirm that I understand what she was saying.
I look back down at my plate, ever so slightly stained by grease, adding to the hominess of the ceramic dish already decorated with a faded farm yard chicken. To avoid a stationary stare, I glance over at the way the purple preserves reflected crimson under the light, recognizing in the silence the subtle noise of the continuous tick of the second hand on the clock. I look over to the classic clock on the shabby wall paper to see that it read approximately 7:30; about fifteen minutes until practice began.
I stand up from the kitchen table to announce my leaving. "I best be going, Mom. Have a good day." I kiss her lightly on the cheek, grab the foot ball equipment from the front door, and head out.
"Have a good time, Dear." She calls out as I leave.
The field isn't far away, just a few blocks over from my home, but my thoughts kept me occupied. I was nervous, and I didn't even know why, but my chest still felt tight. I always played foot ball with any school I enrolled in, maybe I was just mistaking the way the cool air seemed to shrink my lungs for nervousness. Perhaps my body knew something that my mind didn't, either way, I did my best to shake the unsettling feeling.
The field still had the early morning dew, and as I walked across, my tennis shoes became more and more moist. By the time I made it to a bench, my shoes were soggy and even left my feet slightly wet. I switched into a more appropriate pair of socks and pulled on my cleats as more people came to the field. I quickly put on my shin guards and trotted out to the middle of the playing grounds with a soccer ball.
"Come on, come on, gather up!" a dark hair boy called. He towered above the rest of us and would have been more daunting if it weren't for the fact that he had a thin figure, disproportional to his wide shoulders.
"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together, a strange kind of tucked-in smile on his face. "My name is Mycroft Holmes and I'll be your team captain for the season. If you've no questions, then let's get started on our first practice."
My eyes widen and I swear I can almost feel my pupils dilate. I look at my teammates whom all look apathetic, and for rightful reasons. Suddenly, we're all looking around at each other, making sure that there was no one with a question. I very much had a question, but it was the farthest thing from foot ball related. Mycroft looked each of us in the face and a toothy grin developed on his face. "Alright, let's get started."