Part 2

“Put your shit in the back and get into the car.”

I did precisely as I was told, wordless, breathless, waiting. Would Dad say anything else? Dear fucking God, I hoped not.

The crimson blazer that I was wearing was too much for the warm sun that was currently beating down onto my already tanned skin, but I had no intention of taking it off, not until I reached home safe and bruise-free. I gently fingered the embroidered Holy Trinity Academy emblem, the one traced with gold thread that rested on the left side of my chest. More out of boredom than anything else. I needed to give my hands something to do while my eyes were looking everywhere but at my father.

Ah, Holy Trinity. It’s the farthest school that my parents could have sent me to without managing to cross over into another state, and for that I was slightly grateful. It would make the car ride with Dad less unbearable. I had Mom to thank for that one.

I shoved all of my bags into the back of Dad’s midnight blue sedan. Quickly. No dallying of any kind. Dad wouldn’t like that. The last thing I fucking needed was a blow to the head before we even pulled out of the school parking lot. I slipped into the front seat and avoided glancing at Dad’s tight jaw, the jaw that said, “I wish I didn’t have to fucking do this.” I sympathized. I didn’t want to have to do this, either.

The only good thing about leaving the sanctuary that was Holy Trinity was that I was going to see my baby brother, my little prince. I hadn’t thought about Simon all that much during the long grueling months of being locked up, but I had to admit that I missed the attention, affection, the adoration that Simon gave to me on a daily basis. It was nice feeling like a god among men, and that was certainly the impression that Simon gave with the way that he looked at me with those large, sparkling doe eyes. You know, I find it weird how identical twins can be so different. People have told us how our eyes look nothing alike even though they’re exactly the same. I kind of agree with them. Simon’s glance always looked endearing and innocent to me. It’s one of the reasons why I loved him so much. When I looked into the mirror, all I could see was ice. Not sure why Simon seemed to revel in my glare so much. He probably just liked the attention.

Without waiting for Dad to give me any more instructions, I fastened the seatbelt across my small waist and broad chest, the chest that had grown (along with other parts of my body) since arriving at Holy Trinity. With my charming penchant for getting into trouble, I had spent many nights working away the waxing and waning moon doing manual labor for the school’s janitors as a means of punishment. There were other, more extreme forms of punishment that I had had to endure during my time as a student, but that was the one that seemed to be placed upon me most often. In retrospect, the manual work was probably a good thing as it encouraged me to get my body into shape. I wondered if Simon still retained the trim, waif-like form that we had shared before my near excommunication from the family. I hoped that he did. Simon wouldn’t look right all muscled-out.

“Your mother will be happy to see you,” Dad grunted. I nodded, acknowledging that I had heard my father’s words, but said nothing. After years of honing in on my skills of translation, I knew that what Dad said was not the same as what he meant. When Dad uttered, “Get me a beer,” he really meant, “Get me a fucking beer or I’ll slap you upside your disobedient little head.” When he said, “You boys are being too loud,” he was really saying, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll beat the both of you until your ears are ringing so much you won’t even need to make a damn sound.” And when he grunted, “Your mother will be happy to see you,” what he was really telling his oldest son was, “If it weren’t for your mother, you’d still be at that damn school.”

I wasn’t sure whether I should thank or curse Mom for her influence when we finally got home.

“Tell me,” Dad huffed after one hour in the car with his apparently disagreeable son, “you still queer, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied automatically. I had been waiting for that question. It came every. single. time. “I’m still queer; God hasn’t fixed me yet.”