skin off your
backside.”
I was just about to say “Sorry,” then stopped myself. “It’ll never happen
again.”
CHAPTER 7
I woke up the next morning and my body wouldn’t move, but I felt
good. Like I’d done something. I lay there for ten minutes staring at the ceiling, willing even my pinky finger to
twitch. I finally rolled out of bed. My hands were cracked, with the blisters hardened, and they hurt every time I moved
them. I made my way to the bathroom, took a leak, skipped brushing my teeth on account of my hands, and made my
way downstairs.
I knew I’d missed breakfast. Miss Mae had it ready at six on the dot every morning, and
I’d not made it down once since we got here, settling for cold cereal most mornings. I looked at the clock on
the wall, and it read ten-thirty.
Dad and Edward sat at the dining room table, poring over papers. A young woman, probably about
twenty-five—pretty, and dressed in a dark blue business suit with a tight skirt—sat with them. Dad looked
at me when I came in. “Ben, this is Ms. Pierce from the bank.”
I nodded. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
I held out my hand to shake hers, forgetting that it would cause me excruciating pain if I did, and Dad
saw the scabbed blisters. Before I could pull it back, Dad took me by the wrist. “Oh my God, Ben, what
happened?”
I tried to take my hand away, glancing at Ms. Pierce and her prettiness. “I’m
fine.”
Dad took my other hand, staring at the blisters. “Edward, look at this.”
I squirmed, and Ms. Pierce lowered her eyes. Edward came around the table and studied my hands,
concern on his face. “That has to hurt, Ben. What in God’s name happened?”
Dad interrupted. “You need to see a doctor. They might get infected.”
Miss Mae watched from the kitchen entry. I yanked my hands away. “I said they’re
fine.”
“Ben . . .”
“Dad, don’t worry about it, okay? I’ve got work today.” I looked at Ms.
Pierce, and she looked away.
Dad would have none of it. “You need medical attention.”
Miss Mae was still standing there, and something in me wanted out. “I said I was fine.
It’s not like I’m a f—” I shook my head, stopping myself before the word came out.
“I’ve got stuff to do.” I walked outside, and Dad followed me.
He stood on the porch. “Ben.”
I turned around. “What?”
Anger simmered in his eyes. “Why did you just do that?”
I stared at him. “Shouldn’t you be back inside with her?”
He looked at me, confused. “You’re mad because I was concerned about your hands?
Why? Where is this coming from?”
I shook my head, frustrated. I thought about Ms. Pierce and Miss Mae and the flush of embarrassment
rising in me as I’d stood there while my dad acted like some ultra-gay father fluttering around his injured son.
“I told you I was fine.”
“I know, but . . .”
I raised my voice, sick of talking. That’s all he ever did. “Dad, let it go, huh?
Jesus.”
He studied me for a moment, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “I know what you were going
to say in there.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“That you weren’t a fag. You’d be fine because you weren’t some kind
of prissy gay.”
I stared at him, Ms. Pierce and Miss Mae flashing again through my mind. Had I seen pity in their eyes?
Pity for what? For having a dad like that? Guilty confusion, angry and sad all at the same time, twisted my stomach.
Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Why couldn’t he be straight? “Well, I didn’t say
it.”
“Yes, but it was there.”
I shrugged, all those bad feelings from the beginning simmering up like I didn’t want them to.
“So what if it was there? Not like it’s news.”
He glanced over his shoulder, back at the house, and lowered his voice. “Being gay
doesn’t have anything to do with masculinity, son.”
I remembered Ms. Pierce’s face. The way she’d looked down. “Wishing you
were a girl your whole life doesn’t have
backside.”
I was just about to say “Sorry,” then stopped myself. “It’ll never happen
again.”
CHAPTER 7
I woke up the next morning and my body wouldn’t move, but I felt
good. Like I’d done something. I lay there for ten minutes staring at the ceiling, willing even my pinky finger to
twitch. I finally rolled out of bed. My hands were cracked, with the blisters hardened, and they hurt every time I moved
them. I made my way to the bathroom, took a leak, skipped brushing my teeth on account of my hands, and made my
way downstairs.
I knew I’d missed breakfast. Miss Mae had it ready at six on the dot every morning, and
I’d not made it down once since we got here, settling for cold cereal most mornings. I looked at the clock on
the wall, and it read ten-thirty.
Dad and Edward sat at the dining room table, poring over papers. A young woman, probably about
twenty-five—pretty, and dressed in a dark blue business suit with a tight skirt—sat with them. Dad looked
at me when I came in. “Ben, this is Ms. Pierce from the bank.”
I nodded. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
I held out my hand to shake hers, forgetting that it would cause me excruciating pain if I did, and Dad
saw the scabbed blisters. Before I could pull it back, Dad took me by the wrist. “Oh my God, Ben, what
happened?”
I tried to take my hand away, glancing at Ms. Pierce and her prettiness. “I’m
fine.”
Dad took my other hand, staring at the blisters. “Edward, look at this.”
I squirmed, and Ms. Pierce lowered her eyes. Edward came around the table and studied my hands,
concern on his face. “That has to hurt, Ben. What in God’s name happened?”
Dad interrupted. “You need to see a doctor. They might get infected.”
Miss Mae watched from the kitchen entry. I yanked my hands away. “I said they’re
fine.”
“Ben . . .”
“Dad, don’t worry about it, okay? I’ve got work today.” I looked at Ms.
Pierce, and she looked away.
Dad would have none of it. “You need medical attention.”
Miss Mae was still standing there, and something in me wanted out. “I said I was fine.
It’s not like I’m a f—” I shook my head, stopping myself before the word came out.
“I’ve got stuff to do.” I walked outside, and Dad followed me.
He stood on the porch. “Ben.”
I turned around. “What?”
Anger simmered in his eyes. “Why did you just do that?”
I stared at him. “Shouldn’t you be back inside with her?”
He looked at me, confused. “You’re mad because I was concerned about your hands?
Why? Where is this coming from?”
I shook my head, frustrated. I thought about Ms. Pierce and Miss Mae and the flush of embarrassment
rising in me as I’d stood there while my dad acted like some ultra-gay father fluttering around his injured son.
“I told you I was fine.”
“I know, but . . .”
I raised my voice, sick of talking. That’s all he ever did. “Dad, let it go, huh?
Jesus.”
He studied me for a moment, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “I know what you were going
to say in there.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“That you weren’t a fag. You’d be fine because you weren’t some kind
of prissy gay.”
I stared at him, Ms. Pierce and Miss Mae flashing again through my mind. Had I seen pity in their eyes?
Pity for what? For having a dad like that? Guilty confusion, angry and sad all at the same time, twisted my stomach.
Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Why couldn’t he be straight? “Well, I didn’t say
it.”
“Yes, but it was there.”
I shrugged, all those bad feelings from the beginning simmering up like I didn’t want them to.
“So what if it was there? Not like it’s news.”
He glanced over his shoulder, back at the house, and lowered his voice. “Being gay
doesn’t have anything to do with masculinity, son.”
I remembered Ms. Pierce’s face. The way she’d looked down. “Wishing you
were a girl your whole life doesn’t have
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