Page 42 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

TWELVE

The internet is not my friend. During WITSEC, any and all social sites were torture chambers that shoved happy, smiling, oh-my-God-I-have-the-best-life people in front of my face. A bunch of bullshit mainly. No one’s life is all filtered zit-free smiles and seaside vacations. I’m well aware that snippets on social media are designed to create the illusion of a good life. Even so, everyone’s illusions were better than mine. They still are.

I’m on the Duke Law website, and all I feel is queasy. Every picture shows smiling students, younger than me, socializing together like it’s so easy to make best buds the second you step on campus. Whatever. Once again, I get the act. Plenty of students show up in their introverted bubbles and barely talk. This website is propaganda, extolling the virtues of Duke Law. I click on the course browser link. No smiling freshman here, but my queasiness worsens.

Antitrust

Internal Arbitration

Conflicts of Law

Adjudication

Ethics and the Law of Lawyering

Twelve years ago, perusing these courses gave me a kick of adrenaline. The good kind. I was aware the work would be hard. I had some insecurities and knew I’d have to work my ass off, but I was up for the challenge.

Now? My pulse races and my throat closes, like my body’s allergic to academics. Every word I read has me curving forward, my forehead feeling clammy. I have no clue if the take-no-prisoners guy who propelled me through college still exists under the scar tissue I’ve developed. I have no clue why I haven’t reached out to Duke since deciding to better myself, attempting to get reinstated into the program.

Abruptly, I shut my computer and massage my brow.

My Ruby Grove rental doesn’t come with a caftan-wearing neighbor who bluntly sasses me and calls me Walter, but it has more charm than my Houston pad. The maritime-inspired art on the walls isn’t my taste—Sadie would call it motel chic—but it’s better than the bare walls Mirielle loved to criticize. I even draped a quilt Mom made over the couch, adding a touch of hominess. And ugliness. My mother can’t quilt or craft for shit, a lack of talent I’ve clearly inherited, but she loves making stuff for her boys.

The best part is the bare-bones gym in the garage.

I change into shorts and a tank top and spend an hour hitting the heavy bag and doing sit-ups and push-ups and pull-ups, then I knock out reps on the bench press until my chest aches. When I’m done and less agitated, I shower and take my laptop and e-reader outside.

The small bungalow has a private yard with a few skinny trees. I sit in the provided lawn chair and kick my feet up onto the metal coffee table, ready to look up Max’s book. This I can do. Read a book at a ten-year-old level. I open my e-reader and type in Simon vs. the, hoping a slew of titles doesn’t pop up. Only one does.

Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

I frown at the odd title. It sounds more academic than simple pleasure reading, which isn’t bad. Maybe my son’s a budding pilot and a budding evolutionary biologist, intent on discovering the origins of humankind. Pleased with the possibility, I click on the title and start reading the blurb. By the time I get to the end, I’m reading so slowly, so intently, each syllable feels like it’s expanding in my brain.

This is clearly a teen book, not an academic dissertation on man’s evolution. At least not humankind’s evolution. It seems to be about a gay teenage boy struggling with his sexual identity, and . . .

I was not expecting this.

Hand covering my mouth, I reread the blurb twice. Yep, still the same. I’m not sure if a ten-year-old reads a book like this because he sees himself in the main character. Or is it simply popular, and my kid’s open minded and curious about the struggles gay kids experience?

I think back to Max’s art, how turmoil fueled some of it seemed: the angry boy zooming away from Earth, the sad boy separated from the crowd, the toylike boy broken into pieces, the page filled with held hands. I can’t remember if the hands he drew all looked male, but what I do remember is how they seemed like a study. Sketches of what two hands holding are supposed to look like. As though he’s maybe trying to figure out if the hand he wants to hold is okay and normal? Or I’m reading way too much into this book and those sketches, doing what I did with Ricky and Aaron, making sweeping assumptions without educating myself.

But if Max is gay, if he’s struggling to understand himself or afraid to tell people, to even tell his mom, hiding his sketches from her the way he has, then I’ve already said insensitive, alienating remarks. I bet you have lots of experience making girls happy nervous.

I uttered that nonsense. Didn’t even think twice. Just assumed my son was straight and his world experiences were similar to mine.

In time, the girls will go nuts for your art.

I said that too. Can’t even claim I was joking. I certainly wasn’t smart. Even if he isn’t gay, I just taught him it’s okay to assume everyone lives in a straight vacuum. That it’s okay to not make space for other people’s differences. May as well get a Closed-Minded Dad tattoo added to my stellar collection.

After a third read of the book blurb, I download the book, then open my laptop. I google how to tell if your child is gay and signs your child is gay and indications your child is gay. Covering all my bases. Some sites say boys who play with dolls or cross-dress or hang out predominantly with girls might be gay. As far as I know, the first two don’t apply to Max, unless Sadie omitted certain details when I grilled her on our son. The last one, though. He definitely prefers Jasmine and Zoey to Carter and Jun, but I prefer Jasmine and Zoey to Carter and Jun, so not exactly a scientific study. One religious-based site uses words like sissy and epidemic and other slurs that make me want to slam my laptop against the ground.

What the hell is wrong with people?

When I’m a modicum calmer, I scroll and read the nonbigoted sites. The only undisputable fact I uncover is there’s no My Child Is Gay checklist. And I need to do better. Apparently, if Max is struggling with his sexual identity, the sites say I have to foster an open relationship with him. Allow for communication. Let him know he can talk to me about anything, and make it clear I’m open-minded. (A.k.a., quit making assumptions he’s straight.)

I need to show him my love is unconditional.

And yeah, love.