She genuinely doesn’t understand what it means to hear the words out loud. She genuinely doesn’t fathom why it’s such a big deal for Neil to hear his parents say that he’s gay, to say it like a fact, to grant it the articulation of her voice.
Mrs. Kim stands there, newspaper in her hand. She stands there and looks at her son. Both mother and son are coiled and lost in their own defensiveness. There is something plaintive in Neil’s argument, a vulnerability that can easily be overlooked in the heat of battle. He wants a truce, desperately wants a truce, but this time he wants a truce on his terms, not theirs. Mrs. Kim recognizes this. Even if the memory doesn’t actually play for her, she feels the echoes of the moment she told her mother she was going to start a new life, thousands of miles away. That her mind was made up and there was nothing her mother could do to stop her. How much had she wanted her mother to say, I understand? How much had she wanted her mother to be on her side?
In fairy tales, the mother often needs to be dead. In mythology, the father must die for a prince to become a king.
But who wants a family life like fairy tales, like mythology?
You’re gay. Mrs. Kim can hear the words in her head. She can hear them clearly. Once she’s said them to herself, it should be easy to say them out loud. But still she hesitates, for the same reason that Neil needs so much to hear it.
Saying the truth out loud makes it more real.
Peter is your boyfriend.
Somehow, this seems a safer place to start. So she looks at her son and says it.
“Peter is your boyfriend.”
That would be enough for Neil. Just to hear these words from his mother. Because the implications are clear, even if not said.
But it’s not enough for Miranda.
“And,” she says.
The strangest thing happens then. Mrs. Kim smiles. Her daughter’s irritation has made her smile, and has given her the springboard she needs to take the dive.
“And,” she says, “Neil is gay.” She looks at all three of them in turn. “Now, if that’s settled, I am going to go finish my paper in the den.”
There will be no embraces here. No tears besides Neil’s. No further conversation. Unless you count Mr. Kim telling his son again to have some breakfast. Unless you count Miranda’s smile as he sits down, the distinct pride she feels in both him and herself. Unless you count the way the words sink into Neil, the way his life feels a little more solid than it did five minutes before, the way he no longer feels the overpowering urge to run away.
How could this happen? some of our parents asked us near the end. We knew what they were really asking, and some of us found the grace to say, It was nothing you did.
We return to the kiss. The crowd has started to count down the minutes until Craig and Harry hit the twenty-four-hour mark.
Not everyone is counting. There are jeers now—people from town and people from other towns who have come to protest, who’ve come to yell, who’ve come to break whatever spell that two boys kissing can cast. Some of them make a production of praying for Craig’s and Harry’s souls. Some hold hastily scrawled posters: ADAM AND EVE NOT ADAM AND STEVE, HOMOSEXUALITY IS A SIN, YOU CAN’T KISS YOUR WAY OUT OF HELL. Some have brought their children.
The police don’t know what to do—separate everyone into two camps or let them mingle? It takes only one shoving match for the separation to start. But the protestors will not be hidden. They want to be within hearing range of the cameras, of the boys.
The ring around the boys holds on. When someone needs to leave, whether to go home or just go to the bathroom, another person takes his or her place. They keep their backs to the protestors, their eyes on Craig and Harry.
Tariq has now been awake for almost thirty hours. His body is wracked with caffeine, his eyes blurred by so much screen time. People keep telling him to go home, take a nap, but he doesn’t want to miss a moment. If Craig and Harry are going to stay awake, he’ll stay awake, too. Solidarity.
He keeps thinking of Walt Whitman, of two boys together clinging. He wonders what Whitman would make of all this. He’s kept Whitman’s bust on the table next to him, watching over the scene.
Craig and Harry can hear the jeering, the rumble of antipathy, but they can’t hear it very clearly. Tariq offered to get them headphones to block it all out, but they’re sticking to the speakers, sticking to the playlist. It helps to have words to reach for, an element of unpredictability.
The day is getting warmer. Harry signals for the removal of his hoodie, but even after it’s off, he’s still hot. Sweating. Craig can feel it, too—the blush rising from Harry’s skin, the dampness of his shirt. What he doesn’t feel is how much Harry’s legs are killing him. No matter how he shifts and kicks, he can’t get them to feel normal. The ache is becoming unbearable, like someone is twisting each and every vein around each and every muscle. He tries to think of other things, but pain is the loudest broadcast.
He’s brought back by the twenty-nineteen-eighteen of a countdown. He feels Craig smile under his lips. Seventeen-sixteen-fifteen. People are pressing in to see. It’s getting hotter and hotter. Fourteen-thirteen-twelve. He tries to focus. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Tariq calls out that there are over three hundred thousand people watching online. Eight. Seven. Six. One of the news stations burns them with their lights, wants to capture this moment. Five. Four. Three. Craig is kissing him now. Really kissing him. Like when they were together. Two. It is so hot. The lights are so bright. One. An enormous wave of cheering.
They have made it to twenty-four hours. They have made it for a day.
Amid the wild press of celebration, Harry starts to pass out.
At exactly the same moment, Avery pulls into Ryan’s driveway. Ryan is already outside waiting for him, smiling as he arrives. Avery parks the car, turns off the motor. But before he can get out of the car, Ryan jumps in.
“Let’s go,” Ryan says.
“Could I go inside for a sec?” Avery asks. “I have to pee.”
“We’ll find someplace else,” Ryan tells him. “I promise, it won’t be long.”
Avery doesn’t want to explain that it’s much easier for him to use a private bathroom than a public one. Especially in a town like Kindling. So he drives, all the time wondering why Ryan doesn’t want him inside his house.
“I have a plan,” Ryan says. “Are you up for a plan?”
Avery nods.
“Okay. But first, a bathroom.” He tells Avery to turn left, then right. They get to a strip mall road, and Ryan indicates a McDonald’s coming up. “That work?”
Avery pulls in. “You hungry?”
“Not yet. Not unless you’re hungry. I just figured you could pee here.”
Again, Avery doesn’t want to explain. So he gets out of the car, heads inside. He feels eyes on him as he goes over to the men’s room. People behind the counter glaring because he hasn’t bought anything. People at tables staring because they know where he’s going, know what he’s doing. Nobody has to be watching for Avery to feel watched. He is almost used to it, but will never truly get used to it. The feeling that he’s trespassing. The feeling that he will be confronted. The feeling that the world is full of people who think different is synonymous with wrong.