As Far as You'll Take Me Read online

  “I think I’ll stay for a cup of tea.”

  Sang’s smile shows all his teeth. “Yeah, me too.”

  Back at the apartment, I call my mom. She picks up the phone on the first ring.

  “Hi, hello?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oh, there you are. I’ve missed you. We haven’t gone this long without speaking since …”

  Since I came out? I finish in my mind.

  “Well, it’s been ages,” Mom says, deciding to not go there.

  We talk about everything, and I line up my list of lies:

  Aunt Leah’s doing great. She’s not at all bitter that you unfriended her from Facebook last year and won’t take her calls, yet trust her with your only child.

  The school is great. The professors are really helpful, and I’ve learned so much from my classes already. I can tell this program’s going to be great.

  But then she brings up the one topic I want to talk about least—even less than talking about boys: church.

  “Did you get my necklace?”

  “I have. Been wearing it every day,” I lie. “Thanks for dropping it in there.”

  “Good, great. You would have loved the sermon today; it was on putting God’s will first. Really training your mind to know and choose the Lord’s way, so that when you are faced with tough choices and temptations, you’ll be better able to make the right decision.”

  I pause, not really sure if this is her recapping her day or if she’s trying to tell me something. Living as an out gay kid in a Christian household is actually not just cliché passive aggression and Bible verses thrown out everywhere. But for me, it’s the knowledge that the one thing that brings ultimate security and peace to your family is the same thing that threatens your emotional well-being (and in some cases, your life).

  “So did you take a look at that church? The one across from that coffee shop? Dad was telling me about it, but I wasn’t able to learn much from the internet about the pastor or their sermons.”

  Slowly but painfully, it sinks in that this is all my mom wants to talk about with me. I haven’t talked to her in a whole week, and in that time I’ve had my first alcoholic drink, my first kiss, I’m falling for someone so completely, and I have no guide for it. I want to talk about my friends. About how Dani had the audacity to call Morricone a hack. I’m living my life alone in a new, beautiful city filled with the most amazing people.

  And all we can talk about is some sermon about learning how to put god’s will first?

  I know what I’m supposed to say, what Megan trained me to do. I’m supposed to pick a new sermon, summarize it blandly but enough that it appeases my parents, and throw in some specific but minor details about the church—the creaky pews, the out-of-tune piano, the lack of air-conditioning, anything.

  I can’t cut out all my lies—they’re the only thing keeping me sane and safe. But I can’t do this either.

  “I didn’t go to church,” I say. “And I’m sorry, but I haven’t been wearing the cross either.”

  There’s a silence on her end.

  “I’m not sure what god’s will says about this, but I’m not going to look for a church here. I am just starting to feel comfortable in this brand-new city—which you haven’t even asked me about, by the way—and I’m not going to throw some biblical trauma into the mix.”

  “Well,” Mom says. “I don’t even know how to respond to this. I just wanted to have a nice catch-up, but I don’t know what else I expected. One week with her and you’re already like this, I swear.”

  Aunt Leah isn’t even here! I scream in my mind. But I don’t let it slip, because that would not work out well for me. I still don’t know if they could make me come back—I guess legally they could—but as long as they think I’m technically safe here and that I’m busy with school (and that I only have eleven more weeks left here), they won’t do anything.

  At least, I hope they won’t.

  “Don’t do that, Mom.” It’s not a demand, but I’m not pleading either. “Aunt Leah’s letting me stay here for free, she stocked the pantry with American snacks for me, Shane’s going out of his way to make sure I’m happy and making friends. They’re good.”

  She sighs. “Be careful, Marty. I can’t watch over you from here.”

  I don’t say it, but I think it: That’s kind of the point.

  12 MONTHS AGO

  DIARY ENTRY 7

  If I had to give a few adjectives that describe my cousin Shane, I’d probably pick words like “chill” or “sweet” or maybe “easily distracted.” But the Shane sitting on the floor next to me is none of those things. He’s pissed. Angry, explosive, likely to spontaneously combust if someone doesn’t throw some cold water on him.

  Everything feels a little hopeless right now—okay, a lot hopeless.

  I can’t pull Shane into this. I can’t pull Aunt Leah into this. These are my parents and this is my mess. At least, that’s what I tried to tell him, but he’s not having it.

  “They’re wrong, Marty.” He’s said this like eight times. “With so many things in this world, there’s this gray area. I try to take other people’s perspectives, I try to understand all sides of the story, but this is so obviously wrong.”

  He said something like that, at least. To be fair, he talked really fast and I’m so busy trying to forget everything that happened that even my memory from the last few minutes is getting fuzzy.

  That might be one downside to this project. To the entire concept of journaling. I can read this diary months from now, and I will know what happened, how it all fell apart, and remember exactly how I felt. How do I feel? Awful.

  My parents are making me feel awful for existing. My church tells me my very existence is wrong.

  When will this pain stop? When can I stop pretending and just … be the person I want to be?

  There’s a rage building inside me too, and I don’t think it’s going away this time.

  TWENTY

  “No.” No. “Absolutely not.”

  There are a million people here. And they’re all annoying. We’re at King’s Cross Station, which is about a tenth as fancy as it sounds, and eight times more stressful than any station I’ve seen so far. I’m dodging people who dart left and right. It’s like everyone’s missed their train. It’s like no one knows where their fucking rolling suitcase is supposed to go. It’s been two weeks since I moved to London, and I still can’t deal with crowds. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get used to this.

  The station’s clean. At least I can focus on that happy fact. Stark white everything, clean floors, walls. When I look to the roof, I see crisscrossing white beams line the vaulted ceiling, letting soft light through their cracks. It’s open and bright here. These are positives.

  But then there’s the chest pain. We’re here to film one of Sophie’s sessions for a class, but she’s somehow convinced me to add another video to my collection and to film it. But at least mine is being filmed at Marble Arch, as that was the only reserved Knightsbridge spot Sophie could sneak me on at the last second.

  She turns to me, takes a breath, releases it, and looks in my eyes.

  “This is hell, I get it.” She hands me her phone, which is a million times nicer than mine. “But you owe me for filming your portfolio videos, and this is my turf.”

  “You chose this venue?”

  “Hey.” She shrugs, pops a clarinet reed in her mouth. “Business travelers are loose with their change. Also, hello, the lighting.”

  We slip past the staircase, where a lone upright piano stands. Its pale wood is cracked, and I imagine the tuning can’t be great, but the fact they have a piano amid the chaos is nothing short of amazing.

  “Okay, I need five minutes of good footage.” She smiles. “Think you can handle it?”

  I pat her right cheek and wink. “Can you? Five minutes is a long time.”

  “Just remember, you and your dumb kazoo are next.”

  She takes a breath and si
ts on the piano bench, facing out toward me, toward the thousands of others. She pauses longer than I expect her to. She zones out a bit, her eyes focused well past me.

  “Soph?” I ask. “You ready?”

  She nods. “Ready.”

  I start the camera. Point it at her.

  “Aria for Clarinet and Piano,” she says. “Sans piano, that is. Eugene Bozza.”

  With half a breath, she’s off. It’s a slow piece, but the emotion is there. It’s one you might be able to learn the fingerings for in high school, but you’d never be able to pull off the emotion, the clear tone. Between passages, her breaths are hushed. She builds, a crescendo over eight, ten measures. Even more.

  And it falls.

  A smile is on my face. I feel it tug at my cheeks before I register how happy it makes me. To hear music. Yes, I’m still very aware of the people around me, but being anxious and happy is marginally better than just being anxious.

  “That was great,” I say, once she finishes the piece.

  She laughs. “It’s no prodigious oboe and guitar duet, but it’ll do.”

  “Please. He’s the prodigy. I’m here because I was the only one who could handle the oboe headaches.”

  “Those aren’t real, are they?”

  “Yeah, they are. You’re blowing out a lot of air, but the oboe reed only allows a teeny bit through, so the rest goes into your brain.” I roll my eyes. “Or your sinuses. I’m not a doctor. It’s probably not healthy, but it got me here.”

  She takes her phone back, then picks up my oboe case. “Here.” She puts it to my chest. “You should play here.”

  “No way.” The hell is she getting at? “Let’s go to Marble Arch.”

  “Marty, that isn’t any different. Except it’s brighter here. People still ignore you.”

  I take a seat on the bench. “You don’t understand. There are certain quirks I have. I’ll try to explain it in a normal way. If you’re okay with me being honest.”

  “Obviously. Go on?”

  “These crowds here are more erratic. You don’t know where they’re going, they don’t either, so it’s a lot of crisscrossing and bumping into people. That’s bad.” I sigh, realizing how crazy I must sound. “In Marble Arch, people only go two directions. It’s crowded, but there’s a flow. It’s not chaotic like here, or like Big Ben.”

  “You think it would mess up your playing?” she asks.

  I nod. “There are some stressors I don’t want to deal with. The worst part is that this wasn’t part of my plan. When things get changed last second, it stresses me out.”

  It’s the type of speech I’d prepared to tell Megan a hundred times, but could never get out the words. “We planned to go to Marble Arch after this. It’s not like it’s a safer, calmer experience there, but it’s expected.”

  She nods. Her face is half-confused, half-processing. After I stand, I shift my weight from leg to leg. It’s a bit awkward.

  “Two things,” she says. “One, you’re in for a rough ride. You know that, right? You can’t ever have a plan with this career in this city, oh god, especially if you start dating a guy like Pierce. And two, thankfully you have a friend like me who’s willing to walk all over town to make you chill out. Let’s go to Marble Arch.”

  But when we get there, twenty minutes and two trains later, there’s an empty feeling in my chest. And again my mind compares my best friends, old and new. Megan would’ve shoved me out of my comfort zone. Yeah, maybe I’d have been fine with it, but I’d have been upset too. I would have spent the next week recovering, hiding in my room after school, reading something or playing video games. Which is why Sophie’s response was what I needed.

  So why, as I soak my reed and pace around the busking area, do I feel like I missed out on a new experience? One that could have been good?

  I assemble my oboe and roll through my warm-ups, scales, and arpeggios from B3 to F6 and back. And I feel comfortable and safe.

  Safe?

  Since when does feeling uncomfortable mean feeling in danger? That’s how I’ve always approached everything—big crowds, new experiences, making new friends. Sharp fear, pinching my shoulders tight and pushing me back. Holding me back.

  “Are you ready?” Sophie asks, raising the camera. “I’ll start filming whenever. And you’re doing your old audition piece, right?”

  But I don’t need Megan to push me outside my boundaries.

  I need to do that myself. I need to be my own advocate. To say okay and keep moving forward and panic later.

  “Nope,” I say. “I’ve been working on something new. I have it mostly memorized, I think.”

  She hits record, and I start to play. Bach’s Oboe Concerto in D minor, the second movement. The melody flows through my fingers, and I purse my lips together, feeling the oboe reverberating throughout the space. I make a few mistakes, and I miss a whole measure, but I play it through.

  My arm tingles; my fingers feel heavy. I’ve never performed a piece like that, underprepared and on the spot. It’s like I’ve chugged a gallon of coffee; my body is vibrating with energy.

  But a good energy.

  “Damn, you are good with a melody. Do you want to try again to pick up the notes you missed?”

  I shrug. “No, I want that moment played. It was a nice moment.”

  With Shane occupied in the main room, flinging his arms around erratically, conducting … something, I take a late afternoon shower. As soon as I get out and dry off, I weigh myself.

  I can’t see a difference, or much of one, when I look in the mirror, and it’s a bit demoralizing. But I’ve lost weight, and I think that’s the most important. I’m down from a hundred kilograms to ninety-three, and it’s only been a couple of weeks. So, no, I can’t see much of a difference, but the scale in our bathroom tells me I’m on my way.

  My BMI’s gone down too. Every time there’s a change on the scale, I look it up. I weigh myself after I go to the restroom every morning, before I shower. Then again later on in the day to make sure the food I’ve eaten hasn’t increased it too much.

  When I put some product in my hair, I hear the front door open. Suddenly, Pierce’s voice booms through the apartment, and my body freezes. I’m behind a closed door, but I still cover my stomach.

  Wrapped in a towel, I duck into my room, not acknowledging the new visitor. I throw on my clothes in a panic, and check two, three more times that I look presentable. Then there’s a knock on my door. And he’s in my room.

  Looking at my bed.

  “Hiya, Mart.”

  “What are you doing here?” is my hello.

  He rolls his eyes. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “We live in the same neighborhood.”

  “Have you ever seen a sitcom? That’s how friendship works—dropping in unannounced.”

  “Great,” I say. “I love spontaneity.”

  I make eye contact with Shane, down the hall. He studies me wearily, which he’s been doing a lot more lately. And if there’s anything that makes me worse at dealing with people, it’s dealing with those who can’t deal with me.

  “Anyway,” I say. The eternal let’s-pretend-this-never-happened transition. “Thanks for stopping by. This is my room. That’s my bed.”

  I wince. There’s nothing else to show Pierce about this box of a room, but is pointing to the bed presumptive? Especially after the last time we were in a bed together?

  I wonder if my mind will ever stop running.

  I decide it probably won’t.

  “I see that.” He plops down on the bed. “I figured you’d be the type of bloke who makes his bed every morning. Not one who leaves it so messy.” He shakes his head, because he knows I’m exactly that kind of guy and he’s trying to get under my skin.

  It’s working.

  “Normally, yes. But I slept in today.”

  I’ve been sleeping in a lot, actually. And I was hoping to get in a nap before dinner. It’s an unfortunate side effect of skipping meals, but
sleeping also helps me pass time and keeps the hunger pangs at bay.

  “No plans for tonight?”

  I shake my head, since naps probably don’t count as plans.

  “Want to make plans for tonight?”

  My normal response for this would be a quick no. This is my default answer for any time someone talks about making plans, especially without notice.

  My conversation with Sophie flashes back in my mind.

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s not a no,” I say quickly. “Why, what did you have in mind?”

  He smiles, the same one that melts me every time. And I want to say yes, whatever it is, just to be with him. But that’s probably not a healthy outlook either, so I take slow breaths and put on the persona of a calm, reasonable person.

  It’s not working.

  I take a seat next to him on the bed. My bed. I pull up my feet and sit cross-legged. He turns to look at me, and I feel elated and embarrassed. I feel light-headed too, but that’s unrelated.

  “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

  I snap out of it. He laughs.

  “You were zoning out, staring at that wall. Is that some sort of defense mechanism for when I invite you to do fun things? You seem very fun averse.”

  “Hey!” I shout. “I very much like fun.”

  He leans back on the bed, his core flexing with each deep chuckle. He’s usually a button-up guy, all plaids and checkered shirts, but on this warm day he wears a thin T-shirt. It rises up as he leans back, and I see his abs peek through, his stomach hair. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel all of the feelings right now.

  “I asked if you knew where Brighton is?”

  “I …” Haven’t looked it up, oddly enough. “No, I don’t.”

  He smirks. “It’s a two-hour drive away, the beach. It’s been so warm, thought you might be keen to go down there a bit, so I borrowed Dani’s car. Want to come?”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to remember all my responsibilities. “Who all’s going?”

  “Just me and you, I was hoping. I got a mate from school who lives down there, said we can crash at his place.”