Page 62 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

“It’s much worse,” he said, running his hand down his face and groaning. “I can’t believe I’m even telling you this.”

I smiled, giddy, anticipating a good story.

“For context, my father was in the military, so we moved around a lot,” he said. “I was a shy kid and the thought of having to make new friends and start over at a new school every two years was pure agony. My father would always tell me, ‘Pull yourself up by the bootstraps and stop your sniveling. Be a man about it.’”

“Great pep talk. Not even remotely helpful,” I said. “What was your dad like?”

Gabriel thought about it for a minute. “A tough guy. Not a big talker. Never expressed his emotions or showed any affection. I think he was a product of his generation. He loved guns and hunting and fishing and contact sports. Manly things,” he said, and I got the feeling he was quoting his father and didn’t agree. “But he ended up with a kid who wanted nothing to do with any of that.”

“So he didn’t support your music?”

Gabriel snorted. “He wanted me to enlist in the military. He said it would make a man out of me.”

“You would have been miserable. I can’t even picture it.”

“Neither could I. So I took off,” he said. “Anyway, Rapid City. It’s the first day of school, I’m nine years old, all the kids are gawking at me, and the teacher makes me come to the front of the classroom and introduce myself.”

“What a horrible teacher,” I said. “Give me his or her name and I’ll file a complaint.”

“Reserve your judgment until I finish the story. So I’m standing in front of the classroom with thirty fourth-graders staring at me,” he said. “My stomach is churning, I’m all shaky and sweating in my little button-up shirt and tie and I’m mumbling. So the teacher, very stern, a real battleaxe, tells me to speak up and Iscream, ‘My name is Gabriel Francis and I have a brain tumor!’”

After a stunned second of silence, I burst out laughing. “I have a brain tumor?” I smacked his chest. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t either. It just came out,” he laughed. “And get this, it was a Catholic school.”

My jaw dropped. “You lied to a nun?”

He nodded somberly. “I’m going to burn in hell.”

“Oh my god, Gabriel! We’re such sinners.” We were both dying laughing. “So then what happened?” I prompted.

“After school, Sister Margaret told me that my father was coming to pick me up and that the adults needed to talk. The principal was a priest and he got involved so all three adults went into the office and left me sitting on a chair outside the door,” he said. “I wasdying. The jig was up and I was waiting for God to smite me down. After I got done bargaining with God, I started singing.”

“A church hymn?”

“Oh yeah. Saints Simon and Garfunkel. If anyone needed a bridge over troubled water, it was me. I had my eyes closed and I thought I was singing quietly but when I opened my eyes, all three adults were gaping at me. My father was so mortified that his face was beet red. Sister Margaret had tears in her eyes and Father McDonald looked like he’d had an epiphany.”

I fell onto the bed laughing. I could picture it all so clearly. Nine-year-old Gabriel with his big brown eyes and messy hair, with his school tie askew, singing like a little angel, hitting every note with his perfect pitch and tenor vocal range.

Sister Margaret’s beatific smile, her eyes brimming with tears.

Father McDonald’s eyes raised to the heavens, hands folded in prayer.

“At least you weren’t singing ‘Light My Fire,’” I said. “So did you get in trouble?”

“At school? No. I got treated like a prince and their prayers miraculously cured me.”

“Oh my god, Gabriel. That’s awful.” But I was laughing.

“I know.” He laughed. “Father McDonald had me singing solos in the church choir. And Sister Margaret changed my life,” he said solemnly. “She taught me how to play an acoustic guitar and when we left, she let me keep it. So, all in all, Rapid City turned out to be pretty damn great.”

“Music saved your ass.”

“Once again,” he said. “So can we safely assume that my dirty secret was just as bad as yours?”

“Oh no, you definitely won that round,” I said. “But you know what really makes our secrets so dirty? We got rewarded for our thieving and lying.”

“What a pair we are.”