Page 27

Chapter twenty-seven

Mike

“And that,” I said, tapping a dog-eared paperback against my desk, “is why Victor Frankenstein isn’t the tragic hero you all keep telling me he is.”

The classroom groaned as a collective unit. A few students leaned back in their chairs, their faces painted with the unmistakable exhaustion of too many literary discussions in one semester.

“Come on, Mr. Albert,” Ryan groaned from the back row, his football jersey threatening to swallow him despite his broad shoulders. “You’re telling me I just wrote a whole essay about his tragic downfall for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” I said. “For a grade. Which, I remind you, I still have to read, so let’s hope you made a compelling argument.”

A few students snickered.

From her seat in the front row, Jessica sighed dramatically, propping her chin in her hand as she gave me the look—the one she saved just for class discussions where she pretended Frankenstein was just so dreamy because I was the one explaining it.

“Honestly,” she mused, “I think this whole conversation is kind of romantic. The doomed scientist chasing after his creation, the desperate pursuit across the ice . . .” She let out a wistful sigh. “If only my love life had that kind of intensity. Mr. Albert, how could we work on that?”

The room erupted into laughter, and I resisted the urge to rub my temples.

“Well, Jessica,” I said, keeping my tone even, “I sincerely hope your future relationships are less full of death and revenge.”

Jessica sighed. “A girl can dream.”

“Okay, moving on,” I said. “Final test on Frankenstein is in two days. It’ll be mostly short answer and essay, so make sure you’re reviewing major themes. I’ll post some review questions online, but if you actually read the book”—I made pointed eye contact with the back row of athletes, who immediately avoided my gaze—“you should be fine.”

“Should be fine,” groaned Lucas, another football player. “That’s what you said last time, and I got a seventy-two.”

“That’s because you wrote your entire essay about the movie version of Frankenstein , Lucas.”

He frowned. “There’s a difference?”

The room exploded into laughter again.

I shook my head. “Study. Seriously. And no CliffsNotes. They won’t be good enough. We’ll go over sample questions tomorrow. And”—I raised a hand before anyone could groan—“if you really need help, come see me after class.”

The bell rang, and chairs scraped against the floor as students gathered their things. Some made a beeline for the door, while others shuffled more slowly, talking in groups.

Jamie lingered.

He packed his bag methodically, movements slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

Despite my stomach growling and mouth watering at the thought of the leftover Chinese I brought for lunch, I leaned against my desk and watched the last few students drift out.

“Jamie,” I said. “Something on your mind?”

He hesitated, then glanced toward the door, where a few kids were still milling around in the hallway.

“Can I—?” He shifted his weight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

I resisted the urge to groan louder than the football guys whining about exams.

I nodded. “Of course. Have a seat.”

He sat down, gripping the edge of his desk like it might keep him grounded. For a moment, he just stared at the floor, his knee bouncing under the table, likely against a field of bubblegum that petrified back in the eighties.

“You ever feel like you’re living in someone else’s house?” he asked abruptly.

The question threw me.

“You mean at home?” I asked carefully.

“Yeah.” His fingers drummed against his knee. “It’s like . . . I still live there, technically, but I’m not really there, you know?”

The weight in his voice made my stomach twist.

“Jamie,” I said gently, “are you safe at home?”

His head shot up, eyes wide.

“Oh—yeah,” he said quickly. “I mean, my dad’s not—he’s not like that. He just—” His voice trailed off. He looked away. “He just doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

A quiet, heavy pause.

“And when he does,” he added, voice lower, “it’s like he’s talking to a stranger.”

The words settled between us like stones, and I felt something tighten in my chest.

“What about your mom?” I asked.

His lips curved into a small, sad smile.

“Mom’s great,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Too great, actually. She overcompensates, like she thinks if she loves me twice as hard, it’ll cancel out the fact that Dad won’t even look at me at dinner.”

His voice was casual, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on the desk tightened, knuckles whitening.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it.

Jamie shrugged. “Yeah, well. Could be worse, right?”

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “I guess I should be grateful. I mean, some kids get kicked out, right? All I’m getting is the silent treatment. That’s basically the clearance-sale version of homophobia.”

The joke was sharp and hollow, and something inside me clenched.

“Jamie,” I said quietly, “that’s not nothing. And it’s not fair to you.”

His smile twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should let himself believe me.

I leaned forward slightly. “Do you have anyone else to talk to about this?”

Jamie hesitated, then shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I have a couple of friends, but none of them really get it.”

His fingers tapped against the desk again.

“There’s no support group or anything at school?” I asked.

Jamie let out an incredulous laugh.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Right next to the Unicorn Enthusiasts Club.”

I blinked. “Wait—there’s actually a Unicorn Enthusiasts Club?”

“Mr. Albert? Seriously?” He smirked, but it faded quickly. “No, there’s nothing.”

I frowned. “That seems . . . outdated.”

“Right? Welcome to Red State, USA.” Jamie sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “We have more than enough openly queer kids to start a group, but the ones who are out—well, let’s just say most of them aren’t in a hurry to slap a rainbow sticker on their backpack and make themselves a target.”

His voice was wry, but there was something else in his expression—something fragile, like he was balancing on the edge of something he wasn’t sure he should say.

“Do you feel like a target?” I asked carefully.

He hesitated, then gave a lopsided smile. “Let’s just say . . . a lot of the kids around here aren’t thrilled about the whole gay thing.”

I clenched my jaw. “Has anyone hurt you?”

“It’s not like that.” Jamie shook his head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Which wasn’t the same thing as no.

“I don’t like that answer,” I admitted.

His smile was crooked and a little sad. “Yeah, well. You wouldn’t like some of the other ones either.”

I sighed. “Jamie, if you ever need help—if anything ever happens that you can’t handle—I want you to tell me.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, startled.

“I mean it,” I said. “I can’t promise I can fix everything, but you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Jamie held my gaze for a long moment, then exhaled, a breath that seemed to carry more weight than it should.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “That actually . . . that actually means a lot.”

I nodded, letting the silence stretch before speaking again.

“Would you ever want to start a group?”

He blinked. “What?”

“A student group,” I said. “If there isn’t one, maybe it’s time to change that.”

Jamie looked down, fingers tracing invisible shapes on the desk.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he admitted. “I just . . . I dunno. It feels like a lot.”

“Sometimes it takes one brave person to step forward and initiate change. Could you be that person?”

He blinked several times, opening and closing his mouth. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“That’s fair,” I said. “But if you ever change your mind, I’m here.”

He smiled, small but real.

“Thanks, Mr. Albert,” he said again before rising and walking out.

The staff break room was exactly what one might expect from a high school: a windowless space with flickering fluorescent lights, a fridge that smelled like betrayal, and a microwave that had seen unspeakable horrors, maybe an exploding gremlin or two. The only saving grace was that Mateo had claimed one of the round tables near the back, away from the ancient vending machines that sometimes flickered ominously, as though possessed by a vengeful ghost of caffeine past.

I slid into the chair across from him, dropping my container of leftover lo mein onto the table.

“Tell me that’s not from Golden Dragon,” Mateo said, eyeing my lunch with suspicion as he cracked open his own plastic container of dumplings.

“It’s from Golden Dragon,” I confessed.

Mateo grimaced. “Man, I love you, but your standards for Chinese food are a crime against humanity.”

I waved a pair of wooden chopsticks at him. “Look, it’s two blocks from my house, they give you enough food to feed a village, and I don’t have to cook. I consider it a win.”

“Just saying, you could do better,” he muttered, stuffing some unidentifiable hunk of meat into his mouth.

I took a bite of my lo mein and chewed thoughtfully. “Speaking of doing better, Jamie paid me another post-class visit today.”

Mateo’s brows lifted as he set down his fork. “Oh? He okay?”

“I think so. He’s a lot tougher than he looks.” I hesitated for a second, debating how to start. “It’s his dad, mostly,” I said, twirling a noodle around my chopsticks. “Poor kid told me how his dad doesn’t really talk to him anymore. It’s been rough.”

“That kid, man.” He sighed and shook his head. “He’s got a good sense of humor, but you can tell he’s carrying a lot on his little shoulders. Did something happen?”

I recounted the conversation, keeping it as close to Jamie’s words as I could: the way his mom overcompensated, how his dad barely spoke to him, how the house felt like it belonged to someone else—how he joked about it, sharp and deflecting, but hurting underneath it all.

“Jesus, that sucks,” he muttered, then leaned back in his chair. His usual smirk had faded, replaced by something quieter, something that made the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“I get where Jamie’s coming from,” he said, voice lower now. “More than I let on.”

I set down my fork. “Yeah?”

He nodded, staring at a water stain on the table like it held the past he was about to walk me through.

“My dad and I don’t talk about it,” he said after a moment. “Not really. Not in any way that matters.”

I frowned. “You told me about him, but I thought—”

Mateo let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I thought, too. I mean, he didn’t kick me out or scream or tell me I was dead to him or anything. But the silence? That’s its own kind of rejection. It’s just as loud as shouts, maybe louder.”

I stayed quiet, giving him space to continue.

“It was my senior year of high school when I told him,” he said. “I had a boyfriend back then—first real one. Nothing serious, just high school stuff, but I felt like I owed it to him, you know? To stop sneaking around like we were doing something wrong.”

I nodded. “I get that.”

“So, I sit my parents down at the kitchen table where everything important in an Italian home happens.” Mateo exhaled sharply through his nose. “My mom doesn’t even blink—she just reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. My dad? He was a whole different story.”

His fidgeting fingers stilled.

“He just stared at me,” Mateo said. “Didn’t say a word. Not one. And then, after what felt like an hour, he gets up, walks to the fridge, grabs a beer, and goes outside.”

I winced. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” Mateo smirked, but it was a tired, worn-down kind of smirk, the kind that came with years of learned indifference. “I couldn’t believe he didn’t say anything. I mean . . . he just left me sitting there with my mom, wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by being honest with my own parents.”

I let that settle, the weight of it pressing against the silence between us.

“Did he ever bring it up?” I asked.

Mateo shook his head. “Not once. Not after that night. Not when I went to prom with my boyfriend. Not when I left for college. Not even when I brought someone home for Christmas three years ago.”

I felt my stomach tighten. “What did he do?”

“He was polite.” Mateo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Not warm. Not hostile. Just . . . polite. The same way you’d be to a neighbor you don’t really like but don’t want to start shit with.”

I didn’t say anything, just watched as Mateo rubbed a hand over his jaw, staring down at the table.

“You know the worst part?” he said, voice quieter now. “It’s not even the big moments. It’s the little ones, the times I know he’s choosing not to ask me things, not to acknowledge it. It’s been, what? More than ten years since I came out? And he’s never said the word ‘gay’ around me. Not once.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mateo . . .”

He shook his head. “I mean, it could be worse, right? At least he still calls on my birthday, still asks how work is going. We still have those safe topics—sports, work, the weather, how my car’s holding up. But everything else? It’s so off-limits I don’t even bother anymore.”

“I’m sorry, man. That’s—” I exhaled. “That’s gotta be a hell of a thing to carry.”

Mateo gave me a crooked smile. “Yeah, well. You get used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.”

He nodded slowly, then let out a breath. “Thing is, I know Jamie’s feeling that same thing right now: that distance, that shift in his own house, where everything is the same but not, where he used to feel safer than anywhere in the world but now only feels like an outsider.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He shot me a half-hearted glare, then leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “But yeah. Jamie deserves to have someone in his corner. And if we can help even one kid not feel alone in this, it’s worth it.”

A slow smile spread across my face. “You know,” I said, “I think you’re a much better person than you pretend to be.”

Mateo groaned, shoving the last dumpling into his mouth. “And this is why I don’t open up to you, Mike.”

I smirked. “Too late. I’m telling everyone.”

He threw his napkin at me.

I caught it, still smiling.

“Yeah.” I set my chopsticks down. “So . . . I asked Jamie if there was a GSA or anything at the school, and he practically laughed in my face. Apparently, there’s nothing here for gay kids or allies to support each other, in this day and age. Can you believe that?”

Mateo snorted. “Of course there’s nothing. Have you met this town?”

“Atlanta? It’s the gay mecca. I would’ve thought there’d be rainbows growing out of flower pots around here.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I told him that if he ever wanted to start something, I’d help, but I don’t think he’s ready.”

Mateo nodded slowly, then tilted his head, studying me.

I knew that look. That was Mateo’s “I’m about to say something that’s gonna make you question all your life choices” look.

“Let me ask you something,” he said, resting his elbows on the table. “Why aren’t you signing up to be the faculty sponsor for a group like that?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” He picked up another dumpling, popping it into his mouth. “You care about the kid, you care about the cause, and you just said it yourself—there’s nothing here for kids like Jamie. Groups like that can’t start without a teacher on board. So why aren’t you doing something about it?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again.

Because I didn’t have a good answer.

Mateo eyed me.

I exhaled. “Look, I’d love to, but that’s . . . a big commitment. And besides, I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”

Mateo raised an eyebrow. “You afraid to be the lone gay knight in this high school crusade?”

I threw a chunk of broccoli at him. He caught it midair and popped it in his mouth, the smug, overly athletic bastard.

“All right,” I said, leaning forward. “Since you’re so full of good ideas, how about this—if I do it, will you co-sponsor it with me?”

Mateo froze mid-chew.

I raised my brows. “Oh, what’s that? No witty comeback? No smooth Mateo wisdom? You are the coolest guy in the school, after all. The basketball team loves you. Hell, if the basketball coach did this, the rest of the kids might hesitate before making fun of it. You could help make being gay cool.”

He swallowed and squinted at me. “You are such an ass.”

I grinned. “That’s a yes, then?”

“I’m not even out here . . . with my team . . . with anyone but a few teachers.”

“So?” I cocked a brow. “I can get you a rainbow-colored polo shirt to wear at practice. Or would you prefer something pink and frilly?”

“Fuck off.” He laughed, but tension belied his amusement. He drummed his fingers against the table, staring at his empty plate like it held the answer to all of life’s problems.

“I don’t know, man,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to help, but you know what it’s like here. I’ve got the whole basketball team looking at me like some kind of god, and I know that’s stupid, but . . .”

He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“But you don’t want to risk the locker room dynamic,” I finished for him.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “And the parents . . . shit . . . you know how brutal they can be. How long would it be before some pissy mom filed a complaint accusing me of looking at her baby boy’s precious bum?”

I nodded. “I get it.”

And I did. Mateo wasn’t just a teacher—he was the basketball coach, and that meant a whole different social minefield.

“But you’re not—” I hesitated, lowering my voice. “You’re not worried about people knowing, are you?”

Mateo frowned. “Knowing what?”

“You know,” I said, gesturing vaguely.

Mateo rolled his eyes. “Mike, I’ve been out since I was seventeen. If anyone on that team hasn’t figured it out yet, that’s their own damn fault. It’s not about me—it’s about the kids. You know how high school is. You put one foot out of line, and suddenly you’re that guy. What if me signing on makes it harder for them, for my guys—or worse, for the kids we’re trying to help? What if it makes it easier for other kids to target them?”

I considered that. It was a fair point.

But then I thought about Jamie.

“I don’t think having an actual support system puts a target on their backs,” I said carefully. “I think the target is already there. This would just be giving them a place to talk about it, to feel safe and supported.”

Mateo sighed again, rubbing his hands over his face. “Why do you do this to me, man? Why do you make sense?”

“It’s my tragic flaw,” I said, flashing him a million-watt grin.

He shook his head and laughed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I am lucky,” I agreed. Then, more seriously, “You don’t have to decide right now, but think about it. If I’m gonna do this, I’d really rather not do it alone, and I really do think having the basketball coach on board would help with the pain-in-the-assness of our high schoolers.”

Mateo stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“You know, I came in here looking forward to a nice, normal lunch,” he grumbled. “Then you show up with your sad gay kids and your logic, and now I have to be a responsible adult.”

“You hate it,” I said, smirking.

He pointed a chopstick at me. “I do hate it. I especially hate that you’re right.”

“So?”

Mateo inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

A slow grin spread across my face.

“But,” he added, jabbing a finger at me, “if I start losing my basketball players to homophobic nonsense, you have to help me deal with the fallout.”

“Deal,” I said instantly.

Mateo rolled his eyes, then reached over and stole my last piece of broccoli.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

I grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”