Status: Complete.
Last Waltz
Last Waltz, part 1/2
"Gee...we need to get away, as soon as possible." I stop the kiss panting, seizing his leather jacket in urgency. Pleading. He just shakes his head, again; the only answer I have been getting every time I bring up the subject. "You know the only reason why you're not performing a real-life version of the 'Jailhouse Rock' right now is because our parents have been friends for years, and your brother Mikey's like a second son to my parents. But next time we get caught they won't be so generous, we..."
"I know, Frankie, I know..." Gerard breathes out against my cheek, a hand going up to pointlessly try to mend his Elvis Presley hairstyle. The other one rests on my waist, slowly swinging us to the rhythm of "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away", the record disobediently spinning in my dad's expensive player. It's so sadly fitting that I have to roll my eyes. Gerard kisses my neck and although it's hard for me to think when he does that, I can't let him avoid this conversation.
"What are we waiting for, then?" I ask while I stare into his worried eyes.
He hesitates for a few seconds before responding, "We're waiting for the last waltz."
"Gerard...what are you talking about? Can you please be serious at least once? I am supposed to be the kid here. Please..."
"Your hair is getting long, I like it. It'd be a pity if you were forced to have it cut when school starts again." He dodges my questions, as usual. His fingers play gracefully with the curls that fall on my face and I momentarily lose the ability to articulate words. "You deserve freedom. Real freedom, my hippie doll."
"Well, then let's..."
"No, that's no solution."
"And what is?" I push him away, irritated. "Can you be more clear and explain what you meant by 'the last waltz'?
"It's simple: we die just to live again." He pulls me back to him by my vest and hugs me, ignoring my angry struggle. My wet eyes meet his when he lets me go, still not understanding what lies behind his elegant words. His thumbs wipe my tears away.
"What...? Gee, you need to lay down those books about reincarnation and past lives, I think they're rotting..."
"Until next Friday, love."
I cast an annoyed glance at the old wooden clock. Almost 5PM. My mom will be home soon and I know we need to put an end to this encounter. I allow myself to be kissed this time, clinging to Gerard's neck as if my life depended on it. Maybe it does. I let his tongue invade me, his hands squeeze me needy as we moan softly. Once a week is not enough, one hour is nothing. Gerard spends longer on the bus each Friday than he does here with me, and it's simply not fair. I don't care if I'm only sixteen and he's five years older. I don't care that we both belong to the same gender. Love is love -too bad no one else understands it. Why can't we just leave town together?
I unwillingly draw away. I'm afraid my mother will notice that my lips are too red and swollen, that my breathing comes out too ragged, that my eyes sparkle with a special light. She's so observant, so overprotective, so reluctant to accept that her little Frankie is not a child anymore. Since that day she's been extremely paranoid about the big bad world and its big bad people wanting to take my innocence away.
"Until next week, love," I whisper.
"Take care," Gerard mutters, giving my lips a last peck and stopping the record player's needle on his way out.
Less than five minutes after he leaves, I hear my mother return home from her weekly manicure appointment. I speedily grab the newspaper from the coffee table and pretend to be reading, praying that she didn't see Gerard out there.
She didn't; but my refusal to strike up a conversation or even look her in the eye doesn't end too well. "Do you know what would have happened if I'd had this attitude towards my parents when I was your age, young man?" she roars.
"Yes, mom," I reply tediously.
"These are the kind of ideas those dirty hippies got in your head! You used to be such a nice, polite boy. And look at you! You look like a girl, for God's sake! But let me tell you something, Frank: this ridiculousness," she waves her hands in my direction, "ends in two weeks when school starts again."
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I scream. "You already dragged me away from the person I love. Not content with that, you now insist on controlling what I do, wear, listen to or believe in! Can't you just let me live my life, mom?"
"To your room, NOW." She slaps me, shaking her head in disappointment. "The things I have to hear! Sixteen! You can't even keep your room clean and in order and yet you have the nerve to talk about love and 'living your life'..."
I don't argue anymore; instead I do as she says and go up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me. This is nothing new to me; it has been happening at least once or twice a week lately. I know, however, that my mother's anger won't last. She loves her only child too much to stay mad at him. She's very strict and will stick to the rules, but can't keep the angry act for too long. My father might be a little more severe if she tells him, but I can perfectly endure their punishments. They won't lay a hand on me harder than a slap, and for that I'm thankful. Any other thing, I can cope with. No TV? No music? No dessert? Not leaving the house? I still have my books, and they already took the most important thing away from me.
That, is the only thought in my mind as I lie down on my bed and cry: Gerard. My best friend's older brother. The funny kid with black hair, pointy nose and tiny teeth. My neighbor for ten years. The boy who would escort us to school, buy us candy and stand up for us if bigger kids were bothering us. The one who I suddenly saw with different eyes when I turned fourteen, who made me realise I wasn't interested in girls like all of my school mates. The one whose feelings unexpectedly matched mine that summer, when I bravely told him that I was in love with him. My secret boyfriend for two years; stealing kisses behind trees, sneaking out of our houses at night or pushing our luck while our parents weren't home.
We grew too confident, we got too carried away one day, six weeks ago. We lost all notion of time, lost ourselves in each other arms on Gerard's comfy couch. The fact that we still had our clothes on didn't make the situation any better. It wasn't only Gerard's parents who walked in on us, but also mine. Damn them being such good friends -or not, because that is precisely what saved Gerard from going to prison for perversion and abuse of a minor. Of course, no one would pay attention to me when I said he never forced me. Both our families -except for Mikey- were disgusted. They labeled what we have as sick. However, my father said I was still young enough to be saved, cured. After a long debate between the concerned parties, it was decided that we would move away.
I had to leave my friends and I'm due to start at a new school soon; but contrary to what they think, I didn't stop seeing Gerard. He managed to get Fridays free at the factory where he works, and he puts up with a two-hour bus ride to visit me for just one miserable hour. This intensified my love for him, even if sixty minutes are far from enough and the way I miss him is tearing me apart.
I love Gerard. Deeply, hopelessly. I love the way he kisses me, caresses me. I love his seductive voice when he whispers sweet nothings in my ear. I love his long-fingered hands on my thighs when he carries me with my legs around his waist, when he carefully lowers me on the bed, the couch or the floor. I loved when he would buy me flowers and make garlands with them that I'd proudly wear on my head and then keep in between the pages of my favorite books. I love his style to dress, even if it's so different from mine and of rather dubious taste. It feels like having my very own rock and roll star; with his sideburns and his high hairdo, his leather clothes and funny, pointy-collared shirts. I love when he sings to me, using a broom stick as an improvised microphone while I scream like a crazed fanatic. I love when he makes love to me, being impossibly gentle inclusively now that our moments together are so ephemeral.
Sometimes I also hate Gerard. I hate when he seems so full of himself, when he cares too much about his hair and gets fastidious if I accidentally mess it up. I hate when he reminds me that I'm still a kid. I hate when he talks to me with ceremonious words that I can't fully understand and then laughs at my bewildered expression. I hate when he plays mysterious and ignores my questions, giving me new riddles instead of answers. I hate his lack of hope in humanity and how he sometimes makes no sense.
"We have to escape, get away from here together, away from the closed-minded people."
"Frankie, we'll find close-minded people everywhere..."
"How do you know that? I'm sure we'll be accepted if we..."
"...if we go live with some group of hippies? Baby, they don't get along with the police, and your parents would go after them first. That 'free love' shit is just an ideal, Frank. There's no escaping people's judgment, they'll never leave us in peace."
"You're so pessimistic..."
"No, you're too optimistic. Must be that stuff that you smoke."
"Shut up, you don't understand."
"Of course I don't."
"..."
"..."
"Let's get out of here."
"I can't leave my brother."
"Mikey will understand. I already had to leave my friends!"
"It's no solution, Frankie..."
Since I moved here, Gerard and I have had more or less the same conversation every time we see each other. He always rejects my plan. He maintains that even though he loves me and would never leave me, what we have is not right. He says we should accept that love between two men it's not normal, it's sinful for most people; and no matter where we go, they will never leave us be. Not in these times. At that point is when he usually stops, refuses to say more. Until today. Today I pushed the matter and got some kind of answer. The problem is that I couldn't comprehend it, or I didn't want to. It scared me. Those words scare me and at the same time attract me, seduce me. They won't leave my head.
"We're waiting for the last waltz."
"It's simple: we die just to live again."
I try phoning him several times during that weekend and the beginning of the following week, whenever my parents are not around. Gerard and I have a code so the other knows who is calling and runs to answer: we let it ring once, hang up, then dial again thirty seconds later. By now, my index finger has indents from the telephone dial and the poor black device will soon break in two if I continue to slam the handset violently every time I hear Gerard's parents' voice instead of his. I know he knows I will ask questions and that's why he doesn't want to talk to me. Sometimes it's so easy for me to hate him, but my love for him is stronger than any other feeling. In the end he's just as desperate as I am.
******
On Thursday, I find out that my parents will be spending the weekend at the beach, and I can't go because I'm still grounded. I do my best to seem saddened by it while my insides are jumping with joy. An old aunt who lives nearby will be visiting during the day to check on me and make sure I'm rereading my text books to get ready for school. She will also cook my meals and control that I respect my imposed bed time -10PM at most. I'm not allowed to leave the house and my aunt will keep the keys; however, there is still the basement window. I won't be going anywhere, but no doubt someone will be getting in once aunt Leonor goes home to take care of my cousins. That, if I can talk to Gerard.
My next try is less futile; Mikey answers the phone. When I hear my best friend's voice I truly take notice of how much I have missed him, and for a while I put his brother aside so we can talk about what we've been up to. The conversation eventually veers to Gerard nevertheless, for he's all I have been up to in reality. As I supposed, he knows I have been calling. Mikey says his older brother simply refused to answer. When asked why, Gerard explained it was to give me some time to think about what he'd told me during our last meeting, that I knew what he meant and didn't need to ask any more questions.
I sigh loudly, eluding Mikey's inquisitiveness. If my interpretation of Gerard's words was right and I agreed to that, his younger brother would be the most hurt. I can't talk to him about it when it's not even clear in my own head.
I beg my friend to give Gerard my message. "Tell him to come to my house on Saturday this week, after 10:30PM. I'll leave the basement window unlocked for him."
I have no more news from Gerard after that, and I spend my days thinking his words over and over. They still terrify me, I'm full of questions that I know he won't help with. But there is this other part of me that has no doubts, the part that strives to blindly believe in what Gerard believes. I want to trust him. No, I already trust him...do I?
It's when I'm painfully drowning in my math book -under my aunt's infallible surveillance- that the phone rings, startling me.
"It's just the telephone, Frank, why are you so nervous?" Leonor frowns. She hurries to answer it, but it stopped by the time she gets there.
"Uh..." I stand up and slyly walk towards the small table. "...I guess it's because of the new school, you know?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll do great. You're a very intelligent boy." She smiles.
I give her a quick smile in return that I'm sure looks more like a grimace. I have no time to say anything since the phone rings again. I jump to pick it up before she can. "Hello?"
"Frankie..."
"Wh-why..?" I have so much to tell him, but I can't even say his name with my aunt sitting so close to me.
"Listen, baby: I know you hated me for not answering your calls all these days, but it was for a good reason. Last Friday I could see it in your eyes that you knew what I meant. I won't force you, and I don't expect you to voice your decision over the phone. Listen to your heart. If it tells you that my idea is the only solution -just like mine has been telling me, scatter some fresh flowers under the basement window. Trust me, doll, we'll see better times."
******
Before night falls, I go to the garden and sneakily cut some daisies, irises, jasmines and a single red rose, carefully arranging them into the multicolored flower vase over my desk.
Eating dinner is a torment. I try to not think too much. I want to let my heart decide and tell me what to do, but my heart is in my throat; my heart is pounding in my head. I hear it beat faster and faster, a merciless clock signaling that the hour is near.
Once in bed, Aunt Leonor tucks me in and pecks my forehead as if I was still a child. When she turns to leave I grab her arm.
"I love you, auntie," I whisper feelingly, kissing her cheek.
"Frank, Frank..." She hugs me. "If only you were always this nice! Your mother is so worried about your behavior."
"I'm sorry..."
******
I hear the front door close and I jump out of bed, picking out my favorite clothes from my wardrobe. Bell-bottomed, light blue jeans that reach bellow my bellybutton. A white blouse with long loose sleeves, its v-shaped neck adorned with embroidered blue flowers and green vines. Handcrafted sandals, the always-present peace token on my chest, and a braided black and blue hair band around my head.
Hippies have fascinated me ever since the first time I saw them and knew about them, two and a half years ago. The way they dress, their ideology, how they pacifically fight for their rights and their freedom. How they oppose to war. One day I got out of school and there they were; with their long manes, peace sings, bright happy colors and that sweet, strange smell lingering in the air. My 14-year-old eyes took it all and I couldn't help the urge to talk to them. I instantly felt at home, welcomed. They told me where to provisionally find them and I'd visit them as often as I could. They eventually left, but others kept coming from time to time.
My parents weren't pleased when I started to dress like them and call myself a hippie. They restricted my permissions to go out, but I've always found a way. They banned me from wearing these clothes, yet I've always rebelled on weekends and holidays. I wish I could live like most hippies do, travel around the country in colorful buses. I yearn for freedom, a freedom Gerard says we can't have. Not this way, not in these times.
Fixing my chin-length, mahogany hair, I look at myself in the mirror and smile at my reflection. My parents are right, I do look like a girl. It doesn't bother me, sometimes I wish I was one. Not because I'm not happy with what I am; I just think things would be a lot easier. Our problems would end when I turn 18 if that was the case, but no, we'll still be two men. We will still be seen as sinners, abnormal.
I take a deep breath and walk towards my desk. A sudden wave of decisiveness strikes me and with firm pulse I take the flowers out of the vase, exiting my room and leaving a trail of water drops behind me. My braveness doesn't last. The insecurity is back as I descend the basement steps and turn on the dim light. My knees tremble while I shuffle to the opposite wall, the smell of mold making my nose sting. However , I don't stop until I'm in front of the window. I kneel down and raise my arms, letting the smaller flowers fall naturally. I keep the rose, which I place on top. Next, I employ all my strength to move the rusty lock. I push against the tainted glass to have the certainty that it can be lifted enough from the outside; and with a last look at my decision that lays on the floor, I leave.
My heart is settled. My mind is racing. I'm scared, so scared. But there is no other option, I have to go on with this and believe.
Trying hard not to cry, I run back to my room and shove my hand under the mattress, retrieving a plastic bag. If my parents discovered that I have this, I would be sent to a boarding school. They know what hippies smoke, or they at least have some idea. They interrogated me several times about it and I blatantly lied, looking straight to their faces with faked innocence: "No, mom and dad, I'd never do it. Where would a boy my age get it anyway?" Well, it's actually pretty easy if you're one of them; then you just know.
A few sobs break through my lips, my hands working weed and paper hastily and skillfully in spite of my nervousness. The match ignites, the flame caught by my pupils bringing back memories that play like a movie before my eyes. I see us dancing and laughing surrounded by candles in an abandoned building. I see Gerard holding a muffin with a match on top for me to blow out on my 16th birthday.
I let the flame do its work before it's completely spent. With the handmade cigarette in between my fingers and taking the first drag, I know my fate is sealed. I know it when I don't bother to go near the window to expel the smell, when I don't worry about my parents finding out.
I don't smoke it all. I only wanted it to help me calm down, relax; and it worked. I prefer to be lucid, alert. It's a very important night. I throw the remains into the now vacant flower vase, the still incandescent end puffing when it touches the water.
I'm quietly sitting on the couch, the lights out, when I hear Gerard's footsteps behind me. The moon is so bright that I can discern the whole living room. I don't turn to look at him. A slender hand appears holding the dark red rose to my lips. I take it and get up, walking around the couch and standing in front of my boyfriend. He's wearing black pants and shirt, but the somewhat formal jacket is white. We glow under the moonlight.
Our lips meet before any words are exchanged. There is sadness, desperation and determination in that kiss. There is no asking if we are going to do it.
"Gee, how are we...?"
"Shh, no. No talking, let's just dance."
"I know, Frankie, I know..." Gerard breathes out against my cheek, a hand going up to pointlessly try to mend his Elvis Presley hairstyle. The other one rests on my waist, slowly swinging us to the rhythm of "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away", the record disobediently spinning in my dad's expensive player. It's so sadly fitting that I have to roll my eyes. Gerard kisses my neck and although it's hard for me to think when he does that, I can't let him avoid this conversation.
"What are we waiting for, then?" I ask while I stare into his worried eyes.
He hesitates for a few seconds before responding, "We're waiting for the last waltz."
"Gerard...what are you talking about? Can you please be serious at least once? I am supposed to be the kid here. Please..."
"Your hair is getting long, I like it. It'd be a pity if you were forced to have it cut when school starts again." He dodges my questions, as usual. His fingers play gracefully with the curls that fall on my face and I momentarily lose the ability to articulate words. "You deserve freedom. Real freedom, my hippie doll."
"Well, then let's..."
"No, that's no solution."
"And what is?" I push him away, irritated. "Can you be more clear and explain what you meant by 'the last waltz'?
"It's simple: we die just to live again." He pulls me back to him by my vest and hugs me, ignoring my angry struggle. My wet eyes meet his when he lets me go, still not understanding what lies behind his elegant words. His thumbs wipe my tears away.
"What...? Gee, you need to lay down those books about reincarnation and past lives, I think they're rotting..."
"Until next Friday, love."
I cast an annoyed glance at the old wooden clock. Almost 5PM. My mom will be home soon and I know we need to put an end to this encounter. I allow myself to be kissed this time, clinging to Gerard's neck as if my life depended on it. Maybe it does. I let his tongue invade me, his hands squeeze me needy as we moan softly. Once a week is not enough, one hour is nothing. Gerard spends longer on the bus each Friday than he does here with me, and it's simply not fair. I don't care if I'm only sixteen and he's five years older. I don't care that we both belong to the same gender. Love is love -too bad no one else understands it. Why can't we just leave town together?
I unwillingly draw away. I'm afraid my mother will notice that my lips are too red and swollen, that my breathing comes out too ragged, that my eyes sparkle with a special light. She's so observant, so overprotective, so reluctant to accept that her little Frankie is not a child anymore. Since that day she's been extremely paranoid about the big bad world and its big bad people wanting to take my innocence away.
"Until next week, love," I whisper.
"Take care," Gerard mutters, giving my lips a last peck and stopping the record player's needle on his way out.
Less than five minutes after he leaves, I hear my mother return home from her weekly manicure appointment. I speedily grab the newspaper from the coffee table and pretend to be reading, praying that she didn't see Gerard out there.
She didn't; but my refusal to strike up a conversation or even look her in the eye doesn't end too well. "Do you know what would have happened if I'd had this attitude towards my parents when I was your age, young man?" she roars.
"Yes, mom," I reply tediously.
"These are the kind of ideas those dirty hippies got in your head! You used to be such a nice, polite boy. And look at you! You look like a girl, for God's sake! But let me tell you something, Frank: this ridiculousness," she waves her hands in my direction, "ends in two weeks when school starts again."
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I scream. "You already dragged me away from the person I love. Not content with that, you now insist on controlling what I do, wear, listen to or believe in! Can't you just let me live my life, mom?"
"To your room, NOW." She slaps me, shaking her head in disappointment. "The things I have to hear! Sixteen! You can't even keep your room clean and in order and yet you have the nerve to talk about love and 'living your life'..."
I don't argue anymore; instead I do as she says and go up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me. This is nothing new to me; it has been happening at least once or twice a week lately. I know, however, that my mother's anger won't last. She loves her only child too much to stay mad at him. She's very strict and will stick to the rules, but can't keep the angry act for too long. My father might be a little more severe if she tells him, but I can perfectly endure their punishments. They won't lay a hand on me harder than a slap, and for that I'm thankful. Any other thing, I can cope with. No TV? No music? No dessert? Not leaving the house? I still have my books, and they already took the most important thing away from me.
That, is the only thought in my mind as I lie down on my bed and cry: Gerard. My best friend's older brother. The funny kid with black hair, pointy nose and tiny teeth. My neighbor for ten years. The boy who would escort us to school, buy us candy and stand up for us if bigger kids were bothering us. The one who I suddenly saw with different eyes when I turned fourteen, who made me realise I wasn't interested in girls like all of my school mates. The one whose feelings unexpectedly matched mine that summer, when I bravely told him that I was in love with him. My secret boyfriend for two years; stealing kisses behind trees, sneaking out of our houses at night or pushing our luck while our parents weren't home.
We grew too confident, we got too carried away one day, six weeks ago. We lost all notion of time, lost ourselves in each other arms on Gerard's comfy couch. The fact that we still had our clothes on didn't make the situation any better. It wasn't only Gerard's parents who walked in on us, but also mine. Damn them being such good friends -or not, because that is precisely what saved Gerard from going to prison for perversion and abuse of a minor. Of course, no one would pay attention to me when I said he never forced me. Both our families -except for Mikey- were disgusted. They labeled what we have as sick. However, my father said I was still young enough to be saved, cured. After a long debate between the concerned parties, it was decided that we would move away.
I had to leave my friends and I'm due to start at a new school soon; but contrary to what they think, I didn't stop seeing Gerard. He managed to get Fridays free at the factory where he works, and he puts up with a two-hour bus ride to visit me for just one miserable hour. This intensified my love for him, even if sixty minutes are far from enough and the way I miss him is tearing me apart.
I love Gerard. Deeply, hopelessly. I love the way he kisses me, caresses me. I love his seductive voice when he whispers sweet nothings in my ear. I love his long-fingered hands on my thighs when he carries me with my legs around his waist, when he carefully lowers me on the bed, the couch or the floor. I loved when he would buy me flowers and make garlands with them that I'd proudly wear on my head and then keep in between the pages of my favorite books. I love his style to dress, even if it's so different from mine and of rather dubious taste. It feels like having my very own rock and roll star; with his sideburns and his high hairdo, his leather clothes and funny, pointy-collared shirts. I love when he sings to me, using a broom stick as an improvised microphone while I scream like a crazed fanatic. I love when he makes love to me, being impossibly gentle inclusively now that our moments together are so ephemeral.
Sometimes I also hate Gerard. I hate when he seems so full of himself, when he cares too much about his hair and gets fastidious if I accidentally mess it up. I hate when he reminds me that I'm still a kid. I hate when he talks to me with ceremonious words that I can't fully understand and then laughs at my bewildered expression. I hate when he plays mysterious and ignores my questions, giving me new riddles instead of answers. I hate his lack of hope in humanity and how he sometimes makes no sense.
"We have to escape, get away from here together, away from the closed-minded people."
"Frankie, we'll find close-minded people everywhere..."
"How do you know that? I'm sure we'll be accepted if we..."
"...if we go live with some group of hippies? Baby, they don't get along with the police, and your parents would go after them first. That 'free love' shit is just an ideal, Frank. There's no escaping people's judgment, they'll never leave us in peace."
"You're so pessimistic..."
"No, you're too optimistic. Must be that stuff that you smoke."
"Shut up, you don't understand."
"Of course I don't."
"..."
"..."
"Let's get out of here."
"I can't leave my brother."
"Mikey will understand. I already had to leave my friends!"
"It's no solution, Frankie..."
Since I moved here, Gerard and I have had more or less the same conversation every time we see each other. He always rejects my plan. He maintains that even though he loves me and would never leave me, what we have is not right. He says we should accept that love between two men it's not normal, it's sinful for most people; and no matter where we go, they will never leave us be. Not in these times. At that point is when he usually stops, refuses to say more. Until today. Today I pushed the matter and got some kind of answer. The problem is that I couldn't comprehend it, or I didn't want to. It scared me. Those words scare me and at the same time attract me, seduce me. They won't leave my head.
"We're waiting for the last waltz."
"It's simple: we die just to live again."
I try phoning him several times during that weekend and the beginning of the following week, whenever my parents are not around. Gerard and I have a code so the other knows who is calling and runs to answer: we let it ring once, hang up, then dial again thirty seconds later. By now, my index finger has indents from the telephone dial and the poor black device will soon break in two if I continue to slam the handset violently every time I hear Gerard's parents' voice instead of his. I know he knows I will ask questions and that's why he doesn't want to talk to me. Sometimes it's so easy for me to hate him, but my love for him is stronger than any other feeling. In the end he's just as desperate as I am.
******
On Thursday, I find out that my parents will be spending the weekend at the beach, and I can't go because I'm still grounded. I do my best to seem saddened by it while my insides are jumping with joy. An old aunt who lives nearby will be visiting during the day to check on me and make sure I'm rereading my text books to get ready for school. She will also cook my meals and control that I respect my imposed bed time -10PM at most. I'm not allowed to leave the house and my aunt will keep the keys; however, there is still the basement window. I won't be going anywhere, but no doubt someone will be getting in once aunt Leonor goes home to take care of my cousins. That, if I can talk to Gerard.
My next try is less futile; Mikey answers the phone. When I hear my best friend's voice I truly take notice of how much I have missed him, and for a while I put his brother aside so we can talk about what we've been up to. The conversation eventually veers to Gerard nevertheless, for he's all I have been up to in reality. As I supposed, he knows I have been calling. Mikey says his older brother simply refused to answer. When asked why, Gerard explained it was to give me some time to think about what he'd told me during our last meeting, that I knew what he meant and didn't need to ask any more questions.
I sigh loudly, eluding Mikey's inquisitiveness. If my interpretation of Gerard's words was right and I agreed to that, his younger brother would be the most hurt. I can't talk to him about it when it's not even clear in my own head.
I beg my friend to give Gerard my message. "Tell him to come to my house on Saturday this week, after 10:30PM. I'll leave the basement window unlocked for him."
I have no more news from Gerard after that, and I spend my days thinking his words over and over. They still terrify me, I'm full of questions that I know he won't help with. But there is this other part of me that has no doubts, the part that strives to blindly believe in what Gerard believes. I want to trust him. No, I already trust him...do I?
It's when I'm painfully drowning in my math book -under my aunt's infallible surveillance- that the phone rings, startling me.
"It's just the telephone, Frank, why are you so nervous?" Leonor frowns. She hurries to answer it, but it stopped by the time she gets there.
"Uh..." I stand up and slyly walk towards the small table. "...I guess it's because of the new school, you know?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll do great. You're a very intelligent boy." She smiles.
I give her a quick smile in return that I'm sure looks more like a grimace. I have no time to say anything since the phone rings again. I jump to pick it up before she can. "Hello?"
"Frankie..."
"Wh-why..?" I have so much to tell him, but I can't even say his name with my aunt sitting so close to me.
"Listen, baby: I know you hated me for not answering your calls all these days, but it was for a good reason. Last Friday I could see it in your eyes that you knew what I meant. I won't force you, and I don't expect you to voice your decision over the phone. Listen to your heart. If it tells you that my idea is the only solution -just like mine has been telling me, scatter some fresh flowers under the basement window. Trust me, doll, we'll see better times."
******
Before night falls, I go to the garden and sneakily cut some daisies, irises, jasmines and a single red rose, carefully arranging them into the multicolored flower vase over my desk.
Eating dinner is a torment. I try to not think too much. I want to let my heart decide and tell me what to do, but my heart is in my throat; my heart is pounding in my head. I hear it beat faster and faster, a merciless clock signaling that the hour is near.
Once in bed, Aunt Leonor tucks me in and pecks my forehead as if I was still a child. When she turns to leave I grab her arm.
"I love you, auntie," I whisper feelingly, kissing her cheek.
"Frank, Frank..." She hugs me. "If only you were always this nice! Your mother is so worried about your behavior."
"I'm sorry..."
******
I hear the front door close and I jump out of bed, picking out my favorite clothes from my wardrobe. Bell-bottomed, light blue jeans that reach bellow my bellybutton. A white blouse with long loose sleeves, its v-shaped neck adorned with embroidered blue flowers and green vines. Handcrafted sandals, the always-present peace token on my chest, and a braided black and blue hair band around my head.
Hippies have fascinated me ever since the first time I saw them and knew about them, two and a half years ago. The way they dress, their ideology, how they pacifically fight for their rights and their freedom. How they oppose to war. One day I got out of school and there they were; with their long manes, peace sings, bright happy colors and that sweet, strange smell lingering in the air. My 14-year-old eyes took it all and I couldn't help the urge to talk to them. I instantly felt at home, welcomed. They told me where to provisionally find them and I'd visit them as often as I could. They eventually left, but others kept coming from time to time.
My parents weren't pleased when I started to dress like them and call myself a hippie. They restricted my permissions to go out, but I've always found a way. They banned me from wearing these clothes, yet I've always rebelled on weekends and holidays. I wish I could live like most hippies do, travel around the country in colorful buses. I yearn for freedom, a freedom Gerard says we can't have. Not this way, not in these times.
Fixing my chin-length, mahogany hair, I look at myself in the mirror and smile at my reflection. My parents are right, I do look like a girl. It doesn't bother me, sometimes I wish I was one. Not because I'm not happy with what I am; I just think things would be a lot easier. Our problems would end when I turn 18 if that was the case, but no, we'll still be two men. We will still be seen as sinners, abnormal.
I take a deep breath and walk towards my desk. A sudden wave of decisiveness strikes me and with firm pulse I take the flowers out of the vase, exiting my room and leaving a trail of water drops behind me. My braveness doesn't last. The insecurity is back as I descend the basement steps and turn on the dim light. My knees tremble while I shuffle to the opposite wall, the smell of mold making my nose sting. However , I don't stop until I'm in front of the window. I kneel down and raise my arms, letting the smaller flowers fall naturally. I keep the rose, which I place on top. Next, I employ all my strength to move the rusty lock. I push against the tainted glass to have the certainty that it can be lifted enough from the outside; and with a last look at my decision that lays on the floor, I leave.
My heart is settled. My mind is racing. I'm scared, so scared. But there is no other option, I have to go on with this and believe.
Trying hard not to cry, I run back to my room and shove my hand under the mattress, retrieving a plastic bag. If my parents discovered that I have this, I would be sent to a boarding school. They know what hippies smoke, or they at least have some idea. They interrogated me several times about it and I blatantly lied, looking straight to their faces with faked innocence: "No, mom and dad, I'd never do it. Where would a boy my age get it anyway?" Well, it's actually pretty easy if you're one of them; then you just know.
A few sobs break through my lips, my hands working weed and paper hastily and skillfully in spite of my nervousness. The match ignites, the flame caught by my pupils bringing back memories that play like a movie before my eyes. I see us dancing and laughing surrounded by candles in an abandoned building. I see Gerard holding a muffin with a match on top for me to blow out on my 16th birthday.
I let the flame do its work before it's completely spent. With the handmade cigarette in between my fingers and taking the first drag, I know my fate is sealed. I know it when I don't bother to go near the window to expel the smell, when I don't worry about my parents finding out.
I don't smoke it all. I only wanted it to help me calm down, relax; and it worked. I prefer to be lucid, alert. It's a very important night. I throw the remains into the now vacant flower vase, the still incandescent end puffing when it touches the water.
I'm quietly sitting on the couch, the lights out, when I hear Gerard's footsteps behind me. The moon is so bright that I can discern the whole living room. I don't turn to look at him. A slender hand appears holding the dark red rose to my lips. I take it and get up, walking around the couch and standing in front of my boyfriend. He's wearing black pants and shirt, but the somewhat formal jacket is white. We glow under the moonlight.
Our lips meet before any words are exchanged. There is sadness, desperation and determination in that kiss. There is no asking if we are going to do it.
"Gee, how are we...?"
"Shh, no. No talking, let's just dance."