Chapter Sample

By eleven the next morning Jeremy had two pieces of luggage
packed, for himself an old green canvas army duffel stuffed with balled-up
clothes, his journal and his pillow, and for his mother a trash bag. In
it he placed her freshly washed and folded pink bathrobe, her only pair
of decent jeans, her scuffy slippers, two worn T-shirts and the shoebox
covered with layers of masking tape that she had carried dutifully from
apartment to apartment over the years. He had long ago given up asking
her what was inside; when asked she would only reply, “Some old crap.”

He hoisted the duffel in his right hand and her bag in his left,
but then noticed that one of the corners of the box was already sticking
through a hole in the black plastic. He set both bags down, took the
box from the trash bag and then pushed it past his pillow deep within the
duffel—just to be safe, just for now. After all, everyone knew that things
got lost in hospitals. And maybe he would open it up himself, just to
spite her.

At a quarter to twelve he went downstairs. Jeremy and Mrs. Jackson
said their good-byes and, judging by her glistening eyes when the Honda
pulled up in front, his leaving appeared to be difficult for her. But not
so for him. During the early years they had moved a lot, so he never
became attached to people or places. It was easier that way. He hadn’t
even bothered to call the hospital to say good-bye to his mother—he
knew he’d be hearing from her as soon as she needed something.

When they got to the bus terminal, Jeremy thanked Ms. Klugburm
for the ride, slung the duffel over his shoulder then waved at her, ticket
in hand. She responded with a happy smile, and then drove off to the
hospital to deliver the trash bag and, he assumed, to cart-off more children
to some moldy orphanage.

As he stepped up into the long, silver bus he scanned the remaining
empty seats and saw that the back row was unoccupied. He made his way
to it, tossed his bag on the netted shelf above the scratched and tinted
windows, and then slid himself onto the vinyl bench seat.

After a few moments the bus driver, a frighteningly gaunt black
man dressed in a flawlessly creased gray uniform, slammed the folding
door shut, then gunned the engine while simultaneously farting the airbrakes.
The immense vehicle shuddered, and then began rolling down
Mission toward Highway 99.

The bus made two stops on its journey south; the first to pick up
more passengers in the farming community of Tulare, the second at a
depot on the outskirts of Bakersfield. Here they had a twenty-minute
rest stop, so Jeremy got off the bus to spend some of the five dollars Ms.
Klugburm had insistently pushed into his hand for food. He needed to
pee, besides.

He surveyed the outrageous prices of the snacks in the half-empty
vending machines lining the back wall of the station, and then came to
the conclusion that he had just enough money for some M&Ms, a bag of
Doritos and a Coke.

He had only just retrieved his snacks, torn open the package of
candy and unscrewed the soda cap when a friendly voice startled him
from behind.

“Where ya’ headed?” Jeremy turned, and then jerked away from the pear-shaped man standing too closely behind him. He wore jeans and a black satin shirt that was unbuttoned but shouldn’t have been, considering his flabby torso. His eyes were hidden by glasses so dark they looked like space.

“L.A.,” the boy replied as icily as he could, and then made his way
over to the row of orange, hooked-together fiberglass and chrome chairs.

There he sat.

“That so,” the man said, and sat next to him. “You gonna be in the
movies?” The man grinned, revealing front teeth like piano keys and an
absence of molars.

“No,” he laughed.

“Looks like yours, you could be.”

“Thanks.” He looked away, trying not to encourage him. He checked
the clock over the ticket counter: fifteen more minutes before his bus
left.

“I got a buddy who makes movies in Hollywood. And I know he’s
always lookin’ for boys like you to make into stars. I could hook you and
him up—you’d be rich. What’s your name, son?”

I’m not your son. “Josh.”

“Well Josh, glad to know you. I’m Bud Stygian…rhymes with
pigeon.” He held out his hand to Jeremy, who automatically shook it
because that’s the only thing he’d ever been taught about what men
are supposed to do. But after his hand made contact with the skin he
recoiled—it felt dry and cold and hot and wet at the same time, like the
man was sick in a hundred different ways.

“Josh, like I said, I could do you a favor and hook you up with
him—give you his number for when you get into town. So I do you a
favor,” he murmured, “and you do me one, know what I mean?” The man
looked around nervously as his hand secreted down to trace a finger along
the boy’s thigh. “By my count, we still got about twelve minutes before
your limo leaves for Beverly Hills,” he whispered, leaning in. “Truck’s
out back. Whatcha say?”

Was this happening?

“No way.” Jeremy rose from the chair as the loudspeaker announced
they would be boarding in five minutes. His bladder was about to rupture,
so he trotted towards the men’s room while keeping Mr. Stygian in his
peripheral vision in case he followed, which he did not.

Jeremy was zipping-up at the urinal when he heard footsteps
behind him and turned to see the man entering the restroom, his piano-key
mouth snarling.

“Look you shitty punk, you think you’re better’n me? I can tell trash
when I see it, ‘specially faggot trash. Could see it all over you like neon
lights when you climbed off that bus.”

“Get away!”

Stygian spat on the floor. “You’re just another worthless queer boy
on his way to LA. One a day just like you comes in this station. The
smart ones sees I can give ‘em something they couldn’t get from where
they come from, but not you…so not only are you faggot trash, you’re
stupid faggot trash.”

“Fuck off!” Jeremy pushed past him as he trotted from the stinking
restroom toward the lobby. He glanced out of the windows and saw, with
relief, that a group of passengers was already pulling themselves up the
steps of the bus.

Some time after the adrenaline had worn off and he was rocking
again with the motion of the highway he ran the incident over in his
head, from start to finish and back again. The episode bothered him
more, he figured, than it should have; he’d heard stories of guys at school
getting hit on by dirty old queers. So why did it bug him so much?

For starters, he hadn’t fought back, he’d just run. Any other kid his
age would have flattened the old creep and been justified in doing so. So
he’d cheated himself out of the opportunity to stretch his manly wings
and fly; after all, bashing a fag was supposed to score you even more Dude
Points than losing your virginity to the hottest cheerleader at school. But
he hadn’t slugged the man, hadn’t pushed him down or shoved his head
into one of the un-flushed toilets.

He’d just run away.

Secondly, he was not naive enough to think that he looked like
anything other than white trash; he had long ago resigned himself to
the social status he’d inherited. He usually never even gave it a second
thought that his clothes were torn, his hair hadn’t seen scissors in years,
and his old running shoes had holes in the soles. But all-in-all he figured
he looked about the same as the other guys who slouch their way through
their teens, alarming convenience store owners and pissing off their
parents. So what was it that had drawn the man to him?

He knew he looked pathetic, but it hadn’t occurred to him until
now that he also looked gay. How else could some stranger in a bus
station know the part of him that was hidden in the masking-taped
shoebox buried inside his head?

But what shook Jeremy to the foundation of his being, as the bus
lumbered toward the crimson sun, was the kinship that the old pervert
had assumed: Bud Stygian and Jeremy Tyler were the same kind of
folks.

But I’ll kill myself if I ever end up like that.

He needed a change. It was now or never.

Ballena Beach. He’d seen it on TV, and it looked like the kind of place
where the rest of the planet dreams of living. Stretches of sunny beach,
million-dollar houses, shining sports cars, beautiful girls everywhere.
Guys his age hanging out together on the beach, surfing and skating
and even kite boarding; weekends spent at parties and weekdays spent
getting ready for adulthood.

But how could he ever fit in there, of all places? After all, they had
laughed at him in Fresno. Geraldine Trailer, the tough boys had named
him in 6th grade.

And a quiet, very mean voice in his head had secretly called himself
that ever since.

But maybe this Aunt Katharine would buy him some new shoes,
for starters. He decided he would ask her, probably not tonight, but for
sure tomorrow. And eventually he could get some new clothes then make
some friends, and then he could have someone to talk to besides a stinky
old drunk lady.

He might even be able to have his own room.

If nothing else, at least now I won’t have to take care of my mom.

Could all of this actually work out?

His eyes drifted out the windows as the fading light gilded the
rows of bean fields as they rolled by, and the first stars of the evening
glimmered up high in the East.

He sat back in his seat and hummed quietly.

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