The Change

 

 

 

            Tom sat on the couch next to his buddy Narcissus, and tried to concentrate on the homework spread across their laps.  There were two distractions.  One was the blaring TV on the other side of the living room.  ³Bob and Jim² was on.  It was one of the dumbest new sitcoms of the season -- but ³The Adventures of Achilles and Patroclus² would be on next.  It was Narcissus¹ favorite show, and he didn¹t want to miss it.

            Bored, Tom occasionally glanced at the set, vaguely embarrassed to watch a show this dopey, even peripherally.  It was the usual formulaic crap.  Bob had a date for the weekend.  Jim was jealous.  Bob was going with Lee; Jim also liked Lee.  They bickered, they stormed off, they made up.

            Every few minutes, Tom allowed himself a furtive glance at the other, more urgent distraction in the room: Narcissus¹ kid sister Andromeda, sprawled in an armchair, reading a chapbook of poetry fragments from Sappho, chewing on the eraser of her pencil and occasionally doodling on the page.  Or was she taking notes?

            Only a couple of years ago, he had thought girls were completely yukky.  He had been happy to join Narcissus in teasing and tormenting Andromeda: pulling her hair, making fun of the girls¹ academy she attended, waving large bugs from the yard in her direction -- to give her credit, she had never been scared of bugs.  She had hung tough, for a girl.  It was only when they killed the bugs in front of her that she would be really grossed out, and begin to cry.

            But Tom was changing, every day, it seemed -- and Andromeda was changing too.  She was out of her school uniform, in casual clothes now, and he could not help but notice how pretty the mouth was that chewed on the pencil, how she filled out her fuzzy blue sweater . . . and how was that any of his business?  If Narcissus so much as caught Tom glancing at his sister . . .

            ³So, what is it, exactly, that Peterson wants?² Narcissus whined, breaking into Tom¹s troubled reverie.  ³Does he want our definition of love?  Does he want us to agree with one of these guys?  Does he want us to agree with Socrates that love sucks, and we should avoid it?²

            Tom made a show of being studious, of looking over the homework sheet on his knee.  ³Well, it says he wants our own interpretation, our own thoughts --²

            ³Yeah, that¹s what it says.  But obviously, Peterson is fishing for an answer, and I haven¹t figured out what it is yet.²

            ³Let¹s try agreeing with one of them.  The doctor¹s kind of stuffy --²

            ³I know.²

            Andromeda heaved a weary sigh over her book of verse.  The fuzzy blue bosom rose and fell.  Tom¹s eyes flicked over to it, and then away.

³If our company bores you, creep, do your homework upstairs,² Narcissus told her.

            ³You go upstairs,² she drawled back.

            Tom tried to stay focused on The Symposium.  ³The explanation of love I like best,² he said cautiously, ³if I were being honest, is the one that Aristophanes gives --²

            ³Yeah, you would go with the old hetero farce writer,² Narcissus smirked.

            Tom gave a guilty start.  ³Hey, he wrote some great plays, he helped invent comedy --²

            ³He slammed Socrates, in The Clouds.  He libeled him.²

            ³There are worse things in the world than slamming Socrates.²  Tom¹s views on this subject had earned him the status of a joker in their Classical Age class.  He didn¹t care.  ³He¹s a bully and a prude.  Look at this.  He is so irritating.  He shows up at a dinner party where you¹re supposed to make a speech praising love, and all he does is put love down?  It¹s just bad manners.²

            ³He¹s trying to get them to really think --²

            ³No, he¹s just being a spoilsport and a sophist, as usual.²

            The heat with which he spoke caused Andromeda to glance up from her poetry.  He could feel her eyes on him.

            Narcissus, sitting next to him, stared at him in disgust.  ³Moron.  Socrates wasn¹t a sophist.  Don¹t you even listen to Peterson?  Aristophanes called him that in The Clouds, they accused him of that at his trial.  But it wasn¹t true.  He never charged money for his opinions.  He just wanted to increase human knowledge.²

            ³No, he didn¹t.  Not the way Plato presents him, at least.  He doesn¹t charge, but he does it for equally petty reasons.  For the pleasure of humiliating some clown who can¹t argue as well, or showing off in front of some young boy.  He¹s not really after Œtruth,¹ for its own sake.  I think he was guilty of everything they charged him with, as far as it goes.  He didn¹t believe in the gods, he did corrupt Alcibiades and all those other youths --²

            ³How?²

            ³By teasing them, and messing with their minds, and leading them on and playing hard to get.  And he did make them cynical about democracy.  And that¹s why they went on to betray Athens.  The best thing the Athenian city-state ever did was convicting and killing Socrates!²

            Again, Tom could feel Adromeda looking at him.  He felt himself blush.

            ³Hera help me,² she said mildly, in the ironic Wonder Womyn slang all the girls were into.  ³You better not let your teacher catch you talking that way.²

            ³He does,² Narcissus groaned.  ³He practically says stuff like that in class.  From now on, Tom, it might be better if I pretend I just don¹t know you.²

            Narcissus, Tom¹s oldest friend.  He said it as a joke, but there was an undercurrent to it that slightly altered the atmosphere of the room.  A hint of warning, or of prediction, that some day it might come to that. 

            The oracle has spoken, Tom thought bitterly.

            Then the commercial for a local sperm bank ended, and the opening music for ³Achilles and Patroclus² came on.

            ³Okay, here we go!² Narcissus said, shoving The Symposium and his notebook onto the floor.  ³No more homework for the next hour.²

            So, they watched the action-adventure show.  Tom had read The Iliad in sixth grade; he didn¹t see much connection between the Trojan War and this silly program, shot down in New Zealand, though every now and then Odysseus or Nestor or somebody like that would wander through.  But Narcissus was hot for Seneca Williams who played Achilles.

            ³God, look at him!² Narcissus yelled, practically bouncing in his seat on the couch, as his kid sister rolled her eyes.  ³He is so buff.  Like, every muscle in his arm ripples, every time he throws a spear!²

            ³I read that he takes steroids,² Tom said sourly.

            ³Bull.²

            ³That¹s why he¹s so pumped up.²  Tom shrugged.  ³His balls have probably shriveled up like peanuts already.²

            ³Shut up, you¹re full of it,² Narcissus muttered.  ³If you can¹t appreciate him, then fine.  Just let me enjoy my program.²

            So, they watched the two heroes lead the Myrmidons into battle against the Trojans.  Again.  Not much plot, but lots of opportunities to see tan, oiled male bods in close-up, in sword play and in chariots, and in hand-to-hand combat.

            ³Whoa!² Narcissus laughed.  ³Ouch!² 

            Tom felt guilty for not being more attracted to Seneca Williams, or Jason Pasternak, who played his sidekick.  Or any of these muscle-bound twerps.  He chose the lanky foreign guy playing Hector to focus on.

            ³Hey, he¹s kind of interesting,² he said, trying to sound as turned-on as possible.

            ³Feh.²  Now Narcissus shrugged.  ³No pecs.²

            Then Dianne, Narcissus and Andromeda¹s biological mother, came in and left a tray with freshly-baked, sliced banana-nut-bread, and cups and a pitcher of milk on the coffee table for the three kids.  ³Thanks, Ms. Winslow,² Tom mumbled.  The aroma filled the room as they polished off the bread.  Jocasta, Dianne¹s wife, came home from work, and Andromeda went upstairs to finish her homework.  The program ended, and after the promo for next week¹s episode, Narcissus switched the set off with the remote.

            ³Back to the books,² he decreed.  They picked the papers up off the floor.  ³What are you going to write?²

            ³I like Aristophanes,²  Tom said again.  ³This idea that we all used to be blobs rolling around.  A joined blob of two males, or two females.  Or, uh, even a male and a female.²

            As always, he was aware that his viewpoint was slightly off, slightly wrong.  Yet, illogically, he wished Andromeda were still downstairs to hear him sound off.  ³I like this whole notion that the gods split us apart, and that when we look for a sexual partner, we¹re really trying to rejoin our other half, become completely whole.  I think it¹s really romantic and sweet.²

            Narcissus made a face.  ³Listen to you.  You sound like a lesbian theorist.²

            ³I¹m just saying what I think,² Tom snapped back, stung.

            ³Fine, whatever.  You write about the male/female blobs rolling around.  I¹m going to write that Socrates was right to talk about the dangers of love, how it weakens us and makes us lose control.  ŒCause I think that¹s what Peterson wants to hear.²

            ³The frustrated old fart.  I wouldn¹t be surprised.²  Tom hated Priam Peterson more with every class.  He taught philosophy and classical literature as if there were always only one interpretation, one right answer.  He gave multiple choice tests on the meaning of myths.  He turned great works into dull, obvious and shabby things.  ³Just be careful, when you¹re sucking up to him, that he doesn¹t make a grab for your ass one of these days.²

            ³He couldn¹t run fast enough to catch me.²  Narcissus remained unruffled.  ³But I don¹t mind flirting and giving him a little hope, if it leads to an A.²

            ³You are such a little slut, I swear.²

            ³If that¹s the way into Harvard.²

            ³Then I don¹t wanna go.²  Tom got up to gather his books.

            ³Then I don¹t know if we should do homework together anymore.²  This time it was not said as a joke.  The expression Narcissus wore was hard and mean.  ³At least not for this class.  ŒCause I do want to get into a good school.²

            ³Fine.  I¹m out of here.  I¹ve got a date.²

            Narcissus looked startled, and less scornful, Tom noted with satisfaction.

            ³Really?  Who with?²

            ³Robin Murphy, from the gym.²

            ³Hey, he¹s cute.²  Narcisssus smiled.  ³Good going, Tom.  I didn¹t know you had it in you.²

            ³No,² Tom said, unwilling to drop his own hostile tone.  ³You¹ve made that pretty clear.²

            He stormed out of the room, and nearly slammed the front door -- but the respect he had for Dianne and Jocasta, his friend¹s moms, made him close it more gently.

 

            He walked rapidly down the block, past the shingled suburban homes and well-tended lawns, some with sprinklers twirling, drizzling the sidewalk with water.  He turned the corner and reached his own house.

            He could hear the sounds of Marvin in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.  It smelled good -- he wished he could stay home and have some, instead of taking Robin to the diner.  He trudged up the stairs.  There was a steady murmur coming from Patrick¹s room.  Leo must be in there, helping little Patrick with his homework.  Leo was coaxing Patrick to try the math problem himself -- but Tom knew Leo would wind up doing most of it himself.  As usual.

            Patrick took after Marvin, his biological dad, more.  Tom was more like Leo, who was his own bio-dad.  It shouldn¹t make a difference, but of course it did, a little.  He wished he could talk to Leo now, about why he didn¹t want to go out on this date.  But what was there to say?

            After hesitating outside his little brother¹s room for a moment, Tom headed into his own room.  It was neat and spare: his desk all in order, his bed made immaculately, as Marvin required.  Very different from Narcissus¹ sprawling mess of a room, with its glaring color posters of Seneca Williams.

            He grabbed a new shirt from the bureau, and headed for the bathroom.  He smeared some deodorant under his arms.  He tried to make himself care about this date.  He grimaced into the mirror, and brushed his teeth.  He spat out the toothpaste; his teeth felt raw and rough against his tongue.       Robin stared at him with such longing and wonder, at the gymnasium.  So did some of the other towelboys, for that matter.  What was it those kids saw when they looked at him? Or thought they saw?

 

            He borrowed Leo¹s car, and called to pick Robin up at 7:30.  Robin was upstairs getting ready.  One of his moms whispered to Tom that he should cut Robin some slack; this was his first date.  Tom chose not to tell her that it was his own first date also; he just promised to take the kid out for a quiet, low-key evening.

            Robin headed down the stairs at last, trying to look casual, trying to stand tall.  The mom beamed at them, and waved, and told them to be home by ten.

            Robin appeared giggly and nervous, as Tom held open the passenger-side door of the car for him.  His hair was still wet, and carefully combed; he kept his window rolled up so it wouldn¹t be blown out of shape.  He hardly touched his chicken fillet at the diner.  Tom felt he should take the initiative, make some conversation.

            ³So.  You saving the money you¹re making as a towelboy?²

            ³Uh huh.  For college.²

            ³That¹s great.  That¹s thinking ahead.²

            Another awkward pause.  Tom sawed off another chunk of steak.  And chewed, and swallowed it.  ³Do you get a job during summer vacation?²      

            ³Uh huh.  Well.  I just work longer hours at the gym.²

            ³Super.  Good for you.²  Tom tried the mashed potatoes.  Lumpy, but not too bad.

            Robin cleared his throat.  ³So.  Were you surprised when I asked you to come out tonight?²

            ³Um, yeah.  You always seem like such a shy kid.²

            ³And it¹s not really for me to do the asking, is it?²

            ³Oh, I don¹t think that.  I¹m no stickler for formalities.²

            ³I¹m glad.²  Robin sounded relieved.  ³I know it¹s not really a younger boy¹s place . . . you know that all the guys my age have a thing for you.  Don¹t you?²

            Tom looked up from his plate, slightly alarmed.  ³They do?²

            ³It¹s Œcause you¹re not even trying to impress us.  You¹re just so . . . stoic.²  Robin was staring up at him with a love in his eyes that made Tom very, very uncomfortable.  ³And you¹re such a fine athlete.  It¹s such a pleasure just to watch you move across the basketball court.  Or slice your way across the pool --²

            ³Um, thanks.  That¹s great.²

            ³I¹m sorry.  I didn¹t mean to embarrass you.²

            ³I¹m not embarrassed, I¹m just -- whatever.²

            ³That¹s okay,² Robin told him warmly.  ³I understand.²

            Oh, you poor kid . . . boy, do you not understand . . .

            ³How¹s your chicken?  Tom stirred restlessly in the booth.  ³Would you like me to order anything else?²

 

 

            He parked a few blocks from Robin¹s house, and walked him slowly home.  It was after nine, and yet the warm night sky was still fairly light and clear.  A sliver of moon shone above them, and when Robin shyly took his hand, Tom did not resist.

            Robin was fifteen.  He clearly did not shave yet, but the first silken hairs were appearing on his chin.  He was classically beautiful, from his soft velour shirt to his culottes, to his sandals.  He was a smart, sweet kid.  So why didn¹t Tom want him?

            ³It¹s a beautiful evening,² Robin said softly.

            ³Mmm,² Tom grunted.

            Robin giggled.  ³I guess I shouldn¹t talk that way to a noble stoic.²

            ³I¹m not such a noble stoic.²

            ³Do you mind me asking you a personal question?²

            ³I guess not,² Tom hedged.

            ³That guy Narcissus.  Is he . . . I mean, are the two of you . . . ²

            ³No.²  Tom told him firmly.  ³We¹re just friends.  We¹ve been best friends since second grade, that¹s all.²

            ³Good.²  Robin breathed a sigh of relief.

            ³I don¹t even know if we¹re going to be able to stay friends that much longer,² Tom added, with quiet bitterness.

            At last they reached the path that parted Robin¹s manicured front lawn.  Nervous, unsure what to do, hating every minute, Tom let himself be led by the younger boy up onto the front porch steps.  A gray moth banged softly against the porch light.

            ³Well, here we are,² Robin said, averting his eyes.

            ³Uh huh.²  Tom dropped Robin¹s hand.  He was older, he had to make some kind of move.  He stood, frozen.

            ³Thank you for a lovely evening,² Robin said primly, at last, and rather sadly.

              He must think he¹s failed somehow.  Misread signals somehow.  Tom thought of Socrates, playing with the mind of a beautiful youth like Alcibiades, lying with him on his couch all night, but never making a move.  He hated Socrates.  He did not want to be like him. 

            He leaned down and kissed Robin gently on the forehead.  ³Good night, Robin.²  He hurried down the steps, and strode down the street in the direction of his car, without looking back.

 

            Peterson was indeed amused by Tom¹s interpretation of The Symposium, when he presented it in class on Monday.  The teacher¹s wit flowed long, and the boys in the class, even Narcissus, took his encouragement, and sniggered at Tom as he defended his presentation.

            Drusilla Ingersoll was his one female teacher at the Lyceum.  He liked Ms. Ingersoll a little better than
                                                                                                                   Klass 15

 

Peterson; at least she left some room for a real class discussion in her Wimyn and Gender class.  But today she made Tom uncomfortable with her mockery of the ³Myth of Phaon,² the het male notion, dominant for centuries, that even lesbian wimyn were waiting for some big, strong man to come along and teach them about ³real² love. 

            ³It was an all-pervasive fallacy,² she said, pacing before the chalkboard.  ³With an emphasis on the Œphallus¹ part.²

            This got a laugh.  She passed out an excerpt from a ³James Bond² novel by a pre-Change writer named Ian Fleming.  They read how this Bond guy felt sure he could convert such a womyn.  Ms. Ingersoll showed clips from a ³Bond² film, and other pre-Change Hollywood movies that stereotyped gays.  Tom always got an illicit thrill out of seeing scenes from movies made before the Change.  It was strange to think of a world where heteros had been the norm: confident, calm, even respectable.  Open about their perverse relationships and practices.  A world in which people casually, thoughtlessly had procreational sex all the time -- where most children were not planned or necessarily wanted; they just ³happened.² 

            There were media fights over whether high school students were too young to be exposed to such footage.  Too impressionable.  The het worldview sounded messy and immoral
                                                                                                                          Klass 16

 

and faintly disgusting to Tom, as it was supposed to.  Grotesque, comical, intrinsically hostile and imbalanced, like penile/vaginal intercourse.  And yet, and  yet . . .

            Tom took comfort in Calculus class.  He was the opposite of his little brother; he had always been good at arithmetic and algebra, always found Math class to be the one place where he could speak up and not provoke snickers, where he could be sure that he was giving an acceptable answer.

            Science class could be that way too . . . but not this Monday.  They were still doing a unit on the Change.  And Tom was very aware that this subject upset him -- too much.

            Mr. DiFonso droned on about how the viro-toxins had altered body chemistry, genes, though some people were still born with hypothalmuses grossly oversized, no one knew why   . . . and Tom, as he often did, tuned out the soothing hum of the teacher¹s voice, and gradually lost himself in a fantasy.  What if the last tox-terror attacks had never occurred?      

What if, Down Under, they had caught the ZPG group maniacs in time, thwarted their attacks in time?  There¹d be whole

                                                                                                                        Klass 17

 

countries one could visit with primarily hetero populations.   Besides those remote tribes in New Guinea.  It would be sociologically interesting.  Just to visit.  It wasn¹t as if he would want to live there, or anything . . .

           

 

            After school he felt restless.  He felt like going down to the gym, running around the track a couple of times, taking a cold shower.  Andromeda, Narcissus¹ sister, had been in his dreams the night before, he had suddenly realized during lunch.  He had nearly dropped his sandwich.  A cold, sick feeling of nausea and fear had washed over him.  It was not the first time he had dreamed about a girl.  He hadn¹t woken up with the sheets sticky or anything.  But why the hell couldn¹t he have dreamed about Robin?  Or Mr. Tanner, the math teacher everyone else was hot for?  Why did it have to be that goddamned sweater?

            As it was, he could not go to the gym; on Mondays he had his part-time job at the library.  Ms. Myerson seemed glad to see him, and she put him to work fixing a glitch in the computer that made it freeze up when people read on-line magazines.  After an hour or so of this, and of re-ordering several Baldwin and Genet bound books some creep had stolen, he was free to go down to the basement and sort through the archives.  None of the librarians ever took much notice of what he did down there, though he always half-feared Myerson would pop her head in when he was watching some illicit old tape, or ask about what he catalogued down there.

            No one had mentioned it to him so far, though, and Tom half-suspected they knew.  ³Knew² what?  That he liked watching pre-Change tapes a lot?  Felt curious about history?

            Today he didn¹t go for anything too steamy.  He went for 1950s sitcoms.  He loved ³Father Knows Best,² though he knew it was patriarchal and vile.  He loved ³Beaver² and ³Ozzie and Harriet.²  He especially loved the sitcom moms: June Cleaver vacuuming in pearls, Harriet Nelson baking cookies, Margaret Anderson speaking to Princess, Bud, and Kitten in that warm, melodious voice.  Yes, it was all a lie to force capable wimyn back into the home after World War II.  He didn¹t care.  He loved to look at them, to listen to them.

            He watched one episode of each show; what would it be to live in that time and ³date² in that time?  A sick fantasy -- because the world before the Change had been nothing like these shows!  He had read history books about what it was really like when people without enough money or maturity or inclination for parenting conceived and bore children . . .

            The fathers ran away, or beat on their families, or molested them.  The mothers were trapped at home, or left the kids alone without adequate daycare.  The hets would have huge families, and kids grew up damaged and dangerous because they hadn¹t been wanted or planned.  The world was obscenely overpopulated, polluted, violent, cruel, without a fair distribution of money; the tox-terror that brought the Change had, fittingly, grown out of the insane contradictions of that savage era.  And then Civilization rose, like the Phoenix, out of its ashes.

            Yes -- Tom understood het sickness, and the threat it posed to families, and to planet Earth.  So, why was that sickness inside of him?  He felt it there, in the pit of his stomach.  He would cut it out if he could, castrate himself, bathe himself in acid if it would render him pure and normal!  What if Leo and Marvin found out he was a throwback?  Or Patrick?  How could he look them in the eye?  What if his mothers found out?

            Tom switched off the archive viewer, shut his eyes.  He sometimes wondered if he would have these perverse het

                                                                                                                Klass 18

 

feelings if his mothers had raised him.   He saw Betsy, his bio-Mom, and her partner, Clytemnestra, a few times every year.  Betsy wasn¹t really the maternal type; he suspected she had just had him for the money Leo and Marvin were offering.  She was kind of stern and grim, in severe suits and round, shapeless boots, her hair shorn and moussed-up so it stood stiff and flat as a board.  Clytemnestra was gentler, a bit more motherly -- but her concern was more with her bio-son, Patrick, though she tried to hide it.  Tom had felt closer to her before Patrick was conceived.

            There was something in these vanilla, dishonest, black Œn white pre-Change shows that he yearned for -- something that none of his parents had really been able to give him.

            He pushed off from the wall in his swivel chair, as if he were kicking away from the wall in a pool -- and nearly crashed into the table across the room.  He cleaned up the space and headed upstairs.  His shift was over.  He said goodbye to the librarians, and charged out the door -- and ran headlong into Andromeda Winslow.

                                                                                                                         Klass 19

 

            By the gods, there she was!  A few images from his dream flashed through his mind, and he blushed to the roots of his hair.  Then he bent down, to help her pick up the books he had knocked out of her hands.

            ³Sorry,² he mumbled.

            ³It¹s okay.²

            ³You sure have a lot of bound books.²

            ³I get sick of reading on-screen --²

            ³Yeah, me too,² he told her.

            Now the books were all stacked, once more in her arms.  She would probably leave -- but she didn¹t.  ³You work here, right?²

            ³Um, yeah.  A couple times a week.²

            ³That¹s great.²  She smiled and nodded.

            Tom took the leap.  ³You walking home?² he asked, as casually as he could.

            ³Well, yeah.  I guess.²

            ³Great.  I¹m headed that way too.  Do you want help carrying -- ²

            ³No.  It¹s cool.²

                                                                                                               Klass 20

 

            They strode down the library steps together, side by side.  A girl in the parking lot waved at Andromeda, as she got into a car with her moms.

            ³Bye, Andromeda!²

            ³Bye, Artemis.²

            Tom felt a flash of jealousy.  He hoped this girl was a school friend, and nothing more.  So, was he in competition with this Artemis?  Did he really think the poised, beautiful girl at his side would want anything a weird, alien creature like him could give her?  The myth of Phaon.  What would Ms. Ingersoll think if she could see him now?

            ³It¹s so hot out,² Andromeda said.  ³I like it.²

            ³Yeah, it¹s great.²

            There was a summery breeze in the air that made Tom feel happy, in spite of himself.

            ³It¹s nice to just have sandals on, instead of shoes.²

            ³Yeah.²

            He stole a glance at her pert, shapely, female feet, in their hand-tooled leather sandals.  They went well with her toga-like navy-blue school uniform.  During the winter the girls at the academy looked stupid, in knee-socks and saddle shoes with their uniforms.  But sandals suited the dress, and showed off her legs . . .

            What is wrong with me?  What if someone sees me looking at her?  He glanced uneasily down the tree-shaded street.  Het couples could be attacked at any moment, in towns or cities, by gangs of guys, sometimes with clubs.  But we are not a het couple!  Are we?  Are we?

            ³So, don¹t let my brother get to you,² Andromeda was saying.  ³You both used to be real jerks -- but you seem to be growing out of it.  I think Narcissus may be going backwards, as far as all that¹s concerned.²

            ³Well, he used to want to play at being Achilles all the time.  And now he¹s hot for him.  That¹s progress, isn¹t it?²

            ³I guess,² she said, with such bitterness and derision in her voice, that Tom¹s heart gave a leap of hope.  Could

she maybe like Tom too?  But what were they doing?  Why were his hands perspiring?

            He thought of pretexts he could give anyone who might question them.  ³We¹re just friends.²  It rang hollow.  ³She¹s my sister.  We have different bio-moms and dads.²  No one would buy it, they would see the guilt and sickness in his face, they would kill them both . . .

            ³So, how do you like the Lyceum?² she asked.

                                                                                                                 Klass 21

 

            ³It¹s okay.²  They took a few more steps, their sandals slapping the sidewalk, side by side.  ³How do you like the Academy?²

            ³It¹s okay.  It¹s kind of lame.²

            She was smarter than Narcissus, Tom realized suddenly.  More interesting, more interesting to him.  Narcissus, like his namesake in the myth, was pretty self-involved.  Maybe Tom had known this for a long time.  Maybe he had stayed friends with Narcissus, in recent months, just Œcause he liked being in the house with his moms and his sister . . .

            ³Yeah, school can be pretty lame,² he said.

            ³I can¹t wait for college.²

            She said it with such ferocity, this girl one grade behind him, that again, he felt a joyous leaping in his heart.  He felt the same way -- that if he could just get through high school, without examining the way he was different too closely, if he could just survive these

suffocating years . . . ³Where do you want to end up, eventually?² he asked her.  ³You gonna move back here?²

            She snorted, and shook her head.  ³Merciful Minerva!  No way.  I¹m going to end up in the City.²

                                                                                                                        Klass 22

 

            The City.  Again, was she speaking to him in code?  Did she mean: move to the City, live in a het ghetto, someplace where I could actually have kids the old-fashioned, messy breeder way, and the Feds won¹t take them away and sterilize me?  Or did she simply mean: the City, where she could get a good job, meet sophisticated wimyn and live the glamorous lipstick life?

            ³That¹s cool,² he said.

            ³How Œbout you?²

            ³Oh, I dunno.²

            They were nearing her house.  As he had willed himself to kiss Robin goodnight, he now willed himself not to kiss Andromeda.  Not to get too close.

            ³So.  Is Narcissus around?² he asked.

            ³Naah.  He¹s out with Mark and Leander.²

            ³Oh.²

            Mark and Leander were leather clones, a year out of school, who got along well with Narcissus, but barely tolerated Tom.     

            ³You know, you¹re a pretty good guy,² Andromeda said gruffly, in a strange voice.  ³I wish my bro had more friends like you.²

                                                                                                              Klass 23

 

            His heart skipped.  He swallowed.  ³Well, thank you, Andromeda --²

            ³Call me Andi.²

            ³Thanks, Andi --²  Before he knew he had done it, he had wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it for her to shake, a sheepish smile on his face.  With an ironic expression, impossible to read, she shifted all her books into the crook of one arm, took his hand and shook it firmly.  An electric thrill ran through him.

            ³So long,² she said, and disappeared into the house.

 

 

 

            It was after midnight.  Tom got out of bed, and opened his door.  He could hear the sound machine playing the roll of slowly crashing waves in little Patrick¹s room.  During the machine¹s lulls, he heard the murmur of the TV, and the sound of his dads softly talking downstairs.  He pictured in his mind how they looked: each with a beer in his hand, Marvin with his head resting on Leo¹s shoulder.  That was tranquility, and ease, and the goodness of grown-up life.  That was marriage.  Why couldn¹t Tom want that for himself?

                                                                                                                Klass 24

 

            Some people said if you let kids read the old books, watch old movies, it might turn them hetero.  What were the odds?  When everything told him to want what his dads had?  When he raged against himself every day, tried to watch the sitcoms, listen to the music, have crushes on the movie stars, tried to rewire himself, to pass, with every beat of his heart . . . except when Andromeda made it skip.

            Tom wandered into the bathroom, and turned on the light.  There was stubble on his cheek, a bony bulge in his neck where his adam¹s apple had recently become prominent, and brownish rings under his eyes.  He was cracking up.  He would kill himself.  He would live with Andromeda in the City, in a filthy, unnatural union, and they would have kids who the State would try to take from them, who would be teased in school as freaks, taunted for being ³unplanned accidents,² no matter how planned and wanted and loved they were . . .

            He would run away and join the Foreign Legion.  He had read a pre-Change novel about that.  Beau Geste.  But the Army didn¹t want heteros either -- didn¹t want them complicating combat-ready units by getting each other pregnant and chasing after normal men and wimyn . . . there

                                                                                                                        Klass 25

 

was no real place for a het in this world.  In the jungles of New Guinea.  In a cameo on a sitcom -- some clueless womyn chasing Bob, since his relationship with Jim was open, or

hysterical, villainous Medea screeching at Jason and sacrificing her children on ³Achilles and Patroclus,² or some ridiculous man coming on to Lilith or Gloria when one of them wandered, by accident, into the ³wrong² bar.

            Hets prostituted each other, raped each other, had to have DNA tests to figure out who had fathered whose child.   Everyone knew that.  They reeked of male swagger, and female submission.  They were the genetic missing-links to past carnage and chaos.  They wanted ³special² laws to protect them -- to give them the same rights others had, basically, to work and get housing and keep their kids.  But their mannerisms, their revolting mixing of masculine and feminine love, the brute vulgarity they retained . . . they were dirty jokes, psycho-killers.  Freaks.

            There was a note tucked into the corner of the mirror, he noticed suddenly.  In Patrick¹s childish scrawl: ³Robin called.²  The kid had probably taken the message earlier, and forgotten to leave it for Tom until he went to bed.  Tom pulled the note out, looked at it, and dropped it into the toilet bowl.

            He stared at the scared, gaunt image in the glass, closed his tired eyes and tried the old exercise one more time.  Feel something for that strange guy playing Hector on ³Achilles and Patroclus.²  Imagine kissing him, imagine touching him.  Imagine kissing, touching Robin . . .

            But -- he felt nothing.  Numb.  He liked Andromeda.  At the thought of touching her, at the memory of her hand, his skin tingled, his heart leapt up . . . he was bi.

            He opened his eyes and confronted the reflection one more time.  The lips pulled back from the teeth in a grimace of recognition.

            Bi nothing.  Bi like hell.  He was a het.