Heaven

For some reason, Pelham couldn't find a way to reply Roshon's text message. As a matter of fact, he couldn't resolve whether to reply or to ignore. Satisfying though the latter might sound, he simply couldn't shun out his own best friend simply because he was, as Pelham might like to call it, staggered by his sexual orientation. Roshon might be doing the same thing - completely ignoring Pelham - but Pelham wasn't inimical like that. It wasn't fair, as far as he was concerned. Still, Roshon sent him a text message, didn't he?

Again; the issue with replying. What was he going to do or say? After days and days of not talking to one another, as though neither of them had ever been friends, what was he supposed to say back? Lashing out was out of the equation - that was what April did, anyway, a couple of years previously, when one of her close friends suddenly became surly towards her for dating Pelham. Pelham later learned that her friend had had a massive crush on him. And when April's friend was trying to talk to her again, she had simply ignored her.

That, Pelham assumed, just had to be one of those dramas girls had to tolerate. Not that he knew all about it, seeing as he himself didn't have that many lady friends. Anyway, they were fifteen at the time. Still, this issue with Roshon was more towards the credence between them. And every time he thought about it, Lucio's so-called friend - Miguel - popped into his head.

Pelham could distinctly remember seeing the name flash on the screen of Lucio's phone months ago, when Lucio had accidentally dropped his phone on the pavement after the school camp. Did Lucio ever reply? Now Pelham was peeved with himself; why hadn't he asked?

Ethics, he thought as he fished his phone out of his pocket for the fifth time that morning, unable to get himself to tap the message since. No - privacy issues.

After staring at his notifications for a minute or two, Pelham resolved that even if he wasn't going to reply now, he and Roshon would still have to interact in one way or another. After all, he was going back to school on Monday. It was simply inevitable. Who knew what awaited him on that day? Not that he feared Bryce or his cronies. He could throw a punch. Though he supposed his records wouldn't be as clean.

What did that make him?

Him; Pelham Nixon; the supposedly mellow student who normally didn't intervene in anyone's business, suddenly starting a fracas in the hallway and getting suspended for it. He could just conclude that his life had taken its toll, ranging from the kiss done twice by Lucio - and Pelham still couldn't put a label to it - to his mother who was at the verge of casting him off the family.

Pelham had just entered his house when his mother came bounding down the steps, looking in a haste as she shrugged on her pea coat. She didn't even look in his way when she reached the landing and proceeded towards the living room.

That's it, he thought irately, following his mother into the living room.

"At least acknowledge my presence," he spoke behind her, watching his mother fiddle with the strap of her purse. It was until then did he realise just how long he hadn't properly spoken to her, not since he came out. When she continued to busy herself - as if Pelham hadn't spoken at all - he said, "Mother."

At that, she glanced over her shoulder. Her lips were pressed together as she looked him up and down, as though he was a stranger in the house - a stranger to her.

"At least check that I'm alive?" he said, not knowing how to feel or what to say now that he had her attention. "Or am I really that dead to you?"

She shook her head. Pelham felt the familiar hot sting behind his eyes. He swallowed.

"It's because your son is a queer, isn't it?" he murmured. "Can't face your own son when the truth comes out, is that it? Just talk to me." Pelham could feel his heart hammering against his chest, threatening to burst his ribs. "Please."

"I don't know what to say," she eventually said, willing herself to look at Pelham in the eyes. "You ... you like males. How else am I supposed to react?"

"Maybe 'surprised' is a decent reaction,"

"You're gay, for God's sake. Am I supposed to tolerate that piece of news forever?"

Pelham's breath hitched. "I can't change who I am, Mum,"

"Not if this ... condition of yours is temporary,"

"You're saying I'm in a gay phase?" Pelham said in utter disbelief, almost laughing. "Like one of those emo phases teenagers go through? Straighten your fringe at sixteen and regret it ten years later but still listen to Welcome to the Black Parade?"

She scowled. "You're ..." she shook her head again. "It's profane. You are."

Pelham felt as though a brick had been hurled in his direction, striking him squarely in the chest, shattering every inch of him into pieces. Profane. He was profane; he was an example of blasphemy; he was wrong. And he'd been aware of that from the time he was in denial. Wrong. And now that his mother had said it right in his face, he felt confined in his own body, as though having someone saying it to him just confirmed what he had been anxious and terrified about. And that was himself.

Jody seemed to notice Pelham's numb gaze, and instead of taking her words back, she took the opportunity to gather her stuff and headed out of the living room. Pelham was left to stand there, not thinking much but thinking of everything at the same time.

And it hurt.

His father appeared around the doorway minutes after Pelham heard the car outside head off, carrying a toolbox in one hand and a doorknob in the other, while a ragged towel was draped over one of his shoulders. He paused at the sight of Pelham standing rooted on the spot in the middle of the living room.

"Everything all right, Pelham?" he asked tentatively.

"Everything," Pelham said, furrowing his eyebrows while doing so, "is supposed to be the way it is."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Everything is supposed to not be in order," he said. "And it's supposed to be like that; no order."

"You think so?" There was no demur in his father's tone, like how that sentence was usually brought about. There was just mild curiosity.

"I know so,"

"Where'd your mother go?"

"Probably putting up posters bearing my face in case anyone wants to adopt me or something," he said at a poor attempt of a joke.

"Don't say that,"

"Why not? Mum hates me,"

"Has she said that?"

"I don't know, Dad. She must've posted it on her MySpace account since nobody uses it anymore,"

"Pelham,"

"What, Dad?"

His father shifted from one foot to another. The big man approached Pelham and rested two firm hands on Pelham's shoulders. Pelham had thought that they were of the same height, but now that they were standing in a such close proximity, he noticed how he had shot up a few centimetres over the past few months that he could see the top of his father's head. When was he ever going to stop growing?

"Just hang in there. I love you, son, you understand? I'm not going to let you end up like those guys on the news. They didn't deserve it as well. Not anyone. In one way or another."

Of course, Pelham just had to break and cry right there on the spot. His father pulled him into a tight paternal embrace, causing Pelham to feel small and beyond vulnerable. Neither of them said anything. Pelham didn't expect his father to fully understand the dilemma he was currently in. But this gesture of paternal affection was enough.

*

Surprisingly enough, when Pelham entered the school hallway on Monday, everyone acted habitually. At least, that was what he would like to assume. There were, of course, a handful of students - most of whom were from the lower-secondary level - who steered clear of him, as though they feared that he might begin lashing out again. Either they'd seen him fight, or news simply spread like wildfire. But there were also some of his classmates who greeted him, as though he had never been suspended for starting a brawl.

When he turned around a corner to head for the stairs, he nearly tried to circumvent by stealthily turning on his heels. But it was too late, for his eyes were already locked on Bryce - who had his cronies tailing in his wake. Chins up, he thought, forcing himself to remain walking in a steady stance. The last time he punched Bryce, he had been full of adrenaline. Now he was only full of misery.

Fortunately enough, none of them paid him any attention when they passed him. Though, one of them did purposely hit Pelham's shoulder with his heavy satchel bag, causing his own backpack to slide off his shoulders, tugging down his blazer with its weight.

"My bad," he commented with a sneer when he saw Pelham wince. "Need me to kiss your wound?"

Pelham shrugged his blazer and backpack over his shoulders. "Sod off,"

"What did you say?"

"Pick your ears, unless you only apprehend imprecations,"

"Hey, now," Bryce came into view, his towering frame looming over Pelham. "No need for another round, do we?"

"What if I feel like going for another round?" Pelham said, not knowing where the anger was coming from, or to whom it was exactly directed.

"Love being suspended?"

"Been a bliss. I'm sure you're familiar with it,"

A flash of fury crossed Bryce's eyes, but before any of them could make a move, April appeared between them. She looked, if any, relatively narked.

"Hello, April. Whose side are you on?" Bryce leered.

"S'long as you're not in the equation, Pearson," she said. "And you." she rounded on Pelham. "That's enough."

April grabbed Pelham by his wrist and hauled him in her wake, away from the cronies, who stood sneering behind them. What was Pelham thinking? Nothing was going to shake them, especially not him who only had his way around with his seemingly interminable list of vocabularies. Perhaps he should've struck them with mathematical problems - at least that should drive them to insanity.

"Why can't you remain on your good side?" April said once they were upstairs.

"He started it,"

"Yeah, and he'd probably have left you alone if you hadn't punched Bryce in the first place!" she said, clearly hacked off. "Damn it, Pelham. Those guys have never messed around with you, and you just had to step into their shoes."

"Yeah, probably none of these would have happened if I hadn't come out in the first place. Should've kept myself quiet, huh? Let the lies wrap around us,"

April's expression grew soft, and Pelham simply let the words linger in the air between them. It was both his and not his fault. Everything is supposed to be not in order.

"I'm sorry," April said eventually, sounding genuine.

"Not your fault,"

"I don't care whose fault it is. Look, just ..." she took a deep breath and exhaled. "Try to get yourself right in the head, okay?"

"Sure,"

April's eyes flickered briefly over Pelham's shoulders, and she pressed her lips together. Giving his shoulder a light squeeze, she said, "I think your buddy's waiting for you."

With a closed smile, she walked away. Pelham glanced over his shoulder and, to his astonishment, saw Roshon leaning against the lockers. His eyes were locked on Pelham, and there was a silent exchange there. Something that sounded almost like-

The bell rang, indicating the start of the school period. Almost at once, Roshon pushed himself off the lockers and headed for the other way. Frustrating though it might be, Pelham let it slip away for the time being.

Even in Chemistry just before lunch, Roshon didn't bother acknowledging Pelham's presence; sitting at the far end of the laboratory with the boy whose name Pelham still had trouble remembering (Shane? Shawn? he thought). There was something and nothing at the same time, like trying to catch hold of a shadow; it was there, but it was intangible.

Of course, during lunch, Pelham couldn't help but corner Roshon before either of them entered the cafeteria. "Spit it out, will you?" he began. "Not that I expect an apology. But I got your text. And that was only it. Whatever it is, just bloody spill it. I've grown sick of people hiding." Pelham hadn't realised just how much weight there was on the last sentence. The truth was simply pressing down on him.

"Hark who's talking," Roshon said without a trace of emotion in his voice.

"What do you want?"

Roshon shrugged. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing to do with you, anyway."

"Fat lot of good that does, don't you think?" said Pelham, resisting the urge to take out his phone and shoving the text right in front of Roshon's face.

"Changed much, have you?"

"Yeah, and you're a bloody git,"

Roshon crossed his arms over his chest, partly in challenge and in self-defence. His mouth opened for a comeback, but it seemed that Roshon was recalling the last time words streamed out of his mouth in front of Pelham. They were tactless. And the consequences hadn't exactly been desirable. Pelham was a different person entirely once his emotions detonated. Who knew the charming, gay Maths geek could pack a punch?

"Have fun with your new boyfriend," Roshon said eventually, averting his gaze to somewhere behind Pelham.

Pelham was too numb to retaliate, let alone hold Roshon back as the boy strode off in the other direction. When he glanced over his shoulder, Lucio was tentatively approaching him, his eyes trained on Roshon's back with a small furrow of his thick, neat charcoal eyebrows.

"You weren't trying to start another fight, were you?" he said.

For some reason, the question sounded droll that Pelham chuckled. "So everyone thinks I'm a savage now?"

"More like a thug,"

Pelham pinked. "Hey," he said slowly. "Can I ask you something about ... you know, Miguel?"

Lucio shrugged. "What about him?"

"Have you guys talked recently?"

"Sure."

"Are you guys friendly?"

"Wouldn't exactly call it 'friendly', but at least we're on good terms," Lucio answered. His gaze steadied on Pelham. Blue, Pelham thought, finally making out the colour of the boy's eyes. They're blue. "Is this about Roshon?"

Without saying a word, Pelham took Lucio outside, where there were fewer students. He leaned against a tree trunk, closing his eyes with a soft sigh. He simply told Lucio everything; from April's inebriated state and her confessions to Roshon's text and to his mother indicating that he was a profane son. Of course, he just had to leave the part where April hinted about Pelham's seemingly deep infatuation towards Lucio. He was still uncomfortable about the topic - especially not when he and Lucio had kissed. Twice.

By the time he was done, Pelham was sitting on the grass, plucking at them. Lucio hunkered down beside him, before resolving to sit with his legs crossed right in front of him. Pelham had his head ducked, his eyes trained on Lucio's shoes, feeling dazed. The boy had to duck his head lower to catch Pelham's gaze. When it was clear that Pelham wasn't going to say anything, Lucio touched Pelham's fingers - slow and tender - and fiddled with them. Pelham didn't object.

"Just hang in there, Pel," said Lucio, finally clasping Pelham's hand with a reassuring squeeze.

"People keep saying that,"

"Look at me,"

Pelham did. And his breath hitched at their close proximity. Beautiful, he thought.

"I'm right here. And I'll be here,"

This, Pelham thought, was the boy who had it worse than him. Whatever happened back in Lucio's home had shaped him into this resilient, seemingly indestructible person. The boy who Pelham found bruised in the toilet stall, not because he had been beaten up and left alone, but because he had been fighting off and wearing himself out in the process.

So when Lucio wrapped his other hand around Pelham's hand and gave another squeeze, Pelham could simply hold on to it.