Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“…and you’d like the dressing on the side?” the waiter confirmed.
“Yes, please.” Asher nodded, then turned to me. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, that’s fine,” I said.
The waiter grinned. “You got it.”
When we were alone again, I veered our conversation back to his mom.
“Do you want me to build the bookshelf for her?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that. Just a simple lesson in how to operate basic tools is more than sufficient. If we have to spend some time together, we might as well do something useful.”
“Oh? So, we’re going to be spending time together,” I repeated, raising my brows.
“Yes. According to my mother, who I assure you is a well-respected psychologist and family therapist—your issue might be tackled in three parts.” He unzipped the computer bag on the booth beside him, pulled out a binder, and slid it in front of me. “Here is your script.”
“My script?”
“Yes. Or you can call it a guidebook or idealogue if you’d prefer. It’s color-coded and divided into three sections. I’ve included a table of contents and a list of helpful resources ranging from local LGBTQ centers to a few blogs I enjoy. Anywho…” Asher leaned in and flipped the blue binder open to section one. “Mom suggested that you begin by spending time with a queer ally. I’m the obvious choice. Unless you have anyone else in mind?”
“No, you’re it.” I turned page after page in wonder. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” He waved dismissively. “I do it all the time.”
“You’re a compulsive binder-maker?”
“Actually, yes, I am. My brain moves a bit too fast for me to properly explain things sometimes. A mutual reference guide is helpful. I make binders for everything. House rules, cleaning schedules, dinner club menus. You must do the same thing to stay organized for teaching, right?”
“Yes and no. Almost everything is online.”
“I know. Too bad, really. I think, tangibly holding guidelines makes them feel more official.” Asher inclined his head and sipped his wine, continuing earnestly. “Obviously, this isn’t official, but I hope it’s helpful. Step one, become queer-comfortable. Then you move on to part two. The idea is to engage in queer-leaning conversations to get a feel for who you can trust and maybe come out to one or two people. Part three, come out on a broader scale. See the footnotes for helpful coming-out references. There are a few clever ideas. You could make a cake, write a clever blog piece, do a video.”
I curled my lips in distaste. “Really? Did you come out with a cake?”
“Oh, no. My mom told me I was gay before I figured it out. She was very gentle about it. I was around ten years old and going through an awkward sporty faze. I didn’t care for sports at all, but my peers did. I thought immersing myself might help me relate to them better, so I asked to be enrolled in soccer.” He stared into space for a moment as if watching his younger self in his mind.
“How’d it go?”
“Not great,” he admitted. “The polyester-blend uniform chafed my skin, and the color was all wrong. And kicking the ball seemed so counterproductive when someone was always pushing it back my way. I gave up and sat on the field, picking flowers until it was over.”
I snickered. “I can see it now.”
Asher grinned. “Needless to say, my teammates didn’t like my lack of enthusiasm. Totally understandable. However, my mom wasn’t happy when she overheard them call me names…like gay, fag, and other unimaginative monikers.”
“What did she do?”
“She’s a therapist, and feelings are big with her. She asked how I felt about everything from the uniform to the stubborn grass stains on my shoelaces. But then she told me that no one was allowed to call me names. She said I might be gay and if so, that was more than okay. She made it clear, however, that she didn’t like the idea of anyone trying to turn my gifts into a weakness.” He twisted the stem of the wineglass between his fingers and flashed a lopsided grin. “She also suggested that I might excel at a different hobby, so I joined the chess team instead.”
“Your mom sounds cool.”
“She is. And cooler still…she let the coach have it for not sticking up for me.”
“Good. That’s exactly what I should have done when I noticed there was something happening between Carly and that other girl at the scrimmage last week.”
“You can’t fight battles you don’t know about, Blake.”
“True.” I patted the binder, then squinted at the small label affixed to the right-hand corner. “J Script? What does this mean?”
I thought I detected a faint pinkish tinge to his cheeks.
“Uh, well. J could be for jock, Jake, or your last name…Johnston, correct? You have a lot of Js attached to your aura, so it was the first thing that came to mind.”