Date: Fri, 7 Oct 2016 01:43:23 -0700
From: Kid Boise <kidboise@gmail.com>
Subject: Sun Over Las Sombras - part 2

This story is a work of fiction involving two young men as they meet and
form a relationship. This is part 2 of the second story I have posted on
Nifty. I'm planning for the complete story to comprise 10 parts of around
equal length.

Email me at kidboise@gmail.com with comments, questions and/or criticisms
:) I always reply to readers, and of course, will consider your plot
ideas. Also let me know if you'd like me to check out your work. Hearing
from you is a great source of inspiration and motivation to continue
writing.

ALSO! Please support Nifty and everyone's ability to read these stories for
free by donating here:
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Thanks,
Kid Boise

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sun Over Las Sombras - part 2
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In one second, Miguel's eyes bore into me like those of a shark, and in the
next, they flit around at passersby, whom I cannot see, but only feel when
they move close behind me. He is analyzing them, taking notes, and this
behavior is constant for him. He knows them all by name, I am sure, and
most of them, I am also sure, consider him as their personal friend. No one
would be capable of truly returning this sentiment to so many, but he is
very good at faking it. Because of this, I had always believed on some
level that he would be okay, but even so, it was impossible during that
first year not to cry at night from worry.

Back before all of that, when he was just twenty years old, Miguel rented a
small sunlight-flooded apartment several blocks from the warehouse. Marco
had arranged everything, had even allowed him to keep a cat named Bagel,
whose owner never came to claim him, even after Miguel had repeatedly
called and made arrangements. Miguel insists that after everything, after
wading neck-deep through all of that disgusting muck and mire, he liked
where he had landed. Four nights per week in the warehouse, an occasional
team meeting out in the desert? It wasn't an unpleasant life, nor was it
particularly lonely.

Sometimes Miguel grows bored with me. I would never waste time flattering
myself that this isn't the case. Yes, he'll say, yes, of course that's how
it was. Obviously. Or he'll tell me that I shouldn't be asking, for
example, about the weather that day. Embellish that shit. Make it rain,
make it sunny and hot as hell--whatever tells the fucking story, right? I
always insist that he please try to remember, and he just grins and rolls
his eyes.

Today, I round the last corner, trailing my fingers along the thick white
rubbery paint masking a cinderblock wall. He is already seated at the
table. He lights up when he sees that I have arrived.

I sit down and say, "I heard you are speaking with your mother
again. That's great news."

"My mother is speaking with me again," says Miguel. "I have always left
that door open."

I fold my hands on the table between us. "I'm sorry, that's what I meant to
say. Are you happy about it?"

"There's a lot of shit left to work through. Some of it we might never
resolve. But yes, I am happy about it."

---

Eddie's promotion to general camp leader had been premature, a bizarre
fluke, and was hardly celebrated by anyone due to the circumstances--least
of all by Eddie. Indeed, it was likely that each worker involved with the
desert encampment had been quietly affected, each in his own way. As for
Miguel, he had cried unexpectedly one night after receiving a delivery,
couched alone in his tiny office at the back of the warehouse, behind the
stacks, one week after the fact.

The death of Marco (big boss) brought about many changes, not insignificant
among them being that Eddie (boss man) no longer had time to do the runs
himself. Whatever was thought of Whitey and Sid and the others, none had
been deemed appropriate as a replacement driver, so it was around that time
that the kid started coming around, accompanying Eddie as a
rookie-in-training. Though it would be a long time before their walls came
down, Miguel remembered Gabe's entrance as a curiously bright spot in a
dark time. His face was friendly and comforting, and he was even younger
than Miguel himself, which had been a surprise. There had been something
extra, though, something specifically familiar about his presence. At the
time, Miguel could not have imagined what it was.

As for that first night, though: What day had it been--a Thursday? Three
weeks ago, then. Why did that specific night, more than a year after they
met, feel like the "first" of all nights? Miguel had broken his silence,
which had all along proven basically pointless (amusing as it had been to
say so little for so long). Miguel liked to think it made him seem
mysterious, but this guy, Gabe, hadn't responded with any noticeable
intrigue, so it had been on that night that the veil was dropped
completely.

What he remembered most vividly from it was his discovery of Gabe's
innocence. It left him stunned. He could admit that. He wasn't sure which
was more incredible: that over an entire year on the job, the kid's
curiosity never got the better of him (after all, not every package was
sealed), or that he had not otherwise found out by accident.

It was crazy, because at first, Miguel had thought maybe Gabe was being
clever in his remarks, sneaking around in conversation, trying to figure it
out--what the fuck he was moving. But this kid was the real thing. He
actually didn't want to know, if you could fucking believe it.

On the second night, Miguel had once again fished Gabe from the car; on the
third, Gabe had gotten out on his own, mumbling something about needing to
stretch his legs. His face was attractive--there had been no question of
that, and he had a lanky athleticism about him. But he was also very slim,
with a small build, which did not normally appeal to Miguel. (Not that it
mattered anyway, as it was unlikely Gabe was the sort who would return his
interest.)

Gabe struck him as one of the most serious people he had ever
encountered. The kid had reacted to basic conversation, even to small-talk
as if it were risky behavior. What the fuck was he so worried about? This
wasn't exactly complicated work. There was room for errors here and
there. Maybe Gabe's duties could have been viewed as more hazardous than
Miguel's, but that was up for debate. Neither of them dealt with any of the
risks met by their superiors, and it was likely they never would--at least
Miguel was content (and probably bound) to stay where he was. Did this kid
have some grand ladder-climbing scheme? It wasn't like Eddie was going
anywhere, not for a long time.

Also on that third night, he saw Gabe smile for the first time. There had
been a couple of forced expressions before that point, but they weren't the
same: This had been a beautiful, broad kind of thing that vanished
immediately and would not return for some time. Gabe, Miguel could tell,
carried real anguish with him, as formidable as it was forthright. He was
not sulky. It did not appear to be a deliberate attitude, nor a
front. Miguel tried as hard as he could to remember what he had done or
said to make Gabe smile on that third night, but he couldn't do it.

Then, on the fourth night, after performing hundreds of runs without fail,
Gabe was gone. It had instead been Eddie and his recently-acquired, hulking
black Navigator rolling up through the darkness. Eddie, who had not made a
delivery in over a year. In fact, Miguel had become so accustomed to Gabe's
appearances in the dusty, squat red sedan with the pop-up headlights that,
at first, an anxious pang had leapt through him. But then he had recognized
it. Of course it was Eddie--who the fuck else would it be?

Eddie had waited, looking solemn behind the wheel, as Miguel raised the
garage door a little higher than usual. Once he had backed in and Miguel
had finished securing the place, Eddie got out and they met behind the
car. Eddie's presence was an overriding one in a number of ways, and Miguel
remembered standing back, feeling odd and on edge as his duties were
executed for him. The tailgate rose with a quick hiss of the support
struts.

"Bad news. It's all heroin," Eddie had muttered. "Do you want help?"

Miguel had assumed Eddie would explain the situation as a matter of course,
but clearly he had been wrong. "Where's Gabe?"

"Gabe's mom died, so I am making the delivery in his place." He was always
keen on keeping things vague, so the spare nature of his response had come
as no surprise to Miguel, who's mind suddenly buzzed with a million
follow-up questions.

"That's terrible. I'm sorry to hear that." He paused and then confirmed,
"No, I don't need help."

Eddie, looking strange and distraught, had seemed content to wait beside
the car.

Heroin was miserably heavy, but Miguel had hardly noticed as he lifted the
packages one by one and organized them on fresh pallets. He had wondered
how long it would be before Gabe returned to his runs. Would he ever come
back? Maybe his mom had been sick with something. Maybe it had not been an
unexpected passing. Miguel wanted answers, but he didn't feel comfortable
asking Eddie.

"You have some exposed product on the back wall. I can see a little bit
under the tarp. Do your best to keep it all covered."

Miguel had looked up and realized, alarmed, that Eddie was crying. His
cheeks were wet and glistening in the fluorescent lights. His massive frame
had slumped entirely against the side of the car. "Okay," Miguel had said,
quickly looking away. "I'll take care of it." It hadn't been until he was
nearly finished emptying the cargo from the SUV, sweating, rushing around,
that he had worked up nerve to ask. "Eddie, is everything okay?"

Eddie no longer wept, but he paused so long before answering that Miguel
had decided he wasn't going to. Finally he said, in his low, flat voice,
"Yes, everything is fine."

The next night, Eddie had recovered somewhat. He also brought some good
news with him. "Gabe will be back in two weeks."

It had shocked Miguel that Gabe would return to work so quickly, but he had
no intention of questioning the decision. Would Gabe require comforting?
Was Miguel capable of offering anything truly helpful in this regard?
Circumstances like this, attached to no exact protocol or etiquette, made
Miguel feel anxious, but also very eager. Surely he could offer a shoulder
to Gabe, this quiet boy who, it seemed likely, had few other people to turn
to. He could be that kind of person. He felt certain of this.

---

Miguel's thirteenth birthday approached on the chilly wind of that summer
season in San Justo. His undeniable charm had crystalized already by that
point, but then, had it not existed from the day of his birth? An upright
and attractive boy, though admittedly of a farmer's complexion, like his
father, Miguel grew noticeably taller by the month, his voiced reluctantly
adhering to a new gravely depth, still cracking on the hour. He was
intensely likable, not just as the bishop's youngest offspring and only
son, but through an undetectable ability to mirror and flatter others in
conversation. Miguel himself would not become aware of this skill, nor his
daily practice of it, until years later.

And so the people of his small, molecularly-bonded ward within the city of
San Justo, itself just a belt loop through which Greater Buenos Aires
wound, were faced with a dilemma as they donned their Fila jackets in June
of 1991. Just a few weeks earlier, during the bishop's annual barbecue,
Miguel had committed a sudden and violent deviation.

Though it was unthinkable during the havoc of the years that followed,
Miguel would one day smile at the memory of those few wily minutes, and
shed a happy tear or two: A rusting, three-bladed ceiling fan wobbled above
the twin bed in his attic bedroom, where a sky-blue ceiling dove in
accordance with the roofline to meet stunted bookshelves built into the
walls. His model planes (fifteen in total) hung from wool string at various
altitudes all around the room, endlessly twirling, un-twirling. Sebastian,
the son of his father's favorite counselor and second-in-command, stood
facing him, near the door to the stairs, which was firmly shut. Sebastian
was a year older and was caught by chance at exactly the same awkward,
in-between height. They had been close for most of their lives, and in
their adolescence, closer still--enough to conduct experimental, mutually
pleasurable activities which they kept secret.

"When a friend leaves forever, like you are, is it supposed to hurt like
this?"

"We are more than friends," Miguel had told him. "Sometimes I think...if I
were a girl," he paused to keep himself from stammering, "you could kiss
me--you know, at a time like this--and that would make things a little
easier."

"But I don't want you to be a girl. I want to kiss you as a boy."

Miguel's insides rang out both in excitement and confusion as Sebastian
stepped forward and did so. He allowed it, but after a few seconds, a
strange fear bubbled inside him and he stepped back.

"Sorry," he told Sebastian. "I'm ready. Let's go again."

"Yes," agreed Sebastian, "but this time on the windowsill, where we sit at
night when we're too hot to sleep."

"Are you insane?" Miguel hissed. "Everyone's in the yard. They'll see
us. Even my mother has left the kitchen to bring the dishes out. I can hear
her voice."

"It's just a funny thing to do. They'll laugh at us. Then it will be over,
and will have meant something only to us. In case we never see each other
again, we can at least have this one crazy memory."

It was crazy--that was certain--but maybe the tension from all that
people-pleasing, to which Miguel was so subconsciously predisposed, had
released itself at once. Sebastian's typically cockeyed, shortsighted ruse
(not unlike the ruses of many fourteen-year-olds) was immediately one of
the best Miguel had ever heard. In fact it was Sebastian who was towed to
the window, Sebastian who was urged to hurry and climb halfway out onto it.

"Hey, up here!" Was it Sebastian or Miguel who shouted this down to the
innocent families on the lawn? By that point, it didn't matter. They
embraced there in one another's gangly limbs, sweaty from the hot bedroom,
lips parting to make way for tongues.

The reaction was quick and audible. When a local rollercoaster called
Aconcagua first ka-thunked into motion, its centipede of anxious riders
would gasp and murmur in the same manner as the guests below. For one full
second, Miguel's mouth smiled against Sebastian's at the thrill of it
all. Then the shouts, guttural, and mostly from the men in attendance,
began shrieking up like angry warplanes from the yard. The two boys fell
away from each other, backs against opposing frames of the
window. Something was wrong.

The sounds of shoed feet (never allowed in the house) came thundering up
from the first floor stairwell, then the second. It was his father, and the
counselor close behind him, the soles of their boots threatening to punch
through each wooden step as they rose through the house.

This was the part Miguel could not recall very well. Perhaps the door had
been locked, he reasoned, because the two men--their fathers--had busted
clear through its stop in a dramatic bid to reach them. It was all very
dramatic. The men were aggressive, the counselor shoving his son with such
force toward the doorway that the boy tripped over a piece of splintered
wood and nearly tumbled into the stairwell. The bishop pressed his own son,
massive hands acting as vices against Miguel's small chest, into the back
wall. A model plane fell to the floor. Did the two boys' eyes meet in a
final, mournful flash before they were parted? No. Miguel remembered
nothing of Sebastian's face in that moment, but heard a handful of young,
exasperated pleas descend toward the main floor. This event marked an
absolute end to the boys' interaction.

Perhaps, even taking into account the severity of the act, it was too harsh
a punishment for lifetime friends. But never mind that; the bishop's plans
to relocate to a ward in that massive American city had been solidified
long before this. How much more time would the boys have had together,
anyway? Six weeks was all. And now, less than a month.

It was something they all should have seen coming--few were too proud to
admit that. Sure, Miguel was a good clean boy (no surprise there, with the
excellent bishop as his father and chief male influence). But the
counselor's third son had been flagged once or twice already from his first
year of seminary, particularly during discussion of marriage, the precious
sacrament, the unification of man and woman. How shamelessly, incessantly
Sebastian had wondered aloud to the whole class: What if the person a man
wants to marry is also a man? ...But what if it did happen? Okay, but why
would it matter? Yes, but why? Why?

Eventually, the truth had been brought to the boy's knowledge (or so it had
been thought), but it had required unusually deliberate effort. And as for
the other children in the class, the poor things, mercilessly exposed to
such adult-natured discussion? Don't dare believe it went over their heads;
on the contrary, it was because of them that news of such an affront had
spread, as they reported directly to their parents later that night over
dinner. After the parents had effectively shut their kids up, they
whispered about it to more parents, who had not yet heard.

All one could do at this point was find a silver lining around the
disturbing manifestation. For one, the warning signs could now be more
easily recognized. More exhaustive measures would be taken to bring truth
to the mind of a deluded child. And perhaps above all else, it was new
evidence that even the freshest of apples, Miguel, could spoil if rot came
too near. Let that be a warning to us all.

How unfortunate for the bishop and his wonderful family. In light of recent
events, let them continue to be a shining example. Bad things do befall
good people. And only the bishop could have bounced back from all of this
with so much grace. It is just further proof of his ability to lead our
community.

Miguel's birthday celebration occurred near the end of June, just a few
weeks before the move. All of the expected families showed up, along with
many of Miguel's friends from school; their treatment of him had not
changed at all (which was the agreed-upon etiquette, carefully decided by
the adults, drilled into the children). It wasn't, after all, Miguel's
fault. The system had failed him. Sebastian was absent, of course, along
with his mother and four siblings. Only the counselor stood there, closest
to the doorway, as they sang with warm and genuine hearts and Miguel
extinguished his thirteen candles.

That night, Miguel cried into his pillow, harder than he had in weeks. The
stupidity of his actions--or maybe just that one, single action--had fully
sunk in, and he couldn't understand what had possessed him to allow it to
happen. It wasn't Sebastian's fault. Sebastian was full of crazy ideas like
that. They were a part of him, just like his long fingers, or the tiny
streak of white hair above his left ear. It was Miguel's job to talk him
out of the wildest of his plans, and he had failed.

Would they ever have spoken again after Miguel's move to America? Beyond,
perhaps, a few watered-down letters back and forth, it was hard to say. But
it hadn't been over yet. How many more nights could they have slept in
one's bedroom or the other's, one boy's arm sneaking around the other's
torso? Miguel had ruined all of that; he had allowed something to happen
that would forever steal away those moments that could have been,
dwindling, but worth so much. And on that final day, during the last
goodbye, what would they have said to one another? What emotions would each
of them have felt, or tried to convey? Miguel couldn't guess. The
opportunity was lost, and he cried hardest of all for this.

On his family's last night in Argentina, Miguel slept on a mat in the same
corner of the bedroom where his bed had been. His window was too high to
reach from the ground outside, but still, he tortured himself with the
possibility that his best friend might appear, emerging through it by
virtue of some kind of miracle (so merciful was Heavenly Father), or at
least wave at him from far below. Miguel rose to peer out at the dim yard
four times before succumbing to his exhaustion. Of course, Sebastian never
came.

---

Gabe was due back tonight. Miguel would believe it when he saw it. He moved
quickly along an alley route from his apartment, where the fetid breath of
a grease dumpster nearly consumed him as he passed. The kid was to be
driving a different car now, a large Toyota sedan, two years old and the
color of sand. Miguel had asked Eddie if there were any other
distinguishing details, and Eddie told him that it was the kind of car you
forget you ever saw just one second later, if you ever noticed it in the
first place--exactly the car they should have been using all along.

Eddie had been ostensibly responsible for the delay in Gabe's return, which
had been postponed by one week. The kid needs more time--that had been the
determination, though Miguel couldn't be sure if Eddie had ordered it, or
if Gabe requested it.

Either way, Miguel was eager for things to return to normal. It wasn't just
the thought of seeing Gabe again; he also felt it would do Eddie some good
to reassume his regular post back at camp. Eddie had been moody--a
descriptor that Miguel was shocked could ever apply to the hulking
Vietnamese man. Some nights he acted cheery, and stranger yet, talkative,
helping Miguel move the packages while asking him evaluative questions
about his personal life; others, he would sulk around his SUV, or wait
silently in the driver's seat, massaging his temple with his index
finger. Miguel came to view his behavior as mostly volatile, especially
around ten days in, at its peak: Eddie stood frowning in an open expanse of
concrete, hands on his hips, and asked, "What the fuck are we doing here,
exactly?"

When Miguel asked him to clarify, Eddie had gestured wildly in odd
directions around the warehouse, saying, "This, this, just, all of this,"
then told Miguel never mind, to forget about it.

None of it was particularly worrying. It was just that Eddie's confidence
truly did hold all of them together. All the guys, especially the
encampment laborers, looked to Eddie for his stern reassurance and his
conviction. Probably, Miguel thought, while Eddie maintained his calm out
at the camp, the warehouse had become his emotional outlet zone (or
something of that nature). It was possible that Eddie trusted Miguel more
than the anyone else--besides his wife, of course--to field the airing of
his burdens. Miguel flattered himself that this was the case.

After a nervous smoke, propped against the concrete post at the edge of the
garage door, Miguel watched a beige car approach down the lane and pad
softly into the lot. The driver window dropped, and there was Gabe, looking
unexpectedly friendly and eager. In the dim light, Miguel noticed course
black stubble on his lip and under his chin. It hadn't always been there,
had it? Could be. The kid wasn't much of a kid, after all.

Miguel said the only thing that came to mind. "How's the new car?"

Gabe shrugged, both hands still on the wheel. "It's fine. A little boring."

Miguel went inside and raised the garage door while Gabe performed his
usual three-point-turn. Once Gabe had finished backing into the garage,
Miguel was glad to see him stand up out of the car, no groundhog scared
back in by its shadow. Miguel flipped on the lights. For the time being,
Gabe remained partially barricaded between the door and the car. A strange
new chime rang out endlessly. Miguel reached into the trunk and brought out
the first of the packages. He took another glance at Gabe and said, "It's
the cleanest thing I've ever seen you drive."

"Not for long. It's going to have a hard life." Gabe stepped out from the
gaping mouth of the car door and closed it.

Miguel continued to appraise the sedan. "Damn. Doesn't even look like it's
loaded up."

The kid nodded.

"What happened to the Honda?"

"It's my personal car now." He paused. "It belonged to my father."

Well, that was fucking strange. Anyway, come on, Miguel begged himself,
bring up something other than the stupid car. Anything. He cleared his
throat and said, "It got kind of old having Eddie around all the time. Glad
you're back."

"Eddie can be a little intense sometimes."

"You're telling me." Package still in hand, Miguel lingered on the edge of
it now: that un-talked-about event, the reason for Gabe's absence. And
somehow, Gabe seemed right there with him, preparing for the dive, so
Miguel said, "Anyway, I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry." Then he
asked in Spanish, "Were you close with your mother?"

Gabe was thoughtful for a moment. "My mother and I had a complicated
relationship."

"Is your father still around?"

Gabe's hands fidgeted, fingers drumming against the roof of the car. "No,
he is not."

"I understand," Miguel said, though this was not strictly the case. It
still wasn't clear whether Gabe's father was dead or just absent. But more
than that, the kid's mom was gone. Miguel, normally attuned to subtle
changes in other people's behavior, could not detect even the slightest
shift in Gabe's. It seemed unnatural, inhuman, not to be different after
the death of a parent, no matter their role or lack thereof, whether
beloved or loathed.

He fetched a felt-tipped marked from a workbench along the wall, marked the
package and brought it all the way to the back, where he dropped it in a
canvas bin with some others. In the coming minutes, Miguel settled
himself. Attempting to guide conversations, he had come to understand, was
like teaching tricks to the pet cats his family had once kept in
Argentina. The more you tried to influence them one way or another, the
less manageable they became.

---

Life in America posed so many novelties that Miguel could not properly
mourn the loss of Sebastian. Instead it felt like a sadness once-removed:
sadness at the frustration of being unable, in his distraction, to conjure
tears--sadness because he knew he was supposed to feel it and
couldn't. After several months' time had passed, Miguel's head became
filled with too many new experiences, and the memory of his best friend, of
that entire place he used to live, faded before it even occurred to him
that he must grasp for it.

Las Sombras was immense, even when measured against Buenos Aires, though
his new school somehow felt larger than both of them. Samuel Odin No. 2,
the largest public middle school in the city, housed a mass of kids more
various in appearance and attitude than Miguel had ever encountered,
especially in his small private school back home. Then there was the
hapless (and strangely charming) veneer of the structure itself: A stench
of burnt eraser permeated the halls, lined with firm green carpet that
turned black as squid ink down the center; walls were a hodgepodge of quick
fixes slapped over early-1960s construction.

It wasn't just that he and his new friends from church formed an
underwhelming minority; there were more than a few students who weren't
religious at all. Discussion of God, or which was the correct one to
believe in, or whether there was really one at all--it was all an endless
dialogue, a lunchroom undercurrent, reaching the occasional zenith of
sophistication one might expect of a group whose collective age was
thirteen. It was late-September when Miguel had suddenly realized (in the
lunchroom, no less), that some people did not think of "atheist" as a bad
word. In fact, they proudly pinned it to themselves. A conniving
eight-grader, chin speckled with bristly hairs, paused at the table where
Miguel sat across from his new friend Lenny, and among several other kids
from church. You guys sure like to stick together, he had sneered. His next
question boomed across the cafeteria: Don't you know there is no God? A few
of his cohorts had laughed and cheered from a nearby table.

Surprisingly, Miguel's parents, and more sparingly, his two older sisters,
continued to acknowledge the kiss (emotionlessly referred to as The Thing
That Happened) partway into the fall season. The discipline he initially
received had long ceased. Miguel's parents were intelligent folks. Maybe
they had realized that continued punishment would only perpetuate the
enigma of The Thing That Happened--as would pretending it hadn't.

Miguel's father, as one might expect, never fell from grace during this
period of casual dismissal. His mother slipped only once, when she and
Miguel stood alone in the kitchen after dinner one evening. Or maybe it
wasn't a slip, as the blur of her new life began taking shape around her,
as her wits were once again fully gathered. Miguel recalled her demeanor,
dabbing her hands against a yellow dish towel, staring down at his maturing
face (even though he had recently outgrown her), impatient but
frighteningly collected, and about to assume his knowledge of a word whose
meaning he had only recently distinguished among the slurry hurled between
students.

"My love," she begged, voice barely above a whisper and constricting at
that final syllable, "please tell me you're not really gay."

He answered her quietly but with great conviction, "Of course I'm not."

She believed him, just as he believed himself, and her concern fell
immediately into a years-long sleep.

Miguel's own concern over his sexuality remained an auxiliary one, as it
often does for young teens. Primarily he was Miguel, the good
Christian. Miguel, man of the people. Unimpeded by social anxiety except
under the most extreme of circumstances, he formed friendships more quickly
than he could keep up with them. He joined soccer, where he asserted
himself as a mostly-valuable player. His presence put people at ease, made
them feel listened-to. And so, when it came time for the associated student
body to elect a president, he was encouraged to run.

He had worried at first that a faith-based campaign to lead a decidedly
secular group of constituents would be ineffective. This was the case. So
he immediately backed away from it and began a more general approach, every
bit as honest, in which he told them all, I will figure out what it is you
want, and I will spend every waking minute reaching for it. My goal is to
get to know you, and then to serve your needs. Miguel met with both the
varsity and junior-varsity football teams. He learned to play Magic: The
Gathering during his lunch hour with the trench-coats who hung out in the
storage hall. That deep gruffness to his voice, which he had once loathed
for its gross intermittence, had now fully settled, and he laid it just as
thickly upon the Young Men's Chorus as he did the Young Women's Soccer
League. It wasn't teenage dissent, but rather Miguel's campaign principles
lifting that first cigarette to his lips after class, as he came to know
the grungy (and somewhat feared) kids who roamed the reaches of the
schoolyard. Sure, they laughed at him as he choked and coughed his way
through it, but with each new jab came another pat on the back. You're
alright, they said, you're not fucking around.

It never felt like work to Miguel, maybe because the informal aspects of
running were already part of his daily practice. People fascinated him,
especially new people, and although he remained closest with his friends
from church, their experiences were not varied enough to keep him
interested. Call it a side effect of his social inclination and his
limitless charm, or call it the hard-earned fruits of his labor: He was
ultimately elected and served an unprecedented two-term stint as official
leader of the people. Here was Miguel: prominent politician, important
church member, central midfielder and advanced-placement student. His life
occurred in millions of flashes, explicitly clear in the moment, impossible
to construe as the months tallied. Later on, he would reflect that it had
been for the best, because there had been no time left over to think about
himself.

At fifteen, Miguel entered high school, where it became clear that his
coveted title would no longer come easily. In fact it would not come at all
his first year, because Miguel was a freshman, and freshmen were barred
from running for that highest of offices, according to item 9B in Miguel's
cherished, spiral-bound copy of 70th Avenue Public High School Student
Council Code of Conduct. The first student council meeting was held under a
stained and sagging dropped ceiling at a vast round table--which was really
just two large guided reading tables shoved together, leaving a
functionless, doughnut-channeling hole in the middle. As he sat down,
Miguel noticed that the boy to his left bore photocopies of an annual
schedule, soon to be passed around. It seemed his boy was in the know, so
Miguel nudged him with his elbow, accusing item 9B with his index finger
and asked, "Why is this a rule?"

"It's just the way things have always been done." The boy adjusted his
glasses, glanced around the table and began counting the copies before him.

Miguel scoffed. "That doesn't make any sense at all." He did not mean to
sound rude, and the boy apparently hadn't taken it that way, tossing Miguel
quick smile and nod to indicate his sympathy.

Having presided over a previous student body was certainly a leg-up, but
Miguel quickly learned, through a whirlwind of cross-table introductions,
that he shared his distinction among at least three other students, also
incoming freshmen from feeder schools. They were Beatrice, Anna, and a
mumbled name Miguel could not decipher.

The boy to his left remained mostly silent and fully seated during all the
socializing, but after a few minutes, he stood, cleared his throat, and
everyone became quiet. "Right, so, I'm Daniel Lin. I'm a junior, and I was
Student Body Vice President last year. Most of you know that Nicholas, last
year's president, is preparing to start his first semester at Rutgers. He
will be missed." A few knowing glances were exchanged at this
point. "Mr. Lewis had the flu, so I'll be leading things today. Any last
words before we get started?"

Someone directly across the table from him raised their hand. "Hi Daniel
Lin, I'm Meghan Tuttle." She spoke with the cavalier lilt of someone
producing an inside joke--it was obvious they knew each other. "Will you be
running for Student Body President this year?"

Miguel felt a hand on his shoulder as Daniel Lin leaned coolly to one
side. "Of course."

Elections were to be held in less than a month. Miguel knew that his only
sensible course of action would be to get an in with Daniel Lin. After that
first meeting, Miguel met him at the door and asked how he could maximize
his involvement as a freshman. "I can tell that freshmen mostly get kicked
around here. Do they ever even hold office?"

There was that sideways smile again, full of charm, and suddenly Miguel
understood how Daniel had made it all the way to VP as just a
sophomore. "Not usually, no."

"But we're technically allowed to run, right? For everything except
president?"

Everyone else had left the room. Daniel just stood there smiling for a
moment, hands in his pockets. "Meet me here a day before next week's
meeting. Same time. We'll chat about my campaign."

Over the next six days, Miguel found it next to impossible to contain his
anticipation. He attended church services and activities on Sunday and
Wednesday, where his interest was veritably feigned--well enough, he hoped,
that his parents wouldn't notice as he ran through possibilities of the
various roles he might be asked to play. There was, of course, only one
role that would satisfy Miguel, and he felt he stood a good chance of
convincing Daniel.

70th High's bounds were theoretically finite, and the two boys' eyes met
exactly twice between classes that week. Miguel shuddered that they would
exchange only quick smiles in these moments--obviously time better spent
formulating an unbeatable stratagem, efficient and unprecedented. When the
moment finally came, after the two of them got settled under the droopy
ceiling, Daniel was candid. "I am in a good position to take top office
this year, and I'm not going to stop until I get it. How would you like to
help?"

"I would like to be your running mate."

Daniel burst into laughter. "Sorry, that spot is filled."

"By who?"

"Meghan Tuttle. We agreed on it a long time ago." He paused. "Wait...did
you actually think VP was on the table?"

Miguel hid both his outrage and his shame. "No, not really. Listen, I will
do whatever it takes. If you want to be president, I'll focus on it every
waking minute. I've made myself look good before, and I can certainly make
you look good now. I assume you're taking the mass-appeal route, right?
I'll make it happen." He thought quickly. "I brought a notebook with
me. Let's write down the details of your platform, then come up with some
ways to spin it for different crowds. I'll start talking to people right
away."

They worked for over two hours, bleeding ink into many pages of Miguel's
notebook, outlining speech possibilities, mapping out the myriad cliques,
their associated sentiments, and coaxing the often blurry lines which
divided them into focus. When it finally came time to close up shop, Daniel
turned to him and said, "This is so much fun, isn't it?"

"Nothing excites me more than this," Miguel told him.

Daniel's brown eyes stayed trained on him for an extra second, and then the
two stood and began to pack up. "Hey, listen," he said, clearing his
throat. "I'll let you know if anything changes, okay?"

It wasn't clear to Miguel what this meant--not until things did
change. Daniel appeared out of nowhere as Miguel exited biology the next
morning. "What do you think of Lin-Gonzalez? Has a nice ring to it, right?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Tuttle wants top office, so she's running her own campaign. I told her no
hard feelings. She'll be more of a challenge than Layton. Keep us on our
toes."

Miguel couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I'd rather go with someone I've known longer," Daniel continued. "I'm
taking a risk with you."

"That's not true," said Miguel. "I know you think you are, but you're not."

And so it became Tuttle-Cushman, Layton-Park and Lin-Gonzalez, all three
campaign teams clawing for the fattest slice of approval from the rest of
the school. It wasn't a fair fight. Greg and Kyung-soo were both seniors
who were naturally relatable, but they were also lazy. It was Meghan and
her running mate who gave Miguel and Daniel a run for their money, but by
the eleventh hour, they too had fallen fatally behind. On the night before
the school-wide vote, the two boys met up in Daniel's room, as had become
their custom, and realized suddenly that there was nothing left to do.

"Well then. I guess I should be at church," Miguel said.

"Have your parents been giving you grief?"

"No, but only because I've rarely missed."

"It's weird to have church on a Wednesday, isn't it?"

Miguel laughed. "Maybe to you. You don't go to church at all."

Daniel smirked, pushing his glasses up the steep bridge of his nose. "I
don't think I would feel welcome in church. Especially in Mormon church."

Miguel shrugged. "You might be surprised--"

"I don't think so," Daniel said. His voice was cold. "There's something you
should know about me. It's this thing that I'll always struggle with. A
secret I'll have to keep forever. I've only told Meghan. No one else. I'm
sorry to spring this on you. It's just that I want you to have one more
chance to...I don't know. After tomorrow, you're stuck with me." Daniel
Lin, whom Miguel had only ever known as all-business-at-all-times, now bore
his entire soul. "Look, if you know what I'm talking about, please just say
so."

"I know what you're talking about." Let there be no doubt: Miguel had been
consciously hiding himself for some time. He had long known the moment
would come for him to emerge, if just a little bit, to someone,
somewhere. It could not have occurred before now, and now, looking into
Daniel's dark eyes, he knew it could not wait a second longer. "When you're
the bishop's son," he said, "you are obligated to feel welcome in church,
or at least pretend that you do, even if you don't." He thought for a
minute. "Everyone at church acts like it's the most welcoming place on
earth, but it's not," he said, then added, "Not for people like you and
me."

Miguel remembered the seconds that followed down to each shift in Daniel's
gaze, back and forth from Miguel's right eye to his left, the lifting of
hand to face in a slow arc, an eternity, as Daniel pushed up his glasses
once more. Daniel, who was all of a sudden undeniably, irresistibly
handsome (but how could Miguel not have noticed this before?), dropped his
scrutiny to the crotch of Miguel's pants. And yet, nothing
happened. Neither boy could gather the courage to make the first move, and
it was better that way. Daniel's bedroom was not secure and his doting
mother often poked her head in. Should they ever be caught, the
consequences would be unthinkable.

After the election, this invincible duo was officially awarded the titles
they knew had been coming. A party was held in the evening, spilling out of
the dingy student council room and halfway down the hall. When it was over,
they left together and took the concrete steps down to the 70th Street
Station platform. Daniel's parents were visiting family in Shanghai. Miguel
marveled at the unrestricted life of his friend, who was allowed to live as
king, adult at seventeen, completely on his own in a 19th-floor luxury
condo, no parent in sight. That night would allow Miguel the smallest taste
of such a life, and a much larger taste of Daniel, who, after next to no
convincing, entered Miguel fully, deeply, between the gray jersey-knit
sheets of his twin bed.

Years later, Miguel would decide that he had reacted poorly (to be
specific: non-strategically) to his parents' concern. It escalated steadily
over the next year and a half, by which time general complaints were
submitted on the regular, on behalf of both parties. Every ounce of their
anxiety would be instantly validated, if only they knew what their son was
hiding: namely, a painfully secret and intensely promiscuous relationship
with his closest friend and political partner.

It was lucky that Daniel's parents travelled frequently, but they still
spent more time at home than away, leaving the boys' private moments in
short supply. Sometimes, when the stakes were too high, Miguel and Daniel
suspended their intimacy for as long as a few weeks. Neither resented these
times of rest all that much. They were extremely protective of their public
lives, and both kept frantic, distracting schedules. Miguel carried on with
soccer, where he remained a middling but cheerful player, and Daniel showed
up to the most important games, proudly airing his support for his prized
second-in-command. That was all it needed to mean to anyone else. At least
for Miguel, bolting across the field, eyes meeting for an instant with
those of his clean-cut companion in the stands, an sense of deep intimacy
persisted even when it could not be tangibly expressed.

One evening, as Christmas drew near, Miguel's father barged into his room
and announced, "You absolutely don't have enough friends who are part of
the faith."

"That's because most of my friends are in student council."

"You have friends of all kinds," he corrected. "And I'm okay with
that. It's what you're good at--good enough to be trying harder with your
friends from church. You're a natural leader, Miguel, and I know exactly
where you get that from. There are plenty of ways to put your leadership
skills to work at church, ways that are more worthy--and more righteous."

"The student body is a completely worthy place to put my leadership
skills. At least as worthy as the church."

"See, right there. That's the problem. First, it's all of your absences
from church events because of student council. And now, I can hear it in
the way you're speaking. You covet your interest in politics more than you
covet your relationship with God."

Miguel shrugged.

"Miguel," he demanded, "please tell me I am wrong."

"Fine, you're wrong. Whatever you want to hear."

Flames danced behind the bishop's corneas. Miguel braced himself in
anticipation of his father's strike, clean across the face and straight
back to his childhood, but it never came. Instead arrived his solemn
dictation: "This is not a game, Miguel. Your utter servitude to Heavenly
Father is not a game. Misconstrue it and you will not be saved."

"Okay," said Miguel. "I'm sorry. I will try harder."

Without another word, his father left the room.

He did try harder, but by that time, no matter how many smiling faces met
him at church, the message was loud and clear to Miguel: You are
rejected. This clarity arose in part out of the church's extraordinary
obsession with marriage. Everyone talked about it--this most beautiful of
contracts ever to be handed down, and how it was so constantly under
threat, strangled at the filth-covered hands of secular society. Still a
few months shy of seventeen, he found himself steeped in the subject, along
with other members his age, almost all of whom embraced matrimony as a sort
of mysterious miracle (or was it miraculous mystery?) with which they
would, with any luck at all, soon engage. For them, it could not happen
soon enough. But for Miguel? He was coming quickly to terms with the
futility of his own tragic, humiliating attempts at worship, furiously
diverting his love and commitment toward an insatiable deity that did not
love him back.

One summer evening, a week before his seventeenth birthday, he directed his
fury elsewhere. His sisters had since left home, were both married and
living with their husbands back in Argentina. His father stayed late at the
church, so Miguel and his mother ate dinner alone. Nothing about it was
premeditated; the moment simply arrived, unanticipated, and he recognized
it immediately for what it was--time to confess. "Mom," he said to her,
"there is something I need to tell you."

She set down her knife and fork, chewed for several more seconds, swallowed
and then looked at him. "What is it?"

"Daniel and I are in love. We have been together for almost two years. We
are sexually active, and we care about each other very much." There. It was
done. He waited grimly for her reaction, for the screaming and shouting,
for the tears. But at first, none of that happened.

"What do you want me to do with this?" she asked him quietly.

Miguel hesitated. "I...I don't know. I'm really suffering over this,
Mom. At church."

"Suffering? To me it sounds like you are not suffering at all. Rather than
suffering, which is what we all must do, you are seeking every last bit of
the pleasure you desire--in this perverted, disgusting indulgence--and
showing no restraint whatsoever. My son, that is not suffering."

He swallowed painfully. "I thought it would be better to tell you, and not
Dad--"

"Why? As if you thought I would not tell him myself?"

"Mom, you can't. I'm not ready for that."

Only now did she raise her voice. "You must be spoiled rotten to think you
have a say. Not at this point. There will be no secrets between your father
and me--let alone something of this magnitude. What exactly did you think
was going to happen?"

In all honestly, Miguel had not thought about it. "I don't know. You're my
mom. Can't I trust you with this?"

Just as tears filled his eyes, so did they flood into his mother's. "That's
not what this is about. You think you can just do whatever you want? You
think your situation is special? Look around you Miguel. We all have our
proper roles to fill, and we all must suffer for them." She got up and
began gesturing wildly around the kitchen. "Look at this place. Just look
at this...fucking place." (It was the first and only time Miguel would ever
hear his mother swear.) "I am capable of so much more than this. And yet,
this is my role. This is my suffering. It is what I am supposed to do. Is
that clear to you or not?" She smeared her hands across the front of the
refrigerator, sending a dozen magnets, notes and greeting cards tumbling to
the floor. "This is what suffering looks like."

Both of them cried openly now. Miguel scraped together his thoughts, told
his mother, "You say you are so capable, but all I see is that you are
incapable of changing your shitty life. I feel sad for you." He left
immediately, hurrying down the townhouse steps to the sidewalk. His mother
called out his name exactly twice before slamming the front door shut.

Without realizing where he was headed, Miguel landed five stations up the
line, in the lavish hallway outside of Daniel's home. Daniel's mother
answered the door, and the boy soon met Miguel out in the hall. Together
they went up to the roof and stood at the edge, where the city spread out
before them in a thick blanket of lights. Here, Miguel told Daniel
everything that had happened.

"Your parents will contact mine," Daniel said. "My life will be over."

"I don't think so. They barely know each other."

"But you're not sure about that, are you? Fuck, Miguel, how could you be so
careless? All I can do at this point is just hope to God they don't find
out. And of course, you and I can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing what?"

"This. All of it. It's gotten way too risky, and now it could fuck over
everything else in our lives. All of our personal goals. Don't you care
about that, even a little?"

"Of course I do. But I care about us, too."

Daniel looked confused for a second. "There's nowhere for this to go,
understand? I'll be at Stanford in two months. You knew that. Look, I'm
sorry neither of us ever made it clear before now, but we aren't
soulmates. It just wouldn't make any sense. I have goals in
politics. Real-world politics, Miguel. My face sets me back enough as it
is. But an openly gay man with this face? I wouldn't stand a chance."

Overwhelmed, Miguel blurted out the only thing he could muster: "Your
face?"

"This, stupid." Daniel drew an imaginary circle twice around his features
with his index finger. "Not white."

"Oh, come on. It's not that big of a deal."

"Wow. Easy for you to say, when you're a lot closer to the kind of face
people vote for. Don't you dare act like you understand how it is."

Miguel felt himself becoming hot with panic. A bull lurked in Daniel's
words, and he knew he must now grab it by its horns. "So that's it, then?
It's that easy for you to end this?"

"It's not like that. It's not about easy or hard. This is just how it has
to be. I know it, and I think you know it too. I can't speak for you, but I
have some big plans. I'm not willing risk it all over romance. Not even
close."

Miguel's tears returned. "Then you are not who I thought you were."

In the coming weeks, as Miguel would recall these few, pivotal seconds, he
gleaned comfort only from the fact that Daniel had cried as well. "I'm so
sorry, Miguel," came his final words, "but you're right. I'm not."

---

"Get up." The man kicked Miguel's side, not hard enough to cause injury,
but enough to wake him and startle him to his feet. Immediately, this
figure, still only a shadow, began dusting dry mulch from the side of
Miguel's tattered vinyl jacket. "You're too young to be sleeping
underground like this. What's wrong with you?"

Miguel just stared at him, bleary eyed, swaying on his legs. The stone
walls radiated aquamarine and a grimy, caged clock above the platform read
1:40 in the morning. What the fuck was going on? Where had he ended up
tonight? An offensive block of Helvetica sharpened on the wall behind the
man's head. Senna-Joyce Station. That's right. Ejected from the train
during a drunken midnight pilgrimage to the water. Fuck, he hadn't made it
very far this time.

The man switched to Spanish. "What language do you speak? My God, you smell
terrible. I would like to take you somewhere so you can shower. I can also
give you clean clothes--hello?" He banged his fist against Miguel's
scalp. "Any of this getting through?"

Miguel rubbed his eyes and nodded his heavy head.

"Okay. The train is coming. Let's get on."

The man was older, a bit shorter and very attractive. If he was out looking
for a good time, maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. Maybe it was what
Miguel deserved. Besides, what else did he have to look forward to?

"If you can prove you're worth a damn," added the man, dragging Miguel
toward the warm breath of the train, "I might even have an opportunity for
you. We'll see."

We'll see? In Miguel's world, there was nothing left to see. Every
worthwhile stone had been turned over already, each revealing a mottled
underside more grotesque than the one before. By this time he was adrift
and under total influence, with each coming moment, of whatever rank breeze
happened to blow with the most force. But this was not a breeze. It was a
whirlwind that plucked him up and pressed him to a cushion-less seat and
thrust the car doors along their rusty rails until they were shut tight.

---

"You want any help?" The kid spoke hastily, noisily in order to reach
Miguel's ears at the back of the warehouse.

Miguel returned, unburdened, to confer with Gabe over the roof of the
car. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you want any help."

"That's what I thought you said."

"Eddie says things need to change around here. He says I need to be more
involved. I know we've got a lot of heroin in the pipeline these days. I
was reading about how, gram for gram, cocaine's volume is almost twice that
of heroin--sometimes more." He paused and drew in a breath, at which point
Miguel felt himself smile a bit. Gabe said, "Anyway, do you want help or
not?"

Apparently, the kid had discovered a few things since their last
meeting. Miguel smacked the hood of the car and said, "What the hell, let's
crank this out."

Gabe placed his fingers gingerly around the scuffed edges of the first
package (a small brown cube, Koreatown-bound), as if it were hot to the
touch. Miguel directed him carefully among the pallets, accompanying him to
ensure no mistakes were made, explaining where each package belonged and
why. Sure, Miguel could have performed everything himself in less time, but
where the fuck did either of them have to be?

Once they were finished, Gabe closed the trunk for Miguel and then,
stern-faced, gripped his hands over the edge of the deck lid, as if to
steady himself.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Gabe replied. "There's a lot going on right now, that's all."

Miguel felt something in his chest sinking fast for the kid. "I know."

"So, do you have other stuff to do after I go?"

Miguel shrugged. "I could tidy up the office, but I probably won't. Just
have to double-check a few things and close up."

"Okay. Do you...uh...want to get out of here?"

After such a corny line, Miguel could not help but laugh. "Where exactly do
you want to go?"

"I don't know. But I think we should talk. I'm not old enough to go to a
bar, but I know a few restaurants that are open late."

"If you want a drink," Miguel suggested, "there's this place I know that
doesn't check. Just don't shave off that stubble on the way over."

There it was again--that rare unfiltered smile. "I don't have a razor with
me."

And so, instead of following the stench-filled alleyways home, Miguel rode
along with Gabe, whose driving proved quick and tidy--he was a
professional, after all. Inside the car, the air was thick and hot. Thus
far, thought Miguel, Gabe seemed to have mastered the art of
inner-reconciliation. Was it just a front? Miguel wanted desperately to
know more of his situation, to understand. He coughed. "I don't speak to my
parents, but if my mom died, I don't think I could handle it. Not like you
are, anyway." Miguel recoiled. It hadn't come out right. In fact, he wished
he could take back every stupid fucking word.

Gabe just shrugged. "We're not the same people."

Miguel waited for something more, but nothing came. That was his response?
He glanced over at Gabe, who withered among the car's rather generous
accommodations. Damn, he was a skinny kid. "I know we're not the
same. Sorry to bring it up again."

"It's okay. Like I said, my mom and me, our relationship wasn't
normal. Look, I don't know how else to say this, but I think she was ready
to go. I have to just accept that."

Miguel inspected this notion. He supposed it did make a difference. "Just
making sure you're doing okay. And letting you know you've got someone to
talk to."

"Thanks." He paused. "It's been okay. I know how to grieve. And when I get
sick of grieving, I distract myself by going somewhere that is always
busy."

"Like where?"

"Like the Station. Or Odin Park, or Chinatown."

"Chinatown." He turned to Gabe. "Back where you belong?"

Gabe shook his head. "Little Saigon, if that's what you're getting at."

"Oh." It was. But he couldn't be full Vietnamese. "Are you half?"

"Does it matter?" The kid shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Sorry. No, it doesn't."

Miguel refrained from speaking for the rest of the ride, except to offer
directions. They parked on an upper floor in a crowded, towering
garage. Miguel paid the toll. Down on the street, they crossed over radiant
asphalt, toward the rhythmic white beacon of a walking man. The place, Pub
Odessa, was crammed into the bottom floor of a slab-sided finance building
on the adjacent corner. "Odinberg's finest," he assured Gabe, who only
nodded. Miguel drew in one last calming breath of hot night air before
pulling open the door. If he had known the weight of the information he
would soon ingest, he might have taken greater pause.

The structure of the camp was partly to blame, its workings
compartmentalized as they were, its employees so unlikely, given the harsh
consequences, to gossip among themselves. Up until this point, Miguel had
been mostly satisfied to remain in the shadows, but he would later wonder
why it had been necessary to keep such a detail secret.

Indeed, it seemed the Gabe knew how to mourn. How else could he have
regained composure so quickly? The only loss of life Miguel had ever truly
mourned was Marco's. Miguel would later feel like he had been blind, and
deaf, too--as well as generally ignorant--because he had not figured it out
on his own. He should have sensed early on, led by his famed intuition,
that a cogent fragmentation of his beloved mentor lived on, stood right
before him now in human form, breathed and walked among them all...but that
wasn't how Miguel came to know.

---

END OF PART 2

Email me at kidboise@gmail.com with comments, questions and/or criticisms
:)

...part 3 to come soon...

Thanks for reading!