Autoboyography
Page 21

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll warm up soon,” I say. “An early summer.”
I wonder if he can see the way my heart is banging against my ribs. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I spend all of my free time every weeknight frantically doing a find and replace for the names “Tanner,” “Tann,” and “Sebastian.” Tanner becomes Colin. Sebastian becomes Evan. Everyone I go to school with gets a new, generic name. Autumn becomes Annie. Fujita becomes Franklin, and the class becomes an honors chemistry lab.
I realize it’s an exercise in futility. Even when I save the book in a new version, where “Colin” is actually interested in “Ian,” one of the LDS students in the class, I know my changes are sloppy and unconvincing at best.
Friday after school, with the first four chapters printed and tucked under my arm, I walk from my car to the front door of Sebastian’s house. I would swear under oath that their doorbell is the loudest in existence. At least, it feels that way as soon as I’ve depressed the button. My pulse takes off without looking both directions; my nerves get slammed by an eighteen-wheeler.
But there’s no going back now. I am about to enter Sebastian’s house. The bishop’s house.
This isn’t really my first rodeo. I’ve been inside Eric’s house before, but his place is more LDS-lite. Eric’s senior photo now hangs where the portrait of the Savior used to be. They still have a framed photograph of the temple on the wall, but they also have a coffeemaker, like civilized people.
This all means that part of the anticipation I’m feeling is the same way an archaeologist might feel before a big dig in Egypt: There’s going to be a lot to unearth here.
Heavy footsteps land on the wood floors inside. They’re heavy enough to make me wonder whether it’s Mr. Brother on the other side of the door, and then I panic in a burst because I got my hair cut and put on my best clothes and what if instead of looking passably Mormon I look super gay?
What if Sebastian’s father immediately sees my intentions for what they are and sends me away, forbidding his son from ever talking to me again?
My panic spirals. I’m clean but don’t look particularly clean-cut; I’m obviously in lust with Sebastian; my dad is Jewish—is that bad? There aren’t a whole lot of Jews in Provo, but since we don’t really practice anyway, I never considered how that might make me more of an outsider. God, I don’t even know how to use the word “covenant” correctly. I feel sweat pricking at the back of my neck, and the door is swinging open. . . .
But it’s only Sebastian, with a kid in a headlock under his arm.
“This is Aaron,” he says, spinning slightly so I can see his brother better. “This is Tanner.” His brother is lanky, smiling, and has a head of dark floppy hair: a miniature version of his big brother. Well done, genetics.
Aaron pushes away and stands, extending a hand for me to shake. “Hi.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He’s thirteen, and here I am wondering whether my handshake is sufficient. Mormons just seem so fucking good at these things.
I let go and smile, resisting the urge to apologize. The cursing is going to have to stop, even if it’s only in my head.
Almost as if he can tell there is a silent Chernobyl happening inside me, Sebastian ushers Aaron back inside and then tilts his head for me to follow him.
“Come in,” he says, and then grins. “You won’t catch fire.”
Inside, it is immaculate. And very, very Mormon. It makes me wonder how similar this is to Mom’s childhood home.
Up front, there is a living room with two couches that face each other, an upright piano, and an enormous framed picture of the Salt Lake Temple. Beside it is a framed painting of Joseph Smith. I follow Sebastian down the hall, past a curio cabinet with a white statue of Jesus with his hands outstretched, framed photos of their four kids, and a wedding photo of his parents dressed completely in white. The two of them look like they’re barely out of puberty, if I’m being honest, and the wedding dress nearly climbs all the way to her chin.
In the kitchen, as expected, there is no coffeemaker on the counter, but to my eternal delight, on the wall just by the kitchen table is a huge eight-by-ten photo of Sebastian standing on a brilliant green lawn, smiling from ear to ear and casually clutching a copy of the Book of Mormon.
He catches me studying it and clears his throat. “Want something to drink? Root beer, Hi-C . . . lemonade?”
I break my attention away from the photo to look over at him in the flesh—somehow so different here in front of me: eyes more guarded, skin clear even without photoshopping, stubble shadowing his jaw—and as ever my eyes are drawn to his splotchy cheeks. Is he embarrassed, or excited? I want to learn each and every one of his blushes. “Water’s fine.”
He turns, and I watch him walk away before returning my attention to each of the framed wonders in this house. Such as a document in a heavy, gilded frame, entitled THE FAMILY: A PROCLAMATION TO THE WORLD.
I never see stuff like this. In our house, you’d be much more likely to see a liberal manifesto nailed to the wall.
I’ve read to the fourth paragraph, where the LDS Church proclaims that “the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife,” when Sebastian presses a cold glass of water into my hand.
I’m so startled, I nearly knock it onto the floor.
“So, this is interesting,” I say, working to keep my tone neutral. I’m torn between wanting to finish reading it and to somehow unread everything I’ve already absorbed.
I’m starting to understand what Mom means about protecting me from the church’s toxic message.
“There’s a lot packed into that one page,” Sebastian agrees, but from his voice I can’t tell how he feels about it. I knew all of this before I came over here—that is, sex is for heterosexuals; parents are obligated to teach their children these values; no sex before marriage; and above all, pray, pray, pray—but seeing it here in Sebastian’s house makes it feel more real.
Which makes everything I’ve been feeling a little more unreal.
I’m left momentarily dizzy by the realization that Sebastian’s family aren’t just enjoying the nice idea of this. They’re not just visualizing an idealized world; they’re not playing a game of Wouldn’t-It-Be-Nice-If. They genuinely, truly believe in this God, in these doctrines.
I look over at Sebastian. He’s watching me, eyes unreadable.
“I’ve never had someone over before who wasn’t a member,” he says. The mind reader. “I’m just watching you take it all in.”
I decide to go for pure honesty: “It’s hard to understand.”
“I wonder if you opened the Book of Mormon and just read a bit of it, whether it would speak to you.” He holds up his hands. “I’m not recruiting you. I’m just curious.”
“I could try.” I don’t really want to try.
He shrugs. “For now, let’s go sit down and talk about your book.”
The tension of the moment snaps, and only after it’s gone do I realize I’ve been holding my breath, muscles clenched all over.
We head into the family room, which is much cozier and less sterile than the living room up at the front of the house. Here, there are countless framed photos of the family: together, in pairs, alone leaning against a tree—but in every single one, they’re smiling. The smiles look real, too. My family is as happy as they come, but during our most recent photo session, my mom threatened Hailey with a closet full of colorful sundresses from the Gap if she didn’t stop sulking.