Austin is picking Hugo up to go to a g*y pride parade in Annapolis. Two of their friends, William and Nicolas, will be coming along. It’s marked on Hugo’s calendar as well as his mind.
Luckily, Hugo has a laptop in his room—since it’s the weekend and a school computer isn’t an option, I am going to risk checking in. I quickly open my email and find something that Rhiannon sent only ten minutes ago.
A,
I hope it went well yesterday. I called her house just now and no one was home—do you think they’re getting help? I’m trying to take it as a good sign.
Meanwhile, here’s a link you need to see. It’s out of control.
Where are you today?
R
I click on the link beneath her initial and am taken to the home page of a big Baltimore tabloid website. The headline blares:
THE DEVIL AMONG US!
It’s Nathan’s story, but it’s not only Nathan’s story. This time there are five or six other people from the area claiming to have been possessed by the devil. Much to my relief, none of them besides Nathan are familiar to me. All of them are older than I am. Most claim to have been possessed for a time much longer than a single day.
I would think the reporter would have been more skeptical, but she buys the stories uncritically. She even links to other stories of demonic possession—death-row criminals who claimed they were under the influence of satanic forces, politicians and preachers who were caught in compromising positions and said that something very uncharacteristic had come over them. It all sounds very convenient.
I quickly run Nathan through a search engine and find more coverage. The story, it seems, is going wide.
In article after article, there is one person quoted. Essentially, he says the same thing every time:
“I have no doubt that these are cases of demonic possession,” says Rev. Anderson Poole, who has been counseling Daldry. “These are textbook examples. The devil is nothing if not predictable.”
“These possessions should come as no surprise,” says Poole. “We as a society have been leaving the door wide open. Why wouldn’t the devil walk right in?”
People are believing this. The articles and posts in the comments sections are legion—all from people who see the devil’s work in everything.
Even though I should know better, I shoot off a quick email to Nathan.
I am not the devil.
I hit send, but I don’t feel any better.
I email Rhiannon, telling her how it went with Kelsea’s father. I also let her know that I’m going to be in Annapolis for the day, and tell her what T-shirt I’m wearing and what I look like.
There’s a honk outside, and I see a car that must be Austin’s. I race through the kitchen and say a hurried goodbye to Hugo’s parents. Then I pile into the car—the boy in the passenger seat (William) moves into the back with the other boy (Nicolas) so I can sit next to my boyfriend. For his part, Austin takes one look at my outfit and tsk-tsks, “You’re wearing that to Pride?” But he’s joking. I think.
There is conversation around me the whole car ride, but I’m not really a part of it. My mind is completely elsewhere.
I shouldn’t have sent Nathan that email.
One simple line, but it admits too much.
From the moment we hit Annapolis, Austin is in his element.
“Isn’t this fun?” he keeps asking.
William, Nicolas, and I nod, agree. In truth, the Annapolis Pride events aren’t that elaborate—in many ways it feels like the navy has turned g*y and lesbian for the day, and a ragtag assortment of people have come along to cheer it on. The weather is sunny and cool, and that seems to cheer everyone further. Austin likes to hold my hand and swing it like we’re walking down the yellow brick road. Ordinarily, I’d be charmed. He has every right to be proud, to enjoy this day. It’s not his fault I’m so distracted.
I’m looking for Rhiannon in the crowd. I can’t help it. Every now and then, Austin catches me.
“See someone you know?” he asks.
“No,” I say truthfully.
She’s not here. She hasn’t made it. And I feel foolish for expecting her to. She can’t just drop her life every time I’m available. Her day is no less important than mine.
We come to a corner where there are a few people protesting the festivities. I don’t understand this at all. It’s like protesting the fact that some people are red-haired.
In my experience, desire is desire, love is love. I have never fallen in love with a gender. I have fallen for individuals. I know this is hard for people to do, but I don’t understand why it’s so hard, when it’s so obvious.
I remember Rhiannon’s hesitation to kiss me longer when I was Kelsea. I am hoping this reason was nowhere near the heart of it. There were so many other reasons in that moment.
One of the protestor’s signs catches my eye. HOMOSEXUALITY IS THE DEVIL’S WORK, it says. And once again I think about how people use the devil as an alias for the things they fear. The cause and effect is backward. The devil doesn’t make anyone do anything. People just do things and blame the devil after.
Predictably, Austin stops to kiss me in front of the protestors. I try to oblige. Philosophically, I am with him. But I’m not inside the kiss. I cannot manufacture the intensity.
He notices. He doesn’t say anything, but he notices.
I want to check my email on Hugo’s phone, but Austin isn’t letting me out of his sight. When William and Nicolas make a move to get some lunch, Austin says he and I are going to go our own way for a little while.
Luckily, Hugo has a laptop in his room—since it’s the weekend and a school computer isn’t an option, I am going to risk checking in. I quickly open my email and find something that Rhiannon sent only ten minutes ago.
A,
I hope it went well yesterday. I called her house just now and no one was home—do you think they’re getting help? I’m trying to take it as a good sign.
Meanwhile, here’s a link you need to see. It’s out of control.
Where are you today?
R
I click on the link beneath her initial and am taken to the home page of a big Baltimore tabloid website. The headline blares:
THE DEVIL AMONG US!
It’s Nathan’s story, but it’s not only Nathan’s story. This time there are five or six other people from the area claiming to have been possessed by the devil. Much to my relief, none of them besides Nathan are familiar to me. All of them are older than I am. Most claim to have been possessed for a time much longer than a single day.
I would think the reporter would have been more skeptical, but she buys the stories uncritically. She even links to other stories of demonic possession—death-row criminals who claimed they were under the influence of satanic forces, politicians and preachers who were caught in compromising positions and said that something very uncharacteristic had come over them. It all sounds very convenient.
I quickly run Nathan through a search engine and find more coverage. The story, it seems, is going wide.
In article after article, there is one person quoted. Essentially, he says the same thing every time:
“I have no doubt that these are cases of demonic possession,” says Rev. Anderson Poole, who has been counseling Daldry. “These are textbook examples. The devil is nothing if not predictable.”
“These possessions should come as no surprise,” says Poole. “We as a society have been leaving the door wide open. Why wouldn’t the devil walk right in?”
People are believing this. The articles and posts in the comments sections are legion—all from people who see the devil’s work in everything.
Even though I should know better, I shoot off a quick email to Nathan.
I am not the devil.
I hit send, but I don’t feel any better.
I email Rhiannon, telling her how it went with Kelsea’s father. I also let her know that I’m going to be in Annapolis for the day, and tell her what T-shirt I’m wearing and what I look like.
There’s a honk outside, and I see a car that must be Austin’s. I race through the kitchen and say a hurried goodbye to Hugo’s parents. Then I pile into the car—the boy in the passenger seat (William) moves into the back with the other boy (Nicolas) so I can sit next to my boyfriend. For his part, Austin takes one look at my outfit and tsk-tsks, “You’re wearing that to Pride?” But he’s joking. I think.
There is conversation around me the whole car ride, but I’m not really a part of it. My mind is completely elsewhere.
I shouldn’t have sent Nathan that email.
One simple line, but it admits too much.
From the moment we hit Annapolis, Austin is in his element.
“Isn’t this fun?” he keeps asking.
William, Nicolas, and I nod, agree. In truth, the Annapolis Pride events aren’t that elaborate—in many ways it feels like the navy has turned g*y and lesbian for the day, and a ragtag assortment of people have come along to cheer it on. The weather is sunny and cool, and that seems to cheer everyone further. Austin likes to hold my hand and swing it like we’re walking down the yellow brick road. Ordinarily, I’d be charmed. He has every right to be proud, to enjoy this day. It’s not his fault I’m so distracted.
I’m looking for Rhiannon in the crowd. I can’t help it. Every now and then, Austin catches me.
“See someone you know?” he asks.
“No,” I say truthfully.
She’s not here. She hasn’t made it. And I feel foolish for expecting her to. She can’t just drop her life every time I’m available. Her day is no less important than mine.
We come to a corner where there are a few people protesting the festivities. I don’t understand this at all. It’s like protesting the fact that some people are red-haired.
In my experience, desire is desire, love is love. I have never fallen in love with a gender. I have fallen for individuals. I know this is hard for people to do, but I don’t understand why it’s so hard, when it’s so obvious.
I remember Rhiannon’s hesitation to kiss me longer when I was Kelsea. I am hoping this reason was nowhere near the heart of it. There were so many other reasons in that moment.
One of the protestor’s signs catches my eye. HOMOSEXUALITY IS THE DEVIL’S WORK, it says. And once again I think about how people use the devil as an alias for the things they fear. The cause and effect is backward. The devil doesn’t make anyone do anything. People just do things and blame the devil after.
Predictably, Austin stops to kiss me in front of the protestors. I try to oblige. Philosophically, I am with him. But I’m not inside the kiss. I cannot manufacture the intensity.
He notices. He doesn’t say anything, but he notices.
I want to check my email on Hugo’s phone, but Austin isn’t letting me out of his sight. When William and Nicolas make a move to get some lunch, Austin says he and I are going to go our own way for a little while.
