The Year They Burned the Books

Tessa and her family were spending Thanksgiving in Boston, returning Saturday afternoon, when Terry and his parents were due back from visiting Terry’s grandparents in Waterville. Ernie, Jamie knew, wouldn’t be back till Sunday from the relatives he and his parents were visiting—so at breakfast Saturday morning Jamie said, “I think I’ll give Terry a call later, maybe invite him over, okay?”

“Sure,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Why don’t you ask him to come for dinner? That way we’ll get rid of the leftovers faster—Why, Ronnie, what on earth’s the matter?”

Jamie and Mr. Crawford both turned to Ronnie, who was staring round-eyed at Jamie. “No!” he said loudly. “No! Don’t invite him for dinner. I won’t be here; I’ll go away …”

Jamie looked at him, astonished; he seemed almost hysterical.

“But, Ronnie,” said Mrs. Crawford, “you like Terry; you’ve always liked Terry. Whatever’s wrong?”

“I don’t like him!” Ronnie shouted. “Not anymore. He—he’s … I just don’t. And you shouldn’t either, Jamie.”

Jamie saw her parents exchange a glance, saw her father put his hand on her brother’s shoulder, heard him say, “Easy, son. Why don’t you tell us what’s the matter? Terry’s an old friend. Why shouldn’t Jamie like him anymore?”

No, Jamie thought silently; no, please, God …

“Because,” Ronnie burst out—Jamie saw that he was nearly in tears—“because he—he’s a—a faggot, and faggots do things to little kids.” He looked reproachfully at Jamie. “To boys especially …”

“Ronnie, Ronnie, calm down!” Mr. Crawford got up and put his arms around him. “Calm down. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

Mrs. Crawford reached over to Jamie and squeezed her hand. “Ronnie,” she said gently, “faggot is not a nice word. Do you know what it means?”

“Yes,” said Ronnie, sniffling. “I—I think so. It means gay. The kids—all the kids are saying Terry’s gay and—and that’s why there’s trouble about the health education stuff and the newspaper and everything. So you”—he turned to Jamie—“you should stop being friends with him and you should stop the newspaper, maybe, or people will say you’re a faggot, too, and …”

“Ronnie!” Mr. Crawford said severely. “I think that’s enough!”

“No,” Jamie said. She’d grown cold suddenly; her whole body had grown cold. But the familiar buzzing in her head had stopped, and she felt pretty sure her hands weren’t going to shake as she moved her chair closer to Ronnie’s and touched his arm.

“Jamie …” began her mother.

“No, Mom,” Jamie said. “Let me. Ronnie …” She made her voice as gentle as she could, holding on to it carefully, controlling it, leashing it, she thought; that’s it; I’m keeping my voice on a leash, my words, too, maybe. “Ronnie, they’re also saying that about me, aren’t they? The kids at your school? That I’m gay? Aren’t they?”

Ronnie sniffed and nodded. “Y-yeah,” he said. “Yeah, they said that. But I said it isn’t true. It probably is about Terry, I said, ’cause he’s always with that other boy, and they say it about him, too, the other boy. But you’ve got lots of different friends and everything, so it doesn’t matter that you don’t really have a boyfriend, or maybe you thought Terry could be your boyfriend, and besides, you’re my sister and I’d know. And anyway, you’re just not …”

Jamie closed her eyes for a moment. Then she looked at her parents over Ronnie’s head, trying to ignore the anxiety on their faces, the shock and disbelief on her father’s, the loving sympathy on her mother’s. “This isn’t the way I wanted to do this,” she said, still holding her voice on its leash. “But, Ronnie, Mom, Dad—it’s true. I’m pretty sure I’m gay. A lesbian. Lesbian’s the right word, Ron, for a girl. Not faggot. And Mom’s right: faggot’s not a nice word. Neither is dyke. I’m sure you’ve heard that one, too.”

Ronnie nodded, tears welling up in his eyes again. “Yes,” he said softly. “But you’re not …”

“It’s not the end of the world, Ronnie,” Jamie said, aching for him, for herself, too. “It’s really not. I’m the same person I always was, really. It’s just that you know me better now.”

But Ronnie pushed his chair violently away from the table and ran out of the kitchen.

Mr. Crawford got up quickly. “I’ll go to him,” he said, quickly bending down and kissing Jamie. “I’ll talk with him. It’ll be okay, honey; he’ll be okay.” He took Jamie’s face in his hands. “You’re still my little girl,” he said softly, “and don’t you ever, ever forget that. I love you.”

Jamie felt tears on her cheeks as she reached up and hugged him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”

When Mr. Crawford left, Mrs. Crawford got up and put her arms around Jamie, holding her tightly. “It’s okay,” she said softly, the way she’d said when Jamie’d been little and had skinned a knee or broken a toy. “It’s okay. I’m not surprised, honey, really.”

“I’ve wondered for years,” Jamie said. “Terry has, too, about himself, I mean. That’s why we became friends at first. Kids teased us and tried to beat us up for the same reason. You know, back in middle school. Elementary, too.”

“Those awful fights—and the teasing—it was because of that? You were both so young!”

“Yes. That was the main reason, anyway.”

“Oh, Jamie, Jamie,” she whispered. “Oh, my sweet child.”

“Mom, I’m sorry,” Jamie said brokenly, stricken by the sudden pain on her mother’s face.

Mrs. Crawford smiled wanly. “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry that you had to bear all that alone. And”—she looked closely at Jamie—“and if Ronnie’s heard—rumors—that must mean some of it’s still going on. Some of that cruelty.” She paused. “Is it?”

“Some,” Jamie admitted, not wanting to burden her mother with details.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I will if it gets bad enough, Mom,” she said carefully. “So far—so far it’s okay.”

“Jamie, please,” her mother said. “Please tell me. Hey,” she said, smiling, “kiddo, I can take it! I’d rather know, Jamie,” she said more seriously. “I suspect all the fuss about the sex ed curriculum and those burned books hasn’t made your life and Terry’s any better. And here I thought I was helping prevent just that kind of thing.” Her mother rubbed her hands over her face for a moment. “And Tessa’s life, too,” she said, dropping her hands and looking at Jamie inquiringly, as if a thought had suddenly struck her.

Jamie shook her head. “Tessa and I are just friends,” she said evenly. “I think I’m in love with her, but she’s straight, so that’s kind of that.”

“That must be pretty hard on you, honey. Does she know how you feel?”

“She knows I’m gay. I haven’t told her I love her. I don’t think that would be fair.”

“No,” said Mrs. Crawford slowly, “I don’t suppose it would be. But she’s willing to be your friend?”

Jamie nodded.

“She’s a pretty special person.”

Jamie felt herself smiling. “She is, Mom. She really is.”

Much, much later that afternoon, long after Jamie had given her mother a carefully edited account of Brandon and Al’s continued harassment, and after Jamie had called Terry but hadn’t invited him for dinner, Ronnie knocked on the door to Jamie’s room.

“I—um,” he began, looking around almost as if he didn’t know why he’d come.

He looked so forlorn and so little and so embarrassed that Jamie bent down and hugged him. “Shh,” she said. “Shh. It’s okay, Ronnie. I know you’re sorry. And I know it’s not easy having a gay sister. You tell those kids at school whatever you want to, okay? And if they make things too tough, you come and tell me, and I’ll go talk to them, or Terry and I will, or Daddy will. Okay?”

Ronnie nodded, clinging to her. “I still love you,” he said, his voice muffled. “I don’t like that you’re gay, but Daddy says it’s okay that I don’t like it, and that I can love you anyway. And—and I do think you’re brave. Mom said kids have teased you about it, and that makes me mad.”

“It makes me mad that kids have teased you, too, Ronnie. So we’re even.”

He smiled up at her. “Mom says the new sex ed thing is supposed to teach people not to tease other people for who they are. And she says you’re trying to—to support that in your paper, and she’s proud of you. I guess that must be pretty hard, huh? I mean especially if you’re gay and all.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty hard. I’m just trying to do what’s right, Ronnie. But it helps to know I’ve got my family behind me. That means you, too, Ron. You’re twenty-five percent of that. A pretty important twenty-five percent, too, the way I look at it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know.” He wriggled away from her and then paused at the door. “Thirty-three and a third percent, actually,” he said, “if you’re counting just your supporters and not yourself, too.”