THEN: SHEILA’S BEDROOM (TWO YEARS AGO)

“Sheila?” I perch on the edge of her bed.

“Hmm?”

I take a deep breath and push the question out. “What would you do if one of your friends thought they might be gay?”

“I don’t think I’d do anything,” she says. “Why? What do you think I should do?”

“I mean, would you stop being friends with them?”

“No,” she says.

“Would you try to help them?”

“Sure.”

I breathe. “The church recommends these centers, where people can go to get help for things like that.”

“No,” Sheila says. “I mean, I know that, but no, I wouldn’t try to change my friend. I would help in other ways, if they needed it.” She turns to look at me. “I would tell them I was glad they trusted me, and that they could count on me.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her response is different from what I expected, and very different from what I feared. We’re now further into this topic than I expected to get, and I don’t know where to go from here.

“Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

I do and I don’t.

“Kerm,” she says into my silence. “It’s okay that you like boys.”

“What? No I don’t.” My heart thumps like its drummer took a hit of speed.

“I’m not going to tell and I’m not going to do anything,” Sheila says.

I stand up and I’m suddenly two steps closer to the door. “Why—why would you think that? No I don’t.” That’s twice. If I deny myself three times, will I be crucified?

“You already told me,” Sheila says. “Remember, that day in the blanket fort?”

“I told you?” I say, struggling to remember. “But I didn’t even know then.”

“It wasn’t what you said, it was the way you said it.” She tilts her head, as if drawing up the memory. “I told you, you’d understand when you were older. And now you do.”

“I guess.”

“Come here.” Sheila motions me toward her. I trudge toward the desk. She grabs my shirt front and pulls me down, then kisses my cheek. “I love you, frogman. Now go be gay in your own room. I have homework to finish.”