Well, that went well. Not. Why I had ever thought my father would understand, I do not know.

I’d finally had it out with my father. My father, Deputy Sheriff Underdog himself, I mean, Bartlett, was not best pleased to find out that not only was his number two son gay, but that he’d also been caught trying to break into a neighbor’s car. The fact that said neighbor had taken my backpack from me, blackened my eye, and locked my stuff in his car earlier today, had nothing to do with it. In his eyes, it was all about appearances. Reasons—A.K.A. excuses didn’t matter—I figured it was just me that didn’t matter. It didn’t help that the neighbor was the son of the sheriff, Uberdog Russell, whose son Terry was my age and apparently thought I was easy pickings because, well, you know, gay and all that. However, his nose was broken. Other than his two friends holding me while Terry hit me, it was a fair fight, and I didn’t throw the first punch.

Anyhow, now I was also likely to be facing assault charges because Terry Russell and all his friends said I had struck the first blow and that nobody had hit me back. They said I only needed stitches in my eyebrow because I slipped and fell. But I don’t slip. Yeah my mom had me take ballet for six years after she saw The Nutcrackerone year, but it came in quite handy when I switched to karate later on.

My dad, in my opinion, is such a big brown-nosing boot-licking suck-up that he would just as soon see me rotting in jail, being someone’s bitch, as he put it, than stick up for me and listen to—and believe—my side of it. I’m not going to think about how much this attitude hurts me, because if I do I’ll curl up into a little ball and cry, and frankly, I’ve done enough of that over the years. So I have a plan instead, and it involves getting my stuff back and getting away from Dad. Far away.

I’m angry and sad and hurt and confused, all at the same time. There’s no way I could just pick one emotion to go with. I’ll let my body decide what to do, by simply waiting and seeing what happens. You can’t always carefully and calmly plan out every move, though, come to think of it, somewhere under my rage, upset stomach, and wishing I was an orphan, something is clicking around and making an outline, and carefully planning what I’m going to do. I haven’t been let in on the plan yet is all.

I’m counting on Terry’s need to look cool and all-powerful. He’s already back from getting his nose taped—it’s been broken before in football—and it actually looks better now after my little impromptu remodel job. Gays love to remodel, you know…okay, enough of the stereotypes. I’ll try to be bitter and sarcastic without them.

Since they only live across the street, I watched him as he got into his car, powered down the windows, and drove off with music blasting, to the old fashioned root beer stand/diner where everyone goes

a leftover from our parents’ days

. Once there he will brag about beating up the queer and borrowing his shit. I’m counting on his need to be cool to keep his windows down and his car unlocked while he goes inside for his brag session. That way everyone will see that nobody dares mess with him or his car, and his cool quotient will go up even higher. I wonder what he will say happened to his nose. Certainly not that the queer hit him. Maybe heslipped?

I’m not just going to reach in and get my stuff, even though I could—no. I’m going to climb in and hide on the floor of the back seat because I know when he leaves he’s going to bring a girl and drive up to lovers leap

so called

which is out of town and near the highway where I can get a ride with a trucker who does not kiss my dad’s and Terry’s dad’s asses. Voila! Terry will be my unwitting accomplice! Maybe with any luck, he’ll get blamed for my disappearance? Maybe I could cut myself and leave a bloody trail in his car…

By the way, I’m Jack; formerly Justin but I didn’t like it; so I’m reinventing myself as Jack. I’m eighteen, barely. A week ago, I was seventeen. I’m heading to California to college eventually anyway, but I think I may just end up at my Mom’s uncle’s ranch in Arizona. She’s always saying Uncle Bill was old and should sell the ranch. I think she wants his money. I think he might just need some help. I’d rather do that than stay here and go to jail; wouldn’t you? Though I don’t know anything about horses or cows

gay—well, you know. But I suppose I can learn

. Maybe there will be a rodeo…a boy can hope.