Idlewild

by James Frankie Thomas

We the F&N unit count ourselves as one single gay unit, which leaves us with nineteen probable homosexuals in the Upper School—most likely dudes, statistically speaking; and most definitely cowards, objectively speaking, since they have not yet revealed themselves to us.

Soon, though, Fay gave me more to work with. We had freshman English together, and during class discussion, she was always bringing up gay shit. Like, always. We read The Iliad, and she wouldn’t shut up about how Achilles and Patroclus were boyfriends. We read The Great Gatsby, and she physically thrashed and squealed in front of everybody when we got to that weird party scene where Nick Carraway ends up in bed with some dude in his underwear. We read the freaking Bible, and I resigned myself to a dry spell for gay shit—but I hadn’t counted on David and Jonathan in the Books of Samuel.

On the other hand, she never had anything to say regarding LezYay, not even when it came to Ruth and Naomi, the Bible’s most obvious dykes to watch out for. Fay’s interest in gay shit appeared completely limited to guy-on-guy. So the jury was still out. Maybe she was just twice as heterosexual as most girls.

When you look lovely, everyone is lovely toward you, and thus life has never given Daylily Jones a reason to be anything but lovely toward everyone in return. This is also why she’s not funny.

As luck would have it, she’s in our next class: Freud, Jung, and the Uses of Enchantment, one of the senior English electives. We the F&N unit signed up for it because the teacher told us that our ongoing quest for homoerotic subtext would be not only welcome but encouraged.

Iago is gay in the way that we the F&N unit aspire to be gay, but it’s harder for girls.

Once again, the simplest explanation—that Fay was, like me, shy and awkward and struggling with the whole friendship thing—didn’t occur to me. In class, onstage, online, she was so unfailingly cool and in control. I thought her face-to-face standoffishness had to be deliberate, a riddle she was waiting for me to crack. And suddenly I had an idea for how to crack it. “You might actually like The Scarlet Letter,” I said. “It’s kind of gay.” Her head snapped toward me. “Really?” “Totally,” I said. “This guy Chillingworth is obsessed with the Reverend Dimmesdale.” I didn’t really stand by this theory, but it didn’t matter. Fay was looking me right in the eye. “I thought he was obsessed with what’s-her-name,” she said. “That’s what Ms. Caputo wants you to think,” I said.

“How do you know he’s gay for Dimmesdale?” Fay asked. “What’s your textual evidence?” She began to cross Third Avenue, heading west, which was the diametric opposite of the way home for me. I followed her anyway. “There’s this one part,” I said, “where he goes into Dimmesdale’s room while he’s sleeping.” I’d just re-read that chapter while outlining my essay, so it was fresh in my memory. “It’s a little unclear, but I think Chillingworth touches him under his shirt?” “He what?”

“I have The Scarlet Letter in my backpack,” I said. “I can give you a dramatic reading of the HoYay.” She fished her keys out of her messenger bag. “What about my PreCalc homework? Can you make that gay too?” I was goofy with gladness. “With our powers combined,” I intoned, “we can make the whole world gay.”

(But this framing sells short the intrinsic hotness of two dudes doing it—the stark clarity of the boner as a barometer of want; the emotional gratification of seeing manhood rendered vulnerable, objectified, receptive; the taboo thrill, which no amount of political progress can quite diminish, of the guy-on-guy kiss.)

I stood. “Want to watch Rope?” I asked. “It’s my favorite movie.” Nell peered up at me uncertainly from the rug. “Is it a gay porno?” “Basically,” I said. “If you use your imagination.”

When my mom and I toured the Smith campus, I’d noticed a pond full of rowboats. Then I’d noticed one of the boats being rowed by a butch girl. Then I’d noticed another butch girl, and another, and I realized Smith was full of lesbians—real lesbians, not just the Schrödinger’s lesbians I used to imagine when I looked at any random girl.

Cautiously, experimentally, I said, “You should look up catamite in the dictionary.” “I told you,” said Theo. “I know what it means.” I took a breath. “Girls can’t be catamites.” He regarded me unblinkingly. “You’re not a girl,” he said. “You’re like this weird sad pervy gay guy in a girl’s body, cruising me.” 4. Identification in the wild: He saw me. He understood me. He knew me.

LOVE IT

But then I noticed Fay’s smile—it was so big I could see it in my peripheral vision—and the phrase Invert Society dinner party echoed in my head. Maybe, I thought, this was just how it felt to have a cool gay friend group. Maybe it was always this exhausting and destabilizing. Maybe, in that sense, it was like being in love.

Because of the pond full of rowboats. Because of all the lesbians. Because I was a lesbian and starting to understand how important it was to me—important enough to make major life decisions around. Though I’d told my mom it was because of the psychology program.

In spite of everything, my stupid gay heart went out to Christopher. I said, “Last night didn’t look so pretend.”

I was light-headed, physically dizzy with glee. This was too good to be true. “You wrote fanfic about me and Nell?” “It’s not fanfic,” he insisted. “It’s like … a writing project. A fake diary. Like Devi made us do for that Wuthering Heights project.” “My fake diary?” “Nell’s fake diary. You promised you wouldn’t laugh!” I’d promised no such thing, but I tried to collect myself. “Can I read it?” “Not with that attitude.”

“Yeah, only.” My voice came out as a snarl. “I bet you fucking hated that. I bet it sucked to curl up with him and write your own porn together.” He backed away a few steps more. “I don’t want to be mean,” he said uncertainly, “but how is this different from what you and Fay did?” It wasn’t, and I knew it. That was the worst part. “I think you should go,” I said.

I was suddenly overwhelmed by how big other people’s lives were, and how little I knew about them at any given moment.

That was why I’d loved her: I was so excited to be gay, and she was the only one who really got that.

At the time, though, it felt like just the opposite. I knew exactly who I was. I was Fay’s best friend. We loved theater and gay shit and ourselves. We went to Idlewild.