didn’t look at her. “If you recall, sister, Andrea went with me to the lake for our Fourth of July picnic.” He stabbed the last bit of pancake and ate it with the last piece of bacon on his plate, and then he looked at my empty plate. “You must have been hungry, Taylor. Why don’t you finish your juice, and then we’ll go to Mrs. Harnett’s office.”
I was dying—dying!—to ask Charles what was behind the questions those girls had been asking. What was the link between Charles and Leland, if any? What had Marie done to the guy? And who was this Danielle person? Marie had made it sound as though seeing too much of her would be, like, frowned upon. And she’d done that mostly by making it sound like the opposite.
Christ, I hoped everyone wasn’t going to be like this. Would anyone actually say what they meant around here? Would anything be real?
It wouldn’t be Mrs. Harnett, from what I could tell. She thanked Charles for his escort service, dismissed him, shut her office door, and steered me to a chair with an iron grip on my shoulder.
She walked around her desk and didn’t speak until she was settled in her chair, from which she gave me her full attention.
“Welcome to Straight to God, Taylor. We’re pleased to have you here. I trust you’ve studied your Booklet? Just nod if it’s true.” I nodded. “Good, good. So you’re familiar with the Program Rules. They may seem strict, but let me assure you that if they were any less strict they wouldn’t be nearly as helpful to you. Can you understand that, Taylor?”
She smiled and waited. I came so close to shrugging, but the last thing I wanted was another session in the chapel with Reverend Bartle. Not even for another one of his hugs. On the other hand, I didn’t want to lie. Can a nod be a lie if the answer is no? Actually, though, I did understand. Maybe not in the way she meant—I understood that I wanted out of this place, and anything that would help that was okay by me—but I nodded, saying inside my head, You bet, lady.
“Then please remember that at times when the rules may seem a little harsh. Do you understand what your MI is?”
I nodded, saying in my head, Yeah, but I don’t think you do. After all, the thing was so incorrectly named.
“Good. Then I’m sure you also know that you will write four of them a week, at least for now. You will submit them to me.” She reached into a desk drawer and handed me four large envelopes. “Start today. While you’re in SafeZone, you’ll be required to spend two hours of quiet time alone in your room from four to six o’clock. With the door open, remember. This would be an ideal time to write your first MI. Then seal it in one of these envelopes and put it in the basket mounted on the wall beside my office door on your way to dinner this evening. I’ll expect the next one tomorrow night, and then one on Thursday and one on Saturday. Always in the basket sometime before dinner.” She was scribbling as she spoke. “Any questions about that schedule?”
I shook my head. At least this response was honest, and she didn’t ask me what I thought about it.
“I will read each one no later than the morning after I receive it. On Thursday, please stop by my office at ten o’clock in the morning, and we’ll review the first two. Most residents need some guidance in order to get the most benefit out of this exercise. Next Monday we’ll meet at ten again to make sure you’re on the right path. Starting the week after that, we’ll meet each Tuesday at eleven o’clock; that will be our time together, to talk about anything we need to discuss.” More scribbling, and then she handed me the paper, which had MI due dates and meeting times on it. I pocketed it. “Clear?”
Nod.
“Good. Now, if I think we need to meet at other times, I’ll let you know, either by finding you, as I did this morning, or by leaving you a note in your mailbox in the front office. And if you need to speak with me in between our scheduled sessions, you may leave a note in my mailbox. Now, do you have any questions that you need answered right away? If so, you may write them down.” She was still holding the pen.
I had questions, all right. Like why would they give a gay transgressor—that would be me—a gay roommate? But I just shook my head.
She smiled hugely. “Taylor, everyone here loves you and wants your life to be a glory to God. Sometimes residents find this hard to believe in the beginning, but in time I’m sure you’ll come to feel that love coming from everyone, and you’ll love them as well. And that’s where the glory starts.” Another few smiling seconds and then she pushed her chair back. I stood as well.
“Do you know where your first assignment is?” I nodded. “Good.” It seemed to me she said “Good” an awful lot. “Then just take this slip of paper and give it to the laundry supervisor. He’ll know you’ve been with me and you won’t be marked down.” She handed me a small bit of paper with something scrawled on it, probably her signature. One final “God bless you, Taylor,” and I was free. Of her, anyway. And on my way to the next room in this prison.
I walked into the laundry room with my little piece of paper clearly visible and waited to be noticed. The place was warm, and there was a loud thrumming noise from huge industrial fans set high in the walls sucking air out. I stood there a minute, and then this black guy with a bald head—maybe twenty years old—saw me. He was talking with a repairman, and he held up his hand, like he wanted me to just wait here. Fine. I looked around the room.
The door from the hall opened onto a kind of upper level, with an office off to one side, and five steps down was the rest of the laundry room. Washing machines—all white—were all on one side of the lower section, and the white dryers on the other, and there were all these white wire carts that must be how the wet stuff gets to the dryers. I’d been in a public laundry a couple of times, and they had baskets like these, but usually they were all scattered around, like people just left them someplace when they were done with them. But not here. Any carts that weren’t in use or waiting patiently next to a machine were pushed together like grocery carts at the front of the store. Very neat, very orderly.
The dryer area had lots of long, white tables, and some kids were using them to hold things they were folding. Boys were doing sheets and towels toward the back, and at the front tables girls were folding clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.
I felt like I needed to giggle. Not wanted to; needed to. And I almost did. With all the white, including the white linoleum floor, the place seemed positively antiseptic. The kids all looked like so many little robots, all dressed in similar clothes, all with similar haircuts, all moving in this regular, automated motion. No one looked up, and no one talked. Some of them had yellow stickers on their shoulders. Like me. Antiseptic white everywhere, like a sterile toilet seat, with the occasional yellow spot of piss.
“You must be Taylor.”
The voice startled me, and maybe saved me from giggling, which probably would not have been a good idea. I turned toward the guy, the black guy who’d seen me come in, and opened my mouth, and he held up a hand. I nodded.
He took the paper from my hand. “I’m Sean. Come with me and I’ll show you the ropes.” He jerked his head sideways and led the way down to the lower level, while I, following behind, watched his ass. I couldn’t help it. The guy was gorgeously built, muscles showing through his clothes as he moved.
He showed me the ropes, all right. Not that he needed to. I was put to work folding towels, which were—can you guess?—all white. Sean told me that after lunch I’d be learning how to run the washers. In my head I told him, Can’t wait.
So I stood there on the white floor in front of the white table folding white towels, looking down at my work like all the other kids, except when I cheated and looked around. Not that it did me much good; what was there to see? Pretty soon, after spending some time contemplating how weird it was that a black kid with an Irish name was supervisor over this blindingly white environment, I began to zone out from boredom. I kept my mind occupied by humming one of the tunes Will and I like—the usual stuff about being in love, with a few references to, um, the physically enjoyable aspects, without getting too terribly explicit. But it also talks about touching souls.