Gerard picks me up bright and early the next morning, dressed in his Sunday best. He’s wearing black slacks with a baby blue dress shirt and a navy tie. I hop into the car, complimenting,
“You look nice.”
“You think so?” Gerard asks. “I usually wear a suit.” He fusses with his hair, complaining, “My hair looks rachet. So many split ends.” He combs his fingers through it, and then gives up, sighing, “I guess its fine.”
I chuckle, and glance out the window on the ride there.
We’re one of the first groups there; only old people are praying when we arrive. Gerard kneels next to the pew, does something random with his hand, and then sits. I kneel as well, but don’t know what to do with my hands, so I just sit without it.
Gerard joins into the prayer, somehow knowing all of the words. I can’t imagine memorizing a prayer like that; it doesn’t even rhyme.
Eventually, the church fills up, and this guy comes in and sits at the piano, calling,
“Page 632 of the hymns, ‘May Christ Be With Thee.’”
Gerard picks a thick book from the holder, flipping through it until he reaches the right page. I listen to him sing as I watch who can only be the priest enter. He parades gracefully up the main aisle, two kids in white robes on his tail. God, this is weird. The kids go sit down at the front of the church, off to the side, and the priest begins to sing along with everyone else.
Once the song is over, there are some exchanges between the priest and the churchgoers, whom all answer in unison. More memory games. Then everyone sits, so I follow their example. Gerard opens another book, setting it in his lap and leaning towards me so that I can read as well.
There seems to be a set way that every mass goes, which I find to be very boring. There’s excerpts from the Bible, Gerard explains in a hushed tone, and then some from the Gospel as well.
There’s a lot of standing, kneeling, and sitting. I have to constantly keep an eye on Gerard just to catch up. But by far, the strangest thing is what Gerard calls Communion.
Everyone, children, the elderly, adults, they all get in line to reach the priest. Once they get there, he says something to them, puts this bread in their hand, which they eat, and then the people leave, some drinking from this fancy looking goblet, and others not. When the young children go up, they don’t do any of this, but the priest puts his hand on their forehead and tells them something. I don’t know if it’s a compliment, a blessing, or just some standard phrase (which seems to constitute most of the mass). Gerard does this, standing to get in line. I begin to follow, but Gerard touches my arm, pushing me back gently to a sitting position.
“You haven’t had Communion yet,” he whispers. “Wait here.”
I nod, and watch as he goes up and goes through the same weird ritual that the rest do. He doesn’t drink whatever’s in the cup, which is odd, since about half of the adults do.
When he returns, I hum in his ear, “What was all of that?”
“The bread is the body of Christ, and the wine is the blood,” Gerard replies.
I scrunch my nose. “Ew, man. That’s kind of gross.”
Gerard giggles quietly, adding, “Well, it’s figurative.”
“How come the little kids don’t do it?” I ask.
Gerard answers, “They haven’t had their first Communion yet, which is this big event that happens when they’re seven or eight. Or older; if they aren’t a Catholic until an older age.”
I want to ask him more, just because I still can’t grasp the concept or purpose of this so called Communion, but the priest interrupts me. He goes on about the church’s upcoming events, and then tells us we’re dismissed. I gather my coat, and am about to stand when Gerard yanks me down by the arm. He stands, but stays in place, and the closing song is announced. I blush, realizing that you’re not supposed to go until the final song is sung. Catholic churches seem like a whole mess of rules, which I’ve never been a fan of.
We leave, and the priest stands outside, shaking everyone’s hand. Gerard shakes his hand, greeting,
“How are you, father?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he replies.
I try to dodge the handshake, but denying the priest’s outstretched hand is too rude, so I give him a quick shake and a nod before jogging to catch up with Gerard.
“Is he your dad?” I ask, motioning back at the priest.
Gerard knits his brows. “What makes you ask that?”
“You called him father,” I point out.
Gerard guffaws, and shakes his head, responding, “No; father is his title. He’s everyone’s father, basically. But biologically, not quite.”
I redden, apologizing, “My bad. I’m still getting used to all of this stuff.”
“Don’t apologize,” Gerard says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He nudges me, telling, “Hey, it’s almost time for lunch. Want to grab something to eat? There’s a diner not too far away.”
“Sure,” I agree. I get into his car, and watch the road as we pull out and start off towards the restaurant.
We arrive, and I end up convincing myself that, ‘No, Frank, this is not a date. Don’t be stupid.’
We eat at the diner, and it’s slightly uncomfortable for me. Gerard is oblivious, cracking jokes and going on and on about school. He wants to be an art teacher at a high school, or maybe even a university. He tells me that he hasn’t decided yet; but he’s leaning towards the high schoolers, because he feels like they’re the people in the world who need the most help with anything; that they go through the hardest times and endeavor the worst heartbreaks.
I listen, but don’t speak, focusing on my plate. I feel guilty; guilty for lying to Gerard. I’m… I’m in love with him. I’ve known it practically ever since we started hanging out, and yet, I didn’t tell him. He’s a man of God, and I’m a lustful sinner. I know that if given the chance, I’d tie Gerard up and just do the most unimaginable things to the boy.
He looks right through me, his eyes piercing. For a moment, I’m legitimately fearful that he can read my thoughts. But he doesn’t acknowledge my attraction, just asks what I want to be.
And I don’t quite have an answer for him.

Notes

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