Why Can't Billy Idol Love Me?

Dedication For Constance McMillan who couldn’t go to Prom, Derrick Martin who did, and all the would-be Prom-goers out there who still want to: You are not alone. For those of us who did not survive to hope for Prom, this book remembers and honors you. We know from the AIDS crisis of the 80s and 90s that Silence = Death. This book is a voice for anyone struggling to survive, move on, and thrive. When your secret is killing you, it’s time to tell it to someone you trust. When Bruce Dane lost his brother in high school to suicide, it took him a year to cry, longer to talk about it, and even longer to write. Though Why Can’t Billy Idol Love Me? is Young Adult fiction, it is based on his own real-life experiences, and the identity conflicts facing millions of young people world-wide every day. “In my darkest times, it was talking about my problems that brought me back into the light. I hope Shane's story does the same for everyone who picks up this book.” As a volunteer for the Trevor Project —the 24-hour anti-suicide hotline specifically for l***q youth—he learned that a teen’s life can hinge on finding someone they can trust to talk to. This book is for them.   A life is a high price to pay to keep a secret. My family and I paid that price when my 18-year-old brother Ian committed suicide. He was unable to express who he was and it cost him his life. It nearly cost me mine. Suicide is the second leading cause of death among young people ages 10 to 24. Lesbian, gay and bisexual youth are almost five times as likely to have attempted suicide compared to heterosexual youth, and almost five times as likely to require medical treatment than those of heterosexual youth.* LGBTQ youth are injured by peers, adults, and institutions that fail to recognize their basic human rights. They are mistreated for who they are, how they act, or how they are perceived. This mistreatment results in depression, anxiety, self-harm, addiction, suicide attempts and high rates of drug and alcohol addiction, and suicide itself. Children should not have to keep who they are a secret. When they pay with their dignity, safety and lives, we all lose. Help stop that loss by reading this book and giving it to others. When your secret is killing you, it’s time to talk to someone. *CDC,Centers for Disease Control and Prevention LGBT Youth, NCIPC. Web-based Injury Statistics Query and Reporting System (WISQARS) [online]. (2010) {2013 Aug. 1}. Available from:www.cdc.gov/ncipc/wisqars. I want to run my hand through Kurt Thompson’s hair, but I can’t because he’s a guy and so am I. If that’s not enough to make you kill yourself, I don’t know what is. I’m dancing with my girlfriend, and Kurt’s dancing with his. Each time Cassandra and I make a turn in our slow dance, I peek through her hair to look at Kurt. His eyes are mostly closed, but there’s a moment, at the very end of the song when he opens his eyes and looks right at me. He smiles and gives me a nod of his chin and a look. A look that tears right through me. His eyes were Billy-Idol blue and he even had the sexy smile to match. Just last year I’d been normal. I had been just like everyone else. God how I’d clung to that. No use anymore: my entire planned future of a girlfriend and college and a wife and kids and a house obliterated the moment Kurt looked at me. Gone. My feelings weren’t just longing looks that I could hide forever, they were physical reactions beyond my control. I really was doomed. The school year at Westhaven High always began with a dance. It was something the principal thought was a great way to start the year. But if you were a student, it was kind of a nightmare. We were all asking ourselves what we’d accomplished over the summer break? Had your face finally stopped breaking out? Had you finally filled out: height and facial hair for guys; t**s and ass for girls. If so, the first place to really show it all off was the dance. No pressure. “Let’s get some fresh air.” Cassandra jutted her chin toward the patio to the side of the gym. “Fresh air” really meant “make out until we sprain our tongues.” For a good Catholic girl, she sure knew how to kiss. Lately, she’d been laying it on thick that we should sleep together. She’d already tried over the summer, but I’d put it off, saying we ought to wait. I even admitted I was a virgin, which she thought was really sweet. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Relieved that she’d backed off a little? Or insulted that she was more experienced than I was? Making out was one thing, but Cassandra had been pushing for more and more private encounters—encounters that could go from making out to s*x before I would ever have a chance to stop it. Even if she wasn’t a virgin, faking my feelings through our first time seemed like some kind of love crime. I wasn’t trying to be chivalrous; I didn’t want my first time to be some kind of Oscar-worthy acting exercise. I wanted it to be real, to be genuine, like anyone does. My second line of defense was my curfew (11 on weeknights, midnight on weekends), which made my job a lot easier. Normally, we would just be moving from heavy kissing to some under-the-shirt stuff when we ran out of time. Usually I didn’t mind making out that much, but tonight, it grated against my dance-floor fantasy of being in a boy’s arms. I needed a moment to switch gears. “I gotta go to the bathroom.” I yelled above the music, pointing to the restroom on the other side of the gym. She pointed that she’d meet me outside on the patio and left me in the throng of kids rocking the auditorium. On the surface, I was just like them. I made the grades, belonged to the soccer team, went to the parties—so typically straight that nobody suspected a thing. On the inside, I was dying. In the bathroom, I stood at the sink and splashed water on my face. I had to get Kurt out of my head and focus on the evening as it was. Okay, so, I wasn’t really interested in girls, didn’t live in a progressive town, and would never have a boyfriend in high school. But I was safe. With Cassandra on my arm, at least I wasn’t a suspect. I wasn’t exactly The Rock, but I was a far cry from stereotypically gay guys for whom there was no escaping detection. Cassandra was great to hang with; just being around her gave me confidence to branch out a little. She didn’t mind that I was different and even appreciated my taste in 80’s retro clothes. It gave me a “look” she said. People weren’t so much looking at me, Shane Noble, as they were looking at guy-in-cool-clothes-with-cool-girl. I’d passed an entry-level test that gave me license to be a little freer. Just for the dance, I’d bought this ultra cool midnight blue summer-weight suit, and a thrift-store fedora. To complete it, I wore a black t-shirt, a pinstripe vest, and a red silk tie hung loose around the neck. I gave myself a nod in the mirror. Then out of the stalls came the Asshole Patrol: Rick “the d**k” Blakely, Jim Bartell, and their freshman lackey, Dylan Thompson who was all red hair and pimples, but “cool” because he was on junior varsity soccer. The three of them were like triplets separated at birth. Bully triplets. While I was officially friends with Rick and Jim, it was more like frenemies because I never actually confided in them, we were constantly competing against each other on the field, and Rick had tried to date Cassandra before me. Their genius was that in public, they only gave you a friendly tease—when they caught you alone, they showed a darker side that was freaky in a pack-leader-and-wolves kind of way. “You want some?” Rick brushed back his black hair to reveal icy blue eyes. He pushed a joint my way. “This s**t is epic.” I shook my head, pretending to be caught up in grooming myself at the mirror. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” (Tip: Avoiding offers of male-bonding by pretending to groom oneself is the wrong way to counter rumors that you’re gay.) “Don’t toke?” Rick frowned like I’d said I didn’t eat pizza. “Asthma...” I said, taking a step back from the smoke cloud. Rick nodded. “So you don’t smoke. Don’t really drink from what I’ve seen. What do you do?” I half laughed because they wouldn’t have known it but Rick’s line was almost verbatim from the song “Goody Two Shoes” by Adam Ant’s third and final 1982 song. I moved to leave, but Jim and Dylan stepped in my way. “Hey, we’re just chatting, right?” Rick touched my tie, and when I looked down, he flicked my nose: gotcha. “So, you down her pants yet?” “Sorry?” I feigned cluelessness. God, he was such a f*****g jerk sometimes. “Cassie... you down her pants or just pretending to be interested? You’ve been going out since last year.” “What’re you, her chaperone?” He laughed in my face. “Nah, she don’t need one with you around. You’re not trying anything from what I hear. What’s your secret, Noble? Too busy looking at Kurt Thompson?” My heart stopped: They’re watching me. “Yeah, on the dance floor. Your eyes were just about glued to him, weren’t they, guys?” Jim and Dylan snorted and chuckled on cue. “Dude’s got a hard-on for my brother,” said Dylan, giving Jim a punch. “Wait ’til I tell Kurt.” My face burned and I froze. “You gay, Noble? This school’s already got one faggot, why not two? Maybe you and can make butthole babies together.” I flashed back to first semester sophomore year. Lunch. Small-framed David Mortimer getting his ass kicked right there on the commons. Bloody nose. Screaming his fool head off. And all I could think was, If he just didn’t wear that ultra-gay flight-attendant scarf. Why? Why the scarf, David? But today it’s worse than just his scarf; it’s his laptop. They grab it before he can shut it off, and there it is: “proof.” His #1 playlist on YouTube is a song by the screamingly gay Mika featuring screenshots of Mario Lopez and Zac Efron. They form a ring around him as he tries to get out. They each get in one really good hit before Dean Newcombe finally breaks it up and takes them all to the office. Could Newcombe drag his fat ass any slower? Hello! Little guy getting his ass kicked over here! The two amigos walk away hi-fiving, knowing they’ll be back in time for soccer practice which I actually share with them, hating it sometimes so much I actually consider switching to cross-country, or swimming (except I’d have to wear one of those skin-tight d**k hammocks). Cassie tells me that in the office David won’t say a word and spineless Principal Schifrin lets it slide. Vice Principal Blakely—yes, Rick’s mother—really runs the school, but if she oversaw her own son’s discipline, well that’d be too direct wouldn’t it? David Mortimer—if he’s smart—he’ll be applying to one of those gay high schools in New York City and we’ll never see him again. Me? I can’t get found out—I’ll end up being the next David Mortimer. I can’t let that happen to me; it’d kill my mother. Hell, it’d kill me.