1917

November 18, 1918

For once, I actually wanted to hear Woodrow Wilson’s voice. As the radio hummed softly in the background, I leaned closer, straining to make out his words. Finally, I caught it: the war was officially over. A chill of relief swept over me, but it was mixed with so much else—grief, exhaustion, and the weight of all that had been lost.

In the kitchen, my mother was calmly making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, using the homemade jam she’d prepared from the berries we gathered in Westwick Forest. The simple act of her routine was oddly grounding, a small reminder of normalcy amidst the chaos of a world recovering from war.

But the sight brought back memories of the Felton Forest, now long gone—a casualty of greed and destruction brought about by Abel Simmons’ actions. The mere thought of him filled me with rage, a loathing so deep it felt like it couldn’t be contained in words. It wasn’t just the loss of the forest; it was everything he represented, everything he had taken. At that moment, my hatred for him burned brighter than ever, overwhelming the brief joy of Wilson’s announcement.

It was time for me to head to school, but when the offer for a ride came, I declined without hesitation. Walking felt like the better choice that day—an opportunity to clear my head, to navigate not just the streets but my own thoughts. There was something freeing about moving on my own two feet, the rhythm of each step offering a sense of control in a world that often felt chaotic and unpredictable.

Matthew jumped behind me, startling me immensely.

“Pussycat!” he exclaimed with a grin, clearly enjoying the moment.

“I’ll show you who’s the pussycat!” I shook my fist at him teasingly, playing along with his lighthearted energy.

“So, how do you feel about the end of this wretched war?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious as he looked to me for my thoughts.

“I couldn’t be happier,” I grinned, genuinely relieved. The end of the war meant so much, the hope for peace after all the suffering.

“Me too! I had an older friend of mine who perished in the trenches,” he said unexpectedly, the weight of his words catching me off guard.

I felt for him. I had lost my brother there too, and without thinking, I gave him a tight hug.

“I’m sure he’s in a better place now, Matt,” I smiled supportively, hoping my words could offer some comfort.

“I know he is,” he sighed deeply. “He was a man of God. Very few can claim that honor.”

His voice dropped, and I could hear the sadness lingering behind the words.

“What’s wrong?” I asked anxiously, sensing there was more on his mind.

“Well, what the hell is our History class going to be about now?” Matthew said with a sharp laugh, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely joking. The ‘Great War,’ as they called it, had been our central topic for so long. Without it, what would we talk about? It felt like we were about to face a vast, empty canvas in our curriculum, where everything would seem less relevant.

We found out soon enough that there was plenty to discuss that wasn’t war-related. On our very first day after the war’s end, we began learning about Leopold II and the horrific atrocities he committed in the Congo Free State. The images we saw in class—photographs of amputated arms—haunted me. These were not just gruesome reminders; they were the reality of how Leopold and his regime punished the Congolese people, cutting off limbs as a form of punishment and control.

The brutality of his reign, which lasted from 1885 to 1908, remains one of the most horrific episodes in colonial history. Leopold’s regime exploited the Congolese population through forced labor, violence, and the systematic dismemberment of anyone who failed to meet his rubber quotas. These atrocities were largely kept hidden from the public for years, but photographs like the ones we saw in class have played a crucial role in exposing the full extent of the brutality and its devastating impact on the population.

Learning about this was both eye-opening and deeply upsetting. The atrocities in the Congo—hidden under the guise of “civilizing” missions—were, in truth, a brutal form of exploitation and dehumanization. It made me reflect on the darkest chapters of human history, and how often, the stories of the oppressed are ignored or forgotten.

I found out that Mr. Casio had unfortunately retired after I asked if I could go to his class. He was around sixty, so I wasn’t particularly surprised by his decision. After all, at that age, I could understand why he’d want to step back. In fact, by that time, I probably would have retired too. Teaching is a demanding job, and after decades of shaping minds, a well-deserved break feels more than justified. Mr. Casio’s retirement marked the end of an era for many of us, as his lessons had left a lasting impact on students like me. It was bittersweet, knowing I wouldn’t be able to attend his class again, but I respected his decision to enjoy a quieter, well-earned phase of life.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bailey had not retired. He taught organic chemistry that year, a subject that sounded intimidating to me. The only thing I knew for sure was that it dealt with carbon. Beyond that, I knew zilch. Organic chemistry was a world of complex molecules and reactions, and for someone who struggled to grasp the basics of chemistry, it felt like diving into the deep end of a very confusing pool.

Mr. Bailey, with his enthusiasm for the subject, did his best to break things down, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was miles behind. Still, I respected the challenge, even if it felt like I was trying to read a book in a language I barely understood.

“Mr. Bailey?” I asked anxiously, unsure of how my question might come across.

“Yes, Jeremy?” he asked, leaning in slightly, probably curious about the reason behind my hesitation.

“When are you going to retire?” I blurted out, immediately regretting the question. It felt like I had just asked something highly rude, as if I had overstepped a boundary by bringing up his age and the end of his career. The moment the words left my mouth, I could sense the awkwardness hanging in the air, and I braced myself for whatever response he might offer.

“In about five years or so, I still have my brains, don’t I?” Mr. Bailey chuckled loudly, his laughter warm and light-hearted, as though the thought of retirement was a distant, inconsequential matter.

“You sure do,” I agreed, offering a smile, though I could feel the awkwardness lingering.

But then, out of nowhere, he brought up Michael. “I miss Michael, he was a swell student,” he said, his voice softening with nostalgia.

Hearing Michael’s name like that felt like a punch in the gut. How could he just bring him up so casually, without any warning? It was like a wound I thought was healing had been reopened in an instant. The memory of Michael’s absence still stung, and hearing his name in such a casual, almost affectionate way made it all the harder to bear. I wasn’t ready to face it—not like this, not in the middle of an ordinary conversation about Mr. Bailey’s retirement.

“I miss him too, he was too young to perish like that,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

“Spanish Flu, right?” Mr. Bailey asked, his tone calm but filled with understanding.

“Yes, sir,” I replied evenly, doing my best to mask the emotions swirling inside me. I didn’t want to linger on the topic any longer. It hurt too much, and I wasn’t ready to dive back into those memories, not here, not now. I wanted the conversation to shift, to move away from the subject that still carried so much weight.

“So, will you teach us some organic chemistry or not?” I asked, attempting to change the subject and move away from the emotional weight of the conversation.

“Sure thing. Listen up, class,” Mr. Bailey replied, shifting the tone back to a more professional setting. He moved over to one of the laboratory areas, where we usually conducted our experiments, and I could see his enthusiasm return as he prepared to dive into the lesson. The familiar surroundings of the lab provided a sense of normalcy, something that helped refocus our attention on the task at hand—organic chemistry.

I was relieved the conversation was shifting. Despite my lack of understanding of the subject, it was easier to focus on the academic challenge ahead than the emotional one that had been lingering just moments before.

“Everything that is living and breathing is made up of carbon, it is the building block of life,” Mr. Bailey explained to the class, including me. His words carried the weight of a fundamental truth, one that laid the foundation for the rest of the lesson. Organic chemistry, he told us, was the study of carbon-containing compounds—compounds that make up the very fabric of living organisms.

I sat there, trying to grasp the complexity of the topic, but the idea of carbon being the essence of life struck me. Everything around us—every organism, every breath we took—was intricately tied to this one element. Even though I didn’t fully understand the subject at that moment, the concept felt like the beginning of a much larger journey into the mysteries of life itself.

“How fascinating!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed it is!” he agreed with me.

“So, what is our first lesson going to be on?” I asked, curious.

“Dot structures,” Mr. Bailey said, pointing to the concept in our textbook. I glanced at it and immediately felt a wave of dread. It required math, something I was terrible at. Why, why did it have to be math of all things? My brain seemed to short-circuit just thinking about it.

“Understand?” he asked, noticing the confused look on my face.

“Not really, no,” I replied honestly. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of carbon bonds and electrons.

“It’s okay, you’ll get the hang of it, I promise,” he said reassuringly, patting me on the shoulder.

“Okay…” I trailed off, not entirely convinced.

Long story short, he ended the class with a monologue about his daughter starting college. Somehow, he managed to stretch a simple topic into a full ten-minute speech. It was one of those moments where you couldn’t help but wonder how he turned something so straightforward into a drawn-out story, but I guess it was his way of making the class feel more personal, even if it didn’t exactly help with the organic chemistry at hand.

During lunch, I consumed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, only to encounter the all-too-common predicament of peanut butter adhering stubbornly to the roof of my mouth. This unfortunate circumstance rendered speech nearly impossible. As luck would have it, this was precisely the moment Matthew chose to initiate a conversation with me, creating a scenario that was both inconvenient and mildly embarrassing.

As I finally managed to swallow the obstinate peanut butter and jelly, I gasped for air, prompting Matt to pat me firmly on the back in an effort to help clear my lungs.

“Thanks,” I said, lightly patting him on the back in return.

“I love you, Jeremy,” he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

“I love you too, Matt!” I replied, chuckling at the lighthearted exchange.

Before we could fully savor the moment, a voice cut through the air—a student I didn’t even recognize yelled out, pointing directly at us. “Homo!”

Matt’s expression darkened as he snapped back, “Oh, shut up!”

The student, undeterred, sneered, “I’m not the faggot here!”

Matt’s frustration erupted. “I’m not a faggot!” he shot back angrily.

The student, clearly reveling in his perceived cleverness, smirked. “Yeah, yeah, why don’t you kiss your boyfriend?” His voice dripped with mockery, as if his words carried the sting of ultimate wit.

The atmosphere grew heavy, the lightheartedness of moments prior completely extinguished.

The tension in the room was palpable, thick as smoke and just as suffocating. My heart pounded in my chest, the echoes of Gary Cecil’s name lingering like a curse. His smug grin only fanned the flames of my fury.

Matthew stood beside me, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles blanched. His words rang out sharp and biting, like a slap across the face. I glanced at him, seeing a storm of emotions swirl in his eyes—anger, defiance, and something else. Was it fear? No, it was more primal than that, a protective instinct that mirrored my own.

Gary chuckled, a cold, hollow sound that sent chills down my spine. “Oh, I see I’ve struck a nerve. Good. You’ll remember me, alright. I’ll make sure of it.” He turned to leave, the air around him heavy with menace, as if he carried a stormcloud on his back.

For a moment, silence settled between us, the weight of unspoken words pressing down like a vice. My throat burned with all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, I reached out and touched Matthew’s shoulder, grounding both of us in the moment.

“We’ll deal with him,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. “Together.”

Matthew nodded, his jaw tightening. “Damn right we will.”

The air was thick with tension as I stepped away from Peggy at the school gate, my heart racing from the stolen moment we’d shared. Her lips still lingered on mine, sweet and fleeting, but my anxiety churned like a storm inside me. Mrs. Brompton’s hawk-like gaze was the least of my worries. If she saw us, a reprimand would be inevitable. But it was nothing compared to the wrath Peggy might face at home if her father ever found out.

Our brief goodbye felt like a necessary precaution, but it left me longing for more. I watched her retreat, her skirt swishing with each step, her presence a light in the otherwise dull gray of the day. Gathering my courage, I fell into step beside her as we began the walk to her house.

The closer we got to her home, the heavier the air felt, like a storm gathering on the horizon. Her father, with his Confederate sympathies and oppressive demeanor, loomed in my mind like a specter. It wasn’t just the politics of it—though they were despicable enough—it was the coldness in his eyes, the way he seemed to drain the joy from Peggy with just his presence.

I hated him with a fire I didn’t know I possessed. Every encounter left me seething, but I knew better than to provoke him. This wasn’t about me—it was about Peggy. She didn’t need my anger; she needed my support.

As we reached the edge of her street, she turned to me, her face soft but tense. “You don’t have to walk me all the way, you know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I do,” I replied firmly. “I’m not leaving you to face him alone.”

She smiled faintly, a mixture of gratitude and worry, before glancing toward the house. I could see the shadow of her father through the window, pacing, a figure of unyielding control. I stayed until I knew she was safely inside, then turned away, the fire in my chest burning brighter with every step.

He didn’t notice me—thank the Lord! If he had, I’d have been dead meat. His hatred for me was as irrational as his hatred for Black people, rooted in nothing but baseless prejudice. Confronting him was out of the question; the fear was too overwhelming. Instead, I slipped away unnoticed and hurried back home, needing a refuge from the turmoil of the day.

“You okay, Jeremy?” Mama Cass asked as I walked through the door, her voice gentle but concerned.

“No! My friend Matthew and I were both called faggots!” I yelled, anger bubbling over before I could stop myself. My frustration wasn’t her fault, yet I lashed out. Realizing my mistake almost instantly, I stammered an apology, ashamed of taking it out on her.

Her response, however, struck me like a thunderclap. “I know you are not a homosexual, Jeremy! If you were, I’d have you sent straight to an asylum,” she said, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were discussing the weather.

I froze, her words chilling me to the core. Fear clenched my chest as the implication sank in. I had heard the stories about asylums—places of unimaginable cruelty, where the vulnerable were subjected to inhumane treatments. The thought of being confined in such a place, cut off from everything I knew, was a nightmare I couldn’t even begin to picture. I nodded weakly, pretending her words hadn’t affected me, but inside, my terror grew.

Feeling drained from the events of the day, I decided to retreat to my room for a short nap. I lay down on my back, shutting my eyes so tightly that darkness enveloped me completely. What was meant to be a brief rest turned into a deep, uninterrupted sleep that lasted for six hours. When I awoke, it was already ten o’clock at night.

“That’s just great,” I muttered to no one in particular as I wandered into the kitchen, frustration tinging my voice.

With nothing pressing to occupy my time, I picked up my Bible and decided to read the entire Book of Matthew. The familiar words washed over me like a soothing balm, lifting the heaviness from my heart. As I read, a sense of profound peace settled over me, as if the room itself had been filled with divine presence.

In that quiet, dimly lit kitchen, I realized I wasn’t alone. God was there with me, offering comfort in the stillness. I smiled to myself, feeling a deep and abiding sense of relief. Before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep again, this time in the chair, the Bible still open before me.