Seventeen-year-old Joshua Jones is a fun-loving boy with the usual troubles -- bullying at school and being in the closet. Now his mother insists he see a psychologist. Is this because he speaks to his dead father's ashes in their golden urn? Joshua doesn't know and, worse, no one will tell him anything.
When Joshua joins an extracurricular drama school, he not only discovers that he is naturally talented, but he also finds love in the form of Michael Armstrong, whose parents are both accepting of their son’s gayness. With Michael’s friendship and encouragement, Josh comes out of the closet and into his true self.
However, Joshua’s mother blames Michael for Joshua’s gayness. How will the boys resolve this? Will Joshua and his mother be able to deal with the issues of coming out?
“Joshua! Where are you?”
“I’m in my room, Mum,” I shouted back.
“Get down here now!”
I sighed, slid off my bed, shook my head, as I knew what was coming, and slowly made my way down to the kitchen where Mum was busy making tea.
“Hi, Mum,” I said as though there was nothing out of the ordinary.
“I believe you had your friend stay over last night!”
“Yes, it was late and I told Michael to stay instead of going home late at night.”
“And where did he sleep?” enquired my mum.
“We shared my bed. It’s big enough for two.”
“Are you queer?” asked my mother, bluntly.
For a brief moment I paused, and then answered her. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I gave you the answer.”
“Axel said that he saw you and Michael in bed with your arms around each other. Is that true?”
“Absolutely.”
“You don’t have to be rude.”
“How can answering your question be regarded as being rude? You asked me if I was queer and I said I wasn’t, then you asked if we had our arms around each other and I said yes, so how was that rude?”
“So, you are queer then?”
“Mum, I don’t believe in putting people into categories like you do, and second, I don’t particularly like the word queer.”
“Well, what are you then?”
I could hear the intensity in my mother’s voice rising with each question. I assumed that she was trying to break me down and make me burst into tears, but I’d been bullied so many times at school, that I’d learned to toughen up.
“Although I am a human being, if you insist in wanting to put me into a category then I would prefer you saying I am gay.”
“I don’t want that boy coming here again. He’s the one who has turned you into whatever name you want to be called.”
“I just want to be called Joshua or Josh. If I decide later to change my name, I’ll let you know.”
I knew that my mother was bordering on hysteria.
“Mum, Michael never did anything of the kind. I have been this way ever since I was small.”
“Rubbish! I would have noticed.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You have never noticed very much what I have done, and Michael is definitely not to blame for me liking boys.”
“I don’t care what you say; he’s a bad influence on you.”
“He’s not, Mum, and he’s the only real friend I have.”
“I suppose then you’ll be saying that it’s my fault that you are gay.”
“If you want to put it that way, then I suppose you might be right as it’s your and Dad’s genes and chromosomes that I have in me.”
“How dare you!” said my mother, slapping me across the face.
Once she had done that, she realised how far she had gone.
For once, I didn’t cry. I merely stared blankly at her, despite the stinging in my face being intense. I didn’t say a word or made a sound. I marched to the front door, opened it, and walked out into the garden, down the path and into the street. I had no real idea where I was heading but I just walked, determinedly. I could hear her calling my name as I went further away from our house, but I never turned my head to see if she was standing there calling or coming after me.
I eventually reached the park and found my bench on which I had sat chatting to Uncle Gottlieb the night he came to get ice cream for Granny.
I think I was angrier about the fact that my mum was trying to blame Michael for something that had nothing to do with him. From the age of around eight, I had felt that I was different from other boys, but did not know why or how. I do remember once telling Dad that I felt different, but we had never brought up the topic of liking boys.
As I sat on the bench, an elderly woman came up to me to see if I needed any help.
“No thanks, I’m fine thank you, but thank you for asking,” I replied.
I thought of perhaps going to Michael’s house, but I did not know where exactly he lived, so I stayed sitting on the park bench. It was beginning to head towards sunset and I was sure that Axel would be home by now, and I was sure that my mum would have told him all about our argument.
I then thought of going to Granny’s, but I knew I could not stay there. In any case, what boy of seventeen wants to spend the night in an old age home? Maybe it might be good practice for later in life.
