We Love Anderson Cooper Page 2

* * *

  Markus’s parents ushered him out of the synagogue. He didn’t even have a chance to apologize to Gavin, who huddled in a corner with Joey Moskowitz, Markus’s classmate from Hebrew school. Gavin didn’t turn around when Markus called his name.

  In the back of his father’s Mercedes, Markus slouched next to his grandmother. She rested her tiny, dry hand on his damp one as they drove home.

  From the front passenger seat, his mother turned to face him. She ran her fingers through gold hair, wrecking a stylist’s careful work. “Why didn’t you talk to us first? We would have understood. We love Anderson Cooper. You didn’t have to tell us so … so…”

  “Publicly?”

  “Yes.”

  “I tried to tell you. Anyway, if you’re not ashamed, why do you care that I told the whole temple?” Markus yanked his shirt from his pants and undid the bottom button.

  “It’s the kind of thing you tell your parents first, before you announce it to the world.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can protect you.”

  “What your mother’s trying to say is that you can tell us anything,” his father said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “As long as I do it privately and not in temple and don’t tell anyone else unless it’s that I made honor roll.”

  “That’s not what we’re saying,” his father said.

  They were quiet for a while, and then his father asked, “Did Gavin know you were going to mention him?”

  “It just slipped out.”

  His mother fanned her face with the speech she had written. “Oy.” Markus thought if he could read her mind, she would be imagining him reciting her speech, and the rabbi pumping his hand, not pulling him from the lectern. “You’ll have to apologize to Gavin,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Markus’s dreams of celebrity were already fading. Even if the videographer had captured the events at the temple, it wasn’t anything Markus would want to post online. Gavin wouldn’t want it publicized, either. Of course, one of his classmates might have gotten it. Markus checked his phone to see if anyone had uploaded a video. He was relieved—and a bit disappointed—not to find one.

  Outside the car window, people went about their normal Saturday lives. A postal worker in shorts delivered mail. Young girls in ponytails jumped rope. A boy a grade below Markus rode his bike past their car and Markus wished to trade places with the kid who might never have a bar mitzvah and certainly not one like Markus’s.

  “My uncle Dieter was gay,” his grandmother said in her heavy German accent. Everyone turned toward her except Markus’s father, who was driving and looked at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Great-uncle Dieter?” his father said.

  “Don’t sound so surprised. You thought Albert was his friend?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “When the Nazis were in power, Dieter was terrified they would be discovered. Many of their homosexual friends died in camps.”

  Now his father turned around. “You never said anything.”

  “Watch the road. We didn’t talk about it.”

  Thinking about his own lack of discretion, Markus felt ashamed. He imagined Gavin’s father kicking him out of the house. The Internet was full of stories of homeless gay kids, panhandling or trading sex for money. He and Gavin had read the stories together, never thinking it could happen to them. Even if Gavin’s parents didn’t throw him out, they might refuse to let him see Markus. Gavin might not want to see him after what he’d done. Markus texted Gavin that he was sorry, that it had been an accident. Gavin didn’t reply.

  Markus continued to text Gavin all afternoon, apologizing and asking him to come over. He finally gave up, figuring he would see him that night. Despite everything that had happened, Markus’s mother said they would go ahead with the party. She had posted an update on his bar mitzvah website: “Notwithstanding the unorthodox events at temple, tonight’s party will be held as scheduled.”

  * * *

  In the catering hall, National League pennants hung from the walls. Baseball caps that said “Markus’s Big Game” were piled high on a table, and kids grabbed them and put them on. Inflated bats and beach balls designed to look like baseballs filled giant cardboard boxes. Kids bounced the balls off one another’s heads and taped them to the ceiling. They mugged in the photo booth. A deejay played hip-hop, and they did their favorite rappers’ moves. Markus’s father danced with Helga and with Markus’s mother. If Markus’s friends cared about what had happened at temple, they didn’t mention it. The party would have been perfect, if only Gavin were there.

  Markus poked his head out the door every five minutes, looking for his boyfriend. He wondered if Gavin still was his boyfriend. He texted Gavin until he couldn’t bear not getting a response.

  He was sitting at a table, staring at his phone, when a kid at the party sent him a link to a YouTube video: images of him stammering, the red-faced rabbi, bags of candy flying in and out of the frame, and a shot of Gavin shaking his head in what could have been denial or disbelief or both. It wasn’t a flattering portrait. Markus felt embarrassed, but he was also excited to see himself on screen and to know the video was circulating. It had been viewed only twenty-five times. He hoped more people would watch it.

  When Markus returned from a trip to the door, his father asked, “Everything okay?”

  “Gavin hates me.” He took off the baseball cap and squeezed the bill between his hands.

  “Maybe he’s not ready to face everybody.”

  “No one cares that he’s gay.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  “I texted him and told him.”

  “Think you could try to have a good time without him?”

  “No.”

  * * *

  As of Sunday morning, only forty people had watched the video. Markus knew he should be grateful, given how embarrassing the video was, but he couldn’t help feeling he had missed his only chance to meet Ellen.

  Gavin finally replied to Markus’s texts early Sunday afternoon and agreed to ride to the beach with him. They met around the corner from Markus’s house.

  Straddling his bike, wearing swim trunks and sneakers, Gavin stared at the asphalt. His body, which was always moving, hands drumming his pale belly or thighs, was still. Gone was his easy manner that had enveloped Markus, making him feel there was no reason to be anything but himself. Instead, Markus felt regret, dull and heavy, and a longing for the past. He wished Gavin would look at him.

  “You shouldn’t have said anything,” Gavin said.

  “I know.”

  “You said you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” Markus wondered if any of his neighbors were watching.

  “This morning my father played golf with Sam Miller. He told my father about this kid Markus who came out during his bar mitzvah and outed his friend Gavin. He said, ‘Isn’t your kid named Gavin?’ My father told him to go fuck himself, his kid wasn’t queer, but he knew it was me.”

  “What did he do?”

  “My father? He didn’t do anything. I said, ‘I thought you hated gays?’ He said, ‘Other gays. Not you.’”

  Markus realized he was one of those other gays.

  “He said, ‘Besides, your mother and I aren’t stupid. He’s always here, you and him behind a locked door, listening to that garbage. What were we supposed to think?’” Gavin kept his head down. “Then my mother started to cry.” He pounded his front tire on the street.

  Markus didn’t know what to say. “I thought the rabbi was going to hit me.”

  “I wish he had.”

  Markus winced. “At least we don’t have to pretend anymore.”

  Gavin shrugged. He squeezed his handlebars and looked down the empty street.

  As they rode to the beach, Gavin was unusually quiet. When they arrived, they sat on a bench on the boardwalk. Reconstructed after Hurricane Sandy from concrete and plastic wood, the boardwalk looked nothing like
the original hardwood structure. Markus and Gavin had pedaled over the new boards more times than Markus could count, their tires humming.

  “There’s a video,” Markus said. He held tight to the bench. “Not too many people have watched it.”

  Gavin stared at his lap. “Fuck.”

  The surf scoured the beach, reclaiming broken shells and motionless starfish. Sweat from the vigorous ride rolled down Gavin’s chest. He smelled like exertion, like salt, like himself.

  Gavin tightened the tie on his trunks. “I hung out with one of your Hebrew school friends yesterday. Kid named Moskowitz.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Gavin looked out at the water. “He’s gay, you know.”

  “Joey Moskowitz? That kid’s a pizza face. What do you want to hang out with him for?”

  “He has built-in speakers in his room and everything Jay-Z has ever recorded.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what kind of speakers he has.”

  A mother and father played with a small boy in a blue swimsuit, digging a hole just beyond the reach of the waves. Markus’s parents, too, had brought him to this beach. Markus’s father had taken him under the old boardwalk to show him its construction. They swam and his father taught him how to recognize a riptide—a line of floating debris, a change in ocean color.

  The father lifted the boy onto his shoulders and carried him into the surf. Gavin jogged toward the water with Markus behind.

  They were up to their waists, the waves coming steady and hard. Markus plowed through the water toward Gavin. Water beaded Gavin’s neck. The air smelled of decaying seaweed. Before Markus could reach him, a giant wave broke over them, sending them tumbling.

  After they swam, they rode to Gavin’s house. His parents were at church, but the boys locked the door to his room just to be safe. Gavin stepped out of his suit and Markus followed. Aroused, the boys didn’t stop to put on music. They lay on the bed, and Markus took Gavin in his mouth. It was Markus’s first time, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready. But he wanted to do something for Gavin, something to make up for outing him. Markus’s teeth were in the way, and he wondered if he was doing it right. The last thing he wanted was to hurt him. Gavin swelled and hardened against his lips. He pressed his hands against the back of Markus’s head, forcing Markus to take all of him. He tasted bitter, a surprise after the sugary sweetness of his mouth.

  Markus thought Gavin would reciprocate, but he didn’t. After Gavin came, he turned toward the wall and lay still, sleeping or pretending to sleep. Markus got dressed and rode home.

  Later that day, Markus built a chest with his father. Hammers, saws, bevels, T-squares, screwdrivers, vices, clamps, and chisels covered the walls of the workshop. New tools hung alongside old, because his father never discarded anything. Safety glasses were lined up, the child-size ones Markus had first worn next to those almost as big as his father’s. Markus breathed the familiar smells of cedar planks and wood finishes. His father handed him the dovetail saw.

  “Are you mad?” Markus asked, though after spending time with Gavin, he worried less about how his father felt.

  “Pay attention when you’re making a cut.”

  After Markus finished, his father took the saw. “We worry people will give you a hard time. We wish you had waited.”

  Markus examined the cut. Distracted, he had missed the line his father had drawn. “I didn’t want to wait to be with Gavin.”

  “How does Gavin feel?”

  “I don’t know.” Thinking about what he had done with Gavin, Markus blushed. The workshop, which had once felt as big as the house, now seemed too small for him and his father. “Is Mom still upset?”

  “She knows you tried to tell her. She wishes she had listened.”

  “Did I ruin her life?”

  “Not her life.”

  “Just the bar mitzvah.”

  “Her entire Hadassah chapter was there,” said Markus’s father. “She may have trouble getting reelected.”

  “Grandma’s probably sorry she came all this way.”

  “Your grandma’s happy for any excuse to see you. And she’s been through enough in her life to know that what happened isn’t the end of the world.”

  * * *

  At school on Monday, Markus overheard his name everywhere kids huddled together. His friends said it was cool he was gay and that Gavin was his boyfriend. They asked if he had seen the video. The number of views had mushroomed to ten thousand. Markus hid in a bathroom stall and refreshed the screen on his phone to watch the counter advance, so excited he nearly dropped the phone into the bowl.

  He tried desperately to catch Gavin alone, but every time Gavin saw Markus, he turned his back. Markus wanted to touch Gavin’s hand or his face and to tell Gavin how happy he was about what they had done, though in truth, he wasn’t sure. Staking out Gavin’s locker, he leaned his head against the cold, beige metal and remembered how before the bar mitzvah they had met there and made plans. Gavin never appeared, and Markus was late for class.

  At lunch, he searched for him in the cafeteria, toting an empty green tray from table to table and pacing up and down the serving line, where he gagged on odors of warmed-over pizza and fish cakes. When the bell signaled the end of lunch period, he had yet to eat.

  Monday afternoon, he finally caught Gavin alone in a hall.

  Gavin didn’t look happy to see him. “Kids I used to think were my friends are talking behind my back. Girls especially,” Gavin said. “You’re a hero for coming out. They think I was a tease who pretended to be something I wasn’t.”

  Markus reached for Gavin’s arm, but Gavin shook him off. “I didn’t mean to out you,” Markus said.

  “Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t.” Gavin walked away, his beautiful back receding along the cinder-block wall, a spot of light in an otherwise dim hallway.

  During the week, each time Markus checked the video, the number of views climbed, from twenty-five thousand to thirty-five, then fifty. Markus’s classmates were giddy. He was becoming the most popular boy in the seventh grade. Girls asked him to sit with them in the cafeteria. Two boys from the lacrosse team invited him over to play video games, and he went, feeling like a stranger.

  Everyone loved him except Gavin, who ignored him, refusing to talk to him at school or to reply to the texts Markus sent morning to night. After school on Friday, Markus tried again, texting Gavin that they should ride to the beach.

  “Hanging w Joey” came the answer.

  “Tell him u got 2 go.” Markus waited a minute, and when he didn’t hear back, he texted Gavin that he missed him. After another minute, he begged Gavin to come to his house and talk.

  Alone, Markus hurtled toward the temple on his bike. He crashed into potholes and flew over speed bumps, the violent rattle of his bike an echo of what he felt inside. When he arrived he found a rock the size of a walnut with flintlike edges. He walked to the rear of the building, which bordered the congregants’ parking lot, empty because it was hours before Friday night services. He knew which was the rabbi’s window, having visited the office in preparation for his bar mitzvah. The room was empty and dark. Pressing the rock to the glass, he chiseled in large, uneven letters: GOD HATES GAYS. He snapped a picture of the window with his phone. As he ran back to his bike, he tossed the rock. He pedaled home, longing to feel Gavin’s weight against him, the tangle of their limbs. The fact that Gavin was probably in Joey’s bedroom, his hands in Joey’s hair, kissing him or worse, tore at Markus.

  * * *

  “It was a mistake to come out,” Markus declared at dinner. He reached under the tablecloth and squeezed the edge of the oak dining table his father had built.

  His grandmother sat across from him. She smoothed the cloth, her fingers twisted with age. “I once asked Dieter if it was worth it. Couldn’t he have lived with a woman? He said his life was better than most people’s.”

  “But Albert never abandoned him,” Markus said.

  “No.”

 
; Markus’s father stared at him and then leaned back in his chair, his face sagging.

  His mother returned from the kitchen with platters of brisket and steamed green beans. “A cable TV reporter called me this afternoon. She saw the video of the bar mitzvah and wants to interview you.”

  Markus hadn’t been aware his mother even knew about the video. “What did you say?”

  “That it was up to you. I just texted you her number.”

  “She’d probably want to talk about Gavin.”

  “Yes.”

  It was what he had wanted, to be famous and impress his friends. But even his brief popularity had worn him out. Being surrounded by classmates only reminded him of who was missing. If he did the interview, it would be hard on Gavin. But if he didn’t do it, when Gavin tired of Joey, he might miss Markus and come back to him.

  Quiet settled over the table as his father served his grandmother. She was flying back to Hamburg in the morning. Markus would be sorry to see her go.

  In his bedroom after dinner, Markus thought about Gavin and Joey. He hoped Gavin got a flat the next time he rode with Joey, and fell and scraped his elbows and soft palms. He hoped Joey’s mother discovered her son was gay and cried and smashed his speakers.

  Glancing at his phone, Markus saw the video had reached a hundred thousand views. He took a screen shot of the number, more out of habit than interest. For the last time, he erased the rabbi’s recording of Leviticus. He had at least managed not to recite it in temple. That might be all he chose to remember about his bar mitzvah service. It would be all he chose to tell. Scrolling through texts, he found the reporter’s phone number and deleted it. Then he texted Gavin a picture of the defaced temple window with the caption, “GOD HATES RABBIS.” His phone buzzed with the reply.

  Collections

  Maya lived with Peter for fourteen years without God’s or Dade County’s blessing. When Peter died, and his three daughters flew in and divided the property—the art, the furnishings, even the clothing—she held back tears until they left, then cried abundantly in the mornings when his death seemed most impossible, a nightmare carried into day.