My mother called me into her room with a paper in her hand. “Is this true?” she asked accusingly as the hamster wheel in my head began to whirr into life.
“Someone saw you kissing in school,” she said icily, dropping the note onto my lap.
Run, hamster, run.
I had read the letter, which I left in my pocket before I tossed my pants into the laundry basket. Written by one of my close friends in school, it warned me that someone saw me kissing a classmate in the quadrangle. This was in high school. A high school exclusive to boys.
It continued that I was seen by “Donita Rose,” our codename for this beautiful gay boy who has fair skin, naturally brown hair, hazel eyes, and luscious lips. My friend wrote that Donita had been telling everyone about me.
“They’re all lies, Ma,” I cried as I launched into hysterics. I accused Donita of spreading malice, fabricating stories against me, and scheming to ruin my life, stopping short of naming him as the devil’s spawn. My mother turned apologetic, suddenly concerned that this bully was out to get her son.
The next day, I told my boyfriend that we should be more careful.