Clouds

We used to live opposite Bute Park, a few doors down from a house with clouds painted on its façade. Baby pink or blue, I can’t remember. It looked out of place. Defiant, like it had a mind of its own. It had to be against the rules, it had to! You can’t paint a house like something out of a picture book. It made me smile, but it made me angry too. Who do you think you are, house? You think you’re so much better than all the other houses, you think you’re so special. Mum had to drag me away, I was endlessly fascinated by it. I wanted to get a closer look at the people who lived inside. I wanted to stare at them, even though it’s rude to stare. They had to be something special, something out of the ordinary. Maybe they were artists or painters or writers. The house stood out, it clashed with the other brick houses, it screamed here I am. It troubled me. Who made the rules? I never broke any. Who gets to decide what’s right and wrong? Mum and dad? Other mums and dads? I wanted to paint pictures.

It’s too messy, you’ll get paint all over your clothes.

But we can wash them, can’t we? It’ll come right off.

Why don’t you draw something, use your pencils.

I wanted to dig in the dirt like our dogs, roll around on the ground. A mess of mud and wet leaves. I wanted to lie there on the grass until the damp had seeped through every layer of clothing. Be bold and adventurous like my big sisters.

I hate those dogs, look at the stains on the carpet, Simon. Dog hair all over the settee. Look at the state of this place!

Get the au pair to clean it, she sits on her arse all day. Does fuck all, don’t know what we’re paying her for. Stupid woman.

They never stayed long. It always ended in tears and long phone calls home in a language I didn’t understand. Russian, Latvian, French. I wanted to move like my sister in her gymnastics class. Precise. Perfect clean lines. But her laughter always sounded mean, like she could read my mind. Mum in her armchair with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Dad in his. They never looked at each other.

Who lives in that house?

Students, babes. Students like the ones I teach.

Who painted it?

Whoever owns it, I don’t know. Why are you asking all these silly questions?

Can I do gymnastics?

Boys don’t do gymnastics, babes. Now shush.

He should be playing soccer. Why don’t you take him to practice?

Why don’t you take him? He’s your son!

I belonged to my dad and his quiet suppressed rage. Handsome and confident, never a crease in the wrong place. He was an architect, he spent all day in an office drawing things, making changes, correcting other people’s mistakes. I wanted him to teach me how to draw.

I’m not at work now, Charlie. This is my time to relax.

He’d make women giggle, even in front of mum. He’d go to the pub up the road with his friends and come home long after dark. The Halfway House. I’ll meet you halfway. Whispers in Welsh. Sometimes he’d tickle me and tell me to jump on my bed. His breath smelled different, then. Strong and minty.

I’m not allowed to jump on the bed, dad.

Yes, you are. Do it.

I wanted to make him laugh, that’s all. I wanted to make him happy. No didn’t exist in my vocabulary.

Sleepwalking

There are no dramatic highs or lows, just a constant lull. Catch and release. Inwards and outwards. Over and over again. I’m present in the room, my body is doing what it’s supposed to, but my mind is somewhere else. I feel disconnected. Perhaps these aren’t the right meds for you. I’m always tired, but my blood count is fine. My weight is stable. There’s nothing wrong with me physically, I’m growing like a weed. I’m catching up. Everyone’s thrilled, but nothing fits. I can’t even get the words to sound right. Get a grip. Snap out of it. Wake up. I have the best dreams. Vivid, sensual. I don’t want to wake up. Sleep is safe. I remember when it used to be the opposite. Dark circles. Lethargic. Find something to get excited about. Notice the trees, the colourful leaves. Take an interest in the world around you. But why should I? I’m alone because I choose to be. I chose this. What makes you happy? When was the last time you really laughed, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt? Uncontrollable belly laughter, you know what I’m talking about. I’m so inhibited, so repressed. Always in control, unless I’m drunk. You should see me then, I’ll bet you wouldn’t recognize me. Looselimbed and giggling like a little kid. Willing, eager to please. I want to shake you. Like a rag doll. Make your teeth rattle. I hate you. Loosen up. This isn’t ballet. What’s the worst that could happen? Humiliation? Being laughed at? No, you don't understand. If you don’t talk it out you’ll act it out. Screw you, this isn’t about trust. This isn’t about taking risks. I never let go. I can’t, if I did I would drown.

An Interview with author Steve Berman

When I read your novel Vintage: A Ghost Story a couple years ago I was so happy to discover that there was more to GLBT YA than Geography Club and Rainbow Boys. Not that there is anything wrong with them (we have a lot to thank Brent Hartinger and Alex Sanchez for), but I think many teens are drawn to edgy writing, something out of the ordinary. We want to see young gay characters presented in a new way. Vintage is a cleverly crafted love story with a twist. It has a darker feel to it, and the 17-year-old gay protagonist is anything but stereotypical.

I've wondered why, with all the fantastical YA novels out there, there aren't more queer speculative fiction books aimed at teens. Outside of Tripping to Somewhere (Kristopher Reisz) and Baby Be-bop (Francesca Lia Block), there really isn't much. I suppose I've found my niche. Vintage deals with a dark subject; the notion that we commonly fall in love but rarely with the right person and how these mistakes are part of life. And sometimes these mistakes are tragic.

Not everyone’s familiar with speculative fiction. What does the term mean to you?

I think of any story with the fantastic, the strange, and the weird. A fairy tale is speculative fiction. So is a vampire story. Or if you wrote a steampunk novel. The atmosphere is charged with "something amiss."

When aspiring writers look to others for advice they’re often told to “write what they know” and to find “an authentic voice”. But as a writer of speculative fiction/fantasy you’re doing the very opposite, you write about the unknown. You can‘t always draw on your own experiences.

Well, it's only half-true that I cannot draw on my own experiences when writing a speculative fiction story. My latest, The Harvestbuck, involves a gay teen getting a phone call from his (straight) best friend to come get him from a lonely highway in the woods late at night. While the weirder elements of the story are pulled from my imagination, a lot in the piece is based on my past. A childhood friend's father would drive us around the Pine Barrens in his jeep. And every kid in New Jersey hears stories about the Jersey Devil. A camp counselor told me that deer running through the woods made a sound like thunder. And so forth. So I call upon these experiences, these facts, to weave together with the fantastical elements... so the story seems more likely to have happened.

Reading is a class issue, but it’s also become a gender issue. Boys lack male reader role models and when it comes to books there’s little beyond fast paced action/adventure stories and “funny” MG/YA about puberty and girls. Few of these books challenge the reader to think for himself, or teach the reader about diversity and how to be empathic, for example. Books written for girls are all about feeling, but books written for boys are all about doing. Would you agree?

That's an interesting viewpoint. I haven't read as much MG as I have YA, so I'm curious if this is actually the case. I have heard that publishers seek more fast-paced titles for boy readers because they are concerned the boy might abandon the book if he's not engaged with the story. One could say that movies aimed at males are often action-packed while those targeting women are more... introspective and romantic? I think the problem is that not every boy or girl reads like the boy or girl next door. Blanket statements smother. And, a story without some action is stagnant and one without emotions is empty.

Were you encouraged to read as a child? What are some of your early book memories?

Yeah, my parents were always reading books. I saw this as a perfectly normal pastime and I remember being taken to the library to get books. I never asked the librarian for help because I was shy and fearful that my love of scary and strange books would be mocked, so I had a tough time finding good reads. Thankfully, Roald Dahl and John Bellairs came to my rescue.

When I “came out” to my friends last year I felt an enormous sense of relief, but I also felt as though I’d lost part of my masculinity, and that being gay means “I’ll grow up to be less than a man”. I’ve noticed that many gay teens buy into all the gay stereotypes, it’s almost expected. Is this something you experienced as a teen, and what was your own “coming out” process like?

Well, I came out much, much later than you. In my mid-20's to friends and in my early 30's to my family. I often wonder why the old stereotypes still have any strength. I'm certainly not against any boy wanting to be flamboyant and feminine--I think there's a certain boldness in adopting such traits. But aren't we past the "gay boys should be shallow and interested in musicals and shopping and catty remarks" idea? Or is the media behind the times and presenting a mirage? I went to a gender-bending/queer performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Of the boys seated in the audience, I doubt any of them filled the majority of stereotypes. They were unique individuals.

I think gay teens need to have the confidence of being out without feeling they must adopt traits to appear "gay." What is masculinity and why must it be a heterosexual condition? It's an illusion of traits -- clothing styles, gestures, speech tones -- that are triggers for society but mean little about whether or not a person is strong-willed and able-bodied.

Lethe Press is a very “adult” publisher. What’s the biggest difference when writing for teens? I recently read a blog post by author Blake Nelson where he expresses that teen readers have become more conservative since the 90’s when his novel Girl was published and the world has “cleaned up“. I was surprised by this. Do you agree with his statement?

I don't know if YA books are so conservative. I do know that sites that sell a lot of books, Wal-mart and Sam's Club, ask that titles not have profanity or much sex. If you want to sell through those outlets, you can censor yourself. I think teens think about sex more than adults do, I know I did. If you have never had sex, you wonder about it. If you have had sex, you wonder about it even more. I think that an author owes it to his readership to be honest. If a story demands "adult" elements then you are better off with them than writing with one hand tied behind your back by the decision.

I happen to know that you like dance. There’s so much poetry and emotion in it, but I’ve yet to find a single book about boys who dance.

Yeah, I have wondered about this. So many gay youth are involved in the arts, but mediums like dance and theater are very visual and as hard to capture on the 2-dimensional page as music is. Maybe with the progression of e-books you will have more mixed media involved, but until then it's hard to express the nature of dance. I've often wanted to write a book involving ballet. Perhaps one day...

How do you feel about happy endings in YA fiction? Some adults seem to believe that teens can't handle the truth, that the world isn't always a good place. Suicide, for example, is still a sensitive topic to write about.

Well, I'm for happy endings in gay YA fiction, I'm tired of reading stories where gay kids don't win, don't prosper. I'm editing an anthology of inspirational stories for queer teens that should release next year. I understand that life is difficult and rarely fair, but we often read books for escapism. I think a better ending than the tragic one is the one neither all-good or all-bad. In Vintage, yes, the Narrator has found real love but his future won't be an easy one because he'll always be harassed by ghosts.

Steve Berman was born in Philadelphia, but grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey. He’s the author of Vintage: A Ghost Story, a finalist for the Andre Norton Award. Speaking Out (Bold Strokes Soliloquy Books) is scheduled for release in 2011.

Perfection

Some adult content. Read at your own discretion.

He’s been telling nothing but lies since school started. Lies about where he’s been and who with, lies about keeping up in class and being on top of things. He’s always “fine” and “okay” and “well”, but he’s been wearing the same clothes all week, and the last time he took a shower was Sunday. He spends all night on the computer doing absolutely nothing, no one tells him to go to bed. He’s old enough to know better, sure. If you want to be treated like an adult you’d better start acting like one. Right? They don’t know his history, how he spent years trying to parent himself and his little sisters, always presenting a perfect image to the outside world. He never gave himself permission to be a kid. He never admitted to feeling helpless. He never asked for help. The worst part is that it was all for nothing. It fell apart anyway. The older guy offers to give him a haircut for free. He likes the way they look at him, he can’t help it. It gives him a rush, a sense of being in control. Sometimes it makes him hard. Big deal, he’s not immune to feeling. No girl would ever look at him this way, he’s not that special. And even if she did he’d never notice her. But the way these older guys act around him, it’s better than any high. It makes him feel attractive and wanted. It makes him feel special. He’s so eager to please them, always smiling and polite. Here, I’ll do it, I don‘t mind. He’s been craving a father figure for so long that he’d be willing to do almost anything. Telling him “no parent in their right mind would ever treat a kid this way” would be pointless, he’d laugh in their faces. He knows what guys want, and it’s a small price to pay to get what he needs. Besides, he’s not a little kid anymore. He shouldn’t have to talk around it, talk in riddles. It is what it is. How dare they say he’s putting himself at risk, when all he wants is to feel safe. To have someone love him, to mean something to someone. To be cuddled and held. To be allowed to feel small and needy. Don’t talk to me about setting boundaries or how to respect my body. The difference between good and bad touching, like I’m some sheltered 10 year-old. What love is and what it isn’t. And don’t act so shocked and surprised, like you didn’t already know. There’s no love here at all, no teaching by example. The atmosphere is so tense it makes his stomach hurt. They’ll barely look you in the eye, and the few times they’ve tried to touch him he pulled away so fast he almost scared himself. There's no law against grieving. He should be allowed to feel sad and cheated. To feel angry and hurt. To throw his clothes and bedding on the floor and scream, scream, scream until there’s nothing left in him. I can’t be that perfect kid anymore. I’m sick of trying.

Things

There are so many things a kid can’t discuss in therapy. She tells him ”this is a safe place to share”, ”you can talk to me about anything” and ”everything we talk about in this room stays between us”, but it’s all lies. Honesty puts you ”at risk”, he learned this a long time ago. You’re left with the not-so-important things. ”How’s school?” Fine. ”Are you getting enough sleep?” I guess. ”Did you do anything fun over the weekend?” Not really. ”You look happy/sad/angry/bored today.” Sometimes she’ll ask him to fill out a form where you rate your feelings on a scale from 1-10. He never strays too far from what’s considered normal. Not too high, not too low, but somewhere in the middle. Indifference is good. A blank expression is even better. Don’t cross your arms, don’t clench your fists. Don’t cross your legs, it’s feminine. Don’t sit with your legs too wide apart, it’s threatening. Long sleeves, even though it’s 85 degrees outside. If pushed he’ll say, ”I miss my dog”. I miss. Me. She once asked ”Do you think you’ll grow up to be a perp? Is this something you worry about?” It made him wonder if she’d ask a girl the same thing. With boys it’s automatic. Only boys grow up to be perpetrators, abusers, rapists, wife beaters, sadists. It was a question made to rattle him, shake him up, make him talk, but he hates her now. Men are inherently evil, we’re wired this way. There must be something wrong with our bodies, something wrong with our brains. There’s something wrong with me. The truth is he’s more worried about growing up to be like his mother, hopelessly stuck and powerless, unable to do a damn thing about anything. He wants to say, “I have something in common with her, we’re both scared of men”, but it sounds ridiculous, funny almost. What if she laughs at him? He can feel his face redden. The pain stays. It stays right here.