Trans Kids, Homelessness and Murder
Running Toward Hope, Chapter 9
“Rack ’em, Bobby!”
We’re in the dayroom, killing time. There’s fussball too, but Bobby always kicks my ass at that, the little shit. He glances at the clock and shoots me a painful look as he racks another game of eight ball.
I shrug my shoulders. I feel pretty bad too, but what can I do?
When I hear the door open and a pretty young woman walks in, I don’t even recognize her. I figure she’s some case worker or counselor. Dime a dozen here at Covenant House. I line my stick on the cue ball, but her shadow interferes with my line of sight.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, looking up.
Her face is a memory explosion. I gasp, “Becky!”
She steps right into my space like she wants to hug me, but I back up fast — suspicious, “What are YOU doing here?”
“Luke.” She says it so soft. “I’m so sorry about your friend. It made the news all the way back home. I came as soon as I heard about her.”
She pauses for a moment, then stutters. “Luke? LT? Can you ever forgive me?”
I stumble and sink into a chair. Bobby rushes over and lays a hand down heavy on my shoulder. He’s protective like that these days. We’re both worried about being separated soon.
“Forgive you, huh? How did you find me?”
Her lips tense up. “Some of the news reports mentioned your name. That you led the cops to the murder scene.”
“Oh, yeah.” I look at the ground because I don’t wanna talk about it.
“I called around and found out you were here at the Covenant House. Day before yesterday. I took the first flight I could get. Luke, I am so, so sorry about all this. I want to help somehow.”
I don’t wanna believe her, but she’s here. Kansas is an expensive plane flight away, so she ain’t bullshitting. I look up and into her eyes, perplexed.
“Oh, my gosh,” she breathes. “Look how handsome you got!” Her hand flies up to her mouth and I think I see a tear forming in her left eye.
I let some of my anger go. “Does Tim know you’re here? Does he know I’m here?” I’m thinking about my mom, but I’m not gonna ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know. I moved out six months ago.”
“You’re kidding! Divorce? But what about the church? The deacons’ll fire him or something. Or kick you out!”
“I left the church.” She says it so quiet I almost can’t hear. But her painful face would have been enough to tell me, anyway.
Bobby interrupts. “Is this the lady you told me about? That pastor’s wife?” His voice is cold and thin and hard. He sounds way older than 16.
“Yeah.” I stand up and drag two more chairs over behind the pool table. I motion for everybody to sit down. “Becky, this is my best friend Bobby.”
She sticks out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t take it. “Luke took care of me for a long time. He’s a good guy. A really good guy. What you did to him was fucked up.”
“It’s OK, man,” I start.
He reaches out a hand and stops me. “Lady, you got any idea what he had to do to take care of himself? After y’all kicked him out of his house? Huh? Lemme tell ya. He was suckin’ old men’s dicks, that’s what. And plenty more too.”
I want to stop him, but I don’t. He’s really lit up. Just keeps going in that icy voice I barely recognize.
“This one time? Neither one of us had any money left. Didn’t have no food neither. Marissa, she gave him a Big Mac and he walked twenty blocks to find me and give me half of it.”
Marissa.
Her face flashes into my memory like she was really here. I don’t wanna think about her. It’s too hard.
Becky sends my thoughts down a different path. She stares at Bobby for a couple heartbeats and then starts to speak, quoting. “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.”
I name the verse, gazing directly into her eyes, “Luke 17:2.”
She nods and dabs at her left eye.
“What are you guys talking about?” asks Bobby.
“Probably why she left the church, man,” I answer. That breaks the ice. Bobby lets his guard down a tiny bit, and I relax enough to ask some questions.
I want to know some stuff about my mom and baby sister. Just the basics. If they’re OK, whatever. It hurts to think about them too much, so I keep it short. I don’t mind crying in front of Bobby, but I’ll be damned if I do it in front of Becky.
When she tells me my mom is sorry, my lip starts to quiver. I can’t make it stop.
“Tim put the idea in her head,” explains Becky. “He told her teenagers need limits and tough love. He told her that you’d come back after a few days and be ready to get serious about the Lord again.”
“Ha! I was probably more serious about God than Tim. For real. I ain’t sayin’ Brad and me shoulda been havin’ sex in the church basement, but that was between us and God. That church building ain’t holy. It’s just a place. It’s just a bunch of cement blocks and a hole in the ground.”
“Remember that night at the kitchen table?” she asks. “You stunned me. When you said calling you a sinner for being gay was bullshit? That pissed me off, I couldn’t deal . But I KNEW you … so it ate at me.”
She stopped for second and wiped her eyes. “You made me start thinking hard. You made me start on a path of study that led me to places Tim couldn’t accept.”
“Look, what difference does it make to you or Tim or anybody else if I’m gay? That’s between me and God. I don’t think God cares, but maybe I’m wrong. So OK, whatever. Even if I’m wrong, I’m still saved. I’m still redeemed. I’m still His child!
“What’s the problem? Why does Tim and everybody else have to care so much about trying to put limits on God? I don’t doubt God. Why do they?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. That’s exactly why I left Tim … and the church. What they did to you was worse than anything they were accusing you of. You’re not the one ignoring Jesus’s commands and his example.”
I’m all set to argue, but even as I open my mouth, I realize there’s nothing left to say. I just stand up and reach over and give her a hug.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and interrupts before things get too mushy. Bobby jumps up and rushes over trying to listen in as I put it up to my ear.
It’s Pat. The cop. She barks a few quick words.
I put the phone down. “Let’s go, get your coat. The jury’s back with a verdict. Pat’ll pick us up five minutes.”
Bobby voices my thoughts perfectly. “Oh, shit!”
This is chapter nine of a serialized short story dealing with homelessness among LGBTQ youth. Over forty percent of homeless youth in the United States identify as LGBTQ. That’s extraordinary given that queer youth don’t make up more than 3 to 7 percent of the general youth population.
While the details of this story are fictional, I’m writing from my heart and from my experiences. I’ve known these kids. I’ve been there in many ways. The issues are very real and very serious. I’m fictionalizing the stories of real people.
I’m telling their stories because they need somebody to speak for them.