Jason sat alone in the shelter of a rickety umbrella outside the café. It was late, maybe eleven, and the crescent moon hanging low in the sky was barely visible. Rain hammered down, an angry drone on an otherwise silent night. It drowned out his thoughts, but a single tear slid down his marble cheek. Slowly, Jason reached for the orange leather notebook that lay untouched on the table before him-then stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut and retracted his hand-that’s not me anymore. Abandoning the notebook, Jason rose abruptly. In doing so he accidentally knocked the wicker chair off balance and distractedly grabbed for it before the chair could splash into the slowly rising puddle at his feet. His knuckles were pale as Jason gripped the back of the chair with more force than necessary, crushing several strands of the fiber. He was too upset to enjoy the fresh scent of heavy rain on an autumn night, or the clarity in the deep blue fabric of the sky above. Instead, Jason tightened his fists and thrust them deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans, hunching his back and bowing his head as he slowly dragged his feet across the slick asphalt. Water from the road soaked into his tattered shoes; rain from the sky drenched his threadbare, hoodless jacket. Jason needed an escape, so he took his time trudging through the alleys and past broken lampposts.

“Hey you! Watch it-them’s my petunias!” A woman shouted from her rocking chair and crossed her arms stiffly. She sat on the porch surveying the teen with distrust that made him suddenly very conscious of both his age and his mixed skin tone. Jason glanced up at the woman, withered in age, and for an instant almost pitied her, for she was on her own with only her schizophrenic ramblings for company. Then he clenched his jaw, shook his head, and turned away. “Crotchety old bat, too paranoid for her own good!” he muttered bitterly, kicking a rock from the edge of her flower bed. Guilt jolted through him. Her place was just robbed… But Jason couldn’t think about that! It would be giving himself permission to feel sympathetic for her and that he couldn’t do. Not after working so hard to block his emotions. After all, he thought, emotions make you weak.

When Jason finally arrived home, he stood in silence before the door. He sighed in resignation as he lifted the cracked clay pot and retrieved the key, unlatched the dead bolt and lock, then replaced the key. The doorframe creaked loudly, the door splintered imperceptibly under his hand as he pushed his way inside. Wearily, Jason closed the door and unlaced his shoes. He placed them in a neat row alongside his mom’s sneakers and stepdad’s boots, holding his breath as he straightened his spine. If Jim was home… He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. Jim wasn’t home, he was out drinking-he was always out drinking. Right? Jason swallowed hard, and quietly made his way up the stairs. Creak. Creeeeaaakkkkkk. The steps protested beneath his toes and Jason prayed that no one could hear. When at last he made it to his room, Jason changed quickly into a ratty old t-shirt and slipped under the covers of his small bed and welcomed the salvation of dreams.

Jason ran the ball up the court, skillfully evading opponents who swarmed him from all sides. At the top of the key he stopped, bent his knees, and extended his arm to the sky. His eyes locked on the ball as it soared in a perfect arc, swishing through the net effortlessly. The crowd roared and rose to its feet. Hethrew his hands in the air, whooping-but his moment of triumph was cut short when number 87 rammed his shoulder into Jason’s chest. Pain shot through his body. “Hey faggot!” 87 said, sneering. “Watch where you’re going, little girl!” Jason felt the shame burning his face as he shrunk smaller, his hair growing longer and longer until it piled around his feet in a small heap. He turned to run, searching frantically for an exit only to find them all blocked. Men with bulging muscles and thick facial hair towered in front of the doorframes. Jason’s heart clenched with fear as he whirled faster and faster, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and screaming shrilly at the top of his lungs. “Leave… Me… Alonel!” he shouted, and the scene slowly melted away. The basketball court disappeared, the crowd and teams were gone-he was isolated in a strange, quiet darkness. Jason collapsed onto his back, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. He was completely and undeniably trapped.

Jason jolted awake, sweating profusely. God, I hope I didn’t wake anyone up. Worriedly, he stumbled to the mirror tucked away in the back corner of his room. He ran a hand over his coarse, closely cropped hair and carefully inspected himself; his muddy brown eyes with violent green spikes, thick black lashes, ugly beige scar below his left eyes. He examined his wide nose, flat and crooked, and his over-plucked eyebrows. His gaze drifted to his fragile form outlined by a frayed white t-shirt and shuddered. It was too obvious. They couldn’t know-no one could know! Hell, Jim can’t even know! His breath was heavy and shallow; his chest hurt. Jason swallowed and, collecting himself silently, pulled out the walkman bought at his neighbors’ garage sale when he was seven. He popped in a Sammy Hagar cassette tape and lay back down, scrunching the covers in a protective bubble around himself.