Taking the Stand

Chapter One

"Diamonds and denim? Mason grips the steering wheel as fat flakes of snow splat on the windshield of his Subaru. What kind of a prom dress am I supposed to design around that theme?"

Sketch cracks up in the backseat. Better take cover, Jonathan. Mason’s about to fire his Tim Gunn at us.

Nobody loves giving Mason shit more than Sketch. Theirs is a decade-long friendship based on varsity-level insult volleyball and the bond formed by being the first two students suspected of being queer at our school, East Bay Christian Academy. It’s a title Mason wears with Pride with a capital P, while Sketch still refuses to label herself, insisting she is who she is and she’ll date whoever the hell she feels is worth dating, which—so far—is apparently no one. And me? I’m relatively new to this trio, not to mention to being out publicly.

Mason taps the brakes and the car slows slightly. "I take it you’d like to walk to work then, Frances?"

Call me Frances one more time and—

You’ll what? Flick your paintbrush at me again?

I smile and glance out my passenger-seat window as Mason navigates his car through Uptown Minneapolis. In an unpredictable world, I can always count on Mason and Sketch to argue.

Sketch takes another jab. What’s the problem? You could buy denim material on the cheap and BeDazzle the shit out of it. Jenna will still look gorgeous, no matter what.

A few weeks ago, during the East Bay Christian Academy Gay-Straight Alliance fundraiser at the homecoming dance, Jenna Stevens won the bid for a one-of-a-kind haute couture prom dress designed by none other than Mason Kellerman, the self-proclaimed future winner of Project Runway, and he’s been obsessing over the dress ever since.

"You try to get a needle through denim! Mason glances at his thumb like he’s picturing the puncture holes already. He looks over at me as he turns onto Lake Street. What a joke. Why don’t we just rename our prom the East Bay hoedown and be done with it?"

My fingers brush the still-healing scar on my head. I don’t care what they call the stupid prom. I have no intention of ever attending another school dance. Not after what happened last time. But I don’t tell Mason that. You’ll design something beautiful. You always do.

He smiles and pulls into the parking spot nearest Young at Art, the trendy art studio where Sketch works for Simon, my former camp counselor, and his fiancée, Dawn.

You should come in and say hello. Sketch taps me on the shoulder.

This again. The ongoing campaign to get me over my lingering anger at Simon for keeping secrets from me. Secrets I had a right to know. Pass.

C’mon, Jonathan! Everything turned out okay in the end. And Mason, it’s full-blown wedding central in there. You should see Dawn’s dress. Ivory leather with fringe and hand-beaded symbols on the bodice and sleeves.

Did you say hand-beaded? Mason is already out of the car and sprinting toward the store. Actually, he’s sliding toward it. Sprinting’s not really possible in Minnesota on late-November icy sidewalks.

Sketch leans up from the backseat when we are alone. Dawn’s parents have agreed to come for the wedding, and one of the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe elders is going to perform the ceremony with Pastor Jane. I’m telling you, Dawn is beyond excited.

Good for her, I say, and I mean it. I know how much Dawn has wanted her parents to accept the fact that she’s a Christian. As much as I’d like my parents to accept the fact that I’m gay. I’m happy for her.

Tell her that yourself. And while you’re at it, say hello to Simon, she challenges me. You know you miss him.

Sketch is right. I do miss Simon, but it’s hard to get past the fact that he kept an important secret about Ian from me, and now my relationship status has sunk to phone calls that go unanswered and texts that aren’t returned. Still, I suppose it’s not entirely Simon’s fault. All right. But just for a little bit.

That’s all we have. Toddlers and Pottery Training begins in twenty minutes.

Sketch and I walk past the storefronts that share the block with Young at Art. Past the coffee shop and the beauty salon and the clothing boutique.

Hang on, Sketch says, spotting a convenience store. I want to buy a pack of gum before class. It’s like liver treats for two-year-olds. Sketch ducks into the store, and I wait at the counter while she debates the obedience-training power of sugar free versus fruit flavored.

That’ll be three dollars and forty-four cents, the clerk says when she finally decides.

Sketch hands him a five-dollar bill and waits for her change while I glance at the magazines and newspapers in the stand.

She jumps when I lunge for the copy of the StarTribune. What are you doing?

I slap it on the counter next to her three-pack of Stride and she stares at the picture, obviously a mug shot. Holy shit!

There’s nothing holy about that shit.

Then Sketch is flinging the change at the clerk and picking up the newspaper and tugging me out of the store. Don’t worry. Simon will know what to do, she says.

Simon will know what to do? Hasn’t he already done enough? In fact, if it weren’t for him…

I grab the front door of Young at Art and yank it open. Mason, Dawn, and Simon are sitting around a table looking at—of all things—dinner plates.

I like the Portmeirion, Dawn says. Simon, what do you think?

Bit formal, isn’t it? He frowns and rests his hands on the arms of his wheelchair.

Next to me the planter by the front door thumps its tail. Or Bear, the huge white dog behind it, does. But I’m in no mood for dishes or dogs.

"This is your fault!" I shout, taking a step toward Simon, but Sketch blocks me with her arm.

Mason and Dawn startle and look over at us. Simon pushes his wheelchair away from the table. What’s wrong? What happened?

Sketch walks forward and hands him the newspaper with Ian’s face on the front page. I’ve taken hundreds of pictures of him, but none like this. None I want to burn.

Simon reads the headline. Sixteen-year-old charged with assault and battery in school incident. He shakes his head.

Peering over his shoulder, Dawn continues, A warrant was issued late Friday afternoon for the arrest of Ian McGuire, the teen accused of attacking two students at East Bay Christian Academy on the night of the homecoming dance. Ian McGuire was arrested Saturday morning at the home of his foster parents, Fred and Matilda Castell, outside Madison, Wisconsin. He was then returned to Minneapolis and is currently in the custody of the Hennepin County Juvenile Detention Center, awaiting arraignment. Dawn looks at me. I can’t believe it. You didn’t press charges. How could this happen?

The state must have decided to prosecute, Sketch says, but I have a better answer.

"It happened because of him." Waves of heat ripple through me as I look at Simon. I’m going to be sick. Right here. I know it.

Dawn bristles. Now, wait a second, Jonathan. That’s not fair.

You’re damn right, it’s not fair. I glare at her. Simon knew Ian’s parents had severed their parental rights. He knew how much Ian was hurting and he didn’t think I had a right to know. Don’t you get it? I turn to stare at him. I never would have brought Ian to that dance if I’d had any idea how messed up he was. This is your fault. This is all your fault!

Simon winces with each word.

I’m so sorry, he says, but I can’t listen to him talk or breathe or apologize. In fact, I can’t be in the same room with him. Not for one more second.

Jonathan, wait, Simon shouts, but I’m stumbling toward the door, leaping over Bear, and then I’m on the street. Sliding past the convenience store and the beauty salon and the clothes boutique.

Jonathan, stop! It’s Sketch and Mason.

I double over, panting, in front of the coffee shop. This can’t be real. None of this can be real.

Sketch kneels beside me. Are you okay?

I shake my head. There are no words for what I’m feeling.

C’mon. Let’s go inside. Mason puts his hand on my back. It’s freezing out here.

I follow Mason into the coffee shop and sit next to him in the booth. Sketch sits across from us. I can’t stop shivering. Or imagining Ian sitting in a jail cell. Mason glances at me and orders three espressos, a double shot for me. We sit in silence until the waitress brings the sludge and I gulp mine down.

"This is his fault." I slam the small cup on the table and glare at Sketch, hopefully making it clear that I’m in no mood for an argument in Simon’s defense. She’s good at making arguments, but then again, she is the daughter of two of the best attorneys in the state. Mason pushes his untouched espresso toward me and I drink it down, too. It scalds, but it jump-starts my brain.

Wait, Sketch, which one of your parents is the criminal attorney?

My mom. Why? Oh! Her face lights up. Of course. But would she? I’m not sure. She probably shouldn’t since I was at the dance, too, but what does that matter?

Words like should or shouldn’t mean nothing to me as I climb out of the booth, twitching from fear and the overdose of caffeine. Where is she? Home or office?

Sketch doesn’t answer. Instead she sits there, sipping her espresso and staring off into the distance.

Earth to Sketch. We have to find your mom and talk her into taking Ian’s case. Where is she?

What? she blinks and glances at the clock on the wall, then at me. Oh, probably office. But trying to talk her into taking the case won’t work. Nobody, and I mean nobody, talks my mother into anything.

Mason grins. Least surprising thing on the planet. A pigheaded Mallory woman.

Sketch ignores him. But maybe… she murmurs, looking off into some imaginary distance. If she thought it was her idea…yes, that might work.

I slide back into the booth as Mason waves at the waitress, ordering another round of espressos.

We’ll need to be subtle. Not overplay our hand. She’d catch on to that, Sketch says. She blinks and focuses on me. Jonathan, can you print up some pictures of Ian from camp? Preferably of him smiling and looking vulnerable?

Uh, sure. But why?

To leave in my room. Because my mother only thinks she’s smarter than me. Sketch smirks and outlines her plan to trick Catherine Mallory into taking Ian’s case.

Chapter Two

Catherine Mallory looks at the pictures she found in her daughter’s room of the boy, sunlight dancing off his red hair and freckles, with a lake and a willow tree behind him. So young. So innocent. She tries to remember what that feels like.

You can’t be serious. Liam stares at her. That boy brought a straight razor into our daughter’s school and you want to defend him?

Catherine picks up the newspaper she found on the kitchen table and scans the front page. Same red hair. Same freckles. But that’s where the similarities end. She looks at her husband. Yes, I believe I do.

It’s a conflict of interest.

Catherine leans forward in her chair. She never actually met the boy, Liam, and you know it.

"You wouldn’t risk your reputation over a technicality like that." Liam crosses his arms and leans back in the Queen Anne chair, his long legs stretching beneath her desk. He exudes confidence, but she is an expert at reading truth between the worry lines on a witness’s face.

Liam, look at him. He’s young and scared. The article says the state is pressing charges. You know what that means. Richard Wadell, that preening peacock of a district attorney, will run for re-election on this boy’s worst nightmare. She stands and looks down at Liam, her husband and partner in the law firm of Mallory and Mallory. I thought you cared about justice.

Liam, the most successful civil rights litigator in the Midwest and crusader for the oppressed, flinches, but he doesn’t try to stop her from picking up the phone and dialing the number for their office.

Hello, Lauren, she says when her assistant answers. I want you to find out everything you can about Ian McGuire, the kid who caught the assault and battery charge in Hennepin County. I want to know where he’s from, names of potential witnesses for the defense, priors, which judge has been assigned the case—everything.

Catherine glances at her husband. His face mirrors the voice in her ear.

Yes, Lauren, Frances does attend East Bay Christian Academy. What’s your point?

Catherine hangs up without waiting for Lauren’s answer. She already knows her point. She shoots a look at Liam, daring him to say one word, an offer he wisely declines. She crosses the office, opens the door, and spoils what should have been a perfect exit by nearly bashing into their daughter.

Frances, what are you doing lurking outside my door? Her voice comes out harsher than she’d intended.

For the hundredth time, Mom, it’s Sketch. And I’m lurking to tell you dinner’s ready. Her daughter shoots a quick glance into the office where Liam is still shaking his head. If court is in recess, that is.

Chapter Three

Holing up in my bedroom every evening and flipping through the pictures stored on my Nikon’s memory card is probably not the healthiest thing in the world for me, but it’s what I do now. What I have to do.

Simon, his hands covered in clay at the arts and crafts pavilion.

Free the captive within.

Simon, his face cast in shadows.

See the light.

Simon, his head bent in prayer at the shore of Spirit Lake.

God wants a personal relationship with you…just as you are.

I touch my hand to the four-inch scar on my skull. Talk about adding insult to injury. I click to the next frame and come face-to-face with a picture of Ian. This is madness. I cross my bedroom and dig under the bed for my soccer bag, where it’s sat untouched for months. I unzip it and shove my camera next to a pair of dirty cleats and a smelly uniform. I am about to close the bag when I spot my Bible on the nightstand. If God can let this happen to Ian, then it belongs with all the other discarded parts of my life. I toss it in and pull the zipper shut. I am about to push the bag far under the bed when Dad’s voice hisses through the room.

I’m telling him in the morning.

I glance at the door, but it’s closed.

"Butch, please. He’s been through so much. Can’t it