There aren’t gay people in Little River. I’ve never met one, and I never even thought about women having sex with women until just now. Gary would mouth off about the homos who were ruining America, but he was talking about men who sleep with other men, which I know, because I looked it up at the library. I expected homos to be some kind of robber barons or corrupt politicians or evil wizards and it was kind of a disappointment to learn that they were just men who slept with men. I couldn’t figure out how that was ruining America, but most of what Gary said never made much sense to me anyway.

I want to say something to Carly, but I don’t know what. And as much as I’m not sure how I feel about this girl wearing my pants, crying over a breakup with another girl, I know she hurts and I wish she didn’t.

“I get worried I’m going to lose her,” Carly says, and her voice wobbles. “So I come out. Like completely out. I tell my parents.”

Suddenly she’s crying so hard that I feel like I’m going to cry. She can’t say words and she’s curled up stiff like the sobs are taking everything from her.

“He told me I’m not his daughter,” she says finally. “He told me no way he made a dyke like me.”

I hold her and I tell her I’m sorry and I tell her she’s better than him, because how can I not? And I start to hate Gary. Really hate him, because he’s exactly the kind of person who would say something like that to his daughter if he had one.

“She doesn’t understand,” Carly says. “Rosemary… so easy for her with her New York City parents who practically wanted her to be gay, because it’s like completely and totally in this year. I’m from Allegany. My dad’s a teamster. I knew better.”

“What did your mom say?” I ask, which is bad of me, because I’m always curious about people’s moms and my question is more for me than for her.

“She can’t ever disagree with him, you know?” she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “She can’t ever stick up for me. Not for anything, so why did I think she’d tell him off or tell me she’s fine with it, that she loves me, you know?”

“My mom left when I was six,” I say. “And my dad’s an asshole.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m just telling you so you know that I get it,” I say, “that I know how it hurts. Not so you’ll feel sorry for me.”

She blows her nose into a wad of toilet paper she’s shoved in the pocket of my pajama pants.