Jalen didn’t judge me. I knew he’d never do that, that we’d still see movies together and pass notes in class despite how I talked or what I wore. He liked me for me. He invited me to join basketball games and tackle football in the community yard of my old neighborhood. Even when Benji didn’t invite me, he asked where I was. He wanted me to be included.

I never felt equipped for the roughness of the other boys. A tackle was never just a tackle. It was a bum-rush, a blunt-force blow to the head, an occasional broken bone, which we’d shrug off and realize later.

But Jalen I felt comfortable with, because he was nice to me. Too nice. I got the dumb impression he’d be okay if I asked if he “liked me” or “liked me liked me.” And after that, he didn’t invite me out anymore, didn’t even ask about me, didn’t even look at me.

So no one asked about me. I remember watching movies about gay people, white gay people, because that’s what was most available. I scoured the library for more books about white gay people. I assumed there’d be people who’d accept me for me eventually, and I’d just not found them yet.

I stare at the custom-made shirt and get lost staring at it.

“I don’t roll that way, bruh.” I hear his voice even when I don’t want to—the intonation, the dismissiveness. I hear the atmosphere of the hallway he said it in, the audience of kids who may not have heard him. It jumps out in memory as the moment my heart first broke.

Allister, I hope you know it’s not that I don’t like you—it’s just that I don’t feel safe with anyone.

I wish I could explain why it hurts where it does and how it affects my interactions.

Mom knocks on the door. I know it’s her, because her knocks are always soft, like questions, while Benji’s are hard, like answers. Her knocks respect my boundaries.

“Come in,” I say, wanting to profusely apologize, because I never wanted to do something that a reckless teenager would, like take the car and crash it, or fight at school.

But now, as she leans into the doorway, afraid to come in, I’m not the approachable son she once counted on anymore.

She’s smiling, but it’s sad and distant. She knows now that not everything about me is soft and gentle and good, and that some things are reckless and violent.

“Are you sure you’re ready to get back out there?” she asks. “I mean, your head . . .”

It’s been four days of gauze, but today I unwrapped it to expose the red spot, just in the corner of my head, at the hairline.