His brother's eyes didn't immediately catch the box. "Bro, sandwich?"

John saw Devon half turn towards the door before looking back.

"What . . .? What the hell? Dude, what?"

If he hadn't been so consumed with the heaviness of being caught, John might have laughed at the look of complete confusion on Devon's face. His brow furrowed, his eyes flicked from the box to John and back again.

"Bro . . ."

John unfroze. With sweaty, hasty hands, he grabbed for the box lid, struggling to jam it back on, damaging the box as he did so. The door clicked behind him, and for a second he thought Devon was gone. Then, he felt a cool hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man, calm down," said Devon quietly. "Chill."

John stayed his hands, letting them drop to the carpet in front of him.

"Move over, man. Let me sit."

Obediently, he shuffled slightly to the left and felt the warmth of Devon's arm brush his own as his brother sat beside him.

"Look, you're not in any trouble or anything, so chill out." Devon's voice was quiet and calm, soothing.

John was silent, his gaze fixed on the box, the contents half showing. His precious things were ruined now, ruined because they were secret, and now they weren't. Again the heaviness bubbled up into his stomach. He could hardly breathe.

"Now, what's in the box, bro? Shall we have a look?"

Shards of white cold fear stabbed through him, the pain pushing him out of his silence. "It's . . . it's secret." He stumbled over the words, the S in secret too sibilant, his pitch too high.

"Man, I'd never tell anyone your secrets—you know that." Devon's voice came from next to him. "And sometimes it helps to share your secrets. Makes it a lighter load, you know?"

He knew Devon was right. He knew if anyone would keep his secret, it would be his brother, but the problem was that this was such a secret it was secret even from himself. Opening the box brought up . . . issues, as his mother would call them. Issues were anything from a pregnant student at Sandton High to the mixed-race couple who lived down the street. Issues were things you talked about only in hushed whispers if at all. Issues were not things that happened in this family. Issues were . . . insurmountable. And yet . . . here a sudden hope sprang up in John's chest. Maybe Devon was right in another way. Maybe Devon would laugh and tell him this was all normal and have an explanation, something everyone else knew, but he didn't. Devon was older and smarter, and maybe—just maybe—he would know exactly what to do.

It was this welling of hope that made John lift the lid of the box. He half-closed his eyes in deference to his old ritual, but he still saw Devon's hands hesitating over the contents before beginning to take them out one by one.

First came the blouse. It was the oldest item in his collection, and he'd saved it from the rag bag at his cousin's house. Blue with white trim around the collar, it was soft and faded. Then there was the skirt—denim, flounced and short, found in a sack of clothes his aunt had given his mother, accidentally included among the boy jeans and sweaters. There was more. Pink socks. A Monster High t-shirt. Another blouse, white this time, with delicate embroidery on the chest. And finally, a long strand of orange beads. As Devon pulled out the beads, the sound of them rattling together made John's hands ache to touch them, to feel them slipping through his fingers.

He sat silently, head bowed, waiting for Devon's reaction. All that happened was his brother slowly and carefully re-folded all the items and put them safely back into their container. Only when this was done, and the box slid back under the bed, did Devon adjust his position so he was facing John, though John couldn't yet look his brother in the eye.

"Okay, first question," Devon said gently. "Is any of this stuff stolen? Or did you just find it?"

Not knowing why this would make a difference, John shrugged. "Found," he mumbled.

"Good," said Devon. "I didn't think you were a thief or anything, and I'm glad I was right. So tell me, what do you do with these things? Do you wear them?"

John shuddered at the thought, half in disgust and half in excitement. It had actually never occurred to him to put the clothes on his body. "Just . . . just touch them. Hold them," he whispered.

"And how do you feel when you hold touch them?"

Devon was probing, but his voice was still gentle and calm, and John was starting to relax a little now. He wasn't in trouble. "Good, I guess."

Devon was quiet for a few moments, and John felt his heart slowing. The heaviness in his stomach faded, and his breath came more evenly.

"John, you're my brother, and I love you no matter what," Devon finally said. "But I gotta ask you, man. Are you gay?"

So used to hearing the words "faggot" and "homo" in the locker room, it took John a second to understand his brother's question. Was he gay? He honestly had no idea. He didn't think so—he didn't get turned on looking at guys. But he didn't get turned on looking at girls, either.

He looked up at his brother for the first time now, and with all the strength he could find, he said simply: "I don't know."

Devon sighed. Then his eyes brightened. "Okay, man, maybe I have an idea on that score. Leave it with me, okay? We'll help you get things figured out."

John nodded, dumbly. He didn't know if this was something that could be solved, but he'd give anything a shot.

"Listen, bro, you gotta know something," Devon said, putting his large hand on John's knee. "I know you gotta keep stuff like this secret—from the kids at school, from Mom and Dad. Whatever the hell it is that's going on here, and damned if I know what it is, it's not going to be making you any friends. But the important thing is you don't have to keep this stuff secret from me, all right? You need something, someone to talk to, whatever, then I'm here. Got it?"

Again John nodded. He wanted to believe Devon, but he wasn't sure. There were things going on his head that even he didn't want to know, and he doubted if Devon would want to know them, either.

"I wanna hear you promise, man. Promise you'll come to me if you need to."

John cleared his throat. "I promise."

Devon squeezed his knee. Then there was the noise of the front door opening.

"Kids, I'm home."

"Mom," Devon said needlessly. "Coming!" he shouted.

"Thank you," John said quietly.

"It's what I'm here for," whispered Devon. "You can't tell Mom and Dad this. I'll keep your secret, I swear."

"Thanks."

"All right, I'll go down and deal with Mom. I'll tell her you're working on your chem report. Give you a chance to chill out a bit before dinner, okay?"

Devon got up nimbly, and John watched him, envying the way he inhabited his body so well, the way he was simply himself—comfortable, able, loving. Reaching down, Devon ruffled John's hair.

"Don't worry, kiddo, we'll work stuff out," he said closing the door quietly behind him before running down the stairs to greet their mother.

John closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath. Shit. Or not. He wasn't sure. Talking to Devon helped a little, he thought. He hadn't come up with the answers John had hoped for, but deep down, he'd known there weren't going to be any easy answers. Sharing the box hadn't been as awful as he'd thought, and maybe, just maybe, sharing his dirty little secret had left him feeling a little lighter. Only, it had added a whole new worry onto his already full plate. Would Devon treat him differently now?

Differently. Different. He'd always been different. He remembered his dad playing ball with Devon and their boy cousins outside on a hot, sticky day. And there was John, happily playing with the girls and their Easy Bake Oven inside. Did that make him gay? It seemed like the sort of clichéd thing which would. And yes, there'd been sports. Little League, PeeWee football, but he was unfortunately no damn good. He'd tried, seeing how his brother's successes had made their father so happy. He'd tried as hard as he damn well could, but he frankly sucked.

"You run like a girl," one of the other kids had jeered.

What exactly did the taunt mean? He was a boy—how the hell could he run like a girl? So he'd watched the softball team in the next field, compared how the girls ran to how the Little League guys ran and done his best to copy them, to keep his hips straight, to piston his arms. But as soon as he stopped concentrating on doing it properly, his body relaxed back into running the way he'd always done. So he'd quit.

He'd realized sports wasn't his thing. It hadn't mattered so much. Sure, his dad was pissed, but his mom said maybe he was better at other things. She'd asked him what he'd wanted to do instead, said he could choose another extra-curricular, anything he'd wanted. But even then, and he'd been all of seven or eight, he'd known well enough to keep his mouth shut about the things he'd really wanted to do. Learning to cook could have been fun, he thought. He'd merely shrugged, though, and said he didn't mind. There'd been an endless round of martial arts classes and music lessons and even, one summer, horse riding on a dusty farm a half hour's drive away. But John had excelled at nothing, and finally, when he entered high school, his mom had given up. To keep up the pretence of normalcy, he'd said he'd joined academic clubs, but he spent the time after school hanging out in the library instead.

Why did things have to be this way? He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes tightly. Why did he have to be different? Why couldn't things be as easy for him as they were for everyone else? And the worse thing was he didn't even know why or how he was different. Screwing his eyes shut even tighter, he felt the hotness of tears and hurriedly blinked them away. Crying was done at night in bed, not in broad daylight.

He was . . . effeminate. He knew it when he was honest. He'd even overheard his dad use the word about him and had to go look it up in a dictionary. Afterwards, he'd made an effort to appear as manly as possible, but it did little good. He was a late developer anyway, with no hint of hair on his face yet; his voice was high, though nowadays it was doing a weird screeching thing every now and again. Did effeminate make him gay? And if it did, would it be such a bad thing? He supposed if he were, he'd hide it at school, but school wouldn't last forever. Then, at least he'd have a label to put on his differentness.

Devon had said he could help him discover if he was gay or not. John had no clue what the hell he was talking about, but he was sure his brother would come up with something. It could be for the best. He swallowed the thickness in his throat and found he was laughing. How many high school kids were wishing right now that they were gay? Jesus Christ.

***

Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and boring family chitchat. Dinner was as normal as could be, and as closely as John watched his brother, he saw no sign that Devon thought of him any differently than he had before. The only difference was Devon actually offered to do the washing, rather than the two of them fighting over it as they normally did.

Homework done, John decided on a shower before bed. Maybe it would help him sleep. He wasn't up for one of his long, endless, aching nights tonight—the ones when he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think.

He pulled his shirt over his head, back turned to the mirror in the tiny shower room he shared with Devon. If he made sure to be careful getting into the shower, he didn't have to see himself once. And he was meticulous about running the water as hot as he could so the mirror was steamed over by the time he got out of his shower. He'd never liked looking at himself, especially when he was naked. It didn't look like him was the problem. It wasn't that he had this image in his head of what he looked like and the mirror image didn't gel with it. It was more like the person in the mirror simply wasn't him at all, and catching sight of himself always made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, like he was being watched by a stranger.

Despite the shower, sleep didn't come easily. He still had a heavy feeling inside himself that he couldn't make go away. Going over his conversation with Devon again and again in his head didn't help matters, either. Each time, he felt the same writhing of shame. And it was only when he remembered Devon's asking him if he wore the clothes that he felt a little tingle, an unidentifiable feeling but a pleasant one, nonetheless.

*****