The Devil in Devlin

Caleb's bedroom was a shrine to God. No kidding. A few posters of Christian bands decorated his walls, for groups called Ashes Remain and Love Like Gravity that I'd never heard of, although he played their music enough. A large cross decorated the third wall. He had a bookshelf of paperback self-helps, several different versions of the Bible and study guides and even a prayer corner close to his guitar so when the urge came to compose music- another one of his talents- he could do so. Did I say he shredded on guitar beautifully and played keyboards? No? I'm pretty sure that after high school Caleb was either going into the ministry or heading up his own Christian rock band. Probably both.

Thankfully, I didn't have to share his bedroom and had a place of my own to sleep. I think my room, all done up in neutrals, used to belong to one of Caleb's older brothers who was married and lived up north somewhere. I mostly left it the way I found it; bare walls, a single bed, nightstand and dresser. I wasn't going to be there long and had so few possessions anyway, and I had learned to hide my individual style from others. It was safer that way. My beating had cost me a lot in the trust department.

Look, it wasn't that I was anti-God per se. Like most kids my age I felt I had the right to seek out my own moral truth, even if it wasn't found in any kind of organized faith. I didn't appreciate being accosted by street-corner preachers and told I was going to burn in hell if I didn't attend their church. I despised the well-dressed adults who drug their children out on beautiful Saturdays to canvas my neighborhood with their trite homilies and pamphlets. What I had to put effort into right now was making my way out into the world. That meant devoting energy to getting through high school and figuring out what came next so I could be successful and independent and all the other traits the adults in our lives wanted us teenagers to strive for. If I decided to put off searching for God for the time being, that was my right too, and nobody could force me to do otherwise.

Not to mention that I was sure the doors of most of these fine religious establishments would be slammed in my face once they knew of my sexual orientation. I was the sinner people would point at and use as an example, where they'd insist a good preacher could pray the gay away in me if I simply repented. No, leave me alone and don't lecture me, don't tell me that God hates the sin and loves the sinner and don't offer to pray for me because I will figuratively spit in your face.

Caleb, being in teen leadership, usually had a Bible study at home on Tuesday nights for seven to nine high school boys. On Thursdays, it was the same with a totally different group of teenagers. He invited me the first week I lived there, and I thanked him quietly and said no. From there on, I knew to stay out of the living room from 6:30 pm until after ten o'clock on those two evenings.

I didn't mind, not really, although I was bored to death being confined to my bedroom. I brought it up the next time Ms Hopkins visited me, and let me make this clear, I was not complaining, I was merely explaining the situation. She went out and found me a small second-hand television and told Randy and Amber that I was allowed to hook it up. Otherwise, they were in violation of the Forcing Their Religion On Me rule. That was the closest I ever came to being kicked out of their foster home, and then I would've been in deep shit because I was almost too old to legally staff anywhere else.

But I was, you know, curious about the church kids. Not to learn about God, and not even so much to hear what Caleb and the others talked about in way of more mundane conversation, but to see which ones at my high school acted like selfish pricks during the day and turned into saints at night. Hypocrisy was alive and well within the sacred church walls, and nowhere was that more true than with adolescents. Maybe because I wasn't in the youth group I could live without those rose-tinted lenses, and of course, my upbringing made it easier for me to spot the liars and con artists.

For instance, I found out within two weeks of my staffing that Hannah Goldsmith, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Simmons' pastor, smoked crack. Once I made the connection, I felt duty-bound to point this out to Amber and Randy. They called me a trouble-maker and angrily denied it at first, but a month later the girl disappeared, and I heard whispers that she'd been sent to some church-run rehab program.

Rico Torres, the choir director's son who was headed for UCLA on a football scholarship, never met a test he couldn't cheat on and paid his friends to do homework for him. I never sampled her personally, but rumor had it that Julia Clarence gave the best head of any girl at school; her father was a deacon, and her mother was in charge of the church soup kitchen. The Milton brothers, Kevin and Keith, could quote most of the Bible to you straight up, that is, when they weren't stealing you blind. They had a lucrative little business going selling second-hand iPads, smart phones and cameras to any interested comers.

That's not to say everyone was like that. The Simmons attended a very large, non-denominational church so the youth group was big. They came from all backgrounds, some jocks, even fewer cheerleaders, several brains and lots of nerds. There was also a healthy proportion of normal, mainstream kids who mostly ignored me in school so they must have been way too popular for their own good.

Caleb's three best friends were Justin Chavez, Dakota Brewster and Esdy White, and no, Esdy wasn't his real name. I think it was something like Steven or Stan, and his middle name was Dorian, so he went by his initials. Esdy, get it? All as different from each other as could be. Justin was this super-tall, red-headed, well-muscled linebacker on the football team who liked to act as if he'd been hit in the head a couple times too many. Esdy was a tiny nerd with long blonde hair and could pass for a girl from the rear. Dakota sported the Scene look and had layered black hair all in his face, tattoos and piercings and liked his violet eyes rimmed in kohl.

They were decent enough guys. Maybe Justin acted a little superior at school with that whole jock image to maintain, but they weren't blatantly rude or hostile. I'm fairly sure they didn't know I was gay. Ms Hopkins had made it abundantly clear to Caleb that he was not to tell anyone at school or church because none of us wanted a repeat of my last staffing. I had shown up at the Simmons home directly from the hospital on crutches and liberally covered in healing scabs and bruises, my arm in a cast and my ribs and misshapen nose taped. It was clear I had suffered cruelly. My doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. Caleb had looked at me and winced sympathetically, and even though I didn't trust many, I knew he wouldn't give my secret away.

Justin, Dakota and Esdy were also in positions of leadership within the high school group, so they had to attend planning meetings before the twice-a-week Bible studies. It was hard enough for me to lock myself in my room for three and half hours, but add an extra hour in front of that, and I felt like I was in prison. So I let myself out occasionally to walk to the kitchen for snacks, exercise or just to gratify my morbid curiosity. The guys waved and called greetings but otherwise ignored me.

So there I was in the Simmons household and it was five months before graduation. To tell the truth, aside from the religious angle, this was the best staffing of my life. I was the only foster kid in placement so nobody preyed on me, Caleb was cool for a brother and pretty much left me alone and Amber and Randy were honorable and only a minor annoyance on the religious front. I grudgingly had to admit that they went out of their way to assure that I was being treated with courtesy and respect. Except for some early discomfort for enrolling in school mid-term, I was accepted for myself and happily overlooked as one of the nameless masses at my new alma mater. I felt normal for a change, just like any other high school senior.

Seeing as how I was almost an adult, between my fosters and my caseworker, a lot of hard work had been put into my future. I had already been accepted by a college- Cal State University at San Francisco, and the Simmons' had agreed to keep me until my August departure. I had scholarships lined up, some in art and some because of my good grades, and I was eligible for several public programs for disadvantaged youth due to my position as a ward of the state. Even Aunt Kayla got tapped for support payments once my social worker found out about Dad's insurance. Over four years' time I would be getting a decent education and embarking on a career. The hope was that my own children, if I ever had them, wouldn't end up in the system too. I was being hailed as one of the rare success stories.

I went to school one January morning with Caleb driving like he always did. I had my license but no vehicle, and he didn't want me behind the wheel of his brand new Jeep Wrangler. Once we arrived in the parking lot, I didn't dash off like usual, and Justin, Esdy and Dakota were waiting on the front steps.

Dakota turned to me and asked, "Do you have anywhere you need to be?"

"Not really." Despite the rude wording, the question wasn't meant to insult, but I was a little apprehensive, not knowing what to expect.

"We're going to Starbucks and thought you might like to come along." The popular coffee shop was located in the small plaza on a diagonal from the school. Dakota turned to look at Caleb for approval, and he shrugged.

"That sounds like fun," I said warily. This was definitely different. In the back of my head I wondered if it was a new tactic to lure me into church.

Inside, we waited for the queue of high schoolers in front of us to place their orders, and then it was our turn. I pulled out my wallet but Dakota said he'd get it for me. I wasn't much into frou frou drinks and was going to order a simple coffee, but he talked me into something a little more substantial, and I selected a café mocha. We miraculously found an empty table in the corner and sat down.

Taking a sip, I was pleasantly surprised by the flavor. "Good, huh!" Caleb insisted, and I nodded in agreement.

As we sipped our coffees an embarrassed silence settled around us. That I was a foster kid was no secret, so I reasoned that they probably had questions they were dying to ask me. Not even Caleb knew my entire story. I wasn't surprised when Esdy cleared his throat and stared anywhere but at me.

I tried to smile. "Just get it over with, guys. I'll answer anything as long as it's reasonable."

Justin went first, but it took a few minutes to spit it out. "Uh... how long have you been a foster kid?"

"About four years." I didn't offer more than I was asked, deciding they could feed me the queries.

"So why?" Dakota asked next and then blushed. "I mean, what happened to put you... um, you know, here?"

His fumbling was kind of amusing, but I was afraid if I laughed it would irritate them. "My mom ran off when I was a little kid so she was long gone," I answered frankly, "and then my dad died."

"Was he sick?" Esdy inquired.

I shook my head and looked down at my hands. "You know McIntyre Towers in the downtown?" Four heads inclined. Set within a garden-like plaza, the Towers were three huge corporate buildings made of black glass that rented out office suites to large companies, some of which took up entire floors. It had become a landmark.

"My dad was one of the construction workers and a crane operator punched the wrong button. The bucket swung around and hit the scaffolding he was standing on. Dad fell from the twentieth floor and landed on rebar." I heard at least one of them gasp and closed my eyes to the mental images, knowing that despite the four foot long, half-inch thick iron bars jutting up from the cement below like swords, he would've died anyway just from the impact of the fall. I still couldn't walk past those buildings without getting dizzy.

"Dude," Dakota whispered. "How awful! But didn't you have any family you could stay with?"

All of them were regarding me with sympathy. It was usually hard to deal with; although, I'd gotten so used to revealing my story to various social workers and mental health workers I had fortified myself against the outright anguish. I made a face.

"My aunt didn't want me. She said my dad wasn't really my dad. I was a charity case with a druggie slut for a mom who got pregnant with me, and he was stupid in love with her. He married her knowing I wasn't his son. When he died, she felt no obligation to keep me and no sympathy either."

"That sucks," Justin groused.

"It is what it is." I shrugged. "So here I am, finally getting ready to graduate from high school. Next term I'll be in San Francisco at college, and four years from now I'll be earning a college degree and making my way in the world. All this foster care shit will be just a stepping stone that I can forget and never have to look back on."

"Forget?" The voice was Dakota's and he sounded kind of sad. I looked straight up into eyes so dark they looked violet, circled in black that had nothing on the shade of his layered hair.

I thought hard about life in the Simmons home. "Not that Caleb and his parents haven't been good to me. The boundaries are clear, and the consequences are fair so it's better than most places I've been."

Esdy sucked his frappuccino loudly through the straw. "Better compared to what?"

I shuddered, and Caleb took the opportunity to answer, flicking me a glance of compassion. "Don't ask."

I smiled back at him, co-conspirators now, and it broke the ice for all of us.

We fell into an easy routine now that I'd formally met Caleb's friends. At first, it was a simple sharing of the few minutes between the end of the boys' leadership meeting and the arrival of the nine or so others who attended the two mid-week Bible studies. Then Justin, Esdy and Dakota showed up on a Friday evening two weeks later to watch a DVD they had rented, The Big Year. It was kind of silly, with a tame PG rating, but I've always had a thing about Owen Wilson. When they invited me to join in, I sat down to enjoy it with them.

I celebrated my eighteenth birthday in early February, and the Simmons family even threw me a birthday party. The three guys came over for icecream and cake, and we played a video game Randy and Amber had bought me. There was a lot of laughter that night because each of the three, quite by accident, gave me the exact same gift, a Starbucks gift card, due to not checking amongst themselves. At least, I teased them, I could get my coffee fix on without feeling like I was imposing on Caleb's companions.

Monday night at one of the guy's houses became a scheduled event, and Caleb took me with him to be the backup player in their video game competitions. We viewed rented films together and would laugh uproariously at each other's critiques. Generally, since they limited themselves to the innocuous movies that wouldn't rile up their parents, the movies were pretty childish so the views we expressed were too. Bowling or mini-golf every other Wednesday, and laser tag on Sunday afternoons at the arcade. We played board games; I was a shark at Monopoly and ended up usually owning everything. They even cajoled me into a couple Saturday volleyball game nights in the church gym.

Away from home, Caleb called me Devlin or Dev because the other guys did, and sometimes he forgot and did it at home to warning looks from his parents and grandmother. The more I hung around the four of them, the more they seemed like ordinary guys. They prayed before eating which kind of embarrassed me when we'd stop for fast food out, and I could count on one of them inviting me to a church service or the next youth outing, but once I said no thanks they didn't press me. This was what being a regular teenager felt like, what I could've had from age thirteen up if my father hadn't died, but instead of being bitter for the chaos in my life up until now, I was grateful for Caleb and the rest of the family coming along when they did to at least give me a taste of it. At least I was making friends.

Dakota found out that I had a 3.88 GPA, and he asked if I could tutor him in AP Government which he really struggled with but had to get at least a C in. He was college-bound like me, wanting to major in international finance. He had seven university acceptance letters at home awaiting his vacillating decision, and we discussed the pros and cons of each one. He asked me why I chose to attend San Francisco State, and I said it had an excellent art program. When he discovered I could draw, he begged me until I did up a quick caricature of him. He told me he'd treasure it until the day I became famous and it would be worth a fortune. I laughed at him.

I was surprised by how quickly the time flew by, and it was April before we knew it. Sometimes I just stared at my perfect foster brother sitting across the living room from me, surrounded by his friends who had also become mine and silently wondered at what point my life had shifted. I wasn't in love with Caleb, but he'd done a lot to open me up to a wide range of 'what-ifs' and it gave me comfort that my life was nearly normal.

No, I didn't love Caleb. The man I was crushing on was Dakota Brewster. I only stared at Caleb because I was afraid that gawking at his best friend would give me away.

Dakota was like the coolest kid, the most avant-garde of the four with a heart of danger at his core and a deeper sense of self. If you weren't aware, you might say he took himself too seriously but we all knew better because he'd get this look on his face that implied that life as we saw it was all bullshit anyway. When a topic came up for discussion, he stayed quiet, but I knew he had an opinion in there somewhere, and by the time he stated it, there wasn't room for anything more. He was honest but not cruel and unfailingly modest. Like Caleb, he could riff on guitar, but he surprisingly preferred soulful love ballads over the harder alternative and indie rock and claimed he would never be good enough to join a band. I disagreed.

Dakota liked street scene clothing- studded belts, Converse low tops, Hot Topic band tees in black and gray and the hoody he took everywhere. However, I couldn't say he fully embraced the lifestyle because the church frowned on the music and, at least for now, he was ruled by his parents' wishes. His hair was jet black in teased layers skimming his shoulders, and on his eyelids he wore kohl that I was amazed didn't get him grounded by his mother and father. Maybe they were willing to give an inch, and he was smart enough not to turn it into a mile. He had snakebites on his bottom lip and a ball on his tongue as well as a pierced navel. One time he was changing shirts in his living room to go out with us, and I noticed that the skin above his left pectoral was inked in a spiky tribal tattoo that swirled over his shoulder and down his pale spine into the waistband of his black skinny jeans. I had to turn around so I wouldn't stare. Everything looked good on him because he was as tall as Caleb and almost as ripped with glorious muscle delineation and a rock solid torso.

Everyone in the group, indeed, in the larger church group, treated Dakota like a favorite sibling. This might sound strange but, even with the mysterious vibes, he was always smiling and was never mean or nasty to anyone. Caleb called him Kody a lot, and I heard it was a childhood nickname from way back that, aside from his family, only he got to use. Dakota was kind of shy but game for practical jokes as long as they weren't mean. He helped out in the soup kitchen at church and read to elementary-age kids at the local library. No kidding, this guy was one in a million. I loved watching his violet eyes change shades with his emotions.