Discover → LGBTQ (Fiction)

Why Can't Billy Idol Love Me?

By Bruce Dane

Worth reading 😎

A typical coming-of-age struggle story of a gay teen in a small town with homophobic classmates.

Synopsis

On the surface, high school junior Shane has it all: a spot on the soccer team, a popular girlfriend, and a pretty cool mom. But in order to belong, he’s hiding who he really is; after all, nobody “wants a fag” for a friend, a boyfriend, or a son. If he doesn’t find someone to confide in soon, he’s literally going to kill himself. Desperate for a sympathetic ear, Shane reaches out to his French teacher, Mr. Bridge. But can he really trust the eccentric loner?

The novel is a typical coming-of-age story for a gay teen in high school where he feels like he cannot be his authentic self. The story starts with signs of suicidal ideation, but then doesn’t deal with those thoughts or feelings in the first half of the book, which I found to be a little inconsistent. However, the story continues with Shane Noble living his pretend-straight life with his girlfriend and homophobic friends, a life he’s not happy about. Eventually, the story takes a few interesting and perhaps unexpected turns.


The author understands well the shame that a gay teen might experience, in being different and in disappointing parents. However, the jumps in emotional states did stunt me a bit, disallowing from connecting emotionally to the main character, or any other character, for that matter.


More critically, although this is a YA, LGBT+ fiction, the written voice does not feel fresh or YA, at all. It comes across that the author's voice has seeped into the writing, and this is unfortunate at best. Whilst reading, I spotted phrases that don’t seem to belong to the narrator; they're just out of element. And then, in most chapters, if not all, there are references to songs from last century. I found that to be quite jarring. Firstly, explaining thoughts and emotions by stating that they’re like the lyrics of so-and-so is more of a tell; it doesn’t show me anything. Moreover, because this is YA fiction, I doubt that the audience would particularly get most references. In fact, from so many references, I only got one:


“The words from Madonna’s ‘Like a Prayer’ came to mind, about life being a mystery, and we must all stand alone.”


and that’s because Madonna is huge in gay culture, unlike most other referenced artists. And from that sentence, you could understand how little description it adds to the narrative.


Despite these caveats, the outline of the story is solid. Overall, I rate this book as average, as I was interested enough to continue reading. However, I do wish that the writing would've been more fresh and exciting, and that some parts of the story were a little less forced or given enough time to blossom.

Reviewed by

I'm a 24-year old poet and writer who likes reading a vast variety of content. I frequently read poetry and short stories in literary journals, as well as longer works such as novels (literary and speculative fiction) and poetry collections/anthologies.

Synopsis

On the surface, high school junior Shane has it all: a spot on the soccer team, a popular girlfriend, and a pretty cool mom. But in order to belong, he’s hiding who he really is; after all, nobody “wants a fag” for a friend, a boyfriend, or a son. If he doesn’t find someone to confide in soon, he’s literally going to kill himself. Desperate for a sympathetic ear, Shane reaches out to his French teacher, Mr. Bridge. But can he really trust the eccentric loner?

ChapterOne



IwanttorunmyhandthroughKurtThompson’s hair, butIcan’tbecausehe’saguyandsoamI.Ifthat’snotenoughtomakeyoukillyourself,Idon’tknowwhatis.

I’mdancingwithmygirlfriend,andKurt’sdancingwithhis.EachtimeCassandraandImakeaturninourslowdance,IpeekthroughherhairtolookatKurt.Hiseyesaremostly closed,butthere’s amoment,attheveryendofthesongwhenheopenshiseyesandlooksrightatme.Hesmilesandgivesmeanodofhischinandalook.Alookthattearsrightthroughme. His eyes were Billy-Idol blue and he even had the sexy smile to match. 

JustlastyearI’dbeennormal.Ihadbeenjustlikeeveryoneelse.GodhowI’dclungto that.Nouseanymore:myentireplannedfutureofagirlfriendandcollegeandawifeandkids andahouseobliteratedthemomentKurtlookedatme.Gone.Myfeelingsweren’tjustlonginglooksthatIcouldhideforever,theywerephysicalreactionsbeyondmycontrol.Ireallywasdoomed.

TheschoolyearatWesthaven Highalwaysbeganwithadance.Itwassomethingtheprincipalthoughtwasagreatwaytostarttheyear. Butifyouwereastudent,itwaskindof a nightmare.Wewereallaskingourselveswhatwe’daccomplishedoverthesummerbreak?Had yourfacefinallystoppedbreakingout?Hadyoufinallyfilledout:heightandfacialhairforguys; titsandassforgirls.Ifso,thefirstplacetoreallyshowitalloff wasthedance.Nopressure.

“Let’sgetsomefreshair.” Cassandrajuttedherchintowardthepatiotothesideofthegym.“Freshair”reallymeant“makeoutuntilwesprainourtongues.”ForagoodCatholicgirl,shesure knewhowtokiss.Latelyshe’dbeenlayingitonthickthatweshouldsleeptogether.She’dalreadytriedoverthesummer,butI’dputitoff,sayingweoughttowait.IevenadmittedIwasavirgin,whichshethoughtwasreallysweet.Iwasn’tsurehowtofeelaboutthat.Relievedthatshe’dbackedoffalittle?OrinsultedthatshewasmoreexperiencedthanIwas?Makingoutwasonething,butCassandrahadbeenpushingformoreandmoreprivateencounters—encountersthatcouldgofrommakingouttosexbeforeIwouldeverhaveachancetostopit.

Evenifshewasn’tavirgin,fakingmyfeelingsthroughourfirsttimeseemedlikesomekindoflovecrime.Iwasn’ttryingtobechivalrous;Ididn’twantmyfirsttimetobesomekindofOscar-worthyactingexercise.Iwantedittobereal,tobegenuine,likeanyonedoes.

Mysecondlineofdefensewasmycurfew(11 onweeknights,midnightonweekends),whichmademyjobaloteasier.Normally,wewouldjustbemovingfromheavykissingtosomeunder-the-shirtstuffwhenweranoutoftime.UsuallyIdidn’tmindmakingoutthatmuch,buttonight,itgratedagainstmydance-floorfantasyofbeinginaboy’s arms.Ineededamomenttoswitchgears.

“Igottagotothebathroom.”Iyelledabovethemusic,pointingtotherestroomonthe othersideofthegym.

Shepointedthatshe’dmeetmeoutsideonthepatioandleftmeinthethrongofkids rockingtheauditorium.Onthesurface,Iwasjustlikethem.Imadethegrades,belongedtothe soccerteam,wenttotheparties—sotypicallystraightthatnobodysuspectedathing.Onthe inside,Iwasdying.

Inthebathroom,Istoodatthesinkandsplashedwateronmyface.IhadtogetKurtoutofmy headandfocusontheeveningasitwas.Okay,so,Iwasn’treallyinterestedingirls,didn’tliveinaprogressivetown,andwouldneverhaveaboyfriendinhighschool.ButIwassafe.WithCassandraonmyarm,atleastIwasn’tasuspect.Iwasn’texactlyTheRock,butIwasafarcryfromstereotypicallygayguysforwhomtherewasnoescapingdetection.

Cassandrawasgreattohangwith;justbeingaroundhergavemeconfidencetobranch outalittle.Shedidn’tmindthatIwasdifferentandevenappreciatedmytastein80’sretroclothes.Itgavemea“look”shesaid.Peopleweren’tsomuchlookingatme,ShaneNoble,astheywerelookingatguy-in-cool-clothes-with-cool-girl.I’dpassedanentry-leveltestthatgave melicensetobealittlefreer.

Justforthedance,I’dboughtthisultracoolmidnightbluesummer-weightsuit,andathrift-storefedora.Tocompleteit,Iworeablackt-shirt,apinstripevest,andaredsilktiehungloosearoundtheneck.Igavemyselfanodinthemirror.

ThenoutofthestallscametheAssholePatrol:Rick“theDick”Blakely,JimBartell,andtheirfreshmanlackey,DylanThompsonwhowasallredhairandpimples,but“cool”becausehewasonjuniorvarsitysoccer.Thethreeofthemwereliketripletsseparatedatbirth.Bullytriplets.WhileIwasofficiallyfriendswithRickandJim,itwasmorelikefrenemies becauseIneveractuallyconfidedinthem,wewereconstantlycompetingagainsteachotheron thefield,andRickhadtriedtodateCassandrabeforeme.Theirgeniuswasthatinpublic,they onlygaveyouafriendlytease—whentheycaughtyoualone,theyshowedadarkersidethat wasfreakyinapack-leader-and-wolveskindofway.

“Youwantsome?”Rickbrushedbackhisblackhairtorevealicyblueeyes.Hepushedajointmyway.“Thisshitisepic.”Ishookmyhead,pretendingtobecaughtupingroomingmyselfatthemirror.“Thanks,butI’llpass.”(Tip:Avoidingoffersofmale-bondingbypretendingtogroomoneselfisthewrongwaytocounterrumorsthatyou’regay.)

“Don’ttoke?”RickfrownedlikeI’dsaidIdidn’teatpizza.“Asthma...”Isaid,takingastepbackfromthesmokecloud.

Ricknodded.“Soyoudon’tsmoke.Don’treallydrinkfromwhatI’veseen. Whatdoyoudo?”

I half laughed because they wouldn’t have known it but Rick’s line was almost verbatim from the song “Goody Two Shoes” by Adam Ant’s third and final 1982 song. Imovedtoleave,butJimandDylansteppedinmyway.“Hey,we’rejust chatting,right?”Ricktouchedmytie,andwhenIlookeddown,heflickedmynose: gotcha.“So,youdownherpantsyet?”

“Sorry?”Ifeignedcluelessness.God,hewassuchafuckingjerksometimes.

“Cassie...youdownherpantsorjustpretendingtobeinterested?You’vebeengoingoutsincelastyear.”

“What’reyou,herchaperone?”

Helaughedinmyface.“Nah,shedon’tneedonewithyouaround.You’renottryinganythingfromwhatIhear.What’syoursecret,Noble?ToobusylookingatKurtThompson?”

Myheartstopped:They’rewatchingme.“Yeah,onthedancefloor.Youreyeswerejustaboutgluedtohim,weren’tthey,guys?”JimandDylansnortedandchuckledoncue.“Dude’sgotahard-onformybrother,”saidDylan,givingJimapunch.“Wait’tilItellKurt.”

MyfaceburnedandIfroze.

“Yougay,Noble?Thisschool’salreadygotonefaggot,whynottwo?Maybeyouandcanmakebuttholebabiestogether.”

Iflashedbacktofirstsemestersophomoreyear.Lunch.Small-framedDavidMortimergetting hisasskickedrightthereonthecommons.Bloodynose.Screaminghisfoolheadoff.And allI couldthinkwas,Ifhejustdidn’twearthatultra-gayflight-attendantscarf.Why?Whythescarf,David?

Buttodayit’sworsethanjusthisscarf;it’shislaptop.Theygrabitbeforehecanshutitoff,andthere it is:“proof.”His#1playlistonYouTubeisasongbythescreaminglygayMikafeaturingscreenshotsofMarioLopezandZacEfron.Theyformaringaroundhimashe triestogetout.TheyeachgetinonereallygoodhitbeforeDeanNewcombefinallybreaksitup andtakesthemalltotheoffice.CouldNewcombedraghisfatassanyslower?Hello!Littleguygettinghisasskickedoverhere!Thetwoamigoswalkawayhi-fiving,knowingthey’llbeback intimeforsoccerpracticewhichIactuallysharewiththem,hatingitsometimessomuchI actuallyconsiderswitchingtocross-country,orswimming(exceptI’dhavetowearoneofthoseskin-tight dick hammocks).CassietellsmethatintheofficeDavidwon’tsayawordandspinelessPrincipalSchifrinletsitslide.VicePrincipalBlakely—yes,Rick’smother—reallyrunstheschool,butifsheoversawherownson’s discipline,wellthat’dbetoodirectwouldn’tit?DavidMortimer—ifhe’ssmart—he’llbeapplyingtooneofthosegayhighschoolsinNewYorkCityandwe’llneverseehimagain.Me? Ican’tgetfoundout—I’llendupbeingthenextDavidMortimer.Ican’tletthathappentome;it’dkillmymother.Hell,it’dkillme.

 “Kurt?Areyoukiddingme,IwascheckingBritneyout.”Icheckedmyhairandtietryingto soundhipwhenreallyIwasabouttoshitmypants.“Now,that’sasweetass.”ItwasthebestIcoulddo;besides,therewasnowaytheycouldknowexactlywhoIwaslookingat.(Tip:Ifyouhavetolie,rememberthatit’salotlikeacting;believewhatyou’resayingandsowillthey.)

Rick’sflintyeyesblinkedacoupleoftimes,hisprocessorsrunningacheckonthedata.Thenheboughtit.Orseemedto,withbulliesyoucanneverquitebesure.Inodded,wanting morethananythingjusttobeontheothersideofthebathroomdoor.

“Dude!Itotallyhadyougoin’!”saidRick,hisfacesuddenlybrightening.“YouthoughtIwasserious?!”Hegavemeafriendlybutjust-a-little-too-hardpatontheface.“Nobiggie, dude.”

“Justfuckin’withyou,bro,”saidJim,offeringmeafistbump.Ipunchedback,noticinghowsmallmyhandwasagainsthis.Hewasabigred-headedmooseofaguy.Iletmyselfhaveahalflaughbeforerealitywashammeredhomeonemoretime.

“Butditchthatretroshit,”saidRick,thumpingmyhat.“Totallymakesyoulooklikeafag.Losethetieoryou’llnevergetlaid.Andyouwanttogetlaid,right,Noble?”

Theydisappearedoutthedoorintoablastofmusicandlights,leavingmewhip-lashed butatleastmomentarilyalone.Godthoseguysweregood;Ihadtheshakesandthey’dbarely doneathing.HardtobelievethatthiswasasfarasI’dgotteninthefriendsdepartment.Wehad spentafternoonssincethirdgradeonsoccerfieldsandhockeyrinks.Thenwehadgottencloserin scouting,andreallyseemedtobondwhenwe’dalldecideditwastoogayforsuburbanwanna-be badboyslikeus.Now,Iwasalwaysonthefringeoftheirradicalmoodswingsincool-dom,but Istillbelonged.Butintheirincreasinglyerraticdrive-bys,Iknewthatmysafetywasasthinas mynormalcy:oneslipanditwouldbeover.Yes,waiter,I’llhavetheDavidMortimerwithasidedishoftotalrejection,please.

Onautopilot,myhandstookthetieoff, stuffingitintomypocket.MyretrodreamsofDuran-Duraningitupforthedancewereover. HadIactuallybeensodeludedthatI’dfantasizedaboutdoingNickRhodeseyemake-upforChill,theholidaydance?Forthemoment,Ihad escapedanythingpermanentoccurring,butwhetherRicksaidtheywerekiddingornot,they reallyhadbeenwatchingme.AndIhadnoideahowlongthathadbeengoingon.Ijustwanted torun,togohome.IwasafraidthatassoonasIsawCassandra,she’dknowsomethingwas wrong,getmetocrack:‘Homo?Whywouldtheythinkyou’reahomo?’SoIdidn’tgiveherachance.

Ileftthebathroomlikearocket,spottedCassieatthepatiorailing,grabbedheranddoveintoa kisslikeanOlympicmedalist.Igrabbedandpawedatalltheappropriatespots,lettingherpush myhandsaway.Finallyshestoppedandturnedherheadaway.“Ok, ok.Ineedtocomeupforair.”ShelaughedalittleandIcouldtellI’doverdoneitjustright.“Where’syourtie?”

Ipattedthefrontofmypants.“Gothotdancing—inmypocket.”

“Oh,isthatwhatthatis?”ShegropedmegentlyandIknewthatshewasreadyforround two,butI couldn’tgothereagain.SoIpretendedtonoticethebigwallclockinside.

“Ohshit,it’salready10:30.Weshouldbegoing.”

Cassandrasighedinfrustration.“Woulditkillyoutobelatejustonce?What’s yourmothergoingtodo,shootyou?”

“No,she’lljustpulltheplugongoingoutforasemester, isthatwhatyouwant?”Ibrushedthehairoutofherfaceandgaveherasensualcaressonherarmsthewaysheliked.

“Jesus,Shane,withyourmomaround,whoneedsabstinence-onlyprograms?”

BeforeIcouldsoftenherreaction,Cassandrawasmarchingofftowardtheparkinglot. 

* * *

Thedrivetomyapartmentwasalittlequiet,windowsdown,heaton,tunesuptooloudtotalk.

“Idon’tmeantobeabitch,Shane.”Cassandraletthecaridle,theamberdashlights givingheranunrealglow.“Iappreciatethatyourmomhasrules,andthat’s good.ButIfeellikewhatwehaveismaybeworthupdatingtherulesfor.Imeanyouwantme,right?”

“OfcourseIdo.”Ilied.Theseveraltimeswe’dgottenclosetodoingit,itwasmewho hadtoputthebrakeson.Cassandrawasreadytogo,verycomfortablewithherbody,andwithgivingittome.Ifeltlikeshitfornotfeelingthesameway.

“I’lltalktoher.Butyouknowhowsheis?There’s notmuchyoucanhidefromanurse. She’sgoingtoknowthatlatercurfewsmeanssexandIdon’tknowifshe’sreadyforthat.”

“Andwhataboutyou?”Shetookmyhandandsmiledwarmly, thepissed-offCassandra gone.“Howdoyoufeelaboutthat?Aboutme?”

“Iwanttodoit,youknowIdo.Ijustwantittoberight,youknow?”

Shesaid“metoo,”butIgotthefeelingthatifI’dsaidIwasreadyrightthenthatshe’d haveyankedmeintothebackseat.WekissedgoodnightandIwalkedupthestairsofmy building,turningtowavedutifullyasshedroveoff.

Thetown-house-styleapartmentwhereIlivedwithmymomwasalwaysquietatnight.Shewas onnightsatMercyGeneralintheER.Wedidn’thavetoworryaboutmoney, butthetwelve-hourshiftsweretoughonherandleftmealotoftimeonmyown.Myfriendsthoughtitwascool, andsodidIforawhile.Butyoucanonlyskipsomuchhomework,wanderatnightsooften,or trytogetintotroublesomanytimesbeforeyourealizethatrealtroubleisalwaysoutthere waitingforyou.Onjunk-foodtrekstotheKwikMartI’dpassedenoughdrunks,runawaysand creepswhostaredatkidstoknowthatonlyluckwassavingmefromarun-in.SophomoreyearI startedstayingin,doingmyhomework,andwatchingwholelottaDiscoveryChannelandNat Geo.Nothingtotakeyourmindoffthingslikefindingoutthatourbrainsaremostlywater.

Inmyroom,tryingtoshakeoffwhathappenedatthedance,Ire-evaluatedmyselfinthefull-length mirror on the back of my door.DidIlooklikeafag?Couldpeoplereallytell?Onlinetherewerealwayspeopleleavingcommentsaboutthisstarorthatsinger“lookinggay,”“soundinggay,”or“actinggay.”SometimesIsawDavidMortimerinthehallwayandwonderedifhecouldtellaboutme.Hewas usuallybusykeepinghisheaddownandtryingtoavoidhisnextass-kicking,butIwonderedif hedidn’tpickuponmysignalnomatterhowbadlyItriedtosuppressit.IsthatwhattheAssholePatroldidonthedancefloor?Senseagayvibe?

My walls and ceiling were covered in the best of the 80s, literally like wallpaper I don’t think I’d seen the actual wall since I was 12. Yeah, I had the Bangles, and Sheena Easton, and the Go-Go’s, but they were just filler between my real loves. Duran Duran (them decked out in black and white, Simon in a trench coat, John Taylor in those loose leather pants!) Adam Ant, Stray Cats, Simple Minds, Thompson Twins, Culture Club, Yazz, The Cure, The Smiths, and my all-time fav (drumroll please) Billy Idol. That guy was perfection. From the tip of his bleached out spikes to his battered boots, and every rubber bracelet and artfully torn shirt in between. So incredibly beautiful, but that raunchy grin that just makes your head spin. My 80s playlist from an old iPod was on eternal loop. The Smithereens “Blood and Roses” came on and I knew God had a sick sense of humor. The lyrics were exactly right: not belonging and love coming out wrong. 

Ifeltthelumpofthetieinmypocketandtookitout,unfurlingitlikeatinyflag.Itwas stillinaloopsoIputmyheadthroughthesoftnooseofit. The guys in these bands had it so good. Fame, fortune, any woman—or man—they could possibly want. Andthey made make-up cool for men. And not just Bowie or guys like Simon Le Bon and Nick Rhodes either. Billy fuckin' Idol, too. Street tough who could be pretty and rough at the same time. It never got any cooler than that; we’ve just been backsliding since then. Gay marriage?! Ha. What good is being married when your kid gets bullied at school because of his two moms or dads? How many minutes was I out of sweating a close encounter with the Asshole Patrol myself? What was it I had to do to get them off my back... have sex with Cassandra in public, post a video of us doing the nasty? Those guys were human earworms eating away at my brain. Faggot, I thought. Queer. Cocksucker. That’s all I’d ever be to them. If I made it to graduation, I’d just face more of them in college, and then at work.

“Faggot,”Isaidout loud,andgavethetieabackwardstug.Queer. Ipulledharder,thetiesqueezingmyjugular.Rick’s wordsburnedinmyears:“What’syoursecret,Noble?”Didhealreadyknow?Whoelseknew?Whatwouldhappenifeveryoneknew?Ipulledthetieuntilit cutoffthebloodtomyhead,immediatelygettingdizzyandweak.AfewmoresecondsandI’dbeout.

Iheardkeysinthefrontdoorandjerkedbacktoreality.

“Shane,youhomeearly?”Mom’s voicefilteredup,muffledbyheavycarpetingandthefloorbetweenus.Iwhippedthetiefrommyneckandquicklywenttoblockthedoorincaseshetriedtocomein.

“Justgettingreadyforbed,Ma.”

Shewasalreadyupstairs.“TheyoverstaffedtonightsoIgotsenthome.CanIcomein?”

Ithrewthetieonthebedpostandpulledoff myshirt.Iopenedthedooracrackandshehoveredoutside.

“Howwasthedance?YouandCassiehavefun?”

“Oh,itwastotallygreat.Butcouldwetalkaboutittomorrow?I’mkindatired.”

Afterthebriefestpause,“Sure.”Sheusedhercasualvoice,whichalwaysmademetense. “Goodnight,hon.”

Iheardherpaddownthehall,thenthesoftclickofherdoor.Wewerenoweachsealedinourrespectivemother/sonbunkers.ButwhowasIkidding?Shehadtoknowsomethingwasoff;wejusthadn’ttalkedaboutit.TheolderIgot,themoreinternalmyproblemsbecame.Askinnedkneeat8wasaloteasierforNurse-Momtodiagnosethanabrokenheartat16.Whowasto blameforthat?Herfornotdigging(well,okay,prying)ormefornotcomingforward?Butc’mon,really,comeforwardforwhat?Tohavemyheadchoppedoff?Parentsareallsupportiveuntiltheyactuallygetsomethingconcrete.Andthenit’s like“Drugs!?”“Suspendedforwhat?”“Pregnant?!How!?”I’dheardpeopleatschooltellinglunchroomwarstorieslongenoughto knowthatsecrecywas a necessary shield sometimes.

Ileftmyguard-postatthedoorandsankdownagainstthetangledmessofbeddingatmy headboard.AllthatcametomindweretheblondcurlsofKurtThompson’smane.Unaffected,unpretentious,nearlyunstyled,hewasnaturallybeautifulandundeniablymasculine.Enviedby theguysandadoredbythegirls.Youeitherwantedtobehim,orbewithhim.Andofcourse,Iwasinthelattergroup.ItwassoCapulet-Montagueitwassick. HowcouldmyheartbebrokenifIhadn’tevenhadarelationship?

Becauseattheratethingsweregoing(i.e.,glacial),Iwasn’tevergoingtohaveone.KurtThompsonwasaquarterback.Me,Iwasasafebackgroundplayeronthesoccerteam.Guyslikehim(i.e.straight)didn’tgoforguyslikeme(i.e.notstraight).(Tip:Beingstrategicallyneutralabouteverythingsexualmakesitreallyhardforanyonetofigureyouout.Howcantheydateyouiftheycan’tget toknowyou?)Andifsomebodyactuallydidlikeme,wellthenIwasreallydoomed.How couldweeverbetogether?Forget“Don’tAsk,Don’tTell,” myhighschool’spolicywas“Don’tTell,Don’tExist.”FromKurttoCassandratomymother,myentirelifewasalie.

Thetiewasstillonthebedpost.I’dreadonlineaboutotherboyswho’doffedthemselvesby hanging.Allyouhavetodoisfindsomethingtoputaroundyourneckandleanforward;once youpassedout,gravitydidtherest.Iputthetiebackaroundmyneckandslippeditneatlyover thebedposttotestit.Sure,Momwouldbedevastatedatfirst,butmaybenotwhenshefoundout thetruthaboutme.Wouldn’tthisbebetter?Nobodywantsafagforason.

About the author

Bruce Dane’s loss of a brother to suicide in high school inspired Why Can’t Billy Idol Love Me? As a volunteer for the anti-suicide hotline—the Trevor Project—he learned that a teen’s life can hinge on finding someone they can trust to talk to. This book is for them. view profile

Published on October 01, 2019

Published by GoRoguePress

60000 words

Contains explicit content ⚠️

Genre: Lgbtq (fiction)

Reviewed by

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