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I've been a juvenile probation officer for the county in which I live for ten years. I got the job just after I finished grad school. I'm 32. My name is Alex Bryce. I'm of Scottish extraction. Ironically, the coat of arms for my family's surname carries the motto, Fiat justitia, or, let justice be done. I fought and defied my way through the first 18 years of my life and became a supervisee of the juvenile justice system at 14. I very nearly graduated into the adult criminal justice system but for the blessed, dogged, amazing presence of two men: my probation officer and later, the dean of students in the community college where I finally managed to enroll at 19. This is not a story about my troubled youth. Maybe I'll tell that story some day. This is a more complicated story, at least for me. This is the story – unfolding still as I write – about my love for one of the young men I supervise. I should say that I'm queer. Gay. I bat for my own team. My queerness really makes no difference – loving a 14 year old boy or a 14 year old girl are both actionable offenses, and each would cause me to lose my job at the very least. Queerness just adds a dimension of complexity in the minds of many. I have never lusted for someone young before. Caring in an inappropriate manner for a minor is a new experience for me. The fact that he is 14, the same age I was when I really hit the skids, is not lost on me. I just don't know whether his age has anything to do with why I fell for him. It certainly makes for some scary challenges. The object of my affection is Timothy. He hates being called Timmy, but I can't help but call him that anyway when we're alone. He doesn't know that I'm in love with him. I don't even know whether he's gay. He's never said so, but every now and then I just get a visceral sense that he's chewing on something – and then, there's a look, a subtle blush. But, where Tim is concerned, I trust neither my instincts nor my reactions. Tim comes from a family situation that is not really remarkable even though it's horrible. Dad is a serious alcoholic, abusive, but not to the point of putting anybody in the hospital so far. He's a master at psychological abuse, very powerful, used to getting his own way. Always. Mom is in denial, suffers from low self-esteem and a lack of a sense of independence despite having grown up with every advantage, great education, more money that she could possibly need. She reminds me that anyone can be abused. And, worse, both of Tim's parents are HEAVILY invested in keeping up a façade of absolutely rosy wonderfulness. Timmy's parents drip with money. Like his mom, his father comes from a family of means, and he made another fortune in real estate speculation in the past twenty or so years. Tim's a trust fund baby. Every time I see him, the phrase "poor little rich kid" echoes in my mind. The kid wants nothing more than his parents' attention. He's not a bad kid—just a really sad kid. His antics are more ridiculous than dangerous. He is only trying to get his mother and father to notice him. The only reason he HAS a probation officer and hasn't been able to avoid the system is that one of his crimes took place in a shopping mall owned by a former business partner of his father. He saw Timothy's crime as a great reason to stick it to the old man. Some of Tim's exploits include getting caught shoplifting (with his own AMEX black card in his wallet, there for his convenience) skateboards (at the heretofore mentioned mall); being kicked out of school for giving away pot to kids; and most recently, he "liberated" half a dozen horses at an elite riding club owned in part by his father, sending six very spoiled young ladies into histrionics of epic proportions on the very day of a big, fancy horse show. I have to hand it to Timothy, he makes interesting choices about when and where to create havoc. His IQ is 140 and he's flunking out of 9th grade. Every time I've seen him in the past six months, he's been sadder and more dispirited than the time before. Not sulky asshole kid kind of sad, but really deeply sad to his core. Today, I'm taking a new approach to Tim's supervision. I've got a friend who runs a no-kill shelter for dogs. I figure dogs are as good as anything to help fill up the hole this kid has in his heart. May as well use the copious powers of my position to give Tim the chance to feel what it's like to give back something positive. Maybe that will help him turn a corner. If he starts getting noticed by others, maybe not being noticed by his dad and mom will matter less. Since I can only really hope to help the kid change, I'll work on what it is I can control. Every time I see Timmy, it's more difficult for me to hide how I feel about him. At this point, I'm grasping at straws. If I'm not able to see some results, to help get Timmy off his sad destructive path, I will need to reassign him for both our sakes. Devin is my friend who runs the shelter. He's the only person who knows how I feel. He's been my friend since we were six. He grew up not all the way queer. He likes women, too. He's probably the world's most loving, cool human being. I'm just praying that Timmy and Devin will make some kind of connection so that I can keep the kid safe and we can stay in one another's lives. I have two vehicles, an old Ford F150 that is as old as I am, and requires a LOT of my time to keep running. My friends tell me I'm crazy to keep it, but it's a point of pride for me to keep the old rig on the road. My other ride is a 2004 midnight blue Jag XJ. This car was bequeathed to me by the man I mentioned earlier, my probation office, Ken Riley, when he died a year ago in a plane crash. I had no idea I was in his will, so imagine my surprise when I was his sole beneficiary. I now live in the incredible Craftsman house where he lived for thirty years, and I drive the car that, until recently, still smelled like him. I miss the man every day of my life, but I know in my heart that he's got prime real estate there, so I will never lose him. I talk a lot to him when I drive the Jag. Ah, hell, I talk to him a lot when I drive the truck, too, just louder so he'll hear me over the rattles. My life definitely took a hard left turn when Ken died. He was my mentor, my boss, and my best friend. Just before he died was when he called me in to his office one day and handed me Tim's file. Ken said, "Alex, my gut tells me that this kid needs you. And, I think that you need him, too. Not sure why. You'll have to figure that out." A week later, just after I met Tim for the first time, Ken was killed. If Ken had lived, I'd have sucked it up and confessed what I was feeling just as soon as I knew that I was getting my heart in hot water over this kid. He would have listened to me, grinning and groaning, and then he would have offered me not a single bit of advice. He'd have said what he always told me: "Trust your gut, follow your heart, and keep your integrity, Alex. Keep your rudder true and steer your ship. Didn't I tell you that I thought you two would be important for one another?" Ken was like that. He had a spooky side to him that I learned to trust over time. With my life. I am driving the Jag today to pick Timmy up from school. Instead of going inside, I just pull up in the parking lot and wait for him. It's spring, the weather is decent, and I'm early on purpose. I figure I will catch up on some work as I wait for him. Discharge reports and intake files threaten to take over my life at any moment, so I really have to work a discipline to keep on top of them. A lot of stuff these days is only on the computer, but the juvenile probation system in my state is still not paper free by any stretch. So, I haul files with me always. One of the things I really love about the Jag is that I can move the electric seat way the hell back and stretch out my 39" inseam legs. When you're 6'6" tall, being able to stretch out anywhere is a big deal. I'm relaxing and seriously into my paperwork when a voice rips through my consciousness, "Hey, JagMan!" I am jolted from my files and see Timmy advancing. My breath catches at the sight of him. He is growing so fast and ambles to the car with a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder. He's wearing a black sleeveless t-shirt and jeans that are barely long enough, but well worn and snug so they show his lean legs and small waist. He's got a green bandana on his head that covers his auburn brown hair, except the four inches of waves that hang out from under the scarf. He dives into the passenger seat and his eyes flash at me, taking my breath away. His face is covered with a light sprinkle of freckles, which he abhors. He's wearing an eyebrow ring in his left eyebrow and a tongue stud. I am not a big fan of metal on faces, but I will say that the eyebrow ring looks great on him. His nose is straight, his cheekbones high, his slate gray eyes wide set, his chin and jaw strong, and his face bears the patrician structure of his family. The worry lines on his brow already show. I hold the bandana out the driver side window on just the tip of my finger and say, "What did you call me again? I don't think I quite heard you..." "GEEZ! OKAY! I meant, `HELLO, ALEX, how is your royal pain in the a---self today? You're looking quite well!'" "Well, hello to you, too, Timothy Henner. I'm quite well, thanks. Now, what HAS put you in such a good mood?" I hand him back the bandana and said, "Leave that off, okay?" He looks at me quizzically and asks "Why, is a bandana against the rules?"