Scott Sherman - Third You Die

Often, deprogramming is arranged for and paid by relatives. Most typically, it’s the parents of adult children who foot the bill. They claim they want to help their children, but where do you draw the line? Is it an act of love to take someone against his or her will? Are you saving your child, or is it just another way in which parents seek to control him or her?

On the other hand, some cults are dangerous and are manipulative themselves. They prey on the insecure and weak, exploiting their alienation by promising acceptance for allegiance.

It’s a dull cliche, but you have to ask yourself: Do two wrongs make a right?

In this case, obviously not. Being gay is natural for some people-it’s who we are. No one had to coerce me into liking dick. I had that one covered by myself.

Freddy looked appalled. “Is that even legal?”

“Not as far as I know. It’s been challenged in the courts and hasn’t fared well. But that doesn’t stop some people from trying.”

“So, did Brent ever figure out who sent him the article?”

“He figured it was his older sister. The father is very controlling, and he made it clear that no one is supposed to be in touch with Brent-he’s exiled until he’s willing to change. Anyone who breaks the dad’s rules is subject to equal banishment.”

“Nice guy,” Freddy observed.

“Brent’s older sister is the only one who dares to buck her father’s edicts. Not too much-Christmas here, birthday call there. She didn’t sign the article, but it was postmarked from her town. Brent figures it was her way of warning him without getting in trouble with their dad.

“Bottom line: Brent didn’t want Lucas to call his parents if something happened to him. He wanted Lucas to call the police and tell them it was probably his parents who did it. And then he wanted Lucas to send them the picture.”

Whether Brent’s sentiment of love and forgiveness was sincere, or if he just wanted to make his parents feel remorse for what they’d done, I didn’t know. Maybe a little of both.

Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.

“Oh my god,” Freddy said. “That’s like, the worst thing ever. And I thought my parents were evil when they wouldn’t buy me a pony for my fifteenth birthday.”

“You still wanted a pony when you were fifteen?”

“Did I say ‘pony’?” Freddy asked. “I meant to say ‘subscription to Playgirl.’ So, now that Lucas knows Brent’s gone missing, did he call the cops and rat out Brent’s folks?”

“No. Two days after Brent told Lucas about the letter, he told him not to worry about it. He no longer thought his parents would do that to him.”

“What happened?”

“Brent never said.”

“So, why doesn’t Lucas call the cops anyway?”

“Like I said, Brent was sure his parents had abandoned the idea. But if they found out Brent heard they’d looked into it, they’d know the sister was the one who gave him the heads up. He loved her too much to get her into that kind of trouble.”

The waiter came over with another dessert for Freddy.

“This one’s on me,” he purred.

“Maybe later, I really will put some on you.” Freddy winked. “With some whipped cream, too.”

The waiter walked away with a big grin.

“I thought you weren’t going to call,” I said.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t flirt,” Freddy said. “He did give me free ice cream after all.”

“That does look good,” I couldn’t help admitting. “Think I could score some, too?”

“That depends,” he deadpanned. “What are you willing to do for it?”

“Ask nicely?”

Freddy handed me his spoon. “Dig in, baby.”

“That’s all it took?”

“After tonight’s conversation, yeah. Life can be ugly, sometimes. Friendship’s like me-it makes the world a little prettier.”

The next day, I found out what wasn’t pretty. Me. At least, me aged and uglied up via the expert application of latex and makeup by Steven Austen.

It was the day I’d been trying to avert but couldn’t avoid. In two hours, my mother and I had an appointment at Families by Design, where we’d be posing as the world’s worst candidates for adoptive parenthood.

Making me appear older involved adding heavy jowls, deep wrinkles, and an ashy complexion. Steve dulled my natural blondness to a mousy brown, then threw in some gray streaks for good measure.

In the mirror was an unflattering combination of myself, my father, the guy who played the father on Happy Days and Gollum from Lord of the Rings. It wasn’t a good look for me.

Was it convincing? I wasn’t sure.

“I couldn’t go as heavy on the makeover as I would have if we were working on film,” Steven explained. “The camera and lighting can be manipulated to hide a multitude of sins. But this is real life, and you’re going to be meeting people face-to-face. So, I had to be more subtle with the appliance work.”

“What do you think?” I asked Steven.

“I think…” Steven paused, searching for a tactful way to put it, “you look more like someone who’d be involved with your mother than you did before.”

Which I took to mean that while Steven hadn’t managed to make me look quite as old as my mother, I was at least believable as prey for an energetic cougar.

Speaking of which…

“Darling,” my mother cried, entering the room. Steven had done what he could with her earlier; now she was emerging from the rest of her makeover.

Steven had done a better job with my mother than he had with me, proving that subtraction is easier than addition. He’d used putty to fill in the lines in her face and a thick foundation to cover all but her deepest wrinkles. A pinker-than-usual tone in her makeup and thick false eyelashes made her look noticeably younger without being so obvious as to cross her over into drag queen territory.

Further enhancing the illusion was the new hairdo. The beautician had covered my mother’s hair, which she always wore in her signature beehive, with a red wig shaped in a more youthful bob. It was a convincing, well-done job.

Lastly, the show’s stylist, a young straight girl who’d been dying to make my mother look more contemporary since the show’s first day, really went to town. She dressed my mother in a chic cream-colored Donna Karan jacket and matching skirt that was slimming and flattering. It wasn’t obviously flashy or trying-too-hard, but it was somehow much hipper than my mother’s usual matronly pantsuits. It also looked outrageously expensive, which was an impression we were shooting for.

The stylist accessorized my mother’s neutral outfit with bold jewelry and a bright gold belt. They attracted attention without being overly ostentatious. It was a smart move, as anything that drew someone’s eye away from our faces was bound to help.

One of the problems we had was making sure no one recognized my mother as the star of Sophie’s Voice. Her image was getting pretty well known. While having someone-anyone-other than her pull off this sting would have made this easier, she insisted on doing it herself.

“They don’t,” she explained, “give Diane Sawyer an Emmy for someone else’s investigation.”

With her new makeup, hairstyle, and clothing, I had to admit my mother was probably suitably unrecognizable as the Long Island hausfrau hostess. We tried to get her to tone down her distinctive New Yawk manner of speaking, but no matter what we did, she sounded like Madonna after the pop star weirdly acquired an English accent. So, we let that pass.

As for me, I still didn’t know what the hell I was doing there. For some reason, my mother had decided I’d be the perfect person to help her pull off this stunt, and whatever Mama wants, Mama gets. At one point, I pulled her aside to ask if she didn’t think she’d be better off accompanied by a professional reporter (not to mention one closer to her age).