6. Chapter 6 Theo
Chapter 6 Theo
P oetry and I were fated for one another. I knew it the first time my grandfather read Keats aloud, and the repetition of lines and patterns and the stress of certain words stuck with me. Poetry was, and still is, predictable to me.
The further I’ve immersed myself into the expectations of words, the quieter I am in the world. While Staley sat feet away from me, in my home of all places, my only impulse was to shut the hell up. I did not expect the universe to drop her on my doorstep with her curves and smart mouth.
Is Staley desirable? Yes.
However, admiration should not be confused with objectification. Her no-fucks-given aura did leave me in a state of silence, but it was refreshing. After I gazed in awe at her backside marching down the sidewalk adjacent to my home, her middle fingers high to the sky, the message was clear—I was and am in way over my damn head.
Hungover and overwhelmed, I curse the ringing phone thrumming in my front pocket.
“H-how did you get this number, Mother?”
“Theodore! I’ve called you thrice.”
She sent multiple emails. The postman has yet to make his rounds this morning, but for all I know, Mother may have sent a notarized letter too.
“Yes, M-mother, I received them.”
Conversations with my mother send my stuttering into a tailspin, so I avoid speaking with her without notice if I can help it. Stress in all forms causes my speech to be a perpetual start-stop, and my mother is the most significant stressor of them all.
“Well, I expect a timely reply when I contact you, Theodore. What were you doing that was more important than returning my calls?”
If I could get through a stream of sarcasm, I would tell her— taking a bath with a toaster, chewing on gravel, walking barefoot in a cheap, rundown hotel room —but I can’t. There’s no point, as she’d tell me to remember my income bracket and that we’ve stayed in only high-end hotels.
“I m-met with a stu-student. I won’t be at your b-beck and call, Mother. I’m an a-adult.”
Allowing her to hear my stutter sweeps me back to childhood and feelings of inadequacy. There were hours spent with speech therapists—private sessions—where my mother barked from the other room.
The word is C-A-T, cat, Theo. It’s one syllable.
The speech therapist called it a neurological disability or childhood-onset fluency disorder. My mother assumed throwing copious amounts of money at it would be the cure. Kids mocked me for my stutter and my mother tried to lecture it out of me. People assumed I wasn’t very smart, and they didn’t have the patience to sit through a conversation with me when I was brave enough to attempt one. At times, my life with a stutter has been lonely and isolating. Ownership of my voice exists only because of my writing.
“Theodore, do not back talk to me. I’m calling about a fundraiser I’ve been asked to host. It is a children’s literacy event, and I can’t imagine anyone better to emcee than you. Think of the donations you’ll pull in!”
Well, now I know that someone’s ignorance can worsen a hangover. The literary gods got it wrong when they let Plath put her head in an oven when they could’ve chosen Mother instead.
“M-mother, you can’t use m-my stutter as leverage to line the p-pockets of charity.”
Most mothers would write a check or volunteer to support a non-profit—not mine. She subjects her son’s disability to garner sympathy and make her look good when she wins the consolation. A sigh disrupts the silence between us, a reminder for the rest of my life of who gave birth to me: I am hers, and she is mine, for better or worse.
“Theodore. Literacy is important.”
“I’m not il-illiterate.”
“Of course, I know you’re not illiterate, for God’s sake. But what will a career as a poet afford you? You’ve reminded me time and time again of your future goals. Do you plan to marry a rich woman? I hear it’s more common these days.”
Naturally, she drives the conversation back to money. She lords an inheritance over my head as if it’s the only way I will have a successful future. I don’t want it if it means I’ll be left under her tutelage for the rest of my life. I bring in enough money as a teaching assistant and through my side writing job.
“Why must we t-talk about money?”
A snide laugh carries through the phone line.
“Theodore. You’ll attend this event, and I request you bring a date. We Sullivans have a persona we must maintain.”
“Persona?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. We’re desirable people.”
“Goodbye, Mother.”
I say it with my chest as clear as I can.
“Don’t forget to bring a d—”
I end the call before she can make any further demands.
Calling out sick from Professor Graham’s class on the second day of class would be bad etiquette.
More than anything, I’m embarrassed at how I shoved Staley from my home, as if she’d done something offensive when it was the exact opposite. Barb had big visions for me to practice, and I mucked them up with something awful—my shame. The part of me capable of sabotaging something good because I’m so damn afraid. The worst part is that we didn’t cuddle; there was no canoodling, spooning, or proximal touching.
There was nothing but space between us, and then she asked me if I had to choose one cuddle, which one would it be?
The Honeymoon Hug caught my attention first. An image of Staley in my bed, her head nestled in the space above my heart and right below my chin. Instead, I pointed to the Leg Lock like an idiot.
Staley said something about cortisol levels, and despite my poor hosting skills while she was here, listening to her speak and taking control of the situation gave me a sense of ease.
The Leg Lock seemed simpler and less face-to-face. Locking legs together like one would do with a pinky promise should be innocent, right? There’s no way Staley would sense any ounce of my nerves. Zero.
It doesn’t matter. I threw the damn paper away.
Professor Graham’s class is standing room only. Over one hundred registered students and three on the waitlist: Jack (Dudebro Number One), Alex (Dudebro Number Two), and Staley make up the entire waitlist. My only goal for the rest of this day is to get through it without self-combustion or further self-sabotage.
Staley exists as if she is sunlit from the soles of her feet. Then there’s me: a quiet thing, prone to the corners of libraries, shy, and used to keeping to myself with a secret here and there. For today, I pray to the gods above that all of the seats in the front row will be occupied before she gets to class. The excruciating awkwardness I subjected her to less than an hour ago is still too fresh.
For the next ninety minutes, I plan to keep my head down, shut my mouth, and avoid accidental eye contact with her. My boss trots down the cascading steps and indicates I should join him at the side of the room. Chatter fills the auditorium with cross talk and the chirping of phones—distractions. This is good.
“Hand these out to the students and ensure everyone gets one.”
One thing I remember about Professor Graham from when I was his student is how he refused to do anything electronically. He’s an old-school professor who prefers xeroxed copies and hours spent stapling assignment packets together.
Flipping through the syllabus, I see updated information from when I took Graham’s class last time. The professor will be out of lecture for three weeks.
Please note that my teaching assistant will lead class dates printed in bold.
Under no circumstances do I have any desire to teach in this lecture hall for three sessions. Poetry writing is out, and obituary writing is in, as I’d choose death over talking to a room full of my peers any day.
Movie days can be a thing in college, right? I can roll the TV cart in, and the students can watch Shakespearean plays and call it good.
Staley’s charming voice hits my ears before I can process what’s ahead for me in the coming weeks. She’s chatting with her front-row seatmate, Gabby, and her energy shifts for half a second. Staley’s eyes meet mine and change to an If you don’t stop staring at me, I will burn everything you love to the ground look . I don’t need to know her biblically to understand that my eyes need to look elsewhere.
Back of the auditorium, it is.
When I reach the top, I count out the seats in the rows next to me, hand the pile to the students on the end, and gesture for them to pass the syllabi down. Zigzagging my way down the stairs, I’m hit with the occasional question from students who are too damn eager for this time of day, especially when my stomach is still roiling from the night before. Bourbon was a bad decision. All I can do is give them flat responses through head nods or shakes and the occasional shoulder shrug. The rows are dwindling, and—any second now—I’ll be next to Staley, who sits at the end of her row.
A dull thud bounces around my head, making me wish to disappear into thin air. Eyes wide open, I’m on high alert, prepared to fight off whatever comes next by remaining silent. It’s a pitiful response at best, but I’m feeling shyer and more embarrassed than usual.
“Well, Gabby, it’s simple—I’m waitlisted with those two meatheads back there. So I plan to show up here every single class until one of them dies off like the original Neanderthals did. Asteroids or bust.”
Gabby straightens her sticky notes and lines up her spiral notebook.
“You’re going to show up and complete all the assignments in hopes of being added to the class? But what if those guys are the two percent of the Neanderthals able to avoid death? What if they persist? What if there are no asteroids?”
My back is to Staley, but the sound of insistence, dare I say, the challenge in her voice tells me her well-defined eyebrows are rounded up in curiosity; she’s hearing Gabby question her abilities. It has to be the same damn look from back at my house; it was a mix of frightening and attractive. Half of me was terrified she’d club me over the head, and the other half was desperate for her intensity to be some attempt at flirtation or grace for my sad state and poor manners. I’m not arrogant enough to believe it was the latter.
“No one wants to be in this class more than I do, Gabby.”
Hot magma climbs my body and settles in the basin of my pelvis. I’ve had crushes before, harmless little adorations I admire from afar and daydream, but never have I felt consumed by someone. The force of Staley’s words pushes Gabby back in her seat. She is unrestrained in verse and metrical design.
Staley is sure with her words and capable. It’s easy to see why she excels at a job like cuddling.
Gabby must feel the volcano behind her as she glimpses me and looks back at Staley.
“Staley, you can admit you want to add the class because of the hot TA. No one would judge you.”
Staley cranes her head in my direction, annoyed—offended even—Gabby would suggest such a motivation. She groans, rolls her eyes, and returns her attention to the front of the class. Playing dumb is the only way out of this, so I pretend to not hear the conversation.
“Not a chance in hell, Gabby.”
Ouch.
Distraction gives way to an accident when I step on a student’s foot in the aisle right as I hand them a stack of papers. They yelp, startled by the weight of my body on theirs.
Throwing up now is a non-option, but the last twenty-four hours are catching up to me. The appropriate thing to do is lean down to see if the student is alright. Mid-assessment, the student recoils, my hand and theirs still gripped on the papers.
Another shriek from the student.
“Ow! I think you broke my foot again, Sullivan!”
Wonderful. No vomit, but there’s broken bones. How did I miss a foot in a giant cast?
This is it. This is how I die.
A deep breath through my nose fills my diaphragm. If only Staley could see my confidence when I have control. She’d see I’m not standoffish or rude. She’d know it’s hard for me to talk to people and nothing more.
I extend my hand with the stacks of syllabi and wait for Staley to snatch them from me in hopes she’ll at least deliver me a tight-lipped smile, a peace offering—some sympathy for what I went through during Broken Foot Gate moments ago.
Say something—for practice.
“Staley.”
“Theo.” Her retort is flat, emotionless.
The class stops, and eons pass after our exchange when Jack pipes up.
“Ohh, look, the hot, kinky girl has eyes for the TA.”
They whoop and whistle low, catcalling our harmless interaction. Before Staley returns to forward facing, she scoffs at their idiocy, briefly stopping to look at me. Crimson paints her apple-shaped cheeks.
I’ve been bullied my entire life, and I’ve taken it. But this, this I won’t stand for. For whatever reason, I maintain eye contact with Staley when I say the following:
“Boys”—because that’s all they are—small-minded boys—“best to be quiet until you’re called upon if you want a spot in this c-class.”
A relieved breath leaves Staley’s body, coupled with a visible shiver.
Deja vu hits me in the face when Staley turns to Jack and Alex and shoots them with her double-barrel finger guns, using her middle fingers for bullets.
This time, the message isn’t directed at me.
I’m booking another cuddle session as soon as I get home.