Chapter 3 Stall
Stall
Because I got trapped underneath my brother’s bed, after I got out I didn’t have time to go on my morning run. I just took a quick shower, got dressed, and gathered my things for school.
My hair still damp, I walk toward my gray Prius, which is parked against the curb in front of my house.
“Good morning, Hunter.”
I turn to my right and see my English teacher, Mr. Hilton. He lives next door to me, and he’s in his car, about to back out of the driveway, speaking to me through his rolled-down window.
Mr. Hilton is a great teacher, super smart and very passionate about what he does.
He also happens to be stunningly handsome and remarkably fit, which is why so many girls at school are in love (in lust?) with him, smiling and giggling whenever he walks by.
At the beginning of every semester, there also always seems to be a fight for who gets to sit in the front row of his classes.
You can get a better view of his tight pants and slim shirts from up there.
I think some of the girls even believe Mr. Hilton might be attainable.
After all, he’s married to a former student who’s much younger than he is.
Like everyone else, I think Mr. Hilton is attractive, but I don’t have a thing for him. I mean, he’s in his early thirties, so I think it’s a bit creepy to think of him in any way other than “he’s my English teacher.”
I stop walking. “Hey, Mr. Hilton.”
“You ready for today’s test?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” he chuckles. “You know it counts a lot toward your final grade, right?”
In AP English (Advanced Placement English), we’ve been reading an old Russian play called The Seagull by Anton Chekhov.
There are some interesting scenes and characters in it (the mother, Arkadina, is an absolute bitch), but I prefer stuff that’s contemporary.
A bunch of Russian people sitting around and talking in the 1800s has nothing to do with my life.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve read the play carefully, so we’ll see how it goes.”
“Fair enough,” says Mr. Hilton.
I start to move towards my Prius again, but Mr. Hilton stops me once more: “Hey, Hunter, by the way, are you good at math?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Why?”
“Never mind. See you in class.” And with that, Mr. Hilton finally pulls out of his driveway and zooms down the street.
I don’t care how handsome or cool Mr. Hilton is. I hate living next to a teacher.
Since I’ve managed to arrive at school about thirty minutes early, I have a little bit of time to get some work done, so I slip into the restroom. I lock myself in the last stall, hang my backpack on the hook, get out my laptop, and sit on the toilet seat. (Weird, I know.)
But before I can even log in, the restroom door opens, and I hear someone come in and take a piss at one of the urinals. He then moves to the sink to wash up. His cell phone goes off. His ringtone is some Lady Gaga song. He picks up.
“Hello?” he says. Then: “I can’t today . . . I can’t today, Mom. I have rehearsal . . . For drama class . . . Yes, it’s important . . . Mom . . . Okay, okay, okay, I’ll be at the store after school . . . Oo, mahal kita. Bye.”
I recognize the voice. It’s Andrew, the gay half-Asian guy. He’s pretty masculine (and in really great shape), but sometimes on campus he’ll suddenly “gay it up” and exclaim, “Hello! I’m gaysian!” And I always laugh a little to myself.
The restroom door opens again.
“Hey, faggot.” This voice belongs to Chad, a football player who’s nice to all the girls but pretty much a dick to all the guys, especially the ones who are gay or who might be gay.
“Don’t call me that,” Andrew says, firmly.
Chad barks, “I’m just calling you what you are.”
Andrew stands his ground. “Shut up, you idiot.”
Chad growls, “Don’t make me bash your fag brains all over the wall.”
I hear Andrew storm out the door.
Chad takes a piss and then moves to the sink.
I slip my laptop back into my backpack and open the stall door. My eyes meet Chad’s reflection in the mirror.
“Why are you always picking on that dude?” I ask, not really caring about an answer. I just want to call him out on his shitty behavior.
He growls, “Mind your own business, Hunter.”
“It happened while I was around, so it is my business.”
“Why are you defending a fag? Are you one too?“ he sneers.
I’m kind of taken aback by Chad’s remark. No one has ever questioned my sexuality like that and in such an aggressive manner.
I want to scream “yes!” and punch him in the face. But I don’t have the courage. It’s not that I don’t have the courage to swing at him; I do. It’s that I don’t have the courage to admit that I am gay—to anyone, let alone a bully like Chad. So I just freeze.
It shouldn’t be this way. Objectively speaking, I’m smarter than Chad, better-looking than Chad, have more friends than Chad, am headed toward a brighter future than Chad. But here, standing in front of him, I feel like so much less than him. My secret keeps me small. My secret holds me down.
Chad suddenly makes a fist and raises it at me.
I flinch. He stops. It was a fake-out. He laughs.
With all the running and working out that I do, I’m pretty sure I can put up a good fight against Chad. But he’s got a bulky football player’s build, so he would probably eventually knock me on my ass, maybe even injure me badly. I don’t make a move.
“Thought so,” Chad says.
He then stomps out of the restroom, quite satisfied with himself, having terrorized two people before the school day has even started.
One day I’ll figure out how to get back at him, but for now I retreat into the stall—not to resume what I was doing, but to think.
“Fag.” I hate that word. It hurts.
But you know what hurts even more? The fact that I’m not brave enough to be who I really am.