Chapter 4 Fail
Fail
It’s second period, and I’m in Mr. Hilton’s class early, sitting in my seat in the back.
I’m the only one in here. On test days, I always like to get to class before everyone else.
It’s like I need the quiet and solitude to prepare myself, to focus, so I can be in peak shape.
It’s the same whenever I have a track meet.
After a few minutes, students start pouring in.
“Hey, Hunter,” says my best friend, Oscar Bustamante, as he takes his seat next to me. He extends his fist for me to bump it, so I do.
It’s funny to me how this school has a culture of homophobia and guys are so “no homo,” but at the same time dudes are always touching each other: fist bumps, handshakes, side hugs, playful ass-slapping in the locker room. (Yes, that’s a thing.)
I don’t really consider Oscar homophobic or anything (I think his older sister is a lesbian, but he never talks about it), but he’s always saying, “That’s so gay,” or “That’s gay, dude,” or just “gay!” Other people have criticized him about it, and he says, “Sorry, sorry.” But within minutes, he’ll be watching a music video on YouTube and be all like, “Bro, that’s so gay.
” Apparently, even after celebrating his eighteenth birthday and being closer to adulthood, habits are hard to break.
Oscar is Cuban American. Both his parents came from Cuba many years ago, and he was born in California.
He’s got straight dark brown hair and a smooth, angular face.
Sometimes I catch myself stealing glances at the short hairs that run up and down his long legs whenever he’s wearing shorts. (He’s also on the track team.)
“‘Sup, Oscar?” I ask.
“Not ready for this test. You read it?”
“The play? Yeah. You didn’t?”
Oscar smirks. “I found the movie version on YouTube, so I just watched that.”
“How are you even in AP English, dude?”
“I dunno. My sister helped me with all my papers the last few years, so I tricked people into thinking I’m smart.”
“You are smart though.“ I don’t mean it, but I say it because I don’t like it when people cut themselves down.
“Nah,” says Oscar. “Not AP smart. Imma fail this thing.”
Mr. Hilton walks into the room, and there’s an energy about him that always commands attention. All the students look ahead, sit up straight.
He starts passing out the test, a series of essay questions about The Seagull. When I flip through it, a sinking feeling bubbles up inside of me.
After reading the play and listening to Mr. Hilton talk about it in class, I’ve made an effort to think deeply about the characters and the plot. But most of the questions on this test are about the play’s themes and motifs. What the hell? Man, if I’m screwed, then this whole class is screwed.
A few minutes into the test, struggling to not write stupid things, I notice this guy in the front, in the seat closest to the door, Liam.
He’s writing at a furious pace, the pencil in his hand scraping across the paper so hard that I can hear it all the way in the back.
He looks like he’s possessed, like the words are just pouring out of him, as if he’s channeling them from deep within.
He’s also really cute. (And straight, I believe, because I think he has a girlfriend, a skinny girl named Lucy.)
Oscar, Liam: thinking about them is healthy. I find myself doing it, daydreaming about other guys, more and more, which is great, because it means I’m thinking about my brother less and less.
My mind wanders back to this test. God, this test. This dumb test.
When the bell rings, I’m just finishing up the last question. But I realize that it probably doesn’t matter if I finish or not. Just like Oscar, “Imma fail this thing.”
Out in the hallway, I hear my name being called.
I turn around to see my girlfriend approaching me, a serious look on her face.
“Hey, Emma,” I say.
“Can I talk to you?” she asks, her hand playing with her long blond hair nervously.
It seems as if she wants to have a deep conversation. I don’t answer right away because my third-period class, History, is way on the other side of campus and Mrs. Mortimer gets visibly angry when people are late. Like, her face turns into the color of a tomato.
“Now?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
We duck into a stairwell.
I put my hand on Emma’s shoulder, give it a gentle, comforting squeeze. “‘Sup?”
She bites her lower lip. “I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Emma waits for a group of Magic: The Gathering kids to walk by. Then: “I want to . . . do it.”
I’ve been dreading this moment. Emma and I have been dating for about six months now.
We spend a lot of time together, talk a lot, have fun.
Sometimes we’ll kiss and make out (she always initiates), and I think I’ve convinced her that I’m into it because, when we do, I manage to come across as passionate.
(That’s because when we kiss I close my eyes, think about guys, and pretend she’s someone else.)
She’s never brought up the subject of sex before now, and of course neither have I. But I knew this day would eventually come.
“I want to lose my virginity,” she whispers. “And it’s time. And I want it to be with you.”
I could bring up religion and tell her that I don’t believe sex before marriage is okay, but she knows how I don’t take going to church all that seriously, how I go because my parents force me.
“I’m not ready” is all I manage to come up with.
Emma tilts her head downward. “Why not?”
I’ll just answer a question with more questions. “Why do you want to have sex all of a sudden? What’s the urgency?”
Emma looks me in the eyes. She says, her voice trembling, vulnerable, “I feel . . . It seems like you’re losing interest in me. Like you’re not that into me.”
“That’s not true,” I lie.
“And I think it’s because we haven’t had sex. I know you think about it. All boys do. So if that’s what you want, if that’s what it takes, then let’s do it.”
“I think what we have now is good,” I lie again. God, I feel awful.
“Are you still into me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want to have sex with me? Are you not . . . attracted to me anymore? Or . . . were you ever?”
The depth of Emma’s insecurity crushes me. I hate seeing her like this. I mean, by all objective standards, she’s beautiful. She’s also intelligent, classy, nice. If I weren’t with her, there’d be a line of guys just waiting to take her out.
I look at her now, and she seems so fragile, like she would shatter if I touch her.
All of a sudden I just start talking, and I don’t know where all this is coming from: “Of course I’m attracted to you. You’re so beautiful. I’ve been wanting to have sex with you since we first started going out. But I didn’t want to rush you. Because I love you so much.”
Goddamn it! Did I just tell her I love her?! Why did I do that?!
Emma’s face shifts from worried to surprised and delighted. “I love you too!”
She wraps her arms around me and hugs me tight.
I hug her back because I feel like that’s the only option at this point.
“So let’s do it. Tonight. Okay?” Emma is beaming. Her mood is entirely the opposite of how she was when this conversation began.
The school bell rings. I’m already late. I can picture Mrs. Mortimer’s red face exploding in front of me.
“Okay,” I say. “Tonight. Let’s do it.”
Emma kisses me on the lips. “I have to get to class. See you at lunch.”
She runs out of the stairwell, leaving me alone.
I feel like crap. But I bet it’ll feel even worse when I’m sticking my dick where it doesn’t belong.