Chapter 14
I wake before dawn dreaming about last night. It’s like how after swimming in the ocean, your body can still feel the rocking of the waves. I can feel the mic in my hand. I can hear the applause in my ears.
On the way to school, Tony and Andi and I nearly talk over one another.
I ask if Joe Johnson will be at the competition next week, and Tony wheezes that the event listing doesn’t say and Joe still hasn’t posted on social.
Andi asks if he’s doing this competition for his other shows, and Tony answers that he doesn’t have any other shows.
There’s only this one, and he hasn’t said why he’s doing it this way.
I add that it’s another of Joe’s unusual things.
The opener for his second special was a folk singer.
In his third, he wore a gold tuxedo. For whatever reason, for this one—if it will be recorded as a special—he is returning to the place where he grew up, and he’s looking for someone new to set the tone.
When we get to the parking lot I pull directly into an open space in front. Everything is right in the world—until I get to English.
Elijah is wearing a cuffed blue T-shirt. Perfection. Mazzei, however, is wearing gray pants that are way too tight. His judgment is obviously off today, because he claps his hands and says, “Let’s form groups of four. Groups of four, please.”
Elijah and I try desperately to create any other configuration, but Mazzei swoops in and directs us to join with Steph Rooney and Jay Romero.
“Take turns telling stories,” Mazzei tells the class. “No feedback. We’re only dipping our toes in the water today.”
Steph turns in her chair and waves to Elijah. “Hi, I’m—”
“Aw yeah!” Jay scrapes his desk around, looking far too happy. “We got O’Brien, and…”
He points at Elijah, waiting.
“Elijah.”
“Nah. Last name.”
Elijah sits up straight. “Summers.”
“Summers?” Jay says.
“Yes.”
“That’s not a common African American last name.” When this doesn’t get a reaction, he asks, “Is it?”
Elijah doesn’t blink. “I have no idea.”
“Was that an inappropriate question?” Jay puts his hands up. “I was just curious!”
Onstage, I said I want to be a good man but can’t imagine a man I’d like to be. Looking at Jay, I at least know who I don’t want to be.
Steph smiles with all her teeth. “Nice to meet you, Elijah. I’m Steph.”
“Hi, Steph.”
Steph holds up her page. “I really don’t want to go first but I can if that’s—”
“I hope I didn’t scare you the other morning, O’Brien,” Jay says, laughing for some reason.
“I’m sorry?”
“When I drove around you at the stoplight.”
“That was you in the truck? Can I ask, what do you need to carry in the back of a pickup?”
“Don’t feel bad, O’Brien. It’s okay if you need to take things slow.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I watch his face.
Elijah clears his throat. “Steph—”
“How was your summer, O’Brien?” Jay says.
My voice is gentle, full-on polite. “It was good. How was yours, Jay?”
“You lose anything?”
“Did I lose anything? No.”
“No.” Jay smiles. “I heard you almost did but you freaked out and couldn’t seal the deal . ”
Images flash of Christy talking to Kaye and Kaye talking to Jay. My face goes numb and I enter defense mode.
“Oh.” I nod. “I almost lost my sense of decency but then I remembered I wasn’t a horrible person.”
Jay narrows his eyes. “Not your best comeback, O’Brien.” He slaps my arm. “That’s okay. I’m just kidding around.”
If I could rewind my life to stop his hand from ever touching me, I would change literally any moment required.
Thankfully, Steph takes over and tells her chipmunk story, and in a miraculous display of social skills, Elijah asks her about chipmunks for fifteen more minutes.
When Mr.?Mazzei brings everyone’s attention back to the front, I look at Elijah and he winks.
“On Wednesday,” Mazzei says, “I’d love it if one or two people could come up and share early drafts of their stories so the class can practice giving feedback. No scores yet. No pressure. Though we could do it in the auditorium, if that feels fun. Would anyone do us the honor?”
Jay stands up. “I contribute myself as volunteer.”
Mazzei keeps looking around. “Anyone?”
I jump out of my chair. “I’ll go.”
Jay laughs. “Chill, O’Brien. We already got one.”
I fix my eyes on Mazzei. “He said one or two.”
“It’s fine.” Mr.?Mazzei couldn’t sound less interested. “You can both go. Please sit down.”
“We can score the stories too,” I say. “Why not practice scoring which story is better?”
Jay chants, “Score! Score! Score!”
“Good lord, fine.” Mazzei presses his palms into his temples. “Will you both please sit down?”
Jay looks back at me and raises his eyebrows, and I’m disappointed to discover I am not capable of murdering someone with my eyes.
“When preparing for a performance,” Mazzei explains, “don’t try to memorize every line. There is no point to a live performance if it’s simply recitation. Jot down bullet points of the main ideas so you know where you’re headed, and then speak from the heart.”
Hot blood pulses through me.
The bell rings. Everyone files out of class, with Elijah and me at the back.
“You’ve just challenged Jay to a pissing match,” Elijah says.
“And I will pee all over him.”
“Because of whatever he was talking about in our group?”
Kaye is already pressed against a locker with Jay’s hands at her sides. She watches me as he says something I thankfully can’t hear.
“He was making fun of me for a failed sexual encounter.”
Elijah holds his notebook behind his back and weaves from left to right. “And do you care what he thinks?”
Of all the people to hear about what happened with Christy, it’s Jay? I thought I’d moved past caring about this, but seriously—Jay?
I ride the flood of anger and shame and start talking before I know what I’ll say.
“Last year, my English teacher hung up one of my essays on the bulletin board, and while I can’t prove it was Jay, I know he’s the one who added next to my name, is a penis .
In a video project about Jude the Obscure , he filmed a boxing match on the theme of ‘Fate versus Free Will.’ The other guy thought it would be a play fight but Jay actually beat him up.
The whole class had to sit and watch, and that guy had to pretend he was in on the joke.
In the next video project, Jay drove up to people walking on the side of the road, all of whom had brown skin, and he threw cups of ketchup at them.
I don’t even remember what theme that was pretending to be about.
Our teacher tried to stop the video, but Jay argued his First Amendment rights were being infringed, and we all had to sit and watch to the end. ”
“Are you serious?”
“For days all anyone talked about was whether his project was funny or not.”
“What did they say?”
I roll my eyes and we push our way into the main hallway.
People trudge through the halls around us but I’m only aware of my rage.
“One girl told me that Jay’s dad died when he was little, and my whole concept of him shifted.
I felt for him so much. Then the next day he bragged about how in a wrestling match he jammed a finger in the other guy’s asshole and dragged him across the mat. ”
“Jesus.”
I spit out, “This is why I don’t like men.”
“Jay is not what a man is.”
“Is he not?”
“He’s a monster.”
I look Elijah in the eyes. “What else is a man?”
“I know what you mean, but…”
He stops at an intersection and people crowd past us in both directions.
“I go this way,” he says.
I feel like I’m filled with fire. “I don’t want to say men are the worst, because I find that vague and unhelpful. But men are not the best.”
“I don’t disagree.”
He watches me silently.
I push my hair out of my face. “Sorry.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I agree with you.”
I give a half-hearted tip of an invisible hat. “Have a good rest of your day.”
“I’ll talk to you.” He holds up a hand and walks away.
I turn around but stay standing as the crowds push against me. I want to scream. Which is one reason I can sympathize with toxic men. When you’re not allowed to let the feelings out as tears or honest words, where are they supposed to go?
The one-minute warning bell rings and the hallways empty. I stay still.
Elijah reappears in front of me, out of breath.
“You identify as male?” he says.
I hold open my hands, exhausted. “I guess so.”
He touches his chest. “So do I, and I won’t let some retrograde fool like Jay define what that means. And you shouldn’t either.”
“If it weren’t for reproduction, this planet could do without cis men. They add very little beyond sperm.”
“You’re oversimplifying and you know it. Yes, men have done and still do some of the worst things, but that doesn’t define who you are and it’s not related to who you could be.”
I want to agree with him but I can’t. There’s something about being male that I don’t know if I can forgive.
“There’s something about being male that I don’t know if I can forgive,” I say.
“That’s nonsense,” he says, and he looks like he means it. “Do you feel that way about me? Do you think I’m bad because I’m a guy?”
“No.” And I don’t. “But you’re not like most guys.”
“And neither are you.”
“But I feel bad about that.”
“You shouldn’t. Did you read the note I dropped on your desk?”
“I’ve had it in my pocket ever since.”
His intense face freezes, and without any transitional state, he smiles.
I look down. “I also haven’t changed my jeans, but.”
He stifles a laugh. I snort. We’re both smiling like dummies.
He runs a finger across his lip and says, “When I was coming out, I had to take apart everything I thought I knew about gender and sexuality.”
“How did you rebuild it?”
“I’m still rebuilding it and I probably always will be. As I get older. As I change.”
I look at his shoes. “I did stand-up last night and I wasn’t sure how to act onstage, and then I found your note in my pocket and—”
“You do stand-up?”
“I do.”
He does a little jump. “You must be so good.”
“You never think I’m funny.”
“I don’t laugh when you’re going for a cheap joke, but I think you’re hilarious when you’re being yourself.”
I…blush?
“Do you have any shows coming up?”
I inhale. I blink. “I do. This Thursday.”
“Can I come?”
I struggle to exhale. “Sure.”
The bell rings, but neither of us moves. Everything is quiet except for the sound of teachers talking far away.
“I want to be more like you,” I say.
“I feel the same way about you.”
Then he blushes, and it makes me bite my cheek to keep from smiling.
It’s like the opposite of dissociating. I arrive in my body and look at the face of this person in front of me, this boy, who is looking at my face, a person in front of him, a boy—unless we are both men, which we almost are.
Two young men regarding each other with a tenderness I didn’t know was possible, let alone permissible.
It’s a moment that requires some kind of communion or confirmation, but I don’t know what that would be.
I speak quietly. “I understand it’s time to walk away but I’d rather not walk away.”
He gets quiet too. “Could you send me the info on the show you’re in?”
“I forgot my phone this morning.”
He looks at the ground, smiling. “Then I’ll have to get up the courage to ask you again tomorrow.” He turns to leave, then turns back. “Or—” He opens his notebook and leans on nothing, on the air, as he writes. He passes me the paper, unfolded, a whole sheet. It’s his phone number.
When we walk our separate ways, I am not returned to the feeling of being alone. I remain surrounded by a sense of connection, by the feeling that he’s close, and that I’m able to be how I am when he’s close, which is myself.