Chapter 5
“Excuse me,” the guy says.
He washes his hands at the sink. A purple bag with long straps hangs over his shoulder.
He shakes his hands and dries them with a paper towel.
Then he’s passing by and now he’s stopped in front of me.
His hand holds out a paper towel.
“Oh,” he says. “I thought you were crying.”
I shake my head. “It’s a no-tears freakout.”
He lets out a laugh.
“I can’t cry,” I say.
“Like it’s physically impossible?”
I look at the wall behind him. “I have a friend who can’t burp.”
“Ever?”
I nod. “He can only gurgle.”
“But it feels so good to burp.”
“It’s a relief to burp!” I say mock-dramatically.
I look away from the wall and at the guy. His eyebrows are long and thin.
“Crying feels as good as a hundred burps,” he says. “It’s a release.” He’s not joking, I don’t think.
I drift out of my brain and into the present moment. The bathroom smells like pee and soap. From the hall, the muffled conversations of everyone heading home. In front of me, the face of this person I don’t know.
I find myself able to say something I wouldn’t normally even think.
“I haven’t cried since I was a kid. I cried when my mom and I moved out of our first real house.
I know that. My mom said it was time to go but I kept rolling down the hill on the front lawn.
She had to pick me up and carry me to the truck while I scream-sobbed.
Maybe I cried the next time we moved, I’m not sure. I stopped crying about it eventually.”
He pushes his lips together and I brace myself for his response. Why would I say any of that? I can’t take it back or turn it into a joke, but if he makes fun of me I can decide it doesn’t matter what he thinks because no one here knows him anyway.
“Thank you for sharing,” he says. “I definitely relate.”
“You do?” The muscles in my forehead relax. “Why?”
His face lights up. “Is your shirt a Walt Whitman reference?”
I look down at the robot sounding its barbaric yawp. “Yep.”
“Yawp.” He does a big toothy smile. “That was corny, but I couldn’t help it.”
“Walt Whitman was corny.”
“Was he?”
“Probably.”
He laughs a little and I do too.
“Well.” He tilts his head to the side and gives a small wave. “See you in English.”
“English?”
“I sit next to you.”
“Oh. I was pretty out of it.”
“You only talked to yourself as you were leaving.” Another small wave. “Take it easy.”
“I’m Sean.”
He stops. I hold out a hand and he puts his hand in mine. Instead of giving a firm up-and-down, I give a light squeeze.
“I’ve never shaken hands in a bathroom before,” he says.
“We are living life.”
“I’m Elijah. He/him.”
“I’m he/him too. Take it easy, Elijah.”
“I’ll try.”
He pushes the door open and goes.
I expect to return to feeling bad. I expect to lose whatever is left of my mind, curl up on this bathroom floor, beg Mom to let me homeschool myself, maybe go to an old-fashioned asylum where I can watch cartoons all day, etcetera.
But instead I blink. I blink again.
A smile sneaks up my face.
I’m sure it won’t last. My brain will find a way to outsmart my heart into feeling bad again. Why would I possibly feel good after having a breakdown in front of someone and then telling an embarrassing story?
Because it was okay.
I was the part of myself I’m ashamed of and someone saw and didn’t judge.
I said something hard and true, and someone heard and accepted it.
Weird.