We’d about finished with Denmark through Kosovo. We weren’t concentrating yet on memorizing everything we needed to about each country, but surprisingly, that seemed to be happening all the same. If I called out a random capital city to him, he’d call back the country. If he called out a population figure to me, I’d respond accordingly. I had the feeling we’d have this stuff locked down cold by the time we’d be tested on it.
That week at school there was a surprise in store. We were sitting at lunch, talking about nothing special, when a boy I’d known in elementary school, one of the guys I’d thought of as a friend, approached our table.
He seemed a little unsure of himself, but said, “Hi, Trip. Uh, you’re Tanner, aren’t you?”
Tanner nodded but didn’t speak, just looked at the boy very neutrally.
“I’m Jason Patel,” he said, his eyes swiveling from Tanner to me to Tanner. “Uh, could I sit down?”
Tanner looked at me. I sort of half-scowled, half-winced very quickly, then met Jason’s eyes. “Sure. You positive you want to? That it’s a good idea?”
Okay, so I was rubbing it in a bit. But Jason had been one of the ones who’d started ignoring me, and it had hurt. I thought saying what I did was justified. Maybe not very nice but justified.
Jason dropped his eyes from mine. He looked suitably embarrassed, even contrite. But then he looked at Tanner and seemed to gain some resolve. He switched his gaze to me.
“I’m sorry, Trip. I was stupid. I acted like everyone else and sort of dumped you. I was afraid of being called gay if I hung with you. And that terrified me because I’m gay, uh, well, I think I’m gay; you probably, maybe sensed it. But I didn’t want anyone to know. If everyone knew, well, those were my only other friends. I couldn’t risk losing them.
“But now, you’re hanging with Tanner, and no one knows what to think. I’ve even heard someone suggesting Tanner might be gay—” he took a quick look at Tanner, who was expressionless, and hurried on “—but most guys aren’t thinking that. They know you were made partners in a school project. But they’ve seen you two together at school, and you act like you’re friends, so kids are thinking if a straight kid like Tanner can be friends with a gay kid, there must not be anything wrong with it.”
I looked at him, thinking there had to be more, and there was. He said, “I miss having you as a friend, Trip. And I think I’m a little braver now. It’s also possible, since you’re spending time with Tanner, and most people laugh at the idea that he might be gay, that I could probably get away with hanging with you, too, and not be automatically written off as gay. People remember we used to be friends.”
He took a deep breath. “Will you accept my apology, Trip? Can we be friends again? Maybe, uh, I could eat lunch with you two? Maybe get together sometimes after school?”
Now I had a decision to make. It really had hurt when he’d snubbed me. I had liked him. No, I hadn’t known he was gay, but I had wondered a little. I’d caught him looking at me a couple of times with an expression, well, that suggested that what he was thinking about was us being more than friends.
So, would I like to let him back in, knowing what he’d done?
Kids make mistakes. I sure did. And his reason for abandoning me was nothing to pillory him for; it made sense—sorta. I also thought it would be good to have more than one friend, and maybe, if he started being friendly with Tanner and me, others might, too. Maybe I’d be welcomed more than I was now into the school community.
I looked at Tanner. “Would letting Jason eat with us be okay with you?”
He smiled and answered me. “Fine with me. Less boring this way. I know Jason. He’s in several of my classes, and he’s smart—top-of-the-class kind of smart. It’ll be good to be eating lunch with someone I can have an intelligent conversation with. Finally.”
I looked at Jason and said, “See what I have to put up with?”
≈ ≈ ≈
Something else happened that week. Tanner was working on his column for the school newspaper and having me proof it for him. I made a couple of suggestions, and he turned away from the computer keyboard and gave me a look.
“What?”
“You should write a column, Trip. About being an out gay boy in middle school. You have so much to write about, and I know what the result would be. Kids wouldn’t look at you as some kind of freak, some kid who’s completely different than they are, someone to stay far away from.
“They’d read your column and see you’re just like them, thinking and worrying about and being amused by the exact same things they are. They’ll see your intelligence, your humor and empathy. They’ll see you’re just like them, except for one little difference. And you can explain it in a way they can understand and not be afraid. The boys’ll learn you’re not thinking about sex with every one of them you see, no more than they want sex with every girl in the school. That you aren’t interested in hitting on straight boys. That you’d like to have friends just like they want them.
“You can relate to the problems and worries kids our age have. You can write about fitting in when you’re different, the fears we all have of being accepted and liked, and the realization and fears we all have that we are different in some ways from everyone else, and that we all feel that.”
“I don’t think I could write about all that. You could. You’re good at this. I’ve never even tried anything like that.”
He ignored my defensive whine. “Your column would be the most anticipated and most widely read of anything in the paper. You’re going through many of the same things we all are. And you’re sensitive and human.
“Writing like that, you’d become a celebrity, and kids would want to know you. You wouldn’t scare them any longer.”
“I’m not sure I could do that,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.”
“Well, try. Write five- to seven-hundred words. Show it to me. No one else. We’ll take it from there. When I come over tomorrow, show it to me.”
His voice was very serious. So was the look he was giving me. I guessed I had to take a stab at it, to placate him if nothing else.
≈ ≈ ≈
When we were working on the Europe project, we often both sat at my desk close together. The map was large enough that he could work on one side, marking in the rivers and mountains he thought would assure us of an A, and I’d be adding a capital city or country name on the other side.
I realized, probably long after I should have, how frequently Tanner would touch me while we were doing this. It would be a hand on my arm while reaching for a different colored pencil, or his shoulder touching mine as he leaned to his left or his little finger brushing again my hand as we both were doing something toward the middle of the map. When I realized this was happening, I almost said something. Then I stopped myself. I liked that he was doing it, and if I said anything, he’d get self-conscious and certainly not do it anymore.
I wondered if he was aware he was doing it. Then I wondered why he was doing it. But I never did say anything about it.
≈ ≈ ≈
I hadn’t known Slovenia and Slovakia were two different countries. But I learned that the former had been part of Yugoslavia, and Slovakia had been part of Czechoslovakia. It was easy to remember that because the endings on their names gave it away. Harder to remember their capital cities: Ljublijana and Bratislava, respectively. Slovakia had over twice Slovenia’s population of two million. Put the names together, and you had a world class tongue twister.
I was glad to be working with Tanner. He was going to learn all this stuff, and he’d ace the exam. There was no way I was going to allow him to do better than me on that exam! If he knew everything, I would, too. I always tried to get my schoolwork perfect, but this time, I had more to encourage me than just that hope. It was a matter of personal pride to show Tanner I was his intellectual equal. Mr. Montgomery had been smart, putting us together.
Of course, being who I was, that set me off wondering why, too.