I mentioned earlier I liked to read. I like YA novels. Especially ones with kids like me. What drives me crazy, though, is how the protagonists like someone and never tell them. Looked at logically, it makes no sense.
Well, when you yourself are in that situation, it makes a lot of sense because you don’t want to risk losing what you then have. That was how I felt with Micah. Not wanting to lose what I had with him, even to risk it, was everything to me. Sure, it was frustrating as all get out, but I was spending time with him, and that was worth so much to me. Frankly, I was also scared that if I pushed things, he’d tell me he wasn’t gay, and all my hopes would be gone. It was hope that was keeping me going these days.
I would tell him, eventually, what I felt. And I thought the more time I spent with him, the more I’d solve the riddle he posed. There was more than one, of course. Was he gay? If he was gay, did he have feelings for me? If he wasn’t, would he still want to be friends? And what would he think if he knew I was gaga over him? Happy? Disgusted? Something in the middle?
What would be worse, maybe, would be to find out he was gay but had no romantic feelings for me at all. I might not be able to handle that.
All of these questions were out there, waiting to be answered, and, being chicken like I was, I preferred to just sit on them, just like all those cowardly protagonists I read about. I was starting to feel a lot more respect for them. Maybe they weren’t so dumb after all.
≈≈ ≈≈
Are people aware of how stressful being thirteen can be? Probably not. But I had a lot pulling at me. I’d never been in love before. Or awe. I wasn’t sure what it was with Micah. No idea. I just knew the boy was consuming me, my thoughts, my time, all my waking moments. Contrast that to my mother, who wanted to control all aspects of my life. Everything had to be her way on her time schedule and at her whim. It was lucky I was still in school. Summers should be lazy, fun, idle-away-the-hours, no-responsibilities times, but they only were when I could escape the house before she organized the day for me.
Then there was Lina, a great friend but a bossy one who knew everything and was sure that following her advice would make my life better. She had no problem giving me that advice and was vastly unhappy when I didn’t follow it.
But at the top of all that stood Micah, still mostly an unknown quantity, but one whose existence was overwhelming my own. That’s a lot for a boy my age to deal with. Maneuver through. With all that going on, I still had to keep in touch with what was me. All those outside forces were adding up to pull me this way and that. I liked who I was. I didn’t want to be tossed by the disturbances around me and lose sight of that. I thought I was kind and considerate, attentive and helpful, a boy of little ego, one who didn’t brag, didn’t bully, just a kid trying to deal with the world the best he could, one who tried to be there for anyone who looked like they needed a helping hand. Not the brightest, but not dumb. Not athletic, but not awkwardly uncoordinated, either. Just a kid like many, one who wasn’t sure where he was going in life but with enough self-esteem to not worry much about it. I dealt with things as I had to and, so far, was doing all right.
But who was I, really? What defined me? I think that was a question all boys have to answer. And to my surprise, while I’d been thinking about this lately while lying in bed, reviewing my day, trying to keep everything neatly compartmentalized and not being very successful at it, I was about to get outside help. And not from my dad, who was the only one in my world who seemed to care about how I was doing.
≈≈ ≈≈
I’d always enjoyed my English classes. I was the odd man out with regard to that as far as I knew. Most kids hated reading; they even hated thinking, it seemed. If we had to read a story and then comment on it, or write a paper on it, you’d think the world had ended, the way most kids griped. I kinda liked doing those things—putting my thoughts together and then scribbling them onto paper in an effective way. It was a challenge, a creative one, and it was fun.
For most eighth-graders, writing was worse than talking in class about what we’d read. Talking at least was over quickly, even if they knew they’d sounded dumb. Writing took a while and was down in black and white and permanent until they got it back, graded, and they could crumple it up, toss it and forget about it. I tended to save what I wrote. I liked writing.
Mr. Mahoney was our teacher. I liked him better than any other teacher I had. He was full of enthusiasm and humor and ran a good class. Lively. He didn’t spend much time teaching grammar and spelling and vocabulary. He said we already knew all that stuff, not only from what we’d learned in school before this, but from watching TV and movies and listening to educated adults speak. No, he was more interested in books we should be reading and how to write effectively.
Okay, when I was mentioning I liked to write effectively, maybe I stole the word ‘effectively’ from him. A good teacher will get you to do that, adopt some of what he says.
Anyway, after I’d spent time the night before in bed pondering who I was, what he said in the class the next day seemed to be a case of his reading my mind.
“Class,” he began after greeting us and joking with a couple of the boys who rarely paid attention in class, “I’m going to present you with a challenge today. This can be a great opportunity for you, or you can toss it off like you often do. That’s up to you. But if you take it to heart, if you really try to do a good job on this, you might be surprised how useful you’ll find it.”
The class was surprisingly still. He frequently had that effect on us when he got going with something he felt strongly about. It always surprised me how an effective—there’s that word again—teacher can maintain discipline in his classroom seemingly effortlessly, and a poor teacher can’t do it at all.
“What I want you to do is look at yourself. Put down your cellphone. Turn it off or bury it under your socks in a drawer; make sure it won’t interrupt you. Be in a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed. Then, think about who you are. What are the good things you like about yourself? What are the things you don’t like? What are you proud of that you did? What would you like to have a chance to do over? Who’s made a positive impact on you? Who’s done the opposite? What’s your opinion about school, about work if you’ve had a job, about your family? How do you get along with your parents; how do you think they feel about you? Are they happy with how you’re growing up or disappointed? How about your friends: what makes them your friends, how do you wish they’d change, why do you think they like you?”
He’d said a lot, and stopped to look at us, making eye contact with each of us. When he spoke again, it was in a softer, less-expressive voice. “I want you to think about who you are at thirteen, or twelve or fourteen, whatever age you happen to be. I want you to write that down. You might look back and read it in a couple of years, see if you still feel the same. See if you’ve changed at all because of what you wrote. See if people feel differently about you then than they did when you wrote it.
“See if you’re the same boy or girl then that you are now.
“Guys, I’m not asking you to think about where you’re going, what future goals you may adopt, what you think your life’s interest might be. This isn’t about what’s ahead of you. This is about who you are now. If you understand that, it’ll help with thinking about the future, but that’s not for this assignment. You’re going to be surprised how difficult this is. You probably think you know all about yourselves. Answer the questions I’ve asked, as many as you can, or only the ones you feel are important to you. Some will make you very uncomfortable. That’s good. It’s discomfort that foments most major changes in people’s lives, and in the world itself.”
He paused and went to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a stack of papers. “None of you took notes about what I just said. Good. I wanted you listening, not taking notes and missing much of what I was saying. So, I’ve written down all the things I just said, and you’ll each get a sheet of them. Again, this is more for you than for me, and if some of these don’t mean much to you, or if you simply don’t wish to write about them, don’t. But try to do as many as you can. You’ll feel differently about yourself, and you’ll probably be energized after writing it if you give it your best.”
He handed out the papers, then told us to spend the rest of the class thinking and making notes about some of the questions, which, he said, were basically writing prompts.
I had to wonder how he had known I’d just been thinking about some aspects of this. Was this something kids did at thirteen, summarize their lives, think about what they’d done and who they were and how they related to the people around them?
Was he that smart?
One of the guys Mr. Mahoney had been shooting the shit with before he talked about the essay we were supposed to write raised his hand.
“Yes, Robby?” I never could understand how Mr. Mahoney kept his voice so even when calling on the type of person Robby was.
“How many pages does it have to be?”
Maybe for the first time ever, I did see a quick glint of impatience—or was it defeat—in Mr. Mahoney’s eyes. The sentiment didn’t make it all the way to his voice, however. “Robby, that’s up to you. The purpose of this is for you to think about yourself. I’d like you to realize the extent of your happiness with yourself right now and the direction you’re going, and it takes some self-evaluation to do that. The number of pages you write will be indicative of how much you thought about the assignment.”
I grinned. Couldn’t help it. That answer had to frustrate Robby no end, but it was the perfect answer. There was no number of pages that fit this. Some kids would write three, some a dozen, some more. I glanced at Lina. She was smiling, too, although I didn’t think it was about the masterful putdown of Robby. I thought it was because she was loving the assignment as much as I was.
≈≈ ≈≈
I spent a lot of time alone the next few days, not writing the essay but jotting down notes, things I wanted to include. I wasn’t writing an outline. I figured the structure of the thing would take care of itself once I started writing. But knowing what I wanted to include once I got going would be important. I thought once I began, the words would just flow as long as I knew what I was writing.
Lina usually spent time with me after school. We’d do our homework together and just talk. Now, she was in her head with thoughts about her own essay, and I didn’t want to be disturbed, either.
I did have homework other than the essay, and I had choir rehearsals, too. Talk about your attention being divided. I guess that’s what school’s all about: think about quadratic equations one moment, then the capitals of fifty states the next, followed by a vigorous game of dodge ball in Gym the next, and then Spanish verbs the next. Then school would be out, and you’d be harmonizing with another section of the choir. It wasn’t until you were walking home alone that you’d start thinking about who you were and how much of it to reveal to the world. Well, the part of it that would be included in your essay. It was enough to give a boy a split personality.
≈≈ ≈≈
In Gym, as a life-preserving method, I’d taken to staying out of the showers till Micah had finished. I hadn’t been sure this would work. If he waited for me, there’d be nothing I could do except skip the shower altogether, and that would be suspicious. But it didn’t come to that. Micah had made a couple of friends with boys he had more classes with than he did with me, and they were in Gym with us. So when he saw them going in, he did, too, and I lingered. If he thought that strange, he never said so. I still ate lunch with him, and we had choir practice together. That gave me my daily fix of him, and that was enough. Well, it had to be enough. I was surprised that my feelings hadn’t lessened at all. That told me that if this was a crush, it was strong enough to squeeze the juice out of an avocado, a notably non-juicy fruit. It still seemed like more than a crush to me.
At lunch he often put a small notepad on the table and tucked a pencil behind his ear to have it handy to makes notes with. Why didn’t he lay the pencil beside the pad? Why did he need to note anything at lunch? I supposed I could ask him these things, but I didn’t want to. I loved watching him get set up, loved seeing him slide the pencil into his thick curls such that I wouldn’t have known it was there without having seen it being inserted. I loved watching him make his notes, too, as he looked so serious doing it. If I asked what he was doing, he might get embarrassed—or not—but he never volunteered the information, and as I was still in my trying-to-be-a-friend mode, and as I felt asking was likely to cause him to change his routine or maybe even stop it, I didn’t remark on it.
I did have something to tell him that he might not like, but such is life. It’s never a bed of roses; often there are thorns. I hesitated. I hated disappointing him. But, thorns or not, I had to do this.
“Do you know Noah Burrows?” He shook his head, his mouth being busy with mac-and-cheese, and I said, “Didn’t think so; no reason you should. But his sister Amy is head of the ABC, and he’s a sixth-grader and also in the club. He talks to me during club get-togethers. I think he likes me for some reason. I don’t know, I have no feeling for this but think he might be gay. Anyway, we were talking, and somehow I got around to mentioning the dance studio you wanted me to join. I don’t know about dancing, Micah. It really isn’t me. Anyway, he got all excited talking about dancing. He said he’d love to do that. So, I was thinking, maybe he could take my place. I could introduce you, and you could tell him about it and help him join. He’s a nice kid.”
“You don’t want to dance?” He was stabbing me with his eyes. I had to drop mine to my plate.
“No, I really don’t,” I muttered. “I have enough going on now, and I asked my Magic 8-Ball if I’d enjoy dancing practice and it said, ‘Very doubtful.’ I have to pay attention to that. The Magic 8-Ball always knows best.”
He kept staring at me, and I kept staring at my plate. Eventually, he said, “Okay, I won’t go either. But if you want, introduce me to Noah. The studio needs boys, and if he’s enthusiastic, that’s better than you being there hating it.”
“Exactly,” I said. “It is decidedly so.” Then I laughed.
≈≈ ≈≈
Lina started coming over after dinner. Uninvited, but then, when do friends need an invitation? It’s part of a friendship at our age, having access to the person any time you want.
She’d come into my room and lie on the bed as I’d almost always be at my computer, making essay notes or finishing homework. Choir practices meant I could rarely get it all done in the afternoon.
“How’s the essay coming?” she asked. She’d taken to asking this whenever she came over. Funny, but she didn’t ask it walking to school with me. But coming over at night, that was her first question every time.
“Still thinking, no writing. Since you have time to waste by coming over here to bug me, I’d guess yours is coming along well?” I asked that for a specific reason, and it wasn’t because I wanted to know how far along with it she was. Her answer gave me just what I wanted, which was why I’d asked.
“I’m well into it. Not nearly done. But I’ve got a good start.”
I didn’t smile. “Ah, that’s good. What are you writing about?”
“You know. Just what he asked for. About me. About who I am. Giving details.”
“Like what?” There, that should keep her going, and when she’d then ask what I was considering writing, it would be too late for me to answer. One thing about Lina, she was a talker, and putting her on a topic she liked, herself, practically guaranteed a long response.
I didn’t want to talk about my essay. Sure, she was a good friend, but this was going to be personal. Very personal. And I didn’t want to write it knowing she’d be wanting to read it, or at least discuss it. That would handcuff me. It would limit my output. I wanted to be entirely free to write what I wanted to write.
≈≈ ≈≈
I had no experience at all in singing in a choir. We, that is my parents and I, didn’t go to church, and I’d never attended any of my school’s band or choir performances. I just wasn’t into music at all. I think it had to do with my lack of passion about most things. Perhaps if I’d been encouraged, I’d have liked art and music and cooking and trail-hiking and making balloon animals and whatever, but I hadn’t been, and so that was that.
Now I was attending choir practices three times a week after school. Most of the others in the group had sung before. So, I was starting out fresh, and it was difficult. We were given sheet music to sing, and I had no idea how to read it. From the start, I did more listening than opening my mouth. I listened, and the second time through tried to stay with the boys on either side of me, singing very softly and trying to match what they were singing. By the third time through a piece, I usually felt I had it down, and I sang just a little bit louder. Only a little, though. I didn’t want to show anyone up.
I’d been put in with the tenors. We had baritones, tenors, altos and sopranos. The baritones and tenors were all male singers. The other two sections were mixes of boys and girls, mostly young boys, sixth-graders and a few seventh. Micah was the only eighth-grader singing with the girls, and he was singing the alto part.
My voice had broken, but it had been only recently and still was a little troublesome. The baritones weren’t any older than me, but I guess they’d gone through puberty earlier. Their voices were certainly lower than mine and seemed set that way. Theirs didn’t have the, uh, well, the fluidity mine did.
We’d sing a song, Miss Haliday would talk about what she was hearing and make corrections, then we’d sing it again. Repeat. Repeat. I got so I knew my part in every song we were learning. A lot of the kids kept looking at their music as they sang. I kinda wondered if I was better off not being able to read the music. I had to listen to learn my part, and I thought I was doing better than the music-readers that way.
Miss Haliday didn’t correct any specific singer. She’d say, “Sopranos, you need to sing out a bit more in such and such a section, and tenors, a little softer there. The sopranos have the melody in that section and the lead, and you have to let them sing over you. Let’s try it again.” And we’d sing it again, and sometimes the kids would all pay attention, and I could hear how much better we sounded when we did that. If she did think some kid was off pitch or too loud or something, rather than talking to him/her, she’d say, “Tenors, listen to each other. Listen, and blend in.” She was careful not to call anyone out. I guessed she understood how fragile young kids’ egos were.
After we’d rehearse for a time, Miss Haliday would call for a break. It had become a tradition at this point, a vile one from my point of view, that when we were told to take ten, a pack of hyenas dressed like girls would surround Micah. I knew why. He was beautiful and sexy and had a presence about him, and they were on the prowl. They were as attracted to him as I was. Well, not to the same extent. That wasn’t possible. But they all wanted him, and there was a fierce competition going on to get him to notice them individually. They were . . . what was the word our Sex Ed teacher had used the other day? Oh yeah: coquettish. They were flirty, coquettish young girls who had yet to learn how to be devious but were trying to learn. Subtlety, thy name wasn’t these girls; that was for sure.
Micah smiled and nodded at them, and I hated it. Hated it! I watched as this happened every time we broke for a rest. Disgusting.
I hated seeing it, but there was no way I could keep from looking.
And at the end of the rehearsals, when we were leaving together Micah would be very nonchalant about the attention he was getting. Playing it down as if it were nothing at all. Drove me nuts. If I pressed the matter, he said that’s what joining the choir was all about, singing with the girls, getting to know them a little and figuring out which ones deserved time spent getting to know them better. He said I could do the same thing, though he didn’t press the point like I had. He was nicer than I was.
But, hell, I didn’t want to get involved with the girls! I didn’t want him to, either. I wanted him to like me, to pay attention to me, not a pack of ravenous girls. I sure didn’t want to get to know any of them, so why should he?
Well, I knew why. He was pretty obviously straight, and he was in the process of selecting a partner for doing the things he should be doing with me. I was ready for that. I guessed he was, too, only not with another boy.
But it was what it was, and what could I do? I could watch it happen and feel my guts being torn apart. That’s what I could do, and that’s what I did do. And with my guts being shredded, a funny thing happened.
It may have been my imagination or just wishful thinking, but I kept watching, and I saw things I hadn’t realized I was seeing. Little things. I knew Micah really well: his little tics and gestures and mannerisms and body language. I knew from watching him at lunch and in Gym. I knew from the way-too-few times we were alone and talking. I mean, I knew him!
And what I was seeing was his small degree of discomfort with the girls. He’d twitch his shoulders. He did that when he was anxious. He’d squinch his eyes just a smidgen. He did that when he had questions about or a problem with what he was seeing. He’d fidget, something he only did when uncomfortable with what he was hearing or was happening around him.
Once I realized I was seeing this, I started looking for it, and I saw it in some form almost every time he was talking to the girls, or more usually, when they were talking to him. And it got me to wondering. Was he really so happy having a harem of girls hanging all over him? Was that really what choir was all about for him?
It wasn’t much, but a tiny reason for hope, and I grabbed onto it like a bear grabbing a salmon as it leapt past him going upstream. That’s what my attraction was and where it was going. I felt like I was in an upstream fight for survival standing precariously in rapids up to my waist. But, maybe . . . ?
I didn’t ask Micah about this. I didn’t tease him about it, either. My thinking was, if I asked, and he said he loved the attention and wasn’t uncomfortable in the least, then he’d be shooting down my reason to hope. I wanted to sustain that hope. So I didn’t ask.