Dearest Reality � Glynis
Some things in my life were not as plausible as others. Staring into the Pit of Hopelessness and Uncertainty, I knew that no resolution would surface from the darkness that lied before me. The tangibility could only be reached through sight and touch, both in conjunction. A link from their connection � more powerful than any rope � would pull me out of this abyss. And, once I would be out, they would keep me locked in line on a straight path, in which I would be unable to escape. However, I was headed down another straight path into failure, and the tangibility would only shatter me. The sight � of darkness, oblivion, and hopelessness � was intangible, but it�s existence felt greater than any slap across my face. Any stare of scorn would stab into my soul deeper than the slap. The slap may physically send someone onto the floor, but one has the ability to stand again and fight for dignity. However, Sight�s contemptuous glare will keep one locked on the floor and will outline, in red, his path of failure. A spiteful glance or a smirk that lasts only a few seconds may cause this result, but revenge, stronger than merely standing from the floor, appears as the only solution.
Like Sight, there are those who will laugh at you and those who do not care about your existence. Staring at them is like playing one of those games at a carnival, in which you shoot with a water gun at a swiftly moving object, except that you do not win a tangible prize. The ones that laugh, appearing like gaudy clowns� faces, are the target, and you�re holding the ammunition. As the wind blows lightly, dispersing the sweet smells of cotton candy and funnel cake in the air, you notice that you�re hair is blowing into your face, but the blue strands don�t prove to distract me from my aim, like that of the protagonist in an old Western film. At first, when you aim, your shot misses the target by a few millimeters, but there are two more times to try and defeat the laughing faces. The second try is taken, but you blatantly miss the target. With one more try left, you meticulously plan your moves � position, aim, velocity of the water and the target � and poise your hand parallel to the ground. Then, like the two tries before, you aim but refuse to look at the result. Silence becomes the piercing sound of a lack of laughter. A few babies cry in the background and a group of children run as if Animosity never crossed their path. Looking up from the ground, you notice the world has stopped and so has the target, dripping with water. As pride rises inside, your face still has a look of equanimity and indifference. But, the laugher ceases to exist from that moment. If only I could defeat Sight in such a manner, than, perhaps, my path into oblivion might not be as imminent.
In one of my back pockets of my jeans, a pack of cigarettes presses against the material, and I feel its presence before removing it to take out a cigarette and light it between my lips with complacency. Behind me, cars phlegmatically move up the street. At three o�clock in the afternoon in winter, traffic is nonexistent in the streets. In a few minutes, I realize, traffic will occur as soon as the junior high�s day terminates. While everyone seems to be at a job or in school, I decide to stray away from books and intellectual inanities and roam the sidewalks of a destitute city. About me, as I stand across the street from the school, the snow � black, dirt-laden � is piled on the sidewalks, creating an impediment for traversing the streets. However, as I stand, I realize the result of my lack of compliance with society�s rules; once again, I have cut school, like several days, adding up to months in amount. Today, another call will be given home and another score of zeros will be added into my already-dismal grade average. From where I stood � not on the sidewalk, but as a sixteen year old in eighth grade � I see another year of this school, the same grade, and the same behavioral pattern in my future. Although it superficially seems disappointing, the fact that I�ll be repeating eighth grade for my fourth year creates no qualms in my conscience; my only lament is that Jesse will be a junior and will experience another year, alone, in that prison of a high school, getting tortured and mocked for his androgynous appearance. If I could motivate myself to go to class and do my work, I would, but I didn�t have the original spark to ignite the fire. At the moment, I stood across the street in a gloomy, enigmatic fashion, and smoked my cigarette as I leaned against the mailbox. If I walked twenty more feet in a path directly in front of where I stood, I would be standing directly inside the decaying red brick building of the junior high. Despite I might be in school, I might not be in class. Usually, if I were in school, I would be smoking in the bathroom and vandalizing the pink stalls, with a permanent marker, with retorts and rebukes to the girls that dared to enter. Out of habit, I might write, �Popularity is superficial, hatred is eternal,� if I were in a benign mood. �I screwed your boyfriend, and now I�ll screw you,� would be the threat of I felt devilish and replete with mischievousness. �I�m standing behind you, with a knife in hand; tonight, I�ll slay you,� would be the most frightening adage. Most of the girls that used the bathroom were innocuous fifth and sixth graders who thought that the junior high bathrooms were where one came to socialize. However, most left, pale in the face, after a few minutes. The eighth grade girls knew all of my antics, but, nevertheless, I continued to frighten them as well.
Across the street, a policeman leaned against his car in a similar manner to how I leaned against the mailbox. He leans with his head tilted upward slightly and crosses his legs and keeps his hands in his pockets as he stands. His badge, in the sickly gray light of an afternoon in early February, reflects the sky with a cold, moody radiance, like that of a gun he could hold. You bastard, I think to myself as I glare at him, watching him smirk with his automatic authority. In spite, I took the pack of cigarettes from my pants pocket and the lighter from my shirt and light another cigarette between my lips with the union of the two objects. Continuing to watch him, I notice that he shook his head but did not move from his stance. Like several prior instances, we have seen each other, and I�m always smoking � out of school, on the front steps, and even at recess. Everywhere, I�m lighting and smoking.
A few students exit from a side door onto the concrete-paved area that served as a playground. Within a few minutes, the bell rang, and the building overflowed with students who ran from the confinements to the pavements of the city. Watching them is like viewing a movie; in both situations, I am disconnected from the scene and cannot become involved in the picture. The policeman begins to observe the other students carefully now and I become a nonentity. Recently, drug dealings occurred in this area during after-school hours, and he, I assumed, was assigned to address the problem. Perhaps some of the high school students in the abandoned lot were dealing the drugs since few junior high students would know where to buy narcotics and stimulants. Then again, Jesse�s brother Tom, who usually sat behind me in class, could be dealing them, with his coterie in tow, as well.
Exiting the building, like a group of drunks meandering out of a bar, and wandering across the street, Tom and his group moved in my direction; whether their movement was intentional, I could not perceive. In eighth grade, they were the �elites,� who thought they were superior and contemptuously stared at everyone else. As the strutted around the building between classes, they behaved as if the school was theirs, and I grew sick but lived with the notion that they would be pummeled next year in high school. Tom, for the mere purpose of being Jesse�s younger brother, despite the semblance between them was scant, would be mocked and lose his crown, with the other freshmen who would be demoted from their eighth grade positions. From the times I spent at Jesse�s house, I observed that he and Tom were always in a fracas over something. Usually, Tom ignited the argument and forced Jesse to fight back. Before Jesse�s attempt to quit smoking, Tom mocked Jesse because Jesse was nearly emaciated, which, to Tom, indicated that Jesse was gay. Once Jesse gained sixty pounds, Tom emphasized Jesse�s weight even more. Always, Tom acted like he was in control of Jesse, and I became sick with the sight again. Out of the house, Tom strutted with his gang and helpless girl friend on his arm and acted as if the whole city were theirs. But, with this notion, I laughed, and envisioned Tom, tripping over Reality, with his crown falling off his head. Approaching me at this moment, they smirked, and I glared at them with disgust.
�What do you want?� I mumbled, before I inhaled the smoke from my cigarette.
�Nothing,� he remarked, �but I�m just going to inform you that Jesse doesn�t live with us anymore.�
In my skull, my eyes bulged. For a moment, the glare, from the sun reflecting on the windows of the various passing cars, faded and I was agape. What happened to Jesse, I wondered anxiously. The girl, slightly tan and attractively slim, who clung to Tom's left arm, giggled as I stood in shock in front of them. How I wanted to slap both and send them to the sidewalk, I thought. His smug, arrogant facial expression irked me and his laugh seemed to say, "Aren't you glad he's gone?"
"Where is he, then?" I inquired, with my voice sounding low and harsh to indicate my animosity toward them.
"How do you expect me to know? My parents finally kicked him out last night for being a faggot."
The last phrase, "for being a faggot," resonated in my ears like a jarring interval repeated several times on a keyboard, and I wallowed in my disgust and contempt even more. His levity toward the situation and the haughty manner in which he spoke made me cringe. If I could only assail him to the pavement, I desired inside, but he had an army of comrades behind him that would impale me if I touched him. However, between them and the officer, who now observed me closer, I was trapped in my stance.
"You bastard," I mumbled under my breath, as I glared at him. I stared directly at him; he and I stood eye-to-eye, and I saw myself, minimized, in him pupils. His pupils, reflecting my image like a mirror, became wide in fright, as if they were the ones scared of me as he heroically stood in his stance. "Move, or else, I'll knock you down," I said through my teeth. "And, I'm serious about it, too."
Tom and his entourage laughed. "You? You'll beat us all up?" he snickered, but his eyes still had a flicker of fear in them.
"Yeah, I will," I replied instantly, trying to be steady with my words, unlike Jesse, who would have sounded like a machine gun firing in battle at this moment. I was not trying to show too much aggression, but I also wasn't trying to appear as if I overestimated my capabilities.
Unlike before when she giggled, Tom's girlfriend now turned to him with a pleading expression upon her face. She read my words on the walls of the bathroom, was familiar with my notoriety amongst the girls, and observed me walk about the halls like the undermining revolutionary. I noticed that she wanted to leave the scenario immediately since I would imminently erupt like a volcano and spew my venomous words like lava and ash into the air. Tom, however, was indignant as he waited to see me fight the whole group of them.
"What, are you scared?" I mocked, and smirked as I uttered the last syllable.
"You think you can take all of us on?" he laughed, but I noticed a hint of uncertainty. "You're so out of your mind, you can imagine it only."
"Nah," I rebuked. "I know it. I've beaten you up before." That fact was a truth, almost the fact that the squares of the two smaller sides on a right triangle equaled the square of the hypotenuse from the Pythagorean theorem. In the past, when Tom ridiculed Jesse, I had assailed him for his words. However, only once was I suspended for my actions; perhaps, the school as saw justification of putting his words back in his mouth. That only time occurred last year, in which Tom mocked Jesse for dying his hair purple for the first time. Although now I couldn't remember his exact words, I pummeled him into the pavement outside of school and attempted to defeat his coterie, before one of the after school aides pried me away. At the time, only a few others were with him, and they soon fled, as I was lead back inside the building to sit in the Principal's office for two hours. His army sensed I was a destructive vampire, who was ravenous for their blood, specifically Tom's.
An expansion of uncertainty traversed Tom's face; he twitched nervously in slight, but noticeable, movements. The others looked at him with a longing look as if they, like the girl, wanted to leave the situation now before anything escalated. "Run," I stated in a harsh, belittling voice and glared at him again. His pupils seemed to leap inside his eyes, and in a moment, he, along with the rest of his followers, swiftly walked down the street to the subway station near the library. How I despised them, I thought to myself and chuckled with the fact that all of them were afraid of me, a lone person with no other army but a scared high school student who now wandered the streets on his own.
A thought crossed my mind; today, I had agreed to meet Jesse at the cafeteria. Here I stood, near the junior high school, and he was waiting for me for over a half-hour at the cafeteria, with his coffee and donuts consumed minutes ago. I hoped he would be there; once we talked, I would be able to discover why he no longer lived at home. Perhaps, he could live with me, I thought on a whim for a second, but the idea was irrational. The thought of Jesse wandering aimlessly about the city made my heart ache with the innate unfairness of the world. However, Jesse's parents were saturated with homophobia and prejudice against anything unconventional, and the fact that they forced Jesse from their house for his attire was only inevitable. But, I knew my mother; I lived in the same two-story row home for sixteen years with her. Asking her to have Jesse live with us would not be an option. Although she managed to covet her hatred when he stood outside, she disliked him, but only for superficial reasons; his hair and distinct makeup caused her ardent aversion to him.
The cafeteria was located within walking distance from the junior high school. Often, we used to go there, but I had not entered with him for the past month. Usually, we walked to the park when the weather was warm. When the air became frigid and the streets were inundated with snow, we sulked through the mall. The cafeteria used to be our junior high school haven, away from everyone else who ridiculed our friendship. Outside the cafeteria, I introduced Jesse to smoking, which was now a decision I regretted. Unlike I, who only smoked out of habit, he became addicted severely, to the point of smoking two packs of cigarettes per day. After school, he smelled of cigarettes, but kept with his intense habit. Whenever we met outside of the classroom, a cigarette was always between his pale, thin fingers, and he smoked it as if he were sucking candy. I could safely say, for a month, that he was a more prolific smoker than I was. In our homes, neither of us could smoke, which was torture. But, in junior high, we relentlessly roamed the streets and hid in alleys to smoke and relieve the internal tension we suffered from the lack of nicotine.
Last month, however, the crash occurred. Jesse, metaphorically, hurled himself into a brick wall to escape his addiction. In realization, he noticed the physical damage he was doing to himself and began the torture of abstaining - almost. From over two packs per day, he reduced his consumption in half. No longer did he dangle a slim cigarette between his fingers or lips. But, those fingers itched to have something held between them. Instead of cigarettes, he ate food whenever he desired a cigarette, which was often. Thus, to mollify his dire need, he ate until the sensation faded. However, she sensation seldom faded, and he gained sixty pounds. Although he no longer looked emaciated, I still felt responsible. Jesse, inside, was still the same person, despite his physical image went from being gaunt to cherubic. Simultaneously, I continued to smoke, without changing any of my habits.
The streets were not as congested with cars and people viscously moving through the snow as they would be in an hour from now. If I had not cut school today, I assumed I would be sitting in a dreary classroom for detention. The cafeteria now stood adjacent to me, towering over my head like a monolith. From where I stood, I noticed that the inside was sparsely populated with people. Gazing inside, through the windows, I did not see anyone with a trench coat and purple hair parted to one side. Nor did I see Jesse's melancholy silhouette. Jesse had not come to the cafeteria yet, I assumed, but I wandered through the doors anyway to wait for him.
The enticing aroma of coffee always filled the warm white-paneled room of the cafeteria whenever I entered. Inhaling deeply, I felt the intoxicating scent precipitate into my lungs through my nose. Sometimes, the coffee would be free, but today, it cost fifty cents. A few adults, a divergent group, populated the room, as they ate their late lunches of the special soup. Despite the murmur of conversation, the room continued to sound silent in my ears, aside from the monotonous ticking of the clock. A cashier from across the room studied her nails. Someone else sneezed quietly, as if his noise would disrupt the surrounding. A clatter of dishes was heard in the background. However, Jesse did not sit at any booth or table inside. He said he would be here, I reminded myself, and thus he should be, unless he reneged on his agreement in his head.
I carried no books with me today, like most other days. The textbooks that I seldom opened sat and gathered dust inside my locker, a pit in which things seldom escaped. The books would be returned at the end of the year, although during the year, they were almost never opened. A table by one of the windows facing the street appeared welcoming. I sat down casually, but thought for a few moments once I was seated. What should I order, I asked myself, and should I order anything for Jesse? What if Jesse never comes, or what if he comes after I've left? The high school dismissed a half-hour before the junior high, I knew from studying the faces outside on the street. Each possessed a different expression. Some were happy, and others sad, irritated, and disgusted. Most were a pale shade of pink from the cold and whipping winds. A few brightly smirked secretly to themselves, while a frown and downcast eyes that aimed at the sidewalk could characterize others. Their hair blew in the winds of was perfectly still; no state existed between. Each body was traveling to a different place, somewhere important, I assumed. Home, perhaps, I thought, but the day was too early for one to sit inside and watch television. Then again, the weather was so frigid that I would not have minded to stay at home and rest in bed today.
Another thought crossed my mind about today; I was not absent, despite I did not decide to come to school. No one called to say that I was not going to sit in class or sulk through the halls. As far as my mother was concerned, she assumed I would be in school. As I sat, the inveterate aspect of cutting school surfaced, whether it was in or out of school. In either instance, the authority figures have devised a system in which you will automatically be caught. A call to my mother would occur, and she would discover, much to her surprise, that I did not even set for in homeroom today. That, however, would only be another phrase to be added to her list of my faults and inadequacies, since she was focused on fixing my behavior, although she could not afford to send me to a reform school or a psychiatrist. Cutting school today would only be added into a notebook, and somehow, she would eventually force me to become a person who obeyed authority. She believed that she ought to find some help for me, along with someone to help her deal with eighteen years of dealing with a juvenile delinquent. Whenever Mike, my oldest brother, Charles and Garret, my two younger brothers, or I defied authority, she would become furious - yelling and turning red from all of the anger she released. Always, she screamed and threw her hands up in the air with hopelessness since we were a family prone into trouble. I was problematic in school, Mike had his unruly gang who often had brushes with the law, and Charles and Garret could never focus on any task and bothered the neighbors with their antics. My father stood in the background of the show and laughed as he watched all of us hopeless actors. Whenever I was caught smoking or when I had to repeat eighth grade twice, he laughed at the situation and treated it the levity. My mother, on the contrary, became a volcano that spewed histrionics instead of ash.
Jesse once told me about counseling, or psychiatry, since, for a short time, he endured its torture. In a discreet manner, he spoke about it and hoped not to live the dreadful experience over again. However, his family was farther down the line of paucity, and thus, after a few sessions, they could no longer afford his treatment. My family, unlike his, had the money, although they were frugal about everything. Every time I dyed my hair, they would remark about the "good" money I wasted on myself. Eventually, we would cooperate and participate in group therapy sessions, once an inexperienced psychiatrist was found. But, as I thought, my experience might be different from Jesse's. Jesse saw a Christian psychiatrist at the church his mother attended. Because my mother was not as religiously zealous as his, the possibility of seeing a neutral psychiatrist existed.
What food should I buy, I asked myself, wishing to diverge from the traditional ritual of consuming coffee and donuts, and stared up at the menu above the bored workers' heads. Jesse had not arrived yet, but if he were here, I knew he would buy a cup of coffee. The most expensive dish cost three dollars, but I had more money in my pockets than that. My stomach growled at the thought of food - a steaming plate of pasta, with a salad and cup of coffee. What should I buy? The question dared to threaten me, but I knew my decision was not important. Just buy something to appease the stomach. Walking up to the counter, I eyed the food in the metal containers behind the glass. The first tray held ravioli, smothered in tomato sauce, and, on an impulse, I asked one of the servers for a portion of it. The ravioli was oiled onto a plate and handed toward me. After paying the cashiers, I turned to head back to the booth to wait for Jesse, who was surprisingly tardy today. However, someone else sat where I rested previously.
From my former seat, this person gazed up at me with narrow, seductive dark-brown eyes and smiled. The facial expression was not of innocence, but not of saccharine-laden posturing, either. The smile seemed to say "I've been desiring you, although I've never spoke a word to you." Supported by a hand covered in calluses, the chin jutted outward and had a slight dimple in the center as the person looked up at me, a gaze that declared that he or she would not move from position.
"Excuse me," I said in a shaky tone, "but I was sitting here." A strange pulling sensation I never experienced before usurped my stomach.
"Really, were you?" the person replied, but the words flowed mellifluously like honey.
"Yeah, I was," I responded, but tried to not seem too harsh. I wished to have my place again, although I was not eager to ignite a fight with this androgynous person, dressed in a leather bomber jacket covered in zippers and metallic studs.
"Well, if you were, you can just sit here with me. "The person flashed me another seductive gaze, and the same sensation grew with intensity inside of me.
Fine, I told myself, if this person would not move, I'll just stay here and hope he or she will become miserable by my presence.
"So, what's your name?" the person asked coyly. The polarity of this person's voice could be mistaken as that of a male or a female.
"Why does it matter?" I retorted and speared a ravioli with my fork. The white plastic fork gripped the ravioli, but the ravioli slipped off and fell into the sea of sauce.
"It matters to me to know what your name is," the person replied," for I might not want to forget it."
"So?" I rebuked, focusing on my plate of raviolis that were becoming cold with each minute.
"What other reason is there? Does there really have to be any reason at all?" the person inquired. "There's so much to defy that everything has a code to break. Each code starts with a number or a letter; name or age, it doesn't matter. Crack the code, and all innocence is broken into and seized. Understand?" The person cast me one of those gazes again, but this time, he or she leaned across the table and moved his or her pale, immaculate face closer to mine. I looked away from her, down to my raviolis, which, I realized, needed to be cut in order to stay on the fork. I put a piece of one into my mouth, my teeth grinding the dough and cheese between them, but did not respond to her question. "There's just so much to defy."
"Fine, then," I replied brusquely. "What's your code?"
"My innocence was been lost several times before, but never to you, just yet."
"Why do I matter?" I asked, confused about her last assertion.
"Why does anyone, in fact?"
"I don't know."
"Okay, then," she stated. "My name's Lena, and we'll go with only that; last names are too pretentious. I'm seventeen, and I'm a senior at South High. My phone number is 648-9697, and, in case you care, I'm infatuated with you by sight alone."
The ravioli on my plate became inedible. I gazed at Lena, trying to imitate the gaze she first flashed at me, and the sensation in my stomach reached its apex of intensity. As I observed her, I wanted to steep myself in her - those eyes, that porcelain complexion, and the greased dark brown hair that fell to the tops of her ears. Her smile enticed me, and drew anyone to smile back at her, even if they were irked. The black bomber jacket, zipped to her collar, gave her an appearance of punkish aggression, as if she knew she could fight anyone, even Tom and his followers. Lena seemed to be analogous to me, except for the face that she appeared more androgynous than I. Unwitting, I became captivated by her spell and suddenly recited my code to her.
"Glynis, and, like you said, last names aren't important. I'm sixteen, and, man, I'm crazy about you. My number is 775-8964, and call me whenever you like."
"Interesting," she replied.
Intentionally, I did not repeat where I went to school. As a sixteen-year-old eighth grader, I felt like an embarrassment to society and myself.
Lena flashed me one of her smiles again, possessing me with a sense of internal liquidation; every solid organ became like water that viscously flowed out of every orifice on my body. From my position, I wanted to sink into the floor and howl with delight. Staring at her was like watching a tide pool at the ocean, filled with the mysterious wonders of coral, starfish, and reddish-colored plants. In the shallow water, a school of black fish, like her pupils, swam through the clear, rippling liquid. The ravioli, which I continued to consume, sank into my stomach like a lump of lead. Then, in the process of gazing at Lena and eating my meal simultaneously, I noticed an aspect of myself that never surfaced before; this aspect could cause confusion in the world about me, despite I felt ambivalent. Could I be bisexual, or even gay, I wondered. Never before had I looked at another person as I looked at Lena now and felt such euphoria. Was a new page turning over in the book representing my passage in life? I was not certain, for I felt almost the same, in terms of my physical state, as I did yesterday. Perhaps, I thought, I have been feeling this way my whole life, but only now do I fully understand my emotions. Lena sat across from, in front of, me, with only a metal table separating us. Was this love? Love was a word I seldom used in my vocabulary. "Love" only came to my mind when I thought of Jesse; as a friend, I loved him, but never did I feel the same way about a girl. Until this moment, when Lena sat at my table, I never felt positively, let alone amorously, about another girl. Girls were never friends of mine, let alone a lover. But, as I continued to observe Lena, she did not appear as any other girl I had met before. In fact, when I first discovered her in my seat, I couldn't even recognize that Lena was indeed a female. However, beyond her surface, Lena had motivations like I did, and infrequently did I meet a soul who seemed remotely like I, unless that person was Jesse, in some aspects. If the streets were cleared, I would run outside, down the sidewalks, and rejoice in the notion that I had discovered a new, vital aspect about myself. My mother would disapprove of my actions if I did such an act, I knew.
"So, have you ever been with a girl before?" she asked, as her smile faded into a neutral expression.
"Not yet," I replied with embarrassment.
"Why not?" she questioned in her effort to start a conversation between us.
"I just found out I might not be a heterosexual," I mumbled.
"When? Like yesterday?"
"No," I sighed, then stated in a low, hushed voice that sounded almost inaudible, "just now."
"So I was the bomb that set off the hormones, huh?" she remarked with a laugh. "That's pretty ironic, isn't it?"
�I guess so.� At this moment, as we sat in the booth in awkward silence, I tried to talk, but a lump formed in my throat and my mind became void of anything intelligent to say. In one aspect, I felt like Jesse, when forced to speak around others. Aside from our conversations, he stuttered and behaved in a nervous fashion. In fact, if the two of us ever addressed authority, I spoke first, and he interjected my monologues to seem as if he spoke, even if his words were few. Despite I was more verbose than he, he, inside, was more intelligent that I. Although I usually ignite the conversation and continue to explain most of the points, I found myself clamming up in front of Lena.
�What do you mean, �I guess so�?� she retorted. �If no one else did it, why isn�t it I?�
�I don�t know,� I replied timidly, looking away from her visage uncomfortably.
�You want some coffee? It�s my treat, okay?�
As I tepidly nodded in response, she stood and headed toward the counter. For the few minutes I sat alone in the booth, I could breathe a sigh of relief and think about what I, as Glynis, wanted. Although she seemed to be pursuing me, I felt hesitant about pursuing her. For the moment, even if we remained in this booth for an infinite period of time, I merely wanted to talk � holding an intelligent conversation- and assimilate her by her words. Words, so far in her endeavor, had little meaning. However, the lump from my insecurity kept preventing me from doing anything of meaning. All I seemingly could do was gaze in awe at her as she asked me simple questions that received a tacit answer from me.
Lena returned with two steaming Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hands. Setting them down on the table, she placed one close to me and the other adjacent to her. Although her cup was filled with unadulterated black coffee, mine had been altered with sugar and cream until its color was a pale brown. Always, I prepared my coffee this way, but I wondered how she assumed I preferred my coffee this way � bitter and sweet. As she sipped her noxious drink, she continued to stare at me more, but smirked, although her action was not out of contempt. Her smirk was more like a child�s, after he did something good despite his usual mischievous nature.
�I knew you would like it,� she asserted. �You can always find a lot about a person by how they drink his or her coffee.�
�So, if that�s true, then what kind of person am I?� I replied to question her authority and assertiveness.
Lena gazed into my coffee as if it were a crystal ball that held all of the world�s secrets. Then, she glanced back at her cup. �Well,� she hesitated. �You�re bitter, like all coffee is bitter, but not too much that it�s overpowering with animosity. But, you�re not exactly watered-down, either. You still have some bite, but it�s an enjoyable bite, like � what are those things called? Oh, � she paused in her words of revelation. �Like a love bite, that�s it. And, like the sugar at the bottom, you�re sweet, but it�s not visible; it�s more of a trace that�s found after you drink more of your coffee. And, like the dark color of the coffee, you�re dark as well, but more mysterious and moody rather than secretive and evil.� She paused again after the explanation. �Am I not right?�
For a minute, I analyzed Lena�s coffee analogy. Partially, her assumption appeared correct by all of her initial comparisons. But, I wondered, how could she assume, or discover, that information from a single cup of coffee? How could she have assumed and assimilated all of that? �I think you are right,� I replied.
�What do you think I am, then?� she asked in the same manner as I asked her originally.
�Do I have to look into your coffee?�
�Pretend that it�s an eight-ball, and the answer lies merely on the surface. Look into that cup of coffee and tell me what you see.�
Peering into her cup, I merely noticed the dark liquid that reflected my visage on its surface, like a mirror. �I see black coffee,� I mumbled, although I knew she did not want to hear those words.
�Look beyond the surface and superficial presence,� she said. �Now, what do you see?�
�Nothing,� I replied out of hopelessness with her analogy that I could not grasp.
�Glynis, pretend it�s an analogy. Lena is to the coffee, as � now you fill in the blank,� she encouraged, trying to make my indignant mind work.
�I was never good at analogies,� I replied.
�Well, now you can be,� she retorted. �Just tell me how this coffee is like me, from your assumptions. Don�t be shy, Glynis.�
I stared into the dark liquid in the white cup, again, and tried to make sense of what this liquid had to do with the life of a person � any person. For the first time since I entered eighth grade, I regretted not paying any attention in class. But, here I sat, and I was stuck with analogies, as if they held the key to life�s mysteries. I never was familiar with analogies, and did not care to learn them, since they seemed useless. Before, in my past in elementary school, I saw them � those words separated by a colon. Now, I discovered, inadvertently, there could be used, and I remained clueless. How is Lena like this cup of murky coffee, I asked myself. I didn�t know; I didn�t know Lena. Then, in a moment of revelation, how is this coffee like any other person? What is dark and bitter? On the surface, she didn�t seem to be either, but, perhaps, those aspects were her inner traits. I gazed into the coffee again and then, opened my mouth to speak. �I guess��
Lena severed my speech. �You guess? You�ve got to know.�
�Fine,� I murmured. �I know you�re smooth�� I paused to reevaluate my words. �Just like the coffee is as a liquid. And, um�� I focused on Lena�s black bomber jacket, with all of its zippers, and dark brown hair. Dark, perhaps, but not in the same vein as Jesse was. Not mysterious, I though to myself. �You�re dark, but not coveted and mysterious; you�re more like a visible dark mood. You�re bitter, and refuse to be sweet. I think you�re untainted. That is a word, isn�t it?�
�I think so,� she informed me.
�Untainted, as in you�re pure, without any outside influence � original and authentic.�
�So, I�m not a charlatan?� she asked.
The word �charlatan� rang like a bell of unfamiliar pitch in my ears. However, from a history class I attended a while ago, I remembered that �charlatan� sounded similar to the name of a king, I think of France, that exerted an unusual amount of power. �You mean like a powerful king?�
Lena shook her head, laughing slightly at my error. �I think you�re thinking of Charlemagne, that French king that formed a large empire after the collapse of Rome and split it among his sons after his death in the early AD years. No, I don�t mean Charlemagne; I�m referring to the word �charlatan,� a fake or imposter.�
The eyes in my head widened without my control. Never in my life had I been able to repeat that kind of information. Again, I loathed myself for not attending class for most of the days in eighth grade. Jesse knew information like that, perhaps even more than Lena, but he would never be able to repeat it like she did. Whenever he recited important information, he spoke in a whispered, timid tone, and usually stuttered, since that was his nature. Lena, however, was confident in herself, I observed.
�I think that�s it. No, you�re not a charlatan,� I replied, and the cup of coffee seemingly vanished in front of me. I could no longer analyze the coffee; the information it possessed was infinite, and I was oblivious to most of it. �That�s it,� I told her, taking a deep breath, despite my incompetent ways.
�Y�know, for a first time, that wasn�t bad,� she said. �I always do stuff like that � analyzing people�s beverages.�
I recollected the information that she rattled off about the French king, and her capability of possessing such a characteristic amazed me. �How did you just know all of that?�
�All of what?� she inquired.
�All that information about that French king and what a charlatan is.�
�I just learned it in school, and remembered most of it,� she sighed. She then halted, before asking the question I dreaded to answer. �Say, you never told me where you go to school. Where do you go, anyway?�
Lena�s calloused fingers rapped against the table top, like a stopwatch timing me for an answer. Perhaps I should tell her that I go to North High School, where Jesse goes. But, then she might wait for me after school one day, I fretted. In my sixteen years, I never noticed the second hand on the clock tick louder than at this moment. As I tried to fabricate an acceptable answer, the monotonous ticking became a distraction. Should I tell her the truth, I wondered.
�You didn�t tell me where you went.� The lie I told was obvious, but I needed to postpone the truth and draw together an answer to obstruct my failures. As I said the words, my lips felt like a grotesque machine, pumping oil and rancid filth.
�I told you I go to South High.� I already knew her answer, but I pretended to recollect the information in recognition. Perhaps, I merely forgot the simple sentence. But, then again, the excuse of forgetting is hackneyed. From experience, however, that single word was the key to eluding trouble and consequences.
Determined not to tell her that I remained in eighth grade for three years and was destined for a fourth, I said, �I go to a private school outside of the city.� Lying is too simple, I told myself, but only afterwards do you feel guilty about your deceiving.
�Oh,� she said. �Would you like to meet me back here again? I think it�s the easiest way.�
�Sure,� I replied. In the future, I told myself, I will not stay in after school detention until three o�clock in the afternoon. As long as Lena plans to come, I will as well.
�You want me to call you?� she asked.
�Sure,� I replied again. �You need my number.�
�Nope,� she answered, indicating her forehead. �That information is all up here. 775-8964.�
Amazed, again by her instant regurgitation of information, I gawked at her, as if I was a patron at a magic show and she was the magician. �How do you remember all this stuff?�
�You didn�t tell me that long ago,� she asserted. �It�s not time to forget anything just yet.�
�But, they�re just numbers, without a pattern.�
�Who ever said that banal patterns solved anything? I just know, or, in this case, I just remembered, that�s all.�
�Fine,� I murmured. �You can call me as long as you remember my number.�
�I�m not going to forget it, definitely not,� she replied, flashing me one of her glances again. In an instant, I stopped what I though and stared at her in awe.
I stood up from my seat, remembering that I had cold raviolis to throw away. Lena remained dormant in her seat, watching me throw the plate away. My coffee, however, remained untouched on the table. Lena�s cup stood empty, with only a few brown-colored drops clinging to the white interior.
�You still want your coffee?� she asked in a sly manner, with a pleading undertone that suggested that she wanted it.
�I�m done,� I answered as I headed toward the door. �You can have it if you want.�
Lena clutched the cup and pulled it in a robotic fashion across the table. In a minute, the coffee no longer resided in the cup; like hers, a few brownish drops remained on the inside. �That was a bit bland,� she said, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket. �But, it was still hot. I never understood why people liked cream in their coffee anyway.�
�I just do.�
�It�s just the way we are,� she summarized in retrospect. �As long as you don�t put orange juice in it, you�re not bad. It�s only coffee anyway, y�know?�
�Yeah,� I sighed. �I do know. My friend Jesse likes coffee that way, but he mostly likes it because of the smell. That�s also why he�s addicted to cigarettes.�
�Aren�t we all for similar reasons addicted to them? If they were like alcohol � bad for you, bad taste � then, I wouldn�t smoke, but that�s life.�
Maladroitly, I sat back down in my seat, in front of Lena, to resume talking. A few minutes would not cause a delay, I realized as I dreaded returning home to face my mother, who would be perturbed since I skipped school today. If I arrived early or late, she would still lecture me about the differences between right and wrong principles, I knew.
�I just feel bad about it. I was the one that introduced him to that habit,� I told Lena, hoping she would offer any trivial amount of advice.
�Y�know,� she said, staring up at the ceiling as if it held all the resolutions to all the world�s problems, including Jesse�s addictions, �he should try to quit; it�s his discretion on the issue, not yours anymore. He�s sixteen, the same age as you, y�know?�
I nodded in agreement. �Yeah, but he tried and gained sixty pounds as a result. And, he still continues to smoke. He used to be really skinny, but now, I feel horrible whenever I look at him. Plus, now his parents kicked him out since they thought he was gay because he acts very effeminate, but that�s just how he is, y�know?�
�Hey!� she exclaimed. �You used my expression, but I don�t mind.� Before I met Lena, I used that expression, but I chose not to argue with her over such a trivial issue. Lena trapped me in her spell, hypnotized me with her tempting gaze, and refused to allow me to leave � not that I wanted to, especially because I knew what faced me as soon as I exited the cafeteria. At the moment, every sense in my spectrum of feelings had been delayed. The sensation of intoxication permeated my mind and forced me to become insatiable. Perhaps this sensation is what causes Jesse to mumble �Euphoria� when drinking coffee or smoking cigarettes, I realized. But, his objects are inanimate, while Len is vivid and vibrant in front of me.
�Anyway,� she continued, �that�s ridiculous. They must be paranoid of small, insignificant things.�
�His mother�s very religious,� I added.
�Figures,� she mumbled. �Religion spoils everything, including my sexual preference. I can�t help it, but I�m not giving up. Neither should he. If I became submissive, I�d be lying to myself, which is inane. Don�t you agree?�
�I guess so.�
�Yeah, I really despise ignorance. Honestly, do I seem like an adverse person because I�m gay?�
Out of my ignorance in academia, I couldn�t admit my lack of familiarity with the word �adverse.� To satisfy her, I assumed it�s meaning. �No,� I said, trying not to come across as a fool.
�See?� she replied with a smile that embellished her face. �Now, it�s not universal � not everyone is a totally ignorant being.�
�Oh.� I smiled slightly back at her. The thought of returning home crossed my mind again. Eventually, I realized, I would need to walk through the door and force myself through the lecture about the importance of staying in school once I arrived. Better now than later, I told myself, as I tried to resist remaining sedentary in my seat. Besides, after today when I met Lena, I discovered goals for myself � to go school, go to class, do my homework, and avoid detentions. After school, I would leave the decaying junior high for the confinements of the white cafeteria, filled with the aroma of coffee, to meet Lena again. The detention, formerly serving as the impediment, would no longer obstruct my quest. And, in the future, I planned to tell her I actually attended North High, instead of fabricating an excuse. Perhaps, leaving is only inevitable for the moment, but we shall unite again imminently to establish more than the secrets in a cup of coffee.
�I need to leave,� I told Lena, as I stared at the clock on the wall. �I�m sorry to end this so soon.�
�Maybe I could meet you here tomorrow, if that�s all right with you,� I asked.
�Of course!� she replied. �What time do you want to meet? I get out at two-thirty.�
�So do I. Three o�clock isn�t bad.�
�Sounds great.�
Despite the notion that I needed to face my failures, I longed to stay here and gaze upon Lena. Every cigarette, shot of alcohol, and cup of coffee I consumed could not match my desire for her. For hours, I could stare at her, into her intense, androgynous eyes, and she would gaze at me with the same intensity. However, in my mind I realized the calling that sounded like my mother�s sigh in my ears, a sound like an alarm that informed me that I needed to take immediate action and come home.
�I guess I�ll see you then, right?� I asked, already knowing the answer.
�Yeah, definitely.� She paused, her eyes shifting in recognition of something. �Where do you live? I could give you a lift.�
�Near the library,� I answered.
�My motorcycle�s parked out front. Mind if I give you a ride?� she asked demurely, her face filled with vivid candor again.
�Sure. I�ll point out my place when you get there.�
�It�s on my way, anyway. I pass by the library and Emerson Junior High when I�m coming home from South almost every day. It�s more time to spend with you.� Her eyelids lowered, and her dark lashes coyly covered her glistening pupils, which were full of clandestine surprises that would become revealed to my ears in the future. Time could be spent; it was disposable. I craved for her, like alcohol � on both I could become drunk with infatuation.
Outside, her candy-red motorcycle leaned against a parking meter, capped with a thick mound of snow. The tail pipes, I noticed, were painted with orange and red flames, which proved to be the only warmth in the frigid scene. Lena mumbled something inaudible to my ears at the passing traffic, but her breath, like cigarette smoke, could only be seen in spite of the desolate surrounding. As she sat on top of her motorcycle, she zipped her jacket to the collar, and then pulled a pair of attenuated, threadbare black leather gloves over her hands. In the cold, despite the harsh, hostile winds, I never felt brittle or frigid. Buttoning my flannel shirt in the same manner as she zipped her jacket, I followed and sat on top of the motorcycle.
�Aren�t you the masochist,� she sarcastically commented about my lack of insulated attire. �Have you ever been on a motorcycle before?�
In response, I shook my head; never had I sat atop one, although I envied those who owned them. How did she get this one, I wanted to know, as I felt the hard leather seat beneath me and noticed the tail piped glinting like mirrors in the grayish sunlight of an afternoon in winter.
�Just hold on to me, then,� she warned. �I wouldn�t want you to fall off.�
Such a concept would not be hard to do, I though, for even if Lena suddenly became repulsive, I would still grasp her muscular shoulders. And, now, she allowed me to do so. However, I hoped I wouldn�t become distracted by her prowess and audacity so that I would skip my house.
�My cousin gave me this last year,� she informed me, as if she knew what question plagued my mind. �Once I learned to drive, he gave it to me, since he bought a new one. He�s from Oklahoma, and there isn�t as much transportation compared to what we have here. Everyone needs to get around, so his parents bought him this, since it�s cheaper than a car. Around my seventeenth birthday, he gave it to me, because he knew I could never buy a car. He�s a pretty nice guy, I�d have to admit.�
No one would ever buy or lend me a motorcycle, I thought, but that notion rooted from my past. They probably would have thought I would run away on it and take Jesse with me. Perhaps, they were right.
Lena dusted off the accumulating snow on the mirror. In the glass, the familiar buildings from behind us � in a picturesque, immaculate image � appeared closer than when I looked at them from my seat.
�Don�t look behind you,� Lena warned cautiously. �It�s distracting, and I might lose my balance. Sorry if I sound like I�m snapping, but I don�t want us killed, y�know?�
�Yeah,� I replied mechanically.
Below me, my seat vibrated. Lena clutched the black handlebars, and a look of determination and omnipotent prowess of the streets crossed her face. �Hold on,� she advised; I knew that this was an order to prevent a deleterious happening.
Around her waist, I embraced her, more out of fear than intimate fantasy. To her, I was a dilettante she needed to watch over for the ride, or else, my own lack of knowledge would prove detrimental. Feeling the stiff leather from her jacket under my palms and breathing in the aroma like a familiar odor, I anticipated the ride home.
The tighter I held, the louder the motor became. Furiously, my seat vibrated beneath, shaking me in my position. Whatever stupid things you may do, just hold onto Lena and stay in your seat, I advised myself, with infallible words of wisdom for the moment. The tail pipes vibrated, too, tapping against my boots to create a sound similar to that of a dripping faucet in a desolate room. From where I sat, I noticed suddenly that we started to move at a rapid speed down the street, faster than any of the cars. Houses, people, shops, and snow piles became an abstract, indistinct, grayish blur in the realm that always appeared lucid in my memory. From the cars passing us, I could not recognize their colors, or even if they were cars at all. All plausible and tangible objects became superficially smeared in my realm, defying what I believed was credulous.
On the motorcycle, the only tangible objects were Lena and I. The wind whipped past my face, but it was stagnant compared to our speed. My tremulous hands grasped Lena�s jacket and felt the metallic zippers that embellished the dark material. Her hair, although short and gelled until stiff, blew in the air above me, partially obstructing my vision of the gray sky above. The snow, interminably falling for months, no longer touched my face and cluttered my hair. The sensation of rough material now brushed against my skin, as its scent became my only convalescence to the comfort of tangibility. The once-recognizable world about us became tenuous to me, as if everything I had known previously was some kind of fabricated setting, like a list of physical rules, for appeasement. Perhaps anarchy is what Lena and I discovered at this moment; we were the only ones that sensed the flimsiness of �reality.� Wait until I describe this to Jesse, I thought, but my heart sank instantly as I thought of his name. No longer did I know where Jesse was. Perhaps, he, too, was a part of this mess, and I couldn�t make out his figure.
The wind brushed against me, tousled my hair, and rushed past the motorcycle to win the race. My hair slapped me across the face like a whip, with its stinging aftershock. The wind�s frigid hands slapped my face, too; his flat palms reddened my cheeks until I felt bruised. When I inhaled, the smoke from his cigarette flew into my nostrils, creating a brittle sensation inside of my throat. All of the saliva upon my tongue froze to make a lake of ice, which instantly collapsed and fell into the depths of my throat.
Suddenly, the motorcycle stopped, taking us back into a tangible realm. Only the seat beneath me vibrated with the low-pitched hum from the motor in my ears. The wall of row houses and its inhabitants became still or moved at a natural pace with time. The colors that once blurred in front of my eyes became distinct, like the shades of a rainbow. The cars, meandering up the street through the clutter caused by the snow, moved at a slow speed again. Like Styrofoam, the snow made a crunching sound as I stepped upon it once I slid off the motorcycle. My head, however, continued to spin, and I vowed to never sit atop a motorcycle again, unless I had a cogent, legitimate reason. But, that thought was merely transitory as I realized the motorcycle, like its rider, now had significance in my life.
Lena continued to stoically sit on top of her motorcycle, not flagged and weary from her frenetic ride. However, the risk became mundane to her, unlike myself, who never rode a motorcycle before. Perhaps, certain obstacles continued to stand in my path.
�Is this the street?� Lena asked.
�Yeah. My house is somewhere in the center,� I replied. But, as I looked at the landmarks near my street, mainly the library and the vacant lot, which was now replete with students from North High becoming drunk in the dreary afternoon, I realized this was my home, no matter how I relentlessly hated to admit it.
�You didn�t respond when I asked you where you lived when we were still riding, so I dropped you off here.�
�I couldn�t hear.�
�It�s inevitable,� she said, and smiled at me again. �It�ll be frightening at first.�
�Yeah, truly,� I said, trying to stray away from a sardonic comment.
�It becomes innate after you�ve driven one for a while.� She paused and glanced at the drunken teenagers gesticulating and flailing the arms as they meandered about the lot. �You do live here, right?�
�Yeah, unfortunately, I do,� I stated demurely.
Lena�s eyes moved with uncertainty, as if she were hesitant to say anything. �I should be going,� she asserted in a melancholy tone, as she resume her position on the motorcycle. �I am going to see you tomorrow, right?�
�Definitely,� I responded.
�Well, then I will see you,� she said plaintively, making a close to the afternoon. �Take care, Glynis.�
�Goodbye, Lena,� I replied. �It was nice meeting you.� I hoped that I sounded sincere.
After a few grumbles from the indignant engine, she left, and resumed her speed, which was faster than any of the cars on the street. Watching her maneuver, I was surprised she didn�t hit anything.
Standing on the sidewalk for a few minutes in silence, I watched Lena, until she became lost on my horizon. The tracks from the tires on her motorcycle remained in the dirt-laden gray snow, but cars soon made them indistinguishable within minutes. And, now, you�re almost home, I thought. The time has arrived, and an explanation is needed. It�s inevitable; it�s lurking in the dark rooms inside the house.
Inside the house, however, I realized that my life was too predictable, even beyond the point of being inevitable. Mike, and one of my younger brothers Charles, sat on the sofa, playing a violent video game; a shower of electronic explosions of bombs and bullets filled the room. A heinous character�s voice cackled, as another blatantly violent image flashed across the television screen.
�You bastard!� Mike yelled at Charles, who always defeated Mike at his game. However, Mike, himself, wasn�t particularly dexterous. After every game, each cursed at each other over this, and other, facetious games.
�In your face!� Charles rebuked. �You know I always beat you at this game.�
Discreetly, I giggled at Mike�s defeat by a twelve-year-old. Mike, however, was twenty, but was prosaic and unimaginative as the plywood coffee table in front of him. Mike and I fought constantly over everything, from who had �better� friends to certain objects in our room. Glaring up at me for an instant from his game, Mike smirked and his eyes took the form of sparkling firecrackers that would explode imminently. �Ma!� Mike yelled toward the kitchen. �Glynis is home!� Mike now turned toward me, and bellowed in an audible tone that broke through the silence. �You were smoking weren�t you, Glynis?�
�Shut up, Mike!� I retorted. �I was not.�
�Bullshit,� he mumbled. �You and that fag were probably at a smoke out. He wasn�t in school, either.�
�I was not, you moron,� I asserted to protect my dignity.
�You should talk,� he snickered.
�Hell, you can�t even defeat Charles at a video game. He�s eight years younger than you,� I reminded him, merely to irk him.
�Just shut up, Glynis,� he stammered, his face changing to a bright shade of pink from his own embarrassment.
The three of us remained in silence, until out mother�s voice � irked, but not furious or frustrated, and tired � cut through. �Glynis, get in here,� she lucidly stated � black ink spilled onto a formerly vacant white page.
Watching my brothers play their ludicrous game, I watched in apathy, as I stalled in the process of facing my mother. Another electronic shower of bullets killed the characters on the screen. �Now,� my mother insisted.
Although I was not an ignorant person, I realized I was indolent and indignant. Plodding tepidly into the kitchen, I caught sight of my mother�s corpulent shadow on the beige linoleum from the dim light in the room � a light bulb never was fixed. The school had called her, inevitably, and now, I stood before her, waiting for a lecture and punishment.
On a folding chair, she sat in a pastel green dress like a malignant growth, her gelatinous arms folded across her chest. The usual perturbed glare of exhaustion remained upon her face. Looking up from the floor, I stared into her eyes with apathy, trying not to dissipate into the air with fear. Yes, I told myself as if I were speaking to her, I did cut school today, but isn�t that almost a routine occurrence? Inside, fear inundated me like blood � overwhelm me, it did not. Only a weak white butterfly fluttered around in my stomach.
�You know what this is about, don�t you?� she asked, waiting for me to recite and admit to her my endeavors of the day.
�Yes, I do,� I stated laconically, but said nothing else � no apology or excuse followed. This lecture, I hoped, would be concise and contrite, in some parts, but only vaguely. Already, I expected such a discussion from our usual roles in life.
�Ten, if you know, why�d you do it in the first place?� Always, she bluntly asserted her statements, without vagaries.
�I don�t know,� I replied, trying to look away from he grotesquely obese figure. The table beside her seemed to offer its empathy.
�You don�t know?� she sardonically stated. �You never know why you do things, Glynis.�
�I don�t know why,� I replied, staring at the blatant mockery plywood made of natural wood.
�Well, why don�t you know?�
�I just don�t know. Finis,� I stated in an effort to deter her away from a full-blown lecture; still, I knew, I was prone into one.
�Finis?� she asked. �This isn�t done, Glynis. You have to take some responsibility for your actions eventually.�
This phrase, which she uttered in every lecture, became as trite as a platitude. Each point rang with familiarity to my ears, but I chose not to heed to most of them. In a sense, I did take some responsibility for most of my actions, although some were left behind. This would be one, I thought out of a renaissance of determination. Tomorrow, I would not cut school, or any class, for Lena, I vowed. Lena would wait at the cafeteria tomorrow afternoon, and a detention that I needed to attend would not keep her waiting. In another aspect, I vowed to never cut for Jesse, too. Next year, I would be in high school, with him again, to protect him from fiends and to connect with him again � that is, if I ever saw him again.
�I will,� I unconvincingly whined, sounding like a liar.
�No you won�t,� she rebuked. �You�ve told me that for the past two-and-a-half years, and you�re still in eighth grade at Emerson Junior High!� She exclaimed in utter frustration. �I just might send you to military school one of these days just to see your ass get kicked for being what you are.�
�Oh, such sincerity,� I sarcastically replied. �I�ll just get my bags packed as soon as I can!�
First, she rolled her eyes at me, and then, threw up her hands into the air with a gesture of hopelessness. �I just don�t understand you. I bet you even want to stay in eighth grade!�
�I do not! And, technically, I�m sixteen, so I can drop out now, but I won�t,� I asserted, but regretted my words by thinking of Jesse, alone and mocked by his peers.
�You�re right, for once! If it weren�t for that purple-haired queer, you�d never hear of high school!�
Those caustic remarks about Jesse frequently infuriated me, as if I were being injected with rage. No one else knew Jesse, aside from me, yet everyone, especially my family, felt like they could unconditionally mock him for his appearance. �Please don�t talk about Jesse that way,� I stated coldly in a low, metallic tone. �Don�t you ever say that about him again.�
Both of us stood in silence, immoveable from our stances, for a minute. �I�m being just as unruly as you,� she commented.
�You�re not taking me seriously, are you?� I quizzically asked, wondering if she took my statements about Jesse and the future to any level of comprehension, aside from meaningless words spouted from an adolescent�s mouth.
�I don�t know,� she mocked. �How do you expect me to know?�
�Leave me alone,� I begrudgingly mumbled as I headed out of the kitchen.
�Don�t you even think of stepping outside!� she growled at me and shifted to an erect position in the chair. The metal creaked a tired groan, as if it were whining from the load placed on its back and forced to carry.
Only a few steps from the door, I stopped and turned toward her. �What is it?� I whined in mimicry of the tone of her miserly chair.
�Listen, Glynis,� she sternly stated, glaring into my eyes as she spoke,� I am not asking you to be a genius, but please, for once, try to behave appropriately. The school called today, �cause you cut, never even showing up for homeroom. I just told them that you weren�t coming to school today, and they understood. Those morons aren�t even giving you a detention. You understand?�
�Yeah,� I said, as I nodded in appeasement.
�Glynis, I just saved your delinquent ass for the millionth time.� Her black eyes, with centered dark pupils, reminded me of lasers � beaming into me and trying to cut away part of myself. �I�m not asking for much, but why do you have to do this?�
That inveterate phrase of hopelessness crept into my mouth again, but this time, I forced my mouth to remain closed. Like an hourglass of sound, the faucet dripped its water, like a lonely lament, into the sink. The sound was of emptiness, of the faucet throwing away its only possessions.
�Never mind,� she grumbled. �I don�t understand anything you kids do any more. You�re all probably plotting against me, for all I know.�
Her last phrase was ludicrous. Everything I have done or did could be placed in such a category. However, if I were to plot against her, I would have already executed my plan, and my siblings would not have taken a part in it. Mike, especially, would have impeded the plan with his ponderous train of thought.
�Don�t say it,� she said, pointing a stiff finger at my chest. �I know you don�t know.�
�Neither do you,� I mumbled.
�What?� she snapped.
�I said,� I repeated, �Neither do you.�
�That�s right.� She paused, looking away from me. In the background, the faucet suddenly stopped dripping. �I honestly don�t know, but I�m not the one with a record of reckless behavior.�
By that statement, my mother stuck a harmonious chord of truth. My school record did have an ample amount of reckless, belligerent, and antisocial behavior. Inside, I knew; outside, I pretended that I didn�t. Everything I did was based about my choice or mood for the day. Sitting down with Lena, along with being truant, was, in essence, my choice on spending my existence for today. And, in that operation, on a tangent, I discovered that I might be a lesbian, or at least bisexual. In the future, after meeting Lena, I decided to never miss school again, or even any of my classes, if the outcome was meeting in the cafeteria after school. Whether she would come tomorrow was based upon her choice on how to operate her existence. I, however, could not force her to be there, no matter the intensity of my mental desires.
�Choices,� I mumbled, going off on an irrelevant tangent to my mother�s lecture.
�Yes, Glynis,� she sighed, �You do have choices.� She paused again in he speech. �Whether you choose to make use of them is your own decision.�
�Ma, I�m not going to cut school anymore,� I bluntly asserted, as if I were making a confession.
�Sure,� she sarcastically replied, rolling her eyes.
�I will.� But, my efforts would have resulted in more if I were trying to explain an abstract mathematical concept to her.
�Who said that I don�t believe you?� she retorted smartly.
�Your vocal connotation,� I rebuked. �Sarcasm is easily detected by tone.�
Irked by my rebuttal, my mother groaned in desperation. �I�ve got to make dinner. Do something else.� The discourse finally terminated, and, perhaps, truncated on her behalf.
�Fine,� I answered, leaving the kitchen.
As I left, I snickered to myself; she would be surprised if I wasn�t truant and stayed in class for a week. In a sense, this withdraw would be like quitting cigarette smoking, although I never managed to complete such an endeavor. But, the aspect of quitting never crossed my mind. Cigarettes were vital to my being, and therefore, the habit would remain like breathing. A pristine life of purity and abstinence seemed too ideal and unattainable. However, for Lena, I would change my ways and erase my mistakes.
Upstairs in my room, a slight draft from outside turned the space into a freezer. Mike and Charles continued to play their inane video games downstairs and vexed at each other after a round in which Charles defeated his inept opponent. No one seemed prone into impeding my decision. In my mind, the image of Lena drinking her steaming black coffee back at the cafeteria was prominent. The steam rose from the black liquid to form clouds about her face, which was as smooth and pale as the uncorrupted ice outside, although it gave me a sense of warmth. Her hair fell in its wavy thatch to her temples, and the collar of her black bomber jacket was pulled up about her neck to shield it from the cold. Then, my heart began to fluctuate frenetically, and I knew those dark, profound eyes of hers traversed my thoughts.
From beneath my bed, the textbooks I refused to keep in my locker saw light again, after months of dust and darkness. In the past, I never glanced at the pages in the books, aside from receiving and returning them on the first and last days of school, respectively. That ideal in my nascent surge of motivation was merely a memory from the past. But, I didn�t know where to start in my work. After months of ignoring teachers and seldom coming to class, I realized I truly lost myself in the plan to become educated. Perhaps, my teachers, too, left me in the dust, just like I did to my textbooks, to swallow the bitter pill of indolence I created for myself. How stupid I am, I thought begrudgingly to myself about my tactics to navigate me through life. The assignments that I needed to complete tonight were nonexistent � I wasn�t in school to write them down. Maybe the other students would laugh at me, but tomorrow, I vowed to start those assignments. But, I didn�t care about what they thought of me � in eleven years, I never did.
A chill shot up my spine from the draft in the room. For tonight � only � these books would remain useless on the floor. However, tomorrow, they would accompany me through the doors of Emerson Junior High. Perhaps, over time, I would shed the descriptions of indolent, dilatory, and slacker. Tonight, I remained in the dark. Tomorrow, perhaps, I would uncover the few fractured bricks that once constituted my path in life.