Picking Up the Pieces � Jesse
The problem, in its simplest form, needed to be solved. The books upon my floor were rescued, but untouched after I avoided school for a few days. A week�s worth of clothes lied in a misshapen pile on Vine�s bed � he and his mother seldom ventured to find a washer. My past locked itself in a box, and I left that back in my former room, in a life far away. The blood of victory streaked my lips and tasted as sweet as honey. A new chapter stretched ahead, but only the first page was partially turned.
However, my bones still felt the scars of the past. Tissues grew over � new and fresh � but the experience vividly existed in my memory. Returning to my room for a transient period only resurfaced some of the memories � the creaking door and the three beds of my siblings and me, all lined in a row. A week ago, I lived in such a prosaic room, and every night, I stared at my brothers; Tom�s back always faced me and Davy�s face became illuminated with the moonlight that filtered through the window. As I lied on my bed, my stomach growled, still craving food after a dinner of my mother�s insufficient macaroni. Sometimes, I felt the wounds on my sides from all the times I was beaten up at school. Stalked, cornered, taunted, and then, wasted. The wounds beneath my pajamas, at the time, pulsated with pain, but the wounds would be replaced by new ones, and the old pain would feel mundane. My father�s words, �Can�t you just fight back?� echoed through my mind. In juxtaposition, my mother�s soft voice asked, �Why purple, Jesse?� Then, he asked �Why?� but only sounded even gruffer, as if he were talking with a mouth full of gravel. Now, I asked myself, �Why?� as I stared at Vince�s frosted windows in the early morning. Why purple over any other color? Why not orange or blue?
Vince lied prone into the bed, his bed precisely, and slightly stirred as I sat up and stared out the window. His greasy black hair covered the yellowed pillow like spilled ink on old parchment. Without makeup, his face had more pallor. The lips moved, but the eyes remained shut. Upon the floor, my coat and books were placed, but I felt no motivation or insight to move them. Contrary to going to school to absorb knowledge and return home bruised, I enjoyed staying at home with Vince and his mother. During the day, she stayed with me, almost to the point of coddling me, despite she occasionally slipped from stability. All day, she would cook all of the food she thought I had been deprived of, primarily simple eastern European food since she had a Russian background. Anything with cabbage or potatoes was acceptable to her, as long as everyone would eat it eventually. Occasionally, we would watch television together, but, usually, I read to her. She couldn�t remember Russian, and she never learned how to read English. In the mornings, after Vince left for work, I read the paper to her between draws of a cigarette. I also showed her the proper manner in which to smoke a cigarette without burning herself. As a consequence, I became a two-pack smoker again, along with overeating. But, although she didn�t have any qualms about either, I still felt the jellyrolls of my middle rubbing together under my clothes. Compared to me, she and Vince were both slender.
At night, Vince came home from his job at the body graphics parlor. After a filling dinner, we would venture out to enjoy ourselves. Vince introduced me to the club in which he was most prominently known � for pool and other unmentionable activities. Most of the people at these places were like Vince and I � androgynous. The women arrived with cropped hair and pinstripe suits, and most of the men came in attire similar to Vince�s. Most drank, but nothing strong. Wary of my age, Vince never allowed me to drink any alcohol. To me, he became the older brother I wished I had and never pushed me away for being the younger sibling. Beyond seeing him as a brother, I viewed him as a friend. Never having a male friend in my life, I felt intrigued by his presence; he possessed an allure unmatchable to anyone I had met previously. What lesson of like would he teach me today, I pondered. How would his influence tinge my knowledge? Yet, sitting upon this bed, feeling the chill of an early morning in winter, I had only known Vince for four days. However, his name had become intrinsic in my speech and in my mind. Vince, I could say, was my savior. But a savior from what? The mundane biases of society, I could only ponder.
�You�ve got nice hair,� a faint, wavering voice said somewhere behind me. In my mind, I sat in one of the clubs that Vince took me to. However, the time felt like last year. Vince bought me a Coke, but had not decided on a cocktail for himself. A fragile hand found itself into my hair, the deep purple mass atop my head. Its long fingers lightly touched my scalp, with a caressing motion. About me, all I smelled were cigarettes and drinks. In the background, wooden pool balls clashed, and a cheer erupted. But, the room soon became silent. The rule here was if a game is being played, there should be silence. Next to me, lonely singles in garish attire sipped their drinks in a melancholy fashion. However, the hand could still be felt in my hair, but it did not move. Timidly, I turned to see my parasite. A man, about the same age as Vince, stared at me. One of his hands remained in my hair, while he kept the other in his pocket. Like all of the other singles, he, too, appeared blatantly gaudy about himself. He sat there, I sat here, and a connection existed between us � a connection of unauthorized touch.
�You pervert,� I mumbled, without my usual stutter. In this club, I seldom found myself stuttering. Beside me, a woman in a teal suit chuckled to herself, after she guzzled a rum and Coke. A smile cracked her face, a visage virgin to any cosmetics. Then, the line faded as she morosely stared into her drink again.
�You�ve got great hair,� he said and flashed me a shrewd, sickly smile.
Vince now turned away from the counter, since he ordered his drink. As soon as he eyed the man, he jerked his thumb behind him in a gesture that was unfamiliar to me and eyed the man as if they were to face off in a duel from an old western movie. �Get going,� Vince stated between clenched teeth. �He�s a minor.� The hand left my hair, and the mysterious man left the scene. The rest of the night faded with the dissipating clouds of cigarette smoke that saturated the room.
That incident occurred two nights ago. Yesterday, all of that happiness of being in the company of Vince was erased by my venture into my former house. How stupid it was of my parents to give me a key, I thought, for as long as that key remained in my pocket, I could enter that house. Not that I would want to enter it on a frequent basis; that place was filled with jarring memories from the past that I wanted erased. However, at one time, I did not think in such a fashion about the house. Distantly in the past, before the dark clouds of poverty, anger, and self-identification settled over life, I remember a time when existence seemed like a story, but not to the point of a fictitious novel. Heather still lived at home, and her attitude was not as vitriolic to our lives. Her face, smooth and supple and not yet hardened with anger, was vibrant with a smile. My mother was taking us somewhere, but, now, the destination is not clear in my mind. But, the destination didn�t matter. As we walked, Heather appeared like a giant next to me, and her long, straight brown hair trailed behind her. Tom was beside my mother, but his words were not venomous. In fact, he barely talked then, and I spoke fluently, before the stuttering and lisp began. He doesn�t aim to push me around just yet. At the time, if I saw a boy in a dress, I would have thought him to be ludicrous. In the memory, the world and life are compatible and in harmony, despite the streets were, and still are, littered with trash.
As I bent over my sheets in my former room yesterday, the scent of cigarettes overpowered me before I found my books on the floor. The bed had not been made and the sheets still had not been washed. Someone left the window open, although the house was desolate when I entered. As I stare at the bed, I recalled the numerous nightmares I had of monsters and indestructible fiends chasing me, or of falling or wandering in bizarre places. Several nights, I cried myself to sleep after feeling depressed or frightened about the next day. �You must be smoking� the bed told me, and erased most of the pleasant past memories before this time. For a few moments, I lingered in that room, feeling like an intruder. The reality was, I was indeed an intruder to this space. Four days ago, I was forced to leave, and here I stood, back again, but not prepared for more. Haphazardly placing things into a plastic grocery bag, I grabbed a few pieces of clothing from both my worlds � the feminine and the desired masculine. Within a few minutes, I had left the battleground, with minor changes to the space. If anyone noticed the books previously, they would realize he phantom that passed through.
As of now, those books rested on the floor again, but, this time, on a different surface. Soon, I would return with them to school. The books were the few objects I could trust, bearing any notion of truth. Nothing more than words upon pages, they always remained the same. The rest of the world about me was as fickle as the waning moon each night.
From his prone position, Vince laggardly sat up on the bed. Like a nest on top of his head, his hair appeared rumpled and tangled from the night�s sleep. The wine-colored robe he wore, slightly opened at the collar, revealed part of his sunken chest. In a daze, he mechanically leaned toward the nightstand on his left and picked up a box of cigarettes. Nonchalantly, he placed one between his lips and lit it. Leaning back onto his pillow, he continued to smoke, closing his eyes as he inhaled. Turning, I observed his action, for he paid no notion to me at this moment. With a sigh and the cigarette burning quickly to a stump between his fingers, he opened his watery eyes. Without makeup, Vince�s eyes had the appearance of being bloodshot as he stared at me. Covering his chin, stubble surfaced, but he would soon shave it off. Without any makeup, Vince�s face appeared whitewashed and ghostly pale. With one finger, I traced my own chin to feel if I grew any stubble during the night. However, the only growths close to hair were pimples that lined my chin and jaw; the rest of my face felt smooth and oily.
Vince smirked at me, balancing the cigarette between his lips. �Nice pajamas,� he commented as he eyed my tightly-fitting pajamas patterned with race cars. But, after that statement, he became sullen and serious, taking the cigarette stump away from his mouth. �You are planning to go to school today, aren�t you?� he asked and his face suddenly became stern. �You told me yesterday that you would go.�
�I will,� I replied in a lackluster fashion.
�No, seriously, Jesse. You are going to go to school today,� he firmly stated as he sat up erect on the bed.
�Fine, I�ll go,� I said. Truthful, I didn�t wish to go into that institution ever again, but after missing four days, I knew I lagged in my work.
�I don�t want you skipping today. My mother will be fine. She�s used to it.�
The idea of his mother staying at home, alone, and watching television for the majority of the day did not traverse my mind, at first. Until he mentioned her, I never thought about that side. Instead, I mostly worried about myself, who was terrified about stepping into that building again, masochistically diving into the crowd, only to resurface again, gasping for air.
�Fine,� I mumbled morosely as I stared at my books on the floor. �I�ll go.�
For a few moments, we stared at each other in silence, but then, Vince opened his mouth to speak. �Do you promise?�
In some cases, a promise can be dismissed as a small, insignificant commitment. With others, a promise is a bond that must not be broken, even under dire circumstances. Children would say, �Cross my heart and hope to die� about a promise, and then swear on something important. But, as children, the promise is not often remembered, for other important issues become prominent and occupy his or her energy. As adults, the promise should be remembered, for social and ethical standards; remember the promise, and vow to never break it. Coming from Vince, the promise was a group of words I needed to agree with. Today, I told myself, I would go to school, walk through those doors, open my locker, and go to class. �Yes,� I agreed.
�Good,� he stated with satisfaction. �Don�t even think about cutting class, either.�
�I won�t,� I instantly replied. For Vince and me, I vowed to become a good student again. Today, I would ask for the assignments I missed and, tomorrow, turn them in, completed. Even to an extreme, I vowed to attempt gym class again, in order to pass.
�Get dressed then,� he said. �I�ll make you some breakfast. Nothing Russian, if you�re wondering.�
From the bed, Vince stood, with his robe still loosely about him. Turning away from me, he exited the room, like a ghost fading through the walls, with the wine-colored robe trailing behind him like the cape of a fallen superhero. Get dressed, I instructed myself. Get dressed, or else. Or else what? Spying a pair of black jeans and a purple blouse in the pile of clothes, I prepared to dress. With the makeup and black trench coat on in minutes, I felt whole and prepared to face the apathetic world again. From the kitchen, the aroma of burnt toast permeated into Vince�s room. It is time to leave, I thought solemnly to myself. Rising from the bed, I grabbed my books and anticipated the day�s obstacles.
The snow still remained in tall mounds, especially at the end of February. With each snowfall, the new would pile on top of the old gray piles on the ground. The sidewalks then became lined with two-foot high walls of snow, near the street and against the buildings. The path separating both walls was only wide enough for one person to walk down in one direction. However, garbage bags were thrown onto the tops of the walls of snow, and the noxious contents would spill out onto the street and sidewalks, emitting a nauseating odor and discoloring the pristine white powder. Frequently, the trash was left to rot for a week before being collected by perturbed garbage men. As I approached the ominous-looking high school that overlooked the street like a tyrant, I noticed that the steps had not been shoveled yet, either. Upon every step, the white powder and ice coated the front of the school. Few stood outside today, aside from the smokers and habitual truants who felt like they had no choice to stay away from the inside of the institution that betrayed them frequently. With my hands shoved into my pockets, I felt my pack of cigarettes and a lighter and became tempted by transitory euphoria. After boosting myself up to two packs per day again, I was obligated to not smoke anymore. However, some of the smoke from the others blew in my direction, and the sensations of euphoria and intoxication flowed with it, creating my stomach to plead.
�Euphoria,� I groaned, although I was determined to not take a cigarette from my pocket. Sighing, I reluctantly walked up the stairs to the doors to enter the building. Both options were torture, but in going to school, I had motivation to stop smoking since I would be unable during the day.
A long corridor, congested with several of my nefarious peers, stood before me. However, my locker stood at the far end. My heart pounded like a bass drum, and my head became light with nervousness. What was I to do, I wondered, as my fingers fumbled with the cigarettes in my pocket. Perhaps I should just run back into the streets and look for Glynis, who would be truant anyway, but I knew I would have broken Vince�s promise. You will walk down that hallway, I told myself, and you�re not going to flinch, either.
Despite I stood over six-feet, I still saw myself as small in stature, compared to most of my peers. Small and corpulent, to be exact, but I knew not to exaggerate myself to that extreme. The egoism and haughtiness of my peers created those invisible standards that distorted my perception. In their eyes, they ruled this vast kingdom of High School, and I was the antithesis. If they ruled Russia, I lived in Luxembourg. But, even when I wasn�t around my peers, I still continued to distort myself. When I gained weight, I immediately viewed myself as corpulent, while Glynis only was me as cherubic or slightly chubby. But, as I stared down the hallway, I realized that, without these bodies, this stretch would appear colorless and bare. Yet, I desired to be the only person in this corridor. As I started to venture to my lockers, I veered past the several archetypical groups and observed their eyes; their contemptuous stares bored into me like several knives, their taunts were thrown at me like rocks, and their laughs were cast at me like arrows.
My locker remained a memoir to my experience in the educational institution I was forced to attend in this city. On the outside, the word �faggot� was scratched through the beige paint at my eye level. A foot below, �She-man� was scrawled with a black pen in illegible graffiti writing. To the side, �Jessi� was written in round, bubble letters that mimicked a girl�s handwriting and taunted my effeminate ways. Aside from these marks, the usual scratches and threats embellished my locker with realism. As I stared at them, I gained inspiration about the appropriate words to begin an autobiography. Inside, I taped a few objects of importance. From the top, I arranged two pictures of Glynis � one of her in seventh grade leaning against the wall of the junior high and another of her on her fifteenth birthday at the mall. The picture below was of Heather and me, when we were twenty and twelve, respectively. Although I didn�t recall when the photograph was taken or who used the camera to capture us, I remember it was over a year since Heather accepted the fact I dressed in girls� attire. In the picture, I wore a black and pink patterned dress, and my hair was still brown and parted down the middle. Heather�s arm was around my waist, and we posed on a reddish-brown sofa in her old apartment. She and I smiled, and I appeared gaunt and emaciated. Below that image was a picture from eighth grade graduation that Glynis took. I stood outside of Emerson Junior High in a green cap and gown and held up my diploma. Since the gown was too short for I, it revealed my legs, and, at the time, I wore black pants to the event. However, I refused to wear a necktie, but no one seemed to notice. With the picture, Glynis gave me a plastic pink rose. The inside of my locker reflected myself during the past few years I transitioned from junior high to high school. I saw myself in these images, while the rest of the world saw myself saw me as the outside � a �faggot� and �She-man.�
The books that I did not plan to use for first and second periods were cast into the bottom of my locker for later use. Looking about the scene, which I was absent from, I zipped my bag shut and closed my locker quietly. Now only the outside showed, but, to me, that image had no meaning. Beside me, I heard a noise, like that of metal clashing with metal; no one around me closed his or her locker. With the realization of who created the sound, I felt a lump forming in my throat. The area around me grew smaller, and only the wall of lockers was left in front of me. Slowly, I turned to face my predators. Despite I stood taller than most of them, I still appeared helpless against the army of boys, who smirked with complacency and satisfaction. Trapped and cornered, I felt my body grow cold and sweat beneath my trench coat, as I refused to look at them. Their names, I could not recall, but, as a group, I recognized them as my foes.
From the tightly-packed circle, one in a red leather jacket removed himself and approached me. He stood nearly as tall as I, but his disdainful gaze cast me into the shadow below him. �So, you�re back,� he sneered. I was surprised that they weren�t outside with the other truants. However, I refused to answer him, for I could feel the stutter creeping up into my throat. �Y�know, I really enjoyed those last three days when I didn�t have to see a fat cross-dresser.� The group then howled with laughter.
My stomach and knees became weak and unstable like rubber bands, although I tried to appear as stern as a sentinel guarding my dignity. �Ih-it was nuh-nice to nuh-not see y-y-yuh-you, either,� I feebly retorted, which, I knew, was a grandiose mistake. All of the laughed again, banging the lockers with their fists, but, this time, at my stutter and quavering voice.
�Nice comeback,� one from the circle sarcastically remarked.
�Leave me alone,� I murmured, without stuttering. Another mistake. Once you�ve said that, your foes will continue to harass you.
�Aw, the She-man wants to be left alone,� one mocked, with his voice like a sickening whine in my ears.
�We�ll leave him alone,� the one in the red jacket said. �Alone to cry in pain.�
Instantly, as if their ploy had been carefully planned and choreographed, a couple of the boys from the circle developed sly smiles across their devilish faces. As I stood, I realized my control was null, and I would become helpless to their social dominance. My eyes shifted, looking about the hallway at the divergent groups of people I could never fit in with. Not a teacher stood in the hall, I noticed. How I wished Glynis were here. Always, she scared everyone away from her by her prowess from past fights and sardonic banter. Above me, a light bulb, beneath a metal grate, flickered. Then, but not so suddenly since my submission was inevitable, one of the boys grabbed me and thrust me into the nearest bathroom.
The stained white tiles smacked into my face as soon as I hit the bathroom wall. The nauseous smell of urine and old cigarettes filled my nostrils. The room always smelled this way, but the scent was like a poison. I despised this room because of its chauvinistic connotation. The tiles felt cold against my cheeks, as if I collapsed onto a sheet of ice outside. One of the boys pushed me up against the wall, and I couldn�t move. His weight and strength forced me into a tortuous state upon the wall. Desperate, I squirmed, but he pinned me against the tiles, defying my efforts.
�Honestly, I�d just have fun watching this faggot squirm,� asserted that familiar voice. �Almost better than wresting.�
A few of the boys laughed at my helplessness to their mass. Then, I noticed that more bodies were pushing, pressing me into the wall as if I could go through the worn surface. Their heaving and jousting explained this, as their breaths were felt on the back of my neck, as if I were breathing in heavy, toxic air. My own air was squeezed out of me like toothpaste from a tube, as one would push and the others would follow.
�Squish the lemon,� one mocked in reference to the game children played on the sliding board at the playground. In this game, a child would slide down to the bottom, and everyone else would slide down after, trying to push the initial child off.
�Lemon,� one laughed. �What a useless fruit.�
�More like a watermelon,� joked another.
�I�d eat a watermelon, but I�d never tough him,� said a third.
Into my ear cooed that familiar voice again, but it sounded more distant than any of the others. A voice so saccharine and friendly, it mocked with every word. �You�d like that, huh?� I refused to answer. �All those warm bodies all over your naked flesh. All of them feeling you up, tasting you until you shake. Every guy as your love slave,� he smirked. �This is as close as you�ll get, melon-boy.�
Forcing my mouth shut, I refused to respond to his antics. My stutter had spread into my jaw, which now quivered like my speech. The bodies felt as if they were receding, but the sensation seemed artificial. More tricks were hidden up their coveted sleeves, I knew. The room now possessed an eerie, deadening silence, which could have been the beginning to another fiendish plan. As I inhaled deeply, I heard the room resonate with my sound; I now stood alone in here, with them behind. After several breaths emerged from my lungs like ethereal gasps, there were no other sounds, aside from mine; no one else breathed on my neck. The monotonous drip of a faucet could be heard in the silence, which made the isolated drips into a deafening chant. My heal shuffled backwards a few inches, the boot tapping alone on the floor in lament. Behind me, a stall door creaked like a witch�s evil cackle. A door does not naturally make such a sound unless someone pushes it, I thought. In my thoughts, a negative undercurrent, like an undermining plot, disrupted the whole scene of serenity. A notion too deranged to be considered reality, the thought seemed to escape from the mind of an archetypical antagonist in a movie. Turning around to face the inevitable, I faced my fate: the pack soundlessly stood behind me, with sickly smiles upon their faces to mask their next moves.
All of them surrounded me in a semi-circle formation again. Breaths escaped from my lungs in a fury to the speed of my heart pounding in my chest. Any breath that I drew had the quality of a high-pitched whistle. In an illusion, the boys now multiplied their heights by the sizes of their egos. To them, I resembled an empty soda can on the floor that would soon be crushed under their feet and thrown into the trash. The lump in my throat had become unbearable � an impediment that could not be dislodged. Their humongous hands, bulging with blue veins and tendons, grabbed the collar of my coat and thrust me into the nearest stall. The mirror by the sinks, in which I had gazed into a myriad amount of times, caught my reflection like an eclipse. The black coat passed through the door, as if it were a shadow of evil plummeting into an abyss. The purple hair rose above the top of the stall for a second, before falling helplessly with the dark figure. A pale, scarred hand grappled for a solid object with no avail. The door, itself, followed orderly into their plan. As the dark shadow, like a phantom, passed through the picture, my head collided with the hard rim of a toilet seat and throbbed with a painful lump in a matter of seconds.
�Clumsy queer,� one of the voices laughed.
Too humiliated to stand, I lay in my supine position. The boys disappeared from my vision, but their voices resonated in the bathroom and a menacing shadow was cast over me from the light. That familiar voice projected itself again, as if it were superior to all the others. His cooing tone � coy, yet demeaning � sent tension through the hairs that covered my back.
�Y�know,� he started, talking down to me in a belittling tone, as if I were vying to be a sycophant of his, �if you weren�t a guy, I�d consider raping you until you bleed. Watching you squirm helplessly and scream under me would just be pure amusement. But, you�re a fag, and a pathetic one at that, and this is all you�ll get. Fetch your bone, you dog.�
Predictably, I responded with nothing to his comment. Within a minute, the group left the vicinity of the bathroom with a clamor of steps and slammed doors. Isolated and humiliated, I lay on the floor for a few minutes, in an effort to suppress my tears. Defying my efforts, a low-pitched whine escaped my lips, as the cold, stinging tears built up in my eyes. If I possessed the power to kill them, I would have, but I felt I was too weak and vulnerable to do so. I resembled their toy that they played with seldom, and I endured their games. My sides ached from the fall, and my stomach did, as well, except for a cigarette. In my melancholy mood, I desired to commit suicide to end this fiasco of my life. A razorblade to my wrists would release the blood to flow like a red river across a terrain of tundra. The red would carry itself as I faded away into the brittle winds. My eyelids would flutter, and my reality would jump from black to the image of the crumbling plaster ceiling of the bathroom. After this interplay, the cold floor would create no sensation against my flesh, as the rest of my realm would draw into eternal darkness.
Feeling about my pockets as soon as I stood, I noticed that my pack of cigarettes neatly glided into the palm of my hand. The lighter was below, with its smooth plastic body compatible to the angular box. How could I resist the chance? My emotions and morale sank to a new depth from the humiliation, making my depressive state seem euphoric. My stomach pleaded and growled, but no food was in sight. The cigarettes were ideal for the moment, aside from the notion that they would lead me down Death�s Path of Addiction. Following through reluctantly, I seized the box and lighter from the depth of my pocket. In front of me, they rested in the palms of my hands. �Euphoria� began to pulsate through my mind, as if the four-syllables were a steady drum beat. Closing my eyes, I could smell their scent, as if I were holding one between my fingers at the moment. Hastily, I opened the box, tearing away the cellophane and removing the lid to reveal neatly-packed rows of fresh cigarettes. There was no time to waste, I knew, as my stomach craved and my mouth became eager to start smoking again. Swiftly placing one between my lips, I ignited the paper, and instantly inhaled the smoke into my lungs.
Within seconds, the stall became filled with grayish clouds from the smoke. Closing my eyes in recognition, I uttered that singular, familiar word to describe this moment, the only point in my existence that had any poignancy to me. Between my index and middle fingers, I loosely held the burning stump of paper. Wanting another taste, I placed the burning stick to my lips again, inhaling. The smoke filled me up inside, as if a ghost were trying to possess me. But, this ghost felt warm and spoke amorously. The sensation enraptured me with uncontrollable love for the carcinogenic substance. My knees quivered with weakness for this passion, as the clouds of gray smoke covered me like a quilt. The smoke brushed against my face like a sympathetic, gentle hand reassuring me that things would turn out fine. Its fingers melted my tears, and its soothing voice told me that I had no reason to cry. The empowerment I felt as it filled me up, sending me into the ethereal world of euphoria. Through the smoke, I could almost sense stars � burning globes of light away from this decrepit realm � in my presence. However, if I dared to open my eyes, the euphoria would disintegrate into the treacherous reality I lived.
Then, like a bolt of lightening cast into my visions, the first period bell rang. Between my fingers, the cigarette had finished burning, thus I cast it into the toilet bowl to be flushed. The smoke inside the stall became mist in a jungle, a murky, thick cloud that shrouded everything above the ground. In haste, I tried to break through the smoke, to scatter it, and to dissipate it. Opening the door, I fled from the stall and the bathroom, running out into the hallway. Satisfied, I headed toward class. Although I pungently reeked of cigarettes, I was indifferent to the scent; always, their scent was detectable on me, wherever I was.
Observing each coterie walk complacently down the hallway left a trace of sadness inside me. In junior high, Glynis and I loitered in the halls before class, without anticipation of the first period bell. In fact, as we leaned against the cinderblock walls, covered in chipping paint, and talked about anything from music to after school escape plans, we abhorred the first period bell, since it signified that we would need to sit in a stifling room for six hours in the company of mocking, disdainful peers. Each face, full of ebullience, looked at other similar faces, and radiated with a warm, friendly glow in that direction. Books were in backs upon backs or cradled in arms, but they didn�t hinder any amicable conversations, or even several fracases for that matter, from occurring. Trying to remain invisible, I could only enviously stare at them in awe, wishing to be like them. But, if I ever interfaced with my peers in such a way, I would be speaking to them in a dream, in which I stuttered and superficiality was nonexistent, only to wake up and face the reality that lied beyond the doors of Vince�s apartment, or, previously, my room. Only in my desires would I experience such companionship, while, to others who put their arms over others� shoulders, such interactions were commonplace and trite � such relationships were meant to exist. What trust, I thought. What deception that lies as a cold, undetectable undercurrent. Having no companionship, aside from Glynis, Heather, and Vince, I felt neither, but more deception than trust. An invisible razor blade, as protection, always seemed to hang about my neck at all times to slay the deceiver. Because of him, I had no reverence for Trust. Trust seemed unwittingly and unintentionally absent from my spectrum of emotions.
The door to my first period class was already open when I arrived, after traversing across the hall for a brief period. After staying away for three days, I felt particularly awkward about casually walking into the room, with only a minimal amount of work completed. However, after I caught the attention, merely by walking through the door, of my teacher, my awkwardness lessened. Mrs. Smithe frequently seemed to be in an amicable, sympathetic mood, whether she was teaching English or not. As I gingerly stepped into the room, her lips cracked a slight smile and her face, as beaming as those of the students in the hall, turned toward me. No other student, to my benefit, sat at his or her desk yet. On the board, Mrs. Smithe printed directions on the board that pertained to today�s assignments and homework. Carefully placing the white chalk onto the tray at the base of the blackboard, she fully turned in my direction, away from her work. As she approached me, her arms folded loosely across her chest, and her facial expression became sympathetic. As I walked through the doors and noticed that she would not penalize me for my absence, I became less apprehensive about coming into school today.
�Good morning, Jesse,� she said in a placid, congenial tone, one in which she spoke often to me. Seldom did she become cross, but never did she express any irked emotion toward me.
�Good morning,� I replied, trying to look her directly in the eye. Because of my stutter and slight lisp, I never properly pronounced her last name, and discretely tried to avoid using it.
She drove directly to the gist of speaking to me. �I haven�t seen you in school for the past three days. Where were you, Jesse?�
Where was I? Deriving a banal, but convincing, answer, I asserted, �Sick, with the �flu.�
�That�s too bad, but I�m glad you�re back. While you were gone, I compiled a list of the assignments you missed. All you need to do is to turn them in tomorrow. They�re nothing important, like a paper, but they�re mandatory for your grade,� she informed. �You�ll catch up, though; I know you�re a good student.�
�Yeah,� I replied. �They�ll definitely be completed by tomorrow.� The tone of my voice seemed nonchalant, and I wondered if I was overestimating myself, despite my usual lack of confidence.
�That�s great, Jesse.� Her congenial, amicable smile seemed to reassure me of my abilities.
Continuing with her work, she turned toward the blackboard again, and I headed toward my seat, the fourth in the third vertical row. No other students entered the classroom yet, but their voices echoed outside in the hall. Laughter was then heard, and I assumed it was the result of my current humiliation. However, before I sat in my seat, Mrs. Smithe stopped me. Setting her work aside for the moment, she spoke to me again. �Jesse?� she asked. � Do you remember that poem you wrote last week?�
As I tried to remember, I realized that recalling the past four days was a challenge, let alone attempting to recollect assignments from a week ago. But, vaguely, I remembered writing something for this class, although the exact words I had written were now ambiguous. Last week, I wrote several things, ranging from a grocery list, to homework, and to a suicide note, which became defunct after Glynis� convincing pleas persuaded me to consider life again. The school assignments blurred together, and the pencil marks that distinguished a poem from a math equation were slight. �Yes,� I dutifully replied. �Yes, I do.�
�Great!� she enthusiastically exclaimed. �I thought it was absolutely wonderful.� Since I did not respond, she continued to speak. �There� There was something about the manner in which you wrote it � the diction or the alliteration that did not sound student-like as I read it. Then, there were the metaphors. Nothing expresses itself quite like the Metaphor. The comparison of compassion and obsession to lust and euphoria, from the intake of drugs, stuck a strong, poignant chord in me. I honestly think, Jesse, you should do more with this; from what I�ve read from you this year, you appear very talented for your age. Not that other students aren�t, but their compositions stay on the lines; they�re marginal in dealing with expressive content. You, however, treat this as more than a school assignment and go beyond those lines, to a point in which I feel that the poem is coming from your soul � an intricate, abstract mind. After I read it, I went outside to stare at those kids who smoke after school and loiter for a few hours. Could all of the passion that you expressed be going through their minds, too? Your poem truly convinced me, Jesse, that such passion might be.� After she finished talking, her face remained aglow with admiration. For a moment, I stood in front of her in silence, without any indication that I planned to utter any more words.
Despite I vaguely remembered doing the assignment, I bathed in the transient ray of light from Mrs. Smithe�s pleased expression. �Thank you,� I modestly answered. Soon, she would return the poem, and, then, I could read what I had written.
If there were to be any spark or notable flame in my dreary day, Mrs. Smithe�s comments might have been it. In very few instances, I remembered, had a person been as ebullient and effervescent as Mrs. Smithe. In some cases, there was a bias from the fact I appeared androgynous and spoke cryptically, with stutters and stumbles. Once Mrs. Smithe resumed her work, she smiled again at me, before turning toward the blackboard again to finish writing the assignments for the day. Inside, I relished her appreciation, for it gave me a feeling, although slight or tainted, of acceptance. An iridescent, warm glow seemed to cover me like the cigarette smoke did in the bathroom. The sensation rooted in my heart and pulsated throughout my body like the blood in my veins. At the moment, I desired to lean back in a comfortable chair, and hold a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I would inhale, closing my eyes to enter my realm of euphoria. Then, in the chair and in a euphoric state, I would read for an interminable period and have an infinite supply of cigarettes and coffee. No soul would disturb me for an eternity. As I would remain in the room, the shades would be shut, as the darkness and its enticing words would grasp me. Once its velvet arms had embraced me, I would have reached the apex of euphoria.
Mrs. Smithe began to speak to me, again. �Jesse? I think you should give some serious thought to this. From your assignments, I can see that you have a talent inside of you that needs to be used more often.�
�Oh,� I replied, without much thought.
�Perhaps you should try the school paper or the literary magazine. There�s always room for a new writer, especially one with potential.�
�I might look into it,� I said, without much though, except appeasement.
More students began to venture into the room, walking past Mrs. Smithe to their desks. By the lackluster expressions on their faces, I realized that they, like me, wanted to still be asleep in bed now. A few slouched as they wandered into the room and glanced in my direction. Others walked in with a frivolous, but dignified, attitude to state his or her self-importance. No matter who they were, from their mouths, I heard phrases, such as �what a fag� and �that girly-lookin� guy,� followed by a concealed giggle. Mrs. Smithe, who fully immersed herself in her work, now, seemingly did not hear my peers. Morosely, I slumped down in my desk, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. I desired my realm of euphoria, instead of this purgatory. Despite, I knew I had to complete this chore, even if my satisfaction was overshadowed by the mockery and harassment from my classmates. Vince had told me to return to school today, and I promised him that I would. In my mind, I held Vince in high esteem, since he seemed to rescue me from the rest of the world. How could I betray him by not fulfilling such a simple action? I knew I couldn�t, although I winced from their coveted verbal blows.
The rest of the class casually entered the room, talking as they took their seats. Watching the as the room became more congested with my peers made my stomach churn with my nervousness. If I could only fade away, I thought in desire. In the scene, I stood on a stage as a clown with a purple costume, while the audience clasped metal pie tins, filled with lemon meringue, and anticipated throwing them at my face. In their eyes, as I glanced at the crowd, eagerness shined. Behind me, I noticed the frivolous giggle of a girl to her friend, who sat beside her. From one to the other, they exchanged their inaudible whispers. Seemingly, I did not care what they said, whether it was about me or not. Several times, I have heard many of the rumors that travel like important news throughout the day. Most of these rumors were outlandish lies in my opinion, conjured from an insignificant instance that was exaggerated. The rumors ranged from benign mockery to scathing slander. The only way I survived the directed mockery was disconnecting myself from them; I wasn�t the Jesse that they spoke negatively about.
Listening intently, I noticed that one of their shrill, giggling voices became audible to me ears. After she stalled in her sentence with that distracting giggle, I made out the phrase, �And he tried to rape him in the bathroom.� As I slouched in my seat, my body became unintentionally stiff with tension from that statement. Under my clothes, my skin became cold and clammy with the sweat drizzling down my back. A lump, usually from fear or nervousness, formed in my throat, as my heart sank into my stomach with sadness. In my mind, I knew they merely heard someone else tell those lies. I didn�t rape the boy in the red jacket, with social prowess and a disarmingly coy voice. Ironically, I recalled, that he stated originally that he would rape me if I were a girl.
If the rumors were a downpour of rain, then the classroom would have been flooded. About me, the interest from this small affair gained in velocity. From every mouth, aside from mine, of each student came that enticing cry if they hadn�t heard the news before. Once one found out, they transmitted the words to everyone about them, ignoring my presence. An invisible wall built itself about me, and although I could see and hear out of it, no one else could do the same for me. With my fear, my tension rose like mercury in a hot thermometer. My face now felt hot, as beads of sweat formed about my hairline, and my stomach became queasy with uneasiness from the situation. Squirming in my seat, I felt my coat shift about me and sweat grow thick on my back, running down in cold streams and clinging to my flesh.
On the desk in front of me, I observed my pale hands twitch like two moribund creatures vacillating between life and death. A rise, then a fall, a shake, then a quiver, and then, they rested placidly on the smooth surface of the desk. The blue veins ran up in the back of my hand, like wires, into the digits. My knobby knuckles quaked in place, despite my hands appeared still. My gaze then shifted from my hands to Mrs. Smithe, who continued to write on the blackboard. By her usual manner, she seemed indifferent to my classmates, but perhaps she refused to listen to them. Like me, she was away in another place, her own euphoria, in which mundane work and dreary days, replete with belligerent students, were nonexistent.
As class began, I felt the usual routine return to me again. Mrs. Smithe addressed the class, and I tried to be attentive to her lessons. She was the teacher, I was one of thirty-three students, and I had to assimilate as much of her knowledge of English as I could. Although English was not my best subject, it seemed to capture my enjoyment the most. Some aspects that were the base and necessary, such as grammar and vocabulary, were not my usual fancy, however, but I completed them since they were required. When those bland properties actually had some use, I began to appreciate the class. Perhaps the reading and composition assignments were my interest. Somehow, I always lost myself in them, as if they were labyrinths with definite ends. Each novel had a final chapter, and each essay had to have a concluding paragraph. In each, I explored, traversing new territory in my mindscape. Perhaps I had, indeed, put part of my soul into that poem I wrote last week. Perhaps this was the only place in which I could truly express myself without any restrictions, aside from the grammar and vocabulary assignments. Although such basics never seemed to stay with me, their purpose was like a wall that surrounded my thoughts. The red pen would correct them, although they were few, but the ideas were stolid. No matter how, the poignant provocation could be seen from the pencil marks upon the lined paper.
In my seat, I sensed Mrs. Smithe�s lessons coming to a decrescendo. About her, the class became restless again, talking and moving in their uncomfortable desks. On the board, she indicated the assignments, which few copied. Myself, I had the work in the packet she handed me, containing three days� worth of homework. If Vince asked me to come out with him tonight, I would be skeptical.
Splitting through the silence, the second period bell rang, and everyone jumped from his or her seat in a hurry to head toward the door. However, I lagged behind, placing my books into my bag, and talking to Mrs. Smithe. But, my primary motivation was to avoid, or at least come late to, my next class � physical education. Today, unlike the past weeks, I promised myself and Vince that I would participate in this class, especially since I was in danger of failing, after coming unprepared and sitting on the bleachers instead of participating.
At the bottom of my bag, I unwittingly touched the coarse cloth of my gym shirt with the palm of my hand. Although it hadn�t been washed in a month, I could still tell that my mother line-dried it, instead of using the dryer. Whenever she decided to do that, the clothes became like cardboard, even while we wore them. Now, since I did not live at home, I had my own options, as long as I had quarters to work the washing machines at the apartment complex. Vince and his mother did not have enough money to purchase a washer and dryer, and thus, they, like many others living in the same building, used the machines. The machines, however, did not bother me, since they were superior in quality to the archaic system my parents owned.
About me, my male peers leisurely and mundanely changed into their gym clothes, without giving much thought to their sweating, muscular bodies. Retreating into my own corner, away from everyone else, I debated changing, which appeared natural to everyone else, into my uniform. Should I change, or should I waste another day? The positive aspect of this dilemma was that, if I did not get dressed today, I could sit on the bleachers and begin to start the three-days� worth of work that needed to be done. In the other option, I might be able to move my grade up. But, if I were to participate in this emasculated, violent class, I would need to strip in front of my fiends. Internally, I felt uncertain about this decision, as I apprehensively stared down at my trench coat and the bulging flesh beneath. My body did not possess the same physique as theirs, and, as I held my uniform in clenched fists, I felt as if I were controlling the fate of my universe, which was based upon my humiliation from unveiling myself from beneath the trench coat. Perhaps, my universe determined if I were to pass or fail this course, and I, indeed, desired to pass � I was, but not at the caliber I wished. If I were to pass, thus maintaining some equilibrium in my fragile universe, I needed to undress and participate. Do this for Vince, I insisted, but then soon cringed at the thought. Vince, more than I, controlled the fate of my realm, and, thus, by refusing to participate, I was failing him. But, from another perspective, he kept me away from this inferno for three days, saving me after I was thrown from the lowest lifestyle into the Pit of Uncertainty below.
Removing my trench coat, I became determined to change into my uniform. Then, after pulling my shirt over my head, I stood, naked from the waist up, in the locker room, without being pummeled and harassed. However, as I stood, I realized that today would not be the sole day I would partake in such an endeavor. Everyday, unless I felt ill, I would face this challenge, until the end of the year.
My stomach growled audibly, but did not echo in the orange-tiled locker room. Already, I steeped myself into self-consciousness, as I stood, partially exposed. Staring down at myself, past my breasts, I noticed that my body appeared corpulent in comparison to everyone�s. How I wanted to disguise the bulk with a girdle, hoping to never deal with this again. But, I acknowledged the existence of my fat, as I glided my hand over my bulging belly. In my thoughts, I heard my father�s voice telling me about my sudden weight gain, �Jesse, you should have known better than to have gained all this fat. You just kept eating more and more, and now, look at yourself � fat as a cow. Hell, you have no common sense, sometimes, and I still think you dress like a damn faggot, with that mascara and lipstick and all. Just keep eating, and you�ll see the consequences.� His disdainful speech frequently made me shudder, for I distinctly remembered it, always in verbatim, at any random time.
From behind, that familiar voice spoke again, cooing disarmingly into my ear, like a dove of hatred. By observing the reflections on the red doors of the closed lockers in front of me, I sensed that his entourage accompanied him. �So, you�ve decided to come back to gym, She-man? You�d better hold your breath before going out there.�
One of his lackeys forcefully seized my shoulders, spinning me around to face the wolf-like pack of boys with muscular arms and torsos. Although I stood at least as tall as they, I quivered in my stance, realizing that the wall of red lockers and they confined me.
�And don�t think of telling that Glynis bitch, either, fag. We�ve got connections still over there,� he smirked, as he leaned closer to me, like a predator about to slice the throat of his prey.
Inevitably, a boy like him will have connections anywhere, but they did not possess the precise knowledge of the hierarchy and social network at the junior high involving Glynis. They may have connections like the telephone service, but Glynis has enough audacity to sever the wires and remove the phone jacks. Despite she despised every soul there, she had the prowess to remain notorious and aloof simultaneously; I, however, did not.
�Must I continue from where I left off?� he asked, subversively posing a rhetorical question that had no other answer other than the implication from the deceptive, sly smile on his lips.
�Leave m-m-me alone,� I murmured, looking away from them.
�Gay-ass fruit,� another mumbled from behind him.
The boy, who wore the red jacket and appeared as the leader, chuckled to himself after the utterance of the derogatory remark, and, then, looked me up and down, still chuckling, but, now, louder, for everyone to hear. �Get that bump out of your pants,� he said. �I don�t like it when queers try to make a pass at me.�
Despite I knew I did not have an erection, I still felt humiliated. From the quiver that rooted in the base of my stomach, I sensed that trouble, aside from humiliation, was inevitable to this encounter. Blame everything on Jesse, and then, everyone will be satisfied, I thought hopelessly, wallowing in my self-hatred. The image of his leathery fist, as it pulled back in an effort to begin the pummeling, disrupted any equilibrium my nerves had, but the first pain I felt was in my groin. One of his followers must have kicked me there, I realized, as intense pain shot throughout my body. Tumbling onto the cold floor, I looked upward, as if to find some sign of hope, and saw that all stood above me, laughing. He then cast another punch.
I did not desire to view my descent into the trough of humiliation. As long as I closed my eyes, I could not see the damage. Despite each punch felt and each word heard, I never glanced upon their faces, laden with hatred and contempt. Closing my eyes tightly, I felt as if I fell into a snake pit, full of writhing, venomous reptiles whose sole focus was to puncture my weak flesh and inject poison into my blood. Each foot spurned and each fist pummeled me, but I merely recognized the floor as coming in contact with my flesh; my back lie upon its cold surface as an uncontrollable moan escaped my throat in the direction of the ceiling. The moan resonated like a police siren in the room, as if to warn a group of vandals of the imminent danger from authority in presence. How I wished Glynis were here, I thought desirously. But, Glynis wandered the halls of the junior high and smoked in the bathrooms, and, without her presence, I became easy prey, like a rabbit to hunting dogs, for vying predators. In my fallen stance, my only option was to groan and wait for the torture to terminate.
�Fat-ass fag,� one said, as he punched my stomach and I writhed from his blow.
�All you have is yourself to play with,� another sardonically mocked.
�Yeah, no one wants to play with you,� agreed a different voice.
As each boy assailed me, I assimilated his blows, until I became immune. My flesh ached, especially about the wounds, which stung and irritated even when the boys didn�t touch them. My eyes filled with tears, and, despite I attempted to repress them, they declared their autonomy and streamed down my cheeks in rebellion. Writhing and gesticulating, I lost control of myself, and allowed the boys to become the puppeteers, and I, the limp puppet. How inevitable this scenario seems and how helpless I am, I thought with apathy toward my situation. Between my eyes, a glob of spit fell, landing with a dull smack against my skin. For a few seconds, the glob remained in its place, but, then, soon drizzled down my face, leaving its residue on my cheeks and eyebrows. From outside the locker room, a distant voice of authority assured me of safety.
�All of you, upstairs,� he commanded, which resonated in the room above the jeers.
The jeers halted, and the room grew silent, as if the culprit of a horrid was caught in the act. The boys stood and drew away from me, for, as I continued to stare apathetically at the ceiling, their images left my vision range. Lethargic footsteps echoed in the room, and ceased once they left the locker room. For a minute, I lay on the floor, motionless and petrified with the thought of the boys returning after an insignificant reprimanding. As the air, laden with sweat, touched my skin, the bruises ached and bled. My body moaned, despite my mouth was pursed shut as the tears continued to stream down my face. About my thighs, the material from my pants brushed coarsely against my skin, which felt less sore than the skin on my arms and torso. Sitting up, I noticed the purple marks, encrusted with dried blood, on my stomach, which barely kept itself in my pants. Beside these marks, my skin became ghostly pale. Across my breasts, black splotches dotted my skin, which, I assumed, came from my makeup. No one else remained in the room, and my motions were the only sounds as I gathered my things in the silence that spoke of uncertainty. Catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I eyed my horrifying reflection. My makeup was smeared and streaked across my face like the illusive rainbow in a puddle of oil, and my body was pale and covered in purple wounds from their fists. Sometimes, I wondered, I don�t understand why I don�t put on a charade for everyone, pretending to be someone and something I�m not. The solution would be to cut my hair, cast aside the makeup and feminine attire, and try to lose at least ten pounds. But, I told myself as I oscillated between determination and self-loathing, I�d have an easier time trying to commit suicide than losing my identity.
After changing into my gym clothes and fixing my makeup to make myself not appear as horrific, I ascended upstairs, undaunted in my efforts to participate in this class. The stairs leading up to the gym seemed to be surrounded by a haze of swear. Merely by inhaling, I imagined the perspiring muscular bodies of my peers as they changed into their gym uniform. Sweat poured down their faces and gathered around their eyes, clinging to their lashes and eyebrows, like tears of joy from victory. Sweat rested upon their chests like droplets of rain. Sweat developed in the creases of their palms, as they grabbed me and shoved me into a wall because I lacked their masculine traits. My pale, cherubic body was neither shiny with sweat nor bulging with muscles. The scent of the sweat, as well as the thought of who was perspiring, nauseated me. The railing I clutched as I climbed the stairs seemed to be oiled with their perspiration. The air surrounding me was saturated with it. If I breathed, the particles from it would enter my lungs, but I refused to inhale. However, at the to of the stairs, the railing and the clouds of sweat stopped, and I timidly entered the echoing hallway to the gymnasiums. A bellowing voice of authority reverberated through the hall, but sounded nonsensical to my ears. The tone was that of someone reprimanding, as if another committed a wrong deed. Perhaps I had committed that deed, and the owner of the voice was searching to reprimand me. For that moment, I froze in my stance in the desolate hallway, staring at my reflection on the glossy floor and listening to that voice cut through the pristine silence of the empty corridor. Unintentionally shaking, my knees quivered from my fear, as my stomach grew nauseated again.
The voice stopped. Alone, I stood in the hall, not like a sentinel but like an animal, who senses its imminent demise to the lurking creature stalking it as prey. Perhaps they indeed found me, and I was oblivious to that notion. They might be standing behind, breathing down my back until I turn, only to see my frightened reflection, like a kaleidoscope pattern, in their dark, angry pupils. After moving backward a few steps, I realized I was the sole body in the hall. No one stood behind or in front. Below me, on the glossy floor, my reflection peered up at me, as I glanced down at it. As if I were looking into a murky pool, I saw that my reflection was blurred from the erosion of the floor by the years� worth of treads upon it. The light above my head became an erratic halo, and my facial features became distorted to a dark, incongruous shadow on the floor. My hair was a purple-colored splotch, like spilled ink, on the floor. In this setting, I was reduced to a mere monster that was devoid of any common characteristics. Any makeup became flushed into the matter, as the vague placement of colors only prevailed in my reflection.
Behind my clouded clone, another shadow passed, until it stopped directly behind me. My reflection reduced itself to a black puddle, until I ignored it by looking away. In fear of ambiguous, ambivalent consequences, my heart leaped into my throat. The shadow continued to stand behind me in silence, but tension lingered in the air like the sweat in the locker room.
�Jesse?� asked the shadow. This voice sounded like a dwarfed version of the one that previously boomed in the hallway. Still scared, I dared not to look up at the figure and respond to its calling my name. �Jesse?� the voice asked again, but with a stern, serious tone this time. In a pithy analysis, I sensed that the voice was that of my gym instructor.
�Yes?� I feebly responded.
�Jesse, this is important,� he stated. �Please look up at me.�
Timorously, I shifted my glance from the floor to his face, which was void of any expression.
�Jesse, I said this is important.� His tone sounded steady and monotonous, without and nervous twitching or faltering. �I need to talk to you. Now.�
Suddenly and uncontrollably, my fears grasped me, until I began to tremble in my stance. �Wh-what duh-did I, uh, d-d-d-do?� I asked.
With ultimate authority present in his voice, his words and stare bore into me, allowing my fear from my incompetence to climb higher inside. �Nothing. This isn�t an accusation against you in any way. Just come into my office.�
Dutifully, I followed him into his office, a closet of a room that was illuminated by fluorescent lights and contained three chairs and a desk inside. On one side of the desk, he sat and then indicated for me to sit in one of the chairs on the opposite side. Eying the chair, I hesitated, feeling my fears waxing inside of me. My gaze shifted from the chair, to my gym instructor, and then to the chair again.
�Jesse, sit on the chair,� he insisted, becoming impatient.
With a slight motion, I touched the back of the chair, still feeling hesitant to sit on it. This chair seemed unwelcoming as my stomach ached from my fears. However. He seemed irked by my hesitation, and I imminently ended up stilling down, anyway. As soon as I hit the chair, tears gushed out of my eyes, like a rainstorm determined to become a flood. My head fell into my hands, as the tears, fueled by my fears and melancholy mood, flowed out of me steadily. From my throat, a choked sobbing sound erupted to accompany my mood. The room blurred, like my reflection on the hallway floor, from the tears, smearing the makeup, in my eyes. My gym instructor was reduced to a mess of colors in my view.
�Jesse,� he interrupted,� I�m sorry, but this is important.�
I stared up, still with my chin in my hands, at him and tried to suppress my sadness. Ashamed of myself, I was, to burst and bawl like a child, but I felt as if I lost my sense of self-control. �I�m thorry,� I murmured, trying to look away from him.
�Just collect yourself, and we�ll talk.�
�Fine,� I mumbled, fully repressing my emotions to a state of apathy, and looked at him directly into his eyes.
�Well then,� he began, �I think you know what this is about.�
I do, I asked myself, confused by his ambiguous statement. Then, the realization dawned on my thoughts. Perhaps, he, too, heard about the rumor that I tried to rape the boy in the red jacket in the bathroom. �I duh-didn�t do it,� I replied, the words uncontrollably flowing from my mouth.
�Didn�t do what?� he asked. I assumed that he wanted me to state the accusation first.
�What huh-he said I, uh, did,� I responded.
�I didn�t hear anyone say anything, Jesse,� he stated in his monotonous tone. Intrigued, I began to scrutinize his words. �I heard them beating you up in the locker room.� He paused. �Now, I�m going to ask you a few questions, all right?�
�Fine,� I mumbled in a low, muffled tone.
�To start, how long has this been going on?�
�A y-year, maybe,� I responded, to appease him. Truthfully, I knew the problem began in junior high on the first day I stepped inside and uttered my name in homeroom.
�Okay, then. Now, why do you think they�ve been picking on you?�
�I duh-don�t know.� Another lie � I distinctly knew why they were beating me up; their caustic words and epithets described their hatred. To them, I was Jesse, the cross-dresser and homosexual. From either assumed description, I saw no reason to balk, but my conscience did not reside in theirs.
�You don�t?�
�No, I don�t,� I replied.
�So, they just do this for no reason?�
�I g-guess s-so.�
�And why haven�t you told anyone?�
�I duh-don�t know w-why, either.�
He rolled his eyes, irked from the fact that I could not give him a direct answer. �Just tell me in the future, okay?�
�Fine,� I mumbled, wishing to leave this uncomfortable situation. Compared to him, I was a slacker, a physical inferior, but then, I chose not to excel in physical education. �C-can, I, um, leave now?� I asked and cringed at my stutter and effeminate voice.
�Not just yet,� he said, in a tone less stern than before. �There�s one more thing I need to talk with you about.� From a filing cabinet beside him, he removed a manila folder, and then, placed it on the table between us. �Secondly, my reason for this discussion with you is your grade, Jesse. Now, I know you�re a good kid and student, but you have refused to participate too many times. I assume you received the failure notice?� I nodded. �Now, I don�t want to fail you, but you aren�t doing your job. I can understand why, after witnessing the incident in the locker room, but I just lectured the class. But, today, I can see that you made an effort. Did you?�
�Y-yes,� I mumbled.
�Okay, then. Well, I�ll tell you what, Jesse. If you continue to come prepared for gym for the rest of the quarter, I�ll raise your grade to a B. Any objections?� By this time, his voice became less stern, but his eyes still bore into me with disdain for my physical ineptitude.
�Is it on a curve?� I asked. Candidly, I did not care, but I was nevertheless curious.
�No,� he replied in his monotonous tone. �Two more weeks until the end of the quarter. As of now, your grade is a D, but if you come prepared for the remaining two weeks, you�ll have a low B, and I�ll still see your name on the honor roll.�
�Okay,� I replied, without contemplating the details of his statement.
�And, if any of the guys give you trouble in the locker room, just tell me, okay?� He leaned across the desk in my direction, watching to see if I would give approval to his banal proposition. From my perspective, if I did not agree, he would reach across the desk to strangle me.
�Fine,� I replied again.
�Great,� he asserted, without much enthusiasm. �I�ll see you in class, then.�
Standing from my chair, I left the office hurriedly. He, however, remained in his chair and arrived to class ten minutes later. Inside, I sincerely cared about my grade and became determined to participate in this class for the next two weeks. Once the door slammed behind me, I faced the glossy hallway once more. Down the corridor came the echo from the smacking of a basketball on the floor, like an angry hand to a sore face. From where I stood, I realized that the sound came from the direction of my gym class. Closing my eyes and holding my breath, I ventured down that hall, until I stood in front of the doors. The smacking and thudding of the balls grew in intensity in my ears. However, my determination made me a machine. Grasping the door handle in my perspiring fist, I opened the door, prepared to face anything.
***
The scolding winds brushed past my face, blowing snow and my purple hair into my eyes. The realm outside North High seemed to be covered in the gray sludge and fine white powder from the recent snowfall. In my right hand, I grasped a quarter, which felt cold against my sore palm, while searching for a payphone. With every step, I winced, as the wind bit my cheeks with its metallic teeth. Under my coat, I felt naked, as the air rushed up through the folds to brush against my legs. The shorts I wore from gym class provided no warmth in this weather. Glynis deserted the usual areas � the junior high and the cafeteria � after school. Looking about the area, I found no hint or sign of her, as if she vanished. An hour ago, I found myself in the library after giving up on search for her. With dusk, and its purple undertones, conquering the evening�s mystic reddish sky, I began to realize that she might be at home. If I had not looked for her, I would be at home � Vince�s apartment � too.
However, I did not worry about Glynis, and I seldom did. Glynis, from my perspective, is this universal - almost omnipresent - being that could stand bullets fired at her chest. She could shoot herself and survive, in my mind. Death and her name could never be found in the same sentence. Yet, at the same time, she possessed enough compassion to not desert me.
Within a short distance from a bus stop, a payphone stood. The instructions read, �Please deposit twenty-five cents.� Picking up the cold receiver, I placed it to my ear, and the monotonous drone of the dial tone drowned the sounds of the street as I punched in Glynis�s phone number. In the receiver, a distant ring cut through the silence. By the bus stop, a man lit a cigarette, and its smoke drifted in my direction, tempting me to take one out of my pack. A police car rested across the street, and I decided to resist the temptation, which now seemed intrinsic to my being.
�Hello?� said a voice on the other end of the phone.
�Um,� I hesitantly replied, �is Glynis there?�
�Hold on,� said the voice, which grew suddenly harsh. Vaguely, from the perturbed tone, I sensed that Glynis�s mother answered.
In a minute, another voice spoke. �Hello? Is this Jesse?�
�Yeah,� I casually replied, feeling relieved to be free from stuttering for the moment. The voice was distinctly Glynis�s. �I�m here.�
�What�s going on?� she asked.
�Nothing much,� I mumbled into the receiver.
�Oh,� she abruptly replied. �I�m fine, too. Same here.� Both of us paused in our tepid conversation, but then, she spoke again. �Are you okay?�
I sensed that she found out about my leaving home last week. �Why?�
�Tom told me that you were kicked out of your house. But, I know Tom is full of shit. So, is it true?�
Staring at the tarnished metallic buttons on the phone, I mumbled, �Yeah, yeah, it is.�
Glynis�s tone became suddenly sympathetic, but shocked simultaneously, as she gasped on the opposite end of the receiver. �Oh shit! Are you all right, Jesse? Where are you? Maybe you can stay at my house for a week, or-�
Since I realized Glynis�s family thought negatively of me, such a proposition would not be possible. �No, it�s fine,� I said.
�What do you mean, �fine�? Are you telling me you�re content with living on the streets?� she exclaimed.
In the background, someone started to yell at Glynis. The words were not distinguishable on my end, but by Glynis�s irked groan, I knew that whoever yelled was objecting to something that Glynis said. With a sharp smack, the receiver, on her end, fell onto a hard surface. Glynis also yelled, and I heard her in the background but could not distinctly hear her words.
On my end, several cars passed by on the street, hissing against the pavement. The smoker retreated, but as I stood, waiting for Glynis to resume our conversation, the smoke still lingered in the air, making my stomach plead for a cigarette. Consistently, wind shot up my coat, tickling my thighs and lower back with its breath. I desired to return home to rest on Vince�s couch with his mother and read to her for hours, while drinking hot coffee and potato soup. If I had not called Glynis, I would be there, but this phone call was of importance at the moment, despite the brittle winds.
�Hello?� came Glynis�s voice again, once she picked up the receiver. �Jesse, are you still there?�
�Yeah, I am,� I told her.
�Sorry about that, but my mother insisted that no one is staying at this house,� she informed.
�Oh,� I replied indifferently.
�Well, she actually said something more harsh, like �no damn purple-haired faggot friend of yours is setting foot in this place,�� she mimicked.
�I don�t care,� I said. �I have a place to stay.�
�You do?� she enthusiastically asked. �Where?�
�Um�� I tried to think about the location of Vince�s apartment, �near that part with that ludicrous Cupid statue in front, and on the first floor of a large apartment building. It�s the one with the doors on the outside on the first floor. Do you know of it?�
�Not of the top of my head, though,� she said, trying to recall that building, which looked identical to the ones about it, except for the arrangement of the first floor.
�I�m living there with this guy, Vince, and his mother.�
�He�s not a momma�s boy, by any chance?�
�What do you mean?� I asked in confusion about her remark, which sounded slightly derogatory.
�The opposite of me and my mother.�
In recollection of Vince�s relationship with his mother, I decided that he was not. Although he was twenty-six years old and lived with his mother, he seldom came home early and frequently enough to have a meaningful discourse with her. He was vigilant about her health and safety, as much as money would allow, but she did not manipulate him to fulfill her personal desires. �No,� I informed.
�Then, what kind of guy is he? If he�s a con artist or a pimp, leave now and come to my house, no matter what my mother says,� she immediately changed from curious and sympathetic to concerned and austere. �I�m serious, Jesse. I don�t want you living with a freak that�ll harm you.�
In an effort to revert her mood, I said, �He�s a lot like me, but older,� and tried to give a vague, but acceptable, description of Vince. Vince mirrored me slightly, differing only with experience and knowledge of the world from self-sufficiency that was merely innate to his being.
�Like what?�
�He likes to cross-dress,� fell from my mouth.
�Figures,� said Glynis, nonchalantly, �but that�s something benign.�
�Yeah,� I agreed.
�Are you positive that you�re going to be okay with this guy?� she asked, and swung into the direction of vexation again.
�He�s not a bad person, like I said, he�s similar to me. And, his mother cooks well, too.�
�I wasn�t trying to worry about you.� She paused, and I heard her breaths on the opposite end. �So, where have you been for the past couple of days? I went to the cafeteria, and you weren�t there.�
�Sick, but then I just avoided school,� I said in truth. For one day, I stayed in bed with a slight case of influenza, but, during the other two, I recuperated and did not attempt to return to school.
�Oh, I was just wondering, that�s all.�
Realizing that I promised to meet her at the cafeteria a few days ago, I immediately apologized for my actions. �I�m sorry. I just forgot to come there a couple days ago. I had a lot of stuff on my mind. So, would you like to meet tomorrow after you have detention or something like that?�
�I can�t do it.�
Shocked that she, herself, said that she could not meet at the cafeteria � a daily ritual � I asked, trying not to sound astonished, �Why not?�
Unsteadily, she began, �I met this girl, Lena, there. She�s pretty cool, in my opinion. She drives a motorcycle and is a junior at South High, but I still haven�t told her that I�m still stuck at Emerson Junior High. So, anyway, to impress her, I�m going to try to pass this year and avoid detentions. Tomorrow, I�m going to meet her there after school.�
Disappointed and morose, I replied with an indifferent, �Oh,� in response.
�Don�t feel bad; you�re still my best friend, though. I�ll meet you there another time, okay?� She seemed to notice my sudden change from neutral to melancholy.
�I�m not disappointed,� I lied. Sincerely, I plummeted into my self-created depth of disappointment and internal agony from the notion that Glynis now found another peer � a girl � to be her friend. Although she did not seem to be pushing me away, I indeed felt like the ocean swept me away, carrying me with the receding tide, from her.
�Okay,� she said, �I�ve got to go soon, Jesse,� she said. Almost instantly, she compounded her reason with, �I�m going to tackle some homework.�
As surprised as I was that she decided to attempt to move from her position in education, the fact that she met another girl overshadowed my happiness for her. �Have fun,� I said, trying to repress my sadness; I refused to cry into the cold phone that pressed against my face.
�I will,� she groaned, �and I�ll see you later, okay?�
�Fine,� I replied in the same tone that I uttered to my gym instructor earlier and prepared to hang up the receiver.
�Jesse?� she asked; hesitant, I paused and listened to Glynis for a few more seconds. �If your favorite color still purple or has it changed?�
Cogitating briefly about her simple, seemingly innocuous question, I responded with, �Yeah,� but then asked, �Why?�
�Just curious,� she replied.
�Fine.�
�I�ll see you later, Jesse. I hope you�ll be okay.�
�I�ll be fine, Glynis. I�ll see you later.� I didn�t lament the termination of our frivolous discourse.
�Bye,� she said, closing her end of the conversation, and then hung up. The monotonous dial tone from the payphone resumed, and I became cognizant of the surroundings of the street again. Only after hanging up the receiver of the payphone did I remember my reason for calling Glynis � to apologize for not showing that day and to ask her to come over to Vince�s house. But, thoughts were transitory, and therefore, the latter buried itself into oblivion in my mind. However, four days in the life of an adolescent is a vast period of time, and our few words mollified my fears of never speaking to her again. But what fears now existed? The thought of Glynis visiting Lena lingered in my conscience like the cigarette smoke in the air about the bus stop. Unlike a rumor or assumption, I knew this was a reality. I could lie to myself, but what was the use when the reality pervaded my thoughts? Lying would be as if I told myself that I did not have an addiction to cigarettes, despite I smoke often. Perhaps, I should deal with the issue, I told myself. Then again, I probably will mope, lament, and behave moodily.
From my pocket, I took a cigarette and a lighter. Like a reflex, I placed the cigarette between my quivering lips and then, lit it as always. And this is how Jesse deals with his emotions, I thought ironically about the situation � standing at a bus stop, lamenting, and smoking. Leaning against a pole, I waited for the next bus that would take me near Vince�s apartment. The cigarette burned, dissipating slowly into gray clouds of carcinogenic smoke. The smoke had the same aroma as it did every time I smoked, but I had neither the strength nor the motivation to close my eyes this time; I�d feel like a compulsive liar or a charlatan by telling myself that euphoria existed.