The aroma of cheap body spray and
overpriced perfume filled the halls at Vestibus High School as my tardy feet
shuffled to first hour. A trickle of sweat slid down my cheek as the Spanish
door came into view. My hand reached out to the ominous oak, eager to be in my
desk and hide from whatever humiliation awaited me on the other side. My
fingers wrapped around the doorknob. I melodramatically prepared myself to face
the music, ready to combat any taunt, no matter how emotionally shattering. My
fingers began to turn, but not on their own. The door swung open to reveal a
villainous smile curled in delight. “Señor” Ericson
glared at me, his mind no doubt having already devised my punishment.
“Hola, Señor
Wagner,” he said loud enough for the entire class to hear. He stretched an arm
out to point me to where to go: in this case, the front of the room. “¿Dónde
estabas?”
I
stood panting in front of my entire Spanish class, the fluorescent lights
glaring down on me like those at an insane asylum. I
collected myself, mustered up my best Spanish, and began to explain.
“Hola, Señor Ericson,” I said in a
perfect American accent. “Yo estaba…at my home.”
A few snickers rose from the class.
Damn them.
“¡En español!” Señor Ericson barked.
“¿A mi home?”
“¿A su casa?”
“Yes.”
“¿Sí?”
“Sí.”
“Sit down, Mr. Wagner.”
A
sigh escaped my lips. The battle had ended with only minimal casualties to my self-esteem.
A few students continued to scoff at my misfortune as I began the long walk
back to the dark recesses of my desk. A few of my “partners in learning” stared
up at me, still amused from the early morning entertainment. I don’t know why,
but I didn’t hate my high school, even though I easily could have. Vestibus
High School was a smorgasbord of flaws and shortcomings. First of all, the
cafeteria food tasted like burnt tires and undercooked dreams. This pitiful
excuse for nourishment could only be washed down with water that was pumped
with enough “nutritious” chemicals to power a car. As if our food didn’t
inspire enough gloom, monotonous pep rallies demanded we raise our voices in
celebration of the Vestibus “Workers”. Students pulled straws to determine who
would be condemned to serve as our school mascot, the Vestibus Coal Miner. Sure
enough, basketball games were filled with “Go Workers!” cheers and “Let’s go to
work!” chants. Karl Marx would’ve been proud.
Yet
despite these transgressions, the most repulsive Vestibus deception occurred on
a regular basis. Each day, girls put their hair in tiny, neat buns and claimed
they “weren’t trying.” I may have believed them too, if not for the eyeliner,
lipstick, blush, bulging cleavage, and skin-tight yoga pants. Sure, it made
them look “cute,” or whatever the societal opinion of “cute” was. Frankly, girls, particularly these marvels,
never really appealed to me.
Most students had their heads face
down on their desks, sleeping or passed out from exhaustion, much thanks to the
forced learning of a foreign language. Strolling past these hibernating
teenagers, I was no doubt staring into my future, one that couldn’t come soon
enough.
My skinny torso slipped into a desk,
and I allowed my face to collapse onto a mountain of Spanish notes. An
unforeseen pencil case greeted my forehead with a crash. I groaned and
straightened up onto my seat. The pain pierced my left eye, waking me up for
the moment. Someone whispered loudly.
“Hey, Nick!”
A pair of familiar eyes was resting
on me. Gordy Tanner’s cheeks were constantly blushed so it became impossible to
tell if he was embarrassed or not. His dirty blonde hair compulsively crashed
over his face and revealed a single blue eye. Gordy’s lone pupil stared at me
quizzically as though my shoulders had sprouted a second head or, the more
likely explanation: that my hair was sticking up. A couple of my fingers traced
a few black curls to their origin and smoothed down a stubborn cowlick. Gordy’s
stare persisted. So did mine.
Gordy Tanner kept life interesting. Best friends since the dog
days of eighth grade, not a minute had passed between us without Gordy making a
far-fetched, impossibly abstract philosophical observation. “Do you think
apples ever get jealous of the tree that they came from?” and “Should we live
our lives like people or like souls?” were just a sliver of Gordy’s playbook. The
superfluity of his pretentious intellect was astounding. Half the time, he lost
me amongst a concoction of hypotheticals and scenarios; but we could talk about
anything and generally had the same, unwavering opinion of our generation:
disappointed and largely ashamed. Our friendship blossomed on the system of
“sticking together,” which we always did.
Gordy’s mouth remained open,
patiently waiting to answer any response.
“What is it, Gordy?” I whispered.
“Why are you late?”
“I was getting a perm.”
“Really?”
“No, stupid!”
Gordy chuckled and returned his
attention to the present subjunctive. My eyes gained weight and started to
drift, my vision narrowing with each utterance of “Repita, por favor.” A page
of notes stared up at me, urging, no, begging
me to write anything. I declined the
invitation and allowed my mind to roam free, far away from this useless class. The
room slowly darkened and transformed into my own mental playground, when
Gordy’s voice interrupted my tranquility, rattling into my head.
“Hey Nick!”
My neck craned upwards. The brief
nap had left my vision foggy.
“What?” I moaned.
“Do you think gay guys would want a
vagina or would they be grossed out?”
My eyes shot up, pointing straight
ahead. Most teenage boys would catch the word vagina and instantly teleport themselves to a land with a surplus
of women and a shortage of clothing. But not me. I heard Gordy say, “gay.” Gay.
The word felt like a blow to the stomach; only I didn’t know who was punching
or why. Nobody knew I was gay, not even Gordy. I packed it so far down, even I
forgot for a while, but now it was alive again, beating inside of me like a
second heart. Every feeling of attraction I’d ever felt swelled up and flowed
into my brain, immersing my thoughts. Caught up with desire, my eyes drifted
around the room, briefly settling upon each boy in the class. No longer were
they a conglomeration of hormonal, post-pubescent high-schoolers. Each was his
own collection of attractive features: chins, eyes, chests, biceps, lips. In
just the utterance of an unsuspecting word, my world was reopened, and Gordy
had no idea.
Breath returned to my lungs. I
turned back to Gordy and answered his previous question with one of my own.
“Why? Do you want a vagina?”
That shut him up.
I shifted back to the front of the
class. The entire room had swiveled around in their chairs. They stared at me.
“Hola,” I muttered nervously.
---
The bell shrieked, abruptly ending a
train of thought while simultaneously piercing my ears. Like pigs drawn to a trough, packs of students
migrated to the cafeteria. I lingered behind at Gordy’s locker. His hands were
pushed into two jean pockets as he gazed into his locker. I never really found Gordy
attractive. Maybe it was because I’d known him since metal lined his teeth and
acne covered his chin. Maybe it was because he had been around since before I
started thinking boys were sexy. None of that would have mattered much though
if Gordy was actually gay, which he wasn’t, not that I ever asked. I didn’t
want to know.
Gordy glanced up at me.
“What are you thinking about, Nick?”
“You.”
He laughed as though it were a joke.
Just then a tiny hand shoved itself
into my scalp and tussled my hair, probably an improvement to the previous mess
of black licorice. My hand straightened out a few loose ends as Monica Holden
crept into view, a half smile on her face and a small notepad in her hand. She
flipped off the cover and started reading.
“It’s not what you look at that
matters; it’s what you see.”
“Who said that?” I asked.
“Henry David Thoreau.”
“Is he in style nowadays?”
“If he was, I probably wouldn’t stoop
so low as to conform to society’s expectations by telling you his quote, now
would I, Nicholas?”
“Oh I’m sure you could find some
pretentious, metaphorical reason.”
“Oh please! I’m just here to guide
you two!” she said. “Do you want to know why I don’t follow the trends and
styles of our fellow young adults?”
“Oh please grace us with your
wisdom,” Gordy said sarcastically.
“Because I am the style! Or at least
my own,” Monica said.
“You’re going to be the next Marilyn
Monroe,” I said.
“No. I’m just the first Monica
Holden,” she answered, turning a rosy cheek at me. “Hey! I like that! I’m
writing that down!”
Monica pulled a small black notebook
out of her messenger bag, scribbled something on one of the pages, and slipped
it back into its own exclusive pocket, never to be seen by human eyes, Monica
not included.
“So what goes on in your lives?”
“What goes on in our minds is a better question!” Gordy proclaimed
triumphantly.
“Fascinating, Gordy,” Monica deadpanned.
“But seriously, what’s up?”
“Everything,” Gordy answered.
“Is that another one of your
philosophical responses?” I asked.
“No. Wait! Maybe? Perhaps…” Gordy
trailed off, exploring the metaphysical boundaries of time and space, deciding
what is and what is not.
“That should keep him busy,” I said.
Monica laughed and snatched my hand.
“Let’s walk, Wagner.”
I met Monica Fantasia Holden my
freshmen year. Her family had moved around a lot, but finally settled here, God
knows why. Despite her geographical instability, Monica constantly reminded
Gordy and me that her vast experience had left her severely cultured and wise
in ways we couldn’t comprehend in our underdeveloped states. She wore berets
and vests to school and carried a satchel, which never held textbooks. Her
symbol of youth and enlightenment “couldn’t possibly be subjected to the oppressive
lessons of the establishment, you silly boys.”
We walked down an overly lighted
hallway lined with mediocre art projects and 3rd place sports
trophies. Our bagged lunches swung at our sides, nearly bumping into each other
with every step. Monica curled a few strands of dark brown hair around her
fingertip and shot me a look. Her red beret rested just on the back of her
head, pushing her hair forward so it fell over her chest. Two green eyes
squinted at me as Monica’s lips curled into a sly smile.
“What?” I asked.
“I think I’m going to sign my novels:
Monica F. H.” she said.
“As in first name, middle initial,
last initial?”
“Indubitably, Nicholas.”
“I assume there’s a deep-seeded
reason behind this.”
“Oh, Nicholas you know me so well!”
Monica swung her satchel around to her stomach and retrieved the black
notebook. She flipped a few pages and traced her finger down the page, stopping
near the bottom.
“When you read a story,” she read, “there are two people involved:
the author and the reader. As the reader, I can’t help but feel like I’m
cheating the author. I don’t know him. I’ve never talked to him. And yet I am
granted the privilege of his innermost observations and ideas? I don’t want
that when I write. I want my readers to feel like they know me. Instead of
Hemingway, Thoreau, and Emerson, why not Ernest, Henry, and Ralph? Well people
will know me as Monica, like they do now.”
Monica’s eyes glanced up from the page, a smile half spread on her
face.
“So what do you think?” she asked, closing the notebook and
returning it to its home.
“People know you as Monica right now? I think of you as M. F.
Holden, or Mother Fucking Holden.”
She laughed. “On second thought, I think I like that better.”
We turned and continued walking down
the nearly vacant hallway. Glaring lights bounced off the tile and reflected
our silhouettes as we passed. My feet meticulously avoided the cracks between
tile squares, and I let my mind travel back to a time when evading breaks in
the sidewalk was our biggest problem. Too often my life seemed to never have
any cracks to miss. I stepped on smooth surface and kept walking without any
repercussions. My mother never broke her back, and nothing ever changed. At
least if there were cracks, we had something to avoid.
I stepped on a crack and felt a pang
of guilt.
“What are you thinking about,
Wagner?” Monica asked.
“Aw, you know, life,” I said.
“Oh you are so deep.”
“That’s what she said.”
“You’re dirty.”
“And you’re just a naïve, innocent
girl!” I teased.
“Ah, Nicholas! How dare you! My one
vulnerable spot! My Monica’s heel!”
I laughed as Monica clutched her
chest and pretended to faint.
“Wonderful performance,
crazy-pants,” I said. Crazy-pants? What the hell was I saying?
“Oh please hold your applause,” she
paused. “Psycho-shirts.”
Monica playfully hit me with her bagged
lunch as we walked into VESTIBUS BANQUET HALL, the name of our school cafeteria
painted in bold capital letters across the top of the walls. My gaze rotated
around the lunchroom, spotting groups of friends and the occasional mixture of
awkward freshmen who had nowhere else to sit but with others exhibiting similar
social ineptitude. The stench of stale French fries wafted in the air and
drifted by my head. I mentally thanked God, and my mom, for my homemade lunch.
My eyes continued to drift until they eventually rested on a boy,
one I’d never held a conversation with for more than an “excuse me” or “what’s
for homework?” I knew who he was though.
Mark Sorenson.
His straight black hair was slicked back over his right ear, the
rest cascading over his forehead to compliment his “boy next door” face. If I
hadn’t seen him before, I may have thought he was the male protagonist from a
90s romantic comedy come to life. Whenever I pictured myself with a boy, I
thought of Mark. I thought of his calm brown eyes and being able to literally
feel his gaze upon me, touching his stare with my own. Even the slightest nudge from him would make
my skin melt. What I would give just to feel his thick arms around me once,
holding me tight; to hear him tell me, “You’re safe.” What I would give.
Mark sat across the cafeteria at a
table with his equally muscular, but not nearly so dreamy, friends. He punched
the guy next to him in the arm. That blow would have snapped me in two, not a
fellow football player though. To them, it was a sign of affection, one of the
few I was okay with not experiencing from Mark.
Monica waved me over to our usual
spot. Gordy had already found his way back to the lunchroom, but oddly, yet not
surprisingly, without his lunch.
“Where’s your food, Gordy?” I
inquired.
“Hmmm good question. Where is
anything? Where is us? Earth? Here? The universe? School? Who defines where something is? Certainly not me,
Nick. It’s above my pay grade.”
Monica chimed in.
“You forgot it, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
Monica smirked and winked at me. I
didn’t respond. Mark was passing, catching my attention and my eye.
---
Friday didn’t start like any other
day. I ate breakfast. That was my first mistake. Years of rebellion against the
conceited “most important meal of the day” were all in vain. My once proud
stance for adolescent laziness fizzled for one morning. I should have stayed home
right then and there, but no! I valued my education. How stupid.
I pulled my cell phone out of a jean pocket and checked the
time. 7:35. Holy Shit! Late! Again! Suspicions of breakfast had not been
unjustified, just as I originally suspected. The inaugural daily food consumption
had put me behind schedule. Damn you, balanced breakfast.
I
hastily threw a sweatshirt over my head and slung a suspiciously heavy backpack
onto my shoulder. The weight practically dislocated my arm, the strap pressing
against my collarbone. In grade school, my backpack felt more like an accessory
than a means to carry my “cargo.” Back in the 19th century, if you
wanted to leave town, you put an apple and a wood carving in a bandana and tied
it around a stick. Unfortunately, that makeshift suitcase couldn’t support a
workbook, let alone a textbook. People who suggest that teenagers do more
manual labor should try lugging around my bag of concrete education. Maybe then
they’d finally learn something about hard work.
I quickly caught a glimpse of my
glaring awkwardness in the bathroom mirror and, consequently, rushed to fix my
disheveled hair, which looked less like dark flowing locks and more like a mess
of black silly string. In truth, there wasn’t much wrong with it, but there
doesn’t need to be for me to have a nervous breakdown. Still, it was unhealthy,
and I knew it. It was just going to get re-messed up regardless: either from
the wind, rain, or my own hands pulling on it from an overload of stress and
social perplexity.
The school day, in contrast to my
morning, transpired like most others, monotonously painful and painfully
monotonous. The bell rang before I could slip into a desk so, once more; I was humiliated
in front of the entire class, courtesy of Señor Ericson. Then, as usual, Gordy
cheered me up by asking, “Have young animals ever wondered where baby animals
came from?” No answer presented itself to me. Gordy thought for a moment and said,
“yes” quite assuredly.
Just around lunchtime, Monica snuck
up from behind and hugged me around the waist.
“Good day, Nicholas!” she said.
I cringed.
“Gordy, it feels like an Oompa Loompa is trying to molest me.”
“Somebody better call Mr. Wonka and
tell him he’s got a lustful Loompa on the loose,” Gordy said.
Monica shoved her head into the
space between my arm and stomach. She glared up at us. “I hate both of you.”
“I can’t even hear you from all the
way down there,” I added.
“You guys suck.”
She pushed her whole body through
the opening so my arm was around her. My wrist awkwardly retreated from her
shoulder and planted itself in my pocket.
“Speaking of being molested from
behind,” Monica said, “have you gentlemen pondered who you will summon to the merriment
of incessantly rubbing adolescent genitalia together whilst repetitive pounding
and seizure-inducing strobe lights set the mood?”
“You lost me at ‘genitalia,’” I
said.
“You had me at ‘genitalia!’” Gordy
said.
Monica clarified, “Have you guys
thought of who you’re going to ask to prom?”
While the idea of prom wasn’t
repulsive to me, I never really considered myself a viable candidate to be
someone’s date.
“I thought we were just going to
have a movie night like at homecoming,” I said.
“We’re not taking in another film,”
Monica said. “At least, I’m not. I want to get dressed up in an absurdly
expensive dress and dance with, ideally, a boy. So how about you, Gordy?”
If there was one person who thought
prom was an existentially fleeting gig, it was Gordy.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been
thinking of asking someone,” Gordy said.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Who are you gonna ask?” Monica
questioned.
“I was thinking about asking Rebecca
Michalowski.”
Monica glanced at me out of the
corner of her eye.
“You mean the Rebecca Michalowski
that graduated two years ago?” Monica asked.
“The one that’s older than your
sister?” I added.
“You better believe it!”
Monica and I burst out laughing.
“Okay, okay slow down. Have you ever
even talked to her before?!” I asked.
“Nope! And what a lovely first
conversation it will be!”
“Gordy, my dear casanova, how do you
propose to win her over?” Monica asked.
“With my looks, charm, wit, humor,
sensitivity, and respect of women! Also, I bought roses,” he said gleefully.
“Oh wow. Well good luck, Tanner!”
Monica said. “What about you, Nick? I’m sure the women are lining up at your
door. I bet you have them take numbers and get in line to keep it organized!
Come on, who’s the lucky lady, Wagner?”
Apparently the idea of skipping the
dance still wasn’t occurring to Monica. “No idea. How about you?”
Monica blushed and half smiled.
“Actually, I already got asked by
someone. I just don’t know if I’m going to say ‘yes’ yet.”
My eyebrows rose. Monica was pretty
but rarely conversed with anyone outside of Gordy and me.
“Really? Who asked you?”
Monica adjusted the satchel hanging
on her shoulder, keeping one hand on the strap.
“You may not know him. He’s on the
football team. Mark Sorenson.”
My heart dropped. My temperature
rose. Of fucking course.
---
Friday night, the three of us all
rode together to a bonfire Monica “and friends” had been invited to. Upon
arrival, Monica led us to the backyard just as the Sun dipped below the clouds.
A pink glow covered the west, yellow rays shooting above us. After a half hour,
the light disappeared and the Sun was gone. The glowing rays rattled in my head
though, struggling to break free and release themselves into the sky. They
never did. The darkness remained.
Monica chatted with everyone. Her demeanor was less than that of a
sixteen year-old girl and more of an orator. She’d engage in ferociously aggressive
conversations with people Gordy and I had never even seen at school, or at
least tried not to see. She punctuated each point with a flick of her cup and a
raising of the eyebrows. Her mouth never closed, even in silence.
On the opposite side of the party,
Gordy and I twiddled our thumbs on the living room couch. Speakers blasted
music from the iTunes top 50 at our ears. The party happened around us.
Despite the constant thumping and unbearable rhythms, we ignored
the noise and discussed our own brand of philosophy.
“Well maybe,” I said, “there are
multiple universes!”
“So what would you call this
individual realm of universe then?” Gordy asked, clearly intrigued at my
nonsensical speculation.
I stretched out my arms and painted
a picture with my hands. “Reality.”
“But, Nick, there can’t be a single
reality if each universe has its own separate reality!” Gordy proclaimed.
“So what do we call our own
particular reality then, Dr. Tanner?”
Gordy scratched his chin and raised
an eyebrow, no doubt to build suspense.
“Gordyville!” he said throwing his
arms up.
We laughed and continued on like
that for a while. Gordy posed a question, I replied with an explanation, and
then he gave the correct “answer.” We became so consumed in our abstract
analysis though, that a few key party details slipped by our ears. Luckily, Monica
ran in from outside with the scoop, a goofy smile stretched across her face.
“Hey, what are you guys doing?” she
asked.
“Just talking about guy stuff,” I answered.
“Yeah, sure,” she said
sarcastically. “So hey, guess who just got here, Gordy!”
Gordy glanced up at Monica and
flipped the hair out of his eye. “Who?”
Monica paused for effect. “Rebecca
Michalowski.”
“Are you serious?”
“I swear to God! She’s outside by
the bonfire.”
Gordy cleared his throat and rose
from his chair. “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to only Monica and me, “the
time has come. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lion to tame.”
“Good luck, stallion,” Monica said.
“Don’t get clawed,” I added.
With that, Gordy was out the door
and into the backyard’s black unknown, leaving me alone with Monica. She had
curled her hair and painted her nails for tonight. A thin red cardigan covered
her arms but was unbuttoned to reveal a little cleavage beneath her navy blue
tank top. She sat on the couch staring at me, her head leaning on a soft, tiny
hand. A quiet smile rested on Monica’s face.
“So have you decided whether or not
you’re gonna go to prom with Mark yet?” I bravely asked. The question had been
trapped inside of me all day and was just waiting to shoot out of every pore of
my body. Even so, I didn’t want to hear the answer, just ask the question. The
answer terrified me.
The smile disappeared. “Uh yeah. I
said yes.”
Yes. The word itself was a train.
I’d laid myself on the tracks and tied the rope, preventing any hope for
escape. Only Monica could have saved me, but she said “yes.” The train ripped
me apart.
The first thing out of my mouth was laughter. I shouldn’t have
laughed, but I did. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I couldn’t stop.
“Wow!” I said, still badgering
Monica with impulsive delight at my tragic circumstances.
“What?” Monica asked.
“Wow! Just – of course!”
“What?!” Monica’s voice wasn’t calm
anymore. She was irritated.
“Nothing…nothing.”
My laughter collapsed from obnoxious
to downright cynical to quiet sobbing.
“Nick, do you have something to
say?”
My head fell into my hands; my
fingers pulled at my hair. I could feel tears approaching, but fought them
back. “I just can’t believe you’re going with Mark.”
“Since when do you care?”
“I – I – I don’t know.”
Monica looked away, then returned
her stare.
“Look, Nick.” Monica spoke softly.
Her tone had changed. “I – uh – I don’t think you should be upset. We’re just
friends and I can do what I want and…and…”
Monica’s voice shrunk.
“Because, well, I don’t totally have to go to prom with him,
right? It’s just a stupid dance, isn’t it? And I mean, um – well I wanna go to
prom…”
I lifted my head up and looked at
her, my eyes moist with jealousy and heartbreak.
She continued. “Do you have anything
to say, Nick?”
Yes, but I remained silent.
She continued slowly, carefully. “Look, we’ve been friends for
years, right? Right. And through those years, we’ve been through a lot
together. Like remember when we went to the pet store because I wanted to see
the puppies and you had to drag me out of there because I was crying because
they were so cute and I wanted to buy one but you wouldn’t let me because it
was stupid? Remember? Sorry I’m talking so much I just…I just can’t take it
anymore. I – I like you, Nick Wagner. And as Robert Fulghum said: ‘We’re all…’
um, I forget the quote. But I do like
you, Nick. I can explain that to myself in my own words.”
A tear dripped off my cheek and hit
the carpet. Monica’s eyes were soft and damp, her lips full and curled into a
thin, hopeful smile.
“Oh, Monica, I –“
Mark barreled into the room, a beer
can clutched in his thick fingers.
“Monica!” he said. “There you are!
I’ve been looking everywhere for you! How you doing? You good? I’m so good!”
“Uh yeah. I’m good, Mark.”
He stood as a tower blocking the
light in his Vestibus varsity jacket. “Who’s this guy?” he asked pointing at me
with the beer.
“This is my friend Nick,” she
replied. Her words were low and frail.
“Hey what’s up?” Mark said, turning
to me. He took a gulp of his beer.
My mouth dried up. I mustered a
shrug. I could feel him examining me up and down.
“Hey, wait! What’s going on here?”
Mark asked.
“Nothing, we’re just talking,”
Monica said.
“Sure doesn’t look like talking.”
I realized just how close Monica and
I had gotten to each other. I spoke up. “No, um, seriously, we’re just
friends.”
“Oh,” Monica said under her breath
but incidentally loud enough for Mark to hear.
“What?” he said furiously. “You like
this guy? This guy!”
Mark reached down and pulled me off
the couch like a rag doll. His strong fingers wrapped around my collar then
threw me to the living room floor. Monica shrieked.
“MARK, WHAT THE FUCK?!”
I caught a glimpse of the crowd forming outside the glass door.
They were eager to see a fight, eager to watch a weakling get stomped. My gaze
shifted to the giant hovering over me like a vulture having spotted the dead
meat. Mark’s beautiful brown eyes glared down at me, rage encompassing the
vicious stare that was pointed right at my feeble body.
“Son of a bitch!” Mark yelled as his
foot swung back then kicked me below the ribs. I rolled over, the pain coming
slowly then all at once. The giant reached down and rolled me over so I was
flat on my back. His fists clenched, his biceps strained, Mark crouched on top
of me, his knees pressing against either side of my body. I grasped at my
crush’s face, trying anything to prevent another strike. He moaned, swatted my
hand away, and jabbed into my stomach. Wind cascaded from my mouth as two weak
lungs deflated. They gasped for air. I gasped for help. Once again, Mark’s firm
chest met my hand as I pointlessly pushed against his pecs. I’d dreamt of this
moment before. I’d lie in bed and feel his muscles hold me. They protected me.
But now, his thick hands held my wrists down and forced tears out of my eyes.
Stop,
Mark. Stop. Take your hands off of my wrists and help me up. Fix my hair and
say you’re sorry. It was just the booze right? I know it will never happen
again. I know, Mark. It’s okay. I forgive you.
Gordy burst through the crowd and dragged
Mark off of me.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Gordy shouted, his hand resting on Mark’s chest, separating him from me.
“Monica likes him! Goddamnit!”
Mark was drunk out of his mind.
“You moron! Nick is gay!”
Mark’s eyes grew wide as his stare
fell on me.
“What? Are you fucking serious?”
Mark asked.
I turned my head over to look at
Monica. She looked back and nodded subtly. I stayed quiet.
“Yeah he is super gay! You know he
probably has a crush on you, dude!”
“Ah gross!”
“So clearly he and Monica couldn’t
be together now could they?”
“I-uh…I guess...Whatever. The faggot
still deserved it!” Mark sneered at me.
He turned and stormed off through
the open screen door, the crowd parting to let him through, then following Mark
outside. My body remained on the ground though, no other option available at
the moment. I stared at the ceiling. It was beige. Monica and Gordy knelt down
on either side of me. Monica gently moved some hair off my face and used her sleeve
to dry my tears and clean my cheek. The living room light silhouetted her from
above, hiding her face. Something started dripping on my cheek. Monica’s tears
fell one by one where mine had been.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay, Crazy-pants. Hey, Gordy,”
I coughed. “How’s Rebecca?” I asked, conjuring up a meek smile.
Gordy smirked. “She’s good. Boy, is
she good. Funny story though: turns out, her name is actually Rachel. Woops!”
I laughed, aggravating my still
unrecovered lungs. Gordy and Monica propped me up on the couch.
“Well, you’ve had quite the night,
slugger,” Gordy said. “So in lieu of this spectacular display that all decent
men should emulate, I feel obligated to honor your heroism by retrieving a bag
of ice for your cheek. While this bag of ice may nurse your physical wounds, your
emotional scars shan’t be mended so effortlessly. Ms. Holden, the floor is
yours. Nick, allow Monica’s words to work as a metaphorical bag of ice…for your
heart and your soul.”
“Thanks, Gordy,” I said.
Gordy smiled and whispered, “No
problem, you reckless jackass.” He turned and ran out of sight.
Monica gently curled a strand of
hair behind my ear and sniffled. She clasped my hand and shut her eyes tightly
for a few seconds as tears dripped down her face, soaking her shirt. Before the
party, she must have stressed over her wardrobe, and now it was wet and ruined
and pointless. I reached a hand out and wiped her tears with my thumb, but
Monica’s eyes remained closed, probably trying to push out the memories; or
hold them inside, not wanting to let go, not wanting to forget.
“Hey,” I said. “Don’t cry. It’s
okay.”
Her eyes gently cracked open, still
soggy and sad.
“I’m not crying,” Monica sniffled. “I’ve just got something in
both my eyes.” She mustered a microscopic grin and wiped her nose. “Look, Nick,
can I ask you–”
“No. No don’t ask me anything.”
“Nick, I just – ”
“No, Monica. I can’t. Not now. I’m hurt.” My breathing quickened. “And
I can’t tell you the reason but I just need you to hear me and understand that
this is the worst kind of pain because it’s irreparable. You know what I mean?
No, don’t answer that. Just understand and don’t ask ‘why.’ That’s the most you
can do for me.”
Monica held my shoulders tightly in
her small hands. “Okay, Nick. You’re okay.”
She was warm.
“So are you.”
Monica shook her head and smiled. “That’s
so cliché.”
“Yeah.”
And then she kissed me, and I kissed
back. Monica’s soft, wet lips brushed up and down my mouth, over and under the
bottom and top of my lips. I felt her body; I felt her breath; I felt her
hands, but I wasn’t kissing Monica. Mark’s full lips pushed against me and fell
inside my open mouth. They engulfed me and wouldn’t let go as he drowned me in
his muscle. His rough hands slowly moved across my jaw to the back of my head
and through my sloppy curls. His mouth opened wider as his kisses gained speed
and ferocity. Every kiss carried with it the desire of a thousand kisses that
could have never been had, but were now being experienced. It was the surest
definition of pleasure, and I couldn’t be satisfied. My hands grazed over his
back muscles as his chest collapsed onto mine, the sweetest suffocation I’d
ever felt. Mark held my waist and stroked my neck as his lips now fell softly
onto mine. The kissing conceded sexuality for adoration. We moved each other’s
lips gently, feeling our mouths as wholly as possible. I heard him giggle.
A tiny hand grasped my chin and delicately lifted it to a soft
peck.
I opened my eyes and saw Monica. She
was kissing me. Her eyes were shut. Maybe she was thinking of Mark too.
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