October 18, 2005

• (continued)

  
  

   

  
  

  “I’m not coming back next year,” I announced to my homeroom on the last day of school. To my astonishment and joy, Bryce Caine turned around in his seat.

  
  

   

  
  

  “No way,” he said, looking like he was seeing me for the first time, “Seriously?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Yeah,” I smiled to myself.  That look of concern on his face, the amount of attention he was giving me, none of that ever happened before.  It was priceless, it was a treasure, it was probably the nicest thing Bryce Caine ever said to me.  Blushing slightly, it suddenly occurred to me that this incident would open the door to our future relationship.  Goddamnit, if I wasn’t going to a new school we would have been married by eighth grade.  We would live in a cottage in a meadow, sip pina coladas and get caught in the rain.  Live happily ever after.  But before I had a chance to visualize what the wedding would look like, Sarah asked the one question I’d been having nightmares about for weeks. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “So, where are you going?”

  
  

   

  
  

  Resolving not to barf, I made a desperate attempt to delay my response by accidentally throwing my binder on the floor.  However, as I picked up all my papers, my pencils, pens, folders, the class’s anticipation only grew stronger by the second.  After about two minutes of slowly placing everything back where it belonged, I reluctantly stood up, looking out at twenty-six pairs of eyes burning into my own.  I fiddled with the chewed pencil in my hand; I looked down at my shoes. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Springside,” I muttered.

  
  

   

  
  

  Ignorance illuminated the pimply faces of the students. “What’s that?” they began asking, “Some sort of prep school?”  Stunned, I silently contemplated the possibilities.  This was a time to take advantage of, I thought, thanking God, Buddha, Allah, Jesus, for making my classmates completely unaware of what existed beyond Blue Bell, Pennsylvania.  And I smiled to myself.  My relatives called me witty, my teachers described me as being abnormally introverted, my parents just considered it all to be a part of my creative charm.  But what was often mistaken for an artistic instinct was actually nothing more or less than carefully played out acts of sadistic adolescent warfare.  Fooling my classmates was not something to be taken lightly.  It was an ancient art.  Ah, who am I kidding?  It’s still an art.  The type of art that, when performed successfully, can lead even the cutest of twelve year olds to become the future genocide-embracing dictators of the universe.   You can’t see their work hung up daintily at the Metropolitan, you can’t buy tickets to watch them live in concert.  Their art is displayed entirely on how many people they can fool, how many of their peers they can trick without making a dent on their prized, practically mint-conditioned reputations.  I knew of this art back then as well as I know it now.  And because I hated every single person that attended that homeroom, I wanted more desperately than ever before to leave them all in a state of impeccable shock.  I wanted to leave Wissahickon Middle School with the glory I had been hopelessly striving for the entire year, and I was willing to lie my ass off it order to achieve it.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Yeah, it’s a Prep School,” I said moments after I picked up my pencil case, which conveniently fell on the floor about a minute before, “For the spiritually gifted.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Oooohs and ahhhhs flowed through the room like a cool breeze.  They wanted to hear more.  I calmly sat down in my chair and soaked in what would undoubtedly be my greatest piece yet.  For the next five minutes, I sat there like that, lying through my teeth as I told them of the school without grades, the school with beanbag chairs instead of desks, the school with a class for Astrology and Harry Potter and even Rock Music, the school with Starbucks in the cafeteria, the school that was made entirely out of hearts, stars, horseshoes and barely believable bullshit. 

  
  

   

  
  

  After my explanation, I left the class to talk amongst them selves.  While they muttered about my spiritual greatness, I reveled in my masterly cunning artistic abilities.  I guess that left me oblivious to everything else, because I didn’t seem to notice Collin Thompson as he whacked himself on the freckly face in a dramatic attempt to look like he’d come to some sort of “WELL slap my ass and call me Charlie!” type of realization. 

  
  

   

  
  

   “SPRINGSIDE IS ALL-GIRLS’ SCHOOL!” he cried.

  
  

   

  
  

  Everyone whirled around.  They looked at Collin, they looked at me.  “Is this true?” They were asking me silently. Clearly, there was an unspoken debate going on.  Who to believe?  Who to save from public humiliation?  The retarded schmuck?  Or, hmm, that prune who sees dead people?

  
  

   

  
  

  I sat in my seat, speechless.  I knew that if I spoke I would imminently release all the tears I’d been swallowing back in a hopeless effort to maintain my dignity.  I sat there, afraid to breathe, as twenty-six pairs of eyes fastened their attention to my own, which were staring glassily at my shoes.  At some point I summoned what was left of my courage to look up at those eyes.  They were too curious to ignore, too questioning to be disregarded.  I gulped and turned around to face Collin.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Where’d you hear that?” I asked him shakily.

  
  

   

  
  

  He smiled and practically whispered, “Dude, my lesbian cousin goes there.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Just then, just after Collin said that last remark, hell broke loose.  No, really.  BAM, little naked demon babies flying all over the place, scorching the furniture and scratching their pointed dagger-like fingernails on the black board.  “What the hell is going on?!” people were asking each other, faces white with utter panic and fear.  However, before anyone had a chance to do anything, the entire room was engulfed in roaring flames.  “Hahhahehehe,” said the Grim Reaper as everyone suffered an excruciatingly slow and painful death.  Then the earth split into two pieces and crashed into Venus, where anyone still alive died of the planet’s deadly gasses.

  
  

   

  
  

  Well, actually, just kidding.

  
  

   

  
  

  Still, in the wide-eyes of a twelve year old, every experience seems to be magnified.  And as much as I adore poking at those unfortunate twelve year olds, I will admit this goes for just about anyone even the slightest bit self absorbed, no matter the age.  You hit one imperfection in your day and, when seen through those eyes you’ve been watching the world through all your life, it is instantly magnified to being ten, twenty, a thousand times worse than the situation actually is.  I was twelve, I couldn’t see through anything other than my own blue-tinted psychedelic spectacles from Limited Too.  And through my eyes, this moment was, no doubt, the worst moment of my life.

  
  

   

  
  

  Why?  Because Bryce Caine laughed at me.

  
  

   

  
  

  He laughed, and when he did, a bomb went off.  The entire room exploded.  Actually, an explosion would have been welcomed on my part.  What happened was much worse than any explosion.  What happened wasn’t blunt and instant, sudden and shocking.  It was quiet and gradual and poisonous.  Bryce Caine laughed at me, leaned into the person next to him and whispered, who whispered to the person across from her, to the person next to him, until the secret was spread like a deadly disease all around the room, to every person, every student but me.  Snickers poked at my goose bump covered skin. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Lesbian,” said Collin, out loud this time, generously revealing the secret to me.

  
  

   

  
  

  Then the class exploded.  Laughter all over the place, bouncing off the walls, ringing in the air, yet somehow always managing to come searing back to me.  I wanted to melt away right there in that seat, melt into that chair and become the nothing I felt I was.  I wanted to defend my sexuality, plead I was in fact heterosexual, but the words escaped me.  I refused to speak, move, breathe, fearing that any sudden sign of life might trigger a breakdown in front of all those people.  It was my number one nightmare, to cry in public, to let people know I was capable of being defenseless and fragile, a baby.  It happened anyway.  The second those boiling tears came streaming down my face, the moment I let out a sob of shame, I truly was in hell, I truly couldn’t see anything other than my own problems, my own distorted view on life and reality, blurred by my tears, blurred by those crappy blue psychedelic sunglasses from Limited Too.

  
  

   

  
  

  And it was then that I realized, as the bell sounded and everyone headed off to their next class, maybe getting a new pair of shades wasn’t such a bad idea. 

  • 7:12 pm
  • 11 Comments