He flicked the butt on the ground and stomped on it, then turned to look at me. “So, what else you want to know, Jack?” Then his voice softened. “I’m not perfect, okay? I’m not even close.”
“I can tell you my earliest memory,” I said suddenly. The words just spilled out of me. I wanted him to keep going, to tell me everything, but I wanted to share something too. I hugged my knees to my chest, suddenly feeling lonely, even sitting here with Connor. “I was probably like, three or four? Three, I think. My dad was really drunk, really angry. He was going to get fired. I remember that. My mom was mad too. They were throwing shit. There was broken glass. And screaming. So much screaming. And my mom, she must’ve been so scared. She just grabbed me and threw me in the car, and she drove away. We went to this motel, this place that looked like a palace. I thought it was a castle. Like she’d saved me from him and taken me somewhere far away. Eventually he came to get us and I was screaming and begging not to leave that shitty motel. I wanted to live there forever. Part of me wishes we did.”
Then I felt Connor’s hand on top of mine, our fingers interweaving. And we just sat like that for a while, him smoking another cigarette, me staring out into the endless twilight.
34.
Toby wouldn’t stop kicking my chair.
It was nine a.m. on a Monday and I was bleary from lack of sleep. Kick, kick, kick. I turned around and frowned at him, mouthing, Knock it off. He just grinned. I gave him the finger before turning back around.
I was trying to concentrate, I really was. I liked English, especially Mrs. Flores. She was young but really knew her stuff. She’d go on tangents about Gothic literature or some other cool thing, and while most of the class threw things at each other I’d sit there entranced, amazed at the scope and history of it all, wondering if I was the only one in this class who appreciated that she was too good for this shitty school. Today she was talking about the Harlem Renaissance.
Kick, kick, kick. I tried to focus, tried to ignore it and take notes. Finals were coming up and I didn’t want to fuck up again and end up back in this section with all the morons.
Mrs. Flores turned off the lights and flipped on the projector, showing us slides of Harlem in the 1930s, explaining how black people used art and music and literature to challenge racist stereotypes. It was so cool. It had absolutely nothing to do with our curriculum-mandated reading, but she never seemed to care and no one ever noticed. Every now and then her eyes would pass over me diligently writing things down. She’d smile at me, and I’d smile back. It was like our little secret, my own private lesson while she spoke to a bored audience and pretended she was lecturing at a private university. I wondered how she’d ended up in this shithole.
Kick, kick, kick, kick. The kicks got harder, more intense. I turned around and punched Toby’s desk. He just laughed, loudly, enjoying himself. “Stop it,” I said.
He smirked and turned to Jerry Rudoy. They exchanged an eye-roll and chuckled at my expense. Toby continued kicking, steadily and gently. “That a better rhythm for you? That how you like it?” he asked, moaning softly. Jerry cackled.
Mrs. Flores cleared her throat loudly. “Can I help you, boys?”
“No,” Toby said, still looking at me. “You’re good.”
“Toby won’t stop kicking my chair,” I said, then realized how whiny I sounded. Someone laughed.
Mrs. Flores sighed deeply. “And why are we having trouble keeping our bodies to ourselves, Toby?”
Toby shrugged. “I think you should ask Jack that.” Jerry and a couple of his new buddies burst out laughing.
“Well, if you don’t quit being a smartass, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave my classroom and spend the rest of the period sitting outside Principal Oliver’s office. Would you like that, Toby?”
Toby slid his foot out from under my chair and put his hands up. “Continue, please. I’m sorry to have interrupted your stimulating lecture.” More laughter rippled through the room.
“There’s no need to be rude, Toby,” Mrs. Flores said. She glanced at the clock on the wall wistfully, as if reluctantly accepting the inevitable bullshit that came with teaching this class.
“What the fuck was that?” I snapped at Toby the moment the bell rang and everyone was pushing to get out.
Toby just laughed and waved at Jerry and company. “Don’t worry about it. We were just fucking around.”
“Bullshit, Toby.”
He put his arm around my shoulder and shook me. “God, you’re so sensitive! Chill out, man. I’m just messing with you. That class is boring. Anyway, you want to come smoke with me and Max?”
He kept walking, but I stopped in the hallway, ignoring the asshole Brett that bumped into me on purpose.
“Faggot!” Brett sang, his deep voice resonating down the hall.
That stopped me cold.
“Toby,” I said. “What the hell?”
He looked at me and shrugged. We stood there like that for a moment, silence filling the emptying halls.
I walked numbly to my next class, the weight of my backpack feeling heavier than ever, like I was treading through deep mud. But I had to focus. I had to pay attention. I couldn’t let them get to me.
I had to finish junior year.
35.
“Wakey, wakey.” I woke to Connor leaning over me, his hoodie pulled up over his head, bright green eyes staring into mine.
“Hey,” I said, pulling on one of the strings hanging down. I had never been so happy to wake up.
“Hey.” He leaned in and kissed me.
“What time is it?” The clock read noon. It felt so good to sleep in on
