“I’m appalled, Mister Current Events,” CaZZ adds.
I shrug.
CaZZ tosses me a hint with “The observatory?”
“Dunno.”
“It was all over the news,” Estelle says.
Finally, they spell it out. A large crowd of native Pulas and local activists were protesting the building of an observatory on top of Mount Pula. Apparently, Mount Pula is one of the few places on Earth that offers an amazing view of the heavens.
“North Kristol wants to build it, but it’s supposedly a joint venture with our corrupt government,” CaZZ continues.
“North Kristol?” I ask.
“Who else?” CaZZ snaps. “They already took over the east side and renamed it Mirage. Now they want to occupy Mount Pula by planting their telescope on it.”
“Pretty soon it’s going to be the invasion of the North Kristol snatchers,” Estelle says.
For our sake, I hope “soon” means a hundred years from now. I can’t imagine living among, or being governed by, warmongers. If they take over the south, there will be no need for a border—maybe a fake one. It’ll also mean being forced to join the military right after high school and not getting a passport until after the service. Without a border, Ran and I will be able to see each other more frequently, that is, if we make it back from the war whole and not maimed or messed up in the head. And what kind of life would that be?
“So who did you see at the rally?” I ask.
“Mr. Oku,” Estelle answers.
“He’s so cool,” CaZZ says of our literature teacher.
“Très cool.”
“And you know what?” CaZZ pauses for the surprise effect. “He came out to us!”
I keep silent, though I have a clear idea of what CaZZ is talking about.
CaZZ spells it out. “He’s gay, Ken Z.”
“Mr. Oku? Nah,” I say.
“How would you know, Ken Z? You’re a plant!” Estelle jokes.
“He actually came out and said it?” I ask.
“Of course not,” CaZZ says. “Teachers don’t come out to their students. They just introduce you to their roommate.” She makes two antennae with her fingers to emphasize roommate.
“My gaydar is usually ninety percent effective,” CaZZ says. “I knew Mr. Oku wasn’t straight. I just thought he was a bachelor for life.”
“Me too,” Estelle says.
From Estelle and CaZZ, I find out that Mr. Oku was born and raised in Nigeria. In the capital city of Abuja. After he graduated from Oxford—he majored in Victorian literature and did his thesis on Oscar Wilde—his parents forbade him from coming home because of the political and social unrest there. So he looked at the map of his dreams and the compass pointed him to the Pacific. That’s how he ended up in Kristol.
“North Kristol?” I say.
“Think about it, Ken Z.” CaZZ pauses to do so, then, giving up, says, “If you’re a tourist, or even a teacher looking for work on this island, where would you go first? The north, right?”
I nod. Mr. Oku’s story is beginning to sound more like my mom’s. Both were from different countries in search of a place to call their home. Both were tourists who ended up settling—and working—in North Kristol. I wonder if they had known each other or crossed paths there.
“So you both think Mr. Oku and his roommate met there?”
“Where else?” CaZZ nods. “Estelle and I suspect Jeff was in the military.”
“Totally fit the full-metal-jacket profile,” Estelle says. “Buzz cut. Stood with his back straight at all times, like any moment he was going to raise his hand in a salute.”
“And he never made eye contact when he talked to us,” CaZZ says. “Always looked straight ahead. Probably PTSD.”
“Post-traumatic shell shock disorder,” Estelle says, making up her own acronym.
“You two with your imaginations,” I say. “You should collaborate on fan fiction. And, Estelle, the S in PTSD stands for stress.”
“It’s shell shock, Ken Z,” Estelle insists. “No one goes to war and comes back stressed.”
“That’s probably why they moved to South Kristol—to get away from warmongers,” CaZZ says.
“Well, I wonder if they found out about Jeff, because you can’t be gay, or lesbian, and be in the military in North Kristol, right?” Estelle says.
“Are you sure Jeff was in the military?”
“Regardless, Ken Z,” CaZZ says. “I’m almost certain it’s not allowed there. No gay soldiers. No gay marriages. No gay rights, period. They might as well make homosexuality illegal there.”
“That’s why you seldom read about gays and lesbians in North Kristol on the Internet,” Estelle says.
“You can’t believe everything you read online, Estelle,” I say, echoing Ran’s words.
“Please, Ken Z, there are hardly any articles about LGBTQs,” CaZZ says. “It’s almost as if they don’t exist there.”
“Not like here,” Estelle continues. “Fucked up as it is, at least there are laws here that protect gays and lesbians from discrimination.”
“For now, anyway,” CaZZ adds. “But over there, who knows what they do to homosexuals.”
“Probably send them to war, like they do to their prisoners,” I want to say, but then they will want to know where I got such an idea from, and, because I’m not good enough of a liar, I will end up spilling the beans and breaking my promise to Ran.
“At least this place is a little more open to all sorts of people,” Estelle says.
“I take this fucked-up, corrupt, hopeless, useless, gone-to-the-dogs-but-still-open-to-queens-and-queers, third-world-with-a-fourth-world-sewage-system-of-a-place over that prison of a paradise any day,” CaZZ says.
“For now, anyway,” Estelle says.
“Yes,” CaZZ says. “For now, anyway.”
Just then, the phone in my backpack vibrates. I hope it’s a Zap from Ran and not my mom. I want to unzip my bag and kill the suspense now. But CaZZ and Estelle are eyeing me suspiciously. They must’ve seen the look on my face go from blah to bliss, which I cannot relish, not even for a minute. Estelle has a huge grin on her face. And CaZZ is giving me a look of reminder that in a true friendship, secrets are not meant for keeping but sharing.
Estelle, with her chin, points to the phone. “Ken Zap, are you going to answer it?”
CaZZ chimes in. “Yeah, Ken Z, answer it.”
“Nah,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s only my mom.”
“Of course it is,” CaZZ says, challenging my lie with hers. “Who else could it be? Right, Estelle?”
“Right.”
“Ken Z.” CaZZ smiles. Then, in that playful tone she uses when she wants to pry open my Pandora’s box, she asks: “What happened during spring break?”
“Nothing.” And to convince them, and myself, that I am getting better at lying, I say, with a stronger dose of confidence, that I spent the spring break at home, reading Oscar Wilde, watching DVDs, and eating pizzas.
“I see.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Nothing,” CaZZ says. “It’s just that you’re glowing—again.”
“Whatever,” I say.
I turn to Estelle. She is about to say something but instead gives me that wink with a mile-wide smile that tells me she can wait, that she doesn’t mind waiting, until I’m good and ready to tell her why, at the vibrating sound of my phone, my heart almost jumped out of my chest and knocked her in the face.
End of interrogation.
Whew.
SENT WEDNESDAY 3/13, 5:15 P.M.
Ken Zapped!
Crazy-busy.
Save me Friday.
SENT WEDNESDAY 3/13, 5:38 P.M.
Whowhowhowhowhow?????
SENT WEDNESDAY 3/13, 5:40 P.M.
SENT WEDNESDAY 3/13, 5:43 P.M.
BTW, you still owe me a haiku.
And now a secret.
Shhh. CaZZ might hear us.
TALKING BUBBLES WITH CAZZ
Sent Wednesday 3/13, 5:38 P.M.
CAZZ
Ken ZZZZZZZ, I’m so excited….
Sent Wednesday 3/13, 5:39 P.M.
CAZZ
For you!
Sent Wednesday 3/13, 5:39 P.M.
CAZZ
Share ASAP K?
Promise I won’t tell
Big-Mouth Estelle.
EVENING BLOSSOMS
Wednesday whispers,
My secret blossoms await
To sweeten nightfall.
Big Mouth Strikes Almost
Thursday, 14 March
This afternoon, I almost gave the secret away. I couldn’t hide my excitement. It’s the one thing I’ve been waiting for all week long—a Zap from Ran, his first since we parted last Sunday. The fact that he Zapped proves I’m still on his mind. Regardless, I have to learn to hide my happiness better. No matter how much I want to share it with CaZZ and Estelle, I made a promise to Ran. I can’t—and won’t—break it, even if the secret is getting heavier and heavier to lug around. I just can’t. It would be like breaking a spell and bringing a hasty end to this story that’s barely just begun.
LOVE & OTHER SADNESS
It’s sad.
To love.
Love.
And hide.
The Ides of Yikes
FRIDAY EVENING, 15 MARCH. KEN Z’S BEDROOM.
OSCAR: Feeling all right, Ken Z?
ME: Honestly, Oscar? N. O.
OSCAR: What’s the matter? Aren’t you excited? All you did all day was stroll among the clouds.
ME: I don’t think he’s going to show up.
OSCAR: But that’s not possible. Maybe he’s just late. Again.
ME: That’s an understatement.
OSCAR: What is it with people in North Kristol and their lateness?
ME: You’d think they’d be more punctual, right?
OSCAR: Well, it is a Friday. The tunnel is probably congested.
ME: True. Still, that’s no excuse.
OSCAR: I say you give him one demerit when he shows up.
ME: Make that two.
OSCAR: Yes, laugh it off. That’s the spirit.
ME: This whole thing is getting weirder and weirder. I haven’t seen him in five days. You’d think the feeling would diminish by now—
OSCAR: But?
ME: But it’s still there, following me around like an extra shadow.
OSCAR: He must be very special to you, Ken Z.
ME: Just not sure if he feels the same.
OSCAR: I beg your pardon?
ME: One Zap out of the week, Oscar, compared to my thirty thousand?
OSCAR: Dear child, don’t reduce your feelings to numbers. And stop analyzing the future. Let it happen. Leave room for surprises.
ME: How?
OSCAR: By being your charming self. The Ken Z that he met and adored.
ME: Be myself?
OSCAR: You have no choice, dear boy. Everyone else is already taken.
The Song of Silence
I am a body of questions rushing to greet him at the door. And before I can utter a word, he puts a finger to my lips and smiles. He’s not having any tonight. Words. He takes me by the hand and quietly guides me in as if we’re sneaking into my apartment. And there, in my room with its wastebasket brimming with failed lists and poems, the mime continues. He pulls out a disc from inside his charcoal-gray jacket, the kind I see athletes wear in our schools, then tosses it onto my bed. I’m about to ask about the disc when he flags me down with a hand. CD player on, he walks me to the center of my room. The song begins. I don’t know it, but I recognize the voice immediately. My eyes widen. He hushes my surprise. We stand there, listening to the first words of the night delivered to us by the crystal clear voice of Ella Fitzgerald. “He’s a fool and don’t I know it,” she says, matter-of-factly. “But a fool can have his charm.” And before I know it, he and I are holding hands, swaying, our bodies almost touching. I’m smiling because he’s smiling, the two of us dancing in the middle of our small universe, while Ella continues to serenade us with a song that seems to sum up my thoughts and feelings these past two weeks. Charms. Wild. Beguiled. With my hand firmly gloved in his, he places them on his chest, and we sway some more. He releases his hold only when he feels my hand aching to open up, spread its fingers, like a web over his heart. A simpering, whimpering child again. And when he catches me stealing a glance at him, he wraps his arms around me, and I become bewildered again. This is what happens when one opens one’s self up to the person that they like—grace and warmth come rushing forth all at once. He gives me a wink of a smile and leads our dancing bodies toward that perfect sway, and the moment my head touches his shoulder and he tightens his embrace, all those hours of worrying, those crumpled balls of paper wanting to be a perfect list, those sleepless nights tossing and turning, all those sad moments and doubts melt away.
IMAGINING THE DIVINE
On the divan, Ran
Looking like Dorian Gray
His scarlet lips pursed.
Frienniversary
Saturday, 16 March
Today marked the second-week anniversary of our friendship. To celebrate our frienniversary, he surprised me by driving me to Mirage. That’s Ran. Full of surprises. Like this morning, when he showed up at my front door unannounced. Luckily, my mom had just left for work. I cannot even begin to imagine how the scene would’ve played out if she had answered the door.
As we approached the mall, I made a comment about looking forward to eating an overpriced free-range-chicken wrap again. It was meant as sarcasm, a joke. But it was where we ended up—Buddha’s Joint, where our story began.
On the way to the restaurant, we passed a young guy who would’ve stood out in a packed stadium. He was dressed up like he was time-traveling from the Victorian era of Oscar Wilde. He could’ve easily passed for one of Oscar’s artsy-fartsy friends. Thin and flamboyant in a dandyish way, he had on a black bowler hat, pin-striped pants, pointy shoes, a ruffled shirt, and a yellow kerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his coat.
I was about to point him out to Ran when I noticed that they were already exchanging knowing glances with sly grins on their faces. The guy winked at Ran; Ran winked back. I felt the sharp tooth of the green-eyed monster dig into me. I’d never felt this sort of jealousy before. It was deep. It made me feel small, insignificant, like South Kristol. It made me so insecure and ugly—this gross feeling that I can easily be replaced.
“You know that guy, Ran?” I asked, as casually as possible so he wouldn’t detect my jealousy.
Ran, still smiling, nodded. “He’s a she.”
“A she?” I tried to suppress my sudden elation. It wasn’t easy; inside me was a gospel choir shouting “Hallelujah!”
I didn’t believe him. I turned back to look at her, hunt for traces of a girl hiding behind the clothes. None. She was flamboyantly dressed, yet boyish-looking.
“She’s only in tenth grade—and already a pro,” he said.
“A pro?”
“At bunburying.”
“No way.”
“She deceived you, right?”
“Yes,” I said, laughing. She reminded me of Estelle, except Estelle doesn’t need clothes to muddle people’s idea of boys and girls.
Then it hit me—again!—this feeling that I’ve been suppressing since day one: the hunch that Ran was a bunburyist who was—and still is—bunburying me. Is this why he se
ldom Zaps? Is this why he’s always full of surprises? But if he’s bunburying, then as what? Ken Z’s secret friend?
I stopped myself.
What was I doing? Ruining our frienniversary. Stinking the moment with rubbish thoughts. So I trashed them. But not without hesitation.
Rough Draft for Eternity
Sunday, 17 March
Ran picks up a sheet of paper on my desk. A smile widens on his face as he reads the list. Then he starts humming the Cole Porter tune. “This is about De-Us, right?”
I pretend to not know what he’s talking about. But it’s difficult to keep a poker face when he’s holding a piece of paper with my heart spilled all over it.
“It is about us,” he continues.
I want to lie and tell him no. I don’t want him—or anyone—to know I write about us. It’s personal, not meant to be shared, even with the guy who inspired it. Besides, it’s not finished, and I’m very superstitious about sharing anything that’s still in progress. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to finish it if I do. I have to figure it out first, I have to be part of its world, live in it. Otherwise, it won’t ring true. Otherwise, it won’t be fun building it.
“You a writer, Ken Z?”
“No. I just like making lists,” I say. “Force of habit.”
“Then you’re a writer!” he exclaims.
I don’t respond, so he pushes the issue.
“Can I have it when you’re done?”
Without waiting for an answer, he says, “And I want it signed by the author.” He checks his watch. “It’s goodbye time again, Ken Z.” He makes an exaggerated sad face with his lower lip jutting out. “Goodbyes suck. Royally.”
I rise from the chair, and as I pass him, he grabs my hand. “Not so fast, mister.”
The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart Page 9