I struggle to loosen his grasp.
“What’s wrong?” He grips my wrist, forcing me to look him in the eye.
I shrug.
Finally, the words roll out of me. “Ran, did you ever get my Zaps?”
“I did. And I Zapped back.”
“Yeah, once,” I say. “How come?”
“I couldn’t,” he says.
“Why?”
It’s his turn to shrug. “It’s not that easy, Ken Z.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s not talk about it, okay?” To put the issue to rest, he pulls me toward him, hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe. He leans closer, his lips almost touching mine. I open my mouth to meet his.
Then I withdraw.
Because he withdrew.
It’s not a kiss he wants but to rest his head on my shoulder.
We stand there, embracing each other for what seems like forever and a half, his breath warm and heavy on my neck. Next thing I know, I’m kissing him. Because he’s kissing me. Ravenously.
As if the world is coming to an end.
And if it is, it’s the perfect finale.
It feels nice and comforting.
To be held like that.
And wanted.
And reassured.
Hopelessly Writing
Monday night, 18 March
Checked my phone again. No Zaps. Not tonight. It’s already nine p.m. Why do I even bother? It’s Monday, first day of school week. It means he’s crazy-busy. It means I can Zap but shouldn’t expect a reply….He’s probably asleep, while I continue to fill the pages of this journal with redundant questions longing urgent matters. Stop. Breathe. Reboot. Then try to form a thought without Ran in it, like…coming up with a list of possible names for the book club.
In the beginning, I didn’t see the point of having one. Neither did the others—Estelle, Matt, and Tanya—especially since graduation is two months away. But CaZZ, whom we unanimously elected president, insisted on it. “We can’t have a legacy without a name,” she said. “We’re the ones who started it, so it is our right and responsibility to christen it. It will make our book club official. But it has to be a name that’s witty, you know, catchy, a title Oscar Wilde would approve of.”
So, come tomorrow, we will meet after school to christen our book club. I’m actually looking forward to it; it’s our first get-together since spring break. I can’t wait to hear more of Matt (mis)quoting Oscar. “The only way to get rid of temptation is to pray to it” (as opposed to “yield to it”) and “Be yourself. Nobody else wants it” instead of “because everyone else is already taken.” Estelle finds his errors hilarious. I do, too. But they irk the hell out of CaZZ and Tanya, a bottom-of-the-pyramid cheerleader who joined the book club to maintain her C average.
Starting to get sleepy. Writing is exhausting, especially if it’s about something I don’t want to forget. Writing is a way of saving memories, of not letting go. I guess that’s why I write. I don’t know how else to save something precious. I don’t know how else to let go. Worse-case scenario: I could be doing something more exhausting, like waiting for the number eight bus. Or for Ran to Zap me.
Oscar’s Wilde Tribe Presents “The Importance of Being Nameless”: Our Book Club
In One Act (Thank God!)
THE PLAYERS
CaZZ—President, voted unanimously because nobody, except her, wanted to be it.
Estelle—Vice President, voted unanimously because nobody else, not even her, wanted to be it.
Me Z—Secretary, voted unanimously because nobody else, except for me, can touch-type.
Matt—Treasurer. A born-again jock, though we’re convinced he’s a closeted atheist.
Tanya—Mascot (still to be decided by the club). The Picture of Dorian Gray, she admitted, was the only novel that she’d read, including the introduction by a literary critic that none of us bothered to read. She also confessed that her ideal boyfriend is someone like Dorian Gray (“Even if he’s fictional!”). Even after we reminded her that Dorian drove his girlfriend to commit suicide.
Mr. Oku—Twelfth-grade literature teacher and advisor of our book club devoted to the writings of Oscar Wilde.
Time: Tuesday, 19 March. After school.
Place: South Kristol High School. Bldg. H-204. Mr. Oku’s classroom.
TANYA: I got it. How about “The Dorian Grays”?
MATT: Too gay.
TANYA: And Oscar wasn’t?
MATT: I don’t think Oscar was gay. He was married and had two sons. Maybe he was bi or on the DL.
CAZZ: I don’t think a guy on the down-low would parade around dressed up like a dandy, and especially not with a green carnation on his fur-lined coat.
TANYA: Means nothing nowadays, anyway.
MATT: But back then it did. How else would you prove you weren’t “gay”? Right, Mr. Oku?
MR. OKU: Matt’s got a point. However, “gay” as we know it today did not mean the same thing as during Oscar’s time.
CAZZ: Just like the word faggot.
ME: Which was a bundle of twigs used to burn witches.
TANYA: I swear, Ken Z, you make Quikiepedia look retarded.
MATT: Wait. So Oscar Wilde didn’t go to prison because he was gay?
MR. OKU: No. He was found guilty of engaging in sex with men, referred to during the Victorian era as an act of “gross indecency.”
MATT: Sounds so 1984.
CAZZ: I got one. Kind of long, though. “Oscar Wilde’s Reading Group Therapy for the Battered Colonized Renegades.”
ESTELLE: Wow, CaZZ, we’ll be eighty and attached to urine bags by the time we’re done saying it.
CAZZ: True that.
TANYA: How about “A Book Club of No Importance of Being a Book Club”?
MATT: I kind of like that, Tanya. Very elliptical.
TANYA: Thanks, Matt. Took me almost forever to think of it.
ESTELLE: How about “The Bunburyists”?
MR. OKU: Good one, Estelle.
ME: Yeah, brilliant.
TANYA: Love it. But too deceiving, no?
CAZZ: Hello? Isn’t that the point of bunburying?
TANYA: Okay, then, if we are a book club in the city, what are we in the countryside?
CAZZ: Matt’s Gospel Choir?
ME: I like it. It’s catchy. Oscar Witty.
MATT: Too earnest.
ME: That’s it.
MATT: What?
ME: The Earnest Book Club.
TANYA: As in Bert and Ernie’s Book Club?
CAZZ: No, Einstein. Earnest. E-A-R-N-E-S-T. Right, Ken Z?
ME: Yeah. But E-R-N works too.
CAZZ: I like E-A-R-N.
MR. OKU: Good one, Ken Z.
ESTELLE: Mucho gustorilla.
CAZZ: The Earnest Book Club. Witty.
TANYA: And punny.
MR. OKU: Okay. Time to vote.
TANYA: Are you voting too?
MR. OKU: No, Tanya. Just you five.
ESTELLE: I personally like the Earnest Book Club.
CAZZ: Me too.
ME: I like the Bunburyists.
MATT: Same.
CAZZ: Tanya.
TANYA: I vote for the Bunburyists. No…wait…the Earnest Book Club.
ESTELLE: Dépêchez-twat.
TANYA: Okay. The Earnest Book Club.
CAZZ: Is that your final decision?
TANYA: Yup.
CAZZ: Are you sure?
MATT: Take it, before she changes her mind.
CAZZ: The Wilde tribe has spoken. From here on, we are officially the Earnest Book Club.
(Burst of applause and cheers)
&nb
sp; SENT TUESDAY 3/19, 4:28 P.M.
Ran, we’re no longer
Nameless. Call us The Earnest
Book Club. Zap soon. K
The Stupidest Thing
Wednesday, 20 March
Barely slept last night. Had a difficult time going back to sleep after the nightmare. In the dream, I was on the phone with Ran but we kept getting cut off by a man talking gibberish, his voice getting louder and angrier. Not sure what that means. Dreams are supposed to be symbolic, metaphorical, not to be interpreted literally. But I did, and today, after I got home from school, I waited for Ran’s Zap all afternoon and into the evening because today is Wednesday and the only time he Zapped me last week was on a Wednesday, at around 4:30 p.m. while CaZZ and Estelle were filling me in on their camping trip. So I waited for his Zap. Four-thirty p.m. turned into 5, then into 6, 7, 8, 9. Unable to wait any longer, I did the stupidest thing and finally phoned him, which had never crossed my mind before because he made me promise never to call him. I thought I heard someone on the other line. The voice sounded computerized. “We are unable to come to the phone right now,” it said, “so leave us a brief message and we’ll get back to you.” Then I heard a female voice in the background. She sounded mad, angry, as if she were scolding someone (Ran?). Her voice grew louder and louder, until it felt like she was screaming in my ears, telling me to hang up or else…or else….
The Difficult List
It’s difficult to be a geek in love.
I split the hour between waiting and getting frustrated, between longing and worrying, between tossing and hoping.
It’s difficult to keep him away from my thoughts.
Worse when I’m writing a list or a haiku; I can’t count syllables past his smiling face.
It’s difficult having a conversation with him; he’s got a way of holding me hostage with his steel-gray gaze.
More difficult when he’s holding my hand.
I have to pray for my palms to stay dry, my heart to keep still.
It’s difficult when he tells me to keep our rendezvous a secret from my friends who can read between the lies.
It’s difficult to play dumb when I’m cowriting the story.
It’s difficult when he lives there and I live hereand he wants to communicate only via Zap.
Even more difficult when he Zaps me only once a week.
Compared to my gazillions to him.
It’s difficult to love a love that’s different, that most people don’t understand, or don’t want to.
And because they don’t understand, they hate it with such passion.
In some countries, it’s against the law.
In others, it’s punishable by death.
Oscar Wilde was sentenced to prison because of such love.
It’s difficult to be in love.
Plain and simple.
Love is rarely plain.
And never simple.
Difficult now to imagine this world without him.
THURSDAY’S FORECAST
Outside my window
He’s there, dancing in my thoughts—
Hazy day ahead.
Ode to Errors
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, 22 MARCH. MY BEDROOM.
OSCAR: Making a list, are we?
ME: Trying to. But as you can see, the only thing I’ve accomplished so far are these balls of crumpled paper.
OSCAR: Remember, dear heart, every masterpiece is born from The Book of False Starts. Beneath the Mona Lisa are layers and layers of paint from thousands and thousands of brushstrokes. (Pauses.) Have patience, Ken Z, you’ll get there. Eventually.
ME: Can eventually be tonight?
OSCAR (laughs): There’s no way of telling. The process is all very mysterious; only critics have managed to fathom it, as they pride themselves in knowing more about Art than the artists who toil over their craft day and night.
ME: So I shouldn’t rush the head rush?
OSCAR: Exactly.
ME: I just want it to be, you know—
OSCAR: De-vine?
ME: Perfect.
OSCAR: Perfect?
ME: Yes.
OSCAR: My dear boy, leave Perfection—stepfather of Spontaneity and Fun—to critics and their audience. Besides, you already know that a list is never-ending. Its roots and branches keep growing and growing. Like a tree that thinks of itself as both sky and sea.
ME: Endlessness.
OSCAR: Yes. So be the tree that roams among the clouds and dives with the dolphins. What matters is the dedication you put into your list. Weigh each word carefully, as if the Earth needs it to orbit around the sun. And…
ME: Yes?
OSCAR: Don’t be afraid to make mistakes, Ken Z. Decorate the Room of Grand Ideas with errors. Be patient. Don’t rush the head rush. Enjoy the joyride. And above all, open thyself to the mystery. The creative process is an amazing affair. The end result can lead to nothing—a void, a wrong turn, a false start. Or it can be the most magnificent mistake you will make thus far. Now sleep, my child, and let your dreams continue the list for you.
ME: Thanks, Oscar.
OSCAR: Mention not, dear child. Mention not.
Ditched
Friday, 22 March. 5:00 p.m.
I committed the unspeakable. I backed out of my movie date with CaZZ and Estelle. I couldn’t say no to them in person. They would’ve cornered me, fired questions until the truth shook out of me. I waited till I got home and broke the news to them. I made up some excuse about having eaten something spoiled. I feel bad gross about lying. I don’t know why I’m still hiding Ran from them. They’re so intuitive it’s frightening.
CaZZ was the first to Zap back. “Yeah, right, whatever, Ken Z.” Estelle’s message stung more. “YOU never ever said NO to a movie. EVER!” If she was guilt-tripping me, she succeeded. It feels as if I’ve just been pushed to the ground, with my tongue licking the dirt.
They’ve got every right to be pissed. This is the first time in the history of our friendship that I was not going to the movies with them.
But I had no choice. Today’s Friday. It’s my and Ran’s day. I haven’t seen him in five days. The weekends are our only chance to hang out—tonight, tomorrow, and, maybe, if time permits, Sunday, which is a big MAYBE. Every minute counts with him.
Besides, I can’t just leave the house. Ran has a bad habit of showing up at the front door unannounced. I can’t even go to the corner store, for fear that I’ll miss him. I want to be here to open the door, to laugh at the sight of him holding a large pizza and a bottle of Fanta Orange.
I need to be here when he knocks. He’s not the type to hang around my front door. I don’t think he’s ever had to wait for anyone in his life. With us, it’s always been me who did the waiting. I can’t even doze off because if I do and I don’t hear his knocking, then what?
* * *
• • •
Ran, please show up. I ditched my friends for you. Please give my lie some validity.
INVISIBLE #1
It’s almost midnight.
No magic spell at the door.
Happiness on hold.
Acceptance/Rejection
Saturday, 23 March. 5:00 p.m.
Stayed home all day in my room. No sign of Ran. Still early. I’ll let the worrying game begin at 6.
* * *
• • •
I should shoot him another Zap. In case…in case what? So he knows how much time I waste thinking wondering wanting. This is absurd crazy unreal real.
* * *
• • •
There are other things worth losing sleep over, like…opening the pile of acceptance—or rejection—letters on my desk from colleges and universities promising what I al
ready know. That a better life is waiting for me outside of South Kristol, a place that the locals can be proud of, where they don’t feel small or insignificant. Half of me says, “Stay, Ken Z, you don’t need to leave South Kristol to make your mark.” But the other half says, “Get out, Ken Z, listen to your mom, dreams here turn to rust.”
* * *
• • •
I feel so URGHANIC right now. I can’t think straight. All I can see is a NOW that’s shrinking because Ran is not in it. I better go back to my list, clean it up. Who knows? Maybe he’ll pop in by the time I’m done. After all, it’s a list about him.
I DON’T STAND A GHOST (OF A CHANCE)
A week of ghosting
Is our secret still valid?
My heart on ransom.
Fragments
Sunday, 24 March
I have not left the house since Friday. Not once. It’s already Sunday. I feel like a prisoner in my own apartment. I don’t have to be. I have the key to my cell and can easily walk out. Then what’s stopping me? Stupid me. Crazy me. Wishful-thinking me. Hopelessly hopeful me.
* * *
• • •
Thinking of calling him up just to get it over and done with. What if his mother answers, or some eerie voice like that in the recording? What if he got into trouble because of me? What if this is why all weekend long it’s been Me-Minus-Ran? Still, he could’ve Zapped to say so. How difficult is it to say, “Sorry, busy this weekend”? Or, “Ken Z, forget us, okay?”
* * *
• • •
Six hours left before hope dies.
* * *
• • •
CaZZ and Estelle have not Zapped since I bowed out of our movie date. No Zap, no butt calls, no harassing me for a haiku. They’re pissed off. I know; my ears are ringing. I’m already dreading the thought of seeing them tomorrow.
The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart Page 10