“Maybe we’ll have a major makeover here soon,” Tanya says.
“Don’t worry, Tanya, it’ll happen,” CaZZ says. “This is just the foundation. When the makeup’s done, it’ll be just like Dorian Gray. Beautiful on the outside, but rotting and evil on the inside.”
“How depressing,” Tanya says. “Why can’t life be depressing, yet beautiful, too, like an Oscar Wilde fairy tale? Why does it have to be depressing and ugly?”
“There’s your happily ever after, Tanya,” I say. “Depressing and painful, but beautiful.”
“Can someone explain to me the point of ‘The Nightingale and the Rose,’ because I don’t get it,” Matt says. “Did the nightingale sacrifice her life for nothing?”
“There is no point,” I remark. “If there is, it’s ‘Don’t die for love, Matt, because, in the end, nobody gives a damn. Not even the person you’re sacrificing your life for.’ ”
Estelle and CaZZ exchange WTH? looks. I don’t need to be a mind reader to know what they’re thinking. They heard me. I heard it, too; the bitterness in my voice that shot out of my mouth like bullets. Mr. Oku also heard it. It caught him so unexpectedly that he quickly sat up straight and turned to me. They all did.
Silence diffuses throughout the room, like poisonous gas. Thank God, Tanya disrupts the awkward moment by saying she wishes Oscar Wilde came into her life sooner. “It would’ve saved me from pricks like Jerome and Leonard and Edmond.”
“And your father’s checking account—don’t forget,” Matt says, and laughs.
“I know.” Tanya laughs along. “My love life is beyond antidepressants. I hope the next Oscar Wilde book we’re reading won’t be as depressing as these fairy tales.” She pauses and turns to Mr. Oku. “Is it?”
“Sadly, yes,” Mr. Oku says. “We’ll be reading The Trials of Oscar Wilde.”
The depressing news excites us.
“Good morning, heartache!” CaZZ exclaims.
“Juicy Fruity,” Estelle says.
“Totes,” CaZZ says.
“Wow!” Matt remarks.
“The entire trial, Mr. Oku?” Tanya asks, sounding concerned.
Mr. Oku nods.
“Tanya’s worried she might not be able to finish it before graduation, Mr. Oku,” Estelle says.
“Is it thick?” Tanya asks.
“Don’t worry, Tanya, it’s a fast read,” Mr. Oku says. “It’s a transcript of the trials. It’ll be like reading one of his plays.”
“Faster than The Importance of Being Earnest?”
“So fast you’ll feel like you were inside the courtroom.”
“And watching your life go to pieces in two hours,” CaZZ adds.
“Or less,” I say, “if you speed-read.”
Meeting adjourned.
I wait for everyone to leave the room. I pretend to be searching for my phone, my head practically inside my bag. CaZZ passes by me without a goodbye. Estelle, though, calls out my name. I poke my head out and see her gesturing me to call her. I wave a hand, give her a robotic nod.
“Ken Z, is everything all right?” Mr. Oku asks.
“Huh?” I say, feigning ignorance.
“Between you and CaZZ and Estelle,” he says.
“Of course,” I lie.
“That’s good,” he says, his lie more convincing than mine.
I’m about to step out the door when a nagging question stops me.
“Mr. Oku?”
“Yes?”
“…” (Ask him, Ken Z, or bite your tongue forever.)
“…” (Yes?)
“I don’t mean to pry, but why did you leave North Kristol? I mean, if everything, as you said, was there—good salary, beautiful beaches, security—why trade all that to move here?”
Mr. Oku listens, nodding to every word I’m saying.
When I’m done asking, he raises his head. “I moved, Ken Z, because they changed the teaching curriculum,” he says matter-of-factly. “They didn’t want me teaching certain books to the students.”
“Why?”
“They were afraid that the books would pollute the minds of the students.”
“You mean like Oscar Wilde’s books?”
He nods.
Then it’s true, I tell myself, it’s all true, about Ran’s school, and his favorite English teacher who was fired from her job for letting him and other students read Oscar Wilde in secrecy because his books, among others, were—still are—banned in North Kristol. This explains why Ran’s copy of De Profundis was covered in brown paper.
“So that’s why you moved to South Kristol?” I ask.
“I don’t see the purpose of teaching if I can’t teach the books I love, Ken Z,” Mr. Oku says. “It really is as simple as that. Books do not pollute minds if they can make you think about the world you live in, about yourself and your relationship with others. We become wiser, and, hopefully, better individuals because of literature. That is why I left North Kristol. Money can buy everything, Ken Z, except happiness and contentment.”
His words leave me speechless. I’ve always respected and admired Mr. Oku. He’s one of the more approachable teachers I’ve had. He makes reading literature exciting. After today, I respect and admire and appreciate him even more. He traded his first-class life for a third-world island nation, just so he can continue teaching the books deemed too dangerous for our minds. He chose happiness and contentment in our sad and small place, over security and wealth in the paradise of guns. If that’s not wow, then I don’t know what is.
SENT FRIDAY 3/29, 6:00 P.M.
Ken Z, what’s wrong, babe?
We’re not mad at you, you know.
Answer my haiku.
Erased
Saturday, 30 March
I spent the whole day searching for whatever I could find about banned books in North Kristol. Nothing. Strange, I thought. Next, I tried “Oscar Wilde,” “banned,” and “North Kristol.” Still no results. Then I typed “homosexuality” and “North Kristol” in the search engine. Several articles popped up. Nothing on same-sex marriage, but a few were on gays and lesbians in the military. As CaZZ and Estelle said, gays and lesbians are not allowed to serve in the military. If they’re found out, they’re given a dishonorable discharge, though not a single article mentioned punishment or imprisonment. Is homosexuality a crime there? Does one go to prison for being gay or lesbian—or are they sentenced to death as in some parts of the world? Is this why Oscar Wilde’s books are banned there? Maybe CaZZ and Estelle were right. Maybe Mr. Oku and his partner left North Kristol to escape punishment, if not death. And if neither, maybe they moved to South Kristol because they weren’t given the same rights as heterosexuals. Maybe there are no existing laws offering them the same benefits or protecting them from discrimination, bullying, and other hate-related crimes. Can they get fired, refused service in restaurants, bullied in schools, or even brutally attacked or killed because of who they are? Maybe they’re only allowed to exist, to operate like robots, deprived of the freedom to be and the right to love and be loved. What if North Kristol doesn’t want me—and the world—to know anything about gays and lesbians there? What if they’re controlling the information that enters South Kristol? What if…
My Codependency Poem
Forget the white chickens
and rain for now.
That red wheelbarrow, too.
So much brightness
in this room today
depends
solely
on a missed call
or a ZAP
with or without an emoji.
From: KenZ
To: Ran <[email protected]>
Subject: out of the blue comes
Date: Sunday, 31 March
Hey R
an
I know you’re extremely busy, so I’ll try to be brief. I was doing laundry this afternoon when, out of the blue, a memory came speeding back to me. It was during one of our out-of-the-blue moments. You asked me why I sometimes went quiet on you, like a penny was not enough for my thoughts. I couldn’t lie right off the bat, so I said the first truth that came to my mind. I confessed to you that I get like that whenever I feel a haiku is heading my direction. You laughed. Remember, Ran? I laughed along too, to cover my embarrassment. You thought I was joking, so you said, “Seriously, Ken Z?” I yupped my answer, said, “Haikus are a hard habit to break, Ran.” Then you asked one of the most wonderful questions I have ever heard. “Ever go beyond seventeen syllables?” It was enough to make my heart jump. It sounded so new, so out of this world. It was marvelous and unforgettable, yet so simple. Only five ordinary words, but enough to build a small poem with them. “Ever go beyond seventeen syllables?” All I could do afterward was stutter, “N-n-not yet.” Remember that, Ran? Remember my “Not yet” stuttering? I blushed with embarrassment. Two tiny words shaking out of my body the way this memory is stuttering loud and clear now. Not yet, not yet. Over and over…
Not yet,
Ken Z
PS Is this the end of our Antarctica, Ran?
Then I clicked SAVE DRAFT.
SENT MONDAY 4/1, 12:58 P.M.
Where are you?
Playing hooky without me?
Useless—this haiku.
SENT MONDAY 4/1, 7:05 P.M.
Ill or chilling?
SENT MONDAY 4/1, 7:10 P.M.
You sick, or lovesick?
Play Air Supply’s Greatest Hits.
I’m all out of love.
SENT MONDAY 4/1, 9:07 P.M.
Seriously, you okay?
What’s wrong, Ken Z?
Zap me. Please.
SENT TUESDAY 4/2, 12:09 A.M.
Night, Sweet Prince.
Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, I hope.
Miss you sorely.
TUESDAY, 2 APRIL
Dear Oscar: Can I
Consider this muddled day
Another false start?
The False-Start List
Superstar doomed dreams (kindergarten). Tap dance and voice lessons. Instructor refunded my mom’s money for the remaining sessions and told her flat out that I was no Fred Astaire. “He’s got rhythm but not the Gershwin kind.”
Entrepreneur (second grade). Selling Sunday papers at a major intersection. The newspaper turned out to be ten times heavier than me. I lasted for two Sundays.
Mad scientist (third grade). My mom couldn’t afford my dream microscope. So I got the next best thing—a magnifying glass, which led me to the wonders of burning leaves and bugs. It became a craze after I did a show-and-tell for some classmates during lunch recess. Teacher found out about it, reported me to my mom, and that pretty much sums up my life as a scientist.
Spelling bee (fifth grade). Made it all the way to the finals, then bombed because of a Yiddish word that nobody, except for Ivan Singer, knew. K-N-I-S-H. knish: noun; a fried or baked dumpling stuffed with filling.
Rock climbing (sixth grade). Don’t ask.
French (eighth grade), where I discovered I lacked a certain “Je ne sais quoi. Pour quoi? Je ne sais pas.”
The Vampire Trilogy, by Charlotte Madison (ninth, tenth, and eleventh grades). Reading about Mormon vampires struggling to keep their virginity can be interesting. But stretched out over three volumes is another thing entirely. I sleepwalked through the first book, Jupiter Rising.
Bunburying at Mirage (twelfth grade, spring break). Where’s the fun in pretending to be rich if you have to budget?
Ran (seventeen days ago). (And counting.)
LITTLE MIRACLES, PART II
Every minute
Lives a blue-throated hummingbird’s
Thousand heartbreaks.
What’s happening to me? One minute, I’m writing a list to stretch happiness a little longer.
The next, I’m writing a list to keep myself from drowning.
THE PRAYER
I pray it wasn’t all
a one-man act
to spice up his day.
I pray he’ll knock on my door
from out of my blue
with a large pizza
and a supersized grin.
It doesn’t matter
if he wakes me up
from the most beautiful dream.
I’ll be grateful
for the disruption
and won’t badger him
with questions.
I pray he Zaps me now.
An emoji will do
or a semisad face
or harlequin tears
or a wave with a white-gloved hand.
How I wish
I didn’t have to crave
such wishes,
for there are more important prayers
like world peace
and his safety
and me being kinder
to my friends
and myself.
Above all,
I pray for goodbyes
to not last this long
or matter
this much.
FORECAST FOR WEDNESDAY, 3 APRIL
Without Ran—mostly
April rain with Ken Zero
Visibility.
The Pyramid of Stupidity
Friday, 4 April
I did another stupid thing today. I went back to school after missing classes for three days. I was already getting used to staying home and even thought of only going back to school to take tests. I don’t care if my grades plummet because of my absences. I don’t care if I don’t graduate with honors. I’ll still graduate, unless I bomb on the finals. All it means is that I won’t get to march and receive my diploma from the principal, while Mr. Oku places a cheap-looking golden cord around my neck to mean I’m Somebody in an auditorium full of people who don’t really care. No, I don’t need the extra attention.
The moment I entered the room, I saw CaZZ and Estelle. It was awkward. I didn’t know whether or not to say hi, too afraid I’d end up making a fool of myself. I should’ve turned around and headed back home. That’s what I should’ve done. It was torture, to be in the same room with the two people I consider my only friends since birth. A friendship that is now jeopardized. Thanks to me.
CaZZ snubbed me. Estelle, too, though I detected a faint smile. But that could’ve been wishful thinking. She’s probably fed up. I don’t blame her. She Zapped me all weekend. The least I could’ve done was reply. I’m so stupid. I should make a “Stupid List” and put myself at the top.
By second period, I wanted to pick up my bag, go straight to the school clinic, fake a migraine. I’ve gotten so good at feigning illness that if not for my mom, who can read my body temperature just by looking at me, I would’ve stayed home until graduation. Maybe I should bunbury as a phony suffering from chronic headaches. But what I’m going through is worse than a migraine. I don’t know how to describe it, except that it’s a heavy, sinking feeling, like a ghost sitting on my chest. And it’s getting worse. Every time it comes, my heart starts beating real fast and all I want to do is run home, lock myself in my room, and pray I disappear.
Soon as the dismissal bell rang, I bolted for the door. I looked behind and was relieved not to see CaZZ and Estelle trailing after me. But instead of going straight home, stupid me went to hide in the library, which is the most obvious place to find me. Sure enough, they showed up. CaZZ was the first to shatter the silence. “What’s with the bad attitude?”
I preten
ded to be deaf. I stood up, tossing my notebook and pen into my backpack.
“Oh, so now you’re giving us the hypermute treatment?” She was on a roll, and when CaZZ is on a roll, there’s no stopping her.
Estelle broke in gently. “Dude, we miss you megamuch, you know.”
I fought hard not to look at her. It was killing me, but I wasn’t going to let her gentleness break me; no, not this time. When she realized that she wasn’t going to get a word out of me, she changed her tactic. “What the hell is your problem, Ken Z? No Zaps. No missed or butt calls.”
I kept quiet.
They wouldn’t give up, until, finally, I told them nothing was the matter.
“Nada de nada,” Estelle said. “Then why are you acting like—”
“An asshole,” CaZZ blurted.
“We barely saw you last month,” Estelle said. “We already forgave ourselves for forgiving you. Right, CaZZ?”
CaZZ didn’t say anything. She was too upset for words.
“Urgh, Ken Z,” Estelle continued.
CaZZ finally spoke. “He’s punishing us, Estelle. That’s what he’s doing. Punishing us for whatever we did to him.”
“You didn’t do anything, okay?” I interjected.
CaZZ heard the sarcasm in my voice. “Don’t snap at us.”
“Yeah, dudeness,” Estelle said.
“Whatever, dude,” CaZZ said. “I’m getting tired of your charades, Ken Z. Tired of worrying about you. If you don’t want to tell us what the hell is happening to you, then don’t. Stay in the goddamn dark. You can rot there, for all I care.”
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
Estelle tried to stop me.
The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart Page 12