Keep on keepin’ on.
“Yes? Erin?” Herrick says, nodding at a girl with her hand up in the second row.
“It also really plays into the whole theme of love versus money, doesn’t it? Like, if you stop to think about it, the message seems to be that you can’t have both. But then Bassanio marries Portia, who’s rich, and who he apparently loves. But in the end, when he’s forced to choose between Portia and Antonio with the whole ring thing, he sides with Antonio. So maybe that’s like … something there, too.”
Yeah, Erin, or maybe it’s nothing. Bros before hos. It’s not like that’s a new thing. It’s not like Shakespeare missed the memo on that one. Shakespeare had bros up the wazoo.
Or, well, not, you know, literally, I just – shit, whatever, whatever, seriously, whatever.
“Yes,” Professor Herrick says. “Well, the argument that homoerotic subtext exists between Antonio and Bassanio is by no means an unpopular one. In fact, W.H. Auden wrote in his essay ‘Brothers and Others’ that—”
“Or maybe,” cuts in a voice that’s – oh, hey, look at that, mine, “you’re reading too much into it.”
Herrick looks taken aback for a second; then he says, “That’s a valid opinion as well, Howie.”
“I don’t think you can necessarily argue against it,” the girl sitting next to me says, turning her gaze on me. “Like, it’s ambiguous. You can see it if you want to see it, and if it weirds you out or whatever, then, fine, don’t.”
Herrick tries to take the reins from here. “The ambiguity of Shakespeare is certainly—”
“But who’s to say it’s gay.” It’s like I’m fucking possessed. “What is up with this, like, desperate need to make all guys gay just because they dare to interact with each other for more than five minutes? Like, here’s a really crazy theory: Frodo and Sam were just buddies.”
“How about Antonio being all depressed at the beginning of the play?” the girl argues.
“He doesn’t know why he’s depressed! ‘In sooth, I know not why I am so sad’ – it’s only the first friggin’ line of the entire play—”
“That’s what he says. We never get an explanation why – it’s not like it’s a stretch to interpret that it’s because—”
“He says it’s not because he’s in love,” I remind her, pretty pissed off, like, what, did she even bother to read the damn thing? Fie, fie, bitch.
“Because if he’s in love with a man in Elizabethan England, oh, he’s absolutely gonna scream it from the rooftops! Maybe the reason he’s saying it’s not love is because he knows that it will completely ruin him if that knowledge gets out.”
“And maybe it’s because he’s not. They could be friends, you know, that’s not exactly inconceivable. So they care about each other, so what? Since when does that mean they secretly want to screw each other’s brains out? It’s ridiculous and unnecessary. It’s gross.”
“Oh, that is such typical macho homophobic bull,” snarls the girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if she leapt out of her desk and started beating me over the head with the textbook. And, like, on any other day, I’d say something back, I’d hurry to assure her that everyone can do their own thing and I’m totally cool with it. But today? Today? I don’t know, man, I just want to laugh. Or maybe just get up, storm right out of the room and never come back.
I don’t. I ignore the fact that she’s trying to blow up my head with the power of her stare. I ignore the jumpy, unsettled, sick feeling that’s burrowing down into my bones. I just look away from her, back down at my notes. So far, they consist of the date.
Keep on keepin’ on.
“Okay, let’s move on,” Professor Herrick says. He glances over at the two of us like he’s afraid we’re going to start dueling.
“It’s not like you can catch it, you know. Especially not from reading a five hundred year old play,” she hisses in my ear as Herrick strikes up a Shylock discussion. “Grow up. It’s assholes like you who make this world the way it is.”
And it’s not like I’m even going to bother replying to that, because what do I say? ‘Actually, for your information, I just kissed a guy this afternoon, so.’ Yeah fucking right.
I pretend to pay attention instead. Write my name a couple of times on the empty page in front of me. Scribble it out, hard.
+
Kissing’s pretty much kissing, right? A mouth’s a mouth. It doesn’t really matter who it’s attached to. It’s a universal body part. It’s like an elbow.
It’s like my elbow bumped into his elbow.
It’s not like that’s even a deal, right?
Who even pays attention to that?
It’s just elbows, man. Chillax.
It’s like that.
And if it didn’t completely gross me out … well, it’s not like that’s a big deal. It’s human instinct at work. When your eyes are shut, you can’t get freaked out by eyelashes or wiry-but-inarguable masculinity.
I’m not saying I liked it. I’m just saying I’ve had worse.
I wouldn’t put it past Artie to wear girly chapstick. Maybe that’s why I didn’t react as fast as I should have, didn’t ninja-leap right the fuck outta there. I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna judge a guy for chapstick use in general. But maybe Artie goes for the strawberry flavor. Hell, maybe he even splurges on that Burt’s Bees stuff – maybe he’s got girl lips, soft vanilla honey flavor lips, and what’s a guy gonna do with that? If he’s caught off-guard, if he’s got his eyes shut and all of a sudden he’s being kissed by this girl mouth … reflexes are bound to slow down a little, you know?
Exactly. Exactly.
So. Problem solved. For me, anyway. If Arthur’s stressing about this right now, if he’s really beating himself up over it, well, then, good. He should be. It was his whole thing. He’s the one who wears girl chapstick. Probably.
Me? I’m just an innocent bystander.
+
My mom asks me to do some grocery shopping, so I do. Normal weekend, normal stuff. Amber and Mitch come along. It’s just the three of us, a shopping list, and aisle upon aisle of purchasable perishables. Good times. Good, boring, normal weekend times for my good, boring, normal weekend.
“Jesus, how old are you, five?” Amber demands of Mitch, who’s gleefully pushing the shopping cart forward and then leaping up onto it, rolling down the aisles.
Mitch puts his feet down early, bringing the cart to a screeching stop. He looks back at us, not the slightest bit shamed. Mitch doesn’t really do shame. “You wanna try?”
Amber rolls her eyes. “No.”
“You could get inside and I could push you,” Mitch persists.
Amber stares at him for a really long time. His enthusiasm doesn’t even flicker.
“Maybe you’re four,” she concludes with a sigh.
“You’re no fun,” Mitch says good-naturedly.
“Weirdo,” Amber dubs him, then turns her attention to me. “Did she say what kind of spaghetti sauce?”
“Nope,” I report.
“Huh.” We contemplate the shelf in front of us. So many jars. So much red. Choosing seems hard. Unnaturally hard. And me, I want to do this right. I want to put everything I’ve got into this damn shopping trip. I want quality food at a reasonable price; I want to be a savvy saver. If anything tries to make this shopping trip less than motherflipping ideal, I will eff it up. You wanna test me on that one? Really? Really, friend?
I notice that I’m drumming my fingers against the shopping list in a spastic beat, and I force myself to stop. Good, boring, normal weekend.
“Go Ragu,” Mitch says with a decisive nod. “Definitely. Ragu’s boss.”
Amber defiantly grabs a jar of Prego. Mitch is dismayed.
“Ambie, you’re missing out. Seriously.”
“Mitchell Ballard, you do not get to call me Ambie,” Amber snaps. “That’s not going to become a legitimate thing, not ever, okay?”
“Okay,” Mitch agrees easily. He waits like two seconds, the
n throws in a mumbled, “Ambie.”
We sneak a discreet fist bump. Amber scoffs in disgust, then takes over shopping cart duty.
“Amberrrr.”
“Your privileges are officially revoked, Mitchy Mitch.” She turns to me. “What next?”
I check the list. Don’t drum on the list. Just check the list. “Cereal.”
“What kind?” Amber asks.
And it’s just, I don’t know, it suddenly seems like this incredibly good question.
“I don’t know,” I reply, staring down at my mom’s messy cursive. It’s like it’s mocking me with its vagueness. Cereal. “She didn’t say. I guess she expects me to be psychic.”
“Or maybe she’s just not feeling picky,” Amber counters.
“Still,” I say, and goddammit, I really want to drum my stupid fingers against the stupid list. “She could have at least specified. ‘Cereal’ – what is that? That could mean anything! That could mean Cheerios, that could mean Captain Crunch—”
“Nice.” (Mitch.)
“—that could mean Malto-frickin’-Meal.”
“Or Poptarts.” (Still Mitch.)
“Poptarts aren’t a cereal, Mitchell.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. They’re just not.”
“Oh, fine.”
Amber looks at me with her most piercing of gazes. “What’s up with you today?”
Right. Maybe that got a little weird. Maybe people aren’t usually so passionate about cereal. In an ideal world, they would be. Cereal matters. Balanced breakfasts matter. But apparently it’s uncool to show any sort of concern about this very real issue, because Amber’s looking at me like she knows something’s up, and while Freaking Out About Cereal doesn’t lead one right to Yesterday I Had An Encounter With A Guy That Was Maybe A Little Unusual, I still realize I need to chill. And so I set the list down in the shopping cart, right on the little baby seat, and I ask, “Whaddya mean?”
“You’re acting really weird,” Amber says. “Ever since you picked me up. You’re all high-strung.”
“I’m not high-strung,” I protest.
“You are,” Amber insists. Why is she my friend again? “You seem like you’re going to start freaking out all over the place any second.”
“I do not,” I say, looking to Mitch for solidarity. Hos be crazy, brutha, that whole thing.
But then what Mitch does is squint thoughtfully at me and say, “Yeah, sort of.”
What? What? Et tu, Mitchman.
“Spill,” Amber orders, forgetting our quest for cereal. “Did something else happen with Kristy?” There’s a pause, just long enough for her expression to turn horrified. “You didn’t try something with her anyway, did you? God, Howie—”
“No! What do you think I am, nuts?”
“Yeah,” Amber replies, not even trying to be delicate about it. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. Are you still upset about it, then? Is that it?”
“No,” I reply, and it’s almost like I’m not even lying. “I’m over it.”
“Clearly you’re not.”
Seriously, what does she want from me??
“Okay, fine,” I say sharply. “I’m not over it. I’m still really pissed off. I thought she was great, I thought she was this really great, hot girl, and I thought I was gonna get to have sex with her, and I didn’t, and I never get to, and that sucks. Because I really just wanted to tap that like a spine. And now I can’t. So. Yeah. I’m having some feelings.”
Amber’s quiet for a really long time.
“Tap that like a spine,” she repeats, doubtful.
“I said what I said,” I reply obstinately.
“Tough luck, man,” Mitch says. He gives me a reassuring knock on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some Poptarts.”
“Poptarts are not the answer to our horny, sick, sad friend’s problems,” Amber says, admonishing Mitch with a Level 3 Amber Glare. A normal person would be driven to shudder in fear; Mitch kinda just looks at her.
“Amber,” he says imploringly, “the s’more kind.”
Amber eyes me, this ‘there’s no way you’re gonna fall for this, right?’ look.
I stare back, then conclude, truthfully, “Poptarts are awesome.”
“Okay,” Amber says, pushing the cart forward with sudden, scary fervor. “You guys are idiots.”
I’m feeling a little better as we make our way over to the cereal aisle, watching Amber power on with her special brand of cart-pushing fury while we amble behind her. This is cool. Grocery shopping’s cool. My friends are cool. My life is pretty good, just the way it is.
“I think my mom likes Raisin Bran,” I remember aloud. “Hey, do you guys think the generic brand is—”
“Oh my God,” Amber says, hushed. “Is that – oh my God, it is!”
I look over to where she’s staring, at the other end of the aisle. There, mid-reach for a carton of oatmeal, is Arthur.
Every piece of me – every nerve, every hair, every damn cell – sings out one matching song in perfect harmony, and that song is FUUUUUUUCK.
“That’s him!” Amber exclaims softly. “That’s Arthur Kraft!”
“Really?” Mitch asks, interested and way too loud.
I’m frozen. I can’t do anything.
“Go say hi,” Amber whispers, clutching my arm. “I dare you.”
Why does she think this is funny? This isn’t funny. This is sick. Meanwhile, Arthur inspects the oatmeal and doesn’t seem to find it to his liking, because he puts it back. Oh, God, Kraft, pick some oatmeal and scram, what is your problem.
But nope, he’s still there. He doesn’t look casual or relaxed, not even a little bit weekendy. He’s wearing a scarf and this nice black peacoat, he’s wearing a peacoat, he’s one of those guys who wears a peacoat, like, what is this, Vermont? You gonna go to a bed ‘n breakfast next, Artie? Have some … leaves … fall on you? … I’m realizing I don’t know a whole lot about Vermont. Point is, who is he trying to kid with the peacoat? And he’s carrying a six pack of that natural soda stuff that costs like two times as much as a twelve-pack of something normal. He’s standing there, picking out oatmeal. Being Arthur.
It’s weird and terrible, just fucking terrible to be looking at him. It’s almost like I convinced myself he didn’t exist, after … after what happened, and all of a sudden it’s like, here he is, in the flesh, he’s still a flesh-type creature that exists, and it’s flesh that’s been in contact with my flesh, I wish I would stop thinking the word ‘flesh,’ you know what’s a gross, creepy, weird word? ‘Flesh.’ I think my brain is melting. I think I’m having a stroke. Or a coronary. Or porphyria. I KNEW HE WOULD GIVE ME PORPHYRIA.
“Howie?” Oh, yeah, Amber. Amber exists. And she’s looking up at me, smile falling off her face.
“Hey, let’s go,” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Oh, come on, just go say hi—”
“I’m not saying hi.”
“Come on, I want to see if he acts as weird as you say he does—”
“He does, let’s – hey, juice, we have to go get juice.” Mighty list, you are my salvation.
“It’ll take like two seconds—”
“JUICE, AMBER.”
God, if he looks over here, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll fuck shit up. That’s what I’ll do.
I take off, because I’m not willing to chance it. I fucking fly to the juice aisle, and I don’t bother to look back and see if Amber and Mitch are keeping up. They can deal with Artie if they want to. Me, I’m getting out and I’m getting out now.
I don’t slow down until I’m staring at a carton of Tropicana. It’s like a beacon of hope. A really citrusy beacon.
“What the hell was that?”
I turn around to see Amber and Mitch approaching. In the frenzy, Mitch regained control of the shopping cart.
“I just don’t want to deal with that guy,” I say, sounding weirdly out of breath. But that’s okay, because it’s not like they
could ever guess why. Never in a million years could they guess. “I see him enough during the week.”
“Okay,” Amber says. “Well, I’m disappointed.”
“Too bad,” I say, grabbing my hope-affirming carton of Tropicana.
“Duuuude,” Mitch says, “come on. Minute Maid.”
“You know,” Amber says thoughtfully, “he got hot.”
What now??
“Artie?” I repeat incredulously.
“Yeah,” Amber says, like it’s no big deal, like it’s an acceptable choice, as a human being, to find The Second in any way attractive. “He’s kind of rocking the whole smart-sexy vibe.”
Does not compute.
“Are you sure?” I ask lamely.
“No, I’m just making it up,” Amber deadpans.
“I dunno,” I say, trying to tread carefully. So super-carefully. “I think he just seems dweeby.”
“In high school he was dweeby,” Amber replies, matter-of-fact. “Now he’s definitely good-looking.”
“You only saw him for like five seconds,” I protest. “And it was just his side. Maybe he just looks good on that side.”
“Or maybe he looks good.”
“I don’t know, I think he’s weird-looking. He’s all tall and skinny and like – tall, right?? Don’t you think he’s like offensively tall?”
Amber’s staring at me like I’m nuts. “Not even a little bit.”
I feel stupidly flustered right now. “Okay, well, he’s still just like – and then there’s his friggin’ eyelashes—”
“You noticed his eyelashes?” Amber asks, like it’s weird to do.
It is, I realize with a horrible sinking feeling. It’s weird to notice somebody’s eyelashes.
“Anyone would notice his eyelashes,” I say, trying valiantly to fight my way out of this hole and losing, losing. “They do that thing. You know, that thing that you hate and always rant about.” She stares blankly at me, like she hasn’t subjected me to that rant five billion times. “Where he looks like he’s wearing mascara, but he’s not – or, actually, you know what, I don’t know, he’s a weird-ass freak. Maybe he does wear mascara. It’s like, you can’t not look at them. It’s not like I was looking at his eyelashes. I just … I saw his eyelashes.”
Know Not Why: A Novel Page 6