You Know Me Well

by Nina LaCour

  But before I can do that, Quinn sashays over. He’s wearing a pink tuxedo with a pink carnation in the lapel.

  Very subtle, I hear Ryan whisper in my head.

  “Be still, my gay, gay heart,” Quinn purrs, “but it seems like the traffic’s gotten hella Sapphic. Katiegirl, have you brought the woman of your dreams to our shindig this evening?”

  Katie blushes. And once she realizes she’s blushing, she blushes even more.

  “Enchanté,” Violet says, offering her hand. Rather than shake it, Quinn lifts it to his lips.

  “Enchanté!” he echoes.

  I look back over at Ryan, and, yes, he’s watching us now. When he sees he’s caught my eye, he waves. Taylor notices the gesture, then looks over to me, too. He joins Ryan in waving.

  “Go on,” Katie says.

  It can’t be more than fifteen feet, but the time it takes for me to get to them is immeasurably awkward. And it’s even more awkward when I get there and Taylor stands up to greet me.

  “At last!” he says as he wraps me in a hug. Then, when he pulls out of it, he adds, “I mean, usually I get to meet a guy before I see him in his skivvies, but I guess in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Ryan says, also standing, but not giving me a hug. He introduces me to Taylor’s friends, and I miss all of their names. They offer to make space for me at their table, but I indicate the lesbians I came in with and say I should probably sit with them.

  “Good man,” Taylor says.

  I am trying very hard not to hate you, but you’re not making it easy, I don’t say in response.

  Quinn has made his way to the mic and is telling everyone the slam is about to begin.

  “Anyone who wants to sign up should do so right away. We only have six poets on the list so far. Listen, people—don’t make me go to free swim, because you know this lifeguard will drag people into the water.”

  “I dare you to put your name on there,” I say to Ryan.

  He smirks. “Oh, Belated Barnaby, I already have.”

  People are taking their seats. I see Lehna skulk in and sit at a table in the back with June and Uma. Violet tries to signal them to come over, but Lehna shakes her head.

  I wish Ryan good luck, then walk back.

  “How’d that go?” Katie asks when I sit down.

  “What am I doing here?” I reply.

  I am not a poet. I am a baseball player whose heart is being broken by a poet. There’s a difference.

  Quinn calls the slam to order. “As you all know, this event is a fund-raiser for The Angel Project, which helps queer youth here in San Francisco, most of them from the streets or from really horrible home conditions. Our first poet, Greer, currently lives in The Angel Project’s youth residence. I think it’s fitting that we should start with them.”

  Greer steps to the mic, wearing a red-and-white polka-dot bow tie and a nervous-but-determined expression.

  “Thanks, Quinn. As he said, my name is Greer. I was kicked out of my house because my parents couldn’t deal with me being genderqueer. This was in California, only about two hours from here. Like so many other people, I decided to come to San Francisco, because it’s supposedly the most tolerant place in the world. I quickly found out that tolerance doesn’t necessarily translate into a job and a place to live. Things got very desperate, until I found The Angel Project. They gave me support and helped me figure things out. So I’d like to dedicate this one to them.”

  The audience has grown still, respectful. Katie reaches for Violet’s hand. Then, seeing me notice, she takes my hand, too.

  Greer doesn’t have any paper in front of them. It’s all from memory.

  When I was little I loved to paint—

  the brush was a plastic wand

  with a punk-rock haircut at its tip,

  while the colors sat like candies in their tray.

  If you wanted orange, you’d introduce red to yellow.

  If you wanted green, yellow would have an affair with blue.

  Like any kid who isn’t encouraged to question,

  I had been taught the meaning of colors—

  blue and pink, most of all.

  We all knew which one princesses wore.

  We all knew why I was given so many princesses to paint.

  But one day I wondered what would happen

  if I mixed the pink and the blue.

  One day I reached down to the level of curiosity,

  having no idea that it was standing on the shoulders of truth.

  I thought blue and pink would make the most spectacular color—

  I took my wand and gathered the blue, laying it on the absorbent page

  of a coloring book bought to keep me quiet in a Walmart.

  Then, without washing the wand clean, I dipped into the pink.

  This, I was sure, would be the secret to all beauty.

  What happened was mud,

  dirty sidewalk,

  murk.

  I had failed.

  I pulled away from my curiosity, and the truth underneath.

  I trusted other people to teach me the meaning of colors,

  and they taught me the wrong things.

  It took a long time for the truth to rise up,

  and for me to rise up to meet it.

  I took out my old paints and I mixed those colors again.

  I got the same result, but this time I saw it a different way.

  Blue and pink make mud, make dirt, make rock.

  I am mud, I am dirt, I am rock.

  I am nature, a force of nature.

  I am the color that remains when everything else is washed away.

  I am the color of the ground you walk on, the ground that keeps you

  from falling. I am elemental, essential,

  and that has as much color as any rainbow.

  Tell them that. When children ask you, tell them that.

  Even though it’s a small room, the applause is big. Greer sits back at their table to hugs and high-fives from their friends. Then Quinn gets up and announces that the next poet is going to be … Taylor.

  Don’t react, I tell myself. Don’t check, but assume that Ryan is looking at you.

  Which is silly, because when I do check, Ryan is watching Taylor take the stage.

  “That was amazing, Greer,” Taylor says when he gets there. “And I can only second what you have to say about The Angel Project. As many of you know, I volunteer there now. But much more important is what they did for me three long, quick years ago. I think it’s safe to say that if it weren’t for The Angel Project, I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t mean in this room—I mean on this planet. So it’s completely inappropriate for me to say thank you with a poem that has nothing to do with that. I’d tell you its title, but you can probably figure it out.”

  I look at Ryan and he’s not surprised. He knows all this about Taylor already. They’ve already gone there.

  With a jokingly theatrical bow, Taylor reads his poem.

  Queen,

  understand

  everything

  exists

  reactively.

  Please

  remember

  I

  don’t

  erase

  quietly.

  Urge,

  excite,

  embolden,

  roar.

  Passivity

  relinquishes

  ideas,

  denies

  equality.

  Quick—

  unearth

  each

  eager

  revolution

  pulsing

  rhythmically

  inside.

  Desire,

  emerge.

  There’s some applause. I figure Taylor will leave, but instead he says, “Since that was a short one, and since I end it with desire emerging, I’d like to close with a sex poem. With apologies to e. e. cummings—which is, incidentally, my porn name. H
ere we go, sailors! I wrote this one last night.”

  what a trip

  to slip-dip-drip

  nestle

  mortar-pestle

  after

  startle-tickle-

  wrestle

  bedhead beauty

  you astonish me

  to a

  dense-sense

  rapture capture

  be the holder

  of this beholder

  bolder

  bolder

  we rearrange the universe

  (bolder)

  with our bodies

  Taylor finishes with a smile and gets hoots of appreciation in return, as well as more applause. Ryan is applauding with everyone else, but he also looks a little bashful—he wants Taylor to see him applauding, but he doesn’t want anyone else to be looking at him or assuming anything from what Taylor’s just read. But who does he think he’s fooling? When Taylor gets back to the table, he gives Ryan this gigantic confirmation of a kiss, right there in front of everyone else.

  “So not necessary,” Katie grumbles, and I love her for it.

  “Get a room zoom bloom for your skanky hanky-panky!” Quinn shouts out. Taylor actually looks embarrassed now and settles down in his chair, leaving Ryan’s mouth alone. His friends lean in to congratulate him. Ryan looks anywhere but at me.

  Quinn continues. “The time has come for my own contribution. Some of you may have heard it before—I guess it’s what I’m most compelled to share. Each time I come back to it, a few words change. Maybe one day I’ll get it to say everything I’m trying to tell. It’s called ‘The Beat.’”

  What happens next is hard to describe. Quinn opens his mouth and it’s a different voice that comes out. Raw. Defiant. He’s not playing now. He’s testifying.

  No son of mine, Lord.

  No son of mine!

  Beat beat beat

  You try to beat it out of me

  Belt it out of me

  Heartless heart

  Beat beating

  You think you can bruise me

  Out of being

  Bruise it out of me

  When you belt it beat it

  Try to break it—

  Break the thing you cannot break

  Because I carry it so deep inside

  No beat of yours no belt of yours

  Will ever come close.

  You try to beat it out of me

  Belt it out of me

  Belt me into buckling

  Beat me into heartstopping

  Stophurting

  Trying so hard

  You say you’ll kill me to save me

  Kill the me inside of me

  Beat it belt it but it

  Just won’t budge.

  Not for you.

  I know

  You can’t stay in this room forever

  I know

  We can’t stay in this room forever

  You beat me belt me to get to me

  But you’ll never get to me

  Not the me me heartbeat me.

  I am saving it.

  I am saving it for tonight

  I am saving it for you right there

  And you over there.

  I am saving it for

  Every you with a me deep inside.

  Now that I’ve left that room

  Out into the world as big

  As a billion rooms

  I have saved me

  Yes, I have saved me

  Constructed of words and hurt

  And the glass self I’ve protected

  All this time

  To get to this one of a billion rooms

  This room tonight.

  Beat beat beat

  I have found my own beat

  My own pitter-patter

  My own sis-boom-bah!

  Beat beat beat

  I belt it out

  Song sung strong

  Stung song

  Tongue song

  Back from being

  Bitten back

  Some songs sung

  Beg to be carried home.

  This song sings

  To be carried far and wide.

  Beat beat beat—

  The sound it brings

  Is the sound of wings.

  When he’s done, there is the briefest of silences. Then: noise. Hands beating together. Voices meeting together. Someone gets to their feet. We all get to our feet. Katie is crying next to me. Quinn in front of us is not crying. He is not smiling, either. He is taking a deep breath, letting it out.

  I don’t even know how to ask the question I want to ask. “Where did that come from?” is what I say to Katie, and it sounds stupid, inadequate.

  “It was awful,” Katie tells me. “Freshman year. He had to go to his mom and tell her she either had to kick his father out or he would leave himself. His mother chose Quinn. But it was really touch-and-go.”

  “I had no idea,” I say.

  “He wanted school to be normal. It was the only normal he had.”

  I look over to Ryan—did he know? But I can tell from his expression that he didn’t, either. He catches my eye, and we don’t need to say a word to have the whole conversation. About how oblivious we were. About how there was so much more to Quinn than we ever gave him credit for.

  “Okay, people, enough,” Quinn says now. “You’re only making it harder for our next poet—Ryan Ignatius.”

  Ryan looks like he wants to pass. Or pass out. Or both. But his whole table is cheering, and Taylor is giving him an encouraging squeeze. There’s no going back now, I can imagine him thinking. As he picks up some pages from his table and heads to the mic, my secondhand nervousness is about as strong as a firsthand dose. I cheer loudly for him, hoping he can hear my voice, and that it will help.

  “Hi,” he says when he gets to the mic. “I’m Ryan, and this is my first time.”

  “You’re doing great!” someone from Greer’s table shouts.

  Ryan’s hands are shaking as he unfolds his poem. And they remain shaking as he starts to read. I can’t tell whether the first line he reads is the title or the real first line.

  I’m not ready.

  I’m not ready

  to walk three steps ahead of where I am.

  I’m not ready

  to be paired,

  declared,

  bared

  to be certain

  of what lies behind the curtain.

  I’m not ready

  to call it by its name

  because then it won’t be the same

  as everything I used to be.

  You’re so ready

  for me to be ready.

  But I’m not ready

  to put on the clothes you’ve sewn me.

  They’re beautiful.

  I’m not really sure they’ll fit.

  You hold me steady,

  but I’m not ready.

  Not ready to tell you why.

  Not ready to be more scared

  than I am right now.”

  He is not looking up. He is looking at the paper. And when the time comes to turn the page, his hands are still shaking so much that he drops it. It slides behind him, lost.

  Instead of stopping to pick it up in front of everyone else, he tries to continue from memory.

  I’m ready to lose myself,

  But—

  I mean, I’m ready—

  I’m not ready.

  Now he looks at the audience. Not at me. Not at Taylor. At someone else. Anybody else.

  I’m not ready

  to do this,

  to stand here

  I think this is part of the poem. But maybe it isn’t part of the poem. Because Ryan stops. Freezes. Says, “I’m sorry,” puts down the mic, and walks—not runs, walks—out of the room.

  Violet starts clapping. Other people join in. And I am a minute too late. I am frozen, too. Before I can get up, Taylor is up. Before I can follow Ryan, Taylor is following Ryan. Taylor is closer t
o the door. I freeze again. I look at Katie, but Katie’s not going to tell me to go. It’s Violet who tells me to go. Tells me to hurry.

  So I stand up, even though Quinn is announcing the next poet, who is not me. People think it’s me, though, because of the timing of my standing up, and they’re even more confused when I head in the opposite direction from the stage, when I head out the door.

  Ryan and Taylor haven’t gotten far. They’re right outside. Taylor has Ryan in his arms, is telling him he was amazing, that he was brave, that the first step is always, always the hardest. All the right things to say, only they’re in his voice, not mine. I stop heading toward them, but they’ve already heard me. They pull apart a little, look at me.

  I am interrupting.

  For some reason, it’s Taylor I find myself talking to. “I just wanted to see if he was okay,” I explain.

  Taylor nods. Gets it.

  “I’m fine,” Ryan says. “Really. I guess I’m not that much of an improviser.”

  Neither, it seems, am I. I just stand there.

  “We’ll be back in soon,” Taylor says.

  “Oh yeah. Of course. See ya.”

  I open the door and it makes what feels like a huge clatter, right in the middle of a really quiet poem. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself, so I stand there until the poet is finished—a good ten minutes later.

  I make my way back to my table, expecting that Taylor and Ryan will follow on my heels. Taylor said they’d be back soon, after all. But they don’t come back. I see the friends at Taylor’s table checking texts and whispering to one another. News I don’t know.

  I check my phone. Nothing.

  Someone from Greer’s table takes the stage and recites a very funny poem called “Ode to Pee-wee Herman.” When it’s done, Quinn gets back on to say that since we’ve now gone through the list, we’re going to take a five-minute break—and in that five-minute break he wants to see at least three more people volunteer to spit out some words.

  “Do you want to go?” Violet asks us.

  I want to go, but I’m not sure I want to say I want to go.

  Katie settles it by observing, “If we leave now, Quinn will kill us,” which is probably true.

  So we sit there. Some of Taylor’s friends are up and talking to the people at the table next to ours, so I can’t tell Katie what happened in the hallway. I can sense she’s correctly assuming it wasn’t good.

  Quinn comes over, and it’s while Violet and Katie are telling him how amazing his poem was that I look over to the stage area and see the lone piece of paper resting at the base of the back wall. The second page of Ryan’s poem. It seems wrong to leave it there, so I head over to get it. It’s facedown. I guess I could just fold it like that and never discover how the poem ended.