Speak of Me As I Am

by Sonia Belasco

  I turned my head to look at Carlos full-on. Carlos was resting his chin on his knees, staring straight ahead.

  I thought you didn’t give a shit about what people think, I said.

  Well, yeah, Carlos said. But that’s me, that ain’t you. People like you.

  People like you too.

  What is this, you gay for me or some shit? Get off my jock, man, Carlos burst out, glaring at me. Fuck that, man, and fuck you.

  I was used to Carlos’s sudden anger. He’d lash out like a viper, but he was always sorry for it afterward. I could hear his dad whenever he got like that: Don’t pussy out on me, Carlito. Don’t be a little pussy.

  If people can’t handle me being into theater, then they can’t handle being my friends, I said. I don’t need that kind of BS in my life.

  Carlos was quiet for a moment, digging his chin into his kneecap.

  I’m not saying I don’t get it, Carlos said. I get why sometimes it’s nice to be somebody else for a while.

  I never thought about it, back then—what he meant. Doesn’t everybody want to be somebody else sometimes? To escape?

  Not the way Carlos did.

  Carlos always got it. He always got me.

  But sometimes—I guess—I didn’t get him at all.

  • • •

  The next morning, I stare at the sheet pasted onto the bulletin board next to the auditorium, the words Cast List going fuzzy before my eyes.

  “I told you so.”

  I turn to see Tristan grinning up at me.

  “You’re so stealthy,” I say. “You gotta stop doing that, man. Freaks me out.”

  “You’re always in your own little dream world, that’s your problem,” Tristan says. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to be aware of your surroundings?”

  “Guess not,” I say.

  “Congratulations,” Tristan says. “I knew you’d be Othello.”

  “Michael Cassio, not too shabby.” I nod.

  “Yeah, hey, I get to be a shallow douchebag who’s sort of in love with a hooker, who doesn’t love that?” Tristan says.

  “I think that’s why it’s called ‘acting,’” I say.

  “Aw, you are too kind,” Tristan demurs. “I don’t know about the shallow douchebag part, but I can tell you I haven’t recently been in love with a hooker.”

  “Recently?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “Not for six months at least.”

  “Might have to get all method up in here,” I say, and Tristan’s smile widens.

  “Walk with me, Mr. Lewis,” Tristan says, and gestures down the hallway.

  “Is that weird?” I ask, trailing behind Tristan as we navigate through the sea of bodies. “I mean, playing straight?”

  “Not really,” Tristan says. “No weirder than anything else. Acting is acting.” He hitches his book bag up on his shoulder. “Unfortunately it’s probably the role I have the most experience playing, so practice makes perfect, right?”

  My chest hurts, like someone reached inside and squeezed.

  “Mmm, physics, my favorite,” Tristan says as we arrive at the lab. “See you later at practice, O. Can I call you O for short?”

  I shrug.

  Tristan flutters his eyelashes and curls his hands into the shape of a heart, right at the center of his chest.

  • • •

  I see Prague in the cafeteria at lunch, sitting at a table with all his basketball buddies. He’s talking and laughing and making huge, obscene gestures with his hands, probably telling a story about some girl he picked up, then dropped. I watch him for a full minute before Prague glances over. He lifts his hand as if to wave but seems to edit the gesture, never completing it.

  Fuck it. I don’t need that kind of BS in my life.

  At rehearsal I feel overwhelmed by the sheer number of strangers, all of whom seem to know each other intimately. Tristan’s nowhere to be found, so I’m forced to make polite, awkward conversation with my fellow actors. One is Lacey Andrews, who’s been cast as Desdemona. She’s tall and thin and pretty with long, curly blond hair and blue eyes. She tosses her head and her curls bounce around like excited little kids.

  “I’m really psyched to get to work with you,” she says. “I didn’t get to see your audition, but Tristan says you’re a major talent.”

  I feel like I’m at some Hollywood party and Tristan has been acting as my high-powered agent. I realize, suddenly, how this must look—me, the new kid, sauntering into these auditions and taking the lead. If I were one of these kids, I probably wouldn’t like me very much.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I hope I’m all right.”

  Mrs. McAvoy is late showing up, and in a desperate last-minute move, I dive backstage to escape the small talk. I never know how to answer the stupid questions people ask. Where’d you transfer from? Somewhere else. Do you like it here? Jury’s still out.

  I’ve always been fascinated by backstage: its musty, dusty air, the many ropes and pulleys and mysterious wires. I never know quite what I’m going to find, and I love that. I step over planks of wood and run my hands over scattered sequins and feathers and felt, vestiges of productions past.

  Though I’m used to finding the unexpected backstage, I’m still surprised to see Tristan draped all over a tall boy pressed up against one of the rafters, engaged in some pretty serious making out. The other boy is wearing what looks to be a soccer uniform, but that’s not doing much to deter Tristan from getting his hand into his shorts.

  I try to take my leave without the two of them noticing me, but my foot hits a prop sword, sending it spinning noisily across the floor.

  The two boys jump apart like they’ve been shocked with a cattle prod.

  “Oh, hey,” I say, lifting my hand in an awkward wave. “My bad. I didn’t know you were back here.”

  “Bryan—” Tristan starts to say, but the boy is already backing away and smoothing out his clothes.

  “I’ll see you later,” Bryan says, averting his eyes. “I gotta go to practice anyway.”

  Bryan’s gone so fast, I wonder for a moment if I hallucinated him. But when I turn back to see Tristan leaning against the wall, face flushed and hair a mess . . . yeah. Not quite.

  “Sorry for the cockblock,” I say. “Seriously, I didn’t—”

  “Hey, no worries,” Tristan says, attempting to smooth down his hair. “We’ve got practice too, right? And better you than Mrs. McAvoy.” He shudders.

  “That is probably true,” I say, smiling. “So . . . boyfriend?”

  Tristan gives an ambivalent nod of the head as he buttons up his shirt so only a tiny V of undershirt shows. “Ish. I don’t know, it’s weird, Bryan and I had this whole thing last year that I thought—I guess I thought it was a onetime type of deal? But then I saw him in English and we started chatting and he kept texting me and—” Tristan stops. “It’s really stupid and sixth grade, I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t be talking about it.”

  “Is it a secret?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s not like Bryan is out and proud, being Mr. Varsity Soccer.” Tristan rolls his eyes. “And hello, neither am I.”

  I look at Tristan with disbelieving eyes.

  “Look, let’s just say I like to think of this school as my personal Vegas. What happens here stays here,” Tristan says. “My dad’s in politics. He works for a Republican senator, for God’s sake. He prefers a constant state of denial to the less charming reality.”

  A bunch of pieces slot into the Tristan jigsaw puzzle. Never judge a person by what you see or don’t see.

  I feel like I should know that by now.

  “Well, okay then. I think we’ve got rehearsal,” I say with a lift of an eyebrow. “So you might want to leave your personal Vegas and come hang with us in Venice.”

  “This is a true tragedy,” Tristan mour
ns. “After you, sir.”

  Rehearsal is mostly uneventful. It’s just a table read, no blocking yet, and all the sitting still is making me crazy. Shakespeare’s words are so powerful that I want to stride around the stage and gesture and exclaim, but I know this is the first step: Learn the language, understand it, then give it dynamic movement and action.

  I notice Lacey studying me. It makes me uncomfortable to be under such a microscope, but this too is part of the process. There will only be more eyes on me when I get up on that stage.

  After rehearsal I almost run into Prague coming out of the auditorium—he’s standing right outside the door. He takes a couple of rapid steps backward and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans, trying to look casual.

  “Practice got out a little early,” Prague explains. “You want to walk with me?”

  “No ride today, huh,” I observe.

  “Jackson had shit to do. I don’t know,” Prague says.

  I nod. I follow Prague down the hallway and out into the parking lot, Prague’s loping stride rhythmic and steady.

  “You sure you want to walk with me, man?” I ask. “You know I might be—”

  “Hey, I never said that,” Prague interrupts. “Was Jackson who said that.”

  “You agreed with him,” I say.

  Prague looks down at his shoes, shoulders slumping. “It ain’t like that, D, we were just being—”

  “Ignorant, right,” I say. “Because that makes it better. What’re you afraid of, Prague? That you’re gonna catch the faggot bug?”

  Prague tenses. “Why you always gotta be like that, D? You always act like you better than everybody else.”

  “I don’t—” I say, but then stop.

  I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.

  Prague is silent for a few moments as we walk down Wisconsin. Cars stream by, and Prague’s sneakers make high-pitched whines against the sidewalk.

  “I heard about your friend,” Prague says softly.

  I stop in my tracks, hands clenching into fists at my sides.

  “You heard what about my friend?”

  Prague reaches out and grasps my arm. “Heard your friend . . . I heard you lost a friend, man, and that sucks. You’re my cousin, I don’t want you to be alone with that.”

  I will always be alone with that.

  “I can make my own friends,” I say. “I don’t need yours.”

  Prague’s fingers feel tight around my biceps, too tight. He drops his hand from my arm.

  “All right then,” Prague murmurs. “All right.”

  We part ways on the next block. I walk toward my house, but when I near my own block I think: No, not yet.

  I detour into Rock Creek Park, tripping over the uneven ground, pushing aside tree branches as I circumvent the path.

  I heard about your friend.

  You heard what about my friend?

  I settle onto a tree stump and gaze up at the canopy of trees overhead, branches intertwined like tangled yarn, and watch the light disappear until I’m shrouded in darkness.

  I close my eyes. I can see it in my mind: my phone on the side table by the couch in my parents’ living room, ringing.

  My ear itched, my hand wandered, I picked it up. On the other line: Carlos.

  He said: I don’t know, man. I don’t know.

  You don’t know what?

  I’m so dizzy, man, he said. I can’t see.

  In movies, scenes like this always end in sirens and flashing lights, the grim parade of a rescue. But it didn’t end that way. I was too slow.

  Carlos, I said, but all I heard was dead air.

  I took the phone and walked down Kalmia, made a left and a right, walked down Georgia Avenue, traced the path I’d taken a thousand times before, and was at Carlos’s front door in minutes. No one came when I rang the doorbell. Nobody was home.

  I leaned against the door and it cracked open. What the fuck. Carlos never left the front door unlocked. Much of Petworth still wasn’t safe enough for unlocked doors. My stomach twisted like rope. I pushed until it gave, walked down the hallway to Carlos’s room, ignored the cracked yellow No Trespassing sign on the door and shoved my way in.

  Carlos’s room was so neat: bed made, no clothes on the floor, curtains pulled tight around the windows so even the streetlights didn’t penetrate. All the posters were gone, walls blank, cracks in the paint like jagged scars. I will always remember the way the sheets and blankets on Carlos’s bed were tucked in, folded under to form hospital corners. Carlos never made his bed. The place looked like a hotel room, clean and tidy and ready for its next occupant. Except—

  On the bed was Carlos’s camera, black and square and bulky. Next to it perched a cardboard box. I flipped off the lid. Inside were photos, piles and piles of them: Carlos’s sisters, his mom, his dad, the Potomac, the monuments, strangers; a child playing in the grass on the Ellipse, uprooting the green by its tender roots and tying the blades into knots; a giant steel sculpture of a flower, metal stamen protruding obscenely from the center; the lonely spinning Smithsonian carousel, flashing colors and intricately carved wooden animals with no one to ride them.

  And then there were photos of me—laughing, making faces, looking somber, dressed up, wearing sweatpants, giving Carlos a mock salute.

  Carlos’s whole life was in that box. Many lives were in that box.

  I don’t know why I took it. There was no note, no instructions, nothing that said: Damon, this is for you. But I knew. I knew it was for me.

  I called my dad on his cell. No answer. I dialed Carlos’s number.

  The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time.

  I don’t know, man.

  I jogged home, climbed into my car and drove around for a while, not knowing where to go. Up and down Fourteenth Street, over onto Connecticut, across the bridge into Virginia and back.

  A real friend would know. A real friend would sense it. What was it Carlos always used to say? I feel you. I feel you, man. But I didn’t feel anything, no sixth sense, no aura, just a terrible twist of panic in my gut and my own sweat against the steering wheel. It was beginning to rain.

  I called my dad again. This time he picked up.

  Damon, where are you? he asked.

  I had no idea. There were tight clusters of trees around me. I turned onto a main street and saw a gas station glowing ahead, OPEN 24 HOURS.

  I’m looking for Carlos, I said.

  Damon. Dad sounded disappointed. It’s late.

  Dad, Carlos is in trouble—

  He’s always in trouble. Let him sort out his own mess.

  I wanted to explain, but couldn’t. What was I supposed to say? I think, maybe—

  I’m so dizzy, man. I can’t see.

  I lost my cell phone signal. Rain slashed across my windshield with karate chop precision. In my mind I could see Carlos bleeding, wrists stained red. Carlos used to talk about stuff like that. I always thought he was kidding.

  My jaw hurt from being clenched tight. I called my mom on her cell. She answered, sounding worried: Baby, it’s really coming down out there.

  Mom, I said. I think Carlos is hurt.

  Hurt how, sweetheart?

  My phone buzzed next to my ear. The hairs on my neck stood at attention. I hung up on her, clicked over to call waiting.

  D. Carlos’s voice sounded faded. Hey.

  So casual. Carlos was always so fucking casual.

  My fingers dug into the scratchy fabric of the car seat. I yanked the steering wheel to the right, parked by the side of the road and watched the rain clean my windows with sheets of water.

  Where are you? I asked.

  Nowhere. I’m nowhere, man.

  Let me come get you, I said. Tell me where you are, just let me—

  I
won’t be here when you get here.

  My throat felt like it was closing up. What the hell are you talking about, Carlos? Jesus—

  My phone connection fizzled out again. Shit, I hissed. Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck—

  I called, and called, and called again.

  Later the police asked me what Carlos had said to me. Had there been clues?

  What kind of question is that? I shouted.

  My mother grasped my shoulders as if to hold me back. The detective’s eyes widened slightly. He was young, with light hair and blue eyes. He looked at me as if he thought I was going to bite him.

  It’d be easier that way, wouldn’t it? Just another angry black boy, right? Is that what I am?

  There were so many questions afterward, and none of them the right ones. They asked: Was he depressed? Did something happen in his life that might have prompted him to—? Was he prone—? Did he talk about—? Did he seem—?

  Never: What was he like? Never: Was he a good friend?

  If I squint in the darkness right now I can still see Carlos, leaning against that huge, gnarled tree, smiling.

  What the fuck are you so happy about? I would ask.

  Carlos would shrug. I feel better, man. I feel fine.

  What the hell, dude, you just—

  Carlos would tilt his head in the way he used to do, like he was trying to see something just out of his sight line. It was easy.

  Easy?

  Yeah. Dying is the easy part.

  • • •

  I shiver. The air has cooled with the setting sun, wind gossiping in the trees: shhhhhhh.

  Me and Carlos used to sit on the fire escape at Carlos’s family’s apartment at night and watch people in the street, arguing and flirting and fighting and talking. We would sit there until Carlos’s father stopped shouting and stormed out, until his mother stopped crying, until Carlos was ready to go back inside and face everything in there.

  But Carlos was never ready to face it, not really. All those shouting matches and insults and tears came raining down on Carlos and seeped under his skin, pooling and weighing him down until he couldn’t take it, couldn’t be the one holding up his whole world anymore.

  That doesn’t seem right, though. It doesn’t feel like enough of an explanation.