by Laurent Linn
“Well, neither do I.” I attempt to flatten my hair and peer under the vent but can’t see a thing except clumps of dust.
I jump as the final bell rings. “Damn! Look, meet me here after first period. I’ll bring a ruler and tape, or whatever. I need my phone.”
Trent salutes me. “Bueno, dude.” He clomps down the hall. As he turns the corner, he half-smiles. “By the way, your hair looks like crap. It’s awesome.”
EVEN WITH ALL THE CAFETERIA clangs and babbles echoing off the cinder block walls, I speak in a low voice.
I hold up my poor, cracked used-to-be phone. “You see? This is why I’m not gay.”
Clutching his half-eaten burrito, Trent tilts his head, like dogs do. “Dude, you are gay.”
Ugh. “I’m gay, but I’m not gay!”
“Okay. That hurts my brain.”
I roll my eyes. “You know exactly what I mean. I’m outwardly gay on the inside, but inwardly gay on the outside. Now, if I were outwardly gay on the outside, well, I’d probably end up like this phone.”
“Ow!” Trent says. “Stop. My brain!”
“BOYS.” Audrey pushes her empty chili bowl to the side and says in her I’m-a-senior-and-you-guys-are-not tone, “Are we really going through this again? And, Adrian, pull that damn hood off your head. I swear.”
This thing’s hot, anyway. And we three are pretty much removed here in the corner at our usual table—our little Nerd Island. No surprise, we always get it to ourselves. Down goes my hoodie. It’s like lowering my shields.
“Good god!” Trent covers his eyes. “Put it back! Put it back!”
Audrey snorts. “Trent! Stop.” Eyeing my hair, she says, “Really, it’s not so baaa—” More cracking up.
I grit my teeth. “Guys! Not. Funny. All right?”
Trent sits up straight. “Got it. Jokes aside, your hair looks even better.” I think he means it. “And, oddly, smells minty fresh.”
Audrey purses her lips, then says, “Adrian, you white boys do some crazy-ass stuff with your hair. But what possessed you to do that?”
I smirk at her. “You guys are a real comfort.” Then I pop open my can of Dr Pepper and take a swig.
She adjusts her chunky baubled necklace (every day a different one—“to keep one’s eyes from looking at the rest of me,” she says). “Everybody’s gay now, Adrian. Look at all these sports figures and celebrities. Gay marriage all over the place? And all these gay teens going to dances together? Poll numbers show that—”
“Why, thank you, Professor.” Trent salutes her with a tortilla chip. “I’m sure your findings are elucidating on the matter. But, ya know, your point?”
She gives him the Audrey Eye. “ ‘Elucidating’? That your word of the day?”
“Indubitably.” He rolls up his gauzy black sleeve to reveal where he wrote elucidating on his forearm. Each day he has a new word to drop into conversation, a whole advanced vocabulary in various stages of smears covering his skin.
I lower my voice. “Audrey, maybe coming out is magically easy for people somewhere else. So they want us to think. But I happen to live in the real world. Besides, my life is no one’s business. And it’s not as if I’ll ever have someone to take to a dance, anyway.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You don’t understand what it’s like to be gay.”
She crosses her arms. “You think that’s hard? You don’t understand what it’s like to be a plus-size black girl.”
“Oh no no no.” Trent tosses tortilla chips at us. “Stop right there. Put down your weapons. How’d we get here? Weren’t we just talking about hair?”
Audrey sighs. “I only—”
Trent holds up his hands. “Hey, you don’t hear me going on about all the you-must-play-basketball, how’s-the-weather-up-there, sit-down-cuz-you’re-casting-a-shadow-across-North-America crap I get, just because I’m as freakishly tall as the Eiffel Tower?”
Audrey blinks. “Well, we just did.”
Trent turns to me. “Changing subjects. So . . . do you know what happened to that guy Kobe after this morning?”
I shake my head. Those scared eyes appear in my mind. “Hope he doesn’t look like this.” I pick up my was-phone. “Guess this counts as collateral damage.”
“If I were in Doug’s sights,” Audrey says, “it’s after school I’d be worried about. I doubt he’d go too far on school property.”
Trent grunts. “Harder to get away with crap when Daddy’s not around.”
Everyone knows Doug’s father was Mr. Hotshit Football Dude here back when he was in high school. Family legacy. But more than that, now he’s a top cop.
And with Doug and Buddy together it’s like two chemicals that, when mixed the wrong way, could explode.
Doug and I have gone to the same schools since first grade, even a lot of the same classes, and I suppose we’re used to each other after all these years. I’m used to avoiding him, and he’s used to not seeing me. I’m like the lockers to him, always there but who gives a crap. At least I guess—hard to really know since Doug barely says a word to anyone. Of course, he doesn’t have to. Who’s going to mess with him?
But now it seems he and Buddy are on a Homo Hunt and, after having a front-row seat this morning . . . I don’t know. Only Audrey and Trent know about me, and I aim to keep it that way.
All day I’ve been dashing from class to class, head down and hood up when possible, getting some crap during classes for the postmodern sculpture that is my hair. But no one ever takes me seriously anyway, if they notice me at all.
Doug, Buddy, and their Saber Cats football friends have the other lunch period so are in class now—or football practice, or jackass homeroom, or whatever the hell they do. Still, I survey the cafeteria in case but only spy the predictable pods of look-alikes in their little clusters.
I lift my soft drink for a sip but catch someone glaring at me so intensely I freeze. He looks away, then right back.
“Hey, be careful!” Audrey grabs the Dr Pepper from my hand. “You trying to get me wet? This cardigan ain’t cheap.”
“Good save, there, Audrey.” Trent tosses her a few napkins.
“Huh?” I say. How’d I spill that?
“Dude, you really need some sleep,” Trent says. “You’re losing your grip. Literally.”
I look back at the glaring guy, but he’s turned to his friends, talking like nothing happened.
“Sorry, Audrey.” I help sop up the last drops. “Listen, over by the column with the clock, who’s that guy? With the curly black hair and Saber Cats shirt?”
They turn to see. Trent shrugs.
“Oh, god.” Audrey rolls her eyes. “He’s in my AP history and is so annoying. He sits next to me, but all I know is he’s on the wrestling team and won’t shut up about it.”
“Wrestling? Well, he was just, like, staring through me. Did you see?”
“Nope,” Trent says with a mouthful of bean burrito. “Prob’ly just in awe of your new hair-hat.”
“People are staring at you, Adrian, so just drop it,” Audrey says, still dabbing at her sweater.
Right. Audrey and Trent may give me crap, but I can’t imagine having to fend for myself without them, not even among the geeky fanboys—the least alarming group here—all huddled at their table over there against the wall. I’m a sci-fi/fantasy fanboy myself, of course, but they’re a bit too geeky for me. I’m less fan and more creator. Besides, all they want to do is draw big tits on almost-clad babes shooting guns and crap. Not my world.
“Audrey,” I say, “if you had to go sit with another group here, right now, which table would you go to?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Why? You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?”
“No,” I say. “Just curious.”
She eyes me, then crosses her arms and surveys the room. “Since I don’t see a table of fellow glamorous, intelligent single ladies in here . . . I’d have to say I’d be with the teachers. Although maybe not that creepy
science teacher with the comb-over. Yeek.”
“Teachers?”
“You asked! And think about it,” she says. “That’s where you’d get the real scoop on this place.”
“C’mon,” Trent says. “You don’t care about all that bullshit.”
“Hey, it’s always good to know what’s truly going on. Fewer surprises that way.”
Trent swallows half a brownie, then says, “I’ll tell you what’s going on around here.” He shapes his black-nail-polished fingers into a big zero.
“Well, at least caffeine is going on now.” Audrey dramatically holds up her latte and takes a sip. Ever since the coffee bar appeared in the cafeteria this semester, she’s been downing lattes like it’s the sustenance of life itself.
I check out the staring Wrestler Guy again, but he’s focused on his friends. It must have been like Trent said. I tuck my phone in my backpack, then slip farther down in my chair. “How am I gonna tell Mom about this? After the last phone—”
Trent holds up a peace sign. “Two.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay okay. After the last two phones, she said this was it. And she doesn’t mess around.”
Audrey and Trent glance at each other. They know money trees don’t grow at my house.
The whole screen is cracked. Power button does nothing. “When I get home I’ll put it in a bowl of rice.”
“Say what?” Audrey says.
“Dude, that’s only if you get a phone wet,” Trent says, “which is one of the many hazards of toilet texting, I’m afraid.”
Audrey’s eyes pop. “Wow, that’s way TMI, there, Trent.”
He smiles. “I speak from experience.”
She turns her full body to face him. “Please. Never. Text. Me. Again.”
Great. I won’t be texting anyone again.
Trent eyes my untouched burrito. “Go for it,” I say. “And don’t look at me like that, Audrey. I’m not gonna faint. I’m just not hungry.” My stomach’s so knotted up it’s almost like I’m gonna puke, in fact.
She shakes her head. “I swear, a strong wind’s gonna come along one day and scoop up your skinny ass.”
I snort a little Dr Pepper through my nose.
“Oh,” Audrey says, “you can smile!”
High-pitched squeals bounce over from the drama kids’ table.
“There’s Kobe,” Trent says. “Looks okay from here.”
Where? Oh, good. He seems to be unscathed, and lucky . . . for now. The drama kids are howling at whatever tidbit Kobe is revealing as he holds court. Other than him, I don’t know the names of any of the kids at that table. Even though there are a couple guys, it’s mostly girls, all making asses of themselves. Whatever.
With jazz hands in the air (not kidding), Kobe belts out some song about everything coming up roses as one of the girls falls out of her seat onto the floor. The cafeteria floor! Repulsive. The whole room turns for a second, and then the hoots and slurs commence, which just make Kobe go up an octave.
Not only is he the sole out gay kid I know of, but he’s also so cliché gay it’s no wonder there’s a huge freakin’ target on his back.
It’s amazing he doesn’t seem to care after what happened to that guy a couple years ago. I was just a freshman so didn’t have any classes with him, but this junior came out as gay to his whole English class. Then it began: the names, the horrible crap they spread online and scrawled on his locker, and worse. One day after school he got jumped—they broke his arm in three places. He never came back to school. They said it was a couple seniors who did it, but no one got punished.
People don’t talk about it anymore, like it never happened.
Oh, god, is Kobe actually tap-dancing now?
“Behold,” I say to Audrey and Trent. “Yet another reason I’m not gay.”
Trent stares at the dramatics. “Words of wisdom, my friend. Words of wisdom. Even though you are.”
Audrey points at Trent’s face. “Crazy.” Then me. “Super-crazy.” Then herself. “Outta here.” She stands. “I’ve got a test on el imperfecto de subjuntivo next in español, and I gotta get there early.”
Trent nods. “Allow moi to el help-o you-o to el study-o.”
Audrey scoops up her purse, books, and tray in one swoop. “Oh, hell-o no-o, Señor Wack-o.”
I crack up.
She stops. “Ooh! I forgot. Adrian, I’m taking you to my girl Patricia—she’ll fix you up. I already texted her about your hair 911. And wipe that look off your face. She’s done men’s hair before. Least I think. Appointment scheduled for six p.m. Today. I’m picking you up.”
“What?” Now I may really throw up.
“You’re welcome.” She strides away.
From Trent’s expression, I must be extra pale at this news. “That’ll be a treat,” he says.
I flip up my hood and pull the cord around my face. Tight. Then I notice the staring Wrestler Guy leaving the cafeteria, peering right at me.
ETERNALISM IS A PHILOSOPHICAL APPROACH to exploring the relative pace of time or, to be specific, in what circumstances it moves fast versus slow. Time is, indeed, relative. I know this, not only due to my Slaughterhouse-Five essay last year, but because when you hack up your own hair, have your sole means of mobile communication destroyed in redneck crossfire, and have scary guys staring at you all day, each minute feels like a freakin’ eternity.
You’d think being home would be a relief, but Mom works her night job at the Holiday Inn desk tonight so it’s up to me to prep Dad’s dinner. Because of when he takes his meds, he has to eat early, which is why I’m here chopping lettuce in the kitchen after school instead of drawing in my room.
As I attempt to open the utensil drawer, the handle pulls off again. Dad should at least be able to fix a freakin’ handle in his condition. I mean, he designed and built this whole kitchen, for god’s sake. It used to be nice.
I grab a screwdriver from the miscellaneous crap drawer and try to fix the handle myself. “Hey, Dad?” I call.
“Yup?” he yells from the living room, ESPN blaring.
“I got everything set. Salad and sandwich are all made and in the fridge. Whenever you want ’em.” I try to tighten the damn screws, but they’re both stripped.
He says something, but I can’t make it out over the TV.
“What?” I say as the stupid handle just slips off and clangs on the floor. “Oh, come on!” I slam the drawer shut.
“Huh?” he says.
Take a breath, Adrian. I close my eyes. “What was that, Dad?”
“What kind of dressing did you put on the salad?”
Now I have no way to open the damn drawer. I wedge the screwdriver between the cabinet and the drawer front and wiggle it around.
“Ranch!” I say.
“Ranch?” he says. “Oh, well.”
Really?
I grip the screwdriver and pry the drawer open. Maybe there are some screws in the garage I can use, but later. I just want to finish cleaning up and get to my drawing table.
“Hey, Ade?” Dad calls. I hate that nickname, but after a life of it at home, no choice. “Coors. D’ya mind?”
Mind? Let’s see, besides Dad Duty, what the hell else would I want to be doing right now? But like the trained robot I am, I already have my hand in the fridge. So he won’t holler for me again later, I bring two Coors and plop them down by his weekly meds container on the folding tray at his side. Hard to tell at this point where his body stops and the recliner begins.
He grunts but doesn’t take his eyes away from the armored hulks on the screen trying to brain-damage each other to get that little ball. Again, I marvel how I could be the same species as these people. Although I do like it when they slap each other’s butts. In super-tight pants. With those bulges.
“No! You’re so slow. Hustle, hustle!” he yells.
It’s been two and a half years since Dad’s car wreck. It wasn’t his fault and is beyond unfair. The crash broke his back. But after physical therapy ended
, he stopped trying, slowed down, and got bigger. It’s been only a couple years, but it feels like he’s been home “recovering” a lot longer than that.
It all sucks so much, more for him than anyone. I get that, of course. I know he didn’t ask for this.
But neither did Mom, having to work night and day for crap money.
And neither did I.
Focused on the game, he says, “Did ya see that? The ball was right there! That guy is completely blind. Blind!” He pops open a beer. “Thanks, son.” He doesn’t even glance at me.
I tape a BROKEN sign on the stupid drawer, finish up in the kitchen, then retreat to my room, followed by Harley Quinn.
I shut my door, go online, and scan for any new website comments. Nothing. It’s not like a ton of people stumble upon my site, but at this point some do check in, so there’s traffic.
But no one actually gets Graphite. No one. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering art imitates life. Or is it life imitates art? Either way. When I do find comments there are always way more negative ones than positive. Lots of ranting about what sucks, what they’d do different, what defies their narrow logic . . . the haters lecturing me on what a freaking superhero is supposed to be.
Of course, some are outraged that he’s gay and have to spew various versions of digital hate. Thank god for the gay geeks who at least think Graphite’s hot, although they seem bewildered too. Some say he doesn’t do anything, doesn’t kick anyone’s ass, doesn’t have sex, even that he’s not queer enough.
And forget the Renaissance part. Everyone’s all baffled why Graphite’s world is filled with Renaissance beauty and design. ’Cause I freakin’ like it and it’s cool. Okay, you hating Internet a-holes?
Graphite isn’t here to save the world, especially not for you. He’s here for me.
I know all the mainstream gay characters, scan all the queer fan forums, see a lot of other fanboy character creations . . . but gay or straight, it’s all about shootin’ and screwin’. Graphite’s about creating, not killing. I never got why superheroes need to destroy to make a difference.
At least Audrey and Trent understand Graphite’s world some, but that’s because I explain it to them. They like how I draw, but on their own, I bet they’d never look. And I have a whole bunch of drawings even they haven’t seen.