Dear Tracy Dolan,
Every gay teenager has a different strategy for surviving adolescence. Some join the choir, some write or paint, some play sports, some try to make themselves invisible. And some, like me, make themselves as visible as possible.
You were the first girl I pretended to have a crush on so no one would know I was gay. I didn’t intend for it to happen, for it to be you, for it to be so easy. But it did, and it was.
I want to tell you how it happened. In another world, we could have been friends. In this one, you’re the girl who told me, on the last day of school, to go fuck myself. And I’m the guy who deserved it.
She had red cheeks, a cheerleader’s skirt and a big triangle smile. Her arms and legs were spread out like she was making a letter in the air, though she wasn’t moving. She had three spindly fingers on each hand, no toes, no shoes, and a weak, crooked neck.
“What are you drawing?” Trevor Schmidt said from behind me. I had my notebook open to the inside cover. I had given her a sun-blonde ponytail and was drawing wavy yellow lines around it.
We were sitting in staggered rows, in those cage-like middle school desks. Trevor often made comments like this — what are you writing, what page are you on, etc. — because this arrangement gave him a perfect diagonal view of my desk, and because he was an asshole.
We were three years into middle school, two months into our eighth grade year, and 30 seconds until Mr. Farina started his lecture.
“Huh? Nothing,” I said. My forearm wasn’t big enough to cover up the entire sketch, so I moved it over her skirt.
Trevor leaned forward over his desk to get a better look. His hair, long and parted down the middle like the boys on Home Improvement, hung in his face. This was Seattle in 1995, so he was probably wearing a flannel shirt, maybe a No Fear T-shirt underneath, and saggy Kris Kross jeans.
But I had never really noticed what Trevor wore. Mostly what I noticed about him was that sometimes, when standing, he would lift his shirt a little and rub the tuft of hair just above his belt buckle. I found this utterly captivating, and for nearly two years told myself I was jealous of his flat, soccer-toned stomach. Between seventh and eighth grade, I realized that I was jealous of the hand rubbing it.
“Is that Tracy Dolan?” he said, craning. I remember a silver cross dangling from his neck, but I may have edited that into this memory, to give him some external totem of the bully he was inside. Two years earlier, he tripped me — actually fucking tripped me! — as I was running to class. I got a bloody nose and became a school-wide comedy event for the rest of the week. I never forgot that, and I’m certain he did instantly.
“It’s just a doodle,” I lied. I had spent hours on it, cross-legged, colored pencils in a pile next to me. Not that I was good at drawing, or even enjoyed it, but hunching over your notebook is a trick introverts have passed down through the generations for disappearing when you’re supposed to be socializing.
Mr. Farina held up his spread left hand and started counting the fingers down, his way of telling us he was about to start talking.
“Why are you drawing Tracy Dolan on your notebook?” Trevor said.
Who the hell, I thought as Mr. Farina started talking, is Tracy Dolan?
You were from Montana, that much I knew, and you had the blondest hair I had ever seen. You wore it the same every day, long bangs and a ponytail, and from the back it practically threw off sparks.
I don’t actually remember meeting you, sorry about that. As boys had slowly, then suddenly, rearranged themselves under the stage lights of my attention, girls had receded into the backdrop. You were just there one day, and it only occurred to me later that you hadn’t been before.
At the time, I only knew your hair and your smile. Well, not the smile really, more its limits. You never smiled to be polite, or to be liked, or because you didn’t know what to say. You smiled when you meant it, and stopped immediately when you didn’t.
But the most amazing thing about you wasn’t your hair or your smile. It was your twin brother Mark, who was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.
I noticed him for the first time in history, on the first day of class. The teacher had arranged the desks in a U, facing inward. “It’s a Socratic seminar,” she told us as she Sharpied her name on the overhead. I had taken a seat at the front.
At the back, in the bend of the U, was your brother, whom I had never seen before. He was as blonde as you, but skinnier, more restless. He reminded me of the poplars we had in our backyard, which lost their leaves in November and rattled in the wind until March. Every time I looked at him, he was moving: bouncing his leg, spinning his pencil, flicking his eyes between ceiling tiles. Later I would learn that this this was a symptom of being a born athlete, one of those people who instantly, effortlessly masters every sport they’ve ever tried.
He was sitting as far from the front of the class as possible. This meant that staring at him — which I wanted to do for the entire class period, followed by the rest of my life — meant I had to face away from the teacher.
“The 20th century,” Ms. Dalton was telling 29 faces and the back of my head, “has seen a growing recognition of freedom and liberty all over the …. Yes?”
He had his hand up.
“What’s your name?” Ms. Dalton asked.
“Mark,” he said. It’s perfect! I thought meaninglessly. “What do you mean ‘liberty’?”
“That’s an interesting question, Mark,” Ms. Dalton said. She had written “Miss D” on the overhead. We called her “Misty” all semester, and were seldom corrected. “What does it mean to you?”
Mark looked confused. “No,” he said, bouncing his pencil eraser on his desk like a drumroll. “Like, what does the actual word mean?”
“Oh,” Ms. Dalton said, visibly deflating as a philosophical question was rendered a logistical one. “It means freedom, basically.”
“Thanks!” Mark said.
“Yeah, it’s a technical term meaning ‘fucking retard,’” my friend Tom murmured next to me.
“Shhh, he seems nice!” I said, lost somewhere in that trembling sparkle of blond hair.
I could have taken the sketch off my notebook, but I didn’t. A week later in Mr. Farina’s class, I deliberately left it open to the cover page, and was slightly disappointed that Trevor, tired or possibly hung over under a baseball cap, failed to notice it.
I had known I was gay for at least a year. There were signs before middle school — I’m standing contraposto in every family photo from 1988 onwards — but I didn’t admit it to myself until I read Jean M. Auel’s Plain of Passage in the summer between sixth and seventh grade.
I started reading Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear series when I was 11 and still not ready to admit the blatant fact of my homosexuality. Yes, I had been transfixed by the German men’s swim team in the 1992 Olympics. Yes, I had asked for a Barbie Dream House for Christmas for the last three years — and had locked myself in the bathroom a la Diana Ross upon not receiving it.
But these were just quirks, I told myself. Hadn’t I also purchased the (mostly female) Marvel Comics swimsuit edition? Hadn’t I traced the swimsuited bodies of Jean Grey and Psylocke with a pencil and put them on my wall? No gay kid would do that.
Jondalar first appears in the second book of the Clan of the Cave Bear series. He is Early Man, loincloth and everything, and he takes the heroine, Ayla, as his mate.
Plains of Passage is book three. I had started it when I was 12. I remember lying on my stomach, reading a scene in which Jondalar cuts wood for the evening fire. His ropy arms lifting the axe, his hips putting power into his swing, the sweat dripping from his brow.
Why do I have a boner? I thought.
And then, in that actual instant, I knew I was gay. I don’t know why that did it, but it did. Whenever I recall it, I hear an actual ding! In the room, like the microwave telling me my Hot Pocket is ready. Ding! You’re gay!
… Now what?
In the week since Trevor noticed the sketch, I had discovered that you and I had two classes together.
“Tracy Dolan?” Tom said. “She’s the girl who always has her hand up in the back of Mr. Fisher’s class.”
“Oh, her?” I said.
“She’s from Montana. Her brother is that halfwit Mark kid in Misty’s class.”
Jondalar! I tried not to noticeably react.
“Who? … Oh right, the twitchy dude.” With hair like the sun, was how I wanted to finish the sentence, but I stopped.
“They’re twins,” Tom said.
Being openly gay at Nathan Eckstein Middle School in 1995 was not an option. The closest thing we ever had to a homosexual was Gaylord Crestbotham, and he wasn’t even gay, just unfortunately named. He tried to go by William, his middle name, when he came to Eckstein in sixth grade, but barely a month went by before someone saw his real name on a permission slip and started telling everyone.
They bullied him so severely he snapped one day in the lunch line. Someone cut in front of him with a shove and a “move, faggot,” and he took his tennis racquet out of his gym bag, wailed on the guy for a few minutes, and got expelled.
I had seen this from my lunch table, eating by myself. A month later, I asked Ms. Stone, the only teacher I had seen in the lunchroom that day, if she knew what had happened to him.
“What, to Gaylord?” she said.
“William,” I said. “Did he go to a private school or something”
“There’s no private school where it’s okay to assault someone for no reason,” she said.
I was going to need a survival strategy.
“So what’s the deal with you and Mark Dolan?” Tom asked me as we played Super Mario World at my house.
It was two Fridays since the sketch incident, and like every Friday, Tom was staying over.
Also like every Friday, we had bought $20 worth of weed from my brother (representing a street value of about $3.50), smoked it out of an apple in my garage, and settled 18 inches in front of the TV in my basement until sunrise.
“What do you mean?” I asked. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
In the two months since the first day of school, Mark had gone from “new kid” to “cool kid” in record time, and my increasingly elaborate attempts to bump into him were thwarted by a growing throng of admirers.
“You’re always talking to him after class,” Tom said. “And you keep inviting him to stuff, and he never comes. Why are you so obsessed with him?”
Tom was my only friend. I had spent sixth grade bullied (long hair, sweatpants, headgear), seventh grade invisible (introvert, straight A’s, Steven King novels at lunch) and eighth grade, so far, with Tom.
I met him through our neighborhood soccer team over the summer, and when school started in the fall, I suddenly had a companion for period breaks, lunches and bus rides home. Tom was the difference between staring at my shoes when I walked to class and seeing where I was going.
“Mark just moved here, I just thought he might want to make some friends,” I said.
“New friends? Dude, he’s at Sarah Tanaka’s party in Laurelhurst right now,” Tom said.
We were taking turns on Super Mario World, and I looked at Tom as he played. He had bony hands and a kind of clench in his face, concentrating on the screen. After we saw Desperado, he had decided to grow his hair long like Antonio Banderas, but he was only about halfway there.
Nine years later, when I told Tom I was gay and had kept this from him for nearly a decade, he didn’t say anything — he just gave me a hug. He’s still the only straight guy who ever did that.
But then was not now. Then was 1995, and we were 14, and our school was a great big battleship ferrying 1,400 souls to maturity, a journey our principal would later tell us, in our miniature graduation gowns, was “the hardest three years of your life.”
Hugs, understanding, save that shit for after the storm. Right now, you need to keep from capsizing.
“So what’s the deal, dude?” Tom asked, looking at me now.
“I’m really into his sister,” I said.
It was the Monday after Thanksgiving. Ms. Hughes, our math teacher, stood at the front of the class and read out our seating assignments. The class huddled by the door.
“Table three,” she was saying. “Frank Robbins and Diane Gregg.”
A week after my conversation with Tom, a girl in biology class saw me looking out the window. “Are you looking for Tracy Dolan out there?” she giggled. The rest of her table leaned in for backstory. Tom had told people, and people had told people.
It was working. I tried to look mortified.
A week after that, Trevor Schmidt slapped my shoulder from behind. “I fucking knew it!”
I pretended not to know what he was talking about, knowing that each “nuh uh!” just kindled more accusations.
“I’m with you, dude,” Trevor said. “You don’t see her because she’s all quiet and shit. But get her out from under all that polar fleece, and she’s got a body like Sharon Stone.”
I had never been more proud of myself. I decided to notice you so no one would notice me, and now I was not only assumed straight, but assumed worthy of conversation. I just had to keep broadcasting straightness loud enough to drown out the gay humming underneath.
Despite having two classes together, I had still barely met you. Ms. Hughes’s class was divided into 15 tables, each with two students. She had already changed the seating arrangement twice. We couldn’t tell if this was a deliberate strategy on her part — obedience through churn — or if she just couldn’t decide how she’d like us arranged. Each time, you and I had ended up at different ends of the class.
“Table six,” she was saying as we waited near the door, “Michael Hobbes and Tracy Dolan.”
The class, as one, made a kind of awwwww sound, like the studio audience on Full House.
Fuck. I looked down at the floor.
“Quiet!” Ms. Hughes said as we walked to our desk. Even she probably knew about my fake crush on you by then.
We sat down. Ms. Hughes was assigning the rest of the desks. My cheeks were as red as yours were in the sketches I had made of you. I kept my notebook closed and my hand on top of it.
“You’re Mike, right?” you said.
“Yeah,” I said. I’m a monster.
“You’re a TA for jazz band, right?”
“Were you at the concert at Roosevelt last week? It was amazing,” you said.
I looked at you, and you were holding out a pack of M&Ms. Was it possible no one had told you?
“Sure, thanks.” I took one.
“Are you from here?”
“Yeah, born and raised.”
“I’m from Montana, we don’t have M&Ms there.”
“No, idiot.” You smiled, and I smiled back.
“So,” Mark Dolan said. “What are we doing tomorrow?”
It was spring outside, not that we could tell from Mark’s basement. He was holding a ping pong paddle, swaying back and forth, looking at me, the room, the table, his shoes, the table again. Sometimes between points he balanced the paddle on this finger like a sword. Other times he rubbed his stomach and I could see a little of it. After long rallies, he lifted it to wipe his brow. We played ping pong a lot.
Pretending to like girls — specific girls — specific girls I had classes with — had been more successful than I had expected. From who’s that guy?, I had risen in rank to the guy who has a crush on Tracy Dolan, and onward to the guy who has a crush on everyone.
Talking about girls, it turns out, is a great way to make friends with guys. It’s an opening line, a time-killer, a narrative, a joke factory. Like all great conversation topics, it’s a way of talking about yourself while pretending not to. I started watching mafia movies on weekends for research.
“Damn, Sara Kreshki looks good cleaned up” I would tell Tom Monday morning.
“Her and Teresa Singer are at the top of my list,” Trevor Schmidt would say as Farina counted down. “The filling-out list.”
As the drawings on my notebook went from stick figure to realistic, from Dr. Seuss to Maxim, I found myself with less time alone between classes to draw them.
“One more game,” I told Mark.
The social epicenter of Nathan Eckstein Middle School was the foyer just inside the main entrance. During classes, silent, it was a blank crescent of tiles with curved stairways on each side, lit by Seattle’s meager daylight.
Before and after school, though, it was a ballroom, heaving with the din of students forming and unforming in clusters, backpacks in piles, snippets of music playing from unseen speakers.
Before the sketch, before you, I moved through the foyer mornings and afternoons like a virus without a host, following the wall, reaching for the exit. I arrived in an empty classroom, opened my textbook, wrote my name and the date at the top of a sheet of paper, put down my pencil and waited for class to begin. Why did we need 30 minutes between the buses arriving and classes starting?
Time goes by faster as a participant than a spectator, and since the sketch, since you, 30 minutes wasn’t enough. Now my walk to class zigzagged, clustered and unclustered, paused to test and tweak observations I had rehearsed.
Suddenly, one day Mark was there. I was telling Trevor and two other guys about The Last Seduction, which I had seen over the weekend and had decided would provide me with conversation material through at least Wednesday.
“That sounds awesome,” Mark said.
“I was gonna see it again this weekend,” I said. “We should go.”
I meant me and Mark, but Trevor thought I meant us. “Yeah we should,” he said.
Over the next three months, my school persona began to colonize my evenings and weekends. The clusters that formed in the foyer now formed over coffee, strip-mall teriyaki, Saturday matinees, Sunday capture-the-flag.
“I live pretty close,” Mark said after school one day in March. “We should go to my house.”
All winter I had watched Mark, looking for any sign that he carried a secret like mine. I watched him listen, I watched him talk, I watched him watch me and watch others. So far, my four-month investigation had turned up no evidence whatsoever.
But now he was inviting me over. Just me! You had joined jazz band, so you weren’t home, and your parents worked til at least 6:00.
I made my face appear to deliberate. “What, today?” I said.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Mark said.
Like Ayla gathering her stone tools into her oxskin tunic, I shoved my textbooks into my backpack, slammed my locker, and set out with Mark down the hill from Eckstein, across 35th St., and up the hill to his house.
That was March, now it was May, and Mark and I did this two or three times a week, sometimes with Trevor, sometimes with other clustermates. Once I brought Tom, who went through the afternoon like a tourist participating in a bizarre indigenous ceremony.
Every afternoon, the routine was the same as the first time. We walked up the hill to Mark’s house and let ourselves in the back door. I turned on MTV and threw the remote on the couch, then stood across the kitchen island as Mark got food out of the cupboards.
My parents had allergies and read health magazines, so Mark’s house was the only place I was allowed to eat frozen pizza. Mark took them out of the box and put them onto little silver trays for the microwave. While they rotated, he took out the blender, a quart of ice cream, a gallon of milk, and whichever bottle in his parents’ liquor cabinet was fullest.
Like Ayla and Jondalar, we took whatever we could forage. Some days it was strawberry ice cream and Kahlua, others cookie dough and scotch. They were all equally terrible, but to us, they tasted like adulthood, rebellion. We drank them out of martini glasses.
Then, feeling full and disinfected, we drifted downstairs to play ping pong until Mark’s parents came home, when I left, breathing downwards.
On that day in May, we had found a zip-lock bag of Oreos and three-quarters of a bottle of champagne in the fridge. Mark aimed the cork at me and popped it, but the bottle must have been at least a week old, and the cork fell flaccidly to the floor.
“Don’t worry, Mark, it happens to everyone,” I said, a premature-ejaculation joke I had heard on a sitcom that neither Mark nor I understood. He smiled anyway, poured half the bottle of champagne and the Oreos into the blender. He scraped a huge chunk of mocha chip, your favorite, on top.
I had daydreamed that on one of these tipsy afternoons, Mark would make the milkshake a little too strong, look at me over the ping pong table, lean forward a little.
“Mike?” he would say.
“Mark,” I would reply, putting down my paddle, knowing where this was going.
“Do you ever feel … different?” His eyes would be moist now, pleading.
I wouldn’t say anything, just walk to the other side of the table and embrace him. He would tell me everything, the desires inside him he couldn’t control, how he had tied them up, chained them down, vaulted them in, how they were too strong, he couldn’t control them anymore. In my arms, he would finally be still.
Today was the 19th or 20th time this hadn’t happened, and I was beginning to lose hope. As far as I could tell, the only desires animating Mark were winning at ping pong, shouting Chris Farley quotes at me from across the table, and speculating about which girls liked him.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” I asked.
“Lara Farquhar is going to some high school kegger,” Mark said. Lara rode my bus, and Mark had been bugging me to talk to her about him. I was, not surprisingly, reluctant to do so.
“She has tits like the balloons over the Datsun dealership on Aurora,” I said, timing the joke right as I hit the ball to his backhand. He laughed and hit the ball too hard, and it ricocheted off the ceiling.
“That’s game, bitch,” I said, glad for the opportunity to end this conversation before it began. I put the paddle down. “Your folks are gonna be home in like five minutes ago” — a joke I had stolen from MadTV. “I’d better bounce.”
“You gotta admit, she’s hot, man,” he said as we walked up the concrete steps. He ducked to avoid the low ceiling. I didn’t have to.
“You haven’t seen her on the bus, dude,” I said. “When she sits at the back, it takes two of the Vietnamese kids just to hold her tits down.” Jesus Christ, this was me in action.
As we rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, I could see that the TV had been switched to CNN. You were sitting on the couch, eating the rest of the Oreos, the bag on your lap.
It had been eight months since I came out as a crush-on-you haver. Mark must have known, but he never asked me about it, and I never said anything. Sometimes I dreamed that his lack of interest was premeditated, deliberate. He wasn’t like me, sure, but maybe he knew my secret, could hear the hum of what I was underneath the megaphone of what I wanted to be. “He understands me,” I told myself, “we’re connected.”
Either that or he just didn’t want to hear one of his buddies talk about nailing his sister.
From the living room, you looked over toward the noise. Your eyes didn’t meet mine, didn’t even see me. I was used to this.
“Oh, hey Tracy!” Your brother said from behind me.
“Did you and this asshole eat all the mocha chip?” you said.
We sat together from Thanksgiving until winter break. We shared homework and M&Ms, the two highest grades in the class right next to each other. We were both the kind of good-at-math that didn’t have to work very hard. Hughes told us the concept, we got it, we filled in the worksheets. Neither of us understood why the other students had so many questions, or why it took a whole period to explain imaginary numbers or negative square roots. We were done with our worksheets by the time everyone else started.
Sometimes you read your novel under the table as everyone else worked,–Tom Clancy or Dean Koontz, a different one each week. You wanted to be a doctor, and you were already ranking medical schools on their proximity to mountains so you could keep skiing on weekends. For undergrad, you would go to an all-girls school, you had decided — probably Vassar.
“How come?” I asked.
“I want to work,” you said. “Not deal with boy-nonsense all day.”
“Good thing there’s no such thing as girl-nonsense,” I said.
You smiled. “Whatever, just because you think everyone should go to public school.”
One period later, in Mr. Farina’s class, I told Trevor, “You know what Tracy told me today dude?”
“What?” he said, not looking up.
“She’s trying to go to an all-girls school.”
‘For high school?’ His head was up now, I could see his eyes under his baseball hat.
“Yeah, high school,” I lied. Clarification on the particulars would only be a distraction. “She said she liked the way the uniforms fit.”
“She did not say that,” Trevor said.
“Yes she did, she just told me in Hughes’s class,” I said.
“She is a slut, guy,” Trevor said.
And that was how it was. You and I killed time in Ms. Hughes’s class with books and music, hobbies and plans for the future. Then, between second and third period, I retroactively trolled our conversations for material I could refine and distort, bulletins for my new friends. I even told them we went to see While You Were Sleeping together.
“She asked me to go, I was powerless to resist.” Telling lies was as easy as math worksheets — just learn the rule, find the blanks and fill them in.
And then it was over. The first day back from winter break, huddled by the door in Ms. Hughes’s class again, I wished you a happy new year.
“Okay,” you said, cold as Yellowstone, and moved to the other side of the huddle.
I was assigned to sit with Ben Neill, one of my morning and afternoon clustermates.
“Not next to Tracy anymore, huh?” he asked. “I bet that would hurt if you weren’t such a homo.”
“You’re just saying that because your mom likes it from the back,” I said reflexively. Someone told her, I thought. But who, and how much?
That was January — before your brother invited me over, before I made up crushes on Nicole Grant and Gina Lasky, before a late-spring faux fixation on Laura Gilchrist was, mortifyingly, reciprocated and I had to fake mono to get out of it.
The day after we saw you in your living room, I asked your brother why you hated me so much.
“She thinks you’re a pervert,” Mark said, balancing the ping pong paddle on his finger. “Everyone kind of thinks that.”
At the time, appallingly, I considered this a triumph. Perverts are not gaylords. I was safe.
“What did I ever do to her though?” I asked.
“Apparently, you said you wanted her to wrap her thighs around you like a python. Because she has big thighs from skiing, I guess? I don’t really get it.”
Had I said that? Shit, it sounded like me.
“Who told her?”
“Trevor,” he said. “He thinks it’s hilarious how she won’t talk to you anymore.”
This should not have surprised me. Trevor had revealed himself to be as much of a bully as a friend than as an enemy. Two years ago, he had tormented me to impress eighth graders, and now he tormented sixth graders to impress me.
Once, in the cafeteria, Trevor pulled down Alec Pentieff’s pants while he was carrying his lunch tray, and he had to shuffle 20 feet with his pants at his ankles before he could pull them up again. I made a show of laughing — Christ, did we high-five? — but I felt sick to my stomach the rest of the day.
Everywhere I looked, the consequences of my survival strategy were piling up. After I canceled our smoke-and-Super Mario Fridays three times in a row, Tom stopped assuming them, and now we walked past each other like strangers. Girls I had liked — actually liked, like, as people — stopped talking to me because I had publicly appreciated their breasts, their asses or, in one case, their “haunches.” Alec Pentioff, who rode my bus and whose parents knew mine from church, never looked at me again.
Every time, it came as a surprise. “Don’t you know this isn’t really me?” I wanted to shout. “Just because I’m doing this doesn’t mean I’m the kind of person who does.”
I wish I could tell you, “I learned my lesson, the very next day, I came out of the closet, I never lied again.”
But I didn’t. I kept it up this façade all through high school.
When I finally came out, on the night of high school graduation, in the Denny’s on Lake City Way, my friends told me “I never would have guessed,” and I received it as a compliment. Only later did I realize that there’s no such thing as hiding who you are, there’s only becoming someone else.
I remember you because you were the fork in the road. I could have sat next to you, just sat, just listened and spoken, just kept our conversations in that little rectangle where they began. I could have thrown away that sketch.
But I didn’t. The last time I saw you was the final day of eighth grade, an afternoon so bright it steamed the rain on the pavement. We ran into each other between the cluster of portables and the school building. I was heading in, you were coming out.
“Hey Tracy,” I said. You nodded and kept walking.
“Hey,” I said again. “Tracy? Hey, Tracy!”
“What, Mike?” You stopped. “What is it?”
It was the first time I had seen you without an audience since December. Even then, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, that it wasn’t me who said that about you, but someone else, someone mean.
I wanted to tell you that you had beaten me on Ms. Hughes’s final by one point and I was proud of you. That your brother turned out to be a nice guy, maybe even a friend. That the University of Colorado has a great medical school. That every time I saw you hunched over your notebook during breaks, I wanted to come over to see what you were writing. That I had read two Tom Clancy books this year and they both sucked.
I could have said something decent, kind, something to make you remember who I was and forget what I’d become, could have asked you what you were doing this summer, if you were reading anything good lately.
But I didn’t. Instead, what I said was, “You look great in those shorts.”
Your brother and I were friends until junior year of high school, when we simultaneously decided to stop calling each other. I had discovered other boys, girls had discovered him, our nows replaced our thens.
Last month, he added me on Facebook. He sells high-end SUVs at a dealership in Kansas City. In nearly all of his pictures, he’s somewhere sunny, and smiling. His girlfriend appears in at least three-quarters of them, one arm around him, smiling just as wide. And in some of them, there’s you.
That’s how I found out that you went to Swarthmore, that you live in New York City, that you’re a veterinarian with a daughter and a husband and a Subaru Outback and a Netflix subscription. You’re grown up, lived in, but it’s definitely you. Your daughter has a ponytail, blonde as the sun.
On that afternoon on the last day of school, you turned away from me and walked across the concrete. You didn’t even look back. You just said, almost to yourself, “go fuck yourself,” as I stood there at the door.
I didn’t realize it then, and I wouldn’t for a long time, but I already had.
Hope you’re still smiling, and hope you still mean it,
Republished with permission from Rottin’ in Denmark.