Whole different thing.
We continued that way for the rest of our high school career. We’d socialize, and then one of us would give the signal, and we’d escape to a corner or one of our cars to talk about which boys we were attracted to. Later, we’d share which ones we thought we liked, and later still, which ones we thought we
loved.
Throughout the rest of high school, the most we were able to admit to ourselves was that we were bisexual, despite the fact that neither of us said even one thing about even one girl, even one time.
After the summer ended, the Mark Twain kids and I would talk on the phone once in a while. They were back to their underfunded public schools or art magnet programs; I was back among the coats and ties. But we were new people. We’d found the confidence that comes with finding your tribe. We’d send letters to one another—diary entries, really—with song and book recommendations. How had I never bought Kate Bush’s
Hounds of Love
? How had Simply Fred not tried that first Crowded House record?
That autumn, my attention returned to Jim, who became the first kid in our class to get his license. For his sixteenth birthday, his parents leased him a brand-new Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, and our young adulthood officially began. And the first Friday of his life as a driver, Jim stopped by my locker.
“Holmes.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t think I’m doing anything.”
“A few of us are gonna drive around. You wanna come?”
I felt like a sweepstakes winner.
Me?
“Um, yeah! Sure.” And he came and picked me up, and there were a few guys from our class in the car, and we just drove, because that was enough. I did an impression of the way the new French teacher said
“l’ouiseau,”
and my audience laughed. Even Jim laughed. I had a purpose and a new life, and a new friend on whom I had an enormous crush. I felt like that hotel maid in Joe Jackson’s “Steppin’ Out” video when she tries that dress on, just twirling and twirling and imagining her new life, and also tried on the spot to think of a more masculine thing to feel like.
In the winter of that year, Priory took a field trip to the local repertory theater to see
Steel Magnolias.
(I suppose we had to be exposed to women somehow.) It was one of those matinees where the entire audience is high school kids, which must be brutal on the performers. The parking lot was bright yellow with buses, and the theater was roaring with shouts and giggles.
And a few moments before the show began, I heard someone calling my name. Shrieking it, really. “DAAAAAAAVE!”
It was Simply Fred. His sophomore class was here, too. He waved, a few inches of black fabric flapping past his hands, like an inflatable man outside a car dealership. “HIIIII!”
Everyone looked at him. And then everyone looked at me.
Everyone.
“Hi, Simp…Hi, Fred—” I felt my face heat up. “…erick.”
It may have been fine for him to go back to school and be who he’d been that summer, but the same wasn’t true for me.
We looked at each other for what felt like a minute.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah!” I said. “Yeah, you too.”
Me telling him “Not here,” him telling me “I’m sorry,” neither of us saying words.
He walked away. Slower this time.
I don’t remember who said, “Is that your boyfriend, Holmes?” first, but within seconds it was nearly everyone, and I was spared only by the dimming of the lights.
I was in danger.
And then the curtain went up and we watched a play about a bunch of sassy women in a southern hair salon.
On the line to get back onto the bus, Ned pulled me aside. “Thank God he didn’t see me. Are you okay?” I wasn’t sure whether I was.
American pop culture wanted me to be a grown man. I was still a little boy.
So let’s say the kid in your class whom you idolize suddenly becomes one of your friends. It doesn’t have to be weird and painful, it can
We continued that way for the rest of our high school career. We’d socialize, and then one of us would give the signal, and we’d escape to a corner or one of our cars to talk about which boys we were attracted to. Later, we’d share which ones we thought we liked, and later still, which ones we thought we
loved.
Throughout the rest of high school, the most we were able to admit to ourselves was that we were bisexual, despite the fact that neither of us said even one thing about even one girl, even one time.
After the summer ended, the Mark Twain kids and I would talk on the phone once in a while. They were back to their underfunded public schools or art magnet programs; I was back among the coats and ties. But we were new people. We’d found the confidence that comes with finding your tribe. We’d send letters to one another—diary entries, really—with song and book recommendations. How had I never bought Kate Bush’s
Hounds of Love
? How had Simply Fred not tried that first Crowded House record?
That autumn, my attention returned to Jim, who became the first kid in our class to get his license. For his sixteenth birthday, his parents leased him a brand-new Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, and our young adulthood officially began. And the first Friday of his life as a driver, Jim stopped by my locker.
“Holmes.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t think I’m doing anything.”
“A few of us are gonna drive around. You wanna come?”
I felt like a sweepstakes winner.
Me?
“Um, yeah! Sure.” And he came and picked me up, and there were a few guys from our class in the car, and we just drove, because that was enough. I did an impression of the way the new French teacher said
“l’ouiseau,”
and my audience laughed. Even Jim laughed. I had a purpose and a new life, and a new friend on whom I had an enormous crush. I felt like that hotel maid in Joe Jackson’s “Steppin’ Out” video when she tries that dress on, just twirling and twirling and imagining her new life, and also tried on the spot to think of a more masculine thing to feel like.
In the winter of that year, Priory took a field trip to the local repertory theater to see
Steel Magnolias.
(I suppose we had to be exposed to women somehow.) It was one of those matinees where the entire audience is high school kids, which must be brutal on the performers. The parking lot was bright yellow with buses, and the theater was roaring with shouts and giggles.
And a few moments before the show began, I heard someone calling my name. Shrieking it, really. “DAAAAAAAVE!”
It was Simply Fred. His sophomore class was here, too. He waved, a few inches of black fabric flapping past his hands, like an inflatable man outside a car dealership. “HIIIII!”
Everyone looked at him. And then everyone looked at me.
Everyone.
“Hi, Simp…Hi, Fred—” I felt my face heat up. “…erick.”
It may have been fine for him to go back to school and be who he’d been that summer, but the same wasn’t true for me.
We looked at each other for what felt like a minute.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah!” I said. “Yeah, you too.”
Me telling him “Not here,” him telling me “I’m sorry,” neither of us saying words.
He walked away. Slower this time.
I don’t remember who said, “Is that your boyfriend, Holmes?” first, but within seconds it was nearly everyone, and I was spared only by the dimming of the lights.
I was in danger.
And then the curtain went up and we watched a play about a bunch of sassy women in a southern hair salon.
On the line to get back onto the bus, Ned pulled me aside. “Thank God he didn’t see me. Are you okay?” I wasn’t sure whether I was.
American pop culture wanted me to be a grown man. I was still a little boy.
So let’s say the kid in your class whom you idolize suddenly becomes one of your friends. It doesn’t have to be weird and painful, it can
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