The Book of David by Anonymous Page B

5
English—First Period
    Mr. London, the drama teacher and choir director, posted the cast list for The Music Man yesterday right before lunch. The minute the bell rang in chemistry, Monica dragged me down the hall, practically running. The list was hanging on the bulletin boards outside of the choir room. We were the first ones there, and Monica started shrieking like a banshee. As she jumped up and down and was swarmed by half the cheerleading squad, I leaned in to read the list:
    Hillside High Fall Musical Cast List— The Music Man
    Harold Hill—Jon Statley
    Marian Paroo—Monica Weaver
    The whole cast was listed below that, but as I was reading, I felt somebody leaning over my shoulder to see the names. It had gotten crowded fast once the bell rang. People were jostling, and Monica was still jumping up and down, shrieking, but for some reason, I knew who it was.
    I just . . . knew . It was so weird. That’s never happened to me before.
    I turned my head slightly to the right for a glance, and Jon’s face was right there, his chin hovering over my shoulder. I hadn’t ever realized that he’s maybe an inch or so taller than I am. His face was really close to mine, and it sort of scared me. I turned my head to face the list again so my lips weren’t, like, an inch from his cheek, but I couldn’t really go anywhere because people were crowding around and knocking into us in their excitement. Somebody elbowed us, and I felt Jon put his hand on my back so he could catch his balance—but then he just kept it there.
    I don’t even know why I’m writing this down. Mrs. Harrison put on the board today that the topic was SOMETHING MEMORABLE , and I thought I’d write about Monica seeing her name on the cast list. I guess if I’m completely honest, her reaction wasn’t the most memorable part of that moment. How is Jon touching me the thing I remember the most in the last forty-eight hours?
    I can feel it all again—like it’s happening right this second. We are just standing there in a river of people, pinned in by all these bodies, eyes locked on that damn board. In the middle of the ruckus, the two of us just stood there, still—motionless—like boulders in rapids, people bouncing off of us, left and right. I stared straight ahead at the list, not really reading the words, his hand on my back. We stayed that way for what? Two, three seconds tops. It seemed like so much longer.
    I can still feel the heat of his palm where his fingers rested—just beneath my right shoulder blade.
    Finally I turned my head again and said, “You did it.”
    He glanced at me with a big smile, and I knew it was going to be okay between us. We hadn’t really talked this week—since that whole thing with Tyler at lunch on Monday and the post about the game. I saw him every morning in English, but he didn’t hang around to talk. He’d always jet out while I was helping Tyler juggle books and crutches.
    Tyler’s been sort of quiet since we talked at his place after Jon’s post went up, and I feel like I need to patch things up with him somehow. I’ve been helping him get from class to class a lot—making sure he’s got his books and crap. I just don’t want him to think . . .
    Shit.
    I mean . . . what? What don’t I want him to think?
    That I’m a fag?
    That I’m into Jon?
    What if both of those things are true? I don’t want my best friend to know the truth about me? I hate this limbo. After what Tyler said to me on Monday about things never being the same again, I’m pretty sure he knows. Or suspects.
    What would it be like if Tyler knew who I really was? What if he knew that yesterday when I stood in front of the cast list atthe water fountain and Jon put his hand on my back, my knees went weak like I’d been running line drills across the football field for a month?
    It was