freaks?”
“They’re not really freaks,” I said.
“Nah, it’s cool. But you’ve got to admit, they’re kind of freaky.”
“Okay, so am I freaky, then? Because I do these things. Well, I don’t do them. They’re more like feelings I have? And I’m wondering if maybe you have them, too.”
“What kind of feelings?” he asked.
Here was the line: if I crossed, I’d always be across.
I wanted to, but didn’t, say love . I said like . “I like you a lot … you know, in that way .”
Silence.
I doodled in the notebook, my palms greased with sweat.
Pat finally coughed and started talking, and the music I heard, the sweet resurrecting song, was: “Come on, Carl, of course you’re not a freak.”
How long did that harmony ring—a split second? Two seconds? Three? I would’ve sworn it was time enough for a room full of monkeys, typing randomly on as many keyboards, to compose all of Shakespeare’s love sonnets.
Then Pat said, “I’m flattered, I really am. I like you a lot as a friend. But I don’t, you know … not like that . Not at all.”
I lost my wind. I almost wished he’d screamed “fag” and slammed the phone. I wished he’d never speak to me again. Then I could hate him back for how he hated.
I spun the Rubik’s Cube, careless of pattern, letting entropydo its dirty work. Eventually Pat said bye, he’d see me Monday. I stared down at the notebook, which trembled in my hands, my words as illegible as monkey scrawl.
• • •
The next day, Sunday, a British sub sank the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano . News reports showed the ship engulfed in flames. Because of the oil that slicked from the wreckage, even the sea appeared to burn. Three hundred and sixty-eight Argentines drowned.
In school on Monday, kids gossiped about Keith Rosen’s having felt up Lisa Kelly. They traded crib notes for afternoon tests. Didn’t they know the world was on fire?
I stumbled through the halls, stupefied. At lunch someone asked what was wrong. What could I say? I’d seen my future; it crushed me. I shrugged and blamed my tears on allergies.
I considered skipping Spanish, but why bother? I couldn’t skip the rest of my life. I claimed a chair at the very back of the room.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t look, but I did. Pat was in his usual spot. He wore a Sex Wax shirt, his surfer shorts and Pumas with no socks. When he turned to me, I yanked my gaze away.
Señora Fuentes was slumped over her desk. Hair had pulled free from her bun, and skewed like a defunct engine’s wires. Wet mascara blotched around her eyes.
“I’m sure you’ve heard,” she began, barely audible. She rested a wobbly hand on her heart. “Forgive me,” she said, “today I can’t—” and sobs consumed the rest.
I had never seen a teacher cry. She wept and wept, beyond the point of shame. “My brothers!” she cried. “ Perdidos —everyone lost.”
I looked then at stoic Patricio, who stared out the window,away. Backlit by the sun, he was centered in a force field, golden-red as the highlights in his hair. He tapped a rhythm on the desk with his pencil—maybe the drumbeat of The Knack’s newest song? I could hear it, but I couldn’t guess the tune.
Confessions and Chocolate Brains
BY J ENNIFER R. H UBBARD
M Y FRIENDS WONDERED how I could fall in love with a guy who gave me chocolate brains for my birthday. The brains had peanut-butter filling, and Connor ordered them from a medical-supply company that also sold life-size skeleton models, eye charts, and T-shirts with the digestive system outlined on them. I liked the candy brains not only because I loved chocolate, but also because they symbolized the dream Connor and I had, that we were going to become doctors someday.
“It’s disgusting,” Annie said, eyeing the box when I offered her some. “You mean you bite into those things and stuff leaks out?”
“Not ‘stuff,’” I said. “Peanut butter.” I held out the box to Monica, who
“They’re not really freaks,” I said.
“Nah, it’s cool. But you’ve got to admit, they’re kind of freaky.”
“Okay, so am I freaky, then? Because I do these things. Well, I don’t do them. They’re more like feelings I have? And I’m wondering if maybe you have them, too.”
“What kind of feelings?” he asked.
Here was the line: if I crossed, I’d always be across.
I wanted to, but didn’t, say love . I said like . “I like you a lot … you know, in that way .”
Silence.
I doodled in the notebook, my palms greased with sweat.
Pat finally coughed and started talking, and the music I heard, the sweet resurrecting song, was: “Come on, Carl, of course you’re not a freak.”
How long did that harmony ring—a split second? Two seconds? Three? I would’ve sworn it was time enough for a room full of monkeys, typing randomly on as many keyboards, to compose all of Shakespeare’s love sonnets.
Then Pat said, “I’m flattered, I really am. I like you a lot as a friend. But I don’t, you know … not like that . Not at all.”
I lost my wind. I almost wished he’d screamed “fag” and slammed the phone. I wished he’d never speak to me again. Then I could hate him back for how he hated.
I spun the Rubik’s Cube, careless of pattern, letting entropydo its dirty work. Eventually Pat said bye, he’d see me Monday. I stared down at the notebook, which trembled in my hands, my words as illegible as monkey scrawl.
• • •
The next day, Sunday, a British sub sank the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano . News reports showed the ship engulfed in flames. Because of the oil that slicked from the wreckage, even the sea appeared to burn. Three hundred and sixty-eight Argentines drowned.
In school on Monday, kids gossiped about Keith Rosen’s having felt up Lisa Kelly. They traded crib notes for afternoon tests. Didn’t they know the world was on fire?
I stumbled through the halls, stupefied. At lunch someone asked what was wrong. What could I say? I’d seen my future; it crushed me. I shrugged and blamed my tears on allergies.
I considered skipping Spanish, but why bother? I couldn’t skip the rest of my life. I claimed a chair at the very back of the room.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t look, but I did. Pat was in his usual spot. He wore a Sex Wax shirt, his surfer shorts and Pumas with no socks. When he turned to me, I yanked my gaze away.
Señora Fuentes was slumped over her desk. Hair had pulled free from her bun, and skewed like a defunct engine’s wires. Wet mascara blotched around her eyes.
“I’m sure you’ve heard,” she began, barely audible. She rested a wobbly hand on her heart. “Forgive me,” she said, “today I can’t—” and sobs consumed the rest.
I had never seen a teacher cry. She wept and wept, beyond the point of shame. “My brothers!” she cried. “ Perdidos —everyone lost.”
I looked then at stoic Patricio, who stared out the window,away. Backlit by the sun, he was centered in a force field, golden-red as the highlights in his hair. He tapped a rhythm on the desk with his pencil—maybe the drumbeat of The Knack’s newest song? I could hear it, but I couldn’t guess the tune.
Confessions and Chocolate Brains
BY J ENNIFER R. H UBBARD
M Y FRIENDS WONDERED how I could fall in love with a guy who gave me chocolate brains for my birthday. The brains had peanut-butter filling, and Connor ordered them from a medical-supply company that also sold life-size skeleton models, eye charts, and T-shirts with the digestive system outlined on them. I liked the candy brains not only because I loved chocolate, but also because they symbolized the dream Connor and I had, that we were going to become doctors someday.
“It’s disgusting,” Annie said, eyeing the box when I offered her some. “You mean you bite into those things and stuff leaks out?”
“Not ‘stuff,’” I said. “Peanut butter.” I held out the box to Monica, who
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