No More Dead Kids Page 3
And like any family, I’d guess, some nights were bad and others nights were good. That night just happened to be a particularly bad night. I knew that tomorrow night would be equally miserable as my mom wallowed and my dad forgot why she was angry. I texted Dan, but he’s typically bad at replies, and when I did get one he told me he’d be busy the next night with his family going out to the Old Globe. So, I arrived at school Friday really not looking forward to going home afterward.
We were going over Aristotle’s Poetics in creative writing, Ken interjecting on occasion with an off-color or unsettling joke that was probably only funny to him, and that one girl answering every question ever so promptly and ever so presumptuously, but my mind was out the window. A flock of birds swooped down into the valley, and I wondered how many of them I’d seen twice. Mr. Darcy could tell I wasn’t quite there, and so he refrained from directing any questions my way during class. He dismissed class early into the break and asked me what was up as I packed my book bag.
“Nothing, I’m just tired,” the same excuse I always used when anyone asked me if I was alright. He saw right through the bullshit.
“If you want to talk, I’m here after school.”
. . . . .
After leaving my last class, I went to my locker, packed my books, hesitated, and then walked to Mr. Darcy’s room. I hesitated again outside the door, but hearing nothing, I entered. He greeted me warmly, told me to take a seat, and asked what was on my mind. I never open up, it’s safer that way, easier. I hate it when people worry about me, the last thing I’d want to be is a burden. Mr. Darcy was a friend, though, and he was reaching out like he’d reached out before. I knew he cared, and I mean actually cared, not just in that obligatory way a teacher cares, he actually cared. He asked me what was on my mind.
“I’m good,” I answered, “I’m just tired that’s all, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
And we talked about Aristotle, and books, and the summer, and the hikers that had just been released from prison in Iran. After about a half hour he said he had a faculty meeting he had to attend and left, and then I went to practice early and left late, passing my mom on the couch on my way to my room.
CHAPTER 5.
Why Generation
I GOT A FRIEND request on Facebook from Kenneth the week before Homecoming ‘Spirit Week.’ I really hoped he wasn’t going to try to ask me out. He smiled at me in class the next day. Okay, I know I’m overthinking it now, he probably just requested a lot of the people in the class. I said ‘hey’ to him the next day passing him in the hall, and on Friday he read aloud his latest confessional. This time it was a story, in the third person at least, about a high school freshman uncannily similar to him who was pining for and rejected by a girl that was his, the protagonist’s, friend. I got it, I’d been there, I’ve been that guy, especially back in freshman year. Since then I’ve kind of given up on that, I don’t really care all that much, it just seems like too much work. And honestly, why should I put myself out there if I’ll only face rejection again. And the thing is, a girl has every right to reject or accept anyone she wants, she doesn’t owe a guy anything just for being nice to her or caring about her; I didn’t get that back then though, and I don’t think Ken gets that now. It’s better to just not get in that mindset of being a selfish and horny teenage guy, or worse, a teenager in love.
I knew that his story meant he was looking to ask someone to homecoming, something I also haven’t participated in since freshman year. When class was dismissed, I got up quickly as I usually did, and headed for the door. I was about to pass Ken packing his backpack at his desk, but I stopped and asked him a casual “Hey, you good?”
“Yeah, I’m well, I’m just tired.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“I liked your narrative, by the way,” I said, “you did a good job with reading it to the class too.”
“Thank you,” he smiled.
I turned toward the door to continue my exit, but Ken called after me, “Hey, Alexander?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to Homecoming next Saturday?” he asked, oh shit.
“Are you asking me?”
“No, no, I’m just wondering.”
“I’m not, I don’t usually go to those things.”
“Oh, really?” he asked, as though the possibility of not going had never crossed his mind, and I guess as a freshman, going to a dance did seem like it was not only perfunctory to attend but mandatory to enjoy.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know I just sort of thought that everyone went.”
“I’ve never been a fan of school dances. But hey, you’re a freshman, have fun if you want.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“See ya,” I said, making my exit.
“See you next class, not next class, I mean, next time we have this class,” he seemed a little flustered.
“See you then, take it easy.”
. . . . .
Spirit week, and then Homecoming, the game and the dance, all came and went. Some of the seniors performed the unauthorized annual shenanigans of coving the opponent school’s campus with as much toilet paper as they could the night before the homecoming game (toilet paper, TP, for Twain Pacific). Spirit week was fun as always if a bit ridiculous, and then Dan and I got In-N-Out while a majority of the rest of the school went to the Alice in Wonderland themed dance, even if many of them didn’t want to. My go-to In-N-Out order is a Double-Double with grilled onions and Animal Fries (with extra spread, of course), but if I’m feeling particularly adventurous I’ll order the Double-Double with grilled onions and Animal Fries and a Flying Dutchman (just two grilled patties and melted cheese) and add that on top of the Animal Fries to make some pseudo-carne asada fries, In-N-Out style; but that’s a tangent.
Dan and I each hated dances for our own reasons, but really the same reason. I didn’t like them because I couldn’t be myself, I wasn’t the kind of person that enjoyed dances or dancing, especially without a date, I just felt self-conscious and alone; Dan didn’t like them because he couldn’t be himself either, because, even today, at such an accepting school in a such a progressive town, a guy like Dan couldn’t comfortably bring another guy to the dance, let alone find someone to go with from school in the first place, coming out last year was hard enough for him. We both waited for the freedom college would bring for each of us.
Monday morning, I was at my locker getting my books for Mr. Darcy’s class when Ken popped up from around the corner, startling me, “Oh, shit!” I blurted out involuntarily, “Oh, hey Ken, what’s up?”
“Are you headed to class?” he asked, rather flatly.
“I was about to.”
“Cool,” he said and started to walk in the direction of Darcy’s classroom. I surmised that he wanted me to follow, and I did. “I was wondering if you’d written anything for class yet?” he asked, and now I knew why he wanted to walk-and-talk.
“Not yet, I mean, he hasn’t even really given us the assignment for the week yet. Have you?”
“A bit, but I have some stuff I’d written before too, I was thinking I could try and get them into Literary Nightmare, it’s the High School’s literary magazine.”
“I know what it is.”
“Have you ever written for it?”
“Not since freshmen year.”
“I know, I read it, that poem you wrote, I liked it,” Ken answered bluntly, again, weird, “Did you not have anything in it these last two years because you couldn’t get in? Anyway, would you take a look at some of the things I wrote, let me know what you think?”
By this time, we had thankfully rea
ched the door to Darcy’s Classroom, “Sure,” I said, “I’ll let you know.”
Ken opened the door, “Great, thank you, I’ll send them to you on Facebook tonight, if you want.”
I was curious and didn’t want to be unkind, so I said ‘sure,’ and he messaged me his weighty tome that afternoon. It was an account of his first homecoming experience, and I wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be a short story or not because I didn’t think any of the names or events were even changed in the slightest. I wouldn’t bother to remember the names of his friends anyway though.
The Homecoming
Monday- And so it begins. This week is Homecoming spirit week, four days of dressing up and merriment to the theme of Alice in Wonderland. Today I dressed up as Lewis Carol.
Thursday- I asked Brooke, with a rose, one on her locker in the morning, and another, after taking a knee before her at the end of the school day; “Yes,” she said, “I will go to Homecoming with you.” An embrace and a goodbye before tomorrow. She understood we were going as friends.
Friday- I gave her a plate of cookies that my mom baked that morning, gluten-free especially for Brooke.
Saturday- After meticulous preparation, I was ready to go. To Beatrice’s home I went. I drove with Reuben, who lives nearby, and there, at the home, we met up with the rest of a larger group of friends. All the girls looked so nice. We soon sat down to dinner, where I made a toast to Beatrice, and to Brooke, just because.
Before the dinner, Brooke’s father approached me and said, “Kenneth, so I hear you asked my daughter to homecoming,”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
He continued, “You know Ken, tell Brookey that I started to tell you puns,” I cocked my head at the odd introduction into the family circle, “she’ll get a real kick out of it.” He finished.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir… and, sir… it’s... an honor, sir.” And that was just about it. We then left the home in a caravan of vehicles, and off to school we went.
At the dance, the once gym had been transformed into Wonderland and was pulsating with the heavy bass of music. I tried to convince Brooke to dance, and she danced more than she ever had since I had known her, which still was not much. For most of the night though, she just sat outside, with Carl, and sometimes others who did not care too much for the whole ‘homecoming dance’ thing but came anyway, that was mainly the group that sat outside, them and the smokers. Outside, in the cool of the night, sitting on the benches outside the gym, everything still pulsating with the muffled dance music. But even then, Brooke still would not just let go, too self-conscious, and trapped in the sinews of the social web, she would not simply have fun. I tried, and I tried to convince her, especially when the slow dance came around, but she still would not budge, she just stayed sitting outside; she was there each time I went outside. And she felt sorry for me, and I felt sorry for her.
“Some days he feels like dying,
She gets so sick of crying.”
From there I emerged from the cold of the night into the heat of the mass in doors. The people, and the lights, and the music. Bigger than middle school dances, meaner too. It was beautiful and horrible. All the people dancing, grinding, latching on from person to person or in set one-night couples, in groups, all there, moving in that huge mass on the floor, doused in those lights, and moving with that heavy and consuming music. It was sickening, and it was captivating. I felt lost. The whole mass moving together, up and down, back and forth, hands in the air, the music loud and consuming, the heavy beat you could feel in your core, and the lights and the strobe adding to the horrible confusion of the scene. It was awful, and it was unlike anything I had ever seen. I felt so lost and so alone and out of place.
I looked at that mass of bodies and sweat, only to find the once pure Iris grinding with every fucking guy there, and not just the popular or attractive ones, all of them, anyone who could latch on. Hips together, arms in the air, hunched over or moving together, grinding, and gyrating. That is not her, to be used and objectified like that, like all of the other teenage whores there.
Finally, another hour later, I said my last, drawn-out, goodbye; holding back the last word. And as I watched Brooke drive away, I hated myself. Hated myself for not saying the last final truth that I had been waiting all night, and all the time that I had known her, to tell her; ‘I love you.’ I should have said it and let her know, I should have told her.
Jamie, she hates me, and she is just another slut; the way she danced with Carl that one time at the beginning of the night tonight and even with Reuben I think, and I think it was all to get back at me for God knows what I did. She left even before the first slow song played. Iris, God help her. And Brooke, by process of elimination, she is the one. I love her, and I will never be able to tell her.
“Wonderland of long ago, and how she would feel all the simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in their simple joys, remembering her child life, and the happy summer days.”
-The end-
I didn’t really know what to do with all of this information. I’m guessing all of the people in that were his friends? At least now I know he likes Green Day.
“Great imagery,” I messaged him, “how much of the short story was true?”
“Oh, it was just taken straight from my journal, I wrote it after I got back from the dance. I liked your narrative that you read in class, and I really wanted to see if you liked mine before I showed it to Mr. Darcy. Maybe I could publish it, or at least put it in Literary Nightmare at the end of the year” he replied rather promptly. His journal? Publish?
“Well, if this is real then I’d change the names before you do submit it to anything. And maybe don’t have your protagonist call the girls whores.”
“Yeah, I was thinking I’d just leave them all as blank spaces, let context fill them in.”
I tried to be polite, I wish I could tell if he was joking, “Maybe it’d be better just to use made-up names, it might be confusing the other way,” it was already confusing enough as it was, “turn it into a romana cleft or whatever that’s called.”
“Roman à clef.”
Prick.
. . . . .
The next day, I caught up with Dan at lunch and told him what Ken sent me.
“Fuck that’s rough, why’d he send you that shit though?” Dan said, as we walked with our food to a courtyard, we usually liked it better than eating in the cafeteria, and they didn’t really mind as long as we brought the plates and things back.
“I dunno, man.”
“How is that new boyfriend of yours doing anyway?”
“Jesus Dan, you’re one of most homophobic gays I know.”
He laughed, “I take that as a compliment, it plays into my own general self-loathing,” he said, and this time I laughed. We found a spot to sit and began eating.
“But seriously man,” he continued, “what is this, like some sort of community service thing? Is Ken going on a college app?”
“I mean, he honestly doesn’t really seem to have any friends.”
“So?” Dan retorted brusquely.
“What?”
“You know what I mean- I mean it doesn’t have to be your job to be that friend. You don’t have to make everyone like you, Alex.”
“It’s not about that, I think. I guess I just know what it feels like to be unliked, and that really sucks. I feel like I should help him if I could, you know?”
“Serious?”
“I don’t know,” and I didn’t.
“I mean I guess, but look after you too. God knows what that kid is like.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, and by that time we were done with lunch.
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem, see ya,” and I walked the short rest of the way to the cafeteria to return their lunchware.
. . . . .
On Friday, Mr. D wanted to give some of the other students a chance to read aloud, and so Ken was not able to share his work, but he turned it in at the end of the class to what I could only guess was a similar reception. I mean, it did help to reiterate to me the reasons why I stopped going to dances; they’re nothing other than a disappointment in which you see your classmates doing things to one another that would never be spoken of the next day, swaying and jumping, and grinding in a single mass, all holding up a sea of phones on record to capture the moment. It’s just a gym full of white kids shouting the lyrics to “Niggas in Paris” and Pitbull songs, so much fucking Pitbull. ¡Dale! We were on the cusp of the change where the popular music went from Rap/Hip-Hop based Pop to Electronica/Dubstep based Pop. And this was clearly evident at these dances from year to year, or so I’ve heard.
I didn’t go to dances for the same reasons I didn’t go to parties. Well, if I were invited, it’d be the same reason I wouldn’t go to parties.
I dunno, I kind of saw a bit, or maybe even a lot of Ken in me; but I just don’t want to fall into that trap of wanting to help him, but I also don’t want him to get depressed after getting rejected again.