He didn’t believe me. “If it’s not, then we’ll figure out a way to make it okay.”
“You’re way awesome, you know that?” He was. Probably the most awesome person to ever have walked the face of the earth. It was pretty much a given that I’d have been a psychotic wreck without him.
“I do know that.” He grinned. “I’m glad you can say it out loud. You should probably tell me numerous times every single day from here on out so you don’t forget it.”
“You’re not that awesome.”
He kissed my hand. “I pretty much am.”
“Maybe you can talk to him,” I said without thinking. “You know what he’s going through.”
His forehead creased. “Because of my parents?”
I winced. “That was an asshole thing of me to bring up. Shit. Sandy, I’m sorry.” I tried to sit up but he wouldn’t let me, pressing down against my chest, holding me still.
“Do you really think that would help?” he asked.
I shrugged, keeping my mouth shut so I didn’t break the world in half with my stupidity.
He stroked his fingers through my hair again. “You know, I don’t think that would be quite what he needs. As a matter of fact, I would think you would be the one more experienced in this than me.”
“My parents are still alive,” I pointed out, feeling like an ass saying the words out loud. “I don’t know loss like you do.” Though that might not have been the complete truth. Sandy’s parents had been like a second set for me, and their loss was a palpable thing for a long while after they were gone. I had grieved for them like they were my own.
“They are,” Sandy said lightly, letting me know he understood what I was trying to say. “And they’re going to be around for many, many more years. That’s not what I am talking about, Paul. You may not know what it feels like, but you’ve seen it firsthand. You’ve been through it just as close as anyone else can say.”
“Sandy….”
“Hush, baby doll. Let me speak.”
I nodded, reaching out to hold his hand in mine.
He took a moment before he spoke again, staring off into space. “I remember when I first heard they were gone. Do you remember where we were? It was fifth period. Mr. Cuyar’s AP English class. We were talking about Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard To Find, about all these different angles the story could be inspected at, and all these interpretations, every word meaning something other than what it says on the page. What did it mean when the grandmother said this or what did it mean when the Misfit said that and I remember thinking, why can’t the story just be the story? Why can’t the words just mean what they mean? Why does everything have to mean something else?
“But then the door opened and the principal was standing there, along with the guidance counselor, and I remember them looking around the room, and I knew something was wrong the moment their eyes hit mine. I knew. Once they found me, they didn’t have to look anywhere else.”
I REMEMBERED this, of course. It was a day forever ingrained in my head. I might not have remembered the specifics that he could, but when those people had walked into the room, it had gotten just a tiny bit colder, the expressions on their faces slightly grim, as if they were trying to hold back but it was leaking around the edges. They had whispered quietly to Mr. Cuyar, a small, unassuming man who lived for the written word and little else. His eyes had widened briefly and his hand had come to his mouth, but he hadn’t looked at the class, hadn’t looked out to Sandy. I think if he had, we both would have known right away.
The guidance counselor had beckoned to Sandy quietly, and the whispers started in the class, little snorts and giggles, people already speculating what this fierce little gay boy had done to get pulled from class. Maybe it was the makeup he wore around his eyes; maybe it was the cigarettes he smoked in between classes. Whatever it was, something had happened, and one of the bigger idiots grunted the word “faggot” as Sandy stood up. Several people laughed at the obviously bracing wit of their social leader while I prepared to launch myself at him, to smash my fists into his face until he cried out for me to stop. I knew something was wrong and it was scraping against my skin and I wanted to make someone bleed.
Sandy had seen this (he saw everything, I learned early on) and pressed his hand down on my shoulder as he walked, pausing briefly to apply pressure in a clear message of down boy, stay down. I can handle myself. They’re nothing. They’re nothing to me. His hand trailed down my arm, and I didn’t care then who saw. I didn’t care what names they called me. For that one moment, I didn’t give a fuck. I grabbed his hand and intertwined our fingers together and squeezed. I made him feel me. I made him feel the pressure, the heat of my hand. He flashed his gaze down at me and twitched his jaw, and we knew then, I think. We both knew what was coming, though maybe not how encompassing and complete it would be. He was already struggling to hold himself together because we both knew.