Somewhere in Between:

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Do you remember the time we first met? That day, I remember waking up and thinking, knowing that something had to change. I knew I couldn’t go on that way anymore. I was depressed. And no one knew. I hid it well, I think, but you always said I wore my emotions on my sleeve. You said you could read my face like an open book. I didn’t believe you at first.

That day, though, it was bright and sunny. Everything outside was bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun that looked like a lemon in a sea of iridescent turquoise blue. There were clouds, few and far between, that were fluffy and transparent. I remember driving to school, thinking that nothing was right and everything was wrong. I remember thinking how I wanted to push my foot down further and further on the gas pedal and never let off. I think I may have thought about it seriously for a second or two, but, to my disgust, my “faith” held me back.

No matter how many times I say that I really don’t believe, there’s some things that I just can’t shake. There’s heaven and hell. And if I had to spend the rest of eternity in one of them, I knew that suicide wasn’t the answer. Mother always said that people who don’t treat life as a gift get sent to hell. And there’s no second chance. So when the light on the corner changed to yellow, I instinctively took my foot off of the gas, moved to the brake, and slowed to a stop at the red. And besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of taking any innocent people or trees with me.

But I remember getting to school and thinking about turning around, but I couldn’t. I don’t skip school. And besides, the year was almost over. Only two more months. It must have been terrible for you to change schools with only two more months left in the year. I honestly couldn’t imagine. Not that I’d be leaving anyone behind. To be truthful, I doubt too many people would notice that I had left. Maybe a couple people would comment on my absence, ‘what’s-his-name’ isn’t here today, but that would be all.

I think that’s me talking ‘depressed’ again.

I remember that one day we watched the movie ‘Carrie’ at your house when your mother wasn’t home. You said I was just like her. I laughed at you, but inside, it sort of hurt. And it only hurt because you were kind of right.

At school that morning, I heard people talking behind me about the new kid. I wasn’t interested, really, and I wasn’t eavesdropping, either. I just happened to overhear, considering they were talking loud enough for everybody in the hallway to hear. I walked like always with my head down, trying to go unnoticed to my locker and get to class before the bell. When I got to my homeroom, you were the topic of the day. But not in a good way. And I know you know why.

I didn’t see you all day. To be honest, I see somebody new every day. I never look at people in the face (I know you know that), so when I catch a glimpse of someone, more likely than not it’s someone I don’t remember ever seeing before. So, I may have seen you before lunch, but I don’t remember. It wasn’t important to me then. Sorry.

Jack Something-or-other came into the library around noon. I always go to the library during lunch. He knew that. He came over to my table where I sat with a school laptop and asked me what we did that day in physics. He asks me that every day. Then he asks me what I’m doing. I say the same thing every time:

“Just some homework.”

But that day he asked me if I’d seen the faggot.

Faggot? I wanted to ask, but I stopped. I mean, I knew what a faggot was, assuming we weren’t talking about smoking, which I knew wasn’t the case. And even then the word of choice would have been ‘fag’, and why would he have been asking me such an absurd question? I just shook my head.

“I heard the new kid likes it in his ass.”

I just nodded. I really didn’t know how to respond. What would I have said? “Oh that’s nice.” Or something like “What a queer!” Or maybe “Who doesn’t?” So I chose to say nothing and just shallowly nod my head.

“So you haven’t met him?” Jack Something-or-other continued.

“Don’t think so.” I said.

“Watch out.” Jack warned me, as though we were good friends and that he had an obligation to look out for me like good friends do. I don’t know…maybe Jack and I were good friends.

The last two periods of the day were colorless and tiresome. I was tired of school – tired of trying, and I’d say tired of living, but you’d just get mad at me. But when the last bell rang, like always, I took my time getting to my car. You would think with how much I detest school I would want to get out of there as soon as possible, but I loathed home. So I took it slow, like always. The halls are nearly empty when I trekked down towards the doors. Only the cars of those who have sports practice after school were in the parking lot. I walked to my car, got in and drove out.

I was rolling my windows down when I saw you. I saw them hitting you, and at first I didn’t believe it. I mean, that’s not something you see in real life. I saw Jack there in his bright green track jacket, and I saw his knee go in to your stomach, and I saw you double over onto the grass. It was shady where you were, and a few trees blocked my view. I didn’t believe what I was seeing at first because, well, I can’t say I see that sort of thing everyday.

And I kept driving, because I wasn’t sure what to do. It’s not like I knew who you were at the time, so I really had no obligation to stop. But the closer I got to home, the more I realized that I shouldn’t have driven away. And so I turned around. Secretly, I think you were calling me that day. You made me turn around and drive back. Thanks. I’m glad you did.

Do you remember when we first met? You were sitting in the grass, leaning up against the dirty truck of a tree, your eyes closed. You may have looked up to see who was coming when I shut my car door, but you didn’t let me know. You almost looked peaceful sitting there. I saw blood on your lip.

“You okay?”

Do you remember me asking that? You didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Not at first. I came closer. I was apprehensive and I think you could sense that. I was never bold like that – never went up to anyone. I never made the initiative. But for some reason, that day, I wasn’t scared. Wasn’t as scared, anyway.

“Are you going to hit me, too?” You asked. I squatted down to your level.

“No.” I replied. “Do you need a ride home…?”

You finally opened your blue eyes. You didn’t look at me though. Not right away.

“Sure.” You said. Your voice was raspy. But I’d learn that you would always sound like that. Like you just woke up from a long, deep sleep and the last thing you wanted to do was talk to someone.

You held your hand out, and at first, I was confused. But I helped you up. Did you feel it too, when our hands met? It’s crazy, really, but I remember how it felt to touch you, especially for the first time. You squeezed my hand tightly, it almost hurt, and relied on me completely to lift you to your feet.

Please tell me you remember how it felt. Did you try to hide it like I did? I knew it was wrong, so I ignored it. In fact, I think I may have rubbed my hand against my jeans as though you had some form of hand-transferring cooties and I was at risk of getting infected. I feel bad telling you think now, but in the back of my mind, I remembered what Jack had said. That you were a fag. And that I should watch out.

But I tried to hide it.

Did you?

I asked you if you were okay again, and you just nodded.

“Did you just transfer here?” I had asked you. I knew the answer was yes, but I wanted to make some sort of conversation, especially if I were going to be in a confined space with you for an unknown amount of time.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t look gay to me. When you answered in your raspy, shallow voice, I wondered if Jack had made it up. Rumors travel fast and no one really knows who starts them. I know this is stereotypical, but I expected you to talk with a lisp, and have very styled hair with nice nails. I expected you to talk with your hands and comment on how ‘cute’ things looked.

I know that’s wrong to stereotype people and I know how you hate it, but I couldn’t help it. I had the urge in the car to ask you if you were gay or not. But I knew that probably would have killed what little conversation we were having.

“Where do you live?” I asked you. You told me to turn here. And I did.

“Are you a senior?” You asked.

“Junior.” I replied. I remember wishing then that I was a senior.

“Me too.” You said.

“Was today your first day?”

“Yeah.” You sort of scoffed. “Guess I didn’t make a good first impression.”

“It’s okay.” I tried to offer some sort of condolences. I doubt it helped you, really.

“Do we have any classes together?”

“I don’t think so.” I said to you. You told me it was the white house on the corner. The ‘for sale’ sign was still in the front yard. ‘Sold’ was taped across the sign. The windows were bare, still. There were no cars in the driveway. Looking at the house made me feel lonely. I wondered then if you felt lonely to go in there all by yourself. I wanted to ask you, you know.

“Thanks for the ride.” You said to me, dabbing your bloody lip on the sleeve of your button up. I smiled, weakly, and said you’re welcome.

“My name’s Jalen. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Maybe.” I smiled, this time because I couldn’t help it. Your aura was overpowering me, and I expected it to make me feel sick, but it didn’t. I liked that feeling of being controlled. I wondered if you knew.

Did you?

But I drove away as you entered through the front door. I wondered what you would do once you got inside. I wondered if you were going to watch TV, or get something to eat. Maybe wash the dried blood from under your nose. I wondered if you were going to call your friends from wherever you came from. I wondered if you had any friends. Do you ever wonder things like that?

You tell me I think too much sometimes. But after you say that to me, you always smile and say it’s better than not thinking enough. I wonder if you’re trying not to hurt me. Words hurt more than anything.

And I know you know.

And when I got back home, my little sister was telling my mother about the sinner in school. When I entered the kitchen, it got silent. I was supposed to say my afternoon prayer. Don’t tell my mother, but I stopped saying my afternoon prayer in the eighth grade. I stopped believing soon after. But I could never tell mom. I tell you how she is all the time, so I know you understand what I’m saying to you.

After I finished “praying”, Anna told mom that there was a new kid in school, and that he was homosexual. And mom proceeded to tell both Anna and I that homosexuality is wrong. I really wasn’t listening. I pretended that I was for a little while. She told us that God says that “those kinds of people” are sinners, and that they need to atone for their sins. It’s not right to love someone of the opposite sex like that, and it’s not right to marry him or her. God blesses matrimony between a man and a woman, and nothing else.

We had the same topic at dinner, as well. I was getting irritated, really.

“Can we talk about something else?” I asked.

“What? Are you offended? Are you gay?”

“Anna!” Mother had scolded. “Of course he’s not. He knows that it’s a sin. Don’t you?”

“I do.” I muttered.

I would always tell you that I hated two-dimensional people. But my mother, she was one-dimensional. She had one outlook on life and that was that the church was right – in a very conservative way. And there was no arguing with her. It bothered me, really.

I guess it started to bother me in eighth grade in health class when we discussed abortions. I won’t tell you about it because we’ve talked about it before. Haven’t we?

We have. And I remember exactly what you told me. And it made me feel better about myself. It really did. More than you know, I think.

And all night I thought about you. I don’t really know why, though. Did you know that? You probably didn’t – I would have been embarrassed to tell you that. But you would have laughed about it, mocked me and said theatrically that you thought about me day and night, too. But I would have laughed too.

Because you always make me smile.

And sometimes, the rumors are true.

And sometimes, it doesn’t matter.

Because sometimes, there are things that are more important.

And you…

You were always on the top of my list.

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A/N: Okay, writing “short stories” for me never turn out too short. This story will be about five chapters, (three of which I’ve already written) and I will most likely have two different endings (so six chapters total). Please review – I swear I will do my best to read and review something of yours. Thanks so much!