So, on Good Friday yesterday, we had a special showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. What made it special was the fact that everyone knew it was the beginning of Easter vacation, and a lot of kids were still wearing their suits and dresses from Mass. It reminded me of Ash Wednesday in school when the kids come in with thumbprints on their foreheads. It always adds an air of excitement.
After the show, Craig invited all of us back to his apartment to drink wine and listen to the White Album. After the record was over, Patrick suggested we all play truth or dare, a game that he loves to play when he’s “buzzed.”
Guess who chose dares over truth all night? Me. I just didn’t want to tell Mary Elizabeth the truth because of a game.
It was working pretty well most of the night. The dares were things like “chug a beer.” But then, Patrick gave me a dare. I don’t even think he knew what he was doing, but he gave it to me anyway.
“Kiss the prettiest girl in the room on the lips.”
That’s when I chose to be honest. In retrospect, I probably could not have picked a worse time.
The silence started after I stood up (since Mary Elizabeth was sitting right next to me). By the time I had knelt down in front of Sam and kissed her, the silence was unbearable. It wasn’t a romantic kiss. It was friendly, like when I played Rocky and she played Janet. But it didn’t matter.
I could say that it was the wine or the beer that I chugged. I could also say that I had forgotten the time Mary Elizabeth asked me if I thought she was pretty. But I would be lying. The truth is that when Patrick dared me, I knew that if I kissed Mary Elizabeth, I would be lying to everyone. Including Sam. Including Patrick. Including Mary Elizabeth. And I just couldn’t do it anymore. Even if it was part of a game.
After the silence, Patrick did his best to salvage the evening. The first thing he said was,
“Well, isn’t this awkward?”
But it didn’t work. Mary Elizabeth walked quickly out of the room and into the bathroom. Patrick told me later that she didn’t want anyone to see her cry. Sam followed her, but before she completely left the room, she turned to me and said serious and dark,
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
It was the look on her face when she said it. And how much she meant it. It suddenly made everything seem like it really was. I felt terrible. Just terrible. Patrick immediately stood up and took me out of Craig’s apartment. We walked to the street, and the only thing I was aware of was the cold. I said that I should go back inside and apologize. Patrick said,
“No. I’ll get our coats. Just stay here.”
When Patrick left me outside, I started to cry. It was real and panicky, and I couldn’t stop it. When Patrick came back, I said, really crying,
“I really think I should go apologize.”
Patrick shook his head. “Believe me. You don’t want to go in there.”
Then, he jiggled the car keys in front of my face and said, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
In the car, I told Patrick everything that had been going on. About the record. And the book. And To Kill a Mockingbird. And how Mary Elizabeth never asked any questions. And all Patrick said was, “It’s too bad you’re not gay.”
That made me stop crying a little bit.
“Then again, if you were gay, I would never date you. You’re a mess.”
That made me start laughing a little bit.
“And I thought Brad was fucked-up. Jesus.”
That made me laugh a lot more. Then, he turned on the radio and we drove through the tunnels back home. When he dropped me off, Patrick told me the best thing to do was keep away for a while. I guess I already told you that. He said that when he knew more, he’d give me a call.
“Thanks, Patrick.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And then I said, “You know, Patrick? If I were gay, I’d want to date you.”
I don’t know why I said it, but it seemed right.
Patrick just smiled cocky and said, “Of course.” Then, he peeled out down the road.
When I lay down in bed that night, I put on the Billie Holiday record, and I started reading the book of every. every. cummings poems. After I read the poem that compares the woman’s hands to flowers and rain, I put the book down and went to the window. I stared at my reflection and the trees behind it for a long time. Not thinking anything. Not feeling anything. Not hearing the record. For hours.
Something really is wrong with me. And I don’t know what it is.
Love always,
Charlie
April 26, 1992
Dear friend,
Nobody has called me since that night. I don’t blame them. I have spent the whole vacation reading Hamlet. Bill was right. It was much easier to think of the kid in the play like the other characters I’ve read about so far. It has also helped me while I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. It didn’t give me any answers necessarily, but it was helpful to know that someone else has been through it. Especially someone who lived such a long time ago.
I did call Mary Elizabeth, and I told her that I’d been listening to the record every night and reading the every. every. cummings book.
She just said, “It’s too late, Charlie.”
I would have explained that I didn’t want to start going on dates again and I was just doing these things as a friend, but I knew it would have only made things worse, so I didn’t.
I just said, “I’m sorry.”
And I really was sorry. And I know that she believed me. But when that didn’t make any difference, and there was nothing but a bad silence on the phone, I really knew it was too late.
Patrick did call me, but all he said was that Craig got really angry at Sam about me, and I should keep staying away until things got clear. I asked him if he would like to go out, just him and me. He said that he would be busy with Brad and family things, but he’d try to call me if he could find the time. So far, he hasn’t.
I would tell you about Easter Sunday with my family, but I’ve already told you about Thanksgiving and Christmas, and there really isn’t much of a difference.
Except that my father got a raise, and my mother didn’t because she doesn’t get paid for housework, and my sister stopped reading those self-esteem books because she met a new boy.
My brother did come home, but when I asked him if his girlfr read my report on Walden, he said no because she broke up with him when she found out he was cheating on her. That happened a while ago. So, I asked him if he had read it himself, and he said that he hadn’t because he was too busy. He said he would try to read it over vacation. So far, he hasn’t.
So, I went to visit my aunt Helen, and for the first time in my life, it didn’t help. I even tried to follow my own plan and remember all the details about the last time I had a great week, but that didn’t help, either.
I know that I brought this all on myself. I know that I deserve this. I’d do anything not to be this way. I’d do anything to make it up to everyone. And to not have to see a psychiatrist, who explains to me about being “passive aggressive.” And to not have to take the medicine he gives me, which is too expensive for my dad. And to not have to talk about bad memories with him. Or be nostalgic about bad things.
I just wish that God or my parents or Sam or my sister or someone would just tell me what’s wrong with me. Just tell me how to be different in a way that makes sense. To make this all go away. And disappear. I know that’s wrong because it’s my responsibility, and I know that things get worse before they get better because that’s what my psychiatrist says, but this is a worse that feels too big.