No. No, I’m not. In the ringing silence, I realize that I hate every tiny fragment of what I’ve turned into. I should have realized it before, realized that I spend every second trying to escape myself. I’m all I’ve got anymore, and I don’t even want me.
I close my eyes, looking inside myself. Staring at what’s in there for the first time, I realize how hideous it is, all this hate. For everyone. For myself. A glaring yellow rage, pulsing there between my ribs.
I let out a breath, and it goes cold and gray like cooling metal.
When I open my eyes, my whole body feels limp. Punctured. All the anger has poured out. I have nothing left, nothing to give anymore—not even to this stage.
“Let’s go back to work,” García says hoarsely.
“No,” I say, feeling detached. As if someone raised my anchor. I am drifting, rootless, in a stagnant sea. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I can’t do this.”
I walk to the front of the stage, lift my backpack, drape my coat over my shoulder, and slide off the lip of the stage. Standing at the door, I glance back. Mr. García looks as if I’ve punched him in the stomach.
“Kat,” Emily bursts out. “Please don’t. Please.”
I push the door open and step through. It shuts behind me with a final-sounding clank. The icy wind clutches at my bare arms, but I don’t feel it. I am a drive wiped blank, everything erased.
I’M NOT SURE IF I FEEL BETTER OR WORSE NOW THAT everybody knows Lucas is gay, because on one hand, I might’ve told Olivia, but at least I wasn’t the one who made up that bullshit about him and Dr. Norman. But on the other hand, now his life is going to be as stressful as I thought it might be, and holy shit, it’s setting in fast. The same afternoon the news leaks, as I’m walking through the swarm of people in the junior lot after school, I catch sight of Lucas. Angie Bedford, this hard-core, post-punk, dancer chick who’s leaning against her car smoking a cigarette, calls over to him, “Hey, homo, how’s Norman?” and the conversations in the sea of people flicker for a second, and a few people laugh, and others pretend not to have heard, and others give Lucas looks like, What a loser, and as for Lucas, he’s stopped smiling and waving to people. He’s motionless, looking lost and hurt.
I can’t help it. Something grabs me somewhere in my chest and fastens tight—warm, escalating rage—and before I know what I’m doing, I’m beside Angie’s car, and I’m snatching the cigarette out of her hand and flicking it to the asphalt and saying, “What’s your problem?”
Her startled look twists fast into anger. All of a sudden, there’s pepper spray in her hand—what the hell, did she have that prepared?—and she says, “Keep talking.”
“Like you’re gonna hurt me with a million people standing around,” I scoff, and Angie says, “Self-defense, bro—you’re seeming real aggressive,” and I say, “I’m not being aggressive; I’m telling you to shut up about my friend,” and she says, “Friend, huh?” and she gives me this stupid wink, and why does my neck feel hot with embarrassment? I’m not even gay, and it’s just a type of person, for Christ’s sake. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
Before I can fulfill my heartfelt wish to give Angie the finger, some guy’s voice calls from behind me, “Hey, fag, you his boyfriend?” and his friends laugh, and for a second I’m flabbergasted, like, wow, I thought that was the sort of dumb shit people only did in movies.
My opinion about gay rights has always been that it’s none of my business. My mom raised me not to hate anyone for who they are. She said it, and they said it in church, so I learned it, and before this exact second, I sort of thought the rest of our school felt the same, because as far as I knew, nobody was getting beat up or bullied. But I guess I was wrong.
I turn toward the person who called me a fag—some zitty guy with glasses I think is on tennis—and say, “Man, someday you’re going to have a friend you don’t know is gay, and you’re going to say some shit like that around him, and he’s never going to trust you again.”
His smirk wavers for a second. He comes back with, “So . . . you are his boyfriend, is what you’re saying?” and his friends hoot with encouraging laughter. My lip curls. “So what? Better being someone’s boyfriend than being some dumb-ass homophobe.”
People mumble to one another as I look around for Lucas, but he’s already gone. I head for my car, disgusted with everyone and everything.