Rebecca, who had been conspicuously absent all day, was sitting three rows ahead of us. When she looked back, she seemed worried. My pulse quickened and I took Maya’s hand. I was not going to ruin Valentine’s Day for her. I was going to be her normal boyfriend. The kind who holds her hand and tells her she looks beautiful. For a little while, I was able to be that guy.
We were watching Casablanca. When I’d planned the date, I thought it would be a good idea to watch something both of us had already seen. No need to pay attention.
The sound was a half second behind the picture, which was doing weird things to my head, but there were a few minutes when I thought I could watch the movie like everyone else, until I felt that familiar tug at the back of my brain. The tiny piece of me that wants to believe everything I see took control.
It was at the part when Ilsa enters the nightclub and asks the guy at the piano to play “As Time Goes By,” knowing that it would get Rick’s attention. The room of crowded people was hard to watch. Everyone was doing something different. Drinking. Talking. It was hard to focus on what was going on and not lose the story.
That was when I noticed that the people on-screen had started to merge into the theater. None of them were staying put on the screen. They sank into the audience, and I jumped a little when the German soldiers burst into the club.
“Are you okay?” Maya asked.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
For another ten minutes, I moved between varying degrees of panic. I was losing it. Rebecca had started to cry. Neither of us could control what was happening. Then somewhere in the movie, guns started going off and tiny shards of glass fell from the ceiling. Whatever shield I had been using to hide my crazy disappeared. I leaned over, yanked Maya to the ground, and protected her from the bullets I thought were blasting through the theater.
I cupped her body gently so she didn’t hit the ground too hard. My elbows got the brunt of the fall. I really did believe the bullets were flying, and I was crying a little because I thought I wouldn’t be able to save her. The top half of her body fit neatly into the curve of my arm, and once we hit the sticky movie theater floor, she looked up at me for a second in shock.
She started kissing me. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I noticed that the couples who had been sitting in our row had moved somewhere else when I launched my girlfriend from her seat and dragged her to the floor. But Maya was kissing me like I hadn’t just done something completely irrational. Or maybe she was kissing me because I had done something completely irrational. And if that was the case, should I have been worried about her? No, really, I’m asking you. This is what we pay you for.
The only real thing in the world was her lips. She was kissing me and running her fingers through my hair. Maybe she thought I was sexy?
The rest of the people in the theater might have kept watching Casablanca. I could still hear the movie going. I’ll never know, though, because I was on the disgusting movie theater floor, making out with my girlfriend.
We didn’t get up when the movie ended. The guy who comes around and sweeps up the popcorn found us and told us we had to leave so they could let people in for the next show. We weren’t even embarrassed.
I feel fine now. I’m not disoriented anymore. I guess it was just a passing thing.
When I replay the events of that night with a clear head, I can see that I must not have tugged Maya to the ground that hard. I must not have looked as outwardly afraid as I felt inside. I probably wasn’t crying. Maybe I just teared up. We must have looked like two teenagers who really wanted to make out on Valentine’s Day instead of watch a movie we’ve both seen before.
I know how this sounds. I’ve written this whole thing down several times, and I still can’t find anything that needs to be changed. The details seem correct, and even though I can anticipate your questions, answering them seems boring. I might have had a momentary lapse of judgment. It’s entirely possible that my mind played images that had absolutely nothing to do with what I actually did.
But sometimes the things that happen aren’t as important as the things you remember. Maya looked beautiful. We had a relatively normal Valentine’s Day dinner followed by normal Valentine’s Day activities that did not lead to sex. I wasn’t even that crushed by that.
I remember kissing her in the minivan for a long time, until my lips hurt. She dropped me off at my house, and I walked through the front door to find Paul working on his laptop.
He asked how the date was. I told him it was good. He looked like he’d been waiting up for me. He cracked his knuckles again like he did when he was forcing conversation.
“Yes?” I asked.
Paul looked up at me like he was going to lay an egg. He had something to say that he didn’t want to say. Like, really didn’t want to say. It looked painful for him when he actually spoke.
“In your bathroom, behind the toilet paper, there’s a box of condoms.”
We both looked at each other. He nodded. Then I nodded. And I knew we would never talk about it again.
But I laughed when I got back to my room. I appreciated the gesture, but I have been walking around with a condom in my wallet for over a month. I will be ready when Maya is.
DOSAGE: 4.5 mg. Same dosage.
FEBRUARY 27, 2013
Awesome. Just awesome.
I got picked to play Jesus for the junior class’s rendition of the Stations of the Cross for Easter. This is basically the worst thing that’s ever happened to me at this school.
Kids vote on who plays Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Veronica, and Mary, Jesus’s mother. It’s highly political. No one ever wants to do it, so people sort of gang up on other, less popular people and get them to do the big roles with the majority of the speaking lines, leaving the highly coveted crowd-member positions wide open.
I’m pretty sure that Ian had something to do with my campaign for Jesus, though, because I’m actually not detested at school.
Dwight managed to snag a narrator spot, which is the next-best thing to crowd member, where all you have to do is say “Crucify him!” at the right time.
“How did you manage that?” I asked him.
“I volunteered.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me to volunteer for something?” I asked.
“It’s every man for himself, dude.”
That rat bastard. He could’ve told me. He could’ve told me to volunteer for something else. Instead he just said, “Jesus, though…Man, that sucks.”
The worst thing is that I am taller than the plywood cross they usually use.
Therefore, not only am I quiet, secretly schizophrenic Jesus, I am also Giant Jesus. Giant, Arms-Wide-Open, Rio de Janeiro Jesus.
They have to find me a bigger cross. During our very first run-through, I looked absolutely ridiculous carrying over my shoulder a tiny cross that didn’t even touch the ground. I would’ve had to squat to be nailed to it. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Maya laugh in church. To her credit, she was laughing with me and not at me, like the rest of them. I think.